Catching Up 2011

I have a lot of things going on in my mind these days.  That's what happens when my mood stabilizes or goes manic, whichever.  (I got back on meds in December).  When that happens it feels like I am waking up from a hazy sleep, from not being fully alive -- a sort of sleepwalking.  It's creepy. And stressful, because when I wake up I have to clean up the mess I made by sleeping. This post may be boring, but I need to review things. 

I don't want to waste one more year of my life rotting away in my stinky apartment living on the edge of ruin. So I've  made plans.  I'm trying to hedge all my bets, to give God lots of opportunity to make something good happen.

Plan A. My PhD: At the beginning of last fall I had new plans to write my incomplete papers, with help from others, so I could get myself back into the PhD program I dropped out of a few years ago.  Plan A. To continue what I started.

I also tried this in the fall of 09. After 6 months of struggle and no completed work, I decided it was impossible. My emotional baggage was greater than I could overcome. (I fainted one night while trying to work.) So, Plan B.  At the last minute in January of 2010, I applied to new schools to start over.  It was a very traumatic process, facing the demons of my failure, reading my old work, and asking for recommendations.  It took a few nightmarish weeks but I did it.  It was a massive triumph.  Though I missed some deadlines which meant I didn't qualify for funding for the program that accepted me.

So it didn't work out. And I turned back to Plan A in August 2010, to finish my Incompletes and grovel myself back into my old program.  I started two papers.  I felt great, I was excited.  Then my insurance was canceled, my medicine ran out and I fell apart.  No more work.

At the end of December I started getting better and I started getting ideas.  It was probably time for me to give up this PhD thing.  There was a reason I haven't been able to do any work in 4 years.  Either I didn't want to do it, I couldn't do it, or God didn't want me to do it. If that's the case, then I needed a new plan.

Plan C: Get MSW and LCSW to become a therapist.  I can have my own practice so I won't ever get fired. My friends have always said I would be a good therapist.  I have 20 years of practice on the wrong side of the couch, making me an expert. And, here's the weird part.  My Patriarchal blessing said I should help people in the way that a psychiatrist does because I have the gift of healing. That horrified me when I was 16.  But I always planned to do something with my PhD sort of in that vein on the side.  Maybe that wasn't good enough.  Maybe I've been acting like Jonah and running away from my responsibility?  Every time I started to get things together for my PhD, something went wrong.  For years. So maybe I should swallow my pride and give up. Fine.

The last week of January I made the final decision to do it, to apply for a social work program. That was on a Tuesday.  I found one nearby that was affordable, and checked requirements and deadlines, Feb. 5th.  I  started it that night. Then, on Wednesday I came across an ad for a studentship in my field, at the school that accepted me last year.   I popped over to their website and checked their deadlines. Feb 1.  I already had all the work done, it would be easy to send it all in again.  They accepted me once, maybe this time I could get funding.  And while I was at it, there was another school in London similarly ranked that I might as well apply to too.  I started those on Wednesday night.

Which puts me back on Plan B.  The PhD apps were due first so they took priority.  I spent the next week working on them, sending emails for recommendations, revising my writing samples, writing a personal statement, and re-working a research proposal.  I didn't sleep for 3 days before the due date.  I enjoyed it.  This is what turns me on.  I don't expect to get funding, it was probably a waste of time.  But it was good for my self esteem to see my qualifications all in once place. And, I'll know that I tried.
 
Now it was time for Plan C again, the MSW app.  Groan.  I didn't know what to write for the personal statement.  I put it off until one hour before the deadline. I didn't know who to ask for recommendations and procrastinated that too.  Saturday afternoon I painted my bathroom floor instead of working on the app.  I finished the floor at 10pm  and told my friend I wasn't doing the app.  I just didn't want to.  But I said a prayer that the Lord would help me do it if that's what He wanted.  I sat down at 11 p.m. and whipped a personal statement from my rear, then entered the names of referrees I hadn't heard back from yet.

