Science Scouts

I'll admit I really only wanted to be in Girl Scouts for the badges.  Okay, and maybe the cookies.  Because you could get a badge for selling cookies!

So, much delight to come across this!

Here's my sash!

On Aviation Incidents

Rest in peace, all souls from CJC3407.

Commuter aircraft get a bad rap for a wide variety of reasons.  I've long disliked prop planes, and I'm sure I can trace this back to the Roselawn ATR accident.  I know they're as inherently safe as any other tube of metal hurtling through the air, but they sure are noisy and cramped, and to be honest, I generally prefer to divorce myself from the operation of my aircraft as much as possible.  Contrast a shaky takeoff in winter in a turboprop with an impossibly smooth climb out of a tropical airport in a 767.  (It's nice to have a home airport at which I have more choices than commuter planes.)

Still, I know that air travel is really safe.  Really safe.  I have lived and used to work for years right next to airports where hundreds of planes operate without incident each day.  I can rationally examine the statistics - and my brain acknowledges it readily, as I sit here on the sofa.  Surprisingly, despite all my frequent-flier miles, I can be a bit of a panicky flier if I'm not otherwise distracted.  Even a clear-sky approach into Orlando with rising thermals and wake turbulence from other inbound aircraft makes me hold on to my seatbelt a little tighter and start praying.  Again, even though I KNOW (far more than the average flier) the reasons for the turbulence we encounter at the top of the boundary layer, I often have to consciously unclench.  It's irrational fear and I know it.  It smacks of a larger issue I've been wrestling with lately - that of trust between me and God.  I guess it's easier to trust when your feet are on solid earth, but we have no more control here on the ground than in the air.   I ROUTINELY put myself in exponentially greater danger during my 1.5-h daily commute by car.  And yet, some days, it takes a boarding pass to get me to pray?  

I was on a commuter plane a couple summers ago from EWR-DCA.  It was a smooth summer-evening flight; midway through the final turn to line up with the runway, the gear came down and it felt like all hell broke loose on this plane.  Okay, maybe not all - we felt under control after what was likely just a few seconds and most likely always under control.  The NTSB today released FDR information from 3407's final moments, which made me think of that flight.  The gear dropped and the flaps lowered and, apparently, all hell broke loose.  Popular speculation is that a combination of icing and interrupted airflow from the lowered flaps caused a tail stall.  What's interesting is that procedures for recovering from a wing stall are exactly opposite to those for recovering from a tail stall.  So in an instant, a pilot has to determine what's gone wrong and correct it, with the wrong choice ending in disaster.  I make a ton of mistakes in the course of my career, so I have a lot of respect for pilots (consummate problem-solvers), who, bearing out the statistics, get it right almost all the time.

In reference to a passenger whose flight from MSY-EWR was delayed, keeping him off the crashed plane, a contributor on an aviation forum said an experience like that would change your life forever.

I missed a flight from London this summer, with 27 students on a tour.  Surrounded by a lot of panic and upset, I was relatively calm.  Part of it was my comfort with commercial aviation procedures.  Maybe it's because I'm on the ground, but I don't usually sweat delays or missed flights, though, and I attach a lot of baggage (pun intended.  would "gravity" have been any more acceptable?) to the deliberation when opting to switch flights or stand by for another.   To know why, rewind to 25 May 1979.  

Right before my third birthday, my parents and I flew to Los Angeles for my aunt's wedding.  We were going to take United ORD-DEN-LAX, but United pilots were talking about going on strike, so my parents booked American ORD-LAX instead.  We were originally ticketed on AA191 on the day before it became the deadliest crash on US soil (prior to 2001), but then my parents decided we would fly the next day.  They figured that if we were going a day later, we should take an earlier flight.  That was to put us in the air on the flight right before 191 crashed on takeoff.  That morning, we all overslept, had a 90-minute drive to Chicago, and had to return a rental car.  By the time we got to O'Hare, we had to run through the terminal in a flat-out sprint (my parents carrying me) the whole length of the concourse to make the flight.  Otherwise, we'd have been on 191, which was our back-up reservation.  Our tickets had 191 printed on it, but crossed out and our flight number written under it - I think my parents still have it.  

He's right.  It does change your life forever.

Believe what you will about your gods.  Mine kept me off that plane.

Look, I know I'm just one in a sea of people whose planes don't crash on any given day.  But I can trust a God who orchestrates infinite events, of which I'm not even aware, to put me where I need to be.  And I don't.  I've been bought at a price and have purpose.  And I let a little fluid dynamics freak me out?

I have a wrestling match to get back to...

On the Nature of Incremental Change

I've recently seen photographs of several friends and acquaintances I haven't seen, in person, in at least ten years.  (mostly a result of certain social-networking sites)  Clicking through their photos, I'm struck by how much they look like grownups.  I'm not saying they haven't aged well - it's just that they don't look like they're in high school or college anymore.  My mental image of them hasn't changed since I last saw them, but obviously, we've all gotten a decade older.   Same thing happens with my cousins - and they're young, which amplifies the phenomenon - my mental images of them are as toddlers, but they're in upper elementary school now. Anyhow, when I look at pictures of myself, I don't marvel at how different I appear from ten, fifteen years ago. I mean, I know I've changed, but I've been present for the changes.  It isn't until I see a photo from 1997 and I can't help but notice how much younger I appear.  And that's not entirely true either.  When I look at that photo from 1997, what catches my eye is how much younger the other people appear.  Only then do I think, "oh, yeah, me too".

I don't mean for this post to come across as a lament of the aging process - I don't have a problem with growing older.  What's interesting is my tendency to not age-progress individuals, and how surprised I am when I see that they're adults now.  It's clearly a function of how often I see someone.  Incremental change on the order of days or months is significantly smaller (and less noticeable) than that on the scale of years, even decades.

The shift of plates goes unnoticed until a dramatic event.

