I have a cold.

I don’t like being sick. Years of dealing with excruciating headaches have left me unable to cope with feeling less than ideal. I like to be comfortable and will get easily distracted by painful days.

I avoid illness as best I can, but won’t muster the energy to stay away from sick people or infected objects. I’m young and healthy – getting a cold isn’t likely to kill me, so I opt not to offend someone by avoiding all contact and refusing to touch objects that may be carrying their germs.

Occasionally, this strategy lands me feeling iffy, acting as head cheerleader for my immune system and hoping it can fight off the onset of symptoms – stuffy nose, cloudy head, coughing, draining ickiness. Despite all my internal encouragement, I think my white cells have declared mutiny and are going to punish me by allowing disease to set in.

So I scoff at my internal system of disease-fighting, and turn to Tylenol Cold and Nyquil, who will support me in my time of need. Tylenol Cold is responsible for the vague haze that comes between my thoughts and their expression. I’m going to try to avoid taking more medicine for another hour, then I’ll drift off into a drugged sleep.

In truth, I’m almost grateful for feeling badly at this particular time – it provides a much needed excuse for why I’m lacking any kind of motivation lately. When things were going badly at work, I craved writing here, trying to create some sort of audience for these words, but more than that, wanting to put something out there. But now? I feel … not much.

Projects are piling up at work – I’m meeting people and starting to see some collaborative opportunities heading my way. That’s a huge relief, and a source of excitement. These are good, clinically-oriented problems where I think we can make progress. I feel that I have some applicable skills and also could learn from the people and projects. So it’s ideal! Yay! Except…I feel more blah.

I got a note from one of the volunteer organizations too. I offered to tutor math and they seem excited about my interest and subsequent application. It took me 2 days to reply to her email, though I sincerely do want to help. But like at work, problems pile up and I begin to doubt whether I’ll make a difference.

I love to read, and adore romance novels. I like the happy endings – men and women coming together, forming a life, facing problems, and coming out OK. My method is to review the back of the book – get a reminder of characters and conflict, then read a couple chapters. I want to make sure I have an idea of what’s going on. Then I skip to the end.

I can’t help it! I want to know what happens – make sure everything concludes nicely before I invest hours delving into the whole story. Then I can savor the characters, tear up when circumstances are painful, giggle over misunderstandings, content in my knowledge that love conquers all these tiny problems.

I attend a number of tumor board meetings. Normally, it’s great to listen to people talk about some of these cases – and many times, this conversation can lead to some interesting insights that I hope help a particular person. But in one case, doctors had tried a number of treatments, and the tumor continued to grow. Spreading out, pushing aside healthy tissue, apparently becoming increasingly progressive over time. As doctors continued to list their failed treatment attempts, someone finally said “It looks like all you’re doing is pissing it off.”

For me, I keep trying to find ways to motivate myself. Write in the blog! I think. It will help track your progress and inspire you to do more, meet more people, collect more stories you can share.

Oh! Or get involved with more projects – different cancer types, different patient populations, animal studies - all sorts of experiments which will encourage me to work harder in the variety of opportunities I have encountered. My ennui only grew stronger though, so I kept searching.

Read other blogs and see how amazing other people are. Didn’t work so well.

Exercise more and hope the boost in metabolism provides a boost in productivity.

But, alas, all I seem to be doing for that part of my brain that makes me excited, productive and busy? Pissing it off. I’m tired of writing! I can’t think of stories! It responds when I consider composing new posts. I continue to start writing, but fizzle when I reach the middle, letting half-finished documents settle on the screen of my laptop.

My brain sighs with dismay when I continue to line up things to do in various areas. We tried that in grad school, it reminds me. Some of them won’t work, we won’t get credit for others, and the few that make it will be slowly picked apart by peer review. Why bother?

Other people have things figured out – reading about them – their syllabi for classes I have no desire to teach, achieving tenure I don’t think I want, getting publications, interviewing for jobs better than the one I accepted – just makes me feel inadequate at times.

Exercise is fine, but don’t do too much. We need to reserve adequate time for watching mindless TV (The Bachelor’s in Paris! Gilmore Girls might be new tomorrow night! I’m newly addicted to Project Runway!) and taking naps.

So this disease offers a more palatable excuse for me. I don’t have to wonder why I continue to be stuck, in spite of my strong efforts to push forward out of my little rut. I'm sick. The glimmer of success – of optimizing treatment for patients, receiving some recognition for good work, of helping younger scientists as they work their way through what can be a difficult training process – encourages me. It pulls at me more strongly than all the tricks I’ve tried to use to motivate myself.

The hope that this is all going somewhere – that if you flipped ahead and read the last chapters in the story of my career, you’d smile and leave a comment that says “I’ve seen the end, and you’ll be fine. Just hang in there.” That's what will make me bundle up tomorrow, pack up the Kleenex and cough medicine, and head off to work. For better or worse, this is what I do right now and I want to do it well. Apparently that desire extends to in sickness and health as well.

Skeptism...not so much

My parents are here this weekend for a pre-birthday celebration. It's been lovely - eating out, seeing a show, receiving presents - but it's also sucked away all my free time. I've been trying to catch sleep between planned events, cleaning, household projects, and some work that had to be done this weekend.

But we're quiet now - family dinner over and leftovers put away, gathered around the TV with me curled up in the chair, laptop open and ready, Mom on the loveseat sipping sweet tea and Dad on the floor, still nursing his cold, wrapped up in blankets and drinking juice we keep bringing him. I'm out of ideas - completely engrossed in family comfort. I'm terrible at writing when I'm out of my head, thoughts being shared with other people.

So I was all set to ignore the blog for one more day, but Dad's watching David Blaine.

"He's really good, isn't he?" Dad asks from the floor, head propped on a striped throw pillow.

I glance up from the laptop at the television screen, and wrinkle my nose.

"I don't know. I'm not sure I believe he's doing anything all that special."

"He just levitated!" Dad insists, perturbed that I don't share his enthusiasm.

"Yeah...I don't know."

Then I sat for just a moment, considering how far I've come. I used to believe anything - trusting that people have good intentions and pass along valuable information, uninterested in proving something when it's more efficient to just accept it as fact. Years of science have taught me to question - to ask why and how you know and what your control group did. It's not natural for me, but I'm learning. So I was pleased that I wasn't sure Mr. Blaine was all that cool. I'm growing up! I told myself with a smile.

Then, first trick, he's telling someone to watch the cards as he flipped through them. I didn't pay attention at first, but then he offers to do it again more slowly.

So I watch, seeing 3 cards but focusing on the 4 of hearts. I wonder briefly what card the person picked.

He shows the 4 of hearts, the red markings peering back at me from the screen. I raise my eyebrows and try not to say anything, impressed despite myself. I make it 3 seconds before saying,

"That was the card I picked!" Looking up at Mom, sure that she wasn't paying attention either.

"Me too!" Dad says, pleased to be in good company in his David Blaine appreciation.

"I picked that one too." Mom adds, wide-eyed.

"Wow..." We say together, adding individual statements of awe.

It's that moment I treasure - when you let go of all the questions and just think something or someone is special. I still have some doubts - why do the cards have to be held relatively low? What caused us all to pick the same card when there were multiple cards I could see? Is it all a trick? Would I feel silly and gullible if I knew how it was done?

I'm letting it go though. Enjoying the small catch of breath that comes with being amazed, loving that I'll associate David Blaine with Dad on the floor - eager to accept, Mom on the couch - sleepily cuddled with the dog, and me, full of good food and feelings, content to have people around, making noise and clutter in my normally quiet little house.

Sometimes it's nice to let go of the questions and just accept the entertainment, information and joy.

Missy, redux

I have 4 drafts of posts open on my nifty little PowerBook. The thing they have in common is a strong start and then… nothing. I can’t muster the energy to finish any to the point that I can post them.

So I thought I’d comment on my comments from the last post. I’ve thought about them a few times today and had some ideas that could save me from not posting at all today. The problem is that it's hard for me to respond to what is said here. I love reading what you think, and I so enjoy having you read some of what I've written. So I agonize over writing something that addresses what people say on any post (not just this one) and often end up not saying nothing at all, though I do read and think carefully about all of the comments. So I'm trying to overcome that tendency to outwardly ignore the feedback.

First, the easy one, aka comment 2. I agree completely, and it’s a point I should have made in the original post. I think that the motivation behind an action is critical, and I try to give people the benefit of the doubt.

The problem is, this goes against my natural instinct. If someone does or says anything questionable, my very first thought is “They hate me! I did something wrong and they think I’m ugly, stupid and evil. Whatever will I do?!” I then recruit some emotional response as a coping mechanism. I’ll either get very sad or very angry depending on the situation.

So I’m trying to make it normal practice to just wait. Allow those feelings to surface without showing them, then let the situation sink in so that I can react in a way that makes me feel comfortable. Sometimes I’m still hurt or mad, and if so, I express that. Other times, it’s not such a big deal, and I’ll let it go. Overcoming the intial response is difficult though and maybe it'll be a sign of maturity when it's not so freaking hard for me.

Missy wasn’t a bad person, but she was often misguided. It’s easy to remember her as this awful character in my life, but in truth, she probably had her own stuff going on that made her treat people badly. While she was still responsible for her actions, I was probably too hard on her. It’s good for me to think about that.

