The fiancé and I (oh, yeah, we're engaged) hosted my parents, sister, and nephew for an impromptu family reunion/wedding planning blitz last week, which was generally pretty cool. I'm gradually getting over my tendency to hyperventilate every time "wedding" and "planning" are mentioned in the same sentence, and have been vastly entertained by the wedding industry's infomarketing barrage and inability to design bridesmaid dresses without empire waists, as well as my inability to get the saleslady at David's Bridal to show me any wedding dress without an empire waist. As I am not pregnant, nor do I wish to look so at my wedding, I will not be buying my dress there.
But super fun was seeing my two-year-old nephew, who, as an excellent mimic, will validate all of your opinions for you, if you phrase your inquiry properly: "Wasn't the puppy cute?" "Puppy cute!" "Should we feed the goldfish?" "Feed goldfish!" "Isn't it tricky to walk in this gravel?" "Tricky!" As not my child, he was very fun to play with, too: we spent an enjoyable five minutes standing in front of the garden spout turning it on and off before returning him with soaked clothes to my fantastic sister. Later in the visit I took a turn "watching" him at a family party, which consisted of keeping track of him following the dogs around, making sure he didn't have a confrontation with the puppy, and occasionally setting down my drink to extract him feet-first from end tables the dogs could crawl through but he couldn't. I consider it a great childrearing success.
22 February 2009
Valentine's Day Massacre
I work at a bakery to pay the bills while I'm in graduate school, which is usually pretty chill. Last week, however, all Hell broke loose due to everyone in Albuquerque deciding on February 13 that they wanted to get cupcakes for their significant others without having preordered them. We spent the day heaving new cupcakes into the gaping, sprinkle-strewn maw of the almost-empty display case and staring grimly at the acres of stuff still to be decorated. It was sort of like this:
only, you know, more tense.
only, you know, more tense.
03 February 2009
Open Letter to Everyone Wasting Money on Ziploc Zip 'n' Steam Bags
Dear Everyone Wasting Money on Ziploc Zip 'n' Steam Bags:
Get a damn casserole dish with a lid. Or, you know, a microwave-safe bowl with a plate on top of it. One-time investment, no waste.
Sincerely,
Auntie Maim
Get a damn casserole dish with a lid. Or, you know, a microwave-safe bowl with a plate on top of it. One-time investment, no waste.
Sincerely,
Auntie Maim
02 December 2008
Tag, I'm It!
I've been tagged! Thanks, Lisa!
The rules:
Link to the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Write six random things about yourself.
Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
Here are six random things about me, in the order in which they occurred to me:
1. I adore really, really bad versions of Christmas carols. I blame a cassette tape my parents owned (or, indeed, probably still own), which we listened to endlessly on van trips to Steamboat Springs during the ski/Christmas season. It featured an instrumental version of, I think, "Oh Holy Night" apparently recorded by the Tinny Wavering Strings Ensemble, as well as a musical rendering of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" in which each phrase describing Santa Claus was rendered in a different US regional accent. The real show-stopper was the over-enthusiastic, fakey, corn-pone accent on "His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow!" As our mother has a beautiful and authentic Alabama accent, all three of us kids found it unbearably hilarious. This also relates to a van-borne trip as adults to see the city's best Christmas decorations -- frustrated by simultaneously attempting to drive, decipher a whimsically-scaled map printed by the newspaper, and discuss the route over the dulcet tones of the van's 1980s-era FM radio half-tuned to a station playing (terrible) Christmas music, my dad barked, to the rest of the family's hysterical amusement, "Will you turn that shit off? It just adds to the general irritation!"
2. The first concert I went to was Michael Jackson's Thriller tour in Denver. I think I was in fourth grade. The awesomeness began when my dad hopped the verge between the interstate and its frontage road in our van (for some reason, there's a lot about the van in this list so far) in order to get out of the traffic on I-25, and did not end until after first recess at school the next day, when I recounted the set list to my assembled friends. For a brief moment, I was ... kind of popular. Plus, it set off a show-going career that averaged one a week in my mid-twenties.
3. Two of my most prized possessions are black-and-white photos taken by my dad in the neighborhood of Princeton, NJ. I pulled them out of a collection of art pieces in my parents' basement because my it was my dad who first got me interested in photography, and we both went to Princeton. When I turned them over to put them into frames, I read the notes on date, exposure, and processing he had jotted on the back -- and found he had printed both on my birthdate, but three years before I was born! Spooky.
4. Every time I start a new knitting project, I think of my grandmother, who taught me how to cast on and do the basic stitches. During her final hospitalization, when she was drifting in and out of awareness, my mom showed her a pair of socks I'd made; a few days later, she reported to my aunt with perfect clarity, "Amy made socks on number one needles!" I didn't realize until then how much it meant to her that I had picked up her hobby.
5. My pet peeve surpassing all others is whistling. You will never see me fly into a seething rage faster than if someone is whistling in my vicinity. I have no idea why, but I can tell you that even typing about people whistling is putting me on edge.
6. I am kind of obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Because of her looks, and the drugs, and the death, and the marriages, and the rumored affairs, and the media's (and public's) desire to fit her into a preconceived slot (dumb sexy blonde No. 357), a lot of people don't know how smart and talented she really was. For example: she wrote to her stepson with Arthur Miller about meeting Robert Kennedy for the first time, and said she asked him what his department was going to do for civil rights.
