Saturday, May 29, 2010

In between the apples and the cloroform

The other day, Ms. Pasta started telling a sad story to The Baron and me about someone who went for a routine eye examination, but instead of the usual result (upgrade to new trendier glasses), they discovered a tumor behind her eye, say it along with me, the size of a grapefruit.  These stories always have a grapefruit in them, have you noticed?  But it got worse, because it has the other elements of a sad story:  no health insurance, no money, living in a friends basement, alcohol abuse, teenager, no dad, and so on. 

It was hard to see where the conversation could go from there, so after saying the “oh, that’s terrible” stuff, I tried to switch it to my worms.   “On the bright side, guess what?  I started out with four worms last week, and now I have five!”

“Yes, that’s what they do,” said the Baron, in a tired way.  “And on the dark side, …” And he told a story about how a license plate in his neighborhood reminded him of a person he went to high school with, so he tried to google him, came up with nothing, and then, a week later, saw his obituary in the paper.  

It didn’t seem like my news about the worms was strong enough to overcome all this grimness.  I think it might be a bad move to call everyone in to a big meeting and saying, “I don’t know when, or how many of you, or anything else, but there will be a lot more layoffs, and everyone should be looking for work.”  It just brings bad juju, and causes everyone to stand around and tell stories about people who died young and unexpectedly, or are about to.

Thankfully, I’ve got the worm farm.  It does look quite promising, a 25 percent increase in the herd after only a week.  If you project out, that could be 1,000 worms by Week 26.  It appears to be a very lucrative biz, and if you want to get in on the ground floor, as they say, or in this case, the O horizon, feel free to contact me.  

It’s not nearly as good a gimmick as this, though.  That's sheer brilliance:  an atheist who promises to take care of the pets of people who get sucked up during the rapture.  Last I heard, he had collected $110 each from 100 subscribers.  That’s the kind of job I’m looking for, if you know of anything.

Thursday, May 27, 2010

Worm Wednesday, one day late


Today’s the day that I’ll write on my science fair project, which I hope doesn’t give any cause to think I should get the cats.  I guess there’s a certain age past which you aren’t supposed to do science fair projects, but that seems wrong when you think about it, doesn’t it?  It’s not wrong to read a book if you’re not a professional reader like Nancy Pearl, or do a craft if you’re not a serious artist. So what’s so freaky about doing a science project?  Okay, perhaps I sound a little defensive, and I digress from the actual topic. 

 I recently got busted for belaboring methods by Hatchet Man, who announced yesterday that we should all be looking for jobs, so I think it’s worthy to have some actual research under my belt, don’t you?  But I'll take Hatchet Man's advice won’t belabor the methods the way some people do.  Not to digress, because Science isn’t about that, but the other day I joined R. at an orientation for community college, and the guy giving the presentation started out like this:

I’m going to talk about Blah blah blah, and then there will be an opportunity for questions, okay?  And If you have a question, you’re gonna want to raise your hand, and get my attention, okay? If I don’t see you, really wave it around, okay?  Ask your question, okay, and try to make it loud enough that I can hear.  I’ll re-state the question, okay, and then we’ll try to get an answer back out to you right away, okay?
That’s belaboring methods, in my opinion.  I’ll try not to do that here, but I feel the need to at least mention that I captured four worms with my bare hands from my garden.  I put them in a plastic container that used to hold organic spring lettuce, if you can picture that.  I added some dirt, peat moss, a bit of oatmeal, some torn up newspaper, and a sprinkling of water.  That happened last Wednesday.  Just for good measure, I weighed it all when I was done (2.4 lbs).  Then, for good cheer, I made some cheery paper mache balloons, in case the worms enjoy the festive feel of that.  I know I do.

There, was that too descriptive?  Have I lost my small, but gallant audience yet?  (Do you like the use of the word gallant there?  I know.  Just tossed it in because the word has been sitting around, unused, for far too long.)

But not to digress again, but yes, to digress,  we seem to make science increasingly dull, which is the opposite trajectory that most subjects take – we begin reading plotless drivel, but as we add skills, we read increasingly interesting material.  Science, for lots of people, goes the other way.  So I’m on a little mission to bring back the hokey home science project.   In fact, I challenge you to do a project, and maybe we’ll have science fair week here, if you’ll send me your project.

Here’s the other thing I like about the elementary science.  They don’t get so hung up on The Hypothesis Statement.  Which totally has its uses, but it seems refreshing to just wonder what would happen and try it, without trying so hard to predict. 

