tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-92168912024-03-18T21:56:00.773-07:00LaserLadyA Sophisticated Rhetorician Intoxicated By The Exuberance Of My Own VerbosityCindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.comBlogger148125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-43641971324973740682014-04-02T12:00:00.000-07:002014-04-02T12:00:03.321-07:00Italy -- Day 4 (continued)After leaving Vatican City, we hit a couple other points of interest in Rome, none of which I really remember too well now. But here are some photos:<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCk05dIe88UbGMGyjsBkV-0t13ntTfAp1PRo3ZH2qDpXoh8-ui8eyrLgK0-geEVa-QmpQEd1FtP-jGHNZ-N0CZWKflWZo4INJ5Ebj8lgLhLhj5Yhc2Tt6oxuYz_VnY_ScgpC3hFw/s1600/IMG_0235.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCk05dIe88UbGMGyjsBkV-0t13ntTfAp1PRo3ZH2qDpXoh8-ui8eyrLgK0-geEVa-QmpQEd1FtP-jGHNZ-N0CZWKflWZo4INJ5Ebj8lgLhLhj5Yhc2Tt6oxuYz_VnY_ScgpC3hFw/s1600/IMG_0235.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I really liked these flowers at a restaurant in one of the plazas.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITFf4p8QEwxFZOeSA-YBWPJNCjNJgYtvVP64B42olis4ZL5IbmvcN80yCrtE7NLlcwHOJ2tSj8sxSaKlXhOFm3ZDs9sue-VAzyYAPacv2ppuqrADfalXK_deELFxfc0yoMIhjew/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgITFf4p8QEwxFZOeSA-YBWPJNCjNJgYtvVP64B42olis4ZL5IbmvcN80yCrtE7NLlcwHOJ2tSj8sxSaKlXhOFm3ZDs9sue-VAzyYAPacv2ppuqrADfalXK_deELFxfc0yoMIhjew/s1600/IMG_0253.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Trevi fountain. I filled up my water bottle here -- well, at one of the spigots off to the side -- and it was quite good.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCcwdoN3zApXxf2vK9WtvJ47WLzkx0FUiK_N-1_Yp6BH0xhjbU5yKlonIv8wMNESKndLTtLr1l40DAHrDHDIW7UsuZz25tEodkDSEu2ZWRjqZiZqhp3y4_YXLVckvUyeMvqMKaWQ/s1600/IMG_0245.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgCcwdoN3zApXxf2vK9WtvJ47WLzkx0FUiK_N-1_Yp6BH0xhjbU5yKlonIv8wMNESKndLTtLr1l40DAHrDHDIW7UsuZz25tEodkDSEu2ZWRjqZiZqhp3y4_YXLVckvUyeMvqMKaWQ/s1600/IMG_0245.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The Pantheon</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuc1HG2j7DNOM-ptKd1EPfK2KUe2huXqble4vSTatawMbOWN8RWK8Ne56LyzE4IWZHzyyYD7VWzPDj3F43rM8nGix3KiZ_Kb4fv6H5YDvhyHHsMLJJuCctrFRtlt532hq9WQ8Fsg/s1600/IMG_0239.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuc1HG2j7DNOM-ptKd1EPfK2KUe2huXqble4vSTatawMbOWN8RWK8Ne56LyzE4IWZHzyyYD7VWzPDj3F43rM8nGix3KiZ_Kb4fv6H5YDvhyHHsMLJJuCctrFRtlt532hq9WQ8Fsg/s1600/IMG_0239.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We were all pretty tired by this point, so Heidi sat down as soon as we came inside. After a minute, I read the sign she was sitting next to and asked if she was making some kind of a statement. She hadn't read the sign, so she just gave me a confused look. But I was laughing too hard to take a good picture of it.</td></tr>
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Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-21248067568228907782014-03-30T15:05:00.001-07:002014-03-30T15:05:17.384-07:00Italy -- Day 4Our first full day in Rome was the day that I decided to be the one to make dumb decisions. Well, I didn't exactly decide to do so ahead of time, but that's the way it turned out.<br />
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I don't quite remember all of the chronology of everything that happened. Suffice it to say that at one point it wasn't clear whether we should go left or right to reach the main entrance to Vatican City. There was a great deal of pointless debating at this point. "Well, it's possible that we should go right, and if so, going right would be the correct approach. But it's equally possible that we should go left, and if so, going right would waste our time. So, which way should we go? & etc."<br />
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Finally, someone decided that we should try walking to the right. We went to the right and walked for a few minutes. At that point, we still hadn't reached an entrance. This, naturally, led to a great deal more debating. "It's possible that we just haven't gone far enough, or maybe we should have gone left in the first place. So we can either keep going, or we can turn around and go back the other way. How should we supposed to decide what to do now? Let's just keep talking about it and hope that suddenly we'll be able to make an informed decision even though we won't have acquired any more information."<br />
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I'm a pretty indecisive person, but I'm not this indecisive, and the dithering was driving me crazy. So I just started walking off in the direction we'd already been heading. The others called me back, saying that I couldn't leave until we'd all made up our minds about the best approach. I said, "You can decide. I'm just going to keep walking." And I did.<br />
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Sophie, bless her heart, could see that I was in a Mood and wouldn't be reasoned with. She could also see that the others weren't going to be happy either letting me go off by myself or following me without several more minutes of pointless debating. So she volunteered to accompany me, and she hurried to catch up.<br />
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Bless her heart even more, she never complained, even when it became increasingly clear that my way was very much the wrong way around. She made some jokes about feeling like Joshua walking around the walls of Jericho, and when I apologized for leading her astray like this, she said that at least now we could both say that we'd seen and walked around all of the outside of Vatican City. As it turns out, the entrance really wasn't very far back in the other direction from our original starting point, so we really did almost circumnavigate an entire country that day. As Sophie pointed out, our long, thirsty, and boring walk at least gave us something to brag about.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1A2D4WHzYsD09TyoYtgRh7XIu_vUW8-QrkftUVWp5CKO_GnI9g2qb0LkBD5UuO_LH4s07WpRqw_dUvyLK7xwk_hwGKJVeCfWLdKGWph-sbrU0YA2mVQv2UTgRRnQ2n3sq1JG3Q/s1600/IMG_0227.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhk1A2D4WHzYsD09TyoYtgRh7XIu_vUW8-QrkftUVWp5CKO_GnI9g2qb0LkBD5UuO_LH4s07WpRqw_dUvyLK7xwk_hwGKJVeCfWLdKGWph-sbrU0YA2mVQv2UTgRRnQ2n3sq1JG3Q/s1600/IMG_0227.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was after we finally made it back to the others, who'd been waiting at the entrance for about an hour.</td></tr>
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In the part of the day where we weren't taking very long walks, we visited the Vatican Museums. As I mentioned in my last blog post,
art isn't really my thing, but I dutifully looked at every piece of art
there. In fact, I looked at several pieces twice. Because so many
people want to see and spend time in the Sistine Chapel, they herd you
in one direction through that part of the museum. My first time around, I spent a few minutes looking around the Sistine Chapel, tried in vain to figure out what
was so impressive about it, and then went off to look at everything
else. I didn't mean to go through a second time, but I accidentally
ended up in the line again, and there wasn't really a good way to
backtrack from there. So my second time through was a speed run. Even I
was impressed by how quickly I made it through that time <br />
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I took pictures of almost every piece of art I found interesting:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEe3g9hwnpG4VWqmYeHvoFjDDnRxJ8vlTKYzfQXGHNvEaNaxGVd57ofb3RtiH6PCn3y6iac0fpBqhLuk-LQsvBtNLIQ-qXFHzG8pgXrJcQHJnEhmjyuDRk8soF5WfTBs0acSNq-Q/s1600/IMG_0180.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEe3g9hwnpG4VWqmYeHvoFjDDnRxJ8vlTKYzfQXGHNvEaNaxGVd57ofb3RtiH6PCn3y6iac0fpBqhLuk-LQsvBtNLIQ-qXFHzG8pgXrJcQHJnEhmjyuDRk8soF5WfTBs0acSNq-Q/s1600/IMG_0180.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This was a painted cabinet. It showed the same church we'd visited the day before, so that was cool.</td></tr>
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Yep, that was about it. The outside was pretty, though:<br />
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And the museum with the vehicles the pope has used over the years was also fairly interesting:<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzafdNkMV83au3NE6LRwqtvxeqwEJfyFL0pmVy7SzwZLaxfjp-gd5a-ygfOJIWl4EpXIo5Yktd3ofeDJo7ZMf7hS5JFBy6AsyDb1VTOawamot7dogkVOjVSezIg2A1FZPOkY4BBg/s1600/IMG_0190.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzafdNkMV83au3NE6LRwqtvxeqwEJfyFL0pmVy7SzwZLaxfjp-gd5a-ygfOJIWl4EpXIo5Yktd3ofeDJo7ZMf7hS5JFBy6AsyDb1VTOawamot7dogkVOjVSezIg2A1FZPOkY4BBg/s1600/IMG_0190.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">One of the older carriages.</td></tr>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The more modern Popemobiles with bulletproof glass.</td></tr>
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<br />There was also a small exhibit of gifts the pope has been given over the years from different countries, and that was fun too. This woman's coronet was manufactured in China during the Qing Manchu dynasty (1644-1991):<br />
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And an enormous headdress from Papua New Guinea (for scale, note the life-sized mannikin head and torso):<br />
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I also really liked this spiral staircase leading out to the exit. (Heidi, Steve, and Sophie are posing near the top.)<br />
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Then, of course, we had to take pictures in the main square where the pope makes his announcements and whatnot.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">As seen on TV . . .</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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I had an interesting experience here. At one point, everyone else was wandering around taking pictures, and I just wanted to sit for a while. (After all, I'd already circumnavigated a country earlier that day.) A group of male tourists were standing behind me talking, and I thought, "I wonder where they're from. Their accents sound so harsh and flat." <br />
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And then I suddenly realized that they were from Texas. I'd just gotten so used to hearing only British and Italian accents, at least from male speakers, that an American accent sounded foreign and strange to me. Once I realized that it was a Texas accent, it sounded normal to me, but that moment helped me understand why people say that American accents are harsh and flat.<br />
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That wasn't the end of our Rome day, but I've probably exhausted your patience even more than my pointless walk exhausted Sophie and me, so I'll end for now. <br />
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To be continued . . . Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-8323244891607536452014-03-16T18:23:00.000-07:002014-03-16T18:23:53.718-07:00Italy -- Day 3On our third day in Italy, we drove up to Rome in our rental car. We'd used a hostel website to get some good last-minute discount rooms at an interesting old hotel in Rome, the Hotel Texas.<br />
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It's a good thing I liked the hotel, since I got to see a lot of it for the next few hours. The hotel management needed to see our passports before checking us in, and Steve couldn't find his passport. The rest of us sat around the hotel for at least two hours while he unpacked and searched all his luggage. It was not the most exciting part of my trip to Italy. Mostly I sat around taking pictures of everything in sight, since there wasn't anything else for me to do.<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNjYWLMXCwUD-xwjv3mq8P0HJqj81HCQoYzzA2Gb6S30siUjIZoQNBST6OSTHy20-DCGg5jMtkctCMkPeHTMHhQK8_vmU9XS2oz9HcPCyNBPeXK5rEYEjo3gQKLFnUnAJvLD8lMw/s1600/IMG_0109.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiNjYWLMXCwUD-xwjv3mq8P0HJqj81HCQoYzzA2Gb6S30siUjIZoQNBST6OSTHy20-DCGg5jMtkctCMkPeHTMHhQK8_vmU9XS2oz9HcPCyNBPeXK5rEYEjo3gQKLFnUnAJvLD8lMw/s1600/IMG_0109.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our hotel room in the Hotel Texas.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocK1CyY4lLtpP2dlw2vk7kxeDPCKWjDI2Bue0h6ktsld5ScCXT8-ispXpHRhyXXniYKuEM5G-37vM-mDOk4-ZxzeJFZMvzasou8uuq6w4f4g4vcxa79KGXVqf_LNRRatky3MUZw/s1600/IMG_0111.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgocK1CyY4lLtpP2dlw2vk7kxeDPCKWjDI2Bue0h6ktsld5ScCXT8-ispXpHRhyXXniYKuEM5G-37vM-mDOk4-ZxzeJFZMvzasou8uuq6w4f4g4vcxa79KGXVqf_LNRRatky3MUZw/s1600/IMG_0111.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The police station across the street. (You can't really tell from this picture, but we could see the police officers walking around inside. I just didn't want them to notice me photographing them.)</td></tr>
