Imagine everyone that you ever hated in high school. Imagine anyone who ever made fun of you or made you feel bad about yourself or who ever dismissed you as though you were not even there. Imagine the people you despised but whose friend you still wanted to be. Imagine the people who somehow got a lucky break in terms of parentage and wealth and appearance and never let you forget that you didn't. Get a good picture of all those people in your mind.
Now imagine being in a room with them.
For the first time in my life, I went to a frat party. Josh's band was paid to play an afternoon social event at a hotel turned fraternity house, and I went, like the good, supportive girlfriend that I am, and then I spent the whole time wondering how on earth I had ended up there. The house was this beautiful historic hotel, an old lodge with hardwood floors and big brick fireplaces. I walked in carrying Josh's bass and wondered if it was the place where they shot "The Shining."
This was the rich frat. Greek societies are already known for their wealth, but this was the fraternity where all the brothers had the same last names as well-known companies. While the guys set up and tuned, I looked at the pictures of frat boys past. Rows upon rows of similar-looking, clean-cut white boys wearing matching suits, a few guys with long sideburns or chin-length hair thrown in to keep up the diversity. I noticed a pasty dork every once in a while and wondered if he had to pay extra fees, some sort of unattractive tax. Honestly - I wouldn't be all that surprised.
I looked at my afternoon before me, looming in its polo-shirted expanse, and I decided that I needed a beer. I suppose that's the good thing about being an outcast at a frat party - by definition, there's going to be booze. So I sat and drank my beer while the guys played and everyone else mingled. There were maybe 30 frat guys with a smattering of a dozen or so girls mixed in. Judging by the girls, it was strapless shade-of-red dress day, and I hadn't gotten the memo. I thought it was ratty used t-shirt and jeans with bleach-stain sneakers day. I must have gotten my days mixed up.
It was me and the band against everyone else, a giant game of "One of These Things Is Not Like the Other." See if you can pick us out - we're the ones with the holes in our clothes that were not there when we bought them. True, some of the girls were wearing clothes that were made to look old, as if those girls were trying to look like us, but no one was fooled.
I spent my time listening to the music, drinking my beer, and watching all the pretty people. I was free to do so, because no one spoke to me. I wasn't even a blip on the radar. I was glad, because I was afraid that if anyone were to talk to me, it would be some charitable girl who started the conversation with a kindly, "You know, you could be pretty if you tried."
Then I started wondering if I could be pretty if I tried. I looked at those girls and tried to figure out how they were all different, and yet all somehow the same, wondering if I could duplicate the sameness.
I could do it. Give me six weeks, and I could do it. I only need that long because I have to lose some weight and get a tan. So that means a membership at the tanning salon, and an eating disorder; I picked bulimia since at least I'd still get to eat. It doesn't take long to get an expensive haircut and a manicure, and I'm only a trip to the mall and a maxed-out credit card away from a new, socially-acceptable wardrobe. I'd also have to learn to apply makeup, but I figure with a patient teacher, I could master that, too. Then put me back here and see things change. See who talks to me now.
I think if I had the money and the patience, I would do it. I'd do it just to see if I am right, to see if I am treated differently. I am already instantly accepted in a certain kind of group because of the way I dress, but I want to see if I could get that same immediate acceptance in a group that ignores me now.
Most of those girls were not better-looking than I am. They were mostly regular girls straddling average but making up for it with maintenance. A couple were actually beautiful, and there was one homely one. I have reached a pleasant happy medium where I am mostly satisfied with the way I look without having to work on it too much. And at the end of the afternoon, it was me that the bassist looked over in my ratty t-shirt and bleach-stained sneakers and remarked, "You're hot."
4.28.2006
4.26.2006
all of the above.
You are a twenty-three-year-old, single computer programmer taking your ten-year-old niece out to lunch at Taco Bell after a morning of high-yield yard saling. She sits down with her food while you stand up next to the table, determining if you have enough napkins, silverware, and other eating accessories. Your niece shoots you in the chest with her straw paper. Do you:
A.) Sigh disapprovingly and look unamused without saying anything, thereby putting a tension in the air, which then causes the entire meal to be conducted in awkward silence. She will know her misdeed and not commit such silly acts anymore without you having to say a word.
B.) Start lecturing her about not acting like a child, at least not in public. Be sure to stress the importance of growing up and emphasize the advantages to increased responsibility so that you do not come off as too strict.
C.) Ignore her with the understanding that giving attention to such acts only increases their frequency.
D.) Smile at her and dismiss the incident, showing that you are an adult with more important things to worry about than lecturing her over an innocent prank, but that you have not forgotten your own carefree childhood. Kids will be kids.
E.) Shoot back.
Option E. Duh.
My straw paper hit her directly in the eye, and stuck in her glasses. I felt like the biggest failure as an adult ever, that I could not even take a ten-year-old to Taco Bell without directly causing her bodily harm. But Social Services didn't swarm upon me, and no one started giving me option B. We had a pleasant lunch talking about my job, the concept of compromise, and the difference between circus clowns and hippies, and she seemed to be without emotional or physical scarring. We left happy and full, a girl and her aunt, or a girl and her niece, depending on how you look at it.
A.) Sigh disapprovingly and look unamused without saying anything, thereby putting a tension in the air, which then causes the entire meal to be conducted in awkward silence. She will know her misdeed and not commit such silly acts anymore without you having to say a word.
B.) Start lecturing her about not acting like a child, at least not in public. Be sure to stress the importance of growing up and emphasize the advantages to increased responsibility so that you do not come off as too strict.
C.) Ignore her with the understanding that giving attention to such acts only increases their frequency.
D.) Smile at her and dismiss the incident, showing that you are an adult with more important things to worry about than lecturing her over an innocent prank, but that you have not forgotten your own carefree childhood. Kids will be kids.
E.) Shoot back.
Option E. Duh.
My straw paper hit her directly in the eye, and stuck in her glasses. I felt like the biggest failure as an adult ever, that I could not even take a ten-year-old to Taco Bell without directly causing her bodily harm. But Social Services didn't swarm upon me, and no one started giving me option B. We had a pleasant lunch talking about my job, the concept of compromise, and the difference between circus clowns and hippies, and she seemed to be without emotional or physical scarring. We left happy and full, a girl and her aunt, or a girl and her niece, depending on how you look at it.
4.24.2006
jumping ship.
"Morning, Sandra. How was your long weekend - you took Friday off, right?"
"Yeah, I did. It was a good weekend. I hear there was a little drama while I was gone."
"Drama?"
"Yeah, with Tim leaving."
"Oh, that. Yeah, that happened. Hey, uh, listen, do you kinda wonder about everyone leaving? I mean, it seems like someone's leaving the company every couple of months, and-"
"You wonder if you're missing something by not being unhappy here."
"Exactly."
"I don't know. I've thought the same thing. Like, what's wrong with me. Clearly this isn't a good place to work because so many other people are jumping ship."
"Right."
"I used to work at a restaurant that had a really high employee turnover. A lot of people lasted less than a month, some less than a week. And I kept wondering what I was missing that I didn't want to leave, too. I finally figured out that the place was just kind of a weird environment that took a particular type of person to appreciate working there. Turns out that I was that kind of person, and the other people who stuck it out were all fun, interesting, amazing people. By the time I had to leave, I realized how much I had loved working there."
"So I guess if it ain't broke, don't fix it."
"Yeah. But I mean, I'm young and single, so I can pretty much leave whenever if I had to. But I dunno. I'm okay where I am right now."
"Maybe our expectations are too low."
"Maybe. Keeps us happy."
"Yup. I'll take it."
"Yeah, I did. It was a good weekend. I hear there was a little drama while I was gone."
"Drama?"
"Yeah, with Tim leaving."
"Oh, that. Yeah, that happened. Hey, uh, listen, do you kinda wonder about everyone leaving? I mean, it seems like someone's leaving the company every couple of months, and-"
"You wonder if you're missing something by not being unhappy here."
"Exactly."
"I don't know. I've thought the same thing. Like, what's wrong with me. Clearly this isn't a good place to work because so many other people are jumping ship."
"Right."
"I used to work at a restaurant that had a really high employee turnover. A lot of people lasted less than a month, some less than a week. And I kept wondering what I was missing that I didn't want to leave, too. I finally figured out that the place was just kind of a weird environment that took a particular type of person to appreciate working there. Turns out that I was that kind of person, and the other people who stuck it out were all fun, interesting, amazing people. By the time I had to leave, I realized how much I had loved working there."
"So I guess if it ain't broke, don't fix it."
"Yeah. But I mean, I'm young and single, so I can pretty much leave whenever if I had to. But I dunno. I'm okay where I am right now."
"Maybe our expectations are too low."
"Maybe. Keeps us happy."
"Yup. I'll take it."
4.20.2006
teaching the crooks to spell.
Phishing is quite a brilliant concept. It plays upon fear and idiocy, both of which humans in general seem to have quite a lot of. I've been getting several phishing emails a week now, and I have grown increasingly irritated about them. My email provider is competant enough to send them straight to the spam box, so their presence isn't really in my way. No, I am insulted at how obvious they are. It seems like you have to really be an idiot now to fall for these things. I could understand back when phishing was new and no one knew about it, then you could probably get away with some of the obvious mistakes. They might look a little odd or possibly make you wonder for half a second, but then you realize that your PayPal account is in jeopardy, so you forget that little nagging feeling and sign away your life. I even rather enjoy the little irony they present: you give away your personal information to criminals to protect your personal information from criminals. No, phishing irritates me because it is an insult to my intelligence.
There are all the obvious signs that the credit card companies will list on their websites. For one thing, if you click the link and it doesn't even go to the site it says it's going to, that's a big hint. Then there is fact that the real companies have sworn up and down to never ask for your information in that manner. You have to go to their real site and sign in with your user name and whatever. Fine, you follow those rules, you'll be safe. But there are other signs that make these emails reek of a scam.
The misspelled words really get to me. I guess you've all figured that out by now, as misspellings anywhere get on my nerves. If my credit card company can't spell, then I don't want them to be my credit card company. Who knows what else they're screwing up while they're ignoring their spell-check? I am always tempted to red ink those emails and send them back with a message like "not working up to your potential" scrawled on there somewhere. I feel like this is an obvious one, a sign that the phishers have gotten lazy. It's not like their job is all that hard anyway, so they really have no excuse for slacking off. I can pretty much tell instantly that an email from "Verifyed by Visa" is not legit.
There is also the fact that I repeatedly get these emails about accounts that I do not have. Oh, crap, my American Express account might be in danger. Wait - is this an email from the future, when I actually have an American Express account?
