Dear Sarah*

You're right.

When I said I wasn't into you more than you were into me,
It was a lie.

Not because I wanted you to think I liked you less,
Only because I wished you liked me more.

It doesn't really matter, now that it's over,
But admitting it is a big step for me.

Distance makes things easier to say.

On poetry and shoes

"It's too bad you don't have bigger feet."

I sent that message to a friend the other day. I don't think he understood what I meant, and I didn't offer any further explanation. We just left it at that. I've thought about it quite a bit since then, and I've realized I was pretty spot-on.


When aimed at a fat kid, jokes and insults are entirely uncalled for. Parents scold their children for verbalizing what they themselves keep tucked silently in the not-so-hidden recesses of their minds. After all, it's not the kid's fault they're a little overweight, right? Perhaps they haven't been taught to exercise, or perhaps their parents don't provide for them correctly. Or perhaps they're just "growing into themselves."


But when you've got big feet, it's open season.


You quickly learn that is is acceptable, almost even expected, for individuals both young and old, both those in your immediate family and those you've never met, to laugh at the obvious.

"How's the water skiing going? Barefoot, right?"
"I'll bet you love snow-shoeing – you don't even need the shoes!"
"How many gallons of milk can you fit in these boats?"


When I was 16, I bought my first size 16 shoes. I went from a 13 to a 16 in one glorious day – my feet had never felt better. But while I have what some might call a "firm understanding" (I'm a poet and didn't know it, but my feet show it:  they're Longfellows), the size of my feet and the stuff by which they are shod have seen no end of ridicule. But do you know what makes it even more interesting? Someone asked me recently what I'm most self-conscious about. My honest response was my feet. It's been that way for a while, probably since I was 16. So why is it that even as a grown adult, it's inappropriate to remark on a guy's weight or skin tone (as pale as it might be), and a cardinal sin to even suggest "weight" in any of its forms in the presence of a woman, but nobody thinks twice when it comes to feet? Even today, I can count on my two hands the number of days it's been since someone has commented on their disproportionality.


And yet, I've learned a lot from all these "well-meaning" offenders. Because various aspects of my uncontrollable physique (let's not even get started on height) have been the butt of many a joke, my skin is a little tougher. I learned long ago that someone telling me, "Hey are you sick? You actually combed your hair today," might not be a senseless act of ridicule. I learned to laugh when someone tries to walk around with their shoes entirely inside my own, and even help them out when they wanted the "perfect item for a clown costume."  I learned there are things beyond your control that others find humorous – perhaps because it helps them find a common ground, or perhaps because, in their mind, it's just not that big of a deal.


But that's what happens when you've got big feet.


So, to all my easily-offended friends, I only lament: "Would that you also had big feet!!"

A day in the life

Sometimes I love my life.

For example, today.

It quickly became apparent that my cubicle-mate was eating lunch because 1) the overpowering smell of something spicy and very oriental swelled over the dividers, and then 2) the loud and incredibly aggravating probably-culturally-acceptable-in-some-other-part-of-the-world sound of him eating his soup kept time with the clock.

I took a break to use the bathroom, passed the bike in the walkway that hasn't moved in months but instead is defiantly challenging the passive-agressive "Bikes are not allowed in cubicle areas" sign just feet away, turned left at what used to be the US army's "I want you..." poster with "...to stay quiet" below but now reads "Help Create a Culture of Acoustic Courtesy" (I only wish that phrase were enclosed in quotation marks or asterisks), and finally got to the bathroom.  I took care of my business next to a lot of ruckus in a stall, then washed my hand as the now-finished ruckus-maker slurped water from the sink (how he found this more sanitary than partaking from the drinking fountains just outside is beyond me).

And then I got back to my computer where I should be working in Lisp on Recursion and Induction homework but instead am trying to figure out at what sampling rate I need to save an mp3 file so an incorrectly-sampled video can have the audio synced with the speaker's lips (if I reduce the rate to 45960Hz, by the way, it looks nearly perfect).


Swell.  All we need is some of the cribbage players to start up their rousing game in the corner with the cot and one of my other cubicle-mates to start talking on the phone in a language that sounds like it's using the N-word all too frequently.


If that doesn't make you envious, I don't know what will.

