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.
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Spies like us
It’s funny how sometimes you are reminded of something that you haven’t thought about in forever, and then all of a sudden, it’s at the forefront of your mind again. I feel this way about Julia Child. As a little one I would catch snippets of her show on WGBH. I was not watching it per se, but rather enduring it while I waited for Sesame Street or Zoom to be aired. I couldn’t recount one recipe she made, as those details certainly were not germane at the time, but in my mind I can hear her distinctive voice. I remember her being impossibly tall, and that she always wore a skirt and a collared shirt with some kind of beaded necklace. But beyond that, I’ve got nothing.
I had not given her a thought in close to 30 years when my friend gave me the book, “Julia Child: My life in France”. This was a most appropriate gift because at the time a vacation to France was on the horizon, and I like to cook. The book was thoroughly enjoyable, as Julia Child was an incredibly likable character. I suppose her likability would have made her an adept spy, if indeed she was, since no one would suspect this towering, boisterous, American woman to be undercover. I found myself envying her gypsy spirit and irrepressible joie de vivre. The woman had an intimate understanding of what is important in life and worshipped the Holy Trinity: good food, good wine, and good company.
When I say that I like to cook, don’t be misled into believing my cooking prowess can rival that of Mrs. Child, the great. What I do is probably more accurately described as puttering. I treat the kitchen as a laboratory, using it to provide some kind of creative experimental release that one cannot get from being a desk jockey-scientist. I make very simple yet healthy fare, but I do spend a great deal of my time thinking about the texture of food and how specific flavors will complement one another to create a sublime-yet simple and healthy-gastronomic experience. Unfortunately, my creations often fall quite short of sublime, primarily because I don’t use butter. Of course, this means I will never master French cuisine, as butter is the hallmark of French cooking. Pardonnez moi, mais je ne peux pas! I just cannot let go and free myself, even in the midst of all the banging and clanging, and spilling things on the floor, and adding a bit of this and a dash of that. Despite my reluctance to let butter in, my experiments have resulted in the creation of some surprisingly good concoctions. I have the excel spreadsheets to prove it. Yes, there is both rhyme and reason here; a method to my madness, if you will. Ingredients cannot just be tweaked haphazardly and at random. We must be systematic, my friends.
First, we start with a hypothesis. For instance, I hypothesized that brownies do not need to be full of fat and sugar to be tasty. In fact, they can be nutritious and appropriate for a pre- or post-workout snack. The methods for testing this hypothesis included assembling several recipes for brownies and merging them. With a compilation of ingredients at hand (and listed neatly in the “version 1” column of the “brownies” worksheet of the “test kitchen” excel file), testing began. One batch was made. The results were tasted, and observations about its texture were made and recorded in the “notes” section: Was it cakey? Fudgey? Too dry? Undercooked? Next, the chocolate-y-ness was assessed. Then, given those factors, the nutritional bang for the buck was assessed: Was the protein content per brownie sufficient? Was the fat and/or sugar content low enough? After careful thought, slight modifications were made to adjust one factor at a time, over successive versions. Finally, version 10 struck pay dirt, and voila! We now have a recipe for a wheat-free, dairy-free, low-fat, low-sugar, high-protein brownie that is not only tasty, but nutritious and appropriate for a pre- or post-workout snack.
Julia Child spent a significant amount of time adjusting recipes. She described in excruciating detail preparatory techniques specific to the French chef, even going so far as to illustrate them for her books. While my approach certainly is not identical, I feel a kindred spirit with her, in a sense. Sans butter, of course. I can’t wait for my television show! I imagine it will focus on simple everyday recipes that use whole foods, but rather than emulating cooking with Julia precisely, it will be more of a cross between the Muppets’ Swedish chef and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew: I will wear a lab coat instead of an apron, and I will toss many foodstuffs over my shoulder while babbling incoherently. In sum, it will be excellent. WGBH, here I come!
I had not given her a thought in close to 30 years when my friend gave me the book, “Julia Child: My life in France”. This was a most appropriate gift because at the time a vacation to France was on the horizon, and I like to cook. The book was thoroughly enjoyable, as Julia Child was an incredibly likable character. I suppose her likability would have made her an adept spy, if indeed she was, since no one would suspect this towering, boisterous, American woman to be undercover. I found myself envying her gypsy spirit and irrepressible joie de vivre. The woman had an intimate understanding of what is important in life and worshipped the Holy Trinity: good food, good wine, and good company.
When I say that I like to cook, don’t be misled into believing my cooking prowess can rival that of Mrs. Child, the great. What I do is probably more accurately described as puttering. I treat the kitchen as a laboratory, using it to provide some kind of creative experimental release that one cannot get from being a desk jockey-scientist. I make very simple yet healthy fare, but I do spend a great deal of my time thinking about the texture of food and how specific flavors will complement one another to create a sublime-yet simple and healthy-gastronomic experience. Unfortunately, my creations often fall quite short of sublime, primarily because I don’t use butter. Of course, this means I will never master French cuisine, as butter is the hallmark of French cooking. Pardonnez moi, mais je ne peux pas! I just cannot let go and free myself, even in the midst of all the banging and clanging, and spilling things on the floor, and adding a bit of this and a dash of that. Despite my reluctance to let butter in, my experiments have resulted in the creation of some surprisingly good concoctions. I have the excel spreadsheets to prove it. Yes, there is both rhyme and reason here; a method to my madness, if you will. Ingredients cannot just be tweaked haphazardly and at random. We must be systematic, my friends.
First, we start with a hypothesis. For instance, I hypothesized that brownies do not need to be full of fat and sugar to be tasty. In fact, they can be nutritious and appropriate for a pre- or post-workout snack. The methods for testing this hypothesis included assembling several recipes for brownies and merging them. With a compilation of ingredients at hand (and listed neatly in the “version 1” column of the “brownies” worksheet of the “test kitchen” excel file), testing began. One batch was made. The results were tasted, and observations about its texture were made and recorded in the “notes” section: Was it cakey? Fudgey? Too dry? Undercooked? Next, the chocolate-y-ness was assessed. Then, given those factors, the nutritional bang for the buck was assessed: Was the protein content per brownie sufficient? Was the fat and/or sugar content low enough? After careful thought, slight modifications were made to adjust one factor at a time, over successive versions. Finally, version 10 struck pay dirt, and voila! We now have a recipe for a wheat-free, dairy-free, low-fat, low-sugar, high-protein brownie that is not only tasty, but nutritious and appropriate for a pre- or post-workout snack.
Julia Child spent a significant amount of time adjusting recipes. She described in excruciating detail preparatory techniques specific to the French chef, even going so far as to illustrate them for her books. While my approach certainly is not identical, I feel a kindred spirit with her, in a sense. Sans butter, of course. I can’t wait for my television show! I imagine it will focus on simple everyday recipes that use whole foods, but rather than emulating cooking with Julia precisely, it will be more of a cross between the Muppets’ Swedish chef and Dr. Bunsen Honeydew: I will wear a lab coat instead of an apron, and I will toss many foodstuffs over my shoulder while babbling incoherently. In sum, it will be excellent. WGBH, here I come!
Wednesday, September 10, 2008
Summer vacation rewind
Well, it is time for me to look back upon my post from June 10th about Summer Vacation and take stock of what I did. Here goes.
"What I did on my summer vacation”, by Mad Scientist
I went to a conference in San Juan where I did the opposite of relax. Although true to my plan of leaving my laptop at home, bringing my husband, and paying an exorbitant amount of money to have hair literally ripped from my nether regions, this trip was not a vacation. The resort was lovely and we had a great deal of fun, but I was “ON”. As soon as we got home, I got sick and found myself couch-ridden for a week. And while that was a perfect opportunity for me to spend a good chunk of time focusing on the small grant application I was writing, I felt cheated. So with a fist shaking in the air at the injustice of it all, I booked another trip. I was going to get me some Caribbean turquoise water and swim-up bar action come hell or high water. And I did. We went to Jamaica where I drank champagne like it was my job. Come to think of it, I could do it full-time if given the proper grant funding.
Overall, I managed to take work down a notch as I had hoped. I spent most of July and August on my back deck, writing, writing, and writing. Not the blog, obviously, that was completely relegated to the bottom of my “to do” pile. Instead I wrote study protocols and papers. It was lovely, and the Sony Vaio made it all possible. Thank you, American taxpayers!
I certainly tried to drink as much white wine as I could, despite my anal retentive and regimented lifestyle. I did not go on a bender by any stretch of the imagination, but if I was with friends, and thankfully I did a good amount of socializing, I put summer in my mouth and gulped it down faster than if I had found an oasis in the scorching heat of the desert.
Most every other goal I had set for myself was met with failure. I still can do only about 8 chin-ups, I read maybe 2 books all summer and one of those was last week in Jamaica, and my long runs have not exceeded 10 miles. Oops. Even over-achievers fail. C’est la vie.
Having said all that, it was an excellent summer. Now bring on the fall.
"What I did on my summer vacation”, by Mad Scientist
I went to a conference in San Juan where I did the opposite of relax. Although true to my plan of leaving my laptop at home, bringing my husband, and paying an exorbitant amount of money to have hair literally ripped from my nether regions, this trip was not a vacation. The resort was lovely and we had a great deal of fun, but I was “ON”. As soon as we got home, I got sick and found myself couch-ridden for a week. And while that was a perfect opportunity for me to spend a good chunk of time focusing on the small grant application I was writing, I felt cheated. So with a fist shaking in the air at the injustice of it all, I booked another trip. I was going to get me some Caribbean turquoise water and swim-up bar action come hell or high water. And I did. We went to Jamaica where I drank champagne like it was my job. Come to think of it, I could do it full-time if given the proper grant funding.
Overall, I managed to take work down a notch as I had hoped. I spent most of July and August on my back deck, writing, writing, and writing. Not the blog, obviously, that was completely relegated to the bottom of my “to do” pile. Instead I wrote study protocols and papers. It was lovely, and the Sony Vaio made it all possible. Thank you, American taxpayers!
I certainly tried to drink as much white wine as I could, despite my anal retentive and regimented lifestyle. I did not go on a bender by any stretch of the imagination, but if I was with friends, and thankfully I did a good amount of socializing, I put summer in my mouth and gulped it down faster than if I had found an oasis in the scorching heat of the desert.
Most every other goal I had set for myself was met with failure. I still can do only about 8 chin-ups, I read maybe 2 books all summer and one of those was last week in Jamaica, and my long runs have not exceeded 10 miles. Oops. Even over-achievers fail. C’est la vie.
Having said all that, it was an excellent summer. Now bring on the fall.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
To baby or not to baby
That is the question.
There are few things in my life about which I waffle. Typically I say I want to do something, and it’s as good as done. There is no second guessing, I don’t take too many informal polls of my friends and family, and I make a concerted effort just to listen to my gut and go with it. However, the issue of becoming someone’s mother is not lending itself to that same kind of decisiveness. For months at a time I will be open to the idea and even actively pursuing it, and then there will be a stretch during which I find the prospect downright repugnant.
What is the root of the ambivalence?
We all know “there is no right time” to have a baby, whether it’s with respect to finances or career, but these are in fact, two rather large sectors that should be aligned somewhat before such an undertaking. I think I can live with the idea of my paycheck being cut in half for the sake of daycare, especially given that vacations will become nonexistent, mom clothes are purchased at Target and not Bebe, and going to the salon will be a thing of the past. However, I cannot afford to derail my career at such a vulnerable point. Nor do I want to. I don’t have a full-time job, I have an all-time job, and I like it that way.
