FLL Frenzy

If you developed a chocolate bar that was rich, sweet, deeply chocolate and had no calories at all, not only would 99% of all women pay whatever it would cost, but they would drool while doing so. A new operating system that debugged itself would send computer programmers into a drooling frenzy. And a virtual-reality helmet that worked with Wii would drive teen boys into a pool of drool. But would there be anything that would cause a drool rage among Oakridge National Laboratory scientists, Tennessee Tech University professors, engineers, and boys (and a few girls) aged 10-14? I would have said “no” just two days ago. Now I know that’s not true. There is something that makes them all giddy. It’s called First Lego League.

Several months ago, while I was fixing dinner in the kitchen, Jacob and Matt asked if they could join a robot club with their friends Andrew and David. Like the naïve mother I am, I said, “Sure, honey.” I imagined time spent chatting and hanging out. Then they asked about joining Lego League. Once again I pictured boys sitting around playing with Legos. Soon, I found out there would be a competition, and the team had to register. And the registration was expensive, so that looked like the end of Lego League for the boys—until the Chattanooga Engineers Society put out the money to sponsor the team. At this point, I should have “smelled the coffee.” Instead, I thought, "Isn’t that sweet."

After months of Saturday hours spent building and programming, the boys ended up knowing that “Steve,” as they affectionately named their robot, could perform important tasks like carry a polar bear to a research facility, bury carbon dioxide “balls,” construct and test a levee, bring scientists across the frozen tundra, and propel a bicycle to the research station (although what good a bike does in the Arctic is unclear to me, unless it’s supposed to provide exercise for the scientists). There were about nine other tasks too, but I don’t want to bore you.

Another step in preparation was research. Jacob would yell, “Hey, can I use your computer, I’ve got to learn about ‘urban heat islands.’” No, u.h.i. are not tanning salons or cities like Honolulu or Kingston, Jamaica. At least, not according to Jacob. Matt, on the other hand, studied the feasibility of water-powered lawnmowers. Not practical, but very cool.

So, fast-forward to this Saturday, where we had to get up at 5:30am and drive for two hours to the First Lego League State Championships. The gymnasium filled with parents (more dads than I’ve seen at any baseball game), scientists, professors, and hyper kids carrying robots, presentation props, computers (for last minute programming changes), and printers. This is the ultimate convention for geeks of all ages. So, we began the rounds. Two rounds of robot challenge (where the robot performs up to 15 tasks in 2 minutes and 30 seconds). This is followed by robot construction interviews, teamwork interviews, and team work challenges. Finally, they do their clever presentation on how to conserve energy (which they sung to the tune of the Beverly Hillbillies theme song). You had to be there—it was awesome. Unfortunately, their judge was a climatologist who was clearly miffed that Al Gore won the Nobel Prize instead of her. But, even she couldn’t resist the David/Matthew show (imagine two boys with long eyelashes, puppy dog eyes, and dimples the size of craters). The team scored high on presentation.

Finally, we were down to the third and final robot challenge (it’s now 3:55, or something like that). Andrew and Laura run the robot, and their run is amazing. Then, we wait and wait for the standings to be posted. And then, we wait some more. Finally, two other mothers and I decide it’s time to go. The kids did great, but it’s their first year (some teams have been going for seven years) and we were only 7th after round two. So, we pack up the kids and go home.
Yes, halfway home, we get “the call.” The kids took THIRD in the state championships—and we weren’t there for the awards ceremony! I will never live this down. I’ll be ninety years old, drooling on myself, and still be referred to as the-mother who-left-so-early-her-kids-didn’t-get-to-participate-in-the-awards-ceremony. Oh well, we all have to live something down...

Here is the lego team: Cyberthunder!

Walking in Someone Else's Shoes

Animals are great. They protect your house. They lick your face when you cry. They eat food you don’t want to eat—okay, they won’t eat brussels sprouts, but they will chow down on just about anything else. However, there is a downside to pets. Excretion issues. Personally, when I take the dog out, I keep my eyes on the ground. But not everyone does that.

My husband, whose thoughts are no doubt are on celestial things, frequently brings an odor with him. I say, “Euw, check your shoes.” He moans, groans, and scrubs his shoes. But, he hasn’t figured out how to avoid the problem.