There's another strange time phenomenon going on in my head. I occasionally manage to neglect a four-year chunk of my life, the California Years.  From time to time, I simply forget we lived there.  I remember the people and the places, but sometimes, when I'm going through my mental timeline, I find I just close the gap between college and Florida.  This happened most noticeably the year I spent advising college-bound high-school seniors.  The more I talked about college and thought about what it was like to go off to college, the time gap between now and then started to shrink; when I caught myself, it was with marvel that there was a chunk of four years (and even a couple years here) that I just glazed right over as though they were insignificant.  Which they weren't.

Time is a transparent film, stretching and shrinking.

I was asked recently, on the occasion of my ninth wedding anniversary, how my marriage had changed over time.   It was a more difficult question than I expected it to be.   I know there has been change, but I can't articulate it, and I certainly can't divorce it from our own individual changes.  It's a kind of relative-motion frame-of-reference problem, because our relationships evolve as we are changing, too.

A person walks at a speed of 2 m/s relative to a moving sidewalk. If the sidewalk is moving at 3 m/s relative to the ground, what is the person's velocity relative to an outside observer?

I couldn't answer her - there seem to be too many variables to come up with a meaningful answer, relative to an outside observer.

[Originally drafted 25 July 2008]

Musings Over Old Binders

Cleaning out the garage this evening, my husband and I came across some old academic work - thesis defense slides, class notes, labs, exams. Having been out of the meteorology business for a few years now, I was astounded to see just how many things I once knew and have since forgotten. And what we remembered remembering (as the grades on the papers could attest), but don't really remember until we're reminded. [apologies if you pulled a muscle that last sentence...]

This comes hot on the heels of a conversation with a friend about how much calculus I've forgotten since college. It does come back quickly, like when a student asks me about a question on their math homework, or I read it in a quiz-bowl question. There's that unnerving familiarity, without the immediate recall, that can be pretty frustrating until you read part of a textbook and it (mostly) makes sense again. The paths are there, I just have to hack my way through a dense jungle of overgrowth to find them again.

Conversely, some subjects, like one I now teach, gave me a certain amount of frustration when I was younger. I'm continually surprised to find I now love it; it comes so much more naturally and makes so much more sense. Admittedly, I have a couple degrees behind me now, plus the burden of the teacher: I have to understand the material or I have no hope of communicating it. I'm impressed with the ease by which my students pick up some concepts I teach. I often wonder how my high-school self would compare to them. It's interesting to consider that subjects can be more readily mastered under different circumstances. And how some subjects are merely vehicles for learning how to learn, in contrast to learning the pure material. I suppose this plays out in my own classroom - I know I teach more problem-solving skills than pure science.

I'm no neuroscientist, but perhaps that's the very distillate of education. Learning is not instant access to all one's files on the desktop of one's head, but is instead the cultivation of the ability to maintain and navigate the filing system. To rediscover what's been learned before with a bit of prompting or refreshing. The difference between trivia-recall and understanding. I suppose it's a corollary to the Curse of Knowledge: that which has been learned, some part of it, is always present - it just may take some work to find it and shake the dust from it. Or maybe it's just a lyric to a Paul Simon song: "It's easier to learn than unlearn."

Low Food, Part III

I'm pretty sure I said the following things today at lunch:

"I loves me my processed meats!"

"Better living through chemistry!"

and

"Mmmmm... nitrites!"

It was Hot Dog Day in the cafeteria.

And it's true. I do love the frankfurters. We get lunch every day in the cafeteria, so one of my favorite long-weekend-thus-I'm-actually-home-for-lunches indulgences is a batch of pigs in blankets. A Pig in a Blanket was my Very First School-Lunch Ever. In 6th grade. I used to buy milk in the cafeteria for lunch, but the rest of my meal always came from home; I was resistant to even entertain the idea of buying lunch at school (hey, my mom packed a pretty great lunch!). My principal finally convinced me I should give a school lunch a try. I still remember the contents of that first sectioned tray: Pig in a Blanket, some kind of cheesy sliced potato dish, sliced beets, and chocolate milk. It wasn't so bad (well, except the beets), and I became a daily buyer of school lunches, even through high school. If anyone knows where I can get my mitts on a Fiestada - a hexagonal Mexican pizza thing - contact me immediately.

Anyhow.

The lunch table seemed a bit incredulous that I would exult the lowly hot dog, but come on! They're good! Maybe not good for you, but they are tasty lil' tubes o' pig-parts. (To be eaten with mustard only; special provision for dill relish.) And if you like hot dogs, you should give them a try on pizza. Seriously.

My dad was never a major force in the kitchen - he does have his talents, though. He's the muscle behind cookie-baking operations, and the man makes a mean grilled cheese sandwich. The crown jewel in his repertoire, however, are his mini pizzas.

Dad's Miniature Pizzas
1 can cheap refrigerated biscuit dough
Pizza sauce
Mozzarella cheese
Toppings (my favorites: black olive and thinly sliced hot dog)

Separate biscuits and roll very thinly. Place on a baking sheet and top with a schmear of pizza sauce, cheese, and toppings of your choice. Bake at 400 degF until crust looks done and cheese is melted. Trust me on the hot dogs. Go on. Try it. You know you want to.

For what it's worth, my dinner tonight was some kind of nutritional atonement involving whole-wheat pasta and fresh vegetables. It's going to be a long four weeks until the next HDD, but it's a pretty safe bet what my upcoming spring break lunches will involve.

Fish, Clothing, and Emily Post

I think my fish is dying. I'm trying to stave off the death. The fish was part of a centerpiece at prom last year (not my idea); and a bunch of students (and I!) took home fishies that night. I kept him in a beaker in my classroom last spring. Named him Fred. But the beaker would get funky awfully quickly, so I bought a wee tank and filter for him. Starting a couple weeks ago, Fred's been pretty listless. It had been cold in the evenings, and the cool water was probably stressing him out. Lately, however, he's been hanging around behind the filter outlet, and not moving very much at all. I didn't see any telltale white splotches of ick, but upon further examination, he appears to have some sort of something on his back. I'm guessing it's some kind of fungus infection. I gave his tank a thorough cleaning, did some quick research on fish treatments, and found that methylene blue can be used to treat such afflictions. Hey, this chemistry teacher has plenty of that! I turned off the aquarium pump, too, hoping that still water will ease his irritation. We shall see...


