Catching bullets in my teeth

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Exit, stage right... ah, if only

I've heard people say, “Begin with the end in mind,” and I apply that philosophy to many projects I undertake. But until this evening, I hadn't thought of applying it to the business I am launching. I've been so focused on taking immediate actions, making sure I'm tracking my quarter hours of frenetic activity, fretting over my logo, worrying about the first job... I haven't taken time to wonder, what about the last job? What about that moment when I say, I've had enough?

Now that the idea has been planted in my brain, I just want to skip to the end. I want to leap over all this busy detail, all this day-to-day fear, and get to the part where I hand the passwords to someone else as I'm waltzing out the door. So long, thanks for all the figs. Fish. Whatever.

I suspect I was born to retire. I take after my father. He retired at the first opportunity and defied the averages by living 25 smugly happy years, sitting on the couch watching basketball and complaining about my mother's cooking. Sometimes I would drive up and find him sitting in a lawn chair in the front yard, spraying passersby with the garden hose. Ah, what a life.

None of that sounds all that appealing to me, except the part about retiring. What would I do if I could retire today? Thanks for asking. If I were really a chip off the old paternal block, I would lay around watching romcoms and eating bonbons, maybe occasionally spritzing the cat with a bottle of water. But that wouldn't be my idea of retirement heaven. I think I would spend a lot of time just thinking. And I would make up stories and write them down. Screenplays, novels, whatever. And I would start painting again.

Huh. I don't want to think about this anymore. The angry magic child in me will rise up and threaten to cut our throat if I don't dust off the paintbox in the next five minutes. It does no good to try to reason with her; once she wakes up, she's a pitbull with her teeth sunk in the neighbor kid's leg. I've tried to explain to her that in this time and place, making art—writing or painting—is not respected or revered. In fact, making art is ridiculed or ignored. Who buys art but rich people and artists? Do you have art hanging on your walls? I mean art you didn't buy at Wal-Mart or at some yard sale?

So it doesn't matter that I was born to retire. Retirement for me is called die. It's good I've found a business idea that I actually like and that might actually make some money, if I keep at it. If I don't jump off a bridge first in a fit of frustrated creative pique.

No longer looking in the rear view mirror

Technology separates the whiners from the winners. This past week I've been stumbling from one task to another, overwhelmed by a litany of log-in names (who am I, again?) and a plethora of passwords that must be at least 8 characters (but no more than 20), have at least one number, one symbol, and one uppercase letter, or... or what? Too weak! Inferior! Not strong enough! You know you have hit a bottom when you are getting smacked around by a horde of captchas.

At last I have a semblance of a website, after wrestling with WordPress... Why does everyone love it? I don't get it. TablePress? Really? Kind of a clunky way to add a table to a WordPress webpage, don't you think? Remind me to learn php. When I get some time. What is php? I don't know, some kind of drug that makes it so you don't care if your website looks like crap.

Finally, after desperately combing the online forums, I figured out why my Outlook account would send but not receive. (A metaphor for something, I'm sure.) After re-entering the settings a gajillion times, I discovered the Outlook feature called IMAP folders and clicked the folder named with my domain name (not my inbox! who knew!), and voila, suddenly there they were, all the test messages sent from Outlook to the web server, bam, one after the other, lining up like obedient little soldiers. Hah. I won that battle.

On the dissertation data collection front, I'm pleased to say I had a response today from someone who actually qualifies for my study. I was starting to worry a little. All my friends fell over themselves to fill out my web screener survey, bless their tiny heads, and it's nice to know they are willing, just in case the whole thing tanks. But it would be better to interview people I don't know. Gee whiz, you guys. Clearly you didn't read the introductory material. I know it is gobbledegook. I am required to provide it, even though I know most people will skip straight over it. But I must make sure they hear it before I interview them—god forbid I should harm anyone in the interview process. Poke out their eye accidentally with a pen, maybe. Or inadvertently ask them a question that makes them cry. I used to believe teaching for a for-profit career college was a good thing, but I was ignorant and uninformed. What's your excuse?

And don't forget, I'm officially self-employed now. Today, before I got mired in the Outlook mess, I prepared a lovely proposal to conduct a small marketing research study for a friend's business... a sort of pilot test, a practice run to develop my systems. She owns an art school in the Los Angeles area. She teaches a love of creativity to children who are starved for art. What's not to love! We had a great conversation about the challenges she is encountering as she grows her art school. It was satisfying to hear her stories, not just because she is a dear friend, but because it was fascinating to hear about her business experiences. I can help! This is a good sign.

Better than teaching keyboarding, that's for sure.

Zip about php

The gods who lounge around at the Institutional Review Board deigned to smile upon me today by granting me approval to begin conducting the data collection phase of my doctoral study. For a few short moments, I was euphoric. Then I thought about what comes next, and my knees almost buckled. What comes next is the challenge of arranging and conducting ten interviews, transcribing the proceedings, and then analyzing the data to discern the story. And then writing it up in a way that meets the approval of another set of gods—my chairperson, my committee, and the Graduate School reviewers—all following APA format, of course.

Why, oh why, did I ever begin this farce?