As far as my most recent situation, I did overreact, but I knew that yesterday. The problem is that this isn’t the first time we’ve argued. Our relationship has been peppered with tiffs and subtle barbs, and while I enjoy her tremendously at times, I also think she shows a distinct lack of respect for me, my feelings and my abilities. So there does come a time where you call a relationship a Mistake (which I found absolutely adorable, by the way – Missy/Mistake? Love it!). Some friendships are inherently unbalanced and I end up giving a lot more than I get. When that makes me feel badly often enough, I opt out. I’m still struggling to figure this one out, and sticking at my waiting stage.

I appreciated your comment very much – it brought up an important point I wanted to consider more carefully. There’s limited value in analyzing my past experiences to try to better understand my current problems if I miss something important. So thank you!

The first comment is harder for me to discuss since I really don’t know what to say. There have been times where I’ve felt incredibly isolated at work (and perhaps now is one of those times, but it’s starting to ease). For me, it was hard. I like the validation and encouragement that comes with liking and respecting your colleagues and their work.

One of my worst habits is assuming that others react to a situation in the exact same way that I would. Which is stupid since we’re all different. So I really hope that you, anonymous commenter, have a network of people outside work that give you some support. Academic jobs can suck away at my soul, so I need people who can restore my faith in humanity. I’ve been blessed in that those people have often come from inside my professional environment, and have received incredible support, laughter and ideas from my peers.

The thing that was hard for me, and one impetus to start this blog, is that I feel dishonest some of the time. That last paragraph ended with a true statement, but it certainly doesn't explain the complexities that explain my relationships with other grad students. Interviewing and settling into a new job, for me, has meant being Suzy Sunshine much of the time. And the fact is that it’s not always completely sincere – I identify clearly with some of the things you mentioned.

So when I...

Say: I loved my time in grad school. I worked with incredible people and learned so much!
Mean: I would have gnawed my arm off to escape that place. The people were great sometimes, but at others impersonated minions of evil to a terrifying degree.

Say: I felt there were a range of strengths present in my research group and was lucky to be able to learn and teach with such balance.
Mean: I was by turns ignored and humored by the talented ones, and taken advantage of by the weaker ones. At times, I despised each of them.

Say: I have a great deal of respect for my committee.
Mean: But they screwed me over unexpectedly and I’m still reeling from the loss of confidence that resulted.

The point is, there’s a lot of pro/con going on in my memories of graduate experiences, and even so far in this post-doc. My instinct was never to lie, but to spin things so that the people around me looked positive. It was part of my interview strategy and a good way for me to forcibly direct my own attention to the happier times of grad school.

This is my incredibly long-winded way of saying that I’m so sorry that you don’t feel good about your fellow researchers. I hope very sincerely that you’re able to find a better fit in a post-doc or faculty group wherever you next end up. There are many women (and men, I'd think) out there who are equally frustrated with dramatic, unprofessional, silly crap. I fear that I participate in it sometimes and it can be hard to change the culture of a group. So my easy-way-out strategy is to find a crowd that seems functional and friendly. Then I try to scrape together a way to take the bad with the good.

If you have a blog, I’d love to read it. I find this transition period between grad school and settled career to be fascinating. I’m personally stumbling along right now – I feel like I get something right and start to gain some confidence, then trip again. So I have a great deal of gratitude for your comment – I’m glad you like reading some of what’s here. It’s been vital for me in trying to figure myself out lately. So wherever you have your journal, I hope you’re feeling some of the same positive effects.

Last note – I despise it when people are condescending to me, so if any of that offended you or sounded patronizing, I’m so sorry. I’ve read it a few times to try to make sure that’s not the case, but I may have made a misstep here too.

This is why it's so hard for me to respond when people comment! I keep second guessing myself until I'm exhausted from editing and rewording.

Missy, It and Me.

I had a friend in grade school – Missy. She was the most popular of the 2nd graders, though I’m not exactly sure why. Regardless, she was the one everyone wanted to be friends with, though she wasn’t exactly the most liked.

For whatever reason, we became close that year in Mrs. Bumble’s class. I think we had three recess times each day (that seems like a lot, so maybe it was just 2), and when we would go outside in the cold Midwestern winters, we’d play a variation of tag.

There were many of us who played, but Missy was always our leader. The variation was that the chaser never changed. We spent our free time running from It. It wore puffy green gloves and Missy said It would pick It's nose and cover It's hands with the boogers.

“Run!” we’d call out between giggles, “Booger-hands is coming!”

I remember the day It switched gloves. The green were replaced with red, but blood was just as easily substituted for boogers. It was that day I began thinking about why It would change It’s gloves.

“The green ones were perfectly good.” I told Mom that night as I dried the dishes she washed, standing on a red stool that said “Stand up to be tall, Sit down to be small” so I could reach into the sink. “Plus, saying he had boogers was funnier than blood.”

I looked up with a smile, sure Mom would laugh with me. We were friends even then. But as I met eyes that were colored precisely as mine were, they returned my gaze with disappointment and disapproval.

“Maybe he didn’t like being called names.” She told me. “Would you like it if someone did that to you?”

I wouldn’t, I decided, and after finishing my chores and returning to my room, I thought about Richard. He had bright red hair, and freckles were sprinkled across an incredibly friendly face. He had brothers, I think. He was a fair student, decent at sports, but not part of the popular crowd (which consisted of about 5 students in a 30 person class). I didn’t know him at all – had rarely spoken to him, and thought of him predominantly as playing the role of It in our recess game.

When we came outside for the next recess, I walked toward the swings instead of staying with Missy, venturing a smile at Richard.

“Why aren’t you playing?” She asked me, waving Richard away.

“I think it’s mean.” I told her, starting off aggressively, though I now realize it was a poor way to begin. “He doesn’t have boogers or blood on his hands! You wouldn’t like it if someone said that about you. So I don’t want to play your mean game.” Then I walked to the swings, lost in my own thoughts of righteousness.

If you’re thinking we’re both brats, don’t worry, I’m about to get mine.

I entered the bathroom during a break, and nobody was in either of the stalls. Instead, 20 girls crowded around the single sink to comfort Missy, who was rallying her troops since I had hurt her feelings. When I was spotted on the fringes of the crowd, not able to get to the sink area since it was packed with 7-year-old girls, angry female faces turned my way.

“Why were you mean to Missy?” Jill demanded loudly, eyes narrowed. Grumbles of agreement sounded unanimously from the group.

I took a step back. Nobody had ever said anything unkind to me before. Plus, I was right! Cowed but not conquered, I made my point.

“I wasn’t mean.” I said quietly, not aware that I probably had been. “I just said I didn’t want to play because I didn’t think the game was very nice. I wouldn’t like it if I were Richard, so I don’t want to play.”

They didn’t look swayed, and fully aware that I was losing, feeling attacked and without a plan, I began to cry. This swayed some girls, though probably not half. But being outnumbered is infinitely better than being alone. Any support at that time was welcome, and I remember the first girl that put her arms around me. Her name was Alesha, and we would become friends for the rest of second grade.

I was never invited to Missy’s house again – never to giggle around her brothers as I tried to learn to flirt, never to play Mousetrap in her bedroom again, never to ride bikes down the much superior hills around her house. We eventually formed an uneasy truce – not outwardly fighting, but there was residual tension that I came to associate with female friendships.

I apologized to Richard, which he graciously accepted, forgiving and kind far beyond my level of maturity. We danced together in gym for junior high ballroom lessons years later, both focused on the steps. He counted out loud and I remember thinking that he looked awkward, but was growing into handsome. I didn’t have much contact with him in high school, though we smiled and said hello.

One of his brothers saved my dad’s life when he had a heart attack 5 years ago. I stood in the ER, holding Dad’s hand, and his eyes rolled back. Richard’s brother, a nurse, I believe, was the one to call for help and set up the paddles. There wasn’t much past the terrified grief, but I briefly recognized him as I was pulled from the room. I held on to Brother in the hall and we watched Dad, heart beating again, get wheeled down the hall toward the surgical suite. Surrounded by doctors and hospital staff, I again thought ever so briefly of Richard when I saw his brother again.

I bring this up because a friend made me angry today. I retain so few personal relationships that I’m bitterly disappointed when someone upsets me needlessly. I sent her an email discussing a TV show – cute, funny, light – and rather than replying, she wrote a post on her website. One that disagreed with my points and placed text from my email squarely within her cute, light, funny post.

Except they weren’t her words to use – she’s unaware of this site and at last update, knew I preferred to keep my thoughts securely offline. That wish deserves enough respect to at least ask before using my email for her readers’ entertainment. Plus, it was condescending – even the half-hearted apology that was located near the end of her post was a pat on the head, like my feelings weren’t really all that important in her quest to write something that might incite laughter.

I could overreact – send her a nasty email explaining that she would not be hearing from me in that way again. If I was at all amusing to her during the day – thinking of something delightful and choosing to pass it along – she would spend her time unamused. I simply withdraw friendship when hurt or angry (which explains why I have so few friends), and that’s what I plan to do here. At least for awhile.

Because her actions reminded me of rallying the troops. Trying to get people on her side in the bathroom, crowded around the sink, in a discussion that somehow turned into a stupid argument about television. I’m hurt and I’m irritated. I’m not sure what to do with it, but writing it out helped.

It’s funny to me how little I’ve learned from the past. I hurt people without thinking, and end up yet again trying my best to make the Richards of the world – those charming, kind, wonderful people who somehow slip by without notice right away – feel better about my poor judgment. I still sometimes react too strongly to situations, hurting Missys needlessly in my zeal to right a wrong. I let my personal epiphany overpower any sort of gentle explanations and come on too strong.

In this case, right now? I sent an email that said “I sigh at you.” In retrospect, that was probably not the best way to handle it. But it’s better than claiming moral superiority and telling someone her long-time game is mean. So maybe I’m making progress, crawling toward being more enlightened and kind. At least I hope so, because how depressing is this otherwise?

