On not-deadness

I'm not dead.


But I am starting to wonder if I'm becoming a zombie.

I came back here hunting for an old post I remembered writing when I was working on my master's thesis, describing how I really didn't want to write it.


Now I really don't want to write my dissertation.


Just the thought of it makes me drag my feet and make splooshy grumbling noises like a zombie craving brains, only, instead of wanting brains I now wonder if I shouldn't want a little less of them. See, I've reached the conclusion that writing a doctoral dissertation doesn't necessarily require an abundance of brains - in fact - the less brains, (almost) the better. More brains just allow for more distracting thoughts and stray arguments you'll never be able to defend properly anyway. Less brains might solve that problem.


If zombieism doesn't kick in soon, I might consider a brief lobotomy (yes. I do realize lobotomies tend to be rather permanent and that there really is nothing "brief" about them. But I don't want to end up all vegetable either, just slightly zombie-ish, enough for me to be abel to release my "just do it"-juices much the same way I imagine new zombies do when they first encounter the lovely dish of human brains. Hence, "brief").

Also, yesterday I bought a zombie bowling set, just to fully prepare me for the apocalypse ahead (or, should I say "behead"? Hurr hurr).


So, undead, then. That's the new plan.

On Good and Bad Bosses

Being a PhD student (especially in Norway, where it is paid employment) is in many ways a sweet deal. You get to spend time working on exactly the thing you're (supposed to be) most interested in. You get to have a narrow focus on a topic so specific (and often insignificant) that most people know next to nothing about it. You get to become an expert on this topic. You get to devote time, energy, intellectual capacity and whatever skills you've developed over time on working on just one, single issue that need not be of any particular interest or use to anyone else (though naturally you have learnt how to argue that indeed it is of particular interest and use to everyone else - you've gotten some kind of funding for this project, after all...). You get to do all this for a longer period of time, usually about three to four years, and in the meantime very few people are going to bother you in any significant way with meeting deadlines, making progress or doing any of the most basic things most employees are expected to do in their jobs: show up at a specific time, show up at all, actually work...

Of course this latter point isn't entirely true.

First of all, most universities will by now have instated some kind of checks and balances system to keep a little control of their PhD students. It will still vary greatly from institution to institution how rigid this system is, but I would guesstimate that you nowhere anymore can do what seems to have been the "norm" many places in the past - you show up at the start of your doctorate and then nobody sees you again for four (or more) years until you show up again for your defense with a 1000 page dissertation.

These days there are some requirements. You have to take some courses (here I know Norway is still on the lighter side. In many places it still is more than justified to call the PhD students students, as they do plenty of course work and have papers due and everything - our system is more flexible and it can be argued that it is just as correct to call me and my peers PhD fellows). You generally will have some deadlines along the way (we, for instance, have a halfway evaluation, which I will take sometime this summer or autumn). And technically I am supposed to show up for work during work hours at any time I don't have a justifiable reason not to do so (a conference, field work, those courses I talked about), but in reality I am fairly sure I could stay at home for several weeks at end and no one would notice (except my office mate, but she wouldn't tell on me, and a simple Facebook message saying "Working from home for a while" would put her at ease). And even if they did notice, it wouldn't have any consequences.*

Many of the requirements, then, are more for show than actually breathing down your neck like the proverbial distrusting boss would do.

However, I do have one of those bosses as well. The problem is that she is not always a good boss. And before you jump to conclusions about me slandering my boss in social media, I should clarify: I'm talking about myself. (My real boss is a man, so there.)

My Bad Boss - me - isn't always a bad boss. The not bad part is what makes her a boss at all. Because in a system where so little pressure is put on you for any day-to-day production (but HUGE pressure on the long haul production with the far-ahead deadline way out of your sight), you really need to pull yourself together and force yourself to do some work every now and then. You need to be your own boss. You need to tell yourself what your tasks are, and then you need to do them. Otherwise, you've already lost.

On occasion this works for me. I can have whole days and several days in a row, even, where I work like a normal person (one of those with real bosses), and get stuff done. My Good Boss manages to give me clear instructions and as a Good Employee (because I am, honestly, even if this post so far might suggest otherwise) I get it done.

This is improvement on my part.

I remember when I wrote my master's thesis I was absolutely horrid at getting stuff done. Every word came at an insufferable price - it felt like I had to pull them out of me like fingernails from a torture victim (you're welcome for that mental picture).

