 
#  

# Welcome to Dissertation Hell

# A Hilarious Handbook for Doctoral Students

# Selected Posts from The Hellish Handbasket Blog

# Written, Illustrated, and Published at Smashwords by

# Carol B. (AKA The Chronic Malcontent)

# Copyright 2014 Carol M. Booton, Ph.D.

# Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

### Table Of Contents

Preface

Introduction

Welcome to the Hellish Handbasket

Clearing the decks

Concept Paper: Let the Pain Begin

Math anxiety and the wreckage of the future

Back in dissertation hell

Perplexed and confused as usual by my students

What happens next?

My life is a farce

Wallowing in the messy bog

It's always something

I've been sent to committee

Dissertation limbo and a diatribe about the Gainful Employment rule

My life is the unfolding result of many small decisions

The terminal degree is the one that kills you

Life before Google is not worth remembering

It's cool to be old!

Make sure your paragraphs are straightforward and reasonably short

How to lose friends and alienate people without even trying

You can change the world in just 15 minutes a day

It could be worse

If I sit on the sidelines, I don't get to play the game

I'm so screwed

My resentment slip is showing again

More to be revealed

I'm lean, mean, mode, and median: Hire me, I'm yours!

One person's mountain is another's mole hill, or something like that

Waiting

Time to put on my thinking cap

Curiouser and curiouser

Toward a theory of malcontentedness

Malfunction alert: the temperature has fallen below the unit's optimum range

Where burned out teachers go

The few, the proud, the over-educated

Focus on the learning, not on the grade

Super size me! Yeeee-haaaawww!

Miscellaneous musings from the chronic malcontent

The committee is AWOL: I didn't cause it, I can't control it, and I sure can't cure it

Axe me no questions

Inky, dinky, stinky, my life is a speck

When the pain of this is worse than the fear of that

Waiting, still...again

A nasty, bitter cosmic soup

How to be thankful for an annoying neighbor

Bring me the head of the Baby Jesus

The surreal night off

Trudging into the future

Resistance to change: The ongoing challenge

Proposal: The Academic Equivalent of Waterboarding

Whining: Anger coming out a really small hole

The for-profit college motto: Move 'em in and move 'em out!

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

The chronic malcontent is feeling nasty, brutish, and short

Hold the presses: I need to slow my chi down

Feeling anything but safe

Flogging a dubious metaphor

I'm not ready to be unemployed

They move on, and we stand still

We're not happy until you're not happy

Dueling stereos and the wretched dissertation proposal

Get on down to the spiritual axiom

Win a few, lose a few

Change can be good

It's official... life sucks

How to survive a campus closing

The slippery slope to slovenly behavior

Do I look like a risk taker to you?

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

If nothing else, I can serve as a bad example

Eye-rolling at the Love Shack

Doing the time warp... again

Exposing my dirty red underbelly

Letting go of resentments, old and new

Data Collection: Life on Life's Terms

Zip about php

No longer looking in the rear view mirror

Catching bullets in my teeth

What not to do if you are a career college

What I have learned about the dissertation journey

How to blend in to your neighborhood

Don't count your chickens before they tear your lips off

Summer's last kiss

Trying not to put words in their mouths

The chronic malcontent makes the best of a curry powder migraine

Manuscript: The Massive Wretched Tome

Will I ever stop doubting? It's doubtful

Whine on, whine on harvest moon

You can stop wondering. I'm alive.

The chronic malcontent slogs through another day

The chronic malcontent feels resentment at a sorry-ass data entry snoid

The chronic malcontent grudgingly admires her clean curtains

The chronic malcontent deals with it

De-cluttering the chronic malcontent

Take a deep breath, be here now, eat some pie

Climbing the mountain, but slowly, slowly

The chronic malcontent twiddles and frets

Believe it or not, this doctorate is almost done. Really. I'm not joking this time.

Defense: The Student Becomes a Scholar

Waiting again, and while I wait, I plan my oral defense

How do you know when you're in the flow?

Zen and the art of waiting

Stick a fork in me

Is there life after doctorate?

Reflection

Dissertation Hell: Get me off this Z-ticket ride!

Tips for Your Doctoral Journey

Epilogue

### Preface

_Pursuing a doctoral degree is not a trivial task. It's not for the faint of heart. Nor is it a project for quitters. Earning a Ph.D. is something only daft crazy people do. I mean, only a daft crazy person would spend eight years and upwards of $50,000 to gain the right to add a few extra letters after his or her name. Am I right? If it weren't a ridiculous, virtually impossible goal, everyone would have a Ph.D. You could buy half a dozen at the supermarket, in different languages. Everyone would be "Doctor." How fun!_

_But as I mentioned, earning a doctorate might be something only daft crazy people do. I was one of those daft crazies. At the end of 2005, in an effort to become more valuable to my then-employer (a for-profit career college), I enrolled at an online for-profit university. My plan was to earn a Ph.D. in Marketing, thereby transforming me into a highly educated (and highly desirable) instructor of marketing. I had no Master's degree, so I started at the bottom. Slowly, I began climbing toward my goal, taking one course at a time, for six years, culminating at the end of 2011 in the successful completion of the Comprehensive Exam._

To document my journey (and to keep from going insane), I started a blog in early 2012. I called it The Hellish Handbasket. Part diatribe, part memoir, The Hellish Handbasket blog has something for everyone, but is especially relevant for doctoral students.

_Welcome to Dissertation Hell_ is a compilation of selected posts from the Hellish Handbasket Blog, written and illustrated by Carol B. (AKA The Chronic Malcontent). Each post marks a memorable moment on her two-year journey from A.B.D. doctoral candidate to Ph.D. scholar. Amusing pen-and-ink drawings illustrate many of the posts.

## Whom is this book for?

The intended audience for this ebook (besides my long-suffering family and friends) consists of:

  * Graduate students working toward a doctorate

  * People who are considering enrolling in a graduate program to work toward a doctorate

  * Friends and family of someone who is working toward a doctorate

  * Recently matriculated Ph.D.s who want to relive their trauma and celebrate their well-earned accomplishments

## What is this book about?

This ebook is a collection of blog posts from my blog, The Hellish Handbasket, documenting the final two years in my quest to complete the doctorate. The chronicle begins in January of 2012, after I had earned the title of A.B.D. (which means All But Dissertation, or alternatively, All But Dead). The chronicle concludes in early 2014with my victorious wresting of the doctoral degree from the cold dry claws of the university.

The posts are (I hope) humorous. My humor can be a bit dry. Probably it's an acquired taste. However, scattered throughout the ebook are hints, tips, and bits of advice for the aspiring doctoral learner. As an added bonus, many of the posts are illustrated with uniquely ridiculous pen-and-ink drawings culled from my years of journals and sketchbooks: Yes, I confess, the drawings are mine.

## What is the Hellish Handbasket Blog?

The Hellish Handbasket Blog, originally created to document my doctoral journey, quickly metamorphosed into an online therapy session, a place for me to rant about life in general and my life in particular. Blogging as The Chronic Malcontent, I covered many topics during the first two years, notably my employment at (and dis-employment from) a local career college, my so-called art career, my apartment (fondly labeled The Love Shack), my cat Eddie (AKA Squint Eastwood), my mother, my neighbors, plus many other topics that seemed ripe for skewering. There's always something to complain about: The blog lives on. As far as I know, I have approximately six regular readers: my sister and five friends, Carlita, Bravadita, V. (AKA Prosprus)., E., and D. (AKA Denny). Where everyone else comes from, I have no idea. (But thanks!)

## Who is The Chronic Malcontent?

Many people are The Chronic Malcontent. You might know a few. You might be one yourself. I don't have a monopoly on the term. (Google it, you'll see.) It's a term you'll sometimes hear in the Twelve Step recovery world, if you listen for it. It never fails to make me smile. Especially since I found out I'm actually a closet optimist.

## Am I anonymous?

I started blogging anonymously to avoid getting into trouble with the career college, especially during the time they were closing our campus and laying off all the teachers. I didn't have a lot of good things to say about them during that time, so it's probably good I stayed under the radar, so to speak. But many of my colleagues knew I was blogging anonymously as The Chronic Malcontent. Graciously, they helped me maintain my anonymity. Now that I no longer work for the career college and now that my Ph.D. journey is complete, it seems to matter less if my name is revealed. If you look, you will find my full name on the Copyright page.

—Carol B., The Chronic Malcontent, 2014

### Introduction

Welcome to the chronicle of my journey through Dissertation Hell. These short essays are the original posts from the Hellish Handbasket Blog, with the exception of a few typo repairs, some image deletions to reduce the file size, and the replacement of one duplicate image. After this introduction, I offer you five main chapters that align with the process of earning the doctorate: concept, proposal, data collection, manuscript, and defense.

The first chapter, The Concept Paper: Let the Pain Begin, chronicles my attempt to finish my concept paper, for me the most difficult, most lengthy, most frustrating part of my dissertation process. After the concept was finally approved, I was able to move on to the next phase, the dissertation proposal, which I describe in Proposal: The Academic Equivalent of Waterboarding (Do I sound frustrated?) During this time period, I was laid off from my job.

Finally I received approval to begin collecting data, which is the focus of the next chapter, Data Collection: Life on Life's Terms. During data collection, I encountered some unexpected setbacks. (What doesn't kill us makes us stronger, right?) At last all the data were collected, and I was able to work on the dissertation manuscript, which I fondly describe in the next chapter, Manuscript: The Massive Wretched Tome. By this point, I could sense the end was near... in a good way. In Defense: The Student Becomes a Scholar, I reflect on the end days of my academic journey.

Three short chapters close the book. In Reflection: Dissertation Hell: Get Me Off This Z-Ticket Ride, I summarize the entire dissertation experience in one essay. (If you remember when riding Disneyland's best rides required an E-ticket, you can imagine what a Z-ticket might be like.) I follow it with Tips for Your Doctoral Journey, which you might find useful if you are still mid-journey. And finally, like many authors who are intoxicated with the sound of their own verbiage, I close with an Epilogue.

One note about the illustrations: Every week for the past 19 years I have been sitting in meetings, drawing in my notebook. The drawings in the Hellish Handbasket are culled from my journals, and represent moments in time, sometimes not so carefully rendered. Hence you will see varied levels of quality. In other words, some drawings are clearer than others. The digital scanning process was also undertaken at various points over the past few years, not always at the same resolution. And then fitting them into the blog required some fancy footwork with Paint and other nonprofessional programs... you can see that what we get is a melange of quality. I hope the illustrations will be rendered adequately by your e-reader, so you can get the jokes. If not, you can search for the original post on the Hellish Handbasket Blog.

Let's start at the beginning. The following post was the first blog post of the Hellish Handbasket Blog. As you will see, I was self-consciously searching for my authentic voice. It eluded me for a time. I couldn't imagine that anyone would ever be interested in anything I had to say. But I knew I needed a place to say it, whatever needed to be said. It's creepy-eerie how prescient were some of my early posts.

Welcome to Dissertation Hell.

JANUARY 17, 2012

# Welcome to the Hellish Handbasket

Welcome to another useless, pointless blog of self-obsessed palaver by a chronic malcontent.

My name is Carol, and I admit it: I'm a chronic malcontent. What is a chronic malcontent? Someone who is never satisfied, can never be happy, sees only half empty through mud-colored glasses, and goes through each day with a personal rain cloud the way Pigpen traveled with his own dust cloud. But Pigpen was happy (I think). Chronic malcontents have honed discontentment to an art form.

I'm not sure why I'm writing this. It's unlikely anyone will ever read it, considering I don't plan to tell anyone this blog exists. It's sort of like the online equivalent of a message in a bottle. But I'm not asking, is anyone out there? It's more like I'm just letting the universe know I'm pissed.

What have I got to be angry about? Thanks for asking. Really, nothing. I'm white, and I live in America. I mean, I should be grateful, counting my blessings, thanking god (if there is a god), right? But on the other hand, I'm female and 55, so I think I'm entitled to gripe. Plus I'm in graduate school. Plus I teach at one of the dreaded career colleges people love to hate. Plus I'm packing too many pounds as I try to recover from a misguided bout of veganism. Plus I'm single and I haven't had sex in 8 ½ years. Is that enough? What do you think, have I earned the right to complain?

Relax. It's not like anyone is going to read this. Certainly not you.

So, in classic nihilist style, I've claimed there is no point to this narcissistic endeavor. But not everything has to have a point. Does it? Sometimes the best art is the kind that seems completely irrelevant. Like art about nihilism, for example. I used to be pair-bonded to a nihilist, but that is another story. I've done all the complaining about that relationship that I'm going to do. Long time ago, blah blah blah, old news, ho hum.

This blog will be divided into themes that represent the different levels of hell in my life.

  * Dissertation hell

  * Art hell

  * Relationship hell

  * Vegan hell

  * Employment hell

  * Introvert hell

I'm sure there are other hells that will manifest from time to time, as hells are wont to do. Maybe you will find something hellish to relate to. But since no one is reading this, it doesn't really matter.

Why the name handbasket? Well, obviously it comes from the amusing cliché of going to hell in a handbasket. I'm not sure I know what a handbasket is, do you? I picture a sort of wicker, rickety affair with a crooked handle. That's not all that funny, I know: I've received (and given) plenty of holiday gifts in baskets just like that. You can get them at Goodwill for $2.00. What's funny about going to hell in a handbasket is the image I get in my mind of all my friends, family, colleagues, in fact the entire stinky swell of humanity, tossed into a rickety wicker basket, sliding down a dark tunnel toward hell as we elbow each other for room and scream at the top of our lungs. To me, that is funny. Maybe that relationship with the nihilist had some lasting effect on me. Hmmm.

Although, now that I am examining my mental image of the handbasket scene, my perspective is from outside the basket. Do I actually think I am exempt from going to hell in this handbasket of humanity? No, not at all. But I can't quite imagine myself sitting in that cramped and smelly pile of bodies. It's more like I'm discorporate, a disembodied intellect floating alongside the squirming mass, maybe taking virtual pictures. Which I would post on Facebook, of course. If I had a Facebook page, which I don't.

So come along for the ride. Or not. Who cares. In any case, it's quite likely my attempts to write this egotistical blog will go the way of millions of other self-absorbed, egotistical blogs: passwords forgotten, thoughts frozen in time, pages lost in cyberspace, maybe stumbled on by accident once in a millennium by a stray traveler, who reads a few lines and quickly clicks the back button muttering a one-word judgment that sums up the entire hopeless, useless, pointless endeavor: "Lame."

JANUARY 22, 2012

# Clearing the decks

In preparation for the next adventure in Dissertation Hell, I started going through some of my old journals, looking for drawings I could scan to put on this blog, and I came across some that made me laugh. However, it occurred to me that I may need to trade in my art persona for a more professional image, if I'm going to get a job in academe.

My problem is, I vacillate between thinking I'm an artist and a scholar. Some days I want to chuck it all and head for the hills with my paint box. Other days I think burying myself in esoteric articles about whether quality is measurable is the greatest pursuit on the planet. I feel like I'm going nuts.

It's fun to look at my old drawings, though. They have nothing to do with scholarly research. But they sure are funny. Oh boy, now I'm back in Art Hell. Argh! Why can't someone pay me to draw and paint what I want?

I predict that in about one year, I will have a similar complaint, but it will be along the lines of "Why can't someone pay me to research and study what I want?"

Which leads me back to what I've known all along. I'm a chronic malcontent. Nothing will truly make me happy, because happiness for a chronic malcontent is unattainable. Why do I even bother talking about it, nobody cares. Bla bla bla.

### Concept Paper: Let the Pain Begin

JANUARY 23, 2012

# Math anxiety and the wreckage of the future

Today is the first day of my first official dissertation "course," the 12-week period in which I am expected to revise my concept paper and write the dissertation proposal. I logged on to the university website, entered the course room, and clicked the little button that gives the school permission to deduct $2,380 from my bank account. I took a breath and said a prayer before I clicked it. Only for a brief moment did I contemplate the thought of not clicking it. Dissertation hell, here I come.

I started this journey in 2006. One course at a time, I've dipped my inquiring mind into a long list of interesting subjects, even ones that weren't in the business department, such as The Art and Science of Adult Education and Foundations of E-Learning. I was lucky to have many choices for electives. When I started "attending" this online university, learners could choose from a veritable smorgasbord of subjects.

A few years ago, the school sold out to an investment company, and the hatches were battened down. Learners were given a pre-designed program. The curriculum was set. No more choices. I was lucky. And here I am, six years later, much older, wearier, and arguably no wiser than when I started.

I've changed some since 2006, but my same old fears are still with me. Am I smart enough to do this? Will my bank account hold out? How can I fool everyone that I am statistically competent? Will there be a job for me, at the advanced age of 55, when I finally complete this degree? What kind of job can I expect? Who will hire a fading, chronically malcontented Ph.D.?

My friend accuses me of straying into the "wreckage of the future" whenever I dwell on the myriad possibilities for failure. She's right, but I can't seem to help myself. It's where I feel the most at home.

I teach an occupational course in which students use 10-key calculators to perform various business math computations. They learn to use the memory feature to multiply and divide multiple numbers. I have an older student who clearly exhibits signs of living in the wreckage of the future. She broke down weeping during a one-page test of basic arithmetic. I'm sure the same thoughts run through her mind as run through mine: Am I smart enough to compete with these young twenty-somethings? Who will hire me if I can't do basic math?

What she said to me was, "It's not that hard!" as tears streamed down her face. She means, it's hard, and it shouldn't be. She thinks there is something wrong with her. I tried to reassure her, without outing myself as a complete math incompetent. (After all, I am ostensibly teaching the class.) What can I say to soothe her ragged self-esteem? She believes it's important to know how to do math, probably because that is what people have told us from the moment we learned to count. Welcome to educator hell.

I've had a wary relationship with numbers ever since I can remember. In second grade I cheated all the time in arithmetic (sorry Mrs. Corbin, although I'm sure you knew). In third grade Miss Hubbert told me to stand in the hall until I could learn how to tell time on the clock. (Back then time was a mysterious analog thing, not digital like it is now.) I got some passerby to tell me the time so I could go back into the classroom, but it took me years to understand the relationship between the big hand and the little hand.

Some brains are better with words, some are better with numbers. The only thing I can do with numbers is line them up and make them look good. I can format the hell out a column of numbers. But anything beyond calculating the mean gives me cold sweats. That is why my dissertation will most likely end up to be qualitative rather than quantitative.

FEBRUARY 03, 2012

# Back in dissertation hell

I knew this would happen. I'm two weeks into my first dissertation course, and already getting feedback from my Chair is like pulling teeth. Argh. I feel like I'm being gaslighted. I can't believe she would deliberately be so--what's the word? Schizophrenic? What do you call it when someone's actions don't match their words?

She approved my (laughably unrealistic) timeline. She emailed that she would read the paper over the weekend. (That was last weekend). She sounded so enthusiastically supportive in her email, so chatty and encouraging. And then, nothing, not a peep, not a word of feedback, not even, "This sucks. Resubmit." Nothing.

This is what I hate about... life, I guess. That people are at times so predictable, and other times so frustratingly perplexing. I want so much to trust her. I want to have faith. I will forgive her almost anything. But her actions, or lack thereof, erode my ability to trust. Eventually I will be reduced to an automaton, saying whatever it takes to get through this and leave her behind. It's so bleak, and we've only just begun.

What if I were to have a conversation with her about my concerns? What if I emailed my advisor? Lots of luck, is what I think. I suppose communication breakdowns happen in any institution, but it seems particularly destructive when it happens in an all-online environment, where all we have is email and the rare phone call to communicate our frustration and reassurance.

FEBRUARY 07, 2012

# Perplexed and confused as usual by my students

I'm still in dissertation purgatory, waiting for my Chair to respond with feedback to my concept paper. Even a response to my email asking for feedback would be a step in the right direction. What am I doing wrong (besides not asking my advisor for a new Chair)?

On the plus side, I have time to do stuff around the shack. Clean the cat box. Shake the litter out of the rugs. Organize my envelopes (I have so many sizes, yellowed with age—Who sends mail anymore?). Read some trash paranormal romances. Lay around and eat bonbons. Write in this blog. La la la.

Because of this lengthening delay in receiving feedback from my Chair, I'm in a constant state of panic. Mostly I keep it tamped down to a slow boil. Sometimes, though, it comes out sideways, in the form of nastiness toward others. I always feel really bad after I say something I shouldn't have. But it would be better if the nastiness had never happened. In my defense, it's not like I'm criticizing their choice of footwear, not that nasty. More like general snippyness, cattiness, and snottiness. (I think those are real words.) I have my reasons (malcontentedness combined with roiling panic), but I admit, it's no excuse for being snippy, catty, or snotty.

This constant low-grade panic is especially noticeable in my level of tolerance toward keyboarding, keyboarders, and my students in general. I'm to the point where teaching keyboarding is like scraping all ten fingernails on a dirty chalkboard. I have no patience with keyboarders who argue with me about where the fingers go. (I'll tell you where the fingers go! Finger this!) And I am seriously fed up with students who check their engrade score every five minutes. I love engrade, but it's the bane of my keyboarding existence sometimes.

In a discussion of the dual role of the student in the "business" of higher education, Meirovich and Romar (2006) used the terms customer and grade-seeker. The authors weren't using the terms in a negative sense, but more to simply describe the roles of the student in juxtaposition to the roles of instructors as service suppliers and retention-seekers. I use the term grade-seeker in a strictly negative sense to describe students who check their engrade scores multiple times a day, who ask questions like, "What do I have to do to get a C in your class?", who take all five absences as part of their attendance strategy, and who rarely if ever check the syllabus to find out what lesson they should be on this week.

Am I sounding snippy? What can I say. I'm trying not to panic.

====================================================

Source:

Meirovich, G., & Romar, E. J. (2006). The difficulty in implementing TQM in higher education instruction: The duality of instructor/student roles. _Quality Assurance in Education, 14_ (4), 324-337. doi: 10.1108/09684880610703938

FEBRUARY 12, 2012

# What happens next?

I'm trapped in dissertation limbo, waiting for my Chair to respond to my submission. While I'm waiting, my constant question is "What happens next?" As if I can't wait to get out of this present moment into the next one. I'm not sure why, since I don't know what is happening now, let alone next.

Is it human nature to constantly want to know what happens next? Like if we just had some inkling of the disasters awaiting us, we could be more prepared? Right. What would you do if you knew there was going to be an earthquake in your neighborhood next Saturday at 3:00 a.m.? Would you take the week off from work to pack up your stuff and head for the hills? Would you buy earthquake insurance? Tell the truth.

A long time ago I attended a meditation group. I don't remember much, probably because I slept through much of it, but I do recall the teacher exhorting us to stop asking unanswerable questions and strive instead to be empty boats. What would an empty boat ask? That is a trick question. An empty boat would ask nothing. Boats can't talk. An empty boat would simply be. Floating on the river of life.

Sort of like my cat, I guess. He floats on the river of life. Existing in the moment. The master of the next right thing. Well, the analogy is interesting, but not all that helpful, since the cat doesn't have to earn a living, write a dissertation, or take out the recycling. Wouldn't life be grand if it were all about eating, peeing, pooping, and play? Hey, wait a minute. Isn't that retirement? More like institutionalization.

Retirement is an elusive impossibility for an under-earner like me, but institutionalization, that is not hard to picture. I'll be there soon enough, don't rush it. I'm not anxious to find myself sitting in a wheelchair, wearing a bib while someone feeds me cake and wipes my drool. Much as I dislike the prospect, though, there is something comforting about knowing that even if I can't lift a finger, I will be fed, clothed, and sheltered until I am dead. Unless Medicare and Medicaid give out. Then you can set me adrift in an empty boat.

FEBRUARY 18, 2012

# My life is a farce

I'm back in dissertation hell. I'm four weeks into my first dissertation course, waiting for my Chair to give me feedback on my concept. We've been playing email tag. Then voice mail tag. I keep asking the same thing: I need feedback on my concept. For four weeks, I've been... well, I've been writing this stupid blog. Waiting.

At last we connected by email, chose a time to talk on the phone. I was set to call her at 12:30 pm. At 11:00, the phone rang while I was in the process of burning my eggs. It was my Chair, calling from somewhere in the deep South. "Just thought I'd try you," she warbled. "What can I help you with?"

I came right out with it. "I want feedback on my concept paper." I didn't add the part about, remember that concept paper I wrote four months ago, that you never gave me one speck of feedback on? What's up with that weird sh-t?

After some short chit chat, she casually remarked, "Why don't you upload the paper to the course room and I'll take a look at it over the weekend?"

I was aghast. What! All this time I thought she had the paper. She was my mentor during the course where I wrote the thing, how could she not have the paper? Argh.

"Ok, I'll upload the paper right away," I sighed. "I wish I'd known that you didn't have access to the course room."

She laughed. "Yes, they don't tell you that, do they?" I wasn't finding this amusing, but she clearly was.

Some more small chit chat, and then she sang out. "Thanks, Sweetie! Bye-bye!" And she was gone.

So now I'm Sweetie. I assume that she calls all her learners Sweetie. Probably that is what they do in the South, I don't know. I don't mind being called Sweetie if it makes her feel connected and helpful. I just wish she really was connected and helpful.

We have plans to talk again on Tuesday. Like that is going to happen. I guess I'll send her another email. Maybe I'll sign it "Sweetie," and see if that helps.

MARCH 11, 2012

# Wallowing in the messy bog

For the past week I have been valiantly struggling to revise my concept paper. Here's what I think I have figured out.

I'm on my own. The Chair of my committee (do I still have a committee?) has informed her learners on her faculty webpage that she is out of the country. I think she'll be back today, but who knows? She did not tell us where she went. She did, however, inform us that she has been receiving phone calls from learners at "all hours of the day and night," and from now on we must email her to set up an appointment if we want to talk with her on the phone. Yes, this is the same person who called me "Sweetie."

Nobody cares. It does no good to complain to anyone about this whole mess. I've been complaining about being in dissertation hell for so long, I might as well be yelling, "Wolf! Wolf!" People who ask how I'm doing are just being polite. They don't really want to hear my whining. What they want is the same thing I want: for this nightmare to be over. Of course, we want this for different reasons. I just want the pressure and anxiety to end, so I can get some sleep. They just want me to shut up.

I can't control anything. There is nothing worse than feeling out of control. (Nothing?.... Nope. Nothing.) My entire existence depends on being able to control my environment. People, places, things... I constantly labor under the delusion that I am in control. The image that comes to mind is the ant riding on top of the log that is floating down the river. Yep, I'm driving this log, look at me go! The truth is, I can't control anything. Not time, not space. Certainly not people. Nothing. Most of the time I can't even control myself: my feelings and behaviors are unpredictable at the best of times. This is not the best of times. I am completely and utterly without control.

I can create wreckage. Just because I have no control over anything doesn't mean I can't create some serious wreckage. All I have to do is look behind me to see the trail of chaos and destruction in my wake. So, although I have no control, clearly I am not without influence. If I could harness some of that destructive energy and turn it to work for me, what could I accomplish?

It's easier to play small. I willingly put on my cloak of malcontentedness every day. It is an old familiar friend. It helps keep my life manageable, helping me maintain that illusion of control that keeps me going. It also keeps my life small. I am a dreamer. Sometimes I dream big dreams, dreams that involve me taking chances, talking to people, actually making phone calls, actually telling the Universe what I want. When I imagine myself doing those things, I want to curl up in a ball under the covers.

It would be easier to just quit on the whole dissertation thing. What do I have to lose (besides six years and $45,000?) I mean, all this learning, it's mine now, no one can take it away from me, whether I have a degree or not. At least, the knowledge is mine until Alzheimer's claims my poor tired brain. But I'm just stubborn enough not to cry uncle. Not because I want the degree. I doubt I'll actually do anything with it anyway. No, I want to finish because I'm not a quitter. So, let her call me "Sweetie," "Stupid," and "Grumpy," I don't care. I know my internal dwarves. I'm in good company. We are all in this messy bog together.

MARCH 13, 2012

# It's always something

One of my favorite movie lines is from a movie called Elizabethtown: "If it's not this, it would be something else." That pretty much sums up my malcontented life these days. Just when I think I've cleaned up every scrap of paper on my big plank of a desk, made every phone call, responded to every email, washed every dish, the temperature drops and it snows.

It's not enough snow to cause a problem for me, living in the city, but my feet are constantly cold. I can't get warm, not even with socks rated for forty below. I hate being cold, especially my feet. I'd rather be drenched in warm rain than be dry and freezing. Right now, of course, we get the worst possible combination: wet and cold. It's (almost) spring in Oregon.

People sometimes accuse me of dragging around my own little gray raincloud. I can't help it. On cold, wet days, I am genetically predisposed to avoid seeing the bright side of life. If the sun comes out even for a brief moment, my head shoots up like a dog scenting a squirrel.

I have a lot to be grateful for, but I'm not feeling it right now, because my feet are so cold. I should be thanking the internet gods that I'm back online. (I guess those infant sacrifices finally worked). I should be heaving heavy sighs of relief that I finished revising the second draft of my concept paper (truthfully, it was 95% new material) and got it successfully uploaded to the course room, where it becomes my Chair's problem. Speaking of my Chair, I should be praising fate that she came back from her week to god knows where and actually responded to my email. I should be prancing around singing, "She's alive, alive!"

There is a theory about malcontentedness. Picture two tanks of water. In one there is a floating island. In the other, there is not. Picture two sets of mice, swimming for their lives in these two tanks of water. The mice in the tank with the island find the island and can rest there. Whew. The mice in the tank without the island swim until they are exhausted. As they are going down for the third time, they are rescued by the scientists. This process takes place over and over again. Finally, in the last experiment, the scientists take away the island, and set all the mice a-swimming together in one big tank. You may not be surprised to hear that the mice who were trained to find the island swam longer than the mice who never found an island.

Think about your family? Did you grow up in a family in which there was an island? In my family, there was no island. Thus, my malcontentedness. No hope. I'm always swimming, always drowning... even if you put an island in front of me, I won't believe my eyes. I will walk around it, stumble past it, tell you I can't see it.

It's hard to think. I'd write more, but my feet are cold.

MARCH 16, 2012

# I've been sent to committee

It sounds ominous, but being sent to committee is a good thing in this case. This means my concept paper is making the rounds of my faceless, nameless committee. This terse message, "Sent to committee," from my Chair indicates one of two things: Either she thought the paper was good enough to warrant the next step toward approval, or she couldn't be bothered to read it and she is expecting the committee to do her work for her. Considering the unsteady relationship we have, I assume the latter. But I could be wrong.

It may not matter soon anyway. My illustrious university is changing the way it handles the dissertation process. After numerous complaints and a few withdrawals (frothily documented in the discussion folders), the administration has decided the process needs revising. Instead of letting any old flaky adjunct be Chair of a committee, they will now endeavor to ensure that only full-time faculty are allowed to be Chair. The adjuncts can still be members of the committee, apparently, just not Chair. Of course, I know from experience that full-time status does not preclude flakiness.

I hope this will affect my process positively. In other words, I hope my Chair is replaced by someone who will actually show up, be committed, and give me timely feedback. Actually, at this point, any feedback at all would send me into a tearful frenzy of gratitude.

I've stopped filling out the post-course surveys. As soon as I finished all my course work and embarked upon the research phase, I realized that I would quite likely encounter some of these mentors again. And that has been the case. I am not stupid. If I rate my academic experience honestly, and describe my disappointments in detail, that information will eventually be shared with the mentors. It won't be difficult for them to identify which malcontent submitted such eloquently negative feedback, thus jeopardizing any harmonious working relationship I might have had with them if they should end up appointed to my dissertation committee.