Another header

It's a secret...

When filling out confidentiality forms, and describing precautions taken to protect patient privacy, I was writing about how there would be a system of numbers used to identify patient information, and there would be a notebook that matched our study number with the patient number assigned by the hospital so relevant personnel could match the 2. This seems very secretive to me, so I’d like to include a line about how the notebook that contains this matched information will be placed in a lock box. Kept in an undisclosed location.

Somehow I doubt the review committee would be amused, so I'll limit my hidden lock box idea to my blog.

It's all about the ego.

I sit in an uncomfortable chair in the corner of a conference room, listening to MDs converse about various cases. Mostly attentive, I only sometimes admire the floppy bow that adorns an otherwise plain top at the edge of my collar. I pick at the scratch I’ve already inflicted on my iPod, catching a glance from someone in psychiatry so I quickly put it away.

“Joe feels strongly that I mishandled this case.” Expectant pause while everyone looks wide-eyed from the speaker at the head of the table, our Leader, to Joe.

“I think the evidence clearly points to other options.” Joe then turns, scooting his chair back from the table to face our leader directly. A sign of aggression, I think, remembering how men turn their whole bodies to face opponents. It’s like watching Wild Kingdom!

“I think I did well. While there were various rationales for pursuing alternate courses of action, the family preferred this one and there was no reason not to allow it.”

“Sure, except for it not being the best thing.”

Nostrils flare, both retaining the polite, collegial demeanor so popular here, but hanging on by a thread while I sit in my corner, fascinated, watching the exchange. Clearly this is residual tension from a previous exchange, and I find myself wishing I’d witnessed the whole spectacle instead of this after-the-fact finale. Leader laughs, brushing off Joe's attempt to look superior.

Someone steps in, diffuses the tension, and I glare at him – the taker of my entertainment. We move on to another topic and begin racing to complete the agenda as we're running out of time.

Leader starts to discuss something, and Joe leans forward to argue. I watch as he stops himself, looks down, and shakes his head. He gets up and leaves the room, out of my sight so I’m not sure if he just took a break or had somewhere to go. He returns in less than a minute, sits and looks more relaxed.

I’m glad for him, I think. He found a way to handle his frustration in this place where offending people just isn’t done. Have ideas, yes, but have them carefully, present them humbly and don’t, for goodness sake, piss people off.

I’m so above that, I think haughtily, putting my bag on my shoulder and moving through the maze of hallways to my next meeting. I get lost briefly, turn in a circle looking for signs. A man stops, smiles and offers assistance. Finally, pointed in the right direction, I find the next office, sit and wait. I must have evolved past the point of always needing to be right, being bothered by people offering help or differing in opinion.

Checking my watch during my congratulatory internal monologue, I notice we’re running late. Another colleague arrives, notes that things aren’t starting as scheduled, and joins me in staring past the secretary to an office door.

I should have brought something to read, I think, my hatred of wasting time overcoming my musings on why I’m so confident in my abilities, not needing others to validate my professional existence. I could have at least had my headphones so I could listen to what’s up with Elphaba in college. Glinda sounds like the real witch, and my sympathies lie for now with her green roommate. Thinking about my book on iPod distracts me and soon we file into the office and begin our discussion.

“What exactly is your career path?” New Leader asks the woman seated to my left, nearing the end of this next meeting. I glance over, having already seen “assistant professor” marking her nametag. All highly educated, MD or PhD, we now must seek alternate ways of establishing our ranking.

I’m at the bottom, no question. As Assistant-Professor lists her qualifications and abilities, I decide once again that this is all foolish. The prancing around, wanting people to notice me – gasp at my funding, marvel at my ability – it’s just a waste of time. Internally I shake my head and roll my eyes at the second minor drama of the day. The back and forth between a young scientist seeking to establish her previous accomplishments and New Leader continues. He evidently determined that it would be in her best interest to work on this project for him.

“It’s important for you to write grants. You can be as involved as you like with this one.” He states, with a gracious, condescending bow of his head.

Her eyes narrow, and I bite back a grin. “I’ve written grants.” She says curtly.

New Leader begins to speak again, and she cuts him off – he’s gotten to her. “I don’t have any funded on which I’m the PI, but there’s one under review! And I’m collaborating on several exciting projects! I have grant experience!”

He’s going to win, I think. He’s too good not to – you don’t get to be leader for no reason.

I’m right. “But to become an associate professor, it would be beneficial to have more funded applications, correct?” One eyebrow arches as he pauses briefly. “I would think that increasing the number of collaborations would only work to your benefit.” Reminding her she has far to go yet, inflicting his prestige upon her, reminding everyone of the disparity between their positions in the hierarchy.

They stare for a moment – not completely without hostility. She looks down first. “Of course.”

I’m up next, but it’s not nearly so interesting. “You should be working on at least 3 projects. The rule is 1 in grad school, 3 as a post-doc and more than 4 as a junior faculty member.”

“I have many more than four!” pipes Assistant-Professor to my left. I smile this time – not able to restrain this one as her exclamation was unexpected. I worked on far more than 4 projects in grad school myself, though my concurrent limit was 3. It’s bothersome to be talked down to. I don’t like it, but I decide to let the process amuse more than irritate.

So I nod, accepting his advice though I’ve heard it before (from him, I think), and not making further comment on my own past experience.

“So this is a good opportunity to become involved with something different.” He continues when I offer no verbal response.

“I agree.”

“You’re on board then?”

“Of course.” I smile, waiting for my turn to be over. It is – he’s moved on to an MD and the research staff are forgotten in a flurry of medical jargon. I contribute, asking questions and subtly inserting my own ideas and problems – always humble, completely polite and lovely.

We finish, and I stand, ready to leave. I decide to wish Assistant-Professor luck on the grant she submitted. The outlook isn’t great right now – fighting a war screws with funding research from your tax dollars, inhibiting progress not only on a large scale, but pushing back the possibility of promotion for many people attempting to climb this academic ladder. I feel for her – I’m sure she’s bright, certainly she’s worked hard.

We talk for a moment, and I make a move to leave. “I can teach you the technique.” She offers as I’ve half turned away.

“Pardon?” I frown, turning back. What technique? What was she trying to do?

“The technique we were talking about - I can teach you.” My eyebrows rise. Gutsy, I think. It was clear from the meeting that I knew what I was talking about when it came to the method of which she was speaking.

“I know it already, but thank you.” I wait, sure we’re not done yet. Somehow she got me – I wasn’t expecting to be put in my place at this stage, and I’m not going with the flow to appease her ego. She knows she outranks me, but as far as I’m concerned, suddenly battle ready, it’s only because she’s been here longer. I’ll match my skills and experience to yours, I think, narrowing my eyes and feeling my nostrils flare the tiniest bit. I may not win, but I think it’ll be close.

“Well, I can get you up to speed.” She says. “I have so much going on right now so if there’s a way to…” She looks around, searching for words or beginning to worry about my increasingly aggressive expressions, I’m not sure.

“Delegate?” I offer, biting out the word so she can be sure of my displeasure.

She nods.

I smile. “I can handle it.” Knowing full well I’ll see her in hell before I admit to needing help. I’m done – this is over, and I feel I held my own. But my ego demands more – was it not quiet as we sat in the corner this morning? Offering no opinions, just taking information? Did it not roll over without a whimper in the confrontation with New Leader? Give me something! It shouted, increasingly craving attention.

“I know the preparation,” I started, adding the software programs with which I had familiarity and watching her nod. “I’ve acquired vast amounts of data on both healthy and diseased populations…” I continue, again listing specific manufacturers, equipment and training I’ve received. “And my specialty is in processing data.” Again, I list algorithms, papers, collaborations. I’m not screwing with her – she picked the wrong topic to use for her attack. I know this stuff.

“Is there something I’m missing?” I ask briskly, ready to quit, but allowing her one last chance to take a shot.

“No. I do work with different patient groups though.” She finishes, not looking smug at all.

I suddenly feel badly. Ego quieted, I realize I could have let her have this battle, since she had fought more than I this morning. It would have been easy to back off, to accept the offer of help quietly and to make my way back to my desk. But I didn’t – too conditioned to fighting for admiration and credit – so I tried to make her feel badly. I didn't start it, but I didn't handle it well either. When I saw that I might have succeeded in bothering her, I realized I wasn’t any better than the folks I shook my head over this morning.

We’re all picking our battles, engaging in our craving for dominance. Sometimes we lose, only to unleash our ego on someone we believe to be inferior. The problem with us inferiors? We’re trained in this environment too – watching the barbs delivered with sly smiles and looks around at the pack. Drawing back from screaming matches when neither party will withdraw. Pushing through the crowds of people to get to the front will sometimes get you hurt, and I’m often content to be swept away in the middle, following along, but retaining my place more than trying to overtake those ahead.

But morally superior? Amused rather than enraged by these little jabs? Not so much. It’s all about ego for me too.

Self sabotage

I create massive amounts of stress for myself. There are a number of people who would tell you I’m quite high-strung, and tend toward the melodramatic. I used to argue – spent an evening trying to make a guy miserable in grad school that dared tell me I was a bit high maintenance. I think I proved his point, and though we laughed about it later – kissing and making up quite nicely – it remains an important realization for me. He helped me know myself better, and I ended up retreating from eyes that saw too much and lips that weren’t afraid to confront me with some basic truths about my character.

