Eau de Funk

This morning I accidentally sprayed my self with thiol. Although not super dangerous or anything, for those of you who are unfamiliar with chemistry, thiols are a family of chemicals that are the active smells of garlic, skunks and rotten eggs.

To put it simply, they stink.

It was a long chain thiol so amongst the least odoriferous in the family, but still icky all the same. I put my sweater in a plastic bag and soaped myself up. James promises he can't smell anything on me but I can still smell a little on my wrist. Since thiols bond strongly to skin proteins (all those who have had a cat or a dog hit by a skunk are familiar with this), it might be a few days before the eau de funk is totally gone.

I think I will put on some more deodorant.

And find a new lab coat.

On Pins and Needles

To keep my hands busy on the long and hot Shabbats, my friend Renske sent me a hand applique quilting block to work on. The patch has been sitting in my house for a couple of weeks unattended because I had yet to find pins to start the project. Pins?
No problem, I could find those at the Zellers or at the Fabric-land. But of course this is Israel, and nothing it seems easy or straight forward for me- although, of course, it makes perfect sense to the locals.

There are plenty of fabric stores in each city which seem to nestle together like colourful Easter eggs. In Jerusalem, there are half a dozen or so fabric shops near the corner of Jaffo and King George, right beside the turn off to walk to the shuk.

Each is a long narrow shop, plied to the ceiling with crowded bolts and rolls of fabric in every hue and texture with very little or no order. The shops are so full that the bolts spill out onto the street both as vibrant advertisement and to provide a little breathing space inside. In the indoor area that these outdoor bolts vacate each morning usually you can find the proprietor or proprietress, ready for business. They are almost always near the door seated on a folding chair or behind a very small and crowded counter barely big enough for the cash register. Despite the sameness of the each store set-up, if you look carefully, you will notice that each store has a specialty: fabrics for curtains, upholstery, ball gowns, clothing, head scarves, etc. I am kicking myself for not taking the camera with me yesterday.

Even though all the fabric jumbled together is overwhelming enough, there were some curious things missing. Where were the threads, needles, pins and buttons? I finally managed to buy pins yesterday off one of the counters displayed as an impulse item like a chocolate bar or a People Magazine. It took two stores in Tel Aviv and three stores in Jerusalem, some bad Hebrew and some funny hand signals to find them. Heaven help me if I ever need a button.

By bedtime I had the quilt piece cut and basted. Then I got up and started stitching, and found it quite addictive, so I kept stitching and stitching. Needless to say, I finished the block this afternoon.

There really isn't much to do on Shabbat but quilt and write blog posts.

Guest Post: A Canadian's Guide to Israeli Supermarkets

This morning the Chicken and I divided to conquer: me to the market and him to the grocery store. It must have been an eventful trip –Fridays are always a mad house at the supermarket– because he immediately wanted to write a post. How could I say no when he was planning diagrams? Diagrams, for goodness sake. Just so you know, he used Chemdraw for this so if anything happens to look like a benzene ring, there is a reason for it. Also, this explains the odd picture quality and I lack the savvy to make it better. If you click on the pics, you will get a slightly better copy.

Let me begin by telling you my favorite Canadian joke.

Q: How do you get 10 Canadians out of a pool?

A: Say “Excuse me, could everyone please get out of the pool?”

I guarantee you that getting 10 Israelis out of a pool would not be that easy. One of the big adjustments that North Americans have to make when they move to Israel is dealing with the fact that Israelis are not as programmed toward avoiding conflict as we are. I don’t know exactly why that is, but I suppose when you grow up in a country that has fought a number of major wars in the past few decades, the shouting matches and long arguments that are a not-uncommon sight over here probably don’t seem like such a big deal. Every week, this important difference between our two cultures gets hammered into my head when I visit our local supermarket in Rehavia, otherwise known as The War Zone.

Here’s a classic example of Canadian supermarket behavior. When a checkout line becomes too long, Canadians seem to instinctively create an L-shaped line (Figure 1). This way, they stay out of the way of people who are still pushing their grocery carts around, thereby avoiding having people be angry with them for blocking their way. It also minimizes the chances of actually having to interact with anyone while they’re in the grocery store.

Figure 2 shows a naïve attempt to put this strategy in action at an Israeli supermarket. The Canadian, feeling uncomfortable since he is at the end of a checkout line where he is blocking cart traffic, instinctively forms the L-shape in order to minimize any chance of unnecessary human interaction. Unfortunately, this conflict-minimizing behavior is not recognized by the largely Israeli clientele, who do not perceive the Canadian as actually being in line. As a result, the L-pattern is not established, leading to increasing isolation of the Canadian as a “nub” on the line. The result is frustration and anger on the part of the well-meaning Canadian.


