Make that the second most trusted name in lab banking...

I proudly announced in my previous post that I had apparently surpassed a particular threshold of trustworthiness at my new job and had been named official lab banker.

It must have been all of the sweet science bling that coincidentally appeared on my bench that raised suspicions, because my title was soon after adjusted to official lab co-banker. Moreover, I have been relegated to the much less glamorous aspect of financial management: bookeeeping. The other co-banker is in charge of actually managing our collective assets.


...now how am I ever going to pay for this gold-plated pipette?

Yajeev: The Most Trusted Name in Lab Banking

I must be doing something right in my new(ish) job, because yesterday I was named unofficial laboratory banker. I will be the guardian of lab recreational funds.  As of today, we are about 50 dollars in the red. If projections hold (and lab members remember to bring their money to contribute to the fund), we will have a 20-dollar surplus by this time tomorrow. If not, I may soon be in line for a bailout.

I pledge to maintain utmost integrity and complete transparency as I faithfully execute the office of banker and will, to the best of my ability, preserve, protect, defend the financial status of this laboratory.

(... please disregard my fancy new lab coat... coincidental timing, I assure you...)

Spontaneous Combustion

‘Twas the night before Christmas many moons ago and on top of the coffee table, not an object was stirring except for a wildly flickering jelly candle… and next to the flickering jelly candle rested an artificial flower arrangement. As the flame turbulently twittered in every which direction, my family lounged, reveling in each other’s company and the holiday spirit. I had assumed my official holiday position, sprawled by myself across the loveseat which visibly bore the punishment of years of insubordination to my mother’s injunction against “plopping”. My parents shared the couch, and my brother and sister each occupied a comfy white armchair. We were engaged in some edifying holiday family togetherness… I think we were reading Dickens or eating plum pudding or (most likely) reciting Christmas Vacation lines to each other when the small undulating blaze emanating from the jelly candle licked the very tip of the lowest fabric leaf of the artificial flower arrangement.

Initially, no one noticed the dueling flames dancing atop the coffee table, but after a few moments, my sister pointed at the six-inch conflagration in the middle of the living room and sputtered, “F-- f--f--.” Try as she might, she could not get “ire” to follow the “f”.

“What is it, honey?” my dad asked.

“F--f--f--,” she stammered, still pointing.

I injected myself into the conversation. “Um, Dad… the flowers are on f-“

I did not stutter. Before the “ire” could pass over my tongue and through my lips, my dad had jumped to his feet and yelled, “FIRE!!!” He immediately transitioned from holiday to survival mode, leapt from the couch and, in one heroic sweep, scooped the burning arrangement into his hands.

The fireplace was four feet away.

Unfortunately, he did not deposit the fire into the fireplace.

The front door, leading to our snow-covered front walkway was six feet away.

Unfortunately, he did not pitch the miniature inferno through the front door to our snow-covered walkway.

Instead, Dad ran. His goal had been to run through the living room, through the dining room, through the kitchen, and through the garage to the driveway wherein he would drop the burning flowers, compose himself, and determine his next course of action.

Unfortunately, his scheme did not go as planned.

As he ran, the flames spread across the surface of the decoration in his hand. He attempted to blow them out but his breath only encouraged the fiery expansion. He made it to the cusp of the kitchen when the flames began to burn his hands, at which point Dad’s Plan B took effect.

Plan B was to dropkick the plant the length of the kitchen to the garage door… and… actually, that’s where Plan B ended. There was no clear exit strategy. Which did not matter, because what seemed to Dad at the time of its inception an infallible course of action turned out to be quite fallible after all.

Arms outstretched toward the garage door, Dad held the glowing orb of flames before his face and dropped it like a punter preparing to send a football flying down the field. He kicked the basket. Instead of catapulting forward (the typical result of having been kicked in a forwardly direction) the basket wobbled up and over and behind his head, barely missing his hair. It landed five feet behind Dad, still in the living room, the flames now two or three feet high.