Today, I played the role of the intrepid and determined soon-to-be self-employed person and spent much of the day coaxing WordPress to reveal its secrets. Thank the gods for online forums where people much braver than I throw their stupid questions to the experts like naive children throw bread to seagulls. Seagulls aren't especially forgiving if you don't let go of the bread. Similarly, the experts in the WordPress forum don't put up with the slow kids. How do I add Facebook buttons to my sidebar? How do I get the first page to be static? How do I tell this wretched template to behave? All worthy questions for a novice. You should see how some innocent fools got shredded when they didn't catch on fast enough... Make a child template? Wha—? I know this much about html and zip about php, so I won't dare ask anything, but I'm grateful others are not shy.

After some hours, I'm relieved to say I managed to create something that loosely resembles a website, so now I can say I have a presence on the Web. Whoopdedoo. Just add content. Stir. Drink, rinse, repeat.

Letting go of resentments, old and new

It's a gray day, inside and out. The rain came back. That's always a good excuse to feel sad. On top of the dismal weather, I've hit yet another road block on my dissertation journey.

I was having trouble getting permission to recruit faculty outside of an institutional network. I pitched the idea of using a LinkedIn group to reach faculty in Portland. The IRB rejected the idea, saying I can't use my own network. My Chair suggested I create a fresh identity, with no network. When I resubmitted the application, the IRB reviewer apologized, saying she hadn't realized I would be using a group. A group would be fine, she said, no need to create a new identity. Take that part out, but you still must get permission from the group owner to post your request.

I sent a request to the owner of the LinkedIn group (a higher education group with 30,000 members worldwide—surely some of them must live in Portland), asking to post a link to my doctoral survey Web screener. Today I received the rejection. Nope, sorry, if we let you post a request, then we'd have to let everyone do it, and that would change the tone of our group. I'm disappointed, but not surprised.

I emailed my Chair the sad news. She asked me if there any other groups I could try. Today I've been scoping out LinkedIn groups, trying to figure out where I might find a pool of shy faculty I can entice to the surface with promises of gift cards.

It's like I've been asked to the prom, but my date is sitting in the car, too scared to come to the door. I'm all dressed up, dang it! I struggled through the topic paper, concept paper, the proposal, and I'm quivering right on the edge of getting IRB approval, if only someone would let me post a link.

One thing I've learned on a gut level this week is that resentment hurts no one but me. Did you know that resentment affects the digestive system? Yes, you probably did. I'm probably the only person so out of touch with her body, she doesn't even know she's going to hurl until three seconds before it happens. Sorry, that's gross.

Metaphorically speaking, my focus this week has been to release old resentments. It's time to let it all go, and I mean all. I will spare you the details of how it came about, but I'm now something like that empty boat that the meditation teacher kept describing (as if floating rudderless out of control is a good thing). On the bright side, I feel a lot lighter. Maybe I can finally fit into my jeans.

Exposing my dirty red underbelly

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doing the time warp... again

My life sure looks different these days. Instead of worrying about grading keyboarding papers and listening to students complain, I am immersed in the hectic puzzling world of self-employment. Every now and then I come to and pinch myself. Is this really happening? Am I caught in a time warp? I may be caught in something. I got busy compiling the results of a survey tonight; when I looked up, three hours had passed. It's time for the news, and I forgot to blog!

I've been sitting on my fancy drafting chair far too long. I'm bound to have clogged a minor artery or two, simply because I haven't moved much today. That is not good, for my veins or my ass. My cat isn't thrilled either.

Everything takes time! Don't get me started on Facebook! I can already tell I hate it. I hated it when it began, and I hate it now. Hmmmm. Hate is such a strong word for a social media tool. Let me rephrase: I would prefer to avoid it, how about that? I got a friend request today from someone I used to work with at the career college. I declined. Should I have done that? I've been told I need more friends. I need more likes. Huh?

Let me get up off my chair for a moment. Hey, what's that sound? Sounds like....

It's just a jump to the left. And then a step to the right. You know what comes next, right? Put your hands on your hips. And bring your knees in tight! 

Come on, you know you want to sing this next part out loud. But it's the pelvic thrust that really drives you in-sa-a-aa-a-ane. Let's do the...

Ok, sorry. I got carried away.

Warm weather is coming. Sunny skies are forecast for Rose Festival weekend. I have no intention of attending the parade or watching the fireworks, but I will bask in the light and the warmth of the season. From the safety of my cave.

Tomorrow I have a call scheduled with my doctoral chairperson. We are trying to figure out how to write my IRB application so it gets approved. I think that is what we are doing. I'm not sure what she will have to say. I've spoken to her only a few times over the past couple years since she became my chairperson. The conversation always begins in a way that makes me think she doesn't remember who I am. Like, uh, what were we talking about? Not promising, but I'm hopeful we will brainstorm a solution. She's got a little more skin in the game now, since she approved my first IRB application. She has to sign off on it before she sends it on to the Graduate School. I hope she sides with me and not against me.

Oh, well. Anything can happen when one is in a time warp. It can be exciting to live at the speed of light, as it were, but I have no control over how it warps me as I dash from one project to another. Today I lost three hours; tomorrow it could be three weeks, or three months.

Oh, here's the cat. Gotta go.

