This is Kaitlyn's stock punchline for any situation.
Here's an example:
Kaitlyn: Knock, knock
Me: Who's there?
K: banana
Me: Banana who?
K: Moonyake! (hysterical laughter)
Maybe I'm reading too much into this, but here's my interpretation as a dad:
Kaitlyn has extraordinary verbals skills, but she's also savvy enough to recognize that sometimes things are said that are so complex that she doesn't understand them. It sounds like gibberish to her. So, she's invented a gibberish retort that she can use when she feels her verbal abilities fall short. It makes her feel on par with the rest of the family. And that's the child psychology lesson for today.
25 April 2007
19 April 2007
Mike: traveling
I really like that line from Shakespeare's "Much Ado About Nothing" where he ponders "Is it not strange that sheep's guts should hail souls out of men's bodies?". In a way, I feel the same way about jet fuel and terminals. Every time I travel, I seem to invent a new adventure in my head to entertain myself on my journey. Something about walking down one jetway, sitting down, and walking back up another jetway to your destination thousands of miles away, is the closest thing to a magic time machine that I will ever come to. It just seems that the selection of which jetway to walk down is the difference of where you end up and what the day holds for you. Walk down one, and you are that much closer to people you miss and would like to visit. Walk down another and carry out your 20-hour workday that's been planned.
This time I was traveling to help my old professor out with a problem. He's in his '70's now, and it felt nice to be useful to him. I was confident that I could help him--he had some equipment which didn't seem to be working properly, and he was working on-site at an archeological site in Arizona to document ruins from over a thousand years ago. Since he has been a big advocate of my company, I got my boss to approve a visit so I can get him up and running again.
Although I have traveled to most of the states in the US, I have never been to New Mexico, which has a distinct culture. Through an acquaintence, I once found myself house-sitting for a couple who had an entire house decorated in an elaborate Southwestern motif--eh, not for me. But I did learn to appreciate the fact that it is unique and appreciable by some.
The very first thing that caught my attention was the first leg of the journey. The new acquaintences in the row next to me were really hitting it off. I tried reading for a while, but I couldn't focus on the book--there was a charming girl sitting between two men (reminds me of a joke--a pretty girl, settling between two rough-looking men, comments quietly as she sits, "a rose between two thorns..." One of the burly men retorts "More like a tongue sandwich!") Anyway, the girl was loud and laughing and talked the whole time--she was a radio show producer. At one point, I couldn't help but look over, and I noticed that the man sitting next to me had absolutely the hairiest hands I've ever seen. Tufts of thick, black, 2-inch-long hair streamed out of his cuffs and continued up to the row of knuckles on his hand. I thought he might be some kind of tamed Sasquatch. I thought that his paw-fur might be constantly getting caught in machinery or appliances and pose a danger. Ironically, on mandatory and incredulous further inspection, he was nearly bald on top of his head. I wonder if he often poses with his hands folded on top of his scalp...
When the plane landed, I quietly walked out of the plane into the Albuquerque airport. From the air, the desert and the indistinct shadows of mountain peaks in the distance were actually quite beautiful. The sky is particuarly blue and the earth very red. I can see how this would be inspiring to most who are allowed to absorb it slowly and naturally, not force-fed. In the terminal there was a sweet smell of fresh corn tortillas, grilled and smokey, wafting strongly through the whole wing. I could smell the southwestern spices--diced jalapeno peppers and onions mixed with tomatoes.
As I ate some of the local cuisine and waited for the next leg of my flight, I texted Fran "I'm here in New Mexico--I sure miss the USA..." I guess because lots of people don't know geography, or the fact that we also border Mexico, it is apparently true that people possess the misconception that New Mexico is not part of the US.
I finally went through the right door which took me to my old professor, who is actually a botanist. As he drove along dangerously, complaining of all the other drivers on the road, he was often distracted by the local flora, pointing out the giant saguaro cacti flanking the road, the the flowering yucca, red and yellow, along the median.
I solved the equipment problem in about an hour, leaving us about five more to fill before I caught my return flight. He had offered for me to stay over at the house he is renting while working there, but that didn't feel quite right, so I had scheduled everything to be a day trip, flying in on the earliest flight and out on the last one to leave. He's my professor, and I've known him for over 12 years, but I feel more comfortable knowing him at a distance. Inevitably, people fail your expectations when you learn more about them. Riding in the car while they drive, for example.
He took me on a walking tour in the beautiful Arizona desert--the air was cool and dry and perfectly comfortable. We were down in a flat spot surrounded by four or five mountain ranges in the distance. He stopped to examine some of the plants to see if they had pollinated via some kind of botanic OB/GYN exam, which I was a little embarrassed to discuss with him for some reason or another.
We went to a restaurant and, upon his recommendation, I ordered exactly the same thing that he did, but when the meals were delivered, I got some other combination of ground corn meal, beans, and cheese, than he did. Same ingredients, but different configuration--this irritated him greatly because he wanted me to try his favorite lunch. I dismissed it and started eating, and we were talking about the shooting at the Virginia Tech campus. It was particularly interesting to discuss with my professor, because he had personally witnessed the shooting on campus at the University of Texas in 1966. He recounted how he was having lunch with a colleague and they noticed people falling down in the courtyard. Since it was the '60's, they just assumed it was another protest of some sort or another.
In the middle of the conversation, he cut a forkful of his lunch and plunked it on my plate for me to sample. Inwardly, I gagged and wanted to run screaming from the room. Ever since microbiology class, which was followed closely in my education by epidemiology, I have had a slightly skewed, disturbed view of the world of germs and disease transmission. In twenty seconds my thoughts had run the circuit of spilling my tray on the ground, feigning complete satiation, honestly expressing that I didn't want to share man-germs with anyone, and then to acceptance of my fate. I scooped up the corn tortilla with beans and ate it like one of the contestants of Survivor swallowing a hairy worm or uncooked chicken fetus or something.
The rest of the day was occupied by being introduced to nearly everyone else working on the project, which was really nice. We tested the equipment and got great results--the problems were so minor that I started to wonder if I should have come at all to begin with.
The flight home was eventful, but I'll spare all but the most necessary details. My notes include watching a nun sleep while leaning on her hand, and a really tough-punk-looking kid with piercings, tattoos, and scary-looking clothes and shoes menacing everyone in line. When no one was watching, he slowly reached into his bag and drew out an asthma inhaler and used it, then went back to surly thoughts of kicking ass.
As we waited to go up the jetway into the Albuquerque airport, the man next to me commented, "I always have to transfer through this airport and I hate the way it smells! The damned Quiznos always burns their bread and it stinks up this whole section of the airport!"
I put my Ipod headphones on and sat a distance away so I could hum along. Nothing sounded good, and I started to get a little cranky. Then I realized that my humming voice sort of sounded like a someone splatting harshly into tuba. Even being on key with the melody, it still sounded like a tuba in my ears--Who wants to hear the tuba rendition of songs by Sheryl Crow, Neil Young, or Led Zeppelin? It made me sad, and then I couldn't turn off the humming voice, even when I wasn't humming. I might be ruined for life.
