Wow, it has been a while. I was still pilgrimming on to the Thanksgiving season when I last wrote. In fact, in the meantime, The Rock of Love turned out ugly--no shocker there given VH1 jumped on The Rock of Love 2 without allowing us to take a Poison-free breath, Tila apparently chose a man after bringing the options down to a man and a woman who one could easily mistake for a man, and New York has a new love that we have yet to see make it through the Reunion show. I wish my dating life were that exciting.
So, I got a new job (Applause).
What that means is: relocation, relocation, relocation, and in no way can that be equated to Thoreau's similar three-pronged invocation of simplicity. This meant taking the entire weekend to try and find a place near my new epicenter of work. Here are some of the highlights of my search:
My first apartment go-see landed me fairly close to my job, which was a plus. Unfortunately, that was the only plus. As soon as I pulled into the parking area shared by two adjacent buildings, I was given the immediate once-over by two individuals on their porch smoking, both of whom could be mistaken for the instigators of the latest hold up at the local liquor store. The landlord couldn't show me the apartment--she had apparently dropped the keys somewhere in the snow days before and had neglected to tell me that when I committed to see the place. I rescheduled the appointment, but when I decided to take a pass on the combination of a disorganized landlord and neighbors who have probably featured on the show COPS, I figured she would have lost my phone number anyway and therefore, I stood not a chance of getting the "where are you?" phone call from you when I didn't show up.
Later on, I saw a place on the other side of town where a lot of students live. Of course, that generally translates into appauling living spaces, exhorbitant prices, and lots of unwanted company. No shocker that was exactly what I found there. The house overseer was a little nervous because he thought the carpet looked shabby---but that was the least of his problems. The apartment included out of date appliances about to break down at any minute, rusty baseboards, ceiling tiles he was loath to replace because "the new, brighter tiles wouldn't match the older ones", an exposed patch of insulation in wall on the outside where the air conditioner was mounted, walls full of old nails and an older paint job, and a healthy dose of undisposed-of dog crap on the front step. Since I had contacted the man days before I intended to visit, at least he could have taken care of the latter problem.
Yet another landlord sent on his kids--his daughter and his two sons--to show us a place in a larger complex. They collectively arrived over twenty minutes late and because the girl didn't know which units were available, she needed to use my cell phone to call her absent dad and double check on that.
I drove a distance out to one place, took one look at it, pulled a U and came back, and I didn't pick up the phone when the landlord called to ask me where I was and whether or not I had gotten lost getting to the place.
Did this result in some good prospects? Valid question, but the answer is a hopeful "absolutely."
And, I stayed in the same hotel as John McCain in the process--unknowingly until he showed up in his bus. I didn't see him, but I did end up sharing an elevator with his wife, which confirmed my suspicion that he indeed did not marry her for her clever quips and quick wit.
Tuesday, January 01, 2008
Saturday, November 10, 2007
Where Dating Shows Have Never Gone Before.....and NEVER Should Have
Once upon a time, there was "The Dating Game". Fans tuned in during primetime TV hours to watch a contestant ask three hopefuls questions in order to choose one of them for the covetted date. Simple concept, neatly packaged in thirty minutes.
Then, a decade later, we got "Love Connection". Why not bring in audience participation AND a description of the date we never got to see with its predecessor? Instead of the euphoric and hope-filled meeting scenario, why not find out what happens AFTER that, for better or for worse? Oh, and with the added bonus of Chuck Wollery asking the questions that drags the dirt out from under the rug?
Could they ever have seen where that was ultimately going? If they could, Chuck would have been booted from the business long before any of the participants picked their potential partners.
I blame VH1.
Ok, I fully admit that shows with variations on "The Bachelor" certainly did contribute to the out-of-control spiral these programs have taken. Who can forget "Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?" and its disasterous results? However, VH1 had to take that giant leap into the completely ridiculous first with "The Flavor of Love". VH1 forced its audience to watch Flava Flav in "The Surreal Life", and the network should have noticed something about his completely incomprehensible train of thought there. Instead, the creators of VH1's programming decided to focus the scrutinizing lens on the frightening "convenience of the moment" relationship that "blossomed" between Flava Flav and Brigitte Nielson. It was only a matter of connecting a few dots before you got "The Flavor of Love"--and more than one cycle to boot. Then, because VH1 realized that the network couldn't justify the break-up of every one of Flava Flav's love connections, whether staged or genuine, so someone must have thought "why not bring in a chick-oriented version?" and "who better to use but someone completely outrageous from the previous show?" Voila--born is "I Love New York", currently in it's second run. And, for the rockers out there, so you don't feel left out, your consolation prize was "The Rock of Love" with Bret Michaels.
Each one of those shows had its share of hard-core personalities, cutting their way to the top, mostly for fame and recognition than the subject of the program. There were outrageous moments, people and events you don't expect, and lots of alcohol to go around.
However, nothing compares to "A Shot at Love" with Tila Tequila. NOTHING. Gotta give it to MTV for taking a VH1 concept and infusing just enough of Jerry Springer into it to truly take it to a level it never should have gone. It's actually a lot like that scene in "A Christmas Story" where the kids are standing by the pole and one of them is daring another one to press his tongue onto the frozen metal surface to see if it will stick. The two of them are going back and forth in the "I dare you" volley, until one of them skips the "I triple dare you" and goes for the "I triple dog dare you" instead. What happens? The kid is forced to lick the lamppost and out comes the fire brigade to get it off. Similarly, MTV skipped the seemingly logical next step in the process and creating a same-sex dating show and went straight for the absolutely outlandish in the form of Tila Tequila. Tila apparently is having trouble choosing between men and women, so MTV jumped on that and created a dating free for all where men and women compete for Tila's love. More alcohol than ever before, a physical fight after every elimination, and participants who make you wonder where they came from (and when they will be returning there so we never have to see them again).
Yet another reason why networks like VH1 and MTV should go back to doing what those little letters stand for--showing music videos, featuring musical performances, and generally staying entirely out of the creative programming world.
Then, a decade later, we got "Love Connection". Why not bring in audience participation AND a description of the date we never got to see with its predecessor? Instead of the euphoric and hope-filled meeting scenario, why not find out what happens AFTER that, for better or for worse? Oh, and with the added bonus of Chuck Wollery asking the questions that drags the dirt out from under the rug?
Could they ever have seen where that was ultimately going? If they could, Chuck would have been booted from the business long before any of the participants picked their potential partners.
I blame VH1.
Ok, I fully admit that shows with variations on "The Bachelor" certainly did contribute to the out-of-control spiral these programs have taken. Who can forget "Who Wants to Marry a Millionaire?" and its disasterous results? However, VH1 had to take that giant leap into the completely ridiculous first with "The Flavor of Love". VH1 forced its audience to watch Flava Flav in "The Surreal Life", and the network should have noticed something about his completely incomprehensible train of thought there. Instead, the creators of VH1's programming decided to focus the scrutinizing lens on the frightening "convenience of the moment" relationship that "blossomed" between Flava Flav and Brigitte Nielson. It was only a matter of connecting a few dots before you got "The Flavor of Love"--and more than one cycle to boot. Then, because VH1 realized that the network couldn't justify the break-up of every one of Flava Flav's love connections, whether staged or genuine, so someone must have thought "why not bring in a chick-oriented version?" and "who better to use but someone completely outrageous from the previous show?" Voila--born is "I Love New York", currently in it's second run. And, for the rockers out there, so you don't feel left out, your consolation prize was "The Rock of Love" with Bret Michaels.
Each one of those shows had its share of hard-core personalities, cutting their way to the top, mostly for fame and recognition than the subject of the program. There were outrageous moments, people and events you don't expect, and lots of alcohol to go around.
However, nothing compares to "A Shot at Love" with Tila Tequila. NOTHING. Gotta give it to MTV for taking a VH1 concept and infusing just enough of Jerry Springer into it to truly take it to a level it never should have gone. It's actually a lot like that scene in "A Christmas Story" where the kids are standing by the pole and one of them is daring another one to press his tongue onto the frozen metal surface to see if it will stick. The two of them are going back and forth in the "I dare you" volley, until one of them skips the "I triple dare you" and goes for the "I triple dog dare you" instead. What happens? The kid is forced to lick the lamppost and out comes the fire brigade to get it off. Similarly, MTV skipped the seemingly logical next step in the process and creating a same-sex dating show and went straight for the absolutely outlandish in the form of Tila Tequila. Tila apparently is having trouble choosing between men and women, so MTV jumped on that and created a dating free for all where men and women compete for Tila's love. More alcohol than ever before, a physical fight after every elimination, and participants who make you wonder where they came from (and when they will be returning there so we never have to see them again).
Yet another reason why networks like VH1 and MTV should go back to doing what those little letters stand for--showing music videos, featuring musical performances, and generally staying entirely out of the creative programming world.