I don’t cope with personal chaos well at all. I have very few friends at any given time – dedicating vast amounts of time and attention to those I hold close, and discarding other people so as not to drain my internal resources. Right now there’s nobody. I keep in touch with select people from my past – 2 women from undergrad, 2 from grad school – and have a cast of characters who serve as acquaintances. Some charming and endearing, others confusing me to the point of infuriation. For the most part, I strive to create a calm environment on a personal level.

I have one caveat to that though. I mentioned earlier that I’m fond of cleaning – fluffing my little nest and sighing contentedly when I look over my tiny, tidy kingdom. But I allow it to reach the cusp of grossness before I clean. It’s not filthy…but it’s close.

Rather than doing dishes each night, I rinse them and leave them in piles. My dishwasher is somewhat less than effective, so I do them by hand. But it seems a waste of time to fill the sink each evening to do a plate and some silverware. I’d rather maximize efficiency by cleaning when I really need to. Then I can see the contrast – the true effects of the time I spent. Furniture seems to gleam more brightly after removing a decent layer of dust, the carpet looks fluffy and soft after being vacuumed when it truly needs it. I like having to work – creating a mess through the week that I can anticipate cleaning over the weekend – a bit of a challenge if you will.

I was always good at school – can honestly never remember struggling at all until my grad career. I didn’t have exam anxiety, would give public presentations with only a slightly fluttery stomach. Gym caused me the most trouble – I would wring my hands waiting my turn in kick ball, feel sick with dread on days we had to play softball with the boys. When looking back at a graph of stress levels over my high school career, the peaks would belong to the hours spent in sweats and a brightly colored shirt, emblazoned with the school logo and smelling of locker room, regardless of how often it was washed. The tests, the college applications, extra-cirriculars - not that interesting. Give me something athletic or social, and I'll freak out. So I don't allow those types of events to happen anymore.

Apart from physical education, the most difficult moments were ones I created for myself. I would stay home sick, sometimes relatively often. I started early on, realizing in second grade, I think, that you didn’t have to come to school every day. That if I could figure out how to trick Mom, there was a day of books and TV as a reward.

I realized quickly thereafter that someone would often bring work home for me. I could get through the material in less than an hour. Dad taught me to multiply two digit numbers in third grade – sitting at the table and practicing problems after I stayed home with a pseudo-cold. I was bored for weeks afterward, sitting through classes where we would continually face concepts I’d mastered in an evening. It doesn’t make sense, I thought irritably (for I was annoying arrogant then). I could do this so much faster on my own! The only problem with staying home was the internal drama it created. Did I miss something important? Would I be able to catch up? Were my friends talking about me in my absence?

I continued the trend throughout undergrad – taking days off and making up for it later. I can remember 2 classes – one undergrad, the other grad that I attended mainly to take exams. Carefully checking the syllabus to make sure attendance wasn’t required, I enjoyed the rush of challenging myself to pick up the necessary facts and concepts without assistance. A slightly lower grade was well worth the extra time gained from not attending lectures and study groups. I adored it – the freedom of assessing the quality of instruction and determining that I could get it on my own much faster. I got As in both courses, by the way. Unfair, perhaps, but it only reinforced what I’d figured out. I could pull this off – and there was the added uncertainty that spiced things up. Was I missing something critical? What if exams weren’t based on reading and homework and were instead covering only material discussed in class? The relief that came with each successful exam was intense, and I was often left giddy that I had stolen time away from the class, yet was still rewarded with knowledge.

Part of my hesitance to accept one of the industry jobs I was offered was the terror I feel at entering a world outside academia. One where you’re expected to be physically present for 10 hours a day. I don’t do that. I have weeks where I practically live at the office – where I’m incredibly grateful that I have a house with a dog door so Chienne doesn’t suffer without me. There are others time I barely leave the couch – having food delivered, reading romance novels, watching TV, going through my bookmarks 10 times a day to see if anyone has posted recently (this was pre-bloglines – the site that changed my life. Now I just refresh my feeds continuously, huffing with indignation when there's nothing new).

The thing is, working from home (even “working” from home) doesn’t bother people in this environment. There seems to be an understanding of the cycles of productivity. When it’s low tide, you run along the packed sand – sprinting through ideas, putting projects together, building collaborations like elaborate sand castles, marveling at all the possibilities around you. Picking up knowledge like pretty shells, putting them aside for closer consideration later.

But at high tide? All your options are covered in gallons of water. I swim, practicing flips underwater, splashing about, but my progress is slow and I’m often distracted by how the light hits the waves, bouncing to keep my head above water but not moving much at all. And sometimes, when the tide recedes, I watch the others head toward the shore, picking up shells and building their castles, while I'm loathe to leave the buoyant comfort of the water, floating gently on the surface, eyes closed to the warmth of the sun.

I was told many times I needed a month to study for my qualifying exams. I wasted the first 2 weeks – taking advantage of any opportunity to not study, building stress until it reached unbearable levels. Taking out binders to relieve it, only to glance through notes and toss them away, trying to distance myself from the material. I noted the stories of other students, some of whom had been studying diligently for months. I let the pressure grow suffocating – unable to sleep for the intensity of the tension. But still I waited. Then I studied constantly for 2 weeks, determined to cram the information in some corner of my brain.

I’d done this countless times before. Procrastinating on studying was my forte – I’d prepare papers and assignments weeks in advance, showing off with my organization and preparedness. But studying is such a weird process – difficult to know when you’re done, when you know enough. So I put it off, relatively certain that I can remember enough of what I’ve heard and read that I’ll be able to put together some sort of answer to a question. Pushing my luck to add some uncertainty to an otherwise predictable process.

The qualifier was different though. I had decided that I’d leave grad school if I didn’t pass it. I wasn’t happy there – had gained weight, lost track of my spiritual life – was, in fact, bitterly angry at God for putting me in a situation where I was quite miserable. I was not performing particularly well, unused to feeling mediocre when it came to academic matters. With no idea of where I was going after my graduate program, I willing to try to find my way without an advanced degree if this test didn’t go well.

It went fine, and I took that as an answered prayer that God would stick with me if I continued on my little path. I guess this blog is a way of chancing my current career. One of the things I admire most about some bloggers who share pieces of their professional lives is the way they tend to face the future – the possibility of being found out that increases exponentially with their popularity – with eyes open and heads up. Opinionistas is taking names of people who do that.

I don’t, though at times I wish I did. I have posts, some funny, others rants of overreaction to some irritating event, but I doubt they’ll ever be published. I’ll put information out here – tell stories, walk a line between what I’m free to say and what I should keep to myself, but I won’t cross it. At least not at this point. My ability to sabotage something I’ve worked toward isn’t that refined quite yet. It has to be subtler – I’d have to cross a line unknowingly, perhaps in a fit of rage or inconsolable grief. Then the right people would have to find it, publicize it, and I would go with the flow. The idea of not knowing how my employers would react, how the scientific community would respond, if anyone would have a problem with another example of the free exchange of information.

But that’s a fantasy, one that I’m not sure I’d particularly enjoy. It certainly would liven things up, making my life significantly more interesting and exciting than it currently is. I could put something damaging out here – poke fun at the many characters who inhabit my corner of the world, hurl insults at people who take advantage of a system that should work to make the world better, and mourn the fact that I fear some patients might suffer more than necessary while I sit in some narcissistic haze, plotting how I’m going to make life a bit harder for myself since I have no real problems of which to speak.

I wish there was some reasonable ending to this post. Something that indicated I was growing on some profound level and easing up on these ridiculous exercises. But I'm not, continuing to frolic in the ocean, frowning over the people working so diligently and moving so quickly on the beach, wondering at my ability to catch them, even if I spend just a few more days communing with the fish. So I sit and write this post, letting the time when I should have been asleep drift by, knowing I'll be tired for my morning meeting, thinking of how I should have done more than glance at those papers I brought home this weekend...

Sleep, or lack thereof

I don’t sleep well – never have, actually. I also have set alarm clocks exactly twice in my life, one for the subject test of the GRE, the other after being jetlagged in England. Neither of them went off. So averse to being startled, I continued to wake myself, checking the time, only to doze restlessly until enough time had passed to check the digital numbers glowing by my bed again.

One of the reasons I like academic positions is that they can sometimes be structured to have very flexible hours. I don’t have to arrive at particular times most days, so I’m able to relax and allow myself to sleep when I’m ready rather than trying to force it to obtain adequate amounts of rest.

This morning, I had an early meeting. I woke every half hour, finally throwing my fluffy comforter aside and shuffling to my bathroom at 5:02. I brushed my teeth, inserted my contacts and stood in the closet for a moment, deciding what to wear, swaying a little with the desire to return to the warmth and comfort of bed, close my eyes and drift back into sleep.

I got dressed, pulled my hair back, and decided to put on make-up when I got to work. I put some treats in a pile for Chienne, though she was still tucked under her blanket at the foot of my bed. She blinked at me, trying to pull herself from doggie dreams, as I kissed the top of her head and opened the door to the garage.

My commute was made largely in a drowsy haze. There was a surprisingly high level of traffic at what I felt was an uncommon pre-dawn hour to head to work. I wondered briefly if they were always up or if, like me, they had something unusual happening today. If they were rubbing their eyes and blinking rapidly to try to focus on driving, hoping others were more awake and aware so that we wouldn’t run into each other in our pricey cars.

I made it up to my spot in the parking structure in less than half the time it normally takes. Few people were parked, and I was able to circumvent the full loop that elevates me through the building. Zipping around corners that normally caused me to pause and look for other drivers made me smile, and Chandler had finally taken my hint and was finding some peppy music to play on shuffle. The slow songs were too tempting – seducing me to drift into a deeper relaxation that I could see easing me into sleep.

