Les Bonnes Choses

I like news headlines because their lack of critical parts of speech, such as prepositions, makes them prone to comical misinterpretation, and general hilarity. For example, today The Ceeb had the following:

Stunning 82-year-old hospital patient with Taser was justified.

Now, you might click on the link with eager excitement at the prospect of reading about an elderly invalid in a fabulous black evening gown who's got a good excuse to be carrying around a non-lethal sidearm -- but you'd be disappointed. Instead, you'd read about how Canadian law enforcement means business. Forget that polite stereotype. Around here, laying on a gurney (or wielding a stapler) is a good way to get yourself zapped, my friend.

Of course, we could also be defined by what we don't do. For example: fund research. My thin envelope from NSERC arrived in the mail today. I didn't have to be Johnny Carson to know what it said. One thing I did forget about was that it had a brochure about applying for the Industrial R&D Fellowships program.

Dear Canadian Funding Agency Purseholders,
If I wanted to work for a large multinational conglomerate, I would have spared myself the last 6 years of graduate work and tens of thousands of dollars of tuition and applied to work at a bank directly out of my undergraduate career. Then I could have been doing something that the business community finds useful for the last several years. Like help run the world's economies into the ground, for example.

A few years ago, when I held an NSERC Doctoral scholarship, it was appropriate to put a little NSERC logo on the posters when I presented my research. Because, you know, they supported me so I could do the research. I regret that, for the time being, I will have to put an unacknowledgement on my conference posters: the Canadian government had nothing to do with this discovery or innovation. Is embarrassment effective at influencing policy?

New day, new graphical elements. I'm the type who can never leave well enough alone, so when I stumbled across a website with free blogger templates, I couldn't resist trying one out. Unfortunately, it bunged stuff up, causing my wish lists to be discarded, and also took out the important links at the top of the page, so I ended up just finding another blogger layout that I liked. I'm not sure why I did it, other than I have been in a gitterdun frame of mind since this morning, when I rode in on my hog*. I had to change my action plan somewhat because someone from the university maintenance crew was in to fix a water valve that had leaked in the ceiling right above our fancy computer. Nothing was damaged, thankfully, but it's hard to work at a computer in a closet-sized room with plumber-butt just inches away from your face. Instead, I stayed in my office all day (when I wasn't helping Kaz rearrange office furniture) and resumed editing my manuscript for resubmission. When I got home, I set about making meatloaf and cleaning out the dryer vent, which had accumulated enough dryer lint to make a small felt coat. This should not be taken as an indication that we don't know how to properly use a dryer; rather as an indication that the fencing company that built our deck doesn't know how to properly follow a building plan, and instead of building a step-down sitting area as I had asked, instead built the deck so that it blocks off the dryer vent.

*Note: I use the word 'hog' ironically. My motorcycle would never, under any circumstances, be referred to as a hog by a knowledgeable person. I use the term ironically because I don't identify in any way with the motorcycle culture.

As my facebook status has just been changed to read, today we were doing a spring cleaning purge. Moving companies charge by weight, so dropping a couple of hundred pounds of outdated textbooks and photocopies that haven't seen the light of day in years seems prudent. The reorganization of our storage area has freed up loads of room too. We haven't contacted anyone regarding the impending move later this summer, but hopefully the slow and steady pace we've been taking will get things done on time.

Another option that we've been mulling over is that we could rent out our house. This would save the stress of trying to sell our house by a certain deadline (which in turn requires certain home improvements to be made by an earlier deadline). Two possible problems with that are that our house isn't in what I would call the prime swath of rental area running through the city, and that it's difficult to know what it is you're getting with a particular tenant.

If anyone has any other suggestions about what to do with our house, I'd be happy to hear them. Arson would seem to be an easy route if it weren't illegal. We also live pretty close to a fire hall too, so it would probably just end up leaving me with a house with soggy rugs, sooty walls and the smell of Schneiders Red Hots.

Edit: Just in case my house happens to legitimately burn down before we move out, I should note that the only reason I mention arson here is because this entry is otherwise completely sensible, and I find that if I don't include at least one ludicrous statement in each entry, my audience becomes turned off and I lose valuable ad revenue. But I have no reservation in saying that if I could manipulate the weather, I wouldn't hesitate for a minute in clearing this lot with a surgical tornado. I mean, would you call insurance fraud on some dude who can summon lightning? No, man, you would let that claim ride.

...and hopefully not a continuation of yesterday. I am sitting in the lobby of the Orrington hotel in lovely Evanston listening to some classic rock station over the musak. Let me run down how I came to be here.

Yesterday I made a detour to the school to pick up my book to read on the plane, and dump off some old electronics in the electronics recycling bin. I felt like I was in a bit of a hurry because we were on our way to Rebecca's parents' house for lunch, so I made a short cut across the muddy hill up the backside of the social science building because, for no good reason that I can tell, my 1D key does not work on the service entrance door, but does work on the main entrance door (despite the fact that, if you can get in the main entrance, you can easily get to the service entrance from inside the building). As it turned out, it was a poor choice of shortcut given the terrain, and I stepped out of my shoe and into the wet muddy ground when the turf refused to let it go.

