Weekend Warrior Princess goes to Nazareth

On Friday I hopped on a bus and ended up sitting next to a Texan who was still shell shocked from the ultimate back-packer in Israel story. He had forgotten his back pack under the last bus he took and when he remembered and ran back to get it.... well, the scene wasn't good. They blew it up.
A guy in a bomb proof suit handed him his shredded belongings in a garbage bag.
Seeing as the Texan still had all the important stuff in his day-pack, he was laughing rather than freaking out.

Then on to Nazareth, where I spent the afternoon wandering around through the old city, a very un-touristy Arab market, in and out of some churches, up a huge hill for the view, and into one of the tastiest restaurants I have been to in Israel. Lemon grilled chicken, rice with almonds and middle eastern spices, a roasted red pepper, and a big tall beer. Mmmm. My mouth waters just thinking about it.

Just so you know, the haze in the above picture isn't pollution. It was the humidity as a side order to go with the 30 degree heat and blasting sun. Climbing the hill to get that picture, even at 6 pm was a bit of a sweat-fest.

The old part of Nazareth has many confusing narrow streets against a tall hill. Many of the streets are lined with big mysterious green doors closed with padlocks. During business hours, the green doors open to reveal shops for simply everything: clothing, spices, coffees, cafes, felafel stands, veggies, fish, notions, fabric, underwear, head scarves, shoes, toiletries, pot and pans, appliances, upholsterers, metal workers and even carpenters (yes I found carpenters in Nazareth!)

I spent the night right at the heart of the town at a convent, which was actually fantastic. Those sisters know how to keep a pristine dormitory, or a "dormatoria", as one of them called it. The 10 pm curfew wasn't a bother since I wasn't planning to wander around after dark anyway.

2000 years ago, Nazareth was only 400 people, making my home town of Dorset look big. Now it is 70 thousand and bustling. The crusaders, as you can imagine, had fun there building lots of churches. Although there is only one big noticeable mosque in the center of town, there is also a large Muslim population in addition to the endemic Christians, judging from the number of hijabs I saw.

The next day, I went to a great outdoor exhibit on village life 2000 years ago. I learned how they made wine, about the synagogue (which wasn't sex separated and was more a community centre) and other little tid-bits. I might force James to go back with me in the fall to see them work the giant olive press. And maybe another meal at that restaurant.

Then I decided to head home. Since it was shabbat and the buses weren't running till after dark, I had to take a couple of sheruts. The Arab sherut vans run all the time, but go only once they are full. I headed to where they were waiting, and an old man with three teeth from across the street asked "Tel Aviv?"

When I nodded yes, he motioned me into a blissfully air conditioned room where I spent the next 45 minutes waiting for the sherut on a white plastic lawn chair. The other occupants of the room were six Arab men who were checking out the deals in the Super-Pharm flier, discussing/yelling about something or everything, gossiping on their cell phones and smoking the odd cigarette. In simple English we discussed where I am from and my favorite Israel foods. When I said I like baklava they all exclaimed "bakLAAAAva! YES! GOOD!"

They made a pot of Arab coffee by tossing a whole bunch of grounds in a special silver pot, boiling it at length over a gas burner, and adding copious spoons of sugar. The smell of coffee and cardamon filled the air and they graciously served me some in a itty-bitty cup. The tiny cup was all I needed; one sip of that stuff has more kick than an angry donkey.

As for the bakLAAAva, Nazareth boasts a fantastic shop of these tasty nuts-coconut-dripping-with-honey treats. Got a glove and a box and picked out a selection. The problem is, with so many to choose from....., well I got a tummy ache from eating too much.

New Feature: Job Search

Since I am perpetually asked about it, I decided to add a new feature to my blog to keep you up to date on happenings. I am introducing a counter to keep you posted on my job search, which you can find on the side bar. Job search might be a bit of misnomer, I suspect in this economic climate, it is going to be more like a job safari.

For those not in the loop, PFOs means rejection letters. I'll let you figure out exactly what PFO stands for.

Job hunting is disheartening. All of those applications, so few jobs. I feel honoured and giddy just to get an email back from a secretary telling me that she/he received my application and generally acknowledges my existence. (And then I imagine my application making a thunking noise as it lands on the three foot tall pile of applications already sitting beside the desk.)

I have always been one to wear my heart on my sleeve. In this case, I am wearing it on my side bar.

