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.