Recently I had the extreme pleasure of attending the Invention Convention at the South Mountain Elementary School. Every third grader had been encouraged to come up with a pressing problem that needed solving and then present his proposed solution to the public, comprised mostly of her peers. Long tables ringed the outside perimeter of the gymnasium, with 3 to 4 inventors behind each table. They waited-- some patiently, some anxiously-- for folks to wander up and ask them what they had to offer. Then, like olde time snake oil peddlers their eyes brightened as they let go a sales pitch that would make Ronco proud.
Clearly having practiced, their spiel was down to a science. I would walk up to a huckster, and he or she would take a deep breath then lean towards me a little, gearing up for the big sell. Most of them began the same way, “You know how when…”, regardless of the age of the listener. I liked that I was one of them; sharing their problems, feeling their pain. When you get down to it, aren’t we all just simpatico souls looking for answers?
I walked up to a fair-haired girl who looked in my eyes and asked, “You know how when you’re on the monkey bars and your hands slip?”
“Yes,” I said in all earnestness. It was an irksome predicament.
“Well, these gloves are sticky on the palm for wearing on the monkey bars.” I looked at the proto-type. “Awesome,” I said. And I meant it. Slipping off the monkey bars can ruin any gal’s day. But it doesn’t have to now, not when you’re wearing Stickeroo Gloves.
Looking at the pretty, colorful charm bracelet dangling from the next inventor’s wrist, I asked, “What have you got there?”
She answered matter-of-factly, “It’s the Eraserlet. All the charms are erasers so you just wear it to school and you’ve always got one near by.”
“Genius,” I said. I couldn’t help it. I thought it was. In fact, they all were.
There was the Jump Rope Soaker wherein small holes have been poked in water bottles for handles which sprinkle water to keep you cool while you jump rope, and the Wheel of Fun, which you spin to help decide what to do on a playdate. There was the No-Hands Rabbit Feeder and the Semi-Automatic Bed-Maker which helps you make your bed by dragging the sheet, blanket and comforter up to the top of the bed in one all-attached rope handle with multiple clips. He even demonstrated it’s semi-automatic action on a doll’s bed. It was amazing. I would have placed an order on the spot.
There was the Stuffed Animal Holder for keeping your stuffed animals from falling out of bed and onto the floor at night while you sleep, and the Backpack with Interchangeable Decorative Covers. There was the Remote Finder, the Lollypop Saver and the Toothpaste Pump. These were the pressing dilemmas of a nine year old and here were their obvious solutions. They were so creative and so sure of themselves-- hawking their wares like Javitz Center pros-- that I knew that our national sales and promotions culture had a robust future. But mostly I was proud of their creativity and imagination; proud beyond belief and they weren’t even my kids. I wanted to linger and ask if they’d considered spending their summer applying for design patents, but I was short on time and didn’t want to miss any.
Some ideas were clearly born from hearing grown-ups kvetch and although those inventions secretly cracked me up, I was just as impressed. Like the good people-pleasing co-dependants some kids—mostly oldest children-- become, they had fashioned solutions for an adult world, hoping to cut down on the carping they have to overhear while playing video games; half in their world, half in ours. Or maybe they just want to be helpful.
There were the Thorn Avoider Gardening Gloves and the Mop with Hollow Handle that you pour water into and then squeeze into the floor sponge as needed. There was the Toss-A-Meal Dinner Decider spinning wheel, and the removable and washable Dirty Tissue Jacket Pockets that velcro inside your jacket so that you can pull a clean tissue from one pocket, then return it used to the other. One girl had designed a hollow secret-key hiding place inside a flower pot which could house actual dirt and flowers, and a future funny-man demo’ed his Nail Holder for holding nails away from the hammer so that you don’t hit your fingers, while wearing a fake, bloody, nail-through-the-finger bandage on his finger. Points for visual drama and gross-out humor, kid. Way to know your audience.
I left the Invention Convention with a bounce in my step and a chuckle in my heart. I know that China’s going to clobber us in told and untold ways for many years to come, but our can-do spirit is alive and well in our elementary schools. These students were polished and passionate, creative and industrious, and I’m anxious to see what they come up with next. Until then, put me down for a pair of Stickaroo Gloves and a Lollypop Saver—make it two.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Friday, May 27, 2011
Old Jewish Man
I like the Marx brothers, and I like to dance
And sometimes I say slacks in-ste-ad of pants
And I like Ernie Kovaks, and Madeline Khan
And Django Reinhart and Sean Connery’s James Bond
And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo
(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man
I enjoy puzzles, and strolls 'round the block
And prefer the face on my old kitchen clock
And I like to garden and play cards in the shade
And ruffle the sheets though the bed’s just been made
And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo
(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man.
