I, as do most people, enjoy all things warm and fuzzy. I will now take that to a rather literal level.

Warm and fuzzy feelings? Sure. Bunnies? Definitely. Cashmere blankets on clearance? sign me up. This is certainly worth an allocation of my research stipend. Hopefully, at this time next week, I will be swaddled in warm and fuzzies. Literally.

In her unending effort to make me eat less takeout, my mom got me the above Easter present. It is blue, it is heavy, and it is a welcome addition to the Le Creuset family. If all else fails, I can use it to fend off intruders (although, why someone would break in to graduate student housing, I do not know).

Recipe ideas for its devirginification? Is that a word?

I will generally keep this blog to all things light and fluffy, but today I digress.

For the past couple of weeks I've felt like I have been hitting a wall - handling my family, my sick grandpa, being a freaking PhD student, and getting sick. Quite possibly, my biggest pet peeve of recent months is when you try to find an open ear, someone to vent about your mice not having arrived or being turned down for a fellowship, or having to be on your feet all day running wet lab and still do grading, is when that supposed ear begins to complain. I do my best to smash down that self-centered side of me that we all know we have, but when I smell like mouse after doing harvesting for ten hours, am afraid I am being scooped* and have to schedule a haircut two months out, I very well may snap when someone returns with, "yeah, I know, life is so hectic. I got stuck in traffic today on the way to Trader Joe's," "seriously, I have to respond to three emails," or whathaveyou.

I hate complaining, because I love what I do, and I do it because I want to do what I love when I finish, and the pharmacology boy and the little gray cat buy a house in San Diego (or San Francisco) and can be not-Ramen-eating preppy science family with lots of Le Creuset cookware (thanks, Mom). And sometimes I need to vent about what it is that I do, and when people retort that their problem is that their boss brought in blueberry bagels instead of sesame, it makes me rather stabby.

That is all.

* For those who are not scientists: being scooped is commonly known as the the moment you read a paper, or hear a talk, and realize that someone (from another university, usually) has found the answer to your research before you. It can take many forms, from them just finishing first, to plain, straight-out data stealing. And I am beginning to feel it creeping up on me, and pushing its evil hands around neck.

The past few weeks have been filled with science and the desert. Now, it's not that I'm against nature, or physical activity, or both for that matter (this is a girl who has, for many years, considered doing the Alcatraz swim with her father), but hiking for two hours across rocks to go see "wildflowers" (sad little daisies) is highly, highly overrated. I present you with my disdain (standing on a rock and being very, very disappointed)



So, there were a couple of pretty things within the 3 day stretch of awfulness known as the department retreat, that being these:



A two hour hike for 5 flowers? I don't think so. I love science, and I adore its exquisite manifestations, but the desert is not one of them. The Anza Borrega is highly overrated. But you know what's highly underrated? Alaska. For some reason this retreat made me want to go back.

*squeals* Even though I do this several times a year (and just end up with a closet full of expensive clothes I don't wear), this is on its way from the warehouse of JCrew goodies to my house. I am hoping that a) it fits and that b) it does not do horrible things to my shortwaistedness and c) is flexible enough to wear with jeans or a fab pencil skirt. I came to the realization that my idea, in the past few months, of "grabbing a jacket" to duck out to a bar involved a velour hoodie, so I'm trying my hand at being girly.

Pictures to come of last night's chile verde, and possibly an update on my phone (the boy agreed to wash the dishes to thank me for the spicy pork goodness, and the kitten jumped up on the counter to watch, and in the process knocked my cell phone into the dish water. I let it air dry (and blasted it with the ConAir), and it may or may not come back to life . . .