Home At Last

On the eighth day of Christmas (okay, eleventh but close enough) my true love said to me "we are never traveling again during the holidays."

Or maybe I said that.

On the day we were supposed to leave - and I was supposed to write the final 'Eight Days of Christmas (Holidays)' blog post - we got packed up, said our goodbyes, checked in online, made up a lunch to compensate for the crap that is expensive airplane/airport food and drove to the airport. We even signed up for an email notification service in case our flight was delayed or canceled. In other words, we did everything right. Our plans were perfectly executed with precision, intention and grace.

In spite of all our efforts (or perhaps, to spite our efforts), as we stood in line, the airport staff came out and apologetically announced that our flight had been canceled. CANCELED! Just like that.

This was not good. We looked around, hoping to find out that this was a cosmic joke - didn't the fates know that we couldn't take another day of snow, dogs and family? Didn't they know that we desperately needed to go home and eat our own food and sweat in our spin class and walk on our streets (okay - we just wanted to walk anywhere - but cities' pedestrian habits are a discussion for another time) and watch TV in our underwear?

By this point, The Husband was at the peak of his Man Cold and did not take well to the news. In fact, he had a 20 minute hissy fit (I'd had my own cold-induced hissy fit 3 days earlier, so he was entitled) complete with fist clenching, glaring and a fit of desperate hacking. It was ugly.

After collecting ourselves, we rebooked our flight for the next day. With our heads held high (to keep the tears in our eyelids and the snot in our noses), we went home like proud warriors that know how to soldier on. 'We can do this', we told ourselves. We could do this.

So what did we do with our bonus day in South Western Ontario? Spend our time visiting? Get in some bonus 'quality family time'? Get some exercise? Eat away our sorrow? NO! We took a 3 hour nap, went to see Quantum of Solace, and watched a Sex and the City marathon on a 52" television. Sounds about right.

Now we're home and have already spin-classed away some of our holiday weight gain (damn those Mom-in-law peanut butter cup cookies) and walked through the freezing, messy and sloppy Vancouver streets. Good to be home.

To all you lovely readers - thanks for tolerating our tales of a family Christmas. Happy Holidays and a Happy New Years! Enjoy the bubbly tomorrow night and I'll be back to chat with you in 2009!

Cheers!

Photo 'Rose Champagne' by Gaetan Lee

PS: We're now returning to our regular programming - slow blogging. Considering that most posts are sporadic and random, if you'd like to keep following, you may want to consider signing up to follow me by email or through an RSS reader like the one Google offers.

Say What?

On the seventh day of Christmas, my true love said to me "sorry honey, I have no ideas for your blog tonight".

When I was a kid, my mom would sing this stupid repeating song to signal that we were driving her crazy. It went something like this:

I am slowly going crazy,

1,2,3,4,5,6 switch.

Crazy going slowly am I,

6,5,4,3,2,1 switch...

That's how I feel. Right now, I'm singing it in my head, in full blown concert mode, complete with backup dancers and a guitar solo. I won't say anymore, but if you'd like a clue, click here.

However, you don't want to hear about me being crazy and I can't seem to come up with anything more interesting than this absurd and useless blog post. Oh well, instead of taking some time to write something cooler, I'll just lay the blame at The Husband's feet. 

Before sitting down to write this, I asked him what stupid thing happened in my day that might be blog worthy. Thinking for roughly a millisecond, he told me that he couldn't come up with anything - he was too sick. He then laid his head on the couch and asked me if he had snot coming out of his eyes. He didn't. After finding out his eyes were okay he dismissed me, saying that looking at me hurt his throat, and he threw himself into a fit of full body hacks.

There you have it. I'm losing my mind and he's dying of ebola. If you still need something to start your day, I suggest you check out my favorite website - this is where the smart girls go to get their gossip on. Cheers!

Photo by Joe Seggoila

Santa Makes Damn Good Lasagna

On the sixth day of Christmas, my true love said to me, "no honey, I will never learn to make lasagna like that".

Merry Christmas!

Today was a good weather day here in the warmer part of Ontario - nice enough to do some customary holiday touring. Yee-hah. 

To start the celebratory holiday feasting, we had some breakfast while opening our stockings and then packed up the cars. Pretty normal, as far as consumption goes.

