The Me Who Drinks Tea

I don't drink coffee. I never have. My mother once said to me that I would develop a taste for it, especially in college when one is generally expected to stay up all night cramming for exams or finishing papers. Not only did I never develop a taste for coffee, I never actually pulled an all-nighter in college. Even on nights I was up late working, I'd sleep for a while and wake up early to finish, but even that was a rare occasion.

A couple of years ago, I had a job that was more work than I could have possibly imagined. The deadlines were tight and the turnaround time for my assignments was non-existent. I stayed up all night working, and I used a caffeinated tea for those all-important jolts of both energy and that feeling of well-being that makes you think you can really get it all done. The only other time I use tea for a quick pick-me-up is when I'm traveling and jet-lagged.

I prefer to drink tea (decaf or herbal) when I'm relaxing. I like to drink it after a meal or when I'm sitting talking to a friend. Tea forces me to slow down because I have to wait for it to cool and I can't just chug it down. I like mint tea after a meal or chamomile close to bed-time. I like fruity flavored teas during the day, or just plain Lipton. I have plenty of tea on hand at both work and home, but I don't often make the effort to put a cup of water into the microwave for a few minutes, mostly because I know I'll have to wash the cup. How ridiculous is that? I should get one of those electrical tea kettles and just plug the stupid thing in when I'm having office hours and make myself a cup of tea. I should bring a clean cup in from home and take it back at the end of the day for washing in my kitchen sink. What's so hard about that?

I like the me who drinks tea. I like the introspective, non-rushing version of me. I don't have a daily ceremonial beverage like everyone's "first cup of coffee," nor do I have a beer or a scotch when I get home after work. All day long I drink water out of a refillable metal bottle, and I rarely stray from that. I drink orange juice maybe once a week. Same with beer. It would be nice to sit and drink a cup of tea in the afternoon--every afternoon--like the British do. A lovely ceremonial drink that makes you slow down for a moment. I don't know about you, but I think my day could use slightly more ceremony in it.

The DecaAwesome List Strikes Back

It's been a while since I did one of these, and since I am feeling saucy and sassy today, it's about time I shared some good vibes.

1. Yan-Yan. Delicious Asian snack consisting of cookie-like sticks you dip into flavored cream. I've tried chocolate and vanilla so far. Strawberry is next. Best part: the weird messages on the cookies. There's Horse Gallop Away, Chick Lucky Colour Yellow, Owl Only at Night, and Squirrel Your Best Friend. I'm sorry, what? Eating words that make no sense is delicious!

2. Dr. Scholl's Ball-of-the-Foot cushion inserts. I know, this one really shows my age, but they're so damn comfortable! I have some in two pairs of shoes. Definitely reduces slippage and slidage, and makes walking around all day much more pleasant. 

3. Skype. Saw my two grandmothers on Easter, my parents, Cat and the new baby, and even my gorgeous nieces. It's like being there.

4. The Julia Child part of Julie and Julia. Like many people who have reviewed this film for me, I loved the Julia Child parts the best. The Amy Adams parts were good too, but sometimes I felt like smacking the character. Julia's relationship with her husband was particularly inspiring. Such a supportive, loving man she married. I should be so lucky!

5. Sous-chef-ing. After many years of reluctant cooking (I don't find it especially comforting or relaxing), I suddenly find myself in the role of sous-chef to my roommate, who cooks rather well. I have also found that I have a knack for cutting things up, not just chopping, but slicing, dicing, and yes, butchering. As the granddaughter of a butcher, I seem to have the talent for meat-cutting in my blood. I'm supposed to say something threatening here like, 'so watch out!' but I won't. Oh wait, I just did.

6. Exercise. Yes, I do feel more energetic, thank you very much.

7. My new steamer. It cooks rice and vegetables beautifully. To me, there is nothing lovelier than white rice and steamed broccoli. Yummy.

8. New academic projects. I might have the opportunity to write an academic book that no one will actually read, and I am totally psyched at the possibility. You can take the girl out of school, but you can't take the nerdiness out of the girl.

9. New fiction projects. I just started a new novel. It's the most ambitious thing I've tried so far. I don't know if I will succeed, but I'm sure gonna give it the ol' college try.

