There's a certain phrase than I've said more than a few times:
Getting married??? That's a crazy idea!
I've been thinking a lot about why I say this. It certainly doesn't result from questioning my decision; there's no doubt in my mind that Zack's the best Goddamn thing that's happened to me. But the concept of marriage scares the hell out of me. I did not grow up with working examples of long-lasting relationships; all my experiences show that they fall apart.
On Wednesday night I decided that taking my hacking cough to the symphony with Zack was rude and so I stayed home and watched a movie. Anyone seen Lantana? It's a recent Australian film about five couples in various states of marital decay. This is not a good movie to watch when you're planning your wedding. Or if you're having marital troubles. Or if you're in a relationship at all. Though it was a good movie. All you single folks should rent it.
Needless to say, Z came home from the symphony to discover a very upset fiancee on the couch. I don't watch movies like that and think: What awful relationships - that's not going to happen to me. No, instead, I think that that sort of decay is inevitable.
I'm working on changing my mind about this, but it's occasionally hard going. I spent a long time with my stepmum yesterday talking about marriage and the wedding (two different things: one involves more tablecloths than the other). In talking to her, I reconnected with just how much I love Zack; that he is the best thing ever. I cannot think of anyone for whom I'd rather work through this stuff. His unending support makes this kind of deep self-inquiry possible.
Thank you Zack, with all my heart, thank you.
January 29, 2005
January 26, 2005
Nail Care
I have never cared about (or for) my finger nails.
(With an opening sentence like this, I probably just lost the interest of all of my three readers. I would promise that this entry is going to rapidly improve, but it's about fingernails for God's sake.)
So, anyway... Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I went and had a manicure. You may think that my sudden fascination with nail care is related to my impending wedding, but if you did, you'd be wrong. It actually has to do with my thesis. Seriously. An integral part of my thesis - the cornerstone upon which everything else rests - is determing the age of my fish. Considering that all efforts to swim up to a fish and ask it its age have so far failed, you might wonder how one determines the age of a fish.
Fish have a small bone called an otolith that essentially floats in part of their brain case. Being, like us, mainly water, fish face a problem when it comes to orienting themselves in their rather weightless watery domain. Because otoliths are bone and therefore denser than body tissue, they react differently to movement than the rest of a fish's body. When the otolith moves, it triggers recptors that let the brain know that the fish has, for example, just executed a sharp right turn with a quarter twist. It's analogous to the fluid in our inner ear canals pressing against the hair cells.
At this point in my ramble, you are probably wondering what on earth an otolith has to do with the age of a fish. And wasn't this post supposed to be about nail care??? Patience, gentle reader, and all will be revealed.
Otoliths increase in size as the fish grows. Fortunately for science, the bone growth is opaque in summer and clear in winter. These alternating bands form rings akin to those found on trees: count the rings, you know the age of the fish. A large otolith, however, is about the size of a pinkie finger nail (aha! you erroneously think, finally we're getting to the nail connection), meaning that rings need to be counted under a microscope. Some of the older fish have such thick otoliths that the rings can't be clearly seen. In this case, the small bone needs to be broken half and lightly charred, a procedure appropriately named "break and burn".
How, you might ask, does one break an otolith in half? Well, one carefully grasps the otolith between thumbs and forefingers, placing the thumb nails in the center of the bone. With a quick snap, one (hopefully) breaks the bone straight down the middle. The problem I have is that my thumb nails don't extend beyond the flesh of my thumb pads, thereby making it impossible to place them along the center of the otolith. Every time my nails begin to approach the appropriate length, they crack and chip and need to get trimmed.
When this happened again yesterday, I realized that if I ever want to finish my thesis I'm going to need to take care of my nails. Having no idea how to do that, I sought the help of a professional: I got a manicure and some extra special (and quite expensive) nail strengthener stuff.
I find it amusing that it is science, a profession populated with tomboys and grrrls, that has forced me to pay such close attention to my fingernails.
(With an opening sentence like this, I probably just lost the interest of all of my three readers. I would promise that this entry is going to rapidly improve, but it's about fingernails for God's sake.)
