This is super exciting, because my teeth may as well be made of chalk for how cavity-resistant they are.  I can brush three times a day and still turn up with cavities.  Not even lying.  But this time, I’m golden (it must be the fact that there’s almost as much metal as tooth in there now).

It occurred to me to wonder today how come adults don’t get little “congrats!  you don’t have any cavities!” toys.  I feel like I would be even more excited if I got a crappy plastic puzzle or a kazoo for my oral hygiene efforts, and maybe brush just a little bit harder.

I guess the adult equivalent of the cheap toy is the saving hundreds of dollars in dental work.

And pain.  Though I hope my new dentist is a bit nicer than Steve Martin.

The reason that my asthma rescue inhaler suddenly wasn’t available in generic form a few years back was that the generic version was (supposedly) damaging the ozone layer.  It contained small amounts of CFC propellant, which the EPA banned in 2008.  Here’s the EPA’s summary of the decision.

Let’s put this in perspective.  CFCs are, without a doubt, bad for the atmosphere.  But how much CFC is contained in an inhaler?  If they’re going to allow exemptions for methyl bromide pesticide use (seriously, I’m not making this shit up), they really have bigger fish to fry.

Interestingly, the wording (emphasis mine) of the methyl bromide critical use exemption policy allows for its use if:

(ii) there are no technically and economically feasible alternatives or substitutes available to the user that are acceptable from the standpoint of environment and public health and are suitable to the crops and circumstances of the nomination.

As a result of the ban on CFC-containing albuterol inhalers, inhalers using a new propellant have been developed.  These apparently are different enough from the original inhalers that they warrant new patents, meaning that until 2016, no company is allowed to produce a generic albuterol inhaler.  What does this mean?  There are no longer economically feasible alternatives to brand-name inhalers.

These things used to cost me ten bucks a pop.  Now?  My copay is upwards of forty.  The higher brand-name cost hits the insurance companies, who are happy to pass it right on to me, through high copays, premium raises, and flat-out denials of coverage.

Oh, and for those who aren’t on corporate insurance, and instead are dependent on Medicaid and Medicare?  That cost gets passed right on to taxpayers.  Congrats, guys!  It’s not like states were spending much to care for Medicaid-eligible asthmatics or anything, right?  Oh, wait.

Worse, when copays go up, patients use their medications less.  I know this anecdotally (it’s definitely true for me), but people have actually researched this, it turns out.

So in the end, we have a decision that raises costs for consumers, raises costs for taxpayers, and damages the health of patients.  Why?  So drug companies can make more money.

Rescue inhalers are the one drug every asthmatic has.  Even if patients don’t take anything else, we all have one of these because it can literally save your life.  Drug companies have a captive market, and they’re wringing it dry for every bullshit penny.

Lots of folks are puzzled about why I don’t like this job (“it sounds right up your alley!”), and they kindly remind me that I was excited about it a few months ago.  Fair enough.  I’m here to enlighten you.

Why don’t I like my job?

1. I don’t get paid enough.  Granted, I make more per hour than I have ever made before (technically untrue, if you assume that my grad stipend was paid out as an hourly wage for 50 40-hour work weeks a year, but we all know that’s not how many hours I worked), but it’s not enough to make me enjoy my job or to pay the bills without some severe penny-pinching.  This is made worse by the fact that there was a severe misunderstanding in the hiring process about how much money I’d be earning.  When I started this job, I thought I was making better than twice what I actually make.  Ouch.
2. I don’t buy what I’m selling.  Because of our funding sources, “educating people about clean transportation” means telling them that we can clean up our air, slow down climate change, and solve our energy crisis just by using alternative fuels and new vehicle technologies.  We have lots of slides at the ends of powerpoint presentations that say “there is no silver bullet,” but what we mean is “we need to apply all of these technologies to solve our problems and then we’re fine.”  New technologies are a band-aid, in my opinion, and we won’t get anywhere without just plain driving less.  It constantly grates at me to be writing copy that says otherwise.
3. I am either preaching to the choir or shouting into the void.  Our audience consists of people who drink the kool-aid (environmentalists through consumption, who like buying new things to fix problems caused by using too many things), people who make the damn kool-aid (the companies who manufacture and distribute this stuff), and people who are suspicious of the kool-aid because they think kool-aid is a liberal conspiracy (small-town fleet managers).  I don’t feel like I get much done.
4. The work environment is as silent as a cathedral  (only without windows), so I actually don’t get much done.  The newsroom noise this summer ruined me forever, and now I can only be productive if there’s some kind of low-level chatter in the background and people to chat with every so often.  My office mate likes quiet, and there’s little interoffice visiting that seems to happen.  This week I have been making progress with the NPR-low-in-one-earbud strategy, but it’s less than ideal.  I don’t like NPR that much.  Some days I get more done on the bus than in the office.
5. As previously mentioned, the commute sucks.  Also, only one other member of the group I work with — the clean transportation group, mind you – takes the bus.  One does, however, own a Prius, and the others “drive efficient cars.”  This does not console me.  Let’s be fully honest here about my bus-taking motives, though.  I don’t do it out of the fuzzy green goodness of my heart.  I do it because I can’t actually afford the gas.  Reference item #1.
6. My second job, as a freelance writer, is much more awesome.  Therefore, in my deluded brain, every hour I’m at this job is an hour in which I could be writing sciencey things.  My brain does a poor job factoring in how much harder it would be to get by if I were writing full-time with the limited contacts and clips I have, so for now, my brain gets told to stuff it.  It still whines, though.

