Well, the frustration involving that small result I was trying to prove is over. It turns out that what we wanted to prove is only almost always true. Without getting into too many details, we were trying to prove something about a particular family of graphs, in fact, these graphs, and (to make a long story short) it's not always true. It's almost always true, but (and this will make more sense if you click those links above) it's not true when the number of triangles is 16. It's true for any other number (7? sure. 10,856,321? yep.) but not 16. Oy. Anyway, the way we found this out was actually by talking to another guy who was working on a similar (but more general) problem. He let us help him finish his paper, (which was very generous of him, because I know he could have done it himself) and the (much better than what we were originally trying to prove) result will likely soon be published. It's already up on arXiv, so feel free to check it out. So, we weren't able to prove exactly what we were trying to, but I'm still going to be published.
Sharayah tells me this is not really enough for a full blog post. I guess it's not interesting enough on its own. Or, at least, it's not very entertaining to read about. So. I will try to do better.
A few years ago (before this blog!) Sharayah and I went to New York the day before Thanksgiving. Why the day before, you ask? Isn't the parade the day after we went? Well, yes. We actually wandered around New York all night so we could get a really good spot to watch the parade. It was a really good time. You can read all about it here... oh right, it was before the blog. Well anyway, it was a good time and quite the adventure, so we're doing something similar this year. We're going up the day after Thanksgiving this year. Right. So, we're not watching the parade (at least not in person), but we're going to go explore all the fun Christmas stuff around the city like last time. And, unlike last time, there will probably be a blog post about it.
You can ask Sharayah about the title. It was her idea (I asked her for one, because I couldn't think of anything), but once she explained to me it made perfect sense.
you make beautiful things
10.27.2013
10.18.2013
thoughts on the throne
The time has come. It must be said.
I generally like to space out my weird, just give it in small doses, a little here, a little there. I figure I'm doing a service for humanity by not unleashing the Forehead Scrunching Oddness in two consecutive posts.
And yet. I fear I will forget to mention this pressing issue [yet again] if I put it off [yet again]. So. My apologies. But I just need to get this off my chest [and it's Friday and that means the end to another work week and sometimes letting out a little weird does wonders for one's sanity] and it may as well be done here and now.
Toilets. Why must you torment me.
There are round bowls. There are elongated bowls. There are really elongated bowls. There are seats that are flat. There are seats that are convex. There are seats that are concave. There are short toilets. There are tall toilets. There are really tall toilets. There is no lack of variety when it comes to such delicate matters of the <insert bodily organ>.
Variety is good, no? Diversity is key, right? Tolerance and acceptance of all toilets is the battle cry heard on the streets! [Probably not your street.]
And to all that, I say PSH.
Some may call me a toilet snob as I have what may seem like ridiculously high standards when it comes to my expectations of toilets, but really... No. I just expect a toilet to fulfill its duties... as I take care of mine. Is that so much to ask?
I want my feet to touch the floor.
I don't want my back up against the seat cover.
I want to be able to sit without feeling the need to balance.
I don't want to flush and feel water [fresh and clean or otherwise] land on my feet, legs, hands, or really any body part.
I want to be able to reach the toilet paper without having to stand up [I guess this may just be more of an overall bathroom experience kind of requirement, but I think it's an appropriate mention].
And most of all, I don't want fall in the toilet and/or feel the sensation of being stuck in the toilet.
Is that so much to ask?
Yes, I know that an ideal toilet for me would probably not be an ideal toilet for someone else. But I bet if you asked Average Joe* if he had a toilet preference, he would probably just say, "As long as it's clean, I have no preference." And if he doesn't have a preference, why not make the average toilet one that satisfies the preferences of someone who does have a preference? Like me [said like Shawn Spencer, of course].
When I was a kid, I remember thinking that one day, oh one day, I would grow my adult legs and never again would I have that feeling of being hopelessly stranded atop the toilet. That day never came. I remember thinking that one day, oh one day, I would never again have to look down at a strange toilet and question, "Will I fall through that hole or get stuck in that hole or sit gloriously atop that hole? And if, worst case scenario, the former, what is the backup rescue plan?" Sadly, I have yet to see this day. I always need a backup plan.
So, what's the point of all this ranting and reminiscing and tales of dashed hopes and never-to-be-realized dreams?
Dear Jason and Sharayah of the Distant Future,
When you decide to build your own home and you come to that seemingly unimportant decision of choosing toilets for your bathrooms, don't shirk your duties! Go to Lowes or Home Depot and try some toilets on for size and comfort. Try option 1. Or maybe option 2. Bring a book! People watch! Just sit and put in some time to make an informed decision. Don't let your dignity and self-respect get in the way of lifelong toileting satisfaction. The choice of a toilet is not to be taken lightly as some studies say an Average Joe quite possibly spends up to 3 years on the toilet over the course of his life. Three years, you guys. Make the comfortable choice.
Sincerely,
The Toilet Snob
P.S. FYI, this is a no, this is a no, and this is a Oh My Gosh Yes.
As a very, very, very slight justification for this post and its not exactly tea-party-in-the-sunroom-chitchat topic: Today's work consisted of a more than normal amount of bathroom/toileting/definitely-TMI typing, so it triggered my brain and this post was the only thing I could think to write.
I also feel compelled to mention that about halfway through writing this particularly enlightening post, my brain told me that now was an excellent time to tackle the topic of society's [inconsistent] obsession with tolerance/acceptance. There would be a perfect segue with some workable analogies and it would kill two birds with one stone. But, alas, the slightly normal part of my brain kicked in. And for the sake of every person who doesn't want to be compared to a toilet, you're welcome.
Last note... Just in case you thought that the title of the post referred to something a little less bathroom-related and a little more God-Throne-related, here's an obvious yet often overlooked thought:
We like to imagine what heaven will be like. What will it look like? What will we look like? What will we do? Where will we live? Will there be relationships? Will we hang out with friends and family? Will we eat? Will we all become amazing harpists and have shoes made of clouds?
I know I like to use my unbelievably limited mind to imagine about the greatness of my Forever Home. And yes, I am silly enough to think that all of my earthly thoughts and desires can somehow be pertinent to my life in eternity. I am only human after all. I don't like not knowing things, and there's so much I don't know. But! that's okay! I don't need to know everything about heaven. I don't need all the guesswork. There's only one definitive thing that I truly, truly know and it makes the answers to all of my other questions completely insignificant: Jesus is there.
What else matters?
*Average Joe, in this case, may be Jason.
I generally like to space out my weird, just give it in small doses, a little here, a little there. I figure I'm doing a service for humanity by not unleashing the Forehead Scrunching Oddness in two consecutive posts.
And yet. I fear I will forget to mention this pressing issue [yet again] if I put it off [yet again]. So. My apologies. But I just need to get this off my chest [and it's Friday and that means the end to another work week and sometimes letting out a little weird does wonders for one's sanity] and it may as well be done here and now.
Toilets. Why must you torment me.
There are round bowls. There are elongated bowls. There are really elongated bowls. There are seats that are flat. There are seats that are convex. There are seats that are concave. There are short toilets. There are tall toilets. There are really tall toilets. There is no lack of variety when it comes to such delicate matters of the <insert bodily organ>.
Variety is good, no? Diversity is key, right? Tolerance and acceptance of all toilets is the battle cry heard on the streets! [Probably not your street.]
And to all that, I say PSH.
Some may call me a toilet snob as I have what may seem like ridiculously high standards when it comes to my expectations of toilets, but really... No. I just expect a toilet to fulfill its duties... as I take care of mine. Is that so much to ask?
I want my feet to touch the floor.
I don't want my back up against the seat cover.
I want to be able to sit without feeling the need to balance.
I don't want to flush and feel water [fresh and clean or otherwise] land on my feet, legs, hands, or really any body part.
I want to be able to reach the toilet paper without having to stand up [I guess this may just be more of an overall bathroom experience kind of requirement, but I think it's an appropriate mention].
