Leisure

"No thinking about work or job choices or lack of job choices tomorrow," Friend decreed last night before bed. "Just flowers. Or something fun."

I mumbled my agreement, already snuggled between a pile of pillows and a sleepy dog in the office. She soon went to sleep with Prettiest Cat in the master bedroom with our vague plan of 'no thinking about work' day.

I broke the rules from the beginning. Friend read a paper of mine last night and I finished editing and submitted the final document while she was just beginning to sip coffee this morning.

"What time did you wake up?" she asked, blinking sleepily.

"10:00," I replied, glancing at the clock and realizing that was a mere 15 minutes ago. But I puzzled over paragraph placement and finally decided to follow Friend's suggestions because they made the document easier to read. I still hesitate to put background material in the results section, but it seemed the most logical for this particular explanation. I uploaded files, read my proof and submitted the paper for review. Then I read blogs.

At noon, we looked at each other again, having accomplished little. "It's hot out," I offered from my spot on the loveseat and she shook her head in disagreement. I frowned and sighed, going to the kitchen to load the dishwasher.

"OK," I finally said. "We can take Prettiest Cat home and you can pick up those notes you needed. Then we can go to campus, I can download my audiobooks and you can finish your work." I did not realize this violated the rules of day of leisure, but I eventually would. "Then we can head toward flowers. Oh, and eat. I need food or I'll get sick in the heat."

It started out reasonably well though the order of events changed slightly. We finally loaded Prettiest Cat in a carrier and placed her in the car. We drove to Friend's house, I petted cats and she found the notes she needed. We stopped for salads and sandwiches and I sipped sweet tea while feeling impressed and grateful that Panera had found tomatoes for sandwiches. I miss tomatoes.

We ended up at one of the many pretty places in town and trekked inside, cameras in hand. We looked at and in buildings.

"I want to see the water," I said, already dabbing at the sweat on my forehead, so we walked toward the spring. "Oh," I breathed when we saw it, "it's pretty."

"It is pretty," Friend agreed. "Humid though."

"Look!" I called after moving several steps down the path, "A structure of some sort! Like a bridge."

"Well," Friend explained as she followed behind me, "this is the path we're supposed to take. So it makes sense to cross over the water."

"I'll get hot," I warned, already wiping at my face again. "Brace yourself for the whining." We both took a breath and soldiered on, finally moving away from the quiet gurgle of the flowing water and down a path that cut through parts of the plantation. We took pictures as I trudged quickly through the unshielded patches of relentless sunshine and slowed to glance around once I found shady refuge. Once slightly cooler - enjoying the breeze once I was protected from the sun - I sighed over the play of light over the petals of flowers and lush greenery.

"This," I told Friend when I finally convinced her to leave, "is the most miserable I've been in recent memory." She laughed and I continued to explain/complain. "I've traveled and interviewed and agonized over job decisions. Yet I'm drenched with sweat, very hot and completely tired of being here. This is the most miserable I've been in recent memory." She said something about it not being so bad and reminded me of perspective and I rolled my eyes. Then blinked hard when sweat got in them and stung.

"This didn't work out as planned," I noted as we ended our excursion in her lab while she finished things up. She'd finished telling me that the group will surely be scolded by a disappointed PI because nobody managed to have stunningly perfect results from this weekend. Friend started to plan her next moves - experiments and job possibilities and work for the graduate papers she's trying to write - and I sighed over the email I'd received from Adam while downloading my audiobooks.

He said not to worry. The relocation package is great and everything will go smoothly and easily. So onward I go, I suppose. I'm back to worrying over job options while giving part of my attention to a blog post. It was a nice try - the water was lovely and the flowers pretty. But life sometimes pushes in and demands worrisome attention from me. But it will be OK - even the worst misery eases in an air conditioned car. And someday soon, I'll compare offers and make a decision.

Until then, look at the pretty pictures!

More Mundane

There are, I decided, a couple of reasons that a woman, age 29, healthy and single, could find herself on all fours before 9:00 in the morning on a rainy Saturday.

“Want to go outside?” I asked Chienne, who happily acquiesced to having her leash attached to her collar. We unlocked the front door to step into the cloudy morning. “Oh, it’s barely sprinkling,” I told her when she huddled on the porch and pawed at the front door. “But, OK, you silly girl.”

I followed her inside, smoothed my hand over her coat and, much to her dismay, headed outside again through the garage. I grabbed a garbage bag and gardening tool and shook out the former while moving up the front walk toward the porch again. I glanced down at the sidewalk where shallow puddles of water waited then up at the sky where rain fell gently but persistently. Then I shrugged and sat down, feeling the water instantly soak the thin gray pants I wear for sleeping and listening to the water touch the black plastic trash bag as it fell from the sky.

It was soothing and lovely, for I love the rain. I smile over cloudy days where I can eschew contacts for glasses. (The sun can’t force me to squint when it’s hidden behind a blanket of fluff.) I open the blinds and let the light inside, enjoying the fact that it’s more white than yellow, making all the colors in my world seem more vivid against the softer background.

I’d miss the rain in California, I sighed, but shook my head against thoughts of jobs and two tentative offers but zero written ones. I avoided people who wanted to mentor me yesterday simply because I don’t have all the information yet. I don’t know relocation details or stock options or bonus structures for Industry. When I felt my shoulders tense against stress rather than in preparation of wiggling the roots of a weed from my flower bed, I firmly directed my thoughts to the present.

All I needed to know for the moment – on a Saturday with a complete and exquisite lack of plans – was that there were weeds around my sprouting flowers and I was going to remove them. Even sitting on the sidewalk, feeling the surface of hair hanging loose around my shoulders grow damp from the droplets of rain, the emotions were bittersweet.

I like weeding. I love this house. I’ve not always been happy here, but I always have loved the sand-colored walls inside, the light brick that surrounds the exterior. Friend and I planted the seeds that are sending leafy stalks a foot or so above the surface of the soil. I decided after examining the buds that they'd soon blossom into a ball of countless (or countable by someone with far greater patience than I possess) petals. There are mostly shades of pink, if my memories of last year aren’t flawed. Then there are the smaller flowers that bloom later. It was in those happy clumps of orange and pink and white that I found Sprout. (Who is residing quite happily with his grandparents. Chienne and I will drive up on Monday and she’ll move in with them until I settle in my new location.)

I’ve long said – when pressed about how worried I should be about selling my house in this market – that I’ve loved living here. It’s hard to regret so many days when I smiled over the high ceilings and odd angles in the living room. When I cooed over Grandma’s china that just yesterday got taken from the shelves in the kitchen and tucked into protective carriers that could then be packed. When I mowed my lawn and thought my thoughts. I can be loud or savor the quiet of not sharing walls with neighbors. Chienne grew used to having constant access to her back yard and each day rotates through the multiple napping surfaces that this structure contains. Sprout moved in without thoughts of pet rent or permission. I like having a house.

“I’ll miss you,” I told the flowers as I gently nudged them aside to yank at the weeds that crowded them. I hoped fervently that someone new would protect them from the spikey weeds and giant grasses, would mulch with the dark brown color I’d chosen and drag the hose around to water them if the summer was too dry. The reward is the gorgeous yellow irises at the far end of the walk. The pink lilies that make too many flowers and whose stalks topple over, leaving the blooms laying on the mulch. I keep telling them to put more energy into stalk strength and less into pretty flowers, but I’ve yet to see a change. I’ll be sad to leave it. But I feel blessed to have lived here.

It began to rain steadily harder and I got dirt in my hair when I tucked it behind my ears. I considered cleaning my glasses on my shirt, but couldn’t find a dry spot. When I moved from sitting to pull the weeds closest to me and shifted to rest on my hands and knees to delve deeper into the bed, my pants slipped off my hips, having grown heavy from the water they’d absorbed. I moved a hand back to tug at them before crawling forward to finish what I started. It was cool outside and I’d much rather be wet from rain than sweat. So I tugged and coaxed and finally grabbed the pokey tool to jab at the soil and rip roots from the ground.

“Oh, fine,” I told the rain when I’d almost reached the irises whose blooms have disappeared though the plants still look healthy. There were increasing levels of noise coming from the increasingly full garbage bag as the drops bounced off the black plastic with greater force. The fabric around my legs sloshed when I moved from sitting to kneeling to standing and I giggled when I realized the few cars that passed by probably thought I had serious problems. But I finished as best I could through the now-pouring rain, nudging my glasses down my nose so I could see above the spotted lenses to get at the last remaining weeds.

I waddled toward the garage, slipping out of my flip flops that had become puddle-carrying devices, and waiting until the door rumbled closed before giving up and letting my pants fall to my ankles. I stepped out of them while I tugged off my shirt and tossed everything in the washer.