The thing is, people wouldn't do this scam if it didn't work. There are people who use the internet but still haven't bothered to educate themselves about protecting themselves there. There are people who can't recognize poor use of the English language. And there are people who who no longer even remember what accounts they do and don't have. I'm almost tempted to say that these people deserve to be cheated, but I won't go that far. Phishing is pretty rotten.
By the way, most companies (the legit ones) have a way for you to report phishing. If you go to the real website of the company, there's usually an email address where you can forward the phishy emails. I've found that doing this actually helps decrease the amount of spam I get, plus I get to feel like I'm doing something to help when I don't have time to write acidic and sarcastic replies to the bums. Everybody wins.
There are all the obvious signs that the credit card companies will list on their websites. For one thing, if you click the link and it doesn't even go to the site it says it's going to, that's a big hint. Then there is fact that the real companies have sworn up and down to never ask for your information in that manner. You have to go to their real site and sign in with your user name and whatever. Fine, you follow those rules, you'll be safe. But there are other signs that make these emails reek of a scam.
The misspelled words really get to me. I guess you've all figured that out by now, as misspellings anywhere get on my nerves. If my credit card company can't spell, then I don't want them to be my credit card company. Who knows what else they're screwing up while they're ignoring their spell-check? I am always tempted to red ink those emails and send them back with a message like "not working up to your potential" scrawled on there somewhere. I feel like this is an obvious one, a sign that the phishers have gotten lazy. It's not like their job is all that hard anyway, so they really have no excuse for slacking off. I can pretty much tell instantly that an email from "Verifyed by Visa" is not legit.
There is also the fact that I repeatedly get these emails about accounts that I do not have. Oh, crap, my American Express account might be in danger. Wait - is this an email from the future, when I actually have an American Express account?
The thing is, people wouldn't do this scam if it didn't work. There are people who use the internet but still haven't bothered to educate themselves about protecting themselves there. There are people who can't recognize poor use of the English language. And there are people who who no longer even remember what accounts they do and don't have. I'm almost tempted to say that these people deserve to be cheated, but I won't go that far. Phishing is pretty rotten.
By the way, most companies (the legit ones) have a way for you to report phishing. If you go to the real website of the company, there's usually an email address where you can forward the phishy emails. I've found that doing this actually helps decrease the amount of spam I get, plus I get to feel like I'm doing something to help when I don't have time to write acidic and sarcastic replies to the bums. Everybody wins.
4.17.2006
just a buck.
First off, a story:
I have a friend named Laura who can be a little ditzy. She's a smart girl and she's now a college graduate, working at broadening the minds of 11-year-olds in Asheboro. But yeah, she doesn't always think before she speaks. Once she and I were in a group of friends in high school, and someone told a story about the Dollar Store. I got a devilish gleam in my eye, and I asked, "Hey, Laura, how much does stuff cost at the Dollar Store?" Laura rolled her eyes indignantly at me, as if I were the biggest idiot ever and replied haughtily, "I don't know. I've never been there."
Herein lies the genius of the Dollar Store. They rely heavily on the idea that a dollar is not a lot of money. "It's only a dollar!" they say. You go in there, and you see something that you realize you will use eventually, say shampoo. You think, hey, I've heard of that brand, and it's only a dollar. So you buy some shampoo, not realizing that the same shampoo can be bought at Wal-Mart for maybe $0.85 or even the grocery store for $0.94. The Dollar Store is sneaky like that. Most people go into a place like Wal-Mart or a grocery store with specific needs. You buy shampoo at Wal-Mart when you are out of shampoo. And at that point, you need shampoo, so you don't consult the price. But you might walk up and down the aisles of a Dollar Store because it's a small place and because everything is only a dollar. So you see the shampoo, realize the price, and start stocking up on shampoo when you can get it cheaper elsewhere. It is brilliance.
That being said, I like the Dollar Store. I don't buy my shampoo there. If you've not been in a Dollar Store recently, you might be surprised at what you can find. For instance, I've heard tell that you can buy condoms there, though I've never seen them. I assume they come in 4-packs or something. Then, after you stock up on your dollar store condoms, you can also buy pregnancy tests there.
I like the Dollar Store because it's easy math. You can have your money all ready by the time you get to the counter. One night, I was waiting in line at the Dollar Store, and a mother was waiting behind me with her daughter. The mother was trying to explain that the daughter did not have enough money to buy the chewing gum in addition to the other three items she already had, because they had only $4.25 to pay for them; North Carolina has a 7% sales tax. The daughter was arguing with her mother, saying that she would wait and ask the cashier how much money they needed before she gave up her precious Juicy Fruit. I was annoyed at the daughter for doubting her mother and annoyed at the mother for passing up this valuable opportunity to teach her daughter how to calculate sales tax. Sure enough, the total was $4.28. I had three cents, so I offered it to them. I immediately regretted doing so, and wanted to add, "Unless you were trying to teach your daughter a lesson here, in which case, I do not have three cents." By that time, the cashier herself had offered the little girl three cents, so I was taken out of the transaction as just some nice stranger lady.
All this Dollar Store talk is the result of my recent photography hobby. I've had that beautiful and expensive digital camera for months now, but I'm finally getting around to developing some pictures. So now I have about 150 pictures, and I just want to litter my apartment walls with them and let them proclaim, "Lookit! I've made ART!" The Dollar Store has lots of frames, a fair percentage of them not tacky. They have these little frames just the right size and style for my pictures and taste, and they sell them in two-packs. Or at least, they did until I went to each of the five Dollar Tree Stores in the Winston-Salem area and bought them all. I also bought some photo albums. Photo display does not have to be an expensive habit. Except now I'm running out of wall space, so I suppose I'm going to have to go and buy some more walls. Maybe I should pick up some shampoo while I'm out.
I have a friend named Laura who can be a little ditzy. She's a smart girl and she's now a college graduate, working at broadening the minds of 11-year-olds in Asheboro. But yeah, she doesn't always think before she speaks. Once she and I were in a group of friends in high school, and someone told a story about the Dollar Store. I got a devilish gleam in my eye, and I asked, "Hey, Laura, how much does stuff cost at the Dollar Store?" Laura rolled her eyes indignantly at me, as if I were the biggest idiot ever and replied haughtily, "I don't know. I've never been there."
Herein lies the genius of the Dollar Store. They rely heavily on the idea that a dollar is not a lot of money. "It's only a dollar!" they say. You go in there, and you see something that you realize you will use eventually, say shampoo. You think, hey, I've heard of that brand, and it's only a dollar. So you buy some shampoo, not realizing that the same shampoo can be bought at Wal-Mart for maybe $0.85 or even the grocery store for $0.94. The Dollar Store is sneaky like that. Most people go into a place like Wal-Mart or a grocery store with specific needs. You buy shampoo at Wal-Mart when you are out of shampoo. And at that point, you need shampoo, so you don't consult the price. But you might walk up and down the aisles of a Dollar Store because it's a small place and because everything is only a dollar. So you see the shampoo, realize the price, and start stocking up on shampoo when you can get it cheaper elsewhere. It is brilliance.
That being said, I like the Dollar Store. I don't buy my shampoo there. If you've not been in a Dollar Store recently, you might be surprised at what you can find. For instance, I've heard tell that you can buy condoms there, though I've never seen them. I assume they come in 4-packs or something. Then, after you stock up on your dollar store condoms, you can also buy pregnancy tests there.
I like the Dollar Store because it's easy math. You can have your money all ready by the time you get to the counter. One night, I was waiting in line at the Dollar Store, and a mother was waiting behind me with her daughter. The mother was trying to explain that the daughter did not have enough money to buy the chewing gum in addition to the other three items she already had, because they had only $4.25 to pay for them; North Carolina has a 7% sales tax. The daughter was arguing with her mother, saying that she would wait and ask the cashier how much money they needed before she gave up her precious Juicy Fruit. I was annoyed at the daughter for doubting her mother and annoyed at the mother for passing up this valuable opportunity to teach her daughter how to calculate sales tax. Sure enough, the total was $4.28. I had three cents, so I offered it to them. I immediately regretted doing so, and wanted to add, "Unless you were trying to teach your daughter a lesson here, in which case, I do not have three cents." By that time, the cashier herself had offered the little girl three cents, so I was taken out of the transaction as just some nice stranger lady.
All this Dollar Store talk is the result of my recent photography hobby. I've had that beautiful and expensive digital camera for months now, but I'm finally getting around to developing some pictures. So now I have about 150 pictures, and I just want to litter my apartment walls with them and let them proclaim, "Lookit! I've made ART!" The Dollar Store has lots of frames, a fair percentage of them not tacky. They have these little frames just the right size and style for my pictures and taste, and they sell them in two-packs. Or at least, they did until I went to each of the five Dollar Tree Stores in the Winston-Salem area and bought them all. I also bought some photo albums. Photo display does not have to be an expensive habit. Except now I'm running out of wall space, so I suppose I'm going to have to go and buy some more walls. Maybe I should pick up some shampoo while I'm out.
4.12.2006
lady grey.
I have found my first grey hair.
It should be noted that I have actually found many grey hairs in the past. I've found whole clusters of them. But those hairs were not on my head, and therefore not worthy of worrying or writing about. This grey hair was on my head, stealthily stuck in among all the innocent little brown hairs.
I am twenty-three years old and more than a little traumatized.
The worst thing about this grey hair, besides the fact that it is on my head and not someone else's, is the fact that it is long. My hair is fairly long, almost long enough for me to go around topless without really showing anything - not that I measure my hair in terms of how much of my breasts it covers up. I've got some layers in there, plus some semi-bangs around my face, so I've got a wide variety of lengths. This little grey hair was one of the longest hairs in the bunch. That means it has been there, being all grey for a long time. That means that I really had my first grey hair when I was maybe twenty-one.
I did not pluck it out. It was so awfully long and strong-looking that I couldn't bear to just rip it out. Now I can't find it anymore, though, because I have a lot of brown hairs. It's no surprise that since its existence eluded me for two years, it's able to hide again amongst the hairs that look like they belong on the head of a twenty-three-year-old. Or maybe all the nice brown hairs found it and forcefully threw it out, crying, "She's too young and vibrant! Go away, you hideous and premature sign of aging!"
I called my mother, expecting sympathy. No, she laughed and said, "You know, your Aunt Rita was completely white-headed by the time she was twenty-nine."
I think that is the meanest thing anyone's ever said to me.
