Sitting here in the cage trying to get myself to work, I'm having a vicious battle with myself. And right now, I don't know who is winning, but we aren't really liking myself much.
*****
Me: "I don't want to do it."

Also Me: "Tough shit. This is it. Suck it up. Buck up little camper. Just Do It, and all that. But, out of curiosity, why not?"

Me: "It is hard. It hurts. I can't do it. I don't have anything to say. It is hard. I hate it. I hate that I'm not done, and that I feel like such a chump that I'm not done. And, did I mention that it is hard?"

Also Me: "Oh. That sounds good. So, let's run with it. Ok? You don't want to do it because it is hard. So, don't. There. You're done. You've quit your dissertation. Good job."

Me: "Um. Oh...kay... But, well, I don't think that's what I meant, really. Yes, it sounds good, and part of me feels relieved. But, then there's this other part that is oddly disappointed."

Also Me: "Why disappointed?"

Me: "Well, because then I'd have to quit the job that I really like, that I'm good at, and that I really want to do. And because then I'd have given up on this thing that was once really important to me, even if right now it seems far less important than walking outside in the sunshine and going home to where the Oreos and the videos are waiting for me. I still have a memory of what it was to know it was important. And, I kind of still have this nagging sense that it is a story that needs telling."

Also Me: "So, then. What are you going to do about it?"

Me: "Shit. I guess I have to do it. And, by the way, fuck you for always being right."

Also Me: "Right back at ya for making my life so hard."

******
Yes, half of me has a brilliant career ahead as a therapist. Half of me is on the fast track to looserville. Throw in a dash of ambition, a healthy heap of disappointment, and a pinch of shame, and you've got a moment in my dissertation.

I think that anyone writing a dissertation has had this conversation with themselves. Perhaps over and over and over again. I used to tell myself that it was healthy -- a good way to re-up one's commitment to the project, to the process. To confirm whether or not you wanted to keep doing this. I used to tell fresh-faced hopeful young dissertators in my department that if they didn't ask themselves every day why they were doing it, or alternately, if they actually wanted to be doing it, then they were cruising blind on autopilot and were headed for a crash. I thought of the dissertation as a relationship -- one that you have with yourself, I guess, but still a relationship that took emotional work to keep going. It wasn't always fun or pretty or exciting or sexy, but if it was the right thing, then it would always be important.

Now, I'm not so sure. I've been wondering lately, maybe you shouldn't have to fight yourself into doing it. Maybe it shouldn't be a struggle. Maybe it is a relationship that shouldn't be work. Or, phrased more accurately, maybe it shouldn't have to have so much of my emotional energy. I kind of had that revelation last Sunday (the day before my 35th birthday --so a good time for revelations...) I realized that I didn't have the emotional energy to call my goddaughter or my best friend or my family. I didn't have the emotional energy for anything, really. I wondered about this, and wondered why I didn't. I realized it was all going into the dissertation. That it was getting EVERYTHING I had. (Which was doubly frustrating, because I feel like I'm not making much progress.) Then, it occurred to me that maybe it shouldn't. Maybe it shouldn't get all of my emotional energy. That, the burden of it, like fear, grew with feeding.

And, it turns out, I wasn't the only one to notice that the dissertation was getting everything, and leaving not much behind for anything else. On Monday, for the first time in 10 years, Spousal Unit finally let slip (or explode, same difference, really) that he was sick to death of my fucking dissertation and why didn't I get off my ass and finish the motherfucker? He phrased it much more diplomatically, but put through the Stewgad Dissertation Self-Esteem Translator, that's what I heard. He was concerned at the lack of work I was getting done, and wanted to express it. But, also, it seems, he was tired of the emotional energy I've been giving to it. It was also a bit of a revelation for me. He said that he felt like MY dissertation had taken over his life too. That he didn't have any control over it, but that it got to control him. I didn't know he felt like that, which was a bit of a blow. Of course, my first reaction was to be defensive. And to cry. But, then I tried to listen to what he was really saying -- which was that he loves me and wants me to be done with this really hard thing.

It didn't help, I think, that his writing process is so much different than mine. He never had to do revisions that weren't technical. He never had to sit down and rethink his whole approach to the question. Plus, he's a scientist, so all he had to do was spend 5 years getting data, and then spend 4 months writing it up. (All?) I'm not saying it wasn't hard for him, it was. It was hard on me, on us, and it was horrible. But, it was fast. And over fairly quickly. Like peeling a band-aid fast or slow. His was fast. Me? I've been ripping off that bloody little adhesive strip millimeter by millimeter for a decade in order to preserve and prolong the pain. And, he was trying to point out that this was what I was doing, and to tell me that I, hey, by the way, there are better ways to remove band-aids.

The fact that this horrible, emotionally charged conversation took place at the produce section of the grocery store was an added bonus, really.

So, on the walk home from the store I did my best to explain to him where I was at with it. (I've finished 1/3 of the new introduction -- which is where I'm trying to reconceptualize the whole project so that its disparate parts connect more seamlessly. I've got now the "so what, what does it all mean?" section and the chapter outline to go and I'll be done with this round of the introduction.) I did my best to explain my writing process. (I seem to need to screw around for a few hours before I can pull my brain into it, but then I do and can usually write for 2-6 hours at a stretch.) I did my best to hear his concern. Which seems to be the same as mine: Why am I not finishing this? As far as I can tell, the only answer so far seems to tie back to the emotional energy stuff. That I'm not done yet because it is emotionally hard, dammit. (Maybe they should call it an Eh.D.)

But, I'm rapidly losing patience with the part of me that is holding on to that answer. I think I'm holding on to the burden and the fear of the dissertation like a habit -- one that is particularly hard to kick. Academic Heroin. But, I'm not sure I know how to quit. How do you stop giving everything emotionally to something that has consumed you for a decade or so? AND, how do you do this while still trying to give most of your time and intellectual effort to it? Maybe it is a conservation of energy problem -- that the more time and intellectual effort I give it, the less emotional energy I invest. That is probably the first step. I don't know. Maybe the first step is to win this fight with myself. Or maybe the first step is to simply stop fighting. I don't know. But, I'm hopeful that just recognizing that I've got a problem is a good start.

For years now, I've had a yellow sticky post-it above my desk in the Cage with a great piece of advice from one of the umpteen books I've consulted on how to write, how to write well, how to write analytically, how to write a dissertation, how to finish a dissertation, how to survive a dissertation, how to live a real life while doing a dissertation, how not to kill yourself while writing a dissertation, etc.... I'm sure they're all the same books that you all have read. Anyway, this sticky note tells me loud and clear:

"First you make a mess, then you clean it up."

I honestly can't remember which brilliant advice book it came from, but I put it up there to remind me not to worry about perfection the first time around when writing -- to just put shit down on the page and move on. I can always fix it, clean it up later, revise, amend, repair.

As a fierce perfectionist, this is almost always advice I need to remember. I should probably have it tattooed somewhere obscene just so it becomes a permanent component of my personhood. I have a VERY hard time doing this. Almost the minute I write something down, I go back and look at it, chop it up, move it around, rearrange it, change it. At times it works well -- it means that when I have a draft, I generally have a pretty good draft. Other times, however, this mode of production gets me into big trouble. I'll end a day having produced nothing more than a sentence or two, at best.

For the past two weeks, though, I've been following a slightly different pattern. Still struggling with transitioning from the narrative section of my introduction to my analytical section of my introduction, it seems like every day I have at it anew, write myself into a complicated little knot, manage to get myself out of it, and then break for lunch. After lunch, I come back, read what I wrote before lunch, and then completely bugger the whole thing up again by rethinking the solution that I had just found.

Essentially, I've been inverting my handy little post-it's advice -- I've been cleaning up, and then messing it all back up again. Needless to say, this means that I have been ending each day frustrated, angry, unhappy, and discouraged. Not a great space to be in.

So yesterday, I tried something new. I woke up, I read some stuff, I had lunch with a friend, then I went to the local mall to sit at the chain bookstore's coffee shop to write. (While I was there, the power went out at in the whole mall during a thunderstorm -- very exciting. And shockingly, while there was minimal power routed to lighting, the cash registers still functioned normally. Imagine that.) Anyway, once the lights went back on, I started to grapple with one of the problems I had gotten myself into yesterday. I found my way out if it, closed my computer and walked away.

For the rest of the night, I worked on other things. It was great. I stopped myself before I could mess up the solution I had just found to a tricky problem. It may not be the perfect solution, nor even the best, clearest, or final one. But, it left me today starting in a much better space emotionally. I feel like SuperDissertator -- Hey, I Solved a Problem! Rather than SuperScrewUp, where I've been living most of the time these days.

So that's my new goal for each day -- not to make a mess out of the cleaning up I have just done. I think it's a pretty solid goal. I'll still try to hold on to the notion that my writing can be messy, that it doesn't have to be perfect. But, more important at this stage is, I think, to not self-sabotage in the interests of perfectionism.

_______________________

Pact Update:

DBG (Dissertating Bug Guy) and I have been really good at checking in AM and PM to make sure that 1. We're working, and 2. that we've accomplished something. It has been a good motivator to have SOMETHING done, because of the shame factor. Don't want to shame oneself in front of one's friends! It's also nice not to feel so alone in this miserable dissertation wasteland of doom. (just a little ray of sunshine, aren't I?) Anyway, so far, I'd really recommend it.

Saw this at Sfrajett's

It is uncanny. From snackfoods and preferred textures to the exact prefered sleeping positions. Scary.

Find your own pose!

Spousal Unit hates this, by the way.

Last week I got myself back into a writing rhythm, and then promptly wrote myself into a corner. I hate when I do that. You know that thing that happens when you write and write and write and things are going along just fine, and then suddenly, it's like, you hit this wall. Not with the writing, but with the thinking. I don't know what happened, but I created this major thinking block about how to connect the narrative introductory story to the analysis and major questions in the project. I couldn't see a way out of what I created. I backed up and tried again on a different approach, but that didn't work either. I repeated this process over and over, but nothing worked and finally I got really overwhelmed about where to go next and what to do.

