It is time once again for our annual "on this day in history" feature. Of course the Prissy Princess was born on this day, although she prefers not to think how far back in history this actually was.
An impressive number of athletes were born on the Princess's birthday, although there any commonalities between her and the athletes ends. In other athlete news on this day, Ashrita Furman performed 8,341 somersaults over 12 miles in 1986. It is unknown whether any attempts were made by the government to encourage commuters to use this as a new mode of transportation, which would save precious fossil fuels, although traffic lights would certainly need to be redesigned. The Princess, for her part, attempted a somersault in 1974 (although not necessarily on April 30), and again, there all similarities between her and Ms. Furman end.
In 1952, Mr. Potato Head became the first toy advertised on television, much to the consternation of parents everywhere. In fact, the first Mr. Potato Head did not have removable face parts, with the result that he stared, unnervingly, at children, but parents who were outraged by this attempt to influence their children tore his face apart, giving Mr. Potato Head's creators an excellent idea for improving their product.
The Princess does not remember having conducted any personal interaction with Mr. Potato Head in her younger days, but she does appreciate ice cream, and therefore celebrates the ice cream cone, which debuted in 1904. She plans to show her appreciation by visiting an ice cream establishment in honor of her birthday.
On this day in 1803, the United States gained the Louisiana Purchase from France for $15 million, more than doubling the size of the country. The Princess doubts she will receive any birthday gifts valued at $15 million, but she is also grateful not to have to clean anything the size of the Louisiana Purchase.
We thank you for sharing this brief tour with us through history, and trust that you will all celebrate this occasion in your own way, be it with ice cream or somersaults.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
How much gas is in YOUR tank?
I hesitate to even bring up today's subject, chiefly because it makes me feel old, which I am not, although my body is continually contradicting this belief. As the Apostle Paul said, I keep pressing upward toward the prize, only for some reason my body believes that the prize is membership in AARP, and it is intent on hastening thereto, although of course that event is actually DECADES -- maybe even CENTURIES -- away.
Due to this marching-on-to-AARP business -- having been unable to see great distances most of my life, I now find myself also unable to see anything at the other end of the spectrum -- I visited my new eye doctor, who, although he seems to be competent in his field, was almost certainly never voted Most Popular in school, or even anywhere in the top 500. He noted, with some pride, that his college-age daughter is so kind as to inform him when he is being especially geeky, which I imagine is more often than she wishes were necessary.
But he informed me that although my eyesight betrays my age, my eyes otherwise are very young and healthy. "I believe we could even say," he said with an air of generosity, "that you still have a lot of gas left in the tank." This was a surprise, as it had not occurred to me that there might not be a lot of gas left in the tank. But later I was greatly reassured by his assessment, particularly when I went to get new glasses and was helped by a salesperson who hinted, more than once, that he has much more gas left in the tank than someone my age, and talked with ease about all the features a person my age should have in her eyeglasses, which he can certainly know nothing about personally.
It was also a reassurance when I was discussing this with my fellow editors at work, many of whom are somewhat younger than me, meaning they are about 12. They looked at me with alarm, like they might have to cart me off to the nursing home sometime soon. I imagined them going home after work and calling their great-grandparents, asking what accommodations they might need to make for older people.
Having had my new progressive lenses for a day or so now, I can tell them what accommodations are needed. For starters, all stairways should be immediately outlawed. It is impossible to tell, with progressive lenses, where exactly the next step is, and indeed there may be some brief confusion as to whether the step is going up or going down. Second, objects within a radius of 600 feet must be removed, lest you bump into them because you think they are over there when they are in reality right here. Nearby persons should also be warned to steer clear, and when you look at them, they should not be insulted if it takes you several moments to adjust your head so you can see who they are. But the good news is that all of these modifications are necessary only during the adjustment period, which can last up to 18 years.
To compensate for having to get older people lenses -- and mindful of my still-plentiful tank of gas -- I got a rather hip pair of frames, which at least help me look cool even as I am bumping into things. I am sure that should my new lenses cause an accident on the road sometime, those involved will be wowed by my new look.
And who knows, they might even whisper in awed tones, "She's got a lot of gas left in the tank."
Due to this marching-on-to-AARP business -- having been unable to see great distances most of my life, I now find myself also unable to see anything at the other end of the spectrum -- I visited my new eye doctor, who, although he seems to be competent in his field, was almost certainly never voted Most Popular in school, or even anywhere in the top 500. He noted, with some pride, that his college-age daughter is so kind as to inform him when he is being especially geeky, which I imagine is more often than she wishes were necessary.
But he informed me that although my eyesight betrays my age, my eyes otherwise are very young and healthy. "I believe we could even say," he said with an air of generosity, "that you still have a lot of gas left in the tank." This was a surprise, as it had not occurred to me that there might not be a lot of gas left in the tank. But later I was greatly reassured by his assessment, particularly when I went to get new glasses and was helped by a salesperson who hinted, more than once, that he has much more gas left in the tank than someone my age, and talked with ease about all the features a person my age should have in her eyeglasses, which he can certainly know nothing about personally.
It was also a reassurance when I was discussing this with my fellow editors at work, many of whom are somewhat younger than me, meaning they are about 12. They looked at me with alarm, like they might have to cart me off to the nursing home sometime soon. I imagined them going home after work and calling their great-grandparents, asking what accommodations they might need to make for older people.
Having had my new progressive lenses for a day or so now, I can tell them what accommodations are needed. For starters, all stairways should be immediately outlawed. It is impossible to tell, with progressive lenses, where exactly the next step is, and indeed there may be some brief confusion as to whether the step is going up or going down. Second, objects within a radius of 600 feet must be removed, lest you bump into them because you think they are over there when they are in reality right here. Nearby persons should also be warned to steer clear, and when you look at them, they should not be insulted if it takes you several moments to adjust your head so you can see who they are. But the good news is that all of these modifications are necessary only during the adjustment period, which can last up to 18 years.
To compensate for having to get older people lenses -- and mindful of my still-plentiful tank of gas -- I got a rather hip pair of frames, which at least help me look cool even as I am bumping into things. I am sure that should my new lenses cause an accident on the road sometime, those involved will be wowed by my new look.
And who knows, they might even whisper in awed tones, "She's got a lot of gas left in the tank."
Monday, April 27, 2009
Haircuts and great literature
It takes a great deal of faith to entrust your life to another person, a person who will snip and cut integral parts of your person, but who will, it is hoped, leave you better off than before. I am speaking here of hair stylists.
