I'm writing a PAPER

...AND MY NAME WILL BE **FIRST** IN THE AUTHORS.

Hells yes. I have endured over the last week some very subtly nasty commentary from an unsuspected source that has rankled. Basically, the questions came down to "I really don't think you know anything at all about anything you've done, and you're a total idiot, so I'm going to treat you like an underling even though I have nothing on you." So I've been mad. But you know what they say? That whole living well is the best revenge? It is. It SO is.

I started writing today, and after 4 hours, I'm on the second page (single spaced) which for science writing is very good. No idea how it compares to other kinds of writing, but I'm feeling smug. When asked how/what I was doing and I shared and displayed my handiwork, the look I got was priceless. Priceless, I say! Shock and awe. It was along the lines of "[Advisor] thinks you have enough data to begin writing?" "Yes." "When did you start?" "Oh, about an hour ago." Silence, eyes wide, walked away. That is a lesson in how to give a bitch slap without lifting a finger.

Fuck the lot of them.

Huh.

Every so often I come up with a really good idea, like the title of this blog which is a reference to the immortal comic duo Laurel and Hardy.  Another fine mess, indeed.  

Speaking of fine messes, in my infinite wisdom, I picked an awesome topic to write my independent proposal on, but I have to give an open-to-the-public seminar on it (omg omg I'm gonna die), a closed-to-everyone-but-the-collection-of-oddities-that-is-my-PhD-committee oral defense of  the proposal, as well as a 3 page progress report on my actual experiments that I'm doing now.  I am resisting the urge to slit my wrists and claim disability or get my tonsils removed so I can't talk for several weeks.  

I am very unhappy right now, although while wallowing around in my pit of despair, I remembered a 5 lb block of white chocolate that my aunt pressed upon Danny and me.  It is SO GOOD.  I don't know why it's so good; it isn't even chocolate.  But if you have to pick something to take down into a pit of despair, white chocolate isn't so bad... at least it won't talk back to you.

The last of the (____________).

So, I got an email addressed to everyone who started in the biochem department with me in regards to our upcoming Independent Proposals.  All the bullshit about scheduling the proposals aside (and trust me, there was a lot of it), I read that list and realized 40% of my class had dropped out.  

24 hours later, I still can't decide whether it means that I'm really smart (as in "woohoo, I'm making it where all these people failed!") or really, really stupid (as in why didn't I say "who the hell needs this shit??!?!" and peaced out 6.34 quarts of cortisol and stomach acid ago).

I hear Obama's been brought in to make Nascar even more popular.  He said it's quintessentially American, or something.  

What does that mean?  

I'll tell you what it means.  It means we've taken something from the Europeans, Formula 1 racing, decreased the level of skill required to do it well by moving onto a track, so really you only have to know how to turn left and you can't possibly get lost.  And as long as it means we burn insane amounts of fuel doing it, it makes lots of noise, and we can eat tons of fried shit and sit on our asses, then yes, it's quintessentially American.  

(For the record, I spent the last 10 days sitting on my ass/shlepping around eating tons of fruit and vegetables, and I lost weight.)

Blue Man Nude

I just got back from Israel, and before I even try to organize my thoughts, I would like to make a statement.

What the hell is the movie Watchmen supposed to even be about?  I watched it on the flight back to the US, and aside from an anatomically correct, naked, glowing blue man and some intrigue, I couldn't make head or tail of the actual plot.  Maybe it was just the slight hypoxia.  Oh, and then it got REALLY weird because there was a very, very explicit sex scene (I don't mean choreographed Hollywood dance-fucking, but actual grinding, thrusting, and humping along with facial expressions, head to toe sideways body shots, etc).  I'd say it definitely surpassed softcore, but because there was no visible genitalia, it wasn't quite hardcore.  That has got to be the most awkward thing to watch on an airplane.  EVER.  I mean, there are children running around!  Or you're just that pervert in the seat in front watching the closest thing to porn you can find.

Weird...

Creative drain

Last night I went to fencing. In and of itself, that was a great way to spend an evening, other than the now-undeniable fact that I need to wash my gear. Febreze will only take you so far, kiddies. There comes a point when everything is so sweat-drenched and revolting when you actually need to wash yo bidness. My gear is at that point.

Anyway, I fenced some (literally!) world-class fencers and lost to them, which was ok because I'm not that good. Yet. I was able to go down with a fight, at any rate. But I was talking with my coach after, just trying to think how I can fix my game so I don't make all the same mistakes next time. He said a couple interesting things, some good, some to think about.

The thinking first. It wasn't out-and-out criticism, and I definitely wasn't smacking my head into the steering wheel the whole way home going, "IIIIIIdiot!!" He said I wasn't creative enough with my actions on the strip. Now... that was the body, mind, and soul of my game when I started out with epee at NYU. I learned how to parry, I did point control, and then they let me loose on a strip and said, "Hit the other girl. Beat her. Feel free to make her cry." Check, check, and check. The good bits about that (lack of) strategy:

- I was a total wildcard. No one knew what the hell to do with me.

- My timing and footwork were brilliant because I couldn't do anything else. My counter-time stop hits were like lightening. I learned how to flinch and simultaneously extend my arm and usually score. At the very least, a double touch. Super-aware of where every part of my body was.

- When I got angry, I LET myself get that way, then I just beat the shit out of whoever got on the strip in front of me. I was unstoppable. And kind of crazy. But I won a lot of bouts pissed off.

The bad aspects of my old game:

- To be unstoppable, I had to get furious. This is hard to just do unless I'm having a really bad month PMS-wise. I had to lose to really bad people and feel like shit about myself before I could get angry enough. This is neither a healthy nor a sound reliable strategy.

- If someone could read my bullshit, I didn't have anything underneath it.

I decided I was going to revamp my game from the bottom up, which I've been doing. For instance, I was going to stop frenetically bouncing around because ultimately it's a waste of energy, and I'd also stop leaning forward. So, I tried keeping my back heel down a little more and sitting more upright in my en guarde. Leaning/frenetic bouncing = gone. I did find a middle ground, because if you sit too upright and don't bounce at all, you lose a lot of mobility. Paired with lots of rope jumping, it's becoming very effective in keeping me grounded - literally - but mobile.

Generally, I think it's going well, because the good bit of the convo was about how I don't have any compulsive tendencies on the strip in a bout situation, save for relaxing a little too much when I retreat. Some people have a tendency start with their blade high and then cut over and finish low. So you nail them over their shoulder. Others compulsively take a given parry when offered the blade. So you know they're going to do it; you disengage and score. Another great thing about last night was I angled my blade the tiniest bit, and all of a sudden, I was landing wrist touches again. Wrist touches over the blade, under it, on the side... it was awesome.

But that thing about needing to be more creative on the strip. I was talking to Danny, and the truth of it is that at the end of the day (and even the end of weeks) I just feel so drained and beaten down mentally, that summoning the effort to be in any way creative is so Herculean, I just can't. To try to think anymore than absolutely necessary, to try to be more than just a functioning body is nearly impossible. Day in day out, I'm working on the same problem in lab. I've been running these wretched experiments for going on 4 years now. It's very hard to describe the incredible lack of desire to do anything at all. The most incredible boredom and laziness combined with feeling like the world owes me huge for the trouble I'm going to. I'm not saying these feelings have anything to do with fairness or logic, they're just there, and it sucks when I want to do well at fencing because they're quite a hindrance. It's one thing to not like what you're doing and feel beaten down at work, but why does it have to bleed over into my general well-being and infect the things that I really love?

Oh well. Try harder, I guess... because that's about all I can do.

Wack.

I had to work on Sunday.  This means rolling out of bed, grumbling, donning various stretchy spandexy items of workout clothing, and trying to pretend I'm driving into the glorified truck stop of a college town for a workout, and oh yeah, by the way, I'm also going to drop into lab and do some work.  Me, working on the fucking weekend for the equivalent of minimum wage 4 years ago, Pushing The Boundaries Of Humankind's Knowledge.  

What utter bullshit.  

