Tuesday, December 16, 2008
Friday, November 28, 2008
Shame on Wal-Mart
Today Jason alerted me to the story about how an employee at a Wal-mart in NY was trampled to death by a crowd this black Friday morning. It is upsetting how it represents the ridiculous over-commercialization and greed that this holiday has come to represent. Christmas means a whole lot more than shopping and presents, and but I do enjoy giving thoughtful presents to my loved ones during the holiday, and I don't really want to be associated with the crazy violent consumers out there. The article about the violence said that they are reviewing tape at the store and that people will be prosecuted. Personally, I think Wal-Mart should be sued.
Every year you hear about someone getting hurt on Black Friday morning. This is the first time I ever heard of someone getting actually killed. And years ago, I used to think it was just that there are crazy and selfish people out there that are causing these problems, in little isolated cases like lightning striking. That was until a few years ago when I actually decided, for kicks, to go check out a Wal-mart at 5 am on Black Friday for myself, maybe get one of those computer deals for someone on my Christmas list. That experience convinced me that the problem is not so much the customers, but actually the corporate morons at Wal-Mart, and that they are super lucky that there are not more injuries and deaths from their poor management.
Like many stores, Wal-Mart advertises awesome deals on their pages and then tell you that there's only 6 in the store. So, this is not a sale ... this is a contest. A contest of endurance -- how long can you stand outside in the cold? Oh, and, after you stay up all night freezing your butt off, can you keep your cool when someone decides to shove in line ahead of you? And this contest preys on people with little money, people that are the most desperate to have things that they can't afford but that society tells them they ought to have, which might just give them the gumption to shove in line ahead of someone else, thinking that they deserve that tv more. And better yet, if that tv is a gift, I think people are even more likely to shove because they're not doing it for themselves, they're doing it for their kid or their wife or someone else whose eyes they want to light up on Christmas morning.
And I suppose it's fine for Wal-mart to sponsor a "contest" like this to get people into their store, but what they are doing encourages a mob. And they are simply not equipped to handle a mob at their stores. At the NY Wal-mart, the poor victim was an employee who actually got in front of a group of people who broke down the doors to Wal-Mart. The people were upset because they thought they'd seen employees let people in ahead of opening time that hadn't been in line. Poor guy, the employee was not trained to realize that getting in front of an angry crowd would be to put his life on the line. What he needed was tear gas. Or a whole line of people with big padded buttress things and face masks and perhaps clubs. Sure, Wal-Mart will tell you that they are not responsible for people's criminal actions of breaking into stores and act like they are the victims, losing one of their valuable employees ... but for goodness sake, they call their deals "Door-Busters". They are expecting people to be at their door the moment it opens and to run through it. They are expecting a mob. Why are they suprised when one shows up? Why are they not prepared? Wal-mart is criminally negligent.
If you've ever been in a crowd of people moving in one direction, you know that a mob has no brain. The people behind you are pushing the group, trying to elbow out the people behind them, but they have no idea what the people in front are seeing. You are shoulder to shoulder with people. You may have no idea what, or whom, you are stepping on. And if you do realize that you're perhaps stepping on someone -- don't you dare stop, because the person behind you has enough momentum to accidentally push you down, too. It's a powder keg. It's totally scary. When I went to Wal-mart that morning I was expecting us all to walk into Wal-mart one-by-one, perhaps a bit hurriedly, but not as a crushing mob. But there is no one controlling the crowd. They simply open the door. And because there's no crowd control, people cut in line, which aggravates everyone. Once inside, everyone makes a bee-line to electronics, some people running between the clothing racks, knocking things over, only to end up at another bottle-neck -- the entrance to the electronics section. Another mob-crush.
Best Buy, for example, has some "door busters" but half an hour before opening time they send out employees to give coupons to the first people in line for the items they are waiting for. So they "win the contest" without having to run through the door. I believe that since Wal-mart, even after all these injuries, still has not taken action to prevent them, that for them these "runs" on the stores are publicity stunts. And I totally believe that Wal-Mart might actually enjoy the publicity they get when someone is hurt or worse. What better way to advertise -- "Our prices are so low, people are maiming to get them!"
Wal-mart should be sued for inciting riots across the country every year. But instead we always blame the customers. I do think that people need to realize that flat-screen tv's are not worth staying up all night and shoving people around and to lighten up, get some holiday spirit. But Wal-mart needs to take responsibility here for the fact that they are the ones endangering people's lives in order to make a few dollars.
Every year you hear about someone getting hurt on Black Friday morning. This is the first time I ever heard of someone getting actually killed. And years ago, I used to think it was just that there are crazy and selfish people out there that are causing these problems, in little isolated cases like lightning striking. That was until a few years ago when I actually decided, for kicks, to go check out a Wal-mart at 5 am on Black Friday for myself, maybe get one of those computer deals for someone on my Christmas list. That experience convinced me that the problem is not so much the customers, but actually the corporate morons at Wal-Mart, and that they are super lucky that there are not more injuries and deaths from their poor management.
Like many stores, Wal-Mart advertises awesome deals on their pages and then tell you that there's only 6 in the store. So, this is not a sale ... this is a contest. A contest of endurance -- how long can you stand outside in the cold? Oh, and, after you stay up all night freezing your butt off, can you keep your cool when someone decides to shove in line ahead of you? And this contest preys on people with little money, people that are the most desperate to have things that they can't afford but that society tells them they ought to have, which might just give them the gumption to shove in line ahead of someone else, thinking that they deserve that tv more. And better yet, if that tv is a gift, I think people are even more likely to shove because they're not doing it for themselves, they're doing it for their kid or their wife or someone else whose eyes they want to light up on Christmas morning.
