I remember a friend from Kindergarten named Sean. He had sandy blond hair and was extremely outgoing. I think early on, I admired this quality in others because I was shy and quiet. I wasn’t the type to go out of my way to make friends, but Sean was.
He gave me his phone number once (“Hey, this only has six digits” my sister said, when I gave her the piece of paper) but we never hung out away from school. The one time I saw him away from the usual surroundings was at a party my family attended every year. It was some kind of social to-do on a sprawling estate tucked away in South Clarkstown. I don’t even know who hosted it or why we got invited. I just knew that we always went.
That year Sean’s family was there too, and while the adults schmoozed, we stole away to run around on the grass. We found a hill and did what little kids do when they find hills: we rolled down it. At the bottom of the hill was a parking lot. When Sean saw a woman climbing the steps that led up from the lot, he said, “Hey, why don’t you roll down this hill with us?”
The woman halted and gave us an uncomfortable smile. She was young, but very clearly a grown up. Grown ups didn’t roll down hills.
“Oh I rolled down earlier.” She said.
Well, see, Sean? I wanted to say, she rolled down earlier. Leave the grown up alone.
Sean didn’t accept this. “Why don’t you do it now?”
The woman paused. Didn’t anyone tell him grown ups don’t roll down hills?
Sean waited.
“Oh, okay.” The woman said, and in seconds, she was tumbling down the hill, dress and all.
Even then Sean knew something that I still have trouble with now that I'm a grown up: it never hurts to ask.
2.09.2009
2.03.2009
Doppelgänger
I must have a lot of look-alikes walking around out there. Everyone seems to think I look like…someone. I’ve gotten celebrity comparisons from Whoopi Goldberg, to Halle Berry, to Tracey Chapman, to Sanaa Lathan. Please note that none of these people look alike. Evidently I have some kind of shape shifting quality that makes me different things to different people. This morning on the train, a man slipped into the seat beside me. It was a seat I had chosen, to stay away from Frank, my former seatmate, who was also on the train. I wanted to spare myself from another pitch on running my own energy company.
“Excuse me," the man said, "but is your last name Harris?”
Upon hearing the first part of the second syllable of the last name, I shook my head quickly, hoping he would retreat back to the seat he vacated.
But no.
“I’m not hitting on you, I see your rings…”
(well, that’s a load off…and besides, what an odd pick up line. “Oh, we’re not related in any way? Excellent! What are you doing this Friday at 8?”)
“...I see you on the train all the time and you look just like my aunt. She’s from California but she has a lot of relatives from here. And I don’t know them. But I know her.”
I nodded again. I failed to offer any personal information, which might seem kind of rude, but he’s not really my relative. That’s like classified information—you can access it, but it’s on a need to know basis. If I don’t think I need to know you, then you don’t need to know.
We sat there in awkward silence before he gave me permission to return to my iPhone. Permission that was now pretty much useless as we had just entered a tunnel and I was going to lose coverage anyway. I picked up my newspaper and read. Apparently he was going to sit next to me. In my efforts to avoid Frank, I had inadvertently met someone else.
This made me think of the other times when people thought I looked familiar.
Most random? On 270 north during rush hour, a guy in an SUV beckoned for me to roll down the window.
“Have you ever served over in Turkey?” he shouted.
I shook my head no. I guess the DoD military decal was a big hint that I served at some point.
“You look like someone I know!”
Unlike the guy who thought I was related to his aunt, this one turned into a pick up attempt. Hit on at 50 MPH?! I flashed my rings at him and drove on.
The other time I reminded someone of a relative was just…hmm…uncomfortable. Let me ‘splain.
This was at a job fair. I was dressed in my suit with a stack of resumes under my arm. I always hate these things because you feel like an orphan choosing new parents. The companies have the luxury of picking through hundreds of candidates, but the jobseekers are just hoping, hoping, hoping that someone (anyone!) chooses them. It’s very unbalanced. As I was in line to register, someone approached me.
“Oh hello, I just had to come speak to you.” He said, “You look just like my sister.”