And sometimes I say slacks in-ste-ad of pants
And I like Ernie Kovaks, and Madeline Khan
And Django Reinhart and Sean Connery’s James Bond
And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo
(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man
I enjoy puzzles, and strolls 'round the block
And prefer the face on my old kitchen clock
And I like to garden and play cards in the shade
And ruffle the sheets though the bed’s just been made
And when things are odd I still say that they’re queer
And I like to touch you and smell near your ear
And I love film noirs when they say, “How Do You Do?”
And I love your vo-ice ex-cept when you chew-oo
(Chorus)
You tell me I’m sexy even when I’m not tan
You eat what I cook though I’ve ruined the pan
So thanks for the compliment; I’ll take what I can
When-you-say loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man,
Loving me’s like loving an old Jewish man.
Wednesday, May 11, 2011
Rummaging Around
Most people have second families. Sometimes at work, sometimes at church, and occasionally they come in the form of a teaming ocean of in-laws. My second family is comprised of about a hundred volunteers for the Visiting Nurses Association Rummage Sale in Far Hills, New Jersey. Many of them are octogenarians whom have known me for nearly twenty years. Once you start volunteering, it’s hard to stop. People get sucked-in, as they say. George in the camera department is ninety-four. He hasn’t missed a sale in twenty-six years.
My mom got sucked in first; then me, then my dad. Rummage, as we volunteers call it, -- because to us it names the destination, the activity, the sale, and the ensuing lifestyle—happens twice a year, always on the first Friday, Saturday and Sunday of May and October. It began as a fair on the polo grounds just outside of town over a hundred years ago, but there wasn’t a rummage table until a few years later. Now there are five circus tents, two long barns and a couple of smaller tents, which together house the 28 departments that comprise the sale.
People come from near and far to attend this twice-yearly event. Folks who used to attend or volunteer and who have since moved away plan their family reunions around the sale. I know a woman who lived and worked as scientist in the Amazon for years who planned her yearly trips back to the states around the sale. She even bought her wedding dress from me in the Vintage Department, which I ran for 13 years—even when I worked and lived in Manhattan; commuting out for 2 ½ hours each way every weekend for “set-up”, the month leading up to the sale.
Set up lasts the month prior and the sale accepts a steady stream of cars packed with donations, 6 days a week from 10am to 1pm. Over 400 volunteers work in the heat and dust, snow and rain, battling sunburn, mud and wasps; many of them every day to set up the sale. The constant movement and buzz of handcarts sorting and delivering the donated items to their respective departments gives the sale the appearance of a smurf village. My friend who works at refugee camps all over the world feels right at home at rummage. Except that we laugh a whole lot more.
Once delivered to the proper department, the item is micro-sorted, then sometimes nano-sorted. Electrical items are fixed, curtains and men’s pants are measured and clothing is hung up according to size and sometimes color. The fastidious-- read: borderline OCD--departments heads count playing cards and lego pieces, group golf clubs into sets, shelve books alphabetically according to subject and/or author and see that every puzzle piece is accounted for. It is a stunning monument to organization and systems. It is also a dysfunctional family.
For as much as we laugh over the ear of corn that was donated encased in lucite, or the souvenir dishtowel from a leper colony in Africa, there are tears. There is infighting and occasional back-stabbing, there are temper tantrums and betrayals. And every season, when our tent city sprouts up from the grassy fields out of nowhere like some bizarre Brigadoon, and we come together to hug and ask, “How was your summer?” or “Did you survive the winter?”, we notice the absences. We learn of sudden and tragic passings and the reluctant confinements to homes and beds. But mostly we learn of the grateful grantings of rest. It’s a curious thing to have ones friends die so often. It forces me to let go of old friendships and make room for new. I’ve gotten quite good at it, sad but true.
This second family of mine threw me an engagement party, then a baby shower. They watched over my son as he toddled amongst the racks and hangers-- a bell pinned to his back so we could keep and ear out for him; watching over him as if he was their own—and took turns keeping an eye on him as he napped in his filthy stroller so that I could hang second-hand clothes. They bolstered me through my divorce and understood when I left Vintage under its pressures to work closer with my mom in the Household Department. They grieved with us when my father died—he had fixed radios in the Electric Department for eight years and then catalogued in Records for five. They fortify my mother and me even now.
