I know its been a while, a long while, but i've been very busy. Last week, I was granted the highest academic degree conferred: my doctorate. That's right: Dr. Lady Head, Dr. Mean Christine. Five years in the making. Actually, eight years if you're still counting the time in Chicago. Twelve years if you include undergrad. A long time and a lot of work but still never working a weekend or much past 5pm. Because that is how i roll. I work SMART.
Anyhow, despite all the pomp and circumstance of the event, there is little left to behold when the balloons deflate and the flowers droop and the hangovers resolve. No new baby to care for, no shiny diamond ring, no new superpowers. Just a title. But for me, that is the point. Along the way, i accomplished all these things and more. Shiny diamonds, new babies. All that is left to bestow is a title, so I smile and take it for what its worth. I'm still a wife and a mom--my two most important accomplishments. But now you can call this wife and mom "Dr."
Monday, June 09, 2008
Tuesday, October 09, 2007
Volume Control
It seems like every day the volume gets turned up a little more in my head, which is good, very very good, because it blocks out the rumbling doubts and anxieties and fear that preoccupies me. Background noise is important. When things get too quiet, trouble starts. And things had been quiet for too long. I can see the mental dial twisting every day that i wake up, live, and go to sleep. I anticipate the daily changes, the decreasing fear, the increasing hope. I fully anticipate complete recovery from my ailments by Friday. Friday Friday Friday. Another big day. A chance to spring free from this rat trap. A chance to remove a link from the chain that keeps me here.
I'm quite aware of the fact I am a control freak. Very well aware of it, and I dont really see it as a negative. The only problem is that when one controls their lives so tightly, any slight pertebation or loss of control can send the whole delicately balanced tower of blocks tumbling down.
Ah, the burden of earning a livable wage. What do independently-wealthy people have to worry about? They have control. Anytime someone hands you a paycheck, you hand them control. The price of handing over my control is going to be a steep one. I just have to get out of here first.
The Head and i have realized that we may be running in the wrong career race. The question is, do we keep running? We've got the speed but we're not exactly sure what it is we're running towards.
I'm quite aware of the fact I am a control freak. Very well aware of it, and I dont really see it as a negative. The only problem is that when one controls their lives so tightly, any slight pertebation or loss of control can send the whole delicately balanced tower of blocks tumbling down.
Ah, the burden of earning a livable wage. What do independently-wealthy people have to worry about? They have control. Anytime someone hands you a paycheck, you hand them control. The price of handing over my control is going to be a steep one. I just have to get out of here first.
The Head and i have realized that we may be running in the wrong career race. The question is, do we keep running? We've got the speed but we're not exactly sure what it is we're running towards.
Tuesday, October 02, 2007
A drink past pensive
I grew despondent over the last few weeks. Things haven't worked like i hoped. People i trusted betrayed me. Even worse--they disappointed me. I worked very very hard and it went unrecognized. I realized two main things. In science, the field in which i work, you can never pay it forward. The only thing that counts is how many hours you worked yesterday. Not what you did. Not how well you did it. Not how many asses you pulled out of the fire. Not the precision, expertise and excellence you displayed. Only the fact you were present, even though those extra hours were spent surfing the internet for the latest update on Lindsay Lohan. There is no way to pay anything forward in my field. The second thing i realized is that people who openly abide by the rules and portray themselves as nice guys that "do the right thing" can be inherently immoral when it comes to their own self interests. Lying to keep someone around. Offering easy situations that would be suicidal to the recipient and not caring that it is so because they fear change. Doing everything in their power to suspend animation. Not for the greater good. For their good. Not even their good. For their complacency. To quell their fear of the unknown. Applying new rules in the 11th hour arbitrarily. I feel trapped. I dont like losing control. I will only be despondent for so long before i sack up and find a way to regain control. I may not be able to pay things forward, but i most certainly, always PAY. THINGS. BACK.
