Dreidel Dog

Three months ago today, Husband and I woke up early on a Saturday morning, trekked an hour and a half into the suburbs, and came home with our new best friend, a 4.5 year old rottweiler/border collie mix.

As a lifelong cat person, I really had no idea what to expect from a dog.  I’ve definitely been put to the test as a dog owner in the past 12 weeks – trips to and from the vet, ultrasounds, x-rays, more doggie vomit than I ever envisioned having to clean up in my life – but we think (knock on wood!) we’re finally getting her digestive issues sorted out and are heading in the right direction.

As an adult shelter dog, she certainly has a few behavioral issues we’re working on (namely, serious food aggression and an extreme dislike of strangers looking her in the eye) and we haven’t figured out all her littler quirks (it’s hard to figure out what sets her off when she immediately flips between growling and snarling to jumping in your lap to lick your face), but after a mere three months, she’s already a member of the family.  I can’t believe someone gave her up and dumped her off at a rescue ranch, but I’m so happy they did, and the timing was right that she could come home with us. 

Dreidel Dog has pretty much violated all the rules I set out for her – no sleeping on the living room couch (see above: but who could resist a black and white polka dotted dog on a black and white herringbone couch?), no licking my face (we’re still working on not doing this, but she gets in a good lick once in a while), and no climbing on the bed – while she still hasn’t tried to sleep in the bed, this weekend she figured out how to throw her paws around me and pull herself up into our bed in the morning.  Today, to thank me for providing her with a loving home, food, and very expensive veterinary care, she tried to use my face to haul her 70-pound self  up into bed, leaving me with a nice scratch below my eye, on my eyelid, and a black eye.  Thanks, dog.

It’s a good thing you’re so cute.

Giving Thanks

I have a lot to be thankful for this year.

I am thankful that I finally, finally finished my Ph.D.  For a long time, I honestly thought I would never graduate – like when my boss repeatedly told me that I would have to first have to determine the structure of our 76 kDa protein using NMR before I would be allowed to defend.

I am thankful that even though my degree took years longer than it should, and I was put in a lot of unfair situations, I ended up with a wide, somewhat uncommon, skill set which made me competitive when applying for postdoc positions.  I was able to choose between several excellent laboratories to continue my training.

I am thankful that I believed in myself enough to choose what was, undoubtedly, the most challenging and difficult of my postdoc options.  I have jumped from cancer biology to biophysics and while I still feel a little over my head in my new lab, my skills as a scientist are growing by leaps and bounds, and I know I will mature as a scientist more in this lab than any of my other options.

I am thankful that I am able to live with my husband, at least until he moves in June for his fellowship.  After 4 years apart, it’s nice to get to have a “normal” marriage for 10 months, before we go back to long-distance.

Most of all, I am thankful that after less than 4 months, I have settled into my new city so well that it already feels like I’ve lived here forever.  My life is so full with friends, social activities, hobbies, and work I am happy to take home with me at the end of the day, that I no longer have the time or interest in sitting home and blogging. 

And for that, I make no apologies.

30 by 30: Buy a House

Number One on my 30 by 30 list was to buy a house, and I am delighted to report that it was also the first thing I could successfully check off the list.

We moved through the process extremely quickly given the short timeframe between deciding where I was moving for a postdoc and the date by which I needed to start.  My mother was a pretty big Negative Nancy about the whole situation – convinced we wouldn’t find a house on our short time frame, that there was no possible way we would actually close on the day we were supposed to close, that we were naïve for setting up our furniture delivery and movers in the days immediately following closing (since there was no way we were going to close on time).  Wrong, wrong, and wrong.

The first time meeting our wonderful realtor and discussing what we wanted in a house was June 16th and we looked at a few options.  We returned to the city to look at houses again on June 27th, placed an offer on June 28th, and went through the offer, counter offer, counter-counter offer process and signed the paperwork on June 29th.  By July 31st, we were movin’ on it.

I love our house and still can’t get over how huge it is!  Easing back into living together after so many years of long-distance marriage is certainly a whole lot easier when you have four entire floors (plus a roof deck) instead of being squished into 600 square feet like our last apartment together.  Our neighborhood seems great so far, and I can still walk to work (albeit a bit more of a trek than my walk to work in DC). 

