How getting a PhD is like trying to get a truck out of deep sand

Today I had lunch with an old friend who's also a scientist, also a woman, and who also did her postgraduate work at Melbourne Uni. When she heard that I am feeling more than a little lost, she said that everyone feels this way at the beginning of a PhD program, particularly one without coursework. She thinks she did about 10% of her PhD in her first year (and about 80% in the final six months), which sounds about the same as my master's. At the beginning, there's so little guidance, so little structure. I suppose the main goal of this first year can be succinctly summarized: know more. So I'm reading and taking notes on what I'm reading and looking for more things to read and then reading them and taking notes and reading more. This process involves little action, little doing. And the more I read and learn, the more I realize how little I actually know. At the end of the day, it's all quite unsatisfying.

Which brings me to today's metaphor. This first part of a PhD feels a lot like trying to get a truck out of sand: lots of going nowhere interspersed with brief moments of movement that, ultimately, don't really get you anywhere either. And the whole time, your heart's beating fast enough to blow a rib because you're so afraid of being stuck in this place permanently. And you're trying all sorts of different approaches (reversing, rocking, sticks under the wheels, rocks under the wheels) but with a certain overtone of panic that makes it hard to give any one approach the time and attention it requires, all the while cycling between fear (How long before someone comes along?) and intense jubilation (The truck moved - it's going to wo--). After what feels like an eternity, you wear yourself out enough to calm down and commit to one approach. You dig several layers of rocks in under the tires and, miracle of all miracles, you manage to pop out of the hole you're in and you're rolling - you're rolling! - and you can't stop or turn around or do anything but drive steadily forwards until you're back on solid ground.

Not that I've ever been in this sort of situation.

Day One

Things you want to know:

- The woman whose desk is next to mine studies kangaroo fertility - or more correctly, she studies kangaroo birth control. I kid you not; her dissertation involves dosing roos with hormones that are identical to the pill.

- My supervisor apologized for my office, which contains brand spanking new desks, a huge window, and my own file cabinet. He started to apologize for the desk chairs - which were not designed for use in the bowels of a dreary office building housing an underfunded government department in the 50's, do not come with wires to poke me in the bum, and do not list dangerously to port - but I cut him off. My office used to be in a trailer, I explained - a trailer that during one particular deluge, started to float. I kid you not.

- I remembered to wear pants.


Things you don't want to know:

- The basement houses a room of aquaria full of venomous marine creatures. Occasionally, the marine tech walks in to find undergrad's from other departments wandering around looking at the tanks. When he asks them what they're doing they usually say something like, "We heard this room was here, man, and we heard it was really cool." He's asked for locks to be installed on the door because there's only one thing worse than finding random students wandering through your lab: finding random students passed out in your lab.

- The same marine tech told me about a student taken by a shark a couple of years ago while at his dive safety stop. There was also a student who lost a leg. (I should not be blogging about this - the family is going to freak.) Both occurred in South Australia, and the leg loss occurred after the divers were spear fishing near a seal colony. I will not be diving in SA, nor will I be spear fishing near a seal colony - or really doing anything in the water near a seal colony. And I have already promised my husband that I will not let myself get taken by a shark.

- I remembered to wear pants.

Early this morning I woke up with a jolt of panic: I was late for school. Except that school doesn't start until tomorrow - and here it's not called school, it's called Uni. My friend A keeps reminding me of that. She also corrects my pronunciation of the word "mobile" - as in, cell phone - to make sure that I enunciate the "ile" part of the word, which I tend to swallow making it MObl rather than moBILE.

This has nothing to do with anything much at all. There will be no pithy sentence that ties this together with the fact that we scored a dresser yesterday off a NY'er who lives around the corner and who advertised it on Craiglist, a service that I wish more people in Melbourne would use. I feel like I unpacked for the first time in a year and a half.

This also has nothing to do with the fact that I'm addicted to spider solitaire and that I will have to uninstall it this evening or risk never finishing my dissertation.

Which reminds me that I'm starting my dissertation tomorrow. Tomorrow I will be a doctoral student. And presumably, one day I will be a doctor. In case it wasn't completely obvious, this fills me with nervous, jittery excitement. I'm sure that tonight I'll have one of those dreams where I'm giving a presentation to my colleagues only to realize half way through that I'm not wearing any pants.