And most of all, I don't want fall in the toilet and/or feel the sensation of being stuck in the toilet.
Is that so much to ask?
Yes, I know that an ideal toilet for me would probably not be an ideal toilet for someone else. But I bet if you asked Average Joe* if he had a toilet preference, he would probably just say, "As long as it's clean, I have no preference." And if he doesn't have a preference, why not make the average toilet one that satisfies the preferences of someone who does have a preference? Like me [said like Shawn Spencer, of course].
When I was a kid, I remember thinking that one day, oh one day, I would grow my adult legs and never again would I have that feeling of being hopelessly stranded atop the toilet. That day never came. I remember thinking that one day, oh one day, I would never again have to look down at a strange toilet and question, "Will I fall through that hole or get stuck in that hole or sit gloriously atop that hole? And if, worst case scenario, the former, what is the backup rescue plan?" Sadly, I have yet to see this day. I always need a backup plan.
So, what's the point of all this ranting and reminiscing and tales of dashed hopes and never-to-be-realized dreams?
Dear Jason and Sharayah of the Distant Future,
When you decide to build your own home and you come to that seemingly unimportant decision of choosing toilets for your bathrooms, don't shirk your duties! Go to Lowes or Home Depot and try some toilets on for size and comfort. Try option 1. Or maybe option 2. Bring a book! People watch! Just sit and put in some time to make an informed decision. Don't let your dignity and self-respect get in the way of lifelong toileting satisfaction. The choice of a toilet is not to be taken lightly as some studies say an Average Joe quite possibly spends up to 3 years on the toilet over the course of his life. Three years, you guys. Make the comfortable choice.
Sincerely,
The Toilet Snob
P.S. FYI, this is a no, this is a no, and this is a Oh My Gosh Yes.
As a very, very, very slight justification for this post and its not exactly tea-party-in-the-sunroom-chitchat topic: Today's work consisted of a more than normal amount of bathroom/toileting/definitely-TMI typing, so it triggered my brain and this post was the only thing I could think to write.
I also feel compelled to mention that about halfway through writing this particularly enlightening post, my brain told me that now was an excellent time to tackle the topic of society's [inconsistent] obsession with tolerance/acceptance. There would be a perfect segue with some workable analogies and it would kill two birds with one stone. But, alas, the slightly normal part of my brain kicked in. And for the sake of every person who doesn't want to be compared to a toilet, you're welcome.
Last note... Just in case you thought that the title of the post referred to something a little less bathroom-related and a little more God-Throne-related, here's an obvious yet often overlooked thought:
We like to imagine what heaven will be like. What will it look like? What will we look like? What will we do? Where will we live? Will there be relationships? Will we hang out with friends and family? Will we eat? Will we all become amazing harpists and have shoes made of clouds?
I know I like to use my unbelievably limited mind to imagine about the greatness of my Forever Home. And yes, I am silly enough to think that all of my earthly thoughts and desires can somehow be pertinent to my life in eternity. I am only human after all. I don't like not knowing things, and there's so much I don't know. But! that's okay! I don't need to know everything about heaven. I don't need all the guesswork. There's only one definitive thing that I truly, truly know and it makes the answers to all of my other questions completely insignificant: Jesus is there.
What else matters?
 |
| Just goes to show, if you make the right toilet choice, they'll be lining up outside your door. |
*Average Joe, in this case, may be Jason.
10.13.2013
Columbus Day
So, I guess tomorrow is Columbus Day. Like most people (I assume), I don't care much about Columbus Day. I don't celebrate or anything. Heck, I didn't even know it was tomorrow until 20 minutes ago when I read an article about Columbus.
I've heard some strange things about Columbus before. I heard he lied about being Italian and stole someone's identity. I can't remember why he would do that, and I don't know if it's true. I know he wasn't really trying to prove that the world was flat, though I've heard that for some reason they still teach that in elementary school. Well, today I read a very strange and disturbing article about Columbus, and I thought I'd share it. It's located here. Just a note - I don't think there was any profanity in that post, but I know there's plenty of it elsewhere around that site, so if that bothers you then only read the one article.
Anyway I don't have much else to say about it. I don't know how much of it's true (though the author does cite a few sources). I don't think there's really anything we need to do about it. Maybe don't view Columbus as a hero, if you do, but I doubt anyone really does anyway. I just thought it was an interesting read.
That over with, if people could pray for my dad that'd be great. His bad foot/ankle (which never fully healed, though he has been able to walk despite the pain for several months) has broken again. He's supposed to see his orthopedist tomorrow morning and probably have surgery later this week.
kp ps: let it be known that today is day 1 of operation clean as we go.
I've heard some strange things about Columbus before. I heard he lied about being Italian and stole someone's identity. I can't remember why he would do that, and I don't know if it's true. I know he wasn't really trying to prove that the world was flat, though I've heard that for some reason they still teach that in elementary school. Well, today I read a very strange and disturbing article about Columbus, and I thought I'd share it. It's located here. Just a note - I don't think there was any profanity in that post, but I know there's plenty of it elsewhere around that site, so if that bothers you then only read the one article.
Anyway I don't have much else to say about it. I don't know how much of it's true (though the author does cite a few sources). I don't think there's really anything we need to do about it. Maybe don't view Columbus as a hero, if you do, but I doubt anyone really does anyway. I just thought it was an interesting read.
That over with, if people could pray for my dad that'd be great. His bad foot/ankle (which never fully healed, though he has been able to walk despite the pain for several months) has broken again. He's supposed to see his orthopedist tomorrow morning and probably have surgery later this week.
kp ps: let it be known that today is day 1 of operation clean as we go.
9.30.2013
live life pantless
Full disclosure: I live life pantless. I am proud of this. I have no shame.
What does this mean exactly? It means I like to spend 73% of my time while awake without pants, and 99% of my time while asleep without pants. If these percentages are messed with, my legs get grumpy which sometimes leads to my face getting grumpy which leads to all kinds of unpleasant and grumpy things. Life is better lived pantless.
Without pants, life is...
Let's take it one thing at a time. First, happier!
As a visual aid, take these 2 stick men. The one on the left has pants. The one on the right has no pants.
![]()
Wait. Hm. As it turns out, the only difference between Mr. Stickman with Pants and Mr. Stickman without Pants is... a balloon? Hm. Well... Hm. Let's see... Oh! Yes. Here we go. Balloons are one of those things that make people happy without really having a good reason for it. If you ask a random man named Joe [who may or may not be the stick man on the right] to tell you some random objects that make him feel inexplicably happy, he will undoubtedly include the no-brainers of Llamas, Crayons, Clouds Shaped Like Crayons, Soy Beans, and Rainbows. But, there is also a 78% chance [not too shabby!] that he will also mention Balloons. Because balloons are happy. So perhaps this isn't the most conventional [or convincing] argument that a pantless life is a better life, but trust me, this picture really is all you need at the end of the day.
Let's move on to number 2. Life is more exciting without pants.
Allow me to paint a purely hypothetical situation. It is just a normal day filled with normal life things. You wake up at 8:22 a.m. You sit up in bed and rub the sleep out of your eyes for 47 seconds, 13 seconds on the left eye, 13 seconds on the right eye, 13 more seconds on the left eye, and 8 seconds more on the right [you have your reasons]. You scrounge around for your shirt that has fallen in the crevice behind your bed. You step out of bed and land on a penguin. You leave the bedroom and trip over the cat who has it in his feral mind that if he can somehow get to the living room before you he will magically win something awesome. You fill a bowl with cereal and rice milk and start your morning's internet goof-off time. You start work.
So far, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Life is normal. Life is good. And, of course, all of this life is happening without pants.
