Busy Women

During my trip to Savannah last month, I picked up a free publication that looked intriguing. It was "The Little Black Book for Every Busy Woman" (emphasis in original). Truth be told, it was my first night in the city and I'd ventured to a neighborhood brew pub for dinner. As I finished my meal, a thunderstorm rolled into town, so I decided to belly up to the bar and wait out the storm. Looking around for something to keep me occupied, I picked up the "Little Black Book." So, when I say the publication was "intriguing," I mean that in the "stranded by the weather, in a bar alone with nothing else to read" sense.

The Little Black Book is a free 33-page pamphlet with suggestions for Arts & Leisure, Business & Finance, Dining & Entertainment, Education & Organizations, Hair & Skin Care, Health, Home Essentials, Weddings, and a Calendar of Events. Apparently, if you are a busy woman, you are busy in many, many different ways. Not only does the pamphlet highlight local events, it also spotlights local businesses who are kind enough to pay for advertising (thus explaining how this little gem can be free.)

So, what's in the Little Black Book? Well, under Arts and Leisure, there's an ad for Savannah Together, where they'll help the busy woman find the man or woman of her dreams. They have an 80% success rate. Tellingly, they do not divulge the total number. Ever notice that? Maybe they've only helped 8 people. Yes, in the immortal words of Air Supply, that's "8 less lonely people in the world," but still it's only 8. And if you're really busy, do you really have time for their personalized and confidential screening?

Also in Arts & Leisure: The 5th Annual Cruise for Critters. That's right, seems the busy woman is never too busy to go on a 3-hour sightseeing cruise. Wonder if they have time to be stranded on a deserted island with "Gilligan, the Skipper too. The Millionaire, and his wife, The movie star, the professor and MaryAnn." Although the cruise raises money for the local Pet Rescue, one should note that pets are not allowed on the cruise. How rude.

If a pet-free pet cruise isn't for you, there's WaterHorse photography, specializing in equine photography. Because the busy woman apparently has lots of money. And she's never too busy to own and keep a horse, and then pay a professional photographer to take pictures of her friend, Flicka.

In Business & Finance, there's the predictable ads for investment services. One asks, "Wouldn't it be nice to have your investments aligned with your values?" Um, no. I don't need to invest any more money in Johnny Depp and Orlando Bloom paraphrenalia.

Moving ahead, the only service advertised under Health is "Breast Imaging." No, not Breast Imagining, that's in the busy man's guide. No, this service detects breast cancer. I'm all for detecting and treating breast cancer, but don't busy women have other health concerns? Seriously. There are 4 listings under "Weddings," and only one under "Health." If this is what busy is, I don't want any part of it.

After all the spotlighted businesses, we really get to the good part. The Busy Woman of the Year 2008 Award. This year's winner runs a local child advocacy center, went to Ground Zero after the attacks on 9/11, raised 2 children, married twice, and became a foster parent. As the recipient of the Busy Woman of the Year Award, she wins a fashionable handbag, a new haircut, a trip to a spa, a one-night stay in one of the city's mid-range hotels, and some fake eyelashes and a fragrant candle. No, I'm not making up those last two items. Good for her! Way to go!

I have to say that there are some contests that I'd like to win. Don't get me wrong, I stay busy. But I don't want to be known as the "busiest woman of the year," and I certainly don't want to compete to be the busiest woman of the year. Biggest Slack-Ass of the Year - now there's a contest I can get behind (so to speak), especially if the winner gets to have dinner with Johnny Depp and/or Orlando Bloom. Fake eyelashes and fragrant candles are poor, poor substitutes.

The last few pages of the pamphlet are calendar pages, where the busy woman can note "anniversaries, birthdays, special events and me time." Apparently, when you're really busy, you have to schedule "me time." Lord, don't ever let me be that busy.

If you're not already busy enough, the calendar comes with some dates already filled out with charity events and networking opportunities, so you can either feel like you're not already busy enough, or you can feel really guilty because you're not going to the "Pink Tea Celebrate Life Breast Cancer Awareness Event."

The calendar also includes lesser-known "holidays." While I'm not particularly interested in celebrating "Cheer Up the Lonely Day," I could work a celebration of "Chocolate Day" into my busy schedule. Likewise, I'm happy to find time for "Lazy Day" and "National Ice Cream Sandwich Day." "Global Forgiveness Day" and "National Trail Mix Day" - not so much.

I thought about celebrating "Fight Procrastination Day" this Friday, but I think I'll put it off.

One Person's Bias...

The other day, the local paper headlined an article about a survey at the local university. According to the paper, the university contracted with the American Council of Trustees and Alumni to conduct a survey of intellectual diversity in classrooms. ACTA is a "nonpartisan organization that agitates for intellectual diversity in the classroom." ACTA sent a web-based survey to 14,820 students last spring. 1220 bothered to respond.

What did they want to know? Well, they wanted to find out if "professors have sometimes inappropriately presented their political or religious views in class," or if students felt that they "personally had a class where they felt they had to agree with the professor's views to get a good grade." According to the results, approximately 25% of the respondents felt like they had to agree with a professor to get a good grade. Only 13% felt like their professors inappropriately presented their own views in class.

According to the paper, the university asked ACTA to conduct the survey "in part [in] response to persistent fears among Republican lawmakers that college professors are aggressively pushing their liberal views on students, trying to reach impressionable young adults and change their minds." Apparently, these lawmakers believe that I and my peers have a lot more power and influence than we actually have. Brainwashing young adults would require that the young adults pay attention and listen. Tall order in today's classrooms.

Getting past the obvious problems with methodology (opt-in web survey, poor response rate, those with a problem more likely to respond), I feel the need to get a few things off my chest. Here's the thing: I personally guard against presenting my own views in class. I'm pretty sure that my students can guess which side of the fence I'm on, but in class, I try to take the Daily Show approach and pick on everyone equally. I keep my political bumper stickers in my home office. I try to encourage class discussion where students respect each other's opinions, even if they disagree. And, I try to give assignments where students are free to formulate an argument of their choosing. Their grade depends on their ability to support that argument with relevant and credible evidence.