I nodded and smiled. “Oh well—“
“Yeah,” the guy continued, “she passed away last year—“
“Oh.” I said, adding “I’m sorry to hear that.”
What was I supposed to say? "Remember that psychotic boyfriend? Yeah, well he was a murderer and I ratted him out and now I’m under the witness protection program. What’s that? No, I’m not really dead. Oh, there, there, it’s okay, don't cry. I know, but I couldn’t tell anyone, don’t you see…?”
The thing that surprises me is that people approach me with the small chance that they knew me or are related to me and they share this. I tend to be the opposite. If you look familiar and I think I know you, I won’t approach. There’s too much risk of embarrassment there. I have a weird talent for seeing someone familiar, thinking it’s someone I know, and then being dead wrong. I’ve done it to my own classmates. At my ten year reunion, I greeted someone with “Hi Dave,” and got “Well, no, actually it’s Leo.” Apparently a lot of people did that to the poor guy. He reminded them more of Dave than Leo, even though he was in fact, Leo. So to spare myself the embarrassment, I will likely pass you by if I’m not sure it’s you. Just a few weeks ago, I ignored my husband’s friend. I did think “Is that…?” but I didn’t stop because if it was indeed a stranger, I didn’t want that moment of "Oh, oops, okay then." He even called out my name and somehow I still walked on by.
If I’ve done this to you, I apologize. It’s not you. It’s me. Or my evil twin.
(Look! Even the president has a brother from another mother)
“Excuse me," the man said, "but is your last name Harris?”
Upon hearing the first part of the second syllable of the last name, I shook my head quickly, hoping he would retreat back to the seat he vacated.
But no.
“I’m not hitting on you, I see your rings…”
(well, that’s a load off…and besides, what an odd pick up line. “Oh, we’re not related in any way? Excellent! What are you doing this Friday at 8?”)
“...I see you on the train all the time and you look just like my aunt. She’s from California but she has a lot of relatives from here. And I don’t know them. But I know her.”
I nodded again. I failed to offer any personal information, which might seem kind of rude, but he’s not really my relative. That’s like classified information—you can access it, but it’s on a need to know basis. If I don’t think I need to know you, then you don’t need to know.
We sat there in awkward silence before he gave me permission to return to my iPhone. Permission that was now pretty much useless as we had just entered a tunnel and I was going to lose coverage anyway. I picked up my newspaper and read. Apparently he was going to sit next to me. In my efforts to avoid Frank, I had inadvertently met someone else.
This made me think of the other times when people thought I looked familiar.
Most random? On 270 north during rush hour, a guy in an SUV beckoned for me to roll down the window.
“Have you ever served over in Turkey?” he shouted.
I shook my head no. I guess the DoD military decal was a big hint that I served at some point.
“You look like someone I know!”
Unlike the guy who thought I was related to his aunt, this one turned into a pick up attempt. Hit on at 50 MPH?! I flashed my rings at him and drove on.
The other time I reminded someone of a relative was just…hmm…uncomfortable. Let me ‘splain.
This was at a job fair. I was dressed in my suit with a stack of resumes under my arm. I always hate these things because you feel like an orphan choosing new parents. The companies have the luxury of picking through hundreds of candidates, but the jobseekers are just hoping, hoping, hoping that someone (anyone!) chooses them. It’s very unbalanced. As I was in line to register, someone approached me.
“Oh hello, I just had to come speak to you.” He said, “You look just like my sister.”
I nodded and smiled. “Oh well—“
“Yeah,” the guy continued, “she passed away last year—“
“Oh.” I said, adding “I’m sorry to hear that.”
What was I supposed to say? "Remember that psychotic boyfriend? Yeah, well he was a murderer and I ratted him out and now I’m under the witness protection program. What’s that? No, I’m not really dead. Oh, there, there, it’s okay, don't cry. I know, but I couldn’t tell anyone, don’t you see…?”
