At UC Davis, I do a lot of work with our EOP/STEP programs, for students who are first generation and economically disadvantaged, including giving talks for the program and teaching a specialty developmental writing course.

I do this because I was like them.

I tell them my story and how the most crucial thing I learned was to ask for help.

I show them that people like them can move up in the world through education, even though the climb is so much steeper.

Some years, the program thanks me. This was one of those years.

On the back, a note from the nominator:
“I would have never thought that my favorite class at UC Davis would be Workload 57P. I was able to learn in greater detail the fundamental rules of writing. In this course, I learned more than in my four years of high school English combined. This wouldn’t have been possible without Dr. Karma Waltonen’s amazing work ethic. Dr. Karma Waltonen truly believes in the success of her students and their true potentials. She understood our struggle coming from nontraditional backgrounds, so she made sure to secure a welcoming environment. What I found most helpful and inspirational were the stories of the obstacles she has faced in life. Many of us, if not all, were able to relate to it one way or another, which tore down the wall of silence in the classroom. She made me want to be a better student for her, my parents, my siblings, and the generation to come. The other nice thing about this course was that I was able to see familiar faces from STEP, removing the feeling of loneliness and giving me the opportunity to challenge my writing ability without the fear of being judged based on my appearance.”

I loved Marjorie Prime.

I went into it as a blank slate, and it’s probably best if you do the same, so this review with be brief and with as few spoilers as possible.

Marjorie Prime was written by Jordan Harrison, and is directed here in a co-production with American Stage by Stephanie Gularte.

It’s a brief, powerful play with wonderful acting and a gorgeous set.

In an attempt to avoid plot, let me pose some questions:

If you could interact with someone you lost, what age would they be?

If you could change your memories, what would you rewrite? What would you forget completely?

What if Alexa were programmed to be your grief counselor?

Do you want to see a play you’ll be thinking about for weeks?

Marjorie Prime runs through June 3rd at CapStage.

Go see it.

Happy International Museum Day!

Did you know….?

The first museum curator was a woman. Princess Ennigaldi, daughter of the last king of the Neo-Babylonian empire, established what is believed to be the first museum, around 530 BCE, in what is now Iraq. Some of the artifacts that the princess organized in the museum date back to the 20th century BCE and have labels (carved into clay cylinders)–in three languages.

The first tyrannosaurus rex fossil ever unearthed (in Montana in 1902) has resided in Pittsburgh’s Carnegie Museum of Natural History since 1941, but it was only in 2011 that it was reunited with one of its rib bones, accidentally left behind when it moved to Pittsburgh from its previous home at the American Museum of Natural History in New York City. A researcher found the rib in the museum’s “spare bones box” and then a curator brought the rib to Pittsburgh–in his backpack!

Iceland’s Phallology museum contains more than 200 mammal penises, including one human penis and one elf penis (pictures are not allowed–you’ll have to go for yourself).

The Mona Lisa was stolen from the Louvre in 1911 and not recovered for over two years. An Italian handyman working at the museum took the painting from the wall, slipped it under his cloak, and walked out. Motivation for the crime? He was under the false impression that Napoleon had stolen the painting when he conquered Italy and thought he was righting that wrong by taking it back to Italy. In fact, it was Leonardo Da Vinci himself who had brought his now famous smiling lady to Paris.

850 million people visit U.S. museums annually, far exceeding the 140 million who attend a major-league sports event each year.

Want to learn more? Then follow Karlissa’s new blog, Museum Musings, here at dr-karma.com.

This week is hard.

A year ago tomorrow, my mom called to tell me my daddy was dying.

And I couldn’t get there–I couldn’t have made it in time (and I had just had a small, but emergency, out-patient surgery).

He was mostly asleep, thankfully, through those couple of days.

A year ago Friday, I called on a lunch break to see if I could catch him awake. There were things I wanted to say.

But he was asleep.

And then he was gone before I could call again.

I wanted to say, I’m so glad you stepped up to be daddy when I needed one, that you were there for me.

I wanted to say, when my PTSD therapist tells me to picture a safe place, I am a little girl again, sitting on your lap, eating the popcorn you would make me when the inevitable summer thunder storm would force me out of the pool. The smell of butter and salt and chlorine mingle in a comforting miasma.