Revenge of the R^2, Part II: Retribution

Note:  This is part II in a 3-part series entitled "Revenge of the R^2."  For part one, please see this post.

They tried to asphyxiate us.

Really.

After bothering management several days in a row (including camping in their office – "Sorry, the smell is too overpowering to work in my apartment.  Is it okay if I work in here again today?"), they finally sent someone over.  The first go-round was pretty exciting.  The maintenance guy couldn't speak a lick English, and my Spanish is limited to "tu imagen esta grabada en mi alma," which probably wasn't very appropriate at the time, so I had a 3rd party translate over the phone.  I think quite a bit was lost in translation, but finally, after many confusing looks, my phone-a-friend told me to gesture wildly at the location I thought the mice were and say, "aquí."  I don't know how well I was understood, but when I came back later that evening, it seemed like they must have figured it out.  The following is an actual shot from our apartment.

Of course (how could I expect anything any different?) they were unable to find any mice nests in their inspection of the vents, so they left it open overnight to close the next day.  It wasn't all just bad news, because 1) the workers were having a hard time standing the smell (now they knew I wasn't just whining), so 2) they left a bottle of fairly powerful air freshener.

Unfortunately (this is sounding like a book I read as a young child), while the smell from the freshener is definitely overpowering, it is neither "freshening" nor "stress-reducing."  Now I have identified two smells that are migraine-inducing (another "fortunately"?).

When they came back the next day to replace the sheetrock, they had a english speaker with them, so I was able to ask a few questions.  Had they found anything in the vents?  No.  Were they going to look for them in more places?  No again.  Were they going to do anything else?  Not really.  Can't they tell this smell renders our apartment uninhabitable?  Uhh...  I mean, this is almost worse than living without water! (I kid, of course, but only slightly)  Yeah, sorry.  Well, there's a possibility that the air vents are what's causing the problem.  Could they at least just change the air filter?  The rodent/"freshener" combination is doing weird things to my mind.  We'll see what we can do.

And then, miracle of miracles, they found it.  A rather large mouse's skeleton in our closet AC vent.  From the looks of it, this thing was probably the size of a small elephant at its peak, and could have taken on several traps single-handedly.  (If you want to see the picture, I've included it offline here.  You might need to rotate it, and it's definitely not for the faint of heart.  Consider yourself warned.)


With the mouse gone, though, our problems still weren't solved.  The roaches hadn't left (management informed us our neighbors were the problem--which was a mixed relief/disappointment), and everything now reeked of dead mice and anti-fresh deodorizer.  We decided then and there we were getting out – and not just out of the apartment, out of the complex (ask anyone who lived there:  this wasn't just a "grass is always greener" scenario!)

Next time:  Part III:  Reinstated

I got sunshine in a bag

I have a computer science department mailbox I don't usually check, partially because it's not very convenient, but mostly because it usually just has junk from "Friends of CS" (tech companies pay money to the department for recruiting purposes).  Today I had a couple pieces of mail that were surely, from the looks of it, sent by Friends of CS.  One in particular caught my eye since it had what appeared to be a printing error on the address.  I figured it was just a form-letter that did a really good job of imitating handwriting (I'm always impressed with mass mailings that do a good job of this).

I opened the envelope and saw the following:

My first thought was that someone wanted my money.  No thank you.  On the way to the trash, I flipped it up to read the inside.

This was probably the best way to start an otherwise rough-starting week.  I don't know how long ago this letter was sent (I was the TA for this student last fall), and I'm super glad the department hadn't thrown it away (although they could have tossed the announcement about the pizza party last month).  But mostly, I'm glad this student (I removed his name so it would be anonymous) took the time to express his appreciation.  It was a small thing, but it made a big difference.

Thanks, [name removed for the sake of privacy]!

Gary

Gary and I met the other day at lunch:  he needed to send an email and I was working on my laptop.  Turns out he was en route to give up Christianity, thinking about becoming a hard-core bum in Florida (he's just soft-core right now), and also considering a job in Wisconsin.  Before Wisconsin could become a reality, he needed to get enough money for one month's rent.  Since none of the Christian churches he talked to would give him a dime, his decision path came full circle.  Gary seemed like a nice enough guy (his only "addiction" was the Diet Coke in his hand), but I've never felt good about giving cash to people I don't know, so I told him I couldn't help.

