I’m at a cross-roads in my life; I’m currently unemployed and am not sure what I want to do. I’d go back and repeat some of my previous adventures and write about them, but I have no way of paying for life on the road. Somehow, no one is looking for me to do an ethnography of the rock and roll business. Alas!
I spent all day applying for a couple of jobs; modern jobs seem to require applying online and, although I have a lovely curriculum vita and can write a mean cover letter, many of the places that I’d like to employ me have their own proprietary human resources software that require me to take all of the information on my CV and plug it into their data base in a different order than I’d used when I wrote the CV. And their data bases will time me out if I don’t save within an unspecified period of time, but I cannot save without filling in all of the blanks in a section and it takes me longer to fill in a section than the time out period! To quote Charlie Brown, “Aargh!” I finally managed to apply for two jobs (one had about six openings in the NYC area, the other only one but it is in Springfield) but felt dissatisfied with myself and life. I wish I could get the job that has lots of openings, but in Springfield!
Even before I spent over eight hours on the computer, I had been in a bad mood. Over the years, my town’s sanitation department has systematically ripped the locking handles off of my garbage cans, usually within a few weeks or months of my purchasing them. The rolling cans are expensive, too, costing over $40 each. Last year, when I couldn’t afford to replace my can for the fourth time, I bought some strap metal, threaded rod and nuts, and fabricated a new handle for one (the other two had been damaged too badly for me to replace the handles). The home-made handle doesn’t lock the lid in place but, so far, the trash men have not succeeded in ripping it off, so the can can be wheeled out for pick-up. Since they only collect trash every other week and I forgot to take it out last week, my can is overfull. The dump is usually open on Wednesdays and Saturdays. Since New Year’s Day is a Saturday, the dump was open on today, Friday, this week. I decided to bring a couple of bags of trash to the dump this morning, as my can was overflowing and I thought it better than stacking it up next to the (non-existent) curb on Monday. When I got there, the dump wanted to charge me $1 per bag for the privilege of flinging it in to their dumpster, myself. I brought the trash home. I’ll haul it out for pick-up on Monday. It annoyed me that I couldn’t get rid of an old chicken carcass from the refrigerator without paying a fee in addition to the annual dump fee that I already pay! Bon appetit to the dog that raids my can.
Anyway, I’d made plans to attend First Night in Northampton and I bought my admission button yesterday. First Night is something that I have enjoyed immensely in years past. I left the house intending to head to Northampton but had neglected to bring my coat; I was cold in the car as it got moving. I drove to Five Corners and picked up a lottery ticket for tonight's gigantic drawing (over $240 million dollar prize). I pulled out the ticket that I’d bought for the previous drawing, which no one won. I never remember to cash in my tickets and didn’t know if I’d won anything. I asked the clerk to check and was thrilled to discover that I’d won $17. I’d spent $16 on my First Night button. As I headed home to pick up my coat, I suddenly decided that I didn’t need to be concerned about wasting the money for my button and that I really didn’t want to go tonight. Having made the decision, I was no longer bad tempered; I felt free. I called to cancel my plans and went inside to watch TV. I wrote, cooked a good dinner, and ate it. I’ll probably go to First Night next year, but I just didn’t feel like dealing with thousands of people today. For tonight, I’m happy in my Hermit Club. Tomorrow, I’ll be social, again, and whine, snivel, and rant no more. Until the next time I’m in a bad mood!
I didn't win the big prize tonight, but that's all right. I'm in a much better mood despite not winning. Sometimes, I just need to be left to my own devices. Usually, they aren't terribly dangerous or destructive devices. Usually.
Friday, December 31, 2010
Monday, December 27, 2010
Who Wants to be a Millionaire? Well, Duh!
This isn't a surprise to people who know me but I was a contestant on “Who Wants to be a Millionaire” five years ago. As a result of my appearance, I wrote a paper and presented it at the Society for American Archaeology annual meeting. I told my story to fit the title of the session, “Perspectives on the Graduate School Experience” and the sponsoring organization, the Women in Archaeology Interest Group. This isn’t the long blog entry that I promised last week but I’ll get it for you, soon. I’m posting this because I talked about the whole experience at a Christmas Eve open house and decided it was still a good story.
“Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? TV game shows, graduate school, and the quest for the American Dream.” Presented at the 2007 Society for American Archaeology annual meetings, Austin, TX, April 26, 2007, in a symposium sponsored by the Women in Archaeology Interest Group, “Perspectives on the Graduate School Experience.” Mary Robison, PhD
For many, acquiring a graduate degree is one step in their quest for the “American Dream”, but graduate school can leave a former student in debt for years. Personal relationships can suffer (or cease) from the financial hardship of this quest. I both gave birth to a child and divorced his father while in graduate school. Despite receiving child support in a timely fashion, completing grad school as a single parent was, for me, a financially difficult time. I used an unusual method to finance my terminal year in graduate school, and so might you, too.
Some graduate students work under professors who routinely obtain large research grants; these students perform assigned tasks and base their theses and dissertations on this work. Other advisors do not obtain such support for their students; these students have more freedom in determining their research topics but must find their own sources of support. In my time, the typical graduate student in anthropology at UMass Amherst supported themselves by teaching or leading discussion sections in large undergraduate courses that fulfilled the university’s liberal arts requirements. It was not possible to support a family on these meager earnings. Every semester, a few students could augment their income by also teaching in the division of continuing education. Off campus jobs also paid poorly but were still desirable in that the work never “came home.” Teaching required substantial preparation and “home work.” This home work took away time from the “real” work of research and writing to complete one's degree.
Some students are able to make progress on their dissertation while teaching; I was not one of these students. In order to write, I inevitably had to spend hours (or days) trying to recover a train of thought that I had been forced to drop in order to prepare lessons, correct student work, or cook dinner for my son. Ultimately, I concluded that I had to bite the bullet and stop all outside work to complete my dissertation. My financial needs were not as great as many of my peers in that I owned my house; I did not have rent or mortgage payments. Nevertheless, I still had property taxes and upkeep. I had carefully budgeted for routine expenses but, early in the year, the unexpected happened; my roof started to leak badly.
When confronted with this challenge to my limited budget, I tried something completely different from seeking the usual student jobs. I tried out to become a contestant on the syndicated television game show, “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?” I thought the title question was silly - after all, who wouldn't want a million dollars?
Although many game shows run contestant searches throughout the United States, none occurred in western Massachusetts. “Millionaire” tapes in New York City and audience members are encouraged to attempt the qualifying test. I went online and obtained a ticket to a test and taping session, more or less on the spur of the moment. I took a day off and bused to New York, then caught the subway to ABC studios on the Upper West Side.
The qualifying test (thirty multiple-choice questions, timed, in ten minutes) is given before the taping, but the results aren’t announced until after the session is finished (presumably, to keep the audience from leaving when the majority do not pass). Approximately ten percent pass; I passed. Although they will not give out the scores, I knew that I correctly answered twenty-eight questions. Passing the test, though, is only the first step in becoming a contestant. Interviews are immediately held in the studio. At this, I was a miserable failure. Somehow, in my excitement as a member of the studio audience, I had forgotten why I had come. I was exhausted and not terribly interesting in the interview. I got a polite “thanks, but no thanks” post card a week later. With the knowledge that I could pass the test, I tried again.
For my second attempt, it poured, reminding me of my leaky roof. Herded out of the rain and into the ABC cafeteria, I worked on my questionnaire, which was used for the interview. This time, I had prepared by outlining, ahead of time, a number of amusing personal pastiches, a series of one-size-fits-all responses to the type of questions asked on my first foray, which I had only answered sketchily at best. The second test was NOT the same as the first one; it was considerably harder. I had no idea what the correct answers were for about half of the questions (I guessed, probably incorrectly). My only consolation was that everyone seemed as clueless as I felt. One of the “easier” of these questions was, “What is the name of the spiral arm in the Milky Way galaxy where planet earth is located?” (Orion, although I guessed Sagittarius; Perseus and Norma were other incorrect choices). After the test, we were sent back outside. Some of us retreated to the nearby Starbucks, to attempt to stay dry, chat, compare answers, and complain. I took notes (allowing me to write this paper).
After another lineup in the rain, we were finally brought into the studio. This time, the audience bleachers were sparsely populated; many test-takers apparently gave up after the extremely difficult test. The show’s interns were brought in to round out the audience; one sat next to me. I attempted to chat with her about her work, but she didn’t want to talk to a mere audience member.
Although I didn’t score as well as I had the first time, I was again called for an interview. Like the first test, about fifteen names were called. From this, I assume that the tests are scored on a curve.
This time, I tried to sound like the Energizer bunny on speed. I had a quick quip for every question. My interviewer was particularly amused that, in my life before graduate school, I built special effects for the rock band, KISS, and rode a big motorcycle (which I still own). These facts are at odds with my personal appearance; I look like an overweight, white, middle-class, 40-ish mom, an observation that is accurate, but does not include any personal nuances. Still, I really don’t look like the head-banger that my stories imply. I was interviewed, sequentially, by two producers. When the second producer told me, “I hope we'll be seeing you in a couple of weeks,” I took it as a good sign.
There are a substantial number of people who repeatedly try out for TV trivia shows. Of the people with whom I chatted in line, one had taken the Millionaire test at least four times previously and another had just flown to New York after taking the test for Jeopardy in a Florida contestant search. Many others also mentioned taking the Jeopardy and Millionaire tests previously. This was a new phenomenon for me. In order to attempt to get a seat at a Jeopardy test session, it is necessary to register on-line for searches in multiple cities. Jeopardy’s producers use a random selection process; there seems to be a very low probability of selection if one applies for only one city. To try out, you must be willing to fly almost anywhere in the country. Jeopardy’s process does not seem to be a viable option for impoverished grad students.
The possibility of winning a large sum of money was repeatedly mentioned as the single motive for this peculiar obsession. How each person would use the money varied: primarily discussed were major outstanding or upcoming bills. Occasionally, long-postponed vacations, down-payments on houses, new cars, or other semi-exotic “toys” were fantasized. The desire to demonstrate to the watching world exactly how smart each would-be contestant is, was an unspoken, but palpable, motive. The need for this validation speaks volumes about how unrewarding (both monetarily and emotionally) most employment is for (self-defined) “smart” people. Both money and validation are equal parts of the American Dream for most test takers.
A week after I took the second test, I received a call from the contestant coordinator for Millionaire. My name had been pulled for a show that would tape in a little over two weeks. I hadn't even received the postcard that said I had been selected for the contestant pool (that came two days later). With only two weeks until the taping, I had just enough time to get very nervous but I decided that I was going to have fun, no matter what the outcome. I've made a fool of myself enough times previously to not worry about the possibility of doing it on television.
The timing was not ideal. I was in the final stages of writing my dissertation. My university's requirements called for the committee to receive their final draft at least four weeks prior to the defense date - which was scheduled to occur precisely four weeks after my taping! Although I thought I should try to review some information for “Millionaire”, I had to concentrate on writing coherently, now a very difficult task. I bought a few books and spent a single day looking at major events as reported in Time Magazine, but did little else to prepare.
I believe that one of the reasons why TV trivia shows and reality programming are popular is because many people secretly believe they could excel on one. If one is young, muscular, willing to consume disgusting items, and not overwhelmingly intellectual, one might aspire to “Fear Factor.” For the young person who thinks they can sing, there is “American Idol.” Many middle-class, relatively intelligent people (students, professors, or their relatives, the main body of my current acquaintance) tend to think that they could succeed on a trivia show.
Seven contestants, including me, arrived at 8 AM for the taping on November 8. We were each assigned a producer to look after us. The green room was bright and cheerful, full of comfortable furniture, a nice rug, and photographs of previous big winners. A buffet of breakfast pastries was laid out, with fresh coffee brewing, next to a refrigerator full of soft drinks and bottled water. We were encouraged to help ourselves. The buffet was refreshed and changed throughout the day with a hot lunch, salad, afternoon sandwiches, and various desserts. Our bags, cell phones, books, newspapers, and any reading materials were confiscated as soon as we entered. As someone who habitually reads (even a cereal box is better than nothing), this was a major hardship.
We had been instructed to bring proof of identity, citizenship, and social security number, and had received, by mail, contracts to sign. These were taken by the show’s accountant while we had a series of briefings by various program personnel. The show’s lawyer asked us if we had carefully read the contract. He then went over some portions and, among other things, told us that the show would not take any taxes out of our winnings. The producer (as opposed to a producer, this one was THE producer) explained what was explicitly NOT allowed, such as visible logos on anything that might appear on camera, or us mentioning any trade names. Stalling is not making progress toward an answer, and it wasn’t allowed, either. We met the show’s publicist, who asked us about any local TV or radio stations and newspapers that might be interested in covering our appearance. We also practiced entering the studio and sitting in the “hot seat”, but the lights were dimmed so it wasn't the same.
The young producers that were assigned to us were all (obviously) recent college graduates. They had mixed emotions about us; in some ways, they were important television professionals whose primary job was.... babysitting us. From the time we arrived until we left, we were isolated and it was the producers’ job to keep the world at bay. On the other hand, the young producers were in awe of us, respecting our ability to have passed the test and our (comparatively) vast sums of knowledge; one producer said, in a tone that was polite despite the insulting words, “You know, you guys are freaks, you're so smart.” Their job could not have been more contradictory.
Mostly, we chatted with each other and our producers. We had to be escorted to and from the bathroom, but the producers were fairly cheerful about this duty. They fetched whatever we needed. Eventually, show time drew near and we were escorted to various private rooms, to change into on-camera clothing. No one had noticed that the pants I wore were actually black jeans (jeans were banned on camera), so I didn’t change them. In my normal life, I often wear black and I had difficulty locating clothing that met the dress code (no black or white on top, no jeans or T-shirts, no logos, and no close stripes). We had all brought two stage outfits to the studio, in case we appeared in two shows.
Four more contestants, hold-overs from the previous day, arrived. We all got made up. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
It was show-time. The four hold-overs were called out of the green room, first. One had started his appearance the previous day and went immediately on stage, but the rest were sent to an “on-deck” area. They keep three contestants on-deck - in the studio but offstage, none knowing who would be selected as the next contestant. I was one of the first from our group to be called out of the green room to be on-deck. I was miked and warned against dropping the transmitter, clipped to the back of my pants, into the toilet if I used the restroom.
My producer prepped me on my stories. Then, I waited. And waited. And waited! The producers continued to keep us in a state of frenzy; having us stay on-deck was just one example of how they manipulated our emotions. As each contestant finished, we stood in a row, to be randomly “tapped” - literally, tapped on the shoulder from behind, then thrust out through the stage entrance. First tapped from our group was the newly-wed from Minneapolis, others followed. As one entered the stage, another was brought out of the green room to join the on-deck group. We chatted quietly about the show and continued to be offered drinks by the producers (the studio air was cold and dry). When the third show ended with the contestant giving the incorrect answer, we all knew that the next one to be tapped would begin the last show of the day and would probably be the only one to finish up. Still, they kept us hanging, not telling us who it would be!
All of the liquids finally caught up with me; I asked if I could use the restroom but they wanted to determine the next contestant, first. A little longer, and it was ME! Now, I really needed the restroom! As I marched up the stairs to the facilities, I audibly reminded myself not to drop my transmitter into the toilet. Only later did I think about the sound technician, listening in as I used the restroom, but this is probably not an uncommon experience for TV sound engineers.
My producer, once again, coached me on my stories. Finally alone and awaiting the start of the new show in the studio doorway, I hopped up and down, I was so excited. The comedian who had warmed up the audience was nearby, facing away, making obscene body motions towards an unseen (to me) Meredith Viera. I hadn't realized that his job included keeping her amused, too. I laughed so hard, I was afraid I would fall over the edge of the set; I clutched the stage rigging and giggled uncontrollably.
The music came up, Ms. Viera and I entered the stage together, I sat down in the hot seat, and the rest is almost a dream. We ad-libbed a bit about my having been in the audience a few weeks earlier (I remember waving toward the section where I had been sitting and the audience cheering for me so loudly, I couldn't hear Ms. Viera’s questions). We also talked about how my students would never believe my rock and roll history. At some point, I held my USB drive up to the camera, carefully obscuring the Memorex logo with my index finger, saying it was my dissertation, which I was afraid of losing unless I kept a copy with me at all times (this bit was edited out of the show). At a commercial break, my make-up was retouched. I was never frightened - I was absolutely giddy with euphoria. The experience was surreal.
Afterwards, I was taken to a little booth under another part of the stage to sign papers with the show’s accountant. I kept looking at my fake check, not really sure how I had won $25,000. Even before I entered the “hot seat”, the producers had whipped me into a totally suggestible state, something that I never would have thought possible. I was doing everything they wanted me to do, on cue - sitting down, telling particular stories, even holding up my USB drive. It was as if I had been hypnotized - I was willing to accept anything that someone else said; had the audience suggested an answer that was not even one of the options, I would have agreed with them, even knowing that it was wrong. And it felt SO GOOD. It was an illuminating experience; is this what gambling, drinking, and/or taking drugs do for addicts? The euphoria I experienced is certainly addictive; that I could fall into such a suggestible state is frightening. But I want to do it again. Who ever would have thought that a game show could be analogous to crack?
I have recorded a number of episodes of Millionaire. They are a convenience sample, not an SRS; I taped episodes whenever I remembered to program my recorder. In addition to normal contestant selection such as I experienced, the show has a number of specialty weeks where all contestants are either newlywed couples, or movie buffs, or even audience members selected at random. I have not done a formal study of my sample, but my sense is that there is a bi-modal distribution of winnings - when contestants use up their lifelines quickly, they win very little money. If contestant gets to the $25,000 level, she is guaranteed that amount, so there is no risk in answering the next question, which can net the contestant $50,000. A few contestants are willing to gamble for higher amounts, but most do not if they reach the $50,000 level - less than 20% of contestants reach this level. From my observations, the “typical” contestant is white and college-educated, with relatively equal numbers of men and women chosen for the pool. Almost all contestants have some major debt that they would like to pay with their winnings; many contestants are undergraduate and graduate students from a variety of disciplines, especially law and history.
