Domestic life

I went for a walk after dinner today on the walking trail that runs behind my apartment complex. I enjoy the trail as it quickly leaves the more industrial area of being sandwiched between a large apartment complex and the highway and progresses to a tidy suburban area, houses and yards backing up to the path. The neighborhood is all new, expensive houses with large single pane windows and perfectly coiffed lawns. The few trees left from the construction cover the path, but don't block out the details of people's personal lives. Wandering by you can look into the windows of these houses and see people eating dinner, ignoring life through television, or washing dishes. A few weekend warrior or retiree types are in their yards, tending the garden or edging the lawn, but the vast majority probably hire someone else to do it. It is the picture of suburban perfection.

I've always been subconsciously attracted to this kind of lifestyle. I used to go for long drives through Dover and Westwood at night, making up family stories to go with the various farm houses. I would stare out the window of the T into people's living rooms and kitchens, placing myself in their place, 10 years down the road. It's the lifestyle I was raised in, the lifestyle society seems to deem acceptable. You're supposed to want the American dream of the perfect husband, 2.5 kids, and large house in the suburbs with the white picket fence. When I tell my parents that I don't want to ever own a house or have kids, they look confused by my decision to opt out of the American dream, but really, sometimes I do want the American dream. I know it's inefficient and unrealistic given the modern rate of divorce, consumer consumption, over population and my education, but my subconscious can't help but fantasize about being a stay-at-home mother some days.

This admission scares me. You can only fail if you actually try for something. It's much easier to claim to want to remain a spinster in a small apartment. I have already attained that. And really, I don't always want the domestic life. I know I would grow restless without my own pursuits. I know I would feel guilty having children in a world already strapped for resources. I know that I only want to be domestic because I have idealized little slices in my mind - the farm with the single light on in the bedroom conjuring mental images of marital bliss, the child being tucked into bed bringing to mind cherubic children that never cry - but my imagination is very convincing sometimes. Logic will prevail eventually.

Really, I just need to get out of the suburbs.

Meeting

A vase of magnolias in full bloom are the focus of the room. Placed on a low table on the dusty, well-worn plywood floor, they may be the most beautiful part of the scene. The walls alternate between bare beige brick and 1970s plywood paneling. One of the brick walls contains evenly space windows looking onto the house next door, while the other obviously used to have windows, which were boarded over in an expansion years ago. The room is all exposed beams and flat, even lighting.

On the benches surrounding the vase, nondescript people sit, mostly away from all others, quietly waiting. These are plain people, wearing jeans cut for a different decade and faded flower prints. A man stands, all attention turning to him, rapt. He starts to speak about friends, money, and flowers. His realizations are absorbed by people with closed eyes, people watching anxiously, and people who seem to be looking at nothing at all. He closes, nearly in tears with desire to see long dead friends, but knowing that no amount of money can help the desire. As he sits, the room again falls silent, each person absorbed in their own spiritual struggle, alone, but together.

I went to Quaker meeting today. I'm not really looking to find God, but churches seem to be the only place concerned with community. The Quakers generally share a lot of my ideals and beliefs, except for the religious ones. They were welcoming, but it was still a daunting experience. I long for a community where I can blend into the crowd for a time until I feel comfortable distinguishing myself from the masses. I want people to share common goals, but at the same time remain individuals. I wonder if this kind of community exists.

Tens of samples die in tragic box collapse

Simulator Cage, Versailles Lamp Plant - At approximately 4:10 this afternoon a bin box containing more than 100 samples for the lead free project collapsed, killing dozens. Witnesses to the scene called it "ugly" and immediately offered to help in the recovery and clean up efforts. Says one witness, "I was just looking for empty flare tubs when I saw the wreckage. I feel sorry for the engineers who care about those samples." Although rescuers were on the scene shortly after the collapse, dozens are feared dead while many of the critically wounded may die as well. This could be a giant setback in the war on lead.