But then. The clock strikes 11:30. You consider taking your lunch break. You consider what to eat for lunch. You consider whether to go to the bathroom before or after your prepare your lunch. But then. Right in the middle of all of your run-of-the-corn-mill considerations, someone starts cheerily banging on your front door. Your brain freezes. What to do? You are in the middle of an active job with time ticking away. Your ears are attached to the computer via purple magic wires [some call them harmless earphones, but I think they are ever more insidious than that... but that's another story]. Your cats are going bonkers because they know the knocking means someone wants to kill them. And, as always, you are pantless. What to do? Oh, what to do?
The knocking suddenly stops. You think to yourself, "Ah, it was just a delivery man dropping off a package. What luck!" But before you even have time to re-remember your lunch options [bean stew or oven-baked sandwich?], another round of banging commences. The UPS man never does this. This can only mean one thing: The apartment maintenance men have finally come to evaluate the holes they made in your walls weeks ago. You know this is almost-worst-case scenario. WHERE ARE YOUR PANTS?
You know you have a very limited amount of time remaining before a considerably embarrassing situation ensues. Maintenance men tend to knock only twice before pulling our their set of master keys and just barging right in. Barging right into your home while you stand in the middle of the room, spinning in not-quite-frantic circles, completely pantless.
As the second round of knocking ends, your pantless legs kick into motion [despite the obvious lack of help from your brain]. You dash to the bedroom to find some appropriate covering for your soon-to-be-mortified legs. The gray cat dashes with you, making you trip into the hamper of "Oh, we'll do laundry soon" clothes sitting in the hall. You suddenly realize that what you're looking for is actually back out in the living room in the pile of clothes haphazardly draped over the arm of the couch, what your husband has jokingly been referring to as your "living room dresser." Do you have time to dash back out and grab some shorts before the front door opens? As the only other option at this point is just quickly crawling under your bed pantless and hoping the maintenance men don't find you [that'd be weird to explain] or stay for an hour, you decide it is worth the risk.
So out you dash to the living room. Your gray cat dashes with you, nearly careening your face into the bookcase. You scoop up your entire living room dresser and haul it back to the bedroom. You find something to appropriately clothe your legs. You shove the rest of the pile under the blankets. And then you nonchalantly stroll back out to the living room... just as a third round of knocking starts.
Wait. What? They're knocking a third time? This is... unheard of. This is... Sigh. All of that frantic dashing about when you really had all the time in the world*. So you answer the door as if you wear pants all the time and those three unsuspecting, hammer-wielding maintenance men are none the wiser.
Excitement at its finest. The pantless life is an exciting life indeed.
Final point! Life without pants is breezier.
I really don't think this one needs to be explained. I just wanted to include it because A) you need at least three items to make a legitimate bullet-pointed list [I know I have mentioned this before, but it holds enough truth for another mention] and B) it is so true. You want a breezy life? Live it pantless.
So there you have it. I live life pantless. I am proud of this. I have no shame. And I have reasons for it. Who doesn't want to live a happier, more exciting, and [above all] breezier life?
So, the next time a day just starts going awry, you feel your face getting grumpified, or you just feel, well, just stifled...
Sometimes you need to just take the pants off.
I imagine this goes without saying [and so I will say it anyway! like everyone does! because that's the thing to do!], but for the sake of those with poor self-awareness or anyone who happens to follow the "If you don't explicitly state it, then I will assume otherwise" mentality: The removal of your trousers should only be done in the privacy of your own home, no matter how stifled you feel while in public, and preferably only around those who are comfortable with your unashamed legs [i.e. spouse, pets, alter ego, etc.]
As that one fellow said, "You have to wear pants even if they are uncomfortable. It is important to wear pants when you leave the house." Wise, wise words.
*As long as "all the time in the world" means "more than 30 seconds but definitely less than all the time in the world."
What does this mean exactly? It means I like to spend 73% of my time while awake without pants, and 99% of my time while asleep without pants. If these percentages are messed with, my legs get grumpy which sometimes leads to my face getting grumpy which leads to all kinds of unpleasant and grumpy things. Life is better lived pantless.
Without pants, life is...
- Happier.
- More exciting.
- Incredibly breezier.
Let's take it one thing at a time. First, happier!
As a visual aid, take these 2 stick men. The one on the left has pants. The one on the right has no pants.
Wait. Hm. As it turns out, the only difference between Mr. Stickman with Pants and Mr. Stickman without Pants is... a balloon? Hm. Well... Hm. Let's see... Oh! Yes. Here we go. Balloons are one of those things that make people happy without really having a good reason for it. If you ask a random man named Joe [who may or may not be the stick man on the right] to tell you some random objects that make him feel inexplicably happy, he will undoubtedly include the no-brainers of Llamas, Crayons, Clouds Shaped Like Crayons, Soy Beans, and Rainbows. But, there is also a 78% chance [not too shabby!] that he will also mention Balloons. Because balloons are happy. So perhaps this isn't the most conventional [or convincing] argument that a pantless life is a better life, but trust me, this picture really is all you need at the end of the day.
Let's move on to number 2. Life is more exciting without pants.
Allow me to paint a purely hypothetical situation. It is just a normal day filled with normal life things. You wake up at 8:22 a.m. You sit up in bed and rub the sleep out of your eyes for 47 seconds, 13 seconds on the left eye, 13 seconds on the right eye, 13 more seconds on the left eye, and 8 seconds more on the right [you have your reasons]. You scrounge around for your shirt that has fallen in the crevice behind your bed. You step out of bed and land on a penguin. You leave the bedroom and trip over the cat who has it in his feral mind that if he can somehow get to the living room before you he will magically win something awesome. You fill a bowl with cereal and rice milk and start your morning's internet goof-off time. You start work.
So far, nothing out of the ordinary has happened. Life is normal. Life is good. And, of course, all of this life is happening without pants.
But then. The clock strikes 11:30. You consider taking your lunch break. You consider what to eat for lunch. You consider whether to go to the bathroom before or after your prepare your lunch. But then. Right in the middle of all of your run-of-the-corn-mill considerations, someone starts cheerily banging on your front door. Your brain freezes. What to do? You are in the middle of an active job with time ticking away. Your ears are attached to the computer via purple magic wires [some call them harmless earphones, but I think they are ever more insidious than that... but that's another story]. Your cats are going bonkers because they know the knocking means someone wants to kill them. And, as always, you are pantless. What to do? Oh, what to do?
The knocking suddenly stops. You think to yourself, "Ah, it was just a delivery man dropping off a package. What luck!" But before you even have time to re-remember your lunch options [bean stew or oven-baked sandwich?], another round of banging commences. The UPS man never does this. This can only mean one thing: The apartment maintenance men have finally come to evaluate the holes they made in your walls weeks ago. You know this is almost-worst-case scenario. WHERE ARE YOUR PANTS?
You know you have a very limited amount of time remaining before a considerably embarrassing situation ensues. Maintenance men tend to knock only twice before pulling our their set of master keys and just barging right in. Barging right into your home while you stand in the middle of the room, spinning in not-quite-frantic circles, completely pantless.
As the second round of knocking ends, your pantless legs kick into motion [despite the obvious lack of help from your brain]. You dash to the bedroom to find some appropriate covering for your soon-to-be-mortified legs. The gray cat dashes with you, making you trip into the hamper of "Oh, we'll do laundry soon" clothes sitting in the hall. You suddenly realize that what you're looking for is actually back out in the living room in the pile of clothes haphazardly draped over the arm of the couch, what your husband has jokingly been referring to as your "living room dresser." Do you have time to dash back out and grab some shorts before the front door opens? As the only other option at this point is just quickly crawling under your bed pantless and hoping the maintenance men don't find you [that'd be weird to explain] or stay for an hour, you decide it is worth the risk.
So out you dash to the living room. Your gray cat dashes with you, nearly careening your face into the bookcase. You scoop up your entire living room dresser and haul it back to the bedroom. You find something to appropriately clothe your legs. You shove the rest of the pile under the blankets. And then you nonchalantly stroll back out to the living room... just as a third round of knocking starts.
