Why can't I be a P.I.?

Dear boss,
The paper came out on Friday. The 'in this issue' feature turned out quite well. Not bad for a paper that was supposed to get rejected, huh? I don't suppose you got any reprints? They sure are nice to keep as a record of one's work, and I would love to have a copy!

Dr. E-
Yes it is surprising but in fact this has happened before. The field is 'sexy' and related to women's health issues and if you can believe it, I put it on the map. But I am not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. I have not received the reprints but I have attached the pdf of the final version. If I receive hard copies (I am not sure these are still generated), I will send you most of them as they are rarely used these days. Hope all is well.

(One Nature paper and one in Development must mean, putting it on the map?) I guess I was never narcissistic enough to be a P.I. (have my own lab).

Proof that even the proofs are painful

Dr. E:
Please have a look at proofs asap. I just got them as I was away at a meeting. Can you turn this around in a day? (He's waited 2 days to send them to me, they are already past the deadline)

Postdoc:
Yes, I don't know if it will be by the end of business US time, but I'll get it done today.
I should send them a message saying that I'll get it to them before start of business tomorrow morning.

Postdoc upon 5 minutes of further reflection feels like a lackey to a boss she is no longer paid by:
I don't have a copy of the paper here. Nor do I have the final version of the paper that you edited (which was around 700 words, was it not?). I think that you are going to need to take a look at this too. Do you think that will be possible?

Dr. E:
I already contacted them (editors)

--

No further response yet received from across the pond. I assume he just expects me to take care of it for him. Is he being lazy, careless, or just plain inconsiderate? I'll leave that for you to decide.

My paper is highlighted in the 'Annotated Table of Contents' section. Hmm, must not have been written too badly, after all.

Dear Dr. Evil,

Please allow me to introduce myself - I am the Associate Reviews Editor of the journal X (that my boss was sure my paper had NO chance of getting accepted to), who prepares the In this Issue page of the journal. This page features 5 or 6 papers from each issue, and its aim is to highlight and unpackage the findings of each selected paper to make them accessible to our readers from across the different disciplines of the blah blah biology community. The In this Issue page is also sent out to other journals and press organizations to alert them to our upcoming content.

My reason for writing is that your recently accepted paper has just been selected to feature on the In this Issue page of Issue XYZ. As such, I wonder if you could read the attached Word document of the piece I have written on your paper and let me know by return if it is scientifically accurate, and if it gets across the essence and key findings of your paper.

Please note that it will only be possible to make small and essential changes to the text as these pieces are written to a strict format and word count. I also need your feedback as quickly as possible as this issue is about to go to press (within the next 24 hours would be great).

With thanks and best wishes,
Associate Editor Urkel

The final chapter?

I made it. I found a life after the postdoc. And a fan-f*cking-tastic job at that--working for one of the top 3 science publishers. What did Dr. Evil (my boss) say? Nothing, other than "I thought you were leaving in mid-March, not in January". I'd only told him a year in advance that I wouldn't be renewing my contract ending on Jan 31st.
Thanks for the congratulations, boss.

Though I had finished writing my paper at the end of October, just before the favorite postdoc finished hers--Dr. E refused to submit the paper without what he called "critical experiments". I had already told him that I'd had a job offer at this point, so I'd imagined that he'd have a positive attitude about getting some reviewer's comments while I finished up those critical experiments. I was wrong. Instead, I was summoned into his office for that oh-so-famous, "I don't know why you can't write" talk. Right. It must be me. It can't possibly be related to the fact that you're pissed at me for "leaving you" (the lab, whatever it's the same in his mind). Or that you had to finish writing the favorite postdoc's paper because she gave birth about 3 months sooner than expected, and you're just plain exhausted.

So I get told to re-write it.

I change the abstract and about 5 sentences within the main body of the text.

Twelve revisions later--not including the versions 1.2, 2.2, 3.2 (you get the idea), he submits my paper just before Christmas. Two full months after I'd written it the first time.

I leave the lab January 27th. I'm in Egypt when I get a text message from a labmate that my paper has been accepted with practically no revisions. I'm in shock, since Dr. E was convinced that my paper would have a difficult time getting accepted at the revered Journal where we had submitted. I wait for a confirmatory email from Dr. E himself before celebrating.

