Uh, Thanks Mom

A bulky package arrived the other day from my Mom. Knowing it was a gift, we video conferenced with her when we opened it. I should have known when she started giggling before we even got the scissors out.

Years ago, I told The Chicken that we have opened ourselves up to years of poultry jokes and chicken related gifts of every variety. Indeed, I once received a huge yellow stuffed chick from my normally very serious mom-in-law's hubby Major Pete, which I then had to take through security in the TO airport. "Nice Duck" the security guy said as the chick, perched in a grey bin, was conveyered into the X-ray machine. I was afraid to correct the guard at the time. Then there was the time an old friend gave me a itty bitty tiny rubber chicken and said "I don't know why this reminded me of you, but I thought you would like it." Then there was the time The Chicken Dance was requested by the bride and groom at a wedding I MCed as "our song". And then there are the various chicken related birthday cards and such that have found their way into our lives over the years. Not that we mind. We like that we are in your thoughts and we like that you appreciate our unique personal endearments of the Hen and Chicken. But this year my Mom takes the cake.

So when we opened the package, with Mom giggling on, I was expecting silly. But this was extraordinarily silly, with the added bonus of chicken-ness. She had knitted us matching touques covered in a chicken and eggs motif. To top it off, instead of pom-poms we each have three wee chickens hanging off strings.

Mom says we don't have to wear them in public, but I have no shame. Can't you see these hats on the ski hill with chickens streaming behind in the wind?

And they will be great for the winter about the house here. Since our apartment is usually the same temperature as outside, it means the day time high in the living room was about 15 degrees today. This afternoon we were both wearing our new hats in the kitchen as I gave The Chicken his first baking lesson. We were listening to the greatest baking music ever, Black Sabbath, and head banging our pom-pom chickens around the kitchen.

Perhaps it is best that the neighbors can't see us though the kitchen window.

Husband Training

A year ago today, James was arriving at the door having flown from TO through Kiev to Tel Aviv. This is a real milestone since it was also the beginning of us living together. It is not our wedding anniversary, but rather our marriage anniversary. It has been a year of adjustments to be sure. Mostly for James since I was born perfect, and he of course is constantly trying to achieve the same, especially under my caring guidance and tutelage.

To tell you the honest and humble truth, I have husband training down to an art form. Let me tell you some of my achievements to give you examples of a hubby that is well "hen" pecked.

I have the chicken shopping trained, oh miracle of miracles. Normally he would wear clothes until they fell off his body, but not after training. I gently start mentioning his ratty clothes weeks before to get him primed for the event. I carefully choose ONE store to blitzkrieg, because I know that only one store is what his patience will handle. Last Thursday, I dropped him and his bags in front of a full length mirror and just started tossing medium sized sweaters and shirts in his favorite colors (blue and green) at him. Twenty minutes later, we left with two shirts and two sweaters. Now he looks schnazy.

As well, I have the chicken well trained on Friday mornings. Janet-sleeping-in time is sacred and he brings me coffee once I wake up. All this time, James quietly hangs out in the living room and reads what ever boring book he is obsessed with this week or plays a baseball computer game, and doesn't complain a peep.

Later in the afternoon while I clean the bathroom, James diligently moves all the furniture around to sweep and mop the floors, like a good, well heeled hubby.

And if I get on a sewing blitz, James entertains himself (see pic courtesy of Siu- and yes I realize we are wearing matching sweaters like septagenarian love birds).

On weekday mornings, James makes the PB&J sandwiches and packs four pieces of fruit for our daily lunch meeting at 11:30.

I could go on and on about the amazing progress he is making.

But wait. Now that I read this over, I am noticing a few things. Clothes shopping down to twenty minutes? Leaving James hours to read and play computer games and nap? I hate cleaning the bathroom! I used to eat lunch like a normal person at noon.

What the heck is going on here? Could it be possible? Am I a trained wife!?!

Good Idea

To have a really good nano-paper these days, you can't just make something cool. You also have to show that it does something. Catalysis, charge transfer, gas storage, julienne fries, - it doesn't really matter and it doesn't really have to be that great at it- it just has to show potential. Only then can you think about submitting your research to a killer Journal.

For a year now, I have been working with this material that I hoped would be good for X. After months of fighting with the synthesis, I finally had enough this week to really and conclusively test for X. However, it was soooooo bad at it, it actually had negative activity. That's right, it went backwards. This may sound interesting in itself, but unfortunately the reason is extraordinarily mundane.

Anyhoo, I broke the news to the boss- softened by telling him some other good news first- and he finally said the magic words, "We could just write it up as is..." but just as I was about to reply, he closed his eyes, held up a finger to stop my words and said,

"Wait, I have an idea coming...."

