Archive for March, 2010

College Girl is back from Spring Break, which for the purposes of this site lasted about three weeks. I admit I am in arrears.

If you want to read some really horrible writing, I recently commented on the question of “how to avoid the friend’s zone” – not exactly my expertise, but oh well.

So, today: I prove that I can write a post that is not egocentric. Huzzah.

I came upon this topic as I sat in the basement of the library, head laid dejectedly on a thick tome (Molecular Biology of the Cell), hand resting on a spiral of index cards (bought at extortionary rates at the TCU Bookstore). My cell phone lit up with a text message from my darling Becca:

“I understand completely. It’ll be okay. Life will be good.”

Uplifting words from an uplifting person (who is my best friend from high school, kidnapped by a Baylor Bear and now living sixty miles or 45 minutes away, depending on who is driving).

As I have said before, my peers are a source of strength, and often make me a better person.

Take Rudy, for example. I was frustrated about some issues that I needed to take up with my father, and so, of course, ranted to him over dinner about it. His response was simple: “Talk to him about it.”

“Pffft” embodies pretty well my response. Perpetual procrastination would have ruled this one, had it not been for the fact that…

The next time I saw him, he smiled, waved:

“Hey! How’s is going? — did you call your dad yet?”

“Hummana hummana hummana…”

And again, a few days later:

“What’s up, homie! — have you called your dad?”

“……….”

“Are you going to?”

“….No…yes…maybe…Yes? Yes, I will….”

I began to realize that this could go on forever, and I might never hear the end of it. So, after putting it off another 48 hours, I called. It was good, fine, things are great. I texted Rudy triumphantly, and thanked him. Who knows how much nagging misery I avoided due to his friendly prodding.

He’s not the only one though. Through Becca and Charles’ unwavering optimism, I have absorbed some of the same. Charles, mentioned here before, is the one who was up until 2am on Sunday night reading a Chemistry book – that wasn’t even our text. He has somehow managed to already line up a research spot (he was over here where I’m typing this gloating a few moments ago). How can one be an underachiever with this maniacal devotion to “anything chemistry” around? Also, despair is impossible when he salutes you as he walks by.

Speaking of despair, and the pit that engenders it more than anywhere (and by this I mean the library basement), I found my friend John down there the other day. Amazingly, studying with someone is better even if it’s in the quiet area. They might have a laptop out and be able to look up words for you, or, very quietly explain the difference between competitive and noncompetitive inhibition. Even better, this friend also inspired me over lunch one day with tales from his spring break mission trip; I swear I am now going to a) learn Spanish b) go on a mission trip and c) be a better person, just for hearing it. I’m serious.

As for being a great person, my friends Lauren and Lauren have exercised this beautifully, especially last semester with their hospitality (studying in their dorm sure beats the library). Lauren (“the taller one,” as Charles puts it) demonstrated great friendliness when she insisted on being my friend, even when I was weird and shy. The other Lauren was a co-conspirator on this, I’m sure; she also keeps me from the edge of the abyss every O-Chem lab, as, at 4:02 pm, I start to wilt. She somehow manages to combine compassion and sarcastic wit. It’s great.

The impetus to self-improvement that others offer could be somewhat accidental. Last night as I left class at 7pm, a friend (who, having earlier pointed out a certain amount of false humility on my part, thank you very much, caused me to realize that the appearance of pride might need some work) asked if I was going to study Cell Bio more. “Like heck I am” was the response in my head. Yet later, as I was about to start seriously goofing off, I rethought my strategy and flipped through my flashcards, until some member of my family dragged me off to do something for them. Not bad.

Of course, I do have friends who do otherwise; I’m pretty sure Mirza is on a mission to remove any sense of decency and censorship left in me, all while engendering appreciation for horrible music. Oh, and if I fail lab, it’s totally his fault. I don’t have any worries about defaming his character here, because I have it on good word he will never read my blog. I will say, though, writing an abstract on a Saturday morning? Admirable. Not about to emulate that one though (or so I say).

Well, that’s all I have. In a salute to my current history teacher, please leave any questions, comments, observations, or short complaints – preferably related to this post – below.

The Bluebonnet is the beloved state flower of Texas.