10. Love. I had a rough day this past week. I was feeling discouraged and impatient, and my friends and family were there with loving words, hugs and kisses from the people geographically close, and supportive comments from the folks on Facebook. I'm so pleased I've given enough good in the world to receive these dividends back when I need them.

Bonus:

11. The guy who told me that scientists don't know anything about gravity because they don't take Karma into account. Hee. You made my day.

An Hour to Contemplate

I have an hour before class, so I'm thinking. About what, you may say? Well, I'm so glad you asked.

I started off today in a very discouraged mood. It's not so much that anything is really wrong, but I'm sure you've had a day where you feel you've been running hard and fast only to stop and see that you've gone nowhere at all. The truth of the matter is, I'm doing just fine. I'm not losing ground, but I feel like I'm gaining ground at such a snail's pace that I might as well be standing still.

Yes, I'm being overly dramatic. Yes, the facts tell me I'm in a fairly decent position in life. But that hardly matters when you've gotten yourself into a funk, now does it? I had ice cream at Scoops with Cael today, so that has brightened my mood considerably. A little commiseration, a little sugar, some soy milk, and a friendly ear work wonders. And in the midst of our convo, Cael said something to me that was really thought-provoking.

I said I was discouraged because I'm not quite where I want to be. I haven't found an agent or published a book yet even though I finished my first novel ages ago. I'm still cleaning up the financial mess from my last relationship and will be for years. I am currently engaged in a war with moths (long story). And yes, most vexatious, I am still NOT the voice of a cartoon character. After listening to me rant and ramble, Cael asked, "Isn't it great that you have somewhere you want to get to? Don't you think it would be boring if you had accomplished everything already, and still had three fourths of your life yet to live?" (Yes, I'm going to live to 140, thank you very much.)

He was right, of course. I don't want to be the person who peaks too early (but I do want to peak at some point). At high school reunions, I always feel so much pity for the prom queen or football hero whose life after graduation is one long, fat, decrescendo. I always want to believe the best is just waiting around the corner for me. Usually, I have no trouble believing that, but today was a moody day, so my friend had to remind me. That's what they're for, you know. Friends, that is.

That being said, I'm going to allow myself the rest of the day to be discouraged and moody and perhaps overly dramatic. One can't attack every day with energy and enthusiasm, but maybe tomorrow I'll kick the day's ass. We'll see how ferocious I'm feeling after a good dinner and a good night's sleep.

I've Seen the Future...

And it is now.

Actually, I like the cliched line from all those fifties filmstrips: it's the kitchen of the tomorrow...TODAY! I just Skyped (may I use that as a verb?) with my friend Cat, and not only did we chat, but we used the video feature and saw each other! And not only did I see her, I got to see her three-week-old adorable baby! It was just like that scene at the beginning of 2001: A Space Odyssey when the guy calls home and talks to his daughter via picture phone! It was the phone call of tomorrow (except there were no phones involved whatsoever)...TODAY!

When I was about 10 years old, I wondered what life would be like "in the year 2000." I'd correctly done the math to calculate that I would be 26 in May of 2000. I figured that medicine would have cancer licked by then. I thought we'd have more done in outer space (Challenger was still two years away at that point). I'm not talking colonies on the moon, but a more regular schedule to and from space. I wasn't good at swallowing aspirin, so I was hoping that we'd have hyposprays like on Star Trek. Would we have video phones? Natch. Those sleek-looking cars of the future? Of course. So I was surprised that in 2000, the "car of the future" seemed to be the SVU, not the wind-resistant sporty thing people always said it would be. 

But here we are in 2010. Suddenly, that sleek little car of the future idea seems to be making a comeback. Have you seen that tiny little Volkswagen that will sell for $600 in China? Check it out. Looks like the car of the future to me. And just today, I video chatted with my friend. I know Skype's been around for a while, but on my last computer I needed a separate web cam and it was a real pain in the ass. Now, I just click and the camera that's mounted into my computer does the rest. Feels like I'm there!