And I suppose it's fine for Wal-mart to sponsor a "contest" like this to get people into their store, but what they are doing encourages a mob. And they are simply not equipped to handle a mob at their stores. At the NY Wal-mart, the poor victim was an employee who actually got in front of a group of people who broke down the doors to Wal-Mart. The people were upset because they thought they'd seen employees let people in ahead of opening time that hadn't been in line. Poor guy, the employee was not trained to realize that getting in front of an angry crowd would be to put his life on the line. What he needed was tear gas. Or a whole line of people with big padded buttress things and face masks and perhaps clubs. Sure, Wal-Mart will tell you that they are not responsible for people's criminal actions of breaking into stores and act like they are the victims, losing one of their valuable employees ... but for goodness sake, they call their deals "Door-Busters". They are expecting people to be at their door the moment it opens and to run through it. They are expecting a mob. Why are they suprised when one shows up? Why are they not prepared? Wal-mart is criminally negligent.
If you've ever been in a crowd of people moving in one direction, you know that a mob has no brain. The people behind you are pushing the group, trying to elbow out the people behind them, but they have no idea what the people in front are seeing. You are shoulder to shoulder with people. You may have no idea what, or whom, you are stepping on. And if you do realize that you're perhaps stepping on someone -- don't you dare stop, because the person behind you has enough momentum to accidentally push you down, too. It's a powder keg. It's totally scary. When I went to Wal-mart that morning I was expecting us all to walk into Wal-mart one-by-one, perhaps a bit hurriedly, but not as a crushing mob. But there is no one controlling the crowd. They simply open the door. And because there's no crowd control, people cut in line, which aggravates everyone. Once inside, everyone makes a bee-line to electronics, some people running between the clothing racks, knocking things over, only to end up at another bottle-neck -- the entrance to the electronics section. Another mob-crush.
Best Buy, for example, has some "door busters" but half an hour before opening time they send out employees to give coupons to the first people in line for the items they are waiting for. So they "win the contest" without having to run through the door. I believe that since Wal-mart, even after all these injuries, still has not taken action to prevent them, that for them these "runs" on the stores are publicity stunts. And I totally believe that Wal-Mart might actually enjoy the publicity they get when someone is hurt or worse. What better way to advertise -- "Our prices are so low, people are maiming to get them!"
Wal-mart should be sued for inciting riots across the country every year. But instead we always blame the customers. I do think that people need to realize that flat-screen tv's are not worth staying up all night and shoving people around and to lighten up, get some holiday spirit. But Wal-mart needs to take responsibility here for the fact that they are the ones endangering people's lives in order to make a few dollars.
Saturday, July 19, 2008
Novel Progress
I just turned over 24,000 words. Slow and steady wins the race. I got the idea from the book "How to Write A Lot" that it might help to chart my progress in an excel workbook. I started the novel in October and started this log in March. And it was helping -- it was nice to log the number of words and watch my wordcount grow -- until I created this graphic. I would say that most scientists would glance at this graphic and say it's got no slope! Time to increase production.
Isn't it amazing what chaning the axis can do?
Re-Volt!
I only just now learned about the existence of my dream car so I have to talk about it. Also, I must formally announce that I no longer want a Toyota Prius hybrid. That stuff is OLD news. And hydrogen fuel cells? Bleh.
I am super excited about the HPEV technology - the Plug-In Hybrid. So now I've got my eye on the Chevy Volt, slated to come out in 2010. I think I can stretch my Altima until then, so long as GM doesn't pull any fast ones and push it off indefinitely, and that government incentives make it affordable. The HPEV plugs into a regular wall outlet and gives 40 miles for a charge, plenty for most commutes, and then has a back-up hybrid gas engine for any further than that. So all told you get over 100 miles per gallon! I mean, it's like science fiction! Except it's science non-fiction because it actually exists right now. I just learned about it from the kick-butt movie "Who Killed the Electric Car", which I totally recommend (warning, you will probably get extremely p.o.'d watching this movie).
So I have a prediction that this is the future -- that the "gas" we put in these things will be from homegrown cellulosic ethanol (not corn. Corn = bad ethanol source) And that we will thus release ourselves from this oil debacle, except that we'll still want plastics, but that's not nearly as much consumption. And the power that we get coming off the grid will become cleaner and cleaner -- solar, wind, solar and hopefully solar will be replacing the coal. Bye carbon emissions, bye global warming. Our nation will become prosperous again because all of our energy will come from internally, no more importing, no more problems with the dollar sinking. We'll use our wealth to spread the technology across the globe and restore all the good will that our previous administration destroyed.
I feel optimistic today.
I am super excited about the HPEV technology - the Plug-In Hybrid. So now I've got my eye on the Chevy Volt, slated to come out in 2010. I think I can stretch my Altima until then, so long as GM doesn't pull any fast ones and push it off indefinitely, and that government incentives make it affordable. The HPEV plugs into a regular wall outlet and gives 40 miles for a charge, plenty for most commutes, and then has a back-up hybrid gas engine for any further than that. So all told you get over 100 miles per gallon! I mean, it's like science fiction! Except it's science non-fiction because it actually exists right now. I just learned about it from the kick-butt movie "Who Killed the Electric Car", which I totally recommend (warning, you will probably get extremely p.o.'d watching this movie).
So I have a prediction that this is the future -- that the "gas" we put in these things will be from homegrown cellulosic ethanol (not corn. Corn = bad ethanol source) And that we will thus release ourselves from this oil debacle, except that we'll still want plastics, but that's not nearly as much consumption. And the power that we get coming off the grid will become cleaner and cleaner -- solar, wind, solar and hopefully solar will be replacing the coal. Bye carbon emissions, bye global warming. Our nation will become prosperous again because all of our energy will come from internally, no more importing, no more problems with the dollar sinking. We'll use our wealth to spread the technology across the globe and restore all the good will that our previous administration destroyed.
I feel optimistic today.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Fascination
Last night I saw something
To explain I must confess
When I was seven
I imagined with longing,
Stealing the vial of silver
Sparkles, and pouring out all --
Every glittering drop --
Onto black cardstock paper
Breathless
Rejoicing in shimmering riches.
Last night I saw,
But this time unexpected,
Turning the corner,
Headlights panned darkness
And dark trees, grasses
Were revealed as diamond-studded
Sparkling, waving
Winking, blinking:
Fireflies speaking
In glittering Morse code.
Breathless
I rejoiced in shimmering riches.
