I just happen to have there, in the top left drawer: a toothbrush, some toothpaste, a comb, hydrating lotion, sunscreen, mints, some stupid antibacterial hand spray, some lens cleaner (useful for both glasses and monitors), lip balm, ibuprofen, and a small pocket mirror (given to me by one of these big computer science companies who think that this is an appropriate way to attract women).

In the bottom left drawer: some utensils, tea (Earl Grey and English Breakfast), cereal bars, fruit snacks, dark chocolate, and caramels. (The caramels are made with salted butter and come from Brittany and these little mongrels are delicious.) And a tennis ball for self massages.

On the desk behind me: an extra sweater.

In the fridge: lunch leftovers, yogurts.

The kitchen has a kettle and an ample supply of cold and hot water, coffee, and coffee filters.

I have speakers and headphones (for when my office mate is in), postcards of Paris on the wall, and on the desk a box of tissues, a calendar, a photo I took of the Eiffel Tower, the birthday card I got from my lab mates ("May your Brightest wish come true for you!" is the pre-written text — one of them edited "wish" in "wishes"), an original drawing by Aurélia Dalma herself, a little cow my mom got me in Greece, and a postcard from Florida. I have apparently taken the habit of stacking wedding invitations and thank you notes behind this view of a sand beach complete with palm tree, blue ocean, and a pelican.

I also have three cups (the Ubuntu one is for coffee, the one from the company I interned at last summer is for water, and the one from the conference I attended in December is for tea), a water bottle and a travel cup (mostly used for the 99¢ refills at the nearest coffee shop on the rare days we run out of coffee or on these more frequent occasions when I am too lazy to make my own).

And let's not forget my lumbar back massager ("with heat!" exclaims the manual).

I guess I just spend a lot of time in here.

And anyway, the guys next door have a talking pen and a screaming monkey. Let's just say that Friday afternoons can be interesting.

Recently, an alumni from my lab visited us and gave a (very nice, I must say) talk about his work, which was followed by a discussion session between him and us students.

There was a rather unreal moment during which he, born and raised in Southern California and having never left it before eight months ago, advocated for traveling and exploring new locations in front of a room full of expatriates and people having moved from various places in the US to join our university. But that's not what I wanted to talk about.

This guy has always been passionate about science. I actually don't think I've ever met anybody who was as excited by new ideas and results as him. So that was a recurring theme in his speech; how a PhD was the opportunity of falling in love with science; how academia would not let you down if you really loved science.

Which led me to wonder.

Do I love science?

I like it. I like it a lot. There are times when it makes me prance around high-fiving my labmates, but there are also times when it makes me cry, and, more to the point, times when I'm just, meh, beautiful day isn't it, seen any good movie recently?

I get passionate about it, certainly. But do I get passionate enough? Isn't science less of the love of my life and more of a booty call? Picture me in my lab's corridor, yelling at a labmate: "but what if science is just a fucking buddy? Shall I still go for it?" Yes, the guys are considering keeping a bottle of cognac in the lab to help deal with my last year — I'm not quite sure whether they plan to make me drink to calm me down, or drink themselves to bear with me. Probably both.

So I'm having this stupid argument with science, trying to figure out how much exactly I love it, in the best "it's not you, it's me" tradition. Except that science doesn't even talk back.

Bitch.

I can write all I want about how commercial and artificial Valentine's day is, what with its sappy cards, overly sweet chocolates, pink hearts and red roses.

I can write all I want about how much I abhor the "Every kiss begins with Kay" commercials. They're not even pretending not to be sexist, it's so obviously implying women can and should be bought, it just makes me want to puke.

I can write all I want about how inept people and stores and social norms makes you feel for being single, especially around Valentine's day, how unacceptable it is for a person to be single and happy at the same time, and how it usually makes me smirk because, what do they know.

But at the end of the day, at the end of this day, which was, by the way, a rather good day, filled with sunshine and work getting done and notes of self satisfaction, there's a general outpouring of love and romance, while I can barely remember what having a crush on someone feels like. And despite my supportive friends and loving family, despite my usually finding that being single can be exactly as much fun and happiness as being in a couple, I am feeling excessively lonely and inadequate.

On top of which, I have reached the point where I am lamenting on my blog about not having a boyfriend, which is probably an all time low.

I hope you're proud of yourselves, fuckers.

Of Modern Art

"Oh, is that Kandinsky? I like it!" the young woman said.

"Yep. Mit und gegen, as a matter of fact," the other woman replied.

"Meh. I'm not really into it. Modern art is not my thing, I guess," said the young man sitting with them.

The second woman shrugged her shoulders. "Oh, you know, I think about eighty percent of what's in contemporary museums is crap. But I really like the remaining 20 percent. And this Kandinsky is really nice."

"So," the young man replied, "what does this painting tell you?"

"It doesn't tell me anything. It's pretty. I enjoy looking at it. It doesn't need to tell me anything. See, I'm less demanding with my works of art than with my men."

Got up with a headache (that happens when you cry your eyes out the night before, whether you have a valid reason for it or not). Chatted a bit with the roommate in the bathroom, showered up, got dressed. Spent too much time staring at the news with my breakfast (like, I mean, wait, what?). Paid the bills. Eventually put my ass in motion and dragged it to the office.

