'Twas the night before Xmas

It was the night before Christmas, when I started this post.
But I could not decide what my readers wanted most:

A story of drinking with my single girlfriend T,
And how the boys bought us French 75s at Chez Henri

Or maybe a tale of stressful Christmas shopping,
Walking with my bag in the rain, my shoes sopping.

Szechuan pork, Tangy green beans, and dumplings from good ol' Lucky Wah
And instead of a meal for one, I received fortune cookies a trois.

Yes, what was I going to write about this quiet Christmas Eve,
Quite the dilemma giving me a headache that I needed to relieve.

I sat in front of the television, eating and starin'.
When Woosh through the door my roommate came a barrelin'.

Arm loads and arm loads of unwrapped gifts in her bags
All still shiny and new. All still with stickers and price tags.

She set up shop in the living room. With all her paper and gifts on display,
I guiltily watched her work as I watched TV in my evil way.

"Let's watch some DVD's" she said in a moment of glory.
"Oohhh. Let's watch this one. Hilary Duff in 'a Cinderella Story'"

When we explored the special features to find our prince, our perfect mate,
Our answer came out Chad Michael Murray was our man of fate.

Ah as we giggled, and watched extra scenes, we heard the steps of reindeer.
Was it possible? Could it be that Santa was already here?

We ran to our rooms turned off the lights, so we would not be caught awake.
The noise could have been our neighbors dogs, it was a chance we could not take.

So to all our loyal readers and those accidental readers looking for a real site,
"Have a Merry Christmas and to all a good night!"

The German owns the fish

I have been intensely worried about my future. I am supposed to be graduating soon, although who knows with my committee meeting looming over my head. Every other week I freak out that I will never graduate. But even worse is when I freak out about what I will do if I do graduate.

The normal road for a research scientist in academia is a Ph.D., followed by postdoctoral training, followed by an appointment as an assistant professor, followed by a tenured track position, followed by death. And now is my first step out into the world. I know kind of what I want to study, but not where and with whom. Hence, the freaking out.

The freak out:
I have a position in France, which seems to intrigue me a great deal. To learn more about it, I decided to talk to the man in France's former boss who happens to be a professor here. He is kind of a famous guy, so I thought it was a good sign when he decided to meet with me. He tells me the guy in France is smart and fantastic and will publish good papers maybe even another Cell paper. (Cell is a highly regarded journal in our field.) But then he asks me the question, "What are your plans for the future?" When I tell him that I want to stay in academics, he replies "Oh then you can never go to France." He proceeded to tell me how the world works, how choosing the right lab for postdoctoral training is the most important decision I am ever going to make and most importantly why I have been rejected from a number of jobs.

"Evil Twin #1, you must write that you are a U.S. citizen on you cover letter or maybe even you subject line. After speaking to you, it is clear to me that you are an American, but if I got an email from you, I would most likely dismiss you. I get over a hundred cover letters from people from China, Japan, Korea, and India and I simply do not have the time to read them all. I'll tell you what. I want you to come back with a list of the most competitive labs you want to work for and we will work on a letter together."

Although the professor was really kind, he sparked off a wave of freaking out. Here I was almost certain I knew what I was going to do, and I would have to start over again.

Self evaluation:
In an effort to regain some semblance of normalcy in my life, I went to a yoga class on the next day. Since college, I have heard my friends and frenemies extol the virtues of this ancient art. "It is so relaxing." "I feel so at peace afterwards." "It centers you." "I have increased my flexibility."

In class, I took purple mat choosing to be in the front of the class next to a 50 plus year-old soccer mom. I was okay during the sun salutations, push-ups, and downward facing-dog. I think I was even able to manage warrior poses and some weird balancing thing one leg while staring at the sky. However, the backward push-up did me in as well as the frog pose. I could feel my arms quivering and it took all my strength to hold in the fart that would have surely broken the peaceful tones of new age zampana music playing in the background.

Yoga for me was not relaxing. I sit in front of the computer today with sore shoulders and twinge in my right calf. I am not good at yoga, step aerobics or many other activities that require coordination. My body does better at things that require hard labor, blood and competitiveness. That has been my modus operandi over the years, to simply plow my way through things. It was time to stop freaking out and plow through this job thing.

Back in the lab that night, I opened up an excel spreadsheet and wrote down a list of potential labs. Then I wrote down things I am good at, things I am not. My job crisis became a little more clear.

Revelations (sans biblical implications):
"The German owns the fish," declared Steph slightly inebriated at 1am Saturday night. She pointed to computer that flashed an Excel spreadsheet that she used to solve a puzzle. "You see, the German owns the fish," she said again.

"That would be a great title to a blog post, " I replied as I stared out her living room window looking for the taxi that was supposed to come.

Just as Excel had aided Steph with her puzzle, it had been doing wonders for me. On Sunday morning the blustery wintery mix convinced me to stay in bedroom. I tried to procrastinate by watching 4 hours of television online. Eventually, I was forced to stare at my options. I "sorted" by location, by lab size, by subject matter.

As I stared at the columns thinking about what my life might be like in its next incarnation, I realized that it would be alright. I had choices and if I just would take a deep breath ... I learned that one from yoga.

Junior

The Ls moved into the ARAMCO trailer park a year after we did. One night desperate for a baby sitter Mr. and Mrs. L asked my then 13 year old sister to please watch their three kids. Their oldest girl N was in the grade below me, Junior was 4 years younger, and there was the baby S. I remember this night well because my sister told N, Junior, and me to go play in my room. She was reading a copy of Seventeen watching S as she cried then slept on our living room floor. At the end of the night my sister gave me 10 Riyals, she said it was my share of the babysitting gig.

