So this is yet another post that contains no deep thoughts, just a nagging question: does it matter what kind of clothes I put on my baby? I have boxes of blue and green and tan baby clothes that I've saved for seven years in the basement. I've been washing these things and inspecting them, and can't convince myself to give them away. I know in advance that I will have an annoying number of people congratulating me on my "boy", just because I'll be dressing her in the wrong colors, but these are perfectly good clothes! Everytime I consider buying all new, I think of ration cards and Victory Gardens, long lines for gas and our current "mental recession", and I become unable to discard these things.
Will you be one of the people mocking me for dressing a girl in blue, with puppy dog prints?
Standby for the name- I think most people will hate it, especially the spelling which is correct, rather than convenient. We might change our minds of course, when my little Predator emerges looking more like a Martha than an Agnes, for instance.
Also standby for more consequential questions and topics, such as the Ted Stevens indictment, the America's Cup legal nightmare, the juvenile justice system, illegal immigration, and more. For now, I'm just too fatigued. Plus, I haven't solidified my thoughts well enough to present them in a fashion that will convince all and sundry that I am utterly right, and ought to be thanked for sharing my pearls of wisdom.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
S-List
All my complaints to the obstetrician have had a side effect: I've been officially labelled as a complainer. The chart they hand me to check-out with has a box labelled "complaint". I always assumed this was meant to describe the reason I was visiting the doctor. Apparently, it can also hold notes about the patient. Mine said, "Will not accept schedule for satillete c-section."
I wish it had also said, "Is annoyed by mis-spellings and doctors who don't listen."
I wish it had also said, "Is annoyed by mis-spellings and doctors who don't listen."
Friday, July 25, 2008
Optical Illusion
I've come to notice that small changes can alter appearances in major ways. This is a truisim in spy fiction and on TV, but I usually laugh at the notion that a little hair dye can help a major fugitive escape notice. But then this week, we have the Serbian war criminal caught hiding out as a new age guru with the help of a long beard. This is an interesting example of hiding in plain sight. Comparing photographs side by side makes it clear that this is the same person, but I'm sure that none of the people who met this "guru" ever thought to look at the features behind the beard. Why would you?
The Tour de France offers many entertaining examples of this phenomenon, where a helmet and reflective sunglasses entirely change the impression of a face. Behold the mighty Schleck brothers:
Marble statues come to life, with perfectly chiseled features and the promise of extraordinary beauty when the helmets are removed.
But what happened? The removal of the helmet reduces young Andy from utterly captivating to entirely ordinary, demolishing idle thoughts of jetting to Paris for the capture of this rare specimen. (Yes, yes, 9 months pregnant, happily married, no money for tickets- butt out, these are my idle thoughts.) Wouldn't look twice at this fellow with the thin neck and possible overbite, but the only difference is the hat.
I have found this transformation happening more than once, where some random hero of the race looks like an amazingly beautiful person, then finishes the ride, takes off the glasses and helmet, and turns back into a pumpkin. So my question is: are some changes more likely to make you look much better than normal? Is there something about obscuring the hairline and eyes that can convey a sheen of glamour? Does it only work with strangers, or is it effective with very familiar faces? I'm sure I could find the answers to these questions with some research, but I prefer to ponder them in ignorance. Keep an eye out for me this weekend, as I swan around town in hat and large sunglasses, posing in front of shop windows as I try to determine if I look glamorous.
The Tour de France offers many entertaining examples of this phenomenon, where a helmet and reflective sunglasses entirely change the impression of a face. Behold the mighty Schleck brothers:
Marble statues come to life, with perfectly chiseled features and the promise of extraordinary beauty when the helmets are removed.
But what happened? The removal of the helmet reduces young Andy from utterly captivating to entirely ordinary, demolishing idle thoughts of jetting to Paris for the capture of this rare specimen. (Yes, yes, 9 months pregnant, happily married, no money for tickets- butt out, these are my idle thoughts.) Wouldn't look twice at this fellow with the thin neck and possible overbite, but the only difference is the hat. I have found this transformation happening more than once, where some random hero of the race looks like an amazingly beautiful person, then finishes the ride, takes off the glasses and helmet, and turns back into a pumpkin. So my question is: are some changes more likely to make you look much better than normal? Is there something about obscuring the hairline and eyes that can convey a sheen of glamour? Does it only work with strangers, or is it effective with very familiar faces? I'm sure I could find the answers to these questions with some research, but I prefer to ponder them in ignorance. Keep an eye out for me this weekend, as I swan around town in hat and large sunglasses, posing in front of shop windows as I try to determine if I look glamorous.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Twofer
This second post in one day is a rare event, but I had to share my triumph:
I convinced the obstetricians to reschedule the c-section for a later date! I've been working on this since April or May, with no success. I don't know if they became tired of dealing with me, if they have some predetermined threshold for complaints, beyond which they begin to listen, or if someone else delivered early, but they found a time for me on my actual due date, instead of a week early.
Standby for my mortification when the kid comes early.
I convinced the obstetricians to reschedule the c-section for a later date! I've been working on this since April or May, with no success. I don't know if they became tired of dealing with me, if they have some predetermined threshold for complaints, beyond which they begin to listen, or if someone else delivered early, but they found a time for me on my actual due date, instead of a week early.
Standby for my mortification when the kid comes early.
Liberal Arts, Schmiberal Farts
I seem to think and talk a lot about articles I see in the Washington Post. This is because I use the paper as my primary news source, although not as the only or final source. So anyway, I have some thoughts about yet another piece from the Post, in this case from the Opinion section last Sunday.
One of the Metro section reporters wrote a long essay on being a black professional woman, attending an Ivy League college, how her education has affected the perception that other Americans have of her, and how her experience has been quite similar to Michelle Obama's (she thinks). This is the passage that caught my eye:
Some blacks have asked why I didn't go to Howard or another historically black college... In some instances, the choice between Harvard and Hampton can be seen as choosing to accept or reject your race. That can make an Ivy League acceptance letter seem more like a burden than a break.
But some of us still decide to go to "white" schools -- because it's a glittering line on a résumé, because we're compelled to try to own something that was once denied us, and because we hope that an Ivy League education may act as a kind of academic armor against misperceptions, assumptions and plain old bigotry. Like every other meritocrat, we're looking for an advantage, and we have particular reason to think that we may need one.
I found this immediately annoying, but had to think about why for some minutes. My usual antipathy toward this sort of thing is part of my annoyance, in that I don't understand and generally have contempt for people who define themselves by race or ethnicity. You are what you are, and you can no more "accept or reject your race" than you can your body or your soul. You've been issued one by the lottery of life, and you just get on with your life without making something so ineffable your primary focus. (Many simmering thoughts here about transgenders, but aside from noting that an operation can't change you from XX to XY, I'll leave it for another time.) However, the majority of the trouble is her list of reasons that a black person might choose to attend a white school:
1. prestige
2. barrier breaking
3. a launchpad past bigotry and assumptions of mediocrity.
Nowhere does this woman mention the primary reason that any scientist or engineer chooses a school: choice and quality of major. I feel really strongly about this, so strongly that I was angry for hours after I read the essay. I didn't choose a primarily white college for prestige or any other of her lame reasons. I chose my college because of the major that I wanted to study!
!!
!!!!
