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Charlie Hatton
Brookline, MA
It’s a good thing I work in science.
Everyone’s different, of course. Some people would enjoy working in a biotech company the same way I would enjoy, say, teaching high school or driving an ambulance. Which is to say, not even the slightest freaking microscopic bit.
Seriously. Even if the lunch ladies have Taco Tuesday in the cafeteria. It’s still unadulterated hell.
A lot of my preference for what I do comes from not really being emotional about things. Sure, there are exceptions. My wife. Fuzzy puppies. Anything Douglas Adams or Berkeley Breathed have written. But otherwise, I’d rather try to reason things out than get all caught up in FEELS about them.
(Which is not to say I do reason things out very often, because often I’m just not that bright. But I like to try.)
So my job — which is roughly eighty percent fiddling with numbers in Excel, and twenty percent trading big sciency words with the researchers who made the numbers happen in the first place — is a pretty good fit. Numbers add up the same way, most times. Usually. Excel only occasionally horks up, shits the bed and crashes your spreadsheets. And so far as I’ve seen, like baseball, there’s no crying in science.
(Well. There’s crying in some science, I guess. Dr. Frankenstein’s lab would be no picnic to post-doc in, for instance. But I haven’t seen actual open weeping in a laboratory since the day I was kicked out of graduate school.
Yeah, I know. Shut it, you.)
Of course, everybody needs an outlet. At least, I think they do. I do, and I basically have nothing to outlet, most days. But some sort of emotional something-or-other must build up — “backwash feels”, you might call it — and it’s good to have something you can dive into heart-first, to let it all out. A safe thing, where a little yelling and hoping and ruing and yearning and unadulterated feeling won’t have major consequences.
“These people shed drama like a tabby drops dander.”
(From what I gather, some people don’t share this philosophy. Those people either hold it all in, until they explode — possibly literally — sitting on a bus some day, because coming up with exact change was just the final. Fucking. Straw.
Or they emote everywhere, all over their family and friends and fellow workers in a huge roving puddle of feels. These people shed drama like a tabby drops dander. Frankly, I’d rather take my chances with the bus-change types.
Neither of these sorts of person has much use for me. That makes me ecstatic.
Or it would. If I had actual emotions about it.)
There are three main arenas in our present society where this sort of emotional outletting seems common, where “feeling stuff about stuff” is pretty much accepted as the normal way to do things. These are: religion, politics and sports.
Personally, I’ve chosen sports. Assuming we’re spectators here, it seems the one with the lowest risk. If I get all lathered up and jubilant/crushed/outraged about some sporting event, it’ll all be over in a couple of hours. No worries. It’s just an outlet.
(By contrast, you might have to hold a good lather about politics for four — or eight — years. That’s exhausting. And religion, depending on whom you talk to, possibly forever.
Or at least six hours, for a Catholic church service. Again: exhausting.)
Now, maybe that’s just me. Maybe some people don’t feel the need for outlets. But there seem to be an awful lot of people angry and frothy about an awful lot of things, and for more than two or three hours at a time. So maybe I’m onto something.
But I was watching sports tonight — because “outlet” — and I saw how terrible it would be if your emotional outlet was wrapped up in something else. Specifically, I was watching the Steelers and Bengals NFL playoff game, which is “sports” — but for the players, it’s also “job”. And those teams don’t like each other. And some people got emotional. Like, really emotional. And it completely cost one team the game.
(I won’t rehash the action here. If you care about football, you’ve been basking in hot takes on the end of that game for hours already. If you don’t, then it doesn’t much matter. Let’s just say there was a lot of foot-stomping and jerkface-calling and very large men failing to use their “inside voice” when asked to. Brouhaha royale.)
I don’t think I could do that. Getting so emotionally wired and churned up about the most important part of the job? Seems like that would be distracting and frustrating and counterproductive. In fact, it seems like it was distracting and frustrating and counterproductive. And these guys just had to keep their shit together — or basically, fail to — for three and a half hours. I can’t imagine doing it for eight hours a stretch, five days a week. Or at all, really.
So I come back to my original thought: it’s good that I work in the area I do. I’m not cut out to mix feels with business. My hat’s off to the people who do — the teachers and EMTs and professional football players on teams other than Cincinnati. Me, all I’ve got to get emotional about at work are those pesky Excel glitches.
And that’s plenty enough. God, I hate them SO much.
Permalink | No CommentsHello, after a short holiday break. Holiday travel was… well, holiday travel. It doesn’t change much, and hasn’t, for the quarter-century I’ve been doing it. In other, perhaps less predictable news, though:
I had poop on my hand today.
At least, I hope that’s not predictable. Though there was a time when it was, more or less — and today’s incident was a close analog to those bygone, poophanded days.