And now I fully expect to be like poor Aunt Rita. I've got these mental images of myself at my wedding, my hair blending in with my dress - I won't even need a veil if I just wear my bangs long and in my face. Pretty soon after that, my hair will thin out and I'll have to get one of those old lady perms and I'll never get to go around topless. I'll go around with my kids and people will think I'm their great-great-grandmother. That's all assuming I even get married, since now I'll have to find someone who will want to marry me based on my personality.
I've never really been all that impressed with my natural hair color. It is brown. Like my eye color and like my blood-type, I've managed to be saddled with the kind that most everyone else has. Brunettes reportedly don't have as much fun nor are we seen as fiesty, though we do have the small consolation of winning all the blond jokes. My hair has some nice highlights in the sun, but nothing that can't be beat by highlights in a bottle. But now I think that it is surely the most beautiful color that ever graced a head. I beg of my hair to stay brown, it can even get mousier if it wants, just as long as it doesn't look like the mice that are bred solely to be fed to large reptiles.
It should be noted that I have actually found many grey hairs in the past. I've found whole clusters of them. But those hairs were not on my head, and therefore not worthy of worrying or writing about. This grey hair was on my head, stealthily stuck in among all the innocent little brown hairs.
I am twenty-three years old and more than a little traumatized.
The worst thing about this grey hair, besides the fact that it is on my head and not someone else's, is the fact that it is long. My hair is fairly long, almost long enough for me to go around topless without really showing anything - not that I measure my hair in terms of how much of my breasts it covers up. I've got some layers in there, plus some semi-bangs around my face, so I've got a wide variety of lengths. This little grey hair was one of the longest hairs in the bunch. That means it has been there, being all grey for a long time. That means that I really had my first grey hair when I was maybe twenty-one.
I did not pluck it out. It was so awfully long and strong-looking that I couldn't bear to just rip it out. Now I can't find it anymore, though, because I have a lot of brown hairs. It's no surprise that since its existence eluded me for two years, it's able to hide again amongst the hairs that look like they belong on the head of a twenty-three-year-old. Or maybe all the nice brown hairs found it and forcefully threw it out, crying, "She's too young and vibrant! Go away, you hideous and premature sign of aging!"
I called my mother, expecting sympathy. No, she laughed and said, "You know, your Aunt Rita was completely white-headed by the time she was twenty-nine."
I think that is the meanest thing anyone's ever said to me.
And now I fully expect to be like poor Aunt Rita. I've got these mental images of myself at my wedding, my hair blending in with my dress - I won't even need a veil if I just wear my bangs long and in my face. Pretty soon after that, my hair will thin out and I'll have to get one of those old lady perms and I'll never get to go around topless. I'll go around with my kids and people will think I'm their great-great-grandmother. That's all assuming I even get married, since now I'll have to find someone who will want to marry me based on my personality.
I've never really been all that impressed with my natural hair color. It is brown. Like my eye color and like my blood-type, I've managed to be saddled with the kind that most everyone else has. Brunettes reportedly don't have as much fun nor are we seen as fiesty, though we do have the small consolation of winning all the blond jokes. My hair has some nice highlights in the sun, but nothing that can't be beat by highlights in a bottle. But now I think that it is surely the most beautiful color that ever graced a head. I beg of my hair to stay brown, it can even get mousier if it wants, just as long as it doesn't look like the mice that are bred solely to be fed to large reptiles.
4.10.2006
science!
In my wine science class, we do the experiments that everybody wanted to do in high school chemistry, but there was no time because you had to learn all those chicken wire drawings. Last week, we were doing the whole series of tests on a freshly mixed batch of white wine. I was in the group measuring total acidity, and it was my turn. Basically, you drip drip drip one chemical into some wine mixed with another chemical, and when the wine turns pink, then you stop and measure how much of the first chemical it took to turn the wine pink. Then that measurement tells you how acidic the wine is. Or something like that.
The drip drip drip part takes a little dexterity, because you have to drip drip drip the chemical and swirl swirl swirl this little flask of wine at the same time. I kind of enjoy doing these, except my constant fear is that I will drip drip drip too much, and then rather than having a lovely and delicate shade of pale pink, I will have a bright and garish shade of hot pink. And then I'll have to do it over again. I suppose if the wine industry the world over decided to go for the hot pink, we could just change the standard, but luckily the wine industry, even the wine science industry, is more fashionable than that.
Anyway, I do enjoy these basic experiments. They are simple, yet neat. Dr. Bob meanders around the lab, watching us, critiquing our technique ("Embrace the buret!"), and delightedly exclaiming, "Science!" I always want to start singing that Thomas Dolby song from the 80s when he makes this last exclamation, but refrain.
Wednesday night, I was preparing to do the titration (the technical term for drip drip drip), with Daisy in her green flowered glasses watching closely at my elbow. Daisy is short, with long greying hair. She is enthusiastic about her classes, always bringing in extra information that she found on the web. Daisy is also a hippie; I think she plans on naming her vineyard after the band Little Feat. As I was getting ready to embrace the buret, Daisy said, "When you get ready to do this, I'll sing you a song." And she did.
In Heaven, there is no beer.
That's why we drink it down here.
And when we're gone from here,
all our friends will be drinking all our beer.
In Heaven, there are no smokes.
That's why we'll take another toke.
And when we all have croaked,
all our friends will be taking all our smokes.
She clapped her hands and marched her feet to her titration song. I was giggling so much that by the time she started the second verse, I almost overshot and missed the delicate shade of pale pink. Then I would have had to do it all over again. I wondered if this was how all those important research chemists at universities all over the world did their experiments.
Science!
The drip drip drip part takes a little dexterity, because you have to drip drip drip the chemical and swirl swirl swirl this little flask of wine at the same time. I kind of enjoy doing these, except my constant fear is that I will drip drip drip too much, and then rather than having a lovely and delicate shade of pale pink, I will have a bright and garish shade of hot pink. And then I'll have to do it over again. I suppose if the wine industry the world over decided to go for the hot pink, we could just change the standard, but luckily the wine industry, even the wine science industry, is more fashionable than that.
Anyway, I do enjoy these basic experiments. They are simple, yet neat. Dr. Bob meanders around the lab, watching us, critiquing our technique ("Embrace the buret!"), and delightedly exclaiming, "Science!" I always want to start singing that Thomas Dolby song from the 80s when he makes this last exclamation, but refrain.
Wednesday night, I was preparing to do the titration (the technical term for drip drip drip), with Daisy in her green flowered glasses watching closely at my elbow. Daisy is short, with long greying hair. She is enthusiastic about her classes, always bringing in extra information that she found on the web. Daisy is also a hippie; I think she plans on naming her vineyard after the band Little Feat. As I was getting ready to embrace the buret, Daisy said, "When you get ready to do this, I'll sing you a song." And she did.
In Heaven, there is no beer.
That's why we drink it down here.
And when we're gone from here,
all our friends will be drinking all our beer.
In Heaven, there are no smokes.
That's why we'll take another toke.
And when we all have croaked,
all our friends will be taking all our smokes.
She clapped her hands and marched her feet to her titration song. I was giggling so much that by the time she started the second verse, I almost overshot and missed the delicate shade of pale pink. Then I would have had to do it all over again. I wondered if this was how all those important research chemists at universities all over the world did their experiments.
Science!
4.04.2006
bitter cuttings.
I just realized that it's been about a year and a half, and I am still angry about the cutting board.
I had this great little cutting board, see, about yay long and half-a-yay wide. Small enough to stash somewhere and be unobtrusive, small enough to whip out when you only needed to cut a tomato. It was the single girl's cutting board, and I liked it a lot. It was real wood, and I found it at a yard sale for a quarter at a time when I just happened to be looking for a nice little cutting board. It's so rare that the yard sales give you what you're looking for. More often, they give you what you never knew you needed.
When I moved out of the commune, I took my marvelous little cutting board to my new place. I received a friendly call from one of my ex-roommates a couple of weeks later. I think we talked about something else, and the subject of the cutting board was really more of an "oh, by the way..." thing. She told me that I had her cutting board.
Um, no. I didn't.
Sure I did, she said. Remember? It's little and brown and has that great little handle, so convenient. I must have accidentally packed her cutting board with my things.
Um, no. I packed my cutting board with my things.
She insisted that it was hers. She even told me this elaborate story about how she got it from her dad when he remarried and combined households. I thought that story was a dirty trick, saying that the cutting board had come to her as a result of a situation that had caused her not more than a little emotional strife. This is why you should never get divorced: someone is going to get screwed out of a cutting board someday.
I argued with her a little. I was just about to point out the small rectangular mark left by the price tag from where I had bought it for a quarter at the yard sale. The scar of the price tag was my proof and my downfall. As soon as I thought about playing my trump card, I realized that it was just a stupid quarter and that I should get over it.
Sometimes I go out of my way to be the bigger person, just to teach myself a lesson. The cutting board incident was one of those times. But because I had not really learned the lesson, I delivered the cutting board by leaving it on her doorstep one day when I knew she wasn't going to be home. There's only so much injury I can take.
I saw her a couple of weeks later, and to my chagrin, she brought up a conversation about the cutting board, thanking me for dropping it by. I remarked at what a great little cutting board it was, and she emphatically agreed. "And," she added, "that's why I was so pissed off when my roommate left it in the wet sink under some dishes and it got all warped. I had to throw it out!"
Go ahead. I dare you to let that happen to you, and you try and not be a little bitter about it over a year later. It can't be done.
I had this great little cutting board, see, about yay long and half-a-yay wide. Small enough to stash somewhere and be unobtrusive, small enough to whip out when you only needed to cut a tomato. It was the single girl's cutting board, and I liked it a lot. It was real wood, and I found it at a yard sale for a quarter at a time when I just happened to be looking for a nice little cutting board. It's so rare that the yard sales give you what you're looking for. More often, they give you what you never knew you needed.
When I moved out of the commune, I took my marvelous little cutting board to my new place. I received a friendly call from one of my ex-roommates a couple of weeks later. I think we talked about something else, and the subject of the cutting board was really more of an "oh, by the way..." thing. She told me that I had her cutting board.
Um, no. I didn't.
Sure I did, she said. Remember? It's little and brown and has that great little handle, so convenient. I must have accidentally packed her cutting board with my things.
Um, no. I packed my cutting board with my things.
She insisted that it was hers. She even told me this elaborate story about how she got it from her dad when he remarried and combined households. I thought that story was a dirty trick, saying that the cutting board had come to her as a result of a situation that had caused her not more than a little emotional strife. This is why you should never get divorced: someone is going to get screwed out of a cutting board someday.
