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Thursday, May 29, 2003 ( 7:38 PM ) Girl Detective E.g. stands for exempli gratia. Thanks to Navtej Nandra, Duff and my British friend Chrestomanci for sending this. | ( 7:31 PM ) Girl Detective Recently at work I got a new office, with a door. Previously, I'd worked in a cube. This was a challenge, since I supervised a small group of people. If I ever needed to meet with more than one of them at once, I'd have to reserve a room. If I ever needed to speak to one of them privately, I had to reserve a room. Also, on a personal level, if I ever had to make a private phone call, I had to use a room. Once, when I was having some medical snafu, I got bounced from room to room before I could finish saying what the trouble was to the doctor's office. Now, though, I have a coveted door. If I need to have a private meeting, I can have four people in there. I can shut the door if what I need to say shouldn't be said in the open. And I can make sensitive calls when I need to. It shouldn't be so amazing how de-humanizing cubicle life is--Scott Adams has made a fortune describing that ad nauseum. But the increased satisfaction in my job since I've gotten the door is considerable. It's kind of pathetic, really. | Wednesday, May 28, 2003 ( 9:01 PM ) Girl Detective Self-tanner, take 2 What was I thinking? This morning, before work, I decided that I did have time to shave my legs and give the self-tanner another try. Bad idea. The supposedly 30-minute formula developed over the day, so I could slowly realize that I had almost no color on my calves, where I had tried to concentrate my attentions, yet very dark looking patches on the top of my feet and on the fourth toe on my left foot. Also on the left side of my right knee. My temptation is to apply more (if there is actually more left in my free sample tube) to the areas that I can now tell did not receive adequate coverage. I have deep suspicion that this is the wrong thing to do, but I will probably do it anyway. As the blog says, I'm a girl detective--I'm curious about things. I investigate them, rather than just being able to foresee things to their logical and unpleasant conclusions. I think I'm going to leave my feet alone, though. Toes are treacherous areas. | Tuesday, May 27, 2003 ( 6:41 PM ) Girl Detective For your edification I've written a few times about grammar and usage factoids that people often mess up or confuse. A regular example of confusion is i.e. and e.g. Many people think these are interchangeable. They are not. I.e. stands for id est, or "that is." The only reason I remember what it stands for is because I read a book called Mating by Norman Rush, in which it was spelled out frequently throughout the work. I loathed the book and would never recommend it. One of the annoying things was how often I had to look up words. I found Rush particularly pedantic and overly fond of the esoteric, i.e. rather smug at his own smartness. I.e. should be used to clarify something or to rephrase it. E.g., on the other hand, stands for something else that I don't remember because I wasn't clobbered over the head with it in a work of fiction. Whatever it stands for, however, it means "for example." Just because a book won the Booker prize doesn't mean it isn't annoying as hell, e.g. Mating by Norman Rush. Use e.g. when there is more than one example but you're choosing to list just one or two. | Monday, May 26, 2003 ( 9:30 PM ) Girl Detective Twin Cities make us proud My sister Sydney took time out of her crazy life to visit over the weekend and help with some baby preparation stuff, and I think the Twin Cities put on a pretty good show. I've been moaning lately about whether to move nearer to family, but here looked pretty good this weekend. Dinner at Origami was quite good, though the sushi chef had a rather too heavy hand with the wasabi. The quality of food and service, though, were quite good. A morning scramble with tomato, bacon and smoked gouda at Sweetski's was terrific. Sweetski's also has terrific eclairs, especially now that it's strawberry season. They're also the only place in town that I can get a latte that tastes like espresso and not warm milk. My husband G. Grod and I were shopping for a used car that was safe, reliable and could comfortably hold an infant car seat in the back. We saw some good cars at Rudy Luther Toyota in Golden Valley, but went with one at Luther's Hopkins Honda. We had a great experience, and if you're shopping for a used car in the Twin Cities, check them out and see Joe Harper. The newest steak place in Minneapolis is Ike's. They have great table-made guacamole, a gigantic shrimp cocktail, good burger and good fries. It's good food, done well and at good prices. We walked down by the Mississippi and were treated to the sight of goslings, ducklings and turtles on a gorgeous Sunday morning. I've avoided Pizza Luce for the most part since being diagnosed with a gluten-intolerance, and since being more observant about it since becoming pregnant. I