The smoke alarm finally recognized the potential disaster under its nose and began warning us of impending doom, when Plan C took effect. My sister, finally breaking free of her “F-- f-- f--” paralysis, yelled, “Fire! I’ll go get some water!” She ran to the kitchen, filled a Dixie cup with water, returned to the fire, splashed the water on a Dixie cup-sized satellite flame about eight inches from the main flame (which, thanks to Sister, was almost extinguished), then repeated as necessary, incrementally diminishing the magnitude of our indoor brush fire. Roused from our Christmas perches, Little Bro and I stood by watching, helpful only in the respect that we were not making the problem any worse. Dad stood by with his hands on his head. Black smoke began to fill the living room.

Where, you might ask, was my mother during these escapades? She was nowhere to be seen. We all assumed that she had grabbed her most precious possessions and hit the road, leaving us to fend for ourselves. Turns out, we were wrong: she was readying Plan D. She coolly returned to the room with an old blanket and draped it over the former faux flower arrangement and extinguished the fire by smothering it.

In the midst of the black intoxicating smoke and shrill detector siren, my dad fell to his knees in despair in the aftermath of our Griswoldesque holiday disaster. Before him was an incinerated patch of once white carpet and the remains of his favorite fake flowers. The living room furniture was subsequently rearranged to hide what resembled the last vestiges of an (sub)atomic disaster. Since this nightmare before Christmas, my family has traded their air freshening candles for fragrance oils, and “fire” is a four-letter word around the holidays.



For other death-defying fiery posts, click here or here.

Letter to Santa Paws

Dear Blogosphere (especially Santa, Mom and Dad, Grandparents, and anyone else who loves me)...

It's me, Watson, Yajeev's Dog. I have been snooping all over for my dad's password for his blogsite so I could post this note to my loyal and adoring fans in cyberspace. Turns out, he keeps his passwords to all his online accounts in a cryptically titled Word document called "Online_Passwords.doc". Who'da thunk it?

It has come to my attention that America is suffering something of an economic downturn, what the economists are calling a "recession". The talking heads on the cable news outlets claim that people are losing their jobs and houses. Worse yet, they're buying fewer Christmas presents. In fact, I've heard that some concerned individuals, in sensitivity to the financial struggles of their loved ones, are asking their friends and family members not to buy them holiday presents this year.

I just want to make it clear that, while I understand that we are in a crisis of historic proportions, I am not one of those aforementioned concerned individuals. I know that 'tis better to give than to receive, and I dare not rob the pleasure-- nay, blessing-- of those who wish to bestow upon me tidings of holiday cheer. Especially tidings that taste like bacon or squeak. Of course, if you could find a tiding that tasted like bacon and squeaked, that would be ideal. Some would call such a tiding a holiday miracle.

Please, feel free to spare no expense in your holiday expenditures on my behalf. We'll both be glad you did.

Sincerely,





Watson Steve

Remains to be seen

Warning: This post may be considered by some to be beyond the pale of decency. If you suspect that you may be someone who is easily appalled by borderline indecency, click here to be redirected to something more innoucous.

You have been warned.

Death is a natural part of life, so I'm told; thus far, personal experience has confirmed this notion-- I have never met a centenarian (though Willard Scott assures me that they exist). Thus, from a very early age, I have braced myself for the eventuality that I will someday cease to exist in the manner to which I am currently accustomed. I know that some people think a lot about their funerals... who will be there, which people will be crying or laughing, what they will say about the dearly departed... Some wonder about the after party: Will the attendees be somber or jovial? What will they serve? Will there be assigned seating?

These are interesting questions, but, to be honest, I am most concerned with the after-after-party. I am preoccupied with what will happen to my body once my soul has, umm, left it for dead. For some time, I have been torn between the options of cremation and burial. Despite my multiple close calls with fire (see this entry for an example and a Christmas remembrance soon to be posted), the idea of being condensed to a few pounds of calcium phosphate and minerals sort of freaks me out. I know that I will no longer be inhabiting this ultimately temporary structure of oxygen, carbon, nitrogen, and hydrogen, and that burial only postpones the inevitable decomposition of this organic container of soul and mind and blog... but I have a deeply rooted visceral opposition to being reduced to an urnfull of ashen remains.

