God bless Texas. And Tegaderm. Can we call it Texaderm?

Sure, I like figuring out my own solutions to problems. I know it is good for me to stretch myself and exercise my creativity, instead of defaulting to standard solutions put forth by others. If I always look up the “best” way to do things, I won’t build my imagination or experience the satisfaction of my own ingenuity. Or, if ingenuity fails to materialize, collecting and analyzing data also produces satisfaction. The trial-and-error approach has my utmost respect. (“I can’t be clever, but I can be systematic”…words to live by, heard recently from a friend/colleague, who is more clever than he thinks he is.)

But sometimes you don’t have time to be systematic. And some problems are unrealistic or undesirable to repeat over-and-over in search of the optimal solution. In these instances, it’s best to find someone with expertise. Who will have expertise? People who regularly encounter extreme versions of your problem.

So, if you fall while running and skin your knees, don’t look up how to treat skinned knees. The standard medical sites will give you stock suggestions about washing your hands, cleaning it up, putting on some ointment, and covering with gauze. And not picking the scab, and calling the doctor if it needs stitches or gets infected (duh). And of course, when you select a bandage, you should read the instructions on the package to make sure you’re applying the bandage properly.

Nope, this is bad advice. Or at least incomplete advice. What’s the extreme version of skinning your knees on a pristine suburban sidewalk? Flying off your bicycle on a gravel road, wearing nothing but Spandex. So, if you want to know how to treat badly skinned knees, consult biker blogs. (Here, “biker”=”bicyclist”, not “motorcyclist”.) When it comes to road rash, bikers are the experts.

Last Monday night when I tore the skin off my knees while running, we triaged it with materials on hand, which turned out to be identical to the standard ointment/gauze advice. After a really long sleep, a scouring of biker blogs, and a trip to the neighborhood pharmacy, it was time to change the gauze. I had a feeling that process would be unpleasant, and yowee, I was right. But that’s okay, because this gauze-ripping experience would be my last.

Next round: Tegaderm dressings. These are officially awesome. They don’t stick, so you don’t screech in pain every time your skin moves. They stay on in the shower. And supposedly the bathtub, though I haven’t tested that myself. They last for up to 7 days (biker blogs say more like 3-5 days, due to ooze from the road rash causing the adhesive to fail).

And, best of all, they’re transparent. If I hadn’t used Tegaderm, I would have had no idea that my right knee was skinned in the shape of Texas. Is that amazing or what? Too bad the Tegaderm prevents scars. It would be pretty cool to have a permanent Texas on my knee!

This was after the 2.5 mile walk back to the car. 

Driving 10 miles home caused it to drip sideways. Gravity!

After installing Tegaderm #1.

Need a little more land north of Dallas, and a little less north of El Paso. But otherwise a pretty darn good fit!

After removing Tegaderm #1 (after 4 days it was no longer stuck at the bottom). Panhandle already healing, still a gouge around San Antonio. Tegaderm #2 is now installed!

Writing Uphill with the Fitbit: Part I

My name is Biffet and I am a Fitbit. Eight days ago, I was adopted by a new owner. Well, maybe “adopted” is not the right word. She bought me, but thinking of myself as being adopted sounds cozier, so that’s what I’ll do. I was so glad to finally have a home—for quite some time, I had been locked in a glass cage in a small-town department store, along with about 40 other Fitbits. For a while, every Fitbit who arrived was adopted almost instantly. I overheard an employee say that her mom’s entire exercise class had wanted one, and were lying in wait for shipments, then snapping them up and taking them home.

Eventually, the store people figured out they needed to adjust their inventory, so they ordered a whole bunch of us. But as soon as we arrived, demand dried up. Apparently everyone in the exercise class already had Fitbits, and it’s not the sort of thing you need two of. So there we sat, pining for a way to get out of our cage. (Fitbits like to keep moving—they don’t cope well with sitting still.)

Then last Saturday, a lady showed up and walked straight up to our cage. She read the boxes, got a surprised and happy look on her face, then ran away. We were a little confused and disappointed—we were new and didn’t yet understand the routine. Soon, she returned, accompanied by a store employee jangling a bunch of keys. Our cage was unlocked, and the lady said, “I want one of those—the black Fitbit Charge HR in size Large.” And hooray, the employee reached in and chose me!! I was so glad I had thought to jostle my way to the front row a couple days ago, so I could peek out.

And yay, when I got to the car, I found a friend! Another Fitbit, just like me. But alas, it was a short-lived friendship. The lady said she had gotten a better deal on me, so she was returning the other Fitbit. (That’s how I found out I was purchased rather than adopted—a bit disheartening, but I am slowly learning to accept it.) Apparently my particular department store had a policy of paying people to shop. My owner had a wad of green papers that were a special kind of cash—cash that could only be spent at this one store. When she bought me with the special green cash, the store gave her more special green cash. It seems rather a strange way to run a store...I wonder how they stay in business? Maybe that’s why they have inventory problems. Anyway, my owner got paid to shop for me, yet she still referred to me as a rather extravagant purchase. Sigh...so many things I don’t understand.

Anyway, she took me home, got me out of the package, and plugged me in. She managed to install the phone app and the computer app without too much trouble. She was very glad it was so easy—she said it must be idiot-proof if she could do it. She’s a smart lady with a lot of college degrees, but apparently isn’t very confident when it comes to installing apps and programs. She said that was because she lives with someone who likes that sort of thing, and he always installs and updates stuff for her. She said it was hard to become skilled at things if someone else always does them for you. Makes sense to me.

While she was setting me up, she was intently watching a TV program. A bunch of horses walking around with tiny folded-up people on them. Then she laid the computer and phone aside, jumped up and down a lot, and even hollered a little. Then she just stared dumbfounded at the TV. I thought maybe she even cried a little, but that wouldn’t make sense. I heard something about a Triple Crown and 38 years since Affirmed. She said she wished she had been wearing me, so she could know how fast her heart was racing. (The HR in Fitbit Charge HR stands for Heart Rate.)

In only an hour or so, I was all charged up and ready to go. Yay! I am a fitness tracker, so I figured she would take me for a walk. That’s the whole point, right?

But no: she took me WRITING. Yes, she was so excited to have a fitness tracker, that she went to a restaurant and WROTE. The only steps I counted were back and forth to the soda machine, and one trip to buy dessert.

Then, we left the restaurant and went to a coffee shop. More writing. Actually, not so much writing, but sitting at a table recording survey data. She accused me of overestimating her steps—of counting a step every time her arm flipped over a survey. She simply had no comprehension of how many steps were involved in normal activities, like going to a coffee shop. (Well, maybe writing after midnight in a coffee shop isn’t normal for most people, but apparently it is for her.) Then, she got mad at me for starting a new day at midnight. This kept her from getting proper credit for the steps she took walking from the coffee shop to her car. She thought the day should end whenever she told it to, like her writing log. Or it could end at 2:00 a.m., if I wanted it to always end at the same time. But ending it at midnight was unreasonable. I sighed. This relationship was not off to a good start.