Yesterday, I weighed the box (2.0 lbs).  !!!  Then, I gently combed through the dirt, and discovered FIVE worms!  I know!!!  The weight is decreasing, while the number of worms is increasing!  I can hardly wait til next weeks data, and I'm sure that's you can't either.

Monday, May 24, 2010

Rocket science meets brain science

For a few weeks now, I’ve been pretty aimless, wandering around getting nothing done, thinking when my next nap will be, and then taking a nap, and immediately starting to think how long is reasonable to wait before I can take another nap without seeming like on of those people.  The objective observer in me has been thinking, man, is she ever lame!  I would never be that way.  What way, exactly?  This way: “today, for sure, I’m getting a handle on all the stuff I need to do.  Yes, today is that day; I will make a list, and then I'll just work on it until it's done.  Oh, wait, the pen is way over there.  Never mind.  I think I'll go take a nap.”

This has been going on for a while, with me being super lazy and only dabbling with two out of many obsessions, and reading books about writer’s block and procrastination. Basically seeking the recipe to snap out of it, which lead me to a very interesting book, Midnight Disease, that talks about literature through the lens of brain science.  But then I put two and two together like a detective:  lots of coughing, lots of napping -- and realized that I’m sick, not lame!  The other good news is that it lead me to that book. 

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

The lowly worm

Dear Khortney,

I was wondering if you've heard of invasive earthworms. Should I prepare? Should I expect them in my house? Please advise. That, and more, that I'll ask in person.

~A Librarian

Dear Madame Librarian,

Oh, the beloved earthworm. Everyone loves them, until they feel unloved, at which point they go eat them. I prefer chocolate eclairs, but that's just me.

Yes, add earthworms to the list that includes starlings, bullfrogs, and domestic cats as invaders that wreak havoc on the environment. There are at least 5 native genera of worms in this state, but many, many more non-natives.  There isn't too much study of the earthworm because, well, I guess birds are more colorful.  We know way more about the avians than the annelids.

We ecologist types are sort of sweet on the late holocene, and want everything to stay as it was approximately 400 ish yars ago, before European immigrants arrived.  We confuse ourselves with this, because we also think Darwin was one of the greatest contributers to science of all time.  I know, it's complicated, but the gist is, we believe in evolution, but don't really want to see change in ecosystems.  I'm one of those people, so let's just skip ahead (or back, if you will), to the earthworm.  Wait, let's not skip just yet.  It's rapid change that's troubling. 

The earthworms came to this country as illegal immigrants; in Arizona they need to carry papers with them at all times.  Worms snuck in with plants, people, and soil from other lands, mostly Europe.  Earthworms were used as ballast in boats crossing the ocean blue.  Okay, the soil was used as the ballast, and the earthworms snuck in, much like the Vietnamese Boat People.  Fishermen are thought to be culprits in the Worm Invasion too, because they take worms out fishing for the day, and if the worms don't catch anything, they throw them on the ground

The biggest impact of the invasive worm is happening in the Great Lakes Region, where the little guys chomp through the leaf litter quickly (in 4 weeks rather than the typical 4 years it would take for the leaves to decompose without the little wormies.)  This eliminates vital habitat for small shrubs and the little herby plants that we all love so well, like wild ginger and trillium.  The mystery that I can't solve here is this:  in Minnesota, they say they have no native earthworms, due to the glaciers.  But we do claim native earthworms here in Washington, so maybe we're just more about the holocene than those Minnesotans.  By the way, Minnesota's state motto is, L’Étoile du Nord ; Wikipedia says means "We hate mountains," which just goes to show you that you can't always trust an encyclopedia that any random person can edit.

The point of all this, Madame Librarian, is that yes, you should prepare.  You should make a team, seal off your doors, and learn worm grunting to distract them from the invasion.  Sure, I'd love to be on your team, thanks for asking. 

I hope I've even come a tiny bit close to answering your questions.

xoxo,
N'3lvra

P.S.  In the juvenile literature section, I was able to find a book with science fair projects involving earthworms.  I know!!  I can hardly wait, and if all goes well with the worm grunting, I'll be writing more about that.






http://www.wired.com/wiredscience/2008/10/darwin-earthwor/

Sunday, May 16, 2010

Garden of Allah

So, just a brief re-visit of this story.  Ms. Pasta and I went to court, she wearing what she calls “her uniform”, which is black yoga pants, black tunic, and elegant scarf, not the nose-blowing type of scarf.  The kind of outfit that if you’re her, you look lovely in.  Me, I wore a skirt from Value Village, shirt, sensible shoes and, in a bold move, no scarf.  Who needs a scarf?   (You may wonder why I’m describing the outfits.  As you know, when women do anything, it always starts with a description of the clothes.)