I’m a bit overwhelmed with unpacking and getting settled into my new postdoc lab (I really have no idea what I’m doing and it’s incredibly frustrating), so the rest of my 30 by 30 list is falling by the wayside… but I am so, so ecstatic to have actually been able to check this one off the list!

(I don’t think I will ever tire of the view from our roof deck!)

The End

I’ve heard from so many people that somehow, magically, things just come together all at once at the end of your Ph.D., even if nothing has worked for years.  Of course, I didn’t believe them.

I was wrong.

In the past four months, I:

• submitted a manuscript
• had said manuscript accepted five days after submission
• wrote my dissertation, start to finish, in two weeks
• defended my dissertation
• graduated
• went on post-doc interviews
• accepted a post-doc position, after agonizing over my options for weeks

Suffice to say, it’s been a bit of a whirlwind these past few months, but, to quote a 90s staple, it finally seems like everything’s coming up Milhouse.

Correlation vs. Causation

Husband dropped by the lab to visit this week and take advantage of the free food and beer following a poster competition in which I had to present.  Last night, he commented that science must be really stressful, because he noticed most of the younger females (mid 20s-30s), especially in my lab, all had lots of grey hair.  Being a good little (rude) scientist, I immediately interrupted him mid-sentence, reminding him that correlation does not imply causation.

I offered up the alternative that, perhaps, lots of women in lots of fields are developing grey hairs by this point in their lives, but they are more proactive about hiding them.  I have a lot of friends who started experimenting with their hair color by the age of 14 and never stopped; they have no recollection of their natural hair color.  If you've been regularly dyeing your hair for 15 years, how would you even know if you had grey hair starting to come in?  Perhaps scientists, widely stereotyped for being fashion-challenged, never played around with hair color in the first place (I only tried once, attempting to dye my hair with purple manic panic in a hotel in Virginia Beach on a high school trip, but my hair was far too dark for it to show up).

Once those grey hairs show up noticeably, perhaps women in other more conservative, formal professions start scheduling regular 6-week appointments to cover up those greys.  Here in science, though -- well, if you could feasibly show up to work in a stained shirt and ripped jeans (frequently observed on male graduate students in the chemistry department), certainly no one is going to bat an eye at a few (or many) grey hairs.  When you're working 80+ hours/week for less financial compensation than anyone else you know working a normal 40 hour work week, there really isn't time or funding for regular hair appointments.

So, what are your thoughts?  Does working in science cause premature greying?  Or are scientists just too busy and/or unmotivated to keep up appearances as women in other fields?

And, most importantly, is this my husband's way of hinting that perhaps I need to take time out to do something about 4-months worth of grey roots?

Non-Academic Careers

I’m helping a post-doc in our lab take over the career development seminars for my program.  Our program really offers no support to students looking at options outside academia, and many of the investigators actively discourage trainees from pursuing other opportunities.   We are trying to help fill this gap by bringing in speakers from a variety of non-academic scientific careers to share a bit about what it is they do, how they got there, and give everyone some other career opportunities for down the road.
I’ve spent the past year or so conducting informational interviews with everyone and anyone who will sit down and talk to me about what they do, but unfortunately, I’m averaging only about a 10% success rate in regards to emails sent to actual phone conversations had.  I recently sent out another wave of emails to those in the area who were willing to talk to me about possibly coming in for a general career chat with others in my department, but I’m looking for more people and more careers to explore.
So, this is where you come in.  Throw those ideas at me – no matter how off the beaten path.  Once you have that Ph.D. in biomedical sciences, what can you do with it?  Super duper extra bonus points (and cookies sent in the mail) if you have an actual contact in the greater Washington area who might be willing to come talk to a bunch of senior graduate students and post-docs!

Bad Decisions (with a view)

I am at that awkward age in life where I am too old to stay up drinking Friday night and not pay the consequences when I have to be in lab early Saturday morning, but still too young and immature to turn down the invitation to spend the night playing flip cup on a friend’s roof.

Rehearse after me:

“Thank you for the invitation, but I have to be in lab by 7am Saturday, so I must decline.”
“Thank you for the invitation, but I have to be in lab by 7am Saturday, so I must decline.”
“Thank you for the invitation, but I have to be in lab by 7am Saturday, so I must decline.”
“Thank you for the invitation, but I have to be in lab by 7am Saturday, so I must decline.”

