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rivkaI have my suit. I wear it seldom enough that I always marvel at how professional it makes me look. It's so deep a navy blue as to be almost black. It has quasi-military styling: it buttons up above my breasts with big silver-and-navy buttons and has a belt across the back with two more buttons on it. No one else could wear my suit - it's tailored to fit my short right arm. It fits me perfectly. I couldn't fail to be brilliant in that suit.
I have a cream-colored silk blouse and low black heels and fine sheer stockings with no runs in them, to wear with my suit.
I have my laptop computer and its power cord, which means that I have all of my dissertation data in Excel and SPSS files and output files for all of my data analyses. I have my dissertation and its figures and the external abstract on a CD. I have a hard copy of my dissertation. I have overheads for my defense. I have notes of my advisor's advice about my defense. I have the reference for an article he recommended on problems with the dichotomization of continuous variables, which wasn't in the University of Maryland library but is probably in the University of Iowa library, given that he read it. I have the Graduate College Thesis Manual. I have the Graduate College's critique of all the ways in which my first deposit deviated from the Thesis Manual. I have a half-page cheat sheet about logistic regression.
I have all of my University of Iowa keys to return.
I have two buttons, neither of which I will wear on the outside of my clothes: "Trust me, I'm almost a doctor," and "we have charts & graphs to back us up so fuck off."
I have all of the ordinary things you take on a week-long trip: seven T-shirts and two sundresses and three pairs of shorts and my sandals and underwear and a long T-shirt to sleep in at David and Leslie's house and my summerweight bathrobe and my bathing suit and jeans and a long-sleeved shirt in case it really does get cool in Minneapolis over the weekend, and four books (The Eustace Diamonds by Anthony Trollope, which is what I'm reading right now, and Murder Must Advertise and Unnatural Death by Dorothy L. Sayers, and a single-volume set of Love in a Cold Climate and The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford), and my cell phone charger, and all of my bathroom things and my medications.
Surely that means that everything will go just fine.
I have a cream-colored silk blouse and low black heels and fine sheer stockings with no runs in them, to wear with my suit.
I have my laptop computer and its power cord, which means that I have all of my dissertation data in Excel and SPSS files and output files for all of my data analyses. I have my dissertation and its figures and the external abstract on a CD. I have a hard copy of my dissertation. I have overheads for my defense. I have notes of my advisor's advice about my defense. I have the reference for an article he recommended on problems with the dichotomization of continuous variables, which wasn't in the University of Maryland library but is probably in the University of Iowa library, given that he read it. I have the Graduate College Thesis Manual. I have the Graduate College's critique of all the ways in which my first deposit deviated from the Thesis Manual. I have a half-page cheat sheet about logistic regression.
I have all of my University of Iowa keys to return.
I have two buttons, neither of which I will wear on the outside of my clothes: "Trust me, I'm almost a doctor," and "we have charts & graphs to back us up so fuck off."
I have all of the ordinary things you take on a week-long trip: seven T-shirts and two sundresses and three pairs of shorts and my sandals and underwear and a long T-shirt to sleep in at David and Leslie's house and my summerweight bathrobe and my bathing suit and jeans and a long-sleeved shirt in case it really does get cool in Minneapolis over the weekend, and four books (The Eustace Diamonds by Anthony Trollope, which is what I'm reading right now, and Murder Must Advertise and Unnatural Death by Dorothy L. Sayers, and a single-volume set of Love in a Cold Climate and The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford), and my cell phone charger, and all of my bathroom things and my medications.
Surely that means that everything will go just fine.
