inner dialogue

don't give us none of your aggravation

2010-08-30T18:27:00.000-07:00

The goings-on around my condo on Saturday sparked the following Facebook post:

>Upstairs got rhythm; downstairs a break-up on progress. Gotta love condo living on a Saturday night. At least the next door dog isn't barking...until dawn, that is...

Surprisingly, one friend seemed to envy me my my neighbors' shenanigans. Further explanation seemed prudent.

>Well, by the time the couple upstairs finished their mattress-drumming session (odd considering they had a friend snoring away on an inflatable bed in the living room), I'd already missed the reasons for the break-up and it had degenerated into "but I love you I want to be with you" and "but I don't trust you anymore you're driving me crazy" and "why why why" back and forth for like 2 hours, culminating in a door slam around 2:00 a.m. followed by angry stomping up and down the length of the apartment until around 4. So far this morning it's been very quiet. Stay tuned for the next installment of Nob Hill condo drama...

Hm. Still - applause for living in a real-life soap opera? These events inspired the following poem, "Saturday":

The cat stretches his legs trembling

the exhale a warm rumble on the back of the hand.

The remains of dinner did not make it to the sink

must remember to not step on plate in the dark.

Today no one spoke but tomorrow phone calls

day after is gas drive work waiting teaching.

Above the floor rumbles chuckling music laugher

heavy footsteps mean the neighbor has a guest.

Below crying screaming “but I love you”

silence door slam silence door slam thump silence.

Caught between one really might not need any more

another sigh whine claws dig gently into the thigh.

Alone not lonely must remember this means

dishes can wait until tomorrow

a pile of books by the favored chair

the cat will join in bed sometime after midnight.

thanks to my years of martial arts training...

2010-01-31T16:44:00.000-08:00

Created by Oatmeal

oh my holy god

2010-01-17T02:07:00.000-08:00

The definition of "adorable" - so sweet I need to go brush my teeth now. Thanks, Tosh.

words to you on my deathbed

2009-10-04T15:25:00.000-07:00

I will not speak
of songs unsung
of books unread,
unwritten.
I will not speak
of wishes cast,
of travels far,
lovers unbidden.
Instead I'll say
rejoice today -
no matter that
my hour's ended.
The next one's yours
(you should not mourn)
and I hope you
make it splendid.

obliviousness

2009-09-23T20:34:00.000-07:00

Two vignettes from après work last night:

1) At Nordstrom Rack:
Checker: "I can help you, Ma'am..."
Me: "Thank you! How are you doing?"
Checker: (blinks in surprise) "Uh, fine, thanks! Aren't you nice?"
Me: (laughs) "Well, it's the end of the day, and it's only Tuesday, so it can't be that bad yet...."
Checker: "You'd be surprised. But I'm so glad I got to help you...what a nice end to a really horrible day."
Me: (distraught mew) "Oh, how sad...that's pretty depressing if my asking how you're doing is the highlight of your day...."

2) At Starbucks:
Young woman in front of me in the customer line comes up to the counter. She sets down two large frothy Starbucks drinks.
Young woman: "Uh, you need to remake these. There's too much caramel in them."
Barista: "Um, but you asked for extra caramel."
Young woman: "Yeah, but there's too much caramel."
Barista: (pregnant pause)
Young woman: (insouciant smirk)
Barista: "Uh, okay...."
Whole line behind me: (chorus of groans)

...and the dustbunnies shall inherit the earth....

2009-08-17T18:44:00.000-07:00

Whoa, Nelly. I've had a slow-simmering desire to overhaul the ol' apartment and each weekend I've made a special effort to pitch...something...anything. I definitely fall into the category of "packrat who wishes she were a minimalist" and though I resolve in my head to throw out anything that I know I've not looked at in over a year (of which there is MUCH crammed into my 500-or-so-square-footed place), without fail I, er, fail to manage it. Instead, I resolutely look at every single piece of paper, every gee-gaw or whatsitfer before chucking it, or placing it in the Pile of Shame, which then needs to be sorted into some kind of storage receptacle where it will languish until my next pitching fit eight years or so hence.

My latest inspiration is to get rid of my desk, which I have never really used as a desk and is instead a laundry organizer on the desktop, a piles-of-paper-crap supporter in the hutch, and is a sweater shelf atop the hutch -- home to at least 20 sweaters, piled on high in a princess-and-the-pea-worthy fashion, and may even contain a moth or two. I have found a suitably overachieving but cheap replacement which is actually meant for clothes: a high dresser from IKEA that I wouldn't mind using for other sorts of storage should I ever manage to leave my 500-or-so-square-footed apartment and move into a sprawling suburban condo or somesuch dream/nightmare.

In my effort to unearth the gently-used desk from its paper and cashmere trappings so that I might pretty it up for Craigslist, I have discovered something most unsettling: my bedroom is inhabited by dustbunnies. I do clean, mind you, and I have a rather large air filter running at all times in that room to keep the kitty litter dust under control and to serve as white noise to drown out the thundering footsteps of my neighbors above (who seem to find it great fun to leap in and out of bed at 2 in the morning) . So I was rather upset to find a dustbunny infestation. Without doubt my allergist would likely be upset on my behalf, too (he who convinced me I need to add a dehumidifier to my bedroom inhabitants...anyone else want to move in, too?

time flies when you're having fun

2009-06-05T18:27:00.001-07:00

Today's gloomy weather has dissolved into the blueness of a perfect Friday evening, and I'm still here in lab trying to order my thoughts for the coming week. What looms above all these thoughts, though, is the dread I feel for the potential disaster that awaits me on Sunday:

a surprise party for my mother's 60th birthday that I've been organizing for a couple of months now

which could either be:
a) a complete success, and surrounded by her wonderful friends, causes my mother to "reboot" her perspective
b) a total fiasco, reinforcing her negative outlook

please please please let it be "a".

a moment

2008-07-06T11:04:00.000-07:00

Cell phone in right hand, purse in left. The softness of my white linen pants brushing against my calves as I walk offsets the tightness of the black strappy wedges I've only worn once before. Three quarters in the meter should get me to 6:00. I locked the car, didn't I?

When Gough hits Market, I think I go right, but I will have to check to see. Damn, I'm five minutes later than I thought but at least I got a good parking spot.

Ok, so besides Angela, who will I know at this dinner?

My left toe catches on something. My right foot steps forward at an awkward angle, and my left foot hurries to counteract the motion. Cell phone in right hand, purse in left. I can't stop myself; my wedge shoes are curved to help me rock forward with every step, so I rock forward: right, left, right, and then I am down. Left knee first but I don't feel it. I clutch at the building to my right. Will I be able to stop? No. My left hand flings forward. For some reason I clench my teeth, hard.

Didn't make it.

"Oh!" a woman exclaims behind me. "Are you ok?" She is hurrying up to me. I am sprawled, semi-kneeling. Cell phone in right hand, purse on the ground. That it stupid; the purse is unzipped and open. Am I panting?

"I really thought you were going to make it," she says as I roll backwards so I can sit on the sidewalk.

"Yeah," I say thickly, "I thought I was going to make it, too."

"Oh!" she exclaims again, while fishing through her purse. "Don't get blood on your nice white pants!"

Where is the blood? She is reaching towards my face with a kleenex. Shit.

Ok, so my chin hurts. I look down and see the blood dripping into the valley of my cleavage. "Hold on," she says, and hands me another kleenex. She is now chattering about how she has tripped on that same spot in the sidewalk before. I press the kleenex to the stinging spot on my chin. I need to get up. My head hurts. "You need some ice," she declares.

"I am going to try to get up," I say. I put my left hand out, still pressing against my chin with my right. Cell phone goes into the purse. Ow. My left knee makes it hard to get up. That's the knee I've hurt before.

The woman walks forward with me. I move very slowly. There's a convenience store just a few yards away with a dirty table and chair sitting outside it. I sit in the chair, while the woman goes in to ask for some ice. No ice, I hear. She comes back out. "I think I have some band-aids." She rummages in her purse. I think I am panting. "Wow, you're really shaking," she says. "Do you want a cigarette?"

That is the last thing I need. I tell her no thanks, that I am just going to Zuni for dinner but perhaps I will not be dining after all. I stand. I am shaking.

She hands me the band-aids, and I thank her again. She was kind to spend so much time with me. She turns down a side street and is gone. I reach Market and turn right. I am half way down the block before I realize I am heading in the wrong direction. Why is no one looking at me? I am pressing a bloody kleenex to my chin!

I turn around and walk the other way. I might not make it through the intersection before the light changes, but I can't go any faster. I am limping more obviously now. Those windows on the left are probably the restaurant. I glance at the people sitting near the windows. I must be quite a sight. Where is the damn front door? I walk past the valet and go inside. The two young men at the front look like they don't know if they should throw me out or be scared of me. I tell them in a shaky voice, nearly crying, that I was supposed to be here for dinner but I've had a little accident. No, I don't know who in my party made the reservation. I am a little late. Can you read the names for me? No, I don't know who made the reservation. I am going to try to call Angela.

The phone rings twice. Angela answers. "Angela, could you come to the front right now?" Poor Angela is confused. I repeat myself. I see her face appear amongst the dining crowd, deep into the restaurant. She is really confused. I sigh in relief when she says she will come. I ask the boys where the ladies room might be. God. I have to walk past everyone in the bar?

Angela looks quite pale. She asks me what happened and I tell her. I am probably not going to join them for dinner, so sorry, and the opera is probably a no-go. She walks me to the ladies' room.

In the dim light of the bathroom we try to get a look at my chin. It is still quite bloody. I have dirt smudged in a long crescent from my chin to my left temple. Drying blood cascades down my chest. Angela wets a paper towel to wipe at my cheek, while I wipe at my front. It is a miracle no blood has ended up on my white linen pants. Why is my voice so shaky? "I am so embarassed," I tell Angela. Will I need stitches? Neither of us can tell. I encourage her to go back to dinner and express my regret that I will not be joining the party. She helps me put on the band-aid that the woman had given me. I sniffle deeply, and I limp slowly out of the restaurant, thanking the boys at the front for their help.

My knee is throbbing by the time i reach my car. Where to go, home or hospital? I call my mother, the ex-nurse. "How big does a laceration have to be to need stitches," I ask her. "What's wrong?" she asks, in a fatigued voice.

****
In the ER I sit waiting to be evaluated by a triage nurse. My band-aid has soaked through, and I am dripping again. I grab a paper towel from my purse that I had pilfered from the restaurant bathroom, and press it against my chin. I think of the "little guy" from Fargo trying to leave the Minneapolis airport parking lot. Laughing makes my head ache even more.
*****

8 x-rays, 1 tetanus shot, and six black nylon stitches later, I leave the ER over 5 hours after that moment on the sidewalk. My teeth suspiciously fit together better than ever, and my tongue seems to get caught between my molars when I speak. The knee the triage nurse deemed "crunchy" is probably not broken, but a re-evaluation when the swelling goes down is probably in order. I am starving, having not eaten since breakfast. I shudder in the cold fog blowing down Sacramento as I cross the street to my fortunately close-parked car. I wait to avoid a speeding Muni bus. Thank God I didn't get a parking ticket.

laughed so hard i cried

2008-05-11T15:04:00.000-07:00

Yes, it's been a while, and I apologize...but I couldn't resist posting this.

insanity and frosted flakes

2008-01-05T16:09:00.000-08:00

My rear aches. I've had a drill-in-the-head ache for days. My shoulders are hunched so high they're keeping my earlobes warm. I've taken to munching on dry Frosted Flakes out of a coffee mug and listening to the Beatles. My "breaks" constitute feeding the cat or taking a pumice to my clammy feet.

Am I going insane?

No.

I'm writing my dissertation.

odd anatomy question

2007-10-27T11:37:00.000-07:00

Why is it that when you've got something on your mind, you have to get it off your chest?

too wierd

2007-10-22T08:55:00.000-07:00

It's a left-brain, right-brain thing:

http://www.news.com.au/heraldsun/story/0,21985,22556281-661,00.html

Really odd. I started out counter-clockwise, then could switch back and forth, even while blinking or after turning away. Does that mean I use both halves of my brain? God, it sure doesn't seem as though I do....

awesome...but why must I always be unearthly white?

2007-10-05T00:32:00.000-07:00

Your Score: Yuurei

You scored 16 in Malice and 21 in Chaos!

The Yuurei are the lost souls of those whose lives were abruptly ended in the midst of great distress or emotion. They are pale, white spectres nearly indistinguishable from humans, except that they possess no legs, indicative of their detachment from the earthly world. Yuurei haunt the place of their deaths, waiting for the opportunity to fulfil some incomplete purpose.

Yuurei are more commonly female than male, victims of male cruelty or neglect. Those who become Yuurei typically die violent deaths, whether by suicide or by murder; they become trapped on earth until they have taken care of unfinished business. Male Yuurei are less common, although a slain warrior may become one in order to set the record straight regarding the manner of his death, i.e. to clear his name from disgrace.

Although most Yuurei are relatively harmless, some may become "Obake-Yuurei," or monster ghosts. Obake-Yuurei, instead of restricting their passions to reasonable limits, are wont to loose their rage and sorrow on any people who happen to be unlucky enough to pass by.

My test tracked 2 variables How you compared to other people your age and gender:

You scored higher than 99% on Malice
You scored higher than 99% on Chaos

Link: The Japanese Demon Profile Test written on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

brilliance

2007-09-23T16:46:00.001-07:00

I have no idea why some of this has persisted in my memory for so long, yet here it is, on YouTube...so indeed I am not alone.

