I tried to chew through three chapters of Statistics this weekend. Two were due last night-I finished 1.5 of them over the course of 8 hours. The third is due next Saturday, but I've got to be at a conference in Cambridge next Saturday, so I thought I'd do the homework today. Alas no.
Statistics can't be that hard to learn (I tell myself) Biology majors Psychology majors and Business majors have to learn it. My Dad used to teach it and he is not particularly mathematically savvy. He knows Stats because he's a retired psychologist but the only math I've ever seen him use is trigonometry when he was building something.
My last stats post was me whining about them not making us do the math. This post is about them presenting the math, without explanation.
The first chapter I had to chew through was about probability, but it was really about logic. X and Y or X or Y. Given X how many Y? That was easy for me. I've spent the past several years screwing around with Excel, Access and SQL and writing reports that would tell my employer how many of his clients were lawyers with cats.
The second chapter was on binomial sequences. I still don't get that. The third chapter is on math in normal distributions. And they've been messing with my already defined Greek letters.
Sigma to me, always means "Sum" (that--according to my high school calculus teacher--is why the integral sign looks like an S that has been in Mr. Wonka's taffy puller.) But lower cased sigma, apparently means standard distribution. I can live with that--I've had a few glasses of Six Sigma coolaid. But then, mu doesn't mean "micro" (it means mean) and pi doesn't mean 3.14159 it means probability. Oh, sorry--it means 3.14159 in one equasion but not all the time. And they threw e in there-just for fun. And they threw a lambda in.
I get the concept of choosing a Greek letter to mean something--think of it as mapping a logical drive and setting a login script that maps all the drives the same for all the PCs in the environment. Everybody knows that Pi= 3.14159. Everybody (and every computer) knows that your Q drive is where they should store Morningstar reports (or or timesheets or pictures of their cats.) That's the point of defining something-so that everyone knows what to do with it.
By redefining the Greek letters that already had definitions in my brain my Statistics text has made it even harder to learn whatever they're trying to teach me. I'm sure the Powers that be (for Statistics) had a very good reason for redefining my already mapped Greek letters but what next? Does Delta no longer mean change? Are they going to tell me that F<>=MA?
I look at the equtions and even the work-through of the equations and I feel like a dyslexic person must feel when asked to deal with Anna Karenina. I can handle math-but not without a human instructor or some helpful narritive to explain it all.
Or, in Math I am like some kid from a villiage in midieval europe who learned a few precepts about religion from the villiage priest. I hold fast to the few things I know and they do not jibe well with what I am expected to learn.
I am afraid. And no,it doesn't help that it snowed more today.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Saturday, February 26, 2011
Shoes
And now for something completely different. This will be a rather girlie post in which I attempt to explain my fascination/obsession with shoes.
“Hi, my name is Cantabridgienne and I have a shoe problem.” The problem is that there are all these sets of shoes out there and I can’t possibly own them all. I was surprised to discover I had a lust for shoes. I mean, I am not unacquainted with obsessions, and there are many things I covet—but I don’t covet them the way I covet shoes (all the shoes!) For example, of course I want a new Mac, but I only need one Mac (and maybe an iPad.) I don’t need an Air and a MacBook Pro and something from Dell to run Windows 7 on and a server to try out Windows new server environment….well actually now that I mention it.. Anyways, the point is whatever I would want in terms of hardware I wouldn’t need a Mac, a Dell, an Acer and something from HP. That’s not how it works with shoes.
I realize that many women have similar problems with shoes. However, I am not like other women in this. My obsession with shoes is a bit like a fairy curse—I love items that are expensive, but of no practical use for me.
I’m tall and clumsy and so high heels are entirely out of the question. Furthermore, although I love beautiful ballet flats (green leather! leopard print! shiny buckles!) but I don’t really have much use for them. My work dress tends to vary between plain and frumpy. Ballet flats with glitter on the toes look ridiculous when paired with khakis and a polo shirt. My social life is conducted entirely in jeans, so the sparkly-toed thingies would not be much use to me there. Also, I don’t have a car and so I need to be able to run for the T or walk a mile or two on occasion.
As a practical matter looking at the shoes I can actually wear on occasion the scope is pretty narrow. By the time you’ve ruled out shoes that don’t look weird with business casual attire and shoes that are no good for walking, you’re left with “sensible shoes” most of which are not particularly attractive. The matter is not yet entirely hopeless—Keen makes a lot of shoes that are pretty enough to wear for a business school presentation and practical enough to allow one to run for the Red Line after class (even if it is snowing) but one cannot just wear Keens. Keen doesn’t make shiny tortoise shell flats.
In addition to all these complications, I really don’t like wearing shoes. My feet prefer Birkenstock sandals. By the time it’s warm enough to wear most of what is on offer for women’s footgear outside of the house it’s also warm enough to wear sandals or flip flops (if you don’t mind a few funny looks).
So where does this leave me? Well better than the usual person afflicted with a fairy joke—at least I am not a queen in love with a weaver with the head of a donkey. I started thinking about this post—an explanation of my love of shoes—while out and about today. My statistics professor afflicted us with two chapters to read and do problems in this week and so I’d been doing Stats all day. I was bitching to myself that the “study break treat” I had to offer myself this afternoon was an opportunity to go pick up my dry cleaning. But to get to the dry cleaners I had to pass Mint, which has a lovely selection of shoes. To cheer myself up I went in and looked at the variety of beautiful, impractical footwear on offer. Yes they still had the lovely lime green ballet flats with the gold buckle. No, I still wasn’t going to buy them because they’re impractical and cost $110 (used!) Ooh! Brown suede driving moccasins. Beautiful, but I’ve already got the brown-hued-shoes thing covered in both the casual and the fancy areas. I didn’t buy anything, but it did cheer me up.
As I mentioned above I was surprised to discover that I had shoe-lust. This sort of thing usually afflicts fashionable females and I don’t even wear makeup. This is either a profound success of some marketing department or some kind of deeply rooted expression of femininity*.
