Silver Lake

Mr. Higgy-Piggie and I used to walk almost every night. It was a walk through the neighborhood, sometimes varied slightly, but we always went to Silver Lake Park. Silver Lake Park is a very tiny park on the edge of Newtown, at the end of the Newtown trail. It's so tiny and insignificant that when I called the Newtown Parks and Rec Department, they didn't know it existed. ("I don't think there is such a park," she told me. I wondered if perhaps my imagination is better than I thought.)

The park is really just a bridge over a creek, a couple of fields (no picnic tables or anything; just field), and a very short path to a small body of water that someone very generously called Silver Lake. It's a small, stagnant pond which we just called "Goose Poo Pond" as, well, lots of geese without a lot of water movement. They installed a fountain which ran for one year, and it actually seemed to help, but the next year, no more fountain, so we figured the funding must have run out.

For a small park, there was a pretty good diversity of animals. Geese, obviously, the occasional duck, one swan who would give us the stink-eye as if we were invading his space (who we referred to as "Belligerent Swan"). We would occasionally see beavers, who, one night, gnawed down all the little trees, then seemed to disappear. Big bull frogs, who always scared the hell out of me. Bunnies, squirrel, deer, that sort of thing. We could stand on the bridge and see the fish and turtles.

The last walk we took was the day we had our "big talk." We needed air, to get out of the house, so we did our usual walk, ending at Silver Lake Park. As we walked down the path, almost to the lake, I saw something in the path. It was some animal that had been dead a short while; I have no idea what it was. But it was awful. Other animals had clearly gotten to it. This horrible thing, there in the path. 

We quickly turned around. That was the last walk to Silver Lake.

Nothing else matters here

Today GM declared bankruptcy, which is a shame for a lot of people. They're closing a bunch of plants, which just adds to the number of folks who have already lost their jobs. I'm reading about where these plants are located: Ypsilanti, Columbus, Pontiac. It really is sad. 

But there was also this this article in the New York Times about car dealerships closing. Which, I'm sorry, I just don't have the sympathy for the car salesmen that are out of jobs. I'm sure there are some perfectly nice guys (and women, but, really, mostly guys) that are car salesmen. But, you know, most of them: pain in the ass. 

I'm okay at the haggling thing, but the idea of it is just annoying. I hate that you might get one price one day, another price a different day. That if you crack too soon, maybe you're out some cash. I hate, hate, hate, the little tricks: "this would be your monthly payment" (but how much is the car, exactly?) "this is the price of the car (minus your trade-in)." Of course, what I hate the most is the way they treat you. I've had salesmen question what I could afford, wonder why I'd want a stick shift, and get annoyed at me because the color of the car wasn't the most important thing to me ("but you're a girl!" I swear to God, that's what he said.)

I feel bad when anyone is out of a job, but car salesguy, not as much.

It's starting to wear me down

I'm sick of house hunting. Really. I'm just fed up with the whole thing. I want to crawl into bed and wake up three months from now, magically moved into a new house, with my stuff unpacked. Heck, I'll even take keeping it in boxes -- I can unpack it myself, thanks.

I find that even looking at listings of houses is making me a bit tired. Another crappy kitchen. Another boring shower. They're starting to look alike. Have I seen that fireplace before? I think I know that purple bedroom.

I want my house to magically appear. I got to redfin constantly, hoping that it will be there. I'm afraid that I'm getting so tired of this whole process that one day I'll see a house and just throw up my hands go say, "Fine, let's be done. This one will work." That I'll settle. And there's a part of me that thinks, well, would it be so bad? It would let me get on with my life.

But I don't want to settle, I want to love it. I'm just getting impatient, you know.

Walking away

Well, apparently I was too insulting. I put in a bid for the hot mess of a house and they were like, "yeah, we're not even going to answer that." So, yes, I am still available, if you know a nice place that will treat me nice.

This is probably not a bad thing. The house really is a mess. It would probably just lead to heartache. I mean, what would I do with those crazy holes in the ceiling anyway? Maybe they're just there to let out the bad spirits -- patching them up may only mess with the feng shui. Even the "good" rooms, the kitchen, the family room, they had issues. Yes, I must remind myself that it's for the best.

I am getting anxious. Of course, the rational side of me knows that there is a house out there for me. I'm starting to get sick of waiting. I'm sure it will all work out, but there are days I'm searching for the fast forward button.

Anyway, I've convinced myself that the hot mess needs an owner that is not me. I will miss the phone by the toilet.

My Latest Love

I may have found a house. I know, it took me long enough. I did have, well, complications, which is a big part of why it has taken so long. But, today, I put in a bid and now it's cross-fingers time.

Let me tell you about it: it's a hot mess. And, yet, I can't stay away. I first saw this house months ago. The good: glorious kitchen (a 15-foot island!), a lovely yard, good location, a glorious kitchen (oh, yeah, it's really [potentially] beautiful). The bad: wacked out master bathroom (with bidet -- ugh!), weird holes in the ceiling (yeah, we're looking at a pretty intense home inspection), missing kitchen cabinet doors, inch of dust on the ceiling fans, lots of little things that make you wonder, "Are they actually trying to sell this house?"

It does scare me. It is quite possible that these people have done no maintenance on it. (Why, yes, those are the original air filters on the furnace, is that a problem?) Here's one: the fan in the one bathroom is missing -- what the hell? Or, here's a better question: what the hell am I thinking buying this house? But the place draws me in. It's got personality.

I have been looking at smaller, more reasonable houses. But those houses will always be starter houses. The house that you hope to move out of someday. This house, while a bit of a mess, could be cleaned up, fixed up, and really be awesome. I can see wanting to stay there. Plus, this house, it fits me. It has things I want (good kitchen, nice but minimal yard, nice family room). Some of its weaknesses (only three bedrooms and one really small one, no real dining room) just don't matter to me. I just hope that they actually want to sell it. We'll see how negotiations go (although I did put in a really insulting offer...)

But, seriously, there's a phone right by the toilet. I mean, what the hell?

Count one to ten

There are times I wonder what might have happened. What would have happened if Mr. Higgy-Piggie would have gotten that pair-programming job in DuPont Circle? (I guess he's technically still Mr. HP, at least for a while longer.) What if he had gotten that job that was in Germantown? What if we had sold the house right away, or had loved a house down here? Would I be doing what I am doing now, I wonder. 

I can always point to things that cause the changes but what about the things that don't happen that cause those changes? I remember being excited about when Mr. HP was coming here, what our life would look like. There are times I look at the houses we were considering and I think, if we lived there, would we have been happy? And it really wasn't so long ago.

Right or wrong

Every week I read "The Ethicist" in "The New York Times" and it almost always pisses me off. Not that I disagree with some of his conclusions or advice (although it's almost always cutesy and a bit random: "Return the ball but keep the bat" or some nonsense like that.) But it does make me wonder: how does someone practice ethics for a living? What qualifies someone as a professional in the ethics department?

