When I got to the dentist's office today, there were a few forms to fill out and sign. One of them asked how long it had been since my last dental visit.
My hand, unable to confess to the full extent of my 14-year dental absence, wrote down "12 years". Emboldened by this white lie, it continued, exaggerating my quarterly flossing into a monthly floss-fest. I shook my head disappointedly at the hand, worried about the fabricated maladies that might make it onto the form in the "Existing Medical Conditions" section. Thankfully, the lies had ended.
Then, after a mere 21 x-rays (seriously, 21 freakin x-rays!), I got seated in the big chair. The dentist came in 10 minutes later. He reviewed my forms.
Dentist: Ok... let's see here... It says that a relative referred you here. Which relative?
Me: My wife.
Dentist. Oh, ha ha. Ok..... Wow! Was your last visit really TWELVE years ago?
Me: Uh, I kind of lied on that part. It was 14 years ago. (Hah! Like you weren't going to get caught, hand!)
Dentist: 14 years? I guess you're just not a dentist person?
Me: No, that's not it at all. I just decided I didn't need to come any more. I never got any cavities.
Dentist: Well (examining my x-rays), that's going to change as you get older. As you age...
Me: Yes, I know, my enamel will wear down.
Dentist: Exactly.
At this point the dentist lapsed into a silence, concentrating on my 21 x-rays. They were all digital, so he examined each one in turn on the computer, darkening, zooming, and sharpening, for the clearest image. After about a minute of silence he cleared his throat.
Dentist: Well, as I always say, it's better to be lucky than good.
Me: You mean that my x-rays look healthy?
Dentist: So far, yes.
He grabbed a stabby thing and a mirror and began poking at each of my teeth in turn.
Dentist: Well, how many cavities do you think you have?
Me: I think I have zero cavities.
Dentist: That's exactly right. You've been blessed with good genes.
Me: Actually, my parents both have lots of cavities.
Dentist: Really? Huh. You're just lucky then.
Me: I guess so.
Dentist: You can't count on this continuing your whole life though. You need to start seeing a dentist regularly.
Me: Oh, certainly.
Dentist: You should come every six mon.... How about once a year?
Me: That sounds very reasonable.
Dentist: That would be a good idea.
Me: I completely agree. Staying away for 14 years wasn't wise.
Dentist: No, certainly not.
After I got my teeth cleaned (Jesus, scraping off 14 years of scrapey-offy stuff is painful) and polished (mmmm!), I marched right past the receptionist and out the door.
See you in 21 years, doc!
Hopefully the expression "Lucky in dental health, lucky in baseball gambling software" will hold true.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
Tuesday, May 29, 2007
When I was a kid my mother dragged me to to the dentist on a regular basis. Year after year, the visits went the same way. They'd look around my mouth, do a bit of cleaning, and then give me a clean bill of health. I never had a cavity and I never knew why. My oral hygiene, while adequate, was not noticeably better than that of my friends, who clocked in with cavities on a semi-regular basis. Annual appointment after annual appointment: No cavities. Thus began the Legend of Mike's Superhuman Teeth.
Once I left home for college, I forgot all about those regular dentist checkups. Through four years of college and a few more years after that, I just kind of ignored the whole concept of annual dentist appointments. I hoped that maybe I had won the genetic lottery and ended up with impenetrable teeth. The fact that my parents' mouths were filled with caps did not deter my optimism.
After having ignored the concept of professional dentistry for seven straight years, my roommates finally guilted me into scheduling a check-up. I agreed, but stated that if the dentist found no problems with my teeth, I could officially proclaim my teeth to have evolved beyond the notion of needing regularly scheduled dentist visit. If all went well, it was to be the last dental appointment of my life.
I strode into the dental office later that month and announced that I had not seen a dentist in seven years. They grimaced and dug into my mouth. After some frantic poking around, the dentist emitted a disbelieving hmmph and said, "Well, it looks pretty good in here. We'll clean up a little bit and then you can go."
On my way out the receptionist tried to schedule my next appointment. I laughed and politely declined. My genetic superiority had been confirmed.
That was about 14 years ago. That makes one visit to the dentist in the last 20+ years. In that time, I've made sure to brush regularly (2 or 3 times a day) and floss at regular intervals (3 or 4 times a year). That's my secret.
Last week my wife guilted me into scheduling another appointment. Actually, she made the appointment on my behalf, determined that they accept our insurance, told me where it is, confirmed that it's a nice place, and did everything except actually perform the dentistry herself.
Tomorrow is the day. Wish me luck. May the Legend continue....
Once I left home for college, I forgot all about those regular dentist checkups. Through four years of college and a few more years after that, I just kind of ignored the whole concept of annual dentist appointments. I hoped that maybe I had won the genetic lottery and ended up with impenetrable teeth. The fact that my parents' mouths were filled with caps did not deter my optimism.
After having ignored the concept of professional dentistry for seven straight years, my roommates finally guilted me into scheduling a check-up. I agreed, but stated that if the dentist found no problems with my teeth, I could officially proclaim my teeth to have evolved beyond the notion of needing regularly scheduled dentist visit. If all went well, it was to be the last dental appointment of my life.
I strode into the dental office later that month and announced that I had not seen a dentist in seven years. They grimaced and dug into my mouth. After some frantic poking around, the dentist emitted a disbelieving hmmph and said, "Well, it looks pretty good in here. We'll clean up a little bit and then you can go."
On my way out the receptionist tried to schedule my next appointment. I laughed and politely declined. My genetic superiority had been confirmed.
That was about 14 years ago. That makes one visit to the dentist in the last 20+ years. In that time, I've made sure to brush regularly (2 or 3 times a day) and floss at regular intervals (3 or 4 times a year). That's my secret.
Last week my wife guilted me into scheduling another appointment. Actually, she made the appointment on my behalf, determined that they accept our insurance, told me where it is, confirmed that it's a nice place, and did everything except actually perform the dentistry herself.
Tomorrow is the day. Wish me luck. May the Legend continue....
