The Timbecca empire is no more.
Today we met to execute the Marital Settlement Agreement, which means we divided up the last of our stuff.
This blog is officially retired. Please refer to Tim Alone for any further Tim-related news.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Tuesday, March 25, 2008
Timbecca Hiatus
For anyone who hasn't heard yet, Rebecca moved out of Timbecca Manor last week. She wants a "trial separation."
Tim's public thoughts can now be viewed at Tim Alone.
His private thoughts can be had by contacting him directly.
Tim's public thoughts can now be viewed at Tim Alone.
His private thoughts can be had by contacting him directly.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Prius Geek Report
It's now been six months since we bought our beautiful, beautiful Prius, Smuggy.
Smuggy got a new license plate in January:
Now our blog and our car have similar labels. It's one small step closer to building our Timbecca empire. I also like the new license plate because it differentiates our car from all the other silver Priuses we see driving around town.
I'm still totally smitten with the car, even though our mileage has taken a beating over the winter months. Smuggy doesn't like the cold. When I first calculated the aggregate miles per gallon the car had gotten last November, it was at 46.54. Since then, that average has slowly crept downward as the average temperature has dropped. (When it's cold out, it takes longer for the car to warm up, which negatively affects the mileage. Plus the wind is worse in the winter, and Smuggy and I hate the wind-- unless it's directly behind us, in which case we love it.) During January, I was lucky whenever I broke 40 miles per gallon on my commute to work.
As of the end of February, our aggregate mileage has fallen to 43.41. Here is a chart that shows how many MPGs I got each time I filled the car up:
As you can see, aside from the fact that I've totally geeked out over my new car, our best mileage was during September & October and the worst during December & January. Now it's starting to get better again as the weather gets warmer. Yesterday, on a trip to the tennis center, I averaged over 50 MPG for the first time in months.
Now I have yet another reason to love spring.
Although our decision to buy a Prius was not a financial one, it is worth noting that since buying Smuggy last August, we've saved an estimated (by me, of course) $676 in gas costs. That's more than two car payments out of six. So every third car payment is paid for with gas savings.
We love you, Smuggy!
Smuggy got a new license plate in January:
Now our blog and our car have similar labels. It's one small step closer to building our Timbecca empire. I also like the new license plate because it differentiates our car from all the other silver Priuses we see driving around town.
I'm still totally smitten with the car, even though our mileage has taken a beating over the winter months. Smuggy doesn't like the cold. When I first calculated the aggregate miles per gallon the car had gotten last November, it was at 46.54. Since then, that average has slowly crept downward as the average temperature has dropped. (When it's cold out, it takes longer for the car to warm up, which negatively affects the mileage. Plus the wind is worse in the winter, and Smuggy and I hate the wind-- unless it's directly behind us, in which case we love it.) During January, I was lucky whenever I broke 40 miles per gallon on my commute to work.
As of the end of February, our aggregate mileage has fallen to 43.41. Here is a chart that shows how many MPGs I got each time I filled the car up:
As you can see, aside from the fact that I've totally geeked out over my new car, our best mileage was during September & October and the worst during December & January. Now it's starting to get better again as the weather gets warmer. Yesterday, on a trip to the tennis center, I averaged over 50 MPG for the first time in months.
Now I have yet another reason to love spring.
Although our decision to buy a Prius was not a financial one, it is worth noting that since buying Smuggy last August, we've saved an estimated (by me, of course) $676 in gas costs. That's more than two car payments out of six. So every third car payment is paid for with gas savings.
We love you, Smuggy!
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
I Love Weather
Throughout this winter season, I've been obsessed with the state of the pond behind our apartment. It always seems to freeze and attract wild life in strange and beautiful patterns. I first noticed it last January when it froze in a weird S-shape:
Since then, I've hauled out the camera on seven different occasions to document the pond's condition, often making me leave late for work. Here's a snowy S covered with geese:
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On this clear day, most of the pond is frozen except for a ring around the edge:
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Frozen pond with goose sprinkles:
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Windy day. Pond is half frozen and half choppy:
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And two more:
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I bring this up because I got an unexpected surprise this morning. I've been sick the last four days, and missed last Friday and yesterday (Monday) from work. This morning I was feeling better and ready to get back to work. In the bathroom I heard a weather report that there would be a winter storm warning today and we might get 3-5 inches snow this evening. Hmmm, I thought, maybe we'll get a snow day tomorrow. I got showered and dressed and was eating breakfast when the phone rang. At 6:30 in the morning, the only reason our phone ever rings is that my boss is calling me to tell me that the college is closed. That was, in fact, what happened. I was confused, because this is what the pond looks like this morning:
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As you can see, there is no snow. There is also no ice. Here is what the main road in front of our apartment looks like this morning:
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Notice the presence of cars and the absence of any kind of inclement weather. Apparently, the weather is a lot worse down south where my college is. So after a 4-day weekend (I was weak with a slight fever and much sniffles), I get an unexpected extra day off.
I don't know what to do with myself today, hence this long-ass photo-filled blog.
UPDATE: 3 hours later, the snow has come. Here's the field in front of our house:
Since then, I've hauled out the camera on seven different occasions to document the pond's condition, often making me leave late for work. Here's a snowy S covered with geese:
.jpg)
.jpg)
On this clear day, most of the pond is frozen except for a ring around the edge:
.jpg)
Frozen pond with goose sprinkles:
.jpg)
Windy day. Pond is half frozen and half choppy:
.jpg)
And two more:
.jpg)
.jpg)
I bring this up because I got an unexpected surprise this morning. I've been sick the last four days, and missed last Friday and yesterday (Monday) from work. This morning I was feeling better and ready to get back to work. In the bathroom I heard a weather report that there would be a winter storm warning today and we might get 3-5 inches snow this evening. Hmmm, I thought, maybe we'll get a snow day tomorrow. I got showered and dressed and was eating breakfast when the phone rang. At 6:30 in the morning, the only reason our phone ever rings is that my boss is calling me to tell me that the college is closed. That was, in fact, what happened. I was confused, because this is what the pond looks like this morning:
.jpg)
As you can see, there is no snow. There is also no ice. Here is what the main road in front of our apartment looks like this morning:
.jpg)
Notice the presence of cars and the absence of any kind of inclement weather. Apparently, the weather is a lot worse down south where my college is. So after a 4-day weekend (I was weak with a slight fever and much sniffles), I get an unexpected extra day off.
I don't know what to do with myself today, hence this long-ass photo-filled blog.
UPDATE: 3 hours later, the snow has come. Here's the field in front of our house:
Monday, February 25, 2008
I See Illiterate People
There's a bit of graffiti in the men's room in my library that delights me. In one of the stalls, someone drew a ghost saying the word "Boo!" Right next to that, someone added, "Wow, you literally scared the crap out of me!"
I love that exchange because it's a rare instance of someone using the word "literally" correctly, and not, as the current trend seems to be, as a synonym for "really" or "very." (For example, when someone says, "I literally blew my top" when what they really meant was, "I really blew my top.")
I've been feeling very anal with regard to language lately, since I seem to notice typos and misuse of language all over the place. I feel like the grammar equivalent of that kid in The Sixth Sense: I see typos. They're everywhere, and most of them don't even know they're typos.
