Back to Work

Apparently the airlines know all about me. Our reservation reference number for our flight to Washington state last week was LEZKWR. That's some sort of coincidence.

Today is my last day of vacation. I've been working off and on all month, in five-minute to five-hour spurts, but beginning tomorrow, I will start following my 32.5 hour work schedule (3 hours of writing in the morning, 3.5 hours of "miscellaneous academic tasks" in the afternoon. I've got to stop this practice of sitting down for five minutes to do a task, only to discover eight hours later that I've lost the entire day to research. That kind of behavior makes me angry and resentful, and quickly reminds me why I hate my chosen career path. If I want to make it through the long haul, I need to start forcing myself to work within pre-set limits. I've downloaded an electronic timer, and as soon as I finish this post, I'm going to install it. Write for three hours in 50-minute blocks and then STOP. Research/academic tasks for three hours in 50-minutes, with an additional 30 minutes of wrap up time, NO MORE.

Anyway, as I said, today is my last day of vacation. We've just returned from eight days with my parents. We tarred the garage roof, painted the wheelchair ramp, mowed the front lawn, helped my brother build a new dog fence, ran a billion errands, went over to the Methow to explore Pipestone Canyon and drive up Eight Mile (ran into snow before the end of the road), went up the Sinlahekin, had dinner with my best friend from my hometown, visited with three aunts and two uncles, and watched too much TV. We flew into Spokane on the clearly omniscient Frontier Airlines via Denver, and I have to say, for an airline experience (of which I have WAY TOO MANY), it was pretty nice. Avis Rentals, however, will be hearing from me soon--what kind of car rental agency sends you off in a 4-wheel drive with transmission fluid in it? Did they think I wanted to get stranded out in the middle of the forest with frozen gears?

So, back to the grind. A list of tasks to be completed tomorrow afternoon:

Writing Session

1. Literature review notes
2. Adapt fellowship to intro
   

Afternoon Work Session

1. E-mail M.D.
2. SSRC-IDRF bio/abstract
   
3. Article revisions
4. Make copies of dissertation writing workshop forms
5. Find JS book!
6. Overdue library book
   

After Work

1. E-mail L.S.
2. Call tree surgeon
3. Trim photos
4. Pick up paint chips
5. Mail insurance papers
6. Check medivac insurance policies
7. E-mail Ayse re: bills
   

Gays Marry; World Does Not End

http://seattlepi.nwsource.com/opinion/367465_henryonline19.html

Web Sucks

You'd think someone who has written html code since 1992 would have at least one freaking idea as to why a blogger template isn't working. $&*@(!!!

ETA: Okay, I've done what you're supposed to do when something doesn't work: go out and buy a replacement. Well, less "buy" than "use free of charge." I think this officially means that I can no longer consider myself a geek. If you can't code your own template, you are no longer entitled to wear t-shirts with hip and ironic code jokes. Also, you are no longer permitted to read slashdot. Or fark. Or any of the internets.

JM

More Joe Morello awesomeness:

The Where We Were

Since my wife is out of town, and the novel I'm reading isn't holding my attention, I think this would be a good time to take stock of where I'm at, what I'm doing, where I'm going these days. I had lunch earlier this week with the principal architect of the firm at which I was working before going back to school, and I feel like that closed some sort of cognitive loop for me. So, let's see...

Three years of coursework, complete. I have learned an incredible amount of *stuff* over the past three years. Let's face it--when I started the program, I could barely find India on a map. I couldn't tell you the first thing about even the Taj Mahal. In three years, I've managed to learn a foreign language, start on two others, spend two summers in India, demonstrate competency in two unrelated exam fields, present at three conferences and one graduate symposium (four different papers), win two paper prizes, have an article accepted for publication, and successfully defend a dissertation proposal.

I've traveled to Minneapolis/St. Paul, Madison, WI, Los Angeles, Chicago, Pittsburgh, Savannah, Washington, D.C., and Cincinnati to look at/learn more/talk more about architecture. I've managed to win a Critical Languages Scholarship, a summer FLAS, an academic year FLAS, a Fulbright-Hays DDRA fellowship, an SSRC-IDRF fellowship, two Graduate College Conference Travel Grants, a National Science Foundation Travel Grant, one Graduate College Dissertation Travel Grant, and several fellowships/grants within the School of Architecture. I've put in the hours to complete the campus Graduate Teaching Certificate. I've worked as a Teaching Assistant for the introductory course in architectural history, and I've planned an upper-division course on Indian Architecture to hopefully be taught before I leave this place.

