I took the day off work yesterday to run errands and write an essay. I'm entering it into a contest, and the deadline is midnight tonight. I also have to: read a hundred pages of French philosophy, go to the gym, write a response to an ancient Japanese essay, go to the dry cleaners, create a two-page employee review form, do my laundry and go to the grocery store. So, of course I'm updating my blog.
***
Work continues to grow more tense around me. I am daily having meetings with my boss's boss, who daily keeps telling me that he wants to fire my boss. The CEO and CFO are still conducting an indirect war, but through it all I'm am repeatedly told that I am loved. It's a pay check.
***
School is good, however I'm afraid that my professor is beginning to live up to his reputation. As I'm sure is true of most English classes, most of the students are female, so I thought it was a tad inappropriate to assign an essay where the writer describes in detail his relationship with his own penis. Still, from a technical standpoint, it was a well-constructed essay, and written by the editor of our text, so it made sense. Still, although mercifully brief, the discussion of the essay made me uncomfortable. I'm not a prude, per se, but I just prefer not to hear my professors make sexual insinuations. I continue to sit in the back and pray he doesn't call on me.
***
And yesterday I began looking into redoing my kitchen. The estimate comes in at around $15,000, which is exactly three times what I want to spend. I guess I'm going to have to take this in pieces, and I'm starting with the floor. I've asked a friend to help me lay tile, and I think I'm going to order a new refrigerator and stove. Then a new light fixture. I think I do all of that for under $2000. The rest will have to wait.
OK. The gym calls.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Romantic Melancholia II
RP has missed two rehearsals. I beginning to fear he might have dropped out.
When Good Things Happen to Bad People
Recently, someone with whom I attended college received national recognition for a job well done. Those ingnorant of his history might interpret his work as "fresh;" however it is the same tired work he turned in more than twenty years ago. His work literally put me to sleep. When news of his award reached me, I involuntarily screamed, but quickly regained my composure and went on with my life.
This morning, while avoiding writing a paper on George Orwell, I entered a nearly forgotten name into a random search engine, only to discover that another soulless creation has risen to the top of his chosen vocation. Granted, he is now a vice president of marketing at Disney, and such success no doubt carries its own special black rewards. Still, I'd have been happier had I been told that he was toothless and living under a bridge.
That, I realize, makes me a shallow, vindictive prick. But the realization that my petty jealousy over the success of some of God's damaged children makes me also realize that I, at least, still have soul. Bruised and withering, but my soul is still mine. True, I freely admit I am not earning in the mid-six figures, nor am I in any danger of standing behind a podium thanking the little people; and I'd like to be able to point to some monumental success, but can't. Instead, at any given moment I can rattle off a long, long list of my social deficiencies. One need only look at my bank account to understand that professional success has eluded me.
Still, as I reflect upon my connection to these two individuals I am ambivalent. I can say that I envy their success, but I do not covet their exact success. I can only speculate what it cost them to get where they are. The first person never possessed a soul. Never. The second had a soul once, but I watched him sell it. While my "friend" was still in college, he took an older, financially generous gentleman as a lover. They lived together in an Old Town townhouse, one that allowed him to ride a gifted bicycle around the hallways, while he got his career off the ground -- and repaid his student loans. In less than a year this individual was debt free, and dumped his benefactor/lover. The gentleman was crushed. The Christmas following the break up, the gentleman presented the individual with a mountain of gifts with the simple request that my "friend" just not return them for cash. Of course, that is exactly what happened. Shortly after that I lost touch with my "friend." It became very clear that we two had very different values.
The last time I saw him we went to a party together. My friend and I waited tables together and it was a work Christmas party. After about an hour, my friend gave me a quick kiss good-bye. I called a couple of days, but knew he wouldn't return my call. A couple of years later we ran into each other on the train. We spoke briefly as I got off. And that was that.
The knowledge that I've kept my soul and my Mary-Haynes dignity is cold comfort as I sit down to write a pointless response paper to an essay that was written nearly sixty years ago, while these two receive wealth and accolades. I'm not even sure that the hope that future fortune awaits makes me feel better.
On to George...
This morning, while avoiding writing a paper on George Orwell, I entered a nearly forgotten name into a random search engine, only to discover that another soulless creation has risen to the top of his chosen vocation. Granted, he is now a vice president of marketing at Disney, and such success no doubt carries its own special black rewards. Still, I'd have been happier had I been told that he was toothless and living under a bridge.
That, I realize, makes me a shallow, vindictive prick. But the realization that my petty jealousy over the success of some of God's damaged children makes me also realize that I, at least, still have soul. Bruised and withering, but my soul is still mine. True, I freely admit I am not earning in the mid-six figures, nor am I in any danger of standing behind a podium thanking the little people; and I'd like to be able to point to some monumental success, but can't. Instead, at any given moment I can rattle off a long, long list of my social deficiencies. One need only look at my bank account to understand that professional success has eluded me.