I incline to the latter point of view. My best friend (who is much more butch than I am) has a handbag problem, but understands my love of shoes in the same way I understand her handbag problem. She likes looking at shoes, but is fixated on handbags. I like looking at handbags, but am fixated by shoes. My sister has admitted that she gets her sparkly shoe fix out of buying shoes for her three year old daughter (my niece has a pair of blue glitter mary janes that I covet.) My mother (who is admittedly much more fashionable than either of her daughters) has a lovely collection of shoes. One of the butchest girls I know showed up at a party with a lovely pair of distressed ox blood Frye boots. “Yeah, I was feeling bummed because my girlfriend was out of town, so I indulged in some retail therapy.”
I’m writing this up because I don’t actually mind admitting that I have a shoe problem. I didn’t acknowledge my love of shoes for a long time because that was so…feminine. Ick! Gross! To be feminine is to be weak! I won’t try to explain this point of view in its entirety, but suffice to say that it is embarrassing to discover that I have the same weakness (shoes!) as the young ladies who work in my office who read gossip mags for fun. I have a very thin skin, so admitting any weakness and leaving myself open for ridicule is hard for me to do** But my although friends laugh and suggest that I might need a corrective shoe collar, I don’t retreat to my basement apartment and refuse to talk to anybody for a week. I laugh as well, and then suggest we check out the Birkenstocks at that place in Gloucester (don’t you need a new pair, Herr Baron?)
I suppose, that once MBA school turns me into a ruthless capitalist I could get the kind of well-paying job that will allow me to no longer live in a one-room basement apartment. Then I can have room devoted to shoes. It will be full of beautiful confections that I’ll never actually wear. When I’m feeling low I can just stare at my collection of fanciful footgear and sigh.
*now there’s a word I hate.
** In my Cambridge life I live with my (now ex) boyfriend and a friend of ours who was an artist. The boy and I were going to see my favorite band Bishop Allen at the Middle East. They were opening for somebody else. When the roommate asked if we were staying for the next show my boy apparently responded something like “Eh. I don’t care and I don’t think she would want to see anyone follow Bishop Allen unless the Kinks showed up.” I got home from a bad day at work to discover that my roommate had drawn a cartoon of me in Hannibal Lector restraints wearing a Bishop Allen T shirt and a beer hat. I was so mortified I spent the next half hour on the porch feeling ashamed of my exuberance over the band I liked.
“Hi, my name is Cantabridgienne and I have a shoe problem.” The problem is that there are all these sets of shoes out there and I can’t possibly own them all. I was surprised to discover I had a lust for shoes. I mean, I am not unacquainted with obsessions, and there are many things I covet—but I don’t covet them the way I covet shoes (all the shoes!) For example, of course I want a new Mac, but I only need one Mac (and maybe an iPad.) I don’t need an Air and a MacBook Pro and something from Dell to run Windows 7 on and a server to try out Windows new server environment….well actually now that I mention it.. Anyways, the point is whatever I would want in terms of hardware I wouldn’t need a Mac, a Dell, an Acer and something from HP. That’s not how it works with shoes.
I realize that many women have similar problems with shoes. However, I am not like other women in this. My obsession with shoes is a bit like a fairy curse—I love items that are expensive, but of no practical use for me.
I’m tall and clumsy and so high heels are entirely out of the question. Furthermore, although I love beautiful ballet flats (green leather! leopard print! shiny buckles!) but I don’t really have much use for them. My work dress tends to vary between plain and frumpy. Ballet flats with glitter on the toes look ridiculous when paired with khakis and a polo shirt. My social life is conducted entirely in jeans, so the sparkly-toed thingies would not be much use to me there. Also, I don’t have a car and so I need to be able to run for the T or walk a mile or two on occasion.
As a practical matter looking at the shoes I can actually wear on occasion the scope is pretty narrow. By the time you’ve ruled out shoes that don’t look weird with business casual attire and shoes that are no good for walking, you’re left with “sensible shoes” most of which are not particularly attractive. The matter is not yet entirely hopeless—Keen makes a lot of shoes that are pretty enough to wear for a business school presentation and practical enough to allow one to run for the Red Line after class (even if it is snowing) but one cannot just wear Keens. Keen doesn’t make shiny tortoise shell flats.
In addition to all these complications, I really don’t like wearing shoes. My feet prefer Birkenstock sandals. By the time it’s warm enough to wear most of what is on offer for women’s footgear outside of the house it’s also warm enough to wear sandals or flip flops (if you don’t mind a few funny looks).
So where does this leave me? Well better than the usual person afflicted with a fairy joke—at least I am not a queen in love with a weaver with the head of a donkey. I started thinking about this post—an explanation of my love of shoes—while out and about today. My statistics professor afflicted us with two chapters to read and do problems in this week and so I’d been doing Stats all day. I was bitching to myself that the “study break treat” I had to offer myself this afternoon was an opportunity to go pick up my dry cleaning. But to get to the dry cleaners I had to pass Mint, which has a lovely selection of shoes. To cheer myself up I went in and looked at the variety of beautiful, impractical footwear on offer. Yes they still had the lovely lime green ballet flats with the gold buckle. No, I still wasn’t going to buy them because they’re impractical and cost $110 (used!) Ooh! Brown suede driving moccasins. Beautiful, but I’ve already got the brown-hued-shoes thing covered in both the casual and the fancy areas. I didn’t buy anything, but it did cheer me up.
As I mentioned above I was surprised to discover that I had shoe-lust. This sort of thing usually afflicts fashionable females and I don’t even wear makeup. This is either a profound success of some marketing department or some kind of deeply rooted expression of femininity*.
I incline to the latter point of view. My best friend (who is much more butch than I am) has a handbag problem, but understands my love of shoes in the same way I understand her handbag problem. She likes looking at shoes, but is fixated on handbags. I like looking at handbags, but am fixated by shoes. My sister has admitted that she gets her sparkly shoe fix out of buying shoes for her three year old daughter (my niece has a pair of blue glitter mary janes that I covet.) My mother (who is admittedly much more fashionable than either of her daughters) has a lovely collection of shoes. One of the butchest girls I know showed up at a party with a lovely pair of distressed ox blood Frye boots. “Yeah, I was feeling bummed because my girlfriend was out of town, so I indulged in some retail therapy.”
