#(also my god Utah is so fucking hot I was not prepared enough)

[littleragondin]

Oooooh I forgot how helpless you feel when you get to a new lab and you are unfamiliar with the layout, how things are stored/organized, and the little tricks to use the machines.

I am. So lost. 😭😭

[philjacobsen-blog]

Antarctica. How I learned to stop worrying and love the isolation.

I put on my gloves and face mask like I had done every day for the past six months. I wanted to protect myself, be safe and I wanted to be healthy. No, I wasn’t a prepper preparing for the end of the world and/or the coronavirus, I lived in Antarctica.

From 2002 to 2018, I spent over six years of my life working and living in Antarctica. Math might tell you that looks like “16 years,” but Antarctica works on a different schedule.

Scientists and contract laborers (like myself) have been limited to work a maximum of 14 months straight in Antarctica. Because, after 14 months of isolation, it has been said, “You might lose your mind.” Therefore, four weeks, six weeks, or eight weeks of coronavirus quarantine is like a walk on the frozen ocean.

Everyone loves Top 10 lists, but first, here is the background of life in Antarctica.

There are two different seasons in Antarctica: summer and Winter. For the laymen, that’s when it’s light 24 hours a day (summer) and then when it’s dark 24 hours a night (Winter). It’s not by accident that “Winter” is capitalized and “summer” is in lowercase. This is because you need to respect Winter.

I have spent four Winters in Antarctica. While there have been changes to the Winter schedule, when I Wintered in Antarctica at McMurdo Station, the largest of the three American bases on the 7th Continent, a plane with all of our friends, hopes, dreams and escape plans left in February. The next time we would see the lights of a plane in the sky would be in August.

In other words, shit got real when that last plane left. We had to trust we had enough food, talent and toilet paper to last us until the end of August. This is because, as the saying goes, “If we don’t have it, then you don’t need it. And, you don’t need it, because we don’t have it.”

If you run out of chicken, then you eat pork. When you run out of pork, you eat lamb, when you run out of lamb, you eat hamsters--hamsters are, what we called, microwavable breaded (or deep fried) ham and cheese Hot Pockets™®.

In other words, the grocery stores are open; quit panicking. When you’re outside, hoping your squirrel trap has been bountiful today, this is the time to panic. However, today, it’s not minus 45 degrees outside. Walmart will be restocked soon, put on your mask and gloves and purchase only what you need. Then go home.

And, if Walmart is out of toilet paper, hook a garden hose to your faucet and clean your ass, and be happy your water supply doesn’t give you frostbite.

It’s going to be fine.

In Antarctica, we were living like it was Gilligan’s Island, “No phone, no lights, no motorcar, not a single luxury.” The only difference was we had phones, lights and motorcars, but when we went outside it was minus 45 –degrees—not a luxury. Stay inside on your couch and be happy that when you do go outside to take out the trash, walk the dog or mow your lawn, you’re not getting third degree frostbite and having your toes cut off.

This little piggy went to the market. This little piggy watches Netflix. This little piggy stays home.

Speaking of movies and TV shows, my good God, we would have loved to have had Netflix, bootlegged versions of Game of Thrones, YouTube or Facebook in Antarctica. Instead, the entirety of McMurdo’s bandwidth is mostly for Science.

Rarely could I “LOL” with my friends on Facebook or “YOLO” with spring breakers at the beach. Nope, Science is the priority in Antarctica.

Science, I tell you. A bunch of people, who we called “Beakers,” is the entire reason McMurdo Station exists. These Scientist are in Antarctica to prove or disprove Global Warming and/or can penguins fly and/or are penguins cute. Generally, they proved it, but why listen to scientists?

Scientists went to school and studied stuff, but have they ever studied the “economy” or “Facebook?” Can you imagine an entire community who listens to scientists? Oh wait, you can? Possibly because we’re in a global pandemic? Yeah, listen to scientists?

During my Winters in Antarctica, I could go days and only see the one person who I worked with, and guess what? I hated him.

In the community, we called him “Skin Suit.” This was his nickname because, even though he passed his battery of psychological examinations, which are required in order to Winter-Over in Antarctica, he said to Suzy—a la “Silence of the Lambs.”

“I wish I could wear your skin, so I could touch you all day.”

So, there I was, working at the bottom of the world, with Jame “Buffalo Bill” Gume as my coworker for six months, in total darkness, and do you want to know how I got along with him (aside from the one time I threw hot coffee in his face)? I complimented his outfits. I tried to look for the positive in the people who surround me.