Before I squick you out any further, I’ll say that the poop in question is not my own, nor anyone else’s. It belongs to a dog, which I happen to be dog-sitting for the next few days. And which is reminding me how unprepared I sometimes am for the poop that often squeezes out of them.
In the archives here, if you’re so inclined, you can find several — actually, quite a lot of — posts dealing with our dearly departed pooch Susie, and the many turding adventures she created over the years. I’ve waxed poop-etic on poop bags, having money literally go to shit, poop habits, dying hard, sacks of crap steeped like sun tea — and I penned perhaps my favorite post title ever in an homage to an underporch turd array.
I’ve had a lot of experience with dog shit, is what I’m saying. Nearly as much as with bullshit. So, like, oodles.
I am, however, two years removed from my hard-learned “best practices” for walking a dog and effectively (or no) corralling its turdage. This was made very clear to me a few hours after my friend brought over their dog, which I’m watching while they’re out of town. The dog is great. A little homesick, I think, but very sweet and waggy and so far, quite low-maintenance, too. But a dog is a dog, and a dog’s gotta walk, so after some acclimation and a couple of treats, we took off for an evening constitutional.
I wasn’t totally unprepared for this. Obviously, I know how to dog. I dogged for a decade; no non-dogger, I. On the way out the door, I grabbed a poop bag (important) and my keys (also mucho important), and eventually also managed to gather the leash, the dog and my shoes, and assemble them in a more or less appropriate order.
(I did forget the treats. This dog is a during-walk treater, whereas my dog was an after-walk treater. I’m working on that. We’ll get there, poochie.)
We made it down the block and a couple of pees, when the dog circled in that particular way they have that means “POOP ALERT! POOP ALERT! MAN THE TORPEDOES!“. And then she shat.
It was kind of a lot. I’ll spare you the details, but this dog is a few pounds bigger than was our pooch, and with the extra intestinal mass and the stress of a new environment, she pretty well let loose. It wasn’t “climb on top” elephant-turd size, perhaps. But it was impressive. Good girl.
I fished the bag out of my pocket and scooped everything I could.
(It’s snowy and cold out there, and also dark, so it’s possible a turdlet or two froze in place. I’m making a good-faith effort here. A good-poop-faith effort.)
That pretty much filled the bag. I had a little room to knot the top and close it up, but it was full. And tied. Luckily, that session pretty much emptied her out.
Except, of course — it hadn’t.
Six steps later, and she squatted again. Dogs sometimes do this, if they’re not sure they’re done — but they’re usually done. She wasn’t done. Another three turds came out — from somewhere; I’m thinking the pooch keeps spares in a gallbladder or something — and plopped, plip plip ploop, onto the ground.
Naturally, people were milling around close by. I’m not one to leave dog turds lying around anyway, but especially when the neighborhood is watching, there’s no room for walking away, even for a moment. My condo with the other bags was a full block away; I’d have been tarred, feathered, fined and shamed before I made it there and back to corral those tardy turds.
So I did the best I could. I used the bit of “open” bag above the knot to scoop the poop as best I could, and hustled the dog back up the block for backup. And for proper disposal. Also, before she shat again, because next I’d have to use a sock, and my toes were already getting tingly in the cold. I passed a few people with my stinky parcel, making no eye contact and stopping for nothing, no one and no more turds.
When we got back, I saw in the light of the entryway that my second scoopage was… not ideal. There was some poop in the bag top, yes. But also lots of other places I didn’t want it, and am shuddering about now remembering the sight. Three hours into meeting this dog, and I’m wrist-deep in her shit. Now I know how veterinarians feel, I guess.
Anyway, I rebagged the poop, cleaned up and washed my hands several dozen times. And on our next walk, I’m taking three bags. Or six. Or a box of Hefty stretchables. I won’t be poop-fooled again. At least, not this week.
But give it a couple of years. I’m sure it’ll happen again. You can’t fight poop forever.
Permalink | No Comments(‘Tis the season again — the season for Secondhand SCIENCE. Although that’s every season. Work with me here.
This week, the holiday cheer is all about the homeobox. Swish your tinsel over there and check it out.
Also! You can still vote for our Magicland webseries in The Online Film Festival. Huzzah!)
I think I finally have this internet Christmas shopping thing down. It’s only taken several decades — though in my defense, the internet wasn’t actually a thing for some of that time. And let’s face it, before Amazon Prime, what was even the point? Honestly.
Still, I’ve had my share of online-shopping failures. I’ve ordered the wrong thing, because I didn’t look closely enough. I’ve had other peoples’ presents delivered to my house, just in time for Christmas (but while I was away). And I once bought my wife a set of “sexy” panties online… that were four sizes larger than she wears.
