Onward

I biked to work this morning, and so far, as of 11:33 am, it has been the defining feature of my day. I have been writing some - about rat dissections and the satisfaction of tearing apart the tissues - but I have yet to do anything work related.

I suppose I should like it this way. That I should really take advantage of this time to write, read, do my own thing. But really, all it's doing, the disoccupation of the last few days, is reinforcing the feeling that I am profoundly wasting my time. It is tempting, almost to a point beyond resistance, to run into my mother's office (just feet away) and beg and plead and cry to be put out of my misery; to be fired for some uncontrollable display of emotion. If only, they would. It would relieve me of the responsibility of having the 'I am quitting' conversation. It would mean employment benefits. It would also mean no good references, but what do I care. As of today you couldn't pay me enough to work in a lab again.

But of course, I won't be fired. I will never let myself get to that point. No, I am too conscientious for that. Perhaps if it were another job, working for someone else. But to be fired from here from this job is surpasses professional betrayal and enters into the territory of familial treason. No, I can't sabotage this.

***
Since I wrote that first part of the post my mood has improved considerably. R stopped in and we had lunch together. Over lunch, I told him, as I have before, only more serious this time, that I intend to leave here by September. Of course, as always he was supportive. I did detect some panic in his voice however. That only gives us 3 months to figure out a way to cough up $2000+ per month. yikes.
But, in a flurry of motivation I applied for a job today. I even called them on the telephone, so it must be serious. It is at the Community Learning Center and the position is for an adult education teacher. Something about the place and the description called to me, not least the fact that it looks like something I might be actually qualified for. So I wrote what I hope was an impassioned and compelling cover letter, spruced off my resume and sent off into the email abyss. I hope something, anything, comes of this. If anything, just applying has got me on the move to moving onward.

This heat...

It's been a few days, and while I won't apologize because it doesn't actually matter, I will say that I feel guilty, and that perhaps my edginess over the weekend was in part due to not having written here.
Yesterday, and the day before that, as all Philadelphians will agree, were insanely hot. My hopeful belief that we would spared the heat by the cross ventilation of 14 windows was dashed when by 10 in the morning the studio was already sweltering and the best I could do was lay in front of the fan in my underwear. How did I forget, in those few short months of winter and spring how hot it gets in the city? I have been yearning for summer since at least January, but now I wonder how we will make it out from under the breeze of our one, dusty box fan.
Temperature, or I should say the quest for the perfect one, can take over one's thinking. Much in the same way that early man was consumed in the quest for food, one can also be consumed in the quest for comfort. Now, when we have so many options up and down the thermometer, do we accomplish more? Are the amenities of modern life tools in a zen-like mission to progress? The air conditioner therefore is not so much a comfort for the soft but something that frees another portion of our energy for more lofty endeavors. All the things that I could have done yesterday had we only had air conditioning.
And yet, whenever R in his playful way suggests that we get central air, I scoff. We just can't have air conditioning: we are cut from a different cloth than the rest of the sweaty masses. We will sweat, and we will work through that sweat into a life of righteousness.
Of course, it was I who was rendered immobile by the heat yesterday, not R. While R bandied about, drenched in his clean odorless perspiration, I just lay there, blinking.

I'll work on it though. I have at least another few months to practice being hot.

dressed for the end

"There are those who can reconcile themselves to death and those who can't. Increasingly, I've come to think that it is one of the most important ways the world divides up." writes David Reiff, of his mother's, Susan Sontag, determination to live.