After hitting the submit button, I found out the fee is $125!!!  I don't have that!  It's extortion!  But I checked the box saying I would mail in a check.  If this is what the Lord wants from me, then He can make it work out.  To better my chances, I spent the early part of this week looking for other MSW programs nearby.  There were some with open deadlines but they require work experience I don't have.  And the fees all range from $60-125.  Plan C isn't looking good.

Then there is Plan D.  I started this in December.  I'm applying for disability.  My shrink and my therapist have wanted me to do it for years.  I didn't want to.   I'm not that sick.  I don't want to be that person.  But it would qualify me for Medicaid, which I need.  My meds cost almost 2k per month at retail price.  Maybe if I go on the subsidy, I'll have the stability to finish my research.  Or, it could put me in a situation to go back to school for a few years and get the MSW.  And/or, give me the opportunity to continue with Plan E. 

Plan E is my novel. I worked on it all summer.  Then, after I had 70 pages I realized it was crap.  I don't know how to write fiction.  I got discouraged and quit.  But over Thanksgiving I was inspired and wrote a new first page.  I started over completely.  I made an outline of the whole book this time.  It was much better than the mess I had before.  It's going slowly, I have to re-write, re-write, re-write, because this is a new skill and I'm learning as I go.  But I think I might be able to make something good with enough time. 

That's what I've been doing the last two months.  I also started dating, but that was by accident.   And that's for another blog post.

Angels and Applications -- Part I

[ATTN: END OF POST UPDATED on 4/24]

Last spring, in the midst of a torrid long distance love affair with a boy in Scotland, I had an idea. What if I went to the UK....? He couldn't come to the States and we had to be together. (Despite never having met in person. Anyway,) Could I transfer to a university over there? It's the easiest way to get a visa. And, . . . And! I wouldn't have to take more classes, I'd be a research student. Write my dissertation and I'm done! No more Incompletes. Goodbye to that 5 year old burden! Also, I'd be on the same landmass as the boy (a boy he truly turned out to be). It was so clearly a great idea.

I realized this might actually be a way out. A way to escape the unfinished work that taunted me day and night. I had a plan. An exciting plan. I became absolutely elated: flying, my chest warm with joy, my shoulders weightless. Free. This was right. It was divine. I could feel the Spirit rejoicing with me. Maybe this was the miracle I had prayed for. The angels might be on my side afterall.

But. Days later. The doubt rolled in. How could I possibly get in to such a prestigious school? I'm a grad school drop out. I had published nothing, done nothing scholarly. I was out of my mind for considering it. The process terrified me anyway: Ask old professors for recommendations? Track down records and transcripts. Deadlines I'd miss and forms I'd lose. Read through my sad papers to send some for review as proof of my scholarly value? --Only to fail again? No. No way. No. I couldn't bear it. I already suffered daily anxiety attacks. Applying would break me for good. Besides, even if I did get in, I had no money. I wouldn't qualify for fellowships, not enough anyway. It was ridiculous. The whole idea, impossible. It was time for me to behave like a practical, responsible adult, this silliness did not qualify. I should forget it.

I didn't forget it. It stayed there. It nagged me for attention, 'apply, apply, apply'. Two months passed this way, with me not forgetting it. Meanwhile, my Scottish romance fell apart. And I still couldn't let it go, it wasn't about him anyway. Then, my life began to close in around me, each disaster forcing me to the point of despair. I had no other way out, only this one long-shot. I needed to transfer. But I didn't have enough faith to bother.

No matter how much I wanted to deny what I felt that one exuberant night, I couldn't. I knew. The Lord wanted me to do this. So, finally, in April, I had a hopeful thought. There is a back door; if I had a sponsor, a professor who wanted to work with me. When a big deal professor wants you in, you get in. That, I could work on. I would have to know someone. Someone with my same specialization. I searched all the faculty lists in Britain. . . What?. . . No! It can't be. . .

Oh, yes, it was. I knew someone. Probably the best person in the whole world to be there. He's a leading specialist, we work on exactly the same subjects, and he would be an awesome supervisor. I couldn't do any better. We'd met at a conference many years ago. We were both in a group that went out afterward, and he talked to me. We had fun, and quite a bit of flirting. Though it was unlikely he'd remember that, or me. Really,though, what were the chances? I know very few people and have flirted with maybe 3 professors in the last decade. I took it as a sign to move forward. It seemed the angels werewith me.

