Fingertips, Class of 2009

My new work computer is an IBM Thinkpad laptop. This model has the option of using your fingerprint to enable it's biometric security. Personally, I'm disappointed they aren't yet using the retina scan for laptop security. I'm looking forward to the day when I can laugh at everyone (and myself) leaning over to line eyeballs up within centimeters of a screen-mounted vision system. While peering into my monitor in public places, I would comment on all the amazing things I could see inside.

When I log on to my fancy pants computer, I occasionally get prompted to "Log in to enroll your fingertips." Never in my life did I expect my fingertips to be so important. They need to be enrolled. They're all grown up, my fingertips. Today, I couldn't help but imagine a day in the future when my fingertips would don caps and gowns at biometric security graduation. I'm so proud, I'm getting all choked up.

Have You Bathed Your Chief Executive Lately?

Last week, I started a new job. I still work in the life sciences industry and work at a laboratory. As in most fields, there is local jargon and terminology. In most laboratories, chemicals and biological reagents are abbreviated. It's not uncommon to see bottles labeled with a variety of acronyms such as H20 (water), EtOH (ethanol), or WTF (unknown).

In getting to my team and the laboratory processes by way of a laboratory tour, I took note of materials, machines, and mice (there were none, but it's always good to keep tabs on 'em). I smiled when I saw a bottle labeled "CFO Wash". Of course, I realize that this is a specific reagent to the technology used in that part of the lab. However, I couldn't help but imagine that this liquid was available just in case the company's head of all things financial showed up looking a bit dusty (one gets that way from rolling around in money. Or so I hear). Naturally, my next thought was...self-applied or team-building exercise?

Access Denied

After driving to work each morning, I start my work day with a very simple ritual. 

I coordinate my already-painful commute so that I arrive at the parking garage just after someone determined to find a spot on the lower levels.  After 10 minutes of stop and go (in the parking garage!), I arrive on the sixth or seventh level.  

I walk to Starbucks for my first Venti coffee of the day, paying for it with a "thank you" that receives a nod in reply that silently says "we'll see you later for your refill complimentary with your registered and loaded Starbucks card, you pathetic addict". 

Sipping my liquid gold, I usually walk a block to work and use my key card to gain access to the back door. Soon thereafter, I'm plugging in my laptop in my office on the third floor thinking about the free refill in my future.

However one day recently, my key card didn't work on the back door. I knew that the proximity sensor was working, because moments before I had watched someone 30 feet in front of me open the door and let it slam before I could get there to catch it.  I would have beat the slowly closing door had I not been fumbling my coffee, card, lunch, and computer bag. Once my card failed to grant access, I was contemplating a short walk around the building to reception when someone I recognized from the seventh floor came along to open the door. After the prerequisite "Do you work here? Ha Ha Ha" and more fake laughter all around, I followed him into the building. 

I took the stairs so as to avoid more stupid small talk on the elevator with my acquaintance. When I got to the third floor, I remembered that my access required my key card again. It was still in my hand, so I quickly flashed it in front of the sensor hoping that my earlier access problems were a fluke. No luck. I stood there for a few minutes in the stairwell, peering through the door window waiting for someone to walk by and let me in. Nobody appeared and after a couple of minutes of waiting, I decided to address my key card problem sooner than later. 

I walked down stairs to the lobby and approached the security desk with my card still in hand.  

"There's something wrong with my key card," I explained as I extended the card to him. "I bet someone new is sitting at my desk too."

The security guard feigned laughed as he reached for the card and said "Perhaps I'll have to escort you from the building later."

I reciprocated with more laughter. This time it was nervous laughter as I tried to determine how serious he was.

He looked at the card before looking up at me with a smile.

"This card isn't working because your balance is too low" he said as he handed back my Starbucks card.

When A Sign Resigns

At work, there's a floor-to-ceiling whiteboard in the conference room.  The whiteboard is the wall and the wall is the whiteboard. For anyone who ever wanted to write on the wall (without getting a timeout by their parents), here is their chance. 

Attached to the wall itself, high up and near to the ceiling, there is a sign stating:

"This wall will be cleaned every Monday morning at 9am."

