Life in a Lab

Two months in and all is still going well with the new job. I'm learning (in part to a lot of self-training, which can be frustrating at times) new things, have my lab organized the way I want it, and love some of my coworkers. Isn't it funny, though, how no matter where you go, there's always those folks who grate your nerves? At the old company, that was the case with almost everyone--the ratio of we're-cool to go-jump-off-a-cliff-and-die was not a good one.
It didn't take long for me to figure out who the #1 please-go-the-hell-away person was going to be (good manners, since I'm still new). Eczema Jim.
Now, I'd like to think that I'm an open-minded individual. To set the record straight, I don't have any kind of prejudice against anyone with any type of skin disorders. Just don't pick your sores until they bleed while you're sitting across from me at the lunch table, because I'll throw up in my mouth. I know, because I've seen me do it.
Eczema Jim (EJ), with his bloody earlobe and HUGE dandruff flakes and dirty shirt and greasy hair is not only a sight to behold, but an odor that will linger in the atmosphere long past his presence. It's not just a body odor. It's an unbelievable sudoriferous schmegma funk--an odor so foul it makes your eyes water. It's undescribable. Crusty, kind-of, cheesy; B.O. with a starchy aftertaste, with essences of mildew and cat urine. Breathing through your mouth doesn't help at all, and since he's training me a lot of the time, I'm holding my breath so much that I can feel my brain cells exploding from lack of oxygen.
Showering about once per work week (who knows what goes on on the weekends?), you'd think EJ would at least change clothes. But then, you'd be thinking incorrectly. Stories told, in the winter time he's known to wear the same sweatshirt for days on end--he just turns it inside out every other day. He has a terry-cloth Sean John shirt that seems to be a favorite, as it is stained and crusted around the collar but still gets worn at least once a week. Yes, that's right, a Sean John shirt; on a 5-foot-4, 280-lb, 52-year-old man. Disgusted yet? I'm not even warmed up.
EJ seems to collect funk and flakes around his eyebrows and glasses, and it seems to be breaking his forehead out. Besides the eczema, he's got adult acne--thing is, the way he picks at things, you never know the cause of any given facial sore.
This all sounds really mean, now that I'm re-reading what I've written. But I can't lie. I've had an extended exposure to him today, and my lab still has his lingering scent. I stole a can of air-freshener off of the janitor's cart, but it's not really helping matters. Now I just smell orange-bouquet-asshole.
It would all be a lot easier to handle if EJ wasn't so damn obnoxious. He knows it all, and he's never wrong. 9 times out of 10, if he's responding to something you've said, he will start off his remark with "No...", because he's correcting you. Even if it was just a matter of your opinion, you're wrong. Besides "No," his favorite word is "kinky," which really earns a gag when coupled with his aroma and his eyebrow flakes. He hangs around like a bugaboo, waiting for someone to say something he can correct, spreading his odor around, puffing up his chest and putting his shoulders back to strut his stuff when someone has to ask him for help. Since I'm doing his old job now, unfortunately I'm usually the one having to ask him for help. After more than 20 years with the state, he was promoted when a spot opened above him (he was the only one who could have taken the position, or they would have had to hire from outside). His email signature now reads "Lead Chemist."
I'm usually pretty good at identifying odors. I can almost always pick out a perfume or cologne after I've only smelled it only once, I can name food smells and floral smells with amazing accuracy, and normally use the proper adjectives to paint a good picture when trying to relay an odor to someone else. There was a women's restroom at my old job that always smelled like shit, dirty pussy, and bad breath. That's an easy picture to paint, and I'm sure you can recall all of those smells in order to get the idea. Yet, I don't feel I've done EJ justice.
Take normal non-bathing body odor, throw in the scent of bloody boogers, soggy saltine crackers, boiled eggs, damp shower shoes, and fertilizer. Now add the aroma of a dirty litter box, that sponge that's been soaking in the dishwater all weekend, and some burned sausage grease. Still, you'll need to stir in a slight touch of skunk, a heaping spoonful of that musky grandmother smell, and then a hint of dead-and-rotting beagle. I think that gets a little closer to the real deal.
Grossed out? Tell me about it. I get to deal with it 40 hours a week. Of course, it's still better than working with Suzanne Steel.