His comments on Jan 30th:
Your paper for Prestigious Journal X was accepted almost with no revisions...pretty amazing. This has happened but 3 times in 100 papers so congratulations. Maybe we should have shot even higher??? Alas, I will send you the comments. I think I can handle all but one which is to provide a better photo of one of the figure panels.
If you check your mail while away, then have a drink to the paper.

~~~~~
See reviewer's comments below:
The overall evaluation is positive and we would like to publish a revised manuscript in "Famous Journal X", provided that the referees' comments can be satisfactorily addressed.

Please attend to all of the reviewers' comments, and do ensure that your manuscript falls within the journal's limit of 7000 words (3000 for Research Reports). The word count does not include the reference list but does include figure legends.
___

Pretty easy--I foolishly think to myself. Though he manages not to be able to handle the reviewer's comments after all, and waits until I've started my job in mid-march to ask me to address some things he should already know how to fix, if he'd actually read the paper, or paid any attention to my result. Recall that I'd only give 2 lab meetings during 3 years in Paris, so it' not so surprising that he has no real idea what my project is about. So I answer him point by point, and all by memory, since the paper is on my other computer at home. I also tell him that though he's insisting I send him a new figure legend-- he doesn't actually need one because I have not actually changed the figure, just made small changes in contrast and brightness. Why hadn't he compared the old and new figures to see if I'd actually addressed the reviewer's comments? I'll leave you to answer that for yourself.

He email me to say it's done. He's submitted the paper. I am content that I will soon have no reason to see emails from him in my inbox.

Two days later I get an automatic email from famed journal X. The paper is 700 words over the 7000 word limit. Oh my god. He was too lazy to a) read the editor's letter, b) click 2 things in MS word to obtain a word count, or c) he's got Alzheimer's. I figure if he needs me, he'll email me, since I got an automatic absence response when I tried to contact him.

One week later Dr. E. tells me that the paper has been accepted. He doesn't realize that I know he's been asked to reduce the word count, by a whopping 10%, btw. I offer to help him edit it, because I'm so panicked I don't even read his email. He says, "to work on what? It is done..." like he hadn't edited my first-author paper without asking me to review his changes.

He continues, "The editor had contacted me outside of this last week to let me know the intro was highly repetitive and to get rid of the conversational style (I thought I had done so but she was right). Anyhow, it is all fixed and you will see the proofs of course". What an asshole. Note how he manages to insult me in his response. He edited 10% of the paper and didn't even run it by me. But I let it go because I though, it's the end. Ha ha. Right.

30 minutes later I get a message saying that the resolution of the figures is too low. You have got to be KIDDING me. I'm sorry, is this the first paper he's submitted? Of course you have to send hi-res images for the final draft. And he can't find them. He's lost the figures, and I'm now 3000 miles away. He resolves the issue by giving me his login to the journal and I upload them myself. No thank you. Somehow, I'm not surprised.

Is it over yet? Perhaps not, I still haven't seen the proofs.

An ant sailing towards that distant horizon

I walk out of his office. I am an ant, no--smaller than that--a flea, a tiny thing that no one would notice they’d squished inadvertently.

It starts. He interrupts the lunch I’m eating in front of my computer screen. “Flea (I’m not using my real name here, of course), I need to talk to you,” he says in a fear-inspiring voice that only be mimicked by a man who has scolded his own children after breaking mom’s crystal vase.
I gave him my draft of the paper we’re going to submit. Though that was a week ago, so perhaps this means that he’s finally read the thing. I am #4 in the line for papers being published. I guess he’s pretty tired of editing at this point.
I sit down in his office, trying to stop my heart from exploding out of my chest and my hands from trembling. It can’t be that bad, I think.
“I just don’t understand why it is that you can’t write?”
Me: “Excuse me?”
“I expect this from others who I’ve written papers with whose second language is English, but I expect better from you”.
I retreat into my safety zone in my head. I have had 4 job offers that involve scientific writing, and published an article online last year. It’s ok, I say to myself—you know better than that. Just ignore him.
“What is the problem? You’re always rolling your eyes at me! What have I done to offend you?” He takes off his glasses.
I stop the mental image of me smashing his head into the computer screen. I look at him. Perhaps he’s serious. Maybe he’s ready to listen, I’ve only been telling him for a year now, but yes—this could be the moment.
Me: “Well, I’ve been miserable for over a year now, and you only pay attention to 2 postdoc in the lab, and I’m working all alone on this project.” (Not to mention that I’ve only presented my data 3 times after 3 years of working here)