I am fortunate to have a stylist who has a lively Irish accent and speaks animatedly about anything, even the weather. Recently we discussed our love of books, and how both our husbands eschewed fiction, which we are fortunately low-brow enough to enjoy.
"But," I confided, "my husband does like Lord of the Rings."
"Oh, I sooo get that," she said. "I LOVE Lord of the Rings."
I asked if she had seen the movie.
She stopped cutting and practically swooned, her hands together in a gesture of reverence. "Ohhhhh, the movie! I adore the movie. So many cute guys!" She sighed. "And each one is better-looking than the last. I can't decide which one I like best!"
I made a tentative comment about the plot.
"Oh, I don't know what the heck is going on in the story," she admitted. "I'm too busy looking at the guys. Several times we've gone to sleep with those cute guys looking at us. My husband's good-natured about it."
This was fortunate, I thought.
I confided that I had watched some of the movie, but found it too violent.
"Yes," she agreed, "it can be hard to watch, what with all those arms and legs flying off" -- here she waved her scissors dangerously close to my right eye, in imitation of the arms and legs -- "especially when they belong to those cute guys, too." She sighed again.
I changed the topic to something less gory. "Do you like Pride and Prejudice?" I asked.
"Ohhh, Pride and Prejudice!" she said, almost swooning again. "I like the Keira Knightley version best," she confided. This was somewhat problematic, she said, because her sister, a Jane Austen purist, despised the Keira Knightley version. "She likes the old one better, with Colin Firth," she said.
"Ohhh, Colin Firth...!" I said, and swooned.
A word to the wise: Some subjects are best discussed when the various parties involved are not holding a pair of scissors.
I am fortunate to have a stylist who has a lively Irish accent and speaks animatedly about anything, even the weather. Recently we discussed our love of books, and how both our husbands eschewed fiction, which we are fortunately low-brow enough to enjoy.
"But," I confided, "my husband does like Lord of the Rings."
"Oh, I sooo get that," she said. "I LOVE Lord of the Rings."
I asked if she had seen the movie.
She stopped cutting and practically swooned, her hands together in a gesture of reverence. "Ohhhhh, the movie! I adore the movie. So many cute guys!" She sighed. "And each one is better-looking than the last. I can't decide which one I like best!"
I made a tentative comment about the plot.
"Oh, I don't know what the heck is going on in the story," she admitted. "I'm too busy looking at the guys. Several times we've gone to sleep with those cute guys looking at us. My husband's good-natured about it."
This was fortunate, I thought.
I confided that I had watched some of the movie, but found it too violent.
"Yes," she agreed, "it can be hard to watch, what with all those arms and legs flying off" -- here she waved her scissors dangerously close to my right eye, in imitation of the arms and legs -- "especially when they belong to those cute guys, too." She sighed again.
I changed the topic to something less gory. "Do you like Pride and Prejudice?" I asked.
"Ohhh, Pride and Prejudice!" she said, almost swooning again. "I like the Keira Knightley version best," she confided. This was somewhat problematic, she said, because her sister, a Jane Austen purist, despised the Keira Knightley version. "She likes the old one better, with Colin Firth," she said.
"Ohhh, Colin Firth...!" I said, and swooned.
A word to the wise: Some subjects are best discussed when the various parties involved are not holding a pair of scissors.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Exponential growth
Although Joe and I are grown, we are definitely not yet mature, which helps explain why we are in possession of something called "Grow Your Own Rubber Ducky." In our defense, we were given this item as a gift, for Easter, although I am sure that had we seen it ourselves in the store, it still would have ended up in our possession. We are, after all, also the proud owners of the Action Librarian Figure, which was also a gift, but which we had long coveted for its Realistic Shushing Action.
The duck (referred to as a" grow toy" on the package), made from safe, nontoxic, and completely natural materials -- including ethylene-vinyl acetate copolymer -- is claimed to have the power to expand to 600% its size. Although at its present size, about an inch, the duck is very cute and endearing, we have our doubts about whether this continues to be true at 600%. We feel this way because the package warns that "as it grows, your toy may distort in shape," conjuring up images of some sort of Incredible Hulking Water Fowl. But we are assured that "this is part of the fun," the other part of the fun presumably being the "slimy, icky texture," described as "normal and harmless." I suppose having to seek out professional therapy after being subjected to an Incredible Hulking Water Fowl with a slimy, icky texture could be considered normal and harmless.
Lest consumers unwittingly limit the duck's growth potential, the instructions advise placing it in as large a container as possible. A standard size, above-ground pool should be sufficient, although nowhere on the package does it say the grow toy can be used as a flotation device, so one must use one's own judgment. Of course, one's judgment may be suspect if one is attempting to grow a rubber duck in any size container, but we merely offer this as a caution.
So assuming you possess a pool and a twisted sense of fun, you place the duck in the water and sit back to enjoy the show. Not so fast. The grow toy may take up to 10 days to grow completely. This of course is much slower than the growth rate of animals in the real world, such as puppies, which grow to about 1 bazillion times their size the moment you welcome them into your family.
But the fun is not over even when your duck has expanded to skyscraper heights. When you take it out of the water --- assuming an Incredible Hulking Water Fowl can be coaxed to do something it might not want to do -- it shrinks again. And if you put it back in the water -- you guessed it -- it turns into a fairy princess. NO, of course not. It grows again. The instructions assure us that the toy can be grown again and again, or as often as you have an extra 10 days in which to do nothing but watch it.
So far we have not yet found a sufficient block of time, nor a large enough container, in which to watch our grow toy. But the waiting is all part of the fun.
This blog is on hiatus until next week while the Princess goes to visit her parents, who are attempting to wade through their many possessions in preparation for moving into a smaller castle. For reasons unfathomable to the Princess, they are not interested in keeping her old textbooks that have lain for many a year in their basement, nor her art portfolio from junior year. And so she sallies forth to sift through memories, and attempt to dodge the King and Queen's insistence that she take some of THEIR treasures home with her, which they are sure she wants to have forever and ever, such as a record player that is the size of a small sofa.
The duck (referred to as a" grow toy" on the package), made from safe, nontoxic, and completely natural materials -- including ethylene-vinyl acetate copolymer -- is claimed to have the power to expand to 600% its size. Although at its present size, about an inch, the duck is very cute and endearing, we have our doubts about whether this continues to be true at 600%. We feel this way because the package warns that "as it grows, your toy may distort in shape," conjuring up images of some sort of Incredible Hulking Water Fowl. But we are assured that "this is part of the fun," the other part of the fun presumably being the "slimy, icky texture," described as "normal and harmless." I suppose having to seek out professional therapy after being subjected to an Incredible Hulking Water Fowl with a slimy, icky texture could be considered normal and harmless.
