Fear the Crab

I mentioned to The Galbraith that I try not to cut my nails at night. I have heard many stories as to why I should not, the first and foremost being that I will not be with my parents when they pass away. The roots of said reason is Japanese, but whether or not it’s a distinctive superstition is unknown to me. Perhaps other people could elaborate.

Other superstitions I have include not sleeping with my feet towards the door, not sleeping with my head pointed north, and sticking my chopsticks into my food and leaving it there.  I follow a lot more Japanese superstitions, but they have become such a habit that I can’t remember which ones they are.  It is no longer a conscious effort and many times the circumstances do not allow for such activities.  For example, passing food from chopstick to chopstick is a no-no, but no one does it so it never comes up.

I figure, why take chances?

Superstitions are funky!

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The second bathroom in the house needs to be repaired, specifically the wall the separates the bathroom from the adjoining bedroom.  Said wall has suffered some water damage, rotting the base away and it is probably much much worse inside.  In order to get to the damaged wall, we have to go through the shower tile, so we all figured that it’s best the bathroom get a makeover.

It’s about time, I suppose.  The bathroom is over 40 years old, and everyone seems to agree that a remodel is in order.  Everyone also agrees that it’s going to cost me two arms and one leg and probably three fingers.

Maile and I purchased a near-complete set of bathroom fixtures and trim for the upcoming remodel, which totaled over two grand.  I say near-complete because I’m not sure if I’m forgetting something.  We have the faucets, shower valves and trim, toilet, tub, and accessories like towel rods.

We’re looking at Corian for our countertop and shower walls, and that process is still in estimation, but I’m pretty certain it will be more, if not much more, than the same price for the fixtures.  Could be double.

Then Maile and I will need new cabinets, some bypass shower doors, and new flooring.  Add in the catch-all of labor and I think I can expect to pay over 10k.

I have enough to pay for the whole thing.  I’ll just have to eat ketchup packets for sustenance for the next 33 years.

* * *

I listen to this at work.  On repeat.  For eight hours!

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A friend recently confessed her worry that she will not see any of her family and friends in Heaven.  This concerned her to the point of tears, that her father, her sister, her daughter, or her best friends will never meet up with her in the afterlife.  The reason for this dire fear was that according to what she is being taught, the only way to get into Heaven is to accept Jesus Christ as the Lord and Savior.

So how does one respond?  It is a very delicate area to be mucking about.  How do you comfort a person so distraught, yet not compromise your own personal beliefs, much less avoid shattering hers?

It is hubris to think that I have all the answers.  I do not have the perfect solution to this dilemma, nor do I have the wisdom and authority to aver that what I think is the right thing.  I only have what is in my heart, based on my limited experience with human behavior and interpersonal relations.

I told her that out of everything I have read or been told about this Jesus chap and his father is that they are filled with boundless love.  Jesus cured the Canaanite woman’s daughter, even though there was a bit of a conflict between the teachings of God and the Canaanite religious practices.  Jesus cast out Legion from the suffering man, even though the farmer who tended the pigs undoubtedly lost his source of income and livelihood.

The writings of the Bible indicate that God’s love is not reserved solely for those who follow its teachings, that no one is so far from God as to be beyond God’s heart.  Therefore it seems reasonable to believe that God would accept any and all creatures among the faithful in Heaven, regardless of their race, political affiliation, or religious practices.  Granted, it seems horrifying to think that monsters who murder children or exploit the safety of others purely for their own personal enjoyment or benefit get the grace of God’s love… but perhaps that is reflective of just how powerful God is.

God is described as perfect, and I do not doubt that.  Yet his word is given to us through the hand of Man, and man is fallible.  Man is not perfect, and it’s pretty obvious that the different interpretations of God’s word has given rise to the many divisions of Christianity.

So for a person to tell another that they can’t get into Heaven because they do not accept Jesus as the Lord and Savior, to me is not representative of God’s love.  In fact it seems that it the opposite of love; I’d go so far as to claim it is a bit of hate.  It is a hate that places a burden on someone’s shoulders, someone who is already suffering under a heavy load.  How can God’s love create fear, anxiety, and overwhelming sadness?  How can one find comfort in a God that heaps pain instead of peace?

I find it hard to agree with anyone who attempts to hold themselves in a moral superiority.  Practicing an all-exclusive path of love is nothing more than a smug assertion that you’re not going to Hell.  Telling people that their loved ones aren’t going to be in Heaven is only proclaiming your own self-righteousness.

