Please don't change the channel

After failing to get even the three network channels with our basic cable package, we decided something was possibly wrong, and the Hero called the cable company. The young man on the other end was very helpful, or would have been had we wanted one of the numerous upgrades he was earnestly trying to sell.

"No, I do NOT want the upgrade," the Hero said so many times that I thought he was a recording. "Not that one either. We just -- if we can't even get what we're supposed to be getting with the basic package, why would I upgrade to ANOTHER package?" 

Happily, the website showed us the simple solution we wanted, and it did not try to sell us anything for $100 more. We simply needed some sort of device, which would come in the mail along with -- surprise! -- yet another remote control. If our household consisted of 17 other individuals, we could all have our very own remote control.

But while waiting to have our rightful channels restored so that we would have access to greater amounts of entertainment, we spent an afternoon being far more entertained by three live children.

They are roughly 11, 12, and 14, the offspring of friends of ours, and they made us forget, for a while, that we had only two cable channels. We were all consuming ice cream together, which perhaps inevitably led to a discussion of food. Young persons of 11, 12, and 14 are highly fond of food.

The third was complaining that the first had consumed a great quantity of some food at home, which had then deprived the others of their fair share.

"He ate almost the whole thing!" she protested.

"He needs it!" the mother said in his defense. "He's a swimmer. He needs the energy."

"But I'm a ballerina. I need energy too!"

The swimmer pointed out gleefully that ballerinas are supposed to have "just a small salad for lunch." 

The ballerina rolled her eyes at this. The second wisely stayed out of things, lest he be told that softball players must subsist on bread and water.

This turned to a discussion of what the mother had craved during the three pregnancies, as the offspring tried to divine any sort of correlation between that and their present food preferences.

With the first, it was chips and salsa. The second, donuts ("I would eat two or three on the way home from Krispy Kreme. Then the rest of the box at home."). The third -- she couldn't remember what she craved with the third.

"No one EVER remembers anything about the last kid," the third said grumpily.

Except if the last kid came along, as the Hero and I did, long after the others, and then EVERYBODY remembers EVERYTHING about you. How you wanted to stay a little barbarian and refused to wear big girl pants. How you wore horribly mismatched clothes in kindergarten. Even, in one of our cases, the details surrounding one's conception.

Sometimes it is best if certain details remain unremembered and, more critically, unshared.

The topic turned to months, and calendars, and a small but intense discussion ensued between the second and third. Though they both conceded that the other had a calendar in their room, there was some disagreement over which of them USED a calendar more.

"I have a calendar. It's on my desk."

"Mine's on the wall."

"But you don't LOOK at your calendar."

"Proving what?"

"I actually USE my calendar!"

"This is better than watching TV," I said to the Hero. "Do we get this channel?"

"Live entertainment's always better," he said.

So, cable company, if that new device you're sending us doesn't work, be warned. We've potentially found something better than you.

Come again? Je ne comprends pas

Lately the Hero has developed an interest in learning French in the hopes of someday traveling somewhere he might use it, like in a local continuing education class.

So as he washes the dishes -- it is typically the Hero's lot to do the dishes at our house -- he listens to an audiobook on beginning French. Knives and forks are cleaned to the sounds of "bong-swahr" and "bong-zhoor."

"Mair-see. Thank you." 

"Eel nyah pah der kwah. You're welcome."

"Kohmmang tahlay voo?...Tray byang, mair-see. How are you? Very well, thanks."

"Would you slow down?!" he says in exasperation to the unseen, unhearing speaker. 

Then he discovers that he can slow the speed of the words down as they are spoken, so that "tray byang" becomes "trayyyyyy byyyyyangggg..."

I comprehend none of this, until I hear, "Non. Non. Non, Monsieur. Non. Non. Non. Non. Non."

This I judge to be an appropriate response to telemarketers, or perhaps someone selling something on the streets of Paris.

"I think you have that one down," I yell encouragingly.

Finally, with the dishes and his tutoring session done, he comes over to me at my computer.

"Mon uno cutio. Cuticus. Uh, cutioso," he says to me lovingly, looking at me like I should know what that means.

"Did you just call me a cute snail?" I ventured.

"Maybe," he says. "I was going for 'my cute one,' but I didn't learn cute yet. Does Mademoiselle like it when I speak French to her, yes?"

"Well, Mademoiselle is actually a Madame" --

"I always get those mixed up!" he says.