Friday, November 09, 2007
Saturday, October 06, 2007
Update: Reason Number One Has Emerged
1. Being constantly reminded in situations with family, friends, or embarrassingly large groups of people that I don't know that I don't have a job that I can support myself on regardless of the huge amount of paperwork, legwork, etc. I do and have done to remedy that situation as quickly and efficiently as I possibly can so everyone will JUST SHUT THE HELL UP.
Thank you, cue curtain drop.
Thank you, cue curtain drop.
Top Ten Reasons I MUST Move Out
10. The mysterious disappearance of belongings--anything from catalogues to clothes could be hanging in plain view one minute and never to be seen again the next.
9. The "food" problem--I may take advantage of a home cooked meal every now and again, like everyone else, but after spending fifty dollars on my own grocieries only to find them incorporated into that meal when my ultimate goal is to cook for my own needs is rather self-defeating (and poverty inducing).
8. The fact that my room is a general dumping zone for every other family member's unidentified and unclaimed belongings even though it's general area is about ten feet by ten feet.
7. The time frame anything I want to watch is actually being displayed on the TV screen is limited to when no one else is around.
6. Heating, during the winter months, is apparently not necessary overnight, even if my room is right over the garage and poorly insulated.
5. Phoebe, my mother's cat, is being driven farther and farther into cat psychosis due to the general molestation by my cats "in residence."
4. Visits home by my sister require a constant compromise of car transportation, regardless of the fact that I work eight hours a day full time.
3. If I am switching cars with other family members, and sometimes several times over a short span of days, I will inevitably have to fill up the gas tank in every new car I get into.
2. Reminiscent of my late teen years, my father remains in a semi-awake state for how every many hours I am out at night in order to more effectively demand to know where I went and who I was with when I return home.
You know, I don't think there is any number one reason. Perhaps "personal desperation" should be it. Back to job searching.
9. The "food" problem--I may take advantage of a home cooked meal every now and again, like everyone else, but after spending fifty dollars on my own grocieries only to find them incorporated into that meal when my ultimate goal is to cook for my own needs is rather self-defeating (and poverty inducing).
8. The fact that my room is a general dumping zone for every other family member's unidentified and unclaimed belongings even though it's general area is about ten feet by ten feet.
7. The time frame anything I want to watch is actually being displayed on the TV screen is limited to when no one else is around.
6. Heating, during the winter months, is apparently not necessary overnight, even if my room is right over the garage and poorly insulated.
5. Phoebe, my mother's cat, is being driven farther and farther into cat psychosis due to the general molestation by my cats "in residence."
4. Visits home by my sister require a constant compromise of car transportation, regardless of the fact that I work eight hours a day full time.
3. If I am switching cars with other family members, and sometimes several times over a short span of days, I will inevitably have to fill up the gas tank in every new car I get into.
2. Reminiscent of my late teen years, my father remains in a semi-awake state for how every many hours I am out at night in order to more effectively demand to know where I went and who I was with when I return home.
You know, I don't think there is any number one reason. Perhaps "personal desperation" should be it. Back to job searching.
Friday, September 21, 2007
Paths to There
So, what does someone have to plug into a search engine to find your blog?
A number of things don't surprise me, such as: madness in the seventeenth century, for example, which pretty much characterizes my life in five words or less. However, upon examining some google searches that have brought recent visitors by, here are a few things that do:
less than reputable characters, family guy from College Park, Maryland
insults for redheads from Washington state
self build castle john mew from Colchester, UK
paul o grady heart attack from Cambridge, UK
younger and younger looking from the United Kingdom
the longest piece of cloth worn ever from Auckland, New Zealand
And, my personal favorite:
nicest ass in the world from Piscataway, New Jersey
A number of things don't surprise me, such as: madness in the seventeenth century, for example, which pretty much characterizes my life in five words or less. However, upon examining some google searches that have brought recent visitors by, here are a few things that do:
less than reputable characters, family guy from College Park, Maryland
insults for redheads from Washington state
self build castle john mew from Colchester, UK
paul o grady heart attack from Cambridge, UK
younger and younger looking from the United Kingdom
the longest piece of cloth worn ever from Auckland, New Zealand
And, my personal favorite:
nicest ass in the world from Piscataway, New Jersey
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Company-less Misery on the Weekend
It has always been extraordinarily difficult for me to tell the difference between "allergy symptoms" and "infection." Regardless of the fact that neither experience is either more or less miserable than the other, the prospect of "allergy symptoms" always has the advantage of a higher comfort level associated with it. At least I know a change of scenery and a dose of Benadryl, and moments later I'll be good to go.
Not so in the lingering illness category. I distinctly recall an episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show from the 70's where Mary had caught a bad cold, and in between sitcom-style disasters, she described the cumulative cold experience as "three days coming, three days here, and three days going." This statement has colored my interpretation of the length of time one suffers from the nasty little microbes.
It also helps if you have a misery-topping condition in memory recall at times like these. I generally look back five years ago when I realized I had mono. I have no idea how long I actually had the virus before the announcement of a positive test result came back from my doctor. I do recall a rather odd sleeping pattern for a few weeks prior--namely, that I was sleeping every free moment I had. I chalked this up to depression due to the nature of my job (I was selling tickets to the museum--a monotonous task that required hours of visitors needlessly complicating the short, simple ticket selling process). One throat culture and one blood test later, and I faced the prospect of being off my feet for an awfully long time. You always hear about the sleeping problems associated with mono, but what they don't tell you is how ridiculously painful the initial throat swelling can be. One gland had increased to the size of an egg in my neck--you could literally see it--and I couldn't swallow anything without waiting until the peak period two hours after taking at least four advil. I usually float these memories through my head while I am waiting for those three Advil Cold and Sinus liquigels to take effect after a long night of congestion, coughing, and sinus pain.
My first interpretation of the latest bout of symptoms fell in the more relieving allergy category. I worked on Wednesday, and at the end of the day, my manager asked me to sew up a canvass bed that had just had the filling replaced. These "beds", of which there are many, are exposed to ship conditions and New England weather patterns year-round, nautrally resulting in extensive mold growth of all species and varieties. Although the filling, which is usually straw, gets replaced, the canvass rarely does, and at this point, fumigation would not irradicate more than half of the organism population living on and in the bedding. After sitting with the bed in my lap for about two hours, I certainly felt the incoming throat inflammation. I put the bed away at the end of the day, drove home, and arrived feeling very "disinterested" and tired--uh-oh. THOSE aren't part of the allergy experience. I woke up the next day, and I couldn't remain in blissful ignorance any longer. I had caught something, and I would be stuck with it for at least another few days. Brilliant.
Well, we have just passed day four of the virus' attack, having taken a day off from work to remain home--a day I didn't want to have to take at all.
The serious kicker in this is a short conversation I had with Tom, my coworker, last week. He had brought in a large bottle of hand sanitizer and placed it on a shelf over his space in the lounge, kindly offering me the use of the contents if I wished. I thought it was good preparation for the oncoming slaught of children in a few weeks, but at the present, a handful of groups and travelers were our only visitors. I also remembered the year I had two bouts with bronchitis within three months--and I thought "you haven't been ill in two winters, you'll be fine." Yeah, Tom, should have taken you up on that offer....
Not so in the lingering illness category. I distinctly recall an episode of the Mary Tyler Moore show from the 70's where Mary had caught a bad cold, and in between sitcom-style disasters, she described the cumulative cold experience as "three days coming, three days here, and three days going." This statement has colored my interpretation of the length of time one suffers from the nasty little microbes.
It also helps if you have a misery-topping condition in memory recall at times like these. I generally look back five years ago when I realized I had mono. I have no idea how long I actually had the virus before the announcement of a positive test result came back from my doctor. I do recall a rather odd sleeping pattern for a few weeks prior--namely, that I was sleeping every free moment I had. I chalked this up to depression due to the nature of my job (I was selling tickets to the museum--a monotonous task that required hours of visitors needlessly complicating the short, simple ticket selling process). One throat culture and one blood test later, and I faced the prospect of being off my feet for an awfully long time. You always hear about the sleeping problems associated with mono, but what they don't tell you is how ridiculously painful the initial throat swelling can be. One gland had increased to the size of an egg in my neck--you could literally see it--and I couldn't swallow anything without waiting until the peak period two hours after taking at least four advil. I usually float these memories through my head while I am waiting for those three Advil Cold and Sinus liquigels to take effect after a long night of congestion, coughing, and sinus pain.
My first interpretation of the latest bout of symptoms fell in the more relieving allergy category. I worked on Wednesday, and at the end of the day, my manager asked me to sew up a canvass bed that had just had the filling replaced. These "beds", of which there are many, are exposed to ship conditions and New England weather patterns year-round, nautrally resulting in extensive mold growth of all species and varieties. Although the filling, which is usually straw, gets replaced, the canvass rarely does, and at this point, fumigation would not irradicate more than half of the organism population living on and in the bedding. After sitting with the bed in my lap for about two hours, I certainly felt the incoming throat inflammation. I put the bed away at the end of the day, drove home, and arrived feeling very "disinterested" and tired--uh-oh. THOSE aren't part of the allergy experience. I woke up the next day, and I couldn't remain in blissful ignorance any longer. I had caught something, and I would be stuck with it for at least another few days. Brilliant.