I am not a Christian.  However, I do feel there are a lot of nice things about Christianity.  I agree with the mantras of good behavior, how to treat others well, how to have compassion.  I think a great many people in many different religions and walks of life practice the same levels of decent human behavior with their fellows.  I think there are many different paths of good behavior that is reflective of God’s love, and I think God is probably rather receptive of that.

I know that for someone who is learning about Christianity, it is difficult to remove yourself from your pastor’s teachings.  It may take months or years, or even a significant life event, to gain the ability to step back and re-interpret God’s word as something different than what the church says.

Yet perhaps with the acknowledgment that there may be many paths towards the same goal, comfort can still be attained without the sacrifice of faith in God and in humanity.  Perhaps through the reading of the Bible, listening to sermons, and talking with her friends and family, my friend can find solace by forming her own personal belief of God’s word, even if it is different than what she is being taught.  Perhaps she will find a way of loving those around her irrespective of their religious leanings or behavior.

And to me, that kind of acceptance and love is far more closer to God than the tallest spire.

I rode a motorcycle, a phat beast of a hog with enough roar to shatter windows.  Except this motorcycle also had pedals, which I seemed to use whenever I took a turn.  The crank on these pedals was not very good; in fact it was almost as small and frail as what you’d find on a kiddie tricycle.  The pedals themselves were thick and flat, and I think they were made of wood.

But that didn’t matter, because I used “phat” to describe it, and all the cool kiddie tryke riders know that “ph” in “phront” of anything makes it cool. Besides, acceleration on my dreamcycle was taken care of in the normal handlebar means.

Tooled around an unfamiliar suburban neighborhood, and stopped at a motel of sorts to find room.  I was approached by the manager and a female acquaintance of his, and was asked to escort the woman on some errand she had to perform.  The woman was required to use a motorcycle to deliver some package, and she said she would feel better if there were another rider with her, because she was not very experienced with the machine.

Perhaps it was the clandestine nature of the request, but I refused.  I had some kind of rebel-loner streak going and I didn’t want to get involved in any shenanigans, particularly those that seemed strange or out of place.  I also didn’t want to babysit someone and train them in handling a motorcycle during the journey.

The dream devolved into some attempt at blackmail, linking me to a motorcycle gang and the threat of revealing said history to the outside world.  Apparently I was an ex-member of a notoriously wicked group of riders, and I tried to cover up my past association by literally covering the patch on the back of my jacket with a blank sheet of leather.  The manager took a knife and cut away the leather, peeled it back and revealed my colors.

The patch was a white-feathered stork, neck bent in an S-shape, head tilted down in an alert pose, wings partially open as if it were ready to take flight.  The feathers were ruffled, standing straight up, and the tips melted into a rainbow of Van Gogh streaks, red and yellow and white against a blue background.

I still refused to do this task, and left the manager with my tattered jacket.  The woman followed, and proclaimed with wonder, “You were a member of the <insert name here>?” [I don’t remember the name she said]  After which, she pulled out a large book from her bag, flipped it open to a page and said she had been following the life of the group since she was young.  The picture on the page looked nothing like me, and the dude was playing a guitar during a concert on stage.

I didn’t answer her, and just kept walking away in my cool phat loner rebel style.

* * *

I don’t know how to ride a motorcycle, and I don’t know how to manually shift the engine.  That didn’t seem to matter in my ride, though, which I can only assume to mean that my bike was automatic.

Or maybe I shifted gears using pedal power.  That’s cool.

Population: You.

I don’t know why I’ve been having trouble sleeping.  If it’s not the inability to properly fall asleep once I’m in bed, it’s the consistent interruptions during the night.  I wake up only a few hours after I last remember closing my eyes with all the regularity of a well-fibered meal, and after that it’s a good chance I’ll do it again two or three more times.

I posited to Maile that one reason for waking up in the middle of the night could be that my unconscious mind is actively listening for my alarm clock.  Since I wake up earlier than Maile, I keep the alarm low to minimize the disturbances.  However, I think it’s so low that I’ve set my ears on sensitive, and now any noise of alarm-clock level will jar me awake.  It could be the dog, it could be the house settling, or it could be the weird chirp-whistles outside the window.

I say this because on the weekends, when I typically do not set my alarm, I can rest peacefully without complications and take in well over 8 hours.  Of course, I probably also “know” that it’s the weekend and I don’t have to be anywhere by any particular time.

Last night I could not even close my eyes.  My brain was going off on a tangent of randomality, and no amount of Ovis numerations would slow it down.  I tried tiring my mind with some crosswords on my new Nintendo DS, which usually does the trick, but this time it didn’t work.  I went into the living room where I fired up some MLB Power Pros 2008 and played some electronic baseball, but that also failed to make me sleepy.