Monday, May 28, 2007
Recently I was tagged to do a couple of blog memes. Now, while I am not 100% opposed to posts comprised of answers to stock quizzes, I found that I had nothing to say on those quizzes above and beyond what the "taggers" had already said. So, I'm going to make up my own damn meme with a little more wiggle room for the next person to add their own flava to the mix.
It's a fill-in the blank Offend-O-Fest
Religions other than my own are wrong because ______. Although it's not politically correct, I like to make fun of _____
Ways that George Bush is not like the Anti Christ include ______ The celebrity rumor that I wish to start is _____ Kids suck because _____
Ta dah! That's my damn meme! I tag everyone who can see this sentence. You either have to fill out this questionnaire or make your own. As you can see, it's not hard.
I especially tag Janelle and The Pensive Turtle (tag-backs! Hah!) , Moxie, and Carey.
It's a fill-in the blank Offend-O-Fest
- Because religion in general is that part of life that exists outside of knowledge or even emotion. That's not really what I'm about. I can't even imagine which religion I'd pick if I had to pick one. Something easy for sure. Maybe Lazianity?
- The stupid! Oh, man, if we can't make fun of stupid people, then the terrorists have won. I also enjoy making fun of Ecuadorans. They are delicious!
- I can't remember the exact quote, but there's a famous saying that says something to the effect of when the Devil comes, he won't carry a pitchfork or have horns. Instead, the devil will be handsome and charming. That's how I know Bush isn't the Anti Christ.
- That Adam Sandler is from Ecuador. I don't know what else to do to get that man out of the movies. He almost single-handedly ruined the comedy genre
- Cute don't pay the bills. Besides, I still haven't gotten over the trauma of having to wipe another human being's ass for several years. That just ain't right.
Ta dah! That's my damn meme! I tag everyone who can see this sentence. You either have to fill out this questionnaire or make your own. As you can see, it's not hard.
I especially tag Janelle and The Pensive Turtle (tag-backs! Hah!) , Moxie, and Carey.
Thursday, May 24, 2007
One of the reasons that I haven't been bitching and complaining about our remodeling efforts to add a new room to the house is because it hasn't impacted my life very much yet (ignoring the dramatic effect on our savings). This is because we have the world's best neighbors.
The main logistical issue with doing any sort of work on our house or backyard is that there is no side access to the back of our house. If you want to get to the back, you have to march past our front door, down our white-painted hallway, through our semi-remodeled kitchen, and across our family room.
Carrying 10 foot long beams of wood? Careful! CAREFUUUUL!!
Dragging a cement hose to the back? Ummm, would you mind taking off your shoes first?
Not a recipe for household bliss. However, our neighbors DO have convenient access to their backyard. Although they recently installed a fence between our yards, they made sure to have one section of it installed with screws instead of nails so that it could be removed for when we started our remodel. Granted, we did split the cost of the fence with them, but the idea of making part of it removable was theirs.
So, every day the construction workers traipse through our neighbor's garage and yard instead of my kitchen. It's almost unobtrusive. Remarkable. (Actually it's been 100% unobtrusive for the last two weeks since construction has come to a mysterious halt, but, whatever.)
This isn't the first time that our neighbors have been very helpful to us. We owe them big time. Hank and I contemplated how we could thank them. What nice thing could we do for them? After much quality thought the best idea we came up with was: booze.
So, earlier this week we knocked on their door with a couple bottles of wine and they invited us in for a few minutes. Although we get along very well with these guys, we don't socialize with them much, so this was the first time we had seen the inside of their house in a long time.
They gave us the grand tour, and I walked around slack-jawed.
I don't know if this happens in every city, but here in San Francisco if you go see a house that's for sale, it's often "staged" with nice furniture and art for the open house. They move out tons of the owner's crap and fill it with Pottery Barn's latest designs. There's never any clutter, and every room makes you say, "Hey, I'd like to live here!".
That's what our neighbor's house was like. At the end of the tour, I stammered, "Where's all your... stuff?" They laughed graciously.
I was serious! Where were the piles of crap? Where were the moving boxes and spare computer parts? I understand that since they don't have kids, they won't have carefully spread out piles of legos or toppling stacks of hastily painted artwork, but where were all the things that don't have a place to go? You know, ALL THE STUFF!
Even the kitchen was immaculate. They were clearly in the middle of making dinner, and sure enough, on the kitchen island there was a bowl of precisely cut green beans. I'd be surprised if the length of any one green bean segment differed by more than 10% from the average length.
Just. Un. Believable. I instantly felt subhuman.
They sure are nice though.
The main logistical issue with doing any sort of work on our house or backyard is that there is no side access to the back of our house. If you want to get to the back, you have to march past our front door, down our white-painted hallway, through our semi-remodeled kitchen, and across our family room.
Carrying 10 foot long beams of wood? Careful! CAREFUUUUL!!
Dragging a cement hose to the back? Ummm, would you mind taking off your shoes first?
Not a recipe for household bliss. However, our neighbors DO have convenient access to their backyard. Although they recently installed a fence between our yards, they made sure to have one section of it installed with screws instead of nails so that it could be removed for when we started our remodel. Granted, we did split the cost of the fence with them, but the idea of making part of it removable was theirs.
So, every day the construction workers traipse through our neighbor's garage and yard instead of my kitchen. It's almost unobtrusive. Remarkable. (Actually it's been 100% unobtrusive for the last two weeks since construction has come to a mysterious halt, but, whatever.)
This isn't the first time that our neighbors have been very helpful to us. We owe them big time. Hank and I contemplated how we could thank them. What nice thing could we do for them? After much quality thought the best idea we came up with was: booze.
So, earlier this week we knocked on their door with a couple bottles of wine and they invited us in for a few minutes. Although we get along very well with these guys, we don't socialize with them much, so this was the first time we had seen the inside of their house in a long time.
They gave us the grand tour, and I walked around slack-jawed.
I don't know if this happens in every city, but here in San Francisco if you go see a house that's for sale, it's often "staged" with nice furniture and art for the open house. They move out tons of the owner's crap and fill it with Pottery Barn's latest designs. There's never any clutter, and every room makes you say, "Hey, I'd like to live here!".