As we parted that day, I was immediately reminded of King Mosiah's sermon to those who have.  As a Christian and decent human being, it is pretty much required of us to given when we can–let God deal with the receiver's choices after that.  Right?  So I made up my mind I was going to help him, found his email address in my web browser's cache, and finally connected with him while he was in Champaign (a stop along the way to Wisconsin).

Wisconsin makes me think of cheese, and cheese makes me think of Gouda, which we all know comes from Netherlands, and while this isn't my picture, it looks exactly like the cheese festival I went to in Alkmaar.

To make a long story short, Gary wasn't serious about the job, nor was he very serious about the apartment, nor was he very mentally stable (that's a problem when you're homeless, I've been told), but the whole situation gave me a lot to think about.  If I can get someone back on their feet for only $250, I should do it, right?  Especially when it's individuals we're helping, not a "cause" in general.

With that resolution in mind, I gave the rest of my taco to a bum who asked for a bite.

Revenge of the R^2, Part I: The Recognition

Note:  It's taken me a while to actually publish this post, but now that it's almost all in the past, I think I can finally put it up.  Since the entire story is fairly long, I'm going to include it as a series of three different posts.  So here it is, Part I:  The Recognition.

I recently returned from a sabbatical of sorts to the west and the far east.  I had been in a couple of unconventional living situations, so I was looking forward to a nice, relaxing homecoming.

I should have been nervous when a scene similar to the following greeted me at the airport.

(I took this picture at the car dealership the other day.  These are all dead.  The ones at the airport were all alive.  WHERE ARE THE SEAGULLS??!?)

And I should have been further worried when, instead of a relaxing environment, this is what I came home to:

Yes.  That is all of our kitchen and pantry items set nicely on the dining room table, coffee table, and whatever spare landing place could be found.  In case you were wondering, the leftover containers are on the chair against the wall.  But of course!  (For a more complete dialogue on this situation, please see The Ernie and Bert Book, and/or read this comment from an Amazon reviewer.)

Our apartment had been sprayed for cockroaches a few weeks prior, but since "for up to two weeks after the spraying, the presence of cockroaches might increase," my roommates had abandoned the kitchen entirely, opting to cook at a neighbor's house.  

The devastation left by the roaches was not just limited to a displacement of kitchen materials. There were dead (and live) cockroaches everywhere.  

On the sticky traps meant for the mice...

and even on the freezer door...

We quickly learned that the roaches weren't the worst of our issues.  For several months, we had seen (and heard and smelled) the telltale sign of mice living in the air vents.  If you were ever up late at night doing homework or just trying to find some time alone, you could hear them romping around--from the sounds they made, we estimated they were the size of small horses.  Since it's the summer in Texas, our AC had been running constantly, and the apartment was filled with the musky odor of mice.  In case you consider me paranoid or overly concerned at this point, you might be interested to know this wasn't our first rodeo with a mouse infestation.  In fact, just last year, they cut a couple holes in the wall of our pantry to pull out two decaying mice.  That stench was entirely overpowering.  Needless to say, I could recognize the smell from anywhere.  And it was present.

I decided to do something about the whole roach/rodent situation, so I cleaned up the kitchen, washed all the dishes and put them in the dishwasher (so I knew they would be clean and not roach-infested), and stuck a mouse trap in the air ducts right next to the vent.  I watched that trap for a few days, but to no avail.  After what literally seemed like months (but was only a few days as I recall), I looked in and the trap had sprung!! ...but no mouse.  Slightly disappointed but determined still, I grabbed some pepperjack cheese from the supply of my roommate currently studying abroad and re-set the trap.

Within two hours, I heard a pop, and went to investigate.  Here's what I found.  Isn't he cute?

He was just sitting there, watching me.  At this point, I realized I hadn't entirely thought out the trap-setting scenario.  If the mouse was alive but still caught in some non-deadly fashion, he would run off with the trap into the recesses of our air vents, only to die a slow, painful, and extremely putrid death.  I guess I figured I'd leave the mouse there until he didn't show any signs of movement (actually, to be honest, I was afraid he was going to run straight for my face as soon as I opened the vent so I was delaying as long as possible), so I left him there and went to watch a movie.