The next day was much the same. Writing. Bleh. Then Monday. More writing. What had I gotten myself into? Why did this lady want a fitness tracker? She said something about wanting to lose her dissertation weight, but she didn’t seem to understand that simply wearing a fitness tracker to coffee shops was not going to make that happen.

Then, Monday night, things changed. She took me for a long walk, with a friend and the friend’s Fitbit! Hooray! It was a beautiful night for a walk. It was fun to listen to the two friends talk. They talked about writing, among other things. They both have lots of papers they need to write. That was fine. From my point of view, talking about writing is preferable to actual writing. I asked my new Fitbit friend for advice about coping with this strange owner who wanted to write all the time. He said his owner was the same—she kept taking him writing instead of walking. His owner also mentioned dissertation weight—she doesn’t have any yet, but is afraid she will get some without her Fitbit. However, based on some things they both said and also on our own observations, we thought they both spent time doing other stuff they didn’t need to do, as a way to avoid writing. That doesn’t make sense—if they have stuff that needs written, and they talk about wanting to be good writers who actually finish things, why don’t they just write, instead of doing other stuff? And if they simply can’t stand writing, why don’t they walk around the block to avoid it, rather than always doing sedentary stuff?

But at least on this night, the two writing friends were walking. We gave them each a big pat on the back (well, really a vibration on the wrist), when they reached 10,000 steps for the day. (New Fitbits default to a daily goal of 10,000 steps.) Our owners said goodbye, and so did we. It sounds like I may get to walk with my new Fitbit friend occasionally—I hope so! If our owners insist on doing all this writing, we need to strategize about how to get them physically fit while doing it. It won’t be easy. (I will post another update soon....I am really hoping this weekend of writing was an aberration.)

Why I Love a College Town

10. Free cupcakes during finals week.

9. Free bacon and eggs at 9 pm during finals week.

8. You can spend the night in the library during finals week (some students wear their pajamas).

7. No one minds when you spend 12-14 consecutive hours in the same restaurant, using the air conditioning, wireless, and electricity.

6. Baristas who know your face and your order, without your telling them (Sweet Eugene’s House of Java: “regular nonfat latte with sugar-free hazelnut and a scone warmed, up with a fork”)

5. Deli/bakery servers who know your name, your face, and your order, without your telling them (Blue Baker: “Club Bleu, no mustard, no mayo, cut in half”)

4. Blueberry Peach bread on Tuesdays (Blue Baker again...can you tell it's my favorite place?)

3. People feel safe enough to go jogging at 1:30 a.m.

2. Laundromat with attached restaurant/bar (Harvey Washbangers). Above the bar is a panel with numbered lights, one for each washer and dryer, so you can see when it’s time to leave the restaurant and switch the laundry. The french fries are pretty good too!

1. Laundry attendant who finds your lost kittycat sock in the dustbin and runs into the parking lot to find you and return it.

Divided Loyalties: 2013 Cotton Bowl

Wow, what fun! As I see it, there are three ways to spend our discretionary dollars: (1) stuff, (2) training/learning, and (3) life experiences. (Well, there’s also grad school…not sure how to categorize that.) Once upon a time, I leaned too much toward (1). Nowadays, (2) and (3) seem far more important, and I go back-and-forth between them.

On January 4, we spent money on a unique life experience, and it was worth every penny. (Yea, I’ve let myself fall behind on blog posts again. I actually started writing it that same night, longhand in the hotel room, and finished it the next day. Just didn’t get around to tweaking and posting it. I’m a mess, I realize.)

When I began this doctoral journey, Texas A&M University (my current institution) was in the same conference as the University of Oklahoma (my undergraduate alma mater). They faced one another in football every year. Unfortunately, as a graduate student working full-time 90 miles away, I did not make much effort to immerse myself in Aggie experiences. I genuinely meant to attend an Aggie football game eventually, but I just didn’t get around to it. (Not following through on good intentions is a habit with me…I’m working on it.) I especially wanted to see an A&M/OU game, and always resolved to buy a ticket…next year.

Lesson learned: If there’s something you want to do, don’t wait until “next year”. The opportunity may be unexpectedly yanked from you. Before I got around to buying football tickets, Texas A&M abandoned the Big 12 Conference for the SEC (Southeastern Conference). All of Aggieland was thrilled. (Apparently joining the SEC is like getting a promotion— more prestige and more money than the Big 12.) I was very sad. Now A&M and OU would never play each other.

Though I had missed my chance to watch my two schools duke it out on the football field, I at least learned from it. The missed opportunity, along with rumors that Kyle Field might soon be replaced or renovated, motivated me to positive action: I obtained a student Sports Pass, and purchased tickets to three Aggie football games. I missed two of them, one due to beginning-of-data-collection craziness, and the other due to post-surgery miserableness. Fortunately, the one football game I attended was easily worth the price of the entire three-game package. (Observe: The blog post for the Kyle Field game was posted two months late; this blog post is only two weeks late. I’m improving!!!)

But then, in December, a miracle: Oklahoma and Texas A&M would face each other in the Cotton Bowl!! Yea! A bowl game, within a reasonable driving distance. We just had to go. Skipping it was never really an option, even when we were only able to get Standing Room Only tickets. (Many thanks to my dear hubby, who drove to College Station at 4:30 a.m. and stood in line for hours to get them.) At $50 each, these SRO tickets were the most expensive event tickets we had ever purchased. I cringed at the price, especially considering we wouldn’t even be allowed to sit down.

It turns out, they were a bargain. Such a large amount of pleasure, for only $50 (plus food, souvenirs, motel room, and gas).

For those of you who don’t know me well, I am not someone who normally buys or plans “outfits” to wear. But this was a special occasion, and merited special treatment. Once we resolved to go, I braved the post-Christmas mall traffic in search of an Oklahoma shirt. (Due to my antibiotic-induced hospital stay, it was too late to order a shirt. Had I thought of it, I’m sure my brother Dave Mows Grass would have been happy to buy one when he drove through Oklahoma on his way to visit us in Houston.)

Fortune smiled upon me, and I found an OU shirt. It wasn’t great, it didn’t even say “Sooners”, but it would have to do. At least it was the right color of OU crimson. I already had an A&M shirt. I loved it, but knew I could replace it anytime. Most experiences of value require sacrifice. Yep, I cut it up.

My Cotton Bowl outfit was created the night before the game. (Many thanks to my friend Denise, for her late-night sewing machine loan. My machine was broken, and wouldn’t even sew a seam.) My lack of seamstress ability definitely shows in the outfit, but that’s okay—I think the flaws add to its character. A professionally created split-loyalty shirt just wouldn’t be the same.

Personally, I think the outfit turned out perfect in every detail. I even accessorized it well, with my OU and A&M necklaces. (I put OU on top, since I attended there first.) The outfit included both an Aggie hat and a Sooner hat. I switched hats based on ball possession.

We drove to Fort Worth, checked into our hotel, changed into our Cotton Bowl outfits, and arrived at Cowboys Stadium in Arlington. (The Cotton Bowl football game is not played in the Cotton Bowl football stadium, which is about 25 miles away in Dallas). It was game time!