This is because then I only** had the Bad Boss. The Bad Boss still comes around too frequently for me to be particularly happy about it, though. The Bad Boss doesn't motivate me or give me instructions; the Bad Boss tells me that the final deadline is coming closer with every day (well, duh!). She tells me that I have a come nearly halfway in my PhD, but I have not produced half of the text for a PhD dissertation (and my objections that I have done plenty of other useful stuff that doesn't necessarily reflect the amount of output you can touch and feel but nevertheless contributes to the end result have no traction with her). My Bad Boss makes me feel insecure, worried, and generally pretty useless.

My Bad Boss most frequently visits when I am tired, hungry, stressed out, or that one week of the month where most women feel more insecure, worried and useless (if you're a man and you've no idea what I'm talking about, I envy you and I'm about to punch you in the face. Go away. Bring me chocolate before coming back).

Most annoying of all - my Bad Boss makes me a Bad Employee. And as I mentioned, I am not really a Bad Employee. I am a Good Employee. Whenever Good Boss is around it's pretty visible too, so you don't even have to take my word for it.

So. Like a terrible academic*** I have arrived at the problem far too long into the text I'm writing. In order for me to be a Good and Productive Employee, I need my Good Boss to speak louder and more frequently than my Bad Boss. But how do I do this?

Like an even more terrible academic I was very close to ending my text with a question. Because a question, at this point, is about as good as I can do. I don't really have an answer. I can't predict when the Bad Boss will show up, or how long she intend to stay (though I can of course try to avoid the situations I know she is most likely to appear, but even so - it's not like I can avoid work one week every month, no matter how relaxed the system might seem).

My best bet is on the realization that I have a Bad Boss, and that I have a Good Boss. I know there are two of them. So for the times when it feels like only the Bad Boss is the one showing her ugly face, I can try to tell myself that she will not linger forever. The Good Boss will show up eventually. In fact, if I manage to ignore the Bad Boss she sometimes tires of pestering me, and goes away all on her own. Sometimes, sometimes, even the Good Boss pops her head in directly after, just to check on me.****

So it boils down to this: I need to get rid of my Bad Boss but I should probably also be aware that she will never disappear completely, but rather keep in mind she will also never stay put for good.



҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉҉



*For the record, I also have a supervisor, and she is very active, and she probably would notice both my absence for longer stretches of time and definitely my failure to meet deadlines and produce text. So in my case the potential slacking off has a very real limit. But not every supervisor is as active or attentive, so it is not entirely impossible that you would find cases where not even he or she would know if the PhD student had stopped working altogether for a loooong while.

** This is a truth that needs some moderation. I did write the damn thesis, and it's not all bad, so at some point the Good Boss must have been around then as well. But it didn't feel like it - I suspect maybe the Good Boss simply was a deputy back then, and thus did not really dare to challenge the authority of the Bad Boss. At least that is my theory. I am glad that the Good Boss' career has taken an upward turn!

*** For some reason I really want to write "academidian" instead. But then my Bad Boss told me I could not justify a title clearly derived from a crossover between academic and comedian. As I am neither (can you see what this hag is doing to me? I need her to GO AWAY!!! And not come back - not even with chocolate).

**** Sometimes she brings chocolate! :)

On the transvisual transgressions of the transatlantic tranquilizer trajectory.

I spent all my creative energy on that title, so now all that is left is for me to pretend I really meant to and compose a short text devoid of any creativity whatsoever.

It shouldn't be too difficult.

I am, after all, trying actively on a daily basis to subdue creativity to get non-creative things done (insofar there exists such a thing as a non-creative anything). I am getting good at it. Well. Not necessarily at getting the non-creative things done, but at subdue creativity, at least! Hooray!

Now, let's not be bleak. This is a good thing.

Creativity is overrated.

Well, no it's not. I don't actually mean that. I already revealed that I at least on some level believe creativity takes a part in most anything human beings do (not that this belief necessarily demonstrates the importance of creativity, though).

And it's not even true. I don't subdue my creativity. It just feels like a natural part of the process. A process of "growing up", "having a job", "writing a PhD-thesis", "being a normal human being" (except for my belief that "normal" "human beings" actually are "creative" all the time. Except everything, really).

This text turned bleak despite my intentions not to let it. I meant to have it cheerful and happy, in order to present a joyous view on the world (of which there are too few, generally, I think), exemplified in the fact that it's spring (yay!); that I get to go abroad for a month, tomorrow (yay!); that there exist such a thing as semicolons (yay!); and that today we had a solar eclipse (though I didn't see it due to clouds and general indoorness, so yaaeii?).

