Last weekend I went with family and boyfriend to the South Side Irish Parade. I had never witnessed this spectacle before, so I thought I'd report back my findings:
Green Dogs: 2
Kids sleeping in wagons: 4
Men in Superman Costumes: 1
St. Patricks: 1
Irish Dance Schools: 4+
Drunk People: 1000s
Non-Irish People: 1000s
Irish Sweaters: 108
Candy caught by myself or sister: 0
Hugs given to Tony the Tiger by sister: 1
Amount of money owed to sister for aforementioned hug: $5
Bagpipe bands: lots
Men in Kilts: lots
Women in Kilts: some
Trekkies in parade: 1
Giant wrenches held by pipefitters union members: 2
Number of different potato dishes in Irish lunch buffet: 4
Giant walking glasses of Guiness: 1
Migrating Sandhill cranes spotted: 100s
Number of people crossing street in middle of parade when technically not allowed to: 5
Number of people not wearing green: 4
Green beers spotted: 5
Buckets of beer spotted: 10
Boys I kissed: 1
Boys I held hands with: 1
German boys I was in love with: 1
Irish boys I was in love with: 0
Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
Germination Instructions
(warning -- sappy alert)
Jack, my hiking buddy, has been sending me emails asking for my "expert" advice. It seems that he has a little horticultural problem. The seeds he special-ordered, for an exotic tropical African plant that he'd very much like to grow for its delicious berries, will not take. These berries are special, Jack tells me, because if you put one under your tongue, everything sour will taste sweet. Pure lemon juice transforms into sugar water to your senses. The instuctions ask for acidic soil, so he's practically nuked his soil with sulfur. And he's tried to counteract the buffering in the soil by diluting it with sand. He's also bought a pH meter from Home Depot that reads "7" no matter whether you put the sensor in bicarbonate or carbonic acid. But the seeds just sit in their pots with their non-existant arms folded and shaking their non-existant little seed heads, "uh-uh, no way". Some have even germinated with much promise, only to die back immediately, "psyche!".
For a while I was having a little bit of a love problem. I put my heart out there more than a few times. So many bad dates. So many good dates that turned out to be with bad boys. So many, in fact, that as a scientist and an analytical thinker I started to think that since I was the common denominator on all these dates, that perhaps I was the problem. I was too picky, or too sensitive, or too nice, or too ... something that I didn't know, and would never be able to fix. A couple times love even sprouted, only to die back. Nothing stings quite like that. To think you finally have it all figured out, and the rug pulled out from under you. Meanwhile my friends around me seemed to find love so effortlessly.
For Jack, I've been trying to come up with the secret to his seeds. While this is definitely not my area of expertise, I did take a plant propagation class in school, where I learned that some seeds are tougher than others. Some can be dropped haphazardly onto any soil, any conditions, and they will just grow like mad. Some require a trick to germinate. For example, some seeds need to be soaked in acid to mimic what it is like to pass through the gut of an animal that happened to munch on the fruit they hid in. It's a trick the plant evolved to have - so that they would not germinate in the wild until an animal had the chance to carry them a ways from the mother plant, and euphamistically, to ensure that there would be nutrients deposited all around the baby seed. Horiculturalists will sometimes "scarify" these seeds with hard seed coats to get them to germinate. They will file tiny scratches into the seed's outer shell to give the tiny embryonic plant inside a chance to break through.
Fire is another such trick. Pictures of Yellowstone following the great forest fires in the 80s famously depict the masses of purple fireweed that sprang forth out of the scorched earth between the blackened and barren tree stalks, having lain dormant in the soil for ages waiting for the signal of intense heat to inform them that the previously closed forest was now allowing light to shine in. There are also some pine cones that will only open to release their seeds after they've been subjected to fire.
Cold can be yet another trick for germination. Seeds may require "stratification", a period of cold and dampness, basically a "winter". Purple liatris needs this for one, a prairie flower. The prairie is a clockwork of plants that bloom at just the perfect time during the season. Too soon and they may be burned by frost, too late and they may be shaded out by taller prairie grasses. Some wait until very late when the grasses dry out and fall back before making their late appearance. All must be timed perfectly with when their pollinators will be able to find them, bees, moths, butterflies, even wind.
It would appear that my own heart required some tricks for proper germination. It needed to be broken a few times. To be devoured by loves that ended up not working out so well. To have little holes filed into it, little hurts from when I felt crushed by others, little emptinesses from times in my life I will miss. My heart needed the fire of someone passionate to bring it to life. It also required a "winter", a barren and loveless time where I felt spring would never come, to truely appreciate it when it did. And it needed for the timing to be just right.
I still haven't figured out the secret to Jack's seeds. But I believe I may have found the secret to my own germination problem, since I already feel the tiny leaves in my heart unfolding ... jason.
Jack, my hiking buddy, has been sending me emails asking for my "expert" advice. It seems that he has a little horticultural problem. The seeds he special-ordered, for an exotic tropical African plant that he'd very much like to grow for its delicious berries, will not take. These berries are special, Jack tells me, because if you put one under your tongue, everything sour will taste sweet. Pure lemon juice transforms into sugar water to your senses. The instuctions ask for acidic soil, so he's practically nuked his soil with sulfur. And he's tried to counteract the buffering in the soil by diluting it with sand. He's also bought a pH meter from Home Depot that reads "7" no matter whether you put the sensor in bicarbonate or carbonic acid. But the seeds just sit in their pots with their non-existant arms folded and shaking their non-existant little seed heads, "uh-uh, no way". Some have even germinated with much promise, only to die back immediately, "psyche!".
For a while I was having a little bit of a love problem. I put my heart out there more than a few times. So many bad dates. So many good dates that turned out to be with bad boys. So many, in fact, that as a scientist and an analytical thinker I started to think that since I was the common denominator on all these dates, that perhaps I was the problem. I was too picky, or too sensitive, or too nice, or too ... something that I didn't know, and would never be able to fix. A couple times love even sprouted, only to die back. Nothing stings quite like that. To think you finally have it all figured out, and the rug pulled out from under you. Meanwhile my friends around me seemed to find love so effortlessly.
For Jack, I've been trying to come up with the secret to his seeds. While this is definitely not my area of expertise, I did take a plant propagation class in school, where I learned that some seeds are tougher than others. Some can be dropped haphazardly onto any soil, any conditions, and they will just grow like mad. Some require a trick to germinate. For example, some seeds need to be soaked in acid to mimic what it is like to pass through the gut of an animal that happened to munch on the fruit they hid in. It's a trick the plant evolved to have - so that they would not germinate in the wild until an animal had the chance to carry them a ways from the mother plant, and euphamistically, to ensure that there would be nutrients deposited all around the baby seed. Horiculturalists will sometimes "scarify" these seeds with hard seed coats to get them to germinate. They will file tiny scratches into the seed's outer shell to give the tiny embryonic plant inside a chance to break through.