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6aCCY2BE18W8ImPV25PIUn1Lz3c99QHKGOsffGvfwCAmLpLPYo-HJw2S0uaeBsFTn8NxShZYxYwHEBD-Mi2BHWhuyW4GEQE5h6a8ZIFHYJ2qccAydxU0S93FybrzuDsfdVDhVsA/s1600/IMG_0114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg6aCCY2BE18W8ImPV25PIUn1Lz3c99QHKGOsffGvfwCAmLpLPYo-HJw2S0uaeBsFTn8NxShZYxYwHEBD-Mi2BHWhuyW4GEQE5h6a8ZIFHYJ2qccAydxU0S93FybrzuDsfdVDhVsA/s1600/IMG_0114.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The view down the street.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifljbzojmAi2GZayI2qaDSZcNPVQTcsrqnS1b0ph32oTt41jAdjLpYkJgNRgDcRq7zKcyxtjLdDschDxNP-6WqzNUzVwGEIBIZ9m5UuYI-lP0k9kpV5_vzCfFWaXslm2yLHiXbMw/s1600/IMG_0113.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifljbzojmAi2GZayI2qaDSZcNPVQTcsrqnS1b0ph32oTt41jAdjLpYkJgNRgDcRq7zKcyxtjLdDschDxNP-6WqzNUzVwGEIBIZ9m5UuYI-lP0k9kpV5_vzCfFWaXslm2yLHiXbMw/s1600/IMG_0113.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">The painted ceiling in our bedroom.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnstMwT5aCqGGeZ5y2QecEqPPvbO6UxLfp3jCoHQMjlBVKUT6Db0NQiCRhCs4XB_AZRxKbH4wXVpodset96aPU3RgrccQ9ucjarbA8vJHKXLzIzq1r8j7t1RaJXf9WPVTyQtVsw/s1600/IMG_0115.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLnstMwT5aCqGGeZ5y2QecEqPPvbO6UxLfp3jCoHQMjlBVKUT6Db0NQiCRhCs4XB_AZRxKbH4wXVpodset96aPU3RgrccQ9ucjarbA8vJHKXLzIzq1r8j7t1RaJXf9WPVTyQtVsw/s1600/IMG_0115.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bored selfie.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIVoL0LitYbnpAwLFN9SXMZnZB3yLF45u36LOI2vZ1u_faJYcnco0zc9AgWtAcO9-m9IKuVs_tELqKh-2cnDcwrv7Hc7TrWuuhWfjwLCltu5UQkTCoooZTeqwCArwwozrjrCGKA/s1600/IMG_0121.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEheIVoL0LitYbnpAwLFN9SXMZnZB3yLF45u36LOI2vZ1u_faJYcnco0zc9AgWtAcO9-m9IKuVs_tELqKh-2cnDcwrv7Hc7TrWuuhWfjwLCltu5UQkTCoooZTeqwCArwwozrjrCGKA/s1600/IMG_0121.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">We really did wait around for at least two hours.</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjPtGzzOLz0cwyG6zj7fWws4BxfHoMe6AgikXE2LsI5S8FSxg4MxhEsLA_XjUm8IkUP201hyphenhyphenSwtoF6SZD9lE7l2mkfyGTyyyu2JH94JzK7gUGv9WkufMcEx-O0K9g5UWJed2p5w/s1600/IMG_0122.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjjPtGzzOLz0cwyG6zj7fWws4BxfHoMe6AgikXE2LsI5S8FSxg4MxhEsLA_XjUm8IkUP201hyphenhyphenSwtoF6SZD9lE7l2mkfyGTyyyu2JH94JzK7gUGv9WkufMcEx-O0K9g5UWJed2p5w/s1600/IMG_0122.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A detail of part of the painted ceiling.</td></tr>
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<br />
Steve eventually decided that his passport hadn't made the trip to Rome with us. He called our hotel in Naples, and they hadn't seen it
either. He finally decided that he might have left it at the car
rental place in Naples when we first arrived in Italy, so he decided to
drive the three hours back to look for his passport there. He asked for
volunteers to go with him. I was like, "Whatever, dude. This is your
problem. I didn't pay all that money to fly to Italy just to drive back
and forth between Naples and Rome for people who can't keep track of
their own things." Well, that's not what I said, but I'm sure it was rather obvious from my facial expression. These sorts of opinions usually are.<br />
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Sophie ended up going with him, and Heidi, Herb, and I decided to explore Rome on foot on our own. It was a little tricky figuring out what we should see, since we wanted to see something worth seeing but not something that we'd have to go back and see when the others rejoined us. We ended up going inside a nice Cathedral near our hotel.<br />
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Then we stumbled upon the non-photogenic backside of the Colloseum.<br />
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And we wandered around to the front to take some pictures there.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3UtZzbtU_j8xuK1QevGQMAO8ggd1v7ILuJwy_7NpCp03sOX83VM0nRmP3Uf2K_3dkKHMaeXkbwu0_5z2CroVdrvzZpJas65no4CLYmUa9Ev2PgU_Q0tYRtLBNV5g5Y4y5LpDEBA/s1600/IMG_0146.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3UtZzbtU_j8xuK1QevGQMAO8ggd1v7ILuJwy_7NpCp03sOX83VM0nRmP3Uf2K_3dkKHMaeXkbwu0_5z2CroVdrvzZpJas65no4CLYmUa9Ev2PgU_Q0tYRtLBNV5g5Y4y5LpDEBA/s1600/IMG_0146.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
We saw the missionaries outside of the Colloseum too, and we stopped and said hi. There was an Italian member of the church with them as well, and he said we should go check out this place:<br />
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So we did.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNPgIARYSaD0twrPpLB4N0EBEvNKmaXSNDnP6lc48xAgSKi61PnQ6OBivlhN047hyC0iefLugM_X4Msp5cfC3NhgpgIkZcJyBfybOiQKT9mMQVW4rnGJb5hwzk6-THtXABykpx-Q/s1600/IMG_0157.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNPgIARYSaD0twrPpLB4N0EBEvNKmaXSNDnP6lc48xAgSKi61PnQ6OBivlhN047hyC0iefLugM_X4Msp5cfC3NhgpgIkZcJyBfybOiQKT9mMQVW4rnGJb5hwzk6-THtXABykpx-Q/s1600/IMG_0157.JPG" height="320" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My halo isn't usually this obvious.</td></tr>
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Then our path led us to this church.<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcPtbfyhinbMaeXbl-n0Luj1HVrxO9ddb4wc2U6P8Ub0ClFSEwBopQB6JxkCUXTz4jMF26wEZRPRsh3x9vfdHOK7_sEP_ynUMLxIrDIh0tHyv-BkXsJLWTs4yZklm9RxpIrqtPpA/s1600/IMG_0159.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcPtbfyhinbMaeXbl-n0Luj1HVrxO9ddb4wc2U6P8Ub0ClFSEwBopQB6JxkCUXTz4jMF26wEZRPRsh3x9vfdHOK7_sEP_ynUMLxIrDIh0tHyv-BkXsJLWTs4yZklm9RxpIrqtPpA/s1600/IMG_0159.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><br />
There was a mass or something going on inside -- something that involved a lot of beautiful singing -- so we stayed in the back. But Heidi was taking pictures of the artwork, and this attracted the attention of one of the church security guards. Unlike what you might think, though, she wasn't in trouble. Quite the opposite. He told her that since she obviously appreciated art so much, she should come with him to take a look at something in the convent part of the church that was closed for other tourists. There was a chapel there with a mural painted by somebody or other famous. The security guard explained it to us as he escorted the three of us back there to take a look.<br />
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Now, I'm usually pretty apathetic about art, but I really like this place, especially the way the artist created the illusion of depth on flat walls.<br />
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All of the columns are just painted on the walls, which I thought was pretty nifty. Honestly, (spoiler alert!) I liked this place a lot better than the Sistine Chapel, which we went and saw the next day.<br />
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After thanking our friendly security guard profusely for the private tour, we walked down the Spanish steps and headed back to our hotel, where we were happy to discover that Steve had indeed found his passport at the car rental place in the Naples airport. And that was the end of day three.<br />
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<br />Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-23514428874271744882014-03-09T13:30:00.000-07:002014-03-09T13:30:01.035-07:00Italy -- Day TwoWhen <a href="http://laserlady.blogspot.com/2012/11/italy-day-one.html" target="_blank">last</a> we left off on our Italian adventure, <a href="http://laserlady.blogspot.com/2012/10/italy-part-first.html" target="_blank">my travel companions</a> and I had just headed off to our hotel outside of Naples for some well-needed sleep. I was extremely jet-lagged, having traveled there overnight from the U.S. The other girls had arrived from Great Britain, so they weren't nearly as tired as I was. I therefore asked if I could get the twin bed to myself instead of sharing the double bed with someone else. The other girls agreed. It seemed like a good idea at the time.<br />
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But then, in the middle of the night, I was startled out of a deep sleep by the sounds of someone running across the room screaming, while someone else yelled out, "Hey, it's me!" It turns out that one of the girls accidentally put her hand on the other girl's stomach in her sleep. At first she kept dreaming that it was a jellyfish [the other girl was a little offended by the comparison], but then she woke up enough to realize it was another person. This freaked her out, so she jumped out of the bed and ran across the room screaming. The other girl tried to reassure her by saying, "Hey, it's me!" But, as she realized soon thereafter, this wasn't particularly reassuring, given that they didn't really know each other. She finally managed to find the light switch, which woke everyone up enough to figure out the situation. Unfortunately, both girls then decided that the situation was deeply amusing. In retrospect, it probably was, but I was far too tired to appreciate it at the time, and I was quite grumpy at their continued giggling and repeated whispering of the word "jellyfish."<br />
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I finally fell back asleep, but I didn't get nearly as much rest as I needed, so I was quite grumpy the next day. This was unfortunate, since it turned out to be a day when I needed a greater reserve of patience than I could muster up in my sleep-deprived condition.<br />
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We didn't leave the hotel for about two or three hours after I got ready in the morning. For some reason, the guys took forever to get ready. This annoying to me, since I didn't really want to squander my limited time in Italy just hanging out in a hotel. Fortunately, we did have a nice balcony where we could sit and look at the beach. The beach turned out to be more interesting than usual, too.<br />
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I'm not quite sure what was going on, but there were horse carts like this constantly going up and down the beach. I think it had something to do with fishing. Whatever it was, it was interesting to watch.<br />
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Finally, the guys finished get ready, and we left for Pompeii. After we found parking, we set off for the ruins, which took a while to find. And we walked slowly enough that I had time to take pictures of random buildings on the way.<br />
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I think it was sometime in the afternoon -- almost 24 hours after I arrived in Italy -- before we finally made it to something I had actually come to Italy to see.<br />
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About ten minutes after we entered the gates, I decided that I'd had enough of slow people, so I set off to explore Pompeii on my own. The solitude was exactly what I needed.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQT189sVZTNvM_YTJd2MZTQorE2r0ZP1jaLabnKxlyEBhuz0r_KafdDOwCE8maBs2Kixv_ditZD-J74F9xUVU32g_z4B4SCXnoKU5hTipeJ5ypG0CJWl47tZ7975PJWGVJgYX37w/s1600/IMG_0083.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQT189sVZTNvM_YTJd2MZTQorE2r0ZP1jaLabnKxlyEBhuz0r_KafdDOwCE8maBs2Kixv_ditZD-J74F9xUVU32g_z4B4SCXnoKU5hTipeJ5ypG0CJWl47tZ7975PJWGVJgYX37w/s1600/IMG_0083.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a>I was also delighted to discover something that could probably use its own blog post -- the differences between traveling in India and traveling in Italy as a blond American woman. In Pompeii, nobody even gave me a second glance. It was incredibly relaxing and freeing to be able to wander around by myself without worrying about my safety and without ending up in a thousand photographs.<br />
<br />
Although I was thoroughly enjoying my solitary adventure, I started to become concerned when I realized that Pompeii is kind of huge, and I hadn't seen anyone from my group for at least an hour. I also had no way to contact anyone from my group. I didn't have a phone, and even
if I did, I didn't have anyone's phone number. I don't even know
Heidi's number, since it's just programmed into my phone, and she wasn't
using her phone in Italy in any event. I was also turned around enough that I didn't know how to make it back to the last place I'd seen them or the main gate or basically anywhere. As it turns out, I wasn't in the main ruin part of Pompeii -- I was back in the part where they're setting up a reconstruction of what it might have looked like in the past, with vineyards and all.<br />
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But, I decided not to worry too much about it, and I continued wandering around and hoping that I'd come across them somewhere. Finally, after about two hours, I did. They hadn't been too concerned about me either, showing more confidence in my navigation skills than was probably warranted. At any rate, I was now in a much better mood, and I didn't mind sticking to the group for the rest of the day. I also realized this that this permitted me to have some better photo ops.<br />