I'm going to the U.S.

For a month.



I have in the past been eager to travel.

I have in the more recent past been less eager to travel.

I have this time again found that eagerness, but then also, the less eagerness lurking behind.



I get to travel but I have to travel.

I get to see lots of interesting documents but I have to see all these documents.

I get to be all by myself but I have to be alone.



But there are more redeeming factors this time around. I get to hang out with an old friend. I get to visit a new part of the U.S. that I have been eager to see. I get a preview of summer before returning home to full spring. And when I return home I get to stay home. I can travel more, but I don't have to.




Away, away, o'hoi and away!

On a police car, four helicopters and a Canadian mountie

I must be going crazy, and I'm drinking peppermint-chocolate tea.

No, bear with me here. I could be going crazy. There is no sure-fire way of telling. My hair is too long. Or rather, it's in need of a cut. Not necessarily a get-much-shorter-cut, but a get-rid-of-the-split-ends-cut, for sure.

Jess is failing high school. It's before he becomes Peter Petrelli, so he still has that to look forward to. Or not. I don't know what happens to P. Petrelli in the end, as I never made it past season three.

My knee is making a weird noise. Icky. Rory is valedictorian. And I don't know what "valedictorian" means. I could google it. I know the gist. But there are red pandas in the world, and my boyfriend bought me a comic book.

Nick Offerman's "American Ham" is really great. But then Nick Offerman is really great too. And ham is okay, I suppose. I'm not a huge fan, even though ham is probably my favourite breakfast meat. I'm not that big a fan of "pålegg" in general. (I'm sure I've explained the oddity of the Norwegian concept "pålegg" before, so I'm not doing it again, In case I didn't, you can google it, or worse, take my clue from the valedictorian debacle and decide that you probably know what it is and remain in ignorance, while you distract yourself with another episode of "Gilmore Girls").

The turtle is staring at me judgingly. Probably because it knows I should be transcribing Henry Kissinger's notes instead of sending myself angry Facebook messages. Yes, I do that. Cruella can be truly cruel. Mari replies in kind (which is to say, not kindly).

I like seeing people happy. I think that is a sign I may not be going crazy. Or at least a good quality. Also, my laptop is running out of battery, and I'm starting to be annoyed at Lorelai. A little. We'll make up.

I suppose I should get to the point if there is one. (Or, I could plug in the laptop. That would avoid the need to make some sort of point.)

I've come to realize that one of the biggest challenges of my current line of work is to actually go to work on the days when it just isn't working. When I'm not working. Not being capable of working. When all I can do is be disgusted by the world and myself and watch "Gilmore Girls":

I've also come to realize that the valedictorian is the one wearing a slightly different robe than the rest, who holds the speech during the graduation ceremony, and I actually cried a little, during Rory's speech. It's an emotional episode.

I don't have a point, and my tea is getting cold. I might be going crazy, but at least there is another season to watch and new days to fail and fall down and stand up again. And maybe enjoy the fact that the title of this post does not match its content. Again.

On LBJ

We meet again, old vague acquaintance.

I never did get the hang of you last time.

Your entry into the White House was sudden, unexpected, tragic. It was inevitable for you to end up in Jack's shadow. History didn't change that.

Your domestic experience gave you no credit among students of diplomatic history. Whatever foreign policy you led, we usually accounted to your predecessor's memory. Besides, your foreign policy = Vietnam.

You are little more than a footnote in books about U.S. policy in the Middle East, and he only thing really worth mentioning is your strong support for the State of Israel (but then this isn't exactly unique among American presidents).

You are said to be one of the main inspirations behind Kevin Spacey's character in "House of Cards" (along with King Richard III of England). Good for you.

Your name. Lyndon! It sounds like a character from a 1950s superhero comic (though no the hero. Not the villain either, I think. The jury is still out). The only U.S. politician sounding more like a superhero comic character is Spiro Agnew. You can't beat that.

You did leave a legacy in domestic politics. But I don't study domestic politics.

You're from Texas. Which called for another footnote in the books about U.S. policy in the Middle East, as you were already accustomed to deal with oil companies. So no need to mention that part of your foreign policy either.

Your wife is called Lady Bird. That is all.

You share initials with your wife (and your daughters, and your dog), though I think it would be much more entertaining if you also shared her middle name. Lyndon Bird Johnson makes you sound even more like a character from a superhero comic (though still not the hero).

We were never friends. I don't think that will change this time either. But perhaps I might get to know you a little better, at least?

I am not sure how I feel about that.

