Dear Friday, why don’t you come around more often? I am convinced we could have such a good time together. I love how you let me wear jeans and you deceive me into thinking the workday is short and bearable. When the sun is shining and the air is warm, your martini promises are positively intoxicating. But even when it’s gray and cold, the promise of you waiting for me at home swaddled in fleece beckons to me. Friday, we were meant to be together, yet you give yourself so sparingly, it’s maddening! I need you, Friday. Please. I’m begging you.
Dear Facebook, I want you to mind your own business. Stop suggesting friends for me and do not try to guilt me into reconnecting with people I have not messaged in a while. Clearly I want to avoid these people. Most likely I never was actually friends with them in the first place, so I am not interested in receiving their boring and/or insipid status updates. Like the girl from high school who was a dumb stoner and now seems to be a dumb slut who complains that people judge her for being a stripper. This is just one example, Facebook, but I’m warning you, I know what I am doing and you better just stay out of it. Word.
Dear Cabernet Sauvignon, you have the ability to make me swoon. When you are full-bodied, your velvety texture and earthy bouquet are music to my taste buds. I want to put all of you in my mouth and feel you. Your sexy tannins slide down my throat and give me that fuzzy, heady feeling that anything is possible. I think you and Friday should get together and give me call.
Dear Butch Cashier at Shaw’s, you are a cunt. You do not acknowledge me with a hello, you look at me blankly when you’re done ringing me up, and then you have the audacity to sit back on your fat ass and watch while I bag everything. Um, excuse me, I just worked a full day so why am I doing your job? To top it off, you do it all with a sour puss on your face. I hate you.
Dear Spin Bike, you are so intense! You stand there in the corner, looking all unassuming and timid, but I know better. You are so sleek and shiny, summoning me to you. I mount you gingerly, clip in my shoes, and begin to pedal slowly. Your flywheel moves with me ever so smoothly, afraid to catch, lest you scare me away too soon. But you are so tricky, Spin Bike, because once I think I know how things will go, you begin to resist me and I really have to work for it. I am forced to focus on what my body has to do to conquer you into submission. My heart will be thumping, sweat will drip down the side of my face, and my legs will quiver with every stroke. Yet, all that does is cajole me into pedaling faster and harder until we are moving so fast and furiously the room is practically a blur and I want to cry out from the exertion. Finally you relent a bit so I can ease up and catch my breath. I can’t believe how amazing you can make me feel. No one would guess it from looking at you, but I love that you have this secret smile just for me. Damn, you’re exquisite.
Dear Europcar, I know you are scamming me. The only traffic violation I could have committed while trying to navigate out of Rome was not driving enough like a lunatic on a one-day pass. Methinks you troll through your records to find the American drivers and just send them an incomprehensible letter that ultimately demands 40 euro. It’s a crafty ploy, but it makes me trust Europeans less than I already did. Pezzo di merda.
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Saturday, January 30, 2010
The truth hurts
Some babies are ugly. I know, no one wants to be the asshole who admits this, but it’s true. What’s worse, some children are ugly. You look at the kid and hope that this state of being unfortunate-looking is merely a part of puberty, but if it persists into young adulthood, all bets are off. If it’s a sin to acknowledge the ugliness aloud, it’s probably a bigger sin also to admit that the ugliness makes the child inherently less likeable. Surely this is a result of evolutionary forces that drive us to seek out attractiveness in order to survive, but as adults we feel badly for these homely little suckers and do our best to try to like them. Most likely the child in question is oblivious---thankfully---but it really does a number on the adult who is going against the grain of natural human behavior in order to seem like a nice person. The conflict between repulsion and guilt is quite strong and I suspect it could have deleterious health consequences in the long term. Someone really should do a study on that.
On a similar note, let’s be honest about perpetuating the myth that all brides are beautiful. Really? What about the fat ones? There is nothing beautiful about watching a fat dude try to cram a ring onto the sausage fingers of his fat bride. I also don’t find it beautiful to watch him try to cram a piece of cake into her chubby cheeks at the reception. I’m going to leave it at that, lest I conjure for you images of any other “cramming” that could occur later that night.
This one is a jagged little pill, but I’m sure there are some ladies in the house who will agree, size does matter. Average is fine, no problem. But please, do not come near me with that thing if my pinky finger could beat it up. I don’t want to belabor this point and risk sounding crass, but no one wants to ask if it’s in. It’s just not right and no one enjoys that. Sure we enjoy the attention you have to lavish on us in order to deflect, but at the end of the day, we are laughing at you with our friends.
It is easier---and frankly more energy efficient---to pee in the shower. I’m not saying I do this; I am just making the point. That’s why I’m here, folks.
I have seen no evidence to suggest that there is a God. However, I have seen a great deal of evidence to suggest the opposite. Let’s take childhood cancers, for instance. That is part of some benevolent grand plan? Random acts of violence, famine, AIDS, etc., all rain down upon this world because God said so? And with all the horrific things going on in the world, He is listening to you ask Him on Sunday morning if you can please have nice weather for your golf tournament next weekend. If you believe in that malarkey, you probably also believe that global warming is a myth. Sigh (insert shaking head here). I am sure that one night all the environmental scientists in the world got together and decided it was time to get even with greedy businessman. They were ready to exact revenge so all together, they concocted this idea to sell to the people: for the sake of our planet’s continued survival, humans need to reduce their production of greenhouse gases. The benefit for the scientists would be the satisfaction of impacting market forces with greater taxation, regulations, and protections that ultimately would result in a global government, while simultaneously securing funding for their research. Oh, those scientists. Pure. Evil. Genius.
I think this a good time to mention that there is no Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy, calories consumed on vacation do count, and blood is not thicker than water. These are sad facts, my friends. Don’t shoot the messenger.
