Lucky

Our house would quickly be over-run with dust bunnies if I did not have such a patient and hard-working partner. This morning, we went through our standard household chore negotiation. "I'll vacuum, and mop the bathroom and kitchen, and then I'll do dishes. Is there anything else you'd like me to do?" he asked.
"Clean the toilet maybe?" I said. "It smells a little funny."
"Of course."
"I'll... do the laundry. Eventually. Maybe tomorrow."
"But it's my turn."
"Tell you what, you sweep, I'll do laundry. Hey, I never sweep anyways."
"Sounds good to me. I hate laundry."
"It's a deal."

He also takes out the trash and recycling and deals with anything that smells (just since I'm knocked up though). Every so often, I turn on the dishwasher. He cooks things that, half the time, I won't eat more than once (blame the pregnancy!). I... make pancakes once a week. He deals with tech support and obstinate financial institutions on the phone (I get angry and threaten and yell; he waits patiently until the problem is solved). I buy him socks, and go to the grocery maybe 5/8 of the time (he also hates shopping). Really, he's a much better traditional housewife than I am.

We joke that maybe I should get a high-paying industry job and he should stay home with the baby. He's certainly better suited.

This country should really have longer paternity leaves, too.

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In Which I Get What I Want (And Don't Like It)

We have now been in Sausage & Cheese (isn't that a great image?) for all of 16 days. I declared to many parties that I required entire months to recuperate from my PhD.

I just applied for five jobs.

One through a headhunter, two at Nearby Biotech Giant, and two at Cornfield Software Company. None of them actually wanted a PhD biochemist but this isn't a huge city; the options are somewhat limited unless I want to work in the Department of Corrections or at the local Target. (My college roomate has opined that, within a week, I would mouth off to someone and get fired. Not at all; it would take at least two weeks.) I could certainly do any of the jobs for which I applied, with no more training than any other applicant. In fact, if I learned nothing else by being a researcher, it was how to do new things fast and well, with very little guidance and without being told more than once.

Dr. S thinks I'll get interviews because, if for no other reason, I'm nearby. They don't even have to buy me lunch!

******
Have a) upped chicken and schmeat consumption (FEED ME MEAT) and b) later, tried taking my vitamins. This resulted in a) less fatigue, followed by b) all-day nausea. Screw vitamins. I'm back to my diet of strawberries, bread, and protein. Healthy, no?

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In Which I Whine

Gentle readers, you who do not wish to hear from the whiny pregnant woman, read no further.

But I am whiny. In fact, I am so whiny that the superhuman patience of my dear spouse has been exhausted and he has asked if, perhaps, I could whine just a little bit less. Like not all the time, maybe? Thanks.

A few months ago, my advisor asked what my plans were after I left. 'Take a few months off and bake cookies,' I said. He gave me a look of terminally extreme skepticism. 'I would think you'd be... really, really bored,' he said.

I regret to inform you that he was correct. We have now been in the Land of Cheese and Sausage for all of two weeks. In that time, I have: been to no fewer than twenty garage sales; walked perhaps 30 miles; hunted down and killed various appliances; unpacked everything but the sewing room; had a visit from my father; gone to a street fair; read thirty books; and watched ten hours just of Battlestar Galactica. And I am terminally bored. Going from working 60-70 hours per week to this makes me crazy. I need projects.

The problem is that I am also tired. It's not quite the bone-deep run-over-by-a-truck feeling of a month ago, but I can sleep 14 hours a day and still be tired. So I could sew a skirt. But I am tired. I could bake cookies. Or I could take a nap. Tired and bored: the worst.

Also, while I am whining, let me add that I get horribly nauseous unless I eat every 2 hours and I am beyond tired of eating. I like food, but this is ridiculous. And I have what must be round ligament pain. Second trimester? Check. Right side? Check. Feels like a pointy knife stabbing my pelvis? CHECK.

Pass the frickin' cheese.

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Things That Irritate Me

1) Sarah Palin's hair.

2) My neighbors, who smoke copiously.

3) Currently: garlic.

4) People who assume that, because I'm knocked up, my spouse suddenly has a proprietary interest in my health/ eating/ body/ medication schedule. Let me elaborate, because it really, really irritates me.