As long as that sign is still posted on the wall itself, the facilities employee responsible for cleaning that wall will never have a perfect performance review. Will they?  I guess there's always room for improvement.  Now, will someone get that guy a ladder?

This gave me a great idea.  For fun, make a sign that simply reads in large bold letters on bright paper: "Remove This Sign" or "Don't Remove This Sign". Removal of either sign will be done with some uncertainty. Make hundreds and post them all over your workplace and watch...

A Calling For Intestinal Fortitude

I'm up late tonight, because I'm preparing a presentation.  I'm part of a "task force", which is a high-powered force of taskers.  If I work with you, please don't get me wrong; I love being on the task force.  However after a couple of hours working with Powerpoint, I'm feeling a bit punchy and have decided that "task force" is a strange phrase that makes me laugh heartily. Not really, but I wanted to use the word heartily today and I was running out of time.  

The 'task' in 'task force' refers to the act of actually being part of the task force itself.  It's a bit circular, in my opinion.  Therefore, the 'force' can only describe what someone did to me to get me involved.

Okay, so I do realize that 'force' is a name given to the team to enable them to do great things with tasks.  It's often given in place of other resources, such as additional equipment, staffing, or coffee.  Instead, we are expected to join our colleagues and continue to remind ourselves that we are a FORCE!  A force with a TASK!  

In fact, a synonym for 'task' is 'calling' and a synonym for the relevant meaning of 'force' is 'intestinal fortitude'.  Therefore, I will for now on refer to a task force as a "Calling for Intestinal Fortitude".  In other words, we'll order lunch for every meeting.

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On a separate note I wanted to mention that when my wife is traveling soon, I plan to remove half of the refrigerator's contents until about an hour before her return.  Why? Because there's beer back there. I just know it.

I'm Being Stalked By A Robot

One day last week, I was in Boston for a job fair where I was representing my employer and hoping to find good candidates for our team.  I don't go to the city very often, but when I do I'm reminded of days past when the city was the epicenter of my social life and the backdrop for many late night and early morning alcohol-inspired outings.

While looking for a parking space, I was stopped at a traffic light I know very well.  On that particular corner stands a watering hole at which I spent many Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights for a few years in my early to mid 20s.  There were several of us in my core circle of friends who knew, without speaking, that we would end up there on those nights for as long as we were alive and not still recovering from the previous night.

I should mention here that there was a time during this era in which I started to get tired of the same old routine.  I wasn't the type to just start chatting away with strangers, so my conversations were limited to the friends I went there with.  Although I enjoyed these relationships, by Sunday night we had exhausted every possible topic.  The "So.... what have you been up to since I last saw you at 2am this morning?" discussion lasted about 10 minutes.   This was often the extent of our discussions anyways, because the music was too loud to truly hear what others were saying.  I had my own version of Cheers, except that nobody knew my name because they couldn't hear me.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that I was known by some as Tile, Tire, and Filer.

Feeling more and more disconnected from my own friends, I once proposed a "night in". 

"C'mon guys... let's watch a movie, take it easy and catch up over a pizza?"  

By the reaction I got, you would have thought I was proposing we all move to a dark cave in the Andes and eat fire roasted mutton while we play Pictionary with wild boar dung.  I eventually gave up on my efforts to redirect my friends towards less expensive and more audible discussions.  

Therefore while sitting at the traffic light in front of this once favorite bar of mine, I couldn't help but reflect on how much my social life has changed since then.  I smiled as I looked over my shoulder at the two car seats and Elmo books between them.  Here I was, driving to a job fair where I was now the hiring manager going to interview many young college grads who were probably getting ready to go (or had just come from) a local pub to yell over the music at each other.  I have bought a couple houses and been a landlord as opposed to being a renter with insurmountable debt.  

I also started to think about another major change; one that prompted me to write this anecdote.  

In the mid-90s, I did not have a cell phone or text messaging.  If someone wanted to reach me, they would email me (if they could even do that) or call my answering machine at home.  My social life and dating would have greatly benefited from a cell phone and (better yet) text messaging.  I even wonder if my wife and I would have texted each other after we first met, rather than let six years pass before we met again in person to plan our first date.  It would have been wonderful to have a "nice 2 meet u" text while driving home, especially given that she was on a date with someone else when we first met. Now that technology has advanced, we rely on it heavily to communicate to each other throughout the day.  