After reading this article, I'm pretty sure that I'd be accused of liberal bias in the classroom. Because, the thing is, if you're looking for bias, you'll find it. For some, the very mention of African American history, women's history, Native American history, and the history of other minority groups smacks of liberalism. To suggest that dead white guys weren't geniouses who came up with brilliant reforms out of thin air can be seen as blasphemy. In my classes, I don't discount the accomplishments of important generals, politicians, and statesmen, but I also try to present a more complicated picture where those fellows exist in a larger world. Is this unacceptable liberal bias? Perhaps to some.

Most of all, I want students to think. Not to think like me, but to engage with questions of race, gender, ethnicity, and class. I also try to show that even within those categories, there's a continuum that runs from liberal to conservative - and that those definitions change over time.

One last point about the student who feels punished for disagreeing with their professor. I will freely admit that there are some cases where professors fail students who don't agree with them. We had a notorious case in the northeastern post-industrial wasteland. But, there's another side to this issue. Sometimes, in my experience, students don't know what they think and they're not necessarily willing to take the time to figure it out. So, they simply agree with me because they think that's what I want. Would these students say that they felt pressured to agree with me? I don't know. I would hope not.

OK, one more point. Some things are not conservative or liberal, they're just plain wrong. For example, if a student argues that European imperialism was a 100% positive experience for native peoples in Africa, North America, and South America, well, I'm going to challenge that position, even if the student presents evidence. I don't think the student's position is either conservative or liberal, it's just ignorant, simplistic, and offensive. However, the student could perceive that my insistence on a more complex analysis is too liberal.

So, I guess my final point is that without finding out more about the respondents' experience, this survey doesn't say much. But, maybe I'm just biased.

Dave & Doug

As many of you recall, I switched phone and internet providers in July. I would have stayed with my original provider (let's call them Dave). But, when my bundled package expired, I called Dave to see if we could just keep things the way they were. I just wasn't ready to make a larger commitment. Dave didn't seem to understand the question, and kept offering things I didn't want for more than I was willing to pay.

So, I switched to another provider, let's call them Doug. Doug isn't ideal but he seemed like he was more prepared to meet my needs. At the very least, he understood my basic questions. After I committed to Doug, I broke up with Dave. Dave asked me to stay, offering exactly what I'd wanted all along. I explained that if he'd been willing to give me those things from the beginning, I wouldn't have even considered Doug. But, now, I had Doug, so Dave would have to settle for his diminished role as my cable provider.

As one does in a break up, I personally returned Dave's belongings - in this case, his modem. I had to stand in a long line, because apparently, a lot of people wanted to break up with Dave. He reluctantly accepted my modem, asking what he'd done wrong and if I was really happy with Doug. I held my ground, said I didn't want to get into all of that again, and simply asked for a receipt. Before I left, I made sure that he understood that he was the cable guy - nothing more.

Fast forward two months: This week, I got my monthly letter from Dave. I was surprised to see that he still thought of himself as my internet provider. I double checked my previous letter and sure enough, he'd charged me for internet service for that month as well. "Sneaky bastard," I thought.

So, Monday, I paid another visit to Dave. Again, I stood in a long line at Dave's dingy office. I finally worked my way to the counter where I had the privilege of talking with one of Dave's representatives. I showed her my bills and my receipt from my earlier visit. She barely spoke to me, just picked up my bill and my receipt, punched some keys on her computer and stared at the screen. Then, she started clicking her mouse. Clickity, clickity, clickity, click. With each click, she reminded Dave that we were done, through, over. He was not the provider who met all of my needs. He was the cable guy, that's it.

When she finished, she handed everything back to me and said, "OK, you should receive a bill for $57 every month for cable service." I wrote that down. I asked if I could go ahead and pay my bill for this month - because I didn't know if Dave would send another letter. She said, "Sure." I started to write the check (yes, I still use checks!) and she said, "Just write the check for $45.63. That should be about right." I stopped, pen in mid-air. "But, you said I should pay $57." (I was also concerned about the "that should be about right" part of her comment.) Continuing to look at her screen, she said, "I removed all the internet charges and so you have a credit for this month." Having no confidence her information, I wrote the check.

As I handed it to her, I verified that Dave wasn't going to disappear from my life completely if he felt wronged somehow - like maybe he'd been shortchanged by this representative's questionnable math skills. She assured me that Dave would stick around. As I turned to leave, I said, "Well, I hope I won't be back next month." She finally looked up at me and said, "Hopefully not."

Gotta say that I'm not feeling all that reassured at this point. Within an hour of walking through my door, Dave called to tell me about all of the wonderful things he could do for me, if I'd just come back. Dave was clearly working from a script. Despite his constant interruptions, I forced Dave to listen to my tale of woe and explained that I was perfectly happy with Doug - and that Dave was to blame for our break-up.

I can only hope that Dave will find someone new.

Gold Medal Announcing

Like everyone else, I've been watching the Olympics from Beijing. I watched the thrill of victory when Michael Phelps won 8 gold medals, and the agony of defeat when Alicia Sacramone lost a medal in the vault to the Chinese gymnast who completely botched her second attempt. Most of all, I've listened to NBC's announcers. At the close of these games, I'd like to offer the following awards:

• Rainman Award: There's a tie for this award, between Tim Daggett in Gymnastics and Cynthia Potter in Diving. Just as a gymnast's feet touch the floor, or a diver enters the water, these freaks of nature can spit out the exact score for the dive or routine. "Oh, he disturbed the water as he went in and won't score more than 9s" in diving, or "She had 3/10 deduction when she breathed wrong, so she won't score higher than 14" in gymnastics. As if that's not remarkable enough, they quickly do the word problem to figure out what the next competitor needs to score. "If Gymnast A scored x, what does Gymnast B need to score to move ahead?" I know they have computers, but I don't think they're using them. If you're headed to Vegas, I'd suggest inviting them along.