"But yes, as long as you don't call me a snail, I like it."

"Tray byang, Trayyyyyy byyyyyangggg..."

CSA week 3

On Saturday mornings we eagerly wait for 9:00, which is when we can go pick up our CSA order from the bakery down the street. This event engenders excitement akin to a child getting candy from a benevolent relative, or to adults getting free food from anyone. Neither of which is true in this case. Maybe we should get out more.

Last Saturday, since I was out of town seeing relatives, I had to miss this occasion. The Hero would have the privilege of picking up the food himself. As soon as I got up that morning -- two hours before the rendezvous could take place -- I texted him. 

"Remember our food pickup?" I said anxiously.

"Well, duh," he texted back. "I like food too."

Knowing I would be immobilized by curiosity about this week's food until I heard from him, once the food was safely home he laid it all out on the counter, and then thoughtfully videotaped it. There was a lovely shot of Arctic char, cheddar jack cheese, Arctic char, cheddar jack cheese...

The video stubbornly refused to move beyond this view. I could see the tantalizing leaves of ...something.

"What on far right?" he texted, indicating something he couldn't identify.

"?" I answered. "Only see fish cheese."

He described a vegetable that did not sound exactly like turnips, but because I knew turnips were on the list, I said, "Turnips?" 

The unknown vegetable turned out to be Swiss chard, which I figured out because it was also on the list and was a lot greener than the turnips, which I hadn't seen in the video.

If the CSA people really wanted to mess with us, it wouldn't be too hard. Just put "sunchoke" on the list, then sit back and watch us happily go about believing the kohlrabi to be sunchoke, because we have no idea what sunchoke looks like. Or even if it's edible. Or even if there's anything called sunchoke.

We are obsessed by food, you are thinking? I'll let you know as soon as  I figure out what to do with my sunchoke.

Today's math problem

From your CSA each week, you receive enough food to satisfy the entire population of the European Union. However, the net count of hungry people in your house, at any given time, is: 2. You resolve this issue by:

a) Looking in the back of a math book -- any math book -- for the answer

b) Mailing 10-pound packages of extra food anonymously to your out-of-town relatives, including some with the same last name who technically are NOT your relatives but COULD be 

c) Leaving little care packages amongst your neighbors' bushes

d) What issue? Bring on the food!

At least one CSA we know of has come up with a choice e). Customers get an extra tub along with their abundance of food. At the end of the week or a couple of weeks, you pile all the food you have not been able to consume and that has gone bad into this tub, and return it to the CSA for them to add to their compost heap.

This seems like a sound and wise solution. In reality, I'll bet they don't get much for their compost heap, because most consumers are probably eager to avoid this scene:

Customer (carrying tub filled with rotted tomatoes, wilted spinach, etc.): Uh, here's your food back...it's not quite in the same shape it was when YOU gave it to US...(mumbles an apology, then turns and flees)

Farmer: Wait! You forgot this week's basket!

We personally would probably pick choice a), mainly because we tend to approach ALL problems by putting forth as little effort as possible and in a manner guaranteed to not give a satisfactory outcome. Only problem is, I've checked all the Hero's math books, and the answer to this conundrum does not appear in ANY of them. Sigh. Just like in math class.

A veggie treasure hunt

Cooking at our house has taken on a new dimension since we joined a CSA-like program recently. Previous menu preparation involved extremely detailed planning of meals for the following week, and a strictly adhered-to shopping list based on those meals. Except, of course, if the Hero was along on the shopping trip, in which case nonapproved items appeared in the cart on a regular basis due to his belief that, "Hey, we need four pounds of bacon!"

Now we have the food BEFORE we know what we are going to do with it. Occasionally we don't even know what it all IS. But we figure that it is a mark of healthy eating to have a certain percentage of food in the refrigerator that is unfamiliar to you.

Possibly because we failed Kale 101 once before (having cheated by giving away some to neighbors), kale appeared, perversely, in our very first food basket. Coincidentally, my weekly cooking lesson called for making a tossed salad with: kale.

The Hero was horrified upon hearing that we would be eating the kale raw.

"You're not going to cook it?" he said, as if facing the prospect of eating raw duck. 

"Don't worry," I said confidently. "I'm going to massage it first."

Now he was worried.

Rubbed with oil, tossed with other salad ingredients and some additional oil and vinegar, it was actually pretty good. We still had half a bunch of kale left.

"The rest is yours," I said. "You can come up with something to do with it."

