I was staying at the Bates Motel, which my parents owned and ran. In their defense, I'm sure they got the place for a song. For some reason, I was staying in some sort of crawlspace. It was an underground hallway with bunks that were attached to the walls like berths in sleeping cars. I had to brush aside the cobwebs to get to my bunk. I was so sleepy that I didn't even care.
BEEP.
There were actually two bunks right next to the door. One was up high, so high that I'm not sure how someone was supposed to climb up there. But then again, I'm not sure who thought this would be an appropriate sleeping area. There were half a dozen stairs down, then maybe ten feet of narrow hallway, and finally another half a dozen steps back up, leading to a doorway opposite me. The other door was open and the lights were on in the room beyond, which is how I saw the second bunk, the one I could reach.
BEEP.
Ugh, that infernal beeping. I needed to make sure and tell my parents about it in the morning.
BEEP.
I started to wake up from my Bates Motel dream, but even as I did, I was convinced that I was at my parents' house. It was the beeping that did it, reminding me of those times at home when the smoke alarm's battery would die and I would have to wait until morning. My parents would sleep right through it.
BEEP.
Finally, I woke up enough to realize that I was in my own house, and if someone was going to change the battery in the smoke alarm, it would have to be me. And I might as well do it now, because I wasn't going to get back to sleep otherwise. The clock read 2:37 as I stumbled out of bed and into the hallway. There was a smoke alarm. I stood underneath it and looked up into the red light. Did red mean that it was working or that it wasn't working? Was this even the right alarm? I stood underneath it, waiting.
And waiting. It was like waiting to hiccup after holding your breath. My brain, having recently put me up for a night in the Bates Motel, decided to think about how a clever rapist might use a beeping noise to get some unsuspecting female out of bed so that he could attack. Why he couldn't just attack me while I was asleep rather than bothering with a decoy smoke alarm was beyond me. How should I know, I'm not a rapist. These are the thoughts that happen when you're standing in the hall, under a smoke alarm, waiting for it to beep in the middle of the night.
I got tired of waiting, so I found a chair to stand on while I fiddled with the alarm. The text on the outside said "DISCONNECT POWER BEFORE REMOVING," which made no sense to me. How was I suppose to disconnect the power before removing when I had to remove the case to disconnect the battery? Once I got the case off, I realized that the alarm was directly wired into the house's electrical system. That's very clever. No more waking up in the middle of the night to stand on a chair and change batteries. Except that I was standing on a chair in the middle of the night.
At that point, I decided that I had imagined the whole thing. There was no beeping rapist, or even a beeping smoke alarm. I used the bathroom while I was up, so at least getting out of bed hadn't been a total waste of time. I got back into bed and did not go back to sleep. I tossed. I turned. I thought about the Bates Motel dream and how I had been able to feel the cobwebs as I swept them aside.
At 3:30 or so, I was finally starting to drift. My eyelids were drooping, and my thoughts were sort of flowing over one another, jumping from thing to thing without any real connection, finally I was getting back...
BEEP.
My eyes snapped open. I waited, very silently and very still, to see if it would happen again. It didn't, but I was again fully awake. Maybe this smoke alarm only beeped every half hour or so. It seemed to beep a lot more frequently before, but I had been asleep and confused then. Back to tossing and turning and being angry at smoke alarms, clocks, boys whose best friends were their mothers.
BEEP.
The clock, that stupid and reliable clock, said 4:13. I decided to use the same course of action as last time. If the alarm really only did beep every 43 minutes, then maybe I could get some sleep and not have to worry about it until the -
BEEP.
Well, that was sooner than 43 minutes. That was like twenty seconds. To sum up, I've been awake for nearly two hours as some mysterious smoke alarm definitely beeped off and on, depending on when it felt -
BEEP.
- like it. Fine, I'm up I'm up I'm up. I poked my head out of the bedroom door to listen and play the waiting game again. I was afraid to get too close to the alarm, in case I spooked it into silence. Or in case there really was a rapist.
BEEP.
That was definitely not the upstairs alarm. I would have to go downstairs, which meant I would have to turn on a light, which meant I was playing right into the rapist's hands. But it was 4 in the morning and I was tired and grumpy. By the time I got downstairs, I realized I hadn't heard a beep in thirty seconds or so. I also realized that I had no idea where the other smoke alarms might be. From the dim upstairs light, I could see that there was an alarm in the hallway that led to the spare bedroom. It looked like the same kind that was upstairs, meaning it would be connected to the house's wiring. I used that reasoning to avoid going down the hall, which was very dark and looked like exactly the kind of place a rapist might hide.
I went into the kitchen, where I noticed yet another alarm. This one was not like the others. I stood on another chair and twisted the alarm off, revealing a nine-volt battery. I didn't even take the time to wonder what the alarm would do if the battery were completely removed, I yanked it right out. Nothing happened. I left both the alarm and the battery on the counter, knowing that I wasn't even sure that this device had been the interruptor of dreams. If I didn't hear the beeping again, I would know it was the right alarm. Either that or the rapist had caught sight of me, stomping and scowling in the middle of the night, and decided it was not worth it.
6.23.2009
pioneer food.
My sister and I were talking about the recipes published by the Pioneer Woman. She said she hadn't had much luck with those recipes, where I've tried a bunch of them and had been mostly pleased. So I compiled a list of the PW recipes I've made and what I thought of them. Then I realized what an easy cooking-related blog post this would make. I'm all about reuse.
Not My Favorite
Crispy Yoghurt Chicken - I think it was the quality of chicken legs we used, but this was gross. Josh liked it okay.
Chicken and Rice Soup - This was so salty I couldn't eat it. Josh trudged through it valiantly because I made it for him because of his bike wreck. I blame the bouillion.
Okay, I Suppose. Shrug.
Black Bean Chowder with Yogurt-Cilantro Relish - Kind of sludgy, but I think I messed it up.
BBQ Meatballs - I liked the homemade BBQ sauce, but the meatballs themselves were only so-so. Tasted like meatloaf, which I've never been a huge fan of. Also, using oatmeal as the binding agent gave it a "fakey" texture. While I knew that the meatballs didn't have anything artificial in them, they tasted like they did.
French Onion Soup - I'm still looking for the perfect french onion soup recipe. This one is fine, but it's not any better than ones I've tried that were much less effort.
Cheese Muffins - Good, but end up being greasy. Likely an issue with the non-stick spray.
Good Morning Muffins - I thought they were pretty good, but Josh said, "Do not ever make these again." He was creeped out by the marmalade bits.
Rather Good
Blueberry Yogurt Smoothie - homemade smoothies...yum. Works great with other fruits.
Fluffy New Potatoes - I like that you can freeze them and reheat them quickly later. I'd like to try this again with a different recipe for the insides. So I guess that means I don't like these all that much, but instead the idea of freezing, which she did not invent.
Stuffed Onions - Josh liked it better with stuffed green peppers, which was also very good. Both are surprisingly filling.
Pots de Creme - Easy, yummy, and fancy-looking, though not to die for.
Macaroni and Cheese - The creaminess factor was spot on, which I haven't found before. I did not care for the mustardy tang. Josh ate it like it was going out of style. And then he ate some more.
Excellent
Cauliflower Soup - Subtle, but rich and buttery. Good with bread.
Oven-Roasted Asparagus - I grew up eating asparagus that had been microwaved on a plate under a piece of plastic wrap. I thought it was good, but I realized when I made it this way that I had not known true asparagus before (sorry, Mama).
Decadent Chocolate Milk - We mixed this into coffee for rich homemade mochas.
Homemade Pumpkin Puree - Very easy and I've made some good stuff from it, including her recipe for pumpkin butter and pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. Will probably do this again in the fall.
Creamed Spinach - She has posted two recipes for this. I like this one better, though I also add nutmeg.
Bacon-Wrapped Jalapenos - We ate an obscene amount of these in one sitting and got tummyaches. It was totally worth it.
Really Super Awesome
Enchiladas - Oh man, these are sooooooo good. We make our own sauce and skip the part about the sauce - it's just barely enough for the recipe. I've made this several times. It has ruined most Mexican restaurants for me, at least the kind with a Speedy Gonzales lunch special.
Oatmeal Crispies - FANtastic. Easy and different, crowd-pleasers.
Now go out and make food. Eat it. Be happy.
Not My Favorite
Crispy Yoghurt Chicken - I think it was the quality of chicken legs we used, but this was gross. Josh liked it okay.
Chicken and Rice Soup - This was so salty I couldn't eat it. Josh trudged through it valiantly because I made it for him because of his bike wreck. I blame the bouillion.
Okay, I Suppose. Shrug.
Black Bean Chowder with Yogurt-Cilantro Relish - Kind of sludgy, but I think I messed it up.
BBQ Meatballs - I liked the homemade BBQ sauce, but the meatballs themselves were only so-so. Tasted like meatloaf, which I've never been a huge fan of. Also, using oatmeal as the binding agent gave it a "fakey" texture. While I knew that the meatballs didn't have anything artificial in them, they tasted like they did.
French Onion Soup - I'm still looking for the perfect french onion soup recipe. This one is fine, but it's not any better than ones I've tried that were much less effort.
Cheese Muffins - Good, but end up being greasy. Likely an issue with the non-stick spray.
Good Morning Muffins - I thought they were pretty good, but Josh said, "Do not ever make these again." He was creeped out by the marmalade bits.
Rather Good
Blueberry Yogurt Smoothie - homemade smoothies...yum. Works great with other fruits.
Fluffy New Potatoes - I like that you can freeze them and reheat them quickly later. I'd like to try this again with a different recipe for the insides. So I guess that means I don't like these all that much, but instead the idea of freezing, which she did not invent.
Stuffed Onions - Josh liked it better with stuffed green peppers, which was also very good. Both are surprisingly filling.
Pots de Creme - Easy, yummy, and fancy-looking, though not to die for.
Macaroni and Cheese - The creaminess factor was spot on, which I haven't found before. I did not care for the mustardy tang. Josh ate it like it was going out of style. And then he ate some more.
Excellent
Cauliflower Soup - Subtle, but rich and buttery. Good with bread.
Oven-Roasted Asparagus - I grew up eating asparagus that had been microwaved on a plate under a piece of plastic wrap. I thought it was good, but I realized when I made it this way that I had not known true asparagus before (sorry, Mama).
Decadent Chocolate Milk - We mixed this into coffee for rich homemade mochas.
Homemade Pumpkin Puree - Very easy and I've made some good stuff from it, including her recipe for pumpkin butter and pumpkin chocolate chip cookies. Will probably do this again in the fall.
Creamed Spinach - She has posted two recipes for this. I like this one better, though I also add nutmeg.
Bacon-Wrapped Jalapenos - We ate an obscene amount of these in one sitting and got tummyaches. It was totally worth it.
Really Super Awesome
Enchiladas - Oh man, these are sooooooo good. We make our own sauce and skip the part about the sauce - it's just barely enough for the recipe. I've made this several times. It has ruined most Mexican restaurants for me, at least the kind with a Speedy Gonzales lunch special.
Oatmeal Crispies - FANtastic. Easy and different, crowd-pleasers.
Now go out and make food. Eat it. Be happy.
6.22.2009
not a movie review: high school confidential.
I know that very few, if any, of you understand my enjoyment of bad movies. That's okay. I don't need your validation, as long as you still like me. You do like me, don't you?
There are many types of bad movies. It's not all giant leeches or homicidal organ players. Sometimes bad movies are based on popular trends. They're quickly and badly made, hoping to capitalize on something before it goes out of style. And that's how you end up with disco movies in the 70s and break-dancing movies in the 80s. In the 50s, we got beatnik movies.
Just so you know, beatniks in these movies don't really have much to do with the actual Beats. Beatniks wear black turtlenecks and talk back to their parents and think that's the same thing as leaving a comfortable lifestyle to hitchhike across the country and pick cotton for a living. Basically, there were people who were Beats, who were interested in the kind of wisdom you can gain from having nothing and associating with others who had nothing. Advertisers took advantage of other people thinking that was cool. You too could be Kerouac, just buy our clothes. Somewhere in there, the point was lost. If you are interested in the actual Beat movement, maybe start here, which compares the beatnik fad to what the Beats were actually going for. Me, I just want to tell you about this movie I watched.
Now, High School Confidential! is not a good movie. But it's not a bad one, either. I did actually care about what was happening, which is not something that occurs with the bad ones. You can tell you're watching a crappy movie when you're fifteen minutes from the end and you could care less if the hero wins; in fact, sometimes you actually want the hero to lose. But here, I want the hero to win, even though I'm not really sure which side he is on until the very end. Another sign of a not-bad movie - I can't predict what's going to happen. Our hero here is played by Russ Tamblyn, who will ever hold a special place in my heart for playing Gideon, the youngest brother in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. He is a Bad Kid. He threatens the high school principal with a knife, sells drugs, and double-parks. Isn't he cute, though?
This movie is like a better and less known version of Reefer Madness. Have you seen Reefer Madness? It's a propoganda movie made to scare kids away from pot. It tells you that pot will make you rob banks and participate in orgies if you are even in the same room with it. It's famous for being over the top, so famous that someone recently made a musical version of it. This movie only shows a girl writhing on the floor in agony because she really wants a joint. I've never known anyone to do that, but it seems much more likely than orgies. The movie also tells us that "41% of high school kids are addicted to marijuana or heroin." The movie lures us in with its beatniks, who are obviously cool, but then it comes in and tells us not to get addicted to marijuana or heroin. Is cocaine okay? I just don't know. The beatniks didn't say anything about that, although I heard once that 53% of high school kids are addicted to caffeine or crack.
The big deal with beatnik movies seems to be the problem with authority, which we have with our hero, the Bad Kid, and the slang. Oh my, the slang. I mean, there are berets and coffee bars and poetry slams, but it's really all about the slang. There is one absolutely fantastic scene in this movie, where a student tells the story of Christopher Columbus in slang. It's marvelous. Is it accurate slang? I have no idea. But it sure sounds cool to me.
And there is the obligatory poetry scene. It is not as good. In fact, the poem is really terrible. I was sure it was terrible, but I'm not good at poetry, so I asked Josh, who confirmed that it was indeed terrible. Had he told me it was really well-written and interesting, I would have lost all hope of ever getting poetry.
My favorite line: "What is truth?" Makes me laugh every time. Maybe the poem is meant to be bad, so show the teens that if you become a beatnik, you will write really crappy poems. Stay away from marijuana and heroin, kids.
This movie also features Mamie van Doren, another common star of bad movies (Girls' Town). Mamie van Doren fun fact: her stage name was inspired by Mamie Eisenhower and the very literary van Doren family. Jerry Lee Lewis is in it briefly, playing the piano from the back of a pickup. Why? Because he owed somebody a favor, I guess. Also, Jackie Coogan, John Drew Barrymore, and Michael Landon. Star-studded indeed!
If you have any tolerance at all for bad movies, I recommend High School Confidential!. Don't judge it by the poetry.
There are many types of bad movies. It's not all giant leeches or homicidal organ players. Sometimes bad movies are based on popular trends. They're quickly and badly made, hoping to capitalize on something before it goes out of style. And that's how you end up with disco movies in the 70s and break-dancing movies in the 80s. In the 50s, we got beatnik movies.