took some gluten-free bread with me, though, and Grod and Syd had pizza, while the kitchen made me a Muffuletta sandwich on the gluten-free bread, plus cut up veggies so I could share the artichoke dip. I continue to be hugely grateful, and it was all great food. We had a late dinner at Restaurant Alma. While the food and service overall were great, standouts were the fresh asparagus soup, given a smoky edge by a couple grilled spears, and a tangy panna cotta with cherries. Yum. Alma is one of several restaurants that does fresh, mostly organic and local ingredients. They do a consistently good and inventive job. We put Syd on a plane this afternoon. Then I napped. | Thursday, May 22, 2003 ( 6:45 PM ) Girl Detective The worst job I never had I've mentioned the worst job I ever had, which was as a receptionist at a tanning salon. I did quit that job, only to find myself the next summer faced with finding another day job. I was between my junior and senior years in college, majoring in marketing. Reviewing the want ads, I saw what looked like the perfect job. It went something like this: Great marketing opportunity Seeking motivated individuals with good communication skills to work in marketing for an established company. Flexible, daytime hours. Pay up to $XXX per week. (XXX was something high at the time). Long-term career growth potential. Call Peter J. at (202) 555-XXXX. Wow, I thought, I can walk to work, it pays well, it's in marketing and there's long-term growth. So I called and left a message on the machine of Peter J. I thought it curious that his machine message did not mention the company, but being young, naive and full of hope that I'd found my perfect job for life at age 20, I decided not to sweat it. I wore a conservative grey dress to the interview, and as I made my way through the streets to the address I had noted, I came to a squat, plain building. Suite 108, where I had been directed for my interview, finally told me with whom I was interviewing. Electrolux vacuum cleaners. As my dreams of the perfect job evaporated, I wondered if I should turn around, or go in. Figuring I could use the interviewing experience, I opted for the latter. Peter J. was about 5 foot 4, dressed in a dark suit, with dark hair slicked back. He sat behind a cheap desk. On the wood-panelled wall was a poster of the front end of a Porshe 928; the license plate read Peter J. He told me all about the wonderful opportunities awaiting me with Electrolux, and how I would use my marketing skills to sell, door to door. He told me about his own career. I answered his questions, asked a few polite ones of my own, then exited as quickly as I could. Upon reaching home, I had a message from Peter J., offering me the position. I waited until the next day to call him back and politely decline. Eventually, I found a job as a waitress at a popular local restaurant working the day shift. I was a terrible waitress, but I made good tips and got to eat good food at a discount. The job had no long-term prospects, but after my experience at Electolux, I didn't much care. | Wednesday, May 21, 2003 ( 6:03 PM ) Girl Detective Self-tanning blues Years ago, after I finished my worst job ever (please see the December 17, 2002 entry. Sorry I can't link but the permalinks are screwed), I was forbidden my dermatologist to go out in the sun again. If I did, I had to be fully clothed and slathered with sunscreen. Aghast at the idea of spending life as a sunless creature, I explored the early generation of self-tanning products. Results weren't good. Most were orange (anyone remember Coppertone QT?) and those that weren't smelled funny and were challenging to apply. I had strange, darker patches around my knees, elbows and ankles. I was never brave enough to try my face. Body parts could be covered up by clothes. Not so my head. In the interim years, then, I've become accustomed to avoiding the sun. I try not to go out, and if I do, I wear protective clothing and sunblock. This year, though, the idea of self-tanners tickled at my consciousness. I figured more than a decade had gone by, so the technology had to have improved. I asked a few women at work for recommendations, then managed to score a few free samples of Clarins products, which had been universally praised. The other morning, I carefully exfoliated using scrubby shower mitts, shaved for further exfoliation, then applied the self tanner to my calves and the tops of my thighs. The formula was supposed to work in 30 minutes. I waited. And waited. And then I went to work. Over the course of the day, little developed. Apparently I needed to have applied the goo with a liberal hand. Instead, what I got were a few faint brownish spots on the tops of my feet and at my knees. Then the weather turned cool and I didn't have to worry about bare legs for a few days. But it's supposed to be warmer the rest of this week. Do I have another go, or give up after my first try? The latter wouldn't be nearly obsessive enough, so I'll be giving it another shot at my earliest