When I returned, my roommate wanted to see the little guy, so he sought out the necessary tools to take the vent off.  Horrified that he hadn't entirely thought through the potential consequences of his actions, I opened the front door, armed myself with a nearby broom, and sought protection for my face from the banister.  You might think my actions were a little bit over the top, but I had just successfully survived a trip to China without contracting polio, and there was no way I was going to die from the hantavirus.

We were both slightly disappointed when he finished opening the air vent and there was no mouse—just an empty trap.  I was slightly relieved (I now had documentation for our apartment management that there were mice in our air ducts, and didn't have to take care of this one myself), but also a little bit frightened.  First, how large were these mice that had apparently evaded traps twice, and second, what was the state of this mouse when he left the crime scene?  Was he wounded?  Did he walk off on his own?  In some sort of heroic save-your-comrade-in-battle scene, did his friend rush up (brandishing a set of pumpkin-carving knives he had stolen from our kitchen/dining room, no doubt), quickly splint his broken leg, and drag him back to the nest deep in the recesses of the air ducts?  Or perhaps at the thought of his wife (can mice get married?  do they need to get married before procreating?) waiting for him back at the nest, the wounded mouse had mustered every last ounce of strength and dragged his nearly-dead corpse through the dark maze of cool, metal tunnels, so he could die in the arms of her whom he loved?

I was super concerned for a few minutes, but after a thorough analysis of the above picture, we all decided the eye looking at us from the vent was not one of a mouse undergoing a light-at-the-end-of-the-tunnel experience, but was instead, the eye of an evil mouse flaunting his freedom from the fell clutch of humanity.

Knowing what I now know, I should have trusted my gut.  I should have slept at the foot of our apartment manager until they relented and actually did something to clear out the vents.  The scent of decaying roaches is not overpowering at first.  In fact, for the first few days, the scent is no more than the natural scent of mice living in the air vents.  However, if "scent" could be quantified and objectively measured, the scent of a decaying mouse would most definitely follow an exponential growth.  By day 5, I had begun working from the manager's office, hoping that my presence alone ("Do you mind if I work here today?  The smell from the rodents you haven't taken care of is making me physically ill.") would convince them something needed to be done.  It's now day 6.  Fortunately, the scent is limited to just the lower level of our split-story town home, but I don't have a lot of hope.

If one of these days you find me unresponsive to phone calls, emails, and texts, know that I have taken up residence under the freeway with some of Austin's finest.  As the nights are becoming warmer, it's getting easier and easier to spot their telltale pillow-and-grocery-sack dwellings.  Although I'm not sure that the smell would be any better...


Welcome home, Nathan.

It's great to see you, too, Austin.

On introverts

Preface:  I'm not exactly sure what purpose this blog has, or if it even has one at all.  While it's not entirely dedicated to all things technology, that's generally been the drift—especially since it started as a CS class assignment.  That being said, I feel like this post is going to depart from the norm just a little bit.  Since I'm fairly confident my "pool of dedicated followers" is relatively limited, I don't think many people will mind.  Besides, as Thornton Wilder once said, "If you write to impress it will always be bad, but if you write to express it will be good."  I'm not sure if that can be applied here, but it sounds good.

---

I've always wanted to be more extroverted.  The first time I took a personality test, I was appalled that I didn't have an ounce of yellow.  I've tried making significant changes in my life to fix this, and I am proud to announce that I am now capable of making what I term "intentionally-spontaneous decisions."  When the brink of decision arrives, instead of my usual process:

analyze each side thoroughly, then make a careful, conscious decision that will likely be most beneficial to myself and my future posterity,

I can now:

analyze each side carefully (what?  did you think I was going skip the analyzing part? anyone who knows me even remotely also must know this is entirely essential), and then make a rash, hasty choice based off some metric I (possibly incorrectly) assume would be most "yellow"

However, I recently listened to a Ted Talk entitled "The power of introverts" (there's my blog's obligatory techie-tack), and it got me to wonder:  perhaps my point of view isn't always off-base.  In fact, perhaps there are times when my non-extroverted way of viewing the world (the painfully analytical way) is actually better.  So, as Susan Cain suggests, I'm going to open my suitcase today, just a little bit.

The topic is dating.  

