Why it's good sometimes to walk toward the thing that scares you

I found out from my academic adviser that I have until the end of November to complete my doctorate. Here's me, eyes rolling back in my head, hands beseeching the universe, in the moment before I open my little pursed lips to scream.

Let me digress for one moment and complain about the spellchecker in Google blogger. The word adviser...I'm used to spelling it with an o, as in advisor. But Google is flagging it as an error. Apparently both spellings are correct, but adviser is more common. Huh. My university spells it advisor. What do they know.

Well, I hope they know that they are most likely going to have to grant me an extension come November, because four months to write a qualitative study seems close to impossible, considering I haven't even collected half my data yet. If I were feeling really perky and optimistic (which I'm not), I would make some inane comment about how great it is to be unemployed exactly when I need every minute to write this paper. Wow, talk about serendipitous timing, right? You'd think I'd be grateful that the career college laid me off when it did. Am I grateful? Well, maybe a little. I feel grateful not to be teaching keyboarding anymore. I feel grateful every morning at 8:30 a.m. when I leisurely claw my way out of bed. I feel grateful that I can stay up as late as I want. Usually.

I say usually because I did something I'm sure I will regret: I agreed to attend a Portland Connect networking event at 2nd and Market downtown with my friend and former colleague Sheryl... at 8:00 tomorrow morning! Argh. I must be nuts. To make things more exciting, I refuse to try to park my car downtown, so I am going to pick her up, drive to the closest MAX station, park, and drag her onto the train. (Sheryl is not an avid fan of public transportation.) This should be an adventure. I wouldn't be half-surprised if Sheryl cancels on me. I wouldn't be all that shocked if I overslept.

A friend of mine makes a practice of doing the thing she's afraid of. That is what I am doing. Networking at any time of day is not a thrilling prospect. Networking at 8:00 a.m. sounds like complete and utter torture. Sheryl will be my security blanket, my teddy bear. When I get anxious I can always talk to Sheryl. And if I'm really brave, I can introduce Sheryl to all the strangers we meet. I can do that for her when I can't do it for myself.

We'll see how it goes. If it goes. I wouldn't bet on it. Stay tuned.

What I have learned about the dissertation journey

Earlier today I logged into the online course room and clicked the Accept button to give permission to the university to suck $794 out of my bank account. This gives me the privilege of earning one more credit and the delight of toiling another 12 weeks toward the goal of earning this wretched Ph.D., which lies somewhere off in the hazy distance where it's been for the past seven years like a ship that never comes to port. Ho hum. After seven years, I'm tired of waiting. The glow has faded. It's just a job, and not one that pays well. Actually, it's sort of like being a slave. A slave to a scholarly pursuit.

This evening I logged into the university course room again, after a technological meltdown resulting from a fight between Wordpress and Mailchimp, during which I inadvertently closed all the windows. Bam. Problem solved! Should have thought of that sooner.

On the university website, there are a handful of discussion folders in which students post questions, concerns, complaints, kudos. The only folder I visit is the one marked Dissertations. There are roughly 300 new posts a month in that folder, mostly along the lines of Oh, no! I'm starting Comps in a week! What can you tell me about Doctor So-and-So? Help! As if Doctor So-and-So is going to help them at all with Comps. Come on, people! It's a test!

I've lurked in this discussion folder for seven years, reading posts from all kinds of people on all kinds of topics. When someone successfully passes Comps, forty people shout out, Way to go! Congratulations! When someone's cat died, a crowd of students rushed to offer condolences. When someone is put on academic probation (which happens regularly), the students rally around with email addresses for the ombudsman, the dean, and the accreditation agency, urging unflagging persistence, don't back down!

I've seen people come and go. Some of them graduate and, before their email is disconnected, they come back to wave good-bye, to collect their litany of congratulations, and to exhort the rest of us to keep moving forward, never give up, we can do it, rah rah rah. Some of those left behind mention these winners in later posts, usually in response to a post in which a lost soul is bleating for help with their wretched concept paper or their confounded dissertation proposal. Call Dr. Nina! Call Doc Crock!