"Subway"

An orange sings Carmen

"Grease" à la Sesame Street

There's actually a ton of "classic" & "vintage" (sic) Sesame Street on YouTube...you may be shocked at how much you remember, and how much you didn't know (for example, who knew Philip Glass was responsible for those trippy rainbow patterns?)....

Remember Kermit the Frog at the scene when G. Washington cuts down the cherry tree?

Or the "This is your life" for the loaf of bread?

Do you know how many ladybugs were at the ladybugs' picnic?

"Gimme one-two-three-four, but if you love me more, gimme five, gimme five..."

Who upset the two little dolls in the little dollhouse?

Oh, I could go on and on...

passing on

2007-08-19T23:06:00.000-07:00

My grandfather died this morning after a long, slow spiral of deterioration that started the day my grandmother passed away. In the years that followed, his mind and body slipped in violent bursts to the point, that in the end, he had probably forgotten most of his life. Is this a blessing, or a curse? It is hard to tell. For the ones that are left behind, our memories are what freshen our grief; it is practically impossible to not replay one's memories of the deceased over and over again in the event of their death, as though doing so in the throes of sadness will more firmly seat those memories in our ever-eroding brains. For him, perhaps to die without real awareness and memory made it easier...we will never know.

As I think about him this day, it's funny what is clearest in my crowded thoughts: his smell, his twinkle, his hands. Foremost, his smell: salt, wood, and oil. I don't mean this in the way that retailers praise men's cologne; but his actual smell...like dusty salt, kept too long in the back of the cupboard; like wood that has been damp and warm in cycles for many years; like oil, a combination of mechanical oil and the smell of 3-day-unwashed hair. To me, it was strong, but never unpleasant, and always seemed strongest when hugging him, scraping his raspy cheek hairs on my face.

His twinkle was the gleam that would appear when smiling. It never appeared when he laughed; Grandpa always seemed a bit sheepish when laughing aloud. But when he smiled, his upper lip rose slightly, the corners of his mouth drew his lips apart, and then the twinkle in his eye would arrive, causing his hooded eyes to appear less stern and guarded, as though he giggled through his eyes.

His hands, when held, were fascinating. To look at them, you'd only see the years they'd spent as a carpenter, electrician, shop owner, mailman, and public servant. They were always slightly dirty-looking, even if they had just spent a half hour in the sink washing the dishes. His hands, when held, were always cool and dry, like blocks of wood that ought to have been splintered but instead had been worn smooth by time.

Many things are lost to me now, cursed as I am with a weak memory. Even should I forget these things, I know every time I hug my father I'll savor a touch of the scent and strength of his dad, my grandfather.

partially inspired by this morning's commute

2007-06-28T18:57:00.001-07:00

10 things that bug me:

1. Bumper stickers that say, "My other car is a..."
2. Cars that are flesh-colored. And I'm not discriminating. That means: cream, brown, tan, ochre, etc.
3. Slammed doors
4. Finger wagging
5. Eyelashes stuck in your eye
6. That wierd sewer smell that occasionally permeates San Francisco
7. Sudden gusts of wind
8. "Designer" car horn sounds
9. Imperfectly timed traffic lights
10. Potholes

these quiz things are ridiculous

2007-06-28T18:52:00.000-07:00

Your Score: Dionysus

0% Extroversion, 13% Intuition, 83% Emotiveness, 90% Perceptiveness

Although deeply emotional, you are extremely lacking in self-knowledge. You are somewhat needy, and when bored, may become very hedonistic. Your life is a quest for meaning, above all else. You are most like Dionysus. You are primarily interested in serving others, but your efforts are almost always unappreciated. You aren't confrontational, you're often out of tune with your own needs and unaware of the consequences of your own actions.

You are, at heart, a good person. You are very affectionate, and you are very loyal to your friends and family. You are very reluctant to burden others with your own problems, to the point that this in itself can become a problem for the people who care about you. This is a particular of a more general problem. Dionysus sends wave of ruin throughout his personal life. He is the photographer who seduces his subjects. He is the teacher who seduces a student. He is the art student who paints nonrepresentational splashes of color, he is the poet who rejects meter and content. You seek sexual partners more than anything else (this is to exploit the nurturing side of others to help fill your own void). If not sexual partners, this desire to become the object of sympathy with other people can manifest itself in other destructive ways. Stinkfist by Tool explains your condition pretty well. It's very likely that you haven't had many experienced mentors. You don't want them either, because you're the sort of person who rejects criticism and boundaries, but they're also your only hope for reaching any kind of emotional maturity.

Famous People Like You: John Lennon, Mick Jagger, Michael Jackson, Britney Spears, Marilyn Monroe, Hugh Hefner

I'd tell you to stay clear of Hermes, Icarus and Apollo, but you could probably learn something from them. You're least likely to hurt The Oracle, Atlas, Prometheus, and Daedalus, but Atlas and Daedalus won't like you very much.
Seek out: The Oracle, Prometheus

Link: The Greek Mythology Personality Test written by Aleph_Nine on OkCupid Free Online Dating, home of the The Dating Persona Test

cause for concern

2007-04-13T19:06:00.000-07:00

I stood in the elevator lobby for about 10 seconds before I heard the first "ding" announcing the arrival of an elevator. I shifted my weight towards the source of the sound. Then a second "ding" chimed from the opposite elevator. I hesitated, then on impulse, though the doors for the second lift opened a second later than the first, I entered the second elevator. Once inside, I turned to look at the empty elevator across the lobby, and I was seized by a (I swear I am not making this up) completely irrational pang of regret at the sight of the forlorn elevator. I actually thought, "I'm sorry" as the doors to my lift closed and the empty elevator disappeared from view.

As I ascended to the 13th floor, I did take a moment to reflect on my disturbing thought. But even as I branded myself at utterly ridiculous, the doors opened again and as I left the elevator I couldn't help but look nervously across the way again, to the closed doors of my rejected elevator, as though it might have followed me upstairs to once again open its doors in dissapointment, and give me a look like a dog left tied in the yard during a rainstorm.

i concentrate on you

2007-04-12T21:31:00.000-07:00

I seem to have entered a curious new phase of my life. I am more self-absorbed, self-centered, self-obsessed than I've ever been before. It's really quite a strange sensation, and I'm not really sure how it came about. Suddenly, my "How are you"s seem less sincere to my ears; it's as though I'm less attached to my surroundings by half, and my needs are paramount. When did this happen? It's not as if I'm any busier or stressed than usual -- the lab work is progressing well, and now that my thesis committee has freed me from my cloning albatross-from-hell, and I have a tentative plan for the rest of the year that involves finishing up, writing, graduating, and teaching part-time, I'm actually probably less stressed than I've been in quite a while. Perhaps this is the feeling of a promise of liberation, the approach of an achieved goal, the transition from one sort of life to another. It's difficult to articulate, like trying to describe the awareness that suddenly descends on one as winter yields to spring: the air smells different, the feeling of the breeze as it brushes your skin has changed. (I'm even finding myself translating that last sentence from French into English as I write it.)

I'm now consumed by a desire to beautify my home. I've been seized by a need to read a slew of books and write those three or four different stories that have been clamoring for my time and attention for ages. I want to throw a dinner party. I've even done some cleaning of my lab desk (though I somewhat regret giving up on my little how-much-dust-can-that-CD-accumulate experiment). I don't feel so guilty putting on my headphones at work to drown out the chaos of the lab. I'm not really sure what all this means, if I'm just emerging from the fog of graduate student existence, or if I just need a vacation. But it is strange.

apparently sarcasm doesn't work on my mom's cell phone

2007-03-08T19:15:00.000-08:00

Me: Oh, and did I tell you? I got a haircut last week.
Mom: Really?
Me: Yep, it's a new 'do...I've got bangs. Can you remember when I last had bangs?
Mom: It's been a long time. But they're very fashionable now.
Me: Of course, then, it makes sense that I have bangs...since I'm so fashionable.
Mom: (hysterical laughter)
Me: (silence)
Mom: Oh, Jenny, you are so funny....

wednesday night haiku

2007-02-22T22:46:00.000-08:00

mismatched pyjamas
taped American Idol
Popeye's chicken strips

two-wheel tease

2007-02-04T14:57:00.000-08:00

Ok, so Match.com hasn't found me the love of my life after two months of online exposure. But perhaps I've stumbled onto the latest thing, better than "toothing" or any other social fad: flirting on scooters.

Late one night last week, I had a frigging cold ride-on-the-scooter home. So cold, in fact, that I had a bulky scarf wrapped 'round my neck, its tails stuffed down the front of my leather jacket so my torso was puffed out even more than usual; I also had donned my waterproof/windbreaker pants over my jeans. It was cold enough, given the added wind chill, that I knew my fingers, thighs, and toes were going to be frigid by the time I got home. All I wanted was to get home and into my fleece pants and wool slippers ASAP.

As I drove down Oak Street, cursing at the unnecessarily red light I had managed to avoid, and pounding my cold thighs with my fists to keep warm, I became aware of another two-wheeler approaching me from between two lanes of cars. I was already at the intersection, towards the left of my middle lane, so it was not unexpected for another motorcyclist/scooter-rider to join me at the head of the line of traffic. What was unexpected, however, was that this guy, on a fancy Scarabeo scooter larger than mine, turned his head to me, lifted his helmet's visor, and smiled. I assumed this was just a friendly two-wheeler-to-two-wheeler gesture, like a little hand-wave that isn't uncommon amongst cycle commuters, so I returned the salute with a nod and a little wave of my throttle hand. He responded by lowering his visor, giving his engine a little rev, and nodding to me. At that point, the light changed, and I assumed he'd just hot-dog it and gun his scooter with an obviously larger engine to zoom ahead of me. Instead, as we proceeded down Oak, he switched into the next lane, but kept pace with me, making a point to stop even to where I had stopped, and lift his visor again to look at me!

Now, I was hardly Christie Brinkley in a red convertible. Neither was I dressed in a biker-babe black leather jumpsuit with red flames embroidered on my calves and arms. But we flirted all the way down Oak, flitting towards and away from each other like butterflies. We never tried to speak to each other, and at the end of Oak I turned up the hill towards home, and he turned right to cross Market, giving me a little beep-beep as he left. The rest of the ride home, I puzzled over this odd behavior; I'd heard of truckers leapfrogging on the highways late at night to keep each other awake, but this seemed completely different. Was it flirting? It certainly wasn't terribly safe, given the general inattentiveness of the four-wheel drivers surrounding us. Ah, the dangers of modern mating.

sake bombs and christmas cheer

2006-12-16T18:52:00.000-08:00

Can I start off by bragging how wonderful I feel that this year I managed to send out Christmas cards? Now, I haven't hit everyone on my list yet and I have embarassingly managed to lose a few addresses along the way (I don't like AOL for mail, but that's the address a lot of folks have for me), but still, I've sent out 32 freaking cards!! Aren't I wonderful?!?

However, my annual Christmas bash won't be happening this year. I've been so distracted by work (damn embryonic lethality to hell) and family (shopping trips) and bills (getting two insurance companies to cover my "little" ER trip back in October) and accidents (twisting my ankle while jogging up last block to home; finding my parked car had been hit by a vanpool) that I just couldn't seem to find the time to get some folks together for booze and baked brie. It's too bad, because I love to plan parties, and my apartment could sorely use the excuse for a big clean-up, but this year, it just wasn't meant to be.

Little Brother had his birthday yesterday. The family celebration was the night before, but last night I got to hang with the young'uns and feast on sushi and witness the aftermath of sake bombardment on a small horde of less-than-thirtysomethings. As the DD du jour, I meekly sipped on my sake cup and had a glass of plum wine, while Little Brother got toasted with surprising restraint. He drank a lot, to be sure, but passed on offers of moving to another locale so that he could be functional at work the next day. Three or four years ago, I'm sure he would've succumbed to the peer pressure of the moment, but this time, he was, well, mature. It made me feel old in a very new way, to see him be sensible.

I comforted myself with a healthy glass of whiskey when I got home much later last night.

translations for the fanfic virgins

2006-12-01T18:51:00.000-08:00

"plot bunny" = random idea for a short story, often conceived while brushing teeth; likely to reproduce uncontrollably

"lurker" = someone who reads online stories, blogs, message boards, etc. without posting comments, responses, etc.

"flamer" = someone who reads online stories, blogs, message boards, etc. and posts nasty and unhelpful comments such as: "This story SUXXXXXXXX!!!!!! And so do YOU!!"

ps I've not been "flamed" yet.

a second of glory

2006-11-30T23:57:00.000-08:00

I have long diddled in (mostly fiction) writing. I have a few stories I work on from time to time. But I have very recently dipped a toe or two in the surprisingly vast waters of fanfiction. I don't know how this particular plot bunny hopped into view but I had to chase it down...and after some serious lip-chewing I decided to go ahead and post it online. It's about three-quarters finished now, after occasional writing sessions over the last month, and I've been posting chapters as they're finished.

Being a lurker of fanficdom I thought the ultimate glory for a fanfic author came from how many people bothered to write a review of the story. The more reviews, presumably the better the story (occasional flamers nonwithstanding). I didn't realize until someone wrote me with a comment about the story that fanfic authors can check "stats" telling them how many hits their stories have garnered; plus, you can also see whether you've been listed as someone else's "favorite author" or your story is someone's "favorite story". You can even see if someone has tagged your work for email "alerts" when you update your story.

Though I've only had a handful of reviews, they've been embarassingly fawning and glowing.

With some trepidation, I just checked my stats.

"Hits" = 1224
"Favs" = 2
"Alerts" = 6

Cool.

just freaking great

2006-11-22T01:42:00.000-08:00

A little disclaimer: the following post will be mostly technobabble if you aren't familiar with the process of making a knockout mouse. Still, I just have to spill it all out. Mainly because I still am struggling with this result (hence the hour of this posting...).