“Why do you say that I only pay attention to 2 postdocs?”
This favoritism is so obvious, in fact, that I openly joke about it with everyone in the lab, including THE Favorite. I’m not the only one who jokes about it, either.
I tell him why, and then he goes on the attack. First with the excuses. Then it gets personal.

“You know, I’ve done everything for you…. blah blah. And it’s not true that I play favorites… blah blah. That super famous researcher that you wanted to meet with—she’s a shark. And well, she only had time to speak with me and (“Favorite #2”). I already apologized for that.
An aside-- I spoke with Super famous researcher twice, after 2 different seminars she gave in Paris, and she was very interested in speaking with me. The last time we spoke, she offered me the mutant mice that they’ve bred onto a special GFP background for watching movement of stuff in real-time. The lab is already collaborating with her, through Favorite #2, so I don’t know what her being a shark has to do with the argument, except that I guess I’m supposed to be grateful to him for protecting me from her.

I can’t argue with him any more, I won’t win. I can’t win. I never win. Why does it even matter? I’m going to a new job and I don’t have to deal with this any more. I relax, my face muscles go loose and I assume the role of the passive employee.

He waxes prosaic. “You know, when I started in science -“Dr. A.” (a famous researcher back in NY) asked me if they still required students to take English class at Berkley, because my grant proposals were so badly written. And Dr. A helped me out…. I really have tried to find other people to work on this project, you believe me don’t you? I have suffered too, there have been a lot more adjustments and problems and difficulties setting up this department than I anticipated…. I need you to realize that I am working for you too. I support you. We can’t work together like this.”

At this point, my conditioning kicks in (it’s been about a year to a year and a half that I’ve experienced these recurrent episodes in his office) and I say something like, “Well, I’m here in your office trying to write this paper with you aren’t I? After 4 years this story (my research project) deserves to be told.”
He interrupts—“and it WILL be told. Don’t forget that there are other people out there who are following this story. THEY want to know what happens. Even if I were to be hit by a bus tomorrow, the story would continue. It’s bigger than me, even.

You know what you can do? You can read the sentences out aloud to see if they sound good….”

I go back to my happy place, but it’s on a sailboat now, sheets of paper with my figure legends on them are floating by, edited in bold red pen strokes, but I don’t stop to pick them up. I keep on sailing into the sunset.

I work where they used to cut open the bodies.

Really.

I discovered something enlightening while sharing a beer with labmates the other day. Ever since joining this outfit we call an Open-Plan Collaborative Lab, I've wondered why the sinks look like trough urinals one would find at Red Sox stadium, rather than, well- sinks.

I have to give you some back story first. If you've been keeping up-to-date, you'll recall that I was supposed to arrive in a totally renovated state-of-the-art lab space. I actually arrived to find half the lab in a semi-demolished state, lacking even a sub-floor, let alone electrical wiring or anything that resembled a lab. The entire workgroup worked in the remaining space that was transported from 1980's Soviet Russia and plunked down in the middle of Paris. This is what science is like in France, I thought? Exposed pipes, glass-topped benches, old-style metal centrifuges that made a god-awful noise--this was a far cry from the modern conveniences described by my boss before I decided to move to another continent in the pursuit of science (and adventure, I'll admit).

Well, I'm leaving the lab and the construction is still unfinished. Sure, we moved into the newly-renovated main space, but it took another 6 months for them to install the shelving and drawers we needed. I still wear a hat and gloves at my desk when the weather turns cool, since there's a huge hole all around the window where it joins the wall. I mean, the lab itself is pretty gorgeous but as soon as you step in the hallway and see the filth and smell the urine and stench of homeless people that take shelter in the building, you realize that working in Harlem in New York City wasn't too bad in comparison.

The bathrooms are the best part, if you've got a twisted sense of humor like yours truly. One john functions as as darkroom for developing westerns. Convenient if you have to take a piss while exposing yourself, er- I mean your film. The other bathroom is mixed, but picture a truck stop off I-75 with hospital-style tiling, rather than the posh mixed toilets replete with dancing co-workers made infamous in Ally McBeal. And funny enough, the sinks are actually big enough to wash a body in, which is what they used to be used for. I learned while drinking that beer that our floor used to be Anatomy and Autopsy for the biggest hospital in Paris. I now chuckle each time I wash my hands in the stadium sized trough sinks, happy in the knowledge that my days in this place are numbered.

Top 10 signs- that you are an Invisible Postdoc

The lab potted plants get more attention than you do from your boss. You've even tried to schedule weekly meetings with her/him--to no avail.