Over twenty hours and 1700 miles elapsed, I was home again with new stories to tell...
This time I was traveling to help my old professor out with a problem. He's in his '70's now, and it felt nice to be useful to him. I was confident that I could help him--he had some equipment which didn't seem to be working properly, and he was working on-site at an archeological site in Arizona to document ruins from over a thousand years ago. Since he has been a big advocate of my company, I got my boss to approve a visit so I can get him up and running again.
Although I have traveled to most of the states in the US, I have never been to New Mexico, which has a distinct culture. Through an acquaintence, I once found myself house-sitting for a couple who had an entire house decorated in an elaborate Southwestern motif--eh, not for me. But I did learn to appreciate the fact that it is unique and appreciable by some.
The very first thing that caught my attention was the first leg of the journey. The new acquaintences in the row next to me were really hitting it off. I tried reading for a while, but I couldn't focus on the book--there was a charming girl sitting between two men (reminds me of a joke--a pretty girl, settling between two rough-looking men, comments quietly as she sits, "a rose between two thorns..." One of the burly men retorts "More like a tongue sandwich!") Anyway, the girl was loud and laughing and talked the whole time--she was a radio show producer. At one point, I couldn't help but look over, and I noticed that the man sitting next to me had absolutely the hairiest hands I've ever seen. Tufts of thick, black, 2-inch-long hair streamed out of his cuffs and continued up to the row of knuckles on his hand. I thought he might be some kind of tamed Sasquatch. I thought that his paw-fur might be constantly getting caught in machinery or appliances and pose a danger. Ironically, on mandatory and incredulous further inspection, he was nearly bald on top of his head. I wonder if he often poses with his hands folded on top of his scalp...
When the plane landed, I quietly walked out of the plane into the Albuquerque airport. From the air, the desert and the indistinct shadows of mountain peaks in the distance were actually quite beautiful. The sky is particuarly blue and the earth very red. I can see how this would be inspiring to most who are allowed to absorb it slowly and naturally, not force-fed. In the terminal there was a sweet smell of fresh corn tortillas, grilled and smokey, wafting strongly through the whole wing. I could smell the southwestern spices--diced jalapeno peppers and onions mixed with tomatoes.
As I ate some of the local cuisine and waited for the next leg of my flight, I texted Fran "I'm here in New Mexico--I sure miss the USA..." I guess because lots of people don't know geography, or the fact that we also border Mexico, it is apparently true that people possess the misconception that New Mexico is not part of the US.
I finally went through the right door which took me to my old professor, who is actually a botanist. As he drove along dangerously, complaining of all the other drivers on the road, he was often distracted by the local flora, pointing out the giant saguaro cacti flanking the road, the the flowering yucca, red and yellow, along the median.
I solved the equipment problem in about an hour, leaving us about five more to fill before I caught my return flight. He had offered for me to stay over at the house he is renting while working there, but that didn't feel quite right, so I had scheduled everything to be a day trip, flying in on the earliest flight and out on the last one to leave. He's my professor, and I've known him for over 12 years, but I feel more comfortable knowing him at a distance. Inevitably, people fail your expectations when you learn more about them. Riding in the car while they drive, for example.
He took me on a walking tour in the beautiful Arizona desert--the air was cool and dry and perfectly comfortable. We were down in a flat spot surrounded by four or five mountain ranges in the distance. He stopped to examine some of the plants to see if they had pollinated via some kind of botanic OB/GYN exam, which I was a little embarrassed to discuss with him for some reason or another.
We went to a restaurant and, upon his recommendation, I ordered exactly the same thing that he did, but when the meals were delivered, I got some other combination of ground corn meal, beans, and cheese, than he did. Same ingredients, but different configuration--this irritated him greatly because he wanted me to try his favorite lunch. I dismissed it and started eating, and we were talking about the shooting at the Virginia Tech campus. It was particularly interesting to discuss with my professor, because he had personally witnessed the shooting on campus at the University of Texas in 1966. He recounted how he was having lunch with a colleague and they noticed people falling down in the courtyard. Since it was the '60's, they just assumed it was another protest of some sort or another.
In the middle of the conversation, he cut a forkful of his lunch and plunked it on my plate for me to sample. Inwardly, I gagged and wanted to run screaming from the room. Ever since microbiology class, which was followed closely in my education by epidemiology, I have had a slightly skewed, disturbed view of the world of germs and disease transmission. In twenty seconds my thoughts had run the circuit of spilling my tray on the ground, feigning complete satiation, honestly expressing that I didn't want to share man-germs with anyone, and then to acceptance of my fate. I scooped up the corn tortilla with beans and ate it like one of the contestants of Survivor swallowing a hairy worm or uncooked chicken fetus or something.
The rest of the day was occupied by being introduced to nearly everyone else working on the project, which was really nice. We tested the equipment and got great results--the problems were so minor that I started to wonder if I should have come at all to begin with.
The flight home was eventful, but I'll spare all but the most necessary details. My notes include watching a nun sleep while leaning on her hand, and a really tough-punk-looking kid with piercings, tattoos, and scary-looking clothes and shoes menacing everyone in line. When no one was watching, he slowly reached into his bag and drew out an asthma inhaler and used it, then went back to surly thoughts of kicking ass.
As we waited to go up the jetway into the Albuquerque airport, the man next to me commented, "I always have to transfer through this airport and I hate the way it smells! The damned Quiznos always burns their bread and it stinks up this whole section of the airport!"
I put my Ipod headphones on and sat a distance away so I could hum along. Nothing sounded good, and I started to get a little cranky. Then I realized that my humming voice sort of sounded like a someone splatting harshly into tuba. Even being on key with the melody, it still sounded like a tuba in my ears--Who wants to hear the tuba rendition of songs by Sheryl Crow, Neil Young, or Led Zeppelin? It made me sad, and then I couldn't turn off the humming voice, even when I wasn't humming. I might be ruined for life.
Over twenty hours and 1700 miles elapsed, I was home again with new stories to tell...
10 April 2007
Childish Misconceptions
I remember the very first popular song on the radio when I was a kid--it was Wings' "Band on the Run", only I knew it as "Man on the Run". I'm not sure why it stuck in my head that way, but I remember hearing it again in the '80's and it eventually sinking in to my head that I had the words wrong.
I remember another time when my mom told me that I was a human bean (I think she meant "human being"). I was so disappointed to find that out.
Last week, Fran was finishing up the dishes after dinner when I walked into the kitchen. The kids were upstairs asleep, so I turned one of the kitchen chairs around backward and sat down, leaning against the chair back. The radio was playing, and she said, "This is my favorite new song..."
It was a really good song--I hadn't heard it before. It was about a "mystery girl"...It kept talking about a "mystery girl" and "wherever you are" and "it's you that I want".
