Saturday, July 31, 2010

That pants area again

I came upstairs from the Permit Center the other day, whining mildly about a customer. Same old story, but each angry person thinks they are the first one to say things like, “WOW. You know what? You’ve just TAKEN my property.”

When in fact, they bought something that’s been foreclosed on because developing it was complicated and expensive because there are wetlands and streams all over the place, and, surprisingly, I don’t actually end up owning all of these properties.  Sometimes, they bring up how a relative (grandfather, usually), didn’t fight in the war so that this could happen, and I want to say something about how I bet your grandfather wouldn’t have picked such a low-lying wet piece of property, and if he did, he probably didn’t expect to build a 6,000 square foot home on it. But I don’t, I sit quietly with my hands at my heart center and breathe, and say things like, “Is there  anything else I can help you with today?”

B. says, “Hey, don’t worry, I’ve got a plan. I’ll get a Subway franchise, and you can work for me.“

“I don’t like asking all those questions. ‘Would you like mayonnaise, mustard, oil, vinegar? How ‘bout salt and pepper? Would you like a drink with that? What kind of bread?’"

“Well, looks like you’re not gonna’ have much choice about that. You’ll be workin’ for me before you know it.”

I like this idea even less than his last one, which was that we become radiologists and open a clinic, or maybe a hospital. When anyone came by with even the mildest physical complaint, he’d say, “Can this wait until Betsy and I get our hospital started?”

“B., I have these squirrels living in my attic. Any tips?”

At about this point, a co-worker whom I know just a little bit comes by with a plastic grocery sack.

“Betsy, I have these pants that are too short for me. I was thinking you might like them.”

Which is really sweet, but also a little unusual, because we aren’t the same size at all. But it’s awkward to bring that up, so I hem and haw a little bit. “Oh, thanks. Thanks for thinking of me. Um…”

“They’re really cute white pants. You could wear them for dress up.”

I pull them out of the bag, and notice the size, which could be expressed by this formula:

My Pants Size x 3 = Size of cute white dress-up pants.

The pants are pure white except for a few large coffee stains on the front quadricep area. I try to imagine exactly where I would be going that would require me to wear large stained white pants, but I know she has the kindest intentions, so I say, “Hmm, I’m not so good at wearing white. I tend to spill a lot.”

“Well, for dress-up?”

“Oh, I don’t think so. But thanks for thinking of me.”

“What about Ms. Pasta? Do you think she might like them?”

“Um, I don’t really see her wearing much white either.”

“Well, for dress-up. They’re super-cute, but they’re just too short for me.”

"I think Ms. Pasta is actually taller than you.”

“Well, I actually used to be as tall as her, before my car accident.”

I’m trying to keep up with the thought pattern and convert it into a formula, but I’m having trouble. I get this far:

Ms Pasta’s height > donor’s current height > pants

Based on my understanding, I deduce that the pants will be too short for Ms. Pasta, but I'm not sure how the car accident fits into the formula. It seems clear that the donor is going to stay until I do the “human sacrifice” thing of suggesting someone else to give the pants to. So I do, but I feel a little guilty about it, and also, mystified.  I’m just unfamiliar with the custom of walking around the workplace, peddling used clothes – I tend to just give them to Goodwill, but that’s just me.

B pipes up again. “How about a smoothie franchise? Not so many questions, you’d like that. We each need to kick in $150K to get it started.”

“No. I’m not going to spend the rest of my life tossing stuff in a blender. I’m just not.”

“Well, that’s up to you, but if you say no to that, you’ll be wearing those enormous white pants at the Subway, asking all the questions. Don’t say you didn’t have choices.

At about this point, J. walks in and sits himself down, the way he does.

I’m responding to the Subway franchise thing, and my voice is kind of creaky for some reason.

B. comments, “Oh, is this your new thyroid cancer voice?”

J is aghast. “Don’t joke about that! What if someone one of us knows actually has thyroid cancer?”

B replies, “That’s what makes it so funny! We think Betsy does have that.”

J: “Seriously? That’s terrible. You look fine.  Your neck looks fine."

"I know, J.  You know those people who are tall and leggy and can gain 20 pounds and still look great?  I'm that kind of person, only just in the neck."

"Well, I hope I’m not being too creepy to say I wish you well.”

B: “That doesn’t sound creepy to me, J. I think what was creepy was when you tried to give her those pants.”

At any rate, there is no thyroid cancer, the co-worker is still going around peddling the pants, and the squirrels are still living in the attic.