That one technician/student/postoc who looks at the boss with starcrossed eyes is on every paper that's come out of the lab since they've joined, and she/he doesn't even know how to refill the carboy of milli-Q water.

You're boss starts saying things like, "Why can't you be more like Isabella (the perfect postdoc)? She does these experiments without trouble and always has good results".

Someone in the lab (could it be the Favorite?) has been to every conference on the continent, while others with greater seniority have not been to a single one.

There are no labmeetings unless The Favorite is present.

You've created an excel spreadsheet calculating the costs of having "I'm the favorite Postdoc" T-shirts printed and distributing them to each lab member.

Your blogspot entries read like Acts from a Shakespearean tragedy

You've photoshopped your boss's head onto that of Dr. Evil (and briefly considered printing T-shirts).

You start collecting stories of Scientists Behaving Badly and spend more time looking for another job than you do reading scientific papers.

Your boss begins to look at you like you've been caught with your hand in the cookie jar, and you feel guilty somehow though you're not sure why.

The State of the Art Laboratory

So as it stands at the moment, as of today November 10th the year 2006 A.D., about 6 months after we have occupied the Brand New State of the Art Laboratory, we are still working in a space that more closely resembles M*A*S*H*4077 rather than a functional laboratory.

After spending my morning waiting for the electrician who was an hour late, then waiting for another 2 hours while he replaced a light switch, only to discover that he had forgotten to purchase the actual switch unit and intended to have me wait another hour and half, I finally decided to hell with it and left him my keys so I could go to work. I had nothing to eat at my apartment, so I walk expectantly into the kitchen/lunchroom at work to get my food out of the fridge and discover there is no fridge. In fact the only things remaining in the room are dust bunnies on the floor. I shrug, rather nonplussed to discover yet another major upheaval in the daily routine and walk back into the lab to announce, "Where's the kitchen?" The brand new kitchen has lovely blue flooring and clean white-washed walls, but oddly enough someone has forgotten to tell them to put a sink in. That's right, there’s a microwave, coffeemaker, water-boiling appliance, toaster oven and even a little hotplate to fry up some goodies if you’re so inspired but I can merely guess for what reasons the kitchen sink was not installed. I imagine that the wrong sink was initially installed and rather than finding a substitute fixture, we were left completely sans sink. Instead, we are using the sink inside the women's room that functions at the John for the entire floor including wandering students from the floors above and below. While washing my coffee cup I now have the pleasure of enjoying a gastrointestinal musical concerto free of charge. I did move to France in part for the cultural experiences, right? It’s got a lovely ambiance too with the brown crud floating in the soap dispenser which hangs on by a tenuous attachment on only one side of the apparatus, without paper towels or a functional hand-dryer (forcing me to use my hair as a towel).

On the way to the new kitchen in the afternoon, I decide to exit the far door of the lab in order to avoid the dark area in the hall where I nearly ran into someone earlier and was put into a state of utter hilarity by pushing two light switches. After pushing the first button about ten times, I begin to giggle uncontrollably at because it regulates the lights about 50 feet away. The riotous eruption of breathless giggles give way to howling fits of hiccup-laced laughter as I push the adjacent button that's actually on a piece of wall that's detached (is still a wall if it's detached? Nevermind) that has a functional button (amazingly enough) to illuminate the lights at the complete opposite end of the hall while the region above my head remains dark. I finally started howling when I look up and realize there are no light bulbs above my head. Seriously, if it didn't occur to any of our electricians that we required lights in the middle of the hallway, what does that say about the state of the electrical engineering for the entire laboratory? Great green googlies, are we in for some grandiose surprises in the lab, I think!

As I attempt to exit via the door on the far end, I discover that it is locked and my key won't open it. Well, that's supremely useful. I wonder how long that will take to fix, considering there are so many other things that are "more of a priority" according to my boss. Like having a "functional tissue culture". I heartily agree that updating our tissue culture facilities is of the utmost importance, but as I regularly check the progress in that room and I have yet to see the installation of any sinks, benchtops, or even any duct work: obviously an integral part of any system which uses suction and air circulation; I'm quite certain that someone could find the time to work on one of any great number of things that are still lacking in our workspace. For instance, the heating could work. Or the large trenches under the windows that routinely let in gusts of cold air when the wind blows outside could be filled in with some