Matthew Dicks's Blog, page 485

Immoveable object versus unstoppable force

The answer to the eternal question turned out to be surprising.

And a little disappointing.

Physicists have no sense of drama.

More sibling love

I’ll never, ever get enough of this stuff.

   

Science supports my wife’s hatred of cilantro and my hatred of broccoli, but she has more credibility than me in food related issues. Unfairly so.

In speaking about cilantro, Julia Child once said, “I would pick it out if I saw it and throw it on the floor.”

My wife concurs. Though her palate is wide and varied, cilantro is her most despised food item. 

Apparently there might be good reason for this, at least according to research described in the New York Times.

How convenient for my wife and Ms. Childs.

Of course, when I cite research indicating that broccoli is likely toxic to my system, people role their eyes and ignore my claims. It turns out that the larger your palate, the more credibility you have when citing a scientific reason for not liking a food.

I’m allergic to mustard, for example but it wasn’t until I accidentally ate a cheeseburger with mustard on it and experienced an actual allergic reaction that some of my friends accepted my allergy as real.

Jerks.

Just because I am a supertaster (verified by a test) with a somewhat limited palate doesn’t mean that broccoli’s toxicity might not apply to me.

So stop rolling your goddamn eyes every time I mention this.

The person with the highest standards should not automatically be awarded the moral high ground

A piece entitled You’re Dividing Chores Wrong by Emily Oster argues that chores between spouses should be divided based upon increased marginal cost. It’s an interesting argument, but the part that I found most compelling was her comments about loading the dishwasher:

Before my daughter was born, I both cooked and did the dishes. It wasn’t a big deal, it didn’t take too much time, and honestly I was a lot better at both than my husband. His cooking repertoire extended only to eggs and chili, and when I left him in charge of the dishwasher, I’d often find he had run it “full” with one pot and eight forks.

While I have no doubt about Oster’s skill when it comes to cooking and washing dishes, the problem is not her ability to complete household chores but her assumption of the moral high ground when it comes to chores like loading the dishwasher.

As inefficient as her husband may be at loading the dishwasher, her “one pot and eight forks” example is obviously an exaggeration. Nevertheless, why does Oster care if her husband fails to run a full load of dishes? While her standards of a full load may differ from that of her husband’s, this does not necessarily make his standards unacceptable or wrong.

Perhaps her husband is believes in applying the greatest amount of mental and physical effort to the tasks most important in life. Maybe his unwillingness to fill the dishwasher is the result of his desire to recapture precious minutes of the day in order to play with his kids, advance his career, or improve his  exercise regime.

Maybe he knows that the dishwasher is more likely to be emptied sooner if not completely filled.

Or maybe her husband simply doesn’t care that much about the dishwasher.

For reasons that I fail to understand, it is often assumed that the person with the highest standards for any given task assumes the moral authority over that task, but this is not necessarily true.

My wife, for example, does not like it when I put away dishes that are not bone dry. I argue that the dishes can dry nearly as well in the cupboard as they can on the drying rack, and a few drops of leftover moisture in a cup or bowl won’t hurt anyone. My priority is to put the dishes away as soon as possible, because it’s clutter and disorder that I abhor most, but because her standards of dryness exceed mine, her position inherently holds greater weight.

We encounter a similar discrepancy when it comes to the laundry. If left up to me, we would be washing enormous loads of clothing and separating colors to a lesser degree than she, and when I am washing my own clothing, this is what I do. But if the laundry load also contains my wife’s clothing or even the children’s clothing, I adhere to her standards. Smaller loads and a greater separation of darks from the very darks.

Once again, my method of washing is perfectly acceptable and practiced by millions of people around the world, but because Elysha’s standards are higher than mine, her standards prevail.

This principle applies to activities across the spectrum. The person with the lowest speed limit tolerance inherently sets the speed at which a vehicle should be moving. The person with the highest cleanliness standards typically dictates what a particular room will look like. If there is a spouse who believes that the bed should be made every day, the bed is usually made, even if the other spouse believes it to be a waste of time. 

In this world where highest standards take precedent and those who possess them assume greater moral authority, the people who tend to suffer are the corner-cutters, the short-cutters, the devotees of efficiency and the big picture thinkers. These people’s opinion and beliefs tend to take a back seat to the rule followers and detail-oriented individuals who dominate so much of society.

It’s not right.

Disciples of efficiency, productivity and speed must take a stand against the tyranny of unnecessarily high standards and pointless detail. We must insist that our half-filled dishwashers deserve the same amount of respect as the full dishwasher. We must fight for our principles and our priorities in the face of never-ending rules and overly specific expectations that only seek to slow us down, stifle our productivity and trap us in a miasma of unneeded perfection.

Are you with me?

Henry!

Several years ago, I attended the stag party of a guy named Mike. Held within a VFW hall, a bunch of guys gathered around tables to play cards, drink and contribute to the groom’s Honeymoon fund. Though I rarely drink today, in those days I was quite the prolific drinker, accomplishing feats of alcoholic prowess unrivaled by any of my competitors.