On a similar note, let’s be honest about perpetuating the myth that all brides are beautiful. Really? What about the fat ones? There is nothing beautiful about watching a fat dude try to cram a ring onto the sausage fingers of his fat bride. I also don’t find it beautiful to watch him try to cram a piece of cake into her chubby cheeks at the reception. I’m going to leave it at that, lest I conjure for you images of any other “cramming” that could occur later that night.
This one is a jagged little pill, but I’m sure there are some ladies in the house who will agree, size does matter. Average is fine, no problem. But please, do not come near me with that thing if my pinky finger could beat it up. I don’t want to belabor this point and risk sounding crass, but no one wants to ask if it’s in. It’s just not right and no one enjoys that. Sure we enjoy the attention you have to lavish on us in order to deflect, but at the end of the day, we are laughing at you with our friends.
It is easier---and frankly more energy efficient---to pee in the shower. I’m not saying I do this; I am just making the point. That’s why I’m here, folks.
I have seen no evidence to suggest that there is a God. However, I have seen a great deal of evidence to suggest the opposite. Let’s take childhood cancers, for instance. That is part of some benevolent grand plan? Random acts of violence, famine, AIDS, etc., all rain down upon this world because God said so? And with all the horrific things going on in the world, He is listening to you ask Him on Sunday morning if you can please have nice weather for your golf tournament next weekend. If you believe in that malarkey, you probably also believe that global warming is a myth. Sigh (insert shaking head here). I am sure that one night all the environmental scientists in the world got together and decided it was time to get even with greedy businessman. They were ready to exact revenge so all together, they concocted this idea to sell to the people: for the sake of our planet’s continued survival, humans need to reduce their production of greenhouse gases. The benefit for the scientists would be the satisfaction of impacting market forces with greater taxation, regulations, and protections that ultimately would result in a global government, while simultaneously securing funding for their research. Oh, those scientists. Pure. Evil. Genius.
I think this a good time to mention that there is no Santa Claus or Tooth Fairy, calories consumed on vacation do count, and blood is not thicker than water. These are sad facts, my friends. Don’t shoot the messenger.
Thursday, December 24, 2009
Airing of Grievances
During this time of Festivus, it’s appropriate to air one’s disappointments from the past year. Traditionally, as far as one considers Seinfeld’s Frank Costanza traditional, the airing of the grievances occurs on December 23rd at a dinner during which each person at the table informs everyone else how he/she has been a disappointment. While I have a number of grievances to air, and I am duly cynical, it does seem a bit difficult to be particularly negative on Christmas Eve. I guess this is a hold-over from my Catholic upbringing, but I do tend to focus on the positive and get quite reflective at this time of year. However, in the spirit of Seinfeld, consider this entry my blogging Festivus. Unsurprisingly, it is a day late and a dollar short.
One of my biggest disappointments from this year is that I don’t use this space more often. Originally I thought it would come in handy for working out particularly vexing problems, as I have a tendency to perseverate on things. Or I thought I could vent about the frustrations that accompany the career choices I’ve made while also cluing people in to the wacky world of academic research. But instead, I have let this space languish. I think about it often, and I feel as though I should write something. Something insightful and clever, that resonates with others and maybe gives a voice to their secret thoughts. So why don’t I do this? Can I do this? How disappointing it would be, to realize that one’s observations which typically burst forth from the mouth dripping with juicy witticisms and sarcasm, do not lend themselves easily to the written word for others to experience. How could that be? How could I---she of the keen eye for surveying all that is preposterous surrounding her---be unable to convey that with words? I could have sworn I have plenty to talk about, and a story to tell. But when I sit down to write something, my inspiration evaporates and I am left with the briney residue of dissatisfaction I feel when a task is incomplete.
In addition to the Airing of Grievances, Festivus would not be complete without the Feats of Strength. This typically takes place after the meal when the head of the household is wrestled to the floor. In lieu of such a physical display in the present moment, I would propose an alternative: I shall write at least one blog entry per month from here on in. Judging from the amount of time that has elapsed since my last, this is in fact, a Herculean effort, and if successful, will be quite a feat of strength.
Having said that, happy Festivus, and bring on the meatloaf!
One of my biggest disappointments from this year is that I don’t use this space more often. Originally I thought it would come in handy for working out particularly vexing problems, as I have a tendency to perseverate on things. Or I thought I could vent about the frustrations that accompany the career choices I’ve made while also cluing people in to the wacky world of academic research. But instead, I have let this space languish. I think about it often, and I feel as though I should write something. Something insightful and clever, that resonates with others and maybe gives a voice to their secret thoughts. So why don’t I do this? Can I do this? How disappointing it would be, to realize that one’s observations which typically burst forth from the mouth dripping with juicy witticisms and sarcasm, do not lend themselves easily to the written word for others to experience. How could that be? How could I---she of the keen eye for surveying all that is preposterous surrounding her---be unable to convey that with words? I could have sworn I have plenty to talk about, and a story to tell. But when I sit down to write something, my inspiration evaporates and I am left with the briney residue of dissatisfaction I feel when a task is incomplete.
In addition to the Airing of Grievances, Festivus would not be complete without the Feats of Strength. This typically takes place after the meal when the head of the household is wrestled to the floor. In lieu of such a physical display in the present moment, I would propose an alternative: I shall write at least one blog entry per month from here on in. Judging from the amount of time that has elapsed since my last, this is in fact, a Herculean effort, and if successful, will be quite a feat of strength.
Having said that, happy Festivus, and bring on the meatloaf!
Monday, April 6, 2009
Just-What-I-Needed
Every once in a while I will read something that really sticks in my craw. For the past week or so I have been mulling over the business management concepts of Just-in-Time (JIT) vs. Just-in-Case (JIC). That there were “concepts” behind these phrases was news to me when I read an article differentiating them in Oprah’s magazine (say what you will about Oprah, but her magazine is an absolute delight). But it resonated with me on several levels so I have been turning it around in my head.