O.k., so my life really isn't that interesting, but this afternoon was rather traumatic for me. My boss is out of the office this week, so i've been putting in slightly shorter than average days when i can get away with it. I was preparing to run my last set of tests with the evil little spark coiler (the thing will, with use of electricity, bore directly through your flesh to the bone), when i managed to somehow knock over a whole box bin of my samples. I have over 1000 samples mostly in sets of 100-200. I could have broken a couple samples from any other box in my cage and been reasonably o.k., but instead I broke the box of controls. Awesome. I can't wait to 'fess up to this tomorrow morning. I'll do that right after counting the recovered samples and retesting them with the terrifying spark coiler.

Are men necessary?

I read a lot. Usually, the books are reasonable and give me little to complain about, a good investment of time. They provide something to think about, distractions from "real life" and "boredom". This time, though, I have to rant. Maureen Dowd's book Are Men Necessary? is confused, gossipy, catty, incoherent and grossly generalizing.

What point are you trying to make Ms. Dowd? That women should be allowed to act as they wish, while men's behaviors towards women should be strictly regulated? That men act in stereotypical caveman fashion or that society is making them more feminine and sensitive? Are women catty and unsupportive of each other, or would they get along better in the large world politics forum? Really now, choose a point, make all chapters contain evidence to support that point, then write a coherent, insightful conclusion. That's the way books are written. It makes them not only enjoyable, but informative as well, leaving the reader a more educated person. You instead leave me feeling like you wrote a series of lengthy, but poorly planned op-eds that are often self-contradictory accomplishing only your true intention to name-dropping gratuitously. Perhaps the worst offense in your book is your gross generalizations. Not all men are the chauvinist pigs only attracted to double D sex kittens. Not all women want to become plastic, Barbie-esque clones of youth until the day they die. It is offensive consider how you would over simplify all relationship in my past as not being based on mutual respect for intelligence and common interests or goals and instead classify them as bait-and-switch affairs of a man trying to sleep with me and disappear while i trap him in my man-trap. You insult the idea of love. You have wasted many hours of my life, which i want back.

Maureen Dowd, are you necessary?

Ye Old Farmers' Market

To make up for yesterday's onset of depression, I decided to drag myself up early on a Saturday to go visit the local farmers' market. Although retail therapy is a horrible way of dealing with bad days, the fresh, wild mulberries are doing a good job of putting everything into perspective.

The local farmers' market is downtown, amidst the mix of "sky scrapers", parking garages, and historic-looking, brick buildings that make up the heart of Lexington. Spread over the wide sidewalk spanning two blocks, the market isn't large, but it has a distinct feel of familiarity. You get the feeling that these same vendors have been coming here every week selling to the same customers for years. People with large dogs abound, dragging them from booth to booth while they really would rather sniff each other and drink the water from the buckets of flowers. Most vendors sell almost the same things as the one next to them, but maybe with sugar snap peas instead of cherries. Some booths are lush, professional affairs with well washed and prepared fruits and vegetables, while others are more down-home, offering you a bag and the chance to really commune with your food as you pick it from the pile.

Wandering down the street there are plant sellers with fresh lavender and broad-leafed basil, honey makers hawking honey sticks two for a quarter and booths displaying Amish butter and cheeses. Flower growers abound, catching the eyes of all who pass by with huge, brightly colored lilies or 4-foot tall sunflowers. Some sellers are garrulous, calling in passersby, while others are more reserved, good country folk, there to make a living with their homemade preserves. In between some of the booths, other types of people have set up to take advantage of the crowds. A father and two children play a string trio version of Pachelbel's Canon in D, while further along a man picks at a banjo for a barefoot toddler. One man, sitting on a park bench, offers balloon animals and hats, flirting with the young women in the crowd.

