I’ve been more or less obsessed with Mass Effect 2 since it dropped, forsaking all other games (except for a bit of Borderlands) to advance the storyline. It’s a gorgeous game, with terrific voice-work, fascinating characters, and a bunch of great intertwined storylines. The word “epic” gets tossed around a lot when discussing games, but this one really deserves it.

In fact, TIME.com called it “The Avatar of video games – except it’s better written”.

Speaking of ME2, does anyone else think the character of Samara looks, sounds, and moves like a blue Eartha Kitt? Or is it just me?

During the week I’m the first one up in the morning. I stumble to the bathroom, then pull on some sweats. After checking my blood glucose, I slip on some shoes to take the dog outside and retrieve the morning paper. During the winter this routine is irritatingly repetitious — it’s cool (if not cold), damp, dark, and quiet.

Yesterday morning I slipped on my shoes and stepped outside and something was different. I stopped for a moment, then realized that I could hear birds chirping. Several of them, calling back and forth, their trills startlingly loud in the quiet early morning. I’ve seen daffodils blooming, I’ve seen trees starting to bud, but nothing has made me feel the onset of spring as vividly as those songbirds chattering away.

This morning, alas, all was quiet again. And it made me quite sad.

As all parents do eventually, I’ve come to the realization that my children are actively trying to drive me insane.

It’s a joint effort. Although either one could do an admirable job by themselves, together they are positively synergistic in their sanity-destroying prowess.

Their most potent tool at the moment is squabbling. I know, you think to yourself, haven’t they ALWAYS squabbled? Yes, and no. They’ve always done the sibling thing, with kicks and kisses exchanged in roughly equal amounts. But this, this is something else entirely.

For one thing, it’s apparently constant. If they are in the same room with each other, the petty bickering is nonstop. It usually begins with one of them telling the other to do something (as if either of them had the authority to command the other), it then escalates to name-calling, and shortly deteriorates into fairly automatic sniping back and forth.

I don’t think they’re even conscious of it anymore. I think it’s become so automatic that they do it in their sleep, snarkily murmuring cutting remarks back and forth through the wall between their bedrooms.

I, however, am all too aware of it. Yelling at them does no good, and pleading with them merely makes them smile. The only relief I can find is going to my little nook in the back of the house, and closing and barricading the door.

Please, tell me they will grow out of this.

Having complained about them, karma now demands that I take a moment to brag on my children:

My son has been invited to apply for Summa, a special option school in the Beaverton school district. Summa is a program for ‘highly gifted’ middle school students, and the student has to score in the 99th percentile in cognitive ability and/or in both reading and math achievement tests in order to be invited to apply. We are FERVENTLY hoping he gets in, because he would do very well there.

My daughter just finished her science fair project, which involved an investigation of whether Superworms could perceive a ‘visual cliff’, and also whether they preferred to be on a light background or a dark background.

She not only received an award for creativity, but was invited to represent her school in the Beaverton Science Fair. She says she would have been invited to the state-level science fair, except she used animals in her project.

OK, I’m all for ethics in experimentation. I appreciate the safeguards that protect our little animal friends from being cruelly mistreated. But these were worms, and they were worms that were being sold as food for pets. Do we really have to be that concerned that the worms weren’t being mistreated?

Long story short, mai kidz r smrt! Srsly.

The ETHOS water bottle

With the exception of Talking Rain, I rarely drink bottled water. Portland is blessed with some of the tastiest tap water around. However, I wasn’t staying hydrated during the day, and it became clear that I just needed to keep a bottle of water handy. So I started looking around for a refillable water bottle that would fit my own idiosyncratic needs. Specifically, a decent volume, a watertight seal, easy to clean, and easy to drink from.

What I ended up getting, more from frustration than anything else, is an ETHOS 20 oz water bottle. I found it at Starbucks. I bought this bottle not just because ETHOS donated a portion of the purchase price to help children get clean water. I was also intrigued by the cap design. I wasn’t at all sure it wouldn’t be awkward to use, but it turned out to be incredibly natural. The fact that it sort of resembles a nipple has nothing to do with it. NOTHING.

It simply works great. I carry it around with me, and it’s almost always sitting on my desk. My water consumption has easily doubled, if not tripled. So, not earth-shaking, not revolutionary, but a really good water bottle.

Dave’s Insanity Hurtin’ Habanero

I like spicy food. And I like hot sauce. As I slide into my middle forties, I can’t take as much chili as I used to, but I still enjoy it. Still, I was never attracted to the “Superhot” sauces that flooded the market a few years ago. These were sauces with Scoville counts so high they could put a blister on a car bumper. I like flavor, not just heat.