Oh verr

I am done with my temp job. Let me hear a chorus of "Hallelujahs". Lumpkin suggested I steal a t-shirt on my way out the door, one that read "Foster's - Australian for Cow Urine". Lumpkin makes me laugh. There is only one thing I will miss from that job and he sat a few rows away from me. Boy was he nice to look at. But I am more than happy to give up eye candy and air conditioning for the glamorous life style of an underpaid, overworked grad student.

Other wonderful things in my day include the cool breeze wafting in through the back door. Stepping out of the office today, the air felt heavy as if it really wanted to rain but couldn't quite get over the habits formed by eight years of drought. Droughts are addictive.

Speaking of droughts, I arrived home yesterday (bearing ice cream) to find my large tomato plant wilting miserably in its pot, it's leaves shriveled and dry. I rushed to the rescue with a bowl of gray water (we recycle the dish water) and less than ten minutes later, the plant was back to its rabid splendor. I swear it grows half a foot a day. If you notice that I haven't posted in a while, send clippers and a machete.

And that's about the news from here. It is refreshingly cool. I have a five day weekend and then - ack! I start my PhD. Oh shit. I hadn't really been thinking about that. For every "oh verr" there's and "oh god".

What's in a look

When you've lost all your clothes the phrase, "I have nothing to wear" takes on new meaning. I'm working hard to regenerate my wardrobe but it's a struggle. Part of my problem is that I don't want to look like everyone else. On the tram to and from work, I am surrounded by hoards of identically dressed women, none of whom have a style I want to even come close to emulating. Think: Marina chick in a southern Californian mall. On a good day, I'll see a couple of women wearing an outfit that I like, which makes for pretty slim pickin's inspiration-wise and complicates this whole fill-up-the-wardrobe thing. When I try to go shopping, I end up rejecting over 90% of the clothes most shops have on offer. It's all the same! It's all U-Glee! And then there's the fight against the urge to buy the safe clothes, the things that look good but bore me to tears.

After reading this article, I realized that what I'm actually struggling with is defining my own style. I have never - NEVER - been a style junkie, or a fashionista, or someone who can name more than three labels - and that's on a good day. My uniform until a few years ago was a t-shirt and jeans. Now I own heels and even occasionally wear them. Admitting that I do appreciate clothes and want to feel confident in what I'm wearing has been a big step for me. Actually leaving the safe comfort of t-shirts and jeans for clothes that are stylish and opinionated is one hell of a struggle.

One of the first steps is admitting that I like clothes. Hi, my name's Bartlebee and I like clothes. Having never been to AA, I'm not sure what comes next. Perhaps recognizing that fashion does matter, that what I wear does matter, and, most importantly, that it's ok that it matters. This part is a work in progress.

If you like fish...

... here are two particularly novel ways to show your love. If you like music as well as the fishies, then try this lovely fish tank piano. If seeing a piano reminds you of the hours of practice that you were forced into by a mother who could tolerate your tantrums and still get her way, hours you would rather have spent in the bathroom, then perhaps this fish tank will be more
to your liking.

Proof that moving countries is hard even when you allegedly speak the language

Exhibit A: The following conversation, which ensued after I pulled my morning snack from my bag.

Colleague: Oooh! What’s that?

Me: A scone.

Colleague: But what’s wrong with it?

Me: What do you mean, what’s wrong with it? Nothing’s wrong with it. It’s a scone.

Colleague (poking scone): But it’s so flat.

Me: Aren't scones supposed to be flat?

Colleague: No they're not.

Me: They are in the States.

Colleague: They’re not over here.

Me: Then what do you call what I'm eating?

Colleague: I dunno. Is it a muesli slice?

Me: What’s a muesli slice?

Colleagues: A slice with muesli in it.

Me (under breath): Well that's helpful.

Colleague: That has muesli in it, doesn't it?

Me: No, just oats.

Colleague (looking at me like I'm a moron): Right. So, it has muesli in it.

Me: Yeah?

