The McGonigal Chronicals! McChronigals? Right.

I love the fact that so much conversation now is text based.  Amongst various reasons, I enjoy the challenge of trying to express certain types of things in text.  Take for instance, this morning.  I originally wanted to call Shaun and leave a message of me singing happy birthday in the worst Marilyn Monroe impersonation that I could muster.  But self consciousness got in the way (namely, I didn’t know if people at the train station would appreciate that, or if I need people at work to know MORE about what a nutjob I am), so I decided that I would attempt to do it in text form:

“Good morning! The following should be read in a breathy, comically sexy voice: Happy Birthday to…you!  Happy Birthday to *gasp* you!  Happy Birthday, Mr. McGonigal…Happy Birthday to yooooooooou!”

So, now we have a written record of that.  Hallelujah!

Tonight will be a night of simple celebrating, with beer, cards, and apparently hockey.  Not playing hockey, watching it.  No one wants to see me attempt to play hockey.  I tried a few times back in elementary school and since the gym teacher never actually told us what the rules were, I can’t say that I *know* how to play…but, after watching a couple of games, I think that there might not be any rules and that he was teaching us exactly right.  So yes, no hockey playing, but surely fun to be had.

A year ago we were tubing on the Mullica.  Shaun and Ginny were there (one of the first times we hung out with them outside of a loud karaoke bar) and after a nice day lazing in the water, it was revealed that it had been Shaun’s birthday.  I am not used to people who just sit there on their birthday without any fanfare.  I, for one, like to celebrate in various ways for a whole week apparently.  I didn’t know either of them well at the time.  Shaun was quiet and reserved.  I thought, “Hmm, maybe he just doesn’t like fun or something…”

Great first impression, right?  But that’s why there are many impressions and before long I was made quite aware of the fact that Shaun is far from quiet or reserved and does actually like a lot of fun things.  Little did I know a year ago that I would be specifically celebrating with him this year, that I would be moving  rehearsals around and thinking of funny yet heartwarming words to say on such a day as this.

I have a birthday present for him that will either amuse him greatly or fall flat on its face.  I’m leaning towards the former, but you never know.  It’s something that only he would find funny at this point, so…hopefully I’m as clever as I think I am.

I’m surely not.  Damn!  Well, he’ll at least be nice about it.  Wait…this is Shaun we’re talking about.  Why would I assume he’d be nice about it?  DAMN IT ALL TO HELL!  Well, he better appreciate the half hour I worked on it, is all I’m saying.  A WHOLE HALF HOUR, PEOPLE!

Anyway, Happy Birthday, Shaun!  I have enjoyed this past year getting to know you quite immensely and look forward to many more.  I am happy every time I remember that you are part of my life, which is quite frequent.  When I forget, it’s when I’m delirious or something…which is more often that I’d like to admit.  But you’re often around when I’m delirious, so you remind me yourself.  “Hi, I’m Shaun.  Nice to see you.”  “OH!  It’s you!  That guy!  Neat!”  Or something.  I might be delirious now, actually.  I just got out from Inventory Scanner Training.

It’s been a good year.

Oh Crap! We Forgot to Learn the Electric Slide...

Hello blogosphere!  I know…I know…I haven’t been around much, but with attempting to keep up content on Polyskeptic AND keep up with my life in general, I haven’t been writing many tomfoolery related pieces.

Life is crazy, as usual.  But wait…if like is always crazy, doesn’t that make crazy normal and moments of peace crazy?  Or am I thinking too much about this?  Probably.  I should stop before my head explodes.

I remember years ago whilst in a biology class in highschool, the subject of spontaneous human combustion came up (like it does).  Symptoms of impending possible human explosion included ringing in the ears (apparently that is the sound of electricity welling up in yer brainpan) and those who were most susceptible to this ghastly fate were people who found themselves thinking hard a lot.  Sitting in a room filled with a bunch of smart kids, you could feel the collective onset of nervousness.

“Shit…I think hard a lot…and sometimes there’s ringing in my ears…”

“Great.  Just what I need…the threat of suddenly exploding during the calculus exam.”

Needless to say, no one ever blew up spontaneously during math class and the ringing in our ears was probably due to all the damned rock and roll music we listened to at full volume (and still do…whatever, the album cover of Ziggy Stardust specifically says that it’s best when listened to at full volume and David Bowie wouldn’t lie.  He’s definitely right about that).

Speaking of rock and roll music, Arcati Crisis is definitely rocking the proverbial Casbah these days.  Not that we weren’t seriously rocking before, but over the last month we have had a very important assignment: Be the band for Shaun and Ginny’s wedding, which happens to be this weekend.

When we initially talked about this, I honestly don’t know what I thought I was getting into.  I think when Shaun and Ginny were like, “We’d like you to play at the wedding” everyone assumed that this meant a little simple set of a few of our songs, maybe a cover or two.  But…I remind you all that this Arcati Crisis we’re talking about.  Peter and I generally have personalities that result in “Oh, did you want more?  Did you not even ask for more but will accept more?  SURE!” 