Monday, July 26, 2010

I was thinkin' about Ursus...

There’s a family of bears living in our neighborhood. The other night after work, I went on a long walk in the woods, mostly to clear my head, but also sort of hoping I might catch a glimpse of the bear. On my return, I walked around the lake a bit, and saw garbage strewn about on the street. A pod of neighbors were standing there, discussing how the bear had been doing laps around the lake, getting into the cans.

I stopped to clean it up, even though I didn’t particularly feel like it, because that seemed like the neighborly thing to do, but I have to say, I was pretty irritated at the contents of their garbage. Recycling here could not be easier . There’s no sorting required. Everything –- cans, paper, cardboard, plastic, wax milk cartons -- it all just goes in one giant bin for bi-weekly curbside pickup.

This house has the two bins, one for garbage, and one for recycling, and the garbage bin has been tipped over and strewn about by the bear. I start cleaning it up, but there’s like, half a ream of paper, empty tuna cans, cardboard boxes, an uneaten lunchable, eggshells, and it’s all held together in a matrix of bright orange pasta-like food, maybe Kraft Macaroni & Cheese and tufts of dog and cat hair, with a bit of rice-a-roni or something vaguely food-like. It turns out I am annoyed by the lack of recycling, but also by just how they eat.

But now that I’ve started this project, I can't really walk away, and I also I feel like it wouldn’t be that hard to do a little sorting, and toss the recyclables into the recycling bin that’s sitting right there, nearly empty, so I start on that, but the whole project is stinky and unpleasant, and it’s one of those Things I’ve Started, that I wish I hadn’t. And I’m wondering what it is with people that they practically go out of their way to do the wrong thing.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, because our beloved deputy director was forced to resign after 23 years of dedicated service, and it’s so wrong that it makes it hard to believe in karma. The guy who was fired is someone who worked hard, and cared about all aspects of what we do: land use regulation, trying to be fair with the people we serve, and protecting the environment. He tried to apply reason and empathy to the work of regulating peoples’ property. The supposed crime that he committed, “the appearance of conflict of interest”, seems pretty weak, especially given that he contacted the ethics committee and his own attorney at the time, and followed their advice.

It seems like far less of an appearance of conflict of interest than the rumors that are floating around about our new executive. I will definitely look into those.

So I finish cleaning up this mess in the street, walk the last little bit to my house, and find four increasingly terrified messages from my neighbor, reporting that 1) there’s a bear in the neighborhood, 2) the bear is in her yard; 3) it’s coming my way, 4) it’s in my yard. This neighbor, who hasn’t been on a walk in living memory, saw all this from her deck, while I was walking in the woods, and then cleaning up the bear food at the bottom of her driveway. Does that seem right?

Tuesday, July 20, 2010

Gravity, explored

Well, I've spent a good part of the day trying to understand what's going on with gravity, and thought I'd share it all with you.

Gravity
View more presentations from betsyjm.

Sunday, July 18, 2010

Five rules and a suggestion

Dear Khortnee,

I seem to remember that Very Good Mothers have a set of 5 rules. But the only one I can remember is "Try something new," which I believe was the 6th. Can you help fill in the blanks?

Thanks!

Anonymous


Dear Anonymous,


Your font looks vaguely familiar, as if have a pretty little birth mark at the nape of your neck. But it's hard to tell for sure.

Yes, there are five rules besides the sixth, which is more of a suggestion. Here they are, annotated.

Show up. Wherever you are, be there, knife and fork in hand, ready to eat. Behave as if your life were a delicate ember that you need to carefully tend to, breathe gently on, and then celebrate when it catches.  You'll have to do this over and over, all your life long.  Don't ever give up, and don't forget to let it be festive. 

Be honest. This seems so basic, but it involves not just saying the truth, but thinking ahead about what you want the truth to look like so you can always tell it with pride, or at the very least, no shame, and living it brings you great joy.

Pay attention.  Don't be like me, who, on a hike yesterday stumbled (literally!) upon an injured woman and didn't really notice what was going on until I had almost passed her.  Then, later, reading in the paper that it was actually a man.  As my hiking buddy said, if it was a man, he had boobs and a hiking skirt, which, at the very least, was confusing.  My point being that no one was paying attention -- the lady who tripped and fell, injuring her head and knees, her hiking buddies, who were eerily non-responsive to the situation, just standing around casually sipping water while she laid in the middle of the trail moaning, and saying, "call someone call someone call someone call someone."  And me, who, and I'm embarrassed to admit this, just stepped over her before thinking to say, "Is everything okay?" because I first thought it was sort of a mental disability that caused all the repetitive moaning.  The only person in the whole story who was paying attention was the cop we flagged down on the Mountain Loop who arranged her rescue.  Be that cop.

