tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6387323954052517832024-03-19T02:54:08.801-07:00Mumbling IncoherentlyUnknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger22125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-24321955206050782011-06-04T17:46:00.000-07:002011-06-04T17:52:21.778-07:00The neighbor storySome background.<br />
<br />
Layout of our side of the street:<br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: blue;">[Our house]</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">[John & Beth]</span> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: #274e13;">[The Dillons] </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="color: red;">[John & Beth II]</span><br />
<br />
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: x-small;">(We love the Dillons. When we moved in, they warned us that Beth was a whackjob- but I hardly knew the Dillons and decided to try to make up my own mind.)</span><br />
<br />
So, the house to our left is the house where Beth grew up and where her mother lived until she passed away. Beth and John had been living in a house on the other side of the Dillons ("John & Beth II"), but when Beth's mother passed, they decided to occupy her house as well. They now live in BOTH houses.<br />
<br />
Here's why:<br />
<br />
Have you seen that show "<a href="http://www.aetv.com/hoarders/">Hoarders</a>"? That's Beth. Their living room is beyond belief. BOTH their houses are packed full. According to the Dillons, John works two jobs AND spends most his time at the other house just to keep away from Beth. Any time we've heard Beth speak to him, she is condescending and nasty...but he seems okay with that. He does everything she tells him to do.<br />
<br />
Anyway.<br />
<br />
Our neighborhood was mostly built in the 1920s, so lots are small and very close together.<br />
<br />
When Beth's mother's mobility became impaired (a couple decades ago), they built a wheelchair ramp for her. It was illegal in that it was built RIGHT on the property line and hasn't been used for anything but storing hoarded crap for at least 10 years, but we never minded- it never really got in our way, even though it is immediately on the edge of our driveway and made it hard to get out of the car on the passenger side. It is falling apart.<br />
<br />
What DID get in the way was Beth's lilac trees. They're huge and overgrown and prevented us from pulling more than halfway up our driveway. When I asked her to trim them so we could use our driveway, she said: "You don't need to pull up that far!"<br />
<br />
I shit you not. She told us to adjust our expectations about being able to use the entirety of our driveway because she didn't want to trim her trees. I let it go, resolving to figure out later how to handle it without creating tension with a neighbor.<br />
<br />
After a couple of years of asking and getting no response, my Mother-on-law lost patience and lopped off the lilac branches that most impaired our ability to use our driveway. Beth was furious, but I assured her that we would continue to ask her first before taking action ourselves.<br />
<br />
Our 3-year-old son has some gross motor deficits. To the casual observer, he's just very, very clumsy. We worry, though, about obstacles that are even more dangerous to him than to most kids his age.<br />
<br />
Between the ramp, the overgrown lilacs, and the brush Beth planted under the (illegal) ramp, our 3-year-old tripped and fell a lot. I ripped two dress shirts on the rosebush she never bothered to prune. Lilac branches thwapped our living room wall when it was windy. I got scratched in the face several times by lilac branches and started to wonder if my clumsy son would make it to kindergarten with both eyes intact. I spoke to Beth about it. She ignored me.<br />
<br />
So, after seven years of putting up with her, I got fed up.<br />
<br />
Conservatively estimating the property line, I trimmed the hell out of her lilacs, trimmed her rosebush (only on the side where it was growing over the property line), and trimmed the brush under the wheelchair ramp so that Simon could get out of the car without serious risk of injury. There was still way too much crap in the way and I'd have to trim again every 6 weeks or so, but I figured it'd suffice.<br />
<br />
Beth noticed after a couple of days and caught me outside. She started to nastily chastise me for trimming past our property line. <b>She was adamant that THIS was her problem- that I'd passed the property line.</b> I calmly stated that I thought I'd been very conservative on that point, but that I'd dig out the records and get back to her.<br />
<br />
On review of those records, I found out I'd been RIDICULOUSLY conservative. We own about two feet further than she thought AND we own about 34 square feet that is currently fenced as a part of THEIR yard.<br />
<br />
Armed with this information, I finished killing the weedy, overgrown brush under the (illegal) ramp and cut back her lilacs to the actual property line. As an illustration for her, I strung some orange tape where the property line actually was so he could see it clearly.<br />
<br />
She came over to our house in a rage. As our son sat inside watching Diego, I stepped out onto the porch to talk with her, determined to keep my cool no matter what.<br />
<br />
She lit into me the way she talks to her husband, but more viciously. She's an elementary school teacher, and I imagine this tone is also in frequent use with students she dislikes. I tried to answer some of the things she said, but she cut me off, so I waited until she came to a longish pause in her tirade.<br />
<br />
"May I speak now, Beth?"<br />
<br />
I showed her the documentation from the courthouse showing where the property line actually was, and she could SEE we own 34 square feet of what she thought was her backyard. She turned red.<br />
<br />
All of a sudden, she didn't care about the legality issue- she just cared that I was rude, and she launched into another few paragraphs of berating me like a very, very naughty child. She lectured me repeatedly about how it was my responsibility to remind her to trim her trees and bushes and crap. I so pity her students.<br />
<br />
When she again came to a longish pause, I said something like:<br />
<br />
"Beth, I believe I've told you previously that our son has some gross motor deficits. As an elementary school teacher, I'm guessing you understand what that means and might appreciate why we're especially concerned for his safety..."<br />
<br />
She rattled off another few paragraphs of nasty about how it was my job to remind her to trim her plants.<br />