First stop - a quaint little village near Hamilton where we gave and received some gifts and hugged each person. Before leaving, we ate some delicious oatmeal and pecan muffins (we'll call this lunch) and then we were off to the next event. Normal, normal, normal.

Within five minutes of walking into The Husband's Zia & Zio's house and petting the pit bull and chihuahua, we were asked, "so, are you staying for dinner or what?". Before I'd processed the question, my stomach shouted "of course, we'd love to" and that was that. I'd volunteered the entire family for dinner, because I suddenly had an intense longing for the most delicious food known to human beings - Italian food. 

I only vaguely understand how to eat Italian food - it's more a style of eating than a type of food, but I know this - ahead of time you need to i) stretch your stomach, ii) plan to be in for the long haul, iii) wear expandable pants and iv) expect a certain amount of guilt and yelling.

Along with the guilt and yelling, here's what we ate over the course of 3 hours:

• Antipasti - olives, shrimp salad, prosciutto, salami, bread and marinated veggies (here's a tip - avoid bread at all costs because it'll drag you down before you know it)
  

Break to digest

• First course - homemade meatball soup
  

Break to digest

• Second course - the best lasagna I've tasted in my entire life
  

Break to digest

• Third course - steamed rapini, fennel salad with oranges, pea and mushroom salad (oh my god it was good - and it was peas and mushrooms - what do these people do to food to make gross stuff taste so damn good), and sweet potato casserole 
  

Break to digest

• Fourth course (or third course, part 2) - grilled lamb chops, roasted turkey, mashed potatoes, stuffing and gravy
  

Break to digest

• Dessert - apple caramel pie, fruit, carrot cake and espressos
  

• Alcohol - no less than 30 times, I was offered red wine, white wine, shots of sambuca, shots of something I'd never heard of before and shots of something that tasted like basil for my espresso
  

Boo-yah!

By the end of dinner I leaned over and told The Husband that if he could learn to make lasagna like that, I will personally give up all future holiday turkeys in honour of his amazing skill. Now, where does one find an authentic Nonna to learn the fine art of making guests cry because they know they'll never eat a meal as good as the one they just ate?

Merry Christmas & Salute!

Photo by Frenkieb

Shoveling the Heavy Stuff

On the fifth day of Christmas, my true love said to me "Forget it, I'm not shoveling snow". 

Like much of North America, it's snowing here. A lot. However, despite being 24/7 of the wet, heavy, white stuff, we're fine. I was raised on the prairies and The Husband was raised in Ontario's snowbelt, so we're good to go when the flakes start falling.

But today, snow was not the issue...

The storm started last night as we drove home from dinner - the roads were treacherous and icy. Though it was a treat to finally drive alongside people that are actually experienced in crappy driving conditions, it was still a little disconcerting to slip and slide our way home. In the end we made it home safely, wrote up our lovely little blog post and went to bed. 

By morning, most of the driveways had been cleared off by early risers - only to have a plow come through at 11am and pile heavy chunks of snow on all the driveways, blocking everyone in. So, at about 11:15am, The Husband was called by The Mom-in-law to go and shovel. 

As it turned out, he was half dressed and about to hop in the shower. I offered, though she insisted it should be The Husband's job.

Yeah, who cares right? Well, me, it turns out. These kind of gender-specific roles always get under my skin, so I dutifully stepped up, metaphorically growing-out my armpit hair, and offered to take up the shovel. 

The Mom-in-law pushed back. 

I insisted back. 

She held her ground. 

I persisted. 

In the end, she and I suited up and headed out with matching snow shovels - into a mild rain shower. A rain shower that made the snow 20 times heavier than was really necessary. Was it worth it? Did I feel strong and powerful? Had I reached true equality and enlightenment? Of course.

Well, at least for a few hours, until we had another snow shovel run-in. Only, this time, in addition to the issues of gender roles, it was also layered in questions of assuming responsibility and the feel-good rewards of altruism. This snow shoveling business is a mine field!

So, let me ask on this national day of snow shovelling - is pushing the white stuff really men's work? Or are women just smarter and pretend to be cooking in the kitchen to avoid the sweaty, messy, crappy job that is shoveling out a driveway in a rainstorm?

I suppose we'll never know.

Photo 'Fresh Snow' by wvs

Tea Parties & Cheesecakes

On the fourth day of Christmas, my true love said to me "ahh, that's much better".

