New Year's Resolutions, or Why I'm a Bad Blogger

This post could also have started with a question: what's worse than working thirteen hours on a Friday? Returning to work at 7:30 AM on Saturday, or why I'm a bad blogger.

Maybe bad is pushing it, but it was a couple of weeks ago now when my darlin pulled up the front page of this humble pot of blogular slooge, pulled her cursor to the date of my last post and gave me the look that also means "it's your turn to empty the dishwasher and you didn't and you don't plan to either and that really makes me cross."

It's not that I suck at writing, I'm ok. It's more that thing where I want it to be good all the time so I sort of choke when I'm not ready to spew greatness at you. Then, when I do post it's more because the non-posting guilt has built to an unbearable level. This also makes me forget what great thing I thought of to post about two days earlier and the result is a post like the one you are now reading.

All this brings me to my New Year's Resoultion. In 2008, I will post every single day. I think I will get better at expressing myself if I do it all of the time. I think that I will process half-processed ideas better if I make myself write about these gayenvironmentmedschool things.

But the really great part about this resolution is that I can still procrastinate posting for twenty-five more days! What freedom that will be.

This feels like a good resolution because it is weighty, but also do-able. In that way, it is similar to this year's resolution, although decidedly less beneficial for the world in general. This year I vowed to not purchase newly made items and dragged my darlin along for the ride. And I'm almost there! Nothing new! We made exceptions for the gray area of food and anything directly related to health. I am now a serious garage-sale pro. I am a knower of all things Salvation Army (aka Pier 2) ((Wednesday is half off!!)).

Anyway, as impact-lite as last year's resolution was, out the window it goes for this jaunt into the blogosphere. Also going is last year's no-soda resolution. I think I'm replacing it with no soda except for root beer in a bottle and anything in a mixed drink.

When I saw out the window concerning last year's resolution, I don't really mean that. What I really mean is that I've learned its lessons and made it a part of my life now. I'm just never going to buy something new when I can get it quality used. It's so obvious when in this consumer culture, my neighbors, or rather those folks who live several neighborhoods over, throw away everything I need. Also less plastic, more glass!

And Here's What I Did Last Weekend

I have mountains of data and piles of backlogged water samples. Thusly, I'll direct my fine readers (All Three of You!) to treehugger for a summary, of how I spent my weekend. The me-specifics you'll miss are: I drove a van of 12 college students six hours to get there. The charming conversation I shared with my shotgun freshdude, who already has some pretty serious hippie cred, filled me up with hope for the future. I felt darn old and kept wanting to tell him how "full of promise" he was. Weird. Weird. Weird.

Also what you won't find out is that I spent Saturday night with my dearest friend from cough, prep school, cough, and got to test some of the lovliest of Dupont circle area drinking establishments. I was delighted to find that her apartment still sports some artifacts from her boarding school dorm room and we got all caught up on life's happenings.

Klutzes Need Not Apply

This is what should top the job description for my replacement when they post it in the spring.

I am accident prone. It's not pretty, it's not horrible, it's just true. If I were one to cry over spilled milk, well, let's just say that I'd be pretty dehydrated most of the time. Anyway, being a Very Serious Water Ecologist like me involves fine motor skills sometimes and also a large amount of expensive glassware. Yes, it's true that I've broken the occasional volumetric flask or seperatory funnel. Yes I've broken the frequent test tube. But today just really took the cake. I broke the bulb on my sonde's pH probe. I was cleaning it gently with a q-tip. Everything about today seemed great, perfect fall weather, crunchy leaves, delicious english muffin at breakfast and then my new q-tip probe cleaning technique was working so well! It deschutzified like nothing else. Until the probe shattered and then it didn't really matter, did it. All of the big-kid type scientists who have been doing this for a while have been sympathetic. My boss just blatantly made fun of me for being uber klutzy, but still. This does suck. Not in a small way because half of the other probes on the instrument rely on the pH reading for their readings. I took out the broken one and capped its port. It still thinks that it can measure pH, but the readings are insane. It said 2 sitting in sink water and then I grabbed its housing and the reading jumped to, uh, 37. For those not pH saavy, the scale only goes to 14. I don't know how much it costs, but the entire instrument, which I just rendered almost useless until we can get it replaced, costs $9000.