Besides, I have done the impossible before. I already learned that lesson, this truth: That in order to triumph, you have to step off the cliff into the darkness, the abyss of the unknown, heart in mouth, eyes closed. That's how you reach the glorious heights. You take the leap, and be willing to fall down.

Look out below.

to be continued. . . .

Mail Box Dreams: Postal Zen

The applications for a new start are in. Now, I wait.

The end of March is when the schools make their decisions. But postal mail between the US and UK is very slow. So, nothing yet. I've been watching the mail since mid-March. The first few weeks, I dreaded it, fearing a rejection letter. Now it's April; I'm being sued, well, I already lost by default, and I got fired, and I caused a second break-up with my ex-boyfriend, and then, later, I forced the man to tell me he wants no contact with me of any kind ever again. I don't dread the mail anymore. It's become the highlight of my life. I take my pleasures where I find them.

My friend told me to call or email the schools and find out already. I explained why I didn't want to.

Because, everyday I wait for the mail. It's a ritual. Going to get the key from it's drawer, walking out to the vestibule. Each act very deliberate, conscious. With my chest full of hope and anxiety. In that one or two minutes, I allow myself to dream. I hope that I can go somewhere else, and finish what I started. I turn the key and lift up the old brass flap. I look at the envelopes in the box. I scan their shapes, the color of the paper, and the addresses. I search for signs of British mail, or, preferably, a big fat acceptance packet. I pull out the stack and go through the bills and bad news. Nothing so far. I get a little disappointed, but it's okay, I know the mail comes again tomorrow. For as long as there's no rejection letter, I can still hope. I have one thing to look forward to. Right now, it's the only thing.

Quietly, my friend said she understood.

JL, blogging again. Stop the Madness!

I couldn't write for a long time. I got lost. Now I have a lot to say.
The past year has been unbelievably eventful. Here's the short version of the last 12 months of my life.

It started with the shock and insult received from the director of my graduate program, telling me to give up and go teach community college. In February, I had a crazy love affair with someone in Scotland. The passion blazed hot and short. We were done by April. Then came my spring madness, in the form of hours-long anxiety attacks. In May, I broke my wrist, had surgery on it and was laid up for 3 months. The anxiety attacks got worse throughout the summer, almost daily for 6 hours and incapacitatingly intense. It wasted me. By August, my doc finally found something to help, an epilepsy drug. It made the attacks go away, but also made me stupid. I couldn't put a sentence together for weeks. That wore off by September, just in time to teach. I could function. I could live again. I picked up my life and ran.

It was all good. I started dating, dates every week. I joined some clubs to meet new people. Most of the men weren't Mormon, and very geeky (I have a thing for them). That's when the blog went offline. No doubt they'd google 'mormon dating' and they'd find it. I also got to work. I hired a coach to help me finish my Incompletes. It didn't work, but he did get me back to yoga and learning the cello, that made a huge difference in my well-being. Life was great! I hadn't felt so good in 6 years! Hadn't been so productive nor had such an active social life. Then the eve before Halloween, I met someone. Quite someone. And life got a little bit fabulous.

Until February. It started unraveling, along with my mental health. The curse of the bi-polar. It started with the $300 a month pay cut for the semester. Ouch! No more coach. I can't afford to go out. The spring madness is full on. So I couldn't handle the fake-relationship with my Someone. Two days ago, he absolutely ended things between us forever, again. I'm devastated. Meanwhile, Capital One Bank is suing me. I missed the deadline to answer so now I automatically lose. And it gets even better....

I've been praying for months for a way out of this hole. (I've said it before, and it is worth repeating, be very careful what you pray for...) Yesterday, I got fired. Well, they aren't re-appointing me for the fall which amounts to the same thing. They sent me a letter. I was in the car with my visiting teaching companion when I opened it, I thought it was something insignificant. Complete shock! I had no idea this was coming. I've been there since 2003. I started blubbering in the car. But I had to dry my tears and go visit. 

