Barely promoted

Civilization and its (dis)comforts

I'm back. The light, oh the morning light, it hurts. (As do cramps—I suppose it's a good thing that my cycle held off its initial cataclysms for the moment I got off the plane, and managing to make it to 27 days again feels like an achievement, but...)

However, along with the nightmarish glow in the sky came a lovely fresh newspaper—I haven't seen one of those in quite for a while. With a charming op-ed on dislocation (I expect "DON'T BE BIG BABY" to become a catchphrase around here, meant in exactly this sense).

Also a brief interview with a rising young scientist. Usually these sorts of pieces leave me bitter about my own underachievement, but this guy is so (a) honest about how the state of the physics job market made him change fields (b) direct about his luck in getting funding (see under "How did your lab get a big chunk of research money from the Department of Homeland Security?") and (c) enthralled by what he's studying that I decided to relax and just be inspired.

Off to snorkel

I'm heading to to a tropical isle, or two or three, for the rest of August. Brightly colored litttle fish. Sunburn. Sand everywhere. Aaaaaaah.

Shabu shabu all over again

I have to make a confession. I've been trying to hide the identity of the city in (and near) which I grew up under the pathetic pseduonym "Metropolis." I am, of course, from New York (or maybe its suburbs, but with much more time in the city itself than most people who are unsure if they're really from New York).

Walking around Manhattan is, for me, an exercise in nostalgia and frustration. I've never lived in the city as an adult. I don't know where to eat, for instance—it wasn't really an issue back when I'd walk miles and miles, saving tokens to supplement my $5 per week allowance. Still, there are things about the texture of life there that seem utterly correct, that are simply never right anywhere else. For example, I can't get lost in the subway. No, really. Even though they've changed all the letters and put in these fancy new strapless cars. I snort at people who try to get out on the wrong side of the train: don't they know it's an express station?

Geography has been one of my issues with going to Cornell, all along. Having to go back home, sort of. Yet not go home—the city doesn't feel like home. More literally, my family doesn't know about our fertility endeavors, so I can't stay with them.

My trip last week for bloodwork was fine. I got in so late and left so directly from my appointment that I scarcely noticed, as I came up from the 68th St. station, that hey, isn't this where the Foundling Hospital used to be? That's where I got all my basic medical care, shots and so on, when I was a foster child. I think they've demolished the old building.

My only forays to the Upper East Side back then were for (mostly government-paid) medical and dental care. Once my blood relatives got custody again, my mother kept taking me to the same dentist. After appointments, we would go to a Japanese restaurant called Shabu Shabu, where we would eat shabu shabu—Japanese hot pot, essentially, swirling little slices of raw food in hot broth right at the table.

Return to present. During my first Cornell trip, I walked past a restaurant on East 70th called Shabu Shabu 70, claiming to have been open since 1979. Which is old enough, barely, although I feel like the restaurant I went to back then was on an avenue, not a street... hmmmm.

After our appointment with Dr. Data^*, Beaker and I walked towards the subway. We had time to get lunch before leaving again for (different) distant cities, and Beaker insisted on going to Shabu Shabu 70. Which was lovely: calm, excellent sushi, Hirschfeld originals on the walls. Staff who were surprised they didn't recognize us but also truly happy to see new faces.

I can't tell whether it's the same restaurant or not. But, if we end up cycling at Cornell (which we probably will^**), I'll be heading there for Japanese comfort food.

^*This isn't an entirely fair name. True, he spewed more numbers, and backed up more of what he said with references to published work, than any other doctor I've ever talked to (it helped that he talked really fast). But he was also immensely comforting. We both really liked him, and not just because we're people who are reassured by data.

^**Obligatory medical details: he can't say anything definitive without more information on our embryo quality, so we're going to see if our old clinic has more records and/or send the spooky micrographs they gave us. But, he is fairly optimistic and happy to try to use the weak little sperm we have on ice. He knows most of how he'd change the protocol (no BCPs, some LH in the stims, maybe coculture if we're insecure or if the old embryos look especially bad). He thinks it's totally reasonable both for us to try one more cycle and to change clinics for the third. Oh, and, on the basis of the records he's seen so far, and my recent bloodwork, he'd recommend starting with natural cycle inseminations, should we fail and move on to donor.

All summer in a day

The cool kids are posting their to-do lists, some with progress reports. Here's mine from Tuesday:

• Drive colleague to airport. [The new guy—yes, we got him!] Grim conversation on the uselessness of his destination conference. Cheerful conversation on all the local taboos he's planning to violate, ones that really needed to be violated.

• Deposit checks. [Mostly medical savings account reimbursements.]

• Mail in medical savings account receipts.

• Call Dr. Brash's office. [To find out how to get my HSG films.] Called while parked at Departures. When the receptionist said, "Uh, probably you should call radiology, but I don't have their number," I gave up and drove off before security could detonate my car.