But really, who could pass up good beer, great friends, and a perfectly chilly fall night with this lovely view of the city I am fortunate to call home?

The Plague

I've been rather sick the past 12 days with the "lab plague", which started as a cold, added on pinkeye picked up from a labmate (quick! decontaminate the microscope eyepiece!), and has settled in my lungs as a nice case of pneumonia.  I've been on antibiotics (both eyedrops and oral) for several days now, so fortunately the pinkeye is clearing up, and with the help of an inhaler, I can almost breathe without feeling like I am being stabbed in the chest (of course, courtesy of the antibiotics, I now feel like I'm being stabbed in the stomach... six of one, half dozen of the other).

I've been in and out of the lab, trying to balance healing with productivity, in hopes that resting up will kick this plague once and for all so I can head up to Boston later this week for some time in the city and spending Yom Kippur with family and friends.  Husband is in the middle of his fellowship interviews, and since there seems to be a good chance he will wind up in Boston, I am tagging along to confirm that I'd be willing to head to Boston for the next stage of my life if when I graduate.

My statcounter tells me that there are a number of individuals in the greater Boston area who read my blog, so send me your recommendations!  I've been to Boston several times before, but Husband has only been for medical school and residency (and now fellowship) interviews, so what should we do?  Send me your favorite things to do and restaurant recommendations, por favor!  Any particularly great neighborhoods to check out should I be moving in that general direction (looking for a nice balance of somewhere in walking distance to things we need, bars, restaurants, etc., but not filled with noisy undergrads)?  We'll be staying a few blocks away from Mass General, so extra bonus points for things within walking distance that I can do on my own during Husband's interviews... provided I am not still stuck in bed feeling like death.

Twenty Eight

On Sunday, I turned 28.

It marked the end to a very disappointing, frustrating year. I set several goals for myself for 27 -- publish a first author paper, defend my dissertation, take a weekend trip away somewhere with just Husband, sort out a few health problems -- and accomplished none of them. Zero. Zilch. Nada.

These were all very practical, obtainable goals, and my inability to complete even one of them really leaves me to write off 27 as a year of failure. It's certainly not for lack of trying, but I've never put so much effort into things and had absolutely no positive results. I'm used to working hard and reaping the rewards -- I was accepted to every college in which I was interested, was offered an interview for every graduate program to which I applied and was accepted to all except one, every lab I rotated with in graduate school wanted me to join. I've already had two investigators express interest in bringing me on as a post-doc (though of course, such offers are useless if I can't actually manage to graduate.) But this year disproved the notion that hard work equals results. I taught myself multiple new techniques and sought out the advice of collaborators to further my project to no avail. I completed the 8-month daily dosing animal study my boss said was required for my manuscript -- and now he has decided not to publish the results. Every weekend Husband had off, I was either tethered to the lab or we had family/friend obligations (we did get one fun weekend away in Austin, though it was specifically for purposes of visiting someone). We each scheduled off time and arranged to stay in his family's vacation home in South Carolina, but instead I had surgery that week, costing us enough to ensure it will be a very, very long time before we can afford to spend money on anything as frivolous as a vacation. I met with more new doctors this year than I have fingers, and yet the particular health problems I set out to resolve still remain mysteries.

On the other hand, my lack of satisfaction with my current life means that I have never been afraid of aging. I truly believe that the best is yet to come. I'm not going to make some silly declaration that next year can't possibly get any worse, because of course it can, but I think the general overall trend is that I am stuck in a ditch of suckiness, and at some point, I have to start climbing out. To me, the future doesn't mean wrinkles and grey hair (I already have lots of those, anyway) and becoming old and boring -- it means eventually living with my husband, possibly finding a career I enjoy, slowly paying off Husband's medical debt, and having both the time and financial freedom to travel.

As my birthday approached, I was inundated with the standard questions regarding how I felt about turning older. I answered each person with the same response -- that I think the best is yet to come, and I look forward to the future. With the exception of one person, everyone threw the answer back in my face.

"In 10 years, you'll long for the days of being 27 again!"

"What are you talking about? Everyone knows the 20s are the best years of your life!"

"You don't have kids yet! Getting older means having kids, and it's all downhill from there!"

"In 5 years, you'll realize how stupid you sound right now thinking the future will be better."