The only problem I have with burial, however-- in addition to the impending cemetery space crisis-- is that I am sort of in love with the romantic idea of having my remains scattered over places that mean a lot to me. I've heard lovely stories about the charred remains of loved ones being redistributed (downwind, hopefully) by family and friends in the mountains, rivers, trails, and foreign lands they once held dear-- becoming one with nature in the truest possible sense. I find this idea to be truly beautiful.

While beard trimming a few weeks back, I found myself pondering my ostensibly incompatible desires for corporeal integrity and decorating nature with ashen yajeev remains. As my shavings drifted to the saran wrap trap I had rigged for their easy disposal (to prevent their clogging our bathroom sink drain), I had an epiphany. As if by angelic courier, the solomonic solution punctured my awareness with the perfect cadaveric remedy. My body could be preserved for burial (or taxidermic treatment if anyone would like a lifesize Land of Yajeev souvenir in their living room) and a certain portion of my remains could be scattered amongst the locations dearest to my heart: rather than prepare my ashes post mortem, my loved ones could collect dispensible parts of my organism while I walk and breathe. Previously trash-bound personal components such as excess hair, fingernail clippings, and dry skin-- all legitimate members of my cellular composition-- will hereby be preserved for their future distribution. My body will remain at peace, and I will be eternally connected with my favorite locales: Chick Fil A, cyberspace, the yeast lab, and movie theater.

May I rest in peace.

Land of Yajeev honored by MSNBC.com

MSNBC.com recently listed the 11 lamest blogs on the internets, and the Land of Yajeev was decisively not among them.

If X is the total quantity of blogs on the blogosphere, then MSNBC.com has ranked the Land of Yajeev in the top x-11 blogs on the web.

Congratulate yourselves on reading the best.

Land of Yajeev: The Early Years

Have you ever wished you could have a hardcopy of the Land of Yajeev for posterity or in preparation for the unlikely eventuality that the internet goes out of style? Ever hanker for the wit and wisdom of Yajeev but couldn’t find a portal of entry to cyberspace? Do you long to read this blog while sitting on the john? Are you tired of draining precious ink cartridges printing Land of Yajeev posts?

My friends, if you answered “yes” to zero or more of these questions, then your wildest dreams have indeed come true. The Land of Yajeev is now available in book form! For my birthday, the wife spent hours upon hours compiling and editing the first two years of posts and comments of the Land of Yajeev and has packaged them into a slim 400-page hardcover or (more modestly priced) paperback volume now available for purchase at the brand new Land of Yajeev Mega-Bookstore. Perfect for display on coffee tables to impress your guests or to keep handy at your bedside, you will be able to enjoy and relive Land of Yajeev posts over and over again sans pesky computer. You can underline your favorite quotes, write in the margins, dog-ear notable posts, or leave your own personal comments at the end of each entry.

It has become a Land of Yajeev tradition (one year running) to make holiday gift recommendations, and I can think of no more meaningful present than the gift of bloggable humor. You will want to purchase copies of Land of Yajeev: The Early Years for all of your friends, parents, offspring, co-workers, acquaintances, mail-delivery personnel, sponsor children, neighbors, teachers, and significant others so that all of your kith and kin can experience the unbridled pleasure that is the Land of Yajeev. Information on book-signings will be posted as soon as the deluge of invitations from bookstores around the country hit my email inbox (any day now). In the meantime, if you want a signed copy, send an email to landofyajeev @ yahoo . com, and we will make special arrangements.

Visit the Land of Yajeev Mega-Bookstore to buy your copies today (and be among the first to rate and review the book)!



And, don’t forget—a panoply of Land of Yajeev merchandise is available at the companion Land of Yajeev Megastore. Stocking stuffers and Chanukah gelt abound!


