"Even After the Glitter Fades": Dating as a Ph.D.

“You know, the man of my dreams might walk round the corner tomorrow. I'm older and wiser and I think I'd make a great girlfriend. I live in the realm of romantic possibility.”

©     Stevie Nicks

Five years ago, as I contemplated which grad school to go to, I did a little bit of research. Not the kind of research that involves looking at the school’s English program or the type of instructors that taught there or even how reputable the place was—no, I researched the dating life of a grad student. I stumbled upon blogs and wikis dedicated to dating life in grad school, and as I sat reading through the threads, a tiny black cloud burst upon my head: the consensus was dating in grad school sucked. I combed through more and more threads sure that this was wrong—how could it be so hard to date in grad school? There would be boys, ahem, men there. There’d be a whole new city to explore. Yet every blog and wiki said the same thing. Shaking my head in defiance, I declared that would not be the case for me—I would find a way to date, and date a lot, throughout grad school.

Decision made, I set out to truly figure out what grad school to attend. One day, I was walking to grab coffee with my mentor when he said he had advice for me,

“Don’t get married in grad school.”

“Uh, ok??”

“No, seriously. Don’t get married in grad school. Don’t go there to date.”

“Um….”

The black cloud returned above my head, just what was it with dating in grad school? Could people really not multi-task within their lives?

Needless to say, advice and research aside, I survived grad school having found a way to mostly mingle my dating life and my academic life. Though as I made my way through the program, one thing did become crystal clear: men don’t tend to like hard-core women. You know, the women that are smart, perhaps slightly aggressive in their take-charge personalities, and marginally competitive. Personally, I hate the term “hard-core woman”—it makes me shudder and squirm—but I’ve heard the term two or three times…maybe even thrown my general way. But, what is so wrong with a woman with direction? A woman with goals? A woman who knows her mind and isn’t afraid to share it? I didn't/don’t get it.

Several months ago, I was at a bar with a guy friend and no one was there but the bartender and the two of us. The bartender was totally cute, so I shamelessly flirted with him. He flirted back. We played the get-to-know you game:

Cute Bartender: “What do you do?”

Kt: “I’m a professor.”

Long pause.

Cute bartender: “I’m sorry, but what exactly do you profess?”

Kt: (inward sigh—I hate that question) “I teach writing.”
Cute bartender: "Oooh, you mean like creative writing? Like poetry."

Friend butts in: “You shouldn’t tell people that you’re a professor.”

Kt: “Excuse me?!? Why not?"

Cute bartender: (laughs) “Yea, I wouldn’t mention that either. No one wants to know that you are a (pause for dramatic effect) D.o.c.t.er.”
Kt: "DO YOU KNOW HOW LONG AND HARD IT IS TO BECOME A PROFESSOR?” (clenched teeth)

Friend: “Dude! No guy wants to know that you have a Ph.D. Seriously. Leave it out.”

Kt: “You guys are ridiculous. And I teach composition--you know there are other kinds of writing. I try and teach student how to..."

Cute bartender: (jumps in totally ignoring the writing comment) “You’re friend has a point—I wouldn’t tell people you have a Ph.D, especially not guys.”

Kt exits to the bathroom before the conversation turns ugly.

Long after the conversation had ended, it still haunted me. Could this be true, I wondered? Is this part of the whole anti-hard-core woman thing? Men don’t want someone who has a higher degree than them or may be as smart or smarter?

Around the same time a different friend suggested I join an online dating website. I have always rejected the idea of online dating because it just seemed so stale, but I thought ok, why not. Five hours after sitting through e-harmony’s painfully long process, I had an online profile. Before it went public, my fingers lingered above the keys as the conversation from bar teased within my thoughts: do I put I have a Ph.D? Do I put that I’m a professor? Inwardly I was cringing that I even thought these thoughts, so I put down: Kara, Ph.D. Professor of Writing. There, I thought, take that cute bartender! I am Kt, Ph.D. And there’s nothing you can do about it.

After getting only two invitations for "guided communication"--one of which looked much older than his professed 38 years of age and the other looking his 36, but still seeming too old for me--the conversation returned to haunt me. What, I wondered, was wrong with my profile? 

About a month into e-harmony, I was talking with my mom on the phone when I wondered out loud if the cute bartender was right: did my Ph.D and status as a professor mark me in some way? Ever the one to try out some research, I updated my profile: education, “some college”;  job, “education”; and I took out all my sassy comments and made my profile as minimal as could be.

1 day later: the traffic on my profile tripled, the number of “guided communication”

requests from men doubled, and suddenly men who I had sent “guided communication” weeks ago responded. No lyin’. Suddenly without the Ph.D. or the professor attached to my profile, it had become more desirable to men. I was torn between amusement and disgust at the cute bartender and friend who apparently had a point. I was more desirable to these nameless men without my Ph.D. or declaring that I was a professor.

Thus, five years after initially not believing the blogs and wikis, I think they might have been onto something. Dating in general is hard—we all know this—but dating as someone with a higher degree is much harder than without one. And perhaps dating as a woman who has her Ph.D. is harder still.

I love the Stevie Nicks quote that opened this post because deep down or perhaps not that deep, I’m a romantic at heart. Maybe the man of my dreams is around the next corner. Maybe it’s time I switch my profile back to Kt, Ph.D. and let the profile views fall as they may.  And maybe it’s time to re-stomp on the black rain cloud and live in the realm of romantic possibility and resume loudly declaring, Kara Taczak, Ph.D. Professor of Writing...I’d make a great girlfriend. ;-)

Cardinals and Blue Jays: A Promise of a New Day

I hope blue[jays] dance in your soul.
- Al Batt

When I was younger, I had a habit of falling into watering holes—creeks, lakes, streams, and the like. It happened most often at my Nanny and Popey’s house where a creek teased me from the backyard. This particular creek was a bit wider than a sidewalk and held crawfish and minnies and a promise of adventure. I realize, those of you reading, might be shaking your head: a little wider than a sidewalk?!? And you still fell in? Well, never one to back down from something or someone, my brother, DT, would constantly egg me on to jump it. Of course, he did this from the other side where he had already neatly and safely landed. I tried many a ways to jump across it, but it seems I was never cut out to be a jumper (as also noted by my lack of a vertical jump for swimming in college ... just not a jumper). I always jumped, yet also managed to slip, trip, and/or fall into the water. I’d slink on back to my grandparents’ house through the basement where I knew my Nanny left towels.

My grandparents were avid bird watchers and living in rural Ohio provided the perfect backdrop for this hobby. They had bird whistles, birdbaths, bird feeders, bird books, bird nick-knacks, bird clocks, and various other bird related items around their house. There were times when my brothers and I didn’t venture down to the creek and instead sat in front of the giant bay window and watched the birds with my grandparents. Sometimes one of us were told to take the bags of crust and scatter it on the ground beneath the bay window. The birds would swoop on in and talk back and forth as they snatched the crumbs. We learned a lot about the nature of birds and each other as we’d sit and bird watch. My grandparents had two favorite birds: the cardinal and the blue jay. These two types of birds are not actually that easy to see, or at least, that has been my experience outside of rural Ohio. Over the years since my grandparents passing, I have not seen these birds very often, though the blue jay is more elusive, and I always look.  And so ingrained in fond and happy memories of a time long past, these birds have become a symbol for my brothers and me: a symbol of hope that somehow, no matter the circumstances things are going to be ok.

This past year I have seen the blue jay several times: always flying high, only stopping for a moment for me to a catch a glimpse.

