I don't recall your name, but your fez is familiar?

I have a new Random Stalker (I Mean, Reader) (tm)!

Everyone, meet Sarah. Sarah, everyone.

Sarah was recently brave enough to come forward in the comments and out herself. I commend her for that. This officially brings my readership up to a grand total of....(drum roll)...8 or 9? On a good day? If I'm being generous?

Welcome! Feel free to link me, tell your friends...you are one of my readers, which officially makes you one of the most charming and ridiculously good-looking people to ever walk this planet. I'm sure we'll be best friends!

No, seriously. The only people who read this thing are people I consider to be among my all-time best friends...or complete strangers. You are no longer one of the latter, ergo, you must be among the former. Quid pro quo. Cogito ergo sum. In vino veritas. Summa cum laude. Carpe diem and shit.

Let me make some introductions (in approximate order of frequency of comments, measured through a highly Unscientific Method also known as My Vague Memory):
Ian - most reliable commenter and former RS(IM,R)(tm). Now one of my best friends in Toronto. Sounds pretty impressive until you consider the fact that I don't really have all that many friends in Toronto.
Em - most sporadically prolific commenter. Primarily because she only comments when drunk and chatty while I am not online for her to chat with. Best friend from college and one of the other Muses. Definitively has more dirt on me than anyone else I ever have or ever will know.
#1 - best friend from my grad school years in Indiana. So-called because her name is also Beth and we needed a way to differentiate. I had to be #2 because my initials are B.M. (true story). Loves it when you add the words "and shit" to the end of any phrase, preferably when there is no reason at all to do so.
Dave - #1 'Mo from my college days. Responsible for my well-honed gaydar. Unfortunate fondness for 80's pop. Aspiring amateur drag queen.
MadMup - ex-boyfriend from my Indiana days. Unfortunate fondness for amateur drag queens. (KIDDING! He's a Baptist. He doesn't believe in drag queens, amateur or otherwise.) Knows better than anyone that Evil is fluffy, adorable, and answers to the name of Nutmeg.
Will - ex-boyfriend from my college days. Has seen me eat souvlaki in what is apparently a sexually suggestive manner. Used to be a computer geek. Still is, but now also runs marathons. WTF???
Matt - #1 'Mo from my Indiana days. First of my friends to discover that, while most people only THINK they're more charming and witty when they drink...in my case, it's actually true. Also singlehandedly responsible for my alcoholism. Has approximately the same belting range as me, which makes it difficult to decide who gets to sing Pink's part of Lady Marmalade.

There are probably one or two other people that actually know me that read this thing, but they never comment so I have forgotten I gave them the address. Looking over this list, I am left with only one conclusion: Clearly, my time in Toronto will not be up until I have a best girlfriend, a #1 'Mo, and an ex-boyfriend to associate with this phase in my life. Apparently, I will not be going anywhere anytime soon. Apparently.

My loves, I'm sure we'll all get along swimmingly. If there's anyone else lurking out there that would like to make their presence known, now is as good a time as any. Make the comments section your own virtual cocktail party and mingle...Mommy has work to do in the kitchen.

I fought the law and the law won.

WWSINS? (What Would Sir Isaac Newton Say?)

I believe it would go something like this: "Mmmm...applesauce...ahem. Gravity is clearly out to get that poor girl."

Someone is trying to tell me that today just isn't my day.

I just fell down the stairs behind my building. Okay, not completely - I only bounced down about 3 or 4 steps before I stopped. Gravity may have it in for me, but at least on concrete, friction and I are still homies. But bouncing down concrete steps head first is more than a little bit scary, and I fell near the top, so it could easily have been...well...not good. I managed to bounce on my forearm, wrist, and most of my right leg - should make for some good sympathy bruises, but nothing major, since I managed to land exclusively on the fleshy parts. My ego even escaped pretty much unscathed, since barring any observers near the windows above the alley, I wasn't seen until I was back on my feet. But lately I've noticed I'm developing a phobia of falling down stairs - I sometimes have flashes in the middle of descending a big staircase where I actually see myself falling and bashing my head open, or at least knocking out my teeth. This is so not helping.

For those of you keeping track, these are the current standings for the 2007 season:
Staircases: 2
Wahooty: 0

Hallowed eBay thy name...

Ahhhhhhhhh........

That would be the sigh of relief coming from my shoulders right now. Why, you might ask? Because last week, when I found out that I was not, in fact, getting a new computer just yet, I decided I had gotten rather attached to the idea of not having to lug my laptop back and forth to work every day. Now, I know what you're thinking.

"Wahooty, don't you have a perfectly good desktop computer that is sitting at home, literally collecting dust right now?"

And you would be absolutely right. There is no reason for me to be lugging a computer around, except for this one: my only internet access is via my landlord's wireless, and my desktop wasn't properly equipped. And when all of the people I need to keep in touch with are south of the border and the phone is not a financially viable way of communicating on a daily basis, I am even more internet-dependent than your typical nerd. If I can't come home at night to my virtual roommates (hi, #1 and Em!) and check the weather forecast in both Celsius and Fahrenheit every morning, I don't know what to do with myself. (Seriously - I freak out to an inordinate extent when the internet goes down for even a little while...I feel completely cut off from the world...I can't even watch TV anymore without checking tvguide.com to see what's on. Yes, I am fully aware that this makes me a Loser.)

"Well, these things can be fixed. Get thee to eBay!"

Which, dear friends, is exactly what I did. Finally.

I am writing to you from my sorely neglected desktop computer, with brand-new wireless adapter, and fresh off of many, MANY sorely needed software updates. It's been over a year since this computer has been online, and then it was on dialup - I had completely forgotten how much faster this computer is than my sad little laptop. The only problem is that I can't be on this computer while I sit in my big white chair, but that's why Baxter will still be coming home with me on weekends.

But knowing that tomorrow evening I won't have to hoist that big black laptop bag over the turnstile on my way into the subway makes me happier than it has any right to. As does the knowledge that I can now go out after work without having to decide between taking my computer to dinner and coming back to the lab after a couple of beers (either way, I look like an ubergeek).

I've been on a strong eBay kick for the last couple of weeks. This is not unusual for me - I used to be quite the eBay junkie. Usually after a couple of glasses of wine and a few too many episodes of Sex and the City - a volatile combination that always has me convinced I do not have NEARLY enough heels and dresses, even though in reality I rarely have reason to wear either. I normally would not recommend drunken e-shopping, but that's the beauty of the eBay - often your auction doesn't end until after you've sobered up, and I'd have to be completely shitfaced to place a bid any sooner than an hour before the auction ends. Almost all of my favorite shoes have been purchased on eBay, and one of my favorite ways to spend a Friday night at home is browsing the vintage clothing pages (I seem to do a lot better on eBay than I ever do in real-life vintage stores - it's so much easier to sift through the crap and get to the good stuff). I have to say, though, that the fun is substantially reduced when one lives in Canada and everyone wants your first-born child in exchange for shipping across the border...if they're willing to ship to you at all. But lately I've been having good luck in finding things that I feel are a good deal, even after the shipping. Right now, I'm wearing a pair of jeans that came last week - they appear to be the only brand and style of pants that fit me well right now, I can't find them here, and they were only $23 after shipping. Two words: hellz. yeah.

And my perfume should be coming any day.

What? I can quit any time I want to.

No, seriously.

Shut up.

Pop Culture Confessional

Bless me reader, for I have sinned. Again.

Okay, so I am not at all proud of this, but I am watching Victoria Beckham: Coming to America right now. It's not my fault - I was just looking for something to have on for background noise while I clean up the kitchen before Age of Love (which, um, actually is kind of my fault. But I prefer to blame Entertainment Weekly.) And I'm even less proud to admit that I am rather enjoying it. Posh Spice has a surprisingly sharp, dry, and self-deprecating sense of humor, something I always find enjoyable, even though you know she's totally putting it on for the cameras. But you have to give props to someone who, upon being pulled over the first time she tries to drive in the States while surrounded by an army of paparazzi, can actually say, "I didn't know whether to pose...or get arrested. I was mortified...because I was wearing flat shoes." with a straight face. And then proceed to try to cheat on her driver's test and get her license photo retouched.

Some further observations and memorable quotes:

Only a group of "Beverly Hills Socialites" can make Victoria Beckham look like a natural, effortless beauty.

Posh, please stop trying to make "major" happen. That is so not fetch.

I have to admit, I do have some sympathy for a woman who can't surprise her husband with a gift because she is guaranteed to be photographed while out shopping for it. And even I have to give mad props when her solution to the problem is to buy a blowup doll to use as a decoy to divert the paparazzi...and it actually works. "It's actually pretty convincing...except for the fact that she's smiling."

Upon being asked to throw the first pitch at a Dodgers game: "I don't know that much about baseball...they wear tight trousers...one member of the team actually wears a mask that looks a lot like what we saw in the sex shop."
"I really thought that one of my silicones was going to fly out my armpit then."

I still think Victoria is an utterly ridiculous human being, but at least she appears to be in on the joke a little bit. Although for all of her jokes about how she can't be photographed eating or smiling, I couldn't help but notice that there was very little of either caught on camera.

By the way, on Age of Love, one of the girls actually just said, "I don't deal well with boys that date other women." Um, you are aware that you signed up for a TV DATING SHOW. Oh, and one of the other girls is a "hockey team dancer." I swear I am not making this up.