"I'm not going to massage it," he announced. "Maybe we should cook this batch."

With so many vegetables, we decided to keep a list on the outside of fridge of things we need to use up. We did this because we like lists. Lists give us a sense of accomplishment. Plus, the Hero, like many men, can open the refrigerator and divine that there are NO leeks anywhere inside, despite having looked for only 0.3 seconds, and despite there being several large leeks right at eye level. Lists help reduce this behavior, although they do not entirely eliminate it ("The list says we have three zucchini." "Well, then, we have three zucchini." "But I don't see --" "Don't make me come over there and find them." etc.). 

The Hero was very taken with this list idea, and announced that he had made additional categories in addition to the original vegetables. "See? Now we have Fruit, Beverages, Dairy, Miscellaneous...We can keep track of EVERYTHING we have left."

"Or," I said, "we COULD just open the fridge door and SEE what we have left."

But the list is more fun. And we can't wait to cross kale off the list.

Welcome back, students! Oh, and help us set a record

Nothing against the University of Massachusetts, but I'm not disappointed that I don't go there. A fond welcome-back tradition in the fall is for several hundred people to get together and construct some type of healthy, communal dish, specifically, a dish that weighs in the neighborhood of 15,000 pounds. This is all in the very noble, educational effort of making it into the Guinness book of world records. 

Which would be fine, except this year the dish was a fruit salad. In my mind this sets a bad precedent: No one I know goes to college to eat in a healthy manner. What kind of welcome-back is that? Were the tradition to involve, say, a 15,000-pound ice cream sundae, with a couple of tons of toppings and maybe 500 spoons; or 7 1/2 tons of pizza with thick, chewy crust -- yes. I could certainly get behind THOSE efforts. But 7 1/2 tons of apples, plums, etc. -- no, thank you. 

This is not what our great colleges and universities have been founded upon. What would the Founding Fathers (Ben and Jerry) say to this?*

The fruit salad, which did indeed earn a place in the esteemed record book, was constructed in a 15-foot swimming pool. The pool likely was donated by a retired couple, or at least the husband portion of a retired couple, who believed they no longer had any use for it, and who was probably admonished by his wife for "giving away a perfectly good salad bowl," and now what would she use to take to the Fowlers' picnic?

For next year, I urge the university to put that bowl to a better use and consider constructing a different type of food -- some excellent choices have already been mentioned in this post. I bet they'd get a LOT more than 500 people to help put it together. And also to take it apart.

_____

*Probably "We want Chunky Monkey!"

The interview

To help the Hero prepare for an upcoming job interview, I agreed to act as Ms. Interviewer and ask lots of difficult questions. That is, they were difficult for ME, as I have no idea what the job entails and even less idea what questions to ask. On the plus side, I got to conduct the interview in a nonstandard interview suit consisting of sweatpants, a t-shirt, and fuzzy blue striped socks.

We agreed to assume that the two of us had already had our small talk that precedes every interview, which had likely included things like the weather, the Hero's drive to the interview site, why my fuzzy blue striped socks were sparkly, whether this has ever presented a problem for my vacuum cleaner, etc.

Then I cleared my throat to signal that we would begin the interview, highlights of which are presented here.

"What are your strengths, and what are some 'improvement points?' " I queried.

He went on to name a few strengths, but I was distracted by the scent of garbage emanating from the trash can in the next room.

I wondered whether an 'improvement point' might perhaps involve being less engrossed in the computer at home so the trash would not have to finally drag itself outside, but he did not mention this.

"Tell me about a time when you initiated and implemented a creative idea," I suggested next.

I expected something along the lines of attempting to see whether a satisfactory omelet could be constructed in the microwave without causing unnecessary damage to it (the microwave), but instead he described, at some length, a past work project involving data, time series, vectors, base rate fallacy, heteroscedasticity...

Eventually, I noticed that he had stopped talking. "I'm sorry," I said. "I, uh, didn't quite follow that last part..."

"Would you like me to repeat it?" he asked.

"No, no," I said hastily. "I'm sure I got the gist of it."

At one point, in the middle of answering another question about future career aspirations, he trailed off and simply stared at me. 

"Yes?" I prompted. "You seem a bit distracted."

"I'm sorry," he said. It's just that my interviewer is so beautiful."

"Very quick thinking," I said approvingly. "Fortunately for you, your REAL interviewers will all be male, so that shouldn't be a problem...um, they WILL all be male, won't they?"