It’s a parallel life I lead each Rummage Sale, and my family there is vast and warm. I love them because everyone’s just a little nuts like me. Most of them are good nuts; caring, hilarious and kind. There is the woman who takes home every bread machine and makes bread in it to test it, then brings in the warm, fresh bread to pass around before marking the appliance, “Tested – okay!” I’ve missed only three sales in eighteen years; when my son was born, when my divorce was imminent, and when I began my graduate school studies. This spring’s sale is taking place this weekend. I hope I’m there for fifty-one more.
My mom got sucked in first; then me, then my dad. Rummage, as we volunteers call it, -- because to us it names the destination, the activity, the sale, and the ensuing lifestyle—happens twice a year, always on the first Friday, Saturday and Sunday of May and October. It began as a fair on the polo grounds just outside of town over a hundred years ago, but there wasn’t a rummage table until a few years later. Now there are five circus tents, two long barns and a couple of smaller tents, which together house the 28 departments that comprise the sale.
People come from near and far to attend this twice-yearly event. Folks who used to attend or volunteer and who have since moved away plan their family reunions around the sale. I know a woman who lived and worked as scientist in the Amazon for years who planned her yearly trips back to the states around the sale. She even bought her wedding dress from me in the Vintage Department, which I ran for 13 years—even when I worked and lived in Manhattan; commuting out for 2 ½ hours each way every weekend for “set-up”, the month leading up to the sale.
Set up lasts the month prior and the sale accepts a steady stream of cars packed with donations, 6 days a week from 10am to 1pm. Over 400 volunteers work in the heat and dust, snow and rain, battling sunburn, mud and wasps; many of them every day to set up the sale. The constant movement and buzz of handcarts sorting and delivering the donated items to their respective departments gives the sale the appearance of a smurf village. My friend who works at refugee camps all over the world feels right at home at rummage. Except that we laugh a whole lot more.
Once delivered to the proper department, the item is micro-sorted, then sometimes nano-sorted. Electrical items are fixed, curtains and men’s pants are measured and clothing is hung up according to size and sometimes color. The fastidious-- read: borderline OCD--departments heads count playing cards and lego pieces, group golf clubs into sets, shelve books alphabetically according to subject and/or author and see that every puzzle piece is accounted for. It is a stunning monument to organization and systems. It is also a dysfunctional family.
For as much as we laugh over the ear of corn that was donated encased in lucite, or the souvenir dishtowel from a leper colony in Africa, there are tears. There is infighting and occasional back-stabbing, there are temper tantrums and betrayals. And every season, when our tent city sprouts up from the grassy fields out of nowhere like some bizarre Brigadoon, and we come together to hug and ask, “How was your summer?” or “Did you survive the winter?”, we notice the absences. We learn of sudden and tragic passings and the reluctant confinements to homes and beds. But mostly we learn of the grateful grantings of rest. It’s a curious thing to have ones friends die so often. It forces me to let go of old friendships and make room for new. I’ve gotten quite good at it, sad but true.
This second family of mine threw me an engagement party, then a baby shower. They watched over my son as he toddled amongst the racks and hangers-- a bell pinned to his back so we could keep and ear out for him; watching over him as if he was their own—and took turns keeping an eye on him as he napped in his filthy stroller so that I could hang second-hand clothes. They bolstered me through my divorce and understood when I left Vintage under its pressures to work closer with my mom in the Household Department. They grieved with us when my father died—he had fixed radios in the Electric Department for eight years and then catalogued in Records for five. They fortify my mother and me even now.
It’s a parallel life I lead each Rummage Sale, and my family there is vast and warm. I love them because everyone’s just a little nuts like me. Most of them are good nuts; caring, hilarious and kind. There is the woman who takes home every bread machine and makes bread in it to test it, then brings in the warm, fresh bread to pass around before marking the appliance, “Tested – okay!” I’ve missed only three sales in eighteen years; when my son was born, when my divorce was imminent, and when I began my graduate school studies. This spring’s sale is taking place this weekend. I hope I’m there for fifty-one more.
Textile Tango
I enjoy winter’s deep, rich hues of charcoal, cranberry and plum, but I love swapping out my wardrobe for the giddy pinks and melons of spring knowing that setting up my back yard patio isn’t far behind. Turning the corner of the cushion aisle at my local big box store, my mood actually brightens at the wild patterns and crazy color combos that seem to be saying, “You survived another winter. Now lighten up and let’s boogie.” I imagine a career where I would get paid to sit around and design patio cushions; thinking about patterns and color combos all day. Sounds like heaven; sounds like fun. And really, how hard could it be? So, I asked a friend of mine, Janna Sendra, who is Director of Textile Development for a manufacturing company that makes outdoor furniture replacement cushions for big box stores what it’s like to have a job where you think about color all day. Turns out it’s pretty intense, incredibly complicated, and ultimately fascinating. But it aint easy.
