Wednesday, March 31, 2010

If the skirt fits

Text conversation with R. in the middle of the day today:

R:  During passing period, I asked Ms X [student teacher] if she was wearing a skirt or a kilt, and she took 5 points off my participation grade.

Me:  Oh, R.  Next time, could you just assume it's a skirt?  [I say this because I know how important it is to him that we use language precisely.   He's not just being a smart ass, language really does matter to him.]

R:  Easier said than done, Mom.  The item is plaid.

Tuesday, March 30, 2010

The Office

If you're new to this story, it might make more sense if you read these first:
Something fishy 
Work work work work work
If I were any happier, I'd need medication
Weird out

Yesterday, I decided to pretend I work in a Toyota factory, where we’re all about teamwork, and if I have a problem, I go directly to management, who fixes things right away.

I was trying to print stuff out in color because it was a bunch of maps that really need color to be useful. As usual, the computer took 10 minutes to send the stuff, and then 15 minutes after that, I started getting the vague error message, “Failed to print”, but it pops up 15 times, because that’s how many things I’d sent, interrupting everything else I was trying to do. So I walk over to the printer, and notice it’s turned off. I move to turn it on, and someone stops me, oh no. Don’t touch that.

But it’s the only color printer in the building.

Yep.

I go to my boss in the Toyota factory. “S., production has stopped. We need a color printer, right away.”

“Betsy, I’m going to forward you an e-mail from Mr. Tree Planter. Could you draft a response for me please?”

“I think I got that e-mail already.”

“No, it’s only to me.”

“I was bcc’d.”

“Really? That’s weird. Are you sure it’s the same one?”

“I think so. The one where he mis-spelled “potpourri?”

“Out of that whole 3,000 word disturbing diatribe, what you take from it is that one misspelling?

“S., come on. 'Popery?' Who would do that? This is the guy who’s calling me average, I’d like to point out.”

“I see your point.”

My other point is one that you might be wondering about: why does the word potpourri even come up in an e-mail that’s about the restraining order he’s gotten on his neighbor, and the fact that County staff aren’t qualified medical professionals but suspect mental illness, and the disturbing red string that’s been tied around some of the trees, and so on. Yes, exactly.

The word “speedo” also comes up in this story, because the woman who the restraining order was about (would she be the “restrainee?”) came in to see me last week bringing dozens of 8 x 10 glossy photographs of All Things Nature, including a hawks soaring, salmon swimming, and her neighbor in a speedo and boots holding a canister of what one would assume is some sort of herbicide. Let me just say for once and for all, no one wants to see anyone in a speedo.

"How about that printer, S.?"

He laughs. "Yeah, I'll get right on that."

Anyway, leaving shortly to meet those people again today. I do hope there are no speedos involved.

Monday, March 29, 2010

Dog party

A friend was mildly complaining about, or maybe a more accurate word would be commenting on, a birthday party that her pre-school children were invited to, and seeking ways to get out of it that wouldn't hurt anyone's feelings.  This, because the mother of the birthday girl is friends with the owner of a pet cemetery, and the party will be held at the cemetery.  But that's not all.  There's also a dog therapy pool; party guests are asked to bring their own dogs, and the children and pets will all swim together in the dog therapy pool.

I can totally understand why the prospect of plopping her not-strong-swimmer 3 and 5 year-old children into a pool with large dogs, urine of all varieties, dog hair, and whatever else, isn't her favorite idea.

"But think of the blog," I pleaded. 

After a tiny bit of discussion, she finagled an invitation for me, and told the hostess we would drop by briefly, pay respects to the dead and living animals and the birthday girl, and maybe make a donation to the cemetery foundation.  I don't think we'll be swimming, but still, I can hardly wait.

Sunday, March 28, 2010

Waterboarding before burger

There's an article in the NYT this morning about slaughterhouses, which I find interesting because we're trying to permit one right now, and it's complicated.  Government is good at dealing with routine stuff,  but if you propose something unique, like a bed and breakfast where the sleeping will occur in a series of treehouses, or a mobile slaughter house, where a truck will drive around and kill animals at their own pasture, government stumbles, because it takes a while to figure out what the impacts and safety issues are, and how these one-off things fit under the regulations.

The article is about how the demand for local meat has increased, but the shortage of slaughterhouses makes it difficult to meet.  (Aren't you glad I stopped myself from saying, 'difficult to meat?  I know.)  What struck me is this sentence about the situation in Vermont:  "Two slaughterhouses recently closed, one destroyed by fire, and the other shuttered because of animal cruelty charges."

Um, a slaughterhouse being cruel to animals?  What could they possibly be doing to deserve that?  At first it seems ridiculous, like, hello, their point is to kill the animals.  So I did a little research, and it turns out that there are some really warped, cruel people out there who enjoy torturing the animals before killing them.  That is really, really sad.

Saturday, March 27, 2010

Art Show

Some art from the W'ville art show.

Fish, by the lovely S.U.,













and yoyo art by my own little R. who isn't so little.

The animals, bald eagle and some sort of feline were created by preschoolers that I don't know, and I just really liked them.

Friday, March 26, 2010

guns and roses

I try to do my job and not think too much about all of the material it generates, but there are points during the day when I want to just ask if its okay if I take some notes, or use a tape recorder so I get it right.  Because the truth is stranger, and sometimes a little bit sadder than fiction.

I visited side-arm man the other day, the guy whose parcel has a pop-up attached to it, “Do not visit without police escort!” because he’s threatened to shoot County staff who come onto his property.  We didn’t bring the police, but there were three of us, a goofy engineer, an oddball grading reviewer, and me. 

The man seemed like one of the sadder, lonelier examples of the species.  Maybe a hard-living 65, or a more typical 75, hard to tell for sure.  His problem, well, one of his problems, is that he brought many truckloads of fill and several shipping containers onto his property; it’s all in the floodplain and the stream buffer. Floodplain stuff is always the hardest, because people often have a legitimate fear/need, and dealing with it the way they want to usually isn’t allowed.  But there’s certain flexibility for farmers, since valleys are the best place to farm.

“So, what kind of farming are you doing here?”

“We run a five day thing here.  It used to be that when I’d get home from work at the shipyard, my wife would be out on the tractor, cutting the lawn, and she’d give me a big smile and wave, and keep at it.  I’d know what she’d been doing all day.  She died, though.”

