Thursday, June 23, 2011

Guest blogger

 A nice gift from my 17 year old son, R., that he read at our Unitarian church on Mother's Day. Thanks for indulging.
********************
So, I was going to stand up here and read something that someone else had written, a deep contemplative piece about caring for your mother, or a huge story about someone’s mother guiding them in the right direction. So naturally the first thing I did was ask my mom where she thought I could find such a thing. “What?! You’re reading something at the Mother’s Day service? If you truly love me, you’ll write something yourself.”

A few days later, I set out to write something.  After the first few seconds of not knowing what to write, I turned to the only source I trust for inspiration: my mom. This turned out to be a great idea (like it always is) because she did that classic motherly thing: gave me some tips and added “I’m sure whatever you write will be awesome.” To which I responded “Thhhaannkss moooommmm!”

This got me thinking about all the things my mom does for me. Although I don’t like to admit it, she might argue that there aren’t many things I do for myself. “Mom! Are you making lunch? No? …Well were you planning on it?” is a common phrase in our house. Whether I need help on my homework, or advice on how to talk to my boss about a raise, she’s got my back.

 My mother and I bond over things most people would consider unusual. We religiously listen to the same podcasts (this American life, Wire tap, The Moth), which enables us to speak a separate language that only we understand. “You know that guy who didn’t know he was black until he was 23?” my mom might ask me. Or I might off handedly mention the guy who gets stranded on an island just outside of New York City.  We always know exactly what the other one is talking about.

Another form of bonding takes place while at the dinner table. Each Monday night for the past 5-6 years, my mom and I have read the advice column in the newspaper aloud. Though the newspaper has changed, the tradition carries on.  Each week we complain about how nobody writing in that week has a legitimate problem. “I recently gave a wedding invitation to an old friend but now I’m not so sure I want them there,” one letter will read. “Is it okay to tell them that they are no longer invited?”  My mom and I will talk about how well mannered we are for knowing the answer to this question: No, you cannot uninvite guests.

It wasn’t until just a few years ago that I realized just how cool my mom really is. While other friends were asking their parents if they could go somewhere, I was just informing mine of my current whereabouts. “Your mom’s so chill” was and still is a common saying among my friends.

My mom has done so much for me over the years, and I just want all the mothers here to know that YES, we do appreciate it, and YES we do notice. So please, keep being awesome, and keep doing exactly what you do.

Monday, June 20, 2011

Personality and your week

Aries (3/21 – 4/19): I was wondering about all the  ways you can test your personality, and came upon blood type as a determinant.  It said lots of nice things about me based on my blood type.  So far, that seems accurate, right?  To further verify, I texted B. to find out his blood type.  He got pretty nervous: "sheesh, do you need a transfusion or something?  WTF?"  Anyway, Aries, wouldn't this whole horoscope thing be a lot easier if I only had four things to write each week?  In these austere times, we may have to go to a blood type based prediction, but I'd hate to lose accuracy. . . Your week will be all about maintaining your high standards, against all odds.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):  Taurus, you are a very adventurous person. You love to try new things, but you get bored very easily.  You act like an adult, even when you don't feel like it.  Hmm,  I stole it from a website that describes your personality based on the contents of your refrigerator.  I had to guess what's going on in your refrigerator though, so I used my own.  If it turns out that you only have ketchup and beer, well, that's a whole 'nother matter, and don't blame me if your week is sketchy.  Buy vegetables. 

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21): There used to be 2.5 bullet holes in the ceiling of my laundry room; now there are three.  I don't think that's a good trajectory, do you? Is it water, mice, terrorists?  But you, my Gemini people, will suffer no such fate this week.  No bullet holes, no mice.  Just incense and flowers and some kickass bike rides for you.  Enjoy.  Oh, and not to make this all about me or anything, but sure, I'd go bike riding with you. 

Cancer 6/22 – 7/21: The newest taste sensation, I'm told, is fried Koolaid balls.  You've got your grease, your sugar, your red dye, and you don't even have to wash the dishes.  Make that for dinner one of these nights.  I dare you.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22): One day, the coworker known as I Haven't Been Trained In That saw that I was holding a walkie-talkie, and kept saying, "What is that?!!"  I kept repeating, "It's a walkie-talkie."  He got increasingly agitated, and was all, "Do I have to know that?  What is that?  I don't know what that is."  It was really just a walkie talkie, but now, any of us who were in the room at the time can just say, "What is that?!!" and the rest of us just laugh uncontrollably for a while.  It really wasn't that funny, but it's become a Pavlovian response.  See if you can find one of those this week -- something that's guaranteed to make you laugh, no matter what.  I'm not saying you're going to need it, but what's the downside of having an extra laugh in your kit?