I've talked back to a senior scholar in front of a room full of my colleagues. I've gotten into an emotional argument with a full professor during a doctoral colloquium. I have alienated graduate students in multiple departments on campus because of my unwillingness to listen to stupidity during seminars. I have earned the respect of one or two professors for the same reason. I have managed to hold on to just one friend among all the graduate students in my own department, and made a spectacular friend from the faculty in another department.

I have lost my flash drive twice, and recovered it twice. I have fallen asleep in my library carrel and failed to wake up before my afternoon class. I have received some of the highest praise I have ever heard about my work, and I have received the worst grade I've ever earned in a graduate course. I have fallen asleep behind the wheel of my car while commuting between home and campus, and I have run over a small animal making the same commute after dark. I have gotten lost driving from the apartment to campus in a blizzard. I have been frightened beyond belief by the sound of a snowplow passing over my head while in an underground room of the library. I've arrived home at the end of the week and burst into tears by way of greeting.

I have gained forty pounds. I have lost thirty pounds. I have gained fifty pounds. I have eaten food I don't even like from vending machines in the middle of the night. I have enjoyed eating a great deal of tomato soup. I have retreated from my own hysteria into the comfort of a warm plate of risotto at a local restaurant more than once. I have visited the campus clinic after falling on the sidewalk (twice), for treatment of giardia (twice), and for treatment of whooping cough (countless numbers of times). I have had surgery on my left shoulder, and flexed the collar bone on my right shoulder. I have gone to the student counseling center in crisis (twice), and have spent an obscene amount of money on regularly scheduled therapy sessions.

I have realized (belatedly) that only I will be able to call a halt to this entire process. I have decided that I want to be an academic. I have decided that I would rather put a gun to my head and pull the trigger than be an academic. I have driven as far north as Kankakee and as far south as Effingham while attempting to run away from home and my life. I have lost contact with most of the people I considered friends three years ago. I have lost an aunt, an uncle and a cousin to old age and disease. I have dealt with the extended and terminal illness of my father. I have learned how to grieve in twenty second bouts of tears while riding in the elevator of the main stacks, and during two hour sessions of sobbing while driving on the interstate.

I'm not sure I can really take three more years of this lifestyle. Everything that looks like a success seems to be propped up by a devastating amount of sacrifice. In September, I will leave home and country for twelve months overseas, with no allowance for returning home outside of a death in the family or health crisis. I can easily say that it hasn't been worth it, it hasn't been worth it since about 1/2 way through my first year. But I also don't seem to have the guts to stop myself, and the system doesn't seem to be doing anything to stop my forward progress, either. So, I have three years to finish up the next part of this task, complete my research, write and defend my dissertation. I can't believe that I will ever give myself permission to quit, and at least a small part of me wants to see if I can do it, even if I leave academia immediately after depositing my dissertation with the graduate college. Check back with me in three years, maybe you'll find another "my life in summary" post just like this one.

Something to look forward to, right?

Still, Don't Touch My Ankle, Okay?

Last week I was complaining about therapy (otherwise known as "talking endlessly about myself and my problems in repetitive circles even when my wife is trying to watch TV"), and it occurred to me that instead of just having some therapy for my brain, I should have some therapy for my body. So, I looked around for a reputable massage therapy place in town and made an appointment. As it turns out, massage therapy costs exactly 1/2 the price of psychotherapy on an hourly basis. I'm thinking--I could have have a relaxing two-hour massage by a stranger for the price of a painful one-hour conversation with a different stranger, that seems like a win-win situation to me.

Anyway, it's a good thing I had a massage scheduled for yesterday afternoon because yesterday morning I did a faceplant on the running trail at Thomson Park. I'm still waiting for the X-rays to come back on my ankle, but I'm guessing it's not broken. I'm also guessing that without that massage in the afternoon, I wouldn't have been able to get out of bed this morning. You try skidding along asphalt on your face and see how quickly you jump out of bed the next day... A stupid way to start my summer vacation, that's all I can say.

Well, I'm not officially on vacation. I have some article revisions due with the journal editor this Friday, but I can't do anything more on that until I get back to Illinois on Wednesday. And I have some minor revisions to make on my dissertation proposal before Friday, but again, I can't do anything until I get back to Illinois on Wednesday. So, I'm on vacation until Wednesday, apparently. Then I have to jump back in with both feet--do both sets of revisions, meet with a dissertation committee member, meet with my therapist (or swap that meeting out for a long massage? Tempting.), make myself more smart. Unfortunately, the golf game I had planned for Thursday a.m. is not going to happen for another 4-6 weeks.