Wait. What? They're knocking a third time? This is... unheard of. This is... Sigh. All of that frantic dashing about when you really had all the time in the world*. So you answer the door as if you wear pants all the time and those three unsuspecting, hammer-wielding maintenance men are none the wiser.
Excitement at its finest. The pantless life is an exciting life indeed.
Final point! Life without pants is breezier.
I really don't think this one needs to be explained. I just wanted to include it because A) you need at least three items to make a legitimate bullet-pointed list [I know I have mentioned this before, but it holds enough truth for another mention] and B) it is so true. You want a breezy life? Live it pantless.
So there you have it. I live life pantless. I am proud of this. I have no shame. And I have reasons for it. Who doesn't want to live a happier, more exciting, and [above all] breezier life?
So, the next time a day just starts going awry, you feel your face getting grumpified, or you just feel, well, just stifled...
Sometimes you need to just take the pants off.
I imagine this goes without saying [and so I will say it anyway! like everyone does! because that's the thing to do!], but for the sake of those with poor self-awareness or anyone who happens to follow the "If you don't explicitly state it, then I will assume otherwise" mentality: The removal of your trousers should only be done in the privacy of your own home, no matter how stifled you feel while in public, and preferably only around those who are comfortable with your unashamed legs [i.e. spouse, pets, alter ego, etc.]
As that one fellow said, "You have to wear pants even if they are uncomfortable. It is important to wear pants when you leave the house." Wise, wise words.
 |
| Don't let their judging eyes fool you; they honestly don't mind you pantless. |
*As long as "all the time in the world" means "more than 30 seconds but definitely less than all the time in the world."
9.23.2013
maze reloaded
Yesterday we went back to that corn maze Sharayah described in this post two years ago. This time Shawn and my parents joined us, and it was a good time. Technically we didn't go back to the same corn maze, because they change it every year. Anyway. This year the corn was still pretty green and alive, and it was absurdly tall. I'm thinking it was about 10 feet tall. When I read that, it sounds ridiculous, and I think, "this kid is totally exaggerating," but I am not. That's really my best guess. 
I don't know how they got corn so tall, but it really helps make you feel like you were lost in an inescapable maze while you were in there. Which was only half true (it was a maze, but it was escapable, which is apparently not a word, so then what is inescapable? This isn't a nonchalant vs chalant issue. Escaping is a thing. I hereby declare that escapable is a word [it has come to my attention {Sharayah told me, and I confirmed on google} that escapable actually is a word, just like I thought it should be. I thought it wasn't because when it comes to spelling, I guess I trust myself a lot less than I trust the little red wavy line. Well, not today, red wavy line. Not today.]). It was tall enough that if you held the flag (the one they give you to wave in the air if you get hopelessly lost, so they can come rescue you) straight up over your head, it barely reached the top of the corn. Now that I think about it, that means that if you got lost, the maze really just might be inescapable. No one would see your sadly waving flag, so no one would rescue you. There are probably still people stuck in that maze... Now, where was I? (Haha, I'm talking about a maze and I said "where was I?" like I got lost in thought while talking about how someone might get lost in a maze. Get it? Lost? Because it was a maze. And you can... nevermind.)
That sounds boring, though, so instead we let each person lead for 3 minutes at a time. Shawn's phone made a beeping sound every 3 minutes, and once the timer beeped, it was time for another person to assume control. This was pretty entertaining, especially if the timer went off right before or after an intersection. While not leading, we could mock the decisions of the leader. While leading, we could make everyone follow us on whatever path we wanted. If the group ever had to backtrack or if we found ourselves coming upon an intersection we knew we had seen before, we could assign blame to whoever we thought was in charge when the wrong turn was made. Just plain good family fun. I will not point out who made the wrong turn that cost us the most time, because this person would then point out who made the wrong turn which cost us the next most time, and then they'd proceed to argue that my... I mean, that person's... wrong turn was in fact worse. When it wasn't. And it doesn't even matter if it was, because it probably wasn't me. Just get off my case, ok? You weren't even there so what do you know about it?Hmm. I seem to have lost track of my story. (Lost. Heh.)
Oh. Anyway, we had fun in the corn maze and eventually escaped. We went through some of the other mazes and then we went to... the pumpkin patch.
Once again the corn maze was awesome fun and (especially with the pumpkin hunting at the end) left us very tired. We all went to eat and then headed home for some hard earned sleep.
sailboats throughout this brilliant sky
9.12.2013
belly full o' bean soup
This will be an educational post. Don't worry, though; I know you've always wanted to be educated about the topic of this educational post.
Having read hundreds [possibly thousands] of books that have touched on briefly [or in great detail] either hay or straw, I often wondered aloud in my head, in the split-second moment that I pay homage to the tiny black dot declaring the statement I just read to be complete, "Are hay and straw two different things?" But then I continue on with my reading, and the thought is forgotten. Until the next mention of straw or hay. And the cycle continues.
Cycle, STOP. I am here to save the day.
Before launching into this eye-opening topic, I suppose I should mention what triggered my desire to be ignorant no longer. String of events commence!
Jason and I have typically used separate toothpaste. Weird, I know. We just each had the kind that we liked to use when we got married, and we kept replacing them until that was just what we did. So we had separate toothpaste. No big deal. Anyway, Jason's ran out recently and we haven't gotten around to replacing it yet so he's been using mine and you guys he squeezes it all into the front of the tube. I mean, he really just goes at it. Just squashes the thing, right on the very end of the tube. So every day I slowly squish it in the middle so that it all goes back to both ends and squirt out my toothpaste like the whimsically odd but ever so frolicsome person that I am, and every day he smashes it all back to the front. Oddly enough (because I've heard of couples fighting over this sort of silly thing), I think it's pretty funny. But, he may be getting his own tube again sometime.
Having read hundreds [possibly thousands] of books that have touched on briefly [or in great detail] either hay or straw, I often wondered aloud in my head, in the split-second moment that I pay homage to the tiny black dot declaring the statement I just read to be complete, "Are hay and straw two different things?" But then I continue on with my reading, and the thought is forgotten. Until the next mention of straw or hay. And the cycle continues.
Cycle, STOP. I am here to save the day.
Before launching into this eye-opening topic, I suppose I should mention what triggered my desire to be ignorant no longer. String of events commence!
- Jason and I like to read books to each other. We each have books we're reading separately on our own and then a nice easy read together. I wanted to reread the Little House of the Prairie series [nostalgia!] and since Jason easily gives in to my random whims and fancies, Laura Ingalls it was. [Adult observation: Ma Ingalls seems a tad racist against Indians.] We've made it all the way to the Long Winter, and I think it's safe to say that we are both thoroughly enjoying it. However, it is no surprise that hay and straw come up pretty frequently in this type of story, so... Event number 1.
- Reaction: Hm, what's the difference between hay and straw?
- The Civil War era book I was reading on my own also mentioned straw and hay, though for a more amusing reason. Apparently, when recruiting young, probably not very educated, farm boys, there was the very irking problem of them not knowing their right from their left. When teaching them how to march in unison, this was... an issue. Hay and straw to the rescue! Obviously the poor lads, having grown up on a farm, knew the difference between hay and straw. So, tying a bit of hay to the left foot and a bit of straw to the right, their drill sergeants could guarantee marching synchronicity by referring to their "hay foot" or "straw foot." I find this brilliant and hilariously awesome. And, people, THERE IS A SONG.
March! March! March, old soldier, march!
Hayfoot, strawfoot,
Belly full o' bean soup.
March, old soldier, march!
Event number 2.
- Reaction: Hm, what is the difference between hay and straw?