Later on in the day I was dropped off at the airport to find that my flight from Detroit to Chicago had been canceled. I would be spending the dinner hour (and a few hours past that) in the airport, rather than enjoying a proper meal with Amy. It was in the airport that I learned the hard way that the currency exchangers there are the LASTpeople you want to do business (in addition to having a rate 5% lower than the bank rate, they also charged me a $2.50 commission). And once my later flight was finally boarded, we were about another half hour late taking off as the airline tried to fit on all the passengers whose flights had been canceled. The last standby passengers sat beside me. They had been flying all day from Mexico -- with two kids young enough to have pacifiers who were very, very overtired.

The plane landed properly on the runway, and Amy was there to pick me up and deliver me to the hotel, so that part went right. However once I got up to my room, I found that the promised internet connection was not working, and so I was unable to check my email to find my itinerary. On the upside, as I lay awake all night long with a case of the Mirandas, I had a chance to figure out what it might be that keeps me from sleeping.

So that brings me to here, the hotel lobby, the only place I can access the internet, and where I will hopefully be met by Jen and Fan before too long.

This evening, Jude watched a youtube clip of James Blunt singing a song called My Triangle on Sesame Street:



Somewhere in the song, he used the word hypotenuse, which caused Jude and I to laugh, though presumably for different reasons. Tomorrow is a school day for Jude, and Rebecca said that she and Jude were talking about telling the class about the hypotenuse tomorrow. He's in bed now, and will in all likelihood forget about it overnight. Still, the prospect of a preschooler using the word hypotenuse is irresistable.

My dad tried to teach me a little bit about calculus in second grade. I remember telling Matt MacGregor about parabolas one summer evening when I saw him as I rode my bike. The kids in my grade pretty much all got along well. I can't imagine any other reason why that sort of talk didn't get me beat up.

Maybe I should have a chat with Jude again before he leaves for school in the morning.

This afternoon, I went with my mom to Fabricland because word on the street is that they have some high-grade boxes there. I'm reasonably sure my mom is under the impression that I am more familiar with the staff there than I am, because I really have no idea who any of these people are. Yet the deficiency is clearly mine, because they always know exactly who I am. Anyways, she took me to the manager's office (really, not much more than a closet with a desk) to see Ann to ask for boxes. My mom volunteered that I'm looking for boxes because we're moving.

"Really?" asked Ann. "To where?"

"I don't know."

It's strange when that's the most truthful answer to that question that you can give. But on the upside, I'm looking forward to seeing the house get decluttered as things go into boxes (or sold on kijiji). I have no idea how much it's going to cost to get the lawn in a presentable condition. I do not plan on asking the Weed Man to do it, though, as you may recall my previous dissatisfaction with them.

I had my phone interview today. I think it went fairly well, which is a good thing because I've gotten rejection letter #2 from these people today.

Point of clarification: it was the second rejection letter, and it was from these people. It wasn't the second one they sent. They aren't that mean about it.

I'm not sure why I feel I must advertise each time I get rejection letters. Maybe it's just to show everyone how, behind this facade of perfection, is a regular guy. A totally awesome, but otherwise regular, guy.

I received an email in my inbox just moments ago, entitled [Wilfrid Laurier] Position. My first thought was that they had a really quick turnaround for their rejection letters, as I sincerely do not expect them to entertain the idea of interviewing me, let alone hiring me. However, the email just outlined their interviewing process for shortlisted candidates, which I assume to be similar to that of other universities, and rather similar to what I just went through in San Diego -- a process which which I can happily report I am comfortable. Ken always said that, face to face, I come off very well, so the major hurdle for me is just going to be to get my foot in the door. Quite literally, I just need to make myself look better on paper.

I just received an email informing me that the U of T linguistics position is off the table. It's unsurprising, since I don't think of myself as a very cunning linguist, so it would have been a bit of a stretch for me. Truthfully, I had sort of forgotten about that application anyways, probably because I had applied knowing that I probably wasn't what they were looking for. Nonetheless, it's a bit of a drag when the rejection letters start filtering in.

I realize I haven't posted in over a week (by a few hours), so I should probably hastily jot some thoughts down.

No, I really have no thoughts. I am somewhat agitated about hearing back about either of the postdocs to which I have applied. I may have to endure a longer than strictly-necessary wait to hear about the San Diego job because I learned that there may be a policy that requires the position to be externally advertised, even if the position has effectively been filled. Still no word about the Brown one. And I have yet to apply for the one in Amy's lab. Also K (she uses initials to refer to her colleagues in her blog) is making me agitated by osmosis with her recent musings on the prospects of finding employment.

I'm sorry this entry isn't more amusing; more Tony Hawks-ish, as Carrie would call it. Unfortunately, I haven't found my thoughts to be especially amusing lately. Maybe I should read more light-hearted fare. I tend to introduce elements of the writing styles of authors that I am reading at any given time.

