Leaving Home. Again.

Princeton. My second university; my third real home. I came in awe, I grew comfortable, I got a little bored, I am leaving so very fond. My moves have always been exciting and progressive, but the sparkle of new adventures doesn't completely dull the sadness of saying goodbye.

I present an incomplete list of the things I will miss, in no particular order:
1. The towpath and D&R canal
2. Princeton University's campus
3. Nassau St.
4. Wegman's
5. 217Church
6. Lake Carnegie
7. The Bent Spoon
8. Running on quiet country roads past huge colonial-style homes
9. Small World

Let's not dwell on the negative, but there are a few things that I will not miss:
1. Route 1
2. Humidity
3. Geese

My send-off week has been fabulous and quintessentially Princeton. What better going away party than Reunions?! (Okay, that's a bit backwards, but it go with it.) What more qualified people to fly over and help the moving process than my parents?! There is too much to describe, dear Readers, from my hotel room bed, with a six-day cross-country move ahead of me, but here, for you, are pictures.

 What is not shown are fireworks with dear friends that ended in tea explosions, Tokabats games, lunch at Prospect House, wine with a best friend, dinner with a classmate, friend, and their amazing baby, nor ice cream with another classmate, friend, and their two amazing kiddos. Oh, and more ice cream with more classmates who flew back for the hooding ceremony. Oh, and an approximately ten-minute long stop at my apartment to return a bike helmet in which four people brought and then had surprise cake and wine that they could not take home on the plane with them.

Yes. It's been a very full and beautiful week.

Then, there was moving today. TODAY. My new lab paid for packing and moving, so I just had to sort what I wanted to take...

...and then sit on my patio, drink coffee, and knit, while strangers packed my belongings for me. Weirdest. But most amazing. Ever.

After waving goodbye to the moving van and cleaning up, we visited campus and downtown one last time for ice cream, falafel, and photo shoot.

Where was Faraday for all of this? He hid in the bathroom while the packers where there, frantically searched for our furniture when we let him out, finally settled down in the empty living room just before we stuffed him into his carrier, buckled it into the car, and drove him to our first hotel of the road trip. After a few minutes of investigation, he decided the situation was acceptable.


He's a natural:

Here's hoping he's a natural road-tripper. Stay tuned for our next series: Eleven States, Six Days, Three Adults, One Cat, and a Corolla.

Graduate School is a Marathon.

Some say that graduate school is a marathon, not a sprint. You can step onto a track completely untrained and run as hard as possible for a short distance. That's a sprint. You may not win any races, but you can DO it.

For a marathon, you spend sixteen weeks (about) running 3-5 days a week, progressively longer and farther. Then the big race day comes! You lace up your shoes, roll on some Body Glide, buckle up your Garmin, pin on a bib number, and line up. The crowd nervously shifts with excitement. Finally, the gun booms, and masses of humanity surge forth! You probably start out too fast, inspired by the spectators and jittery from your caffeinated Gu, but you quickly realize that you'll be moving for (on average) 4-5 hours, so you slow down. You settle into your comfortable, well-rehearsed pace. You make some friends along the way, distract each other from the drudgery, and stick together for a few miles. One of you eventually pulls ahead, with amicable goodbyes. At the 13.1 mile marker, you rejoice that you just finished a half marathon, while trying to ignore that nagging little voice worriedly whispering, ``But you have the other half to go...'' Around miles 18-23, you despair. You wonder why anyone would ever run at all, let alone pay $100 for the pleasure of running 26.2 miles on a perfectly good Sunday morning. Everything hurts, especially your legs. You consider napping on the side of the road, but then what good was all that training? After mile 23, you realize that you only have one 5k left to go! You can do this! That medal is almost yours! You can eat a bagel and drink chocolate milk so very soon! Just keep running! Why is there always a hill near the end?! Your legs burn and tears well up but you don't stop. You can't stop. You see the finish line! You muster up the last drops of energy in your muscles and you sprint over it! You're DONE. You're a marathoner.