Students at the college where I am employed are asked each term to fill out evaluation forms to rate their instructors, courses, and the school overall. When I was a new adjunct, lo, these many (eight) years ago, I remember I was given the results of some student evaluations before the end of the term. I was appalled. I knew the evaluations weren't going to be complimentary, but that isn't why I was shocked. The point is that they were given to me before the end of the term, before I turned in grades, while I was in a position to retaliate against the students that gave me negative feedback. This class was divided into two armed camps: the students who loved me and the ones who wanted to lynch me. I could have really let them have it.

For a brief moment I considered what I could do to punish those students who dared to write negative feedback about me. Give them extra writing assignments, make them give an oral report, or just knock ten points off the top, whoops, too bad you didn't do so well on that last test. Then I thought, wait, what a gift. When I took off my angry teacher hat and put on my marketing hat, I realized I had been given a golden opportunity—or as we say in higher education, I had encountered a teaching moment. First of all, those students were a mirror for me, reflecting back what they thought I did well and what I needed to improve. That's valuable information that can help me learn and grow. Any serious student of marketing knows the value of customer feedback. Second, I was being given a chance to connect with them, person to person, to build a genuine connection, even with the ones who hated me.

And that is what I did. I stood in front of the class, told them I had received their feedback, and thanked them for being honest. Then I told them never to do it again.

"I know who wrote what," I said. "I know your writing style, I recognize your voices. You have given me power over you now. I can make your lives a living hell for the rest of the term."

They stared at me, round-eyed. A few guilty ones quickly looked away.

"I'm not going to do anything with this information except try to do a better job." I said. "But you all need to protect yourselves. If this school has a habit of giving the evaluation results to instructors before the grades are in, then you place yourself in a position of danger. Normally I say tell the truth, give honest feedback. But this time, I say, don't."

We made it through the term. I don't recall that I flunked anyone, and I didn't get fired. In fact, I got hired on full-time.

At an in-service some time later, I asked why I had been given evaluation results before the end of the term. That question, and others like it, have never been satisfactorily answered. Over the years I have come to realize that the institution I work for is as dysfunctional as any mom and pop business can be, run by pompous ignoramuses masquerading as educators and administrators. The fact that I've been "sent to committee" means I am one step closer to joining their ranks. Tra-la-la. I can hardly wait.

MARCH 27, 2012

# Dissertation limbo and a diatribe about the Gainful Employment rule

My dissertation chair forwarded me a short, but positive comment about my concept paper from someone on my committee: "I found this easy to read and follow." That seems like good feedback, right? I'm delighted she found my paper easy to read and follow; however, what I really want from her is a thumbs-up on my concept. Does the fact that she found my paper easy to read and follow mean that she approves it? Or is there a big HOWEVER coming my way, followed by the dreaded PLEASE RESUBMIT?

Don't misunderstand me. I'm grateful. It was nice of my chair, after two weeks, to flip me this little crumb. I think the mentors and chairs have a finely developed sense of how long they can keep a student waiting for feedback before the student complains to the advisor. According to the syllabus, they have two weeks to turn around my submission. The longer they can keep me on the hook, waiting, the longer this course will take, and the more money they and the school will make.

Northcentral University is a regionally accredited online university. Regional accreditation is the highest accreditation an institution can earn. However, the fact that the institution is fully online is a red flag to many people. (How good can the education be if the students never interact in person or even in synchronous real time with each other or the professor?) NCU is also a for-profit corporation. I have some experience with the for-profit higher education world. Besides "attending" a for-profit university, I work for a for-profit career college. I often think about the uneasy tension between academic rigor and the profit motive.

When I look around our campus (three floors in a pumpkin colored rented office building surrounded by a busy retail hub the size of a small city), I see shabby carpets, old whiteboards, shoddy chairs, outdated dilapidated textbooks, and weary instructors. The energy of former days is long gone. We don't offer the latest computer simulated learning environments. We don't have smartboards and projectors built into every classroom. Even our toilets don't work. I know we are losing money now, but at one point, our parking lot was bursting with cars, our hallways were bustling with students. Where did the money go?

I have mixed feelings about the new Gainful Employment rule recently adopted by the Department of Education. (The rule is designed to protect consumers and taxpayers from the predatory practices of for-profit institutions.) I want students to be recruited by honest admissions representatives. I want students to be presented with meaningful and challenging learning opportunities. I want students to have successful outcomes: graduation, employment in their fields, and the ability to pay back their student loans. I want all that for them, and if legislation is the way to "encourage" for-profit institutions to provide it, then I am in favor of it. And if institutions are not able to meet the new standards, then they should be encouraged to change or to close their underperforming programs.

But it's my job we are talking about. As a former artist and consummate under-earner, I fear joblessness more than just about anything. Even though sometimes I think calling myself a teacher is a gross misnomer, I don't have the integrity to quit my job quite yet. Maybe after I finish this Ph.D. Although at the rate I am going, it isn't likely to happen soon.

MARCH 29, 2012

# My life is the unfolding result of many small decisions

I went on an adventure this evening to downtown Portland. I seldom go downtown, although I used to spend a lot of time there. I went to Portland State University from 1974-1977. For a few months I lived in an old former hotel, the Marabba West student housing building (long since demolished), until I got mono and had to move back home. I loved being 19 and living in downtown Portland.

Tonight the city looked clean and new. I took the bus there and back, and marveled at the efficient transit mall with its light rail and streetcar tracks, part of the transportation web that connects the burbs to the core. The air was fresh. The rain was warm. The people kept their distance. I didn't get run over by an errant taxi, nor did I get accosted or shot at, and I managed to escape being pinned by a fallen tree. All in all, it was an excellent adventure.

Small decisions create my life. All the choices I've made are strung out behind me like fake pearls on a string, a trail of crossroad moments in which I chose a path and blazed a new step into the unknown future. I can look behind me and see the wreckage that got me to this moment. Where the path goes from here is anyone's guess. Actually, anyone else's guess is probably worth more than my guess. I see the path going over the side of a cliff into the swamp I fondly call You Fail At Life.

It just occurred to me, if I really cared about building traffic to this blog, I would probably write a different blog title. Something to bring people in and keep them here. Maybe something like, "How an introvert can live in an extroverted world." No, that's lame and impossible, how about, "How to be a natural woman." That would bring in some eyeballs, I bet. Except I have no idea what the post would be about. No, I know: "The secret to making a hundred and twenty dollars and fifty-three cents writing a blog about nothing." I'll try that on the next post.

Speaking of many small decisions, every day I check my NCU email for some sign that my chairperson is still alive, that I haven't been abandoned in dissertation limbo. Yesterday marked the end of the two week period the committee has to review my concept paper and give me feedback. I sent an email to my chairperson to that effect. I always copy myself on the emails so it looks like something is happening, even though it is just me sending emails to myself. At least I know the email system is working.

And suddenly, there it is. Between the last paragraph and this one, I logged in to the learner portal, and there was a message in the inbox: in the course room, the paper, returned, with comments. For a moment, my heart fluttered. My face flamed hot. I tried to prepare myself for the worst: bad news, lousy concept, inadequate method, stupid learner, hopeless case, give up, abandon ship. I downloaded the file and opened it, skimmed it.... that's it? There are seven comments. No comments on my method, just a few suggestions to make the concept of academic quality more clear. Wow. I'm stunned. I don't know what to think. Could it be that I might actually be allowed to pass this hurdle? The skeptic in me says there must be a catch.

Look, here's another one of those decision points. I'm ready to drive off the cliff into the swamp, even though it looks like I just received good news. The chronic malcontent has the last word.

MARCH 31, 2012

# The terminal degree is the one that kills you

Today I sat in a meeting, looking out the window at an old cherry tree covered in white blossoms, and wondered if I'm going to survive this dissertation... I want to use the word fiasco. Debacle. Nightmare. Train wreck. I'm beginning to understand the true meaning of the phrase terminal degree. The terminal degree is the one that makes you stronger—unless it kills you first.

Now I see that earning a doctorate is not about acquiring knowledge, or even about honing researching and writing skills. I've written hundreds of papers, large and small, and read a thousand articles by hundreds of scholars. I've forgotten 90% of the knowledge I gained, and, six years into this journey, 99% of everything I studied is obsolete anyway, replaced by new theories and technologies. What will I have when I finish this degree? A smattering of mostly useless knowledge, the ability to research a topic and write about it... Is that all there is? Is that all I've learned after six years and $42,000?

No, I've learned something else of value. Pursuing a doctorate is not about learning a subject; it is about developing survival skills. That sounds melodramatic, doesn't it? What kinds of dangers could possibly threaten a doctoral candidate? It's not like I'm lost in the woods. I'm not talking about bears, lions, or escaped felons. The dangers that threaten me are the internal monsters that lurk in my mind: boredom, doubt, anguish, impatience, resentment, and despair, to name a few. I'm sure there are more. On a good day, my mind is trying to kill me. Pursuing a doctoral degree is like giving my internal saboteur a grenade launcher and hanging a target on my back.

Now I understand why so few people do this. How did they know, I wonder? How come I didn't get that memo? Why did I think I could do this? Why did I think this was going to be a good idea? What a complete and utter delusion. Don't tell my mother I said that. My promise to her is pretty much the only thing that keeps me going.

Survival skills for me consist of going to meetings, showing up for work, writing this blog, telling the truth (at least to myself), drinking water and eating clean food, cuddling my cat, and staying in the moment. When things get really tough, there's always hot baths and Janet Evanovich or Kresley Cole.

Maybe I'm not completely passionate about my dissertation topic. So what. I can survive boredom as long as I've got a paperback to dive into. Maybe I get impatient that this committee process isn't more efficient, maybe I get resentful at times at having to wait for flakes and incompetents (my opinion). Maybe I do despair at times. So what. A large percentage of the human population would be quite happy to trade places with me. I'm not so self-centered that I don't recognize that what I have is a luxury problem. Lucky me.

APRIL 03, 2012

# Life before Google is not worth remembering

I posted the third revision to my concept paper a few days ago, and I've been checking my learner home page a couple times a day for a response. Today, there it is. (She's alive, alive!) The response was short: "Confirming receipt and sending to committee NLT tomorrow."

Here's where I get to reveal how naive I am when it comes to text messaging. You probably know what NLT means. I didn't, so I did what I always do when I don't know something (at least when my internet connection is working): I Google it. (Is it grammatically acceptable yet to use Google as a verb?) I typed NLT into the search box and pressed enter. I got quite a list of possibilities. Here are a few.

**New Living Translation.** My hair stood on end, so I didn't click any of those links, but it's clear that this is biblical stuff. (Making universal crossed-fingers sign for warding off vampires.) It's true I don't know my chairperson very well. Maybe she is invoking a higher power? I'm OK with that. I need all the help I can get. Although it might not be a good sign for me if she is calling upon god in reference to my concept paper. If it is OK with you, Brava, I'm not going to link to any websites in a futile attempt to avoid giving them more Google ranking power.

**NLT Building Products.** The link took me to a funky little website for a Martinsville, Virginia, company that makes some special concrete blocks. "If you're a block molder interested in franchise opportunities, contact us!" Wow. What's a block molder? Does that job pay well? Do I need a Ph.D. to do that job? Somehow I don't think my chair was referring to masonry. Maybe it's a metaphor, like, you need to build a better theoretical foundation.

**Nonlinear Transmission.** When a voltage waveform travels along the NLT, it apparently gets distorted. That means the waveform becomes sharper and you get faster transition times. (Are you following this?) "One application of NLT is a comb generator." If she is referring to this definition of NLT, she could be referring to how my brain processes information—or doesn't. Or she could be suggesting I need to focus on grooming, which is always a good idea (I do have a comb somewhere, although currently I have very little hair; see previous post). Or, because NLT is related to microwaves, she could be sensing my tea is cold. Time to heat it up in my monster microwave. Back in a sec.

**Not Like Them.** Hey, who knew? NLT was a boy band from the mid-2000s. I've never heard of them, but Wikipedia authors informed me that one of the members played Artie on Glee. (He's the character in the wheelchair.) I've seen that show before. Could my chair be making an obscure reference to glee, as in, be happy, I'm sending your concept paper to the committee? Or maybe she is obliquely indicating I'm a mental cripple? (Wouldn't be the first time that has happened.)

**National Literacy Trust** or **Nepal Leprosy Trust**. Take your pick. Either one works equally well. I'm either illiterate, or I have leprosy. Possibly both! I'm beginning to think my chairperson is remarkably perceptive.

**Not Later Than.** Oh, duh. LOL. ISS (I'm so stupid.)

What did we do before Google, I want to know? I don't remember life before Google, any more than I remember life before ATM machines, cell phones, and anti-lock brakes. Lying... I'm lying. You already know I'm 55. I'm lying when I say I don't remember. More like I don't want to remember. But how can I forget?

I remember card catalogs and the Dewey Decimal System. I remember analog phones and party lines. I remember black and white televisions with tubes that you had to smack to get an image, and knobs you turned to stop the picture from flipping end over end. I remember the odometer on our 1960 Oldsmobile Delta 88 turned red when you hit 70 mph (Go, Dad, go faster!) I remember when you had to go inside a bank and talk to a live person to get your cash. I remember when girls couldn't wear pants to school. I remember Vestal Elementary, where Pat Carroll was my only African-American classmate (we called her a Negro back then), and Ronnie Lee was the only Asian. I remember when there was no such thing as soft contact lenses. I remember when to wear any jeans but Levi's 501s meant you were a loser. I remember life before toaster ovens and microwaves.

I remember eating Play-doh in Sunday school and wishing I was anywhere but there. Good news. I am pretty sure Play-doh still exists, and I'm sadly all too certain that Sunday schools still exist, so if you want to experience a 50-year old memory (sort of like a re-enactment of pioneer days), you still can. I'm sure it will leave a lasting impression on you, too.

APRIL 07, 2012

# It's cool to be old!

Even though I haven't yet received the thumbs-up on my concept, I'm forging ahead with the dissertation proposal. Some of the proposal material is just recycled concept paper material: the problem and purpose statements and the research questions. A minute ago I was working on the outline for the literature review section. I hit a wall. My brain veered off in another direction, my eyes followed, and on my desk I saw the envelope I received from AARP today.

If you are under 40, you may not know what AARP is. Nor should you. AARP is for old people—like me. At least, that is how it feels. I started receiving letters from AARP about two weeks before I turned 50, and they haven't let up since. They are a relentless marketing machine, cranking out their fake plastic cards with frightening efficiency. I fear, though, that they have no idea how their marketing campaigns are being received.

Hello, AARP! Marketing 101: know your customer. All AARP knows about me is that I'm over 50. They don't care who I am, what I'm like, or how little or how much I enjoy the prospect of growing old. (Does anyone actually enjoy the prospect of growing old? Can you picture a 30-year-old sighing and saying, "Gosh, I can't wait until I turn 50!"? No, I can't either.) If AARP bothered to ask, they would know three things about me. One, I may be 55, but I act like I'm about 12, ergo, I'm not old. Two, I don't care about getting discounts on places like Disney World, because (a) I have no time for vacations, and (b) all my disposable income goes to pay tuition. Three, the idea of receiving a magazine sporting denture-wearing, white-haired, trail-hiking seniors on the cover makes me want to hurl. Dentures are stupid, white hair should be colored or pulled out by the roots, and who has time for hiking when retirement is an impossible dream? Get real, AARP.

"Our records show you haven't yet registered, even though you are fully eligible.... Your admission is guaranteed as long as you're 50 or over." Oh brother. I know marketing-speak. Let me translate for you. "You are fully eligible" means You are old and "Your admission is guaranteed" means you are getting older by the minute, so better register now before you drop dead and it's too late. Argh, AARP! Rub it in, why don't you. Can't you think of a better way to recruit?

AARP, you gotta make it seem cool to be old. Your product has a perception problem, because you've positioned yourself as a service for old people. Nobody wants to admit they are getting old, certainly not the eternally young baby boomers. If you don't believe me, just check out the clientele shopping at Forever 21. We will be pretending right up to the end. I shed tears when Davy Jones died, for god's sake. I'll always be about 12. OK, so that's 12 in dog years, but you get my drift. I'm not going gracefully into this dark night. My butt may be dragging on the ground when you haul me to the nursing home, and my voice may be thin and screechy, but I'll still dress like a nut and demand internet and organic vegetables. Because that is who I am, AARP, and growing old is just going to make me more me!

Take a little advice from a perennial student of marketing, AARP. Put some wackjobs, weirdos, and freaks on your magazine covers. Offer discounts to places like the 24 Hour Church of Elvis and Darcelles. Don't scare me by talking about social security—I know it won't be enough for me to live on. Tell me instead about how great it is to finally not care what anyone thinks about me. Tell me that I can finally say what I want, dress how I want, and eat what I want. Tell me it's cool to live alone, to go to college, to make art, to just say no to cosmetic surgery—and cosmetics! I want to be part of "the vanguard of a movement to change the way society looks at and deals with growing old." You can do it, AARP. If you need some copywriting help, I'm available. I'd even pose for a cover, although I draw the line at showing skin. Just so you know.

APRIL 08, 2012

# Make sure your paragraphs are straightforward and reasonably short

I'm working on an outline of the literature review section of my dissertation proposal. The project is daunting in scope. I have to take frequent naps. What is my topic? Thanks for asking. Faculty perceptions of academic quality in onsite Gainful Employment programs. I think. You are probably going, what? Faculty perceptions of what? Right, I know. I feel the same way.

Every now and then I am assigned a class to teach, in which the students are required to write essays. Right now I'm teaching an ethics course to a group of seven paralegal students. Remember, this is the Associate of Applied Science degree in Legal Arts, so we aren't talking about capstones, theses, or dissertations here. I ask for five paragraphs. Count 'em. Five. That's all, just five paragraphs per essay. I give them a choice of topic and remind them to use the textbook as a source.

Then I proceed to draw my famous Oreo cookie diagram on the board to describe how they should set up their five-paragraph essay. The top layer of the cookie is the introduction, with at least five sentences. The first sentence of the introduction is the "hook," that is, the story or statistic that will get the reader's attention. The next three sentences are the three "preview points," previewing the topics of the following three paragraphs. The fifth sentence is the thesis statement, the claim they are attempting to prove. I tell them to write the introductory paragraph after they have written the three paragraphs of the body.

The body of the essay (the creamy filling) consists of three paragraphs on three aspects of the main topic. Bla bla bla. I tell them to make sure each paragraph is focused on one aspect and roughly five sentences. And then, using the whiteboard marker, I draw some lines to connect the topic sentences of each paragraph back to the preview points in the introduction. I assume that because I am a visual learner, everyone else is, too. At this point, I usually turn and look at the students. Are they drawing my diagram in their notebooks? Yes! My work is done. Are they texting on their smart phone? Give up now, it's hopeless.

I tell them to cheat on the closing paragraph. "Just copy the introductory paragraph!" I smirk. "Rephrase the three preview points, reaffirm your conclusion about the claim (did you prove it?), and wrap up with the hook you opened with. Voila!" At that point, they look at me like I'm insane. Probably they didn't take French in high school.

"And don't forget," I warn them, "Your works cited page is always the last page of your essay! Not a separate file, not the next paragraph, no! Insert a manual page break! Hanging indent! Use the OWL!" I'm sure you agree, after seeing the cookie diagram, the five-paragraph essay should be a piece of cake. Cookie. Whatever. The five-paragraph structure should be clear, right? But what do you think happens?

The brutal truth: It's a good thing I'm not an English instructor, because I'd have to kill myself. The results this term have been less than stellar. Typically, I'm getting a four-paragraph essay in which the writer takes off on a personal rant in the introduction. Preview points: non-existent. The body: random thoughts and uncited quotes stolen from Web sources. Closing paragraph: missing completely. Works cited: starts half-way down page 2, consisting of all two of the Web sites visited, perhaps with URLs, and displaying grievously incorrect formatting. In one case, the hanging indent was imitated using spaces, a novel solution requiring many unnecessary keystrokes, but when you are getting paid by the hour, who cares.

Confoundingly, out of six people, two have turned in nothing. Nothing. Apparently the task of writing five paragraphs is so overwhelming they chose paralysis over mediocrity. Can't say I blame them, been there, done that. But this is college, I'm the instructor, and it's my job to motivate/beat/shame/bribe them into doing something. Anything. Who cares if your paragraphs are straightforward and reasonably short. Just write something!

APRIL 10, 2012

# How to lose friends and alienate people without even trying

My mother recently told me what to do to have more friends. "To have friends, you have to be a friend!" she said, using a tone of voice I remember well from childhood, the one that indicates she will always have the answers because she is, after, the grown up and I'm the stupid kid. Now she's 82 and half my size. I could take her. I'm not afraid of her or her voice anymore. But I have been thinking about what she said about friendship. I suspect she is on to something.

Today I checked into my dissertation course room and discovered that my concept had been sent to the URR for approval. What is the URR? you ask. You and me both. It used to be the OAR. The something Academic Review. I forget what the O stood for. Now they have a new acronym, the URR. I think it's something like University Research Review... Google is no help on this one. (Although I was waylaid by the Google Art Project on the Google home page. Have you seen it? Art! For everyone! I am stoked. I couldn't get any images to load, though. Connection problems, as usual. Curse you, Century Link!)

Anyway, back to the URR. This is good news. I think. Apparently the committee deemed my prospectus ready for prime time. Just a few more days and I will know if my concept is approved. In the meantime, the university in its unfathomable wisdom has enrolled me in the next dissertation course. That was unexpected. I thought I had another week. The next course begins April 30. My question: Is my chairperson still on the job in between courses? Or is she parked in her recharging cubicle until it's time to reanimate?

Back to the topic. The grindingly relentless doctoral journey has taken a toll on me in many ways. While I admit I would be 55 even if I weren't stuck on the this Z-ticket ride, I might not be so... wrinkly? pasty? saggy? The truth is, physically I'm weak as a used tissue. Mentally I'm not in great shape either. I could blame menopause or my vegan debacle for my lack of mental acuity but I prefer to blame higher education. (It's so fashionable to do that these days.) But what I'm really talking about here is the toll this academic pursuit has taken on my social life. I have no friends!

So, in case you want to avoid being in this sad situation yourself, here are some things to avoid doing. On the other hand, if you are a chronic malcontent and you want to hone your whining skills, just follow this short checklist and you'll soon see the results you seek.

To lose friends and alienate people, do the following:

  * Only talk about yourself.

  * Interrupt other people.

  * Roll your eyes when other people are speaking.

  * Turn your back and walk away while saying something particularly snarky over your shoulder.

  * Miss appointments and don't apologize.

  * If you are a teacher, say to your students, "You are in college now, and in college we ________ (fill in the blank with the opposite of whatever stupid thing your students are doing)."

It really takes very little effort once you get the hang of it. You'll soon find yourself alone. Except maybe for your mother. You can always count on Mom to say, "I told you so."

APRIL 12, 2012

# You can change the world in just 15 minutes a day

So says my friend and coach (who lives in Phoenix where it was 85 yesterday, so of course she would be full of optimism). Actually, she didn't say I could change the world. What she said was, I could write a book. In just 15 minutes a day. But I think you could probably insert any huge, overwhelming project in that sentence, and make progress toward its completion in just 15 minutes a day.

Except maybe the literature review for my dissertation. (Am I whining again? I have to be careful of slipping into "I'm so special" mode, you know what I mean: I'm so special that the Universe has singled me out as the one exception, the one person on the face of the planet, out of almost 7 billion people, that the 15-minute a day suggestion won't work for.)

Fifteen minutes a day feels impossible when it comes to writing a literature review, because it takes a lot longer than 15 minutes to read what I've written and remember what I was trying to say. (We are talking 40-80 pages, after all, a veritable tome, a massive testament to my intellect, which if I ever do actually finish I predict no one will actually read.) I think my writing strategy needs some work. Tiny bites. Baby steps. That's what they say. Fifteen minutes a day.

So, here I am, I've got time, and what am I doing? I just spent 45 minutes clearing out my email inbox. That was productive. Not. Now I'm working on this blog. Super fun and totally useless as far as moving me toward finishing my literature review. I'm distracted by everything: my cat, the sunshine, my headache... how does one focus in the face of all these obstacles? I want to eat a gallon of ice cream. I want to spend money. I want to take a nap. Oh, wait, I already did that. Darn it!

I joined a LinkedIn dissertation discussion group, so I receive daily emails from ABDs just like me, whining about getting started, pleading for support from the group. (Do I offer any support? No, I'm an introvert and a chronic malcontent, remember? I just lurk and smirk.) Reading their posts allows me to feel superior. And maybe it motivates me a tiny bit to prove I'm not like them. We'll see.

Another motivation: The university just shuffled me into the next dissertation course. Even though I don't know if my concept has been approved, I'm now enrolled in DIS 2. Lucky me, apparently my performance in DIS 1 was satisfactory, and now I've been awarded the right to spend another $2,380 for three more months of torture. Oh joy. The next course doesn't actually start until April 30, so I have some time to do some laundry, maybe vacuum the hairballs off the rugs. And work on my literature review. All I need is 15 minutes a day.

APRIL 14, 2012

# It could be worse

While I'm avoiding writing my literature review, I have the time to obsess about other things. I'm feeling somewhat fragile. The best I can say today is that it is not raining. Whoa. Really? The best I can say? I need to congratulate myself on my approach to self-obsession, because this approach is working disconcertingly well. I'm so focused on self I forget that possibly 90% of the world population would give a lot to have my problems.

My problems are luxury problems. I don't have to worry about food (although I do despair over the state of the food supply). I don't have to fret over gas. (I actually think we should pay more for gas.) I have shelter (albeit nothing fancy, but it's a lot nicer than a grass shack or a tin shed). I have clothes (so what if they mostly were previously worn by others—reduce, recycle, reuse, right?). Really, my life is fine. Fine. I'm fine.

You already know how I feel about gratitude lists, so I won't bore you with that rant again. I'm not by nature a grateful person (although I have been known to smile on occasion). But really, if the best I can say is that it isn't raining, then I need to get out more, because my life is way too small.

I know what is happening. My brain is trying to kill me. I'm stuck in that peculiar paralysis mode where I can't quite get the gumption to open up my literature review and get down to work. I'm in that special state where I am almost, but not quite, ready to do something really crazy-distracting like... mop the kitchen floor or vacuum. This morning I had the urge to purge my closet—you know, pull it all out and start over. But then I imagined the horror of shopping for new clothes and quickly nixed that idea. But someday it has to happen. My closet is stale as a tomb, full of moths, spiders, art supplies, and a shop vac. I mean, really. Could it be worse?

Sure, it could be worse. I could have a job where I have to wear a uniform (been there, done that, no thanks!). Or a job where—god forbid!—I would have to wear pantyhose, a power suit, and pumps. (I'd live under the bridge before I ever do that again.) Seriously, who am I kidding? I can practically hear you say it (and you sound remarkably like my father, weird how you do that with your voice.) Well, all I can say in reply is that I'm entitled to my tantrum. I can feel whatever I want. But you are right. Eventually I must acknowledge reality—Reality, the big R, the one where I'm not the hub—and return to my right size. Eventually the floors will be scrubbed, the hairballs will be vacuumed, and the lit review will be written. Now if I could just keep it from raining...

APRIL 17, 2012

# If I sit on the sidelines, I don't get to play the game

I told myself I wouldn't interrupt my writing to update this blog, but I couldn't help myself. I was just swamped with an overwhelming feeling of despair, as it occurred to me that this process may never end. I may be working on this degree.... forever! I may be trapped in a literary version of Ground Hog's Day, where I wake every morning no further than I was the day before! Oh no!

Every day, I read with horror my half-baked literature review, full of anthropomorphisms, cliches, and subject-verb disagreements. Incorrect citation formats, non-peer-reviewed sources, one space after terminal punctuation instead of two! Argh. I had to take a break and tell someone. That would be you. Listen: I'm going crazy!

Today I got an email from a University employee I've never heard of, informing me that I now have a new chairperson for my dissertation committee. My former chair has been demoted to "Committee member #1." Oh boy. Now it begins. The highly anticipated "improvements" promoted by the University have now reached my little backwater.

My first thought was, oh no, Dr. G. will be pissed. I'm not sure why I thought that. Maybe I got the sense that she was somewhat territorial about her learners. Maybe because she called me "Sweetie," I don't know. So, if she is a disgruntled committee member, will she play well with the new chair, Dr. C.? We can only hope. I looked Dr. C. up on the list of mentors. She has a photo next to her name. She might be half my age. Sigh. These young people, they are so.... young.

It's funny that now I am ABD, and maybe in about a year I'll be a Ph.D., if everything continues to stumble forward according to plan, I realize that these people with a litany of letters after their name aren't necessarily any smarter than the average bear. (I'm an average bear.) Some of them are no doubt brilliant. But if you stop and think about it, by the law of statistics, in terms of intelligence, half of these docs will be above the median and half will be below. Somehow that is comforting. I can be below average for a doctoral learner, and still be considered a success.

Of course, we are all winners in the human race, right? Sperm, egg, you know what I mean. Anyway, here I am, ready to tackle the lit rev again, feeling a little better for having vented. Put me back in, coach. I'll try not to think about tomorrow, when it starts all over again.

APRIL 24, 2012

# I'm so screwed

I edited six paragraphs of my literature review tonight and got stuck looking for a citation for one messy, murky statement I made in a moment of arrogance. Whoa, who do I think I am? I'd better cite a source, quick, before the thought police bust me for making an unsubstantiated claim. That's what I was thinking as I logged into the university portal and clicked on EBSCOhost, which recently was expanded with a huge database of business articles. Cool! I plugged in my search terms and found... nothing? What?

Well, not exactly nothing, but nothing that seemed to have the potential to corroborate my messy, murky statement. But I found lots of other interesting things: current studies and articles on my topic from all around the world. Norway! South Africa! Hong Kong! Connecticut! Plus lots of other neat places I will likely never see. I downloaded feverishly, hoarding the files into my folder, gloating gleefully—until I realized I am going to have to read all this stuff. And I'm still stuck on the messy, murky statement.

So I did what all intrepid scholars do when they find themselves spinning their wheels. I closed the stupid file, and opened this stupid blog. All I can say is, I'm so screwed. Oh, not about the messy, murky statement: I'll just delete the darn thing, who cares, not me. Nobody will ever miss it. And if it is any consolation to you, it won't be the only messy, murky statement I write in this dissertation. I'm sure there will be others.

Life is feeling particularly overwhelming. Next week is finals at the career college, followed by an insane Friday of grading, in-service, and prepping for the new start on Monday. (We like to pile up all our stress on one day at the career college, it's more efficient that way.) To make things more interesting, the past week or so, there have been some mucky-mucks in suits roaming the halls. Apparently one of the owners is selling his shares to an investment corporation. Look out, little backwater college. I predict things will be changing. New owners like to clean house. That usually means out with the old, in with the new. And judging by the way enrollment numbers have been headed over the past couple years (down), I predict faculty numbers will shortly be headed the same direction. Great. I just hope the job holds out until I can finish this degree.

Speaking of which, I have a phone call set up for next week with my new chairperson. I'm shocked at how promptly she has responded to my messages. It's unnerving. Now I guess I'm going to have to show up with the same level of commitment. No more hiding behind my flaky adjunct former chair. I guess that is what happens when the university assigns a full-time faculty member to be the committee chairperson: she is actually take the job seriously. (I'm not saying adjuncts are flaky; some of my best friends are adjuncts. I just know adjuncts don't get paid extra to respond promptly.)