<br />
"Beth, I've asked you repeatedly to take care of these things. When it became clear to me that you wouldn't, I acted within my legal and ethical rights to deal with it myself..."<br />
<br />
She spent another few minutes lecturing me on my responsibilities, spittle flying out of her mouth as she got her steam going and got nastier.<br />
<br />
"Beth. BETH! It is not my responsibility to remind you to control your overgrowth..."<br />
<br />
"IT'S NOT OVERGROWTH!"<br />
<br />
"It crosses the property line and prevents me from making use of my own property- it is <i>by definition</i> overgrowth..."<br />
<br />
She started to interrupt me, but this time <b>I</b> cut <b>her </b>off.<br />
<br />
"...Rather, it is YOUR responsibility to show some common courtesy and trim your overgrowth. When you fail in that responsibility, it is my right to deal with it myself..."<br />
<br />
She tried again in vain to interrupt, but now I was getting a head of steam and my voice got very loud. Not shouting, but very loud. Seemingly unaware that I was ABLE to raise my voice, she shut up.<br />
<br />
"...and if you are unable to appreciate why my child's safety is more important to me than the delicate, irrational sensibilities of my inconsiderate neighbor, <b>you can go to hell</b>."<br />
<br />
And I slammed the door in her face.<br />
<br />
5 minutes later, I look out the window and see her berating my wife.<br />
<br />
I went out there and stood behind my wife, folding my arms and fixing her with an unsmiling stare.<br />
<br />
"Beth, I won't allow you to scold any member of my household as if you have any ground - legal, ethical, or rational - to stand on. You do not, and I won't tolerate your rudeness."<br />
<br />
She went apeshit about how I was the one to tell her to go to hell. I admitted this was true, but stood by my assertion that, when someone is being an asshole of this type, telling them to go to hell is the only rational course of action.<br />
<br />
She stormed off, shouting "I hope you enjoy your extra three inches!!"<br />
<br />
I measured with my hands the width we'd gained to our driveway. It was about two feet. I held my hands up at that same distance, making sure she could see them. To a neighbor across the street, seeing this scene through a closed window, I might have been bragging about the size of a fish I caught.<br />
<br />
"THIS is 3 inches, Beth? Jesus. Lucky John!"<br />
<br />
She'd upset my wife enough to cause tears. She made clear that my child's safety was of no concern to her. She was nasty. All this on top of seven years of being an inconsiderate neighbor.<br />
<br />
So, I have decided to document all their (numerous) violations for code enforcement. I'm really a very nice neighbor (ask any of our other neighbors)- but now she's got me pissed.<br />
<br />
The Dillons came over last night to share a bottle of wine with me on our front porch while I told them this story. They laughed their asses off.<br />
<br />
"You're not going to let her drive you into moving, are you?"<br />
<br />
"Hell, no. I'm going to wear her out so badly that she'll not even want to SPEAK to me, much less be rude to me or say an unkind word. I can be more persistent and much more devious. She'll learn that it is easier for her to avoid having to deal with me entirely."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-23236024889485635142010-04-15T07:45:00.001-07:002010-04-15T07:45:56.613-07:00Music. Parents.I remember being on the phone with parents while I was in college.<br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> "Oh, Dad- I heard this band I think you'd like and should check out."<br />
<br />
<b>Mom:</b> "What, *I* wouldn't like them? Why just tell your Dad?" <br />
<br />
<b>Me:</b> "Because Dad has many, varied and complex opinions on music. You only have two opinions: 'that's fine' or 'it's too loud.'<br />
<br />
<b>Dad:</b> [Failed attempt to mute laughter]Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-70309695709118451692010-03-08T06:15:00.000-08:002010-03-08T06:15:07.095-08:00A Playlist for Bob<object width="250" height="400"> <param name="movie" value="http://listen.grooveshark.com/widget.swf"></param><param name="wmode" value="window"></param><param name="allowScriptAccess" value="always"></param><param name="flashvars" value="hostname=cowbell.grooveshark.com&widgetID=20383361&style=metal&bbg=000000&bt=FFFFFF&bfg=666666&p=0"></param><embed src="http://listen.grooveshark.com/widget.swf" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" width="250" height="400" flashvars="hostname=cowbell.grooveshark.com&widgetID=20383361&style=metal&bbg=000000&bt=FFFFFF&bfg=666666&p=0" allowScriptAccess="always" wmode="window"></embed></object>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-48696084312420674602010-02-18T08:26:00.000-08:002010-02-18T08:26:35.034-08:00A thought about Ash Wednesday (Mostly for Chadwick)Every year, seeing smudgey crosses on the foreheads of co-workers reminds me what time of year it is and what day it is. This year, I decided to do a little research on the mark of the cross.<br />
<br />
My understanding is that priests give the mark while giving a short "ashes-to-ashes" recitation (<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 19px;">"Remember Man that you are dust and unto dust you shall return.")<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: 'Times New Roman'; font-size: medium; line-height: normal;">. So it appears to be a <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Memento_mori">memento mori</a>, a reminder of one's own mortality.</span></span><br />
<br />
This made me think: The Eastern analogue of this is "the transience of all things" found in Buddhism, Hinduism, and Taoism.<br />
<br />
So what's the difference between the two? I think the Western view focuses on the finite and self, while the Eastern view focuses on the infinite and outside the self.<br />
<br />
