My cat can count to three.

My little cat, Sophie, gets a treat every night. It's three pieces of hard cat food. Ever since she had her kidney problems many years ago, she has to have wet food to keep her really hydrated. She ultimately gave in and decided that wet food was real enough food, but she hasn't forgotten that dry food is oh so much yummier, at least from her perspective.

So every night I scatter three pieces of dry food near her food bowl. (They are technically dental treats, but she doesn't really have enough teeth for this to be relevant any more.) She goes crazy with joy when I bring out these treats. I scatter them because otherwise she'd inhale them so quickly she would forget that I even gave them to her. This way, she has to take a few steps before eating the next one.

One day, I saw her eat one, then another, and then she couldn't find the third. But she knew it was there. She determinedly looked around until she found it. Yay! My cat can count to three!

(I learned from Watership Down that animals, or maybe it's just rabbits, count "one, two, many." But Sophie can count to three!)

Then I stopped and looked again. Sophie had indeed counted to three, finding three treats. But she was still looking around, determinedly. And I realized: My cat can count to four!

I will hunt down every piece of those treats.

Ooma's atrocious customer service

My Ooma box broke. Because my cell phone doesn't work at home, I had to live chat with them to try to sort it out.  They were useless.  A friend walked me through every possible test we could do, and then I went to work and called Ooma.  I told them I wasn't with the box but that I could tell them the results of any test they would want me to do.  He ran through a standard list of questions, and I answered them all.  I'm wondering if the question that stumped me was on the list or was his own creativity: He asked, "Have you taken it to someone else's house to see if it works there?"

When the replacement box arrived (which I had to pay for, as the original warranty ended a month ago), I needed my account transferred. So I went on live chat to ask them to do it. Here was the response ("Liza" is them, not me; I am "You").

Liza: In order for your account to be transferred to the new Ooma device, I can open a ticket for you now so that our Higher Level of Support will be able to do the transfer for you. They will be sending you email feedback within 24-48 hours once the transfer is done. Would that be okay?
You: It's not great. Is that my only option?
Liza: Yes.

I like that Higher Level of Support is capitalized. Because it's like they are going to ask God. Also, email within 24-48 hours just means email within 48 hours.

Ah, poor woman. She asked me for feedback.

Liza: Are you satisfied with the way I handled your chat session?
You: No, I am not.  You were unable to resolve my issue.  You were perfectly polite and did everything you could, but I am not satisfied with the service I have received.You: I know it's not unique to you.  I have never had a satisfying experience with Ooma customer service. You: You are clearly not trained or empowered to help customers.  Even the Higher Level of Support people have not been helpful in the past.

(Heheheh, I referred to Higher Level of Support.) She got a supervisor, and they transferred my account within minutes.

Liza: There's still supervisor available. I am going to request now to do the transfer. 
You: Thank you.
Liza: One moment please.Liza: Done. Your account has been transferred to the new Ooma device.Liza: You may now connect your Ooma device to your router.
You: Thank you, Liza.  I appreciate that you escalated this. 
Liza: Are you satisfied with the way I handled your chat session?
You: I am satisfied with the resolution.  I wish we had started with your finding someone to help.  I wish Ooma's standard process was as helpful as the exception you made for me.
Liza: I am glad I was able to help you answer your questions through Chat Support.  Thank you for choosing Ooma, we appreciate your business!

Liza has disconnected.

A hammer and a nail (no ambulance required)

While searching for my Krazy Glue to fix my torn fingernail, I dropped a hammer on my foot.

It started at the Target mothership in Minneapolis a few years ago, where a friend and I enabled each other's purchases to the tune of $350 in merchandise and closed down the store.  One of my purchases was knives: a pretty blue chef's knife and a pretty yellow parer.

Every time I have used that pretty little yellow paring knife I have almost cut myself.  Slicing asparagus the other day, I thought, "I don't need a bigger knife -- and I will pay attention this time."  And I sliced the side of my thumb.

I was so frustrated I finished cutting the asparagus and making dinner while blood soaked paper towel after paper towel.  I called a friend to find out if I had to go to the hospital.  I survived the bleeding, but I had sliced my nail, and I knew it would snag and tear.