Change happens, but sometimes it's slow. Sometimes it doesn't look the way I want it to look. Maybe I'll go to work tomorrow and find a padlock on the front door. Maybe... no, my brain only thinks of negative possibilities. Little Mary Sunshine I am not. I, the chronic malcontent, scoff at optimists. One thing I can say for sure: Someday this will all be over, one way or another. Right now the job feels endlessly boring, tedious, and pointless. This Ph.D. pursuit feels endlessly, excruciatingly messy and murky. I guess that is how we find out what we are made of. Me, I'm made of spit, snot, and malcontented stubbornness. And I don't need no stinking citation to substantiate that claim.

MAY 05, 2012

# My resentment slip is showing again

I had a 20-minute chat with my new dissertation chair this week, before all the end-of-term madness began. She actually called me. If there was any doubt before, right there you can tell she's not an adjunct. Adjuncts expect you to call them. Of course, makes perfect sense. They don't get paid extra for talking to students on the phone. Or via email for that matter, which is probably why I received communication from the previous chair that I would describe as both terse and sparse.

This new chair, let's call her Dr. C, sounds like a real firecracker. A regular pistola. Judging by her photo, she's half my age, and five times as peppy. I didn't have to say much; she did all the talking. I took notes like the good student that I am, and watched the next year and a half of my life get sucked down the drain.

Yep. Looks like this is going to take a lot longer than I thought.

She was properly sympathetic that my concept paper, submitted to the University with zero feedback from my former chair (I picture Dr. G. dusting off her hands with satisfaction at having passed the problem on to higher committee) has been kicked back to me with a "re-submit." No big surprise, I guess. I have been blundering around out in the back forty for quite awhile now. Yuck. That's a disturbing metaphor. You know what happens to critters who blunder around out in the back forty. Yep. Hamburger.

Still, Dr. C. seems like a good egghead. She said she's a methodologist. I don't care what she calls herself. I can get along with all kinds of people. Wait. What? Oh, a methodologist! Considering my current approach is grounded theory, I'm sure she will have a lot to say. Oh boy. I feel another bout of inadequacy coming on. Deep breath. I told myself when I started the dissertation sequence that I was going to treat my chairperson as my client, do whatever it takes to please the client, you know—the old the-customer-is-queen ploy that marketers use to make you feel so special you want to reciprocate (i.e., buy things). I'm going to make this process so easy for her, she will feel like her pay-per-hour just doubled.

Ugh. Thinking of pay-per-hour just got me really depressed. My original vision of teaching online for a not-for-profit university has been pretty well shattered by now, what with the reports of poor treatment of adjuncts and the deep-seated mistrust of for-profit education. So much for retiring to an internet-connected adobe hut in the California desert. The hut probably is attainable, although I fear it will be made of cardboard rather than adobe. The California desert, though, is starting to feel like an impossible dream from my earlier, stupider days. Well, at least I learned something from this six-year-long, $45,000 journey into higher education.

MAY 13, 2012

# More to be revealed

Finally, at the age of 55, I think I get it. This is it, this is my life; whether I like it or not, this is my life. It doesn't matter how much I complain or whine. Having hope that things might be other than what they are is a waste of the time I have left. Today I am pondering the idea that what I focus on reveals what I think is important.

I have spent so many hours, days, years thinking if-only thoughts. You know what I mean. If only I were thinner, if only I were pretty, if only I had a new car, if only it were 90 degrees every day, if only people loved me for who I am.... then I could finally be happy. But if-only thoughts are a pointless dead end, leading me nowhere but down, back into the hole in sidewalk I've tried so hard to crawl out of. Today I am taking a new approach to the if-onlys.

If I am not thin by now, then it was never that important to me. If it were that important, I would have spent more time watching my diet and working out. Bah, who cares about thin! I'm giving it up. From now on, no more obsessing over my hips. I wear huge baggy clothes anyway. People already think I weigh 200 lbs. Who cares about a couple camel hip bumps! At least I'm balanced. And if there is a brief famine after the earthquake, I'll be able to live off those hip bumps for a couple weeks at least. Na na na.

About the whole pretty thing. I'm old now, so pretty, like baby-making, is no longer on the bucket list. But grooming is always possible, if one cares about how one looks. For example, if I don't have manicured nails by now, then clearly I must not rate manicured nails high on my priority list. Nails, shmails. That is an easy one to give up—I have never cared much about grooming. (Just as a for instance, this morning I looked in the mirror and found a white hair growing among the coarse dark hairs in my right eyebrow. It must have been there for quite a while, to be so long. I confess, I rarely look in the mirror. Grooming is highly over rated, in my opinion. Before long my eyebrows will be non-existent, if my mother's eyebrows are any indication of the future of my facial hair.) Anyway, so when it comes to manicures, I don't care what my nails look like, or my hands either, for that matter. I'm just glad I have hands and that they work, more or less. At least I can point to things and carry a cup of tea.

How about cars and self-image? Americans are obsessed over cars. Not me. If I'm not driving a Lexus by now, then I never cared about how my vehicle communicated my status, not enough anyway to earn the money or marry the rich husband so I had the resources to buy one. I've never participated in the must-have-new-car-every-three-years mentality. (Or the earning thing or the rich-husband strategy either.) I know some people would rather die than drive an old beater. Just like there are those who wouldn't be caught dead shopping at a thrift store. Not me. I happily shop Goodwill, and I'm content with my 11-year-old Ford Focus, with all its dents and scratches. It reminds me of me.

The weather thing is a non-starter, but I'll say something about it anyway, because this morning I had a conversation with someone about the issues of powerlessness and control. She admitted she didn't understand the concept of powerlessness, because people control the weather all the time. I was like, what? People control the weather? How did I get left out of that seminar? She proceeded to tell me that there is a cabal of powerful folks controlling the world's weather, so apparently there's no longer any point in complaining about it. Wow, think of the implications! Humans have been complaining about weather since at least the dawn of history. There will be a huge void in the water-cooler conversation if we all get to choose our own micro-climate. Maybe we can get some work done. Anywho, sign me up! Ninety degrees sounds about optimal to me.

The last one, being loved for who I am, is a tricky if-only. I'm demanding unconditional love, and I know enough now to know humans aren't capable of delivering. Somewhere along the line I guess I must have figured out if I wanted acceptance, I would have to be something or someone other than myself. Naturally I resented that realization, and fought it hard in ways both covert and obvious. Which may explain in part why I chose the difficult path of creativity. (And why my relationships have always been such a mess.) But what I think I'm really asking for is acceptance of my creative self. And it hurts to imagine that, applying the same logic I so glibly applied to my hips, if I haven't focused on my art or my writing by now, then maybe I never really believed in them to begin with.

I can't leave it there. I think my mind is trying to kill me again. This happens when I get close to achieving a meaningful and terrifying objective—and my educational journey might qualify as such an objective. After six years, I am beginning to think I might actually one day finish this Ph.D., that the objective might really be achieved. The thought is terrifying. My instinct is to turn my back on the possibility, revert to my childish self, and declare I never really wanted it anyway, this stupid Ph.D., all I really want is to create, and isn't is sad and unfair that no one loves me? Well, that might have worked when I was 25, but not at 55. Nobody cares about my angst. I have a squad of cheerleaders prodding me to make more art, sell it on Etsy, turn the blog into an e-book, sell it on iTunes. Who am I to say it can't be done? Who am I to put some if-only condition on the dreams I have claimed as mine since childhood? Why can't I make art and earn this Ph.D.? Maybe it's not an either-or but a both-and. Memo to Self: This is life. So get over yourself and live it, already.

JUNE 15, 2012

# I'm lean, mean, mode, and median: Hire me, I'm yours!

Finally the low pressure system moved north, leaving space for a rush of warm air from the southwestern deserts, my someday home. Warm at last. Suddenly life is worth living. Amazing how a temperature difference makes all the difference. (It was close to 80°F in Portland today.) Now I don't have to complain about the weather. I can turn my whining toward my second favorite topic, my dissertation journey. Dissertation debacle. Morass. Swamp. Pithole. You know what cracks me up? That I'm using this blog like a Facebook page. I have two friends, Bravadita and my sister!

I spent almost the entire day, about ten hours, working on my concept paper. That old thing, you say? Yep. The living-dead paper that refuses to lay down and die. I keep beating the crap out of it and still it rises up from its fetid grave to perplex and confound my tired brain. Honestly, it feels like I've never written a research paper before in my life. I'm sure my expression must resemble those of my students, who stumbled into Introduction to the Internet (what's a browser, again?) after my colleague Bravadita's Research Paper class, shell-shocked at the prospect of typing (notice I didn't say writing) 15 pages. With in-text citations! And a Works Cited page! Quelle nightmare!

Yesterday, after all the layoffs at the College, I thought I'd better at least try to look for other employment, just in case, so I uploaded a resume and cover letter to a job opening at a market research firm in downtown Portland. Yeah, rotsaruck on that one. I'm sure (if they had time to even download it) they had a good laugh when they got to my resume. I can just imagine them, sitting in plush chairs in their Gucci loafers and Donna Karan pantsuits, sipping lattes from the machine in the breakroom and making paper airplanes out of the stack of resumes sent in by desperate, unemployed MBAs and PhDs.

"Here's another one! Listen to this! This poor schmuck used to drive a school bus! Har har har."

Wow. Time out. After I wrote that last line, I almost had to get up and make a yonana. But I'm sick of bananas masquerading as ice cream, so I just took another pull on my current drug of choice: room temperature PG Tips tea laced with rice milk. (I'm a professional whiner. Don't try this at home.) Fortified, I can now continue.

Sending my patchwork quilt of a resume into the corporate world is sort of like spreading my formerly-white-now-gray granny-panties all along Belmont. It's embarrassing. There's just no way to put a positive spin on my work history: I'm a loser. It's clear as day I had my head up my ass my entire adult life.

The phone didn't ring today. But should I actually get a call next week inviting me downtown for an interview, I can imagine trying to explain what on earth I was doing all those years.

"Uh... I was trying to...uh..."

How can I explain that I was under the mistaken impression that my art career would actually be able to support me? Should I say I was following my bliss (leaving aside the fact that it was anything but blissful)? I don't know—the word bliss sounds like I was on drugs the whole time, and I wasn't (at least not that I can recall). You know, even putting the words art and career in the same sentence shows how deluded I was, and apparently still am. Maybe I could say, "I was pursuing a career in the arts." No, same problem. Nobody but Thomas Kinkade made a career in the arts (and look how well that turned out...guess I should be grateful).

Truth? I don't want a job. I don't want to work. I just want to write and draw silly pictures, read stupid vampire novels, and eat ice cream until I'm a blob. What are the odds my dream will come true? I bet the blob part wouldn't be too hard.

So, now I'm ABD, big whoop, and I think I can stroll into the corporate world and wow them with my knowledge of statistics. Unlikely. Today is a good day, but even on a good day my mind is trying to kill me. My brain is mush from my vegan debacle, menopause, and years of sleep deprivation from working at the career college. I'd be lucky to be able to describe the differences between mean, mode, and median. If they call me, I can only throw myself on the mercy of the universe. And if they don't call me, I can say, "See? Told you. I'm a loser, baby..."

JULY 04, 2012

# One person's mountain is another's mole hill, or something like that

You know how when you are out hiking and you see a hill in front of you, and you think, oh, if I just make it over that rise, then I'll be at the top. Then I'll have the world spread out below me. Then I can rest and enjoy the view. You know what I mean? And then you struggle to the top of the hill, and gosh darn it if there isn't another hill in front of you, an even higher one, that you couldn't see because it was hidden by the little one in front?

I just got to the top of the little hill. Yes, I'm pleased to say that I submitted the second draft of my concept paper to my chairperson today. I'm sure she'll have some edits, but for now, the thing is off my plate onto hers, and I hope she's hungry, because she's got 45 pages to read, not counting the annotated bibliography (which I bet nobody reads. I finally figured out the annotated bibliography is a drop-and-give-me-100 sort of exercise, designed to separate the whiners from the stoics. Stoics win.)

So what did I do after I got to the top of the hill? I felt strangely empty. I ran a couple errands in a haphazard, poorly planned fashion, and then I went home and took a nap. I wanted to keep sleeping. My head is full of June fog. Oh, wait. It's July now, isn't it. I guess I need to peel off June and see what barn or shed awaits me on the July page of whatever promotional calendar hangs on my wall. The weather was dull today, to match my brain fog and my mood. You'd think I would be elated, wouldn't you. Well, you would be wrong. For one thing, I'm a chronic malcontent. Elated is not in my lexicon of feelings. For another thing, look at my calendar. There are some massive mountains I must climb. This little hill was a gentle slope compared to what I fear is coming next.

I'm feeling anxious that this dissertation process is taking so long. I essentially re-wrote the entire paper (except for the annotated bibliography), so it was a fairly large undertaking. But there were many distractions along the way: work, cat, Mom... If I worked on the paper 8 hours a day, 5 days a week, it probably would have taken about two weeks. Maybe less. It took me two months of Fridays and half days on Saturday and Sunday. What's that, like twelve days? Yeah, that sounds about right.

I am so tired I can't think. I will finish this when I have some functioning brain cells.

JULY 10, 2012

# Waiting

I had a dream last night. I was following a wilderness path, struggling over mounds of dirt, around thorny bushes, clawing my way along a chain-link fence, finally reaching the edge of a placid lake across which stretched a causeway made of green grass. I wanted to get across that causeway to the far shore, but I was afraid the lake would rise with the tide and swallow the path, leaving me to drown. I followed a group of faceless, genderless people who were further along than the path than I. They didn't see me, but they led the way. I followed them out upon the causeway, running after them along the green grass, my heart in my throat. The water began to rise! They were running ahead of me, appearing to run on the surface of the water. They marked the route. I splashed, I waded, feeling the grass under my feet and the water swirling around my knees. I was almost to shore when the water came up, and I was swimming for my life. I thrashed and gasped, a few more feet, and I made it. I pulled myself up onto the far shore, safe.

How's that for a dream, eh? The perfect metaphor for my dissertation struggle—my life struggle—with a happy ending. I triumphed, albeit soggy and terrified, but I triumphed. I hope I remember this dream later, when I am faced with the pressures of living, working, waiting.

My dissertation chairperson gave me an ETA: feedback by Thursday of this week. My landlord will be ready to tear out all my windows and replace them on Thursday and Friday. Two momentous events that terrify me. I can't change either one. All I can do is wait. So, I'm waiting.

What do you do while you are waiting? Let me guess. You probably get out all those projects you've kept on hold for a time like this, your rainy day projects. Your mending, your deep cleaning, your writing and art projects... now you efficiently set to work. You probably hum while you do this. And at the end of the day, you have some fruit to show for your labor. Or at least some clean cupboards and hemmed pants.

Well, let me tell you how the chronic malcontent waits. I fret. I stew. I muddle around in the wreckage of the future. I seek a new past. I'm anywhere but in the present, that's for sure. I listen to music that inspires me to madness (Associates, the Buggles, Gary Numan, Bill Nelson, Depeche Mode, and of course, the Monkees, because it reminds me of Karen, who died). I write in this blog. I'm so self-absorbed I can hardly breathe.

I know the solution. To get outside, and outside of myself, to do something for others. I helped my mother add minutes to her new Tracfone. I went for a trot in the park. I kissed my cat. I thanked the sun gods for burning off the low clouds and leaving clear, blue skies. And I remembered my dream. Waiting can feel like shite, but it can also be fertile ground.

JULY 13, 2012

# Time to put on my thinking cap

I got the news yesterday. I'm sad to report my concept paper is not ready for prime time. Yet. I hope there's a yet trailing along somewhere in this journey. My chairperson, we'll call her Dr. C for Cruella de Ville, politely smacked my pathetic concept aside, saying I hadn't yet provided a clear line between the problem, the purpose, and the research question. And where the heck is my explicit contribution to theory?

Well, I beg your pardon! After my righteous indignation passed, I calmed down. It's too soon to panic. This is only the second iteration, and it was a complete overhaul from the first submission. It would have been akin to winning the lottery to have it approved as is.

And it could be worse. My first submission was sent to the Graduate School way before it was ready, courtesy of my flakey previous chair, using up one of my three chances. No chance of that happening this time around. I've got a methodologist hacking my paper to shreds, and I can tell by her polite comments that she is capable of ruthlessness. Hey, I'm a teacher. I can see through thinly veiled comments to the seething impatience below. Like, come on, already, you... you student, you.

I can look on the bright side, at least for a nanosecond. It is reassuring to know without a doubt Dr. C is actually reading my work—thoroughly. I feel like I've had a colonoscopy, that is how thoroughly. It is embarrassing to realize I have exposed my sloppy thinking to the person who has the power to flunk me. I'd rather display my high-water pants, my granny panties, my mismatched socks, my increasingly luxuriant mustache... anything but reveal my feeble reasoning skills and sloppy wordcraft. Hey, in my defense, behind every writer there is a great editor, right? I don't have anyone but my brain helping me, and on a good day my brain is trying to kill me. It's a wonder I made it this far. Yeah, way to look on the bright side.

I thought I had largely shed my student persona after passing comps, but it appears when I lack conviction, I revert to paddling about in the kiddie pool. If I want to swim in the deep end with the big kids, I'm going to have to put on my svelte waterproof thinking cap. Wait, I thought I already did that. Hmmmm. Well, maybe I need to go down to the hat boutique and get a smarter chapeau, because the one I have is obviously leaking.

Back in a moment.

JULY 17, 2012

# Curiouser and curiouser

Curiouser and curiouser is all I can say. The crazy online university I have been privileged to pay my discretionary income to for the past six years has decided to take away Dr. C., my new (full-time, punctual, reliable, thorough, and trustworthy) dissertation chairperson and restore Dr. G., the former (part-time, flaky, incompetent, untrustworthy) chairperson that I had previously. Huh. Go figure. After all the propaganda about moving to a new full-timer mentor model, now this? I can only presume that means they hired Dr. G. full-time, which if true speaks volumes about conditions at this online institution. If they really did hire Dr. G. full-time, I can only conclude they don't pay attention to and/or care about student evaluations (see RateMyProfessor), and they don't check competency or mentoring skills. In short, they are desperate.

I know all about being hired in desperation. That is how I got my current job teaching at the career college. The program director hung onto my resume for two years, before desperation compelled her to dig to the bottom of her desk drawer for some sorry loser that was so marginal he or she might actually still be unemployed. She called me in on a Friday, and after a brief conversation, apparently decided I met the hiring criteria (alive and willing), and handed me two books. "The term starts Monday," she said. "Be here at 7:30. Good luck!"

After I read the e-mail about the change in mentors, I thanked the person at the university who informed me of this unexpected turn of events, and in my e-mail I expressed my concern, as diplomatically as I could, while not actually claiming outright that Dr. G. is an incompetent flake. After all, that is just my opinion, based on very few interactions with her over the course of about five months. Not enough data to make such a claim. And really, who would take me seriously if I did make such a claim? I know what goes on in educational institutions when students complain. I'm a teacher, too. It's us against them.

I try to be the kind of student I wish all my students would be: conscientious, responsible, and not flaky. Let me give you some examples of flaky. A flaky student turns in an ethics essay full of cliches, grammar errors, and frothy emotional appeals, and then says, "I didn't have enough time to finish it because it was my sister's birthday." Or she turns in an Access database assignment in which she tried to save each Access table as an individual file. Or he turns in a test that is half-blank, saying he was up half the night working on a paper for another class. Or he claims his mother accidentally laundered his flashdrive. Or she whines that someone stole all her books when her car was busted into when she was out dancing until two a.m. the night before. Or she asks a fellow classmate to inform you that she has to miss class because she is getting a tattoo.... well, you get my drift, right? Flaky. I try not to be like that. I offer no excuses for my sloppy logic, my bad grammar, or my misaligned problem and purpose statements.

I'm sure I have more to say, but my cat has decided it is time to stop whining. He always knows best. Signing off.

JULY 29, 2012

# Toward a theory of malcontentedness

I'm emerging from the long, dark, tortured night of the soul. I think. We'll know for sure after I finish the next version of my dissertation concept paper. I think at long last I have settled on my theoretical framework, one that makes sense with my topic and approach. I think. Of course, I could be wrong. Thinking has never been my strong suit, especially as I've grown older and my brain has turned to a pinched, parched husk in which thoughts rattle around like dried-up nuts.

If I'm not so good at thinking, what is left? Feeling? I can't say I'm all that good at feeling, either. Well. Wait, I take that back. I'm pretty good at feeling anger in all its myriad forms: resentment, bitterness, martyrdom, snarkiness, you know, the typical expressions of a chronic malcontent. Anger is sort of a one-sided approach to expressing feelings, though, even I have to admit. Maybe if my life were different, I would be more likely to sprinkle some ebullience, effervescence, and mirth into the mix. Ha. The idea makes me smirk. When the hellish hand-basket freezes over. Ebullience is highly over-rated. And effervescence is for cleaning dentures. Which I can say with some relief I don't yet have.

So, is that all there is? Thinking and feeling? Cognition and affection? Wait, that can't be right. (Hey, I'm not a psychology major, cut me some slack.) The adjectives would be cognitive and affective. So, would the noun forms be cognition and affection? Bravadita will be able to tell me. Alas, alackaday, I'm caught up in terminology these days: social constructivism, systems thinking, expectancy-disconfirmation theory... la, la, la. To stretch my theoretical muscles, I shall now devise a theory of malcontentedness.

I propose that the condition of malcontentedness is a function of (a) my mood (which is a function of how much sun is striking the earth in the vicinity of Mt. Tabor); (b) the number of phone calls received during a day (more is bad, fewer is better); as a proportion of (c) hour the alarm goes off in the morning (not at all is best); multiplied by (d) how much money is in the bank account (obviously more is better); plus (e) whether or not I have posted in this blog within the past two days (level of malcontentedness decreases in proportion to the number of posts posted).

I could write the theory like this:

M =[ m(S) – P]

\--------------------

A ($ + B)

Where:

M = malcontentedness

m = mood

S = sunshine

P = number of phone calls received

A = hour the alarm goes off

$ = amount of dollars in my bank account

B = number of blog posts posted in past 48 hours

For those of you who are trying to make sense of this formula, don't bother. You will be relieved to know I am proposing a qualitative phenomenological design for my dissertation, in which I will be staying as far away from math as possible.

AUGUST 05, 2012

# Malfunction alert: the temperature has fallen below the unit's optimum range

My next dissertation course starts tomorrow. This was to have been my last course, the final one of 27 courses, after six-plus years and the equivalent of a down payment on a modest fixer-upper in SE Portland. In a perfect world, I would be finishing my dissertation in the next three months and bidding this online educational nightmare adieu. No such luck. I'm still wrestling with my concept paper. Here I am, still on the launching pad. But I have hope. I think the paper is starting to take on a shape that will demonstrate I am ready to make the leap from student to scholar.

I made good progress yesterday, when the air in my apartment was a sizzling 90°. Outside it was almost 100°. (Isn't that neat, the degree symbol? Just press ALT plus 0176 on the number pad!) I was like, Warm at last, thank god almighty, I'm warm at last. Up till about 4:00 pm I was still wearing a cap on my head and socks with my slippers. But along about 6:00 pm, when the sun came over the proverbial yardarm (the corner of the apartment building), the temperature in my living room spiked, my blood began to flow, and my brain started cranking. Yes! I was on fire. Not literally. I mean, my hands loosened up. My feet unfroze. I felt like I could write for hours and not get tired, and I did, I wrote for hours. I researched, I guzzled tepid iced tea, I pondered, I contemplated, I even thought critically! Look at me go, I'm a dynamo.

I didn't finish the paper, though. Eventually my eyes started to cross. It was almost midnight when I finally admitted I could do no more. I blearily backed up my work and turned on the TV. Even dynamos have to zone out sometimes. I tried to hold on to my persona as a brilliant thinker as I futilely tried to avoid watching the Olympics. Neither one happened. (What do they say about try?)

Today is a new day, and just as I feared, I've forgotten all my brilliant insights from yesterday. Sigh. It sounds suspiciously familiar. I think I've heard a student say something along those lines, like, "I knew what I wanted to write, but when I sat down to write it, nothing came out!" (Shock of the ages.) As if the writing process is like a meat grinder. You know, if I just throw these facts in here, and turn the crank, voila! Out onto the paper—plop!: A thesis statement, coherent supporting paragraphs, and a righteous conclusion! (Where can I get one of these things!? Wait, I think they have something similar at CheapEssays.com.)

I spent much of the day studying two chapters in a poorly written business ethics textbook, trying to find some fact or story that would make ethics come to life for my three female accounting students. We are starting week three tomorrow, trudging the career college treadmill, following the syllabus, covering the material, and if I can engage the students in a discussion for more than five minutes, well, that might constitute proof of the existence of god. I'm sure the topic of corporate compliance is interesting to some people, but not to these three. I love scandal as much as the next person, but this book leaves out all the juicy details. So there was a sexual harassment scandal at the U.S. mint? Really? I looked it up. Sure enough, the guys at the mint apparently didn't do a great job of hiding their girlie magazines, and the women got upset. Now there's a story to talk about! What happens when corporations don't comply with their codes of ethics? Lawsuits!

It's warm again today, but not as warm as yesterday, only 89° now, according to the gadget on my computer. The sun has just cleared the yardarm. The entire front window is glowing. Supernova headed this way! Maybe my brain will kick into high gear now. No excuses. I can imagine what my first update memo to my chairperson will look like: I am sorry, I couldn't make progress on my concept paper because the temperature of my living room fell below my optimum range.

AUGUST 17, 2012

# Where burned out teachers go

As the mercury leaps toward the century mark outside, I hunker in the Love Shack with all my west-facing windows barricaded against the approaching sun, hoping that by the time the temperature reaches 90° indoors, it will have dropped to 85° outside, and I can throw open the windows and doors, turn on all the fans, and tough it out with wet washcloths on my head. We can hope.

I ran my errands early. Bank, gas station, car wash, grocery store. Yes, I actually washed the Dustmobile, the first time in well over a year. Hey, I park on a gravel road. In the summer, it's dusty, in the winter, it's muddy. Why waste water washing it, when it looks so cool, sort of like an Army test for a stealth urban warfare vehicle, cloaked in its thick patina of grime? Believe me, there's nothing more invisible than a dirty, dusty old black Ford Focus.

So, yay me, I ran my errands. I've caught up on my Access and Excel grading, posted the updates in engrade, so the students who check their grades every five minutes don't have to wait another moment to know they are failing my class. Now what?

Yesterday I posted my second update on my final dissertation course. I should say, what would have been my final dissertation course, had I been able to keep to the schedule. With the update I submitted Chapter 1, which consists of the Introduction, the Problem Statement, and the Purpose Statement. I threw in the key terms and an outline of the Literature Review, just to give my chairperson the impression that I'm not a slacker. She's not a slacker either, apparently. I just checked my online university course room, and she's already given me credit for the update, along with a cheery note: I'll review your Chapter 1 and give you my comments soon! She lives somewhere in Florida. It's probably a lovely Friday afternoon in the Sunshine State (formerly the Land of Good Living, if Wikipedia can be believed). I can't blame her if she wants to get a jump on the weekend.

So, here I am. I could read Chapter 6 in the mind-numbingly boring Business Ethics book for Monday morning. My three students, all female accounting majors, were assigned to team-teach Chapter 5, which they presented on Wednesday. The topic was Ethics and the Environment. What could be more interesting, right? What I got was anything but team, and very little teach. (I wasn't expecting all that much; after all, I'm a professional, don't try this at home). As I feared, one by one they stood shakily at the lectern and sped through the notes they had gleaned from the book. They provided no examples or original commentary, no visual aids, not even a few expressive hand gestures, not even when Al Gore's personal carbon footprint was briefly mentioned. Oh, the wasted opportunities.

I couldn't help myself. After a few seconds to let their heart rates settle, I leaped up.

"Say, did you hear that Bill Gates is sponsoring a challenge to design a better toilet?"

They eyed me skeptically.

"It's true! A toilet show! In Seattle, right now!" Clearly I was ready to organize a car pool.

Their faces told me how monumentally uninterested they were. Tammi at least giggled, bless her heart, but then she giggles at everything. Renata and Kayley just rolled their eyes.

I love the idea of toilets that help people and the planet (don't you?), but my intention was to engage them in the topic of environmental ethics. There is so much to be righteously angry about, where does one begin? Toilets is as good a place as any. But I fear once again I failed as a teacher. My expectations were unclear; they resorted to the traditional fallback position that all teachers use: when you don't have time to prepare something innovative, lecture. Wouldn't you think after sitting through umpteen boring lectures that these students would search for another teaching method? A skit, maybe? A dance? Oh wait, these are accounting students. Nuts, even a pop quiz would have been more interesting than watching them stumble over their notes, for crimony's sake. Dead letters filled with sawdust.

I was so happy when I got this teaching job, nine long years ago. After so many tedious years of stultifying admin work, finally a vocation I was well suited for, something that let me be self-expressive, creative, and useful. At the time I had no idea that for-profit vocational education wasn't even on the bottom rung of the higher education ladder, or that the institution that hired me was (a) barely better than a diploma mill, and (b) desperate for a warm body because the previous warm body had bailed two days before the term. No, I was utterly ecstatic to have a job in a place where I thought I could fit and be of service. My glasses were rosy, and the world looked bright. And in the beginning, I was a creative teacher.

Now, nine long years later, my glasses are tarnished, bent, and scratched. I know a few things now that I didn't know then, and it has definitely taken the shine off the world of education for me. I try to balance the good and the bad, to keep from going crazy. This for-profit vocational college is not the monster that traditional education fears, but neither is it a substitute for an academic education. The life of a full-timer at a for-profit vocational institution has its benefits (no research requirements), but its drawbacks (low pay, low prestige, no tenure, no support from management) are hard to ignore. The caliber of student at the for-profit college is not generally what one might find at a traditional academic institution, but in our defense, we serve a different target market, and seeking job skills in order to find a good job is arguably just as worthy a goal as working toward a degree in philosophy, or art, or English. Some would say possibly better.

What is the purpose of higher education? Is it to get a well-paying job? Is it to become a good citizen? Can we teach both, I wonder? What makes a great teacher? One who lectures in front of the room? Or one who facilitates, guides, coaches, coaxes, and challenges? Do we even need teachers anymore, in this world of Web 2.0? When MIT and Harvard are offering free online courses to people around the world, what need do we have for brick and mortar schools? When you can learn how to do anything—virtually anything!—from a Youtube video?

I don't care anymore about being a teacher. That's a good thing, because teaching at the career college has ruined my teaching career. But I'm stuck there until I finish this Ph.D. I went down the dissertation path like Little Mary Sunshine skipping merrily toward a cliff. I leaped, eyes shut. I pancaked a long time ago, but I prefer to pretend I am still falling.

AUGUST 21, 2012

# The few, the proud, the over-educated

Good news from my chairperson. She liked my Chapter 1. A few minor changes, and I'm good to move on to Chapter 2, the Literature Review. I'd like to say I'm hopeful and heartened by her response, but honestly, I'm so tired of this, all I can do is put my head down and pray for the stamina to keep slogging forward. It seems like every other minute I'm mimicking the kid on the sock commercial—you know, the one where the dad says, "We can't get socks that fit, and we're sick of it!" and the little kid echoes, "Sick of it!" while his dad is dunking his feet in a bucket of latex. I walk around muttering, "Sick of it!" at odd moments when I hope no one is listening.

It's embarrassing to admit I'm sick of something like the privilege of working toward a Ph.D. It's what my friend would call a luxury problem. Something like 3% of the population has earned a doctorate, and if I just keep plugging away at it, I will probably earn one of my own. The few, the proud, the over-educated and possibly soon-to-be unemployed—and quite possibly unemployable. How's that for special? A Bachelor's degree is a leg up over a high school diploma, I think there is widespread agreement for that position. One could argue the payoff drops from there, depending on what your Master's degree is in, and unless your doctorate is in Computer or Biological Sciences, I have doubts that the benefits of a doctoral degree outweigh the costs.

