Hmm... it seems that this is not my week. Or maybe it is my week afterall... It seems that I have a habit to almost do something fatal this week. One could look at this series of events as a sign of bad karma, but on the other hand, as everything keeps ending up okay, I prefer to think that I'm having incredibly good karma.
Before Monday's escapade with Kelly, I found a dime on my way to school. I like finding money on the ground. It's usually a good sign. I also have a knack for finding change on the ground. I know, a penny each day only leaves me with enough to buy a latte at the end of the year, but I still get excited when I find free money. Hubby's mom likes to say that finding money on the ground means that angels are praying for you. In her mind, a penny equals one angel praying on your behalf, a dime equals ten angels, etc. This idea makes me laugh, but it has changed my outlook on finding money on the ground.
Today, while riding my scooter to the busstop, I stopped to pick up a penny. This resulted in missing the bus. Not exactly a lucky sign. But, as it turns out, I ended up being lucky anyways.
My office is cold. When I type for a long time in it, my fingers shrink and my wedding ring starts wiggling on my finger. To prevent the diamond from continously stabbing me in the finger, I turn on the cheap space heater hidden under Kelly's desk. Most other people in the building place a damp paper towel over the heat sensor, but Kelly insisted on buying a space heater. Until now, I haven't complained because I like being warm.
I was busy having a productive day in my office: catching up on e-mails, grading student assignments, reading everything I scanned this week, taking notes, cranking bad German pop music to keep the annoying people from the English department away... As all of the sitting made me cold, I turned on the space heater. Just as I started to warm up, my PC suddenly shut off. Thankfully, I was typing everything on my laptop, Della, and didn't lose any information.
When I walked around the desks to figure out what happened, I realized that both office PCs, my laptop and the space heater were all plugged in to the same surge protector, and the entire wall outlet no longer worked. Oops. Nothing was smoking, but the wall was really hot (was this from the space heater's heat or from an over worked wiring system?) I couldn't decide, so I did what any self respecting PhD candidate would do... I hid in my friend's office and pretended like nothing happened, hoping that it would magically fix itself. And, because I found a lucky penny today, it worked! The electrical closet happens to be located within my friend's office and lo and behold: after 30 minutes of catching up, someone in a uniform showed up in the office, said hi, unlocked the closet, did something mysterious, closed the door and walked away. I ran back to my office and voila! Power!
Now back to being productive... But first, if you find money on the ground, you can either leave it there for me to find later or you can pick it up and be rescued from a near death experience yourself.
Happy Leapyear!
Wednesday, February 29, 2012
Tuesday, February 28, 2012
On causing my office mate to (nearly) die
I clearly remember the day in typology that we learned about a morphosyntactic process called causatives. My professor, "Dumbeldore," told us a story about an elderly couple that lived in her building. The wife had problems swallowing pills and one day, her husband suggested cutting a grape open and placing the pill inside the grape. The wife thought this was a great idea and did as suggested. She swallowed the grape and choked on it, which caused her to die. This was a terrible story! Usually Dumbeldore told us nice stories. In fact, I have a section of my notes from every class with her with the heading "Reading Rainbow Moments." In general, her stories made me feel warm and fuzzy and they encouraged me to continue taking her classes. But the grape story was an oddball that came in a semester full of awkward moments.
Other favorite moments from that semester included the undergrad that played video games on his Gameboy during class, the random remark about Samoans, the Chinese student who wore the SARS safety mask and said "interchanjuroo" (which, about 10 minutes later, the whole class realized he was trying to say 'interchangeable'), the classmate that mostly spoke using ingressives, the other classmate that was suddenly gone because she had a baby (how the rest of us failed to notice she was 9 months pregnant still baffles me)... it was a weird semester... One day, the Gameboy classmate took a break from playing Tetrus in his mind and spoke up. It was the only time he spoke the entire semester and he said, "You can't say 'he dies.' Well... you could, but no one ever says that in English." This led my Harry Potter cohort and I to google "he dies" and receive more than 3 billion hits. It turns out that you can say "he dies" in English AND people do say this.
How is this related to Geraldine? What about my office mate? What's my point? Keep reading...
My term paper from that class ended up being Geraldine's protoform. I didn't know it at the time, but that paper would become my dissertation. Thus, every memory from that class is not only incredibly entertaining, it has also played an important part in my decision to become a linguist.
My Harry Potter doppelganger office mate, "Kelly", and I have shared an office since that semester started. We attended nearly every graduate class together, applied for a PhD program together, have made sacrifices for the sake of the other's degree progress, and have fought, laughed and cried through it all. We have a Harry Potter - Hermione Granger relationship ("Ron" dropped out of graduate school after our typology class ended, but he still works on the 7th floor of our building). We have many things in common, including our food allergies. Kelly's food allergies are much more life threatening than mine, and for years he has been training me on what to do should a food emergency ever occur. Yesterday, that moment came to fruition, and I share in the culpability of that allergic reaction.
