Week Four: Nuclear Reactivity

Points hit on during tonight's liberal-arts-encompassing lecture in chemistry class:

* In politics, if you know too much, they will kill you. This is just how it is.

* All religions around the world have always had lessons about working with the earth.

* During the good old USSR days, Russia flooded Eastern European nations with millions of Russians. That way when the little countries had elections, a pro-Russian politican would always win.

* Don't cut down trees.

Points we didn't get to:

* The definition of fusion.

The teacher's note on my homework, btw, is "You got to show questions with answers."

I can't believe we're not even a month in.

They Say That When You Are Single, Nothing Smells Worse Than Desperation

Maybe, but it's a close race with Right Guard and Drakkar Noir.

Pick-Up Line Overheard at Community College

"So... do you got any kids?"

What Do You Call an Egyptian Back Doctor?

A Cairo-practor.

The Truth About Internet Dating

From time to time, people will ask me if I have any "crazy internet dating stories," or respond to one of my tales with, "Have you thought about meeting guys another way than internet dating?"

I'm here to tell you that many of the best and brightest in my galaxy of losers were from real life.

I met the harmonica-playing comic through two friends. He arrived to our third date reeking of alcohol; had an out-loud debate with himself about whether he should have dinner (our plans were for 8 pm on Saturday); pounded Scotch, red wine, tequila, and beer through the course of the evening; took me to a bar where he "happened" to be scheduled to perform; bombed and then refused to get off stage and get into insult-wars with the audience instead; then had a meltdown about "why" I had to see this. He took me home on the subway, because guess what... he had another show to get to, where the same thing happened. The whole time he muttered, "I'm sweet on you" and rested his head on my shoulder. (Great idea for anyone dating a tall chick and hoping to make her feel Amazonian, btw.)

I met the poet at the ice rink where I sometimes skate–you know, doing what I love or whatever. His borderline/narcissistic/Asperger's constellation exploded when he called to cancel the date he'd asked me on, then un-cancel but with the caveat, "Okay, but we should part ways right after dinner," then un-changed his mind and tagged along on the plans I'd made to have a drink with a friend after. Also: vegan restaurant, and that godforsaken Romanian movie about abortion. Way to wow a lady. Oh, then it turns out he just got dumped by his fiance three weeks before we met, which is exactly when he decided to take up hockey at the out-of-the-way rink where she works. When I said it wasn't working for me he yelled that he was fine now, he only freaked out that one day because he was afraid I'd want to sleep with him. (After all his talk of antidepressant-related side effects, how could I not?) So why wouldn't I just give him a chance? I still get his e-mail newsletters.

I met Strawberry Mulroney at a bar—again, doing what I love. We had two dates in September and he continued to leave me 1 AM voice mails at work through the following February. He's the reason I have window guards now.

Just saying.

Confidential To The Guy I Had to "Break Up" With Three Weeks After Meeting Him and Who's Added Me To His "Newsletter" Mass Mailing List

Nobody wants to read your poems, dude.

Also, sheets are in this year.

Suggested Professional Guidelines

We're now 7 sessions into chemistry and preparing for our first test. Let me be clearer: A 27-question, multiple choice test.

Class works like this: Our teacher displays her notes on an overhead projector. She reads them one sentence at a time. Before she is done, someone screams "Wait, what??!!" She begins repeating herself, and then another student yells "Huh?" Let me build you a word picture.

Teacher (insert thick Eastern European accent of your choosing): Now we are going to talk about the properties of metals. 1. They are malleable, which means...
Student: They are what??!
Teacher: Malleable, meaning they can be hammered into sheets.
Student: Into what?!
Teacher: Thin sheets.
Student: Tin sheets?
Teacher: Thin sheets.
Student: Wait, what's that word up there?
Teacher: Sheets.
Student: Wait, what can be hammered into sheets?
Teacher: Metals.

Note: This is not exaggerated for comedic effect.

This continues until every two minutes or so we've covered a one-sentence concept that's both on the projector and in our reading. Obviously we've covered very little ground, so there's little to panic about regarding our upcoming test. That said, there's a free test review study session on Sunday from 4 to 6 that most students are planning to attend. And students frequently exchange stories about how many times they went to tutoring that week. For THIS shit. (FTS is going to be my new WTF. Enjoy.)