Today I genotyped 36 pups from 6 different het-het mating litters. Some of the litters were quite small (3-5 pups), but for first-time mothers you never know what to expect.

What I didn't expect, however, was the results that I got...of the 36 (live) pups, exactly 12 were wild-type, 24 were heterozygotes. Just what you'd expect if the homozygous mutants are embryonic lethal.

Now, I will rerun a few of the PCRs just to be sure, but I'm quite convinced that I'll get the same results. All of these pups were around 2 weeks old. I have a couple more litters I will be able to tail early next week, and of course I'm working on getting those 6 moms pregnant again (left the dads in the mating cages so that they'll get pregnant again ASAP), so I'll have to see what happens with a second set of pregnancies.

I've been turning over in my head all sorts of other potential explanations, apart from 1) embryonic lethality and 2) just the odds, given 1st time pregnancies and some small litter sizes. One is that in knocking out PKal I've screwed up something else. If you recall, one of the cytochrome P450 genes is upstream of PKal (though its LAST coding exon is about 10 kb upstream of the PKal ATG), and Factor XI is just downstream (about 8 kb between PKal's end and FXI's start). FXI KOs have been made and they're fine, so that can't be it; I will have to redo some serious digging but I saw no mention of any downstream regulatory elements for cytochrome P450 when I was planning this strategy before. But somehow I think that this possibility of an unforseen effect on another gene is pretty small.

I'll have to see how the next couple of litters turn out, and until then, I will have to do some refresher reading up on mouse embryology. Just in case. I will also write Dave to see what sort of litter sizes he got in his F2 generation of gene trap mice; if 50:50 Bl/6:129 litters usually give 8 or 9 pups then maybe it's just an odds thing; however, if they are usually more robust, yielding 12-14 pups, then I'll know I'm on to something.

What vexes me the most is that I didn't flox the gene because it wasn't supposed to be freaking embryonic lethal! Aaargh! Now I know how I'm going to spend my Thanksgiving break...refreshing myself on mouse embryology.

le jeu s'en fait

2006-10-05T12:13:00.000-07:00

She knew it was all over when she saw the little droplets of her saliva cascading down her chest, sparkling on her black cashmere sweater like a 50s Czech bead appliqué. She'd thus far successfully hidden or stifled her yawns, but this time there was no escape -- she'd gleeked when she yawned. At first she thought she'd only decorated her hand with the evidence of her boredom, but she was horrified when she glanced down to covertly aim her wet hand towards her napkin -- she saw the incontrovertible truth of her disinterest on her sweater.

The game was up. The date was over.

She could have predicted this outcome at the very beginning of the date, when she shook his hand in greeting. She preferred a man's hands to be warm and dry, a little rough; she could forgive hot and sweaty and might even find that flattering, but this man's hands were beyond redemption. Cold and clammy didn't cut it. It was more as though a labrador had coated every surface of his hands with gritty drool and then he'd thrust his hands into the icebox for a half hour. Not good.

And the conversation? Oh, she'd thought him witty enough as they'd waited to get their cars serviced the previous morning, but that humor had since dried up. Perhaps his conversation skills were only fresh in the morning? Unfortunately, hers were sharpest in the evening. And though she knew she was particularly ebullient and endearing that evening (unfortunately, her scintillating bon mots were too difficult to recall when she'd write in her blog later), she had, in all fairness, given him ample chance to shine. After the salad course, it became clear she'd have to keep her self amused for the rest of the meal and launched into an impressive string of reassuingly typical-but-not-trite topics that he could pick up if he'd only use half the brain he'd seemed to have when they first met. Alas, it was not to be.

"I'd love to move someplace where it rains more than it does here -- enough to relieve any guilty feelings I have when I indulge in some healthy melancholy."

"I like the sun. It's nice and warm."

Enough said. Check, no mate.

if, like me, you were worried about the dog...

2006-07-25T12:57:00.000-07:00

...in the movie "Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man's Chest", which was about the only thing that got my heart rate up in the watching of that movie, be sure to stay through the VERY LONG credits for a little clip at the end.

hair today

2006-07-15T19:56:00.000-07:00

Perhaps it was the beginning of the new season of "Project Runway" that pushed me over the edge, but I have been feeling frumpy and stale recently so, by Jennifer standards, I made some fairly radical changes to my hair.

Or so I had thought.

A week ago I went to Connie-from-Chicago, who I'd had cut my hair before but I had not visited her in easily a couple of years and she has now conveniently moved just a few blocks from Union Square. I trusted her to gussy up my tresses and she magically gave me a cut that would take advantage of my not-curly-but-not-straight-either hair. I was happy. And it was still long enough to keep my tender neck protected while scootering. Problem was, it now made my not-blonde-not-brown-not-really-any-particular-shade hair look, rightfully, like it's not seen the sun in dog's years. So I bit the bullet and went back for color on Thursday night.

Three different shades now sat atop my head. I liked the way it looked in the salon but when I got home and saw my face in my pseudonaturally lit bathroom mirrow, I freaked a bit. Sure, all over it looks "richer" (Connie's description) but I felt like I was trying to look like a rock star. And then it hit me: the next day I'd be going to UCOP for my last admissions committee meeting. Would anyone in that staid building gasp or roll their eyes at me?

Not a word from anyone.

So I thought I'd spring the 'do on someone who knows me well: Hannah. We arranged to meet for dinner in Hayward and though the restaurant not very well lit I thought surely she'd gasp or give me theHannahlook. She did say my hair looked nice styled but she said nothing about the color. Not a peep! So somewhere in the middle of our sushi feast I couldn't stand it any longer and I blurted out something I instantly hated myself for saying: "So you haven't said anything about my hair." I even pouted, I'm ashamed to say. She ignored my childishness and said she didn't think my hair looked altogether very different! In fact, fairly similar to how it used to look when it used to spend more time in the sun. Hm.

So all the way home I started to wonder if I'd made such a radical change after all. Rock star, indeed. So does that mean I didn't get my money's worth? I am clearly unaccustomed to this whole primping thing.

a musing

2006-07-03T22:25:00.000-07:00

O, the time for you approaches
and the heart jumps back and forth
and almost as though you were pressing
two moist fingers there my breath falters
at the base of my throat.
The mind recalls the last conversation and
a thousand pictures
(smile, eyes closed,
bent over to retrieve a fallen pen,
an elegant hand the vein wants me to touch it)
of you are hung all 'round.
The peculiar vibration
that belongs only to your voice is my
favorite sound second only to the shuffle of
your step just around the corner.
You smell of nothing in a world of odious aromas
and this pleases me in a way only I can know.
The time for you approaches but
the ache of seconds waiting watching
each one a pulse of delight.

the naked guy is dead

2006-06-07T18:26:00.000-07:00

Wow. Haven't posted in a month! Guess I've been busy.

Talking to my brother last night, we discussed a random topic -- the death of the "Naked Guy". I found out through an eerie happenstance: I was walking down Broadway in Oakland with Eric, an about-to-graduate UCLA undergrad, heading to Everett & Jones for BBQ with the rest of the Board on Admissions and Relations with Schools for UC. It was quite windy and as we passed underneath the 880, a lot of papers and trash were floating about. Suddenly a newspaper page landed on my leg, and after sticking there for a moment fell away onto the sidewalk in front of me. At the top of the page read a headline proclaiming that Berkeley's "Naked Guy" had died...in jail...of apparent suicide. Apparently he'd suffered from mental illness in recent years (though some would say he did all the way back in the early 90s when he'd strode around the Berkeley campus in the nude) and killed himself in jail.

This revelation juxtaposed creepily with my "Naked Guy" encounter from 1992. A lowly freshman with my nose in a Western Civ text (probably Euripides, whom I always detested), I was walking up the south side of Bancroft Avenue and somewhere in the vicinity of Cafe Milano (still there, I'm happy to say), I literally ran into a pair of buns with the book. My very first thought was, "I hope I didn't cause a paper cut", when the owner of said derierre turned around. I saw he'd been talking to a petite blonde, and he looked down on me as I eeped out an apology. Not that I was intimidated or repulsed by his nudity, but I was awfully embarassed to have run into such a sensitive spot. And I did note that he wasn't walking around naked because of his large...ego.

I remember that we occasionally saw him donning a bandana (large part in front) and we always hoped he sat in the same seat in lecture (I had Anthropology 3 with him, I think) because it would just be too icky to think you might be sitting where he did the previous class. After he'd been expelled for refusing to clothe himself, he supposedly went on a grand speaking tour to lecture college kids about the evils of consumerism that forced Gap tee shirts over our heads (which back then were only starting to break out of the gym clothes-basics that we'd all known in the 80s). I guess one can only go publicly nude for so long (apart from the 12K of Bay to Breakers).

For more on the death of Andrew Martinez aka the "Naked Guy", go here.

wiggle

2006-05-05T12:26:00.000-07:00

Wouldn't it be cool if I could dance as well as the kid (and the cow) on the Jello Chocolate Pudding commercial?

Apparently the jingle is getting a lot of attention. FYI (thanks Google) the lyric goes: "Jiggle and a Wigglin' free, in a Wiggle and Jigglin' spree." It is sung by Ed of the Barenaked Ladies. Who knew.

saturday night's all right

2006-04-29T21:23:00.000-07:00

So I'm alone here in the lab on a Saturday night listening to Imagine Avenue Radio and I suppose I should feel strange about this but I do not. I'm actually quite fine with it. If I were out, I'd be spending money I don't really have, and if I were in, I'd be at home pursuing a useless plot bunny on my laptop while eyeing the TiVo. So at least I'm doing something low-cost and productive whilst sharpening my movie soundtrack identification skills.

Today I took a wrong turn crossing the city to get from the lower Mission (where I bookended my mouse knockout/cloning experience by visiting Mitchell's for some Macapuno ice cream with my brother and his girlfriend; I last went there with Fred and Janet for the same when I'd finished the knockout construct) to the inner Sunset. I ended up on one of those crazy little split streets that curve and bend along the hills of San Francisco. This one presented me with a "Not A Through Street" after I'd already committed to it, so I followed it until I got to a point where I could turn my car around easily. Near the end of the tiny street, I happened upon Corwin Community Garden, a little oasis clinging to the hill above the Castro. How many other little gems will I never see in San Francisco? The sun was quite low at this point and I needed to get to the lab, but I vowed to return in the sun to visit this place. Of course, I've made many such vows over my years here, and I've yet even to see most of Golden Gate Park....

Hm. Off to the dark room.

passion (now don't get too excited)

2006-04-04T13:21:00.000-07:00

The word has come up a lot lately, and it's been running around in my head for the last several days. I've had a couple of conversations about it, and they've both boiled down to: what is my passion in life? When coupled with a weekend saturated with period semi-romantic films (thanks a lot, netflix) and fever/phlegm/aches of the latest bug, that leads to a whole lotta introspection and brooding about my future.

I can't remember exactly when I first read "The Beast in the Jungle" by Henry James -- I suspect it was included in the collection we used to study "The Turn of the Screw" -- but ever since it has haunted me. If ever someone wanted to examine one of my deeper fears then by all means read it (it's a rather short story). If you don't want to take the time to read it (spoilers ahead!) then, in short, it's a character study of a man who spends his entire life believing he is destined for some great thing only to realize in the waning of his life that, in waiting for this great thing, his destiny became that nothing at all was to ever happen to him.

That's been my concern for some time now. Not that I suffer from overwhelming egomania, but I do feel that I could accomplish a lot in life if only I could discover that great thing, the undeniable talent, the goal that would be my passion for life. However, I've gotten this far in life and I've yet to discover fully what that thing is. This is not to say that I'm not inspired by people around me or the work that I do; I may be a masochist (see previous postings) but I'm not one to pursue people or work that hold no interest for me (or interest in me, for that matter!). I would like find a calling to make my stomach twist and brain burn with with deep and sustained passion. And I'd like it to happen sooner rather than later, lest I become a cautionary example of yet another victim of the Beast.

behind the watershed

2006-03-21T19:07:00.000-08:00

The last 10 days or so has definitely been a watershed period in my life. It started with attending a retreat put on by the Woodhull Institute (www.woodhull.org) for young women in ethical leadership. Though there's certainly a lot I could share about my experience that weekend, I will keep it short and say that I was forced to deal with things I'd put aside for sanity's sake -- like reflecting on the three years I worked with UCSA -- and I met some truly amazing and inspiring women. I then had to return to the lab and write a "progress" report for my fellowship (I am particularly proud of my carefully crafted phrase: "The locus for my gene of interest is apparently resistant to standard molecular cloning techniques" or something like that), due at Fort Detrick Tuesday at 2:00 p.m. - gulp. The next morning I presented my research -- focusing on the positives -- for a mammary gland group here at UCSF and received wonderful feedback, interesting questions, and a new perspective on my project. That night, little brother's band performed and I drank a few too many vodka collinses. Ah well...visit You Tube for a low-tech clip of Goodbye Matt's take on an ol' favorite, dedicated to Dani for her birthday.

The next night, I hung with Chris and the lovely woman he's dating at the Warriors v. T-Wolves game...hardly invigorating game-wise but it was nice to spend some "down time" with the little bro after the frenetic show the previous night. Friday I drove down to San Jose for Korean food with Hannah and friends (fantastic tubu and kimchee) and to see "V for Vendetta". I have to say all the "current administration parallels and endorsement of terrorism" hype is, in my humble opinion, way overdone. I did enjoy the movie, though; its blatant (and some more subtle) references to one of my favorite works of childhood, "The Count of Monte Cristo", were appealing and the performances well-executed (in particular I have renewed love for Stephen Rea). I saw it more as a cautionary tale along the lines of "1984" with a splash of "12 Monkeys" and even "The Phantom of the Opera".