When I got home, I opened a letter from the courts. That couldn't be good news. It wasn't. It was a tenancy summons. I was ordered to vacate my apartment. Eviction??!!!!! Are you kidding me??? I couldn't even cry. I just started shaking. That's not a message to move on, it's a literal kick on the rear out onto the streets. Thankfully, it was a msitake. No eviction. Still. A sign is a sign. Fired and evicted on the same day is a flashing grotesque neon sign a la Times Square.

Yet, this is a beginning. I am on the verge of a massive life change. I've felt it for awhile. After my 34th birthday, I mandated it. I took a look at my life. I've accomplished nothing in the last 4 years, they may as well never have happened. And, I am no better off than I was 8 years ago when I moved to NYC. How did I let so much time pass so wastefully? It really horrified me. I had a total 'how-can-I-be-this-age-with-this-kind-of-life?' birthday crisis. Wasn't I just 30 years old? Now it's 2010. !!!!! I have to do something. Now.

Escape Plan A: Go to the UK. Write my dissertation and get a D.Phil in 2 years. [You can't do that in the US, they make you start over. It would take 5 more years.]

Plan B: I don't know, but I'm planning. I need to physically get out of this place. Go elsewhere. Serve. Do something to make other people's lives better, rather than living to satisfy my own selfish desires. But how, and where? There's always a way.

It really never stops, my life. But I'm stronger now, I can handle this. I can eat this for breakfast.

Surrender

There is a dignity in surrender. Only a fool continues to throw herself against a wall that won't move. Only a fool refuses to quit the game she has lost.

After 13 months of battle, I gave in. I refuse to abuse myself by fighting any longer. I have nothing left to fight with. Every attempt to change, to stem the disorder led only to disappointment, frustration and seething anger. And the waiting. Waiting for the spiral upward to mental health. Nothing worked. Crushing disappointment followed disappointment. Until I couldn't take it anymore. The screaming rages, broken appliances, heaving sobs that resulted from my failed hopes and gargantuan efforts have drained me of the will to continue.

"I am broken." With that acceptance, I have found peace. Now I can relax. Now I can stop judging myself, stop scolding, stop failing. My friend said that I can't quit, that I might as well just shrivel up and die. But the fight was killing me--driving me to madness. It was the frustration that had me bawling in the doctor's bathroom stall for an hour, banging on the door. Surrender has already yielded benefits.

But first, I should explain what led me to this.
Several weeks ago, I was observed while teaching. I did well. Especially compared to last year's fiasco. I let myself hope a little bit. Then I got the report and she said nothing positive. I emailed the woman and asked if she could say something about my rapport with the students because my future employment may depend on her. She said she didn't want to because she couldn't say anything good about it. I made her nervous because I was so obviously nervous. And I seemed afraid of my students. She didn't think it was a serious problem but certainly there was nothing to praise.
I felt crushed. I had tried so hard to improve.

Then I finally went in to discuss the paper I spent 8 months writing. The prof hadn't submitted a grade so I figured it must be so bad he wanted me to rewrite it. That was not the case. He said it was a B+ paper. The arguments were weak and unconvincing. I think I'd have preferred to hear that it was so bad it was unacceptable--that way I could excuse it because of my mental state. Because only someone so irrational could have written something that bad. Nope. My work is mediocre.

That same week, my mind started up again. Over and over it kept saying "I'm sorry." Then filling my head with every memory of everything I have ever done wrong, or failed to do, or didn't do well enough. Then my whole body would flood with shame. Sometimes I found myself saying it out loud, "I'm sorry". That afternoon after it had been going on for a few days already, I had to sing as I walked uptown to campus to keep from saying it out loud. Did it get worse because I was upset over the paper? Probably, but there's no way to know.

Then my sister came to visit. I was actually excited. I look forward to one weekend that I wouldn't spend alone in my apartment. But then she went to Baltimore to see friends for the weekend. I asked her to stay with me. But she didn't. I understood why she went, I would leave myself too if I could. But it still hurt. Then I wasn't invited to my friends' house for Thanksgiving because one of them didn't like the way another friend behaved around me. Again, I completely understood that I had become a killjoy. But it still sucked.