“It’s a love like you’ve never known” also is not a justifiable rationale for taking this plunge. That may be true, but let’s talk a little about the loves I DO know. For instance, how about my love for taking a vacation twice per year? How about my love for having a few drinks on Friday night or boozey brunches? What of my love for spending hours of uninterrupted time with my husband? Going to the gym or for a run when it’s convenient for me? It appears as though my life as I know it will become unrecognizable. The problem is: I like my life!
Perhaps I think I am too young to embark upon such a journey (a one-way journey, I might add). Having spent 5 years pursuing my doctorate led me to believe that time had stopped so that when I graduated I was still 25 rather than 30. Now 5 years later I always consider myself to be about 27 or 28, which really showcases not only my reluctance to grow up, but also how I tend to be more right brain than left brain because clearly that is very funny math. So mentally I’m all “Aw yeah, I’m young. I’m hot. It’s all good”. But my eggs are all, “Um, girlfriend? Yeah, don’t kid yourself. You can go to the gym every day and twice on Sunday, eat tofu and beans until you pop, and get your 40 winks, but you’re still 35. Let’s go”. They are very rude eggs! That’s a lot of big talk considering they are afraid to venture outside of the protective environment of the ovaries. Unless of course I coax them with some pretty high-powered fertility drugs…
But having said all that, the other night I had a dream. In it I was on a bus and there was a girl there sitting next to me. She was exiting the bus, but she was leaving her little baby behind. She just didn’t want to take the baby (I was unclear about the gender) with her. I couldn’t understand her reasoning, and amidst all my stammering about how this was impossible, what is this little thing to do without a mother? etc., I pulled the baby close to my face. To my utter amazement, I felt these little lips, against my cheek. The baby was rooting, but making a little fishy face. Now I know what you’re thinking. The rooting reflex and a little fishy face are worlds apart. I know, but you’re missing my point. The point is that I didn’t stand up and get my “too-hot-for-this-shit” self off that bus with the mother in the first place. Why the hell not? One possible explanation for this inaction on my part is that in the dream I was not the one who had given birth. My body was in the same shape it is now as I type this, and there was no question that I could squeeze into my most-est fabulous-est jeans. However, that thought didn’t cross my mind during the dream. An alternative, but less appealing explanation, is that I liked the feel of those lips against my cheek. Is that even possible? I don’t know, but I felt strangely soothed when I woke up. As if that one little dream, about one little fishy face, is supposed to assuage my fears.
Was that my subconscious mind telling me it’s ok to be afraid, but being afraid is not a good enough reason not to do this (or anything in my opinion)? I think that’s a little deep and asking quite a bit from my subconscious mind, if you ask me. I don’t know. I can’t come to any concrete conclusions at this point. Instead I will just have to rock on with my bad “I-ain’t-driving-no -minivan” self. Yeah, it’s a lot of big talk from someone who melted over a little fishy face, I know.
There are few things in my life about which I waffle. Typically I say I want to do something, and it’s as good as done. There is no second guessing, I don’t take too many informal polls of my friends and family, and I make a concerted effort just to listen to my gut and go with it. However, the issue of becoming someone’s mother is not lending itself to that same kind of decisiveness. For months at a time I will be open to the idea and even actively pursuing it, and then there will be a stretch during which I find the prospect downright repugnant.
What is the root of the ambivalence?
We all know “there is no right time” to have a baby, whether it’s with respect to finances or career, but these are in fact, two rather large sectors that should be aligned somewhat before such an undertaking. I think I can live with the idea of my paycheck being cut in half for the sake of daycare, especially given that vacations will become nonexistent, mom clothes are purchased at Target and not Bebe, and going to the salon will be a thing of the past. However, I cannot afford to derail my career at such a vulnerable point. Nor do I want to. I don’t have a full-time job, I have an all-time job, and I like it that way.
“It’s a love like you’ve never known” also is not a justifiable rationale for taking this plunge. That may be true, but let’s talk a little about the loves I DO know. For instance, how about my love for taking a vacation twice per year? How about my love for having a few drinks on Friday night or boozey brunches? What of my love for spending hours of uninterrupted time with my husband? Going to the gym or for a run when it’s convenient for me? It appears as though my life as I know it will become unrecognizable. The problem is: I like my life!
Perhaps I think I am too young to embark upon such a journey (a one-way journey, I might add). Having spent 5 years pursuing my doctorate led me to believe that time had stopped so that when I graduated I was still 25 rather than 30. Now 5 years later I always consider myself to be about 27 or 28, which really showcases not only my reluctance to grow up, but also how I tend to be more right brain than left brain because clearly that is very funny math. So mentally I’m all “Aw yeah, I’m young. I’m hot. It’s all good”. But my eggs are all, “Um, girlfriend? Yeah, don’t kid yourself. You can go to the gym every day and twice on Sunday, eat tofu and beans until you pop, and get your 40 winks, but you’re still 35. Let’s go”. They are very rude eggs! That’s a lot of big talk considering they are afraid to venture outside of the protective environment of the ovaries. Unless of course I coax them with some pretty high-powered fertility drugs…
But having said all that, the other night I had a dream. In it I was on a bus and there was a girl there sitting next to me. She was exiting the bus, but she was leaving her little baby behind. She just didn’t want to take the baby (I was unclear about the gender) with her. I couldn’t understand her reasoning, and amidst all my stammering about how this was impossible, what is this little thing to do without a mother? etc., I pulled the baby close to my face. To my utter amazement, I felt these little lips, against my cheek. The baby was rooting, but making a little fishy face. Now I know what you’re thinking. The rooting reflex and a little fishy face are worlds apart. I know, but you’re missing my point. The point is that I didn’t stand up and get my “too-hot-for-this-shit” self off that bus with the mother in the first place. Why the hell not? One possible explanation for this inaction on my part is that in the dream I was not the one who had given birth. My body was in the same shape it is now as I type this, and there was no question that I could squeeze into my most-est fabulous-est jeans. However, that thought didn’t cross my mind during the dream. An alternative, but less appealing explanation, is that I liked the feel of those lips against my cheek. Is that even possible? I don’t know, but I felt strangely soothed when I woke up. As if that one little dream, about one little fishy face, is supposed to assuage my fears.
Was that my subconscious mind telling me it’s ok to be afraid, but being afraid is not a good enough reason not to do this (or anything in my opinion)? I think that’s a little deep and asking quite a bit from my subconscious mind, if you ask me. I don’t know. I can’t come to any concrete conclusions at this point. Instead I will just have to rock on with my bad “I-ain’t-driving-no -minivan” self. Yeah, it’s a lot of big talk from someone who melted over a little fishy face, I know.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
It's the most wonderful time of the year!
In a couple days, we will enter the zone known as my birthday month. Not a day, or a weekend, or a week, but a month. A glorious, dog-days of summer, white wine-filled, gift wrapped month. And since July has 31 days I am not cheated out of one self-involved moment!
Although the days of piñatas and pool parties are behind me, I would not miss an opportunity to engage in birthday-centric revelry. In true Leo style, a boozey luncheon at an upscale restaurant has become the ritualistic celebration. There is something incredibly rewarding about looking around a table of a dozen close friends eating, drinking, laughing, and just engaging in festivity, and knowing that they have come simply because you asked them to. It makes a girl feel downright special. For the prideful Leo, it is enough to make her swoon.
And thus, it begins: the month of merriment, and the month of moi!
Although the days of piñatas and pool parties are behind me, I would not miss an opportunity to engage in birthday-centric revelry. In true Leo style, a boozey luncheon at an upscale restaurant has become the ritualistic celebration. There is something incredibly rewarding about looking around a table of a dozen close friends eating, drinking, laughing, and just engaging in festivity, and knowing that they have come simply because you asked them to. It makes a girl feel downright special. For the prideful Leo, it is enough to make her swoon.
And thus, it begins: the month of merriment, and the month of moi!
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
Summer Vacation
Things I would like to do on my summer vacation:
1. First off, I would like to have a summer vacation. Seven days in Puerto Rico, 5 of which will be consumed by a conference, does not a summer vacation make. Regardless of what I do to try to make it as vacation-y as possible (i.e., braving a brazilian bikini wax, sporting a new bathing suit, dragging the husband along, leaving the laptop at home, taking an oath to learn nothing, etc.), let's be real. Science has NO place on vacation.
2. I would like to take work down a notch. It seems as though I have managed to work myself into a state of amenorrhea over the past two years since I accepted my current position. Coincidence? I think not. The past few months have been nose-to-the-grindstone in an effort to clear my plate of many tasks in order to coast through the summer. What, praytell, is my idea of coasting? Well, although I will be trying to get a new study protocol up and running while writing up all of the results of the study I just finished, I will be taking care to work from home as much as possible. In fact, I just purchased a shiny new laptop that has a screen I will be able to see outdoors with no problem. I am picturing myself on my back deck (i.e., in my private office) with the umbrella shading me and my iced coffee. There I will bang out a manuscript of such brilliance I will forget just how burned out I have become. I also will indulge in some reading. In vivo NMR Spectroscopy: Principles and Techniques. A lovely summer, indeed!
3. Drink. I can practically taste the Sauvignon Blanc now. Nothing says summer to me like that cool, crisp green apple-melon flavor bursting forth in my mouth as the condensation drips down the glass. Except of course, the Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio I have come to love. And Conundrum. That wine is like butter.
4. Since I am turning 35 next month, I have issued a physical challenge to myself. You may be asking, what does one have to do with the other? I am going to live forever. Oh, you didn't know that? Well, I am. And the pathway to eternal life is not through reincarnation or the belief in heaven or any of that hooey. It's in physical strength. That is how the chest-press/chin-up challenge came to be. I really, really, really want to be able to do a set of 10 chin-ups and a set of 8 presses with the quarter plates (95 lbs) by my birthday. It's not as arbitrary as it sounds, but I am not going to bore you with the details. There are no real consequences for not reaching this goal; it's not like the grim reaper will visit me in my sleep to laugh in my face. No, the only consequences will be my own feelings of inadequacy, failure, and self-loathing. So, game on in the weight room.
5. Other things I would like to do include reading books for actual pleasure at a more rapid pace than 3 pages per night before falling asleep at 8:30 pm; spending time with my friends just hanging out, grilling, and chilling; taking my long runs to a distance of 15 miles; going on a little roadtrip somewhere for a weekend or so. Maybe somewhere romantic. Nothing too ambitious or extravagant.
I will be sure to revisit this post 3 months from now to see how well I enjoyed my summer vacation.
1. First off, I would like to have a summer vacation. Seven days in Puerto Rico, 5 of which will be consumed by a conference, does not a summer vacation make. Regardless of what I do to try to make it as vacation-y as possible (i.e., braving a brazilian bikini wax, sporting a new bathing suit, dragging the husband along, leaving the laptop at home, taking an oath to learn nothing, etc.), let's be real. Science has NO place on vacation.
2. I would like to take work down a notch. It seems as though I have managed to work myself into a state of amenorrhea over the past two years since I accepted my current position. Coincidence? I think not. The past few months have been nose-to-the-grindstone in an effort to clear my plate of many tasks in order to coast through the summer. What, praytell, is my idea of coasting? Well, although I will be trying to get a new study protocol up and running while writing up all of the results of the study I just finished, I will be taking care to work from home as much as possible. In fact, I just purchased a shiny new laptop that has a screen I will be able to see outdoors with no problem. I am picturing myself on my back deck (i.e., in my private office) with the umbrella shading me and my iced coffee. There I will bang out a manuscript of such brilliance I will forget just how burned out I have become. I also will indulge in some reading. In vivo NMR Spectroscopy: Principles and Techniques. A lovely summer, indeed!