To explain I must confess
When I was seven
I imagined with longing,
Stealing the vial of silver
Sparkles, and pouring out all --
Every glittering drop --
Onto black cardstock paper
Breathless
Rejoicing in shimmering riches.
Last night I saw,
But this time unexpected,
Turning the corner,
Headlights panned darkness
And dark trees, grasses
Were revealed as diamond-studded
Sparkling, waving
Winking, blinking:
Fireflies speaking
In glittering Morse code.
Breathless
I rejoiced in shimmering riches.
Sunday, March 02, 2008
Irish Roots
As St. Patrick’s Day approaches, the malls and bars bloom shamrocks, and people plan where to get drunk to celebrate the man that Christianized Ireland, I think about my ancestry. According to my calculations, my blood is approximately 30% green. My father’s father was 100% Irish, his mother is some uncertain percentage, and both my mother’s parents were Polish. Actually, I am more Polish than Irish. But I have the Irish last name. And an Irish first and middle to match. However, I am a misbranded product of Ireland. I have never really felt all that connected to the Emerald Isle.
When I was a kid, being Irish meant that my ancestors had walked straight out of the pages of a fairy tale. It made my imagination run wild with the brownies. Ireland of my dreams was a place so lush and green it made your eyes hurt. The island was overrun by leprechauns obsessed with gold or sugary cereal, and a tall priest in a bishop’s hat and green robes roamed the land chasing snakes into the ocean with a curved staff. My ancestors had lived a charmed life. I was descended from magic.
I got older and the leprechauns disappeared into the hills. I learned about the Irish potato famine and strife with England, the various conquerors who had thought this green jewel an easy prize. And I learned about the mad racism that greeted those that fled to America, trading persecution and poverty for different flavors of the same. In reality I came from people who had struggled to make their way, keep their homes, their freedoms, and even their lives. But never having struggled for anything vital, this has always been a vague concept to me -- perhaps something akin to fairy tales and legend again. Being separated by so many generations from this heritage adds to the vagueness. Day to day I don’t think about my roots at all, except when someone might read my name for the first time and give me a wink … “Irish, eh?”
And then, of course, there’s St. Patrick’s Day, where every cliché related to Ireland is thrown in your face. At this time everyone reaches into their family tree and dusts off an ancestor or two so they can pin on buttons that say “Kiss me, I’m Irish.” It makes me wonder what the turning point was, when Americans went from putting up signs in the window that said “No Irish,” to filling those windows with cardboard shamrocks.
After I turned 21, celebrating being Irish meant drinking. A lot. And when people want to buy a lot of alcohol, enter Commercialism. After those folks sign on, expect the true meaning of any holiday to be seized, the core extracted, and the meaning sold back to you for a couple of bucks, a cheap version of the original. Strangely, they’ve done this to our nation’s pride day, the 4th of July, but people do still feel something akin to respect about this day, in spite of stuffing themselves with barbeque and wearing flag boxers.
It's all in good fun. I love parades and green beer as much as the next person. Well, except that I'm not a big fan of beer, so pass me the green punch instead. But the problem is that the celebration of St. Patty's Day has done to my concept of Irish heritage what McDonald's has done to food -- cheapened it, even made it easy and tasty to swallow, but there's really very little useful in it.
St. Patrick’s Day is here again, and this time I want to know what it means to be Irish. I’ve tried books, history, digging through my geneology. But what I really want is to write a letter to my ancestors and ask. Or maybe it would be enough to ask someone who lives in Ireland now. I would feel silly doing so, like I am one of the many Irish wannabes who wants to trade in their mutt ancestry for 100% pure green blood. Now that it’s “cool” to be Irish, the bandwagon is overflowing with drunken idiots in green plastic derbies.
It's enough to make anyone want to pull up their roots.
When I was a kid, being Irish meant that my ancestors had walked straight out of the pages of a fairy tale. It made my imagination run wild with the brownies. Ireland of my dreams was a place so lush and green it made your eyes hurt. The island was overrun by leprechauns obsessed with gold or sugary cereal, and a tall priest in a bishop’s hat and green robes roamed the land chasing snakes into the ocean with a curved staff. My ancestors had lived a charmed life. I was descended from magic.
I got older and the leprechauns disappeared into the hills. I learned about the Irish potato famine and strife with England, the various conquerors who had thought this green jewel an easy prize. And I learned about the mad racism that greeted those that fled to America, trading persecution and poverty for different flavors of the same. In reality I came from people who had struggled to make their way, keep their homes, their freedoms, and even their lives. But never having struggled for anything vital, this has always been a vague concept to me -- perhaps something akin to fairy tales and legend again. Being separated by so many generations from this heritage adds to the vagueness. Day to day I don’t think about my roots at all, except when someone might read my name for the first time and give me a wink … “Irish, eh?”
And then, of course, there’s St. Patrick’s Day, where every cliché related to Ireland is thrown in your face. At this time everyone reaches into their family tree and dusts off an ancestor or two so they can pin on buttons that say “Kiss me, I’m Irish.” It makes me wonder what the turning point was, when Americans went from putting up signs in the window that said “No Irish,” to filling those windows with cardboard shamrocks.
After I turned 21, celebrating being Irish meant drinking. A lot. And when people want to buy a lot of alcohol, enter Commercialism. After those folks sign on, expect the true meaning of any holiday to be seized, the core extracted, and the meaning sold back to you for a couple of bucks, a cheap version of the original. Strangely, they’ve done this to our nation’s pride day, the 4th of July, but people do still feel something akin to respect about this day, in spite of stuffing themselves with barbeque and wearing flag boxers.
It's all in good fun. I love parades and green beer as much as the next person. Well, except that I'm not a big fan of beer, so pass me the green punch instead. But the problem is that the celebration of St. Patty's Day has done to my concept of Irish heritage what McDonald's has done to food -- cheapened it, even made it easy and tasty to swallow, but there's really very little useful in it.