I wanted to say, please don’t die disappointed in me. Because I got pregnant, because I moved to California, because I teach at a university, because I’m a liberal non-gun owner.

I wanted to say, you gave me the safe place to fall so I could make my own decisions, that it hurts so much that who I grew to be disappoints you, but that I will always always love you and that I hope you know I had to be who I am.

What is it I do on any given day?
I tracked myself for a couple of weeks to see.
In addition to this stuff I do every day, these are a few days in the life:

April 17th:
A student from two years ago came by office hours to say I was right when I told him not to go to grad school right away.
I sorted my night pills for the next week.
I filed for reimbursement for some job expenses.
I wore a Simpsons shirt, since it was the day of my Simpsons class.
I created a norming packet for the Upper Division Comp Exam, which required reading/skimming about a hundred short essays.
I answered some okc emails. I ignored some too, including from a guy who said, “we seem to have a lot in common” even though he loves Trump and isn’t a feminist.
I edited a chapter of The Simpsons book.
I had violent back spasms.
I made banana bread and poboys (with homemade remoulade).
I texted for a while with a friend about how to handle a problem with a co-worker.
I watch John Oliver and Call the Midwife (and cried, because damnit, CTW!).
I blogged about Paula Poundstone.
Hail cracked my windshield. And the sun was shining.
I became sick of the ticking of the clock in my room and got rid of it.
I listened to music–loudly.
I had trouble falling asleep–and ended up making notes for the intro to The Simpsons book instead.

I taught and had office hours.

April 18th:
I listened to the Magnum version of The Savage Lovecast while cooking and cleaning.
I woke up very tired.
I had a lovely lunch with a friend.
I went to Costco, and as usual, I spent too much there.
I got my allergy shots (every two weeks, I have to get four shots–one is my allergy mix; three are an injectable asthma medicine–a very thick one. I always bruise).
I did an hour an a half with a student taking an independent study with me.
I saw Isle of Dogs with the boy. He found it emotionally affecting; I did not.
I helped the boy do his taxes.
I filed for more reimbursement money.
I had a lot more spasms.

I taught.

April 19th:
I edited two Simpsons book chapters.
I celebrated The Simpsons anniversary.
I cleaned the downstaris.
I hosted book group and made a russian vegetable pie and a zucchini pie. Both were eagerly devoured.
I discovered my food processor was broken.
I helped break the news to my niece that Karl Kassell had died–she is especially fond of her Karl Kassell baby doll and has exchanged mail with him.
I made an ass of myself at the grocery store. The cashier asked how classes were going, which led the bagger to ask if I had been in Davis when the pepper spray incident happened. He said he didn’t know why it was a big deal–he said the kids should have just left when asked.
I didn’t even get to the second part of my rebuttal when, without thinking about it, I put the change that came down through the machine into the donation box next to it. “Hey! That’s my change!” said the woman whose change it, in fact, was. I grabbed a dollar out of my purse–she tried to turn it down, but I explained that she had to help me get out of the ass-hole I’d dug for myself.
Now that cashier might never know that the cop who broke regulations on how far you’re supposed to be when you spray someone got more money from UCD than the students he hurt.

I taught students, without managing to steal anyone’s money and give it to a good cause. 🙂

I, author of two books on Atwood, President of the Margaret Atwood Society, editor of Margaret Atwood Studies, creator of the Margaret Atwood Book Group, mention Atwood in my favorite author list on OKC.

This was an opening volley from a guy today:

Have you read the MaddAddam trilogy by Margaret Atwood? I did go through an Atwood phase where I read a lot f her books. She’s amazing.

All I want to do is send this picture:

How much should I cop to?

Many men, when reading my profile, picture someone very different from me.

Other Karma is the girl next door the “just a regular guy” says he wants. She doesn’t have strong opinions or a PhD. She definitely isn’t funnier than he is; instead, she laughs at all the jokes he makes when they watch hours and hours of sports.

Alternate universe Karma does not close down his profile as quickly as possible, in horror at the thought of becoming his “ideal” woman, one who will “lend a hand when I have my three kids on the days I have them” and who isn’t appalled at his work schedule–4 a.m. to noon.

Karma in the upside down loves that he’s married and would like to practice non-ethical non-monogamy with him. She does not roll her eyes when the married man answers the question “Would you be okay with your partner spending a lot of time with an ex” with “no way.”