Eye-rolling at the Love Shack

I received a polite note from the Institutional Review Board today, explaining why they were rejecting my application to conduct my study and offering some tips on how to revise it so it will pass on the next submission. It's odd how one can go through the entire day, living life, without knowing that a disappointing rejection note is sitting in an inbox in cyberspace somewhere. If I had checked my online course room earlier in the day, things would have started sucking a lot sooner. All in all, I had a pretty good day, simply because I was unaware that bad news awaited me.

It's not super bad news. I mean, the reviewers didn't say, you suck, go back to SE Portland where you belong... loser. It's all fixable. Probably. Yes, sure, what am I saying, sure it's fixable. There's no way the story ends here.

Today, speaking of stories ending, no speaking of unfixable things, I got a terse message from the president of the career college that employed me until May 2 when they laid me off along with a number of other faculty with the closing of the Clackamas campus. I had placed a call to the president last week, or tried to—no one seemed to be able to locate him or even transfer me to a voice mail. I'd planned to ask him if he would let me interview some of the faculty that teach at the college.

After I didn't hear from him, I pursued another sampling strategy to find faculty members to interview. Leading to the submission that just got rejected today.

And then he called. His voice sounded hesitant, just ever-so-slightly belligerent as he left his cell phone number. He probably thought I was calling to berate him for his crimes of mismanagement. I know Sheryl, now forced to job hunt at age 66, has a few choice things to say.

I called him back a few hours after I got his message. He answered his cell.

“Hi, this is Carol.”

“Hello, Carol, how are you,” he replied in a flat voice.

I launched into my brief explanation for why I had tried to reach him last week and trailed off when I got no response. He was silent. There was nothing, not a sound, not even a sigh.

“So, as it turns out, it looks like I won't be needing to interview your faculty after all. Thanks,” I finished lamely and waited for something, anything, a sign that he was still the person I used to know and like.

“Ok. Good luck,” he said in a dead voice.

I don't know if I caught him at a bad time, or I just happened to catch him at a moment when he felt like hanging himself. Not my problem, not my concern. I didn't linger, I didn't try to chat, I just wished him well and let him go. Later I sent an email thanking him for returning my call and offering him some empathy for the hard times, as honestly and authentically as I could... (considering the dude let us all down and now I'm unemployed. No, I didn't say that.)

A half hour later I got a very nice reply, in which thanked me for my kind words. And he said if I need to interview faculty at the college, to let him know. Wha—? I know, like, now you tell me!? Where were you last week!? Because you went AWOL, Mr. Invisible, I am now having to rewrite my IRB application with a sampling method pulled pretty much from far left field (think social media! I know! The anathema of academe!) Lots of eye-rolling going on here in the Love Shack tonight.

The episode is just one more hurdle in this long journey to earn a doctoral degree I'm fairly sure I don't actually want all that much anymore. Do I sound ambivalent? Well, hell in a hand-basket. As usual. It's just a special kind of hell, another level of hell... I call it Dissertation Hell. You'd think after eight years I'd be used to it by now.

Self-employment and ant wars

While I wait to find out if the Institutional Review Board at my illustrious higher education institution will approve me to interview human subjects, I am floundering deeper into the murky bog of self-employment. My business plan is taking shape. That is part of the problem: I'm mostly form and little content. Story of my life. It's all about look-good. If you look good, then you must be ok. I'm not going to go into any of that, maybe you get my drift, maybe you don't, it doesn't matter. What I'm saying is, my business plan looks awesome!

And they say there's no point in liberal arts degrees. Ha! I knew that B.S. in art would finally pay off. Why, I'm utilizing all kinds of “useless” skills during the process of crafting this plan. Philosophy! (What is my customer service philosophy?) Creativity! (I included a rich picture of the research process. From now on, everything I write will include a rich picture. That should be fun. For example, how about in a note to the Self-Employment Assistance case worker? Hey, wtf is this stupid picture for? Hmmm. Well, maybe not everything...) I'm thinking outside the can of worms, or however the saying goes.

I'm a little nutty. I've spent just over eight hours today working on this plan. I've looked up my local and online competitors, seen some impressive websites (and a few that made me say, hey, I can do it better than that!), thought about my marketing approach, my pricing structure, my communication strategy... my mind is bubbling with ideas that will fade to hazy memories come tomorrow morning. I'm trying to remember everything. I'm trying to shove all the pieces together in my mind, to make a nice, neat diagram. Hence, the rich picture. I'm tired.

I can't think of much I'd rather be doing than creating this fledgling business. Except maybe laying around in the tub, reading vampire romances and eating potato chips and ice cream. That won't be happening, at least not the chips and ice cream part. Starting this business seems like the next best thing. But I fear I'm so involved in doing that I don't have time to worry about whether it will actually work. Sort of like going for a jog with my nose three inches off the ground. Wow, aren't all these pebbles interesting—Blam! Hey, where'd that tree come from? In the business world, we talk about doing the wrong thing well. That could be me.

The last confounding question is this, and this may be the profoundly perplexing metaphysical question of our time: What do ants find interesting in an empty bathtub? I'm serious. I want to know. There are scouts—a few intrepid explorers—relentlessly trundling along the edges, across the bottom, searching for something. What are they seeking? It's raining outside, surely they can't be thirsty. There is no food in there, far as I know. So what are they looking for? I have an idea, and it makes me slightly queasy.