• Talk to Annajane's case manager. [To tell him that she didn't get an SSD check this month, and that the Daisyfield manager thus "extorted" a check for the full rent from Annajane directly.] I left him voice mail on Sunday afternoon. We've been playing phone tag since.

• Call radiology department. They were perfect angels, put me on hold and dug up the film right away, and I should have just driven straight there from the airport. Would have saved many miles of driving.

• Reserve hotel in New York. [For upcoming Cornell appointment.] I called too late for the Helmsley Tower, so we'll down by 51st and Lex.

• Reserve B & B in Maui. [Yes, we're leaving in 5 days and haven't fully planned our lodging. Whee!]

• Pick up Granolan admissions flyers. [For Marina's daughter, my Trinidadian step-cousin, who's gunning for the big leagues—like the real Cambridge—but why shouldn't she try applying here? And Marina did ask me.]

• Find books for Nanna. [She's been asking. I didn't send anything for her birthday this year.] Alas, our local bookstore is showing signs of financial problems. Again. Lots of empty shelf space.

• Work on abstract and bio for upcoming talk. [Need to do before we leave on vacation, although the talk's not for months.] I'm kind of trying to Boice myself back into doing work. Sitting still for a few minutes before I start writing, small goals, et cetera. I have very mixed feelings about Boice's approach, mostly because of his stronger-than-just-metaphoric analogy between bipolar disorder and poor work habits. (That's right, take two of my biggest fears and intertwine them for me!) The man got me my dissertation published, though, despite my being too afraid of his book to finish it. Also: my working title for the talk really displays my pathetic MLA envy. I've got to tone it down.

• Assemble box to ship to Weatherwood. [With flyers and books.] I called Ricky to check whether anyone would be there to receive the box, since Nanna's too frail to answer the door now. Listened to 15 minutes of him feeling sorry for himself because of how bad Nanna feels. But he is living there with her, helping her walk to the bathroom, cooking dinner, and listening is really not all that hard.

Notice the poor work/family/working-on-family balance. I can't believe it's August. Mid-August, even.

Polling paranoia

So we get a lot of push polls around here. Most are about local offices and are pretty obvious: "Which candidate would you vote for, out of Joe Smith or Mary Taylor, if I were to tell you that Joe Smith, when pulled over for DUI last year, was found to have three mutilated kittens in his trunk, while Mary Taylor is a hard-working mother of three who cares about ordinary working people?" They'll never tell you who they're really working for—if you ask, they give you the name of the PR firm that hired the call shop, but not who hired the PR firm.

But this weekend I got something a little weirder. The caller started by asking for me by name and then explained that he was administering a three-question survey on "women's health issues." The first question was on whether I would support a measure that required insurance companies that covered Viagra to also cover birth control pills. I had a minor eruption ("I'm offended by the parallels you're drawing!"), and we went on.

The second question was about abortion, and some neuron fired before the guy was done asking. "You started the call by checking my name. Who are you working for again?" Again, I got the name of the PR firm who had hired the call shop, but no real answer. (I hadn't heard of the firm, and the caller wasn't especially well-trained, although the script sounded professionally written.) I got off the call, so I'll never know what the third question was going to be.

Who, exactly, would want to know this kind of thing, and keep it filed by name? It's not like you can't fully predict my voting behavior from my zip code and my party registration. Does some unholy alliance of insurance companies and bible-thumpers that thinks this data might come in handy someday?

A princess showing strain

You're 40. You abandoned your diplomatic career to marry into royalty, so now your only job in life, according to millions of citizens and the thousands of bureaucrats who run your life, is to produce a male heir. You're kept isolated in a palace. In the 11 years since your marriage, you've managed one daughter. So: would you be depressed?

After Princess Masako disappeared from the public eye eight months ago, the Imperial Household Agency steadfastly denied that anything was seriously wrong. Then last week it put its imprimatur on a statement that the princess was suffering from a stress-induced adjustment disorder and, in addition to counseling, was taking prescription drugs.

[...]

Akihito's choice of a commoner as a bride was revolutionary in a monarchy in which his father, Emperor Hirohito, had been considered a living god by some Japanese. But the prince's choice of Masako Owada was equally revolutionary. He was choosing a type of bride many Japanese men avoid even to this day: a woman with a full-fledged career, someone who was better educated, more accomplished and even taller than he was.

After declining the prince's marriage proposal for several years, Masako finally accepted 11 years ago, but only after eliciting his promise to protect her. At the time, many ordinary Japanese, especially young women, while impressed at the prince's choice for a bride, expressed regret that such a modern woman would disappear into the closed world of the monarchy.

[...]

In 2001, Princess Masako gave birth to a girl, Aiko, who according to law cannot ascend the throne. There was renewed pressure to bear a boy.