Cowboys Stadium was beautiful, pristinely clean, and full of friendly employees. There were screens everywhere, so even with SRO tickets, we didn’t miss any action. I’m very glad we went SRO, and not just because it saved money. We enjoyed the atmosphere more this way, and got to see all the different parts of the stadium. Whoever designed the stadium clearly anticipated SRO patrons, and made sure we’d be able to enjoy the game just as much as the people who spent hundreds of dollars on seats. We especially appreciated how Cowboys Stadium and the Cotton Bowl organizers honored both the college teams, by frequently displaying their school logos on the electronic ribbons, and by letting the teams and bands play, instead of drowning them out with obnoxious and unnecessary canned tunes. (Reliant Stadium, site of last year’s A&M/Northwestern Meineke Car Care Bowl, are you listening?)

I really didn’t care who won. I decided to cheer for whichever team had the ball. (My apologies to the defensive players…I had to have some system, and this was the best system I could think of.) I hoped for a close game with lots of lead changes…maybe even overtime!

We saw one other fan with a divided-loyalty shirt. He was a boy, probably about ten years old. His outfit was better than mine, because his entire face was painted—half crimson, half maroon, logos included. His dad was a Sooner, and we chatted briefly, admiring each other’s gear. I wish I’d thought to ask his story—he sure didn’t look old enough for either college!

I must confess, in the first half, my heart was with OU. This was partly because Cowboys Stadium seemed to contain a lot more Aggie maroon than Sooner crimson (I make no apology for my root-for-the-underdog instinct), but mostly because OU was my undergraduate university—the first college I ever attended. I have fond memories of OU football games, both of attending them, and of missing them to work the Engineers’ Club hamburger feeds. If you spend hours washing dishes during a football game, at least you’ll remember the experience. As much as I enjoyed my one Aggie game in September, it couldn’t overcome such nostalgia.

But by the third quarter, it became obvious that the night belonged to the Aggies and Johnny Manziel. I sincerely wished the Sooners had shown up and been competitive, but it just wasn’t their night. Even in the first half, when the game was close, the Aggies seemed in control. During the entire second half, there was a parade of sad Sooners heading for the exits.

We found a great place to watch the second half, in the far end zone on the uppermost (fifth or sixth, I can’t remember) level. We could see the giant screen facing the end zone, most of the ultra-giant screen facing the sideline, and half of the actual football field. We could even see the Aggie Band performing the four-way cross and block T. Spectacular. I’m glad I didn’t see or hear the Fighting Aggie Band before I attended OU at age 18…it would have dampened my appreciation for OU’s excellent Pride of Oklahoma show band. There simply is no comparison.

We visited with some friendly Ags who had just graduated and found jobs. We all sang the Aggie War Hymn, locked arms, and swayed back and forth sawing Varsity’s horns off. After eight years as a graduate student, I think I am finally starting to grasp the Aggie Spirit.

What a marvelous experience. I’m glad I'm an Aggie. (Though I won’t feel like a real Aggie until I graduate.)

P.S. Make your best guess: Which hat did I wear on the way home?

My outfit when the Sooners had the ball.

Outfit when the Aggies had the ball.

Notice that the cap actually says Sooners!

After the game, the kind but strict ushers let us SRO folks stand by the seats for a picture.

Crash Pad!

Well, I never expected such a thing, but it happened: I have joined that elite class of people who have a second home. But my second home is not a cabin, lake house, or bungalow on the beach. My second home is an apartment in College Station. I can now sleep within 10 minutes of campus, a wonderful thing. No more long drives to and from Houston early in the morning or late at night.

My crash pad has a twin bed (a cot, really), a Poang chair from Ikea (have wanted one for years), and a borrowed craft table. It also has a couch and a flat-screen television. I feel rather guilty about that…my hubby convinced me that after a long day of writing, I might want to veg out in front of the TV. I think he just liked the prospect of the TV coming home when I graduate. He’s been hoping for years that our old Magnavox TV would die so he could get one with a flat screen. And of course, it refuses to cooperate.

When I closed on the crash pad, I started thinking of what essentials I would need: Radio, water pitcher, trash bags…oh, I need a shower curtain! I browsed my usual shopping haunts. No, all the shower curtains were far too sophisticated for a college student’s apartment. A fabric shower curtain, whether subtle stripes or fancy florals, would never do.

I waited patiently and on my next trip to campus, I went shopping. And I found it! The perfect shower curtain. And not only a shower curtain…a 7-piece Texas A&M bath set, all packaged neatly into an Aggie wastebasket. The shower curtain is all plastic, attached with cheap plastic hooks. No curtain liner needed. The toothbrush holder, tumbler, and soap dispenser cover nearly all my counter space. It’s just right!

I’m a college student again. I can’t wait, this is going to be fun! Oh yea, except for that dissertation I need to write...

Isn't it perfect?

For hauling my dirty duds home on the weekend. It's perfect too!

My Drug Holiday

Looking back now, that race on December 9 seems like an amazing triumph. I don’t know how I did it. Right now, I can’t even walk a straight line across the room.

I made it 9 whole days on the Vancomycin before the poison affected me noticeably. Then, what a spectacular crash! So, I was switched to Clindamycin, the second choice drug for my antibiotic-resistant staph infection. I was nervous about switching (with good reason, it turns out). As they say, “better the devil you know”.

I made it only 32 hours on the Clindmycin before my body hollered “stop” with a rash. The doc put me on an official drug holiday until December 26, the day after Christmas. No more medicine balls. No more waking up just to hook up an IV line. I just have to take Benadryl every 4 hours, until I am no longer red and puffy.

I’ve never had a drug holiday before…..what should I do? Am I supposed to decorate? Go out to eat? Surely there must be a proper way to commemorate the occasion. I’m afraid my brother and his family won’t be here until after the drug holiday is over. That’s okay, our family has never worried much about celebrating holidays on the proper dates anyway.

(Note #1: This entire blog post was originally written longhand in the free-writing portion of a paper journal on 12/21. It was fueled by a toxic concoction of drugs, and I cannot vouch for its content or coherence.)

(Note #2: This blog post was not copied to the computer and posted to the blog until 12/25 for a very good reason: the next day, the Clindamycin-induced reaction worsened. One of those big SUV’s with the red-and-blue flashing lights gave me a ride to the hospital, where I stayed for three days…got out on Christmas, to my great delight. I have a feeling the drug holiday might just get extended a bit.)

Holy Toledo, Milo's retiring! Farewell, and thanks for the memories.

Though the Astros have the worst record in baseball and were 39.5 games behind their opponent the standings, Sunday’s game was special. On September 2, the voice of the Astros, Milo Hamilton, turned 85. At the end of this season, he will finally retire.

When I moved to Houston in 1991, baseball did not interest me a bit, and I had never been to a college or major league game. A friend took me to my first game at the Astrodome, but Milo kept me coming back. 

When I was throwing the Houston Chronicle for a living, I slept at odd hours, including during baseball games. Not wanting to miss out on the fun, I came up with a system. I bought two 120-minutes-per-side cassette tapes, and labeled them Baseball I and Baseball II, each with sides A and B. I also purchased two turn-the-dial timers, the sort you can plug lamps into so potential robbers think you're at home when you're really on vacation. (Have not actually tried this myself, but I hear it’s a good idea.)