Our original goal was to learn 6 new cover songs.  This is, historically, quite ambitious for AC.  Somehow though we probably all knew that we would do more than that.  In February we sat down with Shaun and Ginny and a couple bottles of wine and brainstormed possible songs.  The list of artists was extensive.  We talked for a few hours and then for 2 hours after that we went around the table replacing words from famous movie and book titles with the word “cunt” (for example, “Cunt for Red October” or “Magical Mystery Cunt”).  All in all, a very productive evening.

I missed the first wedding song rehearsal.  Peter and Jake got together and announced a couple of hours later that they could play 20 songs, no problem.  I am definitely the weak link in scenarios like this.  When I was learning to play the guitar (and had no band), I progressed by playing a ton of songs NOT the way they’re arranged.  I didn’t do riffs.  Sometimes I add chords just because it sounds cool to me.  I can sing a wide range of stuff, but when a guitar comes into the mix, I have trouble with other people’s music.  Arcati Crisis music?  Not a problem anymore.  Prince? Impossible.

Much to my surprise though, the first full band rehearsal was awesome and we found ourselves able to generally get through most of the list of stuff we had.  We have had 5 rehearsals (I think) that have been pretty much nothing but covers and we suddenly have found ourselves able to play over an hour of eclectic, pretty and often hilarious songs.  I am really excited to play at the wedding because I feel like we will truly be an entertaining force for a diverse group of people.  Imagine it: Arcati Crisis personality plus songs everyone knows (with a few of our own thrown in also).  Unstoppable.

What I’m saying is that we have become a Bazooka in the realm of musical hired guns.  Theoretically, we could, like, play at bars where people request “Free Bird” and “Stairway” obnoxiously and be able to say, 

“Well, no, but how about THIS?  Does this blow your mind enough???”  And then when they scream for “Free Bird” again, Peter will play the first line and I will come up to the mic and say, “No.  Fuck you, that’s why.”

If we start making any money doing this, I’ll probably have to cave and learn “Free Bird”.  Damn it.

So yes, Shaun and Ginny’s wedding has suddenly become a large part of my focus when I’m not simply trying to keep up with the rest of life.  For instance, tonight I have to learn an Indigo Girls song, glue colorful buttons onto sticks, paint some wine bottles, get cute little favor bags…um…yeah, I think that’s it…and I don’t have to do that all tonight, but it has taken over my brain at the moment.  Because it’s May and it’s warming up, a large part of “keeping up with the rest of life” is having epic battles with hordes of ants. 

Yesterday, as I was in the kitchen making dinner for the moms, Jessie came home and saw that I had put a box of cereal back on top of the fridge.  She came in and removed it and said,

“The ants have the refrigerator.”

I nodded, went about my business and then ended up in the backyard with a glass of wine totally not thinking of designs for an ant-killing flame thrower that I could fashion out of household objects.

I’m a member of the safety committee!  But seeing as we don’t have a safety committee at home, screw it.  Well, Jessie’s probably the safety committee of the Fenzorselli house if we have one as it is clearly her job to talk Wes and I out of doing idiotic things that we think will be “fine”.

So, stay tuned for more frequent writing starting next week.  I think I’ll be thinking again!

The Wheels on the Bus Go Something Something

The attractiveness of having your own car is not difficult to understand, certainly in comparison to public transit.  For a worker bee, having a car generally means having a little more control over your schedule (as opposed to public transit where you are prostrate to the whims of the schedulers).  The routes to get where you are going are generally more direct so it doesn’t take as much time.  When you are in your car, you are in a little bubble.

There are downsides, of course.  The price of gas, the cost of maintenance, and insurance are not things to be ignored.  When you go to the city, it is often difficult to find some place to leave your car and then you have to worry about it be vandalized or ticketed.  When you drive, you have to be alert at all times.  You can’t doze.  You can’t catch up on your reading.  And you don’t get much accidental exercise when you rely on a car.

I took public transit “religiously” from about the age of 10 to the age of 25 (when I finally broke down and got my license after the time of commuting to NJ by transit was beginning to kill me).  By the time I was driving I was fed up with transit for a lot of reasons.  I have been commuting by car for the last 5 years, but have recently rejoined the public transit camp since Wes, Jessie and I are trying our hand at being a one car household.  Currently, Wes needs to have the car every day.

As such, I have been reintroduced to the actual freedoms that public transit gives me.  I get to read blogs and such in the mornings and evenings while traveling to and fro.  The cost is lower.  I have a bike with me, so my independence isn’t shot, but there is also a freedom in not being attached to a car.  When you drive, people expect you to drive (and often drive them places).  It becomes taxing to be constantly responsible for other people’s transportation, or the schlepping of other people’s stuff, or meandering routes to help with everyone else’s errands.  Over the last 5 years I have been pretty generous with making myself and the car available and I admit that there is a calmness I feel about not being able to offer those services up as often.  In addition, I get much more exercise without thinking about.

