It's good to be bad

Star Wars, James Bond, Batman... you have to love stories with really bad baddies. I don't mean some confused, misunderstood fellow who is a good sort underneath. I mean the sort of person who, under no circumstances whatsoever, would you ever want to give your last rolo to. With such an individual, you can really get behind the hero as he seeks to destroy him and watch with satisfaction as he's pounded to a pulp and locked up for life... or at least until the box office decides there has to be a sequel. It's like sadism with no guilt.

Yet, when you stop and consider it, is being the good guy really the best option? Take, for instance, the case of Dolores Umbridge in the later Harry Potter books. There is no denying that she is one nasty piece of work. She terrorizes all the students at Hogwarts before switching sides in a pin drop to throw her toad-like self in with Voldermort's crowd. At the end of book 5, you do have the satisfaction of seeing her carried away by centaurs to undergo alien-style anal probing with hoofs (okay, so that was never actually specified, but you find the idea a good one too, just admit it), but then she's rescued to show up again in book 7 tourturing more people in the Ministry of Magic. Finally, when Harry prevails, we are told she is locked up, but is this really very satisfying? I tell you no! The prison is no longer controlled by soul sucking beasts of darkness. It's probably run by an ex-bus conductor named Stan who hands out free sundaes once a week.

Now let's pause for a moment to think what would happen if Harry had lost. The lucky characters would be dead and then rest would be at the mercy of the Death Eaters and Dementors (who, for the uninitiated have names like "Lucius" in the first instance and don't even have names in the second. Now that's scary).

So if you're in a situation where you have to pick a side, isn't it worth taking a moment to think what would happen in all eventual outcomes? If you pick the "goodies", then the reward if you win is probably to return to your life and raise some chickens. If you loose it's probably TOURTURE IN THE FIREY PITS OF HELL. On the other hand, if you become a "baddie" then your reward for success is UNIMAGINABLE WEALTH AND POWER versis a cosy prison cell with your own TV.

It's a tough choice, so pick carefully.

A bus driver's advice

"And here," announced our Savannah tour guide in a cheery voice. "is the shop you can get home made candy. Totally delicious, but if you eat too much, you'll get a stomach ache!"

This, combined with warnings about crossing Bay Street (traffic lights often optional to drivers) and walking down the stone steps to the river side (footing often optional to pre-ER visitors) formed the basis for good advice that afternoon. The only mildly amusing point was that the above tips was issued multiple times and that myself and friend were the youngest people on the touring tram. (Apparently on Thursdays most people don't skip out of work to take a road trip to a historical town in Georgia). But then, you can't trust anyone with knitting needles to maintain self-control when confronted with candy, can you?

The tour was actually excellent, giving a great overview of Savannah. We rattled around the squares admiring the haunted houses, beautiful cathedrals, grave stones 11 year old boys with 12 year old sons and discussing the trenches piled with (now) dead (but at the time not so much) soldiers... I'm detecting an over-arching theme here, but I can't quite put my finger on what it was. Either way, the afternoon found myself and my friend going in search of this
sweet shop, chuckling at the wisdom of bus drivers.

The shop did not fail to disappoint. Caramel apples twice the size of my fist were laid out in rows, each with a different coating of chocolate and sprinklings. Racks of cookies, piles of truffles and multiple chocolate covered ... well, who knows really, but how could you go wrong?

I bought a bag of truffles and a huge ice cream in a giant, chocolate sprinkled cone with multicoloured "birthday cake" ice cream on top and pistachio underneath. Unconventional perhaps, but what an inspiration!

I then proceeded to be horribly sick for the rest of the afternoon.

Moral of his story: you're never too old to listen to bus drivers.

But then, it was worth it. Oh yes, trust me, you should have seen this ice cream.

Barbie Dolls

I never liked Barbie dolls and I have always been extremely proud of that fact. Not for me was the girlish past time of dressing dolls in the latest fashions, plaiting their hair or trying out doll makeup. No siree! I was into space ships and lego and .... a huge collection of pink equine plastic. Far more cool. Yes.

Nowadays, I reserve the term 'Barbie doll' to slam down slimmer, prettier girls than me who I dislike on sight. But there's no denying Barbie's appeal as she reaches her 50th birthday of modelling plastic feminine ideals.