Lest consumers unwittingly limit the duck's growth potential, the instructions advise placing it in as large a container as possible. A standard size, above-ground pool should be sufficient, although nowhere on the package does it say the grow toy can be used as a flotation device, so one must use one's own judgment. Of course, one's judgment may be suspect if one is attempting to grow a rubber duck in any size container, but we merely offer this as a caution.
So assuming you possess a pool and a twisted sense of fun, you place the duck in the water and sit back to enjoy the show. Not so fast. The grow toy may take up to 10 days to grow completely. This of course is much slower than the growth rate of animals in the real world, such as puppies, which grow to about 1 bazillion times their size the moment you welcome them into your family.
But the fun is not over even when your duck has expanded to skyscraper heights. When you take it out of the water --- assuming an Incredible Hulking Water Fowl can be coaxed to do something it might not want to do -- it shrinks again. And if you put it back in the water -- you guessed it -- it turns into a fairy princess. NO, of course not. It grows again. The instructions assure us that the toy can be grown again and again, or as often as you have an extra 10 days in which to do nothing but watch it.
So far we have not yet found a sufficient block of time, nor a large enough container, in which to watch our grow toy. But the waiting is all part of the fun.
This blog is on hiatus until next week while the Princess goes to visit her parents, who are attempting to wade through their many possessions in preparation for moving into a smaller castle. For reasons unfathomable to the Princess, they are not interested in keeping her old textbooks that have lain for many a year in their basement, nor her art portfolio from junior year. And so she sallies forth to sift through memories, and attempt to dodge the King and Queen's insistence that she take some of THEIR treasures home with her, which they are sure she wants to have forever and ever, such as a record player that is the size of a small sofa.
Monday, April 20, 2009
A note about zzzz's
In these days when information and technology change so rapidly (except for being able to speak to a real live person when calling a company with a critical question, such as "Is it possible to start a fire in the dishwasher?" -- to which the answer, in case you can't reach a real live person about it, is yes), it is important to keep abreast of new happenings and research in various fields. For instance, the field of nap research is one I find particularly relevant to my own life. One can never know too much about napping, although if research should happen to contradict one's personal beliefs about the subject, well, you shouldn't believe everything you read.
But I was interested to read recently about a study of Japanese workers and napping. Now, if anyone needs a nap, it is Japanese workers, who put in more overtime than just about anyone else. But I also have a feeling that this whole nap thing must cut deeply across the grain of their work ethic. Sleep, in the middle of working? On purpose? Researchers must have given them one heck of an incentive to participate. But on to the study.
One group worked for 2 hours and took a 20-minute nap, and then worked for another hour. The second group also worked for 2 hours, but they had a 20-minute rest period, and then worked for another hour. The first question I had was -- and we should all ask this question -- why wasn't I included in this study? A nap after only 2 hours of work? And then only 1 hour more of work after the nap? Sign me up.
The first group, the Nap Group, were refreshed and productive in their after-nap hour of work. The second group, the "Why Didn't We Get Picked for the First Group?" Group, were also refreshed and productive after their rest. For about 3 1/2 minutes. The study does not say this, but one gathers from the description of the results that this second group ended up taking a nap anyway during their after-rest hour of work, albeit an unauthorized nap.
Obviously just taking a break from one's work is not as effective as actually sleeping. So my suggestion is, companies should provide special chairs for all employees, chairs that -- following the lead of this very important study -- after every 2 hours of work would lean back and let workers put their feet up and take a little snooze. After 20 minutes, the chair would automatically revert to its locked and upright position and would not recline again until another 2 hours of work had been completed, in order to prevent unauthorized napping.
Of course, other accommodations would have to be made for employees involved in such tasks as flying, teaching, working with dangerous animals, etc. But I'm sure something could be worked out. Maybe they could participate in a lot of research studies.
But I was interested to read recently about a study of Japanese workers and napping. Now, if anyone needs a nap, it is Japanese workers, who put in more overtime than just about anyone else. But I also have a feeling that this whole nap thing must cut deeply across the grain of their work ethic. Sleep, in the middle of working? On purpose? Researchers must have given them one heck of an incentive to participate. But on to the study.
One group worked for 2 hours and took a 20-minute nap, and then worked for another hour. The second group also worked for 2 hours, but they had a 20-minute rest period, and then worked for another hour. The first question I had was -- and we should all ask this question -- why wasn't I included in this study? A nap after only 2 hours of work? And then only 1 hour more of work after the nap? Sign me up.
The first group, the Nap Group, were refreshed and productive in their after-nap hour of work. The second group, the "Why Didn't We Get Picked for the First Group?" Group, were also refreshed and productive after their rest. For about 3 1/2 minutes. The study does not say this, but one gathers from the description of the results that this second group ended up taking a nap anyway during their after-rest hour of work, albeit an unauthorized nap.
Obviously just taking a break from one's work is not as effective as actually sleeping. So my suggestion is, companies should provide special chairs for all employees, chairs that -- following the lead of this very important study -- after every 2 hours of work would lean back and let workers put their feet up and take a little snooze. After 20 minutes, the chair would automatically revert to its locked and upright position and would not recline again until another 2 hours of work had been completed, in order to prevent unauthorized napping.
Of course, other accommodations would have to be made for employees involved in such tasks as flying, teaching, working with dangerous animals, etc. But I'm sure something could be worked out. Maybe they could participate in a lot of research studies.
Friday, April 17, 2009
In our future: a softer derriere
We had a moment of crisis in doing our taxes -- who doesn't? -- which involved some debate over whether taxes were due on the 15th or the 16th, but that is all cleared up. Now we are eagerly awaiting our tax refund, which by our calculations should pay for a new sofa. Of course, our calculations may be tragically way off. We may receive a letter from the IRS declaring that "We regret that you did not really earn the large tax refund indicated on your return. Our calculations show that, instead, we will be confiscating your house."
For some time now, we have been engaged in the process of finding a new sofa, some of which has been chronicled in this blog. We are oddly reluctant to save methodically for the sofa we want, preferring instead to magically find some windfall that will pay for it in one fell swoop. Not being lottery players, we must look for other, creative, methods of procuring the exact amount we need. Befriending someone with a philanthropic bent, who is interested in bestowing fine furniture upon two deserving homeowners, comes to mind. So far no individual meeting this description has come forward.