This place feels like a natural place for me to be, blending into the crowds who are just looking for a good bunch of green onions and some vibrant salad lettuce. I can make idle chatter with the vendors, explaining that i'll just put things in my bag rather than taking the generic plastic they proffer. I stop to let the large dogs sniff me if they'll just let me scratch them behind the ears. Wild mulberries catch the corner of my eye, reminding me of elementary school lunches where I would trade almost anything for these succulent berries that i've never seen in stores. Leaving with a full bag and a plant in one hand, the local animal shelter's display with live cats draws me in. We talk and I volunteer to help out at an upcoming event, hoping to both use it to meet people, but as an excuse to leave work at a reasonable hour.

With my fingertips stained with berry juice, it seems like Kentucky may be the place for me after all.

Stupid work

Work made me cry today.

It was 5:20, Friday evening, and i was still sitting at my desk. I had just called my boss and everything just overflowed. I had been paged from useful work on the floor at 4 by my boss in order to hand hold him, via telephone, from my office, over power point edits. I prepared the deck with meticulous care and sent a draft to him monday. He nitpicked minute details all week. I retook micrographs 5 times varying the lighting conditions, background and focal points. At 7AM the presentation was still as I had left it, 50 slides, uniform style, lots of images, very little text. By 10 this morning there were 23 more slides and a whole flurry of edits.
"Go take more thermal images."
"Make this timeline prettier."
"No, I meant prettier like this."
"Oh, that looks worse. Just fix it."
I didn't get to go to lunch. I sat trapped at my computer. Every time I'm paged, I make the necessary changes with a smile. Every time I start to do work on the floor, I'm called back to my office. At 3, the co-op leaves. At 3:30, my office mates leave; it is friday. At 4, my boss wants more handholding through the presentation, which he has butchered with last minute edits. It feels like he's killed my child.
"How late are you planning on staying?"
"As long as you need me to."
That was the wrong answer. I'm told to sit by my phone and wait. Read technical documentation, no doing useful work. At 5:15 I haven't heard from my boss again. I clean my desk, prepare everything for leaving and call again.
"I really need you to stick around a couple more minutes. I'll call when I need something."
And I lose it. I'm not getting paid enough to put in 60 hour weeks. I'm using my engineering education to walk my boss through making a power point presentation. I spend many hours counting light bulbs on a regular basis. I'm not getting paid enough for this. Actually, I'm not getting paid at all, someone in HR has lost both paychecks I should have received since arriving. I'm tired of working through lunch and stumbling home too exhausted to even go for a walk. I'm ready to eat things that aren't peanut butter and jelly. I just lose it. I sit at my desk, with tears rolling down my checks, grateful that my office mate left 2 hours earlier.

Some days work sucks.

oh furniture!

Never before in my life have I had such an appreciation for the simple luxury of furniture. Granted, I slept on an air mattress in Mexico for 4 months, but even then, there was other furniture. I could sit on a chair to lace my shoes in the morning, or even sit at a table to eat. 3 weeks of being furniture-less here wasn't an incredible hardship, but has given me a bit more perspective about what i enjoy about furniture.

The couch: Oh, the couch is the most majestic of furniture, really, the lion of the living room. You can sit on it and lay on it in exquisite comfort. It has fun pillows which can be utilized on or off the actual couch. The seating is padded and comfortable in numerous positions. If you're lucky, it even hides a bed. If I had to choose one piece of furniture to live with, this would be my single choice.

Table and Chairs: The table and chair are next on my usefulness list. These give you a place to actually eat dinner without trying to balance the water glass on the carpet and the bowl in your lap without burning or dirtying yourself. Convenient for eating breakfast cereal and writing thank you notes. Actually, just generally convenient.

After these things, the other furniture, although appreciated, is much less necessary. I'm sure I will revel in the glory of the bed once the mattress comes. The bookshelves are a little superfluous considering my permanent collection of books consists of 20 books, but I can see how my parents thought them useful for a reader such as myself. The nightstands are great for alarm clock and glasses keeping, although I'm not sure what my parents are implying with getting me two of them.

Furniture, really, is just great.