I’m writing this up because I don’t actually mind admitting that I have a shoe problem. I didn’t acknowledge my love of shoes for a long time because that was so…feminine. Ick! Gross! To be feminine is to be weak! I won’t try to explain this point of view in its entirety, but suffice to say that it is embarrassing to discover that I have the same weakness (shoes!) as the young ladies who work in my office who read gossip mags for fun. I have a very thin skin, so admitting any weakness and leaving myself open for ridicule is hard for me to do** But my although friends laugh and suggest that I might need a corrective shoe collar, I don’t retreat to my basement apartment and refuse to talk to anybody for a week. I laugh as well, and then suggest we check out the Birkenstocks at that place in Gloucester (don’t you need a new pair, Herr Baron?)
I suppose, that once MBA school turns me into a ruthless capitalist I could get the kind of well-paying job that will allow me to no longer live in a one-room basement apartment. Then I can have room devoted to shoes. It will be full of beautiful confections that I’ll never actually wear. When I’m feeling low I can just stare at my collection of fanciful footgear and sigh.
*now there’s a word I hate.
** In my Cambridge life I live with my (now ex) boyfriend and a friend of ours who was an artist. The boy and I were going to see my favorite band Bishop Allen at the Middle East. They were opening for somebody else. When the roommate asked if we were staying for the next show my boy apparently responded something like “Eh. I don’t care and I don’t think she would want to see anyone follow Bishop Allen unless the Kinks showed up.” I got home from a bad day at work to discover that my roommate had drawn a cartoon of me in Hannibal Lector restraints wearing a Bishop Allen T shirt and a beer hat. I was so mortified I spent the next half hour on the porch feeling ashamed of my exuberance over the band I liked.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Strange Days Have Found Us
When one of my facebook friends first mentioned the protests in Wisconsin, I thought she was making a joke. "Protests? in Wisconsin? in the Winter? Did they run out of cheese curds? Are they up in arms over their right to call a water fountain a bubbler?" Although I have not spent much time in Wisconsin (48 hours tops) I went to school in Minnesota. Surely the good people of Madison are happy go lucky mid-westerners like those I went to school with--what could they possibly have to protest about--especially when it's Fuck You degrees out?
Then I found out what was happening. Yup, that's worth standing out in the cold to protest about. Wear smartwool socks and a down parka. I'm not going to go on at length about this but although I realize that there are problems with unions*, I am pro-union. I wish there was one for white collar support staff (administrative assistants, receptionists, and yes, tech support personnel.) However I accept that there isn't one, and I'm not going to be the firebrand that tries to start one.
I have been distressed at watching unions concede privileges throughout the latest financial crisis, and further distressed by the narrative I see about unions and pensions at work in my job at a Wealth Management company and at school in my classes. "GM failed because they offered pensions." Um, no, GM failed because they didn't *account for their pensions properly.* Also, maybe because they made cars that no one wanted to buy.
But I'm straying from my point. There were protests in Egypt and there are protests in other middle eastern countries. Several nut bags in the mid-west of the US have taken it into their heads to try a spot of union bashing. And instead of rolling over and saying "thank you sir may I have another?" people are actually *objecting* vocally to what's going on.
That is what I find surprising. People are actually protesting instead of just rolling over. We Americans are soft (I count myself in this--I haven't made it to any solidarity protests nor am I likely to make it to any) or we have Other Things To Do (like getting an MBA or playing Wii).
I don't know if it will make any difference in the long run--all these protests. After all, we got up off of our couches in vast numbers in 2003 to protest the invasion of Iraq and that made no difference. We even re-elected W afterwords.
In addition to all that fun, Barack Obama has suddenly decided that the Defense of Marriage Act is unconstitutional. And the Republicans in the House of Representatives are trying to shut down the federal government again. *Sigh*
All of this is going on while I do my Statistics homework, process Gain Loss reports for my employers, argue with my boss about software, call my nephew to wish him a happy birthday and have the occasional dinner with my friends. I feel bad for not participating, somehow. But my time taken up by other things, so I watch and hope for the best.
*Yes, people get corrupted by power and occasionally abscond with other people's money and some people are just plain lazy and only do the minimum amount of work required by the union. Lucky for me I work in financial services, where no one would ever think of doing that.
Then I found out what was happening. Yup, that's worth standing out in the cold to protest about. Wear smartwool socks and a down parka. I'm not going to go on at length about this but although I realize that there are problems with unions*, I am pro-union. I wish there was one for white collar support staff (administrative assistants, receptionists, and yes, tech support personnel.) However I accept that there isn't one, and I'm not going to be the firebrand that tries to start one.
I have been distressed at watching unions concede privileges throughout the latest financial crisis, and further distressed by the narrative I see about unions and pensions at work in my job at a Wealth Management company and at school in my classes. "GM failed because they offered pensions." Um, no, GM failed because they didn't *account for their pensions properly.* Also, maybe because they made cars that no one wanted to buy.
But I'm straying from my point. There were protests in Egypt and there are protests in other middle eastern countries. Several nut bags in the mid-west of the US have taken it into their heads to try a spot of union bashing. And instead of rolling over and saying "thank you sir may I have another?" people are actually *objecting* vocally to what's going on.
That is what I find surprising. People are actually protesting instead of just rolling over. We Americans are soft (I count myself in this--I haven't made it to any solidarity protests nor am I likely to make it to any) or we have Other Things To Do (like getting an MBA or playing Wii).
I don't know if it will make any difference in the long run--all these protests. After all, we got up off of our couches in vast numbers in 2003 to protest the invasion of Iraq and that made no difference. We even re-elected W afterwords.