So, anyway... Yesterday, for the first time in my life, I went and had a manicure. You may think that my sudden fascination with nail care is related to my impending wedding, but if you did, you'd be wrong. It actually has to do with my thesis. Seriously. An integral part of my thesis - the cornerstone upon which everything else rests - is determing the age of my fish. Considering that all efforts to swim up to a fish and ask it its age have so far failed, you might wonder how one determines the age of a fish.
Fish have a small bone called an otolith that essentially floats in part of their brain case. Being, like us, mainly water, fish face a problem when it comes to orienting themselves in their rather weightless watery domain. Because otoliths are bone and therefore denser than body tissue, they react differently to movement than the rest of a fish's body. When the otolith moves, it triggers recptors that let the brain know that the fish has, for example, just executed a sharp right turn with a quarter twist. It's analogous to the fluid in our inner ear canals pressing against the hair cells.
At this point in my ramble, you are probably wondering what on earth an otolith has to do with the age of a fish. And wasn't this post supposed to be about nail care??? Patience, gentle reader, and all will be revealed.
Otoliths increase in size as the fish grows. Fortunately for science, the bone growth is opaque in summer and clear in winter. These alternating bands form rings akin to those found on trees: count the rings, you know the age of the fish. A large otolith, however, is about the size of a pinkie finger nail (aha! you erroneously think, finally we're getting to the nail connection), meaning that rings need to be counted under a microscope. Some of the older fish have such thick otoliths that the rings can't be clearly seen. In this case, the small bone needs to be broken half and lightly charred, a procedure appropriately named "break and burn".
How, you might ask, does one break an otolith in half? Well, one carefully grasps the otolith between thumbs and forefingers, placing the thumb nails in the center of the bone. With a quick snap, one (hopefully) breaks the bone straight down the middle. The problem I have is that my thumb nails don't extend beyond the flesh of my thumb pads, thereby making it impossible to place them along the center of the otolith. Every time my nails begin to approach the appropriate length, they crack and chip and need to get trimmed.
When this happened again yesterday, I realized that if I ever want to finish my thesis I'm going to need to take care of my nails. Having no idea how to do that, I sought the help of a professional: I got a manicure and some extra special (and quite expensive) nail strengthener stuff.
I find it amusing that it is science, a profession populated with tomboys and grrrls, that has forced me to pay such close attention to my fingernails.
January 23, 2005
In Another Life
A friend introduced me to a fun little exercise: off the top of your head, imagine what you would be if you had another life to live. These are not necessarily dreams that you have and want to fulfill, but more like the first five things that come to mind. This afternoon I would be a/n:
1. Fireman
2. Secret Agent à la X Files
3. Forensic scientist
4. Dog
5. Epidemiologist
Number one because it was the first thing that came to mind; number two because I would be privy to all that top secret, classified information and would therefore know whether or not alien abductions really happen; number three because I would know how they figured out that Mr. Peacock did it in the library with the candlestick; number four because it would be fun; and number five because it would be a good conversation starter (and ender) at a cocktail party:
Exceedingly handsome man (looks just like Zack) approaches with two martinis: Say, pretty lady, what do you do?
Me: Well, kind sir, I'm an epidemiologist.
Exceedingly handsome man: Oh?
Me: An epidemiologist studies the spread of disease. I'm currently working on Ebola - that's the African virus that causes death by massive hemorrhaging. If infected, your body basically turns to goop. It's terribly contagious.
Exceedingly handsome man: Oh. Really. How interesting. I'll be right back...
January 21, 2005
One Fish, Two Fish ... Only Three Fish!?!?!?
Today has not been a good day at all. No siree. I was awoken at 6:28 to the sounds of Kaya heaving and then throwing up. Without a doubt, this is the Least Pleasant way to wake up.
I woke up again at 7:20 when the alarm went off. I felt like I was being resurrected from a nice, warm, cozy death. I made a quick assessment of my head, realized it was filled with throbbing cotton wool, rolled over and went back to sleep. I woke up again when Zack got up, and finally heaved myself out of bed at 8:16. I called my dive buddy Lisa who said I sounded like hell. Then I called my advisor; both he and his wife agreed with Lisa's assessment of my health. Those of you who dive know that diving with sinuses full of snot is a terribly bad idea. So, I had to cancel the whole dive trip. This project seems fated to end in the way it began: with false starts, crappy weather, and a dearth of treefish.