• Too Close for Comfort Award: Blowing the competition away, this award goes to Rowdy Gaines in the Water Cube. We all love Michael Phelps, but Gaines's analysis of Phelps's entire body, complete with diagram, was not necessary. "If you were going to build the perfect swimmer, this is what you'd want..." Apparently, you'd want long arms, short legs, and big feet. I don't know about anyone else, but I'm still picturing Oscar Goldman and Rudy Wells in the lab, "We have the technology, we can build a better swimmer. Better than he was before. Better, stronger, faster." I'm a little surprised that Gaines didn't mention Phelps's fins and gills.


• Master of the Obvious Award: I'm sure that many announcers can share this award, but I want to give special mention to Andrea Kremer, poolside. Following a disappointing show in the women's diving competition, Kremer managed to get US champion Laura Wilkinson in front of the camera. Kremer looked at Wilkinson and asked, "So, Laura, this is your last competition and you didn't do as well as you expected. Why are you so emotional?" I so wanted Laura to say, "Are you stupid?"


• The Salt in the Open Wound Award: This award goes to Bob Neumeier, trackside. Diplomacy, thy name ain't Bob. In interview after interview, he managed to make every dejected athlete feel even worse. Take Wallace Spearman for example. Following his disqualification from the men's 200, he talked with Bob. Bob's question: "So, Wallace, did you know that you stepped on the line as you ran the turn? Because the tape clearly shows that you did." Following the debacle in the women's 4x100 relay, Bob talked with Lauren Williams. "So, Lauren, did you all have a plan to get the baton around the track?" Following his loss in the men's 400, Jeremy Wariner agreed to talk to Bob and his salt. "So, Jeremy, you just lost by a long shot. Rethinking that decision to switch coaches?" Wariner walked off camera, and I cheered.


• Most Unpredictable Award: I've created this award specifically for Bela Karolyi. Apparently, Karolyi is so unpredictable that NBC has to keep him bottled up in the studio, away from the actual event venue. Karolyi, like the rest of us, has to watch the events on TV, for fear that he'll cause an international incident if unleashed.


• Worst Ager Award: What has happened to Jim Lampley? I'm sure that forcing him to stay up nights in Beijing didn't help his appearance, but he looks like he crawled out of the grave.


• Perpetual Smiler Award: What IS Cris Collinsworth so damn happy about?


• And, finally - Most Hyperbolic Award: In this highly competitive category, Ato Bolton stands alone. Sure, Rowdy Gaines and Tim Daggett gave him a run for his money (so to speak), but it was Bolton's comment about Chinese hurdler, Liu Xiang, that clinched his win in this category. According to Bolton, "Liu's withdrawal from the 110m race was absolutely devastating for 1.6 billion Chinese people." It's just so ridiculous. It still makes me laugh.
  

And, so, tonight, we'll all watch the Closing Ceremony, where the Chinese will extinguish the Olympic flame by tossing in all the athletes who underperformed and we'll all go on with our lives.

Back to School

I'm happy to report that I survived my first week at Big City University. The week was a series of predictable events and a few surprises. As I expected, teaching the same class 4 times in 5 hours is utterly exhausting. I have a 45-minute break between my first and second classes, then it's 3 in rapid succession with only 15 minutes in between. By the 4th class, I'm offering my brain very real bribes to "rewind the tape and go through it one more time." Yesterday, it took a good 3-4 minutes to even remember where the tape started.

Also as I expected, many students don't want to take this class. It's a legislated requirement and they resent it. For them, history is a bunch of meaningless and irrelevant names and dates that they are forced to memorize for no apparent reason. My assignment, now that I've accepted it, is to try to get each one of them interested in at least one thing that we cover in the semester. Surely, since we're covering all of US History in one semester, each one of them will find one thing that makes them sit a little taller, brighten the dim bulb, and engage.

Based on this stellar lot, I have my work cut out for me:

• Mr. "I Already Plan to Screw Up": I met this young fellow within 10 seconds of my announcement that I do not offer extra credit. He shot his hand in the air and asked, "Do you grade on a curve?" I think I sighed audibly and responded, "Not usually." Apparently, he was so excited about this news that he had to share it with a friend because he scooted his chair over to "hide" behind the student in front of him and began texting. I stared at him until he looked up and sheepishly put the phone away. Hey genius, even if you don't look at me, I can still see you. Object permanence, ain't it grand? He wasn't in class yesterday. Hopefully, he's spreading his special brand of goodwill in someone else's "extra credit" class.
• Ms. "Already Stressing About the Exam": I decided not to give a lot of information about the exams in the class on the first day. Instead, I provided a copy of the syllabus and explained that I'd say more about the exams later. This student shot her hand in the air and asked, "Do you give essay exams?" "The exams will be a combination of essays and short answers," I replied. "Will there be any fill-in-the-blank?" she asked. Again, I think I sighed audibly. "I would consider that a short answer question," I explained. Here's one for her: I should go to the Registrar and _____ this course now.
• Mr. "Just How Hard Do I Have to Try?": At the end of class, a student asked, "What is considered a passing grade?" I replied, "I don't know, but I think it's a D." I quickly followed up with,"But you should certainly aspire for a higher grade." "Oh, of course," he replied.
• Ms. "I Have Nothing to Do With My Grades": At the end of class, a student asked, "What grades do most of your students get? A's and B's?" I stifled a laugh and gave my standard response to such questions: "In my classes, at least one student earns each of the grades that are possible. It all depends on the student." I'm not sure what she expected, that I would say, "Oh, thanks for asking. Yeah, I just put a full grade scale on the syllabus for giggles. I really only give A's. It will be our secret, right?"