The bluebonnet watch is on again in North Texas. These small blue members of the lupine family are welcomed every spring as a sign of the true-blue heart of Texas and of the annual renewal that spring brings. After months of getting up in the predawn and putting kids on the bus at first light, I look for bluebonnets today as a sign that, in fact, everything is changing, and sometimes, it’s changing for the better.

Best places to see these beauties would be on freeway verges (just today I saw a “do not cut–wildflower area” sign at the intersection of the 30 and 35 near downtown; apparently they’re expecting the flowers any day now), the Trinity Trails, or the roundabouts such as the 377 Traffic Circle or Bluebonnet Circle.

Last year I wrote a post including details about bluebonnet history (there are actually five Texas Bluebonnets and all of them are the state flower) and a bit about growing the flowers. This year I will simply say that there is a fine story by Tomie DePaola with tells the legend of the bluebonnets for children or others who are interested, and send my thanks to Bruce Turner of Flickr Creative Commons for the image.

In the afternoon, my old primary school friend and I took a tour of places we used to visit in Berkeley, where we went to kindergarten, first and second grade. The neighborhood in Berkeley where my family owned their first home has become more exclusive as the years have gone by. Property value on the place they bought in 1970 or so has multiplied somewhere between 15 and 20 times, Some of this, of course, is the dollar’s fall in value, but some is a growth in the value of a home in Berkeley Hills.

It’s ironic to think that the house that my parents bought when they were young would be a stretch for anyone in the family today. I looked at the house, well maintained white stucco, arched bow window in front, tiled steps leading up to the front door, an addition on the back of the second story that my parents had built — and wondered what I would have been, had my parents stayed in this house instead of moving to Oregon in 1974 or so.

Perhaps they were driven primarily by career prospects in the outer regions, or perhaps by the pressures of urbanization on their growing family. Later during our journey, I overheard two subway passengers discussing the pros and cons of moving to places like Concord and Milpitas –bedroom suburbs which lacked the problems of the city but were seen as too dull and “white bread” for the truly sophisticated. So I know that the question of whether to stay in the city or flee to the suburbs is one which is considered by simply hoards of moderns, and not just in the Bay Area, but in Fort Worth as well.

The old family house looked peaceful. If the schools that served the neighborhood were considered “iffy,” of course, that would be an issue, but since forced bussing was stopped in most regions of California by the mid-80′s, it seems unlikely that in this area of million dollar homes there would be inner city school type problems. Nevertheless, I had to admit that something about the residence suggested that it wouldn’t be ideal for children. Perhaps the manicured nature of the gardening (“they cut down our tree in the front yard!” my friend exclaimed, disappointed) or the tiny driveway with no visibility. Somehow the borderlines in this neighborhood seemed too weak for secure child raising. The back yard was open to the street. The garage was in the back, carriagehouse style. I would be concerned about this house as a family homestead. It was a yuppie residence, a place for dinks (double income, no-kids), but not somewhere my own family would easily be accommodated.

My friend and I also stopped at Indian Rock, a 25-foot high granite outcropping with a steep face off the back used by rappellers to practice for mountaineering trips. We used to climb it on our daily wanderings through the neighborhood, when we rode out on bikes to see what we could find to do in the hours between three, when school let out, and six, which was dinner. Climbing the rock again was scary, but we got to the top, bringing along my son who is six. Though there was a lovely view of the Bay, and Alcatraz and Angel Island, it made me nervous to be up there so we quickly climbed back down again.

There was no question that the old family neighborhood was beautiful, and sophisticated, and highly priced, but somehow I had to admit that it wasn’t me anymore. I felt a little alienated. After all, who had my six and seven year old self been, that she had felt so comfortable riding her bike through the streets and pathways of the neighborhood, and climbing these great rocks, when now, as an adult the place made me so nervous? It was an imponderable. I could only ascribe it to the innocence and optimism of primary school children, and perhaps to the changes that occur, imperceptibly, in the character of neighborhoods and communities, which cannot be adequately described in blog posts, and yet, they are.