We've had our share of wackjobs. The discussions are like any other comment thread, where people say what they mean without really thinking about it, and other people take offense and retaliate, which provokes another attack... it can be just slightly less vitriolic than the comments I enjoy reading at the end of a Yahoo! article about the latest doings of the White House (but not nearly as entertaining. Just sayin.')

So immersed was I in the discussion folder, I almost failed to notice that my Chair had updated my first assignment. I haven't even posted an assignment, so I opened up the Activities tab to read her comment. The IRB has approved my revised recruiting methodology! Congrats!

Well, isn't that nice. I can now ask the administrator at the career college to forward my email invitation to the cowering, resentful, bitter, fearful faculty that remain after the closure of one campus. If I'm lucky some of them will express their willingness to participate in my study. They ought to have some interesting things to say.

Oh, what have I learned about this dissertation journey?

• You are on your own. No one cares.
• It always takes three times as long as you think it will.
• You can't force anyone to participate.
• Just do what your Chair tells you, don't whine and don't argue.
• If you feel compelled to argue, be ready to cite APA page numbers.
• Don't use their templates, because they don't know squat about styles in Word.
• Don't waste time in the dissertation folder reading the complaints of your classmates. Get busy.
• Don't think about how great it will be to finish. It will just depress you, because you aren't there yet. You still have to write the manuscript and defend it.
• If you have a cat, put your nose in its fur and be here now.
• If you don't have a cat, borrow one. Seriously. It may be the thing that gets you through.

Who is responsible for this crazy life? Uh.. not me.

There is a fly in the Love Shack. Security! The cat in charge of security sleeps with his nose on his paws. Slacker. I can't bring myself to smack the fly. If I wait long enough it will circle lower and lower and eventually die on a windowsill somewhere. A metaphor for life, I guess.

Speaking of life, I had a fun slice of it today. I met Bravadita for coffee in Northwest Portland. Now that she lives downtown in a 3rd floor walk-up, she's taken on an aura of cosmopolitan glamour. She is utterly 100% cool. I mean, she was 95% cool when she lived on the East side, since she was only nine blocks from the River (I'm sixty-nine blocks from the River. At 82nd you are officially in the armpit of Portland. That is coolness of zero percent.) Now Bravidita is 100% cool as she walks everywhere with a stylish bag slung rakishly over her shoulder. So cool she wears a beret!

Time out. The security cat heard me tapping on the keyboard and came over to check it out, spotting the fly on his way to sit on my keyboard. A half-hearted swipe, wait, is that all? Come on! Security!

Well, anyway. Sitting at a wobbly metal table outside along 21st Avenue, Bravadita and I bemoaned the plight of artists and creatives who don't get things their way (us). There was plenty of commiseration to go around. The coffee amped me into high gear. I had an idea every ten seconds, followed by a plunge into darkest depression. Of course, all my ideas were for Bravadita's career, not my own. (Why is it so much easier to fix someone else's life?)

The security cat has failed to capture the fly, which continues to infuriate me by meandering in front of the computer monitor; the cat, however, has slyly captured my chair, so now I must stand while I type. Sigh.

I've conveniently chosen to prune the artistic part of my life so that it fits into a tiny box: this blog. I draw while I sit in meetings. If anything funny comes out of it, I scan the images and upload them here for your amusement. That is the extent of my art life. There was a time when I was positive, beyond any doubt, sure as only a ten-year-old child can be, that I would spend my life writing, drawing, and painting. And to a large extent, that has been my reality. What I didn't foresee, though, was that I would have a great deal of difficulty getting paid to do those things.