I was asked at work if I was interested in doing some freelance work on the side. Naturally I talked this over with Joe and sought his advice, by which I mean I told him that I was not interested in doing it. Being a careful person and -- more critically -- a man, he thought this over and then said, "Would it be enough to pay for the sofa?"
We did do some calculations on this, and when it became apparent that the extra funds would not entirely pay for the sofa, even Joe lost interest in the freelance proposition.
He has been urging me to pursue more opportunities for writing on the Web, rather than looking to be published in print, he being of the print-is-dead-or-soon-will-be camp. When I told him how much one prominent print publication pays for humor articles, however, he heartily encouraged me to send something to them ASAP. He did some quick figuring and said, "About 3.5 articles should cover the sofa."
But now, with that one sweet eureka moment that occurred with the realization of our tax windfall, all thoughts of doing any work to save for the sofa have been crowded out by one expectation: Buying our sofa before the IRS decides that we added wrong.
For some time now, we have been engaged in the process of finding a new sofa, some of which has been chronicled in this blog. We are oddly reluctant to save methodically for the sofa we want, preferring instead to magically find some windfall that will pay for it in one fell swoop. Not being lottery players, we must look for other, creative, methods of procuring the exact amount we need. Befriending someone with a philanthropic bent, who is interested in bestowing fine furniture upon two deserving homeowners, comes to mind. So far no individual meeting this description has come forward.
I was asked at work if I was interested in doing some freelance work on the side. Naturally I talked this over with Joe and sought his advice, by which I mean I told him that I was not interested in doing it. Being a careful person and -- more critically -- a man, he thought this over and then said, "Would it be enough to pay for the sofa?"
We did do some calculations on this, and when it became apparent that the extra funds would not entirely pay for the sofa, even Joe lost interest in the freelance proposition.
He has been urging me to pursue more opportunities for writing on the Web, rather than looking to be published in print, he being of the print-is-dead-or-soon-will-be camp. When I told him how much one prominent print publication pays for humor articles, however, he heartily encouraged me to send something to them ASAP. He did some quick figuring and said, "About 3.5 articles should cover the sofa."
But now, with that one sweet eureka moment that occurred with the realization of our tax windfall, all thoughts of doing any work to save for the sofa have been crowded out by one expectation: Buying our sofa before the IRS decides that we added wrong.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Let it all hang out
April sure has had its share of exciting celebrations. First, of course, we had Easter, which commemorates not only the Lord's resurrection but also the miracle of spring, which in many locales refers to the miracle of little flower heads poking out through the snow. If we really wanted to celebrate the miracle of spring, we would all sign a petition to move Easter to the end of May.
But then we had Tax Day, which a certain member of this household mistakenly believed had been moved to April 16th, causing a flurry of TurboTax activity to occur. Tax Day this year was also Tea Party Day, in which some members of society intended to protest the current economic policies by having Tea Parties and dressing up like colonial villagers and throwing their mortgage brokers overboard. I opted fora more sedate celebration of Tea Party Day, which included a nice cup of Earl Grey and maybe a scone or two.
With all that excitement hardly behind us, we now wait with breathless anticipation for National Hanging Out Day, which is Sunday the 19th. But wait! Before you get too breathless and start looking for friends to hang out with, you should know that Hanging Out Day refers to your clean laundry.
We are encouraged by the good people of Project Laundry List to eschew modern, time-saving, energy-wasting technology such as clothes dryers and return to a more natural way of drying our clothes, the way of our foremothers: on a clothesline spread across the yard, with all our underwear displayed for the neighbors to gawk at and guess what size it is.
Not only would this help us save money, it would help save the environment, too. We have a whole generation, or two, of people who have never experienced that warm, cozy feeling you get from underwear that has been sun- and breeze-dried until it is so stiff it makes you walk like a cowboy who has been in the saddle a little too long. These poor souls do not know what it is like to go to bed at night on bedsheets that smell like...smoke from the neighbor's grill. Of course, Project Laundry LIst would probably frown on grills, too -- at least the gas ones -- preferring instead an open fire pit.
Another benefit of Hanging Out, say its proponents, is that it would bring neighbors together. No doubt they are thinking of such neighborly activities as placing bets on which decade Mrs. Smythe's underwear was manufactured in. In the middle of the winter neighbors could help each other after they have slipped and fallen on the ice while trying to get the frozen-stiff clothes inside.
There are some residential areas in which it is not permissible to Hang Out. Our neighborhood is apparently not one of them. I have read that when one is decorating one's house, one should take inspiration from the outdoors, and either "match it" or "surrender to it so as not to clash." I believe the writer here was speaking of those select few who have views of things like oceans, or perhaps majestic mountains, from their home. In our case, we must surrender to Strawberry Shortcake, whose features grace the sheets displayed prominently on the fence across the street in the warmer weather.
My mother would love National Hanging Out Day. Her neighborhood, possibly foreseeing several years ago that airing one's laundry outdoors might make a comeback, outlawed fences, thereby removing one necessary feature for such airing. This in no way deterred my mother, who made liberal use of the deck railing, pine trees, hapless squirrels, etc. for hanging her wet laundry.
So let us search our hearts and do what we know is right. For me, that means on National Hanging Out Day I will be...just hanging out, gazing at Strawberry Shortcake.
But then we had Tax Day, which a certain member of this household mistakenly believed had been moved to April 16th, causing a flurry of TurboTax activity to occur. Tax Day this year was also Tea Party Day, in which some members of society intended to protest the current economic policies by having Tea Parties and dressing up like colonial villagers and throwing their mortgage brokers overboard. I opted fora more sedate celebration of Tea Party Day, which included a nice cup of Earl Grey and maybe a scone or two.
With all that excitement hardly behind us, we now wait with breathless anticipation for National Hanging Out Day, which is Sunday the 19th. But wait! Before you get too breathless and start looking for friends to hang out with, you should know that Hanging Out Day refers to your clean laundry.
We are encouraged by the good people of Project Laundry List to eschew modern, time-saving, energy-wasting technology such as clothes dryers and return to a more natural way of drying our clothes, the way of our foremothers: on a clothesline spread across the yard, with all our underwear displayed for the neighbors to gawk at and guess what size it is.