Tag, you're it (there are only three, because I don't know all that many blogs): Cari at Implosion Explosion, Stephanie at Dogs in the Moonlight (who probably won't respond, as she is in Madagascar), Maughta at Judge a Book by its Cover, and Stephanie at Natural/Artificial.
The rules:
Link to the person who tagged you.
Post the rules on your blog.
Write six random things about yourself.
Tag six people at the end of your post and link to them.
Let each person know they’ve been tagged and leave a comment on their blog.
Let the tagger know when your entry is up.
Here are six random things about me, in the order in which they occurred to me:
1. I adore really, really bad versions of Christmas carols. I blame a cassette tape my parents owned (or, indeed, probably still own), which we listened to endlessly on van trips to Steamboat Springs during the ski/Christmas season. It featured an instrumental version of, I think, "Oh Holy Night" apparently recorded by the Tinny Wavering Strings Ensemble, as well as a musical rendering of "Twas the Night Before Christmas" in which each phrase describing Santa Claus was rendered in a different US regional accent. The real show-stopper was the over-enthusiastic, fakey, corn-pone accent on "His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow!" As our mother has a beautiful and authentic Alabama accent, all three of us kids found it unbearably hilarious. This also relates to a van-borne trip as adults to see the city's best Christmas decorations -- frustrated by simultaneously attempting to drive, decipher a whimsically-scaled map printed by the newspaper, and discuss the route over the dulcet tones of the van's 1980s-era FM radio half-tuned to a station playing (terrible) Christmas music, my dad barked, to the rest of the family's hysterical amusement, "Will you turn that shit off? It just adds to the general irritation!"
2. The first concert I went to was Michael Jackson's Thriller tour in Denver. I think I was in fourth grade. The awesomeness began when my dad hopped the verge between the interstate and its frontage road in our van (for some reason, there's a lot about the van in this list so far) in order to get out of the traffic on I-25, and did not end until after first recess at school the next day, when I recounted the set list to my assembled friends. For a brief moment, I was ... kind of popular. Plus, it set off a show-going career that averaged one a week in my mid-twenties.
3. Two of my most prized possessions are black-and-white photos taken by my dad in the neighborhood of Princeton, NJ. I pulled them out of a collection of art pieces in my parents' basement because my it was my dad who first got me interested in photography, and we both went to Princeton. When I turned them over to put them into frames, I read the notes on date, exposure, and processing he had jotted on the back -- and found he had printed both on my birthdate, but three years before I was born! Spooky.
4. Every time I start a new knitting project, I think of my grandmother, who taught me how to cast on and do the basic stitches. During her final hospitalization, when she was drifting in and out of awareness, my mom showed her a pair of socks I'd made; a few days later, she reported to my aunt with perfect clarity, "Amy made socks on number one needles!" I didn't realize until then how much it meant to her that I had picked up her hobby.
5. My pet peeve surpassing all others is whistling. You will never see me fly into a seething rage faster than if someone is whistling in my vicinity. I have no idea why, but I can tell you that even typing about people whistling is putting me on edge.
6. I am kind of obsessed with Marilyn Monroe. Because of her looks, and the drugs, and the death, and the marriages, and the rumored affairs, and the media's (and public's) desire to fit her into a preconceived slot (dumb sexy blonde No. 357), a lot of people don't know how smart and talented she really was. For example: she wrote to her stepson with Arthur Miller about meeting Robert Kennedy for the first time, and said she asked him what his department was going to do for civil rights.
Tag, you're it (there are only three, because I don't know all that many blogs): Cari at Implosion Explosion, Stephanie at Dogs in the Moonlight (who probably won't respond, as she is in Madagascar), Maughta at Judge a Book by its Cover, and Stephanie at Natural/Artificial.
18 November 2008
I'm Thankful for Flying J Travel Plaza
Imagine my surprise and delight when I noted the following two items on my gas station receipt this morning:
Yes, that's right, my neighborhood travel plaza has gas at $1.94 AND holiday pies available for preorder. This really solves our dilemma of what to bring as a secondary dessert to Thanksgiving this year. And, if we can only find a spare gas can, what to bring for a hostess gift.
Yes, that's right, my neighborhood travel plaza has gas at $1.94 AND holiday pies available for preorder. This really solves our dilemma of what to bring as a secondary dessert to Thanksgiving this year. And, if we can only find a spare gas can, what to bring for a hostess gift.
02 November 2008
Babies: "That High-Contrast Shit is Giving Us Headaches"
So, I recently found this awesome baby blanket pattern at Knitty that I would like to make, although I'm not sure for whom, since my fantastic nephew is over a year old now and my only friend with a new baby is an amazing knitter herself:
I especially like that it isn't annoyingly twee, and that it can be really high-contrast, since babies are supposed to like that. Which makes me wonder: how exactly do we know that babies love contrast? What if they don't, and only stare fixedly at it (or whatever makes us think they like it) because they're wondering how something so eye-poppingly fugly came to be? Or they're really gaping in horror? That would be kind of funny.
I especially like that it isn't annoyingly twee, and that it can be really high-contrast, since babies are supposed to like that. Which makes me wonder: how exactly do we know that babies love contrast? What if they don't, and only stare fixedly at it (or whatever makes us think they like it) because they're wondering how something so eye-poppingly fugly came to be? Or they're really gaping in horror? That would be kind of funny.