For example, our library is hosting a bunch of posters in celebration of Black History Month. Since I'm on the Diversity Education Committee, I volunteered to hang them. When the posters arrived, they looked great: large glossy foam board pictures of various African Americans with a small text about who they were/are. Then, as I was hanging them, I made the mistake of actually reading the text. Here are some of the errors I noticed:
Then this week I received an email from our human resources department. They're advertising a new position. Ironically, it's a position as a remedial English instructor. The job description reads, "...three year's of teaching experience..."
I thought of pointing out this "typo" to the person who sent the email, but then I think, I don't want to be that guy. The one who's always correcting other people. If they find a remedial English instructor who doesn't notice that mistake, I guess it'll be a match made in Heaven. Literally.
[And for my irony-impaired readers, that was an intentional misuse of the word "literally."]
I love that exchange because it's a rare instance of someone using the word "literally" correctly, and not, as the current trend seems to be, as a synonym for "really" or "very." (For example, when someone says, "I literally blew my top" when what they really meant was, "I really blew my top.")
I've been feeling very anal with regard to language lately, since I seem to notice typos and misuse of language all over the place. I feel like the grammar equivalent of that kid in The Sixth Sense: I see typos. They're everywhere, and most of them don't even know they're typos.
For example, our library is hosting a bunch of posters in celebration of Black History Month. Since I'm on the Diversity Education Committee, I volunteered to hang them. When the posters arrived, they looked great: large glossy foam board pictures of various African Americans with a small text about who they were/are. Then, as I was hanging them, I made the mistake of actually reading the text. Here are some of the errors I noticed:
- Rosa Parks was not a "42 year seamstress" during the famous bus scene; she was a 42-year-old seamstress.
- W.E.B. DuBois was not a "civil rights leaders", he was a civil rights leader.
- Louis Armstrong was not "still with in band" when he died, he was still with his band.
- And the granddaddy of typos: Phyllis Wheatley's book did not have a forward "sign by" John Adams, she had a forward signed by John Adams.
Then this week I received an email from our human resources department. They're advertising a new position. Ironically, it's a position as a remedial English instructor. The job description reads, "...three year's of teaching experience..."
I thought of pointing out this "typo" to the person who sent the email, but then I think, I don't want to be that guy. The one who's always correcting other people. If they find a remedial English instructor who doesn't notice that mistake, I guess it'll be a match made in Heaven. Literally.
[And for my irony-impaired readers, that was an intentional misuse of the word "literally."]
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Don't Tell Me!
I know everyone's talking about it, but please don't mention to me who won the Illinois state wrestling championships last weekend. At least not for the next eight to ten weeks.
I don't know why I have this habit of developing hobbies that I'm slightly embarrassed about. The latest example of this is my interest in high school wrestling. I was a wrestler in high school, so it's not a completely random hobby, but in the last two years, after a 16-year hiatus, I have become re-acquainted with the sport of my youth. This time, however, my involvement is merely that of a fan. Over the past two seasons I've gone to a few local meets and followed the results of wrestlers and teams throughout the state on the Illinois high school wrestling website.
As fate would have it, the state wrestling tournament is held in Champaign every year, so I couldn't pass up the opportunity to attend it last weekend. It's a two-day orgy of the best wrestling the state has to offer, and I've taken the day off work two years in a row to attend it. I don't know why I feel slightly sheepish about admitting this.
Maybe it's because I was one of the few people sitting in the stands who wasn't currently involved in the sport in some way or wasn't a friend or family member of a participant. I had two people ask me last weekend if my "kid" was competing, and I had to respond, "No, I'm just a fan." Theoretically, there shouldn't be any difference between following local high school wrestling and following something like the NFL, but there is. With the former, there's the expectation that you wouldn't be doing this if you didn't have some vested interest in one of the participants. Following the NFL, on the other hand, is considered a activity in its own right; it's on the list of acceptable hobbies (NFL widows notwithstanding.) I guess my biggest discomfort stems from the fact that it's a lonely hobby-- there aren't many people to share it with. This must be how American soccer fans feel.
The state wrestling tournament, while exciting, is also a frustrating exercise in multitasking. There are six mats set up at Assembly Hall, so you have to divide your attention between six different matches going on at once. If you're a bracket junkie like myself, it means you spend most of the time trying to figure out which match is about to end, so you can write the results into the program that you paid $5 for. Of course, there are marquee matches that you really want to see, so you'll pay more attention to them, to the detriment of your bracket.
After two days of sitting in a plastic seat and watching hundreds of (snippets of) wrestling matches, there were times when I overdosed on the whole thing. But after a short break I was usually read for more action. The state tournament is fun because seasons and careers are ending all around you. You see some kids achieving their lifelong (to that point) goals and some falling just short of them. It can bring out the best and worst in sportsmanship.
I attended every round of the tournament, but had to leave before the finals because Rebecca and I had another event to attend Saturday night. In the lobby they were pre-selling DVDs of the championship matches, so I paid $40 to order a copy for myself. You can imagine my disappointment when the girl who took my money informed me that it would be eight to ten weeks until they sent out the DVDs.
Have you ever recorded a game on TV and hoped to watch it later, all the while trying to avoid any mention of the outcome? I'm going to have to do this with the wrestling DVD, only I'll have to avoid it for 8-10 weeks. Luckily, high school wrestling is not water-cooler conversation fodder, so I should be able to accomplish this, as long as I remember not to go to the wrestling website I spent so much time on before the tournament.
So please keep your discussions of the championship matches to yourself. Thanks!
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Thursday, February 14, 2008
We don't need no stinkin' Valentine's Day
It's February 14, and at the university press where I work, that means . . .
Arizona Statehood Day Party!
Yes, folks, instead of candy hearts and valentines, at my workplace we mark February 14th with enchiladas and a big light-up cactus. According to press lore, the party was the brainchild of a former rights and permissions manager who was a native Arizonan and bore a healthy dislike of Hearts-and-Flowers Day. She doesn't work here anymore, but a fellow Arizonan has carried on the tradition and we've been celebrating the anniversary of Arizona joining the union with a Mexican-themed lunchtime potluck for the past eleven years. Of course, the Native Americanist in me isn't totally thrilled that we're celebrating Arizona's statehood -- but I have to admit that it's a better alternative than Valentine's Day.
And did I mention that I love my job?
Arizona Statehood Day Party!
Yes, folks, instead of candy hearts and valentines, at my workplace we mark February 14th with enchiladas and a big light-up cactus. According to press lore, the party was the brainchild of a former rights and permissions manager who was a native Arizonan and bore a healthy dislike of Hearts-and-Flowers Day. She doesn't work here anymore, but a fellow Arizonan has carried on the tradition and we've been celebrating the anniversary of Arizona joining the union with a Mexican-themed lunchtime potluck for the past eleven years. Of course, the Native Americanist in me isn't totally thrilled that we're celebrating Arizona's statehood -- but I have to admit that it's a better alternative than Valentine's Day.
And did I mention that I love my job?
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
The Unintentional Sandbagger
My opponent in my tennis league last night was really pissed off at me for losing the first set so spectacularly. He "bageled" me, which means he beat me 6-0 (the 0 being the bagel.) At the changeover after the first set I told him, "You're playing really well, but I'm really not this bad." He didn't believe me. What he was really thinking was, "This guy doesn't belong in this league." He thought he'd been given faulty scouting reports about me. I was clearly a creampuff. A doormat. Out of his league.
What pissed him off, later, was that he thought I was sandbagging. In our post-match discussion, in which he'd told me what he thought about me after the first set, he said, "At least the scouting reports about you were right." (What's in those scouting reports? Do they say I'm scrappy? That I never give up?) But then he added, "If you'd have played better in the first set, we might have had a different outcome."