However, my twelve year old has found out the best way to keep dog poop off your shoes is to wear someone else’s—particularly his 18 year old brother’s shoes. This afternoon, Matt brought the dog back into the house, held up Luke’s shoe, and said, “Hee, hee.” I looked up and said, “Oh, my!” This was seconded by Ariel and Jacob as they caught sight of Luke’s shoe. Luke, who up to this point had been engrossed in whatever food he was currently devouring, looked up. There was a moment of blank silence. Then, Luke’s face contorted into something akin to what the Cyclops must have looked like when Odysseus shoved a pike into his one eye. Luke drew in two lung-fulls worth of air and bellowed, “I will kill you!”

Matt tossed the shoe and ran. Luke yelled, “You are cleaning off that shoe!” A bit scuffling occurred until I explained to Matt that he’d better clean off Luke’s shoe. Matt took the shoe to the kitchen sink. At which point, I screamed, “Take that thing outside!”
Eventually, Matt came back complaining that his hands were completely numb—apparently they were so cold that he’d even stuck them into the fireplace to warm them and couldn’t feel the fire. The shoe, I believe, is currently “drying” outside. I haven’t asked where the other shoe is or what it looks like…I don’t want to know. In the meantime, I’m hiding my shoes!

A Merry Heart

I wasn't sure when I first started this blog how it would evolve or what I would write. But, I found that I'm writing not a diary or politics or theology or philosophy. There are plenty of people who do that better than I could. Instead, I'm sharing what puts a twinkle in my eye or makes me laugh--the ironies and absurdities of real life. If you enjoy this, I'm glad you're joining me because I believe that "a merry heart doeth good like a medicine."

Quick Housekeeping Note: I'm changing the name of my blog from "Fountain Pen" to "A Merry Heart." This may change what pops up if you have my blog saved to your "favorites list." I hope it doesn't cause too many problems, otherwise I have to go whine to my favorite 16 year old computer whiz. I'll make the change in a day or two, so if/when it pops up with a new name, you'll know why.

Pomeranian Devil

(Here's a picture of Jezebel keeping watch for the Pomeranian Devil.)

Dogs are supposed to bark. That’s kind of why you get one. They are supposed to bark at burglars, so that the bad guys rob your neighbor’s house instead of yours. And our dog does that. Everyone one who walks down our street warrants a bark or a growl. Which one you get is dependant on how close you are to our property. The closer you are, the nastier the bark. But, here’s the odd thing. Jezebel saves her nastiest barks, her I-am-from-the-pit-and-I-thrive-on-living-flesh barks for the little Pomeranian dog that lives across the street. Now for those of you who don’t know what a Pomeranian is…it’s a dog that weighs about 3 to 4 pounds, and that’s after it’s just eaten. Its coat is, well, foofy. Lots of hair sticking up everywhere, so that it looks like a fluff ball floating across the pavement.

Now I ask myself, “Why does this lint ball unhinge Jezebel’s mind?” Clearly, it isn’t a threat to her, our property, or the children. Then, I figured it out. Keep in mind that Jezebel is the perfect specimen of “dogness”—the Platonic ideal come to life. Yes, yes, I know that the ideal only exists in the mind, but you get what I’m saying. Now, Jezebel understands that she is what God had in mind when he created dogs, so when she sees this Pomeranian, she knows that that “thing” cannot be a dog. And it doesn’t appear to be a cat—cats are relatively smart, and this “thing” is clearly stupid. Jez also knows that this animal can’t be a rat—it’s too foofy. Rats are sleek and fast. So, there’s only one thing left, yes, this is a beast from the pit who’s come to take advantage of poor, ignorant humans, especially old ladies. And, Jezebel is distressed to see it—she must warn the world. But, sadly, no one is listening…

Math Redux

There must be more math people out there than I guessed, or maybe most math people just won’t admit they’re “numbers people” out loud… In either case, I got an email asking for more math entries. How come I don’t get emails asking for more interactive Kindle opportunities? Oh, well.

In any case, here’s another math entry.

When people find out that all four of our children are math-loving, that Ariel has declared math as her major in college, and that both Luke and Ariel work as tutors in the Chatt. State math lab, they come with worship in their eyes and saliva dripping from the corner of their mouths. They say, “How did you make your kids love math and do well in it?” They assume, especially since I homeschooled my children, that I have some special secret. And if I were just kind and generous, I would share it with them. But it’s not true! There is no secret; or if there is, I don’t know it. My idea of teaching math, at least at the higher level, is: “Hmmm, you’re learning trigonometric bearing. Yeah, I’m not very good at that. If you can’t figure it out from the book, ask Luke.” And then I run quickly to the safety of the kitchen.