insulating material as it's currently mid-November and Parisiens are happily bundled in french-style scarves, hats and gloves. Or someone might install the drawers that I need to hold the zillions of tubes and bits of this and that which are necessary for the many different kinds of experiments that I do (or rather, would do more efficiently if I could FIND the god-dammned stuff that I need); some shelving would be useful to keep stock solutions on too. We have a technician who can make solutions for us, but no common stock area at the moment, as there's literally nowhere to put the bottles of 4 Molar NaCl. There's no common refrigerator either, so if you need a kit you'd better know who's doing what in the lab so you can ask them if they have it. Or just order one of everything you need yourself, and hope that it all will fit in your tiny dorm-sized fridge.

For several months there was a giant wooden clip holding the ice machine door closed that I would eye like Jimmy Stewart eyes that balustrade ornament in "It's a Wonderful Life". Remember the wooden ball that comes off in his hand every single night when he goes upstairs? At one point in the film, it comes off in his hand yet again for the upteenth million time and he eyes it with pure hatred, threatening to throw it across the room. I can tell you I've come mighty close to throwing that wooden clip and seeing how far it can fly across the Mighty State of the Art Laboratory.

I feel a bit like Tom Hanks in "The Money Pit" from time to time too. Especially at times like this morning as I look at the secretary with a dead-pan blank stare when she tells me that none of the shared printers work and I’m in that scene where I open the medicine cabinet to ask the workmen to hand me my birth control pills. I feel a small measure of satisfaction when I find a shared printer which I can reinstall without searching for a driver or an IP address, but then I grin widely as the other co-director realizes that the computer techs who are arriving today to re-establish printer connectivity will have a tough job ahead of them since the IP ports for the printers are not active. I walk triumphantly into the lab with the receipt for my e-ticket to England for the weekend, blissfully content to be leaving all of this behind me, at least for a few days.

They finally turned the heat on today, but it's not able to out compete the cold air coming through the shoddily installed windows. One day they’ll fix the holes under the windows and I’ll play Tom again when they install the stairway and he just giggles gleefully, racing up and down the stairs about thirty times. Neigh on fifty times in the film Tom asks, “How long until he work is finished”? “Two weeks. We should have it all done in two weeks.”

More tales of science in a strange land

Another daily accounting of why perhaps it's really best not to even consider doing ANY science in France, unless you have a totally capable bi-lingual secretary with the patience of Mother Theresa.

I need a price for 2 items from Roche. We can't just plug in our customer # on the Internet to obtain the price for our institution, because our funding source, Inserm, is afraid that we would leap to internet ordering which is strictly forbidden. They can't keep track of how much money we spend on what by using their infuriating "Product Categorization" system. This system by the way, requires a special ordering form and an addendum of an "Inserm category number" to each product that is ordered. I have to look up what this friggin number is every time I place an order. So I decide to speak in English when I call to get the prices. Why waste my brainpower speaking French, it's an international company, right? It should be no problem.

"Bonjour, Hello. I need to get the price for 2 items, please".
The operator transfers me without so much as a "Merci". The next person asks me where I am from, and transfers me to the Paris representative. I think I get transferred again at this point and the next person who answers has absolutely no clue why I am looking for prices, she's in the marketing department. My thoughts are that they kept transferring 'cuz they didn't want to speak English. I hang up.

I call back. "Bonjour, j'ai besoin de les prix pour deux produits, SVP." She asks for the product. "DIG washing and blocking set", I say, in English. I am NOT saying "wash-eeng ee bloc-ayh" with a French accent, I sound stupid. She says in French that she doesn't understand. I ask her if I can give her the product number (in french this time). "Oui". Ok, we have an accord.
I recite the number American-style, one number at a time, rather than saying the french four twenties plus nineteen (which equals 99 by the way) because I make my own head hurt for a 12-digit number like that. She zings off the price at a lighting pace, and the gals behind me are yakking in French and I can't understand a bloody thing. I ask her to please repeat it slowly for me, which she does, but rather than saying 179 Euros and 79 cents, she says "comma" in french and I don't know that word so I am yet again confused and have to ask her to repeat it for me one more time. Incredible.