The best I can say is that I will have no student loan debt if and when I finish. Yay. At least I won't have any bills when I'm living under the Burnside Bridge. Just kidding....I'll probably still have a few bills, just not from the student loan companies.

We are half way through the 10-week term at the career college. For the past couple weeks, many students have been absent. Some are on vacation. A few have family obligations. A couple are sick, so I've been told. The rest are AWOL, apparently. This sometimes happens in the computer classes after the first test. Some students get demoralized from the amount of work. Or they get their student loan stipend and go on a bender. Or they get charged with murder and end up in jail. You know, just the challenges of life. Not everyone makes it through college, even our college. Hard to believe, I know, but even we have standards, even this low on the higher education food chain.

I don't mind that students disappear. I consider it a strange kind of success. It's a weaning of sorts. Only the serious students survive, the rest fall away, scatter like cottonwood fluff on the breeze. The ones that are left are bright, hungry, and determined. No matter what idiotic thing I say, they will succeed. They don't need me at all, except perhaps as a cheerleader or an occasional coach. They have learned how to learn, and nothing, not even a lousy podunck career college like ours can hold them back.

The online university I pay all my discretionary income to is coming up for reaccreditation in a couple months. I've been reading the discussion folders with some alarm. Students are fuming over recent changes the school has implemented to improve standards. Some of the changes haven't gone as smoothly as one would hope, but it's highly unlikely anyone at the school is maliciously trying to sabotage students' success. From some of the posts, one would think some of my fellow students are being singled out for harassment and persecution. One irate soul is urging us all to send our complaints to the Higher Learning Commission, the agency that accredits the university. Others are cautioning against precipitous action, worried that our accreditation is at risk. It's true that if the HLC decides not to re-accredit the university, the degree I am struggling to earn becomes worthless. But that is unlikely to happen. I hope.

I'm trying to stay out of the wreckage of the future.

SEPTEMBER 08, 2012

# Focus on the learning, not on the grade

Good news. My chairperson liked the Methods section of my concept paper. I am pleased (and embarrassed) to report that she praised my paper effusively, using words like "fantastic work," and "absolutely wonderful research, detail, and thoughtfulness." She's "thrilled" with what I'm doing. After barking up so many stunted trees, at last I seem to have found one that will bear fruit. Praise whatever higher power is in charge of scholarly pursuits.

Now the Literature Review section is hanging over my head. Unfortunately, I didn't get anything done on it this week. Friday was the make-up day for the Labor Day holiday, and it's testing time in my computer applications courses. I've ranted on that whole thing previously, so I won't bore you again with the pressures of reviewing for tests that few students are prepared for. I see the results of my labors when I grade the tests. That was my mission tonight. I spent some hours grading the Excel tests, and all I can say is, I'm really hopeful I may have a career as a scholar, because I suck as an Excel teacher.

I blame myself. Then I blame them. Then I blame the workbook format that we are stuck using for the time being. Then I blame Microsoft (why not?). And as long as I'm blaming things, ummm, how about Republicans and global warming? Okay, maybe not. Still, there are many variables at play here, and each student is different. For example, the guy who threatened to bring a shotgun to class got the lowest test score (not surprising), but the one multiple choice answer that everyone else in the class missed—he got right. Go figure. So in my defense, I would say it isn't a matter of blaming the teacher or the students. That's just the easiest thing to do. But it's not helpful, nor is it entirely accurate.

It's not normal for my students to fail tests, but Excel is one of our trouble spots: we throw brand new students into Excel in their first term, and then give them Word, Introduction to the Internet, and Keyboarding. Even for computer-savvy students, this is a lot of computer time. Imagine how it feels for the ones who have little experience with computers. (How do I select a range of cells, again? How do I save to my flashdrive?)

What cracks me up (in a rather fatalistic way) are the students who type in values instead of formulas and assume I won't notice. I download their test files right off their computers onto my flashdrive. I open their test files, and I see exactly what they have done. Their printouts may look accurate, but their file shows the story. These are usually the students who bring in the homework from home (did someone else do it for them?), who spend their time in class surfing the Web, who rarely ask questions, who leave class early. I can't prevent a disaster if it is the natural order of things. Not everyone is ready to succeed. Some of us have to crash and burn a few times before we are ready to do the work.

Now I'm trying to imagine how I am going to face them on Tuesday morning, how I am going to tell them I have to take more of their precious class time to explain what they missed, where they went wrong, when so many of them are lagging behind on the homework. Which, of course, goes a long way toward explaining why several of them failed the test. I ran a little regression analysis using Excel to compare test scores to amount of homework completed. I'm no statistics wizard, but all signs point to there being a strong and significant correlation between the two. In other words, the students who did the homework had the highest test scores. Duh.

They are going to rip me a new one come Tuesday. I must do what I admonish them to do: keep my focus on the learning and not the grades. I must remember that their grades are not about me. Excel is not something you can tell, or even show... they must do, over and over and over, until they finally understand it. That is how I learned. There are no shortcuts, either in Excel or scholarly research. Not everyone gets it the first time. But if we keep at it, eventually we persist and succeed.

For those of you who think, yay, now Carol has time to meet for coffee or talk on Skype, it might be too soon to celebrate. I still have a lot of work to do to get this concept approved. But there's hope for the malcontent. At least for today. By tomorrow this time, I will have convinced myself the praise never happened, and everything still sucks.

SEPTEMBER 25, 2012

# Super size me! Yeeee-haaaawww!

I'm prying apart my gritty eyes to blearily type this post. I uploaded the second draft of my dissertation concept paper a few minutes ago. It took me five hours just to spell check, and make sure all the citations are in the reference list, and all the items in the reference list are in the paper. I'm so tired. I didn't even read the darn thing over again. I just want it off my plate.

How many times have I heard my students say the same thing or something like it? They just want the pain to be over. They no longer care about doing a good job: They just want to be done. Just today I saw one of my failing Excel students trying to calculate (not using Excel) how many assignments he needed in order to pass the class. I didn't say anything. I get it, I do. At some point, your brain just throws up its tiny hands and snarls, "Enough!"

So now my paper is on my chairperson's plate, so to speak. I hope she's hungry, because it is the scholarly equivalent of a double quarter pounder with cheese. One hundred and eighty-five sources on my reference list. A bit much, ya think? I don't know if she'll swallow it. She's seen all of it but the literature review section, and she didn't say anything about it being too long. But I know teachers. I am one. Sometimes they wait until they've got the entire paper, and then they shred it like a shark in a feeding frenzy. I expect to see the electronic equivalent of blood. Buckets of it.

This is finals week at work. The students are beyond weeping. They wander around in a state of shocked horror. Some of them will lose their funding if they fail Excel. I feel bad, but what can I do? I can tell, I can show, but I can't do it for them. They have to care enough to do the work themselves. I wonder what percentage of the class has wrangled a family member or friend to do their assignments for them? One paralegal student in my Access class actually admitted it. She blamed him because she couldn't open her homework files on her school computer. I knew something was up when I was able to open them just fine.

"But where are my assignments?" she cried.

"Inside the database," I replied. "Which ones do you want to print?"

"That's not what it looked like when my friend did them."

"Well, maybe you should have done them yourself. Then you would know how to find them and print them." You can imagine how well that went over.

So if one blatantly admitted she didn't do the homework herself, how many others cheated that I don't know about? Will never know about? Do I even care? I used to feel anger, like, how dare they! But I can't conjure up anything. I get it. When we are under the gun, we choose the path of least resistance. If we can get away with it, we cheat. Hell, I break the speed limit all the time, because I know it is unlikely I will get caught. But I don't cheat on my dissertation studies. I could: Who would know? But I don't, and I won't. I guess I've gained a little integrity over the years.

I can't write anymore now. My neighbor just got home and turned on her stereo. The bass is echoing through the place, making my tiny little speakers seem like toys. Thank the writing gods she didn't get home an hour ago, because I would have had to have killed her. Again. (See previous post).

My chairperson has two weeks to ruminate on my submission, so I can focus on the end of the term, the finals, the grading, and the prepping for the new start next week. The work at the career college never ends. Round 'em up and mooooove 'em out. Git along little dogge. Yeee-haaaaa.

OCTOBER 03, 2012

# Miscellaneous musings from the chronic malcontent

I'm closing in fast on a birthday, who cares which one, and I was reminded of it today while standing in line at Good Will to purchase some paperbacks to immerse my brain in while my body is immersed in hot bath water. (Science fiction and vampire romances are my current favorites for reading-while-bathing.) A dark-skinned short guy who may or may not have been about my age was in line ahead of me. As he stepped up to the counter, the chubby young female cashier hesitated a slight moment, and then asked him, "Are you over 55?" He hesitated an even slighter second and nodded vigorously. Presumably he received an over-55 discount. Just then, another cashier opened up her register and beckoned me over. She rang me up quickly and politely, but didn't ask me the same question.

So what does that mean? Should I assume I look younger than my age? Or maybe that other cashier just likes older men? Or maybe nobody gives a you-know-what about middle-aged white women shopping at Good Will? Whatever, it doesn't matter. I didn't have to admit my age, I bought my books, they got my money, it's a win-win for humanity.

Today is a day to reflect before toddling off to work my five hour evening shift at the career college. The sun is shining yet again, although it's cooler today, and breezy. Leaves levitate in swirls and eddies. Maple seed helicopters whirl earthward, glowing in the sun, to lie scattered all over the ground. I'll see little maple tree sprouts in odd nooks and crannies next spring. If I had time I would head up for a trot in the park. We are having an amazing stretch of dry weather. In fact, we've had only a quarter inch of rain in the past three months, which apparently is a record since data has been kept at the Portland Airport. It's not summer anymore, for sure. It's now uber-summer, the strange season we sometimes get in early October. Days are warm, nights are frosty. The grass is brown, the ground is rock-hard. My black car is coated with a fine veneer of dust. The air is dry as a bone, a bane to firefighters struggling to contain wildfires raging in Washington and eastern Oregon. So far no one is using the d-word: drought.

To complement the new season, we have a new term at the career college. It's been a busy couple weeks, trying to end a term and prepare for a new one. New term, new schedule, new faces, new rooms... and same old problems. The parking lot is emptier than it should be, for both morning and evening classes. (Come on all you new marketing and admissions people, we are counting on you to save us!) Management is demonstrating its usual disregard for employee morale and empowerment. The tech department, intent on launching the latest gadgetry, is ignoring feedback from both faculty and students. I haven't seen the college president in weeks: he usually makes himself scarce around term ends and beginnings, as if he fears one of us might accost him for some help.

The latest debacle to rave about is the bungled implementation of Microsoft Outlook.Live. Outlook.Live, for some unknown reason, is now management's communication tool of choice. (Oh, could it be because it is .... free?) Faculty and students are required to sign-up and sign-in daily to check for messages—from whom we are not sure. The word "bullshit" has been bandied about by numerous frustrated parties, as log on IDs and passwords fail to work, and when they finally do, and we are finally granted access to the miracle known as Outlook.Live, there's nothing there to reward our suffering. No important messages from management, anyway, except to tell us to force students to sign up. It's a classic management blunder. If I were to write a book on customer service quality, this would have to be in it, as an example of what not to do.

Hey, I almost forgot, if anyone is reading this and keeping up on my endless dissertation saga: Good news, my chairperson reported via email that she sent my concept paper to the committee (whoever they are). I don't think that means she has approved the paper, I think she is just tired of reading it and would like to... share the love, as it were. I hope this is good news, but I'm afraid to get my hopes up. She said she is trying to streamline the process for me, which I appreciate.

OCTOBER 15, 2012

# The committee is AWOL: I didn't cause it, I can't control it, and I sure can't cure it

Despite the gloomy fact that it is pouring rain outside, and despite the equally gloomy fact that the pouring rain feels completely normal to me even after over three months of glorious sunshine, I have some good news to report. Some. Not a whole lot, but then, what would it take to make the chronic malcontent truly happy? I really can't say. Anyway, my chairperson gave me some good feedback on my concept paper. That was the good news. The bad news—you knew that had to be coming, didn't you—is that apparently my dissertation committee is AWOL. My chairperson said the "issue" is being addressed. I have no idea who the committee members are, so I cannot help to track them down and wrangle them back into the fold, as it were. So, as gratifying as it is to get some good feedback from my chairperson, the comments from the anonymous AWOL committee are still hanging out there. I fear any one of them has the power to quash my concept and send me back to the drawing board.

My sister admonished me to find out who the committee members are. She said at the doctoral level, there should be no veil of secrecy, no cloak of anonymity. We are colleagues, practically. It's unprofessional to claim the role of anonymous reviewer, when one's job is to support and mentor the doctoral candidate. Based on my sister's admonishment, I think I will ask my chairperson if she will reveal the names of the committee members.

In the meantime, I will make the changes the chairperson has suggested. Progress of sorts. This dissertation course ends in a couple weeks. If the past procedure holds, I will be granted a two week hiatus, call it a vacation, before the next course begins. I am now officially into extension territory. In December of 2005 when I started this ridiculous endeavor, I anticipated that I would be finished—phinished!—by the end of October 2012. Now, almost seven years later, I'm so tired of the process I don't have the energy to muster an increased sense of disappointment. I'm already at max disappointment. But who cares. When you get on the Ph.D. ride, you are on it for the duration, no matter how long it takes, no matter how many times your concept is rejected by nameless, faceless mentors who after rejecting your concept drag up and disappear.

It's ok, really. I'm disappointed, but I'm not angry. If I could do it over, I'd probably choose something else, but it hasn't been wasted time and money. I've learned a lot about a lot of things, including myself. Priceless.

OCTOBER 19, 2012

# Axe me no questions

I'm flogging the concept paper again. It just won't stay dead. The wretched tome was returned to me with a few relatively minor revisions from my esteemed chairperson. I thought, no sweat, I'm home free. And the next day, bam! She sent me a document with my reference list, which someone (an anonymous committee member) had taken the time to shred with Word's nasty yellow highlighting tool. Too old! Not peer-reviewed! Idiot! Fool!

Well, I confess, I should have caught it myself. I've been wrestling with this topic since 2006. Some of my sources are getting a little ripe. According to the rules laid down by the institution, sources that are older than five years should constitute no more than 15% of all my sources. Did I really have so many old sources? To find out, I copied all the sources into an Excel document and whipped up a few countif functions to calculate the number of sources for each year, and found that sure enough, almost half of my sources were older than 2008. Sigh. And by next year, a whole bunch more will be too old to use. Argh.

I also have a few non-peer-reviewed sources. These include government sources, current articles on the political situation, and studies that are out for distribution to the scholarly community before being published. According to the highlighting troll, they all must go. Yep. The highlighting troll even highlighted my government sources. Since my study focuses on the U.S. government's proposed Gainful Employment rule, it will be pretty hard to write this paper without mentioning the U.S. government! I sent my chairperson a question to that effect, and received a prompt response: government and seminal sources are ok! Whew. I'm fairly certain she is not the troll. I suspect my former chairperson, the adjunct faculty member who was demoted from chair to rank and file committee member.

It's Friday. I haven't opened a door or a window except to get my mail (my ballot arrived in my mailbox, yay, I love Oregon's vote by mail.) I spent the day researching new sources to update my old ones, stewing in my own cold sweat. I'm a wreck. The only breaks I've taken are to pee and to eat dinner. And talk to my mother on the phone. I'm feeling the strain. I don't have a lot of hope that I will finish by the end of the course next week.

Replacing so many old sources is a lot of work. On Wednesday I culled through my 1,000+ sources and eliminated the ones that were 2008 and older. I also eliminated the ones that weren't peer-reviewed. This brought my total to less than 400 sources. Then I opened up my concept paper, saved a new version, and performed a search-and-replace on all the sources that were 2008 or older. I formatted the results in red. Then I searched for all the sources that weren't peer-reviewed (based on the troll's highlighting) and formatted them in red as well. So now my paper is splotched with red. It looks like I took an axe to my throat and aimed the spray toward the computer monitor.

Today I started at the top. I have to go line by line. I can't just do a search and replace—search for Joe Blow, 2007, and replace it with Jane Blow, 2010. I'd like to think it would be that easy, but I fear a search and destroy blitz approach will backfire big time. I'll end up with something that makes no sense. Well, less sense than it does now. Like it was written by a robot. And so I've been dredging through the electronic stacks of EBSCOhost, searching on terms like for-profit, student as customer, stakeholders, academic quality, TQM, accreditation... I feel like I went swimming in a very deep, very murky muddy pit. I gamely caught a few pdfs and saved them to my folder. And in case you were wondering, no, I don't use EndNote, or Mendeley, or any other fancy software to organize my files. I have a simple coding system that works with Windows 7 Explorer search feature. Year, peer-reviewed, empirical study, method, higher ed or no, country, topic, and last name of the first author. As long as I have my list of topics at hand, I can search pretty fast for anything that meets my criteria. Crude, but it works.

I won't have much time to continue this editing nightmare tomorrow. Tomorrow morning is our career college's graduation. Again. Seems like we were just there, seems like only last month I was writing about the massive church, the crowded foyer, the huge auditorium filled with shrieking adults and whining children. I must dig into the back of the musty closet for my cap and gown, the polyester costume that will be around long after I am gone, stiffly waiting out eternity in some steaming landfill. And tomorrow it will be pouring rain, of course. It's fall in Oregon, after all.

Argh, where's that axe?

NOVEMBER 05, 2012

# Inky, dinky, stinky, my life is a speck

I uploaded the next draft of my dissertation concept paper to the course room a few minutes ago. I should feel elated, but all I can muster is a little gratitude that technology functioned as it is supposed to. I thought I'd feel some relief, but I don't. I look around and see that my life has shrunk to a cluttered, filthy 12 x 20 foot room. Yesterday was a superb day, weather-wise, and I didn't once set foot outside my apartment. Is this life? I guess it is. I'm still breathing.

I scoured this paper, I polished, I wrestled and argued and smacked it around. Then I pronounced it ready and launched it in the cybersphere. Now the file can sit in my chairperson's inbox, until she has time to download and read it. I hope she will hand it off to the faceless anonymous committee. She said she would. But that was before Superstorm Sandy obliterated the east coast. Now, all bets are off.

It is strange to watch my outer life shrink to a speck. My body goes through the motions of getting up, feeding itself, dressing up in the uniform, going to work, doing my job. I interact, I discuss, I evaluate and criticize, like a teacher is supposed to do. I come home on autopilot, dreaming of bed before I'm even in it. I look around at my place and see the encroachment of nature: ants, spiders, dust bunnies, hair balls. I live in a time capsule, circa 2005, when I started this dissertation nightmare and stopped housekeeping. All my clutter—my books, my art, my photos, my crap—stands frozen in time under a thick layer of dust. The only things that gleam from repeated use are the computer keyboard and the remote control for my old analog television.

My inner life, though, my inner life is rich, filled with absorbing questions, observations, plans. As shriveled as my outer life is, my inner life glows with enticing avenues to explore. I stumble around the garden, so to speak, because my brain is old and tired, but I'm still entranced by the dogged pursuit of knowledge. I guess the last six years weren't a total waste.

NOVEMBER 11, 2012

# When the pain of this is worse than the fear of that

While I wait for my dissertation chairperson to review the umpteenth draft of my concept paper, I have some time to reflect once again on the purpose of my existence. If such a thing exists.

I just finished re-reading a wonderful book called Silverlock by John Myers Myers, a book I have read many times, savoring every word. Silverlock starts out his adventure as a snarky shipwreck survivor lost off the coast of San Francisco. Magic causes him to drift into a literary fantasy land known as the Commonwealth. After dramatic adventures involving heroes and villains culled from obscure literary references, he is dragged to the depths of hell, where he is forced to defend his existence, desperately crafting arguments to prove that life is worth living, despite all evidence to the contrary. As he is giving into despair, he is granted permission by the Delian Court to continue his journey because he has a cosmic mission to fulfill, if he can: to drink three times from the mythic spring of Hippocrene. The first drink is for recollection, so he won't forget what he's seen and learned in the Commonwealth. The second drink will give him the way to find his way back to the Commonwealth. The third is "the maker's drink," no limit on what is possible. When he finally arrives, Silverlock manages two sips before he is magically thrown back into the Pacific to await rescue by a passing freighter, a changed man blessed with awareness of the gift of life. After reading Silverlock, I no longer have the will to complain. That is the power of a good book.

Maybe we all have an internal mythical spring of Hippocrene, beckoning us toward our dreams. It would be pleasant to think so. I'm a skeptic. I get irked with all the Do What You Love and Money Will Follow disciples, because my experience has demonstrated that it is a fallacious philosophy. But I'm a chronic malcontent. I'm genetically predisposed to look on the dark side. My bliss could be biting me in the ass right now and I wouldn't know it.

When I was young I didn't realize that the life I would lead later is the accumulation of all the little choices and actions I took from day to day, year to year. I never made the connection between my actions and my future. The times when I said no when I should have said yes, or the other way around, the harsh words spoken, the unfeeling shoulder, the desperate demands, the immersion in anything that would take away the pain of living... those moments were the building blocks of the life I have now. I don't think I'm complaining so much as having a small epiphany, tinged somewhat with regret, I admit.

Equipped with this realization, what now? Every action I take today helps construct my tomorrow. I guess it's like voting. If you didn't vote, you have no right to complain. I'm either running with the big dogs, or I'm cowering on the porch. I'd like to say I'm courageous, but I don't know what actions would demonstrate my courage. When my pain of the present is worse than my fear of the future, then I guess I'll change.

NOVEMBER 18, 2012

# Waiting, still...again

Tomorrow will mark two weeks since I submitted my concept paper draft to my chairperson. She acknowledged its receipt, so I know she's got it. Since then, radio silence. What is happening in Florida, I wonder? (She lives in Florida.) And in the other places in which my faceless, nameless committee resides? Maybe their laptops and smartphones were swept away in Hurricane Sandy. If that is the case, it would be callous of me to complain about them not giving me timely feedback, if their homes are floating somewhere off the Jersey coast.

I think I've been remarkably patient. I've only checked the course room for updates once or twice a day. I haven't called my chairperson to breathe heavily into the phone. I haven't sent chatty little email reminders: Hi, Dr. C., hope everything is going okay! Hi, Dr. C., here's hoping for good news! Instead I've tried to be productive with my enforced hiatus. For instance, I cleaned the clutter off my desk. That's an accomplishment, if you've ever seen my filing system. I took out the recycling, dodging the cunning little piles of doggie crap that dot the back path. I even changed the sheets on my bed and washed a few loads of laundry. Whoa, look at me go.

Holding my humdrum life together gets put on hold when a paper must be written. I can live in squalor for weeks, months if necessary. Even still some substantial things remain undone: I haven't yet vacuumed the rugs. I'm saving that exciting adventure for a rainy day. Rain is forecast for the next seven days, so there ought to be a moment in there when I can drag out the vacuum cleaner. Or not. And the kitchen floor is turning into a sticky swamp. I guess I'd better mop it before the cat gets stuck like a fly on flypaper.

I probably sound like a self-centered egomaniac, thinking only of myself and my needs. Yeah, so, what's your point? That is the way a chronic malcontent thinks. You should know that by now, if you have suffered through reading this blog before. I'm trying to keep a stiff upper lip, but all I can do with my upper lip is grow a little facial hair on its quivering surface. I'm trying to hold my life together enough to go to work and do my job, and for the most part, I think I'm doing okay. I haven't broken down and wept in front of a class. I haven't shown up to work with my undies on the outside of my clothes. But this waiting is excruciating.

Part of me just wants it to be over. What if she says, The committee says your concept sucks. Get a new concept or take a hike. What would I do then? Would I try to conjure up another idea, knowing that it will set me back another six months? Best not go down that road. I'm dabbling my toe in the wreckage of the future again. That only leads to tears. Maybe I would just feel a profound sense of relief.

When I don't know what to do, I look to my cat for guidance. Whatever he is doing, that is what I do. Eat, sleep, play, poop. Right now he is trying to sit on my hands while I type. That might be good advice. See ya later.

NOVEMBER 21, 2012

# A nasty, bitter cosmic soup

Yesterday I checked the dissertation online course room to see if there was word on the status of my concept paper. After two weeks, there it was, the dreaded notice: Course Work Updated. I was at work, but I couldn't wait. I wanted to see how much blood had been spilled in the reviewing of the wretched tome. I only had two students in class, poking desultorily at homework for other classes, so I downloaded the file to my flashdrive and opened it up.

About ten comments, total, along with some unexpected praise. No blood, not even some bruises. Just a couple hangnails. Could have been worse. She said once I make these "minor, minor" revisions, she thinks it will be ready to send on to the faceless, nameless committee (emphasis mine). (I'll see it when I believe it.)

So you think I would have been buoyed with hope yesterday as I slogged my way through keyboarding, professional development, back to keyboarding, and then to 10-key calculator class, but nope. I felt distinctly unsettled, and it only became more noticeable as the day went on. I got stuck in a traffic jam trying to go home for lunch: dead stop on the freeway, so I got off at Johnson Creek (that took forever) and finally headed north on 82nd. Stop and go, stop and go, all the way to my neighborhood. Lots of time to think. Lots of time to stew.

Even after my nap and a quick salad (lettuce, chicken, raw carrots, roasted beets, olive oil, and balsamic vinegar), I still felt uneasy, and it lasted until this morning. Now I recognize that feeling. It comes from being judged. Yep. That is what drives my discontent. I hate to be evaluated, I dread criticism, I rebel against being judged. Oh, poor me, someone found something that could be improved in my paper. My brain knows this is a good thing, that my work will be the stronger for it. My gut feels like it was punched. You'd think I would be used to it by now, after six years of this doctoral nightmare. You know what it reminds me of? The days when I sold my soul making art for people, taking orders, subsuming my creative self for money. Wow, good to know. This isn't the same thing. I do this for me. Well, for me and my backer, also known as my mother, my biggest fan and staunchest critic.

Today the experience of receiving constructive criticism has taken on a more nuanced, layered tone. It's like a kettle of really weird cosmic soup. My distaste for being judged fills most of the pot. It's the potatoes of my malcontented perspective. Stir in a profound dislike of rainy weather. Add a stubborn resistance to working, exercising, and being polite. Crumble in a general fear for the safety of people everywhere, and top it off with a fatalistic certainty that we've destroyed the planet. What do you get? A really nasty, bitterly depressed cup o' soup.

It is ironically comic that I'm drinking my cosmic cup o' soup in the context of the day before Thanksgiving. This day is the gateway to the happiest time of the year. Normally this is my cue to hunker down, but today my larder was empty. I braved the crowds to hunt and gather food at the store. People pushed baskets piled high with plunder. As I dodged their careening carts, I peered into faces, looking for signs of gratitude. Mostly I saw weariness, when there was any expression at all. I assumed they were all planning a big day of cooking, eating, and family. Me, I just needed the usual basic supplies to keep me going another three days. As I waited in line with other human robots for an empty U-scan station, I saw blue sky and sunshine outside the sliding doors. But by the time I wrangled my paltry pile of groceries through the checkout, the sunshine was gone, and it was raining again.

NOVEMBER 24, 2012

# How to be thankful for an annoying neighbor

Hi, how was your Thanksgiving? Mine was awesome, thanks for asking. As you might expect, I am not a big fan of the holiday season. It's loud, smelly, inconvenient, and crowded, clearly not designed with the needs of a chronic malcontent in mind. However, I was thankful for a few things last Thursday. One was that I got to spend the day alone. How cool is that! I didn't even go outside of my apartment. The triplex was silent: no big parties going on at the Love Shack. I luxuriated in my solitude, like a happy speck of bacteria in a delicious petri dish. Yum.

What's that you say? I'm a dysfunctional, antisocial wackjob? Aw shucks. You only say that because you have an expectation of what Thanksgiving is for. For you (I'm guessing), Thanksgiving means warm connection and interaction with family and friends, maybe over a ritual meal involving a cooked bird whose butt is stuffed with mushy croutons. If you are really lucky you have alcohol flowing, and after the requisite gorging on pumpkin or pecan pie, you can loll around on the couch complaining about how much you ate while you watch Netflix on a big screen TV. SO much to be thankful for.

I, on the hand, having experienced many years of similar rituals (minus the warm connections and big screen TV), am utterly and fervently grateful that I don't have to do that anymore. For the record, let me just say in my defense, I was willing to take my mother out to eat, fighting the crowd at one of the more festive McMenamin's like we usually do. But good old mom was under the weather, so for my demonstration of willingness (I called her on the phone), I was given dispensation by the universe to spend the day as I pleased. And so I did. I spent the day revising my paper, and it was excellent.

I have good news to report on the status of my dissertation concept paper. A few more revisions and it might be ready to send on to the committee. Does that sound familiar? I think I've written those words before. I think what we are doing now is called polishing. My sister buoyed my spirits by reminding me that every time my chairperson returns my paper for more revisions, it does not mean my paper has been rejected. On the contrary, it means I am in the process of working with a competent editor to make the paper the best it can be.

It's so hard to focus. My neighbor is home. I feel like she's in my home. The air vibrates with the bass of her music. She stomps from one part of the place to another. Maybe she is dancing. Some kind of dance involving stomping. Maybe she's dancing like no one is watching. No, I think she may be rearranging her furniture. Well, who can blame her. That is one of the top ten most fun things to do. I can't do it now, because I'm packed in like a gasping sardine with all my books and binders, but I remember how much pleasure I used to get from a fresh room configuration. Now if I could just do that with my life.

Now she is sneezing. The roar comes through the wall, loud enough for me to feel compelled to say Gesundheit! Next will come the nose-blowing. It's classic Three Stooges nose-blowing, like a foghorn. I hear it best when she is in her tile-lined bathroom, where the echo is truly impressive. I fear for her brains.

I think she is in her bedroom closet now, just on the other side of where I sit at my computer. I hear thumping, shuffling, shoving, punctuated by sneezes. Wow, she must be stirring up a lot of dust. I can relate: That is how I react whenever I clean. Maybe she's doing her annual housecleaning. (Jeez, woman. Cover your mouth!) It's weird—even though I resent the hell out of her stomping and loud music, and even though I'd like to squash her wretched little pooping machine of a dog, I feel a strange sense of kinship with this vigorous young neighbor. Looks like we have something in common. I sneeze, too.

And there you have it, how to be thankful for annoying neighbors. Find the one minute, trivial thing you have in common and forget about all the reasons why you want to kill them. You can certainly be thankful you aren't in jail for beating them to death with their own stompy shoes. And if you do happen to be in jail for that crime or something similar, well, a roof, a bed, and three squares is a blessing some people would trade their citizenship for. So no more complaining about annoying neighbors! My new approach will be to bless her journey with love and kindness. I'm good with that. As long as I don't have to interact with her face-to-face.

DECEMBER 07, 2012

# Bring me the head of the Baby Jesus

The end of the term at the career college coincided with some other curious occurrences, prompting me to ask, is it odd, or is it gawd? Ha. That's only funny because it rhymes. I am not really much of a believer. But I wonder, is it human nature to look for interconnection in a series of events? I say yes. From there it is one short step to asking the universe for a sign. I'm not that far gone. Yet.