I chose not to share my unhappiness with individuals in my daily life because no one likes a downer, so I'm not sure if the responses would be different if they knew how truly discontent I am right now. Either way, I'm unsure why everybody feels the need to point out that things will only get worse. Just because they are unhappy with aging surely does not mean that 100% of the population feels the same way and that it MUST be the same for me.

So, in light of all the negativity regarding aging that surrounds me, I am setting only one goal for my 28th year of life: to avoid falling into the anti-aging trap by reminding myself every single day that the best is yet to come. For individuals who base their value and worth on beauty and youth, I am sure the 20s really are the highlight of their lives, but I think my life is only going to improve with time.

Flowers from my Birthday Bush -- my parents' hydrangea blooms every year the week of my birthday.

Three Years

Three years ago, at roughly 9:00pm, I was doing this:

Three years ago, at roughly 9:30pm, I was doing this:

Three years ago, at roughly 10:30pm, I was doing this:

Three years ago, at roughly midnight, I was doing this:

Tonight, at roughly 9:00pm, I was doing this:

Tonight, at roughly 9:30pm, I was doing this:

Tonight, at roughly 10:30pm, I was doing this:

Tonight, at roughly midnight, I am doing this:

My anniversary date for the evening consists of a luciferase assay, a Western blot, and 12 Excel-sheets worth of qPCR data, which seems rather appropriate, considering that I typically feel more married to the lab than to my own husband.

After three years, I am more thankful than ever to have found a spouse who manages to put up with me. While I may not be high maintenance, high stress, or demanding, my chosen career is all three and more, and I cannot imagine it is pleasant to be married to me (and my experiments, we're a package deal) most of the time. So far, our marriage hasn't quite gone as anticipated (so much for that one year long distance plan), and I am eternally thankful for a husband that acknowledges how important science is to me and has never once pressured me to give it up, even if I appear to be taking the (very) long, (extremely) windy road through graduate school.

After all, what are a few years of living apart when we plan on growing into shriveled old octogenarians together?

Furry Family

On August 9, 1997, a litter of kittens was born a few blocks away. A couple of weeks later, my parents and I wandered over to pick out our new cat. My father immediately scooped up one; I clung to another, and my mother glared at both of us and reiterated that we would be bringing home ONE kitten. Of course, several weeks later when they were ready to move on to their new homes, both kittens came with us, and spent the next several years nearly inseparable (as they aged, they became more independent and started prowling the house on their own instead of as a team).

Even though my parents have been his caregivers for many years now (I, of course, was not permitted to bring a cat to college, and there was no way my parents were splitting up the pair and letting me take him to my first grad school apartment), they have always continued to refer to Zeus as "my" cat -- after all, without me, he wouldn't have become part of our family. And, cliche though it may be, he certainly was a part of the family, always waiting on the coffee table staring out the window to greet us on our way home, and immediately jumping into the lap of anyone who sat in his favorite recliner.

It is with a very sad, heavy heart that I have to report that "my" sweet kitty is no more. He passed on this morning at the vet due to unexpected kidney failure, tragically unable to hang on as my parents rushed home from Puerto Rico to say goodbye. It's hard enough to actually say goodbye to a pet; but truly unbearable to not get in that one last ear scratch and knowing your pet, essentially a member of the family, passed away not being petted by someone he loved, but alone in a cage at the emergency vet.

Zeus, wherever you are now, I hope you always have a warm lap available and all the mice you want to chase!

Recipe Ideas

It’s time for me to turn the tables a bit and ask all of you for a little recipe help.

You see, my mother-in-law is on chemotherapy for breast cancer and is currently neutropenic. For the non-biology types, neutropenia is characterized by super low white blood cells, which makes you particularly susceptible to infections. As a result, my MIL is no longer allowed to go to work (she works in a hospital setting where germs run rampant), eat any raw fruits or vegetables, have flowers in the house, etc., because all of these can increase your exposure to various bacteria. But the real kicker for her – she can no longer order takeout. For someone who exists mostly on takeout, this is a very, very big change.

To help her out, I’m planning on cooking as many frozen dinners to send to her as my tiny freezer space will allow. I never cook ahead of time and freeze food for myself, so this is a pretty foreign operation for me. I’d love your tried-and-true freezer meals, since Googling is a bit overwhelming, and some people say things like “I think this will freeze!” but I’m looking for actual confirmation, since I’m sending these off to my MIL and not just keeping them for myself!