On pretense

Let's pretend this is a blog you still read with some regularity - in fact, let's pretend it's a blog I write with some regularity.

Let's pretend Albert Einstein was a duck. Might as well.

Let's pretend the below picture isn't photoshopped.

Let's pretend the reason I am not writing here regularly is because I am so busy living a fabulous life. Let's pretend I'm never tired of the fabulousness.

Let's pretend. That nothing no one never said was true or false.

Let's pretend that winter is not coming.

Let's pretend that I am not worrying about work and not work and the potential of not having to worry about work.

Let's pretend that I write. Occasionally.

Let's pretend that placebo is as good as Placebo. Let's pretend you could watch that video without having to watch a commercial first.

Let's pretend that all it takes is a good night's sleep, and that you will get just that, tonight.

On wanting badly to smack a deserving soul in the face but realizing it would not serve the intended purpose (but nevertheless feel good)

Certain people make me turn into this guy:

(And I'm not talking about John)

On socwardness (part two)

Man, on the ground, below my office. Walking, slowly, towards one of the tables touched by the almost-sun of the early Norwegian autumn. He is carrying lunch, balancing a fork. Passing a couple of attractive, chatty young ladies. One of the girls laugh - not at him - enough to make his fine-tuned balancing act fall apart. The sound of a fork hitting the ground.


I can see his shoulders heave as he sighs.

Then he bends over - carefully considering the angle so that he will not have to reveal his bu... the crevice between his buttocks.. to the young ladies (not realizing that this instead reveals it to an entire building of lazy academics looking out of their office windows).

He picks up the fork and sighs again.

He wipes the fork off on his trousers, but it is evident that he cannot eat with it now that the young ladies have seen it touching the ground. (The three-second rule only applies when there are no potential hook-ups present.)

The man stumbles back the way he came from, wanting to throw a humorous comment in the young ladies' way as he passes, but feeling too self-conscious to do so. Instead he walks 50 meters or so, until he is out of sight for the people occupying the seating area. He is still unknowingly very visible to the academics in their stuffed offices.

He stands under a tree for the appropriate amount of time spent walking back inside to fetch a new fork. Then he returns to the table he first sought out.

When passing the young ladies he smiles at them, and one of them returns the smile with a promise of sorts.


There is hope, even for the lazy and socially awkward ones.

On [insert title]

I want you to think of it as a work of fiction, but one produced by an initially creative mind trained for years to think analytically.

I want you to think of me as the main character in this work of fiction. As such you’ll need to know certain things about me. Had this been a regular work of fiction, I would try to weave it in more “comfortably”, “naturally”, subtly. Perhaps a nice “the main character stares at her own reflection in the mirror before having a flashback to childhood”-scene to start things off. But I won’t be doing that.

First of all, to fit the nature of this text – as mentioned I (and by “I” in this case I mean both main character, narrator and, even, author, even though that is breaking all literary rules) have been trained to think and write analytically. I am a lecturer. I preach to my students to be specific, concrete, clear. “Say exactly what you want to say! Don’t expect the reader to know a thing!” (I also tell them to be genre-aware, which of course contradicts my current point since I am about to use the rules from one genre on a completely different one, but whatever.)

Secondly, you don’t have to know what I look like (but for clarity’s sake: tall, blond, blue eyes, small nose and ears, cheeky grin, freckles for spring, one eyebrow that leaps toward my hairline when I question something [the other one pretty much stays put]). You don’t have to know anything about my childhood (but again: happy, youngest child with two older siblings, a fair amount of precociousness that made me simultaneously cute and terribly annoying). A mirror and flash-back scene, then, would not serve the purpose of this text. Story. Whatever.


There might not be a purpose to this text. Story. Whatever. 


Sorry. Whatever. 


Life is oddly good and bad at the same time for our main character. Let me be specific. I - she - is sitting at a café, enjoying a rare treat (for Norway) of a bottomless coffee pot. In Norway you often pay for your second and third cup as well. [footnote] There is free WiFi at the café, which is less unusual, but not less of a treat to our main character. Her home internet connection died a few weeks ago, and she occasionally suffers from Facebook withdrawal. Not terribly so, though. Other things have been keeping her occupied. Work. Family stuff. The loss of a loved one. The gain of another. (I'd be even more specific, but these details are not strictly necessary for the text. I should cut them, probably. But I am not yet seasoned enough to "kill my darlings". I tell my students to do that. I don't practice what I preach, apparently, Then again, they don't listen [,she says and writes the letter "D" on a piece of paper in front of her. Grading, again.].)