This might be a slight indication of my past year, my first as a post-grad student. What does one expect in their first year as a full-fledged faculty member, shiny new Ph.D. in hand? I don’t know what I expected, but I never expected it to be so, well, so hard. I never thought I’d count out pennies for groceries or have experiences with students that didn’t go so *well. I never thought it’d be hard to make new friends or find a good work out place. I never thought I’d find a church that didn’t have my best intentions at heart or struggle to lose the dissertation 20. I never thought it’d be hard to adjust to the running in the altitude or have constant nosebleeds from the adjustment. I never thought the Steelers would lose to the Broncos or that Peyton Manning would get traded to the Broncos. I never thought a student would email to complain about an A-…

I’m not one to run away from something just because it’s hard, and in fact, I tend to dig in deeper, but it’s not unrealistic or un-humanlike (or heaven forbid weak) to admit when it’s been a hard year. We all have hard years—I’ve had harder years than even this one—yet, it’s what we do with the hard year once we realize the fact that makes the difference in how the following year will turn out. Not because the following year is guaranteed to be a “better” year, but because of how we adjust our thinking and our reactions based on that previous experience.

By the time I saw a blue jay for the third time, I knew everything—somehow and someway—was going to be ok.  

This has been the year of jumping in because someone (namely myself) dared me to. But it’s also been the year of learning when not to jump (who knew there’d be that day!), learning when to rely on others, if only to talk it out, and learning more about myself along the way. A seemingly productive learning year: let’s call it that and not let the hardness of it blind me to the learning.   

And so, sometimes when darkness hovers above ready to slip her arms around me and the ground is slightly damp, I’m no longer a 30something, but my 10 year old self giggling at my brothers across the creek, daring them to not believe I could make it. I still smell the rustiness of the creek, still see the lighting bugs start to dance, still hear the aria of the spring peeps, still hear my Popey, as he shakes his head and says, “ooooh, Sissy,” and still believe that cardinals and blue jays offer the hope of a new day.

A Lesson from the DU Community

I’m sitting waiting on my students to finish a scavenger hunt based around the idea of knowledge communities, and I can’t believe that in about a week my first quarter teaching at DU will be complete. It’s true what they say: quarters fly by. Last year at this time, I was meandering my way around my dissertation, job talks, and teaching portfolios, and now I’m another year older, living across the country in a state that favors the cold and sunshine instead of the warm and sunshine, and it all seems a little crazy. February is my birthday month, and normally when I think of goals for the year, I tend to think of them beginning and ending with February.

During the month of March, I’m asked to write-up a reflection over the past quarter and essentially look at what I learned and how I might go forward into the next quarter. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, about what I might say, and I’m struggling because there seems like so much has happened in a short ten week span that has really made me think about how I define myself as an instructor of writing. So, I’m going to really focus this blog on one thing I have really taken notice of and learned about this past quarter: boots. =)

DU is my fifth school, if I include my three schools for my three degrees, and the previous institutions where I have taught. Every school, I have noticed, has a theme that centers at the heart of the fashion worn by faculty and students alike. At Mount Union, it was hoodies boldly declaring the school’s name. At FSU, it was a whole lotta Vera Bradley bags. Here at DU, it’s boots. Given the weather, it’s not really that weird that students and faculty at DU wear boots, but what makes them unique is the ways in which they wear them, and the type of the boots they wear.

I have seen girls wear boots in shorts, dresses, skirts, jeans, leggings, and yoga pants. Yes, yoga pants. Apparently tall boots can be used to dress up yoga pants, and I say, heck yes! I’ve also noticed that many girls where sweat pants with Uggs, which is not necessarily that attractive of a combination. I have also seen at least one pair of thigh-high stilettos, although, heels are not on trend with the boots at DU. Another disturbing trend is the girls that wear tights as pants with boots—yes, tights, not leggings, as pants. The other day I was walking behind this girl in super cute tan combat boots with black tights. I don’t know what she was thinking or why her roommates let her walk out of her dorm room. Ladies a word to the wise: tights and leggings are NOT stand alone bottoms—your backside needs covered no matter how skinny you are.

Boots, no matter the weather that constantly likes to surprise Denver residents, are a staple here at DU. And of all the trends I have witnessed, it’s one of my favorites. There is comfort in pulling on your favorite worn-in pair of boots—it’s like talking to an old friend over steaming cup of coffee on a wintery morning. Boots can pull an outfit together and make you feel like taking on the world (or a room full of college freshmen!).

The past quarter has shown me new ways to incorporate boots into my wardrobe as well as showing me ways that boots should never be worn. All-in-all a pretty solid lesson to be learn. ;-)

The Treadmill: Running Against Disgust

“You can’t talk on your cell phone!”

I gave the older gentleman whose white socks where pulled up to his knees a confused look.

He repeated again this time raising his voice and sniffing at me, “You CAN’T talk on your cell phone!”

I hit the pause button the treadmill and answered, “but I’m talking with my mom!”

As part of my 2012 goals, I’m re-dedicating myself to working out with a focus on overcoming my disgust of treadmills. Given that I live in Denver and given that I’m 100% a baby about the cold (plus I have asthma, which actually doesn’t work well when running in the cold), I have had to take up running on a treadmill. My disgust for treadmills worked its way into my mind years ago when growing up in the bitter cold of northern Ohio forced me to begin running on them. There is nothing about them that appeals to me: I most often feel like the hamster that runs and runs and runs on his wheel. At least that poor guy never quite comprehends he’s going nowhere. I, however, always know that I’m headed nowhere. I am constantly checking my mileage; I find myself walking more than I run; and I swear I don’t burn as many calories as I would running outside. And, though in most things I’m highly competitive, I’m not the kinda girl who takes on the person next me as a good friend recently confessed she does. She mentioned that when someone gets on the treadmill next to her and starts going fasters, she, too, must go faster. I tend to pick the treadmill at the end of the line and only look at the person next to me if absolutely necessary like when their sweat works it way onto my arm or when their tiny body with their super flat belly that’s covered only in tight yoga pants and a sports bra is teasing me to look and be jealous, do I glance over with a look of pure disgust while thinking “cover up your ridiculously skinny body.” To me there is nothing enjoyable about the treadmill; yet, I force myself to go since another important goal of mine for 2012 is to rid my body of the Dissertation 20. Thus, four times a week at the acceptable time of 10 or 10:30, I find myself on a treadmill.

Which brings me to the older gentleman. The other day my mom asked me if I have seen any attractive men at the gym, and as I sauntered up the treadmill the next morning (in my best knock-off of Jennifer Beals’ outfit-- sexy shoulder and all), I checked out the pickings. A quick once-over told me that my only choices were three older men. Now, when I say “older” I don’t mean like 50s or even 60s, I’m talking white socks pulled up to their knees-baggy khaki shorts-with black running shoes kind of older men. Every morning I run on the treadmill and my view is blocked by the three of them reading the New York Times and Denver Post while riding the stationary bikes. One of the three has taken an instant dislike to me, which he reminds me of over and over again with death stares done over top his thick- rimmed silver glasses. Maybe it was the off the shoulder shirt that he didn’t like. The same morning I noticed these men, my mom called to check-in. Not realizing I was doing anything wrong, I picked up. Two minutes into the conversation, the older gentleman yelled at me while still riding his bike and reading his paper. After that incident, I’ve also placed my coat in the wrong area, had my Word-with-Friends volume up to loud, and accidently glanced over at him all of which has him shooting me dagger looks and loudly complaining about today’s youth. I’m just flattered he called me today’s youth. But it gets me to another good reason to be disgusted with the treadmill. I get yelled at while on it.

