You are currently browsing the monthly archive for July, 2008.
To the individual who navigated to my blog by typing the following query, “is it finacially worth it to get a phd” …
The answer is NO.
And, I add with tender regard for your future prospects, especially if you can’t spell.
Checking my rarely used Yahoo email today, I encountered this humorous “news” article: “Great Careers with Long Vacations.”
Naturally, educators rank at the top of this list:
Quoth Yahoo News: “The notion that teachers have the entire summer off is a myth. They work after the students leave to complete grading, additional training, and class preparation. However, many American teachers have ten paid holidays, spring and winter breaks, and at least a month off in the summer … Secondary school teachers earn on average $52,450 a year, but time off is invaluable.”
Okay, I give them credit for acknowledging that “the entire summer off is a myth.” I don’t know about you but I am working my ass off this summer — although not on “grading, additional training, and class preparation” but on research and writing. A friend just said to me yesterday, “We should get together before classes start and you have to go back to work” — and I did a practical double-take. What does she think I do all summer long?
I particularly like the tone of this follow-up comment: “Secondary school teachers earn on average $52,450 a year, but time off is invaluable.” What the author means to say is, “school teachers make ONLY 52 grand BUT they get some time off.” As someone who does not make 52 grand but significantly less than that — yes, it’s true — and whose “time off” is spent, apparently, working for free … well, I’m thinking that being a “freelance game designer” (another one of the totally viable career tracks identified by Yahoo News) is sounding better and better.
Alright already, enough of this sentimental self-indulgence, let’s get back to the serious business of academic blogging.
As my devoted readers know, I’ve had a book manuscript in the works for, well, eons. After one bad university press experience, I submitted the ms. to another press that sent it out for review.
Well, today the reports came in and the consensus was …. (drum roll please): completely non-consensual. That’s right, Bittersweet Girl has managed to write a book that only 50% of readers think should be published.
I got one report from, let’s call her, Amazingly Insightful and Professional Reviewer who advocated publication, praised the book, and provided over eight single-spaced pages of detailed comments. Needless to say, I adore Amazingly Insightful and Professional Reviewer and wish she could have been cloned for the role of second reviewer.
Instead, the second reviewer — let’s call him Judgmental and Rude Reviewer — said it wasn’t worth publishing, took me to task for failing to do something that I explicitly explain why I don’t do in the introduction, and devotes a mere 2 pages to crushing my life’s work. I have very un-yogic feelings about Judgmental and Rude Reviewer.
So the question, kids, is what happens when the ticket gets split? In this case, I am incredibly fortunate because the editor appears to be siding with Amazingly Insightful and Professional Reviewer and has asked me to revise and resubmit. (The editor deserves a laudatory pseudonym too: Eternally Forgiving and Fabulous Editor). I keep telling myself that this is very good news, that I haven’t been sent packing, that I’m still in the game. But, jesus fucking christ, it sucks. I am overjoyed to have gotten one positive review — it’s an affirmation of all the long, terrible years of sacrifice that went into producing the book. But, that second review is just killing me — it’s a confirmation of all my doubts about the value and significance of the book.
One of the worst parts is having to report this news to all the friends, family members, and colleagues who have been faithfully asking me about the book for the past few months. I hate having to admit that someone said it wasn’t worth publishing — it feels shameful. I worry about what they’ll think about me and my intellectual abilities — and that, even if the book gets published, they’ll always remember that one academic said it was crap.
I also learned something very interesting and surprising today: the book wasn’t reviewed anonymously. It goes to show what a naif I am about the world of academic publishing but I just assumed that book reviewing was the same as article reviewing. I sent the ms without my name on it, just a cover page with my contact information, and assumed that the editor would remove said cover page when it got sent out. But, both of the reviewers referred to me by name. That gave me quite a jolt — I had some panicked thoughts about what information they might have gleaned about me from the overseeing eye of the internet.
Right now, I’m just trying to keep my head down and get lots of work done. No time for panic …
Yes, it’s true. This blog is my girlfriend. Or, more accurately, the substitute for the girlfriend(s) I don’t have (right now).
By “girlfriend” I mean the best friend kind of a girlfriend — the kind of gal pal that you can call up and chat about fairly meaningless but still engaging topics, who cares about the scattered ideas that crop up in your messy head, who wants to hear you complain (for probably the 100th time) about one of your pet peeves, your annoying colleagues, the work you have to do, the stupid choices you have made.
I’ve been thinking about why I’ve been smitten by the blogging bug lately and I realized that it has to do with a gap in my real life — an insufficient number of friends who want to be involved in the ordinariness of my existence.
Do I sound absolutely pathetic? Of course, I’ve got Golden Boy, who’s the gold standard of listeners. And, I’ve got great, wonderful, inspiring women friends … but lately they all seem to be AWOL. At the risk of pissing off the mommy bloggers, I have to say that most of my good friends are recent mothers and that has (understandably — I completely understand, I’m not judging, OK?) cut down on their availability to do the friendship thing.