After yesterday's tour of suburbia, we were happy to have a relaxing day at home. In the morning, we slept until 10am (woo hoo), ate some cereal and banged out a few beginner level Christmas Carole duets on the piano.

Me: "That was good, Husband, let's just practice those 6 bars you were having trouble with."

Him: "Oh my god."

Me: "Please...where are you going...please come back..."

Him:

Me: "Honey?"

Him:

Me: "Honey?"

Him:

By early afternoon, our expanding waistlines were ready for some reduction measures and we hit up a local park. After our walk, we were treated to a Tea Party complete with bone china, squares and chocolates. 

The Mom-in-law: "Well kids, let's have a Tea Party."

Him: "Oh my god."

The Mom-in-law: "Please...where are you going...please come back..."

Him:

The Mom-in-law: "Son?"

Him:

The Mom-in-law: "Son?"

Him:

While giving him credit for being consistent and unsusceptible to peer pressure, the Dad-in-law and I were the sole beneficiaries of the Tea Party. It was one of those modern, gender-neutral Tea Parties. Gotta keep up with the kids these days.

Early in the evening, we braved yet another blizzard and had dinner with dear, dear friends. Sounds fairly routine and uneventful - kind of boring even. But it was so lovely. The way it always is with kindred spirits. These are wonderful and kind people with the cutest, most beautiful 4-year-old and toddler. If this family could be a food, they'd be the delicious caramel cheesecake they served us. I could just eat them up.

So, for today, I'm going to leave you with a boring but lovely little post. Short, sweet, to the point, and filled with Holiday Cheer. Just like our day today.

Happy day before Christmas Eve - Happy National Snow Day - Happy Tuesday.

Photo by chotda

Houses & Hummers

On the third day of Christmas my true love said to me "this is just so weird".

Every time The Husband or I go back to where we came from, we feel caught between two worlds. I'm sure many people feel this way - each time you move away, it changes you a little. You move enough times for long enough and you change enough to notice. Before moving to Vancouver, we both moved many times. We've now been in Vancouver for more than four years - not very long by many standards, but long enough for it to become our home. Long enough for us to notice those changes. Long enough to want to stay, indefinitely.

Our families are from Ontario and Alberta so we try to visit everyone once or twice a year. One of the things we've found since moving west is that West Coast living is totally different. Everything is different. The jobs are different, the industries are different, the people are different and the way you live is different. When we moved to Vancouver, our lives changed so fluidly it was almost imperceptible - everything just fit.

Now, when we go back, we get culture shock. Things are bigger. You have to drive everywhere. Tonight, we were picked up in a Hummer, like it was the most normal thing in the world and taken to a beautiful home in a new subdivision, where a tiny chihuahua has her own bedroom. In Vancouver, things are smaller, you walk everywhere, only Chad Kreuger (Nickelback) drives a Hummer, and entire families live in small condos. 

On the flip side, things are cheaper out east - an argument we often hear on all our visits. Here, we get 6 coffees from Tim Horton's for $9.50. In Vancouver, we get two coffees at our local coffee shops for that same $9.50. For $400,000 you can buy a huge house here. In Vancouver, $400,000 will only get you a 750sq foot condo that may or may not have a den. It's only when you double that amount that you start talking about stand-alone houses.

So, in Vancouver, we do things differently, like have a smaller TV, get basic cable, maintain a 8-year old car, get a bus pass, use the library, take spin classes at the community centre, eat out less, take more walks,  have friends over for homemade wine (made up the street, because we don't have room), make lattes at home and take an umbrella everywhere with us. In return, we get to swim in the ocean, run and bike year round (except for right now - but, we get snow days for way less snow!), only buy local food, have less stuff, never set foot in a Wal-Mart, have daffodils in late January and to feel wonderfully at home.

Nowadays, this all means that these trips are getting harder and harder. We talk less and less about our new home - people just don't want to hear it. We compare less and less to where we came from - we just can't care anymore. 

Ultimately, we loved where we grew up but we love where we are now. For those that have never lived in Vancouver, there's no way to understand what we're willing to sacrifice to keep living there. On the other hand, when we go back, increasingly, we can't understand what our loved ones are willing to sacrifice to stay where they are.

