Dueling stereos and the wretched dissertation proposal

It's war at the Love Shack. Dueling stereos are shaking the woodwork. I'm being pummeled by New Order, bass on high. I don't know what my neighbor is playing, but I can feel it through my feet. I'm hoping she's getting ready to go out. It's about that time on a Friday night.

Last night around 1:15 a.m. I'd just gone to bed, when I heard a pounding somewhere in the building. My cat and I looked at each other. What the–? I got out of bed and staggered into the living room. The pounding was louder. I heard muffled giggles and a man's voice. Oh boy. My neighbor Joy is  living up to her name. I considered doing a little pounding of my own, and I don't mean that in a self-sex kind of way. However, after a moment, I decided against ruining their mood and went back to bed. They were done, anyway, if they were at the giggling stage. I presume. Hell, it's been so long, what do I know.

I'm taking a break from the gigantasaurus I call the DP, short for Dissertation Proposal. You thought I whined a lot during the concept paper. That was banana cream cake compared to this. The concept paper is to tell the Graduate School what you are thinking of doing. The Dissertation Proposal is to tell them what you plan on doing, down to the most minute detail. There are three chapters in the proposal. Chapter 1 introduces the idea, Chapter 2 justifies it and situates it in the existing body of knowledge. Chapter 3 is a blueprint of the study. When I say blueprint, I am being precise. I must plan every breath, every grunt, every fart. All this planning is starting to get tedious. The more specific I get, the more I want to just say F--k it, just let me wing it! It's qualitative, for gawd's sake. Another word for herding cats.

For a closet optimist I don't really put a lot of store in the future. I pretty much figure we're all going to hell in a handbasket (thus the name of this blog), that it's all hopeless, meaningless, and not a little ridiculous. Why plan for a future that will inevitably suck? But I must write a detailed plan for my dissertation study, as if there will be a tomorrow, and a tomorrow after that.

I rebel at the thought of having to follow a written plan. I'm a go-with-the-flow kind of gal. I'm the pot-stirrer who lobs a rock in the pot to see what will happen. I don't write up a hypothesis before I take an action and then dutifully measure the outcome. I just throw the rock (or the comment) and stand back to watch. This is how I run my classes. Some instructors prepare daily written lesson plans. The copy machine spits out these little gems of efficiency while I'm checking my mailbox. I turn away with a sigh. If only I were that dedicated. If only I cared. I know what chapter I'm supposed to cover, that's the best I can do. I just start asking them questions and let the process unfold. I don't check to see if they learned anything. That is what the test is for.

This morning I attended a Webinar on using “icebreakers” to help a class connect and learn. It was sort of fun. All my learning at the rinky-dink online school I attend has been asynchronous, meaning I have no real-time contact with anyone. There are no team projects. Everyone moves at his or her own pace, struggling through the assignments in isolation. Now and then someone will post a desperate plea in the discussion folder: Help! What is the ANOVA assignment all about? Can someone please explain statistics to me in brief and simple terms? So being online with 900+ other learners listening to some woman explain her PowerPoint show made me feel like I was riding something large, rocking along with a crowd of enthusiastic educators toward a bright and shiny future. These were people who really cared about teaching.

Not really my people. Another story for another day. My head is pounding in rhythm with my neighbor's bass line. I finally took pity on my cat, who is trying to sleep in the next room, and turned off New Order. Just like I have to write this dissertation proposal, planning in excruciatingly detailed every move I will make when and if the day comes I actually implement this study, just like that I have to bend over and take what the universe gives me today. Take two Advil and grab your ankles. This may hurt a bit.

I hide my anxiety with maniacal laughter

Three weeks into the term. The evening Human Resources Management class, the one that was having trouble last week, got on track and started steaming ahead, all systems go. The young man who had the agenda, who just couldn't make room for anyone else's vision, finally came to his senses, after a weekend to ponder his plight. He opened the team meeting with a sweet and heartfelt apology, which worked wonders, and that was that.

The daytime class, on the other hand, hit a wall today. It was painful to watch. Teresa, who had been absent last Thursday, was back, and true to form went head-to-head with the young slender blonde (I forget what I named her in a previous post... Lisa? Leisl? Lulu? I can't remember. Let's call her Lulu today, that name seems to fit.) Lulu is just young and stubborn enough to not know when to back down. In other words, she hasn't learned yet how to pick her battles. So when Teresa smacked her down with some verbal abuse disguised as teasing, Lulu rose to the bait and blurted out what could have been the undoing of the team.

“We got along fine without you last week!” she declared hotly.

Teresa didn't hesitate one moment. “I can leave if you want,” she said. But she didn't get up.

Lulu backed down. “I didn't mean it like that.”

For a moment the team teetered on the brink of disintegration. When Teresa didn't leave, Dina or whatever her name is—the older gal who is the only one with a lick of sense in my opinion—cautiously shifted the topic to the project. Steve, the only man on the team, remained stoically silent throughout the altercation. Pretty soon all four adjourned to the computer lab to work on their proposal. I stayed behind, which I usually don't do; I was very tired and not interested in watching the group fight off a meltdown.

After class, after the others had left, Dina said to me, “Well, that was intense.” That, I recognized, was her careful request to be heard. I listened, giving my best imitation of someone who cares, while she described trying to get Steve and Lulu to help her write the proposal for their project. “Lulu kept checking her phone, and Steve spent the whole time looking up Keurig coffeemakers!” She resented having to be the mean mom to the two members of the team that seemed to be willing to participate. Teresa was off typing something else, although she spent a fair amount of time in the hall trying to make an appointment with a doctor at OHSU. I couldn't help but overhear. I'm sure everyone heard. Not our business that she is married! Who would have imagined it: Pondering Teresa as a blushing bride makes me stop and wonder if there is any sense in the universe. Maybe I'm just not getting the joke.

This evening. I went online to simplyhired.com and found a job worth applying for. I started gathering my materials. I hate jobhunting. I always feel so inadequate. But nothing ventured, etc., so I went through the motions, skilled at bla bla, adept at yada yada, willing to hardy har har. As I was getting ready to upload, I realized I had given them the outline they requested, but for their duties, not for their list of requirements. Oops. Good thing I saw that before I sent it. Attention to detail... right. It's late, what can I say. I'm tired, I'm bored, I just want it all to be over.

But tomorrow I get to get up and do it all again. Am I complaining about being alive, when we all know what the alternative is? No, I'm laughing, really.

We're not happy until you're not happy

My indefatigable dissertation chairperson saved her comments for Chapter 3 of my dissertation. Why am I surprised: She is a self-proclaimed methodologist, and Chapter 3 is the methodology chapter. It's the plan, the blueprint, the guideline of my study. She marked it up with the Word equivalent of red ink: Lots of purple balloon comments in the margin: Do this part over! Move this here! Call me if you want to talk!

Uh, no thanks.

I've been working on it off and on all weekend, checking my sources and my reference list, trying to make sure everything aligns, reviewing the university's exceptions to APA format to confirm that yes, Abstract and Table of Contents are not bold, but Introduction and References are. I'm tired. But I'm willing to slog onward.

I went online just now to look up “open-ended questions” and “unstructured interviews” in EBSCOhost and ProQuest. EBSCO refused to link to some articles: internal server error (their server, not mine), and ProQuest was down for maintenance. Can you believe it? On a Saturday night! How many graduate students are fuming right now, having stashed away a few hours to work on some obscure topic like interviewing cats about academic quality in for-profit Gainful Employment programs...

Just kidding. My cat has nothing to say about quality, academic or otherwise.

Too many hours to Saturday Night Live. My eyes feel like they've been weeping. I'd remember if I wept today, wouldn't I? I blame allergies. We had two days of sunshine and blue sky. Every leafless tree is quivering on the edge of bursting into bloom. White and purple crocuses and sunny daffodils decorate the rock gardens, and neglected winter flowerbeds are showing green sprouts: tulips, maybe?

