Onward!

At six or seven, I tapped to a stirring rendition of “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” See exhibit A: an early dance portrait. It was a bittersweet experience. The satin bows on my patent leather tap shoes were glorious. The costume involved gratuitous sequins. But I had not scored the solo at the end of the number: a brief moment in which a carefully selected young girl pig screeched in terror as a wolf hefted her onto his shoulder and ran off-stage. The wolf in question was an employee of the dance studio in a musty suit that read more dog than wolf, and the whole scenario was a little too redolent of abduction. But I was still crestfallen when my dance teacher chose Julia instead of me. My squeal, apparently, was not convincingly porcine. I should have tried method acting.

Despite such setbacks, I continued dancing.I spent a few summers with my high school dance team at a Universal Dance Association summer camp, where I learned pom routines in fast succession, vied for the illusive Spirit Stick, and performed a series of pseudo-military commands (parade rest!) with such precision that I won the coveted title of Drill Downs Champion. I’m serious, people. I HAVE A TROPHY.

[Side note: One year's camp was hosted by UNC-Greensboro. The cafeteria served breaded fish fingers called "C Nuggets." That's right. Not "sea nuggets" -- which would also be questionable -- but "C Nuggets."]

My high school team performed at football and basketball games. We also competed and failed miserably at a competition in Florida. It seemed terrible at the time — it’s the little pigs all over again! — but losing at Nationals in Florida really means you have more time to enjoy Universal Studios while the winning teams nurse blisters and wait for their turn on a blistering-hot stage. We tried again and fared much better in Myrtle Beach. Somewhere in my collection of embarrassing high school snapshots is a photo of my team on the garishly carpeted steps of the Myrtle Beach Convention Center. We’re all dressed in Carolina blue tank tops and sport curled high ponies.

We were called the Showcats.

(Shut up, Brian Soja. We were awesome.)

I danced for a few years in college, as well, mostly at scantily attended basketball games. The team’s coach my freshman year was a muscled guy named Ray Monte — although I cannot vouch for that spelling. He drove a car with vanity plates that spelled his name and running lights that reflected blue on the pavement.

[Another side note: I just asked Danny what such lights were called. "Running lights." "Really? That's it?" "Well, they probably have some street name I don't know. Like pimpin lights."]

Both dance team experiences were, for the most part, fantastic. I enjoyed them much more for the companionship than the showmanship, as I knew I wasn’t going to pursue dance post-college. Other girls on the team were far more talented than I was. I always felt a little juvenile and ridiculous around those skilled dancers — felt like I wore ghostly red satin bows above my dance shoes like phantoms of my early ineptitude.

But now, sometimes, I miss dancing. There is certainly satisfaction in mastering that series of small, swift movements that, together, make sense. I miss finding my pocket of space in a piece of choreography — feeling that bounded, predictable orbit where I move, next to another dancer in her own hemisphere. And I miss understanding that the great, polished swath of a dance floor was open for me to fill.

I’m a little too strapped for time — and a little too shy — to try out dance classes again, at least for now. In the meantime I’m working out my anxious energy through some exercise. Danny and I just started P90X, a home fitness program designed by Tony Horton. His enthusiasm isn’t as irritating as Billy Blanks of Tae Bo fame, and I do appreciate the slight bulge to his eyes whenever he gets into the zone. Look at that form! It’s GOOOOOORGEOUSSSS!

I think I’ll stick with it as long as possible. Academia, after all, is largely a sedentary affair. I might be able to pace the front of a classroom a few times a week, but that doesn’t compensate for the hours parked in front of a laptop.

Although I’m considering breaking out the tap shoes this semester. Comp classes can get dull, and nothing livens up a room like a kick-ball-change.

Wow. That was quite a collection of 80s YouTube links.

Not infrequently, I recall the Yip-Yip aliens from Sesame Street, creatures whose droning calls adhere to my subconscious like some sort of nightmarish picture show, never to fade. :: shudder :: And a snatch of melody from a passing car will re-animate in my memory the Teeny Little Super Guy, from the same program, who tap-dances his way into my heart afresh every time I recall him.

You can’t judge a hero by his size, people.