Hence... the jobs. Long jobs, short jobs, fun jobs, depressing jobs, I've had many jobs. I can say truthfully that there is not one job I would willingly go back to if I had a choice. Not one that I can say, wow, that was a really great job. The fault, I admit, lies more with me than with any of the jobs. A few were bad because of a particular person or a few people, but mostly they weren't bad at all. It was me. I didn't fit. I wouldn't let myself fit. Because there was somewhere else I wanted to be. Always somewhere else.

I feel lucky now that I've chosen to pursue a self-employment field that interests me. No, it's not art, but it's still interesting. I'm not a victim. I'm choosing it. I don't know if that will make it any more successful than any of the other jobs I've had, but if it fails, I'll know who to blame.

There goes that pesky fly again. Should I let him live? Or is it curtains for the fly? Text your vote to 3330 within the next seven minutes to determine his fate.

The chronic malcontent has a close encounter with the Mall of America

Greetings from the Chronic Malcontent. There is more than one of us, as you may have discovered. I'm the one that illustrates her prolific whining. I may not be much of an intellectual, but I can illustrate the crap out of malcontentedness.

I returned from a weekend in Minneapolis, vacation capital of the world... well, maybe not of the world. But you got your Mall of America there, and that counts for a lot. I stayed in a hotel right across the street from the Mall. It was a very wide street, too wide to walk across. The hotel provides a shuttle to and from the Mall every half hour. I did not make the trip, but I did take a photo of the giant Mall of America sign to commemorate the moment the shuttle from the airport sped by on the way to the hotel. In my photo, the three-story sign is barely discernible, lost against the massive edifice of the Mall.

Time divides into two time streams when you travel. Do you find that to be true for you? There's the home stream, where life carries on in the usual routine. Back at the Love Shack, the cat dozes on the window seat. The cat gets up, stretches, jumps up the strategically placed chairs to the food court, crunches some kibbles, licks a paw. Looks around, wonders what is missing, slurps some water from the jug, jumps down, goes to another sleeping spot, curls up, and falls back into a doze. That's life at the Love Shack.

The other time stream is me, moving and being moved through the world of transportation. Parking the car in the Economy Lot (remember Red Lot, F9!), waiting for the bus to the terminal, looking back with some melancholy at my largest asset, hoping it will start when I return. Hoping someone will find and reclaim it if I die somewhere en route.

Falling into line at the security checkpoint, hoping I don't look so eccentric I am pegged as a suspicious character. Shoes off, hat off, jacket off, boarding pass clutched between dry lips, stand on the footprints while they take an x-ray of my naked body. She's clean! Not even an underwire bra! Rushing to grab my shoes, my hat, my backpack as the crowd shoves from behind.

All of that just to be allowed to the gate. Continual fear that I will lose my identification, my boarding pass—oh, no, where's my boarding pass? On the floor of the restroom, where I dropped it. Whew. Still there. (One thing you can count on is people don't pick up anything that doesn't look like money.) The flight to Phoenix was delayed 20 minutes. I'm late! There was just enough time to hit the restroom and rush down the hot gangway onto the plane. I would have liked to have stayed in that warmth, that light, but no, gotta go!

I arrived Friday evening, met my friends, ate horrendously expensive hotel food, slept in a fabulously comfortable hotel bed, and then repeated the entire journey in reverse and in the dark on Sunday evening. The plane lifted off into the setting sun at about 8:50 pm. I wondered if we would keep up with the turning of the earth, speeding along at a standstill like Alice and the White Queen, but no, it got dark. I was barely awake, but I couldn't stop watching for the clusters of lights far below, all the little towns in the middle of nowhere. How can they... what do they do out there, so far from anyplace worth mentioning? Gather string and make it into large balls, I guess.

Back through Phoenix at almost midnight. The place was lively, packed with travelers, like a galactic hub, so much activity. I found my gate. We boarded. We taxied and taxied and taxied, clear around the huge terminal, and back to a gate. Wha—? Something's wrong. Passengers began to mutter when they realized we had been diverted from the runway. Eventually the pilot fired up the intercom to tell us an “alarming” passenger had been removed, and all is well, we are cleared to depart. Yikes.

