avablog

My dear friend and college roommate died this morning. Her name was Melinda, and she was 36. She had inflammatory breast cancer, and she fought so hard. Ironically, she was an oncologist in Chicago. She also was a brilliant woman and a loving friend. I would like people to know about her. I would like to hear her voice again. She always called me, and other people she cared about, “buddy.” Her own nickname back in those days, before she changed her last name, was “M.D.”

She was thoroughly absentminded and scattered, which drove me crazy, and I was a completely anal neat freak, which drove her crazy. Her room was a jumble of clothes and shoes and books and papers, piled so high that it was hard to find the path to her bed. She often left her coffeepot or curling iron on when she departed our E. College Street apartment in the mornings–once, I even came home and found that she’d forgotten to turn off the water in the bathroom faucet. She and her boyfriend, Daniel, loved to cook gourmet food and linger over long meals in the evening, and they introduced me to pesto and risotto, which I’d never had before. She liked knitting and listening to NPR. She read The New York Times. At night, she’d sit in my room, on my small twin bed, and we’d talk about feminism, and women authors, and our families. We’d bitch about our boyfriends. We’d laugh. Sometimes we fought, but we never stayed angry for long.

After college and graduate school, we ebbed and flowed, sometimes talking several times a year and sometimes not talking at all. Melinda met Ava, on a brief visit through Iowa City, but she never met Mark. No matter how long it had been since Melinda and I had last talked, it was just like old times when we reconnected. She knew me, and I knew her–and that was that.

She was a big sister. A daughter. A friend. A wife.

She lived in Chicago and had been married to Steve for three years; they just celebrated their third anniversary in September. She was newly pregnant when they found the aggressive cancer two years ago, and she had to terminate the pregnancy to begin immediate chemotherapy. She did experimental stem-cell-replacement therapy at NIH and fought the cancer off the first time. She did it with endless courage and dignity, though I know she was angry and sad and afraid. I never knew what to say, and I think I often said the wrong thing. I felt helpless in the face of her pain, and I fumbled for the right words–sending care packages that I hoped would say what I couldn’t.

For a short while, Melinda had her life back and was offered her own research lab at the University of Portland. Last spring, as she was about to leave on a househunting trip in Oregon, she discovered that the “the beast,” as she called it, had come back–and it devoured her quickly. This morning, I opened my e-mail and found a note from her husband, Steve, that said, “Our dearest Melinda died early this morning. Words cannot express our grief at our loss.”

There are no words. I’ll miss you so much, buddy.

Since we’ve been over this topic already in the not-so-distant past, I’ll simply reproduce these Spinal Tap lyrics below to illustrate my frame of mind this morning:

Working on a sex farm
Trying to raise some hard love
Getting out my pitch fork
Poking your hay

Scratching in your henhouse
Sniffing at your feedbag
Slipping out your back door
Leaving my spray

Sex farm woman, I’m gonna mow you down
Sex farm woman, I’ll rake and hoe you down
Sex farm woman, don’t you see my silo rising high?

Working on a sex farm
Hosing down your barn door
Bothering you livestock
They know what I need

Working up a hot sweat
Crouching in your pea patch
Plowing through your beanfield
Planting my seed

Sex farm woman, I’ll be your hired hand
Sex farm woman, I’ll let my offer stand
Sex farm woman, don’t you hear my tractor rumbling by?

Working on a sex farm
Trying to raise some hard love
Getting out my pitch fork
Poking your hay

…[T]he curator of the Rotterdam Natural History Museum asked the public to donate pubic crabs, claiming that their population was dwindling as a result of Brazilian waxes. “When the bamboo forests that the Giant Panda lives in were cut down, the bear became threatened with extinction. Pubic lice,” he explained, “can’t live without pubic hair.”

Please, won’t someone think of the pubic lice? Besides this guy, of course….

I’m not sure if this information will discourage my wife or make her feel vindicated. Or both.