“So, would you describe your farming as cutting hay?”  I was hoping there was something we could say yes to, because it always goes better that way.

“Yeah, this place looks just like a golf course the way we keep it up.  Friends come by and say, ‘Wow, this place looks like a golf course.’"

I looked around and thought, yes, it looks exactly like a golf course, if someone had stopped mowing it about three years ago, and mountain beavers had moved in and created hummocks everywhere, and rather than Kentucky bluegrass, it was quack grass and orchard grass, and blackberries had started to sprout, and a flood came through delivering out all kinds of garbage, random pieces of metal, stray boards, and semi-useful items like a mildewed dog kennel.  That’s the kind of golf course it looked like. 

“So, do you do any farming?”

“I’ve got this waffle table for welding.  Can I show that to you?  I really like it when women come out here.  It’s good to have a woman around.  My wife died three years ago, and I don’t see many women since then.”

We walk over to a pile of what I might have called junk, and he rummaged through it for a minute, kicked some dirt away with his redwing boot, and exposed a section of a steel board that was stamped out like a large waffle iron.

“Yup, I’m gonna’ get this set up for welding pretty soon.  I just need to see if my engines still work since the flood, and I haven’t had a chance yet.”

I think back to the flood that was almost a year and a half ago, and realize he’s not in a big hurry to check on those engines.  I start spacing out for a minute, and think back to the conversation I had with my boss before I left when he called me into his office. 

“Are you okay, Betsy?”

“Sure, I’m solid.”

“Okay, I’m just checking, because you’ve gotten more than your share of angry people lately.  And now with B. talking about the tea party all day, and leaving tea bags on your desk and everything.  Are you good to go see that guy today?”

This is why we like our boss so much.  He’s decent to the core.  I started to wonder if I told him about my little melt down at the DMV, (which isn’t the kind you’d think).  I had to go back about six times to get R’s car title transferred, because I didn’t have the proper signatures from the seller, who I had to hunt down through his suspicious sister, and I didn’t have the right amount of cash, and I didn’t have the odometer reading, and so on.  So I spent a bunch of time there, and kept getting the same employee, who was totally professional and kind to everyone all day. 

When I finally completed my transaction, I told her I thought she was really good at her job, but for some reason, I sort of started crying just a tiny, tiny bit when I said it, causing her to look at me with a mix of concern, fear, and gratefulness.  I think she was happy to be appreciated, but a bit freaked out at the same time, like, nice, but where are we going with this, which seems like a normal response, don’t you think? Which is exactly my point about her.

It was just that she was just really courteous and trying her best to be a kind human interface between the frustrated people and the giant bureaucracy, and I could relate to that, so for a second I felt a little kindredness, and was touched by it all.  

"Yeah, totally good.  Thanks for asking.”

“You know, don’t let B. get you down.  He’s just messing with you.  You’re right to remain hopeful.”

At this point, B. walks in.  “What’s going on?”

“B, sit down for a minute.  I was just telling Betsy that there is hope, and it’s worthwhile to behave as if things can get better, and to work toward that.”

“Um, right.  I don’t really see that, but whatever.  We’re all just out for ourselves, when it comes down to it.  We’re a greedy, self-serving species.”

B. and I replay a tired old argument about altruism that we’ve had over and over for years, and the boss interjects. “I have great hope for the green revolution, and we can place a lot of hope in technology.”

B. comments, “Yeah, it does make porn easier to access, I’ll give you that.”

The boss looks super uncomfortable, and B. elaborates.  “Betsy, remember about my uncle?"

And I do remember, his uncle died alone in a mobile home in Roswell, NM, one of  those people who probably thought way too much about alien corpses, and then was dead for days before anyone noticed.  When B. went down to take care of stuff, he found the mobile home littered with porn, and made the comment, “Dialup was really his only problem.  If he had a high-speed connection, his life would have been golden.  Not to mention that cleanup woulda’ been easier.”

I return to the present, and notice that the men are all talking about the winch that is laying amidst all of the other stuff on the pile of unconsolidated fill.  The engineer is in the middle of a long story about winches, how he bought three and gave one to his nephew, blah di blah blah, and I think again how really, I don’t know what people are talking about half the time, and that seems a little sad.  They’re talking about a winch, and I know what that is, but I don’t see anything in the debris that looks like a winch, and the way they’re talking, it seems like there’s more to it than I understand.  I’m picturing sort of a thing with a crank on it that you’d attach to a truck, but it seems different than that.

“Betsy, we think you need a MacDonald 225.  You could crank that thing all the way up and it would take you four days to go a mile, but you could be dragging a 747 behind you.”

I’m really not sure what’s going on, or what a MacDonald 225 is, so I do that, “let’s summarize” thing that government people get good at.

“It sounds like what you’re interested in is putting a large berm around your property to protect it from flood waters, and fill some other areas to store some of this….” I pause, looking for the right word.

The grading guy pipes in, “One man’s junk is another man’s treasure.”

And sidearm guy is quick to say, “Hey, nothing here is junk.  Let’s get that straight.  You know, I’m a Harley guy, and maybe it’s because I ride a Harley, or maybe it’s how I look, but I have a cylindar that I attached to my bike that I carry one rose in, for my wife.  She died, you know, and it’s a bear.  But people see me and assume that it’s a holster for a gun.  I could use it for that.  Did you know I pack my own lead shot?  It’s really nice to have a woman come out here.  That doesn’t happen very often.  I need a place to park my wife's car during a flood.  I don't know what else to do with it.  Will you be coming back?”

“Could we go back to your farming plans?  Do you do anything here that could be considered farming?”

“You know, my wife and I found this place, we both grew up in abuse and ugliness, me in the projects in Oakland, and her in Denver.  And we found this place, and we love it here.  We’ve had dogs, and one time we had a pig….”

He goes on for a while, talking about animals he’s had and known, and heartbreakingly, talking about his wife in the present tense.  We finally wrap it up, and start to get in our three separate vehicles (I know!), when he notices that the enginer has a fancy jeep with a flood light. 

“Oh, how do you turn that on?”

“It’s got a remote.”

“Hey, I’m a taxpayer.  So that’s my jeep!  Can I turn on the light?”

The engineer hands him a remote, and the boys play with it for a while, making it shine in different directions, and being super thrilled about it, which I have trouble understanding, but find kind of sweet just the same. 

