Who Says Economists Don't Have a Sense of Humor?

I found this fun little nugget o' goodness whilst reading Infectious Greed, Paul Kedrosky's blog on Finance & the Money Culture. Now, I don't actually have access to the full paper, and you probably don't either, so I don't know if the "inconvenience cost" includes having to get the dog/cat/kids out of les toilettes 10 times a day. But, as Mr. Kedrosky notes, it's good to know that not all economists are unduly worried about, well, the economy. Or jobs. It's also good to know that they can put that fancy degree to work to win an argument. Next up: The Economic Costs of Sleeping on the Couch.

Up Or Down? A Male Economist's Manifesto on the Toilet Seat

This paper develops an economic analysis of the toilet seat etiquette. I investigate whether there is any efficiency justification for the presumption that men should leave the toilet seat down after use. I find that the “down rule” is inefficient unless there is a large asymmetry in the inconvenience costs of shifting the position of the toilet seat across genders. I show that the “selfish” or the “status quo” rule that leaves the toilet seat in the position used dominates the down rule in a wide range of parameter spaces including the case where the inconvenience costs are the same.

Last Hannah-ism of 2010

Leave it to Hannah to save the best for last.


Back in the Spring, I posted Hannah's reaction to the news of the impending divorce. One of the best bits was her remarking that it must be almost dating season (which, she later told me, officially began on the Summer Solstice). Today she and Charlotte decided that, as we were going to a New Year's Eve party, we really needed to get dressed up for it and so, "Really, Mom, go and try on all of your fancy dresses. We'll help you choose."

On the third dress, the zipper got stuck and I had to ask Hannah to help me with it. With only the faintest sigh of exasperation she remarked:

"You know, if you'd get a boyfriend, you wouldn't have to ask me to do this."

Charlotte agreed.

"Yeah. Go get a boyfriend, Mommy."


Happy New Year!

File Under: I Don't Care Who You Are, That's Funny

And yes. Yes, I did just quote Larry the Cable Guy.

Hannah-isms

Me, in response to Charlotte whining about wanting to turn the TV on "all by myselk!" [sic]:

"Dude, stop whining--I said I would give you the remote!"

Hannah:
"Um, I thought we agreed that you would not be calling anyone "DUDE" anymore?"

Me:
"We agreed that I wouldn't call you "dude" anymore."

Hannah:
"Yeah, well, I don't think Charlotte likes it, either."

Noted. I'll add that to my List of Things to Stop Saying by New Year's Eve.

More Fun With Apraxia!

Charlotte's speech therapy is going well, well enough, in fact, that I'm not as worried about her level of intelligibility when she start kindergarten next fall.


However.


Some sound combinations are still difficult, particularly when there are two hard sounds in the same word, or one at the end of the first word and another at the beginning of the word following.

Take "cupcake," for instance. Say it slowly. Notice how much the shape of your mouth changes between the "p" and the "c" sounds. Charlotte used to insert a soft "a" in between sounds like these, so "cupcake" would become "cup-ah-cake." But now she has decided that it's easier to just replace the "p" with an "m," and so we are left with her excitedly, loudly announcing to the entire store that Whole Foods has "come cakes!"


My friend, Kevin Murphy" is now "Target Monkey," though I'm still not sure how "Kevin" morphed to "Target." "Murphy" to "Monkey" is a bit more understandable.


"Like my book" becomes "Lick my butt," while "Leave me alone," becomes "Lick me alone!" This last one is handy in diffusing arguments, as most people are unable to stay angry while laughing their heads off.


And as for Charlotte's inadvertent adaptation of one of the songs from Phineas and Ferb? I think that Candace, the character who sings it, would appreciate the change from "I'm gonna bust those boys" to "Me gonna bust some balls."

Yay! It's Time for My Physical!

UPDATE: The doctor was a little freaked out that I had lost 10 pounds in less than six weeks, but was willing let it go, for the time being, since I was happy about it and obviously had no other issues. However. If I lose another 5-10 in the next month I have to go back. Something about a scope to look at the lining of my stomach. If ever there were an incentive to eat . . . Sadly, I had to spit out a lovely salmon and avocado roll lost night because my stomach said, "Uh, no. I'm done for the night." Oh and, I didn't get out of having another mammogram Bah.