I argued with her a little. I was just about to point out the small rectangular mark left by the price tag from where I had bought it for a quarter at the yard sale. The scar of the price tag was my proof and my downfall. As soon as I thought about playing my trump card, I realized that it was just a stupid quarter and that I should get over it.
Sometimes I go out of my way to be the bigger person, just to teach myself a lesson. The cutting board incident was one of those times. But because I had not really learned the lesson, I delivered the cutting board by leaving it on her doorstep one day when I knew she wasn't going to be home. There's only so much injury I can take.
I saw her a couple of weeks later, and to my chagrin, she brought up a conversation about the cutting board, thanking me for dropping it by. I remarked at what a great little cutting board it was, and she emphatically agreed. "And," she added, "that's why I was so pissed off when my roommate left it in the wet sink under some dishes and it got all warped. I had to throw it out!"
Go ahead. I dare you to let that happen to you, and you try and not be a little bitter about it over a year later. It can't be done.
4.03.2006
spared rod soup.
Some more waitress stories today.
Don't change in your car, or someone might get hurt.
The employee parking lot at Vintner's was behind the building, and the kitchen had two windows overlooking the gravel lot. One mid-morning, a waitress was coming in to work. She changed into her work clothes in the car right underneath one of the kitchen windows. On the other side of that window was one of the lunch cooks, cutting vegetables to prep for lunch. He became so distracted by the sight of that waitress changing that he cut his finger and had to be taken to the hospital for stitches. I don't know that the girl ever knew.
Something to cover up the soup spoons
My boss, Joe, was in constant fear of waste and/or theft. He would lock up the supply cabinet of various items that he felt were being used wastefully so that when we needed more, we would have to ask him personally. The list of items that were locked up grew as time went on and included: soup spoons, lemons, ketchup bottles, dessert syrups. The soup spoons were a particular peeve of his, since he was convinced the wait staff was stealing his silver. At one point, I used the last of a dessert syrup bottle, so I had to go ask Joe for another. He began griping and fussing as usual about how we and all of our generation were wasteful and how we were driving him out of business. He said he bet that I had two or three bottles of the syrup in my car. I smiled and said, "Well, yes, but I have to have something to cover up all the soup spoons." It's a good thing he liked me.
Spared Rod Soup
Everybody hated waiting on kids. One guy got fired for full-out refusing to wait on families with children. There were exceptions, but by and large, rich, snobby people who vacationed in Blowing Rock did not have the most well-behaved children. Plus, kids make a mess, they're loud, and they often have special requests. I had this table of a family of four once around the holidays. Two parents with two little boys around the age of seven and nine, i.e. old enough to know better. They were the first table of the day and they were sitting in the sunroom, where our Christmas tree was. The kids were running around the sunroom, pulling ornaments off the tree (I swear, I heard one of them ask their mother if they could take the ornaments with them). At one point, the kids went to the bathroom, taking unattended detours all over the restaurant. The parents had a marvelous time, sitting and drinking alcoholic coffee drinks and blithely ignoring their children. I suggested to my friend that he should go into the sunroom and say aloud "Spare the rod and spoil the child" and then just walk out. Then, my friend dared me to tell them that the soup du jour was "Spared Rod Soup." The thought of that was enough to get me through the rest of the day.
Don't change in your car, or someone might get hurt.
The employee parking lot at Vintner's was behind the building, and the kitchen had two windows overlooking the gravel lot. One mid-morning, a waitress was coming in to work. She changed into her work clothes in the car right underneath one of the kitchen windows. On the other side of that window was one of the lunch cooks, cutting vegetables to prep for lunch. He became so distracted by the sight of that waitress changing that he cut his finger and had to be taken to the hospital for stitches. I don't know that the girl ever knew.
Something to cover up the soup spoons
My boss, Joe, was in constant fear of waste and/or theft. He would lock up the supply cabinet of various items that he felt were being used wastefully so that when we needed more, we would have to ask him personally. The list of items that were locked up grew as time went on and included: soup spoons, lemons, ketchup bottles, dessert syrups. The soup spoons were a particular peeve of his, since he was convinced the wait staff was stealing his silver. At one point, I used the last of a dessert syrup bottle, so I had to go ask Joe for another. He began griping and fussing as usual about how we and all of our generation were wasteful and how we were driving him out of business. He said he bet that I had two or three bottles of the syrup in my car. I smiled and said, "Well, yes, but I have to have something to cover up all the soup spoons." It's a good thing he liked me.
Spared Rod Soup
Everybody hated waiting on kids. One guy got fired for full-out refusing to wait on families with children. There were exceptions, but by and large, rich, snobby people who vacationed in Blowing Rock did not have the most well-behaved children. Plus, kids make a mess, they're loud, and they often have special requests. I had this table of a family of four once around the holidays. Two parents with two little boys around the age of seven and nine, i.e. old enough to know better. They were the first table of the day and they were sitting in the sunroom, where our Christmas tree was. The kids were running around the sunroom, pulling ornaments off the tree (I swear, I heard one of them ask their mother if they could take the ornaments with them). At one point, the kids went to the bathroom, taking unattended detours all over the restaurant. The parents had a marvelous time, sitting and drinking alcoholic coffee drinks and blithely ignoring their children. I suggested to my friend that he should go into the sunroom and say aloud "Spare the rod and spoil the child" and then just walk out. Then, my friend dared me to tell them that the soup du jour was "Spared Rod Soup." The thought of that was enough to get me through the rest of the day.
3.30.2006
here phishy, phishy, phishy.
From: service @ chase. com <>
Reply-To: "service @ chase. com"
Date: Mar 27, 2006 11:28 AM
Subject: CHASE Account Security Measures Notification [ Account Suspended 02:45:10 DST-0400 UTC]
Chase Bank Online. Department Notice
You have received this E-mail because you or someone else had used your
Account from different locations.
For security purposes, we required to open an investigation on this matter.
In order to safeguard your Account , we require you to confirm you Banking Details.
We recently have discovered that multiple computers have attempted to log into your CHASE Bank Online Banking account, and multiple password failures were presented before the logons. We now require you to re-validate your account information to us. If this is not completed by March 27 2006, we will be forced to suspend your account indefinitely, as it may have been used for fraudulent purposes. We thank you for your cooperation in this manner.
Please Click Here or on the link below to re-validate your account information :
http://www.chase.com/user300340004445
Please note:
If we do not receive the appropriate Account Verification within 48 hours , we will
assume this Chase Bank Account is fraudulent and it will be suspended. The
purpose of this Verification is to ensure that your Bank Account has not been
fraudulently used and to combat fraud from our Community.
Dear Sir or Madam:
I have recently heard rumors that certain despicable scoundrels have been trying to cheat innocent and unsuspecting individuals such as myself by sending them what appears to be a legitimate email from a legitimate source asking for sensitive financial information. These emails may even come in the guise of a security alert, saying that the user must validate an account to ward off fraudulent use. Perhaps you have heard of this terrible event as well. Since I know that the Chase Bank is a very reputable company, one that works to protect its customers, I would like to make a suggestion in regards to your recent email to me so that your customers will not confuse your email with one from someone who finds him or herself hard up for cash, integrity, and basic decency.
I was surprised to read your email, not only because of its contents, but also because I would have thought that an email from a company such as the Chase Bank would have been not only spell-checked, but checked for grammar and punctuation as well. You might want to invest in someone more familiar with the English language to write your form letters. I realize that English-speakers, particularly ones with a basic high school understanding of the language, are hard to come by these days and probably cost more. You, no doubt, are passing along the savings of hiring nonnative speakers to me, the customer. However, I think that some customers might be suspicious of such a poorly-written letter from a veritable giant in the financial world. I think that you will have more luck with making your customers feel secure if you take that extra effort to proof your communications, and I can tell that security is clearly your top priority. This is a mere suggestion, and as you are an old and established successful company, you probably know what's best in your business.
Also in regards to your email, I was very distraught to find that my account with the Chase Bank might be invalidated on this very day because I had not acted quickly enough to verify my information. I had actually been out of town when I received the email and had I not checked my email this morning, I might not have been able to verify my account in time to protect it from suspension. Then I remembered that I don't have an account with the Chase Bank. Therefore, feel free to suspend my account in the name of security. Seeing as how I was completely unaware of its existence, I wasn't using it anyway. Thank goodness for people like you protecting the little people like me from the stinking, rotten, filthy crooks out there. You just can't trust anyone anymore, but I feel better knowing that the Chase Bank is doing its utmost to uphold the rights of the people.
Sincerely,
user300340004445
Reply-To: "service @ chase. com"
Date: Mar 27, 2006 11:28 AM
Subject: CHASE Account Security Measures Notification [ Account Suspended 02:45:10 DST-0400 UTC]
Chase Bank Online. Department Notice
You have received this E-mail because you or someone else had used your
Account from different locations.
For security purposes, we required to open an investigation on this matter.
In order to safeguard your Account , we require you to confirm you Banking Details.
We recently have discovered that multiple computers have attempted to log into your CHASE Bank Online Banking account, and multiple password failures were presented before the logons. We now require you to re-validate your account information to us. If this is not completed by March 27 2006, we will be forced to suspend your account indefinitely, as it may have been used for fraudulent purposes. We thank you for your cooperation in this manner.
Please Click Here or on the link below to re-validate your account information :
http://www.chase.com/user300340004445
Please note:
If we do not receive the appropriate Account Verification within 48 hours , we will
assume this Chase Bank Account is fraudulent and it will be suspended. The
purpose of this Verification is to ensure that your Bank Account has not been
fraudulently used and to combat fraud from our Community.
Dear Sir or Madam:
I have recently heard rumors that certain despicable scoundrels have been trying to cheat innocent and unsuspecting individuals such as myself by sending them what appears to be a legitimate email from a legitimate source asking for sensitive financial information. These emails may even come in the guise of a security alert, saying that the user must validate an account to ward off fraudulent use. Perhaps you have heard of this terrible event as well. Since I know that the Chase Bank is a very reputable company, one that works to protect its customers, I would like to make a suggestion in regards to your recent email to me so that your customers will not confuse your email with one from someone who finds him or herself hard up for cash, integrity, and basic decency.
