Blogging on the road II.

There is a crazy person at the conference this year. This is not unexpected: our discipline attracts a certain number of these people. Because we are lazy about reviewing submitted abstracts, the moonbats are occasionally given a platform to speak. Because our discipline is mathematical, these presentations usually involve quantum mechanics or Einstein's Theory of Relativity.

Dr. Moonbat, unaffiliated with any academic or scientific organization, presented a poster last night. Most poster boards have an area of about 8'x4'. This was not enough: he had printed his poster on pieces of glossy stock, maybe 17"x11", and covered the surface of the board. Pieces around the side were affixed by their edges, so that they stuck off into thin air and encroached on the neighboring poster. Each panel had its own title: "Local Lorentz Symmetry," "de Broglie Equation." There was no presentation title, no abstract, and no conclusions. The panels were arranged in seemingly random order. If you read the panels vertically, the first equation encountered was (4); horizontally, (19). There were at least three Equation (19)s, each completely different.

Mostly everyone avoided Dr. Moonbat like the plague, but a few kind souls wandered by and asked about his research. Dr. Moonbat launched into his presentation with the fervor of a television evangelist. When he noticed me watching from a slight distance, he motioned me over excitedly, trying to draw me in. I absent-mindedly wandered away (behavior typical of those in my discipline).

Later that night in the hotel bar, I noticed him alone at the bar. He seemed pretty drunk, or maybe just insane. He tried to engage the bartender in conversation, and when that failed, he tried to enjoin a nearby table of tourists. It only required a few sentences for the tourists to realize that this friendly stranger had issues; they switched from speaking English to German in an attempt to get him to go away. It worked.

While there is a certain tragic air surrounding Dr. Moonbat, I don't feel too badly for him. He is gainfully employed. He could afford plane tickets and the hotel room to come here. He has a rich fantasy life. He has a hobby. We should all be so lucky.

Blogging on the road I.

I am at a conference in a large Canadian city. Getting to the conference hotel was a bit of a challenge, because there is a four-day festival of sorts and the downtown streets were packed with revelers. I was stuck on an airport bus for an hour with two "ugly Americans."

The ugly Americans were befriended by a city native, and one of the nicest guys I've ever overhead. He gave them a guided tour of the city as we slowly drove through the crowds. Upon hearing that the festival was celebrated with fireworks, one of them asked how Canadians celebrated the Fourth of July. It took all of my self-control not to lurch out of my seat and give him a dope-slap. The Canadian patiently explained about Canada Day; the ugly American seemed comforted that Canada Day falls on July 1 -- close enough to July 4.

I'm trying to think of how this week could be more awful.

I've been home for a few days. Does anyone have any hints for numbing the pain of hand-foot-mouth blisters? We've tried the Maalox thing, and it was not very popular. I just tried a Sucrets, and it was spit out with similar disdain. Before I try and talk the pediatrician out of a lidocaine prescription, is there anything else we should try?

Happy? Successful? Thin?

A recent post by Ianqui has me thinking about weight, body image and success for women in academics. As a rough estimate, I'd say about 50% of the young women in my field have had or are currently battling an eating disorder. Of my close friends and colleagues over the past decade, that proportion is staggeringly higher (like, all but two or three).

For example, one of my deans has a problem. This is common knowledge among all the women in the college. At official functions involving food she orders salad with lemons (no dressing). In the middle of the meal she excuses herself to go to the ladies' room, where she purges. She is painfully thin, and extraordinarily successful. Not only is she a dean, but she ranks among the top researchers in her department. She is in her early 30s.

I've been there, too. I am 5'9". In graduate school, around the time of my qualifying exams (and my divorce), I weighed about 95 lbs. I wore a size 2. I felt empowered and happy. Not having to eat made me feel strong and warm - a strange feeling that I've never been able to describe, but "warm" captures it as well as anything.