The thing that surprises me is that people approach me with the small chance that they knew me or are related to me and they share this. I tend to be the opposite. If you look familiar and I think I know you, I won’t approach. There’s too much risk of embarrassment there. I have a weird talent for seeing someone familiar, thinking it’s someone I know, and then being dead wrong. I’ve done it to my own classmates. At my ten year reunion, I greeted someone with “Hi Dave,” and got “Well, no, actually it’s Leo.” Apparently a lot of people did that to the poor guy. He reminded them more of Dave than Leo, even though he was in fact, Leo. So to spare myself the embarrassment, I will likely pass you by if I’m not sure it’s you. Just a few weeks ago, I ignored my husband’s friend. I did think “Is that…?” but I didn’t stop because if it was indeed a stranger, I didn’t want that moment of "Oh, oops, okay then." He even called out my name and somehow I still walked on by.
If I’ve done this to you, I apologize. It’s not you. It’s me. Or my evil twin.
(Look! Even the president has a brother from another mother)
1.29.2009
The Rise and Fall of My Math Mojo
In elementary school I did well in math. By the time I hit Junior high, I was a year ahead of the curve. When I started 8th grade at a new school, I noticed that the textbook was the same one I had used in my math class the previous year. I could have shut my mouth right then—coasted through with an easy A, but pride didn’t let me. I approached Mr. Weiss after class one day and said “I think I’ve done some of this stuff already.”
“You mean you can calculate area?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “and volume, too.”
His gasp was nearly audible. “Volume!” he exclaimed, “you know how to calculate volume?”
I nodded with the confidence of someone who had just solved a complex previously thought to be unsolvable equation.
That landed me in a classroom taking a placement exam. I did better than pre-algebra. I was in algebra, baby!
I did pretty well. The following year I had Geometry and did pretty well there, too. Then came Algebra II. I did okay, but some of it was guesswork. Then came Trigonometry. I did a little less okay, but I passed. I wanted to quit then. With one last year of high school, I only wanted to take what was required and the line was drawn at Trigonometry. I was signed up to take Art until my mother turned me around and insisted I change it back to math. That is how I was introduced to the dreaded thing known as calculus.
Calculus! Say it! That’s a grown up math. The big leagues. It even sounds serious. Calcu-LATE-Calcu-LUS. It’s a B.F.D.
I sucked at it. My teacher had been the one who ushered me through all of the high school math courses aside from Geometry. He was also my Physics teacher. We weren’t friends, but I wasn’t some random kid either. He had mercy on me and I passed.
Then came West Point. The first summer included all you ever wanted to know about drilling with rifles, getting fitted for uniforms and working out so hard that you’re still sweating after the shower, but it also had a placement test. If I remember right, it was taken in an auditorium on a summer afternoon. My head was spinning and I was going through the questions and guessing the answers. It was like taking an exam in hieroglyphics. I turned it in, still feeling strangely confident that I had done okay. When offered the chance to take “Rock Math” I declined. Ha! Rock Math? Phooey! Didn’t they read my transcript? I had knocked out that Calculus business in high school! I was already a year ahead, I aint no dumby! I would be starting out my college career on par with the rest of my peers, at the very least, thankyouverymuch.
Humility, thy name is James T. Sandefur. Mr. Sandefur’s name is etched in my brain because this was the man who authored the text used in my first math class at West Point (and the second, but we’ll get to that in a bit). The name of the text (and the course) was “Discrete Dynamical Systems,” AKA “D.D.S.” or “MA103” (what happened to MA101 & MA102?)
If you’ve ever ignored a problem and later realized that ignoring it doesn’t make it go away, it just makes the problem become exponentially worse, then I don’t have to explain why I failed. I could blame exhaustion from having a first hour Phys. Ed. Course, or staying up late shining shoes, but the simple fact was, from lesson 1 and everything thereafter, I Didn’t Get It. Not only that, but despite the course being the only one with lesson plans that went every single day instead of every other day, I continued to Not Get It. I also had an $85 graphing calculator which could have been more helpful, I suppose, but it also had a 100+ page instruction manual. What good was a calculator when you needed the entire semester to learn how to use it?