My Friday nights look very different than years ago.  I no longer eat mac and cheese on a beat up couch, nap for a couple hours in the early evening, go to a bar until 2am, and go to bed at 3am.  Instead, I get home from work in time to give my kids mac and cheese, put them to bed, do some laundry/dishes/ice cream eating/blogging/work/television watching, and go to bed earlier than a younger version of me would have awakened from a pre-drinking nap.

But thanks again to technology, I now get unexpected late night text messages.  Are these from my wife upstairs with a sweet message such as "Don't forget to lock the doors before you come up"?  Are they from my friends asking "Are you coming over to watch a movie? We're going to catch up over a pizza"?  

No. Instead, I get text messages from robots at work.  That's correct. Robots at work. When the robots we use nearly 24/7 to process biological samples encounter any problems, they send an email which is converted into a text message to my phone.  (A couple of the robots actually have their own Facebook pages, but that's a story for another day).  

I can't help but wonder if the robots are lonely and text me and my colleagues because of their desire for attention.  Whenever my phone beeps with a text message from the robots, my brain translates this to "Hey. HEY! What are you doing? It's me. One of the robots. I NEED you to come and see me.  Please. I need you now to come NOW."  I'm often tempted to text back: "No. I can't right now. I'm busy. Stop texting me. I'll come see you later..." 

Therefore, I can't help but think that this is the most dysfunctional variation of a man-robot relationship ever.  

On some level, I need the robots too.  They text me on Friday nights.  And they never ask me to go to loud bars where we'll never be able to truly catch up on the day's events.  Besides, from me it would be about the daily grind and from the robot it would be a recount of some very repetitious behavior.  On the other hand, I'm worried about the day when they drink too much WD-40 and text me with photos of themselves with their exterior hardware removed.  

Tics Don't Mix (with radioactive materials)

During a conversation this evening, I was reminded of a lesson that I once learned.  It is imperative that I share this with my readers.  This is very important, so please read carefully.

One should never work in a radiation laboratory with someone who has an uncontrollable tic.

In my first job out of college, I was trained in a radioactive research laboratory by an individual who had a terrible tic.  His tic was characterized by sudden and repeated moving of the arm behind his head. Rapidly up and down, from low behind his neck to above his head as far as he could reach.

Tics themselves are not funny.  However, the simple fact that someone who had a tic was hired to work in a radiation lab is worth discussing.  How did he land the job? Really?  

Alright, so management either didn't know or was avoiding a discrimination lawsuit.  Was there some awareness of the associated risks?  Without knowing what type of work he did before, I speculate that his references must have been glowing even prior to the radioactive work.

"He was a great member of the bomb squad and has the scars to prove it.  We never hesitated to call on him to diffuse the most complicated bombs."

"He was an excellent mural painter.  His abstract expressionist pieces left us speechless."

"How well did he perform surgery? Not well, but his bedside manner is excellent."

I am now starting to understand why I got the job.  I was the kid right out of college they could throw into the radioactive lab with a man who had a tic.  I can imagine the managers discussing my fate. 

"Let that new Tyler kid work in the rad lab and give 'Hot Joe' a break from working with the tic guy. He's been in there for years."

What else was I going to do?  I wanted experience, needed cash, and had fallen asleep during the Radiation Safety Training video.

On my first day in the lab, I was terrified. While showing me how to apply "hot" liquids to a bag containing DNA-labeled membranes, I was introduced to the tic for the first time.  It surprised me as it came out of nowhere.  Fortunately, there wasn't any radioactive liquid on his hands with which to spray the walls and ceiling whilst unintentionally reliving his mural painting days.

To this day, there is a horrible tale told in the dark corners of research laboratories everywhere.  Although it didn't involve me directly, I counted my blessings and knew that my days were numbered.  Another rookie labmate was working in the lab with our trainer when his tic suddenly appeared while demonstrating a laboratory technique.  Unfortunately in the same moment, the DNA-labeled membranes he was working with folded over themselves when they were meant to stay flat.  He freaked out and started thrashing about as he tried to straighten them without gloves on.  In the end, the worst exposure was to his hands which he scrubbed immediately.  Fortunately, this story could have gone several different ways and it is the potential worst case scenarios that caused us the greatest concern.  