Well, we have just passed day four of the virus' attack, having taken a day off from work to remain home--a day I didn't want to have to take at all.
The serious kicker in this is a short conversation I had with Tom, my coworker, last week. He had brought in a large bottle of hand sanitizer and placed it on a shelf over his space in the lounge, kindly offering me the use of the contents if I wished. I thought it was good preparation for the oncoming slaught of children in a few weeks, but at the present, a handful of groups and travelers were our only visitors. I also remembered the year I had two bouts with bronchitis within three months--and I thought "you haven't been ill in two winters, you'll be fine." Yeah, Tom, should have taken you up on that offer....
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Me versus the LSAT
So, I'm going to take the LSAT at the end of September. Of course, the end of August signals the arrival of the official "freak out" time. Yes, it is still four weeks away. However, there is something about a test that requires an officially acquired fingerprint on the registration card that ignites one's nerves rather early on.
What do you do? Buy as many overpriced instruction manuals from Borders as you possibly can. Make sure they include attention grabbing validations of their content, like they are published by "The Princeton Review", they include at least one CD ROM for good measure, and they assure you that you will "crack the test" after synthesizing their strategies.
Basically, the LSAT includes three main parts. One is a writing sample, so you can't do much about that ahead of time--only the pricey LSAT prep course could assure you of writing sample success. The other two sections that are left are: argument analysis and logic puzzles.
I figured since argument analysis will be a little more section by section, I would leave that off and take it in chunks. The logic puzzles, on the other hand, are patterned very much the same way, so mastering them first assures you of a good score on two sections of the test even before you go into the arguments. That mastery always provides the much needed confidence boost going into something as complicated as the arguments section, so I figured I would take them on first.
The logic puzzles give you a set of items or people and then a set of conditions based on the situation they are placed in. For example, the premise may be: a restaurant features a different entree every evening, starting on Sunday and ending on Saturday. Then, you get a list of entrees and a set of conditions: each entree is featured exacctly once, the veal gets served on Monday, the spaghetti is served the day after the lamb, etc. After that, you have to answer five or six multiple choice questions based on the puzzle.
The first one is always the same: Which of the following is an acceptable order for these items based on the premise and conditions? The easiest puzzles always are the ones that have a specific event or item at a certain time or place in the puzzle. For example, if we use the restaurant premise, one of the conditions could be "the veal is always served on Mondays". At least then you have something to go on. Other puzzles just give you "if "this", then "this"" conditions. Then, if you bother to diagram the stupid thing, there is nothing to diagram.
I worked on this in the local library today, and after about six sets of these questions, I was ready to fall alseep. The LSAT people should let people go if they manage to get a whole set associated with the same puzzle right. Regardless, the sheer repitition will bore people, perhaps to death. Maybe that's why they fingerprint you ahead of time. They can put your registration certificate on top of your body bag and they can identify who you are no matter what state you choose to test in.
What do you do? Buy as many overpriced instruction manuals from Borders as you possibly can. Make sure they include attention grabbing validations of their content, like they are published by "The Princeton Review", they include at least one CD ROM for good measure, and they assure you that you will "crack the test" after synthesizing their strategies.
Basically, the LSAT includes three main parts. One is a writing sample, so you can't do much about that ahead of time--only the pricey LSAT prep course could assure you of writing sample success. The other two sections that are left are: argument analysis and logic puzzles.
I figured since argument analysis will be a little more section by section, I would leave that off and take it in chunks. The logic puzzles, on the other hand, are patterned very much the same way, so mastering them first assures you of a good score on two sections of the test even before you go into the arguments. That mastery always provides the much needed confidence boost going into something as complicated as the arguments section, so I figured I would take them on first.
The logic puzzles give you a set of items or people and then a set of conditions based on the situation they are placed in. For example, the premise may be: a restaurant features a different entree every evening, starting on Sunday and ending on Saturday. Then, you get a list of entrees and a set of conditions: each entree is featured exacctly once, the veal gets served on Monday, the spaghetti is served the day after the lamb, etc. After that, you have to answer five or six multiple choice questions based on the puzzle.
The first one is always the same: Which of the following is an acceptable order for these items based on the premise and conditions? The easiest puzzles always are the ones that have a specific event or item at a certain time or place in the puzzle. For example, if we use the restaurant premise, one of the conditions could be "the veal is always served on Mondays". At least then you have something to go on. Other puzzles just give you "if "this", then "this"" conditions. Then, if you bother to diagram the stupid thing, there is nothing to diagram.
I worked on this in the local library today, and after about six sets of these questions, I was ready to fall alseep. The LSAT people should let people go if they manage to get a whole set associated with the same puzzle right. Regardless, the sheer repitition will bore people, perhaps to death. Maybe that's why they fingerprint you ahead of time. They can put your registration certificate on top of your body bag and they can identify who you are no matter what state you choose to test in.
Tuesday, August 28, 2007
Todays News
Mississippi has officially won the distinction of being the fattest state in the USA. The tidbit of information that officially surprised me the most involved the existence of fried pickles, and the fact that this was actually considered "food".
In an effort to reduce diaper use, some parents are participating in a "diaper free" movement. This apparently means that parents teach their children the art of body language to signal the need to relieve themselves. One woman said she had to explain away a lot of odd looks in a public restroom when she was holding her daughter over a sink so she could relieve herself. Perhaps these onlookers were more concerned about the fact that, in a room full of toilets, she chose the basin in which patrons attempt to cleanse themselves of the possible ill-effects of having used a public facility.
About time, huh? This kid finally hacked the iPhone off of the poorly reputed AT & T network. He then apparently sold the model for a car. As for me, I would have held out for more.
Amy Winehouse's father-in-law is calling for a boycott of her recordings until she and her husband seek help. Her daddy may think she's fine, but there's more than one opinion that counts.
In an attempt to lure men to a health food website, the link advertised "what all men should eat" in such a way as to imply the same thing that everyone from hair dye companies to cigarette makers do--"you'll get laid if you (insert action here relating to product)." It turns out that men should be eating pretty much what everyone else is eating to be healthy. Yey food pyramid.
In an effort to reduce diaper use, some parents are participating in a "diaper free" movement. This apparently means that parents teach their children the art of body language to signal the need to relieve themselves. One woman said she had to explain away a lot of odd looks in a public restroom when she was holding her daughter over a sink so she could relieve herself. Perhaps these onlookers were more concerned about the fact that, in a room full of toilets, she chose the basin in which patrons attempt to cleanse themselves of the possible ill-effects of having used a public facility.
About time, huh? This kid finally hacked the iPhone off of the poorly reputed AT & T network. He then apparently sold the model for a car. As for me, I would have held out for more.
Amy Winehouse's father-in-law is calling for a boycott of her recordings until she and her husband seek help. Her daddy may think she's fine, but there's more than one opinion that counts.
In an attempt to lure men to a health food website, the link advertised "what all men should eat" in such a way as to imply the same thing that everyone from hair dye companies to cigarette makers do--"you'll get laid if you (insert action here relating to product)." It turns out that men should be eating pretty much what everyone else is eating to be healthy. Yey food pyramid.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
And...."Trench 'N' Fun"
This was the result of overwhelming boredom in one history class--my friend, Lindsay, and I actually had enough time to bring out the Crayolas and create a board game.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
How "Trench 'N' Fun" Came Into Being
My fifth grade teacher certainly had her favorites, and I wasn't one of them. Since neither my friend Lindsay nor I fell into her perfect cookie-cutter package of what an eleven-year-old girl should be like, we were more or less "ignored with intent" in the same fashion a cat will sit with its backside in your general direction with the occasional glance over the sholder if dinner is later than expected. Regardless, we fell into the "accelerated student" category, and this entitled us to the occasional project on the side, such as writing and telling stories to the Kindergardeners or reading additional books. However, this didn't excuse us from a lot of class-wide activities, such as the collective reading of the "fifth grade book" that year, Johnny Tremain. After the volumes were first distributed to the class, our teacher started reading the first chapter to us. What could have taken only half an hour--double that at the most--took a murderously long period of time to complete because she stopped to explain every word longer than two syllables to everyone in the class. Because we were all of mixed abilities, I am sure there were students who needed that guidance, and of course that help should be made available to them. For those of us who were on a faster track, well, we generally amused ourselves by reading on ahead or creating board games on the back of our math book covers.
Fast forward to eighth grade. That year, we did a lot of history-oriented projects with one entire unit focused on the American Civil War. The teachers divided us into groups of eleven or twelve, each group made up of randomly chosen students. Like most of the other over-achievers, I could expect perhaps one other student on my level in the group. And yes, that is exactly what happened. As a result, I was busting my ass for not one or two other students, but nearly a dozen of them, because I simply did not want to end up with a low grade averaged in with all of my solo work.
