caffrin's blog

Or rather, not mine, but my parents'.  Every time I see one of those minivans with a DVD player in the back and a bunch of kids sitting there passively zoned out, I feel a wave of nostalgia for the occasions during my childhood when I was not getting pummeled in the backseat by one of my siblings.  (It happened, every once in a while, I'm just sayin'.)  Because say what you will, but we were kids who were into word games.  Or really anything that involved wracking our brains on the long rides down to Dothan to visit our grandparents every other weekend.  Sure, we became freakishly good at Jeopardy! and, even more impressive, Wheel of Fortune, as they were broadcast over the radio.  But we also loved trying to create impossibly long lists of things we thought were funny.  And one of them, at one point (I think when we were driving around some city in North Carolina), was trying to come up with as many expressions as we could that were similar to "cruisin' for a bruisin'."  I tried to recreate that list one day a few years back, and just remembered it.  I am really, really proud of what our teenaged brains could accomplish.  To wit:

Bonus points for anyone who can add to the list....

One of my all time favorite song lyrics comes from Built to Spill's 1997 album Perfect from Now On.  In "Made Up Dreams," Doug Martsch makes the brilliant observation that "No one wants to hear/what you dreamt about/unless you dreamt about them."  Heeding his advice, and in honor of Mike's request that I prepare my annual blog entry, I will not let that stop me, and I will tell you anyway.  Because sometimes my dreams are bang-myself-over-the-head easy to  interpret, and because I think maybe we should all be aware of the dangers of mixing breakup pain with Tylenol PM.

In my dream, I was taking part (involuntarily) in a live action video game during which I kept being bounced around various islands/worlds, a la Super Mario Galaxy.  Try as I might, I kept getting bounced back to a world in which I would land on top of a very tall tower of stools topped off with a small platform.  The tower was probably 50 feet high, but stable.  I knew there was nothing I could do without getting off the platform, but my only route for escape involved climbing off the platform onto a rickety fire escape that in turn led to a slide.  The rest of the trip down would be smooth sailing once I got to the slide, but I knew that as soon as I made a move to get off the platform, the tower of stools would lose its stability.  Each time, I did it, and each time I slid down the slide safely.  Again, and again, and again.  But that moment of fear, that moment stepping off the platform and feeling the whole thing start to fall apart below me.....

I mean, seriously: fuck dreams, man.

So when I was in junior high, I went to "camp" for two summers at the University of Southern Mississippi as a part of a program for gifted teenagers.  The first summer I took my first class in psychology, which was taught by a wonderfully cultured, fascinating woman who was deaf in her right ear.*    One of the few things I specifically remember learning that summer (as compared to during one of the 70-bajillion psychology classes I have taken since) was about taste aversion conditioning, also called the Garcia effect.  The simple premise was this: people will avoid eating foods if, in the past, they have become sick around the same time that they ate that food - regardless of whether the food was actually the cause of the illness.  It made sense to me then and it makes sense to me now, because there is one food out there on this great green Earth, the mere smell of which is enough to make me clench my stomach.

I was, shall we say, a bit of a sensitive child.  Sometimes a bit dramatic.  And like almost all children, I had foods I didn't like.  For my brother, it was lima beans; for me, it was quiche.  Not likely to present much of a problem, one would think.  And one would be wrong.  Sometime in the mid-80's my parents had become enamored of the uber-convenient  "Pour-a-Quiche" cartons of egg product available in the freezer aisle of the local Winn-Dixie.  So one night at dinner they decided to serve one to us and I, well, I was not having it.  I begged and pleaded.  I ate everything else on my plate and assured them I was full.  I'm quite sure I suggested half a dozen alternative meal options, but they were not to be convinced.  I began to cry and so pulled out what I felt was sure to be my trump card: "If you make me eat it, I will THROW. UP."  They were not convinced.  At this point, the crying had turned to full on blubbering, and I was nearing the point of hyperventilation.  Then, in a performance I like to think would make any true method actor proud, I proceeded to take about three bites of my quiche and vomit them (along with the rest of my stomach's contents) on myself, the table and, of course, the quiche that remained on my plate.  My eyes stinging from the tears, trying to catch my breath, I looked at them indignantly and said simply: "See?!?!?!"

Now, I know that the quiche did not actually make me vomit.  True, that combination of egg and cream could reasonably be expected to cause some discomfort in even the most mildly-dairy intolerant.  But I know that what actually led to my display was the combination of crying and hyperventilating and, maybe just maybe, the desire to act out enough to teach my parents a lesson.  I KNOW THAT.  But I also know what the Garcia effect can mean, and armed with that knowledge, I have steered clear of quiche ever since.  And I have never vomited at the dinner table since. (How's that for the powerful reinforcing effects of avoidance?  My cognitive-behavioral therapy professor would be proud...)

