I was going for 'end' but now I have goldfish swimming through my imagination. I fear I'll never be hip.
I think my book is written. There are massive amounts of editing to be done (Friend said this morning that she read part 1 to put herself to sleep (and that it worked well) and asked if she could one day see me park my garage in my car. Friend is mean.), but I wrote words for each chapter I outlined! I think I said what I wanted to say. The second part is terribly long and made me cry in several parts, and I don't know that I feel better about that year having written it down. But I'm oddly proud that I didn't abandon the project. I will finish. I really didn't anticipate that happening.
My confidence - professionally speaking - has taken some hits this week. I was nervous about presenting my upcoming work and almost didn't go to campus the day I had my group meeting, but I fully appreciate that peer review makes work better. It's demoralizing and sucky and exhausting sometimes, but the result justifies the process, I think.
So when attempting to present to an unfamiliar audience, it was undoubtedly wise to have my department pick apart everything I was going to say. But it still sucked. I walked out feeling as though my pretty slides and my poor ego had been thoroughly attacked. Each figure that I remake reminds me that I did it wrong the first time. But I think I've completed the necessary revisions and I readily admit it's much better now than it was before. I won't hear those particular questions, which leaves the door open for new critiques I can use to make the work better still. But it leaves me feeling sad that I didn't do better on my own.
The paper I worked and worked and worked on was mentioned when I spoke to Dr. Icing today. "Is it..." He trailed off and I braced myself. "Do you think it overlaps with what you gave Penguin?"
"I don't." I offered. There is one paragraph in common and it's based upon the results I didn't create. Otherwise, it's refocused and reformatted, much more intensive in my area and quite lovely. But, upon closer examination, the results are sort of the same in one aspect, though there are 3 more novel pieces of information. I think it's different. But I also want to think it's different. So I'll speak to Boss about it and, if need be, address Dr. Icing's concerns more aggressively. Given that the man recruited me with the promise of patients and has provided one (1, uno, a single, solitary human being!) over the span of two years, I find myself less than eager to please.
"Why do you lie?" I was tempted to ask when he noted that my projects were a priority for him and his team. "They obviously are not as you ignore the many emails I send. Which is OK - they don't have to be a priority. I know you're very busy and do important stuff. I respect that. But don't say crap you don't mean! I hate it when men say things they know are false and expect that because they're important and charming that I'll just buy it! I wrote a book about this very problem and I'm done dealing with you people and your promises that don't pan out!"
I obviously did not say anything other than "yes." and "of course." I require my salary and I like my job and I'm fond of Dr. Icing. I just don't trust him anymore. Which is a good way to know that it's time to leave an institution.
In my quest to do just that, I have applied for two jobs thus far based on location. I didn't really expect to hear about the first. I currently make more money in an area with a considerably lower cost of living. So I was OK with not being invited to interview. But this most recent job... Oh, I want it. I want that location, I want that place in industry, I want to learn some of the work. And I am - in some respects - very qualified. Yet there is one area in which I'm iffy and that's fair to point out. But I still wanted to hear something this week. Having applied on Wednesday, I wanted them to pounce on my CV and beg me to work for them. I would graciously accept, of course, and all would be well.
So while taken individually, the small hits would be tolerable. But the talk and the poster and the paper and the job... I'm feeling a bit down. And I vividly remember the feeling from interviewing before. Sighing with sadness that I wasn't good enough for some position I wanted. Feeling wounded from members of my own group making detailed suggestions on my interview talk, though they were picky because they wanted me to do well.
Poor me, right? So I'll edit my book and help Friend pack up all her belongings to move across town and try to fix my problems again next week.
And maybe I should get a couple goldfish... Would Sprout attack the tank?
Friday, August 24, 2007
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Corrections
I am, no surprise, writing my book and editing my poster and talk. The book because the poster and talk are bumming me out and I'm nearly finished drafting the book chapters! I have maybe 3 left to write before I start to edit and see if anything makes sense.
I spent 80 minutes or so presenting the poster and talk to my group while they ate pizza and ripped all that I know to shreds. I was a sad plankton and due to Friend's penchant for SpongeBob, I told her today that I belonged in a crabby patty where I couldn't hurt anyone with my mistaken belief that I can actually do science.
"Has the poster been printed yet?" Someone asked after everyone had viewed its projection on the large screen for a moment.
"Nope." I said. "If you see anything that needs to be changed, go ahead." I turned over the sheet of paper - the first of 3 that I'd use - after 15 minutes of 'change this,' 'that's not right,' 'that sounds weird,' and 'that looks funny.' It's not even that big a poster! I can't remember anything that those feeder fish left alone!
It took 30 minutes and 3 tries for me to close that window. Then I started on my talk - 12 slides. I think the first 2 made it without being attacked. Maybe my group was tired after the poster? But the rest of the talk was summarily critiqued as I wrote down corrections as fast as I could take notes. I'm re-doing nearly all the figures. And text. And legends. It turns out that the slides I'd spent weeks making were, how shall I say it, not so good.
So I'm busy doing that as well as summarizing into pseudo-fictional chapters my decent into depression. It's super fun.
But it is nearly complete. So there's hope that tomorrow will be better.
I spent 80 minutes or so presenting the poster and talk to my group while they ate pizza and ripped all that I know to shreds. I was a sad plankton and due to Friend's penchant for SpongeBob, I told her today that I belonged in a crabby patty where I couldn't hurt anyone with my mistaken belief that I can actually do science.
"Has the poster been printed yet?" Someone asked after everyone had viewed its projection on the large screen for a moment.
"Nope." I said. "If you see anything that needs to be changed, go ahead." I turned over the sheet of paper - the first of 3 that I'd use - after 15 minutes of 'change this,' 'that's not right,' 'that sounds weird,' and 'that looks funny.' It's not even that big a poster! I can't remember anything that those feeder fish left alone!
It took 30 minutes and 3 tries for me to close that window. Then I started on my talk - 12 slides. I think the first 2 made it without being attacked. Maybe my group was tired after the poster? But the rest of the talk was summarily critiqued as I wrote down corrections as fast as I could take notes. I'm re-doing nearly all the figures. And text. And legends. It turns out that the slides I'd spent weeks making were, how shall I say it, not so good.
So I'm busy doing that as well as summarizing into pseudo-fictional chapters my decent into depression. It's super fun.
But it is nearly complete. So there's hope that tomorrow will be better.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
What I would have done differently
An essay by Katie, a post-doc in beginning her third year of a three year fellowship
When finding myself in a hole, I chose not to climb out and run away, but to dig deeper. After the debacle of my defense experience, I was desperate to leave grad school, sans diploma that currently resides in a silver frame on my mantle, and go somewhere to prove that I was worthwhile and smart and useful. The driving force in my life was twofold.
I wanted a house and a salary that meant I could afford one. And I wanted, craved, coveted publications.
Tired of mentoring projects and doing science that didn’t work well enough to be written up, I wanted certainty in results so that I could write words, check references and put lines on my CV. If papers were the way to measure my worth as a scientist, I would have as many as I could grab with my greedy little hands.
I therefore am doing a post-doc in the field which occupied my graduate study. I was familiar with the literature and it was straightforward to add new lines of research to the ones I already knew. The project for Quiet Mentor on which I’m giving a talk is based upon pieces of work I’d done in grad school. They’re melded differently and are done in a new population, but I didn’t feel overwhelmed by setting it up or making it work. The techniques and methods were not new so I was just doing my job. (For how I deal with novel work, recall how I panicked over writing my book chapter. That was not good.)
In terms of wishing I’d done something new and different, diverging from this particular path of study, I don’t know that I regret my choices. Certainly there are benefits to going that route, but I have learned and accomplished enough to be pleased with what I’ve done so far.
When I look back and sigh, therefore, it’s over all the time I wasted rather than all the decisions I made.
When working in a large institution doing a highly collaborative project, there have been delays. Weeks turn to months where I wait for IRB approval, hope for patients to be recruited, worry over supplies that have not been delivered. In grad school, all of this was taken care of. Advisor handled the details so we could focus on work. Computer problems, scheduling errors, patient recruitment? We had people who did that and a quick email to the appropriate resource would usually lead to some solution. I learned that these people were sometimes busy and that to bother them was to annoy them, so I waited patiently until they had time to deal with me.
Here, I am part of a bustling department that has a huge focus on writing grants. Everyone is writing something or meeting to plan the next submission. I don’t begrudge them this effort and, in truth, if I were to list a skill I’ve developed since arriving here, I’d say my writing has improved tremendously. I finished documents from my graduate work, publishing everything I had to offer. Something clicked and I’m now able to organize and explain where before I would flounder and become unbearably wordy and dense. But the writing process - for grants or papers - can be a slow one. Putting text on screens, printing a document, handing it over and waiting for someone to tell you what he thinks.
I have likely spent more time waiting than I have working, which explains my bipolar habits. When there is stuff to do, I do it to the exclusion of all else. When there is nothing, I now have data with which to play, but in the beginning, there was nothing to do. I was painfully bored and instead of insisting someone give me work, I escaped into blogs. I read and I wrote, spending hours of each day putting words together to tell some random story that I wanted to remember for some reason. The problem is that I don’t think I could even make my way through my archives. There’s simply too much text describing the tiny triumphs and crushing disappointments that somehow accumulate over years.
If I had exhibited a bit of the dedication I have for this endeavor to the work I’m here to do, I think I would have pushed documents through the processes faster. Insisted upon meetings, wheedled for resources, learned more.
There’s a line, of course, that varies across institutions and departments. How hard one should push depends on a number of factors, not the least of which is that I’m a young woman in a department of older men. I often come across as whiny or shrill when I’m simply trying to obtain what I need. I have no idea how to avoid this perception and am unsure if it's me or the department, though I think it's a mixture of the two.
“Jill,” I wrote the other day, “I can’t get access to the patient database and people have stopped answering email and returning calls.” (Lesson 1: Call. It appears to be harder to ignore voice mail that the electronic variety. But it wasn't working for me here.) “Is there any chance you can find me another route to get this problem solved?”
I know she’s busy, but I need help and she has access to resources of which I’m unfamiliar. My innate hesitation to bother people has lost hours of productivity though, so I’m now more likely to sic Jill on those who ignore me rather than waiting in endless patience and whining about it on my blog.
I made an apologetic face when I peeked in Tim’s door and found him on the phone. I went back to my office and knew he’d find me when he finished.
“You rang?” He asked, poking his head in moments later.
“I need your computer to pull some files.” I informed him.
“Sure.” He said easily. I like Tim a lot. But then he went to leave. And so I would have been lost as to when this was supposed to happen. In the past, I would have remained quiet, wondering what I missed and how I should know the expected time of my arrival. I would have gone home early, feeling inadequate and stupid for not being able to do a simple task.
“Tim?” I called this time. “When?” He shrugged in response, so I asked if now would work.
“Don’t you want to each lunch?” He asked, glancing at his watch.
“Nope.” I replied. “I want those files.” I grinned at him and he said he’d be 15 minutes on his system, then would go to lunch himself.
For me, the regret is that I didn’t learn one lesson better and faster.
If I don’t know the next step, I need to ask.
If I’m walking out of a meeting without any idea as to what to do next, I need to pause before rising from my chair and say something like, “So where do we go from here? Not in general terms, but specifically. What needs to happen today?”
I now make lists, clearly map the path from one task to the next. How to collect data, how to find money, who to call for this problem, what form to fill out for this access. I’ve found there isn’t a magical way to look knowledgeable and capable in these situations. I just have to ask.
Post-docs are a renewable resource here. A sea of plankton that are noticed only when one becomes particularly tasty from good results or excellent background. So as I’m swimming around, bumping into other plankton and trying to fight the strong currents that urge me to nap more and worry less, I try to be a bit noisy.
“I need help.” I say in my tiny plankton voice, crossing my arms and being a presence for people to notice.
My confidence took a severe hit with my defense experience. It has taken time to recover. It also takes time for committees to meet or for ideas to develop. It will never be quick and easy with me, I fear. Yet what I tell grad students is to know the next step. If you don’t know where to focus your immediate energy, find someone who can tell you. The identification of resources and their subsequent utilization has been a continuing source of awe for me. I regret that I didn’t do that sooner.
The papers I so wanted have yet to get written, though I have made small strides at adding to my CV. We’ll see if I can figure something out in the next year. If not, the hope is that I can do better the next time around.
When finding myself in a hole, I chose not to climb out and run away, but to dig deeper. After the debacle of my defense experience, I was desperate to leave grad school, sans diploma that currently resides in a silver frame on my mantle, and go somewhere to prove that I was worthwhile and smart and useful. The driving force in my life was twofold.
I wanted a house and a salary that meant I could afford one. And I wanted, craved, coveted publications.
Tired of mentoring projects and doing science that didn’t work well enough to be written up, I wanted certainty in results so that I could write words, check references and put lines on my CV. If papers were the way to measure my worth as a scientist, I would have as many as I could grab with my greedy little hands.
I therefore am doing a post-doc in the field which occupied my graduate study. I was familiar with the literature and it was straightforward to add new lines of research to the ones I already knew. The project for Quiet Mentor on which I’m giving a talk is based upon pieces of work I’d done in grad school. They’re melded differently and are done in a new population, but I didn’t feel overwhelmed by setting it up or making it work. The techniques and methods were not new so I was just doing my job. (For how I deal with novel work, recall how I panicked over writing my book chapter. That was not good.)
In terms of wishing I’d done something new and different, diverging from this particular path of study, I don’t know that I regret my choices. Certainly there are benefits to going that route, but I have learned and accomplished enough to be pleased with what I’ve done so far.
When I look back and sigh, therefore, it’s over all the time I wasted rather than all the decisions I made.
When working in a large institution doing a highly collaborative project, there have been delays. Weeks turn to months where I wait for IRB approval, hope for patients to be recruited, worry over supplies that have not been delivered. In grad school, all of this was taken care of. Advisor handled the details so we could focus on work. Computer problems, scheduling errors, patient recruitment? We had people who did that and a quick email to the appropriate resource would usually lead to some solution. I learned that these people were sometimes busy and that to bother them was to annoy them, so I waited patiently until they had time to deal with me.
Here, I am part of a bustling department that has a huge focus on writing grants. Everyone is writing something or meeting to plan the next submission. I don’t begrudge them this effort and, in truth, if I were to list a skill I’ve developed since arriving here, I’d say my writing has improved tremendously. I finished documents from my graduate work, publishing everything I had to offer. Something clicked and I’m now able to organize and explain where before I would flounder and become unbearably wordy and dense. But the writing process - for grants or papers - can be a slow one. Putting text on screens, printing a document, handing it over and waiting for someone to tell you what he thinks.
I have likely spent more time waiting than I have working, which explains my bipolar habits. When there is stuff to do, I do it to the exclusion of all else. When there is nothing, I now have data with which to play, but in the beginning, there was nothing to do. I was painfully bored and instead of insisting someone give me work, I escaped into blogs. I read and I wrote, spending hours of each day putting words together to tell some random story that I wanted to remember for some reason. The problem is that I don’t think I could even make my way through my archives. There’s simply too much text describing the tiny triumphs and crushing disappointments that somehow accumulate over years.
If I had exhibited a bit of the dedication I have for this endeavor to the work I’m here to do, I think I would have pushed documents through the processes faster. Insisted upon meetings, wheedled for resources, learned more.
There’s a line, of course, that varies across institutions and departments. How hard one should push depends on a number of factors, not the least of which is that I’m a young woman in a department of older men. I often come across as whiny or shrill when I’m simply trying to obtain what I need. I have no idea how to avoid this perception and am unsure if it's me or the department, though I think it's a mixture of the two.
“Jill,” I wrote the other day, “I can’t get access to the patient database and people have stopped answering email and returning calls.” (Lesson 1: Call. It appears to be harder to ignore voice mail that the electronic variety. But it wasn't working for me here.) “Is there any chance you can find me another route to get this problem solved?”
I know she’s busy, but I need help and she has access to resources of which I’m unfamiliar. My innate hesitation to bother people has lost hours of productivity though, so I’m now more likely to sic Jill on those who ignore me rather than waiting in endless patience and whining about it on my blog.
I made an apologetic face when I peeked in Tim’s door and found him on the phone. I went back to my office and knew he’d find me when he finished.
“You rang?” He asked, poking his head in moments later.
“I need your computer to pull some files.” I informed him.
“Sure.” He said easily. I like Tim a lot. But then he went to leave. And so I would have been lost as to when this was supposed to happen. In the past, I would have remained quiet, wondering what I missed and how I should know the expected time of my arrival. I would have gone home early, feeling inadequate and stupid for not being able to do a simple task.
“Tim?” I called this time. “When?” He shrugged in response, so I asked if now would work.
“Don’t you want to each lunch?” He asked, glancing at his watch.