We leaped into the darkness, headed for Portland, and two and a half hours later, we landed so softly I wasn't sure we weren't still airborne. It was 2:00 a.m. The Portland terminal was deserted except for cleaning crews, vacuuming in circles. A far different picture from lively Sky Harbor. We shuffled en masse through the empty terminal, beyond weary. The bus to the Red Lot arrived, driven by a maniacally cheerful driver, who commented after her third joke fell flat that we must be very tired. Someone muttered, “Plane...an hour late.”

My car was waiting where I'd left it, looking strangely desiccated in the fluorescent light. The air inside was dry and flavorless. The engine started with a hesitant cough. After a detour or two, I found the place to pay the $30 that would allow me to exit the parking lot, and I wended my way home through empty streets. I pulled into the parking area at 3:00 a.m. I staggered to my door in the dark, wondering if someone would hear me mumbling and come out to shoot me. My cat met me at the door, like he'd been expecting me.

And that's the story of my weekend. The reality show of my life began again on Monday morning, with calls to the career college, resubmissions to my Chair and the IRB committee, laundry, shopping, rent... life picked up almost where I left off. But I am not the same. I've seen the Mall of America. I've seen a real Minnesota potluck. I've seen the half-moon and the brilliant stars from 36,000 feet. I know my place now, and it is good: I am a speck on the skin of a big, mysterious, and beautiful planet. It's not a bad place to be.

Feeling terminally unique

I can't really dredge up much enthusiasm for this doctoral journey when the pace of it ebbs and flows so much. I'd like more flowing and less ebbing, but at this point, I am almost past caring. Every now and then I feel a spark of interest, like, oh, yeah, I remember why I chose this topic. But mostly I'm beyond both frustration and enthusiasm. At each roadblock, each obstacle, I shrug: Whatever. I have a similar reaction to each success. Yeah, whatever.

I checked the course room every day this week, hoping for word from the Institutional Review Board that they have approved my revised recruiting method. It's a small change, how hard could it be, people? Instead of an approval notice, I got an announcement that my Chair is out of the office until July 29. Because the IRB keeps us at arm's length, communicating to us only through our Chairs like we are cootie-infested members of a lower caste, I can assume I will hear nothing this week. Oh well. Maybe next week.

It doesn't matter. I will be out of town this weekend myself. I'm going to Minneapolis for a reunion. So, if the plane goes down somewhere between here and there, let me just take this opportunity to say it's been a blast writing this blog. I hope this isn't the last post, but then do we ever really know what will happen when we walk out the door? I'm more likely to get decapitated in a car wreck caused by some texting teenager than die in a plane crash. But I've always wanted to be special.

Speaking of feeling special, I probably mentioned I have a new neighbor. Joy is gone, replaced by a young man named Everett. Everett moved in and then disappeared for a while. I feared he might have drowned in his tub. But no, I saw him last week, said hi, made a connection. It's sort of that connection you try to make with your kidnappers, so they won't kill you, you know what I mean? I kicked myself later for not mentioning how thin the walls are at the Love Shack. Because now I am suffering.

He's got something in his bedroom, some kind of a machine with a motor. Does this sound familiar? Wasn't I complaining about Mary having something that intermittently whined on and on? This is not a whine, it's a rumble. It's right on the other side of the wall. I can hear it when I watch my television. I can hear it when I take a bath. Imagine your windows are open to a summer night, and off in the middle distance, you hear the grumble of a freight train slicing through the night, rushing along the Gulch toward Hood River. It's like that. Only it never stops.

Air conditioner is my bet. An exotic guess would be an aquarium pump—maybe he has tropical fish in his room to help him sleep. Maybe it is a refrigerator, for his beer. No, it doesn't go off, it just keeps rumbling, a low, low vibration that I can feel in my chest. Annoying as it is, it isn't as bad as Joy's music. So I'm going to just live with it. I will pretend it is a freight train, heading east out the Gorge, carrying coal. No, not coal. Carrying art supplies and yarn for hungry artists and knitters. Yeah.