However, I have also been reintroduced to the number one reason that I grew to hate public transit.  No, I’m not even talking about the earlier wake up time (something I have negotiated anyway, as I am not allowed to get to work later and stay later to accommodate a more sane “leave the house” time).  I’m talking about the “public” part of public transit.

When you take public transit, people seem to really take this whole public thing to heart.  If you are out in the open quietly waiting for your train, you are apparently open season for people to come and chat with you.  It is made worse by the fact that I have a fancy bike that folds in half.  It is certainly is a conversation piece.  It doesn’t really bother me to talk about it, except that almost everyone who talks to me about it asks how much the thing costs.  For whatever dumb reason, I tell them and am then instantly terrified that I’m going to get beat up for it or something.  The bike cost $400, which is a lot in general (we are not wealthy people), but is especially a lot when you’re talking to someone who just got on the train with you in Camden.  Everyone is always shocked and I feel embarrassed for the privilege and fearful that I have said too much.

My second week transiting, I was taken in by a dude’s sob story.  He seemed believable enough and I was generous.  He then tried the same tactic on me a couple of weeks later, not figuring (or not caring) that I would remember his face and his hard luck tale.  The day after I met that guy I met another man who burst into my morning space and didn’t leave for the entire commute.  He started talking to me about the bike and then about a million other things…how he just got out of prison, all the mistakes he’s made, the liquor he used to love that costs $800 a bottle, what a positive attitude he has, and finally a hilariously inaccurate discussion of historical facts.  I let me guard down (he wasn’t really listening anyway) and it was OK.  A few weeks later he played a different game than the first guy.  He saw me, said, “Hey, I know you!” and then moments later, followed me out onto the platform telling me how he was 45 cents short for the train.  I looked at him grimly, gave him a dime and walked away.  I was sad and also extremely annoyed that I had lost so much of my practical “City Sense” that only years of public transit and walking the city streets can teach you.

But it’s not just panhandlers that get you.

This morning I was on the train heading to work.  The train is set up so there are seats right by the doors, perfect for cyclists.  I set up shop in one and was sitting kitty corner from a large man.  He made his presence known first by sounding like he was hacking up a lung.  I can’t really get on anyone’s case about that, health is what it is.  It’s just that the hacking makes it difficult to not be aware of the guy.  Next he kept trying to take pictures of himself with his phone.  Then at one point, he extended his leg across the aisle and rested his foot on one of the seats and posed, attempting once again to capture the perfect portrait.  Defeated, he said to me,

“Please take a picture of me.”

I had been engrossed in reading something on my phone but looked up when I saw his leg swing across the aisle.  I took the phone and as I framed the shot he said,

“Make sure you get the boot and everything.” Yep, a complete pose to show off his new shoes.  I took the shot and gave the phone back to him, not saying a word.  A couple of seconds later he says, “One more.”  I kind of roll my eyes, he says “sorry” and then hands the phone to me.  I take another boot shot and then go back to attempting to read blogs.

A few moments later, he gets a phone call and proceeds to carry on his side of the conversation at full volume.

“Aw shit! Clarine!  I’m so happy to talk to you! ...Yeah, the last time I saw you, you were like, “Get the fuck out of my face” but yeah I think you were just playing with Mike.  I’ve been waiting to hear from you! Fuck! “

“Oy,” I thought.

“Nah, really, Clarine, I’ve been all about you for forever.  I look at your pictures on Facebook and you’re all in your cop outfits and whatnot and I click ‘like’.  Yeah, I’ve been watching you for a long time.  They say that good things come to those who wait and now it’s my turn.  And I ain’t gonna fuck it up either.”

“Really?” I thought.

“I used to be a loan officer but after all that shit went down they let me go, on account of the fact that I had a record.  They wanted everything squeaky clean.”

“Ugh, why do I know now that you have a record?” I thought.

“Nah, you don’t know what you’re talking about.  I was in a monogamous relationship for 3 years…yeah, yeah I was…Well, she stopped giving me the cooch.  She stopped giving me the cooch and I left her.  That’s why we’re not together anymore.”

“GAH! WHY DO I KNOW THAT?  WHY???” I thought as my stop finally arrived and I could flee.

This is a phenomenon that I have encountered countless time on public transit.  People either have loud phone conversations or loud conversations with their friends wherein everyone in a ten foot radius (probably more) are suddenly graced with intimate details of their lives. 

Now, I know, I’m a blogger…a blogger who doesn’t particularly hide anything about my life on here, but here’s the difference: If you don’t want to hear any more about it, you can scroll past it.  If you are uninterested in my life on here, you can not click the link.  It’s your choice.