I don’t remember the elevator ride to the ground, nor do I recall much of the walk. It was dark – peaceful and comfortably cold. There was nobody to talk to – no instances of being accidentally drawn into conversation by a simple “good morning” designed more from being polite than friendly. So I zoned out, making my way toward the office by route.

I arrived, plugged in headphones and listened to more music while I printed out some material for my meeting. Deciding caffeine would help, but feeling too queasy for coffee, I decided a diet Pepsi was in order. Pawing through my bag, I realized I’d forgotten my purse, something that would normally bug me, but was now quickly forgotten as my mind drifted in some unknown direction yet again.

I ended up leaving early. Coming home to a glass of water and some pretzels before crawling back into bed. Chienne, thrilled to see me earlier than she expected, settled in to play. I patted her head with one hand, the other already scrunching a pillow beneath my right ear and nuzzling in. I remember her bringing me a squeaky cow toy she got for Christmas and holding on to one of the legs she tugged. And then nothing, waking an hour later to feel more functional, though residual lack of sleep still permeates my thoughts.

I don’t deal well at all with being tired. If you screw with my sleep schedule, I become completely unpredictable. Some days, I’m soft without my normal sleep – cuddly and kind, the ability to be irritable or entertaining out of reach due to the sheer energy required. Others I’m vicious – furious over tiny problems, highly impatient, and peering at you from a glare, waiting for you to do something stupid so I can say something mean. I can also be sad – feeling pathetic and emotional because I wasn’t able to restore my psyche in sleep and dreams.

Since I struggle so mightily with it, sleep has always fascinated me. The first time I took Tylenol PM, I was euphoric. The rise of drowsiness, the irresistible urge to close my eyes and then actually drifting off without chasing increasingly alarming swirls of thoughts in my head – it was amazing. I remember lying in bed, giggling with delight at the unfamiliar feelings even as I surrendered consciousness to the oblong blue capsules.

I attended a seminar in grad school. Someone from Wisconsin was talking about her sleep research, and I believe, upon seeing her picture, that it was Dr. Ruth Benca. Tales of fruit flies and mice – sleep deprivation and its dire consequences – were followed by stories of migratory birds. How they could retain complete functionality – the ability to evade predators, find their way to warmer climates, forage for food - all without sleep to restore their tiny brains.

I enjoyed her talk then – thought it was highly interesting, well presented and contained fascinating material. I even wrote an extra-credit paper on it for the Neuroscience class I was taking. So I was reading today, remembering that they’d like to understand the little sparrows to gain insight into troubled sleepers – often those people who suffered from depression or bipolar disorders. I also remember there being advantages to exploit for people in high-stress situations (soldiers in battle, firefighters in large blazes, grad students who need 2 more papers before they can schedule their defenses*).

* That last one was meant to be funny, not offensive. I think men and women in the military as well as people who participate in public service via any profession deserve the highest of regard, and don’t at all consider myself (or my intense desire for sleep) to be in their echelon. But I have no stories where my life depends on retaining higher than normal ability in the face of extreme exhaustion. My only relatable experience is grad school, where I tried desperately to complete a task when I wanted more than anything to rest. I know it’s not the same thing, but it’s all I have right now.

I vividly remember the mice who after sleep deprivation would walk right up to a snake. The haze of confusion surrounds you – makes you largely unaware of actions that would normally be of great concern, allows distractions to gain your full attention – a shiny penny lying on the ground could be a source of great delight and beauty, stopping my walk to my car to smile at how the sun glints off the pretty copper. I drifted easily into a memory of rolling my eyes in exasperation as my parents picked up 52 pennies (25 for her, 27 for him) in a fast food parking lot on the way back from vacation. “It’s money!” Dad exclaimed happily, grinning over the front seat at where I had slumped in the back with my book. I like my parents… Then looking around and wondering what the hell you’re doing, standing on the curb, happily grinning down at the gutter.

But birds apparently sacrifice sleep to travel at night, retaining high levels of functionality despite the sleep deprivation. Apparently the behavior is replicated in the manic stages of bipolar people – the latency to REM, duration of sleep, ability to function at high levels of productivity and cognition. So understanding our tiny, feathered friends could help us out significantly. I can’t find a follow-up paper that describes the mechanisms of this behavior. What allows the creatures to fly rather than sleep?

I think there was supposed to be another point in here, but I can’t remember it. The craving for sleep grows stronger – stealing thoughts and pulling heavy eyelids closed. So I’ll wish myself sweet dreams, and hope I can manage to remove my contacts and brush my teeth before cuddling into pillows, blankets and freshly-laundered sheets. Until someone tells me how to get around it, I’ll enjoy the pleasures of letting consciousness slip away for a few hours.

Note: Rattenborg's paper is very well written, and, I think, fascinating. It's also in an open-access journal (insert applause for open access journals), and therefore available for easy online reading. Perhaps the point I wanted to make but lost is in there somewhere.

The Beginning

OK, look, here’s the deal. I have nothing to say. There are new visitors coming – perhaps linking from comments I try mightily to make interesting, compassionate and compelling – and I’m not pleased with the quality of work here lately. So I’m nearly panicked, sitting here, moving music off CDs onto my laptop for their eventual transfer to my iPod. It’s all very thrilling. (That was sarcastic, but actually, it totally is – I joined Audible and eagerly anticipate my commute tomorrow to start listing to several selections!!)

So I’m sitting here, thinking about a list I read, but can’t link to. The Bouncer has removed his archives while he writes his book, so I can’t even quote him with any reliability. That being said, he published some sort of list not so far in the past. I think readers would ask him how to create a successful website – one where people would not only come, but return, day after day, incorporating your words into their daily routines.

I didn’t have a blog when I read the list, but I thought it was brilliant. If I ever start writing, I quickly decided, this is the guide I’ll use. I think he said things like you should write because you want to – sometimes you have something to say, sometimes you just write to write. You should update regularly because when people try to become regular readers and can’t find any new posts, they’ll find someone who’s putting more time in their project. You should try to edit – spell correctly, make some attempt at using proper punctuation, create some sort of flow so that your point is made in a reasonable manner. When you’re ready to start attracting some traffic, make comments on blogs that are interesting – that somehow inspire someone to take a moment and read more of what you’ve written. And when the traffic arrives (as it might be doing here), keep improving. Do what you do, and keep getting better.*

* Again, this could all be wrong. I don’t even remember when he posted it, and while I thought it was good when I read it, it didn’t apply to me at the time. I also assumed I would be able to reference it later (bad assumption), so I just nodded to myself, thought good advice! and moved on. So any errors are mine, and if you happened to read it, feel free to offer corrections.

I think I mentioned before that I wrote in high school. I felt pretty disconnected socially – having a few friends, none of them close, and being much more comfortable reading alone in my room than dealing with other people. I needed somewhere to put my thoughts – things that delighted or troubled me – and I happened upon an opportunity to write for the local paper and did so throughout my high school career. I made $15/article, making that experience much more financially lucrative than this one.

Other than that experience, I have no training in writing. My undergrad at a mid-sized private institution focused on communication skills on many levels, but graduate study sucked much of that ability away. Far more accustomed to talking with people who do what I do – a very specific niche in medical research – I use jargon and abbreviations with the best of them. Throw around some buzz words when I don’t know what’s going on and hope nobody calls me on it.

So there’s nothing that qualifies me to do this – I don’t think of myself as much of a writer, and to be honest, I stumbled into science as well. I’m decent, but I got my PhD by showing up every day, checking things off the list of requirements, and jumping through the hoops that were placed before me. Respect for my education is great, but it's certainly not necessary to me personally. I don't think I did anything particularly special - just made a series of choices, then made some attempt at following through, often terrified that I'd have to tell people I failed.

Despite my lack of qualifications, I feel that now is not the time to falter in my online endeavor. At least by writing something, I show that I’m placing some effort into this, right? And maybe I’ll trick a few of you into returning tomorrow.

I’ve been thinking about high school lately. I’m only publishing about 1/3 of what I write, so none of that has made its way here yet. The half-written posts sit in a folder on my desktop, waiting for some sort of completion. But I’m finding the same feelings of isolation that defined my writing then are occurring now. I don’t feel like I fit, but battle to give the impression of cool competence. I don’t socialize because I don’t want to. It doesn’t bother me, so don’t let it bother you. I find people to chat with before seminars, exchange pleasantries before I present a paper at group meetings, take off my headphones to answer the woman in my office when she speaks to me.

So when writing a post about why I created this blog, I could say something like my disconnect from people of substance in my life forced me to seek an outlet to share thoughts and feelings with someone. I also feel strongly that the online environment, while sometimes snarky and vicious, can offer valuable insight and support as people identify with stories and situations then offer encouragement, advice, or criticism.

That would make me sound reasonably thoughtful, right? Perhaps a bit pretentious, but I fear that’s coming across anyway. But it’s also false – a complete lie that has absolutely nothing to do with why I started this.

When I changed majors in undergrad, I picked one that my favorite hockey player had. Seriously. It wasn’t that it was a bad major – it clicked and it’s worked out fine for me. And I’ve never told anyone that reason, though it’s truer than my patented answer. But I liked this guy – incredibly built, dark hair, pale blue eyes – a solid stay-at-home defensemen who had definite career plans after minor league hockey. Because I had a crush on him, I knew his interests and decided one of them made sense for me as well. I still remember him – name and face – because he inadvertently played kind of a pivotal role in my life.