I was surprised to read your email, not only because of its contents, but also because I would have thought that an email from a company such as the Chase Bank would have been not only spell-checked, but checked for grammar and punctuation as well. You might want to invest in someone more familiar with the English language to write your form letters. I realize that English-speakers, particularly ones with a basic high school understanding of the language, are hard to come by these days and probably cost more. You, no doubt, are passing along the savings of hiring nonnative speakers to me, the customer. However, I think that some customers might be suspicious of such a poorly-written letter from a veritable giant in the financial world. I think that you will have more luck with making your customers feel secure if you take that extra effort to proof your communications, and I can tell that security is clearly your top priority. This is a mere suggestion, and as you are an old and established successful company, you probably know what's best in your business.
Also in regards to your email, I was very distraught to find that my account with the Chase Bank might be invalidated on this very day because I had not acted quickly enough to verify my information. I had actually been out of town when I received the email and had I not checked my email this morning, I might not have been able to verify my account in time to protect it from suspension. Then I remembered that I don't have an account with the Chase Bank. Therefore, feel free to suspend my account in the name of security. Seeing as how I was completely unaware of its existence, I wasn't using it anyway. Thank goodness for people like you protecting the little people like me from the stinking, rotten, filthy crooks out there. You just can't trust anyone anymore, but I feel better knowing that the Chase Bank is doing its utmost to uphold the rights of the people.
Sincerely,
user300340004445
3.27.2006
underdog.
I know that I already wrote my token March Madness entry, but I can't think of anything else to write about, so screw it.
My bracket got all shot to crap this weekend. I had 10 of the Sweet Sixteen teams, and I have 0 Final Four teams. I was in second place last Thursday, and though I'm still not far down in the points, I'm in the uncomfortable position of having picked teams to win games in which they are not even participating. That would be some kind of NCAA miracle. No office pool money will be coming my way, and now I have only one consolation: with my own personal interests out of the way, I can root for anyone I please.
I am a rotten gambler. Not just because I am mostly uninformed about what I'm betting on, not even because I find it difficult to not pick teams that happen to live within a couple of hours from here. I am a rotten gambler because when it comes to the games, I still want to pull for the underdog. It's the worst during the first couple of rounds. There are always the big upsets, the thirteen seed over the four, the twelve over the five, etc. I look down at my bracket and I see that I have that number four team going to the Final Four. I know that if they lose now, I might as well count my $5 for lost. But man, look at those poor thirteen-seeders, the college players with no chance of ever seeing NBA action on teams which may be making their second or third or even first tournament appearance in tournament history. How can you not root for them? They've got the audacity to show up and give this nationally ranked team a good run for our entertainment and their own advancement, the least we can do is cheer as they try to make the unthinkable come true. These are not the hot shots who have spent the season making the play of the day, having every single one of their games televised across the nation. These are the little guys who seemed to come from nowhere because no one is really sure where exactly their little college is located.
Underdogs are inspiration all in themselves, and I think their seeming obliviousness to the futility of their goal is something that appeals to all of us. I can think of maybe two times in my athletic history where I was not the underdog, and more often than not, I was more like the six-feet-underdog. All of us can imagine being the champion, the big shot, but all of us can relate to being the nobody.
It got to the point this year where I considered not participating in the office pool next year. The conflict of interest was too much for me. I like this little team and I want to root for them, but I also like my five dollars and the opportunity of increasing it ten-fold. I'm just not sure that mere mortals are cut out for this kind of internal distress. I understand that betting in a pool is just supposed to be fun and that you're really more paying for the entertainment value. But honestly? I was already pretty entertained.
So as I wave goodbye to my money and wonder whether I got five dollars worth of entertainment filling in a bracket and then later delightedly highlighting the games I'd picked right, I look at the current standings and wonder who in the world would have ever picked an eleven seed to be in the Final Four. Probably nobody except the players' mothers. I picked them to go down in the very first round and I was noticeably quiet as I watched them upset UNC in a house full of jubilant NC State kids. I didn't bet on them before, but I'm pulling for them now.
My bracket got all shot to crap this weekend. I had 10 of the Sweet Sixteen teams, and I have 0 Final Four teams. I was in second place last Thursday, and though I'm still not far down in the points, I'm in the uncomfortable position of having picked teams to win games in which they are not even participating. That would be some kind of NCAA miracle. No office pool money will be coming my way, and now I have only one consolation: with my own personal interests out of the way, I can root for anyone I please.
I am a rotten gambler. Not just because I am mostly uninformed about what I'm betting on, not even because I find it difficult to not pick teams that happen to live within a couple of hours from here. I am a rotten gambler because when it comes to the games, I still want to pull for the underdog. It's the worst during the first couple of rounds. There are always the big upsets, the thirteen seed over the four, the twelve over the five, etc. I look down at my bracket and I see that I have that number four team going to the Final Four. I know that if they lose now, I might as well count my $5 for lost. But man, look at those poor thirteen-seeders, the college players with no chance of ever seeing NBA action on teams which may be making their second or third or even first tournament appearance in tournament history. How can you not root for them? They've got the audacity to show up and give this nationally ranked team a good run for our entertainment and their own advancement, the least we can do is cheer as they try to make the unthinkable come true. These are not the hot shots who have spent the season making the play of the day, having every single one of their games televised across the nation. These are the little guys who seemed to come from nowhere because no one is really sure where exactly their little college is located.
Underdogs are inspiration all in themselves, and I think their seeming obliviousness to the futility of their goal is something that appeals to all of us. I can think of maybe two times in my athletic history where I was not the underdog, and more often than not, I was more like the six-feet-underdog. All of us can imagine being the champion, the big shot, but all of us can relate to being the nobody.
It got to the point this year where I considered not participating in the office pool next year. The conflict of interest was too much for me. I like this little team and I want to root for them, but I also like my five dollars and the opportunity of increasing it ten-fold. I'm just not sure that mere mortals are cut out for this kind of internal distress. I understand that betting in a pool is just supposed to be fun and that you're really more paying for the entertainment value. But honestly? I was already pretty entertained.
So as I wave goodbye to my money and wonder whether I got five dollars worth of entertainment filling in a bracket and then later delightedly highlighting the games I'd picked right, I look at the current standings and wonder who in the world would have ever picked an eleven seed to be in the Final Four. Probably nobody except the players' mothers. I picked them to go down in the very first round and I was noticeably quiet as I watched them upset UNC in a house full of jubilant NC State kids. I didn't bet on them before, but I'm pulling for them now.
3.22.2006
wine-y things.
Let's make it a wine three-fer, shall we?
Thing 1: Dr. Bob has met everybody.
And I mean everybody. I'm not just talking about the kind of everybodies that make wine dorks choke on their sample tastings of Cabernet with awe and jealousy. He knew Timothy Leary. Calls him Tim. He hung out with Ken Kesey. And - he used to work with the guy that played Lazar Wolf in the movie version of "Fiddler on the Roof." Okay, so Ken Kesey was probably a lot more important, but man, Lazar Wolf. Dr. Bob is awesome.
Thing 2: Science is romantic.
I'm taking only one class this semester, called Wine and Grape Science. Wine seems to be a straightforward enough beverage: you grow a grape, you squash it, you wait awhile, you name it something in french, you drink it. Voila! It's easy to forget that fermentation is a scientific phenomenon. Plus, I am here to tell you that there is a whole crapload of science behind making wine. It's true that there does not have to be: a lot of winemakers forego the scientific aspect, I suppose because it's not very romantic or because they don't know how. Ah, but science is romantic! Anyway, I'm loving this class. We do basic chemistry experiments that expose certain qualities of a wine and then we talk about how the science stuff translates into the taste of the wine. I think this is part of what I like about wine: it combines science and art. I have a similar feeling about computer science - yes, it is technical, but to be good at it, you need imagination. Wine is the same way. You can do all the measurements you want to help you along the way to great wine, but at the end of the day, you still have to taste it and judge it on very subjective terms. Me, I like to use both halves of my brain, and winemaking is a much better way to do that than, say, writing technical manuals.
Thing 3: I know what I'm doing.
I have this wine day-by-day calender for 2006 that I bought at the Dollar Tree when the year was about 1/6 over. It has various tips and trivia and wine etiquette guides, but it also occasionally has a recommendation for a bottle of wine to try. A lot of them are in $20-$30 range, which is a little high for me to buy solely based on description. But if the description sounds enticing and the price tag looks reasonable, I'll head down to my local wine superstore and pick up a bottle. There are so many wines out there that you really have to be kind of adventurous in your tasting. I was doing just that a couple weeks back - there was a $7 bottle of Spanish wine that was recommended. I found it on the shelves and noticed that right under the supply of bottles was a copy of the page from the very same calender that I had. In fact, I had a matching page in my back pocket. A salesman happened by, a little garrulous guy with a stereotypical New York accent who I like quite a bit because he's so enthusiastic. He wanted to see what I had picked out and was immediately impressed. I almost pulled out my calender page, but I was so flattered at the fact that someone thought I actually knew what I was doing in this vast and varied wine world that I decided to let the ruse stand. In fact, I was so flattered that I bought a bottle of a wine that he recommended to me based on the one I was already buying. Hrm. I bet he compliments everyone on what they're buying.
Thing 1: Dr. Bob has met everybody.
And I mean everybody. I'm not just talking about the kind of everybodies that make wine dorks choke on their sample tastings of Cabernet with awe and jealousy. He knew Timothy Leary. Calls him Tim. He hung out with Ken Kesey. And - he used to work with the guy that played Lazar Wolf in the movie version of "Fiddler on the Roof." Okay, so Ken Kesey was probably a lot more important, but man, Lazar Wolf. Dr. Bob is awesome.
Thing 2: Science is romantic.
I'm taking only one class this semester, called Wine and Grape Science. Wine seems to be a straightforward enough beverage: you grow a grape, you squash it, you wait awhile, you name it something in french, you drink it. Voila! It's easy to forget that fermentation is a scientific phenomenon. Plus, I am here to tell you that there is a whole crapload of science behind making wine. It's true that there does not have to be: a lot of winemakers forego the scientific aspect, I suppose because it's not very romantic or because they don't know how. Ah, but science is romantic! Anyway, I'm loving this class. We do basic chemistry experiments that expose certain qualities of a wine and then we talk about how the science stuff translates into the taste of the wine. I think this is part of what I like about wine: it combines science and art. I have a similar feeling about computer science - yes, it is technical, but to be good at it, you need imagination. Wine is the same way. You can do all the measurements you want to help you along the way to great wine, but at the end of the day, you still have to taste it and judge it on very subjective terms. Me, I like to use both halves of my brain, and winemaking is a much better way to do that than, say, writing technical manuals.
Thing 3: I know what I'm doing.