I try to explain this to the salivating parents. “I didn’t do anything. I gave the kids lots of reading—we did lots of literature. I believe in the primacy of a broad humanities education.” Surely, they will understand that I had nothing to do with my children’s love of math.

“Lots of reading,” they repeat and their eyes sparkle with happy malevolence.

“No,” I protest. “It’s not reverse psychology!”

My daughter interrupts, “Mom, you made us read Aeschylus’ Orestia.”

“Yes,” I say, “but you loved it. You even used to snuggle up in your bed and read it on your own.”

“Okay, yeah, that’s true,” she admits.

Matthew points his finger at me. “But, you made all of us read the Epic of Gilgamesh.”

My children look at me with condemning eyes, and the parents of unsuspecting children begin plotting horrible summer reading lists, consisting of obscure Greek poets and odd epic cycles.

I just hope I don’t start getting anonymous emails, threatening me with death by means of James Joyce’s The Dubliners. Take pity on me—at least I didn’t mention the Venerable Bede or Thomas Hobbes.

Build a Better Baited Mousetrap

We have a mouse in our basement. Maybe, mice. Hopefully, mouse. First, the long-tailed vermin got into the dog food—chewed a lovely hole into a bin full of dog food. Then, once the dog food bin was removed, it chewed on the stored dining room table pad in the basement. Obviously my communist table wiper (see “Communist Car Wash”) had done only the minimum job. So, the table pad was removed to a safe place, and the traps came out.

My husband Cal worked at a pest control company when he was doing his Master’s degree in seminary, so vermin removal is his territory (or sphere of sovereignty, if you prefer). Cal bought snap traps—he eschews glue traps because they aren’t as humane and ought to be used only as a last resort.

One night he set his traps. One trap had mozzarella cheese—he’d sewed it to a trap with a needle and burgundy thread. The second trap he baited with dog food—it seemed to be a favorite of the mouse. The next day Cal went downstairs to survey the fruits of his labor. Sadly, the mozzarella had been eaten right off the trap and the thread lay in a neat pile on top of the unsnapped trap. The other trap was also unsnapped—and the dog food was no where to be seen.

Obviously, our mouse was not your ordinary run-of-the-mill Mickey. He must be more of a Milton. Or, maybe a she, a Murgatroid. In any case, Cal had a new strategy. Glue. Yes, he decided to glue the bait to the trap. First, he got out the Gorilla glue. I imagined the bait encased in a dried foam of unbreakable glue and said, “Honey, do you know how much that stuff swells as it dries?” (I have plenty of experience gluing on the arms and legs of Frodo and Aragorn and the various appendages of Uruk-hai, Treebeard and a massive cave troll.) At any rate, Calvin agreed and got out the Elmer’s wood glue. Once again, he baited the traps with cheese and Pedigree nuggets. But, our Murgatroid is a bright mouse-ette. This morning, it was as I suspected—she had smelled the glue and left well enough alone. Cal hasn’t decided what to do next. (We’ve been busy getting the last of Luke’s and Ariel’s scholarship papers delivered to the right place.) I’m sure that by tonight he’ll have figured out a new and better way to bait a trap. I think he’s considering chocolate. And if he doesn’t catch mice, he may catch a chocolate-lover or two.

P.S. Of course, there’s always the possibility that the mouse/mice are here as part of Oswald’s plan to take over the house/world.

Interactive James Joyce

(with thanks to P.D.Q. Bach)

I’ve heard amazing, wonderful things about the Kindle. Even bibliophiles seem to love Kindle. I think I would love to have one (if Amazon wants to send me a free one, I would love to blog about its fantastic features…hint, hint to Amazon). But what would clinch the Kindle for me is if they had an interactive James Joyce feature. With apologies to my Irish friends, it seems to me that Joyce’s prose, “sound well enough, but don’t actually mean anything.” So, I got this idea of an interactive James Joyce feature. You would call up a book, say A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man (APAYM). Then a menu of choices would appear. For example: If you would like to read APAYM where every pronoun actually had an antecedent, press one. If you would like to figure out who the real protagonist is, press two. If you would like to read the novel with a commentary by an impecunious grad student hoping to finish his dissertation, press three. If you would like to read APAYM with every tenth word removed and put together as a short story at the end of the novel, press four. If you would like to read APAYM as Joyce would have written it had he been on anti-psychotic drugs, press five. And finally, if you would rather have APAYM deleted and replaced by Jane Austen’s Persuasion, press six.

Yep, that would do it for me. And I have no doubt that Kindles would sell like hotcakes, especially among undergraduate English majors.