St. Patrick’s Day is here again, and this time I want to know what it means to be Irish. I’ve tried books, history, digging through my geneology. But what I really want is to write a letter to my ancestors and ask. Or maybe it would be enough to ask someone who lives in Ireland now. I would feel silly doing so, like I am one of the many Irish wannabes who wants to trade in their mutt ancestry for 100% pure green blood. Now that it’s “cool” to be Irish, the bandwagon is overflowing with drunken idiots in green plastic derbies.
It's enough to make anyone want to pull up their roots.
Monday, December 17, 2007
My Scientific Contribution
I now must crow like Peter Pan ... ISI Web of Science shows that my master's thesis publication in Soil Science Society of America has now been cited 5 times. Five times! Apparently my research matter to at least 5 people out there. Perhaps all 5 articles show that my research was wrong, haven't checked that yet, but hooray!
Friday, December 14, 2007
Observation
Today when I pulled into the parking lot at work, there was a gentleman sitting in his idling car. He was shaving.
This is not the first time I have observed this.
It makes me smile.
This is not the first time I have observed this.
It makes me smile.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Wanted: PhDs from Charm School to Teach the World
Jason, my lovely, ditched out on part of his Biology class so that we could spend our 11 month anniversary together. Being the ideal pupil, since the teacher was showing the movie Flock of Dodos that day, Jason ordered it through Netflicks and we watched it last weekend. What a great documentary! Jason and I talked for an hour afterward about it. It's written and directed by an evolutionary biologist with a sense of humor and genuine curiousity about how this controversy came about. He happens to be from Kansas, and so was particularly moved by the controversy in his home state about teaching Intelligent Design (in addition to evolution and other theories on the origin of man) in schools.
I will be giving a bit of the movie away here, but one of his points is that scientists are so appalled by these challeges to evolution and find them so laughable that their attitude is to ignore them. This benefits the intelligent design subscribers because the scientists are seen as snobs. Meanwhile the intelligent design folk can speak in a language that non-scientists can understand.
Controversy is an often-used tool to drive a wedge into scientifically proven phenomena. People love a controversy. "Which side are you on?" people ask each other, and take the bits and pieces of out-of-context fact and sometimes fiction they've gathered here and there to support their opinion. Who has time to actually sit down and synthesize all the evidence? I admit I am in the science arena, and there is absolutely no way any one person can see ALL of the data. You have to pick and choose. You have to know enough to weigh what is important against what is not. It's so much easier to come to an emotionally snuggly conclusion. Evolution is a big example. It's snuggly to believe that gaps in the evolutionary record, or situations of complexity that are difficult to explain (but are in fact explainable), indicate the presence of a divine power.
Global Climate Change is another. Isn't it much more nice and snuggly to believe there is no problem, that scientists are crying "Wolf" in a mad grab for funding dollars? It is true that there are some scientists out there that will say anything to grab those dollars from policymakers. I'm priviledged, so far, not to have met any of them, except for one example whose lecture I attended and who received the heckling of a lifetime from his disgusted scientific audience (incidentally, he was also employed by the Bush administration). There is, thankfully, an ethic underneath science as solid as the Hippocratic oath is for a doctor. Nothing is more disgusting to a scientist than to discover someone fudging a number or twisting a yarn out of data. Caution in interpreting data is taught from the very beginning. So is responsibility to true reporting.
But scientists definitely need to learn how to put up their fists in the public arena. Instead they decline to get into the ring, believing that their numbers and figures and journal articles can take the blows. Well, they don't. In fact, those ways make smart people feel ignorant, and are not going to get anyone on the side of science. People don't have the time to put down their busy lives and read journal articles that make their eyes swim with terminology only a handful of people in the world understand, and will revile scientists for talking over their heads!
Thank goodness for Al Gore, who figured this out long ago. Look how much he has accomplished so far, and he is not (A) valedictorian of charm school or (B) A scientist! Yet people believe him. Imagine what a charming scientist could do. Carl Sagan and Stephen Jay Gould, you left us too soon. We need a JFK or a MLK to further our second green revolution, and to quash the evolution debate.
Volunteers? Please send head-shots and CV's to: anyone who will listen.
I will be giving a bit of the movie away here, but one of his points is that scientists are so appalled by these challeges to evolution and find them so laughable that their attitude is to ignore them. This benefits the intelligent design subscribers because the scientists are seen as snobs. Meanwhile the intelligent design folk can speak in a language that non-scientists can understand.
Controversy is an often-used tool to drive a wedge into scientifically proven phenomena. People love a controversy. "Which side are you on?" people ask each other, and take the bits and pieces of out-of-context fact and sometimes fiction they've gathered here and there to support their opinion. Who has time to actually sit down and synthesize all the evidence? I admit I am in the science arena, and there is absolutely no way any one person can see ALL of the data. You have to pick and choose. You have to know enough to weigh what is important against what is not. It's so much easier to come to an emotionally snuggly conclusion. Evolution is a big example. It's snuggly to believe that gaps in the evolutionary record, or situations of complexity that are difficult to explain (but are in fact explainable), indicate the presence of a divine power.
Global Climate Change is another. Isn't it much more nice and snuggly to believe there is no problem, that scientists are crying "Wolf" in a mad grab for funding dollars? It is true that there are some scientists out there that will say anything to grab those dollars from policymakers. I'm priviledged, so far, not to have met any of them, except for one example whose lecture I attended and who received the heckling of a lifetime from his disgusted scientific audience (incidentally, he was also employed by the Bush administration). There is, thankfully, an ethic underneath science as solid as the Hippocratic oath is for a doctor. Nothing is more disgusting to a scientist than to discover someone fudging a number or twisting a yarn out of data. Caution in interpreting data is taught from the very beginning. So is responsibility to true reporting.
But scientists definitely need to learn how to put up their fists in the public arena. Instead they decline to get into the ring, believing that their numbers and figures and journal articles can take the blows. Well, they don't. In fact, those ways make smart people feel ignorant, and are not going to get anyone on the side of science. People don't have the time to put down their busy lives and read journal articles that make their eyes swim with terminology only a handful of people in the world understand, and will revile scientists for talking over their heads!
