Graduate school is bootcamp. Kick butt and take names!

Today my roommate and I went to a class at the gym called Bootcamp.  We've been touring all of the different classes and ranking them.  So far we like one of the cycle teachers and not the other, we hate Zumba and the girl that teaches it, and we are toying with the idea of Turbo Kickbox.  Today, we tried out Bootcamp - and I loved it.

First of all, the teacher was great.  Just energetic enough to not make we want to slap the blonde off her head and just friendly enough to keep my interest.  Plus she wasn't barbie proportions - who wants to look at Little Miss Plastic for an hour?  No one.  So, we liked her.  Plus she had great music.  I know people have different tastes, but I have no interest in listening to 70s music set to dance beats.  No, I want Euro Trash Techno turned up super loud.  And that's what I got.  It was pretty great.  For a second, if I forgot that I was covered in sweat and about to fall over and die, I could have been in some little discoteca italiana.

So here's my thought for the day: graduate school is bootcamp....for academia.  If anyone ever told you that academia was fun, they lied.  If they told you everyone got along.  They really lied.  And if they told you it worked like a well oiled machine, they might as well have told you they were a purple triceratops with wings and a unicorn horn.  THEY LIED.  Academia is the most backwards, bureaucratic, old boys club that has ever been.  And we all want to be part of it, so don't make too much fun of it.  So yes, it sucks, and so does graduate school sometimes, so here's what you do: kick butt and take names.  Don't burn bridges, you never know what journal that annoying guy over there edits or what department that loud talking, mouth breathing, bleach blondie over there heads up.  It's all about who you know, and no matter what you study, the academic world is small and cut throat.  Always smile, always send a thank you email and stay in touch with everyone you can.  You never know who you'll need to call in a favor from to get a job, get a better job, get that article published, or edit that anthology.  Only talk crap at home and with people who will never spill your secrets, and never do it in a public place - everyone loves to share secrets!

"You're supposed to feel inadequate. If you don't, you're not doing it right."

These words, spoken by the brilliant Chuck L. were what got me through my first year of graduate school. And unfortunately, they pretty much define every grad student's life I think.  Or at least they should for the first year.  Until you figure out the game, that is.

Yes, the game.  Graduate school is a big unfair game.  You have to figure out what to read, what to skip, who to trust, who to listen to, who to avoid, who to befriend, and what office person holds the power.  Here's the best tip I can offer: make friends with the administrative assistant.  Believe it or not, they have more power than the professors.  Why?  Because generally speaking, professors don't know how to access registration systems, contact the scholarship office, get you registered for exams or graduation, and most of them can't stick to a timeline any better than you can.  Administrative people, on the other hand...that's their whole job!  So here's what you do: always stop in to say hi when you're in the office, especially when you don't have something to ask them.  Always give a little holiday card, and a thank you card at the end of each semester, and most importantly if you take a trip, bring them a little something.  I suppose it's buying their help, but they're usually most most fun people in the office anyway.  They usually have the dirt on all the faculty, they know all the good gossip, and they've been around long enough and see enough students go through that they can tell you stories that will make even the most lost little first year feel like they've got all their ducks in a row.

So, yes, you should pretty much feel like you're drowning and that if you actually wrote one cohesive To Do List that you'd need an entire roll of butcher paper.  If you don't, you're not doing it right.  And yes, you should, at some point, forget to read something, forget your presentation date, and forget to write a paper.  If you don't, you're missing something.  You're not reading enough and you're not doing enough background work.  It's like those footnotes.....there's always a little extra fluff that you can skip but there's a WHOLE lot of other stuff you should be doing that no one will tell you about until it's too late.  Who do you ask?  The administrative person!  Wondering how to get in good with the chair of the department?  Ask the administrative person!  Wondering how to get on the graduation list that was due three weeks ago?  ASK THE ADMINISTRATIVE PERSON!

Thanks, Creepy McCreeperson, for breathing on me for two hours

Yet another weekend and no work on the Big D.  Why?  Because I went to MD to visit family.  Unfortunately, Texas is far away from everything...or at least everything I want to visit, including MD.  It used to be a nice 70 minute flight with no changing planes and no delayed flights, but now it's two flights, three delays, and 136 people mouth breathing in a giant steel tube in the sky.  Lovely.

The other big problem would be my amazing skills at assigning everything at the same time.  This time it included quizzes for three classes, homework for one class, and papers for the last class.  If anyone out there is a teacher, you know just how long it takes to grade everything and that if you get behind, it's pretty much the death of you.  You let it go one day and you can never catch up.  So, I decided to take advantage of the plane time to grade papers.