After hearing it for a while--I said, "I think this song is about you."
She kind of looked at me funny. Very funny. And by funny, ironically, I mean that she was not amused.
I tried to salvage it, "Aren't you my mystery girl?"
"Well, they're saying 'Promiscuous girl'..." The name of the song is "Promiscuous" by Nelly Furtado.
Whoops.
I remember another time when my mom told me that I was a human bean (I think she meant "human being"). I was so disappointed to find that out.
Last week, Fran was finishing up the dishes after dinner when I walked into the kitchen. The kids were upstairs asleep, so I turned one of the kitchen chairs around backward and sat down, leaning against the chair back. The radio was playing, and she said, "This is my favorite new song..."
It was a really good song--I hadn't heard it before. It was about a "mystery girl"...It kept talking about a "mystery girl" and "wherever you are" and "it's you that I want".
After hearing it for a while--I said, "I think this song is about you."
She kind of looked at me funny. Very funny. And by funny, ironically, I mean that she was not amused.
I tried to salvage it, "Aren't you my mystery girl?"
"Well, they're saying 'Promiscuous girl'..." The name of the song is "Promiscuous" by Nelly Furtado.
Whoops.
09 April 2007
More on Books...and stuff.
I realized why my "accounting of books" was coming to mind the other day--I subconsciusly realize that I am about to lose my box set of The Police. It's the only group that I have the box set of, and, as it turns out, I guess I didn't need to hear everything they possibly ever recorded. I think they had a version of "Roxanne" recorded in the shower and "Message in a Bottle" on a banjo. I guess those are long lost recordings which I will never hear again, but I did like some of the raw tones of their early music.
I was working in the office for a couple of days (I usually work from a home office or on the road), and I overheard one of the new guys (actually, a temp) listening to some older recordings of The Police and we started talking about music. I told him that I own the box set and that I would be happy to loan it to him so he could check it out. It's on a shelf and I haven't listened to it a while, so I would be happy to let him get some use out of it. He mentioned that he may upload the songs to his Ipod or something.
I brought it in the next day and just asked him to be finished with them an a week or so.
That was a month ago.
Now, I found out that it's just, ahem, possible that his temp contract is about to run out and that he will not be invited back--so the clock is ticking on getting my CD's back. This is how I lost a bunch of my books before--a young woman I worked with asked me to compile a recommended reading list for her, which I did, and then she asked me if she could borrow a few of them from me--I brought up a selection for her to choose from and she begged to take them all with her. She got fired within about two days, and never came back. If she read all those books, I hereby formally forgive her.
I'm glad I didn't loan her Winesburg, Ohio--if you haven't read this, please do. It reminds me of blog from a 1900 American small town. I love the way the stories interconnect and show motivations of characters from different points of view. Then again, I haven't read it in 10 years, so maybe it isn't as good as I thought--hate it when that happens.
I didn't include this note about how I didn't learn and still loaned stuff out, to a Temp, no less, before because my entry was already too long...Now I realize that it was the climax of the whole thing. Oh, well.
Fran and I have a running joke about my reading. Sometimes I will challenge myself with a book (for example Dostoevsky), whereas she subscribes to the school of thought that there is enough to read in the world where you shouldn't have to endure something that isn't entirely enjoyable. I think her subliminal point is that I've gotten about as smart as I'm going to get, so give up trying to force the issue any further... Whenever she sees that I'm reading a book that isn't fun, she shakes her head sadly and offers me a Spider Man comic.
I read in Time magazine about this book called Godel, Escher Bach. Now I have to be careful about how I characterize this book, because the author writes about 10 pages about how people always try to describe his masterpiece and how everyone who tries to describe it gets it wrong and how no one should ever try to summarize this book because his book is a magic work that defies summary. Charming. Reminds me of one of those fussy, effeminate intellectuals who look like they suck lemons. So, I beg your pardon in advance. The Time magazine writer says that this book significantly affected his family's intellectual development--his sister became some kind of genius chemist or something. When I described it to Fran, she asked me "Why don't you just get yourself a Cat o' Nine Tails?"
Here's what the book is about: Strange Loops. The mathematical similarities in logical thought of different forms of art, music, and philosophy, and how, in some cases, one idea can be compounded upon to a higher complexity by expanding a basic idea. It's full of anecdotes--one of them is about how Bach wrote one of his fugues after given a basic line by Frederick the Great. I guess, if you turn the notes into a calculus equation and take the derivative of it, it turns out that mathematically it is a really, really good song. I had Fran punch it up on the computer and we listened to it together--not bad. I don't know, though, I prefer the guitar part on Where the Streets have no Name...
I can't remember who it was, but some older woman recommended that, if you are in doubt of whether or not you like a book, there's a formula for how much of it you should read before putting it down--her idea is 100 minus your age. If, by that time, you aren't into it, you can put it down with good conscience. Not me. I gave Anna Karenina about 150 pages and felt like I hadn't made a dent yet. Sometimes, when I've had too much pizza, that book still haunts me. Some day I'll read it. I only have about 1,300 more pages to go.
One of the reasons why Godel, Escher, Bach appealed to me is that I have a similar theory about art, music, and literature. Here's a summary of it: Monet and Hemingway seem very similar in their artistic approach toward art and writing, respectively. See? Pretty easy to summarize. I can expand and explain, but that was the climax. I remembered to include it in the post this time...
07 April 2007
A Good Friday
Yesterday, Ryan and I took some time in the early afternoon and went to the Texas Rangers home opener game versus the Boston Red Sox. Yes, this is my first baseball reference of 2007.
We had Standing Room Only tickets, so I hoisted Ryan up on my shoulders so he could sit and watch the game. We were all the way in the back against the outfield, crowded by a menagerie of characters which reminded me of the creature cantina from Star Wars. If I described this soup of thugs, perverts, and hooligans, I would have to take away some of the more fun characteristics just so it would be believable.
Okay, I'm just picking one random guy who was in front of us. He was a heavyset Mexican guy who had gone out and bought a size XXXXL Boston Red Sox jersey. Then he got some size XXXXL white letters which spelled out "SUCK!" and pasted them diagonally across the back of the jersy. He drank 17 beers during the game, so he was feeling great. He must have been rich, too, because 17 beers cost him about $150. How do I know he drank so much? He saved each cup and built a tower with them. Beer guy wore a generic ballcap backward on his head and had that generic heavyset posture that looks a little like a bulldog--his arms didn't fit against his sides, so they kind of stuck out like an accessory. He didn't cheer over-enthusastically for the Rangers, but whenever Boston would do something good, he would curse loudly--this got my attention. We were standing over the bullpen where the Red Sox pitchers warm up--during the game, they started warming up and the Rangers fans, frenzied with emotion, started throwing peanut shells, ice, and trash into the bullpen, which drew the attention of about ten security guards who ringed the area around the bullpen, including one who established his post about five feet away from where I was standing. He made eye contact with me and I said "Hello", but I think politeness is a sign of weakness or something, because he looked at me like I was from another planet. Maybe it was because there was a hyper 8-year-old growing out of my head, kinda like Master-Blaster from that Mad Max movie. When the game was over, Beer guy dumped his whole tower of empty beer cups over the rail into the bullpen, where it exploded into a big mess that someone is going to have to clean up. I thought he was saving them up for a hope chest or something, but I guess he didn't want to carry them to the car.