Thank goodness for Al Gore, who figured this out long ago. Look how much he has accomplished so far, and he is not (A) valedictorian of charm school or (B) A scientist! Yet people believe him. Imagine what a charming scientist could do. Carl Sagan and Stephen Jay Gould, you left us too soon. We need a JFK or a MLK to further our second green revolution, and to quash the evolution debate.
Volunteers? Please send head-shots and CV's to: anyone who will listen.
Wednesday, December 05, 2007
I Heart Snow
Today is St. Nick's Day, my 11 month anniversary with my honey, and the first honest-to-goodness snowy day of this winter. I love the way it brightens up the windows, reflecting sunlight. Last night I tried to get my cat to come out on my balcony to taste some snowflakes, but you could tell he was conflicted from the way he hung back and scrunched up his nose. Curiousity .... but alas ... disdain won out. Maybe I'll carry him out tonight.
Saturday, December 01, 2007
Attack of the Killer Buffet
Today a buffet table almost killed me. Oh yes, you may think that your furniture is indifferent to your existence, but this buffet of mine had murder in its heart. All I wanted was a surface to put my microwave on and free up counter space, and some nice pantry space below. All it wanted was for me to die.
I speak of a Leksvik Ikea buffet. Spawn of Satan. I recommend crossing yourself after looking at the picture, if you dare.
At first I thought this buffet simply wanted to hassle me. Last night I brought it home, opened the box, and discovered that two parts had been damaged during shipment. They had small gouges and cracks in their finish. Since I'd spent $179 plus tax on the thing, and shopped around for other flatpack self-assemble furniture I'd decided was poorer quality, I felt entitled to have a piece of furniture that at least started out in good condition. I found out that IKEA didn't agree.
I called the store this morning 15 minutes after they opened and spent 15 minutes on hold. Finally a kind voice told me I could bring in the two damaged pieces for a replacement. Great. I drove to Bolingbrook and was helped almost immediately. After poking around a while and not finding any spare parts in their IKEA junkyard room, a nice lady ordered up a brand spanking new buffet from the warehouse. When it came we opened it together. Damaged. Again.
The funny part about that is the lady helping me seemed to think I should be fine with that. Uh, no. The feet were damaged. I was sure that my beautiful buffet would be a rocker. So she acquiesed to ordering up yet another brand new buffet. But after that, sorry, extremely picky and unreasonable lady. So we waited. Another flat-packed buffet arrived and we pulled out the pieces. You guessed it. Again. And worse. This one had a strip of wood peeling off.
I had to pick the best of the brutes.** I chose the rocker set, because upon standing them up I discovered that the feet were only damaged on the inside part, so there were just enough level millimeters on the outside to keep her steady. The others with their rough edges and pieces of veneer falling off would be bait for Rascal to start chewing to heck. As you can see, I had nothing but the best of intentions for my new buffet.
While I was engaged in this tragic comedy, the not-yet-built buffet was no doubt chanting satanic spells and doing black magic dances around my apartment. Because when I finally got out of the store it had started to snow.
I had heard about the wintry mix storm they were predicting. But it wasn't supposed to happen until afternoon! I checked my watch. Oh. It was afternoon. I climbed into my car and made for 355. They would of course clear and salt the highways first, making it the safest way to attempt to get home.
Everything seemed ok, snow hadn't accumulated much, it was just blowing about. But as I drove north it gradually worsened. Cars in front of me were braking, probably to make room for people getting on the highway. I slowed down. This was when the buffet's chanting was no doubt coming to a head.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see the SUV next to me moving erratically. I realize that he has lost control and is skidding and swerving. Suddenly I am skidding too! I'm not sure what brought it on, but I think it was that I was pumping my brakes for the people in front of me and then suddenly got on the accelerator trying to get away from the SUV, and we'd both probably hit the same slick. I pumped my brakes and all of a sudden my car skidded hard to the right and I was practically thrown onto the shoulder. While I have never been able to figure out what to do in a skid situation (what in the world does "steer into a skid" mean anyway?), instinct took over. I immediately let up on the brake and recovered control. I was all straightened out. Behind me I saw that the SUV had skidded into my lane. He was still spinning too. He spun completely around to face oncoming traffic. Thank God no one was there. He regained control and ended up on the inside shoulder, facing the wrong way.
In all seriousness, that moment where I was thrown to the side, I can't help shake the feeling that it was a divine push. If I had stayed in my lane, my car would've been eaten by that SUV.
The buffet sent from Hell had lost. Back in Wheaton, the screws and cam locks fell to the floor, exhausted of their incantation. I went a max of 35 mph all the way home. I got to see another car skid halfway up the embankment. No one was harmed. It all happened in the same stretch. I'd never seen anything like it before. Cars skidding about on the other side of the highway, too. It was like driving in an ice skating rink. You never knew whose butt was going to hit the ground, and if you were unlucky it might happen right in front of you.
When I got home, I faced that buffet. I conquered it. As one last slap, at the very end as I tried to assemble the drawer, I discovered that they had packed two left-side pieces for the drawer. Not wanting to face the woman who thought I was unreasonable, or risk certain death on the road or defeat from the heap of wood before me, I drilled some new holes in that drawer piece and made it work anyway.
Let me just say that my new buffet looks awesome. But I can't help but think it also looks a bit ... defeated?
I speak of a Leksvik Ikea buffet. Spawn of Satan. I recommend crossing yourself after looking at the picture, if you dare.
At first I thought this buffet simply wanted to hassle me. Last night I brought it home, opened the box, and discovered that two parts had been damaged during shipment. They had small gouges and cracks in their finish. Since I'd spent $179 plus tax on the thing, and shopped around for other flatpack self-assemble furniture I'd decided was poorer quality, I felt entitled to have a piece of furniture that at least started out in good condition. I found out that IKEA didn't agree.
I called the store this morning 15 minutes after they opened and spent 15 minutes on hold. Finally a kind voice told me I could bring in the two damaged pieces for a replacement. Great. I drove to Bolingbrook and was helped almost immediately. After poking around a while and not finding any spare parts in their IKEA junkyard room, a nice lady ordered up a brand spanking new buffet from the warehouse. When it came we opened it together. Damaged. Again.