As far as my other pop culture confessions go, I have to admit that a Telus commercial has me completely obsessed with a Ben Lee song, "We're All in This Together." It makes me inordinately happy every time it comes on. Telus has ridiculously charming commercials (always chock-full of adorable fluffy animals like bunnies and monkeys and even manages to make non-fluffy ones like fish and lizards irresistibly cute), but this one just gets to me for some reason. On an unrelated musical note, I am also thoroughly fixated on the song "Happy Ending" by Mika. It might just be the greatest gospel breakup song ever, and it kind of makes me wish I had just split up with someone so that I could properly wallow/exalt in it. It definitely makes me wish I had an a cappella group because DAMN would that arrangement be awesome. Plus, I seem to have the exact same range as him, so naturally, I'd get the solo. For those of you who haven't heard it, I actually highly enjoy the whole album - it's kind of a "What if Freddie Mercury were still alive and Queen wrote a Broadway musical?" thing. LOVE IT.

Okay, getting all of that off of my chest feels really good. I'm ready for my penance now.

I'm a hazard to myself.

"I know what you mean about wishing somebody wasn't there, though. It's just usually it's myself that I wish I could get away from. Seriously, think about this. I have never been anywhere that I haven't been. I've never had a kiss when I wasn't one of the kissers. You know, I've never, um, gone to the movies, when I wasn't there in the audience. I've never been out bowling, if I wasn't there, you know making some stupid joke. I think that's why so many people hate themselves. Seriously, it's just they are sick to death of being around themselves. Let's say that you and I were together all the time, then you'd start to hate a lot of my mannerisms. The way, uh, the way every time we would have people over, uh, I'd be insecure, and I'd get a little too drunk. Or, uh, the way I'd tell the same stupid pseudo-intellectual story again, and again. You see, I've heard all those stories. So of course I'm sick of myself." - Before Sunrise

Ever have one of those days where you're just getting on your own nerves? I've been feeling that way pretty much all week. Something seems to be gnawing at me - I've been sleeping really fitfully lately, I can't get motivated to do anything, and I've been having weird impulses. Namely, every time the VGLM walks by I can't shake the urge to just grab him and kiss him. Something tells me this would not be the most adult way to let him know I kinda like him; that sort of thing only works in the kind of cheesy romantic comedies that genuinely make me want to vomit. Thankfully, I do still have my wits about me - I'm not stupid enough to actually act on it - but I'm starting to get really annoyed with myself for wanting to. On Wednesday, I stayed at work late because there was a chance that he would need a favor later in the evening. It wasn't a big favor, and he could have gotten his work done without my help, AND he wound up not even needing the favor after all. Yet I was still glad I had stayed late.

I am seriously lame.

I mean, I've known this guy for almost a year, and I should be over this by now. I should have enough going on in my life that I'm not still wallowing in this same stupid crush. I hate that he's gotten so far under my skin, and that I don't get out enough to have been able to find someone who will make me forget about him. I am a grown-ass woman - I need to stop being such a damned weenie.

The other dominant theme in my life this week has been that pretty much any time I speak to anyone about anything, I want to smack myself and say, "would you just shut up already?" I do, unlike a number of academic types I've known, occasionally get tired of hearing myself speak. I'm sure I have friends that would beg to differ, but I assure you this is true. I think this is the real reason I hate making small talk - I easily grow bored of my own jokes, the stories I've told over and over, and the very adamant opinions I have on truly mundane, insignificant matters. It's not long before I start to think, "wow, this chick is kind of obnoxious." It seems like every time I manage to break myself of one annoying habit, I discover five new ones. This is also one of the reasons I live alone - coming home to an empty apartment means I can shut up and take a break from listening to myself at the end of the day. Any person you spend too much time with will start to irritate you sooner or later - I imagine you'd have to be pretty narcissistic for that person to never turn out to be you.

I'd just really like to hang out with my friends or go to a party without me there. Or to be at work without losing my train of thought every time the VGLM walks by. I'd just like to see what that's like.

So rest assured, dear friends: while I'm sure you've all had times when you're just sick of me, I guarantee I know how you feel.

Cliffhanger

Remember that fellowship I applied for? Yeah, well, found out today that I didn't get it. Gotta love getting an electronic ding letter - they sent me an e-mail and made me open a fucking attachment to be rejected. There's probably a hard copy headed my way to double the pleasure, I'm sure. But immediately after I got the rejection e-mail, I got an e-mail from Boss saying only, "I am sorry about this, but have some good news for you, that may make up for it, a little. I look forward to talking with you tomorrow." So naturally, instead of actually getting any work done for the rest of the day, I was brainstorming and trying to figure out what this news could be. I've come up with the following options:

Option #1: He finally got a grant and will be able to use it to increase my salary. Until my ride home, this was the only kind of "good news" I could think of that he could have for me. The only thing is, I don't think any of the grants he applied for recently were due to be scored around now, with the possible exception of the one I helped him with back in March. I seriously doubt we got that one because a) I helped him write it, b) it was for the NIH and they don't seem to like giving money to foreign institutions, regardless of how much they say otherwise, and c) it was a re-vamped grant that had already been rejected once. Plus, he said "a little." If I were getting a raise, even if it were nowhere near as big as the fellowship would have been, that would make up for the ding letter by more than "a little." Far more likely is...

Option #2: He's going to buy me a new computer. I really kind of need one - Baxter's a good little laptop and a trooper, but he can't really handle some of the software I need to use on a fairly regular basis unless I at least give him some more RAM, and he has a few issues sometimes with his battery - it's nearly worthless in terms of working without an AC adapter, and sometimes it loses contact with the adapter and he needs to be rebooted before he's drawing power again. Nothing I can't deal with, and let's face it, he's an old Compaq - he's done a really good job considering how crappy those can be. But Boss did make a comment last week about "we need to see what we can do about getting you a new computer," and BNL said something another day about how I should ask the boss to buy me one. And frankly, if Boss ever wants to send me to a conference or to give a talk for him, it really doesn't speak highly of him if his postdoc rolls up with her little Pentium III Compaq because she can't afford a better one. So I'm thinking this is likely my good news. It really would be very nice, because while I wouldn't get to keep it once I leave the group, it would literally be a big weight off of my shoulders to not have to haul my computer back and forth to work every single day. And I haven't had a brand-new computer since my second year of college, so it would be a nice change of pace. So yeah, I can get excited about that. But then there's always...

Option #3: Something I haven't thought of yet. At any rate, the last few days have been big ones for bad news, so I'll be happy to hear anything that qualifies as "good" news. I'll let you all know the verdict at the end of the day tomorrow after my weekly meeting with Boss. Until then, feel free to vote in the comments for whichever option you think will ultimately win (write-in votes for #3 are encouraged). You people never comment anymore - I'm starting to worry that nobody reads me at all these days.

UPDATE: Okay, so I now know what the good news is. But I'm not spilling yet because apparently the only person who cares is Mup. This is what happens when my friends get social lives and stuff. (huff)

UPDATE #2: Answer is in the comments.

You Make Me Wanna

I feel I should preface this post with a disclaimer: It's kind of a long'un. But certain people have been complaining that I'm not writing often or long enough, so I finally decided to polish this one off after chipping away it it intermittently for about 6 weeks. Enjoy.

One night a few weeks ago, I was on my way home a little later than usual, so the train was fairly empty. I had a seat to myself...perpendicular to another woman with the seat to HERself...out of nowhere, this guy comes along and plops down in the empty seat between us, next to the other woman. There are plenty of empty seats in this mostly empty car, so the fact that this guy sits in the one available seat next to a single woman is...well...creepy. Headphones on...heavy mouth-breather...I'm fairly sketched out and don't blame the woman at all for immediately getting up and moving a safe distance away. After a moment, I realize that this guy has a pile of blank paper and a Sharpie and is drawing...gradually it dawns on me...hey, this guy isn't sketchy, he's sketching. Namely, he's sketching the guy directly across the car from him and doing a pretty good job of it, too. He had moved to that seat because he found a character he wanted to sketch, and that drive, combined with the headphones drowning out his surroundings, had probably made him oblivious to the fact that he was getting unnecessarily close to two unaccompanied women.

Inspiration is a difficult thing to get your head around. Years ago, when I was in undergrad, I was hanging out with a couple of my girlfriends, having what at that time they were calling an "affirmation session." Around that little table, we formed a sisterhood of sorts - one that included those girls with whom we felt a lasting and deep connection, even if we weren't quite sure what the source of that connection was. Later, we were trying to think of some sort of symbol to adopt to represent us and our identity as a group. We settled on the muses - they're all women, all beautiful, each infinitely inspirational in a unique way. We each chose an alter ego based on our own interests and tastes, and I still hold mine close to my heart.

Back to a few weeks ago: as the train moved further along, past the Eaton Centre, it became quite full with shoppers and people out enjoying the beautifully warm evening - the sketcher's view was obscured, but he finished his rendering of the odd little man seated across from him. A girl sat next to him, realized what he was doing, and became as engrossed as I was as he finished the sketch and moved to a blank page. He looked around for another subject and settled on the giddy young Asian girl standing in front of him - very pretty but with that air of entitlement that only those kids who Come From Money seem to possess. Eventually, she and her equally vapid friend figured out that she was being sketched. They giggled uncomfortably...stared at the man...stared at the sketch...and generally looked unsettled. I found it interesting that in the previous sketch he had spent a great deal of time on the details of the man's face, but in this sketch he started with her hair, left the face blank, and gave her figure his immediate attention. I had to change trains without finding out if he ever went back and added her face, but I was left with the strong impression that she was more beautiful and interesting to him before she knew he had noticed her.