The American Brass Band Festival

I have to admit that parts of this country seem a little foreign to me.

We drove down to Danville, KY to take in the sights and sounds of the American Brass Band Festival today. The whole experience was quintessential Americana. Taking place and Centre College, the stage is set up at one ends of a slightly hilly, grassy quad. Well-worn paths crisscross the green expanses with the occasional ancient oak tree spreading out a shadowy blanket. People of all ages have set up blankets and lawn chairs in a helter-skelter pattern, areas under the trees being occupied by people content to listen and chat amongst themselves, while the area directly in front of the bands is occupied by true connoisseurs of marches and big band music. These souls, in preparation for exposure to the hot sun of southern Kentucky in the summer, have come prepared with their large golf umbrellas firmly staked to mark their territory.

Further back, in a sunny grassy valley, a random assortment of kids frolic under the nominal supervision of their parents. There's a pair of red-headed boys under the age of four, obviously brothers, dressed identically in plaid patchwork shorts and polo shirts. Two young girls, barely old enough to walk, find each other and communicate in a way which only they understand. A blonde girl, all curls and dimples throws her stuffed animal into the air, trying to catch it, but mispredicting her own uncoordinated throws. Slightly older kids try to toss and oversized frisbee, only to have it caught in the wind.

As the ground rises from the open valley, the parents and grandparents of these kids sit, discussing life in small town America, placating the children when they come for another cookie. They sprawl on well-worn quilts, handmade of left over fabric, some children's prints, but mostly mundane stripes and checks. The women seem pregnant and happy, wearing billowing sun dresses, while the men seem like everyman, stoic and hard working. Children wearing glitter-painted tee shirts or football face painting wander up from time to time, only to be attacked with another layer of sunscreen. The biggest crisis of the day for these families is the cake that was stepped in by one of the smaller children.

To the left, a teenage couple lay on a blanket, enjoying the ambiance, occasionally playing with the nearby children. They fit perfectly in the scene, the small slice of young love. The girl wears a flowing tank top which unselfconsciously reveals her plain, white bra straps underneath. The boy could have walked out of Abercrombie and Fitch in his outfit with the life guard shirt. They hold hands and exchange glances, but manage to hint at their feelings underneath. All seems well in the world.

Still, this leaves me wondering where I fit in this picture.

One week down, 53 to go

I managed to survive my first full week still in fairly high spirits. There was a lot of time spent on the factory floor, probably an equal amount of time spent in the various labs, and a small fraction of my time spent at my desk. This is definitely the way my jobs should all be. I do find it amusing that i spent 7 hours yesterday on the factory floor, around exploding light bulbs and molten glass, managing to escape unscathed, only to close my hand in the r&d lab door. I win!

Working in a factory is going to be an interesting experience. Every time i leave my office i have to go through a whole procedure:
a) Do I need to wear my glasses?
if yes, wear the large safety glasses
if no wear the comfy safety glasses
if no, do i need to take my glasses?
if yes, find glasses case and figure out how to attach it to self, securely.
if no, place in desk
b) How far am i going?
if not far, do i need earplugs?
HR = yes
Factory floor = yes
Glass lab = no
R&D = no
Simulator cage, varies
if going to the simulator cage for a long time, yes
if going to the simulator cage to run hot sand tests, one needed
if just going to grab something or change settings, no
if going far, take ear plugs. maybe put them in.
c) Am I going to be around glass?
if yes, take kevlar sleeves and one pair of gloves
d) Am I going to be around hot glass?
if yes, take a second pair of gloves
e) Do i want to look at hot glass?
if yes, take fire glasses

...and this is just assuming i'm not taking anything anywhere. as an aside pockets are useful. In addition to developing a protocol just to step out of my office, being in a factory is pretty cool. I can watch sand turn into light bulbs just by walking down the stairs. Every mechanism i learned about in that Mechanisms class not only is real, but is working for my amusement just outside my window. Cams, cranks, levers, sliders, clamps, gears, sprockets and more! There is very little sparky magic and a whole lot of mechanical intuition on the floor.

