Hedgehogs In My Bra, Bra, Bra!*

Last night I dreamed that I was being menaced by hedgehogs. I was there with Brookburg. I showed her a spider web which was so pretty I couldn't bear to remove the spider. She pulled back a curtain and we saw this spiny thing that looked like a sea urchin, but was actually a hedgehog. We didn't want to grab it in case it bit us, but then the whole house was just crawling with cute but vicious varmints! One in particular was menacing me and I tried to beat it away with a sock. (And then I woke up.)

What does that mean?

I went down to Newbury Street yesterday to try and buy things on sale and ended up with several expensive bras that make my boobs look terrific but are just boring beige. I didn't realize, when I was a flat-chested young whippersnapper, that having bigger boobs would mean having to buy boringer bras. They're quite grown-up looking bras. Oh well.

After being a big fat consumer all day I felt wiped out and a little gross. I came home and watched The Paper Chase, which I had bought at the video store that was closing down at home. It's about this dude at Harvard Law School who is basically a big dork but has a cute smile and a pile of hair that puts Boomy's dad's 1973 law school hair to shame.

I remember liking this movie when I was a kid, before I actually came to Hahhhhvahhhhhd myself, but this time around two things struck me. It was still an enjoyable film, but my reactions were as follows:

1) I am not working hard enough!!! I don't work nearly as hard as I should, at least compared to crazy fictionalized law students in the early 70s. Ah!!!

2) Men suck, especially at Harvard Law School in the early 70s.**

The whole "romance" of the film is based on Big Hair Guy rabbiting on about himself and how hard law school is to this rather cool girl who he is shagging basically because he can't shag her dad, the brilliant contracts law professor. Lindsay Wagner, you can do better than this self-important tool! Also, there was only one notable female law student and none of the guys who were the main characters ever even mentioned her, let alone invited her to their holy study group. Meh. The elemental chauvanism was ridiculous. Let that be a lesson to the young whippersnappers of today who think feminism is passe! That was a mere generation ago, chicas.

Anyway, on that note, have a Happy New Year, mis amigos y amigas. Maybe 2006 will be a less weird year.

*Sung to the tune of "Mammals In My House".

**Springy and Brand, you don't suck. Neither do the Dondre or Mister Ethyl or Brother of Boomy. Or Matt or Matt or Matt. Or a few others who I am forgetting to mention. But you guys are the exceptions, and were not in law school in 1973.

Heart Aches

Well, it wouldn't be a trip home without a trip to the hospital.

Loyal readers, please send happy heart-strengthening thoughts to my Grandma, who has got a right branch bundle block (a blockage of the electrical impulses from the pacemaker cells of the heart) and is in the hospital today in the Suburbs of the Damned (North). She's 91 years old and deaf as a post but still keeps a cleaner house than anyone else in the family. We know we're buying time . . . but still.

My mom was telling me the other day how my great-grandmother got congestive heart failure at age 89. She'd had a heart defect for years that never bothered her until her son died and she became depressed. She got a pacemaker (this was 25 years ago, so I'm sure it was a clunkier model than what they use now), came out of her depression, and was recovering fine until she died of a stroke.

This Christmas was the first since my aunt died (my Grandma's oldest daughter) and she said "My heart just wasn't in it this year". That, for my ridiculously peppy Grandma, was equivalent to me hiding under the covers all day and moaning - she's clearly the most mentally stable person in the family, and by far the least vulnerable to attacks of the black-eyed dog. The madre posited that being depressed was a factor in her mother and grandmother having heart failure when they'd not had trouble with their hearts before.

Then just today I read an article that said the following:

New research suggests that depression may hasten the progression of heart disease by increasing the levels of a key protein that causes inflammation. In a study of 32 people with heart failure, the 14 patients who felt the most depressed had nearly twice the levels of this protein in their blood.

The protein, tumor necrosis factor alpha (TNF-alpha), is one member of a large family of proteins called cytokines, chemical messengers that are mobilized when the body is injured or has an infection. These cytokines often cause inflammation in their effort to repair an injured or infected area of the body. In the case of heart failure, this inflammation makes it even more difficult for the heart to pump blood. (Heart failure is a disease in which the heart loses the ability to pump blood with normal efficiency.)