Specifically, I’m looking for recipes that are:

1) Easy. She’s going to be on chemo for at least 4 more months, followed by several months of radiation, so I’d like to prepare as many meals as possible.

2) Foolproof when it comes to meat. Since I don’t consume meat myself, I don’t have a ton of experience cooking with it. I want recipes where I don’t have to worry about undercooking the chicken and accidentally killing off my MIL – in other words, whole roasted chicken? Bad. Casserole with cubed chicken that is cooked to the point of no possible rawness? Good.

3) Minimal preparation after thawing. Thawing sauce on the side and pouring it on top is fine, but nothing that requires preparing rice or noodles separately. On days she is feeling her worst, I want her to just take it out of the freezer, put it in the oven, and walk away.

Since I know tastes and preferences can change during chemo, I plan on gathering as many recipes as possible and sending her a list, so she can pick what sounds most appealing to her right now. Any links to recipes you have tried that freeze well would be greatly, greatly appreciated! So far, I'm planning on making a vegetable lasagna, stuffed shells, and portobello black bean enchiladas.


This also seems an appropriate time to do a quick plug for my best friend from high school, Shannon, who is walking 60 miles this fall for breast cancer. In addition to working full time as a behavioral therapist in a school for autistic children and pursuing a masters’ in clinical psychology, Shannon makes jewelry as a hobby and sells it on Etsy. Currently, 100% of the proceeds from her jewelry sales are going towards fundraising for her walk for breast cancer. Check it out – maybe you’ll find a piece you love and will support a great cause at the same time! (I wear lots of Shannon-made originals, and get compliments on them all the time!)

Time Warp

Frequently I find myself starting at my reflection in the mirror, unable to recognize myself anymore. The grey streaks of hair, the dark circles under my eyes – who is this person? Surely, I am not this old yet. It’s not that I find 27 to be old by any stretch of the imagination, but rather, my shock comes because it feels like time hasn’t moved over the past six years. Certainly, I am still just 21, fresh and wide-eyed out of undergrad, because I have nothing of accomplishment to indicate that six years have slipped past.

Looking around me, I accept that my friends are moving up in the world. They have new jobs they love, new promotions and pay raises, and are starting to accumulate the signs of achievement – purchasing a new car, moving to a better apartment or making the down payment on a house, having children. Friends who, in the amount of time I’ve been going into the same lab everyday and trying to force my protein to cooperate in the exact same assays, have held a job for several years, left to go back to graduate school, and returned to a different job. Friends who are already on child number two. Friends who discuss monetary investments and where to purchase property and retirement funds. And yet, there is nothing to indicate my passage of time. On the contrary, it’s like I’m moving backwards. I started out graduate school with a roommate. A few years later, I found myself married with a husband… who shortly left for residency in Philadelphia. I spent a year living on my own, and now find myself back to square one, living with a roommate, informing the surgeon’s receptionist that no, even though most individuals bring a spouse to the consult, I will be attending alone because for all intents and purposes, I am single once again (note: this has nothing at all to do with my husband not wanting to be there, but rather, the inability for him to take time off to travel to DC).

Husband’s best friend’s wife mentioned over a cookie baking session this fall that that they have decided to “pull the goalie.” A recent conversation with said best friend implied, though did not directly state, that his wife is pregnant. If it is the case, I am thrilled – overjoyed even – that they will be expanding their family. When I look at them, I see so many milestones of achievement. He went to graduate school and earned his first masters’ in New York City, then returned back to Philly, worked for a few years, and is now back in school again for a second masters’ degree. She has been through two lucrative jobs and recently left to start her own business as a personal chef and is thriving while completely loving what she does (a novel concept). Now, they are working on expanding their family. Both their lives are marked with achievements, personal and professional, indicating their successes over the past several years.

I look in the mirror and see grey streaks of hair and dark circles, but what I cannot see are the accomplishments that I find in all my friends. Six years into graduate school and I have no first author papers, and none coming up in the pipeline. I cannot even make a remote guess as to when I will graduate, other than to assure you that it will not be this May. Because I have no first author papers, I have no job prospects for after graduation. Not residing in the same state as my husband, there is no point in even discussing things like purchasing property or having children. I wonder, at which fork in the road did I make the wrong decision, and wind up stuck in this time warp of unachievement? Because certainly, a time warp must be the only explanation – I cannot possibly really be 27 and yet still be stuck exactly where I was at 21.