For a 7:05 game, I would program the first tape player to come on at 6:30 (had to hear the pregame show), and the second to come on around 8:15 (allowed a little overlap, because my timers weren't digital--had to estimate a bit.) Then I'd go to bed in the late afternoon, and set my alarm clock for 10:00 p.m. I turned the volume on the cassette players all the way down so I couldn't hear anything. The broadcast would play directly into the tape, regardless of the volume setting. At 10:00, I would get up, flip both tapes over to side B, advance my timers to just under 2 hours later, and go back to bed. At 1:00 a.m., I'd get up, grab my cassettes, climb into my 1977 Olds Cutlass, and head to the newspaper warehouse. 

When I arrived, everyone knew not to tell me who won the Astros game. Billy, our truck driver, would look at the front page and the sports page to see whether the Astros article fell above or below the fold. Then he would stack my bundles upside down, or whichever way he needed, to hide the score. I'd roll my papers, stick Baseball I, Side A, into my tape player, and take off. 

There’s nothing like driving through a neighborhood at 4 a.m, blasting the Astros on the radio. Bases loaded, bottom of the 9^th, 2 outs, could they come through? Early morning joggers would do a double-take when they passed my car and heard Milo Hamilton shouting, “Holy Toledo, put a blue star on that one!!” 

If the game was a low-scoring one with quick pitchers, it might end around the same time my paper route ended. But the neat thing about baseball is the absence of a time limit. The game could end in the middle of Baseball 2-A, or I might have to flip to Baseball 1-B. Extra innings meant another flip to Baseball 2-B. Once in a while, that wouldn’t be enough and 2-B would end with the game still tied. Very disappointing. 

When I went to grad school, baseball came with me. On the way home from class on Thursday morning, I would stop by the Astrodome for a matinee game (Don’t worry, this was my first stint in grad school, not the current one—I began my PhD several years after the Astrodome’s retirement.) I’d pay $2 for early bird parking, and buy a $4 general admission ticket in the outfield deck. I brought my math books and, more importantly, my headphone radio. Most day games had dollar hot dogs, so no need to buy lunch on the way. Dogs in hand, I searched for the perfect seat. I tried for the left-field side, because my headphones’ built-in radio, by my right ear, seemed to get better reception with my head turned slightly left. (If I had to turn my head, I wanted to see the playing field, not the stands.)  

My fellow Astros fans thought I was a total nerd, and they were probably right. I spent most of the game working on homework. Yes, my eyes may have missed parts of the game, but that was just fine—Milo Hamilton’s voice was in my ear, painting an action-filled picture of every play. I would have missed far more if I’d only watched the game, without listening to Milo. And if you have to do homework, where would you rather do it? In the outfield deck of the Astrodome, enjoying an afternoon of live baseball? Or at home watching baseball on TV? 

Thank you Milo, for teaching me to love baseball. Thank you, Milo, for bringing the game and the players to life. It won’t be the same without you. 

Happy Birthday Milo, and Godspeed.

After the 2010 Astros 5K, I borrowed a pen and got Milo's autograph.
It's not quite as clear as when he signed my ball, but it's still Milo.

The bobblehead we received at Sunday's game.

Best ways to see the land, Part 2

Okay, I’ve argued that driving is a better way to see the country than flying. But once you get to wherever you’re going, nothing beats running for exploring a new place.

After arrival in New Orleans, I conducted some research into running routes. My first step was to consult the hotel desk manager. She handed me a map, and suggested I run down the middle of St. Charles Avenue, between the railroad tracks. She noted that after a few blocks of concrete street, the tracks would run in the grass instead, making running more pleasant. Though friendly and willing to help, she was not sufficiently perceptive to notice my confused expression, and she hurried off to help other guests. I stood there blinking for a minute or so….did she really just tell me to run down the train tracks in the middle of a street in downtown New Orleans?

Interview over, I returned to my room and consulted friend Google, who revealed that yes, indeed, the St. Charles trolley tracks are (is??) a favorite route for local runner. (Golly, there has got to be a way to repair the grammar in that sentence, but I don’t know what it is. Fortunately, this is not my dissertation, so I am not obligated to invest the time.) On the St. Charles trolley route is Audubon Park, which reportedly features a two-mile running path lined with stately oaks. Mapping the route, I learned the round trip to Audobon Park would be over 10 miles, a bit much for an out-of-shape grad student in a strange city at night.

So, I revisited the front desk in search of trolley details. This time, my helper was a friendly young man. He suggested I ride the trolley to Audubon Park and then run back, perhaps reboarding the trolley at Lee Circle to avoid running the downtown streets (and, said he, Lee Circle is worth running around a couple of times). A true gentleman, he was concerned for my safety, and warned me not to start my run before 6:00 a.m., not to run when the park was closed (unless the ROTC was drilling there), and to keep left on the trolley tracks to avoid being run over.

The next night I implemented this plan. I walked to the trolley stop (my friend from the front desk had directed me to a stop serving only the St. Charles line, so I couldn’t possibly go astray). Though I’d been warned about erratic trolley schedules, my timing was perfect and a trolley rolled up within 30 seconds. Thanks again to my young friend, I was prepared with $1.25 in exact change, and I climbed aboard. 

Everything went great and I enjoyed the ride and the view until, just past Lee Circle, it started to rain. The trolley driver closed the windshield, and the rest of us scrambled to shut the windows. I was very sad…my beautiful run was going to get ruined by rain! I don’t mind running in a light rain at home, on streets I know, but did I want to get caught in a storm in an unfamiliar city, miles from my hotel? I decided to just ride to the end of the line, pay another $1.25, and ride back.

As we rolled along, and I tried to peer out the rain-covered windows, I reconsidered. I had already skipped out on a meet-and-greet at my conference to go running, and I didn’t want it to be for nothing. Plus, I had worn my Winslow shoes, so it would be a shame if I didn’t get muddy. I decided to at least run the two miles around Audobon Park, and then I could hop back on the trolley. Fortunately, by the time we got to the park, the rain had lessened a bit. I found the path and set off. The dirt path looked muddier than it actually was. Even the places with standing water were surprisingly solid under my feet.

While on the trolley, I had only seen three runners, all male, running down the tracks. In the entire loop through the park, I saw less than half a dozen. Apparently running is not the most popular activity for rainy Saturday nights in New Orleans. I said a quick hi to the first runner I saw. No response. Hmmmm….that’s okay, she probably had a long day. Anyway, I’m both a Texan and an Aggie, so I shouldn’t be saying hi anyway. The next three runners received a friendly hand-wave, a smile, and a howdy. No response. How very odd. In Texas, nearly all runners are willing to return a friendly greeting. Even if they are clearly running hard, doing intervals or a tempo run or whatever, they manage a polite nod. On rainy or really hot days in Texas, when all the sensible people are indoors, the few die-hards are especially friendly—I think prompted by an “oh good, someone else is also crazy enough to be out here” kinship. Not in New Orleans. Is it possible Louisianans do not know the word “howdy?”

