How 13 bucks saved my mind

I like order.

It's got a lot to do with my job, where I have to be precise and structured in my methods, spilling over into my daily life. I do things the same way every day, park in the same places, put my keys in the same place, even my purse has a special spot for everything and if something comes out, it goes right back in that spot when I'm done with it. (Which helps when I'm screeching down the highway and need a piece of gum right now.) Doing things the same way helps me keep from forgetting things, and helps me retrace my steps easily and find whatever it is I need, whether it's a kid left at school or my favorite pen. Not having things put back in the same place makes me craaaazzzy. (Just ask Ryan, who put my iPod back in my purse, but not in the same spot--I nearly drove off the road, I was so frantic, thinking he'd lost it.)

Right now there are a lot of things out of order around the house. It's not entirely laziness but a lack of motivation and time. Working full-time and trying to balance the time I spend with the kids has been a challenge for me this year, not to mention trying to balance in time for regular housecleaning. Not that I was super-super-eat-off-my-floor clean before, but I was considerably neater when I had an extra day or two to think about it.

I realized just how much the disorder was bothering me last week when I was looking into my pantry and it looked like Costco exploded in it. One of the problems we've been tackling is what to do during the time frame when the kids get home in the afternoon and we get home in the early evening, and dinner preparation is waiting on me, the last person into the house. A couple of 8:45 pm dinners made me realize that something had to be done, or I was going to be riding the guilt train forever; because that doesn't stop coming to your station just because you're working, and pizza all the time is not necessarily good for you. I gathered everyone together and proposed some solutions, the most obvious being that the older kids and Mr. W were going to have to pick up some culinary slack. Awesome idea, I told myself, let go of the kitchen, you control freak, and eat someone else's dinner once in a while.

The Marinade Explosion of 2010 notwithstanding (during which Ben found himself covered in marinade that "just exploded" out of the bag and my kitchen looked like someone committed a murder in it) this new regime had gone okay...until I looked into the pantry and realized that because it was such a mess, I knew where everything was...but no one else did, which is why Mr. W sent Nolan to the store to buy some spaghetti when there were 6 packages already in the pantry. And while I can throw amazing things together out of the supplies I have in there, Ryan is only going to see the Tostitos.

Inspiration struck me in Target, of course, when I was looking for a glass jar and saw shelves of organizers you can put in your pantry. Intrigued, I bought some plastic baskety-bins to house my baking supplies, as I had various chocolate chip bags about to stage an uprising with the sugar to take over the entire shelf, and an under-cabinet thing just the right length to hold a loaf of bread or two. I arranged that particular shelf when I got home and voila! a little pocket of order peeking out at me from the chaos. Thirteen bucks later, and I started breathing easier, and the spot between my brows unfurled, no botox required. Now, everytime I open the pantry, I look at that shelf and it makes me happy.

While I still can't look at the other shelves without cringing, I am feeling brave enough to tackle the rest of the pantry this weekend.

If only I felt brave enough to tackle the dust on my bookshelf, too.

Hug your favorite person in a lab coat

It's Lab Week April 19-23rd. Ordinarily the lab I used to work in would have some contests and a couple of fun things, maybe a potluck, and maybe a management-provided catered lunch, and maybe some swag from our vendors.

The lab I work in now goes all out. There will be contests all week, like dry ice shuffleboard, LabLympics (there are three individual and one group relay event), a salsa/guacamole competition, and all kinds of food all week long (breakfasts, lunches, ice cream social, barbeque in the park). The bottom line is that I won't be able to come home and complain about being worn out at all this week, not without risking an "Oh, pleaaase!" eyeroll from the family. (That's what I get for bragging a little about how this group outdoes my old one.)

One of our contests is for people to submit an account of "How I Became A Scientist" which will be emailed out to all, and we have to guess who it is. I thought I'd post my story here, if only to get a post in. It's been a long time since I've done one, I didn't think anyone would mind too terribly much if I cheated. Just a little.

Here's my story:

I became a scientist because of two people.

My parents.