My next source was the web.  It turns out that you can repair a torn nail with a teabag and Krazy Glue. Hence the search for the glue, which was in my toolbox, and then the falling hammer.

Lots of pain, instant icing and ibuprofen.  I googled the bones in the foot to identify that it was my fifth metatarsal that was hit and then googled how to know if it was broken.  Someone said she was a doctor and just reset it herself and moved on.  I poked at my painful fifth metatarsal and couldn't figure out through the pain if something was out of line. Once again: Do I go to the hospital?  Maybe I could get my thumb stitched up, too.

Surprisingly, my foot is not broken. The Krazy Glue tube had dried up.  Given that last time I tried to use it I got it all over my hands and everything around me, this could be for the best.

Paranoid about the paranoics

I've been remembering the frustrating conversation I had at a wine tasting a while back.  One thing this annoying person said is that he has a gun in his house to defend himself against the government when they try to take away all his rights.

Even though the Berkeley world in which I am now so immersed does not trust the government, I don't live in an environment where the government is seen as a threat to be armed against.  But I know there are many parts of the country where government is so mistrusted, so hated, that people would like it to go away, and they proudly maintain their guns for the opportunity to return to the natural order of things.

This is the source of the Tea Party movement.  Every morning I wake up and hear on NPR about the (potential for, and now real) government shutdown.  It frustrates me because of the premise embedded in the discussion: that government should not be shut down.  The disconnect between this premise and that of the Tea Party frightens me for the future.

The Tea Party wants radically smaller government.  And they've won.  The sequester: we are still functioning under radically reduced government funding.  The government shutdown: radically reduced government funding.  Support for food programs is vanishing.  NPR presents this as a terrible impact of the shutdown.  The Tea Partiers are cheering: they do not believe in food programs.  Go down the list of what the media presents as an impact of the government shutdown, and you will see a list of the items that the Tea Party does not want funded by the government anyway.  Eight hundred thousand federal workers: that's their win.  Food safety inspection.  National Parks.

Fox News calls it a government slimdown.  The term isn't just a way for them to play down the impact of the shutdown -- it's a way to celebrate that government is getting smaller.  Who doesn't want to slim down?

The Tea Party has been clever to focus on Obamacare as the item they want to negotiate on.  If for some reason the Democrats begin to discuss this law, they win.  If, as the Tea Party knows, this law is a done deal, then they can confidently hide behind the impenetrable shield of the issue and radically reduce the size of the government.  It's win-win for the Tea Partiers.

I am a diehard Democrat, and I have wanted to give the President the benefit of the doubt for his five years in office.  But someone on his team doesn't get it.  It's not just the economy, stupid: it's jobs, stupid.  It's not about programs, because that plays into Tea Party hands.  It's about individuals and their paychecks.  As the countdown to the shutdown began, the President should have had a daily news conference, each day talking about jobs.  In the second person: make it immediate.  On the first day, he could talk to the 800,000.  On the next day, he could pick one ripple effect and warn another segment of the population about their paychecks.  And so on.  If the shutdown occurred, he should keep going.  He could have a different cabinet member speaking each day to a different segment under his or her purview.

He could declare that he would fund the Bureau of Labor Statistics as a critical government function, sending the message that he cares more about tracking the jobs of the citizens than the Tea Partiers.

Instead, the Democrats are gleefully watching the Tea Party tear the Republicans in half, not realizing that they are all in the same sinking canoe.  However, the premise we hear in that is that the Republicans have a problem, but the Tea Partiers have no issue tearing their own party in half, tearing the government to pieces. Their goal is not to become the majority power in the Republican Party.  If Tea Partiers no longer exist because there is no functioning government of the United States, then they win.

This is my paranoia.  We are dealing here with something much bigger than a movement within government: we are dealing with a movement that is truly trying to destroy government.  When the debt ceiling is not raised, and the economy tanks, and more people lose their jobs, the people will say, "The government messed this up," not "The Tea Partiers, the Republicans messed this up, so I think I'll vote Democratic."  Having the people turn on the government means that we no longer have government by the people, for the people.  We just have a world where those with the biggest guns win.