An increasing number of brands manufacture in China. Those luxury handbags women crave? Mostly now invariably made in China, though manufacturers sign strict confidentiality agreements with the brands never to reveal this fact. Several Guangdong factories make bags for a range of brands you pay fortunes for – hence a nice 15% minimum margin on bags. Access Asia was recently in a Chinese factory where the same workers on the same production line were making US$2,000 bags for an Italian brand, and US$35 bags for JC Penney, at the same time. Ever wondered why Coach has so many stores in China? Easy – they make virtually all their bags here. Prada, LV, Furla – all now largely made in China. And that’s where the cost cutting starts, and then continues, with no linings and cheaper thread, glue rather than stitching, as well as cheap labour. Still feeling classy? And typical mark ups on bags once you move to China? Think roughly under US$100 to make a bag, which then retails for US$1,200 upwards. Still think you’ve bought status? And it’s also the high-end ties and scarves. About US$25 max to make in China, and retailing for somewhat more. Still feel exclusive? Or just conned?

There are thousands of Apple blogs out there, and God knows I’d be only another tiny drop in the fanboy bucket were I to go on too long and too strenuously here about my appreciation for (almost) all things Apple. But Apple Computer announced the results for its most recent quarter today, and I’m struck by my lack of prescience in selling the AAPL stock I held for a number of years (I bought it when Steve came back to Apple circa 1997; talk about putting your money where your mouth is).

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I don’t know anyone who’s taken a driver’s exam recently, so I’m not positive they’re still teaching the same things they were when I last took the exam. The part I’m most curious about is the section on road markings. Do they still cover the differences between solid, broken, yellow, and white lines? Because I’m seeing some action out there on the road lately that leaves me wondering. Anyway, let me know if you find anything out.

We had a fun moment with Ava the other day on the way out to the pumpkin patch near Madison. Ava brought along her copy of The Three Little Pigs, and as we drove, she “read” it to Aunt Rachel, who was sitting next to her. As she turned each page, Ava put her whole index finger on her tongue to wet it before she grabbed the corner. She learned that from her mom (though Leah doesn’t moisten quite that much of her finger). The really neat part, however, was listening to her read. She can’t actually read yet, of course, but she seems to have memorized the words on the page, maybe by the pictures. So she holds the page in front of her and repeats the words she’s heard us read from those pages, verbatim and with the same emphasis.

I don’t know what this means for her reading future. Hopefully she’ll take some interest in being able to read words by herself at some point.

Why does my child eat better when she’s watching TV? It’s like she’s on autopilot, munching away while she watches Ms. Honey lead her class through alphabet exercises. It’s weird.

It was an absolutely gorgeous day in Madison today. We walked to a little patisserie near Kevin and Rachel’s house for breakfast. There were some really cool bike racks outside the place:

After a nice snack, we hoofed it the two miles or so over to the farmer’s market at Hilldale Mall. We stopped for a coffee break, then browsed the market long enough to pick up a bag of squeaky cheese curds. After that, it was back to the house for lunch. While Ava and Leah napped after lunch, Kevin and I made a run to his office to grab some music and TV shows off the server there, then stopped at Whole Foods to pick up dinner supplies (sweet potato and black bean burritos). As I write this, that dinner is providing a wonderful glow from deep down in my belly. We also grabbed a six pack of my beloved New Glarus beer (Yokel) and some Hook’s blue cheese, which is supposed to be one of the new kids on the blue cheese block (blue cheese…block…get it?!).

All in all, a wonderful day. It’s as close to being European as you can get in the greater 48, methinks. Lots and lots of new photos uploaded to Flickr in the last hour, too, for those lucky enough to have access.

We just got back from dinner at India Cafe (excellent stuff), and Ava’s on her way off to dreamland, with Aunt Rachel’s patient assistance. It was a windy trip, but the forecast calls for beautiful weather tomorrow, so we’re looking forward to that.