The outcome, as it turned out, was a 0-6, 6-3, 11-9 victory for me. I didn't appreciate his insinuation that I played some sort of psychological warfare on him-- pretending to be bad so he wouldn't take me seriously. I'm not that devious or clever. To be honest, after the first six games, I shared his opinion that I didn't belong in the league. I really was trying, I just couldn't find my shot. I started thinking that maybe I can't compete at my best playing on Tuesday nights after a full day of work. It always takes me a while to warm up, although usually not six games. But in the second set I calmed down, started hitting the ball better, and figured out his weakness.
When the match was over, my attempts to be a gracious winner probably just infuriated him more. After taking a 9-6 lead in the 10-point tie-break to decide the third set, he lost five straight points, including a double fault for the last point. When we shook hands, I said, "That was a good match, but I hate to win it on a double fault." I wasn't trying to rub it in, but in hindsight it probably wasn't the most tactful thing to say. When he smashed two balls into the wall to relieve his anger, I offered him the third ball for smashing. Hey, I understand, I wanted to say. I've felt that way many times. Smash as many balls as you want.
Throughout the match, whether I was winning or losing, I would say "good shot" when he hit a nice winner or "good point" after a particularly exciting point. I don't know if he thought I that was some Machiavellian strategy on my part, but I was just trying to be a good sport.
The upshot of all this is that I'm now 2-2 in the new league, which should guarantee me a spot in the league next session. (To stay in the league, I just have to finish ahead of last place.) Some really strange things would have to happen for either of the two guys I've beaten to finish ahead of me, especially with only three matches to go. I've already achieved my goal for this new league, so now I can relax and have fun. Any more victories will be gravy.
Sweet, sweet tennis gravy.
Monday, February 11, 2008
Apologies for Being a Language Stickler
I belong to four professional listservs at work, so I'm constantly getting emails from librarians around the country discussing various issues ranging from information literacy, library instruction, community college libraries, digital reference, and reference in general. Sometimes it feels like about 30% of my work day is spent cleaning out my email inbox.
One phenomenon I've noticed a lot lately is that someone will post the same message to three different listservs, so that I receive that same message three times. When they do this, they will put the following disclaimer at the top of their message, APOLOGIES FOR RECEIPT OF DUPLICATE POSTINGS, or something to that affect. What they're doing, in essence, is apologizing for something they don't regret doing, and have every intention of doing again.
Is that really an apology? Are they really asking for my forgiveness? There's an old joke about it being easier to ask for forgiveness (afterward) than to ask for permission (ahead of time.) But this method of bundling your transgression along with the apology seems to bypass those two options altogether. You're neither asking for forgiveness nor permission. I guess what they're really asking for is tolerance. The word "apology" in that sense is shorthand for, "I acknowledge this may annoy you, but that's not going to stop me from doing it anyway."
What annoys me most is not the multiple messages cluttering my inbox (although it does annoy me), but the misappropriation of the word apology. You're not sorry. You don't regret what you're doing. You're not asking for my forgiveness. So stop "apologizing."
What should people use instead of an apology? Here's my suggestion for a more appropriate disclaimer: Posted to several listservs. If multiple receipts bother you, you're cordially invited to suck it. At least that would be honest.
One phenomenon I've noticed a lot lately is that someone will post the same message to three different listservs, so that I receive that same message three times. When they do this, they will put the following disclaimer at the top of their message, APOLOGIES FOR RECEIPT OF DUPLICATE POSTINGS, or something to that affect. What they're doing, in essence, is apologizing for something they don't regret doing, and have every intention of doing again.
Is that really an apology? Are they really asking for my forgiveness? There's an old joke about it being easier to ask for forgiveness (afterward) than to ask for permission (ahead of time.) But this method of bundling your transgression along with the apology seems to bypass those two options altogether. You're neither asking for forgiveness nor permission. I guess what they're really asking for is tolerance. The word "apology" in that sense is shorthand for, "I acknowledge this may annoy you, but that's not going to stop me from doing it anyway."
What annoys me most is not the multiple messages cluttering my inbox (although it does annoy me), but the misappropriation of the word apology. You're not sorry. You don't regret what you're doing. You're not asking for my forgiveness. So stop "apologizing."
What should people use instead of an apology? Here's my suggestion for a more appropriate disclaimer: Posted to several listservs. If multiple receipts bother you, you're cordially invited to suck it. At least that would be honest.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
I Hate Weather
I just recently came across this line in a Roy Blount book: Sometimes I put too much energy into being pissed off. I had to write it down, because it seems to describe my life a lot lately. For me, though, I would amend it thusly: I often put too much energy into being pissed off at things that I have no control over.
Take the weather. Please. February is traditionally the month when I get a bad case of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) because I'm tired of the gray cold winter and ready for spring to start. But this February started off great: we had a beautiful snow storm on the evening of the 31st, covering the ground in a pristine white blanket 6-8 inches thick. The beauty of a snow storm is only matched by the beauty of a snow day, and Friday the college was closed, giving me a much-needed three-day weekend.
But then a warm front came in over the weekend, and Monday morning I was greeted by the thickest fog I've ever seen. This being my busy season at work, I had a 12-hour day at work on Monday. The fog didn't lift at all during the day, and by the time I drove home from work at 8:00 pm, I was driving on the highway through darkness in a fog so thick I could only see about two car lengths ahead of me. I couldn't see anything out beyond the car, only a tiny stretch of road in front of me that I took on faith would lead to another tiny stretch of road. It was one of the loneliest feelings I ever had, as if I were the only person left alive on Earth.
I made it home safely, but exhausted, after having given four library presentations, worked twelve hours, and driving an hour through the dark fog.
Although I got a full eight hours of sleep Monday night, I was still exhausted on Tuesday. It rained all day. I had two more library presentations, and then drove home into a torrential downpour and against blinding winds. That mostly pissed me off because it severely affected the miles per gallon on my Prius. I absolutely hate driving into the wind for that reason.
When I got home, I immediately tried to take a nap, because I had my tennis league that night and wanted to rest up for it. I rested, but didn't sleep much, for about an hour and a half, with a short break in between to eat dinner. When I got up and dressed for tennis, I didn't feel very rejuvenated.
I drove to tennis through another downpour. (Or rather, through the same one that I had driven home from work in.) Now I had to deal with flooding, since there were several places in the road with standing water. At one point I barreled through about 1-2 feet of water, but I made it through. When I got to the tennis center, I couldn't even turn into the road it was on, because there was about 3 feet of water blocking the entrance. A police car was also blocking the path, along with a tow truck and a line of cars. Like an obsessive compulsive chihuahua chasing its tail, I kept driving around in circles trying to figure out where to park or how to get into the tennis center. All the while I cursed the weather with a vehemence that was unnatural. I finally just parked on the side of the road with my blinkers on, marched through the mud (in my tennis shoes) to the building, and asked if there was anywhere I could park.
The guy at the tennis center said he had tried to call me at home, but I had already left. Due to the flooded parking lot, the league was canceled that night. So I got to drive back home in the rain and flood. Because of all the ponds in the middle of the road, I had to take several detours on the way. I finally made it home an hour after I had left. I was wet, angry, and inconsolable. I'd wasted my pre-tennis time napping in vain, I'd missed my only opportunity this week to play tennis, I'd spent a stressful hour driving around dodging the flood, and now it was too late to do anything fun before bedtime. But I still had a lot of energy to be pissed off.