SIGH. And tonight I am planning to clean our room and the bathroom. Maybe we can watch Heros and eat ice cream. Probably I'll just be in that kind of mood that makes me start analyzing the show and I'll totally ruin it for myself. Oi, I'm quite the Eyore right now.

Grammar!

Despite many more interesting and curious ideas and happenings to blog about. I am simply providing this delightful link, which has has captured my attention away from analyzing the results of alkalkinity titrations.

Miss Steaks!

Interrorogated

Yay! It's over! I did an interview! So why don't I feel all chilled out and relieved it's over? Eh... who knows?

I looked way spiffy. I was the only person not dressed in black or gray. Who knew brown could be so revolutionary? The morning started at an unspeakable hour with a perky little info session. It was, uh, too hilarious for words to come in to the mini-conference room spectacle of 30 freaked-out pre-meds. Everyone did that thing where they leave a space between every two people in the seats and eye their neighbors before trying to make awkward conversation. I made one buddy with a cheery dude from San Diego who I quickly discovered was an incessant question-asking kindred spirit. Also there was a kid named Ricky Martin. I mean, his name tag said "Richard" so he could have been a "Rich" or "Rick" or even "Chard," but no, he introduced himself as Ricky. By Choice.

Then came the actual interview part. Now, I like talking about myself. Kind of too much. So much that I spent the four hour drive from home to my Grum's house north of Boston talking out loud to myself about myself. Really, I was practicing. Which was a little stupid because I nearly practiced myself hoarse. This led to some awkward coughing during today's actual time designated for talking about myself. The Old White Guy Doctor from The South was my interviewer, and boy did we bond. I mean, kind of. He gave a little pat on the shoulder as I left, which I think is an excellent sign. Our chat went well, but not amazingly so. I answered his questions well, elaborated some, gave him a bit o' my charm and wit. But, I think he was kind of not so adept at interviewing. There were just a whole lot of things I would have wanted to ask if I was the interviewer.

The plus side of the whole day was the amazing discovery that their med school is a very cool place. Like one I really would like to go to! Much in the way that I eschewed medicine for much of my life because my independent childness made me eschew it, I have somewhat eschewed her alma mater. Until Now.

FUN FACTS:
Almost 40,000 individuals are applying to med school right now!
There are about 18,000 spots in next year's med school classes!

Sexist? Jealous of my Infinity MPG?

I am very proud of the fact that I bike to work almost every day. It's about 18 minutes to the SMLC from my lovely home in Terebithia, and about 12 to get back (more downhill). There have been post-work errands that necessitate busting out Meriweather, my trusty Subaru.

Yes, I drive a Subaru. Yes I'm a big giant dyke stereotype. Rugby? Check. Softball? Check. Men's clothing? Check. Cats? Check. Serial Monogamist? Check. Best Friends are Exes? Check. Primarily listen to acoustic folk music with female vocalists? Well, you get the idea. I blame the last one on my dad, by the way. He would have done well as a lesbian, but I'm really just as glad that he, uh, was a dude. (Thanks for the genes!)

Anyway. I am very much in love with my ride to and from work. I get to ride up Main Street from our home in the heart of downtown until I hit the residential neighborhood that bumps up against the college. I always see the same older woman, who wears lots of sweaters and eats beans straight from the can. Last week she tickled me a bit by saying "Hey, you're the bike girl" when she ran into me walking by the bank. I always see the same crowd of Hispanic men lingering around the corner with the Citgo station waiting for a construction job.