“Nope.” I replied. “I want those files.” I grinned at him and he said he’d be 15 minutes on his system, then would go to lunch himself.
For me, the regret is that I didn’t learn one lesson better and faster.
If I don’t know the next step, I need to ask.
If I’m walking out of a meeting without any idea as to what to do next, I need to pause before rising from my chair and say something like, “So where do we go from here? Not in general terms, but specifically. What needs to happen today?”
I now make lists, clearly map the path from one task to the next. How to collect data, how to find money, who to call for this problem, what form to fill out for this access. I’ve found there isn’t a magical way to look knowledgeable and capable in these situations. I just have to ask.
Post-docs are a renewable resource here. A sea of plankton that are noticed only when one becomes particularly tasty from good results or excellent background. So as I’m swimming around, bumping into other plankton and trying to fight the strong currents that urge me to nap more and worry less, I try to be a bit noisy.
“I need help.” I say in my tiny plankton voice, crossing my arms and being a presence for people to notice.
My confidence took a severe hit with my defense experience. It has taken time to recover. It also takes time for committees to meet or for ideas to develop. It will never be quick and easy with me, I fear. Yet what I tell grad students is to know the next step. If you don’t know where to focus your immediate energy, find someone who can tell you. The identification of resources and their subsequent utilization has been a continuing source of awe for me. I regret that I didn’t do that sooner.
The papers I so wanted have yet to get written, though I have made small strides at adding to my CV. We’ll see if I can figure something out in the next year. If not, the hope is that I can do better the next time around.
Monday, August 20, 2007
So Very Tired
My heels are smooth! I purchased a heel-pumicey device from Bath and Body Works in a state of utter exhaustion this afternoon. I love their hand soap and wanted to take advantage of the continuing sale. Since my feet are in terrible shape, I decided I would try to remove a bit of the dead skin from them. It worked beautifully and I'm quite pleased. The rest of the day was, however, hit or miss.
"I have decided," I told Friend this morning, "that I wish to move the armchair out of the living room and put the schefflara in that window. Since it decided it was a tree, it has become too large for its spot in the kitchen."
"Well, that won't fit." I declared after trying to shove the chair down the hall and seeing parts of it hit both walls. I drug the heavy piece toward the front door and attempted to shove it out in the hot morning, but it wouldn't fit there either.
"You're going to have to help." I told Friend.
"I'm drinking coffee." She groused. "And I don't have on pants." I glanced at her nightshirt and deemed her decent enough to move furniture and insisted she rise from my couch - now on a different wall than it was the day before - and help me lift and move the chair out of my home. She pointed and gestured and lifted, returning to the living room after we deposited the chair outside the garage. I later made her return to help me get it inside the garage. I was wrong when I thought I could do it alone.
Pro: I love the new living room layout. It was time for a change and I'm pleased.
Con: "Thanks for helping me move that chair! I owe you."
She mistakenly interpreted my desire to avoid campus for another day as a wish to run errands all over hell and back in search of items she required. This interpretation was incorrect. Yet I recalled making her lift heavy items before she was completely awake and acquiesced to a trip to Kohl's to purchase jeans and towels, neither of which I wanted. I did find a couple of tops in the clearance section, and a skirt and watch on sale. But I soon ran out of patience with her multiple trips to the dressing room and countless pairs of jeans, announced my boredom and sighed until we were finally able to leave.
Then we went to WalMart, where I thought we would stay until the end of time. I'm lucky to have escaped alive. I don't even remember what I bought.
I demanded lunch at that point. I was very cranky and needed sweet tea. I was driving so turned in a parking lot and we found sandwiches, salads and drinks. Then we went to Bed, Bath and Beyond in a continuing quest for a waterproof mattress pad. (Something about cats and vomit and protecting the bed. I don't know.) I found DVDs that I wanted - one shows a beach and makes wave sounds. I want to see if it helps me sleep. I'll let you know. But I was thwarted in my search for the sights and sounds of water on a disc and became despondent when I wandered the brightly lit aisles, finding nothing on which to use my coupons. I rallied when I found the rack of DVDs, but the energy failed me when Friend insisted we go to the mall to look at more bedding.
"No." I said firmly. "I'm tired and cranky and my head hurts. No more shopping."
"But we're here!" She insisted. "The mall is right over there and I'll only have to look in Macy's. Maybe Dillards. And you could get your hand soap!"
"You hate me." I muttered as I followed her into Macy's a few moments later. "You hate me and you hate icing - it's melting on my WalMart cupcakes as we shop. What kind of monster hates me and icing?!"
She laughed and continued on, frowning over the small selection and deeming Dillards necessary. "I'm going to kill you." I threatened. "Perhaps stab you with a plastic fork. I can't believe you're making me walk more." The place where the straps of my flip flops attached to the bottom was rubbing a raw spot on each foot. My legs were achy from the walking and carrying. I wanted a nap. I missed home. I wanted to check my email.
I met the news that they had nothing of interest at Dillards with a glare. I picked out soap on sale and grabbed a scrapey-foot device because I was too tired to debate whether it would work well or not.
Perhaps moved by pity - but more likely deciding it was the best deal - Friend deigned to purchase her mattress pad at Macy's.
"You won't believe it." She said and I closed my eyes upon realizing they didn't have the right size.
"It's like a nightmare." I moaned. "And I can't wake up. I just want to go home."
"We could try Target." She mused once we were back in the car loaded with items, but still missing one thing on her list. I passed the parking lot without even considering pulling in.
"There's another Macy's on the way home." I sighed. "I must be an idiot, but I'll take you there. Then I'm going home."
"If we're there," she nodded, "then we might as well go to Verizon across the street!"
I ignored her then and did it again when we emerged with a mattress pad. Happily skipping Verizon, I did stop to replenish the alcohol supply. I need peach schnapps and triple sec to go with my mango soda. Pleased that I rarely buy alcohol - it's rather expensive - we came home to unload all that stuff while Friend did laundry since her water is off indefinitely while they fix a water main.
I am the beaten shell of a shopper. My stamina was crushed and I wanted nothing more than to rest. Work is much easier, frankly, and I look forward to sitting in my office - perhaps in my pretty new outfit - tomorrow.
"I have decided," I told Friend this morning, "that I wish to move the armchair out of the living room and put the schefflara in that window. Since it decided it was a tree, it has become too large for its spot in the kitchen."
"Well, that won't fit." I declared after trying to shove the chair down the hall and seeing parts of it hit both walls. I drug the heavy piece toward the front door and attempted to shove it out in the hot morning, but it wouldn't fit there either.
"You're going to have to help." I told Friend.
"I'm drinking coffee." She groused. "And I don't have on pants." I glanced at her nightshirt and deemed her decent enough to move furniture and insisted she rise from my couch - now on a different wall than it was the day before - and help me lift and move the chair out of my home. She pointed and gestured and lifted, returning to the living room after we deposited the chair outside the garage. I later made her return to help me get it inside the garage. I was wrong when I thought I could do it alone.
Pro: I love the new living room layout. It was time for a change and I'm pleased.
Con: "Thanks for helping me move that chair! I owe you."
She mistakenly interpreted my desire to avoid campus for another day as a wish to run errands all over hell and back in search of items she required. This interpretation was incorrect. Yet I recalled making her lift heavy items before she was completely awake and acquiesced to a trip to Kohl's to purchase jeans and towels, neither of which I wanted. I did find a couple of tops in the clearance section, and a skirt and watch on sale. But I soon ran out of patience with her multiple trips to the dressing room and countless pairs of jeans, announced my boredom and sighed until we were finally able to leave.
Then we went to WalMart, where I thought we would stay until the end of time. I'm lucky to have escaped alive. I don't even remember what I bought.
I demanded lunch at that point. I was very cranky and needed sweet tea. I was driving so turned in a parking lot and we found sandwiches, salads and drinks. Then we went to Bed, Bath and Beyond in a continuing quest for a waterproof mattress pad. (Something about cats and vomit and protecting the bed. I don't know.) I found DVDs that I wanted - one shows a beach and makes wave sounds. I want to see if it helps me sleep. I'll let you know. But I was thwarted in my search for the sights and sounds of water on a disc and became despondent when I wandered the brightly lit aisles, finding nothing on which to use my coupons. I rallied when I found the rack of DVDs, but the energy failed me when Friend insisted we go to the mall to look at more bedding.
"No." I said firmly. "I'm tired and cranky and my head hurts. No more shopping."
"But we're here!" She insisted. "The mall is right over there and I'll only have to look in Macy's. Maybe Dillards. And you could get your hand soap!"
"You hate me." I muttered as I followed her into Macy's a few moments later. "You hate me and you hate icing - it's melting on my WalMart cupcakes as we shop. What kind of monster hates me and icing?!"
She laughed and continued on, frowning over the small selection and deeming Dillards necessary. "I'm going to kill you." I threatened. "Perhaps stab you with a plastic fork. I can't believe you're making me walk more." The place where the straps of my flip flops attached to the bottom was rubbing a raw spot on each foot. My legs were achy from the walking and carrying. I wanted a nap. I missed home. I wanted to check my email.
I met the news that they had nothing of interest at Dillards with a glare. I picked out soap on sale and grabbed a scrapey-foot device because I was too tired to debate whether it would work well or not.
Perhaps moved by pity - but more likely deciding it was the best deal - Friend deigned to purchase her mattress pad at Macy's.
"You won't believe it." She said and I closed my eyes upon realizing they didn't have the right size.
"It's like a nightmare." I moaned. "And I can't wake up. I just want to go home."
"We could try Target." She mused once we were back in the car loaded with items, but still missing one thing on her list. I passed the parking lot without even considering pulling in.
"There's another Macy's on the way home." I sighed. "I must be an idiot, but I'll take you there. Then I'm going home."
"If we're there," she nodded, "then we might as well go to Verizon across the street!"
I ignored her then and did it again when we emerged with a mattress pad. Happily skipping Verizon, I did stop to replenish the alcohol supply. I need peach schnapps and triple sec to go with my mango soda. Pleased that I rarely buy alcohol - it's rather expensive - we came home to unload all that stuff while Friend did laundry since her water is off indefinitely while they fix a water main.
I am the beaten shell of a shopper. My stamina was crushed and I wanted nothing more than to rest. Work is much easier, frankly, and I look forward to sitting in my office - perhaps in my pretty new outfit - tomorrow.
Saturday, August 18, 2007
Notes: Car, Carpet and Other Things
"We'll come up with a good number." Butch said before he disappeared into his general manager office with the child salesguy and his mentor salesguy, who may or may not have been the one who left the note on my car. I didn't really catch his name for sure. "Then you can sign a deal or we'll walk away as friends."
I turned to Friend in the moment when they left us alone. I had the bad habit of saying, "We've been talking and I don't think..." when the salesmen returned to the table and they had quickly decided to try to keep Friend's unimpressed influence to a minimum. She was very quiet through the process, sitting unsmiling while I made friends with the young man they gave me to start.
"I hate that." She said at one point when he left. "Let's build a relationship! Since we have so much in common! 'I have a gmail account too,' he says. 'My mom does that. My wife has one of those. I feel the same way.'" She shook her head.
"Oh, am I supposed to feel a bond with him now?" She nodded in response.
"I don't feel badly for you." I informed him when he returned. "Young salespeople who work in the heat ended up in a gnat infestation the last time I fell for it. So I'm getting better at saying no."
Some two hours after we arrived, they came back with numbers. $10,995 difference and I quickly shook my head. "Look," I said, "I understand your position. My car is a 2001 with nearly 94,000 miles. The only car I'm even vaguely interested in is a 2006 with less than 10,000 miles. But my car's accessories are far better and I don't have problems with it. I haven't ever had a car payment and am not eager to experience that unless I really love the car. And I don't love the car nearly that much."
They kept pressuring me to name a number, name a monthly payment, write something down, sign here dammit! I continued to shrug and started feeling as unimpressed as Friend.
"We have a buyer for your car so we're willing to give you an excellent deal. $3000 is probably more than it's worth."
"Probably." I agreed easily.
"What did you say it blue book was?" Friend prodded, attempting to speed the process along as she kept an eye out the window to keep track of my car so we could escape. I'd given them the spare keys and felt good about leaving anytime.
"Over 5." I said. "Private seller." The salesmen shook their heads.
Butch returned with a final offer of $199.70/month for 75 months. "That's a lot of months." Friend offered, then lapsed into silence while I frowned at the paper.
"I don't like the car that much." I said. "But I'll call my dad just in case."
"No." He said immediately. "They had that car for $12,500 online and it wasn't really worth that. Marking it up to $14 is ridiculous. Walk away. They're trying to rape...er, rip you off."
I thanked him and smiled when Butch returned from his office.
"We're done." I chirped after shaking my head at young salesguy. He smiled and nodded.
"Wonderful!" Butch said, chest puffing out in his pale peach polo shirt. "We have a deal!"
"We're walking away friends." I corrected him and he scowled at me. As Friend and I finally drove out of the parking lot, she told me I wasn't getting invited to the barbeque at Butch's house this weekend.
"I don't think he meant it about being friends." She said and I nodded with relief and not having done something I'd regret. So my car sits in its garage, washed, vacuumed and with no problems at all.
I turned to Friend in the moment when they left us alone. I had the bad habit of saying, "We've been talking and I don't think..." when the salesmen returned to the table and they had quickly decided to try to keep Friend's unimpressed influence to a minimum. She was very quiet through the process, sitting unsmiling while I made friends with the young man they gave me to start.
"I hate that." She said at one point when he left. "Let's build a relationship! Since we have so much in common! 'I have a gmail account too,' he says. 'My mom does that. My wife has one of those. I feel the same way.'" She shook her head.
"Oh, am I supposed to feel a bond with him now?" She nodded in response.
"I don't feel badly for you." I informed him when he returned. "Young salespeople who work in the heat ended up in a gnat infestation the last time I fell for it. So I'm getting better at saying no."
Some two hours after we arrived, they came back with numbers. $10,995 difference and I quickly shook my head. "Look," I said, "I understand your position. My car is a 2001 with nearly 94,000 miles. The only car I'm even vaguely interested in is a 2006 with less than 10,000 miles. But my car's accessories are far better and I don't have problems with it. I haven't ever had a car payment and am not eager to experience that unless I really love the car. And I don't love the car nearly that much."
They kept pressuring me to name a number, name a monthly payment, write something down, sign here dammit! I continued to shrug and started feeling as unimpressed as Friend.
"We have a buyer for your car so we're willing to give you an excellent deal. $3000 is probably more than it's worth."
"Probably." I agreed easily.
"What did you say it blue book was?" Friend prodded, attempting to speed the process along as she kept an eye out the window to keep track of my car so we could escape. I'd given them the spare keys and felt good about leaving anytime.
"Over 5." I said. "Private seller." The salesmen shook their heads.
Butch returned with a final offer of $199.70/month for 75 months. "That's a lot of months." Friend offered, then lapsed into silence while I frowned at the paper.
"I don't like the car that much." I said. "But I'll call my dad just in case."
"No." He said immediately. "They had that car for $12,500 online and it wasn't really worth that. Marking it up to $14 is ridiculous. Walk away. They're trying to rape...er, rip you off."
I thanked him and smiled when Butch returned from his office.
"We're done." I chirped after shaking my head at young salesguy. He smiled and nodded.
"Wonderful!" Butch said, chest puffing out in his pale peach polo shirt. "We have a deal!"
"We're walking away friends." I corrected him and he scowled at me. As Friend and I finally drove out of the parking lot, she told me I wasn't getting invited to the barbeque at Butch's house this weekend.
"I don't think he meant it about being friends." She said and I nodded with relief and not having done something I'd regret. So my car sits in its garage, washed, vacuumed and with no problems at all.
*****
"I don't feel like this is working!" I complained to Friend as I went to steam the carpet with Cousin's cleaner. "Nothing gets hot or wet, so the steam part appears to be broken!" She moved down the hall to help and pressed the trigger located on the handle.
"Water's coming out." I announced, bemused.
"So what was wrong?" She asked, not comprehending my confusion.
"No water came out before." I told her, sheepish.
"Did you turn it on?" She asked and I was momentarily offended.
"Of course I turned it on! I just...didn't know you had to use the trigger. I thought the machine just knew I wanted water."
She shook her head, sighed and returned to her work. I happily cleaned carpet, exclaiming over the dirty water I flushed as I moved through the house, picking up stray clumps of pet hair the cleaner left in small patches. It's quite fun, but I got tired. I'll do more tomorrow now that I know how to work the carpet cleaner.
I finished my slides for my upcoming talk. I also made plane reservations. I am not yet nervous and hope that lasts. The talk is quite pretty.
There's a party across the street. It's very loud and Chienne is tempted to bark at them for a really long time. It does not help. We're not really a party neighborhood. They moved in recently and I hope they shut up soon.
Regina Spektor was recently added to my iPod, based upon Carrie's recommendation. I love that album (Begin to Hope). Highly recommend it.
