Ramblings on a Paleo High

When I go insane, please change my name to Moldova

2011-05-15T08:40:00.013-06:00

Yesterday I experienced something the likes of which I have never seen. Eurovision. Oh Em Gee. I finally found the absurdity that was missing from my life. And have come to fully realize that Europe is doomed. However, I can't express the amount of joy I got documenting the event, that could only be surpassed by the entrance of the four horsemen of the apocalypse, on Twitter. It's amazing how amusing I find myself.

In all honesty, I should have seen this coming. When I was in England in 2009 I was introduced to Mika, running around like a clown on purpose. England loves their crazy. And apparently so does the rest of Europe. However, I didn't expect them to love that level of pop; old school pop at that. With very few exceptions, the entire continent is still listening to 80's pop and 90's boy bands. Georgia, who rocked it with angry grungy hip hop, single-handedly brought late 90s music to Europe. I never thought a band who reminded me more than a little of the Black Eyed Peas would be a welcome musical experience. France tried to evoke a revolution with military jackets (which were so 2009) and a Les Mis-like score. I think they're overcompensating for WWII. And Italy and Romania unveiled their respective Michael Buble cloning projects.

Oh, and in case you were wondering, Vanilla Ice is now in Russia.

And who wins the crackpipe award? Moldova. I was warned that Moldova has a history of insanity at Eurovision, but I was in no way prepared for the spectacle. I should have looked up their performance from 2010, but that would have ruined the WTF factor. Men in 3-foot gnome hats seemed perfectly normal compared to the chick in a fairy costume with a horn riding a unicycle and the final close up of perfected monocle use. That viewing experience could have only been better with the addition of little green faries, but, alas, I'm all out of absinthe. Once I find out where this country actually is, and where they get their crack stash, I might have to go visit. And I fully expect Moldovan customs to hand out unicycles upon entrance into the country.

But all in all, I learned an important lesson thanks to Eurovision. Never mention a threesome in a Twitter posts. Hello, porn spam. This is totally Ireland's fault. What kind of name is Jedward anyways?

Europe, you're definitely living up to your US reputation and stereotype, while making Justin Bieber look good at the same time. After three hours immersed in European pop culture, I missed Bieber hair. But I can't fault them. That was by far the best three hours on a Saturday afternoon I have ever wasted. Thank you, Eurovision, from the bottom of my heart.

When dissertations get kinky...

2011-05-13T18:59:00.014-06:00

... it doesn't bode well.

The most recent description I have come up with to describe my feelings towards my dissertation is: "I feel like I'm in a S&M relationship with my dissertation and I was never given a safe word." This is also the most accurate description. Safe words are important, kiddos. Otherwise you're just left dominated, tied up, and abused.

On a related note, it was suggested that "cloaca" be my safe word, but I've concluded that it'd be far too easy for me to work that into pillow talk.

Other people have put their grad school sentiments more tactfully. For example, in a recent article in The Nation a Columbia University professor was quoted saying, "Going to grad school's a suicide mission." How vanilla. This article, of course, was re-posted on Facebook by half my graduate student friends with various messages of "woe is me", and half my tenured friends with various messages of "sucks to be you". Unfortunately, I can only support this hypothesis with my own empirical evidence. Woe is me.

Looking at my Facebook profile and TweetStream, I guess this has been a pretty rough week between me and my dissertation. Somehow I've taken a flogging without even realizing it. And I find it rather disconcerting that it takes my social media updates to act as a status report. All of my posts from the last week have documented my tenuous relationships with my dissertation, with a highlight being, "If my dissertation is the Battle of the Bulge, then I'm sitting in a snowy foxhole getting the shit mortared out of me." Obviously I need to post more cute kitten videos to negate the documentation of my downward-spiraling soul.

I can really only end this bitchfest with the reflection that The Simpsons really provides a perfect social commentary on pretty much everything. And might I add, that middle video clip was a lot funnier before I turned 30...

(On a side note, when I first heard the term "blog" I thought it stood for Bitch LOG. I fully realize that this post is totally living up to that sentiment.)

The worst thing that has ever happened to me:

2011-05-05T21:16:00.006-06:00

The invention of ebooks.

Which was not helped by the gift of a Barnes & Noble Nook ebook reader for Christmas. Double whammy.

Finishing up my 5th year of my Ph.D. program while being massively behind on ALL my deadlines (don't you just love the sound they make as the whoosh by?) doesn't really leave me with copious amounts of time for non-scientific reading. The fact that I've been a grad student for just a shade under a decade and my funding will likely run out before I actually finish this effing degree doesn't really leave me with copious amounts of money for non-booze purchases. So making books - my unparalleled addiction - as easy to purchase as ONE click of the mouse will surely prove to be my ultimate downfall. Funny, I always thought that would be liver failure or an unfortunate trundling accident.

This "One Click Smut" (does that sound wrong, or is it just me?) issue need to be rectified. STAT. Frat boys around the country may argue the point, but easier is not always better - especially when it involves time and money I don't have. I need to be forced to work for things, particularly things which may be soothing to my soul, but harmful to my career goals. Afterall, I think we've clearly established that I don't have much of a soul left these days, so really, what's the point? Consequently, I demand that more steps be added in the ebook-purchasing process. Perhaps a 200 question survey of our understanding of metaphysics and how it relates to experience should be instated, or a required expository essay on how the assassination of Archduke Ferdinand relates to the break up of Prussia. (And might I mention, the phrase "expository essay" always makes me think of John Hodgman, Resident Expert.) At least before ebooks I had to get in my car and drive across town to get my fix. Considering I'm too lazy to even put on pants unless I have to, extra steps would really help the chaos ebooks are wrecking on my life. And require me to wear pants less often. Somebody needs to get on this. Now. Before I buy anymore books this week. I mean, how am I supposed to charge my Nook when they shut off my power because I can't pay my bill?

Ebooks. The worst thing that has ever happened to me.

Oh yeah. And that time I got run over by an ATV-wielding Canadian in the Arctic was pretty bad, too.

Let’s take a moment for….

2011-04-12T12:40:00.012-06:00

Slime mold. It's big, oozing, and asexual with suicidal tendencies. What more could a girl ask for?

I’m taking time out of my intense campaigning for more flightless birds in romance novels to bring you this public service announcement about the awesomeness of slime mold. I’m completely serious - I don’t joke about things like slime mold. My Master’s advisor turned me on to slime molds when we spent an entire class period talking about them because he loves them so much. Loves them to the point that one of the most prominent dinosaur paleontologists said, “If I didn’t love dinosaurs so much, I’d totally study slime molds.” Ok, he probably didn’t throw in a “totally”, but I’ve found that with each advanced degree I get I talk more and more like a valley girl, so in my memory, that’s how he said it.

Anyways, here are just a few of the reasons why slime molds are so awesome:

(1) Hey baby, check out the size of my cell

Those big, sometimes brightly-colored oozing masses you may sometimes see in the woods? Yeah, that’s one cell. One. Cell. With multiple nuclei. How cool is that! Additionally, some slime mold cells can also join together to form big multicelluar colonies. Ultimate teamwork. Actually, they kinda remind me of myself. Most of the time I really just want to sit on my couch and enjoy solitude. But during a zombie apocalypse I would want to be around other people. You know, to use as weapons and bait.

(2) Slime mold wants you covered, wants you smothered like its Waffle House hashbrowns

These guys move. Honest to God. They’re the things that blob-like horror movies are made of, except they don’t try to eat you. Actually, they're totally harmless. And I'm sure they were Steve McQueen's biggest fans.

(3) When I think about me I touch myself

What’s sexier than confidence? Slime mold has such confidence in its evolutionary superiority that it doesn’t need to look outside it’s own DNA to supplement its gene pool – it just gets it on with itself and BAM! Houston, we have spawn. Don’t let the fact that the above statement makes it sound like an inbred Nazi turn you off. Sometimes, when the conditions are perfect (and by perfect I mean that they happen to run into a compatible slime mold in heat. Which I'm sure happens ALL the time...), slime molds can reproduce sexually. But everyone knows that budding off is way more fun. Wait…what?

(4) Taking one for the team

You thought Dumbledore made “For the Greater Good” look sexy? Wrong. That was slime mold. As any child who ever had their innocence ripped from them by watching hyenas kill baby cheetahs or crocodiles eat the mangled bodies of baby elephants or orcas toy with baby seals on the Discovery Channel (back when they showed nature shows) knows, Mother Nature can be a brutal bitch. So when environmental conditions turn harsh, and slime molds are forced to extremes to ensure survival, some of them commit suicide. Nothing says survival like death. Dictyostelium discoideum cells, for example, congregate together (essentially forming a multicelluar organism) and form “puff balls” (for lack of a better term) that are raised on a stalk. The slime mold cells that make up the stalk undergo altruistic suicide or “programmed cell death” to lift the puff ball up higher. The ultimate point of their sacrifice is that spores form within these puff balls and can then be disseminated to colonize new areas. Despite the video footage of cute baby animals being brutalized, this is why nature is so great: it’s all about eating and sex.

So long story short, slime mold makes up the awesomesauce that is poured over things. You have a piece of awesome covered in awesomesauce? Yeah, that’s slime mold. You’re welcome.

The Role of Flightless Birds in Romance Novels

2011-04-04T09:25:00.021-06:00

Now, I take my science very seriously; but I take my fun seriously, too. Last time I gave a research talk to my department, I titled my talk "Paradigm Broken: New study shows 65 million year old bird should be served with red wine". This started as just a joke title when my friend who was running the graduate student seminars was pressuring me for a talk title. However, when I started building my presentation, I thought to myself "why stop at just a title?" I proceeded to put together a full 10 minute talk on wine pairings with the extinct birds I study - including a Principle Component Analysis. Obviously it was much more fun than my actual research talk. While that talk was without a doubt one of the highlights of my grad school career (I know, sad, right?), I have yet to share that talk publicly - aside from a teaser - for the reason that I fully intend on giving it as part of a presentation at a professional conference one day. Can't let the press get wind of this hard-core research before I can publish it, after all.

Well, last Friday I gave another seminar talk to the grad students in my department. And of course I thought about coming up with another joke talk. However, the fun I get out of creating fake figures set up an internal struggle with the fact that I'm the laziest person I know and didn't want to do more work. But then I saw that it was April 1st, and just had to suck it up and put a few more hours into my powerpoint. This time, it started with an abstract. Indulging my laziness, I just cut and pasted the abstract from my most recent paper, then added the summary for the second half of my presentation: "I will then proceed to talk about something else. Possible topics include (1) blah blah blah dead birds blah, or (2) the role of flightless birds in romance novels." I figured no one was going to read the abstract - I hadn't read one all year for the seminar speakers - but I immediately started getting emails from friends saying they were going to be disappointed if I didn't really talk about romance novels. Well shit, I had officially committed myself - something I strive never to do. Alas, at least now I had a topic. A topic that includes my two favorite subjects: dead birds and smut.

As for the talk, I'll start with the conclusion: the role of flightless birds in romance novels is UNDERUTILIZED. In my extensive research through (1) obsessively reading romances, (2) Google searches, and (3) Twitter, I have found only one romance featuring flightless birds: "Seize the Fire" by Laura Kinsale. Though I actually had to go through the unheard of lengths of ordering a paperback online to procure a copy (I have a Nook and have gotten used to instant gratification, something that is deadly to my bank account and dissertation), I now own this love story of flightless proportions. I must also add, however, that "Seize the Fire" is now available as an ebook for the Nook because Ms. Kinsale is totally awesome and talked to her publisher (seriously, does anyone know a Laura that isn't awesome? I didn't think so.). Needless to say, we're now Twitter friends.

"Seize the Fire" follows the story of Napolean the Rockhopper penguin in his wing-propelled adventures searching for that one perfect cloaca to compliment his own. Ok, technically it follows the story of Naval captain Sheridan Drake who adopts Napolean the Rockhopper penguin, but the penguin plays an important role in humanizing our jaded hero. And that's it, kiddos. That's all I could find, with the exception of several webpages claiming there's a Harlequin Romance entitled "Lover Boy" that features the Chandler, Arizona Ostrich Festival. Sadly, "Lover Boy" is a rather innocuous and banal title. If I were writing a HQN featuring an ostrich festival, I think something like "The Ostrich King's Lover's Secret Chick" would be a more appropriate title. Even if ostriches aren't in the plot line. Subsequent searches have failed to turn up any evidence of this book outside ostrich festival websites, so if either of the two people who might read this post know of this book's existence, PLEASE let me know! [EDIT: A friend has helped me locate "Loverboy" by Vicki Lewis Thompson! It is currently winging (har har) it's way to me!]