I endured 3 hours of questioning, about like this:

Lawyer:  Do you find, in general, that when people are upset, it’s because someone provoked them?

Me:  Um, could you clarify the question, please?

Lawyer:  Well, if someone is ever upset, do you ever find that there’s a reason for that?

Me:  Um, I guess so. 

Lawyer:  Are you and Ms. Pasta friends?

Me:  Um, I guess so.

Lawyer:  Are you aware of the RCW.blah.blah.blah, that covers the way insurance claims are handled in this state?

Me:  No.

Lawyer:  Are you sure you’re unfamiliar with that?

Me:  That is correct.

Lawyer:  Are you familiar with the underlying state code that gives jurisdictions the authority to collect fees?

Me:  Um, no.

Lawyer:  Are you certain that you’re unfamiliar with this state code?

Me:  That is correct.

And on and on it went, with me basically giving new meaning to the term, “expert witness”.  I wanted to say, hey, could you ask me to identify plants or about the code I actually deal with?  That’s really all I know, and to be honest, that’s slipping too.  I’ve got nothing. Can we just stop?

Of all the great parts, I think my favorite was when I requested a break after two and a half hours.  After trying to talk me out of it (“we’re just about done.”  “I would like a break, please, anyway,") they consented.  When I arrived back in the room, I found it empty except for the attorney who’d been questioning me, who said, “Wow, that’s a really cute water bottle!”  I know.  I believe I was still under oath at the time, so I didn't reply.

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Boroscopes

The horoscopes, a day early or a week late, depending on if you're the moving on sort, or more the clinging to the past type. (And you know who you are.)  I find that writing after lying around for a week is much like cooking without ingredients, so hopefully soon I'll go into the world where material abounds.  In the meantime, have a splendid week..

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  I was in a shoe store last week, where I overheard an annoying customer asking way too many questions, including "How much do feet swell when you travel to another country?"  The salesman didn't miss a beat, and replied, "Depends on the country."  He kept walking with his tall pile of shoe boxes, and she seemed satisfied.  You'll encounter lots of questions this week, unanswerable, tedious questions, like, "What if there were no houses?" (We'd build some.)  "What if we built houses?"  (Then we'd have some.)  "Then what?"  (GRRR.) If you look at it, this shoe guy was brilliant in both answering the question and turning it back to the questioner, as if he could answer, but she didn't provide enough information.  That's a good strategy, try it this week.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  It's your birthday?  That's lovely, you'll have a 2 in your age for quite some time.  This year promises to be excellent, because now you know how it's done.  Don't ever forget.  Always spring for the Wi-fi when you get stuck in NJ, btw.  Or Cleavland.  Spare no expense in maintaining a  path to the real world.  (File that with the other rule, "Never buy your coffee from a box.")

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):   I'm drawing a blank here, so I consulted Resident Badass, who said, "Just write something funny, then you're golden."  Then he said I should start with a question, so I will.  Why is the genre always horror?  

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21): How lame is the 25th anniversary issue of Spin?  "100 moments that rocked our world?"  Example:  "#28:  Spin names Teenage Fanclub's 'Bandwagonesque' 1991's best album".   Um, that's a moment?  And they rocked their own world?  Seems like they just had nothing to write about, which I can completely relate to, but sheesh.  But my research lead me to re-listen to The Zombies, the last of the British Invaders, which made me quite happy and if you didn't have dialup (speaking of lame), I'd suggest it to you too.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  I hate to announce it, but it's gonna be a hard week ahead.  Lot's of driving, too much family, stress stress stress.  Save time to have coffee with me.  Is everyone googling Bret Michaels, and you don't even know who he is?  I know!  And then you look him up, and it turns out he's the lead singer for a glam metal band, but he looks like a country star, so you have to go listen, and you listen to Poison Songs, Show Me Your Hits, and you're like, huh?  This isn't even normal, the range from screamo metal to country on one album.  Something is seriously wrong.  Humph, you say.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22): Does it seem strange that your mother and my daughter have the same name?  Coincidence?  I don't think so.  My question for you, dear Virgos, is this:  when will they get a handle on that oil spill?  When will they at least figure out how much, how quickly it's spewing poison into the ocean?  70,000 gallons per day, or 5,000? 