And on it goes.  Thanks for reading.

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

Worry, me?

Going to visit this guy today.  "He probably won't bring the sidearm out with you," is what I am thinking about this morning.

Tuesday, March 23, 2010

weird out

I walk in the door after work yesterday to the usual, “what’s for dinner?”

“It’s your night to cook, R.”

“Oh, I HATE that!  And the question stands, what’s for dinner?”

“What do you want to make?”

“I dunno.”

“How about taco salad?”

“Sounds good.  Do we have the stuff for it?”

“Um, no.”

“Mom, are we gonna go through all of these imaginary choices and end up at burritos?  Because we could just skip to that part.”

“Ok, let’s.” 

“Are you sure you don’t want to cook tonight?  This seems complicated.”

“Yep, I’m sure.”

"How was your day?"

"The yooj.  Angry crazy people all day.  Yelling."

"And?"

"Everyone just seems particularly crazy.  The guy who planted the trees is getting a restraining order on his neighbor because she was in the stream, shoveling it out trying to get more water go on her side of the island."

“Is that allowed?”

“And he has 8 webcams that were formerly trained on the entrances to his enormous house aimed towards the stream now.”

“Why all the cameras?”

“Lots of expensive art. And because when he came home the other day, he snuck around the bushes and caught her on his side of the stream with his iPhone.  Now he has 36 hours of motion activated camera time ready for her.”

“What did he want?"

"To see if I was going to do anything about this red string that the neighbor has intertwined around the trees he planted on the island.  And the bird houses."

“Oh. “

“When he called, among other things, he said, “I’ve spent so much money on this, which is not a problem for a guy like me.  But if I were just an average person, like you, I would be furious.”

“Yeah.  He has no idea you have a stash of $20’s under the mattress.  How do I heat beans?”

“Either put them in a saucepan on the stove, or put them in a bowl in the microwave.  Oh, and B. joined the Tea Party movement and I had to hear about that all day.”

“Tell me straight, Mom, when I choose microwave, do you secretly think, sheesh, this kid won’t even be able to live on canned food without help, or do you think it’s kind of resourceful?”

“Resourceful.”

We sit down to eat and I start reading the Social Q’s column aloud from the Sunday NYT.  We gave up on the Ethicist a while back because it just got too tedious.

“To thank me for helping them, my neighbors invite me for Sunday brunch.  While we were dining, the waiter placed two dozen oysters on the table.  My hosts told me they were just for the hostess, and I couldn’t have any.  I was dumfounded!  I excused myself to the bathroom, and left the restaurant.  Later, I sent them a message saying I had no intention of seeing them again.  The hostess replied that the invitation was for the base brunch only.  Was I wrong?”
“Seriously, Mom?  Are you making that up?  Someone who reads the New York Times wasn’t sure if that was proper etiquette?”  He says this as he swigs some orange juice directly from the carton.

“Not making it up.”

“Uh, I do that all the time.  Go eat at a fancy restaurant on the neighbor’s dime and when they won’t share the oysters, forget it, I just climb out the bathroom window. I usually follow up with an e-mail to say I never want to see them again.”

It just seems really weird out lately.

Monday, March 22, 2010

Congratulations, House

I liked it best when Obama said, "We are not bound to succeed, but we are bound to let whatever light we have shine."
Yeah, what he said. 

Sunday, March 21, 2010

I am not just making this stuff up.

Aries (3/21 – 4/19): Grief is like that.  At first, the earthquake flattens you, and you think you’ll never stand up again.  But you do, and you think, hey, not so bad, I can do this.  But the first aftershock comes and you can’t imagine carrying on, you want to curl up in the fetal position. But you don’t.  And then the tsunami hits you, and you just start to feel pissed off.  But over time, the distance between the giant waves of pain increases, and the amplitude of the waves get a little bit smaller, and amazingly, you learn how to swim through it all, even when the waves come.   You look around and realize, oh my god, everyone out here is dealing with their own pile of suffering, and we’re all bobbing around out here together, and you feel this incredible tenderness for your fellow people.  Keep that, and carry it with you wherever you go.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20)
: Isn't it annoying when you're always taking the high road, and it seems like the low-roaders are having more fun and no one seems to notice or care that you're being especially decent and mature?   Not true. They aren't having more fun, and we all notice, and know that the world is way better with you in it.  The air is fresher and cleaner where you are anyway. 

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  You know that guy, there’s one in every workplace, who writes to the Pope periodically because he’s noticed that there are no snakes in his yard, and believes that he should not only be a saint, but should have a drunken holiday in his honor?  Thankfully, you’re nothing like that person.   Speaking of the pope, don’t forget to make those Easter baskets!

Cancer 6/22 – 7/21: Does it feel like the stars aren’t shining on you right now, and you’re just left with the moon, the waxing crescent?  Yup, true enough.  But you’ll find a star, and it will seem even brighter than you remember.  Enjoy the little vacation.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  You know when you go to the movies by yourself on a Saturday night, and get a large popcorn, junior mints and a drink, and hope to slip in quietly, but there’s a tiny line at the door to the theater, and the beautiful people are all, ‘wow, you’ve got a lot of stuff there, can I get the door for you?’  Yeah, I hate that too.  But at least you didn’t have to put the drink down to open the door and do that awkward thing of using your hip to hold it while you bend down to get the drink.  That, and no one was reaching their grubby paws into your popcorn.  It’s all in how you look at it.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  Last week I suggested that you leap before you look, but I want to clarify, not like Felix Baumgartner.   I hate to be so judgmental, but I think that’s wrong, don’t you, to jump from 23 miles above earth, free-fall for 5.5 minutes, and reach a speed of 690 mph?  Breaking the sound barrier in just pants and a shirt?  For inexplicable reasons, I’m very opposed to it, and not for the reasons you'd think (because Felix calls his motorcycle “his old lady”).  I just don’t think loose humans should travel at that speed.  Call me old-fashioned if you must.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22): Your heart is so pure, but your body is so sore.  Maybe 3 hours of vinyasa in one day is a bit much.  Don’t do that this week.  No one thinks its freaky, btw, that you must do one Sudoku, one cryptogram, one crossword, and one jumble every day.  We think it’s charming, and no one thinks you have any form of OCD.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21): My sweet little Scorpio, hang on, it’s almost over.  The path ahead is hard to see, it’s overgrown, but that’s a good thing, right?  Come by for some nettles, they’re perfect right now.  (That wasn't a metaphor, btw, it was an invitation.)