The situation is eventually resolved by the inevitable appearance of a frustrated shopping-cart wielding individual who must “break-through” the check-out line (Figure 3). If he has positioned himself well however, the Canadian can then take advantage of this opportunity to sneak back into line. This has the effect of causing heaving sighs and grumbles from those who were formerly “ahead” of him in the line (Figure 4).


The net effect of all of this is that the situation is exactly the same as it would have been if they had just done it the Canadian way, except this way everyone gets to go home much more pissed off.

Mystery Fruit: Mystery Veggies.

The shook lately has hit an all new level of yummyness. All sorts of fruits have recently come in and we are PIGGING out on plums, apricots, strawberries and melons. I can't wait until the cherries and nectarines come down in price. Sadly for you, all the fruits have been pretty normal lately. Although, there are fresh figs in the shook these days that I am itching to try out and Itzik tells me it is cactus season soon.

We have come across a couple of strange veggies lately. Well strange-shaped veggies. I couldn't resist buying the cabbage that looked like a dunce cap (James models it beautifully in the pic- I really must put the camera in James' hand one of these days so I have pictures of me!).

The other Friday I elbowed my way past some woman trying to pull a your-veggies-are-too-expensive-give-me-a-deal (on cucumbers that cost less than one dollar a kilo) in order to by some strange hairy cucumbers. I had all sorts of visions a great mystery fruit entry with all sorts of phallic innuendo. I took pics, cut them up, tried a piece and it tasted....like a cucumber.

Ah well. Not all discoveries are exciting, but we will continue to tenaciously taste test all in the name of science.

Update on last night

Sounds like a few of you would like an update.

The dispatcher spoke pretty good english and the two cops showed up about ten minutes later. I had to point out to them which house it was and then promptly went back inside my apartment. The police training/credentials here are said to be not nearly as rigorous as they are in North America, but they were still intimidating probably because the girl had a very large assault rifle strapped around her shoulder.

By this time the waste-of-skin had taken a break from beating his wife, and things had quieted down. The police went in and came out about 10 minutes later. Sadly, without the low life pond scum in tow. The police probably have their hands tied like they do in Canada; they can't press charges unless she does. What I am hoping is that the call the Israeli version of Social Services about the kids and get this family some help.

I had to call a friend last night to get the number for the police so he was curious about what happened this morning. So the story got leaked a bit and those who found out about the misadventure were horrified.

The prison guard with the blind eye

This evening, I watched a documentary about the 1971 Stanford Experiment where average college students were put in the roles of prisoners and guards in a fake jail in the basement of the psychology building. In very short order power was abused and human nature showed its darker side. One “guard” in particular became abusive in the extreme with what can only be described as creative sadism.

Even more disturbing was that the “good” guards, the ones uncomfortable with their peer’s behavior, did nothing. The avoided being around when the abuse was happening and turned a blind eye.

Heros were hard to find in the story. Perhaps only one: the lead psychologist's girlfriend who convinced him that the experiment needed to stop after only six days rather than the planned fourteen. People were suffering and it was within the experimenter’s control to make it stop. Even the experimenter had been caught up with his role as “prison supervisor.”

After this, James and I had a long discussion about the nature of evil, taking responsibility for one's actions and how we cope with bad things that we have done ourselves. Decades later, the worst of the guards in the Stanford Experiment can laugh about his atrocious behaviour, and finds ways to justify it despite knowing that his actions were amoral.

Little did we know that our discussion would be put to an actual test in under an hour. As we were laying down to bed the screaming started. First the man and the woman and then the children too. There were yells of fear, cries of anguish and frustration, and screams of physical pain.

Running though my head is the question: What is going on over there is not okay, but what might happen if he find out it was us who called the police? We live in a neighbourhood where almost all of the residents are rich and influential and clearly this particular resident is violent. I will admit, I am a little scared.

But I am no hero. This is the humiliating part to admit: this is not the first time I have heard the screaming. I just had hoped that it would go away and that I could bury my head in the sand pretending there was no tragedy going on so nearby. I can make all sorts of justifications for my behaviour, but that solves nothing and does nothing.

I decided to not be the guard with the blind eye anymore and picked up the phone. We called the police.