The funny part about that is the lady helping me seemed to think I should be fine with that. Uh, no. The feet were damaged. I was sure that my beautiful buffet would be a rocker. So she acquiesed to ordering up yet another brand new buffet. But after that, sorry, extremely picky and unreasonable lady. So we waited. Another flat-packed buffet arrived and we pulled out the pieces. You guessed it. Again. And worse. This one had a strip of wood peeling off.
I had to pick the best of the brutes.** I chose the rocker set, because upon standing them up I discovered that the feet were only damaged on the inside part, so there were just enough level millimeters on the outside to keep her steady. The others with their rough edges and pieces of veneer falling off would be bait for Rascal to start chewing to heck. As you can see, I had nothing but the best of intentions for my new buffet.
While I was engaged in this tragic comedy, the not-yet-built buffet was no doubt chanting satanic spells and doing black magic dances around my apartment. Because when I finally got out of the store it had started to snow.
I had heard about the wintry mix storm they were predicting. But it wasn't supposed to happen until afternoon! I checked my watch. Oh. It was afternoon. I climbed into my car and made for 355. They would of course clear and salt the highways first, making it the safest way to attempt to get home.
Everything seemed ok, snow hadn't accumulated much, it was just blowing about. But as I drove north it gradually worsened. Cars in front of me were braking, probably to make room for people getting on the highway. I slowed down. This was when the buffet's chanting was no doubt coming to a head.
Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I see the SUV next to me moving erratically. I realize that he has lost control and is skidding and swerving. Suddenly I am skidding too! I'm not sure what brought it on, but I think it was that I was pumping my brakes for the people in front of me and then suddenly got on the accelerator trying to get away from the SUV, and we'd both probably hit the same slick. I pumped my brakes and all of a sudden my car skidded hard to the right and I was practically thrown onto the shoulder. While I have never been able to figure out what to do in a skid situation (what in the world does "steer into a skid" mean anyway?), instinct took over. I immediately let up on the brake and recovered control. I was all straightened out. Behind me I saw that the SUV had skidded into my lane. He was still spinning too. He spun completely around to face oncoming traffic. Thank God no one was there. He regained control and ended up on the inside shoulder, facing the wrong way.
In all seriousness, that moment where I was thrown to the side, I can't help shake the feeling that it was a divine push. If I had stayed in my lane, my car would've been eaten by that SUV.
The buffet sent from Hell had lost. Back in Wheaton, the screws and cam locks fell to the floor, exhausted of their incantation. I went a max of 35 mph all the way home. I got to see another car skid halfway up the embankment. No one was harmed. It all happened in the same stretch. I'd never seen anything like it before. Cars skidding about on the other side of the highway, too. It was like driving in an ice skating rink. You never knew whose butt was going to hit the ground, and if you were unlucky it might happen right in front of you.
When I got home, I faced that buffet. I conquered it. As one last slap, at the very end as I tried to assemble the drawer, I discovered that they had packed two left-side pieces for the drawer. Not wanting to face the woman who thought I was unreasonable, or risk certain death on the road or defeat from the heap of wood before me, I drilled some new holes in that drawer piece and made it work anyway.
Let me just say that my new buffet looks awesome. But I can't help but think it also looks a bit ... defeated?
**I did ask for a partial refund for this not-perfect piece, and I was refused because it was "obviously a manufacturer's defect" and not IKEA's fault. I can see how this would be logical, since it is the manufacturer's fault that they sell their furniture through IKEA. They must know that IKEA likes to drop it and then let their customers discover the problem once they get it home and then tell them that those gouges and dents are part of the piece's "charm". Silly manufacturer. Interesting that we found 3 wrecked buffets, and yet I'm certain they aren't going to take the others off the shelf. Leave them for the next sucker.
Thursday, November 29, 2007
Cat House Rules
My 16 pound silver and black American shorthair cat pretty much believes that he controls my life.
There is no sleeping in. As soon at the alarm goes off, he climbs up on my chest and sticks his nose in my face, his whiskers tickling me. "Time to eat! Time to eat!" he is saying. I slide out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, Rascal milling in front of my every step, oblivious to the fact that he is actually slowing down my motions to dispense his kibble.
He makes sure I'm not too messy. I can't leave food out on the counter because he will get into it. Small plastic objects left on tables such as pens or sunglasses are knocked onto the floor and chewed to bits. Trash must be taken out regularly otherwise if it gets a little smelly he'll knock it over and drag it around the kitchen like a racoon.
He is a constant chaperone. If Jason and I try to snuggle together reading books or watching movies, Rascal likes to climb up between us and plop down in the middle, gravity slowly pushing him down between us like a wedge. When we finish eating Rascal likes to sniff the plates to make sure what we ate was interesting.
When I am typing on my laptop, he likes to curl up in my lap. Or sit on the keyboard. It depends on his mood, really, and how much he wants to hassle me. In my lap he often gets tired of my arms dancing over his head as I type, and angry that my hands are too busy to pet him. So he reaches out and bites down on them. I just good-naturedly ignore it and swat him away. But the other day after he released my arm he hissed at me. Hissed. It was the first time ever that I'd heard him do it. My little kitten is becoming a rebellious teenager.
Or perhaps he is still punishing me. Recently I tried to keep him outside my bedroom for the night. I have been suffering from miserable morning sniffles for months now. As the frost sets in and ragweed dies away, the sniffles continue. I'm beginning to suspect my best furry friend. It's tough because he's slept with me for 3 years now. But I had to try.
Scratch scrach. Meow! Meow! MEOW! Scratch scratch. Meowwww. Plaintive wailing. All night. This must be why people in cartoons throw shoes and flowerpots at cats singing on their fences. Finally I gave up, exhausted, and let him in. He immediately jumped up onto the bed, curled up at my feet and fell sound asleep. He was even more tired than I was.