All of this is to explain why, when I showed up at my aunt and uncle's house today and was greeted with the news that our lunch would be not one but TWO quiches, I knew I was in trouble.  "The Garcia effect!" I thought to myself.  But there was no way I was going to turn down the meal my aunt had lovingly prepared (hers, to be clear, was homemade).  I did my best, picking out the vegetables and trying to push the contents of my plate around enough that it appeared some had been eaten.  And yet I still felt sick as a dog while I was doing it, and have been queasy ever since.

....

Yeah, that story starts off strong enough but there's nowhere to really go with it at the end.  "And so now my tummy hurts.  So I'm blogging about it.  I am lame."  But at least I know that, right?  And knowing is half the battle!

*This has nothing to do with anything; it is just the first time I can remember meeting someone who was even partially deaf.

My friend Mike pointed out that it has been, oh, more than a year since I have blogged at this here address, so I figured now was as good a time as any to check in.  Three people who know this blog's address, are you there?  Excellent.

As one of the newer employees in my office, I did not have the advantage of taking any vacation days around the New Year besides the official university holidays.  I can't be *too* sad, though, because it meant that I was able to record the appearance of these items in the women's bathroom a full two or three days before the rest of my co-workers.  Behold...

Let me try to explain what is going on here.  Someone from one of the other offices on the second floor of the Sullivan Center (hereafter "Someone") must have decided that what our pristine, modern bathroom was missing was an assortment of low-cost beauty products to be used for mid-day touch-ups.  And so Someone goes to her local Walgreen's and invests a whopping $6 in a large bottle of hand lotion, a bottle of hairspray, and mousse.  Mousse.  Something which should only be applied to one's hair when it is entirely wet.  Again I am forced to presume, but because I do not see a hair dryer nearby, I remain confused as to how, and when, and in what context this person believes we are likely to need to use mousse during the course of our 8:30 to 5:00 work day.  But I digress....

So having purchased these products out of her own pocket, Someone wishes to spread the wealth around to all of the floor's workers; a belated happy Hanukkah, merry Christmas, and happy Kwanzaa to us all!  To explain her munificence under the shroud of anonymity, Someone decides to prepare a sign on university letterhead clarifying that the products "are for everyone's use."  How delightful!  But, and here is where my presumptions reach the level of those assumptions Coach Manning used to always warn us about, Someone must have been burned by past unsuccessful efforts at generosity.  And so she must clarify how very much she does not want anyone to remove the products she has littered the bathroom with donated for the benefit of all the poorly-coiffed or dry-handed among us.  "Please  refrain from taking these products out of the restroom" seems...too mild.  Lacking in gravitas.  "Where, oh where," Someone must have thought to herself, "can I find guidance on this point?"  And then it hit her, much as it must have hit Iñigo de Loyola as he lay in bed recovering from his war wounds: the Jesuit mission. 

I can only imagine the rapidity with which she typed the sentences that followed:  "Please avoid absconding with any of them.  Stealing is not only a crime, but it is not in adherence to the Jesuit mission of being persons for others."

 

"Awwww, snap!  How are any of my co-workers going to argue with that?"  And then Someone must have remembered: it is, after all, the Sullivan STUDENT Center.  How could she rely on the thousands of undergraduates and graduate students who enter the building each year to understand that her altruism could only extend so far?  And so she pulls the final arrow from her quiver: the Student Handbook.  Someone consults the Handbook and excerpts the section regarding the penalties for unauthorized taking of personal or university property.  As best I can figure, Someone is assuming that a board of review would deem her actions a donation of personal property to the University, thereby converting it to "university property" covered under the Handbook.  (It could not, after all, easily remain "personal property" given her prior admission that the products were in fact for "everyone's use," and further given the anonymity with which the items were abandoned left in the bathroom.) As university property easily skating under the $500 maximum, unauthorized taking of said items would be a Class B violation of the Handbook, punishable by remedies up to and including expulsion from the University.  Her sign was complete: all possibilities accounted for.  Her White Rain hairspray would be safe.

As Someone taped up her neatly printed sign in the lower right-hand corner of the bathroom mirror, I like to imagine she took a moment to smile at her handiwork before quickly sneaking out before her good deed could be discovered by a passerby.

