Kind of teddy-bear-ish

This man will be speaking at my graduation. If I were him, I would have chosen the same photo to represent me.

I think the extra name really adds to the mix

According to The Recorder (legal newspaper)

Faatuaiitaua Ofeira Tuani

is officially changing his or her name to

Faatuaiitaua Oferia Tunai Tuala

Bad Parents

"Mommy, this is the third night I've put my tooth under my pillow and the tooth fairy still hasn't come!"

Overheard in Berkeley

“People who are human are highly revered in the spiritual realm.” – Lady to her friend, Espresso Roma

“Recycler bandits reported on the corner of Prince and Woolsey.” – Police radio 8:00 am Tuesday morning.

Disturbing Doggie

On BART this morning I had to stand up in the back of the train and spend the ride looking over the shoulder of the woman sitting in front of me. At first I didn't pay much attention: she appeared to be messing around with her Iphone while plugged into her Ipod, much like the rest of the BART passengers that morning. But then I started to wonder what she was doing with her finger. She kept rubbing it in one place on the screen. I looked at the screen and saw that she was "petting" a digital dog. She pet it for a long time. Then she fed it. Then she gave it a bath. This required rubbing her finger on the screen for a good ten minutes, in one spot, while she lathered him up. Afterwards, she went back to petting him, gave him a treat, and put him to bed.

There didn't appear to be any point to the "game" other than taking care of the digital doggy. I checked. She wasn't earning any points.

I became concerned. What was she getting out of this game? There couldn't be any physical satisfaction from rubbing a cold screen with her forefinger for long periods of time. Neither could it provide her with any intellectual stimulation or physical challenge.

The only possible benefit I could imagine was an emotional one. The dog did emit some digital hearts. Did she think fondly of this pooch and look forward to BART rides when they could be alone together? If this were true, what did it say about her personal life -- that she felt emotionally connected to a half-inch digital image that she couldn't actually touch or communicate with in any way?

It made me sad. It also made me really curious and I tried to see inside her purse for more clues to her life as she put her Iphone away. I managed to glimpse a small plush animal before she checked to see if I was looking over her shoulder. I supposed it was her other friend.

I think I'll pass.

Lily

"How was your field trip today?"

"Fun. We got to see sea lions up real close."

"Oh! That must have been so cool!"

"Yeah, but not close enough to see their blubber or their external ear flap."

No fools working there

Sign in the Clerks office of Bankruptcy Court, San Jose:

"Chapter 7 Bankruptcy filing fee: $299. No personal checks accepted."

This week in Berkeley...

While I am studying in the reading room at the public library, a young woman eschews all the seats at all the empty tables in the room and falls heavily in the chair next to me with a big sigh like some kind of heat-seeking device. She doesn't open the calculus book she's brought, but opens a microwavable burrito and surreptitiously eats it with her head practically in her lap. I notice boxes of cereal in her backpack and that she smells like she hasn't bathed in weeks -- which explain her skin problems and greasy hair. She finishes her food then bangs her forehead down on the table inches from my arm. Two minutes later she stomps off into the stacks, leaving her smell behind her. It's almost time for a lunch break and I decide to weather the smell, because moving to another seat would be so obvious in this empty room, and I don't want to offend her (?!).

A well-dressed elderly man in a tweed jacket and slacks and neatly trimmed white hair and beard walks in front of me, leaning carefully on his elegant cane. He turns his head slightly and I see that he is wearing a bright red clown nose.

A man, approaching me from the other direction as I walk through a central Berkeley neighborhood, stops and inquires whether he could ask me a question.
"Sure."
"Are you Dutch?"
"No"
"Are you Amish?"
"No"
"Are you a pioneer?"
"No"
"Are your ancesters older than that?"
"Older than what?"
"Older than a Dutch, an Amish, or a pioneer?"
"Well, I suppose so."
"Thank you."
He turned and continued walking down the street, leaving me to wonder what his survey was all about and whether he asks everyone the same questions, or whether my appearance somehow sparked that line of questioning.

Intolerance

I am sitting in café trying to study but am listening to the three men talk at the table next to me. Even though I put on my ipod. It's hard to tune them out because one is an “important talker.” Everything he says is “important.” Any comment his friends make is apparently addressed to him (because he is “important”) and requires his “important” response. So damn annoying I can’t ignore it. Especially since nothing he has said in the ½ hour I have been eavesdropping has been remotely important. He thinks the bowling alley is a really great place to spend an evening because it has bowling lanes, video games, and food (not that he’s ever eaten there, but he imagines that they serve sandwiches and hotdogs) so there is something for everyone. He forgot to mention that they also serve beer. A truly important talker would have noted beer, as well as the beauty of bowling shoes. Important talker is in his late thirties. Hasn’t he ever been to a bowling alley before? He would be much more interesting had he noted his apparent inexperience with bowling alleys. Not that I’m a bowling expert or anything, but I’ve been to a few and they all have the aforementioned elements. But he seemed to find them important and imparted the importance to his friends in his “I am important and I know you are waiting with baited breath for each word I choose to share with you” tone of voice. I imagine what is running through the mind of the third and mostly silent friend. “Shut up you dumb fuck.” Maybe I’m just projecting.