They're such funny little people. They stubbornly refuse to accept that they actually have an active part to play in this whole process. I don't give grades. They earn grades. If only they'd use their power for good.

Anxiety

It's 6:45AM and I've already re-learned a valuable lesson. Anxiety manifests itself in strange ways. Tomorrow is the first day of my classes at Big City University and while I don't think I'm totally consumed with anxiety, apparently my subconscious is working overtime. Really annoying to wake up multiple times throughout the night. Last night, I woke up at 3:30, went back to sleep and had the following dream:

I was getting married. To whom, I know not. All decked out in my white gown, I arrived at the appointed place: the converted garage of a still-functional gas station. "How convenient for the guests," I thought, "they can come to the wedding and fill up their cars at the same time." I glanced over at the pumps and saw that my brother was doing just that. I waved and went inside.

As you'd expect, it was a large, rectangular room with spots on the floor. It looked like someone's den. No, it looked like someone's basement - like a place where teenagers would make out and smoke things that their parents wouldn't approve of. Saggy, overstuffed couches lined the walls, and there was at least one huge recliner. Somehow, none of this upset me.

The room was full of people. My mother flitted about, trying to keep track of too many details. My father juggled a phone and phone book, trying to find some entertainment for the event. All I heard was, "So, we can have a DJ but he won't bring any music?"

About that time, I realized that I didn't have white shoes. I was wearing a pair of high-heeled brown sandals (the pair that I gave away several years ago). I guess I planned to change my shoes once I got to the affair. I called my mother over, lifted the hem of my dress to show her my feet, and said, "Guess what - I forgot to buy shoes." She looked at me in disbelief and said, "What?"

I tried to walk barefoot in the dress, but it was too long. Again, somehow, walking through grease spots didn't bother me. I tried the brown sandals and we decided that since the dress hid my feet, the shoes could work if I couldn't find any suitable white shoes. I went over to show my father, who was still trying to find a DJ and music. In the meantime, my mother got in the car I drove in high school (a very stylish Chevy Chevette) and headed for the nearby mall.

It was raining by this point. I wanted to go to the mall to find shoes, so I ran out - in the rain, barefoot, waving my arms like a crazy person, trying to flag down my mother. She stopped the car and I jumped in, gathering my dress into the sub-compact. Off we went to the mall - me in my bridal gown, barefoot, in the rain.

I woke up at that point, and was happy to see that it was 6:15 - earlier than my normal wake-up call but a reasonable time to get up. I wouldn't have to try to go back to sleep. I'm not sure what the dream means, but I'm taking it as a good sign that I didn't meltdown at any point in this misadventure. I think it means I'm ready for any adversity that comes my way. I also think it means that I probably shouldn't try to sleep any time soon.

In the News

As you know, I love the Blotter in my local paper. Sure, I feel for victims of car crashes, accidental injuries, and violent crime. I also have some sympathy for the folks who go away on vacation and return to find their air conditioners gone. Or the poor college students who discover that their roommates didn't guard their possessions over the long summer break, and now they have to buy a new laptop, iPod, and Wii, because what college student can survive without all three of those things?

No, the reason I love the blotter is because of entries like the following from the past week:

You know it's going to be good when the headline reads, "Madison reports strange arrest." It all started when a Madison County woman (not Meryl Streep) reported that someone in a truck dropped an object on to her windshield and broke it. A diligent sheriff's deputy (not Don Knotts) surveyed the damage and the crime scene and came to a conclusion. Calling on his finely honed detecting skills and extensive knowledge of all of the county's truck drivers (quite a feat for someone in a rural county), he stopped in to see a man who drove a truck matching the description of the windshield breaker.

When the deputy arrived, he immediately became suspicious. According to the report, "he found the 31 year old man with a syringe jutting from his pocket and wires dragging on the ground from inside his pants." Upon further investigation, the deputy learned that the syringe contained meth residue, which goes a long way toward explaining the rest of the story. According to the report, "the wires led to a battery that made [a] homemade contraption vibrate in his pants." Seems the fellow "placed a small motor inside a pill bottle and then wrapped the bottle in pipe insulation." Then, we assume, he put the contraption where the sun doesn't shine and plugged himself in.

We can cut the fellow some slack, because what man doesn't want something that vibrates in his pants? You've really got to hand it to this guy, so to speak. I mean, seriously, he could have gotten a cell phone, set it to vibrate, and constantly called himself. Or, he could get one of those contraptions, what's it called? You know, those things that vibrate. I think they're called vibrators.

But no, this genius looked around his house and asked himself, "WWMacD"? (What Would MacGyver Do?) In response, he decided to build a better vibrator, one that risked lighting up his "little buddy" with several volts of electrical current. I think we can agree that in this fellow's case, fertility problems might not be the worst outcome. I have to say that I'm a little disappointed that he didn't use a paper clip and chewing gum. MacGyver would have. But then, MacGyver wasn't hyped up on meth, or at least we don't think he was. Probably best not to consider what the fellow might have done with the chewing gum.

According to the Blotter entry, the fellow is in jail on multiple charges that don't include "possession of a strange vibrating contraption." There's no mention of what became of his contraption. I imagine it's quite the conversation piece in the evidence room.

As if that wasn't enough entertainment, in yesterday's paper, there's a story of a woman who flagged down a police officer. It was 5AM and she wanted a ride to Odd Street. You just can't make this stuff up. The officer agreed to take her to her destination so she happily climbed into the car. That was her first mistake.

Seems she forgot that police cars are equipped with computers that retrieve information. On their way to Odd Street, the officer learned the woman's name, her real name - her second mistake. Using his trusty computer, the officer learned that the woman was wanted in a neighboring county. D'oh!