leg-baring convenience. | Tuesday, May 20, 2003 ( 5:59 PM ) Girl Detective Yesterday's rosy mood gets killed Yesterday I was all like, gush, I love living in Minnesota, I was wrong to ever doubt that I should live here. Then I woke up this morning. Humidity had descended on the city and oozed its way into our apartment. I felt like I was breathing something solid, and my hair was exhibiting about four stages of frizz. As I ran about getting ready in the morning, I heard sirens blaring as emergency teams rushed to some rescue. Nearly ready, I started to make my lunch. Then the fire alarm in my building went off. Hmm, I thought. The last one was a false alarm. Does that mean this one is? Statistically, I know that one random event doesn't beget another. But still. If the fire detection system is on the fritz, then a second false alarm made sense. Should I continue making my lunch, or dash out the door for my life? Was my life worth a peanut butter and jelly sandwich on really crappy gluten-free bread? I decided to cover the bases. I finished making my lunch in case it was a false alarm and grabbed the latest copy of my novel in case it wasn't. When I got to work, I found out that the humidity had somehow triggered the alarm, and the sensors would soon be fixed to stop the false alarms. Today, the east coast is looking mighty good. | Monday, May 19, 2003 ( 6:20 PM ) Girl Detective Feeling Minnesota Over the past few months, I've been questioning our decision to live in Minnesota. We moved here around the time we got married, both for job reasons and to expand our horizons. I'd never actually visited Minnesota prior to deciding to move here. But our baby is due in August, and the draw of being surrounded by family and friends is compelling. After recent family visits, I wondered. Should we throw in the towel and move back east? This past weekend, though, reminded me of just some of the reasons why I'm glad we are Minnesotans. On Friday and Saturday, I attended a literature festival at the Loft literary center. In a beautiful building, I got to attend sessions with authors, editors, and other aspiring writers. I got to meet them, chat with them, have lunch with them. The Loft is a tremendous resource for both writers and readers and it's right here. While I was at the conference, my husband went to the food co-op. When he asked someone in the produce department about what pears were best this week, the man responded, "Isn't your wife expecting?" G. Grod said yes, and they talked about my due date and then the best pears. Yesterday, I went to see Down with Love with some friends. As we waited for the movie to begin, I noticed two other friends come in, and waved. After the movie, we met them outside and talked for a bit. Minnesota is far from both our families, but it is a a good culture for writers, and over time we've made friends here. We know people and people know us. I was glad to have this weekend, and its reminders of why we chose (and choose) to live here. | Sunday, May 18, 2003 ( 7:30 PM ) Girl Detective Ewan McGregor has been my boyfriend ever since I saw Trainspotting but there's been a little hiccup in our relationship. I just saw Down with Love. While it was pretty to look at, I found the film boring and rather annoying. I miss Cary Grant. No one can quite play that type of role like he did. Others tried--Jimmy Stewart, Gregory Peck. They have their films, I grant you. But still--no one can quite pull off goofy/charming/sexy like Cary did. Sigh. | Thursday, May 15, 2003 ( 11:08 PM ) Girl Detective Dammit, I think I sold my Hegel book, thinking that I never wanted to look at it again. Then I saw the Matrix Reloaded tonight and thought, hmm, I think this sounds Hegelian. But on my bookshelf: no Hegel. There's Heidegger, which I consulted again, and which a lot of the first Matrix reminded me of, but no Hegel so I can check whether I'm right. On other profound notes, I'm wondering if any of the freeway sequence was an homage to Keanu's Speed. Oh, and the fight scenes were really cool. | Wednesday, May 14, 2003 ( 6:12 PM ) Girl Detective Actually, I don't give a shit if this sounds stupid Several years ago, when I lived in Philly, I was a member of a women's book group. We did the usual thing--picked a book that a person or people were interested in reading, then met to talk about it, catch up on our lives and eat good food. Early on, I noticed that many of the other women would preface their comments with "This may sound stupid, but..." or "I don't know if I'm wrong, but..." The more I heard this, the more it bugged me, especially because what they went on to say was never stupid. This was a group of pretty interesting, educated people. So at some point I brought it up. I said that I couldn't imagine a guy apologizing for his comment in advance, and that I thought it was a negative sign of how we'd been socialized as females, so we should stop. I became the apology police for the group, stopping someone every time she said something of the like. I'd interrupt and say, "You're