But lately a lost snippet of childhood television has been clinging to the edge of my brain, persistent but indiscernible. A child stoops on a cratered seashore, a bucket near his bare feet. He peers into a tidal pool, and as he recognizes each creature — a sea anemone, a starfish, a hermit crab — it happily exits the lukewarm comfort of its home and jumps into the bucket. (Oh, unhappy creatures. Don’t you know that tidal pool trumps plastic Walmart bucket?) I don’t remember if the clip was live action or animated, because really? It doesn’t matter when you’re still wearing Jellie Shoes.

I blame this seashore children’s television clip for ruining the beach for me. Well, not ruining it, perhaps. But after watching this boy effortlessly collect a zoo of sea life within a matter of minutes, I fully expected all visits to the ocean to include an almost alien landscape of craters, each offering up a mirror-surfaced pool filled with its own miniature, Crayola-colored landscape. If this boy — who, if I recall, was not the sharpest pencil — could corral a seahorse just by smiling invitingly into the water, imagine the safari I could collect with my feminine wiles, my palpable enthusiasm, and my stylish Jellie Shoes.

I don’t have many early memories of the beach. I spent many of my elementary years landlocked in Tennessee or in the Midwest, where the shores of Lake Michigan offered no promises of tidal pools. When we lived in the Carolinas and ventured to the beach, I found the sprawling, flat sands of the Atlantic. No starfish happily waved their suckered arms at me. Digging in the sand usually unearthed the discarded spoon from a frozen lemonade.

Not that there is anything wrong with east coast beaches. I enjoy them very much, in fact. But the disconnect between my Sesame Street expectations and the quite different beauty of a place like Hilton Head or the Outer Banks or Surfside was a shock to the system.

And really, it’s a lesson in both managing expectations and paying attention. As much I would love to live in a Fraggle Rock world of talking trash heaps — or in a Sesame Street world of endearingly antisocial trash monsters — it is probably irresponsible to take life cues from daytime television. And trash cans without monsters are, after all, useful — just like beaches featuring smooth sand instead of rocky pools inhabited by hermit crabs on a suicide mission are enjoyable in their own way. You just have to know how to look at this very different beach. For example: with a margarita in your hand.

Like Robert Fulghum, I’m trying to learn such lessons from my kindergarten years. Things are taut and stressful and not enough right now. (COME ON job search committees. We’re dying here.) But things are fine. Great, even. I still suspect that these tidal pools exist, somewhere. Edmund Gosse tells me so in Father and Son. And I may not be in these tidal pools (yet).

But the water here is fine.

Crafting with Cat Hair: Cute Handicrafts to Make with Your Cat

No, not really with your cat. Out of your cat. Author Kaori Tsutaya and translator Amy Hirschman recommend brushing out all of that excess fur in order to create small, felted cat figures to use as finger puppets or decorations for book covers and coin purses. One project: a jaunty brooch fashioned out of Trixie’s shed pelt. And all that fur your good cat Socks is leaving around can, apparently, be transformed into a portrait of Socks. Very meta.

I snatched the book off the shelf and ran to find Danny, who was thumbing through some art books on the other side of the store. Without a word — but with my best WTF? face — I showed him the cover.

“No,” he said.

What I didn’t know at the time was that crafting from pet hair is a thing – an art much defended by its practitioners. Crafting with Cat Hair has garnered seven positive reviews on Amazon, a fair showing. But apparently cat owners are indifferent to the opinions of others — typical — while dog-hair knitters are quite vocal about their craft. See: Knitting With Dog Hair: Better a Sweater from a Dog You Know and Love Than From a Sheep You’ll Never Meet, by Kendall Crolius and Anne Montgomery, an instruction manual that includes 25 reviews, 23 of them positive (or mock-positive). Some highlights:

“Be very careful with this book. Thinking myself clever, I shaved my dog, then knitted him a sweater using his own fur. I believe this paradox may have ripped a small hole in the space-time continuim. My son seems to be now aging in reverse, causing me to deduct one star from this review. Otherwise a very informative book.”

“When all the sheep have been swept away or encased in rogue glaciers, what will be left to make our clothes from? Dogs, that’s what. Man’s best friend will stick close by our side through the emergency — begging for Snausages, most likely — and will happily provide raw material for our shirts, hats and scarves in the aftermath. Because they won’t know any better.”