Do your best.  Annotating this one is a waste of time for N'3lvra, Ms. Anonymous, because, judging from your font, you do this without fail.  Each little place you encounter is a little bit better because you've been there.

Don't be attached to outcome. This is the very hardest one of all, because doing rules one through four tend to lead to caring about what happens next.  This, my dear Anonymous, is the one you should tape to your bathroom mirror, until you can find that razor-thin, nearly impossible edge of caring and not caring, that requires applying yourself wholeheartedly to rules number one through four, and then accepting whatever happens with grace, and generally just being curious and happy that it's turning into something at all.  

That's it.  Good luck, Anonymous!

Tuesday, July 13, 2010

Project Wave

After spending a delightful 24 hours on Lopez Island (I am an uber-efficient summer vacationer – just get it done. Why linger?), I decided to try to bring the sweet Lopez tradition of waving here to Lake M.

On Lopez, just about every single person you pass waves to you. It’s usually the two-hands-on-wheel-just-lift-the-peace-fingers wave, but there’s the occasional lift-the-right-hand-fully-off-the-wheel gesture. It’s hard to tell if the few people who don’t wave are locals, weary of tourists who come to wave at them, or if they’re tourists who don’t know the custom.

At any rate, I guess Lopezites feel particularly connected to one another because they live on an island, and it’s more obvious to them than it is to the rest of us that there are a finite number of people to encounter, and those people should be good to one another, because life is better that way.

Living on the outskirts of a lake is the inverse of an island, right? The opposite of land surrounded by water would be water surrounded by land, true? So it seems pretty reasonable that we could get serious about waving to one another here.

I defined a wave zone that starts at the round barn, includes the hill, and goes around the lake. (I would like to emphasize that this includes the sketchy hill where Joey lives.)

I’ve waved to everyone I’ve passed within this zone since Saturday, using the peace fingers wave, which I think is pleasant, but not creepily over-enthusiastic. It’s a wave that says, “I’m cool, and you are too.”

I was pretty sure it would take a while to catch on, and wasn’t too discouraged that I haven’t gotten a return wave yet, until this:

I was on my evening swim, going across the lake, and was just about as far from land in any direction as could be, when I noticed two other adults also swimming in the middle of the lake. This is pretty unusual, (I was going to add, “because it never happens”, but I think you people understand the meaning of the word unusual. Yes, I think you do.)

I said hello, which seemed like the thing to say. And the man said to the woman, “Look, honey! It’s another person!” Which seemed like an odd thing to say. As if it weren’t just another person, but a deaf person, being that I was about 6 feet away. (Or, I should say, six knots away. I know! Knots are speed, not distance. But feet seems like such a terrestrial measure.)

The woman, who was wearing a full wetsuit with sleeves and even a hat, just kept talking. They were doing that breaststroke kind of casual floating/swimming thing, which I don’t think that warrants getting all suited up. Especially because the water is currently 76 degrees. Did I mention the hat?
So she’s chatting, and I’m saying hello, and she’s ignoring the hello, but he finally just points to me,  just a few feet away, and says, again, “Look, honey! A person!”

So she says, "hmm", and goes back to her topic, which seemed to be some sort of a discussion of chores list. Much like the hat, a chore list is not something you should take swimming.

By now I find myself strangely irritated, because it just didn’t bode well for Project Wave if people don’t even say hello when we’re basically the only people and we’re out to sea. There’s not even an island.  We are the island.  Or her hat is the island, and due to it’s large size, particles like me are beginning to swarm around it. I swim right up to her and say, “Hi there. Nice hat!” And she says "thanks" offhandedly, and keeps swimming. I know. I know what you’re thinking. I was thinking that too.

The hat? It was just a big floppy brim, without the hat part. Like, her head would be the donut hole, and the hat would be the donut itself.

I’ll keep waving for now.

Monday, July 12, 2010

Ambitious

Yeah, I'm still not over that NYT headline: "Ambitious Effort Begins to Contain All Spill Oil."  I'm sorry for not being able to move on, because we all know people like that and we don't like it.  We really don't.  But seriously, do they get to use the word "ambitious"?