What not to do if you are a career college

I know I said I was going to let go of the career college and stop wallowing in the past. It's hard. Recently I whined about the linen truck that goes by several times a day, driven by one of my former students—oh, dear, will he make it to class on time, oh dear me. It's hard to ignore the screaming transmission as he wrestles the truck around the corner, but I'm trying. Mostly I've been focused for the past few weeks on my shaky recruiting strategy, wherein I struggle to wrangle faculty to interview for my dissertation project. More on that topic later. I'd like to say I've left the career college behind, but every day or so, someone, usually my former-colleague-now-friend Sheryl, calls me to update me on the latest insanity she's heard from “reliable sources.”

More than once I have contemplated writing a sitcom based on life at the career college. I wouldn't have to invent a thing. The truth would be way more entertaining than any fiction I could create. The characters are already there, a bizarre cast magically assembled by a quirk of fate. At the top you've got the invisible absentee college president and the two eccentric owners, one a former educator (so I've been told), the other a bankrupt real estate developer (this I Googled). This cabal rules from the shadows off-stage; you never see them. Running things from day to day you've got the uptight VP of Academic Affairs, a former office-manager-turned-administrator, micromanaging via scathing emails. Then you've got a little clutch of Program Directors, hopping around with varying levels of competence, trying to please the VP of Academic Affairs and keep the students from escaping, complaining, or suing the college. Toss in a few neurotic instructors and a swarm of demanding students, and you have the perfect script for a darkly morose comedy.

Even before I left, one of the program directors had started demonstrating odd behavior. I don't know if I've ever blogged about him before. I'll call him Wally. He is the Associate Program Director for one of the more popular programs, but not a healthcare program. (I should say was, not is. More on that in a minute.) Some time back, Wally got in trouble for showing pornography to some students. So I heard. Now, I'm sure it was probably done in the context of a discussion on free speech, but apparently the females in the group did not appreciate the educational nature of the presentation and complained to other students, other instructors, and eventually to other program directors. By the time the campus closed in early May, everyone knew about it. We all wondered how and why Wally managed to be one of the three lucky employees invited to transfer to the main location.

Enter Denny, my former boss, also one of the three invited to keep his job. Denny stormed into the office of the Human Resources Director (who doesn't rate the bestowal of any name, fictitious or otherwise) and proceeded to loudly lodge a complaint against both Wally and Wally's boss, Velma, who had repeatedly failed to display backbone, despite knowing about Wally's indiscretions for some time (and despite being thin as a stick). Are you getting this? I know, really?

Do you remember a 1960s show called Peyton Place? Probably you are too young. (I have to keep reminding myself that I am now older than a lot of people. I still feel like I'm about twelve.) Maybe you've heard people murmur in awed disgust, “Wow, what a Peyton Place!” and wondered what they meant. The phrase is now part of the vernacular, and I would say it is synonymous with soap opera, in case you haven't Googled it yet. Well, if you've ever seen a soap opera, you will understand the nature of life at this career college. It was always fraught with drama—I could tell you stories!—but now, according to reliable sources, the place is nuttier than a fruitcake factory.

Each term ends on a Thursday, which means Friday is set aside for teachers to grade papers, prepare final grades, and attend teacher training at the in-service. That was today. Reliable sources have reported (Sheryl heard it from Denny, who may have witnessed it with his own eyes) that Wally was informed this morning that he was being terminated. He retaliated by proclaiming, “I'm going to kill myself!” while walking by an open door to a classroom filled with new students attending orientation for the new term which starts on Monday.