25 October 2008
You May Take our Yard Signs, but You'll Never Take our Freedom!
Like many people, I feel very strongly about the upcoming election -- so strongly that the awesome boyfriend and I have taken the unprecedented (for us) step of purchasing a modest yard sign for our favored candidate and placing it in the front yard -- or should I say gravel -- right between the one frowsy plant and that other frowsy plant. Actually, when we bought the sign, the campaign office was out of yard brackets, so we first had it taped in the front window, and then after my stint harassing voters door-to-door on Saturday, I obtained a sought-after bracket and stuck it in the yard.
And then, two days later, the sign was gone. Awesome. Way to uphold the values upon which our nation was founded by interfering with free speech. Also, way to cost me another $5 and the minor irritation of voyaging to the campaign office for another yard sign. Douchebags. My very creative friend Cari recommended that I buy 20 new yard signs and spork* the whole yard with them, croquet-course style.
Of course, it is possible that the sign was not removed by some vast right-wing conspiracy, but by A) someone over this whole election thing in general (as a swing state, we enjoy a 24-hour blanket of campaigning via all media channels -- it's only a matter of time before low-flying planes begin dropping informative propaganda pamplets WWII-style), B) bored teenagers, or C) bored 30-year-old married ladies -- one of my coworkers told me that she and a friend recently spent an enjoyable evening switching Democratic and Republican candidates' signs throughout their neighborhood.
In a related note, I am highly entertained by the frequency of radio campaign ads focused on stem cell research -- apparently, this was thought to be a HUGE issue for the upcoming election at some point before our entire economy collapsed. Whoops!
*For those of you not familiar with sporking, it is a time-honored act of minor teen vandalism performed as follows (look for it soon at wikiHow!):
Step 1: Obtain box of sporks from local Taco Bell. If desired, this can be made easier by Step 0: Befriend a disgruntled Taco Bell employee.
Step 2: Silently approach victim's house in dark of night. It is helpful to approach on foot, leaving loud vehicles down the block.
Step 3: Arrange sporks upright throughout victim's front yard in desired pattern.
And then, two days later, the sign was gone. Awesome. Way to uphold the values upon which our nation was founded by interfering with free speech. Also, way to cost me another $5 and the minor irritation of voyaging to the campaign office for another yard sign. Douchebags. My very creative friend Cari recommended that I buy 20 new yard signs and spork* the whole yard with them, croquet-course style.
Of course, it is possible that the sign was not removed by some vast right-wing conspiracy, but by A) someone over this whole election thing in general (as a swing state, we enjoy a 24-hour blanket of campaigning via all media channels -- it's only a matter of time before low-flying planes begin dropping informative propaganda pamplets WWII-style), B) bored teenagers, or C) bored 30-year-old married ladies -- one of my coworkers told me that she and a friend recently spent an enjoyable evening switching Democratic and Republican candidates' signs throughout their neighborhood.
In a related note, I am highly entertained by the frequency of radio campaign ads focused on stem cell research -- apparently, this was thought to be a HUGE issue for the upcoming election at some point before our entire economy collapsed. Whoops!
*For those of you not familiar with sporking, it is a time-honored act of minor teen vandalism performed as follows (look for it soon at wikiHow!):
Step 1: Obtain box of sporks from local Taco Bell. If desired, this can be made easier by Step 0: Befriend a disgruntled Taco Bell employee.
Step 2: Silently approach victim's house in dark of night. It is helpful to approach on foot, leaving loud vehicles down the block.
Step 3: Arrange sporks upright throughout victim's front yard in desired pattern.
11 October 2008
Problem Solved: Keep Children in Boxes, Feed with IVs
The Telegraph recently reported on a study finding that swimming frequently in chlorinated outdoor pools is associated with development of allergic asthma in children.
Combine this with widespread peanut panic, and I'm pretty sure parents will start casting a favorable eye on the Skinner Air Crib:
It's an idea whose time has come. With asthma and severe allergies myself, I kind of wish I had one. They could stick my laptop and Heroes DVDs in there instead of that little trapeze-toy thing.
P.S. I'm pretty link-happy today. This is what happens when the Fulbright application is finally in.
Combine this with widespread peanut panic, and I'm pretty sure parents will start casting a favorable eye on the Skinner Air Crib:
It's an idea whose time has come. With asthma and severe allergies myself, I kind of wish I had one. They could stick my laptop and Heroes DVDs in there instead of that little trapeze-toy thing.
P.S. I'm pretty link-happy today. This is what happens when the Fulbright application is finally in.
11 August 2008
Uncompelling Mysteries: Olympics Edition
NBC has solved perhaps the least compelling mystery of all!
Q: Why was American Olympic beach volleyball player Kerri Walsh so concerned about her lost wedding ring?!?
A: Thanks to NBC's stomach-churningly high ratio of coverage to actually interesting things to report on, we now know that it was because it was her effing wedding ring. Nice catch, color commentary guy!
Q: Why was American Olympic beach volleyball player Kerri Walsh so concerned about her lost wedding ring?!?
A: Thanks to NBC's stomach-churningly high ratio of coverage to actually interesting things to report on, we now know that it was because it was her effing wedding ring. Nice catch, color commentary guy!
