today on the internet...

I just came back from practice for my graduation from the College.  Cray-zay.   And now that I have the time (which I should be using to do laundry, pack my stuff, and...I don't know...learn French) I am going to regale you with commentary on ridiculous things I found on the internet today.  

I checked the weather this morning (hoping it would rain again so I didn't have to sit on the stage in the blazing sun) and noticed that Weather.com has made some updates.  Again!  I feel like they do a redesign every other week.  Those people are on the ball.   Anyway. Today I noticed a new feature:

That's right. It says "Alert me when it rains."  A useful feature for...cave dwellers? People without windows? Maybe, but chances are that if you aren't already outside or can't see outside, you won't be going outside soon. And if you did, you would probably be able to tell when you got there. I'd hope.

 It doesn't say "alert me when there is a hurricane" or "alert me when there is a deadly waterspout hell-bent on making it inland and headed straight for my house" or "alert me when ash falls out of the sky after a Super Volcano-type situation cuz then I will probably need more than a poncho." It says "alert me when it rains." I am curious to know how many people use this application and why.  But that's for another day.  

OH! Weather.com also lets you know about weather-related "trending" topics from Twitter users in the area.   And surprise! Today's trending topics are "rain," "raining," and "sunny."  Fascinating.  Potentially useful/interesting if the topics are "blood rain" "locusts" or "aliens??"  But for now... it's a bit redundant.

Another thing that caught my attention (potentially more stimulating than weather.com updates) was this article about the new cover for Time Magazine. It's about the mother breastfeeding her almost-four-year-old son. Here's the picture:

Oh my! Controversy! That child is wearing army pants!

 

OK, setting aside anything implied by the actual Time article or the headline ("Are you mom enough?" really? Time Magazine, why you always gotta be startin' sumthin?), the article about the article was pretty inflammatory and stupid.  The url for the Gawker article is "http://gawker.com/5909256/mom-puts-boob-in-giant-preschool-sons-mouth-on-cover-of-time?tag=moms." GIANT preschool son's mouth? I don't know all of his parentage, but I doubt he is even half-Giant. Does he look like a child of Hagrid? No.

The final questions are designed to get commenters into a frenzy.  The first two are valid:

• How does this cover make you feel? 
• Will it haunt [the child's] future? 

but of course, even these questions elicit the most heinous internet responses:

"Wish I was that Kid so I can have my mouth on those sweet jugs : )"    classy.

"Not being breast feed had NOT ONE negative effect on me and I'm closer to my parents than some of my peers. My first cousin breastfeeds her children until they're almost two years old and they're allergic to almost everything under sun!"  to which someone responded: "maybe if you had been breast fed you would understand the concept of sample sizes"    hahaha touche.

 And then people just started getting sarcastic..."Breastfed toddlers are also Giant Pussy Crybaby Whiners. See Science publication Vol456. The correct feeding method is Mountain Dew in a bottle with Kool ashes flicked on the head."

And this gem:

 "First of all he is four and his brother is five, and they both breastfeed. That is way beyond the point of normalcy, whether you agree with that or not ("normal" is relative, but that is a fair point, this is not average behavior). And I only took 4 classes in psych in college (please, please don't brag about this. By starting your sentence this way I have already stopped listening to you) but I am quite sure (you are the expert opinion here) that the kid will develop a different bond with people than most. It is likely that he will be much more needy for companionship (not true - several studies show similar levels of attachment to peers as well as fewer problems weaning off of transition objects like teddy bears and security blankets) since for 4 more years he had to attach himself to his mother for nutrition (what? pretty sure he ate other food - otherwise he would not be the "Giant" you claim he is) while all other kids were learning to eat by themselves. I'm not saying it's a certainty, but it is a likelihood that could prove a major problem later on in life."

I am not going to take a side on this.  I am not going to use anecdotal evidence and say "I know people who breastfed past the age of four and they turned out pretty OK fine" because that is the kind of reasoning these commenters use and it is completely ineffective.  What I will say is this: people on the internet are stupid. I do realize the irony of writing all this on the internet, yes.  But just remember that opinions are opinions and facts are facts. And please don't pretend to be an expert and then admit to not being one in the same sentence.

