I'm Number Two! I'm Number Two!

So, I took off to visit the in-laws (which is a story in and of itself, let me tell you). And on the one day that I managed to sneak off and get myself some internet access, I discovered that I was the runner-up for the unexpected job interview I had a few weeks ago. Oh mixed feelings, how I love you! It's been so long!

I didn't say much about that job, as it was both full of promise (involved lots of the kinds of work I love to do and don't get to do as much of as I'd like: brainstorming with faculty; implementing pilot programs; talking about pedagogy; using other people's money to try shit out) and, simultaneously, full of problems (an academic job of sorts, but not at a college; negotiating with the new people and my existing job to bounce between them; expectations that I'd spend a lot more time in the office and on the ground at the new place). It was weird---the details of the new position would have been hellish, and yet I was so absolutely drawn to the idea that I could do the other stuff that it almost seemed as if sorting through them would have been worth it. Finding out that I didn't get it was both a disappointment and a relief.

Disappointment=why don't you love me? and also, to be honest, a little bit of but I was hoping that you'd save me from going back to my real job and the wretched interactions with some of my colleagues!

Relief=I teach two days a week in the fall and I don't have to spend the summer prepping for another job

In addition to these two feelings (which were somewhat expected), I find myself awash in a couple of surprises. The first is an unexpected sense of "if you really wanted that, then I'm glad you didn't pick me." The chair of the committee wrote to let me know that everyone really liked me, but that they ended up going with someone who had a very different academic background than me. It was such a delightful experience to be able to think: "wow, it really has nothing to do with me. If you all wanted that, then I'm not your girl." As I mused on it later, I also found myself thinking that I think they've made a mistake---given the way that they described the position and its role, I think they've chosen someone who can propel the few far, but will leave the many behind----something that's pretty antithetical to the way that I think about my goals as a teacher and as an administrator. In comparison to my experiences on the academic job market, this is a pretty clean and heartening rejection. And it's weird--but hopefully not crazy--to think that I'm not a big loser because I didn't get the job.

The other big surprise, I have to say, is that I think the process may have led me to some thinking about a new project. I'm a bit nervous to say that out loud---I might kill it just by whispering it. But it may be the case that in the day-long, adrenaline-filled rat race of applying for a job, I began to articulate a position that has some potential in it. Maybe. Stay tuned.

While you're waiting, take a look at a golden oldie, and the one that inspired the title for this post (the scene starts around 2:35)

Zombie, Minus Hunger for Brains

As you can imagine, I finally got over my "I'm bored now and need to work," and thus managed to fritter away the rest of my time at my parents' house by eating, seeing a number of summer blockbusters (all of which were mildly disappointing), and doing the occasional sudoku puzzle. And on my return home (to the sweatbath that is the Northeast right now), I have undertaken the requisite zombie time that is a consistent feature of my west-to-east travels.

I don't know what kind of f'ed up circadian rhythm problem I have, but at least it's predictable: going east to west, it takes me two days to get onto a regular sleep schedule. After a day or so of getting up at 5 EST and falling into bed at 8EST, I fall quite happily and naturally onto a more reasonable (and adult) time frame---say up at 7, asleep by midnight? Coming back, however, is a more painful experience. I'm now on day two of a planned and semi-rigid sleep adjustment schedule, which required caffeine ingestion by 7:30 so as to assure semi-wakefulness. This is despite the fact that I'm going to bed at 3 a.m., give or take an hour. The heat and humidity are enough to make me Mrs. McGrumperson, but with sleep-deprivation, you can multiply that by a factor of 10. I'm wandering around the house glassy-eyed, pulled to soft, flat surfaces. No brains for me, thank you very much, but I'd say that any outside observer might be reminded of Shaun of the Dead. Get out your cricket bats, just to be safe.

I've never understood why it's so easy following the sun, and so difficult following the jet stream. What the hell? It's three hours, either way. I tend to chalk it up to having spent 22 years of my life on the left coast, but then again, I have a habit of using that as a reason for everything that I don't want to change...