The author, who is a life coach named Martha Beck (and you should know that I heart Martha Beck), introduced JIT and JIC in the context of their origin, which was with respect to manufacturing and product inventory. Historically, car makers would stockpile parts and supplies just in case they were needed to fulfill an order. After WWII, Toyota turned the world on its ear by having on hand only enough parts to keep their production lines moving. If they had more orders, they would obtain the parts just in time to deliver. This innovation made Toyota legendary, and Ms. Beck could not resist but to apply business theory to real life situations.
Most people, whether they realize it or not, have the mindset that resources are scarce. This innate and subconscious fear causes people to stockpile (food, money, love, possessions, etc.) just in case. However, the opposite is true. Basic necessities typically are relatively abundant, and they are readily available just in time.
This realization struck a chord with me on a global level because I do believe that there is an excess of excess in the developed world today. People are driven by the acquisition of stuff: big houses, expensive cars, designer clothes and accessories, electronic gadgets, etc. I am not saying I am not guilty (I love me some diamonds and I know my ass looks better in $100+ jeans), I am just saying that I am very aware of my materialism and I try to limit it. But I do think that the JIC mentality is pervasive on an even smaller scale in everyday life. For example, when I go to the grocery store I have a list of things I want to get. Half of the items are not things I actually need for meals I plan to cook over the course of the following week. They are things I will keep in the pantry…wait for it…just in case. As soon as I deplete our stores of any number of random things (coconut milk, artichoke hearts, cashew butter, peas, what have you) they find their way onto the grocery list. I could wait to buy them until I actually need them for concrete plans to whip up a curry or an antipasto, but I like to have them on hand just in case. Do I believe these items will be unavailable to me at a later date? Not really, although Shaw’s is notorious for disappointment and sending me home with unchecked items on my list. Most likely I am protecting against having to run to the store when we are in desperate need of a change of pace during the week and I am trying to be creative in the kitchen. Although it appears my thinking is a bit dysfunctional, I can’t say that I am inclined to change this approach to my grocery inventory.
Interestingly, my other maladaptive JIC tendencies also revolve around food. I had become aware of this relatively recently (within the past year or so), but I have been trying to understand it only during this past week after reading Martha Beck’s article. Basically, when I am in a situation where there is a buffet or some kind of collective dining, I feel anxious. It is bizarre, I know. But I am on edge and antsy and I think I lose my head a little bit. I have to force myself to approach the buffet line calmly. I don’t need to look around me nervously and get pushy. What is that all about? I know for a fact that some of it is learned behavior from a parent, but I will save that conversation for my therapist. Does the remainder of my behavior really stem from a primal fear that there will be no food when it’s my turn? And when it is my turn, what drives me to put more on my plate than I know I need? Typically I am a proponent of small portions, but turn me loose on a buffet and I become another person. Perhaps I am afraid that the items I have served myself will be so delicious that I will want more, but maybe I won’t be able to get more, and then I never will taste anything so delicious like that again in my life, ever. So I stockpile the food on my plate, just in case. Or I feel compelled to try a bite of every single dessert. Crazy, right? Of course it is, particularly because although my actions support that notion, I don’t truly believe this situation is my one and only opportunity in life to taste something delicious. I also don’t truly believe that if I don’t pile my plate high I will leave the table hungry. And even if I wasn’t satisfied with a more reasonable portion of my selections, so what? There will be other meals. I will not starve.
Going out for sushi strikes a similar fear in my heart. Now, I love sushi. I could eat it every day and twice on Sunday. But there is something about the communal nature of eating it with a group that fills me with apprehension. I first noticed the distress last fall when I went with a group. We were having a grand time. There was plenty of great conversation and laughter as well as great sake. But when it came time to look at the menu I panicked a little. Internally of course, but externally, I opted out of the sushi boat and placed an order of my own. I probably also should have plied myself with more sake to relax, because although effectively making myself a party of one helped to avoid the feeling of ants crawling on me a little bit, I still felt tense watching other people help themselves to offerings on the boat. How could they be so calm? Why weren’t they being grabby or shoveling it in their faces like it was their last supper? I tried to emulate them with my own dish, but it will take much more practice before I am proficient at this particular task.
I have not worked out what this is all about, but now that I have recognized it I can begin readjusting my anxiety thermostat. It seems that without realizing it, I have been operating with a JIC mindset, when what I need to employ in these situations is more of a JIT approach. Even if I don’t taste every single offering or someone else finishes my favorite, there will be other times, and this was just right.
I will have the opportunity to practice this weekend when a friend comes to visit, and as a group, we go out for sushi. Between now and then I will be mentally preparing myself. Yes, I will be engaging in self-talk and rationalization for close to a week in order to eat raw fish with my friends like a normal person. But I thank Martha Beck because I believe she has opened my eyes to my maladjusted behavior, and her article came to me just in time.
The author, who is a life coach named Martha Beck (and you should know that I heart Martha Beck), introduced JIT and JIC in the context of their origin, which was with respect to manufacturing and product inventory. Historically, car makers would stockpile parts and supplies just in case they were needed to fulfill an order. After WWII, Toyota turned the world on its ear by having on hand only enough parts to keep their production lines moving. If they had more orders, they would obtain the parts just in time to deliver. This innovation made Toyota legendary, and Ms. Beck could not resist but to apply business theory to real life situations.
Most people, whether they realize it or not, have the mindset that resources are scarce. This innate and subconscious fear causes people to stockpile (food, money, love, possessions, etc.) just in case. However, the opposite is true. Basic necessities typically are relatively abundant, and they are readily available just in time.