BUT, the unfortunately named Dave’s Insanity Hurtin’ Habanero sauce is NOT as flammable as you would be led to believe. This is probably the mildest habanero sauce I’ve had, and it’s just not that hot (Okay, for my wife it would definitely be too hot. But for any normal hot sauce user, this is perfectly fine). It has a GREAT flavor, and I make sure I always have a bottle in my refrigerator. Particularly awesome on scrambled eggs.

The Spicy Geraldi

Somewhere in the back of my head is a sense memory of what a sub sandwich should taste like. I don’t know where that memory came from, because although I dimly remember my family getting subs from a restaurant in Colorado Springs, I couldn’t have been more than four years old at the time.

Regardless, I have experienced a lifetime of disappointing subs (or hoagies, or grinders, or whatever you want to call them). I mean, Subway, Blimpie’s, and Big Town Hero all make fine sandwiches, but they aren’t the real thing.

But now, now I have discovered the Spicy Geraldi. Ham, pepperoni and salami, with mayo, mustard, provolone, tomato, onion, lettuce, Italian dressing, herbs, and parmesan. That’s all. Nothing fancy, no secret ingredients. But this is it. The roll is yeasty and chewy. The Italian dressing has precisely the right degree of tanginess. The ratio of meat to lettuce is perfect. I could eat one of these every day.

You can find the Spicy Geraldi, as well as a variety of other delicious meals, at any of the “Geraldi’s Italian Eating Place” restaurants. They’re scattered around the Portland metro area.

You might have noticed that I don’t write as much about my darling daughter anymore. Partly this is because she’s now online, and has friends and peers that are online, and I don’t want to scar her psyche any more than I absolutely have to. But more than that, it’s because she’s doing much better.

The meds she takes are keeping her on a suprisingly even keel. She can pay attention in class, she can stay on task, and she can somehow resist the temptation to make inappropriate comments. It’s made a huge, huge difference.

She still sometimes forgets to take her pills in the morning. It’s usually easy to tell, because by mid-afternoon our wonderfully intelligent and enjoyable girl has been replaced by some kind of hyperactive 5-foot-6 chipmunk, who’s bouncing off the walls, chattering constantly, and unable to keep a thought in her head long enough to finish a sentence. It keeps us vigilant about the pill routine, I assure you. Bit I digress.

In addition, she is actually enjoying school this year. She has teachers she likes, and subjects that she enjoys. Last semester she brought home a report card full of As and Bs. This is quite a change from the kid we thought would fail a couple of subjects last year.

But this doesn’t mean living with her is easy. Oh no, far from it. But the drama and trauma, and the emotional toll it takes, is due to her being a 14-year-old girl. That’s all. It isn’t a walk in the park, but it’s no worse than any other parent of a teenage girl is putting up with.

Last night the Girl and her mother had a misunderstanding. The Girl had lost her television privileges for an extended period, and was looking forward to getting them back today. The Wife informed her that she had another day to go, due to having her consequence extended in the meantime. And the proverbial fewmets hit the windmill, with the Girl eventually storming off to her room, and slamming the door.

Well, her mother went and double-checked the calendar and found that she had miscalculated, and that the Girl WAS supposed to get TV back today. As she girded her loins for going back and apologizing, I sat and listened to the thumps and bangs coming from my daughter’s room as she hurled things around and off the walls.

And I was irritated, because Jesus, after a month without television, it was just another day. Twenty-four hours. Deal with it. This was hardly enough to justify an epic display of temper.

But this morning I’ve been thinking about it. I’ve been remembering how, when I was a teenager, every time I saw a reference in pop culture about how teenagers and adults didn’t get along, about how there was always friction between them, and every time I heard some kid say “You just don’t understand how I feel!”, I privately swore that I would remember.

I would remember the painful ache in the gut when the girl you think about every day won’t even look at you. I would remember the frustration at wanting to be ANYWHERE other than in a house with your parents, but having nowhere else to go. I would remember how unfair everything was, how the deck was stacked against teenagers and there was nothing they could do about it.

And I DO remember. But now I have perspective, and that perspective changes everything. I’ve learned that a little patience will get you through most situations. I’ve learned that if someone doesn’t like you, you can’t make them like you. I’ve learned the difference between inconvenience and real trouble. I’ve learned about obligations and responsibility and pain that’s like a knife in your soul.

I’ve held a newborn child in my arms, and realized that she depended on me for everything, and knew that I would lay down my life for her if I had to.

If I had to go back and be a teenager again, I could do it. It wouldn’t be a constant party, I know, but on the other hand I don’t think it would be the constant trauma that I remember.

Work a couple hours a day? Oh yeah. No responsibilities other than homework? Damn skippy. No mortgage? No car loan? Awesome. And best of all, a young strong body full of energy and endurance? Oh HELL yes.