This fall, I'll be starting my fourth year of graduate school.  After a particularly impassioned rant to my advisor, he is 100% on board with my need to publish something, anything at all really, so I can start to gain some science cred.  We had a weird discussion Friday.  He said I should shoot for a publication in JBC, the Journal of Biological Chemistry (full disclosure: I had to look up the acronym when he said "JBC" because I'm useless remembering shit like that).  He described JBC as "reputable, but crappy."  After trying 4 possible definitions of "crappy" in a bid to figure out just how fucked I am, it turns out he meant conservative, un-groundbreaking science, and I had a moment.  

A moment, when I almost did a double-take to his face, because people, NO ONE outside of maybe 20-something people in the whole world give a rat's fart about what comes out of this lab.  Like, hello, you are the principle investigator of this lab, are you not?  You dictate the direction of all of our research, am I right?  Have you NOTICED how completely arcane the subject matter is that you are studying?  Let me put it this way; we are not curing cancer here.  But a publication is a publication.  I don't care, but to describe JBC as crappy because it publishes conservative science?  Whaaaat.

Anyway, that's why I was working on Sunday in a foul mood.  I slouched in wearing my nubbly Adidas slide-on sandals (they are truly magical; it's like having a foot massage as you walk), and I noticed this professor as I walked down the hall towards my lab.  He is always sitting in his concrete cube looking ancient, and if he's not in there, he's shuffling around the building staring at the floor/walls avoiding any and all eye contact, still looking ancient.  One time I spoke to him because his -80 C freezer was beeping in a way that signaled its imminent failure.  Mainly I was glad it was his freezer and not him.  I see him literally ALL THE TIME, and try as I might to just make eye contact and smile, nary a word passes between us.  

So he's sitting there, on his office door is an NYU sticker, and I thought to myself, "Hey, we share an alma mater, maybe I should start a conversation," because I was wearing an old pair of NYU standard-issue shorts, and, you know, we could bond over the purple or something...  And then I thought, why bother him?  Obviously he's here, sitting in a concrete bunker sans even a window on an uncharacteristically gorgeous, cloudless, warm, dry Sunday in late July, for a reason.  As I plated my cells, I mused on why the hell he'd opt for a weekend like this.  Maybe he's henpecked.  Maybe his plumbing is getting fixed.  Maybe this is a form of mental illness.  

That's when it struck me.  The academic ideal IS a form of mental illness.  What joy can someone get, closeting themselves away from the rest of the world WITHOUT EVEN A WINDOW every single day for the rest of their life?  What kind of person does it take to do that?  Who do you have to be to be willing to obsess over one problem literally for the rest of your life?  Because that's what you're SUPPOSED to do if you're a good academic.  

Granted, the stereotypical tweed is lovely, but that's quite a price to pay to wear tweed.  And no one does, at least not here.  It's bad sneakers, even worse khakis, and polo shirts.  Unless, of course, you opt for socks and sandals and ill-fitting jeans and the odd Hawaiian top.

I did make it to the gym after doing the plating and prep for Monday.  Hopefully soon, I'll be writing a paper.  Hopefully not too long after that, it'll be thesis + graduation time, and I'll be done with this idiosyncratic hodgepodge of questionably sane people before I start looking as antique as my fellow NYU alum down the hall...

Car stickers.

I very strongly suspect that all those people who run marathons "for themselves" are for shit. If that was truly the case, if they were genuinely running just for themselves, why bother putting those obnoxious as all fuck "26.2" stickers on their cars? And with the huge number of vehicles I see locally as well as on the I-95 northeast corridor sporting said proclamations of athletic expenditure, the premise that this unprecedented increase in marathoners is bolstered by strictly personal improvement is absolute bunk.

I was cut off in the Trader Joe's parking lot by some asshole with one of those stickers. Rotten bastard.

Oh, and all those other stickers loudly advertising obscure acronyms for various locales. How pretentious can you get? I really don't care how well-traveled some random stranger is if the best they can do is put a sticker on their car because they're going to cut me off anyway. Seriously, I want to get a random letter generator and make bullshit stickers that mean nothing. And cut people off.

Rainrainrainrain...

This rain is unbelievable. If you, like me, are situated in the mid-Atlantic/northeast region of the US, you are most likely growing mildew, like the 3-toed sloths in the jungle who move so slowly that their coats turn green due to algal growth on their fur. The only pro is that I'm hoping this trend will reappear this winter, with appropriately cold temperatures so there will be mountains upon mountains of snow instead of acres upon acres of mud and militant mosquitoes.

In anticipation of the winter and the snow, I found a cool pattern for a nifty-looking hat. Also, a while back my mom got me like 5 skeins of this random shiny mohair blend wool. ("It was $2 a skein!! I mean, $2! What a bargain! Here's five, I got another 5 for myself.") The lacey pattern looks very nice, and I think the shiny filamentously fuzzy yarn will rock. This will likely take me until it's cold again, anyway, given the amount of time I can actually dedicate to knitting.

Maryland really, really sucks.

The other day, I thought to myself, "Damn, it is humid out here, and it's only the beginning of June. What's this stupid swamp going to do in August when it's run out of humidity because it spent it all in June? How can this place possibly get even more humid than it already is?"

Well, Maryland weather happily obliged, answering my question quite enthusiastically. It can get more humid by actually forming clouds at ground level. It can be raining AND be misty/foggy AND be wicked sticky and warm. This brings me to another thing pertaining to the humidity; we do not have an exhaust fan in our bathroom. We do, however, have a window. But this window's sill happens to be below chest-level for me, and it opens from the bottom. So, I can't use while I'm physically in the shower with the lights on in the bathroom, we can't use it when it's freezing cold in the winter because who the hell wants to take a shower with an open window in the middle of a cold, cold night in January, and in the heat of the summer, I'm not sure where it's more humid, in the bathroom or outside. And who wants to waste the air conditioning?

So, we can only use this supposedly ventilating window if I'm dressed/not in the shower for a couple weeks before it gets wicked hot and a couple weeks before it gets too cold. This window is supposed to be a substitute for an exhaust fan. It is not. Our ceiling is covered in mold, and we have even begun to grow mildew in the toilet bowl. Dear lord, it is revolting. Oh, and we've already asked them to replace the dry wall around the tiles in the shower because it's gone completely moldy. We have requested an exhaust fan. We shall continue to request said exhaust fan and complain about the blatantly sizeist "ventilation window" that I can't use if I don't want to flash the inhabitants of this bloody stupid place.

Which I don't want to do. Ever.

You know what we have here that sort of comes with the territory of living in a fucking swamp? Mosquitoes. Stupid fucking mosquitoes. Mosquitoes and mold. Welcome to Maryland. That's what they should have on the license plates; mosquitoes and mold. They have a heron on one of them, and I haven't seen a single fucking heron since I moved down here. But mosquitoes? Oh yes, tons. Everywhere.

Feminism these days..

So, feminism... is it over?  

Absolutely not.  The past couple days I came across some articles online that really got me furious.  The first was a bullshit article from askmen.com entitled "Why Women Can't Be Bosses."  It's amazing that shit like this can even get aired.  What's even more amazing is that according to the comments, this trash can get 44% approval.  It's mind-blowing.  The only thing I could think of was, "Wow, our patriarchal society is literally imploding before our eyes.  The 'dudes' are getting desperate."  I realized that this utter crap will soon be turned on me full force, when I enter the workplace as a dynamic female scientist with a PhD.  

And then I came across another gem, scans of a how-to book for anti-choice evangelists to bring the undecided over to their ban-abortion stance.  The thing that gets me is not their stance on abortion, because if you don't want one, that is 100% fine with me.  What's really disgusting is the constant reminders to fake concern for the woman, which implies that it's not natural for these dregs of humanity to consider the woman as a human being outside of her capacity to bear children.  Plus, there are gross scientific mistakes in it.  Eclampsia, for example.  Bedrest does NOT cure it.  If it's really severe, the only "cure" is an abortion.  

One good thing coming from this Dr. Tiller murder is that women are coming out of the woodwork and sharing their late-term abortion stories.  If it's a case of a detected anencephaly (the brain of a fetus failed to develop; see the wikipedia entry on it), conjoined twins, an infection due to leakage of water, thank goodness these women are speaking up.  My grandma told me that when Roe v. Wade passed, she felt an ineffable sense of relief despite being married with children.  For her, it meant that a huge burden was off the female population.  I believe that 100%.  