After five hours, thirteen minutes,  and fifty seconds of running:


So it is with graduate school. You spend sixteen grades in school (about), attending class 3-5 days a week, progressively harder and more specialized. Then, you graduate from college! You pack your
belongings, move across the country, arrive at your esteemed university, take safety training, strap on your badge, and pull out the NRL Formulary. The other students are equally idealistic, a little terrified, a little arrogant, and jittery from their coffee. Finally, classes begin! You take pristine notes, complete homework as soon as it's assigned, and jump into research. You quickly realize that it's much harder than undergrad, and you'll be here for (on average) 6.5 years, so you slow down. You settle into being relieved that 50% is passing. You make some friends along the way, commiserate with each other over advisors, and have grand adventures for a few years. Eventually, one of you graduates, with bittersweet goodbyes. At the symbolic halfway marker of sorts, you rejoice for passing Generals and earning a Master's, while trying to ignore those annoying little whispers of, ``But you still have that dissertation...''  Around years 4.5-5.5, you despair. You can't figure out why you are still in school, particularly as your undergrad classmates are making so much more money in the real world on your perfectly good Bachelor's degree. Everything hurts, especially your brain. You consider quitting, but then what good was all that schooling? After you get a job offer, you realize that you only have the final dissertation edits and defense to go! You can do this! That Latin-inscribed piece of paper is almost yours! You can eat cake and drink champagne so very soon! Just keep writing! Why do your readers add more red ink to your drafts?! Your brain fogs and blood pressure rises but you don't stop. You can't stop. You schedule a defense date! You dig out the last morsels of motivation from your being and deliver that talk! You're DONE. You're a doctor.

After five years, eight months, and fifteen days of graduate school:






 

How to Finish Your Ph.D. and Get a Job, Part II

I finally feel like I can breathe. I'm not done, but I'm almost there. My writing energy is no longer being eaten by Dissertation Monster (Thesisaurus?), so here we go!

In this installment of  How to Finish Your Ph.D. and Get a Job, we'll discuss that whole job thing.

To find a job, I tried everything. I visited a career counselor, googled every combination of "physics research postdoc job computation theory" possible, scoured Physics Today's postings, attended on-campus and conference job fairs, emailed colleagues around the world, and stalked job posting sites at various national labs. I practiced my job talk (a one-hour seminar describing my thesis research, given as part of an interview). I bought my first suit, new shirts, and professional, sensible (yet shiny) flats.

I finally applied to about ten jobs. Most were positions in my field, but a few were completely off-the-wall (did you know that NASA recently accepted astronaut candidate applications?), in Germany, England, and all over the USA. At the conference, I interviewed with about thirty people for five different positions. One company had me stop by while I was in Washington to chat, even though they didn't actually have a position available. (They were really nice. Maybe in the future.) Four companies invited me to on-site interviews. Three actually had me visit for those interviews (two in New Mexico and one in California). One rejected me and one accepted me. One hadn't decided by the time I agreed...to take a position in New Mexico!

Did you catch that? I AM MOVING TO THE SOUTHWEST!

 source

Sure, it will be much different than the Northeast, and that's a little scary. But the culture is a little more like the home of my first 22 years, the Northwest, and that's exciting. I signed the lease on a cute townhouse (no more studio living!) with a backyard and canyon view. I'm packing my cat (and parents, for fun) into my Corolla and driving across the country in a few weeks. I'm going to take up trail running and rediscover skiing. I might get a puppy. I am going to have a real job and a new life!

My morning with the Arachnid

This morning, after some core exercises and bird-watching with
Faraday, I headed to the bathroom to prepare myself for the day.

While the shower heated up, I tried to not think about my meeting later that day. I chatted with and filled the sink for Muffin. Drinking with his left paw from the sink is one of his favorite things.