Off and on these last several days I've been aiding Hannah in pre-wedding planning -- humorous attempts at cake decorating and wedding band buying and such. And as my clones are wending their way towards Davis to be karyotyped (analysis of chromosome number), I am attacking my lab work with a new vigor; alas, jaded soul that I am, I know that can't last....

karma and chicken

2006-03-08T14:15:00.000-08:00

This last weekend I lost my Vegas virginity. Despite having lived in California for about 93.5% of my life, I'd never before been to Las Vegas. To some, this admission was met with incredulity or scorn; to others, it was a mark of good sense or prudishness. In any case, I went to help my friend scout out potential wedding ceremony sites. We spent about 45 hours (less than 6 of which were spent asleep) running around town, up and down The Strip, doing some gambing, eating, shopping...it was all craziness, but enjoyable purely because it was so very different from what I do from day to day. It is hard to believe that so many people go there so often, as it surely wouldn't be my first choice for a vacation destination and I am clearly not cut out to be a big-time gambler (On my first and only previous Roulette experience, 27 had been my lucky number; this time, I played for about 3.5 hours and 27 didn't "hit" once. Not a single time.). "Ostentation" was the word that kept coming to mind, along with Elvis' ghastly "Viva Las Vegas" song. Ugh.

Utterly exhausted and mind-numbed from the trip, immediately I drove from the airport to home, to shower and take a nap before attempting to go to the laboratory. After a bit of work, I faced a rainy drive home to an empty fridge, so I stopped for chicken at Popeye's (an occasional indulgence). A homeless man silently opened the door for me when I approached, and while waiting for my dinner I noticed he opened the door for all the patrons coming and going, never saying a word. Seized by a sudden need to purge my Vegas weekend, I decided to give him a dollar when I left. When I saw my order come up, I realized that they had screwed up my order (giving me more than I'd planned to eat). So when I approached the door and the man opened the door for me, I gave him the dollar and then the food. I smiled and started to walk away, and I saw a pathetically stunned look on his face, a look that I would have branded as sarcastic on a less needy person. But his surprise seemed genuine; I was surprised even more when as I turned to go to my car I saw out of the corner of my eye that he was reaching towards me, arms outstretched, clearly wanting to give me a hug. I returned the gesture, caught in an embrace so tight I felt I'd have bruises on my shoulderblades from the pressure of his grip. I admit I had a moment of fear as I stood there helplessly caught, but I heard him whisper "thank you, thank you" over and over again until I patted his back and wished him good luck, pulling back and rushing out into the drizzle to reach my car. I was unnerved more by the genuine strength of his gratitude than anything, and I found myself thinking of how much more I could have given him and how that brief moment juxtaposed with the excess of Las Vegas...it was hard to believe that lives differ so greatly only 600 miles apart.

the importance of thumb

2006-03-01T08:13:00.000-08:00

Can't do well without your thumbs when you're used to having 'em. That's all I can really say 'bout that. Mind your thumbs. Keep them safe and happy. Don't stick 'em where they don't belong. Don't stress them out.

Musical notes:
1) I did make it to see The King of France last Thursday.

They were great live. So great, in fact, that I didn't mind the nasty vodka collins I slammed down before the show to warm up. I think I smiled the entire time; I probably looked pretty damn goofy. Ah well. Much cheaper than my original plan, which had been to continue to lurk their website until their next NYC event was posted, plunk down as much change as needed to fly back there, and go see a show like the pathetic wanna be groupie I'm not.

2) Little brother's band is going to be performing on March 15th. They are quite nervous, so I want to be sure to have scads of folks there to really freak 'em out. Details can be found at their website (see links to left).

una furtiva lagrima (not the Michael Bolton version)

2006-02-23T20:42:00.000-08:00

What in the hell is wrong with me this week? Bad, bad luck. I have been foiled again. Thus far:
1) Refrigerator is dying. Made valiant attempt to prepare by eating rapidly rotting food to prepare for new fridge, only to find that the new one will not be delivered until next Wednesday.
2) Latest two southern blots: one looks great, suggests I have at least two positive clones; the other makes absolutely no sense, and suggests that all the clones are the same.
3) After a long search for all-day wearable boots suitable for work and scootering, the "perfect" pair's calves have stretched out so much in three wearings that I'm going to have to figure out how to keep them up.
4) Bought a bunch of kitty food that I thought he was eating; next day, it's on sale, and he no longer prefers that flavor.
5) Busted my buns last night to get to a good viewing point on Mt. Tam to see the short-lived Zodiacal Lights, only to find that there was too much ambient light from SF and Marin. At least I didn't bother to set up the telescope.
And the latest insult:
5) Timed end of procedure perfectly so that I could go downstairs to watch the free campus movie only to find that the email announcement was wrong and the movie started 45 minutes earlier.
Lest my unlucky streak break soon, this doesn't bode well for my first-ever trip to Vegas next weekend!

CRAP CRAP CRAP NEWS FLASH!!!
So as I'm packin' up to go home, seriously just having finished writing the above, I casually go to my love-from-afar indie band The King of France's website to see if they're ever gonna come to SF for a show, and I SWEAR TO GOD I CAN'T BELIEVE THEY'RE FREAKING HERE TONIGHT PLAYING LIKE RIGHT NOW 5 BLOCKS FROM MY HOUSE!!!

I repeat: What in the hell is wrong with me this week?!

the open road

2006-02-23T20:08:00.000-08:00

It has been cold, cold this last week, but it seems we're on our way to a warming trend now. This is bad news, because the lure of scootering in a very non-commuter fashion is proving irresistible. I've found myself diverting a little on the way to work -- when the traffic has calmed down and the skies are clear and bright and the air is cool enough to keep you alert but not so cold your helmet fogs up, conditions are perfect for a little scoot-sightseeing. And seeing the City from a scooter perspective is fun. Hills provide thrills, and the roads provide just enough obstacles to make the ride challenging, and each neighborhood has an intensely different smell...well, it's just glorious. It is quite tempting to avoid the vexations that await me at work and go for a little ride. When you're getting 70+ miles to the gallon, it'd be a shame to not let the little beast run free for a while, right?

when is eight enough?

2006-02-09T13:46:00.000-08:00

Ok, so it's taken me a full day to recover from Tuesday night's events. I had to repeat my stories at least four times yesterday, so I honestly couldn't bear to write about it until now.

Speed dating was, well, as my last date of the night opined, "a life experience". Whatever that means. It's definitely going to be an experience that's hard to forget.

Opening Act
I managed to find parking on the far side of the Modern Art museum at 7:00: a bad sign. This meant this was the luckiest I was going to get all evening, me being a devout practicioner of "limited good" philosophy. I met Liz and Matt at the entrance to the Metreon. Mo, the evening's mastermind, had not made it off the waitlist (apparently more men than women sign up? another sign) so he was going to sneak in at the beginning to wish us luck. Liz looked fab as always and Matt didn't wear a tee-shirt.

We registered at the event, which entailed picking up the modern version of a dance card and filling out my nametag: first name followed by a "random" three digit number. The "tips" on the card ranged from "Keep an open mind" to a list of fallback questions ("Do you keep up with current events? What's your favorite drink?"). Matt and Liz and I picked up our first drinks of the night at the bar then settled down to strategize and warm up for the evening. Somehow the conversation moved from personal ads to "missed connections" ads. I explained that I’d considered looking to see whether my latest flirtation with a stranger had inspired such an ad:

Me: “So I was in line at the hospital cafeteria and the grill chef asked whether I wanted everything on the side of my quesadilla. When I said ‘no guacamole’ the cute scrubs-clad guy in front of me said, ‘I’ll take her guacamole’ to which I replied, ‘Hey, you can have my guacamole any time.’ He was quite attractive, but I doubt that kind of interaction would have him writing something in the school newspaper.”

Matt: “You said that?!? You’re my new hero.”

Mo showed up just a few minutes before the event started, looking dejected. We all were upset he wasn’t going to join in on the “fun”, wishing we could’ve seen him in action. Though we’ve all seen him organizing action, this would have been quite a different experience.

Scene: at a bar
The format was this: my dance card had eight numbers on it, signifying the numbers of a table (or half-table; sometimes a table for four was shared by two couples) at which I would sit for date #1, 2, etc. for an eight-minute encounter with the person who was also randomly assigned to my table for the session. After eight minutes of enthralling conversation, a bell would sound the end of that date and I’d move on to another table. After four dates, we had a fifteen minute break during which I could have used the restroom or chatted up other guys. Instead, Liz and Matt and I headed back to the bar for round two. (Interesting side note: we ordered the same drinks as we had before the event. First round, I bought, and the tab came to $12. Second round, Matt bought, and the tab came to $10. What the hell?!?)

Though I won’t go into details about the dates to respect the privacy of those eight sad individuals, I will say that it became immensely clear that the reason most of those guys were there was that they were some combination of shy, socially awkward, living in a dismal Bay Area town (sometimes with Ma and Pa), and/or cluelessly repellent. And I, being the nice and not-so awkward person that I am, tried very hard to draw out my dates and keep a light, amused manner. But every single date was not worth pursuing. Only one actually asked what I'm studying as a grad student...every one else gave me a glazed-eyed shudder when I told them I'm trying to get my Ph.D. Had I had any interest in a second date or “friendship”, I could have logged on to the dating service website to see if any of my dates had a similar interest in me.

Interestingly, Matt had some success with the women. He declared they all had been “normal” and he was interested in pursuing a few new connections. Most of the women were San Franciscans, while all but one of my dates had been from out-of-town. Clearly there was a very interesting divide between the two gender pools for the night. The only criterion for the event had been that attendees were from 25-35 years of age.

Dénoument
Liz, Matt and I “debriefed” at a nearby bar afterwards. Liz and I had shared two dates that night, so it was interesting to find that though we’d had very different conversations, that our impressions were quite similar. We toasted to “love” or “next time” – I can’t recall – and eventually talk degenerated into the usual student politics and state of higher education discussion, with a dash of juicy gossip for good measure. By the end of the evening we were all in a bit of a daze – I couldn’t bring myself to swallow my last bit of Hefeweisen and for some unknown reason I found myself stripping my onion rings of their battered shells and eating just the crunchy batter. Yes, it disgusts me now but after that evening it just seemed to make sense to eat them that way.

Finale
As I walked to my car, the phone rang. Little brother was calling me. I’d told him what I was doing that night (at which point he told me about the “Sex in the City” ep where Miranda has more success speed dating when she stops telling her dates she’s an attorney and instead says she’s a flight attendant) the previous Saturday (when I got to see him in action – eew) so I gave him the run-down. Though he was sympathetic, he tried to cheer me up by declaring that clearly the women there were most likely all intelligent, ambitious women who don’t have the time or inclination to go cruising through bars to look for men while the guys were all the ones who don’t have success in bars and are desperate. God bless little brothers. Of course, now he thinks he ought to give it a try knowing he’d shine like the sex-and-rock god he wants to be in such a crowd.

I recounted my experiences several times to my co-workers yesterday, and through the various retellings two observations arose:

(From Dave, on Men and Women): “Maybe the difference in these things is that women have higher standards in what they’re looking for in a guy, but most guys really don’t care.”

(From Me, on Me): “I don’t usually think of myself this way, because I usually just think of myself as a loner, but I’m extroverted, too. I’m an extroverted loner.”

i know i'm going to regret this, but...

2006-02-04T17:34:00.000-08:00

two guy friends might have successfully talked me into joining them for a night of 8-minute speed dating. Right now, I can't imagine a bigger waste of $35, and it's highly likely anyone I'm paired with will feel the same about their lost 8 minutes with me, but oh, the stories I'll be able to tell the next day...maybe it will be worth it.

one of my few failings

2006-01-25T19:42:00.000-08:00

I'm just a few pages away from finishing my latest read, "When We Were Orphans" by Kazuo Ishiguro. Like his other works, this book tackles heady themes: integrity, grief, and in this book, the frailty or tenuousness of memory. It's essentially a treatise on memory, how much we rely on it to justify our existence and make the failings of the present tolerable, but how it is truly a tenuous and sometimes treacherous crutch. It's made an interesting foil to my previous read, David Sedaris' "Dress Your Family In Corduroy and Denim", which is a collection of amusing and sometimes poignant vignettes from the author's child- and young adulthood. As I read that book, I was struck at how unlikely it was that I was reading actual events from Sedaris' past; no one can be that blessed with such a crisp and accurate memory. If I am wrong, then good for him, and how pathetic am I. It is only with great struggle that I can dredge memories from equivalent ages; even when prompted by childhood acquaintances or family antectdotes I sometimes find it difficult to believe I was even present during such events. Day-to-day little forgetfulness I can forgive, though it is tremendously annoying; but it is the thought that so much of my past has disappeared into the ether that makes me curse my lousy brain for its feebleness. I'd be tempted to theorize that I suffer from some dark dirty Freud-style repression but alas no I think I have no such excuse.

embracing the nerd

2006-01-10T21:31:00.000-08:00

Whoa. It feels as though it's been quite a while since my last post. I've been cramming at lab this last week and was rewarded with conflicting, confusing results and a resurgence of my Christmas cold. Grr. This resulted, of course, in a defiant streak during which I took to rethinking the way my apartment is decorated (if one can see past the clutter), starting a new crochet project, the running of assorted necessary and unnecessary errands, and a teeny trip home. A night in my bed at my parents' house is easily the equivalent of 2.7 nights in my San Francisco bed.