Beginning in high school, Janna collected textiles—curtains, tea towels, scarves and such—because she was drawn to quality eye-catching graphics, interesting patterns and unexpected color combinations. In art school she took a class in weaving which inspired a Masters of Science in Textile Design at the former Philadelphia College of Textiles and Science. There she learned the science of dyeing and finishing fabrics, weaving and printing, pattern repeat, yarn strength and the properties of cottons vs. synthetics. Before graduating she began an internship at a third generation family owned and operated textile mill, which began making piano scarves in 1903. There she learned how to design for and weave patterns into jacquard upholstery fabrics and interpret design trends in order to create a line for furniture makers and high-end fabric manufacturers, and on what to base her insight on color and design.
It was at about this time that I realized I knew precious little about the textile design business considering its omnipresence. Because of our friends on TV, we feel intimate with forensic science and have convinced ourselves that we could perform an emergency tracheotomy should the occasion arise. We’ve logged thousands of hours watching home makeovers and miracle interior reincarnations, but do we have an inkling of what really goes into designing the fabrics that will grace the aesthetic elements that define our lobbies, offices, hotels, restaurants and homes? Did I even realize that it was a science? Not really, no.
“The real challenge is responding to trends in color and design, which is ultimately led by fashion,” Janna said. Textiles, interiors, paints, appliances, home décor, rugs, and car colors are all influenced by the all-powerful runway and shifts in the economy. The more permanent the item—like a couch or a car—the slower the trends are to turnover and the smaller the knee jerk reaction to fashion. But the irresistible throw pillow will reinvent itself again and again, luring us with its promise of newness and right now. The art and science of successfully pinpointing color trends remains a delicate balancing act based on history and previous sales. There are few long lunches in textile design, but there are very, very long nights.
Janna explained the nuances between different colors’ personalities the way one might describe middle school lunchroom cliques. Green is important right now and blue is getting a lot of attention. Red is always popular; it always sells. Orange, pink and yellow are more marginal, but proudly maintain an anarchic streak as accent colors. Blue/greens are their own category with teal making a big impression lately, and purple is very hot, very on trend. To most Americans, purple is a mystery; only Europeans and gay decorators can appreciate its lure.
More recently Janna learned to merchandise the fabrics for decorators, creating books of fabric themes-- or “color stories”-- for decorators and hotbeds of home renovation. She then became a buyer, and is now in charge of textile development, traveling to Taiwan to oversee print runs and the process of mixing UV inhibitors in with dyes for outdoor furniture cushions; the very cushions that lighten my mood when I turn the corner in my local big box store. “Color is very subjective and emotional,” she said, “it’s hard to predict.” But one thing is predictable: we will willfully allow ourselves to be seduced by a fresh take on an old standby. Whether it’s a new haircut or simply re-arranging the patio furniture from last summer, we strive to be relevant; we want to be now. I may treat myself to new patio cushions or more likely settle for the simple guilty pleasure of a single, fabulous throw pillow. Either way, I like my seasonal, emotional tango with color. It keeps me on my toes.
Beginning in high school, Janna collected textiles—curtains, tea towels, scarves and such—because she was drawn to quality eye-catching graphics, interesting patterns and unexpected color combinations. In art school she took a class in weaving which inspired a Masters of Science in Textile Design at the former Philadelphia College of Textiles and Science. There she learned the science of dyeing and finishing fabrics, weaving and printing, pattern repeat, yarn strength and the properties of cottons vs. synthetics. Before graduating she began an internship at a third generation family owned and operated textile mill, which began making piano scarves in 1903. There she learned how to design for and weave patterns into jacquard upholstery fabrics and interpret design trends in order to create a line for furniture makers and high-end fabric manufacturers, and on what to base her insight on color and design.
It was at about this time that I realized I knew precious little about the textile design business considering its omnipresence. Because of our friends on TV, we feel intimate with forensic science and have convinced ourselves that we could perform an emergency tracheotomy should the occasion arise. We’ve logged thousands of hours watching home makeovers and miracle interior reincarnations, but do we have an inkling of what really goes into designing the fabrics that will grace the aesthetic elements that define our lobbies, offices, hotels, restaurants and homes? Did I even realize that it was a science? Not really, no.
“The real challenge is responding to trends in color and design, which is ultimately led by fashion,” Janna said. Textiles, interiors, paints, appliances, home décor, rugs, and car colors are all influenced by the all-powerful runway and shifts in the economy. The more permanent the item—like a couch or a car—the slower the trends are to turnover and the smaller the knee jerk reaction to fashion. But the irresistible throw pillow will reinvent itself again and again, luring us with its promise of newness and right now. The art and science of successfully pinpointing color trends remains a delicate balancing act based on history and previous sales. There are few long lunches in textile design, but there are very, very long nights.