“People with heart failure typically have much higher TNF-alpha levels than people without the disease,” said Amy Ferketich, the study's lead author and an assistant professor of public health at Ohio State. “But depression seems to make levels of this cytokine even higher, which is bad for patients.”

The original report can be found in the American Heart Journal here.

Maybe we mean more than we think we mean when we talk about broken hearts?

'Twas the Afternoon Before Christmas

And on top of my bed, my fat kitty was purring, as I rubbed her soft head.

Home for the holiday week - the warm Pennsylvania sun is shining - the draft seeps in under the front door - blue jays caw and the squirrel mounts an offensive at the bird feeder - Joolya grudgingly and rather sloppily wraps gifts in the basement while singing along to Elliott Smith - the Madre and the Dondre persistent in turning down the thermostat.

Went to see the Narnia film today and, overt Biblical symbolism and all, I have to say it was great. And really, the Aslan story kind of kicks the New Testament's arse. But I am baised, admittedly, having read and re-read those books for the whole of my childhood. Numbers 3 and 6 are the best, even though Nicolo will not agree with me. The film kept very close to the book and Tilda Swinton was terrific as the White Witch.

So far no drama, family-wise. Tonight we have to go the the church that we don't particularly like in the Suburb of the Damned, but oh well. Christmas is about sacrifice, right? No, wait, that's Easter. Eh, same difference.

There's a big pile of presents under the valiant little twiggy tree and the cats aren't even eating the ribbons. At least it's a real tree! The Madre nearly caved and bought an artificial tree this year, but I pitched a fit. I said that having a plastic tree was the first step toward the plastification of her soul. So ha!

I'm reading a very interesting book that the Madre passed along called Animals in Translation, which is by this autistic woman who studies animal physiology and designs humane slaughterhouses. It's absolutely fascinating how she describes how animals minds work compared to normal versus autistic people. Highly recommend.

First Day of Vacation

After a slacksterific day yesterday I found myself actually getting bored - which I consider to be a good sign that the tide of motivation is beginning to turn. We'll see what the festive season brings.

Last night I went to a "burgers and martini" place for dinner with two of my girl classmates, Kinase Girl and the Stealth Bomber, and another woman who plays soccer with KG. (We dubbed my friend Stealth Bomber one night when we realized we couldn't take her anywhere without her accumulating a fan club. She's this little, cute girl with big brown eyes and sleek seal-soft hair who looks quite innocent and demure - like Puss-in-Boots from Shrek 2 when he's being cuddly. Boys keep throwing themselves at her and behind the sweet exterior she is decidedly not demure. You also cross this woman at your own peril.)

We managed, maybe because there was a non-scientist present, to not talk shop all night. Not even a little bit! I was just as glad not to, honestly, because even though I am so happy for her, blah blah blah, I don't think I could stand to hear about Kinase Girl's Fantabulous Secret Revolutionary New Magical Kinase That Is Going To Cure Cancer. Or even bitch about Western blots with the S Bomb. The martinis were tasty and I had black cherry creme brulee for dessert and we mostly talked about boys . . . I'm sure we must have talked about something else, but I can't remember what.

[Pause to grin at moon-faced toddler who is running up and down the aisle of the cafe and is wearing a sweater with a moose on it. I am about to coo. Now he is examining his shoes. So cute.]

I keep buying jeans. Here's the thing about women's trendy-schmendy jeans, though: they are all made for seven-foot-tall Norwegians. Not only that, but they are weirdly sized according to waist circumference even though all jeans actually sit around the hips. This means that the number of the jeans may or may not have any relationship to whether it fits a person whose waist is that size, depending on whether she happens to have the same obscure waist-hip ratio they were using in the Vietnamese sweatshop that day. Gah!

I am average height for an American female and weigh pretty much exactly what height-weight charts (although I agree, Boomy, that those are stupid). My point is simply that I am about as medium-sized as it's possible to be in this country, aside from being short-waisted. I don't have long or short legs, or big or small hips; I'm neither chubby nor skinny. So why, why, why when I find a pair of jeans that fits are they always three inches too long???

Is this a conspiracy to make non-top model people insecure? Because for what these fucking jeans cost, they shouldn't give me a complex when I buy them. They should thank me and buy me flowers. Or is it that it's easier to shorten pants that are too long rather than make several different lengths in the same waist size? Because if that is the case there should be a jeans tailoring option at all trendy-schmendy stores so that people like me aren't having to go to Elegant Tailor or hack away at the hems when we get them home.