I corresponded on-line with a couple of my test- session peers. I encouraged them to think about more than passing the test. I had, rather cold-bloodedly, spent some time between my two test dates thinking about what producers look for. The test weeds out those without sufficient general knowledge but a good contestant is more than a walking encyclopedia. Producers want interesting people who can present themselves well on camera - they want someone who has short, funny stories to tell, who has a quick come-back to any question, and who can laugh at themselves. These are not easy skills but they can be obtained with practice. A brilliant person who acts like a jerk will never be chosen as a contestant. In my case, my being an occasional smart-mouth was not a bad thing. In my first attempt, I had only been able to say, “I can't believe I passed the test!” The producers must hear this all of the time, so it did not single me out as interesting. I have genuinely outrageous stories to tell about myself but almost everyone has at least some funny stories, whether about themselves, their family members, or their job. In any case, I succeeded in packaging myself as an attractive candidate in my second attempt to become a contestant, and I shared this information with my test-peers, and now, with you.
There are 175 half-hour segments of "Millionaire" produced every year (according to Meredith Viera, in an appearance on the "Tony Danza Show", May 22, 2006). From my observations, each segment uses between one and four contestants per episode, typically, slightly less than two. Therefore, the annual contestant pool must have at least 350 members. I have developed two major hypotheses about the Millionaire contestant pool from my observations, although I was unable to verify them.
Since the show has so many contestant searches throughout the country, they do not need to select many at the New York City tapings. I think I was the only person selected for the pool during my second attempt; I was the only person who received attention from the second producer. I think that the contestant pool is deliberately kept small and that there are relatively few members who are not eventually selected for a show. It would be infuriating to be chosen for the pool but never selected for a program before the season ended. I believe that most contestants are found in the nation-wide contestant searches in an attempt to obtain what looks like a more diverse pool, but that diversity is an illusion as a result of self-selection by would-be contestants.
Once chosen for a taping of Millionaire, a contestant is guaranteed to sit in the Hot Seat (if they show up), but not necessarily on the day called. Any hold-overs from the previous taping day go on stage before the new cohort. The show tapes on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I believe that there may be two contestant pools, with contestants from the New York area specifically chosen for Thursday tapings, so it is not a hardship for them to return on the following Tuesday. On my taping day, a Tuesday, all of the hold-overs were from the greater New York area, while all of the contestants called with me were from outside the area. In addition, I was the only one who had taken the test in New York, where many would-be contestants are local. On the website for another syndicated television program (The View) taped at ABC studios in New York, there are two separate pools for ticket requests; one if you are from New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, or Pennsylvania; and one if you are from anywhere else. I think "Millionaire" similarly divides the contestant pool.
To recap - I have made two major assumptions about the contestant pool:
1. Although there are more test opportunities in New York, there is a higher chance of being selected for the pool in a search outside the city. Still, there is a chance of being selected from a New York test;
2. The day for which a contestant is called may be influenced by one’s home state. In conclusion, a game show is unlikely to pay for all of one's graduate school expenses, but it can pay for a year or two. I won the average amount, $25,000. Most contestants win either much less, or $50,000. However, do not be intimidated by the bimodal distribution of winnings. You might be luckier than me. In any case, I had a lot of fun. I have a new roof, a unique story to tell, an amusing new hobby, a new topic for further research, and am that much further in my quest for the American Dream!
“Who Wants To Be a Millionaire? TV game shows, graduate school, and the quest for the American Dream.” Presented at the 2007 Society for American Archaeology annual meetings, Austin, TX, April 26, 2007, in a symposium sponsored by the Women in Archaeology Interest Group, “Perspectives on the Graduate School Experience.” Mary Robison, PhD
For many, acquiring a graduate degree is one step in their quest for the “American Dream”, but graduate school can leave a former student in debt for years. Personal relationships can suffer (or cease) from the financial hardship of this quest. I both gave birth to a child and divorced his father while in graduate school. Despite receiving child support in a timely fashion, completing grad school as a single parent was, for me, a financially difficult time. I used an unusual method to finance my terminal year in graduate school, and so might you, too.
Some graduate students work under professors who routinely obtain large research grants; these students perform assigned tasks and base their theses and dissertations on this work. Other advisors do not obtain such support for their students; these students have more freedom in determining their research topics but must find their own sources of support. In my time, the typical graduate student in anthropology at UMass Amherst supported themselves by teaching or leading discussion sections in large undergraduate courses that fulfilled the university’s liberal arts requirements. It was not possible to support a family on these meager earnings. Every semester, a few students could augment their income by also teaching in the division of continuing education. Off campus jobs also paid poorly but were still desirable in that the work never “came home.” Teaching required substantial preparation and “home work.” This home work took away time from the “real” work of research and writing to complete one's degree.
Some students are able to make progress on their dissertation while teaching; I was not one of these students. In order to write, I inevitably had to spend hours (or days) trying to recover a train of thought that I had been forced to drop in order to prepare lessons, correct student work, or cook dinner for my son. Ultimately, I concluded that I had to bite the bullet and stop all outside work to complete my dissertation. My financial needs were not as great as many of my peers in that I owned my house; I did not have rent or mortgage payments. Nevertheless, I still had property taxes and upkeep. I had carefully budgeted for routine expenses but, early in the year, the unexpected happened; my roof started to leak badly.
When confronted with this challenge to my limited budget, I tried something completely different from seeking the usual student jobs. I tried out to become a contestant on the syndicated television game show, “Who Wants To Be a Millionaire?” I thought the title question was silly - after all, who wouldn't want a million dollars?
Although many game shows run contestant searches throughout the United States, none occurred in western Massachusetts. “Millionaire” tapes in New York City and audience members are encouraged to attempt the qualifying test. I went online and obtained a ticket to a test and taping session, more or less on the spur of the moment. I took a day off and bused to New York, then caught the subway to ABC studios on the Upper West Side.
The qualifying test (thirty multiple-choice questions, timed, in ten minutes) is given before the taping, but the results aren’t announced until after the session is finished (presumably, to keep the audience from leaving when the majority do not pass). Approximately ten percent pass; I passed. Although they will not give out the scores, I knew that I correctly answered twenty-eight questions. Passing the test, though, is only the first step in becoming a contestant. Interviews are immediately held in the studio. At this, I was a miserable failure. Somehow, in my excitement as a member of the studio audience, I had forgotten why I had come. I was exhausted and not terribly interesting in the interview. I got a polite “thanks, but no thanks” post card a week later. With the knowledge that I could pass the test, I tried again.
For my second attempt, it poured, reminding me of my leaky roof. Herded out of the rain and into the ABC cafeteria, I worked on my questionnaire, which was used for the interview. This time, I had prepared by outlining, ahead of time, a number of amusing personal pastiches, a series of one-size-fits-all responses to the type of questions asked on my first foray, which I had only answered sketchily at best. The second test was NOT the same as the first one; it was considerably harder. I had no idea what the correct answers were for about half of the questions (I guessed, probably incorrectly). My only consolation was that everyone seemed as clueless as I felt. One of the “easier” of these questions was, “What is the name of the spiral arm in the Milky Way galaxy where planet earth is located?” (Orion, although I guessed Sagittarius; Perseus and Norma were other incorrect choices). After the test, we were sent back outside. Some of us retreated to the nearby Starbucks, to attempt to stay dry, chat, compare answers, and complain. I took notes (allowing me to write this paper).
After another lineup in the rain, we were finally brought into the studio. This time, the audience bleachers were sparsely populated; many test-takers apparently gave up after the extremely difficult test. The show’s interns were brought in to round out the audience; one sat next to me. I attempted to chat with her about her work, but she didn’t want to talk to a mere audience member.
Although I didn’t score as well as I had the first time, I was again called for an interview. Like the first test, about fifteen names were called. From this, I assume that the tests are scored on a curve.
This time, I tried to sound like the Energizer bunny on speed. I had a quick quip for every question. My interviewer was particularly amused that, in my life before graduate school, I built special effects for the rock band, KISS, and rode a big motorcycle (which I still own). These facts are at odds with my personal appearance; I look like an overweight, white, middle-class, 40-ish mom, an observation that is accurate, but does not include any personal nuances. Still, I really don’t look like the head-banger that my stories imply. I was interviewed, sequentially, by two producers. When the second producer told me, “I hope we'll be seeing you in a couple of weeks,” I took it as a good sign.
There are a substantial number of people who repeatedly try out for TV trivia shows. Of the people with whom I chatted in line, one had taken the Millionaire test at least four times previously and another had just flown to New York after taking the test for Jeopardy in a Florida contestant search. Many others also mentioned taking the Jeopardy and Millionaire tests previously. This was a new phenomenon for me. In order to attempt to get a seat at a Jeopardy test session, it is necessary to register on-line for searches in multiple cities. Jeopardy’s producers use a random selection process; there seems to be a very low probability of selection if one applies for only one city. To try out, you must be willing to fly almost anywhere in the country. Jeopardy’s process does not seem to be a viable option for impoverished grad students.
The possibility of winning a large sum of money was repeatedly mentioned as the single motive for this peculiar obsession. How each person would use the money varied: primarily discussed were major outstanding or upcoming bills. Occasionally, long-postponed vacations, down-payments on houses, new cars, or other semi-exotic “toys” were fantasized. The desire to demonstrate to the watching world exactly how smart each would-be contestant is, was an unspoken, but palpable, motive. The need for this validation speaks volumes about how unrewarding (both monetarily and emotionally) most employment is for (self-defined) “smart” people. Both money and validation are equal parts of the American Dream for most test takers.
A week after I took the second test, I received a call from the contestant coordinator for Millionaire. My name had been pulled for a show that would tape in a little over two weeks. I hadn't even received the postcard that said I had been selected for the contestant pool (that came two days later). With only two weeks until the taping, I had just enough time to get very nervous but I decided that I was going to have fun, no matter what the outcome. I've made a fool of myself enough times previously to not worry about the possibility of doing it on television.
The timing was not ideal. I was in the final stages of writing my dissertation. My university's requirements called for the committee to receive their final draft at least four weeks prior to the defense date - which was scheduled to occur precisely four weeks after my taping! Although I thought I should try to review some information for “Millionaire”, I had to concentrate on writing coherently, now a very difficult task. I bought a few books and spent a single day looking at major events as reported in Time Magazine, but did little else to prepare.
I believe that one of the reasons why TV trivia shows and reality programming are popular is because many people secretly believe they could excel on one. If one is young, muscular, willing to consume disgusting items, and not overwhelmingly intellectual, one might aspire to “Fear Factor.” For the young person who thinks they can sing, there is “American Idol.” Many middle-class, relatively intelligent people (students, professors, or their relatives, the main body of my current acquaintance) tend to think that they could succeed on a trivia show.
Seven contestants, including me, arrived at 8 AM for the taping on November 8. We were each assigned a producer to look after us. The green room was bright and cheerful, full of comfortable furniture, a nice rug, and photographs of previous big winners. A buffet of breakfast pastries was laid out, with fresh coffee brewing, next to a refrigerator full of soft drinks and bottled water. We were encouraged to help ourselves. The buffet was refreshed and changed throughout the day with a hot lunch, salad, afternoon sandwiches, and various desserts. Our bags, cell phones, books, newspapers, and any reading materials were confiscated as soon as we entered. As someone who habitually reads (even a cereal box is better than nothing), this was a major hardship.
We had been instructed to bring proof of identity, citizenship, and social security number, and had received, by mail, contracts to sign. These were taken by the show’s accountant while we had a series of briefings by various program personnel. The show’s lawyer asked us if we had carefully read the contract. He then went over some portions and, among other things, told us that the show would not take any taxes out of our winnings. The producer (as opposed to a producer, this one was THE producer) explained what was explicitly NOT allowed, such as visible logos on anything that might appear on camera, or us mentioning any trade names. Stalling is not making progress toward an answer, and it wasn’t allowed, either. We met the show’s publicist, who asked us about any local TV or radio stations and newspapers that might be interested in covering our appearance. We also practiced entering the studio and sitting in the “hot seat”, but the lights were dimmed so it wasn't the same.
The young producers that were assigned to us were all (obviously) recent college graduates. They had mixed emotions about us; in some ways, they were important television professionals whose primary job was.... babysitting us. From the time we arrived until we left, we were isolated and it was the producers’ job to keep the world at bay. On the other hand, the young producers were in awe of us, respecting our ability to have passed the test and our (comparatively) vast sums of knowledge; one producer said, in a tone that was polite despite the insulting words, “You know, you guys are freaks, you're so smart.” Their job could not have been more contradictory.
Mostly, we chatted with each other and our producers. We had to be escorted to and from the bathroom, but the producers were fairly cheerful about this duty. They fetched whatever we needed. Eventually, show time drew near and we were escorted to various private rooms, to change into on-camera clothing. No one had noticed that the pants I wore were actually black jeans (jeans were banned on camera), so I didn’t change them. In my normal life, I often wear black and I had difficulty locating clothing that met the dress code (no black or white on top, no jeans or T-shirts, no logos, and no close stripes). We had all brought two stage outfits to the studio, in case we appeared in two shows.
Four more contestants, hold-overs from the previous day, arrived. We all got made up. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.
It was show-time. The four hold-overs were called out of the green room, first. One had started his appearance the previous day and went immediately on stage, but the rest were sent to an “on-deck” area. They keep three contestants on-deck - in the studio but offstage, none knowing who would be selected as the next contestant. I was one of the first from our group to be called out of the green room to be on-deck. I was miked and warned against dropping the transmitter, clipped to the back of my pants, into the toilet if I used the restroom.
My producer prepped me on my stories. Then, I waited. And waited. And waited! The producers continued to keep us in a state of frenzy; having us stay on-deck was just one example of how they manipulated our emotions. As each contestant finished, we stood in a row, to be randomly “tapped” - literally, tapped on the shoulder from behind, then thrust out through the stage entrance. First tapped from our group was the newly-wed from Minneapolis, others followed. As one entered the stage, another was brought out of the green room to join the on-deck group. We chatted quietly about the show and continued to be offered drinks by the producers (the studio air was cold and dry). When the third show ended with the contestant giving the incorrect answer, we all knew that the next one to be tapped would begin the last show of the day and would probably be the only one to finish up. Still, they kept us hanging, not telling us who it would be!
All of the liquids finally caught up with me; I asked if I could use the restroom but they wanted to determine the next contestant, first. A little longer, and it was ME! Now, I really needed the restroom! As I marched up the stairs to the facilities, I audibly reminded myself not to drop my transmitter into the toilet. Only later did I think about the sound technician, listening in as I used the restroom, but this is probably not an uncommon experience for TV sound engineers.
My producer, once again, coached me on my stories. Finally alone and awaiting the start of the new show in the studio doorway, I hopped up and down, I was so excited. The comedian who had warmed up the audience was nearby, facing away, making obscene body motions towards an unseen (to me) Meredith Viera. I hadn't realized that his job included keeping her amused, too. I laughed so hard, I was afraid I would fall over the edge of the set; I clutched the stage rigging and giggled uncontrollably.
The music came up, Ms. Viera and I entered the stage together, I sat down in the hot seat, and the rest is almost a dream. We ad-libbed a bit about my having been in the audience a few weeks earlier (I remember waving toward the section where I had been sitting and the audience cheering for me so loudly, I couldn't hear Ms. Viera’s questions). We also talked about how my students would never believe my rock and roll history. At some point, I held my USB drive up to the camera, carefully obscuring the Memorex logo with my index finger, saying it was my dissertation, which I was afraid of losing unless I kept a copy with me at all times (this bit was edited out of the show). At a commercial break, my make-up was retouched. I was never frightened - I was absolutely giddy with euphoria. The experience was surreal.
Afterwards, I was taken to a little booth under another part of the stage to sign papers with the show’s accountant. I kept looking at my fake check, not really sure how I had won $25,000. Even before I entered the “hot seat”, the producers had whipped me into a totally suggestible state, something that I never would have thought possible. I was doing everything they wanted me to do, on cue - sitting down, telling particular stories, even holding up my USB drive. It was as if I had been hypnotized - I was willing to accept anything that someone else said; had the audience suggested an answer that was not even one of the options, I would have agreed with them, even knowing that it was wrong. And it felt SO GOOD. It was an illuminating experience; is this what gambling, drinking, and/or taking drugs do for addicts? The euphoria I experienced is certainly addictive; that I could fall into such a suggestible state is frightening. But I want to do it again. Who ever would have thought that a game show could be analogous to crack?
I have recorded a number of episodes of Millionaire. They are a convenience sample, not an SRS; I taped episodes whenever I remembered to program my recorder. In addition to normal contestant selection such as I experienced, the show has a number of specialty weeks where all contestants are either newlywed couples, or movie buffs, or even audience members selected at random. I have not done a formal study of my sample, but my sense is that there is a bi-modal distribution of winnings - when contestants use up their lifelines quickly, they win very little money. If contestant gets to the $25,000 level, she is guaranteed that amount, so there is no risk in answering the next question, which can net the contestant $50,000. A few contestants are willing to gamble for higher amounts, but most do not if they reach the $50,000 level - less than 20% of contestants reach this level. From my observations, the “typical” contestant is white and college-educated, with relatively equal numbers of men and women chosen for the pool. Almost all contestants have some major debt that they would like to pay with their winnings; many contestants are undergraduate and graduate students from a variety of disciplines, especially law and history.
I corresponded on-line with a couple of my test- session peers. I encouraged them to think about more than passing the test. I had, rather cold-bloodedly, spent some time between my two test dates thinking about what producers look for. The test weeds out those without sufficient general knowledge but a good contestant is more than a walking encyclopedia. Producers want interesting people who can present themselves well on camera - they want someone who has short, funny stories to tell, who has a quick come-back to any question, and who can laugh at themselves. These are not easy skills but they can be obtained with practice. A brilliant person who acts like a jerk will never be chosen as a contestant. In my case, my being an occasional smart-mouth was not a bad thing. In my first attempt, I had only been able to say, “I can't believe I passed the test!” The producers must hear this all of the time, so it did not single me out as interesting. I have genuinely outrageous stories to tell about myself but almost everyone has at least some funny stories, whether about themselves, their family members, or their job. In any case, I succeeded in packaging myself as an attractive candidate in my second attempt to become a contestant, and I shared this information with my test-peers, and now, with you.