Still, as I reflect upon my connection to these two individuals I am ambivalent. I can say that I envy their success, but I do not covet their exact success. I can only speculate what it cost them to get where they are. The first person never possessed a soul. Never. The second had a soul once, but I watched him sell it. While my "friend" was still in college, he took an older, financially generous gentleman as a lover. They lived together in an Old Town townhouse, one that allowed him to ride a gifted bicycle around the hallways, while he got his career off the ground -- and repaid his student loans. In less than a year this individual was debt free, and dumped his benefactor/lover. The gentleman was crushed. The Christmas following the break up, the gentleman presented the individual with a mountain of gifts with the simple request that my "friend" just not return them for cash. Of course, that is exactly what happened. Shortly after that I lost touch with my "friend." It became very clear that we two had very different values.
The last time I saw him we went to a party together. My friend and I waited tables together and it was a work Christmas party. After about an hour, my friend gave me a quick kiss good-bye. I called a couple of days, but knew he wouldn't return my call. A couple of years later we ran into each other on the train. We spoke briefly as I got off. And that was that.
The knowledge that I've kept my soul and my Mary-Haynes dignity is cold comfort as I sit down to write a pointless response paper to an essay that was written nearly sixty years ago, while these two receive wealth and accolades. I'm not even sure that the hope that future fortune awaits makes me feel better.
On to George...
Sunday, September 17, 2006
Pieces
I started my new class this week. It's being taught by a professor who has the reputation of being something of a pig. I've personally watched him sexually harass another professor. I really wanted to avoid one of his classes, but it's not been possible. After the first session I've decided that he may be a pig, but he can teach. I hate to say it, but this might be my favorite class of the program.
***
Work continues to be dramatic. There is a power struggle a-brewing, and it's really requiring people to take sides. I see only one option. If, in the very unlikely event, my side loses power I'm still likely to have a job. And even if I don't, I am making some pretty powerful contacts who will feel obliged to find me another job.
***
The chorus started rehearsal last week. This is the twenty-fifth season. I hate the first rehearsals because nothing really gets done and there is just a bunch of flitting around and peacocking. There is nothing more boring. I actually am starting to give some serious thought to giving the chorus up. But I'll probably stick with it. For now.
***
The house is almost completely excavated. Housekeeping has never been my strong suit, but this summer it got pretty bad. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing, and the bathroom is still a swamp, but the rest is presentable and I only have three loads of laundry pending. Now, I think I need to take a serious look at renovation. Kitchen or bathroom, one has got to be done within the next year. Bathroom is cheaper, but kitchen is in more need.
***
I really just need to win the lottery.
***
Work continues to be dramatic. There is a power struggle a-brewing, and it's really requiring people to take sides. I see only one option. If, in the very unlikely event, my side loses power I'm still likely to have a job. And even if I don't, I am making some pretty powerful contacts who will feel obliged to find me another job.
***
The chorus started rehearsal last week. This is the twenty-fifth season. I hate the first rehearsals because nothing really gets done and there is just a bunch of flitting around and peacocking. There is nothing more boring. I actually am starting to give some serious thought to giving the chorus up. But I'll probably stick with it. For now.
***
The house is almost completely excavated. Housekeeping has never been my strong suit, but this summer it got pretty bad. The kitchen floor needs scrubbing, and the bathroom is still a swamp, but the rest is presentable and I only have three loads of laundry pending. Now, I think I need to take a serious look at renovation. Kitchen or bathroom, one has got to be done within the next year. Bathroom is cheaper, but kitchen is in more need.
***
I really just need to win the lottery.
Sunday, September 10, 2006
Romantic Melancholia
There are just certain times of year that evoke strong memories, and the first weeks in September take me back to my undergraduate life. I have vivid memories of those four autumns and the sweet, adolescent angst.
At the start of my freshman year I knew only one person on campus, Sarah. She'd graduated from my high school a year ahead of me and gone to Drake. We weren't exactly friends, but she was probably one of the first people to see and accept me as me. I often wonder what happened to her. By the time I got to campus her life was in high drama. I wasn't aware of the details, but she dropped out of school after the first semester of that year. I believe she went into the air force, and years later I heard rumors that she found Jesus in the cornfields back home.
My sophomore year found me determined to make a best friend out of my roommate. It was disasterous and very painful for both of us. He devolved into alcoholism very quickly and left campus after that year. I had a nervous break down. Over the years I heard stories about him and occasionally I Google his name. If I've located the right guy, he's actually an Episcopal priest in New York. I would never get in touch with him, but I read a sermon of his that I think mentions me. If it's not me, he relived the drama with someone else. At least he doesn't put all of the blame on me.
My junior year was probably my best year. I lived on campus, alone, but comfortable with the fact. If I had to pinpoint a moment in time when I began to become a grown up, that fall would be it.
However, my senior year saw some backsliding in the maturity department. The only comfort I have to offer myself is that I'm pretty certain everyone else was living their own dramas to such a level that mine barely registered.
Yet, on rainy Sunday mornings such as this, I just want to put on some Elvis Costello and Elton John and think about what life was like then and exactly how far I've come. There are recurring themes, but they're not as flourescent as they were when I was twenty-one. And now I don't see those themes as disfiguring indicators, imperfections that no one else possesses. They are simply elements that make up me. No real shame or pride, just facts.