Relaxation

After a stressful, frustrating, disappointing day in lab, I am thankful for the calm stirring of a thick chocolate peanut butter batter, frustration melting away with each stroke, while the stand mixer sits in the corner, unplugged and ignored.

After a stressful, frustrating, disappointing day in lab, I am thankful for the sheer childlike delight at piping peanut butter frosting on top of fluffy domed cupcakes, a smile slowly spreading across my face as the frosting perfectly envelopes each cupcake.

After a stressful, frustrating, disappointing day in lab, I am thankful for the relaxing task of a sink full of dishes, my brain slowly shutting down with each repetitive swirl of the soapy sponge around and around and around the plate, realizing that I don't care if the dishwasher is ever repaired.

For a brief moment, there is peace, until the ding of an email from my boss instantly drags me back down into unhappiness. And all has returned back to normal.

Water Woes

As sad as I was to have to move, I figured there was at least ONE perk (well, in addition to paying $975 less per month) -- moving on up. The two previous places I've lived, I lived on the bottom floor. While this has many benefits (moving couches, carrying in groceries, stays cooler in the summer, etc), it has the unfortunate problem of gravity working against you. Any water which leaks from above came pouring right down onto me (see here, here, here, and here if you need refreshers on the floods of 2006, 2007, 2009, and 2010). But now, in my new place, I am on the top floor (of a two story building). Finally! Gravity is in MY favor! It was finally Karmic Plumbing time, in which my water dripped on those below, instead of vice versa!

Haha. Hahahahahahahahahahahahahaha.

Three weeks ago, there was a leak in the pipe below my sink, which flooded the kitchen.

Two weeks ago, our garbage disposal broke, so water leaked out the bottom of the garbage disposal.

Last week, our dishwasher stopped draining after the final rinse cycle.

This week, our dishwasher won't even run (probably because of the three inches of water in the bottom that we can't drain).

You can run. You can hide. You can try to defy gravity. But if you've been tagged for life with the Ultimate Plumbing Curse, you just can't escape them.

Perhaps this is all just one big sign that I'm supposed to stop cooking and exist on takeout and paper plates for the rest of my life.

Joke’s On Me

While sitting here banging my head on the desk, trying to decide whether it would be more therapeutic to laugh or to cry, I just realized something.

My life?  Is a joke.  I’m not anywhere near so bad off that I deserve pity – I have a roof over my head, a (frequently disgruntling) career path that pays me just enough to survive, a husband (albeit in another state), wonderful friends, etc.  On paper, my life is great!

But then these little things happen, and just pile up one on top of another.  And really, who has so many little disastrous things?  It’s just too much!

And that’s when I realized my life must really be a joke, and I am here for the comedic relief of everyone else.  Are there cameras following me everywhere I go, a la The Truman Show?  These things surely must be staged to provide excellent “reality” television for everyone out there to see how I react.  Will she have a breakdown?!  Will she break plates out of frustration?  Oh, she handled that rationally.  Let’s throw something else at her to see what happens!  Are you all watching me on some streaming internet site from work?  Did you just see me wave at you?  (Sorry for the unwashed messy hair and way-too-big pajamas; I’ve been sick.  Though I’m sure you must know that based on the number of times you’ve seen me blow my nose the past few days.)

Several weeks ago, it all started when I found out I was going to have to move out of the wonderful condo I have been renting the past three years.  Back in March, I contacted the owner and asked if she would be amenable to doing a shorter-term lease, since I am hoping to not need a full year to finish my Ph.D. (unrealistic wishful thinking on my behalf).  She said yes, it was fine, and we set a date to sign my new, short term, renewable lease.  I emailed back and forth to confirm all questions I had – that I would not be asked to sign a full year lease at any point; that she would not attempt to find another tenant until I was done; etc.  Over and over she reassured me that the place was mine as long as I needed it, and she would never rope me into a full year lease.

The day before we were supposed to sign the lease, she emails me, informing me that she changed her mind, and I would be signing a 3-month lease followed by a year-long lease.  She didn’t care what she had said previously, this was how it is and I could take it or leave it. 