Reader quiz:  Which of the following sentences uses the word correctly?
  1. That guy running out of the burning building was really ambitious! 
  2. Wow, wasn't it ambitious of her to swim to shore after the boat sank? She's no slacker.
  3. I'm feeling pretty ambitious today.  I think I'll put pants on.
  4. I have an ambitious friend who made cherimoya sorbet

Sunday, July 11, 2010

Into the future

Aries (3/21 – 4/19): Ever been to a party where the chairs are arranged in a circle and you go around the room taking turns telling stories about shootings in your family's history?  And there's enough material that they try to go around the circle twice?  I hate that.  But even worse is that when it gets to you, they say, "it's okay if you don't have anything.  You can share mental illness stories from your family if you want."  And you're thinking, "can't we just shoot off some fireworks and call it good?"  Just enjoy the stories.  Enjoy that the people you know have great grandfathers who got shot down by the river in Texas. 

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20): Oh, my dear Tauriis, while we're on the subject of stories, I'd like to call your attention this.  I know, you don't click on links, because you never know where you'll end up, and if you'll be dressed appropriately for the site, so I'll just tell you.  An evening of live, true, harrowing, hilarious storytelling in Seattle, this Tuesday.  There is really nothing better in all of the world than a good story, don't you agree?  But back to your horoscope:  it's gonna be a hard rain that's gonna fall.  Metaphorically.  Breathe (a lot, but not too rapidly), remember how strong you are and how everything ends eventually.  Focus on the sine curve. 

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21): My dear twins, did you read this?  I didn't either, but it was pointed out to me.  (Thanks, E.)  The gist is that an elderly woman had her dead twin sister and husband dug up and brought home where they lived with her on the couch.  She kept her sister doused in perfume, and wearing her best housecoat. "I'd go in, and I'd talk, and I'd forget," Stevens said. "I put glasses on her. When I put the glasses on, it made all the difference in the world. I would fix her up. I'd fix her face up all the time."  It's just about the saddest thing ever.  But hey, that bit about putting the glasses on.  It does make all the difference in the world.  Look harder this week.  See what you can see.  (If anyone is wondering, I don't even have a best housecoat.)

Cancer (6/22 – 7/21):  So I have this squirrel that is a little bit creepy.  It lives in the attic, and I know exactly how it gets in and out, but now the animal has had babies, and I hear them nursing and mewing and stuff, because the nest is literally inches from my bed, but inside the wall.  I don't want to close up the access just yet, because I truly don't want baby squirrel blood on my hands.  But the mother comes inside the house occasionally, and runs around the kitchen.  I'm not for that.  My point being, life is complicated -- that nasty rodent that creeps me out in the kitchen because she looks so angry is also the mother who lovingly cares for her little baby rodents.  This week will be like one giant optical illusion:  is it a vase, or two faces?  A lovely young woman, or the old surly one? Try to see both sides, but land on the side where you see the charming, loving, nursing rodent.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22): Do you ever get stumped working on the horoscopes, and you're only on Leo?  I know, me too!  So you go look at some others, just as an example, the way you might have a little snack to get in the mood to cook.  And those people have cool starry names, like, "Venus by Evelyn", but when you read it, you have no what she's talking about: "the ruling of planet VENUS in your life this cycle is really an "illuminate" intuition."  Yeah, anyways, the stars are up there, we're down here, have an awesome week.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22):  Boise Boise Boise, that's all it ever is with you.  I will say, I'm strangely fond of those Russian spies.  Befriending people on the off chance that someone they know will eventually become someone important, and they'll be an insider.  That's exactly how it is with this blog --  there's an off chance that something important will happen here, and you'll be the first to know.  Keep reading.  Not because that's even remotely likely, but because it says something about you -- like, you're the hopeful sort of human who thinks amazing things are possible.  Live that way this week.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22): Did this headline cause your jaw to drop today?  "Ambitious Effort Begins to Contain All Spill Oil" (NYT).  I don't know which word was more disturbing, "ambitious", or "begins".  Seriously, we're on Day 83, and the effort is just beginning?  Maybe its just me, but if "ambition" isn't called for in this situation, when would it be?  I'm just picturing some guy, "Hey, Tony, we oughta get up and do something about that spill."  "Wow, ambitious, aren't you?  Let's just take a nap.  Maybe on day 83."  Anyway, don't be so nappish all the time.  Get up and do something.  (The picture is from this article, Atlantic Monthly.)