How did you pick your Vox name? Does it mean something? 
Submitted by LeendaDLL.  

Well, not really.  But it was one of a few nicknames my high school friends gave me back in the day.  It's less dorky than C-squared and it makes more sense than Chicken Cathe-tori, so I went with it. 

What do you do to get rid of a cold or flu? 
Submitted by ashenflowers.

Interesting question--my current strategy of whimpering and blowing my nose every 15 minutes doesn't seem to be working, so I'll be eager to read other people's suggestions.  That, and I'll go drink an Emergen-C and hope for the best.

The recent news that Bell's is going to stop distributing its fine, fine microbrews to the Chicago area is breaking my heart more than a little bit.  I came to love Bell's when I was in law school to the point that, while engaged in one of our frequent tug-of-wars re finances, my father encouraged me to invite friends over to my house to drink more often so that I could "still afford those fancy beers" he knew I liked.  Those fancy beers, mon papa, were Bell's, and they were and still are delicious.  Guess I'd best be making a run to my local markets to stockpile six packs for the winter....

...Which brings to mind another story:  in the mid 80's, it was announced that Coca-Cola would be replacing its much-loved cola formula with something sweeter and more akin to Pepsi. My father, recognizing my mother's intense love for the original, promptly went to the grocery store and purchased more than 30 3-liters of the original Coca-Cola which he, yes, stockpiled in our basement.  We rationed them for as long as a family of five with three young sugar-addicted children could.  Amazingly enough, we managed to last through the entire dark period (according to Wikipedia, a whopping three months) until, one night, I remember returning from errands with my mother when my brother ran out to the garage and, jumping up and down, exclaimed, "They're bringing it back!  They're bringing Old Coke back!"  Happy days were there again.

And so it is with great hope that I await the day that Bell's resumes distribution in the Land of Lincoln.  Now excuse me while I go down an Oberon and think longingly of summer....

What are your personal memories of September 11th?

I was settling into my usual seat in Catharine MacKinnon's Sex Equality class and, I assume, chit-chatting with Bejal when someone sitting behind us (Dan G.?) made a comment about how someone had just flown a plane into the World Trade Center.  Stephanie jumped up from her seat and headed down to the student lounge to get on cnn.com.  There was a general, "WTF??" vibe in the room and then Catharine MacKinnon walked in in one of her typical completely glam suits* and began class by saying, "There have been reports that a plane has crashed into the World Trade Center.  I do not know whether my friends are safe either, but for now, I think we should focus on the task at hand" or something equally bizarre.  So we all sat there waiting for Stephanie to come back into the room and when she did, she sat down at her seat and wouldn't make eye contact with anyone else in the lecture hall.  We walked out of class an hour later and it seemed like everything had changed.  One of the administrators had pulled a TV into the hall by Room 100 and dozens of us sat on the floor watching the coverage too stunned to really say much.  I remember a great deal of debate as to whether the university was going to formally cancel classes, but eventually everyone just sort of wandered away.  I got home and fell almost immediately asleep, and I was out for hours.  When I woke up, I watched some T.V. and I'm sure I talked to several people, but the only people I remember talking to were my brother, who was traveling abroad at the time, and my mother.  For the most part, I couldn't make myself watch the images being broadcast on television - I know that I cried, and I worried, and I knew that my life was going to go back to normal.  Two days later I got a job offer,  and about a week later I learned that a friend of mine had been staying at the Marriot in the World Trade Center that day and had thankfully survived the attack. 

A week and a half later I was at a bar night with all of my friends.  And life did proceed to get slowly back to normal for me, in my life, in my small town, as I had known it would.

* In case you did not already know, in addition to being one of the most notable legal and feminist minds in our nation, Catharine MacKinnon is also a stone cold fox.

How many places have you lived in your life?

Twelve different buildings (three houses, three dorms, one century-old British home turned *into* a dorm, and five apartments [three generic and white-walled, two charm-filled]) in six different cities, three different states, and two different countries.

Tonight I went with Matt and Ryan to go see Girl Talk at the Empty Bottle (seriously, how is that for some major linkage?).  I could not possibly offer a better description of the evening than Greg Gillis did himself:  "This is a concert, but it's also, like, a weird concert."  Truer words, Mr. Talk, have ne'er been spoken....

Until video or Matt's photos show up online, you will have to use this brief snippet of his recent gig opening for Beck in London as a reference point.  Same basic concept, although he kept his pants on at our show and he had a rotating collection of about 10-15 hipsters dancing with him onstage the entire time:

It was a concert, but it was also, like, a weird concert.