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22)
:  Last year, Iran sent two worms, two turtles, and a rat into space.  This year, a monkey.  What will be next, Virgo, a Labradoodle?  A telly-tubby?  You won't be going into space this week, though, even metaphorically.  You'll be super-grounded, some might even say,... well, I wouldn't say it.  Just be glad you aren't a lowly worm or two turtles. But if you long for a little flight, the jetpack is now for sale!

Libra (9/23 – 10/22): Every week if the newspaper man remembers, I get the Sunday NYT delivered to my mailbox, and I immediately read two things:  the Lives essay, and Modern Love, because both are usually the best writing I've read all week.  But sheesh, this week Lives published the lamest essay ever.  Don't even click on that link, by the way.  Make your week like that -- like not clicking on the lame links.  Practice practice practice. 

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  Over the past few years, my workplace has increasingly come to look like the site of some weird event, not exactly Pompeii, because there are no bodies.  More like a monster came and people ran off, leaving everything behind.  About 300 people have been laid off, leaving all their stuff.  Since we're the government, what we do is generate paper, and we're afraid to throw anything out because someone might want it.  Mountains of paper all over the place.  We've been asked to "go through everything and see what we can get rid of."  Which seems reasonable, but still challenging, right?  In case that was too easy, though, they've told us to a) be sure to recycle everything we can, and b) not to use the recycling bins.  In fact, they've been tipped over and labeled with a handwritten, anonymous note that says, "DO NOT FILL THESE".  Someone ignored the note, inverted the barrel, and (gasp!) recycled some paper.  In the bin!  Yeah, they were totally busted by that, in a global e-mail that came right after the one by the Exec who said we should all look for the obstacles to getting stuff done efficiently, and we should talk to our supervisors about that.  Because we've gotta clear out the obstacles, I tell you, we do.  Clear 'em out, Scorpio. 

Sagittarius (11/22 – 12/21): Do you ever feel like one of those shrimp on a treadmill, but without the $560,000?  No?  Me neither.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19): Thank goodness that Miss America is one of only two contestants who believe in evolution.  Sheesh.  That is seriously frightening, the state of science today.  If I were in charge, there'd be "Miss Scientific America", and you'd have to know what a non-Newtonian fluid is, and you'd have to be at least able to give a paragraph about string theory, and every single woman would be considered super hot because she'd probably be wearing a lab coat and quite possibly, a digital thermometer around her neck.  But that's not the world we live in, Capricorn, so get used to it.  But spread the word about evolution, would'ja? 

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18): For reasons that I won't go all the way into, I looked up the Glasgow coma test, just to see where I fit, and I dunno, the internet highway is one weird place, that's all I've got to say.  I found a list of diagnostic tests for a coma that include urine and blood tests.  Seriously?  I am not a real doctor, but I think if you can pee in a cup, you're not in a legit coma, you probably just don't like your job very much.  See what you can do about that.   I think I scored 13, by the way, but I'm not sure what they mean by "N/A" for eyes.  Do you get 6 points for having no eyes?  What does it all mean, Aquarius?  Is that grading on a curve, or is there something else at play here?

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20): What did you make of that giant black hole that ate an enormous star?  Weird, or just confusing?  Let's break it down, shall we?  A black hole is a region of space where nothing ever escapes, not even light.  On the black hole, according to Wikipedia, there's "an undetectable surface called an event horizon that marks the point of no return."  I think that's a pretty confusing way to say that it's like that point in the Niagara River that you shouldn't paddle across, or you're going down.  Not to stray from the topic, Pisces, but don't you just love Niagara Falls lore?  More about that in the future.  Back to the event horizon -- past that invisible surface, you get permanently sucked in.  At any rate, my dear Pisces, you'll come close to your own event horizon this week.  Be careful.  Send up a flare and hold on to someone's boot if you can.

Friday, June 17, 2011

How to write an Essay

From the archives...

Sign up for a writing class to force you to write.  Sit down at the computer to begin writing.  Notice, for the thousandth time, the last unpleasant vestige of 1976 that remains in your house, a span of high pile brown shag carpet that covers the stairs. Think, for the thousandth time, that you should do something about it.

Remember the reasons that you haven’t: before getting new carpet, you should paint the hall area.  But before you can paint, you should finish the window seat that is at the stair landing, started by your ex-husband a dozen years ago.  The window seat, which is a bumpout the size of a double bed, has the windows, but they are unfinished; no trim. But before the windows can be trimmed, the drywall should be mudded and taped, and then covered with spray on texture.  Then you can paint.

