Scale Up

These girls in my class? They are totally dressing up as goth fairies, but one of them has dark wings and the other's are light!!eleven!!11!1! That is so weird. But Ryan might be at the party, even though he is totally such an ass.

Because I like, love him and we are sooooooo on the same level. And he totally loves me too, he texted me even, and I was all,"Then why are we not together? You are so not making sense." He is just not where I am, because like I am so ready to be with him but his mom wants him to move back home. Whatever, because guys are so stupid anyway. And anyway maybe I'll see Matt at the party because he was totally listening before when we were talking about our costumes. He said it was a cool idea, and he was like super red and blushing.

This is the kind of shit I have to listen to.

I'll Have The Fish, Please

So the other day I noticed that our fish, a stunningly iridescent blue beta, was kind of slightly sticking out of the water of his tank, because it had mostly evaporated. I thought that was probably not good for him and did the whole new water/wash the rocks thing. During the sybaritic fish rites, I remembered the first pisces of our family, Trish the Fish. She kicked ass.

We got Trish the Fish when elder son was 2, and then moved down to Illinois, taking Trish the Fish carefully with us. She did not spill. After settling in, Trish the Fish lived two more years, making three total, which I believe is probably the equivalent of 140 human years. She was one old bitch of a fish when she finally died, through no fault of her own except that she was so old that it probably contributed to her not resisting the effects of our poor fish stewardship.

One time I was cleaning her fish bowl which involves pouring the fish into a glass of water to get her out of the way. That fucker Trish the Fish totally spazzed out and jumped ship, landing her scaly ass in the garbage disposal. I freaked out because I was so not grabbing her, but I also didn't want to be a party to her death. I couldn't bear tiny fish gasps coming from the drain, and then at some point I would have to turn on the garbage disposal and that would be so Fish Fargo. Anyway, I paged my now-ex-husband with the urgent call signal of 911. He returned my call immediately and I explained to him that he must rush home before Trish the Fish asphyxiated, to rescue her. After a pregnant pause he said that he was in the middle of a lung biopsy and could I perhaps deal with it myself? Because my dilemma and Trish the Fish's imminent demise were so secondary right now. I cursed him mightily and dove in to deal with it.

Not wanting to touch the fish, I used two wooden spoons in a double handed chopstick fashion to grab her. It was like playing Operation but in a compost-filled kitchen sink drain with a live fish and no light. After quite a few attempts, I began to despair and considered throwing in the towel (small aside here--did you know that "throw in the towel" is used because in a sport fight, when the time is up, the time judges literally throw a rolled-up towel into the ring? Because I did not know that until just this past summer. And it never made sense to me.). But then I realized that I must go on, for Trish the Fish. I finally was able to bring her up because she was so oxygen deprived that she stopped flailing at the last second and re-launching herself into the compost. She had some corn stuck to her side but was otherwise okay, and the corn came off as she swam unsteadily in her clean bowl. She rallied and perked up within minutes, helped along by some tuna roadkill-smelling fish flakes.

Another hard time that Trish the Fish survived was Fish Ramadan of '04. We left for a nine day trip and forgot to have someone come and take care of her, so she had to live off of instinct and sheer grit. She did it, but looked a little peaked when we got back, like a Ralph Lauren fish model.

We finally lost Trish the Fish in another travel incident in late '05. We went up to Milwaukee once again and this time we fed her, but the unreliable kitchen door blew open and the winter cold was too much for her to bear. I kind of thought that was wussy after all we'd been through together, or actually all I'd subjected her to, because she could have gone all cryogenic and suspended animation, but instead she just died. It's possible that she just gave up because swimming around the ice crystals in her tank was confusing.

So the boys are convinced (by their cousin, a many-fish owner) that if they don't name this fish it will live longer. Because all the named ones of their cousin died fast. Which I think is totally faulty logic and I do not accept it. They need to work on their syllogisms. So I'm naming the fish in my head.

Please allow me to introduce our new fish,  Yamstabber Beyonce McButt.

WWJG?

I was talking to a friend last night about a dilemma involving a potentially awkward non-reciprocal sort of liking situation, whereupon one person seems to like the other and the other does not. I am the other, and really love my friend (not the aforementioned friend, the likes me friend) and do not want to unfriend him, not just on facebook but in life too. Anyway, advice friend (hi!) said that if he's a stand up guy, we will remain friends and he will just carry on. Which is good! That's exactly what I would like to happen.

