Tuesday, January 31, 2012

Spot On

I've been a Surviving the World fan since September, when I stumbled across the site while looking for ways to teach my debaters about ad hominem fallacies.  Now I read it almost daily.  Today's update made me laugh, wince, and then hurry to share.

http://survivingtheworld.net/Lesson1309.html

Monday, January 30, 2012

I Dream in Vignettes

This morning my alarm clock sounded at 4 a.m.  I had meant to get up at 4 and exercise, but since my sore throat from last night was still there, I hit snooze.  Then I hit snooze again.  I hit snooze in 5 minute intervals from 4 to 5:45.  That's 105 minutes, or 21 snoozes.  Thank heaven I don't have roommates or they would have shot me.  Because of the fragmented nature of my sleep this morning, I had a series of very random, very short dreams.  Here is a sampling:

I dreamed I slept in until 11:27 and was panicking because I was late for school.  I kept checking my phone, wondering why the school hadn't called me.  Not only that, but my mom was there, and I couldn't understand why she hadn't woken me up so I wouldn't be so late.

I dreamed about towels.

I dreamed about dirty rugs.

I think I dreamed about tea.

I think I dreamed about a few different boys.

I probably dreamed about lots of other things, that didn't really make an impression.  I was surprised by how deeply I was sleeping in between alarms.  I felt like I was getting fantastic sleep.  Sleep so fantastic I never could bring myself to turn my alarm off so I could sleep for more than 5 minutes at a time.

Saturday, January 28, 2012

Failure and Excuses

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I did not meet my budgeting goals this month.  I did not meet my budgeting goals this month by several hundred dollars.  This is the result of several factors.  Some are my fault.  Some are not.  I'm going to tell you about it, partially because I'm sitting in a very boring session of the UAGC conference (most of which has been wonderful), and partially because I figure if I tell you, I'll be too embarrassed to overspend again next month.  For your convenience, I have categorized and itemized my expenses and excuses.

What was my fault:
1.  I spent too much money on going out to eat.
2.  My power bill was too high.
3.  I bought too much stuff.

My Excuses:
1.  Going Out to Eat:  I have been looking for friends since I moved up to Salt Lake.  This month I finally made friends that want to hang out, climb hard, and laugh a lot.  Unfortunately, they also like to go out too eat at very nice places.  After the first time, I started just getting side orders or dessert while they got steaks.  I now have the reputation as the girl "who never eats anything."
2.   Power bill:  I give up!  I keep my apartment at 65 or 60 degrees all day, and I have things like my router, computer, tv, dvd player, etc. on plug strips that I only turn on when I need them.  When I was gone for a week at Christmas, I even turned off my water heater.  After all that paranoia, my power bill is still over $70 for a one bedroom apartment on the second floor.  I give up.
3.  Stuff:  I was doing so well.  I had shopped at thrift and discount stores and craft stores to get several things I'd been craving for the apartment forever.  Halfway through the month, I had spent my "stuff budget," and resigned myself to not spending any more money on stuff.  Then I found the deals.  One was a fantastic area rug such as I have been drooling over for years, brand new, soft on the feet, matching everything in my living room, covering up my old carpet with cigarette burns in it, for only $50.  The other was a Groupon deal on one of those things you tell yourself "I really want to try that someday, but don't want to spend the money.  If I ever find a deal on that, I'm totally doing it."  There went $40.  Between those two, I overspent my stuff budget by nearly $100.  Ouch.

But even with my going out to eat, my high power bill, and my splurges on stuff, I would have been ok.  My budget had some wiggle room to accommodate unforeseen circumstances, deals, and splurges.  I could overspend the budget somewhat without overspending my income.  What blew my spending out of control were the following big-ticket items I maybe should have seen coming, but didn't.  Even if I had, I would still have had to pay most of their expense out of my savings, even if I didn't spent a penny on stuff or going out to eat.

What wasn't my fault:
1.  I had to renew my car insurance: $360
2.  I had to change my oil, rotate my tires, etc. $60
3.  I had an opportunity to pick up 2 cheap credits toward my Gifted and Talented endorsement by attending this conferencing I'm blogging through at the moment.  My school was generous enough to pay for my registration fees (over $200), but the credit is mine to purchase.  I absolutely don't mind paying for it, it's more than fair, and I'm still getting a very good deal on the credits.  It is, however, another $75 I didn't see coming.