So, I did what any overly-anxious, time-pressed, depressed, hypochondriac, agoraphobic dissertator does (only the time-pressed is an official diagnosis...) I panicked. And then sat on the couch for three days reading fiction. (By the way, the Anita Blake vampire hunter novels by Laurell Hamilton are nice little bits of bloody, violent, slightly repetitive brain candy.)

Spousal Unit has been at a conference at work every day and night for the past two weeks (except Sundays), so he didn't really clue into what was going on with my little Howard Hughes-esque vacation from reality, which I like to call a "retreat."

But, in one of those nice moments when the universe provides you with what you need just when you need it, a friend who has recently moved back to town to finish his dissertation stopped by the house and caught me at 4:00 in the afternoon sitting in my living room freebasing Oreos watching a Joss Whedon production of some sort, with a novel in my lap, while my backpack chock full of dissertaty goodness sat safely zipped up in the hallway. He seemed to think that this was an indication that I wasn't working. Go figure.

DBG (Dissertating Bug Guy) decided that he and I, both 10+ year dissertators trying to finish this summer, needed to help each other out by reporting in to each other about what is going on. Sometimes, only another person in the same situation as you can understand the sheer terror that happens when you have this huge internal mental block and this enormous fear that you aren't good enough, can't do this thing that you've set yourself up to do, will never get this bloody thing done and off your back, and clearly will have to live with the consequences of personal failure for the rest of your whole damned life. Wait, where was I?

Oh yeah, help. So, we made a pact. DBG's going to call me every morning by 9:00 to make sure that I'm up and working and at the computer. Then, at the end of the day, we're both going to report in to each other about what we've accomplished that day. We promised we'd be brutally, completely honest. He's got to tell me if all he's done is walked around and chain-smoked, and I've got to tell him that all I've done was read 800 pages of fiction and consumed 2000% of my saturated fat for the day. But, ideally, we'll tell each other instead that, "Hey, guess what? I wrote some stuff. I accomplished something!" Either way, we'll have some accountability.

Yesterday, didn't count, though, because I had to go have Frankentooth replaced by Cylontooth (almost impossible to tell from the real thing, but yet something is not quite right. Just a little to slick to be believable...) So -- accountability begins today.

Anyway, the other day after DBG left, I decided that one of the things I needed to return to work was a writing space in the house so that I don't have to be in the Cage constantly. Spousal Unit wrote his dissertation at a tiny little antique typing table that belonged to my parents and held their typewriter until we got an Apple II+ in the '80s. Anyway, S.U. put this table in the dining room, which in that apartment was the center of the whole house. It was a great thing for him because it physically shifted the whole focus of the house to his dissertation -- it was in the heart of our lives for the three or four months it took him to write up. (Bastard Scientist.) For some reason, even though I have a whole study of my own, I've never been able to work in my study. I think it is too lonely and too far removed from all of the action. I'm always wondering what is going on while I'm up in my study, and I feel like I'm missing out on the BEST stuff if I'm up in the study. Even if there's no one else in the house.

I've been eyeing this little corner of the living room as an ideal work space for a while -- but it held a huge bookcase filled with oh-so-useful stuff like cassette tapes. (Yes, we still have our cassette tapes. Neither of us can bear to chuck them until we find out what is on them so that we can replace it on iTunes, but who has that kind of time?) The typing table of S.U.'s dissertation fame was sitting in the entry by the front door holding bills and junk mail and crap. So, I got this genius idea -- put the cassette tapes in a box to either toss or deal with another time, and swap the bookcase for the table. It was a little challenging since the bookcase was too tall to fit through the door and I was moving it all on my own, but I got it done. Now, we have a lot more storage space in the entry for even more junk mail, and I have a nice little workspace in the living room -- at the heart of it all.

And, oddly enough, finding a little desk in the corner inspired me yesterday to sit down and write myself out of that corner that I had gotten into. I found a way (a nice tidy little way, I think) to link my narrative to the central questions of the diss. So, I think today I can get out of my pajamas, take the Kleenex boxes off of my feet, and return to the reality of dissertationland.

Hey all. I've been working away for the past few days, but had evening commitments so didn't blog the progress. Mainly, I've gotten back into the writing rhythm. I forget that it takes me a while to do it, but once I'm there, I'm much happier. I spent the week grappling with the narrative opening with my introduction, and I think I've finally wrestled it to the ground. So, that feels good. Today, I'm in the office on campus (Man, does it feel weirdly empty and cavernous after the Cage!) working on student stuff, classes for next semester, and meeting with my .... RESEARCH ASSISTANT!! Yes, I got some bucks to have someone else shlog through microfilm for me. Huzzah!

But, I finally uploaded house painting pictures, so thought I'd pass a few along. We've been pretty much sweltering, waiting for the OK from the painterinos to untape the windows that had been sealed up for the lead extraction process. So far, no word. So, we're sweating it out. (And smelling it up. Man, a house that doesn't get any air circulation at all for a month is pretty manky. Although it could be the garbage, I'm not sure.)

So -- Photos! These are a little old -- from last week. By the end of the day, I think they'll be done priming. So the whole thing is one ugly grey solid blob. I'll post those photos soon.

The Front:



The Side:



The Front With Side Tenting:



Detail View: This siding is probably 100 years old, at least. Very exciting. (To old house geeks like me, anyway.)



Well, back to sorting through the stack of papers waist high that I had left behind me in my office on campus. Why, oh, why do I keep every piece of paper that I've ever written on?

Happy Friday, folks!
SG

I spent the morning having Freaking Frankentooth ground down to more human size. It kept trying to stage a coup and take over my whole mouth, and when the coup failed, decided instead to revolt more passively by creating great pain. Obviously, it was a part previously possessed by an evil criminal and it wants to return to its former lifestyle. Happily, Igorette the Antisocial Dentist worked me in to the schedule and ground that evil metal down to size. Now, Frankentooth is slightly smaller and a lot more edgy. It keeps trying to slash out a my tongue, but at least the rest of my teeth now meet. I've seriously got to get rid of this thing before it turns its anger outward and takes a bite out of some innocent passerby.

At noon, our carpenter came and walked around the house with us to show us all of the places that the house is disintegrating, nicely visible now that they've removed the 150-year-old paint (which was clearly structural.) He told us it will be at least 3 days of his time, plus materials. As he was talking, Spousal Unit kept getting quieter and quieter and grumpier and grumpier. Poor man, how he hates to spend money. Even when the clapboards are falling off the side of the house, he'd love an alternative solution. Like caulk and duct tape. Given the 5 figures we're slapping down already for the paint-removal and reapplication process, I have to say I'm a bit with him on this. But, alas, unless we want spongy siding and increased water damage, we're over a barrel. Caulk and duct tape just won't do it, as evidenced by the previous owners' attempts in some places.

After that, SU dropped me off at the library so that I could head to the Cage. Just as I walked in the door, I ran smack into Committee Member #1 -- a brilliant and often distracted professor. #1 has been away for quite some time, so has been a bit out of the loop-ish on my failure to complete the dissertation thing. I haven't exactly been avoiding #1, but neither did I seek #1 out. It was therefore a bit awkward to have an accidental encounter.

Anyway, in the elevator up to the Cage/Stacks, after the perfunctory brief chat, I caught #1 up to what has been going on with my work. #1's response?

"What? You want me there??"

I pointed out to #1 that they were in fact, a member of my committee and so required by those pesky "regulations" to be there. (ok, with slightly less sarcasm) At which point, #1 said (in tone of great disappointment and surprise):

"I thought you'd have long ago defended and proxy-ed me out. Well." (pursing lips.)

I said no, and did not point out the obvious which was that #1 has yet to see a copy of anything I've written (due to the preference of Old Advisor for complete control and due to my tendency for brutal secrecy surrounding the early stages of my written work in order to protect my delicate ego). At which point, we reached my floor, so I wished #1 well and exited the elevator, when letting out a great exhalation of relief to be out of that tension-filled little lift. (My departure was made all the more awkward by the fact that #1 in typical academic fashion was not paying attention to what floor we were on and so caused a brief tangle as we both simultaneously attempted to leave the elevator. Awkward, to say the least.)

#1 seemed distracted and disgruntled. Most of which I don't think has anything to do with me, but the encounter was disconcerting nonetheless. Mainly, I think, because of that whole issue I've got with "Disappointing Someone in a Position of Authority that I Yearn to Impress and Please." But it was also not so much fun to be informed that I was "behind" in #1's vision of my life. Yes, #1, I already know that I should have long ago defended, thank you very much. But, I don't really wish to be reminded of it harshly and randomly on a cold and gloomy afternoon with an aching Frankentooth, a disintegrating south corner, and a grumpy husband. Not to mention at the point that I'm trying to return to diss. work after doing other things for a few hours. (Of course, I don't know how else #1 could have responded, really. Maybe a little less judgment and a little more support? With an offer to read my drafts and an invitation to tea and cookies?)

But, despite my own frustration, the disappointment in #1's voice, and the beyond-awkward departure, I wasn't as scared of #1 as I have been in the past. #1 did not seem to be 50' tall (as is usual in Advisor Attacks.) In fact, #1 seemed fairly human-sized, and not really even Someone in a position of Authority that I need to worry about pleasing inordinately. Yes, #1 needs to read my stuff soon. Yes, #1 needs to be present at my defense, and Yes, I do need to make sure that #1 thinks the dissertation is something worth defending. But, I too have stature, and for some reason today, I felt every inch of it. Even if it was only 5'6".

Taking a break from cleaning (Why, oh, why did I save every piece of paper that I've ever written anything on in my whole damned life?) and saw this cute meme at Mon's.

5 Items in my Fridge: (I'll skip the very, very scary stuff like the plastic container of refried beans from early May and the vegetables that have morphed into green gunge...)

