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!"