For reasons I don't entirely understand, I think I prefer the Eastern view.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-64124459203352283782009-04-26T18:28:00.000-07:002009-04-26T18:35:32.635-07:00Gregory House, MD on Judaism<i>Watching the backlog of DVR'd HOUSE episodes while working on some other stuff. In one, Cuddy invites House to her child's baby-naming ceremony, which House calls "a time-honored tradition dating all the way back to the 1960s."</i><br /><br />"...Nothing like welcoming a baby into the world with a completely naked display of hypocrisy."<br /><br /><i>Later:</i><br /><br /><b>Cuddy:</b> And there's nothing hypocritical about recognizing your heritage.<br /><br /><b>House:</b> So you keeping kosher now, wearing four-cornered garments, slaughtering heifers to the god Ra? <br /><br />[Pause] <br /><br />Wait, is that one your people?<br /><br />[Pause]<br /><br />Do it all, do nothing, or option "c"-- you're a liar and a hypocrite.<br /><br /><i>Huh. This is pretty much how I feel.</i>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-37996122830227161172009-04-10T08:52:00.001-07:002009-04-10T09:31:21.118-07:00My Gramma ConnieConnie had, as she herself put it, a shitty childhood spent mostly in the homes of foster parents who took foster children as a supplementary source of income.<br /><br />I remember her as someone who spent her entire adult life trying to learn to stop holding grudges. She mostly succeeded, I think.<br /><br />Her husband died in a botched procedure at the VA hospital when her oldest son (my father) was 17. She also had a 15-year-old and a 9-year-old.<br /><br />In her later years, she would only speak of her deceased husband in glowing terms, as though he was some sort of Jewish saint. My father, however, recalls that his folks yelled at each other a lot.<br /><br />I saw 'The Color Purple' with Connie in the theatre. "You know what I like about <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Whoopi</span> Goldberg? I like when she says the word 'shit.' From most people, it would be vulgar. From her, it sounds like poetry."<br /><br />Connie stopped speaking to me for years after my Bar Mitzvah. My maternal great uncle Phil's racist use of the word "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">schvartze</span>" (in this context, the word is Yiddish for "nigger") had upset me and I had shouted at him that it was bad enough for any American to be a racist- but that for a Jewish man who lived through World War II to be a racist was despicable and he should be ashamed of himself. Connie wasn't related to Phil and didn't especially like him, but she thought I showed an unacceptable lack of respect for my elders...and pretty much didn't speak to me for years.<br /><br />We started talking again on the phone years later when I was in my 20s. I'd changed, she said. "You used to be a little shit, but you know what? I think you grew out of it."<br /><br />Our long phone conversations mostly consisted of my asking her broad questions and listening to her long answers. She was happy to share her memories and was an entertaining storyteller. I learned a lot about my grandfather who'd died before my parents ever met and his WWII service in the Marines. I learned what her foster care experiences in New York City were like and heard about what it was like to be pregnant at 17 years of age in her generation. I asked her about her in-laws and her siblings and the neighborhoods she grew up in and she told me stories about my father that I'd never have heard otherwise.<br /><br />Sometimes these stories would overlap or repeat, but that was fine with me. There were always new details and I knew that memory is a long, slow casualty of aging. Eventually, the stories repeated more often.<br /><br />Connie was diagnosed as having some sort of dementia. It could be <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Alzheimer's</span> or a vascular problem, but the diagnosis didn't matter a lot because the treatment and prognosis were the same.<br /><br />My father and mother stepped up and moved Connie to an excellent group home that was a five-minute drive from their home. They flew to her house in Scottsdale, cleaned up her finances (which had become a mess in recent months- Connie had hidden her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">cognitive</span> problems from her <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">family</span> very well), sold her house, and packed up her belongings- taking care to try to send to my father's brothers any items that might be meaningful to them. My father's brothers didn't even say "thank you" or offer to help with this enormous task. I'm not overly fond of them.<br /><br />For the last 5 years, Connie has lived near my parents, been cared for by excellent physicians, and my folks have taken very good care of her as her dementia progressed. The last time I saw her, she definitely recognized me and greeted me warmly with hugs and kisses, but she never attempted to use my name.<br /><br />Now I'm told that she has hours or days left.<br /><br />Last night, I had a dream.<br /><br />My wife and son and I had driven to Detroit for the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">B'nai</span> Mitzvah of my youngest cousins (this is actually going to happen in May. Connie's youngest grandchildren, twins, are turning 13).<br /><br />Connie was there, but it wasn't the thin, frail Connie she's been for the last 5 years or so. This was the larger, louder, fleshier Connie who wore too much eye shadow and, even though she promised my mother that she wouldn't smoke in front of her <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">grandkids</span>, always smelled a little like cigarettes. In the dream, I got to hug her and smell her and tell her I loved her with the <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">confidence</span> that she knew who I was, knew what I was saying, and felt the sincerity of my words.<br /><br />I rarely <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">remember</span> my dreams, so I'm grateful for this one.<br /><br />I've never understood Connie. I've never understood how my father could be her son when they have so little in common, but I have missed her since her mind stopped working. I mourned her then and I find myself mourning her again now that her body is finally following her mind.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-8165105025840774492009-04-03T10:39:00.000-07:002009-04-03T10:52:27.582-07:00I love my brother, but frequently dislike him<span style="font-style: italic;">Chat transcript from today:</span><br /><br /> <div class="chat in"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div style="font-weight: bold;" class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Brother:</span> </span>"Obama holds town hall meeting in France" -- What, is he president of the world, now?</div> </div> <div class="chat out"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span> </span>1. The US president is frequently called "the leader of the free world" since WWII...so...sorta'. Yeah. We lead NATO (the most powerful military alliance in history) and our economy impacts everybody like no other economy does.