When I was 11 or 12, my mom told me that if I ever got pregnant, she would take me to have an abortion if I needed one.  It wasn't an invitation/permission to be wild and act irresponsibly (she made that very clear), but it was something that made me feel much more comfortable.  I had a backup, no matter what.  After that, my grandma told me that if I ever needed an abortion, I didn't even have to tell my mom or dad; she'd take me and wouldn't even tell my grandfather.  It was like huge, deep, soft pillows were always underneath me as I wobbled along growing into a sexually mature adult.  I didn't behave irresponsibly, but I always knew that no matter what, I always had a back way out.  I could always reclaim my life and walk away from a man, the same way men could walk away from an accidentally pregnant girlfriend pre-Roe v. Wade.  I would never be beholden to him.  I'd never be that person, as long as I took care of the being smart in school/productive in life thing.  I was on equal footing.  I could throw myself into the fray, and I was going to come up grinning no matter what because I was equipped to handle everything, even if I made a mistake.

It's just so... I don't know, improbably nauseating to think that there is a group of people who want to take that away from future generations of women.  Oh, and the anti-contraception argument?  I'm chalking that up to a crazy Puritanical I-must-suffer-life-is-a-veil-of-tears attitude that I can't for the life of me ever hope to identify with.

And I'm not sorry about that at all.

Lady Gaga

I officially love her.

Her music is pop with a dark kinky undertone, and I can listen to it without hating myself for liking it. She is absolutely fabulous, the best thing to happen to pop since Madonna back in the day. Lady Gaga has the most incredible fashion sense - it's like burlesque collided with Thierry Mugler, 20's theater, David Bowie, and a million other influences. It is bizarre and jolting, and I love the way it throws me off-kilter and generally surprises.

Oh yeah, and her music is nifty, catchy, and I will absolutely love listening to it now and in the future.

New York represent! :)

summer un-vacation

This is the end of summer vacations for me.  I thought that when I was working for Pepsi THAT would be the end of summer vacations.  But with top-notch BBQs (really, they were very awesome) every other Thursday and half-day Fridays, it wasn't half as draggy as grad school.  In grad school, everything's closed.  The co-op, where I can get my bean burritos and dried fruit and nuts to snack on should I get hungry, is closed.  It's so sad.  However, despite the lack of students and good hippy vegetarian non-mall-foodcourt food, there are still rarely enough treadmills in the gym.  I got stuck to the stinky guy who smelled like sweated-out garlic and curry and wayyy too much aftershave.  At least the smell kept me concentrating on not losing my lunch instead of how boring running is.  

Maybe I should just be thankful that I wasn't behind someone who had the running farts.  (You know, with every step, thhbthtbh, thhbthtbh, thhbthtbh... don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about because you do.  And if you don't, you're lying.) 

Anyway, I'm strongly resisting any kind of routine (which suits me).  That being said, I need to fit in a good sports bra shopping escapade.  Last weekend, when the gym was all but deserted Saturday morning, I sloped into the weight room with my jumprope.  In between sets, I jumped rope for 1 minute, and there's nothing quite like jumping rope in front of a full-length mirror to make you realize some pretty idiotic things.  

(1)  I look COMPLETELY RETARDED jumping rope.  

(2) I need better sports bras because if I put this off for much longer and continue jumping rope, my chest will be in my pockets by age 40 and in my shoes by age 60.

(3) I have some pretty tight calf muscles with some nice definition.

(4) The same cannot be said for my thighs.

However, I'm used to looking completely retarded and the rope jumping is a pretty brilliant and difficult workout so I won't stop.  Instead I'll keep jamming in gym time between experiments in lab, trying to fence, and generally hoping for the best. We shall see...

Oh, and I got my blades today!  They're all shiny and pretty and new, and I'm gonna hook them up and mess around with them!   I'm so excited.  :)  

I'm not dead yet....

I'm not dead, I've just been trying to finish this semester. Haven't had a weekend in 3 weeks. I'm sure my desire to blather on about nothing of import will return shortly. :)

You've got to be effing kidding me.

In "downtown" Bethesda, a DC suburb with a collective yuppie stick up its ass (and home to one of my favorite restaurants, Sasso), the purchase price of a "downtown" condo is LITERALLY ON PAR WITH MANHATTAN PRICES. So is the dearth of parking in that area.

Holy crap, people.

Be-thbthtbhtbhtbhtbhtb-esda does not equal Manhattan no matter how you rearrange the equation. Would you rather live in chain store yuppie central, where life stops promptly at 8 PM on weeknights and by 11 on weekends, where a ticket to the opera is $40 for the cheap seats, or in the middle of life itself, where you can get a good slice of pizza at 4 AM and the cheap seats to the opera w/ live orchestra are $17 (they are; check the family circle at the Metropolitan Opera)?

Dear readers, I take Manhattan! To drink and live in.

Bethesda: http://www.thechaseatbethesda.com/pricing.asp

Manhattan: http://realestate.nytimes.com/sales/detail/185-1711871/new-york-ny-usa/1-beds/200000-700000-price/PRICE-HIGH-sort/40-p/44-1408440--1501-0003EM--44-1529694--297-0016308--46-1044429--185-1711871--185-1629716--185-1698583--88-350990--46-1035272-ls/2535-t

I'm not looking to buy, especially not something at that price; I'm simply illustrating a point. Very vividly, I think...

Someone keeps cranking up the resistance...

Seriously. I'm on a treadmill, and as I adjust to each setting, someone cranks it up even higher. I had the WORST problem set EVER that was due today, and I had to give a 10 minute presentation on light scattering as it was used in a scientific article today. Before 9 AM.

And I was told - after the fact, of course - that my topic wasn't so great. I ran the topic and the article by the prof weeks ago. I can't go into the math and craziness in 10 minutes, AND teach everyone light scattering, AND explain the article, AND talk about how light scattering works in the article. WTF. Grad school is such bullshit.

It's been ~90 F for the last few days which has been really nasty because the apartment is on the top floor of the building with 3 large windows with southern exposure. The inside temp hasn't fallen below 85 F, even at night. We haven't been cooking much, which makes me kind of sad.

In other news, I'll be going up to NY to celebrate my grandma's 80th birthday in the form of a BBQ this weekend. I am looking forward to that. I also just rocked a sushi buffet for lunch, a small celebration because I finished my HW and that stupid presentation today. Now I want a nap. I will not get one, though. Instead, I'm going to make myself more plates so I can do more experiments this week. Yay. Then - to the gym with me!

Things I want but probably don't really need.

It's sunny today! Really honest-to-goodness sunny. This is nice, seeing as it's been miserable, rainy, and in the 40's the last few days. Actually, the fact that it was in the 40's was good, because it made me want soup, which resulted in a spicy coconut curry veggie soup that rescued 3 beets, the remainder of the chicken soup from my seder, 7/8ths of a completely wrinkly, dehydrated, small head of cabbage, and quite possibly my body from a veggie-less hell of my own making. I am midway through a gargantuan Passover recipe compilation on the other blog. Lord help me finish it. The soup will follow.

Anyway, with the sunshine came my annual hopefulness that THIS is the year I will find The Summer Dress. What is The Summer Dress (henceforth to be known as TSD)? TSD is that elusive item of clothing that I can vamp up with heels, dress down in flats, put a cardigan over, wear under a trenchcoat, and is in a nice print. This should be easy given the fact that stores are pretty much giving clothes away. It isn't.

I keep thinking, "Oh, hey, maybe I'll find a light white cottony thing" (because it is my secret wish to wear one with a huge straw hat and crazy shoes to a garden party) and every time I try on something it looks like absolute hell on my body. You'd think this wouldn't happen, seeing as I'm used to myself in white; fencing uniforms are white jackets, protective white knickers, and white knee socks. Truth be told, I'm not even sure most of the time what body parts are throwing off the fit! It's the most frustrating thing ever.

I put the dress on, squint at myself, take off my socks, squint again, start at the bottom, decide it's too short, wonder how my butt can look so spectacularly hydraulic in a pencil skirt and look so sad, huge, and awful in this dress, how my boobs somehow look nonexistant because the straps place the bust too low on my chest, why did they cut the waist in the wrong place, and Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ on rollerskates, how can this all look so bad simultaneously??!?!?! Then I get back into my underwear, and while the view isn't perfect, it's what I remembered my body looking like from before I tried the offending garment on.