My vegan family Seder

Passover is one of my favorite holidays, and I usually spend it with my fabulous crazy vegan cousins.

Even before the Seder itself, it was like an Oscar Wilde comedy.

I arrive at 6:00, as requested.  Jeffrey and Dylan, the boyfriends, are sitting on the couch watching the History Channel's show on engineering disasters, this one on the Deepwater Horizon.  They report that I'd just missed the show on underwear.  It took me a minute to realize this was not something in the engineering disaster series.

Lynne reports that Marty and Carol aren't coming.  She's upset.  Andy tells his daughter, Chloe, that Marty gave him the number of someone who works at an ad agency and that she should call him.  She looks at him like he's crazy.  He says, "Why can't you be normal and call him?" She says, "Because it's not normal to call people you don't know.  You email them."  Andy had neither his email address nor his actual name.

Lynne tells me I'm leading the Seder.  What a treat, although had I known before I would have pulled some material.  She says we're starting as soon as Rochelle arrives.  This is good: I want to start asap because then we won't be rushed through the Seder; everyone else wants to start asap so we can eat soon.

Mickey and Barbara arrive.

Rochelle arrives.  I'm eager to sit down and get started.

Andy gets on the phone to call Marty to ask him for the email address of the ad agency guy.

Lynne remembers that we need a pitcher of water and a bowl for handwashing and digs out a pitcher.

Chloe announces that we are going to Facetime with her sister now.

Lynne asks Chloe to corral everyone into the dining room.  She corrals them into the kitchen.

We discover that there are two extra chairs around the dining room table.  We debate whether or not to remove them.

Andy is not there.

Andy arrives, but Lynne has to get up to get something.

Lynne returns, but I remember that I have a great story on my phone I could read, so I run and get it.

Richard starts talking about the Breslov Haggadah and how it reminds us that we should find our ways out of our own narrow places and that we need to teach future generations about this.  My reaction is that he's just led most of the Seder, and I wish I didn't have to now because he's been so eloquent.  Also that what he said isn't unique to that Haggadah by a long shot.

Mickey says we should share our narrow places with each other.

Chloe's phone rings as she tries unsuccessfully to Facetime with her sister, and she asks her dad why the internet connection keeps cutting out.

All this before the Seder officially begins....

I love my family.

Unless you can't talk.

Ironically, after that last post I had laryngitis for five days.  Relying as much as I do on talking into my phone to send messages, I was very frustrated.

The fun part was when I would gesture and friends would deliberately misinterpret it.  Laughing like that kept me going.

Laryngitis is what got me going on this blog, and I've had it since, too.

A phone is for talking...?

As is well known, an iPhone isn't a great phone.  Its form factor, plus AT&T's irregular service, results in not effectively being able to hear the people you're trying to talk to.

I love my iPhone, and it changed my life and the way I think about information and action.  But I don't like talking on it.  But who needs talk?  Texting, email, Facebook -- I can connect with people through my phone without actually talking.  It's not just an app device -- it is indeed a device for connecting with people, redefining the adverb "telephonically."

Initially, there were also complaints about the iPhone keypad.  Blackberry users felt that a keyboard with actual buttons was much easier to use.  There was this repetitive strain injury called "Blackberry thumb" from people typing so frequently with their thumbs on their RIM devices.

Clearly, we have moved on from the keypad issue.  Those of us who were using T9 on our little flip phones thought that anything that had actual letters was great.  Whatever you think of autocorrect, the iPhone is your partner in typing quickly.

Now, with Siri, with the marvelous Google search app with voice recognition -- in fact, since every keypad that pops up includes a little microphone button -- it's even easier.  More quickly than typing, I can dictate my messages, my emails, my search requests.  Rather than wearing a headset to improve my experience of phone conversations, I now wear one so that my phone can recognize my voice and help me send the clearest email and text messages to people.

Talking on the phone has come full circle.

Peanut M&Ms?