Reason #3 comes in the form of music. Up until very recently (like 2011), I never ran with headphones. I tend to like to think on my runs, or better yet, I like to talk and sing. Normally, I only talk and sing when running with a partner, but sometimes when I’m working through a big problem—whether it’s personal or academic—and I’m alone, I’ll talk to myself. I wrote many a job talk interviews that way last year. When I decided to start using headphones, I, of course, picked out fun and fast-paced running music. Just as I was getting use to music, my I-pod broke. I figured no problem—I’ll just use JT’s I-pod. Wednesday morning rolls around, I hop on the treadmill, throw in the headphones and attempt to start jamming out. All-American Rejects come blasting through first. Then an old Justin Timberlake song. I’ve just talked myself into actually running and not walking when BAM! an act from Don Giovanni starts. Completed confused, I switch songs. Up next is the Four Tenors. My running is complete ruined for the morning, and I spend the next 20 min walking and thinking who can work out to this stuff?!? JT’s I-Pod is riddled with a mixture of pop, rock, punk…and opera. I can no longer use the I-pod for fear of stumbling upon a slow-paced, non-English aria. Totally kills the mood for running. For several days, I wondered about how JT could work out to this weird, er, eclectic mix of music when we both headed over to the gym one Saturday morning. Gearing up on the treadmill for my long—ok, short—run, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye. JT was on an elliptical conducting with one hand, holding on to the handle with the other, and openly singing whatever opera popped up. That day I learned two things: (1) apparently, some people can work out to opera; and (2) ironically, I’m not the only one that gets eye daggers thrown at them from the older gentleman.

I’m not sure if or how I’ll get over my disgust of treadmills. As long as I’m living in a cold climate, I suppose I need to. But like many things in my life, I resist the treadmill. I question its truth and what it thinks it can offer me. I internally debate over being honest with it about my real weight to see how many calories I burn (I may lie…). I mentally envision myself tripping and being thrown backward off of it and then laying on the ground while the older gentleman continues to read his paper and peddle away. And, I talk trash to it inside my head as I attempt to run, walk, run, walk my 2.5 miles (ok, it’s more like 2 miles) often calling it names and belittling it for being a machine making me sweat. There is no love lost between it and me, and when I leave I feel it mock me when I step back off it and glance at my mileage, time, and calories-burned—taunting me with it’s numbers. So as I turn to leave, I pick up my coat, hat, and gloves, and I start singing the last scene from Don Giovanni where the ghost of the Commendatore comes to drag him to the underworld, “DON GIO—VANNI!” in my best deep voice aiming it towards the treadmill and leaving the implied hostility hanging on my last note.

A New Year: A New Season

To Everything/there is a season

A year ago, I started this blog to document my last year as a Ph.D. student. Exactly one year later, I am no longer a Ph.D. student; I am a Ph.D. Success was had—I have the pretty diploma and its frame to prove it—yet it still seems slightly weird. And I wonder if that feeling will ever leave. My students refer to me as “Dr.” or “Professor” but the weirdness still hasn’t completely left. I walk down the street or into stores or talk to new people and still I wonder if I shine with “Ph.D.”—somehow I’m thinking no.

Purposefully I went to class this week with bright pink glitter nail polish. Why you might ask? Well, there’s part of me that still wants to prove that there isn’t a mold much like I tried to prove for years there isn’t mold to what makes a woman sexy (see blog post on short hair). One might think these tiny acts of rebellion would have left me by now—I’m sure some part of my mama is cringing even while she is proud at how she has raised me to be me—but, fortunately or unfortunately, they haven’t completely gone, and I sauntered into class the first week sportin’ glitter pink nail polish. Glitter is my go-to when I want to try and push the limits ever so slightly because glitter offers very specific (sparkly) images. I’ve almost come full circle with glitter: as an undergraduate I wore glitter eyeshadow to try and show that strong and independent women could and did wear make-up and could try and be—yikes—pretty.

So, one year later how has the season changed for me? What does it feel like to be able to reflect back on the last year of my Ph.D.?

A time to build up, a time to break down:

As evidenced by the blog posts throughout 2011, there is definitely a time to build and break down though perhaps more breaking down than building up, especially for the dissertation. I feel like my dissertation broke down many, many times before completion. And the break downs were hard because in order to finish you had build yourself back up--no matter how bad you didn't want to or feel like you wanted to. Also, the job market does a pretty job of building you up and breaking you down all in one massive-like swoop. Luckily, the build up had a longer lasting impression as I both finished my dissertation and got a job.

A time to dance, a time to mourn:

2011 held a lot of reasons to dance and many that even lived outside of academia. It was a solid year. The mourning that happened was only temporary and didn’t leave a lasting effect, which is the best kind of mourning. Also, I literally danced: I began to learn how to dance to Michael Jackson’s best songs via the Wii—totally awesome. Who doesn’t want to know how to dance like MJ?!?

A time to cast away stones, a time to gather stones together:

I’m going to use this one literally, too, and stones stand in as money for me. Somehow it seems I had more of it as a graduate student. I still haven’t exactly figured that one out. I definitely cast away more money as a grad student than I am as a faculty member. After driving the poor tax guy nuts at DU, I’ve gathered that as a member of the “real” world there are more taxes. And Denver is way more expensive than Tallahassee. And I didn’t give moving enough credit: it costs A.LOT. Like for real. I'm hoping things will begin to even out more in this new year, and I think they will.

To everything there is a season for sure, and my season is still changing and has changed over the last year. I'm still working on figuring out this club I now I can say I belong to. I'm still working on feeling like a Ph.D. instead of a poser. And I have to wonder: in 2013 will I still proudly say that I wore glitter nail polish to class. My guess is probably. If four years of a Ph.D. couldn’t shake the glitter outta me…I’m not sure what would or could.

Those Byrds—they knew a thing or two about seasons. My seasons tend to come and go with different amounts of glitter. And I'm still ok with that.

Tis the Season...

“Christmas is not a time or a season but a state of mind. To cherish peace and good will, to be plenteous in mercy, is to have the real spirit of Christmas.”
—Calvin Coolidge

***Normally my posts lend towards understanding how to access and be a part of that exclusive Professor Club and all that goes along with it. But in light of the season burning brightly upon us, I am venturing off my usual path, although, you might still see pieces of the writing instructor throughout. You’ve been warned.

Lights twinkling as the snow whips round-n-round.Skinny peppermint mochas in Christmas red cups. Sitting wrapped in a snowman blanket with a cantstopreadingit kind of book. Friends sitting beside a blazing fire sharing memories of times past while nibbling on sugar cookies. Bing Crosby crooning about the wonder of a white Christmas in a way that only he can do. Trini dressed in a fuzzy pink hoodie that declares, “Snow Angel.”Sled riding on cold snowy nights. Watching your favorite Christmas movie over and over again till you can recite it back and forth with your dad (“just remember who said it first…”).

The season is upon us whether we are ready for it or not. For me, it’s been awhile where the season included looking out my window to see the snow gently falling and the wind keeping the temperature well below my version of comfortable. I forget how to dress for this weather, especially given that most of my winter clothes have long been sorted through various Goodwill’s. Snow boots, gloves, sweaters…excuse me?!? Most of my boots are for looks only, and the other day as I was unpacking my car from the latest drop of snow (with my broom because I still haven’t broken down to get a real scraper) I was stepping in 6 in. of snow with a pair of my favorite grey suede boots thinking, “my how times have changed.” Just last year I could barely wear my favorite boots because it was never cold enough now they are impractical for my current weather conditions. I never thought I’d be back to this kinda weather. Every time I stepped outside and my breath gets taken away, I close my eyes and picture my hot, humid Tallahassee summers. I would much rather sweat than be cold.

