jiggety jig

Here's what I did yesterday:

automobile: hotel to train
train: Orsay to Paris Charles de Gaulle International Airport
plane: CDG to JFK
*interlude*
automobile: JFK to LGA
*interlude*
plane: LGA to DCA
automobile: Washington Reagan International Airport to home

Because of thunderstorms in DC, all my planes out of New York kept getting delayed and cancelled. I was in transit for 24 hours! Now I am sitting on my couch and am never getting up ever again. Somebody bring me some more coffee please.

Bonjour mon petit bureau de change

I'm in France. This is my theme song:

d

Today, Paris. Tomorrow, Orsay. Au revoir!

Different parts of this are embarrassing for different people

I am in the airport waiting to go to Paris. I bought a book. The book is Pride and Prejudice and Zombies "by Jane Austen and Seth Grahame-Smith".

It was in the "classics" section of the airport bookstore.

Also I bought a book that tells me French pickup lines: Est-ce que tu as [un petit ami] [une petite amie] [un fétiche] [du feu]?*

Watch out, France.




*Do you have a [boyfriend] [girlfriend] [fetish] [light]?

interim

I was in the other Washington for the past week- Seattle and Bellingham are as delightful as ever. I saw Jocelyn and Brayde and Lindsay and Adam and Liz, and they all are looking spectacularly healthy and attractive. But Lindsay and Brayde are married now, so hands off.

Now I'm back in this Washington, the Sweaty Armpit Capital City of America. The first, but never let it be said only, Washington.

And on Friday I'm going to Paris (well, really, Orsay) for a workshop. A workshop about phonetics and signed languages. I will be presenting an hour long talk about Natural Classes and Phonetics and Acquisition. Are you frantic to learn more? Please email me directly, as I fear the general public eschews lengthy discussions of phonetics presentations.

Anyway, I am busy doing a billion things at the same time right now. Renewing my truck registration, purchasing travel-sized shampoos, doing my laundry, etc. But as soon as this trip is over, it's Summer with a capital S and that rhymes with Sleeping In And Then Spending All Day By The Pool Except When I'm Blogging. So you'll be hearing a lot from me shortly.

Procrastiwhat?

I am way behind on all kinds of dissertation-type activities, so I spent the last two days building a giant castle out of cardboard for Gryphon's birthday.



This picture is from last night, before I painted it all green and purple and iridescent. And put tops and crenellations on the towers. Now it looks like this:



Some things need more iridescent paint, obviously. And maybe some flags and banners and more glitter. Clearly I need to spend many more hours working on this project before I have time for anything else.

Dear Internet,

I have been in a terrible mood for the past two weeks. My birthday was over, and it was the end of the semester, and I was very ill. But then I got better and I spent the evening tonight with two friends, drinking whiskey out of teacups and eating artichokes and watching silly television shows and internet versions of The State. It is still the end of the semester, but now I feel much better about the world. So I hope you all are well, and I will tell you something entertaining soon.

love,
Cecily

SCIENCE

Last weekend was my (and Rachel's) 30th birthday party, and it was the most scientific of all.


Oz took these pictures. Nice work Oz!

We had:
- posters about disease progression in cells
- molecules made out of balloons
- miracle fruits!
- beakers
- lab coats
- foam stickers in scientific shapes
- a whole lotta C₂H₅OH.

I spent the night drinking whiskey and coke out of an Erlenmeyer flask with a fancy purple twisty straw.

And all week, I kept running into my neighbors who would tell me about how drunk they were on Saturday and how their hangovers lasted for two days and where and when they threw up. Science is dangerous kids; wear your safety goggles!

Now I am frantically trying to make up for all the time I spent ordering science on the internet and setting up scientific experiments and daydreaming about lab coats and magnification, instead of writing my dissertation proposal and doing my homework. It's the end of the semester now; no more fooling around.

Upcoming: I am going to Seattle (well, Bellingham) in mid-May for Brayde's wedding, and Paris at the end of May for a sign language phonetics workshop, and Mozambique late June to look at giant turtles and lie around in some African beach sunshine. Also upcoming: Summer. Guess who has a back yard and a barbeque now?

another note from China: Altitude Parabolic!

Mama says:
The corner street market is open almost all the time now, and I got back from a quick shopping trip this morning to find this notice in the downstairs hallway:

Please! Do not high altitude parabolic!
Please refuse into the bin of life!
Thank for you cooperate!

For several reasons I feel that this might be aimed at us. (Not, of course, that we would EVER high altitude parabolic! Heaven forbid!) We are the highest-up people in the building, and would have the best chance to make things go parabolic if we wanted to, since we also have the only balcony to throw things off. We are also the only English speaking people in the building, and most notices are put up only in Chinese. So why else would they bother to translate it if they don't think that we are doing something in this nefarious vein? I feel slightly paranoid about them thinking this, but also a little miffed. I have been so scrupulous about recycling and I never have put the trash any where except the bin of life!

Cecily says:
I know I never tell you anything about MY life anymore. But it is the end of the semester, and the end of the year, and also it is almost my birthday, and also I am extremely lazy and disorganized. Here's what's on the horizon though: Science Birthday 30!

See you soon.

Family Update: Wizard of Oz edition

Here is an email, in its entirety, that I recently received from my mama, ensubjected "Theorem and Proof":

I postulate:

A. That in the last six months I have had to spend a lot of hours being Very Bored Indeed sitting in the back of taxis (also afraid for my life from the sketchy driving most of the time, but that’s another story).

B. So I started noticing an aspect of the city that maybe not everyone here has perceived, and I began taking the camera everywhere, and getting pictures to document my case. Jim has become extremely disgusted with this particular obsession of mine, and will no longer speak to me about it. I have embarrassed him enough! It’s time to tell the world the truth about where we live!

