Communication

By Phone
“Hello,” I said to an answering machine this morning. “I’m Katie and I live at Address. I found Simon when I was walking my dog this morning and I coaxed him to follow me home. I got your number from his collar – he’s a very sweet boy – and now I’m not sure what to do since you’re not home. So if you could call me back at Number, that would be great. Thanks!”

“Now what?” I asked Friend, who continued to look sleepy and bemused by the large brindled dog I’d allowed through the front door with Chienne. I’d let them loose in the back yard where they continued to sprint around the fenced area. I shook my head at their continued energy and looked across the room for advice.

“You have two now?” she offered. “Because you stole someone’s dog?”

“Not stole!” I said firmly. “Borrowed. A little. My rule is that if someone puts a tag on their dog, I will get it home. But they didn’t answer the phone.” I googled the number, hoping that it wasn’t a cell number and beamed when I found an associated address. “I’ll take him home,” I decided. After Simon firmly refused to get in my car, I sighed and walked him back in the house.

“Take your phone,” Friend advised as Simon and I headed out the front door, leash firmly attached to his black collar. I nodded and picked it up before heading off toward the address I memorized.

“It’s all the way at the bottom of the hill!” I told Friend when I called a couple minutes later. “Simon, here, boy! That’s a good boy! He keeps circling around me. I’m getting dizzy from turning around!” I turned yet another circle and continued to encourage the pretty dog that trotted around me. “So you’re going to come get me, right? In the car? Because I’m tired and,” I turned a circle again as I was pleading with Friend for a ride, “dizzy. Oh, we’re here! Is this your house?” I asked Simon. “Oh, yes,” I said happily, “I see an open gate.”

After making sure Friend would come fetch me, I coaxed Simon in his yard, secured the fence, tugged on it to make sure it was closed, said good-bye to my canine friend and opened the phone again.

“Hi, Katie again,” I chirped to the answering machine inside the house behind me. “I looked up your address and brought Simon home. His gate must not have latched all the way, but he’s in his yard now. Or, well, if google was wrong, I put your dog at NumberAndStreet in a fenced yard. I hope that’s where he’s supposed to be. Thanks!”

On the way home from work this evening, I checked my voice mail and smiled. “Hello, Katie,” a woman’s voice said in a southern drawl. “I’m Susan and Simon is our dog. Thank you so much for bringing him home! He’s an inside dog, but he stays in the yard when we’re at work and the kids are at school. That’s so scary that he got out and we wanted to thank you so much for getting him home safely. We were all relieved so thank you very, very much!”

“Aw,” I said to Friend. “That worked out very well.”

By Email

Katie to IndustryContact
Sent: Monday
I hope Conference went well for all of you and that you're finding a bit of time to relax. You know what would be fun to do while you relax? Talking to people about my interview! I know it may not sound very exciting, but I think it could be a very cool way to spend some time.

I just wanted to remind you about feedback on our meeting and nudge you toward making a decision. I'll give you a call late this (or early next) week, but please feel free to be in touch if you're ready sooner. If questions come up that I can answer, please let me know. I'll look forward to talking to you.

I decided I wasn't up for a rejection today and resolved to call next week.

IndustryContact to Katie
Sent: Today. After returning Simon and right before leaving for work with Friend

Discussions are done! As a last step, our vice president would like to speak with you on the phone. I’ll copy you on a note to his secretary to arrange the call sometime next week.

I looked at Friend with wide eyes while my stomach clenched and hands trembled. “Before I left for my interview?” I told her, “IndustryContact’s assistant said I might need to meet with the VP and that it was a very good sign. But then she said I didn’t have to and I was disappointed because I thought that meant I screwed something up. Said something wrong or wasn’t pretty enough or something. But now I have to talk to him.”

“That’s good,” Friend said encouragingly.

“I’m scared,” I protested softly.

“I see that. But this is good news. What you want to happen after an interview, actually.”

I have since calmed down after being moderately sick with nerves most of the day. I’m hopeful – which is scary too since the disappointment will be great should I screw things up and up in a smoking cloud of spectacular failure. The time is arranged – I am to call Tuesday afternoon.

In Person
“I don’t know what to call the last section,” I complained to Friend when discussing this post. “By phone! By email! By…talking? The last part needs work.” She suggested ‘in person’ which does seem more elegant than ‘by talking.’ So we’ll go with that.

“I see what you’re saying,” I mused after giving Boss the Hopeless Paper and pausing to discuss Hopeful Paper. “I could make the point more obvious. I’ll work on it.”

“Hello,” a petite woman said when she walked in. I frowned as I tried to place her and pulled my face out of a scowl when I realized who she was. I nodded once and reached to briefly shake her hand when Boss introduced us. She was the awful PI who ‘mentored’ Winnie before she died, Dawn before she quit and who was now stressing Marlie a whole lot.

“Katie has helped us a lot with the project,” Boss said and I shook my head.

“I have done very little,” I demurred.

“Look at you, avoiding more work!” AwfulPI said and I arched an eyebrow at her even though her tone had been teasing.

“Marlie is wonderful,” I said when the silence lasted a touch too long. The subsequent silence was of even greater duration.

“She’s a hard worker,” Boss finally said and I turned to look at him quizzically. Hard worker? What nonsense was this?

“She’s fantastic,” I said insistently.

“We’re working on it,” AwfulPI sighed and I glared at her in earnest. What kind of asinine response was this? I hate you, I seethed and noticed Boss shift uncomfortably as I grew increasingly tense.

“I should go,” I finally said, unsure if I should stay and grow rabidly protective of Marlie or exit before I embarrassed Boss even more. He said a few more things about my paper and I nodded as I moved toward the hallway.

Of all the ways of exchanging ideas, I'd say face to face interactions should be most effective. Yet I seem to have done best using other methods. Stupid AwfulPI. She ruined the end of my blog post.

Editor: Friend or Stranger

“We need to get this resubmitted,” Penguin noted when we all sat together to go over paper revisions some months ago, “before Editor bolts when his term is up.” I glanced up from the pages of the comments he printed and my pages of data I’d brought to address those points.

“Is that how this got accepted?” Dr. Icing asked, looking both curious and smug.

“I think so, at least partly,” Penguin grinned. “We ran into each other and had drinks at the last meeting. I was talking about how much trouble our last paper had and mentioned some of the ridiculous complaints we’d seen in the past. So I’m assuming that when he saw some of the same comments here,” he waved his hand at the pages and pages of reviewer problems we had to face, “he accepted it anyway. He likes this kind of work.”

“Nice,” Dr. Icing said while I thought that this didn’t seem quite fair. In some sense, it was fair, of course. We had five reviewers on that paper, made substantial changes according to their requests and the paper made it past all of them in the re-review. Nothing untoward happened, but I can’t help but wonder if a few drinks and conversation tipped the decision from ‘most reviewers weren’t impressed – Reject!’ to ‘some reviewers are assholes – Accept!’

Judging from my post yesterday, it’s clear that I don’t mind using connections. I remember people I’ve met and mentally flip through my address book when I want something and think someone should be able to help me get it. I’m not great at networking – I think it’s flipping hard – but I did study in an excellent (and huge) department for grad school. And to know Boss is to love him, so when I tell people where I currently work, they tend to respond with enthusiasm. Plus, I collaborate. Which means I know some pretty important MDs. I’ve interviewed a lot so that adds some people to my circle of acquaintances too. If I need advice or a recommendation or I think someone knows someone else I should meet, I’ll ask. I’ve always had excellent responses to this strategy and count myself lucky for knowing good people.

But sending papers to journal editors I know? Well, that’s dirty.

“So he said that he couldn’t help me with initial cover letters because that information is normally exchanged in pre-submission emails. So he knows journal editors and tries to pal around with them! Cheater,” I muttered and shook my head with great superiority. Then, since we waited forever to get a table for dinner, I was thinking about my opinions on this matter when talking to Friend.

Those thoughts take us back to the circumstances surrounding my defense. If you recall (and you should – I talk about it all the time), I was told that since first author papers were submitted but not yet in press, I couldn’t graduate. In an attempt at trying to save myself from the horror that was becoming my life at the time, I contacted a friend whose post-doctoral supervisor edited a major journal in my field.

“MajorJournalEditor looked at the paper,” I told one member of my committee desperately as I fought back tears and tried mightily to get him on my side before the committee met without me. “He said that it was definitely publishable and he’d put it in his journal if that would help.”

I recoiled from his expression after I spoke. “That’s awful,” he scolded me. “Absolutely terrible that you would try to use connections to get a paper published. It makes me think badly of you and him and the journal, quite frankly. I’m very disappointed in you, Katie.”

My mouth fell open as I looked at him. I was crushed that he could be even more disappointed in me than when we started, that my plan had failed so badly, and that I’d taken down MajorJournalEditor with me. “No!” I cried, trying to fix it, for I did misspeak. “It would go through review! He wouldn’t just publish it without having anyone look at it – that was never, ever suggested and I apologize if that’s the impression I gave. Please don’t think badly of the editor or journal! He was just trying to help!”

