I am unique
March 9, 2011
This isn’t going to be some “because I’m good enough, smart enough, and goshdarnit people like me” thing where I talk up my virtues to make myself feel better. That part is a daily struggle with the aspects which I know are good versus those that need a whole lot of work. Tonight, I merely refer to the fact that no one else has the same name as me.
It is a long-held family “fact” that anyone with our last name is related somehow, because there was only one Doudna that came over from the Old World. Maybe you remember him—the kidnaped ship’s swab. Based on the results from this website, it doesn’t look like we’ve been the most prolific clan there ever was. Hmm. I reconsider. That’s 442 active (living) Doudnas (2000 Census). Okay, maybe that’s not bad for an unusual name that’s only been here since 1804.
I remember the first time I ran across my last name out in the wild. I was reading Discover magazine and saw a citation for Jennifer Doudna, a microbiologist. I just looked her up and it seems that in the intervening years, she’s become very accomplished in her field.
If you do a search on me, everything that comes back will be about the person writing to you now, though I’m not nearly as high-powered as Jennifer. But I’ve got one thing she doesn’t—uniqueness. There are two of her.
March 3, 2011
Tree fractals
March 7, 2011
As I was waiting for the train to work last Friday morning and looking around for things to take Instagram pictures of to kill time, I had the sudden feeling that one of my favorite things about winter here in the deciduous northern hemisphere is seeing the bare trees reaching toward the sky and knowing that what I see above ground is happening below ground as well.
I hadn’t thought of tree branches as fractals until I saw an episode of Nova a few weeks ago, but I have known for a very long time that trees have root systems underground that are equivalent to their branch systems above. As I stared at the beautiful, veiny, starkness of the winter bare branches, I was a little overwhelmed by the thought of the symmetrical happenings in the dirt.
I didn’t have time to leave the train platform to take photos of the trees that were uncluttered by power lines, apartment highrises or other impediments, but the images stayed in my memory all weekend and were the inspiration for this illustration based on tracings of my hands.
Amazing rabbit-powered beer-delivery machine
March 5, 2011
Today I set my English-major brain to work on a mechanical problem—designing a complicated machine to do a simple task. Are you surprised that it involves beer and a rabbit?
Now that I think about it, I suppose my brain was trying to go in a Wallace & Gromit direction. I imagined all sorts of cogs, pulleys, and ropes, powered by my rabbit Robbin, to get another beer from the refrigerator across the twenty-foot span to me lounging in my comfy desk chair because I just couldn’t be bothered to get up. I have, after all, previously established that I am, at the heart of things, lazy.
The trouble with my rabbit-powered beer delivery system—and really, it’s a system more than an actual machine—is that poor Robbin ends up as forced labor, with which I definitely disagree.
So then I started thinking more abstractly about the beer delivery system that’s in place in the state of Minnesota and made a feeble flow chart. It’s particularly relevant because at this very moment, Surly Brewing is in the midst of a campaign to rewrite Minnesota’s archaic alcohol laws. The one that impacts me personally is the one that prevents liquor stores from being open on Sundays. How backward is that?
The one that impacts Surly, which I have indicated in my flowchart, is that they must utilize a third-party distributor to peddle their wares. When I went on the brewery tour a few weeks ago, the beer that I partook of on the brewery premises was technically not a “serving,” it was a “sample,” because in Minnesota, breweries (except for the smallest “brewpubs”) are not allowed to “serve” on-site. Surly is seeking to change the law so that they can build a new, bigger, better brewery facility that includes a restaurant and beer garden in which they’d be able to—*gasp°—sell and serve glasses of—*gasp*—their own beer.
The Minnesota Licensed Beverage Association (MLBA, the state distributor) seems to think this would be a problem. Perhaps it’s because, if Surly expanded their capacity, they’d have to (once again, by Minnesota law) start using the MLBA to distribute their beer, which they currently don’t have to because they’re too small. How is one new restaurant on the brewery site any more impactful to the MLBA’s profits than a new restaurant or bar at, say, Lake Street and Lyndale Avenue? Doesn’t make sense. The MLBA does not lose in the Surly brewery expansion.