I already expressed these sentiments in a comment on my own note on Facebook, but that was before I made the return trip home. I just got back from a trip to San Diego where I am a candidate for a postdoctoral position at UCSD working with Jeff Elman and Marta Kutas -- though I quickly figured out that, in saying you work in so-and-so's lab, all you are really doing is indicating where your mail should be routed, because everyone works with everyone down there. It's like some kind of research orgy or something. Probably pays something like $88/hr (see Carrie's note if you can).

I don't travel quite as much as, say, John, or Chris, but I have made a decent number of trips into the US over the span of my postgraduate career. I can truly say that I have never before had a more pleasant trip. Sure, on the way down there was a brief period of panic when I was unsure whether I would catch my connecting flight out of Detroit. But in all my interactions with the various incarnations of what is now the Department of Fatherland Homeland Security, everyone was pleasant and non-confrontational on both ends of the trip. Compare this to the last time I went through the border crossing, coincidentally for the purpose of my first meeting with Jeff Elman. Back then, the inquisitor at the Ambassador bridge gave me quite a rough time. When asked what the purpose of my trip was, I replied that it was for a meeting. The moron actually asked, "So why doesn't he come up there to meet you? Why do you have to come here?" I still fantasize about smacking him in the face and calling him a dipshit, but that fantasy always comes to a grinding halt when I get charged with assault and barred from entry into the US in response. Apparently, my ability to fantasize is impaired by my mind's insistence on imposing realistic constraints, and so unlike most people, I fantasize about being able to fantasize.

I'm meeting Jeff for brekkie in 30 mins. I've showered and am just going through my slides again. I woke up at about 6:30, well ahead of my 7:00 wake up call, but it felt like I slept till 9, and I slept straight through (not even waking up to pee) so I feel well rested. Also it feels like my brain is firing properly, so I think I'll be fine today. To be sure, I made myself some hotel room coffee. It tastes like how Erin and my dad make it.

I'm going into the day smelling like juniper. Maybe -- that's what the soap and lotion said (I have very dry skin). The hotel at which I am staying is the Estancia Spa/Hotel. That's right: spa. So they have fragranced everything. Funny how a dude can smell like olive oil and juniper extract, and if he has an excuse like, "I've just come from the spa," then it's okay. If instead his only excuse was that he likes to roll around in botanicals, he gets the big ole stink-eye.

Lots going on in '09. First off, there's all those things that are supposed to happen by 2010 that have to get taken care of. I couldn't find an online list, but I imagine there were quite a few outlandish prognostications made 10, 25 and 50 years ago.

My own prediction for the upcoming year is that things are going to get up-ended around here. I'm jetting down to San Diego in a couple of weeks to check out Jeff Elman's digs. I'm not entirely sure what that says about the likelihood of me getting an offer for a postdoc, but that's sort of what I'm banking on because I haven't heard back about any of the faculty positions to which I applied (which means I'll have to wait until March to start getting the "we like you, but just as a friend" letters). And of course, on top of that, Rebecca will be giving birth to the child now referred to as Tricky Monkey in the middle of all this, possibly at about the time that we're selling our house.

2009 is going to be a big production.

There is a predator in Masonville Mall. She's caucasian, possibly from the Mediterranean region, about 5'4" - 5'6", 120 lbs., brown hair and very aggressive when approached.

You will find her manning the temporary booth on the first floor, selling Dead Sea skin products. I was shopping yesterday for a stand lamp for Rebecca when I was approached by this woman. It's a bit of a blur, but this is what I told the police:

She addressed me by asking whether I would like to try some lotion. My hands are presently very dry, as in the sort of condition you might expect my skin to be in if my job was to scrub floors all day. Without gloves. With lye. So I figured, 'hey, what's the harm in getting some lotion on my hands?'
She squeezed a blob of this revolutionary lotion on my hand, and I rubbed it in, only then realizing that this was a very feminine smelling product. She then told me how this lotion was made with ingredients from the Dead Sea as the final horror sunk in that I was now going to be walking around the mall smelling like a floral arrangement.

Now my mind was racing to figure out an exit strategy, so only part of my attention was focused on her - just enough to allow me to react in case she jumped at me with an avocado facial.

"Do you want to see something amazing?" she asked.
"Something amazing?" I repeated, estimating that she would probably not show me anything sufficiently amazing to justify what I had just endured.
"Show me your fingernails. What's your worst finger?"
'Oh my God, I smell like flowers and now she wants to give me a manicure,' I thought. "No, thanks," I replied, now walking away.
"Don't you like the cream?" she asks after me.
"It smells a little -- girly," I replied back, I'm sure with a disgusted look on my face.

Shortly after this encounter, I came across one of the members of my Cohort, Jon, who was also shopping for his wife. Wait. Let me be clear: He was shopping for his wife, and I was shopping for mine. I was not also shopping for his wife. Whatever. In any case, I could not greet him by shaking his hand because my hand smelled like Aunt Esther. It was awful.