This is my winter song for you…

Are you ready for the season? A reasonable question to be sure…except what does it mean to be ready for the season? To some it may include all their shopping done with the presents wrapped and under the tree. To others it may include their house decorated from top to bottom in winter splendor. And to others, it may just include the reason for the season (no, I’m not talking about Old St. Nick). Recently at BT, I was reminded of a writing activity that I often ask my students to do (one that has been revised from a good friend of mine): write your own obituary, and in doing so, think about the ways you might be remembered. The writing activity has many layers of meaning starting with understanding the rhetorical situation (including the audience, constraints, genre, etc.), but it also asks students to think about the context surrounding their lives and the impact they have on others (which, of course, connects back to the rhetorical situation; I do love layered assignments. Am I a writing nerd or what?!). Traditionally when we do this assignment, we don’t really push past understanding the rhetorical situation (because an understanding of rhetorical situation is key to understanding a writing situation); however, I couldn’t help seeing the connection between the discussion at BT and the assignment, and it brought me close to the season at hand.

How do you want to be remembered? And more importantly, how will others actually remember you?

I’m currently back to a no sleeping phase (which many of you know has been pretty normal for me since I was about 18), so I do lots of thinking during the hours of 12:00 am and 3:00 am. Lately, I’ve been wondering these questions and wondering if, for myself, they match up. I’d like to think they do, but sometimes a lack of patience, a lack of understanding, a lack of tolerance might creep up and taint my inward/outward appearance. How often do we let a lack of XX influence our reactions and actions towards people, animals, situations, etc. It’s so easy to do. As an educator, I really try to have a sense of understanding with my students because not everyone grew up like me nor have they been influenced by the events in my life. I am lucky to be able to grow from my students’ experiences just as they can from mine. The hard part is to not feel the need to step on their experiences just because they didn’t experience life as I have. Honestly, this could not only influence their writing identity but their personal identity and that it not what my Ph.D. stands for (though many in my field may feel it is their civic duty to influence students in their, er, proper ways of the world). Hello, my dear readers: I am an educator of writing and an encourager of establishing a writing identity that students can carry with them.

In light of the season and a version of my writing assignment, here is what I would hope my epigraph might look like:

Here lies an utterly happy woman who encouraged others with both her actions and her words, and who did so in fabulously kickin’ shoes—whether they were practical for the weather conditions or not.

As you continue on your season’s journey, I wish you the merriest of times and challenge you to live up to the epigraph leading your way.

The Kardashian Syndrome

Bad human communication leaves us less room to grow.
Rowan D. Williams

Let’s be honest: we all have little things that drive us totally and absolutely crazy. For my brother, JT, it’s getting in the car with me, and I throw my purse on top of him (I may do that on purpose…). Right now for my mama, it begins and ends with the same person. For others, it could be that person scrapping his fork across his salad plate or the person chewing, mouth open so all can see the chicken Caesar salad bits. It’s that little (or big) thing that makes you wanna open your mouth and scream while twirling around the living room on one leg and shaking your head.

For me, it’s a lack of communication. Ironically—or un-ironic depending on how you look at it—I am very open about this fact. I tend to tell people that I don’t appreciate that he/she can’t take 30 sec to email me back or 5 sec to text me back.

**Distinction: this is in reference to those people who NEVER respond back to an email or a text or who quit a text conversation halfway through the conversation. Those people.

I mean seriously, how long does a quick email saying, “hey, really busy, will email soon!” take (I just timed it; it took me less than 20 sec) that would at least let the person know that you care enough to respond. And that right there is the problem: we have become so self-obsessed with ourselves that taking moments out of our busy lives to email and/or text with friends can seem like “too” much.

Let's be honest—have you ever gotten an email from a friend and thought, “I’ll get it in the morning…when I have time” or received a text message and got so wrapped up in whatever was going on in your life that you never responded? You know you have. When did we become so obsessed with only one person: me, myself, and I?

I like to call this the “Kardashian” syndrome where a person becomes so engrossed in the moments squarely in front of them and that centered on only them that the person is unable to acknowledge that there is life outside of him/her self. I suppose the Kardashian klan might argue against my definition of self-absorption; however, if you watch any part of their TV shows, you know that the Kardashian’s are self-obsessed (anyone see the several different episodes where Kim can’t even have lunch with her sisters without texting on her blackberry?).

When dealing with someone suffering from the Kardashian syndrome, you come to a crossroads where you must decide if the friendship is worth continuing. You question how many times must you send an email, a text, another email before you are done with being walked on by a “friend?” And so, you do your best to dust off your hurt because deep down you know that a friend that lasts through the fires and glories of your life would never intentionally ignore an email or a text (or heaven forbid ignore a text conversation half-way through the conversation). The Kardashian syndrome can grab even the purest of souls, and it takes a mighty person to squash it.

Having moved around a bit, I am hyper-aware of media communication. I am blessed to have made friends at several different stages of my life, but that are spread across the country (including Hawaii), which means several different time zones. Text messaging and emailing have replaced daily/weekly phone calls, but nevertheless still keep you engaged with the person and can keep you in the know about what’s going on in your friend’s life. And sometimes receiving a well-intended text or email from a far-away friend is exactly what you need on a cold, dreary morning.

Obviously, I have made witness a frustration of mine. A good friend of mine jokes with me that she knows (!) to always answer my texts because she understands how it bothers me. But key word there is a GOOD friend. So, perhaps the actual question lies in just how good of a friend is it that can let an email or a text or both go for days, weeks, months without so much as a simply acknowledgement.

Communication is at the heart of all life: even dogs can learn up to 350 different words and commands (a fact that I constantly keep proving true with my Trini-luv). Yet, as the quote above suggests, without it, there is no room to grow or rather no way to go forward. Communication between friends takes more than one person and both parties must be willing to give up a minute or two in order to keep it alive.

So, the next time you are quick to think, “I’ll get to that when I can…” just resist the urge to let the Kardashian Syndrome take hold...and respond. Your friend will appreciate it.

The Girl with the Knit Toboggan

Today, as I sit sipping my Dt. Coke in front of a crackling fire, I shift through Piperlime’s “Top 11 Fall Fashion Must-Have’s” lingering on a MINKPINK red maxi skirt and wondering if I could pull off a maxi given the I’mkindashortthing. I then move to hiker booties with heels—totally cute. I’m particular fond of a Boutique 9 pair and Heart and Soul pair, though at $89, the Heart and Soul pair is the more reasonable buy. But I only linger on the different pieces of fall; I don’t linger for too long because then I would want to buy something.

“When I shop, the world gets better, and the world is better, but then it's not, and I need to do it again.” Rebecca Bloomwood

I love fashion. I love shopping. I have loved fashion and shopping since I was very young, and my mother is to blame. She introduced me to fabulous world of fashion with white and pink dresses that had matching white and pink socks, shoes, and jewelry. She also, year-after-year, pointed me in the direction of honing my own style by encouraging me to mix things up with things like thick hunter green flannels with dark bootcut denim or neon green Sketchers or Victorian-like black booties worn with jean skirts and/or black capris or sparkly lip gloss with flecks of glitter before any of these were considered “in style.” My college roommate met me for the first time wearing a belly-bearing green FUBU shirt and white shorts. Twelve years later, she still remembers that outfit. We all have our own individual style, even those who maintain they don’t. We gravitate toward the styles we like--those which make us feel alive when we wear them even if that means throwing on whatever is nearest to you when you roll out of bed. I strive for maintaining my own look whether it’s wearing five bold bangles (when two might have been just fine with the outfit) or bright blue tights with a short black dress. I’m not a crazy fashion-forward kinda girl, but I do appreciate owning my style, which someone once described as “sorta-but-not-really rocker chic.” I’ll take it.

“You’re a professor…you must make what like $80,000…a $100,00??”

