I'm suffering a bit of blogslugosity this week, which is compounded by my attempts to catch up at work after my time off with my dad. The Dad update is good. Dad moved from the hospital to a rehab nursing care place, where he should stay for a couple of weeks. I say "should" because I have a feeling he'll be trying to escape soon. He really wants to be home, and as soon as his falling risk is lower, I think my mom will feel better about him being there.
In other news, the White Death is upon us again, and my boss, lovely woman, gave me a very loose homework assignment and told me not to come in. So much for getting caught up! Since my cultured cells will survive nicely without me for a couple of days, I didn't fight her about that. We've been fighting my non-scientific approach to science lately, and I'm having to make some adjustments to my recored keeping. Like writing down the stuff I do, so that if I get different results from two separate experiments we can figure out why. Whatever.
Seriously...I have a hard time with details. I think I am doing things exactly the same, but then I change one little thing and forget to write it down, and two days later, when I realize my experiment didn't work, I can't remember what it was I did. So I am getting much better at writing things down, except it's usually on a paper towel that I grab because my notebook is in another room, and then I accidentally use the paper towel to wipe up toxic waste, and I am again in the dark about what I did.
I totally do the same thing with my fiction attempts. I think of something brilliant, I write it down on a reciept, and tuck it into my purse Three months later I clean out my purse because it's so heavy that can't add even a bottle of ibuprofen to ward off the back ache that my ten ton purse causes. I pull out a reciept, wonder why I save a reciept for five cheese coneys and a diet coke, throw it out, and my brilliant idea is lost.
I do have a couple of little notebooks that I keep tucked into the external uterus that is commonly referred to as a handbag. (Side bar: I call it the external uterus because the males of the species, especially husbands, are always asking us to carry stuff for them. Like wallets, car keys, and babies). Unfortunately, the little notebooks seem to be hiding when the brilliant thought strikes, and all I can find as I grope, one-handed because I am driving, is a reciept.
I thought maybe I would be a better writer than a scientist, but if I have to keep track of stuff, I might as well bag it all and apply to be a professional talk-show audience member.