Applied Mathematics

I am an English Language major. Please note that I am not an English major; there exists a distinction, and both I and English majors everywhere feel it keenly. Either way, I am certainly not a mathematics person, and in fact have never studied mathematics since I was seventeen. 

So it was with some surprise that I found myself at three-forty in the morning behind the half-wall of my dispatch console some years ago, slaving away at mathematics. Geometry, in point of fact. Cylindrical volume, to be even more precise. Why? Because work issued a challenge.

It may not sound like a challenge, more a game, really, but to a tired but idle mind at three-oh-seven in the morning, it sounded like a challenge. And all dispatchers love a challenge. They may lie to you and say they don't, but by dint of even being a dispatcher in the first place, they really do. The challenge in this case was quite simple: estimate how many M&Ms were in a glass jar without opening the jar. The person who guessed nearest the actual number without going over would win the jar. 

I must add here that this is not the type of challenge I have ever engaged in. The mental energy it requires is not of my natural skill set and the prize is paltry at best. But at three-oh-nine that morning, I had given in to curiosity. The curiosity not of how many M&Ms were in the jar, or even the curiosity of whether or not I could guess closest to the number without going over. But rather, the curiosity of seeing the task properly undertaken.

See, by three-oh-three that morning, I had already become quite fed up with the lineup of attempts already demonstrated. Twenty-six guesses had already been entered and I had witnessed half of them as co-workers simply walked up to the jar, shook it, eyeballed it thoroughly and then came to the floor to discuss their ideas about possible numbers. This irritated a portion of my soul because the means to come up with an educated guess were all quite apparent, yet nobody seemed to be taking advantage of them.

So at three-thirteen, I took a ruler to the kitchen and began taking measurements. Diameter of the base, height of the jar, perceived thickness of the glass at the base of the jar, perceived thickness of the side glass of the jar. Shorthand calculations to reach an estimated actual volume of the jar's interior. Set! So much for the container. Then I began counting M&Ms. Not individual ones, no no. Just the layers. I counted down - fourteen. I counted from the base up - fourteen. I shook and resettled the jar and repeated. Fourteen, and fourteen and a half. I decided fourteen was enough. Then I realized this information was, in fact, useless and that I was an idiot who needed only to determine the settlement ratio of plain M&Ms.

Did you know people actually spend time determining the settle density of various candies? I did not, but I had assumed somebody would because people do everything now-a-days and then post it online so that tired dispatchers at three-twenty-six in the morning can benefit from the exhaustive fruits of their labor. The settlement ratio of plain M&Ms is 0.685, for your future reference.

Now, not being a regular maths person, it took me until four-seventeen to come up with the same answer three times in a row and to assure myself that the mathematics I had used to achieve these results was sound. The difficulty I now faced was that I had a decimal answer. But by now I had also run out of the motivation to pour any more energy into this task. There being no rules against a precise decimal estimation, I entered my slip of paper in the box of guesses and dusted my hands of the whole thing. You see, as far as I was concerned, I did not care to have anything further to do with the entire affair. I merely wanted to see the task done properly.

But then two weeks later the email went out that I was only off by 3 M&Ms. I was awarded the jar of 1283.5 M&Ms along with a laugh that there were no partial candies in the jar, haha.

I don't actually like plain M&Ms. Thanks, math. Thanks.

Tiramisu

At a rare dinner out together recently, Brian said just once he'd like to be with me when I have a truly enjoyable meal. While I realize that makes me sound like a food snob, I must admit the point because it appears to be true. After twelve-and-a-half years, Brian has yet to be with me in a restaurant where I practically melt because the food is just that good.

I had never noticed it until just this past week when he asked how my club sandwich was. I replied, fairly I think, that it was good but not my favorite. I mean, I'd eat it again if we came back to this restaurant, but there are already myriad factors that prevent us even from being in this situation in the first place. Babysitting is difficult and annoying to arrange. His work schedule is rarely reliable enough for us to make fixed plans. I am generally tired in the evenings. None of this is conducive towards us spending a relaxing mealtime together, so my enjoyment of whatever food we actually manage to get is not the highest priority in my own estimation. I'm happy enough to be having a break in the first place. Who cares if the steak is overdone or the katsu is dry? I didn't have to cook it; I don't have to clean up after it; and it is well above the standard of inedible. I say take the win and run with it.

But instead Brian wonders. He wonders what it's like for me to love a meal. He wonders why after a club sandwich I smile at a distant point over his shoulder and then sigh as my gaze fixes again on my plate. He wonders at the soft chuckle that accompanies me murmuring "comme presque brulé!" as my steak is placed before me. And he laughs. He laughs when I dare to try the tiramisu and then sigh in disappointment.

Because the thing is, I have had each of these and so many more dishes somewhere else where they were cooked and served to perfection. The tiramisu in Rome was wonderful. The first time I knew steak could practically melt in your mouth was at the French restaurant in Strasbourg. And it is largely a matter of nostalgia that no club sandwich will ever taste as good to me as the one they dish up at Zippy's in Honolulu. 