Kelly and I haven't been in the office at the same time for more than 5 minutes all semester. Yesterday, we decided to take advantage in our overlapping freetime and decided to share a snack in the student union. Upon finding popcorn shrimp, a hot snack that we could both eat without dying, I jumped at the chance to buy it. Kelly insisted on buying it and we both walked to a table to begin eating the fatty, delicious snack (actually, he walked, I skipped like a 7 year old). As I ate a salad, Kelly began updating me on his life when suddenly, he spit food out of his mouth and said "This doesn't taste right!" He ripped open a shrimp to discover it wasn't shrimp at all... it was (dun dun duuuuuun)...chicken! In disbelief, I ripped open five more shrimps that also ended up being chicken. Kelly whipped out a container of pills and started swallowing them, pulled out an epi pen, and we started making plans for the emergency room. After 10 minutes, Kelly decided he didn't need to go to the hospital, but I insisted on covering his evening class for him. I taught about writing systems for 30 minutes while Kelly sat in the hall, because I had to give him a ride home. I poked my head out of the room every 2 minutes to make sure he was still alive and conscious and continued to confuse his students.
Everything turned out alright (phew!) but I can't help but wonder how languages with causatives would describe this story. Did I cause Kelly to have an allergic reaction? I was the one that selected the tray of "shrimp". Is there a different morpheme to describe the causality of my action in comparison to the shrimp's quality of really being chicken?
Despite the adrenaline rush I had yesterday dealing with the rash decision to eat in the union, I am content knowing that I have a less disturbing story to tell future students while introducing causatives than Dumbeldore's grape story.
Other favorite moments from that semester included the undergrad that played video games on his Gameboy during class, the random remark about Samoans, the Chinese student who wore the SARS safety mask and said "interchanjuroo" (which, about 10 minutes later, the whole class realized he was trying to say 'interchangeable'), the classmate that mostly spoke using ingressives, the other classmate that was suddenly gone because she had a baby (how the rest of us failed to notice she was 9 months pregnant still baffles me)... it was a weird semester... One day, the Gameboy classmate took a break from playing Tetrus in his mind and spoke up. It was the only time he spoke the entire semester and he said, "You can't say 'he dies.' Well... you could, but no one ever says that in English." This led my Harry Potter cohort and I to google "he dies" and receive more than 3 billion hits. It turns out that you can say "he dies" in English AND people do say this.
How is this related to Geraldine? What about my office mate? What's my point? Keep reading...
My term paper from that class ended up being Geraldine's protoform. I didn't know it at the time, but that paper would become my dissertation. Thus, every memory from that class is not only incredibly entertaining, it has also played an important part in my decision to become a linguist.
My Harry Potter doppelganger office mate, "Kelly", and I have shared an office since that semester started. We attended nearly every graduate class together, applied for a PhD program together, have made sacrifices for the sake of the other's degree progress, and have fought, laughed and cried through it all. We have a Harry Potter - Hermione Granger relationship ("Ron" dropped out of graduate school after our typology class ended, but he still works on the 7th floor of our building). We have many things in common, including our food allergies. Kelly's food allergies are much more life threatening than mine, and for years he has been training me on what to do should a food emergency ever occur. Yesterday, that moment came to fruition, and I share in the culpability of that allergic reaction.
Kelly and I haven't been in the office at the same time for more than 5 minutes all semester. Yesterday, we decided to take advantage in our overlapping freetime and decided to share a snack in the student union. Upon finding popcorn shrimp, a hot snack that we could both eat without dying, I jumped at the chance to buy it. Kelly insisted on buying it and we both walked to a table to begin eating the fatty, delicious snack (actually, he walked, I skipped like a 7 year old). As I ate a salad, Kelly began updating me on his life when suddenly, he spit food out of his mouth and said "This doesn't taste right!" He ripped open a shrimp to discover it wasn't shrimp at all... it was (dun dun duuuuuun)...chicken! In disbelief, I ripped open five more shrimps that also ended up being chicken. Kelly whipped out a container of pills and started swallowing them, pulled out an epi pen, and we started making plans for the emergency room. After 10 minutes, Kelly decided he didn't need to go to the hospital, but I insisted on covering his evening class for him. I taught about writing systems for 30 minutes while Kelly sat in the hall, because I had to give him a ride home. I poked my head out of the room every 2 minutes to make sure he was still alive and conscious and continued to confuse his students.
Everything turned out alright (phew!) but I can't help but wonder how languages with causatives would describe this story. Did I cause Kelly to have an allergic reaction? I was the one that selected the tray of "shrimp". Is there a different morpheme to describe the causality of my action in comparison to the shrimp's quality of really being chicken?
Despite the adrenaline rush I had yesterday dealing with the rash decision to eat in the union, I am content knowing that I have a less disturbing story to tell future students while introducing causatives than Dumbeldore's grape story.
Friday, February 24, 2012
On being accepted
It has been slow going with Geraldine this week, but as the proverb says, slow and steady wins the race. In Geraldine's case, I'm hoping that slow and steady completes the dissertation.