We haven't quite fixed cancer yet, have we? Sure, treatment is better and more promising, and we now have more options than ever before, but that miracle "cure for cancer" hasn't materialized the way my 10-year-old self assumed. There's no miracle cure for weight-loss either. Nothing stops Alzheimer's in its tracks. So it kinda feels like the challenges of humanity are still there in very recognizable, very physical ways. We still have to eat right and exercise to lose weight. We don't have mechanical kidneys on a shelf to implant into people on dialysis. And ah yes, Space, the final frontier. We have a space station, but it's not for people like you and me. Space is still for elite astronauts only. You know how I know? There's no mall up there. There's no Target, no Kohl's, no food court with Panda Express or Pizza Hut/Wing Street up there.  Clearly, it's not for the masses yet.

But I'm not totally disappointed in the future. I know for a fact I'd get very motion sick in Zero-G so I wouldn't have an appetite for hot wings up there anyway. And my 10-year-old self never foresaw the internet. That's changed my life a lot, and I never saw it coming. Now there are 3-D TVs on the way to the market! I totally called that in 1984! In the final tally, I suppose I'm pretty happy with the way the future has gone so far, but I still hold out hope for those miracle cures and awesome space stations. 

I'm not doing much to help the cause, I suppose. Maybe I should have become an M.D. instead of a Ph.D. Nah, I'm in the right business. So while those other minds are thinking of ways to make the future amazing for everyone (and make good on those predictions I'm still waiting for), I'm going to celebrate the present in a very old fashioned way: I'm going for a walk.  

The Hardest Thing You Ever Did

What was it?

Did you give birth to a child? Did you hold the hand of someone you love while they were dying? Did you sacrifice something incredibly precious? Did you walk away from something you knew was bad for you?

There are dark moments in life. Really difficult things. And not just life and death stuff either, but bad jobs that you have to keep because you need to eat every day, or months of floundering when you just can't seem to get your head out of your ass. Surviving cataclysmic moments or enduring long periods of something soul-degrading, either one can be The Hardest Thing (THT).

So think for a minute. Decide what it might be.

And now think about the effects that thing has had on your life, good and bad.

And now realize that you are still alive, and you either a) have enough free time to read this, or b) have a job (lucky you!) from which you are stealing time to read this. That "hardest thing" is likely behind you. You can look at it from here and say, "I did that." "I endured that." The funniest thing is you may have no idea HOW you got through it, but you did. THT sucked when it happened or when you did it, and you knew it sucked at that moment, but you survived anyway. You didn't just throw up your hands and say, "I give up." You probably didn't have much of a choice anyway. So you shut up and you forged ahead and you came out the other side.

THT is a powerful thing. It's probably not a good memory, but it pays every once in a while to look at it. Why? Because it shows what you are made of. It shows you are tougher than you thought you were. It shows you have more energy than you thought you did. More charm. More guts. More resourcefulness. It can help you get through a bad day or a bad week by reminding you of what a badass you really are. It can shrink today's challenges down to nothing. Hell, if I did THT, I can certainly handle today's presentation. Folks say life is made up of the little things--and THT was certainly a BIG thing, but remembering THT can help you navigate the little things with ease. After all, car trouble, overtime, and bad weather are nothing compared to THT. Annoying, yes. Soul-shattering? Probably not.

So when it appears that life is acting like a spoiled brat, look back over your shoulder for a minute and take 60 seconds to look at The Hardest Thing You Ever Did. Then, with renewed energy, turn your face to the future and press on.

Getting a Job with a Ph.D.

I can't remember the exact date when I got it into my head that I wanted to go "all the way" with school. I know that I started a masters very early on because I did BA and MA concurrently. I think I took my first graduate class when I was all of 19. I know in my last two years at Hunter that I actually auditioned for a doctoral program in choral conducting at UCONN. That program would have given me a D.M.A., Doctor of Musical Arts. It probably would have also given me an ulcer. Luckily, I did not get accepted into the program, and I had to reassess what I really wanted to do, in and out of school.

My masters degree concentrated in vocal performance, but I knew that I didn't want to be an opera star. I actually started with a masters in history, but I discovered that I could sing so I thought I should really work the performance angle while I was still young. Turned out to be a great decision, considering that my livelihood at present depends greatly on what I learned as a masters student. After that, there was three years of hell in the New York City Public school system before I finally followed my dream of getting a Ph.D.