I didn't consider the demographics of the place until late in the admissions process, and then the only thing that occurred to me was that women composed less than 25% of the student body (a lot less). It wasn't until I started classes that I realized I was the only black person in the school, and I would become the first to graduate from the college. (I'll grant you that this college is where I learned that the stereotype of black people had us eating watermelon and fried chicken (thanks Bobby B. !), and that there was a certain unseemly interest in my sex life, but I forgive the second, given my own youthful indiscretions and that the same prurience extended to all the other women.)
The same consideration held for my first round of grad school, and was only slightly modified for the current go-round by geography. So it occurs to me that perhaps all the navel gazing the author indulges in is a consequence of her own field of study, that being Liberal Arts (faint horror). Maybe that tribe is predisposed to consider the culture of a school first, and the specific fields of study second. Perhaps that is logical, seeing as how an important part of what they do is think and talk and feel (stronger horror). My own people, those who think and talk and derive and leave the feelings for spare time (after drinking, gaming and sleeping), don't pick a college based on the type of people who might attend. This is a thought that just doesn't make any sense. I'm going/have gone to school to learn something specific, and so choose the school based on its ability to offer that knowledge. The race of the people teaching and learning is completely irrelevant.
So now I realize that my annoyance isn't just because this Journalism person has ignored the importance of major when choosing a college, but has presumed to speak for black professional women all over the country, and has been given a national soapbox to do so. I hate to think that any past, present or future colleague of mine might think that my choice of college was influenced primarily by the reasons she listed, or might think that my mind works like hers. I hope any that happened to read the essay understand the essential divide between her motivations (and those of her liberal arts brethren) and mine.
For most things, anyway. Did I mention I have a degree from MIT?
One of the Metro section reporters wrote a long essay on being a black professional woman, attending an Ivy League college, how her education has affected the perception that other Americans have of her, and how her experience has been quite similar to Michelle Obama's (she thinks). This is the passage that caught my eye:
Some blacks have asked why I didn't go to Howard or another historically black college... In some instances, the choice between Harvard and Hampton can be seen as choosing to accept or reject your race. That can make an Ivy League acceptance letter seem more like a burden than a break.
But some of us still decide to go to "white" schools -- because it's a glittering line on a résumé, because we're compelled to try to own something that was once denied us, and because we hope that an Ivy League education may act as a kind of academic armor against misperceptions, assumptions and plain old bigotry. Like every other meritocrat, we're looking for an advantage, and we have particular reason to think that we may need one.
I found this immediately annoying, but had to think about why for some minutes. My usual antipathy toward this sort of thing is part of my annoyance, in that I don't understand and generally have contempt for people who define themselves by race or ethnicity. You are what you are, and you can no more "accept or reject your race" than you can your body or your soul. You've been issued one by the lottery of life, and you just get on with your life without making something so ineffable your primary focus. (Many simmering thoughts here about transgenders, but aside from noting that an operation can't change you from XX to XY, I'll leave it for another time.) However, the majority of the trouble is her list of reasons that a black person might choose to attend a white school:
1. prestige
2. barrier breaking
3. a launchpad past bigotry and assumptions of mediocrity.
Nowhere does this woman mention the primary reason that any scientist or engineer chooses a school: choice and quality of major. I feel really strongly about this, so strongly that I was angry for hours after I read the essay. I didn't choose a primarily white college for prestige or any other of her lame reasons. I chose my college because of the major that I wanted to study!
!!
!!!!
I didn't consider the demographics of the place until late in the admissions process, and then the only thing that occurred to me was that women composed less than 25% of the student body (a lot less). It wasn't until I started classes that I realized I was the only black person in the school, and I would become the first to graduate from the college. (I'll grant you that this college is where I learned that the stereotype of black people had us eating watermelon and fried chicken (thanks Bobby B. !), and that there was a certain unseemly interest in my sex life, but I forgive the second, given my own youthful indiscretions and that the same prurience extended to all the other women.)
The same consideration held for my first round of grad school, and was only slightly modified for the current go-round by geography. So it occurs to me that perhaps all the navel gazing the author indulges in is a consequence of her own field of study, that being Liberal Arts (faint horror). Maybe that tribe is predisposed to consider the culture of a school first, and the specific fields of study second. Perhaps that is logical, seeing as how an important part of what they do is think and talk and feel (stronger horror). My own people, those who think and talk and derive and leave the feelings for spare time (after drinking, gaming and sleeping), don't pick a college based on the type of people who might attend. This is a thought that just doesn't make any sense. I'm going/have gone to school to learn something specific, and so choose the school based on its ability to offer that knowledge. The race of the people teaching and learning is completely irrelevant.
So now I realize that my annoyance isn't just because this Journalism person has ignored the importance of major when choosing a college, but has presumed to speak for black professional women all over the country, and has been given a national soapbox to do so. I hate to think that any past, present or future colleague of mine might think that my choice of college was influenced primarily by the reasons she listed, or might think that my mind works like hers. I hope any that happened to read the essay understand the essential divide between her motivations (and those of her liberal arts brethren) and mine.
For most things, anyway. Did I mention I have a degree from MIT?
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Je ne sais quoi
Deep in July, I am revelling in my favorite sporting event of the year, the Tour de France. I have tried and failed to explain my fascination before, all I can really say is that every year my interest grows with my knowledge. Despite the claims of the cynics, there is more to it than the spectacle of 180 fit men in spandex, muscles flexing in cadence (although that may be a small part of the show). It may be similar to my love of other non-team sports: I understand the fundamentals, I can do the activity myself with small effort, I understand how difficult it is to achieve excellence at the sport. This holds true for swimming, tennis, sailing, gardening (not a sport, but sometimes competitive). Anyway, we are at stage 12, and every night is 3 hours of TV watching bliss.
The only fly in my ointment, apart from a nagging guilt that I am watching so much TV when I spend the rest of the year not doing so, is the drug issue. Pro-cycling has public doping scandals with tedious frequency. The upside is that this only occurs because cycling authorities test athletes regularly and publish the results. The downside is that this testing regime has not yet dissuaded everyone from trying to dope. So we have yet another Tour where an entire team has withdrawn from the competition because their star has tested positive. Another rider was caught with chemicals and syringes in his hotel room, which is seriously blatant.
The difficulty I have with this is that I seem to be a cycling optimist: I find it very hard to believe that any rider could be so stupid as to use illegal drugs when they know they will be tested. The best riders, the ones who win points and stages, know that they will be tested immediately after the win, so doping would be stupid, illogical and nearly impossible to conceal; therefore, high profile riders who test positive during the Tour must be victims of inaccurate tests. Of course, this logic holds together only if the riders are intelligent (unproven) and know for sure that they will face regular testing that will detect whatever fancy stuff they want to use. When riders are caught, I can either believe my fantasy that the tests are bad, or that the riders are dumb, or that the riders really believe that their concoction will beat the tests. While it may be that options 2 and 3 are the most likely, I'm attracted to option 1 like a kid to cotton candy: insubstantial but delicious.
I may have to let go of my staunch belief in the integrity of cyclists (where did this belief come from? I truly don't know, and it doesn't extend to other sports- I'm talking to you, track and field and baseball), but I don't really want to. I want to keep the special feeling that I get in July, when I'm mesmerized by herculean efforts in the mountain stages, and enthralled with the mental discipline of the time trials. And I still believe in Floyd.