In addition to all that fun, Barack Obama has suddenly decided that the Defense of Marriage Act is unconstitutional. And the Republicans in the House of Representatives are trying to shut down the federal government again. *Sigh*
All of this is going on while I do my Statistics homework, process Gain Loss reports for my employers, argue with my boss about software, call my nephew to wish him a happy birthday and have the occasional dinner with my friends. I feel bad for not participating, somehow. But my time taken up by other things, so I watch and hope for the best.
*Yes, people get corrupted by power and occasionally abscond with other people's money and some people are just plain lazy and only do the minimum amount of work required by the union. Lucky for me I work in financial services, where no one would ever think of doing that.
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Statistics For the Mathematically Challenged
When I applied to U Mass Boston's MBA program I didn't expect to get any waivers on any courses. At the informational seminar that I attended the Dean said that they only gave waivers for courses taken in the past ten years. I graduated from college in 1997 with a BA in French Literature, so I didn't expect to have anything waived. To my surprise, they decided to waive two classes. I didn't have to take the class on How to Use a Computer (well, that wasn't really a surprise--I did send them my CV) but I also got out of the basic Math class. Huh? They didn't waive the Macro Econ class, but they waived the Math class? I took Econ in my fall term Freshman year and got a B- (and I got a 5 on the AP test in Micro.) I took Calc 2-my last Math class ever-the next term and got a C+. Also, I scored a 47th percentile in Math on the GMAT (The test is adaptive, and you can tell how you're doing by whether the questions get easier or harder. By the end of the Math section I could hear the computer thinking "I can't *make* them any easier--did someone send their dog in to take the GMAT?")
Maybe the powers that be thought "Well let's not make her take a straight-up Math class because then she'll drop out. Let's collect tuition fees from her for a few terms and see how it goes."
And now I'm taking Statistics. I haven't spent any time on Statistics since my Freshman year of high school and I did not love it then. Taking this class was one of the thought-barriers I had to get over before applying to MBA school. But I have given myself room--I'm only taking this one class this term and I one of my friends knows a girl who tutors statistics.
My Dad has taught Statistics. He is not particularly mathematically inclined, but then again he's a psychologist. Stats are necessary to his profession. Just before this term he told me about how he felt in his first Statistics class as an undergrad "There were all these Math people and me and a Biology major. I was scared." Evidently he got over it.
I understand the usefulness of Statistics. If you have a hypothesis, you must test it. And after you have tested it Statistics are a tool to help you understand your results. I understand the concept of "statistically significant." If you send out a questionnaire to 500 people, but only 10 return it than no matter what your results are, they are not statistically significant because they come from a very small sample of your population.The only thing that you have learned is that of your population of 500 only 10-2% are the sort of people who answer questionnaires.
This weeks lesson was about mean, median, mode, variance and standard deviation. Mean, median and mode are 7th grade math. Variance I still don't get, but I work in financial services so I am familiar with the concept of Standard Deviation (it means Risk and Return.)
When I opened the textbook last Sunday to get a head start on this weeks homework, I saw some awful formula in sum notation and I quailed and put the book away for a few days. When I started reading the chapter, it became apparent that the formula that had scared me was just the mathematical notation for mean-average. Add everything up and divide by the number of things you had, can in fact be expressed as a sum series--but why would you want to do that?
That, however was not the interesting part of this week's homework. The textbook gave the formula for Variance and Standard Deviation (the square root of Variance-I never knew that.) But because this is a course in Statistics in Excel, I still haven't absorbed what the formulas are or how they relate to the data. Why? Well, I wouldn't really want to do the math--even with a calculator but as painful and error-prone as that is, it actually teaches you how to relate the variables to each other in a way that selecting a column of numbers and choosing "STDEV" from the Excel function menu fails to do.
Is knowing how to do the Math important? YES-even though I'm bad at it. I'm the sort of person who does not put shortcuts on her desktop to network resources because it's important that I remember where they are. When I crunch numbers in Excel I make all the numbers, the sub totals and any side calculations I made visible because I want to make it clear how I got from A to B.
I find myself quoting/paraphrasing the Russian movie Nightwatch. "What is more important--what goes into the potion or the effect?" The answer is "The effect." But I actually care about "what goes into the potion" and why. Perhaps it's just me being a bit OCD. Perhaps it's because Math is so foreign to me that I want to see all steps to make sure I understand them.
"Do the Math" is kind of like "RTFM*" Anybody possessed with a modicum of intelligence should be able to do either. I am uncomfortable about the way that this course does not help me Do The Math.
*Read The Fucking Manual
Maybe the powers that be thought "Well let's not make her take a straight-up Math class because then she'll drop out. Let's collect tuition fees from her for a few terms and see how it goes."
And now I'm taking Statistics. I haven't spent any time on Statistics since my Freshman year of high school and I did not love it then. Taking this class was one of the thought-barriers I had to get over before applying to MBA school. But I have given myself room--I'm only taking this one class this term and I one of my friends knows a girl who tutors statistics.
My Dad has taught Statistics. He is not particularly mathematically inclined, but then again he's a psychologist. Stats are necessary to his profession. Just before this term he told me about how he felt in his first Statistics class as an undergrad "There were all these Math people and me and a Biology major. I was scared." Evidently he got over it.
I understand the usefulness of Statistics. If you have a hypothesis, you must test it. And after you have tested it Statistics are a tool to help you understand your results. I understand the concept of "statistically significant." If you send out a questionnaire to 500 people, but only 10 return it than no matter what your results are, they are not statistically significant because they come from a very small sample of your population.The only thing that you have learned is that of your population of 500 only 10-2% are the sort of people who answer questionnaires.
This weeks lesson was about mean, median, mode, variance and standard deviation. Mean, median and mode are 7th grade math. Variance I still don't get, but I work in financial services so I am familiar with the concept of Standard Deviation (it means Risk and Return.)