I went to bed last night in a mango soda/peach schnapps fog. While I was drifting to sleep, I thought of three things I wanted to fix in my book. I vividly remember thinking 2 things: 1) They were good ideas and would help the flow considerably. 2) I was highly unlikely to remember what they were.
I woke up last night around 3, unable to sleep. But I decided to read blogs instead of writing anything myself. I showered and went back to bed around 4. When 8:30 this morning found me putting in a load of laundry and picking up clutter while coffee brewed, I tried to jog my memory for even one of those ideas I had.
In college, I had an unfortunate habit of being almost asleep then rising with the certainty that the solution to a physics problem had magically come to me. I was never right. I would get up and write down some nonsense, stare at it with bewilderment, then try to relax back into sleep. So I stopped getting up to act on my strokes of sleepy genius.
But I did remember one thing I wanted to change and quickly added the appropriate paragraphs where I thought they should go. I nodded in satisfaction as I read it back - it worked well. So I struggled to remember my last 2 ideas, realized one of them would work, but not how I thought and still can't get the third back. I'm working under the assumption that it wasn't worthwhile.
In the event that it was something cool, I'm getting sleepy again. Perhaps it will come back to me tonight.
"Water's coming out." I announced, bemused.
"So what was wrong?" She asked, not comprehending my confusion.
"No water came out before." I told her, sheepish.
"Did you turn it on?" She asked and I was momentarily offended.
"Of course I turned it on! I just...didn't know you had to use the trigger. I thought the machine just knew I wanted water."
She shook her head, sighed and returned to her work. I happily cleaned carpet, exclaiming over the dirty water I flushed as I moved through the house, picking up stray clumps of pet hair the cleaner left in small patches. It's quite fun, but I got tired. I'll do more tomorrow now that I know how to work the carpet cleaner.
*****
I finished my slides for my upcoming talk. I also made plane reservations. I am not yet nervous and hope that lasts. The talk is quite pretty.
There's a party across the street. It's very loud and Chienne is tempted to bark at them for a really long time. It does not help. We're not really a party neighborhood. They moved in recently and I hope they shut up soon.
Regina Spektor was recently added to my iPod, based upon Carrie's recommendation. I love that album (Begin to Hope). Highly recommend it.
*****
I went to bed last night in a mango soda/peach schnapps fog. While I was drifting to sleep, I thought of three things I wanted to fix in my book. I vividly remember thinking 2 things: 1) They were good ideas and would help the flow considerably. 2) I was highly unlikely to remember what they were.
I woke up last night around 3, unable to sleep. But I decided to read blogs instead of writing anything myself. I showered and went back to bed around 4. When 8:30 this morning found me putting in a load of laundry and picking up clutter while coffee brewed, I tried to jog my memory for even one of those ideas I had.
In college, I had an unfortunate habit of being almost asleep then rising with the certainty that the solution to a physics problem had magically come to me. I was never right. I would get up and write down some nonsense, stare at it with bewilderment, then try to relax back into sleep. So I stopped getting up to act on my strokes of sleepy genius.
But I did remember one thing I wanted to change and quickly added the appropriate paragraphs where I thought they should go. I nodded in satisfaction as I read it back - it worked well. So I struggled to remember my last 2 ideas, realized one of them would work, but not how I thought and still can't get the third back. I'm working under the assumption that it wasn't worthwhile.
In the event that it was something cool, I'm getting sleepy again. Perhaps it will come back to me tonight.
Friday, August 17, 2007
Letters work.
The president and service manager of my pest control company arrived yesterday while I was at work. They believe the gnat infestation was unrelated to their products, but "wanted to keep me as a customer not because I was contractually obligated but because they provided excellent services." After a considerable amount of talking (and once when I interrupted him because he was "irritating me by being condescending"), I told them I'd leave the back door unlocked and treats for Chienne on the table so they could come look around.
"We're 99% sure the gnats are coming from your potted plants." He told me yesterday when he and the service manager left the house. "We set off some small fogging treatments that wouldn't hurt the dog to knock down the population, but the eggs could still be in the soil. I'd like you to repot those plants and call is in a week if you still see bugs. We can have you all leave the house and do a more intensive treatment then."
So I thanked him, not mentioning that I thought this should have happened weeks ago and without many rounds of phone tag and a letter to cancel service, and went to Target to obtain, among other things, potting soil. As I was putting it in my cart, I killed one of the swarm of gnats flying around it. So I placed it back on the shelf and purchased two bottles of insect killer for potted plants instead. After a liberal application last night, I hope the problem is solved.
I have yet to see a single gnat. None greeted me when I made morning coffee. I didn't slap my hands together at all when working at the laptop last night. Oh, I hope they're gone. I really, really, really hope they're gone.
"We're 99% sure the gnats are coming from your potted plants." He told me yesterday when he and the service manager left the house. "We set off some small fogging treatments that wouldn't hurt the dog to knock down the population, but the eggs could still be in the soil. I'd like you to repot those plants and call is in a week if you still see bugs. We can have you all leave the house and do a more intensive treatment then."
So I thanked him, not mentioning that I thought this should have happened weeks ago and without many rounds of phone tag and a letter to cancel service, and went to Target to obtain, among other things, potting soil. As I was putting it in my cart, I killed one of the swarm of gnats flying around it. So I placed it back on the shelf and purchased two bottles of insect killer for potted plants instead. After a liberal application last night, I hope the problem is solved.
I have yet to see a single gnat. None greeted me when I made morning coffee. I didn't slap my hands together at all when working at the laptop last night. Oh, I hope they're gone. I really, really, really hope they're gone.
*****
"I wanted to tell you," VIMD noted as she pulled the first set of data up to analyze, "that I'd make sure your name was on any future papers or abstracts from this work."
I blinked at her in surprise and stuttered some response about how I had learned and appreciated working with her and that I knew she'd tried before to have my name added to an author list. I finished by saying I didn't know how much control she'd have over these situations. She just gave me a look in response.
"I hadn't thought about it much, but I realized this wasn't a summer job for you. We're not paying you anything like we were that guy before you - what was his name again?" I told her and she nodded. "So if you're not getting financial credit, you absolutely need to get scientific credit. That's just ridiculous otherwise. If they don't have room for two names on something, they can take mine off and add yours instead."
I blinked in surprise again. Boss must have spoken to her, I decided, which was not my intention. I also have a way of dealing with VIMD that has developed over time. I'm less accommodating than I can be, which had oddly brought about a greater respect on her part. Since I hadn't been receiving any credit for this work, I guarded my time. I worked around her schedule, of course, but didn't mind vetoing meeting times that would inconvenience me. She sometimes waited a day to get a response to email. All of this benefited our relationship, I think, but is something I never would have done had I known she'd fight an authorship battle for me.
So I stumbled yesterday, shoved out of my normal comfort zone with her by this shift in how I viewed the situation. This is a large clinical trial in a drug development study. A paper, if and when they publish it, would be huge on my CV. A reason to work at an institution such as my current one, populated by leaders in the field such as VIMD. I still don't know that it will work out - the company hedged when she requested it, saying "She'd try her best." But I hope that VIMD throws her weight around enough to get my name on it. The thought that she knows it would be the right thing to do soothes me regardless.
Boss also sent an email noting he was thinking of submitting an R01 in the near future on his pet project. He'd like me to take a lead role in collaborating with him and to first author the publications resulting from the preliminary data. It will be a huge amount of work, but I'm rather excited about it. Yay for being honest with people!
Oh, and as a note to the dear commenters on the last post - each of which I appreciated a lot when I was still shaky with nerves yesterday, I don't think it was particularly brave, much as I'm flattered at the thought. Boss continued to nudge me on the K99 and I knew I'd either have to build an invisibility cloak to move about the hallways, actually write the thing I didn't want to write or tell him something. The truth, once I started the email, just kind of came out. And I knew he'd be OK with it - discomfort was the worst case scenario. He really is a dear man.
The last letter worked for someone else and against me, I fear, but I'll mention it regardless. On Tuesday, I think, I started my car in the insane heat and frowned when I saw a note tucked under a windshield wiper. Written on a neatly torn corner of a brown paper lunchbag, it said, "I NEED THIS CAR. Please call me A.S.A.P." Then it listed a name and phone number written in neat print. Since I do not drive a car people want, let alone need, and said car was dirty inside and out and approaching 100,000 miles, I was more than a bit confused. I decided he was joking and didn't call back.
Yet I was curious, as was Dad when I told him, so I was ordered to call him from work so he didn't have my cell phone number. "Don't tell him where you live." Dad insisted and I rolled my eyes.
I left a message for Trey - that's his name - yesterday morning and happened to be at my desk when he called back. He works at a dealership downtown and there's a newer model of my car in stock that someone wants but can't afford and there's some complicated plan that Trey has worked out to use my car in a scheme to get this guy the car he really wants. I didn't follow it at all.
"I can," he concluded, "give you more than you'd ever get for it otherwise." And so - since I really don't like my car at all - I agreed to meet him this morning to talk. I don't have a car payment now and it's a long walk to work. I don't know that I could do it in a day - it would take several hours at least. And it's very hot outside. Yet I called Dad and we both looked at the selection of cars they had online and he told me what I was looking for in terms of value from my current car.
"I wouldn't be sad to see you get rid of it." He began. "It's getting old and something could go wrong with it soon."
"But," he decided quickly afterward, "it runs fine and you don't have a car payment now. There's nothing wrong with that car."
"I know, Dad." I said, sweating profusely having just carted all the papers and water bottles from the car and vacuuming the front seats after Friend did the back.
He continued to debate with himself while he enjoyed his ability to look at the cars online. He selected the only one that had looked interesting to me and listed the features he noted. I nodded and said I'd call him tomorrow when he got off work. So I soon get to go wash my car before going to show it off to the car dealer. It's an odd position to have been recruited in this way - Friend says it's nearly disturbing - in that I don't really need to get rid of my car, nor am I in love with any of the vehicles they have on the lot.
So we'll see what happens.
I blinked at her in surprise and stuttered some response about how I had learned and appreciated working with her and that I knew she'd tried before to have my name added to an author list. I finished by saying I didn't know how much control she'd have over these situations. She just gave me a look in response.
"I hadn't thought about it much, but I realized this wasn't a summer job for you. We're not paying you anything like we were that guy before you - what was his name again?" I told her and she nodded. "So if you're not getting financial credit, you absolutely need to get scientific credit. That's just ridiculous otherwise. If they don't have room for two names on something, they can take mine off and add yours instead."
I blinked in surprise again. Boss must have spoken to her, I decided, which was not my intention. I also have a way of dealing with VIMD that has developed over time. I'm less accommodating than I can be, which had oddly brought about a greater respect on her part. Since I hadn't been receiving any credit for this work, I guarded my time. I worked around her schedule, of course, but didn't mind vetoing meeting times that would inconvenience me. She sometimes waited a day to get a response to email. All of this benefited our relationship, I think, but is something I never would have done had I known she'd fight an authorship battle for me.
So I stumbled yesterday, shoved out of my normal comfort zone with her by this shift in how I viewed the situation. This is a large clinical trial in a drug development study. A paper, if and when they publish it, would be huge on my CV. A reason to work at an institution such as my current one, populated by leaders in the field such as VIMD. I still don't know that it will work out - the company hedged when she requested it, saying "She'd try her best." But I hope that VIMD throws her weight around enough to get my name on it. The thought that she knows it would be the right thing to do soothes me regardless.
Boss also sent an email noting he was thinking of submitting an R01 in the near future on his pet project. He'd like me to take a lead role in collaborating with him and to first author the publications resulting from the preliminary data. It will be a huge amount of work, but I'm rather excited about it. Yay for being honest with people!
Oh, and as a note to the dear commenters on the last post - each of which I appreciated a lot when I was still shaky with nerves yesterday, I don't think it was particularly brave, much as I'm flattered at the thought. Boss continued to nudge me on the K99 and I knew I'd either have to build an invisibility cloak to move about the hallways, actually write the thing I didn't want to write or tell him something. The truth, once I started the email, just kind of came out. And I knew he'd be OK with it - discomfort was the worst case scenario. He really is a dear man.
*****
The last letter worked for someone else and against me, I fear, but I'll mention it regardless. On Tuesday, I think, I started my car in the insane heat and frowned when I saw a note tucked under a windshield wiper. Written on a neatly torn corner of a brown paper lunchbag, it said, "I NEED THIS CAR. Please call me A.S.A.P." Then it listed a name and phone number written in neat print. Since I do not drive a car people want, let alone need, and said car was dirty inside and out and approaching 100,000 miles, I was more than a bit confused. I decided he was joking and didn't call back.
Yet I was curious, as was Dad when I told him, so I was ordered to call him from work so he didn't have my cell phone number. "Don't tell him where you live." Dad insisted and I rolled my eyes.
I left a message for Trey - that's his name - yesterday morning and happened to be at my desk when he called back. He works at a dealership downtown and there's a newer model of my car in stock that someone wants but can't afford and there's some complicated plan that Trey has worked out to use my car in a scheme to get this guy the car he really wants. I didn't follow it at all.
"I can," he concluded, "give you more than you'd ever get for it otherwise." And so - since I really don't like my car at all - I agreed to meet him this morning to talk. I don't have a car payment now and it's a long walk to work. I don't know that I could do it in a day - it would take several hours at least. And it's very hot outside. Yet I called Dad and we both looked at the selection of cars they had online and he told me what I was looking for in terms of value from my current car.
"I wouldn't be sad to see you get rid of it." He began. "It's getting old and something could go wrong with it soon."
"But," he decided quickly afterward, "it runs fine and you don't have a car payment now. There's nothing wrong with that car."
"I know, Dad." I said, sweating profusely having just carted all the papers and water bottles from the car and vacuuming the front seats after Friend did the back.
He continued to debate with himself while he enjoyed his ability to look at the cars online. He selected the only one that had looked interesting to me and listed the features he noted. I nodded and said I'd call him tomorrow when he got off work. So I soon get to go wash my car before going to show it off to the car dealer. It's an odd position to have been recruited in this way - Friend says it's nearly disturbing - in that I don't really need to get rid of my car, nor am I in love with any of the vehicles they have on the lot.
So we'll see what happens.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Anti-K99
Written and sent this morning in response to another of Boss's requests for the most recent draft of my K99 application he wants to put in again in November. And now I feel sick and will likely continue to avoid poor Boss.
Boss,
I don't want to resubmit it. I know we've talked about this before and I do understand your points, but I want to find another job and leave by next August. I think that will allow time to wrap up the projects that can be completed and to put things in a position for someone else to take over.
From a personal standpoint, as my parents get older and my brother and his wife are getting ready for their second daughter, I feel the need to be closer to my family. It wasn't possible to be there for Mom's surgery and while I was profoundly grateful to take the time and visit during her recovery, I hate not being able to pop in for a weekend visit without pretty extensive petsitting and driving plans. I haven't made many friends here, nor am I overly involved with my church. I just can't seem to settle in, so I feel it's time to take steps to move on.
I think Joe's leadership in [field] is strong, but we don't get along well. It's understandable after my quitting his project when I decided didn't like small animal work, but I still feel tense when I'm around him. The [Joe's] group is wonderful and I applaud his building an atmosphere of collaboration, but I feel increasingly isolated within that group. Apart from Joe, I'm doing the only clinical projects and feel the interest in them is marginal at best. I don't like asking SPB for equipment time - I know it's my perception, but it feels demoralizing. Though I realize the grant would provide support for my salary in the mentored phase, there would not be funding for experiment time, which means I'd be facing the same problems with lack of resources for 2 more years. As the den of polar bears moves increasingly to a pay-as-you-go system - with regards to equipment time as well as the computer lab they're building - I just don't feel comfortable doing work here without a bunch of money to pay for what I need. In addition, even for projects that Quiet Mentor will fund, Calendar Queen is openly hostile when I request time or need to accommodate patient preferences in scheduling. I spent the weekend feeling sick because I couldn't figure out what to tell my patient on Monday because Calendar Queen stopped responding to my email. In addition, despite considerable prodding, Dr. Icing isn't recruiting patients. So I have decreasing hope that I'll be able to do much with the icing project. While these certainly aren't insurmountable hurdles for some, they're not ones I have been able to tackle thus far and I don't want to keep feeling inferior because my progress has been slow.
From a scientific standpoint, [reasons I've recently learned that indicate our methods might work, but applied to a different different goal. And I'm not sure how exactly to do that.] So I'm not sure the grant should be funded, though the training component is impressive and could be done exquisitely well here. I just don't think it's right for me. And I don't want to ask people to contribute to something I'd likely turn down even if it got funded.