Tossing and Turning

This weekend is an an ark weekend. Two days where it almost nonstop downpours and wave after wave of thunderstorms come through. It rains for so long and for so much that we are thankful we live on the fourth floor and start looking around for wood in the house to build an ark.

James is softly snoring in the next room since he was up at 2:30 to watch the men's hockey.

It took me a long time to get to sleep last night. For the last month, I have been working on a research proposal to send in my job application package. Two applications need to get sent out this spring. Resume, two page teaching philosophy, four reference letters and then the research proposal. At this point the proposal is eleven pages, three research projects, eight figures, fifty references, and many many holes.

Yesterday I had lunch with the Boss and a high powered speaker they had come in for a lecture series: a very big cheese from Cal Tech. He gave two talks this week, one on some pretty hard core nano-physics and the another on protein assays for cancer research. As well, he runs an additional lab in Singapore, is a single father of two, has more Science papers than I have fingers and toes, is on the board of a gazillian institutes, and has three companies. Very nice guy, very interesting guy, and surprisingly easy to talk to.

But I have to say, my little research, Hebrew lessons and my little blog seem woefully inadequate, not to mention my bite-sized research proposals. The funny thing is, after talking to the boss alone after lunch, I get the impression he felt woefully inadequate too.

At lunch, I point blank asked the big cheese for sage advice on job applications, and I got a lot of advice, right after he said that last year was the worst hiring year he had ever seen. One of the pieces of solid advice I got for these tough economic times was to explicitly list the existing facilities in each school I can use. That way, they don't have to worry about my research needing a huge start up grant. And furthermore, I need to subtly suggest in my cover letter what times I will be back in North America, i.e. I will pay to get my own butt over for an interview.

Needless to say, my night was spent worrying about my ideas, not thinking they are good enough or big enough, and then stopping those thoughts and thinking they are really strong and appropriate for starting out.

Should I take out the one idea that requires a lot of access to extra equipment? Nah, it is at the end, no one will read it anyway. There are lots of solid ideas before that in the proposal that don't require that extra equipment. That little thing won't kill me.

Then I was thinking well heck, there are no jobs anyway.

But then remembered there are two positions in nano open in Canada right now.

And the boss seems to have confidence in my future.

Then I was thinking they must be getting a heap of applications, I had better make sure my package is good.

It would make things better if my paper got published in a high power journal.

I wonder if my paper will get accepted.
God, I hope it gets accepted.
No, don't get your hopes up. You know it isn't good enough.
Why haven't we heard yet?

But it did get past the editor.

But a high power paper isn't the only thing, I have to have a good research proposal.

My proposals are really good.

My proposals suck.

I am never going to get a job.

I am never going to be able to afford children.

But then I hear my mom's voice reminding me it will all work out, it always does.

The Sorrows of a Slave Master

I have a new slave. Well, not a slave per se but rather a new PhD student to mentor and help me on my project. I have trained new grad students before, and I must admit, I feel I am not very good at it. I am not very good at inspiring others to work hard, and furthermore, I perhaps don't give them enough of my attention and get frustrated sometimes by the constant interruptions. Where is this? How do you do that? What is the molecular weight of these nanoparticles? Something went wrong! The glove box is smoking!

The new PhD student already has a masters degree from one of the applied chemistry labs which is a mixed blessing. It is great because she is already somewhat competent and confidant in the lab. I only need to show her new techniques once and she has it.

The down side of it is, I have to be a bit of an ass and break her out of bad habits, or habits that don't work well in this type of chemistry. Like how she organizes her lab book, how she labels vials in our shared fume hood, even how she cleans glassware.

At the time, waaaaaay back in the day when I was just a mere seed of the synthetic chemistry "sage" I am now, I secretly, or maybe not so secretly, resented the unfortunate post doc who had to train my stubborn ass. But I must admit, on everything he taught me, he was right (Thanks Bryan for putting up with me!) and I, of course, must continue the tradition.

The last PhD student I started training back at U of A, I could tell always felt stupid when I constantly corrected her, even though I frequently reminded Melanie that the only reason I know not to do something is because I had made the mistake myself. Coming in straight from your undergrad, you know you are lab-stupid. But after a masters? I imagine it is a little more pride-ripping and insulting to have the post doc harp on you.

I hate being a jerk, but I guess I can take some advice from the King James the Chicken version of the bible: "She that spareth her rod hateth her new grad student: but she that loveth her chasteneth her bad lab technique."