Saggitarius (11/22 – 12/21):  Do you think Schrodinger’s cat is actually a zombie?  Dead and undead at the same time?  I know, you’re thinking, I am not interested in Schrodinger, I don’t even know who you’re talking about, just make me a sandwich.  It’s gonna be a good week for you, now that the ITSB or whatever they call that new standardized test that sounds like something communicable is over.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19): Work work work work work.  That’s all there is this week, but it will be suprisingly rewarding.  Just relax a little, don’t get too worried about the annoying people in your workplace.  Remember, they’re doing the best they can considering they have broken glass in their shoes.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18): Wow, it’s gonna be a weird week.  That comment, “if I were any happier, I’d need medication”, yes, you will find yourself saying it for real this time.  Finally, after all that slogging.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20): That other amazing Pisces, Stuart Udall, died over the weekend.  Moment of silence, please.  Celebrate his life by taking on something important, and working as hard as you can at it.  Let them all say about you, “s/he cared harder.”

Saturday, March 20, 2010

Pen pals

Dear N'3lvra,

Remember that question I asked you about forking somebody in the forehead during a board meeting? Well, I consulted my lawyer (his name is Brian and I've copied him on this e-mail) and he says I can go for it!

Will you still write to me when I'm in jail?

Sincerely,

One sanctimonious bitch per board is plenty thank you very much*

Dear One,

Oh, at first I got all panicky when you said you'd consulted your lawyer, because letters that start that way usually don't go anywhere I want to go. But of course I'll write to you in jail.

I hope they have a high speed connection wherever you end up, because if my tiny but loyal readership starts getting hauled off to jail I'm doomed.

Board Meeting Ettiquette

Dear N',

I often find myself at board meetings with an overwhelming desire to jab somebody in the forehead with a fork. Are there any states in which it is legal to do so? Does it matter if it is a salad fork or a full sized dinner fork? What if I were to use a plastic spork? These people REALLY deserve it. It would really be in their best interest if I could help them in this way and the thunk would be so gratifying to me personally. It is truly a win-win situation.

c*

Dear C,

You should use the outermost fork for the first agenda item, and work your way in as the meeting progresses. If there are no conflicts during the first topic, you may bypass the salad fork and move right to the dinner fork. When you've completed the gratifying thunk, gently place the fork at the 20-past-four position, to indicate that you're through.

Unfortunately, I've been forbidden to offer legal advice since this debacle. Someday, maybe the whole story of why N'3lvra lives alone on the internet will be revealed.

Friday, March 19, 2010

If I were any happier, I'd need medication...

The other day I was in my boss’s office, and we quickly got on to planning my funeral. I don’t remember exactly why that came up, but since we were on the subject, I made my wishes known (cremation, ashes spread anywhere that comes to mind, weeding party to continue eliminating the Lamiastrum angustifolium, etc.). I think it came up because everyone is so angry with me these days, and we were discussing the odds that one of these people would actually kill me.

The guy who planted the trees, he’s furious because I won’t make his neighbor take down her bird houses, which are in the stream buffer. Yup, that would be super popular, to start requiring permits to put up bird houses. He calls my boss daily and threatens to sue us, and reminds us of his connections with the Council. I think he considers me to be a total slacker because I haven’t done anything about bird houses, which he perceives as harassment, in the same way that his neighbor thinks planting the trees are harassment.

In a way, I can see his point, because she’s installing birdhouses at an alarming clip; maybe there are 7 or 8 next to this short stream reach, and she’s attached signs to them facing his side of the stream that thankfully, I couldn’t read from the far side of the stream. I’m guessing the messages weren’t very nice.

The neighbor with the bird houses calls me, my boss, and everyone else she can think of many, many times each day, and is furious because these trees have been planted on what she believes is her side of the property line. Which we don’t think is true, but um, she removed the surveyor’s string that Mr. Treeplanter’s survey strung, so it’s difficult to tell for sure. She has also written to the Seattle Times about how the staff at the County didn’t do a very good job because we let this tree-planting happen. I was the only cc, so I’m pretty sure I was that person she was writing about. I’m guessing that the Times doesn’t have time to wade through her long e-mails, but who knows.

“How do you feel about the Norwegian Ladies Choir at your funeral?”

At this point, another co-worker, B. walked in. “what’s going on?”

“Oh, we’re just planning Betsy’s funeral.”

“Cool! Is that coming up soon?”

The pager went off about then, so I left the planning to them and went downstairs. On my way, I encountered one of our big bosses. “Good morning, J. How’s it going?”

He looked up. “If I were any happier, I’d need medication.”

It wasn’t exactly what I was expecting, so I started cracking up, and he stopped and said, “you know, I’ve been thinking, we should really make a sitcom about this place.”

“Or at least a blog...”

“Really, you have a blog?”

“Um, yeah but you’d probably have to fire me if you read it, so its probably best if you know nothing about it. “

I know. What was I thinking? Luckily, I think he has too much else on his mind to remember this. But if you see an unfamiliar guy hanging out here, be nice to him because he has an especially hard job. And if I say that lame thing of, "I've chosen to resign immediately to spend more time with my family," you'll know what that means.

Thursday, March 18, 2010

More about the whole pants area

Dear N'3lvra,

One day recently, while I was minding my own business in my office cubicle, surfing the web looking for photos of Sarah Palin wearing a particularly goofy facial expressions, a pair of cat-pee-infused leather pants arrived in the mail.

My first thought was to mail them back to the sender, but there was no return address. Then I thought of throwing them away, but I decided that might be bad luck. Then I toyed with the idea of giving them to Goodwill, but I decided the Goodwill people have more important things to do than trying to clean cat-pee-infused leather pants. Then I seized on the idea of anonymously mailing them to a friend, but I’m sure he would quickly figure out where cat-pee-infused leather pants came from.

Should I try to get them professionally cleaned? Use them as the centerpiece of a shrine to cats? Keep them in the car (with the windows open) to ward off evil spirits? Send them to Glenn Beck?