29 June 2008
I am in Need of a Good Taxidermist
Receiving one of those "Yes, we're still maintaining the illusion that your generation will benefit from Social Security" pamphlets in which one learns how much the monthly payout will be if one becomes disabled now, retires at age 67, or holds out until 70 recently prompted my awesome, if dour, boyfriend to comment, "I'll probably be dead by then anyway," after which I asked, dismayed, "Well, what am I supposed to do after that?" His immediate and enthusiastic reply:
"Have me stuffed!"
Later we had a whole discussion of what attitude I should choose to have him preserved in, me favoring a tasteful full-body display in the corner of the living room, possibly in dynamic pose (hilariously disconcerting to the beaus of my widowhood), him favoring a wall-mounted trophy torso with jazz hands (he wins).
Related only in that the boyfriend suspects this guy, like him, is secretly Canadian, I invite you to listen to this specimen of hosebaggery, courtesy of the public service Hot Chicks With Douchebags:
A Picker-Up Who Clearly Does Know What Passive-Aggressive Means
Actually, dude, there IS something wrong with you.
UPDATE: It would seem he is Canadian.
16 June 2008
Uncompelling Mysteries: Solved!
Q: How does the Incredible Hulk keep his pants on?!?
A: Thanks to the good people at Marvel Studios, we now know that Bruce Banner wears outsized pants.
It's worth noting that The Incredible Hulk did satisfy a salient criterion for enjoyable films, in that it is a film in which someone yells, "NOOOO!"
A: Thanks to the good people at Marvel Studios, we now know that Bruce Banner wears outsized pants.It's worth noting that The Incredible Hulk did satisfy a salient criterion for enjoyable films, in that it is a film in which someone yells, "NOOOO!"
Films in Which Someone Yells, "NOOO!"
For some reason, I am infinitely tickled by characters in movies yelling, "NOOO!" at dramatic moments, preferably whilst falling despairingly to their knees and/or shaking their fists at cruel fate. I think it's because someone yelling, "NOOO!" often takes the film from overblown action would-be blockbuster to campy hilarity. In addition, I am pretty sure that no one has reacted this way in earnest to adverse events in the real world ever. Thus, another ongoing blog post, this one cataloguing films in which someone yells, "NOOO!"
UPDATE 17 Jun 2008: I am informed by a reliable source that "NOOO!" is yelled in earnest in response to adverse events in the real world. And she would know, being an international corporate disaster survivor -- although notably NOT a diabolical creature of one's own creation survivor. Or if she is, she keeps it pretty quiet.
Movie: The Incredible Hulk, 2008
"NOOO!" Yelled By: William Hurt as Gen. Ross
Circumstances: Daughter in peril
Movie: Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith, 2005
"NOOO!" Yelled By: Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker
Circumstances: Encased in natty black life support system; believes he killed love of life
Movie: Spiderman 2, 2004
"NOOO!" Yelled By: Alfred Molina as Doc Ock
Circumstances: Technological know-how, hubris cause imprisonment by diabolical creation
UPDATE 17 Jun 2008: I am informed by a reliable source that "NOOO!" is yelled in earnest in response to adverse events in the real world. And she would know, being an international corporate disaster survivor -- although notably NOT a diabolical creature of one's own creation survivor. Or if she is, she keeps it pretty quiet.
Movie: The Incredible Hulk, 2008"NOOO!" Yelled By: William Hurt as Gen. Ross
Circumstances: Daughter in peril
Movie: Star Wars: Episode III - Revenge of the Sith, 2005"NOOO!" Yelled By: Hayden Christensen as Anakin Skywalker
Circumstances: Encased in natty black life support system; believes he killed love of life
Movie: Spiderman 2, 2004"NOOO!" Yelled By: Alfred Molina as Doc Ock
Circumstances: Technological know-how, hubris cause imprisonment by diabolical creation
19 March 2008
Well, Obviously
I came across the following figure in a research paper I recently read, and after reading the accompanying text from beginning to end, I still have little idea what it signifies:
Seriously, researchers: do not generate figures for publication under any of the following conditions:
1. Using a Spirograph
2. Immediately following the faculty Christmas party
3. While aboard a plane encountering turbulence
4. While under the influence of any controlled substance
5. While under the influence of postmodernism
Seriously, researchers: do not generate figures for publication under any of the following conditions:
1. Using a Spirograph
2. Immediately following the faculty Christmas party
3. While aboard a plane encountering turbulence
4. While under the influence of any controlled substance
5. While under the influence of postmodernism
12 February 2008
I Have Solved a Vexing Storage Problem
Excellent.
I've been looking for a place to keep my dangerous diseases upright, so they don't wrinkle.
I've been looking for a place to keep my dangerous diseases upright, so they don't wrinkle.
29 January 2008
The World Sometime
Sorry I haven't posted for awhile. Things always go pear-shaped at the end of the semester (leaving unclear what exactly is my excuse for posting every 2 months all the rest of the year), although this semester was better than most: I got a big thing turned in before my advisor had to yell at me for procrastinating (major breakthrough), and one of my professors revised the final assignment to be like half the work that it was originally. Here's a summary of what you missed to catch you up:
Things that have happened since 23 October 27
Holidays: 4 (including Halloween, which I missed because of combined back spasm/paper due)
Blog Posts: 0
Fellowship Applications Effed by FedEx: 1
Yeeeah. I advise against FedEx, y'all. Short version: ill-informed counter person shipped my application such that it was guaranteed to arrive a week after the due date. The call center employees worked their asses off to try to fix it (I think they were concerned for my mental health, as I burst into indecipherable blubbering as soon as I got on the line with a live person there), but it was already too late, so I ended up spending several weeks and over $100 to ship a box of scrap paper overseas. I hope they at least recycle it.