"Seriously?" you ask, "YAY?"

Yes! For the first time in waay too long, I'm going to hear a doctor say "You've lost a bit of weight since the last time you were here. Which was . . . not that long ago."

Nothing to explain. Nothing to test for. I'm not sick. I just inadvertently stumbled upon what a friend recently told me was the "ELF Diet (Eat Less Food)."

Sometime around the middle of July I just stopped wanting to eat. Even when I was hungry, I'd only be able to manage a few bites before feeling as though one morsel more would be throwing a gauntlet at the feet of the Vomit God.

People keep asking "Are you stressed?" to which I am forced to reply, "Do you even know me?"

I am a medium-beige skin suit wrapped around a compressed, person-shaped mound of stress, nerves, anxiety and irritation. Oh, and caffeine receptors.

In other words, yes. Yes I am stressed. But probably not out of my normal range.

This not eating went on for three weeks or so. I wasn't ever faint from hunger--well, maybe once or twice--so my body was obviously OK with the amount of food it was getting. And I was OK with the amount of extra room I found in my jeans.

And then, one day, the feeling sick part of it just went away and I discovered the truth in the saying that it takes 21 days to form a habit (look, Ma! 14 million results--it must be true! Now go and Bing it instead so you can whittle it down to a more manageable eight million). I eat smaller meals. I don't snack between meals. And in what some might see as a sign that I am seriously ill, I turned down chocolate cake at Pamplemousse.

But here's where the whole thing gets weird, though "obsessive" might be the better word choice.

I caught myself planning the outfit to wear to the doctor's office. Not to look hot or anything--I like my doctor but she's not really my type--but I was doing a mental weight comparison of certain pieces of clothing. And rather than simply tossing this idea and putting myself in time out, I changed clothes three times and weighed myself in each outfit. Yes. I. Did.

You know how the nurse always says it's OK to leave on the sweater, just take off the shoes because it doesn't make that much of a difference anyway? It's so not true. The jeans and t-shirt weighed 1.2 pounds more than the sundress. And when you have two kids and don't get to the gym as often as you should and the last nurse you saw said that no one liked the weigh-in, especially when they didn't feel good about themselves anyway, that 1.2 pounds is huge. I don't care that the number difference is all smoke and mirrors--I care that the number on the "permanent record" is as close as possible to what I actually weigh.

And once I cross that little psychological finish line I've set for myself, I'll probably have to stop by Pamplemousse for a slice of Chocolate Chocolate cake.

I only hope that the doctor won't make me get a mammogram this year. Little known (at least to men) secret of weight loss: The boobs are usually the first to go, making it that much harder to get a pretty picture in the Boob Smasher 3000. Details to come!

Lucky, lucky you!

When an "A" Isn't Ideal

This past weekend, I went on a quest for a bra that doesn't double as a chin rest. As my sister-in-law noted, it seems very 14-ish to wear a bra that has that much padding--but at least now it isn't actually tissues.

I'd like to say that I never stuffed my bra when I was a teenager, but my older sister, seemingly overnight, joined my mother in D-cup land, while my younger sister hit a C-cup while I was pleading nightly with the universe for at least an A-cup. Instead I had to endure eighth grade boys and their silly “joke that would knock my tits off." The punch line, of course, was that I had obviously already heard it.

Following many years of bras that padded, pushed up and were generally untruthful in all possible ways, I've finally reached a place where the letter on the bra isn't that important anymore. Besides, after two kids, I'm finally up to a B-cup, and over the hugely padded bras available everywhere. But.

Victoria's Secret, the Wonder Bra and Miracle Bra still rule the planet. Bras that don't come with heavy padding are difficult to find. Or, more accurately, attractive—sexy, even—bras without the heavy padding are hard to find.

So on Saturday afternoon, I set off for the mall, determined to find the bra AND to get measured. Just to make sure the 34 was the correct size. Has anyone else ever noticed that Macy's is always having a sale? I figured that would be a good place to start.