I have a friend who has a stutter.  He manages it well, and I didn't know he had it until he told me.  He says it's situational: it only comes out when he's nervous.

That's what made it a surprise for me -- I've seen him meet strangers and immediately start bantering with them.  I can find meeting strangers to be anxiety-provoking.  He says he's good at schmoozing.

Looking at him as someone who generally seems very open and confident, I marvel at how vulnerable he must feel.  It's not just a speech impediment that can be embarrassing when it kicks in -- it also reveals something about his psyche.  When he is nervous, he can't hide it because his speech betrays him.  What is that world like?

I have an exoskeleton.  I feel, and project, confidence and strength.  I am friendly.  Public speaking gets me high.  I can, in fact, protect myself with words.  I express my moods and my worries, but no matter how profoundly I am feeling them I often do so with words and a tone that seem to lighten the tone of my distress and make it less dramatic.  As a result, I am only partially revealing my emotional state and feel less vulnerable. Inside, I can be a chaotic mess, but I have control over to whom I expose that version of reality, and it's not to a lot of people.

My friend has no choice.  He can't choose his words when he is profoundly distressed because words leave him.  With his stuttering generally under control, its onset becomes a tell, a signal of a state of emotional chaos.  He has no choice but to reveal his vulnerability.  His chaos is on the outside.  How absolutely frightening.  He must have an endoskeleton, a kind of inner strength I can't comprehend.

A candy analogy would be better.  With this one, I end up being a bug.

Mine's bigger

An observation:

Stanley Cup (hockey)
America's Cup (sailing)
Sprint Cup (NASCAR)
Ryder Cup (golf)
World Cup (futbol)(and a lot of other things)

Rose Bowl
Pro Bowl
Super Bowl.

Growing things

About ten days ago, I took a workshop on how to make challah.  Ever since, I have been trying to make one successfully.

When I was in kindergarten, my little sister went to a Jewish nursery school, and every Friday they made challah.  She would come home with a hard twist of carbs, and, even though my parents laughed at it as not real challah, I thought it tasted good.

I have been living my sister's legacy this past week.

I get everything about the form right.  I braid a gorgeous round challah.  I roll the raisins inside so they don't burn.  I use a glaze of egg, cinnamon, and sugar. If it could be a sculpture, it would be perfect.

My realization yesterday (I am on my fifth and sixth loaves) is that I need to not think that I am making bread but that I am raising yeast.  Like my plants, which I examine carefully, making sure they are getting the right combination of light and, well, no water, I have to think of this as an exercise in growing something.

To grow, yeast apparently requires:

• Proofing.  I wince as I say that.  What a weird use of that word, but apparently it is something people say.  My recipe didn't have instructions about it, but yesterday I combined yeast, sugar, and water warmed with meat-thermometer accuracy and watched the slurry bubble.
• No drafts.  There is also something about covering it with plastic wrap.  My immediate thought is that there was no plastic wrap in the shtetl, followed by a thought that if you cover it tightly the yeast will ferment anaerobically, and that can't be good.  Apparently in the shtetl they used a damp cloth ... its purpose, as I'm trying to respect this time around, is to reduce drafts.  Drafts?
• Patience.  My recipe says to let it rise for an hour or so.  So I set the chicken(-shaped) timer for an hour and take a break.  It's supposed to double in size ... I look at it and think, well, maybe I forgot how small it was beforehand.
• Warmth.  Everyone I've talked to about my challenges tells me that their grandmothers put the dough in the oven with the oven light on, that that is the perfect temperature for rising.  

Last night: I proofed the yeast, put the dough in a cooling oven, put the light on, was patient, and left it there all night (which apparently also happened in the shtetl, although somehow I think perhaps they didn't have oven lights).

I woke up this morning and finally understood what rising means!  This is an entirely different dough than what I've experienced so far.  I've now grown some great yeast.

However, and perhaps this is the deeper source of my problem and my impatience, the part I really care about is not the growing, not even the eating, but the kneading.