As far as he knew, they would.

"Well, we are nearly done," I said. "Do you have any questions for me?" 

"Actually, I do," he said. "Can you tell me how short gamma positions are hedged?"

"Well, we typically employ the 'toss a coin' method," I answered.

"I see," he said. "That's a very bold strategy, if I may say so."

"We find it gives us a very competitive advantage," I acknowledged modestly.

He answered that he could see how that would definitely be the case.

"So, is there anything else you would like to know about us?" I asked. "Benefits, stock options, donut policy?"

He admitted curiosity about the latter.

"We encourage employees at all levels to bring in donuts frequently," I explained. "To explore different kinds they might otherwise not venture to try. Does that sound like a policy you would be able to support?"

He said he could see no problem whatsoever with doing so.

"Very good, then," I said, rising to my fuzzy blue stripe-clad feet. "This could be a highly mutually beneficial relationship. We should have an answer for you -- oh!" I said as I suddenly found myself lifted off the ground a foot or so. "Mister Hero, I dare say this is highly unsuitable interview behavior. You must put me down at once."

"That's okay," he said." YOU are a highly unsuitable interviewer."

"Hmmm," I said. "I think YOU are hired."

What was fun then...

Many resources that attempt to help individuals determine a career in which they might excel, or a hobby that might bring them great enjoyment, suggest that people investigate what they liked as a child to obtain clues to what they might enjoy NOW. If you have never STOPPED doing something since you were a child, of course, that might be a pretty big clue.

So recently I have been investigating my favorite childhood pastimes. But "sleeping" doesn't seem to hold much promise in terms of hobbies or career paths, nor does "listening to Bill Cosby albums" or "avoiding nature like the plague."

The Hero's childhood activities held a little more foreshadowing as to what he would enjoy doing as an adult. At a young age he would take things out into the yard and whale on them with a hammer, baseball bat, whatever happened to be handy. His mother, while not entirely comfortable with this endeavor or with where it might lead, nevertheless believed that he would learn SOMETHING from it. She fervently hoped so, anyway.

I have asked him if these experiences led to his learning how things worked, such as a radio. "Oh, no," he says. The enjoyment, and the entire point of the exercises, was merely to relish being the agent of destruction without getting into trouble.

Clearly, such experiences prepared him well for the present: living in an old, historic home with -- as he believes -- hidden structures behind every wall, crying out to be liberated by someone with finely tuned hedge-hammer skills. But as in his childhood, it continues to be the smashing part that interests him the most, as has been chronicled previously in this blog. Several times. 

There was one activity in my childhood that I thought might give some insight into what I might enjoy pursuing now. I spent hours making up stories for the little people in the Fisher-Price house, farm, school, village, etc. Inevitably, these stories involved important activities that imitated real life, such as going to work, going to school, opening and closing the door to the Fisher-Price barn repeatedly to hear the simulated MOOOOOooo of a cow, etc. (Significantly, however, these people never smashed things. NEVER.)

So how might I parlay this particular childhood activity into anything useful today?

Well, it sounds remarkably like Sims, the simulated life video game. Conducting my research on Sims -- which could  be an interesting pastime -- I ask the Hero, "Is SimCity different from Sims?" 

Yes, he says. With Sims you direct the people, their immediate surroundings, and their personal relationships, careers, etc. With SimCity -- here his excitement is evident -- you control the economics of a WHOLE CITY.

"I don't think I'm ready for economic controllership," I say. "Maybe I'd better start simpler." Say, SimPets. Or SimInsects. SimRocks, maybe. Yes, I'm pretty confident I could handle rocks. Rocks, after all, are not as sophisticated as Weebles, whose roly-poly world I successfully managed as a six-year-old, despite the fact that I had only the Camping Weebles, camping being a subject about which I knew nothing then and little more at present.

The story line during Weebles play varied, but often involved a Dad Weeble who had a warped sense of humor. Sometimes the family would get the car and camper all packed and ready to go, and the children (admittedly, not very bright children) would ask excitedly, "Where are we gonna stay tonight, Dad? Holiday Inn??"

And the father with a warped sense of humor would laugh in a not-so-nice way and say, "Sure, sure! Our very own Holiday Inn!"

"Our very own...AAAAAGGGHHH! Not the camper! Noooooo..."

I haven't yet become a Sims player, but if I do, you can bet that the father with the warped sense of humor will get his due. Particularly if the economy ever falls into my hands.