3. Drink. I can practically taste the Sauvignon Blanc now. Nothing says summer to me like that cool, crisp green apple-melon flavor bursting forth in my mouth as the condensation drips down the glass. Except of course, the Santa Margherita Pinot Grigio I have come to love. And Conundrum. That wine is like butter.
4. Since I am turning 35 next month, I have issued a physical challenge to myself. You may be asking, what does one have to do with the other? I am going to live forever. Oh, you didn't know that? Well, I am. And the pathway to eternal life is not through reincarnation or the belief in heaven or any of that hooey. It's in physical strength. That is how the chest-press/chin-up challenge came to be. I really, really, really want to be able to do a set of 10 chin-ups and a set of 8 presses with the quarter plates (95 lbs) by my birthday. It's not as arbitrary as it sounds, but I am not going to bore you with the details. There are no real consequences for not reaching this goal; it's not like the grim reaper will visit me in my sleep to laugh in my face. No, the only consequences will be my own feelings of inadequacy, failure, and self-loathing. So, game on in the weight room.
5. Other things I would like to do include reading books for actual pleasure at a more rapid pace than 3 pages per night before falling asleep at 8:30 pm; spending time with my friends just hanging out, grilling, and chilling; taking my long runs to a distance of 15 miles; going on a little roadtrip somewhere for a weekend or so. Maybe somewhere romantic. Nothing too ambitious or extravagant.
I will be sure to revisit this post 3 months from now to see how well I enjoyed my summer vacation.
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Once upon a time...
...there was a girl who liked boys. She talked to them in bars, she dated them, and she even lived with them. But one day, she decided she was a bit tired of boys. They were, after all, quite silly. She thought to herself, “…perhaps I shall meet a man”. And so she set off to find a man. Despite her fear that this task would prove to be as daunting as crossing the Bridge of Death without knowing the air-speed velocity of an unladed swallow, her quest was facilitated by the all-mighty World Wide Web. There were no clamoring coconuts, just the sound of her tippy tappy typing, while she searched for what women all over the planet have come to perceive as the Holy Grail: a mature, good-looking, funny, smart, sensitive man with a job, who owns a car and doesn’t live in his parents’ basement. Could this mythical creature exist or was it the relationship equivalent of a unicorn?
The girl went through the paces. She gathered some photos, listed some interests, and tried to sound like a girl one would want to know. Cute but not dumb. Smart but not too straight-laced. Confident but not cocky. Open but not desperate. She was just…herself. For better or worse. A non-nerdy neuroscientist looking to have some fun.
One day, out of the blue, a man contacted her. For once it wasn’t the usual claim that surely they must have a lot in common or that they would be perfect for one another or anything trite like that. No, he was different. He needed his brain rewired and wanted to enlist the help of a neuroscientist. How, in good conscience, could she deny him her expertise? This would have been very unprofessional of her, especially given that she had a newly minted diploma just burning a hole in her pocket. So although she was a girl who traditionally had liked boys, she obliged this man and a dialogue was opened. And what a dialogue it was! Quick, witty banter back and forth. Tippy tappy typing all day long! She laughed out loud, she felt her heart flutter, she blushed. Her fingers were never so nimble and light across the keys as they were that day. As the day wound down, he asked if she would be able to continue their repartee the following day. He loved her grammar.
His voice was radio-worthy. It made her stomach do flip-flops. She was so focused on its texture; it was almost difficult to concentrate on the content of what he was saying. Yet at the same time, the words flowed effortlessly between them. And for hours at a time, over the course of two weeks, the words flowed. The girl’s heart sang. Would that it could be real. A meeting was arranged, and the anticipation built.
She saw him from down the street and couldn’t help but to grin. He was a tall, dark, and muscled man. He was dressed well. He approached her and they embraced as though they had known one another for ages. They sat at a table outside, had drinks, a bite to eat, and talked for hours. This girl, who previously had liked boys, was smitten. He drove her home, and she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Five months later, they decided to get married. He went away and came home with diamonds. They made a big ring. This was the way to her heart if ever there was one. One year to the day after the man contacted the girl who in the past had liked boys, they wed.
Four years later, the girl remembers the details well. She looks at her husband and her heart swells. Still. Every date they have, she recalls the first. He does, too. It’s nice. They have a nice life. A happy life they do not take for granted. This woman, who used to be a girl who liked boys, and this man, walking into the sunset and living happily ever after and neither of them knows the air-speed velocity of an unladed swallow. Perfect.
The girl went through the paces. She gathered some photos, listed some interests, and tried to sound like a girl one would want to know. Cute but not dumb. Smart but not too straight-laced. Confident but not cocky. Open but not desperate. She was just…herself. For better or worse. A non-nerdy neuroscientist looking to have some fun.
One day, out of the blue, a man contacted her. For once it wasn’t the usual claim that surely they must have a lot in common or that they would be perfect for one another or anything trite like that. No, he was different. He needed his brain rewired and wanted to enlist the help of a neuroscientist. How, in good conscience, could she deny him her expertise? This would have been very unprofessional of her, especially given that she had a newly minted diploma just burning a hole in her pocket. So although she was a girl who traditionally had liked boys, she obliged this man and a dialogue was opened. And what a dialogue it was! Quick, witty banter back and forth. Tippy tappy typing all day long! She laughed out loud, she felt her heart flutter, she blushed. Her fingers were never so nimble and light across the keys as they were that day. As the day wound down, he asked if she would be able to continue their repartee the following day. He loved her grammar.
His voice was radio-worthy. It made her stomach do flip-flops. She was so focused on its texture; it was almost difficult to concentrate on the content of what he was saying. Yet at the same time, the words flowed effortlessly between them. And for hours at a time, over the course of two weeks, the words flowed. The girl’s heart sang. Would that it could be real. A meeting was arranged, and the anticipation built.
She saw him from down the street and couldn’t help but to grin. He was a tall, dark, and muscled man. He was dressed well. He approached her and they embraced as though they had known one another for ages. They sat at a table outside, had drinks, a bite to eat, and talked for hours. This girl, who previously had liked boys, was smitten. He drove her home, and she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Five months later, they decided to get married. He went away and came home with diamonds. They made a big ring. This was the way to her heart if ever there was one. One year to the day after the man contacted the girl who in the past had liked boys, they wed.
Four years later, the girl remembers the details well. She looks at her husband and her heart swells. Still. Every date they have, she recalls the first. He does, too. It’s nice. They have a nice life. A happy life they do not take for granted. This woman, who used to be a girl who liked boys, and this man, walking into the sunset and living happily ever after and neither of them knows the air-speed velocity of an unladed swallow. Perfect.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
I am what I am
These were famous words spoken by none other than Popeye. Aside from a fondness for spinach, our similarities end there. I wish I had his bulging biceps, but I am happy to report that I neither smoke a pipe nor do I have an emaciated and unfortunate looking girlfriend. Despite the fact that I am not much like Popeye, I am still what I am.
As it turns out, what I am not, is a writer. I know this for several reasons. First, I just don’t feel it in my bones. I don’t possess writer DNA. I do not have that certain je ne sais quoi that makes people feel confident to assert that yes indeed, they are…something. I barely feel comfortable calling myself a runner and I run several times a week, read the appropriate magazines, buy sneakers every 3 months, head outside for a 10+ mile run with enough gear to warrant needing a sherpa, and I enter races. Yet I still feel a bit like an imposter when my husband calls me “a runner”. I am a good actress, being a Leo and all, but not good enough to pull off the charade of calling myself a writer.
Another reason I know I am not a writer is that I have been away from it for quite some time while lodged under a mountain of manuscripts, progress reports, and experimental data, and I have not missed it enough to stop everything (until now) and put pen to paper. Or finger to keyboard. I thought about it. Oh, I thought about it wistfully as I took a little break from the chaos and perused the blogs I enjoy reading. I envied those authors their abilities to spin an intricate web of details and memories into a coherent story that had some kind of message or theme, as well as their desire to do so. It is as integral to them as breathing. I can say with certainty that I do not possess these…things…these intangible qualities, properties, or characteristics.
I could provide more reasons I know I am not a writer, but as a reader, you most likely already know them. That is not to say that I am going to discontinue sharing my musings with you. Au contraire. I just think you should not expect literary greatness. Or goodness. Maybe just ok-ness. And that’s fine. So what if I am not a writer? I am plenty of other things.
I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am a wife. I am a friend. I am a teacher, mentor, and leader. I am a nemesis. I am a pain in the ass. I am a drama queen. I am a shoulder to cry on and a rock. I am a scientist. I am a good cook and a nurturer. I am a size 6 when life is just so-so and a size 4 when the world is perfect. I am a bundle of nerves. I am a force with which to be reckoned. I am a nerd. I am a girlie-girl. I am a patient. I am an enigma wrapped up in a conundrum and wound tightly around a riddle.
But alas, what I am not, is a writer.
As it turns out, what I am not, is a writer. I know this for several reasons. First, I just don’t feel it in my bones. I don’t possess writer DNA. I do not have that certain je ne sais quoi that makes people feel confident to assert that yes indeed, they are…something. I barely feel comfortable calling myself a runner and I run several times a week, read the appropriate magazines, buy sneakers every 3 months, head outside for a 10+ mile run with enough gear to warrant needing a sherpa, and I enter races. Yet I still feel a bit like an imposter when my husband calls me “a runner”. I am a good actress, being a Leo and all, but not good enough to pull off the charade of calling myself a writer.
Another reason I know I am not a writer is that I have been away from it for quite some time while lodged under a mountain of manuscripts, progress reports, and experimental data, and I have not missed it enough to stop everything (until now) and put pen to paper. Or finger to keyboard. I thought about it. Oh, I thought about it wistfully as I took a little break from the chaos and perused the blogs I enjoy reading. I envied those authors their abilities to spin an intricate web of details and memories into a coherent story that had some kind of message or theme, as well as their desire to do so. It is as integral to them as breathing. I can say with certainty that I do not possess these…things…these intangible qualities, properties, or characteristics.
I could provide more reasons I know I am not a writer, but as a reader, you most likely already know them. That is not to say that I am going to discontinue sharing my musings with you. Au contraire. I just think you should not expect literary greatness. Or goodness. Maybe just ok-ness. And that’s fine. So what if I am not a writer? I am plenty of other things.
I am a daughter. I am a sister. I am a wife. I am a friend. I am a teacher, mentor, and leader. I am a nemesis. I am a pain in the ass. I am a drama queen. I am a shoulder to cry on and a rock. I am a scientist. I am a good cook and a nurturer. I am a size 6 when life is just so-so and a size 4 when the world is perfect. I am a bundle of nerves. I am a force with which to be reckoned. I am a nerd. I am a girlie-girl. I am a patient. I am an enigma wrapped up in a conundrum and wound tightly around a riddle.
But alas, what I am not, is a writer.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Congratulations! You have won a return trip to high school!
During the years of grade school, middle school, and high school there were all kinds of shenanigans that revolved around this person being mad at that person, which led to this person talking a lot of shit about that person, which ultimately led to a great deal of drama between those two people in addition to anyone else who happened to be caught in the crosshairs of this person and that person. In college there was still a great deal of drama, most often revolving around similar circumstances but with more gratuitous sex and alcohol, and then it tapered a bit after college and into graduate school. So the trajectory of the shenanigans/drama was an arc; it increased steadily until reaching an apex in the middle of college and then it subsided and had nearly abated in recent times, i.e., during real grown-up life. Or so I thought.