Oh, Re: Citgo Stations, Love this shirt at threadless:

This is, by no means, a biking town. The DOT folks think a VERY occasional "Share The Road" sign and the suggestion that you "just get off and walk across the crosswalk" are sufficient bicycle infrastructure. " Sigh. For the most part, motorists deal just fine with me in the road. Often, they're so freaked out if I'm making a left at an intersection that they all just freeze and motion for me to go.

Some of the best bike-car interactions I've had:
A woman followed close behind me for a couple of blocks until there was enough room for her to pull all the way into the other lane get around me and yelled "SIDEWALK!" as she passed. Ten seconds later, I caught up to her car at a traffic light. Since her windows were down, I took the opportunity to do a little public education.
"Actually, it's illegal to ride your bike on the sidewalk."
"Really? "
"Yeah."
*Woman scowls and glares* "Well, it's still better than riding in the road."
The next day I had the EXACT same experience with a different person, but her reaction was better:
"Actually, it's illegal."
"REALLY!!?? To ride your bike on the sidewalk!??"
"Yeah."
"REALLY? Shit.." *Woman shakes head in wonder and disbelief*

Then there was the guy who pulled up next to me at a traffic light, revved his engines and looked over all like "Wanna Race?" I, of course, took him up on his challenge. Which, I maintain that I won. That is, if the finish line was the other side of the intersection.

Then there was the scary time that a car, for no reason, swerved in front of me and slowed down as I came up behind them. And stayed there. And then did it again a while later after they sped up and then came up to a light.

Those were all pretty funny, but a couple of days ago I had a less good experience. I passed a black pick-up pulled over on the other side of the road. The scruffy man in the front seat, who must have been about 60, stuck his head and shoulders all the way out the window to make friggin kissy noises at me. My first reaction was to flip him the bird, but my inner "nice Minnesota girl" politely pointed out that the car coming toward me might misread my gesture. And then she noted that I could have misinterpreted his expression. I looked back again and learned that I was in no way mistaken, but his light changed and he cruised off. Though part of me is impressed that he recognized my gender under my manly garb and focused bikin' posture, I am so friggin pissed off. I hate that so many men think this shit is ok. That somehow we are here for them to look. That most of society tells them it's ok. Hate it. Dang that patriarchy!

Of course, I have to consider rising gas prices, his crappy miles per gallon and consequential sinking financial resources and male ego. This was probably his way of coping with overwhelming jealousy of my infinity MPG.

Into the NEXT STEPS

Well, shuck-ee. I have passed another med-school torture, scratch that, application hurdle and some has actually asked me to interview.

What I should be worried about: Why exactly do am I interested in Boston University? "It's in Boston...." is probably not a good answer.

What I'm actually worried about: What the hell am I going to wear?

Full Disclosure: This is, amusingly, where my mother attended med school. And where my father attended engineering school. And where my aunt went to dental school. I don't think they have any way of knowing that. Or rather, I don't think they'd waste time running my parents' names through their magic system. But still. It doesn't help with the whole wanting to be accepted on my own merits thing.

Regarding the second concern: I'm not one to be hung up on clothing. I'm really super not. But I haven't gotten any clothing in more than a year from anywhere besides Salvation Army or Goodwill and, uh, none of it exactly fits me correctly and none of it is exactly formal. My mother has graciously offered to buy for me the interview suit,* or what I hope will become my mad hardcore powerlesbian suit. Think Bette. Ok, I'll never be that hott. Or that femme. Hrm. "Suit" Doesn't exactly answer my question. I mean, I have the suit I got from Target a while back. And it looks rather hott on me, but, uh, it is noticeably too big. It's too big because I intended to be able to use it for all manner of cross-dressing purposes and it need to be big enough to hide my gazingas. (Thank you to Dad for that particular brestical slang term). Sigh, anyway, now I'm in the how do I find a suit that actually fits, like, um, one made for women, that doesn't debutchify? Maybe I just wear it with a tie.

*Ok, technically I asked for that as my birthday present. But it was such a cute way to tell her I got an interview, right? "Hey mom, I thought of something you can get me for my birthday!"

Done!