Libra (9/23 – 10/22): Been layin' around all week and have nothing to write?  That, sadly or not, depending on how you look at it, is about to change. What's up with the missing iPhone?  It can't be as bad as some other problems people have, can it?  Like the problem of being bored and housebound, but having a cough that sounds like disease-resistant tuberculosis, making it awkward to go out.  That's a real problem.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21): Scope this out, will ya?  It might be busy though, because it was written up in the NYT, so maybe this would be better?

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  When I think of you Saggitarians, I think badass.  But here's the puzzler:  why are so many people in Alaska googling "thesaurus"?  I know.  Look at the chart, there's a tiny blip, but it's pretty steady.   Compare to Bret Michaels in Seattle, which has an actual curve to it.  It's like the people in AK are all just, "hmm, what's another word, um, um,"  That doesn't even show up on any other states top 10, btw.  (Don't make fun of me for knowing that.  I know I need to get out more.)


Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  Try this, and let me know how it goes.  I'm just wondering if you're part of the problem, or part of the solution.  Have you been infiltrated, and you're part of a vast army of mind-controlled computers?

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18): Use the rest of those berries in your freezer to make a pie.  Then come over here, where the water temperature is 64 degrees an I may actually get in and need a piece of pie to warm up.  And, if you're free, come to Sasquatch with R. and me.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20): Seems like your friends are too lame to fully embrace Eudora Welty night.  That's wrong.  Ms. Welty was all about avoiding sentimentality, but a little of that is a good thing, right?  Go ahead and plant a garden after all.  It'll make you happy all summer, especially if you surround it with sweet peas.

Thursday, May 13, 2010

Arrested development

II’ve been sick all week, which is unusual for me, and it’s made me grateful for my normal good health.  A week without yoga or a run, and I feel different, not in a good way.  I also appreciated being part of “the system” – getting paid sick leave, a basically free doctor’s appointment and prescription.

The drugs weren’t as miraculous as I expected, though, and I spent the week lying around in a fog, amazed at my capacity for sleep, and watching Arrested Development for a few minutes at a time in my brief waking moments.  I felt semi-pathetic because that show was almost out of my grasp.  (Wait, didn’t the banana stand burn down in the last episode?  Is Maebe an actual name?  Do I even like any of these people?  Why is George Michael such an uptight little prig?  Does it seem super-fakey that Michael started to fall for his brother’s soap-opera star gf just because she mentioned that family is important?  This show has been off the air for four years and I’m just watching it for the first time?  Why?)

In general, it went like this:  I’d lie in bed, surf the internet for a few minutes, stumble on a blog that made me tired, sporting a list of stuff you must do/read/eat/see/etc., or a post by someone who only ever wanted to read Chekhov stories because they’re so perfect and inspirational, which made me wish I had one handy, but I’d doze off again, wake, watch Arrested Development for a few minutes, get up and idly look for a book of short-stories, and then take another nap.  I think the worst is over, and I’m wishing I had wasted my week watching Bones.

A week ago I promised a story about lawyers, guns, and money without the guns and money, and I still haven’t done it.  I hope my brain gets a little less fuzzy soon and I’ll be able to make good on that.  As always, thanks for reading.

Monday, May 10, 2010

In which the scarf turns out to be very useful*

I finally had a chance to give my presentation to The Man last week.  In anticipation, I wore the scarf, practiced the presentation, and even deleted the slide with The Scream on it, just to show how seriously I take everything.

He was only a few minutes late, and sat as far from me as possible at a table that could seat 10.  That would be across the table, and 5 seats down, right next to the door.   I know.  I got a bad feeling right then.



He started off with, “well, I suppose you know why I’ve called you in here.”

I thought that was my line, and I wanted to say, “Um, actually, remember the part about how after requesting this meeting several times, you agreed to it, but then didn’t show up?  Remember how since then I’ve asked your secretary to reschedule a bunch of times, and she did, and this is it? So, not to be presumptuous, but didn’t I call you here?”  But I was trying to be positive, and I thought, hey, if he thinks this is his idea, that’s a good start, right?   So I let it go. 

I made a tiny attempt to break the ice with a joke about how I’d zoom through the presentation quickly so as not to bore him, but he could also look at his watch to signal that it was dragging and I’d step it up.  He took my joke further with a crack about how he’d just get up and leave if it dragged at all, and laughed heartily, which I didn't really like, but I guess I started it, so I let it go.  It seemed especially not funny with him seated right by the door and all.