It's beginning to look like Spring around here, and it's only mid-March. What the—? Is this global warming? Can't say I mind, really. The sun felt good, even though the air was cold. Well, cold-ish. Well, okay, warm, almost. Like, maybe 60°? Only for a few brief moments, and it was great, but I swear it was 45° in the shade, which is all I have in the Love Shack, lest you think I was basking in the glorious rays while I was editing my paper. Not hardly. I have the heat cranked. My feet are tucked in my homemade rice-filled foot warmer. I'm wearing fleece, a hat, fingerless gloves... the usual, and it will be like this until July 5.

We're not happy until you're not happy. (The best song title I've ever heard.) Sort of sums up the self-imposed plight of the chronic malcontent.

Last week I visited my naturopath, Dr. Tony. What a guy. He's got new stuff to try on me every time I see him. I feel like I'm in a Batman cartoon when I venture into his dinky little treatment room. Here, he said, turn over and lie on your stomach. Suddenly—Bam! He dropped the middle of the bench to realign my hips. I sat up, reeling a little. He gently hugged me, and then...crunch! He cracked my back. I flopped back, gaping like a beached trout. Then he grabbed my ankle and told me to hang on to the table. Uh-oh, I had time to think before he yanked my leg and popped my hip. Pow!

Then while I lay there trying to catch my breath, he gave me a remedy that seems to pretty much be targeted at curing whatever ails you. It's called spigelia, and it's potent stuff. Got heart palpitations? (Who doesn't?) Hey, no problem. Sinuses congested? We got it covered. Pesky intestinal parasites? (Yipes! Really?) Spigelia is your solution. Hmmmm. Why didn't he just give it to me when we first met? Why wait three years for the magical cure?

He dumped a few pellets onto my tongue, and of course it worked immediately, as homeopathic remedies often do (at least when Dr. Tony is standing there watching). Then he pushed on my arms a few more times.

“You know that stomach problems are caused by the emotions, right?”

We've had this talk before. I nodded. “So?”

“Think of someone who is upsetting you.”

I thumbed through my ancient dusty moth-eaten mental Rollodex. “I can't think of anybody,” I whined.

“Someone at work.”

“Uh.... maybe Teresa?” She's my shadow side, it's gotta be her if it's anyone. Dr. Tony grabbed my arm.

“No, not Teresa. It's a male.”

I mentally reviewed my student rosters. Who could it be...? There are so few men in my classes, I hardly know these people, certainly not enough to be upset by them... Ch-ch-chug, my brain slipped a gear and came up with a name. “Uh, would it be... Roger?”

Dr. Tony grabbed my arm again.

“Bingo,” he said triumphantly. “It's Roger.”

My mind was saying, oh for crying out loud, this is ridiculous. It can't be Roger. Roger is a young man with entrepreneurial aspirations. He's likable, smart, articulate (although he plans everything he says, it takes forever for him to spit out one sentence), and he's an optimist (another word for born-again Christian). I like Roger a lot. I think he might be one of the brightest students we've seen at the career college. He could do better than our crummy school. He plans to start his own business, and here's the part that gets me: he actually believes he will succeed.

As I thought about Roger, I began to think Dr. Tony was on to something. Roger has something I want, something I've always wanted: success at running my own business. I would quit this lousy teaching job if I could just figure out how to make self-employment work for me. But I'm scared to try. I throw up every obstacle under the sun as an excuse for why my entrepreneurial ideas won't work, while Roger just goes ahead and does it. He's the most annoying creature in the world of business: the naive fool who doesn't know something is impossible, so he just... does it! Argh!

So, my heart, my parasites, my sinuses... all Roger's fault. Maybe I should send him the bill.

They move on, and we stand still

A recent graduate at the career college called my boss to tell him she got married. She also told him to expect a call from an employer seeking a reference. It took me a moment to remember who she was. Students come and go so quickly here in the career college world. Move 'em in and move 'em out. No sooner do I learn their first names, then they are dashing off to a new term, a new job, a new career. They move past me at a hundred miles per hour, while I'm poking along in the slow lane, living from nap to nap.

During my nap today, I dreamed about two students who are long graduated: I'll call them Trim and Toy, two older guys who used to work at Freightliner before they were laid off and sent for retraining. They chose healthcare administration. Trim was tall and thin,Toy shorter and rounder. Sort of a Mutt and Jeff kind of thing. Former coworkers, then classmates, and I think they went on to get hired by some big insurance company. Anyway, I dreamed about them. They had left a voice mail message for my colleague Sheryl, who celebrated a birthday today. In my dream, I paused at the office door, beckoning to Sheryl.

“Listen to this!”

She came trotting over. In my dream she wore her usual half-glasses on the end of her nose. Her blonde hair looked perfect. For an older gal, Sheryl is in pretty good shape.

We stood by the phone, holding in our laughter, while the voices of our former students thrashed through the speaker. Trim and Toy sang a long, complicated jingle about Sheryl, her cat, and her birthday. It was orchestrated with guitars, piano, and bongo drums, and the lyrics rhymed. I thought, Is that what they learn now in healthcare administration?

Dreams were in the zeitgeist today. This afternoon before I left for the day, the program director of the medical department, let's call her Joan, saw me from halfway down the medical wing. She stopped in her tracks and turned. “I had a dream about you!” she shouted down the hall. She clearly wanted to tell me about it, so I waited, trying not to cringe, as she hurried toward me. She reached me and grabbed my bicep.

“I had a dream about you!” Her blonde ringlets danced with excitement. “I dreamed you were a nun!”

Another teacher from the medical department, whose name has escaped me for three years, came rushing over to hear Joan's story about me in her dream.

“You were wearing the habit, the hat, the whole thing!” Joan screamed. “And your name was Sister Carol Ann!”

“That's amazing,” I said, edging away, back toward the relative safety and calm of the business wing.

So, not only am I a closet optimist, I am now so pure that people are mistaking me for a nun in their dreams? Hard to believe it's because of me or my character. I'm sure it's because I often wear head-to-toe black. I look like some weird monk person, silently skulking around the halls with a permanent frown line between my eyebrows. It's no wonder she was confused. Right?

I just uploaded Chapter 3 of my dissertation proposal to my Chair. While she mulls over my occasional, not-so-subtle use of the first-person pronoun, I will be patching all three chapters together, hoping against hope that I've included enough detail, in the right order, followed the correct template, fixed their errant formatting issues, and checked all my references. Here's hoping the dissertation gods take pity on me and let me pass this hurdle in less time than it took to clear the last one (the wretched concept paper). I doubt it will happen that easily, though.

My classmates trade names of good editors. Their posts lead me to wonder if they actually do any of their own writing, let alone their own thinking. Not me, by god. I'll sink or swim on my own. Editor? I don't need no stinking editor. I may eat those words later, but for now, I'm just hoping I retain enough brain cells to be able to spot those increasingly frequent moments when I leave out entire words, write fragments, and fail to make my subjects agree with my verbs. I weep to remember the days when I used to be a superb speller, when I had a vast vocabulary, when I intuitively understood the secret rules of grammar. Sigh. On the bright side, my memory is failing, so soon I expect I won't be able to remember anything. That will be some kind of relief.

My sister is in Germany, riding bikes with her love in the slushy streets. It's nice to realize that somewhere people have lives and are living them. I hope I won't be standing still forever. I plan to finish this doctoral journey one day soon, and find a life and live it. Maybe not Germany, but maybe someplace more exotic, like... Palm Desert or Yucaipa.

I'm not ready to be unemployed

After a hellish first week, the new term at the career college is.... I can't think of any words to describe how this new term might unfold. I can't say off to a rousing start. The word stumbling comes to mind, but that might apply more to me than the term. Not sure that is useful. As a descriptive term, I mean. Maybe the word hopeful applies: I think we may have more students, judging by the voices echoing down the halls. I wonder if any of our friendly, helpful admissions advisers told the new students that our campus would be moving to a new site in a few months.