My first job in Antarctica, I was a dishwasher. I left my home, friends and a girlfriend to seek this adventure. I’m still happy with two out of three of those decisions.

The first year I spent in Antarctica there was a “Dishwasher Emergency” at the South Pole (850 miles from the sea level solitude of McMurdo). Just like we need grocery store employees, drive through food and universal health care, the South Pole needed a dishwasher—and they chose me.

The South Pole is located at 9,301 feet above sea level. That’s not very high. When I live my life in my hometown of Salt Lake City, I live at 4,327 feet above sea level. I have climbed high mountains in Utah, like Mt. Timpanogos that is 11,752 feet and Mt. Nebo that is 11,928 ft. I’m not healthy, but I’m also not fat.

When I was asked to work at the “high altitude” of 9,301 feet of the South Pole, I said, “Okay. I’ve done that.”

However, what I didn’t know, was that because the South Pole is at “The South Fucking Pole” it’s not just about the altitude. The South Pole has a variance of altitude because of the Earth’s centrifugal force which makes the South Pole seem much higher than the actual 9,301 feet. At times it can feel, because of lack of oxygen, as though you are over 12 or 13 thousand feet.

Before going to the South Pole, the doctors and scientists said I should take “prophylactic acetazolamide” to combat the feelings of high altitude sickness. However, my friend Donald said, “You’ll be ‘okay.’” He said that since he was from Colorado and I was from Utah, that I would be fine, because I was “use to the high altitude.”

I was at the South Pole for eight days. I quit taking prophylactic acetazolamide on day four, because I was feeling great. I listened to Donald.

On day eight, I nearly died. This wasn’t Utah. Because I’d lived at sea level for four months at McMurdo Station, and Donald didn’t know shit, my pulse oximeter (the amount of oxygen which should be in my blood and close to 100) was 52. I was failing breathing.

Pulmonary edema cut the oxygen supply to my brain making me think 3 + 7 = Cat. The South Pole doctor said, “Phil, you are two to four hours from death.”

All flights to the South Pole were canceled on this day, due to weather, but, due to “2 to 4 hours of death,” a C130 National Guard Airplane risked their lives and flew from McMurdo Station to rescue me at the South Pole. If not for universal Antarctica Health Care, I could be dead.

On this day, I learned I needed to listen to the scientists, and not to Donald.

This story ended up being too long. I’m sorry. I’ve lived through isolation, listened to friends, instead of the medical community, and somehow I’m still alive. How did Antarctica prepare me for the isolation of the coronavirus?

1: Do something today better than you did yesterday. Did you go to bed sooner? Wake up earlier? Brush your cat?

2: Exercise. In Antarctica my exercise routine was called, “Brushing the Dust Off of David.” There is no reason to take a hammer and chisel to David. All you need to do is to take a wet cloth and brush off the dust. Do 10 sit ups, pushups, or jog in place. Be happy with who you are, and barely maintain. If you set higher expectations, you might fail. Simply, brush the dust off of your personal David.

3: Do something better today than you did yesterday. There were many times in Antarctica I got more drunk on Friday than I did on Thursday. I’m not advocating alcoholism, but lower your expectations. Don’t look for perfection when a glass of wine might do.

4: Did you make your bed after you woke up? Some days you will go to bed and your biggest accomplishment will be, “I made that bed today.” Congratulations.

5: Groundhog Day. Every day may seem like yesterday, but, how did you make it different? In Antarctica, after six months of Winter the trash shelves are lined with “Learn ‘This Language’ in 30 Days” DVDs. Nobody accomplishes a lot during the isolation of Winter. But, if we do little, then that is a lot.

6: Communication. Does your phone work? In Antarctica, no one can call us, so we have to call out. Instead of waiting for ‘that phone call.’ Make it.

7: Don’t go outside. It’s too cold. In the Covid-19 case, it’s too dangerous. My dad goes to dialysis three times a week; please don’t kill him. Don’t go outside.

8: Appreciate your pets. In Antarctica we are not allowed to have pets. I started the “Antarctica Cat Club.” All we did was share photos of our cats from home that we wished to be with. Now, we get to live a cat’s life. Nap. Eat. Shit. Nap. Clean. Nap. Eat. Repeat.

Love your pets you lucky sons of bitches.

9: Art. Be creative. Rather you’re by yourself or preferably, with only yourself. Do something artistic. For instance, today, I chose to write this Manifesto. In Antarctica a group of us recreated the (drunk) history of the race to South Pole by Roald Amundsen and Robert Scott (https://vimeo.com/35084075). What will you or your isolated group create?