Today I journeyed SOMA to partake of my annual pilgrimage to the Mecca of Macdom: opening day of MacWorld Expo 2006. Oh, how the Moscone Center is transformed into the center of the computing world on this day! The ill-accoutured faithful amass outside the entrance hall if they weren't so lucky to make it inside for Steve's keynote address, quivering with excitement as banners unfurl to reveal the newest product ad. Once inside, the language changes, paces quicken, the air is charged with static electricity and likely enough wi-fi waves to make one's hair stand on end. It's a circus, it's overwhelming, and it's vastly entertaining. Apple sure knows how to run a great show.

goddamn new year

2005-12-30T20:18:00.000-08:00

As I sit here on the cusp (appropriate term given this is indeed the pointed or barbed end of the year) of New Year's Weekend I am struck by the utter waste that has been 2005. I finally tucked in to an unpleasant lab job I've been avoiding (recreating a database lost when my lab hard drive crashed a couple of months ago) and to do it, I had to go through my lab notebook for the year. Seeing all that work, most of it unsuccessful, has been depressing as hell. There's little for me to celebrate this weekend -- as my family's been saying, it'll be good to see off 2005, and hope next year'll be better. But don't I feel this way every New Year's?

once bitten and twice shy

2005-12-19T17:14:00.000-08:00

For two of the last four nights I have dreamt that my career as a graduate student was in jeopardy because I was a successful contestant in a reality show singing competion å la "Making the Band" or "American Idol". In both cases, I had made it to near the end of competition, but the stress of trying to get lab work done was preventing me from getting dance routines down and lyrics memorized, and I was on the verge of having to quit grad school in order to give myself the best shot at impressing the shadowy P. Diddy character running the show. In the first dream, there was a vignette my dreamself witnessed in which one of my labmates explained to Zena why I had not been in lab a lot recently, to which she responded, "Why does no one tell me these things?!?".

Last night I hostessed (?) my third lab Christmas party since moving to SF. Unlike past parties, this time I made just about the right amount of food, but grossly overestimated the amount of drink...I guess people are more responsible now, or are simply disinclined to get tipsy on mulled wine and schnapps-laden cocktails? As a result, I now have a ridiculous amount of alcohol in my place, complete with a liter of Grey Goose that is too big to shelter in any piece of furniture I own. I suppose I will have to have another party of hard-drinkers soon, lest I succumb to alcohol poisoning in an effort to decompress my liquor cabinet....

december tidings (a.k.a. rushed ramblings)

2005-12-13T18:06:00.000-08:00

December is probably my most frustrating and exhilirating month of the year. I've got my birthday, my brother's and grandfather's birthdays, Christmas, New Year's, and this time, the meeting of the American Society of Cell Biology, my brother's graduation and mother's annual holiday shopping stay all in one month.

My birthday was lovely -- commencing with a great French dinner in Palo Alto with Hannah, I went ice skating at the Embarcadero Center (starting off with Chevy's margaritas doesn't hurt), went for Moroccan food at Aziza (fantastic "specialty cocktails"), did some shopping, and some very foolish people gave me some very nice gifts. Ever practical, the gift from my family was a new microwave.

My apartment is about 60% decorated for Christmas. The tree is nearly done but there are some lights yet to be put up...I love having my apartment filled with colored lights and candlelight and warm scents of nutmeg and pine.

Last night I would have done more decorating but after consuming pizza and pinot grigio at Zena's two-story suite at the Marriott, I ambled to my favorite scuzzy MUNI stop at 5th and Market, waiting for the #27. We let the first bus go by when one of the first passengers to board discovered a large pool of sticky blood at the back of the bus. Yum. I then got caught in a remarkable conversation with one of my stop-mates, a diminutive looks-older-than-she-is "half-Irish, half-Scotch" "forensics student" who bore a shopping bag with what appeared to be a stuffed whale inside, tongue lolling. I'd try to describe her further but I'm afraid it'd end up reading like a Zagat review, peppered with incredible phrases bounded by quotation marks. Suffice it to say, "Jenny" the "one-time rock n' roll singer" who "knows Keith Richards" but also "taught Anthropology" and now "can't keep a retail job" but finds ways to "travel to all the Ren Fairs" (I assume she means Renaissance?) kept me "enthralled" all the way to Sutter and Leavenworth. "We'll meet again, I'm sure."

Tonight I am very much looking forward to meeting up with Susy (it's been a year and a week, I'm afraid) for dinner. I was so surprised to get her email on my birthday that I accidentally swallowed my gum. Not only am I looking forward to catching up with her, but I can't wait to see how her Edwardian has shaped up in the last year.

a fine bouquet

2005-12-01T23:50:00.000-08:00

I have long planned to publish my treatise on the wiles and wisdom of scotch, but that'll have to wait until I'm actually drinking scotch and posting at the same time. However, I thought I'd share a little revelation: if you happen to leave a little bit of scotch in your glass and leave it out overnight, the next day take a sniff at the sludge left behind. Seriously. It's fascinating...you'll smell the "notes" of the scotch. Mine had distinct smoke, chocolate, and what is probably best described as dirt odors. It was lovely; not that I'm not aware of these components while I'm drinking my favorite fine beverage, but freed from the warmth and luxuriousness of the liquid itself, it's easier to name them. I might just have to test several kinds of scotch to see if I can detect their differences....

if I had a million dollars...

2005-11-27T20:09:00.000-08:00

...I would buy a whole lotta books.

While perambulating through Borders on Saturday evening, I was suddenly struck with a new understanding of why people spend hours reading in a bookstore rather than make a selection, purchase their tome, and read at home: they can't afford the price of books these days. There's much public grousing about the ever-rising cost of movies, but they're a bargain compared to a book. Even paperbacks are costlier than a movie ticket. Granted, if comparing satisfaction/minute/cost, clearly a book's a better deal. But for those of us that scramble through books like Wal-Mart shoppers at 5 a.m. on Black Friday, reading becomes an awfully costly enterprise.

of landfills and garage bands

2005-11-17T15:30:00.000-08:00

Garage (not garbage) bands first: check out Chrisser's temporary band site for goodbye matt (yes, that's the name they chose). It may be operating sporadically as it's renovated, but stay tuned for more news from the funk-punk front.

Next, I'll pose a question that has been bothering me for quite some time. It resurfaced recently in conversation, so I'm writing it here now in case I'm on to something:
For the benefit of the environment, where should paper products used as facial tissue (may or may not be kleenex) go:
a) in the garbage?
b) down the toilet?
c) in the paper recycling bin?
What is the most environmentally sound option? If anyone has an idea, or knows to whom I could address this question of world-shaking import, please let me know.

jen and the art of scooter maintenance

2005-11-15T18:03:00.000-08:00

Okay, so this is flirting with deteriorating into a scooter blog, but my Vino's the only thing working semi-reliably in my life right now! I find myself daydreaming about how to best keep my chrome clean of fingerprints and whether I should buy a rear basket or wait until the hard top cases are available...and I am looking forward to participating in the SF Scooter Girls' maintenance day which is now t.b.a....and I let out an undignified squeal last night when I found my scooter's license plate had arrived in the mail.

Though my little scooter's not worthy of the highway, I've been fantasizing about hitting the road for a little trip. The nice weather doesn't help, nor does Euan's recent perusal of my empty sketchbooks. This is obviously not the best time of year to go kiting off to lord-knows-where between school, holidays, and all the other stuff that seems to pile up at the end-of-year, but now's when I seem to need it most. Just pack a bag, and go. I know this a perfectly natural impulse, but it oddly becomes overwhelming in the late afternoon, about the time that most people go for a coffee. 'Round that time, my mind gets very restless (a very different kind than 'round midnight) and I contemplate where I might go. Drive north or south? Are there any discount plane tickets available? How many days could I be absent before anyone would notice?

comings and goings

2005-11-02T20:44:00.000-08:00

Despite a recent conversation in the lab concerning faddishness of the blog phenomenon, I continue to post, in the hope that those of you who read this occasionally find occasional amusement. If this isn't the case, then for Pete's sake, people, go out and get a life. Or go do a Sudoku puzzle.

Sunday: Bryan and Dave took me for a great ride on my scooter. They got me all pumped up by watching a motorcycle track race, then we hit the road, going through Golden Gate Park, cruising through the Presidio, and then trailing down the Great Highway to end up at the Daly City DMV. It was a gorgeous clear day, and I felt foolishly queenly being escorted by two hot rods manned by PhDs. Ridiculous. But fun.

Later that night, I met up with ex-Regent now-lowly-grad student-but-fabulous Jodi at the Claremont for drinks and dinner. Jodi has such an effortless charm in such places; it's no wonder that she was conversing with an investment banker when I arrived (who bought her a glass of wine and plate of calamari) and when we left, we'd had some free shots and were receiving life advice in the form of family anecdotes from a "developer" who hinted at major connections with both the LA music industry and Bay Area sports. It was lovely to see Jodi and well worth the trip across the bay.

Monday: My first day as a scootercommuter went well. I bussed to UCSF in the a.m. and Bryan drove my scooter in, so I just had the trip home to manage, and I did it just fine. Dad IMed me some last-minute advice and I gave him a call after I made it into the garage. I then jumped in the car and waited about 75 minutes to get on the Bay Bridge -- fun fun -- so I could go to Stockton to hear Chrisser's yet-unnamed band. It was worth the trip. They are still a little raw, but there's definitely talent there, and it was entertaining to meet, finally, the rest of the crew. Stay tuned for samples of their music, and perhaps some band-naming. Anyway, I had plenty of music in my head to keep me awake for the long ride home.

Tuesday: Scootercommuted both ways! I don't know why my eyes tear up so much when I ride (no it's not fear or joy, though I do feel a little of both when I ride) but every time I ride, it's more and more comfortable. (BTW Dad called late to check up on me.) And fun. Speaking of which, I heard from Hannah, back from Korea and now in the south bay. We'll try to meet up this weekend, and I can't wait to see her.

Wednesday: Another successful ride to/from UCSF. Unfortunately, I won't be able to ride for the next two days as I have all-day meetings at UCOP in Oakland. I have also joined the San Francisco Scooter Girls, a club of fab scooter chicks that meet for scooter mentorship and drinks and rallies. Should be fun, and I look forward to receiving advice from some experienced riders. I ordered a jacket based on their recommendations today; can't wait to get it!

frabjous day

2005-10-27T21:11:00.000-07:00

Day 2 on a scooter:

As I had only ridden a little around Golden Gate Park on Tuesday after Dave drove my scooter up from San Mateo, I thought today would be as good as any to get some more solid scooter experience. I drove Bryan home at 5 o'clock to pick up my scooter and off I went to seek adventure and lots of stopping on hills so I could feel more comfortable on the scooter before venturing home to Nob Hill. Here's today's path:

1. Left Bryan's at 42nd and Noriega and drove one block down to the gas station to fill 'er up. I think it cost me less than $2. When I went into the station office to ask for a receipt, the cashier gave me a very odd look, so I left.
2. Drove down to Lawton, where Bryan said I would encounter a fairly steep hill after crossing 19th Avenue. I got up the hill just fine (though I did smell my exhaust quite a bit) and wound my way down to Kirkham.
3. Drove up Kirkham to the back lot behind UCSF next to Health Sciences West. I called Heidi and saw Alana as she was going home, so I spoke to both of them a little bit. Heidi approved of the scooter's style.
4. Went back down the hill, turned onto 6th and called Fred -- of course he wanted me to come over. So I took 6th to Lincoln, then diverted onto Frederick, where I got to swerve around a large pickup truck that suddenly decided to parallel park. I turned onto Stanyan, and drove up to Fred and Janet's place on Fulton.
5. I visited with Janet and then Fred, who of course wanted to rev the engine. I tooled around the block once so he could get a look at the scooter in motion but had to pass him slowly because a car was stopped a little beyond his house. No wheelies.
6. I drove down to Fell, where while waiting for the light to change so I could turn right, a scooter behind me honked at me. I thought he might be being friendly, but then he went around me and the car in front of us to jet ahead to turn right. Oh well.
7. I took Fell onto Lincoln, where I learned I need to practice right turns some more -- it is difficult to right countersteer (press on right handlebar) while also engaging the throttle. I swung wide but stayed in my lane, at least.
8. Ever the thrill-seeker, I took Lincoln all the way down to Sunset, despite heavy traffic and road construction. I survived, and probably then hit my top speed thus far: 40 mph. I turned onto Sunset, crossing puddles and MUNI tracks on Judah (even my helmet got a little wet), then went back to Bryan's via Noriega.

All in all, I was both exhilerated and a little intimidated, but I feel much more comfortable on the scooter all ready. I will likely go on another practice session tomorrow, but I am already looking forward to my regular scooter commute! I was out for about 90 minutes today all told, so I think I'll be able to handle 20 minutes each way between home and school as long as I find a comfortable route.

curious night

2005-10-23T17:49:00.000-07:00

Shortly after my last posting, I had an interesting evening. First, I received a call from my brother to tell me that our parents were in a car accident on I-80 on the way from Sacramento to the Cal football game. They weren't hurt, but the car sustained enough damage that Dad and the CHP officer helping him had a hard time figuring out how to get the car started again -- I guess hybrids have some sort of engine cut-off that happens in the event of an accident, but apparently they made it work and the car moved again. And kept on moving towards Berkeley, because lord knows you can't keep my family from a football game!

I rushed home from lab to change and then headed off for dinner with friends. I was the first to arrive (funny, that) and in the meantime got a call from a UC Davis campus newspaper reporter wanting me to comment on Davis' withdrawl from UCSA. Hm, hadn't heard that one! I gleefully forwarded the reporter on to the new UCSA president, and offered my apologies for not being able to offer her my comments, though I would have definitely have loved to do so. Oh, I do so not miss the drama. I really truly don't.