Sometimes my children are nice

This morning Molly was tuned in to big-sisterhood. She helped Lily with her homework and she made, at Lily's request, oatmeal for breakfast. Molly loves to cook. Particularly she likes to copy her father's flare in the kitchen -- tossing in cinnamon and nutmeg from high above the pot, playing loud music and singing as she stirs.

She served Lily the oatmeal with maple syrup.

Lily took one bite and said, "Molly, this is really good. You should be a chef."

Molly ate up the compliment while Lily ate up her oatmeal.

Overheard on Halloween

Woman to her friend: "If I see one more happily married couple, I'm going to throw up!"

Wife of couple who just passed her by: "Hello, we're drunk!"

Logic

Lily, age 5: "Mommy, we are all connected to the Earth."

Mom: "Really, how do you know that?"

Lily: "Because when I jump, I always come back down."

Perspective

I have been studying wrongful convictions. It is heartbreaking to read the stories of innocent individuals who got caught up in a system that seemed to be more interested in finding (any) "culprit" rather than solving the crime. The average age of those wrongfully convicted is 26 years old and they spend, on average, 12 years in prison. Those exonerated have usually been accused of rape or murder -- DNA testing eventually sets them free. Witness misidentification, coupled with police and/or attorney misconduct seem to be the leading causes of wrongful convictions. Unfortunately, the system isn't set up to help innocents after they've been exonerated. They are not on parole so they do not qualify for any of the services that help them adjust to life outside prison, such as help with finding a job or housing. However, although proven innocent, they still face the stigma of having spent a significant portion of their lives in prison. They don't have resumes, they don't have work experience, their lives have literally been taken away from them.

Recently, after spending a day deep in the world of such injustice, I chose some light reading for the BART ride home to my kids: a People Magazine someone kindly left behind on the train. The feature article was on Jessica Simpson and how she has channeled her past heartache into a new country album.

Ms. Simpson "looked for inspiration in the spiral notebooks she uses as journals."

Fortunately for Ms. Simpson, "she didn't have to read the words inside.... In fact, she didn't even need to look past the covers."

She chooses the journal cover based upon her moods and then "picks a shade of ink from her four-color ballpoint pen to further channel her mood."

"'I have a lot of black [journals]. A lot of black and blue.' Yet over the last year, 'I went to pink,' says Simpson.... These days her journal sports a white cover, and inside it's filled with the red-ink musings of a woman in love."

I used to have one of those four colored ballpoint pens. I think that was in the fourth grade.

I'm concerned that Ms. Simpson only has four colors of ink to work with. I think that would tend to limit her ability to express the nuanced thoughts that surely cross her mind as she delves deep into her heartache. Imagine how great her album would have been if she had used this gel pen set instead.

BART Haiku - September 9, 2008

Tired plain-faced woman
Public metamorphosis
No beauty secrets

Something in the water?

I think pets are great. I just haven't wanted to deal with one and, until recently, have managed to convince my kids that the rabbit-furred stuffed cat was a great pet: it could be petted and then thrown into the toy basket without a second thought. I've also acquiesced to the few "pets" Lily has asked to keep -- an inchworm, a mayfly, and most of a spider. Each time I paused, considering the magnitude of her request, then solemnly said "yes, if you're prepared to take responsibility for it."

Molly spent the summer convincing me that she is mature enough to have a pet. She did laundry, made beds, hung up her towel, and offered to help with sufficient regularity to convince me that she was ready to take on the responsibility of caring for another life form. So, almost two weeks ago, we went to the pet store and picked out a couple of gold fish and all the acoutrements necessary to keep them alive.

Molly's goldfish, Pumpkin died after the first week, a few hours after Molly cleaned the tank. Molly was crushed. She buried Pumpkin in the back yard, under a gravestone strewn with fresh flowers.

This evening, alas, Lily's fish, Rainbow Sparkle bit the dust as well. Lily sobbed and sobbed, so much so that Molly crawled into her bed to comfort her and gave her a treasured stuffed bear to snuggle. I too tried to comfort Lily, pointing out that although Rainbow Sparkle's life was short, she was well-loved and had a happy week-and-a-half in her pretty fishtank. "I should have spent more time with her instead of watching TV," lamented Lily.

My proposal to get new fish this weekend was met with no enthusiasm whatsoever.

Not quite clear on the concept

Today, at the school law library, I asked at the front desk where I could find a Blue Book (a reference used to correctly format legal citations). She suggested that I try a book store.

He was probably from Berkeley

I once saw a man driving a beat up truck with a loaded gun rack and a bumper sticker that said "I eat vegetarians." I don't think he was kidding around.

I can't wait until she's a teenager

Lily was mad at me because I sent her to her room after she bit Molly on the chest (apparently it was an accident). She shut herself in her closet for a while, then came stomping over to me with a pciture in hand, and said to me in her angriest voice:

"This is you. You're bald and you have too many eyes!"

Beware

I must admit, this notice on the cover of the menus gave me pause one morning when I showed up with four children. Turned out they were much better behaved than the young man flossing his teeth at the table next to us.