She is smiling. It's been a good morning, even if she's barely started with her work and - boy - does she have work to do. (Grading. As mentioned. Don't use terms like "as previously mentioned" in excess. They derail the reader and make him/her unnecessarily aware of pointless repetitions. Preach. Practice.) She stretches her neck. It's hurting, a little. 


Should she brave another cup of coffee? Better not. Even if it's free. She should get going - physically removing herself from the internet seems the only way of getting anything done. Well, not  from "the internet". From anywhere with internet access. To explain: the internet holds unlimited (insofar as anything can be "unlimited" in a physical universe. Or a metaphysical one. Or any kind of -ysical. Basically, ∞ - 1, then. The internet holds ∞ - 1) possibilities for procrastination. And it just happens that our main character is a world class procrastinator. If there was an Olympic Championship for procrastination she would win - well, not gold, probably, but silver, or bronze. Or maybe the lousy number four. 


Doesn't matter. Does not matter. Try to avoid contractions in formal text. She tends to get stuck in vicious cycles, our friend. "Friend". Main character. Her life distracts her from what she is supposed to do. What she is supposed to do is not something she wants to do, so she lets life distract her even more. 


She is an analyst. Not just by profession, but in life. "What does it signify?" she will ask herself, daily, hourly, minutely. "I need a definition." (But did she want one? She is not sure. Though she is fairly happy with the end result.) [Limit the usage of italics. They distract the reader. Especially when you keep highlighting the same word several times in a row, indicating that it is somehow more important than the rest. And then referring to it afterwards, making it unnecessarily clear that there indeed is some specific significance tied to this word. More people than you are analysts, you know. Plus, "unnecessarily" is spelled with two n's, two s's and only one c. You should know this by now, without the spell check having to tip you off every time. Spell check is written in two words.]


She is fairly happy. And she is running out of battery. Another way of physically removing herself from the internet. Or, to be specific, from an internet connection. 


[insert footnotes later]


F.

On F****** Fridays

Got up too early AND too late at the same time.

It's raining.

Struggled to find the flow in the papers I had to read this morning.

Continued to struggle all day.

Spent too much money. On stuff. And food. And stuff.

Stupid papers!

Why am I freezing? My feet are icicles (as usual).

Now I'm sleepy. Wish it was a "real" Friday. One where I didn't have to work most of the night.

Bit of a stomach ache.

Cold.

Sleepy.

Want something and don't want it at the same time. Like chocolate.

Definitely don't want to read papers. But if I don't - I'll have to gobble up too many of them the upcoming week instead.

Sigh.

Next Friday will be better!

On my desk

...there is a bottle, empty, but it once contained orange juice. No longer. Someone drank the juice. Me, presumably.

On my desk there is also a postcard, blank, but I originally bought it with someone specific in mind. I still look at it from time to time and find a special guilt in my heart. I should write the postcard soon-ish.

There is a telephone, or two, actually. One is my cell phone of five years this fall. It's been with me through a lot - across oceans, through a master's thesis, several jobs. I've had good news and great news and terrible news and oh-well-it's-probably-for-the-best-news handed to me through it. I've heard voices I despise, and voices I love. Texts that have made me cry. Some that made me glow.
The other phone is the land line to the office I currently occupy. It's rarely in use. This morning it nearly startled me to death, as I'm not used to the sound of it. The conversation was comical and irrelevant.

On my desk there is a Starbucks travel mug. Sakura 2011 edition. I bought it sometime in the early spring last year, expecting to actually be able to see the 2011 sakura blossom in Tokyo. Then the earthquake changed my plan. I hold no grudge against the mug, though.

There is a timetable on my desk. It is too full for my liking.

On my desk there is a pair of sunglasses. They long for usage.

On my desk there is a lot of papers. Some of them belong there, some of them really don't. I should take some time to organize them. I probably won't.

A couple of books - history books - open on the pages of "World War Two" are covered with a pair of gloves and a cheerful scarf.

Another pair of sunglasses. They too long for usage.

On my desk there is three pairs of earrings and two regular rings. And then a keyring. With lots of keys on it. Most of them are to my apartment (4), the rest (3) are for a) work; b) my parents' house; and c) and old bike I haven't used for at least ten years. The figurines attached to the keychain are all bought in Japan, but with 8 years in between.

I have three types of lipgloss and/or lipbalm lying around on my desk.

The various equipment for writing include: one keyboard, three ballpoint pens, two pencils - one of them red, three different colours of highlighters, two felt-tip pens, one "gel-ink" marvel.