I come from a family of shoppers: my dad, I believe, could shop me under the table. Seriously. I think this has helped me learn to become a killer window shopper. I can go into store after store and try on clothes just for fun. I tend to play a game: if I had XX amount of money, what would I buy and why. I also really love going with people as they shop because I like styling them. I like to believe that I have left a profound and positive styling effect on some of people that have come into my life. Take my cousin, J(G)S, who is president of Neenah Paper. She has to look professional from H2T daily, but I’ve seen little bits and pieces of glitz show up on her (i.e. leopard print flats or hot pink silk scarves). Or my good friend SG. She recently sent me a going-out picture where she was rockin’ sky-high black strappy sandals (she is over 6 foot and when I met her swore she would NEVER wear heels!). Or take my friend, LR. When I met her she was all about the basic color palette and hated shopping. At a graduation party, she rocked a beautiful print dress with gold heels (that she found herself!). And last, my mom, who was my muse and now lets me pick out her outfits. I tell her all the time I’m never going to let her go out of style…she’ll be the best dressed 90 year old. If this professor thing doesn’t work out, I’ve often thought about becoming a stylist. Just call me Rachel Zoe (only the real-life size. I could not eat for months and still not be that tiny).

I recently had a conversation with another graduate of FSU who had a similar thought as me: with her first “real” paycheck she was going to splurge and buy something like a Coach purse. Reality check came when my first “real” paycheck entered my bank account. I immediately called HR. The conversation went something like this…

“Uh, hi. I’m a recent hire at DU, and I think something is wrong with my paycheck.”

“Congrats on your recent hire!”

“Um, ok thanks.”

“So what seems to be the problem with your paycheck?”

“Well, there seems to be an awful lot missing from it.”

Chuckle (I wanted to jump through the phone and give him my best eyebrow arched, death stare). “Ok, well let’s take a look here…The federal tax is….”

And so on. The conversation concluded with me saddened by the reality that my paycheck would always be $1000 less that what I actually make given the amount of taxes and benefits taken out. No, there was nothing actually wrong with my paycheck. Someone forgot to tell me that once I ended my life after a graduate student (in the state of Florida), my paycheck would also reflect my real-life status. Not going to lie…it’s scarier than I thought. Also, please remember my dear readers (especially those of you getting ready to graduate soon), moving cleans you out. Moving across country even more. It takes a couple months to fully recover (I’m still in that phase). I didn’t give that enough credit either. So, you have to decide what’s most important to you and what’s not. Food wins out right now (although pop is #1, JT and I decided years ago when we first lived together that no matter how dire the situation, we would also have pop), which means no couch, TV, desk, cable, internet, or bed. When I tell people that most are like, how can you do it without a bed?!? Honestly, the bed doesn’t bother me as much as say a couch. You don’t think about how much you use a couch until you don’t have one. The couch is like the mecca of a home; it’s the safe haven that you can curl up on and snuggle with your dog; it’s where you can sip on some Dt. Coke while reading PeopleStyle; it’s the best place to take a power nap; it’s where the list-making happens. So, yes, not having a couch is worse than not having a bed. It’s the first thing that I’m going to buy. The very first.

Things I’ve learned or re-learned in the last two months about shopping, specifically grocery shopping:

1. Count your pennies and use them. I have no qualms about counting out pennies for groceries. JT got slightly embarrassed the last time we were grocery shopping, but the kind check-out lady was like, “honey, it all amounts to the same when I count it out at night.” Totally true.
2. Make a list to go grocery shopping and buy things that last a long time. We happen to be big cereal eaters—cereal taste good at any time of the day.
3. Treat yourself to something you truly do enjoy—this way it doesn’t feel like you totally depriving yourself. For JT and me, it’s Dt. Coke. We always, always have it.
4. Go through the grocery store and put everything in your cart. When you’re finished find an empty spot, and go through what’s in your cart deciding if you truly need it. We always find about $20-$40 worth of stuff that we don’t actually need.
5. Don’t be embarrassed about living on a strict budget. JT struggles with this more than I do. Perhaps it’s because I’m older, and I have lived longer, but I figure as long as we have something to eat for each meal (even if it’s a cup of Ramen) then we are doing better than a lot of people.

I like to think all my years of shopping and window shopping combined with coming from a line of shoppers has actually helped me live on a strict budget because I’m always looking for a good deal. I get excited when Dt. Coke goes on sale 3 for $9, or I find a good cheese for $4/lb.I must confess: when my first paycheck was securely in my bank account, I went to Urban Outfitters and bought myself a present. I decided that since it was my first real paycheck in my first real professor job that I could splurge ever so slightly. I bought myself this super cute knit toboggan (that’s a hat for those you not from the north) that I had been eyeing since I moved to Denver (so five weeks). It was $26 and some change. It’s no Coach purse, but buying it made me feel giddy and when I put it on, I know that it was my first purchase as a professor. I kinda like that.

Posin' or Imposin': Life's no Fun without a Good Scare

Tender lumplings everywhere/Life's no fun without a good scare/That's our job, but we're not mean/In our town of Halloween
—Nightmare Before Christmas

Leaves flirting with changing colors; pumpkin spice lattes shared as a mid-day snack; cozy sweaters worn over leggings; ghoulish figures adorning coffee tables; sparkly purple and orange lights hanging from porches; scary movie nights with friends…oh, it’s beginning to look a lot like Halloween. I happen to love Halloween because of all the festively fun things surrounding the holiday. There are so many unique gatherings that go with the holiday. When else could we go conquer the streets of downtown Denver dressed up as zombies. When else could we scare ourselves silly in a haunted corn maze. When else is it socially acceptable to pretend to be any person (dead or alive), beast, thing, or creature and randomly knock on strangers doors for candy (or in the rich neighborhoods money) or trek across town to the kickin’ party. Halloween, more than any other holiday, seems to encourage people to let it all hang out—the good and the scary—as they come together to celebrate a day where they can be anything they want to be. Halloween encourages us to put aside who we are and become (at least for a moment) imposters of some one or some thing else.

I must say that while I simply adore 99% of the celebratory things that go along with Halloween, I have never liked dressing up in costumes. My mom use to dress DT and me up in the best costumes—good enough to win prizes—but I hated it (I think I might have even loathed it as I tended to cry throughout the entire process). I’m not sure what has made me hate dressing up, but it’s followed me into my adult years. In college, J(B)P often had to twist my arm to dress up and later, while at FSU, I’d find ways out of going to the parties (one year I went to Atlanta to trick-or-treat with my young cousins…I made Trini dress up, but not me; another year I went to the Florida/Georgia game). Something about dressing up makes me inwardly cringe and outwardly become socially awkward. It makes no sense. I’m the first one to decorate my apartment (this year, it happened on September 25 just to enjoy it longer); the first to string up lights on my porch; the first to encourage watching 13 nights of Halloween; but it’s the dressing up that gets me.

While being an imposter for Halloween is an apparent challenge for me, lately, I have found myself feeling like an imposter, and I’m not sure why. In January, I wrote a post that said I wanted to stroll right in and be a part of the club—the exclusive club with a members-only guarantee. Now that I’m here, I feel like I’m still swinging on the slight peripheral. Perhaps it’s because people still mistake me for a student (I swear it’s cause I’m short as the kind woman checking my ID to go through airport security exclaimed, “YOU’RE 30?!? But you’re so short.” Hm. Because apparently once you hit a certain age, you magically become a height specific to that age. Well shoot, my magic fairy must have used the wrong wand). Perhaps it’s because my diploma hasn’t arrived to confirm that, yes, I successfully completed a Ph.D. Or perhaps it’s because I can’t get JT to call me Dr. Siss. Whatever the reason, I find myself thinking, “What are you doing, Kara. Someone is going to guess you don’t really belong in/to this club. They made a mistake.” It's really a weird feeling, especially given just a month ago, I felt more like a professor. So, ironically during the month of October, I’ve felt like I was posin’ and that someone is going to catch me doing my best professor impression and call me out.