And, perhaps my favorite: the disgruntled Knitting with Dog Hair customer: “My only complaint is the cover is misleading, there is a picture of a basset hound on the cover but you can’t spin basset fur. I own a basset and bought the book because of the cover.”

But I wanted a basset sweater, dammit!

All joking aside — if that’s possible — many customers seem to genuinely appreciate the book, and as I read through their reviews they did begin to answer some of my concerns about crafting with the hair of an animal that licks its own butt. The smell, apparently, is not an issue, after a thorough washing. And, as one reviewer reasoned: “Have you ever smelled a wet SHEEP? A dog smells like daisies by comparison.”

Overall, defenders of the art of dog-hair knitting make some valid (if odd) arguments in favor of their craft. There’s something kind of ecologically responsible about the entire endeavor, they argue. Why let all of that good hair go to waste? And some fierce dog lovers suggest that crafts made from a beloved pet’s hair can be a sweet reminder of days of fetch once your four-legged friend has left you. That feels a little icky. And a little nineteenth-century! It reminds me of mourning jewelry made out of hair–the locks of a loved one woven or shaped into an image or transformed into ink.

So, dear carrots readers, next time you’re lint-rolling Fifi’s hair off your favorite sweater, consider the relative ease of dog-hair apparel. You never have to lint roll dog hair off a sweater made of dog hair.

I know I am not alone among my academic-job-hunting friends in feeling that right about now I need to take my mind off things. I’ve sent off my first round of applications, and now I’m waiting waiting waiting. I need a distraction. Some turn to world travel. Some turn to alcohol and gambling. I turn to crafting, apparently.

In a moment of recklessness — oh, the adventure! — I decided to try out these ”paper bauble” Christmas ornaments. A friend had posted the pattern for them on Pinterest, and I was seduced by the simplicity of them. My brain is tapioca, after all — a little wobbly and of an unsettling consistency — and I therefore cannot handle complicated directions or sophisticated crafting equipment, like a hot glue gun or a sewing machine. The finished product is not-too-terrible! On to the photo-essay!

I began by braving Michael’s, where many parents of irresponsible middle school children were buying posterboard in some last-ditch attempt to put together a science project for Monday morning. I elbowed my way around the scrapbooking aisle for awhile, picking over the selection overpriced papers. I chose a few solids and a few patterns. That piece in the middle? I definitely thought it was a whimsical pattern of mittens. No. It’s oven mitts. Oh, well. People bake around Christmas, right?

The rest of my supplies: florist’s wire, thin red ribbon, and a small baggie full of these ingenious little pre-measured dots of glue. I love the OCD precision of these small dots of glue, and I am therefore considering finding future crafting projects that allow me to use them.

I spent far too much time cutting out circles of paper this evening. But check out the fun campsite paper I found! This paper also has nothing at all to do with Christmas, but I enjoy the small lanterns. Each ornament requires twelve of these circles, which you fold in half, stack, and bind with florist’s wire. Gluing the edges of the circles together in an alternating pattern creates the honeycomb pattern of the finished ornament:

Not too bad for my first try. Here’s the same ornament from above:

Toby is in her teenage angst phase, and therefore she is Too Cool for Crafting. But she enjoyed the completed project.

I imagine that these would be more interesting ornaments if created out of something more meaningful than overpriced paper from Michael’s. Piecing together an extra wedding invitation and program could make for an interesting substitute for a bow on an anniversary gift, maybe. And they don’t take long. I made two in about an hour:

I appreciate the immediate gratification of a senseless crafting project. If only I could stick together the edges of my CV and job letter with small dots of glue and — voila! — at the end of the process find a small, perfect, tenure-track job on a string.

In my training-wheels days, deciphering my fate through the patterns in the larger world made a lot of sense. I had no qualms attributing larger shifts in my universe to worn pavement, the arbitrary logic of the calendar, the arithmetic of flocks of birds. Fed fat with children’s verse and stories rife with clues and omens, wishes-come-true and dire portents, I began to formulate my own system of superstitions. An even number of stairs was auspicious. A note or flower pressed inside a library book obviously translated into good fortune. A phone ringing three times — not two, not four — promised bad news.