On my desk there is a watch. It's not working. Benefit: I didn't have to adjust it for daylight saving this weekend.

Post-it notes of at least three different shapes and colours are spread across the desk.

There is a water bottle on my desk.

On my desk there are two fairly good loudspeakers. The problem is that they only work about half the time.

On my desk there is a dead fly. It's been sitting in that exact position since I moved into this office in October.

On decency and safety: how playing it safe occasionally is hazardous

This is a tale of the importance of a safety pin, and how choosing safety in one department, very well might put you at risk in another.


Let me first dwell over the expression "safety pin". It is "a spring wire clasp with a covering catch, made so as to shield the point when closed and to prevent accidental unfastening"[1]. So true. A safety pin is meant to prevent accidental unfastening. What this definition fails to convey, however, is that a safety pin generally also is meant to prevent accidental unfastening of the item(s) it is holding together.

For instance. I have a reflex.

Digression: I know the word "reflex" in English means many things - none of which is the one I need it to mean. (Actually, I have many reflexes. None that are shaped like a giraffe, incidentally. This is not relevant to the digression or the story, though. It's a sub-digression.)

The word I need is tricky to find. I've been stumbling around google for a while, and the best I could come up with is "reflective item". That sounds overly complicated for someone who grew up with government initiated campaigns ("Reflexes save lives!") to make people wear these reflective items to increase traffic security. I feel this says something about the English speaking world. Most of it is located much further south than the Norwegian speaking world (which mainly is located in Norway). Further south means more light during winter. But, it just occurred to me, further south also means less light during summer, so technically, they ought to use their reflective items all year round, and not just in winter, like we do! Also - what about Alaska?!

Yes, what about Alaska?

Alaska is English speaking, and far north. They would suffer from similar reflective issues as we do in Norway. They need to wear reflective items too. But there is no way you'd make an Alaskan put on what a Norwegian would refer to as a "reflex" unless they have a better name for it. I can imagine the government initiated campaigns in Alaska:

"Use a reflective item! If you can pronounce it fast enough; it might save your life!"

Not that the pronounciation matters, technically, to how efficient it is at reflecting light and thus making you visible to cars and thus increasing traffic security...

I think I lost a part of myself in that digression. (I also forgot to pull back in the string about the south-of-Alaska part of the English-speaking world needing reflexes year-round. I just don't know. Do they?)

Anyway. Since I didn't grow up in Alaska, or anywhere else in the English speaking world, I know that you have to wear a reflex all through winter. It might save your life. Or mine. Every autumn, then, I dutifully put on the little not-giraffe-shaped thingie, and so far I've never been killed by a car.

However, that might be subject to change.

On Monday my workplace had its annual Christmas Party.

Digression again: I know I haven't been talking about my job much. At least not this job. The job I now have. The job with the Christmas Party safety issues. I went directly from "Back from Japan, new opportunities will come" via "Ihatelookingforajob!!!" to "Istillhatelookingforajob!!!!!" to "So, on my way to work today..." to near-radio silence. I know. So much for blogging being all about sharing stuff, right..?

I got a job. I got a job that under no circumstances made me feel like sharing anything at all. Partly because it was top-secret (it wasn't. That just sounded more interesting than what I was about to type...) - Partly because it was temporary. One month only. Then one month more. Never enough to actually let my shoulders down. Not even enough to find an apartment in Oslo.

So, I've been living with my parents, still (most of my stuff is there), but in reality, I've spent more time living at either one of my sisters' houses, plus occasionally crashing on various couches. I am grateful for their hospitality, but obviously, the situation isn't ideal. It's exhausting, and the only reason I tolerate it is that the alternative would be a four-hour commute, daily. As it is, I "only" have a two hour commute.

The other reason I haven't felt like sharing much about this job is that it isn't... it isn't what I wanted to do. The job itself is fine. I occasionally like it, I occasionally don't. Like any other job, then. I don't ever feel I work enough, or that my results are sufficient - like any other job, then. It's challenging, tiresome, and fairly interesting. Like any other job. Then.

As happy as I am to have a job, I am slightly - surprised, perhaps - that I'm still at my old university. Many of my classmates fell in love with the process of academia. I didn't. I wanted to use it to get an education, and then get out. All hail those who want to become scientists and researchers, but that was never me.

And yet. Here I am. Back in academia, back in research. I'm writing footnotes like my life depended on it. (Actually, no, that is a stretch. My life depends on wearing a reflex. Not footnotes.)