You know what?

This has been a really, really tough week. I'm not sure I understand why--I should be happier than happy, and yet I've gone on two good crying jags in the past four days.

Take Tuesday, for instance.

I got out of bed tired and anxious because this was the day I was supposed to present my research in the doctoral colloquium (the day before my oral exams, what's that about?). Transitioned from anxious to irritated after checking my e-mail. Moved from irritated to relieved when I arrived on campus to find out that I had received a dissertation travel grant. Went into the colloquium feeling pretty confident, only to get into a ridiculously stupid argument with a member of the faculty. Spent three hours feeling furious and hurt. Followed that up with an afternoon of crashing through therapy, and in the evening I found myself crying in the kitchen while Catherine tried to make dinner. Pulled myself together, blew my nose, checked my e-mail, only to find out that I had received a major research fellowship. How many ups and downs can one very fragile graduate student take in one day? Not very many, as it turns out.

There is no sleep happening at my house. Tuesday night I slept for a total of two hours, dragged myself to campus for my oral exams Wednesday morning. Everyone will be glad to know that I advanced to candidacy before noon. Exhausted and relieved and glad I never have to go through that again. Had a very nice lunch with a friend, couldn't put two words together to form even teh shortest of sentences, and crashed again afterward. Made the mistake of checking my e-mail only to find out that I received a second research fellowship. Upward swing, crash again, another night of no sleep.

What day is it today? Still Friday, I think. Third night of no sleep. Yes, we felt the earthquake, but no, it didn't wake us up because we were already awake. I had just finished my second major crying fit. Reality hit about 3 a.m. Thursday night/Friday morning--having this research fellowship means 9 months away from home, no return visits allowed. The second fellowship offers me the opportunity to extend that 9 months to 12 or even 15 months. I can't turn that down, can I? Even if it means I won't be able to visit my family unless someone dies?

People do talk about post-exam or post-defense depression, but I'm not sure I'm there yet. I'm just exhausted from too much talking, too much thinking, too much emotion. I'm planning on staying in bed until Tuesday (therapy beckons). Then I'll try to sort through all the possibilities for my life and make some decisions.

After all, if they make a Pocket Diva...

Okay, time for a quick update.

Last night I found out (after a two week delay!) that I passed my major field exam. Add that to the pass on my minor field exam, and that equals...hm...let's see...1 pass + 1 pass = 2 passes. All I need to do now is pass the oral exam next week. Oh, yeah, and go to London for 3 months to do research. Oh, and go to India for 6-8 months. Oh, and there's that dissertation to write afterward, too. But let's keep it in the short term for now, okay? 1 + 1 = 2.

Yes, I'm relieved. There must be something else (happiness?) in the emotional mix, but mostly I'm just glad the writing is done and that I don't have to re-take the exam in August. I think what I'm enjoying most about passing are the reactions of everyone around me. I was pretty sure I failed (and indeed, although it was a pass, my advisor did agree that I kind of dropped the ball at the end of the exam), so the past two weeks have been pretty stressful for me. Not as stressful as for everyone around me, though, if their responses to my news are anything to go by. Catherine has been saying, "Congratulations! I'm so proud of you, honey!" on a non-stop loop. Dana sounded so happy and relieved that I suspect she had already resigned herself to my failure. Beth pretty much exhausted all the exclamations points available for the writers in the year 2008, and told me I was झकास! My therapist had asked me to call her and give her my exam results if they ever arrived, and I dutifully left a message on her office phone this afternoon. She returned the favor, leaving the kindest congratulatory message on my cell phone that you could imagine receiving from a counselor.

And this leads me to another thing I've been thinking about: I must say, "My therapist said..." 1000 times a week. I should start using her real name, instead of talking about her like an object I keep in my pocket. Hmmm...pocket therapist. That would make a *great* action figure. Gotta get me one of them.

I think....sad.

A follow-up to an earlier post: I'm not sure if it's funny or sad that my therapist told me she liked my check design when I paid her today.

But you said!

Mmmm....changing minds, the bane of the graduate student's existence.

I've finished one exam. When I sat back, I thought, "Okay, I think I passed." But just a couple of minutes later, I realized I'd left a big theoretical whole right.....*there*. And then I realized I'd left another one...*over there*. And so on. A friend of mine who is also a faculty member told me that's how all qualifying exams work. She says the point is that I sat in my library carrel and read what I was supposed to read, not that I turned out a perfect exam. There's no second reader for this thing, so I'm going to have to hope the my minor field advisor thinks the same way my friend does.