Discworld Karma doesn’t have PTSD flashbacks when he brags about being a “Southern Gentleman.”

Dark timeline Karma has the hots for obvious spelling and grammar errors.

Mid-world Karma does not recoil when a man starts calling her “sweetie” before meeting her.

Parallel Karma has no problem with a 54 year old man who is only willing to date 28-48 year old women.

Karma through the looking glass is not scared when he says, out of nowhere, “I can protect you.”

Karma who got sorted into Slytherin didn’t mean it when she said she only dates liberal nonsmokers. She’s glad the smoker who believes contraception is immoral, climate change is a hoax, and Donald Trump is a hero decided to ignore what she said. He knows better, and she could learn a lot from him.

Cylon Karma is completely turned on by blank profiles, and her panties get wet when a blank-profile guy opens with “hi.”

When ever I read memoirs, especially funny ones, I wonder what the writer’s typical day looks like. Thus, while reading Samantha Irby’s excellent We Are Never Meeting in Real Life this week, I thought I’d keep track of what I did for two weeks, so I could give my readers a sense of what I do, if they’re ever curious.

First, though, I need to establish a baseline. This would get really repetitive if I told you that I wake up in the morning or that I eat every day.

But I do those things.

Here’s what else I do, in no particular order:

1. I feed the cats.

2. Several times a day, I listen to Osiris, my old, arthritic, limping cat, loudly howl for me, when he realizes I’ve left the room and that he doesn’t know where I am.

3. If Anubis, my son’s cat, who is always doing a Ron Funches impression, is in the bathroom when I’m peeing, I suddenly find myself peeing with a cat on my lap. He often stands and tries to put his arms around my neck, not always being careful with his claws. Then he rubs my face with his.

Does he think we’re making out?

If so, it’s extra weird since my son calls me the cat’s grandma. We are not in a Nick Swardon movie, Anubis!

This toilet routine, though, is still nicer than when he does it on the bathroom counter–because then he always chooses to do this when I’m putting on eye makeup.

I’m not sure why he started to do the toilet thing. His now-deceased sister used to, though. And he would watch her. Does he think I’m not happy to pee unless there’s a cat on my lap? Does he know jumping up there will make me think of her?

It does.

4. I spend a lot of time missing my little girl cat and wanting another kitten.

5. Most days, I put on makeup, though not very much. I’ve never had the patience, really. And I’ve never learned how to do smokey eye.

6. I don’t ever take my eye makeup off, because I’m lazy, but I do run an oxy pad over my face after a shower, and that gets the rest of the makeup off.

7. Most days, I shower, but I do so at night because my hair takes too long to dry–hours. I put leave in conditioner in, and then a cream or gel to fight frizz, and then some little clippies on the top, so that in the morning, my hair’s weight hasn’t pulled all the body out.

8. I take medicine. Over the day, I take two different allergy pills, two puffs of allergy nose spray, two hits of a steroid asthma med, another asthma med, seven pills for muscle spasms, five pills for gerd, two pills for bile reflux, birth control, a high blood pressure med, four little pills for migraines. The gerd meds keep me from absorbing all the minerals and vitamins I need from my food, so I have to also take a multivitamin, potassium, calcium, magnesium, coq10, b complex, b12, d, iron, etc.

On some days, when my schedule works, I drink a potion for stomach stuff–but I can’t do it every day since it has to come four hours before any other meds, which is tricky due to how all the others have to be spaced. Sometimes I drink aloe vera juice. I take probiotics. I eat yogurt (which I used to hate, but Nosa has changed me).

Most days, I also have to take pain killers.

Almost every day, I have to take a pill for diarrhea. The trick is not taking it too soon or too late–I have to be able to teach at some point, after all.

9. I cook or I eat leftovers from what I cooked before, since I am incapable of making a normal amount of food. I get this from my grandmother–both the desire to cook and the inability to make only a few servings.

10. And I clean up after myself. Take note, ALMOST EVERY GUY I’VE EVER DATED: that means not just washing the dishes–it means putting away the ingredients, cleaning the counters and the cooking surfaces, and the sink I just dirtied by cleaning the rest.

11. I pee. A lot.

12. I alternate tea and water through the daytime, starting with hot tea, british-style, in the morning, and then moving to iced tea that I make myself–sweetened, but not the way they sweeten in the South. I like to drink a liquid, not a syrup.