But I still remember the lingering expression of disapproval. And I was bitterly disappointed in myself for thinking of it and explaining the plan wrong and vowed to never submit any work to someone I knew, lest someone be disappointed in me again. And like a few decisions I've made when depressed and terribly hurt, this one stuck.

“You should send us something,” Director said when I interviewed for that faculty spot. And though I took the card for his journal, I immediately rejected the very idea of sending anything there. It would look like I cheated! People would wonder at the quality of my work! And make fun of me or be disappointed in me! And that would be awful.

“I talked to an editor at the last meeting,” one collaborator told me several months ago. “He asked what I presented and I told him about the poster and he said it sounded like good work. So I asked him why his journal rejected it and he said to send it back and include that we’d discussed it at this meeting in the cover letter.” The paper is currently in press.

“We just had to do some minor revisions,” A friend explained of one of her graduate papers. “Then Advisor could send it back to his editor friend. I can’t take care of that – it should come from him since it’s his contact.”

“He’s a good man – a good friend of mine,” Boss said when I showed him my letter from the editor that came with my framed copy of the journal cover on which one of my figures appeared. And while I still basked in the glow of my accomplishment, I wondered if I’d had an edge because Boss was a co-author. He had suggested the journal, after all, and encouraged me even when I said it was too high impact for the work.

There’s a mid-level journal in the field that I won’t use because I’ve worked semi-closely with the editor. I also feel a vague sense of disapproval when his own people publish a ton of work there. I’ve started to glance at the institution before the abstract when there’s a C/N/S paper I think might be cool. If it falls in a ‘who you know’ category for me, I’m unlikely to even make it to the first sentence. (Plus, those papers are generally too short to be overly useful to me. I often swear if I want to learn something from a paper that’s very high profile.) I heard people openly scoff at yet another friend who published three papers in her boss’s journal and it reinforced the idea that friendly connections mean disappointment in others.

Yet this is one of those areas where academia may not be strictly fair. But it’s not unfair either. Crap sometimes gets published, but each of the papers I’ve mentioned in this post were representative of strong science and good writing. So maybe this is a quirk I should try to let go.

“Can I ask you something?” I said to a friend and he nodded without glancing away from his computer screen. “You rolled your eyes when one friend published in her boss’s journal. But I just saw your paper come out in your boss’s journal. How’s that feel?”

“I couldn’t get it in anywhere else,” he replied absently and I sat back in my chair and nodded thoughtfully.

Perhaps I know where to send that paper Psych Post Doc convinced me not to give up on. Because I know an editor or two myself.

A bit of brightness

"Are you freaking kidding me?" I exclaimed to Friend when she said my flowers were unlikely to bloom this year. We dug them up late in the season last year, spreading apart the tight clumps of green into neat rows around the edge of my flower bed. Then we had to dig them up again when her mom told her we'd planted them too deep.

"What are they?" she asked while we sweated over the work.

"I don't know," I replied, pausing in my complaints that I was hot and tired and this was hard. "Lillies, I think. The other side blooms sometimes." I waved my hand across the front walk and remembered the white flowers with the pink center. "These never have."

"They're irises!" I told her a few days ago. "One bloomed and it's an iris - well, I think - and it's yellow and beautiful!" I've long loved these flowers and have sighed over the ones that bloom for other people. Vivid purples and bright whites. I wished I had some of my own. And now I do! And they're this perfect, sunny yellow!

I made it to campus today, dropping off trash along the way. (The dump was closed and I had dead bunny in my trunk that I was not taking home again. So I stopped at Friend's old apartment complex, hoped I wouldn't get arrested for trespassing, and dropped of garbage there. I'm resourceful!) I printed Friend's paper to evaluate sentence readability (well, I printed 34 of the 63 pages - that's a lot of knowledge there), turned in my receipts from my trip and lent Boss the conference CD. Feeling relatively productive, I decided to send an email.

Dr. Icing,

For some reason, I think you know someone at the Place I Want To Work. I was thinking about it this morning since the hiring committee will meet within the next couple of weeks re: Position that I badly want. I wondered - if you do have a contact there - if you (or he) might be willing to write a quick email to talk me up a bit. If not, that's fine too. I think I was impressive enough at the interview, but it never hurts to be sure. (Chatting about work stuff).

Thanks, Katie

He replied immediately, said he did know someone there and forwarded the email he'd sent to his friend.

It was great to see you at [redacted]! I am contacting you because a friend and collaborator at Current Institution – Katie [LastName] – has applied for a position [there]. Katie is brilliant and she would be a fantastic addition to any center that would be lucky enough to recruit her.

As I was writing this, Dr. Icing forwarded the email that his friend had sent the hiring director that talked about what a "terrific addition" I would be, spoke of my "excellent background" and continued that he "cannot tell you how thrilled we would be to have [Katie] as part of the [group there]." I have a post planned about how I feel weird about submitting journal articles to editors I know personally. Yet I'm perfectly happy to exploit any resource that occurs to me to find employment in the fall.

The biggest boost - apart from the compliments that had me dabbing at tears (I'm quite emotional lately) - was that I did something. The problem with not finding suitable postings at the conference was that I didn't apply anywhere new. Waiting while being completely passive has weighed me down with pessimism over the entire job search. I need to do something - anything - and Dr. Icing helped me do that. And I adore him for it.

So between reading Friend's very impressive paper (Yay for Friend for being smart and writing beautifully! Even in the face of criticism!), attending a seminar and helping Marlie with some political situations that didn't quite translate without my interpretation, I felt nearly happy.

Someone I like and respect a great deal called me brilliant. I might have received an important boost in the eyes of the hiring committee. I felt more stable - I printed a paper for Boss, I answered some email and revised my to-do list. I told Marlie we'd have lunch tomorrow, feeling capable of reassuring her and offering pep talks since I didn't feel quite so heavy anymore.

It's not all sweetness and light - not that much has changed. But there was a hint of brightness today. And it seemed impossibly lovely.

It's a matter of cropping.

"It might blur," Friend warned when I snapped the photo. "It's a little windy."

I shrugged in response, disappointed that there weren't more flowers out. They came in waves of loveliness this year - one type of tree at a time filled with blooms before the leaves crowded them out and the next group of trees would blossom. I was bored today (and sad - so heavy with the sadness lately) and decided to redo my header and sidebar graphics. I was flipping through old photos and came across this one, wrinkled my nose, then pronounced it perfect for blog images.

I've become - through necessity rather than natural talent - quite good at picking out the pretty parts of the picture. Data has been hard to acquire for various reasons throughout my career so I analyze and ponder and read before plucking out the components I think are useful. It's like drawing the selection box in PhotoShop and scooting it around until the right amount of pink flowers and green grasses are contained within it. Avoid the dead branches, tighten the focus, ignore that which isn't interesting. Frame the tiny selection with the proper colors and emphasize certain elements of the composition. And bask in the glory of a blog (or paper or abstract) that made something pretty from raw data which was less than impressive.

Friend is struggling through a large dataset at the moment. I vary between being envious of her and grateful her problem isn't mine. It's hard to find those patterns. And frustrating to develop a methodology on the fly when you're doing something new and different. But it's good to feel useful. And when you finally figure it out, that rush of 'how smart am I?!' is rather delightful.

I'm thinking through two papers at the moment and think I've reached the conclusion that there's just not enough there in one case. We've submitted it to two journals and they have very valid concerns that I just can't fix. And at some point, I tire of trying to spin something into something that it isn't. I think case reports (or papers on small datasets) are important and can illustrate excellent work. But I don't know how to fix this particular collection of points. It's very novel and important and with an additional 10 subjects would be a Big Deal. But I can't get additional data. Which sort of breaks my poor, sad heart.

And while I'm still tweaking details and waiting for feedback on another paper, I'm tired. Everything on my list was started at least a year ago. I'm bored. And worried about where I'm going next. And there's just not enough going on to splice a piece out to make a good blog post.

So, look! Click over and look at the pretty header! That's all I have right now.

Lawn Lessons, part...too many

I decided, having accomplished little else today, that I would mow the back yard this afternoon. I can't seem to shake this 'nothing matters and I'm so screwed anyway, so why not just sleep and drink and snack?' mood I have. Deciding it wasn't too hot in the late afternoon sunshine, I put on liberally stained sneakers and shoved the fully-gassed mower to the gate that keeps my dog safely in her yard.

"I let her out," I confessed to Friend last weekend. "I thought she'd stay with me." That statement earned me a wry look and I ducked my head sheepishly. "Well, Brother's dog is good! And Chienne always stays inside her gate like a good girl. So I told her she could come out and walk to the garage with me! But then she ran away."

Friend nodded.

"But she did come back," I offered and when I only got another look in return, I qualified the statement. "After she was gone for several minutes and we got in the car to go find her and she hopped inside once we pulled down the street."

"I learned that lesson," I said earlier today, talking to Chienne this time as she wagged her tail at me. "You stay there," I ordered and she waited like a good dog while I pushed the mower inside and closed the gate behind me.