The only time I ever saw a family member knead was when I was very, very little, and I watched my grandmother make kreplach.  When I had my first wonton, it sent me right back to my grandmother's kreplach.  Interestingly, my family laughed at my grandmother's kreplach, too, so that's probably why I only had it that once.

I love kneading.  Delightfully, challah involves two risings and therefore two kneadings.  When I started this process of learning how to make challah, kneading for just a few minutes was hard.  Now I can easily go 10 minutes (and I'm not supposed to go longer, sadly), standing on solid shoes; sometimes literally pounding the dough with my fists after the second rise, breathing rhythmically, kneading with my palms and my fingers.  Turn, fold, breathe, punch.  It's meditative.

The two that rose

Why I look for non-toxic plants

Sophie tells the new Sanseveria trifasciata who is in charge in this house.

Geeking out on plants (2)

I must be really bored, because I've become obsessive about succulents.

I took the jade and the very sad looking Echeveria setosa to Cactus Jungle, nervous that they would tell me I'd totally screwed up or that I was totally crazy.  As I walked by the whippet (their mascot), who was curled up under a blanket, he looked up at me dolefully.  (Then again, I think that's the only look a whippet has.)

The invited me to the counter and took my concerns seriously, in a "I'm not going to let on that I think you're totally crazy" kind of way.  The black spots on the jade may be a fungus, but it won't kill it, and they think it will in fact be totally fine.  He kept emphasizing that the black tends to be on the leaves that are about to fall off.  He repeated that in such a way that I think he was patiently trying to help me understand that when plants grow their older leaves fall off.  I showed him the chewed-on Echeveria, and he said it would recover and that the darker leaves I pointed out ... well, see, leaves die and fall off, and other leaves replace them.

With two healthy plants, I took a stroll around.  And came out with ... four more.  Two more Aeonia: lindleyi, which looks like a bonsai tree, and "Whippet," a strain they found growing on another Aeonium and named for their mascot.  I grabbed a Peperomia ferreyrae, another tiny plant for my work windowsill, which is a relative of the peppercorn and is totally adorable.

I have soil anxiety, so for every plant I buy, I ask how long it can go in that particular pot.  The very nice woman who helped me last time pointed to a plant I was considering and said, "That one will need potting soon."  "Soon?" I asked fearfully.  She said yes, like in a year.

I picked my jaw up off the floor (I guess plant-time is different from human time) and laughed as I explained that I've never kept a plant alive as long as a year.

And, finally, I bought a Sanseveria.  A classic snake plant, S. trifasciata.  I asked the same woman as last time about them, and I told her I wanted one with variegated leaves that would get tall.  I pulled out a S. trifasciata that had a variegated leaf I liked, and I said, "Like this."  She looked at it and said, "Well, those other leaves are just sort of floppy."  "Not a beautiful specimen!" I interpreted.  I picked another one, also with a leaf I liked, and she perked up, "That's a nice one!"  The other leaves looked bad just because they were covered in dust, she said.

When I got home, I gently washed the leaves of the Sansa, and they came out gorgeous.  Yes, I washed the leaves of a plant.  Who am I, and what have I done with Lisa?

Geeking out on plants

When we last left our hero, she had decided to go to a nursery to buy a snake plant.

The nursery I found online, and then ran out the door to get to in time, is Cactus Jungle.  How perfect!  I spent a long time there examining the gazillion plants they have that they claim I couldn't kill.  Some really pretty things.

And now I am a plant geek.  Well, just succulents.  I bought a gorgeous jade plant, which at $40 cost twice as much as the most expensive plant I've ever bought.  Then I started impulse buying, suddenly desiring more beautiful greenery in my life.

Echeveria setosa, Aeonium gomerense, and (in back) Crassula ovata.
They are even happier today than they are in this picture.

It wasn't just a shopping spree.  This place takes plants so seriously that they call the plants by their Latin names, so now I get to learn and recite these beautiful words.  I know it's a jade plant, and that's its nickname.  It's actually a Crassula ovata.  For outside my door, I bought a small Echeveria setosa and an Aeonium gomerense. (Note that Aeonium has all the vowels, awesome.)