Lately, this idea of making a choice - or choosing to make a choice - has been bouncing around. It is often said, by Christians and middle-aged hippie mystics (like my aunt) alike, that letting go is part of acceptance. Acceptance part of letting go. And it's true: once you've made the choice to accept something for what it is, someone for who they are, it is that much easier when the it (the other) does what it does. Once parents have accepted their children as individuals, it perhaps becomes easier to let them make mistakes. Once we accept our spouses for who they are, terminally imperfect, temporary in their bodies, perhaps it becomes easier to watch them live outside of us. Circumstances too - personal tragedy, economic collapse - can be taken with a deep breath, a sigh, and be gently adopted into our inventory of sadness.
But why would we have to? Why should we be so easy going with the things that cause us grief?
Why lately I have been thinking about death and grieving so much is beyond me. But in my internal dealings with it, totally hypothetical dealings being that my own personal encounters with death and dying have been minimal, I have refused to accept it as an option. Of course, we all must die. All things do in fact come to an end. And while it was easy to be grateful that R's grandmother died quickly and in peace, I remain indignant that my step-cousin should have died randomly, senselessly of carbon dioxide poisoning while sleeping in a tent. Yet, one can we do? Nothing. We can do nothing other than be angry, to stamp our fists and wonder why despite our intelligence and progress and technology and spiritual enlightenment, we continue to live like animals - subject to whims of nature, and dare I suggest, God. For what is to the best of knowledge the first time in my life, I am personally aware of the question of a just God, or justice at all really. If we are not in some way "special", not in some way other
from ferns, gladiola, cats, then the world really is filled with senselessness.
And, of course, I don't believe that even for a minute. But every once in a while I think it helps to try on a desperate view of the universe, like it's good to try on a really ugly, itchy dress once in awhile.

The Fallout

My little birthday card exercise has served as an excellent reminder that images can in fact start wars. Above, is an incomplete poll conducted by Dr. Veruca Salt this morning. Upon seeing the card - which she found inappropriate, to say the least - she embarked on a mission to collect the opinions of the others in the lab. As you can see, she rallied quite a few to her side.

I admit: I was looking for a fight. What makes it a rash, and incomplete action on my part, was that I did it in a moment of enraged boredom, rather than a moment of outrage. That, and I genuinely find the scene beautiful, in it's own tragic, horribly sad way. Of course I expected a reaction - grumbling, complaints floating around beneath the surface. I assumed I would hear about people's dissatisfaction with my choice of image after the birthday party, and from someone who wouldn't have had such a strong reaction like Raquel, or Jen. But instead, I managed to unintentionally mobilize a vote. The results revealed that 5 out of 8 people found the image "inappropriate"; 2 either didn't care or didn't understand; and 1 person liked it. I won't get into the fact that the question as posed was a biased ("do you think this is appropriate for a birthday card?"); that perhaps a few of those 5 who found it inappropriate might not have thought so before they were asked. I won't get into the fact that while it was perhaps not lovely in the way birthday cards tend to be, it was indeed original, and in my opinion at least, moving.

No, and maybe I shouldn't dwell on the fact that despite entering now into our 3rd year of war, this card has elicited a much more passionate reaction in this group than have the news of roadside bombings, civilian and military casualties left and right, and the blatant violation of our individual privacies. Perhaps the heart, the real pumping sentiment, behind this matter is that the image of a burning oil field was an assault on one of us. It wasn't an abstract statement at the coffee machine criticizing the war, a sad comment about the death of a local soldier, but instead a superimposition of a statement of joy - Happy Birthday! - over the ultimate symbol of human violation in our time.

And I suppose it's naive of me to surprised that so many didn't like it. We don't look for misery and violence, so when it's presented to us I suppose it's only natural to flinch. Had the image not been so arresting in it's vastness - the flames just flicker in a huge cloudless desert (save for the plumes of white cottony smoke), the sky so opaque with its' own blue, I too perhaps would have flinched.

And maybe what happened today is that beauty trumped us all. (Like the corny last line in Peter Jackson's version of King Kong when Jack Black says something to effect of "It was Beauty that killed him.") Well she trumped me. I suppose too that it was my mistake to fall out of context and drink in the part of the scene that I needed to drink - that I wanted to drink - and leave the rest an unaccounted for sludge. Indeed it's the sludge that was sent forth to the group, while I , greedily secreted the beautiful froth for myself.

This is my small workplace rebellion of the week. The picture is from the first Gulf War, of an Iraqi oil field burning.

Anyone want to place any bets on how long it takes for them to find a new "birthday card maker"?