I don't believe that I'm naturally a discontent. When I'm not sun-deprived, and things go according to plan, I love life. I probably even love the weather almost as often as I hate it. But I do not react well to unexpected adversity. I get angry. I kick at things that can't feel it, like the wind. And I scream at things that can't hear me, like the rain.
The only thing that saved me this week was my new Jimmy Buffett CD that accompanied me through the fog, rain, and flood.
I want to live in a Jimmy Buffett song.
Take the weather. Please. February is traditionally the month when I get a bad case of Seasonal Affective Disorder (SAD) because I'm tired of the gray cold winter and ready for spring to start. But this February started off great: we had a beautiful snow storm on the evening of the 31st, covering the ground in a pristine white blanket 6-8 inches thick. The beauty of a snow storm is only matched by the beauty of a snow day, and Friday the college was closed, giving me a much-needed three-day weekend.
But then a warm front came in over the weekend, and Monday morning I was greeted by the thickest fog I've ever seen. This being my busy season at work, I had a 12-hour day at work on Monday. The fog didn't lift at all during the day, and by the time I drove home from work at 8:00 pm, I was driving on the highway through darkness in a fog so thick I could only see about two car lengths ahead of me. I couldn't see anything out beyond the car, only a tiny stretch of road in front of me that I took on faith would lead to another tiny stretch of road. It was one of the loneliest feelings I ever had, as if I were the only person left alive on Earth.
I made it home safely, but exhausted, after having given four library presentations, worked twelve hours, and driving an hour through the dark fog.
Although I got a full eight hours of sleep Monday night, I was still exhausted on Tuesday. It rained all day. I had two more library presentations, and then drove home into a torrential downpour and against blinding winds. That mostly pissed me off because it severely affected the miles per gallon on my Prius. I absolutely hate driving into the wind for that reason.
When I got home, I immediately tried to take a nap, because I had my tennis league that night and wanted to rest up for it. I rested, but didn't sleep much, for about an hour and a half, with a short break in between to eat dinner. When I got up and dressed for tennis, I didn't feel very rejuvenated.
I drove to tennis through another downpour. (Or rather, through the same one that I had driven home from work in.) Now I had to deal with flooding, since there were several places in the road with standing water. At one point I barreled through about 1-2 feet of water, but I made it through. When I got to the tennis center, I couldn't even turn into the road it was on, because there was about 3 feet of water blocking the entrance. A police car was also blocking the path, along with a tow truck and a line of cars. Like an obsessive compulsive chihuahua chasing its tail, I kept driving around in circles trying to figure out where to park or how to get into the tennis center. All the while I cursed the weather with a vehemence that was unnatural. I finally just parked on the side of the road with my blinkers on, marched through the mud (in my tennis shoes) to the building, and asked if there was anywhere I could park.
The guy at the tennis center said he had tried to call me at home, but I had already left. Due to the flooded parking lot, the league was canceled that night. So I got to drive back home in the rain and flood. Because of all the ponds in the middle of the road, I had to take several detours on the way. I finally made it home an hour after I had left. I was wet, angry, and inconsolable. I'd wasted my pre-tennis time napping in vain, I'd missed my only opportunity this week to play tennis, I'd spent a stressful hour driving around dodging the flood, and now it was too late to do anything fun before bedtime. But I still had a lot of energy to be pissed off.
I don't believe that I'm naturally a discontent. When I'm not sun-deprived, and things go according to plan, I love life. I probably even love the weather almost as often as I hate it. But I do not react well to unexpected adversity. I get angry. I kick at things that can't feel it, like the wind. And I scream at things that can't hear me, like the rain.
The only thing that saved me this week was my new Jimmy Buffett CD that accompanied me through the fog, rain, and flood.
I want to live in a Jimmy Buffett song.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Exercising Compassion
The most tender place in my heart is for strangers
I know it’s unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous
Neko Case, “Hold On, Hold On”
Christians are called to see Christ in all people, especially the poor. I was reminded of the challenges of living this calling at church on Sunday. But I’ve also been thinking lately about the challenges of seeing Christ in those closest to me. In a lot of ways, Neko Case is right – it’s easier to be charitable toward people I don’t know than to people I know (or think I know) all too well. Sometimes the cost of trying to see Christ in my family and friends seems too steep to pay. And yet I know it’s important to see Christ in them too.
Some of my thinking on this subject is influenced by Henri Nouwen, who offers a great working definition of compassion – the deep recognition of another’s pain and suffering, which often leads one to see “Christ in need” in that person. But for clues on how to put that definition into action in my everyday life, I find Madeleine L’Engle’s discussion of compassion in A Circle of Quiet especially helpful. Compassion, she points out, is particular. It’s evoked by a particular person in a particular set of circumstances; it’s not easily generalizable, even in this age of televised mass disasters. And the ability to be compassionate is one that can grow with practice – very much like a skill. Elsewhere in the book she talks about the need for “finger exercises” for various skills such as writing. Finger exercises are special exercises that pianists do to develop their technique; they’re not music of themselves, but they enhance one’s ability to play music when the time is right.
So in a sense, exercising one’s ability to be compassionate is like finger exercises for the soul. There are many times in a regular work week that I might exercise my capacity for compassion by simply checking in with a co-worker who looks troubled or asking the administrative assistant with a broken leg if she needs help getting out to her car. Then, as my capacity for compassion grows, I might notice that my spouse is really quiet when he gets home from work, and instead of taking advantage of the quiet to read without interruption (just kidding, honey!), I might take the time to ask what’s wrong. If I can’t be compassionate with the people I love, or at least am familiar with, how much more likely am I to miss the chance to be compassionate to a stranger when it presents itself? (I’m thinking of what Jesus said about servants who are trustworthy in small matters.)
I know it’s unkind but my own blood is much too dangerous
Neko Case, “Hold On, Hold On”
Christians are called to see Christ in all people, especially the poor. I was reminded of the challenges of living this calling at church on Sunday. But I’ve also been thinking lately about the challenges of seeing Christ in those closest to me. In a lot of ways, Neko Case is right – it’s easier to be charitable toward people I don’t know than to people I know (or think I know) all too well. Sometimes the cost of trying to see Christ in my family and friends seems too steep to pay. And yet I know it’s important to see Christ in them too.
Some of my thinking on this subject is influenced by Henri Nouwen, who offers a great working definition of compassion – the deep recognition of another’s pain and suffering, which often leads one to see “Christ in need” in that person. But for clues on how to put that definition into action in my everyday life, I find Madeleine L’Engle’s discussion of compassion in A Circle of Quiet especially helpful. Compassion, she points out, is particular. It’s evoked by a particular person in a particular set of circumstances; it’s not easily generalizable, even in this age of televised mass disasters. And the ability to be compassionate is one that can grow with practice – very much like a skill. Elsewhere in the book she talks about the need for “finger exercises” for various skills such as writing. Finger exercises are special exercises that pianists do to develop their technique; they’re not music of themselves, but they enhance one’s ability to play music when the time is right.
So in a sense, exercising one’s ability to be compassionate is like finger exercises for the soul. There are many times in a regular work week that I might exercise my capacity for compassion by simply checking in with a co-worker who looks troubled or asking the administrative assistant with a broken leg if she needs help getting out to her car. Then, as my capacity for compassion grows, I might notice that my spouse is really quiet when he gets home from work, and instead of taking advantage of the quiet to read without interruption (just kidding, honey!), I might take the time to ask what’s wrong. If I can’t be compassionate with the people I love, or at least am familiar with, how much more likely am I to miss the chance to be compassionate to a stranger when it presents itself? (I’m thinking of what Jesus said about servants who are trustworthy in small matters.)