Steak and Potatoes

It was a pretty non-eventful weekend, thank goodness. Got my hair cut, went out to dinner with some friends, saw a horror flick, delivered a pet turtle. Sounds like a lot, but it was mostly down-time, not having to worry about having to be somewhere or having to get anything done.
The hub and I had dinner Saturday night with some good friends of ours, JR and Dessa. Wonderful, down-to-earth, fun, easy-going folks, who are originally from a town less than 2-hours away from where I was born and raised through childhood in North Carolina. It's nice to have people who can identify with chores of picking up pinecones, and who can vouch for your stories of using the windshield scraper to remove pine pollen (instead of ice) from your car. We can laugh together and have fun, and, unlike most couples in our age group, don't have to worry about human children getting in the way of plans (JR and Des want kids at some point, but timing just hasn't been right so far--which works for the hub and myself). JR and I used to work for the same company, and Des does my hair, so we're all pretty well connected. He still works for that company, unfortunately. I almost feel like I deserted him, since I left almost 2 months ago to start my current job with the State. He's miserable (probably not as miserable as I was when I left, since he's not yet having thoughts of attaining firearms), and I often email him job-listings from CareerBuilder and other sites; when a company can't appreciate people who practically give their lives up for them, it's beyond time to go (time to go starts when you're willing to do so).
In any case, we went to dinner at a very crowded, very busy steakhouse in a nearby town. All was going well--instead of having to wait the estimated hour-and-a-half to get a table, JR hustled us into a table near the bar area less than 5-minutes after we walked in (no shit, the seats were still warm from the cattle who had been sitting there prior to us). Waitress was nice, appetizer rolls were good, (sadly, my whiskey-and-coke was on the weak side), and then came the ruckus of the evening. The guy who brought out our food, all of our plates on one giant tray that he held with one arm high above his head, hung around just long enough to go into a violent-twitching-full-body-Tourette's-syndrome tic. I looked at the hub, who really hasn't been exposed to many things of this nature, and he was about to fall out. Eyes as big as our baked potatoes and mouth slightly ajar, he asks quietly, "What in the hell was that?" Des and I answered, almost in unison, that he has Tourette's syndrome. But it was too late. JR and my hub were in awe, their eyes glued to the server's every move for the remainder of the night.
I don't think our curious husbands were entirely obvious. At least no more than any of the other patrons of the restaurant. I think even Des snuck a few stares, but I simply and uncomfortably averted my eyes, hoping the guys would do the same and have a little compassion. Unfortunately, my hub caught the one tic that actually had sound-effects, and sadly, it wasn't yelling out obscenities.
He barked like a dog. Not one bark, just to get it out of his system, but a rapid-fire succession of "Rar-rar-rar-rar-rar" with his head cocked over to one shoulder and his body stiff with spasm.
And my husband saw it.
After being together more than five years, he knows how sensitive I am to people (or animals)with special needs or defects of any kind. But this was too much for him to hold in. He crumbled in (thankfully) silent laughter, face flushing and eyes wetting, as he (again thankfully) discretely replayed for us what had taken place. Okay, as discretely as possible.
Our table had been erupting in laughter practically all night, as tales of spitballs and boogers and old coworkers unfolded. With a grace that is normally not possessed or displayed by my hub, he relayed our server's performance without anyone else catching on--what with the dull roar of the crowded restaurant and the clanging of glasses at the bar, I was somehow saved the humiliation that normally would have been my fate. And, yes, I admit, I laughed a bit as well--not at the expense of our server, but at the performance of my hub, who has been known to be incredibly shy and reserved at times. Wrong--maybe; funny--yes.

Getting ready for work this Monday morning, the hub and I have the news on while we're eating our breakfast and drinking coffee. Apparently there was a murder over the weekend in one of the towns outlying Kansas City. The body was found by the dumpsters, and the news crew was interviewing some of the residents of the apartment complex to get a feeling for the situation. Lo and behold, who was the resident they interviewed and showed on this morning's news?
You guessed it, the Tourette's syndrome Server from our restaurant Saturday night. Tics and all, right there on camera.
Coincidence--maybe; funny--absolutely.