The very very last piece of mail that I needed to send for med school apps is USPS priority mailed (with delivery confirmation!). Did I go to all of that trouble for the rest of the apps? No, but these last ones seemed more urgent. Besides I didn't have envelopes so they're wrapped in pages from my HSCESMLC alum magazine. And they seemed safer put inside of those special priority window envelopes. And then maybe they'll get closer to the top of the stack when they come through the admissions office doors. You just never know.

Nude Yoga, Hot Corners, and Casper

Whew! My last two weeks of frequent early mornings to scramble a few hours of work before 8 or 9 am meetings are officially over. Tonight was the official public forum to discuss the state of Poor Casper with the local watershed residents and some folks from other watershed groups in the county. Five of us spoke, with me playing MC and "save the whales" promoter. Making a PowerPoint with five people who refuse to get together all in one room at one time until the day before the presentation blows goats. That's all I have to say about that.

It's over, it went well. I've already gotten email from some folks who want to jump on board.

There were really just a couple of hang ups. Due to PowerPoint and every other dern product that microsoft produces, we decided to use my computer to make the presentation and to present it. This would have been a good idea if, well, if I hadn't left my laptop charger in Seattle last January. DHM has the same Mac that I do, and she is too gracious for words, so sharing has been pretty much fine for the general evening and weekend use that my laptop experiences.

But the really overly-wonderful DHM gave me free use of the charger this evening, so that wasn't really the hang up. The first problem arose about five minutes in when I discovered that gmail notifier is so very determined to notify you that you have a new message that it's ghostly ten second window appears even in front of an ongoing slide show. So the audience got to read the subject and first lines of any and all email I received during the presentation. Ooops.

The second hang-up revolved around my dear colleagues inability to keep away from the corners of my screen with the mouse. Granted I should have warned them, because I do have the corners set to do all sorts of wooshy things with application windows. Maybe the wooshing helped folks stay awake through the darkened room/comfy chair shebang.

About half-way through, the hang-ups had happened and they weren't much of a big deal. Two emails had shown up. One from The Nation, confirming my change of address and the other from MoveOn. Seeing as how it was an environmental science presentation, I doubt there was much shock at the revelation of my political tendencies.

And then I remembered that for the last few days Turtle and I had been exchanging emails with the subject heading "Nude Yoga?" And we have been known to exchange several emails in a day. I became convinced that at any second the next email that popped up on the screen would not only obscurey dramatic photos of raw sewage spewing into the stream, but also would scream "NUDE YOGA!!" It was a slow thirty minutes that followed, I assure you. Turtle came through, and did not send any ill-timed emails.

Well, it's off to sleep with me. I'm waiting impatiently for my darlin to return from an exciting excursion to see "Roller Derby: the Musical." Yeah. Read that again. I can't wait for the report.

Contentment

I'm always thinking that what I really want out of life is to acheive something or make the world a better place or inspiration or or or, something.

My new friend Turtle told me that he neither believes in nor understands ambition last week. I met him a couple of months ago and am gluing our lives together as best as possible because our bubbling friendship is feeling like the kind that pop up few times in life. This little comment of his, which was attached to why he dislikes DC, really gave me pause. I think that in many ways the last five years or so of life have been a big process of detaching myself from the confused ambition that I mistakenly picked out of family encouragement toward academic pursuits, which was amplified by the three years at snotty prep school.

That time in college when I went abroad and wrote hundreds of pages in my journal, I thought I learned the important lesson related to this. At the time, it was "it doesn't matter how long things take in life" and "make sure you enjoy life now, dude." But I never framed it in terms of questioning long term ambitions.

Enter med school applications. I am afraid that I might not have stopped to make myself really confront how much of this doctorly driven desire is based in 1. fear of financial difficulties, 2. ambition toward respectability, 3. it makes my mother happy.