Then out of nowhere, on 30 seconds notice, he comes up with a genius idea to test for a different type of function, something I hadn't really though about. I totally wish had thought of that.

Now I am not saying all of my boss' ideas are good ones, and I have shot down my fair share, but I know a good idea when I see one and this one goes to show why the boss is the sage and the rest of us merely his protégés.

It is such a relief to be released from trying to prove activity for X. When no one was looking I was doing Toyota jumps in the hallway and leprechaun leaps on the way home.

Now, to work. I still have to see if this new idea works and there is a lot of reading time and lab time ahead in the next few days.

Nice try, but I am not taking the bait

Just to remind you before I get into this story, Friday and Saturday are the weekend here in the land of Jews and Muslims. By Thursday afternoon, my work week is almost over and all I can think of is watching "House" after dinner and two blissful days of sleeping in.

So, it was announced to me by my favorite TEM tech that there will be new rules and times that users can book the TEM. "You will be able to work 'till ten o'clock on one night per week!" he said enthusiastically, while I inwardly moaned imagining myself eating dinner at 11:30 pm because the only TEM slot left was the last one.

But then his announcement got better. "We will keep the TEM open late on Thursday night!"

Ha ha ha. This had to have been my boss' idea to get us to work more hours.

Considering yesterday morning I was at work by 7:30 to start the instrument up for the day and get a few samples in before group meeting, fat chance I will be booking evening hours. I earned my weekend and darn tootin' I am going to take it.

Transgendered love in Jerusalem: An analysis

A while ago, this graffiti showed up on the fence around the building next door. (Which, incidentally, is a grand old mansion that is being renovated) We didn't think much of it. It seemed like a simple confession of love for Yossi ('Brew for Josef) and a plaintive hope that it is requited.

But hold on a minute here folks. Verbs (love) and subject pronouns (you) are not gender neutral in Hebrew. After further analysis, this graffiti gets a little more titillating.



In the sentence on the right, the verb is in a male form, implying the speaker is a dude. Therefore, Dude is confessing his love for Yossi, another dude. Openly, in spray paint, for all of us to see and analyze.

But wait, it gets better! In the the second sentence, the question, the gender of the words again makes things even more spicy. The subject pronoun "you" is female in "Yossi, do you love me?" Therefore Yossi is a chick!



Ahhh, transgendered love in Jerusalem.

Interior of the Ministry of Interior

The day we went to Ramallah was a little stressful because of what I noticed in my passport that morning. My student visa was valid for another thirty days, but my "multiple entry visa" had expired the night before. What ensued was conversation over whether we were leaving the country or not by going into the occupied territory.

When push came to shove, I deftly showed the check point chick only my student visa and got though with no problem.

But I knew it was time to begin the arduous task of getting my visa renewed. After three hours of calling the Ministry of Interior and listening to annoying hold beeps, I got an appointment for both James and I. "Come Sunday," he said "or else the next appointments are in December. Bring, letter from University, health insurance, money, proof you are living here, and bring your marriage certificate." Really? My marriage certificate? OK.

Wait. Where IS my marriage certificate? I haven't seen it since the day I got married. One hasty closet search by Mom and a rushed fax by Dad (thank-you taxpayers) and I had a copy in hand. We have been hearing nightmares from our Ulpan comrades about visas as well as the news has been saying there has been a crack down of foreign workers. We had to make sure everything was perfect.

James and I made our way to the Ministry in time for our appointment. The door was locked and a sign proclaimed the office closed. Confusedly, we knocked and a security guard stuck his head out. "Name?" he demanded. He checked our named on a list, checked our passports and let us in through a half closed door. Two other security guards were lounging about in the entrance of the closed ministry.

The waiting area was surrounded my brown boxes strewn everywhere with years written on them in permanent marker. Some of them were open displaying pictures and forms of past visa applicants. We sat down and waited and suddenly noticed one of our forms wasn't filled out, so we madly pulled out our Hebrew skills and translated Georgetown, Dwight, Craig, Alexander etc. Then we waited more.

After waiting an hour, we finally asked and we got sent to room 209. Then in room 209 we got sent to Judith in Cubicle Three. Judith just yelled at us in Hebrew and refused to see our application. So we asked the lady in Cubicle Two what to do. When we told her Judith won't see us, she rolled her eyes, took our forms and three minutes, 640 shekels, and four stickers for our passports later, we are legal for another year. All hail the lady in Cubical Two!