I ran through the powerpoint really fast, the results of a 2-year research study on how effective we are at what we do.  He didn’t ask questions or take notes, which was a bit troubling, because I was hoping that the results might be interesting or useful to the person is about to reorganize our department.  Like, hey, let’s look at what we already know about what works and doesn’t around here before we make changes.  At the end, he just said, “yeah, this is very negative.  You’re going to have to redo it.  Let’s go back to slide 1.”

So I do, I go back to the first slide, because sadly, my first instinct is always obedience.  Slide one thanks the agency that provided the $250,000 grant, and has a dozen words describing the study:. “we spent 2 years, conducted 700 site visits, and evaluated outcome for 300 permits.”

“Yes, see, you’ve already lost your audience here.”

“Um, thanking the grantor?”

“Yes.  That, and methods.  No one cares about methods.  You’re going to have to redo this whole thing if you ever give it again, which I don’t expect you will.”

I started to explain but stopped myself because he was so close to the door and I was pretty sure anything I said would be in the “this is dragging on a bit” category, and would cause him to get up and leave.  And I suddenly realized that unless there was a crack in a dimension that allowed one of us to morph into a different reality from where we normally lived, we wouldn’t ever find a common language, so I used all my energy to keep my mouth shut.

If I thought he were interested in another point of view, I would have explained that the study was funded as research, and one of our obligations is to share what we’ve learned with other jurisdictions so that they too can improve, and by the way, maybe he should take some notes, or ask some questions, or ask to read the whole report, because as the director, he should at least feign interest in how we’re doing.  And also, not to be snarky, but most people I know wouldn’t consider, “Thanks for the generous funding!” to be a big dense methods section, but maybe I hang out with smarter people than he does.

But I focused on breathing.  Breathe in peace, exhale compassion, breath in peace, exhale compassion.  It took so much attention to just breathe that I might have missed a bit of what he was saying, but I tuned back in to hear him describe how I needed to redo it all beginning with slide 1, and right on through slide fifty, finding more suitable content, photos, and a more positive message. 

I shared my belief that good government requires transparency, and that we should self-evaluate and act on the results rather than covering them up, and he smiled and said, “You’ve done a great job. Period.  A really great job.  Period.”  But I could tell by the way he kept saying “period” that it wasn’t a period at all, but rather a “but”, which it turned out to be.  After the second period, he said, “But, if you ever want to show it again, you’ll need to redo it, slides one through 50, to show us in a more positive light.”  He got up and left then, which was pretty easy because he was so close to the door already, and didn’t even have a pen or paper to pick up. 

A few hours later, I went to talk to my supervisor, who asked how it went.

“Not so well.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling about that.  I saw him later and he said you looked crestfallen, and I thought, uh-oh, Betsy doesn’t even have crestfallen as a look, I wonder what that was.”

“Seriously?  Crestfallen?  He said that?  Google crestfallen, will you?”

“What happened?”

“Please?”

So we search for images tagged, “crestfallen”, and, as I feared, it shows defeated athletes who blew an important play, slumped down, head low, arms on knees. 

We look at the images, and he says he’s sorry, and I start to cry.  I know.  That’s always an excellent strategy when your goal is to be taken seriously, especially in the workplace. In my next most professional move, I was able to use the scarf to blow my nose and wipe my eyes while my boss patiently sat there looking like he wished this would stop, and frankly, so did I.

“My look was so not crestfallen, by the way.”

"I know.  I’m sure it wasn’t."

I decided not to wear the scarf to court the next day.  I was just sitting here writing this, mostly to get it off my mind, and thinking about whether it was blog-worthy, when R. and his buddy walked in. 

“Hey you two!  I’ve got a lecture I’m going to give to you guys in about a month. Can I practice it?”

“Um, sure.  What’s it about?”

“Driving.  Okay, here goes.  'You’ve come to the point when you are allowed to drive someone around, R., and that person is likely to be you, B.  The most common way either of you are going to die in the next ten years is in a car accident…”

“Is that true?  Fact check.”

“Yes, true.  Anyway, you’ll need to help each other make good decisions….”

“Mom, when you do the real thing, can it be a Powerpoint?”

“Uh, maybe.”

“With a projector?  Please?”

I guess I’ll do that for these fine boys, but I’m not sure I’ll put the scarf on.

Poppy Vigil*

 I've been a little bit sick and haven't gotten around to writing anything for a few days, so I dredged this out of the archives...

I don’t remember where I first got the idea for my poppy vigil, but at some point, I realized that the blooming of a flower is a significant event, and was available to me if I would only make time for it.  A few busy weeks, and I could miss certain blossoms altogether.  Poppies are a dramatic example:  they got their name because they actually pop.  They don’t open slowly like other flowers, but burst forth in one moment. 