“I got wet,” I offered to the dog who appeared taken aback at my lack of attire when I walked in the door. She waited while I selected a different pair of pants and loose t-shirt and then accepted the pets she wanted. I kissed the top of her head before moving to the bathroom, cleaning my glasses on my soft, dry shirt. I toweled off my hair before glancing at the dark curls and realizing that a majority of them had stayed dry. It was only the top layer that had absorbed the water, leaving the rest safe and dry.

We’ve only scratched the surface of what I can handle, I decided, feeling strong and smart, capable and relaxed. So I smiled at my reflection, washed the dirt off my hands and went to make coffee.

I think today should be a good day.

Tenuous Grip on Reality

"I just can't picture it," I tried to explain to Friend when she asked one more time how I could turn down the California offer. How I could look at a wonderful job that almost never becomes available, consider fabulous people who really want to work with me, and think of the California scenery and still shake my head side to side instead of up and down.

"I try to see myself there - in that sunny cubicle in the corner of the floor, surrounded happy people who love their jobs, walking downstairs to the incredibly clean and lovely locker room and slipping into a jacuzzi to ease away any stress that might linger after I work on things I know how to do." Friend nodded, head cocked as she tried to understand. "And my brain giggles." I concluded. "It's just ridiculous - stuff like that doesn't happen. Who puts waterfalls on campus? Offers 5 weeks of vacation and a fully vested 401K to brand new people? Where is it beautiful all year and full of people who think I'm so cool they have to hire me? It doesn't make sense. They're all crazy and I can't deal with it."

"So it has to be miserable and hard to be right?" she clarified, forehead creased in a frown, likely while she decided whether we should finish our Greek food or she should rush to have me committed.

"Not constantly miserable," I said, forking up a bit more salad and beginning to chew. I grinned while she shook her head at me and sipped more sweet tea.

I decided not to go to work today, snuggling into the office bed and napping instead. I dreamed I had started at Industry but was still interviewing. I remember trying to schedule enough people and say enough of the right things to make them pay attention to me. At one point, I promised to drag my office chair across campus to a meeting just to be overly impressive. So I was carrying my chair down some steps and I sat down in it to push with my feet and roll across the sidewalk toward a castle-like building. I kept getting caught on pebbles and in cracks in the sidewalk. When I stopped to rest, I got scared because there were people hurrying around me and I didn't want to be late.

I finally arrived at the castle, having risen from the chair and gripped the top of the back to pull it behind me, and there was a padded step - as large as a very big bed - that had to be conquered before reaching the main office level. I tossed my chair ahead of me, but the wheels sank into the padded surface and I didn't have the strength to lift it to the landing. People steamed past me, bouncing the bed-like surface as they hopped to the main level, but nobody offered to help.

I wandered down the hall after I woke, a little shaken, and told myself I could handle Industry. I might be a tough transition and I'd have to battle for attention, but I could do this.

"Drug Company isn't going to move fast enough anyway," I told Friend yesterday, almost relieved. She looked skeptical when I said the Industry offer should be here any day now, but nodded her understanding when I said Drug Company was constrained by hiring rules and moving through that process took time. I comforted myself that there wouldn't ever really be a decision to make. Industry offer would arrive, I'd negotiate for a better relocation package and all would proceed as planned.

So, once safely ensconced on the loveseat in the living room, I began looking at houses in the upper Midwest. Given a package that gets me out of my current house, I can easily afford a nice place with a fenced yard. So I was squinting at pictures and trying to imagine having a basement for storage again when the phone rang.

"Katie," a deep voice said and introduced himself as my new HR representative from Drug Company. I smiled when I wondered if my open hostility had resulted in a switch to someone I found less offensive. All perfection, all the time - that's Drug Company! "I wondered if you had an offer from Industry and wanted to update you on how things were going out here."

"Nope," I replied quickly. "They say soon - perhaps tomorrow. I'll let you know if tomorrow ever comes."

"Well," he said, "we put a rush on your background check and should have results by the end of today. While I'm not at liberty to say more until we know that everything checks out properly, you can guess that this might be the final stage."

"OK," I said slowly.

"So as soon as I hear back from them - and I say this unofficially - you might see how fast we can move at the official offer stage."

"I understand," I said and laughed. "And it's really lovely of you to keep me updated. Thank you."

"My pleasure," he noted and promised to call back soon and gave me his number in case I had any questions at all.

"Perfect," I said and thanked him again. Then I sat and looked around at my cluttered living room. I wondered what more I should pack and if these boxes might, in fact, head west instead of north here shortly.

This is driving me crazy though. I'm very scared and confused and upset. (And also feeling spectacularly lucky to have such a decision to make at all.) Perhaps if my head explodes from the pressure of waiting and trying to make some decision, I won't have to decide between west and north at all.

Deplane

I mentioned that my flight to CA was delayed on Sunday. Boarding should have started at 12:30. At 12:45, I decided the 1:00 departure time would surely be pushed back. Since there was more talking than paper shuffling and moving toward opening the door, I settled in for a bit of a wait.

"There is a mechanical problem with the plane," the agent finally announced. The crowd responded with general grumblings and sighs when she said she didn't know more than that. I sat where I could see the board and watched the estimate departure move in 15 minute increments to later and later times. What frustrated me, just an aside, was that each time would have indicated we should begin boarding immediately and that wasn't happening.

We herded toward a new gate when instructed to do so, each of us shuffling eagerly while waiting to elbow our way to a spot on the escalator. We hurried toward the new gate only to find seats so we could wait another hour or so. People complained about missing connecting flights, wondered why we weren't offered free stuff and sighed when even this departure time started to scoot toward later times again.

"Yay," I offered weakly to my group of complaining passengers when we were allowed on the plane. Then I sat in a window seat next to a disgruntled couple who were heading home after a lengthy east coast vacation. I nibbled at the sandwich I purchased hours before and took out my laptop to finish the last bits of work I'd brought on the trip.

"Just to let you know what's happening," a flight attendant said over the intercom after we'd all been seated about 20 minutes, "someone saw that headrests were broken and once they're reported, they have to be fixed before we can leave. So a mechanic is going to do some paperwork, then he'll board and just placard the broken seats so we can get on our way."

We soon found ourselves frowning at a man who moved slower than my dad (which I didn't know was possible) came and chatted with passengers as he carefully removed the broken headrests, draped the seats with copious amounts of red tape and placed several 'Broken! Do not use!' stickers on the seats. There were 10 broken seats. We waited over an hour for the single man to go on and off the plane, removing headrests and placing tape. Then we finally flew for 3 hours or so to arrive on the west coast.

I smiled when I saw the man seated in front of me haltingly answer his seatmate's questions. I craned my neck to see if he was cute - he was passable - and decided that she wasn't the prettiest woman in the world. Yet she flirted hard and he unsuccessfully tried to sleep or listen to music or read. I was a bit surprised to see him ask a couple of questions once we landed and were waiting - there at the back of the plane - to disembark.

"Here," she said, scribbling her email address and phone number on a scrap of paper. "And what's your email?"

When he gave it to her, I wondered if it was the relief of almost being off the plane. Of arriving - better late than never - at our destination. Perhaps the happiness had gone to his head - the joy of almost being done had made him rattle off a string of letter and characters that may or may not have allowed her to contact him later.

I'd write it off but a similar thing happened on my flight back. I'd noticed a man wearing some sort of shoulder holster thing. The embroidered leather fit over his arms, kind of like a backpack worn in reverse, and two white feathers dangled down the middle of his back. I frowned at him while we waited at the gate before boarding, wondering if he was carrying a baby in some sort of befeathered papoose.

Nope, I decided when I saw him in profile, nary a child dangling from his front. The leather and feathers must just be for pretty.

Oh, I sighed when I saw him sitting in the window seat of my assigned row. He shifted to allow me to sit in the middle seat and the light pouring in from the sunny day bounced off the glitter on his t-shirt. Fantastic, I thought with a barely stifled smile. He's sparkly and feathery. Through the lengthy flight home, I watched him curiously out of the corner of my eye. He watched a video on his laptop that was, I decided, about metaphysical concepts. Then he very carefully read his own tarot cards and spent time examining each card in the deck one by one.

"I would have asked Glitter-Feather man about them," I told Friend as she drove me home last night, "but he had headphones on. Headphones very clearly state a person doesn't welcome interruptions, so I followed the rules and left him alone."

"That wasn't so bad," he said, his voice quiet and a little scratchy when the plane landed. Since all he'd asked so far was if he could close the window and if I'd move to allow him to use the rest room (I said sure to both, of course.), I glanced at him and smiled before nodding. I was again located at the back of the plane and sighed with pleasure as I scooted away from Glitter-Feather man and into Flannel man's aisle seat (he'd stood in the aisle when the fasten seatbelt sign dinged and extinguished).

"Are you going somewhere else or staying here?" I asked, for the flight was scheduled to continue on after it dropped some of us off.

"Driving south," he said and mentioned an event he was to attend. We spoke about that for a few minutes and he smiled at my responses.