- As Jason mentioned in the previous post, we went to Kennett Square's Mushroom Festival this past weekend. [Incidentally, this brought back super strong memories (some really good and others not so much) of the hours spent in similar festivals helping out at my brother's booth. It's intriguing to me how clearly I can relive certain moments and how certain smells or sounds can instantaneously transport me to a different time. I like it.] There was a Mushroom Exhibit tent that was poorly queued. Inside the tent, there was just a long line of tables that attempted to show a progression of how to grow and harvest mushrooms. The first table had containers of various things such as... hay and straw [and horse manure, but that's not really relevant]. Honestly, the material in each little container looked the same to me, so it was only helpful in piquing my interest, yet again, to find out what in the world made hay and straw noticeably different. [I suppose I should also mention that the container labeled 'horse manure' also only contained a straw/hay-like material, which was very clearly not horse manure, so... maybe the material in the straw and hay containers was not actually correctly labeled either and that's why it all looked like the same stuff? (Hey {hay?}, maybe the horse manure was relevant!) Obviously, I did not understand this part of the mushroom presentation.] Thus concludes Event number 3.
- Reaction: WHAT IS THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN HAY AND STRAW? Imustfindoutimmediatelyorlifewillnotmakesense.
So. Clearly, all of these events in succession demanded that I remedy my ignorance when it comes to hay and straw. Clearly. As soon as we got home from mushrooming, I went to the google and got 'er done. [FYI, searching for "What's the difference between h..." you will find that people have a hard time differentiating between 1) hair and fur, 2) here and there (??), 3) hotel and motel, and 4) hay and straw.] And now... With my newly acquired knowledge, I will enlighten those of you who fit at least one or more of the below conditions:
If you said yes to one or more of the above, read on. Someday, this information may save a life [who knows?]. You are welcome.
What is its purpose?
What is the use of this information?
What now?
- You are now unbelievably intrigued by the topic of hay and straw differences/definitions but do not consider it a good use of your time to search out these elusive truths for yourself.
- You don't think there really is a difference between hay and straw OR you don't see the big deal even if there is, BUT you're willing to humor me and/or you feel compelled to keep reading since you've already devoted so much time and effort to it to turn back now.
- You are a 5'2 Korean who is married to a dapper mathematician and you know you will later forget whether hay goes on the left foot or the right foot when teaching your children to march and you just need to jot down the information now for future reference.
If you said yes to one or more of the above, read on. Someday, this information may save a life [who knows?]. You are welcome.
What is it?
- Hay: Green grasses or legumes [such as alfalfa or clover] cut and dried.
- Straw: The stalks or shafts of grain [such as oats, wheat, barley, or rye] after being threshed and dried.
What is its purpose?
- Hay: Used primarily as fodder for animals.
- Straw: Used primarily as bedding for animals [or basket weaving!].
What is the use of this information?
- Hay
- You own farm animals: If you use hay to bed down your animals, they're probably going to eat their bedding.
- You own a cat: If you use hay to bed down or feed your animal... no.
- You don't own animals: You probably have no use for hay.
- Hayfoot is left.
- Straw
- Good bedding.
- Good baskets.
- Good hats.
- Not very good food.
- Strawfoot is right.
What now?
- As it would be a waste of hay, you probably have never gone on a hayride. It was a strawride. Yep. Straw. Ride.
- It is very possible I am still sorely mistaken on the fine differences between hay and straw and some hay/straw expert out there is having a conniption because of my oversimplified generalizations.
Ok. Whew. I'm glad all of that is out in the open for the bettering of the world.
Now, as is usual, I had several things I wanted to mention in this post, but my initial topic got out of hand and so everything else will have to wait until next time. Except there's this one last thing that needs to get taken care of...
 |
| My sentiments regarding Jason's toothpaste methods exactly. <3 |
9.08.2013
frustration, mushrooms, and toothpaste
How can we relate these three things? Well you see, it all started when... Ok, just kidding. They're unrelated other than the fact that all three are mentioned in this blog.
It's been a tough few weeks for me in the math world. We're very close to finishing a nice (though small) result, just one little loose end to prove. It's crazy frustrating because it seems like there should be an easy way to do it, but nothing works. Twice now I've had what I thought was a proof, only to notice later there was a mistake.
This particular problem has frustrated a lot of people. Last year a friend at UD was working on the problem and thought he had solved it, which would have made a nice addition to his dissertation (he was graduating at the end of the spring). He thought he had it, but that same day (or maybe a couple days later?) he found out someone else had already submitted a proof to a journal. He left it alone and found something else to finish up his dissertation. He graduated fine. But it was frustrating for him to lose a month to this problem.
Jump forward to a couple months ago, the journal article is out, and we find out there's an error in the proof. Oof. Those guys didn't know the problem had frustrated them (their proof was short and easy, if only it had been valid), but I'm sure it's frustrating them now...
Now I'm working on the problem with my adviser. Why still work on it if my friend proved it last year? Yeah, his proof had an error too (although, in my opinion, a much less serious error than the guy who actually got his proof published...), so, more frustration.
We've been working on it a few weeks and we came up with a nice proof Tuesday to the part we had left. Excitement. I typed it up and noticed... nope. Mistake. It wasn't valid. So yesterday, one last time, I solved it. Elation. Relief. I went to a mushroom festival with Sharayah, even. Ok, I would have gone with her anyway, but still. Anyway, when I got home and reread it... No. Wrong. This problem. It's so stupid. Frustration.
So, I'm back to square one again.
Things I learned at the mushroom festival while I still thought my problem was solved: There are a lot of people who really, really like mushrooms. There are many, many different foods you can make with mushrooms. Mushrooms are sometimes grown from a bag of oats or rice or wheat or... lots of other grains depending on the mushrooms, and I think some other stuff was in there too, and they just let the fungus grow in it, and then it starts poking holes in the bag to grow out of it. There are also other (perhaps less weird) ways they grow some types of mushrooms. There are pink mushrooms. There are yellow mushrooms. There are not that many foods sold at a mushroom festival for someone who does not eat mushrooms. Oh! But I ate a frozen banana dipped in dark chocolate. They had a person in a banana suit at their booth. It was like I stepped right into Arrested Development. Without the dysfunctional family part. So. A++, would go again.
Sharayah and I have typically used separate toothpaste. Weird, I know. We just each had the kind that we liked to use when we got married, and we kept replacing them until that was just what we did. So we had separate toothpaste. No big deal. Anyway mine ran out recently and I haven't gotten around to replacing it yet so I've been using Sharayah's and you guys she squeezes it right in the middle of the tube. I mean, she really just goes at it. Just squashes the thing, right in the middle. So every day I slowly squish it all back to the front and squirt out my toothpaste like a civilized person, and every day she smashes it all back to the back. Oddly enough (because I've heard of couples fighting over this sort of silly thing), I think it's pretty funny. But, I may get my own tube again sometime.
It's been a tough few weeks for me in the math world. We're very close to finishing a nice (though small) result, just one little loose end to prove. It's crazy frustrating because it seems like there should be an easy way to do it, but nothing works. Twice now I've had what I thought was a proof, only to notice later there was a mistake.
This particular problem has frustrated a lot of people. Last year a friend at UD was working on the problem and thought he had solved it, which would have made a nice addition to his dissertation (he was graduating at the end of the spring). He thought he had it, but that same day (or maybe a couple days later?) he found out someone else had already submitted a proof to a journal. He left it alone and found something else to finish up his dissertation. He graduated fine. But it was frustrating for him to lose a month to this problem.
Jump forward to a couple months ago, the journal article is out, and we find out there's an error in the proof. Oof. Those guys didn't know the problem had frustrated them (their proof was short and easy, if only it had been valid), but I'm sure it's frustrating them now...
Now I'm working on the problem with my adviser. Why still work on it if my friend proved it last year? Yeah, his proof had an error too (although, in my opinion, a much less serious error than the guy who actually got his proof published...), so, more frustration.
We've been working on it a few weeks and we came up with a nice proof Tuesday to the part we had left. Excitement. I typed it up and noticed... nope. Mistake. It wasn't valid. So yesterday, one last time, I solved it. Elation. Relief. I went to a mushroom festival with Sharayah, even. Ok, I would have gone with her anyway, but still. Anyway, when I got home and reread it... No. Wrong. This problem. It's so stupid. Frustration.