During the course of dinner I received a very great compliment, perhaps one of the best of my life, when someone who I know to be quite opinionated, overly frank and critical, and rather snobby told me I was one of the few people she considers to be "special". And no, not in the Forrest Gump or Quasimodo way, you nasty cynic. Of course, this made me blush (no the sangria didn't help) right down to my décolletage. Which was in rare form last night, if you'd have asked me or anyone else within 20 feet.

I rounded out the night by going to Mónica's housewarming party. I managed to get there despite said sangria and having left the directions in the lab (thank goodness I have a decent memory for directions and a great sense of direction). It was quite an eclectic group, mainly Stanfurd people, but I did meet a Cal grad now working in the lab of someone who once worked here at UCSF (dainty redheaded orthopedic-type) and a new UCSF student in the PSPG program. To my great surprise and admiration, she transformed herself in the course of the evening from a typical first-year grad student to a non-nerdy wonder when she sashayed into the main room in a lavender swirl of veils and beads to perform some bellydancing. And just before I left for home, I was waylaid by a tipsy man with his girlfriend draped upon him, who pronounced, "You're funny!" and then launched into a convoluted and protracted prediction of my future, from which I could only glean that I was going to wear pearls and live in a manor when I'm forty-five. He didn't seem to appreciate my amusement at his efforts, so I excused myself as quickly as possible and headed to wish Mónica good-night.

cooling off

2005-10-22T17:45:00.000-07:00

As I was buying my scooter today, I had the opportunity to experience that curious sensation associated with a large purchase. I'd already written the big check (not used to spelling out such large amounts, I used too large a hand in writing the check and had to cram in the last bits on the check line) but then came all the extra forms to sign, including one stating my acknowledgement of California's lack of "cooling off" laws (the existence of which would allow me . As I signed this form, I did find myself in a peculiar physiological state -- I was flushed, speaking quickly and excessively, and could feel my heart beating in my chest. It wasn't as if this was a random, unplanned purchase; I had researched and thought this out quite thoroughly, and I was loath to wait until the weather turned less pleasant to accustom myself to my scooter. It was time. Yet when making the purchase I felt I was in the throes of a sparring match, or skydiving, something...the adrenaline surge was impressive, but totally illogical. What is the source of this reaction? Why do we feel that way when we spend a lot of money? What primal instinct is being triggered by large transactions? Is it the rush of a successful hunt? Or the panic of being stalked? The feeling is an odd blend of elation and fear, and in the case of my scooter purchase, it lasted for quite a long time.

Here's the scooter:

Isn't it cute? I opted for the blue one after seeing the silver one in the daylight -- the silver was just a little too light, and reminded me too much of the family minivan in the 80's. The blue is much flashier and will hopefully get attention in traffic. I bought a cool space-agey looking helmet, too; of course, now I find out they come in other colors than black (I probably would have picked white, for safety's sake again) but black will do for now. It has removable cheek pads and a cool opening design.

Next up: bringing home the baby

mr. inverse paradox

2005-10-20T18:54:00.000-07:00

I occasionally go through periods of time (often associated with my hormones, I'm sorry to say) when I get in a bit of a funk over my love life, or lack thereof. It doesn't help that there have been a score of hookups/weddings/babies/breakups/breakdowns (not necessarily in that order) in my social sphere of late, whilst I remain merrily unattached/single/lonely/free. I mostly -- no, 96% of the time -- don't care; I am content with who I am, and revel in the surety of my self-knowledge and freedom to change my life as needed. Yet occasionally, I wonder if I'm not missing out on something...why do so many people want and need some significant other in their life? Have I been so warped by my previous circumstances (and yes I suppose you ought to read between the lines of my previous post; I have before admitted to a inclination towards the"M" word so I shouldn't be loath to admit it in this space) that I'm not fit for that sort of existence with another decent human soul -- just the feline?

No, no, Sesame Street and the Days of Our Lives have ingrained in me, in all of us, that there's someone for everyone somewhere out there someday. Right? I have living proof of that upstairs in my early-morning boinking neighbors, the female (I think) half of which I met last week. Eew. Crud, if they managed to bump into each other successfully in this whole wide world (and with great regularity since) then sure as hell there's some one somewhere out there someday waiting for me. Unfortunately, it's just going to have to be someone who will both worship me and be indifferent to me, someone who can see the unending potential for humor in life but be a bit of a sadist. Someone who's my inverse paradox, if you're into yin/yang (not the Twins).

I've apparently met my male equivalent, but he's now engaged to my dear friend Hannah. I wouldn't want my male equivalent (even thought he's quite a nice and lovely guy) anyway. But what does that say about me? (or Hannah? :0) Yet I will assert to my lonely last day on earth that it is wrong and wrong again to be with someone just to be with someone. That's why I'm fine, 96% of the time. All I have to do is get through these next couple of days of hormone-laden angst. Time for the whiskey. Time for Billie Holliday. I will never, ever find someone. Time for a long walk on the foggy Embarcadero. Time to buy...my scooter?

freedom and bondage

2005-10-12T23:45:00.000-07:00

I have long been known for my slightly superhuman patience. I think often people confuse patience with calm, or serenity, or confidence. Frankly, I don't think any of these terms apply to me. I fall somewhere between "glutton for punishment" and "masochist", depending on the context, of course.
Take today, for example:
1. I woke up this morning inspired to get my motorcycle learner's permit. This meant I had to go to the DMV without an appointment, stand in line to get a number, take an unflattering picture, stand in another line, and take the written test. Though I'd studied the motorcycle handbook diligently, I'd failed to remember that I would also have to take a general knowledge test, which included the age/weight requirements for child safety restraints and the restrictions on trucks bearing hazardous materials. Then I had to wait in another line to have my tests corrected. After two hours of mild mental discomfort and some excruciating people watching, I left with my permit in hand.
2. From the DMV I went to the lab to start another round of Southern blotting. The last blot was tantalizing yet not definitive enough to justify sending off cells for blastocyst injection at three grand a pop. So I'm doing it again, and hoping I get better results before the weekend.
3. When I got home I had enough energy left for a little exercise, so I donned sneakers and iPod to hit the streets. I ought to have known within a block that: 1) the fog and wind were going to make it less than pleasant and 2) the inhaler ought to have gone along for the ride. I found I needed to jog a little more than I usually do just to keep the sweat warm on my body. Even so, I wound my way up and down the hills of my neighborhood, and managed to avoid the usual confrontation with the man with the two vicious Bichon Frisé in Huntington Park. When I came home I tried to do push-ups with Charlie swishing his tail in my face.
4. I finished the day on the phone with my brother, talking scooters and song lyrics ("We Miss You, Vanilla Ice" is Chrisser's band's latest song), drinking the too-sweet berry juice on sale at Cala, cut with the last of my Grey Goose.
5. Now I'm writing this silly blog, musing on being torn between freedom and bondage, between wanting things we'll never have and appreciating what's within easy reach. To me, freedom is the right to recklessly pursue the unattainable, even if it's illogical and in the end, disheartening. Bondage? That's what one perceives when accepting the constraints and realities of one's life -- there can be a comfort and security in bondage that one never feels in freedom. In this scheme of life, many people find it impossible to discover happiness. Perhaps it's those of us who lean in one direction or the other that find it happiness easier to achieve.

motorcycle machinations, computer catastrophes, and an admission

2005-10-05T00:28:00.000-07:00

road to a scooter, part two:

Though I had no problem at all with the classroom portion of the motorcycle safety course, I knew I had a significant learning curve to navigate when it came to the on-bike portion of the course last Saturday. I donned helmet, gloves, boots and bandana in the wee hours on Saturday morning to jump on a seen-better-days motorbike and learn the basics on a wet and foggy school yard. For never having sat on a bike, I was pretty pleased with my fearlessness and ability to balance the bike on little swervy maneuvers...but I had an awful time executing the concept of clutch, shift and throttle. The clutch was sticky and difficult for me to "read". I killed the engine nearly every time I went to move from a stop -- quite embarrassing. My fellow students were all sympathetic, but as I was only one of two with zero experience, they all were clearly able to handle the rapid pace of the course. To my surprise, one guy was asked to leave the class around mid-morning for not handling the bike well on a cone-swerving exercise. Gulp. I knew I was on the chopping block when the instructor described the second-to-last exercise: alternating between 2nd and 3rd gear whilst going around an oval track. I couldn't, for the life of me, feel when I'd shifted from 2nd to 3rd if I'd been successful, and there's no gear indicator on the dash controls. So what would happen is I'd think I was in 3rd, then downshift, and being only in 2nd gear, I'd end up in neutral. I struggled for three laps before I was called in to the middle of the circle for a check-in with the instructor. I tried to explain what I was experiencing, but he simply advised me to be easier on the clutch and be more aggressive with the throttle and then told me to "Go Go Go!" again. I tried my best, but I knew when I was the last person called back in to the staging area that I was toast. And indeed, I was asked to leave the class, "but come back and re-do it when (I) have more experience." I left, a little humiliated, definitely tired, and with a sore left hand.

The more that I thought about the experience afterwards, the more frustrated I became. I have to say that I did have fun at moments that morning, getting up to speed, dodging little orange cones, but I wasn't pleased with the way the course handled me. Given that I was the rawest of beginners, it was frustrating to know that we had "blitzed" through that morning's exercises -- it was only 10:45 a.m. when I was asked to leave and they only had one more exercise to go, even though the class was scheduled to end at noon. I really could've used that extra time, and maybe I would've figured out how to use the clutch properly! Wouldn't it have been even better if an instructor had been able to pull me aside for a little extra help, given that this was my first clutch encounter after 16 years of driving? For $200, I'm not sure I got my money's worth.

Last night I called my insurance company to find out whether passing the course would make a big difference on my scooter insurance, and thankfully, it wouldn't. The GEICO gal was very funny, though, when I told her my tale about the course. She was so infuriated by my experience that she was going to report it to her supervisor as a cautionary tale. I guess I have some justification to be frustrated, and I will call the school to find out how to make the most of the experience, and the money I spent.

Unfortunately for my father, the experience did not deter me from owning and operating a scooter.

lab meltdown!
Yesterday my lab computer died. It wasn't pretty. I don't even want to think about what files might have passed away into the byte-night along with the hard drive.

Please, please, for the love of God, back up your computers, people.

credit where it's due
Please allow me to offer most sincere apologies for the omission of acknowledgement of Ms. Behonick's superior song-identification skills in a previous posting. Without her unique abilities, I'd spend many days frustrated by my inability to identify the pop culture-crap in my head.

an ode

2005-10-02T10:27:00.000-07:00

Awakening (especially on Sunday mornings),
I have to marvel at
the extraordinary geometry of the breast.
Or, I suppose, the study of breasts
would require calculus;
the representation of volume being filled in space
is best summed up in a curvy equation.
When I lay on my side I imagine
the equation for that breast shape would
be impossibly complex to integrate.
How convexing.
Perhaps an engineer could do it better knowing
the outside has everything to do
with the organization of the inside.
No, when I turn to my back again
geometry seems the simplest way to go.
But now thoughts turn to biology
(since I study these things for a living)
and with a hint of smugness I thank my grandma
for the genes her legacy that make
these subjects worthy of contemplation.

i'm all about cocktails

2005-09-29T14:52:00.000-07:00

(photo from today's San Francisco Chronicle)

This well may be the best quote I've ever had in a newspaper (and this year, I've had a lot!)...CLICK HERE

helmet? check.

2005-09-27T20:06:00.000-07:00

I am turning into a motorcycle/scooter geek. First-class. I find myself turning my head at any passing bike or scooter, checking out the brand, guessing the year/model/engine size. Oh God, what have I become?

Today I received one of Dad's helmets (Dave says helmets really only have a lifespan of 4 or 5 years; let's hope that's in active years of use, not shelf life) which will probably end up being too big for me but it's better than nothing. Mom contributed an old pair of leather riding gloves. New boots, borrowed helmet, old gloves -- now all I need is something blue and I'm ready to, uh, commit myself to a new vehicular relationship.

Song of the day: turned out to be Debbie Gibson's "Foolish Beat". I repeat: Oh God, what have I become!

revving up on the road to infamy

2005-09-26T18:04:00.000-07:00

No, no piercings or tattoos yet, but today I signed up for the Motorcycle Safety Training Program down at the South San Francisco Adult Education school. I've been assured that the program is designed for don't-even-count-as-a-virgin-type fledgling motorcycle riders, so I'm gonna give it a go. When I signed up, a young man (ok, pimply teenager) was also signing up, so I have a feeling this won't be a new heretofore untapped venue for Making New Friends/Meeting People in the Yahoo Personals-sense. Sorry, girls. Thursday I'll sit for the classroom portion of the course, and then on Saturday and Sunday I'll be on the bike. Gulp.

On Friday I went to check out the school and then visited Mission Motorcycles to check out another dealership and get a third opinion. Mainly, I had a few questions about engine capacity and power; but the secondary reason was to see if I'd get too psyched out by the whole thing. When the man helping me showed me the bike I'd likely learn to ride on, I felt a little intimidated but also a little excited, so I suppose that's a good place to start.

Today I received the boots from Zeppos. Pretty fantastic site, I might add, for wasting oodles of time. However, they arrived today (Monday), I placed the order on late Wednesday night, AND they ordinarily send via express but didn't in my case because I had put a "box" in my address (which their system interprets as a PO Box and thus automatically diverts to USPS). Quite speedy, considering. The black boots from my previous post are a "go" -- the others are far far too large, and won't support my ankles as well. They'd be awfully cute for other purposes, though...(sigh)....

Tomorrow, I'll pick up a helmet from Mom somewhere off of I-80 (wherever we meet will likely involve sustenance - yay!). I could borrow a helmet from the motorcycle course folks but as my father said, "It's probably nicer to keep the germs in the family". Well said.

