Seeking to End World Hunger, One Search at a Time - Bits Blog - NYTimes.com

Seeking to End World Hunger, One Search at a Time - Bits Blog - NYTimes.com

University of Richmond students develop a search engine that contributes free rice for every search--and get it written up in the New York Times. Check it out! This is my new default search engine...



Posted using ShareThis

Edited 4/25/09 to add: alas, Hoongle is no more. Somehow they inadvertently violated Google's terms of service, and shut down. But the students are still full of good ideas, and they still raised a good bit of money to alleviate world hunger.

After...

...the game, we put Nick to bed happy. One of his teachers promised no homework for a week if the Giants won, but I think his support of them went beyond the bribe. What an exciting game! Living in Virginia I don't really have a dog in a NY-NE fight. I have lived longer in New York than in any single New England state, but if I add up my time in the three New England states I've lived in, that probably trumps New York...so I could go either way. I decided to root for the underdog and for goofy Eli over polished Tom.

This morning Nick woke up coughing harder than he had been yesterday--and we'd stayed home from a Superbowl party because of the cough already. So I took him to the doctor and came home with two prescriptions for tamiflu: one for him, and one for Mariah to take prophylactically. The doctor recommended that Mark and I see if we could get it, too, and I called in to my doctor as soon as we got home. I'm already feeling a little achey and I've got a cough going, too.

Blech.

Ring in the New

(Image borrowed from "Virginia's Rivers")


Mark, Nick, and I spent the first day of the year out on the James River, whitewater rafting. This was only my second time rafting (the first was earlier in the year, on our anniversary trip to Asheville), and my first time on our own hometown river. It's hard for me to believe, with all the time Mark spends on the river, that I have lived here fourteen (going on fifteen) years and have never gone on a single river trip. When Mark was guiding (working as a raft guide) he wanted to take me down the river, and I wanted to go, but we never found the time. So on New Year's Eve we were at a party with some former and current guides, and they invited us to join them on the first trip of the year.

It was a blast. It was an arctic, icy blast that nearly froze us--Nick was pretty close to a popsicle by the time we took a lunch break--but it was also really, really fun. And we were with a big enough group that there were plenty of people with extra gear. It was really heartening--and, again, a great way to start the year--to see how generous people were. People we had never met before were offering us food, warm clothing, hot chocolate, and good advice ("take those wet socks off him and give him these!" "here, rub him down with this before you put the next dry thing on"). It was such a generous and warm outpouring, it made the discomfort almost worthwhile. And the rapids, and the scenery, did, too.

We're lucky to live in a place where you can have an outdoor adventure without leaving town, and where the people who make outdoor adventures happen are so kind and open-hearted. It was the perfect way to start the year.

Shifting Focus

So it really wasn't that bad a day yesterday. The computer, modem, and router are actually not broken, for example, even though it took six hours, eight phone calls (two to India), and much hair-pulling to determine that. Here was the dialogue at one point:

[Me]: But everything worked yesterday with the set-up I had. Why are you telling me to change it today?
[Him]: Well, sometimes things just don't work any more.
[Me]: OK, but then why would changing the settings help?
[Him]: The settings you had shouldn't have worked. These are the right settings.
[Me]: Even though the old settings worked yesterday.
[Him]: Yes.
[Me, tearing my hair out, ready to slam the phone down]: Well, thanks, then, I guess.

Actually the old settings were the right ones. The new ones caused all kinds of problems. But they are, um [knock wood], fixed now.

Moving along. It is also a good thing that the new couch for the study/guest room was delivered, so I will ignore the fact that we have not yet moved the futon out of the room and that therefore the study (where I spend most of my time these days) is both crowded and somewhat dingy-looking. I will assume that the new couch will look fabulous in here once things are cleaned up.

It's also a good thing that I didn't have to drive to Petersburg yesterday to deliver a choir dress to Mariah. She called soon after arriving at school to say she needed it for an unexpected performance, so I went and found it in the laundry basket (no comment), along with appropriate shoes, and readied myself for the drive, but then she called to say they decided to perform in street clothes instead. Thus I was able to spend that time talking on the phone to people in India. Let's not discuss which was more satisfying.

It's a very good thing that we had choir rehearsal last night, always a high point in my week, and even more that we went just before rehearsal, a small group of us, to sing at the convalescent center where one of our members (along with his wife) is recovering from a devastating car accident. They--and others who gathered when they heard the music--were so appreciative, it made the singing really matter.