Hilariously, a hapless lad from some polling company contracted by FedEx to listen to their customers bitch about their service for them called several days after all of this went down for feedback on my recent experience with the FedEx call center. Since my experience with the call center specifically was fine, I gave them high marks until the questions, "How would you rate your overall experience with FedEx?" "Would you recommend FedEx to your friends or family?" and "Do you plan to use FedEx in the future?" to which the responses were 1, no, and emphatically no. Unfortunately, this limits my shipping choices to the postal service and DHL, as UPS has already displeased me.
Things that have happened since 23 October 27
Holidays: 4 (including Halloween, which I missed because of combined back spasm/paper due)
Blog Posts: 0
Fellowship Applications Effed by FedEx: 1
Yeeeah. I advise against FedEx, y'all. Short version: ill-informed counter person shipped my application such that it was guaranteed to arrive a week after the due date. The call center employees worked their asses off to try to fix it (I think they were concerned for my mental health, as I burst into indecipherable blubbering as soon as I got on the line with a live person there), but it was already too late, so I ended up spending several weeks and over $100 to ship a box of scrap paper overseas. I hope they at least recycle it.
Hilariously, a hapless lad from some polling company contracted by FedEx to listen to their customers bitch about their service for them called several days after all of this went down for feedback on my recent experience with the FedEx call center. Since my experience with the call center specifically was fine, I gave them high marks until the questions, "How would you rate your overall experience with FedEx?" "Would you recommend FedEx to your friends or family?" and "Do you plan to use FedEx in the future?" to which the responses were 1, no, and emphatically no. Unfortunately, this limits my shipping choices to the postal service and DHL, as UPS has already displeased me.
23 October 2007
The New American Triage System is Sponsored by Sports Drinks
You may recall from this post that I enjoy the heightened beaureaucracy that has come with ASU President Michael Crow's efforts to create the "New American University", that is, reimagining higher education along the lines of business and pimping out the student body to any major corporation that presents itself at his door with a moderately-sized bucket of cash. But that's another post entirely.
I was struck with a mystery virus recently (it wasn't the flu, because I gleefully accept any vaccine any medical-type person offers me, and so took the allergy nurse up on her offer to flu-shot me the week they received it) and decided to consult the University physicians, not so much because I thought they'd be able to do anything to help me, but because I became dizzy on the way to my car to go to campus (note: campus is only four blocks away, so the mere fact that I needed my car to get there was a bad sign) and so figured that a note excusing my absence from class later that afternoon would be pretty useful.
As it turned out, the entire campus must have had the same thing, because there were semi-conscious coeds slumped all over the sign-in lobby when I arrived, causing me to wonder briefly if I'd accidentally walked in on closing time at a Mill Avenue bar. But that was nothing compared to the waiting room for urgent care, which strongly resembled the Atlanta train depot in Gone With the Wind, with etiolated students slumped in every available chair and spilling out into the lab waiting area across the hall. As it turned out, my self-diagnosis of a virus was right, I got some prescription strength Sudafed (whee!) and a note excusing me from class, and sloped off, only to return for muscle relaxant and painkiller (WHEE!) two days later when all my couch-lying caused a back spasm. Awesome.
But at the time, I proceeded to wait for two hours to be seen, during which I passed the time by frantically e-mailing my professor to alert her to the situation, reading informational pamphlets ("there's little to be accomplished by going to the doctor if you have a cold or the flu": a. no kidding; b. except for a note saying I can go home and lie in bed instead of saying smart things about French History) and sipping a free bottle of Powerade, a basket of which some be-scrubsed and white-tennis-shoed angel had brought through the waiting area, presumably to keep us all from expiring on the spot. Did you know Powerade contains coconut oil? I didn't. Also: the official Powerade web site is an inspiring example of how to maximize content while minimizing information provided. Come to think of it, why does an energy drink have such an involved web site? Is there a Powerade community out there of which I, as an avid non-consumer of sports and soft drinks, am completely unaware? Weird.
I was struck with a mystery virus recently (it wasn't the flu, because I gleefully accept any vaccine any medical-type person offers me, and so took the allergy nurse up on her offer to flu-shot me the week they received it) and decided to consult the University physicians, not so much because I thought they'd be able to do anything to help me, but because I became dizzy on the way to my car to go to campus (note: campus is only four blocks away, so the mere fact that I needed my car to get there was a bad sign) and so figured that a note excusing my absence from class later that afternoon would be pretty useful.
As it turned out, the entire campus must have had the same thing, because there were semi-conscious coeds slumped all over the sign-in lobby when I arrived, causing me to wonder briefly if I'd accidentally walked in on closing time at a Mill Avenue bar. But that was nothing compared to the waiting room for urgent care, which strongly resembled the Atlanta train depot in Gone With the Wind, with etiolated students slumped in every available chair and spilling out into the lab waiting area across the hall. As it turned out, my self-diagnosis of a virus was right, I got some prescription strength Sudafed (whee!) and a note excusing me from class, and sloped off, only to return for muscle relaxant and painkiller (WHEE!) two days later when all my couch-lying caused a back spasm. Awesome.