<br /></div> <div class="msg Nth"><br />2. Bush couldn't speak except with prepared remarks and/or a pre-screened crowd (and even then, Bush couldn't talk intelligently). At least give Obama credit for taking whatever questions anybody has and attempting to answering them.<br /></div> <div class="msg Nth"><br /></div> </div> <div class="chat in"> <div class="msg Nth"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"></span>3. Bush fucked up our relationships with everybody else. Obama is trying to help fix that. Showing that he's listening and NOT being like Bush is important to repair the relationships that Bush broke.<br /><span class="salutation"><br /></span><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Brother:</span></span><span class="salutation"> </span>Obama comes across as a stumbling wreck without a teleprompter<br /><br /></div> </div> <div class="chat out"> <div class="msg Nth"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span></span><span class="salutation"> </span>You're so full of shit. On his worst day, we comes across better than Bush WITH a teleprompter.</div> </div> <div class="chat in"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Brother:</span></span><span class="salutation"> </span>I am not full of shit. O has more "uh"s per minute than any politician I've ever heard speak</div> <div class="msg Nth"><br />He is a lousy extemporaneous speaker</div> </div> <div class="chat out"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><br /></span><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span></span><span class="salutation"> </span>Again: you're full of shit. Want a highlight reel of Bush speaking?</div> </div> <div class="chat in"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><br /></span><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Brother:</span></span><span class="salutation"> </span>You mean a reel taking the worst of the worst? Those exist for anyone</div> </div> <div class="chat out"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><br /></span><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span></span><span class="salutation"> </span>Except you know as well as I do that the man is an idiot and always came off like an idiot.</div> </div> <div class="chat in"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Brother:</span></span><span class="salutation"> </span>Bush came off even dumber than he was<br /><br /></div> </div> <div class="chat out"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span></span><span class="salutation"></span><span class="salutation"> </span>You don't apply the same standards to Obama that you applied to Bush or McCain.<br /></div> </div> <div class="chat in"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Brother:</span></span><span class="salutation"> </span>I don't like Bush.</div> </div> <div class="chat out"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><br /></span><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span></span><span class="salutation"></span><span class="salutation"> </span>You're being intellectually dishonest. If Bush or McCain took extemporaneous questions, you wouldn't criticize them for it. Because Obama did it, you'll snark.<br /></div> </div> <div class="chat in"> <div class="msg 1st"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />Brother:</span></span><span class="salutation"> </span>But that doesn't change the fact that Obama is an empty suit</div> </div> <div class="chat out"> <div class="msg Nth"> <div class="icon"> </div><span class="salutation"><br /></span><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Me:</span></span><span class="salutation"></span><span class="salutation"> </span>You don't like him. I get that. He's not my ideal president either, but stop calling him stupid or empty when you can't back it up. When you can specifically name actions or words of his that you can demonstrate are false or stupid, I'll listen. Until then, you're just blustering the unsupported distaste for him that you cultivate in the insular world of your gunny friends.<br /><br />I'm done talking with you today.<br /><br /></div> </div> <div class="system1st"><span style="color: rgb(127, 127, 0);">You have blocked </span><span class="salutation"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Brother</span></span><span style="color: rgb(127, 127, 0);">. You can no longer see each other online or chat together until you unblock them.</span></div>Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-16232184648432638602009-04-02T12:53:00.000-07:002009-04-02T20:40:17.224-07:00Heteronormative comment from an unexpected sourceMy mother-in-law used to say to my son: "You're going to make some lucky girl very happy someday!" I used to quickly add "...or some lucky guy!"<br /><br />Consequently, my mother-in-law has ceased saying this...which is fine by me.<br /><br />_______<br /><br />Recently, I got email from our friend J that contained this comment about our son:<br /><br /><blockquote>"Looking at some of his pics on your site, wow, he is really growing! And boy, is he going to have to juggle the too many women that are going to fall at his feet!"</blockquote><br /><br />I get that this is a compliment. She's saying that our son is beautiful. I happen to agree.<br /><br />The problem is that I find myself endlessly bothered that <i>J assumes he'll be straight.</i> To make this assumption is to reinforce the idea that being straight is normal and that to NOT be straight is abnormal, aberrant or...well...crooked. Slightly off. Slightly wrong.<br /><br />Here's the kicker: J is a lesbian.<br /><br />J is older than I am by about 15-20 years...so maybe it is a generational thing? Am I expecting too much?<br /><br />_________________<br /><br />Follow-up: Thanks. Yep. Over-reacting. Letting it go. :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-68613384273744702682009-03-24T10:59:00.000-07:002009-03-24T11:51:59.973-07:00Getting Pissy with a VendorOn the phone with a vendor from whom I'd requested an advertised, free, 30-day trial of an information resource on behalf of a department at MPOW.<br /><br />After 30 minutes of my patiently letting her pitch me with sales B.S. (We're already interested in the product! Why would I ask for a trial and quote otherwise?!), I asked for the third time if we could get a quote.<br /><br /><strong>Vendor:</strong> Well, I'd really like for you to have the trial for a week before I tell you that.<br /><br />[Uncomfortable pause]<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> I can understand why, from a sales perspective, you'd feel that way. However, if my internal client evaluates the trial for a week and THEN finds out it is impossibly beyond her budget, she will have wasted a week evaluating it. So we sort of need that information up front.