Now do you see why I mention Peyton Place? It seems too deliciously entertaining to be true, doesn't it? Surely someone wrote this script! But knowing Wally (a fellow chronic malcontent who has seriously lost his hold on reality), it probably is true. From my lofty perspective, ten weeks after being let go, ten weeks into self-employment, I can look on the whole sordid episode with righteous glee. Didn't I predict the place would implode!? Vindicated! Validated! Today I laughed loudly and long, maybe ever so slightly guiltily, when Sheryl told me the news. All of which just affirms my conviction that I did the right thing by turning Denny down earlier this week when he offered me three classes for next term. As an adjunct, of course. Should I feel insulted or appreciated that they thought of me when they needed someone to teach the 10-key calculator class?

I turned him down not out of pride, but out of practicality. I will be conducting my faculty interviews at that location. Yep, I am happy to say, I got permission from the college president to have access to the faculty. I pleaded via email. He tersely granted it and handed me off to the VP of Academic Affairs (oh yay, lucky me). While I wait for IRB approval for my revised method, I contemplate the slow-motion meltdown of the career college that used to employ me and wonder what effect all this will have on the perceptions of faculty who will soon talk to me about academic quality. I am going to have to document the conditions at the college for my dissertation. I can do that. The hard part will be resisting the temptation to turn my description into a soap opera. Fade in...

If you don't bring forth what is within you, what you don't bring forth will destroy you

Today I dug out some old art supplies and started making a gift for a friend. The gift has two parts. Part of the gift is old art, two little paintings I made 14 years ago in a painting class. The other part consists of a wooden frame, a panel of quarter-inch particle board, and some modeling paste. How does it all go together, you ask? Well, we have yet to find out. I am hoping a coat of paint will cover the flaws. Isn't that the story of my life, eh?

I think the real story here is the fact that I dug out my old art supplies. I haven't painted since about 2003, when I got the teaching job at the career college. That job represented a turning point for me, a new direction toward something stable and respectable. Away from my so-called art career, the unstable and not-so-respectable path I've trod since childhood. But even as I embraced my new career, I kept my paints, stored in a box on a high shelf. I kept the jug of modeling paste, part of a group of paint cans enlisted to support a book shelf. I kept collecting wooden frames and other art-related paraphernalia, tucking them away into nooks and crannies, waiting for some day when I'd be ready to paint again.

So today it felt good—odd, but good to sand the dried gunk off my old palette knife. I popped the top on the jug of modeling paste with a screw driver and found the paste fresh and lovely and white as sugar frosting. I smoothed it on the frame with the palette knife like I was decorating a birthday cake. It is my friend Bravadita's birthday this week. I hope my gift is dry by the time I visit her at her downtown digs.

Fooling around with modeling paste makes me think about making art again. That thought makes me wonder if the past 15 years have just been an aberration, a detour away from my true calling. That thought makes me feel a little sick, because I've invested eight of those years and about $50,000 in a frustratingly stalled doctorate. Luckily before I could stick my head too far down that mental garbage pail, I remembered that there are always more than two choices. It's not either-or, it's and, and and, and and—as many ands as I want, as many as I've the guts to pursue.

Maybe I'll paint again, who knows. Although I'd have to give the stuff away: I have no room in the Love Shack to store paintings. And no room to store any more furniture, should I decide to convert my art to shelves and end tables like I did with my last batch of paintings. Art that became functional, I guess you could say. I don't even notice them anymore, old wooden paintings screwed together and obscured by stacks of t-shirts, books, the collected detritus of my life.

I was thinking about pleasant art versus... would I call it unpleasant art? What would you call it, the kind of art that makes you cringe or feel uneasy or squint? The kind of art that makes you work a little bit, or maybe a lot. Compared to the art that looks really nice over a couch or hanging in a stairwell. If I had stuck with making pleasant art, I would probably have had an art career selling stuff to interior decorators. Instead I made unpleasant art that was a little too... raw? Picture in-your-face nudes with no heads, arms, or legs. Yep, 'fraid so. Sadly, not what people wanted hanging over their couches. At least not people in my circle of family and friends.