I remember the first collection we did to Palos Verdes. SFSU's 19' whaler (that's a boat) was in the shop because someone had broken the prop and filled the motor with mud while doing work in the delta. We arranged to borrow a boat owned by Occidental College, and arrived in LA to howling Santa Ana winds and an ocean that closely resembled the contents of a washing machine. The following day was calm enough to get out, though big swells kept the bitterly cold water full of particulate matter and the visibility to about 12 feet. The big swells also kept me heaving over the side of the boat - and let me tell you, the only thing worse than feeling sea sick is throwing up in front of your advisor and colleagues on your first trip together. At the end of a day, we had four treefish to show for our trouble. Four! That's a tad shy of the 70 we were hoping for.
And that's how the project began. Every time I would come really close to calling the whole thing off, we would have a productive dive trip, returning with enough fish to think the project was a go. The trip after that would either be blown out or we wouldn't have a van or we couldn't find any fish. And so it went, alternating useful expeditions with futile ones. And somehow I have been dumb enough to stick it out and make it work. Finally, after almost two years on this project, I can say that it has worked. I have 316 fish to show for my trouble, a little short of the standard 400. But I got what I got, and boy am I ready to be done.
My most recent trip was to Santa Cruz Island in November. We had aimed for a window between two storms, driving to Santa Barbara in the pouring rain. Thursday night's marine forecast confirmed that Friday would be calm. While stopped in a strip mall to get ice and coffee on Friday morning, my companions turned on the boat radio and tuned into the weather. The NOAA announcer has a lot of area to cover, so it's easy to tune out and miss the forecast you're listening for. Nevertheless, someone thought they heard something about 15 knot winds in the channel. That's pretty darn strong. As I walked back to the boat with the ice, I noticed some trash being whipped around the parking lot and the eucalyptus tops tossing about. It was not yet 7:00am; this was a bad sign. We drove down to the harbor anyway to have a look-see. Sure enough, the water was more white than blue. One of us managed to get a call through to a friend out in a boat who reported that the channel buoys were measuring gusts up to 25 knots. So, we turned around and drove home. By Friday night, I had spent 24 of 36 hours in a car. Given this disaster, I thought that I was due for a break and that my next trip would be smooth as buttah.
But, it was not to be. With Lisa and I sick, there's no way we can dive. We're now planning a fish-lab mad-dash mission: tow the boat to LA on Monday; arrive in Torrance at about 11pm after spending several hours negotiating hellish traffic and lovely LA drivers while towing a behemoth of a boat; get up at 5:00 for breakfast; launch the boat at 7:00am from Redondo; motor the hour or so to Catalina; dive until the sun is almost down; eat; sleep too little; eat; launch at 6:00; dive until 3:00; pack; motor back to the mainland; eat; drive home. We should be back by 4:00am on Thursday. I just hope that we get a decent return for our efforts; it would be really nice to end this two-year fiasco with a no-worries, she'll-be-right-mate dive trip.
After speaking to my fellow divers this morning and calling off the dive trip, I took Kaya on a much-needed walk up to kite hill. It is so much steeper with goop-filled sinuses. I got home only to realize that I had forgotten to take my keys with me. Yep, I was locked out. I spent an hour sitting on Market Street, waiting for Z to come home on his lunch break to let me in.
I will now crawl back into bed and wake up to a different and better day.
I woke up again at 7:20 when the alarm went off. I felt like I was being resurrected from a nice, warm, cozy death. I made a quick assessment of my head, realized it was filled with throbbing cotton wool, rolled over and went back to sleep. I woke up again when Zack got up, and finally heaved myself out of bed at 8:16. I called my dive buddy Lisa who said I sounded like hell. Then I called my advisor; both he and his wife agreed with Lisa's assessment of my health. Those of you who dive know that diving with sinuses full of snot is a terribly bad idea. So, I had to cancel the whole dive trip. This project seems fated to end in the way it began: with false starts, crappy weather, and a dearth of treefish.
