Sunday, July 23, 2006

Moving Woes

Fifty bucks for a couple of boxes? Are you serious, U-Haul? How about I give you my right kidney as collateral so that I can get a mattress bag, too? What's that you say? That roll of moving tape will require my first born as a deposit? Thank God selling my eggs is still an option. [insert derisive snort here]

I'm experiencing a very serious time crunch. Moving day (this Friday) is looming on the horizon, and I still have so much left to do. My belongings lie in piles on my floor, waiting to be packed away in one of the aforementioned, horrendously expensive boxes. I'm completely incapable of deciding myself which boxes will go to storage here in T-town and which will be shipped back home with my father Friday afternoon. It's almost as though I don't want to decide. While I was ready to label apathy the culprit, I soon realized that nostalgia is the reason behind my dragging heels. This is my first apartment, my first place...and I'm leaving. Surely for something better, but this little shoe-box apartment has so many memories tied to it. Memories of impromptu dinner parties, movie nights, and sororal sleepovers during the summers.

Sadly, I won't even have time to mourn my first residential loss, as this Sunday I'll be shipping out to Québec for a mycology conference. [A note to my readers (all four of you): blogging will be thin over the next week or so, but I leave you with promises of a Québecois photoessay.] In addition to packing, I'm also compiling and analyzing data for my presentation, which needs to be completed by Wednesday at the latest. Anyone in the audience care to help me with my statistics? Yeah, didn't think so.

For all my complaining, I do have a few good weeks ahead of me. Dinner and final drinks with friends, some last-chance appointments with favorite professors, canoeing down the Bogue Chitto with my sister and some high-school friends. Oh yes, August will be a glorious month. Just gotta slog through the rest of July.

Friday, July 14, 2006

A Penchant for the Melodramatic

Yesterday, my fellow HHMI interns and I took a tour of several biotech companies in Huntsville, Alabama. One of the PR representatives at Operon hailed originally from Aberdeen, Scotland, a large coastal city to the northeast of Glasgow. I mentioned my impending trip abroad and jokingly asked her for any advice. Bad idea.

"Oh, you're going to Glasgow?" she replied. "You do know that's the Alabama of Scotland, eh?"

Gee thanks, lady. That's exactly what I needed to hear.


As an aside, one of my roommates from high school is getting married today. While I wish the happy couple all the success in the world, I'm not sure whether to laugh or cry.

You see, I had always thought the notion of a ticking biological clock was a silly one. Then mine started counting down. Loudly. And, for all my efforts, I can't seem to turn the damned thing off. (Mom, before you go apoplectic, rest assured that I have no plans on bringing home a bundle of joy anytime soon.) I'm just at that age where I have to start weighing my future options. Ideally, I'll hold off on having a family until I'm not only finished with my education, but also firmly established in my chosen field (which remains largely unchosen).

Regardless of my career path, I'm facing at least another five years of graduate study, placing me squarely in my late twenties before I even enter the professional job market. As a generational comparison, my parents had been employed for four years, married for two, and were about to welcome me into the world by this point in their lives. It would seem I'm a little behind schedule. Now, thanks to my biology background, I know better than the average American woman that my ovaries will not shrivel up and die the second I turn thirty. However, that doesn't change the fact that ladies are groomed to believe that spinsterhood begins at thirty-five, and that those of us unlucky enough to remain single by that point have only animal hoarding, trips to the mailbox, and becoming prominent figures of childhood lore to look forward to.

Despite the irrationality of this belief--to mention nothing of its falsity--it's a pervasive one. Which is why every wedding announcement sent to me elicits visions of being the blue-haired eremite who strikes fear into the hearts of neighborhood children as she mumbles incoherently to herself on her daily shuffle to a predictably and perpetually empty mailbox. The only thing scarier than the fact that I have actually constructed the aforementioned scenario is that I'm worried about this crap at twenty-one. (Melodrama for the win!)

These thoughts serve to highlight the importance of this upcoming trip. After all, when I'm holed up in my ramshackle cottage, eating expired sauerkraut from the can, I'll have only the memories of my youth to keep me company. Well, those and my cats.

Wednesday, July 05, 2006

Anticipation

It would seem this blog is off to a positively roaring start. (Sigh.)

The weeks before my departure are flying by, much to my horror. With only 53 days until my flight out of the US, I thought I'd have more time to prepare, more time to pack, more time to say goodbye. I'm finding that as D-day nears, I'm becoming increasingly ambivalent about leaving. The excitement that permeated much of this spring semester has given way to fear and doubt. What if this is a colossal waste of money? What if my Master's project, which will be pushed to the back burner for the next six months, goes belly up in my absence? What if my mother's right, and I'll be mugged/raped/murdered/sold into sex slavery the instant I set foot on Scottish soil? Surely these are all legitimate concerns.

I've also been battling the urge to wax sentimental about my time here at the University. It's certainly no secret, my complete and utter disdain for this institution. While I've met wonderful people and been offered myriad opportunities for advancement in my chosen fields of study, my success here has done little to change the fact that I'm miserable. And yet, despite my contempt for this backwards state and its equally backwards flagship university, I'll miss it. Honestly, it's a charming little slice of Americana...if you can block out 95% of the city's residents (many of whom are, admittedly, fellow college students.) Though I'm not leaving for good, as I have a semester until I earn my B.S. and another year to finish my Master's, an extended vacation will certainly be to my benefit.

My eagerness to leave behind my university does not, however, extend to my hometown. A year to the day after Hurricane Katrina destroyed New Orleans, I will be flying over the Atlantic, leaving behind a city that is still struggling to recover. Part of me welcomes this trip as a way to distance myself from the ongoing recovery effort. (Make no mistake: it is still a recovery effort.) I won't kid myself, though. I know my leaving is a feeble attempt to push the tragedy from my mind; by avoiding the city for as long as possible, I can retain the memories of my childhood. Memories of a city that, for all its poverty, debauchery, and corruption, managed to steal my heart. I'll leave with the hope that the city will see some progress in my five months abroad. It's a vain hope, really, as this past year has failed to deliver.

Here's to a kinder future, New Orleans. For now, I'll just remember you as you were.


(Photo by Jerry Lodriguss, a renown photojournalist, astrophotographer, and New Orleans native.)