Archived Posts: December, 2005

Am I winning?
“Would you say you’re a competitive person?”

I raised my eyebrows and looked across the desk piled high with reprints from journals at a professor at the University of Chicago. He was the second of many meetings on this visit to decide whether I should apply for graduate admission there. I thought the interview had been going well until then – I knew the right answers to the questions, and could finesse the truth until I thought I at least came close to what he wanted to hear. But are you supposed to be competitive in grad school? Hell – I wasn’t sure. So I went with the truth.

First, you have to find the hospital.
My scrap of paper was filled with directions. If/then statements on how to find the elevators, the difference between service and patient elevators and how if you found this magical set, then they’d each take me to the file I needed to obtain. However, depending on the set of elevators I took, there were different hallways, turns, landmarks… all carefully recorded on a very crowded note.

I walked out of my office, headed down the hall, and promptly headed in the wrong direction. In giving me excessive choices, the Resident had me completely turned around. I wasn’t sure how to even approach the hospital filled with countless entrances, lobbies and banks of elevators. Luckily, I ran into my boss (who already knows I can’t find new places) and asked him where the main elevators were in the hospital. I rambled on quickly about how it was important that I find this particular set. I could take the patient or service ones, and held out my scribbled note that hadn’t helped me at all so far.

Close to retirement, and having enjoyed considerable success in the field, Boss still reminds me of a grandfather – benevolent, patient and wise. He smiled at me.

“First you have to find the hospital. Then you go from there.”

I must have continued to look confused, because he continued, turning to point down the hall.

“If you go straight out those doors, you’ll walk right in front of the main entrance. Walk through the lobby, take the elevators up and there will be signs.”

In 2 sentences, he simplified my indecipherable scribbles, enabling me to easily find my location.


text-transform:uppercase? I think not.
The beginning of a template obsession...
I was finished at least 3 times. Then I decided to alphabetize my links, because that would be lovely, right? But that lead to re-titling the sections a couple of times. Change and preview. Then I gasped as I rolled over the links and they turned orange! No, no, no. Turns out that’s the hover color, so I changed that a couple of times. On the fourth preview, I was content with it. Then I thought it would be better to put the description above the title. Nice. But then it should be bigger. Oh, and with different text. In a different font. With different padding.

Peace be with you
When I first heard that the Holy Spirit lives within each of us upon acceptance of Christ, I pictured Him taking up residence in the center of my chest. I feel weird even writing that out, but that’s how I make sense of it. It’s where I feel flutters of happiness when I sing my favorite hymns, the place that doesn’t feel so tense and panicked anymore after I pray. So I think of that little place as being ecstatic when He gets to talk to God – when all my attention is focused in worship or prayer. And He gets sad – despondent and lonely – when I neglect my spiritual life.

I found a local Methodist church online months ago and often drove by it on my way home from work. I could hear the Holy Spirit chirp “Let’s go! Let’s see how it is!” every time I glanced over, but inertia kept me from getting ready and going on Sundays.

poor little me
Thing I realized this morning when I was thinking about all my problems: I don’t really have any. I seem to have lost all perspective in terms of what’s important and what shouldn’t even register because it’s so insignificant. So I present a list of things that make me look terrible for being upset about them in order to remind myself to suck a little less in the future.

Glass houses
College campus are historical - every generation leaving some sort of mark. I marvel at the overall campus plan - near a lake, on the banks of a river, among rolling hills; the inclusion of parks and quads – carefully tended, leaves raked, trees planted and benches placed in memory of someone important. I have wandered down countless wide stone paths, glancing at old, sturdy buildings interspersed with structures that appear to be made predominantly of glass. The old ones are my favorites - the high arches and gorgeous stone or brick work, the gracious windows within imposing, bulky structures that often house classrooms and offices with aging heating systems and leaky pipes. Renovations are careful, in my experience, to upgrade without changing the overall structure - these buildings represent an important time in the life of a university and are usually preserved as pieces of history.
...
Turning a corner past bare trees, altering my path a bit to avoid the men blowing leaves, I faced the biomedical library. It must be a relatively new addition to campus - floor to ceiling windows supported sparingly with slender cement elements. While inside searching for your book or journal, you can always see outside - watch the people and cars, note the weather, monitor the progression of day into night.