I Can't Sleep

I'm losing my memory because I can't sleep at night.
No particular reason I can think of, no urgent driving brainstorm on the brink of breaking that's keeping my mind humming beyond drowse. Just can't sleep.
I lay in bed next to the hub and listen to him breathe, listen to Charlie (the great dane mix) lick himself, and listen to Peter (my feline soul-mate) lurk around with his bell on his collar. This all wouldn't be so much of a problem, as I'm able to drive to work and function (for the most part) during the day, but now it's starting to affect me. I can't remember shit.
I can't remember what exactly I did this weekend outside of the lizard escapade, I can't remember what bills are due and what other menial tasks I need to get done, and, with the exception of what I have written on my hand, what obligations I've got to fill before the day is done.
I've begun carrying a pocket calendar so that I can remember what work schedule I'm working what week, and when my tattoo appointments are, and when my hair cut is, and when the hub and I are getting together with friends. It's a pain in the ass, because I've never had to be this organized just to get through weekly existence. I've always been a list-maker, but usually for things that more or less didn't matter. Now I'm having to lay my clothes out the night before, do things as soon as I think of them, or, as I said before, write myself notes on various body parts.
Scatterbrained?
You might say so. But I have an excuse. My lack of rest is to blame. It's not the whiskey I drank this weekend. It's not the medication. The more tired I am, the less I focus on paying attention; the more tired I am, the less I seem to be sleeping; the less sleep, well, obviously....
Last night the hub was out like a light, as usual. He began his deep sleep, with a bit of a whistle in his nose that quickly started to get on my un-sleeping nerves. I did what any good wife would do--I reached over and pinched his nose shut. I wasn't trying to smother him, I was trying to get him to breathe out of his mouth to avoid the nose-whistle. Only thing is, it made it worse. He only breathed even harder through his nose, which ended up sounding like a freight train in the Appalachian Mountains. I got so tickled by the sound, I tried only clogging up one of his nostrils. Even better! After experimenting with several different techniques, I was nearly peeing the bed I was laughing so hard. Finally I had to roll over, as I didn't want to wake him. Yes, you got that right...he's still sleeping the whole while.
Don't know what time I really went to sleep--last time I looked at the clock it was 12:14. Waking up at 5:45 sucks ass all the time, but after only 5 and a half hours? This shit is killing me.

Herbie the Horny

herbie

So the hub and I finally got the new tank set up for the Bearded Dragons this weekend. Herbie, my large 8 month old male, was just too cooped up in his 20-gallon set-up, and I bought the 40-gallon breeder tank some time ago, so it was time to get busy. Fiona, my smaller, tail-less 5 month old female, was also ready for some more room. Since I've been planning on breeding the Beardies, I thought it was perhaps a good time to move them in together. I was wrong.
Now, I've introduced them several times--they're not strangers by any stretch. They've been outside together, running around in the clover and basking in the natural sunlight; they've taken baths together in the tub; they've been held simultaneously numerous times, all of us hanging out and watching tv together. Most often, Herbie will do a little head-bobbing display and they'll lick-smell each other. Fiona sometimes will crawl on top of Herbie and perch on his head, and, so long as her toenails don't get in his eyes, he seems unbothered. From all accounts of my studies, Herbie is at the age (and Fiona is at the size) that they would now be compatible without worrying about biting or fighting. Apparently that wasn't what I needed to be worrying about at all.
The tank is clean, the lights are set up, and the stand is in place. The hub filled the tank with about 60 lbs of fresh sand, and I got a nice little rock display set up to give them their basking spot and a hiding place. Clean water bowl, a nice dish of greens, and I'm thinking all is right for move-in day. Fiona in first. She's still somewhat smaller, and I didn't want Herbie to get the idea that the new territory is his by putting him in first. She's adorable. Running around, making tracks in the sand, and climbing all over the rocks. As I mentioned earlier, she doesn't have a tail. Call it a "hatch-defect," if you will. Before she was even removed from the incubator, one of her clutch-mates bit her tail off, right at the joining to the body. She doesn't have a tail, but a butt instead. It's just a little round ending to her body--I'd say even less booty than what's popular nowadays. The perpetual lover of any underdog, I'm always inclined to love what others might see as defective. It's just my nature, I suppose.
Anyway, Fi is making herself at home, so we decided to add the Herbish. He paddles around a bit, feeling the new sand between his clawed toes, and then he sees her.
Bob-bob-bob-bob, he's waving his head up and down, trying to get attention. His normally buff-colored beard goes BLACK.
Before I even realized fully what was happening, Herbie had Fiona in the corner of the tank, holding her neck with his mouth and trying to mount. Okay, so I didn't initially realize this is what was going on. I thought, he's being aggressive, he's attacking, trying to fight. Not so. After smacking him with a ruler (and getting no response), I reached in and pulled him off of her. Only to find------his PENIS, fully exposed.
Normally, a lizard's junk is tucked up inside his body, so this was quite a disturbing note. He's wriggling and getting crazy, trying to get back to what he was doing. I'm not sure what I expected from the whole thing, but I guess since Fiona is still about 6 months away from being sexually mature (and technically it's a little early for Herbie), it didn't cross my mind that he would go for the gold. Apparently my lizard is a pedophile.
I suppose that after all, the tank is called a 40-gallon "breeder."