In the Pacific Northwest, it usually rains after they open, shortening their bloom time to a few splendid days.  After I learned about the way they bloom, I tried to spend time near them each spring, hoping I’d see it.  Sometimes, I moved a chair nearby to sit and watch.  But I’d always get distracted, wander off to weed, or do chores inside, or someone would need something from me, and I’d come back later, sometimes a few days later, to find the poppy open.

One recent winter, when the new leaves weren’t even poking out of the ground, I became obsessed with the poppy.  I scheduled a few days off from work way out in the spring, trying to predict bloom time.  I liked the gambling aspect of it – who knows, in the dead of winter, which days to take off to see this tiny, unreported miracle?  Something felt reckless about it.  Planning to use vacation time to do nothing but sit in a chair in the garden.  And wondering, could I actually do it?  It was like a weird mix of a nature outing, and a Zen retreat.

The week approached.  My daughter saw the dates marked off on the calendar.  “What’s that, Mom?”

“Guess.”

She thought for a while.  “I need a clue.”

“Okay.  I’ve taken a few days off to see something I’ve wanted to see for a while.”

She groaned.  “Oh, Mom.  Does this involve moving a chair out to the garden?”

This young person knows me so well.

“Couldn’t you just watch the garden, and call in sick or something when it gets close?  It just seems embarrassing for you to tell the people at work about this.”

She didn’t know everything about me.  She didn’t understand that it’s not just seeing the poppy pop, it’s planning ahead, looking forward to it for months, imagining that I could schedule time in my busy life for a tiny little miracle.  If it actually happened on the day that I guessed it would, well, wouldn’t that mean something, something good?  My kids got used to the idea.  I think they saw it as a victimless crime:  their mother was a freak, but no one was especially damaged by it.

A friend asked me, “Is it more about the metaphor of the poppy opening?  A symbol of new life ahead?”  I thought about that for a minute, and realized, no, I’m not that complex.  I really just want to see the poppy burst, watch it transform from a nodding stem with a sturdy closed hairy pod to a fully opened delicate crimson blossom.  I wanted to know if it made a sound, I wanted to know if the pod cover shot off wildly, or gently dropped to the ground, I wanted to see the color of the freshest new petals, and watch them unfurl. 

Another friend asked, “How likely is it that you’ll actually see a poppy burst?”  “Well, if I sit right by it for a few days,” I started to reply.  She looked pitying and protective as she said, in the gentlest way possible, “Oh Betsy, you mean there’s only one poppy?”

I thought about something that I’m occasionally obsessed by:  Can you just pick things to care about?  Is caring just a decision?  I find this alternately comforting and alarming.  Could I have decided to care about a mosquito hatch, or a dandelion turning to fluff?  Or is there something innate about the object of the caring that demands my devotion?

For whatever reason, I had become fixated on seeing the poppy.  And I find that for me, it’s hard to stop caring about something once I begin.  I know this from having been married, and then stepping off the conveyor belt I’d been on for years, where I knew where I was going, what to do, and then, once off, reeling, spinning, looking for the horizon line so I would stop feeling so dizzy and nauseated, sick.  Wanting to form a new life, but realizing there is no new life, just this one, and that I couldn’t exactly stop caring, it didn’t work that way.  In fact, it seemed that my new job was to find the pieces of caring, the bones of what I used to love about my ex-husband, and polish them tenderly, guard them like I would my last tiny candle on a long dark night, because this is what we have left to raise our children by.  We had hoped to build a huge warm hearth where our kids would know tenderness and love, and we couldn’t do that together, but maybe we could apart, if we didn’t throw water on the last few tiny dim embers.

But back to the poppy, with its nodding little pod, bent towards the earth.  Would there be a sign when it was close to opening?  Would the stem start to straighten up, reach towards the sky, or would that lightening occur after it opened?  How long would it be between the time that I could see a tiny stripe of color peeking through a crack in the pod, and when the poppy would actually pop?  A day, an hour?

A few days before my vigil, I took the kids out of town overnight to Leavenworth.   This ersatz Tyrolean village, with its trinkets and cuckoo clocks, is my image of hell, if I believed in hell.  I felt disoriented, wondering what I was doing here, why here, of all places, when the poppy was so close.  But I realized that cancelling a trip because a flower might bloom at home crossed over the line from quirky in a harmless way to dysfunctional.