Just so you know, beatniks in these movies don't really have much to do with the actual Beats. Beatniks wear black turtlenecks and talk back to their parents and think that's the same thing as leaving a comfortable lifestyle to hitchhike across the country and pick cotton for a living. Basically, there were people who were Beats, who were interested in the kind of wisdom you can gain from having nothing and associating with others who had nothing. Advertisers took advantage of other people thinking that was cool. You too could be Kerouac, just buy our clothes. Somewhere in there, the point was lost. If you are interested in the actual Beat movement, maybe start here, which compares the beatnik fad to what the Beats were actually going for. Me, I just want to tell you about this movie I watched.
Now, High School Confidential! is not a good movie. But it's not a bad one, either. I did actually care about what was happening, which is not something that occurs with the bad ones. You can tell you're watching a crappy movie when you're fifteen minutes from the end and you could care less if the hero wins; in fact, sometimes you actually want the hero to lose. But here, I want the hero to win, even though I'm not really sure which side he is on until the very end. Another sign of a not-bad movie - I can't predict what's going to happen. Our hero here is played by Russ Tamblyn, who will ever hold a special place in my heart for playing Gideon, the youngest brother in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers. He is a Bad Kid. He threatens the high school principal with a knife, sells drugs, and double-parks. Isn't he cute, though?
This movie is like a better and less known version of Reefer Madness. Have you seen Reefer Madness? It's a propoganda movie made to scare kids away from pot. It tells you that pot will make you rob banks and participate in orgies if you are even in the same room with it. It's famous for being over the top, so famous that someone recently made a musical version of it. This movie only shows a girl writhing on the floor in agony because she really wants a joint. I've never known anyone to do that, but it seems much more likely than orgies. The movie also tells us that "41% of high school kids are addicted to marijuana or heroin." The movie lures us in with its beatniks, who are obviously cool, but then it comes in and tells us not to get addicted to marijuana or heroin. Is cocaine okay? I just don't know. The beatniks didn't say anything about that, although I heard once that 53% of high school kids are addicted to caffeine or crack.
The big deal with beatnik movies seems to be the problem with authority, which we have with our hero, the Bad Kid, and the slang. Oh my, the slang. I mean, there are berets and coffee bars and poetry slams, but it's really all about the slang. There is one absolutely fantastic scene in this movie, where a student tells the story of Christopher Columbus in slang. It's marvelous. Is it accurate slang? I have no idea. But it sure sounds cool to me.
And there is the obligatory poetry scene. It is not as good. In fact, the poem is really terrible. I was sure it was terrible, but I'm not good at poetry, so I asked Josh, who confirmed that it was indeed terrible. Had he told me it was really well-written and interesting, I would have lost all hope of ever getting poetry.
My favorite line: "What is truth?" Makes me laugh every time. Maybe the poem is meant to be bad, so show the teens that if you become a beatnik, you will write really crappy poems. Stay away from marijuana and heroin, kids.
This movie also features Mamie van Doren, another common star of bad movies (Girls' Town). Mamie van Doren fun fact: her stage name was inspired by Mamie Eisenhower and the very literary van Doren family. Jerry Lee Lewis is in it briefly, playing the piano from the back of a pickup. Why? Because he owed somebody a favor, I guess. Also, Jackie Coogan, John Drew Barrymore, and Michael Landon. Star-studded indeed!
If you have any tolerance at all for bad movies, I recommend High School Confidential!. Don't judge it by the poetry.
6.19.2009
urination station.
We were sitting on a bench, waiting for the subway train, and I could tell you which train for the sake of detailed writing, but I don't remember which one it was. We had to wait a while, though, and it was cold. One day I will go to New York and it will not be December. The platform was gradually filling up. A few yards to our left was a man in his mid-thirties, who was wearing very nice, very rumpled clothes. He looked deep in thought and confused at the same time, as if he were thinking about the meaning of life and the answer was not what he expected. He walked - was he staggering ever so slightly? - over to a woman standing with her arms crossed a few feet to our right. She said something, and she didn't sound happy. With a loud and frustrated sigh, she walked a few yards away, leaving him standing there.
At this point, I lost track of them. And to be fair, I hadn't been paying all that much attention to them. I was talking to Sarah and looking for the train, whichever train it was. But I'd been keeping an eye on them the same way that I'd been keeping an eye on the middle-aged woman next to me and the teenagers a bit of a ways down. Suddenly I heard water running, and started looking around for the source, as I asked Sarah if she knew where it was coming from.
"Is the ceiling leak - oh my." The well-dressed rumpled gentleman was urinating down onto the tracks. I looked away quickly, as Sarah's giggle told me that she'd seen it too.
I'm not an absolute bumpkin, but I'm still pretty naive when it comes to life in the big city. I knew that people peed in the subway. I'd been in enough stations to know that smelling urine, fresh or stale, wasn't exactly rare. But I figured the urinators were bums, not investment bankers who'd had too many at the company Christmas party. I've apparently still got a lot to learn about the kind of people who pee in the subway.
Now all my attention was on this guy, and I watched him walk back to the woman. His face still wore an expression of incredulous bafflement - life was blowing his mind. They were hidden from me by a column, but I could hear an angry female voice. The one phrase we caught was "no self-control." Could we assume that she had seen him take a public leak, or was she angry because he'd done something equally outrageous at wherever they'd just been? Sarah and I furtively whispered thoughts on the couple. I was relieved to be with a friend who shared my affinity for eavesdropping on strangers.
The train, the one whose name I cannot remember, arrived. The couple boarded, as did we. We took seats halfway down the car from them and across the aisle. I was still very focused on these people and the little drama playing out in front of me. This was the kind of scene that reality TV was based on. All we needed were one-on-one personal interviews with each of them.
We wouldn't be able to hear them in the busy subway car, not that they were saying anything. Here was a test to see how well we could read body language. The woman, she was mad. Frustrated. Humiliated, too, I think. She sat bolt upright with her arms crossed, her whole manner screaming don't you even touch me. And he was confused still. He seemed to know that he was drunk and was concentrating on getting through the rest of the night with his angry girlfriend, no, wait, wife. Yes, wife - they had rings. He never said anything, never defended himself or shot back. He was waiting out the storm.
At some point, it occurred to me that this was not the first time this couple had played out this scene.
Perhaps she said nothing because there was nothing to say that she hadn't said before. Perhaps she knew that arguing with a person under the influence is an exercise in futility. And perhaps he knew there was nothing he could say to her anyway, either because he hadn't the wherewithal to come up with something or because he, too, had said everything in some previous showdown. He could only sit and wait until her posture became less rigid and her body stopped telling him where he could go. She didn't want to have to be angry at him, and if he just waited silently, she would give up on it. And that she did. The day caught up with her and she started slouching a little in the hard plastic chair. By the time we arrived at our stop and had to leave the little drama behind, she had her arm in his and her head was on his shoulder, her eyes closed.
She was trapped. Even when her husband is the guy at the party who has a little (or a lot?) too much, even when he makes an absolute fool of himself, even when he attracts the attention of tourists by taking a whiz on the subway, she still has to go back to the same apartment in Brooklyn with him, crawl into the same bed, face him tomorrow over breakfast. Was she at peace with her head on his shoulder, or did she feel defeated?
Maybe I'm reading entirely too much into this. Maybe this guy is ordinarily very responsible about his alcohol intake. Maybe even regular people find themselves peeing in the subway sometimes. Maybe I'm wrong about it all. I really hope so.
At this point, I lost track of them. And to be fair, I hadn't been paying all that much attention to them. I was talking to Sarah and looking for the train, whichever train it was. But I'd been keeping an eye on them the same way that I'd been keeping an eye on the middle-aged woman next to me and the teenagers a bit of a ways down. Suddenly I heard water running, and started looking around for the source, as I asked Sarah if she knew where it was coming from.
"Is the ceiling leak - oh my." The well-dressed rumpled gentleman was urinating down onto the tracks. I looked away quickly, as Sarah's giggle told me that she'd seen it too.
I'm not an absolute bumpkin, but I'm still pretty naive when it comes to life in the big city. I knew that people peed in the subway. I'd been in enough stations to know that smelling urine, fresh or stale, wasn't exactly rare. But I figured the urinators were bums, not investment bankers who'd had too many at the company Christmas party. I've apparently still got a lot to learn about the kind of people who pee in the subway.
Now all my attention was on this guy, and I watched him walk back to the woman. His face still wore an expression of incredulous bafflement - life was blowing his mind. They were hidden from me by a column, but I could hear an angry female voice. The one phrase we caught was "no self-control." Could we assume that she had seen him take a public leak, or was she angry because he'd done something equally outrageous at wherever they'd just been? Sarah and I furtively whispered thoughts on the couple. I was relieved to be with a friend who shared my affinity for eavesdropping on strangers.
The train, the one whose name I cannot remember, arrived. The couple boarded, as did we. We took seats halfway down the car from them and across the aisle. I was still very focused on these people and the little drama playing out in front of me. This was the kind of scene that reality TV was based on. All we needed were one-on-one personal interviews with each of them.
We wouldn't be able to hear them in the busy subway car, not that they were saying anything. Here was a test to see how well we could read body language. The woman, she was mad. Frustrated. Humiliated, too, I think. She sat bolt upright with her arms crossed, her whole manner screaming don't you even touch me. And he was confused still. He seemed to know that he was drunk and was concentrating on getting through the rest of the night with his angry girlfriend, no, wait, wife. Yes, wife - they had rings. He never said anything, never defended himself or shot back. He was waiting out the storm.
At some point, it occurred to me that this was not the first time this couple had played out this scene.
Perhaps she said nothing because there was nothing to say that she hadn't said before. Perhaps she knew that arguing with a person under the influence is an exercise in futility. And perhaps he knew there was nothing he could say to her anyway, either because he hadn't the wherewithal to come up with something or because he, too, had said everything in some previous showdown. He could only sit and wait until her posture became less rigid and her body stopped telling him where he could go. She didn't want to have to be angry at him, and if he just waited silently, she would give up on it. And that she did. The day caught up with her and she started slouching a little in the hard plastic chair. By the time we arrived at our stop and had to leave the little drama behind, she had her arm in his and her head was on his shoulder, her eyes closed.
She was trapped. Even when her husband is the guy at the party who has a little (or a lot?) too much, even when he makes an absolute fool of himself, even when he attracts the attention of tourists by taking a whiz on the subway, she still has to go back to the same apartment in Brooklyn with him, crawl into the same bed, face him tomorrow over breakfast. Was she at peace with her head on his shoulder, or did she feel defeated?
Maybe I'm reading entirely too much into this. Maybe this guy is ordinarily very responsible about his alcohol intake. Maybe even regular people find themselves peeing in the subway sometimes. Maybe I'm wrong about it all. I really hope so.
6.17.2009
secret lepers.
I am just slightly under the weather. I'm not all out sick, under the weather like standing in the middle of a golf course with a nine iron during a thunderstorm. No, it's more like I'm under a narrow awning waiting for someone to pull up the car in a light, but steady rain. My shoes are being dripped on, and I'm a little chilly, but my head isn't getting wet.
I think I've stretched this metaphor far enough.
What I mean is that a have a mild sinus infection. I've had so many sinus infections that I can plot their course. I start out with a sore throat, the next day comes the snot. The snot is really the main event, causing drippiness and congestions and those dull headaches that happen when your head makes more snot than it has room to hold. This stage can last up to a week, and at its peak, I can feel positively drained, as if all my energy has been devoted to snot creation. At some point, the snot starts to drain into my throat, and just when I'm starting to feel better, my voice changes and everyone asks if I'm sick.
This one hasn't been so bad. Friday brought the sore throat, and I'm already at the voice change stage. One of the problems with these infections is that they're usually not bad enough to be debilitating. So I go into work like usual and hope that no one notices that I've sneezed all over every thing. There are some serious germaphobes there, and I am afraid that every time they hear my sneeze, they want to run me off the premises with a pitchfork and a decongestant. I don't like to work from home too often, and so I come in and hope that they're too absorbed in their work to realize all the nose-blowing sounds are coming from the same cube. One time, a colleague did notice. She came over and gave me some sort of powder to put into hot water so that I could be sure and get 12,000% of my daily Vitamin C requirement. I imagined my white blood cells soldiering on against the nasty snot-colored infection cells and then being bombarded with Vitamin C, which looked like overeager dogs that got in the way. Yes, I do frequently anthropormorphize my cells, why do you ask?
I know there are people who are obsessed with germs. Me, not so much. I feel like germs are pretty much unavoidable, and I seem to be doing okay. However, I have been obsessed with germs since Friday; I've been obsessed with my germs. I know that everything I've touched probably has tiny snot particles on it. Every piece of junk that I picked up at yard sales on Saturday morning became a carrier for my infection. The pump that I used to put gas in my car, the credit card I handed to the cashier at the restaurant I ate Sunday brunch at, the envelope I used to send off my power bill payment. I feel like a leper, only one that has a rare form of leprosy that no one else can detect. I'm a secret leper. Shhhh.
I suppose I should feel bad about all the innocents that have unwittingly come into contact with my snot. And I kinda do. I feel bad for the people I know, my family, my coworkers, and the friend I had brunch with (my bad). I would feel worse, except that I don't know who gave me this infection. I haven't been hanging around with anyone who was sick. That means I got it from someone else who was going around pretending to be perfectly healthy. I went to two high school graduations last week, where I came into contact with approximately 5,000 people, any number of which could have been leaving snot particles on chairs or tables or that door handle that I licked (just kidding). Who knows how many secret lepers are around us at any given time?
So it's not just me. There are other snot-spreaders. You can think I'm irresponsible or whatever, but you can't avoid the others. They're out there.
I think I've stretched this metaphor far enough.
What I mean is that a have a mild sinus infection. I've had so many sinus infections that I can plot their course. I start out with a sore throat, the next day comes the snot. The snot is really the main event, causing drippiness and congestions and those dull headaches that happen when your head makes more snot than it has room to hold. This stage can last up to a week, and at its peak, I can feel positively drained, as if all my energy has been devoted to snot creation. At some point, the snot starts to drain into my throat, and just when I'm starting to feel better, my voice changes and everyone asks if I'm sick.
This one hasn't been so bad. Friday brought the sore throat, and I'm already at the voice change stage. One of the problems with these infections is that they're usually not bad enough to be debilitating. So I go into work like usual and hope that no one notices that I've sneezed all over every thing. There are some serious germaphobes there, and I am afraid that every time they hear my sneeze, they want to run me off the premises with a pitchfork and a decongestant. I don't like to work from home too often, and so I come in and hope that they're too absorbed in their work to realize all the nose-blowing sounds are coming from the same cube. One time, a colleague did notice. She came over and gave me some sort of powder to put into hot water so that I could be sure and get 12,000% of my daily Vitamin C requirement. I imagined my white blood cells soldiering on against the nasty snot-colored infection cells and then being bombarded with Vitamin C, which looked like overeager dogs that got in the way. Yes, I do frequently anthropormorphize my cells, why do you ask?
I know there are people who are obsessed with germs. Me, not so much. I feel like germs are pretty much unavoidable, and I seem to be doing okay. However, I have been obsessed with germs since Friday; I've been obsessed with my germs. I know that everything I've touched probably has tiny snot particles on it. Every piece of junk that I picked up at yard sales on Saturday morning became a carrier for my infection. The pump that I used to put gas in my car, the credit card I handed to the cashier at the restaurant I ate Sunday brunch at, the envelope I used to send off my power bill payment. I feel like a leper, only one that has a rare form of leprosy that no one else can detect. I'm a secret leper. Shhhh.