Failing the course meant getting a second helping of D.D.S. This class was pared down to eight students, all of whom had also failed the course. We had a teddy bear of an instructor, a goofball major who had graduated from West Point in the ‘80’s. His name was still up on the record boards in the intramural pool. He had once been one of us, and when you were a cadet, you sometimes preferred the officers who went to West Point because they knew what our lives entailed. No matter how many years had passed or what changes had taken place in that time frame, they knew.
The second time around was better. I actually understood it and I scored a decent grade. Then it was on to Calculus. Ha! Calculus. Haven’t we seen that before? Turns out, no, because if we had, we would have scored better than a D (See also, Physics). In fact, my best math course was also the one most widely hated by other cadets. Probability and Statistics, AKA "Prob & Stats," AKA "MA206." Years later, I still maintain my fondness of Venn diagrams. This was where I redeemed myself and closed out my math course history with a respectable B (okay, B-). Do I use any of this stuff in day to day life (just like “they” said I was going to?) I don’t know, maybe abstract thinking is so subconscious that maybe I have used it. Maybe the trick is that you can’t prove you don’t use algebra every day. All I know is that I’m humbled. If I never take another math class I think I’d be just fine. Sometimes I long for the story problems of yore. If a train leaves Philadelphia at 5 p.m., traveling at 55 miles per hour, I could easily predict when it would pass the one that departed Washington at 4:30 moving at 45 miles per hour. Better yet, ask me to calculate the volume of a cube! I was good at that. Once.
“You mean you can calculate area?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied, “and volume, too.”
His gasp was nearly audible. “Volume!” he exclaimed, “you know how to calculate volume?”
I nodded with the confidence of someone who had just solved a complex previously thought to be unsolvable equation.
That landed me in a classroom taking a placement exam. I did better than pre-algebra. I was in algebra, baby!
I did pretty well. The following year I had Geometry and did pretty well there, too. Then came Algebra II. I did okay, but some of it was guesswork. Then came Trigonometry. I did a little less okay, but I passed. I wanted to quit then. With one last year of high school, I only wanted to take what was required and the line was drawn at Trigonometry. I was signed up to take Art until my mother turned me around and insisted I change it back to math. That is how I was introduced to the dreaded thing known as calculus.
Calculus! Say it! That’s a grown up math. The big leagues. It even sounds serious. Calcu-LATE-Calcu-LUS. It’s a B.F.D.
I sucked at it. My teacher had been the one who ushered me through all of the high school math courses aside from Geometry. He was also my Physics teacher. We weren’t friends, but I wasn’t some random kid either. He had mercy on me and I passed.
Then came West Point. The first summer included all you ever wanted to know about drilling with rifles, getting fitted for uniforms and working out so hard that you’re still sweating after the shower, but it also had a placement test. If I remember right, it was taken in an auditorium on a summer afternoon. My head was spinning and I was going through the questions and guessing the answers. It was like taking an exam in hieroglyphics. I turned it in, still feeling strangely confident that I had done okay. When offered the chance to take “Rock Math” I declined. Ha! Rock Math? Phooey! Didn’t they read my transcript? I had knocked out that Calculus business in high school! I was already a year ahead, I aint no dumby! I would be starting out my college career on par with the rest of my peers, at the very least, thankyouverymuch.
Humility, thy name is James T. Sandefur. Mr. Sandefur’s name is etched in my brain because this was the man who authored the text used in my first math class at West Point (and the second, but we’ll get to that in a bit). The name of the text (and the course) was “Discrete Dynamical Systems,” AKA “D.D.S.” or “MA103” (what happened to MA101 & MA102?)
If you’ve ever ignored a problem and later realized that ignoring it doesn’t make it go away, it just makes the problem become exponentially worse, then I don’t have to explain why I failed. I could blame exhaustion from having a first hour Phys. Ed. Course, or staying up late shining shoes, but the simple fact was, from lesson 1 and everything thereafter, I Didn’t Get It. Not only that, but despite the course being the only one with lesson plans that went every single day instead of every other day, I continued to Not Get It. I also had an $85 graphing calculator which could have been more helpful, I suppose, but it also had a 100+ page instruction manual. What good was a calculator when you needed the entire semester to learn how to use it?