Like any long-lived celebrity, she's come under a fair amount of abuse. Top of the list is Barbie's almost unobtainable figure which is perceived as a trouble spot for weight conscious teens. Allegedly, if Barbie was scaled to human size, she would be toppled by her humongous bust. A more recent report by the BBC (http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/7920962.stm) suggests the situation isn't quite so bad, but Barbie's figure is unlikely to be achievable for more than 1 in 100,000 women. Additionally, she is almost always blond although one of the first version of the doll was also available as a brunette. This tiny waisted, big bosomed blond bimbo is apparently the sole cause of all teenage girls problems, from anorexia to bullying to global warming.

While in many instances I scoff in a similar fashion at Barbie dolls, I do now wonder whether we're being a bit harsh. Okay, so the girl looks like she belongs on page 3, but the thing is, Barbie isn't a naked model. Her careers include doctor, vet, jet pilot, fire fighter, astronaut, cow girl, waitress and even the US president (one of Barbie's rare appearances as a African-American doll). In fact, it would seem Barbie could be anything she desires, reguardless of what she's been before, and isn't that exactly the message we want to give to our daughters?

Barbie also seems to be practicing safe sex, since after 50 years with her on / off boyfriend Ken and brief fling with the surfer Blaine, she's remained childless, preferring to pursue her 50-odd careers instead. (Of course, this could be connected with both her and Ken being named after their founder's children, making them practically siblings). While rumours abounded about the origin of "Barbie's little sister Shelly", she should still be applauded in emphasising the choices available for young women, without resorting to a version of "abortion Barbie".

This doesn't excuse Barbie's impossible looks but, as one reader of the above BBC article commented, boys play with alien villains all the time yet there remains a relatively low take-up rate of adult plastic surgery to make them look like Predator. Although... I do now wonder if I could be given a unicorn horn...

Once there lived a franky grotesque princess

The inaccuracy of fairy tales has been bothering me of late. Take your average story, aimed at an audience primarily consisting of 6 year old girls in pink trainers. A beautiful princess is miss-treated, probably by an evil step-mother, but who overcomes all the odds to marry a handsome prince and be born away to a life of wedded bliss.

Firstly, we must ask ourselves, is this girl really likely to be attractive? In such stories, the very mention of a crown basks the owner in an unobtainable ethereal light. In fact, their uncommon beauty is a common way of identifying such royal members, even when they are undercover. The reality however, is that royalty means this wench comes from an interbred, incestuous litter rife with inherited diseases and probably considerably too few grandparents for a healthy gene pool. This can hardly be the way to produce stunning good looks. Stunted looks and retardation are far more likely, which is probably how such individuals are really identified while in hiding.

This child's grotesquely bad looks are far more likely to be the reason why her step-mother (also probably one of her cousins), despite being hideously ugly herself, decides that the girl has to go. Probably it is a cost-saving measure to reduce the number of steam-cleans the castle carpets need after the servants vomit from seeing the girl first thing in the morning.

Cast out into the wilderness (and basing the details on a popular Disney-made franchise), the only place where this vilely deformed child can find shelter is in the household of 7 vertically challenged men, whose diminutive stature enables them to avoid the full frontal of the girl's cross-eyes stare.

Being severely mentally challenged, the revolting girl draws attention to her whereabouts through her warbling singing and the stampede of wildlife that charges in to see what has destroyed their home. Her stupidity is only matched by that of her step-mother/cousin who tricks her into an enchanted sleep, rather than decapitating her deformed head.

Placed in a glass coffin as a popular horror show item, our beastly little girl is awoken by a handsome prince (but no doubt actually suffering from similar aesthetic issues) and carried away for a life of bliss.

Apart from the obvious fact this has done nothing to improve the gene pool, this benighted child is a princess. This doesn't just mean her atrocious ugliness has to be politically denoted charming, it means she's the heiress to a kingdom. She can't just ride off to a neighbouring land! She has responsibilities. Additionally, what was a prince doing there to begin with? You can't just stroll through another country as the heir apparent for a rival land. The only two options are that he was actually heading an army poised for invasion, in which case our said princess was less of a bride than a prisoner of war, or he was her brother. Given what we've already seen, either seem quite likely.

To the small girl in the red cart...

The USA has a very successful website called "craigslist". Divided city by city, people post here to advertise as diverse objects as furniture, guitar lessons and, indeed, themselves. Within the "personal" section of the site, there is a category called "missed connections". Largely devoted to love interests, people post here when they wish to contact someone they briefly saw at a party / on the subway / the-neighbour-upstairs-with-the-annoying-dog whose name they never got the opportunity to discover. In this vein, I have drafted the following letter to the small girl I met yesterday on the way back from the Hogtown Medieval Faire.