I love lingerie departments. The profusion of silk, satin, lace and ribbons. Colors that range from elegant pinks, icy blues and shimmering silvers to sophisticated blacks, eye-popping reds and bold animal prints (not on my list). Demi-cup. Full coverage. Convertible. Strapless. Corset. Thong. G-string. Brief. Hipster. Bikini. Thigh-high stockings, to be worn with or without a garter belt.

I wandered through the entire department, beginning to feel a bit of the perv as I squeezed the cups on every bra that caught my eye, and even felt up the occasional mannequin. After a couple of tours, I'd collected half a dozen bra and panty sets and headed for the changing room before I remembered part two of the plan: I had to ask to be wrapped with the measuring tape to be sure that I had been buying the correct size.

Dutifully I followed Greta into the dressing area so we could keep my impending humiliation as private as possible.

"Hmmm. 34."

("Yay! I got it right!")
I began to walk to the changing room when Greta stopped me.

"Wait--I need to check ze cup size."

I waited.

"Hmmm. You are an A."

"What? No--I'm a B!"

Greta misunderstood me. I almost felt bad that her valiant attempt to choke back the laugh brought tears to her eyes.

This might be a good time to mention that I was wearing a halter dress, sans bra.

She stared pointedly at my chest.

"No. Definitely not a C."

"What?? No, no! I know I'm not a C. I said "B." I thought I was a B."

Greta looked skeptical.

"You can try zem, of course but zey will probably be too loose."

I came home with a bag full of very expensive lingerie, lovely enough to almost make up for the fact that it took me another half an hour to find something in a 34A that wasn't beige or white or unadorned black. In addition to being back to an A-cup, I’m also, apparently, one of those unusual sizes that they don’t stock much of. It’s also a size that typically comes with more than a bit of padding as the designers automatically assume that the wearer would be thankful for at least the appearance a little more boobage.

I’m going to think back to my 14-year old self and just be happy that I don’t have to worry about those eighth grade boys “mistaking” me for my non-existent twin brother. I’ll also be proud of myself for not tightening Greta’s bra straps to hoist her boobs back up to a more natural level. Because that would just have been petty.

Feeling Old, Part 24,364

Our babysitter, who just graduated from high school, doesn't know the band Tears for Fears.

But

She did say that it was great that we still like to go to concerts.

And this after we sat through the concert (which was AWESOME!) thinking we were insufficiently aged.

Can I spell Karma? (No, not usually. I like to add an "h.")

Short and Sweet

No, no. Not me. But thank you for immediately thinking that's what I meant! So charming!

It was only this:

I love that public transportation around here doesn't waste time letting you know that a bus is out of service. Which is exactly what the buses in Virginia* always said--that and the route. You'd just have to wait for the entire message to scroll by. But here, you get a short, sweet, one word answer before you can even ask the question:



In case you can't see it, the message in the back is "NOT."

Due to budget cuts, they'll be shortening that to "NO."**


UPDATE:
Bah--the front of the buses now offer the very polite "Not In Service."

* That's what it was six years ago, anyway.
** No, not really.

Can I Get a Mulligan?

I went to the doctor on Friday because I thought I might have bronchitis AGAIN.

Why do they have to weigh you for that??

Oh, right. In case medication is needed.

Most reluctantly, I took off my sweater and shoes and, for good measure, my sun glasses. You know, because they must weigh all of seven ounces.

Surprise! I didn't like the answer the scale gave to the age-old question of "Jeezus Edith! Who switched my jeans for the not-quite-supermodel size?!" Which would be why I wasn't wearing jeans that day, so I shouldn't have been surprised. And this particular nurse won't even hedge a bit and drop it half a pound. She just murmured something about how no one likes the scale, especially if they don't feel good about themselves anyway. Wow! Dr Phil in drag and orthopedic shoes--at my doctor's office!

On Saturday, I started my period and almost immediately lost five pounds. I want a do-over!

Sad, But Possibly True

Perhaps a glass of wine will loosen things up!

I Feel Old

Hannah is the youngest kid in her art class--the others range from 12-16 or so.

This past Tuesday,* they were all talking about Michael Jackson when Judy (the teacher) asked if they wanted to listen to some of his music.

Before Judy could turn on the CD player, a 15-ish year old girl turned to Hannah and said

"Michael Jackson had lots of records. Have you ever heard of those? They had songs on one side and then you had to pick them up and turn them over to hear the rest of the songs! My mom said that records were pretty heavy, too."