Guest Post: Jerusalem then and now

Maybe you didn't know it but The Chicken has been to the Middle East before, a couple of years before I met him and during a time of youthful idealism and self exploration. Every once in a while he leads me down his memory lane with him but suprisingly not that often. The turn of the decade it seems has been the impetus for some reflection and recalling his time here at the turn of the millennium, ten years ago.



On the evening of December 31, 1999, I joined a crowd of about 200 people at Gethesmane on the Mount of Olives for a New Year's Eve service. About an hour before midnight, each of us was given a long red torch, which we carried in a short procession up the hill to the place that is known as "Abraham's House". As befitted the turning of the millennium, a lot of international media crews were there, asking people questions like "A lot of people would say this is a dangerous place to be right now. So why are you here?". It was a little rainy. I met some American girls working as nurses at Hadassah Mount Scopus. As the final seconds of the millennium ticked away, a cameraman trained his giant video camera on me and the girl I was talking with. "I need a kiss!!!" he said - but that would have felt awkward, and I wasn't going to do something inappropriate just for the sake of giving him good copy. The moment passed, and before long I was back in the quiet streets of the old city, which was absent any signs of the millennial procession except for a small flock of nuns on their way back from midnight mass.

Ten years ago, I had no idea where my life was heading, what I'd be doing in a year, or where I'd be a year from then. I had gone to the Middle East more out of sheer desperation than anything else, because everything I'd done before felt like a miserable failure. It sounds like a cliche, but I thought I'd become an artist here. I needed some time to myself to work out what I really wanted from my life and at the time the last thing I wanted was another lab job. But life has a weird way of working out. A few weeks later, I borrowed a copy of Don Cram's old textbook "Organic Chemistry" from my friend Faisal's apartment in French Hill. I carried that book with me in my backpack through Cyprus, Syria, and Lebanon, and it planted the seeds that would eventually lead me back into the lab. If I went back in time to tell my 26-year old self on the Mount of Olives that I'd do a Ph.D. in organic chemistry, work for 2 years at MIT, publish a total synthesis in Science, and would soon (2001) meet an incredible lady that would later be my wife (whom, I should not forget to add, is responsible for dragging me back here in the first place) he surely would have thought I was talking about someone else - there was no way I would have believed that all those great things would ever happen to me. I certainly never expected that 10 years later that path would take me back to Jerusalem.

Just like 1999, it feels like an end and a beginning here. I have no idea where we'll be or what we'll be doing in a year. But this time, that in itself seems more a cause for excitement than despair. I hope the next decade brings us just as much love and adventure as the past one has. Maybe on Dec 31, 2019 we can come back to Jerusalem to reflect on it.

A Whole Year

Can you believe it? It has been a whole year since I arrived in Israel. This time last exactly one year ago, I was dragging 70 lbs of luggage though a narrow street in the old city trying to make it to the Austrian hospice. For the next few days, I had a terrible tummy ache and wondering if I had made a good decision.

So did I? Absolutely.

It's funny, now at the very middle of my time here and having said so much already, I find my self strangely at a loss for words. And you all know, that rarely happens. Perhaps I will have something more sage to say when I leave.

So I simply take my teacup of bad Golan wine and head out on to the little balcony off the kitchen that looks south over the twinkling lights of the city towards Bethlehem. A toast to Jerusalem. L'chaim!

Trimming off the excess

I don't know if any of you have seen my mom lately, but she looks great. In the last year, she has been steadily shrinking and last week she announced she has made her goal and is officially a "healthy weight" for this first time in my memory. Which shockingly, is below my own pita supplemented weight. I was despondent.

"Congratulations, Mom" I said, somewhat depressed. To which my mom just laughed gleefully and said, "Thanks, Janny" sarcastically.

This morning, I weighed myself for the first time since May and I have to say that getting back to being super-active Janet has payed off. I am officially back to Alberta status even after last weekend's gluttony of eating out four times. And although I don't have the bulging apricot sized biceps from kaykaking this summer, I do feel stronger and healthier than I did in the spring.

Now, pass the pita and hummus.

Chutzpah at an all-time low

We are all friends and family here, right? Because right now, I feel like an idiot. You guys all know that I have skied the Feuz Bowl, repelled down buildings, tossed wrenches at bears, jumped off waterfalls and strapped myself into a jellybean of a boat and attacked big rapids. Right? My womanly chutzpah is at an OK level, is it not?

Today was the group outing (plus James). We went for a late breakfast and then had a tour of the City of David, which is outside the city walls but the actual site of the original "Jerusalem". Learned some cool things, and then the 15 of my research group plus about 15 others headed to the famous and still flowing water tunnel that diverted the spring to a big pool to ensure the city's water supply in ancient times.