Likewise, I started this blog because I developed a nice little crush on The Bouncer. I think he’s a beautiful writer – talented, insightful, mixing some profound ideas with some funny, incredibly real-sounding stories. I have equally high regard for the Waiter (I've read all of his archives and would recommend it to anyone), but my infatuation grew at Clublife. I read something every morning he posted, looked forward to it, thought about it, applied some ideas and insights to situations more familiar to me, smiled at certain phrases, taking time to read some cryptic posts multiple times, trying to hear what he was saying to the extent that I was able. So I read him, first in the list of people I checked daily, sometimes many times, looking for something new.

The difference came when I decided to send him email. I composed 4 lines, I think. Writing, editing, deleting all of it to start over. Writing again, and sending. I had a comment on his post – it wasn’t important. And I wanted him to know how much I enjoyed his work. How this often-angry, frequently self-deprecating man who took responsibility for his decisions, worked hard, and took time to analyze the sometimes absurd situations in which he found himself, had been important to me at a time when I felt very alone and unsettled. For some reason, I wanted him to know I was reading - I'm still not sure why.

I closed my laptop after I wrote it. Walked away to clean my kitchen, nervous beyond all explanation that this writer who had gained a great deal of my respect might read something, even 4 lines, of what I’d written. I had never participated in this online world before. Never leaving comments, even on blogs I’d read for years. Never sending email or asking anything of people who wrote. I treated this as I treat books – I read them, then put them on shelves – seeing no need to send fan mail or criticisms – the extent of my participation limited to whether or not I would read something of his again.

I returned to my computer 2 hours later to find that he had responded almost immediately. I could quote you the email – I saved it – but he was kind. The idea that he not only read it, but wrote something in return was, for lack of a better description, thrilling. So, we exchanged a couple more emails. Each required great care on my part, and his replies – standard, short and no different than what I’m sure he writes to other people every day – left me breathless at seeing his name in my inbox.

Impressed and infatuated – with someone I don’t know much of anything about, someone I’ll never meet and with whom I’ll probably have no future contact – I decided I had to be part of something so powerful. Writing online was a bit lame, perhaps, especially in the extremely tell-all style I seem to have adapted.

But having people read it? That’s amazing. Finding welcome in a group of women (who I consider to be far more qualified and competent than I) has been incredible. The possibility of finding my site listed on blogrolls is heady – I now look for it eagerly, loving the chance that someone might have read my posts and want to read them again. I have a list of return visitors that I keep – carefully remembering who’s been here before, incredibly flattered each time they return.

I don’t aspire to book deals, would not welcome exposure that might threaten a career I have spent my life training for, and have not sent email to anyone asking that they read or link to this. I leave comments, hoping that readers might stop by and have enough time to make their way through one of these incredibly lengthy posts. But I love having this – love coming here, enjoy the fact that though I still enjoy other writers greatly, much of my admiring attention has been refocused on creating something of my own.

And at some point, my hopes for them – those people I link over there on the right and many more that I read – have become my hopes for me. That we figure something out. Let anger, frustration, grief - negative crap that builds regardless of where you are and what you do - spill on a page that sometimes makes it easier to cope. Record joys and accomplishments so we might read over them and remember how good life can be. Make progress on some personal or professional level due to the effort that goes into examining life in writing. Connect with someone who might relate – helping, in some small way, a person that you’ll never meet.

And maybe someday, I’ll get really good at this. He told me his first 100 posts kind of sucked, and while I don’t buy it completely, I’m only on #53. So if you’re visiting, remember me – this could get good.

Chandler, the iPod

FedEx brought my iPod yesterday. I went into work late so that I could be sure delivery occurred. The lovely lady came to my door, held Chienne as she wagged her tail and tried to make friends while I signed the form, all but dancing with glee.

Seeing no need for instructions right away, I popped the little gadget out of its pretty box, quickly ascertained I wasn’t sure how it worked, and began my search for software and directions. I found cords first – the ear buds, which I plugged in and put in my ears immediately, then the USB cable, which I also attached post-haste.

Little Chandler (that’s what I named him) immediately started flashing “Do not disconnect” with an angry looking red circle containing a forbidding line. “Oh…” I said to him, slightly concerned.

I next found the software CD, clearly saying “Install before plugging in iPod” or some such nonsense. Mildly worried, but largely undaunted, I quickly made use of the CD and was able to download some music from my laptop (whose name is Nick). Satisfied, I bundled little Chandler up in his case, carefully wound the cords, and set off for work.

I tried to focus – honestly, I did. But if you read yesterday’s post, you know I wasn’t in the best of mental states, and soon decided that I would be most productive by dealing with Chandler.

Pulling him carefully from his case, I plugged him in once again. Belle (my computer at work – she’s pretty and Southern) wanted to overwrite Chandler (I know – I was set to automatically sync! Freaking settings.) but I reprimanded her. I just wanted to add, not rewrite the whole thing.

Just adding. I thought, trying the same thing again with identical results. So I sat and thought, considered looking online for some advice since I’m sure this was a FAQ. Don’t most people use more than one computer? Might be time-consuming, I decided. I’ll email someone! Then they’ll know exactly what I want and I won’t have to waste time learning stuff that’s not directly applicable.

Carrie answered my questions in about an hour, but by then I had already overwritten Chandler with Belle’s music, too impatient to wait for the proper procedure, willing to do extra work when I got home in reloading Nick’s information just to feel like I was making some sort of progress. I had ideas on how I would make Chandler behave, and I kept trying things until I got frustrated and finally said “FINE” when Belle asked again if she could sync and overwrite little Chandler.

I read Carrie’s emails after I drove home, figured out some easier ways to do a couple of things, and happily loaded all my iTunes selections. Then I did some work last night to make up for my distracted productivity level at the office. Oh, and I wrote a post feeling a bit sorry for and frustrated with myself.

Chandler stayed home today. I know myself well enough to understand that he would have been an irresistible lure, sitting in my bag, waiting for me to guess and check until I discovered yet another amazing utility. It’s the same reason I won’t download bloglines at work. Avoiding temptation is vital.

So I came home tonight and brought a stack of CDs out to begin transferring my physical music library onto little Chandler. I received my FM transmitter today, so I want to be ready for my morning commute. I’m content, curled up with Chienne behind my knees, selecting and transferring music, watching Cash Cab then Raymond, now football, and checking email and site statistics. Multi-tasking is my shining area of expertise and I adore trying find spare seconds to add another element into the mix.

I decided to move my photo library as well, requiring a trip down the hall to my office. Again, my PC wanted to reformat Chandler. This time, I wasn’t allowing it – firmly refusing each time I was asked. Since I don’t know anyone else who deals with both operating systems, I had to go looking for solutions online. Sure enough, there’s an easy way, requiring a quick download of some trial software. Then I was able to get the last few songs (music everywhere!) and all of my pictures.

They didn’t show up right, causing a brief tantrum, so I transferred them to iPhoto on Nick, pushed them back to Chandler, let iTunes optimize, and waited while I started this post. I ejected Chandler for the last time, used the scrolling wheel to glance through some pictures on the perfectly small screen, and tucked my new little pal back in his case.

This is the closest I think I’ll be able to get to writing about how I work. I’m not comfortable revealing too much about my professional life. I’ve heard about writers being fired for posting delicate work details – I even know one personally. So I’m wary of writing too much about what happens there at my desk each day because I do like my job.

But if you want a glimpse of how I get things done – this is it. Eager in the beginning – doing things in the wrong order, getting worried, but pushing ahead. I like to do, not read. Papers make far more sense if I have some first-hand idea of what’s going on. That’s why I’ve made appointments to observe some different departments in the near future. I need to have a mental picture to put facts together – it’s just how I work.

I ask people before I go searching. I’m doing better here than I did in grad school, my fear of looking inadequate overcoming my desire to get information in the quickest/most efficient way. If someone takes too long to answer, I’ll just try stuff, willing to make mistakes I’ll later have to correct in order to feel like I’m doing something.

I spend tremendous amounts of time dealing with code – moving data around, putting it in different formats, trying to figure out how to make something happen. I’ll get frustrated, but refuse to admit defeat until I’ve spent significant time doing battle with a problem.

I multi-task constantly, very rarely focused completely on one thing. If something takes 2 minutes to transfer or process, I have 2 other projects going so not a moment is wasted. This makes it nearly impossible for new students to work with me directly – I get twitchy while I wait for them to do something, very uncomfortable with wasting time, eager to get out paper, make notes so I don’t forget where I am on project 1 as I work on topics 2 & 3. The process is all clear in my head, but I’ve learned it’s chaos looking in.

I’ll name computers and machines, smile while patting them for a job well done, scowl and mutter when they thwart my best efforts. As I wrote this, I was reminded of countless projects I’ve done. So this is me – how I work and think. There might have been a better way to do get little Chandler to his current condition. But I got here – to a functional and informed place – so maybe I deserve a pat and smile myself.

Slowly stumbling: adventures in heels

Heels hobble me a bit. It pains me to admit that – I like to be girly and pretty and wish I was more comfortable in every aspect of it. I kept heels a sensible height – often an inch or less – for most of my life. It made more sense for walking over sprawling campuses, climbing stairs, almost jogging through hospitals to have conversations with fast-walking MDs. But any heels were worn on special days - presentations, important meetings and the like. Most of the time, it was jeans, t-shirt and sneakers, covered with a zippered sweatshirt in cold weather.

Those clothes were comfortable, normal. They allowed me to completely disregard anything outside my head. No discomfort, easy movement, complete focus on work. Nothing pinched or tugged too tight over the chest (is it just me who struggles with the stretchy shirts? That fit everywhere except over the bra? For crying out loud!). Just warm snuggly cotton and sturdy yet fashionable denim.