"Oh," I gasped, prancing away from the front corner of the yard. "No, no, no, no, no!" Firmly resolving not to think about what I had seen, I moved to the back patio and yanked the cord to bring the machine rumbling to life. I moved around the edges of the fence twice and began on the far side of the yard as I clipped the grass.

Lesson: It's much easier to do what I should than to procrastinate. Mowing every other week is hard and requires restarting the mower multiple times when it becomes choked with clippings. It's only been 7 days since I last mowed and it was quick and easy.
Application to Life: I should keep up with journals and keep revising and writing papers even when I really don't want to deal with any of it. It's easier to keep up than catch up.

Lesson: Battles work. As I wandered the yard, I noticed with utter delight that the spikey weeds were gone! In fact, I saw nary a dandelion or spikey weed or anything other than healthy grass! Throwing $60 at the Lowe's people in exchange for a big bag of Weed and Feed and a cool spreader, then spending a morning depositing far too many chemical-laden pellets around my yard killed my spikey weeds!
Application to Life: Attack! When I notice a problem and frown and stomp and complain over it, it's probably worth directing that energy toward something useful. It's not fair that journal editors and potential employers and co-authors ignore me! So instead of pouting while I wait to take another nap, I need to start pushing again. It seems like a tremendous amount of work right now, but those weeds don't kill themselves.

I may have missed a few spots while I was finishing the lawn since I was studiously avoiding any glances near the gate. I pushed the mower back toward the garage, and started to chat with Friend online.

Me: There's a dead bunny in my back yard.
Friend: Uh oh.
Me: Uh oh. Shriek. Whatever.
Friend: Do you require assistance?
Me: Obviously. Unless dead bunnies decompose Really Fast.

But we continued to discuss how she'd only do it tonight before it got gross (I already thought it was the epitome of awful, but whatever.) and how she'd just gone home to her cats and how that wasn't fair. She expressed some confidence - despite my repeated claims that I Can't and I'd Vomit - that I could deal with it.

So I closed the laptop and walked to the garage, taking a giant garbage bag, a shovel and an edging tool toward the back gate. Keeping my gaze firmly away from the furry corpse, I leaned the shovel against the wooden pickets and reached to tug the gate open. Then I saw the tiny eyes and the sweet, little feet and started to shake as I scampered toward the front of the house again.

"No, no, no," I said firmly. "Can't, can't, can't."

I came in to complain to Friend that if my neighbors hasn't let their lawns grow into meadows then the bunnies wouldn't have lived there and tried to escape into my yard! It wasn't fair! I didn't do anything to deserve this!

But, Friend reminded me, it was my dog who might drag in the bunny. And my house which would begin to reek when the dead bunny started to smell. Not my fault, perhaps, but it was officially my problem.

"OK," I told Chienne when I went to get two large paper towels and a plastic bag to cover the poor creature while I tried to maneuver it into a garbage bag. "I'm trying again." The dog, brown eyes wide, wisely stayed inside when I went out the back door.

"Just cover you up," I said, turning my head to the side and dropping one towel, peeking over to realize it had almost removed the body from my sight. "I have another one - I'll try again," I murmured in my squeaky I'm-freaking-out voice. "Now I'm just going to slide the shovel underneath and lift and drop." I didn't even have time to sigh with relief before I realized I'd ever so carefully moved the two paper towels into the bag and the bunny remained on the ground. This necessitated a short, grossed-out dance about the yard while I hopped and scampered to gather enough nerve to try again.

"It's done," I emailed Friend a few moments later. "Now I'm sick."

After I washed my hands five times and showered twice, I think I'm clean enough. (No, I never actually came close to touching the creature. But it's better to be safe!) As for the lesson, who knows? I had to deal with a dead bunny! But it's probably something about being more capable than I think I am, sucking it up and dealing with problems even when the issue isn't really my fault and how sometimes really, really, really, really, really icky stuff happens and all there is to do is cope.

Maybe I should shower again.

To Whom It May Concern:

"I have to write a letter," Rachel said upon returning to the dorm several years ago. She withdrew a paper that described the assignment. "Given an audience that has donated money to university in years past, write a persuasive letter encouraging them to give a greater amount this year."

"Huh," Elle and I said, looking at each other. I can't remember how we came up with the letter - if Elle drafted the entire message or if we worked collaboratively. But we came up with the following:

Dear You,

You gave money last year. Good job! You should give again this year. That'd be great - thanks.

Sincerely,

Me

I started to wonder after Friend and I discussed it about whether my cover letters to journal editors read much the same way.

Dear Editor,

Here's a paper I wrote. You should put it in your journal. That'd be great - thanks.

Sincerely,

Katie

"I need examples," I told Friend and she mentioned she had a couple at work. "I wonder if I've been doing it wrong," I mused.

But I thought of people who enjoyed mentoring and came up with the resident expert on most everything. PhysioProf offered the following.
The key is to explain the following items (in order):
(1) a statement of an important open issue in the field;
(2) a statement of how you have addressed this issue methodologically;
(3) a statement of what results you have obtained;
(4) a statement of how these results clarify the open issue;
(5) a statement of what is important about your results and the scope of the audience that will be interested.
So I need to make a bunch of statements about a bunch of stuff. Which is all true and good and lovely, I'm sure, but I need examples! While I talked to Mom earlier tonight (we're both moody and tired) and Friend did something science-related in her lab, I glanced through several pages she had filed and immediately saw an easy pattern to follow.

Editor
Editor's Address (which seems weird since these are emailed, but OK)

Date

Dear You:

Please find attached a manuscript entitled "This Cool Thing I Call My Paper," submitted by me, my important boss's name, and my important collaborators' names. (I think the idea here is that the editor should be pleased and/or impressed by the people I work with since I definitely don't cut it. Good to know!) I think Editor Joe would be appropriate for this submission.

Let me give you a bit of background about this topic. I'm going to do that for about a paragraph, sometimes with relevant references, sometimes by noting what I or my lab have already done in the past. This should, I think, convince you that the overall topic is important. Because it really is. Honest.

Now let's talk about this paper specifically. We present for the first time evidence that (1) first piece of cool knowledge; (2) second bit of nifty results; (3) final gem of scientific glory. I separated them into a numbered list so they'll be easy for you to follow. I'm nice like that.

These results are significant because they answer some question or clarify some issue. A given audience - hopefully the same one that reads this journal - will so totally care about this. Trust me. It'll be super-awesome. Thank you.

Sincerely,

Me
My contact information

So that's what I think I know. Given that I usually just throw something in that little box when I'm submitting a paper, I've usually hit most of the high points. But I wondered if you have hints or advice you'd like to share. If so, you should leave a comment. That'd be great - thanks.

P.S. Richard summoned the knowledge of the Nature Network on this topic so if you don't read him already (which, honestly, you probably should - he's fantastic), pop over for additional information.

En route to & at home

"Did you know we cleared customs here in Toronto?" I asked Taller when he sat next to me in a long hallway in the airport many hours after I'd arrived. "I have a short layover between this flight and the next and was worried I wouldn't make it. But I'm already done."

"Yeah," he sighed. "We're technically in America now." I nodded a bit sadly, aware that being in "America" had kept me a glass wall away from some maple donuts I very much wanted to consume. I could see them, but was not allowed to cross through the doors that separated that side of terminal from the one I was on. Instead, I spent five hours in a small area at the airport. (Look, I had to check out of my hotel, didn't want to leave my bags somewhere to sightsee and was hoping to catch an earlier flight home. But it didn't work out so I did some writing and reading while sitting in chairs or on the floor in "America" there in Toronto. It was unpleasant. No maple donuts. No Lush. Just a paperback I'm pretty sure I'd read before and some revisions and one other document I drafted for fun.)

Taller moved through the doors and nodded at me with some surprise before moving to take the chair to my right just as people were congregating at the gate to board my first flight.

"So what's up when you get back?" I asked since I felt like we should talk about something for these last few minutes. He shrugged and said something about the same old stuff. Papers, grants, work, dealing with his post-doc and student. Then he looked at me expectantly and I ducked my head to look at the ground while I lifted one shoulder.

"I should hear about jobs soon," I said softly, swallowing around the lump in my throat. "I'm tired, Taller," I whispered. "And sad."

"Oh," he said, shifting a little in his seat and glancing around. "Well, um, you could do another post-doc. In a better lab. Or something. Uh, don't worry."

"You're terrible at offering comfort," I said a moment later, wiping at the single tear that escaped and smiling at him. He nodded, looking profoundly relieved that I had controlled messy emotions and spared him having to think of other platitudes. I thought of how I'd asked him how he'd reacted when he fired a student and she cried in response. "I handed her a tissue!" he said defensively. "Then I just repeated my points and sort of waited for her to leave. I don't know what to do."

"I'm ready to go home," I sighed, thinking this conference had been hard and I wanted to escape. It wasn't that Toronto was the problem, but I always have to deal with being me. So barring a change of personality, perhaps a change of scenery - and a return to Friend and her more effective attempts at comfort - would be positive.