I remember the first collection we did to Palos Verdes. SFSU's 19' whaler (that's a boat) was in the shop because someone had broken the prop and filled the motor with mud while doing work in the delta. We arranged to borrow a boat owned by Occidental College, and arrived in LA to howling Santa Ana winds and an ocean that closely resembled the contents of a washing machine. The following day was calm enough to get out, though big swells kept the bitterly cold water full of particulate matter and the visibility to about 12 feet. The big swells also kept me heaving over the side of the boat - and let me tell you, the only thing worse than feeling sea sick is throwing up in front of your advisor and colleagues on your first trip together. At the end of a day, we had four treefish to show for our trouble. Four! That's a tad shy of the 70 we were hoping for.
And that's how the project began. Every time I would come really close to calling the whole thing off, we would have a productive dive trip, returning with enough fish to think the project was a go. The trip after that would either be blown out or we wouldn't have a van or we couldn't find any fish. And so it went, alternating useful expeditions with futile ones. And somehow I have been dumb enough to stick it out and make it work. Finally, after almost two years on this project, I can say that it has worked. I have 316 fish to show for my trouble, a little short of the standard 400. But I got what I got, and boy am I ready to be done.
My most recent trip was to Santa Cruz Island in November. We had aimed for a window between two storms, driving to Santa Barbara in the pouring rain. Thursday night's marine forecast confirmed that Friday would be calm. While stopped in a strip mall to get ice and coffee on Friday morning, my companions turned on the boat radio and tuned into the weather. The NOAA announcer has a lot of area to cover, so it's easy to tune out and miss the forecast you're listening for. Nevertheless, someone thought they heard something about 15 knot winds in the channel. That's pretty darn strong. As I walked back to the boat with the ice, I noticed some trash being whipped around the parking lot and the eucalyptus tops tossing about. It was not yet 7:00am; this was a bad sign. We drove down to the harbor anyway to have a look-see. Sure enough, the water was more white than blue. One of us managed to get a call through to a friend out in a boat who reported that the channel buoys were measuring gusts up to 25 knots. So, we turned around and drove home. By Friday night, I had spent 24 of 36 hours in a car. Given this disaster, I thought that I was due for a break and that my next trip would be smooth as buttah.
But, it was not to be. With Lisa and I sick, there's no way we can dive. We're now planning a fish-lab mad-dash mission: tow the boat to LA on Monday; arrive in Torrance at about 11pm after spending several hours negotiating hellish traffic and lovely LA drivers while towing a behemoth of a boat; get up at 5:00 for breakfast; launch the boat at 7:00am from Redondo; motor the hour or so to Catalina; dive until the sun is almost down; eat; sleep too little; eat; launch at 6:00; dive until 3:00; pack; motor back to the mainland; eat; drive home. We should be back by 4:00am on Thursday. I just hope that we get a decent return for our efforts; it would be really nice to end this two-year fiasco with a no-worries, she'll-be-right-mate dive trip.
After speaking to my fellow divers this morning and calling off the dive trip, I took Kaya on a much-needed walk up to kite hill. It is so much steeper with goop-filled sinuses. I got home only to realize that I had forgotten to take my keys with me. Yep, I was locked out. I spent an hour sitting on Market Street, waiting for Z to come home on his lunch break to let me in.
I will now crawl back into bed and wake up to a different and better day.
January 19, 2005
Three Things
ONE:
According to a November CBS poll, nearly two thirds of Americans - yes, two thirds - believe that students should be taught creationism along with evolution. I am dumbfounded, literally. What is there to say? Who are these people who take Genesis so literally? People who are so willing to toss out piles and piles and piles of evidence supporting a theory that so far explains everything pretty damn well in favor of a nonsensical story? Oh, you have a problem with the word, "theory"? Well, gravity is a theory, too, folks. I personally don't see questioning that as a good use of anyone's time.
TWO:
The nasty cold has been reborn. Z and I both have sore throats (again), body aches (again), and coughs (again). Perhaps it is in response to me shunning the Word of the Lord. If that's the case, I request an exorcism.