These two situations, and many others, were brought to mind when I read an article today in Time Magazine about how the school systems were leaving genius students behind. I think it goes much farther than that--I think the whole company of over-achievers are left holding the ball on their own. I didn't get out of a mixed ability classroom until I entered high school, and like any other team-oriented exercise, the goings-on of the classes as the years went by were always geared to the proverbial weakest link. This meant hours of reading books, a la Johnny Tremain, the explaining of instructions for projects and crafts over and over again, and lots of "group projects" where the teachers hoped less hard working students would "learn something" from their counterparts that exhibited the early signs of a high work ethic.
Since over achieving students can handle most classroom work without too much trouble, they are usually ignored in a mixed classroom while an overworked teacher focuses on the students who need the extra help. The teacher is forced to create lesson plans that all students can participate in, regardless of what they can (or in many cases are willing to) do, and as a result, many over acheivers finish them long before the rest of the class with little to do in the meantime. Most over achievers are also the best behaved kids in the class, so even though they may be individually or collectively bored or unoccupied, the teacher can reasonably assume that they won't be drawing on the tabletops with indelible marker.
It isn't only that they are ignored, it is that they are essentially "used" by the teachers as teaching tools for other students that is even more inexcusable. Teachers divide students into groups and deliberately mix ability levels so that other students can "learn by example" from their peers. Many times the only thing that separates an over-acheiving student from others on the grade school level is how hard they work--not their abilities. How many of the "smart" kids out there knew someone on the bottom of the class that they knew was just as talented, but who refused to do any homework? Putting groups of students together like that gives the less hard working kids a chance to coast and gives the over achieving kids a heart attack, forcing them to pull more than their own weight for the same grade. Oh, and if anyone out there can remember grade school with any clarity--was there ever a time when a student saw an overachiever and thought "oh, yeah, maybe I should work that hard, too...."? Or was the picture more like this: over acheiving student furiously writing out how to complete a project while other students talk to their friends, throw bits of paper at each other, and talk about what is upcoming next weekend?
The interesting thing about "No Child Left Behind" is that it demands that schools bring up students that sit on the lowest levels. I think it is fantastic that money is being allocated and programs are being developed that allow more students to learn and participate in class. However, the danger is that this is becoming the only focus, leaving over acheiving and bright students essentially to fend for themselves. What's the solution? I'm sure there isn't one because if there were something clear-cut, it would have come to pass in our classrooms long ago.
And if I hadn't had free time in grade school, "Trench 'N' Fun: The World War One Experience" board game wouldn't have graced the back of my history book.
Fast forward to eighth grade. That year, we did a lot of history-oriented projects with one entire unit focused on the American Civil War. The teachers divided us into groups of eleven or twelve, each group made up of randomly chosen students. Like most of the other over-achievers, I could expect perhaps one other student on my level in the group. And yes, that is exactly what happened. As a result, I was busting my ass for not one or two other students, but nearly a dozen of them, because I simply did not want to end up with a low grade averaged in with all of my solo work.
These two situations, and many others, were brought to mind when I read an article today in Time Magazine about how the school systems were leaving genius students behind. I think it goes much farther than that--I think the whole company of over-achievers are left holding the ball on their own. I didn't get out of a mixed ability classroom until I entered high school, and like any other team-oriented exercise, the goings-on of the classes as the years went by were always geared to the proverbial weakest link. This meant hours of reading books, a la Johnny Tremain, the explaining of instructions for projects and crafts over and over again, and lots of "group projects" where the teachers hoped less hard working students would "learn something" from their counterparts that exhibited the early signs of a high work ethic.
Since over achieving students can handle most classroom work without too much trouble, they are usually ignored in a mixed classroom while an overworked teacher focuses on the students who need the extra help. The teacher is forced to create lesson plans that all students can participate in, regardless of what they can (or in many cases are willing to) do, and as a result, many over acheivers finish them long before the rest of the class with little to do in the meantime. Most over achievers are also the best behaved kids in the class, so even though they may be individually or collectively bored or unoccupied, the teacher can reasonably assume that they won't be drawing on the tabletops with indelible marker.
It isn't only that they are ignored, it is that they are essentially "used" by the teachers as teaching tools for other students that is even more inexcusable. Teachers divide students into groups and deliberately mix ability levels so that other students can "learn by example" from their peers. Many times the only thing that separates an over-acheiving student from others on the grade school level is how hard they work--not their abilities. How many of the "smart" kids out there knew someone on the bottom of the class that they knew was just as talented, but who refused to do any homework? Putting groups of students together like that gives the less hard working kids a chance to coast and gives the over achieving kids a heart attack, forcing them to pull more than their own weight for the same grade. Oh, and if anyone out there can remember grade school with any clarity--was there ever a time when a student saw an overachiever and thought "oh, yeah, maybe I should work that hard, too...."? Or was the picture more like this: over acheiving student furiously writing out how to complete a project while other students talk to their friends, throw bits of paper at each other, and talk about what is upcoming next weekend?
The interesting thing about "No Child Left Behind" is that it demands that schools bring up students that sit on the lowest levels. I think it is fantastic that money is being allocated and programs are being developed that allow more students to learn and participate in class. However, the danger is that this is becoming the only focus, leaving over acheiving and bright students essentially to fend for themselves. What's the solution? I'm sure there isn't one because if there were something clear-cut, it would have come to pass in our classrooms long ago.
And if I hadn't had free time in grade school, "Trench 'N' Fun: The World War One Experience" board game wouldn't have graced the back of my history book.
Tuesday, August 07, 2007
Can I help you?
The good thing about having weekdays off is that you aren't competing with hoards of people when you go shopping. On Saturdays between the hours of 10 am and 10 pm, you are guaranteed to end up standing at the end of a line of half a dozen teenage girls, each one purchasing one item, and the items cumulatively standing at a value of fifteen dollars. The first one will step up to the cashier, and in order to make it clear to everyone in the store, who she believes must be paying attention to her, that she is "with them" behind her and certainly not uncool to the point of shopping alone, she will toss in the occasional comment in on the conversation inevitably going on behind her and in front of you. As they each make their purchases, they will gather to the side of the counter as one at a time join them, and before too long, you'll have an assembled mob there, making more noise collectively than all of the people in the food court nearby put together. By the time you get up there, you'll be adding a trip to the nearby CVS for ibuprofen and bottled water to your shopping trip.
The drawback to weekday shopping is that you will walk into a lot of nearly deserted stores with a lot of very bored sales clerks restocking already well-stocked racks of shirts and slacks, checking through empty changing rooms for articles to rehang, and just generally standing in packs in varying corners of the store. As soon as you walk in, they take notice. By the time you wander to the first rack of attractive looking potential buys, a lucky representative is already on his or her way over to you. You pick up one shirt to give it a once over. By then, you're being greeted in a warmer fashion than you would greet your mother if you hadn't seen her in ten years, with a lengthy announcement following about the latest sale. Sometimes, the pitch is short and you can get on with your shopping. You must assume that in those cases, the salesperson is either not very enthusiastic about making the same announcement over and over or perhaps that he or she has done the unthinkable insofar as to put himself/herself into your shoes for a minute to realize you just want to get on with your errands. Other times, it goes on for a while even if you have made the polite acknowledgements that should signal your desire to be let alone.
Perhaps it is over enthusiasm for the job. Perhaps it is just that person being completely dense.
Today, I went into an Old Navy to look at the summer sale. The crowd wasn't large, but unlike most of the mall stores, there were more than two people in there. I was looking through a table of pullovers when a store clerk, a guy, approached me.
He greeted me, as I expected, and told me the shirts I was looking through were half off. I had observed the sign, but I thanked him for the information.
He asked me "are you planning on purchasing this on your Old Navy charge today?"
I had to admit that I didn't have one. I knew what was coming.
"Well, if you open one today.....(insert shopping benefits here)."
"Thank you, I'll think about it," was my reply, and I turned a few degrees in the direction of the table, prepared to go back to my previous activity.
"I could start one for you right now if you like. I just need a driver's licence and a debit card."
Sigh. Obviously my less-than-straight answer and body language were not enough.
"No, thank you. I need to think about it. I don't often shop in this store," I stated, hoping this additional information would indicate that I wasn't entirely interested.
Then, he gave me a list of the other stores that are affiliated with Old Navy. I thanked him for letting me know, and I again tried to return to leafing through the tops.
"We don't get commission for this, you know," was his next statement. He had sensed my indifference finally, and as opposed to considering the idea that maybe I just didn't want an Old Navy charge card littering my already overstuffed wallet, he thought I just didn't want a hard working store clerk to reap the benefits of my business.
I insisted that I already knew they didn't get commission, which was the only way I could think on the spot to combat the indirect accusation. Finally, he rounded out the conversation with a generic closing statement and I could return to what I was doing--if by then, ten minutes later, I still remembered what I had been doing in the first place.