I still try to snatch the phone off its cradle before that third ring, and I’ll be sure to sprint to the receiver each time it rings during job market season. I’ll imagine a search committee chair on the other end of the line, counting each ring. It rings once, I have an interview. Twice, perhaps a job. Three times? The chair has obviously changed her mind and is calling to tell me about that typo on the first page of my CV. “Did you really mean to say you were from Horston, Texas? Ridiculous! We’re shredding your application right now. Do you hear the ominous whir of the shredder? Do you hear it!?!“

Intellectually, I know these small details have little to do with success or failure. Stumbling on a crack on the sidewalk can’t fracture a spine, and counting magpies won’t bring happiness or heartbreak. But somewhere in my lizard brain I both enjoy and fear the simple equations of superstitions. I appreciate their immediacy: the sense of urgency they lend to trivial situations and their assumption that something as simple as bird-against-sky is legible. Read the world and know what’s next.

And nothing puts me in a superstitious frame of mind quite like a fortune cookie. Sure, I’ve disparaged them in the past, but I do so with a sideways glance at the swirling cosmos and a hidden sense of respect for whatever a small slip of paper may reveal to me. It was with ambivalence, then, that I cracked open two cookies last week. I was alone in my hotel room at an academic conference, a little greasy-fingered with take-out veggie lo mein and a little heavy-hearted with the feelings of inadequacy conferences tend to inspire in an anxious person like myself.

Fortune cookie #1 told me that I should bide my time for success is near. Not bad! Fortune cookie #2 revealed that I should be prepared to accept a wondrous opportunity in the days ahead. That word wondrous rung a little false, perhaps. Wondrous? Really? Should I expect a stray twenty dollar bill on the pavement, or are we talking leprechauns and winged monkeys? And how to I prepare to accept a winged monkey, anyway? A litterbox and a stash of bananas?

Before I tossed the fortunes in the garbage, I turned them over for my mini language lesson. Fortune cookie #1: “Market, shì chang.” Fortune cookie #2: “March, san yuè.”

Propitious, I’d say, for a job market that begins to resolve itself into new hires in the spring months.* I’ll be keeping these two tacked to my bulletin board.

____________________________________________________________

* I have no idea if the cookie intends March the month or march the verb. I also don’t want to know. I am interpreting my cookie as I see fit.

But these days I’m a light sleeper because I’m imagining my job application materials being filed away by English department office administrators across the country — applications that, perhaps, contain typos that I cannot fix. I’m imagining a search committee chair happening upon that stray letter or rogue comma in line three of a cover letter and, in a rage, tossing the whole packet in a wastebasket. Or, more likely, a recycling bin.

Us academics. We’re eco-friendly.

Of course, typos are the least of my worries. Job market season can breed feelings of inadequacy that have nothing to do with typing skills and everything to do with What I’ve Done With My Life for the Past Seven Years. So sleeping, some nights, can be difficult to come by. I snooze or doze or nap instead.

But, as stated in an earlier post, I’m looking for ways to stay positive this fall, even as search committees exert their weighty yea or nay votes into the wee hours of the night. I can find a way to tackle this. I am a running carrot, after all. (Speeeeeeeeedycarrot!)

Danny has suggested imagining myself in a soothing landscape. Design an imaginary place that banishes job market worries and eases me to sleep. It’s like Inception, but without the movie popcorn and, unfortunately, without Joseph Gordon-Levitt. This place cannot be noisy or rowdy, so my initial idea of a dark room, a single Whack-a-Mole board, an over-sized mallet… that was a no-go.

Danny will not reveal his secret location, which I respect. I suspect describing it is the subconscious equivalent of writing up a dive bar in a tourist magazine. Soon uninvited troubled sleepers are rambling up in their minivans and campers, ruining the vibe with their tourist sunburns and requests for souvenir tee-shirts. But I have friends who use a similar sort of meditation, and I’ve found that many of these friends imagine strikingly similar scenes. A winter landscape, almost polar: something with slanting snow and disappearing footprints and that whistle of wind bending around nothing but itself. Snow covers everything, after all. Houses and cars and mailboxes holding potential rejection letters. I like this idea, but imagining snow when it’s still 85 degrees in late October is a challenge.