10: Know that it ends. A plane will come and take you away or scientists will tell you it’s safe to go outside. And then, it’s over. You take off your mask and gloves. You shop at a grocery store, you go to a movie, you hug your parents or, you love being able to hold those who you love.

Stay warm. Stay isolated. And, stay indoors.

[thoshebebutlittle319]

Johnny. The safest hug. The loyalist heart. The only human cigarettes ever smelled good on. He is a protector. My surrogate brother. And the most formidable Sudoku opponent I have ever known. The only person that reduces me to tears of joy simply by entering the room. When I first met Johnny, there was no mistaking his blatant distrust of my friendly Midwestern charm. It was March 2010. I was just two weeks off the boat, an Iowa transplant in picturesque, but foreign Chester, Connecticut lands. The Pattaconk Bar and Grill served as the mid-point between work and home and since I didn’t know a soul in New England, it seemed a convenient spot to start making my mark on this little town. "Why do you always drink cider?" "I can't drink your beer, I have Celiac's disease," I explained. "What the fuck is that," Johnny’s eyes narrowed with skepticism. "It's a gluten allergy, I can't have anything with wheat flour," I said plainly, bracing myself for his condescension. His eyes rolled. "Jeez, so you're one of those people," he huffed, returning back into the kitchen. I had lost the battle. But I would not lose the war. My stepfather had warned me about New Englanders. "They're cold," he explained, "This will be a change for you." But my warm Midwestern charm had already melted the icy facade of one New Englander....and it just happened to be Johnny's best friend. I knew if my romantic fling should continue, this was one New Englander I needed to win over. I was not prepared to remain unliked by the Kitchen Manager of my favorite after work hang out for long. It was the end of April. The buds of the flowering trees in front of my Village Knoll apartment building were beginning to open, thanks to the generosity of seasonal temperatures. I stepped out of my apartment in a sundress and sandals, filled with a sense of signature springtime optimism. I made the mile and a half walk to the Pattaconk and sat down a couple bar stools away from Johnny. My new beau, Bobby was behind the bar and his buddy Jym walked through the door and sat down next to me. "Are you excited for May Day,” I asked, smiling from ear to ear. Johnny, Jym and Bobby looked me like I was speaking some foreign Midwest language. "May Day, like when you're calling for help," Jym inquired. "Ummm....no. Like May Day. Like the 1st of May when you leave your friends cups of candy at their front door and then run away before getting caught." The boys erupted with laughter. "You have to be the strangest person I've ever met," Johnny dismissed me and disappeared into his kitchen safe house once again. I left the bar that night, gleefully accepting my new mission. I walked to the Adams in downtown Deep River and bought gummy warms, Oreos and all the required May Day childhood fixings. I may never be a New Englander, but at the very least, I would not be ignored. These New Englanders would learn to love me. The next day, I showed up at the bar with an unusually large purse and waited for all the opportune moments to surprise my would-be friends with their May Day baskets. Bobby was easy of course. He smiled, laughed and gave me a kiss on the forehead. Jym blushed with embarrassment at the shock of a small cup of candy on his barstool after returning from the bathroom. Johnny slipped behind the bar to cash out one of his regulars and nearly walked right into a perfectly executed Midwestern May Day basket hanging on a tap handle. I couldn't hide my smirk. Johnny couldn't hide his smile. He grabbed my May Day basket, walked over to my side of the bar and dropped it in front of me. "I don't like sweets," he said, grabbed his beer and walked over to the jukebox. I wish I could say the May Day basket was my golden ticket. I wish I could say it only took a small cup of candy to win over Johnny. But nothing truly worth having is ever quite that easy. As most flings do, Bobby and I fizzled out by the end of June. Although I no longer needed Johnny’s acceptance to maintain a romantic interest, I refused to let some fizzled out fling rob me of the only place in New England that felt like home. I did not quit. In fact, I came more often. Every day after work, I would stop in to the Pattaconk, drink a cider, talk with the locals and say hello to Bobby and Johnny. It was a Sunday in the middle of July, and I was in the heat of tech week. I had been locked in a kitchen, cooking breakfast, lunch and dinner for New York City's most entitled chorus girls and I had had my fill. I showed up at the Pattaconk at 10:30pm, wearing shorts, a sweaty t-shirt and a ratty Iowa football hat, my face puffy and smeared with makeup from the hot summer day...and there was Jym and Johnny...at the end of the bar, watching a Red Sox