an educated, intelligent woman and what you have to say matters. Please stop apologizing for yourself." And I had to do it many times. At one meeting, though, someone looked around and said, "Hey, remember how Girl Detective used to make us stop apologizing for ourselves? She hasn't done that in a while. We've stopped apologizing." None of us could remember the last occurrence of that, and we all felt pretty pleased with ourselves. I continue to encounter women in my workplace who preface their comments with apologies, even in a meeting full of people. And sometimes I draw them aside after the meeting and tell them that I like what they had to say and that they needn't apologize for themselves. I know I can't stop all women for apologizing for themselves, but it worked for one book group, and I consider that one of my major life accomplishments, so I have no problem with maintaining the crusade. | Tuesday, May 13, 2003 ( 7:01 PM ) Girl Detective Family trips My dad was really into family trips when I was a kid. We owned a series of station wagons and vans that would hold our 5-person family plus a grandmother or two. When we lived in Virginia, we'd regularly drive to Ohio to visit my grandparents, always stopping at the HoJo's in Breezewood, at which my sisters and I would never be allowed to get any of the colorful toys in the vending machine in the women's bathroom. When we lived in Ohio, we drove down to Florida, to Arkansas, to Texas, to Colorado, to Minnesota. "Why can't we fly?" I'd whine with each new trip planned. My dad didn't believe in flying--driving allowed you to stop and see the sights and take pictures of them. The only way I survived my childhood was by reading in the car. Once when I was older, I had a stack of ten sizeable hardcovers from the library. Both my dad and a friend scoffed at the pile, but I finished them all during that trip. Hotels were a challenge. Our family of five usually required two rooms. Early on, I earned, then cultivated, the designation that I was a kicker in my sleep. This often meant my sisters slept in one bed and I got the other. When we had a grandmother along, though, this meant I always slept with her. And both of them snored. Badly. Family apocrypha says that on one trip when I was very young, I told my youngest sister Sydney that when she fell asleep the rest of the family would take off during the middle of the night. I can't remember doing this, but the story has been told so many times that it has become the stuff of legend, if only to explain my Sydney's (perhaps) irrational fear of abandonment. Eventually my family stopped taking road trips, sometime after I turned sixteen. My dad even sold the van. When I asked him why, he just shrugged. "Because you complained so much." Part of me felt bad for him. The other part, though, remembered the rough nights with snoring grandmothers, his unwillingness to stop at McDonald's on the road and the frequent stops. That part wasn't sorry at all. | Monday, May 12, 2003 ( 9:51 PM ) Girl Detective Coffee-table songs When I was a junior in college, I lived in a furnished house off campus with six other women. We threw a couple parties while we were there. We discovered that, given the right song, the coffee table worked nicely as a makeshift stage. One night an injured rugby player even donated one of his crutches for a mic.There were a couple songs that were guaranteed to get somebody up on the coffee table. "Scenes from an Italian Restaurant" by Billy Joel. "Summer Lovin'" from Grease. "Tempted" by Squeeze. My personal fave, and that of my housemate Kitty: "I Think I Love You" by the Partridge Family. But the one that was most universally loved? Meatloaf's "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights". The other weekend my husband G. Grod and I pulled into the parking lot of a coffee shop. Ever since I discovered my husband was evil, I only ever have coffee as a special treat. So I was anxious to get inside, plus we were trying to get on the road pretty early that morning. I was surprised, then, when he didn't turn off the car. We had the radio on, and it was playing "Paradise by the Dashboard Lights". Resigning myself to wait for the coffee, I joined him in singing along. Of course, we knew every word. Even the little background words, and exactly when to chime in with them. Aren't we pathetic? Yet isn't that the power of coffee-table songs, or whatever name you might refer to them as. That in spite of the passage of years, in spite of coming from different age groups and demographics(my husband is four years younger than I am, was raised in a different part of the country than I was and went to a different college, too) that they can inspire the common idiocy of putting off perfectly good things, like getting coffee, at least to listen to them, if not to brazenly sing along. I swear, we can be such dorks sometimes. | Thursday, May 08, 2003 ( 7:38 PM ) Girl Detective A few months ago, my husband G. Grod and I tried to use our frequent flyer miles with Northwest Airlines