 

Also, just FYI, I have never before seen the word "tits" used this many times in a comment section about a Time Magazine article. ever.

I have been pretty stressed out lately, and noticing a few indicators of anxiety neuroses.

anxiety:  "an unpleasant emotional state for which the cause is either not readily identified or perceived to be uncontrollable or unavoidable"   

yay.

I started to ask questions: When did these start? Why am I so sensitive? Why do I feel like I am stressed or anxious all. the. time? 
How come some people can calm down and not me? (apparently, only 18% of Americans. SO 82% of Americans are anxiety free most of the time! no fair!)
and
Why do I only ever use the left-hand "Shift" key?

That last one has been bugging me for a while now, actually.

Anyway, I started looking back on my life and noticing flare-ups of stress, but a general anxiety blanket over most of my thoughts starting around high school.  So naturally I thought it must have started around there. Something about the universally traumatic experience of post-pubertal development within a public high school plus braces plus orchestra minus cool equals inevitable generalized anxiety problems. 

BUT, as I pointed out earlier, not everyone has these chronic problems. Clearly.

And then, remembered for a completely different reason, a fully formed memory floated into my head:..... (bubbly dream sequence harp playing)...

I was walking behind my church, leaving after some post-Mass event or other, and I was worriedly asking my mother what I would have to know to make my First Communion.  I remember that it was warm and sunny outside, with fluffed pine straw in the landscaping to the right of me and the carpool lane on my left. I remember seeing everything from my much smaller 7-year-old height and the hum of the generator behind the old gymnasium. 
And I remember someone telling me "...you're going to be quizzed on all the priest's homilies. I hope you were paying attention..." 
and all of this, the carpool lane, the generator, the pine straw swirling around me as anxiety scooped me into it's dizzying arms.
 ...I haven't been paying attention, I worried, I'm not going to get it. I'll never get it. I'll be old and wrinkly and no one will give me the Eucharist...

Something in his voice (and the laughter that followed the statement) told me he was kidding, but I couldn't undo the worry. And I didn't - not until I finally did make my First Communion a few agonizing months later (during which I spent every Sunday willing my attention to the priest at his pulpit and begging my brain to remember it). 

And so the pattern goes.

1. Evil thoughts.
2. Needless worry
3. Needless worry
4. must calm down.  CALM DOWN.
5. Oh no!! [insert worry here] is about to happen...
6. Oh, what? [insert worry here] already happened? And everything's fine? Oh. Phew.
7. repeat. ad nauseum.

 Moral of the story: Claire has been like this for a while.

I don't know if you can tell, but I'm about to graduate from college. 
 

don't forget to breathe

Life has been stressful lately. I'm going to live in this song for a while.

And all the suffering that you've witnessed
And the hand prints on the wall
They remind you how it's endless
How endlessly you fall


And the answer that you're seeking
For the question that you found
Drives you further to confusion
As you lose your sense of ground


So don't forget to breathe
Don't forget to breathe
Your whole life is here
No eleventh hour reprieve
So don't forget to breathe

Sorry if this bummed you out.

you CAN come home again

They say you can't go home again. And at least physically, that is not true.

Of course you can get in your car/plane/bus/tardis and travel back to where you grew up/where your family is/where you keep most of your stuff. But often times the place that you get to just isn't the same as you remember.  (that is what the saying means, of course, but, like my brother Ryan said last night "I'm just trying to break it down for you guys")

This always strikes me when I come home for winter break, especially this year.

My brother Daniel has taken over my room upon my absence. The only real change to the room is a lightsaber mounted on the wall and an x-box in the corner but it is enough to remind me that it's not my space anymore. 

And that makes me more than a little sad. And it reminds me that I have a future out there to be worrying about.
(but instead I ignore the scary thoughts about next year and the echos of concerned relatives "what are you going to do? what are you going to do? what are you gonna do?" and burrow myself into another knitting project)

The most radical change - the one that takes the most getting used to and always reminds me that I don't really live here anymore - is the refrigerator. 

this is not our fridge. this is a stranger's fridge, which is what I see every time I come home for the holidays

Every time I come home it's completely different, and it serves as a microcosm of the changes within my own house, my own family.  Sure, the cheese is still in the cheese drawer, the vegetables are still sitting (ignored and browning) in the vegetable "crisper" drawer, but the contents and configuration are constantly changing.