"I hope you have a good time," I offered.

"It'd be impossible not to," he replied.

"Isn't it hot?" I asked with a frown.

"During the day," he confirmed. "But that's part of the fun. Plus it cools down at night."

"Do you camp?" I asked curiously and he nodded again.

"Have you ever been?" he asked and I shook my head and laughed. "How come?" he continued with a tilt of his head. I glanced to see the line of first class passengers finally begin to exit the plane in the distance and shrugged.

"I don't like to be hot. And I never camp." He thought about that for a moment while I took a phone call from Friend and promised I'd hurry to her restricted parking area.

"You could go somewhere up north," he offered when he had my attention again. "Get a hotel." I nodded my agreement absently. "Will your ride leave if you're late?" he asked.

"No," I laughed. "It'll be fine - she'll wait. Which is good since I have very little control over the situation right now."

"It's always fine," he said with a smile that made him strikingly attractive. I smiled back without thinking about it.

"Thus far, it always has been fine," I agreed, but felt compelled to add the qualifier.

"It always will be fine," he said firmly.

I thought about it for a moment - and could think about it more right now - but stayed silent as we finally got our turns to shuffle slowly down the aisle toward the jetway. I don't know what my response would have been had there been extra time to indulge in 'thank goodness we're finally here, OK I'll talk to this person for a minute' conversation.

On one hand, it will be fine. I know that, though I can't obtain the zen-like calm to wear sparkly clothes and leather/feather creations. But it will be OK.

On the other hand, I'm Still Freaking Out. I talked to Adam and Eve today. Adam was "surprised and confused" about why I talked to Drug Company at all. "What about the position here concerns you?" he asked.

"Nothing," I replied promptly. "Except I didn't know what was going on - if you'd interviewed someone else or had problems with upper management. So it made sense to look when they seemed so interested."

"I have a cubicle reserved for you," he offered, "and your time is already 50-80% scheduled. Trips to take, people to meet, things to do." And I nodded and said I was ready - I just needed to see an official offer. Yet I think about Eve and how she gave me hugs and is rushing the process to accommodate my timelines. And while I know that either job is a wonderful opportunity and that Industry seems more comfortable and right to me, I'm still struggling.

So I'm eagerly anticipating the happy relief I'll feel when I finally decide between places. And thinking that I might be peppy enough to give my email address to someone I don't really like or offer assurances about the goodness of life to a stranger on a plane. But for now, I'm glancing at my watch far too often and trying to calculate the time before I can make a decision. I need numbers and offers and negotiating points for both opportunities. And I don't have them yet.

Maybe I should have interrupted Glitter-Feather man to ask about my future after all.

Flop?

I am safely home.

I did make it to the coast, moving up and down and left and right through the canyons and over the mountains that separated me from the water. As I drove, I thought of the email I sent Adam this morning. I decided to explain the situation that may result in a competing offer so that he knows what's up. I like him and, even while I consider a fabulous opportunity elsewhere, I still want to work for him.

I haven't received a response to that email - I'll let you know how it all turns out. I'll confess to a bit of worry. But I was also worried when I didn't hear anything for the past weeks and he remains interested. Which proves that I tend to be overly negative.

It was foggy when I left my hotel, but I saw the sun once I reached an adequate high elevation. I stopped to take pictures, admiring the sky and curving road and pretty mountains. I sighed with pleasure and began to drive again, reaching the beach some 20 minutes later.

I frowned through the fog and blinked with confusion at what I thought was snow. Then I chortled a little when I realized it was more likely sand since I'd been descending the mountain for quite some time at that point. I rolled down the window and took a deep breath, smiling when I smelled ocean even though it wasn't clearly visible through the fog.

Today, therefore, was not as good as I hoped. Nor was particularly bad, but if I was shocked with delight yesterday, I was less so today.

Examples? A direct flight home (yay!) in the middle seat (boo) next to feather-glitter man (huh). A drive next to the ocean, the views of which would be stunning (yay!) but it's too foggy to really appreciate it (boo).

Though, I decided as I inched along with traffic, if I was going to be sitting in my car, it was rather lovely to be able to hear the crash of the waves. To see surfers wiggling into wetsuits or peeling them off. There were some gorgeous houses and beachy shops and restaurants. Some scattered parking and small signs denoting beach access.

I thought through pros and cons of jobs, deciding to leave it for a time when I wasn't worried about finding the place to return my car or dreading spending hours waiting for my flight. I plan to think it through carefully and have one last phone interview tomorrow. I just don't know right now - I feel tired and relieved to be home and it's seeming hard to sort out.

It's a little like the mountains and beach and fog, I guess. I have information - all the information I'm likely to get, really. And knowing what I do about my priorities and potential, and what I do about the opportunities I've been so lucky to receive, I'm trying to forecast my feelings should I pick one or the other. And that's hard.

The fact is that there are likely to be good days full or promise and productivity and others where I'll wish desperately that I'd picked the other job. I'll get frustrated with colleagues and deadlines. I expect I'll also learn a tremendous amount and meet brilliant people and be fabulously happy at times. In terms of being better or worse with one option, I can't tell. So we'll probably talk about that tomorrow.

Good/Bad. Sunny/Foggy. Midwest/West Coast. What I'm sure of in the moment is that it's good to be home and I'm pretty tired. The rest is going to wait for tomorrow, I think.

Action

At some point during action flicks, I tend to sigh and wonder just how many more explosions or shootings or battles I have to endure before the credits roll and we can all move on with our lives. So that's what I'm calling today - a test of endurance more than skill.

It was 10 meetings. Each lasted 1 hour. That makes for a long day. I rested at the hotel for 45 minutes before going for dinner. I'm now so tired that it's painful - I drank nothing but water at dinner but severely doubted my ability to walk steadily to the car by the end of the evening.

This morning found our heroine (that'd be me) rising at 4AM local time. While that's 6 at home, I didn't have to meet the admin until 7:30. So I spent the hours trying to sleep, then getting ready - carefully arranging my hair into pretty curls, painstakingly applying makeup and ironing my clothes so they were wrinkle-free. I drank a cup of bad hotel coffee and headed off to find the interview site.

I started the day admiring the campus. Say what you will about the biotech industries, but - in my experience - the buildings are gorgeous and areas lovely. So I sat in a comfortable chair after being given a visitors badge. I was then escorted to meet with the head of the group.

"Coffee would be lovely," I replied when asked. "Just cream, please." So as I discussed the organization and mission with a man whose work I've long admired, someone went to fetch me a large coffee and bottle of water. She silently entered with Starbucks and a bottle of water. I smiled my thanks and began to sip while taking notes and offering comments on my background.

I moved to an office right next door, took a different chair and chatted with another brilliant man for about 55 minutes. Loved him.

Took a quick break, walked across the beautiful building and met with one of their MDs. Loved him too. "I can achieve that level of perky on occasion," I warned the admin after I was done with that meeting and wandering toward the next. "But that's too much energy to maintain constantly. He's impressive."

My stomach growled through the next meeting. I was tired and hungry and when presented with a business person rather than a scientist, my brain pretty much stopped at "Oh. Hello." Plus, the view out the window was stunning - I kept glancing over her shoulder to sigh at how pretty the mountains were. It was at this point that I panicked a bit - I wasn't being impressive enough! Try harder! Do more! But I soon relaxed, having been assured over email that the Industry offer would arrive shortly (or eventually - either way). As soon as I ceased with the trying too hard, the meeting turned friendly and easy. Loved her too.

I had lunch with a fantastic French woman. She was honest and dynamic and I loved her to pieces. "Katie, right?" she asked at first and rolled her eyes when I confided that some people had, indeed, been calling me Kathryn. I kept correcting them, but it didn't seem to stick. "Katie, you'll do fine. I looked at your CV - you'll get jobs. Whether you work here or take the Industry offer, you'll learn more and people will still want you if you decide to move. So don't worry. Do what feels right."

"It just feels so huge," I told her, nibbling at green curry that was just the right amount of spicy. "I don't want to make the wrong call."

"You won't. You can't," she decided, cutting pieces of tofu with a fork though she'd waved her hand to dismiss the people working out in the company gym on their lunch hour.

She was fantastic - loved her to pieces. The next man was tough - tipping his notebook so I couldn't see the notes he was taking on me. But I handled him well, I think, deciding again that I wasn't as impressed as he thought I should be - that fact eventually disarmed him and I made him laugh several times. I'm charming.

I found myself wanting to ask the next woman if she'd recently had dental work done. She dabbed at her lips and moved her mouth a bit funny when she spoke, poor thing. Undeniably brilliant, she echoed what I'd heard all day - people had arrived from various corners of academia within the past five years or so and were uniformly ecstatic over their choice.

I spent the next half hour with someone from HR and found myself being oddly confrontational. I don't know how he got on my bad side so quickly - something about his sense of self-importance, I think - but I felt compelled to be difficult.