Janna explained the nuances between different colors’ personalities the way one might describe middle school lunchroom cliques. Green is important right now and blue is getting a lot of attention. Red is always popular; it always sells. Orange, pink and yellow are more marginal, but proudly maintain an anarchic streak as accent colors. Blue/greens are their own category with teal making a big impression lately, and purple is very hot, very on trend. To most Americans, purple is a mystery; only Europeans and gay decorators can appreciate its lure.
More recently Janna learned to merchandise the fabrics for decorators, creating books of fabric themes-- or “color stories”-- for decorators and hotbeds of home renovation. She then became a buyer, and is now in charge of textile development, traveling to Taiwan to oversee print runs and the process of mixing UV inhibitors in with dyes for outdoor furniture cushions; the very cushions that lighten my mood when I turn the corner in my local big box store. “Color is very subjective and emotional,” she said, “it’s hard to predict.” But one thing is predictable: we will willfully allow ourselves to be seduced by a fresh take on an old standby. Whether it’s a new haircut or simply re-arranging the patio furniture from last summer, we strive to be relevant; we want to be now. I may treat myself to new patio cushions or more likely settle for the simple guilty pleasure of a single, fabulous throw pillow. Either way, I like my seasonal, emotional tango with color. It keeps me on my toes.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
GRE 'n Me
Raise your hand if you thrill at the prospect of taking standardized tests. Yeah, me neither.
Recently I had the dubious-- and what I hope to be unique-- anti-pleasure of taking the GRE or Graduate Ridiculous Exam. I’d managed to worm myself through two semesters already with a near-complete application—minus my GRE scores-- and could avoid it no longer. After nine months of procrastinating—eschewing, if you will— I finally buckled down and began studying. I was fairly confident I would earn the minimum score in the verbal section, because I can use the word eschew with reasonable confidence as evidenced above, but the math had me up nights, so I hired a tutor; a stranger I met at Starbucks.
He was an hour and a half late to our first session but incrementally arrived sooner. The book I’d chosen to shepherd us through this odyssey was not “The Princeton Review” as everyone had recommended, but it’s lesser cousin, “The GRE Test for Dummies.” I chose it because it was funny and written by three women. Who better to escort me through my tenth circle of hell than three funny women? The first time I cracked the math section of the book back in August, I read the word “integer” and burst into tears. What were integers? The word teased me with its familiarity and yet, remained distant, elusive. I knew I should know it but having not been in a math classroom since my junior year in high school a hundred and fifty years ago, I panicked. Then I cried.
Now it was April and I was cruising through the book. When I didn’t understand something, I dog-eared the corner of the page and had my tutor walk me though it. I carried the book with me everywhere and even wrote a song incorporating all the formulas—rhyming “isosceles” with “if you please”-- so that I could remember them on the big day of the test.
Then an unlikely thing happened; the math began to click. I didn’t just know that the area of a triangle was half the base times the height; I could reel off its ratios as well. Not only could I compute the total surface area of a cylinder, but it’s wily volume to boot. I learned the degree measure of an inscribed angle, exponents and reciprocals, and the FOIL method became my friend. I welcomed primes and composites into my world, and developed a crush on Pythagoras and Pi.
But the week before the test I panicked again. There was still so much that wasn’t making sense. I should have started studying sooner; I would never pass. I hated math’s guts and resented my brain for not understanding with the ease of my tutor and the three funny authors. Other brains could unravel these problems with the simple logic of untying a knot in one’s kite string, but I just picked and stared then wanted to throw it down and go inside and play hearts.
I emailed my friend, Steve Simon, who is the Chief Poo-Bah of All Things Mathy at Oxford University in England—not his real title. I told him that I felt that math was mocking me and asked him to tell me something about her to make me like her; some embarrassing fault, perhaps, to make her seem vulnerable and therefore likeable. I also asked him why x to the zero equals one, just for kicks.
Steve wrote back that I shouldn’t feel threatened; “everyone fights with her,” he said. Math was a benevolent but tough mistress; “a goddess of such beauty that no Cleopatra, no Charlize Theron could ever hope to compare.” He wrote, “…she is fair and loving and when you uncover her secrets and understand them fully, she will reward you and smile upon you.” But he also concurred that she doesn’t give up her secrets easily. “Would anyone respect her as queen of the sciences if she were easy?” Spoken like a true math geek. Apparently it was the process that I had to embrace. He recommended that I think of math as a series of elegant puzzles, “an entertaining game, like Boggle.” He warned me not to attach my future worth to my math score and added that Einstein had math troubles, too.