The snow scene also reminds me of my visit to the Titanic museum exhibit when I lived in Raleigh. One room contained a block of ice supposedly maintained at the temperature of the water those on board floated in while waiting for rescue. I remember pressing my palm against the ice — so cold it ached — while opening the fake passport I’d been allotted at the beginning of the exhibit only to discover that my avatar, an Irish immigrant in steerage, wouldn’t leave the water alive.

Not exactly a happy place.

I’m thinking, instead, a lake — a salt lake, so it’s easy to float. It’s about to rain, and clouds are low and fast, purple-gray and that strange yellow. High hills on each side, in deep green. A shore of polished pebbles. Now and then a raindrop hits the water and echoes outward in dimming circles.

Do you have a place you go to during moments of stress or insomnia, carrots readers? If you describe it, I promise I won’t show up in an RV with a cooler and ugly lawn chairs.

On the way to Lake Lure, I begrudgingly downloaded Jonathan Franzen’s Freedom. You see, I don’t think I like Jonathan Franzen as a human. But I do like his books. I’m 350 pages into Freedom, and I am spitefully liking it very much. Very much! Gah! And reading authors I like very much makes me want to write. So one day last week, while sitting in my pajamas at three o’clock in the afternoon and watching the mountains grow misty and clear and misty again, I decided to return to my amateur short story effort, Squirrels at Chess. (You can read the first installment here, the second here.)

Because I am drafting this story in a spirit of pure fun and whimsy, without any aspirations toward True Writerdom or Discipline, I have decided to skip ahead in our story. Someday I will return to and write the intervening scenes, in which our beleaguered hero decides to become a taxidermist himself. (Writing this section will require some research, and those pesky papers insist on being graded. I don’t think my students would appreciate a delay due to taxidermy research.)

Onward!

_____________________________________________________________

Cal was not really surprised to find that the Yellow Pages included the category “Taxidermy and Animal Preservation.” These establishments were businesses, right? And surely an index of taxidermists was no weirder than a listing of funeral directors or windshield repairmen or delis that deliver. But the tenor of the advertisements listed beneath was unexpected. One quarter-page ad for The Huntsman’s Friend Trophy and Taxidermy featured a forest in silhouette, framing the outline of a twelve-point stag, comically out of scale with the surrounding pines and peaks. You shoot it, we’ll show it off, the copy read. We’ll put the fear back in those eyes. Our veteran hunters and taxidermists excel at big game, but we’ll pretty up all beasts, from beavers to bears. Not a trace of buckshot. In the next column, in a horror-show, dripping font: The Re-Animator. Are you a collector? I’ll be your Dr. Frankenstein. No questions asked. Call for more information. It wasn’t until Cal had searched through three pages of taxidermists, each ad making him more queasy and anxious, that he found an establishment that seemed a possibility. A simple border, a line drawing of a cat batting at a ball of yarn.

Your trusty dog was a faithful friend to the end. Your tabby was a one-of-a-kind companion. That partnership need not end with death. The skilled technicians at Lifelong Friends Preservation Company will capture the spirit of your pet with dignity. We happily accommodate props and costumes. Don’t wait until the passing of your pet. Schedule an appointment today to discuss preservation options.

As Cal circled the ad with his felt-tip pen, he wondered what Lifelong Friends could have done for his childhood pet, a bad-tempered, overweight black cat named Señor. Cal hadn’t cried when, on a drizzly September Saturday, the great Señor roused himself from an afternoon siesta only to be sent to his long nap in the sky by the wheels of a passing sedan. After all, the cat had been nothing like the vibrant, yarn-loving kitten in the advertisement. He had shown no interest in Cal’s offerings of catnip mice and small, plastic balls hiding jingling bells, returning any show of affection with an irritated hiss and swipe to the face. But taxidermy could rewrite the Señor’s history. Cal imagined one of the “skilled technicians” at Lifelong Friends—a folksy gentleman, perhaps, speaking in an endearing twang and wearing a canvas apron—revivifying Señor as a solicitous, spry kitten, gently arching its back and tilting its head, waiting to rub against one of Cal’s trouser legs. Or perhaps a cozy housecat, curled on an artfully worn pillow, sleeping away eternity and requiring only an occasional dust-busting.