I've analyzed this one pretty well and have determined that the majority of the complaints lie against the guy.  So let me offer a few arguments "for the other side."

Times are changing.  People are changing.  What was once optional is now a necessity, and what was once considered "cool" is now quite deadly.  So we've got to adapt if we're going to survive. Unfortunately, there are some topics (like dating) that are poised in this weird, quasi-adapted environment, trying to cling to the past but march confidently forward to the tune of what's 

There are many girls who would say (and some quite publicly so) that the "success" of a date rests entirely on the guy's shoulders.  He's done the asking, so now it's his responsibility to "sell himself" to the girl.  He needs to have a plan, a backup plan, and a bag of tricks up his sleeve with which to improvise in the all-to-frequently-occurring case when everything goes wrong.  While I'll admit the guy does bear the majority of the onus for doing the date-asking, let me give you three scenarios where, in spite of all a guy might have done, the date went horribly wrong.

• Scenario 1: The world's worst volleyball date of 2009.  She didn't want to be there.  At all.
• Scenario 2: Boy picks up girl. Boy has a few suggestions for what to do. Girl says, "I'm fine with whatever." Boy decides to eat sushi. Girl is allergic to fish and doesn't say anything until she gets there, and just orders a side of edamame, the whole time dropping not-so-subtle hints about how she really enjoys chicken sandwiches. Whoops. 
• Scenario 3: Boy asks girl what her plans are. "I'm free all night." Boy decides it would be fun to get ice cream after sushi. Girl gets in the car and tells boy she's got to be back by 9 because something came up. Boy realizes he can't even make it to sushi in time, so he panics, calls an audible, and goes to Burger King instead ("have it your way").

A guy's got to have the Renaissance flair suitable for a Jane Austen novel, the modern slick of David Beckham, and he needs to be able to pull out gadgets and improvise like...Tom Cruise.  

But that's not really realistic.  So how does this differ for an introvert?  What do I typically do? I overplan. I'll line up a million ideas of what to do and analyze exactly how each one of them is going to pan out. Unfortunately, what usually happens is I walk to her door (all cool, calm, and collected), and suddenly she fakes an asthma attack and all of my freshly-laid plans go flying out the window.  I'm left in a stupor, consumed with one thought: "Oh my goodness gracious. How is it that the only thing I can think about right now is how I can't think about anything else except for the fact that I can't think of anything to do??"


So here's to change in dating.  To properly embracing the future.  And...to understanding introverts.

I'll be 26 in a month.  Located at precisely 26 Nathan Road in Hong Kong, China is an Outback Steakhouse, attached to the "Far East Mansion."  If this were MASH, I'd have definitely won.

We Real Cool

I love this poem by Gwendyln Brooks.  In fact, it is one of the few things I still remember from the 8th grade. Enjoy.

The Pool Players. Seven at the Golden Shovel. 

We real cool. We
Left school. We 

Lurk late. We
Strike straight. We 

Sing sin. We
Thin gin. We 

Jazz June. We
Die soon.

Oh.  And check it out.  Gwendyln herself telling the story!

When in doubt, ask Google: A Tutorial

A friend and I had a disagreement:  is it "get your goat" or "get your goad"?

The solution (to this and any other similar disagreement) is a simple 3-step process.

Step 1: Type both phrases (in quotations) into the Google search bar.  Look for the number of times each is referenced.  For example, "get your goat" returns approximately 189,000 results, whereas "get your goad" only returns 7,010.  Fairly confident, but still possibly inconclusive.

Step 2:  Visit Google's ngram tool (which tells you the number of times a given word or phrase has been cited in literature since the early 1800s) and produce a graph like the following:

Yep.  Definitely never use "get your goad."

Step 3:  Depending on the results and the stance you maintained at the beginning, either show conclusively that you were correct and your friend was hopelessly misinformed, or firmly assert that it's dangerous to give the power to an Internet search engine to make any sort of linguistic determinations--after all, the computer is not intelligent!

Timing

Two of my favorite experiences happened in the same basketball game.

First, notice #4 on the red team--just behind me with the bald head.  He has the look of "we're down 15 points and I need to block that shot." He never stood a chance, so he tried to undercut me on my way back down.  No harm done, but that's just playing dirty.