It was not clear what caused the princess to sink into her present depression eight months ago.

Some of the earlier coverage is just terrifying. From during her pregnancy, in 2001:

Princess Masako's pregnancy could well have an enormous impact on Japan's troubled economy.

"It'll have the equivalent effect of a 20 trillion yen economic stimulus package," Kazuaki Kajiwara, an economic critic, tells Shukan Post.

[...]

Positive effects from Princess Masako's pregnancy may not be confined to the economy either, though, Shukan Post says.

"In 1994, the year after the Crown Prince and Princess married, births increased by 50,000 over the previous year," Ryuichi Kaneko, a government population expert, says. "Princess Masako's pregnancy is probably going to lead to an increase in the birthrate."

Some worry that at 37 and already having experienced a miscarriage, Princess Masako may be in danger of losing another child. Top gynecologist Shigeki Matsuo dismisses the claims.

"Some minor problems do exist [in pregnancies with older women], but nothing worth worrying about too much. Most of the women I see are in their mid-30s," he tells Yomiuri Weekly. "We'd worry if [Princess Masako] was over 40, but at 37 there are no problems at all."

Some urge greater caution, though.

"Until everything has stabilized, she should be hospitalized," Yukio Nakamura, head of the Japan Infertility Society tells Shukan Gendai (5/5-12). "Hospitalization until everything is absolutely safe is one option."

That's some, uh, responsibility being pushed on her! (And some irresponsible doctors, too!)

We are everywhere

Tucked into the Times's huge account of life in a lower Manhattan police precinct (the officers are glad there's so little crime now, but sort of disappointed to be, e.g., following up noise complaints about ice cream trucks) is the story of a dyke-with-a-heart-of-gold lieutenant who's in the middle of a donor sperm IVF cycle:

Late one night, Lieutenant Fanale sits in the passenger seat of her unmarked car, waiting for the undercover cadet to enter a pool hall that is not supposed to be selling alcohol, but may be anyway. Beside her is Officer Jacqueline Peters, her driver and friend since the lieutenant arrived in the Fifth. "I wish Sonny would get here with my shots," the lieutenant says. She left her hormone injections back at the precinct house. The officer finally calls her cellphone.

"I'm on the corner of Eldridge and Hester," Lieutenant Fanale says. She hangs up and chuckles. "It's like a drug transaction."

Another unmarked car pulls up. An officer, Richie Stellmann, leans out with a paper bag. "We got the goods," he says, passing it over and driving away.

Her driver, Officer Peters, takes the needles and small bottles that Lieutenant Fanale hands her and arranges them on the keyboard of the laptop computer between the front seats. Working in the pale glow of the screen, she draws liquid from the bottles into the syringe, tapping the tube with a fingernail to get the bubbles out. "You know somebody's going to call this in," the lieutenant says. " 'They're shooting up in the car and they're wearing N.Y.P.D. jackets.' "

She kneels sideways on the seat, ducking her head and spiked gray hair against the roof. Officer Peters leans forward and carefully inserts the needle into her lieutenant's belly and pushes the plunger. Done.

Deep breath out

My FSH came back at 7.2. Further discussion (with a doctor who won't get his snarky nickname until after I've met him—I'm trying to be fair here!) follows in a week.

I don't want to live in New York, either

At least not on the Upper East Side. Even in August, lots-o-nannies were out wth their charges... and, in an appliance store window, a sign: "WE DELIVER TO THE HAMPTONS!"

But, on my way back to the subway (after being stabbed in the elbow at the clinic) I stopped in at Shakespeare and Co. Thank goodness. All you academics out there, especially anyone who's ever worried about your lack of productivity, or for whom David Brooks's phrase "status-income disequilibrium" hit a little too hard: you've gotta, gotta, gotta read Christina Schwarz's All is Vanity.

And, hey, all you bloggers secretly hoping that there might be a book hiding in what you're typing—or just worried about what you could be accomplishing if you weren't spending all your time blogging. You need to read this book, too. It's all about aspiration and procrastination. And competition. And self-deception. And it's really, really funny.

Two childhood friends, now in their mid-thirties. One, living in New York, quits her job to spend a year, ahem, writing her novel. The other, raising four kids in L.A., tries to launch herself and her family into a fully loaded L.A. lifestyle after her art-historian husband is suddenly offered a (slightly) better paying job.

Filled with exquisite set pieces (one of my favorites: when the aspiring novelist gets turned down for a part-time SAT tutor gig because neither her Penn degree, nor the private school where she'd been teaching, were good enough) and plenty of little scenes that bite. Ooooooooooh.

Re- (or maybe "mis-"?) direction

Lots more amusing than Olympic-caliber worrying: try your hand at the ESP Experiment! (which I found via Brad DeLong.)