Omaha

No offense to anyone out there (okay, I really don't care much if anyone is offended), but Omaha, Nebraska sucks big ones.
Correction...Omaha-ans suck.
Let me regress...
The husband and I attended the Nebraska Herpetological Society's Spring Breeders Expo this past weekend (layman terms: lots of squirmies and lickies and bitey-things for sale all in one place), which was held in, you guessed it, Omaha. I had never been to Omaha. Shit, I'd never been to Nebraska. Let's just say my expectations weren't high, but I was certainly surprised in the experience as a whole.
Picture it: You go into a conference room at a large (by Omaha standards?) hotel, and the room is set up with tables and booths of reptile/amphibian/tarantula/breeders and all-of-the-above supply vendors. The walls are lined, and there's another ring of tables in the center of the room. Lots and lots of vendors/breeders at this show, as the Nebraska Herp Society only has 2 expos a year. We got there early but the place filled up quick, and it soon became a struggle to make the proper rounds to see who had what and then go back around to make any necessary purchases.
To make matters worse, there was a bleach-fried-hair little biotch who seemed to be keeping pace with me to nearly every table. I'd approach a table, and she'd squeeze her too-tight-illegal-in-Virginia-low-rise-jeans covered ass right in front of me. EVERY table, she'd just wedge me right out. And I'm not a little girl to be wedging around. I'm getting pissed, and becoming all too aware of how many people are in that little room with all of those squirmies, and am silently cussing myself for not packing some Ativan in my pocket before I locked my purse in the trunk.
She does it over and over and over, and finally I point her out to the hub, making "help!" eyebrows and mouthing to him my plan to make her eat the collared lizard that she's showing to her little frat-boy boyfriend.
Finally, the table where I'm about to make a purchase...a beautifully striped amel corn snakeling, and they're asking only $30. Here she comes, with a bag full of containers of all of the critters she's probably going to go home and forget about in a week. Didn't turn on her blinker. Didn't make a sideways "excuse me" (of course, why would she? just because I was having a conversation with the breeder, right there?).
She gets in close to this final table, and my big ass is ready to take action. Slightly at first, I press up against the pointy little elbow she has jutting in my direction. I've broken my nose twice while moshing (okay, once was from a crowd surfer, but still), so I'm not terribly afraid of putting momentum behind what Krispy-Kreme gave me and make my presence known. I was just trying to avoid conflict up to this point, which is the usual route (at least until my hub is out of sight). It's after that when I channel my mother and the Kentucky breaks out.
This time, I was outdone completely. I'm woman enough to admit it.
Like I said, I'm pressing on her elbow, trying to move her over. I clear my throat, since I was, until her arrival, having a conversation.
And then she did it.
SHE FLICKED HER HAIR ON ME.
I'm not talking about a tarantula flicking hair (likethis). I'm talking about nasty-dirty-frizzy-fried-gross human hair, being flicked over one's shoulder and directly into the face AND MOUTH of the larger, now literally gagging, woman standing directly behind.
Getting light headed from anger, disbelief, and utter nausea, I reach for the hub and he knows by looking at me that we've gotta go before I get arrested.
We made our way out of the show and Omaha before any true conflict erupted, as I was simply dumbfounded and the hub was ready to go before any more money was spent. We did, however, bring home two new babies, both from more local (not Nebraskan!) breeders who happened to be there. So far, they're worth it. They sure as shit better be.

An Introduction

Okay, so I'm living in Kansas now. Have been for almost 5 years. Most anyone who is reading this will know that, so I'll cut to the chase.
I'm happier than I've been in a long, long time.
It's the skies, the weather, the wildlife, our land, and now, my new job. It's my husband and (for the most part) his family. It's the figuring out that I had a hormone imbalance and getting that issue resolved. It's getting great tattoos and having great sex and having great kids (not human kids, which pretty much constitutes the "great" part of kids).
On to the kids, which, like most parents, constitute a huge part of my life. And make me smile. Unless Murphy shat in her box again.
Two papillons (that's papy-ons), a great dane/black lab mix, 2 cats, 5 snakes, 2 bearded dragons, 14 tarantulas, and one african fire-belly toad. Names will come at a later time, but I will have to say happy birthday to the big guy, who turns five today. He was assigned April fool's day as his birthday for a reason.
Husband's a diesel mechanic, I'm a chemist. He's hot, tattooed, tall, and always smells good. What more could a woman want? But, he's also very much a man sometimes, which can be all a woman doesn't want, and a grudge-holding Pisces to boot. But he's working on that. He makes me laugh and wakes me in the morning with a big fart, almost like he's built up steam over night. It's an amazing relationship.
Folks and sister live in Kentucky, which is from where I moved here. Went to college at EKU and met wonderful people, from what I can remember. Moved here over Memorial Day weekend of 2000, shortly after graduating college and only 7 months after meeting my husband (then boyfriend). Didn't really have a choice in the matter. Couldn't be a body-piercer all my life, at least not when there are student loans and credit card bills to pay. College is a transition period for a reason, and when it's time to leave, you cry 3 days and then try to move on. Sometimes people don't understand that, and then get pissed when you have a hard time keeping in touch.
That's about it, for the beginning. I'm not entertaining (when I'm sober), but I might get better. No promises at this point. Love you all.