A few nights ago I was relaxing in a hot tub of water, reading some sci-fi escapist trash, when I felt something pinching me on the upper back. What the f—? I leaned forward, looked around, and saw about ten ants swarming right where I'd been leaning. They bit me! The little pissant ants, they bit me! So now, when I see them roaming the empty tub, I have an uncomfortable feeling they are looking for me. The big warm hunk of protein and blubber. Must feed the children! If they can take me down, my dead carcass will keep their larders stocked for years, considering all the extra meat on my bones.

My cheek is twitching. Time for a bath. Hey, if you don't hear from me for a while, send the coroner. He'll probably find me in the tub, feeding the ants.

Losing brain cells to the social media time suck

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sorry if I offended you

My former colleague Sheryl just called to complain about the frustrating world of online job applications. We commiserated for a few minutes. We both have war stories to share. And we are both harboring some resentments against our former employer, the career college to which we devoted so many years.

Sheryl told me something that shouldn't have surprised me. Apparently, according to some reputable sources, the college management knew they would be closing the Clackamas site last December. Last December! And our pasty-faced president swore on April 1 in a shaky voice that they had tried and tried to find a new location, but after their efforts failed, they were forced to face the harsh realities of the situation and close the campus. Liar liar pants on fire, if the sources are to be believed. Sheryl is angry because had she known earlier, she would have got on Medicare sooner. Now she's going to be out $500 to COBRA. She blames our former college president.

Speaking of snakes, I've been trying to reach the college president myself. Even though he may not want to talk to me.... it could be he is still sore over the little matter of my snarky photo blog. Today I am willing to grovel a little. I am willing to eat humble pie. Here's why: I am still (still!) in the process of trying to get Institutional Review Board approval to conduct research with human subjects. My first choice of institution turned me down, even after a pleading letter: please, please, please, I promise I won't be disruptive, you won't even know I'm there, please? Nope, no dice. We don't do things like that, the spokesperson said. What, let your faculty tell the truth? Ok, maybe I should have seen that one coming.

Anyway, I thought, ok, now that I'm no longer employed at my former career college, maybe the management there would let me interview their faculty? It seems like a long shot, but worth a try. So I sent an email to the president of the college (the man who encouraged me to embark upon this insane doctoral journey way back in 2005. Remember, dude? You owe me!) No response. Time to put on my big girl panties. I picked up the phone.

“Hi Lynne, this is so-and-so. Is his eminence there?”

“I don't know exactly where he is,” she fluttered. “Uh, you're in Springfield, right?”

“Formerly of Clackamas,” I replied.

“Oh, I knew you were somebody.” That's what ten years got me. Nice to know I'm somebody.

I left a message and continued to prepare my IRB application with the assumption that I would be using a snowball recruiting approach through LinkedIn to find my for-profit faculty subjects. Today I thought I'd give him one more chance. I called Wilsonville again.

“Hi, Betty, this is so-and-so calling for Him, is he available?”

“I don't know where he is,” she said. “I don't even have a phone number for him.”

“You don't have a phone number for the president of the college?”

“Would you like to speak with someone else? Mr. Compliance or Ms. Human Resources? Mr. Financial Aid, or perhaps Mr. Controller?”

“Uh, let me talk to Mr. Compliance,” I said.

He must have been sitting on the phone. “Compliance!”

I explained my mission, talk to faculty, bla bla bla, need permission from the man, yada yada, all confidential and anonymous, of course, har har har. Mr. Compliance listened politely.

“I am not the one who can give you permission, but I can ask the president for you.”

“Great. That would be great. Just have him send an email, yes or no.”

“Good luck to you.”

So of course by the end of the day there was no email from the president. I had to try, though. Never let it be said I didn't try.

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.)

Neck deep in palaver

Another Monday with no place to go. I have stopped trying to convince myself I am on vacation. Loose ends conspire to remind me that I am now... how do they say it? Between jobs. Yes, I'm between jobs, which is sort of like how you feel if you accidentally slide down between the bed and the wall and get stuck, and you are too weak to get back up and too fat to fit under the bed. I hope that never happens to you.

Where was I? Loose ends. One big ugly one hanging out there is what to do with my 401K. My pathetic little pile of marbles. I could leave it with my employer's plan administrator, but honestly, I'm hell-bent on burning bridges. Exit, stage right! The human resources director (and I use the word human very loosely) is someone I hope I never have to think about again. The sooner my fully-vested nest egg is out of her domain, the sooner I can exorcise her presence from my mind. I'd rather take it all to Vegas and put it on red than have to look at my former employer's name every time they send me a quarterly update. With that imperative in mind, I filled in the transfer form. Tomorrow my letter will wind its way to the new corporate location and into her hot sweaty hands. She will presumably sign it and send it on to the place that will welcome the new contribution to my traditional IRA. A few more marbles to add to my pile. Not enough marbles to retire on. Just enough to inspire the banker to snicker behind his hand after I hesitantly visit him for advice.

Another loose end is the fact that I am almost completely unemployable. I blame my attitude. I could certainly apply for office administration jobs, if I deleted my Ph.D. A.B.D. designation from my resume (and if I were willing to work for $11.00 an hour). The thought of doing secretarial work makes me want to hurl, if you get my meaning. Hurl. Barf. Whatever. I long ago accepted the fact that I am not secretarial material. Hell, I'm not even sure I'm female anymore, and don't you have to be female to be a secretary? What? Oh.