Colleagues: So it's a muesli slice.

Me: Of course. How could I be so silly? Why yes of course this is a muesli slice.

Bleak

My brother Lumpkin just sent me an email. He's sitting at home in his shorts with all the windows and skylights open. He lives in New York. It's January.

Stop and think about that for a moment.

On Christmas day, Melbourne and NY shared the same temperature. Middle of summer; middle of winter. I am starting to think that my Master's advisor may have been serious when he told all of his grad students to buy land in Manitoba.

I had a nightmare a few years ago in which The End had come. My friend KC and I were in a tent in the middle of an apocalyptic desert surrounded by blowing sand and searing sun, applying duct tape to the zippers to try and keep the toxic winds out. And then we huddled together, recalling images from our favourite hiking spots: the towering green freshness of the redwoods; browned California hills scattered with wildflowers and scraggly oaks; the glacier-smoothed granite of the Sierras. And we cried at the loss which was so much greater than our own lives. I woke up soaked in desolation.

I am still occasionally gripped by panic at the thought that the Earth is going to hell in a hand-basket. Or more correctly, that Homo sapiens is going down and taking most things with it. And then I get an email from my bro and I realize that this is actually happening. This is not some nightmare. This is not a thought to try to avoid in order to feel better. This Is Actually Happening. Will politicians wake up in time to avert the worst of it? I don't know. Can I do much more than I'm already doing? I don't know - we have green power, barely drive, vote for people who understand environmental issues, and shop with a conscience. Is it enough? I don't know. Do I feel hopeful? Rarely.

Prognosis: bleak.

Black

The new look of my blog may be bright and colourful ("clownish" according to Z), but my mood certainly isn't. After a week off between Christmas and the New Year, I am back in the tedium that is my temp job. No matter how many times during the day I repeat, "Six days left ..." it still sucks. Even Si's "I am in my happy place" Ikea-faring mantra does nothing to help. It's also hot hot hot except at my desk where I sit literally shivering all day. Have I mentioned that I don't like my job?

I suppose I can't wholly blame the job for The Mood. It's been skulking around for a couple of weeks now and as much as I try to shake it, it won't be shook. So, I garden and bake and organize the kitchen's stock of dried goods into neatly labeled jars and, when that's done, find myself staring into the blackness above our bed and, when I get tired of that, pacing the hallway through the witching hours. I'm sure the insomnia-induced exhaustion doesn't help.

And I'm also sure it will pass - I mean, eventually it has to, right? Until it does, I'm staying close to home and (here I quote Mr. Sassyass) missing y'all terribly.

The good kind of censorship

From Lake Superior State University's list of banished words for 2006, comes the following:

Halthy Food
Someone told Joy Wiltzius of Fort Collins, Colorado, that the tuna steak she had for lunch "sounded healthy." Her reply: "If my lunch were healthy, it would still be swimming somewhere. Grilled and nestled in salad greens, it's 'healthful.'"

And my other favourite:

Combined Celebrity Names
"It's bad enough that celebrities have to be the top news stories. Now we've given them obnoxious names such as 'Bragelina,' 'TomKat' and 'Bennifer.'" -- M. Foster, Port Huron, Michigan.

"It's so annoying, idiotic and so lame and pathetic that it's 'lamethetic.'" -- Ed of Centreville, Virginia.

Lamethetic is a great word - watch, they'll have to ban it next year!

Night Out

Last night we watched The Neverending Story at the Rooftop Cinema which was a very cool venue - actually, it was downright cold, but also cool in the less literal sense. The movie was not as magical as it was when I was a ten-year-old bookworm, but it has survived the tests of time better than The Labyrinth. As with most older movies, it is essential to apply liberal doses of imagination to the not-so-special effects. Take, for example, the part when Atreyu tells the scary wolf-creature that he'd rather go down fighting than be taken by the nothing. The wolf leaps toward him, snarling as the wind of the nothing tears tree from rock. The audience sharply inhales and - cut to Atreyu pushing the large, dead wolf away, its legs sticking out at right angles from its torso as it lies on its side. The whole audience, with the probable exception of the young girl sitting in front of us, laughed out loud.