Fire is another such trick. Pictures of Yellowstone following the great forest fires in the 80s famously depict the masses of purple fireweed that sprang forth out of the scorched earth between the blackened and barren tree stalks, having lain dormant in the soil for ages waiting for the signal of intense heat to inform them that the previously closed forest was now allowing light to shine in. There are also some pine cones that will only open to release their seeds after they've been subjected to fire.
Cold can be yet another trick for germination. Seeds may require "stratification", a period of cold and dampness, basically a "winter". Purple liatris needs this for one, a prairie flower. The prairie is a clockwork of plants that bloom at just the perfect time during the season. Too soon and they may be burned by frost, too late and they may be shaded out by taller prairie grasses. Some wait until very late when the grasses dry out and fall back before making their late appearance. All must be timed perfectly with when their pollinators will be able to find them, bees, moths, butterflies, even wind.
It would appear that my own heart required some tricks for proper germination. It needed to be broken a few times. To be devoured by loves that ended up not working out so well. To have little holes filed into it, little hurts from when I felt crushed by others, little emptinesses from times in my life I will miss. My heart needed the fire of someone passionate to bring it to life. It also required a "winter", a barren and loveless time where I felt spring would never come, to truely appreciate it when it did. And it needed for the timing to be just right.
I still haven't figured out the secret to Jack's seeds. But I believe I may have found the secret to my own germination problem, since I already feel the tiny leaves in my heart unfolding ... jason.
Thursday, February 15, 2007
Monday, February 12, 2007
How We Met
One of the first things someone will ask when I introduce Jason, is "How did you meet?" It's a very simple question, really, and this person is expecting the simple and true answer that I will give them: "Through friends."
But it always gives me a moment of pause, a moment of my life flashing before my eyes, and the parts of his that I've learned of so far, and I want to start at the beginning, the very beginning: when he was born, and when a few years later, I was born, and all the circumstances ... where he lived, where I lived, that we did not live near enough to each other to meet at the wrong time.
His grandfather introducing him, as a boy, to a great love of nature, a great blue heron just around the bend of their path, his head turned to their footsteps, wings quivering in readiness to leap into the air, and into a boy's heart. My dad taking the little green paperback dichotomous key around the backyard so that we could key out the apple tree, the ash, I still remember standing under the ash tree with the leaves in my hand, and it was a new and exciting game to know that this was not just any tree.
We both loved dinosaurs, and for some reason, the stegosaurus. Perhaps we were both pacifists from early on, going for the vegetarian one. When he was catching dragonflies, I was catching fireflies, and I left mine on the picnic table overnight in a jar, and coming back the next morning to grave disappointment, while he raised his more mercifully in an acquarium.
And then there were the hardships and heartbreaks we endured, each with its lonely pain, where knowing that the other person just existed might have made things tolerable. But without that knowlege, with no crutch to stand on, we learned so much more, and became who we are. We learned we are fragile, but we endure. There were our almost-loves, our almost-forevers, and when they ended, we had to trust that was for a reason, one that we wouldn't know for a while.
I don't know, yet, what inspired Jason to first love and write poetry. But I didn't like poetry at all until my senior year of high school, when I had an influential teacher named Mr. Brown who introduced me to the modern poets. Perhaps if I hadn't been able to love and appreciate poetry, I wouldn't have been able to love and appreciate Jason, since it is so much a part of him.
And then there were the moments that turned the trajectories of our lives in wild directions, but directions toward each other none-the-less. A moment on a mountaintop in Colorado for Jason which made him reconsider what was important to him. A moment in an ordinary hallway for me, when I was introduced to the first soil scientist of my life, who happened to be looking for summer help.
And there was a time when we were very far apart, in California. I loved it there. I had a life there. But something called me back - my family, a job waiting for me. But maybe something else, too. In fact, it always felt like Cali was temporary for me, from the day I arrived.
And then our mutual friends -- only two degrees apart we were, for many years. Our email addresses in mass emails inviting us to things were nearer to each other than we ever were. Thank goodness Susie came to work at Argonne. Thank goodness Susie's father knew our boss at Argonne from college. Thank goodness I came back to Argonne and met Susie, and that Susie knew a certain Kelly B., who knew a certain boy. And thank goodness we didn't meet sooner. We both agree that timing could have hurt us.
So how did Jason and I meet? Maybe next time I should be ready with the answer I feel is closest to the simple truth: "A miracle."
But it always gives me a moment of pause, a moment of my life flashing before my eyes, and the parts of his that I've learned of so far, and I want to start at the beginning, the very beginning: when he was born, and when a few years later, I was born, and all the circumstances ... where he lived, where I lived, that we did not live near enough to each other to meet at the wrong time.
His grandfather introducing him, as a boy, to a great love of nature, a great blue heron just around the bend of their path, his head turned to their footsteps, wings quivering in readiness to leap into the air, and into a boy's heart. My dad taking the little green paperback dichotomous key around the backyard so that we could key out the apple tree, the ash, I still remember standing under the ash tree with the leaves in my hand, and it was a new and exciting game to know that this was not just any tree.
We both loved dinosaurs, and for some reason, the stegosaurus. Perhaps we were both pacifists from early on, going for the vegetarian one. When he was catching dragonflies, I was catching fireflies, and I left mine on the picnic table overnight in a jar, and coming back the next morning to grave disappointment, while he raised his more mercifully in an acquarium.
And then there were the hardships and heartbreaks we endured, each with its lonely pain, where knowing that the other person just existed might have made things tolerable. But without that knowlege, with no crutch to stand on, we learned so much more, and became who we are. We learned we are fragile, but we endure. There were our almost-loves, our almost-forevers, and when they ended, we had to trust that was for a reason, one that we wouldn't know for a while.
I don't know, yet, what inspired Jason to first love and write poetry. But I didn't like poetry at all until my senior year of high school, when I had an influential teacher named Mr. Brown who introduced me to the modern poets. Perhaps if I hadn't been able to love and appreciate poetry, I wouldn't have been able to love and appreciate Jason, since it is so much a part of him.
And then there were the moments that turned the trajectories of our lives in wild directions, but directions toward each other none-the-less. A moment on a mountaintop in Colorado for Jason which made him reconsider what was important to him. A moment in an ordinary hallway for me, when I was introduced to the first soil scientist of my life, who happened to be looking for summer help.
And there was a time when we were very far apart, in California. I loved it there. I had a life there. But something called me back - my family, a job waiting for me. But maybe something else, too. In fact, it always felt like Cali was temporary for me, from the day I arrived.
