Randomly

• I have awakened at 2:00 or 3:00 in the morning for more nights than I can recall. It's a mixture of bad dreams, thinking I heard a noise and, perhaps, habit.
  
• If it's 2AM, I sing Anna Nalick in my head.
  
• 3AM means Matchbox Twenty.
• My sleep schedule is so screwed. And Dream Katie grows tired of running from people. Just not tired enough to sleep and stay asleep.
  

• Chienne and I hid in the basement this evening.
• It's been cool enough to keep the house open of late, but it grew warm this afternoon. I do not like being hot.
• It's nearly the 4th of July and people are exploding things. Chienne does not like fireworks so she curled up in the shower of the bathroom downstairs. I gave her a sofa cushion so she'd be more comfortable and turned the television way up.
• Sprout came to visit. He likes to screw with the dog and it's easier to get my attention when she's in hiding.
  

• My chapter is coming along beautifully. Apparently, giving it vague consideration but applying no real effort for several months allowed my brain to be ready to write it.
  
• I spent Thursday making figures.
• I spent yesterday making final figure revisions, writing text and adding references.
• It was a surprisingly lovely process. Though I was out of practice of thinking about a topic in that particular way, I fell back into it easily enough and am enjoying the experience far more than I thought I would.
• I had a choice for the last section and - shockingly - I went for the more challenging choice. I still don't know how to write it, but I've decided it's important that I do.
• I decided on a more relaxed style. I tell stories and use silly words and basically sound like Katie. I may edit it out, but I like to think I'm growing more comfortable with sharing how I view things.
  
• Well, comfortable in my professional self. I've always been pretty comfortable on a personal level.
  

• I changed the art in my living room. The vintage travel posters are now downstairs.
• Friend liked the birthday present I sent! So I was pleased (mostly) that I didn't keep it.
  
• I just realized blogging had dipped for the summer. It's a natural process, of course, but given that summer is now meaningless to me (I don't even get to enjoy a less-crowded campus), it took some time for me to put it together.
  

• I like Wing Street Wings delivered by Pizza Hut. My local (what's the word? For the single element of a chain? Franchise?) place just recently began to carry them. Not being a huge Pizza Hut fan in general, I was pleased to hear of the chicken addition.
  
• My house - while lovely - has few delivery options.

• Work is going reasonably well.
• I'm still the favorite of my group. In general, I'm only happy if I'm the favorite.
• Being the favorite means I get more work. It's just higher profile.
• It's very close to my one year anniversary! Does that seem odd to anyone else?
• I'm getting quite good at telling people no. (I'm also very skilled at telling people they're being mean and that's inappropriate and knock it the hell off.)

• I miss blogging. I remember when I used to compose posts in my head every day, take time to write in Word and edit in Blogger before publishing and pore over site stats.
  
• The communities established here continue to amaze me.
• Kim made a comment on my Skirt Length post. She has a survey if you have a few moments and would like to help out. I have already done so.
  
• The time for reflection - if I made it - might cut down on the nightmares and sleepless hours before dawn.
  

Keeps Getting Worse

"We manufacture these!" I seethed, having poking at buttons and wiggling cables for the last two hours. "And we can't get them to work?" I glared at the offending device and crossed my arms, tapping my toe for agitated good measure. "You acquire data!" I ordered it. "You do it right now!"

Alas, it did not and with a final flip of my hair which I hope expressed my utter disgust with the situation, I returned to my desk and made my way through two useless conference calls and a hurried to a seminar I'd organized.

I mentally composed a grocery list after I offered a smiling introduction to our visitor and his topic and got bored somewhere between cream and flour. The questions were frequent and discussion lively so I counted myself pleased with the overall experience. (Plus, I got to talk to a very pretty boy who invited me to lunch sometime.)

Buoyed by the brief flirtation, I returned to additional conference calls and emails, slowly growing more frustrated again. Finally, with a muttered bad word, I tucked various items in my bag and left. Deciding only carrot cake could save the horrible day, I stopped at the store and deftly pulled into a very good parking spot.

I paused when an elderly woman called out, turning to move toward her.

"Are you going inside?" she asked, motioning to the store and nodded when I replied that I was. "Will you take my cart?" she continued and I smiled before reaching for the handle.

"It's no problem," I demurred when she thanked me very much. "Have a nice evening."

I thought of my aging phobia, acknowledging that I remained utterly terrified of the fact that I'm growing older. Baring an early death, I might someday stand outside a grocery store, tired after my shopping trip, and ask someone to take my cart inside. My hair would remain dark, I decided, thinking of Grandma, but would be liberally sprinkled with gray strands. I would likely wear slacks and blouses - that's what all the nice, old women of my acquaintance wear so I should follow suit.

Unable to find vegetables that appealed in the produce section, I paused to select cheese from the display case and paused before tossing it in the cart. My eyes widened as I looked in the basket and I gasped with utter horror.