The Update

Perhaps you remember my lack of proof reading disaster from last week. Well, the professor returned them with comments last night. I didn't even turn it over to look at it, I was so mortified at what would be written in the margins. I could see through the back of the paper that there wasn't too much written all over it - which given my experience last semester (I would get papers back that looked like Mark Lombardi drawings) most likely meant that it didn't even warrant a close investigation. I waited to look at it till I got in the car, and you know what? It was ok. The part that I had crumbled in humilation over, didn't even get a question mark saying 'what the hell is this?' - the only frowns I got in the grammar department were some bad positioning of periods after quotation marks. Otherwise, I didn't do so bad.

I didn't do so bad in class either. I got some interesting feedback on the letters I wrote to Erin. It struck me as odd that I have no problem sharing incredibly personal feelings of failure and isolation to a class full of people that I have to see every week, and in somecases might continue to see on a regular basis until I finish school - yet, I can't make a phone call to a friend. I have yet to call Erin, and yesterday was another day that went by without calling Johana to congratulate her on her baby. Yes, she had the beautiful little squirt in 15 minutes flat. This thing is escalating from a discomfort into a phobia.
I am calling Johana today, and that is that. And Erin - this weekend she gets the call.

suspension

Here I am, at home, in my wonderful bed (aka: my office). And yes, it's a Tuesday. It has been confirmed: I cannot write at night. I tried to do my writing for class last night (the not so fun one where I had to write about why Rilke's descriptions in his Letters on Cezanne are effective) and it just wasn't moving. Then R turned on the season finale of 24 and my productive mind was lost into the abyss.
This morning however, I woke up at 5 because I had been planning on going to the gym and then work. But in a dashing moment of rebellion, I decided I was going to call out sick and not feel guilty about it. So I got back in bed and stayed asleep till 7:40, at which point I got up, made coffee and was crackin on my paper by 8. R had already left, the studio was quiet and it was just me, Rilke and my laptop. I finished, read it over twice (I'll be reading it over again, trust me - no more proofreading faux pas for me) and the day is mine. Well, sort of. I do have to go into work and wash microarrays because Gabi is in New York and is the only other person who knows how to do it. Oh well, a small price to pay for a productive morning.
The more interesting part of the assignment was to write a letter to someone dear to us, in the manner of Rilke. I wrote 2 letters to Erin. Whether they are descriptive the way they are supposed to be, I don't know. But in a way I got out some things that I wish could be easily said - not that they are things which could be taken badly, but they have to do with my profound sense of failure when it comes to my friends, and the very reason why I become petrified at the idea of using the phone to call her. They are also very much about Bennington and the feeling of being in school and being free. That suspension in time. Which, incidentally, is kind of how I feel today that I am home working in the morning silence.

It's wonderful and I wish I could do it every day.

Band-Aid Anyone?

Ouch, this hurts. It's literally painful being here, at work, among the din of freezer condensers and incubators, stomach swirling from the vomit-cream colored walls. I ran today, with minimal pain (what pain I did have might have been from the bandage being wrapped too tightly around my foot) and very seriously considered driving back home and calling in sick. There were several factors which would have caused my plan to seriously backfire however. The first was that I had parked outside of work, since I start running from the back lot of the hospital, so in my returning to my car to sneak away there was a very serious chance of being spotted by someone who would recognize me. It would not bode well for my 'I'm in bed and puking my guts out' story to have been spotted running. Second, I had asked R to stop by work so he could pick up the car and get an oil change. If I got home after he had left, he would come by to see me at work and discover that I wasn't there - and raise the eyebrows of my co-workers as to why my fiance didn't notice that I was 'in bed puking my guts out'. (Note: we are the last people on the earth to not have cell phones, so we still have comic episodes of miscommunication from time to time. We have developed a pretty elaborate, but effective system of communication however, involving: calling other people's cell phones from land lines who from there call my mother who gives us the message in person 8 hours later. Also smoke signals and yelling.)
I do have a way out though: I am taking my car to get "serviced" myself at 1pm which means that it could take from twenty minutes to two hours. Now I just have to make it till then.