Went to a Super Tuesday party last night. ABC was proclaiming winners of primaries with a mere 6% of precincts reporting. Never before have I witnessed such a steamrolling of data and statistics. But that's not my point. I didn't want to bother driving all the way home and all the way back to school and stayed out that way. Which meant I had to plan far in advance for dress-up Wednesday. And a warm Wednesday, too. I have a hard time selecting outfits one night ahead - invariably, I don't feel like wearing whatever I picked. Plus, I had to cart my morning necessities with me. I'm not that high-maintenance, but I do require some product. Anyhow, I had a feeling yesterday that I wasn't going to be satisfied with the clothing choice I'd packed for today. The suit I brought, I like it, but there was a loose button (which manifested itself as a wardrobe malfunction this morning, requiring a swift dash to the theatre costume shop for repair!). I didn't bring the belt, either, and I still don't know where that might be. Despite my poor clothing pick, I received several compliments today. I suppose just means I can disguise poor wardrobe choices well. Or at least make the best of them. It was a weird start to the day, too, outside of my typical routine. I was able to set my alarm for the time I'd ordinarily be leaving for school! Anyhow, driving into campus this morning, I had a strange sensation - almost as if I'd not left campus since the morning before. I suppose I use my drive as mental distancing from the school day more than I realize.


Finally, how is etiquette taught these days? I used to check out Emily Post volumes from the library as a middle-schooler. We had workshops in college designed to teach us luncheon etiquette and business communication. How else would you learn the proper ways to address a letter, what fork to use, or the right time to applaud during a concerto? I've heard some criticisms of social graces as effete elitist rules, however, I believe etiquette serves as a way to make people feel comfortable, not uncomfortable. It provides a structure in which to operate, where people know what's expected and can respond appropriately. (I have found no greater illustration of the value of clear expectations than in a classroom.) I could have used a crash course in military protocol at a former job, where I interacted with both active-duty and retired officers. I always felt unequipped and ignorant. Anyhow, soapbox aside, one thing I considered last year was Jennifer's Charm School, before prom, to give students an idea of what to do at a formal dinner dance. As much as we prepare students for college classrooms, I wonder whether we prepare them for life outside the classroom. Balancing a checkbook, addressing others when making introductions, interview and business etiquette. How do you learn this stuff if you're not an etiquette guidebook nerd?


It's that blah time in late winter, when the only food in season is citrus and root vegetables and casseroles. A time of transition in weather, too - our taste of the 80s the past couple of days reminds me I'm not quite ready for summer. It's no wonder I am not satisfied by my clothing choices!

A 70% Chance of Scattered Thoughts

I'm restless. I spent all day in the chemistry lab (With a fantastic group of kids - the lab took 3x as long as it should have, and they really didn't complain. Complain to me, at least!), I realize I'm still grieving losses I thought I was over (though some external things are exacerbating it all right now - more on that at some point), and I'm very nearly though with the busiest week yet. I could really use a nap.

Since it's been a while since I posted anything , I don't quite know where to start. I still have a bunch of half-finished blog-starts. I'm distractable, but with nothing to distract. My phone battery is dead, my iPod battery is dead, I don't have any books I want to read, my google reader material has been read, and I have 30 minutes before I need to be somewhere. And I certainly don't want to do any work. So. Restlessness begets blogging, I suppose.

Jess and I defined the complementary difference in our personalities this week. I've long operated under the notion that I regret the things I don't do far more than I regret anything that I do. "Deliberate" is a positive character trait, to me. I mean, I rarely get into scrapes, try really hard not to put my foot in my mouth, make very thoughtful and safe decisions, and often think and think and think before I act or speak - sometimes never acting because I'm stuck thinking. Not that it's necessarily better than the alternative. Both have their clear advantages and disadvantages. Anyhow, we were discussing a good potential list - Things We Vow Never to Do Again. And I had a really hard time coming up with bullet points. I have an endless list of items on a list of Things I Wish I Had Done.

When I consider such a list, one thing that invariably comes up is a missed opportunity my senior year of college. Not so much a missed opportunity, but something I wish I'd played out a little longer, just to see where it could have gone. I was about to graduate, and I had been looking for employment. I'd had a couple interviews, including a completely insulting offer by a meteorological company that I will not name. One lead was particularly interesting, and particularly well-suited to my interests: a job forecasting weather for publication in two moderate-size Great-Lakes-Region city newspapers, plus writing feature weather articles. Have I mentioned my undergraduate research thesis on lake-effect snowfall climatology and my affinity for both forecasting and writing? Well. I had a couple e-mail exchanges with the person in charge of hiring for the position, including writing a sample weather article. Things were looking favorably, and I even found a nifty apartment in a converted row house in a genteel older part of one of the cities. But then, staying for graduate school started to present as the better option. I was getting married in a year, and I really did want a graduate degree. Seemed more prudent to stay. So I e-mailed the guy with whom I'd been corresponding, to let him know of my decision. And it's not like I regret for one second the path my life has taken since that decision - it's been infinitely better than I ever could have imagined, in extremely surprising ways - but I do wish I'd waited just a couple more weeks or so, to see whether I'd have been officially offered anything, and what the offer would have been. Interestingly, when I had finished my graduate work, I tried to get in contact with the papers, just to see if the position had ever been filled, and it had vaporized. No response from the guy, and it looks like the newspapers had contracted with an outside firm for their weather pages. It has been my experience that doors I'm not supposed to take shut clearly and firmly, pressing me onto a specific path. Here, however, was a door I feel I closed forever, of my own volition. And I slightly regret not opening the door a little wider and having taken a better look. It's a cost of the measure of free will we're given, I guess. The second-guessing, the wondering. Not that it plagues me, it's just one of those what-ifs that spark curiosity. And I can't know - maybe that door would have closed on its own, in time.