When I was in grad school, it was a requirement that we take a bioethics course. It was taught by that media whore Arthur Caplan. (Oh, you know who he is; you've seen him giving his opinion on CNN, MSNBC, all those places. I'm sure you have. I don't think he ever turns down an opportunity to flap his gums.) This was a 3-day course and all I can say is that there's three days of my life I'll never get back. Here's what I learned: (1) Nazis: not ethical (2) Tuskegee Study: also not ethical. Hey, thanks Caplan!

Seriously, if, for one split second, you think Mengele was conducting research in an ethical fashion, a few days with Arthur Caplan will not be changing you. I guess that's the question: can a course change your ethics? Can a few talks keep you from submerging kids in ice water? "Oh, now I get it! That's wrong! I'll stop that now."

(Although the course was held in the beautiful auditorium of the Archeology and Anthropology Museum, which almost did make it worth the three days. It is seriously stunning and the seats were comfortable.)

The thing that pissed me off the most was that there are some real ethical issues to discuss. The ethics of who owns research (I'm looking at you Watson and Crick, and how you screwed Rosalind Franklin), the ethics of not allowing a grad student to graduate because you want another year of his/her work in your lab, how to determine which data is just "outlier" information, etc. These are the interesting questions. These are questions that a lot of folks have to deal with, not the obvious abuses of human life.

But, back to the original question, what makes someone an expert on ethics? Seriously, I want that job. I want to be the person who dictates, yes, this is good; this, not so much. Of course, since I'm a scientist, I have shady ethics (as anyone familiar with Frankenstein knows.) (An aside that pisses me off: IRB boards are required to have a "non-scientist," as if that "non-scientist" raises that ethics bar. [And, seriously, what makes someone a "non-scientist?" I would argue that an MD is a non-scientist.] Do publishing houses run books past scientists to be sure that they are doing that job right?) But, I think I'm ethical; can I be a bioethicist? Can I go on CNN and tell the world that this or that genetic engineering is right or wrong? Because I really think I could handle the job.

Now I'm off to inject children with mysterious chemicals. 

Spoiler alert

I read spoilers. I can't help it. If someone knows what's going to happen in a show and they post it on-line, I'll be trying to find out. Yes, I do want to know who will be voted out, who will be killed in the season finale. It doesn't really ruin a show for me. I know it would for some people, but I just like knowing ahead of time a little bit about what will happen. 

Lately I have been wondering about my own life. If I knew there were spoilers out there for my life, would I read them? Would I want to know what is going to happen? These days, I'm not sure what I would want. I would like to think, yes, I welcome the surprises, those unexpected things that happen. But there is also a part of me that wants just a little peek into what is going to happen.

Lately, my life has had lots of changes. A lot of people would think that it would be stressful, which, yes, it is, somewhat. But it's also been exciting. It's been good. Really. As nutty as it may sound, I've been enjoying the crazy. There are times I think I should be more stressed out, but these days I can look at what is happening with a feeling that it will all be okay.

But there are days that I do worry a bit. As I sit in this "temporary" housing for the 7th month, I look ahead and do wonder what the future will bring. Yes, I am enjoying the surprises, some of these unexpected things that have been happening. I know I will find a place to live, I will settle in, I will meet people and start to find those places to go. But on these days when I worry, I really want that peek.

Cross fingers

We may have sold the house. We have a contract (we got screwed, in case you're checking on that one, but we expected that, it being a buyer's market). Now we just have to get through the inspections and hope that no other issue raises its ugly head. 

I just would like to say, these people have been jerks. I am sure they will continue to be jerks. I don't have a problem with negotiating a good price. Yeah, that's to be expected. But you don't have to change the settlement date (the date that we made perfectly clear to you a number of times) at the last minute. You don't have to see the house 20 times. You don't have to make, then cancel appointments. You don't have to demand things just because. 

I can't stand these people. Fine, it's a buyer's market. Feel free to jerk us around. But, you know what, we're still living in your house. Yep, that's right. We still are hanging out. So, maybe the house won't be as clean as you might hope when we leave. And maybe we won't point out that typo in the contract. Because you have given us absolutely no reason for us to help you out. In fact, I gleefully welcome any opportunity I have to screw you over. If I can make your life a tiny bit more difficult, I am a bit happier.

I may not be a nice person. 

Sunday Randomness

When I'm staying at Mom and Dad's, it's hard to grab time to write, let alone pull the thoughts together to get a "whole" post anyway. Plus, during the visit, there have been those little random bits that may not be a post, but are still interesting. Here's your list:

* Saw an old ad for the Fonz arcade game, which is silly and 1970s to begin with, but my favorite thing about it was what Sega called themselves: "The Quartermasters." 

* Tried to help Mom clean out her closet. She wouldn't get rid of one dress because she said it would be nice for a funeral. Her funeral. Or maybe she'd want to get buried in a nightgown -- she hasn't actually decided.

* Every time I get a manicure I swear I'm going to get them more often. But then I only seem to get one when my sister talks me into getting one.

* Mom really hates horse racing ever since she saw that filly die last year at the Derby. But she was happy that a long-shot like Mine That Bird won.

* While shoe shopping with Mom, the word "bondage" came up. From her. Not enough therapy in the world.

* For as long as I can remember, my parents have sworn by tea. "Coffee? Bleh!" This visit (in conversations separate from one another): "Sometimes I drink coffee now." Who picks up this habit in their 60s?

* Tried to teach Mom about her ipod touch. It was quite the challenge. She did successfully download a bunch of apps, but then went pack to the pool game she plays all the time (although she doesn't know the rules.  At one point she asked me what "ball in hand" meant. When I explained to her, she said, "Well, I didn't have all the advantages you did growing up?" When is knowing the rules of 9-ball an indication of a privileged childhood?)

* What Mom thinks is funny: "Maybe your next boyfriend will have 5 children and you'd be a stepmother to 5 kids." She couldn't stop laughing.

I'm sure there's more to come. We have all day today.

Skill set

I think we all have things that we're good at, the things that just come easy. We also have things we struggle with. "I can't dance." "I can't balance my checkbook." "I've never been able to juggle." When you say things like that, everyone nods and comes up with their list. I'm not sure why, but yesterday I was thinking, I wonder if I'm good at love.

I think it's a legitimate question: can you be good (or bad) at love? Some people are naturally funny, some people are generally bitchy, so there's a good chance that some people will naturally be good at love. That they would know what to say, how to behave, without even thinking about it. They know what the other person needs and they can just give it to them. Me, I'm prickly. I'm kind of a pain in the ass (as Mom has pointed out.) I'll forget your birthday. 

It's a skill set I need to work on. Unfortunately, there are no classes at the local community college.