Obviously you sit VERY close to the lovely person next to you when you fly these days and usually they can't help but glance over and check out what it is you're doing to see if it's any more interesting that what they're doing.  For future reference: reading your junkfood book is much more interesting that grading the same exercise 60 times in a row.  I promise.  My neighbor either wasn't informed or didn't believe me because he hovered (and not discreetly) over my should the whole 2 hours from New Orleans to Baltimore.  I'm pretty sure he didn't speak Italian, so why, I ask, would he find my grading so important?  I'm 99.9% sure he couldn't actually understand what I was reading, nor what my sea of red marks meant, so why the need to hover and stare?

Plane etiquette people!  I've been on planes with crazy women painting their nails, a hairy man clipping his toe nails, a very tall man cleaning his ears with a pen (mom do you know who I'm talking about), and even a man participating in "inappropriate" acts under his blanket.  Clearly, there should be a license to fly - if you can't pass the test on what is appropriate and what is not, you'll just have to drive.  I'm sure the flight attendants would appreciate that.  I think someone should patent that idea, sell it to the FAA, and then enforce the heck out of it!

Don't ever get sick in Denton

I couldn't help myself, another post is in order.

Why, oh why, Denton, do you attract such freaks?!  I'm sitting at a coffee shop (and not the one where Jesus is King, here DMB is king) listening to two non-traditional students study for their nursing school class.  The topic of the day is culture....and they're having a hard time defining it.  One thinks it's being Jewish, the other thinks it's racism.  Well, ladies, perhaps you should consult the obscene stack of books you've piled on that table because I'm not sure one word can define culture.

Then, there was the discussion about wine.  (insert Texas accent here) "I just don't like most wine....it's so red."  This coming from a middle aged woman with so many holes in her jeans I can see what she's carrying in her pockets.

And now, the debate: what is surface temperature vs core temperature (lady A thinks surface temp is something internal) and what is cardiac output (they can't figure out if it's the blood pumped OUT of the heart, or the blood INSIDE the heart).

So my dear friends, don't ever get sick in Denton.  Obviously they'll try to take your temperature by cutting open your arm and try to figure out your blood pressure by playing with your toes.  I'm a little worried for these two....I fear they may not ever become RNs.  And if they do, lord help us all.

Boots, big hair, and boobs. Welcome to Dallas.

This Friday I went to Cowboys Stadium to watch the Frito Lay XLV North Texas Superbowl Countdown.  I, unlike the other 39,999 people there was really only interested in seeing the UNT orchestra, but I did know that Emmitt Smith would be making an appearance and since I am the daughter of a quarterback who swears unwavering loyalty to the Dallas Cowboys, none of the disasters you're about to read would have allowed me to skip the event.

My wonderful roommate, who will very soon be the biggest thing in opera conducting, told me a few weeks ago that the UNT symphony had been invited to play this little shindig and would be accompanying Tim McGraw (don't care, but this will become important later).  Furthermore, Mr. McGraw wants to make a live recording of this performance and maybe sell it so that's really good publicity for the UNT College of Music.  So, I bought two tickets - one for me and one for the non-boyfriend, maybe we're dating, but we haven't ever had the DTR (define the relationship talk) so I'm not really sure what's going on there boy who would be returning from a 6 week deployment the very same day.  I even spent the extra $10 for the reserved parking.

So, the events gets closer and non-DTR boy and I have several exchanges about what the exact date of the "Superbowl thing" is which basically resulted in complete confusion.  Anyway, bottom line is the day of I was alone and looking to find someone to take the extra ticket, but didn't so I decided it was fine, I like football and I'd just make friends there.  So, I start down the road and not twenty minutes later, I hear that good old trusty sound.......flat tire floppy.  Perfect.  So I pull over, but of course I'm pretty sure I'm going to die because, well, Texans aren't the greatest drivers in the world and I'm not sure the know quite how wide their pick up trucks really are.  So I get out my insurance card and sure enough, there's no Roadside Assistance number.  So, who do you call?  Mom.  But she didn't have it either, so three phone calls later (and after being informed that it was after hours and I'd have to call back tomorrow at 9am) we finally found the number which is now safely stored in my phone.  So, 30 minutes the nice man says, and do I have a spare?  Yes, a full size one thank you very much.  Well, 60 minutes later, no teeth creepy tobacco chewing axe murderer arrives to change my tire.  He did a very nice job, even though I refused to open the window wide enough for him to get his chubby little hand through, and told me I should have it retorqued within the next 40 miles.