On the way out, one security guard had his feet on the desk and was twirling a toothpick in his mouth. Another was leaning against the metal detector. The last was seated on the desk, feet on a chair playing "Hotel California" on a guitar held together with packing tape.

As soon as the door closed behind us, we both looked at each other and broke out laughing - both out of amusement and out of relief.

Another Unfortunate English Translation

Not only do these guys take care of domestic gas lines, there are gas stations all over town named this.

Lord of the Twizzlers

We are still slowly savoring the treasure trove of Canadian candy that arrived courtesy of Mom and Siu. We have a carry-on suit case with treasures like Twizzlers, Coffee Crisps, Salt and Vinegar Pringles and oh-so-tasty Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. I keep our booty in this suitcase right next to my side of the bed, only inches away from my ears.
James likens me to Smog the dragon from The Hobbit. Poor Bilbo can't take any of the gold for fear he makes a noise and wakes the dragon sleeping atop. James tries to sneak up while I slumber, but the rustling of the plastic packages, immediately wakens the sleeping hen and the deadly flailing of limbs. "Noooooo!" I yell, as the foot suddenly flies out from beneath the covers to block his passage. Bilbo, I mean James, giggles and makes a hasty retreat.

This Shabbat morning, we lounged in bed and snuggled up with a couple of cups of coffee and a movie on my lap top. James kindly suggested that I could have the first shower after the credits rolled. I, being the trusting person that I am, thought my husband a very considerate man, but was brought back to reality ten minutes later. Wrapped in a towel, James tried to get a kiss, but I shied back at the last moment. "YOU!" I exclaimed. "YOU have eaten a peanut butter cup! I can smell it on your breath!"

Now, I am not only Smog the Dragon, I am also the dreaded Eye of Sauron, that sees all. James claims I am going to terrify our children because nothing gets past me.

HA! Any child of mine will be smart enough to cover their tracks better when they sneak candy. Like brushing their teeth afterwards!

Mystery Fruit #14: Starfruit

I bet you didn't know that my love of fruit is genetic. My grandmother always ended meals with a bowl of something with a sprinkle of sugar and milk. My mother, her daughter, was a champion of cherry pie making. Furthermore, blueberries, strawberries and, well, any sort of berry do not last long in her house. My father is part of the genetic line of fruitiness too. His passion is my mom's homemade applesauce, and one famous, or rather, infamous Christmas, he deigned to give her a fancy apple peeler. This was met by a chorus of boos since everyone knew it was a thinly veiled ploy to get more applesauce.

James couldn't agree more with the idea that you are what you eat and my family tree is therefore full of fruits.

Even the love of mystery fruit starts with my mom. Many years ago, when we still lived at the Frost Centre, my mother went on an mystery fruit kick. Every other week for a season or so, some strange fruit came back from the exotic shores of the Huntsville A&P along with the milk, bread and eggs. I don't remember any of the fruits that we tried except the starfruit, which I remember as being almost too pretty to eat.

We have been seeing these funky yellow fruit for a long time at the shook and the other week, James bought three for the the unholy price of 20 sheck (~7$). We carefully place them in the bag on top of the weekly hoard of apples, pears and plums since they looked a little squish-able, and brought them home where they decorated our fruit bowl for a few days.

Siu was excited because he had not eaten them since he was a child in Hong Kong. He sagely old us to cut the points of the star off so the slicing would be easier. Chick-Chack ('Brew for likity -split) and we had a cutting board full of beautiful yellow stars.

Let me tell you, starfruit are TAS-ty. Or aweSOOOME, as James put it. They were sweet and tangy. There were no pesky inedible seeds to pick out. No bitter peel to remove. These were definitely a great fruity treat. I have great dreams of putting them on a pavlova the next time I get the NZ kick.

Between the two of us, we give two thumbs up for the yumminess, one more for beauty but unfortunately, one thumb down for the price.

(Photo credits to Siu!)

Oh the GLORY! PUBLICATION!

The paper is finally published! We got the Galley proofs last week which are a mock-up of how that article would look as a published document. We caught 19 errors that had to be fixed. The most heinous being an extra s on "was" on line 225, a missing capital in reference 26, and a wrong figure number on line 235.

I sent off the corrections Thursday, and by Sunday our paper was published for the world to see, criticize and hopefully cite often.

So who the heck are these people with my name? Gabi and Yossi are my labmates, Inna is the goddess of the High Res TEM and Uri is the boss-man.

Some of you may not know, but the order of our names is very important. It goes in order of who did the most work, so hence Gabi gets his name first for doing almost all the experiments and writing. I'm next because I worked hard with Gabi on the writing and did about half of the HR-TEM work and analysis. The boss is almost always last, as a convention to say he/she is the boss.