I am also happy to report that I was never exposed to unsafe levels of radiation.  My exposure to the tic were also limited.  However, I still cannot forget the humor that is a radiation laboratory whose primary technician has an uncontrollable tic.  Coincidentally, management knew that my tic was controllable.  I needed the job and swearing at the guy wasn't going to get me anywhere in my career.

James Bond had Q. I have QT.

Last night, I was working on a document outlining our team's goals for 2009.  The template I was using has one column for the goals and another for the Quarter (of the calendar year) in which it will be completed.

My wife started looking over my shoulder at the document, whose column headers were no longer visible.  

Quite simply she said, "Who is Q1? Is that you?"

When I smiled, she knew another L-ism had occurred.  She explained that she thought that the individuals from my four-member team were each represented by a different Q# and assigned to a goal.

This made me smile and laugh, so I agreed with her and offered to give her a Q-name of her own: QT.

Your Frustration Is Brought To You By....

Last week, I attended a conference about laboratory robotics.  It's the largest and most popular conference for laboratory robotics vendors, manufacturers, and end-users.  I was very fortunate to have been invited to give a presentation and wouldn't have missed my chance to screw up a perfectly good program.  In the end, my talk was very successful.

While at the conference center, I noticed that everything was sponsored.  The conference had platinum, gold, silver, and Tupperware level sponsors.  The keynote speech was sponsored, as was the plenary speech and the cleaning staff team meeting.  The lunches, happy hours, and bathroom breaks were sponsored.  The napkins, cups, and an unfortunate spill by a caterer were all sponsored.  There were banners, signs, and enthusiastic event planners announcing these sponsorships.  

When I arrived on the first day, I was given a bag that was provided by one vendor and stuffed like a pillowcase on Halloween with random junk from other vendors.  I received pens, paper pads, and hand gel from various companies.  The hand gel was a nice gesture, probably offered by the microbial testing folks.  

When I arrived at the hotel at the start of the conference, I wasn't in my room for more than 10 minutes when room service stopped by.  I was hoping for an Edible Arrangement from hotel management in exchange for my room behind an elevator, but instead was given a piece of labware that holds biological samples.  From a platinum sponsor, of course.  Just in case?  The vendors and hotel management must have gotten together and made a decision.  These people are such geeks that they will want to experiment with plastic sample labware in their hotel rooms.  Let's give them each one to avoid any late night attempts to break into the conference hall to satisfy a craving.

A quick glance at my hotel keycard revealed that 

they had also been sponsored by a company.  I don't usually look at the cards that closely, but my card repeatedly failed to open my door.  I made a total of four trips to the front desk to reset my card before I realized that I must have been demagnetizing it with my magnetic money clip.  On my last trip back to my room, I noticed the company's sales pitch on the top of the card: "No More Frustration".  

Had I noticed it during my first few unsuccessful attempts to enter my room, I probably would have chucked it out the window into the platinum-sponsored pool area.  Instead, I thought that it was a rather timely discovery.

I forgot about the card until I got home.  After a week away, I was pretty busy catching up on laundry.  I found the card this morning in the washer.  Ironically, the company advertisement was for an instrument with a coincidental name: Washer.  Apparently, I did exactly what the sponsors wanted me to do and I brought the conference home with me.  

What the President and a Bucket of Water Have in Common

It's crunch time for my presentation preparation, so this will be brief.  Today is one of those days that I wish I had a camera.  If I did, you would see two pictures (and someday will when I update this post).  They would/will be as follows:

a) A meeting I attended was in a conference room that apparently followed another meeting that had a seemingly fancy spread.  Well, spreads can only get so fancy in a room with one entire wall that is a white board. That is, unless someone wanted to break free from their fancy meeting and illustrate their emotions with dry-erase pens as a form of art-therapy ice breaker.  Draw how you are feeling when this fancy spread is in stark contrast to your laboratory coat covered with chemicals and biological waste (hopefully from the lab).