I would rather focus my efforts on publications and talks to build my CV. The work with VIMD is unlikely to result in any recognition for me, which is truly disappointing when considering the time I've spent on it, but I can do it for another year. I mentioned I'm worried about patient recruitment from Dr. Icing though I'm hopeful that a publication can result from the work I've done in Quiet Mentor's patients. I'd love to get the [Boss's pet project] work up and running on the new system, but have yet to hear about development time we might receive. In short, I think [current institution] is a tremendous learning environment and do enjoy being here a great deal, despite some problems I mentioned. I'm happy with my office and working with Ken. I love and deeply respect the [department] faculty members and feel completely comfortable asking questions and taking suggestions from all of you. I'm looking forward to the next year and hope we can do some important work. But I don't plan to be here past that and don't want to take time that could be devoted to someone who will continue to build the program after I leave.
We can definitely talk if you'd like, but I found I wasn't eager to say all of this out loud.
Thanks, Katie
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
My Report
Today on my job shadowing assignment, I was in a lab with Friend. I received strange looks while walking across campus to help her because I was holding a sweatshirt in 100 degree weather. I wanted to tell them I was going to a place called a “cold room” where I would “break cells” or some such thing. But I did not.
Once I arrived, her labmate said I was crazy. He looked nice, so I decided to agree with his assessment. I was then told I could help “thaw cells” by holding 8 plastic tubes with blue lids in a pretty red bowl with water running in it. Friend adjusted the temperature and instructed me to keep the bottom parts submerged. Since they were mostly filled with air, they did not want to stay submerged.
While attempting to keep things from floating, I examined myself in the reflective surface of the paper towel holder. I felt my glasses slip down my nose. I bent down to rest my elbows on the sink to try to be more comfortable. I switched my weight from foot to foot. While doing that, one of the tubes broke free of my grip and floated away on a sea of tap water. When the running water hit it, some splashed on my glasses. Then I had to put 4 tubes back in the Styrofoam holder so I could capture the escaped one. After this happened, I learned I should pay more attention to my work.
I also learned the cold room is, in fact, pretty cold. Especially when working with ice and water. I learned how to set a timer and how to turn on blender-looking devices. Though I made some mistakes, Friend never yelled at me. I was tired when I left two hours after I arrived but Friend said something about “step 1 of 12” and “16 hour day.” So I also learned I do not want Friend’s job.
When I got back to my desk, I pushed buttons and typed words, which is really much easier (and can be performed in comfortable temperatures). Then I left early to get a massage. I have a new appreciation of my life.
Once I arrived, her labmate said I was crazy. He looked nice, so I decided to agree with his assessment. I was then told I could help “thaw cells” by holding 8 plastic tubes with blue lids in a pretty red bowl with water running in it. Friend adjusted the temperature and instructed me to keep the bottom parts submerged. Since they were mostly filled with air, they did not want to stay submerged.
While attempting to keep things from floating, I examined myself in the reflective surface of the paper towel holder. I felt my glasses slip down my nose. I bent down to rest my elbows on the sink to try to be more comfortable. I switched my weight from foot to foot. While doing that, one of the tubes broke free of my grip and floated away on a sea of tap water. When the running water hit it, some splashed on my glasses. Then I had to put 4 tubes back in the Styrofoam holder so I could capture the escaped one. After this happened, I learned I should pay more attention to my work.
I also learned the cold room is, in fact, pretty cold. Especially when working with ice and water. I learned how to set a timer and how to turn on blender-looking devices. Though I made some mistakes, Friend never yelled at me. I was tired when I left two hours after I arrived but Friend said something about “step 1 of 12” and “16 hour day.” So I also learned I do not want Friend’s job.
When I got back to my desk, I pushed buttons and typed words, which is really much easier (and can be performed in comfortable temperatures). Then I left early to get a massage. I have a new appreciation of my life.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
To Do
Data takes a long time to process and often requires a ride on the USB drive to use different programs on separate machines. While files were moving or slowly evolving into a more useful form, I decided to solve some problems. Several emails I've sent multiple times are repeatedly ignored. Yet when I recall said problems in the middle of the night and worry, I send email. Then forget about it until the next time I'm trying to fall asleep and sit up to fret again.
I need access to a database. I finally finagled the right person and got the appropriate permissions and signed the form someone sent. Someone has ignored all communication since then. I now have a signed form and no access to the database. Not much progress. Yet other than wandering the halls, yelling "Does anyone want this form? Hello? I'll trade you a form for a password! Please?" I don't know what to do from here. So I called someone again and left a voice mail. Problem duration: 6 months +. Solution thus far: Unsatisfactory. Proposed Fix: Call again Thursday. And every other day until someone gives me what I want.
I have a project - my favorite - that is sorely neglected. I have enrolled very few patients so each is precious to me. Therefore, when I realized today that I likely missed a follow-up opportunity because someone else ignored many of my emails for the past weeks. I realized I could use a different source, and he confirmed the patient had returned last week. Due to long commute times and a poor prognosis, I'm unsure as to whether said patient would return to see me. I'm annoyed and disappointed. Problem duration: 6 weeks. Solution thus far: Bad, bad, bad. Someone else ignored me and will now ruin this patient in terms of my study or inconvenience him if he returns. Proposed fix: I called and left a message requesting the patient call me and I have an idea on how to make this work if he'll return. If not, I'll deal.
I required a certain kit and asked Jill to place an order long ago. I don't often order supplies, so I wasn't sure how long this would take. Plus, I kept forgetting about it. I finally remembered to ask Jill today and she wanted an email to remind her. She found me this afternoon and announced they hadn't put a name or department on the address label so it was returned once delivered. She was "livid and gave those people a good talking to." Problem duration: 2 months. Solution thus far: Lovely. Don't cross Jill. The kit should be here in 7 days and I am to notify her if it does not so she can call and scold them sternly again.
I have several information and disclosure forms to fax for an upcoming conference at which I will present. I obtained the long distance code, proceeded to the fax and tried to send my pages. I failed - I'm never good with fax machines. I asked someone for help and tried their suggestions. Failed again. Problem duration: More minutes than I will admit. Solution so far: No faxing for me. Proposed solution: Feeling stupid and a bit sad, I decided to scan them in at home and email a pdf. I'll go do that momentarily.
My cell phone doesn't work right. I can't use any headsets and expect anything better than a vague idea that someone might be at the other end of the line. I can only talk with my left ear unless I want to hear a disconcerting echo. I don't have a land line. I don't like talking on the phone but it'd be nice to have some decent way of doing so. Problem duration: 2 months+. Solution thus far: Talk with phone exclusively on the left side. Be irritated. Proposed solution: Visit Verizon store and have them fix my problem somehow.
The gnats appear to be bigger in size but smaller in number. I hope they have stopped reproducing. I have not yet heard from the pest people. Problem duration: 1 month. Solution thus far: Multiple phone calls, letter demanding refund. Proposed solution: Wait, then attack again.
Chienne and Sprout both need physicals. I need to schedule those. I should get my eyes checked. I despise the Focus contacts for astigmatism. Evil, uncomfortable suckers. I need to weed my flowerbeds, but it's so darn hot all the time. I also have been avoiding discussing something with Boss about my leaving. He wants to resubmit the grant and I will refuse - I just don't want to be here anymore. Which means I need to start contacting folks in industry that I know. I also want to steam clean my carpets. I have a device that does it - I just need to refill it and push it around. Yet I avoid doing so like the plague.
I obviously avoid a lot of problems, which is why my list could be much longer. But I am sleepy and have promised Friend to help her with some experiment tomorrow morning between running more code in my office. So I'll rest and see if I can come up with something less whiny tomorrow.
I need access to a database. I finally finagled the right person and got the appropriate permissions and signed the form someone sent. Someone has ignored all communication since then. I now have a signed form and no access to the database. Not much progress. Yet other than wandering the halls, yelling "Does anyone want this form? Hello? I'll trade you a form for a password! Please?" I don't know what to do from here. So I called someone again and left a voice mail. Problem duration: 6 months +. Solution thus far: Unsatisfactory. Proposed Fix: Call again Thursday. And every other day until someone gives me what I want.
I have a project - my favorite - that is sorely neglected. I have enrolled very few patients so each is precious to me. Therefore, when I realized today that I likely missed a follow-up opportunity because someone else ignored many of my emails for the past weeks. I realized I could use a different source, and he confirmed the patient had returned last week. Due to long commute times and a poor prognosis, I'm unsure as to whether said patient would return to see me. I'm annoyed and disappointed. Problem duration: 6 weeks. Solution thus far: Bad, bad, bad. Someone else ignored me and will now ruin this patient in terms of my study or inconvenience him if he returns. Proposed fix: I called and left a message requesting the patient call me and I have an idea on how to make this work if he'll return. If not, I'll deal.
I required a certain kit and asked Jill to place an order long ago. I don't often order supplies, so I wasn't sure how long this would take. Plus, I kept forgetting about it. I finally remembered to ask Jill today and she wanted an email to remind her. She found me this afternoon and announced they hadn't put a name or department on the address label so it was returned once delivered. She was "livid and gave those people a good talking to." Problem duration: 2 months. Solution thus far: Lovely. Don't cross Jill. The kit should be here in 7 days and I am to notify her if it does not so she can call and scold them sternly again.
I have several information and disclosure forms to fax for an upcoming conference at which I will present. I obtained the long distance code, proceeded to the fax and tried to send my pages. I failed - I'm never good with fax machines. I asked someone for help and tried their suggestions. Failed again. Problem duration: More minutes than I will admit. Solution so far: No faxing for me. Proposed solution: Feeling stupid and a bit sad, I decided to scan them in at home and email a pdf. I'll go do that momentarily.
My cell phone doesn't work right. I can't use any headsets and expect anything better than a vague idea that someone might be at the other end of the line. I can only talk with my left ear unless I want to hear a disconcerting echo. I don't have a land line. I don't like talking on the phone but it'd be nice to have some decent way of doing so. Problem duration: 2 months+. Solution thus far: Talk with phone exclusively on the left side. Be irritated. Proposed solution: Visit Verizon store and have them fix my problem somehow.
The gnats appear to be bigger in size but smaller in number. I hope they have stopped reproducing. I have not yet heard from the pest people. Problem duration: 1 month. Solution thus far: Multiple phone calls, letter demanding refund. Proposed solution: Wait, then attack again.
Chienne and Sprout both need physicals. I need to schedule those. I should get my eyes checked. I despise the Focus contacts for astigmatism. Evil, uncomfortable suckers. I need to weed my flowerbeds, but it's so darn hot all the time. I also have been avoiding discussing something with Boss about my leaving. He wants to resubmit the grant and I will refuse - I just don't want to be here anymore. Which means I need to start contacting folks in industry that I know. I also want to steam clean my carpets. I have a device that does it - I just need to refill it and push it around. Yet I avoid doing so like the plague.
I obviously avoid a lot of problems, which is why my list could be much longer. But I am sleepy and have promised Friend to help her with some experiment tomorrow morning between running more code in my office. So I'll rest and see if I can come up with something less whiny tomorrow.
Monday, August 13, 2007
The Queen and I
“Thank you.” A woman with whom I spent a couple of hours this afternoon said when I left her to wait for the valets to fetch her car. “You’ve been very kind.”
Data collection events are a big deal for me. I can analyze for months based upon an hour-long experiment. For what I do - and for various reasons - data collection events are few and far between. While painless, it is inconvenient for patients to participate in my studies. The results are not particularly helpful for my subjects, so I try to make the experience as easy as possible for them.
When attempting to abide by any and all scheduling wishes my subjects might have, I could be a bit annoying to Calendar Queen. Instead of an open calendar placed online for all to update and use, there is a website containing some semblance of dates and times when the equipment might be in use. A single person controls the system - she is the queen - and all who want the equipment must go through her, bowing and scraping to remain in her good graces.
This is difficult.
I am not, however, a difficult person. Well, I can be, actually, but I try to be polite and sweet and accommodating in my professional life. If I need something that is difficult, I take care to explain the reasons for why my request is late or unusual. Plus, I have spent a great deal of time and energy obtaining funding for the time to use said equipment. I’m not asking for favors. I want to use the money I have so I can get data. And I need to reserve times that work for my patients, though they don’t come along all that often.
Two weeks ago, I reserved a time for a data collection event. It was to be tomorrow.
When I called to confirm, the patient asked - for various valid reasons - if we could move the time. Having failed in my attempts to meet with this person for more than a month, I said I would absolutely work something out.
At which time, I twisted my face in expected displeasure and wrote to Calendar Queen.
Your Highness, I typed, I noticed that the calendar is free for several time slots next week. My patient - scheduled on Tuesday morning - requested a different time. Before I offered her the options, I wanted to check with you to see if the calendar is up to date and to see if you had any times that you thought would work particularly well.
With a final thank you, I closed the email and waited. And waited. And waited.
She finally responded and noted that my study “frustrates her greatly” and that she’d rather not be involved at all. Therefore, she could move the experiment - only to this new time she selected.
I sighed. I know my study frustrates her greatly. My life is appropriately miserable when I have to deal with her because of this. I don’t understand the problem though! I was told to use this specific equipment. I obtained money and authorization and jumped through all the right hoops. I can’t figure out exactly how I offended her, but I did. And now I must suffer.
I obediently called my patient and tried to gently nudge her toward the time the queen had allowed us. She requested a time this afternoon instead, and noting that it remained open on the online calendar - which may or may not be correct - I said that I would ask and we made tentative plans to meet.
I braced myself once again and sent another email to the queen. I again explained the situation - schedule restraints, treatment protocols, patient preference and the likelihood that I would end up missing this data completely if I didn’t get it soon - and reminded her that the study was fully funded.
Repeat waiting process.
After I’d left for the weekend - unsure as to whether she’d reply or not - I arrived home to a terse email refusing my request.
I frowned and immediately replied - just before 5 on a Friday afternoon - that I didn’t understand the reasons behind my plan being rejected and I rather needed an alternate solution.
Last night, I was very anxious over the fact that I had no plan for this week. I was afraid to watch the precious data slip away in a wind of Queen’s whims to screw with my head. After much whining to Friend about how I didn’t know what to tell my patient or how to prepare or what might need to be done tomorrow or Tuesday or later this week or never, I was a touch upset.
Before I went to sleep, I wrote email.
Hi again, Queen, I wrote, gritting my teeth with the effort of being polite. I have considered it more carefully and have decided that I need this data as part of the follow-up study I’m proposing. Therefore, if I do not obtain this data, the initial information is rather useless. I hate to let Important Scientist know that I was unable to complete the project as he requested when providing funding. For reasons previously outlined, it is vital that we collect data this week. I have spoken at length to the patient and she can make time to meet me tomorrow (Monday) afternoon or Wednesday in the late afternoon. I therefore require the slot that appears to be free on the calendar or will need someone to offer a later experiment than is normally offered.
I am, I concluded, very aware this study frustrates you greatly and wish that were different. However, it doesn’t change what I’m trying to do here.
This morning she replied that I could perform my data collection event today.
So my day was spent in a bundle of nerves, trying frantically to prepare and feeling my mind spin worries and scenarios and ways I could screw this up. I was also very aware that I had worsened what was already an uncomfortable situation.
Everything went well. My patient did beautifully and I was thrilled with the quality of data, though I’ll look more closely tomorrow as I start to figure out how to organize it and mine information.
But I hate that it’s so hard to organize. That instead of feeling supported and able to excel, I feel squashed and at the mercy of people who are profoundly unhappy anyway. The spreading of misery appears to be an epidemic and for every three people I pass who make me smile without thinking - they’re smart and lovely and I enjoy seeing them - there is one for whom I must withhold a scowl until they pass me and my face can assume the expression of annoyance it so desperately wants to make. (My fraction could be off. I'm a bit tipsy.)
Calendar Queen is actually a valuable resource. She’s incredibly knowledgeable. But unless I am one of the favored few - which I am decidedly not - I have no access to her expertise or the equipment. And that makes my job nearly impossible at times. The stress I feel in response to this situation - I am a planner! I need to plan! - means that my fit here is not good.
That Boss’s solution is “to make better friends” with Calendar Queen frustrates me even more.
But. I have lived to fight another day. There are mango drinks with vodka tonight and I grow sleepy as I care less and less of how anxious I was last night. My stomach will clench the next time I need to reserve time to collect data, but I will remind myself that I’m already watching job boards. And when I look at data and provide comparisons and give my talk, I’m sure I’ll think this all worthwhile.
But for tonight, the vodka really does help.
Data collection events are a big deal for me. I can analyze for months based upon an hour-long experiment. For what I do - and for various reasons - data collection events are few and far between. While painless, it is inconvenient for patients to participate in my studies. The results are not particularly helpful for my subjects, so I try to make the experience as easy as possible for them.
When attempting to abide by any and all scheduling wishes my subjects might have, I could be a bit annoying to Calendar Queen. Instead of an open calendar placed online for all to update and use, there is a website containing some semblance of dates and times when the equipment might be in use. A single person controls the system - she is the queen - and all who want the equipment must go through her, bowing and scraping to remain in her good graces.