Soon after stepping into the luxuriously-warm shower, just about to relax, a black, hairy, 50-cent-piece-sized spider scurried out from under the curtain at my feet. I screamed in horror and disgust (poor neighbors) and flew out of the tub.

Proceeding to battle with the arachnid, I shoved the curtain out of the tub so he couldn't hide, and doused him with water, channeling him toward the drain.

HOWEVER, my drain is partially clogged. It drains verrry slowly...so he just
swam around in the pool by it.

I sprayed him with toilet bowl cleaner...but it's almost out, so it just fizzled and foamed.

At a loss, I dumped mouthwash in there to try to poison him or something (I wasn't thinking that clearly). (I need better household chemicals.)

THAT MINTY-FRESH MONSTER KEPT SWIMMING.

Finally, the shower drained enough that he partially washed down...

BUT HE CRAWLED BACK UP THE SPOUT.

I finally smashed his evil brains over and over and over with the empty toilet bowl cleaner bottle (poor neighbors).

Though he was already in pieces, I wrapped myself in a towel to get the bleach from the kitchen to poison him further.

My lab mates should be grateful that I didn't run this morning, because I refused to shower with the corpse in a mouthwash-scented, bleachy pool of water.

I should probably fix my shower drain.

"Next time, just try a shoe."~Mom

Where was Muffin, you ask? My big, strong cat? Scared by my screeching and hiding in the living room.

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Though stressed (still in grad school and still unemployed), I'm still alive.

Today is my gramma's memorial.

And I can't be there, so here is my tribute to her.

Over Christmas, my family lost someone very dear. Nama was the sweetest, most-loving grandmother a girl could want. She loved the Lord and prayed for and supported her grandchildren. She baked cookies with us and taught us to sew. With my grandpa, Nama created the most beautiful backyard garden, complete with a koi pond (with a bridge!) and forest trails. She attended so many of our (surely boring) piano recitals, plays, soccer/baseball/softball games, and band concerts. Every year, Nama and Papa hosted Thanksgiving at their house, with the requisite delicious smorgasbord, post-dinner nap, walk, and games.

Nama was an expert quilter. She (and Mom) patiently tried to teach me to sew when I was a child, working one Saturday with me to produce a dress and bonnet for my Felicity doll. After a half-made quilted table runner sat for months, we realized that it was not my thing. But, Nama gave me such an appreciation and love for warm, homey quilts. She made two for me, and they are both on my bed:

(Okay, you can only see one there.)

Nama taught me to knit one Christmas during college, though, and that caught like wildfire! Here she is, modeling a pair of socks I made her a couple Christmases later:



Tea often brings Nama to mind. While Papa, Dad, and David had fishing trips, Nama, Mom, Amy, Jenny, Aunt Cindy, Aunt Kristie, and I had our tea parties. A few times we visited the Victorian Tea Room. It was perfect. I mean, it was pink and had a turret and was filled to the brim with (really expensive) porcelain dolls. Several 7-12 year old girls had their birthday parties at the Tea Room. (I think I had one there...was that just Julissa?)

I have fonder memories, however, of tea parties at my aunts' house. We dressed up in our favorite afternoon-tea-party dresses, wore hats, drank tea like we were the Queen (if she uses four sugar cubes in a cup...), and ate proper little desserts, such as candied rose petals and mini-meringues. Here's a classic picture of Nama, Mom, my sisters, and me at one of them:


Though Nama was terrified of flying, Mom and Jenny dragged her on a cross-country flight to visit me during my second year of grad school! We showed her around Princeton and lab:



We even sat her on a train and took her to Manhattan! My dear gramma from a small town in Washington State was hilarious to watch in NYC. She rather enjoyed herself, but was a bit overwhelmed by the subway, the crowds, and the herd of zombies we saw attacking a city bus. (I'm really not joking about the zombies. It was almost Halloween.) For the train ride home, we waited in packed Penn Station for the track number to be posted. I warned them that we'd have to MOVE IT to get seats together. When the number came up, I headed off, Nama SHOVED 16-year-old Jenny out of the way, and held my hand tightly until we were safely on the train. All sitting together. :)

We had the best time when we were all transformed into little girls by the amazing American Girl Store and Cafe!