Seems she also forgot that police cars are equipped with other neat gadgets, like radios. She also forgot that police cars can go lots of places, not just Odd Street. Imagine her disappointment when she didn't arrive at Odd Street. Instead, the officer "gave her a ride to the county line where a sheriff's deputy picked her up and took her to the county jail." So, let this be a lesson to you - if you're wanted by the police, it's best to stay out of their cars. Find another way to Odd Street.

In case you're wondering, these geniuses are not in the same jail. It's probably best because there's no telling what might happen if they were allowed to combine their mental acumen.

More School Readiness

Yesterday, I became a real person at Big City University. I successfully used my parking tag to get into the faculty deck, I got my computer and successfully checked email, I found the key to my office, and I turned in some reading to the Reserves Desk at the Library. Ain't no stopping me now.

This morning, I continued my streak of good fortune by figuring out the university's WebCT system, on my home computer no less. Really ain't no stopping me now. I successfully posted my syllabus, thus saving my time, energy, and a bunch of trees. Unlike other faculty members, I will not be queuing up at the department copier and then shlepping across campus with hundreds of copies of my syllabus so students can lose them within the first week. Nope. Today's students are computer savvy. If I post it, they will come - or they will fail.

With that task done, I turned my attention to my wardrobe. Anxiety manifests itself in mysterious ways. I felt compelled to conduct a more thorough survey of my closet to verify that I do, in fact, have clothes that I can wear to work. I felt further compelled to confirm this hypothesis through empirical study. I am a researcher (and a dork), after all. Here's what I learned:

Yes, I do have appropriate teaching attire. And, because this is the South, I really only need clothes for three seasons. As I surveyed my choices, I judged that overall, my wardrobe is not totally frumpy, but could be much cuter. I've seen much more stylish options in all the stores. I've tried them on and been happy with the results. However, because I'm quickly developing old lady feet, I'm forced to wear the following, or some variation on this theme:

Totally frumpy? I don't think so. The pinnacle of shoe fashion? Decidedly not. It's not that I don't own cute shoes. In fact, I do. Lots of them. Shoes that scream, "Your professor is not a dork." Shoes that magically lengthen and slim my short little legs. Shoes that show off my teeny little feet. But, alas, these are also the shoes with a "standing time" limit. The same shoes that make my feet cry if I stand in them all day. It's really hard to look cute and sylish when every step is a new experience in pain. Gone are the days when I'm willing to put up with utter agony on the off chance that someone might notice how well my little torture devices coordinate with my sylish outfit. Maybe if someone was paying me thousands of dollars to wear their shoes, I'd reconsider. Since no one is stepping forward (pun intended), I'll march forward in my comfort shoes.

Who knows, maybe one day, I'll just give up entirely and go with these:

Or these:

(As an aside: I'm pretty sure my neighbors think I'm insane. Imagine looking across your apartment complex and seeing a woman arranging all of her clothes on her bed, then grabbing her camera and snapping pictures. I crouched down to snap pictures of the shoes, otherwise they'd think I was really nuts.)

Fall is in the Air

In recent days, I've noticed several signs that change is in the air. Last week, temperatures finally dropped below "unbearable," signaling an end to our long summer nightmare. Summer won't actually end for another two months, but there's a light at the end of the tunnel.

All around town, people are on the move. U-Hauls and overloaded SUVs and minivans abound as students and parents make their annual fall pilgrimage. There's traffic once again. And Target is a-buzz, from young children demanding the perfect notebook and lunchbox to college students and parents buying just the right comforter and as many pressboard, do-it-yourself bookcases as they can fit in aforementioned SUVs and minivans. The grocery store will be next. In coming weeks, when the food from home runs out, college students will exercise their newfound freedom of choice and purchase cart-fulls of candy, sodas, and cookies.


After a too-short summer break, I'm also riding the wave of school readiness. Today, I'm heading to what I hope will be the last orientation session at Big City University. Yesterday, I made final adjustments to my syllabus, dusted off my bookbag, gathered my books, took stock of my wardrobe (including the comfortable yet still stylish shoes), and bought a new lunchbox. I think I'm as ready as I'll ever be. Bring it on!

Establishing Partial Existence

Yesterday, I returned to Big City University for a second orientation session, sponsored by the College of Arts and Sciences. I'm calling it the "everything you need to do to cover your ass in case students complain" session. I was happy to find out that my training in the northeastern post-industrial wasteland wasn't a complete waste of time. Thanks to the school's ultra-whiny students, I now anticipate and steel myself for difficulties. I've also learned that no matter what I do, wily students will still come up with something that I hadn't even considered in the realm of possibility. Can't wait to find out what it might be.

During and after orientation, I met some of my new colleagues. There are six new "visitors," so we form a confused cohort, desparately trying to look like we have our shit together. I met one fellow at last week's orientation. He has thick curly black hair, thinning on top but robust on his face. He looks like a caricature of a terrorist, which I thought was an interesting look to adopt.

Yesterday, I met another fellow, "Baldy" we'll call him. Baldy seems to think a lot of himself and talks a lot. When I practiced my social skills and asked him what he was teaching, he pointed to the only two books in his office and said, "I'm teaching US History, using these two books in comparative perspective." Then, he launched into a long explanation about how students need to understand the standard narrative before they can critique it. Blah, blah, blah...in a thick New York accent. I'm planning to avoid him for the rest of the semester.

To round out my new friends, there's the engaging little dork from one of those flat midwestern states. He's lived in the South for 2 weeks and is "still adjusting." And, I met two women lecturers. Both seemed to be appropriately guarded, which I appreciate. Boundaries are our friends. All of them were shocked to learn that I choose to live in the other college town - as if the town was on the other side of the moon. Upon reflection, perhaps explaining my decision by saying, "I love it there and I hate it here" might not have been the best choice.