In the past I have alluded to the fact that academic scientists on a whole are a strange bunch. Not all of them, but at least a particular sub-population (moi excluded). I had come to accept their quirkiness and social retardation, hypothesizing that their inabilities to act like normal human beings in situations that require them to communicate with other human beings is a result of having spent too many Friday nights trying to derive complicated functions in quantum physics or the like. Now I would like to take this opportunity to extend that hypothesis to include the possibility that this particular sub-population never participated in the normal middle school-high school he said/she said experience. And now I am getting to my point.
In November I had a conversation with a colleague of mine about a dinner club she wanted to get started with people from work. It wouldn’t be anything fancy, it would meet once per month, each person would take turns hosting, there was no pressure, ordering in pizza would be fine, etc. I supported this endeavor fully, thinking that these were people I socialized with on occasion anyway, perhaps some interesting work collaborations would be born, and the event seemed low key enough. Several months have gone by and I have not been able to attend any of these dinner club gatherings. I have been either enmeshed in the holidays, out of town, or somehow previously engaged. I am not apologetic about it, seeing as how I am not among the socially retarded and I have a full social network outside of my coworkers. However, it has come to my attention that not having attended one dinner club to date is an egregious error on my part. Actually, the importance of dinner club has become so inflated, I feel it should be capitalized: Dinner Club.
Let me back up a bit and tell you a couple things before you come after me wearing tattered loin cloths and carrying torches. First, Dinner Club does not always entail copious cocktails and glasses of wine. I suppose it depends on the host. Bleh. Second, sometimes there are children at Dinner Club. Granted, they go off somewhere to play and do whatever it is kids do when unsupervised, but still. Third, Dinner Club occurs on Saturday nights. In case you have forgotten, there are only 4 Saturday nights per month so I am sure as shit not going to spend 1 of them wondering where my next buzz is coming from while my co-workers’ kids run around. Do you see where I’m going with my rationale? Fourth, in the past 5 months Dinner Club has evolved from this no-frills down-home chill-out meal to haute cuisine. The one I missed last week was a Hawaiian dinner complete with ingredients that were flown here from Hawaii. That is a far cry from the original paradigm that led me to believe I could cop out and call Domino’s if I felt overwhelmed. Which leads me to my fifth point…I would feel overwhelmed to cook for 14 people. I enjoy cooking for 6, 8, maybe 10 if it’s a buffet brunch. But 14? No. That removes the enjoyment from cooking and injects it with an icky sense of dread. I feel put upon just thinking about it. And resentment, my friends, is not the choice ingredient for preparing a meal for your friends. OMG! They’re not even my friends! I guess that is my sixth argument against Dinner Club. Half of the people are virtual strangers to me and the other half are people I wouldn’t mind socializing with, but on my terms. That is, until now.
Monday came and the founding sister of Dinner Club marched into my office to praise the Hawaiian goddess for the culinary delights she bestowed upon the Club. I oohed and aahed at all the appropriate times, hoping that would be the end of it and I wouldn’t have to explain my absence. But instead, I actually received the full-court press from several members. To make a long story a tiny bit shorter, lest you put something sharp in your eye to make it all stop, let me get to the point. She is quite aggressive about my continued absence and apparently she expressed displeasure openly with other members of the Dinner Club. This led to what one member insinuated was some sort of bashing of moi. I am not entirely sure how many of them chimed in, nor am I sure exactly what was said. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that assassinating my character and bandying over my flaws-of which I am well aware and for which I take full responsibility-does nothing to induce my attendance at Dinner Club. Riddle me this: if I am such an asshole, why do they need me to be there?
It seems there is some push to make Dinner Club this exclusive get-together for the kids who were not popular during high school, but who fancy themselves the cool kids now. I can say with certainty, under no circumstances, are these people cool enough to warrant such exclusivity. They are nice enough, and I would have considered some to be “work friends” which is a step up from mere acquaintance, but this really has left a bad taste in my mouth. I am even a bit embarrassed for them. And again, I am not apologetic about not attending. Especially now that I realize it’s a ruse to engage in the she said/he said bullshit of yesteryear.
Currently next month’s subpoena…er…invitation... to return to high school… is sitting in my inbox, unopened.
In the past I have alluded to the fact that academic scientists on a whole are a strange bunch. Not all of them, but at least a particular sub-population (moi excluded). I had come to accept their quirkiness and social retardation, hypothesizing that their inabilities to act like normal human beings in situations that require them to communicate with other human beings is a result of having spent too many Friday nights trying to derive complicated functions in quantum physics or the like. Now I would like to take this opportunity to extend that hypothesis to include the possibility that this particular sub-population never participated in the normal middle school-high school he said/she said experience. And now I am getting to my point.
In November I had a conversation with a colleague of mine about a dinner club she wanted to get started with people from work. It wouldn’t be anything fancy, it would meet once per month, each person would take turns hosting, there was no pressure, ordering in pizza would be fine, etc. I supported this endeavor fully, thinking that these were people I socialized with on occasion anyway, perhaps some interesting work collaborations would be born, and the event seemed low key enough. Several months have gone by and I have not been able to attend any of these dinner club gatherings. I have been either enmeshed in the holidays, out of town, or somehow previously engaged. I am not apologetic about it, seeing as how I am not among the socially retarded and I have a full social network outside of my coworkers. However, it has come to my attention that not having attended one dinner club to date is an egregious error on my part. Actually, the importance of dinner club has become so inflated, I feel it should be capitalized: Dinner Club.
Let me back up a bit and tell you a couple things before you come after me wearing tattered loin cloths and carrying torches. First, Dinner Club does not always entail copious cocktails and glasses of wine. I suppose it depends on the host. Bleh. Second, sometimes there are children at Dinner Club. Granted, they go off somewhere to play and do whatever it is kids do when unsupervised, but still. Third, Dinner Club occurs on Saturday nights. In case you have forgotten, there are only 4 Saturday nights per month so I am sure as shit not going to spend 1 of them wondering where my next buzz is coming from while my co-workers’ kids run around. Do you see where I’m going with my rationale? Fourth, in the past 5 months Dinner Club has evolved from this no-frills down-home chill-out meal to haute cuisine. The one I missed last week was a Hawaiian dinner complete with ingredients that were flown here from Hawaii. That is a far cry from the original paradigm that led me to believe I could cop out and call Domino’s if I felt overwhelmed. Which leads me to my fifth point…I would feel overwhelmed to cook for 14 people. I enjoy cooking for 6, 8, maybe 10 if it’s a buffet brunch. But 14? No. That removes the enjoyment from cooking and injects it with an icky sense of dread. I feel put upon just thinking about it. And resentment, my friends, is not the choice ingredient for preparing a meal for your friends. OMG! They’re not even my friends! I guess that is my sixth argument against Dinner Club. Half of the people are virtual strangers to me and the other half are people I wouldn’t mind socializing with, but on my terms. That is, until now.
Monday came and the founding sister of Dinner Club marched into my office to praise the Hawaiian goddess for the culinary delights she bestowed upon the Club. I oohed and aahed at all the appropriate times, hoping that would be the end of it and I wouldn’t have to explain my absence. But instead, I actually received the full-court press from several members. To make a long story a tiny bit shorter, lest you put something sharp in your eye to make it all stop, let me get to the point. She is quite aggressive about my continued absence and apparently she expressed displeasure openly with other members of the Dinner Club. This led to what one member insinuated was some sort of bashing of moi. I am not entirely sure how many of them chimed in, nor am I sure exactly what was said. It doesn’t matter. What matters is that assassinating my character and bandying over my flaws-of which I am well aware and for which I take full responsibility-does nothing to induce my attendance at Dinner Club. Riddle me this: if I am such an asshole, why do they need me to be there?
It seems there is some push to make Dinner Club this exclusive get-together for the kids who were not popular during high school, but who fancy themselves the cool kids now. I can say with certainty, under no circumstances, are these people cool enough to warrant such exclusivity. They are nice enough, and I would have considered some to be “work friends” which is a step up from mere acquaintance, but this really has left a bad taste in my mouth. I am even a bit embarrassed for them. And again, I am not apologetic about not attending. Especially now that I realize it’s a ruse to engage in the she said/he said bullshit of yesteryear.
Currently next month’s subpoena…er…invitation... to return to high school… is sitting in my inbox, unopened.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Command, constrain, compose, etc.
Once again I have been stricken with the feeling of being a caged animal. This is a most uncomfortable feeling that fills me alternately with panic and then rage. And then panic again. Racing heart? Check. Throbbing head? Check. Clenched fists? Check. People, we are on our way to a meltdown. I repeat: a meltdown is in our sights. You may ask, what makes a seemingly well-adjusted individual approach the edge of reason and then teeter there precariously? It is really quite simple, and in the case of this particular individual (i.e., moi), it is a lack of control.
Control, oh my beloved Control. Control, you are my sweet little pet. I love you with all my heart. I am begging you to stay with me and be with me and be mine for all time. Please, please, please don’t leave me alone. I am nothing without you, my precious Control. I promise to be nice and shiny and reasonable if you will just cuddle up in my pocket forevermore. But alas, Control is fickle. Some days I feel like our bond is unbreakable, while at other times it feels downright flimsy. This is one of those wobbly times, and I would go so far as to say that we are on a break. In fact, I suspect that Control is taking liberties and shacking up with other people...
When I refer to [my undying love for] Control, I certainly do mean in everyday situations that I like to orchestrate. But even more so, I mean in the overarching sense of my destiny in general. Destiny in this instance is a grandiose and melodramatic code word for my career, which has a tendency to eclipse almost every other aspect of my life. For instance, how is it that in the past two years I have written 6 manuscripts detailing my research findings, yet only ONE is in press? Not even published per se, but in press. ONE. That is because ultimately they are not in my…yes, wait for it…control. This in turn is frustrating, because one cannot be promoted to assistant professor if one has not published a sufficient number of papers. Of course, papers cannot be published if they are merely languishing in someone else’s inbox. This becomes a circle of pain rather quickly. And frankly, it’s gotten quite old. And frankly, I am all too familiar with the way it plays itself out. Let me skip ahead to the bottom line: there is little I can do to speed things up. That’s right. This situation is not in my control. I have already done everything I have the power to do in order to make things move forward, believe you me.
So I have established a routine that begins with a stricture in my chest and proceeds directly to a suffocating feeling of screaming in a dream without any sound. This leads to a feeling of helplessness (accompanied by sniffling and whimpering) that alternates with rapid, blustery denouncement of “the system” (accompanied by fists raised and shaking at the gods of all that could be just and right in the world), and then back to helplessness again. After this repeats several times, I move on to the proactive phase of the routine. This is the part where I immerse myself into some other project in an effort to experience a modicum of achievement-just a pinch. While this side project usually does not contribute at all to the overarching goal at hand, it does provide, at least temporarily, a sense of satisfaction.
As a result we have had some great home-cooked meals, I have run a half-marathon, and you have this little nook of nonsense to tuck into when you are out and about in the worldwide web.
Control, oh my beloved Control. Control, you are my sweet little pet. I love you with all my heart. I am begging you to stay with me and be with me and be mine for all time. Please, please, please don’t leave me alone. I am nothing without you, my precious Control. I promise to be nice and shiny and reasonable if you will just cuddle up in my pocket forevermore. But alas, Control is fickle. Some days I feel like our bond is unbreakable, while at other times it feels downright flimsy. This is one of those wobbly times, and I would go so far as to say that we are on a break. In fact, I suspect that Control is taking liberties and shacking up with other people...