Some part of me thinks that if I had just kept painting what I wanted to paint, I would eventually have succeeded in making a respectable art career. I wouldn't have felt compelled to sell my soul to stay alive. It's a small part of me that believes that. A much bigger part of me knows it's likely that if I had tried to paint what I wanted to paint, I'd be dead of starvation by now. But one thing I know: if I had tried to paint the pleasant stuff, the butterflies and flowers and rippling brooks, I'd for sure be dead by now. Rest in peace, Thomas Kinkade. I live to paint another day.

What do I do? Uh...

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

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

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

“Hi, I'm Dan.”

“Hi, Dan. I'm Carol.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Hi, I'm Kim.”

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

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

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

If you can't make a decision, it means you don't know who you are

I once overheard someone say, “If you can't make a decision, it means you don't know who you are.” I chewed on that idea for several years while I floundered my way out of a disintegrating relationship. Should I stay or should I go? All those years invested, all that crap to box up and move... but no more companionable TV time together, no more sex...on the other hand, no more snarky comments, no more walking on eggshells, no more of that peculiarly profound loneliness you only get when you are in a relationship... weighing the pros and cons of uprooting the status quo in favor of embracing the unknown.

Breaking up is a big decision. I don't know how you make the big decisions, but I have to roll around in the muck for a long time before all of a sudden my perspective shifts, and I wake up. It's like someone turns on a light switch. One moment I'm in the dark, the next moment, things are bright and clear as day. All that remains at that point is logistics. My heart and mind leave long before my body walks out the door. By the time I carry the last box to the car, I've been gone for months. Each partner (I was always the one to leave) accused me of being cold and callous, of leaving with no advance warning. What can I say? The time for tears passed ages ago. It just took time for my body to catch up to the rest of me. Bye-bye.

I left my last relationship ten years ago, Independence Day weekend, 2003. My only regret is I waited so long. Decision making takes as long as it takes. You can't rush it. It's a process, it's organic, like mold growing on bread. Like yogurt, like beer. Like growing a garden. When you are in the middle of the process, it seems never-ending, a nail-scraping eye-gouging eternity of frustration. Why can't I decide! Clearly we aren't happy! But we used to have so much fun together... But now it sucks. Why can't I just leave? But how will I pay the rent on my own? Argh!

I have an acquaintance who telephones me regularly, presumably to witness her chronic indecision. She (I'll call her Kaylee) has elevated indecision to a high art. The simplest decisions—where should I eat? Should I go out with my friends or not?—are torn apart into microscopic moments that must be examined and discussed in excruciating detail. Kaylee does not enjoy this process. Frequently she weeps. Each decision has the weight of life or death behind it. The wrong decision really feels like a death sentence to her. Me, I'm like, just make a decision already, who cares? Either way you learn something. But she can't; she's paralyzed with fear.

Twice in the past year I've persuaded her to flip a coin to make a decision. The first time was a big decision. She was trying to decide whether or not she wanted to break up with her partner, a man who lived in her basement. (I know, really?) They hadn't had a real relationship in years, yet she was terrified to let him go. For months she told me she didn't love him, she wanted him gone, she just needed to gather courage to ask him to move out. Then she found out he had been seeing someone else. Finally, I thought. Now she'll be happy to see him go, but no! Suddenly her love for him revived. She declared her desire to marry him, to have his baby, to commit to him forever, because she loved him so much. Oh, why hadn't she seen it before, while she kept him relegated to the basement!? Oh, woe, alas, alackaday! She wept, she gnashed her teeth, she went without sleep and food.

I'll be the first to admit, love can make anyone nuts. Leaving a relationship is not for the faint of heart. It's advanced decision making, a 400 level course. It requires guts. So I let her wallow in her indecision on the boyfriend. I witnessed. Hey, it can happen to anyone. Love is a battlefield, right?