And so I, too have become one of those unsympathetic adults, who roll their eyes when their kids complain. But I remained true to my word. I remember what it was like, I honestly do. It’s just that I’ve been through so much worse, so much more, that I can see that my daughter’s problems are not that problematic. They seem huge to her, because she’s never run into anything worse. And it’s hard to be sympathetic, because I desperately want to prepare her for the BIG traumas that are waiting ahead for her.

I’m worried about her getting into a good college, one that we can afford to help her with. I want her to choose a career that makes her happy, and lets her grow to her full potential. Hell, I’m worried that she’ll be driving in a little over a year, and she could get herself killed if she doesn’t take it damned seriously. I’m worried about the rest of her life.

Don’t ask me to sympathize for a day’s lost TV.

As you may know, it is now illegal in the state of Oregon to use a cellphone or text while driving UNLESS you use a hands-free device. And not only is it a primary offense (you can get pulled over for no other reason) but it carries a hefty fine ($142).

It was therefore prudent for us to invest in a bluetooth headset when we purchased our daughter a cell phone for Christmas. Since my wife uses her phone far more than I do, it was obvious that she should be the one to get it.

Of course, the fact that there was a new gadget in the house and it wasn’t MINE was kind of annoying. Plus I couldn’t help but wonder when I might actually NEED to use my phone while driving. Long story short, I did some shopping online after the first of the year, and found a Motorola headset that Consumer Reports labeled a “best buy” on sale for about half price. I promptly ordered it.

On Friday January 8, I was notified by the retailer, let’s call them “Too-Much-Inventory.com” that my headset had been shipped, and that I could track my shipment via the US Postal Service.

Fast forward to Friday, January 15, when I checked tracking for my shipment, and found out it had just reached a sorting facility in BROOKLYN. This seemed a little excessive to me, considering it was shipped first class mail, and I foolishly, foolishly commented on it at twitter:

My order from “Too-Much-Inventory.com” shipped (firstclass mail) on Jan.8. The USPS picked it up Jan. 11. And it JUST LEFT Brooklyn on Jan 14. WTF??

Just venting, really. Not actually very concerned about anything. Just being my normal curmudgeonly self.

Except I got a return tweet almost immediately from “Too-Much-Inventory.com” asking me to send them my contact information and order number so they could investigate my complaint.

Crap! Nailed by either a twitter bot, or some incredibly anal-retentive customer service twitter searcher. Well, that was kind of embarrassing, so I quickly banged out an explanatory email and fired it off, hoping to forestall any serious reaction:

Sorry to vent like that. I’m not irked at “Too-Much-Inventory”, it looks like it left your hands as early as last week. Just wondering why it seems to have taken so long to get to Brooklyn. And why Brooklyn??

It didn’t work. In the next 24 hours I received two telephone messages on my answering machine, and a detailed email apologizing profusely for “any disappointment or inconvenience this may have caused” and telling me that their standard shipping method usually takes 5-10 business days.

Fine, no problem. They apologized (when they didn’t need to) so everything was hunky dory, and I assumed the matter was closed.

Except this morning there was yet another email waiting for me, asking for my comments on the unfortunate shipping problem. This was getting ridiculous. Realizing that I needed to be a touch more proactive, I quickly banged out the following reply:

While I appreciate the zealous nature of the response from your customer care team, particularly the frighteningly efficient Ms. S**** B***, I don’t actually have a complaint. I placed an order with “Too-Much-Inventory.com”, which was shipped in a timely manner.

Unfortunately, I made a comment on twitter about how I didn’t understand how the USPS could take so long to move my order from its initial pickup to Brooklyn. That’s all. *Please understand that I have complete confidence that my order will be delivered within the promised window for delivery*. I have no quibbles with “Too-Much-Inventor.com”. This was my first experience with your fine company, and I have every intention of patronizing you again. My only issue, such as it was, was with the USPS.

You can just imagine my surprise then at receiving one twitter message, two phone messages, and three emails about such a trivial matter.

All in all, it was perhaps unwise of me to make a comment online about such a petty issue, and I *sincerely* regret my actions. I only hope that I have not triggered some sort of hysteria in your department, that there have been no Stalinist purge of the disloyal, and that I have not been placed on any sort of “watch list” for troublesome customers. Rest assured I will do my very best not to use the words “Too-Much-Inventory” on twitter ever again, in any context whatsoever.

Warmest regards,

PAgent

And hopefully that will be the end of it. USPS tracking tells me my headset is now in Portland, so I might even get it tomorrow.

My adventures on Portland’s highways continue in my latest post at OurPDX.com.

Another installment of the Long Strange Trip.

I attended a college that was significantly smaller, in terms of the number of students, than my high school had been. To say I had a bit of culture shock upon arriving at the University of Illinois would be a criminal case of understatement. Instead of ~1,200 students, the U of I had something like 35,000. The campus itself was huge, so large that even after four years there would be giant chunks of the university that I would never see.