When I refer to [my undying love for] Control, I certainly do mean in everyday situations that I like to orchestrate. But even more so, I mean in the overarching sense of my destiny in general. Destiny in this instance is a grandiose and melodramatic code word for my career, which has a tendency to eclipse almost every other aspect of my life. For instance, how is it that in the past two years I have written 6 manuscripts detailing my research findings, yet only ONE is in press? Not even published per se, but in press. ONE. That is because ultimately they are not in my…yes, wait for it…control. This in turn is frustrating, because one cannot be promoted to assistant professor if one has not published a sufficient number of papers. Of course, papers cannot be published if they are merely languishing in someone else’s inbox. This becomes a circle of pain rather quickly. And frankly, it’s gotten quite old. And frankly, I am all too familiar with the way it plays itself out. Let me skip ahead to the bottom line: there is little I can do to speed things up. That’s right. This situation is not in my control. I have already done everything I have the power to do in order to make things move forward, believe you me.
So I have established a routine that begins with a stricture in my chest and proceeds directly to a suffocating feeling of screaming in a dream without any sound. This leads to a feeling of helplessness (accompanied by sniffling and whimpering) that alternates with rapid, blustery denouncement of “the system” (accompanied by fists raised and shaking at the gods of all that could be just and right in the world), and then back to helplessness again. After this repeats several times, I move on to the proactive phase of the routine. This is the part where I immerse myself into some other project in an effort to experience a modicum of achievement-just a pinch. While this side project usually does not contribute at all to the overarching goal at hand, it does provide, at least temporarily, a sense of satisfaction.
As a result we have had some great home-cooked meals, I have run a half-marathon, and you have this little nook of nonsense to tuck into when you are out and about in the worldwide web.
Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Color me inspired
In my short history of blogging, I have not been inclined to blog daily. I have felt that I should blog only when a particular story has come to mind or when I have made some observation I feel is worth sharing with the world (i.e., with the 3 people who might read my blog). Of course I make many observations on a daily basis. I am after all, an observant person. But since they do not all lend themselves to a lengthy description that will amuse the world (i.e., my 3 readers), I suppress them. No more, I tell you. No more! I have been doing some sleuthing around the blogosphere, and there seems to be an infinite number of people with very little to do other than post their daily pontifications in a very Seinfeld-esque manner. Meaning, their blogs are about nothing.
The worldwide web is overflowing with absolute word salad!
Part of me is thrilled to have stumbled upon so much interesting and irreverent gibberish, but the other part of me is wondering what all these people do for a living that allows them to spend so much time blogging about their seemingly nonsense-filled days. But then I think they must be writers by profession which explains why I enjoy their writing so much. And then I think that is why they always have fodder for writing while I find it to be more of a struggle. I suppose if those wordsmiths sat down to write a scientific journal article they would flounder they way I do here while I would very smugly just sit down and begin tippy-tappy-typing. Hmph. Take that, witty writers! I will out-science you any day. It is small consolation, but I’ll take it. Regardless, I am going to try to post more often so I can strengthen and lengthen my writing muscles. Lucky you.
The worldwide web is overflowing with absolute word salad!
Part of me is thrilled to have stumbled upon so much interesting and irreverent gibberish, but the other part of me is wondering what all these people do for a living that allows them to spend so much time blogging about their seemingly nonsense-filled days. But then I think they must be writers by profession which explains why I enjoy their writing so much. And then I think that is why they always have fodder for writing while I find it to be more of a struggle. I suppose if those wordsmiths sat down to write a scientific journal article they would flounder they way I do here while I would very smugly just sit down and begin tippy-tappy-typing. Hmph. Take that, witty writers! I will out-science you any day. It is small consolation, but I’ll take it. Regardless, I am going to try to post more often so I can strengthen and lengthen my writing muscles. Lucky you.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Hamster, meet wheel
When I decided to begin blogging, I had thought originally that this was going to be a great way for me to keep my far-flung friends updated with everything that has been going on with me. I had romantic notions of blog dialogue (blogalogue? I am coining it right now if no one else claims this speck of vocabulary brilliance) that would be both entertaining and a fantastic way to stay connected. So what happened to that plan? Well, a couple things actually. First off, I have told very few of these friends that I am here. I think two, to be exact. My primary audience appears to be my husband and seeing as how he has a front row seat to what goes on day-to-day, reading about me online is a generous, yet unnecessary exercise. Secondly, my daily life is far less interesting than I had hoped. Alas, it really does seem to be the same thing day in, day out. Wash, rinse, repeat.
Typically I wake up at an ungodly hour. We used to sleep until the alarm went off at 5 a.m. but somewhere along the line we stopped setting the alarm, and we just woke up automatically. Over the past year, the time at which my little eyes pop open has crept back into the 4 o’clock hour. I don’t understand how or why this has happened, but I would like it to stop. If my regular waking time is in the 4’s, that pushes my wake up time into the 3 o’clock hour when I am in a particularly manic phase. This is what we refer to as “not good”. After slinking out of bed and cursing myself for being a habitual early riser (although this seems like an understatement), I turn on the coffee. Now the coffee pot is indeed set to turn on at a particular time, despite the fact that I rarely, if ever, manage to sleep until 4:50. I know, I know, you’re wondering why I don’t just surrender and set it for 3:40. Even rats learn faster than that. I keep hoping against hope that the affirmations I recite before falling asleep at night (“I will sleep until at least 5 a.m., I will sleep until at least 5 a.m.”) will be more effective than those I utter to get myself through the day (“I will not choke my officemate” or “I will resist the urge to gorge myself on deep-fried cheesy food dipped in chocolate and subsequently dunked in vodka”).
In the hour between waking and getting to the gym, a flurry of activity occurs. Without boring you with the details, let me sum it up by saying I prepare 8 out of the 10 meals that will be consumed by the two of us over the course of the day, I straighten up, and pretty much just putter around in the kitchen while listening to NPR. I really enjoy this part of the day. It is still quiet and serene, minus the jarring sound of the blender. Sometimes if I have gotten up extra early, I’ll even do some light cooking-like steaming vegetables or making rice. I try not to broil salmon or braise chicken with onions in balsamic vinegar, or anything too pungent like that. That type of cooking has not gone over well in the past. Apparently those smells are welcoming at 5 p.m. but downright repugnant 12 hours earlier.
Next up is the gym. I will spare you the details of this as well, considering that in addition to excessive sweating, grunting, and lactic acid, this particular story could involve naked old men and no one wants to hear about that. At least that is what I tell hubby when he tells me who was doing what in the locker room. So let’s allow that 60-90 min block of the day to remain a black box, shall we?
The workday is typically pretty good. I would go so far as to call it “fine”, which I believe is as vanilla as it gets. It’s not fantastic, but it’s not horrible. It’s work-it is what it is. And what it is usually consists of thinking of experiments, trying to get funding for the experiments, running the experiments, and writing about the experiments. That’s it in a nutshell-or more accurately, in a nut house. The other less tangible aspects of my typical workday include (in no specific order): 1) not pummeling one of my four officemates who would prefer martyrdom above all else. The sight of her in the morning literally makes me want to lunge and I don’t mean the kind of lunge I would do in the gym portion of my day. That lunge makes my ass defy gravity. This lunge will land my ass in jail; 2) counseling another officemate off the ledge despite the fact that she is the licensed psychologist and ironically, completely tunes out when it’s my turn to talk; 3) devising complicated schemes to work around the support staff who would rather chew off their right arms than actually provide support; 4) trying to extract things from people that I need in order to move forward in my career such as signatures of department heads, letters of support or recommendation, manuscripts, etc; 5) lamenting about these four main elements of my workday either via email, on the phone, or to someone else in the building.
After work there is the usual rigamarole of determining what is for dinner and trying to cram 2 weeks of unwinding and decompressing into 2 hours before we fall into bed, sleep, and get up and do it all over again. And there you have it. That is what is going on with me, day in and day out. You haven't been missing much, now have you?
Typically I wake up at an ungodly hour. We used to sleep until the alarm went off at 5 a.m. but somewhere along the line we stopped setting the alarm, and we just woke up automatically. Over the past year, the time at which my little eyes pop open has crept back into the 4 o’clock hour. I don’t understand how or why this has happened, but I would like it to stop. If my regular waking time is in the 4’s, that pushes my wake up time into the 3 o’clock hour when I am in a particularly manic phase. This is what we refer to as “not good”. After slinking out of bed and cursing myself for being a habitual early riser (although this seems like an understatement), I turn on the coffee. Now the coffee pot is indeed set to turn on at a particular time, despite the fact that I rarely, if ever, manage to sleep until 4:50. I know, I know, you’re wondering why I don’t just surrender and set it for 3:40. Even rats learn faster than that. I keep hoping against hope that the affirmations I recite before falling asleep at night (“I will sleep until at least 5 a.m., I will sleep until at least 5 a.m.”) will be more effective than those I utter to get myself through the day (“I will not choke my officemate” or “I will resist the urge to gorge myself on deep-fried cheesy food dipped in chocolate and subsequently dunked in vodka”).
In the hour between waking and getting to the gym, a flurry of activity occurs. Without boring you with the details, let me sum it up by saying I prepare 8 out of the 10 meals that will be consumed by the two of us over the course of the day, I straighten up, and pretty much just putter around in the kitchen while listening to NPR. I really enjoy this part of the day. It is still quiet and serene, minus the jarring sound of the blender. Sometimes if I have gotten up extra early, I’ll even do some light cooking-like steaming vegetables or making rice. I try not to broil salmon or braise chicken with onions in balsamic vinegar, or anything too pungent like that. That type of cooking has not gone over well in the past. Apparently those smells are welcoming at 5 p.m. but downright repugnant 12 hours earlier.
Next up is the gym. I will spare you the details of this as well, considering that in addition to excessive sweating, grunting, and lactic acid, this particular story could involve naked old men and no one wants to hear about that. At least that is what I tell hubby when he tells me who was doing what in the locker room. So let’s allow that 60-90 min block of the day to remain a black box, shall we?
The workday is typically pretty good. I would go so far as to call it “fine”, which I believe is as vanilla as it gets. It’s not fantastic, but it’s not horrible. It’s work-it is what it is. And what it is usually consists of thinking of experiments, trying to get funding for the experiments, running the experiments, and writing about the experiments. That’s it in a nutshell-or more accurately, in a nut house. The other less tangible aspects of my typical workday include (in no specific order): 1) not pummeling one of my four officemates who would prefer martyrdom above all else. The sight of her in the morning literally makes me want to lunge and I don’t mean the kind of lunge I would do in the gym portion of my day. That lunge makes my ass defy gravity. This lunge will land my ass in jail; 2) counseling another officemate off the ledge despite the fact that she is the licensed psychologist and ironically, completely tunes out when it’s my turn to talk; 3) devising complicated schemes to work around the support staff who would rather chew off their right arms than actually provide support; 4) trying to extract things from people that I need in order to move forward in my career such as signatures of department heads, letters of support or recommendation, manuscripts, etc; 5) lamenting about these four main elements of my workday either via email, on the phone, or to someone else in the building.
After work there is the usual rigamarole of determining what is for dinner and trying to cram 2 weeks of unwinding and decompressing into 2 hours before we fall into bed, sleep, and get up and do it all over again. And there you have it. That is what is going on with me, day in and day out. You haven't been missing much, now have you?
Tuesday, February 26, 2008
Funding 101
Once again, it's the time of year when scientists around the country scramble to assemble their half-baked ideas into a coherent document, to which we refer as a grant application, that explains why their ideas are important, how they intend to pursue them, what they think it will cost, and what the outcome will mean for millions of people worldwide. In reality, this time of year occurs three times per year and it not only becomes the focus of the individual's every waking thought, but it also can turn said individual into a sleep-deprived, irrational zombie with a wild-yet defeated- look in the eyes. While this process is repeated ad nauseum for most scientists, it is incomprehensible to the lay person. And rightly so. When one ventures into the realm of academia, one must suspend disbelief as he/she enters into bizarro-land. But let me try to describe it to you and get you all schooled up in the wacky ways of American academic science.