I've known for a long time that it is Rascal, and not I, that make up the rules in my house. Once, on a romp across my keyboard, he sent me a clear message. His back claws slipped under one of my keys and popped it off. I've never been able to get it back on straight. Now that key sits in a drawer, and there is a gaping hole in my keyboard like a face missing a tooth.
Which key do you suppose Rascal dispatched?
"Control," of course.
There is no sleeping in. As soon at the alarm goes off, he climbs up on my chest and sticks his nose in my face, his whiskers tickling me. "Time to eat! Time to eat!" he is saying. I slide out of bed and stumble to the kitchen, Rascal milling in front of my every step, oblivious to the fact that he is actually slowing down my motions to dispense his kibble.
He makes sure I'm not too messy. I can't leave food out on the counter because he will get into it. Small plastic objects left on tables such as pens or sunglasses are knocked onto the floor and chewed to bits. Trash must be taken out regularly otherwise if it gets a little smelly he'll knock it over and drag it around the kitchen like a racoon.
He is a constant chaperone. If Jason and I try to snuggle together reading books or watching movies, Rascal likes to climb up between us and plop down in the middle, gravity slowly pushing him down between us like a wedge. When we finish eating Rascal likes to sniff the plates to make sure what we ate was interesting.
When I am typing on my laptop, he likes to curl up in my lap. Or sit on the keyboard. It depends on his mood, really, and how much he wants to hassle me. In my lap he often gets tired of my arms dancing over his head as I type, and angry that my hands are too busy to pet him. So he reaches out and bites down on them. I just good-naturedly ignore it and swat him away. But the other day after he released my arm he hissed at me. Hissed. It was the first time ever that I'd heard him do it. My little kitten is becoming a rebellious teenager.
Or perhaps he is still punishing me. Recently I tried to keep him outside my bedroom for the night. I have been suffering from miserable morning sniffles for months now. As the frost sets in and ragweed dies away, the sniffles continue. I'm beginning to suspect my best furry friend. It's tough because he's slept with me for 3 years now. But I had to try.
Scratch scrach. Meow! Meow! MEOW! Scratch scratch. Meowwww. Plaintive wailing. All night. This must be why people in cartoons throw shoes and flowerpots at cats singing on their fences. Finally I gave up, exhausted, and let him in. He immediately jumped up onto the bed, curled up at my feet and fell sound asleep. He was even more tired than I was.
I've known for a long time that it is Rascal, and not I, that make up the rules in my house. Once, on a romp across my keyboard, he sent me a clear message. His back claws slipped under one of my keys and popped it off. I've never been able to get it back on straight. Now that key sits in a drawer, and there is a gaping hole in my keyboard like a face missing a tooth.
Which key do you suppose Rascal dispatched?
"Control," of course.
Monday, November 26, 2007
Novel Countdown
I think I may occasionally report on here my novel's progress. I am currently up to 44 pages, double spaced.
Thursday, October 04, 2007
Writing Class
The dead birds on the walls are probably the first things that will strike you as you walk into my novel-writing class. Their glass eyes gaze down at you, their wings and necks are frozen at odd angles. They are ducks, hawks, woodpeckers. Some are stuck to pieces of wood. Some are on the shelf against the wall.
It's an adult continuing education class, and we get whatever random classroom is available. So we ignore the birds except for the occasional pun that leaks into our discussions. Dean, the instructor, occaisionally gets freaked out by them when he turns his head from the blackboard and realizes that one is staring at him.
Last night we broke down plot and discussed how you develop the arc of a story. You start with a protagonist who has an object of desire, and motivations behind him that propell him to that desire. But alas, there are conflicts! Inner conflicts (emotions, hang-ups), personal conflicts (people in the protagonist's life), and environmental ones (forces of nature).
I am a protagonist! The object of my desire is to write a novel. My motivations are many -- my love of writing, my wanting to share a story and my perspective, the sense of accomplishment, the possibility of success. My conflicts are many -- inner: doubt, maybe I'm not good enough, maybe it'll be terrible, maybe I'll get bored with it after 30 pages, maybe I'll never get to 30 pages because I'll be trying to make the first 20 perfect. personal -- the time demands of my friends, family, and boyfriend (not malicious, of course!) environmental -- beautiful fall weather beckoning me outside, the time required by my job, chores, moving at the end of this month, even the writing class itself! Will this protagonist be able to rise above these conflicts? Or will she fall short, but learn something about herself in the process? ... stay tuned!
It's an adult continuing education class, and we get whatever random classroom is available. So we ignore the birds except for the occasional pun that leaks into our discussions. Dean, the instructor, occaisionally gets freaked out by them when he turns his head from the blackboard and realizes that one is staring at him.
Last night we broke down plot and discussed how you develop the arc of a story. You start with a protagonist who has an object of desire, and motivations behind him that propell him to that desire. But alas, there are conflicts! Inner conflicts (emotions, hang-ups), personal conflicts (people in the protagonist's life), and environmental ones (forces of nature).
I am a protagonist! The object of my desire is to write a novel. My motivations are many -- my love of writing, my wanting to share a story and my perspective, the sense of accomplishment, the possibility of success. My conflicts are many -- inner: doubt, maybe I'm not good enough, maybe it'll be terrible, maybe I'll get bored with it after 30 pages, maybe I'll never get to 30 pages because I'll be trying to make the first 20 perfect. personal -- the time demands of my friends, family, and boyfriend (not malicious, of course!) environmental -- beautiful fall weather beckoning me outside, the time required by my job, chores, moving at the end of this month, even the writing class itself! Will this protagonist be able to rise above these conflicts? Or will she fall short, but learn something about herself in the process? ... stay tuned!
Sunday, September 09, 2007
Astronomologic ...
I was thinking about the word "Universe". "Uni" must mean "one", like unicycle, or unity. And then "verse" makes me think of a song or poem. So, being part of this universe is like we're all a part of this one complex and beautiful song, and everything that is working within it has rhythm and purpose in one vast sonorous symphony.
Note: I was not drunk when I wrote this. But I was a bit tired.
Note: I was not drunk when I wrote this. But I was a bit tired.