Warning: You should not consume alcohol while experiencing Land of Yajeev: The Early Years. Do not drive or operate heavy machinery until you know how Land of Yajeev: The Early Years affects you. Insomnia caused by inability to rid your mind of Yajeev is a rare but treatable side effect. Consult your physician if symptoms persist for more than one week.

Daily Value

Per my doctor's recommendation, I had a consultation with a nutritionist this morning. Unfortunately, I was so hungry during our meeting that I had great difficulty focusing on our conversation. There was mention of food as I recall, but the precise details of our exchange elude me. I also seem to remember there being rubber chicken breast replicas and a bowl of fake oatmeal, but these may have been malnutrition-induced hallucinations.

Before returning to work, I stopped at Dunkin' Donuts for a glazed stick (far lower in sodium than V8--it's practically health food) Wish I'd done that before my appointment--I might remember what we talked about.

Where's the beef?

Today, I did a very grown-up thing.

Succumbing to peer pressure (the rest of my lab was eating there), I ate lunch at a vegetarian Indian restaurant.

All veggies. No meat. Not even bacon.

"It's not like you eat meat at every meal," one of my co-workers (the one who picked the lunch spot) had said to me. Pause. Then she asked, "Do you?"

After some thought, I replied, "Not every meal. Usually not for breakfast. But for lunch..."

"If you can't find something you like, I'll buy you a burger afterwards."

"Deal."

I managed to order the meatiest non-meat item on the menu: fingerling potatoes in tomato curry with giant hollow fried balls of bread. It was the meat and potatoes (sans meat) of Vegetarian Indian cuisine. It shocks me to see these words appear on my screen, but I must admit that it was delicious.

I might even go back. Though next time, I'll probably smuggle in some meat (like my dad smuggles his Atkins' diet-approved bread into sandwich shops).

Oh Cap'n! My Cap'n!

Dear Wife,

First, I would like to sincerely thank you for all of your hard work—your clothes laundering, dish washing, (really spicy) chili cooking, chocolate chip oatmeal cookie baking, dog-hair vacuuming, and grocery shopping. Your dedication to the smooth functioning of our household is very much appreciated and has not gone unnoticed.

There is something, however, I need to tell you. I am sorry to have to confront you in this venue, but I thought the blow might be softened if we were in the company of many anonymous and non-anonymous blog-reading friends.

There is one crucial fact of life that it is time for you to learn. I had hoped when we got married that your parents would have taught you, but I am prepared to take the helm of your educational development for this teaching moment. Sweet, dear, loving, warm, beautiful wife, there is something you need to know:

Peanut Butter Crunch is NOT the same as Cap’n Crunch.

Sure, they both have the Cap’n on the cereal box, but these two cereals are as fundamentally different as Rice Chex and Wheat Chex—two completely different animals. Cap’n Crunch consists of textured rectangular yellow bits of crisp sweetened corn goodness, while Peanut Butter Crunch bits are smooth, puffed spheres of peanut butter. I poured the cereal in the dark kitchen, and thus didn’t carefully inspect the packaging. Surely, you can imagine my surprise upon inserting that first spoonful into my mouth.

Listen, I don’t blame you for purchasing the wrong Crunch. If anything, I blame myself for assuming you knew the difference. I can certainly understand how such an error in judgment could befall a newbie Crunchaholic when confronted with the panoply of Crunches in the cereal aisle: Cap’n Crunch, Crunch Berries, Peanut Butter Crunch, Choco Crunch, Chocolatey Peanut Butter Crunch, and Christmas Crunch (not to mention the generic imitations). Your childhood was obviously a disadvantaged one, and I love you all the more for it. For my part, I commit to you that I will no longer take it for granted that you are as well-versed in the ins and outs of sugar cerealdom as I am when we write a shopping list.

Love forever,
Your husband


P.S. Please don’t return the Peanut Butter Crunch to the store. I’ll suffer through it.




* For an expansion upon this post's title, please click here.