The lack of data turned up in my extensive literature searches (and by extensive, I mean I'm pretty sure I spent more than 30 minutes on Google) is very disappointing considering all the romantic potential flightless birds have to offer. In fact, I now consider flightless birds to be the prefect romance allegory. Let's look at the two largest groups of flightless birds: ratites and penguins. Ratites are the group of Southern Hemisphere birds that include ostriches, emus, cassowaries, and kiwis (no, not the fruit). All of these birds have secondarily loss the power of aerial propulsion, but several species still use their wings in some form of function. The ostrich, for example, primarily uses it's wings in courtship dances - splaying it wings, bobbing it's head, swaying back and forth on bended knee. How much sexier can an ostrich get? I'm all hot and bothered just thinking about it. I think the importance of courtship, and women adorning themselves with ostrich feathers, in romance novels speaks for itself. But if not: it's important. Ostriches will also use their wings to scare off predators to protect their young - another noble use of flightless wings. Despite all the abundant alpha asshattery shown by heroes in novels along the way to HEA (Happily Ever After), they're always excited by the prospect of participating in the game of evolution by the end, and that includes protecting their genetic investment.

Penguins are perhaps an even more romantic group of flightless birds. Not only are they so damn cute that you just have to go "Awwwww" every time you see one (with the possible exception of the dead ones in my lab...though I do find their tarsometatarsals absolutely precious), but many species are monogamous and mate for life - at least once they find the one cloaca that in the darkness binds them. Additionally, both parents generally help in raising their chicks. How romantic - HEAs for all! Oh-ho, but don't be fooled, it's not all commitment and monogamy out there in this flightless paradise. You still have Emperor Penguins, who are essentially the rakes of of the penguin world - finding new partners every year. And every good story needs a devious rake.

Most of the rest of flightless birds (that we haven't eaten to extinction, and well, even those that we have) are found on islands, or island-like settings (like isolated South American lakes where you can find flightless ducks). Honestly, what's more romantic than being marooned on an island with flightless birds...and perhaps a pirate? You can get ravished AND dinner!

All-in-all, flightless birds are vastly underutilized by romance authors as either heroes and heroines or as plot points. Consequently, I will now dedicate the rest of my career to lobby for more aeronautically-challenged avians in romances. In fact, I will even go so far as suggesting the new sub-genera "Cloaca Erotica" for the hard-core aviaphiles out there. No cloaca-loving judgment here. To date, people sadly don't find flightless birds as sexy as I do. Yeah, I know, I don't get it either. But hopefully together we can change that so our children can be raised in a world more embracing of flightless cloacal kisses. If I were in the least bit apt at creative writing, and less lazy, I would write them myself.

How to write a dissertation

2011-03-23T15:29:00.006-06:00

Need a Ph.D. to find a job in your field but freaking out about writing a dissertation? No problem. Just follow the seven-step program below and they'll be calling you Dr. Malcolm-Jamal Warner in no time. By the end of it, you'll probably even have enough alcohol-induced false confidence to operate on people, too.

1. Head to your favorite bar. *
2. Order a drink.
3. Open Word.**
4. Drink
5. Type
6. Repeat steps 4 and 5 as needed.
7. Don't forget to tip your waitress.

And remember, being a scientist doesn't mean that your committee doesn't want to read a dissertation written in first person stream-of-consciousness.

*Hell, it doesn't have to be your favorite bar as long as it serves booze. Lots and lots of mind-numbing/opening booze.

**More serious dissertators (read: those in their 4th year and above) might want to consider a ToughBook or good ole pen and paper to reduce chances of permanent damage from overturned beers. After all, by this point, you're probably starting your day with whiskey in your coffee and just continuing on from there.

Fossiliferous Smut

2011-02-23T19:34:00.034-07:00

This is not a book review. This is me sounding my barbaric yawp over the smut-loving rooftops of the world.

In a recent bout of unproductiveness (which, let's face it, really comprises about 85% of my day, with 10% of the remaining 15% being eating, and you have to work bathroom breaks in there, too...) a little web searching led me to a list of romance novels that involve paleontologists. I've always had this rage of jealousy deep down in my soulless soul at the thought that archaeologists got all the romantic glory. But apparently sometimes being wrong is awesome. Oh Happy Day! After cross-checking with my library's online catalog, I found that a local library actually had one of these books. Days just don't get better than this, so I immediately placed a hold. Granted, with a title like "Ravished" (by Amanda Quick), I wasn't sure how this was going to play out - perhaps the sketchy little website had lied to me. After all, if I were to write a paleo romance, it would be titled "Dirty Little Bone", "Old, Hard, and Dirty", "Hard as a Rock", or "Bones of Contention" at the very least. My fears were compounded when I went to pick up the book and it had a photograph of flowers on the front. Flowers? Really? You don't even find fossil where flowers grow...unless it's a prickly pear. However, I was slightly comforted by the fact that this was the Large Print version, and everyone knows large print versions always have plot-inappropriate images on the cover. So I let this slide; old people need to get their daily dose of bone, too, even if it's disguised behind flowers. It's like hiding their blood pressure pills in the pudding.

The online library summary provided no clue as to plot points, and I was far too lazy to actually look up the cover copy on Amazon, so needless to say I was surprised to find this alleged paleo smut to be a Regency. Although, with a title like "Ravished", OF COURSE it was a Regency. Every self-respecting historical is entitled "Ravished" or "Seduced", followed by the optional prepositional phrase. Seduced by a Duke, Ravished by a Viking, Seduced by a Ravishing Viking Duke - you get the picture. But the point of all of this is to say that I had no clue what I was going to get when I started reading "Ravished", but I was assuming that my emotional investment in the hope of paleo smut was going to result in nothing more than a spiteful tease by an archeologist-loving website. Boy was I wrong.

Harriet Pomeroy is a rector's daughter in (where I can only assume) southern England, and has a fossil problem. Most Regencies involve heroes and heroines with whoring problems, money problems, gambling problems, petticoat problems, and overbearing ass7wipe family problems (the 7 is silent), but few have fossil problems. (As an aside, though, I will note that I know several non-Regency people with a fossil problem, so they do exist outside Romancelandia.) And it came as a further surprise that it was the heroine who is the eccentric fossil hunter - though, upon reflection, in a historical this makes sense as the heroes are generally off being irresponsible, except when needed to save the day, and wouldn't be able to fit in fossil hunting amongst their alpha asshattery schemes. Regardless, female paleontologist = double rainbow. But Miss Pomeroy has a fossil problem that gets her into all sorts misguided adventures. And it gets her ravished. In a good way. By Gideon, who is less of an assclown than many romance heroes. While the plot held my attention (hell, the promise of a brooding alpha asshat and a hot sex scene at some point in a book can hold my attention these days), it was the "Romance Novel Guide to Paleontologists" that totally did it for me.

First we have the descriptions of paleontologists:

A fossil collector will resort to anything when he gets desperate.

And a warning about the dangers of other "professionals", which is surprisingly accurate given some of the stories I've heard over the years:

I can tell you, sir, that there are those who would steal my fossils and claim them as their own discoveries without so much as a flicker of remorse.

Coupled with delightful character references that perhaps explain why I'm still single:

He wondered if it was the lack of an inheritance that had kept her unwed or if her evident enthusiasm for old bones had put off potential suitors. Few gentlemen would be inspired to propose to a female who displayed more interest in fossils than in flirting.

Followed by an appropriate emphasis on the utter and total obsession with fossils. Upon first meeting her mother-in-law (a countess, no less), rather than engaging her in charming conversation, Harriet prattles on about her newly-found fossil tooth. As Gideon tells his mother,

And that is the end of all polite social discourse this evening unless you forcibly intervene, madam. Once my wife is launched on the subject of fossils, she is very difficult to deflect.

Shortly followed by:

There she goes again...You had better stop her quickly unless you want for the conversation to revert to fossils.

We learn the important lesson that digging up fossils predisposes a woman to deadly schemes and supernatural strength, and when using a fossil as a weapon against ravishing in a bad way, make sure it's a forgery.

Harriet ignored him. Her goal was the large stone sitting on top of the last cabinet in the aisle, the one that contained the fossil impression of a [fake: this was mentioned earlier] large, spiny fish. She prayed the stone would not be too heavy for her to lift.

Bryce [bad guy] never guessed her intention. It probably did not occur to him that a woman would resort to such a means of defending herself or that a woman would be strong enough to do so even if she tried.

But Harriet had been digging fossils out of solid rock for years. She had spent hours wielding a mallet and chisel. She knew she was no weakling.

She grabbed hold of the chunk of stone and hurled it down at Bryce's blond head just as he reached up to grasp her ankle.

We also learn how to use bone analogies in pillow talk. Just in case it wasn't obvious.
Says Gideon:

Perhaps you will show me just which portions of my anatomy you consider equal to or more impressive than the old bones you collect, madam.

Says Harriet:

I would have to say that I have rarely encountered fossil metatarsals of such size...And one seldom is lucky enough to find a tibia of such proportions...Very impressive...And other than the femur of an elephant I once had the privilege of examining, I have never seen such a magnificent thigh bone...Now we come to a most interesting discovery...

Says Gideon:

Do not tell me you have found fossils of that particular anatomical item.

Says Harriet:

No, but this is certainly as hard as any fossil I have ever dug out of stone.

Ladies and Gentlemen, that's how paleontologists do it. Lesson learned. The only thing I would add would be a reference to how I once drunkenly bid $300 on a walrus baculum during a live auction at a conference. To which the auctioneer commented, "Batteries not included".

Our last lesson is in how to title a scientific paper. Harriet entitles her paper:

"A Description of the Great Beast of Upper Biddleton" by Harriet, Lady St. Justin

And that settles it. I'm working "Great Beast" into my next paper title, and I am adopting "Lady" over the more traditional "Dr." as my required prefix. This includes in the classroom, in the mail room, and in everyday life. Especially at professional conferences. Even if I'm dancing on a table.

All in all, I really can't praise this book enough, or the experience of reading it, mocking tone aside. The scientific ideas are vague enough not to cause violent flinching to the paleo-knowledgeable, but are appropriate to the time with discussions on fossil succession, deep time (vs. the deluge), mountain building events (sadly "orogeny" was not used in any bedroom ...or cave... scenes), and extinction. The paleo romance I'm currently reading is a contemporary and I find myself talking back to the characters when they're wrong. 'Tis the curse of the well-informed.

Moral of the story: everyone should be ravished by "Ravished", impressive anatomical specimens and all.

I can't wait to post about this on Facebook

2010-12-21T09:25:00.005-07:00

It’s a sad state of affairs when my first reaction to a situation is “I can’t wait to post about this on Facebook”. Sad, but true.

Like everyone else, I’ve been joking about TSA and gropings at the airport; I’ve even dreamed about it. But in my dream, I had to take an SAT-style test to get through security. Sadly, I can’t even get felt up in my dreams. This test was hard as hell and I kept yelling belligerently at security, “I’m smarter than most people, how are people supposed to get through security??!!”. This just got me taken to my own room to be dealt with later. So it should have come as no surprise when I failed the screening test at the airport. I rarely set off metal detectors – more often than anything I get selected for random screenings. Because I’m an average looking, well educated, white girl who’s always polite to TSA, and that just screams “SKETCHY!”. Or perhaps I have that desperate look of someone who needs to be frisked. Sadly, the latter seems more likely.

My local airport has changed to the full-body X-ray. I don’t have a problem with this. I’m all for airport security and really just feel sorry for the people who have to look at those images. But I’m used to walking through with my ID and boarding pass in my back pocket. Apparently this ain’t cool no more (double negative aside). Fail #1. This transgression got me my first pat down. The TSA woman seemed disgruntled, but was completely professional and made sure I knew exactly what was coming and where (yeah yeah, bad choice of words. Get over it.). But because I was pulled to the side for additional screening, I had to have my hands schwabbed and run through the chemical analysis machine. I failed this test, too. And this is not the test you want to fail.

Failing this test gets you a one-way ticket to a private room where return-trip tickets are only issued upon re-test. Even when you know you’re completely innocent “Explosives positive” is NOT something you want to see associated with your name at the airport. A very official-looking female TSA employee came to escort me and my baggage (which I was not allowed to touch) to a private screening room. This was a first for me, and despite the questions in the back of my mind of what would happen if I failed additional tests, the excitement of the new experience brought about the initial thoughts of future Facebook posts. I do love the challenge of coming up with good, amusing Facebook updates.

I’m not gonna lie, when I first walked into the room I expected to see a chair with stirrups. But, alas, it was just a normal chair and the table didn’t have the delightful layer of paper covering it. The women who escorted me into the room – particularly the main pat down woman – were very jovial, polite, and professional. I honestly have no complaints about my experience behind the closed door. I was told in full detail where I was going to be touched, how, and when (which I think we can all agree on, is not always the case when behind closed doors). And, like I said, they were in quite good spirits. I was most uncomfortable about the fact that I didn’t get around to washing my jeans after 4 hours of dancing at the cowboy bar earlier in the week – I was hoping main pat down woman was mouth-breathing. But perhaps this is why I got shot down when I offered to take off my sweater if it made the process easier. Alas.