It's been an interesting shift from being a student to being a colleague. Of sorts. I'm still the lowest ranking here, of course; but all of a sudden I'm two floors up from before, I have xerox and printer access I could only dream of as a student (I did), and the noble professors now greet me when I run into them in the hallways. Plus I got invited to the Christmas Party.

At first I didn't sign up; after all, I was here for a short time only. But then something changed. I got a new job.

This time it's for six months. I know that's still temporary, but to me, it sounds like a world of time. More interestingly, perhaps - it's not about footnotes anymore. It's teaching. Classes. University classes. With actual students. Students who will be graded. By me.

It feels - overwhelming. Great responsibility, massive amounts of work, and a situation that will be completely new to me. I've asked myself whether I am qualified for this - heck, I asked my boss whether I am qualified. We reached the conclusion that I am... Now I only need to prove it. Am I scared? No, I'm terrified. But I am also determined to do my best.

Academia pulled me back in again. I guess this will be my chance to find out whether my decision not to devote my life to academics was right.

In the meantime my concern lies more with reflexes and safety pins. You see, my reflex - of the not-giraffe variety - is fastened in my coat with a safety pin. Usually, then, this safety pin keeps me safe. However, for the Christmas Party I needed safety in a whole different way. Since I signed up late for the Christmas Party (having changed my mind when I realized I'd be working here six more months), I didn't have much time to figure out what to wear. I went with what appeared to be a safe choice: the little black dress.

Every girl should own one. So versatile, so classic. And in my case, so revealing... I hadn't realized just how revealing it was until I wore it a few days earlier, and noticed this dress took the concept of cleavage to a whole new level. There was no way I could sport that at a Christmas Party for a new job.

So, a safety pin was my rescue. My rescue and near demise. Because I only had the one - the one from the reflex.

The safety pin kept the dress in place, thus fulfilling its purpose of preventing accidental unfastening. But since I had to remove the reflex from my coat in order to maintain the desired level of decency, I ran a risk with safety. Without the reflex, I was near invisible to a car passing me on the street later that same night. If I had been killed, we would have had decisive evidence to two hypotheses:

"Reflexes save lives"; and

"Putting decency first, makes safety worst."

I'm not sure the latter would be appropriate or desirable in a government initiated campaign. It depends on what sort of campaign it is, I suppose.

The Christmas Party went well. I still have a job. My decency is safe. And so will I be, if I can only remember to put my reflex back on my coat. Then I can return to my habit of not being killed by cars.

On everything else than what I want to not write about

Not that I want to write about anything in particular. Or not write about anything in particular, for that matter. I acknowledge that the title of this post is more than a little confusing. But then again, that's what you've come to love about this blog, isn't it? I strive to confuse. Or digress. Or something or other to do with giraffes.

Anyway. I'm not really writing this. I'm pressing my fingers against the keyboard in hope that they will produce words in seemingly coherent order, preferable in a sentence-based structure. If I'm lucky I might produce the complete works of Shakespeare. Or maybe some monkey next to me will. Not that it matters - as far as I'm aware those are already published, so it is hardly that much benefit to writing them again. You can probably download the Kindle edition for free, so it's not even worth the time.

Instead, then, a blog post. About nothing. Nothing is the deal. I could tell you about job applications - and what an expert I'm becoming in filling out online resume forms - but it would bore you. It already bores me. I could tell you about how it's nice to have "vacation" (but it's not when said "vacation" really is "between jobs"), or about how I'm not as disillusioned about finding a job as I sound (I just really hate online forms). I am fairly optimistic, still. I've had a few interviews. I find listings where I am qualified. I'm becoming a self-proclaimed expert on mixing up a quick application. (I told you it would bore you.)

But still. It's not the best of situations. I want to be in Oslo. It's nice of my parents to house me, and feed me, and provide my every need. But still. I want to be in Oslo (déja vu much?). And I want to work, now. I want to be useful, now. I want to see my friends, visit my regular hang-outs. I want to have an apartment in Oslo. Now.

Waiting - I'm not at my best game. I tend to forget to live in the moment when I wait. Limbo doesn't suit me. It goes for job hunting, it goes for temporary living, it goes for personal relationships. If I know what I'm waiting for, it's another story. I can be Patience embodied then. But insecurity? It gets to me.

I'm waiting for a whole lot of things at the moment. And while I wait, I should write. I wrote this. It will have to do, for now.