"Our offer will be much stronger than Industry," he said with a smile.

"We'll see," I said calmly.

He explained the salary structure and how competitive they were. I reminded him I was coming from the south - cost of living is ridiculously low there and conversely astronomical here.

"So let's say you bought your house there at $150 and sold it at $120," he noted while explaining the relocation program.

"Why am I losing money on my house?" I interrupted his story to ask.

"It's just hypothetical," he smiled.

"OK, then I'd hypothetically like to make money on my house," I insisted and he stared at me for a moment before changing the numbers. (Honestly - I don't know why I wanted to mess with him, but I did.)

Next came a woman who was easy and friendly. She smelled of vanilla and we talked and laughed before she dropped me off with the last of the MDs. "He can be a bit tough," she whispered.

"You're not tough at all," I told him as we completed our conversation. He was young and his style more aggressive than anyone I'd met. But he hadn't asked a single difficult question and had been unfailingly attentive and lovely.

"Tough?" he asked, raising his eyebrows and I nodded calmly before smiling. "Well, I'm at the end of the day," he decided. "I didn't want to overwhelm you when you're exhausted."

"I didn't admit exhaustion," I offered as we shook hands and I tucked his card with the others in my laptop bag. "You're not supposed to do that on interviews." He grinned and wished me luck. Loved him too.

Then there was Eve - what we'll call my contact here. And I really, truly adore her. She smiled widely when she saw me, tucked my bag in the corner of her office and we set off to tour campus. She complimented me on my day, saying the feedback had been enthusiastic and positive thus far. She showed me the gym and I couldn't help picturing myself in the jacuzzi after a stressful day. We stood in a garden, fountains burbling behind us and a pond shimmering in front, the scent of flowers in the air and the mountains a backdrop for beautiful buildings and natural stone paths.

"This is ridiculous," I offered, glancing around at the flowering trees and wooden tables set up for people to enjoy the weather. "It's just so..."

"Too good to be true?" she offered and smiled. "We never want to retire. My husband and I will stay here forever, doing the work and enjoying California. It's really amazing - the people, the job, the benefits. I love it. You'd love it."

"Perfect," I said with a nod. "It all seems perfect and I'm sure I would be happy here. But it's so far from home." While she talked about opening my world view and how my family could visit and all the vacation time that was offered in the benefits package, I listened carefully while basking in the ideal temperature - mid-70s - and watching water flow in the twin fountains that bracketed some steps.

This, my friends, is where scientists go to Heaven. If you're very good, you end up here. Yes, there's less freedom - and that would bother some people, I'm sure. But for me? It's perfection. In the wrong location.

I was driven to dinner - had a delightful piece of halibut between sharing appetizers and dessert. We talked and laughed - as much as I could overcome my exhaustion to do so - and I fell into bed very shortly after being dropped off at my hotel.

And now we're at today. And while I have a feeling at how this is all going to play out, I'm still not quite sure what happens next. Other than the ocean - that happens in just a couple of hours.

Horror

Exhausted and should be sleeping, so you get bullets. Very sorry.

• Up before 6AM.
• Took dog for walk - very hot and sweaty, even before 7.
• Sick while going to airport - poor Friend had to deal with me.
• Didn't get seat assignment for second flight - worried I'd be on stand by. I've never been on stand by. I don't want to stand by.
• I got a seat when I arrived in DFW.
• The plane was broken so the flight was delayed.
• And delayed.
• And delayed.
• Then we changed gates and I got to ride the little tram thing.
• We got on the plane about 3 hours after we were scheduled to depart.
• Then we sat for another hour - fully boarded - while a guy got on board and fixed more stuff.
• We took off and I was terrified.
  
• It wasn't so much bouncing as wiggling - a side to side motion that slammed me into the side of the plane and the nice woman next to me. Scary - turbulence bounces, yes? I wondered if broken plane wiggled.
  
• Arrived unscathed, thankfully. Deplaned - was the last one off. Freaking last seat in the freaking late plane.
• Got a car. From the trainee. Slowest trainee ever to be trained, I think.
  
• Fought traffic. People said it would be light, but I do not believe them. People Were Driving. Lots Of People.
• I'm also pretty sure the lanes here are smaller than those at home.
  
• Though I am good at going fast. So I made it to my hotel relatively quickly.
  
• I don't like the traffic. The travel was hideous. But California - even from the busy freeways - is lovely.
  
• There are big hills that are rather brown (Are you dry, California? I thought you'd be all green. Is something wrong?) with these lovely trees standing atop said hills.
  
• "Well," I said at one point, still clinging to the steering wheel with nervous terror, "you could be a postcard." Because in addition to the hills, there are all these flowers - vivid colors and bunches and clusters. All very pretty.
  
• And it's cool and breezy - wonderful weather.
• Alas, I arrived too late for beach-viewing.
  
• And my dinner plans.
  
• So I'm walking in the (long) interview tomorrow mostly blind.
  
• I should rest so I'm at least focused.
  

I was thinking I'd do a movie theme for the posts out here - horror, documentary, um...something else for Tuesday. But perhaps horrible can describe the quality of this post - I'm really quite tired. I'll see if I can't do better tomorrow. Otherwise the theme can be 'California! Where Katie blogs even worse than normal.'

I (eventually) learn.

"Uncanny," I said sharply as I lifted my laptop off the soaked pillow and stood up from the loveseat doused with coffee to mop up the droplets on my computer. I returned to my poor piece of furniture and pressed a towel to the puddles of coffee that remained. I shook my head a walked down the hall, pulling my shirt away from my tummy because in addition to being very wet, the cloth was growing cold.

"Hi," I greeted Friend and Prettiest Cat when I opened the door to my master bedroom. They blinked at me with identical expressions of sleepy exasperation. "I may have dumped a full cup of coffee all of myself just now. So I need new clothes."

I tugged on a new t-shirt to see Friend close her eyes and turn her head to rest again, still smiling over my problem. I turned to Prettiest Cat, the more sympathetic of the pair, and she allowed me to pet her for a few moments while I explained that while the table was in the same spot as always, I appeared to be missing it lately.

The other night, I walked to my favorite spot and prepared to enjoy a bit of molten chocolate cake. I put down a plastic cup (from the zoo!) on my table and blinked with surprise when it tipped, spilling 30-some ounces of water on the cushions I was planning to use for sitting instead of soaking.

"Well," I said while I placed my plate on a table and went to get towels, "that wasn't what I meant to do." But I mopped up the mess, abandoned the loveseat for the free end of the couch and had a soon-forgotten thought toward being more careful. But the same thing happened this morning. I had sipped at coffee and was returning my mug to the table so I could make paper revisions. But I underestimated the necessary distance and the table caught the corner of the mug, helpfully tipping it to splash warm liquid all over me. I smell coffee and cream even now (though the poor piece of furniture has dried).

It sometimes takes me a little while to grasp a concept, I suppose, which is why I coped with nervous tension this morning before deciding to do something about it.

"I'm going to mow the lawn," I announced to Friend when she shuffled down the hall from the master bedroom. She nodded, fending off lunges of frantic happiness from Chienne. The poor dog is cruelly separated from her most favoritest person in the whole wide world at night and she's overcome with joy when Friend finally emerges in the morning. Feeling rather proud of myself after neatly clipping the grass, I returned to the air conditioned coolness and finished editing my paper.

While I waited for the final proof to load, I called Adam from Industry and left a message on his voice mail, inquiring after the formal offer. I didn't hear back, but felt better having asked. I received my travel information and am able to more clearly picture the sequence of events for the interview trip. This somehow helps me be more eager and less stressed. I mapped out my route from the airport to the hotel. I've glanced through the schedule and downloaded papers I should read.

Then I napped, blissfully enjoying the easing of tension and snuggling into pillows for a couple lazy hours. I woke to begin packing and cleaning again, feeling strong enough to change a few more facets of my environment as I slowly put belongings into boxes and moved said boxes to the garage. I mowed the back yard at dusk and feel tired enough to sleep well again tonight.

The lesson isn't new - when stressed, be productive. It just takes me a little while to apply it sometimes. Until it's time to throw out this loveseat when I move, perhaps the scent of coffee will remind me.

Expectations, great or otherwise

"I'm a duck," I thought near the end of my massage. My teeny-tiny therapist with the super-strong thumbs had her index fingers above my mouth and her thumbs below. When she pulled her hands to both sides, my lips puckered into a the shape I favored when I used to pretend I was a duck. (Singin' in the Rain? Knees bent, shoulders back, head up, tongue out? No? Girl Scouts? Just me? Fine.)

"Now I'm a happy duck," I decided as she moved her hands up - taking the corners of my lips with her, stretching the muscles of my face.

"Uh oh," I thought a moment later as she pulled down on my cheeks and my lips formed a harsh frown. "Now I'm sad." But before I could work my mood into a suitable pout, she started over and I was a duck again!

