Binders

In the back of my car, there's a crate of binders. Empty, used binders. It's right next to the other crate that holds my Mobile 1, my ATF, my paper towels, my next fuel filter, my jumper cables. My Windex. My antifreeze.

The binders came from the old administrative assistant of my program who was just going to get rid of them. And I said I'd take them, because that's why I survive in the lab. Binders.

Taking all my work, all my protocols, all my data, all my notes and putting them into 3-ring binders. At least that's the idea. I'm surrounded by binders even as I sit here now. But the back log of legal pads, notebook pages, FlowJo printouts.. It's epic. It all needs to come together in one coherent record of my time here, of my thesis work.

The crate of binders slides back and forth as I take corners in the city. I'm not driving recklessly. It's just that the crate is on a piece of cardboard, which lines the carpet between the back seats and the tailgate. The cardboard is there because there was a great spillage of automatic transmission fluid once, about a year ago. The oozing red liquid stained most of what it touched. I picked up the roll of paper towels that had been nearby, and watched the viscous lubricant drip off the now pinkish roll, onto the street.

"Ahh, fuck."

The cardboard is bent and torn, gouged from countless suitcases, moving boxes, laundry baskets, lamps, bookcases, and grocery bags. It was once a box for SteriCup filters, a box I poached from the lab. Biomedical supplies are shipped in the best boxes. You'd think the crate would have built itself a little niche in the corrugated cardboard by now. But it hasn't.

Or you'd think that I'd have taken it out by now.
But then again, I have a high threshold for forgetting to do things. Like forgetting to say Happy Birthday. Forgetting to do laundry. Forgetting to check my oil. Forgetting not to drink too much. Forgetting how I said I wasn't going to care anymore.
And for that matter, forgetting not to care.

God, I'm trying not to care anymore. About you, men. About you, love. About how jealous I am that those binders have a crate to hold them.
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Pinch Hitter

I slept last night. It was glorious. I was so happy when I woke up this morning and realized what happened. Of course the manner in which I woke up was a little sad, since Dave's cat Toast basically decided to camp out on my face at around 630am.

Big D had me over to watch the game, which, sadly, we lost. No World Champions here. But in a totally different way I won last night.

In September, Dave had come down with some kind of viral bug, and I went over to take care of him. Got him the whole shebang of OTCs, Puffs Plus, movies, took his temperature, etc. And it turns out he appreciated that more than I thought. Because last night he basically didn't give me another option except to come over to his place so he could make me soup and tea, and generally be my surrogate boyfriend.

I fell asleep on his sofa, with my head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat, his arms around me, and him slowly breathing in my hair and occasionally kissing my forehead. What... heaven... What wonderful, contented happiness that was.

And when the game was over, he woke me up, took me to bed and became the big spoon.

Why am I not dating him.
Well, good question.
He told me last night that while I am "completely marriage material" and he would be "stupid not to propose to me every day until I said yes", instead he was attracted to psychotic women who don't have their shit together. I really have no idea what that really means about me.

And for my part, while I love Dave, and I tell him that I love him all the time, I know we couldn't be a good couple. He needs constant attention and reminders of love. And... I didn't do that as much as he needed when we dated briefly. He needs someone with more time than I do. And he talks more than I do--which is nice--but it's kept him from really hearing me on more than one occasion when I needed to talk to someone. That's not really what I need either.

Lastly, he doesn't read this blog. So.
I know if I wanted to get rid of him for good, I just need to sit him in front of his computer with this address for about 20-30 minutes, and that'd just about do it.
Release the crazy.

But my God. We have the best chemistry. The best make out sessions I've had with anyone. Well, if I believe him, the best we've both had with anyone. I've never slept with him, although we came close in Atlantic City that night. We both stopped short. We've both been unable to explain why.
Although I think we both secretly have our reasons.

If not having phenomenal sex is the cost of having what I had last night, then I'm fine with it. I'm totally, perfectly fine with it. I got exactly what I needed for the nine innings that the Phillies got whupped. I got to feel loved. And I'm not sure he's ever going to realize how much that meant to me. I feel like a new person. I feel like I'm walking tall. I feel like... like I got a good night's sleep. Read More.

He called you Baby, Baby-Baby, all Night Long

Hello, darkness my old friend.
I've come to talk to you again.

Welcome to the tenth day of insomnia. Fortunately, I've forsaken paid programming on cable for XPN's World Cafe tonight. Some pret-ty sweet tunes cracking out on the airwaves. One eskimO "Kandi" is a fun cover of Candi Staton's track, "He called me Baby". Which is a cover of Patsy Cline's classic.

But.
I digress.