So I pull back on the road (almost got sideswiped by a semi and then got honked at by the ugly ass pick up truck three lanes over, and drove the next few miles under the speedlimit because I was convinced my new lovely tire would probably fly off and I'd flip my pretty red car over.  And then.......I realized that not only was there this superbowl thing, but there was also a Rangers game the same night.  Lovely.  So now I'm late and waiting in traffic with the other 100,000 people who want to go to the two mile strip of land that houses Jerryland and the Temple.  Perfect.  So, I finally did arrive (after I discovered that my little $10 parking voucher put me WAY at the end of everything).

So I go in, sit down next to the crazy single mom who will not give her screaming child the water he is clearly asking for nor will she sit still or stop screaming at the top of her lungs anytime she sees a Dallas Cowboys Cheerleader, Jerry Jones, Emmitt Smith, Darren Woodson, Tim McGraw or any of the other 39,999 people inside the place.  Perfect.  My favorite kind of people to sit next to.

All in all the orchestra was great, Tim McGraw was boring, and the cheerleaders have stupid costumes.  Perhaps someone should also remind Jerry Jones that he is not a strapping young lad of 25 but a crazy old rich man of what? 70?  But good times.  The best part of the night, though, was how obvious it was that Tim McGraw couldn't have been bothered to rehearse at any point so his earpiece didn't work.  His response?  Look down and just make no noise (yes, you will disappear like a gecko).  Then he was supposed to end and the symphony would end with him.....but he decided to go greet pretty much everyone in the freaking place so they just kept repeating repeating repeating.  And best of all, Tim McGraw then tried to shake the hand of the man directing a 95 piece orchestra.  Good move buddy....that won't screw them up at all!

If you know me at all, you know that I think rhinestones and animal print make any outfit better.  I. WAS. WRONG.  I have never seen so many rhinestone studded cowboy boots on blondes with mile high hair and boobs flying all over the place!  I literally thought I walked into a Marlboro ad when I walked in.  There were cowboy hats and men in wranglers dippin into their tobacco tins and then girls in barely there skirts with boobs popping out and cowboy boots all over the place.  Where are Clinton and Stacey when you need them?  Can we make over an entire city?  All I'm saying is, remember Coco Chanel: always remove an accessory before you go out of the house.

Jesus is my king

Jesus is my king.....or so I've been informed.  This after sitting in a Denton coffee shop for the last four hours and listening to Christian rock.  It definitely wasn't Christian rock when I walked in, and I don't even remember the switch, but it's definitely been all about glorifying Him for last few hours.  On top of it, there's been a steady stream of interesting folk through this lovely establishment.  First there was the man who had one eye and was reading a book on bringing Christianity into the kingdom of marriage.  Then it was the dreadlock donning yogies (including my very own yoga instructor) who came through.  Now it's a bit of a rough around the edges crowd playing chess on a plastic roll out chess board.  What can I say?  It's a high brow establishment.  I'm not complaining though because no one has been loud or rude (although there was some commotion when four people decided to move some furniture to allow more space around some of the tables.  What's unclear is if they worked here or not.....I'm thinking no) and the music, while praiseful, is being played at a reasonable volume.  So, glory to you, glory to me, and glory to God, and happy writing.

Why don't you just finish it?

Oh.....ok.  Right, what was I thinking?  Thanks for helping me remember that I'm actually supposed to FINISH the dissertation.  Silly me, I thought I was supposed to let it linger for ten-ish years and then forget about it.  Yes, that clears everything up.

How about don't help!!!  Believe me, I am very much MORE aware than you are that I haven't finished writing it yet.  And believe it or not, I am aware that the point is to finish it.  I promise, I didn't miss that part.....I do know that I have to finish the Big D to get to the finish line.  But again, I thank you for your reminder.

I get that people only bring it up because they care, but let's make a deal: if I want to talk about it, I will.  That, and only that, should be your cue to remind me that I haven't yet finished it.  I know people think it's "just an exercise" but put yourself in my place.  Have you ever coordinated a language program, taught 4 courses with three new books, put together a study abroad program, represented an entire city for a pageant AND had to write a dissertation?  I think not.  So again, when I'm ready to talk about it, I will.  Otherwise, I will become that bitter girl who sinks into a deep depression and lashes out at people for asking how it's going.  Thanks for your help.