Danny Sullivan

Danny Sullivan is a former racing car driver who won the Indy 500 in 1985. He's the only man to have spun in the Indy 500 and still win the race.

I didn't know about this till tonight. It's a little tidbit I'll probably never need.

But the real disturbing part of this trivia is how I learned about it. My computer professor, my very-much-older-than-me computer professor, was making fun of a Danny that happens to be in my class. During his not-so-funny-taunting he mentions that Danny Sullivan was the only man to win the Indy 500, even though he spun his car.

"Of course though, maybe you all don't remember it since that was in 1985..." he said.

"Before our time I think." I proffered

And it is. Though I was three years old at the time, three year olds aren't known for their interest in the Indy 500.

Then Danny opened his mouth:

"Yeah, I was born in 1988 so it was really before my time."

1988?!?!

When the heck did I stop being the baby? When did I go from being that young-punk-kid with the funny quips about ageism and the ignorance of youth and become - dare I say it - and adult?

1988...I was in college before this kid started high school.

And now we're in the same class.

I just did a 360 - hope I can win like Danny Sullivan.

Deep Sick

Around this time of year when everyone is catching the winter flus and colds you start to see a lot of blog posts about the humanity of the common bug. Long winded essays on the common threads we shared in kleenex and sudafed abound. A lot of people choose to point out the way even the greatest titans can be laid low by the same bug that afflicts the poor. Some point out that the simplification of a sick-life (one where you spend your thinking-time thinking about getting some juice and nyquil) is a welcome relief opposed to our over-thinking, over-working, over-reaching exsistence in this cold western civilization.

And it's all bull.

There is nothing profound in getting sick. There's still less pro-founded-ness in being sick. There is nothing beautiful and deep in the way my nose has become more blocked than the Holland Tunnel at rush hour - and sounds worse too.

There is nothing attractive or comforting in my need to slam my face on the desk of my cubicle every twenty minutes just to feel the cool plastic-covered particle board on an otherwise burning cheek.

There is definitely nothing humanizing in the way I consider not washing my hair in the morning just cause I don't have the strength to standing in the shower that long. If anything that makes me go back a few steps on the evolution ladder.

No the only deep thing about being sick is the deep pile of tissues I'm amassing and the deep piles of work I'm avoiding.

So ther....achoo.

I can do Maths, me! Pt. 2

Amount of time spent in Math class at community college each week:

3 hours

Amount of credit hours the computer thinks I spent in Math class at community college each week:

4 hours

Amount of hours worked at real job each week:

45 (on average)

Amount of time suggested by computer for studying for Math class at community college:

8 hours (2 hours per credit hour)

Amount of time suggested by teacher for studying for Math class at community college:
16 hours (8 hours per class meet)

Amount of time that actually exsists between work and other classes at community college for studying for Math class at community college:

2 hours (Lunch time on Wednesday, Lunch time on Thursday)

Wait...that doesn't look right either...

I can do Maths, me! Pt. 1

Tuition cost at Community College for Math class:

$344 (at $86 a credit, for 4 credits)

Book costs for Math class at a Community College:

$535

Amount of money you spent on the books that you didn't spend on the tuition:

$191

Wait...that formula has gotta be wrong...

Excel-lent Secretaries

"So I've been sending this report out now for two years right..." my fellow 'admin' starts while we're going through the quarterlies.

"...and no one has said a word about it. I subtotal it by person and leave the detail in it, so they can pull it up if they need it."

"Of course."

"Well today, after two years, I find out that they've been complaining to Boss Person about not getting any detail in the report at all."

"What sort of detail were they looking for?"

"The kind that's in the report, they just didn't know you had to click on the plus sign to expand the report."

"You mean the great big button next to their name in excel?"

"Yeah, that one."

"That's okay. My group still hasn't figured out how to open multiple tabs in the same worksheet."

"You mean they can't click on the word at the bottom of the screen?"

"Yep."

"Yep."

Barenaked Ladies-In The Car

Not that there is much to this post, but yesterday I finally went on iTunes and bought a bunch of CD's (as opposed to making my husband do it for me). And now every CD in my car's six-cd-changer is a Barenaked Ladies CD (Stunt, Everything to Everyone, Barenaked Ladies are Me (two cd's), Barenaked for the Holidays, and Jane). And yes, I have listened to this song a total of 15 times today. And that's saying something because my drive to work is only 8 minutes long...

How 'bout this weather

Not that I have to point this out to anyone, but it's kinda warm. And someday, when our civilization has been destroyed and replaced with the new one they'll go through all the thousands upon thousands of blog posts from our era and pin-point that it was the winter of '06-'07 that started the beginning of the end.

Because it's the middle of January and I just took out the trash (down our 250ft driveway) wearing a tank-top and slippahs (that's flip-flops to you non-hawaii people).