This realization struck a chord with me on a global level because I do believe that there is an excess of excess in the developed world today. People are driven by the acquisition of stuff: big houses, expensive cars, designer clothes and accessories, electronic gadgets, etc. I am not saying I am not guilty (I love me some diamonds and I know my ass looks better in $100+ jeans), I am just saying that I am very aware of my materialism and I try to limit it. But I do think that the JIC mentality is pervasive on an even smaller scale in everyday life. For example, when I go to the grocery store I have a list of things I want to get. Half of the items are not things I actually need for meals I plan to cook over the course of the following week. They are things I will keep in the pantry…wait for it…just in case. As soon as I deplete our stores of any number of random things (coconut milk, artichoke hearts, cashew butter, peas, what have you) they find their way onto the grocery list. I could wait to buy them until I actually need them for concrete plans to whip up a curry or an antipasto, but I like to have them on hand just in case. Do I believe these items will be unavailable to me at a later date? Not really, although Shaw’s is notorious for disappointment and sending me home with unchecked items on my list. Most likely I am protecting against having to run to the store when we are in desperate need of a change of pace during the week and I am trying to be creative in the kitchen. Although it appears my thinking is a bit dysfunctional, I can’t say that I am inclined to change this approach to my grocery inventory.
Interestingly, my other maladaptive JIC tendencies also revolve around food. I had become aware of this relatively recently (within the past year or so), but I have been trying to understand it only during this past week after reading Martha Beck’s article. Basically, when I am in a situation where there is a buffet or some kind of collective dining, I feel anxious. It is bizarre, I know. But I am on edge and antsy and I think I lose my head a little bit. I have to force myself to approach the buffet line calmly. I don’t need to look around me nervously and get pushy. What is that all about? I know for a fact that some of it is learned behavior from a parent, but I will save that conversation for my therapist. Does the remainder of my behavior really stem from a primal fear that there will be no food when it’s my turn? And when it is my turn, what drives me to put more on my plate than I know I need? Typically I am a proponent of small portions, but turn me loose on a buffet and I become another person. Perhaps I am afraid that the items I have served myself will be so delicious that I will want more, but maybe I won’t be able to get more, and then I never will taste anything so delicious like that again in my life, ever. So I stockpile the food on my plate, just in case. Or I feel compelled to try a bite of every single dessert. Crazy, right? Of course it is, particularly because although my actions support that notion, I don’t truly believe this situation is my one and only opportunity in life to taste something delicious. I also don’t truly believe that if I don’t pile my plate high I will leave the table hungry. And even if I wasn’t satisfied with a more reasonable portion of my selections, so what? There will be other meals. I will not starve.
Going out for sushi strikes a similar fear in my heart. Now, I love sushi. I could eat it every day and twice on Sunday. But there is something about the communal nature of eating it with a group that fills me with apprehension. I first noticed the distress last fall when I went with a group. We were having a grand time. There was plenty of great conversation and laughter as well as great sake. But when it came time to look at the menu I panicked a little. Internally of course, but externally, I opted out of the sushi boat and placed an order of my own. I probably also should have plied myself with more sake to relax, because although effectively making myself a party of one helped to avoid the feeling of ants crawling on me a little bit, I still felt tense watching other people help themselves to offerings on the boat. How could they be so calm? Why weren’t they being grabby or shoveling it in their faces like it was their last supper? I tried to emulate them with my own dish, but it will take much more practice before I am proficient at this particular task.
I have not worked out what this is all about, but now that I have recognized it I can begin readjusting my anxiety thermostat. It seems that without realizing it, I have been operating with a JIC mindset, when what I need to employ in these situations is more of a JIT approach. Even if I don’t taste every single offering or someone else finishes my favorite, there will be other times, and this was just right.
I will have the opportunity to practice this weekend when a friend comes to visit, and as a group, we go out for sushi. Between now and then I will be mentally preparing myself. Yes, I will be engaging in self-talk and rationalization for close to a week in order to eat raw fish with my friends like a normal person. But I thank Martha Beck because I believe she has opened my eyes to my maladjusted behavior, and her article came to me just in time.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
A love letter
Dear Sweetheart,
Since Hallmark has strongly suggested that I express my undying love for you today specifically, I thought I would write you a letter to do just that. It is actually quite timely for me to examine our relationship and how I operate within it since in the midst of all the soul-searching I have had to do to determine if I could ever become someone’s mother, I have been pontificating lately on my ability to show affection. This is a bit of a sticking point for me because in the past I have been accused of withholding such displays and of being stand offish. I don’t want to be such a cold person, yet sometimes I cannot bring myself to show my true feelings. I suppose this is one manifestation of how we sometimes become our parents.
But alas, I do love you so very much. I think about you all the time and my actions typically are motivated by a desire to make you happy on a daily basis. Each meal I make is carefully thought out so that you might taste my love every day. Every time I put your clean laundry away or buy you new clothes I hope that you will wear my love and feel it on you every day. Every night when you walk through the door of the home we have made together, I call out to you so that you are welcomed by the open arms of my love every day.
My desire is to fill you up with so much of my all-encompassing love that someday when you look back upon your life there is no room in your heart for fear or sadness or anything other than a sense of contentment and satisfaction that you were provided the best love has to offer.
Although I began this letter on a satirical note at Hallmark’s insistence, it has taken a turn and unveiled that perhaps I am so wrapped up in my love for you, that I cannot get out of my own way in order to offer a more obvious display of affection. So while I now pontificate on this revelation, please accept my meager gestures for what they are and know from whence they came: my love and my heart. Happy valentine’s day.
Since Hallmark has strongly suggested that I express my undying love for you today specifically, I thought I would write you a letter to do just that. It is actually quite timely for me to examine our relationship and how I operate within it since in the midst of all the soul-searching I have had to do to determine if I could ever become someone’s mother, I have been pontificating lately on my ability to show affection. This is a bit of a sticking point for me because in the past I have been accused of withholding such displays and of being stand offish. I don’t want to be such a cold person, yet sometimes I cannot bring myself to show my true feelings. I suppose this is one manifestation of how we sometimes become our parents.
