2. Avoid situations where I have to endure the phrase "top 10."
3. Skip group meetings more often.
6. Stop being sad.
8. Write an Eclipse plug-in.
9a. Refurbish the bathroom to improve the sale of the house.
9b. Schedule the defense.
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
Getting things done.
1. Figure out a more productive daily schedule.
2. Avoid situations where I have to endure the phrase "top 10."
3. Skip group meetings more often.
4. Be more enthusiastic over the phone.
5. Go to the post office.
6. Stop being sad.
7. Find a place where I can be myself without being punished.
8. Write an Eclipse plug-in.
9. Think of two more things.
9a. Refurbish the bathroom to improve the sale of the house.
9b. Schedule the defense.
2. Avoid situations where I have to endure the phrase "top 10."
3. Skip group meetings more often.
6. Stop being sad.
8. Write an Eclipse plug-in.
9a. Refurbish the bathroom to improve the sale of the house.
9b. Schedule the defense.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Everything's gonna be alright
Strange. Past two months, I've almost been enjoying school. I have no paper deadlines; I don't have to make a mountain out of my teeny result-molehill. I see my advisor only once a week; his crazy-talk bounces off my brain like cartoon bullets. I'm diligently working on my two projects, making progress on implementation and measuring results.
I saw a female faculty in the hallway the other day. Last time I spoke with her, I was in poor shape (you, dear reader, might remember). She'd given me some advice on the preliminary exam, finishing the degree, and getting a job. She asked, "How is the prelim going?" I said, "All done." She said, "Wow! Do you plan on graduating this summer?" I said, "I've got some job offers already."
This is how I thought graduate school was supposed to be. I'm working independently on stuff I enjoy. I'm learning new things. I see a clear end. I know what I need to do to get out.
Instead, the first 11 semesters were torture; I got through them with rage, depression, therapy, and tenacity. The last 2 look like they'll be decent.
I've quoted her before, but she's worth repeating. From Annie Proulx's "The Bunchgrass Edge of the World,"
One question: What do I call this blog once I graduate?
I saw a female faculty in the hallway the other day. Last time I spoke with her, I was in poor shape (you, dear reader, might remember). She'd given me some advice on the preliminary exam, finishing the degree, and getting a job. She asked, "How is the prelim going?" I said, "All done." She said, "Wow! Do you plan on graduating this summer?" I said, "I've got some job offers already."
This is how I thought graduate school was supposed to be. I'm working independently on stuff I enjoy. I'm learning new things. I see a clear end. I know what I need to do to get out.
Instead, the first 11 semesters were torture; I got through them with rage, depression, therapy, and tenacity. The last 2 look like they'll be decent.
I've quoted her before, but she's worth repeating. From Annie Proulx's "The Bunchgrass Edge of the World,"
The main thing in life was staying power. That was it: stand around long enough, you'd get to sit down.
One question: What do I call this blog once I graduate?
Sunday, February 10, 2008
Thaw
Easy. Changing a car battery which expires 8 months early.
Hard. Changing a car battery which expires 8 months early in mid-February the night before temperatures reach -9 degrees F.
Hard. Changing a car battery which expires 8 months early in mid-February the night before temperatures reach -9 degrees F.
Tuesday, February 05, 2008
The close ties between rap and country music
There is a lot in common between the lyrics of Reba McEntire's 1990 song "Fancy" and Eminem's "Lose Yourself."
She says, "She said here's your one chance Fancy don't let me down."
He says, "You only get one shot...this opportunity comes once in a lifetime."
Sure, there's the clear generation and gender gaps. He lives in a mobile home. She lives in a rickety shack. He's broke. She's poor. He wants to be made king. She charms a king.
Perhaps this isn't such a crazy idea: hick hop.
She says, "She said here's your one chance Fancy don't let me down."
He says, "You only get one shot...this opportunity comes once in a lifetime."
Sure, there's the clear generation and gender gaps. He lives in a mobile home. She lives in a rickety shack. He's broke. She's poor. He wants to be made king. She charms a king.
Perhaps this isn't such a crazy idea: hick hop.
How little I know
Scene: It's Super Bowl Sunday. I am at home; I flip on the TV to see if my favorite show has started. I poke my head in the boyfriend's room.
Me: "How many parts in a football game?"
Boyfriend: "Four quarters."
Me: "Dang. I guess House won't be on for a while."
Me: "How many parts in a football game?"
Boyfriend: "Four quarters."
Me: "Dang. I guess House won't be on for a while."