Here is the proof:

This was followed by a link to a photo album called "Not = Kansas", from which I have extracted representative samples.

Toto (left at home in KansasSeattle.



the Emerald City:












the Wicked Witch of the West:



The Cowardly Lion:



Omby Amby(s):



Tik-Tok's house:



The Gump:



The Wise Donkey:

and then later, a followup captioned "Also? Yesterday we found the rainbow! Only I think waaay too many people have been over it."

The rest of the pictures are here.

So. There you go. That's all I have to say about that. Except, oh, I am going to Mozambique in June with some siblings. So that will be fun. If you're in Mozambique, we should totally meet up.

What?

So, here's a story for you:

When my brother Will was 2, he liked to pretend he was a puppy. He'd crawl around and bark, and my mom made him a headband with dog ears and fed him cereal out of a bowl on the kitchen floor. One day, my mom asked my brother (in dog character) what his name was:

Mom: what's your name, little dog?
Will: Today's Potato Soup Blaster

No one knows where this idea came from, but it stuck around. From that day forth, whenever Will was being a puppy, his name was Today's Potato Soup Blaster.

Then, three years later, we got a puppy.

We all talked about what to name the puppy. No one really cared, except Will, who was now five. Will insisted that "Today's Potato Soup Blaster" was the only name right-thinking people would name a puppy. The rest of us grumbled, but acquiesced.

Except, my other brother, Matt, who was four, had some trouble remembering this name. So when Will was off at kindergarden every day, Matt would spend his mornings playing with the puppy and asking my mother what the puppy's name was. Over and over again.

My mother grew weary of this game with predictable speed, and to amuse herself, turned to sarcasm.

Matt (for the 10th time in an hour): What's the puppy's name?
Mom: (fondly, exasperatedly, and totally expecting to be ignored): Oh, just call him WHAT!

To those who have met any of the people involved, what ensued is not surprising.

Matt, who at the time had the attention span of something-with-a-very-short-attention-span, somehow glommed on to the new name, and proceeded to go into the front yard to play with the puppy.

Informational Aside: My mom hated our next door neighbors at the time. They had lots of vicious Rottweilers and were rude and annoying. But they did like dogs, and we all maintained a veneer of polite acquaintanceship.

The neighbor lady was in her front yard. Matt and the puppy were in our front yard. My mom was in the kitchen, spying observing.

Neighbor: Hi sweetie! What's the puppy's name?
Matt: What!
Neighbor (louder): What's the puppy's name, honey?
Matt: His name is What!
Neighbor: No, what's his name?
Matt: Yeah! What's his name!
Mom: (silent hysterical laughter)

This conversation went on for a long, long time. Matt didn't get bored, and just got very slightly frustrated and annoyed. He was such a charming, well-meaning child. The neighbor lady was annoyed and frustrated, but since she was talking to a four-year-old, she didn't think anything of it. My mom laughed harder than she had any right to, and didn't ever intervene.

Neighbor: is that your new puppy?
Matt: yeah!
Neighbor: does he have a name?
Matt: yeah!
Neighbor: what is his name?
Matt: yeah! his name is What!

So. At the end of this momentous day, everyone came home from work and school and my mama told us the story (she cried a little bit, from laughing, while retelling it) (I cry a little bit from laughing when I retell it too).

And from that day forth, the dog was called What.





postscript: when people yelled to each other ("MOOOOOM!" "WHAT!?!?") the dog always came running. "No, not YOU."

And it was pretty fun to stand at the back door yelling What! WHAAAT! What! at night.

when I cry, it's totally because of the wind.

Phoebe took me to see The Silent World at the Library of Congress last week. This movie is so, so great.

Summary of the plot: Mostly-naked French guys are on a boat. They have aqualungs. They smoke cigarettes and drink wine. They encounter wildlife. They have emotional responses to wildlife. They kill wildlife. They smoke more cigarettes and drink more wine. The end.

Throughout these events, Jacques Cousteau narrates and commentates and ruminates and explicates. He does things with scientific implements. He stages casual conversations with crew members during which everyone points at a chart and looks serious.

Then they find land! It is a desert island! The men ride giant tortoises while smoking cigarettes.

Then they discover footprints, and the footprints lead them to Black Native Islander Man, who is digging for turtle eggs. Luckily, he speaks English.



There are many bizarre aspects of this movie but I think Black Native Islander Man is the winner. No one ever explains why he is on the island, how he got there, or why he cares about the turtle eggs. He has a fake Jamaican-style accent (on top of the French) and he tells us about the giant turtles and their life cycle. When the mother turtles return to the ocean after laying their eggs, they are crying. Some say it is because of the wind, but Black Native Islander Man knows better: it is because of Sorrow.

my neighbor sings the blues

Via text message. By accident.

My arms hurt so bad
I laid down
And can't get up
Literally
Bob said
What ails you?
I said Chronic Loneliness.
And everyone felt reaaal awkward

My neighbor is a text-message-by-accident Blues GENIUS.

Q: If that same pirate were then to recite a 20th-century poem about the nature of poetry, what would it be?

Language Hat:

Archibald MacLeish famously ended his 1926 "Ars Poetica" with "A poem should not mean/ But be." I learn from Peter Howarth in the LRB that Robert Frost put a nasty spin on this in a notebook entry: "A poem shouldn't mean, it should be mean." So much for the grandfatherly figure maundering about roads not taken, so beloved of careless skimmers of anthologies.

Mean poems!

alphabet. ballet dancing. sort of.

She's 2 now. Watch out.

via

Thundersnow!

Weather is exciting around here these days. My life, not so much. I've spent 427 of the last 36 hours writing a paper. The end.