Those three items alone crashed into the roof of my monthly budget to the height of nearly $500.  Ouch, ouch, ouch.  One of my teachers will a flair for the dramatic once stood in front of us and demanded, "Do you know what the most sensitive part of the human body is?" Staring around the room defiantly he paused, then reached into his back pocket and help up his wallet.  "This.  There are more nerves connected to a person's wallet than to any other other part of the body.  Threaten a man's wallet and he gets upset and hurt very quickly."  It's true.  Here I am, turning off lights and water heaters and ordering side dishes and saving receipts, only to have a $500 sock to the gut.  It's disappointing, discouraging, and a bit embarrassing.

There are 11 more months until my car is paid off on my current budget plan.  If I have unforeseen expenses like this every month, I'll never make it.  But today is payday, so it's time to take a breath, fill up my gas tank with the last of my gas money for this month, and start a new excel page for February.

Here goes nothing.

How I feel about this session of the conference.  Most of the sessions have been absolutely fantastic and useful and inspiring.  But in every conference there's always at least one disappointing session.  This time the disappointing session just happens to be the longest session at the conference: 4.5 hours.

Wednesday, January 25, 2012

Not a Waste of Makeup

I went on a date with a grown-up.  A live one, in his natural habitat.  A polite, responsible, "solvent," interesting, and well-mannered grown-up.  He asked me out days in advance, he remembered the restaurant I had casually mentioned liking days earlier, and he showed up on time.  He held a balanced conversation, listening intently, commenting, and asking questions and told stories from his own life as well.

He's got a real job, productive hobbies he pursues with passion, and he loves his grandmother.  Do you know how long it's been since I've been on a date with a boy that didn't live in somebody's basement?  The better part of a year, that's how long.  Some of them lived in their parents' basements; the one I dated for a few months at least lived in a non-relative's basement.  It's been a long time since I've been on a date with a boy with a college degree and a job in his field.  Don't get me wrong, those boys were great dates and there's nothing wrong with the lives they're living.  But I'll admit that it was awfully nice to go on a date with a grown-up.  It made me feel like I'm not crazy for having gotten my degree, started a career, and pursued goals in health, travel, and hobbies. It felt wonderful.

I went on a date with a grown-up.  I hope I get to go on another one.

Thursday, January 19, 2012

Blackout

I got to participate in the internet blackout yesterday, but my participation was in "the rl."  I got home from friend's place last night to find my entire apartment complex looking much more peaceful than usual.  It had the feeling of rurality that comes when there aren't any lights on at night.  I have no idea how long the power had been out--it'd still be on when I left my place a couple hours before, but by 10:00 p.m. it was blacked out completely.  I shrugged it off and got ready for bed.  Having a power outage in the city is hardly a crisis.  When the power goes out in a city, you still have water!  Despite upwards of seven years of city living, this still seems miraculous to me.  When the power went out back home, we didn't flush toilets or run the tap because we only had whatever residual water pressure was in the line without the pump to bring more up from underground.  Mom or Dad would build a fire in the fireplace in the basement if it was cold, and if the power outage lasted long enough, we'd be sent to pump water from the hand pump in the front yard, which had been installed during the Y2K scare.  I learned nifty tricks like flushing a toilet by pouring a bucket of water in the bowl and how to do my makeup by candlelight.  So last night I wrapped up in a blanket, thanked the universe for providing a warm night, and set my phone alarm.  Power outages never last long, and I was confident that soon the power would flick on, bringing heat, the sound of the fridge, and the gurgle of my hot water heater.  However, when my alarm woke me up this morning, the world was still dark, both outside and in.  No electricity, no hot water, no cold milk.  So I sighed, lit a candle, grabbed my headlamp, and changed into my work clothes.  I packed up my make-up and brush for getting ready at school, and got here at about 6:45.

The adolescent inside of me is pretty darn sure that if my power was out all night I don't have to come to work today.  I wish it was right.

Tuesday, January 17, 2012

Confession, Music Edition

My family is a very understanding, supportive, and loving one.  My relationship with them has remained steady and close despite all sorts of life-changing decisions I make that I don't write about on the internet.  However, I'm about to make a public confession that may change all of that completely:

I've started to like some electronic music, sometimes, on occasion.