After orientation, I managed to accomplish last week's tasks: went through the magic brown door and got my parking permit, signed up for benefits, and got the key to my classrooms. Then, it was on to yesterday's tasks, which I did not accomplish. I did successfully move from metaphor to reality. I guess that's something.

The department secretary told me that I was assigned to Room 2151, even though there wasn't a key for the office. Armed with the master key, I and my fellow lecturers went to the 21st floor and found 2150 and 2152 with a blank wall in between.



No more metaphor, I was literally staring at a brick wall. I suggested that perhaps I needed to solve a riddle, like in Lord of the Rings, and the wall would move and reveal my office. Or maybe it was like that Harry Potter room that only appeared "when I really needed it." Unfortunately, I left my wand at home.

After many trips from the 20th to the 21st floor and back again, the secretaries determined that I'm not in the Mines of Moria but instead, I'm in 2154 - a rather large corner office. No window, but it's bigger than all the other visiting offices and I have an extra bookcase. Finally, my luck might be changing. I still don't have a key and my name isn't on the door and I don't have a computer, but I feel like I'm making progress. At least we determined that I don't have to hold office hours in the hall.

Next, a kindly full-time faculty member took me and the engaging dork on the official campus tour. The campus is urban and state-funded, so lots of concrete and non-descript classrooms. The buildings form a labyrinth of hallways, bridges, and secret tunnels. I'm sure I'll run into Gollum or the Mad Hatter at some point. I'm also sure that both were former faculty members who got lost and went crazy. Now Gollum wanders the halls, clinging to the hope that one day he'll find his parking pass - his "precious."

I'll return tomorrow and see if I can accomplish yesterday's tasks. I'm also going to try to navigate the maze by myself. Wish me luck.

PLEDGE

I live in what I believe to be the last blue enclave in a very red state. Last year, following a sitting Congressman's untimely death, voters elected a Democrat-turned-Republican medical doctor to Congress. In order to win the election in a district that includes very blue and very red voters, this chameleon successfully turned purple. Since taking office, we've all learned that he's red through and through.

Case in point: In recent days, the local paper has followed the story of our illustrious US Representative's proposed new legislation. Creatively called the PLEDGE Act, the law would require all school students to recite the Pledge of Allegiance and sing the national anthem in English only. I forget what the acronym actually stands for. I'm pretty sure it's not, "Please Legislate Even Dumber Grandstanding Edicts," but it should be.

This week, the local paper took the Congressman to task, calling his proposal, "a solution in need of a problem." Seems all of the schoolchildren in the Congressman's district, not to mention the entire state, recite the Pledge and sing the anthem in English. Now that he's suggested that it could be otherwise, I'm pretty sure the notoriously bleeding heart eggheads across town are busily translating the Pledge en espanol. Peut etre, en francais, aussi.

After this unfounded attack, the Congressman's campaign treasurer came to his leader's defense. The fellow also "handles church relations" for the Congressman. I don't know what this means, maybe he prays for the Congressman. No, I don't mean that he prays for the Congressman's continued good health and fortune. I mean that he actually prays for the Congressman, thus freeing up the Congressman to do other things, like come up with needless legislation and assign stupid acronyms.

Anyway, in this fellow's spirited defense, he makes several points, all of which I'd like to dispute (and ridicule). First, he argues that all schoolchildren "need to speak and read English [because] all of our founding documents and most supplemental materials about important figures in American history are in English. If our kids are going to understand the 'American experience' they have inherited, they need to read about it, study it, and yes, even learn to articulate it."

Give me a minute to dust off my bleeding heart liberal ideals. OK. Who decided what constituted a "founding document"? I'd suggest that whoever made the decision began with "must be in English" as a primary criterion. I'd suggest that the next criterion was something like, "Must be written down." So, any document or oral history in Spanish, a Native American language, or West African immediately doesn't qualify. Sorry, Hispanics, Native Americans, and African Americans, your history isn't "foundational" because you didn't think to write your thoughts down in English. Please take your place back on the sidelines while we focus on the "important" figures. In case you're confused, I'm talking about the rich white guys in the wigs.

Now, to the writer's point about the "American experience:" Whose experience is he talking about? Well, I think it's pretty clear. My point is that as a history professor, I try very hard to communicate that there is a multiplicity of "American experiences," not one "experience." This multiplicity includes a diverse group of historical actors who interact with each other in a variety of contexts. In other words, it ain't just about the rich white guys in wigs. And, here's a stunning thought - the rich white guys often act in response to historical actors who aren't speaking the Queen's English. Who's "important" now, jackass?

Next, the fellow argues that we're doing a disservice to schoolchildren if we don't teach them English because "English is the language of success in the United States." Really? I speak English. Bring on the success! As a student of pop culture, I'd argue that texting is the language of success in the United States. OMG! LOL!

Finally, the fellow argues that all schoolchildren should be forced to memorize not only the Pledge and the national anthem, but also the preamble to the Declaration of Independence (I wonder if he means the Constitution) and the entire Bill of Rights. According to this fellow, "Imagine kids knowing that stuff by heart, and even in English.... School systems are doing kids an injustice by not helping them get a handle on these core principles and history of our country."

Again, as a college professor, I have to say that rote memorization is crap. I don't care if my students can memorize the textbook. I do care if they can explain the historical significance of key events and people, broadly defined. Hell, I can sing the national anthem beginning to end and recite the Pledge of Allegiance, all in English. I can also count on one hand the number of times that I've ever stopped to consider what I was saying or singing. And, I speak English, but I still don't know what "ramparts" are. As for "core principles," how many of us know that the national anthem is set to the tune of an old English drinking song? Fine "core principles" on display.

I'll also point out that any of us who grew up with Schoolhouse Rock can sing the Preamble to the Constitution. How many of us know what it means? For a refresher, check out: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Q_TXJRZ4CFc. Dogboy2709 (a sure expert) tells us that his post "is for studying purposes." Hell, we don't need to make sure schoolchildren learn English, we just need to set everything to a snappy tune.

