Heavy Metal Typo

I'm proofreading something that refers to the 1st Armor Division of the U.S. Army, instead of the 1st Armored Division.

The 1st Armored Division is a more than half-century old fighting unit of soldiers known as "Old Ironsides." And the first Armor Division would be what? Knights on horseback? Those suits of armor that come alive and clunk around Hogwarts in the Harry Potter movies? It's kind of a cool image.

But it's stlll a funny typo.

Survey Results

Recently I read a discussion in the New York Times about shifts in gender norms. According to Stephanie Coontz, author of "Marriage, a History: How Love Conquered Marriage," evidently more men report feeling stress from trying to juggle work and family responsibilities. This suggests, she says, that men are increasingly identifying themselves as nurturers, not just providers. Excellent news, and no big surprise.

Then there was this:

"The best predictors of a man’s marital satisfaction are how much sex he gets and how little criticism he gets. And numerous studies show that women feel more intimacy and more sexual attraction toward — and are less critical of — husbands who participate in childcare and housework."

Wow, really??? Someone needed to conduct a survey to learn this?


Here's a link to the full discussion:
http://roomfordebate.blogs.nytimes.com/2010/02/21/for-women-redefining-marriage-material/

The West Wing

One of my husband’s colleagues works at the White House, and recently she arranged for Rob, Tom and me to have a tour of the West Wing. It was amazing to be able to stand in the doorway of the Oval Office, walk in the Rose Garden, and see President Teddy Roosevelt’s Nobel Prize displayed on the wall of the Roosevelt Room. In the hallways there is a rotating display of large and beautiful photos of our government officials in diplomatic scenes, and also personal ones like the President hugging his daughters with Bo at their feet.

Tours are given in the evening and it was very warm. So although the chairs in the Cabinet meeting room, which feature plaques with each members’ name and years of service, were interesting, it was also very nice to lean way in over the velvet barriers to better feel the air conditioning in there.

And before you ask, it all looks a little like the sets for the Aaron Sorkin series (which I love) but not exactly. Despite how impressive everything is, it all seems more governmenty and smaller than it looks in the show. The entrance foyer is very nice but less open. The Situation Room is not underground (or at least you don’t have to go underground to peek in). They do not play the theme song when you walk in, though I hummed it under my breath. I did not meet Josh Lyman nor his real life counterpart.

There was a brief moment of excitement when we reached the Oval Office. All of a sudden the guard said, “I need you all to move back,” and hustled us two rooms away. We could still see him, though—he unlocked a door next to the Oval and disappeared inside. Just seconds later he returned and motioned us back. What had happened, we wondered? Had he spotted a personal item on the President’s Resolute Desk, or had a confidential sticky note fallen onto the new carpet emblazened with the Presidential Seal? We’ll never know.

Understandably, little photo-taking is allowed. You can take shots in the press room, but only in front of the podium. Since what everyone really wants to do is stand BEHIND the podium and pretend to call on a representative of the media, it’s a little anticlimactic.

But here’s what was exciting: someone had left a cd on the ledge in the press room. It was unlabeled, but so intriguing. It could been left behind by anyone, could have contained anything. State secrets, photos not for publication, information collected in an undercover sting operation. It vibrated with possibilities.

Oh, how I wanted that cd! There were lots of people around, but no one was looking…. my hand crept towards the ledge…..

But then I paused. What if the person who left it came back and it was gone? And what if the cd had information vital to the security of our country, and I took it with me, and some sinister dudes came after it? I watched 24 for a few seasons, so I know what can happen to innocent bystanders who stumble into the midst of nefarious plots (not to mention people who take what does not belong to them).

It was probably a blank cd. But I’m glad I left it alone. It might mean Big Trouble. And I’m just way too busy.

Specialized Humor

Our cousins and their children are the kind of fabulous family you’re excited are related to you, because it gives you a great excuse to hang out with them. John and Aditi are both economics professors at NYU, and they are charming, funny and brilliant. Their four-year-old twins are charming, funny, brilliant and bilingual. Because of Ishan and Ananya I know that “Nay” is the Hindi word for “No.”

They’re a family of good cooks and happy eaters, too. At a recent lunch in their home, the conversation continued nonstop, with everyone talking over each other and topics switching out faster than the corn, tomatoes and basil from Union Square market was disappearing.

That’s why I don’t really remember how we began talking about some joke involving division. It was right after Aditi offered Ananya some gazpacho (“Nay”) that I realized she was saying something about dividing twenty-five into twenty. John said that of course, the answer is zero.

“Zero?” I didn’t get it.

“You know, like if you have 20 over 25, you cancel out the twos,” Aditi said. “So you’re dividing five into zero. ” She said this in the tolerant tone of someone who’s hearing an old knock-knock joke for the umpteenth time.

Rob, Maggie and I must have looked confused, because Aditi explained, “You know, picture the fraction 20/25 and you draw a line through the twos….”

“So it’s like, math humor,” I ventured.

Well, obviously. So much for elementary-school fractions. Haw haw. I wondered, do all professions have their own inside jokes? Florists? Tax collectors? Funeral directors? The possibilities are endless.

Then we finished our gazpacho and went out for amazing ice cream. I had a scoop of fresh ginger and one of lichee. Ishan ate chocolate with multicolored sprinkles out of a cone. Whenever the ice cream mashed on his face was just about to drip off, he'd call out "Napkin!" My bag was on the floor next to him, and that night, I found some sprinkles in it.

All in all it was a delicious day. It was so delicious that when the person behind me in the ice-cream shop said something about her Diet Coke cancelling out the butterfat, I could even appreciate the nutritionist humor.

After the Election

The primary election is over. My candidate, a friend I've known since she and I were officers on the elementary school PTA, lost. I didn't even get to vote for her, because she's affilated with that other party.

Today I'm thinking about all of the brave candidates who worked hard, campaigned hard, and woke up the next morning and realized they're done. That must be tough.

And then there is this: what do I do with the campaign sign? I had one in my front flower bed and left it there for a few days in homage. After Tuesday, in moments of levity my son and I pretended to be cartoon characters and pantomimed seizing the sign from its stand, stomping over to the trash can and stuffing it in in disgust.

But after we’d had our fun, the question remained: what was the proper way to dispose of this memento? Tearing it up felt wrong, as if I was somehow disrespectful of my friend. Burning it, as you would a flag, seemed too much. Finally I put it in the recycling bin, and when it looked sad there I concealed it as best I could.

But I kept the nifty little wire stand it was resting in. You never know when you may want to put up a sign. There’s always someone to cheer for.

New Perspective

The nice lady who checked out my purchases at Trader Joe’s today was wearing a football jersey. There's a big game tonight. We began to talk about sports, and I said I liked football but was more of a basketball fan.

“Wow, basketball is the only sport I can’t watch,” she said. “I've tried and I just can’t."

Why, I asked.

"It's that sound their shoes make when they squeak on those floors. I just can't stand that sound.”

Dog Scarf

This morning Schroeder was draped over the back of the sofa, like this:





I said he looked like an antimacassar, and Tom wasn't familiar with that old-fashoned term. It's a scarf that was used on chairs and sofas, to protect them from grease and dirt.

The thing is, my furry little antimacassar creates the grease and dirt.