So, I'm back to square one again.
Things I learned at the mushroom festival while I still thought my problem was solved: There are a lot of people who really, really like mushrooms. There are many, many different foods you can make with mushrooms. Mushrooms are sometimes grown from a bag of oats or rice or wheat or... lots of other grains depending on the mushrooms, and I think some other stuff was in there too, and they just let the fungus grow in it, and then it starts poking holes in the bag to grow out of it. There are also other (perhaps less weird) ways they grow some types of mushrooms. There are pink mushrooms. There are yellow mushrooms. There are not that many foods sold at a mushroom festival for someone who does not eat mushrooms. Oh! But I ate a frozen banana dipped in dark chocolate. They had a person in a banana suit at their booth. It was like I stepped right into Arrested Development. Without the dysfunctional family part. So. A++, would go again.
Sharayah and I have typically used separate toothpaste. Weird, I know. We just each had the kind that we liked to use when we got married, and we kept replacing them until that was just what we did. So we had separate toothpaste. No big deal. Anyway mine ran out recently and I haven't gotten around to replacing it yet so I've been using Sharayah's and you guys she squeezes it right in the middle of the tube. I mean, she really just goes at it. Just squashes the thing, right in the middle. So every day I slowly squish it all back to the front and squirt out my toothpaste like a civilized person, and every day she smashes it all back to the back. Oddly enough (because I've heard of couples fighting over this sort of silly thing), I think it's pretty funny. But, I may get my own tube again sometime.
8.25.2013
foreshadowing
I go through weird phases.
One particular thing that I phase through every few years or so [and more often when I was younger] is my handwriting. This was much more noticeable in my pre-college years as I did much more hand writing than keyboard writing. I loved writing terribly thought out things just for the sake of going through the physical motions of writing. [There may also be some kind of link between this and my silly infatuation with pens/pencils/other office supplies...] I would often deliberately change certain aspects of my handwriting just because one day it struck me to do so, and I would consistently use it until my brain said otherwise. It may be hard to visualize the examples that I'm about to awesomely bullet-point, but... do your best.
Just FYI, there were also some unwritten rules in my head regarding changes to my handwriting. To name a few...
And against all logic, I am still a firm believer in my number 1 rule of handwriting: The tinier, the better. At this, I am a pro. I am a handwriting fiend. The end.*
Moving on. Phase 2.
I like names in general. I dislike certain names in the specific. I can become rather obsessed with names that catch my fancy. When I was younger [oh my bovine, has it really been 14 years?], I had an out-of-control list of names that I really liked. But what's one to do with all of these names and no real people to connect them with? Easy peasy: Write a story with 50+ "main" characters. This, folks, is how good writing is born.
I had a problem, however. As time went on, my awesome names started sounding less than awesome. And if I no longer liked the name as much, I no longer cared about the character as much. What's a writer to do then? Peas! Just demote them to become a secondary character! Ah, writers have so much power. Ah, my "likes" are so phase-prone.
But here I am now. Nearly an a-dult. Murried off to a mathman. My childhood stories now reduced to gathering dust under my nightstand. But I still like names. I constantly have a running list of "favorite" names in my head, and about once a week, I'll randomly ask Jason, "What do you think of the name ___?" in the hopes that he will validate my current consideration for the Elite List of Names.
I don't think he understands the game. But he generally humors me with his input.
So, here I am now. My Elite List waxes and wanes, bringing in new awesomes and kicking out the what-was-I-thinking?'s on a semi-regular basis. I need to solidify this list somehow. Instead of story-ing them to life, I have decided that I will rename the Elite List to now and forever more be called The Future Half-Asians. This list just became real, yo.
Sure, this means Thaddeus is no longer a candidate, as well as Methuselah and Jupiter Moon!, but I have gradually come to terms with this. I do not think I would ever deliberately invoke a lifetime of mockery upon my child just for the sake of my passing entertainment. [And even if I would (I wouldn't!), I have Jason who most definitely has enough mercy (and final say) for the both of us.]
With that said, however, sometimes my brain explodes with all of the tantalizing options out there [only correctly spelled, symbol-free, and pasture-fed names are eligible, of course]. A conundrum that Jason and I have encountered is that we tend to like first and second name combinations that sound extremely... ethnic? cultural? tastily flavored from an identifiable region? Whatever the reason, I am afraid [and unbelievably entertained] that our kids might end up with names that would give me another option for family photo arrangement: Country of Nominal Origin.
It is late and we have had an extremely fun but exhausting date day, so I know that my brain has jumped tracks and now this post is not very cohesive and is really rambling and seemingly pointless but there's nothing I can really do about that at this point so I suppose I should just stop the madness ASAP. Just know, there was a point to all of this, and I think it had to do with knowing when something is "good forever" or just "good for the moment." It's hard to say. The point may have been something even more vague. I'm sleepy.
*Despite being Asian, I have yet to try my hand at inscribing poetry on grains of rice, but if you disregard this tiny [ha!] fact, "I am a pro" still stands true.
One particular thing that I phase through every few years or so [and more often when I was younger] is my handwriting. This was much more noticeable in my pre-college years as I did much more hand writing than keyboard writing. I loved writing terribly thought out things just for the sake of going through the physical motions of writing. [There may also be some kind of link between this and my silly infatuation with pens/pencils/other office supplies...] I would often deliberately change certain aspects of my handwriting just because one day it struck me to do so, and I would consistently use it until my brain said otherwise. It may be hard to visualize the examples that I'm about to awesomely bullet-point, but... do your best.
- Use a large lowercase rounded Y as a capital Y.
- Connect the large lowercase rounded Y to the next letter.
- Use a rounded lowercase Y.
- Use a sharp lowercase Y.
- Connect lowercase Y's to the next letter.
- Don't connect lowercase Y's to the next letter.
- Use a rounded capital W.
- Use a rounded lowercase W.
- Use a capital U with no tail.
- Use a lowercase U with no tail.
- Use a spurred capital G.
- Use a curved tail on a lowercase Q.
- Use a sharp tail on a lowercase Q.
- Use a lemur tail on a lowercase Q.
- Use a lemur tail on a lowercase G.
- Use a rounded bottom lowercase T.
- Use a straight-lined lowercase T.
- Use a cursive capital I when writing print.
- Use a print capital I when writing cursive.
- Connect lowercase X's to the next letter.
- Strike through Z's.
- Strike through 7's.
- Strike through 0's.
- Don't strike through anything.
- Add head and feet to 1's.
- Use rounded 2's.
- Use sharp 2's.
- Make 2's look like Z's.
- Only use cursive.
- Only use print.
- Only use small caps.
And I am fully aware that this is an entirely incomplete list. But it gives you an idea of the phases my handwriting went through. I wish I could say that I now find this type of thing beyond silly and "What in the world was I thinking?" but... I am afraid this would be an untruth. I still like doing this. I like taking one little thing and changing it and seeing what happens. I would test run a couple changes at a time for a few months and then add in something new or revert back to something old and keep going.
Rest assured, I generally got rid of the stupid ideas [i.e. lemur tails].
Looking through pages of inane teenage writings, I find it entertaining [probably more than I should] to see how differently my handwriting style looked from one year to the next because of these little tweaks. I am weird. I accept this. We will be better friends if you accept this, too.
Just FYI, there were also some unwritten rules in my head regarding changes to my handwriting. To name a few...
- NEVER MAKE 5's LOOK LIKE S's.
- NEVER DOT I's WITH HEARTS.
- NEVER HAVE LOWERCASE LETTERS CAP HEIGHT.
- NEVER MAKE SNOWMEN 8's.
- THAT IS NOT A SIGNATURE.
And against all logic, I am still a firm believer in my number 1 rule of handwriting: The tinier, the better. At this, I am a pro. I am a handwriting fiend. The end.*
Moving on. Phase 2.