A Letter

Dear Maryland Drivers,

I know that we haven't known each other very long and this may be a bit forward, but I feel I've waited long enough and I must share this with you: you suck. Yes, every one of you. I know it seems harsh and some of you may wish to argue, but I'm feeling pretty confident in that statement. 

Now, it's not all bad. I think you have hope. It's not like you're a Georgia driver! I think if you follow a few basic tips, you would be at least tolerable:

1. It is generally accepted that, when you drive on a major interstate (I-95, for example), that you drive at least the speed limit. This is especially true when you are in the left lane. Here's a secret: in many parts of the country, when one drives in the left lane, they often drive faster than the speed limit (gosh, I hope no cops are reading this.) I know you may not be comfortable with all that speed. That's fine; that's what that right lane is for. Yes, a whole lane for you. Enjoy.

2. If you pass a truck, you don't have to slow down when you pass it. It actually makes the job harder. Think about it. If you want to go 54 mph and the truck in front of you is going 50 mph, yes, you want to pass (you have all this speed!) But, as you pass, if you slow down to 40 mph, it will be a challenge. Keep up those 54 mph speeds; trust me, it will work out better for you.

3. That wet stuff coming from the sky: rain. Don't be frightened. It shows up now and again. You don't have to start driving 40 mph. Especially if it's so light, the windshield wipers are on intermittent. If it really is that scary, maybe don't drive those days?

4. Just because a cop has his flashy lights on on the side of the road doesn't mean you have to slow down and see what is going on. And, when you see that there's nothing there ("hey, where's the accident?") don't slow down more, just to really check out the scene.

I do think you have potential. Your roads are pretty nice and much better marked than anything you'll find in Philadelphia. I'll try to work with you. I think we can both be happy.

The spirit is willing...

I want to blog every night. I really do. And most days I have many, many thoughts (and, oh, in my head, I am so clever. Such thoughts!) I seem to have so many ideas when I am just walking home and thinking. But some nights I pull up that blogger dashboard and just stare at that empty space. Tonight is one of those nights. 

How can I not have something to write about? So many things are happening, not just with me but with the world. If I was at dinner with you, believe me, I would not shut up. Have I got a story for you! I would be saying. You would be hiding the wine thinking, that's enough of that! 

Of course, lately, there have been days when I've had the thoughts, the ideas, but this is not the place. Not yet. I am such a tease, but soon. (maybe.) Maybe you need to take me to dinner.

I listen two, three, four times a day

I miss Philadelphia radio. Look, I'm not going to say it's the best radio in the world. I was one of those people who listened to Howard Stern when he first came to Philadelphia because, oh God, not DeBella. (Those of you from Philadelphia know what I'm talking about; sorry to the rest of you.) But Philadelphia radio has two things I'll really miss: Oldies 98 and KYW.

Oldies 98 is a damn good station. First off, they use the term "oldies" rather loosely, so they pretty much play anything pre-mid-1980s. And because they have a pretty loose format, they play a nice variety. But the bonus is that they play the Philadelphia area hits. Oh, I love the Philadelphia hits! "The Bristol Stomp"! "South Street"! (Where do all the hippies meet?) "On the Way to Cape May" (oh just sing it, "I fell in love with you...") I miss those songs. I just want to sing those songs. Loudly. With no shame. (And let's not forget the secret Philadelphia hits like "Sweet Caroline" -- shout out to the Triangle Tavern!) (Now I miss the Triangle Tavern, which, of course, is not the same without Dusty.)

But Oldies 98, you can be replaced. (I'll have to see if iTunes carries "Wildwood Days.") However, I'll never replace KYW. KYW is an old-school news radio station. It may just be the perfect station. I love its theme (and can you resist singing along?), although they did "update" it a few years ago. I love that you get traffic every 10 minutes on the 2's. I freakin' love Fred Sherman! I love the teletype in the background. (How many times did I fall asleep to that in graduate school? So soothing...) I love the predictable order of the presentation (you'll get your sports at 15 minutes after the hour, financials at 25 or 55 after.) You'll get your beeps telling you the time at the top and bottom of the hour. Seriously, why don't other cities have these stations.

Now I'm off to do the Bristol Stomp.

Something tells you that you have to move away from it

The house has been on the market for a while and we just got our first offer. It's very low, but we're still negotiating. It's weird how you think about money in these situations. If I bought a television, and I noticed that it was on sale $100 cheaper a week later, I would be completely pissed off. "I lost $100!" But when you negotiate those house prices, thousands of dollars get thrown around. No big deal, let's shave $10,000 off the price. Hey, that's a car! A trip to Europe! A damn fine trip to Europe! I guess I can't really think about it -- it'll make me nuts.

It's a nice house. A really nice house. But it's too big for us. I could never make it feel cozy. Comfortable, yes, but not "home-y." We had empty rooms, rooms that were never used. We never had a meal in the dining room. I never took a bath in the big tub. The house is "staged" now, to look like we used all the spaces, but I know we never did. 

I'm beginning to look at this house as a symbol of my life. Big with lots of potential, but a lot of it hasn't been used. Why are you waiting to do with these spaces? I need to decorate these spaces and start moving in.

Happy new year!

It's been a crazy year. I was just thinking about this, because about a year ago, I was in Barcelona. I was working at Novo, and, if you asked me, I was planning to retire with the company. I was living in Pennsylvania. No plans to move. I was with Mr. Higgy-Piggie. All was well. So I thought.

Nothing is the same now, is it? A lot can happen in a year. Did I have any idea that it was all going to change? If someone had told me, if someone had pulled me aside and said, "Heads up. It's gonna get crazy" would I have believed them? I would have been wondering, why would I want that? And, yet, now that I am here, I am happy to be here.

I have a memory of that trip to Barcelona, standing in the sun and feeling absolutely content. Now, looking back, I know where the cracks were. I can see where things changed, where they fell apart. It's been hard, but it's been good for me. I know that this will be a year that I never forget. It's completely changed me. In a good way. (I think, I hope, I'm pretty sure.)

I'm glad for change. I'm glad for most of this change. But another year like this, I might die of exhaustion. 

I can name that tune in 3 notes...

For some reason, my dad feels it's important to be able to recognize songs on the radio. Name and artist. And so, when we were kids, he had this game where he would let us listen to the introduction of a song, and, before the singing started, he would turn it off. "Name and artist?" And we would have to guess and, once we got it right, we could hear the rest of the song. After a while, we would just shout out the names and artists so that he wouldn't shut off the radio.

All three of us have the freakish ability to name songs and artists on demand within seconds. (Well, older songs. We're all old now, so we have a limit of 1950s through the mid-90s.) Andrea and Scott are hipper and may have an expanded range. When I was at Rohn & Haas, the guys would love to try to stump me. Once. They got me exactly once. Freakin' "Radar Love." (I guessed Deep Purple, which was wrong but got the comment "impressive guess!") Slick used to say that's why he dated me: because I knew all the songs on the radio. 