<br /><br /><strong>Vendor:</strong> Well, how much do you have budgeted for [this type of resource]?<br /><br />[Uncomfortable pause]<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> (Slowly and calmly) Lets assume for a moment that I <i>have</i> that information. The quote you give me should be based on what you feel the product's market demand merits. So if I have that kind of information, let us assume that there is no way on earth I'd share it with you. The quote you give us will not be based on how much money is available.<br /><br /><strong>Vendor:</strong> Well, we don't want to devalue our data either.<br /><br /><strong>Me:</strong> Of course not- that's why you set prices based on market demand, not on how much money the prospective client has, especially in this economy. Right now, you're <i>devaluing a prospective client</i>- and I suspect that's even worse for your bottom line than devaluing your data.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-90775722323907061722009-03-21T19:36:00.000-07:002009-03-21T19:55:47.037-07:00If You're Lucky...True story:<br /><br />We were sitting in the lobby of a busy restaurant this evening, waiting to be seated. I saw two elderly women approaching the exterior doors, so I got up to hold the door open.<br /><br />The first woman passed through slowly with her walker, smiling at me as she came through. The second woman moved more quickly than her friend with a cane in her right hand and clear, alert eyes.<br /><br />"Thank you," she said. Then she slowed slightly and spoke quietly as she looked me squarely in the eyes.<br /><br /><strong>"If you're lucky, you'll die before you get old."</strong><br /><br />I was startled by this and just looked at her for a moment. All I could think to say was: "There are worse kinds of luck, aren't there?"<br /><br />She smiled noncommittally and continued on.<br /><br />__________<br /><br />Someone help me understand why I can't stop thinking about this?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-82478803733106960822009-03-17T09:30:00.000-07:002009-03-17T09:52:59.323-07:00Time Turning Anger to PityWhen Liz's father killed himself, just days after Simon was born, I was overcome with anger.<br /><br />Liz has depression and was already at high risk for post-partum depression. I was furious that he'd be such a selfish ass to put her through the grief of his death, especially at such a delicate time.<br /><br />I was furious at what I saw as his enormous selfishness. He didn't seem to care how his death would impact either of his kids.<br /><br />I'm a bit ashamed to admit that when he successfully killed himself (just a week or so after a failed attempt), I had thoughts like "good riddance."<br /><br />After all, his death made my mother-in-law's life much easier. They were in the process of a divorce, and he'd been doing everything possible to intimate her, screw her out of a fair settlement, and bully her. Estate, after all, is much easier to deal with than divorce, and my mother-in-law's collection of life insurance ensured that she would retire with some financial security.<br /><br />As more time passes, the anger fades and is replaced, mostly, by pity and shame that I was so angry.<br /><br />Rick was an unhappy man most of his life. He had an awful childhood. He had chronic health problems (degenerative disc disease and menier's disease) that caused him pain most of his waking moments, deprived him of 70% of his hearing, and kept him from sleeping properly. He was bipolar and unable(/unwilling?) to aggressively treat this mental illness.<br /><br />He had been diagnosed with an "organic brain disease" some time earlier and kept this information from his family. If he had been willing to pursue it, he might have been able to slow the progression and hang on to more of his rational mind (he was an engineer and a history buff with a very active intellect).<br /><br />More and I more, I find myself thinking about how miserable and hopeless he must have felt in order to be able to do what he did. He had to have filled all his prescriptions, bought a bunch of over-the-counter pills, acquired a large amount of water with which to wash the pills down, and swallowed fistful after fistful in a methodical manner.<br /><br />More and I more, I find myself thinking that the right to decide when to die may be the ultimate civil liberty, and I should respect his tragic choice.<br /><br />More and more, I think about my anger towards Rick as a part of wanting to develop more mindfully charitable thinking towards others.<br /><br />I still feel anger over the grief he put my family through at the worst of possible times, but that anger seems more appropriately proportionate now- once facet of more complex feelings about a man, for all his faults, co-created my Liz. I do believe that he loved Liz as well as he could, given his under-treated mental illnesses. When Liz has moments or days of sadness when thinking about her father, a scowl doesn't appear on my face or in my heart. Sympathy does. Pity does.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-28669735662407265912009-03-11T20:52:00.000-07:002009-03-11T20:56:03.985-07:00Awesome Commentary on our Bookvia: http://tinyurl.com/dbtbsm<br /><br />Seriously, read this aloud:<br /><br /><blockquote>"Product Description:<br />Feel same you’re existence sucked downbound into a whirl of never-ending information? Today’s physicians are visaged with newborn advances in penalization and newborn investigate that crapper effect practice, but uncovering the correct aggregation at the correct instance seems resistless in the unceasing fill of technological research. That’s where this illustrated pass module achievement you finished whatever of today’s most multipurpose cyberspace tools, tools that crapper support you find, manage, and tending the aggregation you need, so that it is ever at your fingertips, whether for enduring care, research, practice, or fun."</blockquote><br />Machine-translated to English from German, maybe?<br /><br />Crapper support! Newborn advances in penalization!Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-8632836421066534642009-03-10T19:31:00.000-07:002009-03-10T19:47:58.974-07:00Liz Teases the Gunnies on FacebookI can't stop laughing at this.<br /><br /><em>Here's the cast of characters:</em><br /><br /><strong>Andrew -</strong> My brother, a hard-core gunny<br /><strong>Liz -</strong> My hilarious spouse who likes easy targets<br /><strong>Jamie -</strong> Our beloved friend who believes in gun rights (he's from Texas, a democrat, and an awesome guy), but agrees with us that Andrew takes it a bit far.