Most of the class is pre-nursing and while I usually (aka never) believe that anyone can do what they put their mind to, here I'm forced to put my foot down. If you need tutoring three times a week FTS, you should not be in healthcare, nor in any other field. Turn in your human being license. Your work here is done.

I'm talking to you, grown white lady with Candy Finnegan hair! Seriously, if you are dedicated to grasping the concepts behind our simple lessons, study sessions like this are not going to help. Go to Harvard or something. How loveless is your marriage if you're seeking validation by being the most participatory student in a high-school-level chemistry class at a community college PLEASE?

I would be far more annoyed right now were it not for my new blood pressure meds. Who'd have figured me for a candidate for those?!

What Do You Call a Sea Bird Who's Good At Phonics?

A smellican.

I am RUINED

I hate when I find out I'm part of a larger trend instead of the beautiful and unique snowflake I imagine myself to be.

Science Comes Alive!

Enjoy this joke from my teacher, who wants to help us really remember stuff:

A proton walks into a bar and orders a beer. The bartender pours him one and says "That'll be five dollars." A neutron walks in and orders a beer. The bartender pours him one and the nuetron gets out his wallet to pay. The bartender says, "For you, no charge."

GET IT?!?!

Overheard at Duane Reade

So you know it's customer service at its finest....

Pharmacist (I just accidentally typed "Charmacist" first, which you'll soon discover is far more appropriate. Let's stick with that!): Last name?
Customer 1: Gilman, G-I-L
Charmacist: Gilman? G-E-O
C1: G-I-L
Charmacist: Dorothy?
C1: Andrea.
Charmacist: Is your first name Dorothy?
C1: No, still Andrea.
Charmacist: Is this your prescription?
C1: Well, that's not my name and not my prescription so no.
Charmacist: When's your birthday?
C1: 7-10-76.
Charmacist: Date of birth?
C1: 7-10-76
Charmacist: 7, 10, what year?
C1: 76.
Charmacist: 7, 10, 71?
C1: 76.
Charmacist: 7, 10... 78?
C1: 76.
Charmacist: Ah, here.
Customer who got his prescription before Customer 1: Can I please pay?
Charmacist: I can't ring you up, there's no cashier. Who's next to pick up?
Customer 2: I am. It's Andrew Gentle, last name G-E-N-T-L-E.
Charmacist: D as in David?
C2: No, G as in George.
Charmacist: G as in judge?

G as in judge, people. Make it your new inside joke with yourself. She then shook her head and said, "I can't do any more than I am." Obviously not.

For Gentlemen—Things Not to Say After Sex

1. Anything about your ex (even "My last girlfriend would never do THAT!")
2. Details about the last time you masturbated.
3. Info about your psychoactive med regimen ("I didn't think I could orgasm because I'm on Zoloft!")
4. Any comment about where I work (as in, "Wow, I see you learned something from [famous sex book I recently did a relase for]!"
5. Glimpses into your issues. ("Usually I get really depressed right after sex!")

Last month, during my first and last sleepover with a well-meaning guy, I experienced items one through five.

I believe that honestly has its role in, say, the legal system. But in bed? Shut up. Please.

If You Are Running Low on Cockroaches

Drop by, because I have a whole bunch living under the top of my oven. I should warn you, though, before you get excited about the price, they're all deformed and poisoned because they recently started spraying in my building, so the bugs have lumps and they walk crooked and their wings are ripped off and they're too dumb to run away when I'm around. One walked under the arch of my foot the other day. It's so gross. I never had them UNTIL they started spraying the rest of the apartments, and then they came here for safety.

Last week I sprayed one with Sure Shot three times, then lit it on fire when it walked across one of my burners. And it still ran off. Stupid Die Hard roach.

Vo. Mi. Ting.

The Most Boring Secret Life EVER

I always imagined that leading a double life would involve some exciting after-hours pursuit, say, sex work or private investigating or freelance assassining. Community college student never really crossed my mind.

Since I already have a job—and hope to continue doing so for the two and a half years until I begin Imaginary Nursing School–I generally am not telling people that I'm taking, of all things, chemistry. Even though it's an insanely dull piece of potential gossip, were someone to innocently mention to someone I work with who'd mention it to a boss, I'd be seen as a sitting duck and tortured or elbowed out.