The only fly in my ointment, apart from a nagging guilt that I am watching so much TV when I spend the rest of the year not doing so, is the drug issue. Pro-cycling has public doping scandals with tedious frequency. The upside is that this only occurs because cycling authorities test athletes regularly and publish the results. The downside is that this testing regime has not yet dissuaded everyone from trying to dope. So we have yet another Tour where an entire team has withdrawn from the competition because their star has tested positive. Another rider was caught with chemicals and syringes in his hotel room, which is seriously blatant.
The difficulty I have with this is that I seem to be a cycling optimist: I find it very hard to believe that any rider could be so stupid as to use illegal drugs when they know they will be tested. The best riders, the ones who win points and stages, know that they will be tested immediately after the win, so doping would be stupid, illogical and nearly impossible to conceal; therefore, high profile riders who test positive during the Tour must be victims of inaccurate tests. Of course, this logic holds together only if the riders are intelligent (unproven) and know for sure that they will face regular testing that will detect whatever fancy stuff they want to use. When riders are caught, I can either believe my fantasy that the tests are bad, or that the riders are dumb, or that the riders really believe that their concoction will beat the tests. While it may be that options 2 and 3 are the most likely, I'm attracted to option 1 like a kid to cotton candy: insubstantial but delicious.
I may have to let go of my staunch belief in the integrity of cyclists (where did this belief come from? I truly don't know, and it doesn't extend to other sports- I'm talking to you, track and field and baseball), but I don't really want to. I want to keep the special feeling that I get in July, when I'm mesmerized by herculean efforts in the mountain stages, and enthralled with the mental discipline of the time trials. And I still believe in Floyd.
Monday, July 07, 2008
De Nile
I love that corny saying, "You must be Egyptian, because you are living in denial." It always makes me laugh, just like my trusty old Homer jokes (the blind greek poet)(What did Homer say about reading and writing? It's all Greek to me!)(What did Homer say about Australia? It's all reef to me!)(Seriously, laughing already). So anyway, I know I'm in denial, and now I think my advisor is too.
My particular problem is preparing for this new baby. No stroller, crib across town with a friend, no clue where the bassinet is, no bottles, a couple random packs of diapers of unknown size, no newborn clothes for girls (but a basement full of boy stuff, randomly stacked up), and no real sense of urgency. This is very different from the first time. I'm guessing that either things will come together now, or 3 years from now, no big. The only thing that really must get sorted out in the next 3 weeks or so is a name. I'm rather enjoying the zen of not speculating on names, but I can see that this peaceful feeling might flash over into irritation on day T+1, when the kid still doesn't have a name. Might have to harsh the household mellow and insist on some sort of conversation about this, but I think I'll wait until next week. Or the week after.
My advisor this morning was quite happy with my current results. If I produce one more set, slightly refined, then we can fix the date for my pre-defense. This is the moment I've been waiting for, but... I'm not sure I can pre-defend before this kid is born. Not because of the state of my work, but because of the state of my body. I have about 3 weeks until D-day, but I seem to use 75% of my available energy getting out of bed. I coast through the day on brain and will power alone, then use the remaining 25% getting home, feeding the existing kid, and falling into bed myself. So, the resources are somewhat limited. If it wasn't for the ice cream turbo charge, I might not be able to get into bed. Considering that the alien was in full escape mode this morning while I presented my slides, I think my advisor is deploying a bit of willful blindness. You'd have to be right, to tell a woman in her 9th month to prepare for a major presentation that will determine the success of her PhD, while she's just hoping to get through every day of work without any embarrassing amniotic incidents?
My particular problem is preparing for this new baby. No stroller, crib across town with a friend, no clue where the bassinet is, no bottles, a couple random packs of diapers of unknown size, no newborn clothes for girls (but a basement full of boy stuff, randomly stacked up), and no real sense of urgency. This is very different from the first time. I'm guessing that either things will come together now, or 3 years from now, no big. The only thing that really must get sorted out in the next 3 weeks or so is a name. I'm rather enjoying the zen of not speculating on names, but I can see that this peaceful feeling might flash over into irritation on day T+1, when the kid still doesn't have a name. Might have to harsh the household mellow and insist on some sort of conversation about this, but I think I'll wait until next week. Or the week after.
My advisor this morning was quite happy with my current results. If I produce one more set, slightly refined, then we can fix the date for my pre-defense. This is the moment I've been waiting for, but... I'm not sure I can pre-defend before this kid is born. Not because of the state of my work, but because of the state of my body. I have about 3 weeks until D-day, but I seem to use 75% of my available energy getting out of bed. I coast through the day on brain and will power alone, then use the remaining 25% getting home, feeding the existing kid, and falling into bed myself. So, the resources are somewhat limited. If it wasn't for the ice cream turbo charge, I might not be able to get into bed. Considering that the alien was in full escape mode this morning while I presented my slides, I think my advisor is deploying a bit of willful blindness. You'd have to be right, to tell a woman in her 9th month to prepare for a major presentation that will determine the success of her PhD, while she's just hoping to get through every day of work without any embarrassing amniotic incidents?
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Hair Again
Believe it or not, I finally had my hair cut. It's been quite a while since the last one, in October of '06. Back in those days, we had to cut our own hair with a sharp rock... Anyway, it was all quite lovely, in that scalp-burning, chemical straightening way. I can't help but wonder though, why did it take 2.25 hours? That's really a long time to sit in a salon, sniffing the fumes, and listening to the local gossip. The hot topics were: the perfidy of my old salon in dumping me (was glad to tell that story to the listening patrons), the character of the owner of said salon (this from my stylist and another woman), the local illegal immigration scandal, and the murky dealings at the big, fancy condo place downtown. Seems like no one has any sympathy for the wife and kids of the entrepreneur whose business was raided (cold), and the big time finance group who bought into the condo development have pushed the developer and his wife out of some operations (bummer).
It's amazing what you can pick up about your community when you kill an afternoon in a hair salon. However, since the price of this gossip was about $60/hour, I'll just stick to the newspaper as my primary source of information.
Anyway, I'm wondering about the rate of return on this particular investment. So far at work, there have been zero comments and two weird looks. Sadly, these looks seem to say, "You look funny today. I wonder what's different about you?", rather than "Man, I am so lucky to work in an office with that hot head of hair!" That's the price I pay for working with engineers, I guess. The "upside" is that I could choose not to bathe for two weeks, and no one would notice that either. I didn't even get my usual kissy-faces from old guys driving past me on the highway. Very poor show.
Two more days until the start of the best three weeks of summer :)
It's amazing what you can pick up about your community when you kill an afternoon in a hair salon. However, since the price of this gossip was about $60/hour, I'll just stick to the newspaper as my primary source of information.
Anyway, I'm wondering about the rate of return on this particular investment. So far at work, there have been zero comments and two weird looks. Sadly, these looks seem to say, "You look funny today. I wonder what's different about you?", rather than "Man, I am so lucky to work in an office with that hot head of hair!" That's the price I pay for working with engineers, I guess. The "upside" is that I could choose not to bathe for two weeks, and no one would notice that either. I didn't even get my usual kissy-faces from old guys driving past me on the highway. Very poor show.
Two more days until the start of the best three weeks of summer :)
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
The Third Thing
Thank goodness for radio, because I was just reminded of the third thing I wanted to mention: high-tech swimsuits. These are the latest thing in competitive swimming, and apparently give a speed advantage to the wearer. Newspapers are calling this high-tech doping, in a joking way. I don't really get why anyone is joking about it. If the suit offers a speed advantage over the natural talent of the swimmer, how does it differ from chemical doping? Considering that the things are ultra-thin, very hard to get into without tearing, and about $600 apiece, they aren't exactly available to all. Even worse, Speedo has a lock on the new technology, so swimmers or swim teams who are sponsored by another company cannot use the suit.