1. Sun-Dried tomatoes in oil
2. Thai leftovers from last night (Panang Chicken, Spicy Basil Chicken)
3. Silk Light Vanilla Soymilk
4. Pinenuts
5. Hunk o' Parmesan cheese

5 Items in my Closet:

1. 4 cinderblocks (to hold the shelves)
2. My new spiffy Salsa Dancing Dress
3. Little bucket O' fingernail polish. I only paint my toes and only then very rarely, but for some reason I have 8-10 polishes.
4. The black cloche hat I bought in Paris
5. An Anne Taintor postcard of a woman lying in bed with text that reads "I dreamed my whole house was clean." (seen here)

5 Items in my Car:

1. Road atlas. (I'm a bang-up navigator when someone else is driving. Not so great on the road thing when I'm the vehicle operator.)
2. Rollerblades + Equipment. Just in case I find myself somewhere and want to skate. This has happened about once.
3. Emergency Mylar Blanket. Just in case I find myself stuck somewhere in a snowstorm so that I don't have to eat Spousal Unit to stay alive.
4. Cheddar sesame sticks from the co-op. (Ostensibly for the same reason as above, but really because I like to munch a few as I commute.)
5. Eleni Mandel "Wishbone" CD

5 Items in my Purse: Don't really carry one unless I'm traveling. How about in my backpack?

1. Disintegrated chocolate candy long past indentifiability.
2. 5-10 pens. Some of them even work.
3. Gradebook. Haven't taken it out yet.
4. Feminine products. Yes, I need those things from time to time. Shocking.
5. Books, of course.

PLUS, in honor of the desk-cleaning that is going on here in Stewgadland, I'll add:

5 Items in my Desk:

1. Box of 50 business cards with address and phone number from 6 years ago.
2. 20,000 staples purchased in a moment of optimism at Staples a decade ago. Apparently, I staple far fewer things than I think I do.
3. Calculator. Hate those maths.
4. AV adapter for iBook.
5. Bottle of Beano. (??!!) What on earth is that doing in here? How often do I eat beans at my desk at home? Clearly at one point it seemed like a good idea. A beano a day keeps the dissertation away?

The meeting with my advisor went really, really well. We talked for an hour and a half, and he gave me lots of great advice -- things to work on, things to avoid, and we developed a bit of a plan so that I can defend in the fall. Now, all I have to do is just do it. Sigh.

The just doing it bit was hampered a little by my first experience with major dental work yesterday. About a year ago or so, I cracked a tooth. Until then, I'd never really had any major work done. (Excluding my wisdom teeth extraction. But I had that done when I was 16 and don't remember much of it. I was given a Valium at home before the surgery so that I would be tranked enough they could even get me into the doctor's office, at which point they promptly IV-sedated the bejeezus out of me. What I do remember from the experience is plucking the dog hair off of my sweatpants and handing it to my mother because I thought she might want to keep it, and then waking up in the recovery room telling them to remove the rubber mask from my face only to discover that that rubber mask was my face.) Anyway, no cavities ever or anything like that. Then about a year or so ago along comes a treacherous raspberry seed that just did me in. On my favorite molar, too. Well, OK, I don't really play favorites with my teeth -- but now that the thing is altered beyond recognition, I'm feeling a little nostalgic for it.

Anyway, yesterday, I decided it was time to do something about this tooth. Mainly because I hadn't chewed food on my right side for about a year. It was getting a bit tedious. The only solution for a cracked tooth, unfortunately, is capping. Unlike bones, teeth don't repair themselves, those little bastards. For those of you who haven't had this capping experience, I would recommend avoiding it. It's not much fun.

And, my dentist was particularly annoying. It is a new dentist for me, since the college's insurance left me with limited choices, which is different than my past situation where I chose the dentist I wanted because of my convenient lack of dental insurance. And, let me tell you, it was a factory. First of all, all of the rooms are open. No closed doors. So, you can hear the grinding and the moaning and the spitting and the screaming coming from all of the other rooms. (well, maybe no screaming, but I kept imagining that any minute I'd hear the screaming...) Then, they chairs are placed so that when you sit in them as a patient your back is to the open non-door. So, you can never see who is coming in behind you. You'll be lying there waiting, and then suddenly, someone is talking to you. Very bad feng shui. Very bad customer relations. And, the dentist and hygienists did not seem to feel the need to address you face-to-face when they came into the room. So, they kept having these conversations about my poor tooth's future with the top of my head.

THEN, when the dentist first came in to see me, she was being tagged by an assistant who was intent on working out the play dates for their two daughters. Here's the scene:

Stewgad: Lying in dental chair with back to the door, in a complete state of panic about what is going to happen (which, incidentally, (ha! no pun intended) no one had bothered to explain, and having only the information about the procedure that she had managed to glean myself from "the internets," having never before met this particular dentist.

(Magically appearing voices at the top of my head)

Hygienist: "You can't just say that they can have the play date and then cancel it, because I've already told Little Hygienist about it, and you can't promise things to a four-year-old and then take them away."

Dentist: Reaching for the foot-long metal syringe to inject me with god-only-knows-what. "Of course. She can come over, the girls will play princess dress up, and they'll have a great time."

Hygienist: "When are you getting the playground installed? Because you can't just promise to a four-year-old that they can come over and play and then take it away from them. You have to follow through on your promises to four-year-olds." (She was a bit obsessed about this promise thing.)

Dentist: Reaching for me with the foot-long metal needle, "We expect the play structure sometime at the end of the month. She can come over then." Leaning in with the needle...

Stewgad: "WOAH!!! What the hell are you doing? What are you going to do? What is happening? Who are you people, and before you stick me with that giant ass mediaeval looking syringe, can you at least tell me about the freaking procedure??!!!"

(At which point, the chastened hygienist slinks off. Presumably to go keep some freaking promises to her four-year-old Little Hygienist Playground Princess.)

It was so rude, I couldn't believe it. I made them go away for fifteen minutes while the Airplane Anxiety Helper kicked in. Then, when they came back, I turned around out of the chair so that they had to talk to my face and not to the part in my hair. Then, the procedure began. Giant needles, weird numbness, and then the grinding. They ground away quite a bit of my poor old tooth (which, oddly enough smelled like popcorn as it was being ground. An icky thought.) Then they stuck this metal cap on the tooth that sits there for two weeks until the new prettier cap arrives in the mail. Then, I've got to go back and they'll wrench this motherfucker off and stick the new one on. This thing is huge. None of my teeth meet because it sticks up so far, and it is clearly bigger than the other teeth so my mouth now looks like Frankenstein -- all cobbled together out of spare parts.

Before I left the dentist suggested that before the numbness wore off, I might want to take an Advil or two and have a glass of red wine, to "take the edge off." Edge? EDGE? The Grand Canyon of pain and she's calling it an edge. So, needless to say, I spent the rest of the day moping and in pain and trying to pretend that the paint grinders don't sound exactly like the tooth grinders.

Today, I feel like I've been socked in the jaw -- battered and bruised and the freaking tooth still hurts to chew on. I feel a bit cheated. So, while I continue to mope about, I've decided to write for 15 minutes (yes, Dr. Bokler), then tackle the study. I'll report in on Sunday or Monday on the top ten oddest bits of crap that I find in the stacks and piles and boxes that have been accumulating in here for a year or so. So far, I'm betting that the 2-year-old Halloween candy will win the "strangest thing I chose to keep in my desk" prize. But, the box full of Christmas tree ornament hangingmajiggers could give it a run for its money.

Thanks to all the well-wishers who cheered me on yesterday -- it was a big help -- particularly around 3:45 when I lost all motivation to do anything except surf the inane celebrity sightings photos at People.com. (Yes, yes, I know... no self-respecting academic should admit this, but a blog is all about revelation and embarrassment. If it helps at all, before I resorted to shlogging about in the cybermuck, I really did read the NYTimes and the BBC news...)

Despite this woeful lapse into the dregs of popular culture, I accomplished 1.75 of my goals.

First, I cleaned out the Cage --It seems that I had about 50 copies of every version of every chapter printed out. It was a little bit of overkill, I think. It must have been that trick of changing two words, printing out 50 pages to make myself feel like I was accomplishing stuff that Joan Bolker talks about. (And, incidentally, just when I need it the most, I can't seem to find my copy of her brilliant therapeutic book on dissertation writing.) Anyway, I took all of those drafts and put them into my scrap-for-printing-and-note-taking pile, and sorted out everything else into chapters and notes.

Speaking of notes, I wound up with was a pretty substantial stack of notes taken on the back of scrap paper that say things like "DO NOT FORGET TO FIX..." or "MAKE SURE TO DO..." All listing things I had thought of at random moments that I wanted to make sure I didn't forget to do in the whole dissertation. None of them make any kind of sense to me at this moment, but I'm sure they're vitally important so I can't throw them out. Maybe when I've finished dissertation v. 2.0, I'll go back and read through them to check that I've done what I said I should do. In the meantime, any thoughts on developing a better system for keeping track of important ideas and thoughts? I've tried the notebook thing -- I always forget them or leave them somewhere, or else I never look back at the pages already written on. I'd love to hear about how other people keep their thoughts organized. (or even if such an organization is possible.)

The .75 part of the goal looked like this: After a couple of hours of reading long lost blog friends (I stopped reading blogs as well as writing them), I looked at the clock and it was 5:30. I thought, well, I might as well go home. And then, I got this horrifying thought that if I did, I would have to confess to the blogosphere this morning that I had not read chapter 3 like I said I would. Strangely enough, it was a big motivator. So, I read through most of chapter 3. (I had also cheated a bit on my "one chapter at a time theory" and read through a bit of the introduction as well -- so between them both, I read a full chapter...)

I found Chapter 3 to be terse and bony -- there's no flesh here, it is like I assume that everyone knows what I am talking about, so I don't have to bother to explain it or to tell the STORY part of the hiSTORY. It is frustrating and daunting. Mainly because I don't really know how to revise it to get that fleshy, juicy, meaty part into the chapter(s?)