There are 175 half-hour segments of "Millionaire" produced every year (according to Meredith Viera, in an appearance on the "Tony Danza Show", May 22, 2006). From my observations, each segment uses between one and four contestants per episode, typically, slightly less than two. Therefore, the annual contestant pool must have at least 350 members. I have developed two major hypotheses about the Millionaire contestant pool from my observations, although I was unable to verify them.
Since the show has so many contestant searches throughout the country, they do not need to select many at the New York City tapings. I think I was the only person selected for the pool during my second attempt; I was the only person who received attention from the second producer. I think that the contestant pool is deliberately kept small and that there are relatively few members who are not eventually selected for a show. It would be infuriating to be chosen for the pool but never selected for a program before the season ended. I believe that most contestants are found in the nation-wide contestant searches in an attempt to obtain what looks like a more diverse pool, but that diversity is an illusion as a result of self-selection by would-be contestants.
Once chosen for a taping of Millionaire, a contestant is guaranteed to sit in the Hot Seat (if they show up), but not necessarily on the day called. Any hold-overs from the previous taping day go on stage before the new cohort. The show tapes on Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday. I believe that there may be two contestant pools, with contestants from the New York area specifically chosen for Thursday tapings, so it is not a hardship for them to return on the following Tuesday. On my taping day, a Tuesday, all of the hold-overs were from the greater New York area, while all of the contestants called with me were from outside the area. In addition, I was the only one who had taken the test in New York, where many would-be contestants are local. On the website for another syndicated television program (The View) taped at ABC studios in New York, there are two separate pools for ticket requests; one if you are from New York, New Jersey, Connecticut, or Pennsylvania; and one if you are from anywhere else. I think "Millionaire" similarly divides the contestant pool.
To recap - I have made two major assumptions about the contestant pool:
1. Although there are more test opportunities in New York, there is a higher chance of being selected for the pool in a search outside the city. Still, there is a chance of being selected from a New York test;
2. The day for which a contestant is called may be influenced by one’s home state. In conclusion, a game show is unlikely to pay for all of one's graduate school expenses, but it can pay for a year or two. I won the average amount, $25,000. Most contestants win either much less, or $50,000. However, do not be intimidated by the bimodal distribution of winnings. You might be luckier than me. In any case, I had a lot of fun. I have a new roof, a unique story to tell, an amusing new hobby, a new topic for further research, and am that much further in my quest for the American Dream!
Thursday, December 23, 2010
Shoot! I've got two computers! Ooh - and Season's Greetings!
I spent a LONG time writing a new blog entry yesterday and, as I'm frantically looking for the file to upload it and CANNOT find it, I just realized that I wrote it on my laptop! Of course, I"m on the desktop, now (the only computer I use to upload).
Computers are like teddy bears. I've always got one with me to write on but sometimes it's just my smart phone. As I mentioned, I got a new (cheap) laptop to replace the one that I need to return to my last employer (it's going back as soon as I take all of my files off of it, probably between Christmas and New Year's). And I've got my old dinosaur of a desktop. It's been very reliable but the C drive is so full, it gets confused. I need to pull everything off of it, start over, and get rid of the partitioning. Or just replace it as soon as I can afford it. Oh, dear, I shouldn't have said that where it could read it! It erased everything for a second! I'm sorry. I'll maintain you better; I promise! I'll even replace your non-functioning ports! Just don't fail me!
I imagine that I would have just talked to myself, in the days before computers. I occasionally kept a journal but it was so much work because I don't write very legibly. This is so much more satisfying. I really do like computers. I wonder if I frustrate them as much as they sometimes frustrate me, though. Or maybe I'm just over-anthropomorphizing them. Good computer! Very good computer (pat, pat)! I need my computer at least as much as it needs me to provide electricity and spare parts, though.
Happy Holidays! Mid-December has snuck up on me, for the reasons I'll explain tomorrow. Merry Christmas, a belated Happy Hannukah, Joyous Beltane, or whatever holiday you celebrate. I don't have any problem with offering any kind of holiday greetings. I celebrate Christmas (like the majority of Americans) but it's the time of year when we ideally offer the gift of peace and happiness to everybody - so don't get annoyed if I give you more holiday cheer than you personally celebrate. Don't get upset if people and stores are generic in their greetings; any polite seasonal salutation shouldn't be offensive, so don't make it a big deal if it isn't the particular one you want. "Happy Holidays" in no way decreases my Christmas and it shouldn't affect your celebration, either. I'm not being politically correct; I just like the season and the ideal sentiment. It gives me the illusion of hope for my fellow citizens. Be nice when someone offers you a happy season's greetings. It defeats the whole sentiment of Christmas to take offense. And that's my rant for the day!
Computers are like teddy bears. I've always got one with me to write on but sometimes it's just my smart phone. As I mentioned, I got a new (cheap) laptop to replace the one that I need to return to my last employer (it's going back as soon as I take all of my files off of it, probably between Christmas and New Year's). And I've got my old dinosaur of a desktop. It's been very reliable but the C drive is so full, it gets confused. I need to pull everything off of it, start over, and get rid of the partitioning. Or just replace it as soon as I can afford it. Oh, dear, I shouldn't have said that where it could read it! It erased everything for a second! I'm sorry. I'll maintain you better; I promise! I'll even replace your non-functioning ports! Just don't fail me!
I imagine that I would have just talked to myself, in the days before computers. I occasionally kept a journal but it was so much work because I don't write very legibly. This is so much more satisfying. I really do like computers. I wonder if I frustrate them as much as they sometimes frustrate me, though. Or maybe I'm just over-anthropomorphizing them. Good computer! Very good computer (pat, pat)! I need my computer at least as much as it needs me to provide electricity and spare parts, though.
Happy Holidays! Mid-December has snuck up on me, for the reasons I'll explain tomorrow. Merry Christmas, a belated Happy Hannukah, Joyous Beltane, or whatever holiday you celebrate. I don't have any problem with offering any kind of holiday greetings. I celebrate Christmas (like the majority of Americans) but it's the time of year when we ideally offer the gift of peace and happiness to everybody - so don't get annoyed if I give you more holiday cheer than you personally celebrate. Don't get upset if people and stores are generic in their greetings; any polite seasonal salutation shouldn't be offensive, so don't make it a big deal if it isn't the particular one you want. "Happy Holidays" in no way decreases my Christmas and it shouldn't affect your celebration, either. I'm not being politically correct; I just like the season and the ideal sentiment. It gives me the illusion of hope for my fellow citizens. Be nice when someone offers you a happy season's greetings. It defeats the whole sentiment of Christmas to take offense. And that's my rant for the day!
Saturday, December 11, 2010
Building stuff with my kid
I've talked briefly about a course I'm taking (in entrepreneurship) so Jack and I can have a successful start-up electronics business but I didn't want to talk about the actual business before now. It works! It works! I'm SO excited!
Jack and I went to a conference in July for super-geeks. I was in my element - and Jack had never seen me like this before. We bought some kits for pretty cool toys and saw a lot of neat stuff. We decided to build a quadrocopter, a two foot square flying device, powered by four electric motors. The "brains" of the quadrocopter is an "Arduino", an open-source microprocessor connected to sensors that keep the device balanced and flying straight. There is an active internet community of builders of such flying machines, so there are plenty of people who can help with problems.
Initially, Jack wanted to write all or almost all of his own software, which kind-of defeated the purpose of having an open-source platform. He came around to using existing libraries of Arduino programs and quickly developed his own program to emulate portions of the hardware on his computer. We traded off building bits, but after multiple updates, my circuit boards were all in use, but the programming was entirely Jack's edited creation. The only problem was, after replacing certain parts that were defective or had been damaged in earlier versions, the device would continuously and uncontrollably roll over (and rapidly crash, if it were actually flying instead of the emulator displaying the flight characteristics).
Today, Jack and I sat down together at his father's house and talked through the problem. We concluded that the sensors were working properly. There were a couple of less-than-ideal solder joints on the main circuit board, which I fixed. It still rolled. I pulled out the schematics that I used to build the main circuit board and started going over the wiring. There was a significant difference between the drawing and the device in the sensor connections - they were connected in a different order than the drawing specified. We talked over the reason for the difference; it dated to when Jack was writing all of his own programs - when it didn't matter if the sensors were wired in a unique manner. Since he was now using a library of software, the sensors had to match the software originator's plans (and they didn't). So, I unsoldered one end on each of five wires on the circuit board and reconnected them so they matched the schematic. We hooked the board up to the computer and it stopped rolling!
I could finally put the whole quadrocopter together. The circuit boards are mounted in a plastic box,which is mounted on the frame. We had previously mounted the motors, motor controllers, and battery to the frame. Everything is all hooked up. Jack still has to calibrate the sensors but we hope to be flying tomorrow (if the weather isn't horrendous, as forecast). Maybe we'll go somewhere where there is a building with high ceilings and fly indoors. Hmmmmm.
I'm so excited and happy, though! We've been working on this since mid-September, and have spent three months debugging the thing. Debugging is both fun and maddening. Right now, the quadrocopter isn't anything unique. It's just a very expensive, albeit fun, toy. But stay tuned. Our business isn't just making quadrocopters; lots of people are building them. I can't talk about the rest, yet. Nyah, nyah! Seriously, there are a LOT of people building these things for profit, so we need to keep certain ideas a secret until we're ready to market the thing.
But it works! Neither of us could debug the machine's problems alone; we've got a pretty good division of labor. I like working with Jack. Building stuff with your kid is a lot of fun.
Jack and I went to a conference in July for super-geeks. I was in my element - and Jack had never seen me like this before. We bought some kits for pretty cool toys and saw a lot of neat stuff. We decided to build a quadrocopter, a two foot square flying device, powered by four electric motors. The "brains" of the quadrocopter is an "Arduino", an open-source microprocessor connected to sensors that keep the device balanced and flying straight. There is an active internet community of builders of such flying machines, so there are plenty of people who can help with problems.
Initially, Jack wanted to write all or almost all of his own software, which kind-of defeated the purpose of having an open-source platform. He came around to using existing libraries of Arduino programs and quickly developed his own program to emulate portions of the hardware on his computer. We traded off building bits, but after multiple updates, my circuit boards were all in use, but the programming was entirely Jack's edited creation. The only problem was, after replacing certain parts that were defective or had been damaged in earlier versions, the device would continuously and uncontrollably roll over (and rapidly crash, if it were actually flying instead of the emulator displaying the flight characteristics).
Today, Jack and I sat down together at his father's house and talked through the problem. We concluded that the sensors were working properly. There were a couple of less-than-ideal solder joints on the main circuit board, which I fixed. It still rolled. I pulled out the schematics that I used to build the main circuit board and started going over the wiring. There was a significant difference between the drawing and the device in the sensor connections - they were connected in a different order than the drawing specified. We talked over the reason for the difference; it dated to when Jack was writing all of his own programs - when it didn't matter if the sensors were wired in a unique manner. Since he was now using a library of software, the sensors had to match the software originator's plans (and they didn't). So, I unsoldered one end on each of five wires on the circuit board and reconnected them so they matched the schematic. We hooked the board up to the computer and it stopped rolling!
I could finally put the whole quadrocopter together. The circuit boards are mounted in a plastic box,which is mounted on the frame. We had previously mounted the motors, motor controllers, and battery to the frame. Everything is all hooked up. Jack still has to calibrate the sensors but we hope to be flying tomorrow (if the weather isn't horrendous, as forecast). Maybe we'll go somewhere where there is a building with high ceilings and fly indoors. Hmmmmm.
I'm so excited and happy, though! We've been working on this since mid-September, and have spent three months debugging the thing. Debugging is both fun and maddening. Right now, the quadrocopter isn't anything unique. It's just a very expensive, albeit fun, toy. But stay tuned. Our business isn't just making quadrocopters; lots of people are building them. I can't talk about the rest, yet. Nyah, nyah! Seriously, there are a LOT of people building these things for profit, so we need to keep certain ideas a secret until we're ready to market the thing.
But it works! Neither of us could debug the machine's problems alone; we've got a pretty good division of labor. I like working with Jack. Building stuff with your kid is a lot of fun.
Thursday, December 9, 2010
One by one, the penguins steal my sanity
I once saw this on a bumper sticker and, like inside jokes, it has become meaningful only to me. I’m not sure exactly what it means, it just makes me feel better when life is going out of control. I’ve often tried to pretend that I’ve got control over my life. More recently, I’ve given up the pretense and now just try to roll with the punches.
One of the things over which I have no control but pretended that I did, is autism spectrum. I’ve finally come to accept that I, like my son and my ex-husband, have Asperger’s Syndrome. It was a traumatic revelation for me. Females, much more than males, are socialized to conform. As a female on the spectrum, I’m better at hiding my utter confusion over most social situations than the boys do; sometimes I even revel in my bewilderment.
I’m all right with one person; I can narrow my focus to comprehend many of the unspoken cues from a single person but I start to feel lost with a small group and a large group is overwhelming. Even with one person, I overthink what is supposed to come easily. For example, in “Parade” magazine a few weeks ago, there was a picture of a person with a tightly rounded mouth and wide-open eyes. The text said that up to half of teenagers had difficulty identifying the emotion portrayed but that “all” adults got it.
So, I looked carefully at the picture. Initially, I decided that the person was angry but, after consideration, remembered that angry eyes are usually narrowed. These were wide open. Open eyes could be surprised but the mouth was wrong. I copied the expression with my own face. As I considered the emotions evoked by my own expression, I finally thought the person might be scared. Fear could result in a tight mouth and open eyes. I turned the page and discovered that I was correct. It only took me ten seconds to run through this difficult thought process but I was pleased to discover that I thought like one of the grown-ups! But, do most adults have to copy the face in order to identify it? I think not. I’m an adult, but one who must analyze carefully rather than simply “know”, almost by instinct.
As a kid, people said I was shy. In retrospect, I wasn’t shy so much as terrified because I could never figure out what people were thinking, the way other kids could. When I decided to stop behaving shy, I still found myself occasionally paralyzed by fear when in new situations. Just as people can decide that pain is sexually exciting (yuck!), I decided that total bewilderment was not frightening, rather, it was fun and entertaining. I conflated my acceptance of confusion with believing that everyone else was as confused as I was. This meant I was “normal” in my confusion.
Being “normal” meant a lot to me. After all, adolescence is all about trying to fit in. Before I gave up my “shyness”, I found the AV club. I didn’t fit in anywhere in my high school but the AV club gave me some measure of acceptance, but the other girls in AV understood the rules of high school girls; I never did. At best, I was invisible to the rest of the high school. I liked it that way. When I started college, I decided that being invisible wasn’t going to work as I had no support group and was unlikely to find one if I was shy. Abandoning shyness. I’ve sought out and found a corps of geeks to join, wherever I’ve gone.
I was willing to accept that I was smarter than a lot of people, I just didn’t think I was that different, particularly in a group of mixed smart people like my geeky friends. I have lots of smart friends but many of them are probably on the spectrum, too. My neurotypical friends generally don’t have the all-consuming drive to read everything they can lay their hands on or to take apart their “toys” to discover how they work. I used to believe that all of the people that I admired for their expertise in one realm were equally knowledgeable across the board (like me). Occasionally, someone would surprise me by telling me that they didn’t know something that I considered common knowledge.
For example, yesterday, a neurotypical friend thought the word “complement”(used appropriately) was “compliment,” merely misspelled. I don’t know what to make of this.
Margaret was surprised but gratified to discover that I could fix her wheelchair when its wheel kept jamming on her. I can’t see why no one else around her was able to do anything. It was simple. All it took was a willingness to figure out how the brake assembly worked, then to loosen (and tighten) a single bolt to make a minor adjustment! I still can’t imagine why anyone who can use both hands couldn’t do such a simple thing.
I was in Walmart last night and saw a woman laughingly purchasing an inexpensive purple tool kit for a Christmas present. She chuckled to her (older female) companion that her daughter had recently moved into her first apartment and would need it. This pleased me, although the tools were crappy and a better set could be had at Home Depot for the same price. It suggested to me that perhaps this mother also experimented with home repairs so maybe I’m not such a weirdo after all!
“Normal” means average - something that the majority of people can and will do. But, if your peer group is not representative of the population as a whole, your ideas about “normal” are skewed. I think my peer group (for almost my entire adult life) has been far above average in most things so my ideas about “normal” have a much higher standard than the average American. Even in this group, I’m not “normal,” although I’ve sought it in social venues and often discounted my gifts in intellectual areas. “Normal” was something that I sought and deeply desired for myself. I never wanted to be the outlier, but I guess I am. AS makes me an outlier, but, according to the people from the Discovery Channel who interviewed me about John, being able to articulate the differences between AS and the neurotypical minds makes him (and me!) an outlier amongst outliers. The main difference is, he had less of a need to fit in. He has reveled in his diagnosis, whereas I agonized with mine.
I’m gradually coming to the conclusion that I wouldn’t change myself, though. I like being a geek amongst geeks. It’s all the neurotypicals who make me insecure.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how I think; I require words to help me with visual input. Reading gives me both visual input and words. I cannot go for a single day without reading for a significant part of that day. I read when I’m stressed; I read when I’m at ease. When I’m reading, I fight to stay awake despite sleepiness and forget when I’m hungry. I read the way a glutton eats. I don’t read word-by-word, I read in chunks of text, consuming entire paragraphs, whole and intact, slurping down pages and eagerly looking for more. When I read fiction, I see the action unfold before me, like a cross between a cartoon and a movie with live actors. I hear the dialog and smell the odors. Reading is better than real life, as books are predictable. Oddly enough, it is the people who turn into blurry cartoons unless I actively keep their descriptions in the front of my mind, while the locations, background, and objects remain crisp and lifelike.