And while we're on the subject, my co-worker and I also think that women's shirts should come in a range of bust sizes, so that smallish people with significant boobage aren't always having that embarassing gape between the buttons of their shirts. Like, "Small A/B, Small C/D," etc. Would this be so difficult? Is the only answer to go to Thailand and have all of our clothes made for us? Don't even get me started on trying to buy non-boxy shirts for men in this country, but at least their dress shirts and jeans sizing has more than one metric!

Hm. I didn't mean to post all about clothes. I am going to finish my coffee and read the Dover Decision transcript now.

Happy Holidays, heretics.

Can't Be Bothered To Do Proper Post

1) Take that "Intelligent Design"! Booyakasha!

2) Been cleaning/reorganizing my apartment, slowly. Pledge is so cool. It makes wood shiny and removes dust! Wow.

3) Had an amazing weekend with The Ladies From The Burgh last weekend. We should all live in the same place. Like an island, where we can found a private research institute/eco-friendly resort. It will be designed by Brand. Brookburg will curate our science museum (in collaboration with Boomy, obv.) and be in charge of education outreach (with me!). Tilda will implement environmentally friendly transportation options as well as running a progressive women's yeshiva/drumming circle. Boomy and Springy will be the Faculty of History and I will run the Division of Life Sciences. Boomy's brother and Springy's sister will be our legal team. Boomy's sister will be the medical staff. Balloon Lady and Tapioca will be in charge of media and entertainment. My cousin Ethyl and her partner will be in charge of mountain biking, geology, and the science fiction library. There are many other postions that will open up in our delightful island home as well, if I am leaving anyone out . . .

4) Was a big slacker yesterday with Boomy, which was so fun, and fuck it, I am going home tomorrow so it's not like I wanted to start anything new in lab.

4a) New plasmid arrived in solution, hurrah. Many thanks to Nadine in Canada. We'll see if I can hang on to the bloody DNA this time around.

4b) Spent a schmillion dollars at Origins last night, but I have to say, Make A Difference face stuff is nectar of the gods. And I got a "free" ginger souffle lotion thingy. But then went to dinner where Balloon Lady told us about how these kids in Atlanta can't afford $25 to join the Boys' and Girls' Club and it made me want to return my elitist face cream and sponsor half a dozen kids to go play basketball after school.

5) Have been reading weird web things about the submission of the wife in various religions. Judiasm is winning but only by a nose. This could take a long time to rant about, but let me just sum up: Yentl and Mandy Patinkin. Ponder at will.

My Advisor: Not Actually Scary

I've been a bit cranky about grad school, lab, science, etc., lately so I wanted to tell a quick good story for once.

Everyone's advisor has their own special quirks. My PI, for example, does not tread softly on the feelings of his lab-offspring when we give presentations. Generally it's not something to take personally. He means well; it's just tough love. On the other hand, it's also pretty obvious - to me, anyway - when someone is getting on his nerves. In these cases his constructive criticism can take on a slightly different tenor.

As a result my advisor can be kind of scary. He also has a rather intimidating looking beard.

I had been dreading meeting with him, since all the experiments I've done in the last few weeks have fucked up in various ways, and I've been feeling low on and off for personal reasons that I won't go into.

We were supposed to meet briefly on Wednesday and I was not looking forward to it. I didn't want him to think I was incompetent or a slacker, but I also didn't want him to think I was an unstable person who cracks under stress. There was also the possibilty of the dreaded Pep-Talk if, God-forbid, I started to cry.

Prior to out scheduled meeting I went next door, to my very cheerful academic advisor, to ask him a "hypothetical question in confidence" about how much sharing of personal issues was appropriate with one's PI. He was quite helpful and supportive, said that he would want to know if there was something going on with one of his lab people, and said I could talk to him any time.

I went in to meet with my PI - after splashing cold water on my face - and after he proffered the anti-viral tissues we wound up having a veritable heart to heart about science, life, relationships, family, lab . . . I realized that even though he can be kind frightening sometimes he really does mean well (and seems to like me and not think I am stupid, whew). He even advocated taking time off if I was feeling burned out, or doing something else for a little while in the lab, and expressed confidence in my abilities as a grad student and adult person in the world.