Another topic of discussion lately is the notion of "mine". As an only child, I have a keenly-developed sense of "mine". It's not like I had to share my toys with many people as I was growing up. Siblinged people have a much more finely-tuned sense of "my turn". I've learned to give more of myself and my possessions, but I hold some things quite precious, and that's not limited to what is tangible. Words, situations, time periods, too. Anyhow, here is my list of things that are MINE. Things I don't like people to touch, use, etc, for whatever reason.

Mine!
1. My pens.
I don't really like to lend my cheap G2s, much less my fountain pens. Besides, pens mold to their users' writing styles. It's like trying to wear secondhand shoes or something.
2. My calculator.
I've had it since high school. It's boss. And students walk off with calculators. Hence my rule that classroom calculator-borrowing requires collateral - a shoe. But my own personal calculator? You're far within the circle of trust if I let you use my TI-68.
3. My Galileo Thermometer.
It's not for picking up and shaking!
4. My letters of recommendation.
5. My car seat settings.

On the Road

(Yeah, it's a back-dated post. Leave me alone. I only have dial-up here. Makes it tougher to spend time online.)

I drove the length of Indiana today, from my in-laws in the south to my parents in the north. Almost five hours of driving gave me a lot of head-time. Here are some of the things I scrawled on the fast-food bag laying in my passenger seat:

It's remarkable how I take my iPod and XM radio for granted. I'm at the mercy of a "seek" button and a lot of FM junk. Why so many automobile manufacturers fail to include a "scan" button on their radios is a mystery. By the way, I'm driving this Suzuki that's the product of some cross-pollination between an SUV and a station-wagon. It was dreadful enough until my father-in-law proclaimed it "a hearse". Crap - he's totally right.

Driving across expansive stretches of gently rolling farmland, I wonder whether my affinity for this kind of countryside is merely a product of the location of my upbringing. Granted, I've lived in and visited some excruciatingly beautiful places (sorry, Florida is not one of them...) - but there's something appealing about this kind of scene. I'm sure not everyone shares my opinion. I mean, who's going to deny that there are some places on earth that everyone finds unspeakably beautiful. But I can't imagine the same percentage would hold midwestern corn fields in the same esteem as I do. But if I'd grown up in Florida, would I consider swampy marshes as lovely? Maybe it's a moot point, trying to separate out the pure beauty from that which is simply familiar. Beauty is beauty. A product of the beholder, yes, but why question it?

Top Five Midwestern Ephemera

1. A dark sky, highlighted by the silvery undersides of maple leaves exposed by the gusts of an approaching storm. There's always a crescendo to a storm - when the sky gets progressively more ominous, but there's always a subtle dissatisfaction to the denouement, as the sky begins to lighten.

2. A temperate summer morning - not cool, but not overly warm, either - one you know is going to give way to a toasty afternoon later. We never seem to get these in Florida, presumably because of the humidity, which tends to assault you as you step out the door.

3. A bright snowy night, as any available light gets bounced all around off myriad white surfaces.

4. Tree trunks darkened by spring rain, punctuated by the bright green of young leaves on an overcast day. Also: The same thing in autumn, when those leaves have turned red and orange.

5. Late afternoon sunshine across fields in late autumn. Pewter stratocumulus in the sky, growing progressively more grey as the sun slips below them and casts sidelong illumination, gilding everything it touches.

One fun thing about driving long stretches in Indiana is the License Plate Game. License plates are issued by county, of course, and the first digits on standard plates indicate the county. So, 71 is St. Joseph (South Bend), 79 is Tippecanoe (Lafayette), 49 is Marion (Indianapolis). When I was young - middle school, maybe - my parents and I went to Indianapolis for the State Fair one summer. [Warning: severe geekiness to follow!] In advance of the trip, I made a spreadsheet on our new computer (using Lotus 1-2-3, a precursor to Microsoft Excel. On a DOS platform! And an amber monochrome monitor!) of all 92 counties in Indiana, along with their corresponding license plate number - they're numbered in alphabetical order. I remember the hardest to find was Switzerland county (77, IIRC...?) - a tiny little county in southeastern Indiana. Oh, the joy when I finally found that one! Anyhow, it was fun, playing that game again (without my lists, I got to be pretty good about interpolating between counties I knew; I've gotten rusty in the past decade) - though a lot of the fun has been lost with the rise in popularity of specialty plates, which carry no county designation.

I passed an old stone church for sale, on US31 in Tipton County, I think. Too bad there's not much around it, because it would be an awesome building to buy and turn into a bed-and-breakfast! I've long harbored desire for architectural reuse. As I've mentioned in this blog before and am too lazy to link right now.

Train tracks. This state is lousy with 'em. There really aren't many in Monterey, and I don't encounter many in Orlando, either - roads are built around or over them.

Just north of Indianapolis is a Wendy's on US 31 that was always the first indication that you're entering the Indy metro area. At least it was for me as a kid. Now, there's so much development going on around it, I hardly recognize the landmark.

Passed a fancy-looking high school (Westfield?) north of Indianapolis that advertises itself as a Verizon Smart Campus. Remind me to look this up later.

I should make some baklava when I get back to my kitchen. I haven't made that in a while. We also need to have a housewarming party. If for no other reason than to give us a deadline to finish painting the bathrooms. :)

Stopped at Trader Joe's in Castleton (NE Indianapolis). I went in looking for vanilla paste. Came out with $55 worth of stuff - and no vanilla paste. :-\ Did get some interesting foods. I shall report back later on them. Passed the hotel where I remember staying with my parents and some friends for the 1994 boys basketball state tournament, which our high school won. Turns out two of the players from that team have returned to the school as coaches. I wonder how that is, to be a player, with a giant picture of your coach at your age, staring down on you from above the bleachers. I know I'm romanticizing it all, but I can't help but think of Hoosiers. Which is a good movie, by the way. Go rent it - if you've never seen it, you are wrong.

More fields. Seed corn signs at the side of the road. Lonely irrigation sprinklers amid the dessicated remnants of chopped stalks. The demise of the family farm at the hands of mega-agribusiness operations saddens me, even though it seems an inevitability. Cue the John Mellencamp... seek... seek... seek... oh wait, there it is! Rain on the scarecrow...