Best of all, I could hold my liquor with the best of them and often felt terrific the next morning, regardless of the amount or type of beverage that I consumed.

In my entire life, I have never experienced a hangover and have never gotten sick after drinking.

Vomit free since ’83!

At this particular stag party, a concoction was created that Scott refers to as “the most disgusting drink ever.” My memory of the night is fuzzy, but as I recall, an enormous cup was filled with every type of alcohol imaginable, and it sat at the end of our table for most of the night. Finally, after consuming large amounts of more traditional alcoholic beverages, I downed the concoction, much to the delight of my friends.

In my inebriated state, I remember it being not so bad.

My favorite story from that night was in meeting a guy whose name I mistook for Henry in my drunken stupor. I shouted the name “Henry!” so loud and so often that evening that the name apparently stuck. More than a decade after Mike’s stag party, Scott reports that this kid, whose real name still escapes me, is referred to by Henry by most of his friends.

Scott’s wife, Melanie, has even shortened his name to Hank.

She’s given him a nickname for the nickname that I assigned.

, and I once gave a student a nickname that this family continues to use to this day, but other than those contenders, I think this is my favorite naming story of all time.

Politics of Competitive Board Gaming Among Friends

You’re going to love this. I promise.

It’s as if characters from any one of my novels were ripped from the pages and brought to life.

Sticking the in-laws in an elaborate doghouse just might be the perfect solution

Five years ago I tried to convince my in-laws to buy the house next door to us. It would’ve been perfect. Small, inexpensive and a stone’s throw from my front door.

I know what you’re thinking:

In-laws living next door sounds horrific, but I genuinely like my in-laws, even with their eccentricities and less-than-lovable dogs. After years of getting to know one another, my in-laws have grown accustomed to my divergent thinking, opinionated nature and directness, and I have warmed up considerably to their idiosyncrasies and quirks.

I think of Barbara and Gerry as my parents, and I honestly never thought that would happen.

Even more important, my daughter loves her grandparents more than any child I’ve ever seen, and I expect that my son will feel the same when he is old enough to express his feelings. I knew that having them next door would mean a great deal to the kids and to my wife.

Don’t get me wrong. I was also prepared for the potential problems that in-laws living next door could bring. I had already devised a flag system, for example, to protect my privacy when necessary. 

Red flag: Don’t even think about coming over.

Blue flag: Feel free to come over if you’d like.

White flag: Get your ass over here pronto.

Unfortunately, my in-laws rejected my idea of buying the house next door and continue to split their time between New York City and the Berkshires. We see them quite often, but not often enough for my daughter’s liking.

Not to mention the missed opportunity for next door babysitting on almost any night of the week.

But there may be a solution to our in-law housing needs:

The Granny Pod.

Officially known as a MED Cottage, these are 288-square-foot self-contained miniature houses that fit in most backyards, with a bedroom, kitchen, and bathroom. What sets them apart from other portable, yard-friendly houses are the Granny Pod’s “smart robotic features” that monitor the inhabitant’s vital signs, filter contaminants from the air, and allow the inhabitants to easily communicate with the main house.

While my in-laws don’t require any of the medical features that Granny Pods offer, a small house in the backyard might be the perfect way to keep my in-law’s close by but not underfoot.

Sort of like an elaborate doghouse or a backyard shed with amenities.

With my flag system, of course.

Time is entirely subjective. Just ask a toddler who has been asked to wait one minute.

It’s long for the Internet but well worth it.

Before you start thinking that this storm is anything like ‘78…

I was seven years old during the Blizzard of ‘78, and I will never forget it. I lived in Blackstone, Massachusetts at the time, within one of the most impacted regions of the Northeast.

Our home was without electricity and heat for a week.

The roads in eastern Massachusetts (where I lived) were closed for a week.

The rest of Massachusetts and all of Rhode Island and Connecticut closed their roads for three days.

The adjacent town of Woonsocket, Rhode Island, reported 44 inches of snow by the time the storm was finished.

 

The storm included sustained hurricane winds of 86 MPH, making it just as damaging as the snow itself.

In the neighboring town of Uxbridge, Massachusetts, ten-year-old Peter Gosselin disappeared in the deep snow just feet from his home’s front door but was not found until three weeks later.

Motorists died on Interstate 95 as snow piled high enough to prevent the exhaust from escaping from their idling vehicles. Interstate 95 eventually had to be evacuated by cross-country skiers and snowmobilers.

The storm killed approximately 100 people in all.

This storm is a serious piece of business, but it’s nothing compared to what the New England dealt with in 1978. 

The end of wet dog smell is just the beginning

Brace yourself for the most amazing video of 2013.

Featuring the most amazing product of 2013.

Just imagine the applications:

Apply to your dog’s fur on a rainy day
Surreptitiously apply to a friend’s soup spoon as a gag
Coat your entire house in the product
Apply to yourself before swimming (I can’t even begin to imagine what might happen)