After all, home is where the heart is. Perhaps that's what makes this all so hard. Harder than we ever thought it would be.

Photo of our Vancouver view by sallylondon (I have to brag)

The Dog With Poor Manners

On the second day of Christmas, my true love said to me "WHAT is that smell?"

Etiquette is always a controversial subject - many rules of social conduct seem antiquated and downright inappropriate in this era of Web 2.0 and fiscal upheaval. Many other rules are in limbo - caught in generational gaps. Not that etiquette itself is dead - it's still vital to the maintenance of social decorum. However, many rules of etiquette are grey, aged with time, and slipping to the periphery.

As a result, you don't always have something to fall back on when things get awkward. For example, what do you do when your inlaws' dog passes gas, while sitting at your feet, in the middle of dinner? Then again in the car? Then every time you stand near him?

Perhaps I should give you a little background. You see, this dog has been raised with the kind of discipline that comes from years of excellent parenting. You know what I mean? Careful, deliberate and loving parenting that produces wonderful world citizens but exhausts the caregiver, leaving a soft shell in the place of a once strong disciplinarian. That's right - I'm talking about grandparents. Or rather, pre-grandparents - folks with a child-sized hole in their world that is best filled with a furry companion.

That means this is no ordinary dog. That means this is no ordinary offence. When this child-like, four-legged, hairy, slobbering, malodorous animal is offensive, and waves of nausea and rage well up deep in your belly, you know you're in dangerous waters. One wrong move, and you're dead. Toast.

So, I beg you - tell me what to do. Is it wrong to lace a dog's food with Beano? Follow him around with a can of Glade? Wear a scarf around my face when he's near? Any comments, advice or similar anecdotes are appreciated. On the other hand, if you see yourself or your child-pet in my post, I just ask that you pause for a moment before e-yelling - ask yourself this - when was the last time you had a meaningful conversation with your pet? If it was yesterday, you can't possibly help me.

To maintain the relative anonymity of the said dog, the above photo is of someone else's dog -OakleyOriginals

On a side note, for anyone wondering what this Twitter thing is all about - here's an example of using twitter for social change. In Vancouver, a group of twitterati planned a meetup (a tweetup) to gather clothes and hats for the city's homeless and pass them out, knowing that many of the homeless were horribly unprepared for the cold, cold weather. Thought I'd pass along this interesting use of social media.

We Hate People (Today)

On the first day of Christmas my true love said to me...

It's cold season!

Today is a travel day. When I woke up in the wee hours of the morning today, I was dressed head to toe in rhinovirus. The common cold. It was everywhere. Every part of my body was emitting some sort of viral contagion.  After dragging ourselves to the airport (we were both dragging - but for different reasons), we hopped on a flight to TO and crossed our fingers that the weather would hold.

At present, I'm sitting on a connecting flight, which is delayed on the tarmac, trying to will the other passengers to just shhhhh... I feel like death warmed over. However, no one wants to read about someone else's cold (self-pity is sort of a solitary activity) - especially over the holidays. With that in mind, let's turn this around. A frown tossed upside down. Let's consider the benefits of having a cold on the plane. Here goes...

For starters, having plugged ears means you can't hear anything. No people. No babies. Nothing. Nada. It can be bliss. 

Second, when people do manage to break through the mucous sound barrier, you can retaliate by licking their airplane armrest when they go to the restroom. Remember, you're infectious. *This was the Husband's idea.* 

Third, when the 3 year old girl sitting a few rows back announces to the plane that she 'farted' (insert the embarrassed laughter of her parents here), you can't smell her. Hear that little girl - I can't smell you!

Great. I feel better already. It's almost like, for a few moments, I forget we were sandwiched between two snowstorms and trapped on a Toronto runway. Oh wait - I take that back. The verbose and gaseous child just announced that "this just isn't working for me" and "we should all just walk to nanny's house".

Maybe she's right. Maybe this just isn't working.

Update: They didn't bother to put our baggage on the connecting flight because they ran out of room. They RAN OUT OF ROOM! Ugh.

Photo of the common cold virus (rhinovirus) by hey mr glen

A Christmas Miracle

Tomorrow, I'll be off to the inlaws' home for the holidays. To commemorate this joyous event, I'll be keeping track of my memories via a new blog series, aptly titled "The 8 Days of Christmas (Holidays)". Clever, no?