On our way home, a guy around our age got on the tram and loudly asked if there were any English on board, which there weren't (I quickly decided that I'm Ameralian). A couple of stops later, someone got on wearing an English cap. Our "friend" immediately started singing "Four nil four nil four nil four nil" to the tune of Auld Lang Syne. I guess we won the cricket! The guy wearing the cap turned out to be an Aussie, too, and they soon joined voiced in a rousing rendition of "Yellow Submarine" except the chorus went, "We all live in a convict colony, a convict colony, a convict colony...."

It’s Australian for Christmas

When I was about 10, my mum, sister and I moved out of Melbourne to live with my grandmother on her farm near Woodend. One Christmas, my grandmother arranged for one of the neighbours (actually, the only other people living on our dirt road) to dress up like Santa for the benefit of me and my sister. I think that both of us were too old to actually believe in Santa, though there was still something cool about a guy dressed in red with a big bushy white beard. Sometime in the early afternoon, a ute (pick-up) carrying Santa made its way down our driveway with many a Ho Ho Ho. My grandmother, being quite proper, said, “Oh Santa, how nice of you to drop by! Would you like a glass of sherry?” Santa replied, (you’ll have to give this your best Dundee impersonation), “Naaah, but I’ll have a beeeyah.”

This ... again?

This quote comes from an article about the EU's proposed airline green taxes:

"Qantas takes its environment performance seriously and is fully aware of the debate around climate change as an issue of global significance," [Simon Rushton] said.

What debate is he talking about? There is no debate about the fact that climate change is happening and rapidly. And I dare anyone to argue that it isn't an issue of global significance. If only Qantas took science as seriously as it purports to take its "environment performance".

Say what?

I was just awarded one of these:

The Helen Macpherson Smith Scholarships

The trustees of the Helen Macpherson Smith Trust have donated funds to establish special scholarships for outstanding women who are entering postgraduate study. Two scholarships are available annually and are normally awarded to the highest-ranked female recipients of an APA or MRS entering a:

1. scientific/technical discipline, and
2. a humanities/social sciences discipline.

This is in addition to the scholarship I've already been given. I am in total disbelief. My husband is not surprised. Which is not surprising. But the money sure as hell is. As is the swing from "How are we going to pay rent?" poverty to "Let's buy a dresser and a new mattress and some clothes to go with that suhweet coat Head and Ether sent" prosperity. It makes by brain go all blooey and my heart beat quickly - which is a good thing. Surprises like this are good for my health.

All in a Name

Some companies work for a humanitarian cause or to create an innovative product or to do offer service. While ultimately the goal may be to make money, they can at least say they’re doing something good along the way. The company I work for appears to exist only to make money. Sure, they’re providing a service that certainly beats the service provided by the likes of Philip Morris, but selling booze is a job that each brewery or winery could do on their own. This conglomeration exists to make money, most of which ends up in the pockets of a select (male) few. It is demoralizing to show up to a desk every day in order to help someone “general manager” rake in bucketfuls of cash.

In addition to General Managers, QA specialists, VP’s, Marketing Coordinators and the like, I have come across several funny titles in my work. I particularly like “Shifty Bugger”, though that’s obviously a joke. Obviously quite serious is “Knowledge Manager”. Uh. Does this employee even know what she does? Can she take herself serious with that title? And then there's my favourite title: “Cellar door”. I wonder if he gets paid to revolve.

And just in case I started to think that funny titles only happen in business, Lumpkin suggested that I get work as a Whale-Vomit Specialist. How truly brotherly of him!

Speaking of names, if one wants a cup of coffee here in Aus, one usually orders something called a “flat white”. Because I can’t drink milk, I end up ordering soy. And because drinking caffeinated coffee makes me twitchy enough to give Z grounds for divorce, I usually end up ordering a decaf flat soy white. It’s an embarrassing drink to order – makes me think of stuck-up people in LA. It’s also quite a mouthful. So Z has given my coffee drink a new title: very flat yellow.

In summary, my family suggests that I be a Whale-Vomit Specialist who drinks Very Flat Yellows. I'm trying to see this as positive. And failing miserably.