First off, not all research institutions (universities, medical schools, hospitals, etc.) require that an individual supply 100% of his/her salary. It just so happens that my particular institution does. This is called soft money. If they offered me any unconditional love, it would be referred to as hard money. But nada. So I am left to sing for my supper and apply to federal institutions or private foundations in order to keep the lights on. Most of our money for salary and research expenses comes from the NIH. This is the National Institutes of Health which is part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. The NIH is made up of 27 institutes and centers, the mission of which is to pursue “fundamental knowledge about the nature and behavior of living systems and the application of that knowledge to extend healthy life and reduce the burdens of illness and disability”. Pretty noble, eh? Their other less widely-known mission is to “ensure that all who apply are reduced to quivering puddles of self-doubt lest they think their umpteen years of education and training qualify them to do anything of importance other than ticket taking at Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”. Within the NIH, the particular agency to which I apply for a good kick in the teeth is the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA). Their mission is to lead the nation “in addressing the most fundamental and essential questions about drug abuse –from detecting and responding to emerging drug abuse trends and understanding how drugs work in the brain and body to developing and testing new treatment and prevention approaches”. So there.
Now I’m not necessarily being fair, because in all honesty, NIDA has been pretty supportive of all my training to date. My jaded attitude comes more from the process of submission itself because of how protracted-even excruciating- it can be. Also I’m tired of being considered a peon. The process though, is what really beats a person down. Say a grant application is due October 1st. One would probably start thinking about it in a casual manner by the end of the summer, but it’s not until about two weeks prior to the due date when the principal investigator is transformed into a frantic whirring dervish. The application gets put together hastily, it’s submitted, and the waiting begins…Then in March it is peer-reviewed. At this point the grant receives a score between 100 and 500, with 100 being the most meritorious. Then the waiting continues…Please do not think that just because a grant receives a good-or even a great-score it will get funded. You would be quite silly to think that. But the grants that are scored favorably (a score less than 200 but in this day and age more like between 100 and 150 depending on the particular mechanism) get to advance to the next round of waiting. This continues throughout the summer during which the investigator and everyone associated with the application is on pins and needles, sending frantic emails to their contact person in the funding agency, trying to predict which way the wind will blow, waiting either to uncork some champagne or off themselves in some dramatic fashion that surely will make everyone sorry . Finally, for those who are fortunate enough to receive the golden ticket, there is a flurry of paperwork in late July while NIH gets ready to start sending actual money to the research institution. Now, with the notice of grant award in hand, it is time for the investigator to celebrate. Unfortunately, at this point everyone is so over it and drained by the 12-month emotional roller coaster that they simply go home, put on pajamas, and eat everything in sight before going to sleep for 15 hours. Never mind that now the proposed experiments actually need to get underway…
In contrast, for those whose scores were less than satisfactory, provided they received a score at all, it’s back to the drawing board so this cycle can begin again as soon as possible. And those, my friends, are the cliffs notes to federal funding for research.
First off, not all research institutions (universities, medical schools, hospitals, etc.) require that an individual supply 100% of his/her salary. It just so happens that my particular institution does. This is called soft money. If they offered me any unconditional love, it would be referred to as hard money. But nada. So I am left to sing for my supper and apply to federal institutions or private foundations in order to keep the lights on. Most of our money for salary and research expenses comes from the NIH. This is the National Institutes of Health which is part of the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services. The NIH is made up of 27 institutes and centers, the mission of which is to pursue “fundamental knowledge about the nature and behavior of living systems and the application of that knowledge to extend healthy life and reduce the burdens of illness and disability”. Pretty noble, eh? Their other less widely-known mission is to “ensure that all who apply are reduced to quivering puddles of self-doubt lest they think their umpteen years of education and training qualify them to do anything of importance other than ticket taking at Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride”. Within the NIH, the particular agency to which I apply for a good kick in the teeth is the National Institute on Drug Abuse (NIDA). Their mission is to lead the nation “in addressing the most fundamental and essential questions about drug abuse –from detecting and responding to emerging drug abuse trends and understanding how drugs work in the brain and body to developing and testing new treatment and prevention approaches”. So there.
Now I’m not necessarily being fair, because in all honesty, NIDA has been pretty supportive of all my training to date. My jaded attitude comes more from the process of submission itself because of how protracted-even excruciating- it can be. Also I’m tired of being considered a peon. The process though, is what really beats a person down. Say a grant application is due October 1st. One would probably start thinking about it in a casual manner by the end of the summer, but it’s not until about two weeks prior to the due date when the principal investigator is transformed into a frantic whirring dervish. The application gets put together hastily, it’s submitted, and the waiting begins…Then in March it is peer-reviewed. At this point the grant receives a score between 100 and 500, with 100 being the most meritorious. Then the waiting continues…Please do not think that just because a grant receives a good-or even a great-score it will get funded. You would be quite silly to think that. But the grants that are scored favorably (a score less than 200 but in this day and age more like between 100 and 150 depending on the particular mechanism) get to advance to the next round of waiting. This continues throughout the summer during which the investigator and everyone associated with the application is on pins and needles, sending frantic emails to their contact person in the funding agency, trying to predict which way the wind will blow, waiting either to uncork some champagne or off themselves in some dramatic fashion that surely will make everyone sorry . Finally, for those who are fortunate enough to receive the golden ticket, there is a flurry of paperwork in late July while NIH gets ready to start sending actual money to the research institution. Now, with the notice of grant award in hand, it is time for the investigator to celebrate. Unfortunately, at this point everyone is so over it and drained by the 12-month emotional roller coaster that they simply go home, put on pajamas, and eat everything in sight before going to sleep for 15 hours. Never mind that now the proposed experiments actually need to get underway…
In contrast, for those whose scores were less than satisfactory, provided they received a score at all, it’s back to the drawing board so this cycle can begin again as soon as possible. And those, my friends, are the cliffs notes to federal funding for research.
Saturday, February 16, 2008
When the dog bites, when the bee stings
When the bough breaks…err…when I’m feeling sad. I just remember my favorite things and then I don’t feel like I have to punch someone in the mother F-ing face. Although in reality, if I feel like punching someone in the face, remembering my favorite things is hardly compelling enough to talk me off of that ledge. But anyway, here they are:
Accomplishment. I am an accomplishment junkie. I am positive that my reward circuitry is flooded with dopamine when I cross something off my “to do” list;
Boozing in the afternoon when I should be doing something more productive like accomplishing things;
Celebreality, chihuahuas, and Coach;
Delicious meals that also happen to be healthy and heart smart and all that other hoo-ha;
Exercise. I need those endorphins. Plus it’s pretty empowering to know that I can drop and give you 20 without exerting myself. I am woman!
Funding decisions in the affirmative;
Goatees. The meaner looking the man, the better;
Husband, not to be confused with husbandry, because that shit stinks;
Ice cube-size diamonds;
Jewels, if they are ice cube-size diamonds;
Karats, if we are referring to ice cube-size diamonds;
Lunch comprised of champagne, cheese, chocolate, oysters, and pate;
Mocking small penises with girlfriends;
Never having to mind boundaries with those girlfriends;
Organizing events-whether at work or in my personal life. Julie McCoy has nothing on me;
Pumpkin pie and the entire harvest season minus the stress that accompanies the holidays;
Quickies;
Running. Not from the police or someone yielding an axe, just for exercise and stress relief. And because I can;
Stoli, sushi, and sarcasm. Not necessarily in that order;
Thumbing my nose at anyone who has underestimated me, when I inevitably succeed, overcome, triumph, conquer, etc. Ok, in reality thumbing my nose doesn’t give me half the satisfaction as flipping a double bird, but it’s an expression, people;
Urban living. I realize 8 miles from downtown is most likely suburban, but throw me a bone here. This city girl maintains her vehement opposition to mini-vans and “mom jeans” at all costs;
Vacations to Europe or anywhere that does not require me to exercise or do laundry. If I can get away without shaving my legs all the better, but it’s not a must;
Westmalle, a Belgian beer that surely is ambrosia;
XXX. These were place holders after my initials as a screen name on Match, and now we are a success story;
You’re not going to believe me when I say that for Valentine’s Day I love, love, love receiving a heart-shaped box of chocolates. Not good chocolates, which is probably obvious since no self-respecting chocolatier is going to package up their yummy goodness in such a hideous manner, but the kind that may or may not have an offensive filling. You just don’t know until you bite into it and subsequently have to spit it out or eat around it. If the box has a plastic flower or plastic lace, or pretty much plastic anything, even better. Velvet is also a nice touch;
Zany-ness. Just plain silliness and tomfoolery. Love it.
Accomplishment. I am an accomplishment junkie. I am positive that my reward circuitry is flooded with dopamine when I cross something off my “to do” list;
Boozing in the afternoon when I should be doing something more productive like accomplishing things;
Celebreality, chihuahuas, and Coach;
Delicious meals that also happen to be healthy and heart smart and all that other hoo-ha;
Exercise. I need those endorphins. Plus it’s pretty empowering to know that I can drop and give you 20 without exerting myself. I am woman!
Funding decisions in the affirmative;
Goatees. The meaner looking the man, the better;
Husband, not to be confused with husbandry, because that shit stinks;
Ice cube-size diamonds;
Jewels, if they are ice cube-size diamonds;
Karats, if we are referring to ice cube-size diamonds;
Lunch comprised of champagne, cheese, chocolate, oysters, and pate;
Mocking small penises with girlfriends;
Never having to mind boundaries with those girlfriends;
Organizing events-whether at work or in my personal life. Julie McCoy has nothing on me;
Pumpkin pie and the entire harvest season minus the stress that accompanies the holidays;
Quickies;
Running. Not from the police or someone yielding an axe, just for exercise and stress relief. And because I can;
Stoli, sushi, and sarcasm. Not necessarily in that order;
Thumbing my nose at anyone who has underestimated me, when I inevitably succeed, overcome, triumph, conquer, etc. Ok, in reality thumbing my nose doesn’t give me half the satisfaction as flipping a double bird, but it’s an expression, people;
Urban living. I realize 8 miles from downtown is most likely suburban, but throw me a bone here. This city girl maintains her vehement opposition to mini-vans and “mom jeans” at all costs;
Vacations to Europe or anywhere that does not require me to exercise or do laundry. If I can get away without shaving my legs all the better, but it’s not a must;
Westmalle, a Belgian beer that surely is ambrosia;
XXX. These were place holders after my initials as a screen name on Match, and now we are a success story;
You’re not going to believe me when I say that for Valentine’s Day I love, love, love receiving a heart-shaped box of chocolates. Not good chocolates, which is probably obvious since no self-respecting chocolatier is going to package up their yummy goodness in such a hideous manner, but the kind that may or may not have an offensive filling. You just don’t know until you bite into it and subsequently have to spit it out or eat around it. If the box has a plastic flower or plastic lace, or pretty much plastic anything, even better. Velvet is also a nice touch;
Zany-ness. Just plain silliness and tomfoolery. Love it.
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Time and time again
I have mentioned previously my relatively new preoccupation with the passage of time. I notice it all the time. See, I can't even stop myself from using that word-Time.