Whenever I've faced revision in the past, I've just thrown stuff out and started over, using the same sources but replacing the interpretation and analysis. I don't think that is what is called for here, really. But, I'm not really sure how to begin to get what is called for. I don't even really know how to articulate what it is that is needed. I keep coming back to the bones idea -- or even better, a building metaphor. It's like I've got this stark structure of steel girders, some of which are wonky and need shoring up, but which is for the most part ok. But, that's all it is -- girders. You can kind of imagine the building that will be formed around it if you squint hard enough as you look at it, but the building itself just isn't there yet. So, as a writer, where do you go for drywall and bricks and paint and carpet and furniture and landscaping? How do you take the girders and turn them into a real building? Especially when all you really know how to do is rivet girders?

[Just to check my spelling, I looked up girder -- just saying it in my head that many times made it sound like a ridiculously fake word -- the archaic meaning is to brace or strengthen. I like that notion - that I've got something strong here, a braced foundation. But, girders aren't enough. No matter how strong or bracing.]

And, just to complicate things in the midst of my authorial and intellectual crisis, I'm having lunch with my advisor in an hour and a half. (GASP!) It will be the first time I've seen the man in 6-ish or so months, so I'm a LEETTLE apprehensive. Last night I was cool as a cucumber, but now, I don't know what to talk to him about. Do I tell him I'm having these doubts? (I know he's heard it all before and is probably sick of it...) OR do I play cool, and be like, "Yeah, baby, I can TOTALLY finish this dissertation in the next week and a half." (that extra half week is so that I can please the Formatting Czar and the Austin Powers speak is to throw him off of my nervousness.) I don't know. I'm also a little concerned because I tend to babble and reveal a bit too much when I'm nervous (I'm sure he REALLY doesn't need to know about the stuff I've really been thinking about -- the lead abatement in the house, the flour moths that are taking over our kitchen, the doctor's appointment I've got next week to talk about the back issues that have caused my right toes to be numb for over a year, and the prep-work we're doing this week on all of the junk in our basement for our block's garage sale this Saturday. Or who knows, maybe he'd prefer to hear about those things than the whiny "why can't I finish my dissertation" chorus.) I guess I'll just have to wing it and hope for the best.

Again. Sound familiar? It should.

So, here I am -- back in the Cage at the library after parking the dissertation by the side of the road for most of the past academic year (with a brief and disastrous pit-stop at the Conference Paper Cafe). I simply couldn't manage the dissertation and my first year of teaching. So, I consciously decided last fall to stop working on it and start it back up in the summer. And, now, I find, it is summer and I'm pretty much regretting that decision, despite the necessity of it.

I took the month of May off to recover and visit family, and the rest of last week to clean what I could of the house. I managed to vacuum and mop the living room, dining room, and kitchen for the first time since Christmas (Really. I'm not exaggerating here -- as I vacuumed, I was sucking up pine needles from the Christmas tree...), but gave up when I hit the upstairs bedroom and study. My study is knee-deep in files and books and academic junk mail and knitting supplies and discarded clothes and more files. I've no idea what is in there. It's pretty scary. So scary, the dissertation seemed like a less scary thing to face. Which is saying a LOT, because that mfthing is awfully darn scary. I'm also in the Cage battling the dissertation rather than battling the mess in the study because our house is completely sealed in plastic, rendering it about 100 degrees with 200% humidity inside, while two guys in HAZMAT suits are semi-industriously grinding the lead paint off of the outside of the house with power tools that sound remarkably like dentists' drills. Not a great happy, calm working environment for sorting through your physical and emotional baggage.

So, here I sit in the Cage, which, after my palatial office is strangely small and quaint, surrounded by pictures and doo-dads and cartoons (like The Far Side where the kitchen is thrashed and the woman is dead on the ground and the book she was cooking from says "recipes for disaster" and the ubiquitous Graduate School is Hell by Matt Groening) and books and files and systems and inspirational handwritten post-its ("Own it, it's yours ... the rest is just noise," "This is an important story to tell, it is your job just to tell it," "Courage," "The Finish Line is a Shifty Thing") that all meant something really important to me once. Now, I'm not sure what any of this is and being here just feels like I'm regressing. Maybe that is a good thing -- an indication that I've grown beyond this space, and my role as a graduate student and into my role as a professor. Maybe I can translate this feeling into inspiration to finish.

And, yet as I sit here, I find that I'm not inspired. Rather, I'm a little pissed off and bitter that yet again, I'm STARTING this thing. It feels like I'm always starting the dissertation, always starting over from scratch. I absolutely know without a doubt that I'm always starting the thing because I am always STOPPING it, so yes, it is my own damned fault. But, that doesn't make it any more fun to start again. Histgrad recently wrote this great post reflecting on how she completed her dissertation. She said that the single most important thing for finishing is momentum -- you will never finish if you don't keep it moving along. I've clearly violated that rule. Now, I have to get that big sisyphusian rock rolling again back up that hill hoping that this time it will roll down the other side.

So, that's the state of Stewgad's emotional crap around the dissertation. What is the state of the dissertation itself?

I haven't got a clue. I have no idea what it says, what I was thinking when I last wrote it, what my ideas are, or even if I have ideas. My sources are a mess. I've no idea what is in the 8-10 crates full of legal-sized photocopies from archives, or in the thousands of electronic sources stowed away on the hard drive. And I feel like I haven't read a history book on my subject in about 10 years. So, I'm feeling a little behind the times on the literature. Let's see, is there anything else? Oh yeah, I haven't written an academic word in 9 months, so I pretty much forget how to do it.

So, the question is, how do I begin (again) to get back into it, to build the momentum?

I thought I'd start this process out by reading the whole draft of the Dissertation. All 300-something pages of it. When I oh- so-casually mentioned this in the car the other night to Spousal Unit after salsa dancing class, he firmly, but kindly suggested that I try biting off a smaller bit of the project so that I don't get overwhelmed and stuck and therefore thrown back into the fear/paralysis/depression spiral. My first response was denial. Who, me?? Paralyzed? Afraid? Depressed? Nah. I don't know what he's talking about. Next response, indignation. I NEVER... Third response, realism. OK, well, perhaps maybe I do have a slight tendency to get depressed paralyzed with fear when I deal with the Dissertation.

Given that Spousal Unit knows me pretty darn well, I think I'll take his advice and take on a few little tasks a day for the next few days.

Today, I will:

1. Organize the Cage -- Figure out what is here, what isn't, what I need here, what I don't.

2. Read Chapter 3. Make KIND notes to myself about things that I could work on.

3. Constantly remind myself whenever I feel afraid of this thing that, as Histgrad told me on the phone the other day, at this point in my life and career, the dissertation is just paperwork. Tedious paperwork that I need to get done in order to move on.

That's all for today, folks. Tune in tomorrow for more adventures in Stewgad Dissertationland.

Well, it's done. I finished my grading last week -- but I failed to make the deadline for on-line grading, and so had to haul my ass to Small College Town to turn them in manually. It was pretty awful, actually -- but turned into a good thing eventually. Sort of.

Here's the story --

On Tuesday, I got my last batch of finals. Tuesday afternoon I started grading. Tuesday night I graded. All day Wednesday, I graded. The electronic submission was due on Thursday. And as some of you know, I don't live in the same town as my college, so a 2-hour drive would be required if I couldn't submit them on-line. Given that I had driven that drive a million times this year, I really wanted to avoid driving in again. So, I determined to finish on Thursday.

Thursday, I got up, left the house and went to the coffee shop to grade. I graded all morning, I graded through lunch, and in the afternoon I went to the library and graded there until 6:00 p.m. At this point I was so strung out I was starting to become a leeettle bit freaky. Like, nervous twitch kind of freaky. I left the library, lugging my 2,000 lb backpack carrying all 900-something pages and walked a couple of blocks to the dance studio.

Yep, you heard me correctly. The dance studio. Spousal Unit and I are learning to shake our tail feathers and find our happy feet -- we're taking Salsa Dancing classes. And, while this may sound like a bit of an indulgence for someone who had 30-ish papers to go and 6 hours in which to grade them, it was critical to the very health of my marriage that I attend.

Spousal Unit and I have been making noise about doing this for years and years. Mainly, because we're terrible dancers. HE claims that it is because I always try to lead. I claim that I try to lead because he is a wussy leader so I just have to take over or else chaos would ensue. This usually ends up in a very interesting battle of wills, toes, and elbows at every wedding, bar mitzvah, hoedown, or other catered-type party that we attend. Think Elaine from Seinfeld attempting to dancing with M.C. Hammer. Not pretty.

A few weeks ago a friend that we had known on and off for a number of years ran into us at the coffee shop and mentioned that she was signed up to take Salsa classes, and pushed us to do it. We decided to end the decade of ugliness, and give it a whirl. The next day, we committed the dollars and signed up for 6 weeks of lessons (6 lessons). So, for the sake of all innocent bystanders at any future panty-hose-required occasions, I thought I should stop the grading for an hour and go to class.

I got to the studio, dropped my junk, and dove into the introductory warm-up steps. It was dreadful. I went left when everyone went right, I stepped forward when everyone else stepped back. I just couldn't get it right. This completely upset me. I had read hundreds of pages of crappy undergraduate writing, the clock was ticking, I wasn't done, and I couldn't even follow the leader. I looked in the wall-o-mirrors and started to cry. I kept zigging while everyone else zagged, and fought back the tears. I contemplated running out of the room, but it seemed a bit overly dramatic, so I kept at it for the rest of the warmup, and in a few minutes I felt better. Then, we learned to turn with partners. So, that was pretty fun and worth it.

After Salsa class, we went to eat with our friend and another new friend from class, so I spent another 1/2 hour at the taqueria having dinner.

After dinner, Spousal Unit took me to his office at the Big Science Thingey and I sat at his desk and graded. At 8:30 I submitted the grades from class #1, at 10:20 the grades for class #2. Amazingly, I finished class #3 with an hour to spare!! I was so happy! I was hanging on by a very, very thin thread at that point, and was so exhausted I was ready to keel over. It was now 11:00 and all I had to do was enter in the grades on the web system.

I logged on, I clicked "submit grades" and the computer/internet whirled away. I waited, staring into the emptiness of space. I kept waiting. Hm, I thought, this seems odd. At which point I got a lovely message saying: "System inactive, message -49503si294." Ah, a glitch. I'll try again. "Submit grades," whirling, whirling...Waiting now with a smidge more anxiety...."System inactive, message -49503si294."