Culture

I just finished reading a great book, "The Player of Games" by Iain M. Banks. For those of you who haven't read any of his Culture books I highly recommend them - and this one in particular. It's been interesting to contemplate how life would be if there was no danger, if there were no rules, if death wasn't a lingering threat. What is added to our lives by our mortality? What do we gain? When I was an earnest (ahem) young girl, I remember swearing to my skeptical third grade teacher that, were the future to provide me with a choice, I would opt to do the housework myself rather than letting a robot take care of it for me. I felt then that I would lose some essential aspect of living by relinquishing any part of my existence. Nowadays, I would jump at the chance to have something scrub my toilet, iron my clothes and wash the dishes. But how far would I want to take that? How would it be to live in a society in which there was no need to work unless one was inspired to do so, a society which also has a lack of need? Want to live in a grand house over looking a fjord? No problem. How about a houseboat floating in a sea of jello? No problem - until you find yourself living there, surrounded by jello.

At this point in time, life in the Culture sounds pretty appealing. I would love to have the luxury to immerse myself in various pursuits without the pressures of time/mortality and money. I would learn all about linguistics so that I could better understand the formation of accents and dialects. I would open my own restaurant and try being a chef for a while. I would spend a few hundred years, because that is how long it would take, learning how to draw a decent representation of the world around me. And I would study the fishes in the deep blue sea.

In some ways a PhD does afford this sort of luxuriating. I am getting paid to spend three (and a half) years studying something that I find fascinating. The down-side is that this is just one thing I'm fascinated in - one of many, many things. Some people hear their calling loud and clear; for others there is no calling, just a mumbled cacophony of interesting things to do.

Which brings me to another point that's been making lazy laps around my cranium. I have been asking myself recently if fish/ecology/biology/science is really it for me. Maybe I won't enjoy it as much as I would enjoy owning a specialty organic farm? What I have come to realize is that there can be relief in just making a choice. It doesn't have to be the right choice (is there ever an obvious Right Choice?), it just has to be a choice. And once the decision is made, you can be on the move towards something. Perhaps the particular something doesn't even matter as much as the having chosen it. And so I find myself on the bring of beginning a dissertation in marine ecology...

Which isn't to say that I won't try cooking commercially at some point, or that I won't live on a farm again or - well, ok, so the linguistics thing is probably out.

Don't say that

My Dad is in Hong Kong for a trade show, which he tells me is terribly boring but for the booth girls dressed in leather. When he tries to read my blog, he gets and error message from a Hong Kong url. Certain countries that we visited during our travels didn't like blogger either - I tried to log on for days from Addis Ababa, though that may have been less to do with censorship and more to do with the generally craptastic state of that country.

Speaking of censorship, the company I work for has a "no denim" policy. Seriously. No demin allowed. This makes my brain go waggawaggawhaaa? Dictating what employees can and can't wear to work?!?! That is the most stupid thing I have ever heard. I work for a company that it doesn't trust its employees to choose their own clothing. How hard can it be? Got a big sales meeting? Pull out that suit and tie. Work in IT where the closest thing you get to a person is that email in your inbox? Wear whatever the fuck - sorry, phuck you want. And I don't just don't get it. It takes time and money for someone to come up with a "no denim" policy, time and money for someone to write up a proposal for the exec team, time and money for the exec team to give the ok, and more time and money to communicate to the suckers - uh, I mean employees. This is certainly the most corporate corporation I have ever worked for - and I hope this is as corporate as it ever gets for me.

It's almost enough to make me want to shave myself a mohawk and dye it green and get a Polynesian face tattoo and an excessive septum piercing. Almost.

Speaking of body manipulations, I had the pleasure of having eight electrodes strapped to my chest for a twenty-four hour period this week. It happened to be incredibly hot the day I got hooked up to the heart monitor - I still have a couple of spots on my chest that looked like they had an unfortunately close encounter with an octopus. And no, you can't see. That may have been the only period of time where I actively wanted my heart to do it's syncopated hiccup routine. And did it? Not that I'm aware of. This morning, though, about 15 hours after I removed the heart monitor, it does it again. Should there be a next time where I try to sleep without crushing the machine or choking on the multiple wires, I will be sure to ask my body to misbehave earlier.