When I opened the textbook last Sunday to get a head start on this weeks homework, I saw some awful formula in sum notation and I quailed and put the book away for a few days. When I started reading the chapter, it became apparent that the formula that had scared me was just the mathematical notation for mean-average. Add everything up and divide by the number of things you had, can in fact be expressed as a sum series--but why would you want to do that?
That, however was not the interesting part of this week's homework. The textbook gave the formula for Variance and Standard Deviation (the square root of Variance-I never knew that.) But because this is a course in Statistics in Excel, I still haven't absorbed what the formulas are or how they relate to the data. Why? Well, I wouldn't really want to do the math--even with a calculator but as painful and error-prone as that is, it actually teaches you how to relate the variables to each other in a way that selecting a column of numbers and choosing "STDEV" from the Excel function menu fails to do.
Is knowing how to do the Math important? YES-even though I'm bad at it. I'm the sort of person who does not put shortcuts on her desktop to network resources because it's important that I remember where they are. When I crunch numbers in Excel I make all the numbers, the sub totals and any side calculations I made visible because I want to make it clear how I got from A to B.
I find myself quoting/paraphrasing the Russian movie Nightwatch. "What is more important--what goes into the potion or the effect?" The answer is "The effect." But I actually care about "what goes into the potion" and why. Perhaps it's just me being a bit OCD. Perhaps it's because Math is so foreign to me that I want to see all steps to make sure I understand them.
"Do the Math" is kind of like "RTFM*" Anybody possessed with a modicum of intelligence should be able to do either. I am uncomfortable about the way that this course does not help me Do The Math.
*Read The Fucking Manual
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Snow
I am a native of New York City. I was for a while a Parisienne and I'm a New Englander now. I grew up a city dweller. I expect no kindness from strangers. One of my math teachers in High School once joked that the Golden Rule in New York was either "Do unto Others Before they Do unto You" or perhaps just "Do unto Others." A friend of mine when I first moved to Boston summed up the Boston mindset aptly by saying "Yes we have a bathroom and no you can't use it."
This is what I grew up with and this is what I live with. I don't say that people are wrong to feel this way. In fact if you are too kind in New York or Boston or Paris you'll get fleeced by the con artists and gypsy kids (I stopped my lifelong practice of giving something to every homeless person I met after a beggar kid to whom I'd given 10 francs chased me down Saint Germain demanding more.)
However there is something about terrible weather that brings out the best in New Englanders. When I lived in Cambridge there was one day when it started dumping freezing rain on top of a decent amount of accumulated snow. In order to walk on the sidewalks, one walked single file in the footsteps that were layed out (because not everyone had shoveled) and sometimes through puddles. And as I navigated the physical challenge that was Cambridge's sidewalks everyone smiled at me. I hadn't seen so many smiling strangers since the Sox won the World Series in 2004. WTF? I mentioned this to one of my friends-a native of Pittsfield and he opined that it was the miserable weather that made everyone so friendly.
I saw it again this morning. A foot more of snow on the ground, sidewalks impassible, people lurching through the snow to dig out their cars and yet they all had a smile or a cheerful comment as I passed them. "Lovely weather!" said the man who was delivering something to the market on Cabot street. Weird as it may be, give the denizens of Eastern Mass a good snow storm and they become as friendly as Minnesotans.
I won't argue with that.
This is what I grew up with and this is what I live with. I don't say that people are wrong to feel this way. In fact if you are too kind in New York or Boston or Paris you'll get fleeced by the con artists and gypsy kids (I stopped my lifelong practice of giving something to every homeless person I met after a beggar kid to whom I'd given 10 francs chased me down Saint Germain demanding more.)
However there is something about terrible weather that brings out the best in New Englanders. When I lived in Cambridge there was one day when it started dumping freezing rain on top of a decent amount of accumulated snow. In order to walk on the sidewalks, one walked single file in the footsteps that were layed out (because not everyone had shoveled) and sometimes through puddles. And as I navigated the physical challenge that was Cambridge's sidewalks everyone smiled at me. I hadn't seen so many smiling strangers since the Sox won the World Series in 2004. WTF? I mentioned this to one of my friends-a native of Pittsfield and he opined that it was the miserable weather that made everyone so friendly.
I saw it again this morning. A foot more of snow on the ground, sidewalks impassible, people lurching through the snow to dig out their cars and yet they all had a smile or a cheerful comment as I passed them. "Lovely weather!" said the man who was delivering something to the market on Cabot street. Weird as it may be, give the denizens of Eastern Mass a good snow storm and they become as friendly as Minnesotans.
I won't argue with that.
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Fear
I made a dental appointment last week because my back molars were hurting me. They had been hurting me for some time-a couple of years at least. In a moment of lucidity it occurred to me that if they were hurting then perhaps not only was something wrong with my teeth, but it could be the sort of something that results in lots of pain—what if one of them cracked? I am terrified of dentists. I’m terrified of doctors too but there’s something about dentistry-perhaps it’s because the mouth is so full of nerve endings and as a result even getting a cleaning hurts.
So I made an appointment. I was okay until last night, when all sorts of things that could be wrong with my mouth started occurring to me. Well, perhaps I’d just cancel the appointment, I told myself. When I woke up this morning (with aching teeth) I told myself that I had to do it. “They’re not cops-they can’t force you to have any kind of procedure done.” I told myself and “I don’t care how scared you are-you have to go because it isn’t going to get any better if you don’t. It can only get worse and how foolish will you feel if you have to make an emergency dental appointment?” The winning argument I believe was “so you are sure that there’s some unknown thing that is dreadfully wrong with your mouth that is going to be expensive and painful to remedy that will involve taking massive amounts of time off of work and will impact your lifestyle and schooling? You were also positive that you’d flailed your Accounting final.” And I was dead sure about that. So sure that I announced it to my parents. But I got out of the course with a B. So the point I was making to myself was that I was just being mentally ill about my teeth. And therefore, however sure I was I was probably wrong. I still felt terrible about it.