So there you have it.  I am not a fan.  It’s only 6 months, though, at which point I will have hopefully found a job I really like, have made enough contacts to pay bills by writing full-time, or the partner will have found a job he really likes.  Let’s hope.

I wasn’t even supposed to be in today.  I stay home and write on Fridays.  But because today was the only day we could have that super-important meeting that only took 30 minutes (seriously?  no 30 minute window anywhere else?), I had the commute from hell, and to add insult to injury, didn’t even really get any writing done.

I hate you, but thanks for paying me, Lady Quantum

Despite what you are texting to your friend, “the white lady” next to you — me, that is — does not, in fact, “think you are contagious or something.”

Have you never ridden a bus before?  It is generally considered polite to stay out of a seat mate’s personal space as much as is feasible.  When one’s seat mate is large or is rudely taking up more than half of the bench — like you are, for instance — that sometimes involves hanging out into the aisle a bit.

Also, let’s do a reality check here.  If I am close enough to unintentionally see your text messages, I’m not treating you like you’re contagious.  Choosing to stand instead of occupying the half-seat worth of space you left me (asshole) would be treating you like you’re contagious.

While I am sorry that you apparently have reason to think professionally-dressed white women would treat you like you’re contagious, I am nonetheless offended that you assume it.  And I’m especially offended that you wouldn’t scoot over further on a packed bus.

Kindly go to hell, Lady Quantum

——————————————————–

Dear TTA,

When a bus is scheduled for 4:27 p.m., it’s generally polite for the bus to arrive within a 15 minute window of 4:27 p.m.

Or to arrive at all.

Because nobody is happy when two buses’ worth of rush-hour commuters are packed onto one bus.  Especially not my surly seat mate, it would seem.

My sincere thanks for a miserable commute, Lady Quantum

——————————————————–

Dear Dook,

I understand that you regularly schedule athletic events, and that sometimes these events necessitate the closure of campus roads.

Major crosstown thoroughfares are not campus roads.  Please do not park your little flashing-light parking truck in the middle of the motherfucking road, and especially do not yell at me for pulling a u-turn when I come up against your little flashing-light parking truck.  Where the fuck was I supposed to go?  Into your parking lot?  Go to hell.

Further, your traffic signs that are designed to warn unsuspecting drivers of upcoming events and direct traffic have been stuck on “IRON DUKES PASS SECOND LEFT” for a month.  This is extremely unhelpful.

I wish you a thousand defeats.  I would wish them anyway, but now I’m doing it more vehemently.

Please fuck off and die, Lady Quantum

——————————————————–

Dear drivers of Durham,

The speed limit on NC 751 is 55 mph, not 35 mph.  Please observe it, because some of us have been trying to get home for more than two hours and are really fucking pissed.

Have a terrible weekend, Lady Quantum

Last night, a NY Times writer and award-winning author and blogger added me on Google+.  Now I just need to actually use that profile for something.  And, well, yeah, write something ever again.  The good thing about being employed?  I get a paycheck and insurance.  The bad thing about being employed?  I don’t have much time to write.

But for now, I can just be star-struck.  It’s kind of like being added by Lady Gaga.

One way, door-to-door in light traffic, driving takes 45 minutes, assuming I can find a parking spot that doesn’t require a permit across the street from my office (typically — but not always — a valid assumption). It also assumes that there’s no fiery accident on I-40, which is not a very good assumption really.

One way, door-to-door right now, the bus takes 1 hour, 20 minutes, assuming again I can find a parking spot without a permit at the park-and-ride (true if I arrive for the 7:40am bus) and that I walk the mile from the stop to my office. I am planning on parking a shitty bike (<$30) at the stop and using it to get back and forth, as soon as I have time to buy one. This should cut it to 1 hour, 5 minutes.

So, this week, taking the bus was 35 minutes longer one way. If I spent all of that time working for my miserably low-paid (but with benefits!) job, I would make $8.75, or an extra $17.50 a day. If I spent that time writing freelance science articles, I could make something ranging from $0 to about $40 every day. Clearly, the economics of driving win here.

But what all of this ignores is that on the bus, I actually do have about 35 minutes in which I could be doing useful work (assuming it’s not a wifi bus and I spent that time reading comics on the internet). On Wednesday, I used it productively in the morning, but the rest of the week I was just reading Malcolm Gladwell’s “What the Dog Saw” and learning about ketchup and creative genius and the guy who invented birth control (awesome read). Anyway, if I were motivated, I could easily make up the lost time by being useful, and after I get a bike, if I’m useful I’ll actually be gaining 15 minutes of productive time every day by riding the bus.