So, armed with a balsa-wood clad memory for all the formulas I had to keep straight, I headed into the belly of the beast. The testing center was like a day trip to the pentagon. I had to present two forms of ID and sign a dopey contract promising not to aid or abet cheating, then put all my personal property—including jewelry and water bottle—into a locker. I was photographed then asked to empty all my pockets and pat myself down front and back. I pulled an elastic hair band and three throat lozenges from my front pocket and was told I could take in the hair band and one tissue, but had to leave the lozenges. Some jerk with a fake cough had clearly ruined the party for the rest of us by scribbling, “the area of a circle is pi R squared” on the inside of a wrapper and now I would have to quell my sore throat with my own spittle as balm. Oh, what sweet metaphor for life! I thought and stopped myself from shaking my fists at the heavens because I was pretty sure the test center’s fascist gatekeeper wouldn’t think it was funny. It was a very unfunny place.
The test room itself had all the creature comforts of a bank vault and housed a warren of cubicles, each with it’s own monitor and keyboard circa 1992. Although I came out of the starting gate raring to go, the creeps at GRE central sucked the wind out of my sails by making me take a non-optional, non-paid demographics survey for the first twenty minutes, then I wrote my two essays, took the verbal—yes, I knew the opposite of glib was not bourgeois—and finally arrived at the gnashing teeth of the math section. My pulse raced; my eyeballs tensed. I resigned to consider this foray not a waste of time, but a practice test. With seven minutes to go, I made a mad dash to solve functions and subtract like radicals. I didn’t belong here. I was a radical, too. The daughter of artists, I could fake tap dancing better than math, and math knew it. But I pressed on. I was a lousy tap dancer and terrible at math, but by golly, I was no quitter.
The clock ran out and the two and a half hour test of stamina, recall and misery was over. I opted to see my scores in the seconds that followed and was stunned to see the numbers. I made it! Not by much, but I had beat the minimum score. Shocked, I looked and looked again, silently intoning the numbers the same way I read no parking signs before turning off the engine. Then I began to cry-- silently. I couldn’t help it. I felt such relief. I was careful not to interrupt my fellow test takers, and used my tissue to mop the flow, but had to take a moment before getting up to exit. Seems this had been a bigger deal than even I had thought.
I sent my scores to my graduate school, which has now officially accepted me with the caveat that I take a summer math refresher or two. I emailed Steve at Oxford, thanking him for his Lord of the Rings-like advice and he congratulated me in earnest. He even took the time to explain to me why x to the zero equals one. I understood his elegant explanation more than I would have before, but its beauty still eludes me. Yes, I can look at octagonal paper plates at a birthday party and know that the average measure of one of their sides is n minus 2 times 180 over n. But I don’t. And I could eyeball a can of baked beans on the shelf and compute its volume, but I won’t. I’m going to give math some space for a while; a little breathing room will do our relationship good. Sure, it was nice getting reacquainted, I suppose, and I’m happy to see her thrive. But I’m doing just fine without her. And I’m content to read the labels.
Recently I had the dubious-- and what I hope to be unique-- anti-pleasure of taking the GRE or Graduate Ridiculous Exam. I’d managed to worm myself through two semesters already with a near-complete application—minus my GRE scores-- and could avoid it no longer. After nine months of procrastinating—eschewing, if you will— I finally buckled down and began studying. I was fairly confident I would earn the minimum score in the verbal section, because I can use the word eschew with reasonable confidence as evidenced above, but the math had me up nights, so I hired a tutor; a stranger I met at Starbucks.
He was an hour and a half late to our first session but incrementally arrived sooner. The book I’d chosen to shepherd us through this odyssey was not “The Princeton Review” as everyone had recommended, but it’s lesser cousin, “The GRE Test for Dummies.” I chose it because it was funny and written by three women. Who better to escort me through my tenth circle of hell than three funny women? The first time I cracked the math section of the book back in August, I read the word “integer” and burst into tears. What were integers? The word teased me with its familiarity and yet, remained distant, elusive. I knew I should know it but having not been in a math classroom since my junior year in high school a hundred and fifty years ago, I panicked. Then I cried.
Now it was April and I was cruising through the book. When I didn’t understand something, I dog-eared the corner of the page and had my tutor walk me though it. I carried the book with me everywhere and even wrote a song incorporating all the formulas—rhyming “isosceles” with “if you please”-- so that I could remember them on the big day of the test.