Dr. S, in the normal course of things, would prefer that I stay happy and healthy. To this end, he gently encourages me to do quite sensible things, like get off the couch and take a walk and not have cookies for breakfast and eat a vegetable more than once a month. But he realizes that, in the end, it is my choice if I want to do something stupid and/or self-destructive. (Which I try not to.) He gets an advisory capacity; I get veto power.

So imagine my shock when my mother, of all people, asked me, 'So what does Dr. S think about you working with radiation?'

'I didn't ask him,' I said. 'I assume he thinks I'll take reasonable care and not drink the bloody radiation anyways. Because it's never good to get it on you ever.' Mom relented, but later someone else asked me what he thinks of midwives (again: I didn't ask; I told him: lower rate of unnecessary intervention, ten minutes to the hospital).

What I don't understand is the assumption that suddenly my spouse has the right to tell me what to do. It is our child. But it is MY body. If I wanted to end the pregnancy (which I don't) he would be rightfully upset, but in the end it would be MY choice.

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• Collaborator's data? Still missing. The boss is leaning on him.
• I went to the Mustard Museum. Must post pictures. My mind still reels with awe.
• Have now written both Methods and Results.
  
• Must force self to write Intro tomorrow.
• Why do we have them anyways? SO BORING.
• My paper is boring. I am bored with it.
• It's fall here.
  

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Really Dumb Questions

This article about stupid questions brought to mind my favorite-ever stupid question. The occasion was near the end of a year-long intro bio course in college.

A young woman raised her hand at the end of a class on recombination and DNA damage and. 'So... you're saying that prokaryotic DNA is single-stranded?' she asked.

The entire class turned to look at her, and fell silent. "What the hell is she asking?" I thought. "What the hell is she asking?" thought everyone else.

The professor looked at her for a moment. 'Noooo.....' he said....

.... 'It's haploid.'

And I was very impressed. That he even understood the question.

(A brief biology lesson: diploid means two copies of chromosomes- like humans; haploid means one copy- like bacteria, some yeast, etc.; bacteria are prokaryotes. Some plants are tetraploid. And so on. And DNA? Is pretty much always double-stranded.)

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Amazement

We have just spoken with our car insurance company. They propose to charge us the princely sum of $10/month for basic auto insurance, or 1/5 what we were paying. Because unlike SnootyTown, it is, in fact, safe to park one's car, even on the street.

The DMV, however, will not give us licenses. Why? Because we need a 30-day-old utility bill. Why? Why?

***

The Paper has stalled out at 'We observed subtle defects; specifically, .....'. I am waiting for my collaborator. He is MIA. Who needs to graduate, anyways?

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In Which I Have the Attention Span of a Fly

• I should have said, write the rest of my thesis, consisting of one (1) manuscript and five (5) pages of BS conclusions. And yet.
• Focus! Focus! Ooooh, shiny. Should we go to the DMV now? No! FOCUS!!!
  
• Unearthing data is painful. When one has not seen it in three weeks, it is more painful. When it is in a proprietary format for which one does not have the software...
  
• I plan to wander around Dr. S's new work building until I find said software. I look like a scientist, right? Right?
  
• The downstairs neighbors! They may have drunken conversations at 2 AM, but they do not encrypt their wireless signal! O, joy.
• Somebody, please tell me my stomach/ stomach muscles/ innards/ digestive bits will stop hurting one of these days. Or at least will hurt less? Anyone?
• Have bought first pair of maternity pants. Who the hell designs these? Even a stretchy waistband makes me want to rip it off and scream IT'S TOUCHING ME IT'S TOUCHING ME GET IT OOOOFFFFFFFF. New career idea: Design wearable maternity clothing. Revolutionary, I know.
  

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It Could Always Be Worse

It's raining.

But, I will (hopefully soon) show you a picture of the gorgeous park nearby, from which one can see cornfields. If we lived any farther out, we'd be in a cornfield. Yesterday we went downtown for coffee and out to another gorgeous park, complete with pump-it-yourself water fountain.

Today I must, must, must start thesis-writing.

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Arrived

We are in Cold Utopia. The move was bad in so very many different ways. The apartment is fine, except I hate it, because I hate moving. Dr. S unpacks while I lay on the couch. Also, we have no phone or internet for a week because of a moment of illiteracy on my part. I am at the library. I do not like it. I will hit the next person who suggests that actually I may want to live here for the rest of my life. I don't want to be in SnootyTown, and I don't want to be here.

Thus ends today's lesson in misery.

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