And I didn't shiver once.

Okay, that's all I had to say.

Apple

We were at the Apple store. Drooling appropriately at the cool toys and sterile white-ness of the iPod church when I pulled him aside to look at the mac notebooks. They were white, cute and sitting in a little row of three, just begging to be typed on and fiddled with - which of course we immediately did.

I was having fun for a few minutes - navigating away from some dorky myspace page and surfing my way over to google when someone interjects - okay yells

"I was using that computer! That's mine!"

I turn around to look at, and then because I had to, look down at a short kid and his slightly taller friend standing there, glaring at me (up at me) and looking as menacing as someone who is probably fourteen years old could. (And that's actually fairly menacing.)

I instantly pulled out my rapier wit and divine eloquence to respond to this rude little hooligan with a

"Oh...okay?"

Fortunately, my guy was a little quicker on the uptake.

"What did you just say?" he shot out.

"I was using that computer. I was on it." I'm sure there was some big word mixed in there too like 'fuck', or 'fucking' or something equally useful, but I was too busy attempting to recover myself from my startled cod-fish impression to notice.

"Really, were you standing there? Were you buying it? Because I didn't see you..." He went on. Clearly more articulate than my pitiful "Oh". And for a moment, I ignored the conversation and was struck by the fact that he was protecting me. Defending me. It was such a surprise, such a shock. He could have been sitting on a white horse, with a big sword and chopped their heads off while sweeping me off my feet and riding me to safety and I wouldn't have been more affected. It was a warm feeling. It tingled straight through me, starting at my chest and moving it's way down. I wasn't paying attention to the boys, in fact I forgot they existed for a moment. All I can remember is the way he stood with his feet planted just so and his shoulders back. The way it looked like his muscles were tightening and how my touch felt on his arm. I remember looking at his lips, pursed just so, the way they do when he's passionate about something. The way I've seen a million times, usually when he's angry with me.

Then I heard the gravel in his voice and I looked back at the kids who had at first started out tough, taking that offensive step back to plant themselves and eventually lunge. Then quickly taking the defensive next step which clearly showed a fast submission. Why don't I notice these things normally? Why did I see them now? What was so familiar about them. It was as if I was watching a nature show and someone was narrating the play by play. Now the dominant male will circle in order to convey that this is his territory...

But it wasn't a wolf cub who I was looking at. It was a scared kid who threw up his hands and tried to escape while I turned to my wolf man and did the typical wolf woman thing. I put my hand on his shoulder and said softly "It's okay."

Before I could concede the computer the kids had fled and the two of us headed for the exit, and he held my hand.

Wrong Daughter

I have a sister. She's older than me. Older by about 13 years. She also looks startling like me. Or I look like her, since I'm the younger one. We don't talk a lot, or at all, and we only see each other on rare family get-togethers. But every time we do see one another, we tend to look the same. Same hair styles, same hair colors. Same clothing choices. We also have the same eerie addiction to yummy hand lotions and other potions you find at Caswell Masey. All this despite not actually having lived together at all.

Regardless, we are pretty similar. And to add to our weird genetic link we also were both given names starting with "K". Hers is a semi-indian name (Native American name) while mine is a semi-scottish one. They don't sound alike, or look the same on paper. They aren't similar in sound. The only similarity is the letter "K".

You would think with the way my parents easily confess that they are scatterbrains, they would name their two daughters something completely different. Like Susan and Maryann or Padra and Carly. Something that's not easily mixed up. Something that would be distinctive based on each distinctive girl. But they didn't. Instead I grew up most of my life being called my sisters name - regardless of the fact that my sister moved out of the house by the time I was four.

It did offer some amusement for me at times. I do remember being bellowed at by my Father while he repeatedly called me by her name. Likewise, my Mother liked to give me compliments, that were always a bit tainted because she used my sisters name to offer them. And in my most bratty teenage years I got a lot of mileage out of a rueful stare and a coolly uttered:

"You have the wrong daughter."

The mileage on that one ran a little thin after awhile though. They may have been yelling at me using the wrong name, but they definitely meant to be yelling at me.

Once I moved out it got better. It's harder to call someone the wrong name when you're writing a letter or making the effort to call on the phone.

Well, harder, but not impossible. Especially for my Mother, as evidenced by the last two voicemails I received on my cellphone today:

Message 1:
"Hi K******, I'm just calling to let you know that the doctors didn't find anything wrong, so it's all done. Talk to you soon. Love Mom"

Message 2: (Following right after)
"Hi Kathryn, I'm just calling to let you know that the doctors didn't find anything wrong, so it's all done. Talk to you soon. Love Mom"

Message in Reply:
"Hi Mom, it's me. Glad to hear you're fine. By the way, call K******, she didn't get your message. Trust me."

Love your daughter: K-A-T-Y