This past week the malevolent passage of time crept into my consciousness again, as my nephew turned 10 years old. It's weird to look at a child and see how tall and precocious he has become, when you remember holding him as an infant. Thankfully, he's still really cute and I am not just saying that because he could pass for my child. I mean, not only does he resemble me physically, but he is fantastically smart, and he is just as much of a ham. I am glad my sister enjoys him as much as she does since she squandered her opportunity to enjoy me fully due to our 8.5-year age difference. Well, in all fairness, she was locked in her room most of the time when we were growing up because she was always grounded. But I digress. Anyway, I was trying to wrap my mind around the fact that a decade had passed since his birth, when another family member pulled me into my nephew's room to look at a collage he had put on the wall. It is a collection of photos of his father, who had passed away unexpectedly at the end of June.
It took my breath away as I was plunged into an emotional soup within a second. First, I felt a pang of regret because he and my sister had divorced a couple years ago and I knew this just broke him apart-it really aged him and made him so sad. Naturally, as with most divorces, I didn't stay in close contact with him. However, when I did see him, nothing had changed and our interaction was always enjoyable. Second, my heart went out to this little kid who painstakingly assembled all these photos of his dad. That alone is a tear jerker, but it is accentuated by the fact that a father has never been more enamored by a son, than this man was. You would have thought the sun rose and set on this kid. I mean, just pie-eyed devotion and adoration. Third, I was struck by how quickly 6 months had passed since he died. I had never experienced a death like that before. Typically, the people in my life who have died have been either so peripheral I barely knew them, or they were 1000 years old, rendering their deaths sad but not tragic. What I am trying to say is that I don't think I am able to comprehend that he is no longer living, he has not been living over the past 6 months, and I will never see or hear him again.
One of the pictures in this heartbreaking melange of memorabilia really made me smile. It was one I recognized immediately because I remember it being developed. Even at the time I thought it was a great picture and that it really captured an innocence he possessed. It was a headshot, but I know from memory that he was sitting on the back steps of my parents' house at a cookout. It was my 21st birthday party, and he was wearing just his bathing suit with his trademark thick gold chain that had a big eagle charm on it (this sounds horrible but on him it worked-trust me), and he was looking away from the camera. Most other memories I have of him are filled with big cheesy grins and energy that practically jumps out of a photo, but in this one he is quiet and observant. I don't know if that was just such a rare event that it struck me, but looking at this particular picture has always filled me with the same kind of melancholy I suspect parents feel when they watch peacefulness wash over their child in sleep after he/she has created mayhem all day.
The other image that always comes to my mind when I think of him, and I really mean always, is one of him in my lab on the day I defended my dissertation. My whole family took the day off from work, put on their Sunday best, and attended this auspicious and momentous occasion. I was especially pleased my brother-in-law came because it meant a lot to me that he was willing to take an entire day off so that for 45 minutes he could sit in an uncomfortable chair and listen to what must have sounded like gibberish. After the presentation I was subjected to a private examination with my committee, during which my family was left to be entertained by my friends and colleagues. This was a fantastic opportunity for them to witness some of the everyday workings of the laboratory and apparently, to get involved. I am not sure exactly how the situation played itself out since I was undergoing a revival of the Spanish inquisition (this is a gross over-exaggeration but I am sure for a nanosecond you were impressed that I could withstand the rigors of such academic torture), but I have a photo of my brother-in-law wearing what we called "the big glove", triumphantly holding up a rat. He also wore the big smile and exuded the enthusiam I mentioned before. This man had a zest for life like no one I have ever known. I gave him a lot of credit for letting himself be led around the lab and for being a willing participant. Now granted, that rat had already been euthanized (as part of important research endeavors, not for sport), but still. For the un-initiated the whole scenario can be quite intimidating. Not for this guy, though. He just loved life and experiencing things, and approached everything and everybody with absolute fascination. He lived his life in a very large, loud- and close-talking kind of way. It was infectious and everyone who met him, got a kick out of him. He was always the life of the party. I could go on and on about him, but suffice it to say, I have a lot of admiration for the way he approached life. I hope to emulate it, minus the big gold chain of course.
Yesterday, February 1st, was his birthday. The day after his son's birthday. This contributed to my poignant reminder of Time and I wanted to commemorate the day with some kind of tribute. Happy Birthday, Stormin' Norman!
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
The need for speed
"I have a need. A need for speed."
Can you guess the quote? That's right. It's Tom Cruise's character from Top Gun. This was pre-scientology when you could take the man seriously. While I had fully anticipated extensive lively discussion regarding the ranting and raving of this actor-cum-zealot, I find his latest rhetoric has left me almost speechless (http://gawker.com/5002269/the-cruise-indoctrination-video-scientology-tried-to-suppress). In fact, he is almost speechless in this video. Well not speechless really, he is able to communicate. More like senseless. He strings words together, and technically they are from the English language, but altogether they form incoherent sentences punctuated by maniacal gesticulation and hysterical cackling. There are vague references to "helping" and "knowing", but I'll give 50 bucks to anyone who can discern the parties being helped, or what these helpers know that the rest of us just haven't figured out yet. I can't decide if his proselytizing about scientology has hurt psychiatry and psychiatric research, or if it has brought awareness of psychiatric issues to the forefront. I am guessing (and hoping) the latter because his exchange with Matt Lauer was nothing if not the grandiloquent jabbering of a [bipolar] person entrenched in a manic episode. I'm just saying. And I am saying it glibly at that.
However, that was not actually the intent of this post. As usual, I digress. I had really wanted to talk about running and the need to get out there and just open it up and go. That need for speed. This morning I had read a back issue of Runner's World and I was positively inspired, but now that it is evening and I am contemplating this screwball, I am just too exhausted.
Can you guess the quote? That's right. It's Tom Cruise's character from Top Gun. This was pre-scientology when you could take the man seriously. While I had fully anticipated extensive lively discussion regarding the ranting and raving of this actor-cum-zealot, I find his latest rhetoric has left me almost speechless (http://gawker.com/5002269/the-cruise-indoctrination-video-scientology-tried-to-suppress). In fact, he is almost speechless in this video. Well not speechless really, he is able to communicate. More like senseless. He strings words together, and technically they are from the English language, but altogether they form incoherent sentences punctuated by maniacal gesticulation and hysterical cackling. There are vague references to "helping" and "knowing", but I'll give 50 bucks to anyone who can discern the parties being helped, or what these helpers know that the rest of us just haven't figured out yet. I can't decide if his proselytizing about scientology has hurt psychiatry and psychiatric research, or if it has brought awareness of psychiatric issues to the forefront. I am guessing (and hoping) the latter because his exchange with Matt Lauer was nothing if not the grandiloquent jabbering of a [bipolar] person entrenched in a manic episode. I'm just saying. And I am saying it glibly at that.
However, that was not actually the intent of this post. As usual, I digress. I had really wanted to talk about running and the need to get out there and just open it up and go. That need for speed. This morning I had read a back issue of Runner's World and I was positively inspired, but now that it is evening and I am contemplating this screwball, I am just too exhausted.
Monday, January 21, 2008
Sands in the hourglass
Relatively recently I have begun to feel the passage of time. Before my 30s I had never really even given it much thought, but lately there are reminders everywhere. Experiencing this blatant Tick-Tock is mind-scrambling despite the fact that on an intellectual level we all know we are going to grow up, get old, become incredibly annoying to our progeny, and pass on.
I mean, have you ever looked at your parents and noticed that they have aged? Thinning hair, more clearly defined wrinkles, forgetfulness, less artfully applied make up, slowed movements, etc. are all portents that time is moving and someday they will be lost and we will become untethered in the world. I can't imagine this eventuality. It literally makes no sense to me and I try not to think about it because it frightens me. So let's move on quickly.
A somewhat less anxiogenic example of bearing witness to the march of time comes to mind. This event is one that occurred a few months back. I was at my friend's house and several of us gals were in the kitchen pouring some wine and gossiping like always. Many times we had been there, drinking, gabbing, laughing, regaling one another with tales from college, pre-partying before hopping into a cab to go out for the night, etc. Then all of a sudden, we realized there was something different about this particular night. Hmm...what was it? Oh yeah, there was a BABY there! One of my friends had a BABY. A child. A small human person. And it came out of her. It was her baby. She made it and she brought into this world. We all looked at him, this intruder in our girlie fun, and thought to ourselves that although he is as cute as the day is long, he is a reminder that time is a tickin'. Sigh.
A couple nights ago hubby and I had a party at the house. We went old school and got kegs, implemented a theme, mixed 4 hours of music, bought a ton of food, rolled up the rugs, pushed the furniture back, and had at it. I love having a house full of smiling, laughing people. It makes me feel alive. Yet at one point during the night, I had the distinct feeling of being completely over it. It was strange, because I had been looking forward to this party for over a month. I was going to wear my "uniform" (painted on Seven for All Mankind jeans with a black halter top), get my drink on, shake my money maker, and just blow off steam. And I did all that. Believe me, I have the pictures to prove it (thankfully I don't know how to insert them here). Mission accomplished. Why then, did I feel relieved at the end of the night? It wasn't just because my feet had been pinched into pointy heels all night or that I was tired of sucking myself in, although both are true. I believe my exact thoughts were, "I am so glad I don't have to do this again". What?!? Me? I am a party girl. I love to party. How could I feel as though I was yearning instead for more intimate and sedate get-togethers? Then, much like the time my girls and I realized the interloper represented time gone by, it hit me. I am aging. I am getting older. I am advancing in years. I had been trying to ignore the fine lines around my eyes, but this hit me over the head. Yup, time is a tickin'.
But instead of a soft, susurration of a tik, tik, tik, these events have been accompanied by a booming Cher-clunk! Cher-clunk! Cher-clunk! I have not yet determined how I am going to deal with these moments of clarity, as they produce a very real and visceral panic. I try to tell myself that I am living my best life so I will have few regrets at the end of the day, but sometimes it does just get too existential and abstract. I suppose for the time being I will just look at my calendar and make some plans with friends. I'll pour myself into my party clothes and we'll go have a nice dinner somewhere. We'll talk about current events, whose child is doing what, and surely it will all be wonderfully civilized. Sigh.
I mean, have you ever looked at your parents and noticed that they have aged? Thinning hair, more clearly defined wrinkles, forgetfulness, less artfully applied make up, slowed movements, etc. are all portents that time is moving and someday they will be lost and we will become untethered in the world. I can't imagine this eventuality. It literally makes no sense to me and I try not to think about it because it frightens me. So let's move on quickly.
A somewhat less anxiogenic example of bearing witness to the march of time comes to mind. This event is one that occurred a few months back. I was at my friend's house and several of us gals were in the kitchen pouring some wine and gossiping like always. Many times we had been there, drinking, gabbing, laughing, regaling one another with tales from college, pre-partying before hopping into a cab to go out for the night, etc. Then all of a sudden, we realized there was something different about this particular night. Hmm...what was it? Oh yeah, there was a BABY there! One of my friends had a BABY. A child. A small human person. And it came out of her. It was her baby. She made it and she brought into this world. We all looked at him, this intruder in our girlie fun, and thought to ourselves that although he is as cute as the day is long, he is a reminder that time is a tickin'. Sigh.
A couple nights ago hubby and I had a party at the house. We went old school and got kegs, implemented a theme, mixed 4 hours of music, bought a ton of food, rolled up the rugs, pushed the furniture back, and had at it. I love having a house full of smiling, laughing people. It makes me feel alive. Yet at one point during the night, I had the distinct feeling of being completely over it. It was strange, because I had been looking forward to this party for over a month. I was going to wear my "uniform" (painted on Seven for All Mankind jeans with a black halter top), get my drink on, shake my money maker, and just blow off steam. And I did all that. Believe me, I have the pictures to prove it (thankfully I don't know how to insert them here). Mission accomplished. Why then, did I feel relieved at the end of the night? It wasn't just because my feet had been pinched into pointy heels all night or that I was tired of sucking myself in, although both are true. I believe my exact thoughts were, "I am so glad I don't have to do this again". What?!? Me? I am a party girl. I love to party. How could I feel as though I was yearning instead for more intimate and sedate get-togethers? Then, much like the time my girls and I realized the interloper represented time gone by, it hit me. I am aging. I am getting older. I am advancing in years. I had been trying to ignore the fine lines around my eyes, but this hit me over the head. Yup, time is a tickin'.