I suppose I should feel bad about all the innocents that have unwittingly come into contact with my snot. And I kinda do. I feel bad for the people I know, my family, my coworkers, and the friend I had brunch with (my bad). I would feel worse, except that I don't know who gave me this infection. I haven't been hanging around with anyone who was sick. That means I got it from someone else who was going around pretending to be perfectly healthy. I went to two high school graduations last week, where I came into contact with approximately 5,000 people, any number of which could have been leaving snot particles on chairs or tables or that door handle that I licked (just kidding). Who knows how many secret lepers are around us at any given time?
So it's not just me. There are other snot-spreaders. You can think I'm irresponsible or whatever, but you can't avoid the others. They're out there.
6.16.2009
the rv dream.
I've been having a recurring dream the past four years or so. I don't abscribe much meaning to the interpretation of dreams. I guess I see dreams as the conglomeration of a bunch of things that float around in your head. And so the individual parts might point to something that was happening or that you thought about, but the total dream may not necessarily mean anything.
Back to the recurring dream. It's not like watching the same movie every time, but more like watching a different episode of Matlock every time. The basic premise of these dreams is that my ex-boyfriend shows up and I have to break up with him. Or rather, he somehow doesn't know that we're not together anymore, and I have to explain it to him. Uh, listen, we've been broken up a while and actually, I've got this other guy over here. It's never really clear to me in the dream why he doesn't notice the giant four year gap in our relationship. That's not the point. The point is my anxiety at having to break up with this guy. Again.
Now, clearly there is still something unresolved in me about my old relationship. I'm pretty sure my ex-boyfriend knows that we're not together anymore. There's just something in the back of my head that feels sorta weird about the way it ended. While I felt our relationship had been disintegrating for a long time, the breakup blind-sided him. And I think I've felt guilty about that ever since, thus the dreams where I have to catch him unawares all over again.
One night recently, it was the same sort of setup again. A bunch of us, me and him and a bunch of vaguely familiar dream extras, were leaving Boone. It was sort of like the end of a coming of age movie, where everyone is scattering to their various new lives. We were were all leaving town, but we were also leaving some important stage in our lives and were hyper-aware of it. The whole scene reeked of significance. All it needed was that Green Day graduation song.
I had this awesome RV. It had the cab of a huge truck, and it opened up like a Transformer. I wasn't sure where I was going to go in this fantastic recreational vehicle. But I had the idea that my ex thought that he was coming with me, and I knew that I was going to have to tell him that he could not come with me in my super-cool RV. Josh was there, too, and he was nervous. He was afraid that I would be reunited with my ex and he would be left behind.
So I steeled my resolve and walked over to where my ex was securing items in the back of an overpacked red pickup. I started out with small talk, asking vaguely about "the future." He said something about going to Canada, all the while tightening bungee cords. He wasn't unfriendly, but he wasn't really concerned with me either. And I realized that he had no expectations of going anywhere with me in my RV, awesome as it was. He had his red pickup and his stuff and a map to Canada. He had his own thing, and he assumed that I had mine.
Relieved, I wished him luck and walked back to my vehicle. I pushed the button to open it, and there was a lot of whirring and whooshing as a set of stairs came down. Josh stood far away, watching me anxiously. I smiled and waved for him to come on.
The end.
And it's so silly that I should wake up the next morning feeling so relieved. There's no way that I could know that anything has changed with him. I haven't spoken to him at all. But now my subconscious is telling me that everything is okay, that we've all moved on and got our own lives and large live-in vehicles. How does my subconscious know? It doesn't, but I'm going to take its word for it anyway.
Back to the recurring dream. It's not like watching the same movie every time, but more like watching a different episode of Matlock every time. The basic premise of these dreams is that my ex-boyfriend shows up and I have to break up with him. Or rather, he somehow doesn't know that we're not together anymore, and I have to explain it to him. Uh, listen, we've been broken up a while and actually, I've got this other guy over here. It's never really clear to me in the dream why he doesn't notice the giant four year gap in our relationship. That's not the point. The point is my anxiety at having to break up with this guy. Again.
Now, clearly there is still something unresolved in me about my old relationship. I'm pretty sure my ex-boyfriend knows that we're not together anymore. There's just something in the back of my head that feels sorta weird about the way it ended. While I felt our relationship had been disintegrating for a long time, the breakup blind-sided him. And I think I've felt guilty about that ever since, thus the dreams where I have to catch him unawares all over again.
One night recently, it was the same sort of setup again. A bunch of us, me and him and a bunch of vaguely familiar dream extras, were leaving Boone. It was sort of like the end of a coming of age movie, where everyone is scattering to their various new lives. We were were all leaving town, but we were also leaving some important stage in our lives and were hyper-aware of it. The whole scene reeked of significance. All it needed was that Green Day graduation song.
I had this awesome RV. It had the cab of a huge truck, and it opened up like a Transformer. I wasn't sure where I was going to go in this fantastic recreational vehicle. But I had the idea that my ex thought that he was coming with me, and I knew that I was going to have to tell him that he could not come with me in my super-cool RV. Josh was there, too, and he was nervous. He was afraid that I would be reunited with my ex and he would be left behind.
So I steeled my resolve and walked over to where my ex was securing items in the back of an overpacked red pickup. I started out with small talk, asking vaguely about "the future." He said something about going to Canada, all the while tightening bungee cords. He wasn't unfriendly, but he wasn't really concerned with me either. And I realized that he had no expectations of going anywhere with me in my RV, awesome as it was. He had his red pickup and his stuff and a map to Canada. He had his own thing, and he assumed that I had mine.
Relieved, I wished him luck and walked back to my vehicle. I pushed the button to open it, and there was a lot of whirring and whooshing as a set of stairs came down. Josh stood far away, watching me anxiously. I smiled and waved for him to come on.
The end.
And it's so silly that I should wake up the next morning feeling so relieved. There's no way that I could know that anything has changed with him. I haven't spoken to him at all. But now my subconscious is telling me that everything is okay, that we've all moved on and got our own lives and large live-in vehicles. How does my subconscious know? It doesn't, but I'm going to take its word for it anyway.
6.11.2009
does it still make a sound?
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and no one is there to hear it, does it make a sound?
A: I don't know. I wasn't there.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and no one is there, but then you come home and see the undersides of a bunch of branches heading toward the house, will it scare the crap out of you and make you start wondering how good your homeowner's insurance is?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and you discover that the tip of the tree landed inches from your porch, will you wonder at your incredible luck?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and just misses the front porch, will you start eyeing all the other trees suspiciously?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and just misses the front porch, does it still make a mess?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and makes a mess, will you realize that you now have to buy yet another tool that you never thought about needing before?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and you ask your brother to recommend a good ax, will he tell you to buy one that is powered by gasoline?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and your brother recommends a chainsaw, will you still buy an ax, because it's cheaper and chainsaws seem awfully scary?
A: Possibly.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and you commit to cleaning it up the old-fashioned way, is it handy to have a man around?
A: YES!
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and your boyfriend chops it up with an ax, are you required to make him brownies and rub his shoulders?
A: No, but it's probably a good idea.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and your boyfriend cleans it up while you make brownies, will you think about gender roles?
A: Yes, and you will think that sometimes it's not so bad being the little woman.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and you tell your boyfriend you want to take pictures of it before it gets cleaned up, will he think you are weird?
A: Yes. Avoid telling him it's for the blog entry you've already begun composing in your head.
A: I don't know. I wasn't there.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and no one is there, but then you come home and see the undersides of a bunch of branches heading toward the house, will it scare the crap out of you and make you start wondering how good your homeowner's insurance is?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and you discover that the tip of the tree landed inches from your porch, will you wonder at your incredible luck?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and just misses the front porch, will you start eyeing all the other trees suspiciously?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and just misses the front porch, does it still make a mess?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and makes a mess, will you realize that you now have to buy yet another tool that you never thought about needing before?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and you ask your brother to recommend a good ax, will he tell you to buy one that is powered by gasoline?
A: Yes.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and your brother recommends a chainsaw, will you still buy an ax, because it's cheaper and chainsaws seem awfully scary?
A: Possibly.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and you commit to cleaning it up the old-fashioned way, is it handy to have a man around?
A: YES!
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and your boyfriend chops it up with an ax, are you required to make him brownies and rub his shoulders?
A: No, but it's probably a good idea.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and your boyfriend cleans it up while you make brownies, will you think about gender roles?
A: Yes, and you will think that sometimes it's not so bad being the little woman.
Q: If a tree falls in the front yard of your new house and you tell your boyfriend you want to take pictures of it before it gets cleaned up, will he think you are weird?
A: Yes. Avoid telling him it's for the blog entry you've already begun composing in your head.
6.08.2009
behind the fridge.
So, I was painting behind the fridge when-
Okay, yeah, I was painting behind the fridge. I was being thorough. I mean, there was this little part that you could see behind the fridge. It was totally noticeable if you happened to look right at it. I know that it would have bothered me if I didn't paint it.
Anyway, I was putting some painter's tape on the floor behind the fridge when-
Well, okay, you could only see a little bit up towards the top. I didn't really have to paint anything besides that strip. But, you know, it's nice to be thorough. And the fridge is on wheels, so it's really easy to just scoot it out and get in behind there. It was pretty dusty, but fine. No big deal. I'm sure lots of people paint behind the fridge.
So, yeah, like I was saying, I was in the space behind the fridge, putting painter's tape on the floor when-
OKAY, FINE, I bought too much yellow paint and I used it to paint behind the fridge, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? Can I PLEASE tell my story?
ANYWAY, I was sitting on the floor behind the fridge, where I noticed that there was no trim on the bottom. Apparently, this is officially the Fridge Spot, because this little area was not meant to be seen by the public. It was very dirty and gross, lots of dust and cobwebs in addition to a sort of unfinished look created by the naked wall not being quite connected to the floor. I see why they invented trim.
And the weird thing was, there a couple of areas were the wall was a little worn away. Like just a little arch of space, very small, but strange nonetheless. It reminded me of something from my childhood.
But surely it wasn't that. These were very small, less than an inch high. Besides, that was just a cartoon. I'd never actually seen a mouse make a hole like that, despite having lived in places that definitely had them. That's just the way it is when you live in the country. So I just shrugged and forgot about it.
And then, later, I was painting a closet in the spare bedroom, because it looked like it hadn't been painted since the house was built and also because I still had almost a whole gallon of yellow paint left. There is thick carpet in here, but again no trim. I guess the carpet was supposed to bridge the gap. The floor was filthy in there. I assume the previous owners had not bothered to vacuum it before they left. I was covering the carpet with more painter's tape when I saw another one of those funny little holes in the wall. I thought again about Saturday mornings of my childhood.
And then I realized that this closet shares a wall with the kitchen, and would be approximately on the other side as the area behind the fridge. I also realized that the carpet was filthy with tiny long and black bead-like things. I did not need to pick any up to figure out what they were.
Sigh. I possibly have a pet mouse, though it's also feasible that he's already moved out (or died in the walls somewhere, heaven help me). So, the solution is to vacuum the closet and maybe tape over the hole. We will know the present residential status based on whether the tape gets chewed or tiny long and black bead-like things reappear.
Here, for your enjoyment, one of my favorite Tom & Jerry cartoons. Sexy lady cat, dog named "Killer," pogoing on a double-bass, ridiculous violence, and a great song. What more could you want?
Okay, yeah, I was painting behind the fridge. I was being thorough. I mean, there was this little part that you could see behind the fridge. It was totally noticeable if you happened to look right at it. I know that it would have bothered me if I didn't paint it.
Anyway, I was putting some painter's tape on the floor behind the fridge when-
Well, okay, you could only see a little bit up towards the top. I didn't really have to paint anything besides that strip. But, you know, it's nice to be thorough. And the fridge is on wheels, so it's really easy to just scoot it out and get in behind there. It was pretty dusty, but fine. No big deal. I'm sure lots of people paint behind the fridge.
So, yeah, like I was saying, I was in the space behind the fridge, putting painter's tape on the floor when-
OKAY, FINE, I bought too much yellow paint and I used it to paint behind the fridge, ARE YOU HAPPY NOW? Can I PLEASE tell my story?
ANYWAY, I was sitting on the floor behind the fridge, where I noticed that there was no trim on the bottom. Apparently, this is officially the Fridge Spot, because this little area was not meant to be seen by the public. It was very dirty and gross, lots of dust and cobwebs in addition to a sort of unfinished look created by the naked wall not being quite connected to the floor. I see why they invented trim.
And the weird thing was, there a couple of areas were the wall was a little worn away. Like just a little arch of space, very small, but strange nonetheless. It reminded me of something from my childhood.
But surely it wasn't that. These were very small, less than an inch high. Besides, that was just a cartoon. I'd never actually seen a mouse make a hole like that, despite having lived in places that definitely had them. That's just the way it is when you live in the country. So I just shrugged and forgot about it.
And then, later, I was painting a closet in the spare bedroom, because it looked like it hadn't been painted since the house was built and also because I still had almost a whole gallon of yellow paint left. There is thick carpet in here, but again no trim. I guess the carpet was supposed to bridge the gap. The floor was filthy in there. I assume the previous owners had not bothered to vacuum it before they left. I was covering the carpet with more painter's tape when I saw another one of those funny little holes in the wall. I thought again about Saturday mornings of my childhood.
And then I realized that this closet shares a wall with the kitchen, and would be approximately on the other side as the area behind the fridge. I also realized that the carpet was filthy with tiny long and black bead-like things. I did not need to pick any up to figure out what they were.
Sigh. I possibly have a pet mouse, though it's also feasible that he's already moved out (or died in the walls somewhere, heaven help me). So, the solution is to vacuum the closet and maybe tape over the hole. We will know the present residential status based on whether the tape gets chewed or tiny long and black bead-like things reappear.
Here, for your enjoyment, one of my favorite Tom & Jerry cartoons. Sexy lady cat, dog named "Killer," pogoing on a double-bass, ridiculous violence, and a great song. What more could you want?
6.05.2009
antique white.
It seems to be a general rule that when you buy paint or paint supplies, cashiers will ask you about it. Sometimes when you buy brown sugar, flour, eggs, butter and chocolate chips at the grocery store, the cashier will make a cookie related comment. But not always, because sometimes you get a vacant-stared teenager or some college kid who never realized that cookies don't grow in nature and are instead of made of other things. But paint seems to be obvious enough. You are buying paint. Ergo, you must be painting something.
"So what are you painting?"
"My house."
"Which rooms?"
"All of them."
For some reason, that seems surprising to them. Maybe people only paint one room at a time. Not being a cashier at a paint-supply store, I don't know about the painting habits of the general population. One guy even asked me if I was doing it all by myself. I'm not sure if he thought it sounded like an awful lot of work, or if perhaps he'd been looking for a girl to paint houses with and thought this was his chance.
In any case, it is an awful lot of work. I've painted every day for a week except Tuesday, when my muscles were so sore that they demanded I lie on the couch and eat homemade enchiladas instead.