So, this bugs me not because I care about swimming, but because I care (intensely) about cycling, and am annoyed that my favorite riders have not been invited to the Tour de France this year because their teams have the "wrong attitude" toward doping. Both Contador (last year's champion) and Leipheimer (perennial contender) are members of Team Astana, which has had some embarrassing incidents in the past. However, the team was entirely revamped last year, and none of the current members have any doping controversies. Nevertheless, the French (maginot line) are refusing to budge, and these guys are being excluded because former members of their current team were disgraced in the past.
So the question for me is: why can swimmers use suits so advanced that the maker brags about the records they are collecting for the corporate brand, but cyclists (like my man Landis, poor little trooper) are kicked to the curb for allegedly using a possible performance enhancer like testosterone (which we all know they would have more of naturally, if only they didn't spend so much time on their bikes)? They aren't actually doping, if indeed they are doing anything at all (I believe you Floyd!), they are merely getting back to baseline.
Stayed tuned. The TDF starts July 5, and I'll be spending the last 3.5 weeks of this pregnancy hypnotized by a marginal sport in a foreign country, contended by riders I don't yet care about.
So, this bugs me not because I care about swimming, but because I care (intensely) about cycling, and am annoyed that my favorite riders have not been invited to the Tour de France this year because their teams have the "wrong attitude" toward doping. Both Contador (last year's champion) and Leipheimer (perennial contender) are members of Team Astana, which has had some embarrassing incidents in the past. However, the team was entirely revamped last year, and none of the current members have any doping controversies. Nevertheless, the French (maginot line) are refusing to budge, and these guys are being excluded because former members of their current team were disgraced in the past.
So the question for me is: why can swimmers use suits so advanced that the maker brags about the records they are collecting for the corporate brand, but cyclists (like my man Landis, poor little trooper) are kicked to the curb for allegedly using a possible performance enhancer like testosterone (which we all know they would have more of naturally, if only they didn't spend so much time on their bikes)? They aren't actually doping, if indeed they are doing anything at all (I believe you Floyd!), they are merely getting back to baseline.
Stayed tuned. The TDF starts July 5, and I'll be spending the last 3.5 weeks of this pregnancy hypnotized by a marginal sport in a foreign country, contended by riders I don't yet care about.
Random Miscellany
Since I'm feeling incoherent and disconnected this morning, I'd thought I'd post a random collection of interesting things that I've seen in the last day or so.
First, an interesting travel tip from Google. If you are flying or meeting someone's plane, you can check on the status of the flight by texting the flight number to 466453. I think they get their info from www.flightstat.com, so it should be good quality. This number is like a pseudo-411, so you could look up anything. Need the nearest Dairy Queen while driving through New Jersey? Ask Google with your cell phone, and they'll send you the address. Nice and neat.
Second, while you are doing all this flying or driving, you should make sure to stay hydrated. The best, or at least most expensive, way to do that is to invest in some concentrated water. Yes, it is finally here, the oldest joke of all: concentrated water. This little luxury good comes from Hawaii, and is desalinated ocean water. Apparently, this water is special because it comes from 3000 ft down, and is "pure." 2 oz. sells for $33.50, and you are supposed to mix it with regular water (so much for purity). For your money, you get "weight loss, stress reduction, skin tone, and digestion." I suggest you head to Dairy Queen instead, which will give you two out of four for 2 bucks. If you walk there, you might get the skin tone and weight loss too.
I had a third item, but I'm so incoherent and disconnected that it has gone clean out of my mind. Maybe some of that concentrated water would help.
First, an interesting travel tip from Google. If you are flying or meeting someone's plane, you can check on the status of the flight by texting the flight number to 466453. I think they get their info from www.flightstat.com, so it should be good quality. This number is like a pseudo-411, so you could look up anything. Need the nearest Dairy Queen while driving through New Jersey? Ask Google with your cell phone, and they'll send you the address. Nice and neat.
Second, while you are doing all this flying or driving, you should make sure to stay hydrated. The best, or at least most expensive, way to do that is to invest in some concentrated water. Yes, it is finally here, the oldest joke of all: concentrated water. This little luxury good comes from Hawaii, and is desalinated ocean water. Apparently, this water is special because it comes from 3000 ft down, and is "pure." 2 oz. sells for $33.50, and you are supposed to mix it with regular water (so much for purity). For your money, you get "weight loss, stress reduction, skin tone, and digestion." I suggest you head to Dairy Queen instead, which will give you two out of four for 2 bucks. If you walk there, you might get the skin tone and weight loss too.
I had a third item, but I'm so incoherent and disconnected that it has gone clean out of my mind. Maybe some of that concentrated water would help.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Charity Begins at Home
I've been following an interesting story over in Montgomery County (the rich county in Maryland). It started with an article in the Post about an estate purchased by the county which included a large house and some acres of land. The locals were told that the land would be used to extend an adjacent park. Then the county council proposed that the house should be used as a shelter for large homeless families. Outrage ensued. Details came out gradually, and it became known that a specific family was being considered for the house. There were 14 children and one parent. The usual ugliness was said and written, but it was hard not to sympathize a little with the locals. Who wants 14 kids living next to them, poor, perhaps unruly? Without doubt, having a county-owned homeless shelter next door can only hurt the property value. So they fussed enough that the county decided not to use the house for the homeless. Let's not forget that this was a house already purchased by the county, and sitting empty...
The remaining details became clear today. The single parent is a former corrections officer who adopted her sister's 10 children. She had 4 of her own with her husband, and when her sister died of cervical cancer, she was determined to keep the family together. At some expense, she adopted the 10 nieces and nephews. Her husband divorced her, she lost her job and house, and because she adopted the kids, their father (fathers?) can not be held responsible for child support. She works at night as a security guard, which makes it easier for friends and family to help out. At this point, her guardian angel stepped in, and she has been given a new house by Extreme Makeover.
So I'm thinking that I'm glad she has a happy ending (well, beginning really), and that this is not a very controversial story. Woman does her duty to her family at some hardship to herself, and gets help from her community to enable her to do so. Yay. But there seems to be a certain amount of ill-feeling about this that I don't quite get.
1. Complaints about the size of the house (4800 sq. ft): anonymous internet goblins commenting on this story have noted that it is not fair that this family of 15 should be given such a large home, when so many normal families in the country are struggling to maintain their 1500 sq. ft houses. I don't think it is a virtue to envy someone else's good fortune, or to want to limit the amount of good just because other people are having trouble too. Besides that, a "normal" family of four (just guessing) would have 375 sq. ft per person, while this clan has been given 320. Considering how much space is always wasted in hallways, odd bathroom corners and foyers (ie, that space that you can stand around in, but not do anything useful with), I imagine that the actual space they have to lay their heads and store their clothes is not over-generous. I could easily live in 4800 sq. ft with my family of 4, and not feel particularly overwhelmed with space. Adding 10 more people would force me to run away.
1b. Muttering about the ability of homeless people to maintain a large house: this sort of complaint has not been diffused by the information that the parent has a long history of respectable employment and home ownership. Apparently, it is quite difficult for people to believe that bad things can happen to good people.