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We left the ruins as the sun was setting, then ate dinner at a nice-looking but rather misleading restaurant (one of the regular sneaky tourist restaurants in Italy where they show you one menu at the front but then give you a different, more expensive menu after you sit down).</div>
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And, with that, day two of my adventure in Italy was complete. <br />
<br />Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-14372157174510562732014-03-08T16:48:00.000-07:002014-03-08T16:48:06.383-07:00I'm back! (an updated blog post in Q&A format)Question: Cindy, what's up? Did you realize it's been more than a year since you last updated your blog?<br />
<br />
Answer: Yes, someone recently reminded me of how long it's been. Sorry! Many apologies to my faithful blog readers, if any there be left.<br />
<br />
Question: Are you ever going to finish blogging about your trip to Italy?<br />
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Answer: I'm planning on it. I've got a half-completed entry from a year ago that I'll try to update soon.<br />
<br />
Question: Do you think anyone actually wants to read about your trip to Italy?<br />
<br />
Answer: No clue.<br />
<br />
Question: What have you been up to recently? <br />
<br />
Answer: Well, besides the usual -- work, volunteering, church, etc. -- I've been playing the piano a lot frequently. Playing the piano is one of my daily tasks on the real-life role-playing game of <a href="https://habitrpg.com/" target="_blank">HabitRPG</a>, so I've got to play every day to get gold and experience points and to keep from losing hit points.<br />
<br />
Question: Anything else you'd like to tell us about HabitRPG?<br />
<br />
Answer: Absolutely. I love this game/motivational tool. It's perfect for a compulsive gamer like me. True story: I'm now going to bed on time almost every night because of HabitRPG. Actual real-life health effects weren't enough to keep me on a good schedule, but losing virtual hit points on an online computer game is enough of a motivation to keep me on track.)<br />
<br />
Question: Any other products or companies you'd like to plug while you're at it?<br />
<br />
Answer: Yep. PureTalkUSA, my new cell phone provider, for its $10/month cell phone service; Bar M Diesel and Automotive in Beaver, for its awesome and inexpensive break-down towing and repair services; and my favorite new charity, Unbound. <br />
<br />
Question: What's the deal? Why are you talking about companies you like instead of about how much you hate Gateway and United Airlines and Amtrak and the other evil companies of the world?<br />
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Answer: I guess I've had more positive than negative experiences with companies recently. Besides, sometimes it's nice to talk about things that I'm passionate about instead of things that I passionately hate. (Hi, Gateway!)<br />
<br />
Question: Why was this post done in question and answer format?<br />
<br />
Answer: To quote one of my favorite movies, it seemed like a good idea at the time.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-6660904090105578012013-02-26T22:19:00.001-07:002013-02-26T22:19:56.160-07:00refugee kids' take on history and political correctnessOn today's trip to drive my family of African refugee kids to tutoring, the kid sitting in the front seat noticed my library CD of Martin Luther King sermons, which prompted the following discussion:<br />
<br />
First kid: Is this Martin Luther King?<br />
<br />
Me: Yes.<br />
<br />
Second kid: If it wasn't for Martin Luther King, you'd be a slave, Hamadi.<br />
<br />
Third kid: It wasn't Martin Luther King who freed the slaves, it was Abraham Lincoln.<br />
<br />
Second kid: It was both of them.<br />
<br />
First kid: No, it was Harriet Tubman.<br />
<br />
Fourth kid: Yeah, she freed the most.<br />
<br />
[some further discussion about slavery]<br />
<br />
Third kid: And did you know that in 1942, you could be killed if you were Jewish? It's because Hitler hated the Jews. You know Jews? Like, they invest money and get rich from it, which is why Hitler hated them, so he locked them up. And then they only got one piece of cereal a day.<br />
<br />
Second kid: No, one piece of bread a day.<br />
<br />
Third kid: No, one piece of cereal a day. Actually, one piece of cereal a year. That was all they got -- one piece of cereal a year.<br />
<br />
Second kid: And one piece of bread a year too.<br />
<br />
Third kid: Yeah, that's right.<br />
<br />
. . . .<br />
<br />
[some time later]<br />
<br />
Fourth kid: I had this dream that all the black people were on a separate bus--<br />
<br />
Third kid: Dude, that's racist.<br />
<br />
Fourth kid: Okay, I had this dream that all the African-American people were on a separate bus . . . . <br />
<br />Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-984549853531268552013-02-11T00:01:00.001-07:002013-02-11T00:04:58.498-07:00Cindy Lou and the Mystery of the Disappearing EarringToday I demonstrated my superior talent for bizarre mishaps by losing an earring within a two-square-foot area in an almost empty hallway. I am, indeed, a master at what I do.<br />
<br />
After hanging up my coat, I was walking down the hallway in church when I felt my earring slipping off my left ear. (I don't have pierced ears, so I was wearing some comfortable screw-back earrings.) As soon as I felt it slipping, I stopped in my tracks. There was only one other person in the hallway at the time, a guy who'd been walking behind me, and he managed to change direction and walk around me without any trouble (although probably with some internal mumbling). <br />
<br />
I figured it would be a simple matter of grabbing the earring as it fell -- or from the ground if I didn't catch it soon enough -- and then putting it back again. If only things could be so simple. I wasn't fast enough to grab it, and I felt it fall completely off. And then it simply disappeared. I looked at the floor -- no earring. I broadened my search, in case it had bounced or something along those lines. Still nothing. Nor did it end up in my clothes or my hair or an open pocket in my purse. It wasn't anywhere.<br />
<br />
By this point, other people had come into the hallway and were undoubtedly wondering why I was standing in the middle of the hall basically performing a pat-down search on myself. I told a passing friend what had happened, and she and another girl helped me scour the floor. Still no luck. I went into the bathroom and shook out my sweater. Still nothing. My earring had simply vanished.<br />
<br />
After some brainstorming, I came up with three alternative ideas of what might have happened to the missing earring<br />
<br />
<b>#1: The Bilbo Baggins Theory</b><br />
<u>Hypothesis:</u> When I tried to grab my falling earring, I might have somehow managed to deflect it into the unknown passing man's clothes.<br />
<u>Possible Solution:</u> Challenge every man in the building to a game of riddles, in the hope that he'd be unable to come up with a riddle, would instead ask "What have I got in my pockets?," and would thus give me a perfect opportunity to astonish him with my guess that it was my missing piece of jewelry.<br />
<u>Problems with this Solution</u>: I might end up losing an awful lot of games of riddles before finding the right man. Depending on the stakes, this could be very problematic. And what if the right one knew enough riddles that he never got around to the pockets question?<br />
<br />
<b>#2: The Delayed Sensation Theory</b><br />
<u>Hypothesis:</u> My earring actually fell off before I got into the hallway, but my ears were so numb with cold that the message didn't reach my brain until I thawed out -- rather like text messages that arrive en masse when you get back into an area where you have cell phone service.<br />
<u>Possible Solution:</u> Retrace my steps back to the last time my ears were warm.<br />
<u>Problems with this Solution:</u> It rather feels like my ears haven't been warm for the past six years, and that gives me a lot of ground to cover.<br />
<br />
<b>#3: The Black Hole Theory</b><br />
<u>Hypothesis:</u> On its way to the ground, my earring was sucked into the same black hole that's responsible for the permanent disappearance of several individual socks, my California driver's license, my first birth certificate, and various other items that have mysteriously vanished over the years.<br />
<u>Possible Solution:</u> Hang out around washing machines and filing cabinets and other places that stuff tends to disappear from.<br />
<u>Problems with this Solution:</u> I might end up permanently disappearing into a black hole too, and even the presence of my socks wouldn't cheer me up then.<br />
<br />
<br />
So, after some serious contemplation, I decided that the possible benefit simply wasn't worth risks. Instead, I just had to resign myself to the loss of an earring. But if you happen to end up in the black hole of missing items yourself, please take a look around for a silver screw-back earring.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-66711309786321387912012-11-18T22:56:00.000-07:002012-11-18T22:57:29.363-07:00wrong answerOne reason I find social interactions confusing is that there are so many questions that have secret, pre-set correct answers. And there's no rule-book, so you've just got to figure this out on your own.<br />
<br />
Some questions only have one correct answer. For instance, if your mom says, "Cindy, would you like to help wash these dishes?", there's only one acceptable answer to this. You might think that you should tell the truth, since that's what your mom always taught you to do, but it turns out that you're not supposed to tell the truth in response to this particular question. [Well, you can tell the truth if you would actually like to help with the dishes, but I always had to either lie or give offense.]<br />
<br />
Another question that only has one acceptable answer is "Does that make me a horrible person?" Fortunately, most people only ask this question in contexts where the correct answer ("No") is also the honest answer. For instance, someone will say, "Last night after volunteering at an orphanage and helping twenty old ladies across the road and giving home-made afghans to everyone in the homeless shelter, I saw someone trying to hitch a ride by the side of the road, and I didn't pick him up because he looked crazy. Does that make me a horrible person?" This question makes you an annoying compliment-seeker and indirect boaster, but it does not make you a horrible person.<br />
<br />
I don't think I've ever heard anyone preface with question with something that might actually call their horribleness into question. I guess that makes sense -- most people don't actually want honest feedback, so they won't ask questions that might elicit a debate about their character. For instance, I could say, "You know, one time I intentionally hit a pedestrian because he was walking so darn slowly in the crosswalk. Does that make me a horrible person?" But I don't really want to know if you think this makes me horrible.<br />
<br />
Some questions allow more of a range of responses, but there clearly are still correct and incorrect answers, the correctness and incorrectness of which are independent of the truth thereof. For instance, guys often like to ask me what I like to do for fun. I really should be prepared for this question by now, but it still always catches me off-guard and makes me feel like I was suddenly given a pop quiz for a class I didn't even know I'd signed up for. And, unsurprisingly, I often end up failing.<br />
<br />
"What do you like in your spare time?" one guy asked.<br />
<br />
"Oh, I like reading and watching TV and just hanging out with my friends and family," I replied.<br />
<br />
"No, I meant things that are actually fun. What do you like doing that's fun to do?" he responded.<br />
<br />
He was an annoying guy anyway, so at this point I gave up on being polite and started being difficult instead. "Oh, I don't actually like doing fun things," I told him. "I just enjoy boredom."<br />
<br />
"You've got to like something fun," he said. "Don't you enjoy hiking or skiing or jogging or anything like that?"<br />
<br />
I don't mind hiking, although I hate the others, but I was too annoyed to concede even that much, so I told him I didn't like anything like this. <br />
<br />
"Oh I know what you like doing -- you like going on dates with nice guys like me."<br />
<br />
This got the response it deserved. Of course, this guy was obtuse enough that he probably thought my withering look was meant to be flirtatious.<br />
<br />
"And you like bowling and going to amusement parks," he informed me.<br />
<br />