To be honest, we still don't know if the move is happening. Rumor has it that the lease is up in April, but I suppose the management could decide to rent month-to-month until they found a suitable location. I'm not feeling all that positive about the possibility of moving. Last week I overheard two students say the reason why they chose our site was because it was near their homes. Location, location, location.

It occurs to me that anyone who hasn't read my blog before wouldn't have a clue what I'm talking about. I'm writing as if I'm narrating an ongoing soap opera for a devoted audience, when in actuality I know that my regular audience consists of a handful of people. I mean, I can count the number of you readers on one hand. The rest of you are drop-ins, looky-loos, accidental tourists traipsing through my blog on your way to someplace else. I can tell what you search for when I look in the stats, and I know you won't find it here. Sorry. Thanks for dropping by, though.

If you stick around, you'll get the whole sordid story of the dinky career college for which I work and its imminent demise. Although, now that I think about it, the demise has been imminent for the years. I guess that doesn't qualify as imminent anymore, does it? It's like going into hospice and outlasting your caregivers. People get a bit peeved. Enough already, just die, would you? Jeez.

I'm not ready to be unemployed. I tried to figure out how I would live if I had to work a minimum wage job. (Oregon minimum wage is $8.95.) My lifestyle would be severely impacted. Like my friend Bravadita, I would have to give up my car. I would have to find a house-share situation. I would have to stop eating organic. Any one of those outcomes would make me want to jump off the Fremont Bridge. I'm such a hothouse flower. I remember when I used to drive a school bus. I remember when I packed books in a warehouse for a two-week temp job. I'm too old for that now. And too damn well educated. No one would hire an aging, unemployed Ph.D. from a crummy for-profit online university to work in a warehouse.

I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, hey, where is that optimist that lurks inside you, Ms. Chronic Malcontent? Here's the deal on that. The Optimist is not chronic. She is both rare and shy. You may not see her very often around this blog, since the Malcontent is a bully. But maybe if you clap your hands three times and say I do believe in magic, I do, I do, I... well, no, maybe not. I don't know. I'm just writing drivel so I can move past my resentment and get on with writing Chapter 3 of my dissertation proposal. That, after all, is what I live for these days. Work is just that interval that comes between sleeping and writing. Maybe someday this will just be a bad dream, and I'll be able to just sleep and write.

And there she is—don't blink!—the shy Optimist, hovering by the water cooler, waving her tiny hand at us.

Put four students in a team project, add a deadline... and hit BLEND

Here I am, skulking back to my blog after being outed as a closet optimist. I've had some interesting feedback on the whole sordid expose. My sister laughed (kindly). She didn't sound all that surprised, once again proving I don't really know myself, have never known myself. She copied my self-portrait and drew a smile and a dimple on my malcontented face. How's that for sisterly love! Pretty cool.

It's humbling, but maybe it's also a little bit liberating, to discover this not-so-new, not-so-secret side to my personality. Liberating because if you don't know who you are, you could be anybody. All this time I thought I was a frustrated creative, a plodding malcontent, an irritating pot-stirrer, a rabble rouser. But turns out I could be totally wrong! Maybe I'm really a successful, well adjusted, creative, productive member of society. Maybe I'm a secret millionaire, so secret I haven't discovered it myself yet. Maybe I've written ten books and I'm working on my eleventh! Whoa. Maybe my thighs really are thin, maybe my hair isn't gray, maybe I'm not growing a mustache! I mean, there's just no telling who I am these days, if the once and former chronic malcontent is really a hidden optimist.

We started a new term at the career college this week. I have six preps, 26 contact hours, and not very many students. One class has one student, one class has two. The others have a handful each. The two classes that will be most interesting (for me) will be the two sections of Human Resources Management, where I require the students to work together as a team to choose and produce some sort of group project. This is the same process I used last term in the Organizational Management classes I may have blogged about previously. This term, I think one class is going to pose some problems. There are four students in the class: three women, one man. Two of them know each other, the other two are retreads from another time, another campus. And one is a chronic malcontent.

How do I know? Because I dislike her intensely. Her (not real) name is Teresa. She's my shadow. She represents all the things I dislike in myself, that I'm afraid to look at, afraid to express. She's obese and messy (like I fear I will become). She wears glasses (like I do) and her hair hangs down in strings around her face (like mine used to). She wears sloppy clothes (like I do when I can), and her fat-girl pants are usually halfway down her butt, so we would all be able to see her butt crack if she weren't wearing a grimy-looking thong (have I ever worn a thong? Maybe in my drug-hazed youth). She drags herself to class with a scowl, avoiding eye contact. Mostly she's silent, but every now and then, someone will say something (usually me) that rouses her ire.

The task today was for the group to begin the brainstorming process. I served as scribe, standing ready at the whiteboard, stinky marker in hand. “Who needs help?” I prompted. “What needs changing?”

Steve, the token male in the group (family man, toy collector, future accounting major and entrepreneur) cleared his throat and said slowly, “Gas prices need changing.”

“Oh, should they be higher?” I chirped.

“No, lower!” he said with some heat. His emotion roused Teresa, the sleeping giant.

“Gas prices are so high because the Middle East countries aren't producing as much oil,” she said proclaimed hotly.

The older gal, Dina, who is back at the career college after several years in the workforce, looked at Teresa and said with just the slightest hint of contempt, “We don't buy much oil from the Middle East anymore.”

They bickered about U.S. oil production for a few moments, until I leaped into the fray, verbally speaking.

“If this topic is interesting to you, you'll probably want to do some research, so your project is based on facts rather than just opinions. Okay, any more ideas? Who else needs help? What else needs changing? What can you find out?” I raised the marker, ready to write.

Everyone slumped back into their stupor. They stared blankly at the whiteboard. Lisa (20-years-old, size zero, bottle blonde) checked her smartphone. Steve gazed out the window. Dina drummed her fingers on the table. Teresa hid behind a wall of hair, her back to the board. Clearly the team has not started the first step of the group process (forming, storming, norming, and performing.)

I blame myself. If I were a really good teacher (which I'm not), I would devise a team-building activity for them, so they can get to know one another. Part of me wants to help them, ease them into the group experience. The other part of me just wants to sit back and watch the train wreck. I'm like the scientist poking the frog with an electrode. If I put four uninterested students in a pot of hot water (a forced team project) and turn on the heat (a 10-week deadline), what will they do? Will they climb over each other to claw their way out? Or will they help each other? Stay tuned. This is bound to be fun (for me).

The Chronic Malcontent is a... what!? No way!

Yesterday I drove to the campus in Wilsonville for our quarterly in-service. Some time back one of the program directors thought it would be a good idea if we had in-service on the day after the end of the term. Sadly, faculty weren't consulted, and now we have three fewer hours to finish our grades and prepare for the new start on Monday. More like four hours if you count the time lost driving to Wilsonville. Luckily, I have the weekend to grade and prep, right? More like, luckily, I still have a job.

This post isn't about how frustrating it is to be required to sit in workshops for three hours when I could be grading Access exams, although it's always satisfying to vent. No, this post is about something that happened in one of the workshops.

We are usually given a choice of workshop topics. The options for session 1 were LinkedIn or Positive Psychology Part 1. The options for session 2 were Multiple Intelligence or Positive Psychology Part 2. You've heard me talk about my tendency to look on the dark side. You know I call myself a chronic malcontent. It's not that I'm not satisfied with my role as... resident cynic. But lately I've been pondering the idea that if you keep doing what you've always done, you will get what you have always gotten. Bad grammar, I know, but you get my drift. The so-called Law of Attraction and all that stuff.