As I picked out which Echeveria and Crassula I wanted, I asked the woman working there, "Is this a good one?" and she would say, "That's a beautiful specimen."  So not only do I have great plants, I have beautiful specimens.

Realizing I could use an office plant, I ran back in at the last minute and said, "I need a plant that can sit on a cold office windowsill that gets very indirect sunlight."  She handed me a teeny tiny pot with one of the weirdest plants I've ever seen, a string of pearls plant (another "beautiful specimen).  I actually don't know the Latin name.  It looks like the inside of a peapod, a string of peas, but it's very hardy.  You can't pull the peas/pearls off.  Like the other plants I bought, it doesn't need any attention.

Ironically, now that I've bought plants that need no attention, the geeking out comes, not only with my rolling their names around in my mouth, but with my daily checking and inspection of them to make sure they are happy.  I carefully monitor and remove dead leaves and celebrate the arrival of new ones.  I didn't want the Echeveria and Aeonium to be too cold, so I brought them in to bake in the warmth of my western window.  Yesterday, I discovered some bites taken out of the Echeveria, which luckily is not poisonous to cats, so now that poor plant is exiled to outside again until it heals.

Today I noticed that the Crassula ovata has some black spots under the leaves.  The old me would (1) not have noticed, and, if I did, (2) ignored it until the plant died.  The new succulent geek-me googled this and found that my plant may have a virus.  Since Cactus Jungle says I can bring in plants that may be ill for a consultation, that's my plan for tomorrow.

I will likely leave there with another plant, and a new Latin name, to add to my menagerie.

There are still dragons

My friend, A., is a Targaryen.

Tonight, she and I were part of a challah baking class.  We pounded the dough, broke it into three pieces, made them into strands, and braided them.  A. had a little tiny bit of dough left over, so she made a ball and put it in the middle of the baking tray.  "That's the challah!" someone said.

During Temple times (2000 years ago), the Jews were required to break off a piece of bread and give it to the temple priests (whose meals were gleaned from the various sacrifices, since they had no resources of their own).  Apparently, after the destruction of the Temple the tradition became to tear off a piece of dough and burn it in the oven in memory of the gift to the priests.  This is still a practice for some people.  "Challah" means portion, so technically it describes that piece, not the whole loaf.

When the challah loaves came out of the oven, A. reached over to the tray and picked up the little ball.  She tore it off a piece to taste and then handed the ball to me.

I tried to tear off a piece, but the ball was just too hot for me to hold.  As she took it back from me, she joked about having asbestos hands.  "I take things out of the oven with my bare hands," she said.

She'd only seen a few episodes of Game of Thrones, so she wasn't aware of Daenarys Targaryen's imperviousness to heat and fire.  I explained that fire cannot hurt the dragon, and she said, "Oh, then I'm totally a dragon."

A. has pale blonde hair, blue eyes, and skin so fair you can practically see through it.  Apparently, there are still dragons.

I tried, really I did.

A while back I brought my first plant into my home.  A kentia palm.  When that died, about a year ago, I went back to OSH and bought another palm, this time a majesty palm.  That has died as well.

The first died from underwatering; the second got mold from overwatering (I was told to drench the soil, not dump the occasional leftover glass of water in it), so I stopped watering it to kill the mold.

This time, before returning it to OSH, I did some research on "plants you can't kill."  What did we do before google?  I immediately found the magic list.  I was in particular looking for something that I didn't have to water at all, since I'm really good at that.

I cross-referenced that list with the list of plants that are poisonous to cats (which crosses off philodendron pretty quickly, but that's OK because they are vines and need to be put somewhere other than the floor) and came up with Snake Plant and its, well, relation, Mother-in-Law's Tongue. Both of these ominous-sounding plants are from the genus Sanseviera, which makes me wonder if Sansa Stark is a namesake.

They are considered air purifiers and are even used for treating sick building syndrome.  Kind of like turkey vultures: ominously-named creatures that have a peaceful purpose.

[That turkey vulture link goes to another post of mine from a year ago that I only just discovered I'd never published.  A lost manuscript.  I backdated it, so it looks like I published it a while ago, but anyone investigating its provenance would see is that it's dated exactly a year ago from this moment.]