"I hate amusement parks," I told him.<br />
<br />
"No, you must like amusement parks. Everyone does."<br />
<br />
"I don't," I told him. "I've got some bad memories at amusement parks." This was actually true -- I'd had some bad high school band trips to Disneyland where my feet hurt so badly that I just wanted to die, but instead I had to keep hobbling around all day pretending to have fun. But my date was unwilling to accept this answer, and instead he spent ten more minutes trying to convince me that I really do like amusement parks.<br />
<br />
Another guy took a somewhat more tactful approach -- in response to my list of apparently boring hobbies, he said, "Nothing active? I think you should go outside more."<br />
<br />
He then asked if I tried skiing or snowboard. When I told him no, he said, "Oh, you must go skiing. I must teach you skiing this winter." This guy has a thick Russian accent, so just imagine an 80s movie KGB agent trying to force someone to go skiing. It was pretty much like that. Good times.<br />
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<br />
<br />
I realized recently that part of my problem in social situations is that I value honesty and precision very highly, so I always try to come up the most honest, accurate answer possible, and only then do I use my social filter to figure out if this is also a socially acceptable answer. But this is an inefficient approach in social situations, since there's often little overlap between accuracy and social acceptability. I'd probably be much better at small talk if I could first think of socially acceptable answers, and only then subject them to the honesty filter, without worrying so much about coming up with the most precise, accurate answer. I'm not sure I can do this, though. Does that make me a horrible person?Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-58948695474372824502012-11-15T21:42:00.003-07:002012-11-15T21:42:40.273-07:00refugee kid conversation of the week<br />
Girl (while looking through a flipchart of American presidents): Hey, why don't they have Barack Obama in here? He's the only black president, and they left him out!<br />
<br />
Me: Oh, this is just too old to have him in it. It must have been published before he got elected.<br />
<br />
Girl: What?! But that was so long ago!<br />
<br />
Me: . . . I suppose it does seem that way to you.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-33552589606315757552012-11-11T14:18:00.002-07:002012-11-11T14:18:49.831-07:00Italy -- Day OneMy Italian adventure began with a 10:20 flight out of Salt Lake on a Sunday morning. I went from there to Minneapolis, from Minneapolis to the Paris Charles de Gaulle airport, and from Paris to Naples, arriving around noon on Monday. That's about the same time that my fellow travelers left from the London airport for their short flight to Naples. (Although my friend Heidi lives in the U.S., she'd been in Great Britain for a friend's wedding. That's actually the reason she decided on this trip to Italy, since she was already relatively nearby.)<br />
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<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Y-Q8Qo_Ltze521QbzheSWuWz22kTgXjsm5yhfW1HXXIiUbwyVvzRZ8FIWC9Wg_vKRYQkxcYOQcJxHCBhKdJmMJ25wIQzBqFw8nVI1kNNC3lJVZwSAwxvkY7wYSsUYyyIEa2XHA/s1600/IMG_0014.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0Y-Q8Qo_Ltze521QbzheSWuWz22kTgXjsm5yhfW1HXXIiUbwyVvzRZ8FIWC9Wg_vKRYQkxcYOQcJxHCBhKdJmMJ25wIQzBqFw8nVI1kNNC3lJVZwSAwxvkY7wYSsUYyyIEa2XHA/s320/IMG_0014.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">There are some good views on the flight from Paris to Naples.</td></tr>
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While this wasn't my first international trip, it was the first time I was alone in a foreign country. I was a little nervous about this, especially I'd heard that Naples is one of the more corrupt and dangerous cities in Italy. I decided that I'd feel safer staying back in the secure areas of the airport while I waited for about four hours for the others to arrive. It turned out that the secure area was just the baggage claim carousels and a few accompanying benches. But, I stuck to plan and fell asleep on those benches. After a few hours, I woke up to see two nervous-looking airport employees pointing me out to an armed security guard. He came over and asked me something in Italian, and I told him in English that I was just waiting for my friends' flight, which was arriving soon.<br />
<br />
You know, there was one time when I was in law school where I'd been on interview trips to California every weekend for the past few weeks. In the meantime, I was trying to balance a full course-load and law review responsibilities. As usual, on this weekend I hurried home from classes on Thursday afternoon, spent about five minutes packing, and ran off to the airport, making it there about thirty minutes before my flight departed. There were delays, and I didn't get in until late, after a tiring day of travel and catching up on a couple hundred pages of reading for my patent law class. Fortunately, the hotel restaurant was still open, so I went in and ordered dinner. I then sat there mechanically eating all of the complimentary bread the waiter had brought me, resting my chin on my hand because I was too exhausted to keep my head up otherwise. And then the waiter came out and gave me a very sympathetic look before handing me some kind of fancy appetizer made with salmon and caviar, "compliments of the chef." He pointed to where the chef was standing behind a nearby window that opened into the kitchen, and the chef gave me the same sympathetic look that the waiter had before smiling and gesturing that I should try the appetizer.<br />
<br />
I mention this story because the Italian security guard in the Naples airport gave me the exact same sympathetic look before telling me in broken English that it was okay for me to sleep in the baggage area until my friends came. Sometimes it pays to be so transparent that everyone can tell when you're about to start crying from exhaustion.<br />
<br />
Finally, the others arrived. Although I was still exhausted, I was eager to get out of the airport and actually see some of Italy. Unfortunately, that would not happen for a while. It was then that one of the main drawbacks of traveling in Europe with Europeans started to become clear -- they're just not as interested in maximizing every minute of their time in Europe. They haven't invested as much time and money into the trip as someone traveling from the U.S. has, and they can easily come back another time, while I figured this might be the only time I would make it out to Italy. So, first Steve spent about forty-five minutes slowly filling out paperwork at the rental car office, and then Steve and Herb spent a full hour examining every inch of the rental car to fully document all preexisting damage. And then they decided that it would be best just to go find our hotel in the outskirts of Naples instead of checking out the city itself.<br />
<br />
On the drive to the hotel, it became clear that the British and I had also arrived with different expectations of Italy itself. That is, I didn't really have any expectations, while they apparently expected it to be more like the parts of Europe they'd experienced before. Herb kept complaining about how dirty it was. I agreed that it was dirty, but it certainly wasn't any worse than the other foreign country I'd traveled to, so I didn't see it as being a big deal.<br />
<br />
Actually, on initial impression, Naples reminded me quite a bit of
India. There were the same kinds of trash piles on the sides of the
road, colorful laundry was hanging from most of the apartments, and the buildings showed
the same signs of having too much humidity and too little upkeep. <br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWoSLLyhBqwPXI-3JnEbJTm57YyM18dvj6L9CimU-35ZWzb2l-HEcFHt4JGEXNWU2K6V3b72dyovhB4jPKyW3gpTJ47X3qTUstmK4NQQRS4HcvJLNxxkiMQcbLAGQjwIm8WXzfjA/s1600/IMG_0017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="300" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWoSLLyhBqwPXI-3JnEbJTm57YyM18dvj6L9CimU-35ZWzb2l-HEcFHt4JGEXNWU2K6V3b72dyovhB4jPKyW3gpTJ47X3qTUstmK4NQQRS4HcvJLNxxkiMQcbLAGQjwIm8WXzfjA/s400/IMG_0017.JPG" width="400" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">I don't have any good pictures of the trash, but you can kind of see the
paint peeling off the buildings behind our hotel in this picture.</td></tr>
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<br />
<br />
Our hotel itself was pretty awesome, in my opinion. Sophie got a good deal on our rooms through hostelworld.com, and it was great, especially for the price we paid.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnk3cHipRM0XmAlMBkphRubGxAbR-txDid7Jmmlf6PULWB3cdtImwcBD2T2s5Y0l6dKpAFVipeO6LyY9LWJ_9eNeAAm1GSo9HvKA4ZvG3jPRQ3HNceXefLc7tF0z7lcAiX8JVnpQ/s1600/IMG_0035.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnk3cHipRM0XmAlMBkphRubGxAbR-txDid7Jmmlf6PULWB3cdtImwcBD2T2s5Y0l6dKpAFVipeO6LyY9LWJ_9eNeAAm1GSo9HvKA4ZvG3jPRQ3HNceXefLc7tF0z7lcAiX8JVnpQ/s320/IMG_0035.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hotel Panorama</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmD2Fw9ghiqFroAio6-AneFfO2BALdMGl7bWv5L-XHLn3yHHG-gMjWBFAiCf3sZDBx7UCRFjip25opgND9fLbqb1JMV4xH0_Ph36jfsu6iNYn6N1QCPZKgv2mmdLo4gZt1XnL4Q/s1600/IMG_0021.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFmD2Fw9ghiqFroAio6-AneFfO2BALdMGl7bWv5L-XHLn3yHHG-gMjWBFAiCf3sZDBx7UCRFjip25opgND9fLbqb1JMV4xH0_Ph36jfsu6iNYn6N1QCPZKgv2mmdLo4gZt1XnL4Q/s320/IMG_0021.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Our room</td></tr>
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The room itself was nothing too exciting, although it was clean and neat, but we had a balcony that looked directly out onto the sea, and that was pretty sweet.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkqHtLuXixd2xEfi6pZAKlZLginmkorDg3Wm4A2o3eOE5tKBCmi79OgyWDzh6crKZh4AODkkyDxmykm8Os6qkVgZIa1TkaecqKO-sY8mSGVo4iokTx78XbgmC-QAmuo9E3FMhfg/s1600/IMG_0023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFkqHtLuXixd2xEfi6pZAKlZLginmkorDg3Wm4A2o3eOE5tKBCmi79OgyWDzh6crKZh4AODkkyDxmykm8Os6qkVgZIa1TkaecqKO-sY8mSGVo4iokTx78XbgmC-QAmuo9E3FMhfg/s320/IMG_0023.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hotel balcony</td></tr>
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After enjoying the sunset for a while, we decided to drive back into Naples for dinner. Our hotel was about twenty or thirty minutes from the city itself, and then somebody had decided to go to one specific restaurant that was mentioned in a guidebook. Unfortunately, the guidebook did not include directions, and Steve's GPS device got confused by the narrow one-way streets of old Naples. We ended up driving around the city for more than an hour trying to follow the GPS device's contradictory instructions.<br />
<br />
At one point, Steve drove too close to the parked cars on the right side of the street (of course, he's used to driving on the left side of the road, while Italians drive on the right side). I don't know what damage he did to the other car, but he broke the side-view mirror on our rental car. So much for their careful examination of the car to make sure we didn't get charged for any preexisting damage. Some bystanders yelled at us to stop, but Steve kept on going. Although I suggested that we probably were supposed to stop, I didn't insist too hard that we go back. Still, this accident made it all the more baffling when someone suggested that we stop and ask a group of traffic cops for direction. Voluntarily contacting the police in a foreign city with a reputation
for corruption is not my idea of a good plan -- voluntarily doing so when you've just committed a hit-and-run seems like an even worse idea.<br />
<br />
Instead, the more sensible members of the group were eventually able to convince Steve that we should just give up on the guidebook restaurant and stop anywhere that was still open. We finally ended up eating at a cute little roadside pizzeria.<br />
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I thought it was quite good, although I was dubious about some people's choice of pizza.<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Yes, this pizza is topped with French fries and hot-dog pieces.</td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"> </td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><br /></td></tr>
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On our way back to the car, we walked past this cute church.<br />
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And with that, our first day in Italy was basically at an end, and we headed back to the hotel for some well-needed sleep.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-64462165550803888352012-10-28T21:14:00.002-07:002012-11-11T14:19:13.524-07:00Italy (Part the First)I realized recently that I got back from Italy more than a year ago. Clearly I've been somewhat remiss in blogging about this trip as promised. But, here at long last is my trip report. Well, the beginnings of one, anyway.<br />