Anyway, what I said to Turtle today is that I keep realizing that what I'm really after is contentment. All those other things are just what I do because I think it will get me there. As much as 1, 2, and 3 play some part in me wanting to be a doctor, so do a whole heap of other things. I do have to work hard to become a doctor. I don't have to be miserable I don't have to get the best grades or be the most cutting edge. I want to take care of people. I want to help them be healthier. I want to be good at it and I want to work hard at it. But I also want to do other things and this doctoring path doesn't have to consume me.

These thoughts are jumbled, I apologize. Well, back to Casper. Connections are the thing. Casper=Health.

Of Chaos

So who knew I would start off as such a hiccoughing blogger? Well, I'll try to be better, I swear. This is a mighty whirlwind of a week. Every time I think that I'm finally starting to be on top of things at work, I discover that, no, actually, I'm not at all. My laundry list of what I want to do is so long!

Poor Casper is being neglected. The BMIzz are so far from being counted and some of the time dependent lab work is far from finished. Egad!

This would all be easier if professors were easier to find. They could do this in several ways:
1. Move into their offices.
2. Respond to my emails immediately, ignoring others if necessary.
3. Carry a pager to which only I have the number, or a cell phone.
4. Rearrange their schedules to attend meetings that I call.

Not so hard, eh? On the up side, they are hard to find because they are all working very hard to educate the future and other vaguely important work.

With one exception, ahem, Chemistry who up and disappeared to Cape Cod on me. To be fair, he is on leave this semester....

They are quite fabulous as a bunch, and I'm lucky to have them. Just difficult to coordinate. Well, all that said, and I'm just going to leave you haning for actual content and head home for dinner.

Caffeine Vs. Eyelids

Who would have know that it mattered so much whether you put the NED reagent in before the sulfanilimide? Maybe if I bothered to find out what NED is other than, uh, "Ned" I might have realized that if I put it in first it would mean three additional hours in the chem lab.

Yesterday was nutrient day. It's a very cruel follow-up to Tuesday, which was sampling day. Oh sampling day! now only joyous carefree moments of my past. What could be better than spending a hot day outside in rubber pants? Despite the sweat, rampant poion ivy, creek scuz and mysterious orange ooze, saying "Hi" to Casper's 21 sample sites (ie filling 105 bottles with water) is actually something I love to do. The amazing highlight of sample day was the discovery of tomato plants miraculously growing out of the rip-rap behind K-mart. That particular site is by the side of a US route and between K-Mart, Blockbuster and a Valvoline station. Casper is completely channelized and most people--even those who live in the residential areas much further downstream--think of it as a drainage ditch rather than a creek. But there they were, aided I'm sure by the runoff-induced high levels of nitrogen and phosphate in the creek, a cherry tomato and your classic Big Boy. I can't wait to digest the one I brought home in acid and run it through our ICP to check out if it did any heavy metal uptake!

Anyway, as for the cruel follow-up. Classes at this "Highly Selective Co-Educational Small Liberal Arts College," which has been so kind as to provide to me full-time employment hanging out with Casper, begin today. Significance? I have lost all of my summer research students. And all of my jolly professor helpers have lost their spare time. Sad Face. We have to run the nutrient analysis within 48 hours lest some stray organic material break down and deplete our numbers. Thusly, I was stuck with the job of four people in one day. Add that to the whole screw-up with Ned and you get 12.5 hours in the lab. Hello biking home at 10:45.

Oh, but wait, first I had to beg security to let me into my office. (The HSCESLAC claims to care about the enviroment, but my research labs are in three different buildings none of which are the same building as my office). This request was met with an incredulous look and "Are you a STUDENT?" "No," I replied, "I am approximately three months older than students, but I am actually an employee." I'm pretty sure the security guard is still debating whether or not I was actually just trying to steal my bike out of the office. And here I thought I was going the legit route by not just climbing in the window.

End of the story: had a breakfast date with an old friend at 7am. Am tired.