In conclusion, I'd like to PLEDGE my support for our Congressman's opponent.

Disorientation

Today, I got up before the sun to attend Benefits Orientation at Big City University where I'll be teaching this year. After a year of paying my entire health insurance premiums, I was looking forward to sharing the burden with my new employer. I left early in case I ran into traffic. The highways were surprisingly clear and I made it downtown with 30 minutes to spare. That was the end of my "smooth sailing."

When I arrived, I had to use the bathroom. Two cups of coffee, 90 minutes in the car - you do the math. I made my way to the correct building and walked into the lobby. I saw a public restroom with one of those punch-pad locks on it. Of course I didn't know the combination and I left my "secret bathroom lock decoder ring" at home. Reaching new levels of discomfort, I took the elevator to the basement, noting the irony of being oriented from a windowless room in the bowels of the building.

I got off the elevator with one thing on my mind - bathroom. I asked the first person I saw for directions. From behind his water-laden cart, the caterer directed me to the building manager, who told me that the closest bathroom was on the 3rd floor. "You've got to be shitting me," I almost said. So, back to the elevator and up 3 floors. I got off the elevator and looked frantically for the bathroom. Found it - complete with punch-pad lock. "Arrgghh," I exclaimed. I caught the first person I saw and lucky for her, she knew the combination.

Relieved, I returned to the basement. In orientation, I learned that Big City University's first mascot was the owl. I also learned that Big City University will get a football team in 2010. They're excited about that. Seems most students transfer from BCU because they want to attend schools with football teams. At least that's what they say. Now that BCU has a football team, no one will ever want to leave.

Orientation ended with the ultra-confusing presentation about health and retirement benefits. I found myself thinking something that often occurs to me during these presentations. It goes something like, "I hope I never have a job that requires that I memorize details about all of these insurance plans, and then have to explain it to people." This thought is often followed by, "Why can't we figure out how to have universal health coverage in this country? Why do I have to waste my time learning the ins and outs of the insurance industry?"

After two and a half hours in the windowless dungeon, I just wanted to escape. I decided to bring the forms and booklets home, so I could make an informed choice. When I got outside into the relatively fresh air, I decided that since I had a good 3 hours before afternoon rush hour, I'd get my ID and parking permit.

Faculty aren't the only ones getting oriented (or "orientated" as some would say). I stood in the ID line with new students, all bright and shiny, unjaded by the college experience, full of inquiry and questions. They seemed to be primarily interested in lunch. After I got my ID (with a halfway decent picture) and the oh so important university ID number, I walked the short 10 steps to the parking window.

The little girl behind the window swiped my brand new ID card (smudging some of the numbers) and couldn't find my information on her computer. Speaking with authority, she handed me a brochure and instructed me to follow the instructions to register online. I immediately tried to figure out how I could access a computer on campus, since technically, I don't exist. When I couldn't solve this puzzle, I decided to go home where I have a computer. I had to return to BCU next week anyway.

Two hours later, I was home. I tried to register online. I put in my campus ID and entered my birthdate in the required format. No dice. After five tries, I called Parking Services. The little girl on the other end of the phone informed me that because I'm faculty, I have "other parking options" and I needed to "come into the office" to register. I told her that I was just there, then drove 90 minutes home because the little girl at the window never said anything about coming into the office. The second little girl was less than understanding. I'll be sure to go through the brown door when I return next week. Hopefully, it won't have a punch-pad lock.

Next, I decided to fill out my health insurance forms. I was doing well until I got to the dental insurance. I want to be sure that I can continue to see my dentist who looks like Hitler. So, I called his office, described the convoluted information in my benefits book, and they responded with a bunch of questions I couldn't answer. So much for orientation. As of this writing, I've dialed Human Resources office 3 times. No one answers the phone. These are the same people who, just this morning, said, "Call us if you have any questions. We're here to help you. Don't be afraid to ask. Call us." They failed to mention that they won't answer their phones.

Moving on, I thought I'd see about getting an email address and work phone number. I called the department. The secretary recognized my name, which I took as a good sign. Then, I hit another brick wall, or door with a punch-pad lock. Can't get a phone until I get a computer. Can't get an email address until I get a computer. Can't get a computer until I get an office. Can't get an office until I return next week.

I'm quitting for the day.

It was the Heat, Officer

Yesterday, temperatures hovered in the high 90s all afternoon. It's been hot like that for about a week now. Every time I return to my house, I swear that I'm not leaving again until Fall. Yesterday's series of unfortunate events only strengthened my resolve to stay indoors, for my own safety and the safety of others.

I ventured downtown to get my hair cut and mail my nieces' birthday presents. Like any decent-sized college town, parking is a challenge downtown. You can choose between relatively few metered spaces or the parking deck. In the calm before the impending stampede of returning students, traffic was light yesterday and I happily parked my car in a space close to the salon.

I got out of my car and walked up the street, remembering that I needed to stop at an ATM because I can't put Cute Boy Hairdresser's tip on my debit card any more. At the ATM, I decided to take out $10. The machine kindly informed me that there is a $3 charge for withdrawals, so I paid $3 to get $10. Luckily, my bank will eventually reimbuse the $3. Bad Decision Count: 1. Total cost: $3.

Afraid that the post office would close before Cute Boy Hairdresser was done, I told him that there wasn't any pressure, but if he didn't finish in time, two 6 year-old girls would be very mad at him. He reminded me that I would have to live with the results of his rushing. "Good point," I said, "it will be good for the little girls to learn to deal with disappointment."

While I was trying not to melt into a puddle during the blow dry, the salon's postal worker arrived and we learned that I had a whole hour to get to the post office. Crisis averted. I'd have plenty of time to get back to my car, retrieve my package, and walk 3 blocks.