But now I dress up every day for work. Classy little suits, gorgeous scarves tucked inside. More comfortable pants matched with button-down shirts. I’ve even taken to wearing knee-high hosiery (tell me that’s not sexy) since it’s so much easier to launder. So my sneakers of the past – in their varied colors and diverse comfort levels – have been relegated to the rear of my closet. I keep one pair by the door next to my flip-flops. I use them when Chienne and I walk in the morning.

The comfy laced footwear have made way for sharp dress shoes – black, cream, navy and white pumps, strappy sandals of varied colors and styles for summer, loafers for those need-to-be-casual days. I don’t have pointy-toed shoes, or those decorated sweetly with bows or ribbons. I’m still at the predominantly functional stage of my shoe collection, and have tended strongly toward comfort.

But today, in my wine-colored pants and white shirt with the narrowest of stripes, I matched my black pumps (2 inch heel) with my lovely black bag I received for Christmas. I felt the need to atone for my sneakers of last week – people were on holiday for the most part, and I felt fine about reverting to the casual student of my grad school days. This was the first day back though – everyone present and appropriately dressed. So I brought out a Christmas outfit, did my make-up and hair, and slipped into black pumps.

My feet ached by the time I reached the elevator to head down in the parking structure. I shared the lift with someone in jeans, sweatshirt and sneakers. She probably thought I was weird for gazing at her feet in envy. Transferring my stare to my toes encased in shiny leather, I decided I did look more professional and pride in my appearance lasted for the whole ride down.

We got off the elevator and headed out to make our walks on campus. It wasn’t likely that we were headed to the same place – the medical complex alone consists of multiple buildings and mine is relatively small, comprised predominantly of research staff. But I followed along after her and decided we were probably trying to get to the same building after a little while.

I started out 2 steps behind her – I lost her around a corner about half a block from my destination. She was at least 75 yards ahead of me at last sighting. My journey was marked by looks down to make sure I didn’t step in a hole, twist my ankle and fall. To judge distances more carefully since I was more unstable on the balls of my feet and a relatively thin heel. My steps were shorter, more careful and slow. I just wasn’t going very fast, and the farther away she got, the more frustrated I grew with my speed.

Stupid black shoes. I thought, scowling now when I looked down to check for obstacles. I tried to hurry my stride, but found I took smaller steps to compensate for the lack of stability. I tried to think of other strategies – was I walking funny? Should your toe or heel hit first? There had to be some optimum stride length/speed combination that could allow me to keep pace with Comfy Shoes Lady. Carrie Bradshaw can run in heels – I’ve seen Sex and the City! At least walk faster!! What is wrong with me?!

By this time, my toes were hurting – crunched forward from my many attempts at gaining some momentum. My arches ached – unaccustomed to supporting my foot at this angle. And I was starting to get a little out of breath – from being upset or actual physical strain, I’m not sure.

It’s hurting at work. I feel slow. Painfully, miserably, excruciatingly slow. I’m looking around and realizing I’m still waiting for my main project to start. And I haven’t made progress in collaborating with people – brilliant scientists with amazing attitudes, eager to teach and work with me, and I’m blowing it. I am hard on myself all the time, but seriously? I have never felt like a more complete waste of space and money. And the nicer and more encouraging they are, the worse I feel – considering climbing under my desk and hiding, giving back some of the money, doing something to make myself feel more OK about the experience.

When I wrote for the high school paper, I did a rather profound column about shoes – how you had some that were comfortable, but they got too small and worn, so you had to get new ones. The new ones were good – pretty and functional, but they hurt a little. You expected to get some blisters and achy feet before you got used to the new experience. Ah, the talent of explaining the shift from junior high to high school.

The problem is, I can’t learn the lesson! The post-doc is pumps! They make my toes hurt, arches cramp and leave me gasping for air. And worse – I can’t get anywhere in them! I’m stuck thinking about how nice “Ph.D.” looks on my lab coat, how pretty the graduation program is that I have on my bulletin board, how stately all my texts look lined up next to the conference programs in which my presentations are listed proudly. It’s nice to look at, but if grad-student and post-doc were going to have a race, I’d be staring at my grad-student back, racing away in tennis shoes.

She knows who to ask when she has questions. How the computer network functions and what to do when she has problems. Her collaborative efforts are plentiful – people come to her because she's good at what she does. She mentors students. She does community service that is work-related. She serves on high-level committees, meets the Dean. Plays major roles in recruiting weekends.

I’m crippled by self-doubt in my lack of accomplishments here – meaningful or otherwise. My steps are too slow and too short. I’m not meeting enough people, not getting collaborative invitations or taking full advantage of the few I’ve received. They know. I keep telling myself. You suck and they figured it out, and why tie your project to someone who’s slow and stumbling?

So I’ll make a shoe analogy, unoriginal even within my own writings. Maybe I’m being sad still – stuck in a mood that’s oozing around my personal and professional life. I’m trying to bring myself out of it, and the iPod and Bloglines (my 2 crushes – how I love them!) are helping. But my feet hurt, though the shoes are pretty. And I’m talking about shoes literally and figuratively, already dreading wearing them tomorrow.

I heart Bloglines!

Seriously, folks. Are we all using this now? I noticed that a couple of people are reaching me via their bloglines accounts and thought it might be worth checking out.

So I wandered over last night and set up my links - oh, pardon me - my feeds. It was down for awhile this morning, but it didn't dim my infatuation at all. I'm willing to wait for something this cool, plus they gave a lovely explanation of what happened after they were online again.

I have abandoned the old time-consuming method of checking on each site on my trusty bookmark list, hoping that someone has updated, but being largely disappointed that clicks on only 1 or 2 of my writers would yield anything I hadn't yet read.

But now? I quick look at my homepage shows me what's new. No disappointment! No wasted time! It has changed my online life by its lovely streamlined design. It's easy, it's free, and I adore it.

So tip of the hat to you, Bloglines. On a day when I've started 5 posts and had none of them wrap up neatly enough to publish, I'm still giddy with appreciation for your brilliance. I can't believe I was able to live without you for so long.

Pretend that didn't happen

When I was young (well, younger – I’m not old – until I get grey strands too numerous to remove with tweezers and am forced to dye my hair, I will not be old), I used to play with my neighbor, Jessica, and Brother. Jessica was a year or 2 younger than I was, and Brother is 4.5 (that’s right 4.5) years my junior.

I loved Sweet Valley High, and had quite the collection of books before the basement flooded and we had to throw them all out. So we’d play pretend and be characters in Sweet Valley, California. I, of course, would be Elizabeth, who was clearly superior in my mind. She was smart, organized, clearly college-bound, and had a boyfriend (Todd was kind of a weenie, but whatever – I fixed that when we played pretend).

Jessica is so named because that’s who she’d be. It fit too – she was hysterically funny, but not too academically oriented, quite social and silly. She couldn’t settle on a single crush, I scoffed in my 9 year old wisdom, so she’d probably be hopping from boyfriend to boyfriend when we finally got to high school.

Brother would be Steven, which didn’t really work at all. Steven was older than the twins in the book, younger than Jess and I in reality. But Brother played it to the best of his ability, and came up with some creative storylines for his character as we swam and rode bikes in the summer and were confined to the basement after school in colder seasons.

Jess and I always made fun of him for one thing. He’s often come up with crazy plots – his girlfriend loved him and he wanted to date someone else, so she shot him! Or, let’s say he was racing a friend in his super-cool car, and he drove off a cliff and died! Or, pretend that Steven left the burner on and it never lit (this after warnings from Dad on natural gas safety in our home) and the house exploded! And everyone was really hurt! Or dead!

Jess and I would look at each other, shake our heads and wait for his story to finish. He’d always take a moment after his exciting turn of events, look expectantly at our frowning faces, and realize that he had killed off any future adventures if he was, in fact, dead. So he’d quickly say

“No, no… Pretend that never happened.”

I currently sit on my couch, typing away on my laptop, with my TV volume up as high as it will go. Just FYI, it’s pretty freaking loud. But Chienne (which is dog in French since she does have a French name – given by the shelter, not I) is afraid of fireworks. And here in the south, people LOVE their fireworks, apparently. We have roadside stands, and they set them off all day. That’s right – starting at 7AM and lasting through the time I’m writing this, around 11:30 PM. It's 2006 on the East Coast, people! Can't we call it good?

My strategy for dealing with this traumatic event? Well, I didn’t know what to do – I comforted her, huddled in the corner of my closet on the pink blanket Mom made for her, crooning assurances and rubbing her ears. Then I tried coaxing her outside for a walk, trying not to giggle at her as she flattened out on the street when hearing one. Down! Everybody down! Then a friend told me to ignore her, so I tried that. But she comes to find me, nudges me and runs back to the closet. Then she starts to dig at the carpet. Dad told me to get excited about the noise – to dance and clap and laugh when I heard them to make her think they were fun. As I expected, she didn’t buy it. I probably lost just a little more of her respect with that little exercise.

So now I coax her out to the living room with me, cover her up with a blanket and pat her while I turn the TV up to drown out the noise. “Just pretend it’s not happening.” I tell her. “It’ll all be over soon.”

This avoidance by distraction is popular for me, and honestly, if it were possible to say “No, pretend that didn’t happen.” instead of dealing with the consequences with some decisions, I’d do it in a second. Just wipe away any embarrassment, hurt feelings or tough situations that were created by a poor choice or statement.

