Or what about the loud cribbage players three isles down? Am I allowed to drown them out? Is that ethical? Kind of a do-unto-others-as-they-have-done-unto-you philosophy, right? A new twist on an old rule.
Thursday, January 17, 2013
I've been thinking...
If it's acceptable for the cube-mate to eat his food at full volume, do you think it's morally acceptable for me to play something like this at a low murmur—just loud enough to cover any sounds from adjacent cells?
Or what about the loud cribbage players three isles down? Am I allowed to drown them out? Is that ethical? Kind of a do-unto-others-as-they-have-done-unto-you philosophy, right? A new twist on an old rule.
Or what about the loud cribbage players three isles down? Am I allowed to drown them out? Is that ethical? Kind of a do-unto-others-as-they-have-done-unto-you philosophy, right? A new twist on an old rule.
Thursday, January 3, 2013
Evolution of the Fittest
When I was in college, I bought a pair of blue Vans. I loved those shoes. Every morning I'd wake to Walking in Memphis, and nearly every day I'd slip into these shoes. Now I only use them when I'm boating or hiking through water.
Then I bought a pair of checkered Vans. This was the first shoe I'd wear quite literally with everything. On Sundays, I'd take off my Sunday shoes and slip into these for comfort. It almost became a habit: Ecco's to church, checkered Vans after. Now I just wear them with my gym shorts, basketball shoes in one hand.
Then I bought a pair of checkered Vans. This was the first shoe I'd wear quite literally with everything. On Sundays, I'd take off my Sunday shoes and slip into these for comfort. It almost became a habit: Ecco's to church, checkered Vans after. Now I just wear them with my gym shorts, basketball shoes in one hand.
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About a year ago, I needed something to match my orange pants, so I became the proud owner of a pair of laceless Sperry's. You're supposed to wear boat shoes without socks, so I did. It was nice on my sock drawer, but not so nice on my heels, especially in the dry Utah weather. Now, I almost only wear them when I'm trying to dress-down my church attire.
My latest shoe is a pair of Treetorns. They're super comfortable. If you look closely, you can even see the texture of the "Swedish Massage Teknology" in the insole. This is truly the pinacle of shoes in terms of comfort, style, and wearability.
I wonder what I'll get next. Something classic? Something trendy? Something super expensive?
Revenge of the R^2, Part III: Reinstated
I found these notes while looking at some old drafts in my Blogger account. I don't think I could say it half as good if I used twice as many words, so I'll leave this, as Part III in a 3-part series of The Recognition, Retribution, and finally...Reinstated.
CC gave us $400, but it wasn't enough.
First move happened while I was gone (I tried to escape). Revenge came when I had to move all by myself until 3 in the morning--wanted to sleep in my new home for sure. 38 stairs, why two flights of 19?
Bought a new TV
Bought the iPhone 5
Bought a bike
Bought a new car radio
Hello 21st century.
CC gave us $400, but it wasn't enough.
First move happened while I was gone (I tried to escape). Revenge came when I had to move all by myself until 3 in the morning--wanted to sleep in my new home for sure. 38 stairs, why two flights of 19?
Bought a new TV
Bought the iPhone 5
Bought a bike
Bought a new car radio
Hello 21st century.
Tuesday, December 4, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, November 27, 2012
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!!"
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!!"
Tuesday, October 30, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, October 24, 2012
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
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
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