Just when I looked down to my gauges and see that the temperature outside is 32, I notice some stuff in my headlights. Snow! Just a flurry here and there at first, but as I put my car in park, big floofy flakes started to fall. We have more in store for this week! A nice welcome "home". I catch myself when referring to this as home. I grew up here. Lived in this state for 24 years and one week (minus one summer). But looking around at all the changes, it's no more home than any other place, really. I suppose it always will be home, even if only home to my memories. Which grow fonder with time. It really was a good place to grow up.

Legacy Teaching

One more post this week about teaching, and then it's Thanksgiving Break! A moratorium on educational topics is in place until next week.

I joke over there --------------> that I'm not a teacher, I just play one. And I really do think that. I never went to school with the express intent of becoming a teacher, so I picked up much of my training in teaching high school while I was in high school - I just wasn't cognizant of it at the time. I notice that I parrot a lot of my former teachers. I assign similar projects as I was assigned in high school chemistry. I've even said the same phrases as my senior-year-physics and multiple-year-social-studies teachers. I sense my favorite history teachers and professors, in my own classroom energy and management. I see my French and English teachers in me, too, particularly when it comes to compassion and individual attention. I heard a clip on NPR a couple weeks ago (I think - I can't find evidence of this anywhere online), in which the commentator said that he learned to be a waiter by pretending to be a waiter. That resonates - I think I learned to teach by pretending to be a teacher. Having had no formal teacher training, I model my teacherly behavior after my own teachers.

Of course, I'm already extrapolating this forward. Who are the future teachers sitting in my classroom? What are they picking up from me now that they will pass onto their students ten or twenty years from now? I already feel the burden of representing science to my students; they will form opinions of science in my classroom that will affect how they view science for the rest of their lives. But this newfound responsibility towards the future students of my own students - I'm constantly amazed at what is entrusted to me.


It's that time of year - Thanksgiving break is upon us and Christmas will follow closely. While I was an undergrad, I would occasionally stop in to see my teachers when I was home for university holidays. Even as recently as last Christmas, I visited the few remaining teachers at my old high school. Now I am the teacher being visited by former students. I gained incredible respect for my own teachers throughout my first year of teaching, but to have their perspective on these pleasantries, too... this novelty has not worn off! Of course, in this facebook age, it's remarkably easy to keep in touch with former students, and I think our school fosters a very different kind of relationship and involvement in students' lives than I experienced in school. Very much for the better. Anyhow, a friend and I were discussing yesterday our lack of friends who just drop by. Granted, my friend base is a 45-minute drive away, so a dropping-by requires a trip. Anyhow, my point is that I love it. So, if you're in town for the holidays, drop by! Your teachers would love to see you again.

Food Graveyard

Let us take a moment and mourn for the lost:

1-2-3 Jello¹

Jello Pudding Pops (particularly banana; also chocolate-vanilla swirl). I know Popsicle makes some now, but... there's something not quite right about them.

Duncan Hines Tiara Desserts (we have so many pans - I should start putting them to use. My favorite was the black Forest cake, with the trifecta of sweets: chocolate cake, whipped cream, and cherry pie-filling goo.

Some really tasty toaster pastries that were round and sort of similar to Pop Tarts Pastry Swirls. They came maybe five to a box. The box was white, and I could swear the manufacturer's name was Rembrandt or Van Rijn or some other Dutch Master. My favorite flavor was cherry.

Boku Fruit Drink. Came in a tall juice box. Inventive flavors, for the late 80s.

Pizzarias. Pizza-flavored tortilla chips. This from the girl who can't ordinarily stand flavored tortilla chips. Doritos? Blech.

Chilito/Chili-cheese burrito. Still at some Taco Bells, including one in Tampa that is totally worth the trip. The original is from Zantigo's a Midwestern Mexican chain that was bought by Taco Bell in the 80s. Apparently, there are still a few stores remaining in the Minneapolis area. Totally worth the trip. From Florida.

Tribbles. Little mint chocolate chip cookie nuggets

Kool-Aid Purplesaurus Rex. It's grape. It's lemonade. It's a tasty beverage.

Snackwells Yogurt. Really more like pudding. A deep chocolate, prompting the wonder whether there was any dairy in it at all.

French Chew Taffy. Found this recently at Dylan's Candy Bar - yay!

Ben & Jerry's Cool Brittania ice cream. Strawberry and vanilla swirl with chocolate-covered shortbread pieces. Second only to Bovinity Divinity, which I would order because I'd get to say the name² at the scoop shop.

New York Deli Potato Chips. These came in a purple bag with yellow writing. I swear I came across these within the past two years. Any crunchy kettle-cooked chip makes a good stand-in.

Orbitz. Better beverages through polymer chemistry! For a texture girl such as myself, I was destined to either love it or hate it. The vanilla-orange flavor was oddly appealing. To say nothing of the suspended bits of goo.

Hi-C Ecto Cooler. Sentimental value, but appealingly bright green. We³ have a can⁴ of this stuff aging in a cellar our high school French teacher's classroom closet.


1 Though this appears to be a reasonable substitute.

2 Same rationale applies for "Tiki Tots".

3 I hung out with an interesting crowd in high school.

4 Yes, a large can. Aseptic cartons are for pansies.

Only the Lonely

I recently read a collection of essays on only-childhood. Some authors like their situation, some don't, but all understand that it makes us, well, unique. I was... am... an only child. I don't think I had it very rough. When asked whether I have brothers or sisters, I joke that I'm a spoiled-brat-only-child - and maybe I am. I certainly didn't hurt for attention or playthings. My parents focused their love, time, and resources on me. They always came to my softball games, band concerts, open houses at school. They weren't helicopter parents, hovering around to save me whenever things got rough - as some of the parents I now encounter are wont to do. Of course, things rarely "got rough" for me - I usually made intelligent choices - but they did blanket me with a certain amount of protection. I can't fault them for that, but I was definitely a shy kid(1) as a result. I think I might have inquired of the possibility of a younger sibling once or twice. Honestly, I didn't have much of a desire for one. I was aware of and happy for my unique situation. My parents always gave me some line about how I turned out so well, they decided to stop at perfection with just one. *barf* I don't really know the true reason they never had any other kids, or whether they even tried. I don't feel like I have some fundamental flaw for not having had siblings. Perhaps in some attempt at filling in for such intimate bonds, though, I cultivated close relationships with a select number of friends(2). As a kid, it was the best of both worlds, really - I had (what I presume to be) sibling-like relationships with them, but I could go home (or send them home) at the end of the day.