And then our mutual friends -- only two degrees apart we were, for many years. Our email addresses in mass emails inviting us to things were nearer to each other than we ever were. Thank goodness Susie came to work at Argonne. Thank goodness Susie's father knew our boss at Argonne from college. Thank goodness I came back to Argonne and met Susie, and that Susie knew a certain Kelly B., who knew a certain boy. And thank goodness we didn't meet sooner. We both agree that timing could have hurt us.
So how did Jason and I meet? Maybe next time I should be ready with the answer I feel is closest to the simple truth: "A miracle."
Monday, December 18, 2006
A Poem About Soil
I can't believe it, but I wrote a poem tonight. It has been forever since I've done this. And about soil, no less! Well, I'm not planning on making this blog into an exclusive poetry session, that's just how it's been lately, and I promise it is only a phase. But check it out, I wrote a dirty poem!!
Into the Soil
I sink my fingers into the garden floor –
Fleshy human roots reaching
into the world below.
An organic aroma emerges
from the soil explored by my hands.
Decaying violets, gladiolas, maple leaves
offer their souls up
as their bodies melt into black humus.
This is how, one day, the last of my body shall exhale away.
But for now I turn up the remains of ancestors
And sink embryos of new plants just under the surface
So new life will send up periscopes out of the darkness –
A stem, some leaves –
Yet spend much of their energy seeking
Essentials from the underworld.
Other secret things may happen there:
Flowers may shake hands underground
And entwine each other’s roots in darkness
To support or strangle one another.
And some roots may rot away in sickness,
and slugs may usurp sugary blood --
a plant may struggle against an unseen enemy
until its leaves pale
and it drops them one by one as tacit tears.
There are victories in this world, too –
They manifest above, as tiny swollen seeds,
With little fanfare.
Then there are the others that live below
Those that gnaw on nature’s bloated remains
And unmake dead things to be made again.
They are the undertakers and embalmers,
And accountants, storing up riches.
But these workings, too, go on unseen
As I scar their world with my tools
And the mounds of earth I mould up,
become new mountains for ants and spiders.
I pretend for a minute
that this garden is mine to govern,
These plants my loyal subjects,
And this patch of earth –
I imagine it is also my earth.
But I know better.
After all, it is I on my knees in this garden,
bowing my head in obeisance,
hands petitioning the soil.
Into the Soil
I sink my fingers into the garden floor –
Fleshy human roots reaching
into the world below.
An organic aroma emerges
from the soil explored by my hands.
Decaying violets, gladiolas, maple leaves
offer their souls up
as their bodies melt into black humus.
This is how, one day, the last of my body shall exhale away.
But for now I turn up the remains of ancestors
And sink embryos of new plants just under the surface
So new life will send up periscopes out of the darkness –
A stem, some leaves –
Yet spend much of their energy seeking
Essentials from the underworld.
Other secret things may happen there:
Flowers may shake hands underground
And entwine each other’s roots in darkness
To support or strangle one another.
And some roots may rot away in sickness,
and slugs may usurp sugary blood --
a plant may struggle against an unseen enemy
until its leaves pale
and it drops them one by one as tacit tears.
There are victories in this world, too –
They manifest above, as tiny swollen seeds,
With little fanfare.
Then there are the others that live below
Those that gnaw on nature’s bloated remains
And unmake dead things to be made again.
They are the undertakers and embalmers,
And accountants, storing up riches.
But these workings, too, go on unseen
As I scar their world with my tools
And the mounds of earth I mould up,
become new mountains for ants and spiders.
I pretend for a minute
that this garden is mine to govern,
These plants my loyal subjects,
And this patch of earth –
I imagine it is also my earth.
But I know better.
After all, it is I on my knees in this garden,
bowing my head in obeisance,
hands petitioning the soil.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Another "Love" Poem
Dedicated to My Heart
I’d like to dedicate this poem …
Lonely or aching, brave or bleeding,
Valiant, stolen, sick,
Sometimes worn on a sleeve
(Which the author of this poem does not recommend)
Often in the wrong place,
Or,
Sometimes in the right place
Just at the wrong time.
I dedicate this poem to you --
You.
Who have failed me time and again.
And, if I wasn’t relying on you
To beat once a second
To supply blood to my lungs,
I’d tell you off once and for all,
“It’s over,” I’d say,
“We’re not right for each other,”
and, “We should be friends.”
Then maybe I could place the ad:
SWF seeks sturdy heart
For long walks alone
Through difficult terrain,
Prefers: non-smoking,
courageous,
non-breakable.
This poem I wrote a few years ago after reading one too many sappy love poems, and not being in love myself at the time. I think this one would be super fun to read at some open mic night, hopefully in between two especially sappy love poems :)
I’d like to dedicate this poem …
Lonely or aching, brave or bleeding,
Valiant, stolen, sick,
Sometimes worn on a sleeve
(Which the author of this poem does not recommend)
Often in the wrong place,
Or,
Sometimes in the right place
Just at the wrong time.
I dedicate this poem to you --
You.
Who have failed me time and again.
And, if I wasn’t relying on you
To beat once a second
To supply blood to my lungs,
I’d tell you off once and for all,
“It’s over,” I’d say,
“We’re not right for each other,”
and, “We should be friends.”
Then maybe I could place the ad:
SWF seeks sturdy heart
For long walks alone
Through difficult terrain,
Prefers: non-smoking,
courageous,
non-breakable.
This poem I wrote a few years ago after reading one too many sappy love poems, and not being in love myself at the time. I think this one would be super fun to read at some open mic night, hopefully in between two especially sappy love poems :)
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
Loves -- Another Poem
I felt like I needed to post another poem to counter-act the other. Maybe I'll eventually post all my poetry. I've written less than a dozen. I'm not an oober poet, just a dabbler. I first drafted this in high school and it won some high school award, I forget, and then wrote a new version of it maybe 3 years ago -- perhaps when I knew a little more on the subject? Still learning, though. The "after Stephen Dunn" thing is a homage because he wrote this really excellent poem also called "Loves", and I am a bit borrowing his unique idea. It's sort of like when an amateur repaints a master's work to learn from his techniques. If you walk through the Louvre you see tons of aspiring artists doing it. Anyway, here it is:
Loves
(after Stephen Dunn)
Love is what I love most,
the kind that sweeps me off my feet
and jitterbugs me around the hall
with just a kiss of the eyes.
There’s something majestic to love
in a cloud of stars, and something
in a crescent moon, reminiscent
of an obnoxious grin
from a Cheshire cat.
I love the absolute dark--
the liquid blackness
that pools in my eyes,
inking out the whole world,
and me with it.
Of colors, I love purple. Of foods, Mexican.
Who does not love emperor penguins?
They waddle about,
beaks pointing to frigid blue skies,
as if they know it all.
When the trees come aflame, I love the fall,
and when thunderclouds engulf the sky,
and summer afternoons become pregnant shadow,
rain is coming,
I love that anticipation.