"Me too," he agreed and he shook his head when I asked if his girlfriend was meeting him at the airport.

"I'll take a cab or something," he finally replied. "I don't think she's my girlfriend anymore anyway."

"Oh," I said. "I'm sorry. But maybe it will work out."

"No," he stated firmly. "I think it's over."

"Maybe not," I offered again. "You could talk to her."

"I've tried. She wants to leave when her rotation is over. So it's pretty much over."

"It sucks when people don't pick you," I whispered, thinking of these upcoming job decisions and the pain that rejections would bring. Or of relationships when job choices or other people take priority over what you want or need from that person. Moments when you realize you're just not enough - not good or pretty or smart or interesting at a level that makes someone take notice and nod decisively and offer what you want.

"It's weird being here, huh?" I asked Prettiest Cat today while I rested on the floor of my closet today. Friend picked me up at the airport after I'd made a very good friend on the plane (I never talk to my seatmates but I couldn't get this one to leave me alone. But once we started to talk, I found I rather enjoyed him.) and I slept in the office while she and Prettiest Cat took the master bedroom. The latter was placed back in the large attached bathroom and I decided to visit with her after my shower.

"The land of many shoes," I noted with a smile as she rubbed her cheek against the strap of a flip flop and her chin on the high heel of a black pump before wandering back to let me smooth her silky coat again. "But you get to go home soon," I told her. "I wonder if you know that. This is just temporary. I'm home now so Friend will take you home to your friends soon. It'll all be OK. But it's hard when the decisions are out of your control, isn't it?"

I spared a moment to think that she seemed fairly content. She had beds of clothes and towels in addition to the actual bed Friend brought with her. There were rings and toys scattered about near the bowls of wet and dry food and water. She had Friend all to herself last night while my animals were locked out of the bedroom. (Oh, how Chienne missed her favorite friend. There was much whining and sighing that she was left with only me.) "It will be OK," I told her again, rubbing the top of her head before sliding my hand down her spine. She pranced and rolled and cuddled with me for a little while before I pulled myself up from the floor and returned to the living room.

I napped, Friend and I shopped and came home to unload copious Target bags. We had dinner while out and I remain too full for dessert.

"What am I going to do?" I asked her after I said that I didn't want to be alone, though I understood she needed to go home.

"Now?" she asked and I shook my head. "Well," she offered, "I think I'm going to take a post-doc studying something that doesn't interest me because they're the only ones hiring. Then I'll whine a lot."

"I'm sure I'll whine too," I smiled. "It's just a matter of degree, I think. I should send email this week or make phone calls to see where things stand." She nodded in reply. "I'm scared," I told her and she nodded again.

Scared and sad. But home. And it is good to be here. As for the rest, it will somehow be OK. Maybe.

Before Friday - A few photos

The batteries in my camera died the first night I got here. I was able to take a picture of my room before I cluttered it up - it's a compulsion. I arrive and make messes, try as I might to stay neat and tidy. But I did a little shopping this morning, picking up birthday gifts for Carrie as we do a nifty exchange every year now. I also found batteries on sale so I replaced the dead ones and wanted to show you at least a little of this hotel I love.

I'm up very high in a room all by myself. So high that when I press my button in the elevator, people glance at me and wonder if I'm somehow important. I smile mildly at them, grateful they're stopping midway up the building. Otherwise my ears don't quite pop, but they feel the pressure from the quick ascent. The one lovely part about being up here - for my view is not very good - is that I can see the architectural details that aren't so visible from the ground. So I figured out how to open my window today, knelt on my floor, and carefully took several pictures of the arch and columns and embellishments. It's just all so elegant - I really do like it here.

I was thinking that my scientific career could very well be bookended by stays in this very building. That my first poster was carried from a room downstairs through the path that I've walked the last few days as I've attended what could be my last conference as an active scientist.

I wondered when I got here if I just loved it the first time because staying in a hotel for free was new to me. I rather loved the idea that my department was funding the trip and could spend long moments just gazing at the lighting in the lobby. I remember peeking down the spiral staircase and sitting on one of the comfortable chaise lounges in the mezzanine to just soak in the murmur of voices and clicking of shoes on the gleaming floors on the main levels. I sat there again today, turning off the flash of my camera, knowing the picture would likely be blurry but the colors would be closer to reality. I still find it lovely here though - not that I could afford it on my own, but I somehow relax when I walk through the doors. I feel important as I look at the fixtures and carpets and polished railings.

Perhaps it's the contrast of the situation. At the meeting, I feel small and lost and a bit pathetic. I take a deep breath before I greet anyone. But I brace myself, paste on a smile and move toward people who I knew in grad school or met on interviews. I say that I'm fine, thank you, and, yes, I am looking for jobs. Of course it will be fine. Fine, fine, fine.

Though I have been careful to take a pill every day, I'm watching for signs of increasing depression. I tend to feel a lot safer when the door of my room creaks closed behind me. When it's quiet and I can try to distract myself from all that stuff down the street - jobs and science and papers and projects. I can stare at the flowers and bows on the wallpaper while I think through other people's problems. I can sleep and hope some solution occurs to my subconscious while I rest. I run my fingertips up and down the silky braiding at the edge of my duvet and sigh while I wonder what I'm going to do next. If there's going to be this euphoric relief when I get an offer and pounce on it like a rabid hyena. The thoughts stop there in terms of what comes next - doing another post-doc would seem to indicate I'm preparing for a faculty position I don't think I want. I have friends who would hire me, but those options would involve moving farther away. If that's what it comes down to, shouldn't I try to stay where I am? But is that even possible?

I don't usually go much farther than that. Today, for example, I ran a bath and dumped in half a bottle of the complimentary shower gel and smiled when the bubbles mounded atop the oddly-blue water. I tried to take a picture but I couldn't get enough contrast - everything was too white or too pale blue. I looked around for something to place in the water, snorted at the very idea of posting a picture of me in a bathtub on my blog and shrugged. I finally eased into the hot pool of water, wiggled my toes as they stretched to one end of the curving enclosure and giggled when the bubbles came up to my head as the water level rose around my shoulders. I scooped them from around my ears and tossed them into the water in front of me, then picked up my manuscript off the floor and started to edit as the pages grew floppy and heavy with the moisture from my hands.

The only way out is forward - I know that. And while it's true that I'm incredibly good at avoiding what I don't wish to face, I do recognize that I'll soon have to make some choices. But while I wait just a little longer to hear back from those jobs I want, I'm going to admire pretty buildings, order room service once more and stare into a tub full of popping bubbles while they swirl around me or gaze out the window at the green stains on those pretty arches and columns.

I would say that I wish you were here, but in a way, you have been. I'm reaching the point where I feel badly enough about the job situation that I'm replying to any inquiries with a requisite 'Fine! Everything's fine!' because I don't know what to say and I'd rather not talk about it. So having this space to complain and whine and be honest about doing all the wrong things at this meeting and getting such lovely comments in return has been profoundly soothing. I may feel small and lost and pathetic, but I do not feel at all alone. I'm not sure how to thank you for that, but if I think of a way to let you know how meaningful it is, I'll be sure to let you know.

Group meetings

“OK,” I told myself firmly as I tried to think and walk at the same time, “don’t act drunk. Act,” I paused to think of the right word and was distracted by how cool fog is. It’s like, like… like a cloud, but…thinner! And the CN Tower is tall! The top is like way far away from the ground. I went up in the CN Tower once. Got relatively drunk. Giggled a lot. Thought life was really amazing and lovely. I smiled while deciding that being a bit tipsy was certainly a happy state for me before reminding myself that I was walking alone back to my hotel. Giving a frown of disapproval to my two companions who had abandoned me for an extra 30 minutes of sleep, I picked up my former train of thought.

“Act aware,” I decided. “Head up, look around. No, not at the fog! Make eye contact with people – I read that somewhere. Oops, don’t think I was supposed to smile and say hello. Perhaps I should look sterner. Frown. There you go, keep frowning. See how I’m frowning, stranger? You should leave me alone. Hey! Look at the lights and how they play with the fog! Fog is awesome. Look, there’s my hotel! I love my hotel – all pretty and big with the green accents and the… the stairs and the elevators and the beds.”

Given that Toronto has always felt very safe to me (and perhaps that I’m an excellent frowner), I made it safely to my room. Due only to my excellent speed at going from dressed to pajamas, I fell asleep on top of the covers suitably attired for resting. I woke up a few hours later, realized my contacts were in and my face unwashed but was again unconscious before I could act on either situation.

I woke at 7 this morning – I know this because I opened one eye to look at the red numbers on the digital clock – and whimpered a little. I am not feeling particularly well right now. Luckily, the bottle of pills resides on my nightstand in my pretty room so I took an Advil and Excedrin and flopped back on the pillows for a few minutes. But I soon pulled the drapes closed, got in the shower and made coffee. Fog no longer seems all that amazing and those bellinis I had at the pretty bar near King Street are seeming like a bit of a bad idea. I only had two, happily sipping the peachy goodness mixed with rum and champagne and some other yumminess for several hours while talking with old colleagues.