Sometimes completely new foods show up that I have never heard of or foods that should never have been bought (called over my shoulder: "Who eats blue cheese stuffed olives???" response from the living room: "Oh they're really good. Try one! Try- just try one. Just. Try it. Fine! Don't ever say I don't introduce you to new things").  Then again, there is still a bottle of sake in there that has been lurking at the back of the fridge for several years now. I'm not sure where we got it. Or why.  But it's still there.

I am almost always completely thrown off by the refrigerator.  I open it, seeking refuge for my gurgling hunger, and stop short as I glance around and remember I have no idea what is in there (or how long it's been in there).  It's just one more thing that's different. 
One more reminder that I don't live here anymore and I better get on with my life, because things are changing without me.

Wow. blogging therapy.

In the end, the refrigerator becomes normal again.
I learn not to eat that thing in the black tupperware that's been there since before I got home, that blue cheese stuffed olives are pretty delicious, after all, and that home will always be home. It's just waiting for me to normalize.

married to the Eiffel Tower

So I've just finished watching a documentary called Married to the Eiffel Tower.  It's about three women who are objectum sexuals.
"Objectum sexuality" or object sexuality is defined by Wikipedia as

"a pronounced emotional and often romantic desire towards developing significant relationships with particular inanimate objects. Those individuals with this expressed preference may feel strong feelings of attraction, love, and commitment to certain items or structures of their fixation."

One woman married the Eiffel Tower a few years before the production of this documentary.  She is also a world champion archer, and developed a particularly strong relationship with her bow, Lance.  She also has significant relationships with the Golden Gate Bridge, a samurai sword, various wooden gates and the Berlin Wall. Throughout the movie, we get to see several moments of this woman and her fellows caressing buildings, sharing a bed with miniature models, and visiting their significant others (some of which are in different continents).

Mrs. Eiffel Tower visited Berlin to see her lover:
To the Berlin Wall: "I tried to hate you. I tried. ...I curse myself for being human. I wish I were an object like you!"

This movie is just as interesting as I had hoped it would be and is filled with leagues of psycho-data to analyze and think about.  The only part that made me marginally upset was that these women (all objectum sexuals are women, according to the documentary) claimed to love these objects soooo deeply.  With more passion and depth than most human relationships.  But they also loved so many at the same time.
Does Mrs. Eiffel Tower have no respect for the sanctity of marriage? She spends a great deal of her married life fawning over the  Berlin Wall (who is married to another woman in Sweden, the scoundrel) and falling in love with every red fence she sees with just the right angles. 

The documentarian fails to reveal that objectum sexuals believe in polygamy until the last ten minutes of the film. 

Anyway, I learned something today! Someone else watch this so we can have a chat!

things I think about in the airport...

I'd like to share a few examples of how my mind occupies itself when its plane is delayed for two hours. I scribbled down a few starts for things to eventually blog and apparently today is "eventually." Here they are.

I have a habit of, every once in a while, looking around and thinking "these are the people."

These are the people I will be trapped in this elevator with.
These are the people who will be left alive with me if everything in the world is destroyed except for this room. Everything  except for this specific bank of seats in the B gates at the LaGuardia airport.
These are the people who might (in a survival situation) look at me and think to themselves "could I eat a human being?" Or, you know, vice versa.
These are the people I will be stranded on a deserted island with (if somehow this plane from New York to Atlanta flies over a deserted island. Or an ocean for that matter).

These are the people.

please don't let me spend my last hours on a MARTA train

I will scan the faces of the people around me, trying to judge their character by the way that they talk or laugh or whether they move their stuff and offer the seat next to them. He's a good guy, I think. But will his kindness make him weak? These are the kind of things you need to know. 
(Additionally, which one of these people is most likely to stab me? The small Asian boy. Watching Power Rangers on his iTouch. Just trying to be a hero.)