Saturday, February 02, 2008
Brassage rhymes with Sausage
Arsenio Hall*, back when he had a talk show, featured a segment called "things that make you go hmmmm." This item would appear on the segment:
You can buy the brassage on sale!
*Hall is represented by William Morris Agency and is currently developing a television vehicle.
Brassage is the first and only wellness bra. As you move, imperceptible massaging bumps (about the size of a quarter) in the side panels stimulate circulation in the lymphatic area. This important area processes 80% of the bodys lymphatic drainage of toxins and impurities from the breast tissue. Doctor-designed. Breathable blend of 90% Swiss organic cotton and 10% spandex. You may experience tenderness during the detox process.
You can buy the brassage on sale!
*Hall is represented by William Morris Agency and is currently developing a television vehicle.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Ten Things To Do
1. Figure out a more productive daily schedule.
2. Avoid situations where I have to endure the phrase "top 10."
3. Skip group meetings more often.
4. Be more enthusiastic over the phone.
5. Go to the post office.
6. Stop being sad.
7. Find a place where I can be myself without being punished.
8. Write an Eclipse plug-in.
9. Think of two more things.
A better list is here.
2. Avoid situations where I have to endure the phrase "top 10."
3. Skip group meetings more often.
4. Be more enthusiastic over the phone.
5. Go to the post office.
6. Stop being sad.
7. Find a place where I can be myself without being punished.
8. Write an Eclipse plug-in.
9. Think of two more things.
A better list is here.
Unfocused
"But life changes on a dial, in a garden, a clinking of beetle wings, a shrimp bush and dry pink petals of chinese lanterns dangling. Once I thought: I'll just plant things until there's no time to be afraid. But storms are furious in their own way, green lightning and bullets as big as hail in the desert, as frogs."
-- Taken from "Attempts At A Life" by Danielle Dutton.
Friday, January 04, 2008
Drive-Thru Coffee
Oregon boasts a number of drive-thru coffee joints. On Salem's Mission Street, I saw the "Bikini Coffee Co." Drive on in, and see baristas in bikinis make you a latte. No word on if the baristas are all female.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Snapshots II
Time-travel bowling with my brother: The only updates that the Northside Bowling alley has seen in the last 50 years is the Coca Cola logo. By frame 3, my brother's score is 4 times greater than mine. When I hit at least 1 pin, I do victory dances to Abba's gold.
Running alongside the Willamette River: The recent rains have put the river at toe-level. I run the trails at Minto Brown Island Park, wearing shorts and a long-sleeved top, noticing how Oregon's 32 degrees F is so much warmer than GradShitTownVille's 32 degrees F.
Running alongside the Willamette River: The recent rains have put the river at toe-level. I run the trails at Minto Brown Island Park, wearing shorts and a long-sleeved top, noticing how Oregon's 32 degrees F is so much warmer than GradShitTownVille's 32 degrees F.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Snapshots
Five movies in two days: including "Once." This was a movie I missed in the theaters, partly because it got bad reviews and partly because I was immersed in work. Holy crap! I'm sorry I missed it in the theatre, because the music is fantastic, and it would have been great to hear it on proper speakers. If you don't mind slow-paced movies like "Waking Life," and you like Indie music sung by handsome bearded men and a gorgeously feisty Czech woman, I recommend "Once." I splurged and bought the album.
Lessons from under the hood of the 1984 Toyota pickup: Installing a new battery in my dad's truck, wrestling with the aged lead battery terminal clamps. I'm sawing away at the lumpy bits, trying to get the clamps to clamp. There is lead shrapnel everywhere. Dad tries to clean it up and says, "It's hard to blow with gum in your mouth."
Lessons from under the hood of the 1984 Toyota pickup: Installing a new battery in my dad's truck, wrestling with the aged lead battery terminal clamps. I'm sawing away at the lumpy bits, trying to get the clamps to clamp. There is lead shrapnel everywhere. Dad tries to clean it up and says, "It's hard to blow with gum in your mouth."
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
It's been a while since we've had a little allegory
Once upon a time, there was a little girl whose parents had died, and she had to be sent to a boarding school. Her parents had been kind people, and taught her right from wrong, and how to live a decent, multi-faceted life. They taught her how to grow tomatoes, how to snuggle babies, how to ride a bicycle, how to be angry and sad, and how to get over it.
The people in charge at the boarding school were much different. They taught the children how to make stained glass windows. At first, it was very difficult. She cut her fingers on the glass, and often broke pieces in her projects. The people in charge were very disappointed. They said,
"You should be like Jenny. Jenny is our best child, all grown up now. She has made hundreds of beautiful stained glass windows all over the world."