My database currently has 101 languages entered and I have information from 8 or 9 more languages waiting for me to type them in. If I continue at this rate, I should hit my target of 150 by spring break and I will more or less be done reading by then as well. Last week I finished the bulk of my reading by forcing myself to write notes on the last 50 chapters/articles on my to-do list. It was tough, but it feels good now that it's over and I can now enjoy looking for more obscure texts from the early 1900s. Hubby's sudden interest in reading Latin poetry until late into the night has been good for my research as well, being that there is nothing to do here that late other than read, read, read, then read some more.
I received an unexpected e-mail last week from a publisher. I am now a blind-reviewer, meaning that the publisher sends me other people's work to review and recommend/ critique. I received a chapter of a book and it is now my duty to review it and either suggest the book for publication, suggest it for publication with changes, or reject it. It's kind of exciting to see the other side of the publication world. In return for my service, the publisher will give me 3 books for free. I have already selected my books. If it turns out that I don't like those books, I figure I can turn around and sell them... but that would be dishonest. Maybe they will turn into a door prize at a future department meeting should I be disapointed with my selection.
In other news, the abstract that I rewrote and submitted to a different conference has been accepted. No news yet pertaining to travel awards for the conference, but it is close enough that I won't end up broke if I don't receive funding. Let's hope that this acceptance will motivate me to polish my paper enough to submit it for publication, as it is far less controversial than anything else I've written on the subject (and I won't have to worry about it resulting in my name on a visa blacklist for a certain country whose language I study).
I am also hopeful that this is the first of a string of acceptances coming to our household this season. I applied for more FLAS funding and Hubby is waiting to hear if he has been accepted into a doctoral program with funding and if he will have a big trip to Berlin this summer (with full funding). Should there be rejections in our future, everyone is invited to join us on our porches this summer as we drink ice water and live off of zuccinni and cucumbers from the garden.
My database currently has 101 languages entered and I have information from 8 or 9 more languages waiting for me to type them in. If I continue at this rate, I should hit my target of 150 by spring break and I will more or less be done reading by then as well. Last week I finished the bulk of my reading by forcing myself to write notes on the last 50 chapters/articles on my to-do list. It was tough, but it feels good now that it's over and I can now enjoy looking for more obscure texts from the early 1900s. Hubby's sudden interest in reading Latin poetry until late into the night has been good for my research as well, being that there is nothing to do here that late other than read, read, read, then read some more.
I received an unexpected e-mail last week from a publisher. I am now a blind-reviewer, meaning that the publisher sends me other people's work to review and recommend/ critique. I received a chapter of a book and it is now my duty to review it and either suggest the book for publication, suggest it for publication with changes, or reject it. It's kind of exciting to see the other side of the publication world. In return for my service, the publisher will give me 3 books for free. I have already selected my books. If it turns out that I don't like those books, I figure I can turn around and sell them... but that would be dishonest. Maybe they will turn into a door prize at a future department meeting should I be disapointed with my selection.
In other news, the abstract that I rewrote and submitted to a different conference has been accepted. No news yet pertaining to travel awards for the conference, but it is close enough that I won't end up broke if I don't receive funding. Let's hope that this acceptance will motivate me to polish my paper enough to submit it for publication, as it is far less controversial than anything else I've written on the subject (and I won't have to worry about it resulting in my name on a visa blacklist for a certain country whose language I study).
I am also hopeful that this is the first of a string of acceptances coming to our household this season. I applied for more FLAS funding and Hubby is waiting to hear if he has been accepted into a doctoral program with funding and if he will have a big trip to Berlin this summer (with full funding). Should there be rejections in our future, everyone is invited to join us on our porches this summer as we drink ice water and live off of zuccinni and cucumbers from the garden.
Monday, February 20, 2012
On the dangers of researching
Researching is dangerous, even when it only takes place in a library, office or archival room. No, I'm not just refering to the 5 paper cuts I received this week while reading (thanks again, mom, for the hand salve), nor am I refering to the tripping hazard I keep giving myself each time I leave the library with a tall stack of books. The library itself is a dangerous place.... or at least it is in my mind.
My reading adventures have taken me away from the general stacks and digital world of interlibrary loan to treking through new areas of the library. How is it that after 4 years of graduate school, I don't know every inch of the library? I've been spending a lot of time in the basement looking for old journals in compact shelving. For those of you that don't know what compact shelving is, let me enlighten you. When a libary needs to create more space, it can invest in motorized bookshelves. Each bookcase is set on a track with buttons on the end. For every 10 or so bookcases, there is only space to walk between two sets of shelves. The rest of the bookcases are squashed together with no room to walk though them, (unless one is an ant of course). To access books on shelves that are currently pressed together, one must press buttons on the edge of the bookcase row and hope that everything will move in the direction needed. With my luck, I usually have to move 8 rows before I can access my row. One of these days, I will walk down the rows that are open to figure out what subject could possibly be more interesting that linguistics to gain such popularity within basement compact shelving. Until that day, I will continue to groan while pushing buttons. Moving 8 rows of cases wouldn't be so bad if the shelves would actually move. Usually they prefer to lock and make me press the correct sequence of buttons 5 times before they move. And half of the time, they move in the wrong direction. This is especially frusterating when I just moved two rows in the correct direction. Luckily, it is only possible to move one row at a time, so it is unlikely that I will be squished between rows should some other scoundrel ever press a button with more finesse than I am able to while I am looking for journal p10001.34abc1932.