So I chose to attend the Positive Psychology sessions. I went in with an open-mind, to learn, like an anthropologist peering through tall grass at a newly discovered indigenous tribe. What will I hear, who will I see? Is everyone here part of the happy tribe? Or will there be any other malcontents lurking in the bush?

About twelve people attended, mostly folks from the medical department. If you know anything about medical faculty at a career college, you know they are the most outgoing (loudest), most people-oriented (drama, drama, drama), most compassionate (nosy parkers) of all the departments. I sat next to Molly (not her real name) who has oddly enough become a friend of sorts. She is the type of person the moniker Little Mary Sunshine was coined for. Seriously, she's over the top maniacally ebullient, all the freaking time. She likes me because she saw me drawing goofy characters in my notebook at a previous in-service. Her 21-year-old son is an artist, which is to say he lives at home and does nothing. I guess she recognizes something in me that reminds her of her son.

Our facilitator Trish (older gal, wheezing with the dregs of the flu) showed us a TED video of a self-styled positivity guru Shawn Achor, and then challenged us to take a pledge to do five things for 21 days. “It will change your life,” she wheezed. I list them here in case you want to try it yourself: (1) make a gratitude list, (2) journal about a positive experience every day, (3) exercise, (4) meditate, and (5) perform a random act of kindness.

“Get with a partner now and practice this together,” Trish directed in a cracked version of her school teacher voice. I turned to Molly and asked how her son was doing. “He joined the Furry Convention,” she said in frustration. “He made his own costume!” We were in a computer lab. While the other medical faculty were flailing about doing sloppy jumping jacks and knocking into things, I looked up Furry Convention. Wow, cool. People make costumes and hang out. Why didn't I know about this when I was 21? I didn't say that to Molly. “Best thing you can do is kick him out of the house,” I said bluntly.

“Ok, class!” Trish wheezed. “Now I want you to take the Optimism test.”

The pessimistic cynic in me mentally rubbed her hands in glee. At last, a test to prove I am a malcontent. All this positivity stuff is great, but I really just wanted validation for my self-inflicted moroseness. I registered on the website and dove into the 32-question questionnaire. The medical faculty were cackling loudly. Trish was talking over them, trying to sell us on the idea of being more optimistic. I said to Trish, “If you want me to fill out this survey, I'm going to need you to stop talking.”

“What?” Trish said.

“Stop talking!”

There was an awkward silence. We all got down to it. The questions came in pairs. Many of them were about relationships. Nothing seemed to apply to me. I floundered in confusion at first, but rallied and forged ahead, finishing first. Clicked the button: Calculate. A moment later, a series of graphs appeared. I stared in shock. Out of 8 possible points, I had scored a 7 on optimism, and a 2 on pessimism! No, this can't be! I'm the chronic malcontent!

I furtively hid my graphs and leaned over to see Molly's results. She scored a 2 on optimism and a 7 on pessimism, the exact opposite of me. No way!

I had to read the fine print and think past my defenses. Eventually, I understood. The questions were worded so that one of the pair represented a permanent situation, while the other one reflected a temporary situation. The idea is that optimists will consider positive situations enduring and permanent and judge negative situations temporary and fleeting. Apparently I have been looking on the bright side all along. I just hid that fact from myself. This is not unlike the day I looked in the mirror and realized I had grown a mustache.

What can I say. The jury is in. The former malcontent is outed. I've been a closet optimist all along. Please don't tell anyone.

Ants

One of the consequences of embarking upon the journey toward an advanced degree is that some parts of life must inevitably receive less attention. The chore of writing coherent sentences is all consuming. There is little time left for things like personal hygiene, housekeeping, or car maintenance. You already know I live in squalor. I've written about the dust balls and cat hair before. But I don't think I've mentioned the ants. Have I mentioned the ants?

I'm beginning to suspect my sole purpose in life is to transport ants from one location to another. I'm really good at it, mostly (although I will say that not all of them survive the trip, most notably the ones that inadvertently trod upon my neck). They load up the gangway to my shirt while I'm washing dishes at the kitchen sink. Then they sample the various activities of my scarf, hat, and pants. At their own risk, of course. Then I walk into another room, where they disembark on my computer keyboard or my television remote control. They are thrill-seeking tourists, looking for that next adventure. And I'm just the human who can give it to them.

I've spread a concoction made of mineral oil and cayenne pepper along my kitchen counter, but I always miss some spots. These become ports of entry for intrepid scouts, who navigate between reeking hot puddles of pepper, like humans traverse Yellowstone. It's comical to watch them stop, back up, turn, start up again, stop, like little matchbox toys. Sometimes they are boxed in. Then they just have to sit there. I don't usually save them. But when I return to the kitchen the next day, they are gone. Who rescued them? Maybe there is a superhero for ants trapped on kitchen counters. Save us from the evil human!

Sometimes they organize a coup. They try to take over the kitchen. The little buggers have almost succeeded a couple times, especially when their spies locate the cat food. The supply lines are long and thick as your finger, little workers trundling back and forth. Must bring home the bacon! Feed the children! I would invite them in as guests, but my cat is less hospitable. He won't fight them, or eat them (I assume they aren't that tasty, although I'm sure I've accidentally cooked them into my scrambled eggs a few times). The cat gives me the evil eye when his food dishes are overrun. I can't live long with the evil eye.

I don't like killing anything, even ants. I also hate eating meat, but that is another story. In the flora and fauna of the Love Shack, I let spiders live, as long as they aren't in my bed. I save bees, hornets, wasps, and yellow jackets. I even save flies, if I can catch them. Any one critter, I will attempt to rescue and put outside. But when critters attack in hordes, I can't save them all. Moths and ants overwhelm me with sheer numbers. I'll tolerate a few, but eventually the tolerant giant is moved to retaliate.

Out come the big guns. No, I'm not talking about pesticide sprays or ant motels. I'm talking about the oldest remedy for what ails you: alcohol! Rubbing alcohol in a spray bottle sends them to ant heaven. I mop up their sopping carcasses with a paper towel and toss them to their final resting place in the trash. Then I spray bleach on the battlefield. And finally I salt the earth (all entry points I can locate) with the hot pepper oil concoction. That buys me a few weeks of peace and ant-free scrambled eggs. Such is the life of a (slightly crazy) doctoral student.

Is it spring yet?

I've been sneezing off and on all day. It could be a reaction to the piles of dust and cat hair that continuously roil about the Love Shack. It could be a reaction to something I ate. I suppose I could be coming down with the creeping crud that has been plaguing the career college for the past few weeks. But I think it's none of the above. The air in here is always filled with dust and cat hair, and sometimes sawdust, paint fumes, and burned fish, depending on what I've been doing. I haven't eaten anything out of the ordinary lately, and I don't feel sick. So what could it be? I have a theory.

Today the temperature topped 60° in parts of the metro area. Just for a little while, but the balmy temperature, combined with sunshine and blue sky, I am positive, enticed a billion little spores and mites and bugs and pollen bits to launch themselves in a celebratory frenzy: Oh joy, it's spring! And my sinuses responded.

This happens every February. February is the wicked witch of winter. February waves her wand and beguiles all the gullible little bulbs and ferns into believing it's safe to raise their little trusting faces to the sun. (Awww, isn't that cute, my bulbs are sending up green shoots. What was it I planted in that pot, again? I have no recollection. Last November seems an awfully long time ago.)

I bet you can guess what happens next. Yep. Sometime in early to mid-March, a nasty Arctic cold front will sweep down from the Gulf of Alaska and blanket all the trusting little crocuses and daffodils who were stupid enough to believe February's lies with inches of snow and/or ice. Bam. Fooled you. Then the Love Shack becomes an igloo, a dark, frigid igloo, and I wish I could hibernate until summer.