Opportunities
I remember sitting up from my nest of pillows, and perching on the side of my bed. In that tiny apartment about 3 years ago, I told her that marriage and work weren’t so scary. She could still travel, switch jobs, move around – there were tons of adventures yet to be had, challenges that would test her. This wasn’t the end – she could walk this path for awhile and if it was too flat or not scenic enough, she and her husband could cut across and find another trail that was more appealing. So she adjusted to the thought of her new life, made her choices and headed off down her little road.

Cute boy from SC: part 1
Oh, but look at him. The short, dark hair. The intense hazel eyes covered by glasses. Who knew glasses could be so breathtakingly sexy? He paused to listen to a question, answered it confidently and continued with his original comment. Articulate, at ease, respectful of others. Militant leader moved on to a different topic. I scooted back a little so I could stare without being noticed. My friend, Elle, obligingly moved out of my way. When the meeting ended, we all got up. I continued to watch Cute Boy from SC – he greeted someone, then walked away, moving quickly. I turned to Elle, eyes wide.

Cute boy from SC: part 2
So we developed a plan for one last shot at Gabe. Why give up the crush you already have when nothing has ever happened? Our plan was rather elaborate, involving a party to celebrate the beginning of the school year, I think. We all had a casual acquaintance with Gabe, and decided that upon running into him (with 4 people committed to partaking of the plan on a relatively small campus, it seemed completely reasonable) we’d invite him to this party.

Cute boy from SC: part 3
I walked back to the living room, shoes and coat on, and sat down.

“What’s going on?”

“I thought you went to bed.”

“Are you going somewhere? It’s late.”

My girls had remained in the living room and asked their questions from there. Only Julie followed me down the hall – she had been brushing her teeth, getting ready for bed.

“I called him. I wanted to go over to talk, but he said he’d come here. That I shouldn’t be out walking by myself so late.” My voice was shaking – I was nervous and unsure, yet thrilled that I had done something so out of character. My friends were suitably impressed, waiting mostly in silence for Gabe to arrive.

Cute boy from SC: part 4
“Don’t go.” He said again. “I’ll give you a massage.” I looked at him, beyond surprised and into shocked.

“It’ll help,” he promised, “and I’m good at it.”

“I don’t think so.” I said quietly, but making no move to get my coat, suspended in thought, wanting but not being brave enough to take. And where would it lead? He had a girlfriend – were guys with girlfriends allowed to give massages to girls who had crushes on them?

“I do think so. It’ll help. Take your hair down.”

Cute boy from SC: the end
I think that’s why I hung on to Gabe for so long – kept those memories fresh and ready to revive. I thought there was something more – that such strong feelings couldn’t lead nowhere. But sometimes they do; perhaps that’s the lesson I was meant to learn. Sometimes I’m not the young, beautiful heroine. That doesn’t mean there isn’t cool stuff out there for me – friends, work, a house, the best little dog in the world. And maybe I do have a boy out there somewhere – one who will make me fluttery and giddy again. This next one might be the real one, or maybe he’ll just be more practice. But as I sit, stuck in a dateless rut and not really all that bothered by it, I wanted to review the story that made me lose faith that love is all powerful. Not every story makes a great novel, I guess. So I don't have a romance novel of my own - just some background material on a website.

Don't be mad, but...
The problem comes when people generalize. The arguments stop being reasonable and focused and deteriorate into the screaming matches that you had with your roommate when she thought you were bothered by the dishes that she didn’t do, but you’re really yelling at her for all the times she didn’t clean the kitchen and bathroom. And that time she borrowed your CD without asking. And then scratched it! Or how she flirted with that boy you liked, even though she had a boyfriend. Whore. And she still owes you $10, which you’d like back sometime, thank you. And she ate your carrot cake, which you had been carefully saving for later. Selfish.

Post-doc positions: pros (and cons)
I can tell you that my post-doc experience so far has been overwhelmingly positive. Countless people would undoubtedly tell you that being doing some sort of post-doctoral work after graduating is not exactly the dream of every grad student. Because who in their right mind goes to grad school in the first place? And of those people, what kind of idiot can’t figure out that the research job sucks. Really bad. To the point where I’ve been curled up on my bathroom floor, listening to the shower run to mask the sounds of sobs because my life is so miserable. But I signed up for more of that – an extension of grad school that provides additional training in research and teaching.