Then I contemplate nudity as a lifestyle.

I tried to go to Macy's the other day in a bid for Estee Lauder mascara (my mom got some in a gift, gave it to me, and now, damn it all, I can't tolerate drugstore mascara - but that's mainly because they don't stock Max Factor in stupid fucking MARYLAND), and to cruise the spring dresses, but the mall was closed for Easter Sunday. This is what I get for moving from NY where there are enough Jews to have things open on Christian holidays and enough Christians to run the show when the Jews are out. Damn the south. Damn the dresses. And damn not having mascara.

I ended up at DSW, and found 2 pairs of sandals (both in size 11!!) for ~$20 each on clearance. Maybe this weekend will look up in my bid for mascara and springtime versatility.

Phshshshhshshshshhhhhh....

That is the sound of me decompressing.

Thursday night drained me hardcore. I'm planning on a huge Passover seder post for the other blog (the food one), but I haven't been able to think about it yet without recurring feelings of panic. Instead, I spent this weekend being all low-key and shizz...

Saturday involved a nice 2-hr workout fencing and a very lovely afternoon at the local pub sitting in a dark booth and shooting the shit. We always end up dropping SO MUCH effing money there, but the food is really good and the drink is, too. I edited stuff for my adviser that night and got to bed early for a Saturday. Today, I went trolling for bargains at DSW, and found some very cool sandals in a size 11 (US) for an acceptable amount of money (~$20) which never happens.

Part of me is very sad that I don't work in a profession that allows me to exercise my full appreciation for beautiful shoes in a variety of heel heights and designs. Science labwork tends to make flats absolutely necessary because you're on your feet the whole day. 3 inch heels? No thanks, but I'll stare longingly after them as they're taken away. (I saw beautiful snake print wedges, where the wedge was carved into this beautiful sculptural design so it wasn't clunky at all, but they were at least 4 inches high. Very very beautiful, dramatic, etc.... and totally impractical. Sigh.)

Then we went to our friends' house for an Easter celebration. TONS of food and wine, pleasant company, and it suddenly dawned on me why intercultural relationships might be discouraged. You end up celebrating everyone's holidays, so you eat like a total pig twice as many days and you doom yourself to getting madd crazy fat.

Yeah. That's my deep thought for today. I drowned the rest of them in the wonderful Diana's sangria.

Ugh. Monday is tomorrow.

Candidacy: Seder

Another fine mess, indeed.  

Somehow I am in the position of hosting a seder at Danny's and my apartment for his whole family.  I also have an exam that promises to be no picnic at 8 AM.  

I am actually less worried about the exam than I am about the seder.  They are a judgmental lot.  I'm no slouch in the kitchen department, but holy fuck, people.  THE PRESSURE.  It's like candidacy again, just this time in holiday planning.  Fucking fuckers who fuck.  Thus far I've resisted the urge to throw up (which has passed over me periodically during the last 2-3 days).

I have a menu and a game plan (which includes finding kosher for Passover vodka to medicate myself), but this is really not cool.  I can't sleeeeeeeep.  Ugh.  Which bodes ill for this exam.  Hopefully I'll tire myself out in the next, oh I don't know, 15 minutes?

Right...

Piles.

This is a typical exchange between Danny and myself on the wisdom of piles. He lost a very important recipe I need for Thursday (imminent death by having his relations over for Passover; I am so fucked, and by fucked I mean I will be judged and villified) because HE REMOVED IT FROM A PILE.

Danny: ok

still have to find that recipe that I misplaced

12:53 PM will do tonight

me: you stinky stinker

Danny: yeah, I know

I confess

it's somewhere

me: next time, you have to leave the piles.

embrace the piles

Danny: yeah yeah

no!

me: accept the piles

Danny: I will not eat the piles

me: welcoem the piles into your life

Danny: no!

no piles!

me: the piles are your friends

build them

nurture them

Danny:: your hypnosis isn't working on me

12:54 PM me: and then you'll never lose papers ever again

Danny: I'm immune

me: why?

because they'll always be somewhere in the piles!

it's sheer brilliance.

Danny: yeah, and they'll always be somewhere not in piles

and easier to find to boot!

so there

me: that's bc you MOVED it

out of the pile

Danny: yeah, whatever

me: and now you can't find it.

Danny: I put it in a very logical and organized place

me: and now we're all going to DIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE

Danny: I just don't recall the logic

haha

12:55 PM me: clearly. so logical and organized even you can't find it.

Danny: yup

I outsmarted myself

me: very logical

Danny: I do that a lot

me: how brilliant

Danny: I know

me: this iswhy you have a phd

Danny: yup

me: to lose my shizzz

Danny:: lol

okok

I get it

I'll find it tonight

me: which would otherwise be found. naturally. in a pile.

Danny: lol it certainly narrows it down

12:56 PM me: that it does

Danny: where is X?

in a pile, of course

me: and there are 3 main piles

Danny: which pile, and where in that pile, are whole other questions

right

clothes, desk, and misc

me: my fencing/shoe pile, my desk pile, or my clothes pile.

Danny: haha

I nailed it

wait!

what about your car pile?

12:57 PM the pile in your car?

you forgot that one

me: my car doesn't HAVE A PILE.

Danny: not yet

but it will

just wait

anyway, while you're building your car pile, I'm gonna go find something else to eat

I'll call you later, k?

12:58 PM me: you are so full of CRAP

Danny: lol

yeah yeah... you know its true

me: do not refer to my nonexistant car pile until it exists.

it's nearly beena year

and guess what?

NO CAR PILE

so thbbtthbthtbhtbthtbhtb

THTBHTBTHBTHBTHBTHBTHTBHTBTHBTHTBHTBTTHTBHTBTHTBTHTBBT

12:59 PM THTBHTBTHBTHBTHBTHBTHTBHTBTHBTHTBHTBTTHTBHTBTHTBTHTBBTTHTBHTBTHBTHBTHBTHBTHTBHTBTHBTHTBHTBTTHTBHTBTHTBTHTBBTTHTBHTBTHBTHBTHBTHBTHTBHTBTHBTHTBHTBTTHTBHTBTHTBTHTBBTTHTBHTBTHBTHBTHBTHBTHTBHTBTHBTHTBHTBTTHTBHTBTHTBTHTBBTTHTBHTBTHBTHBTHBTHBTHTBHTBTHBTHTBHTBTTHTBHTBTHTBTHTBBTTHTBHTBTHBTHBTHBTHBTHTBHTBTHBTHTBHTBTTHTBHTBTHTBTHTBBT!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Danny: eew

now my gchat is covered in spit

thanks

me: I HOPE YOU FELT THAT

good.

you deserve it.

Danny: I'm gonna wipe off my screen and go find something to eat

me: loser

Craziness.

In light of extreme social business, mucking around in lab like it's my job (oh wait... it is my job), trying not to sleep through class, and having to clean up my piles (piles are my way of life; if I had to describe my overarching philosophy on how to live in one word, "piles" would be it), I have sucked it hardcore at blogging.

I have been maintaining my fitness though. I went on vacation in NH, and I snowboarded and x-country skied my way to only gaining like 2 pounds despite eating and drinking like wo'. Kind of exciting. But then, if you x-country ski 8 miles in a day, you have to devote pretty much the remainder of your waking hours to gorging yourself if you want to gain weight, which leaves no time for the hot tub. And you always want time for the hot tub, especially if you've been x-country skiing. You know, every time I go to Waterville Valley, I have a snowboarding revelation. Last time, I took a lesson and the instructor pointed out this little thing I wasn't doing, and I suddenly stopped catching my edge and falling on my face! Very exciting, especially because my face doesn't have the padding my butt has.

This time, I ambled over to their on-mountain board shop, and the snowboard guru Steve said, "Wow, you are riding with a tiny stance for someone of your height. Let me fix that for you." I said, "Ok!" He widened my stance by what might have been inches, and suddenly standing on my snowboard felt as natural as getting en guarde for fencing! The strain on my calves, ankles, and all muscles in that general region disappeared, and I could use my muscley (read: huge) butt and thighs for balance and steering. It was so great to suddenly not suck any more!