This was the great lie. While the establishments Cal had read about in the Yellow Pages—The Stuffing Company, Bayou City Professional Taxidermists, The Formaldehyde Brothers—promised reality and rehearsed their commitment to life continued as it was, taxidermy was an infinitely malleable art form. Reality had absolutely nothing to do with it. Why shouldn’t Señor be the amigo he never was? Why shouldn’t a quail, stumbling awkwardly skyward after being flushed by hounds from the security of a field, be preserved noble, mid-flight? Why shouldn’t squirrels play chess?

Two weeks later, Cal found himself outside a dirt-colored pre-fab building in the suburbs. Nailed to the tilted mailbox out front was a sign: Lifelong Friends, written in black permanent marker, on the reverse of a neon orange-and-black Beware of Dog sign. Cal stepped onto the porch and tried to peer in through the windows in the door but found them blocked with old cardboard boxes from taxidermy supply companies. A rusted metal planter sitting on the stoop was surprisingly filled with neatly-planted rows of pansies, purple and gold. Faint rustlings, pings, and thunks leaked from behind the doorway. Cal raised a timid fist to knock.

“Ho there!” came a voice from inside. Cal abruptly withdrew his fist. “I see ya there! Just hold your horses. Or your puppies or mice or what have you.”

Most of my routines, of course, do not involve the stand-sit-kneel of church — Catholic calisthenics, as Danny calls them. Instead, I find a degree of peace in the easy, streamlined movements of my morning routine. Coffeemaker, cat food, shower. Westpark, Bissonnet, Weslayan, University Boulevard. So much is prone to chaos and disarray. Students won’t finish (or even start) the reading I’ve assigned. A driver behind me might fail to stop before bumping my fender. My grocery store, maliciously, will stop selling the delicious chocolate-glazed doughnuts I love. But at least my sock drawer is in order and my dinners are planned for the week.

In the most recent issue of Real Simple magazine, five experts suggest rituals to carve out that sense of wellness. Peter Bregman, described as “an adviser to CEOs,” suggests jotting down not a to-do list but an “ignore list,” or “what you’re willing to disregard.” One should reread this ignore list occasionally throughout the day, Bregman suggests, “to make sure that nothing on it is getting your undeserved attention.”

At first, Bregman’s idea seemed designed for an over-planner like me. I love making lists! I began to imagine a new routine dedicated to my ignore list. Five minutes after checking my morning email, I would pour a cup of coffee and scrupulously consider what nagging chores I could discard for the day, writing them in a notebook dedicated to the task. (I also love notebooks.) I even brainstormed cheeky titles for my ignore list. The Fuggedaboutit List. The Honey Don’t List. Don’t Mind Me.

(That last one inspired an “ignore list” theme song, to the tune of A-Ha’s “Take On Me.” Doooooon’t miiiiiiind meeeee! They’re gonna beat you up WITH that PIPE WRENCH!)

Anyway. I never really got around to the ignore list, and not because it’s on my ignore list. I realized that rather than reassuring me of all that I didn’t have to do, it would instead inspire me to commit all of those tasks-in-waiting to writing. Because really. I have a lot to ignore. And creating an ignore list would probably begin as a harmless exercise in stress management and end in a meltdown of cynicism and self-loathing. For example:

1. Planning next week’s classes. That can totally wait.
2. Cleaning out the refrigerator. What’s fuzzy today is just fuzzier tomorrow.
3. Calling the vet about Toby’s shots. That’s cat-approved procrastination.
4. Writing an abstract for that Upcoming Important Conference. Sigh.
5. Applying to jobs X, Y, and Z. Because really. If I’m not going to attend Upcoming Important Conference, I probably won’t get them, anyway.
6. Stopping by to renew lease. I am in a professional rut and will probably end up penniless and therefore homeless anyway.

Here we go! This is my year! I am an academic rock star! I am a running carrot!