It's not my fault, Mom and Dad, I fell in the wrong friends, and they influenced me.  They pressured me into  listening to it at first, and I went along thinking, "What harm could it do?"  Then soon they were playing it all the time, and then we were talking, laughing, and having a good time with this sound in the background.  We rocked out to it and danced to it, and listened to it way too loud way too late at night.  Before I knew, I had started to enjoy it.  Now, sometimes, when no one else is around, I'll play it on my own.  I know that musically it's not worth much more than a fart in a can, but I get cravings for it now.  I'm sorry, Mom and Dad, I never meant to disappoint you.

Is there a rehab center for this I can check into and get my good taste back?

Thursday, January 12, 2012

The Race

I bought my car, Kami, in May of 2009.  When I bought her I had the goal of paying her off within two years.  Some travel, overspending, moving expenses, educational expenses, and miscellaneous expenses later, it's been two and a half years and I still owe several thousand dollars.  Since my rent is now twice what it used to be, and my commute is longer, and I'm taking classes, I don't quite have the amount of disposable income I had a year ago.  This means that if I pay a great deal extra on my car payment, I am no longer able to put any money in my savings account, which has also been depleted by the travel, the overspending, moving, classes, etc.  If I were a shrewd financier, I would say that I should be throwing all my money into my savings account, because that earns interest, whereas my car loan is a no-interest loan (I know, I got a steal).  I did the math once, however, and if I followed that oh-so-crafty plan, I'd come out of that five year loan about $100 richer in interest.  $100 is not worth having a loan hanging over my head for extra years.

So I've decided to get rid of this loan.  I'm going to throw all disposable income at it, neglecting my meager savings, and try and have it paid off by the end of the year.  After that I should be able to build up my savings account much more quickly, without having to split my income between my loan and my future.

This is pretty much my car, except mine is "carmine red," which I've given up claiming is red.  My car is purple. Sigh.
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The race has begun.  Can I control my spending, budget my money, and minimize incidental extra expenses for months and months?  Can I pay off my car loan before those incidental extras (renewing car insurance, registering my car, spring break, etc.) eat too far into my already reduced savings?

I mean to try.  I'm saving receipts, I'm making careful grocery lists, I'm using Excell spreadsheets, and I'm ignoring the long mental list of "stuff I want."

So, bring on the next eleven months.  When the world ends/doesn't end at the end of 2012, I plan not to owe the bank a cent.

Monday, January 9, 2012

Science Fiction Juxtaposition

I just realized that these two have a lot in common:

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"When 900 years you reach, look as good, you will not."

I know, this quote was said by the Matt Smith Doctor, not the David Tennant Doctor, but I liked this picture better.  
"...in nine hundred years of time and space and I've never met anybody who wasn't important..."


I thought I was really smart for figuring this out on my own, but then I discovered that other people have had the same idea long before me:


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But maybe I can get originality points for throwing in a juxtaposition to another famous character.  Who else is 900 years old besides Doctor Who and Yoda?  Methuselah.  


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Actually, if you compare representations of the three 900+ year-old beings, they look eerily similar.
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Of course, were we just adding juxtapositions based on looks, there's another extremely old character whose age could well be 900, and who looks a great deal like our other old men:

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Wednesday, January 4, 2012

Pianos are Totally Steampunk

Have you ever peered curiously into the interior of a piano?  Lifted the lid into the strangely mechanical inside to this outwardly sleek and simplistic musical instrument?   Inside is what looks like an imprisoned and tortured harp, screwed into place, locked into a frame, and hemmed in on every side with dampers and hammers and pins.  Have you ever crawled underneath a grand or baby grand, played with the pedal rods, or stared into the rafters of the underside?  A baby grand piano makes a first rate imaginary cave, ramshackle shack, or place to take a nap.  How much time have you spent contemplating piano keys?  If you get eye-level with them and peer down the row of keys, they resemble a polished and right-angled version of the Cliffs of Dover.  Have you experimented to find the exact amount of weight and speed it takes to make the keys make noise?  If you push the key down slowly and gently, the larger body of the piano remains silent and still, and the only reaction is a muted, intimate clunk, half-perceived through the ear, half through the finger pressing the key.  If you push the key down a little harder and softer, the piano’s regular note sounds, as soft or loud as you like.  But maybe you didn’t know, that if you play a key ever so softly, but ever so slightly more boldly than when you were trying to feel the gentle clunk, you will hear a note, soft and tinny, like a piano being played in a metal room three blocks down.  It’s like the echo of a piano, a whisper, unamplified, from the harp inside the wooden case.  