A few weeks ago while trapped on an extremely crowded train, I had to endure some guy MAKING a call to someone and then flipping out at them.  “I called you twice in the last couple of weeks.  You don’t call me back!  This is the number I called you from!  Why can’t you just call the number?  Call the number!  This is my number!!!  I called you twice last week!”  Based on this conversation, I have to assume that the answer to why this person didn’t call you back is obvious.

See, it’s not that I don’t think you have the right to say whatever the hell you want to say, it’s that I have a right now to have to hear it.  I could walk away, sure, but sometimes you’re already trapped on a train car with nowhere to go.  The bigger problem is that when I am invited into such a one sided view of things, it is difficult not to render judgment.  Take, for instance, the fact that I assumed that the above guy was a pain in the ass to talk to based on his end of the phone conversation.  Take as another example the fact that saying something like “She stopped giving me the cooch” makes me want to barf and question when the woman on the line is still talking to you. 

After years of dealing with harassment on the bus or train just because I accidently looked someone in the eye for a second too long, or because I had the audacity to bump into them when the bus stopped short or because they refused to move out of my way when I said excuse me, I have developed the attitude that you keep to yourself on your daily commute.  It’s true that I’m a relatively social person, but I have had so many experiences on the train where I was reading, my head buried in a newspaper or book and had someone completely ignore that to start an inane conversation…or I’m working on situating my bike to get onto the second leg of my commute someone comes over to ask me questions about it, followed by “what are you doing this weekend?”  I suppose I could tell people to screw off, but they often don't take kindly to "Could you please leave me alone?"  I'm not looking for more discomfort or harassment.

I realize that much of this is the problem of being female and out and about.  The people who invade my space are never other women.  Men ignore my reading so that they can make a connection with me and then ask me to the movies.  Women talk to me, but generally briefly and without that strange leering behind it.  "Oh, that's a neat bike" usually means, "I think your bike is cool", not "I like a woman with an interesting bike and you should respond to my liking of that and probably fuck me".  Clearly, living as a woman in the world has traumatized me.  Maybe these dudes really do just like my bike and the change I'm willing to give them...but probably not.  One time I was sitting on the Regional Rail reading the Metro and this guy with a laptop sitting next to me says, “Excuse me, Ma’am, do you know anything about defragging?”  I told him that I know what it is but that’s about it.  He was quiet for a bit and then said, “I’m really good at Mine Sweeper.”

I kid you not.  Dude was trying to pick me up with his Mine Sweeper skills.  He kept talking to me no matter how far I buried my head into the paper.

So, yes, I remember now why I really started to hate public transit.  It’s the public and how much I inadvertently know about them.  The next level of madness will be when people who are on the same train as me everyday start to think that we have some kind of Grand Falloon kind of relationship just because we take the same train everyday and I don’t look like the kind of girl to cut you.

Maybe I should work on that look…

MacGyver Days: Next Stop, Stargate

Sometimes there are events in a day that remind me that I have a truly bizarre job.  Sometimes these events are so industry specific that to attempt to explain them here would too long and will likely end up as a "You Had to Be There" moment by the time the punchline rolls around.  But today, I think, is entertainingly explainable.

So, I'm a coatings formulator.  As I've mentioned here before, I usually describe my duties as "I make magazines look shiny".  But we do more than coat books and magazines.  We have to worry about a lot of important things, like coating bags of dog dirt of cow shit!

I live a life of glamour and magic, it's true.  I'm one step away from being on the same glamour level as James Bond.  I mean, BAGS of COW SHIT?!?  How do you beat that for things to care about?  

Here's the best part: In the world of coatings, coatings that go onto bags of dirt or cow shit are some of the most difficult to formulate.  They're tricky as all get out!  The big thing about them is that these bags are printed, coated, filled with dog food, dirt, or cow shit, and then they are stacked several bags high outside at the Home Depot.  So, you need something water resistant, flexible, and you don't want the bags to slide and fall on people's heads.  This last part is very important for some reason.

I'm sure you're reading this and still saying, "So what? That doesn't sound so hard."  Well...maybe you're better formulators than me, but it is very difficult for me to find a way to optimize all these properties.  I won't go into why as that is a bunch of technical crap that would be much more entertaining to talk to me about when we're both drunk (I often find myself talking chemistry when I'm tipsy...I think it's because other people like talking about when they're tipsy too.  Impressively, drunkeness seems help them avoid that "glassed over" look).  The important thing here is that we're very wary of changing the formula if there's a slight issue because slight changes can ruin everything.

Our cow shit bag customer is having a major problem that is kind of strange.  They found the problem during their own weathering test which involves sticking a bunch of bags up on the roof of their facility and leaving them there to face the elements for weeks on end.  The problem arose and now they are asking us to solve it, even if it isn't necessarily a coating problem.  This happens a lot.