I have this wine day-by-day calender for 2006 that I bought at the Dollar Tree when the year was about 1/6 over. It has various tips and trivia and wine etiquette guides, but it also occasionally has a recommendation for a bottle of wine to try. A lot of them are in $20-$30 range, which is a little high for me to buy solely based on description. But if the description sounds enticing and the price tag looks reasonable, I'll head down to my local wine superstore and pick up a bottle. There are so many wines out there that you really have to be kind of adventurous in your tasting. I was doing just that a couple weeks back - there was a $7 bottle of Spanish wine that was recommended. I found it on the shelves and noticed that right under the supply of bottles was a copy of the page from the very same calender that I had. In fact, I had a matching page in my back pocket. A salesman happened by, a little garrulous guy with a stereotypical New York accent who I like quite a bit because he's so enthusiastic. He wanted to see what I had picked out and was immediately impressed. I almost pulled out my calender page, but I was so flattered at the fact that someone thought I actually knew what I was doing in this vast and varied wine world that I decided to let the ruse stand. In fact, I was so flattered that I bought a bottle of a wine that he recommended to me based on the one I was already buying. Hrm. I bet he compliments everyone on what they're buying.
3.20.2006
busted.
Last Thursday morning, I'm staring at an empty bracket, trying to decide who is favored to win in a contest between two college basketball teams which I know nothing about. Hmm, Wichita State Shockers? What kind of a mascot is that? Nah, they're never gonna win anything.
My bracket completed, I was all ready to hand it in along with my $5 to the guy who runs our office pool. I feel no remorse for the fact that I just used up fifteen minutes of company time to fill out a bracket, since this pool is obviously company-approved. They did hand out the blank brackets during a company-wide meeting and encourage everyone to participate. But before I hand in what is sure to be another losing prediction, I decide to print out another bracket so that I can make a copy of my prediction. Last year, I forgot to do this, and so I had no idea how well or badly I was doing in the pool. Okay, I knew that I was doing badly, but I like to know just how badly.
I turn to Google and type in the words "NCAA bracket." The first link that pops up is for CBS SportsLine. I click it, and am directed to my company's web page. Huh. That's weird. I hit the Back button to return to the Google results, and try hitting the CBS link again. Once again, I find myself staring at the same logo that graces the building where I now sit. This cannot be a coincidence. Suddenly, I realize: busted.
Feeling a little guilty about using company time to play games, since I've obviously now been caught at it, I go back and hit the second link that Google gave me. This time, I am able to print out a clean bracket without a glaring reminder of who paid for the 15 minutes I just spent. On my way back from the printer, I stop to talk to the web site guy. I might as well confess, now that my hands are bright red anyway.
What I didn't know was this: CBS SportsLine is streaming the games of the first three rounds live this year over their website. Our network guy, hearing of this, decided to block that site so we weren't all sitting at our desks, using up the company's bandwidth. It was only a lucky chance that Google returned the same site as the first choice for a bracket search. The network guy didn't figure that anyone would even run into the blocked site.
I was the first person to discover the block, but since all this happened to me before any games even started, my bracket story was believed, and I was declared innocent of trying to watch the games on the clock. Later that afternoon, however, Roger was not so lucky.
My bracket completed, I was all ready to hand it in along with my $5 to the guy who runs our office pool. I feel no remorse for the fact that I just used up fifteen minutes of company time to fill out a bracket, since this pool is obviously company-approved. They did hand out the blank brackets during a company-wide meeting and encourage everyone to participate. But before I hand in what is sure to be another losing prediction, I decide to print out another bracket so that I can make a copy of my prediction. Last year, I forgot to do this, and so I had no idea how well or badly I was doing in the pool. Okay, I knew that I was doing badly, but I like to know just how badly.
I turn to Google and type in the words "NCAA bracket." The first link that pops up is for CBS SportsLine. I click it, and am directed to my company's web page. Huh. That's weird. I hit the Back button to return to the Google results, and try hitting the CBS link again. Once again, I find myself staring at the same logo that graces the building where I now sit. This cannot be a coincidence. Suddenly, I realize: busted.
Feeling a little guilty about using company time to play games, since I've obviously now been caught at it, I go back and hit the second link that Google gave me. This time, I am able to print out a clean bracket without a glaring reminder of who paid for the 15 minutes I just spent. On my way back from the printer, I stop to talk to the web site guy. I might as well confess, now that my hands are bright red anyway.
What I didn't know was this: CBS SportsLine is streaming the games of the first three rounds live this year over their website. Our network guy, hearing of this, decided to block that site so we weren't all sitting at our desks, using up the company's bandwidth. It was only a lucky chance that Google returned the same site as the first choice for a bracket search. The network guy didn't figure that anyone would even run into the blocked site.
I was the first person to discover the block, but since all this happened to me before any games even started, my bracket story was believed, and I was declared innocent of trying to watch the games on the clock. Later that afternoon, however, Roger was not so lucky.
3.15.2006
puberty of a cold.
I'm in the voice alteration stage of a sinus infection. I've had enough of these things to know how they affect my body. The first day, I have a sore throat, as well as a lingering feeling of needing to hock something out of my throat without being able to. This stage is followed by a couple of days of steady coughing, sneezing, and overwhelming snot production. Then comes the voice change, which is accompanied by a decrease in the snot production, and finally, recovery.
The trouble with my current stage is that it's so much more noticeable than the others. I've been blowing my nose to the point of rawness for two days now, but when my "Good Morning" sounds like something you'd hear from a veteran smoker, people stare and ask, "Holy crap, what's wrong with you?" This question never fails to irritate me, because it's the same thing that's been wrong with me for about days now, thanks for noticing. People avoid me or start giving me suggestions for cures when I'm already on the brink of recovery. In fact, the voice change usually comes at the same time as a remarkable improvement in my well-being, so I'm actually feeling a heck of a lot better, I just sound worse. By now, it's too late for sympathy.
People at work, in their misguided efforts to make me feel better, tell me that I should go home, I'm sick! I repeatedly tell them, "I feel better than I sound." Most likely, the day when a day of rest would have benefitted me most had already passed. They urge me to go home, so much that I begin to suspect them of trying to get rid of me so that they won't catch whatever it is that is making me sound so awful. And I just think, Ha ha! You suckers, you've already caught it.
That makes me feel a little better.
The trouble with my current stage is that it's so much more noticeable than the others. I've been blowing my nose to the point of rawness for two days now, but when my "Good Morning" sounds like something you'd hear from a veteran smoker, people stare and ask, "Holy crap, what's wrong with you?" This question never fails to irritate me, because it's the same thing that's been wrong with me for about days now, thanks for noticing. People avoid me or start giving me suggestions for cures when I'm already on the brink of recovery. In fact, the voice change usually comes at the same time as a remarkable improvement in my well-being, so I'm actually feeling a heck of a lot better, I just sound worse. By now, it's too late for sympathy.
People at work, in their misguided efforts to make me feel better, tell me that I should go home, I'm sick! I repeatedly tell them, "I feel better than I sound." Most likely, the day when a day of rest would have benefitted me most had already passed. They urge me to go home, so much that I begin to suspect them of trying to get rid of me so that they won't catch whatever it is that is making me sound so awful. And I just think, Ha ha! You suckers, you've already caught it.
That makes me feel a little better.
3.09.2006
deforestation.
It's Thursday night, and I do not want to shave my legs.
This is the schedule of my existence: Monday thru Friday evening, I live a miserable Josh-less existence, spent going to work, pining, attending my wine classes, pining, and calling him up on the telephone and pining for him out loud to him. Friday afternoon, I leave work early and drive one hour and forty minutes to Raleigh. Upon my arrival in Raleigh, I spend wonderful quality Josh-full time. At 7:30 Sunday night, I sigh that I have to go soon. At 8:30 Sunday night, I say I have to go. At 9:30, I say that I really have to go, and at 9:45, I leave. Then I drive the hour and forty minutes back (stopping in Mebane to get gas and a snack). Upon my arrival home, I call Josh again to tell him that I got home safely before I pass out in my bed, only to wake up Monday morning, my heart heavy with Josh withdrawal.
You'd think I was sixteen years old.
Oh, don't worry. I know that it is ridiculous. I am fully aware that it is high school all over again. I don't care. I have the benefit of high school romance without making all the stupid mistakes that I made in high school. I make new, adult mistakes.
Mondays are the worst. Tuesdays still suck pretty bad. I start to see the light of the weekend on Wednesday, and by Thursday, I am excited because I am so close to going to Raleigh again that I can actually do prep-work. I always intend to pack on Thursday nights, but I get lazy and don't. I do shave my legs on Thursday nights. Probably the only advantage to a boyfriend you see once a week is only having to shave that often.
But now it's Thursday, and it's starting to get to be the time when I usually head to bed, but I haven't shaved my legs yet. And I don't particularly want to do it. Every time I shave my legs, I'm again amazed that it only took twenty minutes or so and wasn't really that painful. It's just getting up the impetus to do it. I am tired. I had a long day at work. I just did this crap last week. Et cetera.
I can't pretend that he won't notice. If you're not familiar with the afflictions of dark-haired females, let me just tell you that a lack of body hair is not something we suffer from. And, nice boy that he is, he'll probably pick my poor tired feet into his lap and rub them tenderly while I gaze adoringly at him, and then he'll cut his finger on my stubbly ankle hair. I suppose I could just not let him massage my feet, but what kind of a solution is that?
It's not as if he would care. He would laugh and say, "Stubbly Sandra" and then keep going. He's had serious girlfriends before, he knows the deal. He knows that girls don't have pillow fights in their underwear, he knows that we burp and sweat, and he knows that we don't shave regularly in the winter. He understands that if he is in the position to see a girl's legs in the winter, then he is in a position of privilege and he can't go complaining about the state of things.
But I am afraid to not shave. Not because he will care, but because it will seem to me that the honeymoon is over. Not the literal honeymoon, just that sweet time in the beginning of a relationship when everything is new and you still always want to be at your very best around the person. I am more than comfortable enough with him to let him see my legs unshaven, it's just the fact that I still want to be special for him.
Maybe it's too late for all that, and razors or not, the honeymoon is over. That's not so bad. I know people who call it boring, but there's a lot to be said for being completely comfortable around someone. I suppose I shouldn't worry about having hairy legs around a guy who has seen me throw up. And I admit to being strangely charmed by the way he picks his nose in front of me. I just want the best of both worlds: a man who doesn't make me feel like I have to shave my legs, but for whom I still want to.
And now that I've made you all nauseated from the syrupy state of my relationship, I'm going to go shave my legs, because it's Thursday, and I am in love.