But where did this dream come from? Why did it suddenly become so damned important to me? I recall an incident at Hunter that happened after I graduated. There was a concert at Lang Recital Hall (I think that's what it was called) and afterwards, I was standing around chatting up the other attendees. Professor D. came over to talk to me and asked me how things were going. I told her about teaching seventh grade and how it sucked (I probably used the word "challenging" or something suitably euphemistic), and how much I wanted to move on to a doctoral program. That much I already knew. I figured the only way out of the hell of teaching middle school was getting another degree.

To my great shock, Professor D. discouraged me. It's not worth it, she said. You won't be able to find work, she said. You're going to struggle and starve to get this degree, and end up with nothing to show for it but tens of thousands of dollars in debt. 

I'm sorry, what?

I've never had anyone discourage me from more school before. But for some reason it didn't throw me. What came out of my mouth next was the real surprise. I thought I was about to make a joke. Perhaps a mocking sort of joke at the highfalutin reasons why people stay in academia. "But, Professor D.," I said. "I really want to make a commitment to scholarship." Ha ha. Okay, so it's not a knee-slapper, but it also turned out to be TRUE. It wasn't until I said it that I realized how true it was. It was like my brain had been thinking about this without letting me know, planning this behind the scenes, maybe when I was sleeping or watching movies I'd already seen. And my brain waited for a moment when I would least expected it to pop out and yell, "SURPRISE!!!!"

I wanted to learn more, even if it meant having a Ph.D. and driving a cab (and God help my passengers because I have the worst sense of direction ever). I wanted the knowledge and the expertise and I was stubborn enough not to care about the practical aspects of how to live during and after the degree-getting. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!! Luckily, I got jobs teaching college. Right away. Before I was even finished with my degree. And it was everything that I hoped for: students who were interested in the subject, who didn't try to kill each other with box-cutters, who were there because they wanted to be. I started a full-time teaching job exactly one year after I graduated. I am in the minority. It worked out for me. Granted, I still have my massive student loan to pay back, but I have a means of doing it, i.e. a job. 

It doesn't work out for a lot of people. Some never actually finish because it's a huge undertaking, especially the dissertation. And if you work full time to support yourself, or if you have a family, it's that much more difficult to find the time to put it all together. If you do finish, you might be able to find a job in the middle of nowhere--certainly nowhere near where you are--and that might not be so hot if you have a bread-winning spouse who needs to stay HERE for work. 

There are thousands of ways for it to go wrong, and I didn't give a crap about any of them. I made a commitment to scholarship. It's probably the only thing I can still commit to. Hey, hey! *rimshot* But seriously, folks. I've made a contribution to my field, published articles and given papers, and that was exactly what I wanted to do. What I still want to do.

There's been a lot of stuff written recently about the "Big Lie" in academia. The Big Lie that an advanced degree allows you to write your own ticket. You can't. Not really. You are at the mercy of a lot of things out of your control. If colleges and universities have hiring freezes because of the economy, there are no jobs to be had. Period. Nothing is a guarantee. Is it worth it anyway? It was for me. Even if I didn't have a job, I doubt I'd regret being Doc G. But that's me.

In the twelve years since that fateful conversation, I thought a lot about what Professor D. said to me.  She told me about the Big Lie. She told me what was likely to happen, what the odds were. I don't think she had any doubt I'd get the degree, but she knew the real challenge would come afterwards. You can control your own work towards the Ph.D., but you can't control job availability once you're done. I heard what she said, of course. This is woman who wastes no words. To my great astonishment, however, I was willing, eager even, to make all the sacrifices necessary to get the degree and a job in academia (or suffer without one). I don't know if I will ever again experience that kind of singleness of mind and purpose. Or if the world will ever again cooperate so fully to help me achieve my goals.

All I know is that it is done, and cannot be undone, and for that I am eternally grateful.

Living Conditions

It's been thirteen years since I lived in my college dormitory. Living there was a great opportunity since I got to live in Manhattan in a relatively safe place for what amounted to about $200 a month. A ridiculously low price even then. A few days before freshman year started, my parents moved me in with some basic stuff, food, dishes, silverware, toiletries. My mother swept and mopped the floor while my father and I chose where to put the imitation wood and metal furniture that came with the room. This particular dorm had originally been built for nursing students. The dorm is situated in a part of the east side called "Bedpan Alley" because it's right near Bellevue and the VA hospital. The rooms were designed as small cells, about seven to eight feet wide, and about twelve feet long. By the door, there's a sink and a closet. Each floor has communal bathrooms and a communal kitchen. If it sounds dreary and institutional, that's because it is. Or was, I don't know what the dorm looks like now, but I have seen small air conditioners in the windows recently. Jerks. Where was that in the summer of '94 during the heat wave?