I'm a long-time massage-getter, so it's somewhat hard to impress or surprise me. The facial, however, was my first. And I found Angie, one of the most southern women I've met since arriving here, so enchantingly charming that I would have been her very best friend had she asked.

"Now, honey," she instructed when she left to get me more water in a wineglass with floating slices of lemon and cucumber, "you'll use that scrub all over your hands - rub them real good and it'll get all that dead skin off," she drawled while making the appropriate hand motions so I would follow her instructions. "Then you dry them real good with these paper towels," she pointed to them and I nodded, "and put on this lotion. It's thick, so don't worry if you can't get it all to absorb."

"Don't worry," I repeated. "Got it."

She nodded at me proudly and reminded me to take off my clothes and don the terrycloth wrap that snapped at the top. She left the room so I could undress again (why they didn't give me a robe before the massage is beyond me) and I grinned at myself in the mirror once I was in my tiny, white facial outfit. It was rather cute, I decided. Like being wrapped in a fluffy towel, but a little fancier. I dutifully began smoothing the sea green scrub into my palms, rubbing just as Angie showed me. I rinsed and made a face of approval at how soft my skin was. I smoothed on some lotion, reminding myself not to worry when white streaks lingered on my hands.

"I'm ready," I said when she knocked on the door and grinned at her. My face fell when she instructed me to dip my hands in the heated oil at the side of the sink.

"It's paraffin," she told me when I looked at her quizzically.

"Is it hot?" I asked, moving my hand close to the goo but not touching it.

"Well, I wouldn't touch the bottom of the metal part," she drawled but continued to encourage me until I made a face and stuck my right hand in, palm down and fingers spread, and held it to drip above the container.

"Three more times," she said, nodding and smiling and I wrinkled my nose and dunked my hand again and again and one last time before she tucked my waxy appendage into a plastic bag. We did the other hand, likewise containing the mess inside plastic. She then velcroed large terrycloth mits over the plastic and I stared down at them. I was torn between thinking it was nice that they matched my little towel-dress and the fact that I appeared to have claws.

"Now I'm a lobster," I thought with a smile as she helped me recline on the padded table and wrapped me up tightly in the sheet. "Lobster in a blanket," I decided, resting my claws on my tummy as my eyes closed and she turned on the steam.

"You do have some redness on your cheeks," she noted and I nodded, thinking that lobsters did turn red when steamed.

"It's always there," I said sadly. "I'm very fair, and I turn pink when I'm hot or embarrassed or, well, anything really." So she smoothed on a calming oatmeal mask while telling me about her family. We talked about our dogs while she wiped it off, asking me if the cloth was too hot.

"It's actually a diaper," she confided when I said the temperature was rather nice. "They're softer and easier to clean." I wondered briefly if that might scare some people, shrugged and decided I thought the diaper was very soft. So I snuggled into my cocoon of blankets, wiggled my fingers inside their claws and let her chatter until the lights went dim. I was quiet while she smoothed layers of hydrating creams on skin she said was too dry. There was another mask - chamomile, she said later - and more moisturizer, followed by serum. Then she wanted to zap me with some zappy device that's meant to kill bacteria.

"We need more slippage," she told me and reached for still more moisturizer. "Your poor skin is just soaking up all my products!" I apologized for my facial dryness and she scolded me for worrying about it. "Oh, and I'm supposed to use professional words," she said with a sigh. "Not slippage."

I giggled and let her move the sparky wand around. I only had one actual blemish and she spent a lot of time on it, killing the bacteria. I didn't believe it effective, but it wasn't painful at all. Yet I just went to look at the tiny pimple and it's almost gone. I kid you not - zappy, sparky wand did something cool! I so need one of those.

She smoothed on a final layer of floral-scented product and spent time massaging my scalp. I listened to her move her stool down the table and she peeled off my claw layer by layer. I'm molting, I thought with a wrinkled nose as the wax came off but enjoyed the attention as she massaged my fingers and palms. She pronounced me done - some 90 minutes after we started - and helped me rise from the table.

I blinked a couple of times while I found my balance and smiled when she thanked me for coming in.

"No," I demurred, "thank you. I wasn't sure what to expect, but that was wonderful." She told me to take my time getting dressed and look in the mirror to see what I thought. I wandered over and smiled when I realized I looked sleepy and relaxed. After admiring my reflection a moment more, I threw on my clothes and rushed out of the room to find my new friend.

"Angie!" I said when I saw her, "You made me pretty!" At which point she hugged me and smoothed my hair.

"You were always pretty, honey," she said with a shake of her head. "And you're so sweet!" I walked out after another hug and a coupon for my next visit. She carefully listed the products she used and how I could recreate the effect at home.

In terms of being surprised based on incorrect expectations, here's a list.

• Getting email from Friend yesterday that made me worry harder about her than I was about myself. Arriving at her lab to find her eyes puffy from tears and voice angry at the day's happenings. "I'd been happy lately," she noted, breaking my heart. "I knew it was bound to end relatively soon, but was hoping for at least a little longer."
• Hearing my interview on Monday - which I expected to be long - will last about 14 hours. I have concerns about my stamina.
  
• Receiving an offer from my contact to spend Sunday evening with me. It's lovely, really, that she offered to show me around and join me for dinner. I'd really, really, really, really rather be alone - to go to the ocean and drive around town and think and build up my resources for the lengthy Monday I'll face. Friend's Former Roommate informs me that I'm stuck with social Sunday. Good advice, I'm sure, but frick. Not What I Wanted.
  
• Losing coherence - I asked Friend if she would edit the final version of my paper while reading a daiquiri. "Did I say reading a daiquiri?" I asked a moment later and she nodded. "Crap." I sighed.
  
• Still not having an offer from Industry. Nor any update on when one will arrive.
  

For proof that I'm not always wrong, I pretty much expected the following:

• Dad thinks California would be awesome. Mom is Not Pleased.
  
• Boss is very proud of me and has told people I'm now in demand. It's lovely to work for someone who sees you as better than you actually are.
  
• I'm still freaking out - swinging between sadness and anxiety. I'll be fine, but this is not what I expected to do while preparing to start my Industry job.
  

Pass the tissues, please.

My head hurts. I’m unsure if it’s from the couple of daiquiris last night or the copious weeping that occurred. Either way, I’m not feeling particularly well this morning, though Excedrin and coffee are beginning to help.

“I might cry,” I warned Friend when she walked in yesterday evening. Everything is different, I thought as I wiped at tears. I clipped back the branches of the schefflara so that it would be easier to move and it’s all choppy and ugly now. There are boxes and bags and dust – so very much dust – everywhere. I’m slowly moving things to the garage, leaving the rooms much less cluttered. But the absence of normality is becoming glaring. I’m very comforted by my possessions and as I carefully pack them away, I start to miss them. And life feels awkward and wrong.

“I’ll go with you,” I said softly and walked quietly behind Friend as she drove my car to get take-out. Chienne rode in the backseat – earning her two pork shoulders from the barbeque place – and we returned home. I had another drink instead of food and tried to explain why I was so very distraught.

“When I look at houses online,” I said and had to stop to gulp back sobs. I turned my gaze to the corner of room – where the ceiling meets the wall – and blinked and breathed. What I thought – but couldn’t say because the mental wanderings made me cry more – was that I’m looking at small cottages. A couple of bedrooms, perhaps two bathrooms and a basement for storage. I don’t need much space, I told the realtor in our initial (and only, thus far) conversation. I’d like a fireplace with a switch and a whirlpool bathtub, I thought dreamily, but in terms of square footage? I don’t need a whole lot. A yard for the dog – one that’s fenced already would be good – and lots of windows to let light in for the plants.

“I, um,” I tried again as Friend sat patiently across the room. “I guess I’m looking at the chances that I’ll end up with someone – have something real and valid – and understanding that it’s unlikely. That it’s just going to be me.”

She didn’t speak, looking at me with perfectly kind sympathy, and I stood to get a box of Kleenex. “The idea that I won’t get married and have children of my own makes getting to know the girls seem important. If I don’t have a family of my own, I should focus on loving the one my parents and brother made.” She nodded with understanding and I blew my nose.

I choked on a laugh when she assumed I’d been looking at houses up north rather than out west. “I’m too afraid to even glance at housing prices in California,” I confirmed. I expect I’ll think the coast is exquisite and understand why it's expensive to live out there. But I also think it won’t feel anything like home.

“I don’t know what I want,” I told Friend and she said she understood. “And even if I did, I don’t think I can get it.”

“Evidence seems to indicate otherwise,” she offered. “Since Drug Company appears to only be interviewing you and jumping through some hoops to do so.”

“I don’t know why though.”

“Because you’re good at your job? Have trained to do something exactly like what they need done?”