I have never loved the winter,
but it earned my respect back home, in Chicago,
with frost that burned my fingers through thick gloves.
I love words, especially those
that communicate
and the ones that lift me up
just by seeing them against the page
like, light … lithe …life,
maybe I love the letter l:
its slender grace, its lilt, its cursive loop.
And love, of course, such a dazzling word,
to see it, to say or hear it,
to mean it,
I love it more each time.
Loves
(after Stephen Dunn)
Love is what I love most,
the kind that sweeps me off my feet
and jitterbugs me around the hall
with just a kiss of the eyes.
There’s something majestic to love
in a cloud of stars, and something
in a crescent moon, reminiscent
of an obnoxious grin
from a Cheshire cat.
I love the absolute dark--
the liquid blackness
that pools in my eyes,
inking out the whole world,
and me with it.
Of colors, I love purple. Of foods, Mexican.
Who does not love emperor penguins?
They waddle about,
beaks pointing to frigid blue skies,
as if they know it all.
When the trees come aflame, I love the fall,
and when thunderclouds engulf the sky,
and summer afternoons become pregnant shadow,
rain is coming,
I love that anticipation.
I have never loved the winter,
but it earned my respect back home, in Chicago,
with frost that burned my fingers through thick gloves.
I love words, especially those
that communicate
and the ones that lift me up
just by seeing them against the page
like, light … lithe …life,
maybe I love the letter l:
its slender grace, its lilt, its cursive loop.
And love, of course, such a dazzling word,
to see it, to say or hear it,
to mean it,
I love it more each time.
Wednesday, November 15, 2006
Soilies Descend on Indianapolis
We're here. We're dirty. And we ain't leavin' till the last soil organic matter compound structure has been projected on a powerpoint slide and gawked at!
Yes, it's the Soil Science Society of America conference. Why Indianapolis, you might ask? Well, someone told me an interesting anecdote -- about 25 years ago one of the first of these annual meetings was held in Las Vegas. They've never returned. Why? They were banned by the city of Vegas. "You took up every single hotel room in this town. And your people don't gamble." True that. Drink, yes. Gosh, yes. But why zone out in front of a slot machine when you can geek out with some other soilies? Actually, I think if it were just the soilies, Vegas would've invited us back. We know how to party. Soil Ecology Society conferences: nuf said. The problem is really the agronomists and the crop scientists that share this meeting with us, they can be a little old school.
Favorite things overheard at this meeting:
"This soil has 75% base saturation. That's 75% B.S." (pause) "Kind of like me."
"Soil scientists do good science with bad methods."
Speaker: "Some of us are still teaching our students the lignin theory of soil organic matter formation. In my opinion that's right up there with teaching creation science." Audience: "oooooooooh."
Soil scientist trying to get others to help him finish his cake: "Come on, you guys have got to help me sequester this carbon."
Name of 3-dimensional mapping program for soil: "Blob3D"
Name of factor describing how constrictions in soil slow down soil water flow: "Retardation Factor." (Sort of felt like this factor applied to me and how well the presentation was entering my brain. I think it may have been slowed by this retardation factor.)
Abbreviation for mineral hydrolyzable carbon: "HyMin."
Name for particulate organic matter that is separated by flotation in high density salt solution: "Floaters."
Naive me to renowned scientist: "Oh, you're at OSU? Awesome. Is that in Columbus or Cincinnati?" (pause) Renowned scientist: "Heavens! Oregon State University, not Ohio!"
Renowned scientist visiting my poster who is keynote speaker at this conference and has written many classic papers and books and is doing me a tremendous honor by visiting my poster: "Are you familiar with my method of permanganate extractions?" Me: "Um. No. Refresh my memory."
Yes, it's the Soil Science Society of America conference. Why Indianapolis, you might ask? Well, someone told me an interesting anecdote -- about 25 years ago one of the first of these annual meetings was held in Las Vegas. They've never returned. Why? They were banned by the city of Vegas. "You took up every single hotel room in this town. And your people don't gamble." True that. Drink, yes. Gosh, yes. But why zone out in front of a slot machine when you can geek out with some other soilies? Actually, I think if it were just the soilies, Vegas would've invited us back. We know how to party. Soil Ecology Society conferences: nuf said. The problem is really the agronomists and the crop scientists that share this meeting with us, they can be a little old school.
Favorite things overheard at this meeting:
"This soil has 75% base saturation. That's 75% B.S." (pause) "Kind of like me."
"Soil scientists do good science with bad methods."
Speaker: "Some of us are still teaching our students the lignin theory of soil organic matter formation. In my opinion that's right up there with teaching creation science." Audience: "oooooooooh."
Soil scientist trying to get others to help him finish his cake: "Come on, you guys have got to help me sequester this carbon."
Name of 3-dimensional mapping program for soil: "Blob3D"
Name of factor describing how constrictions in soil slow down soil water flow: "Retardation Factor." (Sort of felt like this factor applied to me and how well the presentation was entering my brain. I think it may have been slowed by this retardation factor.)
Abbreviation for mineral hydrolyzable carbon: "HyMin."
Name for particulate organic matter that is separated by flotation in high density salt solution: "Floaters."
Naive me to renowned scientist: "Oh, you're at OSU? Awesome. Is that in Columbus or Cincinnati?" (pause) Renowned scientist: "Heavens! Oregon State University, not Ohio!"
Renowned scientist visiting my poster who is keynote speaker at this conference and has written many classic papers and books and is doing me a tremendous honor by visiting my poster: "Are you familiar with my method of permanganate extractions?" Me: "Um. No. Refresh my memory."
Thursday, November 02, 2006
Postcard From the Outer Banks, North Carolina
There are three crabs on the bottom of the little swimming pool behind the beach cottage. They pace the floor, wall to wall. Today a Nor'easter blew down the banks and I went and stood on the beach. I watched a sea gull fly with all its might into the wind yet not move an inch. Sometimes I feel like that. The ocean was in white caps. I watched the sand blow down the beach, swirling like fog, just below knee level. It was almost ghostly. Footprints evaporated before my eyes.
We went to the top of the Currituck lighthouse and I was terrified of the wind. We were 160 feet off the ground, and I felt like the wind would like nothing more than to pluck me up and drop me into the sound. But it was beautiful. The trees are just beginning to turn here. And the red brick lighthouse stands out against the blue sky.
My favorite lighthouse was Cape Hatteras. It's painted in fanciful swirls of white and black, and is so tall. Where the Currituck's red stands out against the sky, this one leaps. They paint the lighthouses distinctively here so that they can guide people in daylight as well as at night.
I tried hang gliding on the sand dunes, just down the road from Kitty Hawk. You attach yourself to the center of the kite, pick up the kite, and start running as fast as you can down the dune, until your feet don't touch the ground any more. We were on the hang gliding bunny hill, so not very fearsome. I was a bit more concerned about climbing the lighthouse than the hang gliding.