<br /><br /><em>First, this exchange on Andrew's wall:</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFNQhmoSQ1iWEPT9qWYS67W5oa4vGGpfv8pmTPnMvCTxiueltlnGLndjUPnVu_MTV-hb8-OebnQLfsz76xTwSQzJ7-1DydDTbJg64FsH70i15jIr_OGtcU9GO0UNCagDN0Lw2bg8RvlqF/s1600-h/lizteasesabredits.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 309px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjkFNQhmoSQ1iWEPT9qWYS67W5oa4vGGpfv8pmTPnMvCTxiueltlnGLndjUPnVu_MTV-hb8-OebnQLfsz76xTwSQzJ7-1DydDTbJg64FsH70i15jIr_OGtcU9GO0UNCagDN0Lw2bg8RvlqF/s400/lizteasesabredits.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311754586073702386" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;font-size:100%;" ><br /></span><br /><br /><em>Here's a simultaneous private exchange between Liz and Jamie:</em><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzVOqi9X0iufCpWabuJFHP0WZ3R90oBsHw_glWyhFR-kQM1jClI8ClLU6EqfrwDZpQukYes8SHKJFKCuJpUOsNqbcN6DPS33VibWX49Dodpyv_cSo7J2hVPem6z-aO7UU3IRYvy6R_FdT/s1600-h/lizandjamieedits.png"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 299px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpzVOqi9X0iufCpWabuJFHP0WZ3R90oBsHw_glWyhFR-kQM1jClI8ClLU6EqfrwDZpQukYes8SHKJFKCuJpUOsNqbcN6DPS33VibWX49Dodpyv_cSo7J2hVPem6z-aO7UU3IRYvy6R_FdT/s400/lizandjamieedits.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311754870037071874" border="0" /></a>My wife is awesome.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-71617606910101644552009-02-09T11:21:00.000-08:002009-02-09T12:07:33.172-08:00How to Cope with Unpleasant People at WorkWhen I'm getting angry/frustrated/exasperated by idiotic or mean things people at MPOW do, I have a trick for calming myself down.<br /><br />I remind myself to adopt an <em>Anthropological Perspective</em>.<br /><br />Imagine you're hanging with Jane Goodall and watching a bunch of chimps flinging poop at each other... and at you and Jane.<span style="font-size:78%;"> <span style="color:#990000;">(I should point out that in this exercise, you and Jane are tight and she's told you not to call her "Doctor Goodall.")</span></span><br /><br />Rather than getting upset about getting poop on her safari outfit, Jane turns to you and says, "Isn't that fascinating? They flung poop at us! I wonder what made them do that...it certainly is curious behavior, this flinging of feces. That big one has quite an arm and looks pleased with himself for having hit us from this far away."<br /><br />There's no need to get upset. There's no need to fling poop back- that'd just be childish. There's no need to have an emotional response to this poop-flinging. Just study the behavior and focus on what you can learn from it. You are <em>among</em> the chimps- but you're not one of them.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-727781597874179002009-02-04T10:26:00.000-08:002009-02-04T10:47:18.140-08:00"Girl Stuff"When we visited Minnesota for Thanksgiving, my 5-year-old nephew, Ben, saw me bake cookies, change diapers, and feed Simon. Looking very contemplative as I shaped cookies onto the baking sheet, he asked me:<br /><br />"Do you do a <strong>wot</strong> of giwl stuff, Unca' Dabid?"<br /><br />"Ben, sweetheart, there's no such thing as 'girl stuff,' or 'boy stuff.' Men and women can be teachers, firefighters, doctors, rocket scientists, or hair stylists. Men and women can cook, clean, care for children, and bake delicious cookies. Except for a couple of biological things, there's almost nothing your Mom can do that your Dad can't...and there's almost nothing your daddy can do that your mommy can't."<br /><br /><em>[Long pause while Ben thinks this over]<br /></em><br />"Wot awe th'biowogical things girls can do that boys can't?"<br /><br />"Women can make babies in their tummies. Men can't do that."<br /><br /><em>[Long pause while Ben considers this]</em><br /><br />"wot awe th'biowogical things boys can do that girls can't?"<br /><br />"Boys can comfortably pee while standing up."<br /><br /><em>[Short pause]</em><br /><br />"Why can boys do that and giwls can't?"<br /><br />"Boys have penises that make it very easy to point what direction their urine goes in- just by pointing the penis."<br /><br />"But...giwls have *vaginas*!"<br /><br />"Yep. You're right. Girls have vaginas."<br /><br />"But a vagina is just <strong>wike</strong> a penis!"<br /><br />"No, Ben. A vagina is not just like a penis."<br /><br />"Wot does a vagina wook wike?"<br /><br /><em>[Pause while David considers an answer which is both true and simple enough for a 5-year-old to grasp]</em><br /><br />"Well, you know how your penis and testicles stick out of your body?"<br /><br />"Uh-huh."<br /><br />"Well, for girls, the important parts are tucked away <strong>inside</strong> their bodies, so there isn't a lot to see from the outside. I think you know that, though- you've taken a bath with your sister."<br /><br />"Oh yeah. Dat's wight!"<br /><br />I later repeated this conversation to my brother, Andrew, Ben's Dad. First, Andrew was perfectly satisfied that I gave Ben truthful, simple, and appropriate answers. Second, he was impressed that I actually satisfied Ben enough that Ben elected to stop asking further questions. This, Andrew tells me, is the real accomplishment.<br /><br />Me, I was just pleased to reinforce the idea that there's no such thing as "boy stuff" or "girl stuff."Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-16865311725840193142009-01-02T09:24:00.000-08:002009-01-02T11:31:32.055-08:00More New Year's Adventures with Angela and MaggieSo the oven thing wasn't the only problem Angela had on New Year's Eve.<br /><br />As a holiday present, Liz had given 5-year-old Maggie several bottles of nail polish (pre-approved by Angela). Maggie loves when Liz gives her "grownup" things like costume jewelry or miniature purses or souvenirs from when we travel. <br /><br />(We like to give her stuff, too. She calls us "Uncle" and "Aunt." When Liz got pregnant, Maggie bragged at school that she was getting a little brother. The point: we're close.)<br /><br />A little after the oven thing, Liz noticed Maggie putting nail polish on a grown-up (which was fine) at our kitchen table (which was fine) on top of the tablecloth.<br /><br />"Hey guys?" Liz said to Angela and Maggie, "I bought that tablecloth in Paris on our honeymoon and it is sort of important to me- could we maybe do the nail polish somewhere else?"<br /><br />"Oh, she's very careful," said Angela. "Don't worry."