I like to think I ended up reasonably well-adjusted. There are some times when my idiosyncracies surface, which probably drive my husband nuts. I hate to telephone someone I don't know - and even some that I do know (3). I truly enjoy entertaining friends, but sometimes I would just rather be by myself. At least, I'm good at being by myself. I can entertain myself for weeks - and often prefer to do so (4). Anyhow, I began to outgrow some of my shyness in college, when I had to grow some nerve in order to survive. I don't truly understand the concept of boredom. I'm guilty of living too much in my head, probably because I never had to communicate outwardly with siblings. As an only child in an otherwise adult household, I've always related far more easily to adults. And now that I am one, older adults. I've made easy friends with a handful of people about ten years older than me - it's only very recently (since our move to Florida, mostly) that I began a sizeable collection of friends who are actually younger than I am. I never had younger siblings to babysit, so very young children are completely foreign creatures. I can teach high-schoolers, but nothing younger. I never really had to share my stuff with anyone, and it's not something that I did readily. I was probably a pretty selfish kid, but I like to think I'm outgrowing it. Nowadays, I make a conscious attempt to trim back, and in a lot of cases, I'm generous to a fault now. But, deep down, I still like to call the shots when it comes to when I choose to be generous. I was probably a pretty bossy kid, too - after all, as an only child, it was either my way or... well... my way. But I never learned to stand up to anyone who took my toys, so I tend to be a pushover. An odd contradiction. The paradoxical only child.

I know my leaving the nest was hard on my parents. My parents invested so much of themselves in me that my absence left a noticeable hole in their existence. I don't mean to sound so self-important, but consider how you notice a gap when a friend moves away. Now multiply that by 17290. We had been a triumvirate for so long; when one vertex of the prism inevitably took off on her own, left home, and got married, it almost seemed like a betrayal of our original alliance. Dare I say it, I actually prefer to go back and visit my parents on my own - it just doesn't totally feel right any other way. And I don't think my husband minds. The three of us make quite a force to contend with. (5)

Many people fear loneliness above anything else, but I don't, really. I have deep love my friends and family - it could be argued that they are one in the same - and maybe it's easy to claim freedom from fear when I don't want for companionship. Of course, being alone is very different from loneliness. Sometimes being alone at night in an empty house is irrationally scary, but I'm talking about loneliness. Once my parents are gone, I will have no siblings who truly shared with me my childhood. Now, I don't want to come off all "poor me", because I realize everyone loses their parents. Only children, however, are orphaned in a way that's different from siblinged children. I will single-handedly bear the burden of caring for them and their legacies. This didn't even register before I read essay after essay referring to this. Maybe then I'll truly understand what my parents felt when I left home. Maybe the loss of my parents will completely blindside me, I don't know. We live far away, so they've almost been reduced to an abstraction. Anyhow, at this point, I don't have these fears. Maybe I'll change my mind, I don't know. My history has very few narrators. But enough people know me so deeply now that I'm just not concerned they didn't know me then.

My husband is the oldest of three children, so of all the possible birth orders, he can probably best relate to an only child. But I freely admit I don't understand the dynamics between brothers and sisters. I wonder whether I'll be equipped to moderate and comprehend these relationships and bonds as a mother of multiple children. I've always wanted more than one child (6); my reasons have more to do with wanting both a boy and a girl, not sparing my own child(ren) from the only-childhood I had. I wouldn't mind raising an only child. It's a great life (7). I'd be more concerned that I wouldn't have the opportunity to raise a child of the opposite sex, and that I might be missing out on something. See, selfishness continually rears its head!


(1) I find it absolutely hilarious that people who know me now cannot believe this! I have to put on a good front some days. Besides, "personable" does not always equal "extroverted." The dance of pleasantries in conversing with someone new is a learned, rehearsed, practiced, and exhausting skill for me. Teaching has decidedly expanded my skillset. Sometimes my boldness surprises me; I ask pointed questions of others I never would have considered ten years ago - and I certainly would have hated being asked, myself. Seriously, those of you who met me in the past ten years would be shocked at what I was like twenty years ago.

(2) I realized a few years ago that many of my friends fall into distinct categories. Within categories, they remind me strongly of each other. That would be a good topic for another day. Remind me.

(3) I intensely dislike the telephone. Part of the reason I'm looking forward to ditching our landline is that it currently does not have CallerID, one of my favorite features of our cell phones! I much prefer written (post, e-mail, IM) or in-person communication.

(4) That and I've found that sometimes "compromise" means that nobody in a group really gets to do what they want to do; if I set out on my own, there's a guarantee I'll get to do what I want. Ah, selfish only child!

(5) Sorry for the Midwestern dangling preposition. I don't feel like restructuring my sentence right now.

(6) Though right this second, my desire for children is admittedly very low.

(7) Not like I know any different. But nobody else does, either.

Even More Miscellany

This is bad. I've been procrastinating and generally undermotivated for the past week or so. I'm talking set-the-alarm-for-nine-AM-and-still-smack-snooze- for-an-hour brand of unmotivation. Well, I can write it off to summer, right? I don't get the luxury of laziness the other nine months of the year. I did get my laboratory balance bench (and all the balances) clean today, so I don't feel too badly about it all.