2. The family is taking tax money from the good citizens of the county: this is true. The county is paying taxes and utilities for the house as long as the family qualifies. There is a rumor that the county also holds the mortgage, so the family didn't actually get a free house, just a free place to live. This still doesn't bother me, because at the very least the 10 orphans would have been supported entirely by the county in any case, at far greater expense. Because they are adopted, their mother does not receive foster care payments for these kids. They do receive medical benefits. (I'm not sure about this mortgage business, because EM: Home asked the builder to donate the house and build it in a week. I hope it doesn't fall down.)
3. People shouldn't have 10 children if they can support them: Well, of course not. However, this seems irrelevant to me. The woman who had 10 children and didn't provide for them is dead. Witholding community support at this point does not punish her for her irresponsibility. It might be said that the aunt shouldn't have adopted the 10 if she couldn't afford them, but how many people could afford to help that many relatives? If the kids had been separated and sent to different foster homes, the cost to the county would have been more. This way, they are together, with a relative who cares enough about them to suffer on their behalf. Anyone who can learn from a situation like that, will.
So anyway, I find the whole thing simultaneously uplifting and depressing. I'm glad that self-sacrifice and family devotion still exist, but it's sad that some people went to great effort to keep these 15 people from getting help, and then many others had nothing better to do than to offer insult and blame. That's a lot of negative energy.
The remaining details became clear today. The single parent is a former corrections officer who adopted her sister's 10 children. She had 4 of her own with her husband, and when her sister died of cervical cancer, she was determined to keep the family together. At some expense, she adopted the 10 nieces and nephews. Her husband divorced her, she lost her job and house, and because she adopted the kids, their father (fathers?) can not be held responsible for child support. She works at night as a security guard, which makes it easier for friends and family to help out. At this point, her guardian angel stepped in, and she has been given a new house by Extreme Makeover.
So I'm thinking that I'm glad she has a happy ending (well, beginning really), and that this is not a very controversial story. Woman does her duty to her family at some hardship to herself, and gets help from her community to enable her to do so. Yay. But there seems to be a certain amount of ill-feeling about this that I don't quite get.
1. Complaints about the size of the house (4800 sq. ft): anonymous internet goblins commenting on this story have noted that it is not fair that this family of 15 should be given such a large home, when so many normal families in the country are struggling to maintain their 1500 sq. ft houses. I don't think it is a virtue to envy someone else's good fortune, or to want to limit the amount of good just because other people are having trouble too. Besides that, a "normal" family of four (just guessing) would have 375 sq. ft per person, while this clan has been given 320. Considering how much space is always wasted in hallways, odd bathroom corners and foyers (ie, that space that you can stand around in, but not do anything useful with), I imagine that the actual space they have to lay their heads and store their clothes is not over-generous. I could easily live in 4800 sq. ft with my family of 4, and not feel particularly overwhelmed with space. Adding 10 more people would force me to run away.
1b. Muttering about the ability of homeless people to maintain a large house: this sort of complaint has not been diffused by the information that the parent has a long history of respectable employment and home ownership. Apparently, it is quite difficult for people to believe that bad things can happen to good people.
2. The family is taking tax money from the good citizens of the county: this is true. The county is paying taxes and utilities for the house as long as the family qualifies. There is a rumor that the county also holds the mortgage, so the family didn't actually get a free house, just a free place to live. This still doesn't bother me, because at the very least the 10 orphans would have been supported entirely by the county in any case, at far greater expense. Because they are adopted, their mother does not receive foster care payments for these kids. They do receive medical benefits. (I'm not sure about this mortgage business, because EM: Home asked the builder to donate the house and build it in a week. I hope it doesn't fall down.)
3. People shouldn't have 10 children if they can support them: Well, of course not. However, this seems irrelevant to me. The woman who had 10 children and didn't provide for them is dead. Witholding community support at this point does not punish her for her irresponsibility. It might be said that the aunt shouldn't have adopted the 10 if she couldn't afford them, but how many people could afford to help that many relatives? If the kids had been separated and sent to different foster homes, the cost to the county would have been more. This way, they are together, with a relative who cares enough about them to suffer on their behalf. Anyone who can learn from a situation like that, will.
So anyway, I find the whole thing simultaneously uplifting and depressing. I'm glad that self-sacrifice and family devotion still exist, but it's sad that some people went to great effort to keep these 15 people from getting help, and then many others had nothing better to do than to offer insult and blame. That's a lot of negative energy.
Monday, June 23, 2008
Social Theory
So, one of the lovely things about my tribe (Engineers, as opposed to my adopted tribe. You know who you are) is the willingness to have an opinion and take a stand on topics we know little about. We tend to be highly educated people, and some of us seem to think that having mastered the trick of getting educated, we can thus be masters of any topic in which we take an interest. For some, the interest is benign, and related to our direct skill set. Carpentry, mechanics, rail roads (real and hobby), etc. Others of us range farther afield...
Which brings me to my latest great theory about society and culture. I think that to the extent that something is wrong with our (US> east coast> mid-atlantic) (the previous just emphasizes that I know my sample is limited) culture, the problem is our unwillingness to judge each other. This may seem counter-intuitive, given our general ability to dislike each other for trivial reasons (see previous post), but bear with me. For this forum, here is my first piece of evidence, an article from The Washington Post on June 23: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/06/22/AR2008062202205.html?hpid=topnews
To summarize, people in the DC region have been stealing public land for private use. These are usually homeowners whose properties abut a public park. Sometimes the theft is unintentional, as when a previous owner sited a fence improperly, but the crime can also be blatant, like the guy who put his invisible dog fence deep into a public park. His justification is that his two dogs keep the deer away, which protects everyone from ticks. To my eye, this guy is just a thief. No shades of gray, no excuses. The reporter who wrote the article, the park service employees, and neighbors interviewed for the article all carefully avoided the "thief" word, instead dancing around with various euphemisms.
I say that we are all at fault when our fellow citizens commit obvious wrongs and we fail to call them out on it. What are we afraid of? How far does tolerance extend, and what harm are we doing to our communities when we don't set limits? Sadly, I see the obvious problem with this call to arms. We humans can be very bad at picking issues of importance, and even worse at moderating the punishment to fit the crime. Used to be that fornication could get you run out of town, and interracial marriage could land you in jail. Those are some community standards that I'm glad have become obsolete. But I still feel that we are in danger of going too far with our laissez-faire attitudes. We should speak up when our neighbors steal public land, or leave their spouse and kids without a dime or a clue, or pull their kids out of school and never let them out of the house again (ref. Bonita Jacks in DC). Some things are so wrong that we shouldn't let them become ok.
The difficult work here is figuring out sets of community standards that work for people of any religion or none, new immigrants or natives, young or old, that don't chafe too much against any particular group. What if some religions and cultural practices can't be accommodated? That might be a pill we have to swallow, but we should start talking about it in a rational way, instead of making rules piecemeal to address individual cases. That's a whole different rant though.
ps. Holy Mackerel, a completely relevant piece of tangential evidence: http://www.slate.com/id/2193872/ . This is one of those topics that never bothers me unless my kid is around, but clearly I haven't thought about it enough.