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21): Sometimes when I'm stuck on the horoscopes I look at google insights to see what people are searching for.  In this state, during the past seven days, in the category "Science" there was only one search topic, "Moon".  That made me a little tiny bit sad, I will say.  So I checked a few other states:  Maine:  nothing at all.  Florida:  10 things, including math, shark, moon, cool math games, and Rube Goldberg.  And Texas had ten search items as well, including DNA.   I don't know exactly what the point of this is, my dear Scorpios, except that we should stay curious, believe in science, and use the internet for good and not evil.

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21):  Oh, my Sagi-people.  Yes, that's a cool hat, you could take it off once in a while, though.  There's been research showing that children in homes with 500 books or more are smarter, kinder, just basically better.  Pick one of those books up once in a while, will ya?  Your week will be excellent, getting better each day until the weekend when it will be non-stop fun.  Look forward to that.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  Maybe it's just me, but did you know that Woodrow Wilson devolved into a paranoid, limerick-obsessed guy after his stroke?  Yep, that'll happen.  Be careful out there.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  I went to a meeting last week, and during the small talk part while we were waiting for That Guy Who's Always Late, I mentioned this article, which, well, considering it was a room full of men, just didn't go over very well.  I'd suggest you not make the same mistake as I did, and pack up your small talk kit with some harmless interesting tidbits.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20): The world is irreducibly complex.  Don't try to pretend otherwise.  The ducks, they don't like to be in rows -- let them wander freely.  Take the news that we only understand eight percent of what's going on with dignity, and, if you can summon it, excitement!  Everything we do matters in ways we don't even know about yet, so be thoughtful and kind, and most of all, take courage to do what's hard.

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Take me out to the . . . maytag factory

Today I was sitting in my cubicle when E. walked in with four candybars.  "Pick two."
I studied the selection:  two Three Musketeers, and two Baby Ruth's.

"I forgot what Baby Ruth's are like.  Do I like them?"

"Probably."

I chose one, opened it, and snarfed it down.  "Yes, I do like them.  They taste like the baseball game."  I was trying to sound knowledgeable about sports for an unknown reason.

"Why would you say that?"

"Um, the name, and the peanuts?  Seems baseballish to me."

"No, this candy has nothing to do with baseball.  People think that all the time, but they're wrong."

I went to Wikipedia and learned that the candy bar was named after Grover Cleveland's baby, Ruth.

"How'd you know that?"

"I'm really smart as long as it doesn't involve my actual work.  Like, ask me how many parts there are to a clothes dryer."

"Um, okay.  How many?"

He stares off into space for a minute.  "If there's a bolt that comes already riveted to a piece of sheet metal, should that count as one thing, or two?"

"Two."

"But if you ordered that part, it would all come together as one thing."

"Okay then, one."

More staring.

"What are you looking at, E.?"

"Just picturing the whole thing going together.  Eighty.  Eighty pieces."

"You know this is going on my blog, right?"

"Duh.  Why do you think I even talk to you?"

Okay then.  I'm pretty hard up for material at the moment, because this lawsuit thing has me pretty rattled.  It's an actual jury trial, with me being the defendant an all, and it makes me think I shouldn't write a word about anything at all.  Especially after listening to this week's Moth episode, in which an innocent man went to jail for 19 years for a crime he didn't commit.  The justice system is a little bit scary.  Clothes dryers seem safe enough, though.

But I would like to add that Snopes does not subscribe to the theory that a candy bar would be named after a former president's dead daughter, 17 years after her death, and coincidentally, during the time when the slugger was the most famous person in America.  (Didn't that sound sporty, to toss out the word, "slugger?").

At any rate, my point being, I got nothin' to write about, but tomorrow might be a whole new ballgame, as it were.

Friday, July 2, 2010

Just askin'

Dear N'3lvra,

Is this Betsy person that posts your replies your assistant or is there a legal reason that you are unable to post these yourself?

Just Askin'

Dear Askin',

Betsy does the posting for me, true.  And she usually doesn't edit much.  I'm unable to post for a variety of reasons  -- I'm not really at liberty to discuss the legal matters yet, but all will be revealed in about 7 years.  That, and they keep me under heavy sedation most of the time, which isn't the worst thing in the world.  They dial it down a bit when a letter comes in, give me a few minutes at the keyboard, and then crank up the meds as soon as I'm done typing.

I hope they wake me up for the CD release party.  The last cd was excellent, but now they've actually written a song about Khortnee!  Or at least her room. 

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...