Today's On-The-Go Playlist (or What I Sang Along With While I Cleaned My Lab):
Under African Skies, Paul Simon
Into the Night, Benny Mardones
Anything Genuine, Smalltown Poets
The Way, Telecast
Jesse's Girl, Rick Springfield
Creep, Radiohead
Window, Guster
King of New Orleans, Better Than Ezra
Lackluster, Poi Dog Pondering
Uninvited, Alanis Morrissette
Here's Where the Story Ends, The Sundays
Cry on My Shoulder, Overflow
No One is to Blame, Howard Jones
When You're Falling, Afro Celt Sound System
And So It Goes, Billy Joel
Under the Milky Way, The Church
Hang Me Up to Dry, Cold War Kids
Don't Drink the Water, Dave Matthews
Bang Bang, David Sanborn
Allison Road, Gin Blossoms
Sexy Back, Justin Timberlake (1)
Fast Love, George Michael
Maneater, Nelly Furtado (2)
Ruby, Kaiser Chiefs
Too Much, Leeland
Don't Look Back in Anger, Oasis
All This Time, Sting
Old Friends, Simon & Garfunkel
1000 Julys, Third Eye Blind
Stay - Far Away So Close, U2
Time of the Season, The Zombies
Key West Intermezzo, John Mellencamp
Synchronicity II, The Police

(1) I don't respect myself for this; I don't expect you to, either.
(2) I'm a bit disturbed that I own this, mostly because Ms. Furtado belongs to a group of female singers that make my ears bleed (also: Paula Cole and Shakira). But this song is different. It's a fantastic tango. Maybe that's its redeeming factor.


Just so you know, the quality of a soft drink is directly proportional to the quality of the ice floating in it. Tijuana Flats serves some of the best soda in the world simply because they put crushed ice in it, not cubes. And slushy = good. The miniature golf establishment where I worked throughout high school and college had awesome Dr. Pepper, partly because the syrup-to-water ratio was relatively high, but mostly because the ice was killer. It had a peculiar temperature cycle and would occasionally produce very icy ice, but then, about twenty minutes later, it would spit out fresh, soft, wet ice that I don't even know how to describe. They weren't exactly cubes. Not exactly pellets, either. Anyhow, most times, the drink was just a vehicle for the ice. I wasn't above just eating cups of ice straight up, either - maybe it was my burgeoning ice connoisseurship, maybe it was a symptom of the anemia I had for years. (shrug) I never cared for fizzy drinks as a child - they were like an assault on the tongue. I guess when I think about it, I have an unconventional food history - I never ate typical American kid food - I only discovered the joys of mac & cheese within the past five years, I can count on one hand the number of peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches I've consumed (okay, I can count on one finger the number I've even tasted. I only like peanut butter in cookies. Friends loved going trick-or-treating with me because they got all my Reese's cups. That's all right - banana taffy was totally a fair trade.). So I never really drank soda pop until I took that job, but it was free for the drinking as long as you were judicious with your cup usage (I brought my own - nerd. I had two I used all the time, they're in the picture over there - bigger nerd. That picture is from the auction I just bid on - biggest nerd ever!). I hear that glorious ice machine has since been replaced. Ah, one can never truly go home.

What a digressive paragraph! At least it started and finished with ice. :)


I'm learning how to do latte art; I'm amazed by this stuff. And this. I'll be excited when I can just do a simple rosetta. It seems pretty easy, watching the training videos, but I practiced some tonight. It's clearly one of those skills that the people who are good at it, well, they just make it look maddeningly effortless. Figure skating is another one of those things. Anyhow, the texture of the milk is crucial - it has to be. Because I think my milk is sadly a bit too foamy. If you watch people do it, it seems like the bright white foam is still fairly fluid. Mine tonight was *fantastic* for cappuccinos - I was constantly slurping foam, one bad attempt after another (wasn't gonna waste it...), but I never got anything remotely close to latte art. So it's gonna take far more practice, but I think figuring out the right milk texture is what makes or breaks it all. I also think I might pour too fast? Or maybe too slow. I don't know. I'm working the coffee bar on Sunday, so I'll have plenty of time to practice, though I wonder how our to-go cups are going to affect it.


We've had two days of awesome lightning - really electrified storms with really close strokes. I was going to write about the Turkey Lake Convergence Zone, but now I'm not feeling it. Remind me - some other time.

The alacrity by which our house is being constructed is almost alarming. We had the framing inspection last Friday, and by the end of work today, they've finished nearly all the drywall and the exterior stucco. If things keep at this pace, we'll be closing well before the projected late-October date.

Even though I give little credence to wine rankings and ratings, I love that Two-Buck Chuck just won this big wine competition. Let it be known that I would probably be willing to compromise my ethics to bring a Trader Joe's to central Florida. Let me know what it'll take, guys.

In a bit of an Iron Chef moment, I decided I should use up some pie crust in my freezer and a can of pumpkin in my pantry. So I made a pumpkin pie last night, which also gave me the excuse to use some of my new Ceylon cinnamon and whole nutmeg. Brian thinks pumpkin pie is akin to barf, which means I have a whole pie to myself! I'll own up to my gluttony when it comes to desserts. Also, I haven't had a grilled cheese sandwich in a long time. I think I'm going to go get some cottony white bread and plastic American cheese slices tomorrow before lunch. Mmmm...

Yes, I do realize that in one paragraph, I managed to extol the virtues of both fancypants spices and Kraft singles. Deal with it. :)

17 July 1999

The last picture was actually taken a few weeks before our wedding. A gigantic thunderstorm passed through just before the ceremony, effectively ruining any chances at outdoor portraits.

My husband disagrees, but I wish we had the chance to have more weddings. Because I have so many more ideas for dresses, cakes, photographs, invitations, etc that never got used. Making others' cakes and bouquets is only so much vicarious wedding planning.

Trivia: Rory Kennedy (the daughter her father Robert F. Kennedy never knew) was supposed to get married on the same day we did. JFK Jr and his wife and sister-in-law were killed on their way to her wedding. About six months later, we few from Newark to Los Angeles with her. I'll tell the rest of that story later.