Once the painting is done, you can replace the carpet, but you hesitate to remove the brown shag, because you know that underneath are shoddy construction stairs that are too narrow for the stairway; there’s a two-inch gap between the stairs and the wall, that’s covered with the brown shag.  Removing the rug would create yet another problem to solve.   Stare at this problem in 5 minute increments for many years, and then distract yourself with something else.

Sit down to write, and notice the brown shag rug.  Decide that this is the time to do something about it.
Go to the paint store and pick a bold group of colors – warm rich orange for the hall, deep plum for the facing wall, robin’s eggshell blue for the window seat, and deep teal for the trim.  Someone in your writing class is writing about Mexico, and you suddenly want your house to look like Mexico.

“Are you sure you want these colors?” says the woman at the hardware store.  "All in the same area?"

“Yes, I’m sure.”

Carry the paint to the cashier, who says, “You know that we don’t accept returns on paint, right?”

“Yes, I know.”

“And paint always looks darker on the wall.”

“Yes.”

“You’ve painted before?”

“Yes.”

Look at the bold paint chips and think how beautiful the hall will be when it’s all painted.

Make a schedule:
1.    fuss over daughter before she departs for a remote village in  Africa for a month. 

2.    Help son get organized for a school trip to Italy for a week. Travel to airport a few times.

3.    Mud and tape the window seat; while it’s drying, paint the upper hall. 

4.    Sand the mud, and think about how you should really sit down to write. 

5.    Look at the paint chips and think how beautiful the project will be when completed. Decide that this is more important than writing.  Think about how your kids are fanned out across the globe.  Miss them like arms that have been cut off but still, remarkably, have feeling in them.

6.    Go to the big warehouse store and buy window trim and casing. 

7.    Bring trim home in 12-foot lengths, sticking out the back of your small hatchback car because you weren’t sure how to operate the saw in the big warehouse store and are too chicken to ask.

8.    Borrow a power saw from your ex-husband.  It has to be borrowed from an ex-husband, because this adds a certain type of pressure to the situation.  You need that.

9.    Buy a mitre box and try to figure out how to use it.  Go to the internet to look it up.  Play solitaire for half an hour.

10. Set up a painting station outside for the casing and trim. 

11. Paint the strips of wood.

12. Measure and cut trim.   Install, and marvel at how hard it is to cut a 45 degree angle. 

13. Add putty to your Home Depot list.

14. Go to the Internet to investigate how to properly cut trim.  Play solitaire for half an hour. Think about how you should be writing an essay.

15. Go back to painting, which seems easier than trim because there are no 45 degree angles, but notice that you aren’t convinced of your handed-ness.  You thought you were left-handed, but everything is coming out so sloppy that you try the right hand, on the off chance it works better.  Realize that neither one is very good at painting. 

16. Paint one bold color, then the next.  Splatter onto the first color; touch it up, and create a problem on the second.  Do this for a while, each time solving one problem and creating a new one.  Decide it doesn't have to be perfect, and stop.

17. Realize that even with the extension pole, you can’t reach the highest part of the ceiling.  Drag a ladder out of the barn, but realize it isn’t possible to set up on the stairway.  Decide you really don’t care about that part anyway; who cares if the paint doesn’t meet the ceiling?  Remind yourself that it doesn't have to be perfect.

18. Tear up the 30 year-old rug.  Put it in a pile for a trip to the dump.

19. Sweep and scrub the stairs; remove every extra nail and staple.  Scrub again.  Putty all of the holes and imperfections.  Sand.  Spend several hours on this. Marvel at how great the stairs look, except for the 2 inch gap between the stair treads and the wall that the mice use as a highway.

20. Look at the paint chips and realize that it isn’t quite panning out the way you imagined.

21. Sit down at the computer to write. Instead, play solitaire for 20 minutes.

22. Decide to fill the gap between the wall and stairs with trim installed horizontally across the gap.  Do a sample with scraps lying around.  Realize a) it looks a little hokey, but not that bad; and b) each stair will require a horizontal piece and a vertical piece that needs a specialized cut out where the gap on the riser meets the tread, which sounds tricky.  Remind yourself that it doesn't have to be perfect.

23. Travel to the warehouse store to buy more trim. Decide to purchase the stair paint at the smaller hardware store closer to home to support the hometown store.

24. Spend 1.5 hours in the smaller store closer to home while the kindly men try to figure out how to mix that particular color in a floor paint.  While you’re waiting, contemplate whether Brill Cream is still sold in stores, or whether these two just have a large stash leftover from a long time ago. Eventually, have them give up, saying they can't create that particular color, and you might have to go to Home Depot.