So I came up with a few new formulas and we needed to subject them to weather to see if they're any better than the current one.  Because we're scientists, we have a fancy machine that simulates weather.  You put a sample in there and leave it there for days and it alternates between "sun" and evening condensation.  Our customer has this too, but they said that the type of failure they were seeing didn't take place in the machine, only in the roof samples.  So...we needed to put a bunch of stuff on our roof to duplicate the testing.

At first I was like, "Hey! No problem!  Sounds easy."  So I made up various samples and starting thinking about them being on the roof.  "Hmm, it's going to be windy up there.  I can't just stick them up there..."  I wandered around the building looking for a suitable anchor.  I stumbled upon a metal shelf that's just a grid.  "Oooh, I can attach the samples to this." I was originally thinking of taping them on, but seeing as they were going to be subjected to a lot of rain, I figured the adhesive would fail pretty quickly.  So I stapled rubber bands to the samples, snipped them open and had water proof ties!  One of my coworkers came over and said, "Those are still going to get pretty beat up out there..."  He disappeared into his cubicle and came back with a bunch of paper clips and started securing the bottoms of the samples to the grid.  The only thing missing was a use for chewing gum.  Next time...

While I was doing this whole process, I had the audience of the maintenance man who was waiting for me to finish putting the grid together so that he could help me get it onto the roof.  While I was working he said, "Well, it looks like the samples will be ready soon, so I'm going to go get the rope and the key ready..."

"Excuse me?"

He went on to explain that access to the roof was behind a locked door that also houses the building's electricity.  To get to the roof, you have to climb this very steep ladder.  The upper half of the ladder is surrounded by a "bird cage".  So he wanted to attach a rope to the grid, climb up to the roof and pull it up.  Well, ok then.

We went to the electrical room and suddenly we were in an episode of McGruber...or at least we were in a room very similar to the one they're always trapped in on SNL:

We walked in and I was a little bit terrified of getting trapped in there as we were in the same room with all the main power switches and all that. Electrocution and explosions maybe! I have a very active imagination.

The ladder looked like this:

Except that it was in this hole of a room surrounded by electrical crap.  The maintenance guy got up there and started pulling the grid up.  It kept bashing the sides of the cage, but the samples were so well attached with my MacGyvering that all was well!

In conclusion, since I mentioned Stargate in the title, this whole process would have been made easier with a Stargate...or a Portal gun.  I am not looking forward to having to actually go check these samples periodically.  I feel like it will be me taking my life into my own hands each time.

Of course, I ride a folding bicycle on busy streets everyday too...so...whatever.

Oh what we do for cow shit bags.  It's a living.  It certainly is.

Home Again, Home Again

I am back at work after two days of business travel that were less than ideal.  Mostly it was that I had to leave home at 7:45am on Monday morning and walked in the door of my house at 12:30am.  Wes, being wonderful, picked me up at the airport and then sat and had a glass of wine with me to help me unwind and destress in an attempt to get the most out of the few hours of sleep I was going to get.

I was in Greensboro, NC and in order to get there, the affordable flights went from Philadelphia to Atlanta and then I took another plane into Greensboro.  This was the same to get back and there were generally 2 hour layovers each way.  Traveling during the week, traveling light, and having become pretty automatic about doing all the required BS for airport security checks (even the ever important "not joking about bombs" thing, which, as you might guess, is hard for me) means that I usually have at least an hour before I have to worry about boarding.  So it was a lot of time by myself in a somewhat uncomfortable place.  On the way there I was not particularly interested because I didn't want to be away from home and wasn't particularly excited about the trip I was going on.  On the way back I had many a bout with loneliness as I inched ever closer to PHL where I knew Wes would be waiting for me.  It had been a rough trip in general and when I finally started my journey home, I found that I was without patience.  Just get me home.  No bullshit.  Just home.

The flight from Greensboro to Atlanta was on a tiny airplane and my seat was next to the toilet.  When I was in flight, I found it easy to become engrossed in the book I was reading.  I had forgotten a book (namely Stephen King's "The Stand", which I have been chewing through for months), so I bought a copy of a different King book, 'Salems Lot, which I really, really like so far.  I enjoy the way King weaves a tale.  Much like The Stand, he introduces you to the world by characters in different facets of life.  He is well aware that a town lives and breathes only as much as the people in it do and I find his mastery of this story telling style absolutely wonderful.  The minutes of the flights flew by as I entered this little universe.

But still, something clicked in my brain when got up from my seat (the last in the aircraft) and made my way out to the gate.  I knew that I was simply in Atlanta, that I had four hours to go before I touched ground in Philadelphia, and yet I had this strange hope that Wes, Jessie, Shaun and Ginny would be there waiting for me with smiling faces, all ready to help me find some shitty red wine and be by my side while I was dealing with that final leg of travel.  Of course, I quickly realized that this couldn't possibly happen, but was disappointed anyway and that two hour layover in the Atlanta airport felt interminable...until I found some wine, talked to my loves using my silly telephonic device and wrote a blog post for Polyskeptic.  I also entertained myself by thinking about the Lost City of Atlanta episode of Futurama and various David Cross bits about airports and Atlanta itself.