Well, anyway, the typing life is not for me. Wait, I'm typing right now. I mean, typing someone else's bullsh-t instead of my own, that's what I mean. I can type my own crap all day long. This blog has been excellent training for typing palaver. (That's another term for crap.) If only I could make money typing palaver. I know people do it. The internet is full of palaver.

I called the man who administers the local SEA program. SEA stands for self-employment assistance. For those of us who might be unemployable, maybe self-employment is the answer. Although if no one else wants to hire me, I am not sure I should assume that I would either. In any case, it's a loose end that needs attention, so I called, and he emailed me some forms. I downloaded the file and found a list of questions to answer: essentially a summary of a business plan. I took a deep breath and started filling it out. Partway through I came to the question: How will you market your business? I rubbed my hands together. Well, let's see... I started writing the usual: advertising, direct mail, networking and referrals, website, blog, social media... wait, what? Did I just write social media? Me, the anti-christ of Facebook?

The thought of putting my “real and true name” on facebook makes me want to...you guessed it: hurl. Twice in one day is my limit, so what did I do? Very cleverly, I devised a fake name and registered it with the State of Oregon. I am $50 poorer, but greatly relieved. I would tell you what it is, my fictitious business name, but then this blog wouldn't be anonymous anymore. And where would the fun be in that?

I will email my completed SEA application to Salem tomorrow. In the meantime, I will begin writing a more comprehensive business plan. I also must keep applying for jobs in order to get unemployment assistance. I think I have a strategy for that. Working on the assumption that 75% of all jobs are never advertised, I've decided to ignore job listings and just send resumes to cool places I'd like to work. Who knows, I might get lucky. They might hire me to write palaver for them.

Is it possible for-profit colleges don't really care about quality?

Where's my vampire mojo when I need it? For the past few days, I have been trying to persuade the media relations person at the corporate headquarters of the local career college where I want to conduct my doctoral study that I am a harmless bumbling academic with no malicious intent. My first attempt failed, so I'm sending another letter promising my first born, yada yada. I don't have a lot of hope, but nothing ventured, etc. I am braced for another smackdown.

I couldn't take no for an answer. It's my nature. I can't stop stirring the pot. After the debacle last week with my sarcastic photo blog at my erstwhile place of employment, you'd think I would learn. Managers with guilty consciences don't take kindly to being called on their transgressions, especially on a website that is open to the world. (Too bad it didn't go viral.... sigh.) But once burned just makes me more stupid, apparently. After getting one rejection from the for-profit behemoth, I'm sending another plea. Please, please, please.... Now these corporate watchdogs will probably remember me forever. Yeah, isn't she that nut that kept pestering us to do that ridiculous study of our dirty laundry--uh, we mean, academic quality? Interview our teachers? I don't think so! Who knows what they would say!?

The excuse they gave me is that letting me interview faculty on campus would be time-consuming and disruptive to students. No argument there. I wasn't planning on interviewing faculty on campus. I was going to find some local place like a library meeting space or even a quiet diner and invite them to meet me at their convenience. The corporate VP made it sound like I was some lurking pervert with cooties. No, we can't allow you on campus. You might cause people to realize we don't care about quality.

I suspect that I am going to have to rethink my sampling approach. This could get messy. The farther I stray from my original proposal, the messier I fear it will get. It may be time to break out the rubber gloves.

Who am I?.... Who am I now?

I'm embarrassed to say, I'm having a hard time letting go of my former life as a college instructor. Time and emotions are messing with my mind. It's only been three days. Of course I'm still prickly with anger, resentment, and fear. But I think I should be over it by now. I should be moving on to my next adventure. The problem is, I don't know who I am if I'm not a teacher. Am I a graduate student? A job seeker? An aging unemployable person? How about a lady of leisure (WTF?)

I've been keeping myself busy with various projects (mostly dumping every piece of paper related to my former job), but every now and then the reality of my situation washes over me. For a second, I can't breathe. I have to go drink water and pester the cat for comfort. It's all just needless drama, I know. There's no reason to panic. Things are very different now, compared to the last time I was unemployed. The last time I was unemployed, I had no reserves. I was living on a painful edge, one step from homelessness (or my parents' basement, which at the time was even worse than homelessness). But I still fret.

I've heard the antidote for self-obsession is service. With that in mind, yesterday I gave my friend (I'll call her Valentina) a ride to a naturopathic doctor's office, where she was scheduled to have an intravenous drip for a couple hours. It was one of those weird instances where you should be careful what you offer to do for a friend, because you might get to see a needle going into a vein and hear unsettling technical medical terms like... gas, poop, and pee.