In hindsight, playing a sports video game is probably not the best way to make yourself tired, especially if you’re a fan of the actual sport.

I plan to join a fast-pitch softball league this fall.  I have never played fastpitch softball, only slow pitch where it’s a more leisurely underhand toss.  Oh sure, I played baseball, but I was never really good at that.  Come to think of it, I was never really good at the slow-pitch league, either.  Ah well.

I had always intended to play in a softball league, but the only question was which one.  I asked my dad for references to the leagues he used to play in, which were all of the slow-pitch variety.  The league usually played on weekday evenings, which would be perfect for my schedule.  I already had the equipment and the experience so I would be able to fit right in without requiring any training (except, of course, for bettering my swing).

My co-worker at The Office said his team is continually looking for players, but the league is fast-pitch.  Joining that league would mean that, while I might be familiar with the concepts, I would be starting from scratch and adjust to the different dimensions of the diamond, the speed of the pitch, and the change to the bat swing.

Fast-pitch softball requires a lighter bat, so that you can bring it around quicker.  This means that a batter relies on speed to make contact with the ball, since reaction time is significantly reduced.  The fact that the pitcher stands quite close to home means even less time to register the ball.  Essentially I have to become a slap-hitter, someone who just gets the ball into play and hope my speed and short base paths win me an infield single.

Slow-pitch softball is pretty much the opposite.  A batter relies on power to try and get the ball into the outfield.  With enough time to judge the ball’s trajectory, the only question remaining is how good the hand-eye coordination is and how powerful the bat is brought to contact.  In such games, sometimes a heavier bat can help, because the extra weight can translate into an increase of kinetic energy once contact is made.

The one thing that solidified my decision to join the fast-pitch league was the probability of seeing some playing time.  The slow-pitch team my dad used to play for is pretty much established; the current players have solidified their positions and as a result newcomers have to be really good in order to earn starter status.  My dad told me he got a position as a pitcher, because there weren’t too many at the time.  Even then, he didn’t really play much when he was in the league, usually brought in towards the end with the starter got tired.  Some days, he had a beer in the first inning because he knew he wasn’t going to be playing.

My dad really joined the league for the social gathering, and that’s primarily the reason I am looking for a league to play in as well.  I just would like a bit more activity under my belt than just the rear-end reheating of leveled sitting surfaces.

Anyway, I decided that I needed to get a new bat, so I got a very light Easton-brand fastpitch bat.  I also purchased some all-important protection.

This league begins play in early August, which is only a week away; I hope I am ready by then.

* * *

EDIT:  Major sadness!  Turns out that I am required to be a resident of the area in order to play.  The league does allow exemptions, but to qualify for an exemption I have to be of a certain age, which I am not.  Aw, man.

From the MetaFilter: an old web site regarding Traffic Waves, the seemingly-inevitable occurrence of traffic congestion and possible suggestions for easing it.  I think it is a tremendously interesting read, and I might try to implement its practices in my own commutes.

I don’t know how well this will improve the traffic situation here, much less the attitudes of “everybody else,” but perhaps it will at least make me feel a bit better about being stuck in the daily ritual of bottlenecked bog-nostifications.

People from The Office were preparing to leave for a farewell lunch, to send off a co-worker leaving for another job. We had planned out who will be driving, and who will be riding in whose cars; I was assigned to one vehicle with 4 other people, plus the driver.

The parking lot was a 5 minute walk from the building, cutting across a large grass lawn.  A recent heat wave turned the grass dry and brittle, and each step kicked up enough dust to stick to the skin.  I dreaded what the interior of the car would feel like.

We reached the car, and it was a small jeep or SUV of sorts.  Suddenly I realized that the entire group would not be able to fit inside the car, since at most three could sit in the back whilst one occupied the passenger side.  We stood around in the parking lot searching for a possible solution that still would allow for some level of comfort during the ride, but came up with nothing.

I gallantly offered to stay behind.  It would be all right, since I could just get some lunch elsewhere.  My co-workers would just have to explain the situation to everybody else, and I was sure we would all agree that it was an unfortunate situation that could not be helped.  I left the parking lot and headed back to The Office.

The building I returned to was a restaurant, some place that I apparently have always worked at and could always get a bite to eat.  This wasn’t a bad thing, since I expected I could still get some lunch.  However, before entering I encountered Maile’s dental hygiene classmates, who informed me that the entire restaurant was closed for a convention/party being held for DH credits.

I did not begin to question how I would get back to work if the building was closed off, since I was more concerned with getting some food in my belly.  I was becoming increasingly perturbed by this series of bad luck.  Unfortunately, the situation would never be resolved, nor would my now-irritated state of mind be calmed, thanks to the untimely interruption of alarm clocks.