Dad also encouraged the variety in music as well. So, yeah, that was a "Guys and Dolls" reference. Followed by a Salt and Pepa joke. Yes, that mix tape has a Patsy Cline song followed by one by X (and, dammit, it works.)

Last summer, we were out to dinner. "More than Yesterday" starts playing. Dad points at the speakers. Artist? I rolled my eyes, guessed correctly, and went back to my salad. Dad just smiled.

An inappropriate crush

I have a crush on a house. I keep thinking about it; it's so cute and nice to look at. I walk by whenever I get the chance. The thing is, it's just not good for me. It's too small, the kitchen is minimal, there's no room for expansion. I think one of the reasons I like it so much is that it's in a lovely location and is surrounded by bigger, beautiful houses. And I keep looking for excuses to get in it or just be in the neighborhood. I look at its pictures on-line and imagine us together.

There are other houses around that have more room, that have better space. I should like them more, and, sure, there's one or two who kind of get my attention. Maybe one will win my attention. And yet, I am still drawn to this tiny, inappropriate house. That's overpriced. 

Sigh. I have a crush on the Jordan Catalano of houses. 

Promises, promises

Tomorrow, I will be back to the regular schedule. No, really, I mean it. In the meantime, a picture. I am still trying to grasp that this is from just a year ago. So much has happened...

Ashes, ashes

I am no longer wearing any rings. The reason (the reasons), well, that's for another day. But, as of this past Sunday, my hands are naked. 

I used to wear 5 rings. One on each middle finger, one on the ring finger of my right hand, two on the ring finger of my left hand. I got these rings at various times; I've been wearing the two on my ring finger of the left hand the longest. My naked hands remind me of being younger. Of high school and days working in labs. 

I have no tan lines to remind me of the rings. However, the two that were on my left ring finger have left two ring-shaped dents in my finger. Here it is, days later, and the two ghost rings are still there. I wonder how long they will remain.

Thanks for coming, there's the door

My parents are visiting this weekend. I love them, I really do, but... My brother has already warned me: "Be nice." When I am not nice?! Oh, yeah, I could be nicer when they come to visit. Sure, I can point fingers and say that they could be easier when they visit. But I do have a tendency to freak out and overreact. I try to tell myself: relax. But I am not a relax kind of gal.

I think that sometimes it comes down to showing off your life. "Look at what I've done! See? I'm an adult and I've made good choices!" And, they know the weaknesses, not that they're looking for them: it's just easy for them. Not that they're even looking for them -- I'm looking for them to point them out. Of course, their opinion means a lot, so a throw-away comment from them, well, I can't help but take it to heart. 

I will relax. (deep breath.) I will enjoy myself. (close eyes. another deep breath.) It will be a good visit. I will not overreact. Okay, I will try not to overreact. 

I'll let my gal Sarah to take it out: "I've always had these fantasies about being in a normal family in which the parents come to town and their adult daughter spends their entire visit daydreaming of suicide."

Before and after

Today is a day with a before and after moment. You know those moments. They start with things like "I'm sorry, there's been a terrible accident." Or someone already crying when you pick up the phone. That moment when something is forever changed. When there is no going back. I'm not ready to talk about today's moment. But it was there today and I knew it right away.

But I know there was a before and after moment before, the moment which lead to this one. There was a moment when things were the same, and then they changed. And that moment, I can't find. When did it happen? Because everything used to be one way and now it is different. There was a time when it tipped into the new. I was happy with the way things were and now I am not. When did that shift occur? When was that before and after moment?

Will you still need me?

These days I am noticing the lines around my eyes. They're not just there when I laugh or when I make a certain face. The grey hairs, there are a lot and they are also here to stay. My skin, it's different now. My eyes look tired. I realize that I am older than my mom was when I graduated from college. How did this happen? I'm not ready for this. In my mind, I am still in my 20s, well, maybe early 30s. Sometimes I can fool myself when I look in the mirror. Other days, when I really look, I see how old I am.

I think the most upsetting thing to me is that I know it's not going to get better. Today, I am as young as I will be. The birthdays, they will keep coming. The lines will get deeper and multiply. I'm not going to stop laughing, so I guess I'm stuck with them.

I opened one eye...

My first moment of clarity came at my grandfather's funeral. My mom tells the story of how she wasn't sure if we should go to the actual funeral (I was just-9, my sister was almost 7, and my brother was 5), if we were old enough for this sort of thing. But Papa was a big part of our lives and she thought it was important for us to be there. I remember that it was very warm, and my mom was very upset. And then it hit me: I was never going to see him again. Ever. No more visits, no more pipe smell, he was gone. This is what death was. And I couldn't stop crying. 

My mom told me years later that she saw how upset I was and really regretted bringing me to the funeral, but I reassured her that it was a good thing. That it was important I understood what was happening. That something important happens when someone dies. I remember looking at my sister and brother while I was crying and feeling much older than them.

The sun came out today

I miss baseball. Really, I do. I am ready to go back. Yes, baseball, you wore me down. I'm still a bit pissed at you about the strike, but I'm ready to forgive. Today the weather was perfect and just screaming for a game. I want to be in the stands, program in hand, keeping official score. I want to get a sunburn.

I am mad at myself for missing out on The Phils this year. It's not all my fault; you just can't predict those damn Phils. But how could I not see them play once? What an idiot I am! I miss the grumbling Phils fans, eating dinner in South Philly, bad pretzels afterwards. I miss getting lost trying to get around traffic. However, I do not miss getting so lost that I somehow end up in New Jersey. (again.)

This year: baseball. Seriously, I promise. I don't know what team, I don't know when, but, yes, baseball. "We're born again, there's new grass on the field."

My dinner with Steve(n)

This week I went out to dinner with a friend from high school. He was Steve in high school but now goes by Steven, which is off for me, so he gets Steve(n) from me. I'm sure he's thrilled with that. Steve was one of my best friends in high school. We started drifting away from each other in college, then he moved to California. 

Even though we've had a period of 20 years or so that we hadn't been in touch, we're back touch now. And the thing that amazes me is that it's so easy to just hang out with him. It's like that 20-year gap doesn't exist. We have stupid jokes, we can talk for hours, we wear the gossip shoes. It's fantastic. But it's not just Steve. Thanks to the power of Facebook and time on my hands, I've been able to reconnect with a lot of old friends. Sure, some of these reconnections are "hey, how's it going?" "Fine." "Me too." But some of these, we're friends again. We have a relationship again.

My sister has always been great at keeping up the friendships over the years. She sends the Christmas cards, remembers the birthdays, drives 100 miles out of the way to meet for lunch. I'm not as good at these things. I lose touch. I meant to send you that card. Oh, was that last week? Facebook is great for us lazy types. Oh, look, it's Bill's birthday tomorrow. I'll throw a cake at him. And, you know, most of my friends are lazy that way. But I don't mind. Because I just want to hear from them again. 