But alas, I do love you so very much. I think about you all the time and my actions typically are motivated by a desire to make you happy on a daily basis. Each meal I make is carefully thought out so that you might taste my love every day. Every time I put your clean laundry away or buy you new clothes I hope that you will wear my love and feel it on you every day. Every night when you walk through the door of the home we have made together, I call out to you so that you are welcomed by the open arms of my love every day.
My desire is to fill you up with so much of my all-encompassing love that someday when you look back upon your life there is no room in your heart for fear or sadness or anything other than a sense of contentment and satisfaction that you were provided the best love has to offer.
Although I began this letter on a satirical note at Hallmark’s insistence, it has taken a turn and unveiled that perhaps I am so wrapped up in my love for you, that I cannot get out of my own way in order to offer a more obvious display of affection. So while I now pontificate on this revelation, please accept my meager gestures for what they are and know from whence they came: my love and my heart. Happy valentine’s day.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
How the hell did I get here?
The beginning of a new year typically is a time for me to become reflective and think about the course of my life. I take stock of the past year and look forward to things I want to accomplish, tackle, overcome, or enjoy in the year laid out before me. This year in particular I have felt satisfied with the course of my career. I finally moved into my own office rather than the romper room I was sharing with three other people, the excruciatingly protracted promotion process was begun, and the promise of more research money beckons, provided I jump through the requisite flaming hoops of bureaucratic paperwork. But in the midst of the subsequent frenzy of disbelief, excitement, and bustling activity, I am not so much engrossed in thoughts of the upcoming year, but instead I am wondering how the hell I got here in the first place. What was it that led me down this path of academic brain research that at times is both tortuous and torturous? How did a cheerleader-turned-sorority girl ever become a scientist in the first place?
I cannot help but think that my journey to science was not that of the prototypical science nerd. In my mind, individuals belonging to this group all tell a similar tale. As children, their curiosity was insatiable. They read Encyclopedia Britannica under the covers with a flashlight and they nearly burned the house down repeatedly while using chemistry sets recklessly in their basements. Adolescence turned them pimply-faced and taciturn like the rest, but what differentiated them was a thirst for knowledge that was slaked at least partially by science fiction television. I suspect these individuals even attempted to coin a new language eerily akin to Klingon. As they transitioned into young adulthood they channeled their yearnings into acceptable outlets such as advanced placement science courses, participation in science fairs, and staying in on Friday nights. I can assure you, I never belonged to this group. Ok, in 6th grade I did have an illustrated thesaurus that I read for pure enjoyment, but otherwise my trajectory could not have been predicted with any kind of precision based on my interests or academic strengths.
As a child, I played well by myself. My only sibling is close to nine years older than me, so I spent a good deal of time by myself after having been tossed out of her bedroom unceremoniously when she had friends over. Thankfully, my solitude did not impact my vivid imagination, much to the dismay of my mother. She was outraged upon entering into my bedroom to find that I had spit all over my mirror because I was pretending it was a window and it had been raining. Similar to the science nerds, I was a voracious bookworm from a young age, but I don’t believe that marked me for science. It very easily could have led me down the path of literary genius (obviously it did not). By third grade I had read most of the age-appropriate books in the school library and my interest was piqued by the perennial favorite of pre-teens: Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume. The librarian was reluctant to sign it out to me due to its more mature content, but my precociousness must have swayed her because she handed it over anyway. All told, I read that book at least 13 times. In fact, I read it again several years ago when I won an entire lot of Judy Blume books in an auction on eBay. However, as an adult who had years of experience being female under her belt (i.e., many menstrual periods later), the story had lost the titillating aura of mystery and confusion that ultimately inspired fear when that book was in my eight-year old hands. It was scarring, actually. But indeed I was precocious, and this was brought to light shortly thereafter during the 4th grade when I was tested. At the time I had no idea what was being tested, and to be honest, I can’t say with any certainty what was measured on that day or how effective the yardstick was that determined the results. Regardless, my parents were called and asked to come in to discuss the findings. Apparently, they were led to believe that I was-and please forgive this ridiculous term- “gifted”. To hear them tell it, which I did only more than 20 years after the fact, they laughed out loud and asked the teacher if she was sure they were talking about the same child. How could their happy-go-lucky and extroverted-to-the-point-of-being-dangerous-if-not-just-annoying child possibly be gifted? It was a stretch, I admit, and the following four years were marked by “special” programs during school that were designed to be rewarding and provide enrichment, but were perceived by me and my gifted peers as punishment and extra work. Moreover, they alienated us from the rest of the dumbasses, who frankly, were a great deal less uptight and more fun. Still, even cumulatively these things together did not spell scientist.
Throughout my teenage and college years, my interests were those of any typical girl my age, and even less like those who had a propensity toward science. In high school I was a cheerleader who liked boys, clothes, going to the mall, and talking on the phone incessantly. In college I was a sorority girl who liked boys, clothes, going to parties, and drinking beer incessantly. To this day I never have seen an episode of either Star Trek of the X Files, but I swear I never have missed even a single episode of Beverly Hills, 90210 or Melrose Place. These traits did nothing to alert anyone that I was destined for a career in science, and there were no tell-tale signs in my coursework either. Although I had done well in my science courses in high school, I shone in English and foreign languages. Advanced placement courses allowed me to test out of freshman English and French when I entered college, but I had refused the advanced placement Biology course when it was suggested by the guidance counselor. Actually, refuse might be putting it lightly. I believe I scoffed at the idea. I had zero interest-maybe even less than zero-in preparing the requisite science project. Of course the irony of that sentiment does not escape me now, seeing as how my entire career is a science project, day in and day out.