Ramen feels perfect when the rain is pouring in drenching sheets outside and one is cradling the oversized bowl on a tall stool in a hole-in-the-wall shop in Shibuya. Crepes off of street vendor stalls in Parisian alleys, calzones from a mom-and-pop shop that we ate piping hot in a quiet church courtyard in Bali, that slightly sweet chicken and wafer dish we found at the unknown restaurant down the street from our boarding school in Hefei. Nothing ever compares. 

I do not eat at sushi bars in my home state. You know why? I live in a landlocked state and I know the taste of actual catch-of-the-day. And while this particular example is extreme, the fact is, that though I know the udon at the local restaurant is really quite good, still I will sigh when I eat it because I cannot help it. I cannot help but remember chilled soba in Tokyo. I cannot help but compare the texture of the Weiner schnitzel mit spaetzle to the one I had in our one-day stop in Oberammergau. 

And apparently that's just the problem with everything. I always hope that the tiramisu everywhere will be just like I had in Rome.

Disappoint Me

I love feeling disappointed by a film adaptation of a beloved novel. As I leave the theater after two hours of such a good try, I tread the familiar territory of all failures previously experienced to leap the ravine between entertainment medias. The dialogue is rushed. The words are cheapened. A character is overlooked. Another is poorly portrayed. Yet another is altered unimaginably to serve the poor twists required of a new, shorter plot. A precious scene is left out. Another hamfistedly drenched in drawn-out drama, just to make sure you didn't miss the significance of that character's death.

I am never surprised at my disappointment. I accept it with the same quiet resignation that I hope someday to accept my death. Because in the end, I am the winner.

The drive home delights me as I hark back to lines I've treasured. I think hard to recall just how that scene was phrased that made me love it so very much. Yes, the actress certainly got the delivery wrong on that. I'm certain of it. And with growing anticipation, like waking on Christmas morning, I come home.

I welcome off my shelves the beloved copy I own and, as old friends, retire to the sofa to lose myself in the joy of perfect prose. Characters, closer than sisters to me, leap from pages to tease a smile from my careworn eyes. I laugh with them as heartily as though they sat beside me. Together we brave the fears, the dangers, the heartbreaks, and the joys. I walk beside them and smell the salt breeze in the open evening. Each and every time it renews my soul in a way unlike any other. As I close the tome after hours among those dearest to my heart, I almost look forward to another attempt. 

What will Hollywood try next? Which will be the next friend I come home to greet off my shelves? I hope they try some Tolstoy. I haven't visited Anna Karenina in ages.

Recluse

The real trick in learning to be an eccentric recluse is to leave your doorbell connected. Back when I was an amateur, wet-behind-the-ears unsocialite, I made the rookie mistake of disconnecting my doorbell and telling only close friends and family it wasn't connected. This tactic, however, discourages only the superficial layer of visitors. Even the postman knows to knock in addition to ringing, and many a time I was fooled into going to the door anyway. But that's how I knew I wasn't ready to be a real eccentric recluse. I could still be lured to the door by repetitive knocks or rings.

It may have taken ten years, but I have acquired the enlightened knowledge of how to be the recluse I always dreamed of being. The doorbell works. I hear people knock. I don't have an elaborate (or any) surveillance cameras or video doorbell. I don't even have a window that looks out on my doorstep through which I could potentially peek through imperceptibly parted curtains to ascertain who is at my door. No, the answer is, I just don't answer the door anymore. Ring away, doorbell. Over the past four years as a dispatcher I have mastered the craft of tuning out annoying sounds with infinite patience. Knock all you like, neighbor-who-can't-take-a-hint-that-I-don't-want-to-help-with-the-upcoming-blood-drive. Ring and knock in alternate patterns, political volunteer whose rehearsed rant starts with the even-more-irritating "Oh, but I'm not selling anything!" It will avail you nothing. Whether there are no cars in the driveway or a hundred. Whether all the lights are on or the house is dark. Whether you can actually hear me playing Vivaldi records in my office or the house is silent. I will not come to the door.

And that's how I know I'm ready to buckle down and write a novel.

93 Seconds

Words are the tools of thought. I remember that from time to time. I remember it when I answer the phone, and the first words between two strangers are not my recorded, "9-1-1, what is the address of your emergency?" but rather a breathless exclamation, "I was just punched in the face by my husband!"

These words intrigue me. Did she carefully construct the words she would fling at me as soon as I picked up? I find that unlikely. There are children screaming and crying in the background—one so close to the phone that I can hear her sobbing through her snot-running nose. She is drowning out her mother, and I have to ask three times if anyone needs medical attention. I never get a proper answer. Yet in this chaos this woman called me, called 9-1-1, to sum up the exact situation in a complete thought in passive voice. Does she realize how competent and articulate her subconscious is? Unlikely.

But I am aware because it is with her subconscious that I seem to ultimately be conversing. In ten words I have been handed five vital pieces of information. I know who was punched. I know who did the punching. I know where has been punched. I know how recently it has happened. And I know the relationship between the assailant and the victim. One could hardly hope for better communication. But I know she is not paying conscious attention to me because questions she at some level deems non-vital go unanswered while she tries to calm her children. Yet questions she recognizes as important to herself getting help are answered immediately.