Everyone and everything got schwabbed again, and apparently this time I passed the test! I always did rely on the curve on chemistry tests. I was told I could collect my belongings and was wished a safe and good flight. I felt that we parted as friends with none of the typical post-frisking awkwardness.

Additionally, I felt that main pat down woman and I really hit it off. I had The A-Team movie in my bag, and she saw it when she was wiping down for chemicals. She hadn’t seen the movie yet and asked how it was. I just can’t say enough good things about any movie that involves Bradley Cooper without his shirt on. Throw in Liam Neeson, and I’m a happy happy girl. She more than agreed with me on both accounts and I’m pretty sure she’ll be renting it tonight. In return, she recommended Unstoppable. I had to refrain from claiming Chris Pine as the future father of my Space Babies. I had already gushed over several actors and didn’t want to come off as too Hollywood stalkerish. I mean, who does? She also countered my Bradley Cooper shirtless love with a Marc Whalberg shirtless love and recommended The Fighter. I had hesitations about this one because I can’t stand Christian Bale. American Psycho ruined him for me, and he’s done nothing to redeem his creepiness since then. Despite her Marky Mark adoration (at which point I should mention that we both enjoyed Date Night), main pat down woman confessed that she couldn’t stand Christian Bale either and was very surprised she liked the movie. We found yet another thing in common in our dislike of Bale. By now back up TSA woman had come back in with the chemical test good news, and we filled her in on the conversation. She didn’t understand our mutual dislike of Christian Bail, so I had to explain that he has freaky sharp vampire teeth. And American Psycho. Main pat down woman and I bonded again, as she wholeheartedly seconded my analysis. At this point, I felt that main pat down woman and I could have been really good friends and I was sad to see our relationship end as I would have loved to hang out with her and maybe watch a movie. I wanted to ask if we could stay in touch, but I didn’t want to sound too clingy.

Upon leaving, I felt like I had lost a friend, but at least I had a Facebook status update, which is what’s really important. Luckily my airport has free WiFi, so I could update Facebook as soon as I got to my gate. Followed immediately by Twitter.

If in doubt, season the shit out of it

2010-12-07T09:31:00.014-07:00

Last night my culinary standards sank below the standards of drunk frat boys. A proud moment in my grad student career.

Upon getting home last night I realized I had nothing to make for dinner. I have no excuse for this other than pure laziness, seeing that it's the beginning of the month so I recently got paid. I clearly can't blame this on End-Of-The-Month syndrome where I'm down to pennies in my bank account and I'm saving the last few dollars available on my credit card for something important. Like beer. But then I've never claimed to not be the laziest person I know. By the time I got home I had already had to fight the urge to slaughter a pedestrian and eat him, so I was ready to get dinner started. I commenced rummaging through my fridge and pantry. Here's what I found:

- Frozen ground turkey
- Carrots
- Pearl onions
- Garlic
- A can a of peas
- Baby spinach
- Tomato sauce
- Leftover "Garden Vegetable" pasta sauce
- Penne pasta

It seemed like I could make something out of that. I was really hoping I still had a can of cream of mushroom soup (in my head this would have TOTALLY saved the day - cream of mushroom (or chicken) soup makes any dish magical), but, alas, I only found Bean with Bacon soup, and that didn't sound like it would work out very well (which seems ironic now that I could have just had soup and forgone this exercise in creating vomitous masses). So I went with what I had and started getting creative.

Let me first of all say that I consider myself a pretty good cook, but there's a reason I've never gotten into creative writing or pretty much any form of art. Arm-waving? Sure I can handle that sort of invention, but creating something out of nothing isn't really my thing. But I was hungry, so I gave it a shot.

Firstly, I have no clue where the turkey came from. It apparently isn't my roommate's and I've never bought ground turkey in my life. It had a May expiration date (it was frozen, it keeps, right?), so I guess it couldn't have been her's since she moved in in September. Come to think of it, I never checked the May of which year it expired... Regardless, if it was left in the freezer, it's fair game. So the turkey was thawed and then browned in a pan. I wanted to soften the carrots, so I put them in the pan early with with turkey. It was only then that I realized the carrots needed to be high-graded seeing as some of the specimens were a color that could no longer be described as orange. So I took the carrots that still looked edible on the outside and stood behind my theory that "It'll cook out" and threw them into the pan. [Note: I deliberately use the word "theory" as I feel like I've tested this hypothesis enough times without suffering death that it now moves on to theory.] Don't worry, the rest of the carrots got tossed out, as well as the oozing tomatoes I found in the produce drawer of my fridge.

I'm proud to say that the onions and garlic were in no way questionable. Not a single sprout. So those got chopped up and thrown in the pan.

While rummaging around looking for the can of Cream of Mushroom soup I was convinced I had beneath my 8 bags of powdered sugar, rice (yet another possible, if boring, option I could have gone with after all), and coconut, I had found a can of peas. The first thing I noticed about these peas were that they were in an Albertsons can. That's all well and good, except for the fact that I haven't seen an Albertsons since I moved from Montana. 4.5 years ago. So I can only guess how old the peas are... Well, despite the dubious age of the peas (see a theme here?), they smelled fine. They're in a can after all! So I added some to the pan once again figuring anything bad will just cook out. Of course it wasn't until later that I realized I had a >4.5 year old can of peas because I really just don't like peas. Alas, if only that were the greatest of my problems...

What should have come next was the question: What was I actually making? Ok, maybe it should have come first. But it DEFINITELY should have come before I committed to a liquid substance. In retrospect, I should have gone with a stir-fry theme. In fact, while writing this, it sounds like I'm making a stir-fry. But no, I had to be all rash and shit and open the can of tomato sauce rather than just pouring in some soy sauce. Damnit. So tomato sauce goes in. Unfortunately I don't feel like this adds enough liquidy substance to the pan, so I add what was in the bottom of the pasta sauce jar. And have no fear, I did check for fuzz in the jar before adding it. And the chucks were supposed to be there. C'mon, do I seem that stupid? Actually, don't answer that.

Lastly I added some salt, pepper, rosemary, and savory. Because if in doubt, season the shit out of it.

I then put it over some pasta and attempted to consume it. Yes, it looks pretty identical to dog vomit (see picture), but it did taste better than I imagine dog vomit tasting like. Actually it didn't taste half bad (my roommate was bold enough to try it and confirms my assessment), but just looking at it turned my stomach. I guess the important thing is that I'm still alive. And I brought leftovers for lunch!

Perhaps this should be my new diet scheme, because just thinking about having to eat it makes me lose my apatite. And I also have a new understanding why undergrads always seem to keep Ramen in their cupboards...

Slytherin' through the zombie apocalypse

2010-11-29T12:39:00.008-07:00

I have noticed that the amount of time I'm in grad school correlates with certain trends in the results of social media quizzes, like those found on Facebook. The most notable trends include: the longer I am a grad student, (1) the greater the chance to be sorted into Slytherin House, and (2) the longer I will survive in a zombie apocalypse. I guess grad school is paying off after all!

As I approach the 7.5 years of grad school mark, I can now pride myself on having apparently learned the skills needed for post-apocalyptic domination - whether it be apocalypse via zombies, noseless wizards, all-seeing eyes on a pedestal next to a mountain of doom, or communists. (Yes, I can now confidently say I would weather a "Red Dawn" situation well.) There are many factors that push you over the line between For the Greater Good and burning a personal beeper into a minion's flesh, between being braincandy and the ultimate deliverer of zombie asskickery, and I think the most significant is your use of 5 year olds. Are you willing to use a 5 year old as a weapon? And when does using a 5 year old as a weapon become a first choice versus a last case scenario? For many these are tough questions, but the zombie apocalypse takes natural selection to a new level - and many would argue rightfully so - making them important questions that need to be considered. The souless venture of grad school prepares you to make these important decisions; decisions that could possible alter the fate of the human race. A decision that now seems simple: "Bring on the 5 year olds, I don't want to waste ammo."

How about you? Would you have your brain sucked from above your yellow and black scarf-wrapped neck, or be a master of 5 year old-wielding badassness? Maybe you should go to grad school to figure it out.

As for me, I might have to reconsider my bitterness towards my poor life decisions. Perhaps grad school really is about finding yourself. Or at least what you would do if you found yourself surrounded by zombies with nothing but an ice axe.

The one shamrock to rule them all

2010-11-08T14:48:00.013-07:00

When I passed my comprehensive exams in 2009, my advisor gave me a purple shamrock. It wasn't that it was a luck thing, it was mostly that it was probably the closest plant she could find to hot pink. For the most part, she supports my decision to be out of the closet about my love of hot pink (though she doesn't necessarily support me when I argue for hot pink archival storage mediums, but otherwise, she indulges me). But in addition to it's near-pink awesomeness, I have discovered that this plant has magical powers of prediction.

Up until this point in my life, I have failed to keep any plant alive for a sustained amount of time. I generally kill mint within a week or two, and I have been told that mint is like a weed and generally very hard to kill. I'm simply a horticultural failure. (It goes without saying that I'm also a failure at fish since they seem to prefer suicide over living with me.) So when my advisor told me that shamrocks can be high-maintenance (as in I have to water it and keep it's temperature moderated - things I don't even do well for myself), I figured this wasn't going to bode well for my innocent little purplish Shammy the Shamrock.

But surprisingly, for months and months - over a year, in fact - my shamrock thrived. We had some unfortunate experiments with trying to have Shammy live outside and lessons in "What happens when I don't water you", but he's always bounced back. And eventually I started taking better care of him.

Then something sad happened at the end of the spring: Shammy started to die. His little shamrocky shamrock things pulled out of the soil and no new ones popped up. One new shamrocky thing did sprout at one point, but didn't last for long. I was heart broken; Shammy seemed dead. And, rather suspiciously, so did my dissertation. As soon as Shammy's shamrocky fronds respirated their last breath of carbon dioxide, all progress on my dissertation halted. I didn't recognize this correlation at first, it wasn't until the fall that I saw the direct connection between Shammy's health and the health of my dissertation. Meanwhile, I fell into my smut, crotch rocket, and 4x4 ridden mid-dissertation crisis. See ya, dissertation!

But as is the academic cycle, conference season rolled around and I was mercilessly forced to say an emotional (and temporary...I hope) goodbye to my beloved smut and figure out how to do science again. As I got my act together and started to read articles, put together presentations, remember how to count, and learn how to pronounce big words again, Shammy started blooming. One morning I woke up and Shammy was popping up little shamrocky frondy things! And now that conference season is over, and I can focus on my dissertation again, a new frondy thing has sprouted. I have hope of actually graduating one day again.

Empirical evidence obviously indicates that Shammy really is the Paul the Octopus of my dissertation.

And now I live every day in fear he's going to die.

Assless Chaps. Just Sayin'...

2010-09-30T12:26:00.003-06:00

With as many romance novels there are about cowboys, and as swoontastic as covers can get, you'd think there'd be more assless chaps in smut.

Just sayin'.

The Mid-Dissertation Crisis

2010-09-02T20:38:00.006-06:00

I gotta admit, I didn't see this one coming. In April I was psyched for this summer - I had had a productive winter and spring and I was going to get SO much done by the time September rolled around. It was my first summer in 9 years without doing fieldwork - which killed a bit of my soul - but I was going to be uber productive in the lab to make up for not getting to play in the dirt and have an excuse for not showering regularly. Come September 1, I have nothing to show for myself except a few hundred more dollars in debt and the unsurity of when I had last showered. How does that even happen when I've cut back on my drinking? At least I think I have...

As August wrapped up with the realization I hadn't worked on my dissertation since May, I sounded my barbaric "WTF" over the rooftops of the world. How have I done the bare minimum of work - 20 hours a week - to get paid and done nothing on my dissertation or several other projects in the other 20 hour MINIMUM I should be allowing for research? This is a new low in which I don't think even I can find pride. I've hit bouts of burnout before, I've spent far too much time reading romance novels during the summer, but something felt different about this. After designing three cars online (a Silverado, Xterra, and Wrangler), contemplating a tattoo, and comparative shopping for a motorcycle I realized I've reached my mid-dissertation crisis. I've also decided I'm getting a hesperornithiform tattoo when I defend, and a dark gray Siverado crew cab pick-up and a Kawasaki Ninja when I graduate.

And might I just add: NOT cool, Library, for this free borrowing of books nonsense. You're enabling my smut habit.

Now I also have to admit that I don't know what to do about this crisis. But if I want to be able to afford my new pick-up and bike, I sure as hell have to get my butt in gear so I can graduate, get a job, and move into a higher tax bracket. Or actually get out and interact with humans so I can meet a sugar daddy...

One week without

2010-07-16T14:26:00.002-06:00

I would argue that most professional graduate students out there, especially by the time they hit year 3 or 4 of graduate work, would agree that prolonged ventures in grad school kill a bit of your soul. That’s why I call all of my projects my little horcruxes. Like any graduate student out there that has been in grad school so long they have indeed relinquished part of their soul, alcohol is a good friend. I’m in no way saying that we’re all hard-core alcoholics; I’m not even saying that I am; but we all get by with a little help from our friends. And sometimes our friends are wrapped in Jack Daniels, Jose Cuervo, PBR, or <$10 bottle of wine labels. Lately, my preferences have moved to Balvenie, Oban, McCallums, and Hendricks labels, but habits I can’t monetarily support is the subject of a separate post.