Not only would this help us save money, it would help save the environment, too. We have a whole generation, or two, of people who have never experienced that warm, cozy feeling you get from underwear that has been sun- and breeze-dried until it is so stiff it makes you walk like a cowboy who has been in the saddle a little too long. These poor souls do not know what it is like to go to bed at night on bedsheets that smell like...smoke from the neighbor's grill. Of course, Project Laundry LIst would probably frown on grills, too -- at least the gas ones -- preferring instead an open fire pit.
Another benefit of Hanging Out, say its proponents, is that it would bring neighbors together. No doubt they are thinking of such neighborly activities as placing bets on which decade Mrs. Smythe's underwear was manufactured in. In the middle of the winter neighbors could help each other after they have slipped and fallen on the ice while trying to get the frozen-stiff clothes inside.
There are some residential areas in which it is not permissible to Hang Out. Our neighborhood is apparently not one of them. I have read that when one is decorating one's house, one should take inspiration from the outdoors, and either "match it" or "surrender to it so as not to clash." I believe the writer here was speaking of those select few who have views of things like oceans, or perhaps majestic mountains, from their home. In our case, we must surrender to Strawberry Shortcake, whose features grace the sheets displayed prominently on the fence across the street in the warmer weather.
My mother would love National Hanging Out Day. Her neighborhood, possibly foreseeing several years ago that airing one's laundry outdoors might make a comeback, outlawed fences, thereby removing one necessary feature for such airing. This in no way deterred my mother, who made liberal use of the deck railing, pine trees, hapless squirrels, etc. for hanging her wet laundry.
So let us search our hearts and do what we know is right. For me, that means on National Hanging Out Day I will be...just hanging out, gazing at Strawberry Shortcake.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Ode to Wegmans
Wegmans, for those of you who are unfortunate enough not to be familiar with it, is a grocery store here in the East, although there are people who would not hesitate to have me thrown to wild boars for calling it a grocery store. Vast quantities of people routinely go to Wegmans without any intention of buying groceries. Many of them probably are not even aware that Wegmans sells groceries, so awed are they by the store's Asian buffet, salad and fruit bar, fresh bakery bread, cute muffins and pastries and cookies, large and comfortable dining area, little plastic bags for their wet umbrellas, etc.
Wegmans is part field trip ("Look! Fifty-three kinds of olives!"), part entertainment venue (children can be parked in front of the dairy case for days, watching the model train circle above them), part museum ("Look! Fifty-three kinds of rare olives!"), and part shrine ("Here alone can I find my Extra Aged Appenzellar cheese. Please accept my humble thanks [and my charge card], O Wegmans!").
I have seen people strolling the aisles four abreast, coffee and pastry in hand, stopping occasionally to point out the 20 kinds of steaming soup or touch the Extra Aged Appenzellar cheese reverently. I rattle my shopping cart noisily behind them, just to let them know that someone, at least, is here to actually shop for groceries, and could they please move out of the way. But the spell is upon them, and they never get the hint.
Wegmans is always busy, partly because a certain percentage of shoppers cannot find their way out, and may wander around the store for several days before finding the exit, subsisting on free samples and candy located in the bulk food aisle.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, how could a store that has all this NOT have an apostrophe in its name?? That's what I am thinking, anyway. Luckily, Wegmans has a very helpful and comprehensive Web site, including FAQs addressing such vital topics as "Where will Wegmans be building new stores in the future?" "Will there be one down the street from my house?" and, yes, "Why is there no apostrophe in Wegmans?" The answer to this last question -- in my opinion by far the most important -- can be found here. I commend Wegmans for this valiant attempt to rally the acceptance and support of punctuation-conscious consumers. After all, the last thing the store needs is a bunch of protesters chanting "What a mess! What a mess! Where is the apostrophe-s??"
Wegmans, with its cuisine for all tastes, promise of hidden treasure, and dodge-em cars atmosphere, might even be considered a vacation destination. About the only thing it does not offer is fishing, but can that be far behind?
Wegmans is part field trip ("Look! Fifty-three kinds of olives!"), part entertainment venue (children can be parked in front of the dairy case for days, watching the model train circle above them), part museum ("Look! Fifty-three kinds of rare olives!"), and part shrine ("Here alone can I find my Extra Aged Appenzellar cheese. Please accept my humble thanks [and my charge card], O Wegmans!").
I have seen people strolling the aisles four abreast, coffee and pastry in hand, stopping occasionally to point out the 20 kinds of steaming soup or touch the Extra Aged Appenzellar cheese reverently. I rattle my shopping cart noisily behind them, just to let them know that someone, at least, is here to actually shop for groceries, and could they please move out of the way. But the spell is upon them, and they never get the hint.
Wegmans is always busy, partly because a certain percentage of shoppers cannot find their way out, and may wander around the store for several days before finding the exit, subsisting on free samples and candy located in the bulk food aisle.
I know what you are thinking. You are thinking, how could a store that has all this NOT have an apostrophe in its name?? That's what I am thinking, anyway. Luckily, Wegmans has a very helpful and comprehensive Web site, including FAQs addressing such vital topics as "Where will Wegmans be building new stores in the future?" "Will there be one down the street from my house?" and, yes, "Why is there no apostrophe in Wegmans?" The answer to this last question -- in my opinion by far the most important -- can be found here. I commend Wegmans for this valiant attempt to rally the acceptance and support of punctuation-conscious consumers. After all, the last thing the store needs is a bunch of protesters chanting "What a mess! What a mess! Where is the apostrophe-s??"
Wegmans, with its cuisine for all tastes, promise of hidden treasure, and dodge-em cars atmosphere, might even be considered a vacation destination. About the only thing it does not offer is fishing, but can that be far behind?
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Where, oh where, should our vacation be?
We are making great progress, Joe and I, in our search for an all-new vacation destination this year. We have both been through the book that details 100 vacations to enrich your life and marked trips we would be interested in. Out of 4 chapters, Joe has marked vacations in Chapters 1 and 4. All my dream vacations are in Chapters 2 and 3.
I guess we should have bought a book with an uneven amount of chapters.
Most of Joe's dream vacations can be categorized by one of two themes: building things, and performing various acts of athletic ability on large bodies of water. He has marked things like "build a Windsor chair at a folk school," "enjoy a surfin' safari," and "get your sea legs on a sailboat."
He has also indicated interest in something called "prepare to survive in the wilderness." I hope he is prepared to survive in the wilderness alone.