I need to sleep. I NEED to sleep.
I'm already getting sick, after all these days of really shitty sleep. And I have a huge day tomorrow. Dagh.

Nothing good can come of this not-sleeping business. I'm going to be a zombie soon. Zombie with a fever. Zombie with a lot of calls coming in tonight. Something about the full moon, I guess. Something about guys calling to say, I'm really sorry I was such a jerk, can I come over? Something about that one guy still calling me sweetie and asking when I get off work. Something about me just wanting to stay under my covers, always the solo insomniac. Read More.

Hollywood Treatment

22 October 2009

I don't know how Philadelphia manages to be so dirty. But it achieves filthdom all the time. In so many ways.

It was a grueling Tuesday-Wednesday stretch. Starting experiments at 6p is not advised. I ended up doing another all-nighter, fighting with cells, and centrifuges, timers and flow cytometers, gel boxes and calculators.

And then my boss yelled at me for it.
That's all I have to say about that.

So I was angry, tired and hungry, trying to get out of work. The 40 bus, of course, took its sweet time getting to 36th and Spruce. The only other woman waiting for the bus was leaning against the building on the sidewalk and texting. I guess she didn't see the bus coming, because it was stopped and I was about two steps from getting on, when she comes blowing up my right side. Pushing me out. of. the. way. She gets on ahead of me. Really. Real-ly.

By the time I got to my stop, I felt like that scene in Kill Bill Vol. 2 where Uma Thurman, having just busted her way out of the coffin Bud buried her in, is walking across the street to the diner. The dust and dirt is just puffing off her as she stomps under a streetlight. Priceless scene. A+.


However, MY stomping and puffing wasn't nearly as successful. I was steaming down the brick sidewalk on 22nd, when suddenly I felt both my feet come together, pinned suddenly to a spot on the ground about 6 inches behind the rest of me. And, down I went.

It's tricky how mangled wire hangers can blend in so well amongst hundred-year-old bricks. I tore my jeans. I skinned my knee. I ate sidewalk, hard.

After that, I felt more like I had just played that scene in Miss Congeniality where Sandra Bullock is coming out of the airplane hanger and then trips and just disappears from view. You've seen it. It was on all the commercial trailers.

I walked the rest of the way home, walked in the house, walked up the stairs, peeling off clothes as I went. As it was the middle of the day, I was fairly sure I could have some naked time. I went to the kitchen sink, I grabbed the Lysol, and I walked upstairs to the bathroom. The hottest water I could get went in the tub, and I scrubbed that bastard until it was super clean.

I made tea with honey while the tub filled, dissolving bath salts. I freed my favorite candle from my bookcase, and lit all three wicks. I grabbed my book.

And I sat in that steaming hot bath for one hour and thirty minutes.
Best answer I've had all year.
It was delicious.
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You Look Liked

I hate to say it. But my family makes really cute babies. Who then grow up to be really cute kids. And then they grow up to be really attractive people.

Exhibit A: My cousin, Margot. I remember when she was boring BORN (I seriously didn't mean to ever type boring... what in the world)--anyway, she was SUCH a cute baby. And now she's growing up to be quite a nice, polite, smart little girl.








It's so strange. No matter who marries into the family, the kids always have the same traces of my dad's side. I can just totally see it in all of us. In grade school and high school, people automatically knew I was one of the daughters in my family. At college I was constantly asked if I was related to this sister or that one.



Exhibit B: My niece. This photo accentuates her habit of moving at the speed of light, so I could barely eek out a dozen photos of her that weren't superbly blurred. Still, I think it's easy to see she's the cutest 16-month-old kid on the planet. And she's hilarious. Like her mom, she's got the entertainer gene.

Oh, here's a better one:















Exhibit C: On the left, my cousin and one of my best friends. She's gorgeous, and awesome, and I miss her so much. We haven't been keeping in touch nearly as much as we should, but I still think she's a perfect example of the great people I'm related to.

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The Jerk Store

You know how they say "Don't go grocery shopping when you're hungry"? Well, I'd like to add, "And don't go quickmatching when you're 'hungry'." Because it is likely to burn you.

I am constantly, consistently amazed at the available men in the world. Where do they think girlfriends come from? Where lightning strikes a rainbow? The standards these dudes come up with... whew. If they even applied these same requirements to themselves, it'd be a different ballgame. Basically no girl is worth dating unless they're a nun version of Megan Fox. Waiting patiently and fertiley, yet virginally, for him to knock on the door.

And I know this already. I know that online dating is just a train wreck of instant judgments and dismissal.

Yet. Still. When the urge hits, and I find myself on OKC, I become a "star whore". Guys who might get 2 or 3 stars any other day, suddenly get promoted to fours and fives. This is probably, in some way, directly proportional to the last time I made out with someone.

