An ironic truth to university life is that everything is just so much easier without all the students around. Undergraduates are especially a nuisance because there are just so many of them, and they are both ubiquitous and ubi-quite-annoying. They are the ants on my campus picnic blanket. Finding a parking space is easier without them around; getting lunch in under an hour is definitely easier -- heck, even Newtonian Physics is easier without their presence. Had I known, for instance, that I would be challenged to demonstrate Newton's Second Law of Motion by stopping my 1/2-ton vehicle in a 1/2 foot of space by slamming the brake 1/2 way through the floorboard to avoid running down a handful of sorority girls on Wednesday morning, clearly I would have prepared beforehand. But returning to academic life runs the risk of the occasional pop quiz, so I suppose it's only fair.
As Sir Isaac would have wanted it, the force needed to halt my car was balanced by an equal but opposite force of all the oxygen leaving my lungs within that fractioned second. One might question the ability of such a small amount of air to counter such a sizeable kinetic opposition; but if you had heard the descriptive words that accompanied the oxygen depletion, you would rest assured that their mass alone would have been powerful enough to shock any moving body into stunned silence. * It wasn't quite total protonic reversal.** But it was close.
Before anyone worries too much, everyone emerged unscathed; and the sorority girls were none the wiser. (Not too surprising.) If anything, their interpretation of crosswalks as "suggestions" was validated. After all, the one closest to them at the time was a whole twenty feet away, which was so inconvenient. Why go all the way over to the designated pedestrian walkway when you can amble across the road at any ole place? Like it matters, like, you know?...
PS - I was a sorority girl, so I'm allowed to make fun. Totally.
* Just kidding. But I did think some very colorful words in their general direction.
** Definition: "All life as you know it stopping instantaneously and every molecule in your body exploding at the speed of light." Often referred to as "bad". See Ghostbusters.
Saturday, August 25, 2007
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Quality Time with Weese
For anyone who doesn't know, Weese (pronounced "Wee-zee") is my 86-year old paternal grandmother. Weese has lived on a diet of coffee, peanut butter and crackers, and daily hot fudge sundaes for as long as I can remember; and despite all laws of physics, she has retained her petite figure throughout her entire life. (Why couldn't I inherit this trait?) Weese is from Long Beach, MS - the battered welcome mat for Hurricane Katrina back in 2005. Weese survived Katrina; 90% of her belongings did not. Since then, she has relocated to Jackson to an independent living facility about 10 minutes from my parents' house (where they ensure she gets some vegetables, in addition to her traditional ice cream and pb&c). It is a quality place, and the people who work and live there are very nice. Like anybody else, Weese would rather be "home"; but "home" isn't there anymore, so this will do as the runner-up option.
Weese has the expected mental and physical complications that accompany her 86 years like a bizarro frequent flyer miles rewards program. She has her good days and her bad days. On her bad days, she can be in a bad way; but on her good days, she can be really funny. Point in case: Weese and I were talking about her turning 86 this year, back around the time of her birthday. I was telling her that I thought she was doing really well, and she said, "Yep, 86 and still kicking..." [she paused and then added] "...not kicking very high..." I laughed and told her I thought that was all right.
On Friday, I was visiting with Weese at her place, and she kept trying to offer me some ice cream. For health reasons that have nothing to do w/ weight control, I can't eat ice cream; but Weese never remembers that. And trying to explain it to her only confuses her, and she won't remember the next time anyway, so it's usually easier to say that I'm just not hungry right then (which is mostly true). It is also a long-standing joke in our family that Weese was trained by the Chinese water-torturers in how to drive people crazy with kindness. Weese, in all her Southern hospitality earnestness, will often offer to make you a sandwich or share some candy or whatever; and she will keep on offering no matter what. This is not an elderly frequent flyer benefit; she's always been this way. You could tell Weese that you had a deathly allergy to pimento cheese sandwiches, and she would nod and look disappointed; and I can guarantee you that five minutes later she would say with a smile, "Now are you sure you don't want any pimento cheese?" It's just so much easier just to take whatever she's trying to feed you, even if it does kill you. I think she got straight A's at the Chinese Water Torture Academy for Young Ladies.
