Romance Evil Twin style

It is Friday afternoon, 4:18pm to be exact. I am sitting on my desk chair with my legs propped up on my lab chair. I see a medical student potential walk out of the lab with her black Ann Taylor pant suit. My balding kind temporary boss walks her out. As soon as the lab door closes, he turns to me and says, "So are we drinking?"

"Hells, ya," I reply. "I was waiting for you to finish all of your interviews."

He laughs. "Nah you should have come in and poured yourself a drink. Maybe then she would have gotten the hint the interview was long over."

"Went that well, huh?" I say.

"Eh. I just rather be drinking." he says. "Well ET#1, I guess this is your official last day at Harvard. So which one do you want to start off with?" He points to the row of Scotch and Irish Whiskeys on his desk. Nothing younger than 12 years. I knew I liked him better than my own adviser.

I plunk down on his couch as he plays bartender at his desk. He calls out to the lab and tells them working time is over. One by one students, technicians, and postdocs pour into his office. Most of them are not drinking, but find it amusing to us do it. Amongst the students, there was one of particular note. He was our first Roton of the year. (Tangent: Rotons are first year Ph.D. students who are rotatating in different lab to find a match.)

After about 5 whiskeys, we all walk down the hall for departmental beer hour to get a little food in our stomach. Every Friday afternoon at 5pm the Microbiology department gives out free beer and snack foods to encourage socialization. Socialization... liver failure....tomato....tomato. Anyway, I start drinking some Mike's Hard lemonade, because that is all that is left when you come to beer hour too late. One of the adorable Kewpie-esque Tawainese postdocs asks to have a sip. She likes it and downs the bottle. And so starts the chain of events to a demented romantic story.

"Oh crap are you okay?" I ask. The adorable postdoc whole face is beet red and she can't seem to stand straight. We walk her to our lunch room. Because it is my last day, I emptied out my liquor cabinets and brought all of it to the lab. Mainly, I brought it for one of the students. He is in his fourth year, and I know he will need it to fortify his will. While we watch the adorable postdoc recover, the rest of us keep drinking. Now we move onto gin and tonics. I tell the Roton to get the post doc some crackers from the vending machine. It works and the adorable postdoc has the ability to stand,so we all decide to get dinner.

We sit down at the table, after an intricate musical chairs number. I am sitting next to the Roton. this benefits me greatly, because I mistakenly order a salad because it had the word steak in its title. I proceed to eat all the mashed potatoes off of his plate. He asks that I help him steal the glass he is given. It has a gnome on it. Since I am especially adept at restaurant thefts, I throw it into his bag.

Finally, it is 12pm and it is time for us all to go home. I start walking and chatting, but I realize I should have no one to chat. I tell the Roton, "Isn't your apartment over there?"

"Yeah, but no woman should walk alone. It's no big deal, I'll just walk you home," he says.

Now were I not a moron I should be suspicious because two other female postdocs just left alone. But I thought fair enough. After all, after the last party we had in the lab he walked me home from the South End (approx 3.5 miles) in sub zero weather. As we were walking, put my hand in the crook of his arm. Okay, I think, he is a gentleman. He did this for me last time to keep my hand in the splint from freezing. Oh except this time I had no splint.

He points into shop windows as we walk by them. Isn't that funny, who would ever wear that, why flying pigs? At my stoop, I thank him. He asks if he can use the restroom, so I let him in. When he gets out, I am in the foyer reading my issue of Science. Now for all those who know me, know I love being the first one to a magazine. So I am standing there reading it and he is standing next to me. He leans in and kisses me. First priority is to make sure my magazine does not get crumpled. Then I assess the moment. In a flash it become clear. Him constantly hanging out in my part of the lab, always sitting next to me, him jokingly putting his arm around me, and walking me home under inclement conditions. "Oh I'm sorry, but I thought it was my last chance. I know you said you would never date another scientist, but....," he said.

Really, I said I would date another scientist. Ahhh yes. Many months ago I said that, but who thought people were actually paying attention to what I said. "Put your bag down and take off your coat," I say. He does and goes to the couch. I follow him with Science in tow. He has his arm around me and is playing with my hair as I read my magazine. "Seriously," I say, "why the Medaka fish, who do these people think they are?" He just kisses the top of my head and says he does not know.