The only way to stop the incessant shame and non-stop mental "I'm sorrys" was to distract myself: read of novel, watch 5 tv shows at once, or see a good movie.
All this occurred in October and brought me to the conclusion that I have failed. I am not good at this. I've lost. Nothing brings pleasure, the best I could hope for was a break from the pain. I have stuck with this grad school thing out of loyalty to the person I used to be, to the person who wanted this so badly. Until the end of October when I knew I was exhausted. No more.

Then a funny thing happened. Because I stopped trying to be a good teacher and stopped caring if I was doing well or not, something changed. My students began to react differently to me. They started to chat with me after class. The ones who always seemed diffident and repulsed by me suddenly seemed to let their barriers down. Then I was observed by someone at the Long Island college. I didn't really prepare and was rather sloppy with my lecture-- I even let class go early because I ran out of material.

But the prof said she was impressed. (!! what?!!) She thoroughly enjoyed class, blah blah .....huh. So the chair said I should start thinking about next fall, they wanted me to come back and one of the full timers would be retiring soon. huh. At one point in that conversation he said, "You have such a good rapport with the students you must really be enjoying yourself, right?" I balked. No. No, I'm not at all. I hate this. But that's not what one is supposed to say. Instead I said, "Yes, yes I am." and managed a feeble smile. Probably most unconvincing.

I spend all my time watching TV, commuting, teaching, and reading novels. And now I don't have to feel guilty about it. I don't have to fear failure because it's already happened. What's next for this weary traveler? Who cares? She may check herself into a hospital when the semester ends. Perhaps in surrender she will find rest.

The State of my Sickly career

Two solid weeks of depression, caused first by the news that I'm not good enough at my job and the people in charge know it, second from the news about kitty, kept me from doing my grading. It's shameful. I also ran out of ritalin on Monday and wasn't able to fill the scrip until Saturday evening. A brilliant gafaw on my part. Can you imagine trying to grade 75 essay-type exams sans the usual 100 mg of Ritty? I couldn't, so I didn't even try.

Grading involves: first deciphering the hand-writing, 2. deciphering bad English 3. Figuring out which questions they are attempting to answer 4. looking for ways to give them points when most exams are F-worthy, 5. Attempt to not get too depressed or angry at the horrible answers demonstrating most of them didn't read/listen/study AT ALL. 6. Hold back on the swearing and yelling--remember these are blue books and they can't hear me 7. Reading the same bad answers 70x in a row 8. keeping track of my point scale, 9. Adding up the points....double checking for number errors or grading errors.... These are not tasks that the seriously attentionally challenged can do without extreme effort and fortitude. Throw in depression without meds and there was no point in even attempting it. They're due on Tuesday.
***
I'm glad to be done with this semester. Most of my students were lovely people. It's terrible what a few bad attitudes can do. I should have better controlled the class and prevented the attitudinal badness. But I don't know how, the things I tried didn't work. So, I've accepted that I have limits. I can't teach in hostile environments. I don't have the personality or skills required to squelch the disrespect. I didn'tt even notice the disrespect until it got so bad that a student yelled at me for not accepting his late work--a policy I explained in the syllabus.

Though I do take issue with my boss's warning that the word 'boring' needs to stop coming up in my observation reports (2 out of 5). He told me to practice bad jokes for my lectures because we are entertainers as much as we are educators. Like I'm not already enough of a clown for devoting my life to this mess, and spending 10+ years in college racking up loans I'll never be able to pay? No, I have to pander to the students. Nevermind that the observer said my presentation of the material was very clear, well done and engaging, or that I was professional, organized and prepared. That doesn't matter as much as the fact that I don't have a good report with the students. [Except I did have a good report with my later section. I thought.] Sigh. One more semester of the teaching fellowship, then, hopefully, I can go elsewhere.

This episode devastated me. It sent me into 3 days of crying alone in the dark. It affected me so much because, even though I haven't written a paper in two years, I could still be ok since I devoted all my time to teaching and thought I was good. Student evaluations said things like: I was the best teacher they had at this school, I changed their minds about the subject, etc... But I let my mood disorders disrupt my performance.