(For any interested parties, there will not be any half-pipes or ramps in my future. I will persist in riding like an old lady.)

But anyway, after taking a lot of time off of the gym and fencing, it turned out to not matter at all because I was sliding, riding, and skating over vacation. And I started jumping rope more, which is hard as balls, people. Hard as balls. It is awesome for bounciness for fencing. Oh, and according to this month's Vogue, another of their "shape" issues, this one model Doutzen Krouse jumps rope like a mofo. The author of that article was musing about why, despite NOT being super madd crazy skinny, Ms. Krouse is so popular. Um, maybe because she looks like she won't pass out halfway down the runway? Perhaps because she looks like she could kick ass, but in a beautiful ladylike manner? How about because she looks incredibly healthy?

Duh.

Anyway, the above is a picture of me kicking ass in a not very ladylike manner. I am in the foreground to the right, blurrily charging down the nice lady on the left. Check out my ass. It is huge. It is powerful. It sticks out. J. Lo better watch it, cuz I don't need no implants. I have fencing.

I am living in HELL.

There is a grant proposal due. It is a sizeable one. $2 million. My adviser left it to the last minute, it seems, in true academic fashion. So, I shall backtrack on my lovely evenings.

Last night, I stopped looking at the clock in lab when it hit 10:30 PM. It was too depressing and sad. Why was I there so late? Because I had to proofread 25 single spaced pages. But it wasn't just for grammatical and spelling errors, oh no. It was to also improve the flow, so I couldn't bang through it. I had to read, reread, and figure things out. To say it was not one of my better evenings would be a bit of an understatement. I've been proofreading this damn stupid thing since last week in pieces. A paragraph here, a section there, a 6-page chunk...

This sneak-attack by my adviser of editorial duties destroyed my plans on Friday night, as well as his perception of me. I had no idea I'd be in lab until 8:30, so I had gone to the gym for an hour in the afternoon, ate lunch at my desk, and waited for him to send me things to review. That was at noon-1 PM. 4:30 rolls around and still nothing. I ate a light lunch because I was planning on meeting some people at this supposedly awesome Mexican place for happy hour - which included half-price appetizers... and nothing attracts this grad student like half price allegedly amazing Mexican tapas, tequila, and mezcal.

So, I asked if I could do the editing at home over the weekend. The answer? Absolutely not. This was bad because I was getting hungry. When I get hungry, I get wild-eyed, irritable, and slightly insane. Not conducive to being intelligent or editing, for that matter. Then I finish, I'm about to pack up and leave, when he walks in and asks me to do a literature search. What???!?!! A literature search? That could take days!

But I did it. And as I was getting ready to pack it in yet again, he asks me to add two words to my search. A mournful hopeless "noooooooooooo....!" resounded in my head, echoing around the inside of my skull and resonating in the very empty pit of my stomach which growled menacingly. I had to drag it out of my adviser, what he wanted from this literature search. I was left to my hunger and evil thoughts for 1 minute, and then he walked back in to lecture me on how I disengage too easily, how he knows I'm very social, "do the emailing" (that is a direct quote), "have a nice boy to care for" (another direct quote), how I'm never going to make it in academia if I don't care about what I'm doing because it's so competitive, and it's very obvious I have no personal emotional involvement in what I'm doing, etc etc etc. I managed to resist the urge to let out a primal scream of rage, leap on the lab bench, and start hurling glassware around.

Instead I decided to pretend I wasn't angry and just pass it off as him throwing a hissy fit at me simple because I was the only one around. This worked for about 4 hours, and then I got a splitting headache. I finally got to eat at a quarter to 10 that night, which was awful. I couldn't form a complete thought. The splitting headache lasted all day Saturday, departing for the 2 hours I spent fencing, but then it came back and lasted into Saturday night, when I finally admitted that I was furious and I hated the state of Maryland and DC and the university and academia and it was a damn good thing my idiot adviser thought I'd never make it in academia because I want to get the fuck out anyway and go back to industry where people are pleasant, social, professional, and I get a bloody great paycheck for all my brains and trouble, and I hate it I hate it I hate it.

The headache promptly evaporated, and I realize now that I am doomed to a life of constant bitching and if I don't bitch, it is hazardous to my health. I gave Danny a chance to dump me now, now that he knew, but he declined. I think he secretly finds it amusing.

But sadly, the editing did not go away. Monday was a snowday (more on this later), Tuesday was me sitting like a huge fucking idiot waiting for the editing to start up again, but nothing hit my desk until the early evening, which sucked because I blew my gym time sitting like a moron at my desk because I didn't want my adviser to walk in and not see me there, and it was (technically) 33 pages of single spaced science shit. I really despise scientific writing. I got to sleep at 12:30 last night, and all I did was walk in the door, grumble, take a shower, and go to sleep.

Thank you, grad school, for doing your best to prevent me from ever having anything roughly resembling a sex life ever again or ever seeing my bf awake or him ever seeing me awake again. YOU BLASTED FUCKERS.

Along with grad school, I think DC is in it too, this whole making me miserable by thwarting my every move thing that's been going on. Because a bunch of my friends, Danny, and I had Monday off, we decided to find a happy hour. The bar that we couldn't get to on Friday because of my editing escapades sounded promising, and we hiked out in the cold and wet to find that IT WAS CLOSED ON MONDAYS. W. T. F. But then, we thought our problems were solved when we saw a big sign for half-priced Blegian beer! Turns out - we realized this after we got our check - it wasn't half-priced on Mondays. Only Stella Artois was half-priced on Mondays, but seriously, who'd pay $8 on a normal night for a lousy fucking Stella? Only in DC, people. Only in DC. So I was thwarted again! I was drunk, but thwarted. It inspired me to canvas yelp for happy hours the city over in my downtime between editing, but I can't find anything worthwhile. It's all the same, specials on shit beer (Budweiser, Miller Light), and the same shit for snacks; nachos, fries, quesadillas, burgers, wings. It has been a sad, sad week.

Now I'm sitting here eating a burrito that has too much cheese and not enough beans and salsa. I want a Maker's Mark manhattan (or eight) made by the older bartender with the suspenders who works at Clyde's in VA. I hate everything about that place except that guy and his manhattan. They have heinous "art" on the wall - think a ginormous nude mural, airbrushed to meet today's standards of denying the fact that people have nipples, penises, vaginas, body fat, and the like. It's as if Thomas Kinkade got drunk and started painting nudes. It is SO BAD. Good thing I was drunk when I was there.

Too bad I'm not drunk right now.

The Test(es). Heh heh heh.

I think the exam went well.  And if it didn't, I don't really care as long as I did well enough.  I recently discovered that despite really needing a good grade in this course I'm enrolled in, the name of it is a mystery to me.  Biophysical chemistry or biochemical physics or something like that.  

Really, as long as I do just well enough to not have to take it again, I'll be thrilled.  

Today one of my classmates stopped my instructor and I on our way to my makeup exam to say that he had this idea at 4 AM on Saturday night to describe human relationships in terms of the Gibbs free energy equation.  If you don't know what the Gibbs free energy equation is, look it up on Wikipedia because I've thought about it far too much for one day, and I have no desire to think about it anymore.  Fuck Gibbs and his free energy.  Anyway, his analyses of human relationships as summarized by him in the stairwell were really lame, and the idea was too ridiculous and geeky even for me.  That shit was funny in high school.  This guy looks like a disheveled, vaguely homeless, 11 year old version of Jerry Lewis covered in animal hair of some kind.  And he made sure to let the prof and me know that he has a girlfriend.  How do these people who look like they don't ever wash have significant others?  

Anyway, the prof asked me what I thought after that dude left, and I said that would not be a reason for staying awake at 4 AM on a Saturday morning.  

To totally change the subject, I've been editing my advisor's grant proposal all day, and as much as I love words, I hate reading right now.  In fact, I've had it with typing too.  I'm going to bed.  

Eyeballs

Holy crap, being sick was a bad thing not just because of the actual sickness or the wackiness from the antibiotics, but also because I missed 2 out of the 3 weeks of material that was taught for this exam. Dr. T. was kind enough to let me take it tomorrow instead of yesterday, but I am so not feeling this last-minute studying BS.