It was a huge relief. I feel extremely lucky to have chosen an advisor who, for all of his quirks and even though I'd like to throttle him when he edits my work, is actually simpatico and concerned that I do well.

I might kill him if I were his secretary, of course. But right now I am feeling the love.

Metaphysical Musing

Been thinking about networks, complexity, and deconstruction lately, but I haven't gotten my shit together to say anything meaningful about these things. Instead, I will just (embarassingly, but maybe it's food for thought?) jot down what I scribbled in the back of my book the other day when I was waiting for an appointment.

The Enlightenment clockwork universe and Kepler’s perfect polyhedrons are out; complexity is the way forward.

Looking at this poinsettia leaf I am in awe of how evenly its veins are spaced. I wonder how it works out that way. Each blind cell of the plant can’t know, in centimeters, where to start the next vein, and yet they begin at regular intervals. On each leaf, almost the same spacing. How does nature measure itself, without being able to comprehend its own composition?*

Nature does not count in integers. It doesn’t measure itself in ones, twos, threes. It measures by changes in time and by thresholds of chemicals – all, always, in the context of something else. A growing leaf doesn’t parcel out 10,000 cells between veins; rather, a new vein forms when there is a certain concentration of X, far enough away from the source of Y, whose presence will be noted by the tumbler clicks of molecular signals in space and in time: in concentration-time.

How does a fly’s eye know “seven”? It can’t - but the cells all holding hands can sense who they are, what they are, where they are. They settle themselves as their context (matrix, other cells, various signals) defines them. They don’t know from “seven” or “four millimolar” - they know “enough”, “not enough”, and “more than enough”.

Nature’s numbers are irrational (pi, phi, e). Never to be pinned down they dance forever into infinity and out of that madness order grows.

It’s conceivable to me that pure numbers might not even exist except in our human conception of mathematics.

Light, time, cells, nature . . . we think we know how something works but then we look a little closer and realize we have no idea. Only now, with our new knowledge, can we even see the shape of our ignorance.

*P.S. No ID comments necessary, por favor. My whole point is about how nature orders itself based on emergent behaviours. Always look for the most simple explanation. Always try to see the underpinnings of things, the basic rules. More on this at some point.

Quote(s) of the Day

"I think we are welcomed [in Iraq]," Bush said, "but it was not a peaceful welcome."

Also, check out Graffiti of Pompei; it's full of man love, and funnier than the president.

New Thesis Topic

Question of the day: Does one have to be insane to embark upon an academic research career, or does academic research actually induce mental instability?

Or do people who decide to pursue PhDs* have certain predispositions to insanity that can be exacerbated by prolonged exposure to academic research?

Discuss.

*Or any advanced degree, such as architecture, which requires a thesis/dissertation and which you have to "just love doing" so much that you pretend not to mind the ridiculously long hours and ridiculously low pay.

Thunder Snows

We had a lovely little surprise blizzard yesterday, with thunder and lightning. No one knew why lightning is uncommon during a snowstorm although my bay-mate's husband could tell us why there isn't any lightning on Europa. (There's no atmosphere - ba-dum-ching!)

According to meterologist Wendell Bechtold:

These storms are usually caused by a strong surge of warm moist air flowing over a dome of cold air at the surface. Thunderstorms may develop, but temperatures are such that the precipitation remains all snow as it falls to the ground.

Dave Thurlow at The Weather Notebook concurs:

Snowstorms are cold and cold air doesn't rise and create big thunderstorm clouds as readily as warm air does. That's why hot summer days are the predominant breeding days for thunder and lightning. But if there is enough energy in the atmosphere, and a lot of moisture, thunderstorm clouds can form and drop snow instead of rain when the temperatures are just below freezing.

So now we know!

I also think "Thunder Snows" would be a good name for a cartoon. Like a dubbed Japanese cartoon. But maybe that's just because it reminds me of Thunder Cats.

America's Next Top Feminist Grad Student?

It's officially moved from It's Cold to Holy Fucking Shit It's Cold! weather here in the Bay State. With snow expected tomorrow. May have to haul out my 10 lb inside-out dead sheep coat, affectionately known as my Flock. It's even cold in my lab. The tips of my nose and fingers are chilly.