Anyway, by the time I finished the park loop, I was having a blast and was not about to climb onto a streetcar, rain or no rain. I was still scared of running on the tracks. These are called trolleys, not trains, but as far as I am concerned, anything that runs on rails is a train, and walking or running on train tracks is a bad idea. I opted for the sidewalk. I ran a couple very pleasant miles on the sidewalk, enjoying the gentle rain.

I started to wish I’d run at least a block or two on the tracks, just so I could say I’d done it. And, as I got closer to downtown, the sidewalk became difficult, with many cross streets, driveways, cars, and tipped-up sections of sidewalk. I decided the train tracks might be not only more satisfying, but also safer. I was right.

The trolleys, on two parallel sets of tracks, run along St. Charles’ grassy median, between the traffic lanes. Since only a few cross streets intersect the median, I didn’t often have to stop and look for traffic. On the sidewalks, there was danger from cars and people, both unpredictable. On the median, no one could back a car into me without warning. Anyone wishing to surprise me from behind and drag me into a dark alley would have to cross a street to do it, and any potential attack would take place in full view of pedestrians, drivers, and possibly trolley passengers. Once I got used to the concept, I felt right at home running down the median, between the two sets of tracks.

Here, my only danger was from the trolleys themselves. Fortunately, unlike cars and pedestrians, trolleys are very predictable. They have no choice but to follow the rails. Like cars, trolleys drive on the left. So, by staying left, I could avoid being hit from behind, and I would see oncoming trolleys in time to get out of the way. My one fear was that two trolleys, one from each direction, would converge at the exact time I was running between them. I think there was room, just barely, for an average-sized human to fit between the trolleys as they passed each other. But I knew it would be terrifying, and I wasn’t about to take any chances. Whenever I approached an oncoming trolley, I glanced behind me to see if the coast was clear. If it was, I ran down the right-hand set of tracks, well away from the oncoming trolley as it passed. Only once did both trolleys pass me at nearly the same time. I dodged them both by moving to the far left edge of the median, letting both trolleys pass on my right. 

When I set out from my hotel, I felt a bit self-conscious (running shorts are not normal attire on Bourbon Street). By the time I finished, I was running down Canal Street, with its shops and nightlife, dodging pedestrians dressed to the nines, and I didn’t care what anyone thought of me. (I lost my nerve when the sidewalk was occupied by rows of tables, complete with fancy place settings, set up by a restaurant for outside find dining. I wish I’d run between the tables, instead of skirting around, running on the street). I drew the line at running down Bourbon Street—it was just too crowded, especially with all the umbrellas. And, a common-sense voice inside told me that there are some places in which you don’t want to draw undue attention to yourself. This part of New Orleans has a spirit about it that I pray I never become comfortable with.

Wow, what a marvelous run! I had a big silly grin plastered across my face the whole time. It was a joy to feel the rain, and drink in the atmosphere, architecture and plant and people life. You just can’t get this sort of an experience in a car. I don’t think you could get it by walking either, and I’m not sure why. It’s partly the speed—my run may be slow, but it’s quite a bit quicker than walking. Yet I don’t think that’s the whole reason….I think running adds a certain intangible “aliveness” that is necessary to truly appreciate and connect with everything you see. And, as I learned today, running imparts courage.

So, next time you go somewhere new, don’t forget your running shoes. 

Audubon Park

Audubon Park

A short pea-gravel section of the Audubon Park trail. No mud, but made running very hard work.

  

Statue inside Lee Circle.

Best ways to see the land, Part 1

Perhaps a plane is the most efficient way to get somewhere, particularly somewhere as far from Houston as New Orleans. If I added the time driving to and from the airport, sitting in the airport, waiting for an airport shuttle, and riding in the airport shuttle, flying still might have been quicker than driving (and I could have slept on the way, a nice bonus).

But flying would have meant missing out on so much. It’s one thing to know intellectually that most of Louisiana is a swamp. It’s quite another to drive down the freeway and see trees growing out of the water. In some places, the trees are dense enough to almost form a forest, albeit a thin one. In other places, only black jagged tree trunks are visible above the water (except for scattered signs, affixed to the trunks by enterprising businessmen). What happened to the treetops? Did the trees die of some disease? Or was there a forest fire? That would have been a sight…an out-of-control forest fire, with the flames reflected in the water below.

If I’d flown, I would have missed gas stations and the candid glimpse of local life they provide. If I’d flown, I couldn’t have read the highway signs: Lake Bigeaux, Breaux Basin, Atchafalaya River, Iberville and St. Charles’ Parishes, Oupelousas, Grosse Tete, Billy’s Boudin and Cracklins. I wouldn't have learned that Lousiana gas pumps are regulated by the Department of Agriculture and Forestry, led by a veterinarian. (Texas gas pumps are overseen by the Railroad Commission). If I'd flown, I wouldn't have marveled at the ingenuity required to build highways across twenty-mile-wide bodies of water. Then, when I arrived at my destination, I would have missed the disconcerting experience of driving down long streets narrower than my home driveway—I felt closed-in, as if I were walking down a hallway so narrow I could drag my hands along both walls. And If I’d flown, I would not have faced, and overcome, the challenge of crossing Bourbon Street by car.

In Texas, cars drive on the streets and pedestrians can only legally cross the streets at intersections. Pedestrians cannot legally walk down the middles of busy streets. In Texas, pedestrians (usually) proceed into the intersection only if it is either empty of cars, or if the drivers, using eye contact or a wave, indicate their willingness to let the pedestrians cross. This works pretty well, because the cars arrange themselves nicely into designated lanes, all going the same direction.

New Orleans uses the same system, but in reverse. The people walk on Bourbon Street and the cars can only cross at intersections--cars are not allowed on the street itself. At Bourbon Street intersections, the cars must wait for either the intersection to become free of pedestrians (which never happens), or for the pedestrians to politely motion the car across. Unfortunately, New Orleans pedestrians are not nearly as well-organized as Texas cars. They do not walk in designated lanes in predictable directions. Within the intersections, many are not walking at all, but are standing, sitting, or milling around randomly. The driver’s only hope is for all the people in the intersection to simultaneously yield their territory. As a driver, your best bet is to simply wait patiently. Eventually, by luck and randomization, a group of magnanimous male pedestrians are bound to arrive at the intersection. They will enthusiastically wave you across, and because of their outgoing nature and friendly countenances, the other pedestrians will grudgingly let you through.

In Texas, at least for most addresses, you can look up the address on the worldwide web and obtain reasonably accurate directions or a map. Don’t try this for a hotel on Bourbon Street. If you do, you’ll have to pull over and call the hotel for directions. If I’d taken the airport shuttle, I would still be ignorant of the fact that Burgundy Street is really Bur-GUN-dy Street, and I would still think Conti Street rhymes with TEA. Because I drove, I know Conti rhymes with EYE.

I’m so glad I decided to drive to New Orleans.