Tuesday, September 04, 2007
Dragon Fly
Today a brilliant green dragonfly with a wingspan larger than my hand flew into our lab. We were harvesting pots of switchgrass and the doors were wide open since one person was running in and out with the plants she was rinsing the soil from. He came in and hovered a bit around our pots of switchgrass, no doubt wondering why things seemed so familiar and prairie-like but also so strange and lab-like. Then he came around the chest freezer and hovered on the other side of this cage-like partition, right at my knees, just so I could have a really nice look at him, before he ascended out of sight.
I am pretty sure Jason sent him, on his way out of town to Michigan for 9 days for work. Thank you, love!
I am pretty sure Jason sent him, on his way out of town to Michigan for 9 days for work. Thank you, love!
Friday, July 20, 2007
The Party that Shall Not Be Named
Had to go check out the Party that Shall Not Be Named in Naperville tonight to see all the Harry Potter revelers. As you know, tonight is the night!! Check out the boxes of books at the Barnes and Noble all labeled "DO NOT OPEN UNTIL JULY 21!" Naperville was transformed into a more magical world. I saw Dumbledore, Hagrid, Ron, Hermione, Harry, 
Dobby, Rita Skeeter, Professor Magonigal, many quidditch players, living portraits ... here's one of Ron and Hermione ... 
and Potter Potties, gotta lov
e it ...
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Storm
Yesterday I drove directly into the red part on the radar map, just trying to get home to my no-doubt terrified cat. The sky was haunting. flashes every other second illuminated a claustrophobically low ceiling of grey clouds. I had the impression that God was soldering together heaven and hell, sparks flying everywhere.
On the highway I met the rain. It rattled my car until I was imagining it being pounded apart around me, paint striped off, belts shaking off their rotors, bolts dribbling behind me. I actually felt like I was swimming. Like my car was gliding instead of driving, wake churned up behind me, and I squinted into the windshield as if trying to blink away the water flooding the glass. There were seconds when I saw nothing but spiraling rivulets of water. Seconds where the scene before me was lit up as bright as noon by another flash of lightening. The ramp I took from one highway to another reminded me of a waterslide from a few years ago.
I took refuge for a little while under an overpass. I was just tired of driving. I threw on the hazard flashers and let trucks and cars fearlessly stream by me, dousing me with wake and mist. While just beyond the bridge I hid under rain pummeled the asphault, it boiled a pot just after you add the pasta. I had passed some other cars doing the same. Finally I got the guts to merge back on the highway, but only for a little while. I quickly got off and took side-streets home.
I wanted to write a poem about this. But instead it took too many words. Prose was streaming out of me. And the chaos of the storm wouldn't line itself up neatly into rows of verse. So this is my poem.
On the highway I met the rain. It rattled my car until I was imagining it being pounded apart around me, paint striped off, belts shaking off their rotors, bolts dribbling behind me. I actually felt like I was swimming. Like my car was gliding instead of driving, wake churned up behind me, and I squinted into the windshield as if trying to blink away the water flooding the glass. There were seconds when I saw nothing but spiraling rivulets of water. Seconds where the scene before me was lit up as bright as noon by another flash of lightening. The ramp I took from one highway to another reminded me of a waterslide from a few years ago.
I took refuge for a little while under an overpass. I was just tired of driving. I threw on the hazard flashers and let trucks and cars fearlessly stream by me, dousing me with wake and mist. While just beyond the bridge I hid under rain pummeled the asphault, it boiled a pot just after you add the pasta. I had passed some other cars doing the same. Finally I got the guts to merge back on the highway, but only for a little while. I quickly got off and took side-streets home.
I wanted to write a poem about this. But instead it took too many words. Prose was streaming out of me. And the chaos of the storm wouldn't line itself up neatly into rows of verse. So this is my poem.
Wednesday, April 18, 2007
Yucky
I've never felt sympathy for aliens before. But here I am, lying in my bed, sniffling, mouth breathing because my nose is clogged, my face sore from sneezing and being swatted at with tissues, feeling that if jason, the sweetest man on earth, saw me like this, he might reconsider his epithet "my pretty", and I feel sorry for those aliens. You know -- the ones in that movie that were slaughtering all humanity on earth, zapping them into dust with lasers or grinding them up and using their blood for fertilizer, from that awful remade movie with Tom "Can I Be Any Weirder" Cruise, and the little girl with the very memorable shriek. We had a common enemy, me and those unbelievably nasty aliens -- the common cold.
Rascal is looking at me as though asking what I've done with the girl that normally feeds him. She's here, curled up into fetal position inside this body possessed by cold bugs. When I have a cold, I feel insulated from the world. As though my head is burried under large heavy pillows. Sounds are dulled. My brain is fuzzy, as though operating on low oxygen. I'm more thoughtful, more introspective, though the thoughts come more slowly and are punctuated by a refrain of "ughs" and "icks".
Who likes being sick? There have been many days that I've foolishly wished I was sick, to have an excuse to stay home and clean house or lie around with Rascal all day. But the actuality of a sick day is more frustrating than relaxing. You stand up to do some chore or other, and you get tired much too quickly, realize you're making yourself dizzy or your throat feels worse, and soon you're back in bed, cursing the bugs again. Feeling wrathful like a lazer-wielding alien.
Rascal is looking at me as though asking what I've done with the girl that normally feeds him. She's here, curled up into fetal position inside this body possessed by cold bugs. When I have a cold, I feel insulated from the world. As though my head is burried under large heavy pillows. Sounds are dulled. My brain is fuzzy, as though operating on low oxygen. I'm more thoughtful, more introspective, though the thoughts come more slowly and are punctuated by a refrain of "ughs" and "icks".
Who likes being sick? There have been many days that I've foolishly wished I was sick, to have an excuse to stay home and clean house or lie around with Rascal all day. But the actuality of a sick day is more frustrating than relaxing. You stand up to do some chore or other, and you get tired much too quickly, realize you're making yourself dizzy or your throat feels worse, and soon you're back in bed, cursing the bugs again. Feeling wrathful like a lazer-wielding alien.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)