My Hero

Of late late I have been "digestively unstable" and I finally asked the ol'doc-in-law about it. Turns out, I have probably picked up a bug and the ol' doc suggested a 24 hour liquids-only fast to starve the little jerks hanging out in my intestine into submission.

To most people, this wouldn't be much trouble, but I can hear the groan of sympathy coming from my Sister's Husband now. Dominic knows all too well that a Macdonald woman without food is a scary beast indeed. We can lash out without warning both with vicious words and any limb that is within striking distance.

Throughout the day, I avoided letting my inner beast randomly attack those around me with a strict policy of avoidance. Poor James lives with me and had to take the brunt of it, and did so with a level of bravery and stoicism usually only seen in romance novels involving pirates or white steeds. He even bypassed the free pastries at a chemistry talk in the afternoon just to share in my misery. (I would not have been so nobel as to pass on free pastries, especially those yummy croissant shaped poppyseed ones. Mmmmm. Hungry...)

By 9 pm last night, all I could do was lay on the couch, watch TED talks and plaintively ask what time it was every fifteen minutes. When my fast was over, I ate a bowl of cous cous since not eating ironically causes nausea. There I was listlessly shoveling food in my mouth on a stool in the kitchen as James fussed around me like a mother hen, handing me apricots and glasses of water. Once my tummy felt less empty, I promptly shuffled to the next room and went to sleep. James tucked me in.

Then he went back to the kitchen and washed my cous cous bowl for me. My Hero.

Tel Aviv

Since the big smoke is only a 45 minute bus ride away, James and I decided to do a day trip to Tel Aviv on Friday.

We had hoped to get party decorations for Canada Day from the consulate, but that just was a hot and frustrating misadventure. I won't go into details because the rest of the day sounds worked out well.

We gave up on decorations and went to Ben Gurion's house, the first Prime Minister. Dude, did that guy have HAIR. The tufts off the side of his head made him look like he had great white horns. Complete with a slightly paunchy Napoeonic stature, I am trying to remember what cartoon character Gurion reminds me of. He offered the presidency to Einstein when he was in the PM's office, and had Einstein accepted, they would have been The Hair Pair.

We ventured into the market area, which was about half cheap clothes and beach stuff and half fruits, veggies and meat. It was more touristy than the big market in Jerusalem, but touristy in that it is geared to Israeli tourists and beach goers. If I hadn't have been so hot, I might have made a better effort to get a new bathing suit for 7$ out of this big bin surrounded by elbow-armed, bargoon hunting women. Since it was Friday, there was also a big street craft sale on. We walked the several block length and admired all of the posh stuff that is pretty to look at and nice to have, but clutters shelves and eats into the weekend warrior budget.

After J-town, Tel Aviv seemed positively Dyonisian. The hot and humid weather matches the culture: dancing glittered swan street performer ("Not a closet in the world big enough for that guy," exclaimed James), bikini tops, shameless amounts of leg and- gasp!- pork at some of the restaurants. We passed this one restaurant and peeked over the hedges where we saw two women on pedestals in angel costumes swaying and playing fake white violins to strange electronica as middle aged people in polyester lined up for a buffet. I really didn't know what to make of that, but it all seemed very Greek and excessive to me compared to the more religious and restrained Israel I am used to.

Since Shabbat was well on its way, there wasn't much do do in the afternoon but do what most of the locals do on a hot weekend. Go to the beach! I got to go for my first swim in the Mediterranean along with what seemed like half the city. I always forget two things about the sea: to remember to swim with my mouth shut, and how easy and pleasant it is to just float. The beach was super crowded with bathing suit clad folks with perfect tans.
We stood out for our extreme pastiness, but this other dude stood out for his extreme creepiness. Notice in the pic of James here, looking studly. Now look to the right. See the dude to the fully clothed and on his laptop? I caught him aiming his web-cam at passing melons. Ick.

As I was taking my swim, the dude in the life guard hut started yelling stuff out over the PA system and people frantically started running out of the water and flocking to one part of the beach. I had to ask another swimmer for a translation. It wasn't a rip tide or a shark, or even an angry eel. Turns out, two guys started fighting on the beach and the lifeguard was running commentary through the PA system to the great amusement of the crowd. Having seen that wonderful display of professionalism, I don't really trust the lifeguards to save me now.

Two mild sun burns, two ice creams and a bus ride later, James and walked home from the Jerusalem bus station in the setting sun, tired and happy.

Uch. I can't believe you guys are still reading this.

Looking back over the last few posts, I have come to realize just how boring my life has gotten. Chemistry is driving me nuts, eating away my motivation and my will to live. I have basically done the same reaction 40 (literally, 40) times in the last three weeks with nothing else going on.