25. Paint stairs, leaving alternate blank footpads free, so that you can still travel up and down. 

26. Paint trim.

27. Install trim on the first step.  Realize it looks very very cheesy.  Like someone with no carpentry skills trying to cover a gap in a cheap and easy way, which is exactly what it is.  Think about starting to write an essay.

28. Go back to work at your real job. Discuss this with your work buddy, who encourages you to just build brand new stairs.  During lunch, go to a hardware store and buy materials for 2 stairs.  Decide you can do this, two steps at a time.

29. Go home, and remove two of the beautifully sanded, painted stairs.  Begin to replace them.

30. Get a phone call from your son that he’s just left the airport, and his Dad will be dropping him off in 30 minutes.

31. Sit down to write an essay.

Sunday, June 12, 2011

As you trudge through the week...

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):  I heard someone mention that, "with 7 billion people on the planet now..."  and it freaked me out a little, because I didn't think we were there yet.  Turns out we have until October.  Aries, this week enjoy the space while you can.  Dance and spin with your arms extended.  Sing out loud.

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):   I was at our little local grocery store buying kale the other day because that's all that grows around here anymore during this endless winter, when the guy in front of me started talking to my favorite checker about knitting.  It turns out he's teaching himself to knit, and began with a pair of pants.  I know!  I happen to be someone who knits -- I can knit a hat, a sweater, or even a sock, but pants seem like a pretty big challenge, not just technically, but fashion-wise.  Especially fashion-wise.  Don't take the knit pants challenge, Taurus.  There's enough baggy weirdness in the world without that.  Be part of the solution already.  But, I'm sorry to say that this week will feel a little baggy and weird at first.  Try to enjoy it, and if that's hard, say this over and over:  "my week is not itchy my week is not itchy it may be baggy and weird but my week is not itchy."

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21):  The other morning when it wasn't quite light yet, and that's actually saying a lot, I found myself carrying a dead mouse outside to deal with "later", (which hasn't actually come up yet, this later time when I'm going to do something with the stiffened mouse).  I set the trap myself, only snapped my finger in it once, and the peanut butter didn't go flying all over.  It seems weird to bury it, right?  Like that scene in Garden State?  Anyway, I was thinking about what killing this creature has done to my karma and what I'll have to do to clean it up.  I think it will take a lot.  I've got to give it away, give everything away, think pure thoughts, save many lives, give generous gifts covered in white cloth and adorned with flowers.  I don't know if I'm up for it, Gemini, but if there's anything you want, now's a good time to ask. 

Cancer 6/22 – 7/21:  Do you ever have that sleepy part in the afternoon where you need a cup of tea, and you find a half-full (optimist that you are) cup of something that looks like tea, so you add another bag, water, and honey to it, heat it, but when you taste it, you realize the first half was coffee?  Oh, I hate that.  That is not unlike how your week will be, unfortunately.  The first half, strong, punchy, and seriously wakeful.  The second half will be kind of mellow and sweet, and full of anti-oxidants.  Around mid-week, when it's changing over, the week will taste a little funny, but only to you.  When you ask around, "Hey, does this week taste funny?" people will just look at you like you're crazy.  You aren't, Cancer.  Not even close.  But it's an acquired taste, this week, so keep your mind and your heart open, and drink up.

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  Okay, Leo, not to stray too far from the topic, which is you and your upcoming awesome week, but does it seem like texting a picture your private pants area is grounds to call for resignation?  Are crimes against a relationship the same as crimes against the populace?  Does anyone remember 43, and the stuff he endorsed, like waterboarding and lying about wmd in Iraq, and outing Valerie Plame?  But that wasn't as bad as texting a crotch shot, right?  Okay, back to you, Leo.  Your week will be a little chewy.  Take your time to enjoy it, and be sure to carry a knife, not as a weapon, but just to cut things into more manageable chunks.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22)
: Oh, Virgo, you're so not vain, you probably don't think this horoscope is about you, but it is!  It's totally for you.   I had this dream last night where a person at my workplace offered me a ride home, but instead of bringing me home, she dropped me off downtown and said I could take the bus.  I was fine with it, like, "Oh, that's okay.  Thanks for dropping me off 35 miles from my home.  I have a bus pass!"  But I went down in the bus tunnel, and it was lined with books.  Real books, but they didn't seem real, which got my attention to the point of losing my wallet.  Luckily, my bus pass was in my pocket, so my main concern was not my missing wallet, but fear that the books weren't cataloged.  I woke up anxious about that, and then totally relieved, like, oh, phew, that was just a bad dream!  There are people who organize the information!  What a good world we live in.