So this is who I'm stuck with, I think. I already hate the way that woman cackles at her cell phone. That guy over there didn't even bring a book to an airport. He's clearly not the survival type. That muscly guy on his laptop could be useful... Maybe he's a g-man or an ex-cop. 
So as people around me stress about having to deplane and where Gretchen put her boarding pass ("is it in your bag? It's GOTTA be in your bag cuz it sure as HELL ain't in mine!") I am assembling my team. And deciding who to leave behind if we find an abandoned working vehicle in our now post-apocalyptic landscape. 
...I'm looking at you, cackling cell phone lady.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

mmmm light pollution

As my plane was flying over New York on the way back home, I looked down on the sparkling city below.  I had already been delayed 3 hours and thought I might sleep on the plane until I got distracted by the view outside my cabin window.

Then my sense of geography started to fail me.
If that's New York, and we're on the East Coast...it looks like we're going further East right into the ocean! Or maybe North to Canada??  

This worry (that the pilot had no idea where he was going and I was going to be stranded in Canada for the night) began to creep into my thoughts and disrupt my reading.

"Tobacco,  introduced to London the year after Shakespeare's birth,...  

Oh no what if the flight is actually going to Canada?

...was a luxury at first but soon gained such widespread popularity... 

I got in the right gate. Right? B8. Yeah. I got in the right gate. My ticket was scanned. It made that satisfying "ping" noise that means I am supposed to be on this plane.

...that by the end of the century there were no fewer than seven thousand tobacconists in the City....  

Dad would be so upset if he drove all the way to the airport at midnight and I'm actually in Canada.

...It was employed not only for pleasure but as a treatment for a broad range of complaints... 

no. they won't be upset. They'll be worried, won't they? I'll probably end up crying if I have to call home and say I accidentally ended up in Canada.

...including venereal disease,... 

but NO. I won't cry. I'm an adult. I'm a grown-ass woman. I just went to New York all by myself!

...migraine,...

I'll take care of everything. I can get myself a hotel or something, and email work to explain my absence and book a new flight and - yeah. I'll be fine. 

...and even bad breath." 

Shit, I have to read that whole passage again. Didn't take in a word of it.

(excerpts from Bill Bryson's Shakespeare: The World as Stage)

NYC

30 Rock is filmed in Brooklyn. Sad face.

I just got back from New York!  For the first time in my whole life. Until this weekend, all I knew about New York came from movies and TV.  And in the case of a few of those (like How I Met Your Mother, Friends, Will & Grace, and Seinfeld) they aren't even filmed in New York. Or even on the East Coast.
So all I knew came from

• Jungle 2 Jungle
• Home Alone 2
• Big
• Kate and Leopold
• Someone Like You
• You've Got Mail
• Hitch
• ...I don't need to list these. Just think of pretty much every movie ever made. Except the ones by John Hughes.

Overall, this did not give me a very good idea of what the city is actually like and gave me a weird set of expectations going into this trip.  Mostly that the city of New York exists to be filmed: with wet streets to reflect lights at night and the streets perpetually bustling around a single person as he or she walks slowly, obliviously through them with a look that betrays the fact that their thoughts are far, far away.  Thinking about him. Or her. Or how to keep their superhero costume from bunching under their day clothes.

But surprise(to me)! New York is a real place. That exists. It exists when the cameras aren't there. It exists when the Glee kids aren't dancing around all over the place and the Gossip Girls aren't...gossiping.  So if I learned anything from this trip it's that New York is real and real people really live there.

There are lots of opportunities to take pictures of people taking pictures.

I also learned all those apartments in shows like Friends don't exist. Unless you have a trust fund. Or you're in Brooklyn.


My goals for this trip:

Eat real New York Pizza.

check.

Eat a real New York bagel. 
- Russ and Daughters - check.


Find Bret and Jemaine's apartment.

check.

See a famous person.
- BAM! Saw Brian Williams walking around NBC Studios wearing hipster glasses. - check.

Overall, a COMPLETELY successful trip that surpassed all my expectations and thoroughly exhausted me.

THANKS MALLORY!

litter bug

Today I walked to my dad's office (from my office 6 blocks away) to pick up his car to drive home since he went out of town on business.