The Skirt Thing Again

This weekend provided for many delightful experiences, including a visit from my parents. As a Recent College Graduate co habiting with my darlin' in our very own apartment w/ guest bed, I am right on the cusp between the life stages when your parents could not possibly stay with you when they come to visit and when it would be pretty douchey to ask them to stay somewhere else. Thankfully UP (Upstairs Housemate) and DHM (Downstairs Housemate... not "deep hidden meaning," though she has plenty) were into hosting the parents and so in came their traditionally excessive luggage. I hope that I continue to be young and poor enough so that the gift of a free meal out providing two additional meals worth of leftovers will be a feature of these visits for years to come.

As is often known to occur, the visit did allow for several wardrobe comments from the Mother.

Offhandedly: "or you could wear a skirt once in a while." "I really think it's men who lose out in fashion, they're just so comfortable." "If you're making these decisions for comfort, fine. If you Really think boxers are more comfortable.." And etc.

They usually take the form of awkward joking or unnecessary vocal support for feminine attire. Sigh. This manlywoman genderblender is a little sad. I should take this opportunity to point out that I have been overwhelmingly lucky throught the whole "Mommy, Daddy, I'm A Homoqueerlesbidyke" process. Never was it suggested that I was lesser in their eyes, never did I fear losing their love. And they have graciously made a substantial journey in knowledge accumulation.

Mom and I got a chance to talk about the whole thing.

Me: So, the skirts and boxers comments are you just teasing me or a little bit serious.
PAUSE
PAUSE
*Appearance of vaguely frustrated expression on her face*
Mom: Oh, I guess a little bit serious.

She went on to admit a "secret" fear that I'd someday want to become a man. The ol' slippery slope theory. And so what to say? My immediate sense was to assuage her fears, because, well, I wouldn't identify as "trans," nor do I expect to. And while I'd say I definitely identify with the idea of "genderqueer" and seriously value non-binary gender roles and presentation, I don't not identify as "woman." But how to tell her this without making it OK for her to ignore her own transphobia?

What I can say is "No, mommy, I don't want to be a man."

(Left Image is from Kate Bornstein's Gender Workbook, if anyone ever reads this I suppose I'll have to get rid of it)

She used the word "devestating" to describe what it would be like for her if I did want to transform my gender. And then handed out the typical of her generation-even for lesbians-sense that not wanting to be "woman" is a betrayal of feminism.

I had an inner panic, but I shouldn't worry so much, because she actually does get it, when I take the time to talk these things through. Trans identity and trans politics are complicated, vast and not unified and there are certainly trans views that I don't understand or agree with. But me wearing men's clothing, donning short hair, and not freaking out when people call me sir are reflective of a desire to expand what it can mean to be woman-bodied. It's co-opt not adopt. I'm honoring, and building on this feminist tradition that she tried to steep me in as a child. Transgressing woman is not being man, gender is not binary, breath in, breath out. But, if I did need to transition, she would have to learn to be OK with it. Devestated parents is devestating for their kids, I've got enough trans buddies who can attest to that one.

It was one of those hard-but-good conversations we tend to have. The ones that always leave me wishing I'd been more articulate and a little worried about how these ideas would get repeated. Of course maybe the whole teasing thing was really just because I forced her and Daddio to sort bugs with me for a few hours on Friday. "This totally microscopic white thready thing isn't one of them, right? OH, really?"

Bugs in my Sleep

I have been having trouble sleeping. This is primarily because whenever I close my eyes I see tiny little bugs behind my eyelids. Mostly I see caddisfly larvae:

And midge larvae, which pretty much look the same but with orange heads and fewer legs.

This is because I have spent all day, every day, for about a week and a half with my face about two inches from a petri dish of bug-and-creek-sludge surprise.

It is actually a pretty cool technique, I suppose. We collect bags full of the bottom sediments in the creek then drown whatever might be living there in ethanol and take em home. After that, GW here gets to sit around in a borrowed lab and sort the little critters (or Benthic Macro Invertebrates, or "BMIs" as those in the know call them or "BMIzz" as those cool kids in the know like to call the) from the sludge, count them, pull out 100 at random, ID them and tabulate. Repeat. Forty times. Start to finish it takes at least a day per bag.