THREE:
Tomorrow, I leave for Catalina Island on the last of my fish collection trips. I've been undertaking dive trips to Southern California since April 2003 - seems like an awful long time ago. In 2004, I made 68 dives despite the fact that I took three months off. All this is coming to a close. I am both sad and relieved: I'm not looking forward to spending the next six months in a lab devoid of sun and dolphins and garibaldi; I am relieved to not spend days at a time alternating between shivering underwater and shivering in a boat. I'm happy in a sad kind of way to complete this adventure at Catalina, which remains the most beautiful place I've ever been diving. Like with so many things in my life at the moment, I'm turning a page, simultaneously closing one chapter and opening another.
According to a November CBS poll, nearly two thirds of Americans - yes, two thirds - believe that students should be taught creationism along with evolution. I am dumbfounded, literally. What is there to say? Who are these people who take Genesis so literally? People who are so willing to toss out piles and piles and piles of evidence supporting a theory that so far explains everything pretty damn well in favor of a nonsensical story? Oh, you have a problem with the word, "theory"? Well, gravity is a theory, too, folks. I personally don't see questioning that as a good use of anyone's time.
TWO:
The nasty cold has been reborn. Z and I both have sore throats (again), body aches (again), and coughs (again). Perhaps it is in response to me shunning the Word of the Lord. If that's the case, I request an exorcism.
THREE:
Tomorrow, I leave for Catalina Island on the last of my fish collection trips. I've been undertaking dive trips to Southern California since April 2003 - seems like an awful long time ago. In 2004, I made 68 dives despite the fact that I took three months off. All this is coming to a close. I am both sad and relieved: I'm not looking forward to spending the next six months in a lab devoid of sun and dolphins and garibaldi; I am relieved to not spend days at a time alternating between shivering underwater and shivering in a boat. I'm happy in a sad kind of way to complete this adventure at Catalina, which remains the most beautiful place I've ever been diving. Like with so many things in my life at the moment, I'm turning a page, simultaneously closing one chapter and opening another.
January 17, 2005
Stay Away
I am in a royal mood today, but only if royalty are royal pains in the ass. I'm pissed off, snappy, grumpy and likely to throw a tantrum over nothing. I bet you're upset that you don't get to hang out with me. If you really want to, Zack might be convinced to trade places with you. You would need to sign a waiver, though:
I _____(Name)______ will not hold against Bartlebee anything that she says or does; I will never, ever mention anything that happens on this day; I will not utter the letters P, M or S.
Last night, we went to an improv show to see our friends Corey and Jenny perform. As we left, we walked through a group of teenagers hanging out by the door, dressed in their best imitation of the 80's (shudder). As we passed them, I realized that from their perspective, we are old.
Old?!?! When the fuck did that happen???
Afterwards, we went to the Elbo Room, which Jenny's sister and friends had rented out for a four or five person (Jenny said five but held up four fingers) 30th birthday party. The drinks were strong and, because we only knew two people there, Zack and I got a little crazy, a little stoopid, on the dance floor. It was fun for a time - at least an hour. Then I realized that I didn't fit in for several reasons:
1. I wasn't ragingly drunk (can you say, designated driver?)
2. I wasn't dressed in a lingerie-like top, jeans and heels
3. I obviously wasn't single
4. A particular finger on my left hand wasn't ring-free
When you're part of a couple, it's like you don't exist to the other sex. There wasn't anyone there that I found particularly attractive, but it would have been nice if even one person to whom I'm not betrothed had made an effort to flirt with me. Perhaps this is why couples tend not to stay out as long as singles: it's not that they prefer each other's company, but that they feel a bit out of the loop, no longer part of the in-crowd. Maybe it's just me. And maybe no-one flirted with me because they sensed the impending doom of my mood and sensibly stayed away...
... Like Zack, who just muttered something from a safe distance and ran out the door. Right before he left he asked if I was safe to hug. He looked genuinely scared, and righfully so. Even I don't want to hang out with myself today.
I _____(Name)______ will not hold against Bartlebee anything that she says or does; I will never, ever mention anything that happens on this day; I will not utter the letters P, M or S.