Sincerely,
Miserable in Maine

Dear Miserable,

Alas, you do have a reason to be miserable, but its not what you think.  Today, for the first day in a long long while, we have more daylight than you.  Not to get all boastful or anything, but your daylight today will be twelve hours, 2 minutes, while ours will be 12 hours, 3 minutes.  This trend will continue until solstice, when our day will be a whole 28 minutes longer than yours.  So yes, the misery torch has been officially passed to you.

But Maine has such a nice slogan, "where America's day begins".  You don't think it's that great?  Try this one:  "Say WA?".  That's just embarrassing.  Basically confirming that with our extra minute of daylight, we're standing around going, "Huh?  Say wha?"  Yup, we're a sophisticated lot here.

The pants, on the other hand, are actually a good thing.  Keep them on hand in a sealed plastic bag, and break them out anytime you need to get out of a situation.  Lingering guests?  Break out the pants.  Don't like where you sit at work?  Pants to the rescue.  Release those things and you'll be moved in a jiffy.  Nothing to write about on your fine blog? The pants provide endless material.    And, if it comes down to it, start wearing them and people will actually pay you to not come to work.

Thanks for writing.  Responding to a letter beats what else she has me do around here.

~N'3lvra (three is still silent)

Wednesday, March 17, 2010

work work work work work*

It's a pity I can't write too much about my work, because if I could, I'd talk about how the guy who insisted on planting the trees after first cutting them down, has saved, in his McMansion, a box of debris that he supposedly cleaned out of the stream, as evidence.  Yes, evidence.  He sat us down at his huge mahogany table in his enormous house, and then ran up to the attic, yes, I said attic, to get this box full of random stuff that could possibly have been grabbed from a garbage can, or a construction site, or the attic.

When my sister and I were little, like 8 and 10, we were completely obsessed with Harriet the Spy, and wanted to be her.  At least the her when she was sneaking around in dumbwaiters, happily spying on people, not the her at the end, when Ole Golly moved away and all her friends hated her because she kept notebooks about them.

At any rate, that's the kind of stuff I would do at, I repeat, age 8.  Collect a box of "evidence" of completely undetermined origin that proves absolutely nothing about a question that no one has asked.  I longed for an attic too, and if it were full of evidence, well, that would have been the best thing ever.

If I could write about it, I'd describe how the box contained bits of plywood, crushed beer cans, and a few old coke bottles.  Although I wasn't exactly sure what it was supposed to prove,  I feigned interest as I sifted through the contents.  My sister would have been proud, except for the fact that I didn't have my spy kit with me (the oatmeal container full of things like cornstarch, a magnifying glass, and other top secret stuff), which I would have used to conduct very important spy research.  She would have insisted that I wear gloves, too, because of Rule Number 1, which is Never Leave Your Fingerprints on the Evidence.

Yes, if I could write about it all, I'd also reveal an interesting new development.  While I was sifting through this box of junk, the person from the state explained that they would have required yet another permit for the planting, and since the work was done without this particular permit, it has become a criminal matter (the planting of 7 western red cedars on an island in a salmon-bearing stream), and the remedy would be to cut down another tree, and lay it near the streambank.  I maintained my focus on the box of evidence except for the brief moment when I looked up and blurted out, "you can't possibly be serious?"

Because did you follow that?  The man with the evidence of something cut down a tree.  The county made him plant seven to compensate.  The state was turf-ish about how they didn't get included in the original problem (cutting of the tree), so they were annoyed about the remedy (planting seven), and are going to require them to cut another tree as the remedy for planting the seven that were the remedy for cutting the one.   Um, okay then. 

I fear I must apologize for all the work blah di blah blah; R. says my blog has turned into one of those bad party situations where you get cornered by someone who won't stop talking about their stupid job.  Oh, I'm not for that.  Please talk amongst yourselves.

Tuesday, March 16, 2010

Should she stay or should she go?

N'3lvra (a.k.a. Khortnee) is threatening to quit because no one writes to her, and she thinks she could find work elsewhere.  I dunno, I don't like to negotiate with terrorists, but I would like to keep her around in case something comes up.  Should I just let her go and be done with the madness?

She's annoyed because I make her show up every day and sit at her desk until quitting time, right there next to the noisy internets, on the off-chance someone needs advice, which hasn't happened in a while.  She heard about the person I work with who packed up her cubicle and disappeared but still gets paid, and wants to do that herself.  I do provide hearing protection, in addition to room and board, which she calls room and bored.  I could assign her to the horoscopes, but she's so sketchy and irritable these days, I hesitate to let her have any control over your future...

Monday, March 15, 2010

Monday came around again

Can hardly wait to re-visit these people today.  One threatens to bring the council-person who was arrested for drunk driving, and the other includes the council-person who feels that it's okay for rural residents to greet county staff at the door in the buff, carrying a shotgun, because its all part of the rural culture.

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Mars is finally out of retrograde

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  You hire someone to replace all your windows, and it's supposed to take one day, which seems amazing, but you assume  they know what they’re doing.  But when they show up, something seems really off; it seems more like your girlfriends with no carpentry skills whatsoever came over and started randomly breaking windows and not installing the new ones in any predictable order.  Yeah, those guys are with the DEA.  I think they're watching that neighbor guy.  I don't think it's normal to drive a horse trailer.  I really don't.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  Did you hear about that vampire who was taken into custody the other day because he said he needed breakfast and what he eats is human blood?  I hate that.  Speaking of which, the PS Blood Center has called me, and I am not exaggerating, 36 times this month, but no one is taking those guys into custody.   Oh, wait, this is your horoscope, forgive me, I ramble.  (There was no metaphor in that vampire thing, that was just a stray shiny idea that caught my attention for a second.)  But how about this, which I stole from a talent show I attended last night:  "In my triangle, you're the hypotenuse."  Yeah, think about that for a while, and get back to me when you figure it out.  At the very least, it will take your mind off your other problems.

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21): Did you read about Death Bear, the man who wears a 7-foot tall psychedelic bear costume and visits people who have recently been dumped?  He carries a black satchel to collect memorabilia with unpleasant memories.  I think this would be an interesting job for you!  Think of all the stories you'd end up with, not to mention picture frames and personally engraved iPods. We could make you a costume.  (How much would you charge to paint other cool stuff over the fish in my bathroom, btw?  We're tired of those fish.)