"Don't undercut me, 4"

"What are you going to do about it, expletive?"  The game was getting heated.  Plenty of pushing, trash-talking, the works.

4 dribbles down the court, crosses his man over, and goes up for the shot.  And there I am, waiting patiently.  It was probably one of the sweetest blocks of my life--not necessarily because it looked good, but because the timing was so perfect! 

"That's why you don't undercut me!"


Oh.  And the second experience?

We won the game--and the coveted intramural t-shirt.

A- or BUST

In graduate school, sometimes we take hard classes.  Other times, we take classes outside our field of expertise.  Occasionally, we even get around to taking hard classes that are also outside our field of expertise.  Sometimes these classes help us gain valuable knowledge and skills that will forever benefit our skills.  Sometimes they teach us about the frustrations of life.  I think I've had enough of the latter.

The course was Wireless Networking.  The project?  Implementing full-duplex radios in a large industrial (read:  not entirely open-source) wireless simulator.  The problem?  Well, for starters, there needed to be serious changes to the infrastructure of the program including canceling timers at the right interval, sending packets through the correct protocol, etc, etc... But the second problem was just as significant:  I needed to understand the system forward-and-backward just to know what needed to be changed.  

Of course, I didn't start the project until later in the semester than I should have, but the professor made it seem like there would only be "a few small adjustments," and most of the work would be data analysis.  A week before the semester was over, I realized this was far from the truth:  I'd put in a good 20 hours on the project and still wasn't able to perform any "data analysis."  I figured I would just resort to using my powers of persuasion and emphasize some irregularities we'd observed to make a case, but in a class presentation a week before the semester was over, we were cut short by our professor who kindly informed us we were nowhere near finished and would need to complete the implementation by the week's end.

5 1/2 days, 40 hours more (including two near-all-nighters), and still nothing.  I don't think I'm an idiot, and I'm surely not incompetent when it comes to coding in C++ (just ask Smarterer--my score of 612 gives me a "proficient" rating), but I could not slay the beast.  Persuasive powers put to use again, I turned in what I thought was a fairly decent paper considering the circumstances.  When grades rolled around, I got a B in the class.  Not exactly what I wanted, and definitely not what my GPA was looking forward to, so I asked the professor if I could finish the project over the holiday in exchange for a regrade.  She was agreed.

It wasn't until 120 hours later (over my "break") that I finally had something working--and not just hobbling along, either.  I put together a stellar report complete with some of the aforementioned data analysis, and submitted for a regrade.  Within a few days, I got my professor's response:  an A- in the course.

I was thrilled, and so was my advisor (he'd expressed some concerns with my current GPA, but my promises for a higher grade in the class left him satisfied).  I put it all behind me.

Until about a week ago, when I got the following email from my professor (edited for brevity):

I submitted a request to change your course grade to A-. But it was not approved by the graduate office. To be fair to everyone, the graduate office enforced only considering the work done before the end of the semester.

In the past, students informed me in advance that they needed additional time to complete the project due to certain reasons and I assigned them an incomplete grade and was able to change them to a letter grade. Unfortunately, it didn't work in this case since you didn't inform me about the intention to continue the project and a letter grade had been submitted at the end of the semester. 

Sorry that I didn't know about the different treatment in the two cases earlier. If helpful, I'd be happy to write a letter to indicate you did a good job in the course and would be happy to give you A- if I had the option to do that based on the new project submission.

Seriously?  "only considering work done before the end of the semester" unless you have "certain reasons" to ask for "additional time"?  I've heard about this before.  You mess around the entire semester and realize you didn't do anything on your project, ask your professor for an extension, they give you an incomplete and a couple extra months to finish your project.  Apparently, if I would have simply asked for an incomplete and done the exact same work, I could have got an A- in the class.


I'm hoping this isn't the end of the story.  I'm hoping I'll go in and talk to the graduate advisor and he'll push through the red tape.  But I also hoped graduate school wouldn't be so full of drama.

Whatever the outcome, this is strike two against academia.  Why does an institution so "dedicated" to producing scholars have so many artificial barriers to keep you from getting there?


Maybe someday this will all make sense.


That's what I keep telling myself.

Mission: Accomplishing

Every once in a while, Pandora gets it right.  Like right now.  For some reason, it chose to play this song.  I'm sitting here, putting together a rather complex piece of software, and it's going pretty well.  