I cannot remember what people look like in real life unless I explicitly and deliberately describe them to myself, verbally. It isn't enough to just think a general description, I have to slow down and articulate every word, individually. Real people don’t actually turn into cartoons, but my reading memory of fictional people echoes my perception of real people. The real people all blur together - to me, almost everyone looks like everyone else. If I am confronted by people that I’ve met at the same time, I usually can’t tell them apart. I think in pictures, but I cannot remember the people in them without explicit words to describe their differences. I think this is why I read so much. Books give me the words I need without any additional effort on my part. In addition, the act of reading mediates between the external world and me.
I also think that my difficulty in visual memory of humans underlies why I was “shy” as a kid. I never knew if I’d met someone before and didn’t know how to react to changes to my routine, in addition to not knowing what their expressions meant.
I"m still going to watch out for those penguins, though.
One of the things over which I have no control but pretended that I did, is autism spectrum. I’ve finally come to accept that I, like my son and my ex-husband, have Asperger’s Syndrome. It was a traumatic revelation for me. Females, much more than males, are socialized to conform. As a female on the spectrum, I’m better at hiding my utter confusion over most social situations than the boys do; sometimes I even revel in my bewilderment.
I’m all right with one person; I can narrow my focus to comprehend many of the unspoken cues from a single person but I start to feel lost with a small group and a large group is overwhelming. Even with one person, I overthink what is supposed to come easily. For example, in “Parade” magazine a few weeks ago, there was a picture of a person with a tightly rounded mouth and wide-open eyes. The text said that up to half of teenagers had difficulty identifying the emotion portrayed but that “all” adults got it.
So, I looked carefully at the picture. Initially, I decided that the person was angry but, after consideration, remembered that angry eyes are usually narrowed. These were wide open. Open eyes could be surprised but the mouth was wrong. I copied the expression with my own face. As I considered the emotions evoked by my own expression, I finally thought the person might be scared. Fear could result in a tight mouth and open eyes. I turned the page and discovered that I was correct. It only took me ten seconds to run through this difficult thought process but I was pleased to discover that I thought like one of the grown-ups! But, do most adults have to copy the face in order to identify it? I think not. I’m an adult, but one who must analyze carefully rather than simply “know”, almost by instinct.
As a kid, people said I was shy. In retrospect, I wasn’t shy so much as terrified because I could never figure out what people were thinking, the way other kids could. When I decided to stop behaving shy, I still found myself occasionally paralyzed by fear when in new situations. Just as people can decide that pain is sexually exciting (yuck!), I decided that total bewilderment was not frightening, rather, it was fun and entertaining. I conflated my acceptance of confusion with believing that everyone else was as confused as I was. This meant I was “normal” in my confusion.
Being “normal” meant a lot to me. After all, adolescence is all about trying to fit in. Before I gave up my “shyness”, I found the AV club. I didn’t fit in anywhere in my high school but the AV club gave me some measure of acceptance, but the other girls in AV understood the rules of high school girls; I never did. At best, I was invisible to the rest of the high school. I liked it that way. When I started college, I decided that being invisible wasn’t going to work as I had no support group and was unlikely to find one if I was shy. Abandoning shyness. I’ve sought out and found a corps of geeks to join, wherever I’ve gone.
I was willing to accept that I was smarter than a lot of people, I just didn’t think I was that different, particularly in a group of mixed smart people like my geeky friends. I have lots of smart friends but many of them are probably on the spectrum, too. My neurotypical friends generally don’t have the all-consuming drive to read everything they can lay their hands on or to take apart their “toys” to discover how they work. I used to believe that all of the people that I admired for their expertise in one realm were equally knowledgeable across the board (like me). Occasionally, someone would surprise me by telling me that they didn’t know something that I considered common knowledge.
For example, yesterday, a neurotypical friend thought the word “complement”(used appropriately) was “compliment,” merely misspelled. I don’t know what to make of this.
Margaret was surprised but gratified to discover that I could fix her wheelchair when its wheel kept jamming on her. I can’t see why no one else around her was able to do anything. It was simple. All it took was a willingness to figure out how the brake assembly worked, then to loosen (and tighten) a single bolt to make a minor adjustment! I still can’t imagine why anyone who can use both hands couldn’t do such a simple thing.
I was in Walmart last night and saw a woman laughingly purchasing an inexpensive purple tool kit for a Christmas present. She chuckled to her (older female) companion that her daughter had recently moved into her first apartment and would need it. This pleased me, although the tools were crappy and a better set could be had at Home Depot for the same price. It suggested to me that perhaps this mother also experimented with home repairs so maybe I’m not such a weirdo after all!
“Normal” means average - something that the majority of people can and will do. But, if your peer group is not representative of the population as a whole, your ideas about “normal” are skewed. I think my peer group (for almost my entire adult life) has been far above average in most things so my ideas about “normal” have a much higher standard than the average American. Even in this group, I’m not “normal,” although I’ve sought it in social venues and often discounted my gifts in intellectual areas. “Normal” was something that I sought and deeply desired for myself. I never wanted to be the outlier, but I guess I am. AS makes me an outlier, but, according to the people from the Discovery Channel who interviewed me about John, being able to articulate the differences between AS and the neurotypical minds makes him (and me!) an outlier amongst outliers. The main difference is, he had less of a need to fit in. He has reveled in his diagnosis, whereas I agonized with mine.
I’m gradually coming to the conclusion that I wouldn’t change myself, though. I like being a geek amongst geeks. It’s all the neurotypicals who make me insecure.
I’ve been thinking a lot about how I think; I require words to help me with visual input. Reading gives me both visual input and words. I cannot go for a single day without reading for a significant part of that day. I read when I’m stressed; I read when I’m at ease. When I’m reading, I fight to stay awake despite sleepiness and forget when I’m hungry. I read the way a glutton eats. I don’t read word-by-word, I read in chunks of text, consuming entire paragraphs, whole and intact, slurping down pages and eagerly looking for more. When I read fiction, I see the action unfold before me, like a cross between a cartoon and a movie with live actors. I hear the dialog and smell the odors. Reading is better than real life, as books are predictable. Oddly enough, it is the people who turn into blurry cartoons unless I actively keep their descriptions in the front of my mind, while the locations, background, and objects remain crisp and lifelike.
I cannot remember what people look like in real life unless I explicitly and deliberately describe them to myself, verbally. It isn't enough to just think a general description, I have to slow down and articulate every word, individually. Real people don’t actually turn into cartoons, but my reading memory of fictional people echoes my perception of real people. The real people all blur together - to me, almost everyone looks like everyone else. If I am confronted by people that I’ve met at the same time, I usually can’t tell them apart. I think in pictures, but I cannot remember the people in them without explicit words to describe their differences. I think this is why I read so much. Books give me the words I need without any additional effort on my part. In addition, the act of reading mediates between the external world and me.
I also think that my difficulty in visual memory of humans underlies why I was “shy” as a kid. I never knew if I’d met someone before and didn’t know how to react to changes to my routine, in addition to not knowing what their expressions meant.
I"m still going to watch out for those penguins, though.
Friday, December 3, 2010
TSA blues
I’ve been thinking a lot about the Transportation Security Administration’s new scanners and “enhanced pat-downs” lately, in relation to my health problems of eight months ago.
One of the reasons why I started blogging was because I almost died on March 28, 2010. That’s the day when my colon ruptured, leading to massive peritonitis and an emergency (temporary) colostomy. A colostomy - even a temporary one - is a wretched thing. Your normal method of elimination is bypassed; you have a surgical hole in your side through which feces pass, to be collected inside a plastic bag that you have glued to your abdomen. Bags come in many styles, but the most common has a “tail” through which you can drain the majority of the waste into a toilet. It would be very rough on the skin to have to change the bag (and its adhesive) a couple of times a day. For me, small amounts of liquid feces oozed out of me and into the bag almost constantly. If the seal on the bag wasn’t perfect - and given the topography of my belly, this was very difficult to accomplish - feces leaked out - onto my clothes, onto my hand, onto anything in my lap, dribbling down my leg, yuck! I constantly smelled like sewage. To add insult to injury, I was allergic to the adhesive so my skin was often completely raw which made achieving a good seal impossible.
Imagine if I had had to fly when I still had the colostomy. The scanner reveals everything under your clothes - like a weird, partially filled bag, attached to my abdomen. By definition, this would be suspicious, leading to a “pat-down.” The bag would have been thoroughly felt by a person untrained in medical issues. Given the precarious nature of my bags, the chances were almost certain that they would have broken the seal. Can you say, “sh!t-storm?” How humiliating! Not to mention unsanitary!
Similar events have already happened to other people. A man with a urostomy - a similar operation to mine, but in his case, his bladder had been removed so the bag replaced it in collecting urine - was drenched with his own urine after a rough examination. He was unable to change into clean clothing for his flight. People with ostomies have been through enough. Why are they subjected to systematic humiliation at the hands of governmental goons?
And what makes flyers think that the gloves that TSA agents wear are any barrier to disease? If a TSA agent fails to clean their hands and change gloves between every passenger, you could catch a serious disease. Imagine that a person in front of you has chlamydia. Chlamydia can be carried on a glove from their genitals to yours. Do you want to explain to your partner that they got an STD because you flew somewhere and got groped? Even nastier, imagine that the passenger before you was recovering from a norovirus (a highly contagious and nasty intestinal infection that survives a long time on surfaces). The gloved hand probes between their buttocks - presto - norovirus on the glove. The TSA agent then pats your shirt - a minute later, you touch your shirt, then wipe your mouth - congratulations, you’re infected. You’ll be sick in two days and down for a week. You'll probably pass this around your household, too. If your immune system is compromised, you might even die!
I’ve got an idea that isn’t original but might gross out the TSA. Everybody should strip down to Speedos or bikinis for the security check. A couple of 20 year olds have already done this - cute young women and handsome young men. What if some less attractive people did it, too - like some golden agers or really fat people? Or someone like me - not just fat but covered with fresh surgical scars! I have no desire to have people look at my less-than-attractive body but I’d rather that than be groped by a stranger with filthy rubber gloves!
I feel much less safe about flying than I did before the TSA started their new policy with worthless scanners and sexual assaults. After all, despite all of the hoopla, the TSA hasn't caught any actual terrorists, just Hollywood starlets with their pot,coke, and pills! The only people who have stopped terror attacks are alert passengers.
All things considered, I think I’ll drive, ride a train, or take a boat if I need to travel. My naughty bits will continue to be the business of my doctor and my current sweetie, not the total strangers of the TSA. And the air carriers can kiss my scars for doing nothing for customers but raising prices and cutting services.
One of the reasons why I started blogging was because I almost died on March 28, 2010. That’s the day when my colon ruptured, leading to massive peritonitis and an emergency (temporary) colostomy. A colostomy - even a temporary one - is a wretched thing. Your normal method of elimination is bypassed; you have a surgical hole in your side through which feces pass, to be collected inside a plastic bag that you have glued to your abdomen. Bags come in many styles, but the most common has a “tail” through which you can drain the majority of the waste into a toilet. It would be very rough on the skin to have to change the bag (and its adhesive) a couple of times a day. For me, small amounts of liquid feces oozed out of me and into the bag almost constantly. If the seal on the bag wasn’t perfect - and given the topography of my belly, this was very difficult to accomplish - feces leaked out - onto my clothes, onto my hand, onto anything in my lap, dribbling down my leg, yuck! I constantly smelled like sewage. To add insult to injury, I was allergic to the adhesive so my skin was often completely raw which made achieving a good seal impossible.
Imagine if I had had to fly when I still had the colostomy. The scanner reveals everything under your clothes - like a weird, partially filled bag, attached to my abdomen. By definition, this would be suspicious, leading to a “pat-down.” The bag would have been thoroughly felt by a person untrained in medical issues. Given the precarious nature of my bags, the chances were almost certain that they would have broken the seal. Can you say, “sh!t-storm?” How humiliating! Not to mention unsanitary!
Similar events have already happened to other people. A man with a urostomy - a similar operation to mine, but in his case, his bladder had been removed so the bag replaced it in collecting urine - was drenched with his own urine after a rough examination. He was unable to change into clean clothing for his flight. People with ostomies have been through enough. Why are they subjected to systematic humiliation at the hands of governmental goons?
And what makes flyers think that the gloves that TSA agents wear are any barrier to disease? If a TSA agent fails to clean their hands and change gloves between every passenger, you could catch a serious disease. Imagine that a person in front of you has chlamydia. Chlamydia can be carried on a glove from their genitals to yours. Do you want to explain to your partner that they got an STD because you flew somewhere and got groped? Even nastier, imagine that the passenger before you was recovering from a norovirus (a highly contagious and nasty intestinal infection that survives a long time on surfaces). The gloved hand probes between their buttocks - presto - norovirus on the glove. The TSA agent then pats your shirt - a minute later, you touch your shirt, then wipe your mouth - congratulations, you’re infected. You’ll be sick in two days and down for a week. You'll probably pass this around your household, too. If your immune system is compromised, you might even die!
I’ve got an idea that isn’t original but might gross out the TSA. Everybody should strip down to Speedos or bikinis for the security check. A couple of 20 year olds have already done this - cute young women and handsome young men. What if some less attractive people did it, too - like some golden agers or really fat people? Or someone like me - not just fat but covered with fresh surgical scars! I have no desire to have people look at my less-than-attractive body but I’d rather that than be groped by a stranger with filthy rubber gloves!
I feel much less safe about flying than I did before the TSA started their new policy with worthless scanners and sexual assaults. After all, despite all of the hoopla, the TSA hasn't caught any actual terrorists, just Hollywood starlets with their pot,coke, and pills! The only people who have stopped terror attacks are alert passengers.
All things considered, I think I’ll drive, ride a train, or take a boat if I need to travel. My naughty bits will continue to be the business of my doctor and my current sweetie, not the total strangers of the TSA. And the air carriers can kiss my scars for doing nothing for customers but raising prices and cutting services.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
It's time for your injection
I jammed the syringe into Margaret’s leg; her agonized shriek tore through the stillness, finally bubbling down into a low moan as she ran out of air.
Not really.
Margaret’s rheumatoid arthritis went out of control two months ago. Her doctor had stopped the monthly injection that kept it at bay for reasons that I shall not elucidate; that’s her story. The result was that she had two visits to the emergency room for out-of-control pain and was confined to a local nursing home for six weeks. A month ago, the doctor prescribed daily injections of steroids to try to subdue the pain. They worked; she was able to return to her home ten days ago. But, the visiting nurse will not come daily; someone has to give her the injections when the nurse isn’t scheduled, three or four days a week.
Margaret has a friend who is a LPN but she can’t come all of the time. So, I observed injections a few times then took home a syringe and an empty medication bottle. I bought an orange to practice on. I called my sister, who has been an RN for many years, and got specific instructions on how to give an intramuscular injection. And I practiced on the orange. Every time, I talked myself through the process.
First, I pulled about .5cc of air into the syringe. Then, I used the needle to pierce the rubber stopper on the little bottle. With the syringe sticking out, I turned the bottle upside down, pushed the plunger to squirt air into the bottle, and drew a little more than .5 cc out of the bottle and into the syringe. Then, I turned the syringe needle-up and flicked it with a fingernail to move the air to the top. Then, I squirted out the air, leaving a small bubble of liquid at the tip. Next, I wiped my target spot (for the real thing, I used an alcohol wipe), darted the needle one inch into the flesh of the fruit, pulled back to check for "blood", then injected the contents into the flesh. I used the wipe to press against the side of the needle as I withdrew it, then applied gentle pressure for thirty seconds. Finally, I capped the needle carefully.
I injected the orange fifty or sixty times, refilling the bottle as needed. At first, I was very clumsy but with practice, handling the needle became less difficult. Finally, I felt like the orange had taught me all that it could.
On Thanksgiving Day, I had my check-ride. I went up to Shelburne Falls and waited for the visiting nurse. She was late; her first patient had more problems than she had been informed, so he took longer than she had budgeted. Finally, she arrived. I told her my set of directions; she said that I had it all down. I fumbled a bit as I drew up the medicine. She gave me a few hints, then showed me how to find a muscle. Margaret relaxed and I tried to insert the needle. I couldn’t do it; the needle wouldn’t pierce the skin. The nurse guided my hand to help me to place the needle. I completed the injection. Margaret didn’t scream or anything. She said it was pretty painless. I was pleased. I went home, cooked the turkey and baked my Black Forest Cake. I planned on giving the cake to John, so I did not add the alcohol called for in the recipe. We brought the cake to John just before Jack and I went off to the Black Friday sales. I had a slice, too. It was pretty good.
Today, I soloed. Margaret looked away as I cleaned the spot with an alcohol wipe. Once again, I had trouble getting the needle into the skin; the skin just dimpled but I gave the needle a little wiggle and it popped through. I completed the injection and, as I drew the needle out, I looked at Margaret’s face, searching for an indication of whether or not I had hurt her. She looked back at me with a slightly puzzled expression and asked when I was going to give her the shot. I grinned and exhaled with relief, then told her that it was all done. She hadn’t known when I gave it to her. Success! No agonized shrieks!
Schwarzuälder Kirschtorte (Black Forest Cherry Brandy Cake)
16 oz. Semi-sweet chocolate
Shave softened bar to make curls. Freeze. (I melt the chocolate instead, making a circular sheet for the top and two large rectangles for the sides. I cut these so each slice of cake gets a pie-shaped wedge on top and a tall rectangle on the side)
Preheat the oven to 350̇ degrees
Cake - directions makes one ten inch round layer. You need three (I only have one pan, which is why I give single layer directions).
Clarify 7 tablespoons of unsalted butter by melting the butter slowly, then discard the floating solids by skimming. The clarified butter is the pure, clear oil; throw out the milk solids on the bottom, too.