Then I met the Angry Baker, and he got me back into the habit of eating again. That's the stage at which I was: sub-clinical. Not eating wasn't yet a compulsion, but a habit I had developed. This habit was inconsistent with keeping an Italian lover whose favorite hobby was food. I was back up to 115 lbs within a few months of taking him into my bed.

My problems with anorexia are long behind me, but it's telling, I suppose, that even now I don't feel like it was a real "problem." I know that many professional women struggle with eating disorders. However, it seems as though the Academy has a disproportionate number. Perhaps it's just the social sciences, or my discipline, or maybe just me?

It's Monday.

What do you expect to find when you come into your office after a weekend? Maybe a precariously stacked pile of papers slid onto the floor? Your least-favorite student shoved a term paper (due Friday) under your door sometime between 5 p.m. Friday and 8 a.m. Monday? The custodian unplugged your computer so that she could plug in her vacuum cleaner? My colleague in the office next door once left her windows open and a squirrel came in and partied all weekend long -- what a mess!

But me? The last thing I expect is to see two big, brown, sagging ceiling tiles and puddles of brown tea on my desk. There are gooey, sticky puddles around my keyboard, mouse, and coffee cup, and my monitor is covered with brown "splash." All this in itself would be bad enough, but guess what was under those ceiling tiles...

...First editions. First editions of books by authors with names like "James," "Scheffé," "Student," and "Luce," many with the original dust jackets, dust jackets now hopelessly pasted together. Some were signed by the author. Some were given to me by the author, and some were given to me by other authors whose work I have admired and studied and who were inspired by these books. While they are still valuable to me because I know where they came from and I can still read the words, they are now worthless to anyone else who cares about books.

I can't even cry. I'm too numb.

Update: I spent yesterday afternoon assessing the damage. It looks like only two important books were seriously damaged. Two others had some water damage but not enough to make me cry. The three that were completely destroyed were my (my) undergraduate textbooks in my main discipline and Methods, plus a softcover on critical thinking.

I found this link, and spent a lot of time playing with paper towels. Unfortunately the two books I really wanted to save were printed on glossy stock, and it wasn't so much a matter of drying them out as it was getting the pages unstuck. I managed, but not without damaging a few pages.

I'm going to ask my chair about compensation. I read over the university rulebook yesterday, and I didn't see anything in there about liability.

In which I clean out my mailbox.

Messages from a statistics student, "Claire," by week:

Week 2: Hello! I am a student in your stats class. I have been very sick this week and missed both lectures. I know I have missed a lot but I was curious if there was any way I could talk to you and you could fill me in on what I missed or something like that. Please get back with me and let me know what I need to do. Thank you!!!

Week 3: I never recieved a syllabus because I was late the first day and I asked someone in class and he said it was on-line and that you did not pass one out??? I couldn't find it on-line anywhere. I am very sorry for the inconvienence, but I had to go to court on the day of the quiz!!! I can show you some documentation if you need me to. I am very sorry about all this. Thank you.

Week 5: Hello, I am in your statistics class. I emailed you about how i had to be in court so i could not take the first quiz. I frankly forgot about it until today when we took the second quiz. I think i still have my proof that shows i needed to be in court if you need to see it. I was wondering if there was any way I can somehow make it up. Please get back with me sometime soon. Thank you very much.

Week 6: Hello, I was wondering if I could stop in your office sometime and give you my proof that I had to miss the first quiz to be in court. I also wanted to talk to you about the class. Please let me know when a good time would be. I could do any time tomorrow, thursday, or friday after 3:00. Thank you very much!

Week 8: Hello, I emailed you a while ago about wanting to come in and see you. I need to talk with you about making up the first quiz because I have an excuse for not being there and I had a question or two about some of the information that was on the second midterm. Please get back with me with a time I can come in and see you. I am done after 3:00 every day. Thank you very much

Week 10: I am in your statistics class and I had talked to you about an excuse for missing the first quiz. You said you would excuse this quiz and average the grades for the last two quizzes. I just realized that I missed the second one because I was sick and the third one I was late to class because my alarm did not go off and so I missed that one too. I know I am very close to a D and was wondering what could be done. Please get back with me. It has been a very crazy quarter for me and there have been a lot of changes going on and it has affected my school work. I am sorry about all of this but thank you for you help.