Our final exam for Hebrew is tomorrow night, so it has been study, study, study at home. And James has been working on a review article for the last while so our weekends have been adventure less.

Hopefully this doesn't last much longer. I am itching for adventure again and a wee change of pace. Hopefully for you folks, I wont be blogging about flowers again.

Brown? Nah!

We have definitely entered the season of brown. All the verdant grasses, beautiful wild flowers and blossoms of March and April have been desiccated into only golden stalks (golden sounds less depressing than brown, doesn't it?). But this is only in the "wild" spaces, where plants are left to their own devices.

Climate has never stopped Israelis. They are the great world Innovators of Irrigation and Superheros of Sprinklers! They can grow oranges in a desert and tomatoes on the saltiest land on earth!

In the city, the intense irrigation means many of the domestic plants in people's yards are now in heavy bloom. One neighbors' houses have the unfortunate look of suffering from a giant chemistry experiment gone wrong. The flowers appear to be oozing out of the roof.


Even as those flowers are fading, the Jacaranda trees are blooming purple, which reminds me of Christmas time in Adelaide. Our whole street is a bower.


There are so many blooming plants here. It didn't occur to me until we came back from Canada how much Jerusalem smells like flowers. The whole air of the city is perfumed.

Bibi on board!

This morning I nearly went deaf on the walk to work all thanks to my good friend Binyamin Netanyahu.

We were calmly walking down Azza street when we were passed by a sirening cop car. As he whizzed by I grabbed my ears and exclaimed "Ach!". Then came a land cruiser SUV with tinted windows, a blue flashing light and again, ear splitting sirens. Then came a second, third and fourth identical land cruiser, each with sirens that seemed to blare "Get the heck out of the way! Bibi coming though!" Apparently, the PM needs four SUVs to keep the bad folks confused.

I figure the sirens were enough of a deterrent seeing as my hands were busy clutching both ears.

Seeing as Bibi works at the parliament house, The Knesset, which is on the way to the university, I suggested to James that we should try to hitch a ride some time. (The PM is only one dude, I am sure there is space for us in one of those SUVs). James said that trying to hitch a ride in the PMs convoy would only get us a free ride in a hearse. Sadly, he is probably right.

NEWS FLASH: THE CHICKEN IS FALLIBLE!

For years I have been sending things to James for him to proof read and he always finds lots of embarrassing typos despite the fact that I had checked the document with a fine tooth comb. This spring he even found a typo in the title of a poster I was making.

I have always flipped letters and when it comes to reading can't ever seem to see the trees for the forest. In grade school, I was repeatedly told I was lazy, and I believed them. Now that I am older and I know that I check things over and over and still the mistakes are there, I realize the problem is out of my hands. I have grown to looove spell check and considered having James' wedding vows changed to "I promise to love, honour and proof read..."

For years, I though James had been blessed by sprinklely, glittery dust of the Eye-for-Detail Fairy. (She thought it was a better gig than collecting rejected body parts like her sister the Tooth Fairy. But I digress)

Anyway, for the first time ever, I got to proof one of James' papers last night. I am relieved to say The Chicken is fallible too. He has a bit of a blind eye to type-os in his own work too. Admittedly, not nearly as bad as me, but I caught at least two awkward sentences, several missing italicizations in chemical names, misuse of the word "attenuating", and a random bracket instead of a comma.

Some of it he can't help, sadly, because he is – sigh – an organic chemist. Metal complexes miraculously gain and lose ligands from nowhere in catalytic cycles, laughing in the face of the First Law of Thermodynamics. And, uch! Did you know what uW means to an organic chemist? No, not microWatts, like it means to the rest of the scientific community, but microwave!

I have tried an intervention to bring him to the dark, nano side but to no avail. Sigh. Ah well, no one is perfect.

Stanley's Cup

Every morning when I get up, I check my email on James' computer. Inevitably waiting for me is some baseball webpage discussing the minutiae of the Dodgers line-up or the statistical chance of a hit deflecting off of the pitchers out stretched glove, arcing though the air directly into the hands of the third baseman, who tosses it to the second baseman who does a pirouette mid air to send it to the first baseman who catches the ball with his teeth for a triple out. (It happened once in '43 in a double header game between the Yankees and the Cubs!)

As you can imagine, I don't tolerate much baseball talk. Poor James in his desperation for baseball conversation has had to lower himself to discussing the Dodgers with a local dumpster cat. I have presented the photographic proof.