If you're a different Virgo, the one whom I called for a favor, placed on hold, and hung up on eventually, oh, shoot, forgive me for that.  See Gemini, above.  I'll be giving everything away.  Give it away, give it away.  Enough about you.  Back to the horoscope:  Virgo, don't underestimate this week.  It is quite possibly going to be the Best. Week.  Ever.

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  I was reading about the urn labeled "grandma's ashes" that turned up at a goodwill store.  The store is assuming it's a mistake, and they're hoping someone will claim them.  I think Grandma just wanted Goodwill as her final resting place.  But that shouldn't concern you this week.  Not at all.  When I asked an expert about the Libra horoscope, he made this giant shooting motion and was reluctant to clarify.  Be careful. 

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  If we ever do get any sun, check this out.  A solar-powered bikini.  Then tweet a picture of yourself charging stuff.  That's totally hot, I suppose -- sitting outside in the sun.  

Saggitarius (11/22 – 12/21):  I believe it's Duvall-henge this week, where the setting sun will line up directly with the one alley in town, shooting a ray of light and energy directly up the alley and into the adoring crowd in the drugstore parking lot.  Bring folding chairs, drinks, and be prepared to tell some good stories while you wait for the sun to go down.  Oh wait, I made that up.  That should be an actual thing, right?  Can you figure out what day that will happen?  Using math and stuff?

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  Those Sarah Palin e-mails turned out to be a whole lot of nothing, didn't they?  But it did make me think about my own e-mails, which haven't yet been released, but they go something like this:
Me:  Hey Nick, wanna get coffee?
Nick:  Okay.
More of this gripping stuff will be released eventually, I'm sure.   Don't be too cocky this week, Capricorn.  Take it slow, be thoughtful.  Listen hard.

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  Do you wonder what kind of outpatient treatment it is that cures a rich, successful guy married to a gorgeous woman from the disease of photographing his crotch and tweeting it?  Is ginko involved?  Don't think about that, Aquarius.  Instead, think about how Mr. Weiner has answered the burning question we've all had, "what the hell is twitter for?"  Now we know, thanks to the weiner-waver himself.  But Aquarius, you're better than all of that, and so too will your week be.

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):  What if, on October 21, when the rapture is supposed to for sure happen, not like the last time, we called it Non-Judgement Day, and tried our hardest not to judge one another, at least for that one day?  Let's try practicing this week.

Friday, June 10, 2011

Maillard Reaction

The other day when B. and I went to coffee, the daily trivia question was, “What t.v. star sang on the Berlin Wall?” 

“Bono?” I guessed.

“Roger Waters?” guessed B.

“Wrong,” said the barista.   “Think t.v. star.”  It turned out to be David Hasselhoff. 

B. was all, “Oh, I shoulda’ guessed that.”

I was all, “huh? Who’s David Hasselhoff?”

B., the cashier, and the barista all just stared at me.  “Baywatch?  Haven’t you seen that?”

“Um, no.”  I was glad I hadn't said what I was thinking, which is, "Isn't he  one of the Seahawks?"

B. gave me that look, like you are so freakin’ lame it’s amazing I have coffee with you.

I felt the tiniest bit defensive.  “Hey, I know other stuff.  Just not about David Hasselhoff.”

“Like what?”

“Well, like why hamburgers are so popular.”

“Okay, go.”

“Well, it’s because they are one of a small number of meat sandwiches where the meat requires the same level of effort to chew as the bread.  Picture a steak sandwich, where either you have to really smoosh the bread with your hands and rip the meat, or a big hunk of meat comes out that doesn’t match the bread, leaving you with a future meatless bite of sandwich.”

The barista and cashier look bored, and B. starts doing that “cut” gesture, running his hand horizontally across his neck.

“Wait, there’s more. I’m not done yet.”

But he keeps doing that gesture, so I stop.

We walk to a table and sit down.  “Where’d you learn that, NPR or something?”

“Um, the New York Times,” I respond, a little sheepishly. 

“Practically the same thing.”

“Seriously, I’m not finished.” I start, but he’s not listening.  “Our big brains evolved to need lots of protein,” I continue.

“Yeah, let’s go get me some protein.”  So we walk over to the grocery store where he buys a bag of chicken.  I know.   Chicken should never come in a bag.

Back at the office, I start flipping through the database of calls to return.  There’s a lot of interesting stuff, but nothing assigned to me, and besides, it’s not even 7:00 yet, so I can’t call anyone anyway. Stuff like, “I’m a vet treating a hybrid wolf that may need to stay overnight in the kennel.  Is that allowed in the RA-5 zone?”  Or, “My neighbor has honey bees and I’m allergic to bees.  Can she do that?” Or, “I own property in East King County.  Can I start a cemetery here?”  Wait, right?  Who needs to start a cemetery? Is that normal?  I look up the parcel, and it turns out to be a small lot in a subdivision.  I want to call these people, but I don't.  Or, “Why does the county own this parcel?”  I look up the parcel, and it’s not owned by the County.