Okay, so my library isn't exactly that dangerous after all, but soon I will have to travel to the other state university to research in their larger, better funded and better stocked library. My campus only has one library open to the general student population. The other state university has over 40 libraries on campus. My library only requires a student ID after 7:00 at night. The other state university has libraries that require student IDs at all times. I, however, have a student ID for that library, and although I can't check anything out with it right now, I can get in to the library of doom. It might not really be called the library of doom, but it should be. Without naming it and thus identifying my real location, I will simply write that the name of the other library would make a better cemetary name than library name. Thus, the library of doom will do for now. Harry Potter has a whipping willow to outsmart to get in and out of Hogwarts, but I have angry political activists to face before entering the library of doom. Harry Potter has the Deathly Hallows but I have the Deathly Halls.
After sneaking past security with an invalid student ID, I have 12 floors to navigate. My home library only has 5 floors. The floors that house linguistics materials have compact shelving with buttons that work better than my home library`s- thus, the possibility of being squished between rows is much more likely. The library of doom has more researchers frequenting it than mine, thus it is more probable that someone will be in the same section as me needing access to a neighboring row. Furthermore, as it is easy to counterfeit student IDs or borrow someone elses (as the security check is run by student workers who don`t really pay attention), it would be easy for an irrate political activist to follow me and trap me between compact shelving rows.
Returning to the graveyard-esque name of the library of doom, there is a creepy sensation that follows me whenever I enter certain areas. And, unfortunately, the journals I will need to access are in such said creepy areas. In this section of the library, all lights are controlled by motion detectors. Thus, the lights only illuminate 5 feet of floor space at a time. Once I cross the threshold of one shelving unit to the next, a light turns off behind me before the light in front of me turns on. AND, if I spend too much time looking for a journal within only one bookshelf, the lights will turn off due to a lack of movement. Not creepy enough for you yet, dear reader? Keep reading.
The library of doom also has study carrels at the edge of each row of books in this section. This is great for university publicity--"send us your money, we are a research university with ample research space in our libraries"-- but as the general population of students nor their parents will ever venture onto floor 6 of 12 of the library of doom (after all, they won't have IDs!), the other state university never has to show people what these study carrels look like.... so allow me to further enlighten you. The study carrels in "my" section are pure metal. They have a metal desk, metal chair and 4 walls (3 are metal and one is cement). The floor and ceiling are cement. The metal walls and door might as well be made out of barbed wire- if stuck on the inside, you'll never make it out in one piece. Furthermore, the doors only stay closed with a lock. The books in this section of the library are very dusty, showing that there isn't a lot of movement in this area. As professor doctor advisor Indiana Jones keeps telling me I need to go to the library of doom to scan journals, I can only conclude one thing: professor doctor advisor Indiana Jones is really professor Snape in disguise and I will face Voldemort in the library of doom. Being that my wizard skills are nonexistent, I will die between compact shelving bookcases while protecting the full description of Geraldine, and Voldemort will dispose of my body in a locked, dark, dusty study carrel in a section of the library of doom, never to be found again.
With that explained, does anyone want to travel the floo system with me to the library of doom before the month is over?
My reading adventures have taken me away from the general stacks and digital world of interlibrary loan to treking through new areas of the library. How is it that after 4 years of graduate school, I don't know every inch of the library? I've been spending a lot of time in the basement looking for old journals in compact shelving. For those of you that don't know what compact shelving is, let me enlighten you. When a libary needs to create more space, it can invest in motorized bookshelves. Each bookcase is set on a track with buttons on the end. For every 10 or so bookcases, there is only space to walk between two sets of shelves. The rest of the bookcases are squashed together with no room to walk though them, (unless one is an ant of course). To access books on shelves that are currently pressed together, one must press buttons on the edge of the bookcase row and hope that everything will move in the direction needed. With my luck, I usually have to move 8 rows before I can access my row. One of these days, I will walk down the rows that are open to figure out what subject could possibly be more interesting that linguistics to gain such popularity within basement compact shelving. Until that day, I will continue to groan while pushing buttons. Moving 8 rows of cases wouldn't be so bad if the shelves would actually move. Usually they prefer to lock and make me press the correct sequence of buttons 5 times before they move. And half of the time, they move in the wrong direction. This is especially frusterating when I just moved two rows in the correct direction. Luckily, it is only possible to move one row at a time, so it is unlikely that I will be squished between rows should some other scoundrel ever press a button with more finesse than I am able to while I am looking for journal p10001.34abc1932.