The little girl improved over time. Her stained glass windows were medium-sized and nice looking. The people in charge at the boarding school sold them to tourists and hotel corporations looking for cheaply-priced art to adorn their walls.
Still, the people in charge were very disappointed. They said,
"You should be like Jenny. Jenny is our best child, all grown up now. She has made hundreds of beautiful stained glass windows all over the world."
The people in charge rarely mentioned other things about Jenny. Jenny lived alone. Jenny couldn't keep houseplants alive. Jenny ate too much salty food. Jenny was mean to waiters. Jenny spent so much of her time making beautiful stained glass windows, she hardly had time for anything else. The little girl heard rumors about Jenny, but the people in charge spoke only of her stained glass windows.
The little girl worked very hard to improve. Her stained glass windows now were large-size and very detailed. They were interesting to look at, and real artists hung them in their big white galleries with yellow oak floors.
Still, the people in charge were very disappointed. They said,
"You should be like Jenny. Jenny is our best child, all grown up now. She has made hundreds of beautiful stained glass windows all over the world."
It had been many years since her parents had died. And the little girl was all grown. Some days, she thought of the lessons that her mother and father had taught her about living a decent life, about right and wrong, about growing tomatoes and snuggling babies and riding bicycles. And other days, she thought about Jenny. And
sometimes when she thought of Jenny, only sometimes, usually in the dark of night, she was envious of all those stained glass windows that Jenny had created.
The people in charge at the boarding school were much different. They taught the children how to make stained glass windows. At first, it was very difficult. She cut her fingers on the glass, and often broke pieces in her projects. The people in charge were very disappointed. They said,
"You should be like Jenny. Jenny is our best child, all grown up now. She has made hundreds of beautiful stained glass windows all over the world."
The little girl improved over time. Her stained glass windows were medium-sized and nice looking. The people in charge at the boarding school sold them to tourists and hotel corporations looking for cheaply-priced art to adorn their walls.
Still, the people in charge were very disappointed. They said,
"You should be like Jenny. Jenny is our best child, all grown up now. She has made hundreds of beautiful stained glass windows all over the world."
The people in charge rarely mentioned other things about Jenny. Jenny lived alone. Jenny couldn't keep houseplants alive. Jenny ate too much salty food. Jenny was mean to waiters. Jenny spent so much of her time making beautiful stained glass windows, she hardly had time for anything else. The little girl heard rumors about Jenny, but the people in charge spoke only of her stained glass windows.
The little girl worked very hard to improve. Her stained glass windows now were large-size and very detailed. They were interesting to look at, and real artists hung them in their big white galleries with yellow oak floors.
Still, the people in charge were very disappointed. They said,
"You should be like Jenny. Jenny is our best child, all grown up now. She has made hundreds of beautiful stained glass windows all over the world."
It had been many years since her parents had died. And the little girl was all grown. Some days, she thought of the lessons that her mother and father had taught her about living a decent life, about right and wrong, about growing tomatoes and snuggling babies and riding bicycles. And other days, she thought about Jenny. And
sometimes when she thought of Jenny, only sometimes, usually in the dark of night, she was envious of all those stained glass windows that Jenny had created.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
28 degrees Fahrenheit tastes a lot like butter.
It's cold in GradShitTowneVille. There's snow on the ground; the sidewalks with unshoveled snow have been transformed into bumpy Slip 'N Slides. I've been keeping up with the dog's walks, but I feel like the 25 minute adventures in the sub-freezing temperatures have thrown my body into some kind of hibernation mode. Eating a whole stick of butter sounds like a great idea, which disturbs my rational half.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Handmade
I just spent 24 minutes chopping 1.5 cups of walnuts and pecans. They are for the Mexican wedding cakes, or polvorones, that I'm making as thanks to a collection of friends and colleagues who are writing letters of recommendation for me.
I bake a lot. I treat it like research. I take pictures of the food I make. I keep a journal and photo diary of what I made, so I can remember what worked and what didn't.
I bake a lot: so much, that one might be suprised that I don't have a food processor. What is 24 minutes of chopping with a 5" Wustof Classic serrated knife versus 20 seconds of pulsing?
The cookies don't taste better. These mexican wedding cakes would probably offer a more "melt-in-your-mouth" experience if it weren't for the random chinks walnut my knife didn't cleanly slice.