<br />
My experience on this trip was shaped by the odd group of tourists who went, so I need to set the stage by introducing the various characters involved. Much like in the movies, we were a ragtag bunch of mismatched personalities. Unlike in the movies, we did not all learn to work together in the end, nor did we heroically die off one by one until only the male and female love interests were left. (And thank goodness for that, since I was not the female love interest in this story.) Instead, we just started ignoring each other more and more, until I gleefully escaped the others to spend my final day in Italy alone and carefree. But I'm getting ahead of myself here.<br />
<br />
First, there's me. I'm much too humble to brag, so I won't attempt to describe myself. :)<br />
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is me.</td></tr>
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<br />
Next, we come to my friend Heidi. Naturally, being my friend, she is interesting, perceptive, fun, and altogether awesome. The idea of this trip originated with Heidi, in concert with her British friend Steve. (Names of individuals may or may not have been changed to protect the grumpy. If anyone mentioned here ever finds my blog, um, I love you all, even if I don't necessarily want to travel with most of you again.)<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJvIaE9sKnn7IyNQCMmQhDLH8uELRvWKylMkOzVDEzHtWnhgwaAdhCXh7UZSWfOsNXHRqK9eaETyQ_bIMq2eDpiqGkkIupSBd4nnZ5yW1v3kT-Z3pdbtbeSG72zaW3X81A8nRK9A/s1600/IMG_0315.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJvIaE9sKnn7IyNQCMmQhDLH8uELRvWKylMkOzVDEzHtWnhgwaAdhCXh7UZSWfOsNXHRqK9eaETyQ_bIMq2eDpiqGkkIupSBd4nnZ5yW1v3kT-Z3pdbtbeSG72zaW3X81A8nRK9A/s320/IMG_0315.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Heidi (looking rather more two-dimensional than usual).</td></tr>
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Now Steve is an interesting character. He could be thoughtful, smart, and fun when he wanted to be, but he didn't always want to be. Also, he made the dubious choice of inviting two girls he had dated -- the aforementioned Heidi, and a British girl we'll call Sophie -- and basically attempting to use the trip as a girlfriend audition.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtOmMemPZ80KNL3ki74GzVZjS-VrJqTLAVVyN1iR94zZ0VCmy2ndi_iPrVkGwJrNtofQ3Js_fQCR3DoEZjvDexX8xNLTtciP5iVuulPUQJQsZDoiZV-8aCvXvxFB46bYeJoh55w/s1600/IMG_0292.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUtOmMemPZ80KNL3ki74GzVZjS-VrJqTLAVVyN1iR94zZ0VCmy2ndi_iPrVkGwJrNtofQ3Js_fQCR3DoEZjvDexX8xNLTtciP5iVuulPUQJQsZDoiZV-8aCvXvxFB46bYeJoh55w/s320/IMG_0292.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Steve. Actually, this is everyone but me -- Herb, Steve, Sophie, then Heidi in back.</td></tr>
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Sophie was a nice girl. Very nice. Sometimes too nice. The kind of extreme people pleaser who will agree with the last person to say something, even if it directly contradicts the last thing she agreed to. This could make it rather difficult to get a vote on something -- she could never be counted on as tie-breaker, since she always attempted to agree with everyone at once, no matter how impossible. She also had some anxiety problems, which would kick in when anyone seemed to be the slightest bit unhappy or when there was the slightest disagreement about anything. A really nice girl, but not necessarily the easiest travel companion.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNqsgW5rrf6ga_w3tduSNyjl7DwoFowFxB-k7d563gzzRIT7R6deKv5Ne4-rlwgKi_zyc3PNOu-WxBQOQtZLNpyuDqyxIg3tz6-n6AV4M3NubepU5f6IJF4ikZPB4Rna99QFUVA/s1600/IMG_0287+(2).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgiNqsgW5rrf6ga_w3tduSNyjl7DwoFowFxB-k7d563gzzRIT7R6deKv5Ne4-rlwgKi_zyc3PNOu-WxBQOQtZLNpyuDqyxIg3tz6-n6AV4M3NubepU5f6IJF4ikZPB4Rna99QFUVA/s320/IMG_0287+(2).jpg" width="217" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Sophie.</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Finally, we have the fifth wheel of our little group: Steve's friend Herbert, a London cab driver in his 50s. He didn't have the energy of some of the younger members of the group (i.e., his normal walking speed was about 1/3 of mine), and he also had a more limited budget. So, he often just sat outside while everyone else went into a museum or wherever we were going that day. He was also constantly disappointed that Italy wasn't exactly the same as England. "Why isn't there any decent food in this country? None of the restaurants even serve fish 'n' chips! It's always just pasta and pizza at every restaurant. And this isn't any kind of proper water pitcher, is it? Nothing like we see at home. And look at that bloke frowning at me right now. The people in this country aren't very happy, are they?" Herb wasn't a bad fellow at all -- he was usually considerate and thoughtful, and he'd always offer to help carry suitcases and such. Still, his Eeyore-like attitude toward Italy was rather wearing.<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHCD6Km21WouAmDVth_rzRd3cw1fW6Gq5s7hQ76CBDPGAVZH8LhZJf3F2vd9plX15JNR8fY35X3sNpJ6HnmdaYHU1lkJo_Ll0RaFwEGEprU2YwfC3p-nlsHmuUGEvvwy6ZLKDQg/s1600/IMG_0349.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjfHCD6Km21WouAmDVth_rzRd3cw1fW6Gq5s7hQ76CBDPGAVZH8LhZJf3F2vd9plX15JNR8fY35X3sNpJ6HnmdaYHU1lkJo_Ll0RaFwEGEprU2YwfC3p-nlsHmuUGEvvwy6ZLKDQg/s320/IMG_0349.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">This is Herb (and me, obviously).</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
So, there's our motley crew of travelers. Tune in next week for an update that might actually get us to Italy. And if there's anything in particular you want to hear about, leave a comment to let me know.<br />
<br />Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-793116286553308232012-10-21T20:38:00.000-07:002012-10-21T20:38:30.695-07:00old people and kidsSome devoted blog followers have asked about the disappearance of stories in the popular blog category <a href="http://laserlady.blogspot.com/search/label/old%20people" target="_blank">"old people."</a> There is a reason for this -- I've stopped volunteering with Aging Services, so I no longer hang out with the grumpy old lady I used to take shopping every Saturday. <br />
<br />
We had a falling out after I tried to support a store clerk in an argument about the meaning of "buy one, get the second 50% off." The old person thought the store clerk was trying to rip her off by charging full price for the single pair of eyeglasses the old person wanted to buy. My attempts to explain that she needed to buy a second pair to take advantage of the deal were unavailing, and she was still grumbling about my collusion with the dishonest store clerk when we finally made it out of the store thirty minutes later.<br />
<br />
The next week, I received an email from the volunteer coordinator asking to meet with me. She said my old person was complaining that I had tried to force her to buy a second pair of glasses she didn't want to buy, and the volunteer coordinator wanted to hear my side of the story. After I explained it to her, she said that she would just take volunteer services away from my old person for a while. She told me that I could either switch to a different old person, or I could take a break until I felt like coming back.<br />
<br />
<br />
I happily took the break -- and then I decided to make the break permanent. I realized, you see, that this was a very bad volunteering option for me. I don't like driving, I don't like shopping, and I don't like old people. [Well, in theory they're fine, but when they're perpetually grumpy and confused and racist and ignorant, I have a hard time exercising the necessary patience with them.] Probably I should have realized this before I agreed to drive an old person on shopping expeditions every week.<br />
<br />
I've now started volunteering with an organization that will hopefully be a better fit for me -- a group that provides tutoring help for kids in refugee families living here in Salt Lake. It's also challenging, but I enjoy working with kids more than adults. They're funny in different ways. Take, for example, this peculiar conversation I had two weeks ago (sorry, facebook friends, for the repeat):<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<div class="UFICommentContent" id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0]">
<span data-ft="{"tn":"K"}" id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]"><span class="UFICommentBody" id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]."><span id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[2]">Girl: Do you get mad at kids?</span><br id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[3]" /><span id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[4]">Me: No, I don't get mad at kids.</span><br id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[5]" /><span id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[6]">Girl: How about if I jab this pencil into your eye?</span><br id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[7]" /><span id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[8]">Me: Well, that actually might make me mad. But let's not test it out.</span><br id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[9]" /><span id=".reactRoot[45].[1][2][1]{comment4730564830063_65773992}..[1]..[1]..[0].[0][2]..[10]">Girl: You're so weird sometimes.</span></span></span></div>
</blockquote>
Last week this girl decided to switch tactics and go with bribery instead of treats: "If I give you this Skittle, will you finish my math homework for me?" I told her, "Sorry, kiddo, but I want you to learn long division a lot more than I want a Skittle." This clearly reconfirmed her previous opinion of my baffling weirdness.<br />
<br />
So, no more old people, but I'm happy volunteering with my refugee kids instead.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-58575799132989950942012-09-18T13:36:00.000-07:002012-09-18T13:38:02.031-07:00a more sensible clockI don't think alarm clocks are very sensible. That is, I understand that they sometimes serve a necessary purpose, but I don't think they're formatted very sensibly. Tired brains -- at least my tired brain -- need some context for the time to have any meaning.<br />
<br />
When I was in high school, I never managed to wake up to my alarm, and my mom would inevitably come up to my room and say, in her exasperated-by-trying-not-to-sound-like-it tone, "Honey, it's 5:15 now." Assuming I woke up enough to hear her, I'd think to myself, "Why on earth would Mom wake me up at 5:15 to tell me the time? I don't want to know the time. I want to sleep." Later (sometimes much later) when I was fully awake, I would realize that 5:15 was only fifteen minutes before seminary started, so, when my mom told me it was 5:15, what she really meant was "you only have fifteen minutes to get ready for school, eat breakfast, and get to the church." But that's not what she said, and my brain was too tired to supply the context and make this all make sense.<br />
<br />
The same thing happened this morning. When my cell phone alarm went off at 7, I thought to myself, "Why on earth is my phone ringing to let me know that it's 7? I don't care that it's 7. In fact, the last thing I want to know at 7 am is the fact that it's 7 am." However, being significantly less sleep-deprived now than I was in high school, I was able to stay awake long enough to figure it out -- the reason my alarm was ringing was because I needed to get up, since my co-worker was picking me up to go to the airport in an hour.<br />
<br />
But why can't an alarm just tell you that, instead of making your brain do all the work? I'm not saying I expect my alarm clock to be psychic or anything -- in fact, that would be rather frightening. But I don't think it would be too hard to have two inputs for an alarm clock: the time you need to be ready, and the amount of time you want to give yourself to do so. Then, when your alarm clock went off, it could just give you a countdown of how many minutes you had to get ready. <br />
<br />
Perhaps people would also be less likely to use the snooze alarm if, instead of just seeing a context-less time, they saw their time counting down. We've surely all seen enough movies and TV shows with countdown clocks on bombs that this would strike a little helpful fear into snoozers' hearts.<br />
<br />
Of course, there probably is an alarm that already has this function, but I don't understand why it's not a standard feature. It just makes sense to me.<br />
<br />