Okay, so my library isn't exactly that dangerous after all, but soon I will have to travel to the other state university to research in their larger, better funded and better stocked library. My campus only has one library open to the general student population. The other state university has over 40 libraries on campus. My library only requires a student ID after 7:00 at night. The other state university has libraries that require student IDs at all times. I, however, have a student ID for that library, and although I can't check anything out with it right now, I can get in to the library of doom. It might not really be called the library of doom, but it should be. Without naming it and thus identifying my real location, I will simply write that the name of the other library would make a better cemetary name than library name. Thus, the library of doom will do for now. Harry Potter has a whipping willow to outsmart to get in and out of Hogwarts, but I have angry political activists to face before entering the library of doom. Harry Potter has the Deathly Hallows but I have the Deathly Halls.
After sneaking past security with an invalid student ID, I have 12 floors to navigate. My home library only has 5 floors. The floors that house linguistics materials have compact shelving with buttons that work better than my home library`s- thus, the possibility of being squished between rows is much more likely. The library of doom has more researchers frequenting it than mine, thus it is more probable that someone will be in the same section as me needing access to a neighboring row. Furthermore, as it is easy to counterfeit student IDs or borrow someone elses (as the security check is run by student workers who don`t really pay attention), it would be easy for an irrate political activist to follow me and trap me between compact shelving rows.
Returning to the graveyard-esque name of the library of doom, there is a creepy sensation that follows me whenever I enter certain areas. And, unfortunately, the journals I will need to access are in such said creepy areas. In this section of the library, all lights are controlled by motion detectors. Thus, the lights only illuminate 5 feet of floor space at a time. Once I cross the threshold of one shelving unit to the next, a light turns off behind me before the light in front of me turns on. AND, if I spend too much time looking for a journal within only one bookshelf, the lights will turn off due to a lack of movement. Not creepy enough for you yet, dear reader? Keep reading.
The library of doom also has study carrels at the edge of each row of books in this section. This is great for university publicity--"send us your money, we are a research university with ample research space in our libraries"-- but as the general population of students nor their parents will ever venture onto floor 6 of 12 of the library of doom (after all, they won't have IDs!), the other state university never has to show people what these study carrels look like.... so allow me to further enlighten you. The study carrels in "my" section are pure metal. They have a metal desk, metal chair and 4 walls (3 are metal and one is cement). The floor and ceiling are cement. The metal walls and door might as well be made out of barbed wire- if stuck on the inside, you'll never make it out in one piece. Furthermore, the doors only stay closed with a lock. The books in this section of the library are very dusty, showing that there isn't a lot of movement in this area. As professor doctor advisor Indiana Jones keeps telling me I need to go to the library of doom to scan journals, I can only conclude one thing: professor doctor advisor Indiana Jones is really professor Snape in disguise and I will face Voldemort in the library of doom. Being that my wizard skills are nonexistent, I will die between compact shelving bookcases while protecting the full description of Geraldine, and Voldemort will dispose of my body in a locked, dark, dusty study carrel in a section of the library of doom, never to be found again.
With that explained, does anyone want to travel the floo system with me to the library of doom before the month is over?
Friday, February 10, 2012
On the exciting event called riding the bus
I pay student fees every semester that allow me to ride the bus unlimited times. I luckily have a bus line that takes me to my university without having to transfer routes and I try to take the bus on a regular basis. But riding the bus in this city is an event.
Hubby and I work in the same building, but he refuses to carpool to work. Campus is 8 miles away and I think it's stupid for us to take 2 cars from the same house to the same building every day. Since I already paid the student fees, I figure I should take the bus, but sometimes it is more of an adventure than I bargained for.
Growing up in Seattle, riding the bus is a mundane activity. All sorts of people ride the bus. They ride it to work, to school, or wherever. It's not much different than taking a cab in NYC. But here... average people don't ride the bus. In fact, they wouldn't be caught dead on it, hubby included. This leaves an unusually large population of weirdos on the bus. And yes, unless the bus is next to campus, most of the people riding it are weirdos!
For years I have entertained my friends with stories of random people asking me out on the bus. Having had another week full of adventures with the county bus system, I thought I'd take a moment to recapture some of the highlights from over the years.
1) The Encounter with the Mongolian
After ice skating one morning, I waited at the busstop with my skates in my hands. This of course was an excellent opportunity for anyone else at the busstop to talk to me about skating. Feeling social, I responded to a young guy's inquiries, which then led to this dialogue:
him: Do I have an accent?
me: I'm a linguist, everyone has an accent.
him: But do I sound American?
me: What kind of an American do you want to sound like?
him: The kind that doesn't sound like a foreigner.
me: Uh... work on your r- and t-sounds.
The bus comes. There are pleanty of places to sit, but the Mongolian sits next to me.
him: So can I have your number?
me: No. My boyfriend wouldn't like that.
him: But I want to go on a date with you.
me: Sorry, I'm not interested. Besides, I'm 10 years older than you.
him: Age doesn't matter.
me: I'm not interested.
him: But how will I improve my English if you won't have sex with me?