The end of the term doesn't necessarily precipitate odd occurrences. But when it comes to student behavior, the end of the term can bring the perplexing. For example, two students failed to show up for finals. One was sick, I heard, but what happened to the other? Not a word. For all I know, she's dead in the bushes outside the front door, surrounded by the scattered soggy pages of her 10-key math practice test. We'll find her weary bones next spring, long after we've forgotten her name. It is confounding to me that a student trudges through ten weeks and then bails on the last day. Is it failure to launch again? I'm always confounded when students choose to miss a class, but to miss the final, and not even call? That is beyond bizarre in my world. I suppose in the world of a student who is afraid to leave school, it makes perfect sense.

Speaking of being afraid to leave school, my dissertation chairperson sent me three comments from the faceless, nameless committee. First, he/she/it/they asked me to add some clarity on the problem statement. Spell it out: The problem is... Be specific—make it easy for these weary reviewers to locate the problem. (In other words, don't expect them to think much.) Second, please add more subheads to the literature review section, to make it easier to read. No problem. I had lots of friendly subheadings in there, originally, but a comment from the chairperson led me to believe I wasn't following the template, so I took them out. Easy fix. And third, do I need all three subgroups (faculty, students, and administrators?) Here is where I want to whimper a little. My original draft, the one that was rejected from the Graduate School reviewers, was dinged for using only one group and not justifying why. Now I have three groups, and they want to know could I get by with one. Read my lips.

After I fume a little, I need to prepare a reasoned response to that comment. That is my task for this weekend, what is left of it. My hope is to be able to upload the revised concept paper by Sunday night. I don't think I'll have much time next week to work on it, with the new term starting. I spent today grading papers and posting final grades. It was edging close to 4:30 pm, the witching hour when the worker bees at the career college begin to shut the place down to go home, so I got little done in preparation for Monday morning. I need to do my course calendars and print assignments. A little advice for you wannabe educators: You gotta come in guns blazing on day one, armed with stacks of policies, assignments, and forms, else they will yawn and sink into a stupor for the rest of the term.

Last week I had a great schedule for next term. However, I've learned from hard experience to never get attached to a schedule. It unraveled, and now I'm going back to Wilsonville two mornings a week to teach a management class with four students and a marketing class with two students. Really? All that exorbitant gas consumption for six students? Teaching early classes means I must leave an hour early to drive the 25 miles in rush hour traffic. That means I must set the alarm for 5:15 a.m., not my best time on any morning, but definitely not after I've been working till 10:20 p.m. the night before. The theme of this new term will be sleep-deprivation.

And to top it all off, get this: Dave Brubeck died on Wednesday, so I had to listen to Take Five 20 times in one day. On Thursday Fitz got shot over and over in slow motion. And someone stole the head of the Baby Jesus! So what's the interconnection between students failing to show up, schedules turning to shite, reviewers making annoying comments on my concept paper, the death of a jazz legend, a TV show character, and the Baby Jesus? I don't know. Maybe you can figure it out. My enneagram type is 5: The Observer. That means I just sit back and watch you do all the work. So get busy.

I've caught myself a few times trying to work up a head of resentment at the schedule, the students, the life, but I just don't have the energy for it. Then someone steals the head of the Baby Jesus, and life is hilariously worth living again. Besides, anger solves nothing. I'm not a slave, right? I'm a volunteer. Until I'm ready to leave this sinking career college ship, I'm choosing to bail its dark and stinky hold. And daydream of what comes next. (Sleep. Lots of sleep.) I just hope I don't crash my Focus somewhere on the dark and lonely stretch of I-205 between Oregon City and Wilsonville, where you sometimes see deer legs poking stiffly up out of the ditch. If that happens, I can only hope they find me before spring.

DECEMBER 11, 2012

# The surreal night off

What a surreal night. I got news from my dissertation chair that she's sending my revised concept paper on to the committee for the second time, and if they approve it, she'll forward the paper to the Graduate School for approval. Or rejection, as the case may be. I'm hopeful.

At the same time I get this good news, I am at home because classes were cancelled for this evening. There was a shooting at the shopping mall across the street from our Clackamas campus, so the entire area is on lockdown right now. The freeway, the buses, the MAX train line, all are shut down.

My new phone arrived today in the mail: A cordless phone with a second handset and an answering machine. I've been answering machine-less for a week, which isn't really so bad. I rather like being incommunicado. So with mixed feelings, after my mid-day nap, I opened up the box and got the system installed. Three minutes after I hooked it up, all the phones in my apartment started ringing. Loudly. And my cell phone started buzzing. That is how I knew that something was going down. Something to do with work. Something bad.

The robot voice said: There has been a shooting at the Clackamas Town Center Mall. I turned on the radio, but they didn't know much. I called the campus. Our perky receptionist said they knew about the shooting, and they were all leaving. Oh, and by the way, night classes are cancelled. A few minutes later all my phones rang again. Another robot: Classes at the Clackamas campus are cancelled. Lucky me, I got the news just before I left for work.

Unfortunately, my unexpected night off comes at a cost: three dead (one the shooter) and one seriously wounded. Some apparently random gunman with a semi-automatic rifle opened fire in the mall. He shot three people and then took his own life. The mall is lit up like a Christmas tree. I'm glad I'm not there. I'm glad I'm watching the aftermath unfold on the local news channels. I'm warm, I'm dry, I'm alive. I was never in danger, but I cried a little bit listening to the stories of the witnesses.

We see this kind of violence on the news all the time. Until it comes close to home, we always imagine it happens to someone else, someplace else. It is bizarre to recognize the location, the buildings, and know that I've been there, I've shopped there, I've eaten in that food court. If I ever go back to that mall, I'll walk the marble floors and wonder, is this where that woman died? Is this where the shooter walked? This event will ripple out into the community as stories get shared. It will take on a larger life.

Random violence is like an earthquake: unpredictable, uncontrollable. You can't avoid it by being a good person, hanging out with good people, living a clean life. It can get you anywhere, random violence. No one is safe. Children, old people, nice people, anyone can be cut down. The feather of death brushes by us all the time, doesn't it? On Thursday when I go back to work, I will drive by the mall and feel a little sick. I'll pray to whatever deity I may subscribe to that day to keep us all safe from random insanity. If I live through the day, I hope I remember to be grateful.

DECEMBER 17, 2012

# Trudging into the future

Part of me is frozen in time, stuck forever in the horrific events of Friday, December 14. Just like a part of me is still caught in the destruction of September 11, 2001. Another part of me got torn away when my dad died. And a little more when my cat died. Maybe that is what brings us down in the end, the little pieces of our soul that get caught and torn away by tragic events. How much shredding can one soul take?

The rest of me, what is left of me, moves on. It's hard to believe, because the part of me that thinks and feels seems frozen in time, but the rest of me is still trudging doggedly into the future. In between my moments of despair, I have moments where I find myself suddenly humming. Or smiling. How can I hold both despair and acceptance in my mind at the same time? It seems impossible.

So, now you get to hear from the part of me that is moving on.

Good news. A small milestone has been reached. My concept paper, thrashed into submission, has apparently received thumbs up from my faceless nameless dissertation committee. My dissertation chairperson emailed me today to say she has sent my concept paper to the Graduate School reviewers. This is not a formality. This is serious. They have the power to kick me out of the program, send me home empty-handed, no consolation prize after seven years and $45,000. I can't worry about any of that. I hope it is approved, because I'm embarrassed to admit, I'm really sick of this leg of this endless journey.

Although the next leg of the journey is the dissertation proposal, just more torture at a deeper level. The concept paper was toothpicks under the fingernails. Now it will be the rack and hot branding irons. I know what you are thinking. How can I complain about such a luxury problem? I'm alive, after all. No argument. But whining is what I do. I'm chronically malcontented.

Speaking of malcontentedness, today I made the trek to Wilsonville in an early morning rainstorm. December, ho hum. I arrived on time as the sky was lightening in the east. I dutifully arranged the tables and wrote the chapter notes on the whiteboard. Then I waited for my four students. One showed up. Gina (not her real name) and I had a nice discussion for two hours, but I worry about the missing students. It's only the second week of school.

When students are absent, I always give them the benefit of the doubt. I don't automatically assume they were too tired from partying the night before to get out of their cozy warm beds. They could be sick. Their child could be sick. They could be snowed in—some places in the hinterburbs got snow last night. Hell, I don't know. They didn't call in to the school as they are required to do. They could be lying dead by the side of the freeway. Ugh, cancel that thought. I'd feel pretty bad if I complained about their attendance when come to find out they are dead.

I don't know, should I even joke about people being dead? It doesn't seem all that funny anymore, does it. It's only funny if it isn't happening. Or if you don't really think about the reality of death. Once it happens, once you really think about it, death casts a dismal pall over everything. Death isn't all that funny. People die all the time. But you don't expect it to be a bunch of little kids. Maybe in Syria, but not in America. Although why I assume we should be exempt is a fallacy worth examining in some future blog post.

This week I feel like I'm moving through a dark fog. My emotions have flatlined. Even my relief at hearing the hopeful news about my concept paper hardly registers on the emotions scale. The best I can muster right now is a heavy sigh.

JANUARY 02, 2013

# Resistance to change: The ongoing challenge

The theme for January is always the same: Do it differently than I did last year. Don't eat so much, eat better food, get more exercise, drink more water, read better quality trash, write more, live less fearfully... bla bla bla. After years of New Years' resolutions abandoned by February, it seems sort of pointless. So I am enjoying the fact that I got a few things done over the winter break, without any expectation that my new behaviors will turn into ongoing habits. If I drink more water today, that doesn't mean I won't dehydrate myself tomorrow. I make no promises.

My dissertation chairperson took time out of her holiday celebration to send an email letting me know that my concept paper was approved by the mysterious Graduate School reviewers. I know this is good news, although all I can see is the even taller mountain ahead of me, the mountain known as the dissertation proposal. It's just more of the same: writing to persuade some anonymous reviewers that my study is worth conducting. It's hard to conjure up enthusiasm for a project that has long since lost its allure.

Someday this will all be over. Right. And someday I will be dead. There's no telling which will come first, when you get to my age. I was heartened to read in the university discussion posts that I'm not the oldest graduate student: Several are in their sixties. Well, at the rate I'm going, that could be me in a few more years. Funny, I don't feel that old.

Whenever I want to stoke my internal boiler of bitter self-righteousness, I read books on servant leadership and think about how the management style at the career college that employs me is anything but that. In fact, I would characterize the college management style as slim on leadership and devoid of service. Servant leadership is a concept that appeals to the frustrated idealist in me. I have a deeply held belief that employees have value and should be treated with respect. Further, I believe that management's job is to serve employees, so that employees in turn can serve their customers. To me, it seems self-evident. That is why I get so cranky when the so-called leadership at the career college treats faculty as if they are an expendable resource, like tissues to be used and tossed away.

Rumor has it that it is now a fact: the site in Clackamas is moving. Where and when remains uncertain, but because the lease is up in June, we surmise it will be before then. It is unlikely management would move during the middle of a term. If management intends to move between terms, then moving day would likely be Friday, May 3. If this is the case, the new term would start Monday, May 6, in a shiny new location. Whether they will bring their old grimy teachers to the shiny new location remains to be seen.

One of the precepts of the servant leadership philosophy is that management includes employees in discussions about disruptive change. I think moving or closing a campus is a change worth discussing with employees, don't you? It is eight weeks till our next in-service meeting. How much you want to bet management fails to mention any specific plans for moving or closing the campus? Further, how much are you willing to bet that, if we ask straight out, that direct answers will not be forthcoming?

As I was cruising indeed.com doing what all people do when they cruise indeed.com, I found a new job listing for the college: Instructional Designer for growing career college's online division. Must have a Master's in education. That sounds sort of interesting. I don't qualify, of course, even if they were willing to hire a snarky old teacher from within. I got the feeling as I read the ad that, as their brick and mortar campuses are tanking due to lack of enrollments, the school owners and managers are putting all their hopes on the online dream. Like every other college and university on the planet. Yeah, lots of luck with that, dinky career college.

There is no shortage of change in the world, that's for sure. It seems to me the people that survive and succeed are the ones that are able to adapt to change, whatever form it takes. The ones that wither in the ditch are the ones that say things like, We've always done it that way; This will never catch on; I can't learn anything new; Don't tell me, I don't want to hear it. I can relate. I have my own resistance to change. No new technology, please, my head is exploding. No new laws, I can't keep up with the ones we have. No new jargon, I can barely understand you as it is.

What if I learned to embrace change for its own sake? What if adapting to change was a grand adventure rather than a terrifying obligation? What if I knew I could not fail? Would I do anything differently in this new year? Or would I slink back into my snarky role as the Chronic Malcontent and blame "management" for my resentments?

### Proposal: The Academic Equivalent of Waterboarding

JANUARY 07, 2013

# Whining: Anger coming out a really small hole

At last I can move on to writing the dissertation proposal. Yay, I guess. Now that I have my marching orders from my dissertation chairperson (expand the Literature Review first, then work on the Introduction, and then do the Methodology chapter), I find myself strangely reluctant to dive back into this project. Maybe it's not so strange. The path to earning a Ph.D. is littered with the hopes of the ones who gave up in the home stretch. That could be me, if it weren't for my pride and my nagging desire not to disappoint my mother. It could still be me. I make no promises. Daily I consider heading for the hills.

I called my chairperson last week to find out next steps. I recognized her speaking style after nine years of teaching adults. She spoke slowly and carefully, as if to a two-year-old, with frequent insertions of phrases like, "Does that make sense?" I reined in my inclination to be myself and tried to meet her where she was. I tried not to interrupt. I kept my sentences short. I let her finish the checklist I am sure was on her desk in front of her: Describe process. Check. Ask for understanding. Check. Encourage continued progress. Check. Probe for warning signs. Check. I let her go through her process, but I really just wanted her to talk with me without the affectation, without condescension. She sounds much younger than me. I have no doubt I am much older.

We are having a short-lived heat wave here in the Portland area. It's 51°, according to the gadget on my desktop. In January! Wow! Lest you suggest I get out the sandals, know that it won't last. I heard cold air is moving in on Wednesday, bringing the possibility of snow. That makes me want to go back to bed. My heart sags in the winter. My blood slows down. I could hibernate with no problem. Sleep seems the only way through it. Oh, now it's 49°. We are sinking back into the cold black hole. Oh, great. I just heard my neighbor's wretched dog barking out back, which means I will have little stinky offerings to dodge in the dark when I leave for work in the morning. We were doing so well. For a few weeks, I thought she was at last doing her part to be a good neighbor. But sadly, last week I narrowly missed stepping in some dog poop left on the path. True to my chronically malcontented passive aggressive nature, I scooped it up and deposited it on her back steps. I'm not sure she could have known it was me and not her infernal dog that put it there. Maybe she knew. Later she turned her music up so loud I couldn't hear my own music over the pounding of her bass. I fear the Love Shack is now a war zone.

And now I have this new writing project, which is just more of the old writing project, the same old topic I am thoroughly sick of. No wonder people give up. They are bored to tears, picking away at the scabs of a topic that used to be marginally interesting and which now oozes blood, shredded by too many reviewers chasing APA errors, alignment failures, and critical thinking lapses. Give me a break. Nobody cares about this topic, least of all me. I was warned this would happen. Is this this the academic equivalent of waterboarding, designed to break the spirit in the name of building character? Don't I have enough character already, with all my years of failures large and small?

The next couple months look like they might be dreary. The weather, the job, the neighbor, the studies... I am sure I can find other things to whine about. My car. My bowels. Guns and ammo. You name it, I can make it all about me. Once again, faced with my ever present resentment, uncertainty, and fear, I resort to whining, which as my friend says, is just anger coming out a really small hole.

JANUARY 14, 2013

# The for-profit college motto: Move 'em in and move 'em out!

My cat is sitting on my computer table, helping me write my dissertation proposal. Sometimes he sits with his back to me, wide butt flaring regally behind him; sometimes he flops bonelessly over on my lap. But he's always lurking somewhere nearby, staring at me with a critical eye. (I call him Eddie but I suspect his real name is Squint Eastwood. Or Krawl the Warrior King.) I'm beginning to think he has authored all my work, from December of 2005 until now. I sure don't remember writing any of it. Unless I was having a seven-year out-of-body experience, I have to conclude my cat is responsible for my entire academic career.

He expresses his displeasure with my word choice by grabbing at my fingerless gloves (also known as socks), which keep my hands warm while I type. Once he snags me, nothing short of human sacrifice will get him to let go. I can distract him by scratching his neck with my free hand. That usually puts him in the zone. Then I can sneak my glove out of his claws. Sometimes. He's relentlessly on guard. I don't know when he finds the time to write.

He exits, stage right, leaving wads of hair wafting all over the keyboard. Little mementos to encourage me to draw on his wisdom while I struggle to remember my dissertation topic. Funny, once the concept paper was off my plate, I apparently jettisoned the mountains of information I had piled up in my brain, sort of like flipping the switch on the garbage disposal. Whooosh. All gone. Now I need that knowledge back, but it's been hauled off to the city dump. Figuratively speaking.

I can hardly bear to read the wretched tome now, after exorcising it so thoroughly from my brain. All I see are typos and grammar errors, cliches and redundancies. Reading it is torture. Argh, it's the Abu Ghraib of literature reviews! Who wrote this crap? It sounds like it was written by a fat lazy cat with nothing better to do than wax maudlin about the lack of academic quality in for-profit career colleges. Oh, wait. Huh?

Well, never mind. Tonight, after a day of mixed rain and snow, the temperature is dropping, and I can look forward to sliding to work in the morning. That should be entertaining, if it doesn't end in tears, which driving on ice usually does. Maybe I'll get lucky. Maybe there will be a two-hour late start. We'll have to cram six hours of class time into four, else we'll have to make up time on yet another Friday. But hey, we'll get it done. Move 'em in and move 'em out, that's our motto. The show must go on. Never let it be said we didn't teach! Of course, the relationship between teaching and learning at our institution is tenuous at best. But what do you expect from for-profit higher education? I figure it's a good day when management leaves us alone and no one is trying to kill us.

I remember the days when I was uninformed about the pecking order of higher education. I thought teaching at a college was a prestigious honor. I was loyal and committed to my college, willing to put my money where my mouth was, ready to embark upon this doctoral journey. I naively thought that earning this degree would earn me the college's commitment and loyalty in return. Ah ha ha. I also used to think we cared about quality... the quality of our teaching, the quality of our course materials, the quality of our customer service efforts. I cared, some other teachers cared, but guess who didn't care? Yep. Management.

Tonight I'm at home, but a few stalwart teachers are teaching a few stubbornly committed students while the roads turn black with ice. Apparently no one in authority is there to make the decision to cancel class for the remainder of the evening so folks can try to get home before the ice gets really bad. Absentee management. I wouldn't be surprised if I went up to the third floor corporate offices and found nothing but cobwebs. Who is steering this sinking ship? Could be we are rudderless, adrift. Could be management sneaked off in the lifeboats with all the loot while we were busy bailing the hold.

JANUARY 18, 2013

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JANUARY 23, 2013

# The chronic malcontent is feeling nasty, brutish, and short

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

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

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

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

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

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

JANUARY 25, 2013

# Hold the presses: I need to slow my chi down

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

FEBRUARY 06, 2013

# Feeling anything but safe

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

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

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

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

FEBRUARY 13, 2013

# Flogging a dubious metaphor

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

I digress. Or do I?

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

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

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

MARCH 01, 2013

# I'm not ready to be unemployed

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

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

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

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

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

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

MARCH 05, 2013

# They move on, and we stand still

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

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

"Listen to this!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MARCH 09, 2013

# We're not happy until you're not happy

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

Uh, no thanks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Think of someone who is upsetting you."

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

"Someone at work."

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

"No, not Teresa. It's a male."

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

Dr. Tony grabbed my arm again.

"Bingo," he said triumphantly. "It's Roger."

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

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

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

MARCH 15, 2013

# Dueling stereos and the wretched dissertation proposal

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MARCH 29, 2013

# Get on down to the spiritual axiom

As the teachers left yesterday after day classes, they wished each other a happy Easter. One said, "Have a happy Easter, if you celebrate Easter," leaving room for those of us who might be pagans, wiccans, heathens, addicts, non-Christians, and generic ne'er-do-wells.

I said nothing, my usual response to all things religious. I have no opinion on Easter, one way or another. Isn't this the day that Jesus was supposed to rise from the dead? Likely story. More likely the guy just looked dead. What a shock to wake up buried alive in a cave. Roll away the stone, let me outa here! From there, it's not too hard to picture the responses of the locals to his unexpected resurrection: It's a miracle! And the rest is history.

I have memories of some Easters in my history. Well, not really memories, per se. I've seen black and white Kodak photos of my sister and me, sitting on the backyard swing-set squinting into the sun, ages about three and five, attired for church in pastel dresses, flowered bonnets, white patent leather shoes, and little white gloves. My sister displays all her baby teeth at the camera, while my smile is somewhat more circumspect, bordering on insipid.

I remember an Easter procession at the church, in which all the children carried daffodils to the alter, to create a big dazzling yellow cross. I think I've blogged about this before. My daffodil had yet to fully open; I was mortified. That feeling of shame is embedded into my genes.

I'm happy that this Sunday is Easter because the callers that usually call me on Sunday afternoons will be off doing their holiday thing with family, and I will have time to work on my dissertation proposal. Yeah, the massive beast is still hanging around, like a overfed, lazy cat, hogging the blankets and polluting the air with dust and dandruff. No, wait, that's me... huh? The good news is, after 150 pages and at least that many sources, I think I've almost got a good first draft. I hope to finish it and upload the monster into cyberspace sometime on Easter Sunday, if I can keep my neck away from the spiritual axiom.

This weekend the temperature should hit 70° for the first time this year. Everyone is excited, of course. All over town, Portlanders are breaking out their shorts, tanktops, and flipflops, bicycles, skateboards, walking shoes. Overnight my sleepy little village corner will turn into a pedestrian-infested, car-congested carnival of park-goers and cafe-mongers. Their music, their voices, their cigarette smoke and exhaust fumes will all waft into my windows on the not-quite-balmy spring breeze. What can I do, I have no defense. I have to open my windows: My place smells like an old gym sock.

Speaking of people who smell like old gym socks, what is with my obese female students smelling like mold? Really? Is it an environmental problem or a hygiene problem? What would happen if I asked them, "Why do you smell like mold?" They would probably look at me and reply, "Why do you smell like an old gym sock?" Then I would try to explain how I haven't vacuumed in a year because I've been working on my doctorate. They would retort, "Well, I work full-time, and I have three kids, no husband, and I live with my mother!" Okay, enough said. Forget I said anything. I won't ask about your stinky body odor if you won't mention mine.

I imagine all my obese female students wearing pastel mini-skirts, low-cut tops, and platform spike heels, tottering off to church this Sunday to celebrate the rising of an almost-dead guy. I'll be celebrating, too, in my own way, by typing a lot of incoherent words and phrases into pages and pages of white space. It's a religious experience, in a way. Especially that moment when I upload the wretched tome and cry to heaven, "Thank god almighty, free for the 21 days it takes my Chair to read and destroy my paper—at last!"

MARCH 31, 2013

# Win a few, lose a few

Good news (at least to some, not sure who exactly, maybe just my mother). I just uploaded the massively wretched tome, the first draft of my dissertation proposal, all 172 pages (counting front matter, references, and appendices). The courseroom swallowed it with a slightly longer than normal gulp, and now it's there, posted in cyberspace, visible evidence of my willingness to take the next step in the process of earning this doctoral degree. I'm not sure what I pictured these days would be like, way back in 2005 when I first started this endeavor. I think my original goal was to teach online in an adobe hut in the desert. And to be a more valuable employee to my career college employer. Foolish girl, you say? Well, life was simpler back then, when I was naive and uninformed.

For the past 2,677 days (counting much?) I have lived in the fretful fog of the moment, just trying to get the writing done, take care of my students, eat good food and drink water, live in the present, do the next right thing. I haven't thought much about what comes next, after this journey is over. (I used to say if, but it's starting to look likely that I will finish, barring something unforeseen, like a party bus or an asteroid). Except for a general sense of anxiety and some hazy... I won't even call them plans.. I don't have a clear picture of a future. This is not a bad thing.

Unexpected events happen. Like today, for instance, the maternal unit called to ask me to take her to urgent care. She suspected she got bit on the ankle by a malevolent critter on her back porch, a spider, perhaps. This happened last Tuesday. Her right ankle swelled up like a sausage. Since then, she's been hobbling around in slippers with her walker, not driving, not eating much, popping quarter-tabs of oxy and hoping it will go away. No such luck. So today we spent three hours on a gorgeous Easter Sunday morning getting her through urgent care and over to the pharmacy to fill a prescription for an anti-inflammatory. And pick up a box of generic cheerios, so she would have something to eat tomorrow.

That is what I mean. You can plan all you want, but life does what life is going to do. Other people are busy living, and sometimes their lives collide with my plans. I have no control over events, in my life or anyone else's. In some ways, this is frustrating, but in other ways, it is strangely liberating. To accept the invitation to give up the illusion of control is a rare opportunity to appreciate the moment. To be here now, something I've been practicing for the last seven years. It's easier to accept the gift when the sun is shining like it is today. It's 72°. Rain is on the way, but right now the air is golden and ripe with the scents and sounds of spring. A stellar bluejay stole some moss from my back porch. Nest building time.

A woman who lives at the end of the gravel driveway was walking by as I went out to dump my kitchen scraps in the green compost bin. She hurried over to me, pointing at the back of the Love Shack.

"Did you know you have a rat living under your back porch?"

I started to feel some shame, because yes, I know we have a rat living under the porches, and I don't particularly care. Hey, wait a minute, I said to myself.

"Yes, we have a rat," I said. "We also have birds, squirrels, possums, and sometimes, raccoons. And moles!" Implying that it's a regular zoo in our six-foot-wide strip of nature, and how cool is that? "Do you have moles down there on your corner?" She forgot that she believes that a rat is a bad thing to have lurking under one's porch.

"We don't have moles, but my neighbor does," she replied. "And she keeps her yard perfectly manicured. The moles drive her crazy!"

Now we were rooting for the moles. Long live wildlife. Yay for fat rats who live under porches. Yay critters, in general. I'm happy to fatten up a rat with spilled birdseed. Why should this little piece of the planet be exempt from harboring god's myriad creatures? (If there is a god, yada yada yada.)

And the plot thickens. Now I hear the sound of running water. Back in a mo. Ok, I'm back. I peered out my back door. The basement door is open, and there are two short, scratched-up surfboards propped against the fence. It looks like the quiet weekend at the Love Shack is over. My neighbor has returned. Now if I'm really lucky, I'll get to hear her making out with her boyfriend till the early hours of the morning.

APRIL 04, 2013

# Change can be good

If you follow this blog, which is unlikely unless you are Bravadita, my sister, or my friend E., you might have noticed that I haven't been complaining a lot lately about the career college and how it is failing on so many levels. That is because the management stopped talking about 45 days ago. When we asked what was going on with "the move," we were told that no one was allowed to talk about it. I should have realized that for the massive red flag that it was. I was immersed in my dissertation proposal, head down, not paying attention. I should have seen this coming. I was blindsided with the rest... yes, me, the student of management.

On Monday afternoon after morning classes we were called on short notice to a staff meeting. We speculated: news on the so-called move, perhaps? Our invisible president, looking shaky and pale, materialized for the three minutes it took to tell us the Clackamas site will be closing on May 3, that all students would be invited to transfer to Wilsonville, and oh, BTW, all you Clackamas instructors, we'll know if you have a job sometime in the next two weeks. Stay tuned. And no, this is not an April Fool's Day joke. Then he faded away.

Within a very short time, we all knew that the three associate program directors had been invited to transfer to Wilsonville, although two will be demoted to instructor. (They were, like, yay! No more meetings, no more paperwork!) Our boss will retain his position, lucky him—I guess. I heard this from the mouths of the people affected. Still, I'm skeptical. I wouldn't be surprised if we all got to work on Monday to find the doors locked and moving trucks pulling away in a cloud of dust. I don't think the place is long for this world, frankly. Change can be good. Maybe it's time for this school to die. Survival of the fittest, and all that. We have proved time and again our unfitness for purpose.

Sheryl, my indefatigable colleague, at 66 is not ready to retire. She made some calls, sent a few emails. Efforts to find her new employment were launched immediately on her behalf. Even while she whined, she scrambled her network, thereby demonstrating her ability to multitask. Take note: You are never too old to... to.. what? look for a job? She'll play the age card if she has to. Our other colleague—I'll call her Mella—normally an easygoing, optimistic woman—expressed her anger with some choice cuss words. Right on, Mella. Me, I processed my anger by watching everyone else process theirs. I have no cards to play.

On Monday night and into Tuesday and Wednesday, students were informed by management of the coming change. The fallout was swift and vehement. Students who are graduating May 3 had looks of profound relief. Others, especially new students, were furious that the admissions reps hadn't told them that going to Wilsonville would be a possibility. The panic subsided after students were told they would receive $100 Visa cards to help them with gas expenses. Car pool lists circulated. The frothy anger calmed down into a general discontented malaise that permeated the campuses. Students came to class, but no one felt like doing anything.

I kept on teaching. I wrote notes on the board. I covered the chapter. I facilitated the discussions. I answered questions. I encouraged them to focus on their education.

"You are going too, right?" they asked me.

I said I didn't know.

"What will you do?" they wanted to know.

I said I didn't know.

Sheryl's students, weeping at the thought of moving to an unfamiliar campus without her, joined together to write her a batch of recommendation letters. I heard one student even called Channel 6 news. (This could get interesting.)

So now it's Thursday. We irascibly await the news—do we stay or do we go? Mella quietly started packing her gear. Taking her cue, I cleared the miscellaneous bits of paper... pictures, notes, phone numbers, calendars, reminders... off the walls around my desk. I removed the course materials I had created from the shared file folders (take that, you future adjuncts). I recycled stacks of student work from last term. As I rummaged through drawers, I pondered what I will do if management offers me a job. I'll probably take it. But a big part of me wants to say no thanks and walk away.

Postscript: The phone just rang. It was Sheryl, calling to tell me that tonight when she went to school for night classes, she saw our elusive president in the parking lot. He asked how she was. "How do you think I am?" she said. "Not happy!" He tried to explain. Sheryl said she straight out asked him if she and I would have jobs next term, and he wouldn't look her in the eye. He told her he had delegated the task of deciding who stays and who goes to his management team (I'll call them Mr. Freeper and Ms. Sic-em). And no severance package, not that I thought we would get one, but it would have been nice, maybe a month of pay for every year of service? Nope. We'll be paid through May 15 and our insurance will last until the end of May. And that, as they say, is that.

APRIL 09, 2013

# It's official... life sucks

After almost ten days of jacking us around, not telling us anything, we finally got the news: when the Clackamas campus closes on May 3, we all lose our jobs. Oh, except for the three program directors. And the dozen or so corporate people who lurk on the third floor. I guess when I say everyone, I mean all the people that matter. The faculty, the academic coordinator, and the receptionists. What the hell do they think they are going to be managing now, I wonder? The ship is sinking while they fight over cubicle space.

I know I sound angry. I am. Not for me, but for my colleagues, Sheryl and Mella. Sheryl is a few years from retirement. How easy do you think it will be for a 66-year-old woman with a stale Bachelor's in International Business to find another job? And Mella! Mella transferred from Wilsonville to Clackamas a few terms ago, even though she recently moved to be near Wilsonville. She demonstrated loyalty and commitment to the organization, and it lifted its leg and peed all over her. Sheryl and I have known for a long time that the company wasn't our friend. I think Mella was still hoping for a miracle. It's hard to accept that the company you gave your heart to has ripped it to shreds.

As I drove away from campus this afternoon, I saw Mella pacing the sidewalk. I pulled my car up next to her. She got in. Her chin was quivering.