The reason I was on the train post-rush hour that night was that it had been a beautiful, warm day and I had to take a friend of mine out for a couple of beers on a patio after work. That evening had been absolutely picture-perfect patio weather - just warm enough, nice breeze, sun hitting your face but low enough to not hurt your eyes or skin - perfect. Needless to say, the patio we were on was a busy and highly coveted space - it was pointed in just the right direction, and packed with a fascinating variety of people. I noticed a guy waiting in line for a table with a big camera with a big lens on it, pointed in my general direction, snapping candids of the crowd. I couldn't help but wonder if I was going to be in his photos...maybe I was part of the inspiration for them, maybe not. I've often seen candid photos and wondered if anyone has ever seen me and felt inspired to take my photo...draw a sketch...write about me...without my knowledge. The odds are greatly against it, but I think every woman has, at one point, fantasized about being the Girl With the Pearl Earring...the Mona Lisa...the nurse in the Alfred Eisenstadt photograph taken in Times Square on V-J Day that was so beautifully draped over that sailor's arm as he kissed her that he had to capture the moment. Anonymous, yet iconic muses all.

On any given day, I lose count of the number of times I say or think to myself, "How does somebody come up with this shit?"

But then again, people say the same thing about me whenever I present my silly little movies in group meeting. I know where I got the idea to set my experiments to music, but I have no idea why a particular movie NEEDS to be set to Superfly, or Bohemian Rhapsody, or When a Man Loves a Woman. But believe me when I tell you that it does. Last I checked, there was no Muse of digital microfluidics, enzymatic assays, or film soundtracks, so my only inspiration must be coming from within.

A few years ago, I went out on one date with a guy I had met online who was quite taken with me (unfortunately, the reverse was not true - this was the first of a series of experiences that are directly responsible for the fact that I no longer date and rarely even meet people in real life that I was introduced to on the interwebs). Both on the phone and in person, we'd get to talking, and hit on something that would flip the switch that makes my eyes light up and my gestures more emphatic, at which point he would say, "You're so inspiring! That's what I like about you." It was a unique compliment - I had never heard it before, and haven't heard it in so many words from anyone else since. When I want to, I can be a halfway decent actress, but in certain things I'll admit I can't help but wear my heart on my sleeve. In my first acting class in college, we had to do a group exercise a la the old game show To Tell the Truth - we each told a true story, then as a group picked one that we all had to pretend was our own while the class interrogated us to try to sniff out whose story it was. My group picked my story (about a kid I had worked with at a camp for special needs kids the summer before), and one of my classmates easily picked me out because of the way my eyes lit up when she asked if I liked working with the kids - I have a hard time containing myself when someone brings up something that truly excites me.

My date found me "inspiring" because I don't think he had ever felt that way about anything, let alone the wide variety of things that get ME genuinely excited. While I'm glad I inspired him in some way, I find the whole thing very sad - that he couldn't find in himself anything like what he saw in me. That's why there was never a second date - he was inspired by me, but offered nothing new to me in return. I've always been the sort of person who had a few really close friends rather than a horde of adoring masses, partly because I'm still a socially awkward goober at heart, but mostly because I'm only going to promote a person from acquaintance to friend or significant other if they are in some way an inspiration to me. Whether they make me want to try something new or to continue doing something I already love, if you're reading this and you are my friend, then know that you provide the regular kicks in the ass that inspire me to be the person I am.

I originally started writing this post the same week that I was going through my student evaluations. I didn't mention at the time that the comments that said I was "hot" were primarily in feminine handwriting. They weren't written by young men smitten with their prof or, for that matter, young women smitten with their prof. I'm much more inclined to think that those were more of a "you go girl" rather than an "I wanna do you." My students have already picked their majors - I'm not going to inspire them to become chemists, but I would like to inspire them by demonstrating that an intelligent, successful woman of science does not have to be either a raging bitch or a mousy dork. Stereotypes exist for a reason - most of the women in my field wear their hair tied in a knot on the back of their head, and those that wear makeup and skirts are typically dismissed as ditzy or merely "there to find a husband." While my official goal as an instructor may be to teach these kids some chemistry, I have a hidden agenda - to let them know (male and female alike) that it is possible for a woman to be young, wear cute clothes and makeup and high heels, and still command a presence. It feels slightly superficial, but I don't think there's anything wrong with wanting to inspire a girl to be a scientist AND a woman - there are too many people out there trying to say you can't be both.

I may not know exactly who or what inspires me to do a lot of the things I do, but there is one person I credit for inspiring my choice of career: Don Herbert. Most Americans know him better as Mr. Wizard - from what I've seen, Canadians don't know him at all (even though his show was produced in Calgary and DID run on Canadian public TV according to my sources), which made it that much harder for me to explain why I was so sad when he passed away on June 12th. If you're a frequent reader, you'll remember that not long before (two months to the day, to be exact) I was mourning the passing of Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. - it's been a bad year for my idols. They say these things come in threes, but since Jack Lemmon and Katharine Hepburn have both been gone for a while, I'd say I'm fresh out of idols (although please cut me some slack if I'm just a wee bit skittish when August 12th rolls around). At any rate, while Kurt may have inspired me to be a cynic and a smartass (and still does), Mr. Wizard inspires my softer side - my optimism, sense of wonder, and drive to share those with others. For those of you not familiar, Mr. Wizard began as a children's TV show on a Chicago station back in the early 1950's. He made his career out of impressing kids with really cool demonstrations, then explaining the simple principles of chemistry and physics that made them work. He had several TV reincarnations over the years - in 1983 he began making "Mr. Wizard's World" for Nickelodeon, and I watched it religiously every day after school. No matter how many times I had seen each episode, I never missed it, and it never stopped being fascinating. I clearly wasn't the only one - they stopped making new episodes in 1990, but Nickelodeon kept running reruns until 2000, making it the longest-running show in their history. I remember vividly the Christmas when I got "Mr. Wizard's Supermarket Science" (although, to be fair, that was also the Christmas I got my first camera, so it was the most extensively photographically-documented Christmas I've ever had) and started rounding up the supplies I needed to do the experiments myself. The principles I learned from those experiments are the exact same ones I teach to my students now.

For as long as I can remember, I have loved science, and it would have taken me years to figure that out had I had only the things we did in school to go on. We never got our hands into anything in elementary school, never got to Make Science Happen unless you were lucky enough to be in the gifted program once a month or to have a parent smart and creative enough to come up with good ideas for the Science Fair (I was lucky enough to have both). I decided at a very young age that I wasn't just going to go to college, I was going to go to grad school, and I was pretty much set on chemistry long before I actually took a chemistry class. I had already figured out that my favorite Mr. Wizard experiments were the ones where he mixed one thing with another thing and it bubbled or smoked or changed color or exploded. I mean, who cares about how a siren or the Doppler Effect or a Mobius strip or static electricity works when you could blow shit up? And he wasn't just a TV show - there were the aforementioned books, programs and materials for teachers, and a traveling stage show that visited school auditoriums (it came to my school in 6th grade and I recognized every experiment that they did because they were all straight from the TV show). Don Herbert had been a theater geek in high school, college, and community theater, just like me. He flew bombing missions over Europe in World War II. And he dedicated his life to helping kids figure out that they loved science. That is worthy of admiration. I'm not going to say that he is the reason I'm a teacher (my mom deserves a whopping load of the credit/blame there, as well as my brother and any number of great and lousy teachers I've had in the many, many years I've spent in school), but he is directly responsible for my teaching style, my attitude toward science, and my love of working with kids. My college friends remember well that when people used to ask me what I wanted to do with my degree, my answer was always, "I want to be Mr. Wizard." When I was in grad school, I spent a year as the outreach coordinator for a chemistry honor society, which put me in charge of our National Chemistry Week program, where we sent volunteers out to the local elementary schools to do a hands-on experiment with classes. The organization was a pain in the ass, but at the end of a 45-minute session with 25 4th-graders who have just solved a mystery with paper chromatography and are screaming, "I did it! I wrote the ransom note - I'm the thief!!!" I'm on top of the world. Some of these schools would go 3 years before they came back up in our rotation to get a NCW visit, and I would run into 4th-graders who not only remembered having had something like that before, but could tell me in detail what they did in their 1st-grade class. These kids didn't have Mr. Wizard - they had Bill Nye the Science Guy, or Beakman's World, or maybe even just me. But they wouldn't have had any of those things if Bill, Beakman, and I didn't have Don Herbert to look up to. The day I stop wanting to be Mr. Wizard is the day I need to retire.

True inspiration is with us every minute of every day. It's what makes us who we are, what makes us do the things we do, and what keeps us going when everything in our lives has gone to shit. It's been said that the unexamined life isn't worth living (a mantra of bloggers), but examination is highly overrated. I'd like to think it's far more important to create than to reflect on the pre-existing. It's the uninspired life that is truly not worth living.

The More You Know

Things I learned tonight:

1) It's easier to run in platform heels than to walk in them. Seriously - I take back the many snide comments I have made about horror/action movie heroines that went something like, "no way can she outrun a serial killer/sex-crazed zombie/radioactive slug in those things." I shall now only make snide comments like, "no way can she take the dog out to piddle in those things."

2) Action movies are a lot more enjoyable if you can completely ignore any references to science and technology. Unfortunately, this takes a great deal of effort on my part. I mean seriously, if you're not going to at least CONSULT with a nerd to make sure you're using the terminology within a reasonable margin of error, then just have the decency to flat-out make shit up. I can ignore it if you're using made-up terms. I cannot ignore it when you're mispronouncing "fourier transform" and completely misunderstanding what carbon-14 dating is. I happen to know for a fact that most screenwriters are actually really big nerds - why do they let these things happen? In a movie with a budget in the hundreds of millions, they could have thrown a couple hundred dollars in the direction of some anal-retentive goober (aka ME) to slap them for shit like this. Hell, I would've done it for free if they'd just let me spoon the LeBoeuf for an evening. (LeSigh)

3) Optimus Prime still kicks ass. Not that I didn't already know that.