[Opens spreadsheet pre-formatted for job info, created in a moment of OCD pre-job market mania. Checks fonts for consistency as a means to delay searching the list and feels a fleeting sense of control in this senseless universe. Briefly considers re-color-coding the entire thing to incorporate warmer, gentler tones. Finally commits to the first search of the list.]

Hmmmm. That’s not a very long list.

[Scrolls through entries.]

African American lit. Medievalist. Medievalist. Medievalist. African American Lit.

Sigh.

ROMANTICIST! That’s kind of close to what I do!

[Makes a quick list of Romanticist authors taught or written about in past ten years. It is a respectable list.]

I could totally be a Romanticist. Especially for a job in [insert desirable urban area].

[Actually reads the posting, which requests a candidate studied in the sexual preferences of lemmings in 18th-century France.]

Well, maybe I’m not that kind of Romanticist. Lemmings only appear briefly in that one seminar paper I wrote that one time in my first semester of graduate school. And really, the whole lemming thing was only a metaphor.

[Continues scrolling through list. Shoulders have tensed and migrated toward ears.]

Creative writing. Creative writing. Medievalistmedievalistmedievalist.

WHY ARE THERE SO MANY JOBS FOR MEDIEVALISTS!?!

[Briefly considers whether she could sell herself as a medievalist. Realizes she knows nothing about this specialty. No. Not even close.]

Aha! Nineteenth-century British! Desirable school! Urban area! Light teaching load!

[Bubble of inevitable hope rises in chest. A portrait of this job formulates immediately in mind's eye -- complete with ivy, upper-level courses with engaging and witty students, conference funding, and office lined with books and dignity -- only to dissipate immediately.]

Stupid desirable job in an urban area with a light teaching load. You belong to someone else, don’t you? WHY DO YOU MOCK ME!?!?

[Adds job to spreadsheet anyway. Continues to scroll through list.]

“X University seeks a tenure-track assistant professor in English of the extra-long nineteenth century, with preferred interests in Al Gore studies and ability to advise graduate students.”

Well, I could make a case that I know Gore. I use the Internet, after all. And I’ve seen his movie. Where is X University, anyway?

[Maps X University on Google Maps. It appears as a small pinpoint in a vast, empty space, somewhere in the Middle of the Country.]

Hmmmmmmmm.

[Zoom out. Zoom out. Zoom out. Zoom out. Zoom out.]

AHA! Civilization! Am I willing to live in TownI’veneverheardof to teach Al Gore studies?

[Enters job into spreadsheet. Includes a note documenting estimated miles to nearest grocery store. Continues to scroll through list.]

Twentieth-century American lit. Feminist theory. Rhet Comp. Rhet Comp. Rhet Comp. Rhet Comp. Generalist position.

[Briefly wonders who exactly is qualified for a generalist position. Considers how her dissertation committee would have reacted if she submitted a prospectus on general literature in general terms, history of the English language through twenty-first century, in all nations. Continues to scroll through list.]

Woohoo! Children’s literature, tenure-track, assistant professor! Place I wouldn’t mind living!

[Enters job in spreadsheet. Happily imagines scoring an interview. Anticipates spending most of the interview convincing the committee that yes, she can teach children's literature. True, she knows a lot about Victorian literature. No, she is not a rogue Victorianist sent to infiltrate your department with her crazy nineteenth-century antics. Yes, she promises. Continues to search job list.]

“Prestigious University will be accepting three desperate, newly-minted PhDs for three-week postdocs, minimal pay. You will only have to teach one class, but you will be competing with 500 applicants with degrees in every field that has ever existed, including Desirable Degrees in Fields That Are Relevant Due to Current Events. (Read: your boring, dead-white-man field is irrelevant.) Please submit cover letter, CV, official undergraduate and graduate transcripts, six letters of recommendation in sealed envelopes, an 11-and-a-half page writing sample, teaching philosophy, research statement, three syllabi, and a hot fudge sundae with a puppy on top to this address within two weeks. You can also submit your documents through this website, which will crash just as you complete your application. If you submit your application late, you are a useless human being with credentials from an inferior institution. Equal opportunity employer.”

[Enters postdoc on spreadsheet. Reflects upon which dog breed will suggest professionalism and panache. Dacshund, perhaps?]

Good luck, fellow job hunters! We will survive.