I left my tip and hit the streets. As I walked toward my car, I thought, "I hope I have enough time left on the meter, because I don't want to have to move the car." I got closer and saw a ticket on the windshield. It was then that I realized that I never put any money in the meter when I got out of the car. Just parked and walked off. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," I muttered. It's a $3 fine. Bad Decision Count: 2. Total cost: $6

I thought about putting money in the meter and walking to the post office. Then, I broke a sweat because, oh yeah, it's 150 degrees! "Damn the gas crisis," I thought as I decided to drive the 3 blocks to the post office. I knew exactly how I'd get to the post office. Just a couple of turns and I'd be there. Only it wasn't that simple because my brain wasn't functioning. I knew this to be the case as I made a right hand turn, with the post office directly to my left. "Stupid, stupid, stupid," I muttered as I circled the block. Bad Decision Count: 3. Total cost: approximately $2 (or 4 drops) in gas.

Finally I got my package in the mail, stopped by to cast my ballot in the run-off election, and decided not to leave my house again until the temperature dips below 90 degrees. At least my guy won the run-off.

Southern Masculinity

In our postmodern age, historians often discuss major categories of analysis as "social constructions." Definitions of race, gender, class and culture are determined by the historical context in which they exist. In other words, race is not solely biologically determined and static. Instead, our understanding of race and the meanings we assign change over time. Same with gender, class, and culture.

I found myself reflecting on these ideas when I pulled up behind a red Ford pick-up truck yesterday. In the time that it took for the light to change, I came to realize that this truck perfectly encapsulated the owner's construction of southern masculinity. I'm not sure if it was intentional, but it was masterful.

First, the truck itself. A Ford. Decidedly and proudly American made. And not some wimpy Ford, but one of those big Fords. The ones that scream, "Me, southern! Me, big man! Me, drive big truck! Grrrr!" And it was shiny red. Nothing hidden in that message. Big, red truck.

Next were the three guys in the truck. I think the one straddling the gear shift might have been the only contradiction in the whole picture. The passenger who called shotgun wore the obligatory baseball cap, today's equivalent of the cowboy hat of yore. I so wanted one of them to open his door and spit.

Moving on, I took in the truck "art." Here's where the owner really hit his stride. On the right side of the back window, he'd affixed the now iconic image of the little boy peeing. You know which one I'm talking about, the smirking little boy pees on "Chevy" if you drive a Ford, and "Ford" if you drive a Chevy. Yep, it's truly one of the crucial debates of our times. You can judge its importance by the medium of choice. Throughout history, all great questions have been settled by smirking peeing boy car decals. Most people don't know, but Abraham Lincoln had a smirking boy decal on his carriage. The boy peed on slavery.

This truck owner was a bit more creative. Instead of peeing, the smirking little boy on his window held a kite decorated with the Confederate Stars and Bars. I'd include a picture, but after several Google searches, I'm unable to find one and I don't want to look anymore. Scary things happen when you search for "peeing boy confederate flag kite."

Moving to the truck's tailgate, the owner had a magnetic American flag decal. There they were, the symbols of the Union and the Confederacy, separated by the length of a truck bed yet existing in harmony on one American-made truck. The fierce and enduring patriotism toward region and country on display. Southern AND American.

Then, my eyes gazed upon the truck's bumper. There, for all to see, in bright red letters on a white background, a bumper sticker proudly announced, "I [heart] VAGINA." I'll admit that I did a double-take, then sat in utter amazement, then started laughing. I'll also admit that my first thought was, "I wonder if they are gynecologists." So, although these three young men chose to sit three to a cab and one straddled a gear shift, let there be no confusion, they like girls.

Taken as a whole, the truck was a work of sheer genius. The symbols were so clear, so obvious. I began to wonder if the driver was a northern gay African American man, because he just seemed to be trying too hard to convince people otherwise.

An Office with a View

A friend at www.abovethegwb.blogspot.com/ recently invited her blogging friends to share their views. No, not on politics or religion, but the views from their workspaces. I decided to accept her invitation.

I do most of my work from my home office. For the past year, it's been my only office. Well, there was the "adjunct holding pen" at the college where I taught. It was a sad place, a long room with white cinder block walls and gray linoleum on the floor. The one window was frosted glass, so no one could see in or out. The walls were lined with work-desks, one right next to the other. No privacy whatsoever.

Wouldn't have been a problem, except for Pompous Jamaican and Bald, Ill-Clad Sociologist. They really enjoyed the sound of their own voices. Pompous Jamaican moved from New Jersey and was amazed to learn that he'd accepted a job 2 hours from his house. When he wasn't teaching at my college, he drove 2 hours in the opposite direction to teach at another college. Apparently, they don't have maps in New Jersey. He took it as a personal affront that no one was offering him a full-time job - even though he did not have a doctorate degree, wasn't working on a doctorate, and had no intention of ever earning a doctorate. Bald Sociologist liked to talk about Marx and capitalist conspiracies ("Why should I be forced to buy car insurance?"). Glad to leave the adjunct holding pen behind.

Anyway, my home office. As regular readers know, I recently rearranged my home office to accommodate a new internet provider. Here's my new primary view:

That's right, it's a big beige wall. It's not ideal for several reasons. First, it's a big beige wall. Second, the sun rises over that building and beams straight into my eyes.

So, I'm thinking of shifting the desk so I can look at this instead:

Yes, it's a parking lot, but it's pretty green as parking lots go. And, there's lots of blue sky. The benefits of living at the top of a hill. I can also see the shopping center way off in the distance, which gives me a feeling of space, even though I'm in a sterile apartment complex.

When I turn to look over my right shoulder, the view improves significantly:

It might not look like much now, but the sunsets are absolutely beautiful through that window. After living in black, white and shades of gray in the post-industrial wasteland for 6 years, this is pretty darn good.