game. They took one look at me. "You look like shit," Jym said. I couldn't hold back the tears. Johnny left his bar stool and poured a cider and two shots of Blackhaus. "Let's go outside," he told me. I followed Johnny onto the patio. He pulled out a chair for me, lit a cigarette and raised his shot glass. "Cheers," we clinked and I winced at the blackberry burn of the Blackhaus in the back of my throat. "Feel better?" he joked. I tried to smile through the tears. "So what's going on?" "You really want to know," his concern, although welcomed, took some adjusting to. "Of course," he said, "We all need someone to cry to." And just like that, a bond was formed. I talked about the homesickness. The loneliness. The heartbreak of realizing your childhood dream would go unrealized. And he listened. Bought me another shot. And listened some more. Next thing I knew it was 1am and the two of us were drunk off Blackhaus, laughing uncontrollably at Tim Wakefield’s batting average. Summer cooled into fall and fall cooled even further into winter. Every Thursday, Friday and Saturday, I would be at the Pattaconk at 7:30 sharp. Johnny was waiting at the end of the bar, a book of Sudoku’s in hand. "You ready to get smoked again?" "Whatever, Johnny. You can't get lucky every night." It’s been 7 years and I have yet to win a single Sudoku match. This was our weekend routine. Sudoku’s, ciders, Blackhaus and unlimited credits on the jukebox. The regulars would close out their tabs and retire for the evening. Johnny would close the kitchen, Bobby would clean the bar and I would help him with his pull for the night. Bobby would lock up, yawn and say good night. But Johnny, even in the dead of winter, stumbling and drunk, had no intention of allowing me to walk home alone. For Sunday Night Football, Johnny would make personalized gluten free pizzas for me, pepperoni, mushroom and jalapeno, as the boys devoured their wings and beer. Johnny shut down the kitchen early enough to catch the 4th quarter with me and the boys. “How’s the pizza?” “Terrible as usual.” I was even speaking New England sarcasm fluently. Johnny bought us a round of Blackhaus. “Guess who you’re meeting next week?” “Oh god, don’t tell me you’re seeing another actor,” Johnny groaned. He perpetually disapproved of any man in my life other than Bobby. “You’re funny,” I smirked. “I just so happens you’re going to meet my sister. And you’re going to like her.” “Oh Goood, you’re telling me there’s two of you???” My sister was in grad school in Salt Lake City, UT and was finally making the journey east to experience what all this New England fuss was about. I picked her up from the airport and took her straight to the Pattaconk, raving about our pending order of Johnny’s gluten free wings and french fries. I walked through the door at the Pattaconk, my sister following behind me. Johnny had just walked out of the kitchen, grumbling with his usual New England cynicism…but stopped dead in his tracks as soon as he laid eyes on my sister. I knew that her blue eyes, bouncy blonde hair and pure Midwestern sweetness would be no match for Johnny. She melted him from the inside out. The weekend we all spent together was the happiest I’d ever seen him. It was clear to me that his distrust of Midwestern friendliness was a thing of the past. My sister’s visit to New England was also a turning point for me as well. I had pushed myself outside any comfort zone I’d ever created and forged a family unit inside an inconspicuous drinking hole in small town Connecticut. But it did not trump the bond I shared with my big sister. The weekend after she left, I sat alone at the Pattaconk late Sunday night. I could see Johnny in the kitchen, wiping down the prep station. He turned off the light and saw me at the end of the bar. He came over, a sad smile on his face and gave me the longest, tightest hug. “You’re going to Utah, aren’t you?” I smiled back at him, trying not to cry. And nodded yes. “You need your sister,” he said, with a tight, brave smile. “And I know she needs you too.” “And don’t even cry about it because you’re coming back. This is where you belong.” A man of few words, but all the right ones. The morning before my departure that February morning, Bobby and Johnny dropped me off at my apartment. Johnny lit a cigarette and dug his hands in his coat pockets. He walked over, held me tight and wiped the tears from my cheeks. “You cry all the time.” I laughed. “You know I love you.” “Not as much as I love you.” As the years have gone by, Johnny is still the safest place I’ve ever known. Still the kindest heart, the warmest hug. The brother I never had. He would buy me Blackhaus for every victory and ridicule me mercilessly every time I cried over some defeat. He is a true soulmate. There is not a day that goes by that I don’t thank the Universe for leading me into that bar my first two weeks in New England. My life would simply not be the same had that day never happened. Home is not always a place, but sometimes a person. And that is the most beautiful gift of all.