That's what our neighbor's house was like. At the end of the tour, I stammered, "Where's all your... stuff?" They laughed graciously.
I was serious! Where were the piles of crap? Where were the moving boxes and spare computer parts? I understand that since they don't have kids, they won't have carefully spread out piles of legos or toppling stacks of hastily painted artwork, but where were all the things that don't have a place to go? You know, ALL THE STUFF!
Even the kitchen was immaculate. They were clearly in the middle of making dinner, and sure enough, on the kitchen island there was a bowl of precisely cut green beans. I'd be surprised if the length of any one green bean segment differed by more than 10% from the average length.
Just. Un. Believable. I instantly felt subhuman.
They sure are nice though.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Some people call me the space hippie, yeah
Some call me the blogster of love
Some people call me Mi-ike
Cause I speak of the mumblemumble OF LOOOOOOVE
That's me! So far, like Deanna Troi, I have chosen Valerian Tea to be my sleep aid of choice. We are birds of a feather, Counselor Troi and I. Who knows, had my life turned out differently (say maybe discovering faster-than-light travel, and then starting up a Starfleet organization, and then traveling into a parallel and fictional universe), then maybe I could have shared a cup of tea with Deanna one evening.
Night Two of Valerian-aided sleep went pretty well. I still woke up a little bit, but, as Carey noted in the comments of the last post, maybe that's just what my sleep patterns are changing into now that I'm old. Or maybe Carey meant that I'm changing into a butterfly. Beats me.
Anyway, this is how it looks when Deanna drinks her tea. Obviously the uniform is from a different season than the above picture. Duh. The mug is clearly futuristic and fantastic. I'm going to get one of those.
Monday, May 21, 2007
"Mike, what's the most boring thing you could blog about?" I asked myself.
Baseball gambling software?
Ha! Funny one.
How the grass grows in my backyard?
Um..... no.
My crappy sleeping abilities?
Yes! Nicely chosen, Mike.
So, a while ago I asked ya'll (y'all? stupid slang contraction) for suggestions on how I could sleep better. This was a thinly veiled attempt on my part to find validation for my proposed strategy of taking powerful pharmaceuticals, sweet sweet pharmaceuticals. Because you are all contrary and out to get me, instead, you came back with touchy feely suggestions like "Try to figure out what's bothering you."
Even your "pill" suggestions were touchy feely. A few folks recommended melatonin and a couple others suggested valerian tea. I didn't know what "valerian tea" was, but it sounded like something that space hippies would drink on Star Trek. It seemed maybe one step more legit than hanging crystals above my bed and lighting some patchouli incense.
HOWEVER, because I am an open-minded man, I went out and bought some melatonin. It helped a little, but I still woke up in the middle of the night sometimes, and I always felt groggy in the morning. Overall, it was probably a little better than taking an antihistamine, but it wasn't the answer I was looking for.
I ignored the "valerian tea" answer because of that whole new-agey sci-fi stigma. Then, something amazing happened. Daisy was watching an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation (because I am molding her in my image) and there was a scene where Deanna Troi stepped up to the replicator (a machine capable of constructing almost any kind of matter). She asked for something that I only half heard from my vantage point in the kitchen.
"Daisy!" I called, "Press the 7-second-back button!" (God bless Tivo (and the children)). She complied and I was able to clearly here what Deanna requested from the Replicator: "Valerian Root tea."
Holy cow! Deanna Troi is the ship's counselor on the Enterprise. She is the new-agey touchy-feely person. This confirmed EXACTLY what I had suspected about valerian tea. It was for space hippies! But, now I had to have some.
So, last night I brewed a cup of Starfleet's finest sleep aid. And..... well, I'm not sure. I slept maybe a little better than I have been, and I didn't wake up too groggy. The jury is still out on this one, but since I'm spending most of my waking hours making decisions based on small sample sizes, I might as well base my sleep strategies on those too.
Tonight: Valerian Tea Test Two.
Baseball gambling software?
Ha! Funny one.
How the grass grows in my backyard?
Um..... no.
My crappy sleeping abilities?
Yes! Nicely chosen, Mike.
So, a while ago I asked ya'll (y'all? stupid slang contraction) for suggestions on how I could sleep better. This was a thinly veiled attempt on my part to find validation for my proposed strategy of taking powerful pharmaceuticals, sweet sweet pharmaceuticals. Because you are all contrary and out to get me, instead, you came back with touchy feely suggestions like "Try to figure out what's bothering you."
Even your "pill" suggestions were touchy feely. A few folks recommended melatonin and a couple others suggested valerian tea. I didn't know what "valerian tea" was, but it sounded like something that space hippies would drink on Star Trek. It seemed maybe one step more legit than hanging crystals above my bed and lighting some patchouli incense.
HOWEVER, because I am an open-minded man, I went out and bought some melatonin. It helped a little, but I still woke up in the middle of the night sometimes, and I always felt groggy in the morning. Overall, it was probably a little better than taking an antihistamine, but it wasn't the answer I was looking for.
I ignored the "valerian tea" answer because of that whole new-agey sci-fi stigma. Then, something amazing happened. Daisy was watching an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation (because I am molding her in my image) and there was a scene where Deanna Troi stepped up to the replicator (a machine capable of constructing almost any kind of matter). She asked for something that I only half heard from my vantage point in the kitchen.
"Daisy!" I called, "Press the 7-second-back button!" (God bless Tivo (and the children)). She complied and I was able to clearly here what Deanna requested from the Replicator: "Valerian Root tea."
Holy cow! Deanna Troi is the ship's counselor on the Enterprise. She is the new-agey touchy-feely person. This confirmed EXACTLY what I had suspected about valerian tea. It was for space hippies! But, now I had to have some.
So, last night I brewed a cup of Starfleet's finest sleep aid. And..... well, I'm not sure. I slept maybe a little better than I have been, and I didn't wake up too groggy. The jury is still out on this one, but since I'm spending most of my waking hours making decisions based on small sample sizes, I might as well base my sleep strategies on those too.