So...did I tell you I've been to Japan?
For the middle photo (part of a lovely series), I paid 350 yen to see these exquisite wall paintings created in the late 1500s. So I paid 2 lovely women who gave me a brochure with a page in English (which I removed from my album to consult for this post). I removed my shoes and walked alone through the building, awestruck at the paintings, lingering at each doorway, reading my brochure and staring at these incredible works of art. There's something about being without shoes, as if the intial show of respect prepares you for the full experience of something unique and special. I adored the gardens outside while I walked from room to room, viewing the paintings. So now maybe you can adore them a little too.

Minor Revisions: the meaning behind the title
It was a gift – a summer experience made successful through sacrifice of graduate students who trained me, helped me solve problems, and answered questions over the reading. Then a paper that was carefully tended to in my absence, and eventually brought to print. It sits first on my CV under Peer Reviewed Publications. And what I think of when I see it is what academia can be. A place where confidence is built, people are welcomed and taught, and hard work is rewarded.

Publications, part 2: It's not easy...being mean
“I’d ask to see the revised paper in total.” He said, not unkindly. “You’re not where you thought you were in author order.”

Publications, part 3: Stage Presence
So it was with some regret that I passed along my text, graphs and tables to another remote location. I once again completed revisions and repeated some analyses for another first author. Had I not been confident in my thesis work, which was moving forward quickly and with great initial success, I might have clung to this work. I would have written a decent paper, and been accepted to a mediocre journal. It seemed selfish though – a decision that would serve only myself when the community would undoubtedly benefit from a beautifully-written paper from a different author. So I’m pleased when I look at the next 2 papers on my list. The first, one that I guided and felt complete ownership of until a time when I gave it away, was met with a great deal of approval. We completed some minor revisions after review and went on to publish easily. Likewise with my other contribution to Carrie’s work.

Publications, part 4: If at first you don't succeed, revise and try again
We’re down to the last 3 papers – the ones that I’ve written myself, babied through other author revisions, reformatted, formed countless figures and tables to aid in reading the text, and made large strides in understanding my work by clarifying it for others. There are 2 manuscripts on my thesis project. One details my method in a small sample – something like 22 datasets. There was some optimization, and many areas were exciting and encouraging, but it contained little in the way of true validation. And that’s a problem. I’ve done simulations, attempted ways around the lack of data, but realized early on that I’d be fighting an uphill battle. But I believe in this work – I think it’s important and innovative and think that if someone has the means to do some additional testing and application, I’d like to let them know how I think it should work.

Intermissions
But intermission brings the tension of having to deal with your escort. Feeling responsible that he’d bought tickets and dinner, knowing with all certainty that you won’t see him again. I waited, glancing upward at regular intervals, waiting for the lights to flicker to let us know that we could return to our seats and yet again pretend to read the program. Then the next half of the show would start and the evening would be one step closer to being over. Minutes would ease by until I was home again, out of my dress and stockings, and into comfortable sleepy pants and a t-shirt. I sighed, finished my wine, and smiled at my date. He was looking around too, poor guy, undoubtedly as eager as I to wrap this evening up.

Memories and updates
I pressed kisses to fingers that had gone numb from the cold and then touched both names on the bronze gravestone. Then I carefully found a path up the hill to my car, started it and waited for it to warm up, gazing back on the resting places of 2 people who were dearest to me in my childhood. I look down at the ring that encircles the middle finger of my right hand – the only ring I wear and one I never remove. It was Grandma’s engagement ring and serves as a reminder of the greatness from which I came. The love, the warmth, the dreams, and now the tears as I continue to grieve for Grandpa after 20 years, and for Grandma after 9.

Nick
I named him Nick (so his full name is Nick Mac – cute, right?!), and have built a rather unhealthy relationship with him. I was home last week, and had been doing some reading when I decided to take a break and see what some people were saying in their lovely little blogs. But the light that brightens and dims on Nick’s side wasn’t on.

“Nick?” I said fearfully. Picking him up and pushing the screen up. Tapping the space bar multiple times, frantically trying to wake him. I plugged him in, then pressed the power button. Firmly. For a long time. Nothing.