My previous painting experience is limited. I painted stage sets in high school, which was fun. There was a lot of goofing off and a pretty low standard for quality. We had a huge set of brushes and rollers. Half the time they were crusty with the previous day's paint because the doofus who was responsible for cleaning them hadn't bothered to do it. Then there were the days when I was supposed to clean them, and I understood why the other guy had been lazy. It seemed to take forever to clean the stupid brushes. How did any paint get on the sets when there was clearly a whole can's worth stored in this stupid roller?
In college, I helped paint part of my first apartment. Okay, it said in the lease that we were not supposed to paint. But the neighbors had done it. And when we mentioned that fact to the leasing office manager when we were viewing the place, he said it would be fine as long as he got to approve the colors. Then, we were bad tenants, because we just went ahead and used whatever colors we wanted without consulting him. But we found out later that he wasn't being quite honest with us, either. He would have only approved the off-white color that was already on the walls. Apparently, he thought college girls wanted to paint their apartments solely for the joy of painting.
I happened upon some paint at a yard sale during the first summer in the apartment. Something like four cans of paint for $5. They were bright colors - blue, red, yellow, orange. I painted the kitchen yellow and my bedroom blue. Then I painted half the hallway red. I don't remember why I stopped after only doing half the work. Maybe I had to go somewhere or maybe I just got sick of it. My attention to the task was obviously wavering, as I used the brush to spell out my name across the top of the wall. Then I painted over half of it and left it for, oh, eight months or so. We had half a red room, with the letters "DRA" at the top. Finally, one of my roommates got sick of it and finished the job. I can imagine getting a roommate performance review: "Pays rent on time. Is quiet, non-smoker. Sorta messy. Will paint half a wall, write her name on it in giant red letters and consider the job done."
Then, when we left the apartment, we had to paint it again: a coat of mold-killing primer followed by two coats of "Antique White." It was not a good time. It felt like punishment, which it was and which we deserved.
Because of that incident, I started taking leases more seriously when they said "NO PAINTING." I lived surrounded by Antique White for the next four years. It's not that it bothered me so much, but it made me feel sorta old and boring sometimes. I know, that's unfair to people who like Antique White who may not actually be old and boring. It's also unfair to old and boring people who may not even like Antique White.
But now! Now, I have a house, and I, as my landlord, say that I can paint the walls, provided I approve the colors beforehand. I picked out something pretty similar to Antique White, actually. And then the paint guy added a bunch of colors to the Antique White and put it in this violent shaking machine. I tried to watch the violent shaking, but that made me nauseous. We opened up the can, and it was a beautiful dark orange/red, the color of brick. Then we did the same thing to another can, but it turned out to be the color of a tulip stem. Then I decided that beets had a very pleasant hue to them. I am not afraid of color.
Having all this time to spend working alone on the house is a sort of mixed blessing. I feel like I'm getting to know my house. For instance, I now know the color of the floor under the fridge. And there is some trim in the living room that is a little broken. That mysterious weird box on the wall in the hall controls the doorbells. I am learning the house's secrets, which is only fair, since it's seen me naked a bunch of times already.
I am also transforming it a bit. The walls were beige before, and that was fine for someone else, but I'm going to need a little color in my life. Sure, my stuff was in it, and that alone would have differentiated it from the house of anyone else. After ten years of buying used, I have fairly distinctive stuff. But this feels much less temporary. I hung all those same pictures in those apartments, knowing full well that I would later take them down from the Antique White walls and move them somewhere else. This has a sense of permanence. This is my house. I am invested in it. I have literally coated it with myself, sometimes two coats.
It's an awful lot of work and it's expensive. Paint is not a common yard sale item; I don't think I've seen any since I bought those cans seven years ago. But I approve this expense. I'm not planning on doing much in the way of improvement or renovation to the house for a while, having shot my wad buying it in the first place. Compared to knocking down a wall or redoing the cabinents, painting is cheap. And it makes a huge difference. Already, I look at the completed rooms and just feel happy with how much better they look, how much more interesting they are. It feels more like a home, and less like a place where my stuff just happens to be.
It's an awful lot of work, though.
"So what are you painting?"
"My house."
"Which rooms?"
"All of them."
For some reason, that seems surprising to them. Maybe people only paint one room at a time. Not being a cashier at a paint-supply store, I don't know about the painting habits of the general population. One guy even asked me if I was doing it all by myself. I'm not sure if he thought it sounded like an awful lot of work, or if perhaps he'd been looking for a girl to paint houses with and thought this was his chance.
In any case, it is an awful lot of work. I've painted every day for a week except Tuesday, when my muscles were so sore that they demanded I lie on the couch and eat homemade enchiladas instead.
My previous painting experience is limited. I painted stage sets in high school, which was fun. There was a lot of goofing off and a pretty low standard for quality. We had a huge set of brushes and rollers. Half the time they were crusty with the previous day's paint because the doofus who was responsible for cleaning them hadn't bothered to do it. Then there were the days when I was supposed to clean them, and I understood why the other guy had been lazy. It seemed to take forever to clean the stupid brushes. How did any paint get on the sets when there was clearly a whole can's worth stored in this stupid roller?
In college, I helped paint part of my first apartment. Okay, it said in the lease that we were not supposed to paint. But the neighbors had done it. And when we mentioned that fact to the leasing office manager when we were viewing the place, he said it would be fine as long as he got to approve the colors. Then, we were bad tenants, because we just went ahead and used whatever colors we wanted without consulting him. But we found out later that he wasn't being quite honest with us, either. He would have only approved the off-white color that was already on the walls. Apparently, he thought college girls wanted to paint their apartments solely for the joy of painting.
I happened upon some paint at a yard sale during the first summer in the apartment. Something like four cans of paint for $5. They were bright colors - blue, red, yellow, orange. I painted the kitchen yellow and my bedroom blue. Then I painted half the hallway red. I don't remember why I stopped after only doing half the work. Maybe I had to go somewhere or maybe I just got sick of it. My attention to the task was obviously wavering, as I used the brush to spell out my name across the top of the wall. Then I painted over half of it and left it for, oh, eight months or so. We had half a red room, with the letters "DRA" at the top. Finally, one of my roommates got sick of it and finished the job. I can imagine getting a roommate performance review: "Pays rent on time. Is quiet, non-smoker. Sorta messy. Will paint half a wall, write her name on it in giant red letters and consider the job done."
Then, when we left the apartment, we had to paint it again: a coat of mold-killing primer followed by two coats of "Antique White." It was not a good time. It felt like punishment, which it was and which we deserved.
Because of that incident, I started taking leases more seriously when they said "NO PAINTING." I lived surrounded by Antique White for the next four years. It's not that it bothered me so much, but it made me feel sorta old and boring sometimes. I know, that's unfair to people who like Antique White who may not actually be old and boring. It's also unfair to old and boring people who may not even like Antique White.
But now! Now, I have a house, and I, as my landlord, say that I can paint the walls, provided I approve the colors beforehand. I picked out something pretty similar to Antique White, actually. And then the paint guy added a bunch of colors to the Antique White and put it in this violent shaking machine. I tried to watch the violent shaking, but that made me nauseous. We opened up the can, and it was a beautiful dark orange/red, the color of brick. Then we did the same thing to another can, but it turned out to be the color of a tulip stem. Then I decided that beets had a very pleasant hue to them. I am not afraid of color.
Having all this time to spend working alone on the house is a sort of mixed blessing. I feel like I'm getting to know my house. For instance, I now know the color of the floor under the fridge. And there is some trim in the living room that is a little broken. That mysterious weird box on the wall in the hall controls the doorbells. I am learning the house's secrets, which is only fair, since it's seen me naked a bunch of times already.
I am also transforming it a bit. The walls were beige before, and that was fine for someone else, but I'm going to need a little color in my life. Sure, my stuff was in it, and that alone would have differentiated it from the house of anyone else. After ten years of buying used, I have fairly distinctive stuff. But this feels much less temporary. I hung all those same pictures in those apartments, knowing full well that I would later take them down from the Antique White walls and move them somewhere else. This has a sense of permanence. This is my house. I am invested in it. I have literally coated it with myself, sometimes two coats.
It's an awful lot of work and it's expensive. Paint is not a common yard sale item; I don't think I've seen any since I bought those cans seven years ago. But I approve this expense. I'm not planning on doing much in the way of improvement or renovation to the house for a while, having shot my wad buying it in the first place. Compared to knocking down a wall or redoing the cabinents, painting is cheap. And it makes a huge difference. Already, I look at the completed rooms and just feel happy with how much better they look, how much more interesting they are. It feels more like a home, and less like a place where my stuff just happens to be.
It's an awful lot of work, though.
6.03.2009
press b.
I grew up as part of the video game generation. The original Nintendo came out when I was six. I never had one, but I used to beg my friend Brandi to let me play Duck Hunt. I'd sit really close to the screen to make up for the fact that I was a terrible hunter. She'd long since gotten sick of her video games, but it was like an amusement park for me.
Later, I would play Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat on a Sega system in the basement of a neighbor's basement. Along with Pepsi vs. Coke and NC State vs. Carolina, Nintendo vs. Sega seemed to be an important question of who your friends were in the second grade. I didn't really pick a side. Sega seemed edgier, but Nintendo seemed to have a sort of classic appeal. I guess we know who won.
In college, my roommate brought in her old Super Nintendo, and I finally was given enough time to play as many video games as I wanted. This culminated in an eight hour Saturday session of Super Mario Brothers, after which I never picked it up again.
I was at a friend of Josh's with a bunch of other semi-strangers shortly after Guitar Hero came out. We sat around and watched two guys play. Then all of the guys went outside to smoke cigarettes, leaving me and another girl there. We both looked around furtively before agreeing to try the game. We played a few songs on the Easy level before deciding we'd done enough.
Video games are fun, but I always feel sort of empty after playing. Yes, that was fun, and I improved as I went along, but at the end, I don't feel like I've done anything valuable. None of these new skills seem to translate to my life. I like watching people who are good at video games, both for the action and for the often surreal world on the screen. It's easier to appreciate all the little touches of video games when you don't have to worry about being shot. I can't handle high-stress games. I can't handle anything where you can be attacked from behind, because panic prevents me from being able to turn around effectively, and so by the time I finally do see what's draining my life force, I'm pretty much dead.
I'm always self-conscious about playing video games in front of other people, since everyone else seems to be much more experienced at them. The controllers feel very alien in my hand. People might be shouting "Press B! Press B!" until I cry out "WHICH BUTTON IS B?" but by then I'm already dead. I know that the reason that the others are so good and I'm so bad is because they've been pushing B for years, but I still feel a little stupid. So I don't really play, and I don't really feel like I'm missing much.
My boss bought the office a Wii last year. People played Guitar Hero (or was it Rock Band?) and the Wii Sports games that came with the system. Everyone designed a little Mii character, even people who weren't really gamers. And then someone brought in Mario Kart, and all the other games started gathering dust.
I like race games okay. They're not like shoot-em-ups, where you can die if you can't find B in time. They've got the action and adventure in them, without the stress of imminent death. I mean, you can still come in last, but that's not so bad.
So I played sometimes with the other guys. At the beginning, we were all sort of on the same level, because the Wii controller is so different from previous controls. You just hold the thing in mid-air and turn it like a steering wheel, as opposed to using a thumb pad or arrow keys. I still wasn't good; I had a tendency to oversteer and would end up driving wildly back and forth across the road and frequently off the track completely.
After a while, the other players started leaving me in the dust. Aside from more general gaming experience, they had Wiis at home and played there, too. They started making the game more difficult by increasing the speed of the cars and the aggressiveness of the computer players. It stopped being fun, and so I stopped playing. There was a core group of people who played in the late afternoon who were just fantastic. They soon started coming up with ways to challenge themselves. They picked vehicles which were clunky and hard to steer. They gave the computer players a full lap head start. Even though they've pretty much "beat" the game, they still play to beat each other and post new top scores. For some reason, Mario Kart is a game which does not get boring.
We used to play board games at lunch, but then the people who owned all the board games left the company. So we started playing Mario Kart at lunch. A couple of the guys who play with us are pretty good, though not in the same class as the afternoon crowd. But then there is me and another guy, two people who have never owned a video game system in their lives. We were bad compared to the people we play with, and just plain terrible compared to the other guys. We drove off-road, fell off bridges, got turned around and drove the wrong way for a while. Fifth place was a strong finish.
Lately, though, something odd has been happening: I've been getting better. I've been finishing in the top three after a series of eight or ten races. We're not using the easy settings, either. Is this what it's like to be good at a video game?
Even though I'm not decent at exactly one video game, I still don't see how it has translated to my life at all. I'd like to throw turtle shells at other commuters on the interstate, but I'd probably be arrested. Still, I think it would be nice to be at a party sometime, where everyone was playing Mario Kart on the Wii, and I could show them up. Hey, I don't suck! It would almost be an inspirational story if it wasn't about a stupid video game.
Later, I would play Street Fighter and Mortal Kombat on a Sega system in the basement of a neighbor's basement. Along with Pepsi vs. Coke and NC State vs. Carolina, Nintendo vs. Sega seemed to be an important question of who your friends were in the second grade. I didn't really pick a side. Sega seemed edgier, but Nintendo seemed to have a sort of classic appeal. I guess we know who won.
In college, my roommate brought in her old Super Nintendo, and I finally was given enough time to play as many video games as I wanted. This culminated in an eight hour Saturday session of Super Mario Brothers, after which I never picked it up again.
I was at a friend of Josh's with a bunch of other semi-strangers shortly after Guitar Hero came out. We sat around and watched two guys play. Then all of the guys went outside to smoke cigarettes, leaving me and another girl there. We both looked around furtively before agreeing to try the game. We played a few songs on the Easy level before deciding we'd done enough.
Video games are fun, but I always feel sort of empty after playing. Yes, that was fun, and I improved as I went along, but at the end, I don't feel like I've done anything valuable. None of these new skills seem to translate to my life. I like watching people who are good at video games, both for the action and for the often surreal world on the screen. It's easier to appreciate all the little touches of video games when you don't have to worry about being shot. I can't handle high-stress games. I can't handle anything where you can be attacked from behind, because panic prevents me from being able to turn around effectively, and so by the time I finally do see what's draining my life force, I'm pretty much dead.
I'm always self-conscious about playing video games in front of other people, since everyone else seems to be much more experienced at them. The controllers feel very alien in my hand. People might be shouting "Press B! Press B!" until I cry out "WHICH BUTTON IS B?" but by then I'm already dead. I know that the reason that the others are so good and I'm so bad is because they've been pushing B for years, but I still feel a little stupid. So I don't really play, and I don't really feel like I'm missing much.
My boss bought the office a Wii last year. People played Guitar Hero (or was it Rock Band?) and the Wii Sports games that came with the system. Everyone designed a little Mii character, even people who weren't really gamers. And then someone brought in Mario Kart, and all the other games started gathering dust.
I like race games okay. They're not like shoot-em-ups, where you can die if you can't find B in time. They've got the action and adventure in them, without the stress of imminent death. I mean, you can still come in last, but that's not so bad.
So I played sometimes with the other guys. At the beginning, we were all sort of on the same level, because the Wii controller is so different from previous controls. You just hold the thing in mid-air and turn it like a steering wheel, as opposed to using a thumb pad or arrow keys. I still wasn't good; I had a tendency to oversteer and would end up driving wildly back and forth across the road and frequently off the track completely.
