Where's the freakin' rabbit?

I was teaching my linear algebra students on Wednesday about vector spaces, spanning sets and linear independence. I spent the entire class period working a single problem and making connections between many of the things we had been studying. To demonstrate how useful and correct my methods were, I asked my students to suggest a vector from three-space, and then I proceeded to do the calculations to show just how everything magically works out. Only, with two minutes left in the class, it became clear to everyone, including me, that the numbers were coming out all wrong. It was like building up to the moment when you pull the rabbit out of the magic hat, only to discover that the rabbit wasn't there anymore. Or like doing a magic card trick that goes totally bust:

Me: Pick a card, any card.

Audience member: (Selects a card).

Me: (In a theatrical voice) So your card was....(drum roll)...the ace of spades.

Audience member: Uh...(embarrassing pause)...no.

Me: Oh, crap.

It only took me about 10 minutes in my office after class to figure out what went wrong. I simply forgot to change one sign. 'Hah,' I thought to myself, 'I bet even Newton missed a sign or two in his day.' By the next class period, I was ready with all my computations double-checked. Sure enough, I could make all the methods work for the vector they had suggested. And then just to prove that I had complete confidence that this method would work for any other vector they might give me, I said in my most authoritative voice, "This method would most certainly work for any other vector you'd care to choose." And then to drive the point home even further, I moved on to the next topic in the lesson.

At the police station

(Me at the police station eying a police line up of yogurt containers.)

Police Officer: OK, take your time. Make sure you get a good look.

Me: Yep, I'm sure of it. That's the one that assaulted me. I had to change my shirt and my pants.

Police Officer: Which one?

Me: My blue checkered one. And it was ironed!

Police: No, which yogurt?

Me: That blueberry one, except he was wearing a pink lid at the time.

Police Officer: Then how can you be sure that it was him?

Me: I remember the copyright tattoo right above that pink flower there.

Police Officer: Hmm. (Then into the intercom.) OK, we're done here. Keep the blueberry one for questioning.

(The yogurts slowly file out.)

College Corruption

I sent my oldest son to college, trusting that although he would be exposed to many bad influences, he would be capable of choosing wisely. This trust was completely destroyed when my son came home from school with this:


Imagine my concern as a parent. If only he had come home with a pierced ear or a tattoo. No, it had to be much worse than that. As a concerned parent in charge of the family laundry, I felt there was only one responsible course of action left for me to follow--an "accidental" bleach spill.

The Cheesecake Issue

Living in Utah has taught me that all elections can be boiled down to one or two key issues. For most people around me, these issues are abortion and gay marriage. Any candidate or piece of legislation that is against these two things is instantly credible. There seem to be no other issues worth considering.

I am personally offended by such a close-minded approach to voting. It's not that I mind elections being pared down to one or two key issues. If they weren't, I might actually have to think a little. Who knows what I might sprain in the process. No, the problem with Utah people is that they consistently fail to identify the single most crucial issue facing us--the lack of a Cheesecake Factory Restaurant anywhere in Utah Valley. By those in the know, this is often referred to as the cheesecake issue.

I studiously watched the debate last night, waiting in vain for one of the two presidential candidates to have the moral fiber and courage to address the cheesecake issue. Instead, all I got was a discussion of how to fix the economy, what to do about health care, and a pitiful mewing sound from John McCain about how his feelings had been hurt by John Lewis. No one had the guts to say that all Americans have the right to a Cheesecake Factory. Don't they realize that unless Cheesecake Factories are equally distributed throughout the US, they are implicitly supporting class, race and ethnic warfare? The welfare of our nation is being undermined.

Personally, I love the Cheesecake Factory. They have a huge menu, and the entrees are delicious. Who would have guessed that their non-cheesecake food would be any good? After all, I, like most Americans, would be willing to sit through a mediocre meal for the superb cheesecake dessert. But that just doesn't happen at the Cheesecake Factory. They make sure you can't keep from stuffing yourself with your meal before you try to take on a delicious slice of heaven. There's an issue that I wish my legislators would address.

Honestly, I would vote for anyone who promised to bring a Cheesecake Factory to Utah Valley. I wouldn't even care if they were lying. For me, just acknowledging the existence of this crucial issue would be enough to win my vote. So John and Barack, if you're listening, what me and Joe the Plumber really want is a Cheesecake factory, not tax relief or economic stimulus or health care or affordable education. Appease the sweet tooth of the masses and all will be well. Ignore it, and that sweet tooth might just bite you in the tush.