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Winter Landscape
When I woke up this morning and looked out the window, the sky and the ground were both white. The skeletons of bare trees stood out, etched against the sky and snow. It made me think of the time a few years ago when I was driving along north Prospect on a gorgeous spring day and decided that, for me at least, what made winter landscapes so special was their emphasis on structure. In spring, summer and fall, the lines, angles and curves that shape the landscape tend to recede in favor of brilliant color. But in winter, with its limited palette of browns, grays and whites, the contours of the things that surround me take pride of place. Ice and snow only enhance the delicate tracery of tree branches. Even the outlines of man-made things seem more prominent in a snowy prairie landscape -- the contrast between white snow and the lines of a weathered gray-brown fence, for example, or the way that barns and silos, like trees, stand out more clearly on a monochromatic winter morning.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Blisterwatch '08 update
Overheard minutes ago at Timbecca Manor (after Crest whitestrips commercial):
Tim: "I wonder what would happen if I put Crest whitestrips on my blisters. Would it make them heal faster?"
Rebecca: *buries head in hands*
Tim: "I wonder what would happen if I put Crest whitestrips on my blisters. Would it make them heal faster?"
Rebecca: *buries head in hands*
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Scary Dancing People
I've been checking weather.com a lot lately because it's the Midwest and it's Winter and I like to know what kind of freezing temperature, storm, or crazy bursts of wind I'll be driving through on the way home.
The weather.com site has lots of banner ads that show icons of little dancing people. Have you seen these ads? They show a little person caught in a freaky dancing loop that's supposed to grab your attention. (You can try to view one here. You may have to scroll down the page or refresh it a few times to catch the dancers.)
I cannot stand the dancing people. They scare me. Something about their repetitive gyrations is so obnoxious and unnatural that I must look away. They're like the visual equivalent of nails on a chalkboard to me. I can't explain why I have such a response.
Do these dancing people creep out anyone else?
The weather.com site has lots of banner ads that show icons of little dancing people. Have you seen these ads? They show a little person caught in a freaky dancing loop that's supposed to grab your attention. (You can try to view one here. You may have to scroll down the page or refresh it a few times to catch the dancers.)
I cannot stand the dancing people. They scare me. Something about their repetitive gyrations is so obnoxious and unnatural that I must look away. They're like the visual equivalent of nails on a chalkboard to me. I can't explain why I have such a response.
Do these dancing people creep out anyone else?
Monday, January 28, 2008
From Perfectionism to Brokenness
My life as a child and young adult revolved around performance. The way I understood things, my major activities -- school and piano -- each had a standard, and my job was to match that standard as closely as possible. School was never a problem -- I got straight A's from fifth grade through college -- but piano proved more challenging. With the piano, somehow no performance I gave was ever good enough. I began to concentrate less on making music and more on not making any mistakes. By the time I reached high school I had severe performance anxiety, and I changed my college major from music to history in part to avoid having to perform regularly.
My perfectionism, driven by anxiety about measuring up to an increasingly impossible standard, resurfaced with a vengeance in graduate school. I took an extension in at least one class every semester to finish the final essay, and rarely slept the last week of classes -- not because I was pulling all-nighters, but because I was lying awake at night obsessing over how much work I still had to do. By the end of my third year I'd developed a stress-related disorder. I was testing the limits of my scholastic, physical, and emotional abilities, but nothing I could produce was good enough for my inner perfectionist.
Around this time I read Henri Nouwen's Out of Solitude, a collection of three sermons that woke me up to a different way I might live my life. Instead of enslaving ourselves to worldly standards of success or usefulness, he calls us to "discover that being is more important than having, and that we are worth more than the results of our efforts." The last phrase, "We are worth more than the results of our efforts," seemed as if it had been written for me, as did Nouwen's next idea: "To the degree that we have lost our dependencies on this world . . . we can form a community of faith in which there is little to defend but much to share." Nouwen calls such a community the fellowship of the weak (or broken, a word he uses elsewhere in the book).
At that point in my life, I had stretched myself to my utmost limits. Simply being, and sharing with a community that recognized everyone's faults and failings but loved instead of judged, was something I longed for like someone might long for a drink of cool water in the desert. Nouwen's words did not point to a goal to be realized so much as a journey to be traveled, and I was ready to start.
I by no means claim that I've perfected this way of living. Just because I understand it doesn't mean that I can always live it well. But the point (to me, at least) is that perfection is illusory, something that promises more nourishment and well-being than its pursuit actually delivers. If I try to empty myself and just be, however, and to seek others who are following the same path, it doesn't matter if I stumble or fall. (To mix ice skating and educational metaphors, there are no points for style but lots of A's for effort.) My life is not perfect; it is less like a Ming vase than an old clay pitcher that has plenty of cracks and chips, and whose handle has been glued back on more than once. But the pitcher still holds water, and my life is richer and more balanced than it has ever been.
My perfectionism, driven by anxiety about measuring up to an increasingly impossible standard, resurfaced with a vengeance in graduate school. I took an extension in at least one class every semester to finish the final essay, and rarely slept the last week of classes -- not because I was pulling all-nighters, but because I was lying awake at night obsessing over how much work I still had to do. By the end of my third year I'd developed a stress-related disorder. I was testing the limits of my scholastic, physical, and emotional abilities, but nothing I could produce was good enough for my inner perfectionist.
Around this time I read Henri Nouwen's Out of Solitude, a collection of three sermons that woke me up to a different way I might live my life. Instead of enslaving ourselves to worldly standards of success or usefulness, he calls us to "discover that being is more important than having, and that we are worth more than the results of our efforts." The last phrase, "We are worth more than the results of our efforts," seemed as if it had been written for me, as did Nouwen's next idea: "To the degree that we have lost our dependencies on this world . . . we can form a community of faith in which there is little to defend but much to share." Nouwen calls such a community the fellowship of the weak (or broken, a word he uses elsewhere in the book).
At that point in my life, I had stretched myself to my utmost limits. Simply being, and sharing with a community that recognized everyone's faults and failings but loved instead of judged, was something I longed for like someone might long for a drink of cool water in the desert. Nouwen's words did not point to a goal to be realized so much as a journey to be traveled, and I was ready to start.
I by no means claim that I've perfected this way of living. Just because I understand it doesn't mean that I can always live it well. But the point (to me, at least) is that perfection is illusory, something that promises more nourishment and well-being than its pursuit actually delivers. If I try to empty myself and just be, however, and to seek others who are following the same path, it doesn't matter if I stumble or fall. (To mix ice skating and educational metaphors, there are no points for style but lots of A's for effort.) My life is not perfect; it is less like a Ming vase than an old clay pitcher that has plenty of cracks and chips, and whose handle has been glued back on more than once. But the pitcher still holds water, and my life is richer and more balanced than it has ever been.
Thursday, January 24, 2008
BlisterWatch '08
[Cue local TV news theme music] BlisterWatch 2008!
The devastating attack of blisters on the balls of both of Tim's feet during a grueling tennis match Monday morning continues to hamper his tennis activity. Sources close to his feet say that the blisters may incapacitate him for the rest of the week.