Some bosses, like James' old one, are dufuses in my opinion and intentionally always put their name first. Why do they do this? So when people cite you in future papers it doesn't say "Student, Hard Working; et al. J. Fantastic Chem. 2009." it says "Boss, Self Important; et al. J. Fantastic Chem. 2009."

It is always nice to have your name on a paper, as in this case, but the real glory comes when you are fist author. All in time, I hope.

In case you would like a translation about what the paper is about, here it is. Everyone is hot and bothered lately about making nanoparticles with two different parts. Why is this? Well, think synergistic properties. Sticking a metal part on a semiconducting nanparticle opens a whole realm of usefulness. It is the bit to the drill, the blade to the scalpel, the feather to duster stick.

Making these is hard. All sorts of processes happen that prevent one material growing on another, or the two parts attach in a crazy willy-nilly manner. Gabi managed to make CdS/CdSe nanorods with gold tips on only one end and nowhere else, which is way sexy. Not only that, he figured out why and how this happens.

An I-hate-this-place Day

All I want to know is whether I made the sulfide or not. Therefore I will need to make an XPS standard. All I need to do is to heat the reagent to 600C for one hour under Argon. Likity splikity, right? WRONG. This is Israel. Nothing it seems can be done here without making it painfully complicated.


So I go hunting for a tube furnace which are somewhat ubiquitous in chemistry departments. Material goes in a little porcelain boat, which you slide in a glass(quartz) tube, send inert gas flowing though the tube and heat the sucker (see pick from my friend Chico's lab). My old lab in Alberta had three of these set ups. After going on a wild goose chase and constantly being pointed to muffle furnaces and not tube furnaces, I found one in another group, but, fair enough, they won't let me use their tubes because my reaction has sulfur in it.

So I need to get 3 cm diameter quartz tube with two standard glass joints on the end. So after a few days, I finally get a hold of the glass blower, who only works part time and on his schedule. I show him the pick, he says he already has a quartz tube and everything sounds copacetic. A day later he shows up in my office and tells me he wants to put quartz joints on the end since you can't put quartz next to glass. So a week and calling four suppliers later, we discover we can't get quartz joints in Israel. So glass blower has to put a quartz-to-glass connector in between the 3 cm tube and the glass joints. All right, fine, go ahead.

Now the boss wants to buy a whole freaking furnace. I am the first person in the group who needed one (and only for one experiment), a lab upstairs will let me use theirs as long as I have my own tubes, but no, the boss wants a whole furnace for us. And he wants it stored in my fumehood so the other students, who have never asked for one before nor know what one is, can use it without moving it from the bench. It will take up at least half my hood.

This is now about a month later since I first wanted to make the standard.

I went to pick up my tube at the glass blowers this morning. The connectors he put on are about one cm in diameter so there is a narrow bottle neck between the 3 cm tube and the joint. Therefore, I won't be able to fit in the porcelain boat nor do my experiment.

Why is everything so complicated here? I am going to bruise my forehead from hitting it against the wall.

Shook Guitar Dude

This guy at the shook on Saturday was having a great time. I couldn't help but smile.
I love how this video catches the crazyness of the shook. People passing by, some dancing by, the guy with the board on his head, the cart of boxes, the strollers, the dollies and the ever present Irsaeli yelling into his cellphone while he should be concentrating on something else. If you are really keen eyed, you might spot a Jerusalem Chicken.

The Oven Saga

We wanted to replace the old broken oven and we found a cheap used one in the English online classified. We called the lady, Miriam, to come and see it and she gave us lovely ambiguous directions like "take the street that goes down the hill and then turn right at the street that is at the bottom." Jerusalem, if you have never been here, was built on a landscape like bubble-wrap and the street layout planned by a four-year old with a crayon. We ignored her vague directions and with he help of google maps, we found the place.

While inspecting the oven, opening the door and peering inside, we discovered that it was gas. Or rather, she told us it was gas. Then she told us repeatedly that ALL ovens in Israel are gas. I didn't believe her since our current old beastie was electric.
But whatever, it was not what we needed so we left.

Ten minutes later, after climbing halfway up the big hill in the rain, we get a phone call. "Did you mean the inside part? Well that part is electric." So back down the hill we go. Then she emphatically tells us that ALL ovens in Israel are electric.
Regardless, it is electric, it works and it is cheap.