for our trip to Germany. We were surprised to find we didn't even have enough to travel in the off season. Either we'd been confused about the number of miles needed, or they'd upped the ante since the last time I looked. Either way, we were a bit peeved, though we did eventually find a good price and had a good flight experience on Continental. This morning, though, Northwest and our frequent flyer miles came through for us. See, my husband G. Grod's grandmother passed away yesterday. This was upsetting news, in spite of her having been sick for some months. There'd been some ups and downs, and we'd kept hoping for ups, as well as for the possibility that all the grandmothers would be around in August when our baby is due. She was a kind, funny woman and we're going to miss her. We got the news last night, and Grod priced flights--$1200 was the best he could do. Then this morning, he walked into the local Northwest office and used our more-than-adequate balance to book us two tickets with our miles. We're going to be able to be there with the family and it cost us all of $5 each. So tonight I'm feeling pretty good about Northwest and their frequent flyer mile program. It didn't come through when we merely wanted it, but it sure came through when we needed it. | Wednesday, May 07, 2003 ( 8:29 PM ) Girl Detective Normally I enjoy the geeky barbershop-esque camaraderie of the comic book store. It's easy to find people with common interests, get in short passionate discussions then go back to work. I forgot today that it's also easy to find oneself surrounded by dorks. Today I saw a guy I hadn't seen for some time. When I used to work in the shop, he and I would always chat about Buffy. I enjoyed talking to him because he and I didn't always agree, but still both enjoyed the show. I remarked on how disappointed I was in Buffy lately. He responded that he didn't find it so bad and we began to discuss. Then others joined our conversation. One told me, after I complained about bad acting and lack of continuity, that I was being too picky. Another said that this season was his favorite since season three. Trying to find some common ground, I did say I was enjoying watching Angel lately, and found it better than Buffy. A woman a couple feet away rolled her eyes. "Buffy kicks Angel's ass." At this point, I decided to retreat. It had stopped being about comparing and contrasting views with the person I knew--he and I had been having a fine conversation. All these other people had joined in, and they weren't saying things that made me want to engage. He and I made our way to the cash register, effectively ending the larger debate. I visited Television without Pity earlier this week and found great comfort in the recap of last week's Buffy. The recapper perfectly captured the frustration I feel with the bad writing, lack of characterization, vacuum of continuity and lame-ass acting. It was a relief to see articulate criticism that was both funny and smart--the exact opposite of the comic-shop barrage I'd just experienced. | Tuesday, May 06, 2003 ( 6:45 PM ) Girl Detective Tiny bubbles Every so often, for no apparent reason, I get a few little bumpy, bubble-looking things on my fingers. They itch, I scratch them, and then they go all gremlins on me--they increase in number. With prolonged scratching, the little individual bubbles merge into singular, larger ones. Then they take several weeks to go away.I've had a dermatologist look at them. I've had my dad, an allergist, look at them. Both agreed that it looked like poison ivy but wasn't, because it was too small and localized. Neither had any further idea what might be the cause. Both recommended cortisone cream, which hardly helped. So this time, I'm sucking it up and not using the cortisone cream, trying not to scratch and mostly succeeding. And the bubbles linger on. There's been an unpleasant wrinkle in this manifestation, though. The bubbles started on the knuckle of one finger, then appeared on the inside of another, and then popped up in a third place. The inside of my ear. I am in hell. But trying not to scratch, because I know that the hell will just go on. | Monday, May 05, 2003 ( 6:41 PM ) Girl Detective Fire! After our lovely three day weekend, my husband and I ate a simple dinner, watched some TV, then went to bed on the early side to be ready for work the next day.And at 3:35 a.m. the fire alarm in our building woke us. WOOP! WOOP! WOOP! Both of us responded quickly and calmly. I threw on a pair of overalls, recalled my bag containing my wallet, checkbook and PDA by the door, then rummaged in my drawer where I'd hid my engagement ring before our trip. I grabbed a coat and gloves on the way out, slipped into my clogs, grabbed my bag and waited for G. Grod, who for some strange reason was taking longer than me. As we exited the apartment, lights continued to flash, but the noise stopped. Probably a false alarm, but since we were up and dressed we thought it best to confirm. As we walked down the stairs to the outside, I