And if any of you ever have to wake me up in person, please keep this principle in mind -- I need more explanation than you might think. Don't just tell me, "Hey, there's a fire!" I'm more likely than not to assume you're talking about wildfires in Idaho. And if there's not a fire (or free icecream, or something else of equal importance), maybe you should just let me sleep.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-60970987932411945662012-08-11T09:59:00.000-07:002012-08-11T09:59:48.392-07:00Mormon JulietA phrase I've been using a lot recently is "Don't judge, but . . . ." Today's topic that I would like you not to judge me on is ldssingles.com. A few weeks, on a boring and lonely Sunday afternoon, I created a profile there. (Honestly, I mostly just wanted to see whether LDS dating sites are as creepy now as I remember them being the last time I checked, about twelve years ago. Conclusion: It looks like they've improved. I actually saw several non-creepy guys from my ward on there. Although I think they ought to just man up and ask girls out in real life, at least I know they're not creepers.)<br />
<br />
One service offered by ldssingles.com is a matching program that uses Science to find people who have compatible personalities and attitudes about religion, family, finances, which spouse should do the dishes, etc. As a firm believer in Science, I naturally had to fill out a profile myself. <br />
<br />
A week went by, and Science was unable to find anyone compatible with me. This wasn't too surprising -- I've always figured I was a <a href="http://theboard.byu.edu/questions/8759/" target="_blank">high-specificity, high-affinity person</a>.<br />
<br />
But then, I logged on and saw that there was actually a Scientifically Compatible match for me. I eagerly clicked on his profile -- and discovered that he lives in Australia. <br />
<br />
"So much for Science," I thought to myself. I am, of course, too cheap to pay for services on an online dating site, which means I can't send or receive messages. This guy, as a Scientifically Compatible match for me, is probably in the same situation <br />
<br />
If this were a romantic comedy, he'd probably internet-stalk me and then fly to Salt Lake to meet me in person, showing up on my doorstep and saying, "Hi, I'm [name redacted]. Do you believe in Science?" <br />
<br />
Or, even more probably, we'd both decide to fly to the other's continent, barely missing each other at the airport where we each coincidentally had a layover. After 90 minutes of wacky hijinks and near misses, I would be just about to board my flight back to the States when he'd get on the airport loudspeaker and make a cheesy speech, and then there'd be much running down long hallways while <strike>random extras</strike> other passengers clapped and security personnel pulled out their Tasers. <br />
<br />
This being real life, however, both my Scientifically Compatible match and I are (hopefully) too level-headed and non-creepy for such a thing to ever occur. As with all the classic stories of star-crossed lovers, it's the very things that made us compatible that are now keeping us apart. Even Science can't overcome Fate.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com6tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-39853938269437984022012-06-03T15:49:00.002-07:002012-06-03T15:50:07.101-07:00tears of a clownI'm glad to have a sense of humor -- I don't know what I'd do without one -- but sometimes mine can cause me problems. For instance, last week I was feeling very sorry for myself and just wanted to cry. But then I spotted my face in the mirror, and I looked so dramatically sad that I couldn't help laughing.<br />
<br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEBSeP9OXr9nrHzjDuYG8ctr52pWk3prCHOVU1hut2jsX9X5iXkt9tpAlKOUPmnTe-2mQOOd9HdmoC7K36coXdZP2sNLXEdHT_8LYK9z1yJjEweKLAQdkhMo3SQ6Ip7bVtFSe1w/s1600/Stan+Laurel+sad.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjXEBSeP9OXr9nrHzjDuYG8ctr52pWk3prCHOVU1hut2jsX9X5iXkt9tpAlKOUPmnTe-2mQOOd9HdmoC7K36coXdZP2sNLXEdHT_8LYK9z1yJjEweKLAQdkhMo3SQ6Ip7bVtFSe1w/s1600/Stan+Laurel+sad.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Except for the bowler hat, this is pretty much exactly what I looked like. </td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
I then said to myself, "Do you mind? I'm trying to feel sorry for myself here, and you're not helping." But this struck me as very silly, so I only laughed more. A sense of humor is always an unwelcome guest at a pity party, and this party was soon ruined.<br />
<br />
Of course, it's even worse to laugh at someone else's sad face. People tend not to like this very much, as I've unfortunately had cause to discover. But occasionally other people will laugh along with me. When we visited the maharaja's palace in Mysore, my sisters were looking very sad because our last meal was but a distant memory and the driver made us go look at the lights at the palace instead of taking us somewhere where we could get some food. I told my sisters to keep looking sad while I pulled out my camera, since I thought it would be fun to get a picture of their glum faces in front of the fairy-tale-like palace. India is a place of contrasts, and I thought this would be a good illustration of that.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPqiuGi1A8414V-l3v1HtVBoVYi5bue6lPiQPNJncF-C6o8ofaOip3eS8HDWtBr514ns_Gb6wXEeE95B2Bd_t_MWlwLGYJEImlo5HaEPnToIWJH_BSCOy1GiK8t6S_Hgssdh8mCg/s1600/India+036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPqiuGi1A8414V-l3v1HtVBoVYi5bue6lPiQPNJncF-C6o8ofaOip3eS8HDWtBr514ns_Gb6wXEeE95B2Bd_t_MWlwLGYJEImlo5HaEPnToIWJH_BSCOy1GiK8t6S_Hgssdh8mCg/s320/India+036.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
Instead, this is what I got. A good photo op ruined by an ill-timed sense of humor.<br />
<br />
[In the interest of full disclosure, I should point out that my dad actually took this picture of my sisters trying to look sad. The corresponding photo from my camera is probably adorning the walls of some Hyderabadi thief's home. (Okay, so it's possible he just sold the camera without downloading any of the pictures of it, but I don't see why thieves should be any less obsessed with pictures of foreign tourists than most other people in India seem to be.)]Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-23679796395783898662012-05-27T22:46:00.001-07:002012-05-27T22:46:57.369-07:00elementary, my dear WatsonI just realized that I totally forgot where I was going with my weird deodorant story a few weeks ago. The reason I thought about it was because I was recently watching a TV show where some detectives figured out that the female victim had a serious boyfriend based on the men's deodorant and razor they found in her bathroom. I laughed and wondered what mistaken assumptions a police detective might make about me if I ever turned up missing. In my case, the men's deodorant is in my bathroom as a souvenir of my San Francisco interview trip, and the men's razor is in my bathroom because the Gillette Mach 3 doesn't bother my legs as much as women's razors.<br />
<br />
<br />
I guess detectives who leap to assumptions make for better TV, but I always worry that real police will think they can do the same thing in real life. And in fact, they often do, which is one of the reasons why we see so many wrongful convictions getting overturned with DNA or other evidence.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-63429519708274192822012-05-09T16:17:00.001-07:002012-05-09T16:17:23.427-07:00deodorant and travel misadventures<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Many people collect souvenirs when they
travel. Some collect mugs; some collect decorative spoons; others
collect artwork. I collect deodorant.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This has never been an intentional
hobby of mine -- I've just historically been extremely bad at
remembering to pack deodorant. And then I always forget about my
extensive deodorant collection when I go to the store, so I buy new deodorant and don't use up the stuff I already own. My collection currently includes Arm & Hammer
deodorant from a Cheyenne truck stop, Dove deodorant from a Denver
drug store, and a Suave stick from a Southern California convenience
store. The most unusual item in my collection, though, is one I
picked up in the San Francisco airport.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
It was during my harried second year of law school, with its
incessant law firm interviews. On this particular interview trip, I
had only an hour-an-half between my last class of the day and my
flight, which gave me very little time to make it home from school,
pack, take the bus to the Metro station, take the Metro to the
airport, check in, get through security, and board the plane. I
managed to make the flight, but I unsurprisingly ended up forgetting
a few things, like deodorant and pajamas and a change of clothes for
the next day. (You may be wondering whether I traveled to San
Francisco with a completely empty suitcase. Be assured, I did bring
toothpaste and a toothbrush, my scriptures and journal, and my
interview suit and dress shoes. That may have been it, though.)</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
By the time I arrived at my hotel in
San Francisco, it was too late to think of looking for a store. And
there wasn't enough time the next morning either. I just hoped and prayed the law firm had good air conditioning.
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
The interview went as well as could be
expected. That is to say, it was a horrible five hours of attempting
to talk to people I didn't know about a job I wasn't convinced I
wanted. The lack of deodorant wasn't an issue. What did end up
being an issue was the meal at the end. Specifically, one of the
attorneys decided that he wanted dessert, mostly because the law firm
was paying for it, and he didn't care that I had a flight I needed to
catch that afternoon. Dessert took a long time to arrive, and the
attorney took a long time eating it. When we finally left the
restaurant, one of the nicer attorneys called the firm to tell them
to order me a cab. Unfortunately, the secretary called the slowest
taxi in the world to take me to the airport.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
About twenty minutes after I got back
to the firm, the slowest taxi in the world finally showed up. I
hurried inside and told the driver when my flight was leaving
(probably about an hour and fifteen minutes from then). She calmly
said, “Oh, you're probably not going to make it. You should have
called earlier.” She then started gossiping about something boring
that I wouldn't have cared about in the best of circumstances and certainly didn't want to hear when I wanted her to focus on her driving. A little while later, as we
slowly puttered along in the right lane of the freeway, I asked her if we could possibly
go a little faster. She tapped her long acrylic nails on the
dashboard clock and said, “Oh, your flight is leaving in less than
an hour now. You're definitely not going to make it. Why ask me to risk
getting a speeding ticket when you won't catch your flight anyway?” She then switched back to boring me about something inconsequential.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
We finally made it to the airport about forty minutes before departure time.
This would have been sufficient to catch a flight in St.
Louis. Unfortunately, the check-in line at this airport was relatively long,
and I'm not one to cut in line even if I have an excuse. By the time I made it to the front of
the line, it was 28 minutes before my flight, and that was too late
for me to get checked in. Even more unfortunately, this was
evidently the last eastbound flight for the next seven hours. I
finally got rebooked on a red-eye flight to Chicago that was leaving
after midnight, with a 9 am flight to St. Louis the next day.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
At this point, I realized that the lack
of deodorant might be a problem, especially since my clothing choices were limited to my uncomfortable interview suit and the rumpled clothing I'd traveled in the day before. While it's nice to have extra space at the airport, it's not so nice to have this space only because other travelers suspect that you may be a crazy street person who somehow wandered into the airport by mistake. I wandered the airport halls for a while, like the disreputable vagabond I appeared, before finally discovering a small airport shop that
sold deodorant. However, the person who stocked this shop had apparently bought into some kind of gender stereotype about women being less forgetful than men. Or perhaps this individual was the same kind of person who believes that clothing can be "one size fits all," and he simply didn't realize that women who forget their deodorant might want an option without an overwhelmingly masculine smell. Either way, the only deodorant option in the entire airport was very manly smelling deodorant. Still, this was better than nothing, so I
reluctantly purchased an overpriced stick of men's deodorant.</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
This led to a very disconcerting night.