That was not my best year. Though I have to admit, the control-top waistbands are mighty comfortable.
“Don’t buy anything you’d have to see in person first. Like underpants. Or jewelry. Adopted children, that sort of thing.”
The point is, I’ve learned some online Christmas shopping lessons over the years. Sweat the details. Don’t buy anything you’d have to see in person first. Like underpants. Or jewelry. Adopted children, that sort of thing. And when you can, always take the gift-wrapping option. Particularly if you’re as terrible at it as I am.
That leaves an entire almost-world of potential presents to make someone’s holiday merrier. And with fast-track shipping, there’s no pressure to start early. I remember the “bad old days” — like, before this year, when I hadn’t yet perfected my system. The Christmas system. The Chrystem. Back then, every trip I took, I’d bring back souvenirs for gifts. I’d buy presents months ahead of time — often when a loved one mentioned something they wanted, before I forgot. I picked things out in person, on trips dedicated to holiday shopping.
Sucker. I probably had a pterodactyl record player, too.
Well, no more. Now it’s all-online, never-panties, last-minute Christmas for me. Two-day shipping. Millions of items. Pictures of stuff, which is probably more or less good enough, right? It’s not like it’s an important holiday, like a birthday or St. Pat’s or International Hug A Poodle Day.
Anyway, what I’m saying is, I’ve finally got Christmas figured out. And if you’re likely to get a present from me, expect a box — containing another box, professionally gift-wrapped — to arrive in the mail, on or about Christmas Eve. Or certainly no later than the 26th. Unless it’s on back order.
Whatever it is I buy you, that is. I’ll figure that out next week sometime. It’s definitely not online Christmas shopping time yet.
Don’t worry. I’ve got it all figured out. Merry Chrystem-mas!
Permalink | No Comments(It’s time for Oorts and crafts! Only, that’s not a thing. But what is a thing is the Oort cloud, and that’s the subject of the latest science yakking over at Secondhand SCIENCE. Craft yourself a click and check it out.)
My wife volunteers for a local animal shelter. It’s actually the shelter where we adopted our dog fifteen years ago, and the same one (attached to a large veterinary hospital) where we had to put her to sleep the November before last. My wife goes every Saturday morning she’s able, and helps take care of the cats up for adoption.
Why the cats? I can’t imagine. Feline research is quite clear on the fact that cats’ chief purpose in life is to enslave all humans who can be bent to their will, and to eliminate the rest. Some cats are more overt about their intentions, of course. But it’s always there, that meow-derous glint in their eyes.
Anyway, I’m glad my wife volunteers there. Various staff members over the years were really great to our pooch, and I’m also a big fan of being kind to animals. Even the ones bent on world domination. Personally, though, I hadn’t been back to the shelter since our final trip with our dog two years ago.
I’ve had occasions to visit — mostly for fundraising events my wife gets involved with — but before this week, I hadn’t gone. Part of that was sentimental, what with the memories of worry and sicknesses and barfy trips in the car. But mostly, it’s because shelter events are just damned confusing.
That’s because there are people involved, and there are animals involved — but it’s often not so clear which is being served directly. Oh, the money or whatever always goes to the animals, clearly. But the events themselves are all over the map. Like bake sales. This shelter has bake sale fundraisers all the time. And I’ve never gone, because I can’t figure out:
Who’s being baked for here — the animals or the humans? If I buy a bag of snickerdoodles, are those people snickerdoodles, made from sugar and eggs and such? Or, like, poodle snickerdoodles, full of corn meal and horse meat and whatever makes dog breath smell like wet gorilla ass?
They’ve had races, too. Or “races”, like a 5K charity walk, I think. But it’s still not clear. Are people raising money, and then walking? Are we giving money, so the shelter dogs get a nice walk outside for once? Are we forcing the dogs in the hospital to limp around for spare change? Or if I go, do I have to hoof it all over? Which is the worst? Can we just write a check and put some cats on a treadmill? I could get behind that.
I finally attended an event this week with my wife, because the intent finally seemed clear. It was a wine tasting, which I took to mean a people wine tasting, since there’s no such thing as wine for dogs. And because cats would be snobby enough to only drink wine the shelter couldn’t afford. So it was clearly a people thing. Or so I thought.
And I guess I was right, mostly. The wine was for people only, which I think is good. Most mutts I know are loopy enough without getting a couple of glasses of chardonnay into them. But that doesn’t mean the whole experience was straightforward. Since we were a captive — and not entirely sober — audience, they also put out tables of stuff to buy, to generate more cash. Which was fine. But it wasn’t all so people-centric.