Tonight: Valerian Tea Test Two.
Sunday, May 20, 2007
Today I took Daisy to the Maker Faire.
The Maker Faire is what happens when a bunch of nerds decide to put on a show. These aren't just computer nerds though, they're art nerds, robot nerds, bike nerds, or just anyone who has made something and wants to show it off. It was one of the most interesting events I've attended that didn't involve either drugs or my penis.
Almost all of the exhibits were interactive. The wool nerds showed us how to make crafty things out of unspun wool. The photography nerds used strobe lights to take high-speed images of us popping a balloon. The guy who built a chariot pulled by a running robot encouraged kids to hop along for a ride. If there was a button in an exhibit, it usually had a hand-written sign on it saying, "Please press me!". Excellent.
Daisy got to:
After a few hours around all these creative and technically savvy people, I started to feel somewhat inadequate. Thankfully, I soon recalled my own fantastic discovery from earlier in the week.
On Friday I had lunch at home. Afterwards, I tidied up the kitchen, and for some reason took a long look at the oven. There was a button there that I had never pressed that was labeled "Clean".
I didn't really know what that button did, or what you might have to do prior to pressing that button, but I was unable to not press it. It demanded pressing. So, I pressed it.
Then, the oven did what all things in this house do. It beeped mercilessly at me, while flashing the word "door" in it's LED screen. I opened and closed the door, and slammed the door, and pressed the door closed with all (not very much) my might. At some point amidst my panicked flailing, I noticed there was a lever on the door, so I swung that baby and that seemed to quiet the beeping beast. I figured this was some sort of lock.
At that point the oven began a 3-hour countdown. I raced upstairs to send an instant message to my handiest friend, to brag about my newfound button.
Me: Hey, does your oven have a "Clean" button?
Friend: Yeah, but we never press it.
Me: What? Why?
Friend: A friend of mine pressed their clean button, and the oven door locked and never unlocked again. It broke the oven.
Doh! I raced back downstairs and stared at the countdown timer. It was moving VERY slowly. I trudged back to my office and tried to keep busy for the next 180 minutes.
After an absurdly long 10,800 seconds, I ran downstairs again to unlock the oven. The lever didn't move very easily, so I kind of forced it. It moved, with that you're-bending-metal-you-dumbass kind of motion. Then I tried to open the door and it wouldn't budge.
Gah! Then, the oven started to beep again. BEEP BEEP BEEP! For the love of Christ, BEEP BEEP! Meanwhile it flashed an incomprehensible "F2" at me. So, I bent the metal lever back into the "lock" position and frantically pressed buttons on the console. That seemed to soothe it. It stopped beeping anyway.
I was kind of bummed about breaking my oven, but it's not like I cook anything in there anyway. I was pretty sure Hank could work some magic using just the cast iron pan and the microwave. She's good at improvising.
Anyway, short story long, after an hour of cooling or so, the door happily unlocked and opened u, AND THE OVEN WAS CLEANER. Hah!
That's going to be my exhibit at next year's Maker Faire. Come check it out!
The Maker Faire is what happens when a bunch of nerds decide to put on a show. These aren't just computer nerds though, they're art nerds, robot nerds, bike nerds, or just anyone who has made something and wants to show it off. It was one of the most interesting events I've attended that didn't involve either drugs or my penis.
Almost all of the exhibits were interactive. The wool nerds showed us how to make crafty things out of unspun wool. The photography nerds used strobe lights to take high-speed images of us popping a balloon. The guy who built a chariot pulled by a running robot encouraged kids to hop along for a ride. If there was a button in an exhibit, it usually had a hand-written sign on it saying, "Please press me!". Excellent.
Daisy got to:
- Ride in a hang gliding flight simulator
- Make a clay pot on a pottery wheel
- Engineer a bridge made out of pasta
- Play a full-sized drum kit by pressing keys on a piano keyboard
- Design and play with a toy car set to run along a monorail
- Make her own hair band
- And much more!
After a few hours around all these creative and technically savvy people, I started to feel somewhat inadequate. Thankfully, I soon recalled my own fantastic discovery from earlier in the week.
On Friday I had lunch at home. Afterwards, I tidied up the kitchen, and for some reason took a long look at the oven. There was a button there that I had never pressed that was labeled "Clean".
I didn't really know what that button did, or what you might have to do prior to pressing that button, but I was unable to not press it. It demanded pressing. So, I pressed it.
Then, the oven did what all things in this house do. It beeped mercilessly at me, while flashing the word "door" in it's LED screen. I opened and closed the door, and slammed the door, and pressed the door closed with all (not very much) my might. At some point amidst my panicked flailing, I noticed there was a lever on the door, so I swung that baby and that seemed to quiet the beeping beast. I figured this was some sort of lock.
At that point the oven began a 3-hour countdown. I raced upstairs to send an instant message to my handiest friend, to brag about my newfound button.
Me: Hey, does your oven have a "Clean" button?
Friend: Yeah, but we never press it.
Me: What? Why?
Friend: A friend of mine pressed their clean button, and the oven door locked and never unlocked again. It broke the oven.
Doh! I raced back downstairs and stared at the countdown timer. It was moving VERY slowly. I trudged back to my office and tried to keep busy for the next 180 minutes.
After an absurdly long 10,800 seconds, I ran downstairs again to unlock the oven. The lever didn't move very easily, so I kind of forced it. It moved, with that you're-bending-metal-you-dumbass kind of motion. Then I tried to open the door and it wouldn't budge.
Gah! Then, the oven started to beep again. BEEP BEEP BEEP! For the love of Christ, BEEP BEEP! Meanwhile it flashed an incomprehensible "F2" at me. So, I bent the metal lever back into the "lock" position and frantically pressed buttons on the console. That seemed to soothe it. It stopped beeping anyway.
I was kind of bummed about breaking my oven, but it's not like I cook anything in there anyway. I was pretty sure Hank could work some magic using just the cast iron pan and the microwave. She's good at improvising.
