Amazon.com Widgets

Peek-a-boo…

Quick update, since I’m busy studying.

I’ve changed servers (again, I know). This means, however, that RSS feeds have changes, links have changed, etc. The new location of ANH is http://irrsinn.net/ethoughts/. The new RSS feed is http://irrsinn.net/ethoughts/rss.xml.

Why the change? I changed my hosting plan to a higher one, which meant another move to another server. Why Brinkster can’t streamline this, I don’t know. But I’m happier nonetheless. And my site is sexier with a new facelift, methinks.

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You just gotta love the juvenile behavior of grown men.

I’m having an interesting… dilemma with Dr. B, the guy I’m supposed to be doing psych research for. He has what he claims is a professional dispute with Dr. McKnuckleberry, and a couple of times in my discussion of The B*ll C*rve with Dr. B he has made barely-veiled ad hominem attacks against Dr. McK. That, and he seems to assume all students that have an opinion on The B*ll C*rve are simply regurgitating what they’ve been told by the professor that introduced them to it. Why even bother to have student researchers if you think they can’t think?

So I called him on it. I want no damn part in departmental politics, and I won’t work for someone that expects me to blindly support his view of everything.

His single-lined response was juvenile, addressed none of the issues I brought up, and was rather flippant. I’m evenly split between wanting to march down to his office and have this out in the open to clear the air, and just declining the research opportunity altogether, since he can’t be bothered to actually respond to what I have to say.

Maybe it’s just the fact that I chose e-mail to communicate, which, evidently, is not his preferred method of communication. I know he enjoys talking fast and loud enough to bowl over what other people are saying and to not let them get in a word edge-wise, which is why I chose e-mail. I’m not going to get into a screaming match with him simply to be heard–I’ll look irrational then, because his fight with Dr. McK is not with me, and he has never once directly attacked my ideas (wobbly as they are) on The B*ll C*rve. (Actually, he’s automatically assumed they were Dr. McK’s ideas, and followed up with a good “professional” bashing of his credentials. He justifies this by saying he has “strong opinions about [the book]”. No no no. You just have strong opinions about Dr. McK, guy.)

I am just becoming increasingly uncomfortable with his attitude. But I won’t actually be working with him–I’m working with Bridget, and using him as a resource for data and relevant articles for reading. Plus, working with him would be good experience for the future; more than likely, I won’t be stomping off in a hissy fit from a project just because one of my colleagues is being unprofessional. None of that.

So let him be a bastard, if he so chooses. We don’t need to be particularly friendly to work together. I’ve explained my problems with him clearly and succinctly (Bridget called the e-mail “eloquent”, but I wouldn’t go that far), and if the problem arises again, then action will probably need to be taken.

I feel better now. A good workout, a good venting, now for a good laugh…

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D is for Drama, G is for Grr

There’s enough social drama going on on my floor to make me want to get a single room all by myself next year. The girls in my roommate’s sorority are finally realizing that the sorority is not all its cracked up to be. And so they sit in groups of friends, or with groups of the older sorority girls, and talk about the passivity of the sorority. For long periods of time. Covering the same problems over and over again.

I am becoming increasing convinced that next year will be strained with three roommates. I have reached an equilibrium with Bridget, but that’s probably in part because the woman hates to even make a decision about when or where to eat dinner. That’s harsh, but she can be a bit indecisive.

Another of our roommates has a boyfriend with which she is fairly physically comfortable. That’s fine. I maintain that a rule of no hanky-panky (and my definition of hanky-panky is loose–I don’t even want to walk in on people sucking face) without some forewarning (so the rest of us can arrange different lodging) should be put into place. She also seems to over-estimate my sociability. Any attempts to pry my cramped, cold fingers from my keyboard during my free time will be met with hostility. No, I don’t want to watch that Trogdor video one more time. She likes to just drop by and chillax and assumes everyone has time to chat, even if they are obviously studying. She’s kinda slow on picking up the “Get the hell out” cues, too, like when I say I’m going to bed, and one hand’s holding pajama pants and the other is on the button of my jeans? Yeah, hun. Get the hell out, unless you want to get a flash of my scary fat legs and even scarier striped, multi-colored (including pink!) underwear. Yes, I do deliberately pick out scary underwear. It’s not like anyone sees them.