Which brings me to my latest great theory about society and culture. I think that to the extent that something is wrong with our (US> east coast> mid-atlantic) (the previous just emphasizes that I know my sample is limited) culture, the problem is our unwillingness to judge each other. This may seem counter-intuitive, given our general ability to dislike each other for trivial reasons (see previous post), but bear with me. For this forum, here is my first piece of evidence, an article from The Washington Post on June 23: http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/06/22/AR2008062202205.html?hpid=topnews
To summarize, people in the DC region have been stealing public land for private use. These are usually homeowners whose properties abut a public park. Sometimes the theft is unintentional, as when a previous owner sited a fence improperly, but the crime can also be blatant, like the guy who put his invisible dog fence deep into a public park. His justification is that his two dogs keep the deer away, which protects everyone from ticks. To my eye, this guy is just a thief. No shades of gray, no excuses. The reporter who wrote the article, the park service employees, and neighbors interviewed for the article all carefully avoided the "thief" word, instead dancing around with various euphemisms.
I say that we are all at fault when our fellow citizens commit obvious wrongs and we fail to call them out on it. What are we afraid of? How far does tolerance extend, and what harm are we doing to our communities when we don't set limits? Sadly, I see the obvious problem with this call to arms. We humans can be very bad at picking issues of importance, and even worse at moderating the punishment to fit the crime. Used to be that fornication could get you run out of town, and interracial marriage could land you in jail. Those are some community standards that I'm glad have become obsolete. But I still feel that we are in danger of going too far with our laissez-faire attitudes. We should speak up when our neighbors steal public land, or leave their spouse and kids without a dime or a clue, or pull their kids out of school and never let them out of the house again (ref. Bonita Jacks in DC). Some things are so wrong that we shouldn't let them become ok.
The difficult work here is figuring out sets of community standards that work for people of any religion or none, new immigrants or natives, young or old, that don't chafe too much against any particular group. What if some religions and cultural practices can't be accommodated? That might be a pill we have to swallow, but we should start talking about it in a rational way, instead of making rules piecemeal to address individual cases. That's a whole different rant though.
ps. Holy Mackerel, a completely relevant piece of tangential evidence: http://www.slate.com/id/2193872/ . This is one of those topics that never bothers me unless my kid is around, but clearly I haven't thought about it enough.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Race Relations
What, you say? Two posts in two days? Well, like any new project, I expect to have great enthusiasm for this for another week, then will drop it like last year's perfume. It just so happens that I am moved to write about something so pivotal to our society, so central to our image of ourselves, that not writing would be a breach of civic duty. The topic is race. The context...
wait for it...
you won't believe the importance...
is hair.
Wait, don't feel let down! I swear that hair is relevant to this important societal issue. I may have to contract the bounds of the discussion though, and clarify that I really want to reflect on race relations in Annapolis Maryland.
This has come up because after 20 months without a haircut, and after a thoughtful gift certificate from my husband, I decided to return to the hair salon. I stopped getting my hair cut because I was busy. I also take slight subversive pride in my low maintenance lifestyle: no more than 5 minutes for makeup, outsize efforts to buy clothes that don't require ironing, out of bed and out the front door in 20 minutes or less if I have to. So anyway, what with one thing or another, no hair cuts. Finally this spring, I started to believe that the burgeoning belly required some balance, perhaps provided by a coiffed head of hair. Four months after coming to this decision, I called to make an appointment. Now despite being generally low maintenance, and truly enjoying the engineering hat I usually wear, I occasionally find my inner girl, and she was rarin' to go. A week has been spent in quiet reverie over the new hairstyle. Would I go for a Jennifer Aniston: simple, yet glamourous? No, more like an Angelina Jolie: voluminous, luxurious, the kind of hair that clearly walks around with a Brad Pitt next to it. A pixie cut, like all those cute models with their supershort hair? Perhaps not so good for balancing the burgeoning belly (and the permanently burgeoned derriere). So, the Angelina it was. Then I got a call yesterday afternoon (while having my eyes dilated): "it's the salon, we have to cancel your appointment." In one second my little fantasy of luxurious locks waving about my face, eyes mysterious behind large glam sunglasses, lost some air. So what is it, sick hairdresser, no power, schedule conflict? No friends, it's not any of that. "We have to cancel because none of our stylists can work with your hair. We don't have anyone who does relaxers anymore."
So let's pause a beat and consider the general devastation: 20 months of buildup, a week of unmoored fantasizing, and the salon that I've visited (infrequently, but faithfully) for 5 years can't do my hair. The appointment had originally been a two-parter: one person for the perm, and my "regular" for the cut and style. So I asked if I could still get the cut and style. Nope, apparently it was decided that my hair couldn't be cut without the relaxer. The appointment is cancelled, the dream is over, the whole thing is called off. They did refer me to the salon next door though, where the woman who used to do my perms now works. I got ditched by a hair salon because my hair isn't relaxed, and they don't employ anyone who can handle it. To put this more plainly:
It is 2008 in the United States of America, and my salon "Doesn't Do Black Hair."
The last time this happened to me (oh, yes, it's happened before) was in 1997, when I first moved to this segregated enclave. I just picked a salon out of the phone book and went. They at least didn't want to admit their shortcomings, and after giving my a fairly bad cut and blow dry, admitted that they didn't usually (ever) do black hair. For a girl from the Tidewater, this was a bit of a mystery. We might have to blame it on my expatriate upbringing, or more likely on the extreme social weirdness of Annapolis, but for some reason I didn't know until 1997 that salons could be segregated. In good old Newport News, they taught me all about the intricacies of prejudice (black, white, yellow and brown), but there are so many types of people there that you'd have to work pretty hard to find a salon that refused your business for having the wrong hair texture.
So after moving to Annapolis, I went through a small odyssey, looking for someone to do my hair. Given my infrequent impulse to have anything done at all, this took years. For a while I had a woman in a "black" shop, and she was pretty good. The main problem with her was the whole barbershop experience, where a cut and style could take 3.5 hours. My inner girl just isn't strong enough to get me through that more than a couple times. I have things to do, structures to analyze, and I can't sit in a chair reading mindless fluff and fending off gossipy questions about my personal life for an entire afternoon. Then I found a lovely place just around up the street from the house. The proprietor was awesome, she would agree to any experiment with the hair, she wasn't too expensive, and I started getting my hair done all the time. Then within a year, she was gone. Shop closed, no forwarding address. So I finally washed up, battered and broken, at the salon in Eastport. They had diverse stylists and clientele, and I was set. (Ha, ha, small girl type hair dressing pun there.) All set until yesterday, when I got the boot. Rather than take my money, they sent me chasing after a former employee.
So that's it, my profound thought for today about race relations in Annapolis. I know I didn't actually write about race that much, about the explicit and implicit discrimination that is part of the social scene in Annapolis, but I think I prefer to let you do that sort of hard work for yourselves. Let's just say that when I get my hair done next month, with the former employee of my former salon, I won't walk out with the Angelina hair waving behind me. The expression on my face isn't going to imply that I have temporarily mislaid the Brad Pitt accessory, but obviously, given the fabulous hair, it must be around somewhere. Instead, I'm going to ask for an Oprah, and my expression will say something like, "I'm so fab and successful that no one would dream of declining my business. This hair adorns the head of a woman that will take your 1950s style discrimination and shove it down your cringing throat. Now out of my way, I've got code to write and a helicopter to design."
wait for it...
you won't believe the importance...
is hair.
Wait, don't feel let down! I swear that hair is relevant to this important societal issue. I may have to contract the bounds of the discussion though, and clarify that I really want to reflect on race relations in Annapolis Maryland.