I was prompted to think about this when, upon entering the room with a leftover fancy spread, I noticed a wine glass full of vinaigrette salad dressing.  Clearly, the meeting was a hoot.

b) The lab in which I work has some instruments that use water (and other hazardous chemicals) that is recycled and then replaced every several weeks.  Our current labeling system for these containers of water is very thorough, detailed, and carefully worded.  We typically write "H20. Changed 1/20/09."  Therefore, on Tuesday (Inauguration Day) I couldn't resist writing instead: "H20. Changed (President and H20) 1/20/09."  I have yet to inform my coworkers that we will now be recycling that same bucket of water for the next eight years.  

Extra-Strength Tylernol

An old nickname resurfaced today. "Extra-Strength Tylernol" was a handle given to me by a teammate on my high school volleyball team. I'm glad that it has taken on new meaning in my professional life.  When my coworkers are feeling pain, "Extra-Strength Tylernol" will help. Perhaps at home, I should introduce a new nickname with similar effect. "Dadvil."

I Should Have Bought the Robots a Nightlight Too.

Yesterday morning during work hours, I went to Lowe's on the way to visit a vendor.  Our $6 million robotics platform just wasn't complete without a light timer. We don't need it for a light, but are considering it's application in the timed on/off operation of critical instrumentation.

As I'm sure most people do, I choose Lowe's over Home Depot because when the day comes that I get lost and can't find the exit I would rather be spending the night at Lowe's.  I think that the pervasive orange color at Home Depot would keep me up all night.  And if I actually did get to sleep (in the carpet section of course), my dreams would probably be orange. Unless my dream was about eating oranges in my orange pajamas at my orange alma mater where the mascot is an Orangeman, it would be strange.

At Lowes, I typically rely way too heavily on the signs at the end of each aisle.  I paced back and forth in the electrical section, wondering which aisle would have my light timer.  This took at least as much time as it would have taken me to walk all three aisles.  But, I didn't want to be too far from the exit so late in the day (11am).  

While pacing, I witnessed an altercation between a store representative and a customer.  The store representative, who looked and acted a bit scatter-brained and anxious, stopped the customer near the front of the store and reprimanded him for opening product boxes and taking out only the parts he needed. The customer denied it at first, but couldn't explain the item in his hand that looked identical to the item displayed on the box now being presented by the store employee.  Once the customer confessed to his crime, the store employee calmed down and realized that the fun had just ended.  I agreed and committed to an aisle.

I found the light switches and only the best would do for our $6 million robotic system.  It cost $15 and has two settings and a digital display.  The robots will be happy. In a pinch, we could also borrow it to automatically turn on a light when MIT closes for the next holiday. 

I decided that while I was there, I would ask someone if they sold peristaltic pumps.  You do not need to know what a peristaltic pump is to understand the rest of this story.  

I didn't think that they would have them, but I always wanted to kill two birds with one stone.  I turned to find assistance and guess who I found.  The scatter-brained and anxious store rep was placing now-complete and sealed product boxes back on a shelf.

First, I thought God don't let me get caught overnight in this place with him. Anyone but him.

Having forgotten to turn off my idiot magnet that morning, I approached him.

"Do you sell peristaltic pumps?" I asked.

"A what?" he replied.

"Peristaltic pumps," I replied.

"What are they?" he asked.

While making a circular motion with my finger and assuming that he heard me say pumps twice, I explained,"They move liquids from one place to another." I was trying to avoid explaining the application for which I needed one.

"You need a bucket," he promptly replied.

(insert sound of nighttime crickets here)

"No. It's a pump and it moves the liquid automatically through a hose or tubing," I said.

"Aaahhhhhh. You don't mean a peristaltic pump. You mean a drill motor pump." As he said this and started leading me deeper into the store, he was laughing in a way that indicated that he thought I made up the word 'peristaltic'. I was tempted to explain that the word also described the wave-like motion his digestive tract was doing with that slice of Cranky Pie he must have eaten. Instead, I followed quietly.

He handed me a drill pump, which works by peristalsis but is done manually with a hand-operated drill.

"I want something that I can plug in and will pump continuously and automatically," I said once again.

"Ohhhhhh.  You mean a peristaltic pump."

I paid for the light timer, found the exit, and got out safely.  I didn't have to spend the night, but it was too close for comfort.

Double Quantity

The microwave at work has a button labeled "Double Quantity". I can confirm that it doesn't work. In fact not only was my sandwich the same size after pressing it a few times, but it nearly caught on fire.