Red in the Face

Ok, so those two little "gems" of writing that I spilled out yesterday morning for class? They could have used some proofreading. A lot of proofreading. On the way back from class I decided I was going to read R my pieces*. I got through maybe the first sentence before I realized just how badlyI had mangled those 8 words. I was too embarrassed to continue reading. No, I could not allow the love of my life - the man who watches me pee on a regular basis, who tolerates the sweaty clothes I leave laying around the bathroom - to see me fail at something as simple as a written paragraph. How on earth was I going to face my professor in class the following week? How was I going to show this careless, over anxious face to a stranger, not so much my senior, who looks at me blankly and slightly quizzically when I open my mouth to speak in his class?
I have been worrying over this in the background since last night. I have been thinking that perhaps the best thing to do would be to revise it, and send the new version to him via email along with profuse apologies and explanations as to why I sounded like such an airhead dipshit.
However it's late now, and aside from being sleepy, I think I'll just tuck my tail between my legs and at least read what I have written next time I give hime something.

The other point of angst today, was the fact that I confessed to my mother that I hate my job and I want out. It was a resignation lettter away from quitting - and while when I put it that way it sounds scary, it was really just a statement of fact. I said it, got emotional for 3 minutes until my timer went off and I went back to work. My day continued to suck, as usual lately, but that was all. Although I did have to bring a whole bunch of stuff home with me, so I stuck it all in a box. I had a little fantasy as I walked down the hall that this was my last walk, my green mile; that the box held the contents of my desk, and that the push of the door handle to get into into the stairwell would be the final sound of my goodbye.

Such a good thing that today was a Friday.

*this in itself shows how blindly optimistic I was that they were good: we were in a dark car, going 75 mph on the freeway and I get insanely car sick when I glance at my shoes, let alone read a whole page of text.

Red Flags

I need to stop feeling so pleased with myself because I am certain it can only lead to bad, bad things. This morning, for class this evening, I wrote 2 paragraphs, each one in response to two different essays. The first one was The Lives of Brians and the other was Lawrence Weschler's Why I Can't Write Fiction. I feel as if they came out whole, like tight little gems of text ready to awe the reader. Red Flag #1: If you think it's really good the first time around, it most certainly isn't. So, now I am worried. What if we have to read them aloud? I normally don't mind reading aloud or presenting in front of people. But what if it really sucks and I don't even know it? What if it really sucks, and I am fooled into feeling like I did an awesome job? On Tuesday we did the go around the table and introduce yourself thing. The professor wanted us to talk about our aims for the class, our background and our "favorite" authors. I had it planned out in my head, all eloquent and witty. But when it was my turn my heart starts palpitating, my voice dropped in volume and the stutter reared it ugly head. I sounded like a retard, a fact confirmed by the strange look that the professor gave me and that he didn't ask me any follow up questions like he did the rest of the class.
Hopefully my suspicion of having written something terrible is wrong. This is Red Flag #2: Thinking in the back of your mind that you actually are a genius but you just don't want to admit it to yourself, is a firm indicator that you are average like everybody else.

Today, I am awesome.

Nothing dulls the nausea of boredom like some rockin' news: I found out this morning that I got an A+ in my Religion, Social Justice and Urban Development class. This is the class that I thought I would be lucky to get a B in; the class in which I procrastinated writing for like all hell; the class where I could barely grasp the multiple converging ideas; the class that has proved to be a turning point. So, yeah, I am happy. To make things sweeter, I emailed the professor to see if I could get his feedback on the final, because as I lamely put it, ‘it is the beginning of…something’. Yeah, ok. I am a cheese ball, but a horn tooting cheeseball. He wrote back: “I loved your paper. Yes, we can speak about it; but, not this week.” My heart surely skipped a beat.
You have to understand that this felt like the raw cookie dough of all papers. The stuff was there, but there none of it was completely put together, and there were all kinds of disparate ideas and tangents that didn’t really fit. But it had to be done, and not just because it was the final and it was 60% of the grade but because I had to write about public space. I had to. It was there, this bundle of want to write about Olmsted and Central Park, sidewalks, land, terrain, closed crampedness and vast openness.
But he loved it. Yeah, ok, I ‘m reading too much into a two sentence email, but amidst all the eppendorfs and uncomfortably warm incubators, I have this nugget of self satisfaction to carry around in the breast pocket of my labcoat.

