When I was younger, I thought it was silly for PhDs to call themselves doctors.

At the time, I didn’t understand how academia works. I thought all my teachers were “professors” and that they all had PhDs. Thus, I thought academic PhDs should just call themselves professors.

I’m pretty sure I called everyone “professor” when I was an undergrad, except for people who went by their first names.

But when I was the instructor, in grad school, I blanched at the “Professor.” I encouraged the students to use “Karma.” One student couldn’t handle that. He called me “teach.” One class kept pushing. Could they call me “Dr.”? No. When I explained that I would soon have my Masters, they latched onto that word. They said “Master Karma” with upturned lips, thinking they were being naughty somehow.

When I got my Masters and started teaching community college, about 20 years ago, “Professor” became true, but students didn’t like it. I kept crossing out “Mrs.” in the “Mrs. Waltonen” they addressed their essays to.

Just two years ago, after making the correction on multiple essays, I wrote that phrase on the board. “Okay, who knows why this isn’t my name?”

“But it IS your name,” one stubborn student insisted.

“Because I’m married to Mr. Waltonen?”

“YES!”

“Except I’m not. I’m not married; I’m divorced. And there is no Mr. Waltonen I’m divorced from. If you insist on thinking of me in terms of marital status, then I’m a Ms. But it’s rude. The etiquette rule is to use someone’s highest title. I get to be in this room teaching you because I’m a Dr. and an adjunct Professor.”

Things are more complicated at UCD. I’m not a Professor there, since that word is reserved for tenure-track research faculty.

When I changed from being grad school teacher Karma to Lecturer Karma, I decided “Dr. Karma” was the way to go, especially since I didn’t want to hear my last name mispronounced all day.

I don’t correct students who call me Professor, usually. It’s strange, though, that a generation of students who can give an hour-long lecture on why we need to call people what they prefer to be called, to honor their identity, ignores the part of my syllabus that says, “Dr. Karma or Dr. Waltonen are appropriate ways to address me.”

The more I get involved in fighting for my rights as a lecturer, the more I insist on the proper address from UCD. In union negotiations, UC people regularly claim (lie) that lecturers don’t mentor students or produce research. Thus, when the university features my work, I make sure the word “professor” isn’t there and that “lecturer” and “Dr.” are.

I’ve met people who look askance at my title (they’re often M.D.s). They don’t usually know that “Doctor” comes from an old word for “Teacher” or that M.D.s stole the word from us when they finally professionalized, when they wanted equal respect to PhDs. They definitely don’t know about the complicated politics in the UC system.

When I tell them that I’m not a “professor,” and ask what my students should call me, they relent. They know it would be an insult to pretend I don’t have any advance degrees.

(Also, “Dr. Karma” is just too fucking cool to give up.)

This morning, I awoke from a nightmare. My son and I and the cats were hiding in my childhood home in the woods. We couldn’t leave, couldn’t get away, because of the T-Rex hunting us.*

One of the ways I had tried to get us out was raising a T-Rex to defend us, but the larger one killed her.

The dream ended with us huddled in the bathroom (the only room without windows) as the T-Rex was breaking into the sun porch.

At least there were no assholes in the dream, telling me that T-Rexes are hoaxes, that we should let them kill the weak and slow, that Trump did a great job because he banned T-Rexes from one country, while ridiculing those citizens who set up T-Rex defenses . . .

*T-Rex was likely a scavenger, but it makes sense that a dream set in a childhood home would have my childhood beliefs about paleontology.

Most of you have already seen the video of Snowball’s first night playing fetch.

Her consistency was shaky at first, but now she’s reliable.

Each night, when I tell her it’s time for bed, she runs up, and we play fetch while I read.

She likes to play with the toy on the floor for a few minutes before she brings it back to me, which gives me time to turn some pages.

The boy is disappointed that she thinks this is only bedtime behavior; she looks at us like we’re crazy when we ask her to bring a living room toy back to us.

Although she usually gets tired before I put my book down, there have been a few nights when she’s wanted to keep going longer than I could.

And there have been a few when she’s wanted to play in the middle of the night. I’ve woken up with a toy mouse in my hand more than once.

Today, I woke up with one between my collarbones. She was on my chest too; maybe she just wanted all of us to be together.

Q: Thanks for checking in with us again, Karma. Are you excited about the start of Fall?

A: It’s going to be 100 tomorrow, it’s still smokey, and some of my friends have been evacuated.

Q: Ah, it’s gonna be one of those interviews.

A: It’s 2020.

Q: What were your goals this summer?

A: Well, once it was clear what summer was going to be, I wanted to get into some good routines for myself. I wanted to try new recipes with my CSA, to take a walk every morning, to read in my hammock for a bit at the end of the work day, and to take Sundays off from school work. And I wanted to do some things on the big “to do” list, like backing up my old family photos.