Snake plants are on the poisonous-to-cats list, but further googling shows people with cats saying (1) they are only mildly toxic, and (2) no one has ever seen a cat try to eat one.  One person reported that her cat destroyed her snake plant, but the cat was not harmed.

Off to OSH.  The woman in customer service looked at my plant and told me all the reasons it died.  Whhnnnahh wnah whnnaaaahh.  (That's the Charlie Brown "adults talking" sound.)  When I mentioned snake plant, looking for approval, she suggested I get a philodendron.  Then I told her I was thinking cactus or maybe something plastic.

I went looking for snake plants and found three puny ones.  I found other plants that you can't kill: lots of dracaenae, but they were more poisonous; bromeliads, but they would have given me nightmares (the online photos don't do the creepiness justice). Also, the "plants you can't kill" site says they require copious water.

I may need to buy a snake plant from a place that really sells plants.  Right, a nursery.  Well, it had better not die.

It's just a different kind of rugged

I have The Dirtiest Car in the World.

Around here, when you see cars covered in dirt, they are usually SUVs, and you can tell that they are dirty because they've been to the mountains.

I have a little white Mazda.  My car is dirty because it's been to the airport.

When I got a white car, my friends with black cars said, "Oh you're so lucky it doesn't show dirt."  Little did we realize that it's like Harry the Dirty Dog.  Black with white spots or white with black spots?


When I travel, I park near the airport, and my car gets covered in dirt and grit (warning: don't breathe near airports!).  I've been to the airport several times this summer.  In between, a few days go by as I settle back in, and then I forget the car is dirty, and then I realize I'm leaving for another trip soon, so why bother getting it washed?


The dirt does not look like mountain dirt; it does not look like it was kicked up by dirt roads.  It looks like airplane exhaust fell on it.

I'm leaving again for another trip soon, so why wash it now?

Happy Julia Child's 100th birthday

Also known as: There is nothing as special as giving

Tonight I gave a friend of mine a little book.  She grew up with Julia Child as a family friend and has fond memories of being at her house.  She also loves cats.  The book is called "Julia's Cats."  When I saw it, I knew it was for her.

There was no special occasion, and I was impatient to give it to her, so when I discovered today was was Julia Child's 100th birthday and found myself giving my friend a ride home, I took advantage of the moment.  I grabbed it from my back seat and handed it to her.  Nothing ceremonious. I had kind of wished I'd made it a more special moment, but instead it was kind of spontaneous.  

It was still a special moment.  She caressed the picture of Julia on the back of the book, a picture that looked like how she remembered her.  From a time when both of my friend's parents were still alive, a long time ago. 

It didn't matter that I didn't wrap it or present it in a formal way or at a significant occasion.  She was moved, deeply touched, and it was heartwarming for me to give her that kind of gift. 

As she got out of the car, she thanked me again, and we wished each other "Happy Julia Child's birthday."  Something new to celebrate together.

Saved by the zombies

Of course I sleep with my iPhone next to me. Who doesn't?

This morning I planned to sleep late and go into work late.  As I awoke a little before 8, I reached for my iPhone ... and there was a message from the dean from 7:42 AM.  Urgent: He was going before the Regents at 9:30, and did I have some data for him.

I did not have the data.  Not in my bed, not on my iPhone ... and not in my office.  It didn't really exist.

This was my first dean-related fire drill since I took this job in September.  My credibility was on the line.

I did what I normally do when faced with something that looks limiting: I reframed it.  On my iPhone, in my bed, I wrote the dean a note that explained that what the Regents were asking him about was limiting, too small, and that he should answer it giving the following (qualitative) information, which was much more sophisticated than what the original question asked for.

I then threw my clothes on and ran out of the house to try to get to work in time to dig up the nonexistent data, calling a member of my team so she could get started on it.  Some colleagues also chimed in with some data.  I had pretty much nothing, but at 9:30, I took a break, knowing I'd done all I could do.