But at the time, I proceeded to wait for two hours to be seen, during which I passed the time by frantically e-mailing my professor to alert her to the situation, reading informational pamphlets ("there's little to be accomplished by going to the doctor if you have a cold or the flu": a. no kidding; b. except for a note saying I can go home and lie in bed instead of saying smart things about French History) and sipping a free bottle of Powerade, a basket of which some be-scrubsed and white-tennis-shoed angel had brought through the waiting area, presumably to keep us all from expiring on the spot. Did you know Powerade contains coconut oil? I didn't. Also: the official Powerade web site is an inspiring example of how to maximize content while minimizing information provided. Come to think of it, why does an energy drink have such an involved web site? Is there a Powerade community out there of which I, as an avid non-consumer of sports and soft drinks, am completely unaware? Weird.
04 September 2007
I Enjoy Depending on Others
It's amazing how fast one's (or my, not to generalize) ability to do things or solve problems oneself deteriorates when other people are around to do the doing/solving for you.
This phenomenon had been limited to my visits to family, where I become accustomed to eating healthy and gourmet meals to which my contributions are 1. setting the table, and 2. sitting on a spinny stool at the kitchen island drinking margaritas, so that I go through a readjustment period when I get back to my apartment of sullen and half-assed meal-planning and grocery shopping (i.e., buying three different varieties of turkey cold cuts and no bread, necessitating "chef's salad" lunches that involve a lot of chopping and remembering to pack or scavenging for a fork). Or, visiting my brother and his partner, being fed an excellent dinner, then dropped off at and picked up after a rock show, or having an awesomely intellectual Spring Break Miami at foreign films and art installations, none of which I had to find out about on my own and during which (the Spring Break, not the art installations) they insist on my taking the only bed. Or, in the case of my sister and brother-in-law, going camping, where "going camping" translates roughly into "pointing at various items in the garage while they're efficiently loading the car and asking, 'Do we need this?', then being bundled in outdoor gear and driven to the campsite, where I fiddle around with the box that food stays in and bears can't open while they (my sister and her husband, not the bears) set up the tent. Before you read further, I urge you to note from that last link that BearSaver.com is "Your first choice in quality Bear-Resistant Commercial Containers & Bear-Resistant Dumpsters." And whimsical capitalization, it would seem.
Back to the issue at hand, however: now, my simple problem-solving skills are declining to an alarming and possibly irrecoverable degree, for which I blame my fabulous friend Shamsi and my excellent boyfriend.
Shamsi and I travel together to a conference every year (you may recall that I contracted Legionnaires' disease or similar there in 2006), and at the most recent, she solved my problems so seamlessly that I almost didn't have time to moan about them before they were fixed. I whined about my shoes hurting and being too hungry and sleepy to walk back to the hotel and change them; she handed me some turkey jerky to gnaw on, then presented me with the choice of A. sitting on the conference patio, after which I would still be sleepy until the afternoon coffee break and my feet would still hurt, or B. taking a pleasant 10-minute walk that will take us to both a cafe and the hotel. She even anticipated my next complaint by suggesting I put my fancy shoes in the free conference bag for carrying. She also let me pretend her very cute purse was mine all week, because I perennially forget to shop for a moderately-sized, professional-looking bag to bring to conferences (but since then I've bought one).
My excellent boyfriend, in addition to making unflattering finger-puppets of people I dislike, showering me with toy otters and gummy candy, and proving a successful convert to both Rome and Veronica Mars, has conversations with me that go something like this:
Him: Can I get you anything?
Me: No, I'm fine.
Him: Are you sure? I'm getting up anyway. Do you want another beer?
Me: No, thanks.
Him: Did you get some stuff to eat?
Me: I had some of the snacks -- I'm waiting for the burgers to be ready.
Him: Do you want some water?
Me: Ooh, yes, actually!
But because of treatment like this, I once got my hands sticky after negotiating a breakfast buffet line and was ruefully preoccupied with it for a full ten minutes before noticing that spare napkins, which could be dipped in water and used to remove the syrup without even looking for the bathroom, were available slightly beyond and to the right of my plate. I only noticed the napkin dispenser was at the table when I mentioned the problem and he cast about briefly for a solution before pulling out a napkin and handing it to me.
It's questionable whether they do this because they're super-nice, caring people, or because it's super annoying to listen to me cursing the darkness. Either way, it's pretty awesome.
This phenomenon had been limited to my visits to family, where I become accustomed to eating healthy and gourmet meals to which my contributions are 1. setting the table, and 2. sitting on a spinny stool at the kitchen island drinking margaritas, so that I go through a readjustment period when I get back to my apartment of sullen and half-assed meal-planning and grocery shopping (i.e., buying three different varieties of turkey cold cuts and no bread, necessitating "chef's salad" lunches that involve a lot of chopping and remembering to pack or scavenging for a fork). Or, visiting my brother and his partner, being fed an excellent dinner, then dropped off at and picked up after a rock show, or having an awesomely intellectual Spring Break Miami at foreign films and art installations, none of which I had to find out about on my own and during which (the Spring Break, not the art installations) they insist on my taking the only bed. Or, in the case of my sister and brother-in-law, going camping, where "going camping" translates roughly into "pointing at various items in the garage while they're efficiently loading the car and asking, 'Do we need this?', then being bundled in outdoor gear and driven to the campsite, where I fiddle around with the box that food stays in and bears can't open while they (my sister and her husband, not the bears) set up the tent. Before you read further, I urge you to note from that last link that BearSaver.com is "Your first choice in quality Bear-Resistant Commercial Containers & Bear-Resistant Dumpsters." And whimsical capitalization, it would seem.