We went to San Francisco. First we got lost in the Twin Peaks area, then we went to Golden Gate Park, saw the Japanese Garden, the Fisherman’s Wharf, where we went on a tour of the U.S.S. Pampalino, a WWII submarine. Then we lost the car (or better to say, we forgot where we had parked it) and walked up Russian Hill twice looking for it. We stood with a map on a corner, looking perplexed, and friendly residents came up and asked if they could help, but it’s difficult to help someone remember where they parked their car. Finally, however, College Girl remembered that there was an elementary school a block up from where we parked, we told this to a boy about 15, who was doing skateboard tricks up and down a steep side street, and he pointed the way down Jones street. “I told you it wasn’t this high up,” she told me and I surrendered.

“You’re right, it’s a good thing I’ve got you along or I would have been hiring a cab to help me comb the streets to find my car.”

She smiled in triumph. She probably realized I’d been questioning her navigation skills this morning. The disagreement harks back to when we were traveling down Hayes toward Golden Gate Park, when for some reason she told me to go left on Divisadero, and that’s how we wound up first in the Castro district and then in Twin Peaks. We only skirted the Castro, so I did not see any young men with no shirts on, wearing chain harnesses, like I did last time I was in S.F. Or perhaps that style of dress is “out” now. What do I, the most casual of observers, know of any of this?

Anyway, after a tour of posh hill residents with Porsches in front, including those around Twin Peaks, the highest point in San Francisco (elevation 980) we found our way back — though I had to pull over three to four times for map conferences with College Girl. We saw the Japanese Tea Garden, the Academy of Sciences from the outside — it was $25 to get in per person so we skipped it. This was disappointing but there was so much else to see. I never did take them over the Golden Gate. We also ran out of time for the garment district. Maybe we should do that this morning.

College Girl reads this now and asserts, forcefully, “It was not my fault you got yourself lost. You got off the freeway and thought you could find it by yourself, I only started helping after you got lost.”

She reminds me of myself, somehow, of many years back, and I suddenly feel sympathetic for my husband, who probably had his navigation skills questioned in the same way . I am sorry, Dean, for being so smug. I promise to be more understanding in the future.

It’s nice out today, sunny and breezy and cool. Next week is spring break, and this week is quickly becoming the “week that would never end” for most people who, like myself, are very much keen on their vacation.

We had a quiz today in O-Chem, a surprise since we had one on Monday. “What the heck, Sergei?” as Charles said. I think he’s trying to mess with us. That class has been pretty interesting – we have been going over concepts from last semester, but in more depth, and using lots of Hammett plotts. Don’t ask any of us about Rho values. It won’t go over well.

Chem Lab is the official Gripe Class of the sophomore-year pre-meds. Don’t mention unknowns, please, nor NMR. Definitely leave the concept of “derivatives” out of any conversation with one of us. Jokes about 190-proof ethanol solvent are still up for grabs, and reminders of how nice methyl benzoate smells (whether that’s a sign it will kill you or make you high, we’re not yet sure). Don’t ask which unknown I am on – “let’s not and say we did!”

Last week we had a Cell Bio test; comments about that have been censored down to the following:

“That…test….pain.”

I will choose to not report on this week’s sexual puns in O-Chem. Don’t ask me why one can make so many innuendo-ridden jokes about aliphatic substitution. Well, I know the answer, but don’t all the same. Elimination has not proved to be as fertile ground, but trust me, that doesn’t stop anybody.

Yeah…speaking of Cell and Chem, I noticed that the ranks have thinned between last week’s tests and tomorrow’s drop date. I can’t make any comments; this time last year I was dropping Cell as I had made a total of a 100 points – between the first and second tests. Ouch.

Anyways, I have to go pick up a quiz, drop off a lecture recording, and check to see if I got my first unknown right. Then, it’s back to the library to carefully write out Bio cards and maybe see if I can find the CRC to look up melting points of various liquid nitro-anisoles. Sigh. Spring break, please arrive.

By the way, according to my friend Clay, I should not call this a “blog” because “every idiot has a blog.” I thought about calling it an online journal, but that’s too many syllables, so I will continue to call it a blog and hope that once people read it they will at least regulate me to some of the wittier ranks of blogging morons.

A Brown Bat

As you may well have figured out, one of my favorite past times is poking some loving fun at my older sister.

Yesterday I was having a conversation with my that very person, Firnafth. I was griping about the fact that every time I take the Myer’s-Brigg’s personality test, as explicated in the book Please Understand Me II, I get a different personality type. Her answer was to “get a large spectrum by taking the test regularly, say every week for the next two years to get 100 responses, and make a probability distribution of the results.”