The first time I got the notes was Monday. 2 weeks of information in 3 days. Oh man. My eyes hurt. They're totally bloodshot and I look like a crazy person (well, more than usual). I had to run an experiment yesterday which took all day staring at fluorescence traces on the computer followed by staring at my notes all night. Today involved a 1-2 hour edit job for my PI and madd crazy cramming. How programmers and the like stare at things only a couple feet in front of their faces all day every day is beyond me.

So, this whole living in a concrete bunker means that at the very least I won't get skin cancer from being in the sun too much. But then I'll have low levels of vitamin D, so I'll die depressed and miserable. With bloodshot eyes. Good thing they close the eyes of corpses.

Modern medicine sometimes really, really works.

I spent 3 days with a nasty fever, when on the third day, I decided something must be done, and Danny took me to the doctor.  Walking down the hall, riding the elevator, and then walking out to the car was grueling.  I hauled myself into the waiting room, and somehow managed to hand the receptionist the correct piece of plastic from my wallet to update my insurance information and address.  (Either that, or I allegedly live at Victoria's Secret, or DSW, or something.)

The doctor gently poked, prodded, looked, and listened, and determined that I needed Big Guns.  And by Big Guns, I mean really heavy-duty antibiotics.  This was not good news for me, because I am allergic to - are you ready for this? - penicillin (and all derivaties thereof), sulfa drugs (and all derivatives thereof), and doxycycline (and likely all tetracycline drivatives as well).  Modern medicine and its bid for new antibiotics has not been much of a boon for me, save for what my doc refers to as vitamin Z, azythromycin.  

But judging by my fever and the narstiness accumulated in my nose and chest, a Z-pack wasn't going to cut it.  So I got Levaquin, which was described as well-tolerated by the doc.  I read about it, and holy fucking fuckers who fuck, the side effects sheet covers pretty much anything bad that can happen to your body, from the run-of-the-mill diarrhea to insomnia to suicidal thoughts to hallucinations to heart failure to liver failure to renal failure to spontaneously rupturing tendons - achilles and anything else - to numbness, tingling, and/or tremors in your extremities to hypoglycemia.  

Seriously.  

So I called back, and I was like "DUDE!!  Wtf?"  (Just with a stuffed nose and with a lot less energy.)  The pharmacist said the worst side effect is paranoia from reading the insert (har har, I thought... what a joker), and the doctor said that it really is very well-tolerated for the most part.  So after whinging and moaning to Danny, my mom, and my dad, and being a huge paranoid baby about the whole thing - I'm blaming my illness - I took my giant 750 mg horse pill, and prayed that my head wouldn't spontaneously blow off my shoulders because if it did, then that's one more horrific thing they'll have to write on the insert.  

It didn't.  The worst that happened was at 1 AM, I had to bolt to the toilet.  I sat there feeling like my insides were about to explode (I admit I was pleased it wasn't my head), and praying that becasue I was sitting on the toilet, my insides wouldn't choose to explode out my mouth.  But everything was under control, and aside from the gastrointestinal fireworks, I got an excruciating case of cotton mouth and insomnia that lasted until 4 AM.  

Which, when compared to the terrible things on the insert, was not bad.  (I half expected my spleen to exit my bellybutton, do a little ad-libbed soft shoe, recite some dirty limericks, and inform me it would be taking up residence in a locale far more exotic than my abdominal cavity.  I am quite pleased to report it is still in its proper place.)

However, I still called the next day to see if the cotton mouth, insomnia, etc. could be fixed, and I was told to cut my pills and take 2/3 of one every day until they were all gone.  I am happy to report that aside from ocasional feelings of extremely friendly silliness (which I am totally chalking up to the medication - I'm silly naturally, but believe me it's more than usual), I can take this antibiotic!  

Actually, despite all my hypochondriac tendencies and resistance to taking the damn pills, it's been sort of a comfort.  Levaquin is a seriously heavy hitter.  It's what they give people who've been exposed to anthrax, and it's always been a back-of-the-head idle concern of mine about what would happen if I was exposed, given that so many antibiotics are out of the question for me.  I loved the time I lived in NYC, and even though I hate it, I still have to live in the DC metro area.  Both are large metropolitan regions that are prime targets for terrorists, biological weapons, etc. and I want to move back to NYC the first chance I get... again, putting myself in a position where if there was a serious attack and people got exposed to anthrax, I'd likely be one of them.  So, you know, here's one less thing I'm even minorly worried about.  

And I'm feeling better.  And my head hasn't spontaneously blown off my shoulders!  What a bonus.

Arrgh.

I am so sick right now.  Holy shit.  I feel like crap.  And they chose today to drill up the parking lot immediately below my windows, so I closed them, and now the apartment temperature is slowly climbing into the 80's.  Which doesn't help because my temperature is hovering between 101 and 102 F.  

Fuuuuuuuuuck.  I have the plague.

Rock-Climbing

If at any point you start to feel like, "Hey, I'm looking pretty good!" the ultimate way to keep your pride in check is to realize that it's time to do laundry, all your normal gym clothes are rank-smelling, sweat stained, and unfit to wear so you have to wear spandex (death!) over your compression shorts and under your climbing harness.

First of all, compression shorts are amazing pieces of clothing. They're amazing if you have a problem with continuously pulling your hamstrings or other muscles in that general region. As the name suggests, they compress. I'm 5'11" and have weighed everything from 135 to 168, and there has never been a time when they have not generated a fat roll above the waistband or cut into the back of my thighs. Normally, I just think "Oh..." pull on thin warmups/baggy shorts and get on with it because this is a workout, not a fashion show.

But I was going climbing with the bf, and I needed to wear something. My legs weren't in a bare-able state, so spandex it was. I pulled the black spandex leggings on over my uber-strength Champion compression shorts (that almost come up to the bottom of my sports bra), topped the whole thing off with a wife beater, and I was pleasantly surprised enough to think, "Ok! Not bad! I'm hot!" We're not talking Doutzen Kroes hot, but it was still pretty good. And we drove off to the climbing gym.

After tossing our things in a locker, I tightened my harness, picked out my not-so-badass route on the wall, and up I went. The harness has a tendency to enhance the male - shall I quote Anchorman? - crotchal region, cut into thighs 75839 million times worse than compression shorts, and make your girl parts go numb if you're not careful. And I didn't much care, until (a) things down south were getting numb, and (b) the best climbers tend to be petite waify ladies with uber arms and shoulders, sans giant fencing butt muscles.

You know that feeling of "oh holy crap, what on earth am I doing here?" It flashed through my mind. First of all, I'm like 8 feet tall compared to every other lady in the place. Second, there's a certain rock climbing chic that I can't do mainly because I am 8 feet tall and all those tank tops would barely cover my chest, never mind make it all the way down to the waist band of my pants. Third, I am the opposite build for this sport. Rock climbing is good for upper body strength, which is why I do it at all (that, along with making Danny happy, and belaying him), and if I could somehow climb with my buttocks or thighs, I would be awesome. But given that my opposable thumbs are on my hands, I have to use my arms to do this so I suck. I had one moment of glory when I did a pullup on the wall, walking my feet up the vertical surface as I attempted to heave my bulk 2 feet closer to the ceiling. Danny told me it looked cool. It felt idiotic, but whatever. I have a sneaking suspicion that this is the closest I will ever get to doing a real pullup.

But I just felt ludicrous, mostly. It was a what am I doing here, all spandexy and pear-shaped, with this stupid harness outlining my already noticeabley large butt and cutting off crotch circulation kind of day. But I climbed until my fingers were red and sore, and beyond feeling idiotic it was a fine few hours. I ran and ellipticalled afterwards, throwing in some weighted step-ups so my lower half wouldn't feel neglected or hated on too much.

And don't even get me started on the barefooted (ewww!!) shirtless (and many have physiques that should definitely be contained in a tshirt) climbers who literally CLIP THEIR TOENAILS WHILE SITTING ON THE FLOOR IN FRONT OF EVERYONE. Gross. So gross. Oh lord, and the climbing jargon. They don't even have the brain cells to steal the word "gnarly" from surfers in full. In context, the phrase would be, "Dude, that move was gnarly!" In brain-dead climber speak, it would be, "Dude, that move was totally gnar-gnar!" Gnar-gnar. I will soon no longer be able to stifle the urge to choke someone who says that in my presence.