Epilogue
I call the Roton on Monday night to see if he want to go out on Tuesday. He does not call back. In fact, he disappears and does not show up to the lab. Sigh. Back to drinking.

A message from V

My lab spouse of 5 years now lives across the country. I went through a little bit of separation anxiety over it. With whom would I discuss the nuances of the latest crap paper from the Karin lab,and in the same conversation inject my opinion of Golden Globe fashions? I guess she was thinking of me too because she forwarded a comic to me. Hmmm, I can't imagine why though.

My lab

As much time as I spend in the lab, I realize how little I talk about it. It is a place I feel comfortable to watch television online, nap, and read a copy of the Scientist (think of a People equivalent aimed at researchers). I drink my coffee in the morning, and eat most of my dinners in the break room. For instance, this morning I toasted my Eggo waffles and drank tea for breakfast, and I just heated up some food a postdoc brought for lunch but decided not to eat. Yes, it is my home.

We are sectioned off into little units called labs. It makes us a little defensive of our fellow labmates work. It makes us band together against mutually offenses like administration. It makes us identify ourselves with the name of our Principal Investigator, our boss and he is our mascot.

Our PI carries little to no authority. He is kind of like the bumbling dad in so many romantic comedies. Slightly bumbling with an occasional wise word. I'm sure he has the power to fire me, but if it hasn't happened yet, it will never happen.

As for us lowly peons, we spend our time going to lectures, designing experiments, drinking hot beverages, drinking various forms of cold EtOH, and chatting. Everyone in the lab plays their role dutifully. There is the organizer, the social chair, the annoying braggart, the uber scary nerd, the calm leader, the cheerful postdoc and the confused student. There is an inexplicable bond between you and the other members in the lab. A twilight zone in which they are your family, but you know nothing about them. I wonder if this is what it is like in other workplaces. But I can only imagine other workplaces being like the Office and Dilbert.

Most biological wet labs look the same. Benches that stand higher that your waist littered with tubes and pipettes. Above my bench, I have the same set of chemicals I always like, my buffers and salts on one side, special chemicals on the other. Unlike in the movies, all the rows of bottles and conical tubes are filled with colorless bottles.

While houses have creaks and whistles, the lab has its own set of noises. The whir of 5 refridgerators, the gentle hiss of the vacuum, ocassional beeps of the hood and the bustle of people. People seem to be in constant motion here. Tubes are in one bay, centrifuge is accross the room, the water bath in the center, the freezer at the end, and the laminar flow hood is in another room altogether.

Right now its quiet. I can only hear the machines singing their gentle songs. But soon any minute now, my alarm will ring to remind me to plate my transformations and I can get the F#$@ out of here to see some of the real world again.

Say it ain't so

Continuing with my fashion rants of late, I read this article and am afraid that this potential trend might actually be picked up and that I will see the young associates at my firm, as well as the tourists that swarm the Times Square/Rockefeller Center area, sporting these. Good God, no. Bike shorts should only be worn by serious cyclists. Period.

Kids These Days

Excuse me while I vent. I am constantly astonished at how "kids" -- meaning anyone more than 5 years younger than me -- these days are so ill prepared for the workplace. What is up with all of the inappropriate office wear?

While the fashion magazines may be telling young women that it is ok to show some skin at the office, if you expect to be taken seriously by me, then you'd better cover up your cleavage and your derriere and do some good work. This is not The City and you should not be dressing like Whitney Port.

There is a junior associate on my floor that seems to think that our hallways are in fact fashion runways. The other day, she was wearing the following: black platform stilettos, semi-shiny black super tight leggings with zippers at the ankles (fully unzipped), a super short "kilt" that barely covered her behind, and an oversized cowl necked sweater -- so oversized, that it periodically exposed her bra straps. I recognized most of her outfit from various ads I have seen in Vogue. However, just because something is obscenely expensive doesn't mean that it's appropriate office wear.

I am trying to figure out why her unprofessional outfits bother me so much. It's not like what she wears has any bearing on how I am perceived at the workplace. I accept the fact that I am a corporate lawyer, working at a BigLaw type of firm and that means that not every day is a fashion show. It's ok to try to inject your own fashion sense into your outfits, but you've got to remember that this is a conservative environment. Dressing like you're an extra on Gossip Girl or one of those semi pornographic American Apparel ads could give one of the older partners a heart attack. Talk about liability...