"No, no, no, no, no..." I whispered, reaching for the item beside my cheese and scampering toward the door. In the foyer of the store, I peered out the window and whimpered when I saw that I was too late. She had already pulled out of the handicapped spot and driven away.

I looked down at my hands, clutched around it, and closed my eyes and sighed heavily. If lying in church hadn't already assured me of a spot in the fiery pits of Hell, this would certainly seal the deal, I decided.

I had stolen the sweet, old woman's cane.

I returned it to my cart and finished my shopping. I picked a whole carrot cake and some crackers to go with my cheese. I remembered flour and realized Sprout was low on kibble before moving toward the refrigerated case to fetch cream.

I returned the cane to the customer service counter at the front of the store. "I didn't notice it," I explained, twisting my hands. "I was thinking about other things. I'm sorry." I winced when they thanked me for returning it. "Tell her I'm sorry," I requested again. "It's just not my day."

Skirt Length

“That’s not too short,” my friend offered when I crept out of the bathroom in our hotel room.

“Are you sure?” I asked hesitantly, tugging at the hem. “Because I’ve been yelled at on the street twice now and it seems that should be enough of a lesson that the outfit is inappropriate.”

“No,” she replied slowly, frowning as she considered it. “You’re allowed to show your knees. It’s fine.”

I returned to the full mirror on the wall and stared at the reflection of my lower half. The print dress of which I’m so fond – with the pockets and fluttery sleeves and demure neckline – is causing me no small amount of dismay. When traveling once, I was the recipient of a variation of a ‘nice legs’ comment that I took as sarcastic. I was not, however, acquainted with the man driving the car in front of the conference location so I’m not sure of his real intention. Then, a couple of weeks later, another comment was thrown my way – I didn’t decipher a single word – as I was walking to get gelato with friends from work.

I outwardly ignored both men, not being the type to reply to random idiots who shout out their car windows at passersby. But my stomach curled into a tight knot and stayed clenched for hours afterward. Yet I packed the bit of fabric as my back-up outfit for my latest trip and told my friend she was to honestly evaluate it for propriety’s sake.

“You’re fine,” she insisted and I nodded, frowning sympathetically at myself in the mirror, feeling exposed and nervous and uncertain if I was rather adorable or painfully hideous.

“It shouldn’t be this hard,” I sighed, but, with one final tug at the hem, grabbed my bag and followed her out the door and down the hall. “I thought it was the shoes at first,” I belabored the point. “I wore strappy red heels with it at first.”

“Katie,” she scolded. “I told you the dress is appropriate. I think you look nice. Just relax.”

“It’s just that I hate having my perception proved wrong,” I insisted as we stepped into the elevator. “It’s like someone asking you to prom and getting all excited and then finding out he was joking.”

“Your dress is an immature asshole in high school?”

“I thought I looked pretty,” I explained and waved her off when she said that I did. “I know I’m not beautiful – that’s actually fine now. But I like wearing skirts and dresses and peep-toe shoes. And to think that I instead appear horrible and ridiculous is unsettling.”

“Then I suggest you settle,” she advised, not unkindly. “Because you’re very pretty and sweet and lovely.”

I nodded. But every time I've reached for the dress, standing mostly naked and rather sleepy in my closet, I pause and wince before selecting something else. Even as I hate that two idiots have that much power over my decisions, I don't know that I can handle a third comment. And I don't know how to make it stop bothering me.

Buttons and Pushing Thereof

“You download the software,” she said, looking entirely befuddled by the question raised after her presentation. “And you put in the data and push the button.”

“Right,” he said, looking around at us in what I suppose was a plea for greater understanding since he was getting little from the podium. “But have you thought of these confounds or considered those alternate approaches?”

“You push the button,” she insisted, looking rather annoyed and sending me into a fit of barely-suppressed giggles. I hid behind my notebook, peeking over the top of the pages to continue to watch their exchange after a talk that had been wildly simplified. It was clear she was using a technique she didn’t understand and her results were naturally a bit difficult to interpret because of that.

Another brave soul rose to help the first questioner, trying to restate the areas of confusion and offer suggestions on how they might be addressed. The speaker, who spoke flawless English (because language barriers are frustrating and sucky – I feel sympathy rather than amusement in those situations), looked increasingly frustrated with both men at the microphone and returned to a slide she’d shown previously.

I got up to scamper from the room, choking on laughter, when she used the laser pointer to circle the button insistently. “It’s right here,” she seethed. “The button on the bottom left!”

Because I am that sort of person, I have taken to using “push the button,” phrase whenever someone gives a talk or offers a response that makes it clear he or she has no flipping clue as to what happens after the magical program takes the data and generates some nifty result. Then – because I am also that sort of person – I have a moment of haughty superiority that I rather enjoy. Well, rather I did enjoy it.