I really hate climbing culture. Everyone bills it as noncompetitive, but that's a huge lie. It's passive agressively competitive. I much prefer the lecherous, bacchanalian, hyper-competitive, in-your-face fighting culture of fencing. It's honest.

One bacterium at a time...

I have been working from 9 AM till 2 PM nonstop. I've grown some E. coli, made 2 sleeves of plates (like petri dishes; what you grow bacteria on), mixed up 2 kinds of buffers, labeled a bazillion tubes, added buffers and E. coli to the tubes, osmotically shocked them (grown in high-salt environment, you plunge them into low-salt environments) at regularly timed intervals, and plated them. So, now I have to make more plates for tomorrow and label more tubes and make more buffers.

I put a skull and crossbones on my plates so no one uses them. I didn't stop for like 5 hours because I am science MACHINE.

Last night was sea chanty night. This means Danny and I went to this pseudo-Scottish pub with some friends, get some beer and food, and listen to weird older men with creative conformations of facial hair sing sea chanties. They even have a songbook. Actually, there's this one dude who occasionally comes with his violin (is it considered a fiddle in this case?), and at some point during the evening, whips it out and proceeds to passionately play the instrument much to the chagrin of anyone within earshot. He closes his eyes, brandishes his bow, and moves with his music. And by moves with his music I mean jerks and thrashes around like a spastic chicken. He may suck it hardcore, and I may feel like a nasty young'un for being as tickled as I am, but it's very entertaining.

The sea chanty regulars appear to be primarily older men who look like slightly saggy and swelled up versions of their former Dungeons and Dragons playing selves. I doubt any of them really spent any time at sea, although maybe one or two are scientists who possibly study various aspects of the ocean. Or maybe a couple spent some time in the merchant marines. But the truth of it is, I get the feeling they're indulging their RPG pining in a way that's deemed socially acceptable so their teenage children will continue to talk to them. Some of them have chinstraps (full beards without the moustache), some have moustache straps (full beards without the chin part; I don't think that's what they're called, but men's facial hair coiffure has never been a specialty of mine), there are mutton chops, huge full beards sculpted into a point at the chin, and everything in between. They conjure up fake British/Scottish/Irish accent amalgams to sing. One man brings his own tin flagon from which to quaff his beverages of choice.

It was great.  If I sing along but do it sarcastically, does that make me as insane as they are?  

I really like the gym.

If someone told me I could spend the rest of my life going to the gym, eating, and sleeping, I would be in seventh heaven. Knowing this has made me doubt my academic/professional choices more than once, but eh. I've started, things are going in a good direction, and the odds are I'll be happy I've done what I'm doing in the long term.

So, I changed my Monday lifting routine. I started out doing bicep curls, tricep extensions, chest presses, shoulder presses, and one other shoulder exercise (where you're standing and your arms hang by your sides and you lift them up and out to the sides keeping them straight), but I don't really need to directly develop biceps and triceps. Now I'm doing those lifts I just described, pairing them with the same thing, just to the front instead of to the side. I kept the shoulder presses, pairing them with this thing where you bend over, feet shoulder width apart, knees flexed, back arched, and let your arms hang straight down to the ground. Then you raise the weights to the side, keeping arms straight (kind of like an airplane?). They are a bitch. The last set I'm doing involves chest presses, and then this move where you put one knee and one hand on the weight bench, stand on your other leg, and pull your hand hold the weight to your chest, keeping your elbow high. The last part of the set is just tricep dips off the weight bench. Then I do abs and back.

I don't feel particularly tired after, which is good seeing as Monday night is footwork night. I just get ravenously hungry. The rice and beans, banana, and protein bar I packed needed to be supplemented with a spinachy thing from the food coop here. Spinach, whole wheat fillo dough, some olive oil, and spices. Not too bad. I plan on resting Tuesday, repeating Monday's lifting on Wednesday coupled with a fencing lesson at night, resting Thursday, lifting from the abs down on Friday (haven't exactly decided what's going into that workout), and going to a light practice/help coach on Saturday. Sunday is when I laze around and resist the routine urge to get dressed.

I need to remember to talk to Janusz (fencing club owner) about ordering blades tonight... someday in the hopefully not-too-distant future I want to start competing again. Don't tell anyone. :-P

Nuttier than squirrel poo.

I had class again on Thursday morning. It was much more... normal, I guess. I purchased a recorder for two reasons, first, if this crazy professor of mine comes out with any other gems of psychosis, I want to have it on record, and second, it's good for studying to have the lectures at my fingertips. You know, I need a good nickname for this professor. Toto. Yes. Professor Toto.

Anyway, I recorded lecture (with permission, mind you), and it was disappointingly uneventful. As people got up to go, I switched my machine off. It was only AFTER I switched it off that we were informed the squirrels of the DC metro area were starving this winter because of a dearth of acorns resulting from unfavorable weather. Collectively, the class blinked. Apparently, Dr. Toto's neighbor was leaving food out for the squirrels, Dr. Toto had amassed hundreds of energy bars from the myraid of races completed over the years, and were these energy bars safe for squirrel consumption?

The class blinked again.

I said, "Eh, old Powerbars, methadone, what's the difference?"

Dr. Toto looked askance at me.

"Oh, you know, a few years back people got in trouble for feeding their methadone to the squirrels in the city."

Dr. T. said, "What?!?! ...Oh, you're from NY." Dismissing wave of the hand.

"Yes. And so are you."

"Well. Still. I may put food out for my squirrels. I don't want them to starve to death!"

Dr. T. is indeed, as the phrase goes, nuttier than squirrel poo. Certainly this winter's squirrel poo, at any rate. To quote Sex and the City, squirrels are just rats in cuter outfits. I have this image in my head of the crazies I used to see in the Bronx and Washington Sq. Park in Manhattan proper feeding the local wildlife. (Local wildlife that could in many cases open a shock-cord tied metal garbage can in less time than it'll take you to say "fuggeddaboudit" even though they lack opposable thumbs.) Prof. Toto is 3 showers, 8 secondhand grubby shawls, and one metal shopping cart away from being one of them. I say the DC area squirrels need to *ahem* grow some NUTS. HAHAHAHAH.

And isn't the UK having a problem with too many grey squirrels outcompeting their native red squirrels for food and resources? Why not ship them to Prof. T's backyard?

Guilty pleasure.

I never was a Goth chick.  

I did manage to spend a good deal of high school stomping around with all my hair chopped off in army surplus pants and wife beaters.  On other days, I never bothered to get dressed or take care of my hair, or occasionally, I deigned to put on a pair of jeans and a sweater.  But occasionally.  Very occasionally.  

It was a rebellion against all the perfect girls who wore Juicy Couture and very expensive jeans and shoes and had the perfect hair.  My hair was never perfect.  I couldn't be perfect.  I wasn't allowed to have preferences in clothes either, because we couldn't afford to.  ...Or my parents were worried I'd turn into a total priss.  This fear of theirs lasted until I chopped off my hair and stopped wearing women's clothes.  My mom told me I was dressing like a lesbian, at which point I informed her so was she.  To her credit, she didn't get angry.  Instead she discovered Kohl's, which works for her because she's 5'8" and older.  It didn't work for me because at the time I was 5'10" and no bargain priced clothes ever fit you in you're a girl and really tall.  

But in the interim between high school cluelessness and my college education, I figured some things out for myself.  The surprise was that I never got into Goth or new Victorian.  Not only because I wasn't one of the cool kids, but it surprised me in retrospect because I loved The Secret Garden when I was little.  And when Jane Eyre was forced upon us sophomore year in high school, I fell madly in love with that story too.  The idea of large, old, buildings, with meandering passageways and ridiculous intricate details at every turn was fascinating.  The idea of secrets - family mysteries, hidden passages, and false walls/doors/drawers/etc. - was captivating.  What could lie behind the distracting bulwark of curliques, woodworking, brooches, and overgrown rose bushes?  

And this has continued into my neophyte adulthood, when I became embarrassingly obsessed with Harry Potter.  I think it's got to do with discovery and discernment (so maybe it's good I chose scientific research, no?).  All the magic, the juxtaposition of real and fanciful, modern and archaic, and logic and willpower.  Something like that.  