As I said, really not a bad day at all. It's just a matter of perspective.

quick update

My laptop is back and all is well. No data lost, no (visible) problems.

(And now, another resolution to be better about backing up. I've been so lucky--knock wood!--with my laptops over the years that I have become rather cavalier about it.)

wonderful world

I saw this on Neil Gaiman's blog and just had to share it. Isn't it amazing?

Finished Objects

I built two desks yesterday. They came in large flat boxes from Target and they had instructions like this: "Attach the two support posts (D) to top side of the top board (E), making sure the small sheets with holes which on top of the post should be facing toward the back side as shown."

Yeah.

Mark said, 'This must be hard for you--you're so text based. I just look at the drawings and figure it out."

But the drawings showed the "small sheets" (if that's what they were) pointing, um, right. Or maybe left. I get a little confused "reading" pictures.

Nonetheless the desks are built--I triumphed! And once I get the remnants of the boxes off the floor I may even be able to arrange the room.

In other news, I finished a knitting project the other day. It has instructions like "*ssk, yo, repeat from * to last stitch," which make perfect sense to me.

Twenty Years

Twenty years ago today I was in Montreal, on the first leg of our fabulous honeymoon. So, yes, yesterday was our twentieth anniversary.

On our first anniversary, we were preparing for the new year of school. We'd both finally passed our master's exams.

On our second anniversary, I was five months pregnant and preparing for my orals.

On our fifth anniversary, I was preparing to file my dissertation and start my first full-time job.

On our tenth anniversary, I was brain-dead and sleep-deprived with month-old baby Nick.

On our fifteenth anniversary, we were just back from a California vacation and starting in on a busy semester.

And yesterday, the convertible top (just out of warranty)* refused to go up without breaking a part, but we still managed to go out to dinner and celebrate another good year. Whew!

*the guy at the dealer says since it's just four days over warranty and we've got low miles he'll put it in as warranty service. Happy Anniversary!

working hard...

...on a paper. Back in a while. I've got a few recipes I want to post, and things to say about summer and kids with jobs, but not now, not now!

Happy Birthday, Caroline!

My little sister is 40 today! Go wish her a happy birthday!

(Photo coming later; my internet is down and I'm using a borrowed computer on a poached wireless connection...)

Eight Things

Jennifer tagged me with this one--which seems potentially fun, though also potentially embarrassing. We'll see.

First, the rules:

1. We have to post these rules before we give you the facts.

2. Players start with eight random facts/habits about themselves.

3. People who are tagged need to write their own blog about their eight things and post these rules.

4. At the end of your blog, you need to choose eight people to get tagged and list their names.

5. Don’t forget to leave them a comment telling them they’re tagged, and to read your blog.

So now here goes with the eight:

1. The last two letters of my last name are also my first two initials. This was true with my birth name and is still true of my married name. I tend to scramble names and words and find others in them, so I guess it's not surprising that I discovered this weird dorky fact.

2. When Mark and I bought our house the mortgage broker asked us to add up all the years of schooling we had, starting with kindergarten. When I came up with 24 (Mark's was 26!) the broker said, "Wow, y'all been in school longer than I been alive!" which tended to increase our confidence in him. Right.

3. I didn't eat a bagel until I was 14, or a burrito until I was 24. However, I had eaten both sushi and liver before I was ten. (And I'm not trying liver again, just so you know.)

4. I went to boarding school when I was thirteen. I sometimes suspect my pleasure in the Harry Potter books comes from a sort of boarding-school nostalgia, though we were sadly lacking both ghosts and potions.

5. I can't imagine sending my children to boarding school. But ask me again when Nick's thirteen.

6. I didn't get my license until I was almost twenty, and I didn't really drive until I graduated from college. When I got my first job, I bought a car with a stick shift after about two lessons, and had to figure out how to get it home. Now I can't imagine driving anything else.

7. I used to speak Japanese relatively fluently (for a 12-year-old). I have also studied Spanish, French, and ancient Greek, but I am nonetheless embarrassingly monolingual. When Mark and I went to Quebec on our honeymoon we were slightly ashamed to be American, and tried to speak our lame French, but everyone answered us in English.

8. When Nick was about three he lost a button and went automatically to his father to sew it on. He had no idea I knew how to use a needle and thread, and I am rather sorry he learned. (His father is still superior to me as a button-sewer-on, though I can do it in a pinch.)