Recently, I took a group of teenagers camping and rafting. Understandably so, it was an alcohol-free trip. I was pretty confident in my ability to handle myself without a drink for a week, though I had never done it while also being around 11 teenagers. As another precaution to ensure appropriateness around kids, I also refrained from taking any smut along. Now, I’ve been out of the closest for a while now about my love for romance novels, especially during the summer. I don’t even get embarrassed when I have a guy ringing up my smut-tastic purchase at the bookstore or feel like I need to slip in a Churchill biography or collection of scientific essays to distract them (though self-checkout at the library is an amazing thing for those shy of their smut habit). However, I just didn’t feel that it would be an appropriate topic for conversation if a kid saw what I was reading. Consequently, I took book that had graced the best sellers list for a while this year…and I’m still not really sure what it’s about.

The last days of any period of self-denial are the toughest. It’s why when I was doing fieldwork in the Arctic a few years back and we were living on dehydrated food (plus something that could only be termed as “meat stick” along with crappy Kraft cheese by the kilo, which hardly qualify as food), we weren’t allowed to talk about real food until at least 2/3 of the way through the trip. The second to last night on this last trip was trying on the Beer-O-Meter; after all, I hadn’t been on a river without beer since high school. But the last night is what took me by surprise. I missed smut. Horribly. And this is saying a lot since I have notoriously horrible taste in romance novels. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying anything on the order of Smut > Alcohol, but…a girl’s gotta get her fix.

And just for the record, I did buy beer before I bought smut upon my return.

Lastly, here’s a project I deeply lament not being a part of: "Smart Bitches Trashy Books". After all, a good beach read is nothing to be ashamed of - even in higher education. It's why the tower is off-white and not pure white.

Science is delicious

2010-06-10T10:34:00.008-06:00

I think it's an important aspect of those doing research in the biological sciences to eat their study group. Take the inspired, wholly accurate Onion article for example: New, Delicious Species Discovered. Granted, this is easier and and more palatable for some scientists than others. And to the others, I say: suck it up, princesses. Organismal biologists have it pretty easy - every study has it's causalities than would likely be delicious on the grill, sauteed, or with a white wine sauce. For those studying viruses, would they not work harder to find cures and treatments if they were to ingest the samples in their petri dishes? And do those studying human anatomy and physiology really not get curious? I mean, I'm not going to rush off to join the Korowai tribe or hope for a plane crash in the Andes, but I'm honest enough to admit that I'm curious.

Now, many would say I have it easy since I study birds, but it's not a smooth sailing as one would think. Yeah, duck and geese are easy to get and are best served with a cranberry or orange sauce and paired with a mellow red wine. I prefer a pino noir or chianti. However, my other study groups are not so easy to get my hands on - penguins and auks. Unfortunately, all the specimens I have in my possession arrived fleshless. Well, not that unfortunate since I don't really do flesh - thank goodness for dermestid beetles. And due to the Antarctic Treaty and Antarctic Conservation Act, there's no chance of penguins showing up in markets and restaurants in the U.S. anytime soon. Bastards. There are reports of penguin-eating before they became contraband. One source describes penguin meat as "If it's possible to imagine a piece of beef, odiferous cod fish and a canvas-backed duck roasted together in a pot, with blood and cod-liver oil for sauce, the illustration would be complete". Nothing a little BBQ sauce wouldn't take care of. I've also read that penguin tastes rather like seal. I've had seal, which makes me think that perhaps I shouldn't be so eager to taste penguin after all. But I wonder if their eggs taste fishy, too....

I don't know if there's any legislature against eating auks (puffins, murres/guillemots, auklets, ect.), but I'm guessing not based on the results from googling "eating puffins" and "what do puffins taste like". When I was in the Arctic in 2007, there weren't any in the area to sample, or buy off the Inuits, and I've never been to other places within their habitat. I wonder if they ship them from Maine like lobsters... I wonder if this could be a business opportunity for me... But, to help appease my curiosity until fleshy specimens become available, I can rely on a delight I discovered (or possibly re-discovered) on a camping trip last week: Puffins cereal. And let me just say, peanut butter flavored Puffins...omg, I'm addicted. I was not above shamelessly high-grading the food from the 7th graders we were leading on the trip in the name of making sure I got the Puffins. They are one of my study animals after all.

And my final study group are fossil birds. These are a lot harder to find a suitable way to consume. After spending years cleaning off microvertebrate fossils in the field by putting them in my mouth to remove the dirt, I find that I'm not too interested in eating fossils in the traditional manner. There are always rumors of explorers, scientists, and commoners eating frozen mammoths, leading to various gastrointestinal catastrophes, but the truth behind these wives' tails are unsubstantiated. However, I spend a remarkable amount of time thinking about all the studies on delicious and exotic animals out there, as well as considering what my fossil birds tasted like. In fact, I have a conference talk already prepared discussing which wines to pair with my fossil birds. I've provided a little teaser. The reports of soft tissue being found in fossils gives me hope, though. Perhaps if I boil them long enough...

But in reality, this is pretty much just a long ad for Puffins cereal. The cereal of ornithologists.

Avain leprosy: The next pandemic

2010-02-14T19:45:00.004-07:00

I recently came into the possession of 40 freshly plucked Branta canadensis and Anas platyrhynchos legs. To the layperson, those are Canada geese and mallards, respectively, but I like using the scientific names because I think it makes me sound like a real scientist...until my office mate points out that I pronounced the name wrong, and I just help confirm his low opinion of the intellect of Southerners. At least in writing, I'm safe (as long as I cut and paste from a reliable source so the names are spelled correctly). I say "freshly plucked" since the legs were FedExed to me from my mom's friend's husband just after shooting them on a hunting trip the weekend before. Who knew you can just FedEx freshly shot body parts? It seems like someone should be checking into this kind of thing, or at least including it in an episode of CSI. But after being FedExed cross country in ziploc bags in a Tupperware cake carrier without ice, lets just say that "fresh" was no longer an accurate adjective. And after leaving them in my office overnight, which has a tendency to get warm, to baste in their own bloody juices, let's just say that "fresh" was even more of a stretch... and it's good thing my office has a window that opens.

For some inconceivable reason, my advisor and the collections manager forbade me to open the bags and play with the legs in the paleo labs. Instead, I unleashed my odoriferous wrath on the zoology department, who are apparently used to rotting flesh. After gearing up in gloves, mask, and lab coat in case there was a Shamu-type splash zone (yeah, I don't do flesh), I braved the bags juicy juicy bird legs. I should perhaps have mentioned before now that my research involves comparing the internal structure of fossil and modern bird leg bones - I don't just randomly have married men send me dead bird parts. (Though would it really be infidelity if they did?) Upon opening these bags of festering juiciness, I discover that I was just sent the feet - tarsometatarsi down. My research focuses on the femora and tibiotarsi - the upper and lower leg bones. Essentially, I was sent nothing I could use for my dissertation.

So the next natural question was what to do with 40 rotting bird legs. Well, you see, my office has a balcony outside the windows that you can get to through the kitchen next door. Typically this balcony is just used by me for reading or lunching when I feel a case of Rickets coming on, but, could conceivably be used for things like shooting champagne corks at undergrads. Not that I'd ever do anything like that. And while thinking about things that I would never do on the balcony that would also imply that I drink champagne in my office, I spawned a wonderful solution for anyone with extra rotting bird legs in their office. Avian leprosy. You hear about avian flu, swine flu, hoof-in-mouth, but nothing about avian leprosy - just Google "avian leprosy" or "bird leprosy", and all you get are hits from blogspot, livejournal, etc. (not that those aren't respectable scientific and journalism outlets....I mean, just look at my blog). My idea is a fabulous social experiment by testing the mindset "ignorance is bliss". Because they've never heard of it, no one fears avian leprosy. We'll see about that. Using the tactical position of the balcony, I would lob rotten bird legs at passersby. This would be followed up with a public posting on the threat of avian leprosy (I could use this blog, but I wouldn't want to overwhelm the world, knowing what a mass media outlet this is), perhaps even a scientific report showing photos of up to 40 disarticulated bird legs . Then I would just sit back and sip champagne on the balcony watching the panic spread. Honestly, I think it'd do a lot to get people's minds off the economy. So it'd really be a benefit to society.

The Sexual Selection of Cankles

2010-01-20T17:01:00.002-07:00

Quite unexpectedly, I have found myself a fancier of flightless birds. Perhaps this comes from doing my dissertation on flightless birds. Perhaps I have always had a fetish for feathery cloacas incapable of flight that has only recently been embraced. Perhaps they're the same thing. But as a flightless avian cloaca lover, I read a lot about birds. I have recently come across the word "caruncle". It seems unlikely that I haven't run across this piece of anatomical awesomeness before, but then I'm blonde and sometimes it take a few times for something to stick. In general, a caruncle is a fleshy outgrowth; in birds, the caruncle is the wattle - the fleshy outgrowth on the neck, throat, or below the eye. Though, upon discovering this word "caruncle", I now refuse to use the inferior term "wattle". Turkeys, chickens, and cassowaries are choice examples of birds with caruncles. while nothing will ever surpass my love of the word "cloaca" (and who doesn't love a universal hole?), "caruncle" now comes in a close second.

Not only are fleshy protuberances awesome, but "caruncle" reminds me of the word "cankle", another favorite. And it's rather fitting - are cankles really anything more than fleshy outgrowths? Mine aren't. That being said, it's upsetting that cankles have come to have such derogatory connotations. For example:

http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=cankle&defid=2633
http://i92.photobucket.com/albums/l15/ffivnik8/CANKLES.jpg
And my personal favorite: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MpIgvTxSgmk (cankle reference at 27 seconds)

And I think it benefits society to note that while googling for links, I came across this little gem: Gold's Gym has launched a "Say No To Cankles" campaign and even a Cankles Awareness Month. http://saynotocankles.com/. Thank you, Internet. And thank you, Gold's Gym for doing your part for raising cankle awareness. That's just one step closer to social acceptance.

Because caruncles and cankles are both fleshy growths and have so many letters in common, there's no denying that they could have much more in common. In fact, I propose that cankles are a human analog for the avian caruncle. Parsimony and actual logic be damned! Consequently, it's important to point out that the caruncle is used for sexual selection in many birds (though I'm not yet suggesting that cankles have erectile tissue like many avian caruncles do). In birds, the larger the caruncle, the more dominant the male. So, the next obvious step is that humans need to stop the mocking of cankles and start considering them when selecting mates. Gold's Gym even acknowledges that there are hereditary reasons (i.e., genetic controls) for cankles, implying that cankles are susceptible to natural and sexual selection. No, that's not just the steroids talking. Cankles are inadvertently selected in drunken hookups (as referenced in the energy drink video above) that result in pregnancy. It's time for cankles to step out of the drunken haze of bad decisions and take the sober limelight. In fact, it's past time sexual selection takes the forefront in human evolution. With advances in modern medicine saving people from their own stupidity, it may be all we have left.

Trains with British Accents

2009-10-13T20:35:00.010-06:00

It's no secret that I have a masochistic fascination with train travel - see my December posts on my attempt to take the train home for Christmas for reference. I can make my mother hang up on me by merely mentioning that I'm taking the train home for Christmas again; my father gladly aids and abets. In my plans (as I tell my mother), this year I'm taking the train west to California, where I can then take a Southern route to Atlanta, rather than having to go to Chicago, the only direction trains go from Denver. I figure this way I'll run into less bad weather (in case you missed my Christmas train adventures, metal tracks contract when they're cold), which I thought would make my mother happy. My father and I have now progressed in our machinations to him flying to California to meet me, and then we'll take the train home together from San Francisco. So, if this winter is as bad as they're predicting, my dad and I will be spending Christmas in El Paso. My mother's silence is filled with anger.

While I was in England I took the opportunity to take the train from Bristol to Birmingham. Granted, it was just a two hour trip, but nowhere in England is actually more than a few hours away (unless you're trying to drive, where upon you realize that their roads don't go anywhere useful and they don't have road signs telling you where you are or where you're going). Meanwhile, I've always heard that trains actually work in England/Europe, and I was ready to test this hypothesis.