Back to the issue at hand, however: now, my simple problem-solving skills are declining to an alarming and possibly irrecoverable degree, for which I blame my fabulous friend Shamsi and my excellent boyfriend.
Shamsi and I travel together to a conference every year (you may recall that I contracted Legionnaires' disease or similar there in 2006), and at the most recent, she solved my problems so seamlessly that I almost didn't have time to moan about them before they were fixed. I whined about my shoes hurting and being too hungry and sleepy to walk back to the hotel and change them; she handed me some turkey jerky to gnaw on, then presented me with the choice of A. sitting on the conference patio, after which I would still be sleepy until the afternoon coffee break and my feet would still hurt, or B. taking a pleasant 10-minute walk that will take us to both a cafe and the hotel. She even anticipated my next complaint by suggesting I put my fancy shoes in the free conference bag for carrying. She also let me pretend her very cute purse was mine all week, because I perennially forget to shop for a moderately-sized, professional-looking bag to bring to conferences (but since then I've bought one).
My excellent boyfriend, in addition to making unflattering finger-puppets of people I dislike, showering me with toy otters and gummy candy, and proving a successful convert to both Rome and Veronica Mars, has conversations with me that go something like this:
Him: Can I get you anything?
Me: No, I'm fine.
Him: Are you sure? I'm getting up anyway. Do you want another beer?
Me: No, thanks.
Him: Did you get some stuff to eat?
Me: I had some of the snacks -- I'm waiting for the burgers to be ready.
Him: Do you want some water?
Me: Ooh, yes, actually!
But because of treatment like this, I once got my hands sticky after negotiating a breakfast buffet line and was ruefully preoccupied with it for a full ten minutes before noticing that spare napkins, which could be dipped in water and used to remove the syrup without even looking for the bathroom, were available slightly beyond and to the right of my plate. I only noticed the napkin dispenser was at the table when I mentioned the problem and he cast about briefly for a solution before pulling out a napkin and handing it to me.
It's questionable whether they do this because they're super-nice, caring people, or because it's super annoying to listen to me cursing the darkness. Either way, it's pretty awesome.
22 July 2007
The Data is In
Did you know that it is acceptable to use "data" as either plural or singular?
As I understand it, as a singular, it functions as a collective noun, the same way you would say, "The herd is...." This is explicit at dictionary.com, and implicit at Oxford English Dictionary Online (which you may not be able to access without a subscription), where multiple usage examples treat "data" as singular.
This is highly gratifying, as I often encounter smarter-than-thou types who feel compelled to interrupt presentations or discussions by shouting corrections when someone uses "data" as singular. When you assume, you may make an ass out of you and me, but when you hypercorrect, you just make an ass out of you.
As I understand it, as a singular, it functions as a collective noun, the same way you would say, "The herd is...." This is explicit at dictionary.com, and implicit at Oxford English Dictionary Online (which you may not be able to access without a subscription), where multiple usage examples treat "data" as singular.
This is highly gratifying, as I often encounter smarter-than-thou types who feel compelled to interrupt presentations or discussions by shouting corrections when someone uses "data" as singular. When you assume, you may make an ass out of you and me, but when you hypercorrect, you just make an ass out of you.
05 July 2007
I am Breaking Up With Target
Dear Target,
We've had some good times -- remember the cute china I got from you a couple of years ago? And the mirror with the little birds painted on it that was awesome for my kitchen and I was so sad when I dropped and broke it (partly because reconstruction revealed that there was a piece of glass approximately one inch square lurking somewhere on my kitchen floor, but also because it looked so nice with my thrift-shop paintings of fruit) that I biked to the store (not you -- one that's closer) especially for superglue to repair it? And that time you had patio furniture at such a good price that I bought it right away and carried it home on the bus?
But the thing is, those were a long time ago now. Now, I can't even get the what I need from you; just today, I came looking for some simple things, and what happened?
What I Needed (and Why)
*Eucerin anti-redness night cream (allergic freak; pathological aversion to color in complexion)
*Dove eye cream (aging; prodigious eye-bags)
*Anti-allergy mattress pad, size full (allergic freak; thin spots in old mattress pad cause unseemly resemblance to linens in skid row boarding house)
*Clothes drying rack (global warming; also, landlord jacked up price on dryer)
*Microwave egg poacher (hankering for poached eggs; lack patience and motor skills to poach in pan of water first thing in the morning)
*Washcloths (old ones all mascara-stained)
*Silver polishing cloth (heartbreak of tarnish)
*Tapers (impulse-bought orange and yellow glass candlesticks last week)
What I Found
*Anti-allergy mattress pad in all sizes except full
*Twee, Michael Graves-designed clothes drying rack that holds no more clothing than my current system (laying out items on old beach towel behind the couch), which you would not part with for less than $20; weighty metal variation on collapsible wood-dowel drying rack, also $20
*Empty space on shelf teasingly bearing tag, "Micro Double Cavity Egg Poacher $3.99"
*Washcloths (10 for $2.99), admittedly acceptable but left behind in snit
Some of this, I know now, was not your fault, Target -- Dove has apparently discontinued my eye cream (in a panic, I chose a Neutrogena substitute at CVS that contains AHAs, which the label tells me increase sun sensitivity: am thrilled at the prospect of sunburned/eventually malignant eyelids) and you surely had tapers -- but really, this has happened the last several times I've come to see you. You've changed.