The other of my roommates… is an attention hog. It’s not so much that everything is dramatic, but that everything should be cause for you to stop and listen with complete attention. Basic politeness, yes, but disinterest should not be met with pouts and glares and grumbles. Let us enter the real world, now, where you can pardon me for my lack of interest in constantly feeding your attention-machine.

So I think living alone next year would be all kinds of fun. Except that it probably wouldn’t be good for me (or for my bank account). I would become even more of a recluse, would probably never leave my room, and would become even more wrapped up in my own little unapproachable world than I am right now. Damn, that sounds very teenage-angsty. But that’s exactly what I would do, because I know I get like that, even living with someone as I do now.

It’ll probably go better than I expect. I’m just feeling grumpy and frumpy. I need a good workout in the gym and a good laugh. Maybe a tickle, too. My typical panacea.

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Rockin’ my world, in all kinds of ways

NASA Develops System To Computerize Silent, ‘Subvocal Speech’. Good stuff. Go NASA. That’s right up there with Sedna, which just blew my mind when I read about it last Wednesday (Usenet’s sci.space.news, anyone?). Actually, higher, probably, since it can help people directly.

This weekend has been all kinds of fun. It’s been Mom’s Weekend (essentially), and I had the joy of meeting Bridget’s mother. That’s not sarcasm. She’s very nice, and I see a lot of Bridget’s mannerisms and thought processes in her. I can’t help but wonder what she thinks of me, given the undoubtedly conditional opinion Bridget has of me; I’ve challenged Bridget on a lot of things she says, asking her why she uses a particular word, or passes a particular judgment, because we are so different–complete opposites on almost everything regarding sexuality and social situations, and it’s interesting to find out the reasoning behind her ideas. When Bridget’s mother mentioned that a psych prof at her college was a “pervert” because he mentioned chicken sex in a lecture, I could just see Bridget remembering me asking (when she said the same thing about Dr. B–minus the chicken sex), “So, how is it again that showing a diagram of a vulva on an overhead is a sign of mental unbalance with regards to sexuality, or that Dr. B is twisting the proper functions of his body?” (That last comes from a high school psych teacher telling me that S & M is considered “perverted”, without any particular moral overtones, as it is the use of pain as pleasure, and is a twisting of the body’s functions, namely pain receptors.) I got an interesting explanation, and I think I made her think a little bit with my question. I didn’t mention any such thing to her mother, though, since she had taken me out to dinner the night before, and I always hate saying things to shake up middle-aged women’s thoughts, even on simple stuff. Probably because of my mother. I’m always afraid of what’s going through her head when I say weird stuff (weirder than picking on the use of the word “pervert”), and I wonder if she’s just going to snap and abandon the “family”, kill somebody in their sleep, or find some other way out.

I also met Mae’s mother, who was older than I was expecting, but very nice. She talks just like Mae, and they share even more mannerisms than Bridget and her mother. (I wish I could capture the essence of Mae’s personality, appearance, and mannerisms in words, because she’s such an interesting person to interact with.) Mae’s mother isn’t mother-hen motherly, but she was planning my and Mae’s Museum Day in Indy. Apparently, there’s a cool canal, and gardens, etc., that we can use to turn the visit to the Eiteljorg (finally learned the spelling of the name) and the IMA.