They shut down the F#@*$(&$ system at 11:00 on Thursday, the day the grades were due. Apparently, my institution was on Greenland standard time, and believed that Thursday ended at 11, rather than the more "traditional" midnight. I completely freaked out. I had read 900-something pages in like 48 hours, (pausing briefly to eat, sleep, and salsa dance) and I couldn't submit my grades. I was cursing. I was screaming. I was sobbing. I was mad as hell. I was beyond strung-out. I just had a bit of a meltdown. Poor Spousal Unit. He tried telling me that there was no crying at the Big Science Thingey, but I was beyond consolation. He drug me out and took me home.

While this seems like a minor thing in retrospect, a slight glitch that was easily remedied the following day, I think that my reserves were so so completely drained that I just didn't have any energy to devote to frivolous things like, say, perspective and rationality.

As best as I could, I resigned myself to driving in the next day. Bright side? Driving in enabled me to attend the last faculty meeting of the year. I was planning on skipping it, but I'm glad I didn't -- if for no other reason than that there was a fabulous brunch at the President's house aftewards. It was nice. I put in some face time, and got a more senior colleague to complain about the computer system shutdown in the meeting. After I turned in the grades, I basked a bit on the dock by the campus and watched the swallows dive bomb bugs above me and schools of minnows laze by below me. It was such a nice way to end the semester, I've decided to make it a tradition.

Since then, I've been re-learning how to relax. After very careful and hard training of 9 months of sustained panic, I'm pretty good at the anxiety thing. I've discovered, though, that I'm not so good anymore at the relaxation thing. But, I'm giving it my full and complete attention.

So, that's the end of today's Tale of the Interminable Grades and Their Irrational Grader. Thanks for tuning in. Next time on our program: The Fabulous Fable of Lead Paint Abatement, Mambo-Dancing, and the Attempting-to-Relax Homeowner.

Grades are due by midnight tonight.

• Classes to grade: 3

• Total number of papers to read: 70

• Total number of pages to read: 985 (27x10, 24x10, 19x25)

And where am I, in this mess one may ask? Exhausted.

• Classes Graded: 2

• Papers remaining: 13

• Pages remaining: 325

Sleeping when this is all done? Priceless.

Well, here it is. I can't really believe it, but I am absolutely almost no longer a first-year professor. Only 71 student papers stand between me and absolute freedom (which in some circles is more commonly known as "the dissertation." Cue ominous music...dum dum duuuuummmm.)

I don't really know how it happened, but I managed to survive my first year of teaching. And I didn't even kill anybody. (Unless you count the exploding bird, the chipmunk, and the small rat-like unidentified thing I hit with the car getting back and forth to campus in the past 9 months.) But, anyway, I was really thinking that I didn't kill any students. No matter how tempted. I didn't kill (or even kick) the dozer who slept through almost every class DISCUSSION, nor the one who never turned anything in and yet still came to my office asking if s/he were going to pass my class, nor the one who could not stop talking while I lectured. I didn't even once reply rudely to the student who emailed me 3 times a day to check if what s/he is writing on the current assignment was "OK" -- read: please tell me my grade before I have to turn in the assignment. All in all, pretty good. I even have my first entry on Rate My Prof. (I wasn't given a HOT, alas. :) But, I was rated very high on everything except easiness. Not bad. Yes, I'm still starry-eyed enough and vain enough to enjoy Rate My Prof...)

As an added survival bonus, Spousal Unit still seems to want to keep me. Given that he did all of the laundry and dishes (pretty much) for the past academic year, I'm a bit in awe. Likewise my department and most of my friends seem willing to keep me around. (Well, "most" may be a bit of an exaggeration. I think I've got at least a few pissed-off friends and family members out there who haven't heard from me in 9 months and are wondering if I'm really the rude, arrogant, and uncaring bastard that I come off as given my utter failure at email correspondence.)

Anyway, in the interest of 'splaining (in the words of the immortal Inigo Montoya), or perhaps just summing up, I want (as Spousal Unit says) - to do my "Tomorrow Self" (or "Next Semester Self") a big favor and offer her some advice.

The Top 5 Things I Learned This Year:

1. Plan WAY ahead.

I've been trying to learn this one on other stuff for year with little success. I only managed to be really prepared it about 1/3 of the time this semester, but I was so much happier when I had all of the handouts and all of the prep and all of the lectures done at least a week ahead of time. It may be unrealistic to shoot for this every week of the semester, but it's my goal for next year. And if I can't achieve it, hell, I'd be happy with having read the assignment that I myself had assigned at some point before the hour before class was meeting.

2. Grade First.

I still hate the grading. More than anything else. Well, almost. I never got the hang of just doing it and getting it out of the way. (She says as she stacks the laptop on top of the 71 papers in order to type her first blog entry in months...)

3. Trust the Students.

I can't count the number of times I'd freak about about something ahead of time, and then get into class, pitch it to the students, and watch them run with it. At times they were so patient and earnest -- and just willing to go wherever I was pointing. And usually, they'd find a new direction and make the whole project so much more interesting than I had thought. They were just great.

4. But don't TRUST the Students.

They need limits, and boundaries, and rules in order to feel comfortable with themselves and with others in the classroom. I didn't have any plagiarists (so far), and I think my cell phone policy was becoming legendary, so the rules were (as far as I know) mostly working. But, the first class of first-year students in the fall where I didn't lay down the law early enough to curtail the talking in class and horsing around just never got better. And I heard from a repeat student from that class that it had really annoyed her and was distracting to everyone else. So, next time I'll know -- address problems early and often. They won't go away on their own and it is my responsibility as the course leader/manager to deal with them.

5. Make Time for Yourself.

Or else you will take it anyway at a moment where you don't ACTUALLY have time for it. (Witness the blogging on top of 71 papers that must be read in the next 48 hours...) There were points this semester when I was so burnt out, I just felt like I had nothing left. I gave to the teaching all I had -- for better and for worse. And while I think it paid off in some ways, in other ways it was not such a great plan. Like when I was so exhausted I slept through the whole spring break, so I was behind on my grading when classes resumed -- which didn't situate me very well for managing the class for the next few months after I had to skip a week of classes because a close family member passed away. If I had followed rules 1 & 2 & 5 for the whole semester, I wouldn't have been so exhausted during spring break, and I could have been better situated to deal with the emergency. Emergencies happen, and I would have been in such a better place if I had had some internal resources to draw on at that point. And, consequently, I think I would have been a better teacher through the rest of the semester.


Anyway, there it is -- my advice to myself. Hopefully I'll listen to me when the time comes. But, I have a tendency to ignore good advice (like when Histgrad (and many others) told me back in August: "Stewgad, don't assign so many papers!!!")

To sum up the summing up: Overall, I feel older, wiser, sadder, more tired, and at the same time really fulfilled. Ultimately, I can really boil the whole semester down to one moment last week when a senior came in to turn in her final paper for my Women's History class. While we were chatting about what she was planning next, out of the blue she told me that she hadn't wanted to take the class because she pretty much hated history, but she hadn't had a choice because it was required for her major. Then, she told me that she was so glad she had taken it because it turned out to be one of her favorite courses that she had taken her whole time in college, and that she was so happy to have had the chance to have me as a professor before she left college.

That alone makes it all worthwhile.

Thanks to all of you out there in the blogosphere who have very kindly inquired if I had kicked the bucket, or what. It is always nice to know that one is missed! In the words of the immortal Monty Python de-limbed knight... "I'm not dead yet. I'll bite your ankles..." (or something along those lines. I always close my eyes for that part because the spurting faux blood is icky and gives me the willies and lord knows you can't hear properly when your eyes are closed.)

I've been away from the blog mainly because I have been overwhelmed and exhausted, but also because I didn't want it to devolve into a forum for unabashed griping on my part. The past few entries had really taken on a "wah, poor me" tone. And, while the suggestions and support have been amazing -- when I emerged from the madness, I started to feel really awful bitching and moaning about how tired I was having to do this thing that I love at an amazing institution that I love for students I love while getting paid more money than I ever have before. Something there seemed disingenuous and just plain wrong, no matter how tired I was or how much work I had to do.

And actually, I think I'm getting a hang of this 3-course thing. Or maybe it is that I've been on Spring Break this week and have blissfully set aside any thought whatsoever of my classes as I watch Veronica Mars on DVD (which by the way is the best show since my beloved Buffy left the air) and try to write a conference paper that is now 2 weeks late. (sigh.) Although here in Zone 5, "Spring" is a bit of a misnomer. I'm definitely getting tired of winter and getting that antsy when-will-it-ever-end-for-God's-sake feeling. March always sucks because you think it is spring, it SHOULD be spring, but it just never is.

Oops -- there I go, bitching again. Crap. Maybe it is the anonymity of the blog that makes it so easy to gripe -- or maybe it is the strange public/private-ness of it. It FEELS like I'm in private, here alone with the computer, so I can say those nasty things that I think to myself in my head but wouldn't usually say out loud. (well, mostly usually.)

ANYWAY -- I think for the next 6-7 weeks, I'm going to put the blog on official hiatus. (Not that it hasn't really been that way unofficially). Until the semester is out, I'm going to be scarce around these here parts. I'll be back with a vengeance (and a dissertation) this summer as I really, really have to finish the PhDammit and will need the structure that daily entries provide.

Meanwhile, so long for a bit, and thanks for all the fish.

(is this my day for geeky '70s Brit culture references, or what? If only I had ever watched Dr. Who and could work a reference in there somewhere, the blog entry would be complete.)

SG

To the casual observer, academia looks like the sweetest gig. I mean, we get summers off, we don't have to punch a clock from 8-6 each day, we get to do what we want most of the time, and plus, we get paid for living the life of the mind.

All of these things are true. And amazing. But, the down side is that academia is brutally demanding. As a professory you are a writer, a researcher, a counselor, an administrator, an office clerk, and an actor in a one-man show, that you wrote, directed, produced, and stage managed that performs 3-4 times a day.