Ryan: "Wow--this is the best seat in the whole park!"
If I try to hoist him up like that next year, I'll probably squish like an accordian. We spent 1/3 of the game actually watching the game, another 1/3 of the game getting hot dogs, cokes, and playing games in the concourse, and then the last 1/3 of the game counting beer cups, admiring the menagerie, and kinda watching the game in the meantime.
When we were finished, we went to the planetarium--this was suggested by Fran since we were across town, right by my old university, and we had a lot of fun seeing the planetarium show a few weeks ago during Spring Break. They have one of those panoramic screens that is a big half-sphere that can make you seasick since it takes up your whole field of vision. All they gotta do is rotate the image slightly and I feel like I need to lay down.
We got to the planetarium two hours too early, so I asked Ryan if he would like a tour of the university. I thought to myself that I hoped that someday he could attend a university, and that maybe he would feel comfortable on a campus. He was very impressed that the library has over 1,000,000 books. There are so many books that they have those shelves that are on rollers--the shelves all pack together until you unpack them to make a walkway so you can go in between them to get the book that you need. Ryan was very excited about the prospect of being squished between the shelves, and asked if that had ever happened. I told him that, indeed, it almost happened one night while I was in the middle of a row and some unobservant girl decided that she should roll the shelves to get a book that she needed--without looking to see if anyone was already getting a book. The book I was retrieving "Lemnaceae of North America". Every time I walk by this library, I get the sinking feeling that I never turned that book back in...
One of the reasons I wanted to show Ryan around wat that personally, I never felt as though I belonged on the campus--It was just something in my head that told me that I didn't deserve to be there--that I wasn't trying hard enough, that someone would find out that I was borrowing the money to pay for my classes and books, that I was not devoting enough time to studying--in fact, sometimes I would have to decide what I was going to study and what I was going to just take a stab at on the test.
Toward the end of my studies in college, I was about 26 or so and I started feeling like the oldest guy on campus--I felt ridiculous.
I know it was mostly in my head, so one of my big goals in life has been not to pass on some of this self-critical thinking to my son. I think I've been successful--the other day I asked him if his teacher liked him, and he said "Yes--I'm actually her favorite student!" Maybe he's right, but at least I'm glad he thinks that way.
Anyway, he was pretty excited about the tour, so I took him to around to some of the different buildings which I knew had kind of cool displays in glass cases in the lobby. The Biology Department had some really neat turtle shells, crocodile skulls, and posters of all the poisonous snakes of Texas. There is also an area called the Free Speech area, which was coined in the '60's and '70's. Essentially, it is a platform near a fountain upon which you can climb and say whatever you feel like saying. Ryan smiled really big and jumped up there and said, "I've got the best Dad in the world!"
One of the big departments is the Engineering Department--there was actually an astronaut who came from this department who died when the space shuttle exploded--her picture was on display in the lobby. Ryan didn't notice this, but he did notice the Aerospace Engineering displays with planes and satellites and things like that. We went down a hallway and saw a crew of guys working inside a laboratory. They were bustling and looked annoyed that some dude and his son were walking down their hall, and that we might possibly get in the way of the bustling. Ryan stood a little back from the door of the lab and watched. I've noticed that there are a few things that Ryan can get wrapped up in for several hours, and building models is one of those things--he can read and interpret the plans and puts together things very well. He also knows how to use tools around the house, which I think is kind of a cool thing for a kid to know. I've bought him a small tool box and toolbelt that he uses sometimes.
While we were standing there, a nicely dressed man came out of a nearby office and started walking toward us down the hall. I saw that he noticed Ryan standing in the doorway, watching the students building the car, and I started getting that funny feeling like we didn't belong. I fought through it, though. As the man walked up, it was clear that he was in charge of the project. He wore glasses and a notebook in his hand. He walked up to Ryan and asked him "What do you think?"
Ryan turned and smiled and said "That looks great!"
I told him, "Ryan is a builder. He loves to make models." What I didn't realize is that the man I was speaking to was the Professor of the Mechanical Engineering Department and that his specialty was mechanical model building and testing.
He smiled broadly and put his hand on Ryan's shoulder, "Come on in to the lab, then!" and he took us on a 20 minute tour of the project, showing Ryan the milling machines, lathes, and assembly stations where they fabricate the parts for the car. Ten students, still bustling, were assembling and fitting the car together. Ryan went over to them excitedly and pointed out to the professor that the cross-tie design was similar to something that he was building for a model roller coaster.
When we were finished and were walking out, Ryan went to the professor and shook hands with him, looked him in the eye, and thanked him for showing him the lab. The professor replied, "Study in school, come here, and join our engineering group!" Ryan nodded and smiled.
Seriously, I couldn't have orchestrated things any better if I had planned it out for a month. As we walked down the hall, Ryan kept saying how cool everything was in the engineering department. I'm just glad I didn't screw it up by getting in the way...
We had Standing Room Only tickets, so I hoisted Ryan up on my shoulders so he could sit and watch the game. We were all the way in the back against the outfield, crowded by a menagerie of characters which reminded me of the creature cantina from Star Wars. If I described this soup of thugs, perverts, and hooligans, I would have to take away some of the more fun characteristics just so it would be believable.
Okay, I'm just picking one random guy who was in front of us. He was a heavyset Mexican guy who had gone out and bought a size XXXXL Boston Red Sox jersey. Then he got some size XXXXL white letters which spelled out "SUCK!" and pasted them diagonally across the back of the jersy. He drank 17 beers during the game, so he was feeling great. He must have been rich, too, because 17 beers cost him about $150. How do I know he drank so much? He saved each cup and built a tower with them. Beer guy wore a generic ballcap backward on his head and had that generic heavyset posture that looks a little like a bulldog--his arms didn't fit against his sides, so they kind of stuck out like an accessory. He didn't cheer over-enthusastically for the Rangers, but whenever Boston would do something good, he would curse loudly--this got my attention. We were standing over the bullpen where the Red Sox pitchers warm up--during the game, they started warming up and the Rangers fans, frenzied with emotion, started throwing peanut shells, ice, and trash into the bullpen, which drew the attention of about ten security guards who ringed the area around the bullpen, including one who established his post about five feet away from where I was standing. He made eye contact with me and I said "Hello", but I think politeness is a sign of weakness or something, because he looked at me like I was from another planet. Maybe it was because there was a hyper 8-year-old growing out of my head, kinda like Master-Blaster from that Mad Max movie. When the game was over, Beer guy dumped his whole tower of empty beer cups over the rail into the bullpen, where it exploded into a big mess that someone is going to have to clean up. I thought he was saving them up for a hope chest or something, but I guess he didn't want to carry them to the car.