Vegetative State

I have slept more in the past two days than I probably have in the last 2 weeks combined. We lounged around reading, napping and eating cereal and didn't really step outside until Sunday when R went to see his Mom and I went to see mine. I was at my parents house till almost midnight. We just talked about all sorts of stuff pertaining to life and it was a no-pressure just regular 'this is what is going on my life' kind of conversation.

You might be proud to hear that I remembered to bring the two cakes for Julias's birthday, and as soon as I had delivered them to the mock kitchen area, I was informed that the birthday cake duty has been passed onto Jennifer. Oh well, I knew it was coming. It was a matter of time.

Tomorrow classes start again which means I will have to get back on schedule in the next 19 hours. No more sleeping in till 7:30 and running at night. Not that I'll be running much in the few weeks - on Friday night I helped R clean up the floor, which involved multiple trips up three flights of stairs. This killed my leg, more than running oddly enough. Maybe it was just that the ibuprofin had worn off. I am finally going to schedule a doctor's appointment today because I can't take it anymore.

The Culture Ministry

Today has been a, hands down, way-better-than-yesterday day. Yesterday was made interesting by the fact that I establishd a "Gum Museum" on my desk, and I made a kick -ass birthday card for Julia's birthday on Monday.

Those 4 blue pieces on the end were chewed yesterday between 2 and 5pm. Today's gum continues to the left and so far, that would be as of 4 pm, there 5 wads in place. Each wad consists of 2 or more pieces, being that part of the addiction is the sensation in my mouth when I first bite down on a fresh piece. This must be residual behavior from my days as a smoker. Back in school it was a pack of Winston's a day; now it's an 18 pack of Trident*.

The Gum Museum is kind of a test to see how much I can ghet away with in terms of idiosyncratic grossness while at work. It's not in a totally public place, but any body who comes to my desk will see it. I will fortunately get to observe my multi-hued specimens all the time.

This is my last school free weekend until August, and while I am hoping to really make the best of it, it's unlikely that we'll do anything extraordinary. I am really, really glad to be starting classes again on Tuesday. Even though it's only been a week since I handed in my final, I have been going through a withdrawal of engaging things to do at work (that don't involve work, of course).
The main thing is to remember the birthday cake so I don't get lynched by a sugar-starved mob of scientists.

*Trident is the gum of choice, but to shake things up a bit I tried Stride, that new gum that looks like either condoms or a pack of really small cigarrettes. Stride kind of sounds like it could be the name of a condom too, which is a little off-putting considering I just put the last one in my mouth. My review: the fact that the gum itself is blue makes it a winner, but the flavor doesn't last any longer than other gum, which is supposed to be one of their selling points. Also, it's too soft on the initial bit-down.

Who's the Lame Asshole Now?

Despite the fact that I had a pretty good run this morning with minimal leg pain, I am in a superbly shitty mood. I did not want to get out of the car and make that sorrowful walk into a day of clammy, tired, and revoltingly mundane activity. This is a very wierd feeling: all I want to do is sit somewhere and stare into space catatonically. I am not tired, I am not hungry. Just down like Eor. Man, what a lame feeling. Not only is it lame, but right around the edges I am pissed off. I don't know at what, but I came an inch too close to telling the old guy at Wawa, the one who stands in everyone's way during "rush hour" to refill the cups and lids at the coffee station, to: GET THE FUCK OUT OF THE WAY! YOU HAVE ALL DAY TO REFILL THE SUGAR, CAN'T YOU JUST WAIT?! Unfortunately, you and I both know that I am not ballsy enough to say such a thing. Another thing to be pissed off about - I wish I had said it. What the fuck am I so afraid of and why do I have to be so damn timid all the time?
My antisocial shyness is becoming crippling, I am starting to realize. There are lot of things I don't do, places I don't go, because I don't want to deal with interacting with people. It is insane, and I think it's slowly making me insane. I need to grow some balls and get over myself because eventually I am going to end up a shut in.