That is too much information.

The important part is that I walked 6 blocks, strolling over a bridge and past a few homeless men sleeping under some trees.  In doing so, I encountered the usual debris that you find on the side of the road: empty bottles and cans, plastic grocery bags, spoons, towels and articles of clothing that have been soaked by the rain and dried into misshapen slabs of shirt-brick.

I don't know or understand the mindset behind littering.  Is it really "Oh, I am done using this piece of garbage/spork/Haynes t-shirt, so I may as well drop it where I stand instead of finding an appropriate trash or recycling receptacle in which to deposit it."
Maybe it's "I bet I can make it into that trashcan from here! [pause] Oh well."
Or "AHHHH I am being chased by a vagrant/thug/angry mother bear! I must empty my arms of all this trash so that I can run away to safety unencumbered!"

One of my fears is littering that happens by accident.

Say you are in the middle of a six hour road trip.  You recently stopped for lunch, but haven't stopped at a gas station since, so Happy Meal bags litter the floor with their junk food brethren: empty pretzel bag and Ziploc baggies once filled with cereal.
Suddenly the mood strikes you, and you realize what a beautiful day it is and decide to roll down the window when ALL HELL BREAKS LOOSE and your bags whip around in a junk food tornado, and just as you are cursing your bad food decisions and promising yourself that on your next trip you will bring PB&Js from home and maybe some carrot sticks or grapes if you have them and they're not too sour or some hummus if you can find those pita chips from the party two weeks ago, the tornado of trash finds it's exit out a tiny gap in the window you are rushing to close and zips out of site to fly haphazardly between several lanes of traffic.
The next thing you know you are getting pulled over by highway patrol and assigned a $5,000 fine in a state you would never even want to live in, let alone pay 5K to.

This is my night mare.

Top 5 Most Disconcerting Pieces of Highway Trash:

1. Scrubs - you know, doctor pajamas.  Why these would end up on the side of the road baffles me.  Best Case Scenario: a new father wears them in the Delivery Room and tears them off in a fit of joy at the birth of his son, opens the window, and tosses them out to drift to the street below.  Worst Case Scenario: sloppy murderer.
2. Gloves - not gardening gloves, which belong outside, but medical latex gloves. BCS: a volunteer doctor uses them while testing a homeless man for AIDS or the flu or something, and snaps them off and drops them to the ground, accustomed to the OR where dropping latex gloves is common practice.  WCS: sloppy murderer. (clearly clean enough to use gloves/scrubs, but not enough to think to burn them instead of flinging evidence around. Unless he/she wants to get caught...like it's a game. oh damn)
3. Trash bags - opaque black trash bags, in particular.  My mother implanted the horrifying thought that there might be a baby in that bag on the side of the highway.  A poor defenseless baby its parents didn't want. BCS: the trash bag tumbles out of the back of a pick-up truck as it gains speed. WCS: Abandoned baby.
4. Needles - maybe you've never encountered a syringe outside the doctor's office, but I have, and let me tell you it is not pleasant. BCS: drugs. WCS: drugs.
5. Underwear - somehow I always see t-shirts or underwear on the side of the road. This happens too often to be allowed.  BCS: a seven year old rushes to keep up with his mom as they walk to Centennial Olympic Park to play in the fountains. In his dash to catch up to her, his underwear falls out of the pile of dry clothes he is holding and lands, dejected, on the sidewalk. WCS: rape.

So, you just learned a lot about how my brain works! Yay!

...I'm sorry.

running

This summer, I am fighting my inactive tendencies!

Kinda. A bit half-heartedly, to be honest.
I am running.
If you know anything about me, you know that I hate this. I hate running. I believe that it should be used only in emergency situations and as punishment for real sports.  But when a friend asks says "we should go running! At the park!" what else can you do but take a second to consider your slight jiggly-ness and say "definitely!"

On a good day, I can run for about eight or nine minutes. That's right. Minutes. 
On a bad day, I can run for 20-30 before succumbing to my doom and accepting death.  ...there's a story here. Allow me to explain:

Last week, Kala and I decided to run someplace different: a trail by our house that goes through the woods, under bridges, and past the movie theater. We parked and started off down the trail.
We ran, I stopped to walk after my lungs stopped working, and I walked until Kala turned around and we met in the middle.