I just discovered that being professional means that you don't let your problems affect your work. D'oh! Why hadn't I known that? Well--I did spend ages 14-22 fighting daily suicidal ideations and the years since keeping myself out of the deep dark bad place--the place where one is too depressed for suicide and one believes she deserves to suffer by staying alive. That, and working on this graduate degree stuff while holding various jobs. Even so, when I learn obvious things like this, I realize how much I didn't get from my parents. And how much growing up I have missed out on by having to fight the insanity. But it scares me. I'm 29 and only learning this now? What else am I missing?

I wonder if I should begin to look at a different career path. What? I don't know. There's a dignity in knowing when to quit, right? But I don't quit. I decided in the fall, when I seriously considered dropping this whole PhD nightmare, that I'd come too far and invested too much to stop. I resolved to finish it. So I will. Afterwards, I may end up going back to administrative assistant work--I'm sure I wouldn't be the only humanities PhD doing it.

I did ask for it
All of this happened after discovering I have a rather large arrogance problem. I came to this realization while trying to analyze the causes of my student-relations issues. This disgusts me. Instead of building self-confidence as I had wanted, I gerrymandered the pretense of confidence with a shabby facade of arrogance. How does one undo such a fault? I prayed for help. I trepidly asked for humility--knowing it was dangerous; that serving a dose of humility to the proud is an ugly business. I want so much to change that I asked for it anyway. Pride cometh before the fall? Then, bring on the ugly so I can get the ugly out of my soul. Ha! The day after I said that prayer, I got the lecture from my boss. It reduced me to nothing. I got what I needed.

Next up: Tales from the Reconstruction

The Big Announcement

My dating stories bore me. Yup. I'm done. I still have at least a dozen to write, I never got around to some of the best ones. But I find the prospect of returning to those memories and revisiting the details repugnant. Here's a summary: I dated one loser after another, the quality men eluded my grasp, hence I'm single. Men and dates and subtexts and rejection and all of that mess just feels yucky to me now. No more. What does this mean to you dear readers? The end of CitC? NO. Absolutely not. The focus is going to shift more to the "City" aspect of my life. I find those things much more interesting, perhaps you will too.

Story of a blog about dating:
At the time I started this blog I felt totally desolate and without hope for any future conjugal bliss. I wanted to give up. My battered heart couldn't take one more hit. So I turned to writing and mined the past for these stories and found value in the ridiculousness of my love life. Rather than letting them pile up to embitter me, I could share them with people who could laugh or cry or have something to read at work. For a few months last year, blogging was the one pleasure I had. Thanks to all my readers for contributing to the pleasure! Your comments and the rise of the hit counter validated my existence as something more than a waste of space. Hooray!

Then I got over the pathetic desolation when I went to Ireland in the summer. Where I met someone who showed me I was desirable and still capable of feeling love-type emotions. I think that was a miracle, a gift for me just when I needed it most: a quite fantastic affair with a sweet and hot Irish Mormon while romping among ancient ruins and stormy weather gods.

Redolent with the glow of it all, I came home to New York with renewed hope and a rejuvenated heart. But I faced real life problems as soon as I got back, such as finding myself homeless. I got the living situation resolved before classes started but I still wasn't strong enough. Just when my workload got heavy, the blog got discovered and offended my Irish friend, causing me to lose the possibility of him. I knew it wasn't very likely to begin with but losing that still crushed me. It hurt so much because it was the best thing that happened to me in two years, perhaps the only good thing: a nice, normal, fun guy liked me even after we spent days together! And having something to hope for makes a big difference in one's quality of living.

The mountain of PhD:
While feeling the brunt of that devastation, my work became too much. I had a severe crisis and nearly quit school. I dropped as much of my responsibilities as I could, stopped going to my classes and became an incompetent teacher. I should have been fired and I should have been kicked out of my program. But I wasn't and I didn't quit. I started asking for help, for the first time in my life. Some kind people responded for which I am grateful. One fellow student, the first person I reached out to, became a good friend and now he is deliciously more. My parents were sympathetic which is rare. I even had a helpful correspondence with another blogger who had a similiar situation.