Hmmm.... I never knew that being a linguist was a turn on.
2) The Encounter with Maurice
I often read on the bus. One day, Maurice decided to strike up a conversation with me:
him: What language are you reading in?
me: Oh, uh... it's German.
him: Oh, do you speak German?
me: (duh, that's why I'm reading it) Yes, I do.
him: I've always wanted to learn German. Do you tutor?
me: (alright, extra cash for a poor student!) Yes, actually, I do tutor German. I've taught it for a number of years.
him: How much do you charge?
me: It depends on if I have to travel. My price starts at $25 an hour.
him: I'm Maurice. This is my number. I'd love to start learning German, will you call me?
me: Sure, here's my number too.
him: Great, now I can booty call you.
me: (What?!?) Uh, I don't think that's a good idea. This is my stop. (It wasn't)
Darn, foiled again!
3) The Encounter with Camera Man
This time I had just gotten off the bus when a man in a wheel chair looked up at me and asked:
him: Would you be interested in buying a 35 millimeter camera?
me: nope.
him: You have beautiful eyes. Can I have your number?
me: nope.
4) The Encounter with Turban Man
This one happened this week while waiting for the bus.
him: something something something something baby
me: Uh.... no.
him: no baby?
me: No, no baby.
him: Why no baby? You no want?
me: Uh, not right now.
him: You need baby. You old enough. Where your baby?
me: Nope, no baby.
him: You should have two baby.
me: (thank God the bus just came and it's full!)
Apparently having a wedding ring now indicates that I'm not going to give anyone my number but that it's okay to ask me about my womb. Who knew?
Hubby and I work in the same building, but he refuses to carpool to work. Campus is 8 miles away and I think it's stupid for us to take 2 cars from the same house to the same building every day. Since I already paid the student fees, I figure I should take the bus, but sometimes it is more of an adventure than I bargained for.
Growing up in Seattle, riding the bus is a mundane activity. All sorts of people ride the bus. They ride it to work, to school, or wherever. It's not much different than taking a cab in NYC. But here... average people don't ride the bus. In fact, they wouldn't be caught dead on it, hubby included. This leaves an unusually large population of weirdos on the bus. And yes, unless the bus is next to campus, most of the people riding it are weirdos!
For years I have entertained my friends with stories of random people asking me out on the bus. Having had another week full of adventures with the county bus system, I thought I'd take a moment to recapture some of the highlights from over the years.
1) The Encounter with the Mongolian
After ice skating one morning, I waited at the busstop with my skates in my hands. This of course was an excellent opportunity for anyone else at the busstop to talk to me about skating. Feeling social, I responded to a young guy's inquiries, which then led to this dialogue:
him: Do I have an accent?
me: I'm a linguist, everyone has an accent.
him: But do I sound American?
me: What kind of an American do you want to sound like?
him: The kind that doesn't sound like a foreigner.
me: Uh... work on your r- and t-sounds.
The bus comes. There are pleanty of places to sit, but the Mongolian sits next to me.
him: So can I have your number?
me: No. My boyfriend wouldn't like that.
him: But I want to go on a date with you.
me: Sorry, I'm not interested. Besides, I'm 10 years older than you.
him: Age doesn't matter.
me: I'm not interested.
him: But how will I improve my English if you won't have sex with me?
Hmmm.... I never knew that being a linguist was a turn on.
2) The Encounter with Maurice
I often read on the bus. One day, Maurice decided to strike up a conversation with me:
him: What language are you reading in?
me: Oh, uh... it's German.
him: Oh, do you speak German?
me: (duh, that's why I'm reading it) Yes, I do.
him: I've always wanted to learn German. Do you tutor?
me: (alright, extra cash for a poor student!) Yes, actually, I do tutor German. I've taught it for a number of years.
him: How much do you charge?
me: It depends on if I have to travel. My price starts at $25 an hour.
him: I'm Maurice. This is my number. I'd love to start learning German, will you call me?
me: Sure, here's my number too.
him: Great, now I can booty call you.
me: (What?!?) Uh, I don't think that's a good idea. This is my stop. (It wasn't)
Darn, foiled again!
3) The Encounter with Camera Man
This time I had just gotten off the bus when a man in a wheel chair looked up at me and asked:
him: Would you be interested in buying a 35 millimeter camera?
me: nope.
him: You have beautiful eyes. Can I have your number?
me: nope.
4) The Encounter with Turban Man
This one happened this week while waiting for the bus.
him: something something something something baby
me: Uh.... no.
him: no baby?
me: No, no baby.
him: Why no baby? You no want?
me: Uh, not right now.
him: You need baby. You old enough. Where your baby?
me: Nope, no baby.
him: You should have two baby.
me: (thank God the bus just came and it's full!)
Apparently having a wedding ring now indicates that I'm not going to give anyone my number but that it's okay to ask me about my womb. Who knew?