In view of how completely strung out I am as I am sitting here today in the office trying to write a lecture for tomorrow, I've decided to post a log of my activities in past week. With a few exceptions, this is pretty much a typical week in the life of a commuting first-year professor during a 3-course load semester.

Sunday, 1/22

8:00 a.m. Woke Up. Showered, had breakfast, packed up my books and files.
10:00 a.m. Drove to colleague's house, picked up colleague
11:00 a.m. Arrived on campus.
11:00-6:00 p.m. : 1. Wrote lecture#1 = 15 pages. 2. Developed PowerPoint presentation to accompany lecture #1, 14 slides, 3. Graded 5 papers, 4. Read 50 pages.
6:00 p.m.: Dinner with colleagues and job candidate
8:30 p.m.: Drove colleague home, returned to hometown.
10:00 p.m. arrived home. Continued writing lecture.
1:30 a.m. Went to sleep

Monday, 1/23

6:20 a.m.: Woke up
7:30 a.m.: Left for Campus
8:30 a.m.: Arrived on campus, met with students, served tea and hot chocolate, before they left to meet with candidate.
9:00 -11:15 a.m.: Finished writing lecture#1 , rehearsed Lecture #2 (previously written), graded 5 more papers.
11:15 - 1:15p.m.: Gave 2 lectures, answered questions, soothed concerns.
1:15-2:00p.m.: Ate lunch at desk while organizing class material for next time.
2:00-4:15 p.m.: Prepped for class on Wednesday = 1. Reading 100 pages, 2. Graded 1 paper, 3. Made 2 3 page handouts, 4. Held office hours, 5. Sent 6 email replies to students with questions
4:30 - 6:00 p.m.: Went to Candidate Job Talk.
6:00 -8:30 p.m.: Ate dinner with colleagues and candidate
8:30 -9:30 p.m.: Drove Home
9:30 p.m. -10:00 p.m.: Saw Spousal Unit.
10:00 p.m.: Fell asleep

Tuesday, 1/24

7:30-8:30 a.m.: Showered, dressed, got ready for work. Packed up books and papers and lecture.
9:30 a.m.: arrived on campus.
9:30 a.m. - 7:30 p.m.: 1. Wrote lecture #3, 2. Read 200 pages, 3. Planned discussion on said pages, including 1 intensive document activity, 4. Consulted constantly with colleagues about job candidate, 5. Graded 5 papers, 6. Talked to high school teacher on phone with questions, 7. Emailed student questions, 8. Posted documents to course website.
7:30 p.m.: Drove home.
8:30 p.m.: Grocery Shopped - out of milk, eggs, vegetables.
9:00 p.m.: Ate dinner.
10:00 p.m.- 12:00 a.m: Resumed writing lecture # 3, with PowerPoint accompanyment - 15 slides + images
12:00 a.m.: Fell asleep.

Wednesday
5:30 a.m.: Alarm Rings
6:00 a.m.-7:30 a.m.: Graded 25 short papers.
7:30 -8:30 a.m.: Got ready, packed up papers and lecture #3
9:30 a.m.: Arrived on campus
9:30 -10:30 a,m: Graded 15 short papers
10:30-11:15a.m.: Finished lecture #3, wrote 2 assignments, 1 handout, xeroxed.
11:15-1:15 p.m.: Led discussion, gave a lecture, handed back 45 papers. Met with students after class, answered questions.
1:15-3:00 p.m.: Read 100 pages for next class, prepped discussion, wrote reading guide handout, xeroxed. Oh, and ate lunch.
3:00 - 4:30 pm.: Taught class
4:30 -5:00 p.m.: Met with student about possible lecture in Fraternity.
5:00 -7:30 p.m.: Organized class material, organized next set of tasks for Friday's classes.
7:30 -8:30 p.m.: Drove home
8:30 p.m.: Dinner with Spousal Unit
10:00 p.m. Bed

Thursday
8:00 a.m.: Wake up. Utterly exhausted. Fell back asleep.
10:00 a.m.: Decide not to go to gym
11:00 a.m. Move to couch, start reading for Friday's class.
12:00 - 6:00 p.m.: 1. Read 300 pages, 2. prepared 3 discussions. 3. Wrote 2 handouts.
6:00 -7:00 p.m.: Cooked dinner for Spousal Unit
6:15 p.m.: Phone call from student with question about assignment.
7:00 p.m.: Dinner with Spousal Unit
6-10 p.m.: First downtime of the week. Rest, watch Veronica Mars on DVD.

Friday
6:30 a.m.: Wake up.
7:30 a.m.: Leave for campus
8:30 a.m.: Arrived on campus
8:30 -11:15a.m.: Emailed, prepped for discussion.
11:15-1:15 p.m.: Led discussion, met with students after class, answered questions.
1:15-3:00 p.m.: Read 100 pages for next class, prepped discussion, ate lunch at desk.
3:00 - 4:30 pm.: Taught class
5:30 -6:30 p.m.: Drove home
6:30 p.m.: Dinner with Spousal Unit & Friends out.
10:00 p.m. Bed

Saturday:
See yesterday's post

Sunday:
7:00 a.m.: Woke up.
9:00 a.m.: Left house. Got gas, dropped Spousal Unit off at Big Science Thingey, got breakfast to eat in the car.
9:30 a.m.: Left for campus
10:30 a.m.: Arrived on Campus
10:30 -4:00 p.m.: Organized all handouts for 1 class for next week. Reviewed next week's lecture #1, started planning lecture #2.

And so, here we are...

All told, last week I read roughly 300-some pages (not all that much, really), prepared 3 lectures = writing 45 pages, plus about 45 slides, graded 50 something papers, prepared numerous discussions, at least 5 handouts/assignments (10 pages). I spent 6 days of the week in my office, most days past 7 p.m. Add to all this the fact that I drove for 12 hours driving time, clocking a grand total of 720 miles.

I'm exhausted. And I can't seem to get caught up. I'm not communicating with my friends, I'm dropping the ball with my family -- both of groups of whom have indicated to me in one way or another over the past few months that I am neglecting them at unacceptable levels. I'm defintely neglecting my marriage at unacceptable levels. I see more of the student who is taking 2 of my classes than I do my husband. My car smells like burning nastiness - which the mechanic has looked at 3 times and can't find anything wrong, my plants are all dying, there's orange mold growing on my bathroom sink, the only meal I ate at a real table was the one we had out last night, I've found my first (and fourth, and eighth, and tenth) gray hair, and I'm wearing yesterdays underwear. (Sorry, got stuck in that little rant and couldn't seem to get out.)

I know I'm getting some down time, (Thursday & yesterday) but it's not enough. It's just not enough. I don't want to complain, because I know so many people who work so hard at what they do (and do it with more repsonsibilities than I have), but I don't know how to do this and still maintain 1. my relationships, 2. my sanity, and 3. my job.

So, right now I'm going to take a deep breath, return to writing lecture #3, try to drive home without hitting any wildlife (last week it was a near miss with a squirrell), and hope that loved ones will hang in there with me until that someday arrives when I get caught up, can breathe again, and only have a little bitty dissertation to write.





(Spell-check is down, sorry. I also don't have time to manually spellcheck my blog posts. Woe is me. :) )

Well, I didn't make it to the library today. But, I did get some work done for next week. I've read two articles that I've assigned in the women's history class (which has been the one I've given the least attention to) and did some computer work on the class website. It wasn't much, but it was something. And, I surfed the net, and watched and episode of my newest guilty pleasure-- Desperate Housewives downloaded from iTunes. It's embarrassing to like, but there's something great about watching the embedded mockery of the Republican vision of American women's perfect lives. (Whether or not it may also reinscribe and justify that vision... I haven't yet decided.) But, I Desperately needed some down time today.

This past week almost killed me -- I came seriously close to a meltdown in the car on the way to work on Wednesday. I managed to hold it together and get through the week. So, all in all, I think a day to just do little was a good thing. Plus, added bonus: I've been at the Big Science Thingey all day with Spousal Unit. He's off doing sciencey type stuff, so I could sit in his cubicle and therefore not notice how filthy the house is.

I need to figure out how to get a handle on this 3 class teaching thing. I can't seem to do everything that I need to do. I don't know what it is, but I'm scrambling around at the last minute for every class session. I can't get ahead of it, somehow.

And, I can tell that one of the classes isn't quite yet WITH me. There comes a moment, I think, in each class experience where you win them. They start off skeptical, and then one day, you do the right backflip, or you say the right interesting thing, or you make them laugh, and then bam -- they're yours. It just hasn't happened yet with this 100 level class this semester. And, I strongly suspect that it is because I'm rushing around to prep everything at the last minute and feeling overwhelmed and behind at all times.

So, that's my weekly report. Not much dissertation/conference paper work, but a slightly saner Stewgad than when today started.

I've reached my library limit. Since I've been playing solitaire for half an hour now, I think its time to go home and rest for a bit. (And grade a few papers, maybe. Yes, I have papers. Just little introductory thingeys, but I have to look them over anyway.)

So, here's what I got done:

1. I found one critical book that I really needed.

2. I made a list of the questions that I have about the topic I'm going to write the paper on, which can kind-of operate as a preliminary plan of attack.

3. I did some quick newspaper research. When, oh when, will 19th century newspapers be text-searchable on-line? I'm Waaaiiitinngg...

4. I read some correspondence that gives me some insight to one of the questions that I have. And, I think offers a quote that I can build the end of this paper (and the dissertation) around: Susan B. Anthony in a letter in 1868 to Anna Elizabeth Dickinson about Democrats and Republicans said, "It does seem to me the people must rise up in their might -- and turn these money changers out of the marketplaces -- unless we do -- well we shall trudge on & on -- in spite of the ten thousand mountain barriers--"

5. I successfully did some dissertation recognizance. Which means of course, the reconnaissance that is required to make oneself cognizant of the things you once knew well but have since set aside.

All in all, a successful few hours. So, take that, Scriv. A whole OTHER blog entry BEFORE February .... :) I'm on fire, man.