I skipped work today because i was so depressed that it made me physically sick. But tonight, i looked in the crib. And he is my antidepressant. Fuck everything that is NOT him or the people i love! That little angel. That perfect little man that bears a striking resemblance to the only other perfect man i know. You know, they have the same fat little nose. My little man turned 1 this weekend. But so much more. He turned into a little boy. Babies are blobs of bubbly, screamy life. But little boys are angry, happy, sad, worried, curious, indignant, obstinant. They cling to mama's legs for comfort, and turn red and shake their tiny fists when mama says "no." So quickly the Dude has changed. I look at his little legs and they are no longer chubby little baby legs, but the muscular active legs of a toddler. The Dude communicates with us now--he says words and asks for things in his own ning-ning-da-da-ug-bah language. And he imitates what we say and do. There is nothing, nothing, not a g'damn thing in the world can phase me when i ask my Dude for a kiss and he plants this disgusting, open-mouthed drool-covered smacker on my lips. THAT, my friends, is the cure for depression. I'd sell my distant PhD down the river for mouthfuls of baby spit any day. The Dude gives me perspective. In my hours with him, i need nothing but him--exept perhaps his Dada too. Its the hours i'm away from him and his Dada that require medication.
I'll rebound from my work-related disapointments. But i will harbor resentment--i always do. Spite is a powerful motivator. However, i will spare my soul the agony of defeat because no matter where i go or what i do I HAVE WON because i have the Dude.
I skipped work today because i was so depressed that it made me physically sick. But tonight, i looked in the crib. And he is my antidepressant. Fuck everything that is NOT him or the people i love! That little angel. That perfect little man that bears a striking resemblance to the only other perfect man i know. You know, they have the same fat little nose. My little man turned 1 this weekend. But so much more. He turned into a little boy. Babies are blobs of bubbly, screamy life. But little boys are angry, happy, sad, worried, curious, indignant, obstinant. They cling to mama's legs for comfort, and turn red and shake their tiny fists when mama says "no." So quickly the Dude has changed. I look at his little legs and they are no longer chubby little baby legs, but the muscular active legs of a toddler. The Dude communicates with us now--he says words and asks for things in his own ning-ning-da-da-ug-bah language. And he imitates what we say and do. There is nothing, nothing, not a g'damn thing in the world can phase me when i ask my Dude for a kiss and he plants this disgusting, open-mouthed drool-covered smacker on my lips. THAT, my friends, is the cure for depression. I'd sell my distant PhD down the river for mouthfuls of baby spit any day. The Dude gives me perspective. In my hours with him, i need nothing but him--exept perhaps his Dada too. Its the hours i'm away from him and his Dada that require medication.
I'll rebound from my work-related disapointments. But i will harbor resentment--i always do. Spite is a powerful motivator. However, i will spare my soul the agony of defeat because no matter where i go or what i do I HAVE WON because i have the Dude.
Thursday, September 13, 2007
The view from the top
In one word, i have senioritis. I'm ready to be done with graduate school. Yeah, i've been done with taking all the classes i'll ever have to take in my life two years ago but i'm seriously starting to think my tour of duty in graduate school should come to an end. You see, i've been in graduate school for-fucking-ever. Three years in Chicago and i got a candy-ass masters degree in psychology which only serves as a prop for my party-jokes about being qualified to psychoanalyze people for cash, and now i'm starting year 5 of my quest toward a doctoral degree in neuroscience. And year 5 is when i'm supposed to graduate in this program. Now i'm pretty much on schedule to finish this year. I've got my required publications, finished all but one of my crappy experiments, and have a small, convoluted story to tell about phenotypic plasticity in a eusocial mammal (sounds pretty awesome when i can use big words to say "spine growth in naked mole-rats.") So what's the problem then? Well, i have to meet with my committee and convince them that i'm ready to be done, which may be more of a problem in my head than in actuality. Its stressful trying to summarize 5 years of research into a 2-hour meeting time but i'm sure they are sick of hearing from me as much i'm sick of these meetings. But my most concerning issue is that i've realized that i have no motivation about what i should do after graduation. I mean, i know i have to work. Staying home and raising the kids and tending to the farm is not an option for me. But i dont want a job either. I like my current schedule because it affords me flexibility and i can be home every day by 4:30 to spend time with the Dude. A real job might actually put limits on my schedule. I've already decided to get as far fucking away from basic research as i possibly can and will pursue a clinical post-doc, which in turn will help me get as far fucking away from academic science as possible by opening up a world of industry, administration, and private funding. You see, i want to work 9 to 5. I want weekends off. When i'm not at work, i dont want to think about work. I dont want to travel much. When i'm at work, i'll work fucking hard. I want to write a lot and manage large groups of people and i want to be an expert in regulations and procedures and use my skills to design and plan things. I want a lot of responsibility and I want to talk to scientists and businessmen and politicians and translate between these different languages. And i want to make a fuck-ton of money. I dont want to run experiments, or teach, or be a part of the bullshit tenure race. I'm not interested in the creative process of generating Nobel-prize winning research ideas. I want someone to give me a goal, and I'll show them to achieve it in the most awesome manner possible. I'm not a creative ideas person. That's my husband. I'm a realist and a problem solver. I need something concrete to work with, which is why i'll never excel in basic science, because i just cant pull good ideas out of my ass. However, if someone gives me a great idea, no matter how wild or far-fetched it is, i can make it reality. And i can get more done Monday through Friday 9-5 than most people can during an 80 hour week.