I expect this to be a merry and enlightening experience full of whimsy, laughter and mildly suppressed discomfort (from all the food I'll be eating, not the inlaws...what do you take me for, a warmonger?).

In preparation, I found an excellent online thesaurus - when I searched 'holiday' it returned 'darkness'. I'll also be practicing my Twitter tweets to keep my fingers nimble and will be packing my Nintendo DS, my iPhone and my laptop. All should help keep me (and The Husband by association) in good holiday spirits.

So, for now, I'll bid you adieu dear reader as it is The Husband's birthday today. I need to go find some high-calorie food to soothe an impending age-induced panic attack.

Potential posts for tomorrow - 'Why I Hate Airports', 'Who Has the Right to the Airplane Armrest', 'How Ontario's Snow-mageddon ruined Christmas' and 'Why Other People's Cooking is So Much Better Than My Own'.

Funny Holiday Card by joshunter

Accidentally or intentionally?

Can careers - no, scratch that - successful careers happen by accident?

My take on the matter is a little obvious in that my blog is called The Life of an Accidental Pharmacist - though the title is meant to be somewhat ironic. That said, this is worth exploring, tentatively, if nothing else.

Whether you call it a debate, an issue, a conversation, or a matter of one's own personal politics - the position that you take is key to how you see yourself and your success. It's about power, ownership, gender roles, ambition, culture. We're not metaphorically talking about the layers of an onion here, we're talking about a sack of different onions, each entirely unique.

Semantics aside, this is also about how hard someone works to lay the groundwork for their career and whether they take credit for it. It's also about whether women play down their achievements. Whether, as women, motivation, drive and ambition are undesirable qualities best hidden under cloaks of humility and modesty: "I just stumbled into this CEO position - though I hardly think I'm qualified." We're told, after all, that ambition is not a dirty word.

And I just don't know.

For some, an accident, an unplanned circumstance, is a bad thing. For me - it's about chance. Declaring one's lifework an 'accident' is not always about hiding one's ambition or leaving it all up to fate. Rather, it's about having a determined openness to new opportunities - to chance encounters. Rather than being in the right place at the right time, I'm getting myself to that place and getting ready for that time. That place may be as dynamic as the many changing opportunities and may differ according to where I am in my life.

Life is hard, often in unexpected ways, and it helps to be flexible and try to move fluidly between opportunities. I can't know when the best things will come into my life or how they'll change my direction. I had no idea I wanted to be a pharmacists. On a whim, I applied. It changed everything.

Now, I think I've found my place in the world - largely by chance. Or, if you prefer, by accident. There were many opportunities where I was one of a few applicants. Where I hopped on a career lattice to move around the career ladder. I did a lot of leaving behind and looking back. I made a lot of choices that led me away from the path I was on - often not understanding where I was going. But over and over, as with Mr. Frost in the Road Not Taken, the paths kept diverging and I took one's less traveled - and it made all the difference.

But it's different for everyone. Thoughts?

Photo by Darwin Bell

The Stupidity of Doing Research

"One of the beautiful things about science is that it allows us to bumble along, getting it wrong time after time, and feel perfectly fine as long as we learn something each time."

Last week, a colleague read my mind (or my blog) and sent me Dr. Martin Schwartz's article "The importance of stupidity in scientific research." In my discouraged, December post-doc state, it was downright comforting to read about how very, very hard it is to do meaningful research.

In this most intellectual of professions, 'stupidity' is an untouchable adjective. Feeling stupid - well, that's something best done alone in your office. It's a professional indulgence. Here, in the academy, one's career is a game best played with ego and wit. It's all about product placement (you are the product) and amassing publications and accolades.

But, Dr. Schwartz argues that "if we don't feel stupid, we're not really trying".

Is that sacrilege?

The thing is, in academia, the act of embracing stupidity is probably more about embracing the work. Not the achievements. But these two aspects are often at odds. Academics are not stupid people, ergo, they don't often feel stupid. In fact, they're often very highly rewarded for not being stupid. But, behind closed doors, being given the latitude to explore stupidity may be one of the job's biggest assets.