4) Meh.

5) A classic 70's Camaro is infinitely cooler than a new one. Again, not that I didn't already know that, but it's nice to be reminded of these things.

6) The Canadian public as a whole apparently disagrees with me when it comes to #5. I'm going to go out on a limb and say the American public probably does too, or at least they do now because Michael Bay told them to.

7) I am not nearly cool enough to be on Queen St. W. at 1am. Nor am I showing enough cleavage, midriff, and leg. Nor will I ever.

8) A subway ride is apparently not enough time for three loudly drunk (and possibly lesbian) girls to come up with a plausible alibi as to where they've really been for the last 12 hours. It is, however, enough time for me to gather that THIS IS A LIFE OR DEATH SITUATION and LINDSAY CAN'T POSSIBLY UNDERSTAND WHAT IT'S LIKE FOR HER and THEY ARE GOING TO THE SAME STATION I AM. Oh, and one of them has been mixing her liquors all night, saw Ratatouille yesterday, and thinks she needs to throw up. I have never gotten off of a train so quickly in my life. Meanwhile, the guy next to me rolling a joint seemed unfazed - then again, I doubt that there's very much that WOULD faze him.

9) The package of cookies I was munching on all day yesterday apparently contained some fructose. This has been happening to me a lot lately - I'm either getting careless when I read labels, or the ingredient labels flat out lie to me, or I have picked up some other trigger that screws up my digestive system. Whatever it was, it's hard to feel hot (and harder to drink the beer you've ordered to toast someone's birthday) when your stomach is in knots. And it's a shame, because I actually WAS looking pretty hot, but didn't get to properly enjoy it. I hate it when that happens.

10) I can apparently eat sushi in a sexually suggestive manner. This should come as no surprise to anyone who ever ate souvlaki with me in college.

11) I use the word "apparently" a lot. Apparently.

12) My horoscope has grown bored with predicting my future and has now decided to just screw with me:

You are comfortable with your own desires for pleasure today as sensual Venus hooks up with your key planet Pluto. You know exactly what you want and you are ready to go for it. But this will not necessarily make it any easier to get your needs fulfilled, so don't frustrate yourself by setting your expectations too high.

Who knew the cosmos was such a freakin' smartass?

Okay, my legs are getting restless which means it's past my bedtime. Besides, I need to get an early start tomorrow - my sex drive isn't going to just frustrate itself. I hope you all had your own educational evenings, or at least learned something from mine...

I am a horrible, horrible person.

Okay, so I'm watching this show called "The Last 10 Pounds Boot Camp" while I'm getting ready to go out. And the girls are sisters wanting to be in bikini shape for their upcoming vacation to Mexico. They're talking about how stubborn those last 10 lbs. are while tipping back shots of IRISH CREAM.

And I'm looking at them and thinking, "Just 10? Really?"

I'm the last person to be questioning anyone's weight loss goals - it's an intensely personal thing. And I certainly know from my own experience the value of setting modest, achievable goals. If this show were just called "Boot Camp" I'd think this was a perfectly admirable goal.

But it ain't gonna make this girl pull off a bikini.

If that's your goal honey, those 10 lbs. really need to not be the last.

Daily Horoscope for Scorpio:
Horoscope information is currently not available. Please try again later.

Nothing like starting your day by being told you have no future. I knew I should have stayed in bed.

Then there's this.

A couple of things need to be said:
1. That headline pretty much sums up the universal truths of the 4th of July.
2. It saddens me greatly to know that watching the fireworks on the Mall now requires 19 security checkpoints. I'm glad I know what that experience was like pre-9/11, because it'll never be the same way again.
3. This passage: "About 1,000 people from around the globe became U.S. citizens at Walt Disney World, raising their right hands in front of Cinderella's castle at the Magic Kingdom as the oath was read by Emilio Gonzalez, head of U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services." It just don't get more American than that, folks.
4. There is no #4.

Independenced, Eh?

This morning, I got an e-mail from a Canadian friend, wishing me a happy 4th of July. It said, among other things, "I'm not sure how Americans celebrate, but..."

This is actually the second 4th of July I've spent in Canada - over the weekend, I was trying to remember what I did last year, and finally remembered that I was here, on my interview trip, because it was the only time in the summer when I could get two consecutive days off to spend here. When my (now) boss was trying to schedule the trip, he asked if I had the 4th off, because that would give us two days for my visit, and my response was lukewarm. He asked if it would be okay to do it then, because I sounded reluctant, and I responded, "No, that's really the only option that makes sense, it's just that spending the 4th of July in another country just seems kind of...sad." And...well...it is. I mean, I still get a day off here - Canadians celebrate Canada Day on July 1, and they have fireworks and cookouts and phenomenally stupid hats and all, but in patriotism, as in so many other things, Americans are more...well...exuberant than Canadians are. This is particularly true when it comes to celebrating our independence - ours was achieved through an act of rebellion...theirs, an act of Parliament. My country is like my family - I can poke fun at it all I want because we've been through heaven and hell together. I may not always agree with everything it does, and it may piss me off, but as soon as an outsider tries to take a crack at her I will defend her fiercely because dammit, that's my sister you're talking about and I love her dearly. So, dear Canadian friends, please forgive me if I kind of snort at your Canada Day festivities - not only will they never resonate with me the way the 4th festivities do, I'm not sure they'll ever resonate with CANADIANS the way Independence Day does with Americans. We fought a revolution for the freedom to be what we are, for better or worse, and 231 years later, that still means a great deal to us. And I can't speak for any of my countrymen, but when I'm watching fireworks, I can't help but think about those "rockets' red glare" and "bombs bursting in air" lines in our national anthem. I swell with pride, admiration, and gratitude toward those who came before me, crafted a great nation, and gave me the freedom to criticize it.

So to answer the question of how Americans celebrate, I present the following sampler of Independence Days (and, specifically, fireworks) gone by:

Age: 3 or 4
Location: Lafayette, IN
Memory: In quite possibly my only concrete memory of my dad's time in grad school (we moved back to VA a month or two before my fifth birthday, and that's pretty much where my childhood memory starts), my parents had taken us to some park where the 1812 Overture was being performed, complete with heavy artillery. I don't really remember what the park looked like, or the fireworks, but I sure as hell remember the bedspread I buried my head into as I cried hysterically when those howitzers kicked in. I was still spooked by the loud noises of fireworks for a few years after that - literally shell-shocked at age 4. Nowadays the 1812 Overture is one of my favorite things about the holiday, and I am always disappointed if it DOESN'T involve firearms. It may not have been written about OUR War of 1812, but dammit, it feels right, and luckily, the National Symphony does it every year. (Side note: one summer evening my brother and I were showing some British friends around DC. We were standing on the steps of the Jefferson Memorial when we heard BOOMs coming from somewhere in the distance. A leader of a nearby tour group mentioned that the source of the noise was a performance of 1812. Something tells me that sort of thing is more rare in the post-9/11 era.)

Age: um, 8ish, I think?
Location: Sadorus, IL
Memory: Our family vacations growing up weren't trips to the Grand Canyon, or theme parks, or cruises. We took two weeks each summer - one on the farm in Illinois with my dad's parents, and one on the lake in Wisconsin with my mom's. Now, when I was a kid, the farm was not something to look forward to. There were a few fun things to do, but we were far from anything resembling "town" or "potato chips," the TV was black and white and only got about 3 channels, the radio was always tuned to WILL to hear the latest corn and bean prices, and we pretty much had to amuse ourselves with antique comic books and board games. And it turned out that this particular year, we would be there for the 4th of July. I remember being fairly disgruntled because 4th on the Farm = no fireworks this year. However, someone happened to look out the window at the right time, and we figured out that, from the front porch, it was possible to see the fireworks in Champaign...about 35 miles away. I remember thinking that was really cool - it was the first time I ever realized there was something really special about the Really, Really Flat Midwest, even though I didn't really appreciate it until years later.

Age: 13 or 14
Location: Chicago, IL
Memory: My mom and I were visiting her sister. Just the two of us - I can't remember why Dad and my brother weren't there that year, but I remember the trip vividly because it was the first time I got to actually do the touristy thing in Chicago. Usually we'd just stop in Chicago at one of my aunts' houses to spend the night on the way from the Farm to the Lake, but since Dad wasn't with us we got to actually spend some time there and goof around the city. Dad's not big on cities, or touristy stuff, so we usually don't do that sort of thing when he's around. So this was our big chance - I had never really even seen the Chicago skyline, let alone gone up in the Sears Tower, Taste of Chicago, Navy Pier, etc. We also decided to do the fireworks downtown, so we took the train in from the 'burbs and made an evening of it. First of all, Chicago does the 4th in style - their fireworks show is, to date, the best one I've ever seen. The city actually celebrates for days with various festivals and activities, and they have three days of fireworks - the ones we went to were on the 3rd. We found some coveted green space on the lakefront, and I had never been so close to such big boomers in my life. Incredible. After the show ended, the mass exodus to the El and commuter trains began. Never before, and never since, have I been part of a mass of pedestrians as it completely took over the roads. Cars couldn't move, but didn't honk or get cranky. The mob flowed toward the train stations in complete peace - everyone was happy, and remarkably benevolent. I'm not a fan of dense crowds in general, but that one was pretty freaking cool, and pretty representative of why I love Chicago as much as I do. I've never seen anything like that in any other big city.