“I organized CDs and emailed files,” I reminded her dryly and she shook her head at me and said they’d now seen my CV. I comforted myself for a moment while thinking about how fast they’d moved, how flattered I was by their interest and how odd this all seemed.

“I got an email – one of those automated ones?” I told Friend with a shake of my head. “It thanked me for my interest and said that due to the high number of applications, I might not hear back from them unless my qualifications matched the job for which I applied. But I didn’t apply – someone else entered in my CV,” I breathed, thinking that was impossibly cool. “So I’m not even working to get behind the HR wall. They’re inviting me through the door and making sure the trip works for me and I’m wondering what’s wrong with them that makes them want me.” Which is typical – when I get something I’ve wanted, I often wonder what flaw put it in my hands. That’s not a good personality trait.

“When she called – one of these times – my contact asked, rather haltingly, whether she should be looking into spousal hiring programs. And I smiled and wondered if it was OK for her to ask that, but replied that it was just me.” My smile faded at the memory and I wiped new tears on my fingers. “It’s always just me.” I paused for a moment, sniffling, and blinked a couple times. “Hey! I could have asked for a job for you!” I exclaimed and mustered a weak smile.

“We could get married out there,” Friend agreed. “Oh! Can you videotape it when you tell your parents? I’d love to see that.”

I smiled and sighed. I don’t have romantic feelings toward Friend – not even a little. So we thought for a moment that it was kind of a shame we weren’t lesbians. “I’m not going to find a man to love me,” I whispered to her. “I can’t even find one to be my friend for very long. That makes me sad.”

“I know,” she said soothingly. “But you can still find someone. Don’t rule things out.”

“I’ll try,” I promised, knowing it’s something I’ll have to give one more shot before calling it over. “I’m just really sad.” I went to bed shortly thereafter, trying to read for a little while on a bed in the office. I breathed a sigh of pure relief when I heard Friend on the phone in the living room and grabbed a blanket to join her. I curled into a ball on one side of the couch, putting my head on the cushion propped between us.

She touched the crown of my head while I cried some more, and I wiped still more tears from eyes that were starting to sting. I listened to her talk science with her roommate, tuning out the words and taking comfort in her voice. I’ll miss you so much, I wanted to wail, but wept slowly and softly instead. I finally grew tired enough to sleep and we went to our separate bedrooms, me with a large hound, she with a pretty cat. I woke at 4 to realize my head and heart continued to hurt and emailed a corrected CV to the drug company as requested.

I don’t know what it is, honestly. I’m overwhelmed and conflicted, though I know the circumstances don’t really require such an emotional response. It’s just that things are changing and I’m scared. It’s times like this that I feel very, very alone and tend to react to that by shoving people away so I can wallow. I reminded myself not to become overly self-destructive while I washed dishes this morning. And I’m continuing to take antidepressants and I’m honestly not drinking much at all (in case anyone’s concerned). I’ll do well on the interview – I’m not worried about performance so much as what the hell I’ll do if they make a good offer.

So I’ll struggle and cry a lot. I’ll also revise those papers Boss finally read and talk to him tomorrow about job stuff. I’m having a massage and facial tomorrow at the spa – I scheduled them yesterday and have no plans to cancel that appointment. Friend will be around when I need to talk and she offered to hold my hand when I cried too hard last night. I realize I’m uselessly tormenting myself – it’s just what I do. I’ll come out of it soon, I’m sure. But until then, I can highly recommend the ultra-soft Kleenex. The box isn’t pretty, but the product is fantastic.

Visiting Dolphins

It looks like I'll get a chance to glimpse the dolphins after all.

"I have to go to California on Sunday," I told Friend when she returned my call just about an hour ago.

"Oh?" she asked, sounding amused. "I thought you weren't going to take the interview."

"I wasn't," I said slowly. But my contact emailed and said everything had pushed through and they wanted to see me soon. When she called and said, "Sunday?" I somehow ended up saying, "Wonderful!"

The point is that I'm very flattered that she's pushing this hard to see me. I do want to meet the people out there. I need to understand exactly what I'm turning down, I suppose, so I can agonize over this a bit more. I want to take California pictures for my blog! And tell dramatic stories about job searches and interviews! At least in theory. When it comes to actually doing this?

"I have to go to California on Sunday," I repeated to Friend, looking around at the living room that I just cleaned and glancing down the hall at piles of boxes and mounds of stuff - the sorting and packing of which had consumed most of my day. I was thinking about a garage sale this weekend! Cooking out with Friend and her roommate! I could have put pictures of that on my blog instead.

"I, um, fly out on Sunday and we interview on Monday. They wanted to have dinner and drinks the night before but that's Sunday so we're having them on Monday night instead. So I'm coming home on Tuesday."

"OK," Friend said and I started talking again.

"Maybe they'll hate me," I said, talking to fast and starting to panic. "Then they won't offer anything and I can sign the Industry offer when it finally arrives and everything will go according to plan."

"If you're going out there to make them hate you," she replied, "I'm not sleeping with your dog. That's just not worth it."

"I'm scared," I think I confided and she offered to drive out again tonight. I said that would be good, deciding to move out of my bedroom so Prettiest Cat could take up residence again. (Poor Prettiest Cat is still taking antibiotics and since Friend is here more than home, it makes sense for Prettiest Cat to be here too.) I offered to pick up dinner when she began the commute out.

Hands shaking and stomach sick, I called her back 10 minutes later. "I'm going to start drinking," I informed her. "So you can pick up dinner or stop and get me and I'll go with you. But I won't be able to drive here shortly." She asked if I couldn't wait until she arrived, fearing I'd fall asleep rapidly after slipping past tipsy, and I shook my head.

I dumped thawed strawberries into the blender with a bit of frozen lemonade. I added rum - lots of rum - and tossed in some ice before greedily spooning some into a glass and beginning to sip. Friend might come later - I hopefully will be too drunk to care much either way.

There's still time to tell me to cancel - I've not yet made travel arrangements. I don't plan to tell my parents unless I actually consider an offer. I'm Freaking Out and the rum isn't yet working well enough. So feel free to offer thoughts. And I'll whimper over the fact that I was going to write a nifty post about packing rather than whining about a fabulous job opportunity.

Crap. The dolphins better show up when I'm there and be very flipping cool.

Oceans and Dolphins

I rode the bus yesterday, enjoying the air-conditioned ride on the steamy afternoon. I was distracted from thoughts of things to do when I got home by three young women sitting in front. One of them, let’s call her Leader, was telling her seatmate about campus.

“There’s a really good Thai place about 3 blocks away,” she said confidently and I frowned – I thought that place closed. I like Thai food – why am I not going there? I lost track of the conversation about shops and restaurants as I groused over my lack of panang curry, but tuned in again when Leader looked across the aisle to Reader.

“What’s your book?” Leader asked and Reader glanced up inquisitively. Leader repeated the question and I decided the heavy accents might mean these folks were international students here for a summer program. Neat, I decided. Then I offered a quick hope that they all liked heat and humidity. Freaking South. Reader finally showed Leader the cover of her book – it was a Sweet Valley High novel – and Leader chuckled.

“High school book!” she laughed loudly and I frowned darkly at the judgment. I personally read romance novels for fun, and I take umbrage at those who think they’re somehow better than me for being entertained by more intellectual texts. I love to read and tend toward stories I enjoy. There’s nothing wrong with that! Stupid Leader shouldn’t make Reader feel ridiculed for reading something fun! Plus, if the alternative is talking to a twit like you, I decided with a glare at Leader, I’d read the manual for the bus! (I was in a bit of a mood yesterday. Er, lately. Something about the heat bugs me.)

Leader, unaware of my squinting glare, turned her attention to Seatmate, who unwisely mentioned she’d been waitlisted for the program and was very pleased to be here.

“I wasn’t waitlisted,” Leader said with a toss of her hair. “I can’t believe someone would turn down a spot though – you’re really lucky you got in.” I raised my eyebrows, shook my head and silently called her a name.

We all exited the bus at the same stop and I wandered toward my car while noticing Leader was opening the doors to her own vehicle. It’s a good thing you drive, I thought unkindly. Because otherwise you suck.

I recalled, as I settled in my car and turned the air all the way up, my own undergrad research experience. I applied to a small program in New England, I recalled. They were doing oceanic research and there was a cottage near the water where all the summer students lived together. They were provided bicycles to ride to the labs and took boats far into the Atlantic at least three times a week. There was a single Physics spot – the other dozen or so positions were filled by biology, chemistry and geology candidates from around the world – and I dreamed of getting it. I’d always been drawn to the east coast – the charm and history and shorelines – and carefully filled out my application, but wrote it off as a long shot.