This is difficult.
I am not, however, a difficult person. Well, I can be, actually, but I try to be polite and sweet and accommodating in my professional life. If I need something that is difficult, I take care to explain the reasons for why my request is late or unusual. Plus, I have spent a great deal of time and energy obtaining funding for the time to use said equipment. I’m not asking for favors. I want to use the money I have so I can get data. And I need to reserve times that work for my patients, though they don’t come along all that often.
Two weeks ago, I reserved a time for a data collection event. It was to be tomorrow.
When I called to confirm, the patient asked - for various valid reasons - if we could move the time. Having failed in my attempts to meet with this person for more than a month, I said I would absolutely work something out.
At which time, I twisted my face in expected displeasure and wrote to Calendar Queen.
Your Highness, I typed, I noticed that the calendar is free for several time slots next week. My patient - scheduled on Tuesday morning - requested a different time. Before I offered her the options, I wanted to check with you to see if the calendar is up to date and to see if you had any times that you thought would work particularly well.
With a final thank you, I closed the email and waited. And waited. And waited.
She finally responded and noted that my study “frustrates her greatly” and that she’d rather not be involved at all. Therefore, she could move the experiment - only to this new time she selected.
I sighed. I know my study frustrates her greatly. My life is appropriately miserable when I have to deal with her because of this. I don’t understand the problem though! I was told to use this specific equipment. I obtained money and authorization and jumped through all the right hoops. I can’t figure out exactly how I offended her, but I did. And now I must suffer.
I obediently called my patient and tried to gently nudge her toward the time the queen had allowed us. She requested a time this afternoon instead, and noting that it remained open on the online calendar - which may or may not be correct - I said that I would ask and we made tentative plans to meet.
I braced myself once again and sent another email to the queen. I again explained the situation - schedule restraints, treatment protocols, patient preference and the likelihood that I would end up missing this data completely if I didn’t get it soon - and reminded her that the study was fully funded.
Repeat waiting process.
After I’d left for the weekend - unsure as to whether she’d reply or not - I arrived home to a terse email refusing my request.
I frowned and immediately replied - just before 5 on a Friday afternoon - that I didn’t understand the reasons behind my plan being rejected and I rather needed an alternate solution.
Last night, I was very anxious over the fact that I had no plan for this week. I was afraid to watch the precious data slip away in a wind of Queen’s whims to screw with my head. After much whining to Friend about how I didn’t know what to tell my patient or how to prepare or what might need to be done tomorrow or Tuesday or later this week or never, I was a touch upset.
Before I went to sleep, I wrote email.
Hi again, Queen, I wrote, gritting my teeth with the effort of being polite. I have considered it more carefully and have decided that I need this data as part of the follow-up study I’m proposing. Therefore, if I do not obtain this data, the initial information is rather useless. I hate to let Important Scientist know that I was unable to complete the project as he requested when providing funding. For reasons previously outlined, it is vital that we collect data this week. I have spoken at length to the patient and she can make time to meet me tomorrow (Monday) afternoon or Wednesday in the late afternoon. I therefore require the slot that appears to be free on the calendar or will need someone to offer a later experiment than is normally offered.
I am, I concluded, very aware this study frustrates you greatly and wish that were different. However, it doesn’t change what I’m trying to do here.
This morning she replied that I could perform my data collection event today.
So my day was spent in a bundle of nerves, trying frantically to prepare and feeling my mind spin worries and scenarios and ways I could screw this up. I was also very aware that I had worsened what was already an uncomfortable situation.
Everything went well. My patient did beautifully and I was thrilled with the quality of data, though I’ll look more closely tomorrow as I start to figure out how to organize it and mine information.
But I hate that it’s so hard to organize. That instead of feeling supported and able to excel, I feel squashed and at the mercy of people who are profoundly unhappy anyway. The spreading of misery appears to be an epidemic and for every three people I pass who make me smile without thinking - they’re smart and lovely and I enjoy seeing them - there is one for whom I must withhold a scowl until they pass me and my face can assume the expression of annoyance it so desperately wants to make. (My fraction could be off. I'm a bit tipsy.)
Calendar Queen is actually a valuable resource. She’s incredibly knowledgeable. But unless I am one of the favored few - which I am decidedly not - I have no access to her expertise or the equipment. And that makes my job nearly impossible at times. The stress I feel in response to this situation - I am a planner! I need to plan! - means that my fit here is not good.
That Boss’s solution is “to make better friends” with Calendar Queen frustrates me even more.
But. I have lived to fight another day. There are mango drinks with vodka tonight and I grow sleepy as I care less and less of how anxious I was last night. My stomach will clench the next time I need to reserve time to collect data, but I will remind myself that I’m already watching job boards. And when I look at data and provide comparisons and give my talk, I’m sure I’ll think this all worthwhile.
But for tonight, the vodka really does help.
Saturday, August 11, 2007
Continued
I am sorry to report that the plan has failed in spectacular fashion.
Well, I did put part 1 away upon its completion. Mostly. I reread a couple of sections and am still picking up typos and while I didn't completely agree with the only notes I have received so far, the main point is likely correct. So I'll be rewriting some sections eventually. The solution to the problem isn't immediately appealing though, so I'll leave it for later.
The real snag is that the end is absolutely clear in my mind. To the point where I can't nap for composing paragraphs or outlining chapter order. Which is ridiculous, obviously, but once started, I feel this craving to finish.
The only cause for concern is that there are some chapters that are troublesome. I'm not sure if people noticed, but I was a little crazy at this point last year. And while thinking about myself as this bright, hopeful, giddy twit that my character plays in the beginning did induce many, many cringes of embarrassment and horror ("Oh, stop talking!" I beg my heroine. "You're so incredibly silly. Please just stop!"), some of the ending chapters make me blink in worry that I was that disconnected from reality. And so some chapters make me cry a bit. I try to shy away from the emotional excesses my character seeks, so it feels weird to weep over my laptop.
Yet as I try to decide if Poppy (that's her name) is stupid or naive or deeply disturbed, I find her interesting. She's very intense and dramatic and has interesting thoughts and problems. She's completely in love and she's going to be completely crushed and she has all these valuable conversations (some of them are even with other people!). I don't always like her, but I do enjoy writing her.
I, on the other hand, am more settled. Especially when writing about my first year at work, I'm stunningly grateful that I have since figured out pieces of my career. I no longer feel lost and useless and working on some additional analysis Boss requested for the paper last night was soothing. And when the sirens outside distracted me from my book at midnight, I sat on the floor and watched a girl sit on the ground in handcuffs while the police searched her car. Adjusting the blinds so that the brightest of the flashing lights couldn't directly meet my eyes, Sprout and I peered out the side window and decided that being boring had its perks. No sitting on the ground in the hot summer with your hands chained behind your back. Nice.
So the boredom on this blog should continue here for a while. Sometimes things don't work out like I want them to.
Well, I did put part 1 away upon its completion. Mostly. I reread a couple of sections and am still picking up typos and while I didn't completely agree with the only notes I have received so far, the main point is likely correct. So I'll be rewriting some sections eventually. The solution to the problem isn't immediately appealing though, so I'll leave it for later.
The real snag is that the end is absolutely clear in my mind. To the point where I can't nap for composing paragraphs or outlining chapter order. Which is ridiculous, obviously, but once started, I feel this craving to finish.
The only cause for concern is that there are some chapters that are troublesome. I'm not sure if people noticed, but I was a little crazy at this point last year. And while thinking about myself as this bright, hopeful, giddy twit that my character plays in the beginning did induce many, many cringes of embarrassment and horror ("Oh, stop talking!" I beg my heroine. "You're so incredibly silly. Please just stop!"), some of the ending chapters make me blink in worry that I was that disconnected from reality. And so some chapters make me cry a bit. I try to shy away from the emotional excesses my character seeks, so it feels weird to weep over my laptop.
Yet as I try to decide if Poppy (that's her name) is stupid or naive or deeply disturbed, I find her interesting. She's very intense and dramatic and has interesting thoughts and problems. She's completely in love and she's going to be completely crushed and she has all these valuable conversations (some of them are even with other people!). I don't always like her, but I do enjoy writing her.
I, on the other hand, am more settled. Especially when writing about my first year at work, I'm stunningly grateful that I have since figured out pieces of my career. I no longer feel lost and useless and working on some additional analysis Boss requested for the paper last night was soothing. And when the sirens outside distracted me from my book at midnight, I sat on the floor and watched a girl sit on the ground in handcuffs while the police searched her car. Adjusting the blinds so that the brightest of the flashing lights couldn't directly meet my eyes, Sprout and I peered out the side window and decided that being boring had its perks. No sitting on the ground in the hot summer with your hands chained behind your back. Nice.
So the boredom on this blog should continue here for a while. Sometimes things don't work out like I want them to.
Friday, August 10, 2007
Family update
The phone rang this morning – just 10 minutes before 8 – and I groaned as I rolled over. I woke at 4:00 and tried to read a bit. I was unable to focus and welcomed Sprout as he hopped on my lap. He purred while I petted soft, stripey fur. Lifted his chin and allowed his eyes to drift closed. For some unknown reason, he decided to escape so I walked back down the hall to bed. Chienne took her turn at cuddles and after much tossing and turning, I went back to sleep.
I allowed the call to go to voice mail and I stretched and yawned, then thought about having coffee in a new mug and sesame seed bagels with honey nut cream cheese. I like food very much.
As I started the short trip down the hall, I suddenly quickened my steps as I remembered some details. Possible callers?
1. Pest People – The gnats are never far from my thoughts, and I wondered if the letter I mailed yesterday had reached them already.
2. Friend – She has been working at incredible length of late and a draft of her paper is due to her boss today. Her car almost failed to start at 1:30 this morning when she headed home and I wondered if she was returning to campus uncharacteristically early to finish something up. If her car was uncooperative, she might need a ride.
3. Mom – Though she is much more independent and healing nicely, I still worry something will go wrong.
4. Mom, 2 – My brain finally landed on the likely correct reason. Brother had dropped Little One off last night when he and his wife went to the hospital. Baby-To-Be apparently belongs in our always early family and is seeking to be early for her arrival. I assumed Brother’s Wife was being silly when Mom called last night, but she remains in the hospital this morning.
“Little One is here and she wouldn’t sleep last night.” Mom reported grumpily. “She asked for another movie at 10:30 and I listed all the movies she’d watched so far and told her that Grandma’s knees hurt every time I had to switch DVDs and we needed to go to sleep.”
“Oh, no.” I said, sympathetic.
“I thought your dad was asleep, but he came down the hall, picked her up and found a new movie she wanted. I told her I was sorry for being mean and she cuddled with me and went to sleep.”
“Hard not to be grumpy when you’re hurting.” I said.
“Tired, Katie. I’m very tired.”
“More juice, Grandma.” I heard Little One say in the background. I smiled at the sound of her little voice and laughed when she added a “Please. Now.”
“Hold on.” Mom told both of us and she put the phone down while she stood up.
“Apple.” Little One requested. “Please.”
“I don’t have apple.” Mom told her. “Just orange and grape.”
“Grape, please.” She decided and Mom told me she was eating cashews for breakfast. I nodded and decided that would probably be fine. Then I remembered the cashew chicken take-out that is still in my fridge.
They went through the sippy cup selection procedure (the colors are important and Little One must select the right one unless you want a repeat trip to switch the cups when her little face crumples in disappointment) and I heard the word apple again.
“I don’t have apple.” Mom said with an edge in her voice. “Orange or grape.”
I allowed her to finish before asking after Brother.
“Brother’s Wife should go home today. They’re putting her on pills to stop the contractions and bed rest for the next two weeks. They’ll deliver after that but they don’t want Baby-To-Be to be a preemie. Something about the Neonatal Intensive – What, Little One?”
They had a brief discussion about television programs before Mom returned to the call.
“What was I saying?” She asked.
“Brother’s Wife goes home tomorrow?” I offered. “How is she doing? Emotionally?”
“I haven’t talked to her.” Mom noted. “Brother called this morning.”
“How is he?”
“Tired. He’s going to be busy these next few weeks. He’ll do everything for Little One and take care of the house and his wife, plus he’s switching jobs at work so he’s overwhelmed doing two jobs during the transition into his promotion.”
“Wow.” I sighed, rethinking my late night thoughts about how much I wished for a partner.
“So he slept at the hospital, then went home to shower. He’ll go to work for a couple hours to take care of the most urgent tasks, then get back to the hospital. Little One is with me for the day.” Here I worried – the last time they stayed alone together, Mom ended up exhausted and pained. “Your dad will be home around noon, I think, then I’ll have help. But your brother is going to struggle.”
I believe Baby-To-Be will be fine and Brother – though certainly stressed – will come through brilliantly. I’m not a big fan of his wife, but she is a good mother. They’ll be OK. But as I look around my home – the one I thought just hours ago as being lonely, wishing fruitlessly that someone other than a dog waited for me in bed – it suddenly seems peaceful. Full of time I use selfishly, a schedule that flexes according to my whim, and time to sip coffee and write a blog post while those folks who look remarkably like me scurry around at home.
I wish I were closer. I do want to help. But I suppose there are benefits to being far away. And now I’m going to toast my bagel.
I allowed the call to go to voice mail and I stretched and yawned, then thought about having coffee in a new mug and sesame seed bagels with honey nut cream cheese. I like food very much.
As I started the short trip down the hall, I suddenly quickened my steps as I remembered some details. Possible callers?
1. Pest People – The gnats are never far from my thoughts, and I wondered if the letter I mailed yesterday had reached them already.
2. Friend – She has been working at incredible length of late and a draft of her paper is due to her boss today. Her car almost failed to start at 1:30 this morning when she headed home and I wondered if she was returning to campus uncharacteristically early to finish something up. If her car was uncooperative, she might need a ride.
3. Mom – Though she is much more independent and healing nicely, I still worry something will go wrong.
4. Mom, 2 – My brain finally landed on the likely correct reason. Brother had dropped Little One off last night when he and his wife went to the hospital. Baby-To-Be apparently belongs in our always early family and is seeking to be early for her arrival. I assumed Brother’s Wife was being silly when Mom called last night, but she remains in the hospital this morning.
“Little One is here and she wouldn’t sleep last night.” Mom reported grumpily. “She asked for another movie at 10:30 and I listed all the movies she’d watched so far and told her that Grandma’s knees hurt every time I had to switch DVDs and we needed to go to sleep.”
“Oh, no.” I said, sympathetic.
“I thought your dad was asleep, but he came down the hall, picked her up and found a new movie she wanted. I told her I was sorry for being mean and she cuddled with me and went to sleep.”
“Hard not to be grumpy when you’re hurting.” I said.
“Tired, Katie. I’m very tired.”
“More juice, Grandma.” I heard Little One say in the background. I smiled at the sound of her little voice and laughed when she added a “Please. Now.”
“Hold on.” Mom told both of us and she put the phone down while she stood up.
“Apple.” Little One requested. “Please.”
“I don’t have apple.” Mom told her. “Just orange and grape.”
“Grape, please.” She decided and Mom told me she was eating cashews for breakfast. I nodded and decided that would probably be fine. Then I remembered the cashew chicken take-out that is still in my fridge.
They went through the sippy cup selection procedure (the colors are important and Little One must select the right one unless you want a repeat trip to switch the cups when her little face crumples in disappointment) and I heard the word apple again.
“I don’t have apple.” Mom said with an edge in her voice. “Orange or grape.”
I allowed her to finish before asking after Brother.
“Brother’s Wife should go home today. They’re putting her on pills to stop the contractions and bed rest for the next two weeks. They’ll deliver after that but they don’t want Baby-To-Be to be a preemie. Something about the Neonatal Intensive – What, Little One?”
They had a brief discussion about television programs before Mom returned to the call.
“What was I saying?” She asked.
“Brother’s Wife goes home tomorrow?” I offered. “How is she doing? Emotionally?”
“I haven’t talked to her.” Mom noted. “Brother called this morning.”
“How is he?”
“Tired. He’s going to be busy these next few weeks. He’ll do everything for Little One and take care of the house and his wife, plus he’s switching jobs at work so he’s overwhelmed doing two jobs during the transition into his promotion.”
“Wow.” I sighed, rethinking my late night thoughts about how much I wished for a partner.
“So he slept at the hospital, then went home to shower. He’ll go to work for a couple hours to take care of the most urgent tasks, then get back to the hospital. Little One is with me for the day.” Here I worried – the last time they stayed alone together, Mom ended up exhausted and pained. “Your dad will be home around noon, I think, then I’ll have help. But your brother is going to struggle.”
I believe Baby-To-Be will be fine and Brother – though certainly stressed – will come through brilliantly. I’m not a big fan of his wife, but she is a good mother. They’ll be OK. But as I look around my home – the one I thought just hours ago as being lonely, wishing fruitlessly that someone other than a dog waited for me in bed – it suddenly seems peaceful. Full of time I use selfishly, a schedule that flexes according to my whim, and time to sip coffee and write a blog post while those folks who look remarkably like me scurry around at home.