I just put "Riot Act" on. If I close my eyes, I can see shadows of my old dorm room. Ten years ago I would have been back there and the pinches and twinges I felt then would come become immediate. Now, I just see shadows. I'm not in the room, on the campus, in the classes, saying things I wish I'd said then. I see myself there, frozen like a film. The pinches are now just itching, faded scars. "Oh, remember when you got that one?" Like the six-inch scar down the top of my right forearm: there, visible for all to see, but part of me."
I can look back on all the silly drama and smile a little. Now.
"Just a Memory."
At the start of my freshman year I knew only one person on campus, Sarah. She'd graduated from my high school a year ahead of me and gone to Drake. We weren't exactly friends, but she was probably one of the first people to see and accept me as me. I often wonder what happened to her. By the time I got to campus her life was in high drama. I wasn't aware of the details, but she dropped out of school after the first semester of that year. I believe she went into the air force, and years later I heard rumors that she found Jesus in the cornfields back home.
My sophomore year found me determined to make a best friend out of my roommate. It was disasterous and very painful for both of us. He devolved into alcoholism very quickly and left campus after that year. I had a nervous break down. Over the years I heard stories about him and occasionally I Google his name. If I've located the right guy, he's actually an Episcopal priest in New York. I would never get in touch with him, but I read a sermon of his that I think mentions me. If it's not me, he relived the drama with someone else. At least he doesn't put all of the blame on me.
My junior year was probably my best year. I lived on campus, alone, but comfortable with the fact. If I had to pinpoint a moment in time when I began to become a grown up, that fall would be it.
However, my senior year saw some backsliding in the maturity department. The only comfort I have to offer myself is that I'm pretty certain everyone else was living their own dramas to such a level that mine barely registered.
Yet, on rainy Sunday mornings such as this, I just want to put on some Elvis Costello and Elton John and think about what life was like then and exactly how far I've come. There are recurring themes, but they're not as flourescent as they were when I was twenty-one. And now I don't see those themes as disfiguring indicators, imperfections that no one else possesses. They are simply elements that make up me. No real shame or pride, just facts.
I just put "Riot Act" on. If I close my eyes, I can see shadows of my old dorm room. Ten years ago I would have been back there and the pinches and twinges I felt then would come become immediate. Now, I just see shadows. I'm not in the room, on the campus, in the classes, saying things I wish I'd said then. I see myself there, frozen like a film. The pinches are now just itching, faded scars. "Oh, remember when you got that one?" Like the six-inch scar down the top of my right forearm: there, visible for all to see, but part of me."
I can look back on all the silly drama and smile a little. Now.
"Just a Memory."
Monday, September 04, 2006
Comes Autumn
I hardly feel like I've had a summer and now it's gone. But with fall always comes refocus, and I need that right now.
I just calculated my projections for my GPA when I graduate in June. If all goes well, I should end up with better than 3.9. Not perfection, which was my initial hope, but certainly beyond respectable. This realization has kicked my butt a little. I've gone too far, and way too far into debt, to not begin filling out applications for Ph.D. programs. Since this all started, I've had my eye on four programs here in Chicago. There is only one that I think will be a bit of a stretch to be accepted. Of course, that's the one I want. There are two that I think I've virtually a shoe-in. One of those, if accepted, I'd really have to consider, the other I'd really have to consider passing. I'm too old -- and not old enough -- to go to school simply to go to school. I have to keep a financial pay off in sight and the questionable program would really leave me in serious doubt of landing a teaching position when I was finished.
And then there are the financial considerations. I took my current job thinking there would be a big pay day at the end of three years. I'm beginning to doubt that. And with no serious pay off, I see no reason to stay around if I can get into a good Ph.D. program. But, how will I support myself while I'm working on the degree? These are all questions I can't answer today, and were questions I couldn't answer when I started my master's. You just plow ahead and trust that the answer will present itself.
Do not believe in dead ends.
I just calculated my projections for my GPA when I graduate in June. If all goes well, I should end up with better than 3.9. Not perfection, which was my initial hope, but certainly beyond respectable. This realization has kicked my butt a little. I've gone too far, and way too far into debt, to not begin filling out applications for Ph.D. programs. Since this all started, I've had my eye on four programs here in Chicago. There is only one that I think will be a bit of a stretch to be accepted. Of course, that's the one I want. There are two that I think I've virtually a shoe-in. One of those, if accepted, I'd really have to consider, the other I'd really have to consider passing. I'm too old -- and not old enough -- to go to school simply to go to school. I have to keep a financial pay off in sight and the questionable program would really leave me in serious doubt of landing a teaching position when I was finished.
And then there are the financial considerations. I took my current job thinking there would be a big pay day at the end of three years. I'm beginning to doubt that. And with no serious pay off, I see no reason to stay around if I can get into a good Ph.D. program. But, how will I support myself while I'm working on the degree? These are all questions I can't answer today, and were questions I couldn't answer when I started my master's. You just plow ahead and trust that the answer will present itself.
Do not believe in dead ends.
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