What I’ve realized is that this blog has become the repository for many of the half-baked thoughts, rants, and curiosities that I would have normally shared with my best girlfriend. I know that my RL friends are there for me if I have a serious life crisis, but, they’re rather too preoccupied for anything else right now.
Blogging has helped to soothe some of my hurt feelings about Amazing Friend who only calls me when she’s driving to or from daycare, so the calls are very short and usually abruptly ended by her saying, “Oh, I just got here, I’ll have to call you back!” Yes, it’s nice that she’s making an effort to stay in touch despite all her work & motherhood responsibilities — but I’ve got the distinctly “squeezed in” feeling.
Or, my Long Time Friend, who only calls to complain about her unhappy marriage and the implications for her kids and, because these are such serious and significant matters, never gets around to asking anything about me or my life. I chafe under the unspoken assumption that none of my problems could possibly compare to the epic scale of hers.
So, when I log back into my blog and I see warm and supportive comments — well, it’s like my best friend called me back! And, when the comments are from brilliant, funny, accomplished, and thoughtful female bloggers — all the better. I get to temporarily pretend that you are all my best buddies, and it’s great!
I am annoyed:
• By the fact that disposable razors are so much cheaper than reusable ones, because the replaceable razor blades cost a fortune.
• By this woman’s warm, cultured voice and smart pantsuit, intended to reassure me that the oil crisis is in capable hands.
• That the little green plastic baskets that cherry tomatoes come in are not recyclable!!
• That e-greetings cards seem so uncaring or lazy, so I feel obligated to send paper cards instead.
• About the grey hairs on my head, visible because hair dye is evil.
• About my unpainted toenails, because nail polish is evil. Oh, yeah, as are almost all cosmetics.
• That I never remember to take my vast collection of reusable grocery bags with me to the grocery store.
• That my credit card company keeps sending me monthly bills in the mail, even though I’ve repeatedly clicked the “Go Paperless” icon and asked them not to.
• By anything in hard plastic clamshell packaging that is not only difficult and dangerous to open but is a waste of natural resources — and cannot be recycled.
• Because it’s so difficult to be an environmentally ethical consumer.
My new favorite gadget: The FURminator.
I first encountered this amazing brush at our local dog wash where it was able to rid my dog of an amazing amount of her undercoat. Then, someone brought his to the dog park and we all watched in awe as he brushed his big shaggy dog and created a huge pile of dog hair. Really, the pictures on the website are not exaggerations.
The downside? It’s friggin’ expensive. I’ve seen it for as much as $60 at one pet store — but finally found one on sale for $40. Even that gave me pause — $40 for a dog brush? Really? Have I really become one of those people who spends $40 on a dog accoutrement? Obviously I have.
But, if you’ve got a dog with an undercoat or a long haired cat, I don’t think you’ll be disappointed.
End of sales pitch, I promise.
Yesterday, had you come to my house, you would have witnessed such a pitiful sight, you would have know the end of the world has to be coming: Golden Boy and I frantically scanning the online list of Starbucks closings to see if our local Starbucks is one of those marked for execution.
How did it come to this? I went to college and graduate school when independent coffee houses were having their heyday and would never have deigned to spend my money at a Starbucks. I was one of those populist coffee drinkers — no corporate coffee for me. I have bemoaned to Starbucks-ification of North America — the horrifying spectacle of four Starbucks on the four corners of the same intersection was enough to keep me up at night.
But, somehow, slowly, Starbucks began to erode my political, aesthetic and culinary taste. First, they managed to close most of the independent coffee houses so, even if I wanted to sip alternative coffee, I couldn’t. Second, by virtue of their ubiquity, I started to expect a Starbucks at every intersection and to feel peeved if there wasn’t one when I wanted a cup of coffee; on road trips, in particular, I noticed that I started to expect a Starbucks in every city, however small.
I also have to admit that, when I recently travelled in Europe, Starbucks had consistently clean and free bathrooms, so even when I was tramping around in cities renowned for their epicurean delights, I was often drinking my coffee at a Starbucks.
When Golden Boy and I moved to our current residence, we were dismayed to discover that there were no local independent coffee houses (well, they’re a dying breed, so no particular surprise) but pleased that at least there was a Starbucks about a mile away. We’ve spent a lot of time there working and reading. We generally don’t like Starbucks coffee, disdain the cardboard constructions that pass as “pastries,” and are annoyed by the lack of free WiFi.** But, we go there because it’s convenient, it’s nice to get out of the house, and the “baristas” are friendly.
So, imagine our despair yesterday when we discovered that Starbucks is closing not only the store near our house but every Starbucks in our little suburban town. Now, the nearest coffee will be in the local Barnes and Noble — which is a terrible place to work.
We’re so depressed — and we’re also chagrined to discover that we’ve become the kind of people who are depressed when they can’t go to Starbucks whenever and where ever they want.
Gotta be the end of the world, right?