Firstly, I found the train situation very confusing – the trains don’t have numbers like planes and US trains, they have final destinations and departure times. Birmingham is not the end-of-the-line for any train. After a week of drinking and very little sleep, this was quite daunting. There also weren’t any employees on the platform to point clueless Americans in the right direction. Luckily I happen to glance my destination on the list of stops for the Edinburgh train, so I cast my dice and got on that train. On the platform I was instantly faced with the painful realization that neither the outside or inside of my train looked like the Hogwarts Express, and I died a little inside. All British trains should look like the Hogwarts Express by principle - have they no national pride? The cars on the train also aren’t labeled, and all I had was a seat number, so I went in and out of several cars before I found that some man was sitting in my seat – at that point I figured it was just a free-for-all. Sitting on the train in the station I realized no one had yet checked my ticket; apparently I didn't need to buy a ticket after all and England is run on the honor system. Excuse me, honour system. I could have just gotten on any train I had wanted to without ever buying a ticket, in fact I seriously contemplated staying on the train and just continuing to Scotland. I could have gotten better prices on Scotch there. However, after a few stops someone finally came around to check tickets, so I guess I would have been busted…or could have just hidden in the bathroom. Sometimes it's just too easy it's not even worth it.

On the train, I was sitting across from an old man who didn’t realize I couldn’t hear him if I had headphones on and started drinking Guinness at 10:30am. What can I say, I liked him...even if we didn't understand each other very well. But towards the end of my trip he started telling me that we were taking an unplanned detour around the city and were at least an hour behind schedule. I immediately lost all faith in the British rail system and considered all trains a failed way of travel. I also started texting my friend meeting me in Birmingham that I was going to be late. Five minutes later we pulled into the station on time. I regained my faith in non-American trains as an acceptable way to travel, but learned to never trust people with accents.

Running around like The Hoff on purpose

2009-10-06T19:11:00.002-06:00

I recently visited England on a combined business and pleasure trip, and took delight in many of the unique features, deliciousnesses, idiosyncrasies, and pure crazy of a foreign culture. Pubs are fantastic. I've always loved them in the States, and in England (shockingly) there are even more of them. Cask ales aren't my favorite, but I always enjoy trying new beers; and the ciders are delicious. Additionally, in the north, they actually serve their beer at a respectable temperature. Cream Tea is to die for. I first thought this was tea with cream. What's so exciting about that? But no, cream tea is crack. It's a scone smothered in jam and clotted cream. It's crack. After eating this you immediately feel like you're about to vomit, you then proceed to have a minor heart attack (or massive, if you've already had a scone that day...not that I would have three scones in one day or anything), and wake up the next morning ready for another. On the less tasty side, The British have a love of coins that I don't get. If there's anything more useless than a pence coin, it's a two pence coin. Why two pence? I think the sagging pants trend started in England as a result of all the coins they have to carry around. If the U.S. ever produces a two cent coin, I'm defecting to Argentina. Good for them, but it's not for me. However, the Brits have some passions that are completely unforgivable.

The Hoff. It's just wrong. My British friend with whom I was staying in England for the vacation portion of my trip is obsessed with The Hoff. She had a picture of him hanging in her bathroom. I had to pee with my eyes closed. Prior to visiting England, I thought her obsession was just because she was a freak, but apparently it goes frighteningly deeper than that. The British love David Hasselhoff. He's constantly talked about on the radio. I heard several interviews with him on BBC radio, and they talk about him all the time even when he's not being interviewed. Apparently every topic can be related to The Hoff. And I think all TV channels are under contract to show constant airings of America's Got Talent and Meet the Hasselhoffs. I'm getting ill just thinking about it.

But, what's to be expected with a country that produces this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=p2Gh1U14RZA. British music at its best. I heard this song in England and it got stuck in my head; who knew the video was going to be the highlight of my life. The first time I heard the song the DJs were just playing snippets because they thought the lyrics were "like a cow on purpose", rather than clown. So they would play the refrain and the shout "COW" over the the "clown" lyric. Craziness. Craziness that was stuck in my head for 5 days straight. I can't wait for a video of The Hoff karaoking the song to surface on youtube.

Sniffing dead moles and other childhood habits

2009-07-31T12:22:00.005-06:00

So I like to smell things – flowers as I’m walking down the street or through the woods, the aroma of yummies in the oven, the air after a spring rain, rubber cement, whiteout … all the normal things. Some people tell me I have a problem, but I don’t feel that just because I make mistakes on purpose so I can white them out means I have a problem. I just really enjoy delectable smells, which happens to include lots of office and lab supplies. And before you really start to judge me, I’d just like to clarify that I am NOT a paste eater; some things are just wrong.

I think it goes without saying that this is in no way my fault. I didn’t choose to be “That Girl” who automatically smells the sharpie or whiteboard marker every time she takes the cap off. I don’t really even like the smell of sharpies and white board markers, they make me a little queasy. But when I started the first grade, the first thing I was given to put in my desk was a set of Mr. Sketch markers. Now these markers may be the best things ever invented, but they are also the root of my odor fixation. Who gives a 6 year old a set of 12 scented markers – which, as being scented in the first place, are obviously supposed to be sniffed – and doesn’t expect them to graduate from first grade without a huffing problem? And, at the same time, we’re taking art classes that involve lots of gluing. Now at my school, we didn’t use that pansy Elmer’s nonsense; we used the real stuff – rubber cement. Rubber cement is quite possibly still my favorite smell, and it’s no wonder to me why you get carded when you try to buy it these days. It’s like getting mad at people for trying to get rid of prairie dogs – you can’t put a Whack-a-Mole game in every Chuck E Cheese’s, Showbiz Pizza, and arcade across the country, and not expect people to want to whack prairie dogs in any way possible. It’s conditioned into our being at a young age. But as for me, Mr. Sketch smells way better than whacked prairie dog.

Train Adventure Post 3: December 22, 2008 [1:35pm]

2008-12-22T20:54:00.000-07:00

I am sitting in the Midway Airport. When my train pulled in after 10:00pm last night (nearly 24 hours after leaving Denver), I had clearly missed my D.C. train, which left at 7:05pm from Chicago. They wouldn’t even let me go to New Orleans; New Orleans sounds closer than Chicago, and like a better city in which to be stranded. I’m stuck in Chicago without a coat. So Amtrak decides to put me up in a hotel, give me cash for cab fare and food, and re-book me on the 7:05pm train to D.C. the next day. I can’t seem to figure out why Amtrak isn’t making money. Dozens of other disillusioned train riders and myself congregate in The Chicago Inn lobby, only to find that their bar is closed. What kind of hotel is this? When drinking’s not an option, I might as well sleep.

Come morning my phone ringing wakes me up; right on cue, my mother is looking for options to get me home. With my current ticket, I get home the morning of the 24th, rather than the 23rd. Normally this wouldn’t be THAT much of a problem, but I’m supposed to be hosting a part at my house on the night of the 23rd. Seems kinda awkward if I’m not there. As it turns out, one-way tickets from Midway this afternoon are quite cheap. While I’m trying to decide if I would feel like a pampered, wussy, sell-out if I fly the rest of the way home, another call comes through on my cell phone. Berkeley Physicist is calling to see what happened to the rest of my trip. [At this point I should note that he’s not actually an overboard stalker, we actually exchanged contact information after bonding over bitching about grad school, advisors, research projects, and funding situations.] As it turns out, his train to New York is running 6 hours late already. Decision made. Book me, mamma!

Not knowing what the day will hold, I begin my tour of the city. First stop Union Station. In Denver I had checked my main luggage through to Atlanta – time to find out where my clothes are. As it turns out, they’re in the station and will be waiting for me at baggage claim. What helpful people. Then I ask about a ticket refund. They’d be happy to fully refund the last two legs of my ticket. Really, why ISN’T Amtrak making money? I was comforted to find out that the majority of the other people in line around me had worse stories than I did – at least my trip (to this point, and I’m probably jinxing myself here) didn’t involve one or more busses. With luggage in tow, I hop a cab to Midway.

Upon arriving at Midway, I am firm in my belief that riding in cabs in Chicago is by far the most dangerous thing I have ever done. One cab actually tried to drive away when I was only half way out of the cab – I have the bruise to prove it. After tipping well in homage to my arrival anywhere not in an ambulance, I check in for my flight. In my search for coffee to ward off my caffeine headache, I run into another paleontologist – what a small world. As it turns out, his travel plans are proceeding just as he had planned them; I’m in awe. After an enjoyable few hours of conversation to mask our internal struggles to remember if we’re friends on Facebook, its time to part ways as his flight is boarding. I return to my gate to face my next adventure.

Train Adventure Post 2: December 21, 2008 [4:20pm]

2008-12-22T20:53:00.000-07:00

After hearing an announcement over the speakers that we had stopped during the night for a broken rail and were running even further behind schedule, I figured I had slept – I have no memory of stopping. At 8am Central Time, less than 10 hours after leaving Denver, we are running 3.5 hours late – my layover in Chicago is only 3 hours. Awesome. My seat neighbor turned out to be a morning chatter and wanted to know all about my night’s sleep and how I was feeling. She at least seemed to be in a good enough mood to indicate that I didn’t snore in her ear all night, so that was a relief. I went to search for coffee and ended up in the dining car having a seated breakfast. This was not my intention, but was pleasantly surprised to find that they served grits. Of course, I guess it’s not THAT unexpected to have a corn product in Nebraska.

I didn’t hang out with the puppies in the morning, but I did run across them on occasion as they strayed from car to car. The one thing I did notice is that the puppy called Flowers found a gal-pal. Another chick in the Denver station was sitting in our area and was chatting with us as we waited for our train. I think she re-charged her phone three times while we were waiting. I’m just going to say that I called it last night in the lounge car, because this morning as I was making my way back to my car from breakfast, Flowers and Safeway Chick (she works at Safeway) were cuddled up in neighboring seats. However, according to Microwave, they did not make use of the larger changing room/bathroom on the lower level of the car.

Writing this in retrospect after knowing that I’m going miss my connection in Chicago, I will say that the ONE cool thing about the train is the ability to meet different people. Other than the puppies I met in the Denver station, I have met a variety of other travelers including a Boulder family (sadly the youngest son had left his suitcase of stuffed animals at home), a physicist researching at Berkeley, a person “in trade” from the Bay Area whom it took me half of lunch to figure out if he was male or female, a couple from the Denver area in which the boyfriend is getting a degree in earth sciences, and a few international students with whom I would love to vent about the fall of the American rail system. And I must say that I was quite proud to be able to identify Ohio on a US map – I’m not sure I would have been able to do this 3 months ago – but with the states color-coded and Cleveland staring me in the face, I succeeded!

And now, for the sake of my sanity, I think I need to stop writing before this turns into a bitchfest, as we sit stopped on the tracks, 5 hours behind schedule, behind a freight train, with rail work ahead (metal contracts when its cold? no shit?). I’m going to now continue watching Mamma Mia! with the hopes that Pierce Brosnan singing will make me giggle.

Train Adventure Post 1: December 20, 2008 [11:46pm]

2008-12-22T20:52:00.000-07:00

So I had been warned that trains never run on time; and apparently these people who warned me didn’t lie. Have a cookie. My train was supposed to leave at 8:10pm; two hours later, I was still in Denver’s Union Station. At first I found this highly annoying, but then I started interacting with the people around me. Most notable were three guys I started talking to (and with whom I am now sitting with in the lounge car on the train) – I believe their names are Flowers, T-bone, and Microwave. Or at least something very close. They go to Wyoming Tech, a school I was not aware existed, and seem to want nothing more than to pretend they’re cowboys while admitting that they’re not cowboys. They’re from Illinois and ride lawnmowers. I must admit is was very odd to hang out with an 18, 19, and 20 year old, considering I spend most of my time at school making fun of undergrads. They definitely lived up to my expectations in terms of their attempts at dirty jokes, texting everyone in their cell phones, and fantasizing about beer. Resultantly, the first thing I did when I got on the train was to buy a beer for myself and drink it very slowly and enjoyable in front of them. I then allowed Microwave to drink my backwash. But they were cute little puppies.

One would think that boarding a train would be a boring process; this is true, up to the point that security is called to handle a belligerent passenger. I am proud to say that this passenger was not I. There was one noteworthy guy in a camo hat who was making the rounds in the Denver train station. He was odiferously drunk and rumor had it he had been there for two days. Everyone knew him by the time our train arrived. After causing a minor skirmish on the platform, Camo Hat settled down, only to be replaced by a large belligerent asshole, whom it was hard to identify as drunk or not – it could have gone either way. He would be unsubtly obnoxious and mouthy and then reply to every security confrontation with “No Comment” and “Do you know what ‘No Comment’ means”. After talking to security for 10 minutes with his crying wife, they let him on the train. So much for security.

In true form, immediately upon finding my seat, I parked my bags and then headed for the bar car. I managed to pick up the puppies along the way, as they were seated in a different car. We got to the snack car and found the bar was closing, but I sweet-talked a disgruntled Amtrak employee into opening the cooler for me so I could pay $4.50 for a Bud Light. At least I didn’t have to tap the Rockies. While suffering teenage sad faces as I cracked open my beer, I took much delight in making fun of the puppies for not noticing that Mr. Disgruntled Amtrak Employee failed to card me. Silly undergrads! Conversation progressed from comparing ring tones, to me teaching them what “binomial nomenclature” means and the difference between pterosaurs and dinosaurs, to them showing me how they painted their cell phones different colors in “Automotive detailing and finishing” class. Apparently I picked the wrong major. By midnight, I was no longer being entertained, and decided to go harass the person in the seat next to me for a few hours. I stretched out with my dinosaur pillow and Harry Potter blanket and thought I would never get to sleep.