I have an idea that we should call people back on skype, but have a sock monkey do the talking. I go look for my boss to tell him this, but I can’t find him, and I get paged to go answer a question.

The person I’m helping is one of those guys who can’t just ask the question (“Can I replace my old mobile home with a new one in the same location?”  Sock monkey would say yes.)

Instead, he has to explain about his divorce, and the moss on the roof, and the guy who owned it 20 years ago who liked to golf, and on and on, which on the one hand, I enjoy because it makes the world a little bit smaller, but on the other hand, he's not a very good story teller.  Moss on the roof isn't really a story.  I eventually extract myself and walk through the lobby, and notice four books sitting on the coffee table.  I’ve never seen books there before, so I stop to look.  We have, for the public’s reading pleasure, the following titles:

  1. Silent Grief, a book about surviving a loved one’s suicide
  2. Hocus Pocus, by Kurt Vonnegut, a book about technology spun out of control and man's ineffective efforts to control it
  3.  One about something having to do with midlife crisis with the word Costco in the title. 
  4. One about how to manage a workplace or something.
Light reading for the lobby.

As I'm standing there, I get a text from R.   “I was 20 minutes late to school.  Can you write an excuse for me?

“What should I say?’

“It would be best if it were something very manly.  Like, I was chasing a wolf, or hunting meat for breakfast.”

I write to the attendance office, “R. was late because he overslept.”  But it got me to thinking -- women don't work very hard to project a womanly image.  Why is that?  I challenge any of you bloggers out there to take that topic on.

I’ve been thinking about being a doula lately, and decide I should go talk to my boss about it. I look around for a while, but can’t find him.

I Haven’t Been Trained In That comes in to my cube when I get back.

“I have a question for you,” he starts.

“I have the answer! The reason we love hamburgers so much is….”  I go on with my speil, but he doesn’t seem very interested, and indicates that isn’t the answer he needs.  He goes on with his question, and I answer it, and then I tell him what our boss would say, which is a different answer from mine.  “so, you have choices,” I say.

“How do you know what he’d say?”

“Well, let’s go find him and ask.  I need to tell him why we like hamburgers so much anyway.”

We go looking for him, but he’s nowhere to be found.  As we’re looking around, I do notice that Hocus Pocus is missing from the table.

I go back to my computer and try to do something but it doesn't work, so I write to the Help Desk.  A few minutes later, The Magnificent calls, and says he's having lunch with another IT guy soon and they can talk about my problem, and in the meantime, I can use this work-around.

"Not to complain or anything," I say, "but it does feel like my whole life has become one giant workaround, you know?  And where are you guys going to lunch, anyway?"  I'm hoping this will lead towards my hamburger information.

"Five Guys."

"What do they serve there?"

"Burgers."

"Oh!  I have some information about burgers...."

"Is this going to be about how they're unhealthy or cruel?"

So I start to explain, but before I even get there, he says, "oh, is this going to be about the Maillard Reaction?  Because that's why I like toast."

You can see why he's called The Magnificent.

Sorry, that's all I have.  This is my own moss-on-the-roof tale that has no point, and not even much of a plot line.  Oh, wait, I do have one more thing.  Those books disappeared, one at a time over the course of two days, and now they're all gone.  Silent Grief was next to go.

Thanks for sticking it out.

Monday, June 6, 2011

Confusing week ahead

Aries (3/21 – 4/19):   So I was listening to RadioLab, and they had an interview with a specialist in artificial intelligence who, through the course of online dating, fell in love with a robot, and went so far as to plan a trip to Russia to meet her.  Of course, he didn't know it was a robot; he was duped by her clever, loving chatter.   I thought I'd check out communicating with a robot, because what's wrong with a little clever, loving chatter now and then?  Cleverbot is a computer program that has been trained to communicate as if it were human.  Here's our conversation:


I don't know about you, Aries, but I was totally duped and found Cleverbot to be quite the fun conversationalist.   I can see how you'd fall for someone like that, and buy tickets to Moscow...  Even though I cut out the part about ...  Okay, never mind, I'll let you see that part too:
I thought that was pretty smooth about the casing.  Aries, the point is, things might not be as they seem, so stay alert, don't buy your airplane tickets just yet, and sheesh, don't remove your casing for just anyone! 