Despite these acts of sporadic star generosity, it doesn't seem to matter. Apparently a guy doesn't get that I'm interested until I full-on message him. Even if it's some random, uncomfortable stupid little blurb about "hi... I, um.. you're cute. and... if you think I'm cute..."

But I try to avoid that blurbage like the plague, so I slave away to find the thing in the profile that made me go hmmm. I'll sit there and think and think and come up with some kind of witty little "in" to a conversation, click send with trepidation... annnd...

If I do happen to get a reply it's usually someone looking for strings-free sex. Someone who does drugs. Someone who doesn't like children, or lives at home, or has no career ambitions, or likes country music. Or all of the above. Clearly, I'm doing something wrong.

So, in an effort to combat this cycle of banging my head against the firewall, I went a different route. After talking to Dave last night, I wandered onto okc to window shop. And somehow I stumbled across a profile of a guy who was a 92% match, but who responds rarely to messages (red light). I kept going. But his profile was intriguing, so I went back, and he happened to be online. So I just... IM'd him. Not expecting anything. And lo and behold, we started talking. About math. And string theory. And multiverses. I was in heaven. Sheer blissful heaven.

Before the end of the conversation, he wanted my number, my email, whatever. 3 seconds later he Facebook friended me, and because we happen to be reading the same book, he suggested talking again when we're done to compare notes. This is what I call, a win.

However, this is also an isolated event. An outlier on the trend of online dating. An improbable collision of two stubborn, selective nerds. And no, I don't see it going anywhere, because we spent the whole night talking nerdy to one another and never got into the dating conversation fodder. But it was nice. And it halfway renewed my faith in the dating machine.

...Riiiiiiight up until I read the other OKC messages I got back from spotting quickmatch-wannabes and sending my blurbs, which read like this:

1. hji, i like ur smile. are u lonely tonite?
Not that lonely.

2. Thanks for the message. But I don't think your my type.
My type what.

3. Well, that's really nice of you to say.
That's right. 3 just stopped there. Good job, dude. Follow up much?

In light of all this disparaging feedback, I considered not documenting my math nerd encounter, but I realized that finding the 1 good one out of a million jerks is still something to write blogs about. And to think I owe it to the Large Hadron Collider, which is about as big a failure in creating dark matter as I am at creating a meaningful relationship. But cheers anyway to the LHC for possibly finding me a boyfriend. Big wheel keep on turning.
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Poe

I dreamt tomorrow would have prettier things to say than,
"You look like shit.
What's your problem, bitch.
Your legs feel like sandpaper.
You can't do anything right."
Because that day,
never should have taken place.
This day in my life,
still can not explain.

Working in the lab, all of a sudden this song comes on a genius playlist from my laptop, playing over the stereo system I've spread across the benches. This song, a song by Poe. A song I know every single word to, even though it's not Trigger Happy Jack, or Angry Johnny, or any of the ones that have been on the radio. I know every word because I learned every word, when I was in sixth grade and I first got the Hello album. The tune sent me back to laying on my stomach in my room, listening intently through the Sony headphones my sister gave me (now worn to shreds almost). I played that song over and over until I knew each verse. And I learned it so well, that even now I know every word, every break, every pause. And I'd forgotten I knew it. So all of a sudden I was standing with a pipetter in my gloved hands, looking blankly straight up into the air, hypnotized, saying all the words, trying to remember how I know it.

How do I know all of that when I can't even keep a simple memory of a conversation. Is that where all the space in my brain went? To Poe lyrics? please no.

But that aside, wow. That song has such deeper significance in my life now. I hate it sometimes when songs do that. Ugh. Damn cliches of the real world.
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Mmmm... Posty.

(Sorry, Quiznos) Well, look what we have here! A beautiful Sunday, a huge cup of La Colombe, and a six-hour incubation. PRIME TIME for catching up on blog posts. ...and other work.

But mostly blog posts.

I'd also like to give a Tip of my Hat to Comoprozac for his 600 posts, and counting. This is actually number 599 for me. After starting post-dec back in Jan 2006, I can't really grump about having averaged a little less than 200 posts a year. Some were lower impact or quality or volume than others, but they were still engagement with this site, so I count them.

And now a Wag of my Finger to those of you who have forsaken your respective blogger spaces. What's this. I have fewer and fewer feeds in my bloglines, and it... makes me work more when that happens. So jump on it, all of you fools! I always enjoy reading your various blurbs, whatever the content.

Seriously, I only posted a photo yesterday, so that's practically negative content quantitatively, although you might have known what I meant by it. So please, have at it. Blog your fingers off. And keep reading. Read More.