As I uncomfortably attempted to sleep on the hard airport seats, I
would suddenly become aware of a very masculine scent that appeared
to be coming from just behind me. I'd look behind me in search of
the man who was evidently invading my personal space, only to realize
that I was the man, figuratively speaking. It was better than being
stinky, but it was still a very odd experience. Whenever I see my deodorant souvenirs, I remember my travel misfortunes of that day and night. </div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br />
</div>
<div style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
Maybe I should start collecting decorative spoons instead.</div>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-30031195629297215072012-04-25T21:20:00.000-07:002012-05-09T16:18:25.864-07:00relaxation (or not)For FHE on Monday, a guy who's getting a PhD in public health education led us through some meditation and relaxation exercises. One exercise, the "body scan," involved thinking about and feeling grateful for different parts of the body. He had us repeat to ourselves phrases like "I'm thankful for my brain. I esmile at my brain." [He's from Spain. I figured maybe the Spanish accent was the variable that would make this exercise work, so I repeated exactly what he said without Anglicizing the pronunciation.] Then he told us to think about how great the human brain is and all the things it can accomplish and so forth. We moved on to the eyes and heart and stomach, thinking about how great they are and repeating phrases about how we're thankful for them and esmile at them. <br />
<br />
He told us that he does this body scan every night before falling asleep. Thinking about his gratitude for various parts of the body helps him to fall asleep quickly and have a deep, relaxing sleep, he said. <br />
<br />
When I went to bed on Monday night, I thought to myself, "It's stupid, but I'll give it a try." So I feel asleep thinking about how great the brain is and how grateful I am for mine.<br />
<br />
I had troubled dreams all night about aliens abducting humans and removing their brains for research and experimental purposes. In the dream I remember most vividly, aliens wanted to implant portions of my brain into mosquito larvae to see what would happen.<br />
<br />
I watch too much science fiction to make a good hippy.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-41931561646488863312012-04-25T20:48:00.000-07:002012-04-25T20:48:14.293-07:00why I boycott Ace HardwareA man walks into Ace Hardware and asks where he can find plumbers' putty. <br />
<br />
"Right down aisle 12," comes the helpful response.<br />
<br />
A woman walks into Ace Hardware and asks where she can find plumbers' putty. <br />
<br />
"What kind of project are you working on, ma'am? Let's make sure we find you what you really need."<br />
<br />
Womenfolk, you see, can't be trusted to know what they actually need. A girl may tell you she's looking for plumbers' putty when she really wants a monkey wrench. All of these manly terms tend to get jumbled up in a girl's pretty little head, which is why Ace Hardware is there to offer assistance to all those poor misguided females who want to try doing a man's work.<br />
<br />
<br />
The final nail in the coffin of my customer relationship with Ace Hardware came when I was repairing my toilet. I had already hacksawed off the rusty old bolts and removed the toilet when I discovered that the toilet bolts I had previously purchased were too large to fit in the bolt holes in the floor. Since I was in the middle of the project, I decided to make to make a quick trip to my nearby Ace Hardware store to buy new bolts, despite my reservations based on prior bad experiences there. I soon began to regret that choice.<br />
<br />
When I arrived at the store, I could only see toilet bolts in the size I'd previously tried. The young male employee spotted me looking around for smaller bolts and came over to ask if I needed any help. I showed him the old bolt I'd removed from my toilet and told him I was looking for this size of toilet bolt. "Oh, the toilet bolts are right here," he told me, showing me the large bolts I'd already seen.<br />
<br />
"Those are too big," I told him. "I need this size." I again showed him the rusty old bolt from my toilet.<br />
<br />
"What are you working on?" he asked me.<br />
<br />
"I'm replacing the wax seal at the base of my toilet. I already tried that size of bolt, but it was too big for the bolt holes. I need this size -- this is the bolt that was on my toilet before."<br />
<br />
"No, if you need toilet bolts, you need to get the ones I just showed you. Those are the toilet bolts."<br />
<br />
"That may be the standard size, but those bolts don't fit. I need this smaller size."<br />
<br />
"Ma'am, these are toilet bolts, and they'll work for your project. Do you want me to refer you to someone you could hire to repair your toilet for you? It sounds like you're having trouble doing it yourself."<br />
<br />
"All I need is some help finding the right size of bolt. I removed this bolt from my toilet earlier, so I know it'll work."<br />
<br />
"You must be mistaken. A toilet bolt would never be this short. Let me explain how this works. You see, the toilet bolt has to go through the base of the toilet to attach the toilet to the ground, so it needs to be longer than this." <br />
<br />
"Yes, I know. The reason this bolt appears short is because I hacksawed it off my toilet earlier. What I need is a bolt that has this diameter. The ones you've shown me are too big diameter-wise to fit in the bolt holes in my floor."<br />
<br />
"No, these bolts will fit into toilet bolt holes. Are you sure we're talking about a toilet here? You seem to be confused."<br />
<br />
"Look, will you please just show me where I can find this size bolt -- and by that I mean a bolt with this diameter. If I turn out to be mistaken, I'll come back and buy the bolts you think I need."<br />
<br />
At this point, the employee apparently realized that there is just no reasoning with irrational females, so he decided to humor me and look around, although not without some loud sighs at my evident stupidity. Finally, he discovered a smaller diameter of toilet bolts tucked away on some obscure shelf.<br />
<br />
"Okay, I suppose these look like the same width, although they're not as short as the one you seem to be looking for. Is this what you think will work?"<br />
<br />
I politely and insincerely thanked him and left for the check-out stand, but not without receiving yet another suggestion that I should hire someone who knew what he was doing to take care of this repair job for me. I then went home and finished the project without incident, with the help of a female friend of mine.<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
<br />
When I told one friend this story, he commented that this employee's real problem appeared to be idiocy, not chauvinism. I'll concede that this individual was an idiot, but I certainly don't think idiocy and chauvinism are mutually exclusive. At Ace Hardware, you can experience both. <br />
<br />
<br />
Disclaimer: Maybe my local Ace Hardware store is anomalous. Maybe the downtown Salt Lake City store is the only one in the country where they've had the misfortune of hiring a whole passel of male chauvinists. I don't know, but my local store has annoyed me enough that I don't care to find out. <br />
<br />
Disclaimer the second: There was one time when I went to my local Ace Hardware store and the employee who helped me was extremely helpful and not at all chauvinistic or patronizing. But the rest of the employees I've encountered there on various occasions have treated me in a very different way than they've treated the male customers who were in the store at the same time. So, I'm not saying that every single Ace Hardware employee is a chauvinist. Just most of them.<br />
<br />Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-56007702628256762952012-03-04T16:55:00.004-07:002012-03-04T17:47:53.085-07:00dream a little dreamMy dreams can really throw me sometimes. I'll wake up feeling incredibly guilty and wondering, "Why on earth did I cheat on my taxes/steal that train/kidnap that baby/let the aliens onto the spaceship? I'm such an idiot!" It'll take a few moments for me to realize that I'm not actually headed for life in prison (or death by aliens, as the case may be). <br /><br />I've recently had some success with figuring out that I'm dreaming before I reach the disorienting waking-up point. When things start straying from normality, I try to remember to ask myself (1) whether this seems like something I'd be likely to do and (2) whether I can remember the events that led me to this point, or whether the memory instead seems to start <span style="font-style: italic;">in media res</span>. If I decide that I'm probably dreaming, I test my theory by attempting to wake myself up. Of course, while this approach helps with the unnecessary guilt, it's more disruptive of my sleep. Last week, I woke myself up twice in the middle in the same night because my dreams were so implausible: I kept dreaming that I was un-self-consciously flirting with random guys, and I knew that couldn't possibly be right. Sure enough, I always woke up when I questioned the plausibility of this scenario. (I told my friend this, and she thought it was both hilarious and very sad. She's probably right.)<br /><br />And sometimes my subconsious gets tricky on me. I recently had a dream that I somehow got mixed up with a Chinese spy ring. I went on the run, while the Chinese agents tried to track me down and kill me before I could spill their secrets. And then I suddenly realized, "Wait a minute, this all seems like somewhat unlikely." Sure enough, I immediately woke up. I then ate breakfast and went to work, where I told my co-worker about my dream and how glad I was that I wasn't actually being chased by Chinese spies in real life. Just then, my cell phone starting ringing. When I opened it, Chinese characters appeared on the screen, and I heard a voice saying, "Ni hao" over and over again (probably because those are the only Chinese words my subconscious could come up with). For a minute, I thought, "Oh no! That wasn't a dream after all! I need to contact MI-5!" (Hey, I watch more British spy shows than American ones.) But then I realized again that this scenario was just not plausible, so I attempted to wake myself up for the second time. It worked, and this time things stayed normal after I woke up. At least, so far they've seemed normal. If I start hankering to steal another train, though, I'm going to try to wake up again.<br /><br />P.S. Diligent followers of this blog may note that this is <a href="http://laserlady.blogspot.com/2008/03/what-dreams-may-come.html?showComment=1206748860000#c1605876373235164118">not the first time </a>I've had a dream within a dream (but not the marriage kind) in which I dreamed that I told my co-worker about a dream, only to discover that it had really happened. Apparently my subconscious thinks this is funny. I disagree.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-17833419139428190802012-02-07T22:08:00.005-07:002012-02-07T23:03:19.723-07:00call someone who caresDear Bank of America,<br /><br />It may surprise you to hear this, but I actually know how to use a credit card. In fact, I manage to use my very own Bank of America credit card several times a month without any difficulties. I pay the bill every month too, and I've redeemed cash rewards on multiple occasions. So, it's really not necessary for you to call me every three weeks to explain how my credit card works. Perhaps you have some customers who forget such things in the course of a few weeks (although I question the wisdom of letting Alzheimer's patients retain their credit cards), but I'm not one of them. I doubt many people in my demographic are.<br /><br />I can understand your desire to improve your poor reputation for customer service, but this seems like a very ill-conceived way of going about it. Hassling phone calls that insult my intelligence are an improvement over the putative customer service provided by actively evil companies like Gateway and Amtrak; however, simply leaving me alone would be even more of an improvement.<br /><br />If I sustain a sudden head injury that causes me to revert to the intelligence of a five-year old, I'll have someone let you know, and then you can call and explain credit cards to me to your heart's content. Until then, please take my regular use of your credit card as a sign that I know how to use it.<br /><br />Sincerely,<br /><br />CindyCindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-56785922839337967652011-05-29T17:27:00.000-07:002011-05-29T17:27:00.219-07:00very dull indeed<span style="font-style: italic;">This is an old post that I started writing more than two years ago but never published because I decided it was stupid. However, in my efforts to update my blog more and to be less self-critical, I'll go ahead and publish it now.