Next stop on the path to earning the title "Motorcycle Momma" (dubbed thus by Peter and Fred): Paper test at the DMV!

daughter underestimated

2005-09-22T23:49:00.000-07:00

He should never have said it. I'm not so childish or rebellious as to do it to spite him, or prove him wrong, but I can't help but admit to a little voice inside crying, "I'll show you!!", fist in air, pouty lower lip....

He told my mother that I'd never attempt the motorcycle safety course. Ha.

P.S. The boots I ordered come tomorrow. If all things were equal, which would you prefer? There can be only one.

out of it

2005-09-20T18:51:00.000-07:00

Why do I feel so out of it today? I'm totally out of touch. Out of whack. Out of energy. Out of my mind. Must be the crazy weather we're having today.

Sunday I spent blissfully lounging at home; I changed from pajamas to sweats and back to pajamas again. I had a lovely long talk with my friend Heather, whom I've not spoken to in ages. It was really wonderful to catch up with her, and to hear about her New York life. Not that she was high strung before, but she sounds more at peace with her life, more comfortable and happy, than I've ever heard from her previously. How comforting it is to know your friends are content! And to top off the day, I ate a Lean Cuisine and watched the Emmys. Yum!

Last night I went to Foster City to watch Deb (mentioned in a previous post) take part of her black belt exam. Her school is VERY different from what I was used to back in my days of practicing Tang Soo Do. To my eyes, it was a chaotic, unfocused process ("When are they going to do forms?") but by the end I could see some inner logic -- the tests, some the same, some different for each candidate, were tailored to the strengths and weaknesses of the red belts. Unlike my experience, the test seemed to incorporate more mental/logic challenges than just the physical challenges of strength and stamina and technical finesse. Actually, the finesse bit seemed to be lost in favor of the mental games, but it was still there (as evidenced by some technically difficult board/brick breaks and accuracy tests). Clearly, this school emphasizes mental development over other forms of self-improvement, and it was fascinating to watch. After the test was over, Deb generously invited me to dinner so she could decompress after the long test, and it was nice to catch her up on all the UCSA news and to hear about her latest professional challenges as a organizational strategist and conflict mediator. We ended up talking until quite late, so that I didn't get home until nearly one o'clock!

Hence today I've been in a strange mental state myself. Quite tired, a bit befuddled, frustrated with little progress in lab, and still achy from my inelegant slide down Jones Street in my $19.95 Payless vinyl hooker boots on Saturday night. Who would've thought that my mega-lunge would cause such a quadriceps catastrophe. Ouch. So much for a jog tonight.

Maybe the Emmys will be re-broadcast. Hm.

lazy goodfernothin'

2005-09-15T12:55:00.000-07:00

Lately it's been awfully hard to get up in the morning. Charlie has now had about a good week and a half of sleeping through the night, and now is back in the habit of sleeping plastered to my side (and using his internal GPS to position himself as precisely at the middle of my narrow twin mattress as possible, near my pillow). So I am back to sleeping in odd positions, sometimes with a leg creeping up the wall, most often with Charlie's chin on my arm, so that when I wake up any bare skin is covered in dried kitty drool and little imprints from his fangs. In the mornings, when I stir in waking, he stretches an arm out at my face, toes spread wide, claws retracted, as if to say, "Don't even think of getting up yet" as he starts to purr. I swear he must emit some sleepiness-inducing brain-control at these times, because I often submit to his superior will....

It doesn't help that my morning routine is hardly exhilarating. Perhaps if someone were there to make me some Folgers at the crack of dawn, I'd be more inclined to jump out of bed. And I actually do consider myself a morning person. Or at least I used to (hard to imagine that I used to voluntarily show up at high school at 7:00 a.m. to sing in Madrigals). But now showering, putting my face on, getting dressed is all spent in dreadful contemplation of my first challenge of the day: finding parking in the Inner Sunset. Now that school is back in session it has been a waking nightmare to find parking around here. If I were willing to park around 16th or 17th Avenues, it might be a cinch; I could go straight there and merrily march seventeen blocks up the hill to work (at least the wind would be at my back in the mornings). Yet somehow I am not so willing, and insist upon the masochism of winding my way through the neighborhoods surrounding the Parnassus campus and searching for the elusive, non-two hour restricted, street already-cleaned parking spot.

Hence the comment in my last post, re: scooter. I could park for $23/month at the UCSF employee garage. It would be safe, easy to access, and I would be blissfully released from the misery of hunting for parking. Additionally, the wear-and-tear on my car (let alone savings on gas purchases) would be abated. And I wouldn't be condemned to the headaches and other physical hazards of MUNI, which now charges fifty cents more for each ride, if you manage to catch the bus you need after a fourty-five minute wait. However, when this idea was presented to my father, I could almost hear over the telephone his blood pressure skyrocket, so now I may have to abandon the notion for I'll not be the one to push him over the edge into strokeville. There are plenty of other people poised to do that. I suppose he wouldn't appreciate my other commuting option: hitchiking, either.

For Your Information and Reading Pleasure: Dani, whose pleasure it is to sit at my back for hours every day, has a new blog: findmydspot.blogspot.com.
Also check out the blog devoted to the arrival of Janet and Fred's Little Sunshine, Angela: littlebabysunshine.blogspot.com.

random thoughts: finances

2005-09-11T19:54:00.000-07:00

What I would do if I won $20,000:
1. Pay my parents what I owe them (eek)
2. Get Charlie's "little" surgery over with (eek eek)
3. Paint the apartment/update bathroom fixtures
4. Buy a scooter for commuting
5. Go to NYC to visit friends and see The King of France live
And if I had anything left over...
6. Buy a new mattress. Definitely.

curses

2005-09-05T18:55:00.000-07:00

How in the hell did I miss the bike race that took place in San Francisco yesterday?!?! It was just a few blocks from my house! Aaargh.

the trouble with charlie

2005-09-04T12:03:00.000-07:00

Now, I promise you all that I am NOT a cat-obsessed thirty year-old spinster, and this blog is NOT and never will be a shrine to cutie-pootiness ("Oh, Charlie did the CUTEST thing the other day!!") However, as my profile declares, I do own a cat. Up until the weekend of the 4th of July, he was an extremely low-maintenance animal, affectionate yet as independent as an indoor-only cat can be. I write about him now, specifically, because he has been quite a consumer of my mental, physical, and financial resources for the last couple of months.

Charlie supposedly has FLUTD (Feline Lower Urinary Tract Disease). He developed the symptoms overnight; one day he was fine, and the next, he was crying and visiting the litter box every ten minutes, straining to pee. Long story short, after a half-dozen vet visits, a couple of diet changes, five different drug prescriptions, and a deobstruction procedure, he's still not right. His appetite fluctuates, he doesn't sleep well (therefore, I don't either) at night, and he still has crystals in his urine. If he doesn't improve significantly soon, I suspect we'll be signing up for a perineal urethrostomy. Yes, it's as bad as it sounds. I'm currently giving him (or trying to) 200 cc of subcutaneous fluids at home every day to see if that carries him through this. Yesterday I did it on my own, with some success (this involved wrapping him in a towel, sitting on the floor and poking his back with an 18-gauge needle, then keeping him as steady as possible while the fluid is administered. At least this resulted in some decent urine output yesterday (way to go, Charlie!) and a very much improved night's sleep for the both of us. But he's still not eating or drinking well, and I am dreading poking him again today....

Well, I should go off to the battlefield again, then head to the laboratory...again....

been too long...

2005-08-27T20:27:00.000-07:00

I'm procrastinating leaving lab. How silly of me; it's Saturday night, my cells are fed. I could be going home to exercise, play with the kitty, CLEAN MY PLACE (must do quite soon), but instead I'm looking up silly things on the internet.

Last night I had one of those drowsy nights on the couch -- too tired to move (wash face, floss) but not exactly comfortable (Charlie takes up at least a third of the useable sprawling space). And lo, at 2:40 a.m. I was roused by a peculiar sound. At first I thought it was firecrackers going off in Chinatown yet I couldn't think of a holiday that would warrant middle-of-the-night noise-making. I creaked to my feet and went to the window. At least fifteen pops, accompanied by little flashes of white light, came from the building across the back greenbelt behind my building, somewhere behind the leafy tree that is the subject of a current neighbor war. Perhaps it was nighttime fogginess, but I could have sworn it was gunfire I was witnessing, and I must admit I got a little thrill from the thought. I very seriously considered calling the police, yet I waited at the window a good 10 minutes (ever notice how time flies when you're barely conscious?) and didn't hear the approach of wailing sirens nor glimpsed a shadowy figure break through the shrubbery in flight from the scene. And now I've googled and searched and I can find no mention of a Nob Hill shooting. Hm. I was already contemplating the outfit I'd wear to court when I'd appear as witness....

It has been quite a while since last I blogged; I've been in a bit of a zombie-like state since the UCSA Congress nearly two weeks ago. In addition to the ever-present lab to-do list, I now have to finish my UCSA file clean-up, and start the more painfully awkward task of reaching out to friends I've lost touch with in this year of my presidency. A few of the people who knew when my term would end have already contacted me, and it's been lovely to "reunite" with people I care about. I'm not quite sure how to explain to folks how much of my mental energy (and physical health) was consumed by my student advocacy work, but I will have to beg mercy and promise food and drink. Perhaps a dinner party? Hm. Must then CLEAN MY PLACE.

As I drove home earlier this week, a short story sprung to mind. Three (2 male, 1 female) dissipated (no, don't think "Friends") roommates (somewhere between Noe Valley and the Castro) and a mystery pregnancy. I managed a brief and comprehensive character sketch for two of the three protaganists before I crossed Van Ness. The plot was already becoming bogged down by trite social commentary and local flavor I've little experience of by the time I reached for the garage door button. Whew. I think I'll shake that one off, at least until I know what it's like to lunch at the café on the corner every day.

Time to head home now. I'll try to not pick up any more plot bunnies on the way.

too much karma

2005-08-02T15:03:00.000-07:00

As of yesterday, 33 of 96 clones screened were positive. This is good. In fact, it's likely too good to be true, my gut tells me, though my brain can't excuse the possibility that I actually do have 33 positive clones. Dani says I must have so much karma built up that this has to be right. I don't know about that one -- I must be sensible or old-fashioned enough to not trust a karma build-up; though I can't bring myself to subscribe to the theory of limited good (that too implies some sort of intelligent design) I can't help but feel that a build-up of karma can only lead to a dearth of it in the future. Certainly I can see that I've been lacking in good science karma these past couple of years, but somehow the idea that karma-null run is over is scary too. Jeez. I might have to start being productive.

And then, not so obviously but apparent nonetheless, follows even scarier ideas, like what am I going to do with myself once I finish this damnable degree? What am I fit for? What's to become of me? I've no flower shop and Freddy to fall back on. I chose this path because I love the science, love working at the bench, but that's not a "forever" option for me. Perhaps I now suffer from an excess of options. And given my family's propensity towards indecisiveness, that means I'm frankly screwed.

Anyhoo, anyone want to place a bet on how many positive clones await me in the next 48?

sick again

2005-07-31T00:50:00.000-07:00

Though self-pity is occasionally amusing, for the record, I really don't enjoy being ill. I spend more time than I care to admit being sick, and the sleep I lose when I can't breathe certainly does little to hasten my recovery. Yet I hate the feeling of being drugged, and my normal tendency towards insomnia combines to form a "perfect storm".

Charlie's been sick this last month too, so perhaps it's been good for me to be forced to slow down a bit. Hence, this little bit of time to write, and a little time to create (with some trepidation) a Friendster profile.

I think for many people, the greater misery of illness is the isolation that usually goes along with it. Fortunately, that's not an issue for me! No, the physical suffering is enough on its own, thanks so much. The claustrophobia of congestion and the foulness of phlegm are definitely enough for me.

Ok, now off to bed.

"...even when you win."

2005-06-25T16:47:00.000-07:00

As a quite elucidative example of how my brain works, I will share a snippet from a much-loved book from my childhood that has been repeating in my brain since last I posted.

"Does one always feel a bit lost, the night after a battle?" Harry asked.

"Yes, even when you win," replied Jack.

Now, that might not be 100% exact, but pretty damn close.

I feel a bit in limbo, as Harry did...did we win? Torn between caution, hope, fatigue and giddiness, I await the results of the sequencing of my construct. Is it well and truly over? May I move to the next step? This last week I've revisited the disappointments of the past (in going through dusty notebooks to remind myself of how I'd screened ES cells before) and attacked the frustrations of the present (anal-retentive I may be, but I will order the tissue culture room as I see fit unrepentantly). It's been a welcome break from the roller-coaster ride repetitiveness of the last months, but I'm eager to move on.

As a nice (book)end to my week, I received the latest tome in my guilty-pleasure-reading series from Amazon on Thursday. Though it pained me to not finish it Thursday night (I was ridiculously sleepy, despite the pleasure of the book), I was quite disciplined and drew out its completion until this morning. Have I matured from my childlike gluttonous reading-style or am I simply getting old?

La Victoire

2005-06-17T21:59:00.000-07:00

Churning stomach...tight throat...dry gritty eyes...tense neck...and above all, the blossoming of hope.

I think I've finally made my construct.

What a day, though. Yesterday, I got into lab before 9 a.m. and didn't leave until 1 a.m. because I was determined to figure out whether my latest cloning attempt had succeeded. At 1 a.m. I hurtled down the Judah hill, dejected and wind blowing against me as I trudged to my car parked way the hell on Funston. I was convinced my cloning had failed, yet again.