This is the schedule of my existence: Monday thru Friday evening, I live a miserable Josh-less existence, spent going to work, pining, attending my wine classes, pining, and calling him up on the telephone and pining for him out loud to him. Friday afternoon, I leave work early and drive one hour and forty minutes to Raleigh. Upon my arrival in Raleigh, I spend wonderful quality Josh-full time. At 7:30 Sunday night, I sigh that I have to go soon. At 8:30 Sunday night, I say I have to go. At 9:30, I say that I really have to go, and at 9:45, I leave. Then I drive the hour and forty minutes back (stopping in Mebane to get gas and a snack). Upon my arrival home, I call Josh again to tell him that I got home safely before I pass out in my bed, only to wake up Monday morning, my heart heavy with Josh withdrawal.
You'd think I was sixteen years old.
Oh, don't worry. I know that it is ridiculous. I am fully aware that it is high school all over again. I don't care. I have the benefit of high school romance without making all the stupid mistakes that I made in high school. I make new, adult mistakes.
Mondays are the worst. Tuesdays still suck pretty bad. I start to see the light of the weekend on Wednesday, and by Thursday, I am excited because I am so close to going to Raleigh again that I can actually do prep-work. I always intend to pack on Thursday nights, but I get lazy and don't. I do shave my legs on Thursday nights. Probably the only advantage to a boyfriend you see once a week is only having to shave that often.
But now it's Thursday, and it's starting to get to be the time when I usually head to bed, but I haven't shaved my legs yet. And I don't particularly want to do it. Every time I shave my legs, I'm again amazed that it only took twenty minutes or so and wasn't really that painful. It's just getting up the impetus to do it. I am tired. I had a long day at work. I just did this crap last week. Et cetera.
I can't pretend that he won't notice. If you're not familiar with the afflictions of dark-haired females, let me just tell you that a lack of body hair is not something we suffer from. And, nice boy that he is, he'll probably pick my poor tired feet into his lap and rub them tenderly while I gaze adoringly at him, and then he'll cut his finger on my stubbly ankle hair. I suppose I could just not let him massage my feet, but what kind of a solution is that?
It's not as if he would care. He would laugh and say, "Stubbly Sandra" and then keep going. He's had serious girlfriends before, he knows the deal. He knows that girls don't have pillow fights in their underwear, he knows that we burp and sweat, and he knows that we don't shave regularly in the winter. He understands that if he is in the position to see a girl's legs in the winter, then he is in a position of privilege and he can't go complaining about the state of things.
But I am afraid to not shave. Not because he will care, but because it will seem to me that the honeymoon is over. Not the literal honeymoon, just that sweet time in the beginning of a relationship when everything is new and you still always want to be at your very best around the person. I am more than comfortable enough with him to let him see my legs unshaven, it's just the fact that I still want to be special for him.
Maybe it's too late for all that, and razors or not, the honeymoon is over. That's not so bad. I know people who call it boring, but there's a lot to be said for being completely comfortable around someone. I suppose I shouldn't worry about having hairy legs around a guy who has seen me throw up. And I admit to being strangely charmed by the way he picks his nose in front of me. I just want the best of both worlds: a man who doesn't make me feel like I have to shave my legs, but for whom I still want to.
And now that I've made you all nauseated from the syrupy state of my relationship, I'm going to go shave my legs, because it's Thursday, and I am in love.
3.08.2006
let it go.
A spacious, but windowless office, late afternoon. A young, attractive, yet completely competant-looking woman is sitting at a large desk working on her computer. New Trainee enters, Sandra makes a hasty yet deft movement with her mouse to hide the internet browser.
New Trainee: I need a short function for the install that finds the parent directory.
Sandra: Oh, actually, I have one. I wrote it a while back. I'll email it to you.
New Trainee exits. Ten minutes pass.
New Trainee: Hey, Sandra, that code you sent me doesn't work.
Sandra's eye twitches.
Sandra: It doesn't work? What does it do?
New Trainee: It gets the grandparent directory, the one above the one I want. I was going to modify it but I didn't understand the code.
Sandra's eye twitches again, more noticeably this time.
Sandra: Oh. I wrote that a while back, so I don't really remember it much. If it's getting the wrong directory, you can just modify it to get the child directory of the one it's getting now.
New Trainee: Also, it doesn't work if there's a backslash at the end.
Sandra: There's a function to remove the last backslash, just use that.
New Trainee: Oh yeah, I've used that before. Well, it still doesn't get, I mean it doesn't work anyway.
Sandra: Okay, then modify the code so that it does.
New Trainee: Oh, okay. (Exits.)
Sandra sighs heavily. She is obviously facing the internal struggle of going into New Trainee's office and demanding to see hard evidence that her beautiful code does not work versus acting like a regular human being and minding her own business. Her eye begins to twitch every few seconds, she taps her fingers on the keyboard without typing anything, and her jaw is set.
Sandra(chanting softly to herself): Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
Sandra sighs in resignation and writes frustrated blog entry, knowing that readers will have no choice but to assume that her code is always flawless and that New Trainee is just an idiot. She does not feel better.
New Trainee: I need a short function for the install that finds the parent directory.
Sandra: Oh, actually, I have one. I wrote it a while back. I'll email it to you.
New Trainee exits. Ten minutes pass.
New Trainee: Hey, Sandra, that code you sent me doesn't work.
Sandra's eye twitches.
Sandra: It doesn't work? What does it do?
New Trainee: It gets the grandparent directory, the one above the one I want. I was going to modify it but I didn't understand the code.
Sandra's eye twitches again, more noticeably this time.
Sandra: Oh. I wrote that a while back, so I don't really remember it much. If it's getting the wrong directory, you can just modify it to get the child directory of the one it's getting now.
New Trainee: Also, it doesn't work if there's a backslash at the end.
Sandra: There's a function to remove the last backslash, just use that.
New Trainee: Oh yeah, I've used that before. Well, it still doesn't get, I mean it doesn't work anyway.
Sandra: Okay, then modify the code so that it does.
New Trainee: Oh, okay. (Exits.)
Sandra sighs heavily. She is obviously facing the internal struggle of going into New Trainee's office and demanding to see hard evidence that her beautiful code does not work versus acting like a regular human being and minding her own business. Her eye begins to twitch every few seconds, she taps her fingers on the keyboard without typing anything, and her jaw is set.
Sandra(chanting softly to herself): Let it go. Let it go. Let it go.
Sandra sighs in resignation and writes frustrated blog entry, knowing that readers will have no choice but to assume that her code is always flawless and that New Trainee is just an idiot. She does not feel better.
3.06.2006
ice cubes.
Another drunken New Year's, this one two years ago. I don't remember what I was drinking, some cocktail of expensive colored vodka and a soda. I was drunk. I'd been drunk before and I've been drunk since. Most times I enjoy it. But there's this line that gets crossed after so many drinks where I'm not in control anymore and then I don't like it at all. That night, I was well beyond that line, sitting on a table, a big round one with one center leg and a fat base supporting it. Abandoned drinks and party favors sat on the table with me, as did a friend of mine, also very drunk. A close encounter with the toilet was in his near future. We were just sitting there, taking it in, neither of us in much of a state to make conversation. Then I felt everything shifting in slow motion, like when you fall in a dream: you can't observe it any real way, but you know somehow that it's happening without being able to do anything to stop it. I managed to stand up before everything came down, but gravity got the best of the table and all its other occupants. Glassware and ice everywhere. Everyone shouted in surprise and then laughed jovially at us, look at dumb drunk Sandra, she flipped a table. I was so confused, about alcohol, about the mess, about gravity, about the disapproving stare my boyfriend was giving me from across the room. People swarmed around us to help right the table and clean up the mess; alcohol inspires a certain comraderie among people. Miraculously, nothing was broken, and once the glassware was picked up, people lost interest in the cleaning endeavor and went back to their memorable night in the making. Except me. There was still ice everywhere and I was still in a fog, my mind receiving so much stimuli that I was unable to understand any of it. So I got down on the floor and picked up ice cubes, one at a time, putting them in a red plastic Solo cup. There was all this...this...this crap going on and I couldn't comprehend any of it, but I could pick up ice cubes. I could focus on ice cubes, one at a time, into the red cup until the mess was gone.
And sometimes I don't even have to be drunk to feel like that, to not feel in control even enough to sort out the things I'm seeing and hearing and feeling and tasting and smelling. Then I just have to figure out a way to sit down on the floor with my red plastic Solo cup and pick up all the ice cubes, one at a time, into the red cup until the mess is gone.
And sometimes I don't even have to be drunk to feel like that, to not feel in control even enough to sort out the things I'm seeing and hearing and feeling and tasting and smelling. Then I just have to figure out a way to sit down on the floor with my red plastic Solo cup and pick up all the ice cubes, one at a time, into the red cup until the mess is gone.
2.28.2006
the guy in the cream sweater.
There's a middle-aged guy in my wine class, one who is talkative and opinionated, but has enough knowledge and sense that those two traits don't get on my nerves so much. I don't always agree with what he says, but he says it eloquently enough that I don't automatically go into eye-roll mode whenever he opens his mouth. He wears an eye patch, which has nothing to do with his thinking abilities, but the fact fills me with curiosity and wonder. I suspect that his eye patch is not treatment for a lazy eye, but rather a cover of something horrifying and tragic. I can't decide what would be worse, an empty socket with a concave eyelid covering it, or a horrible and mangled bit of flesh. My intense desire to know more about what is hidden underneath that little black patch was only heightened when I noticed he was missing half a finger on his left hand.
Unfortunately, there is no good way to ask, "So, uh, got anything underneath that there eye patch?" In fact, to find that sort of thing out, it appears that I would have to become very close friends with this man, and I'm afraid I'm just not that interested.
One night, a couple of us were trying to find out the name of the eye patch guy, since Eye Patch Guy isn't really appropriate or even clever. None of us knew him well enough to know his name, much less to find out just what happened to the rest of his finger and the rest of his eyes. So another man, Clyde, asked a woman sitting next to him, "Hey, what's that guy's name over there?"
"Which guy?"
"Uh. The, uh, guy, um, you know, over there. With the...cream sweater."
Okay, so he was the only guy in a cream sweater, but there were a lot of other descriptors that would have narrowed down the field much more quickly and efficiently. But no, we're polite.
And I still don't know the guy's name.
Unfortunately, there is no good way to ask, "So, uh, got anything underneath that there eye patch?" In fact, to find that sort of thing out, it appears that I would have to become very close friends with this man, and I'm afraid I'm just not that interested.