The Anti-Neurotic Wednesday

Lo and behold it is only Wednesday. The weeks are getting longer, I swear it. Every day seems to feel like Thursday, that wonderful day bursting with the anticipation of Friday. By Thursday, you are over the hump, and well into "end of the week" territory. You can still get things done on Thursday, but nothing major that requires more than two consecutive days to complete.

But like I said, it's only Wednesday.

The good news is that I ran outside today for a good chunk of time with only minimal discomfort in my shin. I have been very good to it lately - applying heat and rest, and it's starting to heal. What I really need now is a new pair of running shoes because both my pairs are shot, and possibly the cause of my problems in the first place.
I feel much better about myself and everything today though and I think I have to thank the run for that. Last night I felt like I was getting a cold and like I had gained 10 pounds over the course of the week. This morning after my run however I managed to feel normal again, and able to deal with the fact that in the course of the week I have probably gained a few pounds. All my stupid, girly self image problems dissolve as long as I get my miles in. There is a good reason that I am neurotic about running - it saves me from being neurotic about everything else.

Tales from Wonkaville

Today promises to be quite a day. Dr. Veruca Salt* is looking to make another "movie" for a presentation she has to give at the end of the week, so she asked me to bring my video camera. I would be so lucky if my involvement ended there. She mentioned that she wanted to record me doing some intro describing the concept of the project and its goals. What does this mean, based on my past experience making videos with her? It means that she paints my face like a 1930's hooker, fucks up my hair so it looks like hers, and sticks me in front of the camera to regurgitate some badly written lines. I did this before because, well, I thought I had to and I was dumb. I hadn't been working in the lab that long and was feeling ultra guilty about being here and not knowing any science, so I did whatever kind of monkey crap I had to in order to justify my employment. I am glad to say that I have learned my rights regarding human dignity in the workplace. When she pulls me aside and asks me in that fake sweet, suck-uppy voice that for some reason she tends to use with me, whether I will just take a few minutes to do the introduction, I am going to say no. Just say No. To being dressed up and embarrassed in front of co workers and an entire hospital full of people; to be required to do things that you feel are sloppy wastes of time just because you are in a subordinate position; No to participating in activities which only serve to cloud the issues at hand rather than really solve them. Yes, that's what this little presentation is about. Propaganda is perhaps a bit harsh, but perhaps the most accurate in describing the purposes of this video. I won't get into it here, but basically the story involves the clash between two biostatisticians and two biochemists, embroiled in a battle about statistical significance and trust.
Whoever said science wasn't sexy?

*My parents have developed a histerical pet-name system for everyone in the lab based on Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory. It must be pretty true, because they won't tell me who is which character, and get quiet and change the subject when I try to guess. Not that it's that hard to figure out, except I can't figure out who Mike TV is around here yet.