Suddenly, I feel like I'm in the movies, theme music playing, conquering the world.  

I had to share that before the feeling slipped away.

IEEE Journal Publication

If you're like me, it's relatively late at night and you're trying to submit a camera-ready paper for a conference.  You've used LaTeX so it fits the formatting requirements exactly.  Or so you thought.  Upon trying to jump through the PDFExpress hoops, you get the dreaded:

✘ Error   Font ZapfDingbats is not embedded (40x) 

Exasperated, you search the Internet and find a "brilliant" solution.  It's a couple of steps long, and it seems like it does the trick.  You plug along, resubmit the file, and sure enough, there are no embedded font issues.  But this time, it says some mumbo-jumbo about the file being too large.  Right about now, you start pulling your hair out (it took 90 minutes just to conform to IEEE standards, another 2 hours to find the "brilliant" solution, and it's now 15 minutes past the due date for the conference submission).  Another hour of searching, another step closer to the solution:  Look in Adobe under the "File Properties" menu, under "Fonts" to see if all the fonts are embedded.  Nope.  They aren't there.  There's an interesting article here about changing some of TeXShop's internal commands to try and rectify the situation.  But that doesn't do the trick in your case.

So here's the answer, and you can put your hair back in.

Sometimes, when including external figures/tables/whatever, the figure-producing program doesn't embed the fonts, which are then not embedded in the final PDF.  In my case, I use R to create figures, and the captions or something must be causing some severe issues.  Sure enough, looking at these PDF files individually with Adobe confirms my suspicion.  After a little more digging (thanks A Blog for your genius), I found that you can imbed the fonts using a dirty hack involving changing the file to an eps file and then back to pdf.  This doesn't change the picture quality, but does embeds the fonts.  Here's the code from the website, changed a little bit for Mac commands (I just changed pdftops to pdf2ps):

#!/bin/bash
export GS_OPTIONS='-dEmbedAllFonts=true -dPDFSETTINGS=/printer' cp $1 $1.old pdf2ps $1 tmp.ps ps2eps tmp.ps
epstopdf tmp.eps
mv tmp.pdf $1 rm tmp.ps tmp.eps

Run this program on all your external PDF files (it won't increase the file size significantly—in fact, in my case it decreased the file size), and then re-typeset with your favorite pdflatex editor.  And voila, you run the file through the PDFExpress PDF checker and you get:

Status*: PDF Passed PDF Check; PDF is IEEE Xplore-compatible

That's music to my ears.

Growing Up

It's 2012:  the year the world is supposed to end (okay, not really, but it makes for a powerful motivator).  As such, I've thought a lot about who I want to be when I "grow up."

When I was in high school, I envied those older than me because they had so much "free time."  Dad would always have time to read the newspaper, take volunteer coaching jobs for siblings, or spend lots of time working on fun projects around the house.  On the other hand, I struggled under the weight of marching band, basketball, and academics.  Dad would frequently tell me this was one of the easiest times of my life—which really bothered me.

Not long after my mission, I realized I had let my gospel scholarship degrade:  I struggled to stay awake as I read scriptures at night, and I wasn't quite as quick to remember specific verses when I was teaching.  But, thought I, this would all be made up at a future grown-up date when I had nothing better to do in the early morning hours.  I'm quickly realizing this isn't the case.  In a recent discussion with an older friend, he mentioned that you don't really change as you get older—you just get older.  I'm quickly realizing that this is the case.

But I've also realized something else.  While some of us are eagerly awaiting (even seeking out) changes that will signify our "grown-up period," there are an equal number who avoid change at all cost.  Still stuck in their [insert adjective for "opposite of adult"] years, they avoid (even rebel against) change.  Again on introspection, I've noticed the intersection of interests between myself and this latter pre-adult group of people is quickly shrinking in size.  Let's just hope this doesn't lead to disgust and more accusations of narcissism.

On another note, I stayed up until 2am trying to fix our leaking refrigerator hose.  And by fix, I mean I applied 6 easy-stick bike patches and a long piece of electrical tape to a hole in the hose before I finally gave up and turned the water off.  Maybe Dad wasn't using his "free time" to fix broken sprinkler pipes, either...