The dorm was cheap and convenient, but it was also kindofa hellhole. Definitely the kind of place you can feel good about living in only when you're a certain age. Let me put it this way, after moving me in, my mother never again visited the dorm. I don't think she liked seeing the conditions I was living in. Not that my folks had a lot to compare it to; I think I'm the only member of my family who ever lived in a dorm. At nineteen years old, I'm not saying I was completely cool living with insects and mice. Those things freaked me out, but not enough to make me live at home instead. If I saw a bug, I squashed it or sprayed it with whatever was handy. (I remember a particular incident in which I made a critter very shiny with Pledge before it ultimately expired.) If I saw a mouse in the kitchen--usually sniffing around whatever I was cooking--I banged on the counter with a wooden spoon to make it go away.

After five years in that dorm, I moved to an apartment in Brooklyn with some friends. It was cleaner, but there were still bugs to contend with since we lived upstairs from a restaurant. Many pieces of our furniture were hand-me-downs from our families. We also had some sidewalk furniture. Nothing matched, and we occasionally used the bathtub as an ersatz cooler when we had parties. The apartment was sweltering in the summertime. From there we moved to another apartment in Queens. Still with the sidewalk furniture, still with the hand-me-downs, still with ridiculous heat in the summer.  A studio in Los Angeles followed where I the only quiet study place for me was the bathtub. A studio has but one room and my boyfriend at the time watched TV a lot. Had no cable for a while, no cushions on my couch, and carpeting that got absolutely gross almost instantly. But who really cared? I was a starving graduate student and it felt perfectly right for me to be "struggling" in a tiny place, sitting on wood slats, and eating that terrible $.99 frozen pizza for dinner.

It was when I was in the next apartment that things started to change for me in my mind. This apartment had two rooms, and that was a huge step up. I could actually close the door to the bedroom and work in there. This apartment had a dishwasher--a terrible, barely-working dishwasher--but at least it dried the dishes well. I bought new furniture that matched. There was still that gross carpeting, which got downright nasty in the seven years I lived there, but I felt lucky to live in a place without pests, except for the occasional spider. I began to consider what was important to me in an apartment. 

The first thing that really changed was my tolerance for pests: I suddenly had none. Then I looked at the carpet and began to think that wood flooring would be so much better. I began to crave my own washer and dryer after years of lugging loads and loads of laundry down to the extremely inconvenient laundry rooms in my complex. I decided that my next place would have the things I wanted and I wasn't going to move until I found them all for a reasonable price. Luckily, I found such a place: hardwood floors, a washer/dryer, two bathrooms (that was a nice extra), and a dishwasher. Granted, this dishwasher still sucks, but I'm mostly happy with all of it.

Something weird happened in my current complex this week involving a guest and some alleged vandalism (long story for another time). It was handled pretty poorly by the management and it made me go on Craigslist to price other places. I thought that if there was a sweet deal, I might look into it. What I realized is that since I moved into the dorm almost eighteen years ago, my taste in accommodations has changed greatly. I'm older and I feel past the age where I want to sit on a couch I rescued from the garbagemen. I don't want to be rolling my shopping cart full of clothes down the street to the laundromat. If I saw a mouse sniffing around my pots on the stove now, I'd freak the hell out. I've become used to a certain standard of living that, while not super fancy, is decidedly decent. 

I hope that one day soon I'll have one of those kick-ass dishwashers that doesn't require any preemptive dish-scraping, and I'll wonder how I ever did without it. Perhaps, maybe twenty or so years from now, I'll be moving my daughter into some nasty dormitory hellhole, and I won't want to see my baby girl chasing mice away with a spoon. She'll roll her eyes and say, "Mom, would you stop being so picky? It's fine." And to her it will be fine. She'll just be grateful to be on her own, like I was once upon a time. It'll be enough. Putting up with the pests and the sketchy laundry facilities and weird roommates will be just fine because she'll be free. When you're nineteen, freedom is worth all of the gross inconvenience of a dormroom or a tiny first apartment. When you're my age, however, you want it all.