Over the years, our families became friends. We often had dinner parties at each others houses. The kids and I would play games as the parents talked. Sometimes N and I would ride our bikes together. She was on the swim team with me. Even though she was a year younger she was either in the advanced lane or the same lane as me. Actually all the Ls swam. When I think about Junior, my first image is of him in the pool at meet against the Raytheon Rays. He was swimming the 200 free, a long race for any person. With every stroke, it appeared he was swallowing water. As much as everyone on the team wanted to jump in and save him, he proved to us all he needed no saving as he finally touched the wall.

But soon I went to boarding school and lost all contact with the Ls. My parents kept in touch with them for a while. S, the baby, went to University of Houston and often spent a weekend at my parent's house to get away from dorm life. The Ls had moved to Vancouver, and after a few unanswered Christmas cards, our ties unravelled.

About a year and half ago, I got an email from Junior. I wish I had saved it, but it went something to this effect. "Is this the same Evil Twin #1 that used to live in Yanbu? If it is, this is F, I guess you might remember me as Junior. I hope you do not think this email is strange. The other day I was eating shrimp chips, and I thought of you. So I googled you, and found you at school. My dad passed away two months ago. It has got me thinking a lot about the past and all the important people in my life. Here is the update on our family: N is .... Yours truly, F Jr."

Then in October of this year, I received this email from him,"ET#1, My ship just had another port visit added to our sched...BOSTON! Tentatively, it's sched for 7-10 Dec. Are you going to be around?F Jr." (He is a Lieutenant in the Royal Canadian Navy.)

We met for brunch at Harvard Square on Saturday. I circled the Out of Town News store to find him. A young man in a tan suede jacket and stylish scarf yelled "ET#1!" We hugged. His once spiky hair was now completely shaved off, but the scar above his eye that he got when N pushed him into the wall of the pool was still there.

We walked around Harvard Yard doing the standard Harvard tour: John Harvard Statue, Weidner, Annenberg Hall, Fogg Art museum, and the Law School better known as the exterior shots for "Legally Blonde."

His life as an officer was so adult. I had a hard time listening because in my mind I kept flashing back to that little kid followed N and me everywhere. His family had grown up, my family had grown up. It was a lot of catching up to do. I kept calling him Junior and then apologizing. I realized over the years that he was called F. But then he said "ET#1, you might be one of the only people in the world that can call me Junior, legitimately. And I don't mind anymore. I kind of like it. It reminds me of Dad."

When we sat for lunch, Junior took out his computer and shared all his picture. Pictures of his girlfriend, pictures of his home, pictures of his dog, pictures of his travels to Tibet, Australia, and Europe. Lunch was spent reminiscing. Junior confessed that he and his baby sister S wished I was their sister. Mainly, because I was the only one they knew who would boss N. Funny how the 8 year old mind works. I had no confessions, but I gave him some dirt on his older sister in case he ever needed it. Like, I gave N her first cigarette. Well, maybe that really was not dirt on her but it was the best I could do.

Because he had limited time on shore, after two and a half hours of talking he needed to do some Christmas shopping. I walked to him to the bus stop. We hugged. I hope it is not another 20 years before I see him again.

My wife and me

I am on the beige overstuff chair. My legs are stretched on a brown leather ottoman with a red plaid wool blanket on my lap. I like pressing the "last" button on the remote. The Giants versus the Bears on Fox and the footbal highlight reel on NBC. D reminds me to use a coaster for my beer bottle. I oblige. It is a little thing and his table is new. I think about how to get rid of all the crumbs from the crostini I have been eating. I carry them in my sweater and brush them off in the batroom sink. I come back and settle back down in the chair.

"Something smells good," I say.

"Oh. I am toasting the rice. A little trick I learned from Rachel Ray. Something new to try. I really like that 30 minute meals show. Last week ...," he says. Eli Manning just completed a successful drive downfield. I couldn't believe it. I watched as the men in short sleeved huff and puff in the subzero Chicago air.

"... do think would be better?" D asks.

"Huh?" I reply.

"Salad or broccolli," he says.

"Oh, they both sound good. Whatever is easiest. Do you want any help," I ask as I take another swig of beer.

"No, I got it under control." He starts humming something as continues to shuffle pans around in the kitchen. I think he is humming "My Humps," but that thought is too terrifying. The smell of food is in the air and I am warm underneath the blanket. I cannot help but laugh at loud at a commercial with Peyton Manning in it. Peyton Manning is talking to camera giving advice on what to do about a gut.

Dinner is ready. We sit on the marble counter. I take out silverware and napkins. D lights two candles and dishes out the Whole Foods chicken cutlets, Rachel Ray toasted rice and a cucumber salad. We talk a little about work, about my interview with Novartis, about his experiments. Then D unravels his elaborate plan to order a Russian mail order bride. I cannot stop laughing. I choke on a piece of toasted rice. Choking only makes me laugh harder.

After clearing the dishes, we settle with our beers in the living room. The Sunday night game has already started. D whips out his checkbook and methodically goes through all his bills. I watch until the half. I call a taxi. It is snowing outside and I have no desire to take the T in this weather.

"I'll come out with you," D says.

The two of us wait only seconds outside when a yellow cab comes skidding down the street. We hug and I go home. I can't put my finger on it, but something seems funny about this night.