“I’d have one,” Smarter said, staring at my second drink when I plucked the tiny plastic elephant from the mounds of adult slush. “But it’s too girly.”

“But it’s delicious,” I said, mixing the orange mound of frozen drink with the plum-colored pool around its edge. Smarter began to play with the mermaid that had come on my first drink, prancing the elephant around her. When he put it on top of her, I took it away from him, placing it on the other side of the table and rolling my eyes when he reached across me to retrieve it.

Taller continued to look sad across the table and I bit back the impulse to offer to listen while he talked. His current girlfriend might be moving and while he pronounced it ‘too much drama’ and said the relationship would probably end when she rotated to a different hospital, his eyes looked forlorn.

“I’m sorry,” I’d said earlier after I’d pried details from him with insistent questions.

“He’ll find another one,” Smarter scoffed while we walked down a hill trying to find a suitable establishment.

“He likes this one,” I replied firmly and frowned at Smarter while wanting to pat Taller’s arm. (It isn’t that Taller isn’t smart, by the way. He truly is. It’s just that Smarter is freaking brilliant.)

“So what’s been going on at this meeting?” I asked at some point. They both shook their heads in response, saying they stayed in on Monday, had a couple of drinks on Tuesday and were out with me on Wednesday. “Isn’t that pretty tame?” I asked, recalling our last trip to Toronto when we did shots until 1 then sat at a beer garden for another hour or so before they went off the clubs, leaving Carrie and I to head back to the hotel.

“We’re tired,” Smarter said. “We’re trying to be at the meeting by 10.”

“Ten?” I exclaimed. “You used to party until 4 and still show up at 7!”

“That was when we were young,” Taller said with a sad shake of his 30-year-old head. “Now we sleep.”

“Screw the morning sessions,” Smarter said and we clinked glasses together to emphasize the statement. But I still marveled at the change.

“I didn’t have any gray hair before I took this faculty job,” Taller said of his first year on the tenure track. I peered across the table in the bar and nodded at the appearance of his temples.

“Fucking grants,” Smarter said. “I wake up in the morning and think what am I going to do in two years or five years or next year?” Smarter was just awarded tenure at 33 (he’s really very smart and didn’t do a post-doc) and is safely funded for another couple of years. He’s charismatic and funny, bright and personable, driven and creative. The senior member of my group when I started grad school, I thought that I could never be like him. I was right.

“There are positions other than faculty,” he told me later in an attempt at comfort. And we discussed the lack of deadlines in post-doctoral positions – no grants equal no push to complete something by a given date. We talked through my current options, they both made encouraging noises and I finally shrugged and changed the subject. We told funny stories and I giggled as we caught up on gossip. The conversation soon dwindled to include only Smarter and myself, seated as we were in the two chairs across the table from Taller. He slumped into the padded seat against a wall and looked sleepy and sad.

“I love this drink,” Smarter said of his dirty martini. I shook my head at him as he playfully pranced my elephant around the table before I sent another worried glance to Taller. “Another round?” Smarter asked and I evaluated the state of my head and decided I was done.

“I have to walk back to my hotel,” I noted and decided it would only take about 10 minutes but I didn’t want to be severely incapacitated for the journey. “And I think Taller is ready for bed.”

“We should go to a club!” Smarter said once we’d left money on the table and wandered outside. I was trying to make sure I was properly balanced enough to walk, feeling relieved when I didn’t feel all that sloppy, though I tucked my hand in Smarter’s elbow for a bit of extra help. We made our way back to Front Street and our respective hotels, avoiding puddles at intersections and talking about how we were all old and tired and the sadness of that realization. Not that I’ve ever been to a club – it’s just not a Katie sort of activity.

What is a Katie sort of activity? I had engaged in a few earlier yesterday. I found YoungerStudent at her poster, pausing to smooth the wrinkle from the shoulder of her blouse and smiling at her fondly. We talked again about projects and prelims, research and career goals.

“Can I tell you something that bothers me?” she asked after we’d talked for a bit.

“Please,” I said and put on my thoughtful expression.

“When we talk about my fellowship and what a blessing it was that I got it on the first try, OlderStudent says it’s because I’m a minority.”

“Oh,” I said, blinking with surprise.

“And it eats me up inside that she thinks I’m not smart enough to get it and only am here because I’m black.”

I opened my mouth and closed it again, genuinely shocked. I’m sad, though not really surprised, that people might think that of her but I was caught off guard by it being said directly to her. Multiple times, apparently.

“She just,” I stopped myself, horrified that I was going to explain OlderStudent’s behavior and shook my head firmly, reaching out to touch YoungerStudent’s arm. “No. OK. Starting over. First, that’s not true. You know that’s not true and it’s inexcusable and awful and incredibly offensive that she said that to you. I was going to explain that she feels very vulnerable that she tried so hard to get that fellowship and couldn’t. So she’s trying to explain her failure by making your accomplishment seem smaller. But that’s not an excuse because that statement is grossly inappropriate and just plain wrong. It’s not true, sweetheart.”

She looked at the ground and nodded while I searched for something more to say. “There are,” I said slowly, trying to find the right words, “all kinds of ways to feel inadequate in academic fields. All sorts of people who are just waiting to help you do that.” She smiled at me then and I let my lips curve momentarily before continuing. “I don’t know how to avoid letting it eat you up inside – such a statement would wound me too. But it’s bullshit and you somehow have to know that. As for what you do in response, that’s up to you. You can correct her or avoid her or blow her off – I don’t know what the right answer is here. You could go to Advisor and have him step in and talk to her. Or I could say something to her tonight at dinner if you’d like.”

She assured me that she’d take care of it, looking suddenly proud and strong.

“I’m sorry this is a part of your life – your educational experience,” I said, shaking my head. “I think you’re amazing and talented and very smart.”

“You’re a blessing to me,” she said and I rolled my eyes. “No!” she protested. “Every time I see you I feel like a weight is lifted and I’m more capable and excited about doing what needs to be done.”

“I’m glad,” I said sincerely and shook my head when she asked if it drained me to talk to her. “Not at all,” I replied. “It sometimes makes me sad – I hate that there’s this extra layer of difficulty for you because it’s so completely wrong. But I do think you’re wonderfully strong and completely capable and I’m very glad I know you.” We hugged and said our good-byes and I offered a quick prayer for her as I wandered away.

OlderStudent and I met for dinner not much later, wandering the rainy streets and settling on a place because it was close. We talked of defenses and applications, papers and research, travel and teeth (long story – not very interesting). (And not my teeth – my teeth are fine, thank you.) OlderStudent doesn’t want advice, I thought, not for the first time. She wants to talk and have someone listen. She wants to hear that she’s smart and capable and will be OK. And I can give her that – I’m actually happy to give her that while I sip water and nibble vegetables on the side of my steak tips and mashed potatoes. But I remain frustrated that she can't feel some empathy for others given her own insecurities.

“She’s a minority too,” Taller said later when I told him about the racial issue between Older and Younger students.

“What?” Smarter said from across the room, still messing with his hair and picking out a shirt while I sat at the desk in the corner of their room.

“There’s not a box to check for lesbian, Taller,” I said and he grinned as Smarter made a sound of understanding and went back to becoming pretty enough to go out. I shook my head at the idea that I’d gotten dressed, did hair and make-up and walked to their hotel and was still waiting for a man to complete his preparation ritual. Honestly. “I do think it’s sad that she likely understands discrimination and being different than the majority, yet still tries to make YoungerStudent feel smaller by using such an awful method.”

Taller opened his mouth to answer – he’s vehemently against any sort of affirmative action – but Smarter interrupted by saying he was ready. And then there was drinking. And now there is pain. And soon there must be some move to dry my hair and dress so there can be learning. (But I did buy internet for my last full day in the hotel so I should be commenting and reading again soon! As a blanket statement, I hope you're all well.)

Not Present

The problem with the ‘publish a post in the morning at the conference’ plan comes when one doesn’t write a post the night before. Somewhere in the midst of attending sessions and taking notes and responding to email, after I’d taken a nap and a shower and gone out with friends, I ended up falling asleep instead of typing out some of my impressions of Tuesday. So this will be an exercise in memory after drinking last night.

I was sitting on the floor, back to a wide column, availing myself of free conference internet yesterday morning when I glanced up and waved at a member of my graduate committee. I had been typing to Carrie about how there weren’t jobs I wanted and what was I going to do and this was oh-so-awful, but paused to smile up at one of the men who’d taken an uncomfortable meeting with me around the time of my defense debacle. We exchanged pleasantries while I tried to remember if I cried in front of him or not.

“So how are things?” I asked at the same time he did. But I waited longer, chin lifted high as I continued to sit on the ground while he stood above me, and he shrugged.

“I got tenure,” he said and shrugged again at my congratulations. “So now I need to figure out what I want to do and where I want to be for the rest of my life.” I nodded and said I was trying to do the same thing, albeit without tenure.