So, this has rambled quite a bit. Let's sum up: friends are good. Old friends are great. Gossip shoes rule.

So very lazy

For a number of reasons that will come out soon, I am not much for posting. So, I will post one of my favorite quotes about science. It's The Laws of Physics:

"Truth decays into beauty, while beauty becomes merely charm. Charm ends up as strangeness, and even that does last. But up and down are forever."

I'm sure it's fine

I have had some interesting friend requests on Facebook lately. Specifically, aunts and uncles. And it's just a bit, well, weird. Not that my profile has anything embarrassing, but, I don't know, it just throws me off a bit. 

I know you can set up one than one profile, but I'm frankly too lazy. And I'm not even sure what I should hide from them (the snarky quotes from "Pushing Daisies" and "The Woman in White"? my girl crush on Sarah Vowell? my PJ Harvey flair that says "lick my legs"? my love for Vince from ShamWow and that I am an officer in his fan club?) (Well, there you go; apparently my profile is embarrassing. How about that!)

And I can't not accept these requests, right? I can't reject family (can I?) That seems wrong as well. Besides I've already accepted some of them. And, of course, this means it's just a matter of time before Mom's on Facebook. And then the cussing will have to stop. It'll be a sad, sad day for us all.

Thinking about science

I would guess that when non-scientists think about scientists, they think that scientists love to explain the world (which we do) in order to take the wonder out of the world. And I say that it is just the opposite. Every day I am amazed at the beauty and wonder of science.

When I think, really think about everything, it is like unbelievably fantastic. Let's start with the basics: everything we do, all of our thoughts, actions are chemical reactions. Simple shifting of electrons. This phosphate group moves from here to there, and we are happy or sad or asleep. This kind of blows my mind. 

Think about yourself. You started as one cell. One single cell. You brush your teeth, you spit out hundred of cells, and, yet, you started as one. How does one little cell make all of this?! Doesn't that kind of amaze you? The bones, the eyes, that brain, at one point, all one single cell. Let's take it even further: it's all because of that DNA you've got. "I wouldn't want to write a novel with 4 letters -- I think I'll write a human being instead." How does a series of 4 letters do all of this? How is that not magical?

Even evolution, isn't it actually more of a wonder thinking about the idea of 4 billion years to get to this point? That slowly, slowly, we went from ooze that organized itself to this. Now, think further, we carry that DNA from all those generations ago. Oh, is that too much? Just think about your great-grandparents. You have the DNA. You literally have bits of all of them in every single one of your cells. 

I'm sure there are scientists who look at the world through cold, calculating eyes, but I am awed.

A small tribute to Sally

Earlier today, Mom told me that Sally has taken a turn for the worse. I wrote about Sally a little bit ago, although I didn't talk much about her specifically. After talking to Mom today, suddenly I realize that I'm amazed at how she lived her life.

Technically, Sally is my first cousin, twice removed, but I always called her Aunt Sally. She was always a bit more glamourous, classier than my other relatives. Her house just seemed a bit fancier, a bit nicer than the rest of ours. She had gardens and served interesting food. She would go dancing with Mel and regularly dress up. 

As I got older, I realized that she wasn't really that different. Her daughter got pregnant young, too young, and Sally and Mel basically raised their granddaughter. That there were bad choices around her life and with her immediate family. But, you know, it was always okay. I don't remember any judgment, ever, from her. This was the way it was and wasn't that wonderful! Please come to dinner soon. It wasn't denial; it was just complete, unquestioning acceptance. 

I am looking at her life and how she handled everything that came her way, and I am just full of admiration. She and Mel, they would just handle it all. When I would come to Toledo, of course, I had a place to stay. After Nana's funeral, Mel says softly to me, "It's been a rough day; come over to the house and we'll hoist a few." Another memory: I don't even remember the visit (a wedding? a reunion?) but we sat their living room, talking until 2 in the morning, eating oranges.

Even the past few months, when she was obviously getting very sick, no complaining, so fussing. She was grateful for the 57 years that she and Mel had. She just hopes the girls handle everything okay and that someone takes good care of her dog. Oh, she feels fine, just been losing her balance a bit now and again. 

Today Mom told me that Sally slipped into a coma and it probably won't be long. I looked out on this sunny day thinking that even on a beautiful day like today, right on the edge of spring, someone is losing a mother, a grandmother, a great grandmother. And I realized that, although I am really sad about this, I can't imagine someone facing life and death better than Sally faced it all. 

The whoo seats

I freakin' love the Penn Relays (or should I say, the Penn Relay Carnival, which, just the fact that it has that dopey name is another reason to love the Relays). Love 'em. I love the history behind the Relays, I love watching the endless parade of relays, I love the way it's run. It is just about perfect. And, yet, like the idiot I am, I just have not taken advantage of them enough.

So, you have not heard about the Penn Relays? I am shaking my head. As Nana would say, well, you don't know what's good. First of all, it's a track meet (okay, a tiny bit of "field" but, mostly just track), which is the truest and best sport. It's just such a pure sport. No judges, no questions: that person is the fastest. Period. And the best event: the 4 x 400 relay. Long enough for some strategy, short enough that it goes quick. 4 minutes of awesome. I could watch 100 4 x 400 relays and not get sick of it. And, guess what, if you go to the Relays, you might get to do just that.

Now, if you've been to a few track competitions, there's a lot of waiting around, setting up for the next race. The Penn Relays, they don't play that game. It is boom, boom, boom, a race, a race, a race. The kids are lined up, the gun goes off, cheers to the end, begin again. No breaks, no pauses, just the offical (or Bill Cosby; no, seriously, Bill Cosby loves the Relays!) hussling kids off the track when the race is over and getting the next bunch ready.

You can go on Saturday, which is the glory day. Yeah, that's the guy you saw run at the Olympics. No kidding, those are some blazing-fast times. Yeah, I didn't know high school kids could run that fast either. But I've always favored Thursday: the qualifying day. This is when the hard-core track nerds are hanging out. The stands are full of kids from other track teams, cheering each other on. It's not as crowded and the seats aren't assigned, so, if you get there early, you can sit in the whoo seats. The whoo seats? Those are the ones just after the turn in the track before the finish line. Where you can see where the race changes, when the last leg gives that final kick. And everyone around you goes, "whoo!"

One year in grad school, Krista and I took the day off to go to the Penn Relays. It was one of those perfect April days, the sky was bright blue, spring was here. We grabbed lunch at a great truck and walked over to Franklin Field and parked it in the whoo seats. And we just spent the entire day, watching race after race, hanging out, enjoying the weather, the history, the cheering. It was perfection.