Ryan: "Wow--this is the best seat in the whole park!"
If I try to hoist him up like that next year, I'll probably squish like an accordian. We spent 1/3 of the game actually watching the game, another 1/3 of the game getting hot dogs, cokes, and playing games in the concourse, and then the last 1/3 of the game counting beer cups, admiring the menagerie, and kinda watching the game in the meantime.
When we were finished, we went to the planetarium--this was suggested by Fran since we were across town, right by my old university, and we had a lot of fun seeing the planetarium show a few weeks ago during Spring Break. They have one of those panoramic screens that is a big half-sphere that can make you seasick since it takes up your whole field of vision. All they gotta do is rotate the image slightly and I feel like I need to lay down.
We got to the planetarium two hours too early, so I asked Ryan if he would like a tour of the university. I thought to myself that I hoped that someday he could attend a university, and that maybe he would feel comfortable on a campus. He was very impressed that the library has over 1,000,000 books. There are so many books that they have those shelves that are on rollers--the shelves all pack together until you unpack them to make a walkway so you can go in between them to get the book that you need. Ryan was very excited about the prospect of being squished between the shelves, and asked if that had ever happened. I told him that, indeed, it almost happened one night while I was in the middle of a row and some unobservant girl decided that she should roll the shelves to get a book that she needed--without looking to see if anyone was already getting a book. The book I was retrieving "Lemnaceae of North America". Every time I walk by this library, I get the sinking feeling that I never turned that book back in...
One of the reasons I wanted to show Ryan around wat that personally, I never felt as though I belonged on the campus--It was just something in my head that told me that I didn't deserve to be there--that I wasn't trying hard enough, that someone would find out that I was borrowing the money to pay for my classes and books, that I was not devoting enough time to studying--in fact, sometimes I would have to decide what I was going to study and what I was going to just take a stab at on the test.
Toward the end of my studies in college, I was about 26 or so and I started feeling like the oldest guy on campus--I felt ridiculous.
I know it was mostly in my head, so one of my big goals in life has been not to pass on some of this self-critical thinking to my son. I think I've been successful--the other day I asked him if his teacher liked him, and he said "Yes--I'm actually her favorite student!" Maybe he's right, but at least I'm glad he thinks that way.
Anyway, he was pretty excited about the tour, so I took him to around to some of the different buildings which I knew had kind of cool displays in glass cases in the lobby. The Biology Department had some really neat turtle shells, crocodile skulls, and posters of all the poisonous snakes of Texas. There is also an area called the Free Speech area, which was coined in the '60's and '70's. Essentially, it is a platform near a fountain upon which you can climb and say whatever you feel like saying. Ryan smiled really big and jumped up there and said, "I've got the best Dad in the world!"
One of the big departments is the Engineering Department--there was actually an astronaut who came from this department who died when the space shuttle exploded--her picture was on display in the lobby. Ryan didn't notice this, but he did notice the Aerospace Engineering displays with planes and satellites and things like that. We went down a hallway and saw a crew of guys working inside a laboratory. They were bustling and looked annoyed that some dude and his son were walking down their hall, and that we might possibly get in the way of the bustling. Ryan stood a little back from the door of the lab and watched. I've noticed that there are a few things that Ryan can get wrapped up in for several hours, and building models is one of those things--he can read and interpret the plans and puts together things very well. He also knows how to use tools around the house, which I think is kind of a cool thing for a kid to know. I've bought him a small tool box and toolbelt that he uses sometimes.
While we were standing there, a nicely dressed man came out of a nearby office and started walking toward us down the hall. I saw that he noticed Ryan standing in the doorway, watching the students building the car, and I started getting that funny feeling like we didn't belong. I fought through it, though. As the man walked up, it was clear that he was in charge of the project. He wore glasses and a notebook in his hand. He walked up to Ryan and asked him "What do you think?"
Ryan turned and smiled and said "That looks great!"
I told him, "Ryan is a builder. He loves to make models." What I didn't realize is that the man I was speaking to was the Professor of the Mechanical Engineering Department and that his specialty was mechanical model building and testing.
He smiled broadly and put his hand on Ryan's shoulder, "Come on in to the lab, then!" and he took us on a 20 minute tour of the project, showing Ryan the milling machines, lathes, and assembly stations where they fabricate the parts for the car. Ten students, still bustling, were assembling and fitting the car together. Ryan went over to them excitedly and pointed out to the professor that the cross-tie design was similar to something that he was building for a model roller coaster.
When we were finished and were walking out, Ryan went to the professor and shook hands with him, looked him in the eye, and thanked him for showing him the lab. The professor replied, "Study in school, come here, and join our engineering group!" Ryan nodded and smiled.
Seriously, I couldn't have orchestrated things any better if I had planned it out for a month. As we walked down the hall, Ryan kept saying how cool everything was in the engineering department. I'm just glad I didn't screw it up by getting in the way...
06 April 2007
Snippets
Please stay with me...
3:45
AM.
It's very dark outside (and inside).
Crazy beeping sound. Gradually getting louder...
"Oh, that must be the smoke alarm I put in the garage."
Me (yawning): "Theres a fire in the garage?"
"No--the alarm was going off yesterday so I put a new battery in it. But I couldn't put it back on the ceiling thingy."
Me: "Oh, okay." (rolls over and re-closes eyes). Crazy beeping sound persists, but at least the mystery is solved. There is a moment of silence before I realize that handling this falls within my realm of responsibilities. If it was a crying baby, I may have a chance at rolling over and closing my eyes and a lightly passive-aggressive standoff/battle of wills/short straw contest.
"Uuuuuugh." I get up and go turn off the alarm. By "turn off", I mean that I pop the battery out of it and pound it against my left palm until the beeping finally stops. Then I wrap it in a rag and stuff it into a can of something or another out in the garage.
My mind starts to equate this 3:45 AM alarm-going-off thing with yelling "fire" in a theater.
I try to go back to sleep, but I keep thinking that we've disabled our smoke alarm. Seriously, I can envision the fire marshall standing outside our smokey home: "Well, for some reason, their smoke alarm was wrapped in a rag and stuffed into some odd can." The kind of news story I shake my head at when I see them.
4:00 AM. I just decide to get up and get an early start on work. Making coffee--I spot my cell phone on the corner of the bar. I have this friend who, for some crazy reason which we've never discussed, calls at incredibly early hours--usually at least once a week. I'm pretty safe since he called at 6:45 AM yesterday. Makes Fran go absolutely nuts. She wants me to punch my friend in the teeth.