Now I stand at the base of this mountain. I slid down it last year. The descent bruised and almost broke me, which I probably deserved. My pride has taken a severe dismantling.
For the first time in my life I have failed at school. The one thing I knew I could do well has proven beyond the reach of my abilities. I hope it was temporary. I hope my self-imposed collapse saved me from a worse fate. I couldn't go on any longer with that amount of stress. This might mean I am not good enough, which I am now willing to accept.

This mountain, I have to climb back up or it's over. If I can't get it together this year then I will stop. Maybe go back to journalism. Or do temping again while working on a dive instructor license. If I do that then I can move somewhere exotic and find a job diving with tourists!

The new semester started today. I still have some humbling groveling to do so I can get out of the pit of failure. I have to ask one of the most arrogant professors for a favor that I don't deserve. I never asked for special treatment before last year. I never wanted to use depression as an excuse. I thought that would be wrong and weak. I hate this but I don't have a choice unless I want to fail out.

I don't know what to say to the man. I tried to approach him in December and he bit my head off. I have to talk to him today/tonight/tomorrow morning at the latest. How do you ask for special treatment for failing? I've had some students do it and found them quite disgusting. That's probably why I've procrastinated for two months. I did give one girl a chance to replace her F with a passing grade if she did some work. This guy could very likely say No. If I were him I might say no. Though I'd more likely say yes with Hipocritical disdain. Argghhh. Enough.

**We'll see how long this lasts. I give it two weeks max.

Pub Games: NJ vs. Mass

They came from all over. Internationals and locals converged on the city to attend our graduate conference of 2003. Ok, it wasn't that many people, but some from out of state. A large contingent from the New Jersey University came because our keynote speaker was one of theirs. One guy from Massachusettes came to give a paper, he somehow knew all the Jersey people. I actually went to his reading. It wasn't that great, but I asked a question. Which is thrilling enough for me, it makes me so nervous. A gentleman in the back of the room asked some questions too. He had an English accent and looked familiar to me. When the session ended, I walked towards the exit and looked at the man. He looked back. He had greenish-blue eyes behind his steel rimmed glasses. And crazy hair, dark with silver streaks. He looked like Giles from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, but cuter, and way less uptight.

Then I recognized him. I had seen him a few weeks earlier at a seminar somewhere else, when the Oxford don I wrote my thesis on discussed his latest book. I asked one of the first questions then kept asking because he didn't answer it, so I know I stood out. (I was also one of the four women out of 40 people there.) This professor had been there and sat opposite me at the table. He might have remembered me. So I smiled as I passed him and went out the door. A minute later, he came out to the hall with the Mass guy and the Jersey student with the ponytail. He asked me and Kyle where they could eat dinner. We told them we had planned a conference dinner at a restaurant afterward. Then I asked the English professor, "Weren't you at that symposium with __(Oxford Don's name excluded to protect the innocent) ?" He said, "Yes. I remember you, you were there too." We both smiled.

We didn't talk again until hours later, when the group walked to the Chinese restaurant for dinner. He talked first. He asked about my work. He had contributed a chapter on my thesis subject for a forthcoming reader. That was exciting, we're doing the same kind of stuff. I wanted to know all about it. Then the big Mass guy suddenly appeared and interrupted us.

During dinner, I had the misfortune of sitting across the round table from our keynote speaker. 'Lush' accurately describes the famous man who ate too much and drank too much and whose shirt popped open at the navel. Eww! Yes, I had to sit across from his rotund belly with his navel peeking through the opened buttonhole. It taunted me. The fuzzy chasm amidst protruding flesh. I lost my appetite.

Meanwhile, Mass dude tried talking to me across the heads of Mike and NJ ponytail boy. but he had to shout. He kept trying until my friend Kyle put his arm on the back of my chair. Kyle asked if we could share meals since he didn't know what to order. Ok, I couldn't afford one by myself anyway. So we ate off of each other's plates. I realized that Kyle might've wanted to make it look like we were dating. Maybe MA dude seemed a little too interested in my...thesis? Was Kyle jealous? If so, it worked and the guy stopped shouting at me.