Anyway.

Looking ahead (definitely not forward to) to the next exam, trying to convince myself it's not just a pointless hazing ritual. Because I really think it is, no matter what anyone else says.

Let's Hope.

Okay. So, I've been completely stressed out about my minor field exam (among other things). I'd talked to my minor field advisor about what to expect generally, and I thought I had a good handle o what the possibilities were for questions. Then, a few weeks ago, she handed me a piece of paper and said, "This is more or less what your exam question will look like." It was nothing like I'd been expecting, and in fact, none of the reading I'd done really addressed the question. That was kind of bad, since I'd JUST THAT DAY finished reading everything from the minor field bibliography.

Anyway, I've been trying not to think about it actively, just let my mind spin with in those hours after 3 a.m. when I can't sleep from anxiety. Today, I finally deliberately let myself think about it, and lo and behold, I think over the past few weeks I've come up with something of an answer when I wasn't really paying attention. Let's just hope she doesn't change her mind in the next 10 days.

1 almost down, 3+1 to go.

Titles, too?

As everyone with internet access knows, Blogger gives their users the option to label entries so faithful readers can sort and search by category. I thought about assigning labels to my own entries, then I realized that everything I write falls under the "How to tell you've fucked up your life" label. Maybe one day I'll branch out into another category, but for now, I'm sure everyone is happy that they don't have to sort through "Work," "Hobbies," or "Family Life" to get to the minutiae of my life.

So, continuing on this theme, here is a new entry to be filed under "How to tell you've fucked up your life." If you're ordering checks, and you choose a background design based on what you think your therapist is going to think about your checks when you pay her every week, well...obviously, you've fucked up your life.

I'm just saying.

Wow. My office is clean. And it wasn't just me procrastinating, because I'm feeling pretty motivated to study for my exams these days (fear of failure will do that to you). But it was pretty clear that finishing the penultimate draft of my dissertation prospectus would be easier if I could actually find the article I needed to cite, so I finally filed everything away in its proper place. My number one goal for the summer is to catch my bibliographic software up to my file cabinet, cross-reference everything, but in the meantime, I'm just happy to see the floor of my office again.

If only my mind was so uncluttered.

My wife just bought me a $43 bottle of sherry. If that price tag doesn't say "I love you," I don't know what does. Of course, she's deliberately pushing me down the slippery slope of potential alcoholism, too, but I guess we're not supposed to worry about that right now.

Nice things people have done for me lately:

1) loaned me movies so I have something to do during those interminable hours of insomnia
2) bought me sherry
3) arranged to have meals provided for me the week before my first Ph.D. exam
4) bought me picture books as a reward for all my hard work
5) other stuff I'm too tired to remember but really appreciate

Plus, even though no one is answering the phone, I think I should get some sort of karmic credit for trying to make a phone call in Hindi.

It's kind of like a gambling addiction, isn't it? Even though you know the payout will never, ever cover the investment you put in to game, you keep playing. Why do addicts do this? More importantly, why do *I* do it?

Today I had a quite serious conversation with a colleague who shall rename nameless in order to protect her (although, since I only talk to 3 people in Illinois, your odds of guessing the right name are pretty good) about possibly developing a drinking problem. We're both suffering from insomnia, in slightly different forms, and both of us have been looking for ways to cure this problem. In my case, I've even starting seeing a therapist (NEWSFLASH: Therapy *causes* insomnia). At any rate, I said that I'd been thinking about having a drink in the evenings because it might help me sleep, but then I was afraid that if I had one drink today, then surely by tomorrow I would need two, and by the weekend, I'd need three. Well, we can see where that would lead. And my colleague said in all seriousness that she'd been having the same conversation with herself. A drink would help, but we can't take one, because we're both afraid of what seems like an inevitable drinking problem.

Now, I ask you--if you're sitting around in the evening thinking, "God, I need a drink!" and you DON'T EVEN DRINK, shouldn't this be taken as a sign of some sort? Shouldn't you stop doing whatever it is you've been doing to push you to contemplate the benefits of alcoholism in the first place?

This morning? 51 degrees.

Now? 7 degrees.

That's just wrong.

More Joe Morello awesomeness....

Those archikidz....one of them turned up what must be the best use EVER of an outdoor sculpture park.

Fucking-A, Joe Morello rocks.