* * *

From the MetaFilter: Cake Wrecks.  Visit and laugh. And for the love of all things fun and gooey, do not attempt to make/buy these at home.  Certainly do not try these with me; I will not be as amused as I am with that blog.

* * *

EDIT:  This same day, we went to an Italian restaurant for a good-bye dinner for one of my co-workers, precisely for the reasons outlined in the dream.  The car I rode in was, oddly enough, the last to leave The Office and arrive at the restaurant.  What’s more, we forgot one person who was supposed to ride with us; the poor guy had to drive himself over.

He wasn’t that mad, though, since we all laughed at the driver, who through some Wonderland math skills thought that he only had to transport 3 people instead of the 4 that were on his list.  Perhaps it had something to do with the fact that one of the riders called in sick and didn’t attend, and somehow that knowledge caused the driver to perform a mental miscalculation and ignore the rest of the names.

Similar things have happened to me.

I helped my dad figure out some of the light switches in his new house.  Apparently between the design documentation and actual implementation, some of the wiring got switched around.  The documentation itself isn’t very thorough, either; some switches simply have “N/A” when they obviously do something.

One of the strange things about the light switches is that, while all are of the “rocker” variety, some act as toggles and others act as dimmers.  Again, without the documentation, it is not very intuitive to determine which switch is which.

Some rocker switches were split into two or four pieces, with each piece controlling a certain aspect of the lighting.  For example, one would turn on all lights in the area, whilst others would only turn on a specific section.  However, some of these “keypad” types only had one switch active, while the rest apparently did nothing.

We even tried holding down these inactive switches, thinking they might be dimmers, but we were still left in the dark.

The benefit of documenting the light switches properly is that we were able to identify possible alternatives for light configurations.  For example, there was one switch by the back door that turned on all the lights in the house; all of them!  Why it’s by the back door and not the front is a mystery, but after finding a seemingly unused switch by the front, we can ask the electricians to reroute functionality there, where it makes more sense.  I’m not an electrician, though, so I don’t know how difficult something like that would be.

* * *

There are plans in the works for my mom to have a voice-activated phone system.  This will give her the ability to make calls by saying something like, “Phone on!” as if she is a Wonder Twin.  She should also be able to answer the phone from her bed, so she doesn’t have to struggle to get the phone receiver or struggle to push buttons, nor do we have to construct some Frankenstein’s monster of a set-up around her bed.  The plans even call for a similar device to be hooked up to my mom’s wheelchair, giving her added mobility in her vocalizations.

Anyway, all this means is that I don’t have to worry so much that she’ll be left in peril should my dad suffer an accident.  Of course, until such plans are actually put into place, there’s a significant risk.  I know I’ll feel better when this system is up and running.

I think my dad starts his radiation therapy sometime in mid-August.  As far as I’m concerned, that’s the best time to begin.  I should be done with my high-priority project at The Office at the end of August, when the Fall semester starts; actually, I’m supposed to be done, no ifs ands or buts.  Or else it’s my butt.  There’s not a lot of room for delays when the Chancellor wants this thing up and running.

Anyway.  The reason I figure it’s a good time is because conceivably, the first couple of weeks of therapy are the easiest for my dad, and he won’t need much help.  After that he might start seeing the side-effects, notably the exhaustion.  If I’m done with my project by then, I should have enough free time to run whatever errands he needs, or take him to the hospital.

I’ve been accumulating some extra hours, too, so I will see if I can turn those in for leaving early on other days.  I’d rather have the ability to take off from work than earn a bit more money from overtime.

Hopefully I will not be put on any further time-sensitive projects so soon after this recent one.  I’m sure if I mention the situation to my boss and boss-boss, they can allocate “resources” to accomodate (read, us workers).

* * *

I’ve been having a hard time sleeping, lately.  Can’t seem to relax in bed, can’t seem to get comfortable.  Sometimes if I focus on them, I discover that parts of my body, particularly my neck and jaw, are very tense and it takes some effort to try and release that tension.  It seems oxymoronic, in a way, that I have to physically and mentally force my body to relax.

Typically I’ll retire at 2100 hours, but I won’t actually fall asleep until 2200.  Then I’ll wake up around 0100 or 0200, shift a bit, wake up at 0300/0400, and fall back asleep until my alarm hits.  At 0500.

Last night I didn’t sleep until 2300, because some fool up the street had their outside-dryer running.  Nothing ruins rest like the sound of metal buttons clack-clacking away in the inner drum of a humming machine.