Part of the tour is to wade through the cool running water of the twisty tunnel for forty minutes with flashlights as your only light source. Sounds great right? I was all gung-ho.

The tunnel was about two feet wide and about 7 feet tall at the start with a couple of stooping steps necessary. I headed into the tunnel just in front of James and behind him was a four hundred pound man whose girth spanned the entire width of the very narrow tunnel.

"I think someone in our group is might get stuck." James whispered in my ear as a joke. I was not impressed.

I could only really see six feet in front of me before the next turn and had the 20 odd members of our group in front of me. Behind me, the fat man was clapping loudly and yelling encouragements in the dark to the screaming girly members of his family behind him. I was stuck. No where to go. My heart started beating faster and faster and it was all I could do to keep from panicking. In essence, I freaked the heck right out. There was no way I was going to last forty seconds let alone forty minutes.

Luckily there was a spot to the let the fat man pass at his impossibly slow waddle and then I – in almost a blind panic – pushed past the screaming girls to get back to the entrance. I was almost in tears and breathing very heavily.

Forty minutes later, my research group emerged out the other side and realized, "Hey, where's Janet?" I was somewhat hoping that a rumour would spread that I was pregnant (pregnant people weren't allowed in) since that seemed less embarrassing than the truth. But James told them I was claustrophobic, and now my entire research group and my boss know I am an irrational wimp. I feel humiliated.

Stacked.

Now that we have confirmed that we are living within our means, we have splurged on gym memberships to round out my twice-shabbat runs. Twice a week we are getting up to go to the gym: The Chicken to the stair-master where he ironically climbs his way down to the seventh level of hell, and me to the pool.

The demographic at the pool at 7:30 am is an odd one. Apparently students can't afford gym memberships at the University so the patrons are mostly over the age of forty and many over sixty. Indeed, at the advanced age of thirty, I feel like a sprightly young thing next to the potato shaped women in floral bathing suits and hot pink latex swim caps. Their dedication to fitness is commendable and I look forward to swimming until I need two canes to get to the pool.

The reason for all this exercise is because since I came to Israel, I have gained a whopping 15 pounds. It is the pita I tell you! Curse it. And the Rugelach: this evil addictive croissante pastry thing that comes still warm from the bakeries oozing sweet warm chocolate.....

Although my butt keeps getting bigger, I sadly still look like a green bean that has spent too long on the plant: long, thin, with odd bumps. If I am going to gain weight from Israeli food, I want to have the benefits of an Israeli body: Israeli women are stacked. I am not really a connoisseur, and even I have noticed the large number of high quality racks around here. I bet you that if I went into the bra store, the only ones I would find in my size would have Disney characters on them. These are a genetically blessed people.

Even The Chicken has commented on this, not to be mean ('cause commenting on other women is a death trap for hubbies) but because it is hard not to notice. "Unfortunately," he noted "what comes up must come down. " Which brings me back to the potato shaped women in the gym... =)

Good lord, how did I become Thirty?

Today I have officially finished my third decade. And because this is a big year, I am entitled to reminisce. I was thinking about my state of mind with I finished my first and second decades and how they differ from this one.

At ten, lets see, that would be grade five. I was all head in the clouds about most things and was happy with the challenges of learning long division and seeing how many boys I could beat at cross country running. The biggest worry in my life was my sister who taunted me by asking if I was homosexual or heterosexual ("I live at home," I used to answer plaintively and then have to run to mom when the response was evil older sister giggles.) Little did I know that far worse tortures were to come: my teen years.

When I hit twenty, I was so happy and relieved that a was no longer a teenager. That ever present cloud of self doubt and loathing was lifting slowly in the sunshine that is University and all the self reliance that goes with it. All doors were open. I could do anything if I wanted to.

At thirty, I look back and think, wow, those twenties were a crazy ride. And where am I spending my thirtieth birthday? Didn't see that one coming! What a crazy adventure I am on! But of course uncertainty is always scary and I admit to some jealousy of old friends who have jobs and houses and the such. There is the looming possible future of unemployment or, possibly worse, lame-employment. Where will we settle down? Please god don't let me end up in New Jersey.

I would be lying to you and myself if I didn't mention that my biological clock is ticking. It is ticking so loudly that I think at any moment my uterus could start gonging out the tune of Westminster Quarters like a clock tower. And the Israelis don't help. It seem like everywoman, including the female cats, are pregnant and/or herding around a litter of progeny. At my age, seeing so many protruding female bellies is a little disconcerting.