Another thing this opportunity cost calculation ignores is that I only depart my house at 7:15am if I’m taking the bus. If I’m driving, I use that extra 35 minutes to hit snooze three times because I forgot to reset my alarm clock from when I took the bus the day before. So it’s not even sleep that’s worth anything except the comfort of lingering half-awake in warm blankets.

But mostly, what all of this means for certain is that I need a job closer to home.  Sigh.

Guess what?  My commute is now cheaper if I take the bus, even if I were to pay full fare instead of using my employer-sponsored bus pass.

Here’s the math.  These calculations assume I paid $3.39/gallon in gas (the price I last paid at the pump), and that I was getting 31 mpg (my usual mileage in my ’96 Camry).

• Driving, my commute is 30.9 miles each way.  That’s 2 x (30.9 miles x $3.39 per gallon ÷ 31 mpg), a total cost of $6.76 every day.
• Using the park-and-ride, I drive 6.4 miles from my house to the bus station.  I walk or bike from the stop to my office.  That’s 2 x ($2.50 in bus fare + 6.4 miles x $3.39 per gallon ÷ 31 mpg), a total cost of $6.40 every day.
• Because my employer pays for my bus pass, the park-and-ride’s actual cost to me is $1.40 every day.
• Or, because I like working in differences, riding the bus saves me $5.36 every single day.  That’s $26.80 a week, or $107.20 every month.  Over the course of the six months this job lasts (ah, grant funded positions), riding the bus has the potential to save me almost $650.
• Even if I carpooled with one other person (I drove every other day), and even if I assume I didn’t have to drive out of my way at all to do so, riding the bus would still be almost $3 cheaper per day.  Insanity.

Yay simple math.  I was inspired to take a break from reading lots of transportation statistics and cost-benefit fact sheets and run the numbers (my new job is doing some education and outreach for a clean transportation group, so I’m spending a lot of time familiarizing myself with our existing literature).  Perhaps I’ll be back later with the more complex emissions comparison, if I feel inspired.

Okay, maybe it’s just me.

But then you actually just grit your teeth and look away and hit “SEND” on the email doing this scary thing?  And you sweat and sweat and sweat …

… until the answer comes back: “Yes!  Please!  Do write lots and lots for us and we will pay you money!  We love you and miss you and want your byline in our paper!  I’ve attached a contract so we’ll be ready to go!”

Yeah, so now I feel silly.  But mostly just awesome.

I was absolutely terrified of trying to get my bearings as a freelance and putting myself out there for the first time, but some excellent advice I got from one of the ex-staff writers at the regional paper combined with the confidence boost of having people welcome me wholeheartedly at a writing conference made me finally just suck it up and do it.  And now I’m feeling pretty glad I did.

It’s been a good week.  Except I’m getting sick and the start date for my new job got pushed back again, but other than that, a good week.

But just for you, internet, I skipped the first session this morning, slept in, and am now enjoying a delicious breakfast at a very crowded coffee shop and bakery, enjoying a cappuccino and a biscuit with veggie gravy.  At least, you can pretend it was just for you and not for my sanity if it makes you feel special.

My leisurely breakfast experience this morning actually prompted this post.  You see, I was interrupted (politely) by some folks attending my conference, who wanted to introduce themselves and tell me how much they enjoyed my talk the other night.  My entire conference experience so far, it turns out, is full of moments like this.

Why?  Because my talk was insane.  I was one of only ten people (out of hundreds who write and talk for a living) who signed up for this crazy session on Friday evening.  The premise?  You have exactly five minutes to give your schpiel about whatever you like related to the theme of the conference … but you must use 20 slides, which will auto-advance every 15 seconds whether you’re ready or not.  It is the 50 meter hurdles of public speaking.

And apparently, I rocked it.  I picked a very silly personal story, which was a) suited to the format, and b) strange enough to be memorable.  And I was full of migraine meds and had only had short airplane naps in the 20 hours before I spoke, so I was thoroughly goofy and excitable.

I mostly signed up to do this just because I smelled a challenge (speaking to people who get paid to write and speak? in the craziest format ever? yeah, I’m in), and I thought it would be fun.  It was lots of fun indeed.

But the best part is that it’s made my life ever so much easier.  I’m a terrible networker, always losing my nerve when I want to go introduce myself to people.  Now that half the conference knows my weird story, half the conference is coming up randomly to tell me they enjoyed it, how weird it was, and, perhaps most importantly, to introduce themselves.  People may remember only one totally useless fact about me (that I’m allergic to hamburgers), but they remember me.  And that is absolutely everything in this field.

So listen up, people who are as bad at networking as me: next time you go to a conference, find a way to do something weird and memorable.  Fill your talk or poster with little oddities.  Wear an awesome hat.  Sign up to do something weird.  It’s a bit nervewracking to put yourself out that way, but it’s only doing it for a short time.  For me, that’s way easier than the constant stress of “am I meeting enough people? should I go talk to that person over there? ohgodwhatdoIdoIhavetobetalking!”