Hockey, on the other hand, I can occasionally tolerate and even enjoy. When we were coming though the T.O. airport recently, I happily sat down and watched the last period of a game. There is something very comforting about the sound of the announcers' Canadian accents, the whack of a slap shot, the thunk of a player against the boards and the woosh of skates against ice as a player makes a 180 degree turn.

Now that it is so freaking hot in Jerusalem, the thought of ice, sweet cool frozen ice, makes my eyelids sink to half mast and my mouth release a sigh of desire. And don't think it is the hockey players that are the object of my affection. Despite years in Hicksville, Ontario, I have never had a thing for the toothless wonders wearing pull up diapers over knee high socks.

But last night I actually had a dream about the Stanley Cup Finals. Sad but true.
So given that it is game seven of the Stanley Cup finals on Friday, and I am actually dreaming about it, I will be getting up at 5 am to watch the third period. So if you are watching the game, think of me bleary eyed and drinking instant coffee, rapturously watching the computer screen just to get in my little piece of home.

Stick in the mud

OK. So there was this article in the Jerusalem Post the other day about the declining Christian population in Jerusalem. This is part because this is not the easiest part of the world to live in for minorities and many Christians who can are emigrating. Nearby Bethlehem used have a healthy majority of Christian citizens, but the economy has tanked since the big wall went up and the Natzrim (Christian in Hebrew) are leaving in a steady stream. As well, the birth rate amoungst Christians in Jerusalem is low (makes sense with all those monks and nuns and priests running around, whom I would hope aren't reproducing).
The Christian Community is described justly as "divisive" but the article also had this to say:

" 'The main fear of the church leadership is that local Christian communities will disappear, and that the holy sites will be turned into museums with no supporting communities,' said Dr. Amnon Ramon, an expert on the Christian community with the [Jerusalem Institute for Israeli Studies]."

Really? The churches are worried about losing the local communities? I find that hard to believe.

My skepticism is not because the Jerusalem congregations are large. The last time I went to the St. Andrews Memorial Church, the congregation could have been out numbered by the one in Dorset, my hometown and great metropolis of 500 people.

Check out this website for all of the church services in J-town. I linked to the protestant ones but the Catholic and Orthodox ones tell a similar story.

How many Sunday services are in the evening? Blessed few.

The local Christian community has jobs and Sunday is a regular workday in Israel. Very few Jerusalem churches actually choose to accommodate the needs of the local christian community. They seem to be ignoring the fact that for the last sixty years, they have been in the middle of a Jewish state. And no surprise here, the few evening services listed are with relatively new evangelical sects that are not locked in by their own stodgy unaccommodating self importance and traditions. Not only is it difficult culturally to be a Natzrim in country dominated by Jews and Muslims, but the churches themselves make it difficult to even practice the faith.

All over the world, the traditional Christian sects have declining numbers of congregates. They are attempting all sorts of ploys to draw people in and, more importantly, making changes in how they worship (not what they believe) to make themselves relevant to the modern world.

After a few months here and seeing what goes on, it shouldn't really surprise me in the old world, where showing no weakness and bluffing reigns supreme, the churches are as flexible as a wooden post. I guess if there is any place to leave christian traditions unchanged, it would be here. Regardless, it still seems like a shame that in J-town, 'crucifix' is nearly synonymous with 'stick-in-the-mud'.

On the up swing of the noodle

After a short conversation with a labmate this morning I said a common Hebrew good-bye as he was heading out the door.
"Le-hi-tri-ot!" I exclaimed.
My lab mate stopped, backed up, looked at me oddly and asked "did you say 'le-hi-tri-ot'? Are you sure you don't you mean 'le -he-tra-ot'?"
"Uh," I answered "sure! What's the difference?"
Turns out that my version of good-bye actually means "To Noodles!"
Good to know. Good to know.
(This IS embarrassing but not nearly as bad as the time I made an X-rated blunder and made a French professor blush to her toes.)

Things are starting to turn around. Due to some serious studying on the weekend, Hebrew was only mildly painful tonight after the complete whooping I got last week. With some more crazy studying in the next week and a half, I might actually pass the course.

Most importantly, after nearly 3 and a half months of frustration, I figured out why my reaction would not reproduce. For the last while, I have been questioning everything and seriously in the dumps every day. Did I change regent bottles? Are my flasks clean enough? Are my flasks too clean? Is there some wired new impurity in the air of the glove box ruining things? Am I not cleaning up my starting material enough? Which gauge of needles did I use when it worked? Which size stir bar? Was my fume hood light on or off when it worked? I was grasping at straws.