I learned to alternate with water when I got a kidney stone when I was 19. The doctor told me that Southerners have a lot of stones–because the sweet tea we drink builds up little calcium balls. I’m still shaky on the details, probably because this was explained to me when I was in a great deal of pain (without even the comfort of insurance).

One of the people in this house has to make a new pitcher of tea everyday.

13. At night, I switch to wine and water, or a cocktail. Or just whiskey.

14. When I am in the car, in the kitchen, in the bathroom, or at my desk, I am either listening to NPR or my music. If it’s music in the car or the bathroom, I am singing, loudly.

15. I check my email several times. I do a Facebook check usually once a day. I have a Twitter, but I almost never look at it.

16. I stretch in the morning and do the light exercises I can handle. Four mornings of the week, I do so while watching the beginning of Seth Meyer’s show from the night before.

17. I argue with my mom–in my head–every single day. Especially since the travesty of the election. I forbid my mother to talk about politics with me because she says things like “Now that Obama’s President, we’re going to lose our rights as white women” and “it sure is cold–why do all those people think the Earth is warmer” and “your insurance company denied that medication because of Obama.”

But every single day, I wake up to news of what my mom’s President has done. And so my brain says, “HOW CAN YOU STILL LIKE HIM? OH, MY GOD! YOU WOULD NEVER HAVE BEEN OKAY WITH THIS IF OBAMA HAD DONE IT. HOW CAN YOU THINK HE’S ON YOUR SIDE,” etc.

This argument is not productive or fun, but I don’t know how to make it stop. My mother represents Trump voters in my head–but one I’d like to make see sense, because I love her, but who will never see sense because a) she has no ability to think logically or critically b) she might be brain damaged or mentally ill (she exhibits a lot of symptoms of BPD and is a lifelong alcoholic, which causes damage, evidenced in c) she is a Trump supporter.

Sometimes, I can stop myself–I say, “You are arguing with someone who is not here.”

I learned this technique in a book.

18. So then I’ll start thinking about something else, but there’s a good chance it won’t be productive either.

I’m a worrier–apparently, children who grew up in messed up environments tend to worry. We focus on things that could go wrong and try to figure out how to stop the bad things. We are trying to have control because we grew up without a sense of it. I mentally “script” a lot–sometimes, even though I know I won’t change someone’s mind, my brain keeps rewriting an argument, convinced somehow that if it just finds the right words, everything will be okay.

19. During all of this, I am biting and picking at my cuticles. I don’t realize I’m doing it.

I used to bite my nails, but then I figured out that I could stop by keeping my nails painted.

Yes, that’s why they are always painted.

But it just upped the picking.

20. Another symptom of OCD: I have a song in my head. All. the. time. At least once a week, it’s the theme from The Muppet Show. But that’s not at all the weirdest thing in the never ending jukebox in my head.

If you have no idea what that’s like, you’re very lucky.

21. I have self-critical thoughts about my body several times a day too, whether it’s about my weight or whatever my body is doing wrong. And then sometimes I remind myself that my weight is hard to keep down because it’s doing all these other weird things.

But my most insane thought is when self-critical Karma says, YOU REALLY NEED TO GET IT TOGETHER AND GET MORE WORK DONE!

If you know me, you know this is insane because I can’t do any more work.

I’m actually able to argue with self-critical Karma here: No, I can’t grade papers while I stretch. And watching Seth Meyers is not a waste of time. He’s a delight, and so he probably lowers my blood pressure, which is too high, self-critical Karma, because you make me worry and work so much.

22. Speaking of work, I typically start when I get up at 6:30 or 7. I stop 12-14 hours later. Every day. And I count all the doctors appointments and grocery runs as work because in addition to my regular job and my side job, I’m self-employed. As both boss and employee and machine, I need to make sure I’m lubed, that I have enough printer paper, etc.

For most weeks of the year (summers too), I’m teaching. I have admin work, committee work, official and unofficial mentoring, and the stand-up club (we meet/workshop every week). I’m always prepping the next class, week, term, prepping for a conference, writing and editing my stuff. I’m the editor of a journal and President of a society. Melissa and I are usually talking ourselves into the fourth book after our current one.

I used to work until bedtime.

Then I went to therapy, where we addressed, among other things, workaholism, which we decided was a very . . . um . . . productive response to childhood chaos and feelings and shit.