Why then, when I shied away from a science project and acknowledged fully that language and communication together was my forte, did I choose Biology as my major in college? Despite all the evidence pointing toward a more right-brained than left-brained existence (incidentally I always had been placed in the average math classes rather than anything advanced), I thought I wanted to be a doctor. Majoring in Biology seemed the only way to accomplish such a goal, although my attempts were half-hearted at best. I hated memorizing facts and organic chemistry vexed me to the point of accepting a D willingly just to make it go away, but the idea of talking to people and figuring out what made them tick was so appealing, I kept at it. Naively, I thought that psychiatry was about talking to people and figuring out what made them tick, but to be honest, I thought that was a large facet of being a hairdresser too. I was torn between them. But since my parents had paid the cover charge for the most intense party of my life, I continued with biology.
In the second half of my third year I took an abnormal psychology class and found myself absolutely riveted. I could not get enough, that is, until I took physiological psychology and then cognitive psychology. The brain was very cool, and I was just discovering this for myself for the first time. Oh glory! I found something interesting to pursue. So I called my parents and I told them I wouldn’t be home after my fourth year, I would need an extra semester to finish a second degree in psychology. Now science began to make sense to me. Before biology had been taught to me in what seemed like a black box. I had nothing to relate it to and it was boring. But when you think about biology in terms of the brain and behavior, it’s a different ball of wax all together. At least, that was my perspective. Most people with whom I spoke at the time thought I was out of my tree combining biology with psychology; neuroscience was not a mainstream concept at the time. I constantly found myself having to challenge people to explain to me what mediated behavior if not biology? Was it magic? Aliens? Demons? No one had a satisfying answer so I must have sounded convincing. Either that or they just kept their traps shut after that.
I left college with a double degree in biology and psychology. I felt I had a niche in terms of my interests. That was great, except I had no idea what to do with it or how to pursue it further. While I had been introduced to the brain and behavior, practical applications of this field remained a nameless, faceless stranger. I didn’t realize how lucky I was at the time, but thanks to serendipity, I landed a job as a research technician in the neurology department of a world-renowned hospital. Still wary of science projects, I decided to take this position for one year. I wanted to rule out research since I knew I would hate it. How could I not? I had seen those graduate students running the labs in my courses. They looked miserable, they were social misfits, and they couldn’t dress themselves to save their lives. Research is boring and for boring people. Ergo, research was not for me. Until it was.
Two and a half years after accepting the job I thought I would do for one year because I would hate it, I found myself in graduate school. I had not turned into a despondent misfit, nor did I lose the ability to match my clothes. Five years after that I received a PhD in pharmacology and I moved into my first postdoctoral training position, followed by a second postdoctoral training opportunity three years after that. Still, I was able to communicate with people and I knew that stripes and floral and polka dots and plaid all together does not an outfit make. I maintained social relationships and even managed to live with several boys. Very un-science nerd-like, if you ask me.
Two and a half years later, I am up for Assistant Professor of Psychiatry and wondering how this all came to be. Even though I just laid it all out and reexamined it carefully here, not to mention that I lived every moment of the decade it has taken to get here, I still feel as though I just woke up one day and this is how my career evolved without my noticing. It wound its way down the tortuous path that sometimes has been torturous and now I’m here, on the brink of a new year, wondering how it will continue to play itself out. And I will do this in clothes that match, while never having seen science fiction television nor will I have even an elementary grasp of organic chemistry.
I cannot help but think that my journey to science was not that of the prototypical science nerd. In my mind, individuals belonging to this group all tell a similar tale. As children, their curiosity was insatiable. They read Encyclopedia Britannica under the covers with a flashlight and they nearly burned the house down repeatedly while using chemistry sets recklessly in their basements. Adolescence turned them pimply-faced and taciturn like the rest, but what differentiated them was a thirst for knowledge that was slaked at least partially by science fiction television. I suspect these individuals even attempted to coin a new language eerily akin to Klingon. As they transitioned into young adulthood they channeled their yearnings into acceptable outlets such as advanced placement science courses, participation in science fairs, and staying in on Friday nights. I can assure you, I never belonged to this group. Ok, in 6th grade I did have an illustrated thesaurus that I read for pure enjoyment, but otherwise my trajectory could not have been predicted with any kind of precision based on my interests or academic strengths.
As a child, I played well by myself. My only sibling is close to nine years older than me, so I spent a good deal of time by myself after having been tossed out of her bedroom unceremoniously when she had friends over. Thankfully, my solitude did not impact my vivid imagination, much to the dismay of my mother. She was outraged upon entering into my bedroom to find that I had spit all over my mirror because I was pretending it was a window and it had been raining. Similar to the science nerds, I was a voracious bookworm from a young age, but I don’t believe that marked me for science. It very easily could have led me down the path of literary genius (obviously it did not). By third grade I had read most of the age-appropriate books in the school library and my interest was piqued by the perennial favorite of pre-teens: Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret by Judy Blume. The librarian was reluctant to sign it out to me due to its more mature content, but my precociousness must have swayed her because she handed it over anyway. All told, I read that book at least 13 times. In fact, I read it again several years ago when I won an entire lot of Judy Blume books in an auction on eBay. However, as an adult who had years of experience being female under her belt (i.e., many menstrual periods later), the story had lost the titillating aura of mystery and confusion that ultimately inspired fear when that book was in my eight-year old hands. It was scarring, actually. But indeed I was precocious, and this was brought to light shortly thereafter during the 4th grade when I was tested. At the time I had no idea what was being tested, and to be honest, I can’t say with any certainty what was measured on that day or how effective the yardstick was that determined the results. Regardless, my parents were called and asked to come in to discuss the findings. Apparently, they were led to believe that I was-and please forgive this ridiculous term- “gifted”. To hear them tell it, which I did only more than 20 years after the fact, they laughed out loud and asked the teacher if she was sure they were talking about the same child. How could their happy-go-lucky and extroverted-to-the-point-of-being-dangerous-if-not-just-annoying child possibly be gifted? It was a stretch, I admit, and the following four years were marked by “special” programs during school that were designed to be rewarding and provide enrichment, but were perceived by me and my gifted peers as punishment and extra work. Moreover, they alienated us from the rest of the dumbasses, who frankly, were a great deal less uptight and more fun. Still, even cumulatively these things together did not spell scientist.