On our stop through Dubuque to visit the museum late morning, we decided to give the Brickhouse Brewery another shot for lunch. Man, what a total disappointment. The odds weren’t good, I know, but it was even worse than the first time we ate there. The crowning glory was a burger that had clearly been pre-cooked (-burned) and reheated. How can you screw up a hamburger? How completely and unabashedly lazy does your kitchen staff have to be to not have the time to cook a burger on order? It was like they were daring me to hate their food. And I took the dare. We have got to find a new place to eat lunch in that town.

More soon….

I present this here only as a reminder to my dear, dear wife. It’s the same advice you hear over and over again, but it bears repeating, because it’s good advice. Our company happens to have a very generous matching plan, which I take advantage of as vigorously as I can. Would lowering my participation in the plan free up mo money each paycheck? Sure. But I’m one of those people who likes to look to the future, and if there’s something I can do now to help prepare us for life down the road, I’m on it, generally speaking.

Don’t pass up free-money 401(k) plans
Employer-match 401(k) plans work well that way for many. Although some young workers bristle at tying up their money for so long, an employer match is one of life’s rare free-money opportunities that are too good to pass up.

“So many people tell me, ‘I can’t afford the 401(k), I’ll do that in a couple years when I’m settled,'” says Aretakis. “You can’t afford to wait.”

Say your company will match 50 percent of your contributions, up to 6 percent of your salary. And let’s imagine you earn $40,000. If you agree to contribute 6 percent, or $2,400, your company would add another $1,200 to the pot. That’s a 50 percent return on your money without even putting it into a risky stock fund.

On top of that, you’re putting away money on a pretax basis, which lowers your income base when it comes to paying the tax piper.

“If you’re getting taxed maybe 25 percent state and federal, you just made 25 percent on your money, plus whatever cumulative interest you’re going to make on top of that every year by putting it into a diversified account. You can’t get any better return than that,” says Aretakis.

Of course, you will have to pay taxes on that money eventually, but in the meantime it can grow unfettered by taxes.

This one was just too good to pass up.

At one point during our time at home yesterday, Ava wanted to go outside and look at the rain. That happened to coincide with the students getting out of the nearby high school for the day, so we sat for a bit and watched the kids walk by in the drizzle. G.G.’s been wanting a picture of Ava with her pumpkins, and I thought this might be my last chance. A lot of the kids were looking up at Ava on the porch and smiling at her, and she finally turned to me and asked, “Why are they looking at me?” I took a long gander at her striped pants, multi-colored sweater buttons, and polka dot mouse hat, and said, “Because you’re so cute.” She seemed satisfied with that answer.

If you dig science, you know who James Watson is. You may also know him if you dig nooses and burning crosses. See, James is straight-up racist. And to cover his bases, he’s sexist, too.

What’s interesting (to me, at least) about James is that he’s one of the world’s most celebrated scientists. To understand his prejudices is to understand that even a great scientific mind is a human mind, vulnerable to the same petty, base, hurtful failings we all have. Even my fascination with his extreme views is a product of a bias, I suppose. Shouldn’t men and women of great ideas somehow rise above all this? Find me the cancer gene, James; I know you have a book coming out, but don’t pull a Coulter here just to boost sales.

I’m at home with Ava again today, as she’s still a bit under the weather and not cleared to go back to daycare. We’ve been keeping busy. This morning we sliced up some veggies to throw into our crockpot along with a pork loin roast for supper. It’s percolating away as I type. Then, we mixed up some banana bread. I’ve never made it before, but my Joy came to the rescue again. Here’s the final product:

Not the most attractive banana bread ever, but the flavor and consistency are good. I’m going to make another loaf this afternoon before dinner that we can take to Madison on Friday. I’m told Rachel likes banana bread.

OK, well, it’s not so private, obviously, is it? And I’m not really ashamed, since there’s not much I can do about the situation. But I love the provocative title, and I’m sure my RSS subscriber(s) do(es) too.