My last visit with Nana

The last time I saw Nana was the week of my wedding. At the time, my parents were down in Atlanta, so Nana had to fly out. She was using Dad's frequent flier miles which meant she could fly out on Wednesday or Saturday. I was getting married on a Sunday, so my mom said that Saturday should be fine, but I wanted her out early. I wanted to give her time to relax and visit. This was actually a bit of a fight between Mom and me ("What is she going to do with all that time before we arrive?") but I won.

Nana didn't really like flying, but they always took care of her. When I went to her gate (this was pre-9/11), she had about three flight attendants waiting on her. We spent the next couple of days together, mostly just hanging out, doing those last minute things one needs to do before a wedding. I remember going to the local diner, which she loved because they let her smoke and linger over her coffee. (One of the many things Nana taught me was how to linger over coffee.) I don't remember a lot of the specifics of the visit, but I just remember her being there, enjoying being with us. We had dinner at Andrea's one night, the rehearsal dinner, more errands, but it was just nice. I was so glad that I had asked for the extra time, that she was relaxed and happy. 

She, of course, enjoyed the wedding. Lots of booze, people she knew, dancing, what's not to love. We played "I'm Down to my Last Cigarette" for her. I remember saying good-bye to her the next morning. I remember hugging her and thinking that this might be the last time I saw her. (This wasn't some gut feeling or fantastic prediction. For years before she died, I always reminded myself that this could be the case and was grateful when I did see her again.)

Of course,  I did talk to her plenty of times before she died. But, here's the weird one. For years, when she'd struggle with her lighter, I'd offer to light her cigarettes. And she'd tell me, "When I can't light my own cigarettes, it's time for me to go." I talked to her on the Christmas after our wedding. And towards the end of our conversation, she said, "It's the weirdest thing. My thumb is so numb today, I can't even light my cigarettes." She died the next day.

Nana, I miss you every single day.

Cheating

I am too tired to blog. Fighting a cold, whatever excuse I can come up with, tonight I just don't feel like writing more today. 

So, is it a cheat to write about not wanting to write? Sure it is. And, yet, here I am. Putting a check in the column.

I'll behave tomorrow.

But, pretty picture.

Oh no.

"Buffy" Season 3 is now on hulu. I may never leave the house. I could watch "Doppelgangland" alone on an endless loop. 

Yes, I am 12. Grrr, argh, indeed.

Pads, paws, and claws

About a year ago, our cat was very, very sick. It's an extremely long story, and if you knew me a year ago, you probably at least heard parts of the story. The story: we found out he was allergic to about everything (chicken, turkey, fish, corn, pollen, wool, and, I am not making this up, cat). Of course, we tried different foods, but that became quite the issue. We tried about three different types, which, once we went through the labels, still had something he was allergic to (salmon oil, duck, etc.) Plus, he just wouldn't eat the stuff. What sort of animal just won't eat? Apparently our animal. He starting losing a lot of weight.

I decided to make him a homemade diet. I read a few things on the internet that said to be sure to have some carbs in the diet, so I made him up a mix of beef, rice (with beef broth), and a bit of carrots. He seemed to like it, although he was still losing weight and spent the all day sleeping. When he started sleeping in the litter box, I started to really freak out. I said, I don't care; we're going back to his old food, which he actually ate. We also switched vets. The new vet noticed that his gums were pale and took a blood draw. A day later, we get a call: he's severely anemic and needs a blood transfusion. Now.

We spent an awful Saturday in the animal hospital. We had this awful vet who, well, has probably watched a few too many episodes of "House". His diagnoses were all extremely rare diseases, in even rarer circumstances, that all ended in the cat dying in 6 months. When this guy hears hoofbeats, he thinks "transvestite and priest dressed in a zebra outfit." We had to leave the cat, so I went home (crying, crying) and did some research.

After some trolling around (and lots more crying), I figured something out. I was poisoning my cat. The beef broth, which I added to make the rice nice and yummy, contains onions, which, um, are fatal to cats. By causing anemia. But there were still a lot of test results, possibilities, treatments. We bring the cat home the next day; he's completely traumatized, miserable. The next couple of weeks were pills, test results, me being afraid of coming home to a dead or near-dead cat. Eventually, he seemed to get better, more like his old self. Kind of. His number were still low, but going in the right direction.

Through the past year, his numbers have been near normal, but never quite there. If we stop giving him the steroids, his numbers drop, which means it wasn't just the onions (I still feel guilty). The vet and I agree that he has something chronic but finding out exactly what it is wouldn't be easy and, most likely, would be something that we couldn't do anything about. For now, we can treat with the steroids. The steroids are cheap and the chronic treatment will most likely shorten his life, but not as short as it would be without the steroids.

Now I constantly worry about him. Is he acting weird? Are his gums pink enough? Should he sleep that long? Did he eat enough? Is he eating too much? I'm afraid I'll miss some sign, some symptom. I know he won't be one of those cats who lives long; I'll be surprised if he hits double digits. So, for now, I'll enjoy having him here. And I'll keep a close eye on him. A very close eye.

My little yellow book

When I was working at Rohm & Haas, I started writing in my little yellow book. (I'm aware of the timing as the book was a lab notebook I took from there. Let's not tell anyone.) All that I have in the book are quotes I like. I haven't written down who said them or in what setting; these have to be stand-alone quotes.

The first quote is basic: "Your only obligation in any lifetime is to be true to yourself." Yes, sort of sappy, but, still I stand behind it. Some of the earlier entries, well, I was still young. But I love going back and reading them, getting a sense of where I was at. I have song lyrics, silly quotes, bits from movies and books, things friends have said. Some of them were clearly written when I was going through a tough time, and some of them are Beavis and Butthead.

I obviously have various quotes about life and love. I am a girl. I have a lot of quotes about science, because, well, I am also a big nerd. I'm always surprised at how easily I remember where these bits are from. And when in doubt: Repo Man.

I do love my little yellow book. It's better than a diary: better written, deeper thoughts, no secrets, and, yet, it still reflects my life at those various moments.

Fun with Nobellists

I've met one person who won the Nobel Prize. Those of you who know me would not be surprised that, well, I kind of fought with him. I met Harold Varmus when I was in graduate school. He was giving a talk on campus and there was a roundtable for graduate students scheduled later in the day. I had no intention on going, but Binns was chair of the department and wanted a representative from his lab there. I told him, "I'm going to fight with him." Andy said, fine, just go.

It turned out that there was less than 10 of us there (I'm sure that Andy was counting on me getting lost in the crowd). At the time, Varmus was running the NIH, so, kind of a big deal. Well, kind of a big deal for the folks who wanted to be there and (maybe) cared about their careers. That was not me. I don't remember how we got on the topic, but I asked him how the NIH could justify the underpayment of post-docs. I could understand underpaying graduate students; we are, after all, getting educations and getting paid to do so. That's fine. But a post-doc has a PhD and is doing their own independent lab work in the name of their PI. And by keeping the wages low, a PI can have a large number of workers, keeping his/her work going at a very cheap rate.