On being lonely
Have you met my new best friend? Her name is Geraldine. I try to spend at least 4 hours with her every day. I think about her constantly and worry about her a lot. Sometimes being in her company is the most exciting thing on the planet and other times it's dull. I try to be a good friend. I give Geraldine a lot of attention, because I feel terrible about myself if I don't. Geraldine is going to help me find my dream job and get it. But since meeting Geraldine, my contact with my other friends has dwindled.
Okay, seriously... teaching online is great for getting research done, but I miss having interaction with my students. E-mails just don't cut it. No one laughs at my jokes, sits at the edge of the seat in anticipation of what I'll say or do next, or nods when I explain something well. There are no lightbulb moments when teaching online. I know that I'm not suppose to think of my students as my audience, but they are. I have been a stand up comedian since I started teaching 7 years ago, but this year my fan club is gone and I just have Geraldine staring at me everywhere I go.
One of my office mates graduated last term and now I don't get to see her often enough. My other office mate is missing in action and when he is around, he's sleeping on his desk or occupied burrying his head in his hand for who-knows-what-reason. My office is silent. Students don't come to visit me, everyone else is teaching when I'm around and Geraldine is the only one waiting for me.
Not taking classes anymore has been a big change too. My classmates liked me because I baked for every seminar and talked when no one else had anything to say. Now they are staving students with lots of uncomfortable silence. I don't get to talk to my friends before class or during breaks because there is no more class or break time.
I knew that it would be difficult to set a work schedule each day while writing a dissertation, but no one told me how lonely it is to write one. When I started graduate school, I fantasized about how great it would be to be a professor with an office of my own. I shared an office with 7 other people that year and between their phones ringing, pranks and lots of cursing, it was hard to get work done (thus I hid in the stairwell... both escaping the chaos and the retalliation for my latest prank). Now there is no one around to prank except for Geraldine, and I don't think that would work out in my favor. This week I've been finding myself yearning for company. It would be so nice to have someone else around to go with me to the library, sit in the office with me while I read, tell me a joke or interrupt my work with the discovery of a stupid website. Instead, I just spend time with Geraline.
But writing a dissertation isn't just lonely because my office is empty and I don't go to class anymore. It's lonely because being an academic is lonely. It's a life of people not understanding just what it is exactly I do for a living. It's a system that takes years to get into and to figure out. It's telling people that I'm in school and hearing them make jokes about me being a professional student. It's filled with moments of looking at pictures of friends' lives and wondering how on earth they could have kids that are 10 already or own a house. It's not being able to listen to the news anymore because everytime it mentions "studies show that..." I immediately wonder what the study was, who conducted it, how the research was collected and how old the data is. It's explaining to someone for the eleventybillionth time that I don't know when I will be done with school and no, I don't know where I will find a job when I'm done. And the people who should understand this loneliness the most because they're also an academic don't understand it either-- they either burry themselves in their books or at home catching up with everything else in life that needs to be done.
So even though I have a new best friend, I miss my old friends and wish they would stop by for more cookies more often.
Okay, seriously... teaching online is great for getting research done, but I miss having interaction with my students. E-mails just don't cut it. No one laughs at my jokes, sits at the edge of the seat in anticipation of what I'll say or do next, or nods when I explain something well. There are no lightbulb moments when teaching online. I know that I'm not suppose to think of my students as my audience, but they are. I have been a stand up comedian since I started teaching 7 years ago, but this year my fan club is gone and I just have Geraldine staring at me everywhere I go.
One of my office mates graduated last term and now I don't get to see her often enough. My other office mate is missing in action and when he is around, he's sleeping on his desk or occupied burrying his head in his hand for who-knows-what-reason. My office is silent. Students don't come to visit me, everyone else is teaching when I'm around and Geraldine is the only one waiting for me.
Not taking classes anymore has been a big change too. My classmates liked me because I baked for every seminar and talked when no one else had anything to say. Now they are staving students with lots of uncomfortable silence. I don't get to talk to my friends before class or during breaks because there is no more class or break time.
I knew that it would be difficult to set a work schedule each day while writing a dissertation, but no one told me how lonely it is to write one. When I started graduate school, I fantasized about how great it would be to be a professor with an office of my own. I shared an office with 7 other people that year and between their phones ringing, pranks and lots of cursing, it was hard to get work done (thus I hid in the stairwell... both escaping the chaos and the retalliation for my latest prank). Now there is no one around to prank except for Geraldine, and I don't think that would work out in my favor. This week I've been finding myself yearning for company. It would be so nice to have someone else around to go with me to the library, sit in the office with me while I read, tell me a joke or interrupt my work with the discovery of a stupid website. Instead, I just spend time with Geraline.
But writing a dissertation isn't just lonely because my office is empty and I don't go to class anymore. It's lonely because being an academic is lonely. It's a life of people not understanding just what it is exactly I do for a living. It's a system that takes years to get into and to figure out. It's telling people that I'm in school and hearing them make jokes about me being a professional student. It's filled with moments of looking at pictures of friends' lives and wondering how on earth they could have kids that are 10 already or own a house. It's not being able to listen to the news anymore because everytime it mentions "studies show that..." I immediately wonder what the study was, who conducted it, how the research was collected and how old the data is. It's explaining to someone for the eleventybillionth time that I don't know when I will be done with school and no, I don't know where I will find a job when I'm done. And the people who should understand this loneliness the most because they're also an academic don't understand it either-- they either burry themselves in their books or at home catching up with everything else in life that needs to be done.