It is about the best way to assess the "health" of the stream, I mean, the little critters do live there. And since we know which ones are more sensitive to bad water conditions, like Stone Flies, and which aren't, like leeches, we can get a sense of the creek's health and biodiversity.

I'm about ready to say screw Casper (this is the creek, the Casperkill or Casper's Creek) and its unhealthy water. At first I thought I just had to put up with the vague intoxication of inhaling ethanol all day long, but then visions began. Sleep used to be so pleasant and now I shudder to close my eyes. I'm going to get in trouble with my darlin' too if I keep trying to kiss her with my eyes open. YOU try to get romantic with visions of clumped larvae floating in front of you.

Of course, maybe I'm just having trouble sleeping because I've developed a nasty cough. Is it the ethanol? I mean, really, who gets a "cough?" An English professor friend of mine pointed out that women in Victorian novels are often prone to getting coughs. Of course, that usually means it's close to the end.

Lumpy

Let's discuss, shall we? Med school applications are mad un-fun. Here I am within reach of completion and I can not focus.

If you're not savvy, the process goes like this:
1. Starting early June you can submit a common-app type first round called AMCAS
2. Then you wait for all the millions of schools (13 for me, though that's lower than average) you applied to to send you secondary applications. These have ranged from Mayo's "send us $85 bucks then we'll talk" to UMN Duluth's 15 odd essay question behemoth of an application.
3. Then you make sure you got all the random pieces in an spend the next eight months hoping someone will interview you and let you in.

It is honestly hard to say if that whole making the world a better place/saving lives thing is worth all this, not to mention the $2000 it's costing just to apply. Not to mention that, oh, you know, med school is supposed to be hard and the er $90,000 odd dollars worth of debt most kids peace out with.

In any case, the essay I'm not writing today, and indeed haven't been writing for a couple of weeks, is Brown's charming "what is your best attribute?" question. Despite my absurdly high self-esteem, I do feel somewhat douchey trying to answer this question. Not to mention the amount of work it's taking to appease my desire to be clever about the whole thing.

Resources

I'll put links and stuff in here

Contact

To contact me in a non-public forum, email so says green weaver at gmail dot com.

If I figure out how to get a lil contact form in here, I will do it, just to save you from having to open your email software.

About Green Weaver

Green Weaver is written by a dykey, crunchy, almost med student. My background is in environmental studies and I try to keep that eye on the world. My other eye usually has some kind of gender-related lens on it. And from there we head off to medical school. I'm an optimistic kind of kid and looking forward to a world where love beats fear.

Yes, it's an ER reference. Stop laughing.

A bunch of little rocks!

High Five, make that ten, goes out to Senator Gravel for his darling grandfather+I heart the gays performance in the LOGO channel's presidential candidate debate/chit chat about LGBT issues. Turns out that his name is not pronounced the same way as the pervious road surface. Gravelle. Ah.

And thus begins my welcome post to blog world. I have graduated from cushy lj world and into this here place o' bloggin.
The Upstairs Housemate (UP) was tiredface, so we didn't see everyone. I am sad to have missed Hillary. Really just for this reason. Ok, not really. (My main problem with that video, take it or leave it, is that she keeps talking about seeing "Hill on Capitol Hill." She's a senator oh hott4hill slice, the womyn works on Capitol Hill) I have to admit that I haven't gotten my heart set on a primary candidate yet. I'm in the pros-and-cons with all of them phase. I did really like how the debate highlighted the intersection of LGBT issues and healthcare issues, which are really just access issues.

But Gravel! What a fabulous dude. Even Kuchinich responded to the "Are Obama, Clinton and Edwards tools on gay issues?" question with, "Er, I support gay marriage." Mr. Badass Iheartthgays Grandad Gravel quite plainly called them tools, or actually just "not leaders." Edwards sounded like he had just learned about gay people yesterday at his charming visit to the "Gay and Lesbian Center" in LA. Note the conspicuous BTQ absence.