We went to the top of the Currituck lighthouse and I was terrified of the wind. We were 160 feet off the ground, and I felt like the wind would like nothing more than to pluck me up and drop me into the sound. But it was beautiful. The trees are just beginning to turn here. And the red brick lighthouse stands out against the blue sky.
My favorite lighthouse was Cape Hatteras. It's painted in fanciful swirls of white and black, and is so tall. Where the Currituck's red stands out against the sky, this one leaps. They paint the lighthouses distinctively here so that they can guide people in daylight as well as at night.
I tried hang gliding on the sand dunes, just down the road from Kitty Hawk. You attach yourself to the center of the kite, pick up the kite, and start running as fast as you can down the dune, until your feet don't touch the ground any more. We were on the hang gliding bunny hill, so not very fearsome. I was a bit more concerned about climbing the lighthouse than the hang gliding.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
Our Song
Our Song or Song of the Train
Our song always begins with bells --
stacatto, alternating tones
brimming with anticipation.
Then comes a crescendo
of rolling percussion
growing to engulf us.
We take each others hands
just before a burst of notes
out of tune
squaking clarinet reeds, bent flutes.
The music pauses dramatically.
The conductor is poised on his platform.
We look at each other.
Our first kiss.
The first tenor sings out into the night --
the single lyric to our song --
"All Aboard!" he trebles.
You climb up into the orchestra.
The music fades into the distance
but the percussion continues in my chest.
This is a poem I wrote for my ex, while I was dating him. I was never satisfied with it so I never gave it to him, and now I know why. It's bittersweet, and I wanted to write him something happy. So now that it's over with him, I feel like the bittersweet tone is right, and I think it is finished after all. Perhaps it was prophetic that my poem would only come out bittersweet.
Our song always begins with bells --
stacatto, alternating tones
brimming with anticipation.
Then comes a crescendo
of rolling percussion
growing to engulf us.
We take each others hands
just before a burst of notes
out of tune
squaking clarinet reeds, bent flutes.
The music pauses dramatically.
The conductor is poised on his platform.
We look at each other.
Our first kiss.
The first tenor sings out into the night --
the single lyric to our song --
"All Aboard!" he trebles.
You climb up into the orchestra.
The music fades into the distance
but the percussion continues in my chest.
This is a poem I wrote for my ex, while I was dating him. I was never satisfied with it so I never gave it to him, and now I know why. It's bittersweet, and I wanted to write him something happy. So now that it's over with him, I feel like the bittersweet tone is right, and I think it is finished after all. Perhaps it was prophetic that my poem would only come out bittersweet.
Monday, August 21, 2006
Having My Head in the Soil
There is that expression about dreamers -- that they walk around with their heads in the clouds. And they say of practical people that they have both feet on the ground. I'm a mixed metaphor. My head is in the soil.
Ralph Waldo Emerson's wise words are published on the wall in my bedroom, under a beautiful photograph of a spring morning in the foothills of Virginia: "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." I suppose he meant to look around you at what we have on earth and truely appreciate the spiritual value of it's natural beauty, and if it's your belief, consider the creativity of the divine hand that made it that way. But, I like that quote because it has a more literal meaning to me. I appreciate what really is under our feet at all times -- the soil.
I am a soil ecologist. A few days ago I went to the Second City comedy club in Chicago with some friends and during an improv sketch the ensemble asked the audience to shout out a strange occupation that one of your friends has. My sister of course yelled out before anyone had a chance to think about it, "Soil scientist!" The comedienne on stage responded, "Soil scientist? As in the ground?" And then they proceeded to enact the lost work of Jane Austen, "Pride and Soil Scientist", the story of two people in love, but one is too proud, and one is too obsessed with soil.
The funniest part of the sketch, I think, was that both comedians knew tons about the soil, but not how to talk about it. We were left in stitches while the comedienne spoke of her love being like the white flaky things, y'know, in soil that give plants their food. The other said that without her love, his heart felt barren like the soil in the tropical regions that isn't really good and doesn't grow a lot or something like that, y'know what I mean.
I think that's why I like soil science. Everyone knows a lot intuitively about the soil already. It's important, of course. Things grow in it. Farmers tend to it with reverence. The abuse of it caused great hardship during the Great Depression causing the ecological disaster known as the Dust Bowl. Without it we'd have a tough time growing food, having clean water, sopping up and breaking down pollutants. Everyone's played in it one time or another, unless you're a big sissy.
And plus, everyone will turn into it eventually, unless maybe you shoot your body out into the vacuum of space like Dr. Spock or otherwise go to great extremes to preserve yourself. I had a professor once with a ballcap with the letters "TNS". He said they stood for "Temporarily Not Soil."
Ralph Waldo Emerson's wise words are published on the wall in my bedroom, under a beautiful photograph of a spring morning in the foothills of Virginia: "Heaven is under our feet as well as over our heads." I suppose he meant to look around you at what we have on earth and truely appreciate the spiritual value of it's natural beauty, and if it's your belief, consider the creativity of the divine hand that made it that way. But, I like that quote because it has a more literal meaning to me. I appreciate what really is under our feet at all times -- the soil.
I am a soil ecologist. A few days ago I went to the Second City comedy club in Chicago with some friends and during an improv sketch the ensemble asked the audience to shout out a strange occupation that one of your friends has. My sister of course yelled out before anyone had a chance to think about it, "Soil scientist!" The comedienne on stage responded, "Soil scientist? As in the ground?" And then they proceeded to enact the lost work of Jane Austen, "Pride and Soil Scientist", the story of two people in love, but one is too proud, and one is too obsessed with soil.
The funniest part of the sketch, I think, was that both comedians knew tons about the soil, but not how to talk about it. We were left in stitches while the comedienne spoke of her love being like the white flaky things, y'know, in soil that give plants their food. The other said that without her love, his heart felt barren like the soil in the tropical regions that isn't really good and doesn't grow a lot or something like that, y'know what I mean.
I think that's why I like soil science. Everyone knows a lot intuitively about the soil already. It's important, of course. Things grow in it. Farmers tend to it with reverence. The abuse of it caused great hardship during the Great Depression causing the ecological disaster known as the Dust Bowl. Without it we'd have a tough time growing food, having clean water, sopping up and breaking down pollutants. Everyone's played in it one time or another, unless you're a big sissy.
And plus, everyone will turn into it eventually, unless maybe you shoot your body out into the vacuum of space like Dr. Spock or otherwise go to great extremes to preserve yourself. I had a professor once with a ballcap with the letters "TNS". He said they stood for "Temporarily Not Soil."