To the small girl being pulled in a red cart on her way back from the Hogtown Faire,

It is true that you did have a better deal than me last evening. You, sitting there in your shiny red cart, while your brother towed it along the road for the hour-long trek back to the car park. I had to walk, clutching the giant soda bottle I hadn't been able to contemplate a free refill on. And yes, I was tired and maybe slightly envious of your cushy deal. Indeed, you might have felt that, given I had no shiny cart, I should have left the Faire earlier, enabling me to catch one of the buses to the car park before the line got too long to make it practical. You may even have felt that, given my situation, I should have arrived at the Faire early enough in the morning to park my car close to the Faire entrance and not in the overflow car park a few miles away. I don't know, we didn't get a chance to exchange thoughts.

That aside, I feel you labelling me a 'loser', as you so clearly did by making the "L" sign on your forehead, was uncalled for. You may be only 3, but there was clear consideration as you gazed up at my face before lifting your right hand in that premeditated gesture.

I feel obliged to point out that your situation was not as secure as you so clearly seemed to believe. I could, for instance, have reached down and tossed you from your cart and taken your place. Then, not only would you have had to walk, but your brother, who was likely no more than 10, would have been left pulling me; a 28 year old woman full to the brim with soda and a giant cinnamon bun roughly the size of your head. As it was, I noted with some satisfaction, your brother got board of his burden (perhaps you too, had partaken in a cinnamon bun) and dropped the cart handle without warning, and it was only your parents quick action that prevented it from rolling down the road into a bush.

So next time you're out there, in your shiny red cart, you just remember that you're not so big yet, nor able to consume nearly enough cinnamon goodness to make a difference, that you can call any person you see a loser. They might just extract revenge. As it was, the humiliation you caused me resulted in my sharp exit (accompanied by friends in mild hysterics). But next time, NEXT TIME, I will take your cart and force you to carry my soda bottle.

The Sims: a lesson in life

My name is Elizabeth and ..... and I'm a "Sims" addict. Actually, I'm more of a binger. I won't play it for a year and then I'll rediscover it and play non-stop for days. Since Christmas is all about excess, it perhaps isn't surprising that I indulged myself in a bit of virtual reality Sim-life. My sim-Elizabeth moved into a cute Tudor abode with her cat Tallis and lover, Keanu Reeves (complete with Matrix trench coat and sun glasses). Happy days ensued in which Elizabeth progressed rapidly through the medicine career track, Keanu became a sous-chef and even Tallis brought home a steady income as a rescue pet (earning rather more than Keanu). They had the best of everything; luxury bed, piano, hot tub.... and when Keanu presented Elizabeth with a diamond engagement ring, what could she say but yes?

It all went wrong when Keanu (who had family aspirations) strongly desired a baby. Time was running out for he and Elizabeth would become infertile elders in a matter of days. While pondering the issue during long star-gazing hours (ok, I sent him out there every night for a week) Keanu was abducted to return inpregnated with an alien child. But this left a problem: Elizabeth, now wanting a baby herself, was stuck with a husband no longer up to the challenge. The only solution was seduction of a neighbour in the hot tub while Keanu was resting his swollen belly upstairs.

So now we were expecting two children. A handful, yes, but I thought it would be kinda awesome: one alien child and one love child (rather obviously so, since the seduced neighbour was dark skinned). The happy day arrived and Keanu gave birth .... to twins. Within 24 hours, Elizabeth also gave birth resulting in 3 (3!) babies in the house. Keanu was delighted. It became his biggest ambition to have yet another child.

One day later and it was hell. I hired a non-stop cycles of nannies and a maid to try and stay on top of the situation... and failed. Keanu and Elizabeth became exhausted and fell asleep on the floor, the maid never finished the work and had to give up when it got dark, the nanny didn't have time to use the toilet and wet herself... 3 times ... and the cat resorted to asking the maid for attention. A few more days later and the game informed me that the kids aspiration meter was low and I should focus on fulfilling their life ambitions. Life ambitions?! Isn't being alive enough??

Keanu is now mopping up the nanny pee (which the maid seems to have an aversion to doing). His worst fear has become to have another child.

Gasoline

This post is particularly aimed at my American friends who have had to suffer through my complaints about US news broadcasting (too vindictive), US health system (too expensive) and US alligators (too many teeth) and how it (news / health / teeth) would never happen in Europe.

[At a petrol station in Leicester, UK. My Mum fills up the car and then goes to pay inside.]

Me: "Can't we just swipe the credit card and zoom off?"

Mum: "No, most petrol stations don't have that. We have to go and pay inside."

Me: "Bah."

[Inside a shop]

Me: "They don't bag our groceries for us? We've got to pack it all up ourselves?"