Ahh, here is something different: "Shake your booty at a dance camp." I assume that this can't-pass-up opportunity is held somewhere in New York, but reading further I discover that it is offered by -- really -- Brigham Young University. I try to imagine shaking one's booty to the sounds of "The Hallelujah Chorus," sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but it is not an image that comes easily to mind.
Ooooo, wait, Joe has marked two "historic spas." Now that sounds -- No! No! Nothing historic, I remind myself.
All the vacations I am drawn to involve digging. Digging for Native American artifacts, dinosaur bones, remnants of historic buildings. As long as I am not required to dig for my food, as I suspect might be the case were we to embark on the "prepare to survive in the wilderness" adventure, I am fine.
Somewhere in this book is a destination that promises something for him and something for her, which sounds like it might be our best bet. The something for him is fishing, which Joe professes he would enjoy doing sometime. I can't remember what the something for her is. I just hope there's some digging involved somewhere.
I guess we should have bought a book with an uneven amount of chapters.
Most of Joe's dream vacations can be categorized by one of two themes: building things, and performing various acts of athletic ability on large bodies of water. He has marked things like "build a Windsor chair at a folk school," "enjoy a surfin' safari," and "get your sea legs on a sailboat."
He has also indicated interest in something called "prepare to survive in the wilderness." I hope he is prepared to survive in the wilderness alone.
Ahh, here is something different: "Shake your booty at a dance camp." I assume that this can't-pass-up opportunity is held somewhere in New York, but reading further I discover that it is offered by -- really -- Brigham Young University. I try to imagine shaking one's booty to the sounds of "The Hallelujah Chorus," sung by the Mormon Tabernacle Choir, but it is not an image that comes easily to mind.
Ooooo, wait, Joe has marked two "historic spas." Now that sounds -- No! No! Nothing historic, I remind myself.
All the vacations I am drawn to involve digging. Digging for Native American artifacts, dinosaur bones, remnants of historic buildings. As long as I am not required to dig for my food, as I suspect might be the case were we to embark on the "prepare to survive in the wilderness" adventure, I am fine.
Somewhere in this book is a destination that promises something for him and something for her, which sounds like it might be our best bet. The something for him is fishing, which Joe professes he would enjoy doing sometime. I can't remember what the something for her is. I just hope there's some digging involved somewhere.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
All Hail to Tax Day
In honor of the imminent arrival of Tax Day, we shall take a quick peek at the history of the IRS. Of course, in honor of Tax Day we should be doing our taxes, but we prefer to leave that to the Gallant Hero, who insists that we no longer need the services of Chuck the Tax Man, or of Lily the Tax Dog, who so very ably assisted Chuck in his Tax Preparations by barking when a client rang the doorbell, bringing his slippers, nudging him awake at appropriate moments in the tax discussions, etc.
Contrary to popular belief, there was a time when the IRS did not exist. In the early days of the country, the federal government was allowed to request taxes from states, but it was voluntary, so that the process went something like this:
Federal government: We need some money to build more roads. Could you --
States: Ha ha ha! No.
Things went on like this for quite a while, which explains why the car was not invented sooner, as the roads were so bad no one could have driven on them anyway. Finally the federal government realized that this system of asking politely for money wasn't working, and so they invented an ingenious reason for demanding income taxes: the Civil War.
People were of course very rich at this time, because they hadn't been paying income taxes for almost a hundred years, and to handle the collection of all this money -- and chickens, cows, whatever currency people paid in -- the Bureau of Internal Revenue (BIR) was born. It blossomed and swelled and clicked along efficiently until...the war ended.
People pretty much felt that since the war was over, the income tax should be, too, and no one would pay it anymore. In true government fashion of keeping needless agencies, the BIR did not die. It was just quietly outsourced to India for a while.
The government, with its quick intuition, realized that the key to keeping the income tax was keeping war, and so they periodically found another war to get involved in, thus necessitating another tax on income, and when we weren't at war, they made one up. "The country of Hookistan has been invaded. It needs our help!" And the BIR would balloon again.
Astonishingly, the BIR was eventually found engaged in somewhat questionable practices, including using German shepherds to determine tax rates ("Bark once for 15%, twice for 35%"), and the government took swift action to right the wrongs and restore America's faith in tax collection: It changed the BIR's name.
The new name, the Internal Revenue Service, emphasized that the agency acted as a service to citizens, as in "I will now relieve you of all your money, please." It also, as another service, printed the voluminous Guide to Giving All Your Money to the IRS, which resulted in a huge profit for makers of headache remedies.
Also a huge profit for accountants who own small white dogs who like to bark a lot. Lily, we miss you.
Contrary to popular belief, there was a time when the IRS did not exist. In the early days of the country, the federal government was allowed to request taxes from states, but it was voluntary, so that the process went something like this:
Federal government: We need some money to build more roads. Could you --
States: Ha ha ha! No.
Things went on like this for quite a while, which explains why the car was not invented sooner, as the roads were so bad no one could have driven on them anyway. Finally the federal government realized that this system of asking politely for money wasn't working, and so they invented an ingenious reason for demanding income taxes: the Civil War.
People were of course very rich at this time, because they hadn't been paying income taxes for almost a hundred years, and to handle the collection of all this money -- and chickens, cows, whatever currency people paid in -- the Bureau of Internal Revenue (BIR) was born. It blossomed and swelled and clicked along efficiently until...the war ended.
People pretty much felt that since the war was over, the income tax should be, too, and no one would pay it anymore. In true government fashion of keeping needless agencies, the BIR did not die. It was just quietly outsourced to India for a while.
The government, with its quick intuition, realized that the key to keeping the income tax was keeping war, and so they periodically found another war to get involved in, thus necessitating another tax on income, and when we weren't at war, they made one up. "The country of Hookistan has been invaded. It needs our help!" And the BIR would balloon again.
Astonishingly, the BIR was eventually found engaged in somewhat questionable practices, including using German shepherds to determine tax rates ("Bark once for 15%, twice for 35%"), and the government took swift action to right the wrongs and restore America's faith in tax collection: It changed the BIR's name.
The new name, the Internal Revenue Service, emphasized that the agency acted as a service to citizens, as in "I will now relieve you of all your money, please." It also, as another service, printed the voluminous Guide to Giving All Your Money to the IRS, which resulted in a huge profit for makers of headache remedies.
Also a huge profit for accountants who own small white dogs who like to bark a lot. Lily, we miss you.