So now I can give myself permission to stop a couple of hours before bedtime. And I don’t feel as guilty when I have a long lunch with you or when I go to a discount movie on Tuesday evening, or when I take the very rare day off to go pick up wine in Placerville, or when I decide I should try to walk around the block in the middle of day, before I remember while walking on a windy Spring day in Davis simply won’t work.

23. I put on topical analgesic after I exercise, but also at other points during the day. I have a medical center sized vat of it in my bathroom–yes, the downstairs one, which the guests use, because a) I exercise and work downstairs b) I refuse to be ashamed of needing vats of pain relief. And if you love me, you know I need it too. And if you don’t love me, WHY ARE YOU IN MY HOUSE?

24. I also often wish my house were cleaner.

25. And that stuff in it matched. But then it would be even worse when I broke things, I guess, which I constantly do, because I am not practicing mindfulness enough when I get a cup down from a cupboard or walk by a doorknob (this is maybe the nicest way I can say I’m the clumsiest person in the world).

But it’s cute that I still live in a fully geeked out apartment of organized chaos where nothing matches, right? I’m eclectic and adorkable, right?

Right?

26. I run my roomba, Sisyphus, in at least one room of the house.

27. At some point in the day, I worry about money a bit and dream about getting out of this cycle where I’m working too much to pay off medical debt and bills (among other things), which keep coming since I’m hurting myself by working so much.

28. Each day, I wake up tired and in pain. I go to sleep that way too.

29. I read before bed, but the piles of New Yorkers and books just keeps getting bigger.

30. I make my bed, not perfectly, but enough that it looks more welcoming when I return. Also, I would rather the cats do their shedding on the comforter.

31. I pack my backpack for the next day and make sure I have everything I need for the errands and classes and Spring allergy nosebleeds.

31. I talk to the boy at some point, to at least coordinate if we’ll be eating together or apart the next day. He says he would rather I text him to let him know I want him to empty the dishwasher instead of yelling in the general direction of upstairs, but

32. I often don’t know exactly where my phone is. Much of the time, it’s on my bedside table or the bottom of my back pack, turned off. That’s usually why I’m not answering–I have no idea you’re trying to reach me.

33. At least once a day, I go to the computer to send an email. But then I see another email that I need to answer. So I answer that and some others and completely forget to send the initial email.

34. Since I pee a lot (see above), I replace the toilet paper roll. If you hang yours the weird way where you have to search around the back to find the start, I’ll still be friends with you.

But if you’re worried that people might be offended by seeing the roll’s–what?–cleavage?–butt crack?–then we are probably not friends, especially if you’ve seen where and how I live.

 

 

 

 

I love Paula Poundstone.
I have always loved Paula Poundstone, and if I ever get the chance to win on Wait, Wait, Don’t Tell Me, her voice will greet you when I don’t pick up the phone.
And I’ll never pick up the phone, just so you can hear her voice.
You’re welcome.
I’ve seen her live several times, and I always include her work on my Stand-Up Class syllabus, because no one does better crowd improv work.
So I was thrilled when she was chosen as our headline speaker at this year’s PCA in Indy. The program said 6:30-8:30, so we gathered on time, only to wait until 7, when a PCA boss came up to introduce her.
The PCA lady told a story about how her husband loves Poundstone SO much and NPR SO much and how he listens to NPR in his car, in their driveway, since the PCA lady apparently won’t shut up.
She then read off a card about how amazing Poundstone was.
But then Poundstone took the stage–and roasted us.
We deserve it. We’re an official association for scholars of popular culture, after all. Our very existence is wonderful in its potential and probable uselessness.
I wish I had sat closer and that she had called on me to talk about what I had presented on–she definitely would have had something to say about “teaching students to tell real news from fake news.”
At 8:30, Poundstone was still going strong, but the PCA lady appeared, right behind Poundstone, scaring her badly.
PCA lady: We need you to stop. The caterers need to leave.
Poundstone: I asked you how long I had, and you said as long as I want.
PCA lady: Well, I didn’t know you would talk all night.
That’s right–the PCA lady, who admitted her husband hides from her because she won’t shut up, was shutting up Poundstone.
And she obviously didn’t know anything about Poundstone, her process, or the glorious way she will go on if you let her.