This has come up because after 20 months without a haircut, and after a thoughtful gift certificate from my husband, I decided to return to the hair salon. I stopped getting my hair cut because I was busy. I also take slight subversive pride in my low maintenance lifestyle: no more than 5 minutes for makeup, outsize efforts to buy clothes that don't require ironing, out of bed and out the front door in 20 minutes or less if I have to. So anyway, what with one thing or another, no hair cuts. Finally this spring, I started to believe that the burgeoning belly required some balance, perhaps provided by a coiffed head of hair. Four months after coming to this decision, I called to make an appointment. Now despite being generally low maintenance, and truly enjoying the engineering hat I usually wear, I occasionally find my inner girl, and she was rarin' to go. A week has been spent in quiet reverie over the new hairstyle. Would I go for a Jennifer Aniston: simple, yet glamourous? No, more like an Angelina Jolie: voluminous, luxurious, the kind of hair that clearly walks around with a Brad Pitt next to it. A pixie cut, like all those cute models with their supershort hair? Perhaps not so good for balancing the burgeoning belly (and the permanently burgeoned derriere). So, the Angelina it was. Then I got a call yesterday afternoon (while having my eyes dilated): "it's the salon, we have to cancel your appointment." In one second my little fantasy of luxurious locks waving about my face, eyes mysterious behind large glam sunglasses, lost some air. So what is it, sick hairdresser, no power, schedule conflict? No friends, it's not any of that. "We have to cancel because none of our stylists can work with your hair. We don't have anyone who does relaxers anymore."
So let's pause a beat and consider the general devastation: 20 months of buildup, a week of unmoored fantasizing, and the salon that I've visited (infrequently, but faithfully) for 5 years can't do my hair. The appointment had originally been a two-parter: one person for the perm, and my "regular" for the cut and style. So I asked if I could still get the cut and style. Nope, apparently it was decided that my hair couldn't be cut without the relaxer. The appointment is cancelled, the dream is over, the whole thing is called off. They did refer me to the salon next door though, where the woman who used to do my perms now works. I got ditched by a hair salon because my hair isn't relaxed, and they don't employ anyone who can handle it. To put this more plainly:
It is 2008 in the United States of America, and my salon "Doesn't Do Black Hair."
The last time this happened to me (oh, yes, it's happened before) was in 1997, when I first moved to this segregated enclave. I just picked a salon out of the phone book and went. They at least didn't want to admit their shortcomings, and after giving my a fairly bad cut and blow dry, admitted that they didn't usually (ever) do black hair. For a girl from the Tidewater, this was a bit of a mystery. We might have to blame it on my expatriate upbringing, or more likely on the extreme social weirdness of Annapolis, but for some reason I didn't know until 1997 that salons could be segregated. In good old Newport News, they taught me all about the intricacies of prejudice (black, white, yellow and brown), but there are so many types of people there that you'd have to work pretty hard to find a salon that refused your business for having the wrong hair texture.
So after moving to Annapolis, I went through a small odyssey, looking for someone to do my hair. Given my infrequent impulse to have anything done at all, this took years. For a while I had a woman in a "black" shop, and she was pretty good. The main problem with her was the whole barbershop experience, where a cut and style could take 3.5 hours. My inner girl just isn't strong enough to get me through that more than a couple times. I have things to do, structures to analyze, and I can't sit in a chair reading mindless fluff and fending off gossipy questions about my personal life for an entire afternoon. Then I found a lovely place just around up the street from the house. The proprietor was awesome, she would agree to any experiment with the hair, she wasn't too expensive, and I started getting my hair done all the time. Then within a year, she was gone. Shop closed, no forwarding address. So I finally washed up, battered and broken, at the salon in Eastport. They had diverse stylists and clientele, and I was set. (Ha, ha, small girl type hair dressing pun there.) All set until yesterday, when I got the boot. Rather than take my money, they sent me chasing after a former employee.
So that's it, my profound thought for today about race relations in Annapolis. I know I didn't actually write about race that much, about the explicit and implicit discrimination that is part of the social scene in Annapolis, but I think I prefer to let you do that sort of hard work for yourselves. Let's just say that when I get my hair done next month, with the former employee of my former salon, I won't walk out with the Angelina hair waving behind me. The expression on my face isn't going to imply that I have temporarily mislaid the Brad Pitt accessory, but obviously, given the fabulous hair, it must be around somewhere. Instead, I'm going to ask for an Oprah, and my expression will say something like, "I'm so fab and successful that no one would dream of declining my business. This hair adorns the head of a woman that will take your 1950s style discrimination and shove it down your cringing throat. Now out of my way, I've got code to write and a helicopter to design."
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Anxiety
You might think that anxiety would be the last thing motivating this blog, since it's lain fallow since last fall. However that may be, anxiety is playing a big role in this week of our lives. Let's look at the schedule, shall we?
Saturday: leave Newport News and drive to Annapolis in time for the kid's piano lesson. Lesson can not be skipped because of imminent recital. Nightmare on Friday that we blew the lesson off and the teacher gave us an angry and humiliating scold, then refused to teach the kid ever again.
Sunday: Father's Day, also known as "The Day I Never Know What to do With, Since the Husband Would Probably Like Nothing More than Two Cold Beers and 14 Hours of Sleep." Sadly, I'm incapable of doing nothing, so I jittered around until hitting on the idea of Go-Karts and Mini-Golf. This was lots of fun for the boys (hurray). The smallest dark note introduced by the waiter at lunch who could not leave us alone. I felt compelled to be nice to this old dude, even though he spoke to us every three minutes. I kept having to scrub spinach out of my teeth in between bites, so I could talk to this person I didn't want to talk to. Aggravating to be interrupted so much, and even more annoying to get a hate on against such a nice old guy.
Monday: Recital rehearsal in the strangest church ever. Actually, first a checkup at the useless doctor, aka the obstetrician. They confirmed for me that I have a bladder, a pulse, and a weight. See you next month! Then run across town to the weird church. The recital is in a Baptist Funhouse, featuring gymnasium and food court. Call me traditional, but I think it is weird for a church to have a food court. The implication seems to be that you will spend so much time there that you will have to buy several meals. Also, it seems mildly blasphemous. Should you be thinking about pizza and burgers in a house of worship? Even worse, should someone be overcharging you for junkfood, in the name of G-d? Anyway, on to dinner with Whit, who is shortly off to England. Important date, because I'm losing my closest s-i-l to the Land of Poms. Naturally, had nothing to say, and spent most of the evening waiting for dinner, then wondering why I had to order the spiciest damn thing on the menu. The peanut did not approve.
Tuesday: Must get something done at work. Have to keep the primary goal, eg, graduation, in mind. Started the day with a meeting and never recovered. Did manage to get the advisor and mentor on the same page as to what I should be doing. This may save a little time, as I was badly trying to tapdance between the two, and getting little of consequence done. I could feel this was leading to another one of those lectures about staying focused and thinking like a scholar (as opposed to the doofus I play in regular life), so it was good to head that one off at the pass. As the husband said, it was time for me to be the chief, and them to be the indians. So to speak. On to the real business of the day: lunch. The spiciest leftovers in the world. A word to the wise: a heaping portion of cucumbers and yogurt on top of tongue searing thai beef is not the way to make the pregnant stomach happy for more than 20 minutes. Spent remainder of afternoon trying to concentrate on work, instead of the burning pit in my torso. Then drove across town like a maniac to get the kid, feed the kid, dress the kid, and get the kid to the recital. Happily, it went really well! Finally, a big bright spot in the week. And by the time the concert was over, so was my stomach ache:) Just in time for take-out chinese at 10 pm, accompanied by requests for a second dinner from the kid, and (entirely unreasonable) demands from the mother, via telephone, that the kid get a bath before bed. Sorry mom, not happening tonight. Good thing he swims every day in camp.