But there was still an undercurrent of loneliness the whole time, despite my various attempts at distraction.  And now looking at it from a somewhat saner point of view, I will say that the problems I have are pretty good ones to have.  My home life is so satisfying that being away for just two days is a form of torture.  The people who I love, who love me right back, are so wonderful that being off somewhere where at least one of them isn't also seems a supreme waste of time.

There were multiple reasons why I felt that away this time that didn't really have anything to do with the above realizations, but the whole thing seemed more ridiculous because of how much I like my "regular" life.  I just got off the phone with someone who wants me to come be a techie for them out in California for a week at some point and this is something I would have jumped at before, but now the first thought that comes to my mind is "How long will I be away and is it worth leaving all of this?  Can I bring everyone with me?  That's a pretty big bag to check."

Needless to say, as the clock ticks towards quittin' time, I am really looking forward to having a night at home with Wes and Jessie to chill out, eat some good food and go to bed early and hope that tomorrow the insanity of the last couple of days will not be the driving force of workplace paralysis.

It Pays to Research Things Before You Write, But Whatevs

Whilst scrolling through Facebook today, a friend linked to this article.  Upon first reading, I thought that this was a plan that American Airlines themselves was proposing, but in actuality (reading comprehension FTW) it’s this stupid website’s plan that they are proposing to the airline.

Don’t worry.  I’m not writing to start a big rant to make fun of vegans.  I had a thought a few weeks ago of writing a satirical article about a new diet craze Beeganism wherein the followers of the diet will only eat things in which it has been guaranteed that bees died during some portion of its production.  Well, I thought it was funny, but I didn’t feel like offending a bunch of people with my crass wit…this time.  It’s like when I temper myself when I want to make a “haha, sulfuric acid to the face is funny!” joke.  It’s funny in the context of the cartoon lab in my head, populated by a bunch of idiots in lab coats.  It’s not funny in the context of countries where this a regular punishment for the crime of being a woman, for instance.

No, I found this article ridiculous because, well, for so many reasons. First of all, it was written by a group called the Physicians Committee for Responsible Medicine and they’re choosing to spread a message of fat hatred and support of something dumb like the body mass index.  This makes me think of organizations like any Christian organization with family in the name who really gets behind things like subjugating women.  Responsible medicine, ey?  "We responsible physicians think that Captain Carnivorous Fatty should take the train not a plane! You can tell it's a slogan because it rhymes at the end!"

Oh, I know.  They're not saying that...specifically.  But the ad they describe suggests that you should pay the extra cash to sit next to a vegan, because vegans will totes be skinny.  Not like Lardo, the Meat Eating Freak.  One person in the ad gets it and is happy for the entire flight, while the other person is some kind of sucker.

The concept of fat hatred was something I wasn’t really aware of and didn’t really think of as something that had a name.  This is, of course, privilege speaking.  I am one of those lucky people who has a body that fits relatively within the societal ideal. I’m on the thinner side, I guess, and I’m also curvy.  It is not difficult for me to find clothes that fit.  I do not work at this body.  I don’t have any medical conditions that cause me to gain weight or make it any harder to get the weight off if I really want to.  I have really good sensors or something that make me not particularly want to keep eating when I feel full (unless it’s Tex-Mex…they don’t work then), so I don’t really have a problem with overeating.  I have it easy, is my point.  For me to feel superior to anyone because of my body is stupid.  And yet, so often the thin like to make massive assumptions about fat people.  The biggest assumptions are that the only reason that people are fat is that they just won’t stop eating and are lazy and are obviously unhealthy.  Of course, this is only a fraction of people.  Many people, as I mentioned, have medical reasons that make weight management incredibly difficult.  It is not every overweight person’s fault that they are bigger than you.  One of my favorite bloggers covers this subject a lot in frequent updates like Today in Fat Hatred.

So, I get that a lot of people fly now and that 9-11 made things difficult for airlines, but I don’t think the answer is to encourage the population to shrink in order to fit into yet a smaller seat.  I don't mean to get all Jerry Macguire on you, but perhaps it should be a situation of less clients, less money.  

Yes, yes, I'm a chemist, not a businessman.  I'm sure I'm missing the Big Picture.  But to me it's sort of ridiculous to expect people on the wider side to spend twice as much money to fly than thin people.  Really?  Buy an extra seat for another $400?  That's the solution?

In addition, there shouldn't be advertisements that suggest that someone's weight has anything to do with you, that they should feel shame for daring to inflict themselves on you.  "If this person just laid off the burgers, you wouldn't be miserable right now.  It's not that flying coach generally blows.  It's not that you want to buy the 'cheap' ticket and be treated like kings even though that's just what flying costs now.  It's that fat people are a burden to you personally.  SHAME THEM!  Also, vegans are skinny and totally love being exploited!"