My New Day’s Resolutions

I have never been in the habit of making “New Year’s resolutions” This is probably due to my fear of broken commitments and failure, which would be the inevitable results of any attempt to reform my life for an entire year. However, the dawn of a new year does seem a good time for some inventory-taking and reflection.

I know I am weak on both planning and follow-through in nearly every area of my life. When I set goals and make to-do lists, I tend to list all the things I would like to do or be, without regard to whether the dreamt-of accomplishments are likely to be accomplished by someone with my existing track record. I then make some small wrong decision that makes it impossible to complete the entire list. Since the tasks or goals on the list can no longer all be accomplished, I scrap the whole list as hopeless and spend my discretionary time on whatever activity seems pleasant at the time.

Since this is not a recipe for finishing my dissertation or accomplishing anything else worthwhile, I have decided to focus on creating realistic, attainable goals that I have a decent probability of reaching. If I do this for a while, perhaps I can gradually raise the bar and create some more ambitious goals that will actually get me somewhere.

So, last night I made some New Day’s Resolutions for today, January 2, 2012. (I skipped having New Day’s Resolutions for January 1…it was a holiday, after all!)

Here they are (not in priority or chronological order, just the order I thought of them):

1. Run
2. Visit Sassy (that’s the horse that isn’t trained very well due to my habit of having big dreams but no planning or follow-through)
3. Go to Tractor Supply and buy alfalfa pellets for above horse
4. Write on dissertation research for 1 hour, with no TV to distract me
5. Work on BSF homework (have had it for 3 weeks but just started it yesterday)
6. Go to Kohl’s to use Kohl’s cash (accumulated while goofing off instead of working on dissertation…I got paid to shop!)
7. Call doctor’s office to ask about why the surgeon’s and pharmacy’s math doesn’t match up, and ask if it’s bad that the fungicide makes my nose burn
8. Go to bed by 1:00 a.m.

I know this is not an especially ambitious list of resolutions, but I wanted to start the new year with some chance of success. I am glad to say that I have reached all of my New Day’s resolutions (well, except #8, but there’s still hope I can do it). By way of complete disclosure, I should mention that hubby Scott actually did #3 for me, not because I asked him, but because he’s a nice guy and just did it…it got done, though, so it counts! And I tried to do #7, but the doctor’s office was closed, so this will also have to be a New Day’s Resolution for tomorrow, assuming my introspective mood lasts until then.

I think I like attainable goals!! Now I’d better quit writing and post this quick, so that I can accomplish #8. If I don’t, then my attempt at planning will be a complete failure and I might as well give up on the dissertation, the running, the horse training, and everything else. 

Good night!! And good luck with those New Year's Resolutions! Have you accomplished them yet?

No more remedial swimming…we’re Island Hoppers!

This past July, my friend Yegan talked me into joining her for Remedial Swimming classes. At first I was reluctant, but now I am so glad. In the beginning, not only were we both unable to swim a single stroke, but we both would have needed a lifeguard if we had accidentally fallen into water. If anyone less than a highly trained lifeguard had tried to save us, he would have become one of those sad news stories in which the attempted rescuer is dragged below the water by the panicked flailing non-swimmer. Fortunately, before anything so terrible happened, these two 40+ year old math teachers decided to swallow their pride and take swimming lessons. Now, we both can…

• Freestyle (crawl) a 25 m pool breathing on either side
• Breaststroke the length of the pool
• Dive headfirst into the pool
• Swim with clothes and shoes on (yes, Yegan, even jeans…shorts would be cheating!)
• Swim to the deep end, turn around on either axis, and swim back.
• Float/swim on our back for what seems like forever…on our back we can even steer!

Interestingly, whenever we try a new skill, it seems one of us will pick it up quickly, and the other will have a really hard time.

• Yegan naturally breathes on the left, I breathe on the right. We’re now both practicing so we can breathe on the weak side. 
• Yegan floats, I sink. Whenever we are asked to do any exercise that involves going to the bottom of the pool and staying there, I excel. I let out my air and drop effortlessly to the bottom and can sit on the floor of the pool as long as I like. When Yegan tries it, she goes down a little way and then helplessly floats to the surface. She really needs to work on this.
• Yegan has a naturally good flutter kick. I am gifted at the frog kick. Our instructor says it is because her toes naturally point, and my ankles naturally flex, making it easy for me to bend my knees out to the side and smack my legs together. Somehow, the notion of naturally pointing toes conveys a picture of grace, maybe even a ballerina….does kicking like a frog evoke such thoughts of elegance and beauty? I try not to dwell on it, lest envy take root. 
• Yegan, despite being more terrified than me in the beginning, is better at diving headfirst. She slides right into the water at a near-vertical angle. I tend to go too horizontal, almost belly-flopping at times. However, last week I discovered I was much better than Yegan at the cannonball, in which we jump up, hug our knees to our chest, and land in the water with a giant splash.

We both have plenty to work on, but we have come so far. As of last week, after 4 months of lessons, our instructor John announced that we are no longer Beachcombers—we are now Island Hoppers! Hooray! He even seemed optimistic that we could eventually reach the next grade above Island Hoppers, which is Masters. Apparently Masters swimming has higher standards than the Masters division of running, in which the only qualification is to be at least 40 years old.

While it has been wonderful to learn how to swim, perhaps the neatest thing about our swimming lessons has been that a good friend has become a better friend. If you want to grow a friendship, I highly recommend that you learn a brand-new skill together. For maximum benefit, the learning experience should involve (1) being scared together, (2) frequent laughs at one another’s failings, and (3) head-on collisions, and subsequent entanglements, in 9 feet of water, wearing nothing but spandex and silicone.

Do these things, and any friendship is bound to grow richer.

At last: I defeated the produce!

Last fall, I was blessed with the opportunity to join an absolutely wonderful organization: a produce co-op. My friend Becky, who runs it, calls it a coop and calls us all coopers in her messages, but some part of me just cringes at the thought of being in a coop. So I have decided that if I am going to live in a coop, the coop must have a hyphen.

Every other Monday (coopday), Becky gathers all the money that her coopers have given her since the previous coopday, and she drives her van to a farmer’s market. I have never gone with her, so I’m not sure exactly what she does, but somehow she uses the power of the cash-filled envelope to negotiate bargains on large boxes of fruits and vegetables. When her produce-filled van returns home, she divides all the produce into boxes, one for each of us. I am curious to know her exact process for doing this—presumably the produce is in boxes when it enters her van (surely it’s not rolling around loose!), and it is in boxes when we eventually pick it up from her house. But when it enters her van, I expect that each box is full of like things (one box of apples, another box of peppers, etc.). When we get it, the box is full of unlike things (4 apples, 3 peppers, 1 cantaloupe, etc.). In order to refill the boxes properly, wouldn’t she have to empty them? Does she remove all the produce and lay it on the living room floor, and then distribute the apples among the boxes, the same number for each box? If I tried something like that, I would end up finding a 6-month old peach under my couch whenever I eventually vacuumed. It’s not a pleasant thought. Anyway, she must have a system for these details, because we each end up with a giant box, filled to the top with a huge variety of fruits and veggies.