After a while, the other players started leaving me in the dust. Aside from more general gaming experience, they had Wiis at home and played there, too. They started making the game more difficult by increasing the speed of the cars and the aggressiveness of the computer players. It stopped being fun, and so I stopped playing. There was a core group of people who played in the late afternoon who were just fantastic. They soon started coming up with ways to challenge themselves. They picked vehicles which were clunky and hard to steer. They gave the computer players a full lap head start. Even though they've pretty much "beat" the game, they still play to beat each other and post new top scores. For some reason, Mario Kart is a game which does not get boring.
We used to play board games at lunch, but then the people who owned all the board games left the company. So we started playing Mario Kart at lunch. A couple of the guys who play with us are pretty good, though not in the same class as the afternoon crowd. But then there is me and another guy, two people who have never owned a video game system in their lives. We were bad compared to the people we play with, and just plain terrible compared to the other guys. We drove off-road, fell off bridges, got turned around and drove the wrong way for a while. Fifth place was a strong finish.
Lately, though, something odd has been happening: I've been getting better. I've been finishing in the top three after a series of eight or ten races. We're not using the easy settings, either. Is this what it's like to be good at a video game?
Even though I'm not decent at exactly one video game, I still don't see how it has translated to my life at all. I'd like to throw turtle shells at other commuters on the interstate, but I'd probably be arrested. Still, I think it would be nice to be at a party sometime, where everyone was playing Mario Kart on the Wii, and I could show them up. Hey, I don't suck! It would almost be an inspirational story if it wasn't about a stupid video game.
6.01.2009
the color of loneliness.
I had to make apology granola bars when Josh went on tour in February, because I was a big baby. He was gone for four long weeks, which included four Saturdays of making my own pizzas. I also bought a house during that time, which was a little lonely in that I couldn't share my excitement with him. But I survived, partially in thanks to the move, which kept me busy.
I had just gotten used to having him around again, when one of his bandmates mentioned the next tour in my presence. This is the worst possible way to get bad news - have someone else speak about it as if it's common knowledge. Then you have to act like you knew all about it, when you really want to yell out "STOP THE PRESSES!" and start interrogating everyone in the room. I never get to use my interrogation lamp anymore.
As soon as I found out about the second tour, which promised to eat up six whole weeks of summer, I could feel my lower lip start to push out, as if the Spirit of Whining and Pouting had flown in and settled on my shoulder, whispering to me that other girlfriends didn't have to deal with this, that the band wasn't even thinking of my Saturday pizza needs. I went into a funk, and it lasted the rest of the day, while I took the opportunity to badger Josh for information about this new tour. I was writing nasty things in my journal when I realized that I had already gone through this, had already apologized and publicly denounced this sort of behavior in myself.
Being a better person is hard.
I was glad to find out that once I noticed the Spirit of Whining and Pouting sitting on my shoulder, I was successfully able to shoo him away. And except for that one day, I have been a supportive girlfriend. I made granola bars again, but they were individually-wrapped love packages, instead apologies for weeks of immaturity.
I do not have a major property purchase or move to distract me this time, so I'm painting. The previous owners of my house were apparently the kind of people who were really into beige. They surrounded themselves with it. I bet they high-fived each other every so often and went, "Beige, oh yeah!" It's a beautiful house with lots of character, even with such blah coloring, but I'm planning on taking its character to new heights. I'm sure it's thinking, finally, an owner with some personality. Because it's not just weirdos who seek out houses with "character." Deep inside, those houses are calling out to the weirdos.
If I were the poetic sort, I could say that I was painting my house with my loneliness. But I saw a paint chip for Loneliness, and to be honest, it's kinda boring. I was thinking more of using Quiet Comfort or Snuggliness or Excited About This Great Thing I Found at a Yard Sale, Check It Out. I will not be using Whiny or Pouty or Not Learning My Lesson, because I am a better person. I hope to get the pout period down to a few hours next time, rather than a whole day.
You should click on the picture to see the enlarged version, because I spent like fifteen minutes on it.
I had just gotten used to having him around again, when one of his bandmates mentioned the next tour in my presence. This is the worst possible way to get bad news - have someone else speak about it as if it's common knowledge. Then you have to act like you knew all about it, when you really want to yell out "STOP THE PRESSES!" and start interrogating everyone in the room. I never get to use my interrogation lamp anymore.
As soon as I found out about the second tour, which promised to eat up six whole weeks of summer, I could feel my lower lip start to push out, as if the Spirit of Whining and Pouting had flown in and settled on my shoulder, whispering to me that other girlfriends didn't have to deal with this, that the band wasn't even thinking of my Saturday pizza needs. I went into a funk, and it lasted the rest of the day, while I took the opportunity to badger Josh for information about this new tour. I was writing nasty things in my journal when I realized that I had already gone through this, had already apologized and publicly denounced this sort of behavior in myself.
Being a better person is hard.
I was glad to find out that once I noticed the Spirit of Whining and Pouting sitting on my shoulder, I was successfully able to shoo him away. And except for that one day, I have been a supportive girlfriend. I made granola bars again, but they were individually-wrapped love packages, instead apologies for weeks of immaturity.
I do not have a major property purchase or move to distract me this time, so I'm painting. The previous owners of my house were apparently the kind of people who were really into beige. They surrounded themselves with it. I bet they high-fived each other every so often and went, "Beige, oh yeah!" It's a beautiful house with lots of character, even with such blah coloring, but I'm planning on taking its character to new heights. I'm sure it's thinking, finally, an owner with some personality. Because it's not just weirdos who seek out houses with "character." Deep inside, those houses are calling out to the weirdos.
If I were the poetic sort, I could say that I was painting my house with my loneliness. But I saw a paint chip for Loneliness, and to be honest, it's kinda boring. I was thinking more of using Quiet Comfort or Snuggliness or Excited About This Great Thing I Found at a Yard Sale, Check It Out. I will not be using Whiny or Pouty or Not Learning My Lesson, because I am a better person. I hope to get the pout period down to a few hours next time, rather than a whole day.
You should click on the picture to see the enlarged version, because I spent like fifteen minutes on it.
5.29.2009
10:30 am.
We haven't done three things in a long time, and I just happened to have three meetings this week. Coincidence? Entirely!
These development meetings can be a nice way to break up the day sometimes, but they're also incredibly draining. Basically, someone has an idea for a feature or some improvement to our product. So they call a meeting where we can get everyone together to hash out how the feature should work and look. This sounds simple enough, except that no one seems to agree on anything, and we end up getting in very heated discussions about very minor things. It's frustrating, because at some point, you just want to throw your hands in the air and shout, "BUT WHO WILL FEED THE CHILDREN?"
And no one will feed the children, because this meeting is about whether buttons should be on the left or the right, not hunger.
Meeting 1: Wednesday - Context Menus
Context menus are the ones that pop up when you right click. They are specific to their context, which is why they're called "context menus," not "super cool and helpful menus that a lot of people don't know about." The purpose of this meeting was to pare the menus in our application down a bit, because they were getting lengthy.
The reason we often have such different opinions is that we each use the product differently. So while one guy thinks that's it's a no-brainer to remove a menu item, half a dozen of us might raise our hands and say we use it every day, are you crazy, THAT MENU ITEM IS A SAINT! And then we start changing captions, trying to decide if the word "Insert" more accurately describes the action than "Generate." Voices are raised, feelings are hurt, all because you think the work "Generate" is vague. And then, just when you think you have it all settled, one of the guys from support, who deals with real, live users every day, tells us that no matter what we do, people are going to be confused and angry. I sometimes think that the real purpose of these meetings is to make the rest of us thankful that we don't work in support, where everyone is confused and angry all the time and it's always your own personal fault.
In any case, I usually have an opinion at first, but soon give it up, having lost the will to argue to-may-to/to-mah-to issues. I don't care anymore. Just tell me what to do and I will do it, but please stop arguing about it.
Meeting 2: Thursday - Linux update
Some user brought it to our attention that our application looks really clunky and dated on Linux. And while the precise shade of gray we use for the background has no bearing on how well our application works, it does seem to matter. If a user looks at a program and wonders if it's 1995 again, that's going to affect his perception of the overall product.
I tried to avoid this meeting, having no particular interest in it. That's allowed. But about thirty minutes after the meeting started, while I was getting actual work done instead of doodling in a meeting, my boss came up behind me and said to come to the meeting. I had my headphones on, so I couldn't tell exactly what he said, but I got the gist. I hustled to that meeting, knowing only that I had tried to skip out, but my boss came and got me. Had he known my middle name, he might have used it.
I arrived at the meeting to find the room empty. The projector hadn't been working before, so he had dismissed everyone until it was working. He came around to tell everyone to come to the meeting, not realizing that some people had tried to opt out. So I sat in the corner and listened while we noted that everything in our Linux version was too gray, too square, and too fat. Gray, square, and fat was apparently the 90s style, but it is now time to move on to a slightly lighter gray, rounded edges, and thin.
Meeting 3: Friday - New Project Dialog
In March, we released a new version, which featured a new dialog. The dialog was my assignment. I did it after two meetings, having been given very clear instructions on exactly what the dialog should look like and how it should behave. I even sent out screenshots of the dialog to make sure that everyone was happy.
Now, two months later, everyone has decided that the dialog is the stupidest thing ever conceived. We are scrapping it completely. Once we decided to do that, it became a free-for-all as people tried to decide what we DID want, as opposed to that other dialog, which no one ever can remember wanting at all. This frequently happens, as you have a good basic idea, but then pretty soon you are overcome with good ideas that no one will ever have time to implement. "What if it automatically detected your project type?" quickly turns into "What if it could bring pets back from the dead?"
And that was my week of meetings. Just think: I work at one of the good places.
These development meetings can be a nice way to break up the day sometimes, but they're also incredibly draining. Basically, someone has an idea for a feature or some improvement to our product. So they call a meeting where we can get everyone together to hash out how the feature should work and look. This sounds simple enough, except that no one seems to agree on anything, and we end up getting in very heated discussions about very minor things. It's frustrating, because at some point, you just want to throw your hands in the air and shout, "BUT WHO WILL FEED THE CHILDREN?"
And no one will feed the children, because this meeting is about whether buttons should be on the left or the right, not hunger.
Meeting 1: Wednesday - Context Menus
Context menus are the ones that pop up when you right click. They are specific to their context, which is why they're called "context menus," not "super cool and helpful menus that a lot of people don't know about." The purpose of this meeting was to pare the menus in our application down a bit, because they were getting lengthy.
The reason we often have such different opinions is that we each use the product differently. So while one guy thinks that's it's a no-brainer to remove a menu item, half a dozen of us might raise our hands and say we use it every day, are you crazy, THAT MENU ITEM IS A SAINT! And then we start changing captions, trying to decide if the word "Insert" more accurately describes the action than "Generate." Voices are raised, feelings are hurt, all because you think the work "Generate" is vague. And then, just when you think you have it all settled, one of the guys from support, who deals with real, live users every day, tells us that no matter what we do, people are going to be confused and angry. I sometimes think that the real purpose of these meetings is to make the rest of us thankful that we don't work in support, where everyone is confused and angry all the time and it's always your own personal fault.
In any case, I usually have an opinion at first, but soon give it up, having lost the will to argue to-may-to/to-mah-to issues. I don't care anymore. Just tell me what to do and I will do it, but please stop arguing about it.
Meeting 2: Thursday - Linux update
Some user brought it to our attention that our application looks really clunky and dated on Linux. And while the precise shade of gray we use for the background has no bearing on how well our application works, it does seem to matter. If a user looks at a program and wonders if it's 1995 again, that's going to affect his perception of the overall product.
I tried to avoid this meeting, having no particular interest in it. That's allowed. But about thirty minutes after the meeting started, while I was getting actual work done instead of doodling in a meeting, my boss came up behind me and said to come to the meeting. I had my headphones on, so I couldn't tell exactly what he said, but I got the gist. I hustled to that meeting, knowing only that I had tried to skip out, but my boss came and got me. Had he known my middle name, he might have used it.
I arrived at the meeting to find the room empty. The projector hadn't been working before, so he had dismissed everyone until it was working. He came around to tell everyone to come to the meeting, not realizing that some people had tried to opt out. So I sat in the corner and listened while we noted that everything in our Linux version was too gray, too square, and too fat. Gray, square, and fat was apparently the 90s style, but it is now time to move on to a slightly lighter gray, rounded edges, and thin.
Meeting 3: Friday - New Project Dialog
In March, we released a new version, which featured a new dialog. The dialog was my assignment. I did it after two meetings, having been given very clear instructions on exactly what the dialog should look like and how it should behave. I even sent out screenshots of the dialog to make sure that everyone was happy.
Now, two months later, everyone has decided that the dialog is the stupidest thing ever conceived. We are scrapping it completely. Once we decided to do that, it became a free-for-all as people tried to decide what we DID want, as opposed to that other dialog, which no one ever can remember wanting at all. This frequently happens, as you have a good basic idea, but then pretty soon you are overcome with good ideas that no one will ever have time to implement. "What if it automatically detected your project type?" quickly turns into "What if it could bring pets back from the dead?"
And that was my week of meetings. Just think: I work at one of the good places.
5.22.2009
low productivity friday.
I need to explain some stuff about my job for you to understand this post.
When you spend a lot of time working on a specific program on a computer, you start using the keyboard more than the mouse. The mouse, while convenient and often better-suited to many uses, is slower if you do a lot of typing. So if you are editing a bunch of text, for instance, code, you would rather keep your fingers on the keyboard as much as possible. If you have to take the time to get the mouse and move it around, you might lose your train of thought.
Most applications have keyboard shortcuts for mouse functions. I don't mean just ways to cut and paste or save a file, but ways to capitalize a word or jump around from file to file (and lots of ca-razy other things). You can bind different commands (Cut, Paste, etc) to difference keys. So if you didn't like using Control + X to cut, you could change it to Control + Q or Alt + 7 or Control + Alt + Shift + Tab, if you really wanted to. At my job, a set of those bindings is called an emulation. We have lots of emulations in our product, and we're supposed to test them all, even though most of us use the same one.
It's a pain to use a different emulation than what you're used to. Most of the time, when you use one of these commands, it's completely unconcious. I know that I want to cut, so I just Control + X without a thought. But if Control + X does something different, say, changes everything to uppercase, I have to go back and fix it. It's frustrating, particularly when you can't seem to remember what keys are bound to "undo." It's like if you are used to using a QWERTY keyboard, but then someone switched it on you. Sure, you would relearn it, but for the first bit, you'd be in a state of constant frustration.
Got all that?
A few weeks ago, in a development meeting, my boss suggested a way for us all to test our assigned emulations: Low Productivity Friday. This suggestion was met with silence, because our office, like probably most offices, already sees productivity decline on the week's last day. Was he suggesting that we slack off even more or just that our slacking was officially management sanctioned now?
He meant that we would do our work while using the assigned test emulation, rather than the one we were used to. We would be terribly unproductive, constantly hitting the wrong keystroke and then undoing, or at least pressing the key that used to mean "undo."