At the time, Kyle was my best friend in the city. We did everything together and were very close. Predictably, tension had been building. I was ready for things to heat up. But we hadn't talked about it. I wasn't sure how I felt about Kyle's territorial behavior. It annoyed me because of his presumption, we were 'just friends'. But I also derived some hope from it. Maybe now he wanted things to get romantic too?

The sexy prof spent dinner talking to the other tenured grown ups. After, the remaining students and visitors went to a nearby pub. The prof, hereafter 'Giles' and I talked on the way. It felt like flirtation but I couldn't really believe that. This man was a real person with a real career and success (he taught at one of the best departments in the country!), he had class and style (comparatively speaking), was distinguished and older, sexy, and very published. I'm just an unaccomplished grad student, with breasts.

He made me very nervous. He asked a lot of questions about my studies and papers. I couldn't remember the names of anyone I had written about or read. All the names got jumbled together in my brain and I said several stupid things. Painfully aware of my errors of erudition, I tried to steer conversation towards more mundane things, like his accent. What part of England was he from? How did he like New Jersey? I felt like an idiot. We went from questions on the nature of substance to stupid small talk.

At the pub I scooted to the very end of the bench by the wall. English sat at the end of the table next to me. The Mass dude sat on my other side. Bore. Kyle sat directly across from me next to Giles. Everyone else was at the other end. Giles and I continued to talk only to each other. He made me laugh out loud, I liked him. He had a charming sweetness.

Mass got more drunk and more obnoxious. He reminded me of an annoying frat boy. He was very loud, bombastic, and too much in my personal space. He kept trying to talk to me and distract Giles. Kyle grew increasingly perturbed as he watched me and the men around me. Then, Mass started a brain teaser contest. They all took turns describing a puzzle that everyone else tried to solve. (The nerd version of a pissing contest.) I didn't care to participate, and as the only woman I wasn't expected to. Giles took it rather seriously and spent a few minutes with his forehead in his hands while he worked out the answer. He got it right. He grinned from ear to ear for solving a puzzle, this prominent scholar, among the most important in his field. It was very cute, Giles had totally won the contest for my attention. Mass solved more puzzles but his extensive conversation about his new XBox disqualified both him and ponytail boy. Sorry, try again when you grow up.

As it got later, I wondered if Giles would get around to asking for my phone number? Then Kyle and Daniel said they were leaving. We all lived in the same building so I needed to go with them. But Giles and I weren't done yet. Sigh. I told him I had to leave now because I was going with the guys. I explained that I lived in the ghetto and shouldn't go home alone this late. He didn't say anything. Everything got confusing, people were getting up and moving around. I didn't know what to do. I stood up while Daniel settled the tab. Then ponytail boy started talking at me, wanting to know if I ever came to NJ and when our next department event was going to be, could I let him know about it, blah, blah. Go away and play XBox! I wanted to say goodbye to Giles, who just went to the bathroom! Argh.

Daniel got insistent and agitated about leaving NOW. So did Kyle. I saw Giles standing in line for the toilet. I went over to say goodbye. I shook his hand and said it was nice to meet him. I tried smiling and being flirty but he didn't really respond, he'd had a lot of beer. But, he's English, so. So, he wasn't interested? I didn't know what else to do. The guys were calling me.

As soon as we got outside, Daniel said in a taunting older brotherly voice, "That professor liiiked yoooouuu." I said, "Really?" He replied, "Oh, yeah. You should have seen his face when you stood up to go. His whole face fell, he was so disappointed. He reeeaally liked you." Kyle agreed and mumbled something. I said, "I would've gone out with him. Why didn't he ask for my number or anything?" They didn't know nor seemed to care. I didn't understand. What did I do wrong?

Kyle was definitely jealous and very intoxicated. We had an interesting ride home, followed by even more interesting events. It might have been worth the loss if things had worked out differently with Kyle that night. Instead, I just lost twice.

Come back for more TRUE stories of the strange, sad and pathetic exploits of me not having sex in the city.