"This totally sucks," I said after a long, long moment of silence.

"Yes, this sucks," she agreed.

We sat with that for a while.

"How are we going to make it through the next few weeks?" I mused.

"Suck it up."

We pondered that for a bit. Then she sighed and got out of the car. She went off to find food before night classes (did I mention she works four splits?), and I went home to take a nap, exit, stage right. On the drive home, I was a little numb, not fully present. I'm not sure how to feel. My eyes feel like they've been weeping, but I don't remember any tears. I'm not sure if I'm happy, sad, or just really, really, really scared.

Part of me is, like, you got what you asked for, Carol. Time to finish your dissertation, time to work on starting a business, time to clean up the Love Shack, time to sleep, time to read, time to rest. But at what cost? I don't want to be unemployed. No, let me be more clear. I don't want to not be earning money. That doesn't have to be the same thing as unemployed, right? Time and money are inverses for me: When I have one, I miss the other. I'm too old to do this again. It wasn't pretty the first time around. Moving in with my mother is not an option. Wreckage of the future! Aaaaagh!

The Director of Education flaked out, couldn't stick around to tell me to my face (I remember when you were an adjunct, Freep). Our boss—I'll call him Denny—(who is going to Wilsonville next term, and who is keeping his job title and pay rate, and who, by the way, is receiving training in online teaching tomorrow [I know, like, WTF!?]) gave me the news. I could tell he felt terrible. Survivor's guilt. The next three weeks will be interesting. He's on the lifeboat, floating further and further away. We three faculty are clinging to the rail, going down with the ship. We aren't bothering to bail, what's the point? (I am already saying cynical things about the organization to my students—we were discussing leadership in the management class today, and I likened our president to the Invisible Man. Har har.)

The next few weeks will be awkward. The chasm between those who are surviving and those who are sinking will grow daily. On that last Thursday, as we faculty sink out of sight, out of mind for the last time, poor old Denny can finally draw a deep breath of relief. Whew, that was hard, glad that's over. Dude. I don't blame you. I might even miss you. It's been fun. In parts. Sort of. A little.

What would be really fun would be to bring some spraypaint on that last day and do a little decoratin'.

APRIL 11, 2013

# How to survive a campus closing

I'll give you a hint: It has to do with spraypaint and glitter. No, not really. I'm just kidding. I know I sound obsessed with expressing my feelings with a can of orange spraypaint, but I'm not stupid. I know that would be vandalism. These days I try not to do anything for which I have to make amends later. Spraypainting you guys suck in 10-foot tall letters on the lobby wall would probably qualify.

The students from the soon-to-be defunct Clackamas campus of our sagging little career college have been invited to visit the mothership in Wilsonville, to meet the faculty and get acclimated to the stuffier air. Many aren't attending due to transportation challenges, which I'm sure will be compounded come next term, when they will be expected to show up at 7:50 a.m. Or at 5:40 p.m. for those night students who get off work in Portland at 5:00 p.m. Rotsa ruck making it on time in rush hour traffic.

Everyone is universally unhappy about the closure, for a variety of reasons. Some students are worried about teachers. Others are fretting over transportation. Some teachers are frantically searching for other employment. Some are feeling guilty they still have jobs. I think I might be the only one who is actually anxious for it to be over. I'm so ready to be done I told a student today that we had only two weeks left in the term. Ooops. We really have three. My bad.

I'm processing my feelings by turning my faculty website into a photo blog. I'm taking pictures—last looks—of all the things that made our campus unique. The dingy front lobby. The mailroom. The worn out classrooms. The odd barbeque we found parked on the roof outside the emergency exit door in the third floor computer lab (What are those corporate sneaks up to on Fridays, when teachers and students aren't around? Planning how they will save their own jobs, with a side of steak and brewskies, no doubt.)

We are situated in an old three-story office building next to a shopping complex and across the street from the Clackamas Town Center Mall, which made the news last December as yet one more (ho-hum) site of a random shooting. Our building is a two-tower faded orange stucco box with angled facets that must have seemed modern and edgy back in the day and now just look cheesy and amateurish. Moss grows on the shaded patio areas that divide the two towers, the smokers' hangout.

Inside, the carpet is old and worn, especially on the stairs. Many feet trod those stairs over the past ten years, mine among them (I rarely take the elevator). The front lobby atrium ascends to the third floor, an echoey cavern of light. Any day now, I expect someone, a student or a teacher, to fling themselves over the second floor railing in a fit of despair. I can't be the only one who has contemplated it. Unfortunately the drop probably wouldn't kill me, so I would just have to lay there while swarms of medical assisting students practiced taking my blood pressure and draining my veins of blood.

Hey, on a lighter note, my committee returned my proposal with three, count 'em, three minor grammar suggestions, which I fixed throughout the paper in less than an hour. I resubmitted the paper with the hope and expectation that my Chair will send it on to the Graduate School for review. That will take another two weeks or so. I will brace myself for their comments, but in the meantime, I will begin preparing my application to the Institutional Review Board, the group that approves applications to interview human subjects. I also found out who my committee member is, inadvertently, because her real name appeared in her comments. I immediately Googled her and found out she's a proud alum of the University of Phoenix.

It's strange how there seems to be two tracks of academe these days: traditional and for-profit. This will have to be a topic for another day, because it is almost midnight, I am missing Letterman, and I'm too tired to think anymore. Stay tuned. And start stocking up on spraypaint, because you're invited! Mark your calendar, May 2.

APRIL 19, 2013

# The slippery slope to slovenly behavior

Tonight I'm breathing a sigh of relief after a day of good news. My car doesn't need front end work. My chairperson sent my dissertation proposal on to the Graduate School for review. The Boston police caught the bombing suspect. I got the upper hand with the ants in my kitchen. All around, things are looking up. I hope we won't have to go through another week like this one any time soon. It's been rough.

Last week at the career college, I noticed I was engaging in many last times—activities I will do at work for the last time and never do again. Like discussing chapters from the Business Management textbook with the two Human Resources Management classes. Never have to do that again. (Maybe there is a god!) Printing reviews and finals for all the computer applications classes. One last time, never again. Writing a final for a new class I'd never taught before and never have to teach again. (I found myself thinking as I wrote and formatted the test, Why bother doing a good job? Who will know? Who will care?)

Ah, the slippery slope to slovenly behavior.

Speaking of slovenly behavior, I skyped my sister tonight. We both agreed, it's time I got a new look. I've been doing a pathetic Johnny Cash (circa 1980) impersonation for almost ten years—black pants, black jacket, black hat. It's almost time to clear out the closet and start over. Top to bottom. I do have hair, believe it or not. We both spend a small fortune on coloring our hair. My sister wants me to start wearing dresses. She tried to persuade me by telling me that a dress can hide a multitude of figure flaws. I have no doubt she is right. The problem isn't finding the right clothes. The problem is the whole idea of figure flaws. We don't chastise men for their figure flaws.

Besides, it won't matter what I look like, because in two weeks I intend to retire to my cave and never see anyone in person again. I call it self-employment. If I do it right, I can work in my pajamas for the next fifteen years. I'll have my groceries delivered. I'll put aluminum foil on my windows and an antenna on the roof. I'll sneak out in the dark of night to empty my trash and recycling. I'll contribute to blogs about conspiracy theories.

Speaking of conspiracy theories, (kiddding!) last night I went to a Portland State University alumni/student event at Bridgeport Brewery. It was a presentation by a local recruiter on how to stop sucking at your job search. Her name was Jenny Foss. Job Jenny. She's an attractive, petite woman with an annoying habit of speaking too close to the microphone. She talked for an hour to a packed room about using Linked In to network. Puh, puh... I wanted to rush over and smack her with the mic. Her PowerPoint slides were sparse: black text on a white background, no animation, nothing to keep my attention. I got bored watching her mundane slide show, so I wrote a lot in my journal. I didn't learn anything new, although I came away with copious notes and a few drawings. (One little moment of self-satisfaction: Everything I have told my Professional Development classes over the years aligned very well with Job Jenny's advice.)

Finally she opened up the show to Q&As, and things got more interesting (to me). The second question was from a man who said he was 56 and having a hard time getting a job. I sat up in my chair, trying to get a look at him across the dimly lit room. Did he look old? Do I look as old as he does? Job Jenny said something I didn't want to hear. She said, "You might consider cutting your hair and investing in a new pair of glasses. And dressing younger." Ahhhhhhhhh!

Hey, Job Jenny gets $1,000 to write a resume, according to one of my tablemates. She must be doing something right.

Well, at least that guy doesn't have to worry about concealing his figure flaws.

I remember reading an article about an older guy's job hunt. He was having no luck, getting interviews but no offers, until finally in desperation he went to an interview wearing red Converse sneakers and a baseball cap. He got the job. Hmmm. Maybe I should try that. Or maybe I should try charging $1,000 for writing resumes. I could live on that.

MAY 06, 2013

# 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.

MAY 10, 2013

# 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.

MAY 16, 2013

# 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.)

MAY 29, 2013

# 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.

JUNE 02, 2013

# 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.

JUNE 06, 2013

# 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?

JUNE 12, 2013

# 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.

### Data Collection: Life on Life's Terms

JUNE 14, 2013

# 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.

JUNE 18, 2013

# 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.

JUNE 27, 2013

# 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 advisor 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 advisor. 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.

JULY 19, 2013

# 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...

AUGUST 05, 2013

# 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.

AUGUST 23, 2013

# How to blend in to your neighborhood

It's pandemonium at the Love Shack. My new neighbor has the bass cranked up on his stereo, same old story, just like the old neighbor. Sound travels through the old walls and floors like bladdity bla through yadada. I can't think of any metaphor that isn't a total cliche, because not only is the bass rattling my brain, but the neighbors in back are having an outdoor party, complete with music and applause. Closing the windows helps against the applause, but does nothing to block the bass coming through the walls from next door. And then we've got the music and laughter coming from the cafe across the street. There's no escaping it.

After a lovely evening at the Portland Art Museum with Bravadita and her friend Jeff, this is what I came home to. Cacophony. The first thing I did was close all my windows and pull my shades. I considered cranking up my stereo—a little New Order might help. What I really want is silence. There is nowhere to hide from this, except into my mp3 player, my refuge of last resort. If I can fill my head with my own music, I won't have to hear/feel the bass thrumming in my bones through the floorboards. It's a different kind of assault, one of choice.

It's hard to imagine writing anything coherent with all this noise going on. I was going to try. But it's after 10:00 p.m., and I just don't have the brain for it. I have a lot to write. And a serious deadline. I need a miracle. But I don't think it's going to happen tonight.

I collected my fifth interview yesterday. That is the good news. But it doesn't look as though any more will be forthcoming. By now, all my former colleagues at the career college have had time to make their decision: Will I help Carol or not? After two weeks, one person emailed me to express his willingness, and I met him yesterday morning on campus. Yes, on the campus where I used to work.

Driving there, parking, walking into the building... it felt surreal, like I was Rip Van Winkle, gone a hundred years, shuffling through the door with bad eyesight and a beard. Don't you know me? They knew me. They were just surprised to see me. And it wasn't the good kind of surprise, like, Wow, here's Carol! How are you? It was more like, Wow, here's Carol, what is she doing showing her face here? A few students recognized me, too, which was awkward. I couldn't remember their names.

The interview went well; I collected some good insights that will make my study stronger. When it was finished, he was clearly done with me: There was no loitering, hey, how's it going, no chit chat. I went out to the receptionist area and paused, thinking that maybe I could go over to the main building and find someone else to interview. Stupid me. I quickly realized everyone was in class. Everyone had a job. Everyone but me. I got in my car, drove home, and went back to bed.

Once it gets quiet, my plan is to begin writing up my findings, and continue data collection if possible. Qualitative research is iterative anyway. See? It's all good. Somewhere.

AUGUST 27, 2013

# Don't count your chickens before they tear your lips off

This morning I was on hold with the Employment Department to get my PIN reset and thinking that if I had to listen to the same 45-second clip of Kenny G's insipid soprano sax one more time I was going to poke my ear drums out, when I had the inspiration to email program directors at the career college directly to ask them to ask instructors directly to participate in my study. I sent a few emails, and voila! I got two sign-ups today, and the possibility of one more. Very soon, if the data collection gods are kind, I will have seven, maybe even eight interviews. And that is within spitting distance of the goal. In fact, it might be good enough. Sometimes good is the enemy of the best, but sometimes good enough is good enough.

I hate to think I have Kenny G to thank for this. I'd be more inclined to attribute the sudden progress to the depth of my desperation. My new motto is Drill down, baby, drill down! As in, forget the president of the college, forget the VP of Whatever. Go down into the hole and grab those program directors by the scruff of their necks and shake 'em. Say firmly, Look here, Buster, I need to talk to some faculty. Pronto! And watch them scurry. It worked!

So next week I'll scurry to meet them whenever and wherever they decree, no matter if it happens to interfere with my best thinking time (AKA nap time). Things are looking up. And not a moment too soon. I have three months to put this baby to bed or throw myself on the mercy of the university for an extension. I'm sure they will give it to me, if I ask. I've been a good student. (Meaning I've done my work on time and kept my mouth shut.) But how nice it would be to have this done before the end of the year.

I'm already daydreaming about taking the longest nap, the longest bath, the longest geographical. I'm daydreaming about how I'll finally be able to visit my friends (the ones who still remember me).

You know what they say. Don't count your chickens before they tear your lips off. I have a mountain of research to sift through, to make sense out of, to write about coherently enough to gain approval from the dissertation review gods. The culmination of eight years of work is now culminating! Culminating in progress, before your very eyes. It's not really a pretty sight. Actually, it's kind of stinky. I need a bath. The whole place reeks like a gym bag. But who cares. As my sister wisely says, just get it done.

AUGUST 30, 2013

# Summer's last kiss

I took a break from writing to go for a run in the park. Well, I wouldn't call it a run, exactly. More like a shambling trot. I used to be able to run. Then I jogged. Now I trot. As long as I'm not crawling, who cares. Getting outside is good for the brain. And it's the last kiss of summer.

This time of year is always bittersweet. I love the golden light, the warm air, the luscious green leaves. But too soon, it ends. I wax maudlin every year about this time. I got a little weepy in the park just now, as I stood next to a lamppost, creakily stretching my legs and staring into the setting sun. Swallows looped silently overhead, in and around, up and down, snatching at invisible insects. The sky was devoid of clouds, and the sun was huge and red with the ash of Washington wildfires. I soaked it up, wishing I could store that light for later. I'm going to need it in a few short months when I'm dragging with SAD.

It might have been the setting sun, or the fact that I was wearing sunglasses, or it might just have been me waxing weepy, but I kept seeing people in the park who resembled people I knew long ago. I knew it wasn't them, because they looked just like they did when we were teenagers. One was my first official boyfriend, I'll call him Steve. I was 16, he was 19 (can you say underage?). He was a runner, a gaunt young man with a long torso and short legs, and long wavy dark hair that fanned out behind him as he ran. Now Steve could run. No trotting for that boy.

Seeing this modern version of Steve glide by in the setting sun reminded me of how simple things seemed when I was young and stupid. I'm just as stupid as I was, in a lot of ways, and now I'm not young. Being young and stupid is sort of cool if you wear the right clothes, but not if you are old and stupid.

Talking about how stupid I am is stupid. I'm going to stop that now and reflect on other things. Like the homeless person's tent I saw off to the side of the trail, on the flank of the caldera. No wonder I always smell pot when I run past that place. Like the difficulty of dodging piles of dog poop and wandering slugs while one is wearing sunglasses in the twilight. Can't see with them, can't see without them: Be ready to scrape your shoes later. Like the sudden epiphany about how to organize Chapter 4 of my dissertation.

It's not all bad. Neither is it all good. And it's not both, as those who subscribe to yin and yang would have us believe. It's somewhere in between. Yes, today seems like the last kiss of summer, but there will be nice days in the fall, and yes, even in the winter. Life happens, that's all. Good, bad, it is difficult to tell. Today the VP of Whatever emailed me to say that next Friday I can come to campus and interview any faculty who are willing. I think that might be good. But it's hard to tell.

SEPTEMBER 03, 2013

# Trying not to put words in their mouths

Today while I transcribed my sixth interview, a bus tried to cut the corner and clipped a car parked in front of the Love Shack. The neighborhood erupted into activity. Most looked and left. No blood. Ho hum. A couple people rushed around the bus, examined the car, and pounded on my door.

"Is this your car!" shouted a burly man who didn't look like a bus driver. He ran back to the car and held his cell phone up to the fender.

"No, they live down there, in the duplex," I replied and went back to transcribing. It takes more than an errant bus to keep me from my mission. What's my mission? To finish this wretched dissertation.

Actually, wretched might not apply anymore. I'm coming to rather enjoy this part of the process. Not the recruiting, that still sucks. Not the interviewing. I'd rather be alone. But I really like the writing. The dreaming. The reflecting. The connecting. I don't think I'm very good at it, but I can sense that I have potential. Concepts are coming clearer, like bubbles rising through murky water. Maybe they will surface, and maybe I will be quick enough to grab them and glue them to paper before they pop. And maybe not.

Even though I am not really eager to interview these faculty, I still am enamored with their words. They say such profound things, mostly in very inept ways as they struggle to respond to my questions. And I sit there with the perfect word on my tongue, the word they seek to make their idea crystallize, and I have to bite that rebellious tongue to keep from shouting the word out loud.

It's harder than you think. Conversation is a give and take. I'm not having conversations with these people. I'm conducting interviews. It's a different art. Sometimes the urge to respond helpfully is overwhelming, sort of like the many times I felt compelled to correct a former boyfriend when he kept pronouncing the word chassis as chass-iss. Eventually I gave in to the urge. "It's chassey," I shouted at him one memorable day. "Chassey!" Of course, after he got over his shock, he never forgave and never forgot. Needless to say, we are no longer in communication.

A few times during these interviews, I admit, I've succumbed to the urge. I can't help it. As a former teacher, it was my job to summarize, to clarify, to helpfully supply the word to finish the sentence, to bring the concept into the light. "Yin and yang," was one of the concepts I helpfully supplied during my fifth interview. My interviewee's eyes lit up. "That's it!" he cried. As soon as I said it, I was like, oh no, did I just say that? Yin and yang is such a great concept, and I can't use it now, because I put the words in his mouth. Argh. This afternoon I did it again. My interviewee was flailing around for a word, and it just popped out from between my lips, like a bubble: "Trust," I said.

"That's right, trust. I wouldn't have thought of it, but that is it exactly."

Just shoot me now. Oh well. This is how we learn.

SEPTEMBER 11, 2013

# The chronic malcontent makes the best of a curry powder migraine

The most creative time to write a blog post is when one is having a migraine, don't you think? That is, if you get the classic kind like me, in which half your vision falls away. The aura usually starts near the middle of my left eye. For the next 20 minutes or so, it will slowly migrate outward. Meanwhile, I've got a blog post to write!

The typewritten word takes on new meaning when you aren't exactly sure what you are typing. It could be poetry for all I know. Sadly, probably it's not a lot different from the usual drivel I write: I notice I frequently leave out words. It's so humbling. I used to be an excellent writer. I mean, I could spell the crap out of words like onomatopoeia. Luckily there is a spellchecker in Blogger.

Whoa. Now I can't see my fingers. Good thing all this transcription (ten interviews in two months, four in just the past weekend) has honed my typing skills. I'm probably at 75 wpm with a gajillion errors. Maybe I'll try typing with my eyes closed and see what hapens. Happens. That's what happens.

Some people get migraines from stress. Sometimes hormones play a role. (I don't have any of those left, so I know it's not that.) Migraines for me are caused by chemicals in food. I'm not sure what chemicals. Usually there's a 15-24 hour lag time. I can't remember what I ate yesterday. Not much, since I was freaking out over something that happened with my data collection method, which I may or may not share with you at some point. Suffice it to say, it was sufficiently serious to upset my normally healthy appetite, a very rare occurrence for me.

So, what did I eat that is causing this brain fart now? Hmmmm. About an hour ago I cooked vegetables in curry powder. Nothing new, I use curry powder every now and then, not skillfully, but what I lack in skill I make up in exuberance. This time I added a second kind of curry powder that I got at Trader Joe's. The label didn't list any preservatives. But it was not organic. Could that be the culprit? Pesticides? Herbicides? A one-hour lag time is not impossible. It's happened before.

Now the aura is multicolored, looking rather festive as it moves out from the center of my left eye toward the periphery. The icons on my desktop are refracted and swirly. Cool. No, I should say, psychedelic, man. Did I spell that right?

The data collection methodology crisis was averted. My Chair left me a loophole and I leaped through it with neither style nor grace. As my beloved sister says, just get it done. I'm getting it done. Just a word to the wannabe-wise, remember, your Chairperson is not your confidant. Neither is she your friend. Enough said.

Wow, now I'm looking down a deep tunnel. Like reverse binoculars. I can see the words on the screen again, but only in the center of my gaze, not out to the edges. No peripheral vision on the left side yet. It's coming back, though, along with the usual boring headache. Thank god I don't get the debilitating headaches that some people get, the kind that make them bang their heads against walls or retreat whimpering to dark closets. I'm so fortunate. Not only is my migraine only mildly painful, but it is multicolored. Maybe there is a god.

It was 97° here today, by my widget. Maybe hotter, who knows. I'm sure it broke a record. My ankles are swollen. My cat is sleeping in the tub. I've been working on Chapter 4 of my dissertation all week, immersed in the voices of my ten faculty members. Today, though, I've been at half-mast. Much as I love this extreme heat, it's just not a day for reveling. I cannot forget this is a day for reflection and mourning. Usually I go walking on this day to commemorate and remember, but it was just too hot, even for me.

Now the aura is gone, retreated to a buzzing space somewhere in back of my ears. I can see again, although things look painfully sharp. I think I'll dump out that Trader Joe's curry powder. It's just not worth it.

Tomorrow I'm scheduled to meet some friends at a Mexican restaurant for lunch. Can you say, migraine factory? I'll take my next migraine wrapped in a flour tortilla, thank you. Hold the bright green guacamole.

### MANUSCRIPT: THE MASSIVE WRETCHED TOME

SEPTEMBER 15, 2013

# Will I ever stop doubting? It's doubtful

I'm in maniac writing mode, trying to finish Chapter 4 of my dissertation to upload to my Chairperson this week. This thing just keeps expanding. It's a bloated blob of muck now, completely out of control. I keep stirring it with my stick, trying to make sense of it all, hoping it will come clear.

The cat helps when he can. He just commandeered my chair, so I have to write standing up. The weather took a turn, my feet are cold, my ankles are swollen, and my Chapter 4 is a bloated fetid stinking mass of shite.

My cat poked me in the butt just now and said, "Are you okay?" He is watching me type. He doesn't like it. He would prefer I pay attention to him. I want to post something before I fall asleep on my feet, so I keep typing.

He pokes me again. This time he says quite clearly, "Do you work here?" What, does he want a drink? Sure, dude, I work here. What'll you have? He just wants me to stop typing and give him a rubdown.

It's probably not as bad as I think. I'm just feeling insecure. I live with doubt. I know I'm supposed to be a scholar, and I am almost there, sometimes. But this is new to me, and there are so many details to consider: content, structure, formatting... My fear is that I'll format the crap out of it and it will look like a million bucks, but the damn thing will make no sense. Completely miss the mark. Take off on a tangent, maybe one of those tempting frothy emotional appeals, and zoooom, it's gone, into the stratosphere, leaving the Problem Statement, the Purpose Statement, and the Significance of the Study behind in the mud. My mind is not a great place to be right now. I'm doubting everything. I look at words that I've typed a billion times—Administrative. Systems. Quality—and I wonder, did I spell that right? How many words have I left out? What am I not seeing? Dang it. I need to see it.

I once heard somebody say "I'll see it when I believe it" in reference to some seemingly impossible task. I'm sure he heard it from someone else. He's long gone so I can't ask him where the phrase came from. I'd really like to know if he ever believed it. People say we create our own reality. (Now there's a scary thought.) But I do know my mind is usually out to get me. Hence the constant state of doubt.

The cat looks permanently parked on my chair. Time to turn on the TV. There's nothing on, but I can immerse myself into something other than myself for a while. That will be a relief.

SEPTEMBER 19, 2013

# Whine on, whine on harvest moon

This morning I ran errands and basked in the last of the warm summer air. I could feel the hint of fall in the breeze. I hate that. You probably like fall, many people do. Enjoying brisk mornings and warm afternoons, prancing through piles of golden leaves, carving festive pumpkins. Right. All I can picture is braving cold downpours, splashing through chilly mud puddles, and peering through raindrops covering my glasses. Ugh. Fall. Bleh.

That's what I was thinking as I drank in the warm air this morning. Afterward I came home and uploaded Chapter 4 of my dissertation to the course room. It took 10 minutes to upload, that's how big it is. 30+ megabytes of images and text. Three hundred pages that I hope will make sense to my Chair. Good gawd. Oh well. One more chapter to go. I'm dreading this one. This is the one where I have to sound really smart, the one where I succinctly and concisely and intelligently explain what it all means and what we should do about it. Sigh. Suddenly I feel really tired. Where is all that righteous energy that fired me up to start on this crazy journey back in 2005? Where is all that fervor and froth, now when I need it the most? All I can do is say, meh.

There's a harvest moon tonight, according to my mother. I can barely see it through the wretched holly tree that I wish would shrivel and die. Mom says people are crazier than normal under a harvest moon. Is that true? Do you feel crazier than normal? I feel crazy all the time these days. How do you know what is normal? The world seems pretty normal. Another mass shooting, check. Massive flooding, check. Budget cuts, check. Hurricane, check. Officer-involved shooting, check. Earthquakes, yeah, a few, check. Politics as usual, check. Ho hum. Is that all there is, as the song goes. Remember that song? No, you are probably too young.

I get melancholy this time of year, more morose than usual. The surge of satisfaction I felt at posting Chapter 4 was short-lived and quickly forgotten. I seem to be naturally predisposed to cling to the negative... no, wait a minute. Hey. Aren't I a closet optimist? Yeah, that's right. I forgot until I was about to type the word shunning. What am I shunning? (Have I ever typed that word before today?) According to the Happiness test, I'm not a pessimist, I'm an optimist. Oh no, now I need to rethink my opinion of fall. Aaaaah. I'm losing my mind. Who am I, if not the chronic malcontent? Argh. I despise fall. It makes me feel uncomfortable feelings and think uncomfortable thoughts. I hate that. Time to watch TV.

Tomorrow I will dive into Chapter 5, the last chapter. If there is a god, which I'm not convinced there is, then the approvals will flow toward me with ease and grace. I'll put it all together into one massive masterpiece (bigger is better, right?), defend the crap out of it with a superior PowerPoint, they'll confer and grudgingly give me the secret handshake, and then it will be done. I'm already dreaming about the month-long bath I plan to take. Right after the month-long nap. And if there's not a god, well, wake me when it's over.

SEPTEMBER 24, 2013

# You can stop wondering. I'm alive.

A few people keep up with me via my blog, and when I don't post for a while, they wonder what's up. At least, I hope they do. I feel like I haven't blogged in a long time, but maybe that's just my time perception playing tricks on me. I'm so immersed in writing Chapter 4 of my dissertation, I am losing track of reality. I suppose that is normal when one is writing something rather large and long. Large and long. Is that best I can do? I'd like to wax poetic. (Is that the right cliche? I don't wax anything. I don't dust, I don't vacuum, I don't wax... another story.) I'd like to wax poetic about how great this paper is going to be. And it might be... my Chair called the first draft of this chapter "fantastic," which is nice to hear, but she says that about other things, too, so I am not getting too excited just yet.

I had all kinds of things I was going to update you on. I am behind on my whining. I have a backlog of complaints, beginning and ending with the weather (which sucks). But now, other than the weather, I can't remember anything on my list of complaints. That doesn't mean I don't have a litany of troubles to share, but my brain is so fried after a day of writing, snacking, writing, napping, writing, petting the cat, writing... honestly I'm exhausted. I can't remember what I'm mad about. It's a wonder I can type.

You know what it is? It's an epic battle between my right brain and my left brain. One side is focused on content. The other side is focused on format. The two halves do not play well together. You might say, well, Carol, why don't you write the content, and then format it? Hey, great idea. And that's how I end up with holes everywhere. You can call it white space if you are feeling generous. I'm pushing the boundaries of APA, I'll tell you. Tables that cross pages! There's no other way, not if I want to keep the font at least 10 point. Or distribute magnifying glasses with every copy. And to make matters a little more interesting, my Chair said figures need to have a title at the top. Nuh-uh, girlfriend. The caption serves as the title, look it up.

Now I'm getting warmed up. Starting to feel my blood start to steam a little, feeling that old familiar ire rising up my... no wait, that's just acid reflux. I still can't feel my feet, though. It's cold down near the floor. I've got my rice-filled foot warmer ready to heat up in the microwave as soon as I move to the TV area of the Love Shack. I haven't had dinner yet. It's sort of too late for such a pedestrian event. I wish I had some ice cream. But I don't eat that seductive poison anymore. I had another food-related migraine yesterday, my second this week. Hummus from the health food section at the grocery store. Five ingredients, I thought I'd be safe. Nope. You'd think I'd be skinnier, considering what I don't eat. But of course, that would be ignoring what I do eat, which is a lot. Vegetables and eggs. Salad and chicken or fish. Apples and almond butter. That's it. In large quantities, twice a day.

Oh, and I'm drinking coffee again. Cold, and bitter, the way I like my... never mind, old joke. I'm up to two cups a day. I don't drink it all, I just use the brewing time to think. I'm really not myself. Friends who dare to call have met my dark side. I blame the coffee. I haven't been out of the house at all today. I hear the rain intermittently pounding the pavement. I don't want to look. Now it's almost ten. I've done a good job of whining while bringing you up to date, don't you think? Now I need to search for a drawing that somehow encapsulates the essence of this day's whine. Then I can go eat my apple and watch TV and forget about this paper until tomorrow, when I will get up and do it all over again. Until it's done.

OCTOBER 01, 2013

# The chronic malcontent slogs through another day

Some days I have a hard time making eye contact with people. I thought today would not be one of those days. Today I uploaded draft one of my dissertation manuscript. Yep. All 12.5 MB, all 382 pages. Of course, that includes 50 pages of back end stuff, but still, it's a hefty gulp of... something. I was going to say something snarky at myself, like I usually do. For some reason, I changed my mind. I realize I should feel a sense of accomplishment. Maybe that sense that I should be celebrating just prevented me from downgrading my achievement to a modest 4 on the Richter scale of self-denigration. Whatever.

Anyway, my refrigerator is empty except for four apples, one zucchini, a bottle of olive oil, a jar of mustard, and some maple syrup. Maybe you can figure out a recipe from that, but I'm a lousy cook. So I just went to get food. If you know me, you know that is not as simple as it sounds. First, I don't eat normal food. By normal, I mean regular food that someone like my mother would eat, for instance. Yogurt. Kraft Mac n Cheese. Pudding from little cups. Me, I aim for organic everything, all fresh, nothing processed, no dairy, no wheat, no soy, no sugar, no corn. That limits my options; on the upside, it keeps things very simple. But I always feel this undercurrent of resentment frisson through my body when I walk past the ice cream case.

Second, I'm not earning much money since I got laid off from the job in May. I get an amount every week from the Tuition Unemployment Insurance program, until the end of November, when my doctoral program officially runs out. So, the whopping $84 grocery bill made me sob a tiny bit. Finances always make me want to cower under the covers.