For each co-op week, each cooper contributes $20. Being a bit of a data geek, I usually weigh my box as soon as I get home. My box weights have varied between 24 and 29 pounds. What an amazing deal!! Can you go to a store and buy any sort of food for less than $1 a pound?!? Spaghetti noodles, perhaps, but not produce! I am far from being an expert produce shopper, but some of things, such as red and orange bell peppers, are pretty expensive when purchased in a store. Of course, for most of the things, I have no idea whether they are expensive or cheap, because I have never bought them before.

My box has contained many fruits/veggies that not only had I never bought before, but I had no clue what they were. For example, I had eaten dried mangos before (thanks to a sweet sister who sent them to me from the Philippines!), but I had no idea what an actual whole mango looked like. Fortunately, Becky (aware of my status as a produce rookie) pointed out the mango the first time we received one. The mango is a very strange fruit! I still don’t know the proper way to cut it, and I don’t understand the shape of its core or how to tell the core from the yummy mango part, so I just keep cutting slices until I feel my knife encounter something hard and raspy, and then I cut somewhere else. We’ve had plenty of other mystery fruits, including a “cactus fruit” which had a bunch of hard seeds interspersed throughout the sweet parts. That one was more trouble than it was worth, but it was interesting. Kiwis are much nicer.

Since last Christmas, one of my recurring non-writing life goals has been to actually use up (or freeze or give away) the entire produce co-op box before any of it rots. Until last co-op, I had failed miserably in my attempts to attain this goal. I kept persisting, partly because I’m stubborn and hard-headed, but mostly because I am a terrible planner and decision-maker. The produce co-op removed the entire burden of grocery decision-making from my shoulders, a wonderful freedom. I am trying to write a dissertation after all, so I need to minimize non-research-related strains on my mental energy. I no longer had to decide what to buy, or to plan what day to do a grocery trip—when the produce co-op arrived, my only food-related goal was to use it up. Simple goals are good. Just as with my writing, even in the midst of my failures, I could still see improvement. As the months went by, a smaller percentage of the produce went bad.

Two produce co-ops ago, I really thought I was going to make it. I used all the salad stuff, froze a few things, and persuaded my hubby to eat some apples (Scott has many wonderful strengths, but consuming produce is not one of them). That was the first time my box had contained an eggplant, so I looked up eggplant recipes and really planned to do something with it. Unfortunately, it was final exam time, and life got crazy, and the eggplant defeated me. It got mushy and gross, and I had to throw it away without even cutting it open. I still have no idea what the inside of an eggplant looks like.

Finally, the next co-op after the eggplant rotted, I did it!! I actually finished all the produce before it died. (Well, there are a few things that got frozen, and there are still a couple of potatoes left, but they stay good for quite some time—so I still say I won.) Also thanks to the co-op, I enjoyed the satisfaction of another first: I actually used up a bottle of salad dressing! This had never happened before. Every other time I bought salad dressing, the salad dressing purchase coincided with a short burst of salad-buying inspiration. I would make the initial salad, use some dressing, and then put the remaining dressing in the fridge. About a year later, about how long it usually took for salad inspiration to strike again, I would examine the expiration date on the dressing, throw it away, and buy another bottle. Thanks to the produce co-op, I have now polished off two bottles of salad dressing before they expired.

One key to my victory was that I actually ate the squash. Many times, the co-op box has contained squash, and I’ve never had any idea what to do with it. I would let it intimidate me into complete paralysis, hiding it in the fridge drawer hoping for inspiration, which of course never came. When the next co-op arrived, I would open the produce drawer, discover that the nice firm squashes were now mushified, throw them away, and replace them with new fresh squashes. Until this recent co-op victory, the only squash I had ever cut up was a long green one that I thought was a cucumber. (I still didn’t know what to do with it, so most of it got thrown away, but at least I cut it up.) I still haven’t cooked a squash, but this time I cut them up and ate them raw—they’re actually pretty good!

Of course, I didn’t have much time to enjoy my triumph before the current batch of produce arrived. It came on the very first day of fall semester classes, and so far the only thing I have cut up is the celery. I haven’t frozen, cut, or washed anything else. The fridge is stuffed with cantaloupe, red bell peppers, corn, grapes, strawberries, cucumbers/zucchinis/green squash (not sure which), spinach, apples, peaches, carrots, broccoli, mango, tomatoes, kiwis, and some mysterious round green fruits that feel like plums but are the wrong color. My great victory may be followed by my worst defeat yet. I did give away a couple bananas to a colleague, and that’s about it. But I am ready for battle, armed with a 3-day weekend, my Forever Sharp knife, Ninja blender and salad spinner. Let the duel begin!!

Time-Wasting Experimental Blog Post

Why on earth would I spend two hours trying to fix my blog so the archives show on the side where they belong, instead of at the bottom where no one can find them? I have no idea. I don't know why I should care about this, but I do. It's not as if I expect anyone to read this blog--it was created purely as a motivational tool for myself, so that I could practice writing and hopefully learn to enjoy it.

So, the purpose of this particular post is so that I can see whether Blogger simply didn't like my previous entry, about progress and bad days, or whether it doesn't like anything I write. Whatever happens, no matter how badly my page is messed up, I will force myself to abandon, at least for this evening, the silly task of trying to fix my unread blog.

Instead, I will watch the first lesson from the Remedial Swimming video I just received from eBay, then go to the gym to try it out. I can go play guilt-free, because I already kept my writing appointment for the day!!

Update: The reason I spent over 2 hours trying to fix a blog no one reads is that I am too dumb, proud, or something, to scroll through the Blogger help forums to see if anyone else has ever had the same problem. Once I did that, I discovered the culprit was a stray </div>. Once it was obliterated, not only did my archives come running back home, but all the links, stubbornly unclickable in Firefox, magically came to life. If my time-wasting resulted in a lesson learned, then it wasn't totally wasted...hopefully I learned my lesson. Here, I got two lessons for the price of one: a Remedial HTML lesson, and a Read the Tech Help lesson. Thank you, Blogger techies!

Remedial Swimming

Yes, I still cannot believe it, but I actually enrolled in Remedial Swimming. That is not the official name given to it by the swim/scuba business, but that is what it is. I refuse to call it Developmental Swimming or Transitional Swimming, as if it were a math or English class offered by an institution of higher learning. Such euphemisms have no place in this blog. The only reason I signed up for it is because my friend Yegan (who also teaches developmental math) talked me into it. Once again, I discover I am just like my students—I am going to school simply because my friends are! (Gee, we’re all humans…why shouldn’t we be alike?) Actually, while being able to share lessons with a friend is a nice plus and is the reason I chose this particular summer to learn to swim, it is in fact something I have considered before, because I always wished I could swim, but as with so many other things, I’ve just never gotten around to it.