Then an unlikely thing happened; the math began to click. I didn’t just know that the area of a triangle was half the base times the height; I could reel off its ratios as well. Not only could I compute the total surface area of a cylinder, but it’s wily volume to boot. I learned the degree measure of an inscribed angle, exponents and reciprocals, and the FOIL method became my friend. I welcomed primes and composites into my world, and developed a crush on Pythagoras and Pi.
But the week before the test I panicked again. There was still so much that wasn’t making sense. I should have started studying sooner; I would never pass. I hated math’s guts and resented my brain for not understanding with the ease of my tutor and the three funny authors. Other brains could unravel these problems with the simple logic of untying a knot in one’s kite string, but I just picked and stared then wanted to throw it down and go inside and play hearts.
I emailed my friend, Steve Simon, who is the Chief Poo-Bah of All Things Mathy at Oxford University in England—not his real title. I told him that I felt that math was mocking me and asked him to tell me something about her to make me like her; some embarrassing fault, perhaps, to make her seem vulnerable and therefore likeable. I also asked him why x to the zero equals one, just for kicks.
Steve wrote back that I shouldn’t feel threatened; “everyone fights with her,” he said. Math was a benevolent but tough mistress; “a goddess of such beauty that no Cleopatra, no Charlize Theron could ever hope to compare.” He wrote, “…she is fair and loving and when you uncover her secrets and understand them fully, she will reward you and smile upon you.” But he also concurred that she doesn’t give up her secrets easily. “Would anyone respect her as queen of the sciences if she were easy?” Spoken like a true math geek. Apparently it was the process that I had to embrace. He recommended that I think of math as a series of elegant puzzles, “an entertaining game, like Boggle.” He warned me not to attach my future worth to my math score and added that Einstein had math troubles, too.
So, armed with a balsa-wood clad memory for all the formulas I had to keep straight, I headed into the belly of the beast. The testing center was like a day trip to the pentagon. I had to present two forms of ID and sign a dopey contract promising not to aid or abet cheating, then put all my personal property—including jewelry and water bottle—into a locker. I was photographed then asked to empty all my pockets and pat myself down front and back. I pulled an elastic hair band and three throat lozenges from my front pocket and was told I could take in the hair band and one tissue, but had to leave the lozenges. Some jerk with a fake cough had clearly ruined the party for the rest of us by scribbling, “the area of a circle is pi R squared” on the inside of a wrapper and now I would have to quell my sore throat with my own spittle as balm. Oh, what sweet metaphor for life! I thought and stopped myself from shaking my fists at the heavens because I was pretty sure the test center’s fascist gatekeeper wouldn’t think it was funny. It was a very unfunny place.
The test room itself had all the creature comforts of a bank vault and housed a warren of cubicles, each with it’s own monitor and keyboard circa 1992. Although I came out of the starting gate raring to go, the creeps at GRE central sucked the wind out of my sails by making me take a non-optional, non-paid demographics survey for the first twenty minutes, then I wrote my two essays, took the verbal—yes, I knew the opposite of glib was not bourgeois—and finally arrived at the gnashing teeth of the math section. My pulse raced; my eyeballs tensed. I resigned to consider this foray not a waste of time, but a practice test. With seven minutes to go, I made a mad dash to solve functions and subtract like radicals. I didn’t belong here. I was a radical, too. The daughter of artists, I could fake tap dancing better than math, and math knew it. But I pressed on. I was a lousy tap dancer and terrible at math, but by golly, I was no quitter.
The clock ran out and the two and a half hour test of stamina, recall and misery was over. I opted to see my scores in the seconds that followed and was stunned to see the numbers. I made it! Not by much, but I had beat the minimum score. Shocked, I looked and looked again, silently intoning the numbers the same way I read no parking signs before turning off the engine. Then I began to cry-- silently. I couldn’t help it. I felt such relief. I was careful not to interrupt my fellow test takers, and used my tissue to mop the flow, but had to take a moment before getting up to exit. Seems this had been a bigger deal than even I had thought.
I sent my scores to my graduate school, which has now officially accepted me with the caveat that I take a summer math refresher or two. I emailed Steve at Oxford, thanking him for his Lord of the Rings-like advice and he congratulated me in earnest. He even took the time to explain to me why x to the zero equals one. I understood his elegant explanation more than I would have before, but its beauty still eludes me. Yes, I can look at octagonal paper plates at a birthday party and know that the average measure of one of their sides is n minus 2 times 180 over n. But I don’t. And I could eyeball a can of baked beans on the shelf and compute its volume, but I won’t. I’m going to give math some space for a while; a little breathing room will do our relationship good. Sure, it was nice getting reacquainted, I suppose, and I’m happy to see her thrive. But I’m doing just fine without her. And I’m content to read the labels.