Wednesday, May 10, 2006
Personal Space
Last year, on my way to work, I was hugged. Now I'm guessing you're about to skip on to the next person's blog, because to post about something so mundane sounds infinitely boring. I mean, is this Kelraiser one of those lame-type bloggers? One of thsoe who write stuff like "This morning I woke up and brushed my teeth and took a shower and realized I was out of shampoo ..." and that's as far as you get because your eyes have rolled into the back of your head and you just took a nose-dive into your keyboard, snoring?
Don't worry, this story is a little better than that. This is the story of the weirdest hug I ever received. I still wonder about that woman, and why she felt like it was the right thing to do at that moment, and looking back, I guess it was ... but I'm getting to the end of it before I begin, so here is the story in the proper order ...
Like I said, I was on my way to work. The usual commute I can do with with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back. Well, I've never actually tried to do it that way, but I imagine I could, if I could use one of those futuristic cars that works by mind control. There's rarely any traffic on the highways I take to work, but on this day there was. Usually I fly down the North-South Tollway and get on the ramp to the Stevenson Expressway, and then cruise right on to the exit I need for my work. But on this day there was an accident on the Stevenson, and it had clogged up traffic so far that the ramp between the highways was backed up, and I first had to lean on my brakes even before I'd made it to the ramp.
Despite the interruption in my crusing, I wasn't all that road enraged. My start time is flexible, and while I hate staying late to make up the time, it's ok. I cranked my radio and was just admiring the view from the bridge of the two backed up highways, the surrounding farmland and encroaching industrial development housing, and contemplating what I had lined up for work today. And as my eyes sort of wandered about, that's when I first saw her.
She was in my rear-view window. So close, I could swear she was sitting on my trunk. So close, I could tell the color of her eyes and the small wrinkles in her forhead that belied she was probably 40-ish. The only thing was, she was in her car, which was technically behind mine. Barely. She was a ... tailgater.
Hold on, I don't think you read that right. I can't stand tailgaters, and you need to feel that too if you're going to be on the same page with me here. So if you just kind of visually shrugged off the last word of that last paragraph without reading the italics with the necessary sneer and digust, please go back and reread it again. Maybe with some dramatic music playing in your head. Maybe think of zooming in on her head in an unflattering way and stamp the word "TAILGATER" in black block letters on her forehead, and maybe have her start cackling and twisting her mustache or something.
Together we crept down the ramp, about a half a car-length at a time, me obsessively glancing up in my rearview mirror ever few seconds. Unbelievable! She wouldn't back off! How was this going to get her anywhere faster? The highway was backed up for miles ahead of us. I felt the twinge of road rage. Then, reason won out - at the rate we were going, who really cared if she was on my tail, it wasn't like we were going to get in an accident at this speed. I decided to ignore her and focus on the car ahead of me, waiting for it to move another inch so I could take my foot off the brake.
I suddenly felt my car lurch forward. I looked up into my rearview mirror and saw eyes widen, her mouth forming the "O" as in "oh no," her head shaking in distress. I'd been hit. I let out the kind of sigh I reserve for my most aggravated situations, the one that practically collapses my lungs, and I pounded my steering wheel with the ball of my fist.
I pulled off onto the ramp's shoulder and sat in the car for a moment, very angry and not sure what to do. I'd never been in an accident before. I watched her to see what she would do, and at first I thought she was going to go right past me. She sat on the ramp for a moment, holding up traffic behind her. She wouldn't have gotten very far, of course, with the traffic. Instead she pulled up behind me.
I jumped out and circled to the back to check for damage. She jumped out too. And before I'd even made it to the back of my car she was right in front of me, violating my personal space yet again. She was very distraught, apologizing over and over and it seemed like she was pleading with me, "I'm sorry. I'm running so late for work. My car stalled and I rolled and you look like a very nice girl. See, there's no damages ..." I had made it to the bumper by this point, and was examing it.
Finally I looked up and met her eyes. I'd been too angry to do it before, but now seeing that my car was fine I was just exasperated. I was about to say something about how, as far as I knew, when your car stalls your brakes still work. Or something about how maybe, if she'd not been an inch from my bumper to start with, she would have had time to hit her brakes ... And that's when she threw herself at me. I mean, she hugged me -- the kind of hug that renders you immobile with your arms trapped straight on either side, and leaves you feeling utterly ridiculous.
And when she finally let go, we were left looking at each other. I was in total shock. And I was more angry than ever, and couldn't keep my thoughts straight to say any of the mean things I'd been planning. I've forgotten what I eventually said. It was something like, "Ok, fine, let's go then." And suddenly I was back in my car. I waved her to get back on the ramp first, and incredulously watched her tailgate a different car the rest of the way down. Then I just went to work.
It's weird how we float around in these bubbles of our own personal space, all of different dimensions, and what a trauma it can be when the bubble is violated by a stranger. When she hit my car, I was thinking, "how dare she be so close?" and then to have the same reaction, but even more, when she hugged me -- apparently her bubble was very small, and mine very large.
I think she changed the size of my bubble, just a little. It seems that the bubble that I was in, not only was I not comfortable with letting strangers into it, I also wasn't really looking out past the edge of it. Now I check inside other cars on the road for my hugger. It's funny to me that when you are doing the same commute every day at the same time, so is everyone else, so you should recognize some of your fellow commuters. Once in a while I see the same guy that reads the morning paper propped on his steering wheel while cruising along in the center lane. It's been a year and I haven't seen my drive-by hugger again.
Don't worry, this story is a little better than that. This is the story of the weirdest hug I ever received. I still wonder about that woman, and why she felt like it was the right thing to do at that moment, and looking back, I guess it was ... but I'm getting to the end of it before I begin, so here is the story in the proper order ...
Like I said, I was on my way to work. The usual commute I can do with with my eyes closed and my hands tied behind my back. Well, I've never actually tried to do it that way, but I imagine I could, if I could use one of those futuristic cars that works by mind control. There's rarely any traffic on the highways I take to work, but on this day there was. Usually I fly down the North-South Tollway and get on the ramp to the Stevenson Expressway, and then cruise right on to the exit I need for my work. But on this day there was an accident on the Stevenson, and it had clogged up traffic so far that the ramp between the highways was backed up, and I first had to lean on my brakes even before I'd made it to the ramp.
Despite the interruption in my crusing, I wasn't all that road enraged. My start time is flexible, and while I hate staying late to make up the time, it's ok. I cranked my radio and was just admiring the view from the bridge of the two backed up highways, the surrounding farmland and encroaching industrial development housing, and contemplating what I had lined up for work today. And as my eyes sort of wandered about, that's when I first saw her.
She was in my rear-view window. So close, I could swear she was sitting on my trunk. So close, I could tell the color of her eyes and the small wrinkles in her forhead that belied she was probably 40-ish. The only thing was, she was in her car, which was technically behind mine. Barely. She was a ... tailgater.