Combine 4 eggs
2/3 cup sugar
2/3 teaspoon vanilla
Beat at high speed until tripled in volume (about ten minutes)
Combine in a sifter
1/3 cup flour
1/3 cup cocoa
Gently fold 1/3 of the butter into the egg mixture until the butter is absorbed. Sift in 1/3 of dry mixture, folding gently. Continue adding the butter and dry ingredients alternately until combined. DO NOT OVERMIX! You worked hard to get a lot of air into the batter; don't lose it!
Bake at center of oven for 15 minutes, until a inserted toothpick comes out dry. Remove and cool for five minutes. Turn out onto a rack.
Repeat two more times to make a total of three layers.
In a saucepan, combine
1 ½ cups sugar
2 cups cold water
Bring to a boil, stirring only until the sugar is dissolved. Boil briskly, uncovered, for five minutes. Cool. Add
2/3 cup kirschwasser
Transfer cakes to waxed paper and prick lightly with a fork. Sprinkle with syrup. Allow to absorb for a couple of hours.
Thoroughly drain two cans of cherries packed in water. Discard the water.
In a cold metal bowl, beat
1 quart heavy cream
until peaks form. Add
1/4 cup confectioner’s sugar
1/4 cup kischwasser
Stir until mixed.
Assembly.
Place one layer on a serving plate. Distribute half of the cherries on top. Spread with whipped cream. Add the second layer. Repeat cherries and cream. Add top layer. Frost cake and sides with remaining whipped cream. Press chocolate onto top and sides. I put the pie-shaped pieces on the top at an angle, so it looks pretty.
Refrigerate overnight for best flavor. Some of the liquid will ooze out around the edge, so be prepared for a mess if you do not remove it with a baster.
Makes twelve generous or sixteen normal portions.
Not really.
Margaret’s rheumatoid arthritis went out of control two months ago. Her doctor had stopped the monthly injection that kept it at bay for reasons that I shall not elucidate; that’s her story. The result was that she had two visits to the emergency room for out-of-control pain and was confined to a local nursing home for six weeks. A month ago, the doctor prescribed daily injections of steroids to try to subdue the pain. They worked; she was able to return to her home ten days ago. But, the visiting nurse will not come daily; someone has to give her the injections when the nurse isn’t scheduled, three or four days a week.
Margaret has a friend who is a LPN but she can’t come all of the time. So, I observed injections a few times then took home a syringe and an empty medication bottle. I bought an orange to practice on. I called my sister, who has been an RN for many years, and got specific instructions on how to give an intramuscular injection. And I practiced on the orange. Every time, I talked myself through the process.
First, I pulled about .5cc of air into the syringe. Then, I used the needle to pierce the rubber stopper on the little bottle. With the syringe sticking out, I turned the bottle upside down, pushed the plunger to squirt air into the bottle, and drew a little more than .5 cc out of the bottle and into the syringe. Then, I turned the syringe needle-up and flicked it with a fingernail to move the air to the top. Then, I squirted out the air, leaving a small bubble of liquid at the tip. Next, I wiped my target spot (for the real thing, I used an alcohol wipe), darted the needle one inch into the flesh of the fruit, pulled back to check for "blood", then injected the contents into the flesh. I used the wipe to press against the side of the needle as I withdrew it, then applied gentle pressure for thirty seconds. Finally, I capped the needle carefully.
I injected the orange fifty or sixty times, refilling the bottle as needed. At first, I was very clumsy but with practice, handling the needle became less difficult. Finally, I felt like the orange had taught me all that it could.
On Thanksgiving Day, I had my check-ride. I went up to Shelburne Falls and waited for the visiting nurse. She was late; her first patient had more problems than she had been informed, so he took longer than she had budgeted. Finally, she arrived. I told her my set of directions; she said that I had it all down. I fumbled a bit as I drew up the medicine. She gave me a few hints, then showed me how to find a muscle. Margaret relaxed and I tried to insert the needle. I couldn’t do it; the needle wouldn’t pierce the skin. The nurse guided my hand to help me to place the needle. I completed the injection. Margaret didn’t scream or anything. She said it was pretty painless. I was pleased. I went home, cooked the turkey and baked my Black Forest Cake. I planned on giving the cake to John, so I did not add the alcohol called for in the recipe. We brought the cake to John just before Jack and I went off to the Black Friday sales. I had a slice, too. It was pretty good.
Today, I soloed. Margaret looked away as I cleaned the spot with an alcohol wipe. Once again, I had trouble getting the needle into the skin; the skin just dimpled but I gave the needle a little wiggle and it popped through. I completed the injection and, as I drew the needle out, I looked at Margaret’s face, searching for an indication of whether or not I had hurt her. She looked back at me with a slightly puzzled expression and asked when I was going to give her the shot. I grinned and exhaled with relief, then told her that it was all done. She hadn’t known when I gave it to her. Success! No agonized shrieks!
Schwarzuälder Kirschtorte (Black Forest Cherry Brandy Cake)
16 oz. Semi-sweet chocolate
Shave softened bar to make curls. Freeze. (I melt the chocolate instead, making a circular sheet for the top and two large rectangles for the sides. I cut these so each slice of cake gets a pie-shaped wedge on top and a tall rectangle on the side)
Preheat the oven to 350̇ degrees
Cake - directions makes one ten inch round layer. You need three (I only have one pan, which is why I give single layer directions).
Clarify 7 tablespoons of unsalted butter by melting the butter slowly, then discard the floating solids by skimming. The clarified butter is the pure, clear oil; throw out the milk solids on the bottom, too.
Combine 4 eggs
2/3 cup sugar
2/3 teaspoon vanilla
Beat at high speed until tripled in volume (about ten minutes)
Combine in a sifter
1/3 cup flour
1/3 cup cocoa
Gently fold 1/3 of the butter into the egg mixture until the butter is absorbed. Sift in 1/3 of dry mixture, folding gently. Continue adding the butter and dry ingredients alternately until combined. DO NOT OVERMIX! You worked hard to get a lot of air into the batter; don't lose it!
Bake at center of oven for 15 minutes, until a inserted toothpick comes out dry. Remove and cool for five minutes. Turn out onto a rack.
Repeat two more times to make a total of three layers.
In a saucepan, combine
1 ½ cups sugar
2 cups cold water
Bring to a boil, stirring only until the sugar is dissolved. Boil briskly, uncovered, for five minutes. Cool. Add
2/3 cup kirschwasser
Transfer cakes to waxed paper and prick lightly with a fork. Sprinkle with syrup. Allow to absorb for a couple of hours.
Thoroughly drain two cans of cherries packed in water. Discard the water.
In a cold metal bowl, beat
1 quart heavy cream
until peaks form. Add
1/4 cup confectioner’s sugar
1/4 cup kischwasser
Stir until mixed.
Assembly.
Place one layer on a serving plate. Distribute half of the cherries on top. Spread with whipped cream. Add the second layer. Repeat cherries and cream. Add top layer. Frost cake and sides with remaining whipped cream. Press chocolate onto top and sides. I put the pie-shaped pieces on the top at an angle, so it looks pretty.
Refrigerate overnight for best flavor. Some of the liquid will ooze out around the edge, so be prepared for a mess if you do not remove it with a baster.
Makes twelve generous or sixteen normal portions.
Friday, November 26, 2010
Black Friday, 2010
Last night, Thanksgiving evening, Jack and I queued up before midnight at Target to buy a high definition TV when the store opened at 4 AM. To me, a 40 inch television is huge but I see that it is only moderately sized among the units advertised this year. Jack has been helping his grandmother a lot, lately, and she gave him enough money so he could indulge himself with his first major purchase. I wanted a $200 laptop from Walmart, which would open at 5 AM but decided to keep him company at Target rather than split up on this cold night. I’ll tell you what happened, but many of the things I noted in a prior shopping expedition still seem to be true. I wrote this in 2006, detailing our last all-night shopping trip.
Shop ‘til you drop
Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, when most stores open early with special promotional sales for early shoppers, has become a ritual for me. I enjoy getting up in the pre-dawn hours to stand in line at various stores, hunting for “deals.” Normally, the idea of getting up at an hour when I would prefer to be contemplating going to bed is anathema to me, but something about the chase for a great sale price makes it all OK. I like to complete my shopping no late than 10 AM, before the stores are completely overrun by later shoppers. This year (2006), I got in lines for the openings of different stores at 5 AM, 6 AM, and 7 AM, and got small door-buster items at all. Once each store opened, I was in and out of each store in less than ten minutes, then on to the next store. I also went to a couple of stores after they opened. This year, there were relatively few items that I was interested in - most stores primarily offered large screen panel or plasma TVs, which were out of my budget, despite the door-buster prices. I spent less than $300 in total, buying some clothing for myself, a few tools, electronic devices, and digital camera memory chips, then went home before 8 AM.
This year, Jack desperately wanted a Nintendo Wii. I didn’t know this when they first came out, a few days before Black Friday, and none of the stores that I went to that day had any left. Early in December, we went to Best Buy, to pick up a small accessory for Jack’s Game Boy. We ran into one of my students, Will, who works there. I commented that his name tag looked remarkably like the word, “Wii.” He told us that Target, next door, was going to have them in their flyer the next day, Sunday, and that if we went early, we might get one. That’s all it took. We decided to try our luck by going early, before the store opened. Mike was visiting, helping me insulate the rest of the second floor addition, and he was also game. I set my alarm clock for 5 AM, and we got to Target before 6 AM. We came with chairs and a few things to do while waiting for the store to open at 8 AM. Each of us planned to buy a game system and that we would put two of them up for sale on Ebay, to recompense us for our time (and also, as I’m only marginally employed, a way to pay for the unit that Jack wants to keep). There were 33 people already waiting when we arrived. I know this as someone had come prepared with a pad and, as people arrived, everyone signed the numbered list. We all understood that the list was not official, but we all agreed to honor it. This way, we didn’t have to stay in line and could freely mill around, talking to people. It made a fun but polite line.
We chatted with people who had arrived immediately before and after us. The fellow behind us came in shorts (the temperature was around 30 ) and said he had been fifth in line at a store that only had four units, and sixth at another store where they had only five units for sale on Black Friday. He told us that the game units came packaged in boxes of three, so he didn’t know how they had been limited to numbers that were not a multiple of three, but hypothesized that the two stores might have shared a shipment.
At 7:30 AM, the manager of Target came outside and said he would follow the list that we had created. We all reassembled into the line as the list-maker walked down it, calling names in order of arrival. The manager came back out and said that there were only 21 units. He handed out vouchers to the first 21 people, unlocked the mall doors so the lucky group could stay warm until the store opened, and the rest of us left. The fellow in shorts told us that Walmart was holding their Wii shipment for sale on the following Wednesday. Jack immediately began negotiating with me to allow him to camp out at Walmart on Tuesday, a school night. I said that any plans would depend on the weather.
The weather forecast for Tuesday night was cold - it had snowed a bit earlier in the day, but the sky had cleared by nightfall, allowing for radiational cooling. The temperature was going to drop to around 16 F. I vetoed the idea of Jack’s camping out, but suggested we might go to bed early and arrive at Walmart around 4 AM. We went to Walmart on Tuesday night and asked in the electronics department how many units they had for sale the next day. The fellow at the store thought there were around 10 units. We revised the plan and agreed to try to get to Walmart around 2 AM.
I went to bed around 6 PM and set my alarm for 1:20 AM. I actually got up around 1:40, and got Jack up by 2 AM. We left the house with blankets and chairs at 2:10 AM, arriving at the Hadley Walmart at 2:30 AM. There were four young men, college-aged, lingering in the parking lot. They told us that a woman had been waiting since 8:30 the night before and that she had started a list. We added our names, noting that we were numbers 5 and 6, which didn’t quite add up until one fellow told me that he was only there for moral support; he didn’t intend to purchase a Wii! About ten minutes after we arrived, a woman in her late 30s joined us, then another a bit later. The woman who had been waiting since the night before came back from warming up in her car and rejoined the line, bundled into a down comforter inside a down sleeping bag, all atop a papasan chair. Another young man, then the fellow who had been in shorts at Target on Sunday joined our band around 3 AM. All of the young men were students at the University of Massachusetts (about 5 miles away), all of the women (including me) planned to buy the game for their 15 or 16 year old sons. The father of another 15 year old boy arrived around 3:30 AM. One of the college boys told me that he was buying the game for Christmas for his 15 year old brother but also planned to share it.
I retreated to our car to warm up around 4:30 AM, leaving our chairs to hold our physical spaces. Jack came to warm his numb feet, too. Going back outside to wait in the cold was all the harder after the warm car. The college boys periodically left to get coffee and to use the bathroom at a nearly Dunkin’ Donuts. I didn’t drink anything but Jack had two Red Bulls that he had purchased at Walmart the night before; he also had to visit the facilities at Dunkin’s, discovering a board-bridge over the little stream that divided the two parking lots. Jack slipped off the board and soaked one of his shoes, dampening his sock. We both worried about the now-wet foot in the cold but he stayed on his feet to keep the blood flowing for the next three hours. Between 4 AM and 6 AM, around 30 more people arrived, with arrivals coming faster as the hour grew later.
Walmart opens at 7AM, but a sign on the outer door said that the Wii units would not go on sale until 8 AM. This Walmart has a small, enclosed porch area, with two sets of doors on opposite sides. We were all lined up on one side. Around 3 AM, we grew concerned that people might try to line up in the other side as well, so we posted a sign, saying that the Wii line was only on our side. The employee entrance was on the other side and we could see people entering the store, but, since they all saw the sign, all of the day’s employees knew what we were all waiting for. No one knew how many units would be available. A young man who had joined the line around 4:30 AM, when there were about 25 people in front of him, went into the store (he was apparently an employee) and came out, glumly stating, “Nine. I’m going home,” then left. This caused a few people to also leave, but most stayed. The first woman’s husband arrived to take her place, although she didn’t actually leave until after the store opened.
Around 6:15 AM, as the night sky was beginning to give way to dawn, I (and the other women) grew concerned that people who had arrived late would try to “jump” the line. Unlike at Target, the late-comers were edging closer and closer to the doors, crowding those of us who had arrived early into an increasingly smaller space between the doors and the wall. A couple of late comers were particularly aggressive in their attempts to get closer to the door, although no one provoked any actual fights. Around 6:30 AM, an assistant manager came out and seemed clueless about the need for order. We asked him if he would honor the list that we had made; he responded, “Well, it’s really up to YOU to honor the list.” The college boys assured him that they would reconstitute the line if he would honor the list. He said he would have to ask his manager and retreated back into the store.
The Target-shorts fellow, a burly young man who was more sensibly dressed on this cold night, took the list and started calling names, pointing to the places where each person should stand. The rear of the line still tried to crowd up, but the front had patience and so did he; he continued pointing and told people to move back if their names had not yet been called. Order was restored, although there were still a few men from the back lingering outside the line, as close to the front as they could be. The manager came out and said that there were, in fact, only nine units. Unlike Target, most of the line did not leave. Two young men, who had apparently tried to cut the line by entering through the employees door, were brought out of the store by the manager and told to go to the back of the line. They also lingered in the parking lot near the doors with a few other late arrivals. The manager opened a single door at 7 AM and handed numbered vouchers to the first nine people in line, repeating that he could not sell the units until 8 AM, that the sales computer was locked out for these items until then. Most of the late-comers left when all of the vouchers were distributed. It was finally apparent that there was no way to circumvent the order that the group had, collectively, agreed to. The manager told us that he would hold all units at the customer service desk at the front of the store and that we were free to do what we wanted until 8 AM.
I just wanted to be in the warm store; I was happy to wander around and window-shop, although I had intense chills about 20 minutes after I entered the store - I guess my body finally warmed up enough to discover that it was COLD. Jack rushed to the rear of the store to obtain accessories and game disks. There were no accessories in stock at the store but he got two of the games he wanted. By 7:45 AM, all nine of us (plus companions) eventually migrated to the coffee shop next to the customer service desk, to sit in relative warmth and comfort while we waited for the magic hour. We still continued to chat. All of us had met one or more of the others in the Target line and we had become comfortable chatting over the last five hours. Still, none of us exchanged names (as typical Americans, we wouldn’t).
The sales were rung up in the order we had been in line. The two men who had tried to cut in front by entering the store before it opened waited across from us, eyeing our vouchers and purchases almost hungrily. They apparently hoped that one of us wouldn’t appear at 8 AM, that we wouldn’t have the cash or credit to complete the purchase, or that the manager had undercounted the number of units for sale. We all bought our game systems uneventfully, and they finally went home, disappointed. No one who arrived after 3:15 AM was able to purchase a unit.
Next, we stopped by Target, to try to get an additional controller for the game. We met up with three of our companions, all the early arriving young men, also on a quest for additional accessories, but Target had run out, too.
Jack was tardy to school on Wednesday; school starts at 7:45 AM. He missed gym class, but he got his game. To him, it was a win-win situation, as he is not fond of gym class. I had another successful shopping excursion. Shopping really IS a sporting activity for some people! We’re still planning on putting the second unit up for sale on Ebay, but I’ll wait until the weekend, which will be two weeks before Christmas, which is, I think, the perfect time to offer such a thing for sale.
We were all such typical Americans. We never exchanged names, despite the apparent comradery of the night. The “winning” group was evenly distributed between Generation Y young men who wanted the game unit for themselves (and were old enough to afford to purchase this $250 item for themselves), and the parent of somewhat younger Generation Y teenaged boys, who were willing to indulge their offspring. The parents were typical parents of Generation Y children - kids who were considerably more indulged than their parents had been at a similar age.
Aftermath - 2006. I sold the Wii via Ebay to a local fellow for bit less than the cost of the two units, combined, so Jack got his Wii for a cost of about $50 to me. I handed it over to the buyer in the McDonald’s marking lot in Chicopee and we were both highly satisfied with the transaction.
Black Friday, 2010
Jack got his TV. Once again, there was a sign-in list at Target. We agreed to have an hourly roll-call. If someone missed the call twice, they lost their place in line. A cold rain started to fall shortly after midnight. Jack and I went inside the mall, which had been unlocked for the Best Buy line, to wait in relative warmth and comfort. We emerged hourly for check in, finally staying outside after the 3 AM check-in. By that time, the line at Target wound down the length of the store and wrapped around the far side. Employees came out and walked the line, explaining that anyone who ran would be escorted out and not allowed to purchase anything. Target had about thirty of the desired model of television and we were numbers 27 and 28 in line. We were in and out by 4:10 AM.