Throughout my teenage and college years, my interests were those of any typical girl my age, and even less like those who had a propensity toward science. In high school I was a cheerleader who liked boys, clothes, going to the mall, and talking on the phone incessantly. In college I was a sorority girl who liked boys, clothes, going to parties, and drinking beer incessantly. To this day I never have seen an episode of either Star Trek of the X Files, but I swear I never have missed even a single episode of Beverly Hills, 90210 or Melrose Place. These traits did nothing to alert anyone that I was destined for a career in science, and there were no tell-tale signs in my coursework either. Although I had done well in my science courses in high school, I shone in English and foreign languages. Advanced placement courses allowed me to test out of freshman English and French when I entered college, but I had refused the advanced placement Biology course when it was suggested by the guidance counselor. Actually, refuse might be putting it lightly. I believe I scoffed at the idea. I had zero interest-maybe even less than zero-in preparing the requisite science project. Of course the irony of that sentiment does not escape me now, seeing as how my entire career is a science project, day in and day out.
Why then, when I shied away from a science project and acknowledged fully that language and communication together was my forte, did I choose Biology as my major in college? Despite all the evidence pointing toward a more right-brained than left-brained existence (incidentally I always had been placed in the average math classes rather than anything advanced), I thought I wanted to be a doctor. Majoring in Biology seemed the only way to accomplish such a goal, although my attempts were half-hearted at best. I hated memorizing facts and organic chemistry vexed me to the point of accepting a D willingly just to make it go away, but the idea of talking to people and figuring out what made them tick was so appealing, I kept at it. Naively, I thought that psychiatry was about talking to people and figuring out what made them tick, but to be honest, I thought that was a large facet of being a hairdresser too. I was torn between them. But since my parents had paid the cover charge for the most intense party of my life, I continued with biology.
In the second half of my third year I took an abnormal psychology class and found myself absolutely riveted. I could not get enough, that is, until I took physiological psychology and then cognitive psychology. The brain was very cool, and I was just discovering this for myself for the first time. Oh glory! I found something interesting to pursue. So I called my parents and I told them I wouldn’t be home after my fourth year, I would need an extra semester to finish a second degree in psychology. Now science began to make sense to me. Before biology had been taught to me in what seemed like a black box. I had nothing to relate it to and it was boring. But when you think about biology in terms of the brain and behavior, it’s a different ball of wax all together. At least, that was my perspective. Most people with whom I spoke at the time thought I was out of my tree combining biology with psychology; neuroscience was not a mainstream concept at the time. I constantly found myself having to challenge people to explain to me what mediated behavior if not biology? Was it magic? Aliens? Demons? No one had a satisfying answer so I must have sounded convincing. Either that or they just kept their traps shut after that.
I left college with a double degree in biology and psychology. I felt I had a niche in terms of my interests. That was great, except I had no idea what to do with it or how to pursue it further. While I had been introduced to the brain and behavior, practical applications of this field remained a nameless, faceless stranger. I didn’t realize how lucky I was at the time, but thanks to serendipity, I landed a job as a research technician in the neurology department of a world-renowned hospital. Still wary of science projects, I decided to take this position for one year. I wanted to rule out research since I knew I would hate it. How could I not? I had seen those graduate students running the labs in my courses. They looked miserable, they were social misfits, and they couldn’t dress themselves to save their lives. Research is boring and for boring people. Ergo, research was not for me. Until it was.
Two and a half years after accepting the job I thought I would do for one year because I would hate it, I found myself in graduate school. I had not turned into a despondent misfit, nor did I lose the ability to match my clothes. Five years after that I received a PhD in pharmacology and I moved into my first postdoctoral training position, followed by a second postdoctoral training opportunity three years after that. Still, I was able to communicate with people and I knew that stripes and floral and polka dots and plaid all together does not an outfit make. I maintained social relationships and even managed to live with several boys. Very un-science nerd-like, if you ask me.
Two and a half years later, I am up for Assistant Professor of Psychiatry and wondering how this all came to be. Even though I just laid it all out and reexamined it carefully here, not to mention that I lived every moment of the decade it has taken to get here, I still feel as though I just woke up one day and this is how my career evolved without my noticing. It wound its way down the tortuous path that sometimes has been torturous and now I’m here, on the brink of a new year, wondering how it will continue to play itself out. And I will do this in clothes that match, while never having seen science fiction television nor will I have even an elementary grasp of organic chemistry.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Bah humbug!
The holiday season is one that should inspire warm and loving thoughts of friends and family, perhaps also warm and loving deeds, and generally a feeling of all-around goodwill to all mankind. It's supposed to be a time of year when people are a little more patient, a little bit kinder, and maybe a little less likely to fly into a mind-numbing fit of road rage when navigating the holiday traffic. Then why praytell, does the turning of the calendar to December 1st make me want to jump out of my skin and lunge for the carotid of anyone who tries to perpetuate this load of utter crap? I'll tell you why. Because it's a load of utter crap.
Christmas has lost all meaning for me over the years. For one, I am anti-religion. Consequently I do not buy into the whole baby jesus in the hay stack out in the barn with the wise guys standing around handing out frankenstein and myrtle. My rational mind just won't accept it. So midnight mass is lost on me, although I hear it's just terrific.