No real news to report, except that I have been a) working and b) reading the Carnival of Feminists as well as funny quotes on Overheard in New York. Yesterday I did what would have been a neat experiment using a calcium channel blocking agent but the bastarding reagents got contaminated. First contamination in more than a year. Bugger. ***

But then I went to the gym and the finale of America's Next Top Model (ANTM) was on so I did almost an hour on the elliptical. There were at least six TV screens on different machines tuned into UPN last night. The woman next to me and I decided that fashion modeling is the opposite of lab. If I wear nice clothes to lab, everyone looks perplexed and asks where I'm going.

And, of course, the sight of all those skinny young dim-witted (no offense, but they were really dim) women slinking about in not very much was an excellent motivating factor to do those extra sit-ups. In eating disorder therapy they call that a "trigger". In men's magazines they call it "soft core porn". On UPN it's called "entertainment".

Yet I watch this stupid show and am entertained by it. I liken this to eating ice cream for dinner. You know it's not good for you, you know there's no nutritional value, you know you'll have a gross feeling afterwards, but it tastes good.

My favorite line from the show was, "I really respect her as a model."

"I really respect her as a scientist" is a phrase I've both heard and used (usually followed by a "but"). This makes sense to me - hard work, creativity, dedication to science all seem like respectable attributes. When I mentioned this, chuckling, to my good friend from Kinase Land she was like, "How hard is it to take a nice picture if you've got your hair and makeup done by professionals and you've got a professional photographer? How hard is it to walk in a straight line? What is there to respect about that?"

Although, okay, I'm sure modeling is not as simple as it looks. It fucking can't be, can it? Wait, really? Are you sure? No, seriously, can it? Like hard-hard? Whatever.

But maybe I am just bitter because society values female attractiveness and malleability far more than female intelligence. Even though what Kinase Girl and I do is far more interesting and important than flouncing around in bias-cut dresses (which we are both too short to do professionally) there are maybe a few thousand people in this country who give a shit about it, versus the several million who are interested in being voyeurs to the ridiculous pageant of "top modeling".

Most little girls don't dream of becoming "top scientists", and they won't as long as these kinds of shows are around to reinforce the notion that a woman's primary attribute is her looks. Sadly, this is even true in Lab Land. It's a double bind, really. If you're a woman and you're too cute you have to make an effort to be taken seriously by your colleagues - and not just your male colleagues. If you're a woman scientist who is not cute, then you are unacceptable outside of the lab. It's changing, slowly, but it's still true. A few months ago I saw a woman my age with a high voice and a trendy skirt give a talk and I had to literally say to myself, "Whoah, bitch - this girl is you - and you're sitting here sizing her up and automatically taking her less seriously than the dowdy old men!" And I am a young, female, feminist biology student! It was a creepy moment.

Anyway, while I am often heartily sick of research, at least it is interesting and my profession does not require me to take fierce eyeshadow and luminous powder foundation seriously. "I've learned so much through this experience that changed my whole life!"

Maybe we should have America's Next Top Biologist. Oh wait, we do have that, every time a job announcement goes up . . . America's Next Top Model Organism? Look out, nematoads!

(This is not to say that I don't enjoy eyeshadow and having my hair look nice. I do. Possibly more than I should. But I also know, intellectually, that these things are trivial and unimportant in the grand scheme of life.)

Okay, kids, tissue culture calls.

***It wasn't contamination, actually - it was the gadolinium precipitating out of solution because of the phosphate buffer. People have published using GdCl3 in DMEM, but I am here to tell you it precipitates out of solution even at 5 uM. Lab mate recommended mixing the media plus GdCl3 thouroughly instead of dropping the concentrated solution right into the wells; other lab mate said she used Hepes-buffered medium and that worked fine. Did the people who added GdCl3 every day to DMEM actually look at their plates? Or did they do some sneaky mixing when they added the drug to the medium and just not mention it in the methods sections? Grrrrrr ! Me no like science.

Si Se Pueden!

Hooray for Ecuador! They made the second pool of the World Cup, along with Paraguay, boo. No offense, Paraguay, but I saw the match in Quito where, after a promising start, Ecuador mopped the floor with your guys. (And then the crowd turned on el presidente, who was at the time in the process of firing the Supreme Court and was later, uh, escorted out of the country.)

*Note that it's "si" with an accent mark (Yes You Can!) rather than "si" without an accent (If You Can . . .), although the latter way is much funnier.