I have managed (at least mostly) to get over my ego and not feel self-conscious about my total lack of skill in this area. I am even willing to practice in the lap pool at my gym, splashing around the shallow end and coughing up water, while other people gracefully swim lap after lap, or sit on the bench in front of the steam room talking (I’m sure they have more interesting things to talk about than the ineptitude of people in the pool). There is nothing whatsoever wrong with being enrolled in Remedial Swimming, or Remedial Anything (at least that’s what I keep telling myself). Remedial Anything simply means that you did not learn Anything at the time Anything is typically learned, so you have to learn it later. I have known outstanding students, excelling in calculus and above, who began their college careers in developmental math. Every time I teach a developmental math class, I remind myself that I may have a few future rocket engineers in the bunch, who are way smarter at math than me. I wonder if it has ever occurred to my Remedial Swimming instructor that perhaps Yegan or I will be a future Olympic swimming champ?

Yegan started Remedial Swimming at least a couple of weeks before me (talking me into it was a difficult and time-consuming project). She said that she was absolutely terrible at swimming, sank like a rock, and flailed her arms and legs without going anywhere. So I thought I would be ahead of her, because at least I could float on my back and dog-paddle across the short length of the pool. But this apparent head start did me no good whatsoever, because on my first day of class, the instructor didn’t ask me to dog-paddle across the pool or float on my back. She asked me to lay horizontally on the water with my face in it, and kick my legs. On the second lesson, she added arms. I am supposed to stroke through the water with my arms, turning my head to breathe with each stroke, all while continuously kicking my legs and staying horizontal. This is, of course, impossible. I have never even been able to pat my head and rub my stomach at the same time. How could I possibly move my arms one way, my legs another, and my head another, all while laying face-down in a substance that has been known to kill people? As I discovered last night, I cannot even run on a treadmill while watching Xtreme Skateboarding (whenever a skateboarder wipes out at the top of the halfpipe, I step off the side of the treadmill).

Remedial Swimming Lesson #3 is tomorrow. We shall see what it holds. After upping her Remedial Swimming attendance to four times a week, Yegan can now swim halfway across the lap pool without stopping. I am only attending Remedial Swimming once a week, so it may take me until Christmas to be able to swim across the pool. I certainly hope not—I don’t think my ego can take a beating for that long!

A good day is…

• a reasonable amount of sleep

• a nice country drive for an hour and a half or so, maybe a little Rush on the radio

• parking in the parking garage instead of the hot sun, which I’m only allowed to do in the summer

• walking through a quiet campus, seeing lots of teenagers with their moms, all decked out in their new Aggie gear, and no doubt wondering what new experiences the upcoming year will bring

• locking myself in a tiny library cubicle, writing for an hour and actually enjoying it

• visiting my writing friend for a sweet time of mutual dissertation encouragement

• browsing through journals just to see what sorts of things are in them, and noticing that I am now familiar enough with research in my field to recognize a few names

• looking through book stacks just to see if anything jumps out to me…found a good book! Libraries are amazing places.

• lugging so many books to the car that they don’t fit in my backpack

• driving back to Houston without getting sleepy (this is related to getting sufficient sleep the night before)

• running 6 strong (for me!) miles in the dark

• going to bed without regrets

It may not be a spectacular day, but if all my days were like this, I wouldn’t have much to complain about.

The Jen Action Planner

Throughout my life, I have been prone to occasional bouts of inspiration, of varying length, in which I feel motivated to change my drifter tendencies and become productive. Often these episodes have resulted in the purchase of a new planner, calendar, or organizational system. Fortunately these have rarely been of the electronic variety, thus minimizing the financial consequences of the episodes.  While I appreciate the benefits of technology and am very glad not to be writing a dissertation in the era of typewriters and ditto machines, I know myself well enough to know I will do better with paper.

My most recent planner purchase was this past winter. I already had a paper calendar that served me well, but I wanted something in which I could map out my days hour-by-hour, a whole day at a time, including of course my scheduled and protected writing session. Knowing that a generic spiral notebook would never suffice to plan my days, I set off in search of the perfect planning notebook. My yearly calendar purchase usually takes several store visits and revisits, as it is difficult to find a calendar that has colors both pleasant and cheerful, paper with a nice feel, and lines that are neither too narrow nor too dark.  However, after visiting just two stores and feeling rather proud of my decisiveness, I purchased a planner. I liked the paper, I liked the lines, and the price was right. I wasn’t thrilled with the dull black cardboard cover, but was willing to overlook it if it could help me finish my dissertation.

When I arrived home, I removed my new planner from the bag to plan my tomorrow. Guess what I found, stamped in gold, on the plain black cardboard cover?  Yes, indeed, its official name is the “Jen Action Planner”.  It even has “Jen Action Planner” on each of the pages. Why on earth would a company name a notebook the “Jen Action Planner”? Clearly this notebook was meant for me. I don’t know why I didn’t notice the name when I was in the store. My eye must have skimmed over it, assuming it said “Jet Action Planner” or just “Action Planner” or some other sensible and inspiring name.

Anyway, I proceeded to make a plan for the next day. I followed through on my plan, at least mostly, got a lot done and felt great about my day. For each of the next few days I planned my time the night before. Then, for some reason, I quit. Since then, I have occasionally planned a few days, but I haven’t been consistent. I noticed the planned days resulted in more productivity than the unplanned days, yet I didn’t persist. I have used my calendar to keep up with meetings and other obligations, but my unspoken-for hours have slipped through my fingers, never to be seen again.   

I ask myself now, “Why am I so unwilling to plan?” I think it is because I am very selfish, and want to reserve the right to do what I want when I want to do it. I don’t like feeling guilty or miserable because I didn’t do follow through on my commitments. If I don’t set any goals, then I can’t be a failure for not meeting them.

I know better. I know that every day is a gift, and that I need to be a better steward of the gifts God has given me. In an effort to use my hours more wisely, I have dusted off my Jen Action Planner, and have planned my tomorrow. Yet I realize that I am not the One who holds tomorrow, and that some unexpected adventure, better than all my plans, may be sent my way...I want to be ready to welcome it. 

A blog is born

Yes, I just created a blog! What was I thinking? Do I actually think I have time for another hobby? No, I do not. I certainly do not need to add yet another activity that will divert precious time and energy from my work on my dissertation. However, it is my hope that this blog will do just the opposite--that it will help me to become what I have finally realized I must become:  a WRITER.

I have been keeping my writing log, and "trying" (whatever that means exactly) to write regularly. These efforts have resulted in significant progress during the last year. However, I have finally realized that they will not be enough--maybe if I keep pecking away at the research and writing, I will eventually do enough of both to graduate, but probably not. I need to completely change my mindset. I have wasted enough time lamenting that grad school is hard, and that I can't wait to finish the dissertation so that life can begin. No, life began a long time ago, and it is still going on now, grad school or no. Instead of waiting for this phase of life to finally be over, I must learn to embrace the process, the writing, and the research project.

This blog is part of an effort to do just that. I hope it will help to remind me just how blessed I am to have the opportunity to work on a PhD degree. This is the only dissertation I will write in my entire life, and I want to find joy in it--not just joy when it is finally done, but joy in watching it come to life, grow, change, and hopefully make some small contribution to the world. Through the process, I also need to grow--and in the right ways, not in increased negativity, frustration and whining.

So, well-wishing friends, please watch this space and feel free to give me a motivational kick in the rear whenever you feel I need it. Enjoy!