On the nose

A lifetime or two ago when Z and I were exploring the South Island, we had a special anniversary dinner at a fabulous restaurant recommended by Mr. Sassyass. We ordered a bottle of local wine and were enjoying it when I decided to red the label. In addition to listing flavors like plum and berry, it listed the words "canned apricot". Canned apricot??? This lead to a hilarious competition to see who could come up with the worst wine description ever. I think the winners were a palate of last year's oysters, and a nose of seal colony.

Today, I was reading through an article describing the top 100 wines of 2006 and found the following:

2004 Carmel Road Monterey Pinot Noir ($20)
Nicely balanced, this wine is aromatic (basil, plum, red cherry and pencil lead), softly fruity (pie cherry) and spicy, with a hint of tar on the lingering finish.

Mmm... just what I want my wine to taste like: pencil lead and tar.

I Cannot Read the Clouds

One of the difficulties with moving to a new country/state/city/neighborhood (if in SF) is not knowing how to read the weather. Each morning, I look out the window and try to guess what the day will bring. Thick heavy clouds and wind should equal cold and raining. Brilliant blue sky and breeze should equal warm. But it's Melbourne where the weather is, as they say, changeable. Adding to my weather confusion is the fact that at work I sit by wonderfully large windows, which offer fabulous views of trees and sky, and under the less-than-wonderful air conditioning vent. It can be downright cold at my desk - chilling, sneezing cold.

Yesterday, I watched as the trees outside the window threatened to join me at my desk, invited in by a viscious wind. The heavy grey clouds lit the middle of day as if it was dusk. Imagine my shock when I stepped outside at 5pm into a sauna. The air seemed to have taken on a personality - that of a sulky, brooding, tempestuous child. It was thick and tropical. The wind rushed in ferocious bursts blowing dust into my eyes. And then it began to rain a little - or more correctly, occasional drops of water hurtled from the sky. The result felt like pins and needles as cold droplets hit very warm skin.

When we got home around 11pm, the thermometer on the Abruzzo club's sign said it was 27C. And today? It's been beautifully sunny and breezy - and cool; this morning it was 16C. I may just have to concede this match: Melbourne weather 2, Bartlebee 0.

Where you from?

My job has reduced me to once-a-week blogging. The company has all the bells and whistles to prevent me from doing anything other than work while at work - with the exception of Troublonia and Sassyass, I can read no blogs nor gmail nor any other fun sites. And last week I discovered that emails containing profanity are also blocked - Z tried to send me an email about the American election, an email that contained the words, Fuck Yeah. As Si says, we'll have to start spelling it phuck instead. Remind me to never work for a company that mistrusts its employees so overtly (temping doesn't count).

There's a man that sits near me with a North American accent. I found out the other day that he's from Canada - thank god I didn't just say, Where in the States are you from? I hear Canadians will turn you into a bear skin rug if you do that. I find his accent comforting and familiar. My ears are now primed to hear North American while I'm walking through the Melbourne streets - just like my ears pick up any Kiwi/Aussie accents while I'm in San Francisco. It's another reminder of how I'm neither one nor the other, but somewhere inbetween. Ameralian? Australican?

Z and I were discussing citizenship the other night and decided that what makes someone a certain nationality is when the actions of that country are embarrassing - when you feel vaguely responsible for the stupid things you read about on the news. I know that I've always felt that way about Australia - the Whites Only immigration policy, kowtowing to Bush's agenda, etc. - though it has faded in the last few years. But when Bush does something idiotic, I don't feel a sense of personal responsibility or shame. Despite what my passports might say, I am perhaps not yet truly American.

I am American enough to host Thanksgiving though. No way am I passing up on that holiday! We have to hold it on Saturday so that I have enough time to cook - I think the plan is to start on Wednesday night. Also on Saturday I get - no, have to vote. This will be a first for me - I have never in all my thirty years cast a vote in a political election. Will I feel more connected to this place afterwards? More ready to feel shame? Maybe. But I'm sure it's nothing a few pieces of pumpkin pie won't cure.