And I should add that she couldn't find the second thing because the website had an old catalog # listed, so this was yet another 5 minutes while I searched around the website with her still on the line. There was no way I was going to call back and go through the whole painful process yet again. Evidently that would have been just too much for her to figure out the new # for me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Today I am in the animal room doing my thing- trying to get out of the tiny, windowless, smelly room as quickly as humanly possible and I hear a huge bang, what sounds like a cannon being shot off inside of the fucking building. Good god! Either we're being bombed or one of the construction workers has just lit a cigarette and ignited some flammable material in the lab and everyone is engulfed in flame. Sweet Jesus have mercy!
I peek out the window in the adjoining room and see that it's become foggy outside. Wait! That's smoke, and the streets are filled with.... firefighters? Zillions of them. All in uniform, and quite pissed-off I might add, with some of them carrying flares, all of them shouting completely unintelligible angry-firfefighterman-french things. I make my way upstairs and the building is now reverberating with the explosions like we're being shelled. How the fuck am I supposed to dissect organs from this 4 day old mouse with this nonsense? As everyone in the lab is acting like it's a fucking circus coming down the street, replete with pink elephants and ponies on tricycles, I decide to take a peek out the window even though I am beginning to spew smoke from my ears and shouting things like, "How is anyone supposed to work with all of this god-damned noise?". I see that across the street the fire hydrant is gushing water all over the street and the pavement in front of the hospital is like a scene out of "Blackhawk down"- a roiling mass of very imposing-looking dudes who are now increasingly turning towards the hospital to shout towards the building at people gawking out the windows, I suppose. BOOM! I never did see what the hell they were using to make all of that noise, but how is that a part of PeACeFulL demonstration, pray tell?

I rub my temples, wishing desperately for at least the tenth time in 2 weeks that there were enough room in the tiny dorm-sized fridge for a six pack, or better yet a flask of 140-proof whiskey to hide itself. I decide to update my website while all of this is going on, as it's clear I won't be able to actually work. I would have gone to the library or another lab, but the only functional area is on the side of the building facing the brouhaha. A few minutes elapse and out of my peripheral vision I notice a strange face peering at me from the other side of the cubicle/shelf above my desk. What the hell? I get up and see a fireman in full regalia (ok minus the hat) hanging out the window. What is he doing? Taking pictures with his digital camera. Yep. A circus all right. Then the lab is flooded by at least a dozen fireman proceeding towards the widows to get a birds-eye view of the scene of mayhem below and appreciate their handiwork fully. By this point I am out of my chair and possessively tromping round the lab, they outnumber us scientists in the lab, and some of them are really quite large men. I am pretty certain that I have a mix of surprise, shock, incredulity, and a good portion of amusement written on my face at this point, and my jaw is gaping open quite noticeably. I am now saying things (in English of course, I default back to the mother tongue in emotional moments) like "Does anyone find this to be NORMAL behavior?", to no one in particular, but secretly hoping that some fireman will get the hint and get the hell out of MY lab!

After about 90 seconds of us staring at them and them hanging out the windows and shouting and waving like Charles Lindbergh were passing in the street below and this was merely a ticker-tape parade; they began to file out. I am more amused than shocked now, because, I mean, come ON- I get to write about this in my blog-man! I am mocked by a fireman who mimics my face as he smilingly parades out of the lab, and I realize that none of my friends in the States will believe what it's like to do science in France because the lab doesn't yet have a digital camera for me to document these moments; the moments of our lives.

Ghetto Science

Reasons you know you are doing ghetto science (better not count, it's downright depressing)

(Background: I am happily doing science in New York, making about as much $ as the guy that sells me my bagel with cream cheese in the morning, and the boss decides to move the lab to Paris, France. Well, at least I speak some French, so that will help. The following is a description of some of the perils of doing science in a land that's not exactly known for its effeciency.)

1. We's so poor, we can't even afford no weigh boats. We use paper that's only been printed one side.

2. It takes 6 months to gear up to do in situs.
First: locate glass coplin jars. The Trick- they are in our boxes from the NY move where the guys basically wrote "plastic ware" or "glassware" on the boxes, which comprises about 95% of the shit in the boxes. Not especially descriptive if you desperately need to find something.

Step 2: order all of the chemicals and translate the USA catalog #s to something that is actually sold in France. I thought I had everything, then read through the protocol and gathered everything up. Wrong.

Turns out that SIGMA FRANCE had something on backorder for 2 months and they were NEVER going to call me. Sweet. So I give them a ring (and make them speak English- how cruel).