Anyway, short story long, after an hour of cooling or so, the door happily unlocked and opened u, AND THE OVEN WAS CLEANER. Hah!
That's going to be my exhibit at next year's Maker Faire. Come check it out!
Wednesday, May 16, 2007
A funny thing happened to me today.
Oh, wait. That wasn't me. Or it wasn't something funny. Either way, I got nothing.
There's work, of course. Given that I toil in the titillating field of enterprise software development, work is always a hoot and a half. However, since all my hilarious job stories today were either visual or olfactory, I'll just say that I've got a deadline this week for which I will redefine the word "done".
Oh, wait. That wasn't me. Or it wasn't something funny. Either way, I got nothing.
There's work, of course. Given that I toil in the titillating field of enterprise software development, work is always a hoot and a half. However, since all my hilarious job stories today were either visual or olfactory, I'll just say that I've got a deadline this week for which I will redefine the word "done".
Monday, May 14, 2007
On Saturday, Daisy, Hank and I went to go see a concert/fireworks show here in S.F. called Kaboom with Liz and Larry. A good time was had by all (or at least me). Afterwards, at around 10:00pm, well after Daisy's bedtime, Liz and Larry dropped us off in front of our house.
I pulled the gate open and... nothing. I pulled a little harder on the gate. I pulled as hard as my keyboard-and-mouse hardened muscles could, but the gate wouldn't budge.
"Gah! The gate's stuck!" I whined. Daisy instantly burst into tears.
The gate in question is several feet in front of the front door to the house. I'm not sure what the area between the gate and the door is called. It's not a foyer or a breezeway or an orgyhole, but it was separating us from our cozy wozy beds. A couple of years ago one of Daisy's more exuberant friends slammed the gate really hard and broke the lock. So, you can still lean the gate shut, and it LOOKS like it's locked, but the lock hasn't worked since that day. In fact, ever since Hank's purse got stolen a year ago, and we re-keyed our locks, we haven't even bothered to carry the key for the gate. It's been that broken. Completely unlockable. 100%.
Until Saturday.
There is an electronic release button that unlocks the gate, but it's hidden inside an old mail slot, several feet into the entryway/breezeway/foyer/orgyhole. I stuck my longest arm through an opening in the gate and flailed wildly at the slot. I was nearly a foot short.
We were locked out.
We flagged down Liz and Larry before they got away and explained that we were sort of locked out of our house. We hoped that Larry might be able to help us out.
You see, one of the ways I organize my life is to surround myself with useful people. It's good to have small friends who can fit into small places, strong friends who can lift stuff, friends with extra chocolate chip cookies, friends who are handy with speculums, etc.
Larry's Super Friend Power is that he's really tall. Also, he's probably the nicest guy I know, and easily one of the smartest, blah blah blah. Most importantly, he has nice long arms. We explained our dilemma to him, and pointed out the distant button that would rescue us from our homelessness.
Larry stretched, and stretched, and just baaaaarely hit the button. I promptly yanked the gate with all my programmer might, and it popped open (and sort of dislocated Larry's shoulder, but he's tough). Hurray! Daisy wiped her tears and we went off to bed, thankful for tall friends.
On Sunday morning I removed the lock from the gate. It seemed easier than carrying around the stupid key.
I pulled the gate open and... nothing. I pulled a little harder on the gate. I pulled as hard as my keyboard-and-mouse hardened muscles could, but the gate wouldn't budge.
"Gah! The gate's stuck!" I whined. Daisy instantly burst into tears.
The gate in question is several feet in front of the front door to the house. I'm not sure what the area between the gate and the door is called. It's not a foyer or a breezeway or an orgyhole, but it was separating us from our cozy wozy beds. A couple of years ago one of Daisy's more exuberant friends slammed the gate really hard and broke the lock. So, you can still lean the gate shut, and it LOOKS like it's locked, but the lock hasn't worked since that day. In fact, ever since Hank's purse got stolen a year ago, and we re-keyed our locks, we haven't even bothered to carry the key for the gate. It's been that broken. Completely unlockable. 100%.
Until Saturday.
There is an electronic release button that unlocks the gate, but it's hidden inside an old mail slot, several feet into the entryway/breezeway/foyer/orgyhole. I stuck my longest arm through an opening in the gate and flailed wildly at the slot. I was nearly a foot short.
We were locked out.
We flagged down Liz and Larry before they got away and explained that we were sort of locked out of our house. We hoped that Larry might be able to help us out.
You see, one of the ways I organize my life is to surround myself with useful people. It's good to have small friends who can fit into small places, strong friends who can lift stuff, friends with extra chocolate chip cookies, friends who are handy with speculums, etc.
Larry's Super Friend Power is that he's really tall. Also, he's probably the nicest guy I know, and easily one of the smartest, blah blah blah. Most importantly, he has nice long arms. We explained our dilemma to him, and pointed out the distant button that would rescue us from our homelessness.
Larry stretched, and stretched, and just baaaaarely hit the button. I promptly yanked the gate with all my programmer might, and it popped open (and sort of dislocated Larry's shoulder, but he's tough). Hurray! Daisy wiped her tears and we went off to bed, thankful for tall friends.
On Sunday morning I removed the lock from the gate. It seemed easier than carrying around the stupid key.
Thursday, May 10, 2007
I've had two decent (7+ hours) nights of sleep in a row. I'm not sure why. I think it's random. Regardless, the brain fog is lifting a bit.
It was getting pretty dark in there for a while. The world seemed be going faster than I could parse it. I recall Hank buzzing into my office on Tuesday and saying, "Sallycalledandimgoingtogomeetheratthemallthetaquitosareintheovenjusttakethemoutwhenthebuzzergoesoff andthespinachisreadytocookinapanonthestovejustturnitonandcookitlikeusual, ok?
I stared at her uncomprehendingly, blinking slowly while trying to tune in her frequency.
"Can you say that again? Slower?" I mumbled
"Sally called, and I'm going to meet her at the mall. The taquitos are in the oven. Just take them out when the buzzer goes off, and the spinach is ready to cook in a pan on the stove. Just turn it on and cook it like usual, ok?" she repeated.