During Friday's visit, Weese had offered me ice cream for the third time, and I had politely said no (because it really would make me sick), and all of the sudden Weese harumphed, "You need to work on gettin' a husband!" "What?" I asked, surprised at the turn in conversation. "All that energy you put towards exercise..." she mumbled, shaking her head.
Clearly, Weese was implying that the energy I spend on maintaining a healthy lifestyle would be better spent on attaining a healthy husband. Some people might think there would be a correlation between these two activities. Apparently, in Weese's world, no husband is worth a lifestyle of abstinence from ice cream.
I explained to Weese that where I worked in Maryland, there were a lot of nice guys who were very good friends of mine, but nobody I wanted to marry. She nodded, thoughfully. "Teachers?" she asked. "Mmmm, no, there weren't that many male teachers where I was," I responded. She leaned back in her armchair and rocked a little. Then she shrugged, turned to look at me, and said with a smile, "Go work at the VA!" ["VA" = "Veterans Affairs Hospital"]
I about fell out of the twin armchair, laughing. At least she knows my demographic. And it really might just be easier in the long run. I can hear it now: "Now are you sure you don't want to work at the VA?"
"Yes, Weese, I'm sure." [pause] "Can I get you some ice cream?"
Weese has the expected mental and physical complications that accompany her 86 years like a bizarro frequent flyer miles rewards program. She has her good days and her bad days. On her bad days, she can be in a bad way; but on her good days, she can be really funny. Point in case: Weese and I were talking about her turning 86 this year, back around the time of her birthday. I was telling her that I thought she was doing really well, and she said, "Yep, 86 and still kicking..." [she paused and then added] "...not kicking very high..." I laughed and told her I thought that was all right.
On Friday, I was visiting with Weese at her place, and she kept trying to offer me some ice cream. For health reasons that have nothing to do w/ weight control, I can't eat ice cream; but Weese never remembers that. And trying to explain it to her only confuses her, and she won't remember the next time anyway, so it's usually easier to say that I'm just not hungry right then (which is mostly true). It is also a long-standing joke in our family that Weese was trained by the Chinese water-torturers in how to drive people crazy with kindness. Weese, in all her Southern hospitality earnestness, will often offer to make you a sandwich or share some candy or whatever; and she will keep on offering no matter what. This is not an elderly frequent flyer benefit; she's always been this way. You could tell Weese that you had a deathly allergy to pimento cheese sandwiches, and she would nod and look disappointed; and I can guarantee you that five minutes later she would say with a smile, "Now are you sure you don't want any pimento cheese?" It's just so much easier just to take whatever she's trying to feed you, even if it does kill you. I think she got straight A's at the Chinese Water Torture Academy for Young Ladies.
During Friday's visit, Weese had offered me ice cream for the third time, and I had politely said no (because it really would make me sick), and all of the sudden Weese harumphed, "You need to work on gettin' a husband!" "What?" I asked, surprised at the turn in conversation. "All that energy you put towards exercise..." she mumbled, shaking her head.
Clearly, Weese was implying that the energy I spend on maintaining a healthy lifestyle would be better spent on attaining a healthy husband. Some people might think there would be a correlation between these two activities. Apparently, in Weese's world, no husband is worth a lifestyle of abstinence from ice cream.
I explained to Weese that where I worked in Maryland, there were a lot of nice guys who were very good friends of mine, but nobody I wanted to marry. She nodded, thoughfully. "Teachers?" she asked. "Mmmm, no, there weren't that many male teachers where I was," I responded. She leaned back in her armchair and rocked a little. Then she shrugged, turned to look at me, and said with a smile, "Go work at the VA!" ["VA" = "Veterans Affairs Hospital"]
I about fell out of the twin armchair, laughing. At least she knows my demographic. And it really might just be easier in the long run. I can hear it now: "Now are you sure you don't want to work at the VA?"
"Yes, Weese, I'm sure." [pause] "Can I get you some ice cream?"
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