Age: 16
Location: Colonial Williamsburg, VA
Memory: I was at Governor's School. For those of you not from VA, Gov's School is a summer program where the supposedly best and brightest high schoolers (mostly between 11th and 12th grade, but a few between 10th and 11th) pretty much go away to college for a month. You live in dorms, you take classes, you socialize and get your first real taste of what it's going to be like when you go away to school. It makes your senior year feel UNBEARABLY long, but it's a great experience. I went to the Governor's School for Science (for - big shocker - chemistry), which was held at the College of William and Mary. We actually had class on the 4th - I remember a group of guys trying to stage a protest by writing "No Class on 4th of July" on napkins in the dining hall at breakfast and attaching them to their t-shirts. Not much of a rebel yell, but what do you expect from a group of nerds getting their first taste of independence from parental authority? W&M is right on the edge of Colonial Williamsburg, so we walked to the grounds of the Governor's Mansion to watch the fireworks. Williamsburg can get a wee bit cheesy, but they really are making a legitimate effort at historical accuracy, and I have to say that sitting in front of that Governor's Mansion while the Fife and Drum Corps marches around on the 4th of July feels pretty damned historical. As far as I'm concerned, Independence sounds like fife and drum music.

Age: 19
Location: Washington, DC
Memory: The year in Chicago planted the seed in my mom's and my brains that we really should go into the District to see their big show one year. We talked about it for a while, but I didn't actually go until I was in college. I went a few different times with different people, but the coolest year was the summer after my second year. I met up with a handful of school friends on the grounds of the Washington Monument. There were actually supposed to be twice as many of us - one contingent coming in from the western 'burbs, and ours from the south - but this was in the B.C.P. epoch (before cell phones) and we never managed to connect with them. We went early in the day, picked a spot and staked out our territory with a blanket. We spent the day reading, hanging out, getting sunburned, and just generally relaxing. When it got dark and the fireworks began, they were almost directly over our heads, and we could feel the ash raining down on us. The DC fireworks are generally more reserved than those in Chicago or New York, but they fit the setting. They're choreographed to music played live by the National Symphony or the Air Force Band on the grounds of the Capitol (a free concert, btw, if you can get there early enough to get a seat, but it's usually broadcast on the radio if you're not close enough to hear it live) rather than some canned medley. The music is simple and classic - the aforementioned 1812 Overture, lots of John Philip Sousa...as far as I'm concerned, fireworks just aren't right without these sorts of accompaniments. Throw in the Washington Monument...Capitol...Lincoln and Jefferson Memorials as your backdrop and I dare you to not be proud to be an American in that moment.

Age: 29
Location: Toronto, ON
Memory: Canada Day. My plans to go downtown for the fireworks kind of petered out, so I walked down the street to the overpass where I always look up from my book because I can see the skyline for the first time during my morning commute. I figured there was a reasonable chance I'd been able to see the fireworks from there - if not the ones downtown, then any one of the many smaller shows going on in the surrounding towns. I saw one show pretty much in its entirety due south of me, and bits and pieces of others (both professional and amateur) literally in any direction I looked. It was neat - definitely unique in my mental card catalogue of fireworks past.
But I didn't get to feel the booms.
I don't care how old I get, feeling each boom in my chest and the ash raining down gently on my face will always make me feel like a kid. It makes me feel small, and fills me with wonder at the beautiful, constantly changing lights in the sky. The shapes...the smell of sulfur...the only sense not touched by a fireworks show is taste (hopefully). If I can't feel the booms, I might as well just watch them on tv. Which brings me to...

Age: 29
Location: Toronto, ON
Memory: 4th of July. When I came home from work tonight, I was greeted with fireworks of a different sort. I opened my apartment door, and the alarm system went off in the house upstairs. Weird. But not the first time such a thing has happened - could have been caused by a draft...stray badger...a band of escaped psychotic serial killer clowns...just about anything. I hear the voices in the speakers asking the "intruder" to identify themselves...no response...alarm re-arms itself. No big deal. Until I open my door to go outside and take in the trash can, and it goes off AGAIN.
And I get to the top of the stairs and the kitchen door leading into the main house (which, being ajar when I got home, I had blamed inwardly for the first alarm) slams shut as I open the back door.
I am FREAKED THE FUCK OUT.
Common sense and many, many horror movies tell me to GET OUT OF THE HOUSE. But I haven't heard any footsteps or other traces of a human (or non-human but equally homicidal) presence above my head, so instead, I lock myself in my apartment and cower.

I may have watched the fireworks on TV tonight, but I DEFINITELY felt the booms.

Mood Swings

I'm not sure men can ever properly understand the force of nature that is PMS. There is evidence that men also have a monthly hormonal cycle that does cause some PMS-type symptoms, but the timing is harder to nail down...well, for obvious reasons. I've known some men that could give us girls a run for our money, but most of them seem to be blissfully ignorant of the ravages of a hormonal tsunami. The smart ones have figured out that it is NEVER acceptable to write off a woman's mood as PMS, even if she knows that is precisely why she is being bitchy. Just because the feelings are coming from a hormonal source rather than a rational one, doesn't make them any less real, and dismissing a woman's feelings for any reason - ESPECIALLY when she is already in a highly irrational place - is always going to be bad news. Now, that being said, the smart women catch on pretty quickly to when they're PMSing so when they do try to defenestrate a coworker, they can do it with a disclaimer so that said coworker doesn't take it personally when they're plummeting to their death.

Suffice it to say, it sucks. Being in a bad mood is already not fun - but not being able to figure out why you're in that bad mood, or even worse, KNOWING why but also knowing there's absolutely nothing that will make it go away except time, can make it pretty difficult to get through the day. Mine is kind of like having bipolar disorder for a week - I can go from happy to phenomenally pissed off at the blink of an eye, but the "happy" is more of a manic state than anything that would normally pass for contentedness, and the pissed off is...well...the words "duck" and "cover" come to mind. I get wicked fatigue, and we're not talking "gee, I was a little short on sleep last night and wouldn't a catnap be nice?" we're talking, "I think I just accidentally chased two Benadryl with a shot of Nyquil." The logic centers of my brain shut down and it's like I can actually feel my synapses misfiring - it takes me 2-3 times as long to do even the simplest calculations at work (I usually have to write out arithmetic I would normally do just in my head or on a calculator), experiments don't work that should be no-brainers, it even feels like my motor skills suffer. I can always tell it's setting in when the combination of fatigue and snippiness are strong enough to register as abnormal - when I'm literally falling asleep at my desk and my Labmate tolerance drops to zero. Most of the time, I can laugh at her silliness because damn it, she IS cute, but there's always that one week that I just can't listen to her without boiling inside. These are the times when I take a step back, and find things to do with myself that will keep my social interaction at a minimum.

This has been one of those weeks.

I noticed a couple of days ago just how many things were PISSING ME OFF and how many were making me IMPROBABLY HAPPY. And I decided to sift through some old posts to see if there was a pattern to my rants. It's actually uncanny if you know what to look for - there are certainly other times when I write bitchy posts, and there are some times when I'm hormonal but not feeling inspired to write about what's pissing me off, so it's a subtle trend, but clearly identifiable to the only one of us who knows exactly how I was feeling as I wrote each post. So I decided this time to just blog some of my ups and downs from the past few days.

So without further ado, I present my Mood Swings:

I HATE when people walk unnecessarily close to me, usually on the stairs in the subway. It's not okay to cut someone off in traffic, and it is also not okay to cut them off on a stairwell. Fuck off, lady, this is my personal space and there is no reason you need to be so close to me. Interestingly enough, a person's concept of what constitutes a reasonable no-fly zone around their neighbor seems to be inversely related to the volume their iPod is set to. Why don't you just get your bitch ass back in the kitchen and make me some pie?

I LOVE banh mi. Also known as vietnamese subs or Saigon subs. Is it really so wrong if the one great love of my life turns out to be a sandwich? They do seem to contain fructose, so it's a slightly abusive relationship, but he told me he didn't mean it, that it won't happen again, and it only happened because he loves me so damned much. I want believe him, and dammit, I'm gonna.

I HATE stupid questions. "What's in the well plate?" "Alcohol, I'm cleaning it out." "Cleaning?" "Yes, I actually USE the wells, so I clean them out with alcohol when I'm done with it." "You put things into the wells?"
Yes. I actually use the plate for its INTENDED PURPOSE. Imagine that.
"Yes." "Is there fluorescein left in the wells?"
Um, that would be THE REASON I AM CLEANING IT.

I LOVE H&M. I walked out with a skirt, a dress, and a blazer for $55. Oh, Scandinavian design, why you so good to me?

I HATE crazy people on the subway. At least when they cross the line from humorous babbling into yelling at you for not sitting by them.

I LOVE crazy people on the streetcar. Apparently, insanity has a manicure.

I HATE loud cell phone conversations on public transit. Or anywhere in public, really, but on transit you're forced to be in close proximity to the conversation, which makes it far more annoying. I really don't need to know what you're picking up for dinner, or who's picking up the kids, your secret recipe for cold fusion, or your peculiar fondness for hamster porn.

I LOVE dairy.

I HATE when people respond to an e-mail and have clearly not actually read what they are responding to. I have told you that the problem does not exist on my end and have asked how I am supposed to fix a problem that my program doesn't think exists. Your response was, "the problem is still there and I strongly recommend you fix it on your end." THAT IS NOT A VIABLE SOLUTION.

I LOVE riding on (uncrowded) streetcars. On a nice day, the air circulation is lovely, the ride is smoother than a bus, but infinitely more scenic than the subway.

I HATE people who insist on talking shop when I just want to drink my beer in the sunshine after work.