My mother called today to ask if they could send me money for clothes (I’m running out of pants I can wear without having to constantly fear I’ll be de-pantsed by a good breeze). Then she remembered that I mentioned I wanted to have my car worked on. My father got on the phone, and we went step by step through all the things I need to have done to the car, and the cost of each thing. Then he sent me money covering the cost… plus, oh, $150 or so for clothes or any extras that come up on the car. Just like that. Wow. So next Saturday is officially Car Day, as soon as I make an appointment. Timing adjusted, idle adjusted, new spark plugs, adjusted spark gaps, and checks on a few other things, like wiring, distribution cap, etc. If they have money, they spend it, that’s for sure. (Not that I’m any different. Stinginess is difficult for me.) I feel like an ogre, because I’m nineteen damn years old and still not taking care of myself. I guess I could have rejected the money, but the bills my mother would have ran up on long distance nagging me would have surely approached that same amount of money. And they played psychological warfare by asking (better yet, by my mother asking), rather than just telling me they were sending money, which would have gotten my back up even more than them asking did. I’m a wimp, I suppose, for punking out on accepting the consequences of my mistake with the oil. So I’m a bit pissed/disgusted with myself right now. I think mom got the idea when I mentioned that the money they had just given me in a lump sum was the equivalent of eight weeks (the rest of the damn term) of my normal work (not counting any extra nights worked, and not counting the bills I would inevitably have to pay, like insurance, gas [still I still would have been driving Johnny, out of sheer necessity], food over break, and housing over break). She got a little quiet then. Good. Assuage my pride a bit, woman. Hmph.

I keep finding myself wondering how they get mirrors to be perfectly flat (and to stay that way). We expect them to be flat, because when we look into a mirror, we think that is what we look like, with regards to width, roundness, etc. But if the mirror is even ever-so-slightly bent convex or concave, you’d get an ever-so-slight house of mirrors effect, and you’d look slimmer or bigger than you really are, right? (I slept [open-eyed, admittedly] through the optics part of physics in high school) Am I insane for not trusting mirrors to provide me with an accurate image of my body? Not that my mind wouldn’t mess up the interpretation of the image, anyway, but I think the idea still stands. Odd thing to wonder about, I suppose. “Bent mirrors everywhere. It’s a conspiracy to kill the self-esteem of teen-aged girls (and guys) around the world!” Not quite. But I don’t trust my mirror to anything other than identify errant strands of hair and the colors of my clothing.

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"Porn is like… hardcore snuggling!"

No, no, no, Bridget. Not quite.

My Gender Issues class, which is essentially human sexuality, is giving me plenty of reading. Not only are we working through Y: The Descent of Man by Steve Jones, which is slow going for me simply because non-fiction takes a lot longer to read, but every class, the prof has at least one journal article for us to read. The good thing is, these are frequently hot-off-the-presses articles that were just published that day, week, or month. The bad (sorta) things is, we can’t just skim through these biology- or psychology-loaded articles; Dr. B likes to randomly ask people what these really long words mean, which means I live in the dictionary or on biology sites the entire time I’m reading, which slows down the process even further. We get damned good stuff, though, and have all sorts of good discussions ranging from biology to psychology, covering the spectrum on sexuality. Dr. B basically lets discussion flow from whatever questions we have from the last reading, and the man has slides for everything.

Our last reading (which I kinda didn’t do, because I wanted to sleep after the newspaper last night this morning) was titled “Structural and Functional Sex Differences in the Human Hypothalamus” (Swaab, et al. 2000). It provides evidence for a difference in the size of the sexually dimorphic nucleus of the preoptic area (base of the brain the hypothalamus area, if memory serves–he was flashing the transparencies rather quickly) between heterosexual and homosexual men. It’s an interesting bit of information, and (potentially) kills the idea of homosexuality being a choice any more than heterosexuality. Since, it seems, that idea is still lingering. I say “potentially”, because there’s still a chicken and egg question: is the SDN change in size a precursor, or an effect? That doesn’t seem to have been answered yet.

On Thursday, I was leaving class, and Dr. B says, “So, you’re from Mecklenburg, huh?” We had just had a discussion on the tendency for teenagers to lose their damn fool minds in the spring and decide to drive too fast, killing people. I mentioned the new North Carolina laws limiting passengers in vehicles with drivers under the age of 18, hence his knowledge of where my family currently resides. I clarified him on the matter of where I’m from, versus where my parents live, and he says, “You know, you’re an uncommonly bright young lady. How would you like to do some research with me?” His words, “uncommonly bright”. This, of course, is just before I was about to run off to do my chemistry research. So I agree to visit his office to chat today.