I'm hoping that this feeling is short lived. I don't like it shifting it's way through my mind, teasing me at the most inappropriate times. Perhaps then it would be fitting for me to dress-up as a professor for Halloween. Or perhaps I’ll just go with my go-to and dress as a 80s rocker chick. Even though, I'm feeling like a poser, some might say neither is that far of a stretch for me, and perhaps therein lies the problem. So 80s rocker professor it is. Problem solved.I'm glad we had this conversation.

Rock on.

Work It!

I’ve developed a habit that is annoying even to me—I have a tendency to play with my hair when it’s down—I fluff it; I flip it; I flounce it. **Forgive me those of you who have had to witness this habit.** I’ve become the girl I detested in the seventh grade. I even occasionally stare at it as I walk by store windows. I don’t know how it happened except that I blame it on having short hair for a very long time. My hair hasn’t been this long since I was 10 (that’s two decades!), and it’s because I decided at a very young age that I didn’t want to be the girl with the long hair that boys wanted to grab and other girls wanted to braid. I didn’t want to be like every other girl. This idea was often reiterated by silly boys exclaiming over how their ideal woman had long hair cascading down her back…hello romance novel anyone?? Case in point: a rather dull boy from my college swim team once exclaimed at a new haircut, “Kara!!!! WHAT DID YOU DO?!?!" Uh, really kid? Apparently he never learned to think before speaking. I wanted to prove that, yes, girls can be sexy with short hair. Add that to I get bored very easily with my hair (some of you may have noticed the purple/pink streaks a couple years ago). So, it’s been awhile since my hair has touched my shoulders, let alone gone past them. Now that it does, it seems to me that longer hair can get in the way: you lay on it in bed; it gets caught underneath purse straps; and, it gets in the way when swiping on mascara. Yet, I can’t bring myself to cut it, and in fact, I’m aiming to let it grow (right now as one of my closest friends, J(L)M, reads this, she is screaming out loud, “there is NO way she’ll make it!").

Much like my transition into long(er) hair, my transition into living in Denver has had some interesting moments that include fluffing, flipping, and flouncing. I had fluffed off that hiking requires different shoes until I actually went hiking. Tennis shoes just don’t cut it. I’m sure those poor souls that were around Joey and me as we hiked in Red Rocks, shook their heads and whispered, “amateurs,” as I tentatively slid down a baby hill on my butt (hey—better to be safe, right?). I have repeated wanted to flip off the car behind me that honks its horn because I don’t gun it the very moment the red light turns green. For the record, I haven’t and won’t…but I have a very vivid picture of what I might look doing so. And last, I have flounced my way across Denver in search of good places to eat, shop, and make merry (for those of you unsure of how to flounce: honey-child, it can’t be taught. ;-). It has been so fun tasting and sampling the different flavors of Denver—people and food alike. Denver is unlike any place I have ever lived, and quite honestly, my morning jog has never been easier to handle with the mountains beaming at me in the background.

Five weeks into my move, and I feel like I’m slowly getting into a daily, organized life style. I’m working out again (yah! Dissertation 20—I got your number!). I’ve found a church I really connect with (for the record, churches in Denver tend to start at 6:00 pm Sunday night. That’s weird to someone who has gone to a Sunday morning church for the majority of her life). I’m beginning to make friends (double yah for that one, although, I’m having a shirt made that says, “Joey Taczak—the one standing next to me with loads of curly hair—is NOT my boyfriend.” Geez, and I thought having a twin brother was a date killer!! Don’t make assumptions, people.) And slowly but surely, I’m beginning to work again. This one has been the hardest, and for those of you who know me, I love to work, and I love to do lots of work. But for whatever reason—may it be the lack of a break between FSU and moving, may it be the transition from grad student to faculty member, or may it be transitioning into a new environment—I’ve struggled to get hard-core work accomplished. It’s happening, though. I have even color-coded the next month on my calendar—now you know I’m moving in the right direction. **One might think that without cable or internet that by now I would have gotten loads of work accomplished at home. You, my friend, would be sadly mistaken. I’ve been too busy playing with my hair.

Take Me or Leave Me or Maybe Both?

"Take me or leave me; or, as is the usual order of things, both."
— Dorothy Parker

In the event of a (half-way) across the country move, I feel like this Dorothy Parker quote sums up quite a lot.

Finding a place to live.
Transitioning into a new city, a new culture, a new community.
Finding and/or figuring out new and old friendships.
Getting into the general swing of things.

The other day, on a chilly and slightly overcast day, I walked across campus with students walking all over and mingled in the middle of them--part of me remembering what it was like to be 18 and not caring about anything except swimming and boys (not necessarily in that order!) and part of me ready to embrace the professor mode. But what does the professor mode look like and what does it feel like and what does it mean for me? When I was first getting ready to move to Denver, I thought it meant things like, and now suddenly I would be a "grown-up" but just what the heck does that actually mean? What determines a grown-up? As I moved my things into my super cute new apartment, I thought, well that's just silly--I am a grown-up, and I'm pretty content with how I've turned out. ;) So, as a result, I did things like decorate both my apartment and my office in what my mom refers to as having "lots of personality and warm." Some examples: my little area that I've deemed my "bistro" So far I've never owned a dining room table, so a bistro area with a mosaic table seems more appropriate.

My new office--which is totally huge and amazing--I've tried to decorated by infusing my personality while trying to keep it inviting and happy. My desk has lots of color, and of course, my FSU cup, plus a new MAC which I'm still figuring out how to properly use! I also have up (which you probably can't see that well) pictures that make me happy: friends and family, and of course, Trini.
And last, I might even have a Steeler wall (a true Steeler fan stands behind her Steelers EVEN after that embarrassing opening!)Does my office respond to what a "professor mode" might look like? I honestly don't know, but I can say, that I love my office and sitting behind my desk, I feel like me, which is at this current moment is a professor. So, perhaps, I am a little bit of the both mentality: take me and/or leave me. At the same time, I'm not thumbing my nose to the whole idea that some things will need to change; I understand that there are some things that might have to go as I step up in this new role (maybe my nail polish, which is currently teal with the black crackle polish over top...maybe not so much professional as it could be, especially given that I'm rockin' the slowlystartingtopeelaway look). But the challenge of figuring out how to merge the two together, I think is/will be a fun and interesting challenge. Just don't expect me to roll out the shoulder pads anytime soon. ;-)

Lessons Learned

Where there’s an end: there’s a new beginning.

Sometimes when things end there's a mixed emotional response. Happiness mingles with uncertainty. Uncertainty blends into excitement. Excitement back into uncertainty, etc. etc. Endings almost always offer a new beginning, and we hope that that new beginning is something wonderfully grand. But we don’t know. Soon my journey at Florida State ends, and I’ll begin anew at the University of Denver. Flying high above the Atlantic, I glance backwards thinking about that journey—the bumps and bruises and the giggles and tears—and I want to remind myself of all I’ve learned to share with others, but also so if and when the times comes for another similar ending, I am ready.

Welcome to the Funhouse: Lessons Learned

1.The carnival ride doesn’t stop just because you hopped on: A hard lesson to be sure. The fourth year you’re not just on the carnival ride; you’re controlling the switch to the ride; you’re dragging the kids on and off the ride; and you’re running back and forth between concessions stands. In other words, you have a lot going on and none of it stops just because the job market rears its head. There are going to be times when you feel like you are lingering between the alright and the I'm-not-really-alright-here-and-I-need-some-help-please phase. Just know that it does pass.

2. You gotta wrestle with Bearded Lady: No one really wants to wrestle with the bearded lady (because, well...you fill-in the blank =), but you know sometimes you just have to do it. Wrestling takes skill, determination, and planning. Take unexpected chances--you'll be surprised what turns up from them.