Perhaps that is why i hesitate to graduate. I know what i want to do and what i'm good at, but i dont see my dream job waiting in the wings. I'm pretty sure that it is out there too--its just that graduate study at an academic institution has a certain agenda, a certain assumption that we are being groomed to go on in our academic parent's footsteps and be a faculty researcher running the grants and tenure race while being underpaid and overworked. So my dream career options arent obvious, often hidden by administrators and mentors and people who want to perpetuate this great academic agenda and their research legacy, and it may take me a few years of playing "the Man's Game" to find my career. And its absolutely appalling that the PhD is the highest academic degree obtainable, but a post-doc position pays less than many factory workers make. I really have trouble accepting that I can be called Dr. Lady Head, and still make less than a high-school drop-out. And how do they justify this? By saying that you are working hard and getting shit pay because you love what you do and you're receiving this amazing mentorship. Fuck that. I believe a post-doc is just a fucking job, and if its gonna pay shitty, then the hours at least better be decent.
Yes, my graduate program has created a monster. They've produced many lovely drones, but mutations are high in inbred societies and this little aberration wants out.
Perhaps that is why i hesitate to graduate. I know what i want to do and what i'm good at, but i dont see my dream job waiting in the wings. I'm pretty sure that it is out there too--its just that graduate study at an academic institution has a certain agenda, a certain assumption that we are being groomed to go on in our academic parent's footsteps and be a faculty researcher running the grants and tenure race while being underpaid and overworked. So my dream career options arent obvious, often hidden by administrators and mentors and people who want to perpetuate this great academic agenda and their research legacy, and it may take me a few years of playing "the Man's Game" to find my career. And its absolutely appalling that the PhD is the highest academic degree obtainable, but a post-doc position pays less than many factory workers make. I really have trouble accepting that I can be called Dr. Lady Head, and still make less than a high-school drop-out. And how do they justify this? By saying that you are working hard and getting shit pay because you love what you do and you're receiving this amazing mentorship. Fuck that. I believe a post-doc is just a fucking job, and if its gonna pay shitty, then the hours at least better be decent.
Yes, my graduate program has created a monster. They've produced many lovely drones, but mutations are high in inbred societies and this little aberration wants out.
Thursday, September 06, 2007
"Please do not offer my god a peanut."-Apu
The Great Hindu-Irish wedding was a smashing success. Never before I have I been to a more opulent, exotic but extremely classy affair. It was amazing. It was almost like going to a foreign play that just happened to be serving tons of booze and food. The almighty Ganesh would have been pleased. Never mind the fact that the night before i got blindingly drunk and ended up puking. As i often do when i see my Chicago friends. I havent had a good hang-over in quite a while, and this one certainly made up for a lot of lost time.