In comparison, when I went to the Clinique counter in the Macy's on the other side of the mall, after I asked the clerk for her card in reply to her offer of a makeover, she immediately closed the appointment book she had strategically pulled out, took out her card, circled her name and the phone number on it, smiled, and handed it to me with a "I hope to hear from you, thank you for your purchase" without a hitch. She probably figured that I wasn't willing to commit, but since she treated me so politely, I wasn't going to go home and rule the option out because of anything she had done. On the other hand, I would consider it an insult to my personal pride to ever sign up for an Old Navy card at this point, given I put up so much of a fight so that I didn't have to do so.
At present I am Old Navy charge card free, and I probably will call for that makeover.
The drawback to weekday shopping is that you will walk into a lot of nearly deserted stores with a lot of very bored sales clerks restocking already well-stocked racks of shirts and slacks, checking through empty changing rooms for articles to rehang, and just generally standing in packs in varying corners of the store. As soon as you walk in, they take notice. By the time you wander to the first rack of attractive looking potential buys, a lucky representative is already on his or her way over to you. You pick up one shirt to give it a once over. By then, you're being greeted in a warmer fashion than you would greet your mother if you hadn't seen her in ten years, with a lengthy announcement following about the latest sale. Sometimes, the pitch is short and you can get on with your shopping. You must assume that in those cases, the salesperson is either not very enthusiastic about making the same announcement over and over or perhaps that he or she has done the unthinkable insofar as to put himself/herself into your shoes for a minute to realize you just want to get on with your errands. Other times, it goes on for a while even if you have made the polite acknowledgements that should signal your desire to be let alone.
Perhaps it is over enthusiasm for the job. Perhaps it is just that person being completely dense.
Today, I went into an Old Navy to look at the summer sale. The crowd wasn't large, but unlike most of the mall stores, there were more than two people in there. I was looking through a table of pullovers when a store clerk, a guy, approached me.
He greeted me, as I expected, and told me the shirts I was looking through were half off. I had observed the sign, but I thanked him for the information.
He asked me "are you planning on purchasing this on your Old Navy charge today?"
I had to admit that I didn't have one. I knew what was coming.
"Well, if you open one today.....(insert shopping benefits here)."
"Thank you, I'll think about it," was my reply, and I turned a few degrees in the direction of the table, prepared to go back to my previous activity.
"I could start one for you right now if you like. I just need a driver's licence and a debit card."
Sigh. Obviously my less-than-straight answer and body language were not enough.
"No, thank you. I need to think about it. I don't often shop in this store," I stated, hoping this additional information would indicate that I wasn't entirely interested.
Then, he gave me a list of the other stores that are affiliated with Old Navy. I thanked him for letting me know, and I again tried to return to leafing through the tops.
"We don't get commission for this, you know," was his next statement. He had sensed my indifference finally, and as opposed to considering the idea that maybe I just didn't want an Old Navy charge card littering my already overstuffed wallet, he thought I just didn't want a hard working store clerk to reap the benefits of my business.
I insisted that I already knew they didn't get commission, which was the only way I could think on the spot to combat the indirect accusation. Finally, he rounded out the conversation with a generic closing statement and I could return to what I was doing--if by then, ten minutes later, I still remembered what I had been doing in the first place.
In comparison, when I went to the Clinique counter in the Macy's on the other side of the mall, after I asked the clerk for her card in reply to her offer of a makeover, she immediately closed the appointment book she had strategically pulled out, took out her card, circled her name and the phone number on it, smiled, and handed it to me with a "I hope to hear from you, thank you for your purchase" without a hitch. She probably figured that I wasn't willing to commit, but since she treated me so politely, I wasn't going to go home and rule the option out because of anything she had done. On the other hand, I would consider it an insult to my personal pride to ever sign up for an Old Navy card at this point, given I put up so much of a fight so that I didn't have to do so.
At present I am Old Navy charge card free, and I probably will call for that makeover.
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Tuesday, July 03, 2007
Guess Wrong and...
After a long meeting in the morning, I walked down from one of the administration buildings at work to the "visitor" level where people pass from an exhibit space and gift shop into the "environment" the interpreters work in. The gate sheilding the back of the building, where the interpreters stroll through to get to the break space, was open and a truck was parked just outside of it. I didn't think much of it, and I walked through the gate.
I was met by this guy operating what looked like a power washing hose. He looked at me in a rather funny fashion as I passed by, intending to go into the front door of the gift shop.
"Do you work here?" he asked when I gave him the "what the hell are you looking at me like that" facial expression.
"Yes, why?" was my quick response.
Well, apparently, he was covering the outside of the building with chemicals--and based on his tone of voice and his "you stupid idiot" glance as he turned back to his work.
I immediately retorted, "So, where's the sign?"
He, of course, ignored this. He had placed yellow and black "Caution" tape on the visitor side, but nothing at the gate where employees had access. In addition, regardless of the presence of harmful chemicals, he was in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans--apparently top quality protection against the consequences of exposure to his poisonous mix.
I always enjoy the irony of moments when you are made to look like the moron because someone else was a moron first. And that moron is too much of a moron to realize it.
I was met by this guy operating what looked like a power washing hose. He looked at me in a rather funny fashion as I passed by, intending to go into the front door of the gift shop.
"Do you work here?" he asked when I gave him the "what the hell are you looking at me like that" facial expression.
"Yes, why?" was my quick response.
Well, apparently, he was covering the outside of the building with chemicals--and based on his tone of voice and his "you stupid idiot" glance as he turned back to his work.
I immediately retorted, "So, where's the sign?"
He, of course, ignored this. He had placed yellow and black "Caution" tape on the visitor side, but nothing at the gate where employees had access. In addition, regardless of the presence of harmful chemicals, he was in a t-shirt and a pair of jeans--apparently top quality protection against the consequences of exposure to his poisonous mix.
I always enjoy the irony of moments when you are made to look like the moron because someone else was a moron first. And that moron is too much of a moron to realize it.
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Road Karma
I don't think there is one road out there in the entirety of New England that is NOT under construction right now. Roadwork closes lanes on almost every major highway in the area, sometimes two of three, it can narrow these lanes to barely the width of today's average monster-truck-esque SUV, and it has made the whole city of Providence look like a demilitarized zone. On a recent trip to work, after battling my way up Route 95, I came across a set of familiar fluorescent signs announcing a line painting project ahead. Traffic slowed. We were again reduced to one lane. However, as we approached the merge, it became apparent that the obstruction had nothing to do with line painting. Instead, two lanes had been closed because someone's car, now in a state of wreckage, straddled the other two lanes after what looked like a fairly serious accident (for the car--the company looked like they were all Ok).
What a deja-vu moment.
A few years ago, I was living in downtown Plymouth, and I had to present my landlord with the rent for the upcoming month. My roommate finally bit the bullet and gave me her half, so on my break, which started at about 11:20 in the morning, I drove over to the realty he worked for to drop it off, still dressed in costume. On the way, I noticed a rather larger-than-usual volume of traffic in the downtown area, so instead of make my way back to work on the same road, I continued up the way a bit to catch the highway running south.
At about 11:50, I got on the highway at Exit 9. I quickly passed Exits 8 and 7, but just as I was climbing the hill in between Exits 7 and 6, I ran into a wall of traffic. I chalked up this slow-down to the line painting that similar signs warned was ahead.
12:10: I haven't even gotten over the hill yet, so I can't see what's ahead. Each car is moving up by inches at a time.
12:15: I am obviously going to be late returning to work, so I call my manger. I didn't expect a sympathetic response, and I didn't get one. I mean, how many people have used the "I'm stuck in traffic" excuse to cover up the late rise in the morning or the overindulgent lunch?
12:30: I am finally on the crest of the hill. I can see ahead that ALL three lanes have been closed ahead and a police officer is routing the entire bulk of Route 3 traffic off onto Exit 6, which would put them all through downtown Plymouth.
12:45: The inching process continues. I finish my iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts, my only sustenance available.
1:00: A problem arises--the natural result of the ingestion of a caffeine-infused beverage is already starting to lightly pressure my bladder, and I am no where near the exit.
1:30: Although slightly closer, there is still no indication that I will be getting off the highway anytime soon. I call work again to report my progress.
2:00: Ok, desperation calls for new a new strategy. By now, I can start to estimate time. I am probably at least 45 minutes from the exit, and I have no idea how long past that point I will be stuck on the road. I still have my empty coffee cup. My back seat has tinted windows all around, and I am wearing the long skirts that characterize the pilgrim costume. I put the car in park. No wanting to miss any newly available centimeters that will open up between my car and the car ahead of me, I climb quickly into the back of the car.
Ahhhhhh.....sweet relief.
I close the cup, tieing it up in a plastic bag in the back and I return to the drivers' seat. I am fairly certain, given the expressions on the now familiar faces in the cars around me, that although they may not have been able to see anything, they certainly know what was going on in my vehicle.
2:30: Another call to work. I am sure that I am entirely disbelieved, and I suggest that the radio be turned on or the news watched for verification of my story.