Also, there are fat vegans, FYI.  So it might be a gamble.  You might pay your $10 vegan fee and get sat next to a fat one whose only benefit to you is Scott Pilgrim style vegan super powers.  Which would be cool in the case of terrorists or something...but you'd just be soooooo uncomfortable until then.  But in general, I find it hilarious that they didn't want to call it a "Sit Next to a Skinny Person" fee...they call it a vegan fee, because otherwise it's too blatantly fat-phobic, right?

My favorite part of the article is where they say that American non-vegans have an average BMI of 28 (that's "overweight"...GASP!) while Amercian vegans have an average BMI of 23, a "much healthier number".

No, 23 is simply a lower number than 28.  It is not healthier.  The BMI is stupid and everybody knows it.  It doesn't take into account people's muscle mass, nor does it actually tell you anything about a person's health.  It is simply another number with which to become obsessed...much like worrying about a few pounds on your out of calibration bathroom scale.  You can have a "healthy" BMI and haven eating disorder.  You can have a "healthy" BMI and be a withered mass of skin, body fat and bones.

Also, I finally watched the actual ad and it's more sickening than I thought.  Not only is the "fat guy" not particularly fat, but the vegan is a blond bombshell.  Then it makes a quip at the end after the vegan starts talking about how unhealthy meat is, "And for an additional $10 you can NOT sit next to a vegan".  It's so stupid that now I'm questioning whether this is satirical...so I did a quick search and found out that PCRM is basically PETA with a complete focus on veganism.  In fact, the group was founded by the former foundation president of PETA.

So I probably don't have to say anymore about it.  Since the site is for an animal rights group, clearly the ad doesn't actually have anything to do with airplanes or the annoyances of flight.  It's just a "hey, vegans are sexy and skinny.  Y'all should be vegan...oh, I'm sorry.  Did we make you feel like an asshole for not being skinny?  Well, maybe you should lay off the cow chomping."  This is almost as good as the "vegetables are so...um...sexy...that you know you totally want to fuck them" campaign of a few years ago.

Now I'm just feeling sarcastic.  

So...beegans.

A Company Woman

When I was in kindergarten through 12^th grade, every year I was told the same thing: Next year will be harder.  This was only really true for my 5^th grade year when I went from a standard neighborhood public school to Blue Ribbon Brainiac Public Institute.  After I adjusted to the demands of that, every year felt about the same (with a couple of individual class exceptions).  Sometimes I got a C, but never for more than one report card and never lower than that, and with somewhat minimal effort.

OK, one time I got a D in middle school…in ART of all things.  I think I got crappy grades on my abstract expressionist stuff…because…I don’t know I didn’t conjur the wickedness of the looker’s soul with my scribbles and circles…or I didn’t try very hard.  But fuck it.  Abstract Expressionism is bullshit and if you have to try hard at it, you’re doing it wrong.  Then she marked me down because I suck at realism…because drawing proportionally and realistically is super easy, especially with no instruction or guidance.  I still suck at it, choosing instead to depict things as they appear to me in my head: Out of proportion, funny colored cartoons.

What?  There’s a market for that! Also, I redeemed myself later by showing my teacher as a senior in highschool that I have a lot of talent if you leave me the fuck alone.

ANYWAY! So, I got through school, not at the top of my class, but pretty well and likely with less of an inferiority complex than anyone at the very top.  “WE SHALL ALL BE NEUROSURGEONS!” is what their t-shirts should have read.  I think one of them is a neurosurgeon, so here’s to realizing dreams, but still. 

Then I went to college.  Much to everyone’s surprise, I went to college for chemistry.

“What?  I thought you were going to be an aaaactress.”  No.  Look, I like acting and all, but I really like eating and didn’t want to worry about how I was going to afford to do that.  I watched my parents try it and it just wasn’t appealing.  So, I decided to go to a practical (but expensive) technical school for a practical thing and here we are.

What I didn’t realize was that going to college was going to be the first time that the whole “it’ll be harder next year” thing was true…every single year.  Every year the science and math got harder, and seeing as these are not natural strong suits of mine, this turned into a nightmare.  In addition, I didn’t have any study skills because public school was full of crap.  In addition to THAT, I had a lot of emotional problems that got really nasty right around when I had to start learning about inorganic chemistry (and some other difficult stuff, but fuck inorganic chemistry, seriously).

I think I have written an entire diatribe about inorganic chemistry before and will likely do so again in the future.  I think I should make a t-shirt that says “Fuck Inorganic Chemistry. Seriously.” That would make me really happy.  If any of you reading are inorganic chemists, I’m impressed and super commend you for understanding it at all.  But it left me saying “You know what?  You metals can transition yourselves RIGHT TO HELL!”