L.O.L.

“Make a probability distribution.”

I guess that’s what I get for having an ecologist/mammalogist sibling whose idea of the epitome of fun is going out in the field, tagging mice, and coming back to spend eons making a careful map/chart/graph/list of all the data she collected, poring over it, and memorizing some scientific names while she’s at it. While waiting for emails from her advisor, she’ll sit and doodle some creatures of the order chiroptera – very cute, according to her, especially the ones with crazy fuzz on their heads and weird, buggy eyes.

Now, don’t make me remind you of the vole skeleton in the pizza box, the “barn” that was her bedroom in high school (four guinea pigs, five chickens, and a dog), the insistence that, even when driving on a highway through middle-of-nowhere-Arizona in her car, myself and my friend were to follow the speed limit. The bat costume? One year she made a huge cardboard bug for Halloween, spray-painted a drab color and everything. Leatherman? Always. Wallet? Not so much. Haircut? Only when absolutely necessary. Dragons? All twenty kinds. Throw in some elaborately drawn pencilings of dogs/fantastic creatures/mice, a golf polo, a pair of thick-soled (so she can be taller than 5 foot) hiking boots from R.E.I – the most expensive pair every time, though of course she doesn’t mean to – that set her gait as they are so heavy, an invitation to the next Aikido conference, and a nasty right cross, and you have my sister. Hard as nails and soft as butter she is – you don’t want to get on her bad side, let me tell you.

I recently talked with my grandfather about “writing about what you know.” I know myself, true, but I also know her. Somewhat hard not to, when one has shared so many life-shaping events…

Once when I was about 11, we were climbing some very tall trees in our neighborhood; they were in the university-housing complex next to ours, big lofty suckers that have thick, knobby limbs that are large and flat enough to climb for ages, and a top so large that once you climb into it, you can stand up and walk, insulated from the world, the sounds of the city filtered like the light, falling in specks all around, and the birds and squirrels and scraping of bare foot on bark become all there is. I wandered out on a long branch that stuck out; I was so high up I could look down into another tree below me. Then, I heard a crack, and the branch began to swing, earthbound. Naturally, being a reasonable person, I screamed bloody murder and clung to the precipitous twig with all my might. My sister, ever-ready to come to my aid, swung over, and moved out as far as possible on a limb with slightly more integrity, and, as my perch groaned and creaked and moved in a southernly direction, coaxed me back, slowly, inch by inch, until just in time I was back on solid ground, er, wood. I’m pretty sure she saved my life, or possibly a very large number of broken bones. To tell the truth, I have no idea anymore how truly high we were, but trust me, we were flying in the sky those days.

Those days when shoes were optional and “studying” often occurred in the grass, under a blue sky. When red foxes and rapidly-reproducing guinea pigs made up an entire world, when the bushes could lead one into Narnia. When all the movies were Star Trek and days could be spent on bicycles, one riding and one dragging behind on roller blades. When one could spend their whole GDP for the week on a pack of Pokemon cards, and Napster was more than a myth. When costumes were real, and the unknown everywhere, and a summer day could very well be spent at the public pool, in a contest to see who could tread water longest. When the future was one white canvas, with only specks of speculation, and could hold anything, everything. When we bought all those Saltillo tiles, and carefully pulled out all the ones with animal prints. When we painted our room neon green. When the future was just beginning.

Around here at the Fort Worth Renaissance household, we have a tendency to do things most people wouldn’t consider – own three Basenjis, wage a war against processed food, watch too much Star Trek. However, our tendencies, whether backwards, forwards, or counter-culture, are most evident in road trips. Note the map above.  This is the round trip my mother and I are planning on taking over spring break. Why? Well, we’re somewhat desperate to get out of Texas, albeit briefly, and if we have a week in which to do it, that’ll have to do. Our budget is, of course, paltry at best; I’ve got a feeling copious amounts of PB and J and homemade granola are in my future. We are thinking of taking A, the six-year old.