So then I had to organize a movers. Unfortunately, the guy that was recommended to us speaks only Hebrew so I had to get a labmate to organize (he will get the first batch of cookies). But we were told the mover was honest and he was cute. (I have to admit, I was dodged out by the movers advertised in the English classifieds. Many said "Only Jewish Labour". Frankly I don't care who your mom was as long as you do an honest job and it bothers me that they would advertise such a thing.)

Then the other morning, after Siu and I got back from schleping in the pouring rain to and from Miriam's apartment to give her money for the oven, we get a call from the mover. "Where Miriam? She not here!"

Miriam has her cell phone off. Grrrr.

Anyhoo. Eventually the mover got the oven to our house. My eyes just about boggled out of my head when he just tossed the oven on his back and hauled it up four floors of stairs. But let me tell you, the recommendation was a little off. Sure he was honest and efficient and all sorts of good things, but unfortunately he would only be cute if I was about 50. Too bad! I was all ready to ogle some moving-man muscle.

Here is a pic of The Chicken with our inaugural chicken.

On Walls and Segregation

You know, Jerusalem wasn't always this racially segregated. It is within memory that the school in the picture- which is kitty corner to our grocery store- was full of Arab Christians, Jews and a few Arab Muslims and Armenians. The Terra Sancta was one of the best schools in the city. It was run by the Franciscans, which is funny because most of the students, including the Christians, weren't Catholics. The racial segregation only really started in earnest after '48 and became extreme with the building of the wall within the last decade.

I thought you would like to know what my friends' responses were to my story of going through the check point coming back from Ramallah. Besides being unsafe these days, it has been forbidden for Israelis to go into Ramallah since the second infatada, so many were curious about the checkpoint.

My officemate is the only Israeli I feel comfortable with not holding back and saying what I really think. We often disagree, in the politest academic manner, but our conversations give me insight into the thinking of the relatively secular right wing. My officemate seems to be stuck on recent historical record and has a complete lack of trust for the Palestinians. It bothers the crap out of him that there is a mosque on top of the holy temple. And when Jordan had control, no Jew could pray at the Western Wall, and yet when the Jews have control, the Muslims get to go pray and yet they still throw rocks and cause a regular stink. It worries him and dismays him when he hears about misinformation and untrue history teaching in the Muslim community. He says the wall is bad and a humanitarian crisis, but if it is saving lives, it is a necessary evil.

We argued for a while- me upholding my idealism. My big coup was when I managed to get him to admit that the mosque on top of the temple isn't so bad; if Mohammed visited in his dream, he could see how it is an important place for Muslims. What really bothers him is that the Islamic community doesn't recognize it as an important site for Jews and give them according freedom to pray and do their thing on the Temple Mount.

All right, so that was one extreme. Many of my labmates are seriously secular left wingers. One of them loathes all religion since he has seen it bring out the worst in people, and hates it with a passion that fundamentalists would envy. There was a lot of tisk-tisking and shaking heads when I described my experience to them. And the general feeling was that the wall had to go as soon as possible- they just needed to find a way without starting complete chaos.

One labmate had an insight on the flippant guard. He said that these guards are often eighteen or nineteen years old, not the highest pick on the army duty assignments (i.e. not the smartest), and are bored out of their minds from sitting at a checkpoint all day. They are given power without the life experience to wield it with the right attitude. He stated that this, of course, didn't justify her behavior. Some labmates suggested that I make a formal complaint with the unstated notion that my foreigner's voice would be louder than an Palestinian one. I didn't, when I considered my visa is up for renewal this week, and that what am I going to do, complain that a guard was a bitch?

Since I come from a peace loving country with lots of space, I have the freedom to be an idealist. There is no question, the wall has to go. It is a moral necessity. It is the responsibility of the Jewish and Muslim leaders to constantly fight to find a way to bring it down, and to not do so is morally repugnant and a disservice to both their peoples.

Refreshed to Write Again

Last week, we got the first real rains of the winter which lasted three days nearly non stop. Since last winter wasn't wet enough and the land has just gone through six months straight of baking sun, it felt like the earth was singing with every drop. Little purple flowers have already popped up out of the mud in gratitude to the sky. Even the locals were not really grumbling about the rain, despite shivering in their damp apartments. And when the last day of rain came to an end, there was a wonderful sunset to be seen from the window next to the lab oven.

The rain unfortunately corresponded with Siu's trip. Which wasn't all that bad since it meant that it wasn't too hot to wander around all day and it gave him an excuse to spend a day napping and getting rest on his first vacation in a very long time. I had a great time visiting and exploring with him, and well, not writing blog posts. I know my dear, mostly-silent friends, I have been neglecting you. But have no fear, I am writing a heap of blog posts right now so there should be one every day for the next few days.