Outside of work, life is still a little Spartan. The furniture might come next week, if i'm lucky. I might get a paycheck next week, too, so i can buy groceries and stop subsisting off of peanut butter and honey. The young engineering types are being extremely friendly, but i really just don't have the hand-eye coordination to play racquetball. Or the height to play basketball. Or the money to go out to dinner. I hope they understand that I'm not trying to be antisocial.

Speaking of peanut butter and honey, i should eat dinner...

Post-Collegiate Plans: Live like a Starving College Student

Before graduating, I imagined post-college life to be something of a paradise. Only 40 hours of work a week! A clean, well-stocked kitchen where I can cook to my hearts' content! No more mathematics! Stylish, comfy furniture and a large bed! All these thoughts coming from a naïve Kim, already living in college paradise. Now that I'm actually in the post-college phase of life, I'm learning some important lessons about living like a poor college student.

1) Salary does not imply 40 hours of work a week. In fact, it could imply 80 hours of work a week, and they don't even need to pay you more for it. Factor in that commute while you're at it, because you won't be spending those hours on your rediscovered passions either. In fact, it's actually starting to resemble your college spare time, now that you think about it...

2) The kitchen may be clean, yes, but well-stocked is an over-statement. The fridge has a jar of salsa, a jar of jelly, a pitcher of water and cheese. We won't even get into the cabinets. All those spiffy kitchen supplies you love cost money, which you don't have, because you're suddenly trying to stock an entire apartment by yourself. Do you really need a mellon-baller or that can of Raid more?

3) Those subjects you hated? Maybe even barely passed? Yeah, you actually do need some of that knowledge. Your boss is not going to be pleased to have to explain to you what a t-test is, so you need to study that text hard before you go into work tomorrow. And if you barely passed the class 3 years ago, it's going to be a long night of studying.

4) Furniture, like cookware and food, is also expensive and takes a long time to deliver. Those floor pillows from your dorm room are now your bed until you can afford a mattress. Good thing you brought a lamp, too, since the apartment isn't big on built in lighting. Saves them on expenses that can be passed onto you. You'll get that furniture someday, and maybe be able to upgrade from sleeping on the floor to sleeping on your couch. Awesome.

These things are not to imply that I'm not really happy in my new circumstances, because I certainly am, but oh, did college not prepare me for the reality of feeding myself on $0.30 a day. When I start dreaming about cantankerous Kaverne making me a half-assed omelet, I may splurge and eat fast food. Then again, maybe this week's luxury item of $0.88 barbeque sauce will hold me over until that first paycheck and the real apartment stocking begins. The math will come back with time, too, and luckily college did teach me how to teach myself.

The hours, though, well, those will continue to be just like college.

Olin College, the college that ... actually exists

Graduation happened. I still haven't sorted through the thoughts nor do i think i will for a long while. If i don't think about it, it's easier to think that this is just like last summer, and that i haven't entered the "real" world, to a "real" job, and an adult life. Somewhere in this apartment there's a nice blue folio that states otherwise, but if i can't see it, it's not real.

The last couple weeks have been a dizzying whirlwind. There were parents and god parents and aunts and uncles and packing and goodbyes and graduation and driving and Kentucky. There's a new money-making scam involving pretending to know what i'm doing while trying to make light bulbs. It's all very different and probably a good learning experience.

Skipping the whole commencement thing, we'll start a couple days later. I spent some time bumming off Jon, Drew, and Miks at their lovely summer apartment. I hadn't really though how much i would miss them until several days of them all the time. they kept me from getting too mopey with laughter, cooking and making fun of drew. Surprisingly, he's the one i will probably miss the most. Maybe it's not so surprising. After going the last Red Sox game (against the Yankees) played while i lived in Boston, I got in my car with my minimal possessions and drove to Kentucky.