Tuesday, April 7, 2009
To metric or not to metric
The United States has taken a lot of flak for not adopting the metric system. After all, everybody uses the metric system. But is this really true? A little research reveals that, in fact, two other countries also lack the metric system! So let us be heartened by the fact that we, along with the equally advanced Myanmar and Liberia, refuse to bow to international peer pressure to use a system that makes totally more sense than the one we have.
Every year when I was in school we were warned that the metric system was coming and we had better be prepared for it, as if suddenly one day we would not be able to understand anything that had to do with numbers, which was pretty much true anyway. So every year we dutifully learned about meters and liters and kilograms and hectometers and Kelvin (not, as we supposed, a Muppet), dismayed to find that we weighed significantly less in kilograms than in pounds, because at that point we all wanted to weigh more. We dutifully learned these things, but we had no idea what any of it really meant.
To help us avoid ignorance and catastrophe when the Day of Metrics would finally arrive, teachers gave us exercises to help us learn to think in metrics. It never did any good, but teachers are hardy souls. And so year after year, while children in other, metric-compliant countries were learning things like quantum physics, we did assignments like these:
Estimate the following objects, then find the actual measurements in metric units.
Item------------------------------Estimate-----------------Actual
length of your shoe-----------about 5 thumbs------20 centimeters
weight of your math book---193 mightygrams----1.5 kilograms
width of your TV screen
(which you should not be
watching right now)---------8,643 pixels--------------54 centimeters
distance to school from
your house--------------------not far enough-----------2 kilometers
It should not be a surprise that the metric system has been debated in Congress as far back as 1790, when it missed becoming a part of the new country by only one vote. Congressional debates about whether to adopt the system are still going on, in some cases with the original debaters. Although this issue does not receive the same level of attention it once did, it stirred intense debate in the early days of Congress, some of which is reproduced here:
1st delegate: Methinketh this system of metrics be good for the country. We must taketh our place in the world!
2nd delegate: But it hath been invented by the French! Can any good be found therein? Perchance it requireth more thought.
3rd delegate: The French have helped us win yon war just past. Perchance it behooveth us to thank them in this manner.
Delegate 157: Perchance to sleep, perchance to dream...ssnssnxxxx...
1st delegate: Wake up, Potter!
Delegate 157 (startled): I beggeth thy pardon.
2nd delegate: At present it be 81 miles to travel twixt Philadelphia and New York, and an arduous trip it be. Having to travel in kilometers would putteth an unnecessary burden upon the people!
3rd delegate: And how longeth, exactly, would ye trip be in kilometers?
2nd delegate: How the hecketh should I know?
Delegate 157 (consulting metric conversion chart and muttering): Hecketh, hecketh...how much is a hecketh...ssnssnxxxx...
We have not made much more progress than this on adopting the metric system. And so I pose a question to you readers: What are the chances of it happening in our lifetime? (Please state your answer in hectares per quadrimeter.)
Every year when I was in school we were warned that the metric system was coming and we had better be prepared for it, as if suddenly one day we would not be able to understand anything that had to do with numbers, which was pretty much true anyway. So every year we dutifully learned about meters and liters and kilograms and hectometers and Kelvin (not, as we supposed, a Muppet), dismayed to find that we weighed significantly less in kilograms than in pounds, because at that point we all wanted to weigh more. We dutifully learned these things, but we had no idea what any of it really meant.
To help us avoid ignorance and catastrophe when the Day of Metrics would finally arrive, teachers gave us exercises to help us learn to think in metrics. It never did any good, but teachers are hardy souls. And so year after year, while children in other, metric-compliant countries were learning things like quantum physics, we did assignments like these:
Estimate the following objects, then find the actual measurements in metric units.
Item------------------------------Estimate-----------------Actual
length of your shoe-----------about 5 thumbs------20 centimeters
weight of your math book---193 mightygrams----1.5 kilograms
width of your TV screen
(which you should not be
watching right now)---------8,643 pixels--------------54 centimeters
distance to school from
your house--------------------not far enough-----------2 kilometers
It should not be a surprise that the metric system has been debated in Congress as far back as 1790, when it missed becoming a part of the new country by only one vote. Congressional debates about whether to adopt the system are still going on, in some cases with the original debaters. Although this issue does not receive the same level of attention it once did, it stirred intense debate in the early days of Congress, some of which is reproduced here:
1st delegate: Methinketh this system of metrics be good for the country. We must taketh our place in the world!
2nd delegate: But it hath been invented by the French! Can any good be found therein? Perchance it requireth more thought.
3rd delegate: The French have helped us win yon war just past. Perchance it behooveth us to thank them in this manner.
Delegate 157: Perchance to sleep, perchance to dream...ssnssnxxxx...
1st delegate: Wake up, Potter!
Delegate 157 (startled): I beggeth thy pardon.
2nd delegate: At present it be 81 miles to travel twixt Philadelphia and New York, and an arduous trip it be. Having to travel in kilometers would putteth an unnecessary burden upon the people!
3rd delegate: And how longeth, exactly, would ye trip be in kilometers?
2nd delegate: How the hecketh should I know?
Delegate 157 (consulting metric conversion chart and muttering): Hecketh, hecketh...how much is a hecketh...ssnssnxxxx...
We have not made much more progress than this on adopting the metric system. And so I pose a question to you readers: What are the chances of it happening in our lifetime? (Please state your answer in hectares per quadrimeter.)
Friday, April 3, 2009
Rats dream
Earlier this week we discussed some exciting aspects of sleep research, although one of them unfortunately was not, as one might hope, how to find time to sleep more. But there are many useful things we can learn from sleep research, mainly due to the fact that a lot of this research is conducted with rats, whose sleep habits and experiences correspond exactly with that of humans.
Rats seem to be the research subject of choice for many things, including sleep. For starters, rats do not get so testy upon being repeatedly wakened from a sound sleep, as people tend to do. Also, since rats do not, generally, have the gift of speech -- although I'm sure scientists somewhere are working on that -- researchers can make up whatever they like about the rats' sleeping experiences.
Take, for instance, a finding that the brain patterns of rats while they were sleeping were almost identical to the patterns they showed while running a maze earlier in the day. The researchers concluded that the rats were dreaming about the maze. They could even tell from the brain patterns what part of the maze the rats were dreaming about. So they say.
But how do we know for sure that the rats were dreaming about the maze? Maybe they just don't have all that much subject matter to dream about. Or all that many different brain patterns. To confirm the results from these brain studies, we need some sort of other measure, something extremely objective, like a questionnaire conducted upon waking. It might include questions such as the following:
Did you sleep well?
a) Yes, thank you for asking. And you?
b) No, some idiot kept waking me up and probing my head with sharp metal objects.