We reclined (me not quite relaxed) in too-small brown leather recliners in the naturopath's little office while clear liquid dripped down a long tube through a needle into her elbow vein. The sun was shining outside the big picture windows. Brilliant emerald trees fluttered in a gentle breeze. (I think the trees are greener in Beaverton. Is that possible? All the vegetation on the east side of Portland seems grayer to me, dustier, somehow. Like dust can't settle on the rich people's side of town.) We chatted for a while, while I tried to avoid looking at the little red plastic bucket full of discarded needles that sat on the floor between our two chairs. After about an hour, the naturopathic doctor came in and sat at his desk for the remainder of the treatment time. Conversation was stilted after that. I was facing away from his desk, toward Valentina, so it was difficult for me to include him in a conversation. I wanted to mention my naturopath, but didn't want to get into a contest over which naturopath was more... naturo. Valentina on the other hand, was facing toward him, and probably found it impossible not to include him in conversation. Whenever I craned my neck to look at him, he was always looking at her.

In this strange setting, time both sped up and slowed down. The time Valentina and I spent talking seemed to fly by, as it always does when I'm with her. Her knowledge ranges wide, motivated by a refreshing curiosity about life. We dig for the delicious irony in every topic. I love to hear her laugh. When she laughs, for a brief moment the weariness lifts from around her eyes. But I couldn't be fully present, because I was fretting about time.

The next event on my schedule was a workshop on developing my social profile (I have no social profile, but you can get a pretty good idea of my facial profile from the image of the chronic malcontent to the right of this post. It is surprisingly accurate, I'm told.) I anxiously watched the clock, then the drip, then the clock, concerned about moving on to my next engagement. I confess, I have a phobia about being late to things. After the treatment, we had a stop to make at New Seasons. (Valentina assured me her list was short.) Then I had to get from Valentina's place to a hotel near Portland State University by 1:30 p.m. with no clear idea of how to get there or where to park.

Fretting doesn't actually influence time and outcomes, I know, yet I can't seem to stop fretting without the aid of some serious metaphysical intervention. Yesterday, circumstances seemed to conspire against me. Things could have gone south in a hurry. I got stuck in traffic on my way to Valentina's, and then I got lost and had to navigate the winding back roads by internal GPS (rarely reliable). I'd like to believe I was led to her house by my continual chanting of the mantra of the lost: oh god, oh god, oh god. Somehow the time gods granted me the gift of punctuality, despite my propensity for missing freeway exits. We arrived at the clinic precisely on time.

And I was early to the afternoon event, which perhaps was not the gift from the time gods I assumed it was, as I was too early to get the free parking offered by PSU and thus spent 15 minutes circling the blocks around the campus searching for a parking space. I finally found a space, but the almighty meter granted me only three hours. If I had been late, I would not have had to walk three blocks uphill to the hotel. Nor would I have had to leave the event early to get back to my car before the meter ran out. I probably missed that one critical insight into improving my social profile, simply because I was obsessed about not being late. Because of that, I won't find a job, and soon I'll be begging my mom to put me up in her spare bedroom. Ahhhhhh.

Three days into unemployment and already I'm insane. The future is not looking good.

Do I look like a risk taker to you?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Just another coffee-spilling bozo on the bus

Yesterday afternoon I took a bus downtown to meet my friend Bravadita at Pioneer Square. It was perfect weather, warm and clear, a good day to meander to the Library and down to the river. Of course, we didn't realize there were amusement park rides and mariachi bands taking up all the normally peaceful space along the waterfront. Drat. Cinco de Mayo! But that is another story.

Bravadita was an adjunct at the career college where I worked up until last Thursday. After she was cold-shouldered out of the rotation, she was unemployed for a long time. She cobbled together a couple part-time gigs teaching kids to read, but she's currently looking for other work—preferably something where she can use her writing talent and not be continually infected by the latest plague. We have a lot in common: desperation and hope. We talked shop over coffee, which left me hyper-amped with excitement and caffeine when it was time to get on a bus to go back to the Love Shack.

I was buzzing along, enjoying the bus ride in an aisle seat, when the woman sitting next to me stiffened and pointed downward. I followed her finger and saw rivulets of liquid streaming across the black rubber floor. Uh-oh, I thought... is it blood? Is it urine? It was spreading rapidly in little streams in all directions.

At first I couldn't believe my eyes. It looked like the source of the liquid was the leg of the man sitting across the aisle from me. He was a young guy wearing jeans, a button down shirt, and earphones, and he was holding a laptop bag on his lap. A little spray of liquid was coming out a grommeted hole near the bottom of in his laptop bag. Mesmerized, I reached out and touched the source of the leak and then looked at my fingers. Brown.

“You're leaking,” I said to the man, touching his bag gently.

“What?” He took off his headphones.

“You've sprung a leak.” I pointed.

He opened his bag and dug around. He lifted out a stainless steel coffee mug, now almost empty, and held it up, looking chagrined. The girl in the seat in front of me held up her superior stainless steel coffee mug. “You should get one like this,” she said.

“Clearly!” he replied. “My mail is completely soaked.”

I made sympathetic sounds and thought the incident was over, but he seemed compelled to continue speaking, no doubt to assuage his social embarrassment. As the bus rumbled over the Morrison Bridge, he kept talking to me. No one else seemed to be interested in participating. Curious about him, I replied with inanities, thinking sooner or later he would finally be quiet and I would regret the silence. I rarely ride the bus, but in my experience, people usually don't talk to strangers. Maybe it was a measure of how deeply mortified he felt, because he kept on talking. And I kept on replying.

“It was yesterday's coffee,” he informed me.

“Ah, the best kind,” I said.