So, I’m leaving it.  I had one month to do a move that I was not expecting to do, and it has frayed my every last nerve.  There are very, very few places that will allow you to do short term or month-to-month that are not excruciatingly expensive, so I am moving into an apartment with a roommate.  Yes, it’s a major step downward, and now my husband and I are going to have NOWHERE to ourselves since I will be living with someone, but let’s save that letdown for another day, shall we?

So, I found somewhere to live.  I’m not happy about it, I’m not looking forward to it, but I also know that I adapt extremely well, so I am sure it will all work out, even if I feel like I am regressing in life.  I get to have an AMAZING! WONDERFUL! EXCITING! birthday this weekend spent moving one-fourth of my belongings to my new place, and three-fourths of my belongings into storage in Philadelphia.  (I’ll spare you the details about how despite reserving the move-out date weeks ago, and paying my $400 move-out fee, the management company double booked, and now some girl is calling me up screaming at me all the time because she needs to park her truck in the spot I reserved for my move-out.)  I’ve been quite sick the past two days, which have put a huge damper on my packing efforts.  Yesterday, I spent all afternoon sleeping on the couch, and today I was feeling a bit better, but opted to stay home from lab again so as to be able to catch up on some additional sleep and do some more packing.

Since my place is a disaster, I’m trying to do the best to separate what is going to Philly versus what is staying with me in DC.  Things to Philly are stashed in the living room, whereas things staying with me have been packed in boxes and stored in my extremely large (for inner city living standards) bathroom.

The bathroom which flooded this morning.

The very same bathroom which flooded two months ago, and looked like this 10 minutes AFTER the water was shut down (it was like Niagara Falls before they turned the water off):

Now, imagine that much water (perhaps a bit more), but gushing from my toilet instead.  And now, imagine all my packed boxes with the belongings I planned on keeping with me in DC soaking up all that toilet water.

Oh, but wait.  Certainly you already knew all this, because you were watching it unfold.  My life?  Is a joke.

Disgruntled Julie: A True Hero

This evening, I was just minding my own business at home when I heard a blood-curdling shriek come from across the hall, causing me to immediately jump up and make sure everyone was okay.

(Weeeellll…. kind of.  I had just finished elliptical-ing, and one of the big benefits to owning your own elliptical is that no one sees you while you work out, so first I had to put on a shirt, and then I cracked my door open a few millimeters to stick out an eyeball to make sure the screams weren’t because an axe murderer was lurking in my building.  Then I tentatively took the few steps across the hall, leaving my door open and my body pointing back towards my door, in the event said axe murderer answered, in hopes that I’d be able to bolt back to the safety of my own unit and slam the door in his face.)

My across-the-hall neighbor opened the door, pale and shaking.  “Oh (gasp) my (pant) G-d (pant, gasp) it’s (pant, pant, gasp)…. a (pant, pant, gasp)… (pant, pant, gasp, pant, building up the suspense….) MOUSE!”

Dun DA DUN!  SCIENTIST TO THE RESCUE!

I cornered the mouse, trapped him on a dustpan, and picked him up by the tail to carry him outside where he scampered off to freedom (and by scampered to freedom, I probably mean someone else’s apartment, where he may meet his ultimate demise via a mousetrap).

On my way out, my neighbor caught her breath enough to tell me that I was her hero.

That’s right.  Disgruntled Julie: Saving Single DC Women from Eenie, Weenie Terrifying Mice.

Well, at least one technique from the lab is useful in a real world setting.

(I really don’t understand why people are so terrified of mice.  Does she look vicious?)

The Sweetest Donation

Several weeks ago, I received what may very well have been the sweetest, most adorable request ever.  So sweet and caring that it is enough to pull me out of my current blogging/reading blogs/Twitter break (things are just a little overwhelming right now, and I need some time away).

The email came from BethAnn, whose snarky science alone is almost enough to make me want to move to Nashville and switch to neuroscience research…. almost.  I may as well go down and join the lab, considering the number of times I have found myself on their lab webpage (first for the football bet, then again when she posted a shameful picture of me forced into an Eagles jersey, and now once again for my dismal performance in the NCAA tournament pool).   In fact, BethAnn has informed me that I have quite a few readers from her department… so special shout out to anyone from Vanderbilt neurology!