I grew up here, and I know this place, even though I spent 20 years in Los Angeles. I know February promises the impossible. Everyone who has been here for a while knows that summer begins July 5. I never remove my flannel sheets before June. I keep my heating pad handy year round. I wear fleece every day, even when the sun is shining, and a hat and fingerless gloves. I know this place. Although I guess I don't know everything. It's possible some of my misery is of my own making. Next time when I look for an apartment, I won't choose a place on the north side of a mountain.

Flogging a dubious metaphor

For the past few hours I've been working on the introductory chapter of my dissertation proposal. This is the chapter that contains obtuse subheadings, like... Theoretical Framework. When I see the word framework, I think of furniture, like folding screens and wooden headboards. Scaffolding. Shelves. Say, have I mentioned my DIY shelving? I have shelves on virtually every wall in my dinky apartment, in line with the theory that the floor looks bigger if everything is stored overhead.

I digress. Or do I?

I'm building the literary equivalent of shelving. I'm scaffolding my argument. I'm assembling pipes and planks to support my topic and justify my method and design. Ho hum. I suddenly felt my brain slipping away. Flogging a dubious metaphor makes me tired. I'm sure you have already gone to the refrigerator.

Anyway, I am making progress, slow and steady. There's no race to win, you know. We are all winners in the human race. Whatever, it's a nice idea, even if it doesn't feel much like I'm winning most of the time. What is winning, anyhow? One of those mysteries of life, right up there with why men spit. I would define winning as success on my terms, I guess, although I don't always know what my terms are. In other words, I don't always know what I want. I say I want one thing, but my actions say I apparently want something else.

Right now, I want to stop typing and make tracks to the refrigerator. Not that there is anything comforting in there: zucchini, collard greens, eggs.... tomorrow's breakfast. Hey, I know what I want. I want all the things that used to comfort me to comfort me again: I'm talking about food, money, and love. It irks me that these things, once so comforting, in excess and mishandled now just make me feel worse. What gives? Is it no longer true that if one is good, two is better? Does it no longer hold that bigger is better, nower is wower, whiter is righter? Wha—? Well, whatever. Do you get my drift? Probably not. I'm having trouble focusing. It's late. Tomorrow morning comes too soon. Sleep is my last refuge, and that is where I am headed.

Scratching the teacher burnout again

I just finished the weekly task of grading the work of my keyboarding students. They are required to type and print a variety of asinine documents. Scintillating and informative topics like The Integrity and Ethics of Job Applicants. Ending Procrastination. As if students actually pay attention to the content of what they are typing. Ha. If they did, they wouldn't make so many damn mistakes.

The software program scores their work and catches their typos, but not their formatting errors. That is where I come in. Out comes the red pen. I rip their documents bloody. Add line spaces here! Delete this extra space! Insert a page number, no don't just type a 2, what the hell are you thinking, do you want every page to be numbered page 2? I spend way too much time (and derive a disgusting amount of satisfaction) editing the crap out of their work, and then feel righteously angry when they don't feel inclined to revise. What! Are you going to settle for 9 points when you could have all 10? When will I learn they don't care? They just want to pass the class.

I've been proofreading the same documents for almost ten years. Reports in business style and academic style, memos, chart notes, letters, tables... over and over and over. Every few terms, I catch a break from the scheduling gods, and I'm excused from the keyboarding drudgery. Next term, I hear, I might get lucky. The trade-off is that I may end up with a new class, an introductory computer class for medical students who are notoriously computer illiterate (and sadly unconcerned about it). I hear there are three sections. With a lot of students in each. So I hear.

The term is winding down, two weeks to go. Teachers are going through reviews. Today I sat in a computer lab listening to a keyboarding instructor walk his students through the review for the keyboarding final.

“What fingers do you use to type the number four?” he asked in a slow voice, like they were third graders.

“R4 L1!” they shouted.

“Very good, class. And what fingers do you use to type the number six?”

“R4 L1!” they shouted again. No, I thought, that is not what the software teaches us. I almost interrupted. I put my hand over my mouth. Before I stick my foot in it, I must have evidence! I signed myself into his computer class (let him puzzle over who this new student is, two weeks before the end of the term). I poked around the lessons until I found what I sought. Lesson 14. Yes! I knew it. It's L4 R1!

By then he'd moved on. All the answers were written on the whiteboard, all copied dutifully into students' notes. Would I really consider undermining his authority by pointing out to him that he is teaching them wrong information?

Well, what does wrong mean when it comes to typing, I ask you. It's not like this is a medical terminology class and he taught them salpingo-oophaboomboom instead of salpingo-oophorectomy. My father typed with his two index fingers on a manual Underwood with sticky keys. He wasn't graded down by his superior officer, as far as I know. He retired early, a happy man, and spent more than 20 years never worrying about typing again. I've seen students type 70 words a minute with two fingers—I wouldn't have believed it possible if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. I've seen a person with one hand type faster than most people type with two. When it comes to typing, I guess the lesson to be learned is.... who the hell cares what fingers you use? Let's just be grateful we have fingers, if we do, and let it go with that.

Every time I grade keyboarding I am reminded of how much I hate grading keyboarding. I know I could just let it go, do less, give them less feedback, demand less, expect less (if that is possible), but my sense of integrity rears its weary head. No, can't give less than... oh, about 96%, I'd say. I used to give 110% but after ten years, I just don't have it left to give. Not for keyboarding, not for anything, anymore. I've got a classic case of teacher burnout. It's like athlete's foot. Or a yeast infection. It burns, it itches, and it doesn't go away.

Ear to the floor

There's a new noise to complain about at the Love Shack. It's a more or less continuous high-pitched whine, like a blow dryer or a dustbuster. At first I thought I was just hearing things. Getting old. Crazy person, overly sensitive to sound, self-diagnosed with misophonia, any little noise can grate on my nerves. Maybe it's just some kind of ringing in my ears, the kind of ringing that happened when I laid my head on my purring cat for too long. (Fun at first but not recommended.)

I put my ear to the wall between my apartment and my noisy neighbor. When she's home I can hear all kinds of things. I don't even have to try. I hear her blowing her nose. I hear her toilet flush. I hear her getting lucky on Saturday nights. (When the bed starts shaking, I'm tempted to pound on the wall, just for the hell of it.) This time I heard nothing. Hard to believe, but I don't think the noise is coming from her place. Unless her little dog is using the blow dryer to dry his short and curlies.

I made like an Indian, oh sorry, Native American, and put my ear to the floor. Amazing what you can hear when you do that. (If you don't mind getting cooties.) The floor was gently humming.

Was the noise in the basement? I got my laundry room key and went downstairs to have a look. The basement in this old triplex is mostly a dank, dark, unfinished cave. The laundry room is lit by two bare bulbs, festooned with spider webs, dust, and lint from years of tenants' laundry. It's cold in summer, colder in winter, not pleasant. The front side, though, is a different story. In the front of the triplex, a very steep driveway used to lead to a pair of very narrow garages, built for very narrow cars. Think Model T and you might have it. Some years ago someone bricked up the wall with glass bricks. The sun coming in through the bricks refracts the light, illuminating piles of furniture and boxes. (My landlords use the brightly lit front space for storage.) One of the old wooden garage doors is still in place, giving the place some authenticity.

I skulked through the basement, listening carefully while dodging spider webs and a smelly wetsuit (my noisy neighbor is a surfer, did I mention that?). All I heard was the usual cracking and sighing of an old crumbling shack. Nothing in the basement was making the whining noise, although I could still hear it. It was in the walls, in the floors, not loud, just an insidious whine that set my teeth on edge.

I heard it best in my bedroom and bathroom, which means it is probably something in my silent neighbor's apartment. Her name is Mary. I rarely see her. She's a ghost, compared to Joy, my neighbor on the other side (the one with the pooping dog). What is Mary doing over there?