asked Grod what had taken him so long. He replied with a question. "Where's your novel?" As I've mentioned previously, I am not the queen of backup. If I weren't married to a techie genius, my life would be much more difficult. "Uh, I have a relatively recent one at work." He nodded. "And I grabbed a copy of the most recent one." We made our way outside, then inside to the security booth to confirm that it had indeed been a false alarm. I was pleased with both of our speedy exits and reminded again that I need to back up more and keep a hard copy offsite. Yes, we probably should've grabbed our passports and marriage certificate, but I had the most important stuff: me, husband and baby inside. It took some time, but we did eventually get back to sleep. I have renewed resolve, though, that we should revisit our homeowner's insurance and get a little fireproof safe to grab on the way out. | Sunday, May 04, 2003 ( 8:19 PM ) Girl Detective Weekend getaway My husband G. Grod and I just returned from our last planned jaunt. As I've mentioned about a bajillion times, I'm pregnant and due in August, so we thought it wise to get our travelling done prior to my third trimester. We visited his family, my sister, my family and had planned a 4-day weekend earlier in April to visit the north shore in Minnesota. Then a sudden snowstorm hit and Grod wisely refused to drive a pregnant me six hours north in six+ inches of snow, so we postponed the trip to this past weekend for three days.I'd picked the place to stay based on two related factors--when we planned the original trip, many north shore places would still be closed for the winter, which would make finding places to eat rather difficult. Second, I'd heard many great things about a certain lodge known for its food, though it was further up than we'd gone on our previous two trips. Two things changed, however. One, by postponing our trip, more places opened for the season. Two, the chef who'd made the lodge where we were staying at famous had moved on. The food there was abominable, though our cabin was great and the staff was friendly and helpful. How bad was the food? The romaine in the salad had been cut, not torn and the edges were all brown. The salad was dressed with about 1/4 cup of a glutinous, out-of-a-bottle-tasting dressing that I had to scrape off. The cheese on the salad looked as if it came from a plastic tub. The tomato caper sauce that my fish came with was sickly sweet tomato sauce that tasted right out of a can with a few capers thrown in and then glopped liberally over two dried-out looking fish fillets that were chock full of bones. But the worst were the pesto mashed potatoes. The texture of the potatoes managed to be both mealy AND glue-y (which happens if potatoes are overprocessed, say in a food processor or a mixer). The "pesto" tasted nothing of the sort. My best guess is that they'd added a packet of dried herbs and food preservatives. The result was gray potatoes. We wisely agreed to skip further meals at the place we were staying, and instead made the trek into town. While it was a trek, there were both a great coffee place and a great restaurant open there. I can hardly imagine what it would have been like if we'd gone up through a snowstorm earlier in the month, only to discover that terrible food, then be trapped there for four days. I must admit that I did overestimate my reading capacity for the trip--I brought one more book and two more magazines than I needed. But better too much than too little, and I did get a lot of reading done. We also listened to David Sedaris' Me Talk Pretty One Day on CD, and it's well worth it, even if you've read the book. His stuff works perhaps even better as spoken word. | Thursday, May 01, 2003 ( 8:54 PM ) Girl Detective Synesthesia When you were in grade school, did your teachers sometimes give you random handouts and such to keep you busy while they ignored you or left the room? My seventh-grade English teacher did, and one time she gave out a photocopy of an article on synesthesia, a condition in which some people experience a blending of the senses--when one sense is stimulated, more than one responds. I recall being fascinated by this article about people who could see sounds in color and feel things they tasted. I was so engaged by this idea, and envious that I didn't have it, that I carted the memory around in the back of my head for years.Then I picked up the comic book Top Ten, by Alan Moore, Gene Ha and Zander Cannon (hi, Zander!). It featured a futuristic world where almost everyone was super-powered, and the Top Ten were the force who policed the city. It is sort of like superhero NYPD Blue. One of the cops had synesthesia, and while many of her colleagues downplayed her ability she ends up being pretty important in the end. If you too find synesthesia interesting, you can read this very interesting article on synesthesia from Scientific American that both my friend Blogenheimer and my husband sent to me. | |
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