The whole experience really got me thinking about what it would be like to move back to Chicago. I miss our Chicago friends so much, and most of the shittiest slums of the city are being torn down and rebuilt as a magnificient yuppy heaven with coffee shops on every corner and a two-story Target and all kinds of delicious new restaurants. And the multiculturalism and lack of overt racism was refreshing. Although, it was a deceptive trip because it occurred in September, the most (or perhaps the only) beautiful month in that city. Any other time its too fucking cold and shitty, or hot enough that the pavement radiates heat and the stench of bum piss. Plus people are really really mean in the north. I used to love this, i really did. Flipping people off while driving, giving dirty looks to children, and hogging seats on trains and benches were all a part of my daily repertoire. But now after living in the south, even the most ignorant meth-addicted hicks will give up a seat to let a mother struggling with an infant sit down. The toothless, slack-jawed hillbilly at Kroger will smile at my son, tell me about his 14 kids, and let me skip ahead of him in line because i've only got one item. And Billy Joe Bob from Physical Plant will always hold the elevator as i make a mad dash down the hall for it. I've softened and grown quite accustomed to these genteel ways. Southerners can be slow, evil, racist, fundamentalist pricks, but overall, they've got their manners, and a certain sense of propriety that causes them to hold doors open for ladies and smile at children. But at the same time life in Chicago appeals to me for reasons i cannot fully explain. Living in the big city always made me feel like i was part of the action, even when i was just sitting in my own living room. Its hard to be isolated when you're crammed right in on top of millions of people. Sure, you hate all those people and wont talk to them, but for some reason, its still comforting to be among them. Except in winter when its snowy and cold. Then i hate everything about being in the city.
All in all, Fat Nick and Deb are now married and we can say we participated in one of the most amazing wedding rituals of all time. We saw the land we love get polished up and de-ghetto-fied. We partied with most of the same friends who partied with us at the Great Head Wedding of 2002. The Dude survived his first trip to the Windy City, and i now question our career trajectory that keeps us in the dirty south. If only the weather weren't so shitty, perhaps we'd move back to Chicago. Maybe the great god Ganesh and global warming will make it so.
The whole experience really got me thinking about what it would be like to move back to Chicago. I miss our Chicago friends so much, and most of the shittiest slums of the city are being torn down and rebuilt as a magnificient yuppy heaven with coffee shops on every corner and a two-story Target and all kinds of delicious new restaurants. And the multiculturalism and lack of overt racism was refreshing. Although, it was a deceptive trip because it occurred in September, the most (or perhaps the only) beautiful month in that city. Any other time its too fucking cold and shitty, or hot enough that the pavement radiates heat and the stench of bum piss. Plus people are really really mean in the north. I used to love this, i really did. Flipping people off while driving, giving dirty looks to children, and hogging seats on trains and benches were all a part of my daily repertoire. But now after living in the south, even the most ignorant meth-addicted hicks will give up a seat to let a mother struggling with an infant sit down. The toothless, slack-jawed hillbilly at Kroger will smile at my son, tell me about his 14 kids, and let me skip ahead of him in line because i've only got one item. And Billy Joe Bob from Physical Plant will always hold the elevator as i make a mad dash down the hall for it. I've softened and grown quite accustomed to these genteel ways. Southerners can be slow, evil, racist, fundamentalist pricks, but overall, they've got their manners, and a certain sense of propriety that causes them to hold doors open for ladies and smile at children. But at the same time life in Chicago appeals to me for reasons i cannot fully explain. Living in the big city always made me feel like i was part of the action, even when i was just sitting in my own living room. Its hard to be isolated when you're crammed right in on top of millions of people. Sure, you hate all those people and wont talk to them, but for some reason, its still comforting to be among them. Except in winter when its snowy and cold. Then i hate everything about being in the city.
All in all, Fat Nick and Deb are now married and we can say we participated in one of the most amazing wedding rituals of all time. We saw the land we love get polished up and de-ghetto-fied. We partied with most of the same friends who partied with us at the Great Head Wedding of 2002. The Dude survived his first trip to the Windy City, and i now question our career trajectory that keeps us in the dirty south. If only the weather weren't so shitty, perhaps we'd move back to Chicago. Maybe the great god Ganesh and global warming will make it so.