Mum: "Start packing."

Me. "BAH."

[Later still]

Me: "I need to use the bathroom."

Mum: "I don't think there are public toilets here."

Me: "This would never happen in America."

Mum: "Do you want dinner?!"

The postdoc who never wanted to grow up

Adviser: Are you generally applying for faculty jobs?

Me: No. I really don't want a faculty position, so there seemed no point in submitting an application since I'd still turn it down in favour of a postdoc.

Adviser: Well, you say you'd turn it down *now*, but if you got a competitive faculty job at a research university ...

Me: ... I'd be mad to turn it down?

Adviser: You'd be mad to turn it down.

Me: So I shouldn't apply. My logic is impeccable.

Blown over

Well, that's all rather disappointing but still... there's always next year!

Stormtroopers

So, let's be honest. Tropical storm Fay was somewhat of a disappointment. I know, I know, you don't all agree. Especially those whose houses were flooded / trees smashed down on cars / general humiliation of being pounded by a woman who sounds like your great aunt. But for me, I felt short changed of the full Florida hurricane experience. Even my non-Florida friends were disgusted commenting "I thought at least your power would be out by now." Still, it appears mother nature heard my noises of discontent and responded by sending over not one but another four hurricane-promising storms.

New Orleans got all the fun of Gustav, but we have Hanna, Ike and Josephine still on the cards. Don't get me wrong, however, I don't want to be flooded out. What we're looking for here is a truck load of rain and wind that allows me to return home to the UK with tales to tell, but nothing that involves me being without power and air conditioning for more than a night. (Hear that, up there?! No loss of internet. I do *not* want to be sent back to the stone ages). So hold onto your waterproofs, Floridians, the stormtroopers are coming!

Wet

Quite damp outside, I have to say.

Gyms? Okay then.

Gyms? Oh please, I have a life! I do sports! Going to a sweaty, claustrophobic room to pound away at a machine with the only purpose being to keep your body in acceptable shape, not to have fun or contribute to a team or socialise or... No. This is an activity for people who do not have friends.

Then I realised something odd. Many of my friends go to gyms. And if they are all anti-social, uninteresting misfits then ... well... it doesn't say much for the people who choose to hang out with them. Determine to get to the bottom of this issue, I persuade a friend to take me along to her gym as a guest. There, finally, I see the attraction. Large airy rooms, swimming pool, classes in every exercise imaginable, large bouncy exercise balls, weights and lifting equipment, the latest contraptions for running, stepping, cycling ..... and the personal cable tv screen attached to each machine. Oh yes, cancel with cox cable, I can now justify hours of Futurama, Sex in the City and Friends while I pound my abs into shape.

I get it. I signed up. And now my heart rate will match Carrie's as she sleeps her way through a series of disastrous relationships.

I see you looking at me

Ever wanted to know who is looking at your public I-support-internet-freedom-and-am-not-even-curious website? No, of course you don't. Either way, check out sitemeter.com. A handful of lines in your .html file later and you can plot all visitors on a world map, see how often they viewed your page, how long they spent and look down their webcam to add their picture to your front page for next time the sneaky little dolls look you up. Well, ok, the last option is still on the "under development" section but wait until they team up with facebook.
Currently, I've added this little number to one of my work sites and am now speculating who on earth I know in Kentucky. So just so you know... I've seen you... and you've seen me. I guess that makes us even, hmm.

The terrible hand of justice

In the US, it is largely considered that homicide is a *bad thing to do*. As such, if you were to decide that your fellow passenger's music was just too loud to bear and respond by sawing off his head, you would expect... repercussions [*]. A follow-up to such a deed would probably involve a highly extended gaol sentence or, in some states, a ticket off this mortal coil so that your victim can deal with you personally. Largely, similar principals apply in the UK where many individuals enjoys Her Majesty's pleasure at select institutes around the country. In many cases, the long-term punishments dished out in the UK seems to be of shorter duration. For instance, we don't have the death penalty (the ultimate in permanency) and the number of lifers in the UK is 37, where as in the US it's over 30,000 (nope, I did not mis-type that, 37 : 30,000; http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/magazine/7268647.stm). Sometimes, however, the punishment is so severe in the island kingdom that it makes you go cold to think of it... In this particular incident, an elderly gentleman bumped off his wife for refusing to let him go to the pub. Quite a reasonable response in many areas of Scotland. His punishment? House arrest during pub opening hours. Does it really get any more nasty?!