They need me to fill out a form to promise that I'm not using said chemical product to produce illicit drugs. They said they faxed it to me 2 months previously.

"Really? I never got that fax. Were you going to call and ask me to send it?"
Sigma- "No, we don't do that".
That's customer service right there friends.

Oh, and I have to call 3 times over the course of one afternoon and the next morning in order to inpspire someone enough to take the effort to fax the damn form to me. BTW it's all in French. I fill it out in English. Ha- take that!

Hmm, perhaps I should do some research on the internet to find out what the heck this chemical can be used for, I could use some supplimental income.

I call on Monday to find out the progress of fax reception and if the product has indeed been shipped. The switchboard operator informs me that they are having a meeting and can not answer my question. "I'm sorry, EVERYONE is in a meeting?". "Yes, can you please call back at 2pm?". Good god, what a way to run a railroad!

3. The dingo ate your baby. (yes, this IS a Seinfeld ref.)
My mice are so unhappy living in an animal house where drills and jackhammers continually disturb their sleep and odd smelling-vapors permeate their room on a continual basis, that they keep eating their pups. Joy. How can a girl collect tissues if she ain't got no mice?

4. How can a girl do mouse experiments if her mice won't mate? (see above)

5. I've been waiting for 3 months for hanging folders. I keep asking our secretary to order them, but she doesn't like doing "administrative stuff". I give up. I'll just keep piling shit up on my bench until some caustic chemical spills on it and I have to throw out the whole mess. That would simplify organization, for sure.

6. The bartender across the street is starting to understand my English accent when I speak french. I am wearing my own butt-print into one of the stools due to my frequent visits and have memorized the happy-hour prices of all of the pints they serve.

7. I have been considering self-medicating before coming to work to be able to have patience to fill out forms for shipping mice to France from the USA. It took a full work week, me being transferred a dozen times within our funding agency to find a warm body that would pick up the phone in August, and recieving phone calls on my personal cell while on vaca in Italy of all places (which cost to the tune of two Euros plus per minute) to get 2 shipments of the cleanest mice possible delivered to our hospital in Paris.

Let's hope they are happy over there in the new building!

8. Everyone uses the building as if it's their own personal ashtray. They smoke in the hallways, in the offices... don't mind the fact that they are painting the building and using hazardous chemicals all over the place, we do science here on occasion, you know. So though I am a doctor who doesn't smoke, I am likely to get lung cancer anyhow. Nice.

9. We have to steal needles from the hospital using someone's mom who is a nurse in Spain. It's too complicated to purchase them using French sources, we must order them by the gross, I think. Instead, I went to the local pharmacy to special order some. Why needles with surgical thread are available from the corner drug store- I don't know. I would feel much safer having a French medical professional sew me up, frankly, but hey- perhaps that's not the rationale here?

10. The hood doesn't work in the lab. We've been here for 4 months now. Wonder how much longer it will take. A trip upstairs to a room with a functional hood requires a cart-full of shit: pen, eppie tubes, pipetteman, tips, samples, and keys to unlock the door. Not to mention that you must dodge from 0 to 5 workman who may or may not have ladders or other crap blocking the way to the door. (Depends on if they feel like working today or not; it's a roll of the dice).

11. The ice machine is closed with a giant wooden clip, think of the world's biggest clothespin. No joke.

12. I've already mentioned there's no air conditioning right? Yeah, so when you wanna open the window, you've gotta use this lead block that weighs like 20 pounds to keeep a stiff breeze from rendering me unconcious when the window smacks me in the side of the head. So one night, I decide it's probably fine if i just leave the window open a crack, I mean, it was 37 degrees INSIDE the lab earlier that week. During the night the lead weight falls off of the window sill and the pointy part severs my computer cord in two. You know, the one that has the transformer in it? Thanks please pay 90 euros because the folks that remodeled your work space couldn't get the windows right. I clearly don't get paid enough.

13. One more reason I don't get paid enough. Ever heard of a mouse facility in the States where you've gotta change your own cages when THE animal caretaker leaves on vacation? Me neither.

14. We have entered month #5 of occupation of the all new state-of-the-art Lab Space, which still has a non-functional hood and ventilation system. But we still often work under the hood when working with some noxious chemicals, I think it's more of an ingrained habit rather than serving any functional purpose. During one of these rather amusing episodes of someone working with something smelly in the "hood" which does not actually suck smelly air out of the lab, one of our rather soft-spoken labmates said, "The hood may not work, but at least you can switch the light on and pretend that it works".