I don't think anyone has done this. I tried to have a "low productivity" day the way he meant on Tuesday, and I could have pulled my hair out with frustration. However, Low Productivity Friday lives on. Not in the form of unfamiliar emulations, but instead as a Mario Kart tournament in the conference room.
When you spend a lot of time working on a specific program on a computer, you start using the keyboard more than the mouse. The mouse, while convenient and often better-suited to many uses, is slower if you do a lot of typing. So if you are editing a bunch of text, for instance, code, you would rather keep your fingers on the keyboard as much as possible. If you have to take the time to get the mouse and move it around, you might lose your train of thought.
Most applications have keyboard shortcuts for mouse functions. I don't mean just ways to cut and paste or save a file, but ways to capitalize a word or jump around from file to file (and lots of ca-razy other things). You can bind different commands (Cut, Paste, etc) to difference keys. So if you didn't like using Control + X to cut, you could change it to Control + Q or Alt + 7 or Control + Alt + Shift + Tab, if you really wanted to. At my job, a set of those bindings is called an emulation. We have lots of emulations in our product, and we're supposed to test them all, even though most of us use the same one.
It's a pain to use a different emulation than what you're used to. Most of the time, when you use one of these commands, it's completely unconcious. I know that I want to cut, so I just Control + X without a thought. But if Control + X does something different, say, changes everything to uppercase, I have to go back and fix it. It's frustrating, particularly when you can't seem to remember what keys are bound to "undo." It's like if you are used to using a QWERTY keyboard, but then someone switched it on you. Sure, you would relearn it, but for the first bit, you'd be in a state of constant frustration.
Got all that?
A few weeks ago, in a development meeting, my boss suggested a way for us all to test our assigned emulations: Low Productivity Friday. This suggestion was met with silence, because our office, like probably most offices, already sees productivity decline on the week's last day. Was he suggesting that we slack off even more or just that our slacking was officially management sanctioned now?
He meant that we would do our work while using the assigned test emulation, rather than the one we were used to. We would be terribly unproductive, constantly hitting the wrong keystroke and then undoing, or at least pressing the key that used to mean "undo."
I don't think anyone has done this. I tried to have a "low productivity" day the way he meant on Tuesday, and I could have pulled my hair out with frustration. However, Low Productivity Friday lives on. Not in the form of unfamiliar emulations, but instead as a Mario Kart tournament in the conference room.
5.19.2009
an understanding of thyme.
Part of my goal to become competant in the kitchen is to understand herbs and spices. I don't mean that I don't know what they are. They're plant parts that are ground up or dried or just cut up and added to food in tiny quantities for flavor or color. I know how to measure out a teaspoon or whatever and then dump it in.
No, I want to understand each one, and by that, I mean I want to know its flavor friends. We've talked about those before, with the particular pairing of watermelon and salt. Admittedly, salt is a popular fellow, with lots and lots of flavor friends. That's why it gets to sit on the table in a special shaker so that people can opt to make their food even more friendly with salt. Other spices and herbs (sperbs?) are not quite so universally complementary. So even if I've got a good feel for how a sperb looks and smells and tastes, I still don't feel like I have a firm grasp of their place in the world. And I won't, no matter how many times I stick my nose in a jar or add a teaspoonful to a recipe, until I find a flavor friend.
And then! It's like it all comes together for me in my mind. I no longer have a memory of the individual taste, I know what it tastes like up against its special food partner. Each time this has happened to me, it was a serious Eureka moment. A connection in my mind is made: no longer is that sperb just hanging out by itself. Now it's connected in my memory with other tastes and smells. Once that happens, I can even start improvising with that sperb. I look forward to these moments, the moment when I can finally stop grasping around in the dark for what to do with the stupid sperb and start using it with confidence.
The following dish gave me an understanding of thyme. It's not a fancy or complicated thing: really, it's just a tuna casserole invented by someone with a summer garden. But it's tasty, simple, and a little out of the box, and it taught me that thyme and tuna are flavor friends.
I'll just link to it here, because I don't change a thing when I make it, except maybe add extra zucchini. Also, I have substituted plain, nonfat yoghurt for the sour cream and mozzerella for the Monterey Jack with good results.
Hearty Tuna Casserole
Make it sometime and be sure to tell everyone that this is a casserole which gives one a greater understanding of thyme itself.
No, I want to understand each one, and by that, I mean I want to know its flavor friends. We've talked about those before, with the particular pairing of watermelon and salt. Admittedly, salt is a popular fellow, with lots and lots of flavor friends. That's why it gets to sit on the table in a special shaker so that people can opt to make their food even more friendly with salt. Other spices and herbs (sperbs?) are not quite so universally complementary. So even if I've got a good feel for how a sperb looks and smells and tastes, I still don't feel like I have a firm grasp of their place in the world. And I won't, no matter how many times I stick my nose in a jar or add a teaspoonful to a recipe, until I find a flavor friend.
And then! It's like it all comes together for me in my mind. I no longer have a memory of the individual taste, I know what it tastes like up against its special food partner. Each time this has happened to me, it was a serious Eureka moment. A connection in my mind is made: no longer is that sperb just hanging out by itself. Now it's connected in my memory with other tastes and smells. Once that happens, I can even start improvising with that sperb. I look forward to these moments, the moment when I can finally stop grasping around in the dark for what to do with the stupid sperb and start using it with confidence.
The following dish gave me an understanding of thyme. It's not a fancy or complicated thing: really, it's just a tuna casserole invented by someone with a summer garden. But it's tasty, simple, and a little out of the box, and it taught me that thyme and tuna are flavor friends.
I'll just link to it here, because I don't change a thing when I make it, except maybe add extra zucchini. Also, I have substituted plain, nonfat yoghurt for the sour cream and mozzerella for the Monterey Jack with good results.
Hearty Tuna Casserole
Make it sometime and be sure to tell everyone that this is a casserole which gives one a greater understanding of thyme itself.
5.13.2009
jabba the hop toad.
At the apartment building, I had a squat and warty neighbor who lived on the first floor. He was a toad that would come out at night and sit on the sidewalk. I think he lived in a drain pipe. He was such a common figure that I named him Jabba the Hop Toad, because he was so fat and gelatinous and, well, toadlike. I said hello to him all the time, and he contentedly ignored me. I never tried to pick him up, because I learned a long time ago that toads will pee on you if you do that. I'm not into toad pee.
Jabba the Hop Toad stopped appearing at some point last fall. I hoped that I was just missing him because he was hidden in the dark or that maybe he was just inside his drain pipe enjoying some juicy bugs with Mrs. Jabba the Hop Toad. But as each night passed without a sign of him, I began to suspect that he'd gone on to that great smelly bog in the sky.
We have frogs at the new house. There's a pond across the street from me, and I hear tiny amphibious Barry Whites out there at night. If it rains, the street itself is covered in tiny brown things that look like leaves until they hop. It's a good thing there haven't been any cops watching as I was trying to avoid hitting them with the car. "I'm not drunk, officer, I'm trying not to run over the froggies."
Last week, I discovered this guy. I thought he was a piece of bark at first.
Now, maybe I just like tiny frogs (and really, who doesn't?), but this little fellow fascinated me. He was very tolerant of me as I circled him, trying to get a good close-up. I haven't seen him since that day, though I check this tree every day. So either he's hanging out somewhere else, or his camouflage is just good.
What I love about this camouflage is that it's mottled just like the tree bark. That's smart thinking, Mr. Frog.
If I do happen to come across him again, I'm going to need a name. I was thinking Barkley, but I would be happy to take suggestions. It doesn't even have to be a pun.
Jabba the Hop Toad stopped appearing at some point last fall. I hoped that I was just missing him because he was hidden in the dark or that maybe he was just inside his drain pipe enjoying some juicy bugs with Mrs. Jabba the Hop Toad. But as each night passed without a sign of him, I began to suspect that he'd gone on to that great smelly bog in the sky.
We have frogs at the new house. There's a pond across the street from me, and I hear tiny amphibious Barry Whites out there at night. If it rains, the street itself is covered in tiny brown things that look like leaves until they hop. It's a good thing there haven't been any cops watching as I was trying to avoid hitting them with the car. "I'm not drunk, officer, I'm trying not to run over the froggies."
Last week, I discovered this guy. I thought he was a piece of bark at first.
Now, maybe I just like tiny frogs (and really, who doesn't?), but this little fellow fascinated me. He was very tolerant of me as I circled him, trying to get a good close-up. I haven't seen him since that day, though I check this tree every day. So either he's hanging out somewhere else, or his camouflage is just good.
What I love about this camouflage is that it's mottled just like the tree bark. That's smart thinking, Mr. Frog.
If I do happen to come across him again, I'm going to need a name. I was thinking Barkley, but I would be happy to take suggestions. It doesn't even have to be a pun.
5.12.2009
the mets and chocolate.
I knew Josh for several years before we started dating. Once we did take that step further, I started learning a lot of surprising things about him. There was nothing inherently surprising about what I learned; the suprise was that I didn't know them before. How could I have gone five years without knowing he liked baseball? Baseball? Really? The Mets? But...baseball is boring. Huh.
The biggest surprise was that he loved chocolate. Everyone likes chocolate. My mother used to tell me that love was when you liked someone so much you had to call it something else. Josh is testing the bounds of the word "love" with his relationship with chocolate. I have never met anyone which such an affinity for chocolate, male or female. When I thought of someone who had a chocolate obsession, I thought of someone who looks like Cathy and has a coffee mug that say "Give me the chocolate and no one gets hurt." I did not picture this man.
I certainly don't mind his feelings for the sweet, and as long as he never has to choose between us, I think we'll be alright. Besides, it makes my life a little bit easier. All I have to do is make him something chocolatey, and he's happier than a pig in some other kind of dark brown stuff. A couple of weeks ago, I got it into my head to make a chocolate pie, and the result was so delicious he ate a full quarter of a pie in one evening. Now, I only like chocolate the regular amount, but holy crap, this is a good pie.
French Silk Chocolate Pie
Adapted from Allrecipes
Do note that this recipe contains raw eggs. Some people won't want to eat your pie because of that. Feel free to laugh at them and help yourself to their slice. Or give the extra slice to Josh.
The biggest surprise was that he loved chocolate. Everyone likes chocolate. My mother used to tell me that love was when you liked someone so much you had to call it something else. Josh is testing the bounds of the word "love" with his relationship with chocolate. I have never met anyone which such an affinity for chocolate, male or female. When I thought of someone who had a chocolate obsession, I thought of someone who looks like Cathy and has a coffee mug that say "Give me the chocolate and no one gets hurt." I did not picture this man.
I certainly don't mind his feelings for the sweet, and as long as he never has to choose between us, I think we'll be alright. Besides, it makes my life a little bit easier. All I have to do is make him something chocolatey, and he's happier than a pig in some other kind of dark brown stuff. A couple of weeks ago, I got it into my head to make a chocolate pie, and the result was so delicious he ate a full quarter of a pie in one evening. Now, I only like chocolate the regular amount, but holy crap, this is a good pie.
French Silk Chocolate Pie
Adapted from Allrecipes
- 1 cup butter, room temperature
- 1 1/2 cup white sugar
- 1/2 cup cocoa powder
- 2 t vanilla extract
- 4 eggs
- 1 prepared 8 inch pastry shell, baked and cooled
- Cream butter in a mixing bowl. Gradually beat in the sugar with an electric mixer until light colored and well blended. Stir in the cocoa powder and vanilla extract. Add the eggs, one at a time, beating for a full five minutes on medium to high speed using a whisk attachment after each egg. Spoon the chocolate filling into a cooled, baked pie shell.
- Refrigerate at least 2 hours before serving.
Do note that this recipe contains raw eggs. Some people won't want to eat your pie because of that. Feel free to laugh at them and help yourself to their slice. Or give the extra slice to Josh.
5.11.2009
throwback.
My third grade science fair project was called "Does the Nose Know?" The experiment was supposed to determine how much assistance one's sense of smell provided in taste recognition. The idea was good, the title was catchy, and my sister came up with both of those things. But I did do the experiment, and I did it about as well as you can imagine a ten year old doing any scientific work. I cut up pieces of apples and oranges and fed them to family members who were blindfolded and holding their noses pinched. Everyone was able to successfully tell an apple piece in their mouth from an orange piece. In my analysis, I mentioned it might be useful to try the experiment again with more people and using food items that didn't have such obviously different textures. My sister also recommended that last part, and that's how I learned what the word "texture" meant.
And then I cut out construction paper and decorated a hand me down science fair board - three huge and heavy pieces of plywood hinged together and spray-painted yellow. All the other kids bought foam and plastic things from the school for $6 apiece, but we already had this giant thing sitting in the basement from my siblings' forays into public school science fairs. Why spend six bucks when a can of spray paint costs only 88 cents? I glued my hypothesis, procedure, results, etc to the construction paper. Someone was nice enough to take pictures of me performing the experiment. They were not nice enough to suggest that I put on something other than a one-size-fits-all NC State t-shirt that I used as a nightgown.
Despite some real glaring problems with my project, I got an Honorable Mention ribbon at the school fair. And no, that's not the kind they give everyone. Honorable Mention ribbons were light blue, while Participation ribbons were purple. Maybe it's a statement of the level of science done in Lenoir, North Carolina where a little girl in her nightgown reporting that her mother can tell the difference between apples and oranges can win a blue ribbon.
This other kid in my class had a great science fair project. His problem was whether people could tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi in a blind taste test. Although the Coke vs. Pepsi debate was dear to our little rural Southern hearts back then, it is admittedly a much less sciencey problem. But his use of the scientific method was quite fantastic. And the point of these assigned projects was not to make new discoveries but to show kids how actual science gets done.
His mom came into our class with a library cart laden with a pair of numbered Dixie cups for each student, each one containing an inch or so of Cola. They passed out two cups to everyone, asked us to identify the Coke and the Pepsi, and recorded our results. Then they drove their little cart back out into the hallway, where they proceeded down the hall to the other third grade classrooms. I don't know if that kid got a ribbon at all, but he should have. If an experiment done in a nightgown with a sample size of four can get an Honorable Mention, surely another experiment done with pants on with a sample size of 75 deserves something more than Participation.
I was thinking about that kid the other night as I poured an inch of regular Mountain Dew into one glass and then an inch of Mountain Dew Throwback into an identical one. Pepsi has released versions of Pepsi and Mountain Dew sweetened with natural sugars (cane and beet!) rather than high fructose corn syrup (for more info and less stories about cola-based science fair projects, go here). We thought we should see what the fuss was about and decided to stage a blind taste test. Each glass of acidic yellow sugar water was sitting on a torn piece of paper towel with a number scrawled on it: 1 or 2.
I thought carefully about which to put in which numbered glass, trying not to give away the answer with the number. See, Josh had already gone through the same process with Pepsi and Pepsi Throwback. He'd put the Throwback drink into glass #1. So do I switch the glasses, putting the Throwback in glass #2, or do I assume he's going to assume I did that and leave them the same? Or do I distract him at the last minute by pointing over his shoulder and switching the glasses? AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!
In the end, I did the same thing he did by putting the Throwback in #1, and he did the exact thing I did, which was confidently declare that glass #1 contained the regular drink. Our hypothesis, which was that we would totally be able to tell the difference between the regular and Throwback drinks, was wrong. It would be wise to repeat the experiment with a larger sample size than two before making any generalizations, but it should be noted that both participants were wearing pants rather than nightwear.