"The left foot looks like it will be ready to go by this weekend, but the right one, where the skin broke, make take a few more days to heal," reported Tim at the breakfast table this morning. Although he's no longer walking with a limp, his feet are not ready for the rigorous demands of tennis motion, he added.
The appearance of the blisters has caused much anxiety on the part of local residents. "I've been hearing the whine of the Double-Blistered Loser all week long," says Rebecca, a local resident of Timbecca Manor. "It's causing me to lose sleep. I'll be glad when this is over. It's the only thing people around here talk about."
Authorities believe the blisters are the result of Tim trying to squeeze in too much league play over the course of the long MLK holiday weekend. On Saturday, he played his first league match, which he won, 7-6 (10-8), 6-1, but the long match took a toll on his aging body. Sunday evening, Tim played in a doubles league match, which turned out to be more strenuous than he'd anticipated. "Usually there's not a lot of running in a doubles match, but this one was pretty competitive," he explained.
The first blister appeared Monday morning during the second set of Tim's second singles league match. After losing the first set (4-6), Tim was down 1-2 in the second set when, during a long game that went to deuce several times, a blister opened on his right foot. He lost that game, and then the next, to go down 1-4. The second blister, on the left foot, made its appearance sometime during Tim's apparent comeback run, where he won four straight games and took a 5-4 lead. With two set points in the next game, however, Tim failed to convert and his opponent won three straight games to win the match, 6-4, 7-5.
"My scouting reports said that this guy really worked the angles well," the Double-Blistered Loser said, "but I didn't know what that really meant was, 'You're going to run your ass off.' This guy ran me all over the court."
Tim Enthusiasts are hopeful that blisters will not become a recurring problem in his tennis game. "Some people are trying to blame my new shoes, but I've played in them several times before and never had blisters before. I think it was just the combination of too many matches so close together and the style of play of my last opponent," Tim said. He emphasized that he will monitor the blister situation more closely from now on.
Although it's hampered his tennis game, not all Timbecca residents are bothered by the blisters. Some furry locals are enjoying the extended hours of couch time required for blister recovery. "Squeek!" said one as she plopped down on Tim's lap and demanded to be stroked.
Pictures of the blisters and a time-line of related events can be found on page B4.
[Cue local TV news theme music] This has been... BlisterWatch 2008!
The devastating attack of blisters on the balls of both of Tim's feet during a grueling tennis match Monday morning continues to hamper his tennis activity. Sources close to his feet say that the blisters may incapacitate him for the rest of the week.
"The left foot looks like it will be ready to go by this weekend, but the right one, where the skin broke, make take a few more days to heal," reported Tim at the breakfast table this morning. Although he's no longer walking with a limp, his feet are not ready for the rigorous demands of tennis motion, he added.
The appearance of the blisters has caused much anxiety on the part of local residents. "I've been hearing the whine of the Double-Blistered Loser all week long," says Rebecca, a local resident of Timbecca Manor. "It's causing me to lose sleep. I'll be glad when this is over. It's the only thing people around here talk about."
Authorities believe the blisters are the result of Tim trying to squeeze in too much league play over the course of the long MLK holiday weekend. On Saturday, he played his first league match, which he won, 7-6 (10-8), 6-1, but the long match took a toll on his aging body. Sunday evening, Tim played in a doubles league match, which turned out to be more strenuous than he'd anticipated. "Usually there's not a lot of running in a doubles match, but this one was pretty competitive," he explained.
The first blister appeared Monday morning during the second set of Tim's second singles league match. After losing the first set (4-6), Tim was down 1-2 in the second set when, during a long game that went to deuce several times, a blister opened on his right foot. He lost that game, and then the next, to go down 1-4. The second blister, on the left foot, made its appearance sometime during Tim's apparent comeback run, where he won four straight games and took a 5-4 lead. With two set points in the next game, however, Tim failed to convert and his opponent won three straight games to win the match, 6-4, 7-5.
"My scouting reports said that this guy really worked the angles well," the Double-Blistered Loser said, "but I didn't know what that really meant was, 'You're going to run your ass off.' This guy ran me all over the court."
Tim Enthusiasts are hopeful that blisters will not become a recurring problem in his tennis game. "Some people are trying to blame my new shoes, but I've played in them several times before and never had blisters before. I think it was just the combination of too many matches so close together and the style of play of my last opponent," Tim said. He emphasized that he will monitor the blister situation more closely from now on.
Although it's hampered his tennis game, not all Timbecca residents are bothered by the blisters. Some furry locals are enjoying the extended hours of couch time required for blister recovery. "Squeek!" said one as she plopped down on Tim's lap and demanded to be stroked.
Pictures of the blisters and a time-line of related events can be found on page B4.
[Cue local TV news theme music] This has been... BlisterWatch 2008!
Monday, January 21, 2008
Room with a View
Tim and I have lived in our apartment for about six months now, and I love it. It's not because it's better insulated or better laid out than the house we lived in for three years, though I appreciate those things. I love our apartment because of what I see from its windows.
From the east windows I see the sun rise and the trains and cars go by. I see a farmer's field in all its colors and states -- deep green with crops in the summer, yellow with discarded husks after harvest, brown and fallow in the winter, and (I imagine) light green with delicate new life in the spring. From the southern windows I see the lake and, on the other side, the village, which looks as if it's been imported from southern Italy, with rooflines and cypresses rising in the distance. (I am, of course, leaving out the car wash and bowling alley in the foreground, which ruin the effect.) And from the western window in my office I see the lake itself, which like the field reflects the seasons. Right now it's glittering and frozen, and in the evening flocks of water birds settle on it to sleep.
I also like watching our cats as they look out of the same windows (except for the southern ones, which are in the bathroom). I never get tired of observing Katya and Hermione; their sleeping, yawning, stretching, and grooming fascinate me. But I especially love how they express their curiosity (and their hunting instincts) when they look out the window. Both Katya and Hermione love to look out the eastern windows -- the one in our living room is a sliding glass door onto our balcony, and they spend a good part of the day watching the traffic, human and animal. In our bedroom, we have a small cabinet and a bookshelf below the window, and it always amazes me to see the cats' nonchalant agility as one or the other leaps from the floor to the cabinet and then the bookshelf in two fluid movements, and then crouches on top of the bookshelf, tense and motionless except for her eyes, which scan the field for a tasty treat she'll never catch.
Hermione, our younger cat, is limber and strong enough to jump from the floor directly onto the window ledge in my office, and I often find her there, especially these days when there are birds on the lake. Sometimes I think she enjoys watching the coming and going of humans just as much, though, since that window affords a good view of our complex's parking lot. I'm not sure if she's simply attracted by the movement or if she's stalking people the way she stalks birds. I think I'm happier leaving that mystery unsolved.
From the east windows I see the sun rise and the trains and cars go by. I see a farmer's field in all its colors and states -- deep green with crops in the summer, yellow with discarded husks after harvest, brown and fallow in the winter, and (I imagine) light green with delicate new life in the spring. From the southern windows I see the lake and, on the other side, the village, which looks as if it's been imported from southern Italy, with rooflines and cypresses rising in the distance. (I am, of course, leaving out the car wash and bowling alley in the foreground, which ruin the effect.) And from the western window in my office I see the lake itself, which like the field reflects the seasons. Right now it's glittering and frozen, and in the evening flocks of water birds settle on it to sleep.