I like names in general. I dislike certain names in the specific. I can become rather obsessed with names that catch my fancy. When I was younger [oh my bovine, has it really been 14 years?], I had an out-of-control list of names that I really liked. But what's one to do with all of these names and no real people to connect them with? Easy peasy: Write a story with 50+ "main" characters. This, folks, is how good writing is born.
I had a problem, however. As time went on, my awesome names started sounding less than awesome. And if I no longer liked the name as much, I no longer cared about the character as much. What's a writer to do then? Peas! Just demote them to become a secondary character! Ah, writers have so much power. Ah, my "likes" are so phase-prone.
But here I am now. Nearly an a-dult. Murried off to a mathman. My childhood stories now reduced to gathering dust under my nightstand. But I still like names. I constantly have a running list of "favorite" names in my head, and about once a week, I'll randomly ask Jason, "What do you think of the name ___?" in the hopes that he will validate my current consideration for the Elite List of Names.
I don't think he understands the game. But he generally humors me with his input.
So, here I am now. My Elite List waxes and wanes, bringing in new awesomes and kicking out the what-was-I-thinking?'s on a semi-regular basis. I need to solidify this list somehow. Instead of story-ing them to life, I have decided that I will rename the Elite List to now and forever more be called The Future Half-Asians. This list just became real, yo.
Sure, this means Thaddeus is no longer a candidate, as well as Methuselah and Jupiter Moon!, but I have gradually come to terms with this. I do not think I would ever deliberately invoke a lifetime of mockery upon my child just for the sake of my passing entertainment. [And even if I would (I wouldn't!), I have Jason who most definitely has enough mercy (and final say) for the both of us.]
With that said, however, sometimes my brain explodes with all of the tantalizing options out there [only correctly spelled, symbol-free, and pasture-fed names are eligible, of course]. A conundrum that Jason and I have encountered is that we tend to like first and second name combinations that sound extremely... ethnic? cultural? tastily flavored from an identifiable region? Whatever the reason, I am afraid [and unbelievably entertained] that our kids might end up with names that would give me another option for family photo arrangement: Country of Nominal Origin.
It is late and we have had an extremely fun but exhausting date day, so I know that my brain has jumped tracks and now this post is not very cohesive and is really rambling and seemingly pointless but there's nothing I can really do about that at this point so I suppose I should just stop the madness ASAP. Just know, there was a point to all of this, and I think it had to do with knowing when something is "good forever" or just "good for the moment." It's hard to say. The point may have been something even more vague. I'm sleepy.
 |
| You know you want one. A pig pillow bed, that is. Oh, and the kitten. |
*Despite being Asian, I have yet to try my hand at inscribing poetry on grains of rice, but if you disregard this tiny [ha!] fact, "I am a pro" still stands true.
8.20.2013
boom (crack, snap)
Last week we awoke to the glorious sound of a thunderstorm. Not since living in Texas have I heard such a lovely storm. I really find it peaceful and relaxing to hear the pouring rain and distant thunder rolling. We have thunder here sometimes, too. It's just not remotely the same. It's always very timid and very brief. This storm was like the ones I grew up with.
Apparently that's because it was right on top of us. Our building was hit by lightning (so they fire department says, though they couldn't find where it hit). It was an unbelievably loud boom, followed by (the astute will have guessed) a crack and a snap. Maybe two cracks, or two snaps? Those two I think are similar in this context. Anyway the fire department showed up because people in the upper floors reported smoke and/or sparks. Panther reacted to the noises of the firemen and maintenance guys outside by slinking into our bedroom and yowling quite peculiarly, while puma got into the cabinets where we store beans and potatoes and hid behind those (actually a very effective hiding spot, but he was in a lot of trouble for it).
The firemen never found any fire, though they did knock a hole in the wall somewhere (not in our unit, but we'll get holes in our walls soon, so don't worry). By the time they were wrapping up, it was starting to smell like gas in our apartment. I told one of the maintenance guys who was milling about, and he got a fireman to come check it out with one of their little gas detectors. It didn't show any gas. Huh. They thought the smell might be something to do with the sprinklers that had gone of in some units (thankfully not ours!). Apparently sometimes the water sits in a tank somewhere for a very long time and often gets really gross. I never knew that. So they left.
By then it was time to get to work, but alas, our cable modem wasn't working. Probably related to the lightning. It must have gotten a power surge or something. I spent a while trying to get it to work (it still turned on, it just didn't work anymore), but eventually gave up and had to go buy a new one. Throughout the day we continued to smell what we thought was gas. We opened the window in the evening to get rid of whatever the smell was. That night we discovered that the TV had also fallen victim to the lightning. I try not to be materialistic, but this was actually pretty sad. We can't really go buying a new TV every couple years. We only got this one from saving up money from Christmas and birthdays. Sigh.
The next morning a guy from the gas company came by because enough people in the building had complained of smelling gas in their units that they believed us that maybe the fireman had been wrong the previous day. Yeah, we had a gas leak. It was somewhere in the actual gas line inside the walls. Apparently most of the gas was getting into the apartments above us, since the leak was inside the walls. Still, there was enough in our unit to detect it. Cue holes in the wall. At least they were interior walls. First they knocked some holes with a hammer, and later that day someone came to make a path in the wall for a new gas line to be installed. Basically he cut a 1ft tall opening in the wall from the laundry room to the back bathroom to the exterior wall, where they'd later drill a hole for the new gas line.
That was on Wednesday, so I guess now it's been a week since they cut the gap in our wall. The guy finally came back yesterday to put the gas line in. Now we have to wait for someone in the county to inspect it before they can fix the wall and turn back on the gas. I'm guessing the inspector (who works for the government) will take even longer to show up than the contractor who put in the gas line, so who knows when we'll have a wall. Honestly, we're not worried about the wall. It's kind of funny, and isn't going to cost us anything.
Meanwhile, our renters insurance told us they would cover the TV and the modem, although they wanted us to first take the TV to a repair place and get an estimate to see if it can be fixed. If it's fixable, then probably it will barely cost more than the deductible so I don't even know if we'll do it. But we still don't know, because TV repair places apparently take at least as long to give an estimate as contractors take to come install gas lines. We also don't know whether our Wii and Xbox 360 are working, because we have no TV to plug them into. They both turn on, but so did the TV. At least it pretended to. Made that clicking noise. Lit up the little light around the power button. Then nothing, the screen never came on. So for all we know those are also busted.
At any rate, we're still alive. The gas leak didn't cause us any harm and the stuff that was damaged was just stuff. Plus, I got the TV box out of the back of the closet when we took the TV to the repair place, and now we're using it to block the kitchen from Puma. He does not like it ("It's super effective!"). But. I don't really know how to feel about thunderstorms anymore.
I'll stand
Apparently that's because it was right on top of us. Our building was hit by lightning (so they fire department says, though they couldn't find where it hit). It was an unbelievably loud boom, followed by (the astute will have guessed) a crack and a snap. Maybe two cracks, or two snaps? Those two I think are similar in this context. Anyway the fire department showed up because people in the upper floors reported smoke and/or sparks. Panther reacted to the noises of the firemen and maintenance guys outside by slinking into our bedroom and yowling quite peculiarly, while puma got into the cabinets where we store beans and potatoes and hid behind those (actually a very effective hiding spot, but he was in a lot of trouble for it).
The firemen never found any fire, though they did knock a hole in the wall somewhere (not in our unit, but we'll get holes in our walls soon, so don't worry). By the time they were wrapping up, it was starting to smell like gas in our apartment. I told one of the maintenance guys who was milling about, and he got a fireman to come check it out with one of their little gas detectors. It didn't show any gas. Huh. They thought the smell might be something to do with the sprinklers that had gone of in some units (thankfully not ours!). Apparently sometimes the water sits in a tank somewhere for a very long time and often gets really gross. I never knew that. So they left.