Anywho, my point is, I hated school.  A lot.  I know a lot of people who not only thrive in higher education settings, but they love it.  Perhaps if I had gone for history I would have loved it too.  But going to school for pure science or engineering is torture…to the point where I don’t remember knowing anyone who was like “Gee whiz! I sure do think this is all totally interesting and useful!”  I think the problem is that you’re not allowed to pick more of a track when you’re an undergrad.  Had I been able to only endure one inorganic class and replace it with bizarre quantum mechanics/physical chemistry classes, the torture would have been worth it.  Thermodynamics?  I actually find that fascinating.  Quantum mechanics? I find the things I kind of understand exciting and found an ability to stick with my homework even when things didn’t make sense or were hard.  Inorganic? I didn’t even know what was happening most of the time and didn’t know what I should care.  “Titanium is what bikes are made of!” is about the extent of my knowledge.  “Molybdenum is fun to say” described most of my interest at the time.  “Manganese? That’s someone of Mangan descent, right?” was only a taste of my ignorance.

Still, growing up I had big visions of carrying on my grandfather’s genius and becoming another Dr. Martinelli, with a PhD in some obscure realm of chemistry.  Unfortunately, you have to be really fucking smart to truly follow in my grandfather’s footsteps and hella disciplined.  But even so, every so often I get a wild hare to go to grad school.

It is usually inspired by being dissatisfied with my job in some way and wanting to go on to do something more impressive, more noble (or Nobel), more fulfilling, or perhaps simply different.  I start looking at chemistry grad school programs and see myself really like things like being a TA.  Then I talk to Wes and he reminds me how much I hated school and how the glee of buying notebooks and pens again for class would wear off pretty fast.  Then I think, “I think I just want to be a TA and help people in chemistry labs”.  And then I calm down, not only because I know I would hate it and likely fail, but also because no chemistry program in its right mind would accept me as a PhD candidate with the transcript I have.  “Oh! You got C’s and D’s in most of your relevant coursework, but you’re really good at German!  Huzzah!”

This happened to me a couple of days ago and I almost had myself convinced that I wanted to get a Master’s in Science Education so that I could teach highschool kids how to blow shit up…or…balance chemical equations (everyone LOVES that)…or…oxidation and reduction (which I always thought was interesting but is apparently the bane of people’s chemistry education existence).  In the evening I once again talked to Wes and he pointed out some pretty good observations, based on my current issues at work.

I am feeling completely uninspired by my job.  Still.  However, the difference now is that I am getting closer to understanding exactly what things are totally sapping my formulating energy.  One is that I have recently become horribly aware of the concentration of stupid people in the world.  I used to think that it was just a question of people being bad at communicating, that everyone was basically smart and you could get through to them if you just found the right way to frame the concept.  This is completely ridiculous.  Some people just don’t have the ability to understand what you’re telling them.  In addition, I have become aware that most people don’t give a shit about anything.  Combine apathy with stupidity and you have the worst people in the universe.  It’s disheartening to know this and it is taking a lot of adjustment. I encounter this on a daily basis doing my job and I have to deal with it with a smile and a gentle voice. It’s difficult, to say the least, and I expend a lot of energy not screaming at people to be smarter and more aware.  For another thing, I don’t really have a mentor anymore.  I don’t have anyone to really learn from and I feel like the knowledge I can acquire in the way that I am accustomed (namely eavesdropping and  talking about things at length with people who know a lot) has maxed out.  Further, I have been formulating for a while and have gotten tired of things failing.

So, Wes pointed out that if I can’t stand stupid people in the private sector, imagine what it would be like in a school district.  He’s got a point.  The bureaucracy and general bullshit of schools would likely drive me mad.  In addition, the kids that don’t give a shit would drive me mad.  And the parents who think that it’s my fault and not at all theirs would also drive me mad.  As with everything, whatever problem I have here I would have anywhere.  You don’t get over these types of things by running.  They follow you around.

Wes then gave me a fabulous motivational speech.  He’s good at that and sometimes I wish that people could see how he helps me.  He knows me so very well and always knows the kinds of things that I need to do to improve my situation.  That’s why I talk to him about all this because I know he will not just talk me out of bad decisions, but talk me in to good ones.  He told me that he thinks I should try and grab the management role that seems to be dangling in front of me and work to fix the things that drive me insane.

No, I can’t make people smarter, but I can be involved with their training.  I can let people out in production get to know me, respect me as someone with knowledge that they can come to with questions, and instruct them that I expect them to care and to ask questions.  I can work with other labs to get more productivity out of programs we have in place.  I can get involved in all kinds of ways that will give me a feeling of success and make me feel further invested in my company.  I think this kind of thing will really help.  Thinking this way already has.

So, the next time I go on some fantasy trip about being Dr. Martinelli, kick me in the ass, will ya?