Sunday, April 10, 2011
Regrets
Why sleep
when I can write?
Sleeping's for sissies
I always say.
But I don't mean it
I know I should try
and would if I could so
out goes the light.
Then all my regrets
come bumbling in,
turn on the light and
make themselves comfortable.
Uninvited, one leans
on the empty pillow
facing me
with snide eyes
A couple more
begin to sit
at the foot of the bed
without decorum
I have to shift
my knees, feet quickly
An elbow jabs
me in the back
While others hover
with bad breath
and look at me
expectantly
Now who's the sissy?
one seems to chide
Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
the introductions go
They think they're more
entertaining than they are.
Don't you all have
a bus to catch?
Don't you have
somewhere to be
at three-eighteen
in the morning?
Shove off, bubs.
I have work to do
and you weren't so special
to begin with.
when I can write?
Sleeping's for sissies
I always say.
But I don't mean it
I know I should try
and would if I could so
out goes the light.
Then all my regrets
come bumbling in,
turn on the light and
make themselves comfortable.
Uninvited, one leans
on the empty pillow
facing me
with snide eyes
A couple more
begin to sit
at the foot of the bed
without decorum
I have to shift
my knees, feet quickly
An elbow jabs
me in the back
While others hover
with bad breath
and look at me
expectantly
Now who's the sissy?
one seems to chide
Shoulda, Coulda, Woulda
the introductions go
They think they're more
entertaining than they are.
Don't you all have
a bus to catch?
Don't you have
somewhere to be
at three-eighteen
in the morning?
Shove off, bubs.
I have work to do
and you weren't so special
to begin with.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
So Badly
The following is not a song about my ex. That would be too easy, too obvious, and frankly, he doesn't deserve to be enshrined in song and you, dear reader, deserve more. I will say, however, that my life has been long and a heart can be crushed in all manner of ways. So be mindful not to assume. Because when you assume, you make an assu out of me.
Hit it, Monty.
First I recognized its shape
the color, make and model
The first three letters cinched it and
my breathing slowed to shallow then I
peaked in all the cafes
I was mindful of my crusty, healing heart,
it’s depth and scope
This town’s too big for both of us
(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly
Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad
A block away I saw you
You looked good, were stepping lively
I slowed way down to watch you
then I willed you to please turn around
I hoped you’d fall in a sewer grate
of piranhas and hot lava then-I
scaled it back-to just piranhas
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving
You didn’t turn around cause you were
chatting with someone, she was a blonde
(Song stops)
Singer says to accompanist, “It’s always a blonde.”
He answers, “Pretty much, yeah.”
(Song resumes)
You smiled while you were talking
Your life is clearly perfect so I
hoped you would be eaten alive
by a boa constrictor
Then I dialed it back to just maimed
by a fire breathing wart hog
with rabies and bad dandruff
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving
I walked into the café
then spotted where you’d just been sitting
Your seat was still warm
You seemed so close but were so far
I ordered what you would have had
if we were still together
Then I changed my mind and thought fuck you
and ordered a BLT!
(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly
Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad
Hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad
Hit it, Monty.
First I recognized its shape
the color, make and model
The first three letters cinched it and
my breathing slowed to shallow then I
peaked in all the cafes
I was mindful of my crusty, healing heart,
it’s depth and scope
This town’s too big for both of us
(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly
Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad
A block away I saw you
You looked good, were stepping lively
I slowed way down to watch you
then I willed you to please turn around
I hoped you’d fall in a sewer grate
of piranhas and hot lava then-I
scaled it back-to just piranhas
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving
You didn’t turn around cause you were
chatting with someone, she was a blonde
(Song stops)
Singer says to accompanist, “It’s always a blonde.”
He answers, “Pretty much, yeah.”
(Song resumes)
You smiled while you were talking
Your life is clearly perfect so I
hoped you would be eaten alive
by a boa constrictor
Then I dialed it back to just maimed
by a fire breathing wart hog
with rabies and bad dandruff
‘cause deep down I’m forgiving
I walked into the café
then spotted where you’d just been sitting
Your seat was still warm
You seemed so close but were so far
I ordered what you would have had
if we were still together
Then I changed my mind and thought fuck you
and ordered a BLT!
(Chorus)
I hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
then I wanted to so bad, so badly
Hoped you wouldn’t see me
and then I hoped you would
I hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad
Hoped I wouldn’t see you
'cause I want you still so bad
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