Three times I ask if she needs medical attention. The fact that I have to ask repeatedly while her vague response is drowned in the background din tell me well enough that none is immediately needed. A query about he location of her husband, though, brings her voice clearly through the mouthpiece of her phone and into my headset. She has deliberately brought the phone closer to her mouth to tell me he ran away down the street and she did not see which way. A further prompt for his clothing description receives similar results. We must know what he looks like in order to find him. But now a question of whether there are weapons in the home elicits only sounds of mom trying to comfort children. If there are weapons, they do not concern mom enough right now. How carefully her thoughts are prioritized in so short a time.

I am on the phone with her for 93 seconds.

Perspective

In view of the past three months, whenever I hear someone say, "Oh I slept like a baby last night!" I now want to reply, "I'm so sorry. Maybe you should ask your doctor for a prescription strength sedative."

Wasp

I wasn't worried about wasps when I started gathering wood for the backyard barbecue. After all, it was only the beginning of April, and we'd had a snowstorm just a week ago. Wasps weren't on my worry radar, and certainly neither were bad haircuts. All I had on my mind were hot dogs, toasted pineapple, and relaxing hours around a campfire.

First there was one wasp. I spied him on a branch next to the branch I was gathering and, after swallowing a yelp, carefully avoided that branch and checked all the other ones for intruders. But seeing no more, I gathered all the branches in our back yard to celebrate the fine weather and two months of successfully keeping a tiny human alive.

Before long, I had kindled a merry, crackling fire, tended it into a beautiful bed of embers, and even brought Baby out to admire my handiwork while Brian took over fire management. Baby was, however, unimpressed with the smoke, the wind, and the gathering dusk and was, therefore, soon taken inside to rest comfortably. Our continual passage through the kitchen in and out of the back yard disturbed her not a whit, and the evening looked promisingly calm and pleasant.

Then there were two wasps. They were both crawling on one of the logs I had used near the base of the fire, and I noted that the log came from the pile where I had espied the first offensive creeping insect. This worried me, but I chose not to engage them and crossed cautiously to the opposite side of the fire, keeping a wary eye on them the entire time. But then one of them flew away and the other crawled first towards the flames and then rapidly away, disappearing on the underside of the log and out of my mind.

We had a marvelous little roast with peppers, onions, and pineapple (a personal favorite), and I had no reason to concern myself with wasps for a full hour. One of us needing to attend the fire at all times, however, I was alone in the kitchen when I felt movement in my hair above my left brow. My hand went instinctively to brush at the hair and was not arrested in time by the terrible sound of buzzing. I half-swatted the wasp away from my head knowing full well that I was certainly about to be stung. By remarkable good fortune I was not stung, but now I was in a horrendous and terrifying situation.

The wasp hung clinging to a few strands of hair directly in front of my left eye. I couldn't scream; it's just not my go-to response, and besides, I wasn't breathing at this point. I dared not swat at him again. I had miraculously escaped being stung and knew better than to test my luck. Furthermore, two feet to my right, my child slept peacefully unaware of the dreadful danger. Even if I should manage to dislodge the wasp without getting stung, what were the chances it would fly off and land on my beautiful little girl? I fought rising hysteria as I moved toward the back door. I had every intention of making it outside and requesting help from Brian, but the wasp was in front of my eyeball. I saw its every move. I watched its six legs wriggle and cling to strands of my hair while it worked its wings once or twice. Its bulging lower half swung wildly back and forth with each step I took while its antennae twitched a few times every second.

I made it two steps toward the door when I saw the scissors. I don't know whose scissors they are. Certainly they're not any pair I ever remember owning, silly purple-handled, kid-sized, blunt-tipped things. I snatched them up instantly and cut the hair a good three inches above the wasp. Down he tumbled along with a decent clump of my hair a good six inches or more in length, and there on my kitchen floor between the counter and the back door he died an ignominious death. His carcass tumbled into the vent, and a gust from the door puffed the shorn locks of my hair across the floor.

I was several minutes recovering from this, but, my breathing and heart rate returning to normal, I stepped outside to tell Brian about my near-death experience. I wasn't expecting much of a response, maybe a chuckle or an inquiry into whether or not I got stung or perhaps a curious wondering about wasps this early in the season. But instead he frowned and knitted his brow.

"I think that was a bit of an overreaction," were his first words. This response ruffled me a bit, especially since he knows I despise insects and particularly hate wasps and that therefore having one in my hair was pretty much the most terrifying thing to happen to me since I was nearly pushed off a cliff in China in 2004. I couldn't think how to reply and retired to poking the fire and mulling over what to say. The firelight cast dramatic shadows on Brian's concerned face, deepening the furrow in his brow. A few minutes passed before he broke the silence with a tentative query that made me smile.

"How much hair did you cut off?"

That's your concern, sweetheart? That perhaps I've gone and made a terrible gash in my hair like some lack-of-motor-control two-year-old? Well, I guess I can't fault you too much. You should see the scissors I used.