3:00: I am finally on the exit ramp. There are more line painting signs ahead on the highway, but there is no indication of whether that, or something else, was the cause of the traffic problems.
3:45: I pull into the parking lot behind my apartment building. Although I am only about 3 miles away from work, I have given up the quest. I tell the people at work not to expect me back. I lie down on the floor of my living room in a moment of necessary recovery.
At 5pm, the news programs started up, so I turned on the TV. Thankfully, there was the story. And line painting was no where involved.
A cement truck driver, casually ignoring the warnings that the left lane was closed ahead, was zipping down the highway, and only at the absolute last minute, thought to change lanes to the right. He was probably thinking that the other vehicles would either naturally get out of his way when he made the quick lane change, as most truck drivers do, but a car riding a little too close on his right--which he apparently "didn't see" (or ignored is more like it)--prevented that course of action, and he flipped the truck between Exits 6 and 5. One of the passengers in the car went to the hospital. This happened at about 10 in the morning, and the bright idea the police came up with was to divert three lanes of highway traffic through one-lane and multiple-stoplighted downtown Plymouth. Apparently, no one was in a rush to remedy this situation because it took until 4:30 for the mess to be cleared--the longest time I have ever heard to accomplish this task.
I am now convinced that somehow "line painting" is an invocation of the existence, or non-existence of road work karma. If your highway has been a good highway, everything will go smoothly, but if your highway has been difficult to drive, backing up traffic, knocking your car's structural integrity with uneven pavement, it's an opportunity to purge it's many sins with one, huge mess of immense proportions. At least it gets to start over afterwards.
What a deja-vu moment.
A few years ago, I was living in downtown Plymouth, and I had to present my landlord with the rent for the upcoming month. My roommate finally bit the bullet and gave me her half, so on my break, which started at about 11:20 in the morning, I drove over to the realty he worked for to drop it off, still dressed in costume. On the way, I noticed a rather larger-than-usual volume of traffic in the downtown area, so instead of make my way back to work on the same road, I continued up the way a bit to catch the highway running south.
At about 11:50, I got on the highway at Exit 9. I quickly passed Exits 8 and 7, but just as I was climbing the hill in between Exits 7 and 6, I ran into a wall of traffic. I chalked up this slow-down to the line painting that similar signs warned was ahead.
12:10: I haven't even gotten over the hill yet, so I can't see what's ahead. Each car is moving up by inches at a time.
12:15: I am obviously going to be late returning to work, so I call my manger. I didn't expect a sympathetic response, and I didn't get one. I mean, how many people have used the "I'm stuck in traffic" excuse to cover up the late rise in the morning or the overindulgent lunch?
12:30: I am finally on the crest of the hill. I can see ahead that ALL three lanes have been closed ahead and a police officer is routing the entire bulk of Route 3 traffic off onto Exit 6, which would put them all through downtown Plymouth.
12:45: The inching process continues. I finish my iced coffee from Dunkin' Donuts, my only sustenance available.
1:00: A problem arises--the natural result of the ingestion of a caffeine-infused beverage is already starting to lightly pressure my bladder, and I am no where near the exit.
1:30: Although slightly closer, there is still no indication that I will be getting off the highway anytime soon. I call work again to report my progress.
2:00: Ok, desperation calls for new a new strategy. By now, I can start to estimate time. I am probably at least 45 minutes from the exit, and I have no idea how long past that point I will be stuck on the road. I still have my empty coffee cup. My back seat has tinted windows all around, and I am wearing the long skirts that characterize the pilgrim costume. I put the car in park. No wanting to miss any newly available centimeters that will open up between my car and the car ahead of me, I climb quickly into the back of the car.
Ahhhhhh.....sweet relief.
I close the cup, tieing it up in a plastic bag in the back and I return to the drivers' seat. I am fairly certain, given the expressions on the now familiar faces in the cars around me, that although they may not have been able to see anything, they certainly know what was going on in my vehicle.
2:30: Another call to work. I am sure that I am entirely disbelieved, and I suggest that the radio be turned on or the news watched for verification of my story.
3:00: I am finally on the exit ramp. There are more line painting signs ahead on the highway, but there is no indication of whether that, or something else, was the cause of the traffic problems.
3:45: I pull into the parking lot behind my apartment building. Although I am only about 3 miles away from work, I have given up the quest. I tell the people at work not to expect me back. I lie down on the floor of my living room in a moment of necessary recovery.
At 5pm, the news programs started up, so I turned on the TV. Thankfully, there was the story. And line painting was no where involved.
A cement truck driver, casually ignoring the warnings that the left lane was closed ahead, was zipping down the highway, and only at the absolute last minute, thought to change lanes to the right. He was probably thinking that the other vehicles would either naturally get out of his way when he made the quick lane change, as most truck drivers do, but a car riding a little too close on his right--which he apparently "didn't see" (or ignored is more like it)--prevented that course of action, and he flipped the truck between Exits 6 and 5. One of the passengers in the car went to the hospital. This happened at about 10 in the morning, and the bright idea the police came up with was to divert three lanes of highway traffic through one-lane and multiple-stoplighted downtown Plymouth. Apparently, no one was in a rush to remedy this situation because it took until 4:30 for the mess to be cleared--the longest time I have ever heard to accomplish this task.
I am now convinced that somehow "line painting" is an invocation of the existence, or non-existence of road work karma. If your highway has been a good highway, everything will go smoothly, but if your highway has been difficult to drive, backing up traffic, knocking your car's structural integrity with uneven pavement, it's an opportunity to purge it's many sins with one, huge mess of immense proportions. At least it gets to start over afterwards.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
Hoya for Reunion Weekend
Last weekend, I attended my five year college reunion. I had signed up for it, having misread the website dates--exchanging what was the first weekend of June for that in July. Because I was quickly approaching a deadline at work, I had originally planned to work through the weekend, and at first, I decided against going all together. However, a turn of events and some available free time changed my mind, and although I missed the initial festivities on Friday, I raced up to Worcester to make it for the evening formal events on Saturday night.
Holy Cross is built on one of Worcester's seven hills, which means everything is on an incline. Because of how physically taxing it is to get from the bottom of the hill to the top of it, the student population at Holy Cross can be reliably tapped by the scientific community for proportional evidence of an obesity gene. The sign at the gate instructed new arrivals to drive to the top of the hill to retrieve their registration information, however, when I got there, I discovered that the operation had moved to another building farther down the hill--quite a walk away. I managed to acquire the information I needed, get to a room on campus I had paid a small sum to use, get dressed into something at least somewhat formal, and make my way down to the dining hall for the dinner.
I will now rate the different parts of the experience on a scale from 1 to 10. 10, of course, being way beyond my wildest dreams and 1 indicating an utterly amazing waste of time and resources.
The Campus: 8
It was always a beautifully landscaped place, and it continues to live up to that standard. New buildings have been added, too, and all in keeping with the original architecture of the school. Of course, that doesn't mean that the dorm we were all staying in had in any way been updated or improved on the interior since about 1975.
The People: 9
I got to see pretty much all of my good friends from school with only a few exceptions, and they were as good company as they had always been. I was particularly happy to see my friend, Pat, with whom I haven't spoken much since graduation.
The Dinner: 3
The quality of the meals served on campus were always a subject of criticism when we were living there. We had hoped that since it was a "formal dinner" that some quality would have been infused into the cuisine. Those hopes were vastly misplaced.
The Prayer: 2
Yes, the college is a Jesuit-run school, so at least one of your classmates is bound to have become a priest since graduation, and who better to ask to say the blessing? Unfortunately, his long-sought-after mastery of the Bible and all its contents rather stood in the way of anything that could be described as "meaningful".
Weight Gain: 5
Although I can speak for my own friends in that there was no dramatic body change of any kind (in fact, everyone looked about the same, frankly), some of your more stick-thin types in days of old had packed on about thirty pounds since graduation. Again, it's all about the uphill terrain.
The Music: 5
"Pandemonium", the hired band, was fairly good with a few misses here and there. They lose points, however, for warming up for two hours while we were trying to consume the meal the college served us with their amplifiers up past the 11 mark. Elizabeth, one of my old roommates, commented that perhaps they were trying to play in a really postmodern fashion.
The Energy Level: 7
I am only gathering this on hersay, but from what I did hear, Friday night was the "go all out" time frame. People were up until 5 in the morning playing beer games in the hallways and out in front of the dorms, and then, suddenly the next day, the participants realized that excessive alcohol consumption at 27 years old isn't quite the same experience the next day as it was at 22 years old. As a result, some of the company were a little drained by the time I got there, and I was only sorry to have missed the more exciting evening. However, they managed to pull it together for the second night in the end.
Drunken Brawling: 8
Props here goes to the class of 1987 who I hear ripped it up huge at the end of the band's performance. Nothing like "unfinished business" twenty years on. I also heard a report from my roommate for the night, Elizabeth, that she had woken up to a fight erupting outside of the window in which the main theme was "you slept with my wife" presumably before the said woman was the wife in the first place.