Today I figured it out. Turns out I am too anal retentive of a chemist for my own good. In order for this thing to work, one of chemicals I toss in the flask needs an itsy bitsy teeny weeny amount of an impurity that I had been dutifully and completely cleaning out before the reaction. SON OF A HOO HAW! GRRRRR.

Anyhoo, I am just glad I got it figured out. Now I can sleep well with out nanoparticles dancing over my head and mocking me with their screeching nano-voices. After a busy day in the lab and three hours of Hebrew lessons, I need to catch a few Zees.

To Noodles!

Clothing

When I was moving to Israel my brother's friend Avi, who had just returned from a stint in the Israeli Army, told me that Israelis are more conservative dressers than Canadians. I always considered myself a rather conservative dresser anyways so I wasn't worried. But it is TRUE! Israelis LOVE bland colours (white, navy, brown and black are the staples). Although I have seen some horrifically tight/animal print outfits on fashionistas downtown, they are not very common and in general the populous doesn't show as much skin as Canadians, and they like to wear far more clothing than the temperature calls for. I swear we saw a fur coat at 15 Celsius one day.

To wear my favorite pink shirt is a statement about my identity. "I AM BOLD! I AM NOT RELIGIOUS! I AM WESTERN! HEAR ME ROAR!" It cries out with enthusiasm.

I could blather on for hours about how clothing defines class and religious beliefs far more than any place I have ever heard of. A day in the old city is a great game of "Guess that Christian!" Armenian Monk? Catholic Nun? Coptic Priest? A walk on Shabbat is a display of all sorts of cool hats. Askanazi? Haredi? Reform? Secular? Hockey Fan? (I'll explain that in a later post). The Arab Quarter is a lesson in femininity. Women, completely covered except for their hands and faces are the most elegant looking people I have ever seen in their long tailored coats and fitted head coverings.

When traveling Israel, it is not worth putting anything in your suitcase that is above the knee. Sure there are lots of places you can wear those soccer shorts, but it is a pain when touriting far a day and find out you can't go in somewhere because you look like a tart for wearing a tank top. You may as well save the suitcase space and bring a pair of capris and a longish flowing skirt, some t-shirts and a light cardigan.

But this is the kicker. Where do you think I found the clothing issues are most restrictive when traveling? Look at the sign. Where do you think I took this picture?



a) At a kosher restaurant specializing in Ashkenazi food.
b) Recommended clothing posted outside a tour-guide place for seeing the Arab city of Acco.
c) In the door of an Orthodox church in the "new" part of Jerusalem.

To make you guess, I have posted the answer to the question in the comments section (click on the orange word "comments" below).

My life feels out of control

My chemistry is sinking like the titanic.

Hebrew is impossibly hard with a huge list of vocab to memorize (what do you mean I have to know how to spell the words? I can't spell in English let alone Hebrew!) and a final exam coming up.

My chemistry is tanking.

I am not sleeping well partly because it is so freaking hot on the fourth floor.

My chemistry is playing hard to get.

I keep having to spend money on stupid things.

My chemistry hates me.

The only thing going up in my life is the size of my butt yet I can't seem to stop eating the whole PB and J Pita at lunch.

Chemistry is not working and it hasn't been for a while.

I am going to bed now to enjoy the inevitable teeth falling out dreams.

What a sucky day.

Today, I have the Anti-Midas touch. Everything from the moment I got to work went to poo. I started at the microscope and halfway though the session the Tech showed up and I got in trouble because somehow my reservation didn't show up on the internet scheduler. (Not like anyone was working then anyway!) And I discovered that yet another reaction tanked. I don't know why I can't reproduce this reaction. It is driving me nuts, making me very frustrated and feel really stupid and embarrassed. Some post-doc I am.

I dislike blaming other people for my failures, but there were a series of other little things that added to my already fecally inclined day that made me really angry and frustrated. Like someone leaving a puddle of water on the floor for other people to slip on. I really don't want to vent specifics of the other things on the internet, but let me tell you it has been one of those days where I think it is hard to soar with eagles when you are surrounded by turkeys. I wish people would just own up to their responsibilities.

Then my sandwich was stale.

Then my juice, a pick-me-up treat, got stuck in the vending machine.

Then I had two more reactions die in the flask.

The only thing good that happened was that I used my lizzard catching skills from Austrailia and resuced a gecko from the halls on the Nanocentre and released him to the wilds of the campus grounds. Hopefully he had a better day at school than I did.