So, back to this email.  BethAnn has two adorable children, one of whom very recently turned 7.  Amelia and her brother, Colin, are both running in the Shade Tree Trot on May 1st, a 5K for the Shade Tree Clinic, a Vanderbilt run free clinic for the uninsured.  In lieu of presents, Amelia asked her family to donate money to the clinic.  Is that not the sweetest, most un-selfish thing you have ever heard?  I know when I was 7 (and uh, 17, and possibly again when I turn 27 and am in dire need of monetary gift funds towards a new laptop...) I would not have thought to ask for donations to a charity instead of receiving birthday presents.

Amelia and Colin have decided that if everyone they know will contribute $2 to either or both of their sponsor pages, the clinic will thrive and they will play a role in helping to save the world.

Let’s think about this for a moment.  Two children, who are running a 5K (and how many of you adults out there struggle with running a 5K?  I know I’m not the only one…), want to make a difference by asking everyone to donate a mere $2 to a great cause.  Two dollars. 

So please, help Amelia and Colin meet their goal, and consider donating $2 to one or both of their collections (or certainly, more than $2!), and help show children that they CAN make a difference, and we will help them along the way.

Donation pages located here – Amelia and Colin.

To make your donation even sweeter, I am going to ship off homemade cookies to two of you who donate (regardless of amount of donation).  Donate to one, get one entry.  Donate to both, get two entries.  After you have made your donation, comment and let me know.  I’m working off the honor system here, because if you lie over donating a mere $2 to help support two kids running for a great cause… well, shame on you.  I know none of MY readers would do such a thing.  (Note: cookie shipments valid for U.S. addresses only, due to shipping costs.)

Daylight Savings Proposal

I’m not a fan of Daylight Savings Time to begin with… I think it’s a bit outdated.  After all, most of us are not farmers and do have electricity, so the need to push back the time in the fall to gain light an hour earlier isn’t the necessity of years past.  And as much as everyone enjoys gaining an hour in the fall, springing forward is a real pain.

I don’t think the government is going to go along with my elimination of DST, so I have a suggestion.

How about, instead of 2am Sunday morning, we end DST at 10am Monday morning?

We assemble into lab meeting and start discussing general lab business.  At 9:59, the person presenting for the meeting stands up to talk, opens their powerpoint presentation… and suddenly it becomes 11:00am.  Lab meeting over, everyone dismissed.

I wouldn’t mind if that hour disappeared from my life…

Blues-Buster

Little Known Fact: I love the Olympics.  Especially winter.

I mean, really.  Downhill skiing.  Luge.  Curling.  Snowboard half pipe.  An event in which you have to ski around a course and then shoot a gun.  What’s not to love?  I really wish the Snowpocalypse had come this week instead, so I could stay home and watch all the daytime not-so-popular events too.

So, you’ll have to excuse my absence for the next week, but there are more pressing matters on my TV.  Though, I promise this weekend I will FINALLY take the pictures from this  month’s Daring Cooks’ challenge off my camera and get them on my blog, since the posting date was only, oh, four days ago.  No biggie.  Better late than never, right?

Anyway, figure skating is one of the events I am not so crazy about.  I still watch, of course, and appreciate with awe the ability to spin around four times and land on a toothpick-thick blade on a sheet of ice (while I, meanwhile, cannot stay upright wearing a full-width pair of boots, and wiped out on my lazy ass neighbors’ unshoveled sidewalks so badly on Tuesday that my knee is still the size of a grapefruit)… but well, I’d rather watch skiing.  Except when it comes to Johnny Weir.  I know he’s controversial and all, but he brings the attitude that makes it so exciting to watch him.  And frankly, I thought he did far better in the freestyle program tonight than his scores indicate.

I had a really, really, really crappy day today.  I self-medicated with an extremely thorough kitchen scrubbing (I find getting the burnt-on gunk off of burners is way more therapeutic than either ice cream or alcohol), but even after scrubbing until my hands bled, I still wanted to strangle someone.  And then I found this gem.  Every time I watch it, I feel better and better.  Because what could possibly be a more perfect match than a flamboyant figure skater and Lady Gaga?

So next time you’re having a crap day, watch this.  You’ll feel better.