The chat consisted of us talking about our interests in psychology (like I’m qualified to have any!), and what he could offer in terms of research. Whoo. This man has data, and has easy access to lots more, in an area I am particularly interested in: intelligence. I could, of course, come up with my own research idea, and he would aid in gathering good data, but unless another idea pops up, I like the investigation into intelligence. He’s offering money (not much, probably, since I’m not on Work-Study), and the chance to visit conferences in Boston and Chicago should we find anything interesting in the data and write a paper. Of course, I would have to be presenting the paper we wrote, which is the downside. When he found out who my roommate was, he extended the offer to her as well, given her success in his psychology course last term. Whoo. Bridget and I are both excited. In fact, I’m fucking ecstatic.

The Thorn went very, very well this week. Even minus a story, we filled all our space, and had a good above-the-fold story, at that. I even, ahem, wrote a story (that link will be dead by 03/25), the review of The Passion. Not very well written on my part, but I think I got the point across, even in the shortened and edited version that printed. I wish the page layouts were on the newspaper’s website as well, as Bob outdid himself with a photo of the actor-as-Jesus’s face into which the two Christian reviews bled, and that was catty-corner from my boxed “secular” viewpoint. Very cool.

But I was on my game this week in terms of non-layout stuff. I didn’t blow up (or even get particularly angry) about the situation with one of the writer’s not being able to turn in a story this week. I just wish people told me these things (like that they were having problems getting ahold of the contacts) before the night before we do the paper. But, alas, c’est la vie. Layout was bland, and normal.

My car… Oh god, I’m such an ass. I killed my car. When I was in Indy last weekend, I tried to put in some (motor) oil, but couldn’t tell what the fill line should have been, since my car engine was still hot, but the oil was cold. Well fuck me if that wasn’t really the power steering reservoir, hence the distinction between hot and cold oil. I had no trouble on the way back from Indy, obviously, but I’m going to have to have the system flushed ($80), and I’m scared to drive it, in case I stir something up and get stuck in a bad way. Tack on to this my need to have the dieseling fixed ($70/h), and my need to do two to three weeks’ worth of laundry now because of a serious lack of skivvies, and we’re easily looking at least three paychecks, which means no food on weekends when the cafeteria is closed, and no transportation during Spring Break. Grr. I still can’t believe I fucked that up. At least it wasn’t a lot of oil (maybe two ounces). All my car friends are laughing at me. It’s not like the damn things were labeled, you know. Shit.

I did get to spend a bit of quality time chatting with Dr. McKnuckleberry today. I wanted to pick up the final portfolio from last term from his office, and ended up chatting about classes, my position on the Humanities’ Student Advisory Board, and, of course, books. In particular, DeLillo’s Underworld, which I own but haven’t gotten to dig into yet. Dr. McK is currently working through it himself, and loves it, despite the fact a DeLillo scholar friend of his makes him feel somewhat inferior. Now I’m chomping at the bit for Spring Break to come up, so I can hurry up with homework and get into the good stuff. Particularly since my ass won’t be driving anywhere. (Shit, I was supposed to go the museums…)

Wednesday evening, I was working in the Thorn office alone, and decided to listen to Bob’s Radiohead CD, “Hail to the Thief”. I am suitably impressed. I’d never listened to a Radiohead CD, and only knew the songs that hit the radio, “Karma Police” and “Pyramid Song”, both of which I like, and listen to on repeat when I can, and all that good stuff. But “Hail to the Thief” is damned good, if you like Radiohead’s slightly… drawn out (droning?) vocal style. The music varies well, and even if the lead singer isn’t doing anything experimental with the vocals, the different beats give each song a very unique feel. So I listened to the CD all Thursday night. On repeat, bien sûr.

In summary: yay for research, yay for Thorn, boo on unlabeled power steering reservoirs, and yay for Radiohead. I think that about covered it. Time to begin homework.

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