Anyway, go Ecuador!

Gay Cowboys

Last weekend I went to see Rent in Harvard Square, along with several hundred other girls and a few theatre-boys. I actually liked Rent a lot. Of course it's not realistic - it's a musical - no one really thinks artsy squatters with HIV were bursting into song in the Village in 1989. It's also, at this point, a period peice. It's like how Hair and Jesus Christ Superstar were made into films in the early 80s, 15 years after they were produced on Broadway.

Interestingly, the fashion redux movement has lately approached the late 80s bohemian (short skirt-tights-boots/jeans-tucked-into-boots, etc.). Coincidence? I think not. The ladies and I realized that we have now seen several cycles of the male stripey scarf in our own short lifetimes, but the newest crop of college students (born in, what, 1987?) don't even remember when The Real World premiered.

So. There was a lot of semi-drunken chatter going on in the theatre, which was packed, before the movie started. Previews came on and the chatter diminished, but not by much. Until the preview for Brokeback Mountain came on, at which point there was a collective, "Oooh!" and someone in the row in front of us said, quite loudly, "Hush, it's the gay cowboys!"

This cracked us up and I think everyone else realized what had happened, too, and all started giggling again. Another preview came on after the Hot Gay Cowboys, which featured a guy who is about the marry this hot rich-but-annoying English girl, but then falls for a hot-but- not-rich American girl, shags her, is very torn, blah-di-blah . . . I could hear the sound of six hundred topiaried eyebrows drawing together. Then the title frame flashed up saying, "A film by Woody Allen," and everyone in the theatre, including me and the ladies, groaned knowingly. And then laughed again. It was brilliant.

A much more fun moviegoing experience than being at the Harvard Square cinema for Good Night and Good Luck.

Note on the Worst Song Ever

Courtesy of Slate, courtesy of my cousin Ethyl!

Consider the Los Angeles hip-hop quartet the Black Eyed Peas. Their current single, "My Humps," is one of the most popular hit singles in history. It is also proof that a song can be so bad as to veer toward evil.

So, I was right: "My Humps" might actually be the worst song ever.

Cranky Post

I might have to go on a news and popular culture strike. It's just all getting too silly for me to deal with.

Do I care about which random celebrity is pregnant, or wearing a beige dress, or really excited about lip gloss? I do not.
Do I want to witness the bizarre spectacle of TV pundits jizzing all over one another? I do not.
Do I have the mental resources in this, the holiday season, the darkest month of the year, to perform the necessary feminist analyses of the op-ed landscape? I do not.

And don't get me started on the PBS lineup the last couple of months. There is a very serious conspiracy going on there, which I'm sure I will vent about some day.

It's all I can to to drag my ass out of my nice comfy bed into the cold unforgiving wind each morning. And the air is so dry my hands are cracking and I am leaving hand-lotion streaks all over my keyboard and desk. Ick.

That is all, loyal readers. There are other things going on in Lab Land, but I cannae be bothered wi them tha noo.

(However, I must not miss the finale of America's Next Top Model. You've got to hit rock-bottom before the recovery process can begin.)

The Solipsism-Based Community

Sam Alito was a member of the conservative alumni group Concerned Alumni of Princeton, which he boasted about in a 1985 job application in an attempt to weasel his way into the Reagan administration, apparently. The CAP's publication ("Prospect") lamented the introduction of women and minorities into Princeton's hallowed halls. (See this link.)

Alito can not, however, remember anything about having been a member of this group in any way. (See this link.)

Though Alito conceded in the judiciary committee statement that the "document I recently reviewed reflects that I was a member of the group in the 1980s," he said: "Apart from that document, I have no recollection of being a member, of attending meetings, or otherwise participating in the activities of the group. The group has no current officers from whom more information may be obtained."

What is with the conservatives and the memory problems? Was Reagan's Alzheimer's contageous in the 80s? Does Arlen Specter just have that effect on people?

More importantly, can I use this defense in my daily life?

"Mom, I have no recollection of ever having used your emergency credit card to purchase shoes, let alone at a place called Berk's in Cambridge, MA, on December 2nd."

"But, Joolya, I am looking at the statement and it says $49.99 was spent at Berk's in Cambridge, MA, on December 2nd. I know I wasn't in Cambridge on December 2nd. And, hey, did I ever mention shoes?"