Leah stopped off at her Ob/Gyn’s office this morning to pick up another analysis kit for me after taking Ava to the dentist (Ava’s teeth are great, BTW; thanks for asking). While there, she grabbed the complete results of the last analysis. Turns out, in addition to the not-so-stellar numbers we first learned, that my motility was on the low end of the average range, and my “progressive motility” was below normal. I’m starting to think Ava’s conception was more of a miracle than I’d already thought.

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The kid’s got a bug that’s keeping her out of daycare today, so I’m home with her. We went to the doctor’s office this morning to get her checked out, and there’s no ear infection and no strep. Before we left, I made Ava some pancakes:

Leah’s been hounding me for quite a while to make pancakes for breakfast, but it’s not an item I have much experience making. Eating, yes; making, no. Ava seemed to like them all right, just as long as they had plenty of syrup on them. In her world, the pancake (or waffle) is merely a syrup-delivery vehicle.

In weekend news, I took a lot of photographs. I’ve started exercising some discretion in which shots I upload to my Flickr stream, believe it or not. G.G. and Poom Poom came to town yesterday to accompany us to the pumpkin patch, which was fun. We figured out that this is Ava’s fourth year going to the patch. She claimed yesterday that she remembered going that first time, but she was only four weeks old. I know she has a good memory, but that’s a bit much. There are plenty of pictures of the pumpkin adventure at Flickr, of course.

with these goons? For crying out loud.

Gibson went on to say that he “knew this was not a classic hip-hop shooting” once he learned Coon killed himself. Gibson continued: “Hip-hoppers do not kill themselves. They walk away. Now, I didn’t need to hear the kid was white with blond hair. Once he’d shot himself in the head, no hip-hopper.” Gibson later stated, “I know the shooter was white. I knew it as soon as he shot himself. Hip-hoppers don’t do that. They shoot and move on to shoot again.”

From. Amazingly, it actually gets better as you read on. I’m so glad I don’t get paid to talk.

Here are some pictures I took out and about last evening before the sun set:

This lens is pretty wide, which makes it a nice companion to my 50mm prime lens. Next up is to save my pennies for something in the 70-200 or 70-300 range, and I should have all my photo needs covered. For a while. 😉

Went to the dentist this morning for a cleaning and checkup. Everything’s A-OK. Not to brag, but the hygienist positively gushed about the condition of my soft tissue. I’m so proud. She’d know about it, too, because she drove her f#*king little metal hook down into my gums far enough to pull my tonsils (yes, I still have my tonsils!).

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Grandma Georgie has a set of window decals for every event and season. Here, Ava’s helping G.G. put up the Halloween-themed pumpkins and skeletons on the TV room windows:

It’s unlikely I ever would’ve gotten this shot with my A620. There just wasn’t enough light, and by the time the A620 grabbed focus, Ava would’ve been off in another part of the house. Let’s hear it for ISO 1600.

I’ve been looking forward to today for a while. My brother got tickets to Pat Metheny‘s show at Hancher this evening, and they’re good seats. Kevin is driving down from Madison this afternoon to go with us, and it’s always good to see him. As an added bonus, the new lens for my new camera arrives sometime today; the online tracking for 2nd day air is always a bit sketchy, but I’m confident it’ll show up at some point.

Grandma Georgie was in town overnight to attend a luncheon with Leah and to see Ava. She’ll leave sometime late this morning.

The weather looks like it might be the only downer on the day; a thick sheet of gray is rolling over my head as I type this, and it’s very cool. Fall weather. G.G. and Poom Poom are planning to come back this weekend so we can go out to the pumpkin patch. The weather doesn’t sound much better for the weekend, but it’s always difficult to tell this far out.

UPDATE: Things fall apart. Three of my least-favorite words, via UPS tracking site: “In Transit – Rescheduled” Feh. And meh.