The Glorious Melding of Culture and Science

2008-12-15T22:45:00.007-07:00

In my opinion, only the South has perfected the art of combining natural history, American history, and tourist traps into a glorious, enriching entanglement that warms my heart. Just check out places like Pigeon Forge, Rock City, Stone Mountain (also doubling as one of the largest granite outcrops), and Williamsburg’s Bush Gardens if you’re prepared to be dazzled. The Midwest may have a ball of twine and a corn palace, but lacks the battlefields and topography-related beauty that can be offered by the South. As a state rich in American history, Virginia has unabashedly embraced this glorious Southern tradition. In central Virginia there is a hidden jewel (unless you were lucky enough to go to school 13 miles away) known as Natural Bridge. Natural Bridge plays host to many natural wonders such as the namesake rock bridge (there actually used to be a road that ran on top of it…until the Balrog got out of hand), and the Natural Bridge zoo (trying hard to recreate the natural habitats of its inhabitants). And in this world of natural beauty, my two favorite subjects embrace in a truly inspired merging of science and culture: dinosaurs and The War of Northern Aggression. In Dinosaur Kingdom (part of the Natural Bridge attractions), dinosaurs are waging war on tyrant Yankee soldiers, thus completing my soul.

Here’s the set up: “It's 1863 and Union soldiers have discovered a hidden valley filled with dinosaurs. Now the Yankees plan to use the dinos as weapons of mass destruction against the South.” Dinosaurs aren't just eating people, they're eating Yankees. Nothing likes to be used and have their state’s rights taken away.

Through Dinosaur Kingdom, dinosaurs can be seen plucking and eating Union soldier from horses, attacking Union soldiers in the outhouse, exacting revenge for a stolen egg (did those silly Yankees not see Jurassic Park III??), being ineffectively lassoed, and generally kicking the asses of the attempting Northern oppressors. All creationists should visit this park for a first-hand depiction of why human and dinosaurs never could have lived together – either dinosaurs would have driven human extinction, or the South would have won The War. As roadsideamerica.com so aptly and insightfully put it: “Dinosaur Kingdom is a twist on the biblical Creationist view that people and dinosaurs lived together. Here, people live with dinosaurs -- but only until the dinosaurs eat them.” I am dinosaur hear me whistle Dixie.

And for the record, I never doubted which side dinosaurs would have been on.

For more information:
http://www.naturalbridgeva.com/dinoking.html
http://www.roadsideamerica.com/story/10790

Correlation, Causation, and Circularity

2008-11-25T21:35:00.003-07:00

I have noticed two main trends in my life since starting grad school: drinking and debt. Data shows that these two factors are trending in the same direction with time (see Graph), leading to the question of whether this is causation or mere correlation of trends. The first point of significance is that both plots are trending in the positive direction with respect to time, meaning that my amount of debt and alcohol intake are both at all time highs this very instant. I lift my glass to that. The second point of significance is that both drinking and debt values show decreases at the same points in time followed by roughly parallel spikes following the relative lows (Point A and B on the graph). Unfortunately the bin size of the plot is too large to detect whether a lag is apparent between an increase in drinking and an increase in debt. However, raw data indicate that the changes in total debt lags slightly behind changes in total alcohol consumption, indicating causality. Multiple factors such as deadlines for conference presentations, preparation for comprehensive exams, chapters of your dissertation due to your advisor, grant applications, and hospital stints for nervous breakdowns can lead to brief declines in alcohol consumption, resulting in fewer happy hour expenditures. And, following the physical laws of the Universe, these brief "dry spells" are always followed by extreme drinking and debt spikes, like fern spores in the rock record after a mass extinction.

Preliminary analysis of data leads to the conclusion that drinking is not only positively correlated with debt, but that drinking is a significant factor causing debt. Of course, this leads to a circular relationship between drinking and debt, with grad school as the true cause of all. Grad school lead to drinking (no explanation needed), drinking leads to debt, debt leads to more drinking, and drinking leads to not finishing grad school, which leads to more drinking and debt (see Diagram). This just adds another dimension to the grad school, drinking, debt paradigm that rules my life; and I'm going to go out on a limb here and say that I'm not the only one slaving under this universal paradigm.

And so here is another night I didn't spend working on my dissertation - guess I'll just finish this bottle and take another semester to finish to my degree. With friends like Jack Daniels, who needs a Ph.D. and bank account in the black?

Literacy is a burden

2008-10-27T09:33:00.006-06:00

You know, when I was a kid no one asked me if I wanted to learn how to read - they just forced it upon me without so much of an "as you please". And that's just crap. Do we really live in a country where 5 year olds (yeah, I don't know how old kids are when they learn to read) do not have the right to decide whether or not they want to becomes literate? We get voter pamphlets, TV and radio ads, phone calls, and political platforms shoved in our faces every day listing out the pros and cons of each square on the ballot, but no one lays out the pros and cons of literacy to children.

But kids, I want to be the first to tell you that reading is not all its cracked up to be. The number one drawback is this: WHEN YOU'RE LITERATE, PEOPLE EXPECT YOU TO READ. How is that fair?

All of a sudden you're bombarded with reading lists, standardized tests, book reports, essays, biographies, poetry, and other forms of coma-inducing boredom. And, when you're stupid enough to hang around academia, you're assigned the worse thing imaginable: journal articles. And again, you're expected to read them, remember them, and cite them when appropriate. Oral traditions worked well for centuries and millennia, what was so bad about that?

And what's just a slap in the face is when you do find a book that you want to read, you don't have time to read it. Or, its been so long since you've read anything entertaining, you get absolutely obsessed and can't function until you finish the book. Then, you realize that the book is part of a series, and that you don't have time to read anymore books in the series until the spring.

I should have been a goat herder.

But, on the pro side, here's something pretty awesome about being literate:

Losing the Will to Live

2008-10-12T15:15:00.003-06:00

With the impending doom of giving a presentation lacking things like data to a conference of professionals, I have been given a reason to contemplate my philosophy on life.... Or rather, near death by serious injury/illness. I am so obviously frantic about this talk, I'm blogging. That's gotta say something....

On my way into the grocery store last week, I realized that if I got hit by a car, I would have a good chance of getting out of giving my talk. Upon crossing from the parking lot to the store front, I noticed an SUV heading my way - what a perfect opportunity! But, alas, they stopped at the stop sign. Damn you, Boulder and your pedestrian-friendly drivers!

Upon expressing my desires though several different mediums (i.e., Facebook), there was an outcry of support to help me fulfill my fantasies of getting taken out. I feel so loved. My one stipulation is to please run over my right side ; I feel the need to even things out and that having metal in only my left leg throws me off balance. And if we could make a stop by McGuckin's on the way to the hospital to pick up some screws and metal plates, I would appreciate the thousands of dollars that would save. (Though I did get a check for $17 yesterday from the hospital for overcharging me at some point. Thanks guys! I hope you appreciated that other $10,000!)

I have also considered giving myself extreme food poisoning - can't move from the floor, commode-hugging food poisoning. No one wants someone who could potentially vomit at any second on stage constantly opening her mouth. I have had offers of help with this tactic, as well. And, honestly, by the way the several day old sandwich I just ate tasted, this may actually work out. We'll see how the next few hours pan out.

But it now appears that I have moved into the apathetic stage of panic/stress/exhaustion where I don't give a crap. This, I can handle.

When Squirrels Attack

2008-08-25T07:47:00.003-06:00

There I was, walking out of my condo complex minding my own business. I had put in my earphones for my journey to campus and was engrossed in Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix, Chapter 16 - In the Hog's Head (wistful sigh). When all of a sudden...THUD! (Unfortunately it wasn't a splat.) Out of no where a squirrel fell right in front of me, bushing my left shoulder and foot and causing me to veer off my path or really make it go splat. Scared the bejeezers out of me and may have caused me to shriek like a little girl - when I looked over at the intersection next to me, there were definitely drivers looking at me. But I don't care, I think I was justified. Its not every day that a squirrel falls off a tree and hits you as your walking towards the bus. In fact, I think this puts me up there with the animal bombarded elite. I had a friend in college who was walking out of the dorms one day when a pigeon died in a tree, fell, and hit her. I was quite jealous of her good luck, for I had never been more than shit on by a bird. But now...I've made the big time!

Now being attacked by an uncoordinated squirrel made me think. How can we use this to our advantage? I immediately thought of the scene in Ernest Goes to Camp where Ernest and the campers try to save Kamp Kikakee from land developers. One of the offensive moves they use is catapulting turtle paratroopers on the work crew (check out http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fw_8j3MwfZo for awesome footage). I suggest a similar technique for the Middle East - catapulting rabid squirrels without parachutes. Who knows what would happen...maybe they'd even become invasive species...

Holy Irish Drunkeness Batman!

2008-08-02T16:19:00.004-06:00

So, I'm sitting in a bar at 4:20pm (tehehe) and have been here for a few hours. Hey, they have free wifi, don't judge! But after getting rained in and being forced to order another drink, things are finally starting to get good. There's a drunk (or, slightly arguably not drunk) guy on the other side of the bar from me talking loudly enough for me to hear everything as I sit and listen to him in my back corner. This is alluvial fantastic!! So far, here is what I've learned:

Colorado has more solar panels than anywhere else because we're closer to the sun. And as my friend says "Yes, that's why the Himalayas are covered with solar panels."

You have to be careful hiking in Colorado with kids because of Mountain Lions. Its like Baltimore with car-jackers.

He has no self control when it come to whiskey and large women.

We're in an energy crisis. We need to find alternate means of energy, or more viable nukes. The French, however, can have a 35 hour work week because they have good energy. Does that mean that they harness their chi?

Nuns beat you when you don't finish your Shepard's pie.

Not getting laid makes you look like a wiener.

He's living in a hotel.

He doesn't know what a bike lane is - apparently he was driving in it and didn't understand what the picture of the biker meant...

He watches TV like a jackass.

Guinness and Murphy's are both Irish beers, but Murphy's is brewed by protestants.

------------
And now a group of stupid chits have moved to table between me and the whiskey guy. I'm getting stupider listening to these dumb broads...
------------

Sweet, the chicks have left and I am free to lean new pearls of wisdom to help get me through the trials and tribulations of life. And then pass them on to you...

If you want to learn about the sea, read Moby Dick. Herman Melville. The Whale ship was his Harvard and his Yale.

There was some poetry about two girls from Sturgis…. Unfortunately I didn’t catch it all.

As a young man he learned (1) Never trust a woman as a sailor and (2) Death is closer than you think. Its not a story…it’s a memoir…a metallic Great White…

-------------
I'm sorry to have to inform you, but this guy has procreated. The future of humanity is lost. Give up now.

Vote for Guac!

2008-06-30T20:08:00.002-06:00

I'm a slut for guacamole - I just love the stuff. And I just don't think its right to charge an extra $0.50, $1.00, or even in some extreme cases $1.50 for guacamole. It should come standard; you don't buy a new car and then have to pay extra for a carburetor. I refuse to think of guacamole as the chrome rims of Mexican food. Its just unAmerican to charge extra. Even if is Mexican food, I'm sure some of the avocados come from California. I don't see how this behavior hasn't caused another Red Scare.

So, in all these days of election hype, declaring platforms, choosing running mates, and wooing voters, I propose an easy way to decide. "Vote for Me and the Guac is free". I'd vote for that.

The Spanish Channel(s)

2008-06-12T08:52:00.004-06:00

I need to learn Spanish. I would say re-learn Spanish since I took three years of it in high school, but upon doing so poorly on my college language entrance exam they told me pick a new language, I am now convinced I never knew Spanish to begin with. Anywho, I need to learn Spanish. Out of the few cable channels I get (coming out to like $5 a channel...frickin' Comcast), about half of them are Spanish, and they look WAY cooler than the channels I can understand. They have awesome costumes, crazy drama, tears, bitch-slapping, bright colors, flamenco dancing, huge breasts, cod pieces, and "Me and Julio Down in the School Yard" playing in the background. English-speaking shows have drab colors and no dancing except in a reality TV way, which doesn't count as TV regardless of the language. Obviously I need to make a good latina friend so I can get a brightly colored bridesmaid dress. Maybe something with ruffles. That's great for latino dancing, which my good latina friend will teach me. Sorry, I digress, shocking.

Honestly, American TV just really can't compete with this genus. Three of the four men in this picture aren't wearing shirts, and there is only one women that they use twice; and you know she's going to get ravaged by at least one of the shirtless men. "Oh Felipe, I want you to ravish me in the apple orchard among the young ripe fruit of the trees."