I wish I were closer. I do want to help. But I suppose there are benefits to being far away. And now I’m going to toast my bagel.
Thursday, August 09, 2007
Me vs. Gnats, round many
Score: I don't know. But I fear the gnats are winning. Ergo, a letter to my "pest control" company. Notes to you are italics.
Regarding: Cancellation of contract
To Whom It May Concern:
Motivated by pity for the poor kid selling pest control door to door in the heat, I decided that it would be worthwhile to purchase your services as a preventative measure. I hadn’t experienced pest problems to a great degree, which is what I told Eric. A roach here or there, a couple of spiders, two mice each winter. But spraying myself with items I picked up at Lowe’s didn’t seem overly impressive as I’m preparing to move in about a year when my fellowship at [current institution] ends. So it seemed a good decision to work with a reputable company and not have to worry about pest control at all.
I was very impressed with the young man who did the initial treatment. In fact, everyone with whom I’ve spoken has been polite and helpful, which is what I’ve come to expect from the time I’ve spent in and around [current city]. (See how I try to be polite?)
Yet just days after the treatment, I noticed there were gnats flying about. Many gnats. I hadn’t ever had a gnat problem before, so I thought perhaps the spiders had been keeping the flying insects in check and that everything would resolve itself in a couple of days. It has now been weeks and I’m living in gnat hell.
I spent last weekend bleaching my kitchen in hopes of finding a nest, though I’m not sure if gnats have nests. I’m allowing my houseplants to begin to die because I read that watering them allows gnats to live in the wet soil. My dog, Chienne, (I'm not sure why I told them her name.) doesn’t get a bowl of water because I woke each morning to find twenty or so gnats floating in the bowl. (Isn't that sad? I think that's sad.) I now wake to find more gnats than I’d care to count lying dead around my sink or on my stove (I have pictures. I can send them if you like.) (You people read my blog - you have to see the pictures regardless)
. I don’t leave dishes out, nor can I leave food on the counters. After cooking dinner, everything is quickly covered. I’m getting very skilled at slapping my hands together as I work on my laptop to kill the bug that flits around.
While Craig (service manager man) and I have been playing phone tag for nearly a week now, I have been told by several people at PayUsToGiveYouGnats that your ability to control flying pests is limited. Given that you can’t help with the gnats, I very much want to cancel my contract without penalty, and pray the spiders return soon.
I completely understand that you have provided the services Eric told me about. But I didn’t have a pest problem. $445 later – paid in advance for a year of service – I have a huge pest problem that is severely degrading my quality of life. I therefore feel I paid a considerable amount of money to get pests. I’d like that money back in hopes that I can return to my formerly gnat-free and lovely lifestyle.
I am happy to pay the $95 for the initial treatment. I asked several times that the second visit not occur, intercepting someone when I saw the truck in my driveway. I talked to two women at the front desk, explained the gnat problem and indicated my preference for the spiders to repopulate. I was therefore not pleased to find the statement hanging on my doorknob that someone had been out to spray again. In addition, I was not told of their arrival despite my giving my mobile, work and pager numbers.
I therefore would like $350 refunded to me. I feel the 60% penalty is grossly inappropriate in this case as I am deciding to cancel the contract under duress of swarms of gnats. If you have questions or feel it absolutely necessary to instate some lower penalty, please be in touch.
Thank you,
Katie
I hate the gnats so very much. Does anyone know of a way to infest a pest company with gnats if they refuse to refund my money? Anybody?
Regarding: Cancellation of contract
To Whom It May Concern:
Motivated by pity for the poor kid selling pest control door to door in the heat, I decided that it would be worthwhile to purchase your services as a preventative measure. I hadn’t experienced pest problems to a great degree, which is what I told Eric. A roach here or there, a couple of spiders, two mice each winter. But spraying myself with items I picked up at Lowe’s didn’t seem overly impressive as I’m preparing to move in about a year when my fellowship at [current institution] ends. So it seemed a good decision to work with a reputable company and not have to worry about pest control at all.
I was very impressed with the young man who did the initial treatment. In fact, everyone with whom I’ve spoken has been polite and helpful, which is what I’ve come to expect from the time I’ve spent in and around [current city]. (See how I try to be polite?)
Yet just days after the treatment, I noticed there were gnats flying about. Many gnats. I hadn’t ever had a gnat problem before, so I thought perhaps the spiders had been keeping the flying insects in check and that everything would resolve itself in a couple of days. It has now been weeks and I’m living in gnat hell.I spent last weekend bleaching my kitchen in hopes of finding a nest, though I’m not sure if gnats have nests. I’m allowing my houseplants to begin to die because I read that watering them allows gnats to live in the wet soil. My dog, Chienne, (I'm not sure why I told them her name.) doesn’t get a bowl of water because I woke each morning to find twenty or so gnats floating in the bowl. (Isn't that sad? I think that's sad.) I now wake to find more gnats than I’d care to count lying dead around my sink or on my stove (I have pictures. I can send them if you like.) (You people read my blog - you have to see the pictures regardless)
. I don’t leave dishes out, nor can I leave food on the counters. After cooking dinner, everything is quickly covered. I’m getting very skilled at slapping my hands together as I work on my laptop to kill the bug that flits around.While Craig (service manager man) and I have been playing phone tag for nearly a week now, I have been told by several people at PayUsToGiveYouGnats that your ability to control flying pests is limited. Given that you can’t help with the gnats, I very much want to cancel my contract without penalty, and pray the spiders return soon.
I completely understand that you have provided the services Eric told me about. But I didn’t have a pest problem. $445 later – paid in advance for a year of service – I have a huge pest problem that is severely degrading my quality of life. I therefore feel I paid a considerable amount of money to get pests. I’d like that money back in hopes that I can return to my formerly gnat-free and lovely lifestyle.
I am happy to pay the $95 for the initial treatment. I asked several times that the second visit not occur, intercepting someone when I saw the truck in my driveway. I talked to two women at the front desk, explained the gnat problem and indicated my preference for the spiders to repopulate. I was therefore not pleased to find the statement hanging on my doorknob that someone had been out to spray again. In addition, I was not told of their arrival despite my giving my mobile, work and pager numbers.
I therefore would like $350 refunded to me. I feel the 60% penalty is grossly inappropriate in this case as I am deciding to cancel the contract under duress of swarms of gnats. If you have questions or feel it absolutely necessary to instate some lower penalty, please be in touch.
Thank you,
Katie
I hate the gnats so very much. Does anyone know of a way to infest a pest company with gnats if they refuse to refund my money? Anybody?
Small Stories
“Litterbug!” I gasped as a bottle flew out of the truck I followed down the street leading to my house.
Mouth open in surprise, I glanced at Friend, seated in the passenger seat as we returned from getting dinner, and expected her to share my outrage. When she didn’t seem to be reacting strongly enough, I emphasized each syllable as I raised my voice. “Li-Tter-Bug!”
“Must you yell?” She asked. “I didn’t throw trash on the street. My ears don’t deserve to hurt.”
“I hate people who litter. It’s a problem down here! All the time with the picking up other people’s trash, which is ridiculous! The other day I found a Bratz poster in my front yard. I don’t need to see that! It freaked me out every time I opened the garbage can – those big-eyed, skimpily-dressed cartoons pouting at me. Not cool.”
“You’re more upset about the littering than the fact that they threw a half-full beer bottle out of a moving truck?”
I narrowed my eyes as I felt hatred grow toward the four idiots in the gray pickup truck. “I should call the police.” I muttered. “They are endangering others and ruining the environment! They are what’s wrong with this country! Stupid southern, stupid boys.” I hissed growing more upset.
I don’t really have a point, other than making myself all angry again. Every time I look out at the stray cups or random bits of trash scattered around my curb, I get angry. And, apparently, you don’t want to hear me when I’m angry.
As temperatures rapidly approach 90° this morning (oh, so hot. Nearly unbearable.), I am content to drink coffee from one of my new mugs. I’m not sure if I’ve achieved genius status, but I do think the design is ever-so-pretty in person. I’m going to take one (I ordered 4) to work and I’m sure people will think I’m cooler just seeing me use it.
I really do like the designs – it’s giving me considerable happiness to have the set of new mugs from which to sip my coffee in the mornings.
One hundred pages of my novel are scattered across my living room floor. Sprout loves to surf on them and he is so happy to have pages and pages of text on which to slide across the pesky carpeting.
He deserves a reward. I was jealous that Friend’s felines were such good bug warriors, and when I saw a moth flitting around the glow of the television last night, I sighed. Where was my cat? Why didn’t he kill the gross, scary moths?
I’d barely finished the thought when he sprang across the room, batting the creature to the ground and attempting to play. I didn’t watch what happened next, but the moth is no more. Good kitty.
Chienne, conversely, is not enjoying life so much. I went out to twist off the hose that was trickling water to the tomato plant and turned to find a brindle head poking out the dog door.
“Are you coming out?” I asked her. “It’s not that hot yet.” But she disappeared back into the coolness of our abode. Poor thing – I’ve raised her to be intolerant of temperatures such as these. When she must exit the controlled climate inside, she inevitably returns with a look of annoyance as she pants. Flopping on the floor with a sigh, the dog and I share extreme displeasure as we suffer through summer.
The night before last, Chienne woke me just before midnight. It is, I thought, likely not good that I can be sleeping deeply enough at 11:40 that I wonder if it should be 2 or 3AM. Regardless, I sighed at her and wandered down the hall to read blogs until I could relax again.
Bloglines suddenly stopped giving me new text and my wireless signal had disappeared.
“Stupid router.” I groused, heading to the office to cycle the power to return my contact with the outside world. I returned moments later to find the receive light blinking rather than all of the lights happily lit.
“Oh, no.” I said softly. I unplugged it again, waiting longer this time, then returned power to the small device. It continued to lack the ability to give me internet and I blinked with worry.
I turned to the television to provide a distraction from my internet woes and the cable thwarted me there too. And I was sad.
I woke yesterday morning to a strong internet signal and all sorts of channels to watch. But it left me feeling rather grateful for the overall stability of the grid out here. I rarely lose power and this was the first time cable let me down. Thank goodness. I don’t cope well at all.
There’s a small chance I sometimes overreact.
“He said the bend was OK, but they should be going much straighter than they are.” Mom reported of her meeting with her knee surgeon yesterday morning. “He wants to give me braces to wear at night to encourage them to straighten, and if they don’t get better in a couple weeks, he wants me to go back to the hospital so they can knock me out and force them straight. I said the braces were fine, but I was not going back to the hospital.”
“Good for you.” I praised – we’d talked about this before.
“I don’t come out of anesthesia well at all and I’ll get them straight eventually. He’s not messing with me again. I could end up worse off than I am now. I certainly didn’t end up better off after I went in before.” She pouted.
“They’ll get better eventually.” I tried to soothe.
“He just stared at me when I told him.” She reported with some degree of pride. “But I was firm. I’m not going in the hospital. He can’t make me.”
So Mom’s knees are doing relatively well, though she is to work on getting them straighter. And she will not be returning to the hospital. I miss her – she reminds me of me.
Mouth open in surprise, I glanced at Friend, seated in the passenger seat as we returned from getting dinner, and expected her to share my outrage. When she didn’t seem to be reacting strongly enough, I emphasized each syllable as I raised my voice. “Li-Tter-Bug!”
“Must you yell?” She asked. “I didn’t throw trash on the street. My ears don’t deserve to hurt.”
“I hate people who litter. It’s a problem down here! All the time with the picking up other people’s trash, which is ridiculous! The other day I found a Bratz poster in my front yard. I don’t need to see that! It freaked me out every time I opened the garbage can – those big-eyed, skimpily-dressed cartoons pouting at me. Not cool.”
“You’re more upset about the littering than the fact that they threw a half-full beer bottle out of a moving truck?”
I narrowed my eyes as I felt hatred grow toward the four idiots in the gray pickup truck. “I should call the police.” I muttered. “They are endangering others and ruining the environment! They are what’s wrong with this country! Stupid southern, stupid boys.” I hissed growing more upset.
I don’t really have a point, other than making myself all angry again. Every time I look out at the stray cups or random bits of trash scattered around my curb, I get angry. And, apparently, you don’t want to hear me when I’m angry.
*****
As temperatures rapidly approach 90° this morning (oh, so hot. Nearly unbearable.), I am content to drink coffee from one of my new mugs. I’m not sure if I’ve achieved genius status, but I do think the design is ever-so-pretty in person. I’m going to take one (I ordered 4) to work and I’m sure people will think I’m cooler just seeing me use it.
I really do like the designs – it’s giving me considerable happiness to have the set of new mugs from which to sip my coffee in the mornings.
*****
One hundred pages of my novel are scattered across my living room floor. Sprout loves to surf on them and he is so happy to have pages and pages of text on which to slide across the pesky carpeting.
He deserves a reward. I was jealous that Friend’s felines were such good bug warriors, and when I saw a moth flitting around the glow of the television last night, I sighed. Where was my cat? Why didn’t he kill the gross, scary moths?
I’d barely finished the thought when he sprang across the room, batting the creature to the ground and attempting to play. I didn’t watch what happened next, but the moth is no more. Good kitty.
Chienne, conversely, is not enjoying life so much. I went out to twist off the hose that was trickling water to the tomato plant and turned to find a brindle head poking out the dog door.
“Are you coming out?” I asked her. “It’s not that hot yet.” But she disappeared back into the coolness of our abode. Poor thing – I’ve raised her to be intolerant of temperatures such as these. When she must exit the controlled climate inside, she inevitably returns with a look of annoyance as she pants. Flopping on the floor with a sigh, the dog and I share extreme displeasure as we suffer through summer.
*****
The night before last, Chienne woke me just before midnight. It is, I thought, likely not good that I can be sleeping deeply enough at 11:40 that I wonder if it should be 2 or 3AM. Regardless, I sighed at her and wandered down the hall to read blogs until I could relax again.
Bloglines suddenly stopped giving me new text and my wireless signal had disappeared.
“Stupid router.” I groused, heading to the office to cycle the power to return my contact with the outside world. I returned moments later to find the receive light blinking rather than all of the lights happily lit.
“Oh, no.” I said softly. I unplugged it again, waiting longer this time, then returned power to the small device. It continued to lack the ability to give me internet and I blinked with worry.
I turned to the television to provide a distraction from my internet woes and the cable thwarted me there too. And I was sad.
I woke yesterday morning to a strong internet signal and all sorts of channels to watch. But it left me feeling rather grateful for the overall stability of the grid out here. I rarely lose power and this was the first time cable let me down. Thank goodness. I don’t cope well at all.
There’s a small chance I sometimes overreact.
*****
“He said the bend was OK, but they should be going much straighter than they are.” Mom reported of her meeting with her knee surgeon yesterday morning. “He wants to give me braces to wear at night to encourage them to straighten, and if they don’t get better in a couple weeks, he wants me to go back to the hospital so they can knock me out and force them straight. I said the braces were fine, but I was not going back to the hospital.”
“Good for you.” I praised – we’d talked about this before.
“I don’t come out of anesthesia well at all and I’ll get them straight eventually. He’s not messing with me again. I could end up worse off than I am now. I certainly didn’t end up better off after I went in before.” She pouted.
“They’ll get better eventually.” I tried to soothe.
“He just stared at me when I told him.” She reported with some degree of pride. “But I was firm. I’m not going in the hospital. He can’t make me.”
So Mom’s knees are doing relatively well, though she is to work on getting them straighter. And she will not be returning to the hospital. I miss her – she reminds me of me.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Patterns
I do not have a life.
That was my first thought upon explaining my productivity of late. When making graphs or writing paragraphs, if I can keep moving forward, I tend to do little else but work. I’m content in that lifestyle. I enjoy the feeling of focus and flow. Despite feeling a bit ill (so very hot – it’s so uncomfortable), I found myself spending hours playing with slides yesterday. Making one figure more square than rectangle-y, changing the background of slides to match the size of the title.
But how did the paper and book come about? Easily explained. I’ve written the book – which does contain chapters that are adapted from what I’ve written on this blog as well as countless emails I exchanged – in fits over the past months. Some Saturdays were lost to writing some chapters from scratch, living in some imaginary word and seeking to describe what I think should happen to my characters.
Plus, it’s really not that good. I’ve been reading bit by bit over the past days and while part of the problem is that I’m editing as I go, the book is also flawed. It doesn’t move. I’m not convinced the main character is very likable (which is a shame since she’s a lot like me). There are definitely pages where I just fall in love with synonyms and get all wordy for no apparent reason.