<br /><br />5 minutes later, someone bumped the table and a wine glass looked like it might fall. Angela, attempting to stop it, over-corrected and knocked a beer bottle and a wine glass to the floor. In this commotion, some nail polish got on the tablecloth.<br /><br />I came in from the living room (having no idea what happened or that Liz had asked them not to do it on her tablecloth) and cheerfully declared that no party is complete until drinks are spilled and glass must be wept up. I carefully cleaned up the glass and the spilled drinks. When I looked up, Angela and Maggie had gone into the living room and Liz was looking at the table cloth and pointed out the nail polish. Then she went to get her laptop to look up what might get it out. She looked annoyed (though not scowling or anything) as she quietly explained to me what had happened. Neither of us were flipping out. Nobody raised a voice.<br /><br />I went back into the living room and saw Angela sitting on one side of the room looking irritated. Maggie was on the other side of the room, applying nail polish to the same person as in the kitchen, this time on the wide arm of a mission-style chair. Right over the brand-new area rug Angela had commented on as new and cool when she first arrived. I went over to Angela.<br /><br />"Are you okay?" I asked her.<br /><br />"I'm staying out of the kitchen," she answered. "Liz looks pissed."<br /><br />"It's just a party foul, Angela." I was smiling. "Liz will be fine- she knows that accidents happen- she just wants to clean it up. But since there's a crowded room full of people drinking, perhaps we could put the nail polish away for the night? We'd love to hang out tomorrow- Liz and Maggie could do each other's nails."<br /><br />I thought *nothing* of this at the time. It seemed to me a reasonable and polite request. It didn't occur to me that I had said something that could upset anyone. I didn't put it together until the next morning that I had offended Angela.<br /><br />It was shortly after this that Angela was grabbing her coat (and Maggie's) and pulling Maggie out of the house by her arm. Maggie was now crying because she wanted to stay. I followed her out to their car. I waited until after the crying Maggie was belted into her car seat.<br /><br />"Angela, what's up? What's wrong?"<br /><br />"This is just the last straw," she said. "Maggie was *invited.*"<br /><br />"Of course she was," I said. We love Maggie and always like having her over. You know that. What's going on?"<br /><br />"Will you go tell Patrick that we're leaving? I don't want to go back inside."<br /><br />"I will," I said. "Please know that I love you, I don't know what's going on exactly, and I'm sorry you're upset?"<br /><br />"David, *everyone* in there is embarrassed by what happened."<br /><br />"What happened? What did I miss?"<br /><br />Angela made a non-committal noise and I went in to get her husband, who was just figuring out that his wife had stormed out. Patrick and I exchanged confused looks and said goodbye (I like Patrick a lot. He has a phobia of hospitals but still came to visit me *twice* when I was hospitalized last year), but he didn't seem overly concerned.<br /><br />I went back inside to find that a couple who we had met through Angela and Patrick had retrieved their coats. They looked a little guilty as they explained that Angela, as she was leaving, had asked them to come over to Angela's and Patrick's.<br /><br />This couple (we'll call them John and Jane) are really nice people and they were clearly very uncomfortable with the awkward postition they'd found themselves in.<br /><br />Earlier in the evening, Jane had been telling me that they were going to start trying to have a baby in February and I invited her to please come over and borrow some books and play with Simon. I really hope they still will. They seemed as confused as I was about what had happened, but felt they had to go. Everyone else shrugged and the party went on. People started departing around 2:00 AM and the last couple of guests left at about 3:30.<br /><br />So, I got about 2 hours of sleep last night because I couldn't stop thinking about all of this.<br /><br />Patrick was raised by unpleasant, rigid people and finds discipline distasteful. Angela works two full time jobs (yes, really) and I think she tries to make up for the lack of time with Maggie by not saying "no" very often. Angela also has a pretty hefty anxiety disorder (about which Liz and I, both medicated, do not lack compassion).<br /><br />I really think neither Liz nor I did anything wrong, mean, or rude. So why am I still so bothered? I'm not even mad at Angela- I'm just upset that she was so upset and at the prospect of losing friends over this incident.<br /><br />Liz, on the other hand, is ready to write Angela off.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-61074349504269709332009-01-01T23:41:00.001-08:002009-01-02T00:00:57.856-08:00On the Safety of Other People's KidsSo we had some friends over for New Year's Eve. Among them, Angela and Patrick with their 5-year-old daughter, Maggie (not their real names).<br /><br />We love Angela, Patrick, and Maggie. We were thrilled that they came.<br /><br />Midway through the evening, Angela decided to storm out because several things (which I didn't and still don't understand) had upset her. It wasn't until today that I found out that *I* had done one of the things that had upset her.<br /><br />Shortly after they arrived, I was pulling miniature pizzas from a 500-degree oven when Maggie came into the kitchen and came very close to the open oven to see what I was doing.<br /><br />"Maggie, sweetheart- could you please step back? The oven is very hot and I don't want you to get hurt."<br /><br />Maggie leaned in closer and I'd much rather risk hurting her feelings than risk her getting burned, so I made my voice more stern and louder.<br /><br />"Maggie, step back please."<br /><br />Maggie continued to lean in and I got a little more frightened of the prospect of a burned 5-year-old. I stopped what I was doing, leaned closer to Maggie and looked directly in her eyes to make sure I had her attention as I spoke to her in a calm, clear, loud voice.<br /><br />"Maggie, take three steps backwards *right now*. It isn't safe to stand where you are."<br /><br />Finally, another adult noticed what was happening and gently pulled her back away from the oven.<br /><br />Satisfied that Maggie was safe, I finished what I was doing and didn't think about it again.<br /><br />Liz tells me much later that this upset Angela because she doesn't like it when someone says "no" to Maggie or does something contrary to what Maggie wants.