And in case you need more: http://telenovela.freehostia.com/

Man, they have pirates - I can't even begin to express my envy. Why the hell don't we have TV shows about pirates? So not fair.

And they have a lot of soccer...or football (or futbol with a little accent thingy) as the locals call it. And I do love me some Pele.

Actually, I wonder if learning Spanish will take away from the magic of watching Univision and making up my own dialog....

Undergrad Crowd Control

2008-06-09T10:14:00.003-06:00

Making fun of undergraduates on the University of Colorado campus is one of my favorite pass times. It's really not that hard as they make easy targets, rather like mullet-spotting in a Appalachian Walmart. The way they dress is what amuses me the most - the ridiculous heels, the furry boots with bouncing tassels, the climate-inappropriate outfits of miniskirts, halter tops and Uggs. The emo guys are amusing, but I derive much more entertainment from the females. Endless entertainment. Granted its entertainment in a raging, ridiculing, loss of hope for the future of humanity kind of way, but its entertainment nonetheless.

I was in the field last week along the Colorado-Utah boarder. Its badlands, but its also cattle, sheep, and horse country. And this gave me a brilliant idea to control the undergraduate population - at least those that are a danger to the gene pool. Cattle guards. With strategically placed cattle guards along the campus sidewalks, we could control the herd. Similar to how cows won't cross a cattle guard because of the widely spaced metal bars, girls won't cross because of the stilettos they feel the need to wear to class. This will take care of the summer problem. As for winter (or those climate-inappropriate days), I suggest releasing horny marmots which will naturally be attracted to the furry boots.

Shameless Self-Promotion

2008-04-30T23:01:00.003-06:00

I just can't help myself:

http://www.bioone.org/perlserv/?request=get-pdf&doi=10.2110%2Fpalo.2007.p07-006r

Scary, eh?

Coming Attraction

2008-04-27T23:10:00.003-06:00

Not that I think anyone really reads this blog, but I wanted to let the Internet (whom I have named Alvin) know I will post something again one day. Maybe in the near future, maybe not. You never know when I'm going to strike; that's the way I roll. In the mean time, I'll leave you (being Alvin) with the image that now graces my computer background. It explains so much.

Talking in code

2008-04-14T07:57:00.000-06:00

One of my friends said the other day, "Sometimes is sounds like you're talking in code." I laughed, and then I thought about it. By now we all know that me thinking leads to me blogging. What can I say, I'm a savant. Anyways, science is all about jargon; paleo is right up there with the worst - we have anatomical terms, taxonomic names, evolutionary terms, sedimentologic terms, and words made up in fits of arm waving. Dinoturbation. Bring it.

To help out my friend, I've decided to give an insight into the language of paleo so that she can feel more enlightened and less like the art major that she is. Snippets from a typical conversation:

Comment: "I thought you were in China."
Translation: "How're your bitches and hos? I didn't know you were going International."

Comment: "I think we have a new species out of Fort Peck."
Translation: "We've got a good batch, meet me out back at the still at midnight"

Comment: "He didn't please the bishop. They buried him in an old Jesuit Cemetery in Connecticut."
Translation: "I don't think we're going to get a good crop of tomatoes out of the garden this summer. We need more cow shit."

Comment: "When you've got someone who can pay for it, you might as well do it."
...Yeah, that's not code...

Comment: "Don't forget how to use chopsticks"
Translation: "Tell your mom she was awesome last night."

See, we're all easy going, well mannered, thoughtful, and insightful people. Sometimes you just have to look through the rough exterior.

Random Connections

2008-04-09T13:08:00.004-06:00

Its amazing how quickly conversations can evolve and take you down new youtube avenues. Yesterday I took an eventful conversation path from burritos to George Foreman to that sad early-1990s cotton commercial. It went down in a manner akin to this:

I had a burrito for lunch. Yeah, it was yummy. Since I believe burritos are the reason that humans have not caused their own extinction through nuclear warfare, I also believe that a bad burrito would have the same effect as a manipulative warlord. But this one was good, so I won't be attacking any countries, states, provinces, municipalities, orphanages, etc. But nothing is as good a La Parrilla in Bozeman. The Chicken Santa Fe Wrap....mmm....that's what peace negotiations are made of. I love La Parrilla so much I would not only name my first born La Parrilla, I would name ALL of my children La Parrilla.

Just like George Foreman. He has 11 children - 6 boys and 5 girls. All six boys are named George. Except I wouldn't give my children suffixes or discriminate based on gender, they'd all be La Parrilla and would have to duke it out between themselves. Additionally, George does not have a daughter named Georgia. Or Georgia Peach

Georgia makes everyone think of Georgia Peaches. We even have a damned peach on our quarter. Its crap. It infuriates me. Yes, Georgia peaches are delicious, so are South Carolina Peaches, as long as its from the South, its pretty darn good. In fact, the water tower that looks like a peach isn't even in Georgia, its in Gaffney, South Carolina. People then next associate Georgia with peanuts, I blame Jimmy Carter for this. Georgia's top agricultural money-maker is actually with Broilers (9-12 week old chickens). Peaches is #17 on the list, peanuts at least come in at a somewhat respectable #5. BUT, Georgia's largest cash crop (not including poultry/livestock) is cotton. I've known this for years, but the rest of the country is in denial because of the negative associations of cotton with slavery. I don't think we can really blame slavery on cotton. Why is it ok to wear it, but not put it on a quarter?

Do you remember that really sad cotton commercial from the early 1990's? There's a mother and a daughter sitting in a partially empty house packing boxes. The little girl asks her mother why they have to move; and the mother replies that because people don't buy American cotton products any more, her daddy had to be laid off and they now have to move so he can find a new job. Because people weren't buying American cotton. Americans are killing the American dream by not buying American cotton. Now little Susie has to move. We're all horrible people, emphasized by the playing of "The touch, the feel of cotton. The fabric of our lives." Tears unbidden. American propaganda at its best.

I then spent lots of quality time on youtube looking for the commercial. Alas, I could not find it. So, either for the first time in my experience youtube has failed me, or I was distracted by a shiny object before I stumbled upon the video. But I did watch The Mysterious Ticking Noise. Brilliant.

I quit

2008-04-01T22:23:00.003-06:00

Grad school, man. This shit just ain't worth it. I'm formally announcing my withdrawl from an endlessly stressful, penniless, and thankless career in academia to move on to greener, and more lucrative, pastures. Some of you may have seen this coming, and its true, I'm going into ostrich racing. There are many potential barriers toward my immediate immersion into the world of ostrich racing in terms of what type of racing, how do I saddle an ostrich, where am I going to get an ostrich, etc. Don't think that this is an idea that has just come to me on a burn-out induced whim....

(1) Where am I going to get an ostrich: Africa. Duh. While ratites are found on all of the Gondwanan continents, ostrichs today are only found on the continent of Africa. There is only one extant family: Struthionidae, and only one extant genus: Struthio. I guess I'll take one of those. Ostrich fossils can be found in central Europe and Asia from the Eocene to the Pleistocene, but I don't think I'll win too many races riding fossil bones [insert dirty old man joke here].

(2) What kind of racing: Yes please!

(3) Does this conflict with my Southern lady-like upbringing:
The data speaks for itself. What Southern Matron wouldn't approve?

(4) Saddles: I've been working on a modification of an Australian endurance racing saddle used on horses for ostrich racing. It may work in the end, but being the puritan that I am, I think the true thrills and pleasure of being astride an ostrich [insert cloaca joke here] comes from bareback riding [and another]. With my knees wedged under their rudimentary wings and grasping the anterior portion of the wing near the shoulder joint, I should be able to successfully remain astride. Of course the key is to not wear silk. The puritan in me is constantly in disequilibrium with my inner non-conformist, but I think a riding habit made of material with a high coefficient of roughness is appropriate [insert Manning's N joke here]. You guessed it, I'm thinking a shark skin riding habit. The orientation of the denticles should be perfect to prevent sliding off the back of the ostrich.

(5) Is there money in this: Where there is a way to gamble, there is a profit to be made. Additionally, I'll get to travel as Florida, South Africa, and the Czech Republic apparently have active ostrich racing followings.

But, while I'm learning the ropes and working on logistics, I'm setting up an underground ring as an ostrich racing bookie.

What I would do with a pouch...

2008-03-26T14:25:00.003-06:00

Mammals : all that lactating and live birth stuff doesn't really do it for me. I guess monotremes are pretty cool since they're the non-conformists of the group and have remained a throw-back to our egg-laying peeps. So the next logical question is: what about marsupials? And that got me thinking...I would LOVE to have a pouch.

Just think of all the things I could do with a pouch. I would definitely keep snacks in there...and a cooler full of beer. I wonder if I could insulate it to keep it cool rather than warm, then my pouch would just be a cooler. I'd be like Duff Man (oh yeah!), but without the spandex and awkward belt. I'd keep the cape, though. If I had a pouch-cooler, I would deserve a cape.

Today I lost my keys. Ok, I didn't really lose them, I left them on the bench where I had lunch. But if they had not been on the bench, then I would have lost them. And if I had a pouch, that never would have happened. And thinking about getting mugged - I dare someone to try to stick their hand in my pouch and grab my wallet.

And if you're not convinced yet that a pouch would be awesome - if you had a pouch, you could always have water balloons on hand to throw at people. Then, say, someone tried to blame you for it...well you don't even have a bag in which you could have been hiding the balloons. Don't you thinks someone would have noticed if you'd been walking around with you hands full of water balloons? They must have made a mistake.

I would have made an awesome marsupial.

Holy March Madness Batman!

2008-03-20T11:36:00.010-06:00

Yes, its March - normally an outrageously busy month (at least from an academic standpoint) and one spent being constantly teased by the weather. Here in Boulder, its sunny one day, snowing the next. Somebody please return Percephone to Demeter!

However, the light at the end of the tunnel is in the form of March Madness. Now, I don't like basketball and don't watch it during the rest of the year - in fact I don't think I'd ever seen a whole game until last year. I'm actually not saying that March Madness is a high point to portray the crappiness of the Month, but rather out of true excitement for the NCAA tournament. Any reason to get excited about sports is good for me. This is now my second year I've put in a bracket, and since I won my pool last year, I have high expectations of myself.

One may ask, how do you put together a bracket AND win when you don't follow basketball? Well, there are may ways to do this, and I assure you I'm not the first non-basketball person to win a bracket that includes some hardcore basketball followers. Diane from Cheers would chose teams based on team colors and mascots. On espn.com, Bill Simmons' wife picks based on multiple criteria from personal association with schools or states and what she overhears from Bill and others. In fact, everyone should check out http://sports.espn.go.com/espn/page2/story?page=simmons/080318.

So I have one bracket in a pool this year. This bracket is built off of critera similar to the Sports Gal (see link above) with whether I like the school or not. I don't know what makes me like one school that I've never been to or known anyone who has gone there over another, but there is an inner stirring for one school over another anyways. And, yes, I do look at the team rankings if I really just don't know anything about the school's reputation in athletics. There is no research or prior basketball watching at all. And like I said, I won my pool last year with this method (yes, shameless self-promotion) - largely because I changed my champion from Georgetown to Florida at the last minute because I wanted an SEC team to win - I like the SEC, damnit. Unfortunately, because I won last year, I feel like I have a reputation to uphold and expectations. That's the shitty thing about doing well - people have expectations. Its the same way with tests in school - lets say you get a 96% on the first test...well shit. Both you and your professor have expectations of your performance on the next exam - if you don't get an A, you're just a disappointment. Giving a shit is a bitch. Starting now I don't believe in expectations, I think its a crap deal.

Anyways, I have been thinking on new ways to pick brackets for those who don't anything about the teams playing, and have come up with two solutions: Fighting and Eating. And honestly, fighting and eating have got to be the most important things in life - especially from an evolutionary biology point of view. What drives evolution? Eating and sex. You have to be able to FIGHT to EAT, and to FIGHT to MATE. There it is, natural selection and sexual selection in a nutshell.

Back to basketball. I'm setting up an experiment on the best "alternative" method for setting up a bracket: (1) personal associations and gut feelings about teams (2) which mascot would win in a fight and (3) which mascot would taste better. So I have three brackets filled out in each method.

Association and Instinct:

Who would win in a fight:

This one got tough when it came down to the Delta Devils versus the Blue Devils. I did want to pick Duke because they're ranked higher and likely a much better team, but "blue" makes me think sad, and Southerners can be tough, so I had to go with Mississippi Valley. But, honestly, I think a Badger could take on the devil.

Which is tastier:

It's really hard to pick between pig and cow to eat. But I'm thinking about Nachos with beef right now, so Texas is going to beat Arkansas.

And just for the record, teams with the mascots like "Big Red" and "Golden Flashes" and the "Hoyas" (which no one really knows what it is) should automatically be eliminated from the bracket.

Let March Madness Begin!!