I LOVE the guy who lifted my laptop bag to simplify my attempt to squeeze into the awkwardly-placed but last-remaining empty seat on the bus. He also made friendly chat with the rather unassumingly pretty girl sitting next to him, and when he got up to leave the bus, I realized that his son was sitting opposite him, and they were wearing matching hats. Too cute.

I LOVE/HATE the guy who got up from his seat, moved to the front of the bus to let the blind man who had just gotten on know there was an available seat, and guided him gently to the spot he had just vacated. That was a truly lovely thing you just did. But did you have to nearly take out one of the guy's kids with your laptop bag as you did it?

I HATEHATEHATE the "Tag Huntresses." I've been staring at those stupid ads on the subway for DAYS, and just when I thought it wasn't possible to dislike them any more, I manage to serve up yet another hot slice of loathing in their general direction. Bitch ain't even that hot.

That's all that comes to mind right now. Stay tuned for the next installment in, oh, about 28 days.

Dunh dunh DUNH!!!

Okay, sorry, this just totally made my morning.

Dream a Little Dream of Me

I rarely remember dreams - I don't often wake up during the night, and I'm usually done dreaming by the time my alarm goes off in the morning. Dreams are supposed to be where your subconscious works out all of the things that you can't quite deal with in your waking life, so I tend to assume that I never remember them because there are things my subconscious doesn't want me to know. And frankly, I'm okay with that...I'm willing to trust its judgement.

I do go through periods, however, where I remember my dreams with some frequency. Last summer, I had a lot of anxiety dreams right before waking up, due to the combined stress of being completely broke, teaching solo for the first time, living with my parents, and needing to make arrangements to move to a foreign country. In addition to the stress I was already under, the anxiety dreams meant I woke up well before my alarm, exhausted, but unable to go back to sleep...it was a rough couple of months. Luckily, I've had precious few of those since I settled in and became self-sufficient again.

But when I do remember my dreams, I make an effort to look up the themes and symbols to try to figure out what's going on. I have a couple of dream books and, while I think their interpretations are kind of like horoscopes - you can find whatever you want to find in them, picking and choosing the things that might be relevant to your own life until you're convinced the author is REALLY ONTO SOMETHING - I find it interesting when I hit on a symbol that is uncannily appropriate and can't be logically explained. Like, how does a couch mean something in your dream if you don't consciously know what it's supposed to represent?

Which brings me to the reason for this post: over the last couple of nights, I have actually remembered a couple of dreams. Both pretty literal, but I think fairly representative of what's been on my mind lately. A couple of nights ago, I had a dream about the VGLM. I can't remember if I had been thinking about him as I feel asleep in order to deliberately dream about him - I sometimes do that because I'm dying to see what my subconscious thinks he looks like naked - but regardless of whether it was intentional or not, it was a simple, lovely dream. I don't remember most of the specifics, just that we were spending an evening together at home. Some details from my waking day had worked their way in - I had bought a couple of movies that day, and in the dream I offered them up as something to do and was pleasantly surprised at how excited he was to watch one of them. In fact, the whole dream was one pleasant surprise after another - we sat on a couch (a particular home furnishing which, incidentally, is supposed to mean you're in love with the person you're sitting with...I've run into that one before. Not quite buying it - I like the VGLM, but I'm not in LOVE with him. I think I'm too jaded to fall in unrequited love nowadays.) and he put his arm around me. He snuggled with me, and told me I was beautiful. We were just about to start the movie when I woke up, trying to convince myself it wasn't just a dream. I kept my eyes closed, trying so hard to believe that it was his shoulder my head was against and not just a pillow.

How sad is it that my happy dreams never get to the good stuff? I fantasize about SNUGGLING, for God's sake. I can't even get lucky in my dreams. At any rate, I think this one is self-explanatory - anybody who reads this thing knows that I'm kind of getting sick of being single and going on crappy dates...I want someone to share my life with. Someone to come home to at the end of the day, who will greet me with a hug and a kiss and tell me I'm amazing. Real intimacy with a member of the opposite sex.

Which is what makes this morning's dream interesting.

In the dream, it was my wedding day. Except it wasn't a typical wedding day - I had sort of gotten up that morning and found out I was getting married. And my mom and some other miscellaneous people without faces had brought me a big box of clothing from Goodwill to sift through to find something to wear. I seem to recall there being a couple of actual wedding dresses, but for some reason I was either not allowed or afraid to ask to try them on. I do know that I said or thought at some point, "I really wish I could afford to buy a real wedding dress," and wanting to cry. Through all of this, I had no concept of who the groom might be...I just kept trying on hideous suits with shoulder pads and trying to at least find something white to wear. Now, apparently, to dream of wearing a wedding dress "is to be trying to sort out one's feelings and hopes about relationships and weddings." Gee, thanks, Dream Dictionary. Is there an interpretation of "No shit, Sherlock" I should be aware of? But frankly, I know why the dream was wedding-related - I have the show I was watching right before I went to bed to thank for that one. I do have a fairly debilitating fear of somehow getting myself into a situation where I have agreed to marry someone I don't really like, but this has come up in enough dreams that I am now fully aware of this fear and trying my best to shake it (although unless I go out on a truly exciting date sometime soon I may be beyond the point of no return). So let's move on to the other prominent themes.

The changing of clothes: "The clothes we wear in a dream can often depict the facade, or persona, we create for other people. We have certain roles that we adopt in response to other's reactions....Clothes can often act as a protection against being touched. This protection may also be against having the real self violated. Clothes can conceal or reveal. In covering up nudity they conceal our perceived imperfections and, by implication, disguise our sexuality. In revealing certain parts of us our dreams may show in what ways we are vulnerable...Changing clothes. We are attempting to change our image." Sounds familiar, no? I think my subconscious mind has been reading this here blog too much. I mean, using my dreams to merely reiterate what I've been saying consciously on here...that's just laziness. What does it mean when you're subconsciously plagiarizing yourself?

On being poor: "To experience poverty in a dream highlights a sense of being deprived of the ability to satisfy our basic needs. We may feel inadequate, either emotionally or materially. Often we need to go right back to basics to discover what our real needs are." Well, duh. Again, tell me something I don't know.

So I think my subconscious is really just telling me to blog more.

Carrie-d Away

I've been having a Sarah Jessica Parker moment over the last couple of days. I've been feeling thin and healthy, and therefore the last couple of nights I've taken to wearing a vintage slip as a nightgown. I like it - even though nobody is there to see it, it makes me feel cute and feminine and sexy. When I was drinking wine with the Landlords a couple of weeks ago, Landlord told me how just that week he had seen me leave for (or maybe it was come home from) work and commented to Landlady that I was "starting to look like a Torontonian." Now, part of me couldn't resist feeling a little indignant...I mean, come on, did I REALLY look THAT bad before?....but I know he meant this as a compliment. And it's true, a year ago, I only wore full makeup if I was going out (and even then it was rare), and now I wear it every weekday. Back then I rarely so much as blow-dried my hair, and now I not only do that regularly but often go so far as to (gasp) STYLE it on a daily basis. I used to live in t-shirts, jeans, and flannels...now the flannels and hoodies only come out on weekends, and the only jeans I wear to work are my Good Jeans. Now, these changes started as soon as I left grad school - my first real teaching gig last summer forced me to start wearing my nicer clothes more often, and I was happy about it. But moving here, where I have many opportunities to take notes from well-dressed women on the subway, and getting back into good shape have forced me to buy a few more cute clothes and, perhaps more importantly, wear the ones I already had better (I have one pair of pants in particular that have always just been....well...fine. But today I tried them on for the first time since last summer and they made my ass look fantastic, if I do say so myself.). At any rate, I've noticed that Toronto women of my age, much like New York women, have a way of dressing and carrying themselves that's worth admiring. And on days like today, when I am feeling cute, thin, well put-together, and confident, I see people watch me when I get on the bus as opposed to remaining in their music- or book-induced oblivion. So at least today, I apparently look like a Torontonian, and I like it.

Now, the previous paragraph was written as an attempt to justify to myself that I have a right to now rant about other people's fashion choices. You didn't REALLY think this was going to be a sweet little entry about self-esteem, did you? For the record, let me state that I am absolutely NOT a fashion expert, and I have made some rather hideous transgressions in the past AND present, but there are certain things that I see on a regular basis that I simply can not let go by any longer without comment. So let me just take a moment to flip my Bitch Switch...

(click)

Okay, let's begin, shall we?

There is an epidemic sweeping across the female population, and it flares up hideously in the warmer months. I am talking about Visible Undergarment Syndrome, or VUS. Now, I feel the need to state, in the interest of full disclosure, that I have been known, on many occasions, to show a little bra strap. In fact, I will be doing it for the better part of today because, while I'm sure I have bras that wouldn't poke out from this top, they don't make my boobs look as good as this one, and I'm willing to make the sacrifice. However, this bra happens to match the top in both color and texture, so I consider it a fairly minor transgression. I have also been known to do the deliberately contrasting bra strap and top bit, but only when the top in question is a wifebeater and I am in a decidedly casual environment. I'm sure someday down the road I will be completely appalled with myself for ever wearing a grey wifebeater with purpley-blue brastraps clearly visible, but for now, I happen to find it a little slice of trashy-cute fun. So, in some cases, I believe this is a rule that is meant to be broken.

But I draw the line at the back strap.