I also like watching our cats as they look out of the same windows (except for the southern ones, which are in the bathroom). I never get tired of observing Katya and Hermione; their sleeping, yawning, stretching, and grooming fascinate me. But I especially love how they express their curiosity (and their hunting instincts) when they look out the window. Both Katya and Hermione love to look out the eastern windows -- the one in our living room is a sliding glass door onto our balcony, and they spend a good part of the day watching the traffic, human and animal. In our bedroom, we have a small cabinet and a bookshelf below the window, and it always amazes me to see the cats' nonchalant agility as one or the other leaps from the floor to the cabinet and then the bookshelf in two fluid movements, and then crouches on top of the bookshelf, tense and motionless except for her eyes, which scan the field for a tasty treat she'll never catch.
Hermione, our younger cat, is limber and strong enough to jump from the floor directly onto the window ledge in my office, and I often find her there, especially these days when there are birds on the lake. Sometimes I think she enjoys watching the coming and going of humans just as much, though, since that window affords a good view of our complex's parking lot. I'm not sure if she's simply attracted by the movement or if she's stalking people the way she stalks birds. I think I'm happier leaving that mystery unsolved.
Zombie Alternatives
I've been watching a lot of zombie movies lately. You know, the basic formulaic boy-meets-girl, boy-bashes-girl's-head-in-because-he's-a-zombie, girl-turns-into-a-zombie, boy-and-girl-go-around-bashing-everyone-else's-head-in movies.
The modern take on the zombie movie is that some sort of virus is turning everyone into monsters who want nothing but to attack the non-zombie population, which is usually only a handful of people just trying to survive in a bleak apocalyptic world. Fun stuff. Conceptually, I like the idea of a virus causing the zombiism, despite some major plot holes. (For example, why would the virus cause them to be violent only towards the uninfected? Why wouldn't the infected people just kill each other off?)
But then I thought, why are zombie-movie-makers so obsessed with violent zombies? If people are being infected with a virus, why not one that affects their behavior in more harmless, or even benevolent, ways? Here are my suggestions for alternative zombie movies:
- Cuddle Zombies. They go around cuddling everyone they see. Once you've been cuddled, you have the irresistible urge to cuddle others.
- Zerbert Zombies. Also known as "raspberries," zerberts are when you put your mouth on someone's stomach (usually a baby) and blow. What if the zombies just tried to zerbert everyone?
- Sex zombies. They try to have sex with everyone they come into contact with. This could actually be just as frightening as the violent ones.
- Pacifist zombies. The infected refuse to fight or kill other people. They form task forces to protest war and figure out strategies to promote peace and justice. They turn vegetarian, but develop and insatiable appetite for ice cream, which leads to their ultimate undoing when they peacefully accost the wrong ice cream truck, driven by Chuck Norris.
- Pull-My-Finger Zombies. Don't pull that finger! Not only will it unleash a cloud of stinkiness into the room, but you'll become a flatulence zombie, too.
- Tennis Zombies. Not content to just enjoy the game, they try to recruit everyone they know into taking it up. The difference between tennis zombies and the uninfected tennis enthusiast will be that the former have really weak serves, but can move around the court really well and get everything back. Also, they like to eat brains.
- INSERT YOUR IDEA HERE.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
OCS: Obsessive Compulsive Scheduling
Over my winter vacation I played a lot of tennis, and I spent so much time contacting people, negotiating times, and reserving courts, that I mentioned to Rebecca, "It's a good thing I'm on vacation, because just setting up all my tennis games feels like a full-time job."
Now that the holidays are over and my regular leagues and workouts are starting again, I hope to get back to a more regular tennis schedule that doesn't involve so much planning and organizing on my part.
As a result of winning my Sunday afternoon beginner's league last December, I get to move up to the Tuesday evening "Bronze" league starting this week. I'm very excited to be playing in the more advanced league. It's like graduating from half-day Kindergarten to first grade, and I'm looking forward to competing with the big kids. I also like the fact that the league meets on Tuesdays, which is a perfect midway point between playing on the weekend and my Thursday evening workout. I'm looking forward to the new schedule and the new competition.
Now that the holidays are over and my regular leagues and workouts are starting again, I hope to get back to a more regular tennis schedule that doesn't involve so much planning and organizing on my part.
As a result of winning my Sunday afternoon beginner's league last December, I get to move up to the Tuesday evening "Bronze" league starting this week. I'm very excited to be playing in the more advanced league. It's like graduating from half-day Kindergarten to first grade, and I'm looking forward to competing with the big kids. I also like the fact that the league meets on Tuesdays, which is a perfect midway point between playing on the weekend and my Thursday evening workout. I'm looking forward to the new schedule and the new competition.
- On Monday I get an email from an instructor at my college. She has a night class that needs a library tour. Can I do it on Tuesday, Jan 22? The class only meets once a week, on Tuesdays, so I can't offer to do it another day. In order to do my job, I'll have to miss the second meeting of my new tennis league.
- Sure, the 22nd is fine, I reply to the instructor, knowing that I'll have to see if I can reschedule the match for that week for another day.
- The Bronze league season begins on Tuesday, and I woke up that morning excited about my first match that night.
- Tuesday morning I get an email from my first scheduled opponent. He has a "conflict" and can't make it tonight. When am I available to reschedule? I'm crushed at this news-- I was so ready to play! And now I have to miss the first two Tuesdays in my new league. So after ruminating about the best days/times to play that would fit in with my schedule and that are available for league make-ups, I send reply that I can play on Saturday, any time, just let me know when.
- Then I email my opponent for week #2, tell him I have an unavoidable work thing that night, and ask him if we could possibly reschedule our match. I suggest a few times.
- Disappointed that my opponent for tonight canceled and I was so pumped to play, I email a tennis friend and ask her if she would like to play that night.
- She says sure, just tell me what time.
- I call the tennis center and re-reserve the court that had been canceled by my opponent #1.
- I email back my friend and tell her what time.
- Tuesday night, I play a non-official match with L, who whips up on me. She just won the Bronze league, the one that I'm moving up to, so she's moving on to the Silver league. I put up a pretty good fight (we have lots of long points and close games) in a 2-6, 4-6 loss.
- Wednesday morning, I haven't heard anything from opponent #1, so I email him again which days/times I'm available this weekend for a make-up.
- Opponent #2 emails me back and gives me a time he can play.
- I call the tennis center, cancel our regular league court time for Tuesday night #2 and reserve one for the previous Monday instead.
- I get a second email from the instructor at my college. She actually had it wrong-- it was Jan 29, not Jan 22, that she had me on her syllabus to visit her class. Can I come then instead?
- I start to respond to her that I'm not available on the 29th, which is kinda not true, because I'm just as available on the 29th as I am on the 22nd, except that I've already gone through all the trouble of rescheduling my match for the 22nd (see items #5, 12, 13 above.) And if I did her class on the 29th, I'd have to miss three Tuesday night tennis matches in a row, or un-reschedule the week #2 match, which would be a headache and also make me look like I don't have my shit together, which I don't like.
- But I don't send the email. That evening I talk to my advisers, who both assure me that I'm not being unprofessional or unreasonable to tell the instructor I'm unavailable when I really don't want to mess with my tennis schedule again after I've already re-arranged it for her.
- I send the original mail to the instructor, saying I'm not available on the 29th, but could we go ahead and do the 22nd anyway? I offer to come to her class an hour later in case she needs to get some things done before I get there.
- I call opponent #2 and confirm our match for next Monday morning, 9:00 am. (As luck would have it, that's MLK Day so I don't have to work.)
- The instructor emails back at says an hour later on the 22nd would be "perfect." Excellent.