Fifteen more to go...

So, I survived my first week teaching 3 classes, and boy are my arms tired. No, seriously. I'm exhausted. It probably doesn't help that I got totally hammered last night when our favorite brunch place held a once-time only event of serving dinner (OMG, was amazing) so I just HAD to try all of the wines that my group ordered. I've been pretty much hungover all day. Not fun. I don't think I'll try it again. Anyway, this semester I'm teaching the same section of the Intro class I taught last semester, a Civil War and Reconstruction class and a Women's history class.

Classes went well so far, although after I had repeated the same first-day-of-class song and dance about how I'll fail their asses if they plagiarize, and how I expect them to bring the reading materials to class every day, yadda, yadda, yadda it got a little old. I suspect that by the time I went through the spiel for the third class, that my heart just wasn't in it. I just couldn't muster up the same enthusiasm for the thing that I had the first time around. Consequently, I think I wasn't sufficiently stern. I know this because yesterday the SAME STUDENT whose phone I answered last semester, got another call from his girlfriend while in class. I couldn't believe it. Clearly he wasn't humiliated enough the last time around. So, the phone rang, he looked sheepish, I made him produce it, I answered it, and his girlfriend (who by now must recognize my voice) quickly hung up. So, I didn't get to talk to her and ask her how her trip to Australia was.

Now -- get this -- I'm in the Cage in the library for the first time since last October. (I think. It may have been even longer.)

I decided that the ONLY way I'm going to write the conference paper I'm presenting at the end of March, and the only way I'm going to finish my dissertation is if I spend every Saturday in the Cage working on my own work. Not teaching, not grading, not lecture writing. But, just doing my work. ME, mine, mine, mine. (ah, the inner toddler returns.) So, despite my hungover state, I hauled my dizzy ass up to the Big University Library and am now here rediscovering my love of the smell of lots of old books. I'm also reveling in the incredible abundance of sources available at this enormous library. They've got everything. No joke. It's great. I am so spoiled by this -- and now, have the best of both worlds in many ways -- the small college teaching experience, but easy access to the wealth of the Big School library. I'm also kind of digging the quaintness of my little Cage. It's so cute and tiny. And, quiet. All other grad students seem to have readily abandoned their cages today.

Anyway, I've actually got some ideas about the paper. I had an AHA moment yesterday about the dissertation, and I'm feeling ok about this work thing. The hangover must be wearing off.

So, expect a Saturday progress report each week on how I did that day in the Cage. It will be my way of keeping myself on track, and of keeping all 2 of my groupies informed. (Hi Mom & Dad...)

Cheers -
SG

"Soon" is clearly a loose and flexible term here in Stewgadland. A promised update way back in December "soon" turned into next year, as Scrivener predicted. In my defense, I barely managed to turn in my grades on time and remained sick for a good week or so afterwards. At which point, Spousal Unit and I set off on a whirlwind tour of the whole country that I pretty much just returned from. But, excuses aside, a big warm Happy New Year to all the folk I totally miss in the blogosphere!

Since I am overdue a bunch of blogging stories, I'll do my best here to do a kind of State of the Stewgad, and I'll wind up with the story of how Spousal Unit and I went to Vegas for New Years and almost lost our lives in a fairly accurate re-creation of a British Soccer-Fan stampede. This story comes complete with photos, so, if you want to skip the boring stuff head on down to the end of the post for the pictures and juicy life-endangerment story.

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First: Teaching. I've finished my first semester teaching as a professor of history at a small liberal arts college. All in all, I think I love it. But, there are definitely moments where I hate it with a fiery passion. Usually those moments occur at midnight or so the night before I teach when I'm sitting on the broken-down-coral-patterned-couch-my Dad-built-from-a-kit-in-1985 that graces the corner of my study attempting to pull together a lecture on a subject I feel that I know very little about and realizing that I only have one page written and 3 PowerPoint slides ready and I have 10 more hours before I have to get up in front of a room full of people and engage them enough with the material to keep them wanting to learn about it. At those times, I really hate the job. I'm also not so wild about the fact that it doesn't end at 5 or 6 (or 7..8..) p.m. when I walk out of the office. Like the dissertation, I carry the teaching with me all of the time. I guess I hadn't anticipated that it would really be any different than graduate school in that way, but still it is hard to grapple with every Sunday afternoon when I'm dying to read a novel on the couch with a cup of tea and instead I have to grade papers.

I love the students, though. They're fun, full of energy and anxiety and hope and terror and ennui and disdain and exuberance. And I love the naive wisdom they casually carry around with themselves and will share if you can just break through the insecurity and the skepticism. I had a really great time with them, and by the end of the semester felt really bonded to the groups in both of my classes -- even the terrible first-years. They really came around by the end of the course. So, that was satisfying as well. And my evaluations were really good -- which is pretty exciting. They really liked the class, the books, and me -- except they thought I was too hard a grader. Which is, of course, what every professor wants to get a reputation for. So, all in all I think it was a success.

The main thing I will do differently next time is to assign far fewer written assignments. I had 8 short papers and 4 long papers. For 45 students. It was crazy. I was exhausted, and by the end I just couldn't bear to read any more undergraduate writing. It was insane. (Which many of you kindly told me in not so many words, and I thank you all ... But I guess like a stubborn ass it was just something I had to learn for myself.)

The thing I think I learned the most was HOW to do it -- HOW to teach. How to juggle things, how to write a lecture, how to plan a discussion, how to understand the rhythm of a semester, of a classroom. I felt like I was learning to walk for the first time -- kind of shaky and wobbly, but increasingly confident. By the end of the semester, I felt like I had a pretty good grasp on what I was doing and could definitely make my way from one side of the room to the other without any help.

Next, I get thrown back into the pool into a deeper deep end. Last semester I only taught 1 course -- 2 classes of the same course. This semester, I have to teach 3 different courses. One is the same one I taught last time, but 2 are new classes -- a history of American women and a history of the Civil War. Both are my areas of specialty, but I've come to discover that it is much harder to teach the stuff you know really well. It is so hard to forget the intricate details and professional fights and argumentative nuances and to just teach the basics when you're so embedded in the field. Anyway, I've got one week to go before I have to start teaching and I don't have any syllabi ready. It's going to be a heck of a week.

The funny thing is that I have a lot of anxiety about starting over again -- The comfort that we all developed with each other in each class by the end of the last semester is gone. So, I'm starting all again with a new room full of strangers. I guess that is part of the excitement of teaching, but it is also a bit terrifying. Although I tell myself it will get easier as I do it, I'm still having anxiety dreams. (A few nights ago I dreamed I fell asleep on the couch in my office with the door open and that school started the next day and that I didn't wake up, so that everybody walked by my office and saw me in there sleeping. -- Think I'm worried about being unprepared? Getting caught napping on the job?)

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Second: Dissertation Dissertation? What dissertation? Nobody here is writing a dissertation. No way. Look elsewhere for that one, mister.

No seriously, I haven't had a single moment to do anything on it. The stacks of files in my home office mock me. As do the papers in huge piles on my desk that I was going to sort through today. But, since I don't have to get up 3 days a week in front of a group of people to talk about my dissertation, that's kind of fallen by the wayside in favor of the teaching. I'll dive back into it fully as soon as classes end in May. (And, if you're keeping track, expect daily blogging to pick back up at that point as I report progress or lack thereof.)

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Third: New Year's Eve -- This is the fun stuff.

So, a few months ago a group of our friends decided to go to Las Vegas for New Year's Eve. Now, I'm not really a gambling, whoring, drinking type of girl. I'm more of a sleeping, reading, stay-at-home kind of person. But, I really like this group of people and Spousal Unit has just a teeny bit of a blackjack fetish (he's frequented more than one Indian-run Casino in the past few years just to play blackjack. It worries me more than a little, but just when I think he's gone round the bend believing that you really can make money at it, he sobers up and realizes that the House Always Wins). Anyway, as these things always go when putting together a group thing, one of the couples dropped out (ironically the one who suggested Vegas in the first place) leaving Spousal Unit and me, and another couple (J and K). J&K got us free lodging at their folks' time-share, so we all figured what the heck, Vegas, baby!

New Year's in Vegas seemed a bit like a Times Square kind of thing -- you wouldn't want to do it every year, but you probably should see it once, if only to say you have been there.

Our trip began when Spousal Unit and I drove to Chicago to hang with his folks for a few days, then we flew to Vegas on New Years eve, arriving around 5 p.m.

(Point of Stewgad Trivia: I totally hate to fly. I do not believe in airplanes. There is simply no way that those things should do what they do. They're made of TONS OF METAL. I've seen birds. They fly. They don't look a damned thing like an airplane. Clearly, airplanes are completely unnatural, sick and wrong, and so I only get on them when there is no choice and when I have been tanked to the gills with sedatives.)

The flight was the single bumpiest flight I've ever been on. It should have told us that things were not going to go well for our weekend.

Here is me on the plane:


I'm only slightly terrified. (Nice so-called identity protection... huh? :))

Anyway, while I was busy freaking out, Spousal Unit was honing his blackjack strategy.

We had a safe, but bumpy landing, took a cheating cab (he drove 35 mph on the freeway, got lost, took 10 minutes to turn around, and tried to sell us scalped tickets to see Kid Rock at a local club), and arrived at our very nice a casino-less hotel on the Strip -- where we hooked up with J & K. We caught up for a bit, and then got gussied up for the evening to go out.

Here we are: I'm in the poncho with the blue smiley face. Spousal Unit is in jeans with the green smiley face. What you can't see since I'm protecting the identity of the slightly innocent is that our grins are far wider than those on the fake faces I've superimposed. We were totally excited. I mean, it was Vegas, baby!!

So, in all our exuberance we headed out onto The Strip. We walked a long way, just enjoying being out with other people who were also excited about the evening.



Spousal Unit and I were also enjoying the fact that it was 60 degrees outside - a welcome change from the Cold Damps of the Northeast. We wandered for a bit, and then headed into The Mirage for a bit of a gamble.