Did a little bit of writing. Chatted idly with the French postdoc who just came back from a holiday during which he spent 2 days in my hometown. Talked with various people on instant messenger while catching up with my favorite publications (didn't have time to go around and browse Nature nor Science. Anything of interest there lately?) and doing some reading.

Wrote some code for the first time since December 17th (actually logged onto the servers for the first time since January 6th), which was nice. Got it to run, too, at that. Wrote many results down to make reviewers happy.

Read the Daily Kos 2010 Republican poll and twittered about it because, seriously? This is wrong. You have an educational problem on your hands, America. An ugly one.

Caught up with a labmate (mostly learned no results were in yet because he was in the hospital until 3 am with the guy who fractured his tibia playing soccer; already knew about the soccer accident and had already guessed about the consequences, so, very little added value except for the always appreciated social component^[1]).

Remembered to have lunch! At some point, glanced down to my pretty purple shoes and smiled.

Went to the baby shower organized downstairs for our financial analyst. Had a piece of cheesecake and some coffee. Had a typical conversation with Advisor and my labmates (phone plans, voip, iPad jokes, etc^[2].)

Starting writing a review for a relatively good (but somehow missing a very important — to my eyes — experimental part) paper, sent a few emails.

Went to a meeting to present a request for the (partial) funding of a dance party, said request wasn't put to vote because of ridiculous administrative shenanigans. Cursed internally, a lot, and asked for this hour and a half of my life back.

Went home, and here I am.

I have to go do the laundry now.

And make dinner. Dinner is good.

Of Fathers

"I got emancipated from my father as soon as it was legally possible," the young woman said. "And then I was mostly raised by nannies, until my deeply religious, conservative, anti-feminist mother decided it was time she took care of me. I might have preferred living with my father."

The two other women nodded in silence.

"I seem to see so many happy families around me," she added, "and then I wonder, is it really possible?"

"We had a happy family," one of her friends replied. "And then my mother died."

"Oh, we had a happy family as well," the third woman added after a pause. "And then we found out my father had had a second family on the side for fifteen years. And he liked them better."

The young man with them put his glass down.

"Oh, wow."

I know. Most (probably all) families are fucked up one way or another. See for example over there.

Of Women's Worth

"I don't really want to hang out with that side of the family," the Asian woman with a British accent said. "They always ask why I want to go for a PhD, how am I going to find a husband, especially as haven't I been putting on a little bit of weight lately?"

"My family is more subtle," replied the European sounding woman. "They just always make comments on how nicer I look after I lose weight. Except that I don't lose weight, I just gain confidence in myself. The women in my family are all rather progressive, but most of them are still unconsciously super focused on women's appearance..."

"... because you need to get yourself a husband and keep him. Oh, icky," interrupted the first woman.

"My grandma used to send me cookies when I moved away from home," the young, definitely American man who was with them said. "So once I thanked her for it at a family gathering, and my sister asked whether she could have some as well. My grandma got up, pinched my sister's cheek, and said, 'oh, darling, we love you just like you are', which was probably the most passive aggressive thing I ever heard."

Isn't it great when people from such diverse origins find a common ground of shared experiences?

I wish I had more time to write.

Actually, I wish I had more time to write research papers and my dissertation. (Yesterday I was asked whether I had backups of my dissertation, and backups of the backups. My dissertation is three and a half pages long. I'm not very worried about losing them.)

Come to think of it, I wish I had more time to do basic things like, oh, I don't know, eating lunch. Or sleeping. Come to think of it, going to the bathroom whenever I feel like it would be a great improvement.

So, yeah, research.

And organizing a dance mixer.

And putting a swing dance club together.

Talking about putting things together, did you ever put a portable Marley floor together? Just think about 40 tiles of 2.5 foot by 2.5 foot, each of which weighing about 3 pounds. And having to lay them carefully next to each other and velcro them all together once you've carried them. And moved the tables and chair against the wall.

I solemnly announced it to my fellow swing dancers and will repeat here: never again.

Although it was worth it.

Except for the part towards the end of the evening when the elements started coming seriously apart and I tripped over. Don't trip while doing cross kicks, because your partner doesn't have a hold on you is all what I'm saying.

Anyway, great things happening.

I might even make it to the end of the week without strangling anybody. But more because I'll be too tired for it than because they won't deserve it.

Between me and my swing dance partner, the day after we both discovered West Coast Swing together (a sweet, sweet birthday present).

Me: "Dude. One could totally dance west coast to Ace of Base."

Him: "Ace of Base? You ARE old. Wait, are you texting me on a Friday night, when you know I'm with friends skiing, to tell me that?"

Me: "Can't help it if you're a kid. Like you don't enjoy telling your friends you're getting texts from the girl you held in your arms most of the evening yesterday."

Him: "I can't believe I actually missed you."

Me: "Good night, my dear. Enjoy some mulled wine for me."

Totally worth my money.

• Become a doctor
• Move back to Europe
• Do my best to be happy while doing so

I think that should be enough for a year. Optionally, I'd like to learn how to dance balboa.

A beautiful 2010 to all of you who read these pages. May it be filled with laughter, tenderness, and smiles.