"This is just ridiculous. Apart from alleged transaction on that alleged document, I have no memory of ever having been to Berk's whatever-store, attending a pre-Christmas sales event there, or otherwise participating in footwear purchases of any kind. You have no witnesses who can attest to my having been there on that day! And I've had these shoes for a year!"

But, gosh darn it, my mother is a member of the annoying "reality-based community", and she fails to understand that if I "can't remember" something then it didn't happen.

I live in a place I like to call the solipsism-based community. So remove your pesky "documents" and "evidence" from my sight, silly people. They prove nothing. You may or may not even exist. [Sound of deep inhalation.]

Besides, I only bought those shoes to impress the Reagan adminstration, not because I really wanted them. Oh, wait, I mean if I had bought those shoes that's why I would have bought them. I don't think I did, but hey, since it seems to be so important to you, I can "play along" with your crazy little "notions" if that makes you "feel better" . . .

P.S. Mom, I didn't really buy any shoes with your credit card.

P.P.S. I may have bought some groceries, though. I can't remember.

Wicked Stepfamilies

There's a chillingly interesting letter to Cary Tennis on Salon.com today. If I were in any way in communication with the persons who are my half-brothers' parents (puzzle that one out) I would send it along to them.

Dec. 1, 2005 Dear Cary,
I am ashamed to say this but I can't stand sharing my home with my two young stepchildren.

The letters section is also worth reading.

At this point I would like to give serious mad props, love, and a hearty round of applause to Mister Don, who is probably up for sainthood in a few years and has been the best dad I could ever have asked for.

Addendum: This letter led to a discussion of blended families between me and a friend of mine which was very enlightening. I wish I could give an easy answer for making this work, but of course I can't. People reacted very strongly to this woman's letter (myself included), mostly in the negative, but it brings up some very real issues that step-families face. I think the most important things to take away from this are that kids should not be mixed up with their parents; that people in these situations need to stay away from trying to fill roles; and that we need to all admit that it just sucks sometimes and be a little more . . . generous with ourselves and others.

Or - I don't know. It helps when the people involved aren't crazy, too.

More On Coffee and Also Science Chicks

So I saw on the news this morning that 100 mg of caffeine (about 2 cups of coffee) actually enhances short-term memory. I haven't read the original research but they showed some fMRIs on the show - so it must be true.

Also, I got into the elevator of my building this morning with nine other female scientists. (And no males at all.) I didn't notice it at first but when I did, it made me smile.

Can't Believe I Am Still Posting About This

But I am. Here's a comment which likely no one will bother to address seriously over at the Blog From Hell, but I felt the need to reproduce here for my homies. To sum up the story so far in misogyny hypocrite land . . .

On victimhood:
Girls who "cry rape" are seeking exalted victim status but guys who complain loudly about "false accusations" are perfectly justified and are not seeking victim status.

On emotionality:
Girls who "feel sick" at the themes of these threads are overly emotional and hysterical, but guys who are so caught up in the moment, high from the delicious prospect of sex, are not culpable for their actions because their lust is so inflamed.

On personal responsibility:
Girls who put themselves in dangerous situations are partially responsible for "getting burned" but men who put themselves into compromising positions with women can't be expected to control themselves when the possibility of sex arises.

On the premise that "all men are potential rapists":
A certain percentage of men are indeed rapists, but it's impossible to tell which ones are which; therefor women should be vigilant about placing themselves in positions where they might encounter these men. It's a numbers game, essentially, where women who leave the house are constantly taking calculated risks about which men will rape them and which will not. However, the idea that all men are potential rapists (which is another way of saying, Some men are rapists and you don't know which ones they are until it's too late) is a myth propagated by gender feminists to scare women and make them hate and distrust men. Some of whom are inevitably potential rapists. But not Brian. But you can't tell. Except that you should be wary. Except that that is insulting. Except . . .

Does anyone see where I am going with this?

Here's what I think VD's blog thread proves - that some men really hate the fact that they want, need, and can't control women, women's bodies, and sex.

I know! Shocking and novel concept!

I suggest reading Twisty's blog today too on the related topic of "sexsomnia" (or "somnambulosatyrisis" as I like to call it). Props to Boomy for finding this article, as I cannot take all the credit from Miz Twisty!