I blinked a few more times.
"So.... you need me to do something?"
"Yes. The buzzer will go off when the taquitos are ready. Daisy will tell you when that happens. Just take them out of the oven and then cook the spinach. It's all ready to go in a pain on the stove. It's really easy, ok?"
"Oh. Gotcha. Sure."
It was not a productive week.
Meanwhile, I continued to spend every possible spare brain cycle on my baseball gambling software. It's been performing very poorly the last couple weeks, so I decided to write a bunch of code to and figure out what was going wrong.
Here, I'll make an analogy to make this explanation simpler.
Pretend my baseball gambling program is an airplane. Pretend that I've been spending all this time trying to build an airplane so that I could get places fast.
Now, pretend that the airplane does fly ok sometimes, but other times it kind of smashes into the ground. Pretend that the last two weeks were really ground smashy. (Cut me some slack, this is my first airplane)
So, I spent a lot of time the last couple days trying to tune it to be more aerodynamic, so that it would spend more time flying and less time nosediving into cement. I ran wind-tunnel tests, and reduced some weight, and tried to hire a smarter pilot. However, no matter what tests I ran, it still smashed into the ground too often. It's hard to get places quickly when your airplane does that.
One of the tests I ran, however, was to make sure that the plane could taxi well. That test went GREAT. In fact, I found that the airplane really booked along the runway much faster than I expected.
So, today, I came to the absurd conclusion that since my airplane taxis much better than it flies, maybe I should just drive it everywhere. THAT seems to work great.
So, yes, I can successfully make baseball bets, just not in the way I expected. I built an airplane, and now I'm driving it down the road.
(If that doesn't work for you, try this. It's like I spent a couple months trying to build the world's best chocolate chip cookie making machine, but now I'm just gonna eat the dough instead).
It was getting pretty dark in there for a while. The world seemed be going faster than I could parse it. I recall Hank buzzing into my office on Tuesday and saying, "Sallycalledandimgoingtogomeetheratthemallthetaquitosareintheovenjusttakethemoutwhenthebuzzergoesoff andthespinachisreadytocookinapanonthestovejustturnitonandcookitlikeusual, ok?
I stared at her uncomprehendingly, blinking slowly while trying to tune in her frequency.
"Can you say that again? Slower?" I mumbled
"Sally called, and I'm going to meet her at the mall. The taquitos are in the oven. Just take them out when the buzzer goes off, and the spinach is ready to cook in a pan on the stove. Just turn it on and cook it like usual, ok?" she repeated.
I blinked a few more times.
"So.... you need me to do something?"
"Yes. The buzzer will go off when the taquitos are ready. Daisy will tell you when that happens. Just take them out of the oven and then cook the spinach. It's all ready to go in a pain on the stove. It's really easy, ok?"
"Oh. Gotcha. Sure."
It was not a productive week.
Meanwhile, I continued to spend every possible spare brain cycle on my baseball gambling software. It's been performing very poorly the last couple weeks, so I decided to write a bunch of code to and figure out what was going wrong.
Here, I'll make an analogy to make this explanation simpler.
Pretend my baseball gambling program is an airplane. Pretend that I've been spending all this time trying to build an airplane so that I could get places fast.
Now, pretend that the airplane does fly ok sometimes, but other times it kind of smashes into the ground. Pretend that the last two weeks were really ground smashy. (Cut me some slack, this is my first airplane)
So, I spent a lot of time the last couple days trying to tune it to be more aerodynamic, so that it would spend more time flying and less time nosediving into cement. I ran wind-tunnel tests, and reduced some weight, and tried to hire a smarter pilot. However, no matter what tests I ran, it still smashed into the ground too often. It's hard to get places quickly when your airplane does that.
One of the tests I ran, however, was to make sure that the plane could taxi well. That test went GREAT. In fact, I found that the airplane really booked along the runway much faster than I expected.
So, today, I came to the absurd conclusion that since my airplane taxis much better than it flies, maybe I should just drive it everywhere. THAT seems to work great.
So, yes, I can successfully make baseball bets, just not in the way I expected. I built an airplane, and now I'm driving it down the road.
(If that doesn't work for you, try this. It's like I spent a couple months trying to build the world's best chocolate chip cookie making machine, but now I'm just gonna eat the dough instead).
Tuesday, May 08, 2007
My brain is in a fog today.
I'm still sleeping like crap. The hot weather the last couple nights hasn't been helping. Naturally I turned to my old friend, the chillow. I plopped that baby down under my ass and immediately felt.... wet! Something had punctured my chillow! Blast.
The world is conspiring against my sleep. I know you're all in this against me. I SEE YOU OUT THERE!
The other night, while I lay fully awake in bed, I actually broke down and tried one of the suggestions that I've heard from so many people. I got out of bed and wrote down on a post it the thoughts that were occupying my brain. I wrote:
Sleep is hard.
On a totally unrelated note, out of all the gifts I bought for Hank for her birthday last month, the one that she likes the most is the cast iron pan. As it turns out, they're damn good for cooking.
This surprises me. Out of all the cookware we have, the cast iron pan is the least technologically advanced. I find it hard to believe that our best cooking device is one that doesn't even have any buttons on it. All good things have buttons. I, for example, have a charming one smack in the middle of my belly.
My brain is in a fog.
I'm still sleeping like crap. The hot weather the last couple nights hasn't been helping. Naturally I turned to my old friend, the chillow. I plopped that baby down under my ass and immediately felt.... wet! Something had punctured my chillow! Blast.
The world is conspiring against my sleep. I know you're all in this against me. I SEE YOU OUT THERE!
The other night, while I lay fully awake in bed, I actually broke down and tried one of the suggestions that I've heard from so many people. I got out of bed and wrote down on a post it the thoughts that were occupying my brain. I wrote:
I am excited about my baseball software, but I'm also concerned that it doesn't work well enough.I stared at the post-it. Seeing my concerns written down in chicken-scratch just made them all the more real. I felt more stressed. I followed up by writing down some ideas I had about making the program better. That helped a bit, probably calming me back down to where I was before I got out of bed.