When I got to work I looked up wisdom teeth, since I still have all of mine and since it’s back teeth that hurt-perhaps the wisdoms were making a belated entry. I also looked up gum disease on Wikipedia. And then I made myself stop. I believe that some part of my lizard brain was trying to make me have a panic attack—because then I’d defiantly cancel the appointment.
We had a Big Thing to do at work today*. I told one of my colleagues that I had to go to the dentist, but that I could put it off. This was the right thing for me to do, as it turns out. Aside from fear of dentists I’ve a healthy fear of my boss and I didn’t want him blaming me for being out. My colleague assured me that there was nothing the boss could blame me for and pointed out that whenever he put off the dentist he ended up not going. We joked about how I would in a position to verify whether an afternoon at the dentist was still worse than an afternoon at work (oh yes!) So now there was one person who would give me shit if I didn’t go to the dentist. So I had to go.
I went and gave them my name. They took me to a chair and left me in it. I could hear the sounds of dental equipment all around me. I crossed myself as I sat in the chair and then remembered that I’m not really Catholic anymore. And then I hoped that they would hurry up and start hurting me—otherwise I’d bolt because I was so terrified. I told the nice young lady dentist that I’d come in because my back teeth hurt and she said she needed a full set of X-Rays. “I need to see the roots-as you say you are aching.” The roots?!! Good God what will she need to do if the trouble is in the roots? Root canal? Some other frightening procedure I’ve never heard of before?! I went to get X rayed. I noted that dentistry had entered the digital age-once the tech pulled the switch I could see black and white pictures of my teeth on the flat-screen next to the chair (not that I wanted to see them.)
When the tech was done X raying me I went back to the dentist chair I had first sat in. My mouth was shaking. I tried to think of the scariest thing I had overcome in the past year (I took the GMAT. I had to interview 15 strangers Spring term. I took an elective last term-while taking another class this gave me an anxiety attack once a week but I got through it.) Somehow, none of these was any help.
The nice young lady dentist told me that the pain in my teeth was due to my clenching them at night and that she could make me a mouth guard that would deal with that (better than the commercial ones) I had a few cavities which would need filling. I can live with that-I haven’t had a filling in 20 years. It’s unpleasant, but because I know what I’ll be getting into, I could make an appointment for fillings (and a mouth guard fitting.)
I was thrilled when I left. For one thing, the dentist had been nice and had accepted the fact that I was scared of dentistry. She and her assistant treated me like a grown up human. All through my terrified afternoon I’d been telling myself how much good it would do me to do this thing that scared me. Even my co-worker chimed in. When I pointed out that my list of things to do consisted entirely of things I didn’t want to do he said –“Well at least by going to the dentist you’re doing yourself some good.”
But although I’ll go to have my fillings done and my mold made without much fuss, this doesn’t change my fear of doctors or of dentists. Bodies—this carbon and hydrogen substance of which we are made —are mortal and are subject to wear and tear and decay. I can change my diet, and I can floss more often but time wears on the human body. So doctors will always scare me in a way that bosses don’t. I can always take another course in SQL or MS Access, but I can’t take any course that will make my body ten years younger.
So I made an appointment. I was okay until last night, when all sorts of things that could be wrong with my mouth started occurring to me. Well, perhaps I’d just cancel the appointment, I told myself. When I woke up this morning (with aching teeth) I told myself that I had to do it. “They’re not cops-they can’t force you to have any kind of procedure done.” I told myself and “I don’t care how scared you are-you have to go because it isn’t going to get any better if you don’t. It can only get worse and how foolish will you feel if you have to make an emergency dental appointment?” The winning argument I believe was “so you are sure that there’s some unknown thing that is dreadfully wrong with your mouth that is going to be expensive and painful to remedy that will involve taking massive amounts of time off of work and will impact your lifestyle and schooling? You were also positive that you’d flailed your Accounting final.” And I was dead sure about that. So sure that I announced it to my parents. But I got out of the course with a B. So the point I was making to myself was that I was just being mentally ill about my teeth. And therefore, however sure I was I was probably wrong. I still felt terrible about it.
When I got to work I looked up wisdom teeth, since I still have all of mine and since it’s back teeth that hurt-perhaps the wisdoms were making a belated entry. I also looked up gum disease on Wikipedia. And then I made myself stop. I believe that some part of my lizard brain was trying to make me have a panic attack—because then I’d defiantly cancel the appointment.
We had a Big Thing to do at work today*. I told one of my colleagues that I had to go to the dentist, but that I could put it off. This was the right thing for me to do, as it turns out. Aside from fear of dentists I’ve a healthy fear of my boss and I didn’t want him blaming me for being out. My colleague assured me that there was nothing the boss could blame me for and pointed out that whenever he put off the dentist he ended up not going. We joked about how I would in a position to verify whether an afternoon at the dentist was still worse than an afternoon at work (oh yes!) So now there was one person who would give me shit if I didn’t go to the dentist. So I had to go.
I went and gave them my name. They took me to a chair and left me in it. I could hear the sounds of dental equipment all around me. I crossed myself as I sat in the chair and then remembered that I’m not really Catholic anymore. And then I hoped that they would hurry up and start hurting me—otherwise I’d bolt because I was so terrified. I told the nice young lady dentist that I’d come in because my back teeth hurt and she said she needed a full set of X-Rays. “I need to see the roots-as you say you are aching.” The roots?!! Good God what will she need to do if the trouble is in the roots? Root canal? Some other frightening procedure I’ve never heard of before?! I went to get X rayed. I noted that dentistry had entered the digital age-once the tech pulled the switch I could see black and white pictures of my teeth on the flat-screen next to the chair (not that I wanted to see them.)
When the tech was done X raying me I went back to the dentist chair I had first sat in. My mouth was shaking. I tried to think of the scariest thing I had overcome in the past year (I took the GMAT. I had to interview 15 strangers Spring term. I took an elective last term-while taking another class this gave me an anxiety attack once a week but I got through it.) Somehow, none of these was any help.