With all of this pressure, I have to remind myself to "Revel in the selfishness of academic research while you can! Enjoy your young marriage! Explore Israel! Screw the house, two cars and the dog! All in good time! This is far more interesting!"

With that little self pep talk, I am going to go to bed to get some rest to prepare for the new adventures that thirty-plus-one-day will bring.

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.

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.

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.

Dear Body,

Dear Body,

You and I have had quite a few years together now and we have had some good times. We have skied mountains, kayaked rivers, done yoga until we felt like Gumby and found heaven together in the form a chocolate cookie called the Tim Tam. I have dutifully fed you all sorts of veggies and give you your demanding 9 hrs sleep per night. I appreciate that you always kindly held off on nasty colds until after exam seasons was over.

There have been times when we disagreed and you have let your opinion be known; the time last year when I ate too many of my mom's famous maple syrup ribs comes to mind. Or when I did 900 sit ups in grade eleven. But all in all, I thought we were friends.

Lately I feel you have not been keeping up with your side of the bargain. I understand there are natural and necessary parts of our time together: growing leg pains, the tortures of puberty, etc. and I have weathered your storms with, I hope, some level of grace. But you are pushing the limits of my patience.

I ask you to choose between your current favorite ills: zits and grey hairs. You are not allowed to give me both at the same time. You seem to have a hard time letting me become a zit free adult and I have been chalking this up to my supposed youth, despite my imminent 30th birthday. I have been ignoring the grey hairs but the one that I found lying blatantly across my ponytail like a skunk stripe yesterday was too much.

The fact that I was pulling grey hairs out of my ponytail should be enough of an indicator for you that the status quo is no longer acceptable.

I eagerly await your decision between Zits and Grey hairs.

Sincerely,
Your Mind.

Happy 100 Postaversary!

Look to the far left and a little bit down. See where is says 2009 (53)
Then below it says 2008 (47)?

That is right, I have made a whopping 100 posts. You would think I would have something better to do than all of that writing!

I guess James has heard all of my stories so I have let my storytelling gene be expressed though the tap tap tapping on the keyboard. It is amazing to look back and see all of the adventures I have had in the last five months: really horrible culture shock, finding an apartment, going to war, husband training, new job, and last but not least, all of those mystery fruit.

Thanks everyone for reading my little blog. I get a real kick when I find out though the grapevine or comments that folks have been getting enjoyment from it.

If you are a newcomer to the Maple Shekel and you have read the archives from the beginning straight though to this post, now would be a good time to get off your butt, have a shower and go to work. Don't worry, the blog will be here when you get back.

Many more mystery fruit to come.

Big Mouth

Well, it pays sometimes to be a big mouth.

Yesterday the Boss invited a veritable god in our field to attend group meeting where we each presented four slides on our research. This guy was in town as a plenary lecturer for the NanoIsrael Conference which started today. I was amazed that he was able to comment intelligently on every project in the group despite his horrible jet lag from California and the mind-numbing three hour length of our group meeting. Although he had some really insightful things to say, I disagreed with his view of one of my labmate's systems.

So I opened my big fat mouth and told him so thinking maybe I had always misunderstood something.

In the entire afternoon, I was the ONLY person in my group to actually be brave enough to engage in discussion with the guy. The guy's cranium is intimidating but isn't that all the more reason to ask questions?

But then as I was laying in bed last night going over the days events, I started to second guess myself. Did I come across as a know-it-all? Or as a jerk? Was I not supposed to say anything?

However, today my fears were put to rest. At the conference mixer, the Nano God escaped the gravitational pull of his ever present orbiting admirers and I suddenly found myself standing next to him after some speeches. I must not have come across as jerk in group meeting because he started chatting me up. My ego is slightly flattered and I was able to ask him about is Nano-Army research group and some science stuff.

But true to the form of science and my luck, pride comes before the fall. Although I got to talk to a nano god, I got not one but two scholarship rejections this week. These were the last ones I could apply for and part of me is glad that this particular type of rejection torture is over. I ask you this, does everyone else's job have rejection like this too? Would my life be more stable if I had gone into something else? I feel like I am constantly in the ringer looking for the approval of others: reference letters, scholarship applications, peer reviews, poster awards, invited talks, even hits to my little blog...
At least the nanoparticles are impartial.