Relief

I just got on email from Erin and I am so incredibly relieved to know that she's ok. I hadn't heard from her or gotten any replies to my emails in a few months and I was really very concerned that something g had happened. And maybe something did happen, I don’t know yet because I haven't talked to her, but at least she wrote an email, which means she's there. I can't wait to talk to that girl.
We didn't really get to be friends until we started sharing a studio our junior year of college. My first semester they had put me in one of the really big and private graduate studios by myself. I am not sure why I got so lucky with the studio, but I think it had something to do with me registering for classes late since I had just some back from my year at SVA. Anyways, second semester Erin needed a studio and somehow, I don't remember how in came about, we agreed to "move in together" into mine. It was awesome. We got to know each other and did some wonderfully idiotic and hilarious things on those late nights in VAPA. Our senior year, our luck in academic real estate escalated and we scored another one of the graduate studios, only this one was way bigger, and in the Carpenter Shop which was an old barn/house looking building away from VAPA and the rest of the campus. Again, crazy shit ensued. Many hours were spent playing the "what-if" game, and agonizing about how we were going to make our living as artists without being lame and snooty, and driving to Texaco in the middle of the night for coffee, candy and cigarettes.
The amazing thing about E is that she was always about a mile ahead of me in my thinking. Some things were just obvious to her, so by the time I got to having one of my revelations about art or politics or god, she had already been there. I am stubborn though and tend not to see things right in front of my face until I am good and ready to see them. At the end of our senior year I applied for an internship at This American Life.(This was a period that I was convinced that radio was true calling, art be damned.) Being that E is a native of Chicago, the plan was that I would get the internship and move to Chi-town with her and hang out or live with her for at least a year. Turns out, I didn't get the internship and stayed in NJ for a year feeling quietly embittered about the whole thing. I have only seen her once (I think) since we graduated, and that was when I went out to Chicago for a few days in October of 2002. Holy shit it's been a really long time. We don't talk as much as we should, and it's mostly my fault because I hate talking on the phone.
I want to go visit her, wherever the hell she is now. A few months back she quit everything and moved to San Francisco, and when shit got weird for her there, I tried to talk her into coming to Philly. Well, maybe I still have a chance to convince her to come east and at least visit our sparse little city, if not make a new home here.
We used to scheme all the time about starting a business of some kind together. We probably won't ever do it - the ship has passed on that one as they say. But daydreaming about it brings back that feeling that everything was possible, practicality and fiscal security be damned.
But something I was again reminded of yesterday is that it is still permissible to feel reckless in that way even though we are getting older and responsible and all that hooey. Things only affect us if we chose to allow them to affect us. I was getting all worked up about the bills that I haven't paid yet and my declining credit and so on, but after an hour of whining and crying to R, I remembered (thanks to R) that it really doesn't matter. It's just money, and we'll never have it and always owe it, so why get upset?
Everything is still possible. Recklessness is an asset more precious than a credit score.

It has been sent

I've done it,it's finished, and now there is a big gap where all the anxiety of finishing that final used to be. I don't really feel all that relieved, although it feels nice to be able to read something not related to class and not feel guilty about it. But I was really getting into my topic - inhabiting public space - and had really only just begun to crack into my ideas about it. It is also annoying that I know where and what the flaws ofthe piece are, not only because there are many, but that I had to accept them because I wasn't entirely clear in my thinking about certain issues. For example, at the end I started talking about surveillance. It came up in my reading and I couldn't ignore, especially writing about public space and access to it. But I winged it, wasn't sure about it, and now we'll have to see. The part that feels good though is that it's a topic I don't want to just throw out the window. It's not about the class anymore and that's the point. The feeling of stagnation that I have been battling for months, almost years is staring to clear and for the first time going back to school is making sense. Yippee.

Today the girls from work are coming over for the shindig I've mentioned previously. I am excited to have them over and do something that breaks the routine. Spent way too much money on food (thanks to my nearly maxed out credit card) but I figure as long as we have enough food, all will be ok. Food and beer. O'Doul's for the mommies-to-be.

Stupid, stupid cake

Almost there. So freakin' close.

I am in the final stages of writing this paper. I just have to make myself proofread it - again. I hate proofreading, because it is inevitably right before the deadline so when you catch a big gleaming inconsistency or an area that really needs to be expanded upon, it is already too late. It has been written, and in the last few hours before submission, the amount of editing you can do is limited to grammar corrections and re-wording. Last minute conceptual remedies? No, my pharmacy has none of those.

Speaking of pharmacies, I bought a bandage this evening to see if wrapping up my now very weirdly hurting leg might help. It only hurts sometimes, and it's not really pain, just a feeling of something being "off". I am thinking that it's not a stress fracture, but I can't be sure being that I don't have an x-ray machine at home and oh yeah, I am not a doctor. But after an hour of foot numbing torture on the elliptical the "off" area felt ok, like it had warmed up. Muscles warm up, not bones, lucky for me.