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/scotland/glasgow_and_west/7540994.stm


[*] This particular crime was actually in Canada, but I find this an incidental detail compared to the actual event: http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/world/americas/7535840.stm

Chad's phone in Spain

"Hey, Chad's phone. Chad doesn't have AT&T which means no bars here in Spain. So, I guess we won't be getting your call warning us about the local beaches. How some are more ... naked .... than others."

Claims the TV commercial for AT&T wireless; a popular mobile phone company in the US. Personally though, I can't help thinking that Chad's choice in phone provider is really the least of the issue, since the majority of US handsets seem not to be tri-band and therefore wouldn't work in Europe anyway. But then, we all know Chad really wanted to end up at a nudist beach and no one would want their phone company getting in the way of holiday fun now, would they?

Aren't you a bit small to play hockey?

No. Once I've got all my kit on, I'm frickin' huge. You would be terrified. Trust me.

(While we're on the subject of F.A.Q.s....)

You moved! (& other questions)

Moved?

See, the problem with having a blog that contains your name in the url is that google slams it right at the top of every search on you. (As a side note, google also brings up a picture of me if you ask it for 'giant molecular clouds' so its choices are not always so transparent). This isn't a problem, per se, but as the job season approaches I would prefer it if my research page appeared first and my disregard for the lives of small children (see post 'On America's 10 most wanted') appeared somewhat lower down.

(For facebook readers, my blog is now at 'www.girlandkat.blogspot.com', you should totally check out the silhouette; I'm disproportionately proud of it!)

You're applying for jobs again?

Indeed. As a postdoc, I am perpetually on the brink of unemployment. Although I am looking forward to it, somewhere new is always exciting and all my friends here are leaving ... largely for Chile.

um, 'kat' ?!

girlandcat was taken. As was catandgirl. Some questions have friendly simply answers :)

"You're much heavier than you look!"

Is not an example of a comment that one is automatically flattered by. However, when given after a battle in the crease (the area of ice directly in front of the goal) during a hockey game it can make you feel highly self-satisfied. Hockey; it's a strange sport.

On America's 10 most wanted

Living in a foreign country, you'd think I'd be a seasoned traveller. Well... I am, only my organisational skills seem to improve at a rate far slower to the number of trips I take. Okay, I'm a basket case when it comes to preparing. This trip was for 10 days and had the added excitement of putting the cat into kennels for the first time. So the day before I dropped her off bright and early and headed back to my apartment thinking through what was still to be done; pack camera and charge battery (probably ought to do that next)...., wash smart trousers for conference presentation (no, I should do that first, camera battery can always wait)...., buy travel-sized shampoo that is non-threatening enough to be taken on the plane in hand luggage...., back up laptop in case it gets dropped out of plane (could take a while, maybe set this up before I pack)..... stop for police car that is flashing its lights at me (... Ah).

"No officer, I can honestly say I have no explanation for going 40 mph in a school zone."

So it wasn't exactly "10 most wanted" but it was traumatic enough for me. For the uninitiated non-American, school zones operate only at certain times of the day over stretches of road close to schools. They are marked by yellow flashing lights and reduce the speed limit from 35 mph (yes, ok, I was speeding anyway) to 20 mph (meaning I was now quiet seriously speeding). Since I don't normally drive at times when they're operable, I'm pretty shoddy at looking out for them.

By looking remorseful, female and foreign I managed to escape with a standard speeding offense (school zone speeding normally triples everything) of a $120 fine and a 4 hour on-line driver course (or points on my license which I wanted to avoid). Today, I went into the court house in Gainesville to pay it all off. I'd like to say I walked in proudly, dealt efficiently and, head held high, strode from the building. It wouldn't be entirely true. The process was painless and the people very nice but, as foreigner on a highly-revocable visa, walking into a court house seems a little to close to disaster for my peace of mind.

As for the cat, she survived kennels but also seemed to think the car ride was the most traumatic part. I can only be thankful that she wasn't in the car when I was pulled over; the bad language would certainly have driven up the fine.

Toys

This sinister tale begins in the most dark of places, the "My Little Pony" aisle in "Toys R Us". I was admiring the special release of the original 1983 My Little Ponies to celebrate 25 years of plastic equine love. These rubber numbers were the ones I played with as a small child (and which were not "skinny and boney" Ashley Stewart! We may have been only 6, but I've not forgotten the taunts from you and your little friends) and clearly looked far more like real ponies that these modern imposters. Once you get over the bright pink plastic, that is. Anyway, while innocently reminiscing about more carefree times, a doll on the far end of the aisle slowly turned its head towards me and said ... "hello". I left. If the toys are going to turn on us, Toys R Us is not the best place to barricade inside.