The nice young lady dentist told me that the pain in my teeth was due to my clenching them at night and that she could make me a mouth guard that would deal with that (better than the commercial ones) I had a few cavities which would need filling. I can live with that-I haven’t had a filling in 20 years. It’s unpleasant, but because I know what I’ll be getting into, I could make an appointment for fillings (and a mouth guard fitting.)
I was thrilled when I left. For one thing, the dentist had been nice and had accepted the fact that I was scared of dentistry. She and her assistant treated me like a grown up human. All through my terrified afternoon I’d been telling myself how much good it would do me to do this thing that scared me. Even my co-worker chimed in. When I pointed out that my list of things to do consisted entirely of things I didn’t want to do he said –“Well at least by going to the dentist you’re doing yourself some good.”
But although I’ll go to have my fillings done and my mold made without much fuss, this doesn’t change my fear of doctors or of dentists. Bodies—this carbon and hydrogen substance of which we are made —are mortal and are subject to wear and tear and decay. I can change my diet, and I can floss more often but time wears on the human body. So doctors will always scare me in a way that bosses don’t. I can always take another course in SQL or MS Access, but I can’t take any course that will make my body ten years younger.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Richmond Theatre Collection
Tomorrow is my Dad’s 69th birthday. My dad is awesome. He was instrumental in turning me into the dork-geek that I am. I was going to write a post to try and show how awesome my dad is through examples, but what I wrote sounded treacly and sometimes cringingly personal. There are things that are sweet and overly personal that I should tell my dad about why I think he’s so awesome. But I should *tell* them to him-not publish them on the interwebs. There is one thing I keep coming back to in my exploratory writing and I think I should write about that instead.
When my parents moved to Staten Island, Dad got involved in a local theatre company. Since growing up I’ve heard a lot of disparaging comments about community theatre groups. There may be some truth in them, but what the people who dis community theatre fail to grasp is that community theatre gives people who are not professional actors and singers a chance to take part in Pirates of Penzance or Cosi fan Tutte. Additionally, it gives people who don’t have the money to go to the Met a chance to see theatre up close and personal. I think I was in second grade when my dad first took me to see Die Fledermaus and it was in a church basement, or something like that, but we were within 15 feet of the action. I loved it.
Anyway, my dad had gotten involved with a community theatre group called Richmond Theatre Collection (RTC.) They did most of their productions in a church. As I understand it, the rule was that if they were doing something Christian they could perform upstairs in the church with the altar as the stage, but if their production was more secular they performed in the basement. Looking back, it seems to me that the church was rather lenient with that rule since Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and Godspell qualified for upstairs performances (along with Noye’s Fludde and Amahl and the Night Visitors.)
RTC did four productions a year. They did one Gilbert and Sullivan production a year and other than that, their catalogue was eclectic. They did not do Rogers and Hammerstein and I don’t think they ever did Sondheim. They did some Mozart and some Galt Macdermot (although not Hair, as far as I know) and they dabbled in Benjamin Britten. They did La Serva Padrona, which I loved and The Cradle will Rock (which I did not, at the time appreciate.) And they did Jacques Brel is alive and well and Living in Paris—which introduced me to Brel (in English.)
Dad did all sorts of things for RTC. He sang chorus, he did set designs, he helped build things, he sold donuts and coffee at half-time. I’m not sure how it happened, but I started tagging along with Dad—maybe he needed someone to hold a clamp or maybe he thought I’d find it a treat to watch rehearsals (I certainly did) but I spent a lot of time as a kid hanging out at the church on Saturdays.
I was not a very socially adept kid—I had one good friend through grade school and a few more in junior high, but in general I didn’t “get” other kids. I don't think it would be overly dramatic to say that theatre was the glue that kept me together when I was a kid. I got to go to RTC and help paint things or move scenery (while watching rehearsals.) When they were doing a Gilbert and Sullivan show I got to talk to grownups who were just as into G&S as I was. I got to geek out with the guy who was playing the Sorcerer (in the Sorcerer) and who’d done every G&S show except this one. I got to talk to the guy who had understudied for John Reed at D’Oyly Carte. But I also got to talk to other adults who treated me like a reasonable human, unlike most of the kids I knew. I must have been an annoying brat, but they put up with me. Not just when I was being a Gilbert and Sullivan dork, but other times. They said “Do you know how to make coffee in this Thing? The coffee will be bad and they’ll blame me for it.” Or “the tenor’s been sick I hope he hits all his high notes tonight.” And of course “move this here”, tighten that clamp” “just a little more green paint” “go see your dad and tell him we need…”
In 1986, the Mets beat the Redsox for the World Championship. I was in sixth grade and old enough to participate in a local children’s theatre group. We were doing the Lottery and I was Tessie Hutchinson. But on the evening that the Sox lost, I was done with children’s theatre and was helping out with donuts at RTC’s production of Princess Ida. I got the information from the guy who was playing King Hilledebrand. He was out having a smoke break between acts and announcing the fact to the world at large.
RTC was part of my growing up. Local theatre groups do well when there are people who are willing to treat them like a full time job. In the case of RTC, for a long time this was Mr & Mrs K. They were, I believe, a retired couple. I knew them both. As far as I could tell Mrs K was mostly the music director of RTC. Mr K must have done a lot of administrative work (I don’t think he ever directed anything or acted in anything that I saw.) One of my most vivid memories of him is from Godspell. As I mentioned above, because Godspell was Christian in theme, RTC got to perform it on the altar. The church had a high ceiling with a metal beam near the top. During one of the earlier numbers (Prepare ye the way of the Lord) confetti would drop on the stage. This was managed by filling a box with confetti on the high metal beam. I distinctly remember Mr. K climbing up to refill the box.
A few years later, he was telling me that it was okay to sell donuts that were two weeks old. I thought it odd, but I was a kid and he was a grown up. Not too long after that incident, Dad told me that Mr. K had Alzheimer’s disease.
The RTC project was essentially doomed on the departure of Mr. and Mrs. K. Even though I was a kid, I could see this. Community theatre attracts big egos. And while people with big egos make great comic leads, they are not necessarily any good at administration. Mr and Mrs K had provided that. By the time I was in high school they had gone to California.