“I don’t think I want it that badly,” I confessed. “The grants and rejections and politics…”

“You’d know more about that than most,” he replied and I shrank back from him and blinked back tears. While he talked about examining options carefully and knowing your priorities and evaluating pros and cons, I nodded while I stared at the floor. I swallowed hard, braced myself and glanced up at him again.

I was saved by the arrival of another collaborator who captured my conversational companion’s attention before I asked if I’d always be a failure in their eyes. Four years of work and pressure and productivity reduced to the lingering memory of the defense that went wrong. And while I told that story to prove that one could recover from such an experience, I don’t think I have. I recoiled from the page in the program that held notice of Pete’s talk on Monday. I spend little time at the meeting that day, avoiding thoughts of past and future problems with food and a massage and time in the bathtub.

I finally found my feet, touched the arm of the man who’d been kind to me when he sat on my committee and told him I should go find a seat. He smiled and nodded and I walked briskly toward a meeting room. I sat down and rifled through the items in my bag, not able to decide what to remove. I tucked my feet under my chair and slowly inhaled, reminding myself that being melodramatic served little purpose at the moment.

But I screwed up the end of grad school where most people slide right through. I more or less blew a post-doc that should have been ideal. And I have no idea what I’ll do if neither of these jobs work out. Failure hovered around me like a dark cloud, I decided, going for melodrama since it is a strength of mine. I felt lost and afraid and very upset as I sat there on one side of the room. I couldn’t stand sitting there for two hours, so I gripped the handle of my bag and rose, unsure of my destination but requiring some sort of escape.

When I recognized a couple of people, my breathing slowed and I relaxed as I sat next to them. Distracted from my inner demons, I chatted until the first talk began.

Demons lurk though and after the fourth talk, I realized I was dreadfully bored. I was pretty sure each speaker was covering the exact same information. And if it was only vaguely interesting on the first try, the fourth had me battling yawns and heavy eyelids. But the coffee I made a sipped in my room before leaving helped me out and I clapped twice for the fourth speaker before excusing myself and heading to a different room.

I’m not stupid, I told myself firmly. That was just not interesting! I’ll go somewhere else and then I will be stimulated and entertained.

Crap, I thought 30 minutes later, sitting next to Dawn in a different, much less crowded meeting room. I am stupid. This is awfully boring too. Despite internal pep talks of the encouraging and stern variety, I only made it through 3 speakers there before I told Dawn I’d see her later and slipped my bag on my shoulder. To my surprise, she preceded me out the door.

“Those were bad,” she said once we’d taken several steps from the doors that closed behind us.

“Really?” I asked, thrilled and relieved and she nodded emphatically. We spoke to several people while we stood there – folks from my current institution would stop to say hello then flit away to their next engagements. Dawn decided to attend a symposium with me and we found seats in the room early and settled in to talk.

“I’m going to move in with my parents in a couple months,” she told me and I blinked in surprise, remembering when she’d tried to find houses not all that long ago. “I don’t know if my position will be renewed and I’m looking at applying for grants but nothing is guaranteed. So I should save money and be wise about finances. Plus, I don’t see my parents enough.”

“Oh,” I said, nodding as I absorbed the information. But I give honesty for honesty, so I disclosed that I could very well be screwed in terms of career development. “I wish I knew something from Industry and Pseudo-Academic places,” I sighed. “I’m looking at the job boards now and there’s nothing that I want to do. Nowhere that I want to live. But I’m not sure if it’s time to panic and apply widely for another post-doc or if I should relax, see what happens and figure something out later. I want to move closer to home and don’t really want to postpone that for three years to go to New York or San Francisco.” I paused to think I was afraid of both places – lots of aggressive people who would potentially be mean to me and potential earthquakes, respectively – and thought with a sharp pain that it might be time to give it up. Do something else. Let this science thing go. I don’t want it to come down to a choice of professional versus personal. And I don’t know what I’ll do if it does.

I did, however, feel comforted as we exchanged comments and questions there in a large room that slowly filled with people. I’m not alone – other people are equally confused and unsure of the right decision.

“I’m almost 30,” I sighed as the hands of my watch indicated we’d soon begin with the dissemination of knowledge again. “I thought I’d be more settled. More sure of what was happening next. But I don’t know that I’m any farther than I was at 22.”

“Hush,” I was scolded. “I’m older than you and I don’t know much either. But I have a friend who got married and has a baby and she says that’s hard too. Options are more limited, the responsibility is much greater. It’s just all difficult sometimes.” I nodded while I considered it, and reminded myself that the choices that got me here were mine. I didn’t get married or have children. I want to be closer to my parents and nieces. I took an easy post-doc rather than accepting something with a higher profile. And I spent hours at a computer writing a blog rather than doing constant research. This was all done with the hope that it would all work out. And perhaps it will.

I returned to my room later – delicious Greek food in hand – and had lunch. I started putting together the presentation I’ll give to the group upon my return home. I was sent to learn and I have attended some sessions (Some. Not a lot.) so I have things to talk about. As I downloaded papers and searched through abstracts, clipped figures and pasted them into PowerPoint, I realized I do think this is neat. There’s important work by brilliant people with the goal of making life better. That’s lovely and I hope I can continue my involvement in the field.

But when I was heading to a bar with OlderStudent and some younger guys who are now in the graduate program at my alma matter, I told them my name. When the taller of the two asked for a reminder a moment later, I easily repeated that I was Katie and offered my last name as well.

“Oh,” he said, glancing at me with sharper attention. “You’re Katie LastName!”

“Oh, no,” I said mildly, shaking my head with a bit of dismay. “That can’t be good.” After I moved through the revolving door onto the street, he said he hadn’t heard anything bad and I smiled while I shrugged.

“No, really,” he said earnestly. “It’s not like there are signs that say, ‘For a good time, call Katie,’ and then give your cell phone number! What is your cell phone number, by the way?” he asked and I smiled, remaining silent while he laughed.

I was known, I thought mildly as the evening wore on. I sipped wine and yelled across the table in a vain attempt at conversation with a new faculty member. I waved and smiled at people I knew and marveled that there were many new faces who had joined the groups since I’d departed. I was smart and friendly and knew a lot of science, I recalled of my graduate career. I wrote a good deal of documentation in grad school, so people might know my name because it’s on a lot of how-to files. I was moderately active in grad school politics – more inter-departmental than anything – and some of that work lingers when people continue it. Or they could say that I’m the one who tried to defend and couldn’t. Who left without a degree and came back for it later. Who wasn’t quite good enough to get it right the first time.

I waved at the tall guy as OlderStudent and I left the party a couple hours later. For a good time, I thought, I’m the wrong person to call. But I will put that line on my blog.

(It really was a sad day. I could use hugs. Or cupcakes. Maybe a snuggly stuffed animal to cuddle. But we continue on from here tomorrow.)

How to conference like a Katie

Ten Easy Steps!

1. Get a room to yourself.
   
1. It might seem lonely and expensive, but think of the quiet.
   
2. Getting up or sleeping in, of napping without wondering if someone is going to wake you mid-dream.
   
3. Consider spreading out face wash and moisturizer and eye cream, contacts and 3 make-up brushes and tubs of powders to make your face pretty.
   
4. All the complimentary toiletries are just for you!
   
5. I used every single hanger and felt not a moment's guilt.
   
6. Oh, and yes, I do require all four pillows. I could actually use a couple more.
7. Does my room need to be 65 degrees? It doesn't matter - I'm the only one who needs to snuggle under blankets to sleep.
   
2. Attend the talks that should be good.
1. When you think of how to spend an hour or two, weigh the advantages of 3 invited speakers who have carefully rehearsed their remarks and focus sharply on their topics against 15-20 peer-reviewed abstracts from a generally younger crowd who are visibly nervous and somewhat unclear.
   
2. Check the program for sessions that sound fascinating. It's a bad sign if reading the titles alone makes you want to nap.
3. Take breaks. Pacing is very important.
   
3. Find that food court you think you might have seen once several years ago.
   
1. Wander with wide-eyed delight while noting that they have Chinese and Thai and Greek and Italian and all sorts of soups and sandwiches.
   
2. Decide on a burrito and mull over future lunch schedules.
   
4. Get a massage.
   
1. Are you not stiff and sore from the plane? Of course you are. Poor thing.
   
2. Decide to do the aromatherapy massage.
1. Reject smelling like a bar of chocolate.
2. Or a cookie.
3. Or a orange or pink grapefruit.
4. Dither between lavender and some other herb you can't recall.
   
5. Pick the herb you can't recall.
   
3. Sigh as the muscles are lulled into relaxation with smooth strokes of strong fingers. Neck and back and legs and feet. Ankles and knees and hands and shoulders.
   
4. Fill out the comment card while sipping lemon water in the complimentary robe.
   
5. Shuffle in borrowed slippers to dress again.
6. Assure your therapist that you'll get right on it when she recommends a hot bath.
7. Tip well.
   