Taurus (4/20 – 5/20):   I was talking with a group of people the other day when someone mentioned that all states don't observe daylight savings time, and then someone else added, "in Zimbabwe, they're seven years behind --It's actually 2004 there."  They weren't talking metaphorically, like about the speed of the internet or anything, they were talking about the actual year.  I'm pretty sure there aren't people who use the Gregorian calendar, but are just behind, right?  That would be like, "Yeah, in Alabama, it's actually last Tuesday!  That's how they do it there."  You're week will be over soon, that's the good part.  You won't be stuck in last Tuesday forever. 

Gemini (5/21 – 6/21): Have you considered quantum jumping?  That's when you jump into one of the millions of alternate universes that you're already living in.  Some of the other yous have done amazing things like learn how to paint or make a lot of money or train horses.  In your case, Gemini, this is your best life.  So don't be jumping.  And anyway, the rest of us need you here.  Learning to paint isn't all it's cracked up to be. 


Cancer 6/22 – 7/21:

In about February of this year, I brought some leftover food from an Indian restaurant home, and per the new law, this food was packaged in a biodegradable container.  I ate the contents and put the container in my compost bin.  I turn that pile over pretty faithfully, not like an actual disorder, but close.  Each time I see that container, which is about every three days, its like meeting an old friend.  My compost pile has been about 126 degrees for the past few weeks, not that I measure the temperature every day or anything.  Sheesh, that would be weird.  Anyway, the point is, the container looks practically brand new.  In fact, when I came upon it yesterday, I thought, wow, I could pack my lunch in that thing.  (Except for the worms and dirt.)  That's how your week will be, Cancer.  Nearly indestructible.  Later, you'll be looking back on this time and calling it Teflon Week.  You could pack your lunch in this week. 

Leo (7/23 – 8/22):  It made me strangely happy to see this -- the Florida couple who attempted to seize the assets of Bank of America.  Sweet justice does happen, though sometimes it takes time and a really good attorney.  But just knowing it's out there is a good thing.  There's other stuff out there too; find some of it this week.  Report back.

Virgo (8/23 – 9/22)
:  Last week I was sitting in a coffee shop, trying to write, when I overheard two men at the next table.  The first guy said, "come on, when will you deliver my dumpster? I need that NOW."  The other guy answered, but he was a bit waffley -- "we'll get to that."  I assumed Guy #1 was running some construction or demolition site, and Guy #2 was a contractor who was supposed to deliver a dumpster, right?  But I turned my attention away for a bit, and when I tuned back in, the first guy was saying, "so what's my job title gonna be?"  And the guy was vague again, saying something like, "you'll have to fill out these forms first."  So now it's a job interview, and Guy #1 is asking for the job?  I know.  I so wish I had paid better attention, because something interesting happened and I missed it.  Oh, how I hate that.  This could happen to you if you don't pay attention. 

Libra (9/23 – 10/22):  It does seem tacky that they're writing Steve Jobs obituary already.  Don't let them write yours.

Scorpio (10/23 – 11/21):  Does this whole anti-matter news have you troubled?  That scientists at CERN were able to capture it for 16 minutes?  Oh, so many questions, Scorpio.  Where is it now?  And aren't we glad, after all, that matter won the ultimate arm wrestle, causing anti-matter to be a bit player?  Do we really want a lot of anti-matter hanging around?  If matter plus antimatter equals annihilation, um.... should we be messing with that stuff?  And what does this mean: "a particle moving forward through time in our universe should be indistinguishable from an antiparticle moving backwards through time in a mirror universe."  Anyway, your week will be be full of confusion and questions, but luckily you'll be too busy to notice.

Saggitarius (11/22 – 12/21): The other day, N. came to my cube to say good morning, but although he was talking with his mouth, he was also flapping his fingers, thumb meeting the other four fingers in that talking motion.  (Just so you know, he doesn’t usually do that.)

“Do you have an imaginary puppet, N?”

He looked down at his hand as if he were unaware of its activities.  After thinking about it, we concluded that it would be a pretty good strategy, to have puppets who could talk to the people in the permit center.

“NO! You can't build that!  Not allowed!”  In a squeaky voice.  From a hand covered by a sock monkey.

Then I learned that there’s actually a movie about a guy who pulls himself out of depression by communicating exclusively through a beaver puppet that he found in a dumpster.  Why am I always so late to things?  Saggitarians, don't be late for the ideas this week.  Think 'em up, and act fast.

Capricorn (12/22 – 1/19):  Oh, so Fox news accidentally used a picture of Tina Fey in their reporting about Palin's bus trip?  Seriously.  That reminds me of when they put the picture of Frank Caliendo on a story thinking it was W.  Oh wait, that never happened.  If you're accidentally mistaken for a right-wing nut job this week, just go with it.  Enjoy the fame, and maybe get a big bus!