Point? Writing a novel is excruciatingly difficult for me. Yet it’s also my only hobby at the moment. There are moments – sometimes few and far between – that I get lost in the story, in defining moments and unending conflict and witty dialogue. When I move paragraphs or delete text and find the chapter is better. There is pleasure in the writing, even if I’m not so good at it.
The same could be applied to work. Running code in Matlab, making graphs in Excel. Making figures in Photoshop and peering through histograms and color-coded pictures to see if I can isolate a trend that might be important. I did and writing the paper was – once months passed and I figured out what piece of information mattered and how to present such a thing – delightful. I’m also loving these slides I create. Editing movie files to show some trends, carefully selecting a few words to explain complicated concepts.
It’s fun.
It’s also all I have.
I don’t date, though I would if someone asked. But I don’t place myself in positions to meet anyone, nor do I feel it’s particularly important right now. I find my problem is that I want a relationship, not an awkward evening trying to make conversation with a stranger over dinner. Yet the former is hard to obtain without the latter and that seems to require energy I won’t spare.
I have a single friend in my current city. We tend to eat together then spend time in her apartment or my house, doing work or reading blogs. Our laptops open to individual pursuits, sometimes we’ll exchange brief comments, but we can go for hours without a word. Therefore I can exist in my own thoughts – and she hers – with all but the smallest interruptions.
As I started to ponder this post, I wondered what fun meant to me. Is there something I wish I had time to do? Other than sleep more?
“I like to swim.” I said out loud. But I don’t want to fight crowds for a lane at the pool, nor am I in a physical condition that it wouldn’t hurt a bit to start. I used to watch a lot of hockey, but that fascination appears to have faded. I don’t like movies – I get too emotionally involved and they can sometimes trigger migraines. I love books, but prefer to read them cuddled on my couch. I like to travel, but opportunities don’t come along often enough and I’m too lazy to make my own.
So I have a lot of time to kill.
I do that by working. Now I don’t advocate such a lifestyle. It’s obsessive – I’ll be driving somewhere and realize how I want to fix my normal population. I’ll be mid-conversation at work and remember I meant to analyze the fourth component more carefully. My brain fixates and I only want to answer a specific question. Anything else just gets in the way as I crave my programs and graphs and results.
It’s a rather bipolar way of working, but since there are periods of incredible sloth – where I accomplish nothing at all – I need the obsessive times. I’ve never found a balance, so I continue to go all or nothing. This just happens to be an all time.
So the productivity isn’t to be envied, it’s to be pitied. I wanted this time to be much, much different. I wish I was in love and making time to spend with a man. I want to live closer to my family so there can be afternoons with Little One, playing Care Bears or going shopping. I’d like to make dinner with Mom and suffer through endless advice-giving lectures from Dad. I should be volunteering, but I can’t seem to find a place that leaves me anything other than drained and sad and frustrated. I love my church, but don’t really want to be more involved. I’m not sure why.
It is not as if there are no benefits to this lifestyle, sad as it may be. My book chapter is listed online, and the text will be published in the first quarter of 2008. I’ve been checking the publisher’s website for a long time, but it was finally there yesterday! I stared at it for a moment, recalling the hours spent freaking out over my lack of knowledge in the subject I chose. The data I analyzed and countless papers I read to try to create a set of pages that was useful and descriptive. And now I can view the title as it marches proudly across the screen with its other chapter friends. My name is listed underneath and I basked in the warmth that caused.
My feeling of self-worth is largely dependent on lines added to my CV.
So the hours I spend writing in this near-desperate attempt to create a paper (because what I’ve published here so far has been graduate work) are how I feel good about myself. So that’s where I focus my energy. I work. Yet when taking a step back, it’s hard not to wonder if I’ll regret this at some point. If I’ll look at the chapter and the potential paper and this upcoming talk and ache that I didn’t do things differently.
I’d worry about it more if I wasn’t so busy fixing the second background slide for my talk.
That was my first thought upon explaining my productivity of late. When making graphs or writing paragraphs, if I can keep moving forward, I tend to do little else but work. I’m content in that lifestyle. I enjoy the feeling of focus and flow. Despite feeling a bit ill (so very hot – it’s so uncomfortable), I found myself spending hours playing with slides yesterday. Making one figure more square than rectangle-y, changing the background of slides to match the size of the title.
But how did the paper and book come about? Easily explained. I’ve written the book – which does contain chapters that are adapted from what I’ve written on this blog as well as countless emails I exchanged – in fits over the past months. Some Saturdays were lost to writing some chapters from scratch, living in some imaginary word and seeking to describe what I think should happen to my characters.
Plus, it’s really not that good. I’ve been reading bit by bit over the past days and while part of the problem is that I’m editing as I go, the book is also flawed. It doesn’t move. I’m not convinced the main character is very likable (which is a shame since she’s a lot like me). There are definitely pages where I just fall in love with synonyms and get all wordy for no apparent reason.
Point? Writing a novel is excruciatingly difficult for me. Yet it’s also my only hobby at the moment. There are moments – sometimes few and far between – that I get lost in the story, in defining moments and unending conflict and witty dialogue. When I move paragraphs or delete text and find the chapter is better. There is pleasure in the writing, even if I’m not so good at it.
The same could be applied to work. Running code in Matlab, making graphs in Excel. Making figures in Photoshop and peering through histograms and color-coded pictures to see if I can isolate a trend that might be important. I did and writing the paper was – once months passed and I figured out what piece of information mattered and how to present such a thing – delightful. I’m also loving these slides I create. Editing movie files to show some trends, carefully selecting a few words to explain complicated concepts.
It’s fun.
It’s also all I have.
I don’t date, though I would if someone asked. But I don’t place myself in positions to meet anyone, nor do I feel it’s particularly important right now. I find my problem is that I want a relationship, not an awkward evening trying to make conversation with a stranger over dinner. Yet the former is hard to obtain without the latter and that seems to require energy I won’t spare.
I have a single friend in my current city. We tend to eat together then spend time in her apartment or my house, doing work or reading blogs. Our laptops open to individual pursuits, sometimes we’ll exchange brief comments, but we can go for hours without a word. Therefore I can exist in my own thoughts – and she hers – with all but the smallest interruptions.
As I started to ponder this post, I wondered what fun meant to me. Is there something I wish I had time to do? Other than sleep more?
“I like to swim.” I said out loud. But I don’t want to fight crowds for a lane at the pool, nor am I in a physical condition that it wouldn’t hurt a bit to start. I used to watch a lot of hockey, but that fascination appears to have faded. I don’t like movies – I get too emotionally involved and they can sometimes trigger migraines. I love books, but prefer to read them cuddled on my couch. I like to travel, but opportunities don’t come along often enough and I’m too lazy to make my own.
So I have a lot of time to kill.
I do that by working. Now I don’t advocate such a lifestyle. It’s obsessive – I’ll be driving somewhere and realize how I want to fix my normal population. I’ll be mid-conversation at work and remember I meant to analyze the fourth component more carefully. My brain fixates and I only want to answer a specific question. Anything else just gets in the way as I crave my programs and graphs and results.
It’s a rather bipolar way of working, but since there are periods of incredible sloth – where I accomplish nothing at all – I need the obsessive times. I’ve never found a balance, so I continue to go all or nothing. This just happens to be an all time.
So the productivity isn’t to be envied, it’s to be pitied. I wanted this time to be much, much different. I wish I was in love and making time to spend with a man. I want to live closer to my family so there can be afternoons with Little One, playing Care Bears or going shopping. I’d like to make dinner with Mom and suffer through endless advice-giving lectures from Dad. I should be volunteering, but I can’t seem to find a place that leaves me anything other than drained and sad and frustrated. I love my church, but don’t really want to be more involved. I’m not sure why.
It is not as if there are no benefits to this lifestyle, sad as it may be. My book chapter is listed online, and the text will be published in the first quarter of 2008. I’ve been checking the publisher’s website for a long time, but it was finally there yesterday! I stared at it for a moment, recalling the hours spent freaking out over my lack of knowledge in the subject I chose. The data I analyzed and countless papers I read to try to create a set of pages that was useful and descriptive. And now I can view the title as it marches proudly across the screen with its other chapter friends. My name is listed underneath and I basked in the warmth that caused.
My feeling of self-worth is largely dependent on lines added to my CV.
So the hours I spend writing in this near-desperate attempt to create a paper (because what I’ve published here so far has been graduate work) are how I feel good about myself. So that’s where I focus my energy. I work. Yet when taking a step back, it’s hard not to wonder if I’ll regret this at some point. If I’ll look at the chapter and the potential paper and this upcoming talk and ache that I didn’t do things differently.
I’d worry about it more if I wasn’t so busy fixing the second background slide for my talk.
Monday, August 06, 2007
Hot. Very, very, very hot.
We have now reached the point where I step outside and moan. I hate summer in the south. It's just thick and oppressive and I suffocate within the excessively high temperatures. I feel sick just thinking about it.
Actually, I feel sick in general. I sent a draft of the paper I finished today (yay!) to Boss, then decided I'd lie on the couch and do a little reading.
"A little reading of a book by me." I said out loud with no small amount of satisfaction.
So I flopped down, arranged the pillows as I like them, and picked up the first stack of pages I'd clipped together.
"Well, hell." I said with much less satisfaction as I started chapter 5. "I think this is really boring." Trying to decide if it was too much background or too many characters, I reclipped the pages and tossed them on the floor. I've edited the first chapters so many times already - I'm just not sure what's wrong.
I decided to watch television for a bit, so I was all cozy on the couch while Sprout played and Chienne rested in the chair across the room. The air conditioner is set at 70 and all was well. I placed my hand on my stomach when I felt it get inexplicably hot. But I continued to smile at CBS sitcoms and realized the heat had spread into my back.
I decided it would pass if I just ignored it. When I picked up my hand to dab at my forehead a moment later, the heat had encompassed me completely. I was shaky and dizzy, sweating profusely and burning up. I emailed Friend, then emailed again to tell her she should not ignore someone who was clearly dying, then took a Tylenol in hopes that it would cure me from whatever the hell was wrong with me.
The plan was to finish reading my novel (too boring) then to write a post responding to Earnest English's comment that I'm so productive. Much as I adore flattery, the short version is that I'm not impressive at all. I tend to work all the time or not at all and this happens to be a set of days spent doing little more than sitting at my laptop. I also have very little life. Which could explain the boring novel.
My explanation for the hot sickness is that the south - which I have so bitterly attacked with scathing criticism in the recent hot days - has possessed my body and will punish me for hiding in the air conditioning as often as possible. Either that or I have a serious problem and won't have time to fix my poor book.
I'll let you know. (And elaborate on work patterns, which I think is interesting, but I'm too hot to figure it out.)
Actually, I feel sick in general. I sent a draft of the paper I finished today (yay!) to Boss, then decided I'd lie on the couch and do a little reading.
"A little reading of a book by me." I said out loud with no small amount of satisfaction.
So I flopped down, arranged the pillows as I like them, and picked up the first stack of pages I'd clipped together.
"Well, hell." I said with much less satisfaction as I started chapter 5. "I think this is really boring." Trying to decide if it was too much background or too many characters, I reclipped the pages and tossed them on the floor. I've edited the first chapters so many times already - I'm just not sure what's wrong.
I decided to watch television for a bit, so I was all cozy on the couch while Sprout played and Chienne rested in the chair across the room. The air conditioner is set at 70 and all was well. I placed my hand on my stomach when I felt it get inexplicably hot. But I continued to smile at CBS sitcoms and realized the heat had spread into my back.
I decided it would pass if I just ignored it. When I picked up my hand to dab at my forehead a moment later, the heat had encompassed me completely. I was shaky and dizzy, sweating profusely and burning up. I emailed Friend, then emailed again to tell her she should not ignore someone who was clearly dying, then took a Tylenol in hopes that it would cure me from whatever the hell was wrong with me.
The plan was to finish reading my novel (too boring) then to write a post responding to Earnest English's comment that I'm so productive. Much as I adore flattery, the short version is that I'm not impressive at all. I tend to work all the time or not at all and this happens to be a set of days spent doing little more than sitting at my laptop. I also have very little life. Which could explain the boring novel.
My explanation for the hot sickness is that the south - which I have so bitterly attacked with scathing criticism in the recent hot days - has possessed my body and will punish me for hiding in the air conditioning as often as possible. Either that or I have a serious problem and won't have time to fix my poor book.
I'll let you know. (And elaborate on work patterns, which I think is interesting, but I'm too hot to figure it out.)
Sunday, August 05, 2007
Done (nearly) (with part 1)
My first post this year sheepishly noted that I was beginning to write a novel. Eight months later and with sporadic effort and long breaks, I have nearly completed a draft of part 1.
Twenty-eight chapters. 120 pages. 55574 words. (Does it make me weird that I rather want to cut 19 words? Really?)
I'm going to print it at work tomorrow (on recycled paper) and read it lying down, as I read all books. Then I shall make final corrections and put it away.
I also have finished the analysis and have a reasonable idea of how to present my results on the project which has demanded obsessive attention. So I'm going to try to write a paper tomorrow.
Then there's this pesky talk (though I clearly noted my preference for a poster) I have to give in a month or so. The list of speakers is impressive, which is freaking me out since I clearly am sandwiched between people I think are cool. So there will be much fretting, reading and making of slides between now and then. But at least talk of the novel should pause for a bit!
Twenty-eight chapters. 120 pages. 55574 words. (Does it make me weird that I rather want to cut 19 words? Really?)
I'm going to print it at work tomorrow (on recycled paper) and read it lying down, as I read all books. Then I shall make final corrections and put it away.
I also have finished the analysis and have a reasonable idea of how to present my results on the project which has demanded obsessive attention. So I'm going to try to write a paper tomorrow.
Then there's this pesky talk (though I clearly noted my preference for a poster) I have to give in a month or so. The list of speakers is impressive, which is freaking me out since I clearly am sandwiched between people I think are cool. So there will be much fretting, reading and making of slides between now and then. But at least talk of the novel should pause for a bit!
Saturday, August 04, 2007
Pictorial
After I bleached the kitchen but before I vacuumed, I noticed that one of my animals had arranged two toys in a bit of a battle stance. I found it adorable - A Squeaky Squirrel Face-Off, if you will - and decided to update using photos.
Chienne and I remain less than amused. She because I kept waking her from naps. Me because of the freaking swarm of gnats! I called the service manager of my new pest company yesterday night and left a message on his machine."Hi." I said. "You were supposed to call me this week, but perhaps you didn't get the message. So I wanted to make sure we talked on Monday. Here's the thing - I have gnats. Lots and lots of gnats. And I hate them. A lot.
"Now the problem is that I didn't really have a pest problem before. But I paid for your service as a preventative measure and because I felt bad for the kid that was selling door to door in 90+ degree weather. Now, nearly $400 later, I have a pest problem. Which might be funny if I wasn't covered in gnats! So I decided I'm not paying a pest company to give me a pest problem. You may either rid me of the gnats or rid yourselves of my $400. OK? Thanks."
Walking back into my kitchen, I noticed that - perhaps in an ill-fated attempt to escape the flying demons itself - the aloe plant I've had since college was attempting to flee. I therefore call this photo Escape of the Aloe Plant.While I certainly feel its pain, where is an aloe plant going to go? So I decided I'd remove it from the adorable but apparently too small tea cup planter and put it in a spare blue container I had. In the process, I realized I'd left an unsealed bag of potting soil in the plant corner of the kitchen. Judging by the activity when I picked it up, the gnats liked it in there.
I said - being quite restrained, I thought - "Oops." Then I unlocked the door and placed the bag outside. As is the case most of the time, the biggest cause of my problems is me.
The aloe, after much coaxing and shoving, is now upright in a different container. If it ends up on the floor again, I'll know it had help from a certain plant-eating feline or that it really wishes to find a new home. To its left is the newer of the schefflaras with smaller leaves and to its right is the older schefflara who, with its new gigantic pot, definitely believes it is now a tree. Having almost finished cleaning, I am in need of a shower. Then I have to go get Friend and see a Harry Potter movie.
"I don't even watch them when they're on TV!" I whined last night. "Why would I want to go to the theater on a weekend to see it?!"
"Because I want to see it." She said simply.
So I huffed and puffed and asked her what time. I plan to drown myself in diet soda and some salty snack while I enjoy a gnat-free environment for a couple hours. Other than that, my evening will consist of figuring out how in the world to present this data I've been generating for a couple weeks or engrossing myself in my novel revisions. None of those things require pictures, so I guess I'm done updating for today.
Thursday, August 02, 2007
Friend and the bad luck day
I answered the phone around noon, still figuring out what I wanted to wear to work and playing with Photoshop, finishing up a figure for the paper I’m trying to write.
“Again? I’m so sorry.” I replied to poor Friend when she reported her car – after 3 trips to the garage and upwards of $1000 – refused to start this morning. She glumly asked if I would take her to work after she had the stubborn vehicle towed to its second home - Midas.