Wednesday: The husband gets a shot in his spine for the never-ending and inexplicable back pain. The day really starts with the tree people who are removing 4 huge trees from our lot that are variously diseased, hollow, or just punk-ass. Major buyer's remorse there, except it's better to have them gone than to wake up to one in the bedroom one fine day. So the kid's at camp, the husband's passed out in bed, the yard is oddly sunny, the bank account is empty, and I have to run to the eye doctor for an annual checkup that hasn't happened for at least 3 years. Here's hoping they won't notice the abysmally unclean state of the contacts, and won't tell me I'm even blinder than I was 3 years ago. Then drive home with dilated eyes, get a kid, hopefully the right one, from camp, and maybe, possibly, get some work done today!
Like I said, anxiety can be a great motivator. Let's see if I make this appointment on time...
Saturday: leave Newport News and drive to Annapolis in time for the kid's piano lesson. Lesson can not be skipped because of imminent recital. Nightmare on Friday that we blew the lesson off and the teacher gave us an angry and humiliating scold, then refused to teach the kid ever again.
Sunday: Father's Day, also known as "The Day I Never Know What to do With, Since the Husband Would Probably Like Nothing More than Two Cold Beers and 14 Hours of Sleep." Sadly, I'm incapable of doing nothing, so I jittered around until hitting on the idea of Go-Karts and Mini-Golf. This was lots of fun for the boys (hurray). The smallest dark note introduced by the waiter at lunch who could not leave us alone. I felt compelled to be nice to this old dude, even though he spoke to us every three minutes. I kept having to scrub spinach out of my teeth in between bites, so I could talk to this person I didn't want to talk to. Aggravating to be interrupted so much, and even more annoying to get a hate on against such a nice old guy.
Monday: Recital rehearsal in the strangest church ever. Actually, first a checkup at the useless doctor, aka the obstetrician. They confirmed for me that I have a bladder, a pulse, and a weight. See you next month! Then run across town to the weird church. The recital is in a Baptist Funhouse, featuring gymnasium and food court. Call me traditional, but I think it is weird for a church to have a food court. The implication seems to be that you will spend so much time there that you will have to buy several meals. Also, it seems mildly blasphemous. Should you be thinking about pizza and burgers in a house of worship? Even worse, should someone be overcharging you for junkfood, in the name of G-d? Anyway, on to dinner with Whit, who is shortly off to England. Important date, because I'm losing my closest s-i-l to the Land of Poms. Naturally, had nothing to say, and spent most of the evening waiting for dinner, then wondering why I had to order the spiciest damn thing on the menu. The peanut did not approve.
Tuesday: Must get something done at work. Have to keep the primary goal, eg, graduation, in mind. Started the day with a meeting and never recovered. Did manage to get the advisor and mentor on the same page as to what I should be doing. This may save a little time, as I was badly trying to tapdance between the two, and getting little of consequence done. I could feel this was leading to another one of those lectures about staying focused and thinking like a scholar (as opposed to the doofus I play in regular life), so it was good to head that one off at the pass. As the husband said, it was time for me to be the chief, and them to be the indians. So to speak. On to the real business of the day: lunch. The spiciest leftovers in the world. A word to the wise: a heaping portion of cucumbers and yogurt on top of tongue searing thai beef is not the way to make the pregnant stomach happy for more than 20 minutes. Spent remainder of afternoon trying to concentrate on work, instead of the burning pit in my torso. Then drove across town like a maniac to get the kid, feed the kid, dress the kid, and get the kid to the recital. Happily, it went really well! Finally, a big bright spot in the week. And by the time the concert was over, so was my stomach ache:) Just in time for take-out chinese at 10 pm, accompanied by requests for a second dinner from the kid, and (entirely unreasonable) demands from the mother, via telephone, that the kid get a bath before bed. Sorry mom, not happening tonight. Good thing he swims every day in camp.
Wednesday: The husband gets a shot in his spine for the never-ending and inexplicable back pain. The day really starts with the tree people who are removing 4 huge trees from our lot that are variously diseased, hollow, or just punk-ass. Major buyer's remorse there, except it's better to have them gone than to wake up to one in the bedroom one fine day. So the kid's at camp, the husband's passed out in bed, the yard is oddly sunny, the bank account is empty, and I have to run to the eye doctor for an annual checkup that hasn't happened for at least 3 years. Here's hoping they won't notice the abysmally unclean state of the contacts, and won't tell me I'm even blinder than I was 3 years ago. Then drive home with dilated eyes, get a kid, hopefully the right one, from camp, and maybe, possibly, get some work done today!
Like I said, anxiety can be a great motivator. Let's see if I make this appointment on time...
Friday, September 07, 2007
Space Case: The New Yorker
Space Case: The New Yorker
A most excellent review of the last StarWards Movie Revenge of the Sith. Best comment - "I still fail to understand why I should have been expected to waste twenty-five years of my life following the progress of a beeping trash can and a gay, gold-plated Jeeves."
A most excellent review of the last StarWards Movie Revenge of the Sith. Best comment - "I still fail to understand why I should have been expected to waste twenty-five years of my life following the progress of a beeping trash can and a gay, gold-plated Jeeves."
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
GRIMSHAW : Water Theatre
GRIMSHAW : Water Theatre
Fascinating concept for the use of passive solar/ocean systems to generate fresh water. As seen on a recent Discovery Channel program. Of course only well suited to regions with big temperature differentials and strong prevailing breezes but interesting none the less.
Fascinating concept for the use of passive solar/ocean systems to generate fresh water. As seen on a recent Discovery Channel program. Of course only well suited to regions with big temperature differentials and strong prevailing breezes but interesting none the less.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
P.T. Barnum Department: Nothing is On Sale for $6.28 - Gizmodo
Gotta love this. Possibly the apex of capitalism and all for $6.28!
Thursday, April 19, 2007
Thomas L. Friedman - Energy - Green Power - Global Warming - Renewable Energy - The Power of Green - New York Times
Thomas L. Friedman - Energy - Green Power - Global Warming - Renewable Energy - The Power of Green - New York Times
Fascinating article by the old Thomas Friedman with a nice attempt to tie together our demand for oil with the other geo-political problems of our time. Much as Kyoto is flawed I have always felt that the US economy should be leading the world in the development and implementation of new, green technologies and that these technologies can then be exported to other countries with the US as a leader in the this new Green economy. In this light, arguing that we shouldn't do anything until China and Brazil have to is rediculous.. who is better positioned to develop the technologies than us.
Fascinating article by the old Thomas Friedman with a nice attempt to tie together our demand for oil with the other geo-political problems of our time. Much as Kyoto is flawed I have always felt that the US economy should be leading the world in the development and implementation of new, green technologies and that these technologies can then be exported to other countries with the US as a leader in the this new Green economy. In this light, arguing that we shouldn't do anything until China and Brazil have to is rediculous.. who is better positioned to develop the technologies than us.
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