At the academy, you can sit in your office or your lab and contemplate the systems at play, be it cell biology, the rise and fall of the global economy, or in my case, a health profession in transition. You can don't have to know the all answers. You're not supposed to. However, Dr. Schwartz argues that this is a failing of the model - that students aren't taught the pain of doing important research or how to be productively stupid.

It appears that in the transition from student to researcher - there is much to be taught and much to be learned.

I've always been a smug smarty-pants. My mom used to tell me I had a big nose, just to shrink my ego. She did it out of love - obviously - as I was a menace. But nowadays, I sit at my desk and read about the phenomenology of the pharmacist or why patients do what they do. Truth be told, I just don't know the answers. And my mom hasn't commented on my nose in a while.

So the next time you're reading an article on a new cancer causing agent or listening to an academic economist wax poetic about the state of the job market, remember this - that person probably spent the better part of their 20's having no idea what they were doing and begging their mothers to tell them they were smart, in their own special way.

Insightful graph by PhD Comics

A Christmas Story

Yesterday, I entertained the idea of a two-tree Christmas. As it turns out, two trees is likely one tree too many. Not for the reasons you might guess, though. What follows is a story of Christmas learning and acceptance.

Yesterday, I arrived home in time to see The Husband getting ready for some event. He had already read my latest blog post and was desperately trying to leave before I got home. Supportive as he is, he (grudgingly) hauled out our two trees, our growing collection of ornaments and all the decorative trimmings. With everything delivered, he wished me luck, turned on his heels and ran out the door.

It took roughly one minute before I realized that all was not well. It turns out that we have two trees. And 2/3 of a tree stand. To understand the gravity of the situation - you must know that I label everything. I label cupboards so The Husband knows where to put the bowls (depending on their size, of course). I label storage containers so we know what's inside. I even label bags of non-prescription medications by their target-organ system. Somehow, this year, in my 'Christmas Tree' box, my labels were insufficient. I forgot to label the 'tree stand'.

It's my own fault really. I dropped the ball. I have no one to blame but myself. However, after dissecting my own failings (and The Husband's, by association), I remembered who I am. I'm a scientist. That means I'm practically MacGyver. Rekindling my holiday spirit, I whipped together a makeshift stand, covered the second tree with a blanket (out of sight, out of mind) and did a couple of fist pumps. I'm unstoppable!

So, kind and caring reader, there is my holiday story. Or perhaps it's more of a cautionary tale. In the spirit of pausing and reflecting, today's moral guiding light is that two trees are tacky. I must have known that last year, when I lost the stands. Besides, I never really needed the second tree anyways.

Photo of a tree is Vancouver's Stanley Park by houseoftext

My Tipping Point

My last post was about procrastination. This one is about panic. Seems appropriate.

Last night, as I lay awake immersed in a bout of heart palpitations, I wondered what this all means. No, not life or something existential (I'm too stressed to think about that). Rather, my heart palpitations. What do they mean? Though my stress often starts with some GERD or a little insomnia, it's usually just annoying. However, feeling my heart beat in my neck is more than annoying. It's irritating.

I know I'm not alone. I used to work in a pharmacy in a posh neighborhood where the clients were often highly successful and highly stressed. They were hair stylists, real estate agents, actors, ad men and an assortment of financial services experts. I usually saw them because they were picking up sleeping or anxiety pills. Smugly, I'd think 'sheesh, relax' and go back to my copy of People. Sure, I was stressed and bored and fed up with my job, but I was impervious to that kind of stress.

Then my heart palpitated.

I'm guessing this is my body's way of preventing the next symptoms, which may or may not involve a carefully penned letter of resignation, a bottle of vodka and a spending spree.

Regardless, this productivity blog (of sorts - but lets all admit that it's more about nothing...) is a great place to reflect on the process of research and project management. So what does this all mean? This Oprah-esque AHA moment? Don't procrastinate!

To commemorate my breakthrough, I've pulled out Fast Projects by Fergus O'Connell. Granted, I've added it to a pile of other 'to read books' but it's the thought that counts. So, for the rest of the day, I'll contemplate my projects and manage my time. Most of all, I won't procrastinate.

PS - Tonight, I'm planning to pull out my holiday decorations. We have two fake trees (the result of a tree that The Husband temporarily 'lost' and replaced but then found in a place that he already checked.) I may put up both. Tomorrow's blog - whether two fake trees is tacky...

Photo by LunaDiRimmel