Q: Did you meet your goals?

A: I tried a bunch of new recipes!

Q: What about the rest?

A: I was doing really well until the start of August. I was up to walking for almost an hour, but then my back went out. Right as two upper division online summer classes were starting. Since I give so much more feedback now, I was having trouble getting away from the computer. And then, once my back was better, the fires started.

Q: Ah, yes. And the air turned yellow and unhealthy.

A: While over 100.

Q: Yes.

A: It’s 2020. Yes. But I created an incredible marinara recipe.

Q: Do you think you’ll be able to get back into good health habits in Fall?

A: I’ll be teaching six classes.

Q: No hammock time?

A: The air is still unhealthy, but I do want to use it in between when the fires let up and the rain starts. If we get that break.

Q: Anything else happen this summer?

A: My brother and nephew got Covid, my rent went up, my hometown (with Covid-recovering family) got hit by a hurricane, and I’ve been bleeding for six out of the last eight weeks.

Q: Let’s leave the audience with sometime positive, shall we?

A: My son started grad school.

Q: And?

A: I got the cutest kitten in the world.

Q: And?

A: I survived. I survived more of this year, even though the natural and unnatural disasters make it hard to get out of bed in the morning. And while I didn’t manage to make any headway on my health or on my big list, I did manage to teach three intensive summer classes and to keep on top of them. And my fall classes are ready to go.

Q: And?

A: And I made a great marinara sauce!

The other night, I had a strange dream.

One of my healthcare specialists recommended that I join a secret upscale Davis orgy group. He said it would make me feel better.

My first response was “no. I’m so ashamed of my body. I don’t want a whole room full of people to see it.”

He talked me into joining anyway. Unfortunately, my dreamscape didn’t feature a meeting.

I’m sad about what I said about myself.

I woke up convinced I was ill, not sure if I’d somehow managed to get a bad cold or the beginning of Covid.

What a relief to discover that I’m ill because the fires are closer and the smoke is hurting my throat, eyes, and lungs!

It’s also 110F today.

(Seriously, 2020, go fuck yourself.)

Thoth is still really, really unhappy about being stuck inside. He yowls whenever one of us leaves.

And at about nine every night, he goes back and forth from the patio to the front door, crying, to let me know he wants out.

I’ve even had to show him that doors to water heaters aren’t mystical portals to the outside.

He only stops crying when I take him up to bed.

This week, though, he’s crying AND totally freaked out.

This is Thoth, watching something intently.

His every muscle is tense.

What’s he staring at?

Anubis has turned into a demigorgon.

Thoth won’t go anywhere near him, but he will stare, trying to figure out what’s happened and whether it’s catching.

After racking up almost $2000 at the vet in the last six weeks, he wasn’t getting better, so I paid for a urethra-enlarging surgery.

He has to be coned for two weeks.

And he’s basically been subjected to bottom surgery against his will.

Meanwhile, how’s blind Graymalkin?

Absolutely fine.

Graymalkin, being blind, doesn’t always know how the bathroom works. He often digs a hole in our tiny back patio space, only to stand in it while pooping outside of it.

About once a month, he misses the litter box.

And when he does, it’s spectacular.

He always manages to let loose what seems like a pint of pee, which goes all over the bathroom. He then tries to “cover” it, which means swiping at the tile floor, spreading it around even further. The pee footprints then go all over the house.

When I woke up this morning, I could smell pee, but it wasn’t my primary concern. My back was really bad yesterday. I could get out of bed, however, to discover where the smell was coming from.

Since I didn’t think I should tackle that with a bad back, I closed the bathroom door and went to put paper towels over the paw prints.

And that’s when my back locked all the way up.

Dante will get home from work soon. I wonder if he’ll want to clean up piss or take me to the doctor first.

Today is the second anniversary of adopting Graymalkin and Thoth. It’s also the second anniversary of finding out Graymalkin is blind.

He’s remarkable at adapting, so it’s hard to tell, unless you live with him long enough to see him run right into walls when he gets turned around or when you hold a toy right in front of his face and he can’t see it.

We’re not sure what caused the problem, but my medical team has theories. One of his eyeballs appears smaller than it should be, while the other is bigger. The thinking is that something happened in the womb–his little head got smushed, pushing one eyeball forward and the other back, enough to take away almost all of his sight.

What makes this fascinating, though, is that he looooooooves to have his face smushed.

Whenever he wants a nap on me, he circles my chest, unhappily, until I take his face into my hand and hold it tight. Then, he sleeps peacefully, until I need my hand for something.

Since we’re not always available to smush his face, he has discovered a spot in the living room that allows him to do with a pillow.

This is where he sleeps.

Does he snore?

Of course.