By then it was time to get to work, but alas, our cable modem wasn't working. Probably related to the lightning. It must have gotten a power surge or something. I spent a while trying to get it to work (it still turned on, it just didn't work anymore), but eventually gave up and had to go buy a new one. Throughout the day we continued to smell what we thought was gas. We opened the window in the evening to get rid of whatever the smell was. That night we discovered that the TV had also fallen victim to the lightning. I try not to be materialistic, but this was actually pretty sad. We can't really go buying a new TV every couple years. We only got this one from saving up money from Christmas and birthdays. Sigh.
The next morning a guy from the gas company came by because enough people in the building had complained of smelling gas in their units that they believed us that maybe the fireman had been wrong the previous day. Yeah, we had a gas leak. It was somewhere in the actual gas line inside the walls. Apparently most of the gas was getting into the apartments above us, since the leak was inside the walls. Still, there was enough in our unit to detect it. Cue holes in the wall. At least they were interior walls. First they knocked some holes with a hammer, and later that day someone came to make a path in the wall for a new gas line to be installed. Basically he cut a 1ft tall opening in the wall from the laundry room to the back bathroom to the exterior wall, where they'd later drill a hole for the new gas line.
That was on Wednesday, so I guess now it's been a week since they cut the gap in our wall. The guy finally came back yesterday to put the gas line in. Now we have to wait for someone in the county to inspect it before they can fix the wall and turn back on the gas. I'm guessing the inspector (who works for the government) will take even longer to show up than the contractor who put in the gas line, so who knows when we'll have a wall. Honestly, we're not worried about the wall. It's kind of funny, and isn't going to cost us anything.
Meanwhile, our renters insurance told us they would cover the TV and the modem, although they wanted us to first take the TV to a repair place and get an estimate to see if it can be fixed. If it's fixable, then probably it will barely cost more than the deductible so I don't even know if we'll do it. But we still don't know, because TV repair places apparently take at least as long to give an estimate as contractors take to come install gas lines. We also don't know whether our Wii and Xbox 360 are working, because we have no TV to plug them into. They both turn on, but so did the TV. At least it pretended to. Made that clicking noise. Lit up the little light around the power button. Then nothing, the screen never came on. So for all we know those are also busted.
At any rate, we're still alive. The gas leak didn't cause us any harm and the stuff that was damaged was just stuff. Plus, I got the TV box out of the back of the closet when we took the TV to the repair place, and now we're using it to block the kitchen from Puma. He does not like it ("It's super effective!"). But. I don't really know how to feel about thunderstorms anymore.
I'll stand
8.11.2013
state of mind
<begin ramble>
Welp. The transcription world has been pretty consistently frustrating for the past few weeks. Jason has been rising early to teach his summer calculus class while still banging his head on his desk routinely in the afternoon about his research. The black cat graces us each morning with his pleasant piles of presents outside the litter box. Ants continue to investigate our apartment's entryway. The gray cat sits on our cutting board and contaminates our vegetables with his long hairs. I have a tiny red spot on my chin that seems as noticeable as a volcano spewing crocodiles. People have terrible driving habits. My hair is an untamed jungle. People are inconsiderate. Jason's hair is a desert without an oasis. People are illogical.
Sometimes it all builds up to the point of the tiniest thing seeming insurmountably aggravating. I want to gripe. Complain. Cry. Be angry. Quit. Curl up in a ball. Just make everything go away.
But I know deep inside [and really, I don't have to dig that deep inside] that my current perception of the world isn't all that accurate. I know life is good. It is. I just need to reorient my head.
I may need to put in some extra hours in the evenings to make up for the sparse daytime production, but I never come up short by the end of the week so I just need to quit stressing over it. Jason has to put in a lot of hours, but he is making progress towards his PhD and that's all he needs to feel responsible for, and with the close of yet another summer session, X number of students now have a better understanding [if not appreciation] of calculus because of him. Panther is an animal who just wanders about our house [yes, Jason and I both consider animals living freely in our place as just a very fascinating thing, for whatever reason]. While we do have ants visit us from time to time, we also have a praying mantis who lives on our screen door who eats other gross bugs for us. Win. [Though I do not advise watching the consumption process as it really grossed me out.] Puma is an adorable fluff monster who purrs me to sleep every night. Red spots disappear; volcanoes spewing crocs do not. We are alive and safe. Chopping my own hairs is a joy. More opportunities to practice kindness should be met with a smile. I like Jason's head. Illogical opinions or actions do not have to affect my logical choices.
And really... Life is good. We have had absolutely delicious meals of late and our refrigerator is stocked unbelievably full of tasty things. Each mealtime is exciting and just thinking of it makes my mouth water. We have adorable miniature calendars that not only make me happy when I see them and when I get to mark a day or task off but which also make me happy because they have added some much needed routine to our lives in various little ways. Our moods can be easily lifted by a spontaneous waltz around our apartment, some time spent lying on the floor, or [for me] letting my arms and legs dangle freely [this is one of those "you have to be there" kind of things] or spinning or spooning or pretending to be choo-choo training in the dark. We have our plans and our spreadsheets and our bottles of randomness and our laughter and our health and our peace of mind.
Life is good, and my personal goal is to minimize my lapses into the negative world of complaining. It really is just a state of mind and one that I have full control over. Nothing comes from griping. It's a complete waste of time. There is good if I choose to see it.
<end ramble>
Welp. The transcription world has been pretty consistently frustrating for the past few weeks. Jason has been rising early to teach his summer calculus class while still banging his head on his desk routinely in the afternoon about his research. The black cat graces us each morning with his pleasant piles of presents outside the litter box. Ants continue to investigate our apartment's entryway. The gray cat sits on our cutting board and contaminates our vegetables with his long hairs. I have a tiny red spot on my chin that seems as noticeable as a volcano spewing crocodiles. People have terrible driving habits. My hair is an untamed jungle. People are inconsiderate. Jason's hair is a desert without an oasis. People are illogical.
Sometimes it all builds up to the point of the tiniest thing seeming insurmountably aggravating. I want to gripe. Complain. Cry. Be angry. Quit. Curl up in a ball. Just make everything go away.
But I know deep inside [and really, I don't have to dig that deep inside] that my current perception of the world isn't all that accurate. I know life is good. It is. I just need to reorient my head.
I may need to put in some extra hours in the evenings to make up for the sparse daytime production, but I never come up short by the end of the week so I just need to quit stressing over it. Jason has to put in a lot of hours, but he is making progress towards his PhD and that's all he needs to feel responsible for, and with the close of yet another summer session, X number of students now have a better understanding [if not appreciation] of calculus because of him. Panther is an animal who just wanders about our house [yes, Jason and I both consider animals living freely in our place as just a very fascinating thing, for whatever reason]. While we do have ants visit us from time to time, we also have a praying mantis who lives on our screen door who eats other gross bugs for us. Win. [Though I do not advise watching the consumption process as it really grossed me out.] Puma is an adorable fluff monster who purrs me to sleep every night. Red spots disappear; volcanoes spewing crocs do not. We are alive and safe. Chopping my own hairs is a joy. More opportunities to practice kindness should be met with a smile. I like Jason's head. Illogical opinions or actions do not have to affect my logical choices.
And really... Life is good. We have had absolutely delicious meals of late and our refrigerator is stocked unbelievably full of tasty things. Each mealtime is exciting and just thinking of it makes my mouth water. We have adorable miniature calendars that not only make me happy when I see them and when I get to mark a day or task off but which also make me happy because they have added some much needed routine to our lives in various little ways. Our moods can be easily lifted by a spontaneous waltz around our apartment, some time spent lying on the floor, or [for me] letting my arms and legs dangle freely [this is one of those "you have to be there" kind of things] or spinning or spooning or pretending to be choo-choo training in the dark. We have our plans and our spreadsheets and our bottles of randomness and our laughter and our health and our peace of mind.
Life is good, and my personal goal is to minimize my lapses into the negative world of complaining. It really is just a state of mind and one that I have full control over. Nothing comes from griping. It's a complete waste of time. There is good if I choose to see it.
<end ramble>
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| It all depends on how you look at it. |
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