"I'd known a couple of scientists who had become writers ..."

The Alan Lightman lecture was fantastic. I feel completely star-struck. (Ha ha – astrophysics joke!) Seriously, I was in awe of a guy who's had such a full career in two completely unrelated fields. Not surprisingly, his topic was "The Physicist as Novelist," a look at the similarities/differences in how scientists and artists perceive the world.

He began by sharing tales of his dual childhood loves of math and poetry, his home closet-turned-"lab," and his insatiable desire to build things like conductors and whatnot. In the early '60s, before he was a teen, he'd developed a remote control to switch the lights on or off in any room in the house from any other room.

He talked about college and about choosing his career path, and then he said something that made me cringe: "I'd known a couple of scientists who had become writers ... but I didn't know of any writers who had become scientists." I chuckled with the rest of the crowd, but I was secretly wishing I'd had that wisdom when I was in college.

He relayed how, in his postdoc days, he was in the library working on the bibliography for an article he was about to submit for journal publication. He saw the latest issue of an astrophysics journal, thumbed through it, and found he'd been scooped by some Japanese physicists whom he'd never contacted and who, without knowledge, had been working on the same theoretical problem. Their results matched his to three decimal points.

It became obvious that scientists could be replaceable, he said – meaning that had he not done his studies, someone else would have; had Einstein not postulated relativity, someone eventually would have done that, too. Artists, however, are unique. Nobody could have written Hamlet except Shakespeare. he told us. Nobody could have composed Moonlight Sonata except Beethoven.

The average age when Nobel winners did their award-winning research was 36. He said he saw his research pursuits waning by age 40, and around that time, he wrote Einstein's Dreams. It was his first novel and an incredible, world-wide bestseller.

After the talk, I was second in line to have my book signed. As I timidly pushed my copy of Einstein's Dreams in front of him, I clammed up (which actually isn't all that uncommon for me in real life). Here was a guy I've admired since junior high, talking to me, and I was so starry-eyed that I couldn't say anything.

That's how my mother felt when she met Ricky Nelson.

Okay, so he's not Ricky Nelson, but he renewed in me that sense that it's okay to be both right- and left-brained, both arts- and numbers-driven. And while I'm fairly certain I'll never succeed in both pursuits as well as he has, it gives me something to which I can aspire.

I've been having a dialog with Dan Reimold, a Ph.D. candidate in Ohio, about his book A Little About a Lot and a Lot About a Little: 799 Tips Every Editor Should Know Before Setting Foot in a Newsroom. I told him about my desire to go back to school, probably in something related to science writing, and he said, "Seems like a fascinating sub-section of the field and should elicit a lot of excitement from your future profs/advisers. I just reviewed a related submission for a (communications) journal that started ominously, 'Throughout history, science and journalism have been at odds ...'"

Hey, there have to be people out there who bridge the gaps. :)

P.S. Check out Paul's inscription!

[Edit: This actually came up during conversation with my mother. It was Ricky Nelson who took her breath away. Whatever. She still got to see the Beatles, and I still didn't. Bah.]

Does the concept of punctuality elude you?

Monday morning already? (Yawn.)

Paul and Mike left for Chicago Saturday. Well, they were supposed to leave Saturday via Amtrak – it was much cheaper than flying, and universities are stingy and don't fund grad students well. The train was to pull out at 10:40 p.m., so we picked up Mike at 9:15 and made it to the train station around 10.

Our first mistake was assuming the train would be on time.

At 11:15, the woman behind the ticket cage got on her microphone and said in her tartest, don't-mess-with-me voice, "I know calls have been made and questions have been asked, and you're all wondering where the train is. Well, I don't know. I've been told it's stopped an hour and a half outside Memphis. So when they get the train started again, and I don't know when that will be, it will be an hour and a half after that before the train gets here."

Groan.

So we dragged their luggage back out to the Vue and drove to a mall about a half-mile away. The kitchen was closed at the first place we went, so we ended up at Jillian's for cheeseburgers. But we kept worrying that the woman was wrong and the train would leave without the guys, so we headed back to the train station a little after midnight. I left the station around 1:15 a.m. Paul sent me a text message around 2:30 saying the train had arrived. They made it to Chicago sometime in the early afternoon Sunday. Gah.

I know I've said it before, but I'll say it again: It's hard to sleep when you're used to having someone in bed next to you. I mean, I was exhausted when I got home from the train station, so I slept hard. But last night, I tossed and turned all night. It's going to be a long day.

But tonight (providing I'm not sleepwalking by then), I'll finally get to see Alan Lightman speak in person. I missed my chance in October because I was out of town. Tonight, he's giving a public lecture at UM titled "The Physicist as Novelist." And he'll be doing a signing afterwards! Yay!

Hey, I was on ESPN tonight!

Went to the Memphis basketball game tonight. My parents gave Paul and me their 11th row tickets, so we had a great view of the Tigers wailing on Rice to clench UM's second C-USA title in two years. And special congrats to Awesome-y McAwesome Jeremy Hunt, who scored his 1,000th career point.

It's always hard to come home after an exciting game and unwind enough to be able to go to sleep. Actually, going to sleep is bad, but waking up in the morning is worse.

And, yes, I really did end up on ESPN. My 15 minutes of fame has been reduced to at least 14 minutes, 47 seconds.

Before the game, Paul and I ate dinner at the Hard Rock Cafe on Beale next to the stadium. I'd forgotten how much the food – though tasty – is overpriced. Our waiter's name was Fro-Hawk. He really did have an afro mohawk that, believe it or not, suited him fairly well. I should've taken a picture; it's one of those things you just have to see for yourself.