Aquarius (1/20 – 2/18):  I think it's super cool that the Palin supporters have been editing the wiki page on Paul Revere, don't you?  Maybe he did use bells.  Maybe he was trying to warn the British.  Maybe Paul was actually working for the other side.  Have you ever seen Paul Revere's birth certificate?  And even more importantly,  have you ever seen Tupac and Paul R. in the same room?  Coincidence?  I don't think so, you water-bearers.  You know the rest.   

Pisces (2/19 – 3/20):):  You've gotta admit that Weinergate has lead to some really funny stuff, like this blog post.  But it sounds like he's moving up as well as fessing up.  Still awkward.  Anyway, this week, raise the bar a little bit.  Confess when you need to, apologize well if you caused harm, and speak your truth with sweetness.

Thursday, June 2, 2011

Half Empty

So, in case you were wondering, the results of the MRI came back normal, yay.

When I went to the appointment, I didn’t think I was nervous at all.  In fact, I actually fell asleep in the waiting room, to the point where I was dreaming and possibly drooling/snoring, and only awoke when the technician, I think her name was Lisa, called my name.  She took me back to a dressing room, told me to change into beige hospital scrubs, open the door, and wait for her.

I sort of liked wearing the scrubs, because it made me feel like I had an important job saving lives, but Lisa didn’t come back for a long time, and I started to worry that she'd never come back.  She finally did, escorted me to the table, covered me with a warm blanket, inserted an IV into my arm, and explained how it would go.  “Don’t open your eyes.  It’s really best if you don’t open your eyes,” she said about four times, making me want to do just that, but I trusted Lisa, so kept them shut.

“Do you have any questions?”

“Yes.  What's your job title?” I asked.  “Are you a radiology technician?”

She looked surprised, and said yes, that was correct.  It's one of the possibilities for a career change, but I didn’t want to tell Lisa that I was angling for her job right before she shoved me into the tube. That didn't seem wise.

Once in the tube, she continued to talk to me through a speaker, telling me how long each episode of what she called the “knocking” would last.  There was knocking that sounded exactly like a séance in the movies.  You know the scene where the medium asks if the spirit is present, and then there are a few random knocks, and it seems hokey, but you aren't sure if you're supposed to actually believe there's a spirit, or suspect one of the people seated around the table is doing the knocking?  And you know what kind of person you are, you're the skeptical sort, so is it just you being skeptical, or is it really hokey?  That's the noise it was.

But there were other noises too: loud fog horns, and the emergency broadcast system, and car alarms, and I heard the noises deep in my psyche, not just in my ear.  I felt incredibly sleepy like I might nod off, even through all the commotion.  And Lisa kept talking to me, asking if I was okay, telling me what was going to happen next.  I tried to be still and pretend I was just in shavasana, but I struggled to take a deep breath without moving my head, and you know that thing where you start thinking about how you can't take a deep breath and it makes you get a little gaspy?  Exactly like shavasana, but with gasping.  Also, a steady stream of saliva was dripping down the back of my throat; I just really wanted to sit up, take a deep breath and swallow properly.  

At one point, she announced that she was going to start the I.V., and my arm felt suddenly cold, as if she were injecting ice into my veins, making me think about cryogenics.  And wondering if the knocking was, in fact, some dark spirit.  It also felt like the IV was leaking all over, because this cold damp feeling permeated from the injection site, and I really wanted to open my eyes, but I didn't, no I didn't, because Lisa told me not to, and Lisa was my person.

After about a half an hour, it was over, and the table I was on slid out of the tube.  I expected to see Lisa, but a man I’d never seen was standing there.  He removed the I.V., lowered the table, and told me I could get dressed and leave.  I missed Lisa, and it seemed weird that I didn’t see her again, reminding me of the past few breakups I've experienced, where men skitter off, saying nothing.   Like, come on, Lisa, you too?  Disappear without a trace? Couldn't we at least talk first?  Do these scrubs make my butt look big?

I felt sort of dizzy and numb, and just weird all over when I got out, and had an unanticipated jag of being really emotional.  I had no idea what was even wrong, what I was crying about.  Nothing, really.  I guess I just wanted to say goodbye to Lisa.

It took a loooonnng time to get the results, and I spent several days imagining the worst,  taking David Rakoff's advice, against my better judgment.  I had resigned myself to a life of drooling in a wheelchair, unable to move, and spent a long time trying to figure out if I would indeed be able to find someone who would update this blog for me if the only communication option available to me is blinking one eyelid.  I am pleasantly surprised that so far as I can tell, that's not my fate.

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...