3. Keep your eye on the crystal ball: Which means--organize, organize, organize. I am a planner (see various other posts!), and it really helped to keep track of all the jobs in a chart...with a color coding system. Seriously. As it also helps to chunk out your day to include dissertation writing time and job application time. It's all about figuring out what works for you. I happened to do really well on the midnight shift (I wrote from 6:00 pm to 3:00 am daily), but a good friend of mine worked from 8:00 am to 5:00 pm. Figure out what works--and no matter how weird it might seem--go with it.

There are so many other things, too, that seem tiny in comparisons but let me name a few. Invest in a good travel (carry-on) bag for traveling—saves money and time. Invest in a killer suit—people do notice what you wear (I had several different interviewers comment—in a positive way—about my attire). Smile--a friendly smile, not a scary-murderess smile. Drink lots of water. Carry chapstick with you. Create a list of practice questions and type up answers. Don't ever (!) give up. Create positive post-its and stick them in front of your computer. Talk to friends that are going through the 4th year--they really help--whether it's to talk you off the ledge or to talk you through a chapter that isn't working. Believe it will happen.

Lessons learned.

Thankgoodness my carnival ride has finally come to a stop and though the process was what I might consider...awfully hard ;-) I.made.it.

Gotta Secret

“got a secret.
can you keep it?
swear this one you'll save.
better lock it in your pocket,
taking this one to the grave.”

I’ve got a secret. Well two actually.

I’m not going save these secrets—I’m going to share.

Secret #1: Still the Same Me

The transition from graduate student to Ph.D. is weird. And amazing. And slow. And anti-climatic. And awesome. And. And.

For two weeks now (I know, I know that’s not technically a lot of time, but really it’s been four years in the making…more if you count all of years spent going to school and teaching), I’ve been Kara E. Taczak, Ph.D, and the emotions I've gone through are simply put, weird. It’s amazing for sure, and I’m not sure it will e-v-e-r get old to hear someone say Dr. Taczak (although note taken: no one is going to get the pronunciation correct) or to refer to myself as Dr. Kt (or to my family Dr. Siss—yes, I’ve been signing emails as Dr. Siss). But what’s weird is I’m still me: I still watch too many reality TV shows, venture online to obsess over shoes, scarves, and bags I can’t afford, read People.com, plan most of my days, and do work (now that’s one thing I thought might change for whatever the reason: the amount of work I have to do!). I was secretly hoping I’d wake up somewhat different; like somehow I'd have changed--I’d look in the mirror and just look different. Like if I was walking on the street and someone walked past by me he/she might think: whoa! There goes one smart lady. She must have a Ph.D. I realize I might be reaching for some level of Cinderella where pumpkins can turn into coaches and maids into princesses, but still I had hope. Reality check came last week while I was at a week-long research seminar on transfer (which for the record was great!). First, I was mistaken for a student worker while I was grabbing a Dt. Coke from the office (I was even dressed in a super cute navy blue blazer!! Hello, what student worker would wear that?!?), and second, I was in the middle of group discussing some key points on transfer when one person in the group looked at me and said, “well, Kara’s the grad. student. She should know this answer!” Um. Ouch. And hello not very nice. So, I must not look very different to the outside world as much as I had hoped I would. And apparently there are no bright shining stars above my head that blink in time to Gaga’s “Edge of Glory” while spelling out “Kt—Ph.D…Kt—Ph.D.”

Which leads me to secret #2: The Dissertation Twenty

Everyone has heard of the freshmen fifteen, and I’ve witnessed it sneakin’ up on plenty of good folks; however, I never gained it. No, it’s not like I’m special—I was a swimmer so whatever I put into my mouth was burned off (just in case you might not believe me: I was a mid-distance swimmer, which means I could swim anywhere from 12, 000-18,000 yards a day. That’s a lotta calories. I mean I could totally drink four, five, even six real Pespi’s in a day and not think anything of it.
;-). So I never had the pleasure of gaining the weight. I never gained weight during my master’s program either (though I might note that I’m not a superwomen…I have gained weight before. Try retiring from swimming after 13 years and not understanding you can’t eat everything/anything in the same frequency that you once did). But let’s fast-forward to the Ph.D and welcome the dissertation twenty. Ok, I didn’t actually gain 20lbs, but it feels like I gained 20lbs—I’m short the weight has no where to go. The weight has slowly but surely crept up on me within the last two years. And I’m not the only one that it has happened to. I have several friends (both young and old; newly minted Ph.Ds and seasoned veteran Ph.Ds) that agree that this happens. Stress makes people eat and some people eat while they work/write. And let's not forget what a dissertation entails: sitting, sitting, and more sitting. Not only are you sedentary, but some people snack while they work. Like me. I tend to feel like I need to snack my way through a writing project. Um, 265 pages later there is additional weight on my body. I should have counted the snacks I ingested throughout the process (and the Dt. Cokes). Plus I, for the record, really enjoy food—one will probably never refer to me as a dainty eater. So, here I sit. Ph.D in hand, but a pudgier version of myself. You might not notice, but I notice (and for that matter so does the scale). Plus, I’m on the verge of moving to a city that is constantly ranked among the top five “fittest” cities in the nation. Uh, yikes. Good thing I’m moving there—motivation.

Two secrets. Two things to learn. One, I think, is easier to handle than the other. I know I’m different—bright and shiny in my own way—even without the twinkling stars above my head. The other can be avoided. So take note soon-to-be-dissertating followers and beware of the dissertation twenty.

Step One: Check

Step One: Check (oh, heck yes!).

3 years and 3 months ago, I made a decision that has lead up today: I decided on my dissertation topic.

It was a little over five months into my first year at FSU, and there were a lot of things going on in my life. On the same day I turned 27, I presented at a conference in Santa Barbara, figured out my dissertation topic, and my mom had brain surgery. Yes, brain surgery. I debated back and forth with my mom at the time whether I should make the trip to Santa Barbara because it meant I would miss her surgery, but she insisted that I should go. I did and after watching a presentation by a little know rhet/comp scholar (ahem, Yancey) present on the topic of transfer, I was sold. Completely. The topic just made sense to me especially after teaching and working with the students that I had in the past two years. I, as a composition instructor, had something I could give students that they could take with them into their education: a knowledge about writing something that, whether they wanted to admit it or not, would help them in their future. I sat for two hours on a bench (in the cold…whoever said southern California doesn’t get cold…lied) after listening to the talk and sketched out ideas for a research project with transfer. Of course the project morphed and changed along the way, but almost 3 and half years later I took my idea, turned it into a research project, and handed in my dissertation to that same little know scholar. Isn’t it crazy how life turns out sometimes?

Step One is complete in the last part of the journey to complete my PhD, and it feels weird—exciting—but weird. All of my blog posts about writing, or lack of writing, the journey is slowly winding down. Not that there isn’t a lot more to do before it’s “official” but let’s just say it felt official when I handed it off today to my committee members. I couldn’t help but grin a wickedly wide grin.

I.turned.in.my.dissertation. Holy crap.

No clever words today for this blog post. No funny stories. No melodramatic pauses.

No. Today I turned in my dissertation, and it just felt/feels darn good.

An Attitude of Exellence

When did decision-making become so difficult?

Gone are the days when the hardest decision was whether to sit with your best friend or your brother at lunch (just for the record: I might have picked my best friend over my brother for a few years, but in my defense…who makes rationale decisions as a 13 year old?!?).

Gone are the days when you wake up in the morning and have an internal battle: do I wear the vibrant purple eye shadow or the electric blue eye shadow, and more importantly, do I match my outfit to my eye shadow (I was always more of a purple girl and perhaps I did match an outfit or two with my eye shadow...and occasionally still do).