Friday, August 31, 2007
For realzy no dealzy
Well we're off to Chicago this weekend for Fat Nick's Hindu-Irish wedding and i have to say that i'm pretty stoked about it. Normally the thought of traveling with the Dude, six tons of luggage, and now, dress clothes for the wedding seems overwhelming but for some reason i'm oblivious to this right now. We're going to Chicago! We're going back to our second-home town! We're going to a fucking awesome Hindu wedding! How many people (short of Indians) can say they've been to a wedding conducted entirely in Sanskrit? Surely not many people here in the dirty south who, upon telling them i'm going to an Indian wedding, assume i'm whooping it up with feathers on my head inside some teepee in the desert.
Most importantly, we're traveling to a climate zone that's less than 100 degrees out which these days will seem completely chilly. It was 85 degrees out last night and i considered putting a sweater on. And this trip is an important distraction. I'm currently wrestling with how i tell my dissertation committee that i want to be done by summer and have them actually agree to this. I have to wow them with my accomplishments which means there will be a lot of turd-polishing between now and my meeting with them. And i really dont want to think about all the work that lies ahead of me in regards to buffing up these feces i call my data. So the stresses of traveling with a criminally insane 11-month old, the annoyance of controlling an obscenely drunken 32 year-old, and worry over whether my cans hold up the strapless dress i'm wearing to the wedding are a lot more palatable to me right now than thinking about the state of my dissertation research.
Most importantly, we're traveling to a climate zone that's less than 100 degrees out which these days will seem completely chilly. It was 85 degrees out last night and i considered putting a sweater on. And this trip is an important distraction. I'm currently wrestling with how i tell my dissertation committee that i want to be done by summer and have them actually agree to this. I have to wow them with my accomplishments which means there will be a lot of turd-polishing between now and my meeting with them. And i really dont want to think about all the work that lies ahead of me in regards to buffing up these feces i call my data. So the stresses of traveling with a criminally insane 11-month old, the annoyance of controlling an obscenely drunken 32 year-old, and worry over whether my cans hold up the strapless dress i'm wearing to the wedding are a lot more palatable to me right now than thinking about the state of my dissertation research.
Friday, August 24, 2007
I still don't understand thongs
I just dont know how you do it. Wear g'damn underwear that's sole purpose is to ride up your ass. I've tried for years to figure this out, and i've come to the conclusion that i just can't do it. My butt rejects thongs.
Perhaps you will say its because my ass is too big. Well, i dont think that's true because i know girls with asses far bigger than mine that wear thongs. Maybe its the brand of thong, you say. I've tried all brands. I just dont like things that stick in my asscrack. Its uncomfortable. I've spent far too many years pulling normal underwear out of there when it rides up. Now why would i want to purposely fill said crack with fabric?
Maybe like thong sandals, you have to a build a callus up in there to wear the butt thong. Every spring thong sandals hurt my toes until i've worn them a couple of days and my feet get used to them. However, i shouldnt have to build up a callus in my asscrack. Underwear should be comfortable from the moment you put it on.
So it seems that i am the only person in the world that can't wear a thong. I really don't give a rat's ass about panty lines and even if i did, i'd go commando rather than wear a thong. Maybe i'm right, and all of you silly bastards have just convinced yourselves that thong underwear is comfortable when its really not. Just like all of you who have convinced yourselves that Crocs are cool when they make you look like an ass.
Perhaps you will say its because my ass is too big. Well, i dont think that's true because i know girls with asses far bigger than mine that wear thongs. Maybe its the brand of thong, you say. I've tried all brands. I just dont like things that stick in my asscrack. Its uncomfortable. I've spent far too many years pulling normal underwear out of there when it rides up. Now why would i want to purposely fill said crack with fabric?
Maybe like thong sandals, you have to a build a callus up in there to wear the butt thong. Every spring thong sandals hurt my toes until i've worn them a couple of days and my feet get used to them. However, i shouldnt have to build up a callus in my asscrack. Underwear should be comfortable from the moment you put it on.
So it seems that i am the only person in the world that can't wear a thong. I really don't give a rat's ass about panty lines and even if i did, i'd go commando rather than wear a thong. Maybe i'm right, and all of you silly bastards have just convinced yourselves that thong underwear is comfortable when its really not. Just like all of you who have convinced yourselves that Crocs are cool when they make you look like an ass.
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