I had gone to the Cumberland Farms store about three miles away at 1:00 AM, to use the bathroom (it was the only place open), and had chatted with a Hadley cop who was there, getting coffee. He had expressed surprise at the vast number of people out to “save ten bucks by staying out all night.” I assured him that I was one of those lunatics and explained the list that we were employing at Target. He told me that Walmart had hired nine Hadley cops to maintain order at the store. Jack and I went to Walmart after Target; it opened its doors at 4 AM, so I walked in without any line with which to contend. The cop was at the door and he gave me a friendly challenge, “Hey! I thought you were going to Target!” I assured him that my shopping at Target was already completed and now I wanted a laptop! He grinned and wished me luck.
I found a store map and located the sale-place for the $200 dollar laptops (in with foods, not in electronics for the morning), but they were all gone. A clerk directed me to the line (in the pharmacy) for the $300 ones. I was number 21 in line and got one when they were handed out at 5:00 AM. I paid and was out in the rain, headed home, before 5:15, and securely tucked into my bed before 6 AM. My “newest” computer had been my desktop, which is over five years old. My last laptop was new for my 2004 trip to Mexico! It owes me nothing and it will be good to have a computer that should be reliable for the next few years. I’m not a kid; I don’t use a computer to play games (except for solitaire); mostly, I use a computer for writing and research, but I want the option of watching videos, so a netbook was not for me. This laptop’s screen is almost as big as my desktop’s monitor! I think this computer will serve my needs nicely. It isn’t too heavy and it wasn’t too expensive. The $200 computer was an emachine; the HP has more memory, a bigger hard drive, and more USB ports. I’m satisfied with my purchase.
I maintain that shopping is a sport that, in the past, primarily women competed in, but increasingly, men are now playing, too. As men have joined the fray, incidents of incivility have become more common but groups can enforce rules to control the otherwise unruly. When groups do not clearly determine and state these rules at the outset, store managers must, and it takes them years, fraught with unnecessary and hazardous chaos, to figure out a system that works for them. These systems usually involve law enforcement. I like it best when the group creates and enforces its own rules. And I had a good time this year.
Shop ‘til you drop
Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, when most stores open early with special promotional sales for early shoppers, has become a ritual for me. I enjoy getting up in the pre-dawn hours to stand in line at various stores, hunting for “deals.” Normally, the idea of getting up at an hour when I would prefer to be contemplating going to bed is anathema to me, but something about the chase for a great sale price makes it all OK. I like to complete my shopping no late than 10 AM, before the stores are completely overrun by later shoppers. This year (2006), I got in lines for the openings of different stores at 5 AM, 6 AM, and 7 AM, and got small door-buster items at all. Once each store opened, I was in and out of each store in less than ten minutes, then on to the next store. I also went to a couple of stores after they opened. This year, there were relatively few items that I was interested in - most stores primarily offered large screen panel or plasma TVs, which were out of my budget, despite the door-buster prices. I spent less than $300 in total, buying some clothing for myself, a few tools, electronic devices, and digital camera memory chips, then went home before 8 AM.
This year, Jack desperately wanted a Nintendo Wii. I didn’t know this when they first came out, a few days before Black Friday, and none of the stores that I went to that day had any left. Early in December, we went to Best Buy, to pick up a small accessory for Jack’s Game Boy. We ran into one of my students, Will, who works there. I commented that his name tag looked remarkably like the word, “Wii.” He told us that Target, next door, was going to have them in their flyer the next day, Sunday, and that if we went early, we might get one. That’s all it took. We decided to try our luck by going early, before the store opened. Mike was visiting, helping me insulate the rest of the second floor addition, and he was also game. I set my alarm clock for 5 AM, and we got to Target before 6 AM. We came with chairs and a few things to do while waiting for the store to open at 8 AM. Each of us planned to buy a game system and that we would put two of them up for sale on Ebay, to recompense us for our time (and also, as I’m only marginally employed, a way to pay for the unit that Jack wants to keep). There were 33 people already waiting when we arrived. I know this as someone had come prepared with a pad and, as people arrived, everyone signed the numbered list. We all understood that the list was not official, but we all agreed to honor it. This way, we didn’t have to stay in line and could freely mill around, talking to people. It made a fun but polite line.
We chatted with people who had arrived immediately before and after us. The fellow behind us came in shorts (the temperature was around 30 ) and said he had been fifth in line at a store that only had four units, and sixth at another store where they had only five units for sale on Black Friday. He told us that the game units came packaged in boxes of three, so he didn’t know how they had been limited to numbers that were not a multiple of three, but hypothesized that the two stores might have shared a shipment.
At 7:30 AM, the manager of Target came outside and said he would follow the list that we had created. We all reassembled into the line as the list-maker walked down it, calling names in order of arrival. The manager came back out and said that there were only 21 units. He handed out vouchers to the first 21 people, unlocked the mall doors so the lucky group could stay warm until the store opened, and the rest of us left. The fellow in shorts told us that Walmart was holding their Wii shipment for sale on the following Wednesday. Jack immediately began negotiating with me to allow him to camp out at Walmart on Tuesday, a school night. I said that any plans would depend on the weather.
The weather forecast for Tuesday night was cold - it had snowed a bit earlier in the day, but the sky had cleared by nightfall, allowing for radiational cooling. The temperature was going to drop to around 16 F. I vetoed the idea of Jack’s camping out, but suggested we might go to bed early and arrive at Walmart around 4 AM. We went to Walmart on Tuesday night and asked in the electronics department how many units they had for sale the next day. The fellow at the store thought there were around 10 units. We revised the plan and agreed to try to get to Walmart around 2 AM.
I went to bed around 6 PM and set my alarm for 1:20 AM. I actually got up around 1:40, and got Jack up by 2 AM. We left the house with blankets and chairs at 2:10 AM, arriving at the Hadley Walmart at 2:30 AM. There were four young men, college-aged, lingering in the parking lot. They told us that a woman had been waiting since 8:30 the night before and that she had started a list. We added our names, noting that we were numbers 5 and 6, which didn’t quite add up until one fellow told me that he was only there for moral support; he didn’t intend to purchase a Wii! About ten minutes after we arrived, a woman in her late 30s joined us, then another a bit later. The woman who had been waiting since the night before came back from warming up in her car and rejoined the line, bundled into a down comforter inside a down sleeping bag, all atop a papasan chair. Another young man, then the fellow who had been in shorts at Target on Sunday joined our band around 3 AM. All of the young men were students at the University of Massachusetts (about 5 miles away), all of the women (including me) planned to buy the game for their 15 or 16 year old sons. The father of another 15 year old boy arrived around 3:30 AM. One of the college boys told me that he was buying the game for Christmas for his 15 year old brother but also planned to share it.
I retreated to our car to warm up around 4:30 AM, leaving our chairs to hold our physical spaces. Jack came to warm his numb feet, too. Going back outside to wait in the cold was all the harder after the warm car. The college boys periodically left to get coffee and to use the bathroom at a nearly Dunkin’ Donuts. I didn’t drink anything but Jack had two Red Bulls that he had purchased at Walmart the night before; he also had to visit the facilities at Dunkin’s, discovering a board-bridge over the little stream that divided the two parking lots. Jack slipped off the board and soaked one of his shoes, dampening his sock. We both worried about the now-wet foot in the cold but he stayed on his feet to keep the blood flowing for the next three hours. Between 4 AM and 6 AM, around 30 more people arrived, with arrivals coming faster as the hour grew later.
Walmart opens at 7AM, but a sign on the outer door said that the Wii units would not go on sale until 8 AM. This Walmart has a small, enclosed porch area, with two sets of doors on opposite sides. We were all lined up on one side. Around 3 AM, we grew concerned that people might try to line up in the other side as well, so we posted a sign, saying that the Wii line was only on our side. The employee entrance was on the other side and we could see people entering the store, but, since they all saw the sign, all of the day’s employees knew what we were all waiting for. No one knew how many units would be available. A young man who had joined the line around 4:30 AM, when there were about 25 people in front of him, went into the store (he was apparently an employee) and came out, glumly stating, “Nine. I’m going home,” then left. This caused a few people to also leave, but most stayed. The first woman’s husband arrived to take her place, although she didn’t actually leave until after the store opened.
Around 6:15 AM, as the night sky was beginning to give way to dawn, I (and the other women) grew concerned that people who had arrived late would try to “jump” the line. Unlike at Target, the late-comers were edging closer and closer to the doors, crowding those of us who had arrived early into an increasingly smaller space between the doors and the wall. A couple of late comers were particularly aggressive in their attempts to get closer to the door, although no one provoked any actual fights. Around 6:30 AM, an assistant manager came out and seemed clueless about the need for order. We asked him if he would honor the list that we had made; he responded, “Well, it’s really up to YOU to honor the list.” The college boys assured him that they would reconstitute the line if he would honor the list. He said he would have to ask his manager and retreated back into the store.
The Target-shorts fellow, a burly young man who was more sensibly dressed on this cold night, took the list and started calling names, pointing to the places where each person should stand. The rear of the line still tried to crowd up, but the front had patience and so did he; he continued pointing and told people to move back if their names had not yet been called. Order was restored, although there were still a few men from the back lingering outside the line, as close to the front as they could be. The manager came out and said that there were, in fact, only nine units. Unlike Target, most of the line did not leave. Two young men, who had apparently tried to cut the line by entering through the employees door, were brought out of the store by the manager and told to go to the back of the line. They also lingered in the parking lot near the doors with a few other late arrivals. The manager opened a single door at 7 AM and handed numbered vouchers to the first nine people in line, repeating that he could not sell the units until 8 AM, that the sales computer was locked out for these items until then. Most of the late-comers left when all of the vouchers were distributed. It was finally apparent that there was no way to circumvent the order that the group had, collectively, agreed to. The manager told us that he would hold all units at the customer service desk at the front of the store and that we were free to do what we wanted until 8 AM.
I just wanted to be in the warm store; I was happy to wander around and window-shop, although I had intense chills about 20 minutes after I entered the store - I guess my body finally warmed up enough to discover that it was COLD. Jack rushed to the rear of the store to obtain accessories and game disks. There were no accessories in stock at the store but he got two of the games he wanted. By 7:45 AM, all nine of us (plus companions) eventually migrated to the coffee shop next to the customer service desk, to sit in relative warmth and comfort while we waited for the magic hour. We still continued to chat. All of us had met one or more of the others in the Target line and we had become comfortable chatting over the last five hours. Still, none of us exchanged names (as typical Americans, we wouldn’t).
The sales were rung up in the order we had been in line. The two men who had tried to cut in front by entering the store before it opened waited across from us, eyeing our vouchers and purchases almost hungrily. They apparently hoped that one of us wouldn’t appear at 8 AM, that we wouldn’t have the cash or credit to complete the purchase, or that the manager had undercounted the number of units for sale. We all bought our game systems uneventfully, and they finally went home, disappointed. No one who arrived after 3:15 AM was able to purchase a unit.
Next, we stopped by Target, to try to get an additional controller for the game. We met up with three of our companions, all the early arriving young men, also on a quest for additional accessories, but Target had run out, too.
Jack was tardy to school on Wednesday; school starts at 7:45 AM. He missed gym class, but he got his game. To him, it was a win-win situation, as he is not fond of gym class. I had another successful shopping excursion. Shopping really IS a sporting activity for some people! We’re still planning on putting the second unit up for sale on Ebay, but I’ll wait until the weekend, which will be two weeks before Christmas, which is, I think, the perfect time to offer such a thing for sale.
We were all such typical Americans. We never exchanged names, despite the apparent comradery of the night. The “winning” group was evenly distributed between Generation Y young men who wanted the game unit for themselves (and were old enough to afford to purchase this $250 item for themselves), and the parent of somewhat younger Generation Y teenaged boys, who were willing to indulge their offspring. The parents were typical parents of Generation Y children - kids who were considerably more indulged than their parents had been at a similar age.
Aftermath - 2006. I sold the Wii via Ebay to a local fellow for bit less than the cost of the two units, combined, so Jack got his Wii for a cost of about $50 to me. I handed it over to the buyer in the McDonald’s marking lot in Chicopee and we were both highly satisfied with the transaction.
Black Friday, 2010
Jack got his TV. Once again, there was a sign-in list at Target. We agreed to have an hourly roll-call. If someone missed the call twice, they lost their place in line. A cold rain started to fall shortly after midnight. Jack and I went inside the mall, which had been unlocked for the Best Buy line, to wait in relative warmth and comfort. We emerged hourly for check in, finally staying outside after the 3 AM check-in. By that time, the line at Target wound down the length of the store and wrapped around the far side. Employees came out and walked the line, explaining that anyone who ran would be escorted out and not allowed to purchase anything. Target had about thirty of the desired model of television and we were numbers 27 and 28 in line. We were in and out by 4:10 AM.
I had gone to the Cumberland Farms store about three miles away at 1:00 AM, to use the bathroom (it was the only place open), and had chatted with a Hadley cop who was there, getting coffee. He had expressed surprise at the vast number of people out to “save ten bucks by staying out all night.” I assured him that I was one of those lunatics and explained the list that we were employing at Target. He told me that Walmart had hired nine Hadley cops to maintain order at the store. Jack and I went to Walmart after Target; it opened its doors at 4 AM, so I walked in without any line with which to contend. The cop was at the door and he gave me a friendly challenge, “Hey! I thought you were going to Target!” I assured him that my shopping at Target was already completed and now I wanted a laptop! He grinned and wished me luck.
I found a store map and located the sale-place for the $200 dollar laptops (in with foods, not in electronics for the morning), but they were all gone. A clerk directed me to the line (in the pharmacy) for the $300 ones. I was number 21 in line and got one when they were handed out at 5:00 AM. I paid and was out in the rain, headed home, before 5:15, and securely tucked into my bed before 6 AM. My “newest” computer had been my desktop, which is over five years old. My last laptop was new for my 2004 trip to Mexico! It owes me nothing and it will be good to have a computer that should be reliable for the next few years. I’m not a kid; I don’t use a computer to play games (except for solitaire); mostly, I use a computer for writing and research, but I want the option of watching videos, so a netbook was not for me. This laptop’s screen is almost as big as my desktop’s monitor! I think this computer will serve my needs nicely. It isn’t too heavy and it wasn’t too expensive. The $200 computer was an emachine; the HP has more memory, a bigger hard drive, and more USB ports. I’m satisfied with my purchase.
I maintain that shopping is a sport that, in the past, primarily women competed in, but increasingly, men are now playing, too. As men have joined the fray, incidents of incivility have become more common but groups can enforce rules to control the otherwise unruly. When groups do not clearly determine and state these rules at the outset, store managers must, and it takes them years, fraught with unnecessary and hazardous chaos, to figure out a system that works for them. These systems usually involve law enforcement. I like it best when the group creates and enforces its own rules. And I had a good time this year.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Starfish
How do I explain the last two weeks? What would you do in my place?
I am currently unemployed. I receive less than half of my income as a teacher from unemployment; in return, I am taking a course in entrepreneurship with the intent of opening a specialized electronics business with Jack as soon as we having a working prototype. I’ll be writing about this when it’s done, but I am slipping further and further into debt each week. When the taxes are due on my house every three months, I have to use my home equity loan to pay the bill. I’m broke. Christmas is going to be very sparse this year, although a cash gift from a relative is going to make a few small, token gifts a possibility.
I taught math in an inner city public school for two years, until I got sick last spring. This school was (and is) a special and unusual place; every student is routinely told that they can and must go to college, and, eventually, they believe it. It’s a relatively new school, admitting its first class of freshmen five years ago. The students in that class (last year’s graduates) were all accepted to at least one college. The second class, those funny, crazy, talented kids who populated my tenth grade math classes during my first year there, is now the senior class.
One of them (let’s call her Amelia) hated me, even considered me her enemy, for the first half of that year. I was demanding, requiring her to serve detention (and do her math homework) for goofing off in class. Then, we broke through. She had some minor accomplishment and I praised her as thoroughly as I had previously chastised her. She’s very smart but has a boatload of baggage; she was in the foster care system for several years, through ninth grade. During this time, she had been convinced that she would never amount to much. As a tenth grader, she was finally living with her parents but they have serious problems (serious mental instability and drug abuse are only a small part of the family’s litany of problems, although her parents truly love each other).
Neither parent ever attended any of the school’s “mandatory” events, like student-led family conferences. Three times each year, students are required to formally present all of the information that would normally be disseminated at a parent-teacher conference. Amelia made those presentations but she always had to find someone to cover for her missing parents, usually a teacher. Amelia is not a saint; she had a short period of promiscuity and other illicit experimentation, but, in my non-expert opinion, it was acting out. She has never has stopped trying to improve herself since we finally convinced her that she has a bright future.
For a year and a half, we talked at lunchtime and after school. She confided in me. When her family threw her out for going out to a party, she called me. We found a friend who took her in temporarily. She eventually moved in with another family member. When she was raped by a “friend”, I took her to the hospital for treatment. We texted frequently after school ended. Last year, when her guardian’s house burned down, I picked her up and helped her to decide what to do for the immediate future. She moved back home a few days later and stayed there through the summer. I took her for a summer job interview, which she had no difficulty obtaining. I frequently gave her rides to and from work when her parents refused.
She’s now a senior in high school, being scouted by Ivy League schools. After an argument in September, her mom threw her out of the house, again. This was the fourth time (that I know of); each time, she was out of the house for at least three months. She’s been out of her house for well over half of the last two years. She went to her boyfriend’s house, but that wasn’t good; they fought constantly from being in such close quarters. His mom asked her to leave after the boy was disrespectful to the mom.
Once again, she called me in distress. She had nowhere to go. She is seventeen years old, too old for social services to want to be involved, but too young (and too poor) to get an apartment on her own. She cannot go home. What would you do? What do you think I did?