We arrived home after our trip to find a stripe of red peeking through a slat where the pod had spread open just a bit.  I measure it with my ruler:  9 millimeters.  I didn’t, as it turned out, have much patience for sitting still, which came as no surprise.  I dashed around, doing various tasks, and running back to the poppy every so often to look, and to measure.  Not really to enjoy, but to gather data.  I thought that if movement were measurable with my plastic ruler, I should stay and watch, but if nothing seemed to be happening, I could run around and do things, and just check on the poppy every so often.  Exactly like a Zen retreat, minus the meditative calm quality.  Zen on amphetamines.

At 10:30, I went to bed, after one final check.  Still nine millimeters.  I slept restlessly and dreamed of the poppy.  I woke at 4 am, ran downstairs, and crept outside with a flashlight.  Still closed.  I crawled back in bed, but couldn’t sleep.  At 4:30, I went out to check again, like some strange poppy midwife; it was dusky out, and bats were everywhere, returning to their daytime roosts.  It felt dreamlike; me, naked in the early dawn light, ice cold dew on my feet, bats swirling around, checking to see how labor was progressing for the poppy.  Pod still closed.  I went back to bed; this time, my feet ached with cold in a delicious way; the rest of my body was warm and relaxed.  I felt like I’d waded across a cold mountain stream on a hot day. I fell into a sound sleep, and woke at 7:30.  When I ran outside, dressed this time, I found the poppy fully open.  I prowled around underneath the plant and found two of the three pod parts.  I suspected that the pod had popped gently, allowing the remnants to drop carefully below the blossom.  Forensic Zen retreat.  Minus the patience.

Wednesday, May 5, 2010

Crime of the Century

Well, it’s taking extra effort to write about this week without sounding whiny or tedious, so I hope I can pull it off.  I don’t know where exactly to begin, so I’ll just sum up the highlights. 

Our beloved deputy director was placed on administrative leave this week, which is what happens to cops when they shoot someone.  Our Guy didn’t shoot anyone, but rather, 6 years ago he sold a piece of property for half it’s assessed value to an organization that needed to protect some land.  He used the money from the transaction to purchase and protect another large tract of land.  It is a tiny bit complicated, because the group that needed to by the land in the first place needed it due to permit requirements that our agency implements, although Our Guy had excused himself from any involvement in the project.  Seems pretty trumped up to me, and a convenient strategy to get him out of the way while the New Guy shuffles the deck, or probably more like swings a machete around. 

To revisit the school analogy, it would be like this:  a principal gets into the job because he believes in education, and cares deeply about children.  As a private side project, he set up a summer camp for kids.   On his own time, with his own money.  That’s what he does with his spare resources, because that’s what he cares about.  

So one day, a different camp over-booked for a session, so that three campers will have to be turned away.  They contact this particular principal and say, hey, if we donate the money, can these kids go to your camp?  And the principal says, sure, that would be great, and I’ll give you a half-price deal, in fact.  But those three kids go to my school, so I’m going to excuse myself from decisions about whether they pass their classes and everything else; I will leave that up to the qualified teachers and other professionals here to avoid the appearance of conflict of interest.  

It all works out, and the kids get to go to camp after all, and the principal has extra money that he uses to send even more kids to camp with, and six years later, someone complains.  That’s the crime we’re talking about. 

At any rate, he was much beloved, worked hard, and cared about what we do, so I wish him the very best.

Part 2

When Glenn and Stewart got the letters about the iPod, they were both furious, but for different reasons.  Glenn because, well, let's face it, he's just an angry guy.  Stewart because he had to give up an iPod.  So they started yelling at each other, and it went something like this:
Glenn:  Why did you give them your iPod, you idiot?  You shouldn't have done that.
Stewart:  Because I promised.  But you promised to do that science project.  Why didn't you?
Glenn:  Huh?  I never said I'd do that, sucker.  Why would I want to do that?  I don't know where you're coming up with this stuff.
Stewart:  Well, that legal paper we all signed.  That paper where you promised you'd do the extra credit science project.
Glenn:  Yeah, about that.  I never thought that was fair.  I never agreed to do it.  And by the way, you should never have given your iPod up, because it makes me look bad.
Stewart:  Yeah?  Well you not doing that project makes me look bad.
Glenn, after a long argument: Hey, look what Eliza has done, she's wrecked our friendship, after all these years.  She's an idiot.  We should ask her about it.
It has come to the point where Glenn is suing Stewart, Stewart is counter-suing, and both have joined up to sue the school.  Ms. Pasta and I have been summoned to the courthouse.

Sunday, May 2, 2010

It's a hard rain's gonna fall...