You used to be all about fulfilling my list of random crap I needed without going to the grocery, drugstore, and mall, plus delighting me with random crap I didn't need priced just low enough that I didn't have to choose between a toss pillow and dinner. Now you're all about hypnotic, mod commercials and ill-fitting $40 dresses. But the thing is, if I wanted to spend $40 on a dress, I could get a well-fitting one off the sale rack at any given ladies' clothing store. I don't need you for that.
I've had it with you, Target. I guess I'll see you around, but don't call me anymore, OK?
We've had some good times -- remember the cute china I got from you a couple of years ago? And the mirror with the little birds painted on it that was awesome for my kitchen and I was so sad when I dropped and broke it (partly because reconstruction revealed that there was a piece of glass approximately one inch square lurking somewhere on my kitchen floor, but also because it looked so nice with my thrift-shop paintings of fruit) that I biked to the store (not you -- one that's closer) especially for superglue to repair it? And that time you had patio furniture at such a good price that I bought it right away and carried it home on the bus?
But the thing is, those were a long time ago now. Now, I can't even get the what I need from you; just today, I came looking for some simple things, and what happened?
What I Needed (and Why)
*Eucerin anti-redness night cream (allergic freak; pathological aversion to color in complexion)
*Dove eye cream (aging; prodigious eye-bags)
*Anti-allergy mattress pad, size full (allergic freak; thin spots in old mattress pad cause unseemly resemblance to linens in skid row boarding house)
*Clothes drying rack (global warming; also, landlord jacked up price on dryer)
*Microwave egg poacher (hankering for poached eggs; lack patience and motor skills to poach in pan of water first thing in the morning)
*Washcloths (old ones all mascara-stained)
*Silver polishing cloth (heartbreak of tarnish)
*Tapers (impulse-bought orange and yellow glass candlesticks last week)
What I Found
*Anti-allergy mattress pad in all sizes except full
*Twee, Michael Graves-designed clothes drying rack that holds no more clothing than my current system (laying out items on old beach towel behind the couch), which you would not part with for less than $20; weighty metal variation on collapsible wood-dowel drying rack, also $20
*Empty space on shelf teasingly bearing tag, "Micro Double Cavity Egg Poacher $3.99"
*Washcloths (10 for $2.99), admittedly acceptable but left behind in snit
Some of this, I know now, was not your fault, Target -- Dove has apparently discontinued my eye cream (in a panic, I chose a Neutrogena substitute at CVS that contains AHAs, which the label tells me increase sun sensitivity: am thrilled at the prospect of sunburned/eventually malignant eyelids) and you surely had tapers -- but really, this has happened the last several times I've come to see you. You've changed.
You used to be all about fulfilling my list of random crap I needed without going to the grocery, drugstore, and mall, plus delighting me with random crap I didn't need priced just low enough that I didn't have to choose between a toss pillow and dinner. Now you're all about hypnotic, mod commercials and ill-fitting $40 dresses. But the thing is, if I wanted to spend $40 on a dress, I could get a well-fitting one off the sale rack at any given ladies' clothing store. I don't need you for that.
I've had it with you, Target. I guess I'll see you around, but don't call me anymore, OK?
18 March 2007
I'm Not Giving You Any More Coconuts
So, my friend Cari came up with quite a brilliant metaphor or simile today about relating to difficult people, which I thought I would share with all of you:
These relationships are like the relationships of fictional native Polynesians with their volcanoes: You can offer all the pineapples and virgins you want, but it's still going to go off when it wants to. You can't say, "Dang, next time I won't burn so much taro," or "I really made the wrong call; I'd better bring an extra virgin next week." Similarly, when the volcano is dormant, you might be tempted to think, "Hey, those coconuts we threw in last week are really doing the trick -- we must be doing something right!" But really, it's just timing.
Cari is a genius. I totally need to start treating my volcanoes as natural phenomena, not mysterious supernatural entities. Although I do think they kind of like all the pineapples and burnt offerings. Even if they do wreaking havoc on the carpet.
These relationships are like the relationships of fictional native Polynesians with their volcanoes: You can offer all the pineapples and virgins you want, but it's still going to go off when it wants to. You can't say, "Dang, next time I won't burn so much taro," or "I really made the wrong call; I'd better bring an extra virgin next week." Similarly, when the volcano is dormant, you might be tempted to think, "Hey, those coconuts we threw in last week are really doing the trick -- we must be doing something right!" But really, it's just timing.
Cari is a genius. I totally need to start treating my volcanoes as natural phenomena, not mysterious supernatural entities. Although I do think they kind of like all the pineapples and burnt offerings. Even if they do wreaking havoc on the carpet.
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