I say that it's some crazy reason--that's not really true. He ended up getting a divorce a year or so ago. I think he was married about 15 years or so, and they have a little boy, who went to live with his mom. Now, the house is probably pretty empty early in the morning when he wakes up. That being said, I'm sure he knows that my house isn't empty at that time of day, but for some reason he chooses to ignore that. I don't have the heart to point this fact out to him, so I've let this somewhat poor judgement go. But spotting my phone, I reach over and flip it to vibrate so we don't have two crazy beeping incidents in the same day.
Work...well, I guess that can wait for a little while.
I picked up a novel that I've been reading for the past couple of days--it's one I haven't read since I was in college. Pressed inside the pages when I opened it the other day was a bank deposit slip to someone that I knew fleetingly in college--on the back, scribbled in pencil, was her name and number. I have no recollection of getting this from her, but I remember this girl--her name was Amy and her family was from Hawaii. She was actually a native Hawaiian. She was one of those friends that you kind of know for about six weeks with a group of friends and then you kind of move on to another group of friends, but she was really nice. So, that's it for Amy: brown, Hawaiian, a little heavy, beautiful heart, about 100 words total passed between us in 6 weeks, haven't seen her since I abruptly didn't return to the same school 17 years ago, and I'll never see her again.
One thing that Amy with her beautiful heart suggested was that several of us volunteer at a soup kitchen for poor and homeless people in Waco, Texas. I did this for a while, until I got tired of it--it's a little depressing. Several old black women, whom I'm sure were very poor, would put on their fancy church clothes and hats with fringe--they would look immaculate. They would sit and wait for us to serve them their meals, and I would be really careful to treat them with a lot of respect and regard. I was embarassed to be serving these older ladies--They were all over 90 years old. The drunks and scruffy homeless weren't a problem--I didn't mind serving them and felt like I was helping them. But for some reason, it bothered me that these ladies needed me to take care them. Maybe I'm guilty for the way their ancestors were treated by the people who lived here decades before my ancestors got here from Ireland (1890's--My aunt has a Bible with the exact date, along with my great-grandfather's patent for the 1940's style of jukebox, which became public domain and later manufactured by Wurlitzer). Seems like a pretty reasonable thing to be guilty about...
After dinner, we would clear up the styrofoam plates and serve dessert. I remember the ladies talking in accents so thick that, unless you listened very closely, you couldn't tell that they were speaking English. Since I'm from Texas, I guess it helped, but I would still have to listen very closely.
One of the ladies talked about chopping cotton with her family when she was only 8 or 9 years old. She complained about how heavy the bags got when they were full.
"I don't know how in the world we could carry those sacks around. I really don't know..." She said, perfectly coherent at her age, but staring off in the distance, her voice trailing.
One of the guys we were feeding was a handsome guy who was 20-something. He offered me a pawn ticket for a stereo system that he had pawned in order to get money for drugs. He said that for $50 I could pick up a great stereo that was worth $300-$400. I couldn't tell him that I had exactly $12 in my bank account, which I needed to do laundry for the next 3 weeks. But I did get three meals a day. Isn't life funny sometimes?
Coming home from serving, I was in a car with five other people. In the course of conversation, one of the girls told a story about being home when her father killed himself. She didn't even cry when she was talking about it.
Sometimes I wish I could go back and live moments like that again. I feel like I'm a more compassionate, empathetic person now, and I would have something to say, or at least hug her without being self-conscious. At the time, I think nobody in the car said anything. We were flaky college kids--what did we know? Within 2 hours of that ride, we were taking our shoes off and splashing in the fountain outside the student union building.
I slowly tucked the old depsit slip with the old phone number neatly back inside the book where I stopped reading. I am a little surprised at how I can contemplate these memories and note my changes in attitude since I last laid eyes on it. I hope I find it again in another 17 years and can think on these stories again. I wonder how I will remember and interpret them...
3:45
AM.
It's very dark outside (and inside).
Crazy beeping sound. Gradually getting louder...
"Oh, that must be the smoke alarm I put in the garage."
Me (yawning): "Theres a fire in the garage?"
"No--the alarm was going off yesterday so I put a new battery in it. But I couldn't put it back on the ceiling thingy."
Me: "Oh, okay." (rolls over and re-closes eyes). Crazy beeping sound persists, but at least the mystery is solved. There is a moment of silence before I realize that handling this falls within my realm of responsibilities. If it was a crying baby, I may have a chance at rolling over and closing my eyes and a lightly passive-aggressive standoff/battle of wills/short straw contest.
"Uuuuuugh." I get up and go turn off the alarm. By "turn off", I mean that I pop the battery out of it and pound it against my left palm until the beeping finally stops. Then I wrap it in a rag and stuff it into a can of something or another out in the garage.
My mind starts to equate this 3:45 AM alarm-going-off thing with yelling "fire" in a theater.
I try to go back to sleep, but I keep thinking that we've disabled our smoke alarm. Seriously, I can envision the fire marshall standing outside our smokey home: "Well, for some reason, their smoke alarm was wrapped in a rag and stuffed into some odd can." The kind of news story I shake my head at when I see them.
4:00 AM. I just decide to get up and get an early start on work. Making coffee--I spot my cell phone on the corner of the bar. I have this friend who, for some crazy reason which we've never discussed, calls at incredibly early hours--usually at least once a week. I'm pretty safe since he called at 6:45 AM yesterday. Makes Fran go absolutely nuts. She wants me to punch my friend in the teeth.
I say that it's some crazy reason--that's not really true. He ended up getting a divorce a year or so ago. I think he was married about 15 years or so, and they have a little boy, who went to live with his mom. Now, the house is probably pretty empty early in the morning when he wakes up. That being said, I'm sure he knows that my house isn't empty at that time of day, but for some reason he chooses to ignore that. I don't have the heart to point this fact out to him, so I've let this somewhat poor judgement go. But spotting my phone, I reach over and flip it to vibrate so we don't have two crazy beeping incidents in the same day.
Work...well, I guess that can wait for a little while.
I picked up a novel that I've been reading for the past couple of days--it's one I haven't read since I was in college. Pressed inside the pages when I opened it the other day was a bank deposit slip to someone that I knew fleetingly in college--on the back, scribbled in pencil, was her name and number. I have no recollection of getting this from her, but I remember this girl--her name was Amy and her family was from Hawaii. She was actually a native Hawaiian. She was one of those friends that you kind of know for about six weeks with a group of friends and then you kind of move on to another group of friends, but she was really nice. So, that's it for Amy: brown, Hawaiian, a little heavy, beautiful heart, about 100 words total passed between us in 6 weeks, haven't seen her since I abruptly didn't return to the same school 17 years ago, and I'll never see her again.