“You'd think I would have noticed the coffee spilling on my leg.” He pointed to the coffee stain on his thigh.

“Tepid, was it?” I asked.

“No, it was about the temperature of my office.”

“Oh, about 70°?”

“More like 67,” he replied seriously. I thought, is this really happening?

“But why didn't I notice it?” he asked in a slightly anguished tone.

“Perhaps you were having an out of body experience,” I suggested, motioning at his headphones, which were wrapped around his neck. You can tell a lot about a person as soon as you make a comment about having an out-of-body experience. That's why I mention it frequently. I always smirk a little when I say it, though, so they don't think I really believe in that stuff.

“No, that can't be it,” he mused with a frown. “Although I've often thought it would be better not to be in my body on the bus, with all the people...”

“I've often felt that way myself,” I said soothingly, thinking of how many times I've wished to be a discorporate intellect, floating through the universe free from the burden of this sagging, wrinkling, aching body. I'm not sure that is what he was thinking. He was younger than me, in pretty good shape from what I could see, although he probably has a desk job. He looked a little nerdy, like a 30-ish computer geek, a little soft around the edges, but hip enough to wear trendy jeans.

“Then I could escape all the crazy people on the bus, like the ones who spill coffee.”

I couldn't help laughing. “I rather like the bus,” I said, because at that moment I was enjoying it very much.

We were at about 20th when he got up suddenly and moved toward the front of the bus. He came back with a handful of paper towels and started mopping the now-drying coffee trails.

When he resumed his seat, I said, “All these people will get off and no one will know it was your coffee that spilled.”

“You're right. I could blame it on them,” he said. Then he looked sideways at me. “I could blame it on you!”

“That you could,” I laughed. “Feel free.”

He was quiet for a time. Then he said something else about how embarrassed he was over spilling his coffee.

“Don't worry about it,” I said. “It will give me something to blog about tonight.”

He got off somewhere before Cesar Chavez Boulevard. He said goodbye to me, waved at the bus driver, and as the bus pulled away I saw his face for the last time, intently gazing into the distance. He did not look into the bus, just a nondescript guy who lives in the trendy part of Southeast Portland. I doubt I would recognize him again, unless he was carrying the same laptop bag and wearing earphones. And spilling coffee.

I didn't blog about it last night because I wanted to capture the essence of the last surreal day at the career college before it faded from my mind. I imagined that guy going home and searching the blogscape for a blog about a nerdy klutz who spilled coffee on the bus and had a conversation about it with a middle-aged woman. What keywords would he use, I wonder? Idiot on Belmont bus spills coffee. I hope he was able to laugh about it with his significant other when he got home. It sure made my day.

When a good idea goes bad

If you are just tuning in, here's the story to date. For the past ten years, I worked for a career college at its campus in Clackamas, a city near Portland. On April 1, we received notice from management that our site would be closing at the end of the term. Students were invited to transfer to the main campus in Wilsonville. On April 9, full-time faculty were notified individually if they were being asked to transfer or if they were being laid off. Three people, all program directors, were invited to stay. The rest of us were given notice that our last day would be May 2.

For the past three weeks, in an effort to cope with my shock and grief, I documented the closing of the campus with my funky old Sony Cybershot and posted the photos on my faculty webpage.

I took pictures of packing boxes. I took pictures of people I have grown to love and admire (and avoided others). I photographed the flyer that a posse of outraged students plastered the halls with in a futile attempt to save a teacher's job. I documented the stairs our boss Denny fell down. I captured a teacher's tattoo and and another teacher's glittery flipflops. Everywhere I looked I found people that deserved to be honored, moments that needed to be acknowledged, objects that deserved to be recognized. Some images were meaningful only to me, but some of the images seemed to sum up the bittersweet last days at our special campus. It was slipping away so fast. I wanted to preserve it, for me, for us, so every day I took more pictures and expanded my webpage.

Sheryl's filing cabinet, for sale for a day to the highest bidder, now left behind.... A whiteboard decorated with a student's scribbled love notes to a teacher she would never see again.... An accounting teacher on his shiny three-wheel motorcycle.... Classrooms, stairways, hallways, the lobby, the smoking area.... The view of the empty parking lot from the third floor computer lab.... A bizarrely shaped coffee cup imprinted with a tagline so astoundingly apropos I could hardly hold the camera still for laughing: There's a better life out there.

When I look back through the photos, one thing strikes me: everyone I photographed was smiling. Big, wide smiles. There were no sad faces, no moping expressions, no defeated postures. We all looked happy, despite the fact that our lives were being turned upside down, inside out. Even I looked happy.

The last day came. I finished my grades and had Denny sign off on them. I made arrangements to have the bookkeeper mail my final paycheck. I cleaned out my desk drawers. I posted the last photos on my faculty webpage. I prepared auto-replies that would activate at midnight, stating that I was no longer with the college. I packed up my book bags with my binders, my stapler, my post-it notes, my scissors. And finally, I drafted a goodbye email.

I addressed the note to everyone in Wilsonville and Clackamas. In it I described my gratitude at having been a part of the organization for ten years and how I was certain what I learned would help me in my new career. I entitled it Happy trails from Clackamas. At the end of the note, in a postscript, I gave the URL to my faculty webpage.