I’m broke. However, I believe in starfish. There’s an old story of a girl at the beach who finds stranded starfish, gasping, twitching, and dying, as far as the eye can see. At first, she is horrified, then she starts picking them up and flinging them back into the ocean. Another person, walking in the opposite direction, asks her what she thinks she is doing; she cannot save them all. The girl replies, “I’m making a difference for THIS one!” as she flings a starfish into the water. “And THIS one!” as she flings another.She saves as many as she can.
I may not be able to save all kids, but maybe I can make a difference in the live of just one. Do we really need (and can society afford) another inner city high school drop-out, on and off welfare and in and out of trouble for life? I believe that this kid is going to be a force in the world but whether a force for good or for ill will be determined this year. Amelia is my starfish. I won’t be substantially more broke with her in my aquarium.
PS. I’m sure she’ll hate the pseudonym!
PPSS. Happy Thanksgiving!
I am currently unemployed. I receive less than half of my income as a teacher from unemployment; in return, I am taking a course in entrepreneurship with the intent of opening a specialized electronics business with Jack as soon as we having a working prototype. I’ll be writing about this when it’s done, but I am slipping further and further into debt each week. When the taxes are due on my house every three months, I have to use my home equity loan to pay the bill. I’m broke. Christmas is going to be very sparse this year, although a cash gift from a relative is going to make a few small, token gifts a possibility.
I taught math in an inner city public school for two years, until I got sick last spring. This school was (and is) a special and unusual place; every student is routinely told that they can and must go to college, and, eventually, they believe it. It’s a relatively new school, admitting its first class of freshmen five years ago. The students in that class (last year’s graduates) were all accepted to at least one college. The second class, those funny, crazy, talented kids who populated my tenth grade math classes during my first year there, is now the senior class.
One of them (let’s call her Amelia) hated me, even considered me her enemy, for the first half of that year. I was demanding, requiring her to serve detention (and do her math homework) for goofing off in class. Then, we broke through. She had some minor accomplishment and I praised her as thoroughly as I had previously chastised her. She’s very smart but has a boatload of baggage; she was in the foster care system for several years, through ninth grade. During this time, she had been convinced that she would never amount to much. As a tenth grader, she was finally living with her parents but they have serious problems (serious mental instability and drug abuse are only a small part of the family’s litany of problems, although her parents truly love each other).
Neither parent ever attended any of the school’s “mandatory” events, like student-led family conferences. Three times each year, students are required to formally present all of the information that would normally be disseminated at a parent-teacher conference. Amelia made those presentations but she always had to find someone to cover for her missing parents, usually a teacher. Amelia is not a saint; she had a short period of promiscuity and other illicit experimentation, but, in my non-expert opinion, it was acting out. She has never has stopped trying to improve herself since we finally convinced her that she has a bright future.
For a year and a half, we talked at lunchtime and after school. She confided in me. When her family threw her out for going out to a party, she called me. We found a friend who took her in temporarily. She eventually moved in with another family member. When she was raped by a “friend”, I took her to the hospital for treatment. We texted frequently after school ended. Last year, when her guardian’s house burned down, I picked her up and helped her to decide what to do for the immediate future. She moved back home a few days later and stayed there through the summer. I took her for a summer job interview, which she had no difficulty obtaining. I frequently gave her rides to and from work when her parents refused.
She’s now a senior in high school, being scouted by Ivy League schools. After an argument in September, her mom threw her out of the house, again. This was the fourth time (that I know of); each time, she was out of the house for at least three months. She’s been out of her house for well over half of the last two years. She went to her boyfriend’s house, but that wasn’t good; they fought constantly from being in such close quarters. His mom asked her to leave after the boy was disrespectful to the mom.
Once again, she called me in distress. She had nowhere to go. She is seventeen years old, too old for social services to want to be involved, but too young (and too poor) to get an apartment on her own. She cannot go home. What would you do? What do you think I did?
I’m broke. However, I believe in starfish. There’s an old story of a girl at the beach who finds stranded starfish, gasping, twitching, and dying, as far as the eye can see. At first, she is horrified, then she starts picking them up and flinging them back into the ocean. Another person, walking in the opposite direction, asks her what she thinks she is doing; she cannot save them all. The girl replies, “I’m making a difference for THIS one!” as she flings a starfish into the water. “And THIS one!” as she flings another.She saves as many as she can.
I may not be able to save all kids, but maybe I can make a difference in the live of just one. Do we really need (and can society afford) another inner city high school drop-out, on and off welfare and in and out of trouble for life? I believe that this kid is going to be a force in the world but whether a force for good or for ill will be determined this year. Amelia is my starfish. I won’t be substantially more broke with her in my aquarium.
PS. I’m sure she’ll hate the pseudonym!
PPSS. Happy Thanksgiving!
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Halloween
Halloween was always important when Jack was growing up. For his first two Halloweens, I purchased super-hero sleepers from a baby-clothes catalog. I entered him in a costume contest at a local science fiction convention for his first Halloween, when he was six months old. He wore his “Batman” sleeper, but I called him “Bat-baby.” I made a cowl, a mask that covered his entire head, complete with pointy bat-ears, out of a soft fuzzy stretchy black fabric. He was a little puzzled when I pulled it down to his nose but he tolerated it well, blinking owlishly, as I had often dressed him in hats. This was the first one with eye-holes, however! I created a Batmobile by covering his walker with the same black stretchy fabric and sticking a construction-paper “Batman” logo on the front. I also made a bat-belt for myself, complete with bat-diaper and bat-bottle. We won a prize. Jack waved his little hands and tried to scamper around the large hall in his Bat-walker, a huge grin on his little face under the black cowl.
The following year, Jack was walking under his own power, so his father took him out trick-or-treating. It was cold so I dressed him in two layers of thermal underwear, then covered them with his “Superman” sleeper, complete with little cape velcroed to his shoulders. I slipped his sneakers over the footies. I stayed home to hand out candy. John and Jack returned an hour later with their large bag just stuffed with candy. Jack smiled angelically as he sampled a few of the treats but he wasn’t that interested in eating much - it was the hunt that excited him (this continued throughout his childhood - imagine - a kid who never ate his candy collection!). John helped himself to several large candy bars. The next night, after I dressed Jack in his sleeper in preparation for bedtime, he trotted straight to the outer door, smilingly waiting to go out into the night again, visiting the neighborhood and collecting candy with Daddy. He furrowed his brow in some confusion when I explained that Halloween wouldn’t happen again for another year, but eventually he went off to bed instead of outside.
As he got older, Jack’s costumes grew more exotic. There was the year that he went as “Baby Godzilla,” waddling around in a foam soft-sculpture creation that I had spray-painted green. There was the knight’s costume; I had a hard time finding the stick-horsie that completed it. Then there was the year he discovered “Star Wars.” After much discussion and negotiation about what special effects were possible with reasonably available technology, he finally decided to dress as a Jawa, one of the little robed creatures that kidnapped R2D2. I made him an ankle-length, deeply hooded robe out of brown burlap, which closed with a rope-belt. I covered his face with black makeup, then took a black headband and equipped it with two large red LEDS, powered by 9 volt batteries. He wore the headband at eyebrow level. He pulled the hood of the robe so that, in limited light, it looked like the LEDs were his eyes, glowing weirdly over his hidden face. He also had an annoying electronic toy gun, to “zap” anyone who walked past him. At his first house, the owner gasped when she saw him strolling out of the dark, his “eyes” a piercingly evil sight. He was exactly the right height, too. When other kids saw him on the sidewalk, they stopped short or even jumped backwards in momentary fear, then came close to check out his costume. He was pleased with the entire effect. The candy was something to hoard until I threw it out in preparation for the Easter collection.
In addition to creating a costume for Jack, I liked to dress up the house with carved pumpkins lit with candles, to decorate the doorstep. One year, a neighborhood boy commented once that we always had the best jack-o-lanterns. I was surprised; I thought that lots of people had the carved pumpkins, but, as I thought about it, ours always were pretty detailed, and I made as many as I could in the week before Halloween, so it looked pretty spooky.
Once he got old enough to be in the Boy Scouts (fifth grade), Jack no longer did much trick-or-treating as he had to help with the community Halloween party in a local church hall. I stopped handing out candy as I was helping out at the party, too. I even gave up on carving jack-o-lanterns as I didn’t want to go to that much trouble only to have them smashed by some kid who was angry that there wasn’t anyone handing out candy.
This is the first year in a long time that I'll be home. I don’t have a lot of candy to hand out, so when it runs out, I’ll turn out the lights. I didn’t carve a pumpkin, either. Maybe next year. I miss the build-up to Halloween, pulling together the finishing touches on this year’s costume. We never bought costumes; they were too chintzy and expensive. Mine were always a lot better than anything we could have purchased. I think I liked making costumes as much as Jack liked wearing them.
The following year, Jack was walking under his own power, so his father took him out trick-or-treating. It was cold so I dressed him in two layers of thermal underwear, then covered them with his “Superman” sleeper, complete with little cape velcroed to his shoulders. I slipped his sneakers over the footies. I stayed home to hand out candy. John and Jack returned an hour later with their large bag just stuffed with candy. Jack smiled angelically as he sampled a few of the treats but he wasn’t that interested in eating much - it was the hunt that excited him (this continued throughout his childhood - imagine - a kid who never ate his candy collection!). John helped himself to several large candy bars. The next night, after I dressed Jack in his sleeper in preparation for bedtime, he trotted straight to the outer door, smilingly waiting to go out into the night again, visiting the neighborhood and collecting candy with Daddy. He furrowed his brow in some confusion when I explained that Halloween wouldn’t happen again for another year, but eventually he went off to bed instead of outside.
As he got older, Jack’s costumes grew more exotic. There was the year that he went as “Baby Godzilla,” waddling around in a foam soft-sculpture creation that I had spray-painted green. There was the knight’s costume; I had a hard time finding the stick-horsie that completed it. Then there was the year he discovered “Star Wars.” After much discussion and negotiation about what special effects were possible with reasonably available technology, he finally decided to dress as a Jawa, one of the little robed creatures that kidnapped R2D2. I made him an ankle-length, deeply hooded robe out of brown burlap, which closed with a rope-belt. I covered his face with black makeup, then took a black headband and equipped it with two large red LEDS, powered by 9 volt batteries. He wore the headband at eyebrow level. He pulled the hood of the robe so that, in limited light, it looked like the LEDs were his eyes, glowing weirdly over his hidden face. He also had an annoying electronic toy gun, to “zap” anyone who walked past him. At his first house, the owner gasped when she saw him strolling out of the dark, his “eyes” a piercingly evil sight. He was exactly the right height, too. When other kids saw him on the sidewalk, they stopped short or even jumped backwards in momentary fear, then came close to check out his costume. He was pleased with the entire effect. The candy was something to hoard until I threw it out in preparation for the Easter collection.
In addition to creating a costume for Jack, I liked to dress up the house with carved pumpkins lit with candles, to decorate the doorstep. One year, a neighborhood boy commented once that we always had the best jack-o-lanterns. I was surprised; I thought that lots of people had the carved pumpkins, but, as I thought about it, ours always were pretty detailed, and I made as many as I could in the week before Halloween, so it looked pretty spooky.
Once he got old enough to be in the Boy Scouts (fifth grade), Jack no longer did much trick-or-treating as he had to help with the community Halloween party in a local church hall. I stopped handing out candy as I was helping out at the party, too. I even gave up on carving jack-o-lanterns as I didn’t want to go to that much trouble only to have them smashed by some kid who was angry that there wasn’t anyone handing out candy.
This is the first year in a long time that I'll be home. I don’t have a lot of candy to hand out, so when it runs out, I’ll turn out the lights. I didn’t carve a pumpkin, either. Maybe next year. I miss the build-up to Halloween, pulling together the finishing touches on this year’s costume. We never bought costumes; they were too chintzy and expensive. Mine were always a lot better than anything we could have purchased. I think I liked making costumes as much as Jack liked wearing them.
Monday, October 18, 2010
Friendship
My good friend Akacita defined levels of friendship for me a few months ago. I decided to share it as it's too good to keep secret.
A friend is someone you can call to help you move.
A GOOD friend is someone you can call to help you move a body.
I'm proud to say, I've got a bunch of good friends, even though I haven't needed to test the definition. Yet.
A friend is someone you can call to help you move.
A GOOD friend is someone you can call to help you move a body.
I'm proud to say, I've got a bunch of good friends, even though I haven't needed to test the definition. Yet.
Monday, October 11, 2010
Shenzi
Shenzi died Friday night. Shenzi was the puppy that I picked up from a breeder in Pennsylvania fourteen and a half years ago, as a present for Jack’s sixth birthday. He was a tiny six month old white miniature poodle, so he was almost exactly fifteen years old when he died. All he did was tremble when the breeder brought him into her living room; he was always a fearful animal. We drove home in a snowstorm, him in a crate on the seat next to me, whimpering almost continuously. I had to stop somewhere in Connecticut; I was afraid to continue in the blinding storm. I smuggled him into my hotel room and brought him into bed with me after he wouldn’t stop crying in his crate. The next morning, he was curled up next to me with his head on the pillow and his little body under the covers. He adored me from that moment forward. I guess I had become “mom.”
I put a bow on his collar and wrapped a big box and its cover separately. I picked Jack up from school while John kept the puppy in our bedroom. At the last minute, he slipped the puppy into the box, covered it, and presented it to Jack. The puppy squirmed and the box shifted in Jack’s hands. Jack was a little afraid to open it, as his father had a track record of presenting wild animals to people, but I reassured Jack that nothing bad would happen when he opened the box.
Jack was thrilled and happily hugged the little dog. Jack promptly named the puppy “Shenzi” after one of the hyenas in “The Lion King.” The name meant “Barbarian” in Swahili. And Shenzi was a little barbarian. He liked Jack well enough and he loved me, but he was afraid of most men, including John. He barked wildly whenever anyone rang the doorbell. And he had a number of defects to his health, which took some time to discover. He had a umbilical hernia, which didn’t bother him until the last year of his life. His eyelashes curled inward; they scratched his eyes every time he blinked, blinding him as a middle-aged dog. His kneecaps were set in too shallow a groove, which allowed them to dislocate sometimes when he climbed stairs. His ears grew a thick thatch of hair, which had to be painfully pulled out, to prevent ear infections. And he had terrible teeth; eventually all of them had to be pulled.
When John and I separated, John refused to take the dog when he picked Jack up, despite our prior agreement that Shenzi would move with Jack. So, Shenzi kept me company when Jack was at his father’s house. Shenzi adored any article of used clothing. He would try to take my panties, but I objected. Finally, we came up with a ritual. I would sit on the edge of the bed and remove one sock with the toes of my other foot. Then, I’d flick the sock with my toe-tips into the air and Shenzi would snatch it before it fell to the floor and trot off to bed with his prize. Every Saturday, I’d bribe him with a piece of freeze-dried liver to allow me to dig out all of the dirty socks and wash them. He would have collected loose bits of Jack’s clothing, too, which also had to be laundered, or Jack would run out of clothes!
When we went to Mexico for three months, we brought Shenzi to my sister’s house in Florida. Karen had two tea-cup poodles. Shenzi was significantly larger than her dogs and even though one was very dominant, Shenzi was so much bigger that he quickly became the alpha dog. He seemed to enjoy this change in status a great deal. Karen’s dominant dog would nip at Shenzi, but he had such a thick and fluffy coat, he was like a small sheep and the smaller dog could never pierce it to injure his skin. Occasionally, when he got a little peeved at her antics, Shenzi would place a paw on the smaller dog and knock her down. Then, he’d hold her for a short time but would release her and she would slink off. Shenzi was happy to see us return, however.
When we were living in Mexico without Shenzi, we put out bowls of cat food and table scraps every evening to encourage cats to linger in our garden. In return, they consumed the rats, mice, and lizards who tried to infest the property. Jack loved the cats, particularly a friendly white one that he named Hambre, which means Hungry. Most of the cats were feral and would run away when a human came too close. Not so Hambre, who starting coming into our living room to lounge on top of my warm laptop computer when we went shopping. Within a few days, he was allowing Jack to pat him and to eat the special treats that Jack offered him. We had to leave Hambre in Mexico, but I promised Jack that we would get a cat when we returned to Massachusetts.
It took a few months, but in October, we went to the Dakin Animal Shelter in Leverett, Massachusetts, to get a kitten. There were a lot of little black and white kitties; the caretaker told me that they had recently acquired a number of cats and kittens from a “cat collector,” someone who kept over twenty cats in a junk car. The animal officer had seized the cats for animal cruelty and the healthier cats were placed at Dakin for recuperation and eventual adoption. We picked out an adorable little black and white female, only to be told that someone else was filling out paperwork to adopt her already. So, we found another female kitten, black with a white underside, legs, and lopsided mustache. She was so tiny, she could sit on the palm of my hand. She was very curious and playful. Gatto had joined the family.
We brought her into the house and Shenzi immediately knew something was up. He had been napping in his dog bed under the kitchen table. He lurched out of bed, sniffing and barking. I sprayed both animals with some cologne (so they would smell alike) and brought the kitten down so he could smell her. He was incensed! He barked angrily and bounced up and down, lunging with his front feet. The kitten yawned. I set the baby cat down on the floor and she toddled up to Shenzi and leaned against his legs. Shenzi was distraught. This kitten wasn’t respecting his position or terrible doghood! Gatto bounced around the house, exploring and occasionally swatting at Shenzi’s tail or ears from the elevation of a chair seat. Shenzi didn’t know what to do.
That night, Jack got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. He noticed Shenzi’s eyes, wide open, glowing under the table and walked into the kitchen to see what kept him awake. Shenzi was curled up in his dog bed, but the kitten was curled up on top of him, purring loudly. Shenzi’s eyes silently begged for help but Jack nearly ruptured himself, laughing at the dog’s predicament. Gatto preferred to sleep in Shenzi’s bed but eventually, Shenzi would growl fiercely enough to ward her off when he already occupied it. She would seize the bed, however, when he wasn’t in it and Shenzi would look unhappy. I got a smaller bed for the rapidly growing cat, but she preferred to sleep on or in someone else’s bed.