Sleep is hard.
On a totally unrelated note, out of all the gifts I bought for Hank for her birthday last month, the one that she likes the most is the cast iron pan. As it turns out, they're damn good for cooking.
This surprises me. Out of all the cookware we have, the cast iron pan is the least technologically advanced. I find it hard to believe that our best cooking device is one that doesn't even have any buttons on it. All good things have buttons. I, for example, have a charming one smack in the middle of my belly.
My brain is in a fog.
Monday, May 07, 2007
One of my friends is making online bets using the data from my baseball program, and so far he's lost a little money. One day, he mis-clicked and placed a bet he didn't mean to place. The game in question ended up being a bizarre one that was suspended mid-game due to rain and then resumed the next day. Although the team he bet on ended up winning, he lost the bet due to some arcane (but standard) casino rules. Needless to say, he was rather annoyed.
I spent some time that morning researching the rules and I explained to him exactly what had occurred, and why he had lost his bet. The conversation turned into this:
Me: Anyway, that's why you lost the bet. The casino didn't steal your money, it's just a weird rule.
Friend: Ok.
Friend: You're a shill for the casinos, aren't you?
Me: Apparently
Friend: You see, this is a classic mistake men make.
Me: Reading the rules?
Friend: I want support and empathy over my situation...and you give me logic.
Friend: You just need to honor and validate my feelings.
Me: I.... can't..... even.... parse those sentences.
Me: Something about logic?.
Friend: Something tells me Hank knows what I'm talking about.
Friend: I'm posting her now.
Me: I'm off to go make coffee. First game today is in 60 minutes.
Friend: Insensitive bastard. See ya.
I checked with Hank later. She did know what he was talking about.
I spent some time that morning researching the rules and I explained to him exactly what had occurred, and why he had lost his bet. The conversation turned into this:
Me: Anyway, that's why you lost the bet. The casino didn't steal your money, it's just a weird rule.
Friend: Ok.
Friend: You're a shill for the casinos, aren't you?
Me: Apparently
Friend: You see, this is a classic mistake men make.
Me: Reading the rules?
Friend: I want support and empathy over my situation...and you give me logic.
Friend: You just need to honor and validate my feelings.
Me: I.... can't..... even.... parse those sentences.
Me: Something about logic?.
Friend: Something tells me Hank knows what I'm talking about.
Friend: I'm posting her now.
Me: I'm off to go make coffee. First game today is in 60 minutes.
Friend: Insensitive bastard. See ya.
I checked with Hank later. She did know what he was talking about.
Sunday, May 06, 2007
Our car is in the shop this week and I couldn't be happier about it.
A couple of weeks ago Hank was running errands and had parked our car on a street in Noe Valley (a nice neighborhood here in San Francisco). She returned to the car about an hour later and found a note on the windshield. It said something to this effect:
Hank contacted the good samaritan later that day via email and he explained that a pickup truck had been trying to parallel park in front of our car. The gate on the truck was down and some pieces of wood were sticking out a few feet beyond the back of the truck. When the truck backed up too close to our car, the wood stabbed into our hood, making a nice little dent. The truck driver immediately pulled out of the spot and parked further down the street.
The good samaritan attached photos of the truck, including the offending piece of wood and a clear shot of the out-of-state Florida license plate. He offered that our insurance company or the police could contact him with any questions.
Hank filed a police report and then submitted all the information to our insurance company. They assessed it, and said that they had everything they needed to go after this guy. They told us they'd waive the deductible and that we should go get our car fixed at our earliest convenience.
Holy crap! I'm speechless.
When was I abducted from Earth and deposited on The Planet Where Things Happen As They Should? It's really nice here. Warm.
Either that or Hank has some kick-ass karma. It surely can't be mine.
A couple of weeks ago Hank was running errands and had parked our car on a street in Noe Valley (a nice neighborhood here in San Francisco). She returned to the car about an hour later and found a note on the windshield. It said something to this effect:
I saw your car get hit by a truck. I took pictures of the truck. You may contact me at blahblah@email.comSure enough, our car had a dent in the hood.
Hank contacted the good samaritan later that day via email and he explained that a pickup truck had been trying to parallel park in front of our car. The gate on the truck was down and some pieces of wood were sticking out a few feet beyond the back of the truck. When the truck backed up too close to our car, the wood stabbed into our hood, making a nice little dent. The truck driver immediately pulled out of the spot and parked further down the street.
The good samaritan attached photos of the truck, including the offending piece of wood and a clear shot of the out-of-state Florida license plate. He offered that our insurance company or the police could contact him with any questions.
Hank filed a police report and then submitted all the information to our insurance company. They assessed it, and said that they had everything they needed to go after this guy. They told us they'd waive the deductible and that we should go get our car fixed at our earliest convenience.
Holy crap! I'm speechless.
When was I abducted from Earth and deposited on The Planet Where Things Happen As They Should? It's really nice here. Warm.
Either that or Hank has some kick-ass karma. It surely can't be mine.
Wednesday, May 02, 2007
When I was 12 years old I spent two weeks of my summer vacation at the Lawrence Hall of Science in Berkeley learning how to program a computer using the BASIC language. It was, undoubtedly, the most important two weeks of my life.
By the end of the next summer, I had taken their Advanced BASIC course and I was the proud owner of an Apple II+ computer (thankyouverymuch gift checks from my Bar Mitzvah). I distinctly remember bragging to my friends.
"You guys! I can program this computer to do anything! What do you want? I can do ANYTHING!"
This was, however, the early 1980s, and most 13 year-olds had no idea what a computer could reasonably do, so they just stared at me blankly, unaware that one day computers would serve up pornographic debauchery beyond their wildest dreams. In the pre-Internet age, computing wasn't terribly exciting, and my Apple II+ with its 16Kb of memory wasn't powerful at all. I followed up with some examples.
"Guys, I'm serious! I can make this computer show some cool patterns, OR EVEN print your name over and over again! AS MANY TIMES AS YOU WANT!"