But instead of a soft, susurration of a tik, tik, tik, these events have been accompanied by a booming Cher-clunk! Cher-clunk! Cher-clunk! I have not yet determined how I am going to deal with these moments of clarity, as they produce a very real and visceral panic. I try to tell myself that I am living my best life so I will have few regrets at the end of the day, but sometimes it does just get too existential and abstract. I suppose for the time being I will just look at my calendar and make some plans with friends. I'll pour myself into my party clothes and we'll go have a nice dinner somewhere. We'll talk about current events, whose child is doing what, and surely it will all be wonderfully civilized. Sigh.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Ignorance is bliss
This afternoon I was having lunch with a group of psychology graduate students at another local university where I am partaking in some professional enrichment (i.e., suffering through a statistics class I should have mastered while in grad school rather than during the busiest and most vulnerable time of my fledgling career). They are a very friendly bunch and they graciously welcome me into their little group when I don't have to rush off to be a grown-up scientist elsewhere. They seem happy, and they're talkative and vivacious-somehow grad school has not completely sucked their will to live. But it's early yet. And I digress. Anyway, one of the girls said to me, "Isn't this a crazy bunch?". I chuckled, because this little muffin doesn't know from crazy.
You see, this sweet child didn't come from a department where a student literally had a psychotic break during a formal departmental presentation of her dissertation research and practically began to speak in tongues, an event that preceded her attempt to choke a student from another department and vandalize her advisor's office. Nor did she come from a department where it is acceptable not only to ask your laboratory technicians to clean the cage of your very large birds, but also to charge their birdseed to the department. Nope, this button never heard a particularly prominent and senile member of National Academy of Sciences let an incredibly loud fart rip without causing a break in stride, let alone an utterance of "excuse me".
I looked at this girl, and I smiled. You know the kind of smile to which I am referring. It's a smile born of wisdom, and sadly, a loss of innocence. It's toothless and almost smug. I believe it is also typically accompanied by a head tilt and an exaggerated blink. Inside you are thinking to yourself, "Oh, bless your heart". It's that smile. And I gave it to her. For a moment I was horrified because this gesture confirms what I had long ago begun to suspect-I am getting old (although in all honesty I came to that realization a while ago when I began to get a thrill from seeing my grocery bill deflate in front of my eyes after handing my rewards card to the cashier). But then I regained my footing and explained that I was not actually witnessing anything out of the ordinary.
It seems as though a large proportion of people in the life sciences are a bit...well, crazy. I hate to use that word because I am a proponent of reducing the stigma attached to psychiatric illness, in which case crazy is certainly a pejorative, but this particular population is just wackadoo. I'm just saying. I can't tell you how many times I have had conversations with my friends (and fellow scientists) in which we pronounced someone in our research lives absolutely, positively, and unabashedly crazy. Too many to count. And then it hits me. What if I am the one who is crazy?
This line of thought usually takes me down the same road time and time again. It starts with questioning whether or not I'm the one who needs help, and then it morphs into this existential discussion. Do crazy people know they're crazy? The natural progression from this question is, Do ugly people know they're ugly? Inevitably it ends with a very frightening prospect. Do mothers know when their babies are ugly? At this point in time I find these questions to be mind boggling and unanswerable. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to know definitively. I prefer ignorance in this situation. It is the same ignorance I wish for this girl who is only at the beginning of the arduous journey known as grad school, and who has yet to observe the real personification of crazy. Bless her heart.
You see, this sweet child didn't come from a department where a student literally had a psychotic break during a formal departmental presentation of her dissertation research and practically began to speak in tongues, an event that preceded her attempt to choke a student from another department and vandalize her advisor's office. Nor did she come from a department where it is acceptable not only to ask your laboratory technicians to clean the cage of your very large birds, but also to charge their birdseed to the department. Nope, this button never heard a particularly prominent and senile member of National Academy of Sciences let an incredibly loud fart rip without causing a break in stride, let alone an utterance of "excuse me".
I looked at this girl, and I smiled. You know the kind of smile to which I am referring. It's a smile born of wisdom, and sadly, a loss of innocence. It's toothless and almost smug. I believe it is also typically accompanied by a head tilt and an exaggerated blink. Inside you are thinking to yourself, "Oh, bless your heart". It's that smile. And I gave it to her. For a moment I was horrified because this gesture confirms what I had long ago begun to suspect-I am getting old (although in all honesty I came to that realization a while ago when I began to get a thrill from seeing my grocery bill deflate in front of my eyes after handing my rewards card to the cashier). But then I regained my footing and explained that I was not actually witnessing anything out of the ordinary.
It seems as though a large proportion of people in the life sciences are a bit...well, crazy. I hate to use that word because I am a proponent of reducing the stigma attached to psychiatric illness, in which case crazy is certainly a pejorative, but this particular population is just wackadoo. I'm just saying. I can't tell you how many times I have had conversations with my friends (and fellow scientists) in which we pronounced someone in our research lives absolutely, positively, and unabashedly crazy. Too many to count. And then it hits me. What if I am the one who is crazy?
This line of thought usually takes me down the same road time and time again. It starts with questioning whether or not I'm the one who needs help, and then it morphs into this existential discussion. Do crazy people know they're crazy? The natural progression from this question is, Do ugly people know they're ugly? Inevitably it ends with a very frightening prospect. Do mothers know when their babies are ugly? At this point in time I find these questions to be mind boggling and unanswerable. Frankly, I'm not sure I want to know definitively. I prefer ignorance in this situation. It is the same ignorance I wish for this girl who is only at the beginning of the arduous journey known as grad school, and who has yet to observe the real personification of crazy. Bless her heart.
Sunday, January 13, 2008
Green-eyed monster
Ah, yes. Envy. According to Wikipedia, Aristotle defined envy as "the pain caused by the good fortune of others". In the Catholic Church envy is a deadly sin and makes an appearance in the book of Exodus: "Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbour's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his donkey." A complex emotion fraught with conflict and laced with negative connotations, envy is more than just jealousy or resentment. I am not going to deliver a deep philosophical soliloquoy addressing the nuances that separate those feelings, but I do often muse about others' envious behavior-as we would define it loosely and in conversational terms.
I refer to others' behavior rather than my own not only because it's easier to dissect the actions and words of other people than it is to reflect on one's own, but also because I don't seem to possess the envy gene. Or at least I don't express the gene. I know this because I test myself often. Granted, it's not a sophisticated test-there are no real genetic measures involved-but I just ask myself, "Do I covet my neighbour's house? What about his ox or donkey?". The answer is typically a resounding "no". This is an amazing feat because I am surrounded by good-looking, smart, successful people who could inspire a person with low self-esteem to jump off the nearest building if he/she was indeed susceptible to envy. But alas, no dice.
Others, however, have a way of projecting a vibe, and I can sense this vibe. For whatever reason, I have an antenna that alerts me to haters. I call them haters because their envy inevitably breeds resentment that over time will morph into hate. Hate for the object of their envy, themselves, or a combination of both. They don't necessarily realize they feel this way, and most likely they would deny it if called out, but they ooze it. I believe their "hating" is a result of some insecurity or self-esteem issues. This is an untested hypothesis, mind you, but it does appear to be a common denominator among the sample I have observed to date. There is the friend who sabotages your friendship with another mutual friend to make herself feel more popular, the colleague who wouldn't dream of congratulating you for receiving an award to make herself feel more successful, or the parent who trivializes everything that comes out of your mouth to make himself sound smarter or more of an authority. Haters are everywhere and they are threatened by self-assured people. But thankfully, if you have the misfortune of interacting with enough of them, you can learn to recognize the signs as soon as they begin to manifest themselves.
If you are the on the receiving end of snide remarks or some kind of back-handed compliment, you are dealing with a hater. If you begin downplaying accomplishments or hiding extravagant purchases, you are being hated on. If other person laments how "lucky" you are, watch out-hater on board! There is nothing you can do with these people because the problem is theirs entirely. You must avoid, avoid, avoid! Back away from the hater! This can be especially difficult if that person happens to be a family member or someone with whom you must interact daily. But believe me, this is the only viable course of action. Thankfully one of my best friends and fellow anti-hater gave me a token to ward off the evil eye. I hung it over the front door of my house to protect me and my home from envy. God help the hater who walks in thinking I don't deserve that donkey.
I refer to others' behavior rather than my own not only because it's easier to dissect the actions and words of other people than it is to reflect on one's own, but also because I don't seem to possess the envy gene. Or at least I don't express the gene. I know this because I test myself often. Granted, it's not a sophisticated test-there are no real genetic measures involved-but I just ask myself, "Do I covet my neighbour's house? What about his ox or donkey?". The answer is typically a resounding "no". This is an amazing feat because I am surrounded by good-looking, smart, successful people who could inspire a person with low self-esteem to jump off the nearest building if he/she was indeed susceptible to envy. But alas, no dice.
Others, however, have a way of projecting a vibe, and I can sense this vibe. For whatever reason, I have an antenna that alerts me to haters. I call them haters because their envy inevitably breeds resentment that over time will morph into hate. Hate for the object of their envy, themselves, or a combination of both. They don't necessarily realize they feel this way, and most likely they would deny it if called out, but they ooze it. I believe their "hating" is a result of some insecurity or self-esteem issues. This is an untested hypothesis, mind you, but it does appear to be a common denominator among the sample I have observed to date. There is the friend who sabotages your friendship with another mutual friend to make herself feel more popular, the colleague who wouldn't dream of congratulating you for receiving an award to make herself feel more successful, or the parent who trivializes everything that comes out of your mouth to make himself sound smarter or more of an authority. Haters are everywhere and they are threatened by self-assured people. But thankfully, if you have the misfortune of interacting with enough of them, you can learn to recognize the signs as soon as they begin to manifest themselves.
If you are the on the receiving end of snide remarks or some kind of back-handed compliment, you are dealing with a hater. If you begin downplaying accomplishments or hiding extravagant purchases, you are being hated on. If other person laments how "lucky" you are, watch out-hater on board! There is nothing you can do with these people because the problem is theirs entirely. You must avoid, avoid, avoid! Back away from the hater! This can be especially difficult if that person happens to be a family member or someone with whom you must interact daily. But believe me, this is the only viable course of action. Thankfully one of my best friends and fellow anti-hater gave me a token to ward off the evil eye. I hung it over the front door of my house to protect me and my home from envy. God help the hater who walks in thinking I don't deserve that donkey.
Thursday, January 10, 2008
What weighs more?
A pound of muscle or a pound of fat? Ah yes, you are familiar with this trick question. Usually one asks a child what weighs more-a pound of bricks or a pound of feathers. Invariably the child answers "bricks". I ask because I came across this little nugget of information the other day and I have not overcome my feeling of surprise: One pound of muscle burns an extra 50 calories/day, while one pound of fat burns a mere 2 calories/day. I think most people realize conceptually that muscle contributes to a greater daily calorie expenditure, but who would have known there was such a calorie differential between them? I find this fascinating and I simply cannot get over it. I think that in addition to putting it into "print" here, I already have told a dozen people. I am spreading the gospel according to weight training. Consider yourself enlightened.
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