Secondly, I really believe that after exchanging gifts with my family for 30+ years, we have everything. How could we not? And if we don't, are we really not at a point in our lives when we can buy the silly trinkets we want? I don't mean to sound like an ingrate. I know these gifts come from a good place and they want give me things because they are unable to hug me and/or say I love you so this is supposed to do the job, but really, stop the madness! For example, I have no use for a pancake warmer. Now admittedly that could be because I do not understand the concept of a pancake warmer. Is this a necessary way station between the griddle and my mouth? I don't get it. Make the pancakes. Eat the pancakes. How about the gourmet dipping oil set? This actually is a very pretty set. It has a bottle with a lovely flowery thing painted on it and 4 little dishes into which the bread is dunked. However, there is nary a piece of bread being served in my house, let alone a piece of bread that is dipped in olive oil. In my mind, it's more stuff to wash following a dinner party. One of my personal favorites that surely is bound to wind up in the Useless Gift Hall of Fame is the set of triangular plates painted to look like pepperoni pizza. So far that may be the champion of all worthless things on which to spend hard earned money, but it should be noted that just the other day (on Thanksgiving) my mother asked me in all seriousness and in hushed conspiratorial tones, if I might like an electric gravy boat. I want to pause for a second and let that sink in... Now that I am thinking of it, I also would like very much to describe for you what hubby has dubbed the "sleeping bag cape", but that would require me to go upstairs and retrieve it from the dark recesses of the closet in the guest room and maybe open the packaging. I am unwilling to do that at the moment, but it is quilted and puffy with fleece and a zipper, and the lady on the box appears to be wearing it somehow. Based on that information and what I have told you about all these other gems, I trust that you will be able to use your imagination.
The point is, there are truly needy people out there and each year we are forced into the exchange of "stuff" that is doomed for a box in the basement until I have collected enough stuff to have a yard sale. I find it disgusting. Not only do I find it completely gratuitous, but I also do not have time to go to the mall or run around the world to procure the stuff. I would prefer to get my hands on the Christmas list of a family who is struggling and buy the things they want, like winter coats, gloves, scarves, a turkey dinner, etc. Unfortunately, it has been suggested that I am some kind of nut who is one Cindy Lou Who away from being the Grinch. That's right, I have been accused of trying to ruin Christmas, what with my selfish ideas of giving to the less fortunate and all. No, you're right. It makes much more sense for me to give to someone who makes a six-figure salary and then put things like "colored peppercorns" on her list. I believe I have said this before, but STOP THE MADNESS!
So there you have it. That is why the holiday season stresses me out beyond the power of ativan and I believe it is a load of utter crap. For the entire month I will alternate between the feelings of anger over being put out that I have to think up "things" to give against my will, and despair while I ponder why my real family gave me up to be raised by these self-indulgent fools. But in the meantime, please call me if you want those pizza plates.
Christmas has lost all meaning for me over the years. For one, I am anti-religion. Consequently I do not buy into the whole baby jesus in the hay stack out in the barn with the wise guys standing around handing out frankenstein and myrtle. My rational mind just won't accept it. So midnight mass is lost on me, although I hear it's just terrific.
Secondly, I really believe that after exchanging gifts with my family for 30+ years, we have everything. How could we not? And if we don't, are we really not at a point in our lives when we can buy the silly trinkets we want? I don't mean to sound like an ingrate. I know these gifts come from a good place and they want give me things because they are unable to hug me and/or say I love you so this is supposed to do the job, but really, stop the madness! For example, I have no use for a pancake warmer. Now admittedly that could be because I do not understand the concept of a pancake warmer. Is this a necessary way station between the griddle and my mouth? I don't get it. Make the pancakes. Eat the pancakes. How about the gourmet dipping oil set? This actually is a very pretty set. It has a bottle with a lovely flowery thing painted on it and 4 little dishes into which the bread is dunked. However, there is nary a piece of bread being served in my house, let alone a piece of bread that is dipped in olive oil. In my mind, it's more stuff to wash following a dinner party. One of my personal favorites that surely is bound to wind up in the Useless Gift Hall of Fame is the set of triangular plates painted to look like pepperoni pizza. So far that may be the champion of all worthless things on which to spend hard earned money, but it should be noted that just the other day (on Thanksgiving) my mother asked me in all seriousness and in hushed conspiratorial tones, if I might like an electric gravy boat. I want to pause for a second and let that sink in... Now that I am thinking of it, I also would like very much to describe for you what hubby has dubbed the "sleeping bag cape", but that would require me to go upstairs and retrieve it from the dark recesses of the closet in the guest room and maybe open the packaging. I am unwilling to do that at the moment, but it is quilted and puffy with fleece and a zipper, and the lady on the box appears to be wearing it somehow. Based on that information and what I have told you about all these other gems, I trust that you will be able to use your imagination.
The point is, there are truly needy people out there and each year we are forced into the exchange of "stuff" that is doomed for a box in the basement until I have collected enough stuff to have a yard sale. I find it disgusting. Not only do I find it completely gratuitous, but I also do not have time to go to the mall or run around the world to procure the stuff. I would prefer to get my hands on the Christmas list of a family who is struggling and buy the things they want, like winter coats, gloves, scarves, a turkey dinner, etc. Unfortunately, it has been suggested that I am some kind of nut who is one Cindy Lou Who away from being the Grinch. That's right, I have been accused of trying to ruin Christmas, what with my selfish ideas of giving to the less fortunate and all. No, you're right. It makes much more sense for me to give to someone who makes a six-figure salary and then put things like "colored peppercorns" on her list. I believe I have said this before, but STOP THE MADNESS!
So there you have it. That is why the holiday season stresses me out beyond the power of ativan and I believe it is a load of utter crap. For the entire month I will alternate between the feelings of anger over being put out that I have to think up "things" to give against my will, and despair while I ponder why my real family gave me up to be raised by these self-indulgent fools. But in the meantime, please call me if you want those pizza plates.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