I am, in my spare time, writing another chapter for a textbook. When given a topic where no approach has received full approval, I decided to cover the three likely suspects and take sections of chapters and papers I’d written before to get a basic outline going.

After throwing a bunch of text together in a giant document, I realized a year away from actually dealing with these algorithms has given me a nice amount of perspective. I’ve happily (if distractedly) set about revising some text and abandoning some paragraphs as I take another shot at explaining concepts that have long been important to me. I’ve learned – largely through talking to a variety of people in my current role and understanding that technical expertise varies widely even among very intelligent people – that adding simple pictures rather than just clinical examples can be helpful.

I came up with a simple concept when I was flying back from California, half-asleep as I curled up in my window seat. I began putting together a figure for the best methodology (which just so happens to be the one I’ve used personally) and nodded in immodest satisfaction at how well it worked to explain the concept.

I thought through the second concept I was to cover and decided my examples would work equally well for a graphical representation. But then I realized I couldn’t form a mental sketch of how that third method would appear.

“No,” I said out loud, refusing to believe such a thing. So I found a sheet of paper and clicked the end of a pen while I drew the beginning of my little example and then stared at the remainder of the page, having no idea what to draw.

“So you take the data,” I decided to talk out loud, watching Chienne and Sprout turn toward me to listen. “And then, well,” I paused, scrunching up my face so I could think very hard. “There are equations. And, you know, some rules.” My pets did not appear convinced and I shrugged at them rather sheepishly.

“I push the button,” I finally admitted. “I’ll just tell people it’s on the bottom left of the screen.”

Update in Letters

Dear California,

I'm going to be honest because I think that's how relationships grow. I do not trust you. And, to continue along our forthright path here, it seems as though you don't care or wish to change my inherent suspicion.

It's like this - I hear you have a gorgeous coastline. Great! I shall make time to admire it. But then you coat the sucker with fog so I barely notice the ocean is there at all! And while my companions were impressed by the way the fog flowed smoothly up and down the mountains, I was set in my disappointment and in full pouting mode. I wanted ocean. You keep your silly fog.

I also understand you have excellent cuisine. I ended up grabbing a sandwich when you trapped me at an airport waiting for a friend's delayed plane (why do you insist on apples and brie on what would otherwise be a normal turkey sandwich? I suppose it was acceptable but, honestly, I keep shaking my head over your insistence on being different.) but we had tapas that evening with more colleagues. It was fabulous. The fruity sangria and nibbles of yumminess followed by churros which were so wonderful I could have made a deep and lasting commitment to love and cherish them forever and always. After multiple days of hit or miss meals, I went to a different tapas place with other friends and was powerfully disappointed. The churros were charred! Do not char-ro the churros! What is wrong with you?! You have great public transportation in some cities - which is lovely - but then actually using it is wildly inconvenient and time consuming! Do I want to sit and wait for a bus for 20 minutes? No. No, I do not.

You, California, are hot then you are cold. You are yes then you are no. You are in then you are out, up and you're down. (No, you will damn well listen to the song lyrics that you played incessantly when I was trying to drink!) I realize you are full of people who adore you and have many admirers elsewhere. But you may not count me among them. I merely tolerate you.

If, however, you're willing to work on your treatment of me and my feelings, I shall reconsider.

Grudgingly,
Katie

Dear Wine,

Hi! I smile and flutter my eyelashes at you as you wait in pretty bottles and swirl in graceful glasses.

You ease my yearning to leave crowded parties. You taste refreshing with cheese plates (which may or may not come from the happy cows - I never did see any. Freaking California.). I may have a glass of you while shopping and another while staring out the window at the ocean during a moment of unfogginess.

I held my glass out to a friend as she blinked tears away after talking to her parents and curled my fingers around the stem again after she took a sip and turned away. I sighed, returning to curl into a chair and gaze out the window into the sunshine. And somehow the act of sipping and savoring the grapefruit notes helped settle my nervous tummy and soothe my sad feelings.

With great fondness,
Katie

Dear Industry,

Please stop asking me to simultaneously focus on travel and continue progress on other projects. It's simply too hard. It makes me so tired.

There was the day where conference calls started at 4AM. By 10PM, when I was socializing with collaborators and customers, I was so exhausted that it hurt. I know problems are important. I understand - believe me - that nobody is backing me up while I'm out of the office. I will work weekends. I'll give you upwards of 12 hours of effort each day. But you must let me rest. Please. I'm begging you.

Kisses and everlasting (if exhausted and irritable) commitment,
Katie

Dear Friends,

I am happy you're doing well. It makes me giddy to see you again after long absences and if I hug for a little too long, it's just because I've missed you. I know I ignore you on Facebook - I never log in, honestly. I know it takes me too long to answer email. But I love that you're publishing papers, getting grants, having babies and falling in love. That's truly wonderful.