I believe that I will see her again someday, but for now, I really miss her.

Travel Time!

Tomorrow, I'm flying to my first and second on-site interviews (my second interviews with these places overall). Can anyone guess where they are?

How to Finish Your Ph.D. and Get a Job, Part I

I have all the answers.




Just kidding! I have no answers! Yet. I'm trying to accomplish both things, so if I ever do, I will let you know.

In the mean time, now you know where I've been. Right after the Marine Corps Marathon, I woke up early and dragged myself to main campus for Princeton's Dissertation Boot Camp. Five days of dedicated writing time with an array of breakfast and lunch-ish snacks and a constant drip of coffee? SIGN ME UP.

Mom makes fun of me for my free food fascination, but I am only behaving like any other normal grad student. I digress. Writing.

Boot Camp began with a round-table discussion in which our sergeants (lovely Writing Center staff) led our group of 20 plebes through introductions, exercises to help us define our dissertation audience(s) and good titles, and the writing of daily and weekly goals. I enjoyed chatting with my fellow cadets very much, even though (especially because?) I was one of only four or five scientists or engineers in a sea of humanities and social sciences folk. Soon, we were sent off to our assigned desks for the week. I shared a big, comfy room with two other writers.

This desk was mine for five productive days:


The impressive array of morning snacks included bananas, grapes, bagels, yogurt, granola bars, cream cheese, peanut butter, Nutella, juices, tea, and coffee. The afternoon snacks were not advertised as such, but I made a very satisfying lunch out of them: trail mix, hummus, pita chips, apples, more granola bars, more coffee, and--perhaps because it was Halloween--REESE'S!


Our bulletin boards held inspiring quotes, our goal note cards, and my dream defense date.



On the second day of camp, I turned 27! Happy Birthday to me! I arrived home that day to these beauties on the patio, courtesy of Craig and Melissa:


Also, Rachel cracked me up with this card in my mailbox:


And sister Amy's Arabic-speaking Dalek is amazing:


On Day 3, I used a bunch of books, lugged all the way over from lab:


In the afternoons, we broke up into small debriefing groups, the same each day. I was highly amused that in mine of five people, I was the only girl. Now, that's not unusual. That's downright normal. What was strange is that I was the only scientist! :)

By Day 4, I was done with a Chapter 1 draft and truckin' through Chapter 2:


I got to do some math, which makes me happy:


My group got along well. They were interesting guys with topics completely outside of what I usually contemplate: Georgian music, philosophy, ancient Japanese warrior families, and Latin American drama groups. I loved glimpses into their worlds, and I hope they enjoyed glimpses into mine...

On Day 5, we wrote during the morning and had one last debriefing with the entire squad. And pizza and cannoli (which will always remind me of You've Got Mail). We discussed our progress (we all made some), what helped (a new space, focused comrades, free food), and how we could perpetuate this motion and finish (stay off Facebook).

I highly recommend that you take the Dissertation Boot Camp if it is offered at your university (Princeton isn't the only one that does). It kick-started my writing! I left with 1.75 more chapter drafts! (Out of only five or six total, that's significant.)

I finished out Day 5 in my apartment.


Here, I learned one reason...


...for the difficulty that I occasionally have...


...working at home.


Sigh.


Since Boot Camp, however, you'll be pleased to know that I have complete rough drafts of three chapters, a 75% finished draft of another, a 33% finished draft of the fifth, and plans for the simulations for the sixth.

One major tip I can confidently offer to someone writing their dissertation? GET A BUDDY. Working with Nadine, who is writing her master's thesis, lends accountability, motivation, and camaraderie. The food at our meetings isn't free, but at least we share it. :)


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Stay tuned for Part II: "How Jess Is Trying to Get a Job".