Johnny and Akshai, my best friends, were understandably unimpressed. I was undeterred. I happily spent many of my free hours over the next several years devising and writing computer programs to amuse and impress myself. A short list of my favorites would include:
Laser War: A low-resolution shoot 'em up game on the Apple II+. It was unplayable by current standards.
CTRL-C Gotcha: On the Apple II+ the CTRL-C key sequence was a lot like today's CTRL-ALT-DEL. I wrote a program that overwrote what the computer did when you pressed CTRL-C. What was cool about this program was that it modified itself each time you ran it. I had never heard of self-modifying code, so I invented it myself.
Match Maker: In high school I wrote a program to try and match couples up. I passed questionnaires around to everyone I could find, asking for their personal statistics and preferences, and then I entered their data into my program to try and find romantic matches. It never found a good match. The best it did was to pair Doug Plazak and Gayle Stansfield. I know! Ridiculous!
The Mr. Martinez Game: My high school Spanish teacher was a remarkable human being. Not only did he teach he me to score more highly on the Spanish Literature AP test than the English Literature AP test, but he foiled every single practical joke that we tried to play on him. In his honor, my friend Don and I wrote a text adventure game (like those old Choose Your Own Adventure Books) about a student trying to flee from the implacable Mr. Martinez. We sold copies to most of our classmates for the price of the floppy disk it was stored on.
Blackjack Strategy Analyzer: I learned a new computer language (Smalltalk) that I loved very much right around the same time that I learned how to count cards in Blackjack. Since I wasn't smart enough to figure out with statistics whether or not I could make money counting cards, I decided to write a computer program to figure it out with brute force. I programmed the computer to play blackjack just as I would (with a reasonable error rate) and I let it run for about a million hands. It told me to keep my day job.
Then I didn't write any software for myself for a very long time. I wrote the Blackjack program in the early 1990s and that was it for many years. It wasn't until last year that I finally conceived of my baseball gambling program, The Baseball Predictinator 2000, and was motivated enough to write it.
I had forgotten what a joy it is to write a computer program for myself. When you spend your working hours programming corporate minutiae, year after year, you forget that you ever had the feeling of "I can make this computer do ANYTHING!" Even though now I know that there are entire genres of computing that I suck at (graphics, user interfaces, anything on the Web), I love that I can still summon up that powerful feeling of software mastery.
The Baseball Predictinator 2000 has brought me great joy over the last nine months. I love that I can still conceive of a program, type for a while, and then watch it spin and whir. It brings me great joy to think of a problem and then solve it with a series of computer commands. It remains to be seen whether it can make me rich, but I'd bet money that it can make money. Why shouldn't it? I can make my computer do anything.
By the end of the next summer, I had taken their Advanced BASIC course and I was the proud owner of an Apple II+ computer (thankyouverymuch gift checks from my Bar Mitzvah). I distinctly remember bragging to my friends.
"You guys! I can program this computer to do anything! What do you want? I can do ANYTHING!"
This was, however, the early 1980s, and most 13 year-olds had no idea what a computer could reasonably do, so they just stared at me blankly, unaware that one day computers would serve up pornographic debauchery beyond their wildest dreams. In the pre-Internet age, computing wasn't terribly exciting, and my Apple II+ with its 16Kb of memory wasn't powerful at all. I followed up with some examples.
"Guys, I'm serious! I can make this computer show some cool patterns, OR EVEN print your name over and over again! AS MANY TIMES AS YOU WANT!"
Johnny and Akshai, my best friends, were understandably unimpressed. I was undeterred. I happily spent many of my free hours over the next several years devising and writing computer programs to amuse and impress myself. A short list of my favorites would include:
Laser War: A low-resolution shoot 'em up game on the Apple II+. It was unplayable by current standards.
CTRL-C Gotcha: On the Apple II+ the CTRL-C key sequence was a lot like today's CTRL-ALT-DEL. I wrote a program that overwrote what the computer did when you pressed CTRL-C. What was cool about this program was that it modified itself each time you ran it. I had never heard of self-modifying code, so I invented it myself.
Match Maker: In high school I wrote a program to try and match couples up. I passed questionnaires around to everyone I could find, asking for their personal statistics and preferences, and then I entered their data into my program to try and find romantic matches. It never found a good match. The best it did was to pair Doug Plazak and Gayle Stansfield. I know! Ridiculous!
The Mr. Martinez Game: My high school Spanish teacher was a remarkable human being. Not only did he teach he me to score more highly on the Spanish Literature AP test than the English Literature AP test, but he foiled every single practical joke that we tried to play on him. In his honor, my friend Don and I wrote a text adventure game (like those old Choose Your Own Adventure Books) about a student trying to flee from the implacable Mr. Martinez. We sold copies to most of our classmates for the price of the floppy disk it was stored on.
Blackjack Strategy Analyzer: I learned a new computer language (Smalltalk) that I loved very much right around the same time that I learned how to count cards in Blackjack. Since I wasn't smart enough to figure out with statistics whether or not I could make money counting cards, I decided to write a computer program to figure it out with brute force. I programmed the computer to play blackjack just as I would (with a reasonable error rate) and I let it run for about a million hands. It told me to keep my day job.
Then I didn't write any software for myself for a very long time. I wrote the Blackjack program in the early 1990s and that was it for many years. It wasn't until last year that I finally conceived of my baseball gambling program, The Baseball Predictinator 2000, and was motivated enough to write it.
I had forgotten what a joy it is to write a computer program for myself. When you spend your working hours programming corporate minutiae, year after year, you forget that you ever had the feeling of "I can make this computer do ANYTHING!" Even though now I know that there are entire genres of computing that I suck at (graphics, user interfaces, anything on the Web), I love that I can still summon up that powerful feeling of software mastery.
The Baseball Predictinator 2000 has brought me great joy over the last nine months. I love that I can still conceive of a program, type for a while, and then watch it spin and whir. It brings me great joy to think of a problem and then solve it with a series of computer commands. It remains to be seen whether it can make me rich, but I'd bet money that it can make money. Why shouldn't it? I can make my computer do anything.
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