And certainly, it's not because I'm stingy with my equipment. Sure, I have a second-hand coffee table bought from a garage sale for $10. The bookshelf was $30. The oddball collection of chairs littering my house are from City Liquidators; they amount to less than $5 a chair. I even have a second-hand dog. But my 8 year old Chantal stockpot was $125. The matching saucepan was $80. And my good friends give me great kitchen gifts. I have a lovely heavy duty wooden spatula from Moira, a beautiful Chef's knife from the boyfriend, a Le Creuset dutch oven that my friend R. claims was "really on sale," and my mother has given me every one of my mixing bowls.
What then?
I'll tell you.
Ritual.
Ritual for me. Much of my "old life" has been deferred or abandoned since coming to graduate school: making pop-up Christmas cards, hiking, inhaling art, gardening, feeling confident. Spending 24 minutes chopping nuts is a small bit of leisurely time that I get to reclaim. It is a quiet rebellion taking place in my yellow kitchen with the ugly floor.
And ritual for them. This small army of people has dedicated a lot of time telling a group of strangers nice things about me. Their time must be repaid with my time: 24 minutes of chopping nuts.
I bake a lot. I treat it like research. I take pictures of the food I make. I keep a journal and photo diary of what I made, so I can remember what worked and what didn't.
I bake a lot: so much, that one might be suprised that I don't have a food processor. What is 24 minutes of chopping with a 5" Wustof Classic serrated knife versus 20 seconds of pulsing?
The cookies don't taste better. These mexican wedding cakes would probably offer a more "melt-in-your-mouth" experience if it weren't for the random chinks walnut my knife didn't cleanly slice.
And certainly, it's not because I'm stingy with my equipment. Sure, I have a second-hand coffee table bought from a garage sale for $10. The bookshelf was $30. The oddball collection of chairs littering my house are from City Liquidators; they amount to less than $5 a chair. I even have a second-hand dog. But my 8 year old Chantal stockpot was $125. The matching saucepan was $80. And my good friends give me great kitchen gifts. I have a lovely heavy duty wooden spatula from Moira, a beautiful Chef's knife from the boyfriend, a Le Creuset dutch oven that my friend R. claims was "really on sale," and my mother has given me every one of my mixing bowls.
What then?
I'll tell you.
Ritual.
Ritual for me. Much of my "old life" has been deferred or abandoned since coming to graduate school: making pop-up Christmas cards, hiking, inhaling art, gardening, feeling confident. Spending 24 minutes chopping nuts is a small bit of leisurely time that I get to reclaim. It is a quiet rebellion taking place in my yellow kitchen with the ugly floor.
And ritual for them. This small army of people has dedicated a lot of time telling a group of strangers nice things about me. Their time must be repaid with my time: 24 minutes of chopping nuts.
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Nerves could be contagious
Thursday. 6:00 am. Four hours to the prelim, and I'm hunched over the toilet, throwing up the entire contents of my stomach. Funny thing about throwing up: it's an oral diary of the last few meals. The baked potato for dinner. The orange juice for breakfast.
I stumble back to bed after tossing my favorite pants in the dryer. The boyfriend says, "Are you okay?" Not really. I don't think I can do this today. But I can't stand the idea of postponing it either.
I say, "I think I have food poisoning or something." He says, "Maybe it's just nerves."
I've never had a problem with nerves, but I conceded. I slept right up to 9:30 am, and the boyfriend drove me to school and dropped me off at the front door.
I don't remember much about the prelim. I spoke for 40 minutes. My advisor spoke for 15. One committee member asked two questions. Another made a comment. Another said nothing at all.
I passed.
The boyfriend was in the audience, along with two of my research group members. The boyfriend says he couldn't tell at all during the prelim that I was sick; my acting performance made it hard for him to understand why I napped lethargically the rest of the day. Between naps, I took trips to the bathroom, surfed the internet, concluded I had stomach flu, and worked on my research proposal due that night for a post-doc position.
He went to the store and bought me juice. He took care of the dog. He remade the bed while I half-slept in it.
Saturday. 6:00 am. The boyfriend is hunched over the toilet. Poor guy.
I stumble back to bed after tossing my favorite pants in the dryer. The boyfriend says, "Are you okay?" Not really. I don't think I can do this today. But I can't stand the idea of postponing it either.
I say, "I think I have food poisoning or something." He says, "Maybe it's just nerves."
I've never had a problem with nerves, but I conceded. I slept right up to 9:30 am, and the boyfriend drove me to school and dropped me off at the front door.
I don't remember much about the prelim. I spoke for 40 minutes. My advisor spoke for 15. One committee member asked two questions. Another made a comment. Another said nothing at all.
I passed.