Gone are the days when you need to decide whether to be a swimmer or a dancer (obviously many know the decision I made, though, I tend to try and relive my dancin’ days when I have the chance—whether it be an impromptu dance party with JLO or on the table of a bourbon bar in Louisville ;-).

Although these decisions growing up seemed difficult--really they weren’t. But today I long for those days; I want to let myself drift backwards, only for a moment, and cover myself in those memories when decision-making revolved around friends, sports, and fashion.

Strangely (or un-strangely, I guess, if you are anticipating it), the last year as PhD student has more decisions than you could care to imagine and many of them come in the last six months. I’m currently in decision-making mode. Some of the decisions are obvious: no, Kara, you should not go to the baseball game on Sunday because your dissertation is not finished. Some of the decisions are not that obvious and require lists—lots and lots of lists. As mentioned in a previous post, I am a list-creating queen. I make lists to make lists. But the lists don’t make the decisions for you (nor, for that matter, does your dog though I have tried for three days to get Trini’s opinion on a writing matter. For the moment I’m taking the silence as confirmation of what I’m doing is moving in the right direction). And neither does anyone else as much as you might want them to. No, the decisions are all you.

But—what if I make the wrong decision? Will my dissertation fail? Will I be happy in that city? Will I learn from my writing mistakes? Will I be able to continue my research? Will I…make it?

My mom has always encouraged me that before a decision can be made you need to do three things: (1) you need to make sure you are informed (which includes list-making); (2) you need to pray; and (3) you need to maintain an attitude of excellence. The hardest of the three is maintaining an attitude of excellence because it forces you to believe in your decision-making ability when all you really want to do it doubt it (or crawl under a cozy blanket and ran away from it).

Currently my attitude of excellence is wavering a bit—kinda floating right outside my peripheral vision and giggling a girlish giggle at my state of indecisiveness. What I want (er need) to do is give her a good flick and rein her back in. Because decisions need to be made.

But instead, for this moment, I'm going to wrap the memories of my 13 yr old self around me like a cozy blanket and just sit on it a bit.

The Campus Interview

The Campus Interview: a 15 hour Date

Imagine: you’ve just landed a date with someone you’ve had your eye on for some time now. He’s smart and funny with sexy bedroom eyes, and he doesn’t mind a hard-core woman. He tells you he’ll pick you up at 9… am that is for a nice leisurely breakfast. Fast-forward to 9 pm. The date is still going strong; your real smile faded four hours ago sometime before dinner began. You're fidgeting because the boots you have on have lost their comfort appeal and now are just causing a blister (whoever said flats don't cause blisters...lied). Now he’s offering you slow-roasted coffee and lavender ice cream (who can turn down lavender ice cream?!?), and it takes all of your will not to massage the dull ache in your neck (don’t want to give away that tension has built up!). Finally he smiles and asks if you are ready to go (mentally you break out your best running man), you smile (your first real smile in five hours) and say you've had fabulous day and you can’t imagine where the day has gone.

The campus interview is unlike any interview you have ever done, and it seems very much like a day-long date because of its date-like qualities: questions about yourself, dinner that includes dessert, and coffee (and how do you like your coffee). You also dress in your best (conservative but respectful; trendy but not too over the top), constantly check your breath, re-apply lip gloss (or chapstick since traveling tends to dry out your lips), and don’t ever over-eat in front of the other party. You ask personal, yet appropriate, questions. You listen attentively and smile and smile and smile and smile. Smiling, as we all know from experience, is key in establishing personal relationships because they are very revealing. Pay attention to the smiles. ;-)

Something that is not date-like (or if it is that’s just creepy and don’t tell anyone you do it)—researching your "date" so that you know them/it inside and out. I have gone into the campus interviews knowing what the other faculty members look like, what they teach, what and where their degrees are from, and really anything else I can pull from a quick Google search. Once I mentioned that a person had gotten her hair cut and she looked at me funny and said “how did I know that?” (Oops. Gave myself away.)

And don’t kid yourself: it’s as mentally challenging as it is physically challenging. The hardest part is you have to be “on” for such a long time your “on” can get jilted, wilted, and winded...

Your smile wavers a bit. Your handshake is not as firm as it was ten hours ago. You drink one too many Dt. Cokes so that now your chest muscles quiver from ingesting so much caffeine. You might even forget how to pronounce your last name (totally true—one of my campus interviews I must have got caught up in the moment…). You blank on what side of Ohio you hail from (I apparently have many issues with the difference between east and west directions). You learn you have an accent that gives away that you hail from northeastern Ohio (who knew?!?). And most importantly, you might even begin to doubt your research even makes sense because you’ve said it so many times to so many different people in so many different ways. Transfer/Reflection--what??

The campus interview is as much of a whirlwind romance as the first date can be. They show you their best; you show them yours.

As you are there you have lots to take in—the people, the school, the program/department, the city, the food, the culture. You have to try and decide in that two day experience if the job is offered: can you imagine yourself there—working, teaching, living, and playing.

Sometimes when the morning after arrives and the date...er...faculty member picks you up for your ride to the airport; you stumble into the car with your hair piled on top of your head, glasses on, barely a lick of make-up, and it feels like each of you are deciding: should there be a second date? And honestly you are as much a part of that decision as the person driving you toward home.

Downpours and Rainbows

If you want the rainbow, you’ve got to put with the rain. ---Dolly Parton

The rain was fallin’ for me in March (as can probably be noted in my earlier posts), and it kept coming and going in downpours. It wasn’t a bad month, per say, but it was definitely a month where there was a lot of questioning and wondering: is this dissertation going to keep moving forward? Will I get a job? Can I keep up with my workload? Am I ever going to be able to wear a heel again (ok, so perhaps the last question isn’t as important as the others but still 3 months later I’m dying to put on my highest, sassiest pair and strut like I’ve never strutted before…)? The thing with questioning and wondering it leaves you standing in the downpour, no umbrella, mascara running down your face, feeling insecure and useless, so you gotta do your best to embrace the downpours as they come because whether you admit it or not they are a part of this process.

Recently I was having a conversation and someone said to me, “ok you’ve got 7 minutes to be negative and talk about your dissertation/job search.” I was kinda taken back by this statement. Having not lived the same experiences I have lived in the last 7 months I believe that is an unfair characterization of how I’ve dealt with/am dealing with everything (plus I don’t really view myself as a negative person. Case in point: I’ve won two awards in my lifetime for being motivating—you can’t really be a motivating person and be negative. ;-) The thing is, and if I’m being honest, the last year of your PhD is not easy and saying that it’s not easy doesn’t make it a negative statement—it makes it real. I believe in being real because I want to try and help others for when they reach their last year in the PhD. But here's the truth: I can write as many blog posts as I want about it, and I’m not sure anyone can truly be prepared until they live it, breathe it, and really dig in deep to everything that is a part of year 4. Rain, downpours, sometimes even wicked thunder storms become embedded in this last year.

But where there is rain there can be a rainbow...

So, yes, there were some downpours in the month of March for me but as March slid into April I’ve stumbled onto several rainbows. I’ve had five new interviews and been offered a position from a previous place I’ve interviewed with. I’m hoping that out of the new interviews that I’m able to go and do a campus interview at least one of them because here’s the thing: I’ve been questioning and wondering but up until this point none of the jobs I’ve interviewed for were exactly “right” for me and even though that was a hard lesson to learn it’s enabled me to become a much better interviewer (dude! I’ve got my research done cold! =) and has given me a confidence about my research/dissertation that I didn’t have before (and that has definitely helped feed into my dissertation writing).

See the funny thing about this last year of you PhD (and to use a cliché) you just never know what tomorrow holds. Could be a rejection or three. Could be a job offer. Could be a major break in #4. As my mother has told me since I was old enough to remember (and yes she sings it): the sun will come out tomorrow…and sometimes brings with it a rainbow.