So even though I have a new best friend, I miss my old friends and wish they would stop by for more cookies more often.
Update for the week
So I haven't written anything for over a week. I'd like to write that I have accomplished a lot in that time and that I'm feeling really good about my progress, but I haven't and I don't. But what does that mean?
I certainly have been keeping myself busy. I attended three workshops this week: two on grant writing and one on CV development. I went to the library at least 4 times to check out more books. I read a lot and I developed general outlines for 4 of Geraldine's chapters (and no, those were not the intro, background, methods and conclusion!). I finished revising my abstract and resubmitted it to a conference, helped organize this week's department colloquium which was a huge success, and did a lot of work for my online courses. I also met with Indiana Jones, who told me that he is pleased with my work, I am right on schedule, he has no concerns about my progress and that I'll probably become a doctor next spring. Side note: if you have read any of my other posts about my committee chair is more compliments in one afternoon than he has given me in the 4.5 years I've worked with him... this must be because I showed up to his office hours five minutes after he found out he is being promoted to full professor (the academic equivallence of having all of you checker pieces "kinged"). I also contacted the researcher whose work has been the most influential in my decisions regarding Geraldine, and he wrote back (I didn't know if he was still alive or had access to a computer).
So why do I feel like I've accomplished so little? That sounds like a lot! I guess it's because every time I read something, I find out about 5 more things that I need to read. I made big strides this week in finding new search terms and references, but it means that the majority of the work I have collected so far isn't going to be that relevant to Geraldine after all. I keep looking at the pile of books and articles I've accumulated and wonder how and when I will ever finish reading them. I hoped to have my annotated bibliography completed two weeks ago, but I've hardly made a dent in my mountain of literature. On Sunday I counted the number of articles I had left to read and decided that if I read 5 a day, I could be done in 3 weeks. I've tried to keep up, but I just can't. I want to defend my prospectus this term, but I don't know if I'll be able to do it.
Someone please tell me that this is the hardest part about writing a dissertation! Over the summer, Indiana told me that the hardest part about writing a dissertation is deciding on the topic. That was a big struggle, but now that I've decided, I keep feeling like I'm not making enough progress. It really shouldn't be that difficult to read 5, or even 3 articles a day, but life keeps getting in the way. AND I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO FIND MY MAGIC WATCH SINCE I TOOK IT OFF TO SLEEP ON TUESDAY! Ugh. I enjoy what I'm doing, but some days, even the smallest goals seem unobtainable.
I certainly have been keeping myself busy. I attended three workshops this week: two on grant writing and one on CV development. I went to the library at least 4 times to check out more books. I read a lot and I developed general outlines for 4 of Geraldine's chapters (and no, those were not the intro, background, methods and conclusion!). I finished revising my abstract and resubmitted it to a conference, helped organize this week's department colloquium which was a huge success, and did a lot of work for my online courses. I also met with Indiana Jones, who told me that he is pleased with my work, I am right on schedule, he has no concerns about my progress and that I'll probably become a doctor next spring. Side note: if you have read any of my other posts about my committee chair is more compliments in one afternoon than he has given me in the 4.5 years I've worked with him... this must be because I showed up to his office hours five minutes after he found out he is being promoted to full professor (the academic equivallence of having all of you checker pieces "kinged"). I also contacted the researcher whose work has been the most influential in my decisions regarding Geraldine, and he wrote back (I didn't know if he was still alive or had access to a computer).
So why do I feel like I've accomplished so little? That sounds like a lot! I guess it's because every time I read something, I find out about 5 more things that I need to read. I made big strides this week in finding new search terms and references, but it means that the majority of the work I have collected so far isn't going to be that relevant to Geraldine after all. I keep looking at the pile of books and articles I've accumulated and wonder how and when I will ever finish reading them. I hoped to have my annotated bibliography completed two weeks ago, but I've hardly made a dent in my mountain of literature. On Sunday I counted the number of articles I had left to read and decided that if I read 5 a day, I could be done in 3 weeks. I've tried to keep up, but I just can't. I want to defend my prospectus this term, but I don't know if I'll be able to do it.
Someone please tell me that this is the hardest part about writing a dissertation! Over the summer, Indiana told me that the hardest part about writing a dissertation is deciding on the topic. That was a big struggle, but now that I've decided, I keep feeling like I'm not making enough progress. It really shouldn't be that difficult to read 5, or even 3 articles a day, but life keeps getting in the way. AND I HAVEN'T BEEN ABLE TO FIND MY MAGIC WATCH SINCE I TOOK IT OFF TO SLEEP ON TUESDAY! Ugh. I enjoy what I'm doing, but some days, even the smallest goals seem unobtainable.
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