The boyfriend was in the audience, along with two of my research group members. The boyfriend says he couldn't tell at all during the prelim that I was sick; my acting performance made it hard for him to understand why I napped lethargically the rest of the day. Between naps, I took trips to the bathroom, surfed the internet, concluded I had stomach flu, and worked on my research proposal due that night for a post-doc position.
He went to the store and bought me juice. He took care of the dog. He remade the bed while I half-slept in it.
Saturday. 6:00 am. The boyfriend is hunched over the toilet. Poor guy.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
P & P
I had a pelvis exam today. My preliminary exam is tomorrow. It seemed appropriate for me to schedule them in the same week. Really, a preliminary exam is like a pelvis exam. It's something I dread, it's an uncomfortable process, but I'll most likely pass.
I wonder how far I can take this metaphor? How similar are gonorrhea and proposed work?
Stay tuned.
I wonder how far I can take this metaphor? How similar are gonorrhea and proposed work?
Stay tuned.
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Theme Song
From the Miseducation of Lauryn Hill
Because it seems wrong to feel hopeless 6 days before my 31st birthday.
Everything is everything
What is meant to be, will be
After winter, must come spring
Change, it comes eventually
I wrote these words for everyone
Who struggles in their youth
Who wont accept deception
Instead of what is truth
It seems we lose the game,
Before we even start to play
Who made these rules?
We're so confused
Easily led astray
Let me tell ya that
Everything is everything
Everything is everything
After winter, must come spring
Everything is everything
Sometimes it seems
We'll touch that dream
But things come slow or not at all
And the ones on top, wont make it stop
So convinced that they might fall
Lets love ourselves then we cant fail
To make a better situation
Tomorrow, our seeds will grow
All we need is dedication
Because it seems wrong to feel hopeless 6 days before my 31st birthday.
Friday, October 05, 2007
Bad Mood
Three scenes indicating that I'm very angry.
Scene 1: I created the following "Prelim Playlist."
* * *
Scene 2: I'm talking to the boyfriend, telling him about my terrible day.
Me: I yelled at Jenny today during our meeting. I feel terrible.
Him: Jenny? Jenny? That's like yelling at a nice, happy puppy.
Me: I know [hanging head]
* * *
Scene 3: I hurt my hand on the dryer, and then cry uncontrollably for 30 minutes. The boyfriend walks in,
Him: What's wrong?
Me: Lots of things.
* * *
I know exactly why I'm so angry. What's strange is that it's because of something that happened six months ago. I usually don't hold onto anger this way. I'm like a firework. I explode immediately; it dissapates and I usually forget why I was angry. This anger is different; it has turned into firey stones that I carry in my shoulders, brain, and belly.
Scene 0: I'm talking to my advisor about my preliminary exam.
Me: I think it's time for me to prelim. I've published another paper, and we agreed that after I published another paper, it would be time.
Adv: You aren't ready. Let's say this, you can prelim when your boyfriend prelims.
Me: Um... What? I don't think that's appropriate. I mean, we aren't married or anything...
Adv: Why not! Why aren't you married yet?! [20 minute lecture on marriage and children ensues].
* * *
I'm really tired of this hell. I'm really tired of being slapped in the face for having tits. I need to get out of here before all this anger does permanent damage.
I think I'll get back to work on that prelim.
Scene 1: I created the following "Prelim Playlist."
Scene 2: I'm talking to the boyfriend, telling him about my terrible day.
Me: I yelled at Jenny today during our meeting. I feel terrible.
Him: Jenny? Jenny? That's like yelling at a nice, happy puppy.
Me: I know [hanging head]
Scene 3: I hurt my hand on the dryer, and then cry uncontrollably for 30 minutes. The boyfriend walks in,
Him: What's wrong?
Me: Lots of things.
I know exactly why I'm so angry. What's strange is that it's because of something that happened six months ago. I usually don't hold onto anger this way. I'm like a firework. I explode immediately; it dissapates and I usually forget why I was angry. This anger is different; it has turned into firey stones that I carry in my shoulders, brain, and belly.
Scene 0: I'm talking to my advisor about my preliminary exam.
Me: I think it's time for me to prelim. I've published another paper, and we agreed that after I published another paper, it would be time.
Adv: You aren't ready. Let's say this, you can prelim when your boyfriend prelims.
Me: Um... What? I don't think that's appropriate. I mean, we aren't married or anything...
Adv: Why not! Why aren't you married yet?! [20 minute lecture on marriage and children ensues].
I'm really tired of this hell. I'm really tired of being slapped in the face for having tits. I need to get out of here before all this anger does permanent damage.
I think I'll get back to work on that prelim.
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