I found it truly appalling this morning to see not one, but TWO fully exposed back straps on the subway. Not a little edge poking out of a poorly-fitting top...not a deliberate hinting at a cute bra under a little shirt - just a complete absence of any attempt whatsoever to wear an outfit-compatible bra. Perpetrator #1 was wearing what appeared to be a t-shirt converted into a halter top, with full arm- and back-strap exposure. As far as I'm concerned, a little bra peek is okay as long as it's consistent with the lines of the garment - it should be either subtle, or an accent to the main piece, not the focal point. You don't wear a lacy bra under a wifebeater, and those who wear a regular bra with a halter top should be taken out back and pelted with Prada until an appropriate level of good taste has entered the bloodstream. However, in her defense, at least the bra matched the color of the top, and she was clearly going for a Look (side note - I didn't even realize people still WORE Dr. Martens...are the 90's already retro, or is the punk/goth bit really that immune to trends?) that, while not visually appealing to most of the population, really wasn't designed to be. I can respect that.

Perpetrator #2, however, was completely unforgiveable. I first saw her from the back, so my first impression of her was a beige back strap cutting clearly across her back above the top of a black and white sundress. BEIGE IS NOT A FASHION STATEMENT. Beige lingerie is purely functional, meant to disappear under a garment, making it the single most heinous bra to display in public, particularly when we're talking huge-ass back strap action. Then she turned around. Okay, honey, I get it. You have a very impressive rack, and it takes a serious undergarment to make those puppies all perky like that. Your cleavage is looking quite fetching. But here's the thing: fantastic rack + spaghetti straps = never gonna happen. If you've got great cleavage, you should use it, but for the love of God, please leave the spaghetti straps to those of us with itty-bitty boobs that can be acceptably supported by a strapless bra while you opt for something low-cut that will hide the industrial strength riggings underneath. That's all I'm saying. One bra strap turned you from a Very Cute Girl into dangerously borderline Jerry Springer material. Oh, and that reminds me, get your roots done. Again, there's a difference between trashy-cute and just trashy, sweetheart.

Just yesterday I had come face-to-face with the flipside of VUS. I saw a girl on the subway - young, pretty, and looking quite put-together. Very monochrome - black from head to toe, but a nice top, nice little capri pants with these utterly ridiculous extremely pointy-toed black stilettos that she couldn't walk in to save her life. But all in all, a very cute outfit and she looked pretty good as long as she wasn't trying to, you know, actually locomote. Until I followed her up the stairs in the station and was confronted with the expanse of bright-pink underwear between the top of her pants and the bottom of her shirt. Not a peek of waistband - enough cloth that I actually wondered if she had layered a pink shirt under the black one. Unfortunately, the return of low-rise pants, a trend I welcomed with open arms while I tremble in fear of the return of the high-waisted pants of my youth, has brought with it an accompanying wave of VUS. Yep, I'm talking about Panty Peek. Again, this is sometimes done deliberately, but unlike the contrasting strap thing, I simply cannot get behind purposely displaying your thong for the world to see. Whether or not I'm flossing is nobody's business but my own. I don't think it's too much to ask that, if a woman buys low-rise pants, she buys slightly lower-rise panties. I take great pains to ensure that my panties are high enough to ensure complete ass-crack coverage (because one of the great lessons in life is to know one's limits, and exposed ass-crack, an even less forgivable sin than PP, should be a no-brainer in that arena), yet low enough to not be seen by the outside world. I remember a day not that long ago when women lived in fear of the dreaded VPL (Visible Panty Line - remember Underalls commercials? ahh, memories...), but now full-on panty exposure runs rampant. It's not pretty, it's not sexy, and it needs to be stopped. Keep your tighty-whities (or pinkies, as it were) to yourself, I say. If we all work together, we can make VUS a thing of the past. Scientists at the laboratories of Victoria's Secret and La Senza are working on a vaccine as we speak, but until then, please tell all of your friends to practice Safe Sexy.

Okay, I think I've gotten the VUS rant out of my system for now. But the day I see a girl displaying the dreaded back strap/Panty Peek combo (an occurrence that I am sure is only a matter of when, not if), my head is liable to explode. Maybe when it gets cold again I'll finally vent my Skinny-Jeans-Tucked-Into-Mukluks-or-Some-Other-Ridiculous-Sort-of-Boot rage if the Fashion Gods haven't mercifully removed that trend from the style lexicon by fall.

Oh, but while we're on the subject of footwear, what the smurf is up with Crocs? When, exactly, did GARDENING CLOGS become a fashion statement??? There are no words. Literally.

Final note: While I was writing this post, feeling all smug and cute, I got a phone call and now have plans for tonight. I'm going to a baseball game.

In heels.

I'm going to be one of those girls I make fun of. Believe it or not, I don't ALWAYS want to be Carrie Bradshaw.

Don't Tell Me

A week ago, I came home on a Friday night to find my landlords sitting on the deck and finishing their dinner and was invited to hang out and have a glass of wine with them. I figure okay, sure, that would actually be really nice, so I head downstairs to drop off my stuff and change into flip-flops before I settle in on the deck to have a glass of wine before retiring early. There's only about one glass left in the bottle, so I think it's sweet that Mr. Landlord has offered it to me.

Mr. Landlord steps inside for a moment and reappears with a fresh bottle. A magnum, to be exact.

I should have known better than to have "a glass of wine" with a Greek man. It's true - I did only technically have two glasses, because only once did I manage to actually empty the glass before he refilled it. I'm still not sure how that magnum wound up empty when I only had two glasses....

So after a long evening of drinking wine and talking about all manner of entertaining things, Mr. Landlord made us some Greek coffee, took his leave, and I was left chatting with Mrs. Landlord. So the inevitable question came up, "Why doesn't a girl like you have a boyfriend? You should be out juggling dates on a Friday night, not at home hanging out with us!"

"Why don't you have a boyfriend?"

"Why are you alone?"

It comes in various forms, but the fact remains - I get this question a lot. In fact, it came up again just last night, and now that I'm done with grad school and I no longer get asked, "So when are you going to be done with school?" it is officially my Least Favorite Question.

To those asking it, let me answer your question with another: If I knew why I didn't have a boyfriend, don't you think I would have done something about it by now? I mean, you people seem to think I must be choosing to be single, because if I wanted a boyfriend I'd have one, end of story. While there are lots of things I like about being single, I think it's a rare person that, given the choice, would opt for being single rather than having someone special in their life. I mean, I'll take being alone over being with someone just for the sake of NOT being alone, but like everyone else, I have been programmed by God and evolution to need to pair up. It's like yin and yang - two separate, opposing, but complementary forces...each still a tiny part of the other. If you try to separate one from the other, each is left with a hole right through its core. We all need people in our lives that, though they are different from us and may have different priorities or beliefs, love us unconditionally and hold us up when we need it. And we all need that one person that can hold us up in a way that nobody else can.

When I was younger, there was a period where I was the kind of girl who always had a boyfriend. I'd date a guy for a few months, then break up, and about a month or two later I'd have a new one. And these were good guys - I've always maintained good friendships with my exes (a couple of them I happen to know read this here blog regularly), and they are all people that I still think highly of, even though they weren't right for me.

In the last year, I've had two dates. With a guy who just sent me an e-mail forward that I found not only unfunny, but more than a little bit racist.

How did I go from always having a good, quality boyfriend to bland dates with people who may or may not be racist?

Mrs. Landlord was trying to give me advice on how to land a man. Her advice pretty much boiled down to "mess with his mind and make him think he can't have you - make him think he's in danger of losing you." Basically, she told me to play games - be a bitch and they'll come after you like a puppy dog. And you know, that works...I've seen it in action. Women that have mastered the rules of that game not only always have a man in their life, but get them to give them anything they want. Remember my infuriating labmate? She was all atwitter yesterday because she was going out with her ex-boyfriend and afraid she was going to be a bad girl. And I haven't gotten the rundown of the evening yet, but I'd put money on the fact that she probably DID do something that her boyfriend won't be happy about, and she'll tell him, and it will somehow result in him showering her with lovely things that she doesn't deserve. But I can't do it. I hate the game. If I like someone, I want to be able to tell them that, not make them think I DON'T like them or that I like someone else better. Flirting with someone you are attracted to and interested in is one of the great pleasures in life - acting like they don't exist is no fun at all, at least not for me. I could play your game, but here's the thing, Mrs. L. - I don't want to be like you. Yes, you are a passionate, strong, beautiful woman with a fantastic husband, but you get into long, screaming fights with him, your mother, your daughter...every important person in your life. I have spent many an evening or long Sunday trying to pretend I'm not hearing your arguments through my ceiling. If that's what playing your game gets me, no thanks. It is, in fact, possible to live a life of passion without complete chaos.

Now, if you're a regular reader, then you know that I got exactly opposite advice on how to land a man from my good friend BNL. How's that for yin and yang?

I had a moment a couple of weeks ago that confused me even further. I met the girlfriend of someone I briefly had a crush on (a crush that was squashed and pretty quickly gotten over once I found out about said girlfriend, even though this was the first time I had actually met her). (WARNING: the rest of the next couple of paragraphs probably makes me look like a not-very-good person. However, we all have moments and habits that make us less than perfect, and admitting you have a problem is, after all, the first step to recovery.) Now, I don't know if guys do this, but it's a fairly universal female instinct to, when faced with a picture or real-life meeting with an ex of a boyfriend, a new girlfriend of an ex, or any female a guy you are or have ever been interested in might be attracted to (past or present), do the incredibly petty "am I cuter than her?" mental size-up. In this case, the answer in my head was a resounding and emphatic yes. She's a perfectly lovely woman, and a good match for the guy in question from what I could gather in our very brief contact, but I did get some smug self-satisfaction out of knowing that I am, in fact, cuter. I know - it's petty, immature, and superficial, and dammit, I just can't help it. It's a reflex - I ALWAYS do it, and I always feel pretty bad about feeling good about it. But I was thinking about it on my way home that night, and I naturally went through my mental catalogue of previous size-ups and came to the sudden realization that about 90% of the time, I have genuinely felt like I came out on top in the comparison.