One thing that Amy with her beautiful heart suggested was that several of us volunteer at a soup kitchen for poor and homeless people in Waco, Texas. I did this for a while, until I got tired of it--it's a little depressing. Several old black women, whom I'm sure were very poor, would put on their fancy church clothes and hats with fringe--they would look immaculate. They would sit and wait for us to serve them their meals, and I would be really careful to treat them with a lot of respect and regard. I was embarassed to be serving these older ladies--They were all over 90 years old. The drunks and scruffy homeless weren't a problem--I didn't mind serving them and felt like I was helping them. But for some reason, it bothered me that these ladies needed me to take care them. Maybe I'm guilty for the way their ancestors were treated by the people who lived here decades before my ancestors got here from Ireland (1890's--My aunt has a Bible with the exact date, along with my great-grandfather's patent for the 1940's style of jukebox, which became public domain and later manufactured by Wurlitzer). Seems like a pretty reasonable thing to be guilty about...
After dinner, we would clear up the styrofoam plates and serve dessert. I remember the ladies talking in accents so thick that, unless you listened very closely, you couldn't tell that they were speaking English. Since I'm from Texas, I guess it helped, but I would still have to listen very closely.
One of the ladies talked about chopping cotton with her family when she was only 8 or 9 years old. She complained about how heavy the bags got when they were full.
"I don't know how in the world we could carry those sacks around. I really don't know..." She said, perfectly coherent at her age, but staring off in the distance, her voice trailing.
What it really sounded like was "I do know ha da wurl we ca (unintelligible) dose big ol' sacks lak dat. I really don know..."
One of the guys was obsessed with homeless people and helping them. He actually dressed in tattered clothes and would go and hang out all night under bridges with those people. That was kind of over the edge in my book.
One of the guys we were feeding was a handsome guy who was 20-something. He offered me a pawn ticket for a stereo system that he had pawned in order to get money for drugs. He said that for $50 I could pick up a great stereo that was worth $300-$400. I couldn't tell him that I had exactly $12 in my bank account, which I needed to do laundry for the next 3 weeks. But I did get three meals a day. Isn't life funny sometimes?
Coming home from serving, I was in a car with five other people. In the course of conversation, one of the girls told a story about being home when her father killed himself. She didn't even cry when she was talking about it.
Sometimes I wish I could go back and live moments like that again. I feel like I'm a more compassionate, empathetic person now, and I would have something to say, or at least hug her without being self-conscious. At the time, I think nobody in the car said anything. We were flaky college kids--what did we know? Within 2 hours of that ride, we were taking our shoes off and splashing in the fountain outside the student union building.
I slowly tucked the old depsit slip with the old phone number neatly back inside the book where I stopped reading. I am a little surprised at how I can contemplate these memories and note my changes in attitude since I last laid eyes on it. I hope I find it again in another 17 years and can think on these stories again. I wonder how I will remember and interpret them...
02 April 2007
Windmill Man
There's this guy that is a topic of conversation at our house--he's the guy who directs traffic in the carpool lane of Ryan's school. The guy we currently love to hate.
First of all, you can't miss him--he's about 7 feet tall and has an Adam's apple the size of a grapefruit--you know, one of those knobby-looking, tall, skinny giants with think, storky-looking arms.
More importantly, though, is his obnixous behavior which I have to endure, usually before completing my first cup of coffee in the morning. He acts like a spasmotic ape, screaming loudly at cars and drivers to "Hurry up!" while flapping his arms around signalling for them to move faster. (I don't know about you, but the elementary school driveway is one place where I prefer to drive slowly and deliberately).
One time, I had to jump out and help Ryan out of his car seat, which I did in about 10 seconds. There were about three cars behind me, and they were letting their kids out, so I wasn't holding anyone up. This guy thought it would be a great idea to scream at me and signal with his hands for me to hurry up while I was out of my car. I turned and looked at him incredulously and said "What do you want me to do? Engage my autopilot?" Then I rolled my eyes and shook my head, got in the car, and drove at the speed which I wished to go...
I'm all for order and efficiency in the carpool lane, but it's not that big a deal--in fact, there have been several days where he's not there, and everything still flows smoothly. My theory is that this guy, whom I have named "Windmill Man" on account of his active, alarming, eight-foot wingspan, has this one kingdom to rule in his life, and he intends to rule it with an iron hand.
I've also abandoned my general rule to teach kids to respect adults when it comes to this guy, and I will dramatically trumpet "Windmill Man!" as though I am introducing a superhero, whenever we suffer his directions in the carpool lane.
The last straw was the song which I made up spontaneously one day and sang for Fran. She laughed so hard that she called and told one of her friends, and now the nickname is spreading through the school underground web.
In case you would like to sing along...
WINDMILL MAN
(to the tune of "Nowhere Man", by the Beatles)
He's a real Windmill Man
Flapping 'round in Windmill Land
Waving both his Windmill hands
At everybody.
Doesn't seem to have a clue
Knows not whom he's waving to
Could you change a bulb or two
while you're here?
Windmill man, what's the hurry?
Could you please cease the flurry!
Windmil man, the school parking lot
Is at your command!
First of all, you can't miss him--he's about 7 feet tall and has an Adam's apple the size of a grapefruit--you know, one of those knobby-looking, tall, skinny giants with think, storky-looking arms.
More importantly, though, is his obnixous behavior which I have to endure, usually before completing my first cup of coffee in the morning. He acts like a spasmotic ape, screaming loudly at cars and drivers to "Hurry up!" while flapping his arms around signalling for them to move faster. (I don't know about you, but the elementary school driveway is one place where I prefer to drive slowly and deliberately).
One time, I had to jump out and help Ryan out of his car seat, which I did in about 10 seconds. There were about three cars behind me, and they were letting their kids out, so I wasn't holding anyone up. This guy thought it would be a great idea to scream at me and signal with his hands for me to hurry up while I was out of my car. I turned and looked at him incredulously and said "What do you want me to do? Engage my autopilot?" Then I rolled my eyes and shook my head, got in the car, and drove at the speed which I wished to go...
I'm all for order and efficiency in the carpool lane, but it's not that big a deal--in fact, there have been several days where he's not there, and everything still flows smoothly. My theory is that this guy, whom I have named "Windmill Man" on account of his active, alarming, eight-foot wingspan, has this one kingdom to rule in his life, and he intends to rule it with an iron hand.
I've also abandoned my general rule to teach kids to respect adults when it comes to this guy, and I will dramatically trumpet "Windmill Man!" as though I am introducing a superhero, whenever we suffer his directions in the carpool lane.
The last straw was the song which I made up spontaneously one day and sang for Fran. She laughed so hard that she called and told one of her friends, and now the nickname is spreading through the school underground web.
In case you would like to sing along...
WINDMILL MAN
(to the tune of "Nowhere Man", by the Beatles)
He's a real Windmill Man
Flapping 'round in Windmill Land
Waving both his Windmill hands
At everybody.
Doesn't seem to have a clue
Knows not whom he's waving to
Could you change a bulb or two
while you're here?
Windmill man, what's the hurry?
Could you please cease the flurry!
Windmil man, the school parking lot
Is at your command!
la la la la
Kinda looks like a big ol' stork
Sorta acts like a geeky dork
Don't you need to go to work
or something?