And then I cut out construction paper and decorated a hand me down science fair board - three huge and heavy pieces of plywood hinged together and spray-painted yellow. All the other kids bought foam and plastic things from the school for $6 apiece, but we already had this giant thing sitting in the basement from my siblings' forays into public school science fairs. Why spend six bucks when a can of spray paint costs only 88 cents? I glued my hypothesis, procedure, results, etc to the construction paper. Someone was nice enough to take pictures of me performing the experiment. They were not nice enough to suggest that I put on something other than a one-size-fits-all NC State t-shirt that I used as a nightgown.
Despite some real glaring problems with my project, I got an Honorable Mention ribbon at the school fair. And no, that's not the kind they give everyone. Honorable Mention ribbons were light blue, while Participation ribbons were purple. Maybe it's a statement of the level of science done in Lenoir, North Carolina where a little girl in her nightgown reporting that her mother can tell the difference between apples and oranges can win a blue ribbon.
This other kid in my class had a great science fair project. His problem was whether people could tell the difference between Coke and Pepsi in a blind taste test. Although the Coke vs. Pepsi debate was dear to our little rural Southern hearts back then, it is admittedly a much less sciencey problem. But his use of the scientific method was quite fantastic. And the point of these assigned projects was not to make new discoveries but to show kids how actual science gets done.
His mom came into our class with a library cart laden with a pair of numbered Dixie cups for each student, each one containing an inch or so of Cola. They passed out two cups to everyone, asked us to identify the Coke and the Pepsi, and recorded our results. Then they drove their little cart back out into the hallway, where they proceeded down the hall to the other third grade classrooms. I don't know if that kid got a ribbon at all, but he should have. If an experiment done in a nightgown with a sample size of four can get an Honorable Mention, surely another experiment done with pants on with a sample size of 75 deserves something more than Participation.
I was thinking about that kid the other night as I poured an inch of regular Mountain Dew into one glass and then an inch of Mountain Dew Throwback into an identical one. Pepsi has released versions of Pepsi and Mountain Dew sweetened with natural sugars (cane and beet!) rather than high fructose corn syrup (for more info and less stories about cola-based science fair projects, go here). We thought we should see what the fuss was about and decided to stage a blind taste test. Each glass of acidic yellow sugar water was sitting on a torn piece of paper towel with a number scrawled on it: 1 or 2.
I thought carefully about which to put in which numbered glass, trying not to give away the answer with the number. See, Josh had already gone through the same process with Pepsi and Pepsi Throwback. He'd put the Throwback drink into glass #1. So do I switch the glasses, putting the Throwback in glass #2, or do I assume he's going to assume I did that and leave them the same? Or do I distract him at the last minute by pointing over his shoulder and switching the glasses? AAAAAHHHHH!!!!!
In the end, I did the same thing he did by putting the Throwback in #1, and he did the exact thing I did, which was confidently declare that glass #1 contained the regular drink. Our hypothesis, which was that we would totally be able to tell the difference between the regular and Throwback drinks, was wrong. It would be wise to repeat the experiment with a larger sample size than two before making any generalizations, but it should be noted that both participants were wearing pants rather than nightwear.
5.08.2009
that's BOOKENDS!
I don't want to knock small town Southern public schools, but the last good history teacher that I had was in the seventh grade. I have learned not to participate in conversations when any amount of history knowledge is required, because I can't keep up. I regularly had great teachers in all the other areas, so I suppose I can't complain too much if that one particular subject was a little lacking. And maybe it wasn't the teachers at all, but the student. Either way, not much was retained.
But let's talk about that one good history teacher, Mrs. Mackey, my seventh grade teacher that everyone said was the worst, meanest seventh grade teacher you could get. You know what? She was mean, because she did not take any crap. I can't blame her, because if I remember correctly, thirteen year olds are chock full of crap. It's practically bursting out of them. Mrs. Mackey expected thirteen year olds to take responsibility for themselves and to pretend, at least during her class, that they were actual human beings who could behave as such. Her tests were hard, but the material was clearly pointed out beforehand, so anyone had the opportunity to learn it. She wasn't unfriendly or without humor. We watched a couple of movies in that class, too. But we watched Gandhi, a movie with actual historical relevance.
If you can't tell, I have a great deal of respect for Mrs. Mackey. If I had to be a seventh grade teacher, I like to think that I would follow in her model. That is, if I didn't claw my own eyes out first.
From my description thus far, you're picturing a tough woman, stern with a no-nonsense haircut. You'd be right. But let me tell you something else about Mrs. Mackey that I bet you didn't guess.
Mrs. Mackey liked Paul Simon. She also really liked Ladysmith Black Mambazo, a South African choral group who appeared on the Graceland album. Liking Ladysmith Black Mambazo seemed much more legitimate and allowed for a middle-aged history teacher; it was cultural and stuff. So I had no problem that she liked a musical group that had something to do with the subject she taught. That made sense to me. And so I convinced myself that she liked Paul Simon because he exposed more people to this other music that she liked. We watched part of The African Concert in class, but we only watched the parts with African performers. It seemed a little out of place in the curriculum, but it still seemed educational enough to be allowed in the class of such a strict woman. At thirteen, I didn't know very much about Paul Simon, other than that he was a pop singer, and at one point, he had been popular among hippies. Had Mrs. Mackey been a hippie? I mean, I guess she had been about the right age, but...nope, sorry, does not compute.
But there were a couple of times when we were watching Channel One, the daily homeroom newscast for public school kids, when Mrs. Mackey would jump up, point at the TV, and almost yell, "That's BOOKENDS!" None of us had any idea what she was talking about. We did not see any bookends. It was several years later, when I heard Bookends, that I understood: Mrs. Mackey really liked Paul Simon. Not because he worked with Ladysmith Black Mambazo, but because she liked his music.
In fact, Mrs. Mackey may have well been a hippie. She might have burned a bra in her day or even smoked pot. Then again, she might just have liked Paul Simon, for which I cannot blame her; Paul Simon is probably my favorite songwriter of all time. I suppose it was the first time it occurred to me that teachers were not just the subjects they taught. They didn't disappear into the mists every day after the bell rang only to appear again in a different denim jumper the next day. They hadn't always been middle-aged. They had all been young once and some of them had liked folk rock singers. The mind boggles.
Here are a couple of clips for you. First, one of my favorite music videos of all time. That Chevy Chase, he cracks me up.
And now, Ladysmith Black Mambazo performing with another great entertainer. That's them singing. But they're not blue and made of foam.
Here's to you, Mrs. Mackey.
But let's talk about that one good history teacher, Mrs. Mackey, my seventh grade teacher that everyone said was the worst, meanest seventh grade teacher you could get. You know what? She was mean, because she did not take any crap. I can't blame her, because if I remember correctly, thirteen year olds are chock full of crap. It's practically bursting out of them. Mrs. Mackey expected thirteen year olds to take responsibility for themselves and to pretend, at least during her class, that they were actual human beings who could behave as such. Her tests were hard, but the material was clearly pointed out beforehand, so anyone had the opportunity to learn it. She wasn't unfriendly or without humor. We watched a couple of movies in that class, too. But we watched Gandhi, a movie with actual historical relevance.
If you can't tell, I have a great deal of respect for Mrs. Mackey. If I had to be a seventh grade teacher, I like to think that I would follow in her model. That is, if I didn't claw my own eyes out first.
From my description thus far, you're picturing a tough woman, stern with a no-nonsense haircut. You'd be right. But let me tell you something else about Mrs. Mackey that I bet you didn't guess.
Mrs. Mackey liked Paul Simon. She also really liked Ladysmith Black Mambazo, a South African choral group who appeared on the Graceland album. Liking Ladysmith Black Mambazo seemed much more legitimate and allowed for a middle-aged history teacher; it was cultural and stuff. So I had no problem that she liked a musical group that had something to do with the subject she taught. That made sense to me. And so I convinced myself that she liked Paul Simon because he exposed more people to this other music that she liked. We watched part of The African Concert in class, but we only watched the parts with African performers. It seemed a little out of place in the curriculum, but it still seemed educational enough to be allowed in the class of such a strict woman. At thirteen, I didn't know very much about Paul Simon, other than that he was a pop singer, and at one point, he had been popular among hippies. Had Mrs. Mackey been a hippie? I mean, I guess she had been about the right age, but...nope, sorry, does not compute.
But there were a couple of times when we were watching Channel One, the daily homeroom newscast for public school kids, when Mrs. Mackey would jump up, point at the TV, and almost yell, "That's BOOKENDS!" None of us had any idea what she was talking about. We did not see any bookends. It was several years later, when I heard Bookends, that I understood: Mrs. Mackey really liked Paul Simon. Not because he worked with Ladysmith Black Mambazo, but because she liked his music.
In fact, Mrs. Mackey may have well been a hippie. She might have burned a bra in her day or even smoked pot. Then again, she might just have liked Paul Simon, for which I cannot blame her; Paul Simon is probably my favorite songwriter of all time. I suppose it was the first time it occurred to me that teachers were not just the subjects they taught. They didn't disappear into the mists every day after the bell rang only to appear again in a different denim jumper the next day. They hadn't always been middle-aged. They had all been young once and some of them had liked folk rock singers. The mind boggles.
Here are a couple of clips for you. First, one of my favorite music videos of all time. That Chevy Chase, he cracks me up.
And now, Ladysmith Black Mambazo performing with another great entertainer. That's them singing. But they're not blue and made of foam.
Here's to you, Mrs. Mackey.
5.06.2009
interesting sentences.
A recent post on Language Log reproduced an exercise in a children's writing workbook.
The blogger's complaint was that the textbook doesn't really explain why the sentence is not interesting, it just asserts that it's not. He also argues that sentences that are plain and short are not necessarily uninteresting, and that good writers make use of many different styles.
I agree with those points. My initial thought was that the exercise itself was sort of vague. How can I make the sentence more interesting when I am not given more information about the story? Sure, I can say that my dog Shep ran away last week, but only if I know that the dog was named Shep and he ran away last week. I don't know that. I only know that I have a dog.
I guess you're supposed to make the rest of the information up, which is fine, but I can imagine my grade school self being disatisfied with these instructions. I bet I would have asked where this other information was supposed to come from, had this assignment been given to me. I would also be annoyed that sentences 1, 3, and 5 are essentially the same sentence.
As an amusing exercise, I decided to complete this worksheet. The instructions don't say, but I asked my teacher, and she said I should just make up the rest of the information. I leave it to you to decide whether my new sentences are "interesting" and to give me my score. You could play along too, if you like.
1. Original: I have a bicycle.
New: My bicycle lay battered and filthy in the ditch after a drunken night out on the town.
2. Original: Charlie has a goat.
New: Charlie bought a goat from my father for the purpose of barbecuing it for a family reunion.
3. Original: I have a dress.
New: My dress lay battered and filthy in the ditch after a drunken night out on the town.
4. Original: Brother gave me a wagon.
New: Before giving me a new Radio Flyer wagon, my brother used it to hide all of my other presents in the basement on Christmas morning.
5. Original: I have a pony.
New: My pony lay battered and filthy in the ditch after a drunken night out on the town.
6. Original: My shoes are new.
New: I bought new shoes with the money that Mr. Anderson paid me to keep quiet about what really happened to Shep.
My score ____________ .
Here's the text of exercise 125, "Interesting Sentences":
A good sentence should be interesting.
"I have a dog" is not a good sentence with which to begin a story. [Note the very formal fronted preposition; no stranded prepositions! Possibly the writer of this sentence genuinely believes that "preposition at end" is ungrammatical, or maybe the writer is just trying to model "the best grammar" for the kids.] If you are writing a story about your dog that was lost, it would be better to begin the story, "Last week my dog Shep ran away from home."
Can you change the following sentences into interesting sentences? [Note that this is an instruction to change the sentences, not an actual question.]
The sentences are:
1. I have a bicycle.
2. Charlie has a goat.
3. I have a dress.
4. Brother gave me a wagon.
5. I have a pony.
6. My shoes are new.
(and there's a line at the end labeled: My score……………….)
The blogger's complaint was that the textbook doesn't really explain why the sentence is not interesting, it just asserts that it's not. He also argues that sentences that are plain and short are not necessarily uninteresting, and that good writers make use of many different styles.
I agree with those points. My initial thought was that the exercise itself was sort of vague. How can I make the sentence more interesting when I am not given more information about the story? Sure, I can say that my dog Shep ran away last week, but only if I know that the dog was named Shep and he ran away last week. I don't know that. I only know that I have a dog.
I guess you're supposed to make the rest of the information up, which is fine, but I can imagine my grade school self being disatisfied with these instructions. I bet I would have asked where this other information was supposed to come from, had this assignment been given to me. I would also be annoyed that sentences 1, 3, and 5 are essentially the same sentence.
As an amusing exercise, I decided to complete this worksheet. The instructions don't say, but I asked my teacher, and she said I should just make up the rest of the information. I leave it to you to decide whether my new sentences are "interesting" and to give me my score. You could play along too, if you like.
1. Original: I have a bicycle.
New: My bicycle lay battered and filthy in the ditch after a drunken night out on the town.
2. Original: Charlie has a goat.
New: Charlie bought a goat from my father for the purpose of barbecuing it for a family reunion.
3. Original: I have a dress.
New: My dress lay battered and filthy in the ditch after a drunken night out on the town.
4. Original: Brother gave me a wagon.
New: Before giving me a new Radio Flyer wagon, my brother used it to hide all of my other presents in the basement on Christmas morning.
5. Original: I have a pony.
New: My pony lay battered and filthy in the ditch after a drunken night out on the town.
6. Original: My shoes are new.
New: I bought new shoes with the money that Mr. Anderson paid me to keep quiet about what really happened to Shep.
My score ____________ .
5.05.2009
cup a noodle.
He held up his digital camera to show me the picture just taken of us: him, me, and Josh. I didn't need to see the evidence to know what sort of expression had just been saved for posterity: I looked a bit terrified. Smiling, but there was definitely a touch of terror in the eyes.
I invited some coworkers to Josh's show on a whim, because I felt bad for never bringing people to the shows. I'd never asked people from work before because I still don't know them all that well and didn't expect any of them to come out. Clearly, I had been wrong. Judging by the enthusiasm that met me, you'd think they'd been waiting for me to finally ask them to hang out. Maybe socializing isn't as hard as I make it out to be.
He showed up drunk, so much so that it only took me a few seconds to figure it out. That's fine, he had a designated driver along and it was Friday night, after all. I introduced him to Josh. I was relieved to remove myself from the conversation a bit. Josh is so much better at talking to people, no matter their state of intoxication. I try to avoid those situations, always feeling at a loss trying to make sense where there is none. I feel obligated to follow the general tenets of conversation, even when the other person suffers from no such requirement. They're happy to repeat the same point over and over, and sometimes it's not so much a point as a random catchphrase, in this case "CUP A NOODLE!" Josh, and well, anybody else, really, seems to handle this better. They manage to laugh it off or else they have the patience to pretend that actual things are being said.
To be honest, I was embarrassed. I had invited this guy here, and I knew from working with him that he was generally a very coherent person. He read books, he had opinions, he could communicate effectively. I wanted to reassure everyone of that, as if they couldn't tell that he was just really drunk. For all they knew, he was always really drunk or even incredibly dim even when sober. Then again, I only know that he's sober for 40 hours a week.