(I feel the need to point out here that the comparison is strictly physical - I make no claims of being a better person, merely more attractive. Also, none of this applies to the aforementioned exes who read this, because thankfully, I have never to my knowledge seen any of the women you dated before or after me. I'm sure they are lovely and WAY hotter than I.)

I mentioned this to a friend on IM, and her respose was, "So basically what you're saying is that you're out of the league of every guy you've ever dated." Well, that's one possibility - the other is that I just have a wildly over-inflated ego. It's probably a combination of the two...I do tend to like the guys who are fantastic people, but don't have the confidence to go after the super-hot chicks they could probably get if they just tried. But there's also certainly no shortage of people out there who don't like me nearly as much as I like myself. It all just serves to drive home the point that I haven't the slightest clue what My League is anyway. I feel like I should try to re-evaluate it, but I have no idea how one goes about figuring something like that out. But if I think My League is a guy who thinks I am Out of His, then clearly a love connection will never be made.

So everybody seems to have a different theory on why I don't have a boyfriend, including me. Unfortunately, none of us seem to agree. So I officially throw in the towel. I'm clearly not doing a good job when it comes to making things happen or figuring anything out, so I think I'm done trying. I never used to have to try to make things happen - they used to just happen to me. So maybe my new strategy should be a complete lack thereof. I think that, at least for now, I am officially on strike...I am going on record as a conscientious objector...to put it simply: I give up.

Feel free to place your bets in the comments as to how long this strike will last - I doubt I'll be able to go very long before I once again fire up the decadent romantic self-analysis engine.

Unfortunately, this will NOT help the fact that I very much need to get laid. At this point, it's been so long that I'm not sure I still know how to do it, although the way the VGLM was dressed yesterday was making me desperately want to remember. Any straight man that can actually pull off a pink dress shirt is a force to be reckoned with. Damn.

Enjoy the humor of the situation.

Chapter 1:

So, without going into all the details, I had a good night tonight. Went to an AMAZING concert, shared it with a friend who wouldn't have been there if I hadn't told him about it. Have been in my usual self-indulgent philosophical frame of mind as a result.

Got off the subway at my office to get my stuff.

Am much more observant when I am in this state of mind, so as I walk to the office, I notice the way the buildings look at night....the way the sidewalks arc off from the normal path...an abandoned baseball cap that says, "change the world."

So I pick it up.

Turn it around.

The back says "IBM."

Does anyone else see the humor in the situation?

What if I tell you that I had to let the cap out to make it fit? I'm sure there's something deeply insightful in there about small minds, but I'll just let you figure out how to articulate it.

And in the meantime...I'm considering it a gift from God because the thunderstorms have made it suddenly cold and resulted in my having a bad hair day (as though it wasn't already bad enough).

Hey...you have your Gospel, and I've got mine. That's the beauty of interpretation.

Chapter 2:

(This is officially the first blog entry I have WRITTEN on the train, as opposed to merely COMPOSED on the train. Anyone familiar with the obsolescence of my laptop should appreciate that that imposes a severe time constraint, due to poor battery life. I even went the wrong way on the line because I was so engrossed in getting this started, so you should all be feeling really important right now - I almost didn't get home on your behalf. Seriously - I could be way the hell over on the northwest side of the GTA with NO IDEA how to get home had I not noticed the "the next station is Wellesley...Wellesley station" announcement in time.)

As I left my office, I looked up as I walked to the subway, at the same buildings I always see. But they're particularly beautiful at night, as office buildings are wont to be. Offices are never pretty by the harsh light of day, but, much like planets, they take on a whole different life at night, when they produce light, rather than consuming it. And, for the first time since I moved here, I looked up at the city, and decided it was My City. I don't care who came before me...where I may have been before this...who or what may come after...it's the Right City for me. It encompasses everything I love about DC and Chicago, everything I cherished about Lafayette and Charlottesville. It's Freakin' Huge, but feels like a Small Town when it comes down to it.

Someone, please, give me a reason to stay here.

A job?

A man?

SOMETHING.

Because I really like My City. And the idea that I've already spent almost half of my time here is feeling WAY too close and finite. If I can't stay here, I really need a reason to be somewhere else. And that ain't happening either.

Chapter 3:

I realized on the bus that I, in my "change the world" cap...with my shoes in a brown paper bag (and yes, I was wearing another pair - I'm not yet weird enough to go barefoot on public transit)...my laptop bag tucked under my seat in the customary crowded commute manner even though there were approximately 5 people on the entire bus and thus no need for space management...I had become the sort of person I normally blog about. I was officially the oddest person on the bus. But a close second was the guy across from me, a drowsy fellow who was clearly packing a well-worn copy of the Bible. But he was even more tired than I, and struggled to find a comfortable posture in which to doze on the way home.

What I wouldn't have given to have had my camera on me at that moment. Picture it: a man dozing, Bible in lap, with a movie marquee in the window behind him reading, "Knocked Up." Again, not sure I can articulate the true deliciousness that is that slice of irony.

But seriously...how many people do you know, who are returning home dead tired with a splitting headache...yet, faced with the choice between going inside and going to my warm and rather comfortable bed and curling up on the cold ground in the park across the street, choose the latter?

I couldn't help it. Venus was lookin' mighty fine. And, I think, Mars.

I am seriously odd. And I have GOT to stop reading astronomy books.

I put my rants on one leg at a time, just like anybody else.

I have just about had it with my department.

Last month, they farted around so long with getting my new contract ready that I am currently working without a valid work permit (although the nice lady at Immigration assures me that I am not an illegal alien, as long as I sent in my renewal application before the old one expired, I have a grace period). I am also sans a valid health card because I can not renew it until I have a valid work permit in hand, so I will be getting my ass chewed out by the Ministry of Health whenever I actually go in to get a new one. Let's just hope I don't have a heart attack or break any bones until Immigration gets around to sending me my permit. Then, on payday, I was underpaid by over $800 because the woman who does the payroll ignored the new contract AND the reminder that my boss sends her every month about who is supposed to get paid what and simply paid me the amount that my boss USED to pay me when my salary was supplemented by my teaching income. When the error was brought to her attention, she requested a cheque from the university to correct the difference, and said that she would forward notification in a day or two when the cheque would be ready for me to pick up.

That was a week ago.

Yesterday, I sent her and my boss an e-mail asking what the status was, since I cannot pay my bills this month without that money, and it takes at least 10 days for me to transfer money back home in order to pay those bills, so I pretty much need to start that process right after payday and we're now a week and a half past that day. Boss is understandably concerned (he's already feeling bad enough about the salary he's paying me, even when the department ISN'T stiffing me by $800). Woman in the business office writes back this morning to say that the cheque has been ready since the 31st, and she forwarded the notification to both me and the Boss, she doesn't know what happened.

Let's see: you forwarded this to TWO people, yet NEITHER of us received it. Huh. AMAZING.

Just suck it up and admit you forgot to send it. I realize that this little glitch isn't even a blip on the radar screen amid the millions of dollars that you deal with every day, but it's a big fucking deal to someone like me.

On a related note, those of you reading this who care about me, please say a little prayer, do a ritual tribal dance, do whatever it is you do to make good things happen to people you care about. I'm waiting to hear about a fellowship that would literally double my salary. The odds are REALLY slim of my getting it (as in, 3 of them are slotted to be distributed among something like 6 of the faculties at the U of T, as if merely competing with everyone else in Arts and Sciences wasn't enough), but Boss and I are hoping that since they announced it fairly late not many people found out about it in time to apply. I'm not getting my hopes up, but it's hard not to think of all of the good changes I could make in my life if I were actually making the kind of income a postdoc is supposed to be making.

Work It?

Okay, so it's about that time of the month where, if you don't hear from me soon, you should all be yelling at me about doing my fitness assessment, expecting a progress report, etc. etc.

Well, here's the deal. I have not, as promised, been doing my run three times a week. I've been doing it once or twice a week, and not at all for the last week and a half or so.

Stop yelling at me and hear me out.

See, I've been having this pain in my foot. It started about the time I started this whole thing, so at first I figured it was just a matter of my suddenly using certain odd little muscles a lot more than they were used to. At the beginning, my calves were hurting a hell of a lot more than my foot, so it didn't even really register at first. It's not a sharp, debilitating pain, just kind of...annoying. At any rate, unlike my calves, it never got better, and it starts nagging at me any time I run or tap dance. Seeing as how I have also gotten into a bad habit of letting my milk go bad in my refrigerator, I now suspect it may be a stress fracture. I'm not sure whether it's the running or the tap dancing that are to blame, but I am trying to take it easy, drink lots of milk, and see if the doctor can't heal thyself. I probably shouldn't even be going to tap class (it had been feeling much better but was hurting by the end of the hour last night, and let's face it - it doesn't get more high-impact than deliberately striking a wooden floor repeatedly with metal-soled shoes) but dammit, those cost money, I only have two more left, and I'll be damned if I'm going to quit before I learn the rest of that Fred Astaire combination.

So yeah, I'm kind of frustrated and disappointed with myself, because before I started taking it easy I had been making progress. And since I can't afford a gym membership, I don't even have access to an elliptical trainer, swimming pool, or other low/no-impact ways to at least keep my cardio endurance up to speed.

Yarr.

So I'm doing the best I can. Bear with me - I'll keep you posted.