I agreed and finished my figure while she dealt with AAA. She called back to let me know that her car had started and she was going to drop it off herself. So I was to meet her at the garage as soon as I put clothes on. I threw stuff together and grabbed the pink shirt and flowery skirt off the top of the pile and headed toward town.
I haven’t seen Friend in many days – the last time was nearly a week ago when Chienne needed a shot and we went to visit Friend and scared her pretty cats. So it was nice to see her this morning, though I apologized again for her nasty luck of late (I was informed that her air conditioner has broken 6 times. Not 4.). I dropped her off at work, then made my way to get my monthly massage. My favorite therapist left when they restructured and I have yet to find a suitable replacement. (My problems are perhaps a touch more minor than Friend's.)
My habit gets expensive though, so becoming a member and paying a mere $50/massage rather than the $70 it would otherwise cost seemed wise. So I continue to try new people in the hopes that someone will be able to push the tension from my back and shoulder muscles.
I sighed upon meeting a petite blonde today, certain that she wouldn’t be able to solve my sore muscle problems. I was blissfully mistaken, though I did feel moderately sick an hour later as the toxins that were forced from my muscles caused some general malaise. The pressure felt useful at times – even when my fingers went briefly numb as she worked on my upper arms – and absolutely wonderful at others. I’m thrilled at my discovery of a good therapist at my reasonably priced massage place and look forward to seeing her again.
“I’m doing a lot of writing lately.” I confessed as her joints popped from the pressure she exerted on the muscles that connect my neck to my head. “So I sit at my laptop for work, then I’m working on this novel for fun. It’s kind of constant with the typing and looking and slouching.”
Friend had exited my car with a warning not to abandon her on campus. Fearful of being infected with some of her atrocious luck, I patiently did some work while I waited for Friend to wrap things up in the lab. I did some writing on the actual paper, which was good as it often gets neglected in favor of the precious novel. I have one more set of analysis to do, but putting the results in order and getting the discussion outlined did clarify a couple of questions.
I sat through a meeting, planning new ways to analyze the same data and finally asking for a different patient’s information. I’m tired of staring at the same stuff.
I, of course, would rather stare at my book.
“The plan,” I told Friend over steak for dinner, “is to finish part 1. I know where I want the breaking point and I think I need another few days – maybe a week – to get there. When I get that done - and it's all written, but needs organization and editing - I’ll move the scattered chapters to a different document and put the book away again for a while.”
She nodded but didn’t comment.
“When I get part 1 done, I’m going to let someone read it. Maybe my mom. I haven’t fully decided yet. I don’t think you’d like it or be all that impressed with it, so I feel a bit self-conscious about having you look at it.”
She paused while I happily pounced on the yeast rolls the waitress brought.
“I told you I wouldn’t ask to read it. And I won’t. But you know I would if you want me to do so.” She offered.
“I do know.” I paused in my quest for bread to glance up at her. “If I asked you to read it, you’d read it.”
“It is outside my genre.” She admitted. “Unless you’ve recently added an alien.”
“Not so much, no.” I said, smiling. “I don’t think I could write dialogue for an alien. What would I say? ‘Hello, I’m an alien. Do you like my pointy ears?’ It just doesn’t fit.”
As for what does fit, I have ideas. And after I finish this batch of editing, I’m going to take another break from it. Perhaps then the blog posts will improve ever so slightly in quality.
Oh, and since Friend continues to work all the time instead of writing text for her blog (something about a paper she's writing and experiments to be done. I don't know.), I will say that they think it's her battery. And the air in her apartment was cool when we stopped to feed the cats on the way to my house. So hopefully tomorrow will be better for her. Though Chienne tends to sleep draped over Friend when she stays here. That's probably not so comfortable. So maybe Saturday will be better for Friend.
“Again? I’m so sorry.” I replied to poor Friend when she reported her car – after 3 trips to the garage and upwards of $1000 – refused to start this morning. She glumly asked if I would take her to work after she had the stubborn vehicle towed to its second home - Midas.
I agreed and finished my figure while she dealt with AAA. She called back to let me know that her car had started and she was going to drop it off herself. So I was to meet her at the garage as soon as I put clothes on. I threw stuff together and grabbed the pink shirt and flowery skirt off the top of the pile and headed toward town.
I haven’t seen Friend in many days – the last time was nearly a week ago when Chienne needed a shot and we went to visit Friend and scared her pretty cats. So it was nice to see her this morning, though I apologized again for her nasty luck of late (I was informed that her air conditioner has broken 6 times. Not 4.). I dropped her off at work, then made my way to get my monthly massage. My favorite therapist left when they restructured and I have yet to find a suitable replacement. (My problems are perhaps a touch more minor than Friend's.)
My habit gets expensive though, so becoming a member and paying a mere $50/massage rather than the $70 it would otherwise cost seemed wise. So I continue to try new people in the hopes that someone will be able to push the tension from my back and shoulder muscles.
I sighed upon meeting a petite blonde today, certain that she wouldn’t be able to solve my sore muscle problems. I was blissfully mistaken, though I did feel moderately sick an hour later as the toxins that were forced from my muscles caused some general malaise. The pressure felt useful at times – even when my fingers went briefly numb as she worked on my upper arms – and absolutely wonderful at others. I’m thrilled at my discovery of a good therapist at my reasonably priced massage place and look forward to seeing her again.
“I’m doing a lot of writing lately.” I confessed as her joints popped from the pressure she exerted on the muscles that connect my neck to my head. “So I sit at my laptop for work, then I’m working on this novel for fun. It’s kind of constant with the typing and looking and slouching.”
Friend had exited my car with a warning not to abandon her on campus. Fearful of being infected with some of her atrocious luck, I patiently did some work while I waited for Friend to wrap things up in the lab. I did some writing on the actual paper, which was good as it often gets neglected in favor of the precious novel. I have one more set of analysis to do, but putting the results in order and getting the discussion outlined did clarify a couple of questions.
I sat through a meeting, planning new ways to analyze the same data and finally asking for a different patient’s information. I’m tired of staring at the same stuff.
I, of course, would rather stare at my book.
“The plan,” I told Friend over steak for dinner, “is to finish part 1. I know where I want the breaking point and I think I need another few days – maybe a week – to get there. When I get that done - and it's all written, but needs organization and editing - I’ll move the scattered chapters to a different document and put the book away again for a while.”
She nodded but didn’t comment.
“When I get part 1 done, I’m going to let someone read it. Maybe my mom. I haven’t fully decided yet. I don’t think you’d like it or be all that impressed with it, so I feel a bit self-conscious about having you look at it.”
She paused while I happily pounced on the yeast rolls the waitress brought.
“I told you I wouldn’t ask to read it. And I won’t. But you know I would if you want me to do so.” She offered.
“I do know.” I paused in my quest for bread to glance up at her. “If I asked you to read it, you’d read it.”
“It is outside my genre.” She admitted. “Unless you’ve recently added an alien.”
“Not so much, no.” I said, smiling. “I don’t think I could write dialogue for an alien. What would I say? ‘Hello, I’m an alien. Do you like my pointy ears?’ It just doesn’t fit.”
As for what does fit, I have ideas. And after I finish this batch of editing, I’m going to take another break from it. Perhaps then the blog posts will improve ever so slightly in quality.
Oh, and since Friend continues to work all the time instead of writing text for her blog (something about a paper she's writing and experiments to be done. I don't know.), I will say that they think it's her battery. And the air in her apartment was cool when we stopped to feed the cats on the way to my house. So hopefully tomorrow will be better for her. Though Chienne tends to sleep draped over Friend when she stays here. That's probably not so comfortable. So maybe Saturday will be better for Friend.
3:04AM
I have found it interesting of late to monitor my early morning behavior. My struggle with nightmares seems to have eased for the moment, yet I still sighed when I realized I was awake about 20 minutes ago. Chienne, who had been sleeping on the far side of the bed, head on a pillow and covered to her shoulders, rose to scratch at her muzzle. I have yet to take her to Friend to get her next allergy shot and so must suffer the allergies with her at night.
Sprout continues to act with crazed energy, racing about the house. I can hear him in the kitchen as he begins to sprint toward the bedroom, hitting the mattress hard enough to jar me from sleep even when Chienne is peaceful. She sometimes growls at him in warning when he tries to bat at her nose. Other times I growl in a futile demand for quiet.
The habit of rising at 3 or thereabouts is not one I miss. While I enjoy the flexibility of my job that has allowed me to edit the beginnings of my novel for the last two days (I'm on page 72 of 190 at the moment), I do struggle without some structure. The isolation is odd though. It allows me to exist more completely in my own head, which usually isn't all that wondrous an event, but seems to work for writing. I pick up speech patterns very easily so I notice when I start to sound too much like someone else, even in the daily writing of email.
I've picked up Friend's sarcasm, though I don't use it with the wit she often finds. My humor isn't quite as dark as hers though, so I often have to ask if she's being mean to me. She has started to call me defensive for some reason. Eschewing blogging for work (how different we are), Friend appears to be making some progress at the office. She was, I think, a bit annoyed when her air conditioner ceased to function. Four times, if memory serves. At the end of July. In the South.
I also have learned to write manuscripts like Boss. I find myself using his words and adopting his structure. The latter is a vital skill when considering my habit of hiding the most important sentence in the middle of a paragraph. I'm also getting better at organizing. While I've always known what information goes in what section in some sense, I was terrible at writing the results of a paper until now. And I wanted to put all the discussion in the introduction. It's now much easier for me to find homes for all my information and Boss has much less to do with arrows and footnotes to get paragraphs moved around in some reasonable order.
Picking up and incorporating speaking or writing snippets isn't a bad thing for me. But as I talk to my parents at least once a day to check on Mom - something I haven't done since moving out at 18 (I do exchange daily emails with my mother though), I find myself thinking and speaking in a way that feels more like me.
"I'm glad I stopped therapy." I told Mom last night, though I can't remember why. "It was good for me at the time, but it's taken me some time to get Dr. Counselor out of my head." I don't hear him anymore and find I like that his influence has eased considerably. Instead, I think of times in the middle of the night spent with Mom as she struggled through pain and sickness. As I kept her company, she'd ask questions about my life and I'd answer. Instead of offering bits of poetry and stories of other clients that don't quite fit with my particular problem, she listened.
Her eyes would meet mine as she stopped seeking a more comfortable position on the couch and she would frown in sympathy when I said I didn't fit in at work. Or that I was afraid I wasn't going to find someone to love. She never offered solutions or breathing techniques or visualization schemes. Honestly, I could never quite get comfortable with them, though they were sometimes effective. Instead there was a quiet confidence and constant love that gave me comfort.
"I don't worry about you like I used to." She offered. "You're strong and you're smart and you will figure this out."
I find that I've stopped sharing some of my life with them because I understand they don't get it. Like my papers that they've tried to read multiple times.
"I don't know what some of those words mean." Dad would report, looking befuddled as he held a copy of the journal that gave me a cover figure. Boss sent me home with a copy for them in the spring. "And your mom lost the dictionary so I couldn't even look them up."
"I did lose it." She admitted when I glanced at her. "Can't we use one online?"
I smiled and told her they could, but it wasn't so important that they understood what I had written. Dad looked relieved and put the journal on the shelf next to my dissertation. It still sits there proudly.
But as we talk more, I find my thought patterns aligning with Mom's and it's comfortable. I feel like me rather than some awkward quilt of pieces I've picked up from too many years in higher education. So I've started to wonder if I'm too much of a sponge. If I get too dry when away from my family for too long, so I start to soak up traits that don't quite fit. Yet when I'm in my proper environment, I'm not so desperate. I'm still absorbent, but not to the same "Is that liquid?! I need liquid! I'll just take that!" degree.
I think part of my recent isolation - in addition to pure contentment as I spend hours at my laptop, refining a story I've been trying to tell or analyzing data I find as fascinating as it is frustrating - is the protection of this balance. It's easy to say that I wouldn't soak up anything wrong when I'm not exposed to it.
In the event that this made little sense, I'll note that I don't think particularly well while I should be sleeping. Which is why I'm not working on the book or my paper. I am feeling very focused and happy when I do spend time with either though. Thoughts seem to coalesce in a satisfying way as I read more journals and make sense of what my histograms reveal or move chapters around so that the flow is improved and the plot slowly develops. I find I'm mentally tired when I snuggle in bed at night. Which is lovely, of course, but leads to blog posts that are titled with times rather than words and that bounce around in what I hope wasn't too jarring a manner.
Sprout continues to act with crazed energy, racing about the house. I can hear him in the kitchen as he begins to sprint toward the bedroom, hitting the mattress hard enough to jar me from sleep even when Chienne is peaceful. She sometimes growls at him in warning when he tries to bat at her nose. Other times I growl in a futile demand for quiet.
The habit of rising at 3 or thereabouts is not one I miss. While I enjoy the flexibility of my job that has allowed me to edit the beginnings of my novel for the last two days (I'm on page 72 of 190 at the moment), I do struggle without some structure. The isolation is odd though. It allows me to exist more completely in my own head, which usually isn't all that wondrous an event, but seems to work for writing. I pick up speech patterns very easily so I notice when I start to sound too much like someone else, even in the daily writing of email.
I've picked up Friend's sarcasm, though I don't use it with the wit she often finds. My humor isn't quite as dark as hers though, so I often have to ask if she's being mean to me. She has started to call me defensive for some reason. Eschewing blogging for work (how different we are), Friend appears to be making some progress at the office. She was, I think, a bit annoyed when her air conditioner ceased to function. Four times, if memory serves. At the end of July. In the South.
I also have learned to write manuscripts like Boss. I find myself using his words and adopting his structure. The latter is a vital skill when considering my habit of hiding the most important sentence in the middle of a paragraph. I'm also getting better at organizing. While I've always known what information goes in what section in some sense, I was terrible at writing the results of a paper until now. And I wanted to put all the discussion in the introduction. It's now much easier for me to find homes for all my information and Boss has much less to do with arrows and footnotes to get paragraphs moved around in some reasonable order.
Picking up and incorporating speaking or writing snippets isn't a bad thing for me. But as I talk to my parents at least once a day to check on Mom - something I haven't done since moving out at 18 (I do exchange daily emails with my mother though), I find myself thinking and speaking in a way that feels more like me.
"I'm glad I stopped therapy." I told Mom last night, though I can't remember why. "It was good for me at the time, but it's taken me some time to get Dr. Counselor out of my head." I don't hear him anymore and find I like that his influence has eased considerably. Instead, I think of times in the middle of the night spent with Mom as she struggled through pain and sickness. As I kept her company, she'd ask questions about my life and I'd answer. Instead of offering bits of poetry and stories of other clients that don't quite fit with my particular problem, she listened.
Her eyes would meet mine as she stopped seeking a more comfortable position on the couch and she would frown in sympathy when I said I didn't fit in at work. Or that I was afraid I wasn't going to find someone to love. She never offered solutions or breathing techniques or visualization schemes. Honestly, I could never quite get comfortable with them, though they were sometimes effective. Instead there was a quiet confidence and constant love that gave me comfort.
"I don't worry about you like I used to." She offered. "You're strong and you're smart and you will figure this out."
I find that I've stopped sharing some of my life with them because I understand they don't get it. Like my papers that they've tried to read multiple times.
"I don't know what some of those words mean." Dad would report, looking befuddled as he held a copy of the journal that gave me a cover figure. Boss sent me home with a copy for them in the spring. "And your mom lost the dictionary so I couldn't even look them up."
"I did lose it." She admitted when I glanced at her. "Can't we use one online?"
I smiled and told her they could, but it wasn't so important that they understood what I had written. Dad looked relieved and put the journal on the shelf next to my dissertation. It still sits there proudly.
But as we talk more, I find my thought patterns aligning with Mom's and it's comfortable. I feel like me rather than some awkward quilt of pieces I've picked up from too many years in higher education. So I've started to wonder if I'm too much of a sponge. If I get too dry when away from my family for too long, so I start to soak up traits that don't quite fit. Yet when I'm in my proper environment, I'm not so desperate. I'm still absorbent, but not to the same "Is that liquid?! I need liquid! I'll just take that!" degree.
I think part of my recent isolation - in addition to pure contentment as I spend hours at my laptop, refining a story I've been trying to tell or analyzing data I find as fascinating as it is frustrating - is the protection of this balance. It's easy to say that I wouldn't soak up anything wrong when I'm not exposed to it.
In the event that this made little sense, I'll note that I don't think particularly well while I should be sleeping. Which is why I'm not working on the book or my paper. I am feeling very focused and happy when I do spend time with either though. Thoughts seem to coalesce in a satisfying way as I read more journals and make sense of what my histograms reveal or move chapters around so that the flow is improved and the plot slowly develops. I find I'm mentally tired when I snuggle in bed at night. Which is lovely, of course, but leads to blog posts that are titled with times rather than words and that bounce around in what I hope wasn't too jarring a manner.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