I quickly discovered that Slot Machines have about as much interest to me as dryer lint. I had imagined somehow that they would be as addictive as computer solitaire and that I would be in serious danger of throwing money away in Vegas like I throw away time at home. Not so. It was a big snooze, let me tell you. Here I am learning exactly how boring slots are:




J & K were hamming it up for the camera. Spousal Unit had said "look excited." I couldn't hear him over the din. At this point I was growing unhappy with the system, although I was clearly prepared for chips to start tumbling out. (note the cup clutched tightly in my hand.) Later I learned, much to my disappointment, that all the casinos had converted over to a computerized "receipt" system. So it prints you out a paper receipt with a bar code, like at the grocery store when you cash in cans for dinero. Then, you take this stupid piece of paper over to the lady behind the cage to get real money. Adding insult to injury, the machine makes this tinny cha-ching sound as it prints the receipt, apparently attempting to imitate the sound of coins dropping into the tray at the bottom of the slot machine.

Worse than the slot disappointment was the false advertisement of the "free drinking" that happens in the casino. Not a single person approached us to take a drink order. In fact, the entire time we were in Vegas, we paid for all of our drinks. Which wouldn't be so bad, except for the whole hype about casinos loading you up with free drinks so that you'd throw your money away on the dryer-lint slot machines.

Anyway, after we got bored with the Slots, Spousal Unit sat down at a $25 dollar minimum blackjack table. Now, those of you who used to read regularly back when I posted regularly, probably remember that Spousal Unit is not the most free- flowing of dudes when it comes to money. He likes his money in the bank, safely tucked away from marauding wives with expensive tastes. So, it was a bit of a shock to me to see The Gambler emerge from Spousal Unit's mild mannered shell. He even knew the sneaky hand gestures that you make when you tell the dealer what to do with your cards. I was pretty surprised. But, not as surprised as I was when half an hour later he walked away from that table with $280 over and above what he had plunked down. [At this point, Spousal Unit has asked me to include the following disclaimer: Despite his behavior in this incident, Spousal Unit maintains "that you cannot beat the House, that Gambling is not a reliable source of income, and that there is no such thing as a predictable and recognizable Streak." ] Yeah, yeah, yeah. He was hot. He was on a streak. And he had the good sense to walk away. I had the good sense later to take $200 bucks of that money and hide it in the hotel safe with my own secret code when he wasn't looking. But, I digress...

At this point, it was about midnight, so we headed outside to join the crowds to watch the fireworks. We were pretty giddy -- although we were about the only people on the Strip who were stone cold sober because we couldn't lay our hands on a goddamned drink. (The bar had been so swamped, we couldn't even catch the bartender's attention so gave up.) Here's a picture of the crowd in front of The Mirage:



It was really fun -- people were excited, our place in the crowd was good -- up by the gates of the casino, but still with a good view. We counted down all together, cheered, kissed, and then there were some amazing fireworks. The big casino/hotels coordinate them -- so that they are synchronized up and down the strip -- it was pretty incredible. The photos don't even come close to doing it justice, but here's the best:



When the fireworks were over, we hung about for a bit, and then decided to return to our hotel to open the champagne that clever J & K brought to toast the new year. We started walking down The Strip, with slightly less enthusiasm than we had had for it earlier in the evening. It was pretty crowded. There were a lot of people who were quite drunk. One nice man declared at the top of his lungs that he had a giant boner and needed to go masturbate. We quickly got out of his way. Most people were just wishing everyone else a happy new year ... at the top of their lungs with slurred speech. By now, we were really looking forward to the solitude of the hotel room, and although it was crowded in the closed four-lane street that is the Strip, we seemed to be moving along OK.

Until we weren't. It was kind of like those pile-ups you see on TV -- when the cars in front are stopped, and the cars behind just keep slamming into them anyway. The people in front of us stopped, and the people behind us kept pushing their way into the mass. We wound up in the middle of a crowd that was just not moving, and as people kept joining in and pushing, we got increasingly compressed. At first, though we were all uncomfortable, we weren't too frightened, figuring it was a temporary logjam that would sort out in a minute. I suggested that we try to move perpendicular to the direction that people were trying to go in, but we couldn't see to either the right or the left, so we didn't know if there was any room for us to move in to. K was in front, and then J, then Spousal Unit, with me bringing up the rear. So, I was mostly surrounded by 5 or 6 strangers getting extremely up close and personal with me. And not in a good way.

Then the pushing started, and I started to get really scared. I began to have trouble breathing because there was no room for my lungs to expand. It was that crowded. So just instinctively I made a cage for my chest with my arms. The guy next to me was like, "your elbow is in my stomach." I said I was sorry but didn't move. It was every person for herself in there and I needed to breathe. I was shaking so badly, my knees were knocking. I know that the only thing holding me up was the crowd and Spousal Unit's back. Then we all started getting really pushed and people started screaming. The man behind me told the woman he was with "No matter what happens, stay on your feet! Don't fall down! -- do you understand?! Stay on your feet!" Then, the group really started leaning and staggering. Louder yelling and screaming to stop. I shouted out "Hey, everybody just chill out! JUST CHILL OUT!!" I don't know what possessed me, but it seemed better than screaming. Then, the crowd seemed to ease up just a hair -- as if people heard me and obeyed. I'm sure it was just that everyone realized there was no point to shoving and perhaps got a sense of how much danger there was. But, by then we were truly terrified, increasingly unable to breathe, and really afraid that someone in that mob was going to do something stupid(er). At that point, we decided that taking our chances with the right or left movement seemed better than what was going on in the mosh-pit crush we were in. I don't know how they did it, but somehow Spousal Unit and J - the male half of our friend couple - got us to the side, and then suddenly, we were out of it.


It was so strange to be free of that crush. We were on a sidewalk with plenty of space in front of Caesar's Palace, standing next to a mob of screaming people who were being crushed by themselves and others. It was distinctly odd to be free of the mass and be able to breathe, but to see it right there next to us. To our right was a stairway leading up to an over-the-street crosswalk that was closed, and standing on the steps were four Cops, with a perfect elevated view of the crush that almost killed us. Spousal Unit approached them to tell them how dangerous it was in there. They indicated, politely, that they didn't plan to do anything about it. We then walked over to some stairs that were coming out of a back door to the Casino and sat down. K - the female half of the couple - and I sat there and just shook. I shared my poncho - we were both freezing and, I think, in shock. J leaned against a wall. Spousal Unit stood up on the banister and took this picture of the already thinning crowd we had just escaped:



I particularly like that I almost was crushed to death underneath a bare ass the size of my house. It adds a nice touch of class to our ordeal, don't you think?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Winding Down: From Vegas to LA

While we were sitting on the steps trying to recover from the terror and trying to figure out what to do next, Spousal Unit noticed that he had acquired a second Happy New Year cardboard hat. None of us knew how or when. Somehow, in that crush, someone gave SU a new hat. And he didn't sense it being placed on his head. Odd, that. Then, a nice couple opened the back doors of the casino to go out and offered to let us in. Once inside the outdoor patio area of Caesar's, we made a beeline for the nearest bar and bought two medicinal plastic bottles of beer and two plastic bottles of red wine. I swear, plastic-bottled wine never tasted so good. We nursed our drinks for a while, and when we were calm enough, started to head back to the hotel. We opted off of the Strip for the trip home, and wound up trekking a fair ways around the back side of all of these casinos and hotels on the dusty side of a traffic-jammed street without sidewalks littered with ads for $39 prostitutes. We only passed one guy urinating, though, so it was all good. And, we were not in a crowd, which at that point was our primary goal.

Here's the picture we took when we got back - Note the exhaustion and the dusty shoes:




Back at the hotel, we filled the Jacuzzi tub with bubbles and scalding water, got into said tub in our swimsuits, drank two bottles of champagne, and tried to forget the craziness we had just experienced. It was great. Until I woke up the next day with a massive hangover and dying for eggs and coffee. Turns out, there aren't many places in Vegas that serve all day breakfast. Of all the places in the world where you can get breakfast at 2 p.m. on New Year's Day, one would think Vegas would be it. But, nope. True to our whole experience of Vegas, we waited in line for the privilege of waiting in line, to then wait another half hour to be permitted to turn out or whole wallets for a small service. The place we finally found to eat charged $8 for a bowl of cold cereal and $25 dollars for eggs. We didn't care. It was worth it just to have food and coffee.

After we recovered from our hangovers, we walked for miles and miles trekking between Paris, New York City, Ancient Egypt, Camelot, Colonial India, Venice, and Ancient Rome. It was a little weird. But, later that night we had a lot more fun because we left The Strip and went downtown to the Freemont area -- where the classic casinos are. I highly recommend it if you're going to Vegas. It was MUCH more relaxed. Strange to say about a couple of blocks crammed with casinos, bars, and neon, but it was. Maybe things were chiller because the stakes were so much lower at the casinos, so people weren't loosing their shirts. (Although Spousal Unit did lose the rest of his gambling allotment at the blackjack tables there, thus curing his short-lived hope that blackjack was actually a profitable venture. Again, I'm quite glad that I stashed away that 200 buckarinos.) We had a great, surprisingly affordable seafood meal at an amazing little place tucked away inside a cheesy casino that our Time Out Guide book recommended (Three Cheers for the Brits!!), and went home to bed.

The following day, Spousal Unit and I (and, it turns out every other human being on the planet) drove from Vegas to LA. The 5 hour trip took us 11 hours because of traffic. But, we had a scrumptious In-and-Out burger on the way, and woke up the next morning in LA and had breakfast on the beach with my best friend. Yep, literally, on the beach. Feet-in-the sand, seagulls-vying-for-our-plates kind of on the beach. Then, we went to the Huntington gardens in Pasadena and saw some wonderful and amazing plants:

Wonderful -- cacti that imitate rocks:


And Amazing -- huge sprawling cacti:

Strangely enough, I was much happier here than in Vegas:

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The End. You have been reading "Stewgad's Tale of Teaching, Travels, and Travails." Tune in next post for "How to Impress your Students and Wow your Colleagues by Writing a Syllabus in 1 Day or Less!!"