Jack & Jackie - an opinion in progress
So I imagine Jack and Jackie had a rough time of it. Four children is a lot. When they're all born within my four years of grad school, that's ... well, I don't know what that is. I only saw that their bitter paranoia was hurting them – people didn’t want to hire Jack because all he would speak of is a flawed system. People didn’t want to help Jackie because her life became a litany of how nobody was able to handle Jack’s brilliance and how, though she adored being a mother and had no plans to return to work outside the home, the financial difficulty was overwhelming. They had alienated most of the people they knew personally and professionally, and continued to dig themselves a hole they became increasingly unlikely to escape from.

Moving
I helped move Aunt and Uncle today. They built a house out of town, and it’s exquisite. And as I tread across the hardwood floors, put groceries in a stainless steel refrigerator, and lined up shoes they don’t often use in an extra bedroom closet, I thought about the Olds and their little girl. In her 20s now, I hope she’s well. I hope that someone out there gave her the confidence that I have that the world is benevolent, full of good people who want what’s fair and right and kind. That there are infinite possibilities, and that each path has some joyous turns and some rocky climbs.

Christmas Eve, 2005
My musings were disturbed when Mom gasped. I looked over to see her watching the woman a few rows up, our only left-sided friend, abandon us for a seat on the right side. At that point, though I knew there was no reason for everyone to sit on the right, I started to look around to make sure there wasn’t something I’d missed. It was too warm in the church, so they couldn’t all be huddled for warmth. They can’t all know each other – they’re not talking, and I recognize people who normally attend the traditional service in favor of the contemporary one. Perhaps they all want to be on the side with the band? Or maybe they think Jesus loves that side more? Does Santa only visit those who are seated on the right side of the church?
...
Moved, I slowly pushed my candle up and through the plastic cup. I wanted to be brave too. To celebrate the birth of my Lord, to acknowledge that there was a chance things could go wrong in my own life – that some opportunities would bring pain rather than success – and face the future and all its possibilities with confidence. Walk smoothly and briskly with my candle in front of me, unconcerned with the chance that the flame could be blown out. I said a prayer when the song ended – asking for His blessing on everyone inside and outside that church – and carefully blew out my candle before laying it on the tray by the door.

Nothing to see here...
I also notice that when I work in solitude, not talking to anyone, I can’t talk very well. It’s hard for me to put sentences together – I stutter and choose the wrong words, sounding like an idiot. So I’m stuttering now, unable to find a compelling topic on which to write semi-intelligently. But I miss being here – posting new things and reading to myself as I attempt to figure out what’s in my head.

Before I was a post-doc: the receptionist job
I think what strikes me as I look back over those memories is that I loved being there – feeling important, helping people, providing someone to talk to for people who were a little lonely and eager to share their stories. The residents, though sometimes irritable and cranky, were mostly loving and warm, age having softened them so that they were mostly kind, stopping in to compliment my hair or a new dress. Though they didn’t need me every day, I always knew there was the possibility that I’d be necessary to someone – Bea could run out of her heart medication and need me to arrange for a special delivery; Elsa might get pictures from her nieces in the mail and want to show me; Margaret could forget that the shopping trip left at 10:30 on Saturday, and I’d have to call to remind her since she needed microwave popcorn.

Rainy day - past and present
I, however, adore rain - it softens everything, and as I think about it, most places I've visited have been photographed in cloudy weather. After we entered the grounds and began the hike toward the Rock Garden at Ryoanji, I took pictures of this lake, marveling over the lily pads and swans as we stood under a tall canopy of trees and dried out a little.

Things I learned today:
What have you learned? I don't like doggie nails. I do like shelves, though I'm not great at putting them together. I love Cash Cab, almost as much as I love clocks. Tylenol PM is also quite nice.

New Year's Eve
“It has a white back and yellow trim,” I began, already starting to cry as I pictured it. “And there are dolls on the front. With big bonnets. In primary colors. It’s ratty and old – I’ve had it since I was a baby. I know it’s silly, but I need it. I have to have it back.” After carefully giving my address and gaining a kind girl’s promise to have housekeeping look for it early the next day, I hung up and returned to the living room, barely clinging to my control.