Last night, we went to an improv show to see our friends Corey and Jenny perform. As we left, we walked through a group of teenagers hanging out by the door, dressed in their best imitation of the 80's (shudder). As we passed them, I realized that from their perspective, we are old.
Old?!?! When the fuck did that happen???
Afterwards, we went to the Elbo Room, which Jenny's sister and friends had rented out for a four or five person (Jenny said five but held up four fingers) 30th birthday party. The drinks were strong and, because we only knew two people there, Zack and I got a little crazy, a little stoopid, on the dance floor. It was fun for a time - at least an hour. Then I realized that I didn't fit in for several reasons:
1. I wasn't ragingly drunk (can you say, designated driver?)
2. I wasn't dressed in a lingerie-like top, jeans and heels
3. I obviously wasn't single
4. A particular finger on my left hand wasn't ring-free
When you're part of a couple, it's like you don't exist to the other sex. There wasn't anyone there that I found particularly attractive, but it would have been nice if even one person to whom I'm not betrothed had made an effort to flirt with me. Perhaps this is why couples tend not to stay out as long as singles: it's not that they prefer each other's company, but that they feel a bit out of the loop, no longer part of the in-crowd. Maybe it's just me. And maybe no-one flirted with me because they sensed the impending doom of my mood and sensibly stayed away...
... Like Zack, who just muttered something from a safe distance and ran out the door. Right before he left he asked if I was safe to hug. He looked genuinely scared, and righfully so. Even I don't want to hang out with myself today.
January 16, 2005
January 15, 2005
Talent
Last night, Zack and I went to the
We had front row seats; I could see the soloists spit and follow along the violinists’ sheet music. When the Brazilian dancers came out in sequined brassieres, scarf-covered g-strings and huge feathered hats they stood right in front of us. We both got thwacked in the face with feathers, a small price to pay for the pleasure of watching them shake their thangs from three feet.
Yes, it was an unusual night at the symphony.
Since then, I’ve been thinking a lot about talent. What does it mean to be talented? Has someone like Renée Fleming always had an amazing voice? Or did she “just” work really hard?
There’s someone in my marine biology graduate program who isn’t all that bright, but who will end up with a master’s degree just like the rest of us. S/he isn’t talented in an academic sense, but is talented when it comes to stubborn persistence. Or should stubborn persistence not be categorized as talent?
When it comes to drawing, I believe myself to be lacking in the talent department. But perhaps I could learn to draw and, if I worked hard enough at it, develop a lot of skill and go on to be a contemporary Monet, color blindness and all. Would this be called talent? Or without a basic level of skillfulness, could I never achieve artistic renown?
Is it just a matter of working hard? Can everyone achieve anything if they put their minds to it and are given enough encouragement? Or do the really talented folks start out with a level of competency that far exceeds the regular folks?
Feel free to chime in with your talented opinion at any time, folks.
January 14, 2005
Oops, Version II
So I had another strange dream last night: I decided to marry an Indian man instead of Zack.
I got dressed in a beautiful red and gold sari. The ceremony began with the applicaton of bindis and three stripes of ash to our foreheads. Then we rang a tiny, porcelain bell and arranged some tacky, empty photo frames. When it came time for us to feed eachother, I realized that the groom hadn't done a damn thing to prepare for the cermony; his mother, at the altar with us, was doing it all. I received the food his mother passed to him, biting into the braised, sweet green onion and realized that after the wedding, he was going to turn into an abusive, good-for-nothing husband. I freaked. Seeing an out, I asked the mother if it would be okay if I went to the bathroom. On my way out of the room, I got Zack's attention and with subtle head gestures and grunts indicated that he should follow me. We walked down the hallway into Zay's old bedroom at the Liberty Penthouse. It was so easy to talk to Zack, so comfortable. I started to cry because I realized that I was marrying the wrong man. I told Zack that he made me laugh like no-one else, and that I wanted to marry him. He responded, "No no no no nope. You are the ex-wife that I love". His tone was full of cold finality, and I realized that I'd missed my chance. I woke up crying. For once it was a relief to hear him snoring beside me.
That makes for the second dream I've had about marrying the wrong person.