So when I read about this new steam punk thing, I was like, "DUUUUDE."  And I love it, especially the computers some crazy person modified to look like wood and inlay and tubes and piping.  I've seen the countless brooches, earrings, necklaces, cuffs, and other baubles people have made from watch parts, gears, and pins.  They're all quite beautiful, but so few of them work, and that's what really fascinates me, the ones that look like some odd gadget but really do something, like tell time, allow me to check my email, or let me teleport through space at the turn of a gear.  I'd never do myself up like some of the more hardcore steam punk types.  I feel like I'm a little too old for all that characterized dressing.  

But I am a little sad that I missed my 14 yr old window to be a crazy person... I'll just have to wait until I'm 60 to wear spats, I guess.  

Urgh.

I am taking The Very Last Class I Ever Have To Take. This would normally be cause for celebration, and truthfully, I try to remember it whenever I'm feeling particularly resentful. But today, the first lecture, reminded me why I hate my department so very, very much and why, if I ever do graduate it will be an accomplishment ten times over because I have stacked my committee against me in an astronomical way. One of my committee members is teaching this class.

First of all, not the worst of personal information, but personal enough information was disclosed by said instructor about a student who was present in front of the whole class. The student respectfully said that it was inappropriate, they did not appreciate it, and they left the room. Then the instructor babbled on for a while after they left justifying their (I don't want to disclose gender) actions. I hope the student files a complaint.

Then they're going on about this textbook that is allegedly "fun to read." Just so much FUN. I'm thinking of what I classify as a fun read, and it ain't a mathematically focused text on statistical thermodynamics, that's for sure. And then they went on about this impossible program we're going to have to use to graph HW problems and how we won't be able to use anything else. Oh, and they won't lend out the cd with the program on it because they feel guilty about sharing it when they only bought 4 copies, and it's only available on the chemistry computer lab computers, which is useless if you have labwork to do during the day. And at night? Well, you're just going to have to stay at school where people get mugged, robbed, and sexually assaulted, assuming the computer lab doesn't just close.

Why not just tell us we have to write all our assignments in ancient Greek to really tie our hands?

But all that aside, we had a mini lecture, too. During that lecture, we saw figures from a paper dealing with a new antibiotic. It showed the antibiotic's activity on wild type bacteria, which have pumps that pump out harmful substances from the cell, which is partially how bacteria can be resistant to various drugs. I noticed they tested bacteria lacking the pumps, and I asked why they even bothered if they were concerned with antibiotic efficacy in wild types, because that's what people would be infected with, anyway. It was made clear that my question was not welcome. The fact that I even had my hand up was obviously a surprise. I got a bullshit answer. The fact that it was obviously bullshit made me very pleased with myself.

I plan on asking every question I can think of in the same spirit of how this individual treated me during my candidacy exam (which was miserably, bordering on inhuman).

In 1.25 hours, I have accumulated so much stress. I see this person standing up there, lecturing us, obviously smart, but so wacked out of their mind. Where do they come from, the people like this? How do they manage to have relationships with other individuals and procreate? Why aren't they weeded out of the gene pool simply because no one can stand them long enough to have sex with them? (Apparently they can stand them long enough to have sex with them... at least once, at any rate.)

No wonder I gained 15 pounds in this shit hole. But the upshot is I really value my boss in light of who I could be working for. I'm aware enough to recognize that even though my second favorite committee member is occasionally brusque and rude, this person ultimately means well and I've earned their respect by being bright, questioning the right things, and performing well. So, no matter hwo much I hate my current instructor and wish they'd just disappear into the ether, I know they won't. I will have to deal with this twice a week at 8 AM. It will suck like nothing else, but it's the only way out.

Knees and toes, knees and toes

I'm sitting at the table in the part of my lab where we have a microwave, a fridge/freezer for harmless buffers and lunches, and not one but two coffee machines on a counter where we unofficially take turns leaving cookies and other treats for everyone in the lab.  Why am I sitting here and not at my desk?  Because my desk is less than 3 feet from the wall, the labbench is practically behind my head, and I can't sit there for long comfortably.  

I can't stretch out my legs at my desk.  I didn't realize how much stretching my legs out plays into my ability to think properly.  This is another good reason for me to not wear skirts.  I hate having to keep my legs crossed/together when I'm preoccupied with something other than sparkling conversation, drink, and food.  

Actually, when I took the electronic GRE's (entrance exams for graduate school), I stretched out my legs and kicked the surge protector plug out of the wall.  The computer promptly shut off, so did my heart, and I had an internal silent meltdown/panic attack/stroke/apoplectic fit.  A long story short, everything worked out; they were able to get my exam back, I was able to finish it, and the rest, as they say, is history but I had a few really terrifying minutes there.  

All because I had to stretch out my legs.  

If I was really good, I'd figure out a way to sue the school for non-ergonomically correct practices...

You stay classy, America!

Can I just say, I was very impressed with Obama's speech, comportment, and the whole thing.  He could have taken the snarky route (I would have expected that from John Kerry), but he didn't.  He gave the political version of coach-speak.

What do I mean by that?  I mean the usual, "We're going to give it 150%.  We're going to stick to the fundamentals, play our own game, and we're going to move the ball/puck down the court/field/arena.  The more goals/baskets we get, the better.  We'll play a tight defense, try not to let anything past us, and stick to what we know best, etc."  Kind of like that, just with politics.

Anyway, it was good.  Including everyone - Christians, Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and nonbelievers - was totally excellent.  Obviously, the whole thing is based in the Christian religion (perhaps another reason why we'll never live to see a Jewish president), but acknowledging that everyone of all faiths is responsible for the country was a very good touch.  Kind of a "this may not be what I personally believe, but that's no reason for me to disregard your contributions."  Spot on!  

Oh, and I particularly liked the bit about science.  It's definitely something to look forward to, this having a president who believes in science.  There are things of which I'm skeptical.  I do wonder how he'll handle things like Iraq, where an immediate sudden withdrawal of troops will absolutely not work, but having this uneducated view of the Iraqi people and refusing to learn about their cultural psychology, customs, or traditions has gotten absolutely ridiculous.  And the tax reform.  I wonder how he's going to do it, now that those upper tier tax brackets Obama wanted to tax the pants off of have been decimated by the financial crisis.  

Oh, and the benediction?  I chuckled at the rhymed ending, didn't really get it, but then I read this excellent and explanatory posting about the origins of the verse.  And I thought, ok, different generation, different perspective, and it made sense why Rev. Lowery said what he said.  Racist?  No, not really.  Grinding into the dirt a nasty rhyme from a different time?  Yeah, much more likely.  

And just so everyone knows, the Chief Justice messed up the oath of office - or as Senator Diane Feinstein said, the "oaf" of office - in his placement of the word "faithfully."  Not Obama's fault.  You can check me on that.  Props to Obama for waiting for the CJ to get it right and smiling.

You know, speaking of verbal gaffs, everyone hates Bush now.  I think he'll be remembered in history as having a bit more going for him.  People have seemed to forget he is responsible for the lack of any follow-up attacks by any terrorist organizations, likely helped in part by this ruling stating that wiretapping by gov't is indeed legal in cases where people are suspected spies.  Anyway, read the article.  Of course there are openings for abuse by those in power, but I have a feeling it's done more good than harm, given the absence of new 9/11's.  

Ok, that's the end of the political stuff for now.  

On to fashion!  First of all, can I just say that I LOVED Aretha-Queen-of-Soul Franklin's hat?  So old school, so badass, and so glamorously classy.  And has anyone else besides me notice that no matter what the new first lady is wearing, HER SHOES NEVER MAKE HER TALLER THAN OBAMA??!?!  Hahahahahah!!!  I'm about the same height as Mrs. Obama (techinically a fraction of an inch taller), and check out her footwear!  Never more than 2-inch heals so she's never taller than her man!  I know that game... But she looks sharp.  I like her style.  Very Washington, DC acceptable, but excellent choice in colors and designers.  Seriously, unless you have some tint to your skin, that dress color will make you look like hell.  Mrs. Obama, if you ever manage to work ONE Roberto Cavalli piece into some public ensemble, I will be so impressed.  

In the meantime, if anyone spots her in higher heels, please alert me.  I will eat it up.