5. Take hot bath - it's massage therapist recommended.
   
1. Coo over depth of the tub in your room.
   
2. Pour some shower gel under the stream of water and sit on the floor, resting your arms on the edge of the tub and watching the water level rise and the bubbles catch the light.
3. Ease into hot water, realize you covet the depth of this tub and relax.
4. Wonder vaguely if the water can reach your skin since you're coated liberally with oil that smells like some herb you can't remember.
   
5. Pick up thick, square bar of soap and begin to lather.
   
6. Upon realizing you remain slippery with oil, continue to scrub with a bit more attention.
   
7. Frown when it's not doing much good and settle into the water again.
   
8. Plan attack against residual oil.
   
9. Pounce on soap and lather and scrub, trying to take the oil by surprise.
   
10. Sigh with failure and resign yourself to being slippery forever and ever.
    
11. Wonder if you'll receive some oil-based nickname. Or have to change the title of your blog to reflect this new facet of your being.
12. Dry off and put on pajamas again.
    
6. Pick up the schedule, try to decide between two moderately interesting sessions.
   
1. Read abstracts and yawn.
   
2. Decide to lie down while you think.
   
3. Read more abstracts and blink sleepily.
4. Decide to rest your eyes while you think some more.
5. Wake after sessions are over having enjoyed a nice nap.
   
7. Think yourself weak, but buy internet anyway.
1. Check email in all accounts, refresh bloglines and google reader.
2. Feel giddy that you can read about what you've missed!
3. Find out all is well with Friend - experiments going well, no mention of feeling terribly ill and news that she at least slept a bit with Chienne under the covers next to her, Sprout on patrol and Prettiest Cat in my master bathroom.
1. Smile when told that Prettiest Cat is lonely and decided to nudge her mouth under the door to make sure the outside inhabitants knew of her displeasure.
2. Giggle when told that Chienne was distracted by a pouch of Mighty Dog while Prettiest Cat moved in.
   
3. Feel badly when Sprout claws Friend's leg while playing tag with Chienne.
   
8. Order room service.
   
1. A delightful sandwich with chicken and mushrooms and cheese.
   
2. And chocolate cake. With a chocolate straw. And caramel sauce. And berries.
   
3. Stare at chocolate cake, trying to decide if it or that movie guy last night is prettier.
   
4. Decide the question is too hard.
   
9. Shower.
1. Finally succeed in shampooing and lathering and scrubbing the oil from your body.
2. Feel ridiculously proud.
   
3. Snuggle into fresh pajamas and drink a bit more water before bed.
   
10. Write a blog post you can publish immediately.
    

It's probably best if you do not --

1. Skip the morning coffee you alway have and feel terribly sluggish all day.
2. Decide since it's warm several hours to the south, you only need a couple of sweaters for a week in lovely-but-slightly-chilly conference city.
3. Stare at job boards and realize there's not anything that says, "Katie! Pick me!" Begin to Freak Out and wonder what the hell you're going to do in a few months. Today was good. July - as my fellowship time runs out - might not be. Tomorrow I'll try to figure out what to do about that while I'm here. Luxury does come at a price.
   

Arrival, Surreal

The inevitable crash of energy came after we arrived in Canada. I went through the twitchy-with-nerves phase on the way to my local airport. Friend was glad to be rid of me, I’m sure, though she did give me a hug when I demanded it. Then I endured the flights, still tense but calmer than I had been. I just wanted to be done, honestly. And though I was battling to stay alert, aware and efficient, when my entire flight boarded a shuttle to take us to customs, I sagged in my seat while breathing in exhaust fumes for 10 minutes while we waited for pokey passengers to make their ways to the bus. Screw it, I thought, and let exhaustion take over and the world fade to a hazy set of objects.

It took me a good 5 minutes to realize the first lane was shorter than the second as I stared at the signs welcoming me to Canada. I glanced around for a moment, evaluated which agent looked friendlier, and plodded over to a new line. I stood while people moved to the red line and past the red line and thought it might be nice to sit and chat with people all the time. Where’d you go? What’d you bring back? Why are you visiting? It’s like hearing vacation stories but you get paid!

“Hi,” I said to cute customs agent before handing him my passport. I’m sure I looked more sleepy than nervous and he took a moment to smile before asking me where I came from and why I was here. “There’s a conference downtown,” I told him solemnly, wanting to treat the situation with the gravity it deserved.

“So you work at the hospital?” he asked after I told him what I did.

“The medical center,” I replied and cocked my head when he looked at me for a moment. “Oh,” I finally said sheepishly. “Those are the same thing. Sorry.”

“No alcohol or tobacco?” he asked while he shook his head a bit and scribbled on my form.

“None,” I said happily, pleased we were almost done.

“Good,” he replied with a final grin. “They’re not good for you anyway.”

“I’d heard that,” I said, “but I appreciate the reminder.” I heard him chuckle as I walked down another aisle, hoping it would take me to my checked bag. It did and I tugged the rolling suitcase along behind me, eagerly awaiting the cab ride that would deposit me at the hotel so I could shower and rest.

“Taxi?” A short, young man asked when I came around the corner and moved around a crowd of people toward where the arrow under the pictures of cars pointed.

“Yes,” I said, glancing at him before moving a couple steps farther toward the doors that led outside. He reached for my suitcase and I relinquished the handle without complaint as he asked where I was headed.

“Downtown,” I replied and offered the name of my hotel.

“I’ll take you,” he said decisively and I followed him to an escalator. It wasn’t until he led me into a deserted parking garage that I snapped out of my foggy acquiescence and became alarmed.

‘This doesn’t seem good,” a voice said in my head. When another, louder voice screamed, ‘What the fuck are you doing?!’ I smiled and thought that I had a PP character in my brain, realized even Friend would scold me for this decision, and paused near the door we’d just entered and glanced around at the concrete columns the separated that parking areas.

“Where are we going?” I asked, aware that he still had all my clothes and toiletries but deciding that some belated caution was better than none at all. He pointed to an area that contained 2 vehicles and I took two steps forward before pausing again. I stayed where I was, unsure of what to do next and feeling really more stupid than afraid, and blinked at him when he turned around.

“You’re going downtown,” he confirmed and named my hotel while I nodded. I must have looked indecisive and moderately freaked out because he named a price, said he could give me a receipt when I got there and opened the rear door of a minivan before moving to put my luggage in the back.

I weighed the chances of getting murdered and having my body found somewhere in this country to our north against the more probable outcome of getting to the hotel safely and not having to find my way back to the terminal and catching another cab. Then I shrugged philosophically and stepped into the minivan.

“Where are all the people? Why’d we come up here?” I asked, already committed to the ride but remaining curious as to my fate. He explained that he didn’t plan to work for long and didn’t feel like paying the fee to pull around front. So he grabbed people as they came out and went to the parking area. I nodded and listened while he talked about his children and his goal of playing professional sports and housing prices and his wife and various girlfriends.

Just when you think it can’t get any stranger, we arrived at the hotel and found massive amounts of traffic in front. I briefly wondered if I was dreaming – there were bright lights and classic cars and people dressed up in clothing from decades ago. Oh, crap, I thought mildly. There’s Santa Claus in front of my hotel. I finally had the psychotic break. I spared a moment to feel grateful I was too tired to be overly worried about this new development when my driver offered that they must be shooting a movie.

“Oh,” I said softly. “So you see Santa too?” He was busy trying to find a place to stop – we parked behind a water truck and I wondered if they were going to make it rain soon and thought that I rather liked rain – and didn’t answer. I grabbed my suitcase and carried it toward the front doors, unable to let it roll through the puddles that had already formed.

“Excuse me,” I said to a well-dressed couple from the 20s. They moved aside and I wandered toward the entrance (and consequently toward Santa – I’m so seriously not making this up), admired a woman in red and her perfect hair and clothing and paused next to a man who was exquisitely gorgeous and a bit scruffy.

“Hi,” I said, busy admiring him for a moment. He allowed me to gaze at his face until I blinked myself back to reality and smiled. “Um, may I go in?” He nodded and smiled and I let my lips curve dreamily in return.

I now sit, contacts out and glasses on, freshly showered and clad in pajamas, writing a blog post I won’t publish until tomorrow morning. (It's tomorrow morning! Hello, blog friends!) I could note that the attendant on my first flight was a power-hungry twit. She was adamant about me putting my purse in my slender laptop case because you can only have one carry-on. (Freaking new rules – screw you, Northwest. Seriously. Not Cool.) Then she sat at the front when we landed and yelled out seat numbers of people who had unfastened their seat belts while we waited for the ground crew to come. “8C, fasten your seat belt! And tell you neighbor in front of you to do it too.” Then she laughed but she laughed alone – I think we had a uniform hatred of her, which is impressive for a 30 minute flight.

Then there was the endless line to get my room key. Why do all the people at 11PM have complicated questions and problems? I’m sleepy! And everything’s seeming really surreal! I saw Santa, for crying out loud! I could have been killed not 20 minutes ago! It’s really hard to stuff a medium sized purse in a relatively full laptop case and I’m Really Very Tired!