OK, those are my facts. And I'm belated in doing this, so most of the folks I meant to tag have already done it. But looks like a couple of you are left:

Terry
Caroline (but you don't have to do it on your birthday!)
and anyone else who can come up with eight fun facts!

random bullets of catching up

• I think I may again be competitive for bad mother award--who else takes her kid to the library and won't let him check out books? Twice? (I saw the librarian looking at me as I was telling Nick that no, we'd agreed we were just there to return books, not to check out, and I really felt bad...)
  
• In my defense, it was the second (and third) time we'd been to the library (three different ones) this week and he still had plenty left to read. And I'm tired of hanging around the graphic novel section finding all the "how to draw anime villains" books.
• We are all (knock wood) recovered from our malaise, but only Mariah is really making use of her good health. She's been working non-stop, baby-sitting and bagging groceries. I expect to be hitting her up for a loan soon.
• When she wasn't working Mariah took Nick to the movies, as I mentioned before. They went to see Ratatouille. Unfortunately Nick decided it was no good so they left before it was over. I'm still not quite sure what he didn't like about it--this is a kid who has sat through Valiant (recently!) with pleasure, after all.
  
• Mariah "treated" Nick to the movies but then had to borrow cash from him. She had deposited all her paychecks in a new bank account and didn't have an ATM card yet. (I know, a likely story!) Maybe I need to be working Nick for a loan rather than Mariah.
  
• Nick is a saver, Mariah a spender. When Nick was about three I brought two large cookies home from some kind of campus event. When I picked the kids up from school/daycare I distributed them. Mariah's was gone before we got home; Nick's was in his lap, still uneaten. Both Mariah and I found this behavior somewhat disturbing. But then again this is a kid whose Hallowe'en candy often lasts until Easter (at which point it has to be thrown away).
  
• We had a wonderful trip to the beach yesterday. Mariah was working, but the rest of us drove out to visit an old friend who was staying there with his family. It was a lovely, low-key visit: mostly sitting on the beach or jumping in the waves and talking. His daughter is a year older than Nick and gets along with him beautifully--it was really nice to see them taking turns on the boogie board, digging in the sand, building a sand-castle.
  
• I am now half-way through my re-reading of Half-Blood Prince and am confident of being ready for the new one when it arrives. Nick is working his way through Order of the Phoenix and I think he's going to make it, too. I get it first; Nick next if he's finished with #6, otherwise Mariah. If he does get it before her, she's allowed to take it at night after he's gone to bed if she promises not to mess with his bookmarks.
• What does it say about us that we have absolutely no routine for the summer, and it is impossible to set up a workable chore schedule, but our reading schedule for Deathly Hallows is already set in stone?
• I have been blogging for four years as of today.
  

the indignities of (middle) age

I went to a new(ish) little farmer's market today and it was lovely. But getting there, well, that's another story.

I had given my last $10 to Mariah so she could take Nick to the movies (more on that in a later post) and figured I'd just hit up a cash machine before I got to the market. Stopped at the first one on the way and--no dice. "Your transaction has been denied. Contact your financial institution."

This happened on our trip two weeks ago and I figured it was because I forgot my PIN. That is, I forgot the order of the numbers in my PIN. I know it, sort of, but sometimes it takes me a couple of tries to get the numbers in the right order. Fine.

After three tries I figured maybe the ATM was locking me out, so I went in search of another one. (Hope springs eternal...) I got to the next one I remembered, a little closer to the market--and the ATM was out of order. Fine, again.

This time I headed away from the market, towards a reliable ATM, one that I use all the time, one that always has money for me. But when I got to the parking lot I thought maybe I should, well, you know, contact my financial institution. Since that's what the machine told me to do and all.

So I called the number on my ATM card and started moving through the voice menu. Luckily many of the choices include "I forgot..." "I forgot my account number," "I forgot my member number," etc. The automated voice was remarkably forgiving.

"That's OK," she would say, "I"ll just need to get another piece of information from you."

Luckily I could remember my zip code, my husband's birthday, and my social security number. But at this point the voice system broke down anyway, because "change my PIN" didn't work for me. (I think you're actually supposed to know your old PIN. But if you did, why would you want to change it?)