Maybe it's a dentist's drill, maybe she's practicing to be a dental tech. No, maybe it's a hair dryer, maybe she had a stroke while sitting under a hair dryer and now she's a mummy, toasting in the heat while the dryer whines on and on. I know, maybe she's got a roombot! That would be cool. Except wouldn't the whining sound change as it bashed into walls and ran over shoes and stuff? I don't know. If I had a roombot, my cat would shred my favorite books, destroy my clothes, and then hide under the bed till next Christmas.

I have no idea if the whining is actually constant. I do leave the Love Shack once in a while. I don't know what happens when I'm gone. My cat could be watching porn for all I know. My cat could be in cahoots with my neighbor. With both my neighbors! To drive me crazy. Does that sound crazy? Well, whatever. After three days of the mysterious whine, one day I came home, and it was gone.

Then a few days later I got home, and it was back. Looks like I'd better learn to live with it. I'm trying. I've managed to set aside my curiosity about its source long enough to take my afternoon naps between morning and evening classes. I've written a note, in my mind, several notes, actually, something along the lines of: Dear neighbor, what is that odd sound, do you hear it? Is it perhaps coming from your apartment? If so, would you please SHUT IT OFF!

This weekend the noise is off. Not on. Whatever. I don't even know what makes the noise. Maybe it's my ears after all. Maybe it is a function of how much salt I eat, or how much sleep I get, or how addicted I am to Scandal. I don't know. I'm beginning to think the universe is testing me to find out how spiritually evolved I am. The doctoral saga. The career college meltdown. The dog poop. The whining noise.

On the bright side, my sister's boyfriend has surfaced in SE Asia and reports he is intact. She's ecstatic, despite winter storm Nemo burying Boston in two feet of wet snow. I'm happy for her. Love is a wonderful thing. So I hear. Hmmm. I'm not sure I can trust my ears on that, either. Oh well.

Feeling anything but safe

Today after my two morning classes, I dutifully joined an assembly of 40 or so faculty and staff in a two-hour safety session. I yawned my way through tales of perps and victims, disasters and catastrophes, told by two decrepit retired law enforcement officers, now criminal justice teachers. All their fear-mongering accelerated my heart rate, which I'm sure is the only thing that kept me awake. (I worked till 10:30 the night before, hence my walking-zombie condition.) I'd like to scoff and say compared to the Chronic Malcontent, these guys were rank amateurs, but actually they did a pretty good job of disseminating doom, with the main difference between them and me being that they actually believe they have some control over the disaster situation, and I am quite sure we don't. Hence my propensity to wring my hands and bemoan the hand-basket thing.

These two guys were almost old enough to be my fathers (ick), but they acted like kids, no, let me be clear, they acted like boys, telling their tales of blood, guts, and death, laughing about the time they blew up four sticks of dynamite in a hole, just to see what would happen. Giggling over the time they pepper-sprayed the engine of their colleagues' cop car. Describing with gusto the many times they had to slam a perp to the ground. My father was in law enforcement. I never heard him describe stories like these, but I know he was one of them, the brotherhood. Just like these two old has-beens, he never grew up. His jokes were juvenile, usually involving sex. His interests were narrow: family and football. His loyalty was clear: white and might make right.

I left the safety seminar feeling anything but safe. A three-hour nap restored me to my usual fugue state. I turned on my computer and took a desultory look at my dissertation proposal—the next course started on Monday. The chair responded to my literature review submission very positively. I don't think she read much of it, but most of it wasn't new. Next up, the introduction. I thought she'd be chewing on the lit review for a few days, but nope, it's back on my plate. Time to dig in to my topic again, time to grab it between my yellowing teeth and slam it to the ground. Maybe poke out its eyes and rip off its penis, and then spray it down with cayenne pepper, just to be on the safe side.

There's so much to do. We are coming up on finals week at the career college. I need a haircut. My laundry is piled to the rafters. I should call my mom. My sister's boyfriend is still missing in SE Asia. Bravadita is still down for the count with the flu bug from hell. The earthquake is coming. At least three of my students probably brought a gun to school in their cars. And we're all going to hell in a hand-basket.

I may have to emote at some point

I've been buried in my literature review almost every moment I haven't been working, sleeping, or attending a meeting. I forgot the Superbowl was today. Not that I would have watched it, probably, but since I am a student of marketing, I have a half-hearted professional interest in the commercials. I don't feel bad. I can watch them tomorrow from the student lab at work. That will help me stay awake.

One good thing in being alone a lot is that I don't have much contact with other people, especially sick people. So far I have managed to avoid the flu bug. Knock on high-density particle board. I don't know how I have been so lucky. Zinc, maybe? Irascibility, maybe? My friend Bravadita is suffering mightily and dosing heavily. Hope you feel better soon.

Another benefit to being single is that you don't have to keep track of other people much. When I was in  a relationship, everything I did, every thought I thought, was in relation to my partner. He existed, I orbited. My sister's boyfriend has gone AWOL in a foreign country. She's distraught with worry. I would be, too, if I had allowed myself to commit to (rather than collide with) another person's fortunes. I've never been much of a joiner. For her sake, I hope he turns up soon.

I feel reluctant to whine when others are suffering. But what the heck. People are suffering all the time, everywhere. I can't keep my whining on hold indefinitely. I am the Chronic Malcontent, after all. It's my job to whine. Right now I'm too tired to whine. I have too many big words floating in my head. Ontology. Epistemology. The icons on my desktop are starting to come loose when I blink. I guess that means my eyes are crossing or something. I just wanted to write something, to let you know I'm still emoting.

Is it odd or is it god?

Does detoxification invite the unexpected? There's a question for you. I'm supposedly in detox mode, thanks to the shenanigans of my person shaman (my naturopath, Dr. Tony). And all these weird things are coming in the mail. Well, maybe the recurring invitation to AARP is not so weird. But a letter from the University of Northern Iowa announcing a job opening for a Marketing Department Head, now that was unexpected. How on earth did they get my name? And how desperate are they, that they would undertake a nationwide search? I have to assume it's nationwide—there is no rational reason they would be singling me out.

And then there's the pamphlet from the Historic Message Church, notifying me of an event called the Bible Prophecy Conference, at which we can find out what the last night on earth will look like. Tempting, but no thanks. If it doesn't involve chocolate and a bottle of chardonnay, as I suspect it doesn't, I don't want to hear about it. I guess they probably knocked on my door, but I wasn't home. Whew. If that is not proof of the existence of god, I don't know what is.

And then, today the mail carrier delivered a box from Amazon, an occurrence that happens with some frequency at my place, I'm embarrassed to admit. Yes, I am a book junkie. But when I opened the box, I thought, hey, these aren't the smutty vampire novels I ordered, oh, no, not another Amazon mix up. What is this massive tome? A book on the history of costume illustration? What? Maybe another me, from a former life, but... oh. There is a card. Oh, hey, it's a present from a former significant other. Like, way former, from the 1980s. Wow. Totally unexpected and just the slightest bit creepy.

We like to think oddities come in threes, so there you have it, three odd things in my mailbox. But there was plenty of other crap in the mailbox, the inbox, and the cat box. And plenty of other oddities around that I probably failed to notice because I'm too self-absorbed to pay attention to anything but myself.

Now I'm wondering what Cedar Falls, Iowa, looks like. Ha, dream on. Not that I would consider moving to the Midwest, but it's nice to think they might want me. Unfortunately, I don't meet the qualifications. I haven't finished my doctorate, and I haven't published anything. (Yet.) Oh well. The last line of the letter is a request that if I don't, would I please pass the letter along to someone who does. Sigh.

The long-awaited back adjustment

It's always an adventure when I visit the naturopath. What will he do to me this time, I wonder. Will he stick me full of needles? Will he give me a magic potion? Will I drink it or rub it on my stomach while reciting a Walt Whitman poem? (I just made that up, he's never asked me to recite poetry.) I never know what I will get when I visit the naturopath, and I'm always slightly bemused when I leave. Today was no exception.