- Thursday morning, I get an email from another tennis friend, asking if I want to play sometime this weekend.
- I respond, sorry, I have to make up two league matches over three days. I'm also playing in a doubles league on Sunday afternoon. Maybe another time.
- Meanwhile, opponent #1 still has not told me when we're playing on Saturday. He's had three days to reserve a court, so I email him and ask if he has a time yet. I say I'd like to know when when we're playing so I can plan my weekend. I even offer to call the tennis center myself. I don't mean to nag, but it's been three days, and how long does it take to pick up a phone and call the tennis center?
- He emails me back almost immediately: he's reserved a court Saturday late morning. Does that work for me?
- Yes, it does.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
Our New Vacuum Sucks
Our old vacuum, a traditionally-bagged black model called "The Boss," didn't remind me at all of Bruce Springsteen. It was nuisance-level loud and terrified the cats, but it would often run over the same piece of lint several times without picking it up. I kept telling Rebecca, "This vacuum sucks," to which she'd respond, "Well, that's what a vacuum is supposed to do." So then I'd have to add the rejoinder, "...but not in the good way."
My biggest problem with the old vacuum is that it hid all the dirt in a bag, so I had no idea how much stuff it was picking up. I always suspected it didn't get much, but I had no proof.
Over the holidays we visited my sister, and she got out her vacuum, which was bagless. It caught all the dirt in a clear plastic cannister in the front, so you could see how well it was working. When you're done, you dump the cannister in the wastebasket, and you know you've accomplished something: you've transferred a load of dirt from the carpet to the wastebasket. Wow! A bagless vacumm! That's what I want! I thought.
So after consulting the Consumer Reports article rating the best vacuum cleaners, we went out and immediately bought our own bagless model. Here it is, right out of the box, freshly assembled, in the most pristine condition it'll ever be in:
So I fired it up and started on our bedroom. I did one-half of our bedroom and looked at the cannister:
I was shocked. This was, mind you, 1/2 of one room. Maybe a 10' by 4' stretch of carpet, and it almost filled the cannister half full. It was as if this carpet had never been vacuumed. I imagined the carpet singing Madonna's Like a Virgin as it experienced a vacuuming like never before. My suspicion that this carpet had never seen a vacuum like this before was confirmed when I checked under the carriage and saw actual carpet fibers in it.
Stupidly, I finished the entire apartment without once emptying the cannister. I wanted to see how much dirt I could pick up in one vacuuming. When I was done with the whole place, I took the cannister out and took a picture. (I took three pictures, but this is the best one:)
As you can see, it's entirely full. (The predominant gray color is due to our two gray-haired cats.) What you can't see is how packed full it is. When I released the trap door into the garbage can, the detritus clung to the sides like an action-adventure hero in a bathroom stall trying to hide his feet from a dangerous assassin looking under each stall. I had to reach my hand into the cannister (a thoroughly disgusting endeavor) and pull the muck out, which was packed as tight as insulation.
But I've learned my lesson, and the second time I vacuumed the apartment, I cleaned the cannister out three times. The carpet looks great and I feel that I've accomplished something. Our new vacuum sucks awesome!
My biggest problem with the old vacuum is that it hid all the dirt in a bag, so I had no idea how much stuff it was picking up. I always suspected it didn't get much, but I had no proof.
Over the holidays we visited my sister, and she got out her vacuum, which was bagless. It caught all the dirt in a clear plastic cannister in the front, so you could see how well it was working. When you're done, you dump the cannister in the wastebasket, and you know you've accomplished something: you've transferred a load of dirt from the carpet to the wastebasket. Wow! A bagless vacumm! That's what I want! I thought.
So after consulting the Consumer Reports article rating the best vacuum cleaners, we went out and immediately bought our own bagless model. Here it is, right out of the box, freshly assembled, in the most pristine condition it'll ever be in:
So I fired it up and started on our bedroom. I did one-half of our bedroom and looked at the cannister:
I was shocked. This was, mind you, 1/2 of one room. Maybe a 10' by 4' stretch of carpet, and it almost filled the cannister half full. It was as if this carpet had never been vacuumed. I imagined the carpet singing Madonna's Like a Virgin as it experienced a vacuuming like never before. My suspicion that this carpet had never seen a vacuum like this before was confirmed when I checked under the carriage and saw actual carpet fibers in it.
Stupidly, I finished the entire apartment without once emptying the cannister. I wanted to see how much dirt I could pick up in one vacuuming. When I was done with the whole place, I took the cannister out and took a picture. (I took three pictures, but this is the best one:)
As you can see, it's entirely full. (The predominant gray color is due to our two gray-haired cats.) What you can't see is how packed full it is. When I released the trap door into the garbage can, the detritus clung to the sides like an action-adventure hero in a bathroom stall trying to hide his feet from a dangerous assassin looking under each stall. I had to reach my hand into the cannister (a thoroughly disgusting endeavor) and pull the muck out, which was packed as tight as insulation.
But I've learned my lesson, and the second time I vacuumed the apartment, I cleaned the cannister out three times. The carpet looks great and I feel that I've accomplished something. Our new vacuum sucks awesome!
Monday, January 7, 2008
What We Did During Our Christmas Vacation
We spent four tranquil days in South Carolina with Rebecca's family:
We spent two short days at home:
We spent three hectic days in Indiana with Tim's family, where he lost his voice trying to shout over the din of eight kids and 12 adults:
Then we came home ready to relax from our travels and greet the new year. Rebecca promptly got a terrible cold/sore throat/flu that she shared with Tim two days later. (No picture available.) This sickness has incapacitated us for a week, and although we're mostly recovered, we still occasionally set each other off on coughing fits like competing bullfrogs. Oh, the phlegm we've seen! (No picture available.)
In the meantime, the weather got really cold for a few days (between 5 and 15 degrees), and the pond behind our apartment froze in a cool S-shaped pattern:
To see more pictures of our travels, see our Flickr page.
Rebecca went back to work this week, but Tim still has four days off before the new semester starts. What does a librarian do on vacation? He:
We spent two short days at home:
We spent three hectic days in Indiana with Tim's family, where he lost his voice trying to shout over the din of eight kids and 12 adults:
Then we came home ready to relax from our travels and greet the new year. Rebecca promptly got a terrible cold/sore throat/flu that she shared with Tim two days later. (No picture available.) This sickness has incapacitated us for a week, and although we're mostly recovered, we still occasionally set each other off on coughing fits like competing bullfrogs. Oh, the phlegm we've seen! (No picture available.)
In the meantime, the weather got really cold for a few days (between 5 and 15 degrees), and the pond behind our apartment froze in a cool S-shaped pattern:
To see more pictures of our travels, see our Flickr page.
Rebecca went back to work this week, but Tim still has four days off before the new semester starts. What does a librarian do on vacation? He:
- Re-arranges all the books in the house. (This had to be done. When we moved last summer, we unpacked them all willy-nilly onto bookshelves throughout the house. Now all our books are integrated, categorized, organized, and in some cases, even alphabetized.)
- Prints out and organizes pictures from the last four months. Posts them to his Flickr page.
- Starts a new blog
- Cleans out the bill & mail credenza for the first time in eight months. ("Hey, here's the receipt for your birthday present last June. Can I throw that out now?")
- Watches movies in an attempt to make a dent in his Netflix list. (Currently 68 movies.)
- Plays a lot more tennis.
- Vacuums! (More on this later.)
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