Despite that, things must be accomplished! I'm setting the bar rather low today, thank you very much: a trip to Target; some easy, entry-level reading for an article; sending some overdue emails and a perhaps a trip to the Apple store to exchange an item that was purchased during my trip. [Note to self: when the horoscope expressly makes the point that you should not buy any big ticket items, particularly electronics, listen, will you?!!]

In Which I am a Total Nimrod

I just got back from the grocery store, which was mistake number one. Groceries? On Superbowl Sunday? Moronic. That, however, was not the incident befitting the title above. Instead, my nimrod-ocity (nimrod-icity?) stems from my interactions with the meat counter girl, and my mouth which moves so much faster than my brain.

I should preface this by saying that one of the things I can't deal with in the East is the conversation with service people. Or perhaps I should say, lack thereof. At home, it's a given that you make some sort of chatty small talk with the person ringing your groceries, steaming your latte, checking your bank balance, roto-ing your rooter. It's just good manners, just as it's a given that those same people can carry on that conversation and do their jobs simultaneously. I've always thought that this is a social compact that ackowledges that their jobs suck, but that the consumer recognizes them as individuals, not mindless drones. This compact, however, is entirely missing out here. Either my attempts at conversation are totally rebuffed, or the person looks at me like I'm nuts, or they stop what they're doing to respond to me (quite possibly the worst response, in my book). Despite having experienced these reactions over and over again, it's such a habit that I find myself doing it all the time.

That said, I was at the deli counter, asking for some turkey and this gross bologna that Senor Fluff loves (and will probably put him into an early grave). The young woman working there seemed friendly enough, and so when she and I both strained to pass the pressed meat from hand to hand, I said: "they just don't make these counters for short people, do they? The should put a step here." She looked at me quizzically, and I remembered that I was not anywhere near my geographical tribesmen, and I smiled and pushed my cart toward the bread aisle. As I walked away, I heard her co-worker ask "how short are you?"

Mortification. Clearly, she thought I was talking about her! That I had, in essence, called her short. That I suggested that they get her a step so that she could make life easier on the shoppers! Oh lord, I'm the most insensitive person ever. I'm one of those old-ladies-in-training who say things like "you look nice in that picture, but I can see your cellulite," and then defend their statements with "but it's true!!" She's back there at the counter alternately steaming (as I would be) and feeling bad about herself (as I would also be) and her co-worker thinks I'm a total bitch. I am a total bitch!

That's the tape that ran through my head as I finished my shopping. So I grabbed the rest of my groceries (which included climbing the freezer shelves to get the last box of frozen okra---because I was too short to reach it, thank you irony, you bitch goddess), I checked out, packed everything in the car, and then went back to apologize to her. This is where the Superbowl Sunday part kicks in, because apparently everyone needs cold cuts to watch grown men beat the crap out of each other, and thus I had to wait in line, while the co-worker gave me the hairy eyeball and the young woman in question apparently studiously avoided me.

When my turn finally came, I very sheepishly told her that I wanted to apologize to her. And she looked at me like I'd grown a third head. "Or maybe I'm just making it worse!! Earlier I was afraid that I had offended you and I was actually talking about me and I just felt horrible and was afraid that I'd made you feel bad but maybe you didn't even think twice about it and so all of this is just a moot point!" (Not that I babble, you understand.) "Oh," she says, and blushes. "I wasn't offended, but thank you for apologizing." "Great!" says I. "Have a good weekend!" There's me, running out of the store.

I wish that I could blame my utter and complete dipshitty-ness on staying out late for Dr. Marxy's excellent, 80's fueled birthday celebration, but I don't think I can. I think it's just the dorkiness that is me: constantly thinking that I've devastated someone when they don't give my weirdness a second thought. Which puts me in a bit of a bind: I could just adopt that as an operating principle, in which I always assume that no one cares. But then what if someone actually does, and I don't apologize, which is clearly my first instinct, and then they think I'm an ass?

This is the kind of crap that keeps me up at night. But that deli-counter girl? I bet she sleeps like a baby.