Taking time to sit - often drinking, sometimes eating - while we caught up was nothing short of lovely. Remembering there are people who can make me laugh until I'm nearly sick, that I can weep with sympathy while being told a sad story, that I can know someone well enough to cuddle close or rest my head on a shoulder when I'm a shade too tipsy - thank you. I'm very glad I know you.

Much love,
Katie

Katie gives two talks.

“That was great,” he offered and I turned, tucking my hair behind my ear when it swung forward. I cocked my head at the man who had been checking badges and herding people away from escalators (Dear People, Do not congregate near the end of the escalator. People run into you because the giant moving staircase continues to push us forward. Scoot scoot, Katie) and he smiled. “I came in when I heard you start talking so I could listen. Now I know something about what you’re all doing here!”

“That’s very kind,” I said, reaching for a boxed lunch with one hand while patting his arm with the other. “Thank you.”

“I mean it,” he insisted. “You did really well.”

“He thought I did really well,” I told a colleague as we walked to find a place to have lunch. I joined him at a table for a mild critique and then he too offered his compliments. I picked at my chicken salad and wished momentarily for the Chinese we’d consumed the night before.

“I’m doing what Adam says rather than arguing all the time,” I told him as we sat in a nearly-empty-but-quite-good place. I scooped more orange chicken on my plate and considered the hot sauce fish before taking some of that too. “My mom told me I should,” I concluded.

“Moms are smart,” he agreed.

Mine frowned when I returned home and immediately went out on the patio to answer a call from Adam.

“Hey,” I greeted as I dropped in a chair and wrinkled my nose at the temperature outside. Heat and humidity descended while I was away. “I just landed and my folks picked me up. How’s it going for you?” I giggled at travel stories and nodded as he caught me up on new developments.

“I think you should do it,” he concluded and there was silence while he waited for me to respond.

“Are you sure?” I asked, unable to decide if the thought excited or exhausted me.

“Of course,” he decided. “I know you just landed and I’m sure you’re tired, but I’d be most comfortable with you leading this.” I scowled as I realized I was flattered and would soon agree. Then I spent hours organizing documents and rehearsing remarks for a rather important annual meeting.

“You’re going to be late,” Dad said gently when he came to the door this morning. I grumbled and rose, shuffling to my closet to stare at hanging clothes. All my favorite outfits had been tossed downstairs after tugged from a too-full suitcase and were not yet laundered. Finally reaching for a skirt and light beige sweater, I wriggled out of pajamas and into pretty clothes, straightening my hair and plodding downstairs and my pretty cream flats.

“He thinks he did me a favor,” I offered blearily to my parents, terribly tired and not wanting to go present a summary of our activities to the business. “It’s a big deal with an important audience, but I’d just as soon not go in today.”

I perked up as my turn approached, rising from my seat in the second row to stride across the room with skirt fluttering around my knees to introduce myself and begin. The presentation flowed smoothly and I was proud of the way I moved through each idea and to the next, making eye contact with people, smiling at those who offered grins and winks and feeling comfortable and powerful as I commanded the attention of people in the room (and around the world via the telephone microphone positioned conveniently close to my podium).

“Nice job,” the most important man in the room nodded his approval after I finished and I mimicked the gesture with a murmur of thanks.

I'm getting it, I thought, and took the afternoon off to spend with my parents. I understand what we do and know enough to communicate that pretty effectively. Pretty good progress for a little less than a year.

I'm back!

I have been traveling.

I have now returned.

I am very tired, but will post again soon.

Jumble

I stopped speaking and looked down, almost expecting to see the jumble of words that had emerged from my mouth in no comprehensible order scattered on the table. Maybe if I could find them, I could think very, very carefully and organize them in some recognizable thought.

Then I breathed in the wine that smelled temptingly of grapefruit and smiled as I reached for my glass again. Continuing to grin - for I am good-natured when tipsy - I glanced around the table and smiled and nodded.

"Wait. What?" I said politely, frowning as I attempted to force my brain to focus. I nodded as I listened then giggled. "I'm sorry," I apologized to my colleague. "I'm not going to remember that. Can you maybe remind me via email?" Thanking her when she nodded, I returned to my glass. "I like this wine," I told Sibling. "It smells like grapefruit."

Beginning to gulp water as I nibbled steak and potatoes, I tried to sober up. I eventually felt more sleepy than drunk and waved goodnight before wandering to my car. Pausing, I thought carefully about how I felt, balancing the single glass of white wine against the six glasses of water and full meal.

I arrived home safely - if sleepily - and greeted my parents and puppy. After hugs, kisses and a tiny bit of conversation, everyone went to bed. That leaves me with a small bit of packing left to do and another lengthy trip to anticipate.

But the words still don't seem to orient themselves properly. I'll work on it.