As you might expect, with an organization that large, the administration had bureaucracy down to a fine art.

The first thing to understand was that as a graduate student, I was neither fish nor fowl. That is, for some purposes, the university considered us students, with all the responsibilities thereof. However, for most purposes, we were considered employees. For the purposes of getting a decent parking place we were students, and therefore at the bottom of the totem pole.

If you were ever at a loss as to whether you should be considered staff or student, the rule of thumb was to ask yourself “which way would it end up screwing me the hardest?” That answer to that question was nearly universally the right one. But I digress.

Desiring a place to park that wasn’t too far from the chemistry buildings, I went to Campus Parking to see what was available. Okay, you needed a sticker in your window just to have your car on campus, and there was a fee for the sticker. Then, I was told that I needed an additional permit to park at metered spaces, for an additional (and non-trivial) fee. I thought it was a good investment, however, since the cost of the permit would in the long run be much cheaper than feeding the meter.

I found out in short order that the permit merely granted you the right to feed the meters. Yes, you needed to purchase a permit in order to PAY for a parking space.

To give you an idea how mercenary the parking system really was, the meters that were situated along the street in front of our building took quarters only, and parking was 25 cents an hour. Classes were, typically, one hour long. So, if you wanted to be on time for your ten o’clock class you would park between five and ten minutes before ten and then run to class. Parking enforcement punctually came down the street at 10:55. It was very lucrative. But again, I digress.

After paying my parking ticket, I was told that the only lot that where I could legally park was WAAYYYY down on the south end of campus. Past all the dorms. Past the cemetery. Past the department of food sciences. In a single giant gravel lot the size of a football field. It would end up taking me longer to walk to our building from the parking lot than it took to drive from my apartment to the lot itself. Not to mention that there were times in the winter that I thought I would die out there, and my body wouldn’t be found until spring.

Administrative follies aside, one of the first actual grad-student-type things we had to do was take a series of tests to determine our level of skill in various areas of chemistry. Not surprisingly, my skills in Thermodynamics and Physical Chemistry were rather poor. I was VERY surprised to find that I knew almost nothing on the Inorganic Chemistry exam, since I had concentrated on Inorganic as an undergraduate. I had been very proud of myself with my shiny new bachelors degree, and I had called myself a chemist, but I was to find out over the next year or two that four years of study in a prestigious college had taught me almost nothing about chemistry, and in fact had only been enough training to serve as a foundation for specialized study. That’s not knocking my undergraduate college, it was a terrific school. It’s just that there’s an enormous amount of knowledge that has to be forced into your head before you can understand what you’re doing on a level deep enough to do original research.

So, my initial class schedule included some remedial classes, ostensibly refreshers, but I was seeing plenty of material for the first time. The standard PhD curriculum plan included two years of classes, teaching undergraduates for a few years, and then a couple of years concentrating on research, culminating with your dissertation. Simple, right?

One of the very first baby steps was joining a research group. This was a crucial decision, on many levels. The advisor you selected would be your boss, your taskmaster, your sounding board, and source of income throughout graduate school. The other students in the group will end up being your peers, your friends, and damn near the only other people you see for four years. Most importantly, if it turned out that you really didn’t like the area of study your group focused on, it was going to be a mighty long graduate program.

Since I had few social skills, I put most of the emphasis on the research aspect, and picked an advisor who was doing some interesting work in synthetic organometallic chemistry. I liked synthesis, and particularly liked the fascinating complexes that could be created using transition metals. Plus, transition metal complexes tended to be extremely colorful, always a bonus. I approached this particular professor, I’ll call him Professor T, and asked if I could join his group. He seemed genuinely happy to have me, as well as the other first-year student who had joined the group that year.

Shortly after making this (momentous) decision, the School of Chemical Sciences held a picnic for the purposes of introducing the new first-year grad students to the department and to the various research groups. Having already made my choice, I stuck pretty close to Professor T and the other students in his research group at the picnic.

One of his students in particular really stuck out. She was kind of stocky, with unruly dark hair framing a narrow face, wearing oversized glasses. She came charging up to us and loudly informed us that she was organizing a volleyball game, and that people NEEDED TO COME PLAY. She was wearing a Purdue University Varsity Crew jacket (clearly a jock) and couldn’t seem to stand still the whole time she was standing there. She kept shifting her weight rhythmically from foot to foot, and bouncing slightly. It was very annoying.

Professor T introduced her as one of his senior graduate students before she bounced off to round up volleyball players. “Great” I thought. “I’m going to have to put up with THAT in the research group.”

If you had told me then that I would eventually end up marrying THAT, I probably would have slit my throat then and there.