Mostly it's tough because I've never been a secretive person, often erring on the ugly side of self-disclosure. For now, I'm sticking to the expert advice I've collected on how to lie—keep it simple and don't offer details. "I can't, sorry," seems to be so far effective. But it's a little more awkward with the people close to me who I like, but who know enough types in my industry to make it a risk to tell them. Especially when I had standing Monday night appointment viewing plans with some.

I talked it over with my friend Elsie–she's good at keeping secrets and used to work in my biz. She said she thought it'd be totally fair to just say that yes, I have class, and if anyone asks, that's it's a writing workshop. That makes sense, because I work in books and know scads of people who take those. And it's unlikely whoever I'm talking to would ask questions, because who in God's name wants to be invited to a reading or offered a first look at an ill-written memoir? Elsie says if she found out later that someone had lied about that, it would make sense and not feel like a personal slight.

We'll just assume for now that I won't get caught making copies of the chem labs at work.

Deep Breaths

So this is late because I had to spend precious me time "breaking up" with someone I met three weeks ago. Along with enrolling in college, I apparently signed up for college-era problems. Retarded.

Lab this week was more than I ever could have imagined as far as how mind-numbing it would be to be in school again—and it lived down to all my expectations for community college. I began doing the lab project assigned in the book. Halfway through, our teacher modified it. Let me let the project speak for itself:

We were supposed to dump an unknown amount of water in three different cylinders and measure it, with the resulting measurements varying based on how precisely each cylinder was marked. Okay? Great. By the end, our assignment was to:
1. Pour 100 mL of water into a cylinder
2. Measure how much water is now in the cylinder
The end.

Obviously there were not the correct amount of spaces for anything on our worksheets, because the assignment made no sense. And we supposedly get marked down if we cross any answers off on our worksheet (no word on what happens if we leave parts blank because they don't match the instructions). But as it'd be more complicated to explain that and risk making everyone in class re-do the actual experiment, I tried to breathe deeply and practice patience for the greater good. See how caring I am?? I'm going to be an amazing nurse!

Also she took attendance out loud. True story. Oh, and the Russian girl in class is named Svetlana, obviously.

Math Soothes The Savage Beast

(The "savage breast" always made me uncomfortable.)

Anyway, day one of a real lecture, which I spent reading the chapter for the week, doing the study problems to make sure I understood them, and doing the homework math questions as they were posted throughout class. After two-plus hours of conversions and scientific notation, I realized that I—an out and proud rageaholic—felt, well, calm. It was like a runner's high without the energy required for those absurd daydreams.

I hadn't experienced that sensation since post-college when I used to split up the landline phone bill (remember those?) between my two roommates and I, itemizing each 17-cent 1-minute long distance call and dividing the fees and taxes proportionally based on who used it more (nerd alert). Despite my career in writing, I've always loved math. It can be so frustrating when you don't get it but there always IS something to get. You get to be right or wrong, and it's so blissfully refreshing.

One problem with my job (in short: boiling psychological takes on relationships down into short PR blurbs) is that I've dissected human interactions in every imaginable form. So when there's drama, it's not like I bury myself in work, because work is all ABOUT overanalyzing drama. Instead, work just encourages me to dwell on it. To get away from all that and gain some perspective, I had to hunker down and do math. F writing through my feelings. My shrinks should have told me to "math out" my worries.

I had to wonder... could all of life's problems be solved with a simple mathematical formula? Hahaha I'm so kidding. Gross. (PS: I'm a total Miranda.)

Point is, I went in after 72 hours of overanalyzing and feeling unsettled and enraged (by a guy who acted flaky which proves that he feels x about me and y about himself and z about commitment and aa about boundaries and bb about respect and...) , and came out with a simple, realistic take (he's a dumbass who didn't think).

Also, my lab partner works at a hospital and is bringing me a lab coat. WHAT UP. I know. Killer.

This Post Should Prove to Be Timeless

But anyway, these were my favorite ads during the SuperBowl:



Hahaha I like the PUNCHING in the FACE.



Hahah the stain is really mean.

Sigh.