He rubbed his hands gleefully when I came in. Uh-oh, I thought.

“Hi, come on in! I have some new things to try on you.”

“Okay,” I said gamely. Great. How much is this going to cost, I thought, but didn't ask out loud.

“I've wanted to learn these techniques for a long time, but I had to finish my other degree first,” he said, pointing at a wall of framed certificates that could have been made with PowerPoint and a laser printer.

Feeling some trepidation, I laid down on the table, the one with the hole where your butt goes (never thought about the unsettling implications of that hole before now), and he proceeded to do a round of unfamiliar muscle testing techniques. He was brisk, energetic, and efficient. Then he told me to sit up. He counted my vertebrae and then shot me in the spine with a little gun.

Not shot me, but poked me, pushed me, I don't know what the gizmo did. It was just a thump. Nothing exploded, don't worry. I have no idea what the purpose of the procedure was, but he tested more stuff, shot me a few more times in various places along my spine. Then he torqued my rib cage back into alignment (who knew it was misaligned?). Then he told me to wrap my arms around myself and give myself a great big hug, because he was going to give me the come to jesus back adjustment he couldn't do until now, because I wasn't strong enough to handle it. Really? For three years you've been saving this moment?

I sat up and wrapped my arms around myself, thinking oh no, here it comes, the moment when my neck snaps, my brain strokes out, my bowels void into the hole in the table. Before I had a chance to draw a breath, he said, “Breathe out.” Then he put his arms around me, and all I could see was his blue shirt. It was strangely intimate. He smelled mildly like b.o. I bet he uses no deodorant. He's a natural guy, after all. And then, while I was inhaling his unique scent and wondering if this looked as ridiculous as it felt, he lifted me straight up off the table, leaving my back somewhere behind. Craaaaack. My spine unraveled like the San Andreas. He did it one more time and let me go.

I sat there, wishing I could shake myself like a dog, work out the kinks, try to regain my grasp on reality. Who am I, again? What just happened?

“I've just done a major detox on your system,” he cackled. “Drink three liters of water daily for the next two days!”

I was out of his office in less than a half hour, and only $105 poorer, which is the least I've ever paid him, I think, in the three years I've been seeing him. Bargain! Was I floating just a little as I walked out to my car? Where's my car, again?

I had enough energy after I left to stop at the grocery store for vittles to replenish my empty larder, but after that I was tuckered out. De-toxing is tiring work, apparently. I hit the mattress when I got home, and slept like a dead person until my bladder woke me up. (Damn, I hate drinking water!) I worked on my Literature Review for awhile, updating sources, trying to make sense of the nonsensical. That got boring fast. There's nothing on TV worth watching. The cat is draped over my wrists as I type this. It's 10:00 pm, time for bed, and I'm wide awake and probably won't get to sleep until 3:00 am. Curses! But at least I'm detoxed!

Hold the presses: I need to slow my chi down

Chi? I suppose I should write it as qi. Would you have a clue what I'm talking about? I don't, but apparently I need more houseplants. In the world of feng shui, the chi around my house shouldn't move too quickly, and a few fluffy fern-like things will do the trick. Except for the fact that I live in a cave. Hmmm. As I was flipping channels, I heard some commentators say ferns will slow down my chi, but they didn't say what to do if you live in a cave.

Well, living under boulders seems to be de rigeur these days. So maybe there's a plant that will restore my chi in the darkness of a cave dwelling. Chia pets, maybe.

I worked on my dissertation proposal this evening and got hopelessly bogged down in my study of systems thinking. I'm pretty good at finding sources, and very skilled at downloading them and saving them with meaningfully coded file names. I can do that all day long. I can even read them and highlight interesting bits of text with the cute little highlighter pen tool (if the pdf files are not too old and funky). But ask me to read critically and synthesize the bits of information into coherent observations that I can place strategically into my paper to support my argument... well, really, you are asking too much from this old parched brain.

Parched. Drink more water. Apparently, it will help your brain function better. I'm off to take a swig. Be right back. I'm back. It took longer than I anticipated, because first I had to re-fill my water bottle. Then I had to put on the teapot, because I decided tea would taste better than water, although I can't seem to find a tea that I really like, because I'm not doing dairy or soy or rice or almond or oat or hemp and without something white in it, black tea is so... robust. Then I had to give the cat a back rub. Then while I was choosing my tea flavor, he stole my chair, and I had to negotiate its return. So you can see what drinking water can lead to.

Several of the articles I reviewed tonight were written by Chinese scholars responding to a western author who is known for a lifetime of study of soft systems methodology. (You're like, soft what? I know, me too.) These Chinese guys are super-smart, even though their English isn't always so great. I can tell they really know how to parse a thought. I mean, they are analytical to the max, rambling for pages on the ontological and epistemological meanings of hard and soft systems methodologies as they discuss why Checkland is a loser. I'm like a pre-schooler next to these guys. But every now and then, they can surprise me. After several long erudite paragraphs about the nature of reality, one guy concluded, “If there is no commitment to realism, it will be a really bad thing.” I burst out laughing when I read that sentence. Yes! I totally agree! Ignoring realism is not a good thing. And I love how you say it so we can all understand it! Thank you, Mr. Wu (2010, p. 196).

I talked to my mother earlier tonight, during one of my many breaks. She described her trip to the store as a prowl. I like picturing my skinny little mother prowling. She's like the opposite of a prowler, of course. That is why it's so funny. Here's another funny story about my mother. My little brother (who lives near her) told me she had a run-in with a neighbor over some dog poop. Apparently my mother saw her neighbor's dog pooping somewhere it shouldn't have, and no one cleaned it up. So my mother bagged up the poop and took it over to the neighbor's condo, where she was preparing to hurl it over the fence onto her patio. Unfortunately for my mother, the neighbor caught her in the act. Busted!

Mom never told me this story, which indicates she either forgot (possible) or she was so embarrassed at getting caught that, in spite of my recent run-ins with a neighbor's dog poop, she chose not to tell me (more likely). I won't ask her about it. I don't want to embarrass her. But I like this feisty old mother of mine. She's pretty fun since my dad died. I think her chi is a lot better now. I guess being liberated from a half-century long semi-crappy marriage can do that to you. Plus she has a lot of houseplants.

The chronic malcontent is feeling nasty, brutish, and short

I've known that I have obsessive compulsive tendencies for a long time. When I was in first grade, I looked down on classmates who ate crayons, but I repeatedly bit the hard little buttons on my cardigan sweaters until they cracked. As I got older, I fell into the habit of ripping my cuticles until they bled and tearing my fingernails down to the quick. In seventh grade I went through a period where I pulled out my eyelashes.

I always knew those behaviors were socially unacceptable and felt a pervasive sense of shame about them, but I was never able to control my obsession. My parents would chastise me—Stop picking!—but weren't inclined to discover what compelled me to engage in such obvious self-destruction.

Now I know I'm in good company. Dermatillomaniacs are legion. Just Google skin picking. You'll see forums full of shattering admissions from self-mutilators who are practically weeping with relief at finding out they are not alone in their insanity. Some of them have disfigured themselves by pulling out their hair, eyebrows, and eyelashes. Others have torn apart their fingers and endured life-threatening infections. As self-mutilators go, I'm not very high on the charts. On any given day, I may sport only one band-aid on a finger. In times of high stress, I may have two or rarely three.

These are times of high stress. As I get closer to finishing my dissertation, I think about disaster (shootings, volcanoes, earthquakes, tsunamis). I think about death (illness, injury, insanity). I think about old age, if I live that long (dementia, stroke, nursinghome). It's not enough to stop me from going to work or the store or the gas station. I forget about it while I'm not thinking about myself. (Hint, hint.)