And now all you married people can reassure me by telling me that you had similar dreams before your big date (or dates in the case of hmc and e) and that they won't plague me for the next eight months. Don't be shy now. Make me feel better!
I got dressed in a beautiful red and gold sari. The ceremony began with the applicaton of bindis and three stripes of ash to our foreheads. Then we rang a tiny, porcelain bell and arranged some tacky, empty photo frames. When it came time for us to feed eachother, I realized that the groom hadn't done a damn thing to prepare for the cermony; his mother, at the altar with us, was doing it all. I received the food his mother passed to him, biting into the braised, sweet green onion and realized that after the wedding, he was going to turn into an abusive, good-for-nothing husband. I freaked. Seeing an out, I asked the mother if it would be okay if I went to the bathroom. On my way out of the room, I got Zack's attention and with subtle head gestures and grunts indicated that he should follow me. We walked down the hallway into Zay's old bedroom at the Liberty Penthouse. It was so easy to talk to Zack, so comfortable. I started to cry because I realized that I was marrying the wrong man. I told Zack that he made me laugh like no-one else, and that I wanted to marry him. He responded, "No no no no nope. You are the ex-wife that I love". His tone was full of cold finality, and I realized that I'd missed my chance. I woke up crying. For once it was a relief to hear him snoring beside me.
That makes for the second dream I've had about marrying the wrong person.
And now all you married people can reassure me by telling me that you had similar dreams before your big date (or dates in the case of hmc and e) and that they won't plague me for the next eight months. Don't be shy now. Make me feel better!
Got Balls?
Despite the freezing weather (and you Mainers can say what you like; it’s damn cold here today), I took Kaya to the beach again today. Seeing how much she loved the piece of tennis ball she found on the beach last week, I thought I’d give her a treat by bringing along a whole tennis ball in good condition. The tide was high leaving only about 20 yards between the lick of the waves and the cliffs of
I gave Kaya a few minutes to tear around and then brought out the treat. I asked, “Ball? Ball?” She responded by eagerly looking at me, her muscles tensed ready to send her speeding across the sand. I tossed the ball; she flew after it, picked it up and … ran up the damn cliff with it! She dropped it at the top and returned to the beach. I contemplated going after it, but was stopped by imaginary headlines: Woman Crushed to Death by Sand While Trying to Rescue Dog’s Ball. Make that: Stupid Woman Crushed to Death by Sand.
Several minutes later, I found a ball on the beach. It was pink and rubbery, and the effects of salt water and sand had crinkled its surface into playa-like cracks. Once again, Kaya got all excited. I kicked it down the beach and she went pelting after it. She picked it up and – you guessed it, ran up a cliff with it, depositing it somewhere out of reach of a bipod like me. I had no idea that today was “Run Up a Cliff with a Ball” day.
Almost back to the car, I found another ball. This one was probably a tennis ball at some earlier point in its career, though had since become bald and a little shrunken. I kicked it for Kaya, wondering how long it would take her to deposit it somewhere out of reach. She brought it back. I kicked it again … and again … and again. She never tired of it and never ran away with it. In fact, I kicked it once and she lost it. Despite the fact that I had started walking toward the car, she remained on the beach, anxiously trotting haphazard search patterns through the sand.
I really do wonder what the hell is going through that head of hers. She and I clearly evaluate the world around us using very different criteria: what’s gross to me is delicious to her, and what’s delicious to me is, well, usually delicious to her. I would like to be able to spend some time in her head, seeing the world through her eyes and nose, just to get a sense of what it’s like. I’d also like to know what she thinks of me and the other humans around her. Does she derive comfort and pleasure from my company in much the same way that I do from hers? Or are we simply another source of food? Does she find my preference for a whole tennis ball as mystifying as I find her appetite for jellyfish?
As she ran up the cliff with the ball, perhaps she was thinking, I can't believe she brought a tennis ball the beach. How embarrassing. I better hide it before that hot lab notices.