<br /><br />Here's the thing: If someone needed to hurt my son's feelings in order to keep him physically safe, I'd be furious if they *failed* to hurt his feelings.<br /><br />I'm confused and concerned about this...and not entirely sure why. Any thoughts?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-17343273699831798502008-12-03T05:41:00.000-08:002008-12-03T05:43:18.701-08:00Decaf CoffeeI don't understand people who drink decaf coffee. I mean, coffee is the world's most beloved recreational drug- how does one enjoy it when you take out its active ingredient?<br /><br />Do these same people order chocolate bars will all the chocolate removed? Do they order steak and lobster, but require that the waiter give them a big shot of novocaine on their tongues first?<br /><br />That is all.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-22648160109697102682008-11-11T09:04:00.000-08:002008-11-11T09:30:50.536-08:00KvetchingI feel like we deserve to catch a break. The last two years have been, to say the least, stressful.<br /><br />Liz had two miscarriages. Both required surgical intervention/resolution. One of these had some lasting side-effects that made for multiple visits to the Emergency Room and additional inpatient stays. Miscarriages are hard enough (emotionally) without the additional medical problems. About a year ago, I had a sudden, spontaneous pneumothorax. My lung had collapsed. I spent about a week in the hospital with a chest tube abd eventually had a VATS procedure in which the top 5% of my lung was removed. The collapsed lung, the chest tube, the surgery and the recovery were all painful and frightening for both of us.<br /><br />Not long after the surgery, we conceived Simon with the help of some painkillers to make the heavy breathing of the ...babydance... less painful (that's commitment to making a baby, friends).<br /><br />The pregnancy was very difficult. Liz has awful nausea that losted through all three trimesters. It was so bad at one point that she was hospialized so they could get her dehydration and migarines under control. When she was discharged, we had a wek of HOME-BASED IV care. It is an unnerving thing to have an IV pole in one's home. It seems as out of place as would a fire hydrant or a coffin. <br /><br />Despite her nausea, we went to Ohio for Christmas with Liz's family...where Liz's father had just been admitted to the psyche ward against his will. It was a tense Christmas.<br /><br />Late in the preganancy, Liz's father (after being discharged from the psyche ward) tried unsuccessfully to kill himself. This was, of course, very hard on Liz.<br /><br />So after the difficult pregnancy, Simon was born. <br />He was a little early and a little small, but got 9/10 on his first two APGARs. <br /><br />Four days later, Liz's father successfully took his own life. He'd never even seen a photo of his grandson.<br /><br />My beloved boss/mentor/friend left our place of work, leaving me reporting to the same lunatic incompetant who drove her away. I miss her terribly.<br /><br />I had a panic attack for the first time in my life maybe two months ago. I'm now getting counseling and taking medication for an anxiety disorder that was diagnosed many years ago- it seems to help. I need to be a patient and gentle husband and father. They both need that. I need it, too.<br /><br />Simon has been an easy baby- cheerful as long as he's not overtired, hungy, or in need of a fresh diaper. Except now Simon has this tremor, and doctors are unable to tell us why...or if it should be cause for concern.<br /><br />I know that awful things happen to everyone and we're luckier than most...but I feel like whining anyway. Why does it feel like Liz and I can't catch a break?<br /><br />Thanks for letting me vent.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-6020362734294028272008-11-05T05:39:00.000-08:002008-11-05T05:53:12.784-08:00On Not Being CanadianWhen Liz and I have travelled in Europe (France, Italy, Spain, Netherlands), we have frequently been mistaken for Canadians.<br /><br />We did NOT sew the Canadian flag on our bags (which I'm told some American travellers have done) did not tell people we were Canadian. If anyone asked if we were Canadian, we admitted that we were not- but this happened so often that I suspect many more people assumed we were Canadian than mentioned it.<br /><br />Why did they assume we were Canadian? I think it was because we strove to be very polite. We attempted at all times to communicate in the local language (failing frequently, but I believe the gesture of making the attempt is meaningfuul) and did not express frustration when others did not speak English. If someone asked my opinion of Dubya, I was ready to express my feelings in the local language (e.g. "j'déteste Bush!" in Paris).<br /><br />Today, I'm a little less embarrassed to be an American. I'm a registered independent and not a huge fan of Obama's, but my fellow citizens did something right yesterday and elected the more reasonable, intelligent candidate.<br /><br />Here's to President-Elect Obama: May he please give me reasons, when overseas, to be proud of my nationality. May he be successful in overcoming the massive challenges he faces. May he be successful in meeting the extraordinary expectations his adherents have for him.<br /><br />Most of all, here's hoping that his team governs as well as they campaign.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-7244473521069942642008-10-27T09:57:00.000-07:002008-10-27T10:04:16.729-07:00What to Ask Palin (how to harm a campaign)An acquaintence got tickets to a Sarah Palin rally and is asking friends what questions he should ask if he gets the chance. Here's what I suggest.<br /><br />Ask her:<br /><br /><em>Governor Palin, are you concerned about the massive and growing bukakke trade imbalance between the U.S. and our trading partners in asia? What would you do to shore up the position of American producers of bukakke?</em><br /><br />If she knows what bukakke is, she looks bad for knowing what it is.<br /><br />If she DOESN'T know what it is, she'll express support for domestic bukakke production and look really bad for speaking in favor of the American pornography industry. Either way, it hurts her campaign. <br /><br />:)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-638732395405251783.post-46542492313517862082008-10-24T11:47:00.000-07:002008-10-24T11:48:31.033-07:00Mumbling...wha...?I sometimes want to share things that are too long for FriendFeed. That's what this blog will be for. :)Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0