Varmus tried to give me the excuse of, well, they're training for their future position, blah, blah, blah, but I wasn't having any of that. I pointed out, even in a fairly small lab, throughout his/her career, a PI will have at least 10-15 post-docs, and there are plenty of labs that have a lot more. If you just do the math, once that PI retires, there are going to be way too many folks to fill that slot. Varmus pointed out that there's no rule stating that a post-doc has to go into academia, to which I said that that's all that's all a post-doc is trained for. That there are no other options presented or, frankly, encouraged.

It was around then that Warren kicked me under the table and gave me a "What in the hell do you think you're doing?" look, so I decided that it was time to shut up. The good news is that (a) Binns never sent me to another one of these things, (b) It never affected my career (that I know), and (c) post-docs started getting paid a lot more over the years. I'm sure it was my suggestion to Varmus that got that ball rolling.

That's not what I meant at all

When I was in high school and college, I had one of those guys who came in and out of my life. I'd say were were dating, but that's probably too strong of a word. We always enjoyed being together, but we never seemed to reach a point where we would concentrate on each other. Other things, other people, they were always there. And, in the end, it was fine. But if you had asked me, I would've said that he set the tone, that he was in control of the relationship.

But last week, I found an old letter, the only letter he had ever sent me. I'm not sure of the timing of the letter except that he was away at college when he sent it. And this letter had the following passage: "I would really appreciate a letter from you. You're never at a loss for something interesting to say. Please give me some indication as to what's going on in that active mind of yours. It's been a rather unsettling silence on this end. I may not be deserving, but I'll let you decide."

I was really shocked, reading this after all these years. I must have read this, all those years ago, but I still felt that he was in charge of the relationship. A letter like this, rediscovered after all this time, makes me question a lot of things. What else do I misremember? What else is different in my mind? What, exactly, happened between us? I am wondering about my memories. 

The deal with seventh grade

I started school a year early: long story involving a November birthday and kindergarden in Michigan. I also developed late, a biological detail I won't go into. But because of these two thing (not having older siblings didn't help either), I was not the most mature seventh grader. I also had braces and glasses and dressed in whatever my mom told me looked cute on a girl my age. Disaster.

One way to deal with this is to try to become invisible, which to me was the obvious and best choice. It basically worked through the early part of grade school, so I thought I'd stick with the plan. And we all know about the best-laid plans.

In the sixth grade, Mr. French had a nervous breakdown. The kids figured out that they had the numbers in their favor and it became a free-for-all. I just remember a lot of things being thrown around. Paper wads, spit balls, books. For months, it was chaos, then he was gone, and we got a long-term substitute teacher. My seventh grade teacher was not going to let that happen.

Mrs. Steves was one of those awful, bitter, old teachers who was marking time until retirement. She  didn't know what was wrong with the kids today, but she sure as hell wasn't haven't any of it. Oh, and she had the worst breath in America. I am not just saying this to be mean. It was nasty.

Mrs. Steves got her share of the bad boys (we only had tow classes for my grade) and sat them all right in front of her. But she needed someone to break up that group. I was the obvious choice. A "good" kid. Quiet. I wasn't cute or pretty enough for distraction. So, while the kids I could tolerate were in the back, minding their own business, I got to be in front with the kids who genuinely weren't interested in any education beyond the sixth grade level.

They picked on me constantly. Every day. If Mrs. Steves hadn't put me there, they would've gone all "3 Stooges" on each other, but this was so much easier. And all I did was sit there and wait for it to be over. I kept waiting for Mrs. Steves to notice and get them to stop or move me away but it never happened. (I'm sure she knew what was happening. It kills me that she did nothing.)

No, it wasn't "I'll bet they thought you were cute" teasing. It was mean. It was "let's make the quiet girl cry" type of teasing. It was hurtful and constant. And not one of those bastards has ever apologized.

Seventh grade was a prison sentence. It taught me that life is not fair, playing by the rules doesn't help you, people are mean. You have to rescue yourself.

It just galls me

In graduate school, I studied agrobacterium and that bacterium had its own conference every year: The Crown Gall Conference. It wasn't that big of a conference, usually less than 200 of us each year, held at some university (usually in the midwest somewhere) in mid-November. It was not glamorous, but we all went every year. It was like the nerdiest class reunion ever.

Since it was a small-ish conference, we were all expected to present our research. And since we all worked on the same organism, no need for background, straight to the meat. It intense and kind of fantastic. And at the end of the day would be the big dinner/party, then more of the same the next day.

One year, our lab had a few really strong talks. It was a good year for the research and a lot of data pulled together just in time for the meeting. There were some surprising results and we did a few clever things. After the talks, someone from another lab told Binns (my PI), "You know, your lab, they're scientists!" Andy couldn't stop grinning. He told us that story for about a month.

I should point out that there was one cool kid: David. David was our collaborator, and all the women in the lab swooned over him. ("Ooh! David is in town!") Everyone wanted to be at his table, which was fine, as he would gather extra chairs and steal bottles of wine. He needed about an hour of sleep, so he was the last one out drinking and the first to breakfast. When he asked you about your research, it was clearly the most fascinating thing he had heard in ages. 

But, basically, we were all there to completely nerd out on agro. We would all come together, swap information, make plans to send DNA and bacterium strains. It's one of the few things I miss about grad school, although it was stressful and tiring. But it was always inspiring as well. It always seemed that the research started to work, shortly after returning from these meetings. And that's really what it was all about.

Order up!

My mom taught me how to cook eggs when I was about six. She was a mom who taught her kids independence, which means you made your own damn lunch. Peanut butter and jelly gets old after a while, and Mom liked the idea of a hot lunch now and again, so she taught me cook eggs. Obviously, scrabbled is the easiest, but eventually we worked our way up to once-over-lightly, and her work was done. I could cook my own eggs and was expected to do so. 

When I make scrabbled eggs, I always mix them up in a mug with a little bit of milk before dumping them in the pan. When I was dating Chuckie, he accused me of over-mixing the eggs. He didn't like it when they were all one color. "You should see some white, some of the darker yellow." To this day, I don't mix them up as much, and I kind of think of them as Chuckie's eggs.

I'm not sure why or when I was cooking eggs for Chuckie, but I also ended up cooking eggs for Derek. We had gone to the Big Boy earlier, but we had this horrible waitress who just was not bringing the orders out. Derek got mad and we left, but then, well, hungry. No one was at my house as my family was on vacation but due back that night or the next day. We went back to the house and I cooked him up a breakfast at around 1 a.m. Of course, just as he was starting to eat, my family showed up. "What in the hell is going on here?" I think my dad was more upset at this guy eating breakfast than if he would've found us in a more, well, intimate position. 