I can’t change a tire, and a glimpse into an engine is as bewildering and unfamiliar as a look into an alien’s abdominal cavity.  I grew up scared to touch the TV for fear I would mess it up—it seemed a delicate creature.  But not pianos.  Pianos were solid, familiar, and friendly.  I could touch them without being told not to leave fingerprints, and no one ever told me I was sitting “too close” to a piano.  I could explore every inch of a piano, play with it, experiment, and use it as a prop for countless imaginary adventures.  I could never have that kind of familiarity with my mother’s mixer, the television, or my dad’s record or CD players.  But as long as I didn’t scratch it with my toys, bang on the keys, or drop things inside, there was no limit to how intimate I could get with my family’s pianos. 

Pianos, plural.  We had three: my great-grandmother’s baby grand in our living room, a hundred years old with cracked finish from years sitting in front of a sunny window in her house; a honey-colored upright that had the novel feature of a lever on the underside of the keyboard that would dampen the keys so they sounded soft, muffled, and felty; and a dark wood, scratched up, tinny sounding piano we had picked up so Mom could play alongside her students when she taught lessons.  I could the play most roughly with the last piano since it was, in car terms, “a clunker.”  Growing up, we had one television, and it was in a cabinet in the basement family room, but there was a piano in ever common room of the house except for the kitchen.   The baby grand in the living room was a ready-made cave underneath, perfect for wild horses and fleeing princesses, and a natural cliff for my brother’s matchbox cars and GI Joes on top.  When the Easter Bunny came, he hid eggs in cavities underneath the piano peddles and in the crevices in the frame underneath.  When I went to Washington D.C. and later to Germany, and I saw gigantic, sculpted marble columns, they reminded me of the scalloped legs of the grand piano that I had spent so much time staring up at when I was small

Adding to its magic, our porcelain Christmas village is set up every year on top of the piano.
As I got older, and spent more time learning to play the keys of the piano than imagining it as a gigantic rock formation found my exploring dolls, I found a whole new level of enjoyment and friendship with the piano.  I listened to what it had to say, and, around the same time, I started listening to my dad.  My dad understands pianos on a level that I never will.  I would be playing around on the keys, and Dad would come up and tell me some fascinating thing about how a piano worked, what it was made from, its history, or how a certain composer or company innovated its design or construction.  You see, my dad is a piano doctor. 

At least that’s how it seemed to me.  When a key would stick, when one of the pianos stopped sounding right, or when my mom would start dropping hints, my dad would go down into the basement storage room and emerge with a battered tackle box that was 1970s yellow.  When he set it on the ground next to the ailing piano, he would open it from the top and both sides would fold out and the shelves rose out of the inside into terraces.  Inside were the tools of a piano tuner’s trade, and they all looked mysterious to me.  They were smaller than the tools he used for other projects around the house, and they had the look of age.  When the box was open and ready, Dad opened and readied the piano, revealing the inside, a maze of hammers, strings, levers, and bolts that looked both complicated and graceful, mechanical and artistic.  Grease, dust, and dull metal pegs resided in close proximity to red plush and polished wood.  The stiff strings of the captured harp were carefully adjusted in a process that took hours of intense, watchmaker-like concentration and precision.  Each key needs to be listened to carefully, by itself and with its fellows.  After each individual key has received its attention, dad would move on to chords, making final adjustments, then playing again, until he broke into a few measures of a song, satisfied that the piano was once again as it should be.  Then he’d close the piano, pack up the tools, and return the yellow box to the basement for another six months or a year. 



To this day, when we go to visit family, like we did over Christmas, Dad will pack his piano tools.  Getting your piano tuned isn’t cheap, and Dad works for free for his children (or sometimes for pie).  When we went to my oldest brother’s house for Christmas (home of his oldest son, who tends to play loud, and several children who have inherited the tendency), Dad spent an evening giving the piano its check-up.  Not wanting to lose the opportunity, I grabbed my camera and took some pictures, which Dad probably didn’t think I’d post on the internet.  Oops.