As we started to walk back, the sky started getting unnaturally dark for 6PM and the air was heavy with imminent rainfall.  I looked up, and thick, dark clouds loomed overhead.  The trees swayed and I noticed a suspicious lack of bird noise.

Storm's comin'.

"Hopefully we'll make it back before the rain hits!" we said.
Hopefully.

The rain hit, hard. Trees thrashed violently. Lightning cracked and thunder boomed threateningly.
But that wasn't so bad. In fact, it was kinda fun to run in the rain. And then the trees started trying to kill us.
It was a bit like that moment in Pac Man: you're chasing a blue ghost and you've almost caught up to it- you feel powerful and like everything is going your way- then (blink) it's pink again and suddenly you're the hunter become the hunted.
The trees which were normally sought as shelter have become the scariest. things. in the world. Like the forest in Snow White, or the poor interpretation of the last Triwizard challenge in Goblet of Fire (where the maze tries to eat Cedric and Harry).

doesn't look so scary now, but just wait till the trees come to life

I would say I ran for my life, but if that were true, my life doesn't seem that important to me. I had already run more than normal that day, and when the storm hit and Kala shouted "let's just run back" over the rain, my reaction was "sure!"  Actually, I believe at first it was "well, the Mythbusters say you'll get wetter running through rain than walking" but this was no ordinary summer rain.  It was no delicate sprinkle, no short-lived shower.  This was a monsoon.  A monsoon that was hurling trees at me like a kid throws water balloons. Except tree limbs don't splash when they hit pavement, they block the trail or fall directly on top of you.

We managed to finally get out of the Death Woods, Kala running the whole way. I stopped twice to retie my shoes and a few times out of sheer exhaustion.  I escaped with only a scrape across my thigh, but I learned something about myself: In the case of a zombie apocalypse*, a visit to Jurassic Park, a mugging, an alien invasion, or a missing-identity spy thriller, I am going to die.  I will stop to rest my lungs or tie my shoes and I will get eaten, or beaten, or shot.
I was also reminded why I will never be Sydney Bristow.

not bad for a summer afternoon.


*the Zombieland kind, not the Shaun of the Dead kind.  Zombieland zombies can move pretty fast (Rule #1- Cardio). In the event of a SotD Z-day, I might be able to survive by hiding and/or using my sewing machine to bludgeon any that come close to me.

bad music

I was driving around town yesterday and listening to music on the radio when I realized that music on the radio is crap.

I know, duh. But not just the Top 40 stuff. I reached some sort of perfect storm yesterday when everything playing on the radio was just...bad. And that is when I stumbled across a certain song.

 Before I reveal this song, let me first define the term "guilty pleasure." According to wikipedia, the end-all-be-all knowledge source of the web, "A guilty pleasure is something one enjoys and considers pleasurable despite feeling guilt for enjoying it. The "guilt" involved is sometimes simply fear of others discovering one's lowbrow or otherwise embarrassing tastes."

Nowadays, in the age of hipster, liking something of "lowbrow taste" can be seen as ironic, and thus not embarrassing at all but rather a nugget of hipster street cred. However, a hipster could like something mainstream and feel guilty about it, like secretly enjoying Budweiser more than PBR.
In fact owning up to enjoying a certain song or movie despite it's lowbrow qualities may render it no longer a guilty pleasure. I'm not sure, I only just began exploring the intricacies of this term.

The song that came on the radio made me instantly stop surfing channels and start turning up the volume and singing at the top of my lungs. And that song, embarrassingly enough, was Evanescence's Bring Me to Life. I remembered all the words and couldn't stop my self from singing out loud.  I checked the windows to make sure they were securely closed, and tried not to be obvious about my singing enthusiasm when I stopped at a traffic light. It reminded me of middle school. It reminded me how everyone has a dark period in their life. We all experience our own musical dark ages.  Mine, like many of my compadres, involved Evanescence and Good Charlotte.