The company more or less officially fell apart my junior year in high school. They were presenting Trial By Jury, Cox and Box and The Racketeers (this last being the mock Gilbert and Sullivan opera that a few of the RTC regulars had composed.) To this day I cannot say what was the straw that broke the camel’s back. People that I had otherwise considered reasonable adults yelled and or quit for reasons I could see, but didn't seem as important to me as they were to other people.
I learned a lot through my RTC experience. I learned a lot of Mozart and Gilbert and Sullivan and obscure musical theatre (some of it deservedly so) I learned to operate a dimmer board (not well) and I learned a lot about how people behave—good and bad. I am sorry that they are no longer in existence, but I am glad that they were part of my experience.
When my parents moved to Staten Island, Dad got involved in a local theatre company. Since growing up I’ve heard a lot of disparaging comments about community theatre groups. There may be some truth in them, but what the people who dis community theatre fail to grasp is that community theatre gives people who are not professional actors and singers a chance to take part in Pirates of Penzance or Cosi fan Tutte. Additionally, it gives people who don’t have the money to go to the Met a chance to see theatre up close and personal. I think I was in second grade when my dad first took me to see Die Fledermaus and it was in a church basement, or something like that, but we were within 15 feet of the action. I loved it.
Anyway, my dad had gotten involved with a community theatre group called Richmond Theatre Collection (RTC.) They did most of their productions in a church. As I understand it, the rule was that if they were doing something Christian they could perform upstairs in the church with the altar as the stage, but if their production was more secular they performed in the basement. Looking back, it seems to me that the church was rather lenient with that rule since Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat and Godspell qualified for upstairs performances (along with Noye’s Fludde and Amahl and the Night Visitors.)
RTC did four productions a year. They did one Gilbert and Sullivan production a year and other than that, their catalogue was eclectic. They did not do Rogers and Hammerstein and I don’t think they ever did Sondheim. They did some Mozart and some Galt Macdermot (although not Hair, as far as I know) and they dabbled in Benjamin Britten. They did La Serva Padrona, which I loved and The Cradle will Rock (which I did not, at the time appreciate.) And they did Jacques Brel is alive and well and Living in Paris—which introduced me to Brel (in English.)
Dad did all sorts of things for RTC. He sang chorus, he did set designs, he helped build things, he sold donuts and coffee at half-time. I’m not sure how it happened, but I started tagging along with Dad—maybe he needed someone to hold a clamp or maybe he thought I’d find it a treat to watch rehearsals (I certainly did) but I spent a lot of time as a kid hanging out at the church on Saturdays.
I was not a very socially adept kid—I had one good friend through grade school and a few more in junior high, but in general I didn’t “get” other kids. I don't think it would be overly dramatic to say that theatre was the glue that kept me together when I was a kid. I got to go to RTC and help paint things or move scenery (while watching rehearsals.) When they were doing a Gilbert and Sullivan show I got to talk to grownups who were just as into G&S as I was. I got to geek out with the guy who was playing the Sorcerer (in the Sorcerer) and who’d done every G&S show except this one. I got to talk to the guy who had understudied for John Reed at D’Oyly Carte. But I also got to talk to other adults who treated me like a reasonable human, unlike most of the kids I knew. I must have been an annoying brat, but they put up with me. Not just when I was being a Gilbert and Sullivan dork, but other times. They said “Do you know how to make coffee in this Thing? The coffee will be bad and they’ll blame me for it.” Or “the tenor’s been sick I hope he hits all his high notes tonight.” And of course “move this here”, tighten that clamp” “just a little more green paint” “go see your dad and tell him we need…”
In 1986, the Mets beat the Redsox for the World Championship. I was in sixth grade and old enough to participate in a local children’s theatre group. We were doing the Lottery and I was Tessie Hutchinson. But on the evening that the Sox lost, I was done with children’s theatre and was helping out with donuts at RTC’s production of Princess Ida. I got the information from the guy who was playing King Hilledebrand. He was out having a smoke break between acts and announcing the fact to the world at large.
RTC was part of my growing up. Local theatre groups do well when there are people who are willing to treat them like a full time job. In the case of RTC, for a long time this was Mr & Mrs K. They were, I believe, a retired couple. I knew them both. As far as I could tell Mrs K was mostly the music director of RTC. Mr K must have done a lot of administrative work (I don’t think he ever directed anything or acted in anything that I saw.) One of my most vivid memories of him is from Godspell. As I mentioned above, because Godspell was Christian in theme, RTC got to perform it on the altar. The church had a high ceiling with a metal beam near the top. During one of the earlier numbers (Prepare ye the way of the Lord) confetti would drop on the stage. This was managed by filling a box with confetti on the high metal beam. I distinctly remember Mr. K climbing up to refill the box.
A few years later, he was telling me that it was okay to sell donuts that were two weeks old. I thought it odd, but I was a kid and he was a grown up. Not too long after that incident, Dad told me that Mr. K had Alzheimer’s disease.
The RTC project was essentially doomed on the departure of Mr. and Mrs. K. Even though I was a kid, I could see this. Community theatre attracts big egos. And while people with big egos make great comic leads, they are not necessarily any good at administration. Mr and Mrs K had provided that. By the time I was in high school they had gone to California.
The company more or less officially fell apart my junior year in high school. They were presenting Trial By Jury, Cox and Box and The Racketeers (this last being the mock Gilbert and Sullivan opera that a few of the RTC regulars had composed.) To this day I cannot say what was the straw that broke the camel’s back. People that I had otherwise considered reasonable adults yelled and or quit for reasons I could see, but didn't seem as important to me as they were to other people.
I learned a lot through my RTC experience. I learned a lot of Mozart and Gilbert and Sullivan and obscure musical theatre (some of it deservedly so) I learned to operate a dimmer board (not well) and I learned a lot about how people behave—good and bad. I am sorry that they are no longer in existence, but I am glad that they were part of my experience.
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