Failing the course meant getting a second helping of D.D.S. This class was pared down to eight students, all of whom had also failed the course. We had a teddy bear of an instructor, a goofball major who had graduated from West Point in the ‘80’s. His name was still up on the record boards in the intramural pool. He had once been one of us, and when you were a cadet, you sometimes preferred the officers who went to West Point because they knew what our lives entailed. No matter how many years had passed or what changes had taken place in that time frame, they knew.
The second time around was better. I actually understood it and I scored a decent grade. Then it was on to Calculus. Ha! Calculus. Haven’t we seen that before? Turns out, no, because if we had, we would have scored better than a D (See also, Physics). In fact, my best math course was also the one most widely hated by other cadets. Probability and Statistics, AKA "Prob & Stats," AKA "MA206." Years later, I still maintain my fondness of Venn diagrams. This was where I redeemed myself and closed out my math course history with a respectable B (okay, B-). Do I use any of this stuff in day to day life (just like “they” said I was going to?) I don’t know, maybe abstract thinking is so subconscious that maybe I have used it. Maybe the trick is that you can’t prove you don’t use algebra every day. All I know is that I’m humbled. If I never take another math class I think I’d be just fine. Sometimes I long for the story problems of yore. If a train leaves Philadelphia at 5 p.m., traveling at 55 miles per hour, I could easily predict when it would pass the one that departed Washington at 4:30 moving at 45 miles per hour. Better yet, ask me to calculate the volume of a cube! I was good at that. Once.
1.23.2009
A Series of Unfortunate (and fortunate) Events
Unfortunate event #1: Waking up to get ready for work. I don’t understand people who claim they will continue to work after they retire. If you don’t have to, then why? Even crazier than these are the ones who win goo gobs of money in the lottery (enough to support them for the rest of their lives if they don’t buy 10 McMansions and a fleet of silver plated cars) and they still work. Why would you if you didn’t have to? See the world! Become a hard body at the gym. Read every book and watch every movie you ever wanted to but couldn’t because you didn’t have the time. Cruise on a freighter!
Unfortunate event #2: A couple of my car’s tires have slow leaks. The cold weather has made it worse (I think). The blinka-blinka light is coming on every couple of weeks and I decided it’s better to pay attention and fill the tires than to go “la la la” and close my ears (or rather, cover my eyes, but that doesn’t work so well when you’re driving). I got my air compressor out, plugged it into the lighter, connected it to the tire valve and turned it on. I checked the other tires and went upstairs to fill my Thermos with coffee (and chemically altered creamer, and sugar)
Unfortunate event #3: I went back downstairs, disconnected the compressor, screwed the cap back onto the valve, put on my coat, got into the car, shut the door, stuck the key into the ignition and turned it—
*click*click* came the response. Crap.
Taking care of #2, had inadvertently caused #3, a battery with enough life to power the lights but also too dead to start the car.
Which led to
Fortunate event #1: I went back upstairs to tell my husband he had to take me to the train station. He asked me to get our daughter ready.
Fortunate event #2: She complied, mostly with getting dressed. The only argument came when we got to the shoes.
“Go get your black shoes.” I said.
“But I wanna wear the brown” she replied.
“But the black shoes go with your black pants.”
“But the brown shoes go with my brown face.”
(you can’t really argue with that, so I didn’t try)
Fortunate event #3: I went to my bedroom and laughed. Hard.
Fortunate event #4: She put on the black shoes anyway.
Fortunate event #5: Instead of driving me to the train station, my husband drove me all the way to work.
Unfortunate event #2: A couple of my car’s tires have slow leaks. The cold weather has made it worse (I think). The blinka-blinka light is coming on every couple of weeks and I decided it’s better to pay attention and fill the tires than to go “la la la” and close my ears (or rather, cover my eyes, but that doesn’t work so well when you’re driving). I got my air compressor out, plugged it into the lighter, connected it to the tire valve and turned it on. I checked the other tires and went upstairs to fill my Thermos with coffee (and chemically altered creamer, and sugar)
Unfortunate event #3: I went back downstairs, disconnected the compressor, screwed the cap back onto the valve, put on my coat, got into the car, shut the door, stuck the key into the ignition and turned it—
*click*click* came the response. Crap.