I remember being about 6, and stumbling across a book inside one of our living room tables called “Biology”. It was big, and green, and I started looking through it. In the middle of the book were transparencies of all kinds of things. Plants, animals, a human body; the transparencies were designed to be looked at separately to look at details of certain systems or structures, or all together to get the full 3-D effect. I was completely fascinated by the frog and would flip through those pages, trying to figure it out. Eventually, Mom would catch me with the book, and while she did not mind me going through it, she worried about the transparencies getting torn, so she’d usually take it away after a little while.

But I’d always find it again.

Mom would take the time to talk to me about her biology class, not squeamish at all about the dissection portion, and how interesting it was. It was from my Mom that I first heard about DNA and how things could be inherited from your family. She was always curious about science and her musings to me would make me think. I wanted to find out the answers so that I could share them with her.

My Dad, on the other hand, was all about airplanes and space. He told me stories about astronauts and fighter jets and all about the math and physics that went into those endeavors. He stressed that math was not something to ever be afraid of and when he talked about the laws of motion, he spoke about them like they were old friends. I could not wait to meet them. On road trips, on our way home at night, he'd talk about astronomy, mythology, and the first man in outer space.

Their combined influence made me want to pursue science as a career. And while I never knew I’d be in the field I’m in when I was a little kid, I always knew that I would be a scientist.

As for my Mom's book...I still used to find it from time to time, and I still turned to the page with the frog splayed out on it. I've not been able to find it for a while...

...because my nephew has it.

When cups attack

Every had one of those days when things are going well?

*Kids off to school -- on time, permission slips signed. Score!

*Good, albeit big, hair day--I'm ready for my closeup, Mr. DeMille!

*Stop for my bagel and coffee, and get a couple of treats for the ladies I work with and still am running on time--Nice!

I'm feeling very "you got it going on, Mama-san" while bobbing my head to the music I'm listening to...and look down to see peanut butter from my bagel has left a dribble on my jacket. I have napkins aplenty so I dab at it and manage to make it not too noticeable (another wardrobe crisis averted). I'm taking a sip of my coffee, and just as the light changes and I am putting my coffee back in the cupholder, the sleeve of the cup takes a weird turn and I dump coffee all over my lap.

On the bright side, I laugh, and think that maybe the caffeine will reduce the appearance of dimples in my thighs, without the expensive spa treatment.

I'm convinced I am the only adult in the world who should not leave the house unless she's wearing a bib.

In my case, given my graceful eating tendencies, it would have to be a bib....the size of Montana.

It's raining, it's pouring

Nothing like a little rain to make me feel lazy.

I should be cleaning the house and making beds and taking care of a little grocery shopping, but I've been baking cookies and blogging.

I know if I go lay down and try to read, I'll be asleep. The dishes will stay in the sink, the chicken will stay in the fridge, and I will still be in my pajamas.

Pajamas being a far cry from yesterday, when I enjoyed a rare moment of glamour. I got my haircut in the morning, and she dried it straight. I love it when she does that, but I can't get the same smooth-like-glass sassiness she does. It's so awesome. I'd dropped by the mall to check out a new lip color I'd seen in a magazine. It looked terrible. And the lady at the counter intimidated me a little. Okay, a lot. In spite of my sassy coif. I tried another color of theirs and decided thanks, but no thanks. As I was about to head out to the van, I realized I hated the way my lips felt and before I knew it, my feet were headed towards the MAC counter. Oooooh. They were hosting an event, to roll out the spring colors and usually, when they have that many people in that particular corner, I am, again, intimidated, and don't stop. But my lips needed to go there, and as I scooted past the man wearing an orange coat and purple pants, not to mention the pink-haired model, I wasn't sure if I would stay long enough to do anything but grab a Kleenex. But suddenly, there I was, chatting up a salesgirl and looking at the colors, wiping the other stuff off my lips.

"Try this," she said, as she handed me a wand. I looked at my mouth and was a goner.

We started talking about some other things...and the next place I found myself was in a makeup chair, sassy coif pinned back, at the mercy of the salesgirl.

Man, she worked a mean brush. It felt soooo good as she painted and applied and chatted and explained. I could have sat there all day.