We returned to Mexico for a month a few years later. I asked John to keep the animals so I wouldn’t have to drive to Florida, to bring them to my sister’s house. It turned out that John was severely allergic to Gatto so he sent her to a cat-boarding facility but he kept Shenzi. And I do mean, he kept Shenzi. He never returned the dog to me after we came back from Mexico. Admittedly, he and Martha took better care of the dog than I could; there was only one of me and I was trying to finish my PhD and had jobs at several colleges, teaching. Jack was busy with his own activities and the cat was self-sufficient. Shenzi wasn’t getting the attention from me that he deserved. So, I chose to not fight John over Shenzi.
Shenzi went blind a year or two later. The scars on his corneas turned into cataracts and he gradually went completely blind. Whenever I came to John’s new house, Shenzi would sniff and approach me, his little head cocked to one side. He never barked, once he had smelled me. I would pat him and he would lean against my leg, his little stump of a tail wagging furiously. He would prance about, smiling his little doggy smile. Everyone else got barked at. In time, all of his teeth had to be removed and he went deaf. He still tottered about, sniffing at everything. He was pretty happy, although his diet had to be adjusted as he became intolerant of many things that he loved, including cheese, which gave him terrible diarrhea.
When I had my second surgery four months ago, the one that reattached my intestines and got rid of my colostomy, I needed to stay someplace for a few days after I got out of the hospital, a place where I could step into the shower without having to climb over the edge of a tub, like at my house. I was also afraid to be alone, so I went to John’s house. John had divorced Martha and was going out of town, but he had another house-guest, Alex Plank, and Shenzi needed to be fed and let outside. Alex was intimidated by the cranky Shenzi, who still didn’t like men that he hadn’t known for life. Jack had brought Gatto to John’s house, too. Gatto stayed in the basement and caught a mouse almost immediately. John was happier about the cat’s presence, as he was terrified of mice infesting the collectable cars that he keeps in a garage/great room in the basement. Gatto and Shenzi had forgotten each other; Gatto was wary of the dog.
Jack came over for most of the day, every day, and I recuperated well. The only problem came when Jack was at his grandmother’s house, helping her, as he does every Saturday and I couldn’t pick up Shenzi to bring him outside to pee. Alex had helped me the night before, with Shenzi sniffing me while Alex picked him up, but Alex had left early in the morning. Shenzi couldn’t walk down the steps and about thirty staples were all that held my abdomen together. And the poor little dog had to pee! Finally, after many telephone consultations, Jack called Martha and asked her to help with the dog. This was not comfortable for either of us; after all, I had referred to her as “That Bitch” for years, as her affair with John ended our marriage. I’ll talk about this another time, but she was about the farthest thing from my favorite person. Still, we had something in common - the love of a silly little dog. After she brought Shenzi back in, we chatted about the animals and laughed when Shenzi lunged at the place where Gatto had lingered, five minutes earlier. To Shenzi, Gatto must have been a ghost - something that he could smell but could not catch.
Martha returned later that evening to bring Shenzi outside again. We were again able to converse without incident, although we were both on our best behavior. In general, Shenzi did very little moving around but he was excited to have me in the house. Jack’s girlfriend was surprised to see Shenzi doing his little prancing routine after I petted him; she had never seen him so lively before. John returned the next day and I went home.
Shenzi went to live with Martha in late June; John decided that he was better off with her. I agreed. In September, Shenzi had a prolonged seizure. He wasn’t himself after the seizure and he was only able to circle when he walked. Martha brought him to the Boston Road Animal Hospital. They kept him overnight and ran a number of tests. They thought that he probably had a brain tumor, but he started to act more like himself the next day, so they sent him home with Martha. They prescribed an anti-seizure medication. We all talked. I wanted Shenzi to live as long as he wasn’t in any additional pain and Martha agreed.
Then, Shenzi had a bad night Wednesday night/Thursday morning. He was up repeatedly. Martha called me but I was in Pittsfield, about fifty miles away. I drove back via Greenfield (which is not on the way), picking up Jack before we met her in Springfield. He seemed better as the afternoon wore on, but we decided that his time had come. The next day, Friday, Jack and I would dig a grave at John’s house, then visit with Shenzi at Martha’s condo. When she returned from an errand, she and I would bring him to the animal hospital for the last time. And that’s what happened. She drove Shenzi. I drove separately. I picked up two cheeseburgers at McDonald’s. I broke them into bits and fed them to him, one bite at a time, in the parking lot of the animal hospital. The cheese wouldn’t hurt him this time.
The people at the animal hospital were very kind. They let us hold Shenzi and pat him as long as we wanted both before and after the injection. Shenzi just fell asleep. I held his little head and told him that he wouldn’t have any pain any longer. Then, the doctor injected the rest of the syringe and his strong little heart finally stopped beating. We both cried but I couldn’t bring myself to hug Martha. We both loved that little dog so we patted and hugged him for comfort. Martha kept apologizing to Shenzi, but I was glad that he would never feel any pain, ever again. He had probably been in pain for his entire life. A technician took Shenzi out of the little exam room on his blanket and brought him back, all sealed up in a cardboard coffin. She taped a crepe-paper rose to the top.
The technician carried the coffin out to my car; Martha couldn’t stand to have a dead Shenzi in her car. I was comforted by his presence. After my sister’s boyfriend died, the family brought him for burial to Asheville, North Carolina, in their van after he was embalmed in Florida. It took about twenty hours and they took turns sitting next to the coffin, talking to Dave. Karen said it was comforting and I suddenly understood as I found myself petting the top of Shenzi’s coffin as I drove to Amherst, remembering our first big road trip when I brought him home. I talked to him the same way, to reassure him and myself. I know it was the right thing to do, but it was still difficult.
The grave wasn’t big enough; Jack and I didn’t realize that they would give us a coffin and we hadn’t planned on its size. Alex came out and helped to enlarge the grave as the twilight turned to night. Martha placed one of Shenzi’s favorite toys on top of the coffin but it fell under as we lowered the coffin into the grave. I removed my socks and tossed them in on top. Then, we pushed in the dirt and covered him up. Jack will put a large flat stone on the grave in the next day or so, to prevent any animals from disturbing the grave. We’ll both feel better once the stone is in place.
I’m sorry we had to do this while John was out of town, but he said goodbye to Shenzi on Thursday, before he went to the airport. And he has Shenzi’s grave on the edge of his lawn, next to the woods. Shenzi was a good dog. He was in pain for most of his life and was fearful of almost all other humans, but he loved his people. And his people loved him.
I put a bow on his collar and wrapped a big box and its cover separately. I picked Jack up from school while John kept the puppy in our bedroom. At the last minute, he slipped the puppy into the box, covered it, and presented it to Jack. The puppy squirmed and the box shifted in Jack’s hands. Jack was a little afraid to open it, as his father had a track record of presenting wild animals to people, but I reassured Jack that nothing bad would happen when he opened the box.
Jack was thrilled and happily hugged the little dog. Jack promptly named the puppy “Shenzi” after one of the hyenas in “The Lion King.” The name meant “Barbarian” in Swahili. And Shenzi was a little barbarian. He liked Jack well enough and he loved me, but he was afraid of most men, including John. He barked wildly whenever anyone rang the doorbell. And he had a number of defects to his health, which took some time to discover. He had a umbilical hernia, which didn’t bother him until the last year of his life. His eyelashes curled inward; they scratched his eyes every time he blinked, blinding him as a middle-aged dog. His kneecaps were set in too shallow a groove, which allowed them to dislocate sometimes when he climbed stairs. His ears grew a thick thatch of hair, which had to be painfully pulled out, to prevent ear infections. And he had terrible teeth; eventually all of them had to be pulled.
When John and I separated, John refused to take the dog when he picked Jack up, despite our prior agreement that Shenzi would move with Jack. So, Shenzi kept me company when Jack was at his father’s house. Shenzi adored any article of used clothing. He would try to take my panties, but I objected. Finally, we came up with a ritual. I would sit on the edge of the bed and remove one sock with the toes of my other foot. Then, I’d flick the sock with my toe-tips into the air and Shenzi would snatch it before it fell to the floor and trot off to bed with his prize. Every Saturday, I’d bribe him with a piece of freeze-dried liver to allow me to dig out all of the dirty socks and wash them. He would have collected loose bits of Jack’s clothing, too, which also had to be laundered, or Jack would run out of clothes!
When we went to Mexico for three months, we brought Shenzi to my sister’s house in Florida. Karen had two tea-cup poodles. Shenzi was significantly larger than her dogs and even though one was very dominant, Shenzi was so much bigger that he quickly became the alpha dog. He seemed to enjoy this change in status a great deal. Karen’s dominant dog would nip at Shenzi, but he had such a thick and fluffy coat, he was like a small sheep and the smaller dog could never pierce it to injure his skin. Occasionally, when he got a little peeved at her antics, Shenzi would place a paw on the smaller dog and knock her down. Then, he’d hold her for a short time but would release her and she would slink off. Shenzi was happy to see us return, however.
When we were living in Mexico without Shenzi, we put out bowls of cat food and table scraps every evening to encourage cats to linger in our garden. In return, they consumed the rats, mice, and lizards who tried to infest the property. Jack loved the cats, particularly a friendly white one that he named Hambre, which means Hungry. Most of the cats were feral and would run away when a human came too close. Not so Hambre, who starting coming into our living room to lounge on top of my warm laptop computer when we went shopping. Within a few days, he was allowing Jack to pat him and to eat the special treats that Jack offered him. We had to leave Hambre in Mexico, but I promised Jack that we would get a cat when we returned to Massachusetts.
It took a few months, but in October, we went to the Dakin Animal Shelter in Leverett, Massachusetts, to get a kitten. There were a lot of little black and white kitties; the caretaker told me that they had recently acquired a number of cats and kittens from a “cat collector,” someone who kept over twenty cats in a junk car. The animal officer had seized the cats for animal cruelty and the healthier cats were placed at Dakin for recuperation and eventual adoption. We picked out an adorable little black and white female, only to be told that someone else was filling out paperwork to adopt her already. So, we found another female kitten, black with a white underside, legs, and lopsided mustache. She was so tiny, she could sit on the palm of my hand. She was very curious and playful. Gatto had joined the family.
We brought her into the house and Shenzi immediately knew something was up. He had been napping in his dog bed under the kitchen table. He lurched out of bed, sniffing and barking. I sprayed both animals with some cologne (so they would smell alike) and brought the kitten down so he could smell her. He was incensed! He barked angrily and bounced up and down, lunging with his front feet. The kitten yawned. I set the baby cat down on the floor and she toddled up to Shenzi and leaned against his legs. Shenzi was distraught. This kitten wasn’t respecting his position or terrible doghood! Gatto bounced around the house, exploring and occasionally swatting at Shenzi’s tail or ears from the elevation of a chair seat. Shenzi didn’t know what to do.
That night, Jack got up in the middle of the night to use the bathroom. He noticed Shenzi’s eyes, wide open, glowing under the table and walked into the kitchen to see what kept him awake. Shenzi was curled up in his dog bed, but the kitten was curled up on top of him, purring loudly. Shenzi’s eyes silently begged for help but Jack nearly ruptured himself, laughing at the dog’s predicament. Gatto preferred to sleep in Shenzi’s bed but eventually, Shenzi would growl fiercely enough to ward her off when he already occupied it. She would seize the bed, however, when he wasn’t in it and Shenzi would look unhappy. I got a smaller bed for the rapidly growing cat, but she preferred to sleep on or in someone else’s bed.
We returned to Mexico for a month a few years later. I asked John to keep the animals so I wouldn’t have to drive to Florida, to bring them to my sister’s house. It turned out that John was severely allergic to Gatto so he sent her to a cat-boarding facility but he kept Shenzi. And I do mean, he kept Shenzi. He never returned the dog to me after we came back from Mexico. Admittedly, he and Martha took better care of the dog than I could; there was only one of me and I was trying to finish my PhD and had jobs at several colleges, teaching. Jack was busy with his own activities and the cat was self-sufficient. Shenzi wasn’t getting the attention from me that he deserved. So, I chose to not fight John over Shenzi.
Shenzi went blind a year or two later. The scars on his corneas turned into cataracts and he gradually went completely blind. Whenever I came to John’s new house, Shenzi would sniff and approach me, his little head cocked to one side. He never barked, once he had smelled me. I would pat him and he would lean against my leg, his little stump of a tail wagging furiously. He would prance about, smiling his little doggy smile. Everyone else got barked at. In time, all of his teeth had to be removed and he went deaf. He still tottered about, sniffing at everything. He was pretty happy, although his diet had to be adjusted as he became intolerant of many things that he loved, including cheese, which gave him terrible diarrhea.
When I had my second surgery four months ago, the one that reattached my intestines and got rid of my colostomy, I needed to stay someplace for a few days after I got out of the hospital, a place where I could step into the shower without having to climb over the edge of a tub, like at my house. I was also afraid to be alone, so I went to John’s house. John had divorced Martha and was going out of town, but he had another house-guest, Alex Plank, and Shenzi needed to be fed and let outside. Alex was intimidated by the cranky Shenzi, who still didn’t like men that he hadn’t known for life. Jack had brought Gatto to John’s house, too. Gatto stayed in the basement and caught a mouse almost immediately. John was happier about the cat’s presence, as he was terrified of mice infesting the collectable cars that he keeps in a garage/great room in the basement. Gatto and Shenzi had forgotten each other; Gatto was wary of the dog.
Jack came over for most of the day, every day, and I recuperated well. The only problem came when Jack was at his grandmother’s house, helping her, as he does every Saturday and I couldn’t pick up Shenzi to bring him outside to pee. Alex had helped me the night before, with Shenzi sniffing me while Alex picked him up, but Alex had left early in the morning. Shenzi couldn’t walk down the steps and about thirty staples were all that held my abdomen together. And the poor little dog had to pee! Finally, after many telephone consultations, Jack called Martha and asked her to help with the dog. This was not comfortable for either of us; after all, I had referred to her as “That Bitch” for years, as her affair with John ended our marriage. I’ll talk about this another time, but she was about the farthest thing from my favorite person. Still, we had something in common - the love of a silly little dog. After she brought Shenzi back in, we chatted about the animals and laughed when Shenzi lunged at the place where Gatto had lingered, five minutes earlier. To Shenzi, Gatto must have been a ghost - something that he could smell but could not catch.
Martha returned later that evening to bring Shenzi outside again. We were again able to converse without incident, although we were both on our best behavior. In general, Shenzi did very little moving around but he was excited to have me in the house. Jack’s girlfriend was surprised to see Shenzi doing his little prancing routine after I petted him; she had never seen him so lively before. John returned the next day and I went home.
Shenzi went to live with Martha in late June; John decided that he was better off with her. I agreed. In September, Shenzi had a prolonged seizure. He wasn’t himself after the seizure and he was only able to circle when he walked. Martha brought him to the Boston Road Animal Hospital. They kept him overnight and ran a number of tests. They thought that he probably had a brain tumor, but he started to act more like himself the next day, so they sent him home with Martha. They prescribed an anti-seizure medication. We all talked. I wanted Shenzi to live as long as he wasn’t in any additional pain and Martha agreed.
Then, Shenzi had a bad night Wednesday night/Thursday morning. He was up repeatedly. Martha called me but I was in Pittsfield, about fifty miles away. I drove back via Greenfield (which is not on the way), picking up Jack before we met her in Springfield. He seemed better as the afternoon wore on, but we decided that his time had come. The next day, Friday, Jack and I would dig a grave at John’s house, then visit with Shenzi at Martha’s condo. When she returned from an errand, she and I would bring him to the animal hospital for the last time. And that’s what happened. She drove Shenzi. I drove separately. I picked up two cheeseburgers at McDonald’s. I broke them into bits and fed them to him, one bite at a time, in the parking lot of the animal hospital. The cheese wouldn’t hurt him this time.
The people at the animal hospital were very kind. They let us hold Shenzi and pat him as long as we wanted both before and after the injection. Shenzi just fell asleep. I held his little head and told him that he wouldn’t have any pain any longer. Then, the doctor injected the rest of the syringe and his strong little heart finally stopped beating. We both cried but I couldn’t bring myself to hug Martha. We both loved that little dog so we patted and hugged him for comfort. Martha kept apologizing to Shenzi, but I was glad that he would never feel any pain, ever again. He had probably been in pain for his entire life. A technician took Shenzi out of the little exam room on his blanket and brought him back, all sealed up in a cardboard coffin. She taped a crepe-paper rose to the top.
The technician carried the coffin out to my car; Martha couldn’t stand to have a dead Shenzi in her car. I was comforted by his presence. After my sister’s boyfriend died, the family brought him for burial to Asheville, North Carolina, in their van after he was embalmed in Florida. It took about twenty hours and they took turns sitting next to the coffin, talking to Dave. Karen said it was comforting and I suddenly understood as I found myself petting the top of Shenzi’s coffin as I drove to Amherst, remembering our first big road trip when I brought him home. I talked to him the same way, to reassure him and myself. I know it was the right thing to do, but it was still difficult.
The grave wasn’t big enough; Jack and I didn’t realize that they would give us a coffin and we hadn’t planned on its size. Alex came out and helped to enlarge the grave as the twilight turned to night. Martha placed one of Shenzi’s favorite toys on top of the coffin but it fell under as we lowered the coffin into the grave. I removed my socks and tossed them in on top. Then, we pushed in the dirt and covered him up. Jack will put a large flat stone on the grave in the next day or so, to prevent any animals from disturbing the grave. We’ll both feel better once the stone is in place.
I’m sorry we had to do this while John was out of town, but he said goodbye to Shenzi on Thursday, before he went to the airport. And he has Shenzi’s grave on the edge of his lawn, next to the woods. Shenzi was a good dog. He was in pain for most of his life and was fearful of almost all other humans, but he loved his people. And his people loved him.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)