“But one kind had chocolate and other stuff bad for pets. And the other had catnip and, I don’t know, deworming medicine, probably. Or anise. Same difference.”
There were two tables of cookies, for instance. They all looked delicious. But one kind had chocolate and other stuff bad for pets. And the other had catnip and, I don’t know, deworming medicine, probably. Or anise. Same difference.
Most of the trinkets were similarly ambiguous. A few things had writing on them, like fridge magnets, so you figure those were for humans. I mean, I assume some dogs can read, and others probably own refrigerators, but I doubt the same animals do both. Where would they find the time, for one thing? The fridge owners would be too busy playing with the ice makers, and the readers would probably hang around libraries, waiting for the day-old books to be thrown out in the bin out back.
Otherwise, it was a crapshoot. Is this plushy knitted thing a dog toy? A kid’s toy? A novelty keychain? What is it? If I surprise my wife with a bracelet, will everyone wonder why I bought her a flea collar? And how the hell do I find matching earrings?
All in all, I’m glad I went. (Because wine. Duh.) But it proved my fears correct, and then some — when you party at the animal shelter, you’d better be extra careful about what you buy, try on or put in your mouth.
So basically, pretty much like every all-human party I’ve ever been to. Why do these things have to be so hard?
Permalink | No Comments(Ain’t but two things come outta Sundays: football and Secondhand SCIENCE. And this don’t look like no pigskin, son.
Actually, it does a little. Because this week’s science subject is the nude mouse, a genetic researcher’s teeniest, wrinkliest, baldest best friend. Give it a look.
Also! Don’t forget that our Magicland webseries is competing in The Online Film Festival this month. You can vote, if so moved, once a day every day in December. Check us out at #TOFF!)
I generally face my fears head-on.
(Well, sort of head-on. Sometimes, they have to take a number and wait in line until I can get to them. But I do. Head-on. Ish.)
That works for a bunch of fears. I was afraid of heights, so I went skydiving. Heights aren’t nearly so terrifying any more. Nervous about public speaking? Do a couple years of standup; that’ll take care of that (and break a bunch of other stuff, good lord). Scared of the dark? Bugs Bunny nightlight. Boom. Head-on.
But there’s one fear I’ve never been able to shake. Maybe it’s too big, or sunk too deep in the tar pits of my psyche. Maybe I can’t take it head-on because I don’t know where its head is, exactly. Or whether it has one. What is this bugaboo?:
Fear Of Being A Dick
In my book, this trumps pretty much all the other fears. You can have your fear of missing out, fear of flying, fear of spiders, fear of Tears for Fears — all of them. Those fears only kick in in certain situations. But FOBAD? It’s everywhere.
The problem is, I don’t really understand how the rules of society work on your planet. Which I guess is also my planet and society and rules, but it’s often hard to remember that, because I have no idea how normal people are supposed to behave. Every situation involving other people is positively fraught with complication. Like a “simple” bus ride:
“What about this old lady I’m sitting on? Was that wrong?”
Am I standing in someone’s way? Should I be sitting down? If an old lady enters, should I get up? If a not-old lady comes and I get up, will she think I’m calling her old? What about this old lady I’m sitting on? Was that wrong?
That’s FOBAD. Anything I do — or don’t do, or already did — could be the wrong thing, at the wrong time, and at the wrong person. The possibilities, and thus the opportunity to be dead seriously dickishly wrong, are endless. I wind up holding doors for people thirty yards behind me. Talking about myself at parties might be selfish; asking about other people could be creepy. I haven’t taken the last piece of food in over thirty years.
(That’s not technically true. I have taken the last piece of food before. But only if there are multiple pieces left, and after a lengthy negotiation with other people about who should take what, to make sure everyone is equitably served. Negotiating the Treaty of Versailles took less effort than finishing some of the pizzas I’ve been involved in eating.)
Any siutation can suck you in, and put the pressure on you to not be a dick. Like as a guest at a friend’s family’s dinner party, when somebody’s grandma gives you a big grin and picks her nose.
How do you respond appropriately to that? If there’s an etiquette handbook covering barely-acquanted octogenarians digging for gold over tapas, I haven’t read it. I would remember that, I’m certain. In its absence, I’m left to the options I can think of, all of them terrible:
Do I swallow my horror and smile back? Offer her my napkin — which I do not want back, under any circumstances? Pick my own nose in solidarity? Pick her nose, since she still has a nostril free?
I don’t have good answers to these questions — or to many others. With FOBAD, there are no good answers. Just a long string of fears, errors, personal failings and a certain quote from Gary Oldman’s character in The Professional coming to mind:
“What… filthy piece of shit did I do now?”
That’s fear of being a dick, kids. Fear it.
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