She handed me the mirror and I braced myself for the inevitable face-full-of-ohmygod-I'm-a-drag-queen makeup before opening my eyes to peek.

Holy cow.

"You'll be coming over every morning to my house to repeat this, right?" I beamed at her. I looked amazing. Even if it was more makeup than I'd use in two weeks, it was the most amazing bronze-and-reddishpink-and-glossy as I've ever been. It took an armload of personal restraint to not buy all the stuff I had on...except the lipstick.

Viva Glam Cindy, meet Viva Glam...Anna.

Of course, my husband was not home.

Of course, there is no photograph to post.

But it's nice to know that Glam Anna is still in here, even if she's hiding in pajamas.

My shirt's staying on

After my harrowing experience with the shrimp, I had to follow up with my doctor (who did prescribe me the epipen) and she recommended I go to an allergist (I'd already made the appointment).

The allergist was a little stymied, because usually, when people react to food, it's immediate. I was an unusual case. I told him I'd also poked myself on a cactus as I waited in line for my turn at the trough (who has LIVE cacti in a boardroom, I ask you?) and that I was not convinced that this event wasn't a contributing factor, considering I had to pull the thorns out of my arm (I had a sweater on and didn't realize they were there until they started making me itch) as I sat there having lunch. I'd cut some thorns off the thing to bring to my appointment and he said he'd make a concoction with them, and to come back for skin testing the following week. "No antihistimines in the meantime," he added.

Skin testing involves you taking off your shirt and allowing the nurse to poke you with little itty bitty needles that are dipped in various allergy-causing substances all over your back. And in my case, forearm and upper arm, too. I got tested for all the shellfish, fish, my cactus, nuts, and various "environmentals".

I knew I was not in for a good time when I felt spots on my back erupt and itch within two minutes of the nurse leaving. I'd giggled as she poked me as I am super ticklish, and now, in my agony, I felt I'd probably kick her the next time she came into the room. I concentrated on my iPod and just when I thought I'd not be able to handle it anymore, she came walking back in.

It's never good to hear a medical professional gasp as they enter a room and look at you. "I'm getting someone else to help me read this," she said, "so we can get it done as quickly as possible." I appreciated that effort, because had I not been sitting on my hands at that point, I'd most certainly have jumped off the table and started rubbing my back up against the door jamb like a bear. Maybe just a little rub here, I bargained with myself, gingerly easing my finger over a spot close to my shoulder just before she came back.

I heard series of numbers, like 8,20 and 11,45 and later I found out that the first number is the mm of width your hive is and the second number is for the redness/reaction flaring out from this. Once she was done, she wiped my back and arm off and then smeared anti-itch cream all over them. "He'll be in soon," she said, "go ahead and get dressed."

She didn't have to tell me twice. I got my shirt back on in record time and allowed myself to scratch a little. She came back in a few minutes later with a little cup of medicine and a pill. "For the itching," she said. While I reacted to the shellfish (the lobster hive was huge), my back reaction to me was by far worse.

My doctor came in and proclaimed, "You're allergic to the world."

I wasn't surprised. I knew this, but I didn't know to what degree. After we talked, we decided that I don't have a definitive answer for my reaction that landed me in the ER, but that due to my overall allergicness, maybe there were other environmental factors that, coupled with the shrimp, pushed me over the edge. Based on what has happened to me in the past, I was okay with this. I am not doing shots, and I will carry the epipen and liquid Benadryl with me at all times, and just be cautious, like I was before.

But I'll be a cheap date from here on out--no shellfish or lobster for me.

He did suggest I bring the food that I had that day to his office and eat it there, just to see what happens. I'm thinking I will pass on that--I'm just not up to it right now; maybe in a few weeks or maybe never...we'll see.

I called Mr. W as soon as I was out. "Guess what the doctor says I'm allergic to?" I asked with glee.

"Dust?" he replied hopefully.

"Nice try," I said. "Apparently, I'm allergic to everything in the world....except you."

I decided I'd wait to tell him I'd be needing a bigger purse. That Epipen takes up a lot of space.....