January 12, 2005
Breathe Deeply
In Sunday's New York Times Magazine there’s an article by Florence Williams titled Toxic Breast Milk? It’s a disturbing piece about the various chemicals that are stored in fatty tissues in our bodies and which are released into breast milk. The article does underscore the fact that breast feeding, even with chemicals in the milk, is still better for a child than formula. Even though the milk carries toxic chemicals, it also contains substances which seem to help a child protect against these chemicals. I find this only mildly reassuring.
The main problem appears to be PBDE’s (polybrominated diphenylethers), flame retardants sprayed onto just about everything in response to the rampant use of very flammable polyurethane. As I sit here in my house, I have to wonder what it is exactly that I’m breathing in as PBDE “appears to migrate out of its product and attach to house-hold dust.” Being fat soluble, they are easily stored in our bodies. Lucky us.
According to a certain Sandra Steingraber ofIthaca College
Reading an article like this makes me want to escape to, um, well, somewhere safer, more remote…. like theArctic . Oh yeah, but that’s polluted, too. In fact, the Inuit have some of the highest levels of contamination because their diet relies heavily on organisms that, by being at the top of the food chain, are chockfull of toxic compounds. Mmmmm…. I think I’ll go get me some sushi.
To end on a happy note, I quote David Ropeik from the article: “The mom who lets her kids get sunburned and worries about PBDE’s is worry about the wrong thing."
Uh, thanks. I’ll sleep better knowing that. How about you?
The main problem appears to be PBDE’s (polybrominated diphenylethers), flame retardants sprayed onto just about everything in response to the rampant use of very flammable polyurethane. As I sit here in my house, I have to wonder what it is exactly that I’m breathing in as PBDE “appears to migrate out of its product and attach to house-hold dust.” Being fat soluble, they are easily stored in our bodies. Lucky us.
According to a certain Sandra Steingraber of
Reading an article like this makes me want to escape to, um, well, somewhere safer, more remote…. like the
To end on a happy note, I quote David Ropeik from the article: “The mom who lets her kids get sunburned and worries about PBDE’s is worry about the wrong thing."
Uh, thanks. I’ll sleep better knowing that. How about you?
January 08, 2005
Going to Laos?
I have never been to
I’m walking with a stranger to the subway. He explains that in order to use the (very complex) train system, you have to be able to picture the map in 3D. He demonstrates and I watch his thoughts. Whether in 2D or 3D it’s a hopeless mess to me. I tell him where I’m going and he checks the schedule. The train he’s taking to Brooklyn from platform one will continue on to my destination, namely
He leads me down a flight of stairs to platform one. We walk the length of platform one to another set of stairs, which arc up and over the tracks to platform two. We walk back along the length of platform two to another set of steps, which lead to the other side of platform one. See? Simple!
We wait on platform one for the train to Brooklyn/Laos. A train heading to
Eventually a train shows up that’s going to Brooklyn but not
The train departs and I wait. I realize that there’s probably a train for
And that’s about how I feel: a little lost, a little confused. When mum visited in December, she brought with her a recording that I made when I was 10. In it, I proudly proclaim that when I grow up, I’m going to be an author and a poet and an actress. I think I’ve always known what I wanted to be when I grew up. Always, that is, until now. Suddenly, I have no clue. And I’m stuck in NYC trying to catch a train to
January 07, 2005
Simple Pleasures
I took Kaya-the-dog to the beach this morning. It’s been a glorious sunny day, cold but clear and crisp. All that rain washed the smog away. The tide was out, exposing bars of small stones and creating a pool of calmer water separated from the ocean by a sandbar on which shorebirds fed. The pool was occasionally flushed by little rippling waves, and was perfect for skipping stones. I have an affinity for rocks, especially beach rocks; I could spend hours sifting through a square foot’s worth of pebbles, ocean-smooth glass and shells. While hunting for skipping stones, I caught site of a smooth, orange rock. I picked it up, wishing that I knew enough about rocks to identify it. Quartz? Perhaps. When wet, it glistened orange to its depths. When it dried out, it looked dull. The only reason it caught my eye was because it wasn't like any of the surrounding pebbles. If taken home, it would become just another rock in my collection, nothing special. I put it back and saw a pale green rock striped with deep purple and brilliant orange. But the stripes only stood out because it was wet. I put it back, too.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)