I think that I will be fired from birthday cake duty, and as silly as it is, it pisses me off. For some reason, the birthday cake issue always manages to ignite controversy. My last birthday Rachael had made me an angel food cake - as I had requested. It wasn't a wedding cake; it was just a regular from a box home-made cake with rainbow sprinkles baked in. Somebody in the lab, a somebody who has very passive aggressive and manipulative methods of getting people to do her dirty work, decided that the cake was not "appropriate" and that someone should go out and buy a cake. First, when is a cake not appropriate? As much as I don't go for cake, I recognize that you can't diss cake. Go here for additional reasons to support cake eating. Second, it was just plain rude to insult Rachael like that. The girl took her own time to bake the cake that I requested. Anyways, this was the first cake drama.
Today's issue involved the birthday girl breaking the birthday rules. Earlier in the week I asked the Birthday PhD what kind of cake she wanted. She told me 'no, no, no I am too old for that. I will bring the cake.'
'No. You can't do that. I am getting you a cake whether you like it or not.' That was Tuesday. Wednesday I got the reminder email that I sent myself so I would remember the cake. My plan was to get it on my way to work on Thursday - today.
Well, I forgot.
It was Birthday PhD who reminded me by informing me that she still brought the cake. Damn! My dilemma was this: should I go out and get a cake anyways just to prove a point that you don’t fuck with the birthday rules, or, just say screw it and have everyone eat the cake she brought. After conferring with some others, it was decided that one cake was enough.
Fine. Ok, Birthday PhD is stubborn. Let's move on. But no. Party time comes, and my dad (remember dad = boss) gets upset that I didn't bring a cake. To make matters much worse, my mom (mom also = boss) keeps asking people whether they like to bake. I smelled job replacement, and it smelled rancid. The conclusion was that for the next birthday celebration, I should bring two cakes. We'll see how long I last after I've served my penance.

pj's and private spectator sports

Totally, wonderfully, blissfully on a role this morning with my paper. Finally! Took the day off of work, stayed in bed with my laptop and hunkered down to start writing. Something about being in bed unlocks all kinds of good mental powers. All was going very well until about 1. Then there's a kncok on the door, some keys jingling in the lock. I thought it was R. Who else could it be. I open the door and it's two dudes with a ladder shocked as hell to see me there. Plumbers. Here to fix the sprinklers. I can't very well lay in bed while these two old guys are wrestling with pipes on a ladder, so I have since moved to the desk and my productivity is decreasing. I am a little (no, very) self concious to be here in my pj's, no bra, haven't washed up yet and have strangers here with me. Apparently, they have been here every day this week. I never would have noticed, and it's a little scary.
I feel rude just being here essentially ignoring them, but man, it's my home. Technically my "work only studio" but still - my space. Hmm. Maybe they're almost done. I wish I could at least get dressed in real clothes, but being that we don't have any rooms, that's impossible.

I have a few more hours of brain energy before it goes dead. Wish me luck, and I might even get this sucker done today.

shitty rules if you ask me

I have been offically cleared for a personal day tomorrow so I can work on my paper so the panic I mentioned yesterday is subsiding. With that bit of new found relief I spent some time making a birthday card for one of the post docs whose birthday is coming up on Thursday. I have now inherited the seat of birthday officer which means that I am in charge of keeping track of everyone's birthdays, getting the cake, the card etc. I am started a new home-made card policy, since I really doubt that I will have the tiome or the dedication to bake everyone's birthday cake like Rachael did. That was a nice touch, especially since it meant that I got to have angel food cake on my birthday. The ulterior motive behind making the cards is that it gives me a subversive means by which to stage my protests about being an adult. Yup, that's what it comes down to: I can't really blame the job other than accusing it of being extremely boring. What can I say, they treat us fair. People are nice. It's an ok place to work. That doesn't mean that I don't want feel like puking at the mere thought of being here though.

So I guess what really makes me mad is the fact that I have to suck it up and take it - like a grownup. Damnit. Who made up these rules anyways?

Don't Panic

Don't panic my ass. I have now three and a half days before my paper is due and while I have actually started it (you can pat me on the back now), I am as confused about my central argument as ever. R and I went into town and took a long walk last night and he helped me talk through some thoughts on the topic, which helped a lot. But not enough. I got somewhere this morning at work, but I don't remember where exactly.
The final paper drama is not being alleviated by the fact that I dread that I might have a stress fracture in my left leg. What I have assumed to shim plints might not be so simple. Hopefully (pretty please) my hypothesis is wrong.
Johana's baby shower was today. It served as a tacit reminder that kids suck, even before they get spit out. But relax, it's not their fault: it's watermelon theme outfits that turn the good kids bad. Bad bad bad.