You make the call! What was Claire's final statistics grade?

It makes as much sense as any other religion.

From The Truth (pp. 252-253), by Terry Pratchett (which I just finished):

      "What do you think happens to people when they die, Tulip?"
      Mr. Tulip was taken aback.
      "What kind of ---ing question is that? You know what happens!"
      "Do I?"
      "Certainly. Remember when we had to leave that guy in that ---ing barn and it was a week before we got to bury him properly? Remember how his --"
      "I don't mean bodies!"
      "Ah. Religion stuff, then?"
      "Yes!"
      "I never worry about that ---ing stuff."
      "Never?"
      "Never ---ing give it a thought. I've got my potato."
      Then Mr. Tulip found that he'd walked a few feet alone, because Mr. Pin had stopped dead.
      "Potato?"
      "Oh, yeah. Keep it on a string round my neck." Mr. Tulip tapped his huge chest.
      "And that's religious?"
      "Well, yeah. When you die, if you've got your potato, everything will be okay."
      ..."Even if..." Mr. Pin swallowed, for he was in territory that had never before existed on his internal atlas, "...even if you've done things that people might think were bad?"
      "Like chopping up people and ---ing shovin' 'em off cliffs?"
      "Yeah, that kind of thing.."
      Mr. Tulip sniffed, causing his nose to flash. "We-ell, it's okay so long as you're really ---ing sorry about it."

Scenes from the municipal pool.

I try not to be judgmental, but I have to wonder about mothers who tattoo "Fuck Off!" on their legs.

[Updated to avoid having to edit the plural from the title:] And then there was the mom with a perfect imprint of a man's hand in bruise on her upper arm. Her partner, whose hand probably matched the bruise, was covered with abrasions.

And then there are the women who stay all day at the pool. Their wrinkly hides are tanned a dark and evil red brick color. Again I'm trying not to be judgmental, but do you think they think they look good in that condition?

I suppose I should have titled this post "Skins from the municipal pool."

The Angry Kid comments on current events.

"Hezbol-LAH, Hezbol-LAH... Hezbo-BUTT, Hez-BUTT, Hez-BUTT... CHEEZE-butt, CHEEZE-butt... Cheeze-BOTTOM, Cheeze-BOTTOM, Cheeze-BOTTOM, Cheeze-BOTTOM!"

Why can't I eat my favorite foods?

Things that make my stomach hurt:^*

Avocado

Almonds

Banana

Cantelope

Mango^**

Peaches

I can't find any compound that these foods have in common. This situation really breaks my heart. I could live on bananas. And really, is there anything more sublime than an almond, if not a ripe peach? Is there any reason to continue living?

My physician has been singularly unhelpful, saying only that if it hurts I should avoid it. Gee, thanks. I was having trouble figuring that out myself.

I guess I'll always have butter.

^*Hurt? Well, how about double-me-over in pain because demons have built a campfire somewhere in the vicinity of my duodenum? A glass of beer sometimes helps reduce the nauseating burn a little, but frequently I just have to go to bed and not move.

^**Just to be funny, mango will also kill me. My last mango sent me to the emergency room, where I was introduced to I.V. Benedryl. If the hives hadn't crept over my genitalia and if I had been able to get air reliably into my lungs, I might have enjoyed the experience.

It's never too early to shop for Christmas.

I think it was Ianqui who first directed my attention to these adorable plush toys. These toys opened my mind to the exciting potential of acrylic fake fur.

Now Kevin tells me about the plush microbe. The Angry Kid will definitely be getting some of these. I think she'd really like giardia, and probably helicobacter pylori.