Anyway, then I tried to use pictograms to illustrate the Minnesota beer delivery machine. I thought it would be more interesting, but I don’t think it really is, other than the part where my rabbit and two cats silently judge my beer habit.
Bowling dream
February 17, 2011
This isn’t about a dream of achievement such as becoming a professional bowler, traveling around the country, and earning gobs of money with all of my tournament wins. This is about the other kind of dream—the recurring one in which I am an utter bowling failure. Yes, I have a very specific bowling nightmare.
The setting at my weekly league is innocent enough. I am bowling along without incident. Sometimes, but not often, I have a perfect game going and it’s the 10th frame. But usually, I’m just workaday league bowling. Then, the wheels come off. Or rather, the ball won’t.
I stand on the approach and prepare for my shot. Sometimes in my dream, I can feel that things aren’t quite right with my grip of the ball and so I step back and regroup. Other times, I just plow ahead. Either way, when I get to the foul line and it’s time to release the ball, I can’t. This takes a couple forms.
In one, I stop at the foul line in relative control and re-swing my arm. Again the ball won’t release. I swing again. The ball stays firmly attached.
In another, I am unable to stop at the foul line because the momentum of my arm swing and the weight of the ball (which in reality is only fifteen pounds) just keep carrying me forward down the lane.
I keep swinging and I try flicking my hand to release the ball. It’s like my fingers are superglued in the holes. Then, all of a sudden the ball lets loose. Because I’ve stopped paying attention to my own alley and pins the ball’s trajectory takes it to the side, where it skips down the neighboring alleys like a pebble on a pond.
That’s when I wake up in a cold sweat of horror at my embarrassment.
V.D.
February 15, 2011
For some weird reason, I didn’t hate today. I even wore a red shirt. I wasn’t looking forward to flowers from a sweetie or anything like that. No, I couldn’t wait to secretly decorating the fake ficus tree in the lobby on my floor at work.
The fake ficus has become the subject of daily updates on another division of my blog because I find its ever-changing position humorous. I don’t doubt that I’m the only one who does. I’m sure the sixty-four page views that the earlier entries have tallied mostly happened by accident. Doesn’t matter. I get a kick out of it so I’ll keep taking a photo every (week)day around 2:45 or 3. The tree actually hasn’t been moving around as much since I started documenting. I also get a kick out of how our neighbors put their large trash right out there to be the first thing people see when they step off the elevator. That’s professional. If you don’t want it in your suite, do you think anyone else wants to look at it in a common area?
I wasn’t privy to many comments about the hearts; I imagine a lot of people didn’t even notice them as many, myself included, have their noses in their phones as they cross through the lobby on the way to the bathroom or the Down button (we’re on the top floor).
I do plan to keep decorating for upcoming holidays and special days. I suppose the ultimate measure of success would be if other secret decorators got into the spirit. They probably won’t, though.
Commute, in a few sentences
February 14, 2011
I am very grateful that for sixteen and a half years now, I have not had to drive my car to get to my job. For eleven years, I lived two and three quarters miles from my job. A little over five years ago, I moved and am now only one and three quarters miles from my job. It’s all in town so I can take the bus, ride my bike, walk, or, since I moved, hop on the light rail for eight minutes.
In the not-hot weather, I take the light rail in the morning and walk home. It’s about thirty minutes—a perfect amount to be beneficial as exercise and not so long that I get bored and don’t do it. The walk also serves as my unwinding time.
Here is a little two-minute digest of my train ride.
That???s brisk, baby!
February 9, 2011
Back in December, I shared with you our blizzard of the decade. I declared that if it was winter, it ought to be cold, and there ought to be snow. It’s two months later and winter has not let me down.
Overnight was only the second coldest of the winter so far. It didn’t quite go down to double digits below zero Fahrenheit like the other one did about a month ago, but at a certain point, splitting hairs over a degree or five is, well, pointless. It’s cold!