And third, and here's the clincher for me, the well-meaning older lady who commandeered the bagging operation at the store was inept and... well, she seemed just plain not present. Rather than show compassion for a kindred spirit, I felt compelled to show her the proper way to bag my groceries, all the while being completely unable to look her in the eye. The best I could do was focus somewhere over her shoulder.

Now, in my defense, I will say that my eyesight for objects three feet or closer is none too good when I am wearing my out-of-door driving glasses. She would have been blurry anyway, even if I were able to look her in the eye. The pressure of other customers coming through the line, the $84 grocery bill, and her inability to properly bag my groceries... on a good day, I would be able to sail through it. I thought today would be a good day. Unloading my dissertation off my plate and onto my Chair's plate should feel pretty damn good. Especially considering the long hours I've been putting in on the darn thing.

I applied for an extension to my program a couple weeks ago. The powers that be at the online university granted it to me yesterday. That's good news. My new drop dead date is June 2014. If I am not done with this thing by then, then I might as well quit on it. I will have no excuse. Unless I drop dead. I guess that would be an acceptable excuse.

The bagger lady wasn't looking at me, either, by the way. She was gazing off at the checker, maybe hoping to be rescued from the insane customer who pulled all the groceries out of the bag to rebag them properly. (That would be me.) I have a lot of experience bagging my own groceries. You could say I'm an expert at it. I buy the same crap twice a week and I always go through the self-service checkout. If they had a self-service checkout at this store I went to today, I would have used it. They have organic gold beets, organic green beans, and organic crimini mushrooms. For those things, I put up with the human-operated check out line.

The box of organic salad (washed three times!) goes on the bottom. The two dozen eggs go next, side by side. Then other stuff can go on top. The bagger lady didn't want to understand. I know that feeling. She was checked out, just hoping the horrible customer would go away. So she put the second egg carton in the bag, but didn't take the time to lay it flat. I was like, wha? No more, like what the funk, lady? Really? How can you possibly think that would work. I managed to simply say, "It's got to lay flat." I could have gone on. But I stuffed the other crap in the bag, grabbed it, shouldered the other bag, got my receipt, and stomped out the door.

If I could, I would never go back there again. But that's just plain silly. It's not them. They are not at fault. Inept employees are everywhere. Mentally invisible people are all around. It's not them, it's me. For some reason, I'm on edge, and I wasn't expecting it, not today. I was blind-sided by my own insanity. Again.

The past month has been hard. We had the wettest September on record. I have been writing long hours every day, every day of the week, hunched over my computer in my gloomy dank dusty cave. I drink way too much coffee, a really crappy, cold, black, bitter brew. I forget to eat. My friends are leaving me alone. My mother lets me call her. It's like I am encased in a bubble. A ridiculous Ph.D.—A.B.D. bubble. All but dissertation. An eight-year slog.

My little fledgling business is frozen in time. My websites are neglected. I have a comment that needs moderating. Email that needs returning. I can't remember the PIN to my business bank account. It's like I had a dream that I was self-employed. It seems so far away, after these weeks writing, writing, writing on this massive document that represents something I stopped wanting six years ago. But like all amusement park rides, once you get on, you cannot easily get off. There are consequences if you try to get off a roller coaster early. Free fall being one of them.

I just got a robo-call from "Jessica" from Cardholder Services telling me that I need to do something about my credit cards. Sigh. It's time to put my number on the Do not call list again. Thank god I have no credit cards, else I'd be booking a flight to sunny Scottsdale right now. Thank god I have paid cash for this doctoral adventure, so I will owe nothing when it is finally done. And it will someday be done. Maybe that is what is bothering me. I've been doing this so long, I am fearful of what comes next.

Ah, well. The slog continues, one day at a time. Today I am doing what is on my list. I'll worry about tomorrow's slog tomorrow.

OCTOBER 02, 2013

# The chronic malcontent feels resentment at a sorry-ass data entry snoid

While I wait for my Chair to chew up and spit out my dissertation draft, I have the pleasure of doing... nothing much. I wasn't going to blog today; I have some important things on my to-do list (clean tub, take nap, put away laundry). However, something happened today that I need to whine about. I have spent the last hour pretending that it didn't affect me. But I can't seem to focus on getting anything done, so clearly it affects me some. After all, when you decide to clean the tub, you must have laser-like focus, otherwise someone could get hurt. Know what I mean?

So, here's my rant. I checked email this morning, like I always do, and found a terse note from my big megabank, which has hosted my money since it took over Security Pacific back in the early 1990s. I have never had a problem with big megabank, and I still don't. But imagine my shock and horror when I read the email telling me that my account was now at $0.00. Yep. Not even any pennies. Zip. Zilch. Empty. All gone.

Hoping it was a phishing error, I logged into my account. Nope. Zero. And the culprit was in plain sight. September's rent check (which [full disclosure] was a replacement check [minus a $30 stop fee] for a check that had gone AWOL, not my fault!)—Septembers' replacement rent check had been posted in error: instead of $695, some drunken data entry snoid probably somewhere back east had added an extra zero, causing $6,950 to be extracted from my checking account. Well, I don't know how you roll, but I don't normally keep that much in checking, so bam! That misbegotten nameless bank hoovered out all my funds and then proceeded to tap my savings account to make up the difference.

After a few tense moments, I found an 800 number. I wrestled the voice mail system into providing me with a live person by shouting "Fraud! Help! Help! Help!" into the phone. The neighbor probably thought I was being robbed (although he never showed). Finally a polite young gal got on the phone and calmed me down. She could see immediately what had happened.

"I'll put in the order to reverse the transaction," she said sweetly. "And I'll credit back the $10.00 overdraft fee." Ha. Like I cared about a lousy $10.00 when $6,255 of my money had been siphoned out of my accounts in the blink of someone's bleary hungover eye.

"How long will that take?" I asked, thinking of all the October automatic payments that will soon be hitting my account. Please tell me a few hours.

"Up to five business days," she said cheerfully. "And now, if you have ten minutes, would you like to talk to a financial advisor about how to invest that money in your money market savings?"

I almost said, what money? Seriously? You are trying to sell me more services, when I've just been electronically violated? Jeez, it hurts to sit down, and she's telemarketing me! God grant me strength. Well, I had a good excuse to refuse her offer: my breakfast was overcooking. In my freaked out haste to alter my circumstances, I had forgotten that my veggies were sweltering on the stove. Oops. Well, at least I hadn't cracked the eggs yet.

So the remedy for my tattered bank account is "pending," and I'm realizing that living in an electronic world has its curses as well as its blessings. But we've always been at the mercy of data entry errors. It can happen to anyone at any time. Banks track their error rates. If they are really good, they keep it to 2%. That's why they have fancy validation procedures, to make sure this doesn't happen. Imagine if I had had a business, with irate employees and bounced payroll checks and vendor payments. We would lose all trust in business. Not that we had much to begin with.

And I can't even register my phone number on the Do not call list, because the darn government is on holiday in Tahiti. So I keep getting robocalls from the credit card consolidation companies. What is up with that? If they did a little homework, they would find out I haven't had a credit card in years. Well, what the funk. Enough ranting. Am I sufficiently calm to begin the task of scouring the tub? I wouldn't want to try it when I'm tense with fear and resentment. I might do something crazy.

OCTOBER 07, 2013

# The chronic malcontent grudgingly admires her clean curtains

I'm waiting for comments on my first draft of my dissertation manuscript from my Chair and the nameless, faceless committee. As I wait, I'm noticing how my mind is trying to kill me. For example, my mind has convinced me that my document has developed a plague of typos, grammar errors, and formatting problems. When I uploaded it, it was clean, sparkling, shiny, as close to perfect as a first draft ever gets. Two days later, it had lost some of its luster. Four days later, it is shredding around the edges, tattered and stained. Every day I wait, my mind brainwashes away my enthusiasm and hope. Now I am starting to believe the paper will never pass muster. What was I thinking? Yada yada yada.

You see how my mind rolls? Nuts. I'm completely nuts. Nothing has changed. The paper is the same paper I uploaded last Tuesday. It can't develop issues. Unless my Chair or the nameless, faceless committee person pokes around and inadvertently deletes a style. That could be somewhat disastrous. (My Word skills are above average. I don't trust their Word skills.) But in any case, the content should remain intact, right? The words are not morphing into Pig-Latin when no one is looking. My errors are not proliferating like bacteria in a petri dish.

My mind is also trying to convince me that all the work I've done the past week to clean up my decrepit hovel is worthless activity. I guess that means unless I'm writing the dissertation or working to drum up clients for my frozen-in-time research business, I'm slacking. Washing the heavy linen drapes (made from paint dropcloths) doesn't count, apparently. Vacuuming the hairball infested rugs doesn't count either. I only vacuum twice a year, so this is a special occasion, yet I am unable to rejoice. Five loads of laundry in two days! Do you know how many quarters that is!? Surely that must count for something. Nope. Even after the curtains are rehung (looking two shades lighter!), I am consumed with feelings of inadequacy. What the–?

Well. You can probably tell what is happening. It's all this waiting. Waiting is upsetting my already unstable mind. I daydream about some future day when I don't have to do this anymore. My mind, though, refuses to let me believe it will ever come to an end. Maybe my mind is trying to protect me from disappointment. Like, don't think about how it will feel to succeed. Just keep your head down and keep slogging. Don't think about what you will do when it's done (take a nap, take a bath, take an art class). Sooner or later, one way or another, someday, it will be over.

OCTOBER 08, 2013

# The chronic malcontent deals with it

Waiting sucks. I don't know what to do with myself. I've washed just about everything in the apartment, except the cat. I've checked the course room twice a day since last Wednesday. I'm spending too much time surfing news sites, looking at pictures, reading about the government shutdown, wondering how many revisions I will have to do, how long it will take, how I will find the will to dig in deeper.

Today I went out in the rain to renew my car registration. Every two years we have to take our cars to a Department of Environment Quality test station so they can make sure our carbon footprint isn't too big. My old Focus passed the test, no problem. Yay. A car that fails DEQ implies a moral failure, I'm pretty sure, so I was feeling smug. I was out of there in less than 15 minutes, $143 poorer and wondering, if I can't find work A.D. (after degree), will I have to park the car and start transiting with the masses? I'm not afraid of mass transit like my friend Sheryl. But mass transit is a devious invention cleverly devised to keep poor people poor.

Where would I be transiting to, though, is the question? Sheryl hasn't found work yet. I doubt I will be any luckier. No one wants to hire old women. Not when there are so many chirpy young people around who are eager to do the job. Maybe we should do what they used to do in Japan: take the old folks up the mountain and shove them off a cliff.

Judy Woodruff and Gwen Ifill are my heroes: two older gals who are still tearing up the airwaves. The only waves I can tear up are the ones in my microwave oven, and even that is iffy sometimes. Sometimes pressing the button gets you nothing but dead silence. The monster is old and tired. I am referring to the microwave.

After the rain stopped, the sun came out and the temperature dropped. I yanked on my (tight! ow!) spandex jogging gear and trotted up to Mt Tabor Park. I shuffled carefully along the slippery leaf-strewn roads, avoiding the muddy trails, very aware that one slip, one fracture, would change my life forever. There were about twenty Canadian geese honking and pooping happily in the reservoir. Big gray clouds intermittently hid the sun. These clouds are the storm cells that come in with colder air. I can see Bruce Sussman's weather map in my mind...yep, these are those patchy storm cells that can dump cold rain at any moment and then trudge on toward Mt Hood to lay down some snow. I hate snow. Not that you asked, just sayin'. It's 48° right now in Portland, and 83° in Phoenix. Enough said.

A boring day. I've lost my momentum, my mojo, waiting for feedback on my personal albatross. I might actually have to get out the sewing machine and start—gasp!—mending or making things. If you knew how much I hate to sew (long story), you would realize what a big deal this is.

I could start working on my business again. It's there, in the back of my mind, all the time, like an unhealed wound. No, that's a terrible metaphor. Let's say... the idea of working on my business is like having a grain of kitty litter stuck in my sock. A nagging irritation difficult to ignore (especially while I am trying to jog). I have some ideas, I have some half-formed plans, but I have no enthusiasm while waiting for feedback on this dissertation. I am frozen in time, like a decrepit bug stuck in amber.

OCTOBER 11, 2013

# De-cluttering the chronic malcontent

My apartment, which a former friend once sarcastically named the Love Shack, has one closet, and it is in the bedroom, just inside the door. I would say it is a smallish closet, based on my 50+ years of experience with closets. Not big enough for a Murphy bed, anyway. It's about six feet long, just over two feet deep, with a clothes rod at eye-level, and it has two shelves above the clothes rod. I can just barely reach a box or basket on the top shelf. It has a regular-sized door, not a sliding door, which limits the width of things that can be stored. So, it isn't exactly a huge closet. A normal size person could lay down on the floor and take up all the space.

Still, it's amazing how much crap I have managed to store in that small space. In anticipation of the ARC truck driveby scheduled for next week, I decided to declutter the Love Shack. I feared it would be futile, since most of the clutter consists of books, and I'm not ready to part with my books. However, I tried. I worked my way from room to room, seeking trash that could become another man's treasure, and eventually ended up in the bedroom closet.

A couple days ago, my Chair sent a message to all her hapless victims, oops, I mean, all her students, letting us know she is unexpectedly out of the office until Monday. Maybe it's a ploy to buy more time to review my massive dissertation. Maybe she's got some job interviews lined up. Maybe she has moved to Florida. No, wait, she already lives in Florida. Well, who knows? I hope she is okay. In the meantime, I am trying not to dwell on the millions of problems I expect she and the committee will find with my dissertation. I am trying not to think about time passing, tick tock. Instead, I continue my housecleaning blitz.

I took all the clothes off the clothes rod and piled them on my bed. Some of the garments are wrapped in old crinkly clear plastic cleaner bags. The cat immediately freaked and ran, I assumed to hunker down under the couch. He hates the crinkly sound of plastic bags.

Once the clothes were out, I could see the closet much better. Most of the floor was occupied by a small shop vac, purchased from Sears about 12 years ago, rarely used because of its unbearably loud roar. I think I've vacuumed my car with it twice, assisted by a two-mile long extension cord running from my back door to the gravel parking lot where I park my car. Twice. In 12 years. What would my life be without a shop vac, I wondered? Poorer, maybe, if I had any desire to vacuum my floor mats. But after a minute of contemplation, I realized I'd trade the prospect of toothpick-free floor mats for some empty floor space in my closet in a heartbeat. I packed up the accessories, found the owner's manual, stuffed it all inside the belly of the little beast and taped it shut. I rolled the machine out to the front door and parked it next to two paper shopping bags standing ready to accumulate other castoff clutter. Take my vac—please!

Next I tackled the shelves. Some festively colored plastic baskets held a variety of junk I hadn't looked at in years, judging by the pristine layer of dust coating everything. I dug under the dust and found things I have no memory of buying: shower curtain liners (two unopened packages! I only have one shower, and I never use it!), plus three unopened packages of suction cups with little hooks attached. Wha—? Maybe I was planning on covering the hideous beige Formica shower stall? I can't remember, but it sounds like something I might have done about ten years ago when I first moved into the Love Shack. When the walls were bare, when there were no cat seats or curtains or furniture, other than a refrigerator and a stove, and I don't think those really count as furniture, do they?

I put the curtains and the hooks in the ARC bag and went digging for more junk. Hmmm, lots of electrical stuff, odds and ends. An unopened kit to hang a swag lamp. I obviously didn't know I had that in the closet, since a couple years ago I purchased a kit from IKEA and installed it over my desk area. It's got one of those balloon-shaped white paper shades on it. One swag is all I have room for, so in the bag goes the old swag kit (much better quality than the IKEA version, I might add, but oh well). What else? Let's see. A glass-less, cardboard-less black and gilt picture frame, no doubt a gift that used to hold some certificate or other that someone at my former job thought I would be proud to receive. Probably a certificate testifying to the fact that I am qualified to teach keyboarding. Was qualified. My teaching skills are rusty after almost six months of non-use.

But wait, there's more: An electric socket kit; a black nylon zipfront jacket I bought to wear to the freezing cold gym and then dropped my membership but kept the jacket and never wore it once (too tight!); an electric alarm clock (two alarms but no radio, replaced several years ago by a similar alarm clock, with two alarms and a radio); a black shirt with too-short sleeves, made of 1970s Indian cotton gauze, the sort of fabric that looks like a wrinkled mess even after you iron it; an unopened spool of speaker wire; a 2-foot under-cabinet fluorescent light; and a cheesy backpack, the kind you get when you donate to the Sierra Club.

What else is in the closet? A box of paint cans. A wooden easel. My huge brown leather portfolio, with its broken handle and carefully incised etching of a leaping naked man (Hermes, I think), and which contains all the illustrations I made when I was in my fashion illustrator phase, circa 1979. I have no idea what to do with all that stuff. No one could possibly want it, but I can't bear to throw it all away. And at the back of the closet, wrapped in a dingy off-white flannel blanket and wrapped with bone-dry masking tape: probably the most valuable thing I own, to me anyway. The painting that inspired me to become a painter.

It's a landscape, about 26" x 32", of some dark clumps of autumn trees separated by a slow-moving river, which reflects a lowering sunset. The paint is thick, the style impressionist. There might have once been an artist's name inscribed in the lower right corner, but if there was, it is unintelligible now. The back of the painting is covered in very old paper, which is cracked and peeling. A bit of cardboard peeps through, but there is nothing written that I can see. I'm tempted to peel up the paper, to see if there might be a clue.

The painting has been in my closet since my mother sold the house where my father died and moved to her condo. That was what, 2005? She didn't want the painting, or more accurately, she knew I did. She's in jettisoning mode, too. I think that is what happens to some people when they get old: They start giving stuff away, in preparation for their departure. Me, I just want to recycle some of my clutter. But not this painting. Someday I will have it appraised and if I can afford it, I will have the years of cigar and cigarette smoke carefully removed from its surface. Maybe someday I will be privileged to see what it looked like when the unknown artist first painted it.

I hung it up on my wall, half over one of my own paintings. It's nothing like my paintings, and yet, this dark landscape is encoded in my artistic DNA. I don't know why I didn't hang it up sooner. Probably for the same reason I never knew I had a swag lamp kit, two shower curtain liners, and 24 suction cup hooks. The Bermuda Triangle of closets.

The last task was to sort through all the clothes on the bed. I found myself wondering what the Style Makeover guys would have to say if they saw my wardrobe. Almost all my clothes came from Goodwill or Value Village. Mostly I am talking about jackets and flannel shirts. They all have that musty, dragged in the mud, then washed in cold water look to them. A few things stand out: the men's cashmere coat I found at Goodwill for $20 (warm! disintegrating!); a periwinkle blue linen suit I made back in the late 1980s, when I could still see well enough to sew, when I used to sew for a living (another story); and my black polyester bachelor's graduation robe, which I wore twice a year for almost ten years to my former employer's graduation ceremonies, along with the un-hoodlike hood and the flat mortarboard cap. Should I keep it? I couldn't decide, so I kept it. If nothing else, it could make a good Halloween costume.

OCTOBER 19, 2013

# Take a deep breath, be here now, eat some pie

On Tuesday afternoon I received a list of revisions from my Chairperson, eleven items, some very small, some on the substantive side. Eleven items. I took a deep breath and pulled up my big girl panties, dug in, hunkered down, and bulled my way through that list. I didn't leave the Love Shack for three days (except once to take out the stinking pail of compost. And I refilled the bird seed buffet in the back yard.) I did eat and sleep. I'm not crazy. I did bathe once, I think. And in the evening, when my eyes were crossed and I couldn't see to type, I stopped and zoned out in front of the television until bedtime. So, it's not like I spent the entire 72 hours writing. But it smells like it.

Yesterday was Friday, the sprint to the finish line. I crossed every t, I dotted the i's and j's and anything else that looked better with a dot over it. And when it was as polished and shiny as I could make it, I launched the 380-page monster up to the cyber course room. My hands started shaking as I checked to make sure the document had arrived intact. I sent along with it an explanation of how I had addressed the eleven comments.

After I uploaded the file, I noticed she had sent an email saying essentially, Don't spend a lot of time fixing this thing, let's just get it done. I appreciated that sentiment. However, one of the eleven items was a request to change present tense to past tense in Chapters 4 and 5, which took a long time. I'm sure I missed some verbs, and some could go either way, but I combed through the monster, line and line, changing is to was about twenty billion times, until I got to the end. Well, not that many: I exaggerate. If you make it all the way through spellcheck, Word will give you a report of the grammar check: number of characters, words (93,939), sentences (4,986), and paragraphs (2,802), reading level (grade 13), and percentage of passive tense (13%, which is not bad for an academic scholarly document). I had to put myself in this document: You can't avoid saying I when you are the data collection method (interviewer), interacting with the data sources (human subjects). It always feels so stilted to read _The researcher collected the data_ instead of _I collected the data_. Don't you think? Let's practice being here now, people.

This morning I checked the course room and found an email from my Chair. She reported that she had sent the manuscript to the Graduate School for review. And she added, Take a rest, you deserve it. Fantastic work! Exclamation point. She uses the word fantastic frequently, so I don't read much into it, but still it's nice to hear. I think I am turning into one of her successes: I don't complain, I do my best, and I get it done.

So now it's waiting time again. Up one more step on the increasingly shaky ladder toward the pie in the sky. But I'm starting to sense that this 8-year journey will soon be over. I have evidence: The Chair sent me instructions to prepare for the oral defense.

There's a moment in every one of my favorite rom com movies where the hero finally bows to the inevitable. When running from love, success, creativity, whatever, no longer works. When the hero has to turn away from the past toward an uncertain future and engage fully with the nemesis he/she has been trying unsuccessfully to avoid for 80 minutes. The tone of the music changes from confrontational to wistfully bittersweet, sort of poignant, as the hero realizes that to reach for a new identity means giving up an old identity, one that might have been comfortable and familiar, but now seems increasingly small and confining. It's a leap of faith. As the saying goes, it takes courage to live life.

So, I'm living life, letting go of an old identity to reach for something new and bigger. Probably when I get it, whatever it is, it won't be quite what I expected, but what pie in the sky goal ever tasted like anything you've tasted before?

OCTOBER 23, 2013

# Climbing the mountain, but slowly, slowly

I'm back in waiting mode, waiting for the Graduate School to give a thumbs up/thumbs down on my dissertation (first draft). If I'm lucky, and if all the planets align, and if (contrary to some reports) there is a god, then the draft will be approved with minimal revisions. Then I'll sail on into the oral defense and graduate to the next adventure (self-unemployment, I guess you could call it). But if I'm not lucky and the planets do not align (how would I know?), and there is no god (as most days I suspect), then there will be ten gajillion revisions, from missing words to lack of logic, and I'll have to dive back into the swamp.

Well, maybe swamp is too strong a word. It's really pretty fun to write a research report, and I think I'm pretty good at it. But I'm sort of sick of this one, know what I mean? It's been years in the developing, months in the making, and at times it seems like it will never end. Lately, though, it is starting to seem like I might actually finish. I don't want to count my chickens before they tear my lips off. And it can't go on indefinitely: I do have a deadline. But every hurdle (and there have been many) has melted away—not without effort on my part, but it seems to prove the old adage that persistence wins the race. Or as Kobayashi Issa once said (who?), "O snail, Climb Mount Fuji, But slowly, slowly!"

Meanwhile, the Pacific Northwest is enjoying phenomenal weather, and I have time to enjoy it. Days on end of glorious sunshine, some early morning fog, but mostly delicious sunshine until the shadows lengthen (too soon!). Our local Mount Fuji (Mt. Hood) is covered with a pristine layer of fresh powder. Not deep, though. After the wettest September on record, we have had only five days in October with measurable precipitation. Wack! Our average rainfall for October is 3 inches. We are at 0.84 inches now, but I don't hear anyone complaining. Well, maybe those fish that got left flopping high and dry after the State of Oregon decided to hold back some water in the Wickiup Reservoir for next year's growing season. Oops. Too bad fish can't unionize.

Dare I say it, maybe I have become a half-hearted believer in the... what would I call it? The rhythm of life? I won't go so far as to say that god has a plan—that's a little too woowoo for me—and I don't know how to fit massive fish kills into the overall scheme, but in my tiny snail-like existence, the timing of certain events certainly has seemed charmed at times. I'm thinking specifically of my getting laid off after almost ten years with the career college, at the almost-precise time when I needed every moment to work on my dissertation. Would I have had the courage to quit that job? Probably not: Unemployment is one of my great terrors. Clearly, this was a case of the universe doing for me what I could not do for myself. If I hadn't been laid off, I doubt the president of that college would have felt compelled by guilt to give me permission to interview my former colleagues about a sensitive topic like academic quality (of which they have little, my opinion). If I hadn't been laid off, I wouldn't have been able to complete my data collection. I'd still be flogging the bushes for suitable and willing candidates!

If I really let myself believe that life has a rhythm and a flow, what would that be like, I wonder? Would I be more serene? Would I have more trust in the process? Would I complain less and smile more? Of course, being the chronic malcontent, my next thought is, be careful what you wish for. When the rains come, as they inevitably will, for this is Oregon, after all—when the rains come, and the east wind howls, and full daylight (let alone sunlight) is a distant memory, and my fledgling start-up is wilting from lack of income, then I might find myself cursing the timing of the universe. While I morosely peruse the want ads.

Well, wreckage of the future and all that hoo hah... In the meantime, I'm soaking up the sun.

OCTOBER 29, 2013

# The chronic malcontent twiddles and frets

Today I checked the university course room (as I have been doing at least twice a day for the past 10 days) and found an email from my Chair. She said she has feedback on my dissertation manuscript from the reviewers at the Graduate School. "Not many changes at all," is how she described it. That sounds promising. Only one problem. The university has failed to set up my next course, a situation that has not occurred in the eight years I've been allowing them to siphon my discretionary income from my bank account. (I suspect it is because I'm technically at the end of my program, no more time on the clock.) So right now I'm not enrolled in any course. Which means the Chair can't upload the feedback. No place to upload to, apparently. She can't just email it to me? Nope. I sent an email to my advisor. Maybe in a few days, they will figure out that they granted me an extension and decide it's okay to set up a new course.

So, the bad news is, the paper was not approved. The good news is, it sounds like the revisions might not be massively substantial. The bad news is I can't see the feedback until the university enrolls me in the next course. The good news is... I guess I get a few more days of thumb-twiddling.

I've cleaned everything I feel like cleaning. Other than laying around watching rom coms and eating bon bons, there's not much to do except fret over how long my savings will last. With the fear monkeys on my back, I've felt inspired to gingerly poke my toe back into my self-employment adventure. I forget what I was working on, though: it's been three months, my brain is a sieve, and information is water. I have a jumbled to-do list, and every time I try to sneak up on an item—update PayPal account, for example—I find myself sitting at my kitchen table drinking coffee and reading vampire romance novels under the soothing glare of my new shop light.

I'm sneaking up on my to-do list while I wait to revise my dissertation. I'm starting slowly, with the easier stuff. For instance, I redesigned my personal website. One Wordpress page, displaying a photo of me, plus a terse explanation of who I am and what I do. That sounds so simple, doesn't it. Not. It's hard to write about oneself. I'd rather write about you. Who are you, by the way?

I also peered (through my fingers) at my two business websites, afraid for some reason that they stop functioning when my attention is elsewhere. I saw some formatting problems (I need to update my themes). Mostly I lack of content. There's a reason for that. It's because I don't know what I'm marketing to whom. It's hard to write spot-on content when you don't know your audience. Lack of clarity leads to ambiguous messages. Sigh.

On top of all that, I find I have forgotten how to do technical things I don't do very often, like uploading files to the server in the sky. How do I...? Oh yeah, I have this little ftp program, I remember now. But what's my password? Where do I upload the...? Oh, nuts. I don't want to admit that I understand why my mother has opted out of the modern technological age. At 84, she regresses a bit more every year. She gave up email and then the internet. Soon I fear she will give up her computer altogether. Too expensive, too much trouble. Next to go will be her (nonsmart) cell phone. Back to rotary phones, coffee percolators, black and white TVs, letters written on paper and sent through the postal system, and—dare I say it?—face-to-face conversations, replete with body language, cigarette smoke, farts, halitosis, and hugs. Yikes!

NOVEMBER 04, 2013

# Believe it or not, this doctorate is almost done. Really. I'm not joking this time.

For the past two years, when people asked me how my doctorate was progressing, I told them, "It's almost done. Almost done. Soon." And when it kept not being done, month after month, people eventually stopped asking. Or paying attention when I said, "Almost done. Just about there."

Now I can say it and mean it. Truly, the doctorate is almost done. This morning I received the recommended revisions from the Graduate School. I anticipated many: there were few. Only nine comments to address, and seven were in the Abstract. I took my time, spending several hours making the revisions, although I dedicated half the time to trolling for typos. Feeling pleasantly numb, I uploaded the final draft of the dissertation this evening. If there are any more changes required, they will be so minor as to take mere minutes. The thing really is almost done.

My Chair and I talked this morning by phone. I expected her to offer guidance on how to approach the revisions. Instead she said, "This document is yours, now. It's not mine, it's not the Graduate School's, it's yours. So how you want to address these changes is up to you." I thought, That's so nice. And then I thought, So if there is anything wrong with this dissertation now, it's on me, not my mentors, not the school. Right. Okay, no problem. I can own it.

I'm so unskillful on the phone. "Wow," I managed to say.

"Here's what will happen now. Make the revisions, don't overthink it. Today or tomorrow, get it done. I'll send it to the Committee, and then to the Graduate School for the final review."

"Okay," I said.

"After that, I'll schedule some blocks of time for your oral defense, about two weeks out. You need to send me your PowerPoint 10 days before the day."

"Uh, okay," I said.

"Download the proctor form and notify your proctor."

"Whoa," I said.

"You're ready. You did a fantastic job. You are a fantastic scholar. We need to keep in touch."

I managed to thank her. We signed off. I hung up the phone and looked at my cat, reclining on his chair next to me. He opened one eye and looked at me.

"I'm almost done," I told him. He looked skeptical, stretched, and closed his eye. I wish I could be that cool.

### DEFENSE: THE STUDENT BECOMES A SCHOLAR

_NOVEMBER 07, 2013_

# Waiting again, and while I wait, I plan my oral defense

I'm waiting again. Waiting is a familiar occupation. Probably for you too, am I right? Today I am waiting for a response to the second submission of my dissertation manuscript. I'm waiting for the rain to cease. And I'm waiting for the Century Link guy to show up and repair my phone line. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Earlier today we had a fall storm, complete with torrential downpour and gusty winds. For a few minutes, it looked like a monsoon had swept over us, but it was gone quickly, a fast moving front heading off to dump snow in the mountains. I looked out the window, watching for the repair truck I'm sure will be here soon, and I saw a patch of pale blue sky. Already the air is lighter, brighter. It looks like daytime now instead of twilight. That makes me feel happier. I am a creature of the light, no doubt about it. If my laptop were functional, I would do my work in my kitchen, where I could bask in the glow of my new shop light. My plants are loving it. After only a few days of bright light, they are stretching greener leaves toward the ceiling. Forget the pathetic window that lets in the few murky rays that manage to penetrate the dense branches of the holly tree. Bring on the artificial light! (I hate that holly tree, and I don't generally hate anything, especially not trees.)

Last night my phone stopped working. No dial tone, not even on the perky lavender Trimline phone I keep for making calls when the power goes out. I tried to call myself, using my cell phone: busy signal. To the outside world, it probably looks like I've been on the phone all night. Not that anyone calls me in the middle of the night, but if they did, would they think I was... talking someone off a ledge, maybe? Or making some extra money by offering phone sex? It doesn't matter: most of the calls I get are telemarketing robo calls. They'll call back later.