The more likely choice, I thought as I piled up brochures and printed pages from larger schools with bigger summer research programs, was a public school near home. I had one in mind and considered the 40 or so openings in the engineering school and hoped hard that I would get one of them. I liked the campus – was already considering it for graduate study in some yet-to-be-determined field – and was thrilled to take a phone call with a distinguished professor who offered me an 8-week spot in his lab through the program. I’d live in the dorm near the lake, he told me, and come to his lab on the fifth floor to do work that straddled materials science and physics. He had two grad students working through the summer and was thinking of hiring an additional summer student. They had lab meetings every day at noon.

I told him I would be there and, thrilled, told anyone who would listen of my good fortune.

Then New England called. And I thought achingly of the boat and bicycles, of the house near the water with a dozen other students. Of models and collaborations with geologists and chemists to learn about magical ocean phenomena – the mysteries of the deep! Perhaps I’d even see a dolphin! The 100 or so days I could spend there dangled before me – an offer I hadn’t at all expected to get from a man I still remember as being young and passionate and wonderful via our phone and email exchanges. So I made lists and obsessed and talked to people.

That summer, I headed north rather than northeast. I moved my belongings into a dorm room near a lake rather than a house near the ocean. And I learned a great deal and met some cool people. I was likely a bit too arrogant – I still thought myself rather brilliant in college (I’ve since been cured of that.) – but my future remained filled with possibilities. And anything seemed figure-out-able given enough data. I’d chosen safety over adventure, sure, but everything worked out.

My drug company contact called on Friday. We talked casually about my future plans – I mentioned the Industry job and how I was planning to leave academic research in the near future – and, to my utter shock, she said she hoped I’d consider a job with them.

I'll briefly review my dealings with drug company (Please see the end of that post for additional detail.) for those of you who haven't been following my every word for the past year or so. Boss asked me to help with this project because a grad student was screwing it up. I had time (and had asked for something to do) so I happily learned how to handle the various tasks. Said tasks included loading data from CDs, burning data to CDs, labeling files and keeping lists of what was done and needed to be done. Then – for a super-challenge – sometimes I'd meet with a very important MD and show her files. And type in the numbers she said to a spreadsheet. Or make a presentation of the relevant findings. Then I'd deal with scheduling emails and quality checks and the like. Had I been busy, it would have been awful. But I had the time and didn't mind doing it, so life was good.

Then there was the whole thing about not getting credit for any of this work. And while I'm willing to admit it wasn't hard, I also wasn't doing it for fun. I was spending hours of my life each week fielding phone calls and questions, waiting for data to transfer, looking up odd bits of information that might someday be relevant. So I told drug company contact I wanted an authorship on the eventual paper. She said no, explained the situation, VIMD firmly said I would be granted an authorship, I refused to do more work until drug company gave me what I wanted. They finally said OK. At which point, I uncrossed my arms, stopped pouting and promptly handled the work again.

If you went back and referenced those posts, you'd see that I felt badly for making those demands. But I was angry and got aggressive and dug in my heels. They could pay me or give me an authorship, but I was not working for nothing. I was rather petulant about my requests when they were denied and used every email reply as an opportunity to remind them that any requested work that I didn't get credit for was pretty low priority. In short, I was not very nice. So I assumed they didn't like me so much.

“Wow,” I said after she explained the position and how it opened, “I’m…” Don’t say ‘surprised,’ I told myself firmly and decided on, “so flattered!”

The problem is that – were I to describe an absolutely perfect job for myself – this would be it. All the training I’ve received, all the priorities I have, everything I think is good and important about the research I do – this job would allow me to use and enjoy and deal with that work. I didn’t even see postings of jobs like this, having some idea that they were so rare and coveted that you had to know someone to get invited to interview. But now I did know someone! And rather than thinking me lame and pouty for demanding authorship and being clear about what I wanted, she admired my attitude. She liked that I answered emails promptly and was clear about timelines. She enjoyed that I understood the work at a high level but wasn’t too good for menial tasks. And – miracle of miracles – I might be able to get hired to do this.

“We reviewed your CV,” she said yesterday when we spoke again, speaking of herself and her boss – a man I think is brilliant and am thrilled has viewed my qualifications at all. “We think you’d be very happy here and we’re trying to rush HR to get you an interview before you have to sign anything for Industry. Try hard to stall them when they send you a contract. We think you’d be happier doing this work,” she confided and I had to nod in agreement. The job is this sparkling bit of perfection for me. “So just give us a chance to get things in order – we’re very interested in you. And I think you’d like California – it’s beautiful out here.”

And there’s the sticking point, I thought with a wince. I’ve told my parents I’m coming home. I’m going to live within easy driving distance. See my nieces more often. Work at a huge company so they feel relieved and secure in my future. So I feel more secure too – I want stability and room to get promoted, opportunities to learn and grow and meet people. The job I've been offered already is an amazing one – I worked for months and months to get it and am thrilled that they want me. That it was the only offer I had and therefore easy to joyously accept was bonus.

Now I’m conflicted, thinking of oceans and dolphins again. Yet as I put things into boxes and prepare to move north at the beginning of next month, I know it’ll be like that summer research program. I can’t, I think not without some degree of sadness. It’s too far away, too scary, the unknowns too numerous. And as perfectly wonderful as it sounds, I tend toward safety – where the places seem familiar and home is just a few hours away. But until I finally tell my drug company contact that courting me is rather useless – and I will do that soon, I promise – I’ll think longingly of research tailored to my interests and training, of sunny beaches and astronomically expensive homes, and maybe a stray dolphin or two.

Feedback

My belief is that people are basically good. They stopped when I had a car accident in grad school to make sure I was OK – calmly patting my arm and assuring me the dust was from the airbag and not smoke from a fire, reaching past me to engage the emergency brake when I was too weak and shaky to do it myself, lending support so I could hobble across the street on my sprained ankle. Perhaps some of our species drive while intoxicated or distracted and lose control, smashing into some innocent vehicle on its way home. But I can’t truly fathom the idea of someone choosing to turn the wheel into oncoming traffic – to engage in purposefully harmful behavior without comprehensible motivation. I don’t get it. And so I’ve always assumed I’ve done something to trigger – at least in some way – an attack.

“That smells like accident,” I said sadly as Friend and I moved slowly past a cluster of cars toward my house last night.

“It must have just happened,” she noted, peering across me at the people beginning to exit their own cars to check on the Jeep that was smashed and facing the wrong direction. “I didn’t see any other damage – perhaps she hit the guardrail and spun around? Though if she did hit the semi that was stopped up ahead, we wouldn’t be able to see the damage.” I nodded at Friend's thoughts as we picked up speed, rather pleased we were too late to have seen it and comforted by the fact that at least 5 cars had turned on their emergency lights and formed a barrier between the victim and interstate traffic.

“I’d call 911,” Friend said, “but I saw people with their cell phones out so I’m sure they’re taking care of it.” Thinking the southerners were a helpful bunch, I nodded, but never considered that the line of cars and trucks, yellow lights blinking warningly, had arranged themselves around the broken SUV to prevent someone from taking aim at the driver and running her over. Given the opportunity, people avoid doing each other harm, I thought.

But that’s not always true.

I’ve been thinking over the past couple of weeks about feedback. There’s no shortage of opportunities for people to tell students or post-docs or even faculty members that we’re not doing as well as we should. The paper isn’t written properly – I don’t see the significance. The experiment is OK, I guess, but I would have done something else. Try something else and we’ll talk again! Not funded. The hiring committee decided to go a different way. You can’t defend until you fix your dissertation. Or get three papers. No, two papers. Well, let us decide on the details and then we’ll let you know.

Given that the story of my defense could be used by grad students who get jerked around or criticized unfairly, who are presented with feedback incongruent with their perception of reality, who stare across desks at professors they liked and trusted, now wondering what had shifted and made these people so awful – I feel like I should offer something more about how I handle these situations. I choose to believe that Chris is right when he commented – I have won. I packed my diploma awarding me a Doctor of Philosophy the other day. I’ve created a rather impressive CV and published and collaborated over the past three years. I was offered a job I badly wanted and will continue to use my years of training to be quite good at said job. So I’ve collected a couple stories about my reaction to bad feedback and thought I’d share (in a rather lengthy post - brace yourselves.)

Wait.
Friend once asked if I could do a quantification of hatred post. Where drivers who go slowly in the left lane ranked next to people who wouldn’t turn left despite many opportunities. If showing your disdain for the audience by preparing a seminar so poorly that you flipped through 30 slides, saying “Well, we don’t have time for that!” was rated a 7, was starting part seventeen of your talk when you’re already 20 minutes over your allotted time an 8 or 9?

It turns out I couldn’t do it. I made a graph to help explain. We have four situations to consider – two positive and two infuriating.

Compliment on my shoes – Perhaps someone tells me I’m adorable with my flip flops and how they match my shirt. Or I’m wearing my brown flats and the woman taking my blood at the blood drive says, “Look at the pretty bows on your toes!” I like this.