This morning I awoke early (given my 2 a.m. bedtime) to attend and speak at a press conference in Emeryville for the State Treasurer. He was gracious, my speech went well, and I was refreshed to be amongst little children who knew nothing of cloning, bacteria, DNA. I felt a little silly playing Vanna White to reveal the Debt Clock Angelides is hauling around the state, but no one seemed to find it as silly as I. I drove to lab afterwards, in no particular hurry, and started my day. I moved ahead with the next attempt, while setting up the last reveal for my late-night last-ditch effort to convince myself that yesterday's results were rubbish. In the meantime, I got a job offer -- somehow it was suggested that I impart my Great Knockout Cloning Wisdom to a now-former post-doc preparing to set up his new lab down in Florida, and he repeatedly offered to have me join him once I graduate. Ha. He said he "needs people who know what they're doing". Ha very Ha.

During the course of that meeting, I got an email from the post-doc I first started working with to make this knockout construct 3 years ago. Whose work I eventually discovered was completely wrong and held me back a year, spinning my wheels trying to make the thing he made work whilst it never could have. I haven't yet bothered to read his email.

Then, strangely enough, the late-night last-ditch test looked strangely positive. Hm. Desperately avoiding elation, I set up 3 more digests, and they too were encouraging. My guts were tumbling as I stared at the UV box-lit gel. I had Euan double check it for me, and I found I was near tears. I didn't tell him what he was looking at until he confirmed the positive news, and then I said, "You do realize what you're looking at, don't you?". As he scrutinized the gel again, I couldn't look at it or him -- I was torn between sobbing hysteria and stubborn skepticism. The next hours have been spent convincing myself to remain calm, thinking ahead to the next challenges, setting up a final test, talking to my parents (I cruelly kept the info from my father for the first 5 minutes of our conversation), and nervously accepting the congratulations of my lab peers.

I fervently hope they're right. I'm 90% sure, but need to do this final test. Peter said I ought to hug and kiss everyone. I just emailed Zena. Her response? "Alright!" My shoulders loosened a fraction. But I must make absolutely sure before I go home tonight. The culmination of over a year's work.

Alright, indeed.

the thousand-hour headache

2005-05-21T21:18:00.000-07:00

As far as I can tell, I've had a perpetual headache since oh, April 2nd. April 1st was a pretty nice day, far as I recall, but it's been one big headache ever since.

Today I can add a muscle spasm in my neck to the mix. Last night I fell asleep sitting on the couch, leg crossed one ankle-to-opposite knee, with my right arm resting on the armrest (strangely enough!) and my head propped in my hand. When I awoke at dawn, the entirety of my right arm was dead numb and my left thigh was tingly-numb (it still is, even now). Clearly, whatever part of my brain ought to have relieved my body of that awkward posture so I could sleep without damaging blood loss was malfunctioning seriously last night.

Hence, the headache remains, and now the neck joins the party of pain.

I hope -- oh can I hope anymore? -- that the pains will ebb tomorrow with the results of the preps I set up today. Tonight I will await this result with all the anticipation of prom, a final exam, and, well, a female exam (only two of which have the potential to be pleasurable but in my experience never have been).

The champagne's on ice. The pipettes are poised for action. I know I've said it before, but this science business is enough to turn one to religion. Today I found myself perusing the Grace Cathedral website; if the first service weren't so damned early I might be tempted to stop in on my way to lab tomorrow just in case it does me (and my preps) any good. See? This stuff has given me a perpetual headache and a penchant for prayer. Save me, O Advil, and God, please let my cloning have worked.

sleep-aid

2005-05-03T16:19:00.000-07:00

Is it possible to be narcoleptic and still be a fairly productive person?

I have a hard time getting to sleep at night, I wake up relatively easily in the morning, but I feel overwhelmingly sleepy all day long, yawn frequently, and fall asleep at my desk or bench or in meetings (what I remember Karin calling "micro-sleeps": second-long naps) with regularity. Anti-narcoleptic drugs are stimulants, and that would hardly help matters...so short of committing to regular nap-time in the library, what do I do? Do I simply suffer from the modern disease of overachievement?

moi

2005-05-01T23:28:00.000-07:00

The obligatory blog self-portrait (ok, thanks Photoshop):

why I don't watch the news

2005-04-25T23:04:00.000-07:00

Tonight's 11 o'clock news on Channel 7:
1. body found in backyard
2. oil shortage may lead to drilling in arctic wildlife reserve
3. officer shot and brain-dead; leaves behind 7-month pregnant wife
4. exchange student beaten
5. mother of six shot & killed
6. 73 killed in Japan train crash

Better news:
According to the SF Chronicle reporter I spoke to today, we're doing a good job with publicity for our higher education budget efforts. That makes me happy.

death of a dream

2005-04-21T22:35:00.000-07:00

In another life, I would never be an actress.

Not that I haven't had my fantasies of the Broadway life, but doomed as I am with a breathy singing voice, a poor memory, and a tendency to blush at random, I haven't got a snowball's chance in hell.

I get my little shots at the big time through my advocacy work for the university. Yesterday, scores of students walked out of classes or held demonstrations to protest fee increases and budget cuts to higher education. In Sacramento, on the lawn of the Capitol, about 120 students held a mock funeral for the untimely death of the California Dream (in the Governator sense), and yours truly was (what do you call the emcee of a funeral service?) the one who set the tone for the event. Previous ideas had been, um, a bit more violent -- I asserted that tombstones marking the death of Californians' dreams would be morbid, yes, but perhaps more effective than a bloodbath. All in all, I think the press conference/event came off remarkably well; the coffin barely made it, and CSU San Marcos brought their Cougar mascot (where was Oski, you ask?), but the point was made. And as you'll see below, the AP picked up the story (Michelle calls to say, "Gimme a quote, Jen -- and, hey, are you going to be Student Regent next year?!?") and it went national (it's surreal to think that someone in London or Oaklahoma City heard my quote).

Silly? Yes. How silly did I feel when I saw the UC Provost walk past as we set up the tombstones? Quite, but it didn't stop me from running to her for a quick chat. But you never know what good a silly act might do. At least I got to stretch my acting wings.

And I didn't blush.

Students march, hold mock funeral to protest funding cuts
By MICHELLE LOCKE, Associated Press Writer
Wednesday, April 20, 2005
(04-20) 16:19 PDT Berkeley, Calif. (AP) --

College students marched and rallied at campuses across the state and held a mock funeral Wednesday on the steps of the state Capitol to protest cuts in higher education funding. The event, organized by leaders in all three of California's public higher education systems, was timed to coincide with a legislative hearing on education finances.

"Years and years of successive budget cuts have made it harder and harder for Californians to achieve the educational opportunity that they deserve and that made California strong in the first place," said Jennifer Lilla, a student at UC San Francisco and president of UC's student association.

The protest drew students from the 10-campus University of California as well as the 23-campus California State University system and the community college system, which serves 2.5 million students. Among other events, students marched in Berkeley, rallied in San Jose and paraded a student in a coffin in Sacramento to demonstrate their contention that the state is forsaking its long tradition of ensuring access to college. At the Sacramento protest, about 100 student "mourners" dressed in black bemoaned what they called the death of the California dream; some set out tombstones reading "R.I.P. Student Access."

UC student fees have increased about 60 percent over the past decade. They rose from about $5,200 (including miscellaneous campus fees) in 2002-03, to the present total of about $6,700 for a student with a full-time class load. CSU, which has 400,000 students and is the nation's largest four-year public university system, also saw a 60 percent fee increase over the last decade. As at UC, fees are going up again this year, to about $3,100 including miscellaneous campus fees. Meanwhile, community college, once free, has gone from $11 a unit two years ago to $26.

The fee hikes are part of a six-year pact worked out last year between the CSU and UC systems and Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger. Universities agreed to make cuts and raise fees in exchange for increases in funding starting this year. Critics say school officials should have fought for more funding. But administrators say the pact was a realistic path out of financial chaos that will help them repair the damage of several years of cuts. California's college officials say their prices are still a bargain compared to similar institutions in other states. But students say that doesn't account for the high cost of living in California.

Jason Spencer, a Cal State Sonoma student, who helped organize the protests Wednesday said money invested in higher education reaps a multiple-fold return to state finances by way of higher-wage earning college graduates and economic growth. "Higher education is an investment in our future," he said.

if you don't know how to google...

2005-04-16T19:56:00.000-07:00

I've been asked for this, a lot. I don't know how much longer KQED will keep this online; does Krasny's show have groupies that listen to rerun programs on the internet?

Jen on KQED's Forum:
http://www.kqed.org/epArchive/R409290900

life coaching

2005-04-14T22:10:00.000-07:00

I occasionally have days when I am reminded of the many directions my life has threatened to turn but, a choice was made, a path set, and I'm left to wonder about the "what-ifs". Many people dwell on the "what-ifs" years later, and some prohibit themselves from ever making choices out of fear of the "what-ifs"; I am thankful that I've come to a point in my life where I'm not pestered, only very rarely, by the "what-ifs". Today has been such a day.

In my student government role, I've been working a lot lately on interpersonal and organizational dynamics. In the last month, most of my non-science time has been consumed by this stuff. This morning, in the midst of a heavy discussion about structure and communication and introspection and such, it struck me how, despite my choosing a career path that ought to have kept me on a loftily intellectual feelings-free plane, I've once again found myself in the thick of another angst-ridden, emotional situation to resolve. Is fate telling me something? Had I consciously sought to deny my true calling of "the psychiatrist is in" I might start to wonder; but I acknowledged long ago that this seems to be an inescapable part of my nature, and only the environs will change. Friends, family, co-workers, strangers on the MUNI -- it doesn't seem to make any difference. I'm a repository for psyches. Or psychoses, if you're the sort. A vôtre guise. I suppose I'm fortunate, then, to have a poor memory, or else I'd be great at blackmail.

So now, at the end of another failure-ridden day in the laboratory, I ponder the sly job offer I received earlier today. Deb: martial artist, life coach, organizational consultant, sees in me an intuition for the kind of work she does, to the point that she mentioned to her business partner that I'd be someone to recruit. Well, that's peachy, but it doesn't solve my cloning issues! I suppose there should be some comfort in knowing that I've got a useful skill set, to use the corporate phraseology, but how do I reconcile this with the part of me that loves/hates my science? Can one be both intuitive/sensing or judging/perceiving? I've taken the Myers-Briggs test at least three times in my life, and I swear to you each time I've typed differently. Ultimately, it was irreconcilabilities in my own nature that turned me off to psychology; how does one divorce their intellect from their intuition? In me they are fused, refusing categorization.

I digress. What makes me "the most grounded person" to so many people? Even as I write this, my thoughts flit from frustration with my lab work, an evaluation of today, planning tomorrow, a previous night's conversation with my parents (during which I alarmed them, I think, when I said I was writing a blog)...hardly a focused mind. Just so, today it became clear to me that I should be thankful I'm constructed the way I am, and I can trust my choices in life. The paths I've eschewed (editor/psychologist/anthropologist/medical doctor/sane non-scientist) thus far I don't regret; the paths ahead are many.

Hm. I wonder how much life coaches make in a year?

cloning gods be praised

2005-04-12T14:18:00.000-07:00

Thanks to anyone who sent a good thought; my latest cloning step worked. Now, just one more to go. Seriously, this molecular biology business is enough to make me find religion. These days, I find myself fervently sending wishes to anyone who might be listening, and it is starting to annoy my analytical self that knows, quite certainly, that solely diligence, with a dash of flexibility and creativity, will bring me my desired result. However, can it hurt to think that some cosmic force may have the ability to tinker with my benchwork, and thus my pious thoughts aren't so useless? Hm.

dumb things you do in the laboratory

2005-04-11T21:22:00.000-07:00

I think I've found a new use for this blog...it will be something to occupy my brain when I've done something dumb in the lab...like tonight's fatigue-induced error: using the wrong buffer for my electrophoresis.

Today I spent most of my day in a meeting at the UC Office of the President...another day like today and I might be convinced that I'm not cut out for administrative life. If I hear the words "restructure", "affairs", or "strategic planning" strung together so many times in a discussion again, I'll start speaking in tongues. I've not seen so many grown people nodding their heads in unison since the Annie Lennox/Sting concert I attended last year. Slow blinks, head nods, murmurs and grunts of comprehension or approval...it's mass hypnosis or some sort of business body language that I've yet to learn. So strange. Strangest of all, I suppose, was the "oohs" and "aahs" my pithy comments elicited...what does that mean? Is it insult or praise of my logic and thoughtfulness? Hm....

The gel's done...cross your fingers for my cloning....

midnight musings

2005-04-10T00:31:00.000-07:00

Multitasking as usual...I'm setting this up as I talk to my mother. No, we don't usual talk after midnight on a Saturday night, but maybe she's developing my insomnia.

I must emphasize, to both myself and to anyone who reads this, that this will not be dialogue-blog; rather, the title refers to something I either heard once or came up with myself (sometimes it's hard to tell): my definition of a loner. Most of my most profound (and ridiculous) thoughts come at night, when I am trying so very hard to turn off my brain that I might sleep, and the definition came very clearly to me in one of those rapid-fire thought states that comes, usually, around this hour: while most people have an inner monologue, the true loner has an inner dialogue.

Before I'm dismissed as quite cuckoo, this is not to say that my thoughts address my person (unless I have done something rather silly such as today, when I singed my knuckle hairs on two fingers when they came too close to the bunsen burner and my thoughts sternly reprimanded Jennifer for being a stupid clumsy idiot), but that the two to five threads of conscious thought that occupy my brain at any given moment, do, more often than not, cross and share paths and bounce off of one another in a semblance of a jumbled conversation. And, that most of the time, this is quite enough entertainment for me. I suppose, then, that this blog is somewhat of an experiment, to see if it's entertaining to anyone else.