I should not have been embarrassed. Most people I know tie one on now and again. I've been a conversational burden before. I hated it, because I could tell that I was not making sense, but I couldn't seem to start making sense. I've been to that place a couple times. And a lot of the people at the bar that night go to that place a lot. They don't hate it. In fact, they seem to like it a lot. No one cared that I invited this wasted guy to the bar where he got more wasted. It was just me, being a stick in the mud or something.
I worried that it would be awkward for me on Monday morning when I had to face my sober coworker. But it was only awkward for me, because he's like everyone else. He figures that we're on the same page about drunkeness, since most people do seem to be on that page. He doesn't know that I'm on a different page, one with a picture of a bunch of mud and a stick. But it's still okay, because he doesn't remember most of the evening, including the part where he yelled "CUP A NOODLE" over and over. I didn't remind him.
I invited some coworkers to Josh's show on a whim, because I felt bad for never bringing people to the shows. I'd never asked people from work before because I still don't know them all that well and didn't expect any of them to come out. Clearly, I had been wrong. Judging by the enthusiasm that met me, you'd think they'd been waiting for me to finally ask them to hang out. Maybe socializing isn't as hard as I make it out to be.
He showed up drunk, so much so that it only took me a few seconds to figure it out. That's fine, he had a designated driver along and it was Friday night, after all. I introduced him to Josh. I was relieved to remove myself from the conversation a bit. Josh is so much better at talking to people, no matter their state of intoxication. I try to avoid those situations, always feeling at a loss trying to make sense where there is none. I feel obligated to follow the general tenets of conversation, even when the other person suffers from no such requirement. They're happy to repeat the same point over and over, and sometimes it's not so much a point as a random catchphrase, in this case "CUP A NOODLE!" Josh, and well, anybody else, really, seems to handle this better. They manage to laugh it off or else they have the patience to pretend that actual things are being said.
To be honest, I was embarrassed. I had invited this guy here, and I knew from working with him that he was generally a very coherent person. He read books, he had opinions, he could communicate effectively. I wanted to reassure everyone of that, as if they couldn't tell that he was just really drunk. For all they knew, he was always really drunk or even incredibly dim even when sober. Then again, I only know that he's sober for 40 hours a week.
I should not have been embarrassed. Most people I know tie one on now and again. I've been a conversational burden before. I hated it, because I could tell that I was not making sense, but I couldn't seem to start making sense. I've been to that place a couple times. And a lot of the people at the bar that night go to that place a lot. They don't hate it. In fact, they seem to like it a lot. No one cared that I invited this wasted guy to the bar where he got more wasted. It was just me, being a stick in the mud or something.
I worried that it would be awkward for me on Monday morning when I had to face my sober coworker. But it was only awkward for me, because he's like everyone else. He figures that we're on the same page about drunkeness, since most people do seem to be on that page. He doesn't know that I'm on a different page, one with a picture of a bunch of mud and a stick. But it's still okay, because he doesn't remember most of the evening, including the part where he yelled "CUP A NOODLE" over and over. I didn't remind him.
5.01.2009
a truck full of Amaretto.
I discovered creme brulee in college, when the restaurant where I worked starting offering it as a dessert menu item. People loved it, because it looked kinda weird and had a French name, but it was a pain to serve. They were pre-made in shallow ceramic bowls, so you could just pull one out of the fridge. But then you had to open a pack of Sugar in the Raw and dump it on top. Finally, you took a blow-torch and caramelized the sugar, creating a nice burnt sugar shell on top. To do it properly, you had to have a gentle hand with the torch, because most people didn't like too much of a burnt taste. Then again, you didn't want raw sugar crystals sitting on top of the delicious custard. But who has time to do things properly when you got to plate a couple desserts, drop a check, take out a round of drinks, and deliver some food that is already getting cold?
One night, my boyfriend at the time and I went to the restaurant at night to enjoy a creme brulee with some adult coffees. We shared one dessert, drawing a line in the custard right down the center and occasionally using our spoons to duel when we thought the other one was trespassing in our eggy territory. Whoever was using the blow-torch had rushed the job and so our smooth dessert was occasionally crunchy.
When that restaurant closed down and I got a job at another restaurant, the creme brulee routine was much the same. Except when we served it, we would top it with a splash of rum and then set it on fire as we served it. Some people looked delighted, many of them looked terrified. Almost all of them looked at the flaming dessert and then looked back up at me for direction as to what to do now. I would smile and tell them it would go out on its own as the alcohol burned up. They looked back down, not quite sure if they believed me. But the fire did go out on its own, and with this method, there was never any crunchy sugar left.
We made creme brulee at home once using a recipe off the internet and a set of oven-safe ceramic bowls I bought at the dollar store, specifically for the purpose. I had not yet developed the comfort and confidence that I now enjoy in the kitchen. I was terrified, accident-prone, and ready to burst into tears at the slightest mishap. I clung to the recipe like a life-preserver, because I considered myself to be lost a wilderness of sugar, eggs, and spatulas, with only that sheet of paper as my guide to safety. I checked every measurement once, twice, three times. I was just stressed, as if I had to serve this creme brulee to the Queen of Hearts, who was sure to order my decapitation if everything was Perfect.
This was how it used to be for me in the kitchen. It's a wonder I ever went back to the stove, but I suppose I got hungry.
At some point, my boyfriend suggested we add some Amaretto to the recipe. We had some in the freezer (it's excellent mixed with Mountain Dew), and he wanted to just throw a splash in the mix to add a little almond flavor. Really, it was a great idea. Creme brulee was already delicious, but a hint of almond was sure to be divine. I'm sure he expected me to rejoice that I had such an intelligent person at my side to come up with this wondrous suggestion.
Imagine that you are lost in a thick wilderness of sugar, eggs, and spatulas. You are very scared and nervous. You do have a map and a buddy, so you think if you just read the map very carefully and follow it faithfully, you will live to see the other side of this episode. I mean, most likely, you're going to die in there, but there's still a chance you can make it if you are very, very, very careful. Then your buddy takes the map and notices that there is a really nice glade over there, let's go check it out! No, it's not exactly on the quickest route out of this hell, but it's pretty close and we can just find our way out from there!
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?
No, no, no, no, no, no, I said, and no again. We can modify the recipe the next time we make it, but for the first time, we should just follow the instructions exactly. Now is not the time for improvisation. Now is the time for strict adherence to the rules, because we will surely DIE if we do not follow the rules. I was already shaking with anxiety from just turning on the oven; I could not handle any detours.
He thought I was being stupid, but he could see that there was no point in arguing because I was clearly insane. So we finished the recipe, baked them little ceramic bowls in a water bath, and tried to burn some sugar on top using the toaster oven. That didn't really work, so we had to settle for crunchy creme brulees, because neither of us knew what a broiler was for. It looked like I was going to live to cook again. The real test would be the taste, of course, but I could feel my heartbeat finally slowing to normal. I had survived.
We dug in to our individual bowls (no need to draw a line down the center of only one), agreed the experiment had been a complete success, and then he made a confession: when I had not been looking, he had thrown in a spoonful of Amaretto. But see? It had turned out great anyway! I had been so silly to worry.
My spirits deflated, and the delicate touch of almond tasted bitter in my mouth. If he expected me to laugh and say how right he had been, he was disappointed. Instead, I insisted on looking sad and being pouty. He did not get it.
I felt betrayed. Whether or not the Amaretto would have worked was not the point at all. Even at the time, I knew it was a pretty minor addition to the recipe and unlikely to ruin anything. But I felt so lost in the kitchen that sticking to the recipe was the only form of control that I felt that I had. Cooking was such a mysterious thing to me, and I felt like there were all kinds of factors and unknowns playing into it that I didn't and couldn't understand. I understood the recipe. I could control how much sugar I put in and how many eggs I separated and how many times I stirred it up with the spatula. I only hoped that if I did my part in sticking to the instructions exactly, then whatever Fates were assigned to creme brulee would do their part and make it turn out right.
I suppose that's why I hated cooking for so long - I never felt like I was in control. If you're like me, you'll understand that the feeling of control is crucial to, well, sanity in daily life. If you're like him, you think I was being uptight, and seriously, the creme brulee had turned out great, why are we even still talking about this? I knew that I was being crazy, but all I wanted was for him to understand that this seemingly innocuous situation was wigging me out, accept my anxiety even though it made no sense to him, and NOT PUT AMARETTO IN THE CREME BRULEE. Just, please? Don't make this harder on me.
Now, I understand that control is pretty much an illusion. At any time, even potentially while you are cooking creme brulee, you can get hit by a truck full of Amaretto. Now there's a truck in your kitchen, your leg is broken, and there's not even anything for dessert. But I feel much more able to meet the unexpected if I've got everything else in order. It's an illusion that I need to have to be able to function. I need to be able to say, "Alright, world, I've done what I can to get these here ducks in a row. Throw me a truck if you must, but I did my part." I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing, because it makes me pay my bills on time. But I could seriously live without the meltdowns that happen when people suggest putting Amaretto in creme brulee. Most things aren't worth the stress. There's got to be a middle ground between strict adherence to recipes and having your power cut off. That's a pretty weird scale.
Cooking no longer puts me in a state of trembling anxiety. I've managed to cook many things successfully. I've goofed some things up and no one died. I've improvised on occasion, and last week, I made some stuffed peppers mostly by winging it. I'm sure part of that is kitchen confidence. But I hope, too, that I've loosened up a bit. Not much. But some. Like a teaspoon. It's a start.
One night, my boyfriend at the time and I went to the restaurant at night to enjoy a creme brulee with some adult coffees. We shared one dessert, drawing a line in the custard right down the center and occasionally using our spoons to duel when we thought the other one was trespassing in our eggy territory. Whoever was using the blow-torch had rushed the job and so our smooth dessert was occasionally crunchy.
When that restaurant closed down and I got a job at another restaurant, the creme brulee routine was much the same. Except when we served it, we would top it with a splash of rum and then set it on fire as we served it. Some people looked delighted, many of them looked terrified. Almost all of them looked at the flaming dessert and then looked back up at me for direction as to what to do now. I would smile and tell them it would go out on its own as the alcohol burned up. They looked back down, not quite sure if they believed me. But the fire did go out on its own, and with this method, there was never any crunchy sugar left.
We made creme brulee at home once using a recipe off the internet and a set of oven-safe ceramic bowls I bought at the dollar store, specifically for the purpose. I had not yet developed the comfort and confidence that I now enjoy in the kitchen. I was terrified, accident-prone, and ready to burst into tears at the slightest mishap. I clung to the recipe like a life-preserver, because I considered myself to be lost a wilderness of sugar, eggs, and spatulas, with only that sheet of paper as my guide to safety. I checked every measurement once, twice, three times. I was just stressed, as if I had to serve this creme brulee to the Queen of Hearts, who was sure to order my decapitation if everything was Perfect.
This was how it used to be for me in the kitchen. It's a wonder I ever went back to the stove, but I suppose I got hungry.
At some point, my boyfriend suggested we add some Amaretto to the recipe. We had some in the freezer (it's excellent mixed with Mountain Dew), and he wanted to just throw a splash in the mix to add a little almond flavor. Really, it was a great idea. Creme brulee was already delicious, but a hint of almond was sure to be divine. I'm sure he expected me to rejoice that I had such an intelligent person at my side to come up with this wondrous suggestion.
Imagine that you are lost in a thick wilderness of sugar, eggs, and spatulas. You are very scared and nervous. You do have a map and a buddy, so you think if you just read the map very carefully and follow it faithfully, you will live to see the other side of this episode. I mean, most likely, you're going to die in there, but there's still a chance you can make it if you are very, very, very careful. Then your buddy takes the map and notices that there is a really nice glade over there, let's go check it out! No, it's not exactly on the quickest route out of this hell, but it's pretty close and we can just find our way out from there!
ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?
No, no, no, no, no, no, I said, and no again. We can modify the recipe the next time we make it, but for the first time, we should just follow the instructions exactly. Now is not the time for improvisation. Now is the time for strict adherence to the rules, because we will surely DIE if we do not follow the rules. I was already shaking with anxiety from just turning on the oven; I could not handle any detours.
He thought I was being stupid, but he could see that there was no point in arguing because I was clearly insane. So we finished the recipe, baked them little ceramic bowls in a water bath, and tried to burn some sugar on top using the toaster oven. That didn't really work, so we had to settle for crunchy creme brulees, because neither of us knew what a broiler was for. It looked like I was going to live to cook again. The real test would be the taste, of course, but I could feel my heartbeat finally slowing to normal. I had survived.
We dug in to our individual bowls (no need to draw a line down the center of only one), agreed the experiment had been a complete success, and then he made a confession: when I had not been looking, he had thrown in a spoonful of Amaretto. But see? It had turned out great anyway! I had been so silly to worry.
My spirits deflated, and the delicate touch of almond tasted bitter in my mouth. If he expected me to laugh and say how right he had been, he was disappointed. Instead, I insisted on looking sad and being pouty. He did not get it.
I felt betrayed. Whether or not the Amaretto would have worked was not the point at all. Even at the time, I knew it was a pretty minor addition to the recipe and unlikely to ruin anything. But I felt so lost in the kitchen that sticking to the recipe was the only form of control that I felt that I had. Cooking was such a mysterious thing to me, and I felt like there were all kinds of factors and unknowns playing into it that I didn't and couldn't understand. I understood the recipe. I could control how much sugar I put in and how many eggs I separated and how many times I stirred it up with the spatula. I only hoped that if I did my part in sticking to the instructions exactly, then whatever Fates were assigned to creme brulee would do their part and make it turn out right.
I suppose that's why I hated cooking for so long - I never felt like I was in control. If you're like me, you'll understand that the feeling of control is crucial to, well, sanity in daily life. If you're like him, you think I was being uptight, and seriously, the creme brulee had turned out great, why are we even still talking about this? I knew that I was being crazy, but all I wanted was for him to understand that this seemingly innocuous situation was wigging me out, accept my anxiety even though it made no sense to him, and NOT PUT AMARETTO IN THE CREME BRULEE. Just, please? Don't make this harder on me.
Now, I understand that control is pretty much an illusion. At any time, even potentially while you are cooking creme brulee, you can get hit by a truck full of Amaretto. Now there's a truck in your kitchen, your leg is broken, and there's not even anything for dessert. But I feel much more able to meet the unexpected if I've got everything else in order. It's an illusion that I need to have to be able to function. I need to be able to say, "Alright, world, I've done what I can to get these here ducks in a row. Throw me a truck if you must, but I did my part." I don't necessarily think that's a bad thing, because it makes me pay my bills on time. But I could seriously live without the meltdowns that happen when people suggest putting Amaretto in creme brulee. Most things aren't worth the stress. There's got to be a middle ground between strict adherence to recipes and having your power cut off. That's a pretty weird scale.
Cooking no longer puts me in a state of trembling anxiety. I've managed to cook many things successfully. I've goofed some things up and no one died. I've improvised on occasion, and last week, I made some stuffed peppers mostly by winging it. I'm sure part of that is kitchen confidence. But I hope, too, that I've loosened up a bit. Not much. But some. Like a teaspoon. It's a start.
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