Hell, I'll just get her the whole set, and she can have Athlete's Foot, bad breath, pimples, and Epstein-Barr, too.

Why not toenail clippers, too?

I am proud to report that the Angry Baker and I spent less than $700 on our wedding, including the rings and my dress. Our rings are plain 22K gold bands purchased in the local Indian market. (They have a lovely rich color and, after all these years, a nice scratchy patina.) We catered a large party in our home, and the only thing we really splurged on were the cheeses. We had no wedding cake, but instead got an assortment of small cakes from the local Italian bakery.

We neglected to inform the friends and family invited to our nuptial celebration that we had in fact, after years of cohabiting, actually tied the knot. Hence, the only gifts that people brought were bottles of wine or six-packs of beer. We didn't have millions of thank-you notes to write for gifts we didn't want in the first place, and we didn't put our many friends still in graduate school under any obligation to spend money that they didn't have.


A good time was had by all, except the cats. They had to be shut up in the bathroom all day, after my mother-in-law caught them sampling the cheeses.

The Angry Baker and I still look back on that day with great nostalgia, and both of us can say without hesitation that it was one of the best days of our lives together. We have no regrets about how we chose to marry or celebrate our marriage. We also like to think that our friends and family remember it as one of the more joyous and honest wedding receptions they have attended.

So we were both stymied by an invitation to a cousin's wedding shower we received in the mail yesterday. Included with the shower invitation was a list of over half a dozen stores where the happy couple has registered their gift wishes. Their registry listings are endless. It must have taken them months to pick out all these items. They range from the usual, like specific dinner service pieces in specific patterns or towels in a particular color, to the bizarre and inappropriate. For example (I'm not making this up): a nose-hair trimmer.

My cousin's peculiar lack of decorum does not make us look happily forward to her celebration. Can the couple not see that asking for a nose-hair trimmer trivializes what should be one of the most important days in their lives? Or, if you want to get really pragmatic about it, how do they expect to word the thank-you note? "Dear Aunt Polly, Thank you so much for the nose-hair trimmer. Justin has always wanted a comfortable and efficient way to tame those tickly bastards, and it really does the trick. As we continue our lives together, throughout the years, we will always remember you and our special day whenever we use it."

We don't go to weddings any more. We were never very fond of the spectacle^* in the first place, and even back in our day the naked greed was often palpable. However, we had planned to go to this one. Now we're thinking we should just stay home. We have other cousins, nieces and nephews who will probably marry some day.


^*There was a brief period back in the '80s when going to weddings was a bit like watching stand-up comedy: that era when the happy couples believed that writing their own vows was ever so much more deeply meaningful than using a traditional program. One exchange of vows I witnessed had the groom praising his bride for her prowess in bed. Another had the participants (both eager graduate students at the time) describing how their union was going to make them much better teachers.^** Thankfully, the not-yet-married who were forced to endure these awkward sentiments and painfully embarrassing revelations managed to reverse this disturbing trend.

^**That marriage lasted less than 8 months. The couple who focused their vows on the bedroom instead of the classroom are still married. Hmm...

Is a good thing just around the corner?

I recently saw a beautiful short man in a coffee shop. (Note that I have never fallen in love with any man taller than myself.) I won't go into all the ways he could have made me weak in the knees, had the Angry Baker not so thoroughly weakened them already himself. He was mysterious, too: he pulled out his wallet to pay for his food and interesting sparkly hardware fell out, with "POLICE" prominently emblazoned above all the metallic bits and pieces.

The most exciting thing about him, though, were his big-framed glasses. The lenses went down below his cheekbones in a comforting '80s kind of way. Oh, I envied them so. Just think of all that landscape that could be devoted to my presbyopia correction! To be able to see, really see again, through more than the quarter-inch of lens at the very bottom of my ridiculously trendy narrow glasses!

If cool, hunky men are wearing big glasses, does that mean I can wear them again too? I promise not to half-tint the lenses pink.