I also began singing along to other songs on the radio. I had opened a flood gate. It was a little like this:




So here I am, sharing my guilty pleasure. What's yours?

my, what big plastic tubes you have grandma

The world is a scary place.

San Diego KGTV reports:

A 91-year-old East County grandmother is getting national attention for making suicide kits. The woman started making the kits after watching her husband die a slow, painful death from colon cancer.

Death Bag and tubes

“I’m doing what I can to improve the world,” she told 10News. “There’s a lot of heartache and difficulty here.” Charlotte makes the kits — which cost buyers $60 — by taking large plastic bags and sewing soft elastic bands around the opening. There is a slot in the bag for a plastic tube carrying helium gas to be inserted. Helium — when inhaled in its pure form — is deadly. Kit users are responsible for securing their own helium gas.

“If heaven is so wonderful, you know you’d naturally want to go there, wouldn’t you?” said Charlotte. Charlotte said her sales were nearly $100,000 last year. That’s more than 1,600 suicide kits.

 This scares me for several reasons.

1. My StumbleUpon apparently thinks this is the kind of story I would be interested in. And it was right. Damn.
2. This woman is 91 years old and not retired. Stop working.
3. Her name is Charlotte, so she reminds me of a spider luring people into her suicide web.
4. This is a really scary way to go! Putting a bag over your head? Filling it with helium? Taking your last breaths as you look at the world through the distortion of the hand sewn plastic death bag? Geez.
5.  Also, THE WORLD IS RUNNING OUT OF HELIUM. AND it's non-renewable! So even if you don't disagree with her on ethical grounds, know that she is ruining birthday parties for the rest of us FOREVER.
6. She is not supplying the helium, so people are forced to interrupt their planned suicide night with a trip to Party City. Also, what's to stop people from getting the helium and making their own Death Bags? besides crippling depression.
7. How does she advertise this? We know it's not word of mouth. It's probably through news reports like this: people see the story on the news and call the station asking for her phone number, claiming to be enraged but secretly wondering if they can get same-day delivery. But why would the news station give out her number? This doesn't add up.         

I just can not understand how this woman is so successful. I did hear recently that there have been more suicides than homicides in the United States in recent years, so I suppose there is a demand, but I never thought there would be such high demand for suicide kits. Or that a kindly 91-year-old would decide to fill that need. Although now I am picturing her more like the "old lady" with the demon head from Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

All the better to eat you see you with

Also, I don't believe that killing yourself will be rewarded by admittance past the pearly gates. So she's selling a crock.

The world is a scary place.

Social Guard

I am really hungry but have to write about this first.

I was stumbling around the internet this morning, bumping into some Mean Girls/Harry Potter tumblrs when an ad caught my eye on the side of the page.

It was a fake Facebook post (it said "advertisement" at the top, so people won't get confused and try to "like" it or something) that had a girl saying

Some Girl: Can't wait for tonight! Party at my house and it's going to be aMaZiNg!
Bitchy Girl:  No one wants to go to your loser party!
Some Dude: Sounds great, what is your address please?

And then next to the two posts this X pops up and says BLOCKED or something dramatic. The fake profile melts away to present what the ad is selling: Zone Alarm Social Guard.

This is a program designed to recognize key words and phrases to block cyber bullies and potential stalkers. Bitchy girl was a cyber bully and using the word "loser" flagged her, and that dude is probably a 43 year old because he asked for her address. Right?  They couldn't possibly be being sarcastic or just need her address. While I do fully understand cyber bullying and it's new prevalence and severity, I still don't know if I like the idea of this product.

The website says "SocialGuard scans millions of records using a unique algorithm to determine threats and sends warnings to you the minute they happen, not just once a day like the competition."
This program sends parents alerts at the tiniest sign of trouble. Woah. That's like if you got emailed every time your kid was picked last for softball or ignored at the lunch table. These things happen.
I believe that the answer to bullying is to start at the child; to promote tolerance and compassion and help kids see that they can bond together because this happens to everyone.  This is not always a parent's battle, and although you want to do anything you can to protect your child, I do not believe that being an internet helicopter is going to do any good.

Cyberbullying
Alerts you to alarming words used in private messages, status updates, and wall postings.