How do you cope? Do you overeat? Do you drink? Do you cut yourself, or sleep too much, or bury yourself in video games? Why is it so excruciating to be present sometimes? Am I the only one? Do you ever feel too twitchy to inhabit your own skin?

Then something wacky happens, like my one and only niece goes and has a baby, a charming little fellow with a lively eye. Something changes. There's a flavor of something I hardly ever taste... could it be hope? Then I laugh, wondering what kinds of obsessions he will have, coming from this wacky family, and I can see the comical side of surviving in times of high stress. We do what we can. We do what we must. It might be nasty, brutish, and short but it's all we've got.

The artist's futile lament: I gotta be me

It's almost 11:00 p.m. I've spent much of the day grading student work. I haven't even been outside today. The cold winter sun came and went, and I missed it, hunkered in my cave. It's midterm time. Instructors are required to submit midterm grades, in case they get run over by a truck before the end of the term. Or get fired. Or they quit because they found a  better job with a better company. (Dream on.) It takes time to do a good job grading. I joked with someone today that I probably could just throw darts at a dartboard. Ha ha, I'm sure my students wouldn't think that was funny.

Actually, once I see some writing samples, I can pretty accurately predict the grade each student will earn by the end of the term. We don't grade on the curve. It's all about points. Everyone can get an A if they do all the work satisfactorily. I have no problem giving everyone an A. Considering that my job security depends on how students evaluate me, I guess I'd say giving all As is part of how I keep my job. Kidddddingggg. No, really. I'm kidding. Just because I work at one of those low-life for-profit colleges we all love to bash doesn't mean I don't provide the best learning experience I possibly can. I'm sure I can do better on any given day—who couldn't?—but I really do try to show up and do a good job for these students. Most of whom don't give a rat's ass about learning, I might add. They just want to get out and on with their lives.

This term I have fewer computer classes and more business classes. That means more stuff to read. Two sections of Organizational Management (four students total), two sections of Professional Selling (three students total), one section of an introductory level Marketing and Finance (two students). One section of Access (five students, one of whom refuses to do any work, so he won't be around much longer). And two sections of Keyboarding, with about 25 students total). Do you wonder how this career college stays afloat, with such a low student/teacher ratio? I do.

I often complain about Keyboarding as a reason I want to poke my eyes out with a stick. I use the word “teaching” very loosely when speaking of Keyboarding. Teaching isn't exactly what I do as I stroll around behind the students, peering over their shoulders, poking at their monitors with an accusing finger. This is how you set a tab stop! Center the table! Vertically! Which way is vertically? Google it! I'm the Keyboarding drill sergeant from hell. Most of the students find me very annoying. But how else can I stay awake in class, I ask you?

After nine years, I can say with some certainty that I have pretty much perfected the job of grading keyboarding. I have developed a very colorful Excel spreadsheet that does all of the calculations for me. All I have to do is plug in the numbers. It's a thing of beauty, but unfortunately, I still have to review many documents for accuracy and formatting, a very repetitive and boring process. Letters, memos, reports, just kill me now. I've seen these documents so many times in nine years I bet I could recite them out loud. Especially the medical transcription documents. These are the documents the medical students must type from dictation files. They hate typing big words like... salpingo-oophorectomy, acute suppurative streptococcal infection, drippy gooey pus-filled tonsillar exudate (I embellished that one a little bit), as much as I hate reading them. This is why I am earning a doctorate? To teach medical keyboarders how to transcribe dictation? Where's that stick?

After nine years, am I done? Am I ready to finally admit I've done all I can do at the career college, and it's time to move on? I think I'm almost ready. Soon, very soon. Within a year, I think. On to what, though, is the question.

The cat just settled into the chair behind me and now has somehow managed to take over the entire chair. There isn't room for both our fat asses. I guess that means it's time to stop and take a nap or something. When in doubt, do what the cat does.

I'd be running in circles if I could only remember why

I'm circling my dissertation proposal like a fly buzzing a pile of... no, wait, I'm not going there again. Tired metaphor, too close to home. Been on that pile, still scraping the poop off my clutch pedal. I posted my irate diatribe (re: tiny fecund dogs and their fetid output) in the laundry room (neatly sandwiched in a plastic sleeve and hung with a pushpin), but I'm not sure it's been read yet. Nothing has changed. Except I bought more flashlights.

I have a memory like a gnat's lifespan. That is to say, very short. A few days ago I was irate over something unrelated to stepping in dog poop, and I was anxious to blog about it. But now, the passage of time has eroded the memory. Now all I remember is that I used to be irate about something I thought was worth blogging about. Maybe I've found the secret path to serenity: dementia. If you can't remember what upset you, why get upset at all?

It's a trick. My brain is trying to kill me again. It knows I am feeling the pressure to finish the dissertation proposal, and it is eroding my cognitive functions in a frantic attempt to keep me calm. I guess it's working. I feel pretty good. This despite the fact that I've had Chapter 2 (the Literature Review) open on my computer for the past three hours, and I haven't typed a single word. La la la. What have I been doing? Anything but. I cleaned the cat box (and the human box). I refilled the minutes on my stupid smartphone. I roasted some beets. I made some tea. I nuked my rice-filled foot warmer. I'm like a cat, turning round and round before settling down to the important work of napping. Except I've been turning and turning for three hours. And napping is not an option.

On the radio today I heard part of a program about Oregon's new education standards. I usually don't pay attention to K-12 stuff; it's too complicated for my peanut-brain. But someone said something that caught my attention today: The new standards are developed from an assessment of “college and career readiness,” and form the basis for a decision to focus core reading curricula on fewer classic literature texts and more informational texts. I want to know who decided what constitutes “college and career readiness”? Did a cabal of employers hold a book burning, in the name of enhancing the development of job skills? No more 1984, no more The Unbearable Lightness of Being. Nope, now it's all about How to Read an Annual Report.

And now I remember what I was so upset about a few days ago. Oh, darn. Now I've forgotten again. But that reminds me of something else. University of Phoenix is having accreditation troubles. I don't think they'll actually lose their accreditation, but they have such a monstrous online presence, I worry that there will be negative fallout for all for-profit online institutions, including the one to which I pay my hard-earned cash. As if there wasn't already a huge stigma against both for-profit institutions and online learning. I'm not a fan of University of Phoenix. I'm also not a fan of for-profit higher education. I am feeling very unemployable after hearing this news.

The years of budget cuts have forced the public universities, state colleges, and community colleges to raise tuition and cut back on under-performing programs. They have also become more selective about who they admit, leaving the dregs (non-traditional students) nothing but the for-profit sector. For-profit higher education institutions wouldn't have swooped in if there weren't such good pickings left by the failure of public institutions to meet demand. With the ready availability of student loan money, for-profits make a killing, students get a second-rate education (at best), and taxpayers are on the hook for the loans that end up in default.

Now I remember what it was. I was driving home late Wednesday night after work, listening to NPR. A guest on Tell Me More said he was against the idea that public funds (i.e., taxpayer-funded student loan money) should be used to support degree programs such as art, music, and anthropology, because, he claimed, the graduates of these programs incur student loans they will be hard-pressed to pay back. This argument came as no surprise to me, but I was still saddened to hear it.

The for-profits don't waste their time offering art, music, or anthropology. They offer programs that are in high-demand fields such as healthcare, business, legal arts, and criminal justice. Makes sense. It's all about the money. But what happens if public institutions do the same thing? Are we destined to become a nation of healthcare workers? What happens to society if we don't also grow artists, poets, writers, musicians, and philosophers? Who will dig up old bones and excavate buried tombs? Who will record our experience in art, music, and word? Who will help us make sense of it all?

Society is richer for the artists and anthropologists. So, in my opinion, society should pay to educate them, even if those student loans are never paid back. But I'm a frustrated artist and a crazy recovering debtor and clearly not in my right mind.