It sums up to the fact that I’m here safely. And I’m going to bed. (And I don’t know that I’ll buy internet while I’m in my room, so you may be stuck with posts I publish from the conference. I miss you already!)

Collection of moments

This trip to the zoo was quite pleasant. The sun peeked through the clouds before ducking behind them again at random intervals. It was breezy and cool enough, though I still dabbed at sweat while we wandered the paths and stared at animals until children got too loud and drove us to the next exhibit.

"Hey," Friend said happily when we stopped by a glass enclosure soon after arriving, "someone's in the right pose!" She took out her camera and began to take photos while I folded my arms on the top of the glass and rested my chin atop. I watched the meerkats form piles so they could nap, peered down into their tunnel system and followed a particularly busy creature as he moved to and fro. But there was one who had stationed himself in the plant and stayed still.

I didn't take my camera - Friend's pictures were far better than mine last time and I didn't feel like carrying a case around. But she worries over lighting and focus and potential blurriness. There's proof that worrying works though - it created a series of pictures of which I'm excessively fond. You can see the change in light when the clouds covered the sun. I can smile when the animal stared directly at us before turning away and deciding to mostly ignore our presence. And I can think of standing next to Friend at the zoo on a pretty day in early May. A random collection of moments, no one of which sticks out as overly profound or important. No story feels particularly worthy of a blog post. We neither laughed extremely hard nor cried, though there was sighing over calculations we'd done wrong or cooing over excellent shrimp rolls and some sort of coconut soup and our respective curries from the Thai place and waiting while I copied my CV and grabbed a few last documents from the office.

Friend sent me an announcement for the zoo the other day and noted there are cool events in August and September. She concluded by saying it was likely that neither of us would be here then. And what I'll miss - what I always miss when I move away from a very dear and much beloved friend - are those random collections of moments and the easy ability to have more.

Revelations @ Group Meeting

I realized at a lunch meeting that arrival times could be determined from the beverage cans that sat adjacent to the plates holding pizza. Those of us who arrived early grabbed the much coveted Diet Coke. The on-timers chose between bottles of water and Dr. Pepper. And if you got there after the scheduled time had passed, well, sorry. You're drinking Sprite. Despite my continuing mood of annoyance and sadness, I felt rather proud every time I took a sip of Diet Coke.

*****

"I was so nervous," K offered and rested his forehead on the back of my shoulder as I turned my head to see him standing behind me. Confused over the source of his discomfort - he's been here a month longer than I have and he should know group meetings are very tame - and the fact that he was touching me with his head, I took a step away and turned to face him.

"Really?" I asked though I could see how he was standing more casually now than when we first started the meeting. He tends to come talk to me sometimes and I tend to be befuddled by his solicitations of advice. 'Ask anyone, K,' I feel like telling him, 'because it's pretty clear I have no idea what I'm doing right now.' But I did know how to log in to the conference room computer and which buttons made the projector hum to life. I cocked my head and leaned forward at the beginning of his remarks since he was speaking too softly. So, facing him with my head cocked inquisitively, I finally decided that did explain a lot. He had been sincerely uncomfortable.

"You did beautifully," I offered, comfortable in my role as the friendly, supportive one. "It's good science and I understood what you were saying even though it's not my area of expertise. I think the poster will be well received at your meeting," I said before smiling and patting his arm.

"Thank you," he said softly, giving me a slight bow. My short time in Japan several years ago assured me I don't pull off a graceful bow, so I offered an exaggerated nod instead. It's still moderately awkward. I spared a moment's thought that I should really work on that. But I headed back to the office, my brain already busy with thoughts of histogram metrics and how I could get the data Boss wants in the paper we're revising.

"He did well," Marlie said, her voice lifting slightly when she moved through the door behind me so I wasn't sure if it was a statement or a question of K's performance.

"Of course," I replied.

"He presents often?" she asked and I started to nod absently while I glanced at email then paused to think. I turned my chair to frown at her while I tried to remember him presenting before. "He must present fairly often," I mused, still thinking. "I just can't recall many instances where I've seen him speak." I realized that I was powerfully nervous my first few times in front of the group. But Boss asks me to talk a lot - review literature, talk about results, present ideas. And once it became a typical task in my professional life, I stopped being so afraid of it.

Oh, I realized, pausing and staring into space as Marlie waited for me to elaborate. Boss doesn't push us very hard to do things we'd rather avoid. So K doesn't present and after a three year post-doc with a very friendly group, he still gets visibly nervous. That's probably not good.

*****

"I can't attend this year's retreat," Boss mentioned before K had started to speak, "but I encourage all of you to attend."

Nope, I thought stubbornly, looking down at my plate and plucking a piece of artichoke heart off my pizza. As I savored the salty goodness, I avoided eye contact with Boss because I'm not going. Why? Don't want to. It's not that last year was torture - it's a really bright group of scientists who do interesting work. The opportunity to network and laugh and learn is a good one. But when I returned from last year's trip, I told myself that would be it. I wasn't going again. It's not like there are consequences to my avoiding the event - Boss won't even comment on it, I'm sure.

But I frowned as I sat in my office thinking about K. It's probably equally bad that I don't do things I know I should just because I feel awkward and uncomfortable and don't want to go. (Any 'helpful comments' about how I should suck it up and go will be viewed as condescending and annoying. I know I should suck it up and go. I'm not going to do that. Thanks.)

*****

"Have you already printed the poster?" Chris asked from his seat across the table and I smiled at him midway through K's presentation. It's that very question that makes this group so lovely and why I'm so comfortable talking to them. I realized Chris had noticed something - I thought it was going to be all the text in the Introduction section, but I was wrong - but didn't want to make K feel badly if he couldn't fix it. The criticism offered is always focused and constructive. K shook his head and Chris started to note that there weren't labels on the figures and the captions were too long.

I wondered at my surge of affection for the pair of them. Chris is incredibly bright and doing very well as junior faculty. He was awarded his K99 award and noted yesterday that the $250,000 allocated for the R00 phase includes indirect costs. I was dismayed on his behalf - he had to cut $90,000 from next year's budget when they finally read the directions. And he's excellent with identifying problems in posters and presentations and offering ideas on how to fix them. But his goal is never to make someone feel badly about a mistake he can't fix. And I think that's impossibly lovely.

K nodded and said, "of course, of course!" to every comment and I paused to think that he should have brought a notebook. Excellent ideas are offered - both in fixing captions and in guessing at future applications - and I find those notes tend to be quite helpful. I hadn't brought paper or pen, I thought sadly, nibbling on a black olive, or I would have written something down for him.

"When do you leave?" Chris asked and frowned when K said he was leaving the next day. "And your poster still isn't printed? Are you going right now to get it done?"

After looking momentarily trapped, K admitted that it was printed already. I frowned in confusion and exchanged a glance with Chris before turning to join the line filing from the room. Why lie? Then I paused and wondered what makes it appealing to tell people what they want to hear. I don't think K decided it would be super-cool to say his poster hadn't been printed when it had. I think Chris asked and K gave his impression of the correct answer without thinking. But why is the instinctive response not the truth? It's not like I don't do it too, but I was suddenly disturbed by the habit.

"Do you have your grant revised?" I said yes immediately when I knew I hadn't opened a document from that folder in over a year and it's a mess of half-completed revisions and ideas for text.

"Any news on the paper?" Nope, I reply readily when it's been rejected from two journals and I've overhauled it completely. The co-authors need news of my failure and subsequent attempts - I don't (for some unknown reason) feel it important to share that fact widely.

"How's the job search coming?" Pretty well, I say. I should hear something in a couple of weeks. The truth is I'm starting to get Very, Very Worried and nearing the Panic! Panic! stage. Pseudo-academic job should be decided by mid-May (a month later than they'd thought) and I have no idea how that's going to go. Steve and I agreed to talk after the big meeting next week. So it'll be another couple of weeks before I yank a decision from his desk. I'm reminding myself that I got leads, interviewed, selected a job and moved after finding announcements at our annual meeting 3 years ago. The time from May-August was crazy and intense, but it all worked out. I'll find something. It will be OK. (See? I just lied to you too! Panic! Panic!)

*****

Note: I've worked on this post for days now and can't get it to do anything. It's like those days where you curl and straighten and fluff at your hair before saying screw it and pulling it back. But I like some of the ideas and, apart from warning PP off of comments he might make about the retreat, I'd like to hear thoughts. I've been analyzing and rewriting one of my papers and I think it's coming along. It's out to co-authors again now and Boss and I continue to trade notes on how to improve it. There's another post brewing there about why we didn't do this months ago, but I'll leave it for another day. In the meantime, I'm cleaning and packing in preparation for conference travel.

When you hear from me next, I might very well be in Canada! Which brings me to my last revelation. The American dollar is worth less than its Canadian friend. In grad school, our exchange rate was quite lovely. That is no longer the case. I am not pleased. But the $600 that magically appeared in my checking account will act as a bright, shiny object to distract me. Because I'm apparently pretty easy.