This on the heels of an article about the three days it took a 13-year-old, tech-savvy teen to figure out that there were actually two sides to the cassette tape used in the ancient Sony Walkman he was test driving.

It's a lot easier for me to see why kids Hannah's age wouldn't know about the joys of the LP and the jumble-of-tangled-tape agony that was the cassette player. After all, she's only six. But, dammit, a 13-year-old was born in the same century as I. And I'm not yet old enough to refer to the Internet as "that thing you young people use" or as being nothing more than "a series of tubes."

So when the most-sought after gadgets of my middle- and high-school years are spoken of in the tones of awe and wonder usually reserved for the discovery of an ancient civilization, yes. I feel a little old. Not quite hot-tea-and-a-parka-in-July old, but maybe a bit chase-the-snot-nosed-little-bastards-off-the-lawn-with-a-cane old.

Not really.

Well, maybe.



* For some reason I haven't been able to sign in to Blogger for a few days. My excuse du jour for the recent dearth of posts.

It Must Be True . . .

I just read this in The Week, their section "It Must Be True . . . I read it in the tabloids." Haven't stopped laughing yet:

"Two baby flamingos at Britain's London Zoo have developed a phobia of the color pink. The month old chicks, named Little and Large, both have the pale gray plumage flamingos are born with. In an attempt to feed them, zookeepers used a pink sock-puppet of an adult flamingo, but it only terrified the chicks. Their resulting phobia of anything pink has worrying implications for their future mental health. "We'll just have to hope they get used to the color," said keeper Alison Brown."

For some reason this reminds me of a recent-ish (January, 2008) study which showed that the vast majority of children dislike clowns. Are afraid of them, even. And yet, there are still clowns all over childrens', well, pretty much everything--from pajamas to blankets, and yes, even some hospital walls. So I don't hold out much hope for those poor flamingo chicks--they're just gonna have to get used to that scary, pink sock monster. Of course, there's always Prozac . . . .

W. Pooh on the Swine 'Flu*

Thanks, Thomas, for the free blog fodder :)

* apologies for the terrible rhyme.

"The Number Zero, Brought To You By The Party Of N-O"

ht: Sam Stein

Overheard in a Coffee Shop

The guy sitting at the table behind me was trying to set up a web account. He had apparently already paid for the account, but hadn't yet received a confirmation email, so he called customer service.

After a few minutes on the phone, he uttered one of the funniest things I've heard in a long time:

"Yeah, you're right. I guess "butt smoke" is too obvious a password."

Thanks for the laugh, dude!

Things I Never Imagined I’d Say

Hannah please don’t put the chickens down the slide again! And NO she does not want a ride in the swing again, either.

Charlotte—DO NOT wash your hands with that toothbrush!

Charlotte! Toothpaste! NOT the soap!

Whatever that is DO NOT put it in your mouth!

Jesus Edith! There’s a ribbon sticking out of the dog’s butt.

Feel free to add your own!

A Paean to Citi--Well, Maybe Not

The New F***ing Citibank - watch more funny videos

Vice Presidential Handlers Lure Cheney Into Traveling Crate

From The Onion:

Vice Presidential Handlers Lure Cheney Into Traveling Crate


January 13, 2009 | Issue 45•03

WASHINGTON—A team of nine specially trained handlers have successfully lured outgoing vice president Dick Cheney into a reinforced steel traveling crate in order to transport him back to his permanent enclosure in Casper, WY, official sources reported Monday. "He's a smart one. Once he sees the crate, he gets pretty nippy, but we've learned a few tricks over the years," chief VP wrangler Ted Irving breathlessly said while applying pressure to a deep gash on his forearm. "If we break a rabbit's legs and throw it in there, he will eventually go in to finish it off. Doesn't work with dead rabbits, though. Cheney only eats what he kills." Irving said that the latest vice presidential relocation went much more smoothly than September's diplomatic trip to Georgia, which was delayed for several hours after Cheney mauled three secret service agents and escaped inside the White House walls.

HT: Thomas :) Thanks for the laugh!

12 Days of Christmas Reinterpreted

Because it gave me a much-needed laugh . . .