If I were plankton: Ode to productivity

2008-03-13T22:55:00.003-06:00

Plankton is a primary producer in marine (and lacustrine) environments. Plankton uses energy from the sun to metabolize O2 from CO2, not only serving the important yet often overlooked position as the bottom of the food chain dog-pile, but also sustaining an oxygen-rich atmosphere. High productivity in the oceans results from blooms of these primary producers that then stimulates a chain reaction of increased energy flow that cascades up the food chain. Bless the little buggers for all their hard work.

After plankton do their job making the atmosphere awesome, they die. Well, they spawn and then they die. When they die, their carcasses are eaten, dissolved, or sink to the bottom of the ocean (or lake) and get buried. The first option means that their death went to the nourishment of another organism that was hopefully either tasty or eaten by something tasty or eaten by something that was eaten by something tasty. The second option allows for the minerals that made up the planktonic organism to be transferred back into the nutrient cycle. Carbon from dead plankton, for example, can be dissolved back into the seawater as the organism sinks to the seafloor and decays. That carbon then reenters the carbon cycle to potentially be used by other organisms. Again, one can only hope that this feeds something tasty. Other organisms buried in the seafloor sediments can also utilize minerals and nutrients from planktonic remains that reach the ocean bottom.

If I were plankton, I would have been spawned, failed to ever photosynthesize, immediately die (without actually producing anything), sink to the seafloor without being eaten or dissolved, be deposited under anoxic conditions, immediately be buried by other sediment, and never even reenter the carbon cycle. Somehow this seems more pathetic than the plankton short bus…

How does one become a trophy wife?

2008-03-12T07:29:00.005-06:00

I have spent much time thinking on this "how does one become a trophy wife" question. For years I have been toting the "first marriage is for money, second marriage is for love" mantra, and so am always on the look out for rich old men. I have found that the man-luring techniques are going to change for both the age class and tax bracket you're aiming for, so there's no clear, easy answer.

There are three general classes of men who are looking for trophy wifes:

(1) For some men a significantly younger woman is all they need. Unfortunately these men can be hard to live with and put up with as they have very low expectations for themselves. They also fall along the tax bracket continuum, rather than being pooled at either the high or the low end of the wealth scale, so make sure you see their portfolio and bank statements before pre-nups are signed. These men are recommended for women with confidence issues and/or a dire and immediate financial situation; and as a warning, they can sometimes be scared off by strong personalities. However, if you're willing to go there, I suggest finding someone quite old with a pre-existing medical condition.

(2) On the other end of the spectrum, some men will take only outrageously young and ridiculous attractive women with a D-cup minimum. These guys are usually high-maintenance and aren't that desperately lonely because they have high expectations and know they can be filled. Because they fall in the top tier of rich old men, they have the financial security to be picky. Education level can be a limiting factor with these men. If you're in grad school, for example, one would assume you can at least read 3-syllable words, so these guys might not go for you. I'm not trying to be insulting to you and/or your physical appearance, but it's just not going to work based on your intelligence. They will fear your reading ability and the likelihood of you tricking them up somewhere in the pre-nup.

(3) The last general category of man are those just looking for a young, decently attractive companion and is willing to invest in a good personality. These men can be rather nice and doting as they don't have as high expectations, but can form respect. General observations indicate that these are often self-made men with a bit more respect for where they came from, but have developed a trophy-wife fetish over the decades from hanging out with men with trophy wife fetishes. Apparently its a communicable disease. However, these last men are usually pushing the bottom limits of the "trophy wife tax bracket".

(4) I know I said there were three general classes, but this class of man is not rich, he's the dirty old man. Many trophy wife hunters will be dirty old men, to be sure, but they are rich dirty old man. This is a huge distinction as many things in life are more tolerable with wealth. These men will disguise themselves in expensive suits (pay attention to their attire, because often they will rewear the same suit or two suites and just changes shirts and ties - a dead give-away), surround themselves by other rich men to whom they can be snobbish, and try to woo you with bank credit. This is why it is so important to get personal, visual confirmation of their financial assets before entering into any legal agreements. Just one of these men could lead to the down-fall of a perfectly acceptable future trophy wife.

So, its really going to depend on what you're looking for in an old man. As for me, I'm not really attractive enough to really be a trophy wife, so I figure I need to find a really old and visually impaired man - let me know if you can set me up with anyone, and I'll return the favor.

I need more tight pants in my life

2008-03-03T20:33:00.004-07:00

It's March. What does this mean? No damned football. No college football for 2 months now. No pro football for one month now. No football for 5 more frickin' months. I'm dying already. Le pout.

I was in a bar, waiting for a friend to meet me for a few games of pool, and was getting teased on the T.V. by some soundless commentary on Ben Roethlisberger (and upon googling to figure out how to spell his name, I found that he just signed an 8-year contract with the Steelers). It hit me then and there how much I miss my legions of tight-pantsed men. Don't be fooled - those quarterbacks, wide receivers, and running backs don't spend hours a day in the gym because they enjoy it - they spent their time there because I enjoy it. I enjoy them in their tight, shiny pants. Football combines two of my favorite things: men and shiny objects. Actually three of my favorite things: men, shiny objects, and beer (which makes objects even shinier). This could go on and on, because I also love wings, nachos, sports bars, redheaded sluts.... But at this point in the doldrums of the year with no westerlies in sight, I'll take an offensive line man at this point. Maybe I'll start running again just so I can jog by the CU practice field and listen to the loud speakers calling out plays. I'm obviously desperate here.

On a side note: Shit. Pete just died.

And this bring me to my next revelation. I know its spring when I start watching Rudy because I miss the constant entertainment of football. Usually my Rudy fetish is confined to hungover Saturday morning movie watching escapades. So many times I would actually put in Shrek to watch as I dozed on the couch with my head pulsating in beat with my heart. But then the "Spirit: Stallion of the Cimarron" trailer would come on (yes, its a VCR, and fast-forwarding is too much effort), and it uses the theme to Rudy (guess Jerry Goldsmith needed the royalties). So, I would instantly pull Shrek out and put Rudy in. Pure contentment. But apparently I've moved on to Monday evening post-pool PBR-induced escapades. I like to think that this means I'm moving up in the world.

Basketball then came on at the bar. Speaking of doldrums, basketball is the albatross around my neck. West Virigina was playing someone, hell if I know whom, hell if I care. Typically I enjoy watching WVU play football, but basketball (any team, any level) just doesn't do it for me. I don't think even tight pants would change this for me. March Madness entertains me to some degree, especially when I put in a bracket and it does well. And the fact that Bill Simmon's live blog on espn.com is one of the highlights of my life. I highly recommend that you check it out. But otherwise - nahh. At least I guess I only have a month until baseball season. I do love peanuts....

But for now, I have to get back to my tight-pantsed men standing in for my tight-pantsed men. As if Rudy didn't kick ass enough, remember that he was not only a Goonie (and Goonies never say die), but he was Samwise Gamge, as well. And Sam's everything I've always wanted in a hobbit.

In conclusion, I would like to quote Pete quoting Pete's dad: "It's like my dad always said 'Having dreams is what makes life tolerable'. " May I dream of football...and shiny objects.

Dork Implosion

2008-02-28T20:30:00.002-07:00

I have recently been exploring the correlation of food web reorganization and behavioral changes across the Permian-Triassic boundary as a side project. I wanted to give yall the heads-up on my new publication that's coming out in The Journal of Wizarding Ecology entitled "Grindylows: from Paleozoic Pests to Modern Monsters". Here's a sneak peak!

So far my research shows that grindylow population spikes are positively correlated with dinoflagellate blooms. These bioluminescent blooms are caused by nutrient supersaturation that promotes dinoflagellate sexual reproduction. Grindlows feed off the dinoflagellates - they use their sets of small, sharp teeth for straining out the planktonic matter. They also feed off of fish, and the increase in marine fauna death associated with red tides is actually driven by grindylow feeding frenzies. Part of the warnings about the toxic dangers of red tides is artfully laid propaganda to help keep the International Statute of Secrecy and is regulated by the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

However, the main quandary is the evolutionary history of the gridylowidae before the Triassic, when dinoflagellate cysts first enter the rock record. This is where the research gets interesting. The reigning paradigm insists that pre-Triassic (i.e. Paleozoic) gridylowidae taxa represent a ghost lineage - these organisms existed in the ocean, but were not preserved. Taphonomic biases have pointed towards the lack of reproductive cysts before the Triassic yet presence of the actual dinoflagellate organisms; the cysts are what are actually preserved in the rock record.

My hypothesis challenges this paradigm. While the claim that "absence of evidence isn't evidence of absence" is a valid working hypothesis at this point, my research suggests that dinoflagellates did not evolve until the Early Triassic, and their absence in the Paleozoic rock record is a true signal of absence. Isotope and trace element geochemistry reveals no remnants of dinoflagellate biomolecules, cysts, or signs oceanic productivity.

Therefore, the Paleozoic to post-Paleozoic behavioral transition is correlated with a change in food web structure (e.g., a change in grindylow diet). The Permian-Triassic boundary does mark the largest extinction event known in Earth's history, where approximately 95% of life went extinct. Ecosystem reorganization would be mandatory for the survival of organisms across this extinction event. In accordance with my new hypothesis, the P-T extinction event drove a grindylow dietary change, which then drove a behavioral change. The opening of niches in post-extinction ecosystems spurred the evolution and radiation of dinoflagellates, which became one of the major dietary constituents of the grindylow diet.

The next questions that must be asked in accordance with this research are what grindylows were consuming before dinoflagellate evolution; and why this dietary shift escalated grindylow behavioral problems. Preliminary research suggests that chemical changes in the gridylow diet caused behavioral changes. A change from a silica-based diet to organisms with the chemical composition of dinoflagellates could account for behavioral discrepancies.

Commence Rambling

2008-02-27T22:55:00.003-07:00

I'm not really sure why I've started a blog. Generally I make fun of people who blog (behind their backs of course), but this drastic and hypocritical turn of events must be correlated with the fact that I don't want to work on this lecture I'm giving on Friday. I mean, does anyone really care about turtles, crocodiles, and lepidosaurs? Well, if you do, then why don't you figure out whether turtles are frickin' anapsids or diapsids? You'd think that'd be pretty key...

So, as a result of my physical, mental, and emotional block of putting this lecture together, I have turned to cable T.V. for consolation. School work is really having the same effect on me as being depressed - I have to have a background distraction (usually in the form of a RomCom (romance comedy)) to get me through these trying times and help dull the pain. So suddenly I found myself watching the Hallmark Channel. Yes, I said Hallmark Channel. It's pretty much the poor man's (or woman's) Lifetime, and lacks the surprise of an old woman talking about sex and sex toys like O! Television for Women. Not only did I realize my life had reached a new low, but I embraced it like two flightless birds in a courtship dance.

I watched a movie who's title I still do not know unabashedly for 70 minutes, and reveled in its warm glow. There was not even an attempt at putting together one mere lecture slide during this time; there was not even a thought about changing the channel. Luckily, these events are documented by a series of emails to a witness who will remain nameless to protect his or her identity.

Email 1 [7:37pm]: "Help! I'm watching a Hallmark movie! Make fun of me so I stop!!!!"

Email 2 [7:46pm]: "They just got engaged but there's drama between the mothers!!! How is this going to be resolved???"

Email 3 [7:52pm]: "The father from "Step by Step" is in it. ANDDDDDDDDDD an old Shelly Long!!!!!"

Email 4 [7:58pm]: "They live in a Country Club and drive around in golf carts!!"

Email 5 [8:09pm]: "The mothers are going to make the bridesmaids wear pastels...I just know it. AND coffee just spilled on the invitations proofs and the bride-to-be is crying!"

Email 6 [8:19]: "They're postponing the wedding. I think I'm going to cry. They just broke both of their mother's heart!!!"

Email 7 [8:24pm]: "I just made Ramen so I wouldn't miss any of the movie and the commercial breaks are really short."

Email 8 [8:37pm]: "The best man caught the bouquet. I think the best man and maid of honor would make a great sequel!"

And just for clarity, yes all those emails were from me and unanswered; and yes, I did make Ramen so I wouldn't miss any of the movie as I can't see my T.V. from the stove. I'm pretty sure I've just moved into top-ranking housewife status. As for the movie, it was like one of those bad (bad in a bad way...someone out there knows what I mean) romance novels where you don't even get foreplay with a hint of satisfaction.

And as the natural progression of life goes - as demonstrated time and time again in the fossil record - Hallmark has been followed by Love Actually (which I will never get sick of), The Holiday (which you'd think I'd be sick of watching after how many times I went through it in a percocet-induced stupor this summer), a Dirty Jobs-a-thon, a gripping and emotionally stirring Project Runway, and capped with The Karate Kid and a smidgeon of The Jewel of the Nile. Though, I will argue that I can't find fault in my behavior when it comes to Dirty Jobs. Mike Rowe is, after all, the future father of my legitimate children. So long story short, these cable T.V. experiences have lead me to blogging.

Oh, did I mention I'm watching Hello Dolly! right now? Please tell me that moving on to Broadway musicals is a good sign...