</span><br /><br />Today I came across a quote which I think does a fantastic job of expressing a common-place idea. In discussing the problems of presuming that jury instructions will cure trial errors, the Fifth Circuit wrote: "[I]f you throw a skunk into the jury box, you can't instruct the jury not to smell it." <span style="font-style: italic;">Dunn v. United States</span>, 307 F.2d 883, 886 (5th Cir. 1962). Vivid, to-the-point, and memorable.<br /><br />It's brilliant writing like this that makes me feel all the inadequacies of my own writing. I may be able to string together a grammatically correct and logically sound sentence, but I don't feel like I've ever been good at conveying normal ideas in a vivid, interesting manner. That's not to say that I never find things I've written interesting -- I've been known to reread old journal entries for hours, after all -- but it's the subject matter, rather than the writing itself, that draws my attention. After all, it's hard to go wrong when you're writing about, say, the time you were car-shopping and drove the car into the wall at the dealership when you returned from your test drive. <br /><br />Actually, on second thought, I take that back. I once had a roommate who could have made any story boring. She could have been telling you about how she walked on the moon, and you'd have been bored. <br /><br /><blockquote>. . . So then we got onto the spaceship. It was a big spaceship. You might have seen the pictures of it. I said to John -- he was one of the astronauts, you know -- well, I said to him, "John, don't you think this is a big spaceship? I think it's a big spaceship." And he said, "You're right. It is a big spaceship. In fact, that's just what my wife told me when she dropped me off at the spaceship this morning. She said, 'John, this is a big spaceship.' And I agreed with her." Then I said to John, "Your wife is smart and observant. I'm so glad you married someone smart. Oh, weren't you telling me the other day that she was an accountant?" John said that she was, but she was between jobs at the moment. You know how the economy is these days. But she had had a good interview recently, and John really hopes she'll be getting that job. It would be so great for their family if she could. You don't know John, do you? Well, I guess you don't need to hear all the details of that, then. So, like I was saying, the spaceship was big. At least from the outside. When we got inside, we saw that it was smaller than it looked from the outside. I mentioned that to John, and he said, "I don't know about that. I think you just thought it was bigger than it was." And I said, "No John, you agreed that it was big. It looked bigger from the outside than it does on the inside. I don't know why you want to argue with me about this." You know, John is a nice enough fellow, bless his heart, but sometimes he doesn't observe things as well as he should. So anyway, the floors of the spaceship were gray. Not a really light gray though. It was sort of like a gray cellphone color, if that makes any sense. Not the color of your cellphone, though, so I guess that's not an accurate description. It was gray like the color of the TV, except maybe a little darker, so maybe it was closer to . . . ." <br /><br /></blockquote>I'm not sure that I ever heard this roommate complete a story. I would make up an excuse to leave or tune her out long before she got to the part where anything started happening, if she ever did tell a story in which something happened. <br /><br />So, I concede that my writing isn't as boring as it could be. However, I generally find it to be far from scintillating. For the most part, I don't get too hung up on this. Although a major portion of my job involves writing, it's much more important for this writing to be legally and analytically sound than for it to be interesting. I do sometimes think that my writing could stand a bit more color, but I usually decide that I'd rather just finish the work than try to make it all interesting and fancy-like. When I go to write on my blog, however, I really wish I could come up with something interesting to say, and an interesting way to say it. And that is why I have not updated my blog in some time. (Well, that and extreme laziness.)<br /><br />"[J]udges are not like pigs, hunting for truffles buried in briefs." <span style="font-style: italic;">Gross v. Burgraff Constr. Co.</span>, 53 F.3d 1531, 1546 (10th Cir. 1995). Bloggers, however, are quite often like pigs hunting for the interesting tidbits buried in the woods of mundane every-day life.<span style="font-style: italic;"></span> Whether they succeed, however, is left to the reader to decide.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-17071516090467952432011-05-27T00:21:00.001-07:002011-05-27T00:21:00.677-07:00something new<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLulfWxsnZ7pZTmCD7BNxRIaenc7xo1KmajrvUwUEJvkFNIftctnKWN8t0f1l14xkt0fFMCdV4-Y-jBRs371SW_LAFVkP71BNvPBqV-pCSItTAd7nRN3NDu8T5i4YBj-6APz8vg/s1600/comfort+zone.png"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 286px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaLulfWxsnZ7pZTmCD7BNxRIaenc7xo1KmajrvUwUEJvkFNIftctnKWN8t0f1l14xkt0fFMCdV4-Y-jBRs371SW_LAFVkP71BNvPBqV-pCSItTAd7nRN3NDu8T5i4YBj-6APz8vg/s320/comfort+zone.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5609563478300884034" border="0" /></a>I feel like I've been doing a fairly good job in recent months of getting out of my comfort zone a little bit and doing things I've never done before.<br /><br />Exhibit A: taking my first international trip (and to India, no less)<br />Exhibit B: going skeet shooting<br />Exhibit C: doing lifts while swing dancing. (Seriously, this one was a big deal for me. I have a phobia of falling backwards, and I've never even successfully done a dip before.)<br /><br />The secretary at my work agrees that I've been leaving my comfort zone more than usual, and she's got a theory about what comes next. "Shooting last weekend, and swing dancing this weekend? Next thing I know, you're going to tell me that you've fallen in love!"<br /><br />I'm not entirely sure I see the correlation, but I could go for that.<br /><br />I'll keep you posted.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-52382385512838954982011-05-22T12:01:00.005-07:002011-05-26T23:05:16.069-07:00playing churchSome people in my family like to play volleyball. I am not one of those people. When we have family volleyball games, I prefer to look after my adorable nieces so their parents can play. I find this much more entertaining and far less traumatic.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZFMJBcT32UPeDCf-FPJDLJitop1KqCtgdGNOhb5WZtBQCDGSDPV7Q2mO3iuhqU36jKU33VMyo773e1y7zcYk6vF18a5rapqP41yoAs3XE28KlUOOKQdsT6IugjX7MxhMIVY-HSw/s1600/volleyball.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 250px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZFMJBcT32UPeDCf-FPJDLJitop1KqCtgdGNOhb5WZtBQCDGSDPV7Q2mO3iuhqU36jKU33VMyo773e1y7zcYk6vF18a5rapqP41yoAs3XE28KlUOOKQdsT6IugjX7MxhMIVY-HSw/s320/volleyball.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505835579421816610" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Volleyball</div><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVce22R8QaZ-DGJ8KPp44tn6RNhzAP_CEUyCfTQPsCUd-42vW4972iJ7Ti-eLCDZLX9z9cnTGcOv23g9otHJkkfA9hhbKXIYyUSiHxegjdDjsKzJOyZT-esMMwP0ANKRmwt6geZg/s1600/072010Picture+016.jpg"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVce22R8QaZ-DGJ8KPp44tn6RNhzAP_CEUyCfTQPsCUd-42vW4972iJ7Ti-eLCDZLX9z9cnTGcOv23g9otHJkkfA9hhbKXIYyUSiHxegjdDjsKzJOyZT-esMMwP0ANKRmwt6geZg/s320/072010Picture+016.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5505833451621512738" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: center;">Adorable nieces<br /></div><br /><br />When we stay around the house, it's easy enough to find something to do while the others play volleyball. When we all go over the church meeting house, however, we sometimes end up with limited entertainment options for the kids. And thus it was that I found myself "playing church" at our last family reunion.<br /><br />Following a rousing rendition of "Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes," my six-year old niece presented the lesson. Our lesson for the day, she told us, was going to be about waiting. It turns out that waiting isn't very fun, but we've got to do it anyway, and we shouldn't complain about it. My niece then illustrated her point with an example:<br /><blockquote>If you're at the restaurant and you're really hungry, you want to go back to the kitchen and yell, "Where's my food? I'm really hungry!" But you can't do that. You need to sit and wait and hope they bring you your food soon. That's better, because they might trip on you if you tried to go back into the kitchen.<br /></blockquote>Words to live by, my friends, words to live by. And if you've got a friend who doesn't blog very often, you might want to say, "Where's the blog? I want to read something funny!" But that might not help, and they might just trip over their writer's block. On the other hand, maybe they'd come up with something. Stranger things have happened.Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9216891.post-73392642235739484112011-05-15T11:20:00.000-07:002011-05-15T11:20:00.388-07:00worth a thousand wordsAlthough I've already posted hundreds of photos on facebook, there was one sequence of photos that was too awesome to be relegated to the depths of a facebook photo album. No, not our pictures of the Taj Mahal, not the beauties of Kerala, and definitely not the photos of our camel's backside in Rajasthan. This is something far more wonderful.<br /><br />It all began when my mom decided to take a picture of my dad in front of a tree. Not a bad idea, although I don't know what was so special with this particular tree. Unfortunately, all did not go as planned.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qds3-p7OV1KEOJY9GmVjnInCxqbonFYyGfvTUqAutPvifLFgmBpLNGocZchyphenhyphenl4q3iRfAzKeiTdtE7AvOIFDNhK88R0yK5B3yBx6KP691WUuZbTKlPiGEMAn_t84CUZI9PCJhog/s1600/P1000187.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8qds3-p7OV1KEOJY9GmVjnInCxqbonFYyGfvTUqAutPvifLFgmBpLNGocZchyphenhyphenl4q3iRfAzKeiTdtE7AvOIFDNhK88R0yK5B3yBx6KP691WUuZbTKlPiGEMAn_t84CUZI9PCJhog/s320/P1000187.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605613718123502498" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Making lemonade out of the lemons, my mom decided to do a retake, this time with Becky added to the picture in more formal fashion. Unfortunately, Becky still hadn't quite reached formality when my mom snapped the photo.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpjXLjVKPuVM0up364EMCxU3VkUnN9bIvLicKgxHrb4K_I-smrdKuibuxucicK-Ft0xKrRW7BqvRWRh2NoT8DjYrnoO-0uY-_rhqNRU6dmBZUHc5qruK9stytDw8O6cd01bn-fg/s1600/P1000188.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCpjXLjVKPuVM0up364EMCxU3VkUnN9bIvLicKgxHrb4K_I-smrdKuibuxucicK-Ft0xKrRW7BqvRWRh2NoT8DjYrnoO-0uY-_rhqNRU6dmBZUHc5qruK9stytDw8O6cd01bn-fg/s320/P1000188.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605614028371595778" border="0" /></a><br /><br />My mom decided to make one more try. But she was again foiled, this time by me doing my best impression of an injured baby velociraptor. (That, or I was trying to fix my churidar in the most awkward fashion possible.)<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwUPiHB_YgP4_K_Z3ezfTzcInd1F-Nr9wmwn08kV0LYhIMEjMpFSxbfvbUtJkexWw_RliaEfK-egY5LCZhEpb3VzFA6iGm8vIhC28qqvcLhQDfpSzYdX7yDWYgjAPycLXEzI6cA/s1600/P1000189.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhSwUPiHB_YgP4_K_Z3ezfTzcInd1F-Nr9wmwn08kV0LYhIMEjMpFSxbfvbUtJkexWw_RliaEfK-egY5LCZhEpb3VzFA6iGm8vIhC28qqvcLhQDfpSzYdX7yDWYgjAPycLXEzI6cA/s320/P1000189.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605615010577106498" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I guess at this point my mom decided that it would be impossible to take a good photo with her ungainly children wandering into every shot, so she just gave up. Which is a real pity, since I would have liked to have seen what Rosie would have done in the way of an awkward entry.<br /><br />I'm sure it would have been hilarious.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnf23sWnZNTZi9Jwnkm20tLhSsrZWtQqDzNLoquslG1Ya-9HHlZZu9yRYe6-74E7maruJfp9OnF52sLlzHn3pelioerUQuC0ji1FZpQY3VXiF4Kc7ynTZoACg2u_wAOxbpzP0wg/s1600/P1000179.JPG"><img style="display: block; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAnf23sWnZNTZi9Jwnkm20tLhSsrZWtQqDzNLoquslG1Ya-9HHlZZu9yRYe6-74E7maruJfp9OnF52sLlzHn3pelioerUQuC0ji1FZpQY3VXiF4Kc7ynTZoACg2u_wAOxbpzP0wg/s320/P1000179.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5605606130916016498" border="0" /></a>Cindyhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/18190111448235050421noreply@blogger.com4