On the difference between a sealion

So, the thing about being a bureaucrat is that sometimes you are forced to work for the system even if you don't agree with it. Historically, the problem has been that the bureaucrats are too eager to please their political bosses. Would Nazi-Germany been able to function without the worker ants keeping the machinery gong? Not a chance. If enough of them had looked up from their papers, given it a second thought what it was they were taking part in, and drawn the conclusions history by now has drawn for them, there is a possibility the Holocaust would not have happened. Bureaucrats have power. They just don't use it very often.

My current assignment isn't quite as serious as that, and thus I'm not worried I am committing genocide by proxy. But I am in the capacity of my work defending a political position I disagree with personally. It certainly does nothing to help my motivation...

Maybe that is why I've been distracted all day? My research hasn't really brought me much that is useful for the job I have to do, but it brought me lots of random information I found much more interesting than what I was supposed to work on. Digressionism en diplomacy, I guess.




First of all, I've learned a lot about various species today. Extinct and otherwise. Did you know that the 18th century botanist, zoologist, physician and explorer, Georg Wilhelm Steller, had several species named after him - most of which are now either extinct or endangered? The Steller sea cow, for instance, disappeared only 25 years after he discovered it. The Steller sea lion is still around, but especially the western stock of this mammal is threatened, partly as a result of over-hunting in the past, and partly as a result of changes in their habitat (climatic and otherwise).

I have also learned a little something about different species of sea mammals: "There are sea lions on the ears, ear seals are just a hole." Or maybe the lesson learned there was that Google Translate cannot be trusted?

I have discovered the story about the adorable Tama-chan. This was a seal who for some time lived in a Tokyo river (or two, actually), and consequently it became a national celebrity in Japan. Because, you know, that's what happens in Japan when you're cute.

Tama-chan was also attempted seal-napped by a doomsday cult. Because, you know, that also happens in Japan... This cult believed that Tama-chan had been led astray by electromagnetic waves, and that returning him to the sea would save the world. They didn't succeed. This might explain the current state of the world...

And finally, if you're wondering about the title of this post? Another Google Translate glitch. It reminds me of a joke, though. I've modified it slightly to fit today's theme:

"What's the difference between a sealion?"
"It can neither ride a bike."

On job hunting

With Japan still in the blue for me, it's time to consider other options. At any rate I meant to start looking for jobs towards the middle of my stay in Tokyo, and we are approaching that "deadline" even with me not being in the country at the moment. So, I'm updating my resume, trying to check out listings, searching the web and talking to friends and family about potential places to start looking.

I've also been thinking about job applications and what (hopefully) comes after the application – the interview. One of the things you will often be asked in an interview is to list three good and bad sides about yourself.

Let’s start with the bad. The worst answer of all is that you have no bad sides. This only comes off as arrogant and it reveals a lack of self-insight (which is a bad side). Instead, it is common for interviewees to try to pick bad sides that are possible to work on, or sides that also can be advantages. At the same time, it is important to be honest. Don’t say your worst side is your impatience just because you’ve heard this can translate to “getting things done”. And don’t say “I can never say no” unless it is absolutely true – chances are the interviewers will have heard both of those before.

I tried to think about my actual worst sides – at least those who affect work. Because some of my bad sides don’t affect my work – I can be terribly messy at home, but I’m far more organized at work, for instance. One problem I have encountered with my thesis and in my work life is a double-edged sword: I can (have had to, in fact) work independently, but I far prefer working in a team, getting feedback, having someone that depends on me. That is the best way I can employ my potential;  I perform better when I am not making all the decisions myself.

It is definitely a disadvantage because many job listings specifically mention “the ability to work independently” as one thing they are looking for. At the same time, I have shown that I can work independently, for instance by finishing my studies. In other words; this weakness of mine is something I consciously try to work on. Also, the fact that I prefer feedback suggests that I am a team player – which most employers value in their employees.

The bad sides were difficult, but ironically it was even harder to list my good sides. My work ethics, my loyalty, the qualities and abilities I have acquired through my education and experience – how to determine which ones are more attractive for the job? When applying for the job in Japan, I decided to go for my ability to adapt to new environments. The fact that I settle quickly, am a fast and eager learner and that I generally have a positive outlook were among the qualities that made me suitable for that position. For other jobs, I might rate other qualities higher. 

As a side effect of this exercise, however, I learned something about myself. It felt good to say something nice about myself. I gave myself a compliment, and I liked it. Thus, I have a challenge for you: skip the bad sides for today, but think through what your good sides are. Try to come up with at least three. If you want, post them in the comments section. Don’t be shy – it will feel good J