You know, I've been planning my NYC trip so much that I nearly forgot Paul leaves for Chicago in a couple days. Then he comes home for a day and a half before we load up and head to New York. He gets big, big hugs for taking me out of town so soon after his own trip. But his schedule gets even busier: When we get back from New York, he turns around and heads back to Chicago.

I know all the trips wear him down, but I can't help but be (slightly) jealous he has a chance to travel so much. Oh, to be a scientist and not a research analyst who works in The Closet without a window.

Straight dope on New York?

Meeting run-down: I switched out the red sweater for a gray one. Curled my hair. Wore mascara. And you know what? It went well. Eric (the reporter who accompanied me), my source and I talked about the real estate markets in New York and Memphis. I ordered sole piccata, only later finding out sole is on the Seafood Watch overfished list. Eh, it was good anyway. :)

My source lives in Brooklyn and said Paul and I should call him when we're there. He said he'd take us out and show us the sights in New York. Maybe I'll take him up on it.

I traveled quite a bit growing up, although I've never left North America. I've been to something like 25 states and Canada (Looong road trip. Twice.), but I've never actually stayed in New York City. This presents a problem, because I don't know what to do in New York. We're going to see a couple of Broadway shows and probably the Met and MoMA. Maybe Ellis Island.

I've got two books: The Unofficial Guide to New York City and Frommers NYC Free & Dirt Cheap. But they're a total of, like, 700 pages. Surely at least one of you has a suggestion of a fab restaurant, cool but not super-crowded site, or a great place to shop.

So let 'er rip.

Dressed for success, Kate-style

I have a business lunch tomorrow with a colleague and a New York real estate dude.

This is kind of a groaner, because I'm not a reporter, I do not leave the office, and I do not do the business lunch thingy. I'm just not the sociable type.

But realizing I was in this for better or worse, I came home tonight and scrounged around my closet for something semi-presentable. I have my work clothes (plain, casual tees and pants in various shades of washed-out black and gray), my funeral and wedding clothes (black skirts, black jackets, a sweater or two), and my play clothes (torn-up baggy jeans, random goofy tees, flip-flops, bucket hats).

What to wear? What to wear?

Then I had a sudden revelation: I have the fashion sense of a moose.

A friend of Paul's, I have heard, said, "Paul married a goth girl." That's just not right. I mean, yeah, when I met Paul's friend, I had purple hair and probably was wearing freaky-dark lipstick. But that does not a goth girl make. I haven't dyed my hair in at least three years (although I'm seriously considering dyeing it red before we leave for New York). And I traded in the dark lipstick and heavy eyeliner for Blistex and, well, no eyeliner because I realized nobody really cared about my makeup other than me.

I liked cutesy skulls-and-crossbones and Jhonen Vasquez before either invaded Hot Topic. I have a dozen pairs of halloween socks. I wear thick-rimmed glasses and Blow-Pop socks. Right now, my hair is in pigtails in Dora the Explorer ponytail holders (Dora on the left; Backpack on the right). I have nerdy shirts. I like hats. You know, whatever.

I gravitate toward comfortable things, things I find cute, things that keep me from feeling old. That's great for casual Fridays at work or just hanging around here playing video games and killing time. Even during non-casual days at work, I don't dress up all corporate-like. I mean, I just never venture far from The Closet, so there's no one to impress other than the same 25 people I see every day.

Oh god. I've made it sound much worse than it really is. Please don't sign me up for one of those makeover shows – not at least until I turn 30.

In any case, I think I've come up with business lunch-appropriate attire, Kate-style: A red sweater that just happens to be the warmest, most comfy top in the world and gray pinstripe pants that just happen to be made out of flannel. Toss in a monogrammed black handbag and a pair of black shoes and I'll be good to go.

... And as soon as I get back to the office, I'm changing into jeans and a t-shirt. Because, hey, that's just how I roll.

Long time, no nutso-Kateso

Eh, that was a very long break indeed. Things got a little – okay, a lot – hectic at work, I hovered on the depressive side of manic-depressive for a few weeks, and things just kind of went ape-poo for a while.

Also, I ate tainted peanut butter (see below), but I didn't eat as much as Paul. We were fine, as were all the other folks we know who were eating the same batch of peanut butter: a couple of my coworkers and Paul's research professor among them. On a tangent, who knew that so many of our friends ate so much peanut butter? And who knew they all bought Peter Pan? Sounds fishy to me.

I swear, I had a rough go of things for a few weeks there. Worked hard and late, came home, watched some Invader Zim or Forensic Files, crashed for a while, got up and did it all over again.

And while things aren't perfect yet (are they ever?), they're certainly looking up. They hired an editorial assistant at work to take over a few of my duties and allow me to focus on what I enjoy. I changed my title to "research analyst" to more accurately reflect my new role. My home away from home is still The Closet.

And my hubby and friends are great. My old CoH supergroup, which had more or less dissipated into a smattering of Canadians – there's a mental image for you – is slowly undergoing a revival. I've started taking yoga again. And I'm crash-planning an impromptu road trip to NYC in, well, less than two weeks now. It'll include a very short jaunt in DC, if you guys are interested in throwing rotten tomatoes at me in person.

You know, I think my general malaise and post cessation was caused in no small part by someone who made me feel quite inferior for not having a professional blog (read: corporate-owned, updated daily, full of journalistic blah-blah-blah). Not unusual, then, that the date I heard this person speak was the date my own posts started slowing. Ugh.

I've relayed that little tidbit to only two people – hubby and M. – and both responded in the vein of "screw that noise."

So be forewarned: It's not professional; it's just me being me. Just saying whatever the heck I want or need to get off my chest.

And now I want to say that I'm back. And it's the first time in a long time that this feels like home again.