The truth is, this isn’t that weird for us; two summers ago we drove on a nearly 4,000 mile road trip over the course of two weeks, in which we camped every night but one, and somehow managed to keep eight people in a car that long without any getting killed, maimed, or event taken to the ER. They tried, of course; dissent among the ranks was evident quickly (don’t remind anyone of the first, mosquito-ridden night in Louisiana that will permanently color my siblings and my vision of that state). The part where a person who will not be named left the car and decided to walk several miles back to our campsite? Perhaps it was getting lost in Arlington and narrowly missing going the wrong way down a frontage road. And don’t forget the 24 straight hours of driving to get home, because really, the concept of sleeping on the ground a fifteenth time had no one excited.

But man, the things we saw! Washington DC, Furman, our grandfather, neoclassical paintings, Atlanta, Stone Mountain, fireworks, Suellen getting on a bus in no-where, Missouri…

Don’t do the math about the mileage, please, because I don’t want to think of all the driving. I do want to think, however, of seeing the “homeland” again. Even if it’s only for a week. Because these type of trips are grueling – halfway through, either the concept of Hostess Donuts will make your day or break it, and neither is good – but man, the things you can see!

Our destination is San Fransisco. Northern California. The editor is very excited – this will be her first time back in five years. Determination is our partner, adventure our guide. Estimated time of departure is 4am, March 13th. Heckyes.

After watching College Girl pretty much take over the blog in the last two weeks, I have to try to assert my presence as someone who does more than takes fire for watching Shah Rukh Khan movies and being afraid of the plague. What I’d like to tell you is that the plague squirrel story wasn’t actually over this morning, because half of that animal was discovered in the middle of the yard, not far from the barbecue. Yes, it was the half that has the tail. The dogs, apparently unconcerned about the dangers of plague, rabies, or anything else (perhaps they know there’s antibiotics and that they’ve been vaccinated) apparently consumed the other half.

I carefully waited until College Girl came home from the store and then alerted her to the need for “clean up on aisle 7.” But when she got there, the squirrel wasn’t there. Apparently her 13 year old brother and his friend had tossed it over the fence into the neighbor’s yard. Or so she claimed. “Which neighbor?” I did not ask. I assume they meant the 90 year old lady with the forest in her huge back yard that runs all along our back fence. She never comes out, so there’s no danger of her getting the plague. Nevertheless, I did feel a little bit sheepish about the whole affair.

It’s all a sign of what I told an old friend the other day: when you live with other people, there’s bound to be some chaos.

Oh, and yeah, I saw that mug featured below the other day in Ross and had to buy it for College Girl as a gag gift. She accepted it graciously, as you see, which probably means she’s not really that bitter after all.

No comment.

I’m going to plead the fifth on this one.

This morning, I opened a letter which had, of all things, a check inside. It was from my previous employer, CVS Pharmacy, but the check was unrelated to my work there: it was my compensation for a class action lawsuit, in which the Federal Trade Commission sued CVS for false advertising. I was getting repaid for my previous purchase of CVS Air Shield, those fizzy vitamin tablets that supposedly “improved your immune system.” Not that I bought them with ideas of such, I mostly just liked the taste and didn’t think vitamins were going to do any harm.

Anyways, as I was reveling in my eleven dollars and forty four cents, it occurred to me that they somehow tracked down my purchases, verified them, found my address and name, and sent a check. This must be because when I bought them, I used me “CVS Extracare card,” which I am quite familiar with because I spent several years behind a counter asking people if they had one, if they wanted one, and whether or not being asked again made them want to punch me. Well, as you may know, after saying “Hello! Do you have a CVS card?” all afternoon, I often wanted to punch myself. But I digress.

Was it possible that the record-keeping mechanism of these cards, which mostly serves, I am sure, to enable them to advertise and promote for effectively could have a real benefit for the consumer – assuming that they would get the same sales either way? I suppose in this case they did. After years of getting me to buy things on sale, sending mailers and person-specific emails, I finally got mine. It is somewhat amazing to think of it; without this system, there might have been some advertisements about “getting your share,” but I’ve got a feeling the receipts and so on are long past decomposed in a landfill somewhere. Yet, instead, an automated system doled out the cash, without me moving a finger – except to tear along the dotted line, and depositing.

Mostly what I think of is, oooh, CVS, that’s gotta hurt. I wonder how much they paid out? I guess I should have taken more vitamins after all.

PS: The irony that I stole the picture of the card off of their site, which promotes the darn things? Wonderful.