The second time we tossed a coin, though, she was trying to decide if she should drive to the coast for a vacation with her friends. The problem was, her cat was sick. Should she stay with the cat, or go on vacation? Hmmmm, a classic dilemma. Should she apply a Kantian approach? The good of the friends would surely outweigh the good of the measly cat. On the other hand, you could apply the Golden Rule: if you were a cat, what would you want? Walk a mile in my furry paws.

I always ask, when confronted with what appears to be two obvious options, are those my only choices? Like, when I go to a buffet, I scope out the whole thing, from lettuce to pudding, before I choose my entree. I like to know the whole picture. Kaylee sees only two options, and both are fraught with the danger of making a wrong decision. I suggested she let the universe decide. She flipped a coin, and it came up heads: go on vacation.

“Great,” I said. “The universe has spoken. Have a good trip.”

“No, I can't go, I can't leave Tippy!”

“Ok, then don't go, stay home.”

“But I really need a vacation!”

“Ok, so go on vacation.”

“But what if Tippy dies while I'm gone!”

“Tippy's a cat.”

“Tippy's like my child! If something happened while I was gone, I'd never be able to live with it.”

“Ok, so stay home with Tippy.”

“But my friends are going to be there!”

I did a lot of eye-rolling while she raved and wept in anguish. When we finally ended the call, I heaved a sigh of relief that I didn't have the disease of indecision. When I decide, I just go with it, whatever it is, if it seems right at the time, I just go with it. I let the universe take care of the outcome. I don't always make the right decision, but I always learn something. Isn't that one of the purposes of living? To learn? Maybe it means I finally know who I am. Or maybe it means I'm ok with not knowing.

Leaving the old world behind

Every day, several times per day, I hear a certain truck drive by the street in front of the Love Shack and make the turn to go west on Belmont. It's a big white box truck with a distinctive whining transmission, easily differentiated from the hordes of buses, cars, and other trucks that make the turn. The last run of the day happens about 5:00 p.m. I always look at the clock. I'm checking how many minutes after the hour. If it's only five after the hour, the driver takes the turn in an efficient but leisurely fashion. If it is ten after the hour, the howl of the transmission as the truck careens around the corner indicates that the driver is beginning to panic.

What does all this mean? I'll tell you. The driver of the truck is a former student, a young man I used to teach at the career college where I worked until May 2. He drives linens and laundry from a local hospital to their off-site laundry facility. Back and forth, over the shoulder of Mt. Tabor, he drives the big white truck. I think I've written about this student before in my blog. I called him Roger. He's the one that Dr. WhizzKid, my naturopath, told me was causing me some digestive problems. (Well, to be accurate, my envy of Roger was causing my digestive problems.)

Because the Clackamas campus closed May 2, Roger is now finishing his studies at the Wilsonville campus, which is a good 40 minutes away from the Love Shack, on a good day, no traffic. Evening classes begin at 5:40 p.m. The later his last laundry run, the later he is to class.

So, I check the clock. I worry for him. I am trying to leave the old world behind, but every time Roger drives by in the big white truck, I think of him and wonder how he is doing, how he will get to class on time.

It's just chance that he hasn't yet seen me. Sometimes I'm out in front of the Love Shack, poking at the weeds. I hear the distinctive whine and wonder, is this the day he will see me? Is this the moment where I have to interact with the old world? And what if he does see me and recognize me? It's not like he can stop in the middle of the street. No, he's got laundry to pick up and deliver. He's got a schedule to maintain. He's got a class to show up late to.

Odds are, even if he did glance my way, he wouldn't recognize me. He's never seen me in my civvies. I look like a homeless person these days. No more black slacks and jacket, my dour uniform of the past ten years. I predict when the moment comes, his eyes will slide right past me. Just another middle-aged decrepit digging in the dirt and wearing her pajamas in public.

I'm looking forward to the day when Roger graduates from the career college and gets a better job, one that doesn't require him driving the truck past my house four times a day. Then I won't have to worry about him getting to class on time. Then I can stop thinking about my old life, the old job I am so thankful to be rid of, and I can focus on building a new life from the ashes.

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.