Details, details. How I love you, how I hate you.
I consider myself a detail-oriented person in that I am analytical, a perfectionist, and generally pretty perceptive. (And because those personality tests that we all secretly love to take have always told me so. And I can trust those, right? RIGHT?) Inevitably, I'm the person in the group who brings up the flaws in any plans we've made, and I'm preoccupied by the one person who seems to have something bothering them. I take much longer to think a project through than to actually complete it. And when a room needs to be painted, I volunteer to do the detail work--and I actually enjoy it.
But somehow, the details of daily life always escape me. In fact, I'm pretty sure that I've completely lost my short-term memory. Meeting today at 3? What? I was supposed to email a student about the assignment due tomorrow?! I'm supposed to do a presentation WHEN? We're hanging out with them TONIGHT? These are questions I ask myself and others on a daily basis.
I know, I know: I need to get a planner, set cell phone alarms, etc. I've tried that. In fact, I have a planner, and I use it, but there are always important events that I've forgotten to add. Or, I simply forget to consult the planner. Also, I turn off the cell phone alarm and then forget that it even rang.
As you can see, I'm hopeless.
And that would be fine, if my career weren't ALL ABOUT details. First, there's teaching, which involves countless details on a daily basis--details that a large group of students are depending on me to remember. On top of that, I'm taking two classes, meaning I have multiple due dates to keep in mind. And, since I'm basically the academy's bitch now, I have a whole list of extracurriculars to attend to, such as EGO (English Graduate Organization, and the pun is definitely intended) meetings, fundraisers, conferences, parties, etc. And somehow, I have to remember to show up for all of this stuff.
Clearly, I need a secretary to survive the PhD. But there's absolutely no hope for that, since my income is significantly less than a secretary would expect to be paid. What to do? Here are some options:
1. Become independently wealthy and hire a secretary. (Matt Reed and I already have a plan for this that involves Harriet Tubman's autobiography.)
2. Quit everything I'm doing right now, pop out some babies, and resign myself to huswifery. (although I'm pretty sure that I'd need good time-management skills to be competent at that. And, I'd go insane. "The Yellow Wall-Paper," anyone??)
3. Press on without a short-term memory and use the "absent-minded professor" stereotype as an excuse.
Which do you think sounds best?
Wednesday, September 19, 2007
Wednesday, September 05, 2007
Adventures in Public Transportation
The fall semester just started; I'm exhausted and not thinking all that clearly at the moment. But I really need to tell you all about taking the bus.
For far too long, I feared the bus. From a rural Upstate New York perspective, the bus is an alternate universe where all sorts of ugly, sordid things congregate. It is commonly believed that one might get molested, hurt, or even murdered on the bus. Because my family members have this perspective, taking the bus never even occurred to me when I lived in Rochester. When I visited other cities, though, public transportation seemed like a natural choice: I took the L in Chicago, the subway in New York, and the streetcar in Toronto. All of these bus alternatives seemed very glamorous to me at the time, but as soon as I arrived at home, I was back in my car, speeding around Rochester and points east.
It was possible for me to avoid the bus because I've always had a car. From the moment I passed my driver's test at 16 until last month, I've been in the possession of several small, foreign-made vehicles that were given quirky names such as "The Mallier Kier" and "Fredo." (Each, of course, with pretty hilarious stories behind them.) They made it possible for me to live a very car-centric life for a long time, and for that I am (somewhat) grateful.
But now I take the bus. There are several good reasons for this. I sold my car for almost $4,ooo, and will be saving hundreds of dollars a year on insurance; I can also avoid paying steep downtown parking fees ($600 a year at DU!) and repairing the occasional smashed window/broken mirror, which is a given in city life. And, since I am trying to be as "green" as possible these days, I can also lighten my "carbon footprint" on the atmosphere.
But, honestly, I don't mind taking the bus because it gives me a great opportunity to stare at people and eavesdrop on their conversations. As I've mentioned previously on this blog, I have a love/hate relationship with the general public. While I am annoyed at/disdainful of/horrified by people much of the time, I am still intensely fascinated by them, and deep down inside my hardened heart, I feel...compassion for them. Yes, compassion. And the bus has become a space where my love and hate for the American public merges on a daily basis.
Generally, before entering the bus, I arm myself with sunglasses and headphones. These items ensure that I can stare at people and eavesdrop on them without them becoming aware of this, and, most importantly, without them trying to talk to ME. Conversation is to be avoided at all costs. However, this plan doesn't always work. And that's when things get interesting.