The Cleaning Crew: 10
Now, I can't speak for what I didn't see, which was the clean up in the dorm after the weekend was over, but I can say that after most of the company had retired to bed at about 7 in the morning, a crew came through and neatened up in front of the dorm where there had been at least 800 empty beer cans, corresponding boxes, and even an emptied keg. By the time most people were up and running, there was no evidence of the ale orgy to be found.
Overall, an exceptional experience and quite a throwback in many ways. I don't think I could have taken it all for more than a weekend--it would have got tiring and dull--but it was good to see everyone, and I hope that it won't be another five years before I see some of them again. I drove home through some miserable weather really glad I had come out there.
Next Reunion's topics: Ugliest children, Mismatched couples, FipCup at 32, and Further downward spirals of weight gain.
Holy Cross is built on one of Worcester's seven hills, which means everything is on an incline. Because of how physically taxing it is to get from the bottom of the hill to the top of it, the student population at Holy Cross can be reliably tapped by the scientific community for proportional evidence of an obesity gene. The sign at the gate instructed new arrivals to drive to the top of the hill to retrieve their registration information, however, when I got there, I discovered that the operation had moved to another building farther down the hill--quite a walk away. I managed to acquire the information I needed, get to a room on campus I had paid a small sum to use, get dressed into something at least somewhat formal, and make my way down to the dining hall for the dinner.
I will now rate the different parts of the experience on a scale from 1 to 10. 10, of course, being way beyond my wildest dreams and 1 indicating an utterly amazing waste of time and resources.
The Campus: 8
It was always a beautifully landscaped place, and it continues to live up to that standard. New buildings have been added, too, and all in keeping with the original architecture of the school. Of course, that doesn't mean that the dorm we were all staying in had in any way been updated or improved on the interior since about 1975.
The People: 9
I got to see pretty much all of my good friends from school with only a few exceptions, and they were as good company as they had always been. I was particularly happy to see my friend, Pat, with whom I haven't spoken much since graduation.
The Dinner: 3
The quality of the meals served on campus were always a subject of criticism when we were living there. We had hoped that since it was a "formal dinner" that some quality would have been infused into the cuisine. Those hopes were vastly misplaced.
The Prayer: 2
Yes, the college is a Jesuit-run school, so at least one of your classmates is bound to have become a priest since graduation, and who better to ask to say the blessing? Unfortunately, his long-sought-after mastery of the Bible and all its contents rather stood in the way of anything that could be described as "meaningful".
Weight Gain: 5
Although I can speak for my own friends in that there was no dramatic body change of any kind (in fact, everyone looked about the same, frankly), some of your more stick-thin types in days of old had packed on about thirty pounds since graduation. Again, it's all about the uphill terrain.
The Music: 5
"Pandemonium", the hired band, was fairly good with a few misses here and there. They lose points, however, for warming up for two hours while we were trying to consume the meal the college served us with their amplifiers up past the 11 mark. Elizabeth, one of my old roommates, commented that perhaps they were trying to play in a really postmodern fashion.
The Energy Level: 7
I am only gathering this on hersay, but from what I did hear, Friday night was the "go all out" time frame. People were up until 5 in the morning playing beer games in the hallways and out in front of the dorms, and then, suddenly the next day, the participants realized that excessive alcohol consumption at 27 years old isn't quite the same experience the next day as it was at 22 years old. As a result, some of the company were a little drained by the time I got there, and I was only sorry to have missed the more exciting evening. However, they managed to pull it together for the second night in the end.
Drunken Brawling: 8
Props here goes to the class of 1987 who I hear ripped it up huge at the end of the band's performance. Nothing like "unfinished business" twenty years on. I also heard a report from my roommate for the night, Elizabeth, that she had woken up to a fight erupting outside of the window in which the main theme was "you slept with my wife" presumably before the said woman was the wife in the first place.
The Cleaning Crew: 10
Now, I can't speak for what I didn't see, which was the clean up in the dorm after the weekend was over, but I can say that after most of the company had retired to bed at about 7 in the morning, a crew came through and neatened up in front of the dorm where there had been at least 800 empty beer cans, corresponding boxes, and even an emptied keg. By the time most people were up and running, there was no evidence of the ale orgy to be found.
Overall, an exceptional experience and quite a throwback in many ways. I don't think I could have taken it all for more than a weekend--it would have got tiring and dull--but it was good to see everyone, and I hope that it won't be another five years before I see some of them again. I drove home through some miserable weather really glad I had come out there.
Next Reunion's topics: Ugliest children, Mismatched couples, FipCup at 32, and Further downward spirals of weight gain.
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
Thinking?
I was in my bathroom this morning, deciding whether or not to curl my hair, when I heard the words "Have a Happy Period" from the TV set closest by.
Have a happy what?
Apparently, one menstrual pad/tampon company decided that in order to market itself more effectively, the newest line of pads will include what amounts to a baby wipe attached to each individual package. You take the new pad out and lo and behold, you can get that "shower-clean feeling" as a bonus for buying their product. First of all, I have never gotten a clean enough feeling from what amounts of a small, moistened towellette to classify it with the "shower" genre, and second, and more importantly, WHO came up with that marketing campaign?
My answer--it must have been a guy, regardless of the fact that the voices that advertize feminine hygene products are never masculine. A woman would have slammed that one down right way--the implication that a wet towel could, in any large scale way, turn what is at least three days of living hell into a "happy" experience.
However, there is, of course the OB line of tampons, which, although "designed by a woman" are completely without applicators. Given that omission, I tend to believe that is more a gimmick than a reality.
On the ligher, and local, side, Buddy Cianci, former Mayor of Providence and subject of the book, "The Prince of Providence," has been released from prison, and Steve Laffey, who challenged the incubent Republican Sentor last fall, has published a book that he claims Rhode Islanders will love. If that is the case, you would hope that more people would have voted for the man.
At least the weather is good, and my cats are happy, although there has been a significant reduction in the local chipmunk population of late for whom I have become primary gravedigger.
Have a happy what?
Apparently, one menstrual pad/tampon company decided that in order to market itself more effectively, the newest line of pads will include what amounts to a baby wipe attached to each individual package. You take the new pad out and lo and behold, you can get that "shower-clean feeling" as a bonus for buying their product. First of all, I have never gotten a clean enough feeling from what amounts of a small, moistened towellette to classify it with the "shower" genre, and second, and more importantly, WHO came up with that marketing campaign?
My answer--it must have been a guy, regardless of the fact that the voices that advertize feminine hygene products are never masculine. A woman would have slammed that one down right way--the implication that a wet towel could, in any large scale way, turn what is at least three days of living hell into a "happy" experience.
However, there is, of course the OB line of tampons, which, although "designed by a woman" are completely without applicators. Given that omission, I tend to believe that is more a gimmick than a reality.
On the ligher, and local, side, Buddy Cianci, former Mayor of Providence and subject of the book, "The Prince of Providence," has been released from prison, and Steve Laffey, who challenged the incubent Republican Sentor last fall, has published a book that he claims Rhode Islanders will love. If that is the case, you would hope that more people would have voted for the man.
At least the weather is good, and my cats are happy, although there has been a significant reduction in the local chipmunk population of late for whom I have become primary gravedigger.
Sunday, May 13, 2007
Escape Attempt
My sister came home for her "spring break" from school in February. Usually, whenever any of us kids have to travel somewhere by plane, we ask our father to do it for us. Since his work takes him all over the country on a regular basis, he has a quick and easy program on his computer that makes it happen in the most efficient manner for the right price. This time, Heather did not stick with her original travel plan. She changed her tickets from a United flight to a Delta equivalent--similar timing, arriving in the same place....so, why the change?
Well, one very small thing distinguishes these two reputable airlines. United will not allow pets to fly on board. Delta, with a few exceptions, will.
Heather arrived at the airport with a very small plastic cage in her purse. Inside were two fairly substancially sized hamsters--a male and a female. The female was dubbed "Nevens," although I am unclear as to what this name represents. The male carried the very plebian name "Hamster," given he was a replacement for his predecessor, Kenevil, who tragically died upon meeting up with a friend's pet dog that still retained some hunting instincts. Heather brought them upstairs and put them into the bathroom that she and I share. Half an hour later, I entered the bathroom only to find one hamster present. Nevens was comfortably lodged behind the toilet by the door. Hamster, on the other hand, could not be found. We looked through every room on the second floor save one--our parents had retired to bed leaving one of the doubled doors to their room cracked to allow access to the cat population. After hours of searching, we concluded that he must have gone in, and we had to abandon our efforts.
At about 6:30 in the morning, my father presented a sleeping Heather with Hamster. He had gotten up at his usually early hour to find Hamster in an overturned can of peanuts on the carpet by his side of the bed. Fortunately, he did so before Harriet, our oldest and most capably mouse-catching cat, came into the room, sniffed out the peanut can, and followed the scent to the closed door of Heather's room outside of which she sat for the next few hours.