Wonder Years Wisdom

The Wonder Years is one of the most brilliant television shows in the history of the medium. Sure, it was heavy on the nostalgia, but that's part of the timeless appeal of the show. (DVD set NOW, people!) I watched the show as it aired, but now that reruns are on again, I have a greater appreciation; the writing so purely captures the agony and the ecstasy of growing up... and looking back on growing up. Teaching teenagers, I find myself constantly reflecting on my own Wonder Years, as they were. So, in what I presume will be an ongoing series (I have a whole .txt file full of quotations on which to prattle!), I shall now expound on a few particularly resonant lines from Wonder Years episodes.

"Maybe if I'd been a little braver, I could have been her friend, but... The truth is, in seventh-grade, who you are is what other seventh-graders say you are. The funny thing is, it's hard to remember the names of the kids you spent so much time trying to impress." Season 2 (Episode 21): "Square Dance"

Truth is, we never fully escape this junior-high mentality. We like to think, as adults, that we're far beyond such childishness. We aren't. Sure, it's less urgent, less consuming, but we still try to impress people (who are themselves preoccupied with impressing someone else), and we are still defined by the people who surround us. I know I have been. And I'm not immune - I've thought plenty about others because of the company they keep. It's ridiculous, but yet it's so easy.

Shakespeare was right - all the world's a stage. We all play certain roles. We deliver performances that we presume others expect of us. Some of us are perpetual understudies. And some of us put so much time and energy into the performance that we lose our offstage identities. The costumes stay on after the curtain falls. The critics' approval is everything. We let others develop our characters, and then we play to the crowd. We become hollow and reactionary, addressing situations as we think our character should, or even taking a seat in the house and detachedly watching scenes unfold.

Some of us never figure out the deception and live unsatisfying lives of judgment of and by others. Some of us eventually figure it out, though, and realize that the people from whom we so very much want approval don't truly deserve the power we willfully hand over to them. [And often, they're oblivious to their effects on us.] It's lifeboat theory(1) - if life is like a lifeboat, then aligning yourself with the right people so as not to be thrown overboard is of critical importance. And yet absolutely wasteful. I was well into my twenties before I appreciated how truly useless and endlessly tiring this way of life is; I was nearly thirty before I allowed this understanding to permeate my daily life. And I still lapse into worry about what others think of me - and when I do, I'm miserable. How different would our teenage years - no, our entire lives - be, if we spent less time trading in the commodity of human approval?

"A suburban junior high school cafeteria is like a microcosm of the world. The goal is to protect yourself, and safety comes in groups. You have your cool kids, you have your smart kids, you have your greasers, and in those days, of course, you had your hippies. In fact in junior high school, who you are is defined less by who you are than by who's the person sitting next to you." Season 1 (Episode 1): "Pilot"

Attempting to develop our own personalities, we try them on to see which one fits. And the source of those personalities are the friends we select. So of course we are defined by those sitting next to us - that is, in fact, how we choose to define ourselves. It's scary to look inside and critically examine ourselves - is it not easier to let someone else decide who we are? So we let them. We essentially live some other life for a time. At some point, we decide that one is too much work to maintain - it's not a natural fit, it pinches in places and it gaps in others, the seams chafe, the clothes that seemed so attractive on the hanger aren't as flattering when on. We shed it and move on to the next version of ourselves. Lather, rinse, and repeat. It becomes an endless cycle; we model others who are, themselves, trying on their own array of personalities - even trying on our version of themselves. Like a mirror reflecting another mirror's image, things get turned around. Few teenagers really know who they are, the rest are lost - disoriented in an endless contorted maze of funhouse reflections of personality. Eventually we outgrow it, but when we do, to whom have we granted ultimate permission to define us?

In this constant flux of youthful identity, should it surprise us that friends come and go with alarming alacrity at this time in our lives? I see it every school year - best friends in November don't even acknowledge each other in April. Some of my closest friends one year? I never saw them the next. My friends were determined by class schedules and activity choices. [Maybe they still are.] A few of them transcend it all - sinking deeper, below the wind waves of adolescence and carried by the same tide. We might not have washed ashore on the same beach, but we are still tethered together. Some by thinner threads than others, but connected nevertheless.

"Over the course of the average lifetime you meet a lot of people. Some of them stick with you through thick and thin. Some weave their way through your life and disappear forever. But once in a while someone comes along who earns a permanent place in your heart." Season 4 (Episode 60): "Courage"

Recycling, on a grand scale

Our new house has a foundation!


I always thought it would be cool to buy an old school and turn it into a house. My old elementary school would have been awesome (but it was gigantor - maybe more appropriate for apartments). I should have bought the building before they tore it down. There was a more human-house-scale school near my high school that would have been perfect. There is an old high school in my hometown which has been turned into apartments, but I never had an opportunity to live there. I'm not limited to schools, though - I really dig all kinds of architectural reuse, including a (now defunct) restaurant in Clermont in a former church.

When I was in grad school, I lived in an old National Guard Armory that was converted into apartments. I will scan in pictures of the place later, but the slide show will do for now. What I loved most about it were the windows. Floor-to-ceiling, with a palladium window at the top (second apartment - top floor). And the original gymnasium hardwood floors (first apartment - bottom floor). My first year of grad school, I lived in a 1/1 space on the main floor. It had incredibly tall ceilings, an elevated living room, the aforementioned hardwood, a nice kitchen. After we got married, we moved upstairs to a 1/1.5 loft apartment with two floors. The upstairs loft space was a gigantic bedroom with exposed rafters and ductwork. The windows were just incredible. To say nothing of the location - over the Wabash River from campus, right on the free bus loop, two blocks down from a bakery (swoon!), and a few more blocks from historic downtown Lafayette. And next door to a funeral home, actually. I've liked every place I've lived (more or less, and it should be noted that my parents still live in the first house they ever bought, so I haven't moved around much), but that was probably my favorite place ever.

Okay - here are some scans of the Armory apartment. The first (up there) is the exterior, obviously. The second (below) is the view of our kitchen, and you can see into the living room (and the windows!). The third is the upstairs loft space that we used as our bedroom.