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21): The other famous Cancer, Carly Simon, gave out a clue recently, did you hear about that?  David [Geffen?], that's who was so vain. Were people still wondering?  As much as I like Carly, it seem kind of sad, like, "Hey guys!  Guys!  Look over here, I've still got that secret!  Guys, seriously, I'm gonna tell!"  I'm sorry, Carly, but doing the, "play this track backwards and listen really hard and then try to guess which David" thing is just hokey.  Some mysteries endure:  I do wonder what happened to Anastasia.  But we've all run into so many vain people by now that the curiosity is ultra-diluted.  My point being, my dear Cancers, is just tell your secrets along the way.  This week.  And if you have any good ones, come over now.  Bring pie, if you have any.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Keep up your roll of doing little projects.  Make a list of what you need to get done, and stop checking the internet so much; nothing's really happening out there.  If anxiety causes you to want to clean, please come here while you're still feeling anxious.  (Bring pie, if you can.)

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):With Mars out of retrograde (finally!) it's time to leap before you look.  The universe says go for it. 

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  Uh oh.  Now Venus is in retrograde, which isn't so great.  But then again, doesn't the whole retrograde thing sound flat-earth-ish?  Just because that planet appears to be moving backward when it isn't, things are supposed to go badly?  The fact that you happened to be born on a train that was going faster than a nearby train has nothing to do with your awkwardness.  You seriously cannot blame a slower planet for that.  (Notice how I didn't call it a retarded planet?  Or I would have to apologize to Trig.)

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  You're almost done! (Insert homestretch soundtrack here).  And your tax refund will be along soon.  (Did it seem sketchy how the numbers were fluctuating so wildly on TurboTax?  I know.  But I'm glad it finally landed on the 3 cherries; it looked for a minute like it would stop before that.)

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  I know it's hard to sleep, what with the new Pokemon game coming out today and all.  I am excited that men dressed as Pikachu and snorlax will be fighting in a Redmond parking lot this morning; I'm just trying not to show it.  Study for math already. Nag nag nag.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19): Did you have that dream last night where there were wires hanging out of the wall, and just when you were about to hook them up, you panicked and woke up?  And then you started wondering if that was a metaphor for something, and then realized, duh, of course.  Oh, that wasn't you?  Well, anyway, hook up the wires.  What could go wrong?

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  Did you see our boss on the Internet?  Yep, that's him. Look on YouTube for videos of the Norwegian Ladies Choir.  Tall guy in the sweater, watching?  He claims there are also videos of him doing shots of aquavit with those people, but I have my doubts.  Unfortunately, it's not an idle doubt; I've watched every available video of the fishcake and meatball dinner fundraiser, seeking that very footage.  I know.  Don't try this at home.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  Pi day!  Make one, will ya?  Sure, I could come over when it's done, I thought you'd never ask.  Yes, apple is fine.

Saturday, March 13, 2010

Second chance

I took Virtual Partner on another run yesterday, and I’m not sure it’s gonna work out. After VP ended it so abruptly on our very first run together, I'll admit, my feelings were hurt, but after thinking about it, I could sort of see it from his side, like maybe the people at Amazon suggested I was faster or younger or ran more or something; maybe it was disappointing to be a mail order VP and end up here.  I felt a little sorry for him, so I decided to give it a second chance.

I turned off all of the alerts except VP, which I thought was courteous, showing him that he had my undivided attention. About a half mile into our run, a little pop-up appeared: “Are you inside a building?”

I wanted to say, sheesh, pay attention, VP, we’re on a run in the woods, I thought this what you wanted? If it were up to me, I'd be taking a nap right now, but I'm not, I'm out here running with you.  I don't say any of that, because I'm trying to be flexible and understanding, so I stopped, and clicked the little, “No” box.  I noticed that VP hadn’t been logging our distance, but again, trying to be patient for the sake of the relationship, I said nothing. We all have our days, and none of us really need to have our faults pointed out.

I resume running, and another little pop-up comes up, “Have you travelled several hundred miles since you last turned this on?”

I really don’t like to talk while I run, and was thinking, what’s with all the questions, VP?, but then I realize that he seems pretty insecure. Like, is he wondering why we haven’t been running together in a week, and hoping it's because I was called out of town on important business?  I’m thinking, Um, hello, VP, you broke up with me, remember? But that sort of comment never goes anywhere good, so I kept my mouth shut and clicked the “no” box. 

We jogged along together for a while in silence, but it was a heavier silence than is comfortable, with me wondering what VP was going to ask next, and secretly hoping it would be something light, like a comment on the salmonberry that’s flowering, or the break in the rain. I don't want to seem too shallow, but I just want to keep it light, and I was afraid that VP would have a bunch more questions about where this is all going.

After a while, VP commented, “The trail has been located.” I was thinking, whatever, VP. Act like you saved the day, if you must, sure. Pretend I was lost until you came along. But again, I kept my mouth shut and we jogged along in silence for a while, until VP announced that he was 368 feet ahead of me. That was just irritating.  First off, we were at the part where I have to cross the stream on a log that’s a little precarious; I don’t know how VP crosses, he probably just wades right through the middle, releasing sediments and giving no thought to fish downstream. And secondly, it just seems boastful and inappropriate, doesn't it?  First to run on ahead, and then yell back, “I’m way ahead of you!” That just seems weird to me.

I know, it’s bad form to blog about this sort of thing, but let it be known that I am not breaking up with my iPod for VP.

Friday, March 12, 2010

Follow up and Errata

My mom sent me a little note about this post, and it turns out I had the story a bit wrong, and as usual, the truth is better than my version, so I thought I'd mention it here.  After she visited a church during her church-shopping spree, a minister visited her at her home, un-invited.  She took the opportunity to ask whether he thought actions or belief were more important.  He said belief, which was a big turn-off, and she has been a Unitarian ever since.  (Thanks for reading, Mom.  :-)

The smelly pants, I know you've all been wondering about them.   Shortly after that post, I moved my cubicle (or stall, as we call them to demonstrate our connection with the ag community) to an area distant from the pants.  The next day, the supervisor spoke to the person about the cat-pee-infused leather pants, asking her if she could please store them in a locker on a different floor.  The owner of the pants stormed out, packed up her stuff, and neither she or the pants have been heard from in two weeks.  She hasn't quit her job though.