One night, a couple of us were trying to find out the name of the eye patch guy, since Eye Patch Guy isn't really appropriate or even clever. None of us knew him well enough to know his name, much less to find out just what happened to the rest of his finger and the rest of his eyes. So another man, Clyde, asked a woman sitting next to him, "Hey, what's that guy's name over there?"
"Which guy?"
"Uh. The, uh, guy, um, you know, over there. With the...cream sweater."
Okay, so he was the only guy in a cream sweater, but there were a lot of other descriptors that would have narrowed down the field much more quickly and efficiently. But no, we're polite.
And I still don't know the guy's name.
2.24.2006
this is a drill.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006: 11:07 AM
I'm sitting at my desk, working on acrossword puzzle crucial and incredibly important software task, when a buzzer starts going off. This is different from the periodic beep from one of the many surge protectors around the office, this is continuous and really annoying. I turn down my music and realize that it's a fire alarm. It's been a long time since I've heard a fire alarm, and so I'm not sure what to do. Then I remember my years of training and I suddenly feel some sort of Pavlovian urge to exit the building, like now. So I save my work on my incredibly important software task, even going so far as to save it to the company server. That way, if my computer were to burn down, my work would not be lost. Of course, the server is in a room in this building on this very same floor, so my precaution was probably pointless.
People start to stream past my door toward the exit. Some of them stream the other way, saying that they were going to get their jackets or maybe some marshmallows. Even with all those years of training in school, fire alarms do not have the same effect on adults as they do on children. Little kids immediately react, knowing to leave everything behind and file quietly to the nearest exit, testing all doorknobs with the backs of their hands. Adults pause for ten to fifteen seconds to see if the alarm will stop on its own before leisurely grabbing personal effects, then chatter and joke as they burst through doorways. Some of them probably try to use the elevator. At some point in all our years of drills, we lost the idea that a fire could be very very scary. I remember still doing fire drills in high school, but they were a joke, something that had to be done to meet regulations somewhere. The teacher always told us when they were going to happen so we could go ahead and be ready. I had one teacher who even had the habit of screaming, "Oh my God, we're going to die!" to scare the freshmen students during the first fire drill of the school year.
I guess as adults we figure that we have the sense to assess the gravity of the situation. There was no smoke or screaming or any other indication that there was a real emergency at hand, so we determined that haste or panic was not necessary. We teach kids to just react, not sniff the air and decide if they have enough time to run to the bathroom first. If we had assessed the situation and determined there was real danger, we would have known exactly what to do, because if nothing else can be said for public schools, the system at least taught us how to make for the hills.
And then we stood outside for 20 minutes while the fire trucks came and the people with funny suits went inside and officially certified what we had already determined: there was no fire. Some of us went to lunch, others of us discusssed offsite data backup options. Me, I just felt bad for the people downstairs. You see, our office is upstairs from an OB/GYN office, and I just know there was some poor woman naked except for a thin medical sheet, lying with her feet in stirrups, enjoying the one-of-a-kind feeling of a speculum when the alarm went off. No amount of elementary school fire drills can prepare you for something like that.
I'm sitting at my desk, working on a
People start to stream past my door toward the exit. Some of them stream the other way, saying that they were going to get their jackets or maybe some marshmallows. Even with all those years of training in school, fire alarms do not have the same effect on adults as they do on children. Little kids immediately react, knowing to leave everything behind and file quietly to the nearest exit, testing all doorknobs with the backs of their hands. Adults pause for ten to fifteen seconds to see if the alarm will stop on its own before leisurely grabbing personal effects, then chatter and joke as they burst through doorways. Some of them probably try to use the elevator. At some point in all our years of drills, we lost the idea that a fire could be very very scary. I remember still doing fire drills in high school, but they were a joke, something that had to be done to meet regulations somewhere. The teacher always told us when they were going to happen so we could go ahead and be ready. I had one teacher who even had the habit of screaming, "Oh my God, we're going to die!" to scare the freshmen students during the first fire drill of the school year.
I guess as adults we figure that we have the sense to assess the gravity of the situation. There was no smoke or screaming or any other indication that there was a real emergency at hand, so we determined that haste or panic was not necessary. We teach kids to just react, not sniff the air and decide if they have enough time to run to the bathroom first. If we had assessed the situation and determined there was real danger, we would have known exactly what to do, because if nothing else can be said for public schools, the system at least taught us how to make for the hills.
And then we stood outside for 20 minutes while the fire trucks came and the people with funny suits went inside and officially certified what we had already determined: there was no fire. Some of us went to lunch, others of us discusssed offsite data backup options. Me, I just felt bad for the people downstairs. You see, our office is upstairs from an OB/GYN office, and I just know there was some poor woman naked except for a thin medical sheet, lying with her feet in stirrups, enjoying the one-of-a-kind feeling of a speculum when the alarm went off. No amount of elementary school fire drills can prepare you for something like that.
2.22.2006
one of those girls.
Laura is one of those girls. There are a bunch of ways to describe her, all of them beginning with "She's one of those girls who..." and then the other person immediately goes, "Oh yeah, I know someone like that."
Laura is one of those girls whom everybody likes.
Laura is one of those girls who looks good in every picture that was ever taken of her.
Laura is one of those girls who was popular in high school while remaining down-to-earth and normal.
See? I was right. You know that girl.
But: Laura is one of those girls that has embarrassing stuff happen to her all the time. You know that girl, too. Laura's life is the stuff that high school sitcoms are made of. She says the ditziest stuff in front of professors. She trips and falls in front of the entire student body. She makes silly faces and then realizes that guy over there is watching. I've known Laura since we were babies, and so I've seen public humiliation at its finest. As a result, she is very good at laughing at herself. I would like to be so good at it, too, but without having to go through what she has gone through. Her ability to bounce back from embarrassment is just another thing that makes up her very Laura-ness.
I have a favorite Laura story. It is also my favorite embarrassment story, my favorite high school angst story, my favorite story involving black lights and white gloves.
I'm not sure if you've ever seen a black-lit performance of hand waving to music, but it's not that cool. Basically, you have a bunch of people dressed all in black except for white gloves. Then they stand in the dark while black lights shine on them. They do some sort of synchronized routine to the music, the effect being that you can only see their glowing hands. I imagine that the idea could be really cool, but not when it's carried out by a bunch of underehearsed kids to a bad song. Laura was a part of a group of students that was doing such a performance in front of the entire senior class as a part of a variety show. We were sophomores at the time, but I was in the audience because I was a part of a different act that had already performed. She didn't have a black shirt to wear, so she borrowed a cheap, thin one from the drama department.
The lights were dimmed, the performance began. We were all bored and distracted, until we started to notice something in particular about one of those figures in black, namely the one that has embarrassing things happen to her all the time. You see, that thin black shirt might hide you in normal lighting, but it was unable to overcome the powerful combination of a black light and a clean, white bra. So yes, there were a dozen pairs of hands waving around, and one brightly illuminated bra in the middle of the group. I confess it: I was laughing. But so was everybody else, and I at least had the grace to feel guilty for laughing.
After the act was over, I went backstage to check on the unintentional exhibitionist. She was crying in the bathroom, but she came out looking defeated after I knocked softly. The variety show still had several more acts to go, but I suggested we skip out and go get some lunch in the cafeteria. Which we did, and I swear, by the end of our lunch period, Laura was already starting to giggle over the whole thing, telling and retelling how she looked down mid-performance and saw the bright thing that was her chest and how it was all she could do not to run backstage before it was over. And then it was okay for me to laugh about it, not that I could have helped it anyway.
I asked permission from Laura to write this story so that the whole wide world could find out about her and her freakish glowing undergarments. I asked permission because it's a pretty embarrassing story, but I had it all written out all ready to post before I asked, because I felt confident that Laura would laugh and give me the go-ahead. She's just one of those girls.
Laura is one of those girls whom everybody likes.
Laura is one of those girls who looks good in every picture that was ever taken of her.
Laura is one of those girls who was popular in high school while remaining down-to-earth and normal.
See? I was right. You know that girl.
But: Laura is one of those girls that has embarrassing stuff happen to her all the time. You know that girl, too. Laura's life is the stuff that high school sitcoms are made of. She says the ditziest stuff in front of professors. She trips and falls in front of the entire student body. She makes silly faces and then realizes that guy over there is watching. I've known Laura since we were babies, and so I've seen public humiliation at its finest. As a result, she is very good at laughing at herself. I would like to be so good at it, too, but without having to go through what she has gone through. Her ability to bounce back from embarrassment is just another thing that makes up her very Laura-ness.
I have a favorite Laura story. It is also my favorite embarrassment story, my favorite high school angst story, my favorite story involving black lights and white gloves.
I'm not sure if you've ever seen a black-lit performance of hand waving to music, but it's not that cool. Basically, you have a bunch of people dressed all in black except for white gloves. Then they stand in the dark while black lights shine on them. They do some sort of synchronized routine to the music, the effect being that you can only see their glowing hands. I imagine that the idea could be really cool, but not when it's carried out by a bunch of underehearsed kids to a bad song. Laura was a part of a group of students that was doing such a performance in front of the entire senior class as a part of a variety show. We were sophomores at the time, but I was in the audience because I was a part of a different act that had already performed. She didn't have a black shirt to wear, so she borrowed a cheap, thin one from the drama department.
The lights were dimmed, the performance began. We were all bored and distracted, until we started to notice something in particular about one of those figures in black, namely the one that has embarrassing things happen to her all the time. You see, that thin black shirt might hide you in normal lighting, but it was unable to overcome the powerful combination of a black light and a clean, white bra. So yes, there were a dozen pairs of hands waving around, and one brightly illuminated bra in the middle of the group. I confess it: I was laughing. But so was everybody else, and I at least had the grace to feel guilty for laughing.
After the act was over, I went backstage to check on the unintentional exhibitionist. She was crying in the bathroom, but she came out looking defeated after I knocked softly. The variety show still had several more acts to go, but I suggested we skip out and go get some lunch in the cafeteria. Which we did, and I swear, by the end of our lunch period, Laura was already starting to giggle over the whole thing, telling and retelling how she looked down mid-performance and saw the bright thing that was her chest and how it was all she could do not to run backstage before it was over. And then it was okay for me to laugh about it, not that I could have helped it anyway.
I asked permission from Laura to write this story so that the whole wide world could find out about her and her freakish glowing undergarments. I asked permission because it's a pretty embarrassing story, but I had it all written out all ready to post before I asked, because I felt confident that Laura would laugh and give me the go-ahead. She's just one of those girls.
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