I found it cathartic last night to mope – to watch TV and cuddle with my dog, sheltering her from the fireworks once again by falling asleep to maximum volume TV to drown out any unpleasant sounds. I woke up once to find her staring at the closed blinds that cover one of my bedroom windows, her ears perked, ready to run and hide should she pick up any sound of an incoming threat. She’s such a brave girl.

I think it’s a choice – do you want to know what’s going on – be informed and intelligent about decisions? Or would you rather immerse yourself in entertainment – cushioned from harsh realities and tough decisions by cute TV shows, DVDs, blogs, books?

I’m distracted today too – cleaning, catching up with a few friends, half-watching football while I do some minor work and sit to finish the post I started last night. I guess it all comes down to how you define your reality. I’m stuck inside my head, trying to figure out what’s going on around me, attempting to map some course for myself that will lead to success and happiness. But if I surround myself with mindless entertainment rather than honest work, how does that help me?

I guess I’m a bit frustrated with myself for being so down last night for relatively minor problems. I can count a multitude of blessings in my life – so, so many more than I deserve or need. Yet on some evenings (days, weeks – whatever), I’m consumed with what I don’t have and let little things, like the lack of site traffic, make me feel badly about myself.

Point? I think it’s good to express the negative and embarrassing stories. It helped - profoundly, actually – to know that you guys knew I was sad and felt badly about that. And that my lack of readership wasn’t necessarily related to my talent or lack thereof. Part of the value in those stories that will make me shake my head and blush that I shared them is just that. Knowing that something hard and painful doesn’t look so terrible in retrospect. And a gentle internal reminder that forming my life around certain areas, and placing great importance on them, takes away from pursuits in which I have great interest.

So I’m leaving my laptop momentarily, finding that volunteer application that I keep forgetting to print, and getting it ready to send. Then I’m going to respond to the kind welcome notes I received from church. I went again today, and it feels right there. I cut some blogs from my bookmarks and added some new ones just to change things up. I’ve decided on a stricter diet and exercise schedule that might make me feel a little better in general. I’m going to think about God more – try to listen more carefully and talk a little less. I’m going to forgive some people who have irritated me, and hope that I receive the same consideration.

It’s too bad I don’t make resolutions. Because those just might have been them. And if you think those are actual resolutions? Well, go back to where I said I didn't do that yesterday, and pretend that didn't happen.

Dear Southern People,

Dear Southern people who enjoy the fireworks,

We have a good thing going – I know you don’t always understand what I’m saying, and I certainly miss a lot of what you’re trying to tell me when I forget to expect the accent. So I apologize for that. I’m also sorry about swearing at you when you drive slowly in the far left lane of the expressway, and don’t check out of any store at a speed that anyone could call reasonable.

Aside from that, we’ve coexisted without any problems. Did I not make Christmas cookies for my neighbors? Hand out 20 pounds of candy at Halloween? Do I not donate to your charities and plan to volunteer at your worthy schools and shelters? I enjoy not having to deal with snow, and will cope with the fact that you bundle up like little Eskimos when I have not yet taken out my winter coat. That’s fine.

But the fireworks… Folks, my understanding of the firework idea is to look at some pretty lights. Yes, I’m aware that they also make noise, but it’s not the primary source of amusement is it? Also, it scares my dog. A lot. So perhaps we could confine our use of such exploding devices to the evening.

In fact, I won’t scowl out my window or swear at you at all if you participate in firework explosion between the hours of 5-9 PM. I find that to be more than generous. Hell, if you must play during the day as well, how about waiting until after noon? So I can at least make it through walking the dog and running some errands before she starts flipping out and digging at my carpet? And maybe at 9, we can stop. Savor the joy. And wait until freaking Independence Day until we play with those suckers again.

Kindest regards,
me

Edited to add: I thought it was clear that my irritation was with the noise and my crazy dog, who, as I write, continues to ruin my carpet. Truth? I'm the one you should giggle at for raising such a spoiled creature.

I'm pleased to be here, and have not found a single person who I consider to be anything less than lovely, friendly, and completely smart and together. I don't know what more I can say other than I meant no offense, but I'm dying with all the noise lately.

New Year's Eve, 2005

I’m sad.

If I were less wordy, I might just leave it at that. In fact, a lot of what I’m feeling has already been expressed. I love – absolutely adore/can’t get enough of – people with blogs. Those people who are honest and gutsy enough to put something real out here help me sometimes. To know that grad school, jobs, dating, friendships -- life is hard for someone other then me is comforting. And every once in awhile, I pull that knowledge around me like a blanket and snuggle in, content in knowing I’m alone physically but not in how I feel.

I have an actual blanket – one Grandma made for me before I was born. So my blanket and I turn 27 in January. I don’t sleep with it every night, though it’s usually around. I took it with me on an interview – the one where I had endless social events to attend for a job I wasn’t sure I wanted. I felt unsure and uncomfortable, and tucked my blanket into my suitcase before heading off to catch my flight.

It was a bad trip. I got a manuscript rejection right before my flight left, and there was nobody to meet me at the airport when I arrived. Then started days of interviews, tours, meetings with executives as well as senior scientists, increasing certainty that I didn’t want this job, tours around town to find housing, and social events. I would return to the hotel, exhausted, and tuck my blanket under my chin – smell the laundry detergent I liked, and feel the worn cotton knit against my face – and sleep, comforted.

I got through the interview, and sitting on an uncomfortable chair at the Delta terminal in Atlanta on a layover, I realized that I couldn’t remember putting my blanket in my suitcase before I left that morning.

Don’t panic. I told myself. You couldn’t have forgotten it. It’s there. But when I got home, unzipping my suitcase as soon as I wheeled it to the car, it wasn’t there.

I can’t even explain the sick feeling of dread that overwhelmed me when I realized I didn’t have it. I called the hotel, finding only front desk staff at midnight, not at all concerned that I looked like a fool for freaking out about my blanket.

“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.

I sat in a blue rocking chair in front of the window. “They’ll send it tomorrow.” I told my mom solemnly.

“No, they don’t know if it’s there, but I’m sure someone found it. They’ll figure out where it is tomorrow, then put it in the mail.” I answered when she asked if they already had it.

Mom sighed my name, and shook her head. “I think you need to be prepared for losing it. I probably got tangled up with the sheets and sent away for laundry. Then whoever finds it will just think you didn’t want it, and throw it away.”

Now, I consider Mom to be my very best friend – I’ve relied on her love, support, and pragmatic views more often than I can recount. But this little gem pushed me over the edge. All the stress of having my defense pushed back indefinitely, feeling like a failure, not finding a job I wanted despite exhaustive interviewing, and yes, losing my beloved blanket, coalesced and I couldn’t breathe through the pain of it. I started to sob – uncontrollably and with great passion.

I cried for almost an hour – mourning the future I thought I’d find after grad school and hadn’t, and desperately needing the comfort that my blanket always gave me. Mom, bless her heart, tried to backtrack.

“They’ll find it.” She assured me. “And you don’t need it anymore anyway!”

“Do you see what’s happening to me?! Do I look like someone who doesn’t need her security blanket, Mom?!” Barely able to wail out my questions through wracking sobs, blowing my nose to try to gain the ability to breathe, headache brewing and nausea threatening.

I did laugh when she considered me, sitting at my side on the couch, stroking my hair. “I can make you a new one.” She finally offered.

We went to the store the next day, found new material, and she taught me how Grandma put a dinner plate in the center of the 2 pieces of material, tracing around it to form a large circle. Then she sewed from the circle to the edges of the material. Mom started, and I finished it. Then I had a flower blanket to cuddle – one with pastel daisies and a green flannel back. This one, like my first, had yellow trim. It comforted me until my blanket arrived in the mail, sent by the kind woman at the front desk and courtesy of a housekeeper who recognized it as being something vital and important that its owner would desperately want back.

That story is to explain how important comfort is to me – to find something that makes me feel loved and important on days when I feel lonely and insignificant. So when I hear that other people are dateless on New Year's – people who I think are amazing and lovely – it makes me dread my evening less. When I realize that not everyone does something special to mark the coming of 2006, I decide to think of myself within the company of other home-dwellers rather than feeling completely isolated in a world of people who party.

I think the reason I decided to put these thoughts in public vs. keeping a private journal was that I hope it helps someone – makes her feel in good company (or at least not alone – not sure how good my company is right now), or makes him realize that getting your PhD doesn’t mean you necessarily have anything figured out. That the woman who fell apart over losing her blanket has given seminars and talks, successfully performed at prelims and defenses, passed classes, mentored new students, and served on various committees.

I present a confident, professional, smart version of myself to other people – putting significant time and effort into this person others might see. But here? I am who I am. I feel lonely today and dread people asking what I did for New Year's. I’m hurt that my site traffic has gone to hell in the past few days – did I write something offensive? Get boring suddenly? Somehow transmit the fact that my general malaise is affecting my productivity at home, at work and at blog? I wish I had a man who loved me, and failing that, friends who lived where I currently reside. I wish that I were stunningly beautiful and even more successful.

I’m not writing resolutions this year – I normally don’t. I will say that I’m glad I started writing recently. As many others have said recently in their own posts, it’s cathartic and makes me view my life much more clearly. If you’ve been reading or have commented, I’m all aflutter with pleasure. I know you have your own lives that demand attention, and that I might compel you to come and read is incredibly flattering. So you have my sincere thanks. Those thanks come with my wishes for a very happy 2006 – whether you’re partying with crowds or home alone for its actual beginning.

And if you happen to be sad, I'm here too. Do you want to be friends?