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  Is this the weirdest thing ever?  I won't make you click, you busy person:  it's a website that allows you to apologize, demand an e-apology, or, for $14, purchase apology boxers.  Let's agree that if anyone is ever in the position to buy apology boxers on the internet, something has gone terribly wrong that probably can't be fixed with the underwear.  Sir Tim Berners-Lee, who invented the www, did use the site to apologize for the double forward slash in URL's.  I'm still thinking about that.  This week, take a break from freaky medical shows and try not to have re-entry troubles.  Try not to have any troubles, in fact.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  I've heard of a little store that will sell underage people a nice bottle of wine, and then if said teens can't drum up a party, they'll take the bottle back for a refund.   I know!  Sounds implausible, but see if you can find such a place.  Enjoy your waning days of being a teen, which isn't all it's cracked up to be. 

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):   In researching Gemini this week, I learned that this sign is no longer aligned with the constellation, due to the Procession of the Equinoxes.  I know!  We should have a parade.  But if you get that floaty, detached feeling, that's where it's coming from.  By the way, I also learned that Jupiter aligns with Mars every 27 months, and the moon is in the 7th House every single day.  (Is it clear why I get nothing done?  Ever?)  Enjoy this week, because you're about to start working a bunch more.  I think our curious baby will arrive on Friday.

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21): I have it from a reliable
 source that this bug is kept as a pet by native American gamblers, because it's good luck.  Some of the Cancer's have this very bug, which isn't particularly photogenic but is a gorgeous iridescent green, on their kitchen counter.  Some Libra's too.  That bug is finally gonna do it's thing.  Luck will be with you. 

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  This weekend, go on a fun reunion trip with some old friends, and then fill me in later.  I think it's sweet that Daniel Pinkwater wrote back; I would suggest that you reply again, but hey, I'm sort of stalkerish that way, so use your own judgment.  Oh wait, wasn't I going to remove the word stalker from my vocabulary because it puts creepy ideas into the heads of the crazy people?  Starting now.  Moratorium.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22): What do you think about that Giant Palouse Earthworm?  It bothers me on so many levels.  First, they thought it was extinct, so they stuck electrodes into the soil to try to roust them out, which is weird to begin with.  "Take that, you struggling little species."  Not unlike starting a fire in the ICU.  Then, when worms crawled out, which were nothing like the description of the Palouse earthworm, they were all, yup, we found 'em, alright.  Except for the part how they are nothing like the Giant Palouse earthworm, which is a meter long, smells like lilies, and spits to protect its territory.  This worm, 6 inches, no lily fragrance, no spitting.  But it's the same worm, fer sure.   So they find two live adult worms, first time in 20 years, and they killed one in order to dissect it.  Anyway, the point here is that you will encounter hubris and arrogance this week.  Be gentle.  Breathe. 

Libra (9/23 – 10/22): Try to stop thinking about the biggest environmental disaster this continent has ever seen.  Rather, continue to think about the canned ham, and finish the damned sweater already.  When are we going to get a handle on clean energy? 

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  As usual, your week will be amazing.  I may be alone in this, but I think it's kind of sad that the pres of the UW, that well-respected institute of higher learning, quit his job to run the NCAA.  That just seems tacky to me, but I've gotten myself in trouble with this comment a number of times already, so I'll keep it to myself.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): You know that thing where you tell a funny story, and then say, "okay, that's funny in three ways," and then elaborate what they are?  I think that's the fourth way, and I'm lucky to live with someone who makes me laugh out loud (not the fakey LOL, but actual laughter) four times before breakfast.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  What people are googling this week is "kfc doubledown", which is the new artery-clogging sandwich invented by the colonel that involves deep fried chicken where the bread should be, causing me to wonder many things, but most especially, why are people looking that up on the internet?  Why aren't they just dialing up the heart surgery place?  For your week, find joy in the midst of it all.  Breathe, and focus on this particular exquisite green that only happens this time of year.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18): Pack your lunch, look at the bus schedule, and plan an outfit.  That's what you should do today.  And you should pat me on the back because I finally painted the footfall part of my stairs which had been blank for two years. They're still loud and clunky, but blue.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20): Speaking of giant engineering disasters, what happened with that NASA balloon?  Why is weird news involving balloons sort of funny, when it should just be kind of scarey. These are the top scientists in the country, right, and the balloon crashed.  Remember that boy who wasn't in the balloon after all?  Again, should have been just plain scary, but there was something a tiny bit funny about it, making me think it's the word balloon?  This week, toss that word around a bit when the going gets rough.  See if you can find a little humor where there once was none.

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...