Hold on, I don't think you read that right. I can't stand tailgaters, and you need to feel that too if you're going to be on the same page with me here. So if you just kind of visually shrugged off the last word of that last paragraph without reading the italics with the necessary sneer and digust, please go back and reread it again. Maybe with some dramatic music playing in your head. Maybe think of zooming in on her head in an unflattering way and stamp the word "TAILGATER" in black block letters on her forehead, and maybe have her start cackling and twisting her mustache or something.
Together we crept down the ramp, about a half a car-length at a time, me obsessively glancing up in my rearview mirror ever few seconds. Unbelievable! She wouldn't back off! How was this going to get her anywhere faster? The highway was backed up for miles ahead of us. I felt the twinge of road rage. Then, reason won out - at the rate we were going, who really cared if she was on my tail, it wasn't like we were going to get in an accident at this speed. I decided to ignore her and focus on the car ahead of me, waiting for it to move another inch so I could take my foot off the brake.
I suddenly felt my car lurch forward. I looked up into my rearview mirror and saw eyes widen, her mouth forming the "O" as in "oh no," her head shaking in distress. I'd been hit. I let out the kind of sigh I reserve for my most aggravated situations, the one that practically collapses my lungs, and I pounded my steering wheel with the ball of my fist.
I pulled off onto the ramp's shoulder and sat in the car for a moment, very angry and not sure what to do. I'd never been in an accident before. I watched her to see what she would do, and at first I thought she was going to go right past me. She sat on the ramp for a moment, holding up traffic behind her. She wouldn't have gotten very far, of course, with the traffic. Instead she pulled up behind me.
I jumped out and circled to the back to check for damage. She jumped out too. And before I'd even made it to the back of my car she was right in front of me, violating my personal space yet again. She was very distraught, apologizing over and over and it seemed like she was pleading with me, "I'm sorry. I'm running so late for work. My car stalled and I rolled and you look like a very nice girl. See, there's no damages ..." I had made it to the bumper by this point, and was examing it.
Finally I looked up and met her eyes. I'd been too angry to do it before, but now seeing that my car was fine I was just exasperated. I was about to say something about how, as far as I knew, when your car stalls your brakes still work. Or something about how maybe, if she'd not been an inch from my bumper to start with, she would have had time to hit her brakes ... And that's when she threw herself at me. I mean, she hugged me -- the kind of hug that renders you immobile with your arms trapped straight on either side, and leaves you feeling utterly ridiculous.
And when she finally let go, we were left looking at each other. I was in total shock. And I was more angry than ever, and couldn't keep my thoughts straight to say any of the mean things I'd been planning. I've forgotten what I eventually said. It was something like, "Ok, fine, let's go then." And suddenly I was back in my car. I waved her to get back on the ramp first, and incredulously watched her tailgate a different car the rest of the way down. Then I just went to work.
It's weird how we float around in these bubbles of our own personal space, all of different dimensions, and what a trauma it can be when the bubble is violated by a stranger. When she hit my car, I was thinking, "how dare she be so close?" and then to have the same reaction, but even more, when she hugged me -- apparently her bubble was very small, and mine very large.
I think she changed the size of my bubble, just a little. It seems that the bubble that I was in, not only was I not comfortable with letting strangers into it, I also wasn't really looking out past the edge of it. Now I check inside other cars on the road for my hugger. It's funny to me that when you are doing the same commute every day at the same time, so is everyone else, so you should recognize some of your fellow commuters. Once in a while I see the same guy that reads the morning paper propped on his steering wheel while cruising along in the center lane. It's been a year and I haven't seen my drive-by hugger again.
Tuesday, April 11, 2006
What if Hell Hath No Fury?
We had a Franciscan at church a couple weeks ago, a very good speaker, who talked a bit about how a lot of saints in their writings have come forward with their belief in universal salvation ... ie, no one goes to hell. Which got me thinking, is there a hell? Would I behave differently if there wasn't?
I am pretty sure that I would behave exactly the same, out of the quest to get into heaven. But is every good thing I do therefore because I actually expect something good in return? Not now, but in the afterlife? Is this tit-for-tat ideology really what my faith means to me? Doesn't it make all actions seem selfish in the grand scheme of things?
It is even weirder to think about if I'd behave differently if there was no heaven. I still think I would strive to be a good person, out of wanting to turn earth into a heaven of sorts: if everyone is kind and loves everyone else, life on earth is just better for everyone, especially if that's all we get.
And while I was pondering this, a friend of mine sent me a web site to this muslim writer who writes out against radical islam and on her web page is this quote:
I carry a torch in one hand
And a bucket of water with the other
With these things, I will set fire to Heaven
And put out the flames of Hell
So that no one worship God
Out of fear of Hell
Or greed of Heaven.
- Rabia, Sufi Muslim
It's weird how sometimes you suddenly hear several times in one week about some thing or concept that you've never even thought about or heard of before. All of these things at once got me thinking about if heaven and hell exist, and it got me thinking about how extremists use heaven and hell to manipulate people into doing what they want (or what these groups think that God wants). I think I heard somewhere that suicide bombers are told that dying for their god in such a way gurantees their eternal reward. And didn't past Popes promise salvation to all those who died during the Crusades? It makes me wonder if things would be better if there was no hell or heaven, in the sense of your afterlife being punishment in flames or a reward that is greater than what you can find on earth.
Is there really a hell? Would it matter if there wasn't?
If you need for there to be justice, where bad people go to a bad place after death, this seems like a selfish wish. Better to hope that no one is truely bad, and that bad actions can be redeemed.
Is there really a heaven? Would it matter if there wasn't?
Probably the latter two questions will inflame people more than the first two. But why do people need for there to be a heaven? Could it be a selfish idea to want to extend your existence and be rewarded for your good actions? Isn't it also a bit of a selfish need to want to be reunited with your loved ones in the afterlife? If you found out there was no heaven, would you honestly want to go back and change your whole life around to be more self-serving, when your good actions made life better for others and also made you feel good about yourself at the time?
If there is a heaven or a hell, I imagine it to be a sort of dream where you replay your life over and over in your head, and feel joy or regret for your actions. Kind of like how people say "wow, I saw my whole life flash before my eyes" when they have a near death experience. Except that the flash lasts forever. I'm definitely no authority, though, this is just my imagination.
p.s. I place no claim that these views truely reflect any real catholic ideologies or necessarily my personal viewpoint in absolute terms, they are merely my mind's meanderings.
I am pretty sure that I would behave exactly the same, out of the quest to get into heaven. But is every good thing I do therefore because I actually expect something good in return? Not now, but in the afterlife? Is this tit-for-tat ideology really what my faith means to me? Doesn't it make all actions seem selfish in the grand scheme of things?