I'm looking ahead now to the next doctoral hurdle, the oral defense. I may have mentioned that I attend an online university. I'm not sure attend is the correct word to describe what I do there, but whatever. Anyway, once I find out if my manuscript has been approved, I can schedule the oral defense, which happens via teleconferencing call. Some people use fancy teleconferencing software, probably through their work. I'm sure my teleconference will be of the plain wrap variety.

The oral defense requires a PowerPoint presentation. No problem, I've got that handled, being a PowerPoint wizard from early Windows days. Everyone loves to hate PowerPoint, but I've been able to make some decent money at times in my former life by designing slide shows, usually under the supervision of Macintosh/Adobe gurus who wouldn't be caught dead using a Microsoft product, especially PowerPoint. Blech! Actually, they just didn't want to admit they didn't know how to use it, and so they hired me. So, the presentation part is handled.

To go with the slide show, last night I wrote my oral defense script. I have 30 minutes to present, and if I go over, my Chair will cut me off. So I wrote it all out. No jokes, no fluff, just a straightforward description of the study. I timed it while I read it out loud: 25 minutes. I also recorded it and played it back, trying to ignore how insipid my voice sounded, while I watched the show. Next slide!

To ensure that I haven't hired a trained monkey to give my presentation for me, I must enlist the help of someone (not a relative or person with a conflict of interest) to proctor the oral defense. Some months back, I asked my former colleague (you know her as Sheryl) to proctor for me. She said yes, although she hasn't responded to my recent email reminding her of her commitment. She might actually have found a job. I may have to find another proctor.

The final consideration for the planning of the oral defense is the location. For a while I thought I would rent a meeting room at a local hotel. I planned to invite some colleagues and Sheryl the proctor, of course, and my mother. Lately, though, I've been feeling scared about money: I had to let the University siphon another $794 from my account this week to pay for what I hope will be my last one-credit course. So now I'm thinking I will just invite a few people over to the Love Shack.

If you know me, you know this is a big deal. Nobody comes to the Love Shack. This is my cave, my sanctuary, my castle, my safe house. Plus it's small. I mean, really small. A dinky off-season castle. I'd say my main room is 10 feet x 20 feet. Half of it is office (computer, printer, cat's chair, my chair, shelves, books), half is living room (cat tree, couch, TV, exercise bike, DVDs, shelves, books). The walls are covered with shelves from floor to ceiling, no lie, and whatever bare wall space there is, is covered with artwork. There is barely enough room for one human and one cat. And I think I'm going to invite seven or eight people over here for my oral defense?

I think I've got the logistics figured out. I'm not going to fret about it. Odds are no one but my mother will show up anyway, and she'll only attend if we don't schedule it during nap time. Hey, the Century Link guy is here. He's sitting in his truck, no doubt smoking a cigarette and swilling coffee, uttering affirmations between tokes to motivate him to provide that excellent customer service Century Link is so proud of. Wish him luck.

I'm back. DSL was down while he was working on the problem. It was a Century Link problem. He had to go to the box to switch the line, whatever that means. And now we have liftoff, boom, easy peasy. Now that's what I call service! Eat your heart out, Comcast.

NOVEMBER 20, 2013

# How do you know when you're in the flow?

A few days ago I was contemplating the nature of flow. I refer to a state of being where one is so absorbed in an activity that one loses all track of time. If you are a writer or an artist, you know what I mean. But anyone can experience flow. For example, I'm sure my mother is experiencing flow when she plays Castle Camelot.

I often read a book entitled Flow by Mihaly Csikszentmihalyi. I keep it in my bathroom. It shares a shelf with Smooth Move, Trickle Down Theory, and Evacuate! (I'm kidding. Really. Do such books exist? If not, they should.) I've read Flow before, some years ago. Now I am re-reading it, a paragraph or two at a go, so I really have time to ponder the quality of time and the nature of experience.

I wonder, is it better to engage in some engrossing activity—reading, writing, or painting, for instance—oblivious to the passage of time, surfacing in surprise from your bliss hours later, wondering where the day went? Or is it better to be painfully present to the excruciatingly slow passage of time and thereby retain consciousness of every precious second by engaging in some task that you despise—for example, teaching keyboarding to uninterested students? It's a rhetorical question. But think about it. Would you rather be conscious and miserable, or unconscious and happy? Maybe consciousness is over-rated. (Although paychecks are useful, I must admit.)

Today I received approval for my dissertation manuscript. I emailed my sister and attached the slides for my oral defense. She called tonight to congratulate me; I did my best to hold still and hear the praise. She asked for some PowerPoint tips, so I guess she liked the slide show. I'm glad. She and my mother have been my faithful cheerleaders through this entire eight-year journey. It seems a paltry gift to simply name them on my Acknowledgements page, but that's what they are getting for Christmas.

In just over two weeks, I will present my oral defense via telephone conference call, with my stalwart friend and former colleague Sheryl acting as my proctor. She will sit on my couch amid the dust bunnies and hairballs and be my witness as I read my prepared script to an unseen audience. My Chair and the Nameless, Faceless Committee Member will ask me some questions—If you were to do your study over, what would you do differently? How do you think your recommendations could be implemented? What research will you do next? What was the most difficult part of the process? What words of advice would you give to a Ph.D. candidate just starting her first DIS course?—and I will try to answer the questions briefly and succinctly with a minimum of um's. Then my Chair will say, "Okay, Carol, now you will drop off the call while we confer. Call back in five minutes."

Assuming I enter the right passcode and am shunted into the correct conference call, I will announce myself. Then she will either say, "Congratulations Dr. Carol," or she will say, "No soup for you! One year!" No, I'm kidding. Ha ha. No, at this point, it's unlikely she will say anything but nice job, Doctor So-and-So, congratulations, upload your final manuscript, so long, thanks for the $50,000, have fun talking to the Registrar, bye now.

Finishing this Ph.D. is going to open up a massive void in my life. The thought of what comes next is paralyzing. Maybe it won't be so bad, though. While I waited for approval for my dissertation, I had a fun little research project for the past week, thanks to a friend's recommendation, analyzing the results of a quantitative survey for a large manufacturing company. It's a different world than academe, that's for sure. Commercial research is less rigorous in some ways than academic research, but you've got all those client demands and interactions. It's the business world, after all: They are the customer, I'm the vendor. I uploaded the files by the promised delivery date, and that was the last I heard. I don't even know if they believe they got what they asked for. I know they got more than they paid for (assuming they eventually pay me). Still, it was a wonderful four days, during which I spent considerable time in flow, oblivious to everything but the task before me.

I need more work like this. Even though the days will pass more quickly, I will be happily unconscious. That is all I ever wanted, anyway, a relief from consciousness. If I can get paid to check out, what more could a chronically malcontented misfit ask for?

NOVEMBER 25, 2013

# Zen and the art of waiting

I'm becoming a master at waiting. Over the past six months, I've had a lot of practice, what with the starts and stops of the dissertation process. Collect some data, then wait. Collect a little more data, fret, fume, and wait. Submit a draft, and wait. Submit another draft, and then wait some more. Then suddenly... approval! A fleeting moment of triumph and relief. Then schedule the oral defense, and wait. That's where we are now, waiting for the oral defense. Last I heard, it was on for December 9.

I think I can learn something from all this waiting. The state of waiting implies that I have little power to precipitate the condition I am waiting for. I mean, I would like the oral defense to be tomorrow. But I don't have the power to make that happen. No one likes to feel powerless, am I right? We like to think we are in control, of our own lives, at least. The metaphysics of powerlessness are paradoxical: Sometimes we have to give up our illusion of control in order to gain true independence. That's so Zen, isn't it? Ommmm. I'm pretty sure I'm not there yet. My response to all this enforced waiting is to simply curl up in a ball and endure.

Speaking of enduring, today I took my mother to the mall. She wanted to buy some books for the grandchild, who will achieve his first birthday in January. The mall was sparsely populated with customers, being the week before Thanksgiving, but crowded with young and rabid salespeople. They are relentless at that age! Was I ever like that? Infused with maniacal energy and indefatigable persistence? I don't remember all that much of my 20s, but I don't think I was ever that confident or determined, not then or since, now that I think about it. I think I've been waiting for something. But I digress.

After purchasing three Doctor Seuss books, we exited the last bookstore chain that hasn't succumbed to Wal-Mart and meandered down the mall. This is the same mall where last December a shooter killed two people and wounded a third before killing himself. As we passed by Santa, holding a tense little boy captive on his lap, I didn't think about the shooting. I thought about how slowly my mother walks now, two years after her hip replacement and a year after breaking her pelvis in a fall down some concrete stairs.

"Would you like to sample some tea?" I froze. Then I scanned the landscape warily for the origin of the voice. Drat! A salesperson! For a moment, I thought I heard the baying of wolves, just over the hill and closing fast. You know if you hesitate for the slightest moment, you are a goner. Unfortunately, I hesitated, and my doom was upon me. The young salesperson exerted his will and lured me in. (Mom, go for help!) He led me over to two huge containers, apparently filled with two kinds of tea. He filled a dinky plastic cup and held it out to me. Automatically, I took it and sipped. Fruit flavors! (Chemical aftertaste?) Sweet! (Too sweet!) Brain overload.

He was young, a little pimply, skinny to the point of starvation. "Now try this one!" I obeyed. Cinnamon, vanilla, (fake!) sweet... (oh, no, did I just imbibe some sugar?) I felt like I'd taken the bait and lost my soul. Walk away! Walk away while you still can! Too late. Give my books to the Library Foundation! Oh, Rosebud.

I looked around at all the tea paraphernalia, arranged carefully, perfectly, antiseptically... artificially. Everything was too clean, too perfect, not at all appealing to me. Where's the colorful teapots, the big glass bins of delicious loose teas, made with organic ingredients? The realization that I'd just tasted temptation from a minion of satan swept over me. Suddenly I heard my mother's gravelly voice say, "I'm a coffee drinker," and reason returned. Hey, I'm a coffee drinker now, too. Ever since self-unemployment, the more robust the better. Tea is for wimps!

"It's very tasty, very sweet," I began, attempting to reassure the kid.

"It does have a little rock sugar," he admitted.

I headed for the door, my mother in tow. "Enough of that," I said, wishing I had a big cup of French roast right then, so I could swill some and breathe the bitter fumes back in his face. He thrust a brochure at me in desperation, but we were gone.

We paused to regroup in front of Macy's. "Let's go back to the car," she said. We hadn't made it halfway to Sears. We both agreed that there was something about aimless mall walking that really sapped one's will to live. We slowly wended our way back to the parking lot. The sun was still shining. It must have been 50°, so strange for late November.

"What will you do with the rest of your day?" she asked when we got back to her condo.

I said I would like to take a walk in the park, but actually, I was feeling a little dizzy, no doubt from swallowing the two little sips of chemical-laced, sugar-infested artificially flavored beverage masquerading as tea. By the time I got home I had a mildly sickening headache, which I cured with ibuprofen and a nap. And some coffee.

I spend my days waiting. Waiting to feel better. Waiting for my mother to trip over a curb or fall down some stairs. Waiting for the dissertation committee to say, oh sorry, we can't make it on December 9, we'll have to reschedule for January. I've spent my life waiting, mostly dreading bad things that never happen, or being so unconscious and distracted that I don't notice when good things happen. I have the uneasy feeling that I'm rehearsing for the real thing, the life that will soon be coming, if I just wait long enough.

DECEMBER 09, 2013

# Stick a fork in me

This morning I successfully defended my dissertation.

Sorry. I'm trying to figure out what to write next. Do I mention that my good friend and former colleague Sheryl braved 19° temps to sit with me, serve as my proctor, and be my only witness? Do I tell you how it went, how nervous I was, how I stumbled over my words? Should I tell you that my cell phone beeped during my presentation as it received a texted photo of my brother's girlfriend's old black dog, holding up a hand-written sign that read, "Good luck, Carol!"? Should I try to identify what I felt after it was over (a wintry mix of relief and nausea), or should I talk about how I am now? (Post-dissertation blues, already?) Should I even mention how my brain is already trying to rewrite history in a bizarre attempt to convince me that none of this happened? No, best not, perhaps.

After Sheryl left, I called my mother. Her line was busy. I called my brother: He wasn't home. In desperation, I emailed my sister, my most trusted advisor: Bless her heart, she called within minutes from her job in Boston. Finally. Someone to help me understand what I was feeling.

"Do you have any plans to see people next week?" she asked.

I looked at my calendar. Does taking my car in for an oil change count? "No,"I replied.

"You need to stay connected," she said. Hmm. Is there a high suicide rate among new Ph.D.s?

I promised to make plans to do something with people. She said, "Congratulations, Dr. B."

"Thanks, Dr. B." I replied with a smirk.

I emailed a few people, ate breakfast, and went to bed, too saturated and weary to stay awake any longer. I dreamed of burned onions. (19° outside means no windows open in the Love Shack.) Finally I couldn't stand the smell and got up to find a smattering of congratulatory emails in my inbox. That was nice. My mother called. We talked about her condo board meeting.

I stood around for a while, looking at things. I cleaned out the drawer I had devoted to academic files for the past eight years. I cleaned up my desk. I filed papers I want to keep, for what, I'm not sure. As I stacked paper and filled the recycle bin, the phrase eight years kept rolling around in my head. Eight years, $50,000. Now what? What's next? Who am I, if I'm no longer a struggling grad student? Who am I if I can no longer complain about the wretched massive tome, or the timeline, or the waiting?

It's time to reinvent myself. I'll give it a few days, though, before I tackle that challenge. I need more sleep.

DECEMBER 12, 2013

# Is there life after doctorate?

This week I'm wrapping up the loose ends of the doctoral journey. The University wanted a pdf file and a hard copy of the dissertation. First, I took my flash drive to Office Depot and had them print one copy (plain paper, no color, 391 pages [Can you bind it? No, are you crazy, it's 391 pages! That will be $31.28]). As I leafed through the massive wretched tome, I noticed the images of the rich pictures looked like blurry crap. Argh. At home I opened up the Word file and tried to sharpen and color correct the images to reduce the blur. It sort of worked, poor man's Photoshop, lame tools in Word. My challenge was to minimize the file size but maximize image quality... sort of like eating a gallon of ice cream and hoping I will still fit in my jeans. Whatever. I reprinted all the color pages using my own old leaky inkjet printer, inserted the new pages, and stuffed the whole thing in a box. The next day I went to the post office, bought a money order for $160 (I'm choosing Open Access, so anyone could potentially find it, should they choose to search on something so esoteric as academic quality in for-profit vocational programs), put it in the box with my Proquest order form, and shipped it off to the University. (Picture me wiping my hands.) Done. Stick a fork in me again, this time, it's really done. As long as I didn't get the pages out of order, or accidentally skip some pages, or fill in the form wrong, or put the wrong amount on the money order, or mail it to the wrong address...

Today I celebrated my new life as a Ph.D. by applying for an adjunct teaching position at a clone of the college that fired my compadres and me last May. No, not fired, we weren't fired. Laid off, is what we were, laid off when the campus closed. No fault of our own. Repeat after me. It's not a moral failing to be laid off from a job, although it sometimes feels like it.

The job I applied for today was for an adjunct Business instructor, three years of experience required. As I read the online application process, I realized they didn't want the cover letter I had so painstakingly taken time to customize just for them. How times have changed. They wanted the resume, but only as a means to fill in the online registration form. Nowadays, it's all about online tests. Before you can apply, you must take a battery of tests. Tests? Really? Just to apply?

Yep. The first one was a 10-minute timed test of math, logic, and vocabulary questions, all mixed together. As I looked at the practice page, I could feel my heart rate start to soar, my typical response to being timed or tested. Being both timed and tested launched me into overdrive. My hands began to shake. My mouth suddenly grew parched. Do I want this stupid adjunct job badly enough to go through this torture?

I took it one question at a time and soon began to realize that whatever capacity for logic my brain used to have must have been beaten out of me over the past eight years of doctoral drudgery. Here's a series of numbers; which one comes next? 15 32 486 2587 24. Hell, I don't know. Ask me another. Okay, a monkey is to manager as a centipede is to a _________ ? Oh, come on. Really?

I'm exaggerating. They didn't really ask those questions, but they asked ones similarly as incomprehensible to me and my tiny tired brain. But that wasn't even the best part. (Best, meaning, worth mentioning.) After ten minutes of this electronic waterboarding, I was allowed to move on to the next section: 12 pages (12, I kid you not!) of psychological questions about my working style, personality, attitudes, and beliefs, which I was to answer using a five-point scale from Strongly Disagree to Strongly Agree. Oh boy, Myers Briggs meets the DISC Assessment! I can do this. I'm the survey queen, after all!

I answered the questions honestly, all 12 pages. What could I do? There were so many similar and repeated questions, they were bound to trip up any carefully devised strategy within three pages. You know what I mean? Hey, wait, I know I've answered that question before, but I forgot how I answered it! Darn it! So I answered honestly. They will no doubt find out I'm an introverted (but highly educated) wackjob clinging to a tiny shred of optimism, nursing a slight mean streak, and presenting vast unplumbed depths of depression, probably due to an inability to manage and control outcomes. Har har har. Story of my life.

In the meantime, I'm still scanning family photos, a hundred or so a night for the past week. It's tedious work, but I am noticing a remarkable byproduct: I'm falling in love with my family. Near and far, alive and dead, I'm savoring the images of the people who inhabited my childhood. I've discovered the holidays are the perfect time to look at old photos. I don't care about Christmas and any of that hoopla; I do care about the people I've known in my life. Could be the season, could be the below-freezing temperatures, could be the completion of the long dark doctorate. Whatever it is, I'm feeling sentimental. I'm missing my sister, missing our dead father, missing the old calico cat, the decrepit farmhouse, the overgrown yard, the funky furniture covered with gaudy hand-made afghans... I'm not judging. I'm appreciating. I'm appreciating the good stuff and forgiving the bad stuff. I may be a party of one, self-unemployed, chronically malcontented... but tonight I'm celebrating.

### REFLECTION

DECEMBER 2011

# Dissertation Hell: Get me off this Z-ticket ride!

I've been in graduate school hell since December of 2005 when I stupidly signed up for a Ph.D. program at an all-online university (red flag, red flag!). One course at a time, I have doggedly pursued this degree far beyond the gates of hell. Now I am officially ABD (all but dissertation) and I can (proudly? wearily?) say I am about to enter the dank place I (fondly? wearily?) call dissertation hell.

Not many people can say they have attempted to scale the jagged peak of higher education. Some try, some fail, falling back to their pedestrian lives disappointed but stronger than before. I've fallen a few times, before I finally finished a B.S. degree (or two). Then my ego grabbed ahold of me and said, "Masters? I don't need no stinking Masters. Gimme the damn Ph.D."

What I didn't know then is that once you get on this tedious ride from hell, it's hard to get off. It's not as simple as just... quitting. I've got my mother eyeballing my progress from the sidelines. I can practically see her pompoms. I've got my colleagues at the career college, eyeing me enviously (for the first few years), and then looking askance when they find out how long I've been tilting at this thing: Six years? Really? And then there's my over-sized ego, prodding me to keep going. Pride. Just stubborn pride.

But, boy, am I malcontented.

If I could go back in time to 2005 when I was peering over the shoulder of my former colleague (now our college president), watching him navigate a website called Peterson's to find a grad school that had no residency requirement and offered a degree in Marketing, I would have yelled in my ear: "Don't do it, for the love of god!" But 2012 Carol wasn't there, so I didn't get the benefit of my hindsight warning. No one stopped me. In fact, everyone helped me. Even my cranky sister supported the idea. My ego couldn't stand the pressure. I caved. I applied. I was accepted—with no Masters—into the Ph.D. program at Northcentral University, (a regionally-accredited, fully online university based in Prescott Valley, Arizona). And I've been there ever since.

I wish I could stop. I think I wish I could stop. But once you get to ABD, all that is left is the dissertation, the prize, the gold star, the blue ribbon. It wouldn't make sense to quit now. But I would like to. I really would.

But I won't quit. I'm not a quitter anymore. I used to be. I quit everything: school, jobs, relationships. Not anymore. I'm like a really morose, malcontented bull dog with a crappy, soggy bone. I don't want it, but it's mine to chew. So I'm chewing.

Updated: December 2, 2013

Sometimes it's unsettling to read stuff you've written two years ago, don't you think? If you wait long enough, things change. After reading the tirade below, I can say I am no longer feeling discontented. I'm happy to report my dissertation manuscript was approved a couple weeks ago. I am preparing for the last hurdle, my oral defense. Mostly what I feel is relief that the journey is almost over.

The dissertation journey changed me. I may not know for a while the full extent to which I have been changed, but I sense I am not the same person I was when I started this journey eight years ago. Even the past two years have had an effect on me. Call it trial by dissertation. You can say what doesn't kills us makes us stronger and not be too far off. I will leave the earlier rant intact in the interest of verisimilitude.

All the best!

—Dr. B.

### TIPS FOR YOUR DOCTORAL JOURNEY

Read below for some tips on what to do and not to do, when you are enrolled in a doctoral program.

## It takes time and effort to transition from student to scholar

I re-read some of my older papers and realized I had a tendency to simply spout the jargon and concepts I'd gathered from the course textbooks. This is common. You have to start somewhere. But the mark of a true scholar is the ability to synthesize what you have read into something that is (a) new, and (b) supports your thesis or claim, the thing you are trying to prove. It takes a lot of thinking and writing to move beyond student-mode into scholar-mode. Most of you probably have already figured this out. Me, I am a slow learner. My little epiphanies are as rare as sunshine in the Pacific Northwest. I think the moment I actually transitioned from student to scholar was while I was writing the comprehensive exam essays. Four 15-page essays on the topics of Theory, Research, Practice, and Ethics. With a page limit, I couldn't ramble on, using the proverbial "shotgun" technique of academic writing (Blam! Whatever sticks, sticks). I had to get concise, I had to make choices, I had to think. My advice to you is to read each textbook or article over and over until you can spot the flaws in the author's thinking. Believe me, the flaws are there. Look for the claims that are not proven, sniff out the assumptions that are unspoken. Become a detective for the truth. Then you can claim the title of scholar.

## Zoom in, zoom out

By this I mean you must develop the ability to view your topic from two heights: a mile-high and an inch-high, and every height in between. When you write your concept paper, you don't have to be totally clear on the details of your methods, but you'd better be clear on your methodology. And your methodology must flow from your problem and research questions. Don't make the mistake of digging in so deeply into your method that you forget how it must align with the other sections of your paper. Pull back, look at it from an overall perspective to make sure all the pieces are still in alignment. By the time you get to your dissertation proposal, where you must explain in excruciatingly explicit detail exactly how you plan to implement your study, you will be dizzy with all the zooming in and out. All I can say is I hope it gets easier with practice.

## You are on your own

Learning is a solitary pursuit. We have mentors, teachers, instructors, guides, but in the end we are on our own. I learned this when I asked my dissertation chair if she preferred quantitative to qualitative. She replied, "Use the method that answers the research question." Instead of answering my written question, she answered my unspoken question, which was, "Will you help me out by giving me a clue what I should do next?" Her answer was, of course, "No." Once again, I had to fall back on what I learned in comps. I am on my own, but I am not without resources. I am a scholar. I've read a thousand articles. I've read hundreds of pages about which methods are best for which research questions. I know this stuff now. Even though I have heard that my university frowns on dissertations that use grounded theory, I've thought this through to the best of my ability, and I am positive that grounded theory is the best approach for my research question. I'm not trying to prove I'm something special by choosing an approach that is difficult or unpopular. It's just the truth as I understand it. I've done the work, and I am confident.

Update: Ha, joke's on me. Grounded theory wasn't actually the best approach after all. I found out it is usually too complex for a novice researcher to tackle grounded theory in a dissertation. What that means for you is it will be hard to get your proposal approved. If you really think grounded theory is the right approach for your study, be ready to defend your choice. But as the months go by, remember, the best approach is the one that gets the job done.

## Read everything

Don't just read it, take notes. When I say take notes, if you have time, start early to build your annotated bibliography. Early, I mean, like day one. Boy, I wish I'd done this from the beginning. I have 500 articles that pertain to my topic, but I've only managed to annotate about a dozen, and only because I need them for my concept paper. If the chairperson wants all my sources annotated, my paper will be 200 pages. And I will be toast. It is unbelievably time-consuming, but so essential. Now that I'm working on my concept paper, I find myself constantly running into situations where I know I've read something but I can't remember where. My visual memory is trash, from menopause, lack of sleep, and stress. It's pretty much hopeless. If I had consistently kept annotated notes on all the sources, I could easily search on key words.

## Organize your sources

On a related topic, organize your sources using any method that makes sense. Some people swear by Mendeley. I had a mentor recommend EndNote, which I purchased and never used. Microsoft Word has a funky built-in bibliography function, if you are desperate. There are other products that will organize your sources for you. I used to save articles by author's name, year, and topic, and then organize them into folders based on the topic. That worked for a while, until my folder topics began to overlap as my analysis became more sophisticated. Now I've got the poor man's reference system going on, using the search function in Windows 7. I've coded all my resources according to a list of criteria: year; empirical study (yes or no); type of article (review, case study, etc.; qualitative, quantitative, or mixed; higher education (yes or no); location of the study; topic (a long list); theoretical foundation (another long list); and methodology. It took me about a week to code all my files, doing about 50 a day in spare moments at work. I store all the files in one folder. I type the codes for the things I want into the Windows 7 search box (upper right corner of the Explorer window). You can even use NOT to exclude specific codes. It's sort of crude, but as long as I code each file correctly (and I can use multiple topic codes for each document), then I can fairly quickly find sources on specific topics. Then, with the preview pane activated, I can eyeball each document to see if it is the one I want, without having to open each one. The downside is that the search function can search key terms inside of text documents, but not pdf files, so I still have to open those to search for something that I can't readily spot with a quick scan. If I had annotated all these files, I would have spent more time up front to save time later, when I really need it for thinking and writing.

## Update your sources

After six years at this endeavor, some of my sources are getting a little ripe. The rule at this online institution is no more than 15% over five years old. That means half my sources needed to be replaced. My advice is to check for new sources at least every few months.

## Annotate your sources

I know I already said this, but it bears repeating. If I had prepared annotated bibliographies as I collected sources, it would have saved many hours of searching. My memory is like a dried-up sponge: ready for the trash. I know I read something. I can't for the life of me remember what source it came from. Sort of like I know I used to be able to do calculus and speak French. But I can do other things now, right? Off-hand, I can't think of any skill that makes up for the one's I've lost, but I'm sure there are some compensations for growing old. Some sort of wisdom they haven't figured out how to measure yet? (There's a dissertation topic for you!) Anyway, if you want to save yourself a lot of time, especially when you are working under a deadline, prepare your annotated bibliography as you go, in Word documents that will be totally searchable. Use keywords, type important concepts and quotes (with page numbers). Leave yourself a trail of crumbs back to the source, or expect to spend many frustrating minutes trying to locate the crucial concept at the critical moment.

## Follow the templates

Seriously, download and follow the templates. Or maybe I should say, follow the spirit of the templates, always keeping in mind APA format. The templates we were given at NCU were rife with formatting errors: missing page numbers, weird line spacing. Fix all that in your documents, but make certain you are using the exact headings required in the template, no more and no less! Now is not the time to be creative.

## Study the APA book

Read it at breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Annotate it. Highlight the hell out of it. Put sticky notes on the important pages: how to format headings. What line spacing to use for table captions. Whether or not figures need a box around them. And don't forget the APA blog, which I found indispensable for the rules on table font sizes, splitting tables across pages, and formatting figures, of which I had scads.

## Your committee is the customer: Your Chair is the head buyer

Your job is to serve them. Yep, sounds backwards, but don't for a moment think you are a customer in this academic interaction. Swallow your pride. Cultivate humility. If they say delete the headings, or cut this paragraph, don't protest. Just do it. They are holding up hoops for you to jump through, just to see if you have the will and persistence to jump. It's part of the hazing ritual that comes with an advanced degree. They are the customers, not you. So give the customers what they want: respectful obedience and a little ego-stroking. You are almost but not quite colleagues. Later you can tell them what you really think. But I am guessing by the time I finish this stupid degree, I will be so relieved that it is over, I will be weeping and gushing with gratitude. I'd like to thank my wonderful committee (who so far are faceless and nameless) for their invaluable (and purely conceptual) support...

## Don't be boring

When your moment comes to tell the story—I'm talking about your oral defense—don't bore them by reading your bullet points. Use images, photos, something for them to look at. (Please do not use clip art, unless your dissertation is about how clip art can be used to market to cats.) Keep it clean, tasteful, uncluttered, and exciting.

## Prepare for your defense

Google oral defense questions. There are tons. Write them down, and write out your answers to them. And be ready for ones you didn't prepare for. Like, Give us a 30-second synopsis of your study, for the layperson you meet in the supermarket. Ooops. Wasn't ready for that one.

## Publishing your massive tome (I mean, dissertation)

Mine was almost 400 pages. I'm an overachiever. Yours will probably be about half that size, and that is good. If at all possible, somehow make sure that your institution sends the electronic copy of your document to ProQuest, rather than the hard copy, especially if your document has images in it. ProQuest will scan the hard copy and your images will look like illegible dots on the page. Plus the file size will be enormous. Not what you want. Be forewarned.

2 comments:

Janet Robinson August 19, 2013 at 1:56 AM

Dissertation journey can really be hard and tedious, but it wouldn't be a reason for people to quit on it. It would be good to have many thesis ideas that you can work with. That way, you would have a back up ideas in case your primary ideas don't look good for the eyes of other people.

Reply

Carol October 1, 2013 at 3:41 PM

Thanks, Janet. I appreciate the support and good advice.

### EPILOGUE

_FEBRUARY 4, 2014_

I defended my dissertation on December 9, 2013. All that work—studying, planning, proposing, interviewing, analyzing, writing, thinking, writing—all that work culminated in a half-hour presentation, which was over before I had time to stop shaking. My proctor witnessed the event. My committee congratulated me and called me Doctor. After that it was just paperwork, and it happened really fast. I guess it's like being born (although I don't remember that particular day). Nine months in the womb (or in the case of this doctorate, eight years), and then in a few days, whoosh, I was matriculated into the world. Slap on the butt, happy trails!

Today I received the official email from the institution notifying me that my graduation is now complete and that I will be receiving my Ph.D. diploma in a few weeks. I hope they spell my name right.

For those of you who may be wondering, Is it worth it? all I can say is, it depends on what you want. You are possibly younger than me. You have some years ahead of you to make a career with your doctorate. Me, I kept going because somewhere along the way, I stopped being a quitter. I grabbed the bone in my teeth, hunkered down, and didn't let go until the bone was mine. I don't know what I'm going to do with the darn bone now, but that's another blog post, I guess.

If I could go back in time to 2005 Carol, I think I would try to talk her out of signing up for the Ph.D. program. There were so many things I didn't know then that I know now, about online education, for-profit higher education, and the marketplace for professors. I don't regret my choice, but if I could have a do-over, I would make a different choice: different university, different learning style, different goal. Still, here I am, standing at a crossroads with a Ph.D. under my belt. It's one more tool in my toolkit, and whether I use it or simply throw darts at my diploma, the education is mine and no one can take it away from me. I'm stronger for having persisted. I'm wiser for having learned. Maybe I'll be more discerning in the future about where I place my time and treasure.

No regrets.

# ###

Thanks for reading _Welcome to Dissertation Hell_. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite e-book retailer.

Thanks.

Carol B. (AKA The Chronic Malcontent)

# Read more at The Hellish Handbasket Blog