Egg stories, we're digging deep here. Maybe I need my carbs.

The little things

Here's the kind of thing that makes me crazy, living in two different places. This past weekend, I got my nails done. They're now polished (Material Girl, if you're wondering) and, as it's been a few days, starting to look a tad rough. Time to take off the polish. Except, no nail polish remover down here.

Now, I know that I have at least two bottles back in Pennsylvania, as well as cotton balls. Here, nothing. Not that these things are expensive, but I hate having to make a special trip to get them. Plus, I don't do my nails enough to justify yet another bottle of remover.

Oh, my life. It is tough.

The best gas station in the world

When I left Nemacolin, I needed to get gas for the ride home. Of course, I had to stop here! Tanning bed at a gas station -- what could be better? When I went inside to buy my Diet Coke, I made small talk about the weather with the woman behind the counter. And as she pushed aside the stacks of cans of Skoal, she said, "Well, I think we're getting the hang of winter." 

Bliss!

It's over

Well, the streak was broken yesterday -- a day without a posting. The sun still came up this morning, so I guess it wasn't the end of the world (yet.) I know that if I didn't write this post, no one would've probably noticed, as I'm planning to post twice today. The second post is sort of a lame attempt to fix the miss, kind of like when you accidentally scratch something, then rub it with your finger, as if that'll fix it. But I know it's there, that missing post.

If the first two letters are ever the same

When I was about 6, I met Angela Campbell. No, this wasn't some journey of self-actualization I took as a child; I met another girl named Angela Campbell. She wasn't a relative, just a girl my age who lived next door to the Nottages (now, they are relatives). And that was when I realized that a name was not unique, that I didn't own it. 

Angela and I, we had to strike some deals. We had  the same  middle initial (M), which added to the issues. When we went to get library cards, I got the M; she was just "Angela Campbell." (To this day, I'm very attached to my "M.") In CCD class, she went by Angela, while I was Angie. Luckily, we went to different grade schools, so those were the major compromises we had to make.

I actually preferred Angie when I was younger. Angela, well, that just seemed a bit stuck up (not that the other Angela Campbell was stuck up; she was very nice.) But Angela didn't seemed to fit me. No one called me Angela until my senior year in high school, when my chemistry teacher started calling me Angela. Since he called everyone else by their last name, I kind of felt this was a bit of an honor and never corrected him. And then I actually got to like it a bit. When I was at Saint Joe's, no one ever asked me if I had a nickname, and they just called me Angela. Now I honestly don't care what people call me, which makes people a little crazy. ("You've got to prefer one!") And, actually, most people just call me "Ang" anyway.

When I was younger, I figured that one day I would get married, and then I'd have a more interesting name. So, I married a Davis. Thanks, karma. When I graduated, I had both names put on my diploma. Or, rather, that was the intention. Name on the diploma: "Angela M. Capbell Davis." 

Cartoonish

Most people who work in a lab put up cartoons or other such nonsense. It was a chance to show off how clever we all were, add some variety to your lab, make the place more user-friendly. I loved checking out what other people would hang up. It gave me a little peek into what they were like. Far Sides were always good, but a bit predictable. Lou always had great ones: articles from the Weekly World News ("Your Coworkers May be Aliens!"), weird exercise programs, altered letters from our CEO ("See you at the club!")

I favored one-panel cartoons. I had a series of Toledo-themed cartoons that were surprisingly easy to find. I had two joke recommendation letters from co-workers posted (the one from Jim had statements followed by what he actually meant: "She would be a tremendous asset to any laboratory [she has one of the largest cd collections I have ever seen]; Chol's just got right to the point: "I am confident she will destroy all of your research objectives.")

My favorite of all time was from my former roommate Krista. She was looking for the perfect cartoon when we were living together: "I need the 'Little LuLu' or maybe 'Nancy.'" Excuse me? "I'm looking for the least funny cartoon ever. One that is just stupid." Uh, why? "Well, people always come by, expecting really great cartoons. They'll read mine and they'll feel like they have to laugh, but it won't be funny at all. And then I can laugh at them." She wanted to make everyone really uncomfortable. And that is why she is my hero!

Unexpected things

Some of you know this story, but Geoff does not, and this is for him.

After my first year of graduate school, I moved out to the suburbs. It was safer, quieter, but did require a drive in every day, going through the heart of West Philly. One day, snow came in early, and by the time the morning commute was on-going, it was good and slippery. I saw a car hit the bumper of another and thought, "This is not good." But grad school waits for no one, so I pressed on. The next turn was a double left, and, as always, I took the left-most line. Which would have given me plenty of time to stop, if the driver in the car in the right left-turn lane hadn't opened his door. And although I threw on the brakes and slowed down, unfortunately, I s-l-o-w-l-y pulled next to him, then bent back that car door. 

He accepted that it was totally his fault, but he was a minister in the area and, if his insurance went up, well, it would cost his entire congregation. Was there any way that we could not involve the insurance companies and he could just have one of his members fix my car? He handed me his card and I looked at the damage, which was all body work on a 7-year-old car. I thought, oh, sure, fine. What's the worse that could happen? So an old Honda doesn't get fixed. Life will go on.

Although my dad thought I was some sort of sucker, when I got home, I made some phone calls, and everything got set up for fixing the car. I brought the car in to a part of West Philly I was completely unfamiliar with. Very, very deep city stuff. But it all went well, I picked up the car a week later, and everything looked fine, except they didn't have that side rubber strip stuff in -- I'd have to come back in a week or two, when they got it in. It would take about 10 minutes to put on, I could just wait for them to do it there.

A few weeks later, I got the call. This time I went out by myself, because it was just a ten minute wait. It was one of those glorious spring days, everything was in bloom, the sky was clear. My faith in humanity was restored; it had all worked out nicely. They started to work on my car, and the owner of the garage came over. "Hey, I want to show you something." Uh, me? No, you do not mean me. "Yeah, come over here." Now, this was a very large man. I'm thinking, does anyone even know I'm here? Where is my cell phone? "Come here, I want to show you something," he said again, walking towards the alley on the side of the garage. My mind was racing: is there anyway to not do this? Is this where they'll find my body, two weeks later? I let him lead, thinking, well, if this looks too (more?) sketchy, I'll try to run away (I'm sure that would work.) 

And as I walked into this alley, I saw one of the most beautiful gardens I have ever seen. He was like a little kid: "Isn't it beautiful? I saw you and knew you would like this." It was fantastic. It was the perfect time of year, everything was in bloom, clearly a labor of love. "I've won a few awards, city garden things and such." I was just taking it in. The stone path, the climbing vines, it was simply wonderful. Never would I have through that a minor car accident would then lead to this little jewel in the middle of the city. 

And my little Grinch heart grew three sizes that day.