Through a series of circuitous paths and leaps, my mind went from this situation to stand up guys to personal ethics and morals guiding behavior, and landed upon Jesus. Do not ask how, it is better if you just go with it here. Anyway, I was thinking that Jesus would totally do martial arts, because fitness would benefit the son of god and also because it is kind of a meritorious sport. Two people, showdown, might and logic prevail. I actually think Jesus' martial art of choice would be jiu jitsu, because while strength is key, one also waits patiently for one's opponent to fuck up, and then shows him the error of his ways by smiting him with a flying arm bar. That is positively allegorical, is it not? Picture Jesus, I'm thinking he would be more of a gi grappler for modesty, rolling with a disciple. Let's say Paul here, just because he used to be Saul but was willing to change on the road to Damascus and he should get props for that. So Jesus and Paul, rolling on the mats. Jesus has Paul in his guard, Paul is trying to posture up for all he's worth. He realizes his strength will not hold out, so he goes in for a collar choke, but Jesus is one step ahead. Jesus immobilizes Paul's wrist, flings a leg over his shoulder, and gets the triangle choke before Paul even has time to react, because I'm pretty sure Jesus would be quick. Paul taps out, Jesus gets the submission. Paul is humbled by Jesus' mad grappling skillz. They hug, man style.

It totally works. Jesus was a righteous dude, and why would that not include sports? He had to have outlets, what with all the haters.

Schroedinger's Cat

When I'm in jiu jitsu class, I often feel like Heisenberg, of uncertainty principle fame. The principle states that the act of observing a particle actually affects the particle's behavior, and that you cannot know both its position and its speed simultaneously. As the only woman in the class, except for Slippery Helen once in a while, it seems pretty clear to me that my being there alters the tenor of the room enough that I am not observing what would really be going on in a class of only guys. Also, the fact that there's a girl in the room means that their true position on matters is slightly obscured by the speed at which they adopt their girl-in-the-room persona. I'm pretty sure that this boils down to less farting on purpose, not as much use of rude words (kind of disappointing--I always appreciate the crass), and even possibly less accusations about who is gayer than whom.

It's a mixed bag, the girl-among-guys thing. And it definitely occurs in reverse, though maybe slightly differently than how it looks in some guys' minds. I know if I'm among all women I will definitely discuss things differently than if there is a man in the room; however, no pillow fighting occurs either way so guys make note of that. So I can't say I resent it or don't understand it. In fact, I'm kind of glad not to be privy to burping contests, if that's what goes on. And I don't necessarily think guys are pigs or anything, just that sometimes they really enjoy the camaraderie of a well-timed tearing of ass. I admire the freedom in that. And bonding--always good because the world is a scary place and wedgies bring people together.

Most of all it's important to note that quantum mechanics is as good a system for understanding the world as anything.

No Lifeguard in the Gene Pool

Guy Who Clearly Thinks He's a Vampire: Dude, you totally cracked me up today. Your long hair, your obvious commitment to maintaining a low-melanin look, your badass glare, and your long protects-you-from-the-sun coat: all of these combined to form one incredibly awesome vampire persona. And when you tripped and dropped your backpack, that persona became hilarious and less awesome. I could see that you had worked long and hard to cultivate your Creature of the Night thing, and awkward moments like tripping definitely fuck with that. It's a good thing that your friends didn't see it.

Lab TA from Molecular Department: Dude, you are one tense guy. I understand the research dork thing. I really do. Actually I support it completely and am jealous that you get to spend all your time looking into gliding motility and mutant flagella rotary motion. But, and this is a big one so heed it, you must not allow your awesome research to make it so hard for you to shout out a little "hi" every now and then. Your discomfort is alarming, it is so strong. So let's just work a little more on the friendliness thing, a little less on the dynein action thing. Which, again, is very cool and I envy you.

Guy With The Whistling: Seriously? Are you serious? Because if you are I just do not know what to do. Is it necessary to execute that weird-ass ritual before every set of weights lifted? Does it somehow focus your chi? It focuses my cracking up, that's what it does. Because you whoosh like three times, and then you whistle about 5 hoots. And then you glare at the weight (it is an inanimate object, guy, and will not respond to your laser eyes. Just FYI.) And then you lift so dramatically that I am sure you could probably win a health club drama award. Like an Oscar, but sweatier. I'd actually like to thank you for two things: one, cracking me up; and two, causing my workout to end early because I could not actually remain in range of seeing/hearing you work out without almost collapsing with laughter. So thanks, ripped whistley guy.

Old Soul

Once when my elder son was about 5 years old or so, we were watching one of those shows on Discover about freaky medical condition people. One of the subjects was a young girl with a facial deformity caused by overgrowth of blood vessels, so she had kind of a purple lumpy misshapen face. When my son first saw her he burst out laughing, which absolutely mortified me until I realized it was maybe not a bad reaction, just that he didn't know yet about not laughing at deformities and differences. So I gave him the talk about how she was just like us inside, but the way she looked caused people in her village to laugh at her and call her monster, and it's just the way she's made and blah, blah, sensitivity, compassion. He got it, you could tell, and felt kind of bad that he had inadvertently mocked. He's always been one to really love the deep adult conversation and was positively jazzed about the seriousness of the event. And also, he's one of those kids who has never really been young--he's all deep and shit.