Then I started following the Regents meeting on Twitter ... and found that at about 9:30 students dressed as zombies did the Thriller dance in order to protest fee hikes.  All the usual clean-up ensued, delaying the session.

In fact, the dean didn't go on until about 3:30.  I was confused to see that the discussion was about diversity, which, while important, was not on the agenda and not what he had asked me about.  Actually, the Regents started by asking him one question about diversity, and then they argued among themselves.  Twitter then showed that the item the dean was there for was voted on and over, and they moved on.

When I ran into the dean later at work, he showed me the briefing that the Regents had had, the briefing that he saw this morning when he emailed me.  His piece was breakthrough, both for the university and for all schools like ours -- and the agenda had highlighted it as a potential problem, essentially putting a bullseye on his back.  He was ready to be mauled.  He needed my data as a shield.

Instead, the zombies delayed things so much that, after taking the time to air their criticism of the university's diversity, the Regents approved the dean's request without discussion.  And there was much rejoicing on our parts.

And the dean thought my reframing was brilliant and wants to incorporate it into school strategy.  It might not have been the shield he would have needed, but I passed my first dean's fire drill.

I am quite grateful that we were all saved by the zombies.

And in the shadows there was a cow.

I spent a lovely afternoon with my cousins, hanging around the pool, floating and socializing in multigenerational combinations, drinking gin and tonics (I don't drink gin, so I had a bourbon and ginger), reading, and soaking up the sun and each other's company.

And in the shadows there was a cow.

As I was leaving my house to head over there, I grabbed a bottle of wine to bring with me.  Since I hadn't had lunch, I grabbed some cheese and crackers.

This part of my family has had an infestation of veganism.  I believe it started with my cousin, Ruby, who is a published author of children's books on veganism.  With the various health issues of the older cousins, they seem to have become convinced that eating vegan would help them live longer.

I knew that bringing cheese into the house was treasonous.  (Let's not even go into the issue of rennet!) At the same time, I was hungry.  And I had a feeling that a couple of people there might secretly not be vegan and/or just be dying for something more substantial than salad and grains and nuts.  When I arrived, I proactively apologized profusely and reassured the group that I would not be leaving cheese in the house but would take "any leftovers" (i.e., all of it) with me.

My cousin, Daniel, was enormously grateful.  He actually took some of it to hide and eat later.  My cousin-in-law, Jeff, was not there: he is an opportunitarian, meaning he will eat what is provided.  I know he would have secretly taken the opportunity.  These vegans are harsh.

Daniel and I agreed that my bringing cheese to the house was as if I'd brought a freshly-slaughtered pig.    We were the real rebels today.

P.S.: As I began to select labels for this post from my label list, I am delighted to find that I already have a label for "cheese."

P.P.S.: The cheeses I brought were both indeed cow's milk cheeses.  Because I wouldn't have titled this post this way if it had been sheep cheese.  (See also below: the creature that makes all the noise when you visit this page.)

Put me in an ad.

A colleague told me that I was a perfect advertisement for the iPhone 4S. While sitting next to him at the Twins vs. Cubs at Target Field in Minneapolis, I:

Checked in at Target Field on Facebook. Checked the weather so I could report that it was 88 degrees.  Took a photo of the field and uploaded it, too. 
Texted the photo of the field to my brother. 
Used google to find out that the white 1965 flag represented when the Twins won the AL but lost to the Dodgers in the World Series. 
Looked up th capacity of Target Field (39,504) and the new Yankee Stadium (50,291)
Received a call from my dad, who called to tell me he'd run into the younger brother of my high school boyfriend. 
Emailed several times. 
Looked up the most common male names in the U.S. (James)
Updated one of my contacts. 
Found out that the Twins are last in the AL central, 8.5 games back (before they won the game today)
Texted with a friend about the morning's bar mitzvah. 
Took pictures of my group (using the reverse camera) and posted them on Facebook. 
Received a call from my cousin regarding dinner plans. 
Used Shazam to identify the song being played. 
Said "ice cream" to Siri so she could tell me where I could find nearby places to get some. 
Used the mapping feature to get directions back to the hotel. 

Yeah, it was a dull game.