What did you dream about? (choose one)
a) attractive rat of the opposite sex
b) I was running frantically through a complex series of twists, turns, and dead ends, but I never did find the restroom.
c) how satisfying it might be to strangle these researchers' necks
This would shed a lot more light on sleep.
My own personal experience with dreams, and Joe's as well, seems to be that they have little relation to real life. If they did, I would dream more about food, and staying awake at work, and not so much about boa constrictors chasing me through abandoned buildings. And Joe -- well, some of you may remember the wisdom imparted through one of his dreams, which was that "you gotta plan it so the big moose doesn't poop on your head."
Let the researchers work on that one.
Rats seem to be the research subject of choice for many things, including sleep. For starters, rats do not get so testy upon being repeatedly wakened from a sound sleep, as people tend to do. Also, since rats do not, generally, have the gift of speech -- although I'm sure scientists somewhere are working on that -- researchers can make up whatever they like about the rats' sleeping experiences.
Take, for instance, a finding that the brain patterns of rats while they were sleeping were almost identical to the patterns they showed while running a maze earlier in the day. The researchers concluded that the rats were dreaming about the maze. They could even tell from the brain patterns what part of the maze the rats were dreaming about. So they say.
But how do we know for sure that the rats were dreaming about the maze? Maybe they just don't have all that much subject matter to dream about. Or all that many different brain patterns. To confirm the results from these brain studies, we need some sort of other measure, something extremely objective, like a questionnaire conducted upon waking. It might include questions such as the following:
Did you sleep well?
a) Yes, thank you for asking. And you?
b) No, some idiot kept waking me up and probing my head with sharp metal objects.
What did you dream about? (choose one)
a) attractive rat of the opposite sex
b) I was running frantically through a complex series of twists, turns, and dead ends, but I never did find the restroom.
c) how satisfying it might be to strangle these researchers' necks
This would shed a lot more light on sleep.
My own personal experience with dreams, and Joe's as well, seems to be that they have little relation to real life. If they did, I would dream more about food, and staying awake at work, and not so much about boa constrictors chasing me through abandoned buildings. And Joe -- well, some of you may remember the wisdom imparted through one of his dreams, which was that "you gotta plan it so the big moose doesn't poop on your head."
Let the researchers work on that one.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The science of jogging
It is not my fault that my attempt at jogging the other day was a dismal failure. First, there was that little bit of miscommunication Joe and I had when we set out, when he said, "Let's jog down to the park bench and back."
Now, this park bench is, admittedly, not that far from our house. However, the path is fraught with natural dangers -- steep hills, sharp turns, icky earthworms, etc. Naturally when Joe suggested that we jog to this park bench, I thought that he, who promised in front of many, many witnesses just a few short years ago to always concern himself with my welfare, meant that we would jog a few steps, walk several steps, jog a few more steps, then leisurely walk to the bench, sit down and enjoy the view for about a half hour, and recharge ourselves for the grueling return walk up the hill. This is what a sane person, who knows her limits, whose sole means of exercise consists of bending over to pick up the mail that is deposited through a slot in the door onto the living room floor, means by "let's jog to the park bench and back."
This is not what Joe meant by "let's jog to the park bench and back."
But if I had trouble jogging more than a few steps, I know where the blame lies. It is because I am at the top of the food chain (not counting mosquitoes).
In the food chain, there are producers at the bottom, herbivores above them, carnivores above them, and maybe other carnivores above them. All the organisms at any given level in this food chain use energy, which means there is less energy available to be used by organisms at the next level. With up to 90% of energy lost between levels, this has some serious consequences for those of us at the top.
Here is an illustration. In the typical food chain for humans, which goes thus:
plant--chicken filler--fast-food chicken sandwich--human
this means that, if the plant starts out, hypothetically, with 10,000 units of energy, barely 10 of those energy units make it all the way up to you, the top consumer. It is estimated that jogging requires approximately 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 energy units.
So a plant, let's say a blade of grass, which merely stands around all day, waving gently in the breeze, is getting more of the energy coming from the sun than I, who am expected to jog uphill to the park bench both ways.
As I see it, there are two choices if we want to have more of that energy than we are currently getting: 1) Consume more things that are lower on the food chain, or 2) become one of those things lower on the food chain. The second option, of course, occurs every day for certain students at the typical junior high school, although in that case it is generally not a voluntary process.
My only consolation is, after I get through using my 10 units of energy, there is only 1 left for the mosquitoes.
Now, this park bench is, admittedly, not that far from our house. However, the path is fraught with natural dangers -- steep hills, sharp turns, icky earthworms, etc. Naturally when Joe suggested that we jog to this park bench, I thought that he, who promised in front of many, many witnesses just a few short years ago to always concern himself with my welfare, meant that we would jog a few steps, walk several steps, jog a few more steps, then leisurely walk to the bench, sit down and enjoy the view for about a half hour, and recharge ourselves for the grueling return walk up the hill. This is what a sane person, who knows her limits, whose sole means of exercise consists of bending over to pick up the mail that is deposited through a slot in the door onto the living room floor, means by "let's jog to the park bench and back."
This is not what Joe meant by "let's jog to the park bench and back."
But if I had trouble jogging more than a few steps, I know where the blame lies. It is because I am at the top of the food chain (not counting mosquitoes).
In the food chain, there are producers at the bottom, herbivores above them, carnivores above them, and maybe other carnivores above them. All the organisms at any given level in this food chain use energy, which means there is less energy available to be used by organisms at the next level. With up to 90% of energy lost between levels, this has some serious consequences for those of us at the top.
Here is an illustration. In the typical food chain for humans, which goes thus:
plant--chicken filler--fast-food chicken sandwich--human
this means that, if the plant starts out, hypothetically, with 10,000 units of energy, barely 10 of those energy units make it all the way up to you, the top consumer. It is estimated that jogging requires approximately 10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000 energy units.
So a plant, let's say a blade of grass, which merely stands around all day, waving gently in the breeze, is getting more of the energy coming from the sun than I, who am expected to jog uphill to the park bench both ways.
As I see it, there are two choices if we want to have more of that energy than we are currently getting: 1) Consume more things that are lower on the food chain, or 2) become one of those things lower on the food chain. The second option, of course, occurs every day for certain students at the typical junior high school, although in that case it is generally not a voluntary process.
My only consolation is, after I get through using my 10 units of energy, there is only 1 left for the mosquitoes.
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