Wednesday, March 10, 2010

Something fishy*

Last week, I visited a site with a typical Hatfield/McCoy story, but like a lot of these, I can’t tell what to think, because I listen to one person and they seem pretty reasonable for a while, and they make the other person sound crazy, but my views switch when I talk to the other one.

In this case, Neighbor A reported that Neighbor B had cleared trees along a salmon stream years ago.  By the time I visited the site last week to bless the location of the plants that the one guy was required to install, they had established a long history of name-calling and general nastiness.

What happened this week is that the complainant who was upset about the clearing is now furious about the planting. 

To make this even weirder, the stream has a tiny island in it, and the shared property line goes right down the middle of the island.  The woman who didn’t want the planting hopped out to the island and plunked down her own potted plants, and paced up and down on her side of the imaginary line, while  his biologist was on other side of the line laying out plants for the other side of the same 6-foot wide island.  Yes, I said 6-feet wide.

After I left, she began contacting the Executive through Facebook several times a day.  Yes, I said through Facebook.   Among her complaints were that Neighbor B needed additional permits from the state for this work. 

My supervisor asked me to call the state to double check on the permits, which seemed to be borrowing trouble, because seriously, he was planting 7 trees on this island, but he’s the boss, so I did.

When I called the woman at the state, she was all, “have you held a public comment period for this?” and “we will surely need to review this one, yada yada yada.”  Which made me want to say, “are you freakin’ nuts?  We are talking about finally, after years of working towards it, getting this guy to plant some native vegetation on this tiny stream reach, and you want us to go through SEPA?”  But I didn’t, I said, let’s meet out there, shall we, and we can look at it together? 

I couldn’t reach the guy who was doing the planting on the phone, so I sent an e-mail saying I’m so sorry this is  contentious and difficult, but the neighbor has raised the issue that a state permit may be required to plant the island, so I’d like to ask that you hold off planting the island until I have a chance to meet with her on Monday, I look forward to helping this go as smoothly as possible, blah di blah blah.

This morning, I stepped away from my desk for a few minutes, and when I returned, had three angry messages from him saying, you know, you really can’t make me stop planting, and I want to see your legal authority to make me stop, and if these trees sit in pots any longer they could die, and I will personally sue you.  And so on.   I know.  So let’s recap, because this is rather confusing, and hopefully not too tedious.

Neighbor A complained about Neighbor B, who did unauthorized clearing along a stream.  The County worked for years to get to point where Neighbor B was willing to plant, which would be the remedy for clearing.  Neighbor A then complained that Neighbor B was going to plant, a 180 departure from where she began.  Neighbor B complained about being told he couldn’t plant, also a complete flip from where he started.  Which, I have to say, is so random and unlikely that it made me, for a few seconds, wonder if there is indeed a god.

To distract myself from the yelling, I created a model, and assigned odds to each component of the story.  Odds that:
Person B clears near stream:  10%
Person A files a complaint:  30%
Person B ultimately agrees to plant:  40%
Person A doesn’t want planting to happen after all: 1%
Person B won’t stop planting after he didn’t want to begin with:  1%
State decides to take jurisdiction on planting 7 native trees:  20%

Based on this highly scientific model, chances are two in a ten million that this would come together the way it did, which makes me strangely glad, because it turns out that I'm not just dealing with the angry freaky people, but rather, I'm part of a miracle.  That, and I think it means tomorrow will be different from today, which is good because when there's so much shooting, there are always people caught in the crossfire, and in this case, I am that people.

Luckily, I only had to work for a few hours, because I took most of the day off to attend a custody mediation session with a friend.  You know things are not going particularly well when you’re like, phew, I get to leave to go attend a mediated custody dispute.  I wasn’t too much help at the custody thing, because sometimes all you can do is be there to witness someone doing their very best in a hard situation, and hand them a Kleenex once in a while so they know they aren’t alone.

This story continues here:

Sleepless

The trouble with insomnia is that all of those ideas that come to me all night long seem either really stupid or like way too much work for my tired self in the morning.  The blog suffers.

Sunday, March 7, 2010

Imaginary Friends

The day I got my new GPS/heart rate monitor in the mail,  I was excited to go for a run, but it needed to charge for three hours, using up every last drop of daylight, so I charged it and just walked around the neighborhood after dark to test it.

I was the epitome of a dork, wearing my giant wrist watch unit, carrying a flashlight so I could look at it, and, as usual, wearing my digital thermometer around my neck so I could see what the lake temp is (46F).  (I know.  And people wonder why I’m single.)  I kept finding myself veering off into the roadside ditch and falling down, or bumping into parked cars because I was so focused on the not-so-little wrist unit and what it was telling me.  Fortunately, my neighborhood has other people stumbling around for their own reasons, so I don’t think I stood out too much. 

Friday, I was able to go for my regular run in the woods.  I’ve been curious for a while how long it is, and how fast (or, in my case, slow) I travel.  Rather than reading the manual, I decided I’d just turn on all of the alerts, and figure out later what is useful.  So I turned on alarms for:  heart rate too slow, heart rate too fast, pace too slow, pace too fast, virtual partner, 30 minutes has gone by, one mile has elapsed, and so on.

A little background about the woods behind my house.  It’s a mix of state, county, and privately owned forest, and it’s all been logged at least once.  I dug up the assessors survey done by the County in the early 1900’s, which included a beautiful hand-drawn map; large spots were left blank, with just the note, “unsuitable”.   By which I think they meant unsuitable for logging due to steep slopes and rocky outcrops, but technology has surmounted those obstacles, and it’s all been cut at one time or another.

What that means to me is that there are roads and trails everywhere throughout this 30,000 (ish)-acre tract, and although it’s woodsy, it’s not exactly wilderness.  I go out there often, and rarely see anyone.  But there are signs of other people:  footprints, the occasional candy wrapper, a plastic elephant head on a stick riddled with bullet holes, a party spot with piles of beer cans, an abandoned riding lawn-mower.

Nearby is a school that focuses on teaching young people wilderness skills, that has three core curriculum areas: hide tanning, tracking, and fire-starting.  Sometimes I feel like I’m being watched and I don’t think that’s me being paranoid:  it’s semi-realistic, because a hundred eager young hippies use this area as their training ground for stalking, I mean tracking.

So I’m jogging down the trail, and I see a reasonably attractive man pushing his mountain bike up the hill.  My well-meaning friends tell me that I’ll never meet anyone if I spend all my time alone in the woods, which is probably true, so for a second I felt the tiniest bit neener-neener-ish, like, there are actually other humans back here who aren’t just growing pot or learning how to be anachronisms.