Why Kentucky? Well, they make light bulbs here. And at the time i accepted the offer, i was excited to move someplace where i didn't know anyone. Now that I'm here, i'm finding that there are plenty of upsides and downsides to the decision. Sure, I left all my friends to move here, but now i can't use them as a crutch and actually have to socialize with people here, who are wonderful and welcoming. Lexington isn't a city in the way Boston is a city, but the incredibly nearby country side is gorgeous, all green rolling hills, white picket fences and horses, with reasonable housing prices, too. I'll admit that everything has not been sunshine and roses, but I can live in any situation for 8 months.

I moved into my apartment with only the things i could fit in my car from Boston. This means no furniture and no cookware. The most useful things I ended up bringing are my floor lamp, butter knives, lots of pillows, and the iron/ironing board combo. With those few things, very little else is vital. So I've built myself a nest of pillows in the corner of the living room, plugged in my floor lamp next to it, and settled in, reading copiously and eating peanut butter and jelly/honey for every meal. No one ever said moving was pretty. Furniture, cookware, and a much needed new debit card will all come soon.

Work is going surprisingly well considering that a) my boss had serious doubts about me/Olin before i came b) my boss is automatically biased against anyone in the associate development program (which i am) c) i know nothing about glass d) i know nothing about making light bulbs e) i don't remember statistics, at all and f) my shared office has been referred to as the "men's locker room" or "men's bathroom" depending on who you talk to. I'm not being sarcastic on any of those points, but specifically on the fact that work is going well. I get to spend a lot of time wandering the production line, looking at the fire breathing machines. I do lab work all day that actually seems like it will affect things. I managed to impress my boss such that he may actually reverse both a) and b). Overall very well. Some anecdotes:

I spent 2 days measuring the concentricity of glass tubing. I went to grab another 10 rods, 5 feet long each, to make more samples on Wednesday. I lean a handful against the box, then reach in for more. While doing this, the original rods go crashing to the floor, shattering and making a lovely mess. Even with ear plugs, I hear what's going on, as do all the production people in roughly 1/3 of the factory. I stand there, blushing deeply, not knowing what to do. It's my second day, and i don't even know the protocol for cleaning up broken glass, much less the price of said glass and who i have to report culpability to. The last two turn out to be negligible, but as for the first, a fork truck driver comes over with a broom and tells me to take the big pieces while he sweeps up the smaller ones. He reassured my with a smile "This won't be the last time you break glass." He was spot on. He also smiles and tells me not to drop anything anytime i'm over in that department.

I finish my measurements and do some statistical analysis on them. With analysis, it obviously shows that the samples of glass from our sister glass plant next door are obviously inferior to the samples bought from the Netherlands. Still within spec, but inferior. My boss looks at the data, verifies that it looks valid, then starts a war with the glass plant next door. They question my competence, but my boss stands up for me. Turns out that he trusts me because I had a number written on the back of my hand the day before. He had asked why, and I explained that the sample had seemed off, so i set it aside to measure again later, hopefully getting a better value. This single behavior, actually paying attention to the data while making hundreds of mindless measurements and understanding what's going on, has made him trust me enough to start intra-company warfare. Although I don't like the company culture implications, I get the feeling this assignment will work out well.

Lessons learned so far:
1) you will break things. at some point you may actually stop cringing at the sound of broken glass, too.
2) My wardrobe is halfway to business school, while my job is manufacturing. Polo shirts may make their way back into my wardrobe.
3) Prescription safety glasses may be a worthwhile investment. Safety glasses are your friend.
4) Yep. My hands are freakishly small.
5) Glass rods may only be laid on the floor.
6) Be careful where you swing light bulbs. They are much longer than you think.
7) It is actually hard to depressurize a light bulb. By the time you get frustrated a decide to ice pick with more force, the more force you choose may make it explode in your face.
8) You are not allowed in the Mercury room, no matter how much you wants it.

That is not all, but all for now.