Strangers
Alerts you when someone who may be a stranger is trying to interact with your kid on Facebook. 

Age Concerns
Flags friends that are much older than they claim to be; someone who may be pretending to be a kid. 

Dangerous Links
Catches dangerous links sent in private messages, status updates, and wall posts. Prevents viral attacks and data theft. (this thing checks private messages. hm)

Rules for being on the internet:

1. Don't "friend" anyone you do not personally know. Even if you have friends in common. Meet them in person first.
2. If your child is too young to be on Facebook, don't let them on Facebook.
3. I can't think of any more, I'm too hungry.

I am getting all confused in my opinions. This thing really threw me off guard.
I hate bullies, and of course I hate internet predators, but this SocialGuard seems so...
I don't know.

What do you think?

a brief glimpse into the mind of a crazy person

Sorry about the brief hiatus. If anyone noticed. Today is the last day of classes, so of course this past week or so has been hellish.

I have had a few ideas for posts but haven't had the time to write anything that didn't involve the words "independent variable" or "arbitrary matching to sample."  So here are a few mini-posts. Let's call them vignettes.

#1
25 April: 
This weekend was Easter weekend, which unfortunately got overshadowed by the sheer magnitude of work I had to do for Happiness class and Conditioning and Learning. On the brighter side, I was able to spend a good part of Saturday enjoying friends, hot dogs, sunshine and pool floaties.

this is not me. but I DO really want that floating fruit table.

On the redder side, this left most of my upper body sunburnt and angry.  I sat at my computer for hours gulping down ice water to counteract the heat emanating from my body and my overworked computer, to no avail.

When I finally went to sleep, I considered throwing my down blanket on the floor, but decided against it. (Our floor is really gross.) Instead I went to sleep in my sports bra and shorts (let me know if this is too much information).

Soon after closing my eyes, I heard a strange scratching sound coming from my ceiling, right around the overhead light.
...and my imagination ran away with itself....

(WARNING: the following is not factual, but a brief glimpse into the mind of a crazy person)

eeeeeeeeeeeeeewww

I open my eyes and look up to see thousands if not millions of fat angry cockroaches pouring out of the hole where the light used to be, coating the ceiling as they crawl out of their hiding place toward each wall. I see this, and calmly hop out of my bed, potentially spraining my ankle as I land clumsily on the small rug beside my bed.

I don't think to grab anything as I race to the door, calling to Marca who is finishing watching Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe (it is Easter, after all). I slam the door shut behind me and try to coax her off the couch and downstairs where it is safe. She doesn't believe me at first, until the hoard begins crawling from under the door and oozing across the floor.
We bolt down the stairs and outside, where it is safe.

Who do we call? What do we do? Can I ever touch my stuff again?

As things calm down, I realize I am outside wearing just shorts and a sports bra.
And I realize, I am OK with it.

And that is the moral of the story.

Welcome to my brain.


#2

from right: Tory Belleci, Kari Byron, and Grant "Third Wheel" Imahara

Jake and I were watching Mythbusters a few weeks ago when I wistfully stated something to the effect of "I wish Kari's baby had been Tory's. I want them to be together." There was talk of whether this exists on the world wide web in the form of fan fiction, and it probably does. But alas, I have been too busy to research further. 
Jake suggested that I write some, and I said something like "haha sure" which really means "that's funny, but I probably won't. Also DON'T TELL ME WHAT TO DO."  As I was falling asleep the other night a few lines came to me, and I will post them for you. But that's as far as it's gonna go. 

"Kari," Tory began, "I love the way you spell your name weird and how your nose squinches up all cute when you use a sledge hammer to destroy a car," she blushed, "but we can't let the world know about us.  They're just not ready. We're just not ready." She opened her mouth as if too argue, but he continued, "I'm too reckless, you're too refined. You're an artist! Plus, Grant will be outed as a third wheel-" 

She silenced him with a passionate embrace. He was almost thrown off-balance by the surprise. She pulled back, looked into his eyes and said, "I'm pregnant."

In reality she married some artist with a mustache. Puh.

And that is all you are getting. I feel ridiculous. And hardcore nerdy.