That being said, the next freaky condition on the show was a man with werewolfism. You know, the guy has hair all over, like to the point that he has to brush his shoulders and condition his face. I saw my son watching this very intently, wheels turning, gears grinding. He turned to me and said with the degree of sincerity that can only be achieved by the truly innocent, "Mom, that man is really good at growing hair, and I bet he's very warm!" 

That was one of many moments I've had as a mom where you are pulled so hard in two strangely non-opposing but wildly different emotional directions that your brain could actually liquefy. On the one hand, that was fucking hilarious and I really had to stifle because it's tough not to laugh at how hard he worked to come up with a compliment for the fantastically hairy werewolf man. On the other hand, how sweet is that little boy? And how proud am I that he not only listened to a concept that is central to my being, but totally applied it, and hilariously at that?

One of my favorite moments of all time, for sure.

Summer's Eve

Our biochem professor is all about the relevant, and tries to make labs seem applicable in the real world. She succeeded mightily today, but maybe not in the way she intended. We were comparing various aspects of bleach. One way to analyze bleach is to confirm the percent composition of active ingredient in it before you then use it to destroy tiny innocent pathogens. One does this by titration. And one ingredient in the titration of bleach is concentrated acetic acid, CH3COOH.

I noticed early on in the experiment that we were actually making douche solution. After I noticed that all the details of the lab came together hilariously to round out the implied douchiness of the day. The red rubber pipette bulbs, the queefy noises of fumbling pipetters, the pungent freshness of the acetic acid (which is actually vinegar), and most excellently, the miswriting of the formula on the bottle of acetic acid. Some chemistry buttnugget, who had probably just mixed a little CaOCl2 with ethanol (leading to a two step reaction forming chloroform--fun!) very helpfully labeled the vinegar with CH3COOCH. Do you see that? COOCH!!!!! Brilliant, it was brilliant.

I'm home now, and still suffering from intermittent bouts of giggles. Every time I see that COOCH in my mind's eye, accompanied by the smell of freshly douched Erlenmeyer flasks, I just fall apart. It was one of those days where all things in the universe converged to make a perfect moment. Of all the places in your life you expect to find douche, it is not chemistry labs unless you're a douche chemist. And even then, I most heartily doubt that the douche chemists would accidentally write COOCH on one of the labels for their douche solutions. And even if they did, the douche chemists would not laugh because they've probably become immune to douche humor since it's their job so ho-hum, douche this, douche that.

It's been a long time, friends. But what screams for haiku more than douche?

Douche nozzle open!
COOCH acid a product, why?
Vaginas melted

Changing Room

I realized tonight that I am really bothered by actors changing roles. "What in the fuck?" I can hear you saying. And I realize that it's not a demand that the world can accommodate. But still, this being my outlet for inner pain and anguish, I'd like to do a little waxing on about it.

Once I see an actor in a role, I feel like that is who they are to me. Yes, I do recognize that they are not really the person they are pretending to be, I'm not five. But I associate that person with the first role I see them in and then I have to completely readjust if they change to something else. Which they inevitably do because that is the nature of their work. It is uncomfortable and I never really succeed in getting on board with the new character. I actually often feel like I want them to get the fuck out of the TV, because they are not being the right person. It's kind of like if someone you know told you they changed their name and are someone else now. No way would that fly with me. I'd be total shit in the witness protection program.

Cringe

Thank you very nice company for helping me out. I was not patient, no, I was rash. I failed at Corinthians. My blog should not be a vehicle for such vitriol against you, nice gi makers. I will make sure all my friends who need woman-gis come to your store on the interweb. Even though that is an empty promise because I don't have any jiu jitsu girlfriends. Which totally sucks! Ladies out there, it's like the most fun you can have, really! Come roll with me?

May I Help You?

Is it too much to ask that if I email your company asking questions about gi sizes that you respond, so that I can then give you money for your product? I do not believe it is. I'm in the market for a grappling gi for my new martial arts obsession, Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, and there are only a few places that make them for women. I want a women's gi because, well, I am one, and also there is less extra fabric in places like shoulders and the crotch. I did not snicker when I wrote crotch. And yesterday when my coach said to do the high crotch as part of a throw, I also did not snicker. Because that is not funny.

Back to the gi. So this company makes specialty gis for women and they come in wild colors like orange, pink, aqua, and girly green. And I want one, but the size chart is all for average people who follow the average height-weight matching scheme. Which I do not. By height I need the biggest size, by weight the smallest. So which do I choose? I do not want a loose grabbable gi, nor do I want a Steve Urkel gi.  So you people at catfightgear better get back to me soon, or I will be ordering the more boring but still functional Atama.