I finished the letter and then sat there with my mouse poised over the SEND button.  I had a gut feeling it might not be a wise thing to do. I re-read it, trying to imagine how it would be received. Should I take off the URL to my webpage? Should I delete the letter altogether? Should I fade away quietly without a protest, without one final poke, one last prod? I wanted to say, Hey, look at us, you stupid college, look at what you did with this bonehead move, you disregarded the needs of your students, you disrespected your faculty, you destroyed your brand. You thought by cutting off our campus, you could save yourselves. You thought you were abandoning us on the part of the ship that was sinking. Ha.

I predict we will survive, we will flourish, our ship will sail on, and in the end your top-heavy boat will sink into obscurity. Because you can't treat people disrespectfully forever. Sooner or later, you will find out what happens when you sail too close to the rocks. The next thought running through my head was, What have I got to lose? What are they going to do, fire me? That made me smile. So I hit SEND and sat back to wait.

Within moments I got my first response, oddly enough from the Compliance Officer, wishing me farewell and giving me his personal email address. (“Let's link up on LinkedIn.”) I was pleasantly surprised. In another few moments, two more responses wishing me well from employees who were former students (“I learned so much from you!”), then another from the program director in Wilsonville (“I never really knew you, but good luck!”). A few minutes later, Denny came into the office, checked his email, and said, “Your link doesn't work.”

“What? No, are you sure?” I said. I quickly typed in the URL. Sure enough: Error 404: File or directory not found. We looked at each other. I turned back to the computer, opened Expression Web, and tried to load up my site. And there it was, the message, spelled out in black and white:

There is no site named http://blablablacollege.info/myname.

It was dead. My faculty website was gone. I had been well and truly spanked.

I responded the way I responded to every interesting incident at the college over the past three weeks. I got out my camera and took a picture of it. A simple image to commemorate the end of ten years of service to a for-profit career college. There's a better life out there.

Reality takes a holiday

Last night, with two days to go until I'm officially unemployed, a student looked at me and said, “You don't look so good.”

I know she was trying to offer me some sympathy for my plight. She's young, not even 21, and not all that skillful a communicator. Under normal circumstances, I would just let a comment like that slide. But now, operating on the premise that any moment can be a teaching moment, I bit back.

“You are assuming you know how I feel by looking at me,” I said. Actually, I wasn't feeling all that bad. No worse than normal anyway, and certainly not as bad as you might expect considering I'm losing my job in two days.

“Oh, sorry!” the student exclaimed. “I didn't mean...”

I almost started to explain how I have a permanent frown line between my eyebrows that makes me appear as though I'm always scowling or perhaps like I'm about to hurl. But my enthusiasm for the teaching moment deflated as fast as it had bubbled up, and I just let it go. Nobody cares how I look or how I feel. Everyone is completely preoccupied with how he or she is experiencing the closing of our campus and the prospect of what is to come.

Mella came to work with a new attitude yesterday, after a hard weekend of mourning the loss of her job. She apparently was in denial about the finality of the layoff. Now I'm wondering, maybe she really did incite students to post those flyers: Save Mella! Maybe it was a last ditch effort to manipulate the school into taking her back. When the flyer ploy failed to do anything except raise the wrath of Mr. Freeper, the awful reality became too real to ignore. She said she cried all day Sunday. But the new Mella is funnier than hell. She wasn't moping anymore. She snickered at our snarky jokes and bitter jibes and delivered some jabs of her own. If only Mr. Freeper and Ms. Sic-em could have been here to hear our futile naughtiness. Har har har.

We rebel in small ways. For example, we are dressing down. Sheryl wears denim to work now, although her version of denim is embroidered with flowers. Way to go, Sheryl, that's rebellion against the dress code! I'd love to see her in a pair of hole-riddled, dirt-encrusted Levis. (I'd wear mine if my ass wasn't too big to fit them.) Mella has a wardrobe of school-logo polo shirts in pastel colors. I'm going to encourage her to set them on fire on the smoker's patio. Maybe we can trigger the fire alarm. That would be a treat during finals week, eh?

No, not really. I like to think I'm such a rebel, such a chronic malcontent, past hope. The truth is, I fear people see me more clearly than I see myself. Maybe. Maybe not. Dave, our extroverted security guard (Oh! My! God! Carol's in the house!) said he would miss me. I think he might have felt obligated to say that due to an awkward moment when I asked him if he was looking forward to going to Wilsonville. He didn't want to appear too chipper, since he remains employed while do not, so I'm guessing he felt compelled to say something nice.

And then he experienced an escalation of commitment and said, “I'm going to miss your positive...” He trailed off, at a loss for words, maybe hoping I would fill in the blank for him, like my students do when taking tests. I just looked at him. I could have said, my positive...ly snarky attitude? My positive... ly scowling expression? I didn't. I just thanked him and moved away down the hall, so he didn't feel obligated to continue to dig up platitudes that neither one of us believed.

Look at me! What did I just say? I am assuming I know what he was feeling. Ha. (We know what happens when we assume, yada yada.) Actually, now that I think about it, knowing Dave, I could be standing over a dead body with a bloody hammer in my hand, and he would choose to believe in my innocence. That's Dave. He assumes the best. I assume the worst. Somewhere in the middle is reality, but who cares anymore?