Windmill man, please listen
You don't know what you're missin'
Windmill man, the whole darn school
Is sick of your plan...
You don't know what you're missin'
Windmill man, the whole darn school
Is sick of your plan...
la la la la
He's a real windmill man
Spazzing out in grade school land
Waving 'round his windmill hands
at nobody.
He's a real windmill man
Spazzing out in grade school land
Waving 'round his windmill hands
at nobody.
Flapping round his windmill hands
at nobody...
Waving like a broken fan
at all of us...
An Accounting of Books
Total number of books irretrievably loaned/stolen from me: 13-16
Janet from work: Stole my book on American Sign Language which was a gift
Crazy Lady who borrowed 6 books from me and never returned them including my Stephen Crane short story Book, London's Call of the Wild, Crane's Maggie, A Girl of the Streets, Henry James' The American, and Drieser's Jeannie Gerhardt and The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton.
At least four other novels, mostly paperbacks which will be easy to replace.
Two software manuals and another how-to book, I believe all of which are in the posession of relatives.
Fran then declared my book-loaning judgement to be suspect, so I had to refuse to let a colleague borrow her Complete Works of William Shakespeare (one of the few books which was acquired prior to our marriage by either of us--it's Fran's). The colleague, who was holding her hands out expectantly, was shocked and kind of stood there blinking.
Alluding to this issue, for a few years this was one of the themes at Christmas--One year, Fran got me a very nice set of book plates to stick inside the cover of my books. The next year, she got me a imprinting seal, kind of like a notary stamp, with my name engraved on it--now I stamp all of my books with it almost immediately--even the $2 used paperbacks I get. At least they will know who the book is stolen from...
I currently have three books out with colleagues from my professional library. I'm nearly confident that I will not get one of them back due to a semantic problem. I was recommending a book on improving verbal communication and brought it in to work to loan. That was about a year ago. Now, I'm convinced that maybe I need to improve my verbal communication--I'm wondering if I need to buy that book and re-read it so I can communicate more clearly in the future whether something is a gift or a loan.
Books I have stolen: 3
1) Swiped a General Woodworking book from my now-defunct private middle school. Not sure if it was on purpose or accident, but I ended up with it--Found it in the attic the other day and flipped through it--pretty much the worst reference book on woodworking I've ever seen. How can woodworking be so boring?
2) Another textbook I ended up with is my second year Latin workbook. I know I didn't buy that--woo hoo! Let's get crazy! agricola, agricolae...
Actually, I did see my high school Latin teacher at Chili's last year. She was really cool. I remember that for some reason I accidentally said the "f-word" in front of her. She gasped melodramatically and said, very quietly, "You just said the worst word in the world!" Then she winked at me and went back to grading papers. It must not have affected her opinion of me much, because of something that happened toward the end of my senior year. She used to tell us a lot of personal stories, and had a good relationship with the kids in the class. Latin students at our school were a peculiar breed, because we really had to go out of our way to take Latin--there was only one teacher, and almost everyone takes Spanish since we are on the border with Mexico. All the cheerleaders took French, for some reason or another.
The Latin teacher had this freaky thing she could do--she was completely ambidextrous, but took it one step further--she could write an English word with one hand and write the Latin word below it with the other...
But the class was asking her personal questions one day and one of the girls asked her what kind of guys she used to date--to my horror at the time, she said, "Well, I would probably date a guy like Mike..." I think my face was red for a week.
3) The third book I stole is Kurt Vonnegut Jr.'s Slaughterhouse Five. It was the first anti-establishment novel I ever read, and I stole it from a classmate of mine who let me borrow in during our sophomore year in high school. If I ever see him again, I'll give it back to him. It's the only book in my shelves that I haven't stamped...
Janet from work: Stole my book on American Sign Language which was a gift
Crazy Lady who borrowed 6 books from me and never returned them including my Stephen Crane short story Book, London's Call of the Wild, Crane's Maggie, A Girl of the Streets, Henry James' The American, and Drieser's Jeannie Gerhardt and The Age of Innocence, by Edith Wharton.
At least four other novels, mostly paperbacks which will be easy to replace.
Two software manuals and another how-to book, I believe all of which are in the posession of relatives.
Fran then declared my book-loaning judgement to be suspect, so I had to refuse to let a colleague borrow her Complete Works of William Shakespeare (one of the few books which was acquired prior to our marriage by either of us--it's Fran's). The colleague, who was holding her hands out expectantly, was shocked and kind of stood there blinking.
Alluding to this issue, for a few years this was one of the themes at Christmas--One year, Fran got me a very nice set of book plates to stick inside the cover of my books. The next year, she got me a imprinting seal, kind of like a notary stamp, with my name engraved on it--now I stamp all of my books with it almost immediately--even the $2 used paperbacks I get. At least they will know who the book is stolen from...
I currently have three books out with colleagues from my professional library. I'm nearly confident that I will not get one of them back due to a semantic problem. I was recommending a book on improving verbal communication and brought it in to work to loan. That was about a year ago. Now, I'm convinced that maybe I need to improve my verbal communication--I'm wondering if I need to buy that book and re-read it so I can communicate more clearly in the future whether something is a gift or a loan.
Books I have stolen: 3
1) Swiped a General Woodworking book from my now-defunct private middle school. Not sure if it was on purpose or accident, but I ended up with it--Found it in the attic the other day and flipped through it--pretty much the worst reference book on woodworking I've ever seen. How can woodworking be so boring?
2) Another textbook I ended up with is my second year Latin workbook. I know I didn't buy that--woo hoo! Let's get crazy! agricola, agricolae...
Actually, I did see my high school Latin teacher at Chili's last year. She was really cool. I remember that for some reason I accidentally said the "f-word" in front of her. She gasped melodramatically and said, very quietly, "You just said the worst word in the world!" Then she winked at me and went back to grading papers. It must not have affected her opinion of me much, because of something that happened toward the end of my senior year. She used to tell us a lot of personal stories, and had a good relationship with the kids in the class. Latin students at our school were a peculiar breed, because we really had to go out of our way to take Latin--there was only one teacher, and almost everyone takes Spanish since we are on the border with Mexico. All the cheerleaders took French, for some reason or another.
The Latin teacher had this freaky thing she could do--she was completely ambidextrous, but took it one step further--she could write an English word with one hand and write the Latin word below it with the other...
But the class was asking her personal questions one day and one of the girls asked her what kind of guys she used to date--to my horror at the time, she said, "Well, I would probably date a guy like Mike..." I think my face was red for a week.
3) The third book I stole is Kurt Vonnegut Jr.'s Slaughterhouse Five. It was the first anti-establishment novel I ever read, and I stole it from a classmate of mine who let me borrow in during our sophomore year in high school. If I ever see him again, I'll give it back to him. It's the only book in my shelves that I haven't stamped...
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