He stops me, and says he’s lost, and do I know a good route, which I do, but when I stop to talk to him, all of the different alarms go off, pretty incessant ringing.

“Uh, what’s that,” he asks.

“Oh, I just got this heart rate monitor and I don’t know how to use it yet.”  It’s pretty annoying, and I’m trying to understand where he parked, and also give him the kind of directions that are hard to give, and harder to remember, like, “you go up this way until you pass a hemlock that’s lying across the trail; just past that, there’s another trail off to the right, ….”  Blah blah blah, but there are a variety of beeps going off, making it even harder than it would normally be.

He’s clearly not really able to focus on the directions with all this going on, and says, “Is your heart okay?  Should I do something?”

I was pretty mortified and laughed it off, like, ha ha, no, of course not, just because I’m all sweaty and panting and the alarms are going off, think nothing of it, I’m totally fine.  But then this other alarm, a completely different one goes off, and it’s louder and a message pops up on the wrist screen, that’s actually like a small television set, and it says, “Your virtual partner has completed the run.”  I read it, and was trying to not look like you would if your imaginary friend just broke up with you via text message, but I must have looked maybe the tiniest bit broken-hearted, because he said, “Are you okay?”   I told him that my virtual friend had already finished the run that I was just starting, and had gone home already."  He gave me The Look, that, "she might be seriously crazy" look, and got back on his bike, and hopefully found his way back to his car eventually.



I finished my run, and plugged my enormous watch into my computer, and got this read out of my run.  Does that seem right?

Friday, March 5, 2010

From Rags to Ridiculous

I’m reasonably proud to be a 2nd generation Unitarian, especially because my mom, who was raised in a mainstream Christian religion, went church shopping when we were little, and was planning to be Presbyterian or something, but told the pastor she didn’t believe the Nicene Creed when he came to visit her. He said he didn’t really believe it either, and she could still belong and say it along with everyone. She was disgusted with the hypocrisy, and sought out the Unitarian church, where she never had to say stuff she didn’t believe, and has been a member ever since.

I’m pretty active in my Unitarian church, because I believe what Unitarians believe: that every person has worth and dignity, and that it’s our responsibility to work towards making the world a better place, and that there’s mystery and wonder in the world but we don’t have to call that god, and that we should focus on being decent and thoughtful in this life, rather than worrying about the next life, which I, for one, don’t happen to believe in.

Some of my friends think it’s a phony religion; when they learn that I am an atheist and we don’t use the bible in our services, they either think that I’m not doing it right (like, a fallen UU, if there could be such a thing), or it’s not a real religion. I tend to be pretty quiet about the fact that I am active in a church, because people leap to conclusions that usually are incorrect. Mostly because it’s a religion no one has heard of outside of Boston.

My dad summed it up succinctly, with this short note: Bets, I don’t know whether to feel smug or alarmed when I learn that there are more Catholics in Rochester, NY than there are Unitarians world wide. Love, Dad.

My point here is that I’m pretty serious about being a Unitarian, and I will defend it as an actual religion, even to Garrison K. I subscribe to the magazine, which brings me to my point. There’s a section in the UU World that has activities for families; this month, they feature Clara Barton as a resourceful Unitarian woman who did good in the world, yada yada yada. Here’s the extension activity they suggest, and sadly, I’m not making this up:
“On the battlefield, Clara Barton tore up discarded clothing into bandages. At home, tear a clean, worn out shirt into strips. Holding a strip of cloth in your hands, reflect on the hurts or needs in your life, your family, your community, or beyond, that need a metaphoric bandage. Now, think about inner or material resources you already have, which you could use to help or heal. Commit to offering your “bandages” where they can help.”

Seriously, that is just retarded, a word that I plan to use a lot, just to piss off Sarah P. That is one of the very last activities I would ever do with children, or even adults. It seems like a total spoof on everything, but I’m pretty sure they meant it to be taken seriously. If any of you do this with your children, lemme know how it goes…

Thursday, March 4, 2010

Beleagured

Grrr.

If you were to read the editorials in yesterday's Seattle newspaper, you'd see something about how a poor farmer tried to pave a driveway, was told it would cost $22,000 in permit fees, got an attorney, and had it knocked down to $10,000.

You'd also read that he tried to use a few mobile homes as sheds, but wasn't allowed to do so because he didn't have a drainfield.  Too bad he didn't explain how he was  given the option to remove the plumbing and keep them as sheds, but said that wouldn't work because he needs the plumbing, so the County said he needed a drainfield, and around and around it went.

Too bad the columnist didn't do any fact-checking.  The farming activity described as "paving a driveway" was actually constructing a completely new road up a steep slope, within a landslide hazard area, to access a new lot that he was developing.

I'm not defending a $22,000 cost, and surely, there's a story there, but it is irritating that they don't get the facts before reporting on that. 

Wednesday, March 3, 2010

Da new guy

Met the new boss.  Two of the head guys walked him around, introducing everyone, and saying nice things about each of us, which was unusual, and also a little sad and sweet, because we all pretty much feel like we're on the chopping block.

First the managers came around and warned us, "At 2:00, he'll be coming by to meet you."  Meaning, comb your hair, and don't be just standing around.  So I did, I actually did comb my hair, and we even turned off the music (Tone Loc, thanks for the idea, P.).  When the small but powerful entourage got to me, R. said, "Betsy's really..." and I finished the sentence for him, "a star."  And J. and R. were all, "Yes, she really is."  Which was kind of awkward, because it was one of the first complements I've gotten, and, well, I gave it to myself, which makes me think I should have started doing that years ago.  I brought my hands to heart center and bowed a little bit, and they moved on to the next cubicle, where I heard R say, "B is a real problem solver.  He's a real asset."

I immediately e-mailed B., "Hey, did R. say you have a nice ass?"  Which caused him to gufaw while the entourage was talking about the next person in line.  I guess we all had that weird nervous energy because we could see how nervous our old bosses were, and we could see that they were doing what they could to try to save our jobs, which actually seemed kind of sweet and also maybe a little bit hopeless.  

I'm excited to report that the author Celeste Ng has selected m y modern love essay to read for the Modern Love podcast next week. Suc...