War of the Worlds Deja Vu

I took half a day off today because I have a bad cold. It's the first really bad cold that I've had in probably a decade. Usually when I catch a cold, I have much more mild symptoms than anyone else in the family. Today was different. I had a fever and felt like my head was going to explode.

That was not the worst part, though. What I hate most about having a cold is that I begin to emit massive amounts of gross, slimy liquids. Not only is it completely unattractive, but anyone who comes in contact with me runs the risk of becoming mutant slime monsters themselves. People cringe and back away when I come into a room. Some even cover their noses and their mouths with a hand, as if that will really protect them from the slime germs that are buzzing around me like flies around a garbage can. I feel so disgusting.

Sometimes it gets so bad that I think I could rival the dying Martians from War of the Worlds. You know that scene where the walking space ships become vulnerable to human weapons, and one of the machines finally crashes to the ground? And then the door on the machine opens and an alien washes out covered in its own self-produced mucus slime? I felt almost that slimy today. It was as if I was constantly in danger of being washed downhill in my own mucus. YUCK!

Seriously, I'll take an injury over a cold any day of the week. Broken ribs? Immediate sympathy. Back pain? People start doing stuff for you. But a cold? People are only willing to help out if they can keep their distance by using one of those grabber things that janitors use to pick up trash without having to bend over. Even then they are holding their breath and maintaining a crouched position so they can dart away if you start to sneeze or cough. In fact, I bet that right now you are probably leaning away from your computer screen despite the fact that your brain is telling you there's no possible way you can catch my cold through a web browser. Am I right?

All I can do right now is mop up my slime with boxes of tissues and look forward to the day when I am no longer a walking, dripping glob of mucus. And if things get really bad, I'll watch War of the Worlds and be glad that I'm not drowning in my own slime. Yet.

No thanks. Really.

As Mark and I were riding the bus to school today, the bus pulled up behind a TruGreen lawn care truck much like the one shown in the picture. On the back of the truck was a picture of a large Dalmatian with a sign that read, "I can spray your lawn today." Fortunately, I have a dog of my own, so I don't need to hire someone to come out and spray dog urine on the lawn. But I feel comforted knowing that if Floppy ever died, TruGreen is there to meet all of my dog urine needs.

Noogies on the Loose in Primary

Last Sunday I was sitting in Primary, the LDS version of children's Sunday school. Little Julia was sitting on my lap, clutching her little stuffed sheep tightly to her chest. She and I have finally developed a working relationship that allows her to be separated from her parents during church. She's a darling little girl, always clothed in a dainty dress with a bow perched in her perfect hair. She's very quiet in class and typically keeps to herself. I can't help but love the kid, though. She's really endearing, particularly when she's amused by something and her eyes start snapping.

I worry about her being in my class, though, since it consists mostly of rowdy boys. Perhaps the rowdiest of them all, dear little Adam, was sitting next to us at the time. He loves to stir up activity by bumping and poking the kids around him. He's not malicious; he never hurts anyone. He just loves action. He also cannot resist a quiet child. So right in the middle of singing time, he reached over and poked little Julia in the ribs. I gave him the, "Keep your hands to yourself, buster!" laser glare as I kept singing. Julia turned her face up to mine, smiled her sweetest smile, and asked me to hold her sheep. I replied, "Sure, sweetie," and took hold of the sheep.

With her hands now free, Julia was ready for action. Usually I see stuff like this coming several seconds before it happens, but this one took me completely by surprise. In one swift motion, Julia swung around in my lap, grabbed Adam in a chokehold, and started vigorously rubbing the top of his spiked-haired little head with her right fist.

I'm pretty sure that my mouth hit the ground. My first thought was disbelief that the little angel knew how to give a noogie. My second thought was even greater disbelief that she knew how to do it well. It wasn't until my third thought that I began to be concerned about poor little Adam's spiked-haired head, which is probably why it took me at least three full seconds to react and drag her off the boy.

After I got her settled back on my lap, I whispered to her that noogies didn't belong in church. With complete confidence and snapping eyes, she whispered back, "Doogies are good." Considering that Adam kept to himself for the rest of singing time, I couldn't really disagree with her.