** Notorious Ph.D recently celebrated the free WiFi at Starbucks, but that’s not true in our area. CORRECTION: Notorious actually remarked upon the lack of WiFi at Starbucks. Whoops. My mistake.
Okay, I feel like a cheeseball for linking this but, what can I say? I had a rare and precious burst of affection for humanity while watching this. Resist if you can.
… we’re not married.”
This is a phrase that I’ve said a lot lately. Although Golden Boy and I have been together for many years, we’re not married and I seem to be constantly correcting people who assume that we are. I guess we seem married. We’re not that young any more so we don’t fit into the youthful “just living together” time frame. We bought a house and, ever since, I think we’ve developed that complacent sheen that goes along with suburban living and that appears to reek of marriage. We’re straight, so we could and, in some people’s view, should be married. We don’t have any external markers of alternative-ness: no tattoos, nose rings, purple hair to indicate that we’re rebellious. Yeah, we seem like a nice old married couple.
But, we’re not — and not being married is a deliberate, conscious decision on our part.** We don’t want to be married for many reasons, primarily having to do with a rejection of social norms: heteronormativity, female subordination, conventional religion, and the absurd psycho-drama that is the modern wedding. We have elected to remove ourselves from those conventions, at least as much as we can.
The funny (or annoying … or perhaps inevitable) thing is how much other people want to put us right back in there.
It’s not that big of a deal when the checker at the grocery store calls me GB’s wife, but it takes on more significance in other contexts. Many of my colleagues refer to GB as my husband — so many and so often that, frankly, I’ve given up correcting them because it’s tiresome to keep repeating myself. But, then I feel guilty, like I’ve slipped into conventionality rather than sticking by my guns.
It doesn’t help that there are no good terms for describing an unmarried straight couple. I call GB my partner but that often necessitates further explanations that we’re not a queer couple. I don’t mind being mistaken for a lesbian but, once again, I feel like I’m getting credit for being what I’m not. Given the incredible adaptability of the English language, it’s amazing that a new term hasn’t developed to fill this gap.
And, of course, the phrase “Actually, we’re not married” often has to be followed up by some lame caveat along the lines of “But, we don’t have anything against marriage! We’ve got lots of married friends!” to placate the hurt feelings of the married set. It’s amazing how many people are offended by our unmarried-ness — I’ve lost several friendships over it, but that’s another story. And don’t even get me started on our families.
The fact is, we do have something against the institution of marriage! The Dyke Action Machine coined the great, provocative line: “Gay marriage. You might was well be straight.” I’ve always thought there should be a hetero-version too: “Straight marriage. You might was well be … well, straight and married.” ****
—
** We live in a state with extremely liberal common-law marriage rules, so we’ve taken legal steps to guarantee that we won’t be inadvertently married by the state.
**** I’m not saying I’m against gay marriage, okay? Put away all those poison pens. I am absolutely in favor of the right of gay marriage and will vote for it if I ever have a chance. I just don’t agree with the idea that heterosexual marriage should be the desired model for any kind of relationship.
Although I had planned to write an in-depth report on Professor Summer Camp, I find that I don’t have that much to say. Maybe because it was such an intense experience and I’m still readjusting to my normal life. Maybe because there’s not much I can say within this anonymous context without revealing too much. I don’t know. But, I don’t have coherent reflections right now.
Here are a few fragmented thoughts:
* It’s amazing how quickly a group of academics reverts back to its origins. We became like graduate students, gossiping about the organizers, about each other, splitting off into distinct “cliques” according to discipline or ideology. But, in this experience, the negatives were overshadowed by the sense of camaraderie, the supportiveness, the humor — all parts of grad school that I have tended to forget. It was fun to revisit that — even for a little while.
* There is just nothing better than having someone else care for your daily needs. It was luxurious to have every meal provided, all transportation provided, my room cleaned everyday. I could really get used to that. One of the nicest parts was that I was able to practice yoga in the afternoons because I didn’t have the usual quotidian distractions: no worries about whether the dog had been walked, whether there was anything for dinner. No dishes to wash. No laundry to put away. No cat boxes to clean. Every afternoon was just a free and empty expanse of time all to myself.
* Literature professors are congenitally unaccustomed to being treated well. All the participants could be heard to remark at some point that they were amazed at the degree of effort and expense had been put into creating an environment in which we could work. We’re all so used to having to squabble and scrape for any time for research, for any little bit of extra money, etc. We’re used to administrators and other academics (even those in our fields! In our departments!) dismissing our work as if it were merely a quaint hobby. But, at PSC, we were taken out to fancy restaurants, given lovely living quarters, paid for our mental labor — and always with the attitude that our productivity was the collective goal.
I’m not doing a good job of conveying what was actually my favorite part: meeting wonderful, smart, encouraging, and friendly academics. Yes, I learned a lot about the topic but I think the friendships and collaborations were by far the most rewarding part. There were several scholars that I really connected with both personally and professionally and I’m looking forward to where those relationships lead.
But, all that said, I’m still happy to be home.