Taking care of #2, had inadvertently caused #3, a battery with enough life to power the lights but also too dead to start the car.
Which led to
Fortunate event #1: I went back upstairs to tell my husband he had to take me to the train station. He asked me to get our daughter ready.
Fortunate event #2: She complied, mostly with getting dressed. The only argument came when we got to the shoes.
“Go get your black shoes.” I said.
“But I wanna wear the brown” she replied.
“But the black shoes go with your black pants.”
“But the brown shoes go with my brown face.”
(you can’t really argue with that, so I didn’t try)
Fortunate event #3: I went to my bedroom and laughed. Hard.
Fortunate event #4: She put on the black shoes anyway.
Fortunate event #5: Instead of driving me to the train station, my husband drove me all the way to work.
1.22.2009
3
I don't really want to be 3 again, but I'd like the happiness that a 3 year old has.
Sometimes I ask my daughter if she's happy, just to hear the answer--
without hesitation it is always an enthusiastic: YES!
What is it that happens between then and when we grow up? When exactly does the balance of life shift so we find ourselves more UNhappy than happy? When do we start harboring and holding onto things that drag us down? When do you go from living the dream to living a dream deferred? At what point do we become jaded and closed off? Why does it have to be this way?
I know the answer isn't in things, but having enough to not worry and live comfortably helps.
Going on a path that you enjoy helps
Being with someone you love helps, but sometimes all of these things are not enough. Sometimes you just want to be at the point where you don't have to weigh the pros and cons or think about it--because if anyone ever asks if you're happy, you will already know that the answer is, undoubtedly, unhesitatingly, enthusiastically--
"YES!"
Sometimes I ask my daughter if she's happy, just to hear the answer--
without hesitation it is always an enthusiastic: YES!
What is it that happens between then and when we grow up? When exactly does the balance of life shift so we find ourselves more UNhappy than happy? When do we start harboring and holding onto things that drag us down? When do you go from living the dream to living a dream deferred? At what point do we become jaded and closed off? Why does it have to be this way?
I know the answer isn't in things, but having enough to not worry and live comfortably helps.
Going on a path that you enjoy helps
Being with someone you love helps, but sometimes all of these things are not enough. Sometimes you just want to be at the point where you don't have to weigh the pros and cons or think about it--because if anyone ever asks if you're happy, you will already know that the answer is, undoubtedly, unhesitatingly, enthusiastically--
"YES!"
1.21.2009
Disconnect
Since August I have had an iPhone. In some ways I like having it because it means anywhere I pick up a signal, I am connected. In other ways I hate it because--I'm connected.
--If your phone vibrates (or chimes) and you immediately check your computer for the new email message, you're too connected
--If you're putting off real things that need to be done so you can catch a few more minutes on the computer, you're too connected
--If you're sending text messages to your husband and he's within hearing/throwing something and hitting him range, you're too connected
--If you thought of a new status update and you just can't wait to post it on Facebook, you're too connected
--If something happened and you can't wait to post the photos, or describe it to someone online, you're too connected
--If you see that your Facebook friend count dropped and you take a moment to figure out who dropped you, you're too connected!!!
I'm guilty of all of these to some degree.
Tell you what, I'm going to sign off of Blogger and get back to living.
(just give me 5 minutes)
--If your phone vibrates (or chimes) and you immediately check your computer for the new email message, you're too connected
--If you're putting off real things that need to be done so you can catch a few more minutes on the computer, you're too connected
--If you're sending text messages to your husband and he's within hearing/throwing something and hitting him range, you're too connected
--If you thought of a new status update and you just can't wait to post it on Facebook, you're too connected
--If something happened and you can't wait to post the photos, or describe it to someone online, you're too connected
--If you see that your Facebook friend count dropped and you take a moment to figure out who dropped you, you're too connected!!!
I'm guilty of all of these to some degree.
Tell you what, I'm going to sign off of Blogger and get back to living.
(just give me 5 minutes)
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