It is even weirder to think about if I'd behave differently if there was no heaven. I still think I would strive to be a good person, out of wanting to turn earth into a heaven of sorts: if everyone is kind and loves everyone else, life on earth is just better for everyone, especially if that's all we get.
And while I was pondering this, a friend of mine sent me a web site to this muslim writer who writes out against radical islam and on her web page is this quote:
I carry a torch in one hand
And a bucket of water with the other
With these things, I will set fire to Heaven
And put out the flames of Hell
So that no one worship God
Out of fear of Hell
Or greed of Heaven.
- Rabia, Sufi Muslim
It's weird how sometimes you suddenly hear several times in one week about some thing or concept that you've never even thought about or heard of before. All of these things at once got me thinking about if heaven and hell exist, and it got me thinking about how extremists use heaven and hell to manipulate people into doing what they want (or what these groups think that God wants). I think I heard somewhere that suicide bombers are told that dying for their god in such a way gurantees their eternal reward. And didn't past Popes promise salvation to all those who died during the Crusades? It makes me wonder if things would be better if there was no hell or heaven, in the sense of your afterlife being punishment in flames or a reward that is greater than what you can find on earth.
Is there really a hell? Would it matter if there wasn't?
If you need for there to be justice, where bad people go to a bad place after death, this seems like a selfish wish. Better to hope that no one is truely bad, and that bad actions can be redeemed.
Is there really a heaven? Would it matter if there wasn't?
Probably the latter two questions will inflame people more than the first two. But why do people need for there to be a heaven? Could it be a selfish idea to want to extend your existence and be rewarded for your good actions? Isn't it also a bit of a selfish need to want to be reunited with your loved ones in the afterlife? If you found out there was no heaven, would you honestly want to go back and change your whole life around to be more self-serving, when your good actions made life better for others and also made you feel good about yourself at the time?
If there is a heaven or a hell, I imagine it to be a sort of dream where you replay your life over and over in your head, and feel joy or regret for your actions. Kind of like how people say "wow, I saw my whole life flash before my eyes" when they have a near death experience. Except that the flash lasts forever. I'm definitely no authority, though, this is just my imagination.
p.s. I place no claim that these views truely reflect any real catholic ideologies or necessarily my personal viewpoint in absolute terms, they are merely my mind's meanderings.
Tuesday, July 26, 2005
E-Date
I owe my current happiness to Al Gore. At least, that's what he'd claim, right, since he invented the internet?
Over a year ago, one of my college buds invited me to a website called Orkut - a free friend networking site, not unlike Friendster. (Side note - when I invited my Dutch friend to join, he kindly informed me that "kut" is a very not nice word in Dutch for part of the female anatomy.) And so I got on it, had a bit of fun playing with the profiles and checking out what my friends wrote about themselves. I wrote a couple cheesy (I like cheese, see the theme?) testimonials about them. And then I joined a few of the fun online communities, like "AnyoneButBush 2004" (didn't work out so well, but I'm sure I got myself an FBI file for it) and "Knitting" (swapped a few stories about socks) - even joined a community for people that like soil (more on that another time).
I can't remember exactly what triggered me to do it, but I randomly emailed someone. I remember feeling a bit frustrated at the time because I was not meeting anyone new. I was out of grad school, moved back home with the p's, hanging out with my college and high school buds - but it seemed like our circle never grew. And I also kept hearing about people trying out internet dating. I met someone who was engaged to someone he met online. Anyway, all of these circumstances culminated in my deciding to just search people in the Chicago area for someone I might have something in common with, even just to make a new friend.
Greg and I talked for a couple of months online before we met for lunch. I remember making sure it was a very public place, and giving all the info I had on this internet guy to my sister just in case I should mysteriously disappear. I didn't tell my parents for ages how I met Greg, because I was sure that they'd be weirded out by it.
It may seem a little weird to use the net - perusing the profiles just like comparing CD's on Amazon or something. And then there's all the stigmas - I had a friend who dated a guy she met on the internet and he said, "Hey, if this works out, we'll just have to tell everyone we met at a concert or something cool like that." And of course there's the visions of 40 year old predatory men with unibrows and pocket protectors typing away and giggling like schoolboys on the other end - you never know what you're going to really get until you meet IRL (in real life).
But weirdness all vanishes when you meet the right guy. Anyway, what's weirder than meeting a drunk guy at a bar while you're drunk, and giving him your phone number? From such humble beginnings, many a happy knot has been tied ...
But I have to say, thanks Al. And much thanks to my alma mater, the University of Illinois, since they are the ones that really invented the internet, of course!
Update: We broke up. Never mind! I still like Al Gore, though.
Over a year ago, one of my college buds invited me to a website called Orkut - a free friend networking site, not unlike Friendster. (Side note - when I invited my Dutch friend to join, he kindly informed me that "kut" is a very not nice word in Dutch for part of the female anatomy.) And so I got on it, had a bit of fun playing with the profiles and checking out what my friends wrote about themselves. I wrote a couple cheesy (I like cheese, see the theme?) testimonials about them. And then I joined a few of the fun online communities, like "AnyoneButBush 2004" (didn't work out so well, but I'm sure I got myself an FBI file for it) and "Knitting" (swapped a few stories about socks) - even joined a community for people that like soil (more on that another time).
I can't remember exactly what triggered me to do it, but I randomly emailed someone. I remember feeling a bit frustrated at the time because I was not meeting anyone new. I was out of grad school, moved back home with the p's, hanging out with my college and high school buds - but it seemed like our circle never grew. And I also kept hearing about people trying out internet dating. I met someone who was engaged to someone he met online. Anyway, all of these circumstances culminated in my deciding to just search people in the Chicago area for someone I might have something in common with, even just to make a new friend.
Greg and I talked for a couple of months online before we met for lunch. I remember making sure it was a very public place, and giving all the info I had on this internet guy to my sister just in case I should mysteriously disappear. I didn't tell my parents for ages how I met Greg, because I was sure that they'd be weirded out by it.
It may seem a little weird to use the net - perusing the profiles just like comparing CD's on Amazon or something. And then there's all the stigmas - I had a friend who dated a guy she met on the internet and he said, "Hey, if this works out, we'll just have to tell everyone we met at a concert or something cool like that." And of course there's the visions of 40 year old predatory men with unibrows and pocket protectors typing away and giggling like schoolboys on the other end - you never know what you're going to really get until you meet IRL (in real life).
But weirdness all vanishes when you meet the right guy. Anyway, what's weirder than meeting a drunk guy at a bar while you're drunk, and giving him your phone number? From such humble beginnings, many a happy knot has been tied ...
But I have to say, thanks Al. And much thanks to my alma mater, the University of Illinois, since they are the ones that really invented the internet, of course!
Update: We broke up. Never mind! I still like Al Gore, though.
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