“I’m proud of you.” – I had gone in to see if Boss had finished with the two papers I’d given him several weeks ago. He had not. So we chatted about how he was traveling more than normal, I told him to make sure he took care of himself and turned to leave. He called my name when I was almost to the door and I glanced over my shoulder. He told me he was proud of me and I smiled and thought that was very sweet.

Bad Talk – If I’m giving you an hour of my life, teach me something. Don’t mumble, write clear slides, act like you have some clue of what you’re talking about and respect that 100 of us came to sit through this atrocity.

Awful Drivers – Seriously, people. You’re killing me. There are rules. If we follow them, you’re far more likely to stay out of my way.

Now. If you consult this figure, you’ll notice there are three numbered areas. I therefore have three points.

1. My moods vary. The figure is probably generously conservative since I likely get in the car or walk into a seminar room between a -6 and 6 depending on what’s happened earlier. But let’s pretend I’m somewhat stable and am just slightly off center. So I establish some baseline and then the arrow indicates some event that happens as defined by the legend.
2. Uh oh. Something has thrilled or enraged me. The feeling – bad or good – is going to be intense. I’m either cooing or cursing, melting into a sweet smile or gritting my teeth.
3. OK, now I’m relaxing into whatever it is and the emotional intensity lessens. Sometimes this takes days, often it takes moments. I can, of course, retrigger the peak intensity if I think too hard about it or write about the situation on my blog. But, should no other stimulus arrive, I even out a bit. The caveat is that you’ve altered by baseline mood. I am now better or worse than I started. And this is why the next event could be handled better or worse than one that happened earlier.
   

So quantifying these things is hard. They happen, I react very strongly and then I calm down. Since I’m ever so slightly introspective, I know this about myself and try desperately to allow time before I respond. I’m either swamped with love and desperately want to please someone in return or stomping my feet in a tantrum and unlikely to do much other than spew profanity and insults at someone.

Obsess.
So let’s imagine a feedback scenario, shall we? One Sunday night, just after writing a rather innocuous post about flowers and random weekend happenings, I received a comment.

Anonymous has left a new comment on your post "Pajamas & Papers (& Pictures!)":

Wow. You are just as lame and lifeless as when I last wasted time looking at this blog. Congrats on being almost 30 and just as psychologically stable as a 12 year old girl on crack.

Cheers.

Posted by Anonymous to Minor Revisions at 8:23 PM

You would not have noticed this comment because within my peak emotional intensity, I deleted it. (I know this contradicts the entire point I just made about waiting. But! My blog is a place primarily for me and I don’t like mean comments.) So I treated those words like a spikey weed and removed them from the page. Then I blinked back tears and rubbed at the ache in my chest and very sadly told Friend that somebody didn’t like me. She asked to see the comment and, after reading it, remarked that it was rather cruel.

This brings me to my major point about feedback, I think. It’s something that I haven’t yet learned and don’t do well at all. Because I still read that and wonder what post might have urged someone to write that out, re-read it for errors and press publish. Why, on some Sunday night on a post that should not have provoked such a reaction, would someone decide to hurt me?

Cue obsessive thoughts.

I guess I am lame – I’ve never pretended to be someone who’s fascinating and brilliant. I write on my blog most every day about mundane things that somehow caught my attention. I complain and think and giggle at things perhaps only I find amusing.

“You actually did stuff this weekend,” Friend defended me. And I nodded, still wounded, thinking that we’d gone to the botanical garden. Had burritos and ice cream. Talked and taken pictures and wandered around the very pretty day. Surrounded by life!

“And,” she continued thoughtfully, “It seems like a 12 year old on crack would be pretty intense - not lifeless. So this doesn’t even make much sense.”

“But she obviously reads – or read – enough to know how old I am. Which means it’s not a completely uneducated statement. She knows enough to form some opinion based on something I’ve written. And she wanted to hurt my feelings.” I suppose there’s enough memory of when Missy said I was mean in junior high. Or that time that Jill didn’t want to be friends with me when I was 10 that I assume vicious remarks come from females.

I don’t like to think that it was random – that it’s a person who lives far away (SiteMeter didn’t catch the visit. So I set up Stat Counter as a fail safe. I will catch you next time, mean commenter! Freaking site stats…) was just that bored and decided that in addition to reading crap she clearly doesn’t like, she’d also hurt my feelings. I’d rather think it was one of very few people I’ve actually tried to irritate in the years I’ve been online. (I’m not always controlled in that peak emotional intensity – sometimes I behave badly.) But even if that’s true, none of these incidents have been recent. That fact that I still can bug someone that much is bothersome.

And this is the problem I really wanted to address. Even if you can call bullshit on parts of it, there’s enough truth in hateful statements that can nibble at my self-esteem. Every time I hear the word ‘lame,’ some part of my brain reminds me that someone thinks I’m lame and lifeless. Enough to say ‘Wow.’ And once weakened, my sense of well-being is easily attacked by memories of other people who found me lacking – that guy who never called after we went out, the journal editors who didn’t like my papers, when Advisor wouldn’t defend me against statements that I wasn’t ready to graduate, SPB slapping me back for continuing to bug him for resources. So I get sad and some random sentence from a stranger triggers this unnecessary evaluation of what’s wrong with me.

And that’s hard. So if you do it too, I’m very sorry. I wish we didn’t have that in common.

If possible, fix it.
Sometimes criticism, even poorly delivered, is worthwhile. So you fix the figure even when Reviewer Two is a condescending asshole. I thought carefully about whether I wanted an academic job when my weakness in a particular skill emerged over and over. I decided I didn’t – screw you guys, I’m going to industry. If someone says your shoes are brown and should be black, think about it. If that’s right, grit your teeth, tell a friend you have to work with a shoe-obsessed moron and buy some black flats. Perhaps with pretty bows on them!

There are, however, times when something is just wrong. When obsession brings me to the point where I can say, “You know what? How about NO.” I reached that point with a secretary in the department over travel receipts. She couldn’t reimburse meals without receipts, she wrote. So I could find documentation or they’d remove them from the report.

No, I wrote politely. I’ve done this before and meals under $15 aren’t subject to that rule. Check your notes.

No, she replied firmly. Finance wouldn’t accept it.

No, I wrote back, jaw starting to ache from clenching my teeth. If you look on page 14 of the Finance guide, it says there’s a $30 limit for non-documented meals. So I’m actually far under.

She apologized for the confusion, saying that it wasn’t finance but the department who made the rules. And while they might accept one or two meals without receipts, five was too many.

At which point I wrote (and deleted without sending) an email filled with exasperated questions and too many Capital Letters (!) about her nonsensical rules and sense of over-importance. So I waited. I thought about how much I wanted less than $50. And I decided I wanted to win more than I wanted the money. I was willing to go the Boss and the chair of the department over this. I’d dealt with this woman before, was not impressed and was not admitting defeat. (I think I said something about seeing her in Hell first. I'm very dramatic.)

So I wrote an email telling her that I was growing frustrated with how difficult she was making a simple process. I asked her to check with the person who needed to approve this, to let me know if I should meet with said person directly, and when she decided what version of her made-up rules she was going to go with, we could talk again then. I was snippy and firm, but I wanted it to be clear that A) she was annoying and B) I was going to win.

I got email a day later that said she received approval to submit the expenses. Had the circumstances been different – was I staying put rather than packing up to move – this probably would have been a bad call. So the evaluation of when to fight and when to roll over is important. But if you’re going to battle? Win.

Finally? Friends.
Element of truth or not, annoying or heart-breaking, for those of us who take these comments hard, there must be some easing of the hurt. What has worked for me is, quite honestly, writing the blog. Putting words on a screen and letting people read them has worked beautifully in terms of processing situations and receiving sympathy and support.

In the end, I don’t know Anonymous commenter and dearly love Friend. Friend hangs out with me enough that she knows me very well – she doesn’t think I’m lame or lifeless. That lessens that power of some random icky person to cause lasting damage.

Enough of you have called foul on my defense experience that I’ve released what shame and hurt I currently can. I cling to some of it, but it’s not nearly as bad as it was.

I think – from years of reading her blog – that PsycGirl is dedicated and smart and wonderful. She cares about what she does and the people she meets. Anyone who tried to make her feel badly about her progress or talent is a moron and jackass and meanie. I’m absolutely positive about this. And I’m sorry she has to deal with such lower life forms.

I guess I mix Boss’s pride and a bad talk and the former seems more important. I think of staring at giraffes next to Friend at the zoo and compare it to some piece of ick who tried to hurt my feelings. And I think about the giraffes instead of that comment on my post about flowers. I hope that you’re reading because you find something mildly entertaining rather than moderately frustrating, but understand I have limited power in influencing how you think of me. And while I accept – for lack of a better option – that there are sometimes mean people or those who, for whatever reason, choose to create misery for others, my belief is that people are basically good. And that’s somehow enough to keep trying to do whatever it is that I do, even knowing that’s going to earn me more feedback.