I walk seven minutes in the morning to catch the light rail train that delivers me to the office, and thirty minutes hoofing it all the way home after work. It’s a good walk because it’s long enough to be beneficial as exercise, but not so long that it’s boring and I lose interest and don’t do it. The last winter or two have been relatively mild, both from temperature and snowfall standpoints. It’s true I have been overusing my winter boots this year, but I had completely forgotten until today about my wear-contacts-instead-of-glasses technique. It was so fantastic this morning to keep my face covered with double-scarfing and still be able to actually see where I was going, versus my usual alternating between a warm nose and only half fogged up glasses. Seeing is good!
I should have recalled this winter survival method sooner. I feel like it’s been since about October, but really, it’s probably only been since November that I can count on one hand the number of days that the temperature has been above freezing. I’m probably exaggerating by a month. Below-zero probably only started in December. About on Monday after the blizzard.
As a result of the prevailing temperatures, the snow has hung around. At my location in downtown Minneapolis, we got about fourteen inches of snow in the blizzard, then, during the next week, about four or six inches additional. I can remember one “stretch” of two or three days that it was above freezing, but not so radically that much of the snow melted. Not much of the snow has melted.
If each day were equivalent to 10,000 years, this winter would be an ice age and the snow banks in my front yard would be glaciers. The little birdies that somehow stay alive and function in these temperatures would still be T. rexes and I wouldn’t have to wear my contacts and bundle up with long underwear, winter boots, double scarfing, two pairs of handwear, and two layers of headwear plus the hood of my sleeping bag down coat because the comet wouldn’t have yet struck and it would still be tropical.
So these, then, were the conditions today, at 8:00am and 4:00am. Things improved by a whole 12 degrees Fahrenheit. Crisp and clean with no caffeine. Cold? Yes. Minnesota? You betcha!
*Those two door slams in the birdie movie are my neighbor Jen coming home. Just in case you were curious.
Cribbage scrimmage
February 7, 2011
Cribbage always makes me think of my Grandpa H. He was the one largely responsible for teaching me how to play when I was just a squirt. To this day, it’s the only card game that I would say I actually know how to play. Sure, we play poker at bowling (one card for a spare or strike, two cards for two strikes in a row), but I always have to consult a cheat sheet.
My grandparents would come from Wisconsin to visit us in Ohio for a couple of weeks each year (as we did them). My memory of my grandfather teaching me cribbage is that it happened on the back porch at our house, which would imply that it was warm enough to be outside, which would imply that it was not winter. But I also remember that our visits to them were in the summer as well. It seems a little strange that we wouldn’t have gotten together for holidays. Then again, with the cross-Midwest drive I guess it’s not actually mysterious that nobody planned the drive for Christmas and winter.
Anyway, my grandpa taught me how to play cribbage and he taught me well.
But not well enough to save one relationship I was in. “He” and I had played a bunch of games over the course of a couple weeks and I had lost all of them, and I finally snapped and called the relationship off. Of course things would have had to have been shakey to begin with at that point for something so trivial to become a mountain, and they were for a particular reason, but my twentieth cribbage loss in a row finally broke this camel’s back.
It’s true that whenever I get out the cribbage board I think of this guy just a little, but enough time has passed (you know, more than twenty-five years) that it’s not unpleasant. In fact, I just looked him up online and he’s still very attractive.
But I digress.
These days, it’s mostly when my mom lays a guilt trip on me during my parents’ visits that I play. She and my grandfather also played a lot, and she and I played a lot. Now, she usually has to pull teeth. I suppose it’s stubbornness on my part. When they’re here, it’s the one thing I can get away without doing right away or at all, because everything else she just pesters until I do it because I get fed up with the constant, um, mentioning. It’s a power struggle.
I enjoy playing, I just don’t want to have to feel like I have to. Evidently my cat feels differently.





