The first incident I experienced on the bus was, I've been told by hardened bussers, pretty extraordinary. The bus driver abruptly pulled over by Giant Eagle at Wharton Square, announced that he had to pee, and locked us all in the bus while he went to accomplish that. Of course, several passengers were outraged by this, including this shriveled little old man, who started ranting loudly about how the bus driver, by abandoning us to pee, was taking away our freedom as Americans. This became a spirited lecture on the many ways Americans are wronged by our government, which is the worst combination of communism and fascism and is being led by a complete moron. While delivering the lecture, he grasped a pole with one hand and with the other pointed ineffectually at all of us, trying to implicate us in the hopeless state of our nation. Passengers reacted in various ways to this angry little man. Some smiled sardonically to themselves, other nodded in agreement, some quietly expressed annoyance, and others ignored him completely. I laughed quietly to myself.
This incident has been followed by several more: the time a little old man warned me not to talk to recovering drug addicts who attend my church, or the argument I overheard between two black men regarding whether women are as morally perverse as men, the man (in a Pens jersey and sweatpants) crocheting a blanket at lightening speed, or the conversation between a young hipster and a middle-aged black woman about LA Gear sneakers. There's always something interesting happening on the bus. Which is why I'm not complaining--yet.
For far too long, I feared the bus. From a rural Upstate New York perspective, the bus is an alternate universe where all sorts of ugly, sordid things congregate. It is commonly believed that one might get molested, hurt, or even murdered on the bus. Because my family members have this perspective, taking the bus never even occurred to me when I lived in Rochester. When I visited other cities, though, public transportation seemed like a natural choice: I took the L in Chicago, the subway in New York, and the streetcar in Toronto. All of these bus alternatives seemed very glamorous to me at the time, but as soon as I arrived at home, I was back in my car, speeding around Rochester and points east.
It was possible for me to avoid the bus because I've always had a car. From the moment I passed my driver's test at 16 until last month, I've been in the possession of several small, foreign-made vehicles that were given quirky names such as "The Mallier Kier" and "Fredo." (Each, of course, with pretty hilarious stories behind them.) They made it possible for me to live a very car-centric life for a long time, and for that I am (somewhat) grateful.
But now I take the bus. There are several good reasons for this. I sold my car for almost $4,ooo, and will be saving hundreds of dollars a year on insurance; I can also avoid paying steep downtown parking fees ($600 a year at DU!) and repairing the occasional smashed window/broken mirror, which is a given in city life. And, since I am trying to be as "green" as possible these days, I can also lighten my "carbon footprint" on the atmosphere.
But, honestly, I don't mind taking the bus because it gives me a great opportunity to stare at people and eavesdrop on their conversations. As I've mentioned previously on this blog, I have a love/hate relationship with the general public. While I am annoyed at/disdainful of/horrified by people much of the time, I am still intensely fascinated by them, and deep down inside my hardened heart, I feel...compassion for them. Yes, compassion. And the bus has become a space where my love and hate for the American public merges on a daily basis.
Generally, before entering the bus, I arm myself with sunglasses and headphones. These items ensure that I can stare at people and eavesdrop on them without them becoming aware of this, and, most importantly, without them trying to talk to ME. Conversation is to be avoided at all costs. However, this plan doesn't always work. And that's when things get interesting.
The first incident I experienced on the bus was, I've been told by hardened bussers, pretty extraordinary. The bus driver abruptly pulled over by Giant Eagle at Wharton Square, announced that he had to pee, and locked us all in the bus while he went to accomplish that. Of course, several passengers were outraged by this, including this shriveled little old man, who started ranting loudly about how the bus driver, by abandoning us to pee, was taking away our freedom as Americans. This became a spirited lecture on the many ways Americans are wronged by our government, which is the worst combination of communism and fascism and is being led by a complete moron. While delivering the lecture, he grasped a pole with one hand and with the other pointed ineffectually at all of us, trying to implicate us in the hopeless state of our nation. Passengers reacted in various ways to this angry little man. Some smiled sardonically to themselves, other nodded in agreement, some quietly expressed annoyance, and others ignored him completely. I laughed quietly to myself.
This incident has been followed by several more: the time a little old man warned me not to talk to recovering drug addicts who attend my church, or the argument I overheard between two black men regarding whether women are as morally perverse as men, the man (in a Pens jersey and sweatpants) crocheting a blanket at lightening speed, or the conversation between a young hipster and a middle-aged black woman about LA Gear sneakers. There's always something interesting happening on the bus. Which is why I'm not complaining--yet.
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