Heather flew out to Colorado the following weekend, leaving Hamster and Nevens in our temporary care (although I beg to ask how temporary). Because the two of them did not get along, we gave them each their own cage. Nevens has her own space with a removeable plastic top and a few nooks and crannies she likes to sleep in. Hamster, the most athletic of the two, has a wire cage that is higher than it is wide, but it includes a wheel in which he will run for hours to make up for the lack of floor space.
Their cages are cleaned once a week. A few weeks ago, my mother brought both of them downstairs and proceded to change their fluff and add extra food and water--a process the hamsters, as hoarders who enjoy filth, never quite appreciate. She finished Nevens' cage last and left it on the countertop overnight. The next morning, the entire top of the cage had been removed and Nevens was nowhere to be found.
A search was immediately mounted. At first, it was concluded that she must have been injured by the fall from the counter to the floor and perhaps limped off somewhere nearby. However, an inspection of the all of the closest undersides of cabinets and appliances revealed nothing. My father put out small piles of food in random places, and they all remained untouched. Ironically, there was never a point when they assumed that one or more of the half a dozen cats in the house had got a hold of the innocent creature and brought it to an untimely end. As the days went by, the active search became a recovery mission. Nothing turned up at all. We resigned Nevens to the long line of unsolved residential mysteries.
One evening, my mother and I were sitting in the living room--it had been about five days since we had last seen Nevens. My mother turned down the volume on the TV set--she heard scratching somewhere, she claimed. Once the set was no longer interfering with this scratching sound, I also heard it, but I thought it was the printer on the second floor resetting itself in the usual "contacting the printer planet-like" manner. However, my mother was not content with that explanation. She walked over to the opposite wall and peered into the air conditioning vent on the floor closest to the TV. Lo and behold, there she was, scratching about on the metal grating under the floor plating. She reached in and brought out Nevens. With very little protest, Nevens was returned to her cage five days after officially breaking out. After a quick nibble, a little water, and some rummaging of the new fluff, she was comfortably asleep in her usual spot as if nothing ever happened.
So much for having a house full of felines.
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare was promptly placed on top of her removeable cage top to prevent a repeat of the recent events. Due to good behavior, that has been downgraded to The Joy of Cooking. If this trend continues, the American Heritage Dictionary is next.
Well, one very small thing distinguishes these two reputable airlines. United will not allow pets to fly on board. Delta, with a few exceptions, will.
Heather arrived at the airport with a very small plastic cage in her purse. Inside were two fairly substancially sized hamsters--a male and a female. The female was dubbed "Nevens," although I am unclear as to what this name represents. The male carried the very plebian name "Hamster," given he was a replacement for his predecessor, Kenevil, who tragically died upon meeting up with a friend's pet dog that still retained some hunting instincts. Heather brought them upstairs and put them into the bathroom that she and I share. Half an hour later, I entered the bathroom only to find one hamster present. Nevens was comfortably lodged behind the toilet by the door. Hamster, on the other hand, could not be found. We looked through every room on the second floor save one--our parents had retired to bed leaving one of the doubled doors to their room cracked to allow access to the cat population. After hours of searching, we concluded that he must have gone in, and we had to abandon our efforts.
At about 6:30 in the morning, my father presented a sleeping Heather with Hamster. He had gotten up at his usually early hour to find Hamster in an overturned can of peanuts on the carpet by his side of the bed. Fortunately, he did so before Harriet, our oldest and most capably mouse-catching cat, came into the room, sniffed out the peanut can, and followed the scent to the closed door of Heather's room outside of which she sat for the next few hours.
Heather flew out to Colorado the following weekend, leaving Hamster and Nevens in our temporary care (although I beg to ask how temporary). Because the two of them did not get along, we gave them each their own cage. Nevens has her own space with a removeable plastic top and a few nooks and crannies she likes to sleep in. Hamster, the most athletic of the two, has a wire cage that is higher than it is wide, but it includes a wheel in which he will run for hours to make up for the lack of floor space.
Their cages are cleaned once a week. A few weeks ago, my mother brought both of them downstairs and proceded to change their fluff and add extra food and water--a process the hamsters, as hoarders who enjoy filth, never quite appreciate. She finished Nevens' cage last and left it on the countertop overnight. The next morning, the entire top of the cage had been removed and Nevens was nowhere to be found.
A search was immediately mounted. At first, it was concluded that she must have been injured by the fall from the counter to the floor and perhaps limped off somewhere nearby. However, an inspection of the all of the closest undersides of cabinets and appliances revealed nothing. My father put out small piles of food in random places, and they all remained untouched. Ironically, there was never a point when they assumed that one or more of the half a dozen cats in the house had got a hold of the innocent creature and brought it to an untimely end. As the days went by, the active search became a recovery mission. Nothing turned up at all. We resigned Nevens to the long line of unsolved residential mysteries.
One evening, my mother and I were sitting in the living room--it had been about five days since we had last seen Nevens. My mother turned down the volume on the TV set--she heard scratching somewhere, she claimed. Once the set was no longer interfering with this scratching sound, I also heard it, but I thought it was the printer on the second floor resetting itself in the usual "contacting the printer planet-like" manner. However, my mother was not content with that explanation. She walked over to the opposite wall and peered into the air conditioning vent on the floor closest to the TV. Lo and behold, there she was, scratching about on the metal grating under the floor plating. She reached in and brought out Nevens. With very little protest, Nevens was returned to her cage five days after officially breaking out. After a quick nibble, a little water, and some rummaging of the new fluff, she was comfortably asleep in her usual spot as if nothing ever happened.
So much for having a house full of felines.
The Complete Works of William Shakespeare was promptly placed on top of her removeable cage top to prevent a repeat of the recent events. Due to good behavior, that has been downgraded to The Joy of Cooking. If this trend continues, the American Heritage Dictionary is next.
Friday, May 11, 2007
Bits and Pieces
Ah, May. And now, we, the population of New England, are finally getting a taste of the weather we would normally associate with this time of the year. There are blooming trees. lots of flowers, even leaves *almost* out and full grown now. The sun even makes varying appearances over our little cluster of six states.
Finally, the website upon which so many of us spent our winter working has been put online. If you're interested, please see The Mayflower Story. To allay any confusion, this is not about the famous voyage of the pilgrims in 1620. Instead, this website focuses on the journey of the Mayflower II, part of the exhibit on the waterfront belonging to Plimoth Plantation. Check out the web clips along the path of the voyage--we really focused on those in particular. This summer, the remaining members of the crew from the 1957 voyage have been invited to the US for the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary this year of the ship's arrival. We will hopefully be sailing the ship this upcoming July as a result. I have never seen the ship sail in person, actually, for all the work I have done at Plimoth Plantation, so regardless of where I am by that time, I will certainly at least make an effort to see it happen.
So, Tony Blair is finally stepping down as PM in the UK. When I first went over in October of 2005, I remember the whole election process of a new opposition party leader--something that I completely did not understand given my background. Eventually, David Cameron was elected to this post, and although a little slick for my tastes (and obviously with his "eye on the prize"), I can see how his charisma will win him votes. I am curious to know if there will be an election following Blair's departure, which was something hinted at but not confirmed by last fall. If so, I can clearly see David Cameron go up against Gordon Brown, and therefore, winning the election.
I have decided to go to my five year college reunion. We'll see how that goes.
Wasps have decided that the eave over my main window is the best place to create a comb complex. The combined forces of my hose and my bottle of Raid says otherwise.
Well there you are. I hope all is well out there with the rest of you.
Finally, the website upon which so many of us spent our winter working has been put online. If you're interested, please see The Mayflower Story. To allay any confusion, this is not about the famous voyage of the pilgrims in 1620. Instead, this website focuses on the journey of the Mayflower II, part of the exhibit on the waterfront belonging to Plimoth Plantation. Check out the web clips along the path of the voyage--we really focused on those in particular. This summer, the remaining members of the crew from the 1957 voyage have been invited to the US for the celebration of the fiftieth anniversary this year of the ship's arrival. We will hopefully be sailing the ship this upcoming July as a result. I have never seen the ship sail in person, actually, for all the work I have done at Plimoth Plantation, so regardless of where I am by that time, I will certainly at least make an effort to see it happen.
So, Tony Blair is finally stepping down as PM in the UK. When I first went over in October of 2005, I remember the whole election process of a new opposition party leader--something that I completely did not understand given my background. Eventually, David Cameron was elected to this post, and although a little slick for my tastes (and obviously with his "eye on the prize"), I can see how his charisma will win him votes. I am curious to know if there will be an election following Blair's departure, which was something hinted at but not confirmed by last fall. If so, I can clearly see David Cameron go up against Gordon Brown, and therefore, winning the election.
I have decided to go to my five year college reunion. We'll see how that goes.
Wasps have decided that the eave over my main window is the best place to create a comb complex. The combined forces of my hose and my bottle of Raid says otherwise.
Well there you are. I hope all is well out there with the rest of you.
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