It might be worth noting at this point that I have long had a terrible memory. Because of my terrible memory, I have many passwords and PINs logged into my palm pilot. Alas, I stopped carrying my palm pilot recently because it's very hard for me to read the entries in it without reading glasses. (Encroaching age, weakening vision. Let's not talk about memory.)

So, to recap: I'm still in the parking lot, talking to the machine that won't let me change my PIN. At this point I have a breakthrough, and say to the machine "talk to an agent," although it has not yet offered me this option. I am almost immediately connected to a human being who verifies that, yes, I am locked out of the ATM system because of multiple log-in efforts. "Did you forget your PIN?" he says. He is not amused by my total failure to recall even setting a "voice password," let alone remember the password, though he does ask for different information that I am in fact able to provide. He fails to agree with me that remembering the numbers out of order is not the same as forgetting the PIN, but he does help me reset the PIN to something I (think I) can remember. Half an hour after my trip to the market began, I was on my way again with money in my wallet and only a little bit of humiliation to temper my pleasure at the lovely vegetables.

Breaking up is hard to do...

So I mentioned a while back that I was decaffeinated. I meant to get back to that.

About two weeks ago I went in for my annual check-up. I saw a terrific nurse practitioner who noticed my knitting and we spent a lot of time chatting about that. She knits, too, but can't do complicated patterns because she does most of her knitting while waiting with laboring mothers. (Hmm, what's my excuse?) Anyway, during the course of our chat she mentioned that caffeine is a culprit in, among other things, heart palpitations, which I've noticed occasionally. So I thought maybe I could stop drinking coffee. [Aside: she said tea and chocolate didn't seem nearly as problematic, which made the prospect of going coffee-free seem much easier. She did laugh when I asked her about chocolate, though.]

I switched to decaf the next morning. I really only drink one, maybe one and a half, cups of coffee a day, so I thought it would be easy. I gave up coffee entirely during both pregnancies with no problem. And for a while all seemed well.

Now, coffee and I, we have a history. It began in high school. Seniors had the privilege of drinking coffee and chatting with teachers in the headmaster's study after lunch, and I got in the habit of downing two or three heavily sugared demitasse cups every day. At some point I noticed an inverse relationship between the number of cups I drank and the number of minutes I could sit still in my afternoon classes--but that was a long, slow realization, and the after-lunch conversation seemed more meaningful than the late afternoon classes anyway. (Ah, the rationalization, it starts early!) In college I began to be a coffee snob, bringing my own French press to the dining hall filled with my own grounds so I could brew it fresh rather than drinking the dining hall swill. When Starbucks became ubiquitous I found it rather too easy to spend over two dollars on a cup of hot steaming liquid. It just tasted so good!

But I'm not such a coffee snob that I can't just brew my own delicious decaf and take it from there. So that was the plan: decaf all day instead of just after lunch, a change I made years ago to stave off insomnia.

As I said, at first all seemed well. Nick's illness, our trip up north, all passed uneventfully--at least on the coffee front. I just drank decaf, or (for a few mornings) tea. I vaguely expected a headache or two from the withdrawal, but nothing. I was smugly congratulating myself.

Until Friday, when I had a splitting headache all day. I put it down to aftereffects of travel--my sunglasses are a little too tight, the drive had been long, I was finally home and able to relax, which is sometimes when stuff like that kicks in. That was all.

Until Saturday, when the headache persisted. Tylenol had no effect. A glass of wine with dinner did nothing. This morning I had two more tylenol before breakfast, but nothing changed.

Until lunch today, when I poured myself a cup of coffee, drank it, and about an hour later noticed the headache was gone. (And, yes, for the record: it did taste better than the decaf, too.)

So now the question is: can I drink one cup of coffee a week to stave off the headaches? Do I need to taper off more slowly? Was this just a coincidence?

Things I've Learned Lately

• When I began the 48-Hour Book Challenge I piled up the recent library books on the stairs and just pulled volumes off as they appealed. One that I had also picked up, not for the challenge, was Elizabeth Zimmerman's Knitting without Tears. It's one of those books that you hear about all the time. It's not one of the pretty new knitting books with lots of pictures; it's all just practical advice. And I learned that not only did I learn to knit wrong, I purled wrong as well. This sort of makes sense, as she explains it. Somehow my "German" needle-holding technique led to the wrong-way purl, which makes the wrong-way knit almost necessary. So now I know how to purl the right way, it makes knitting the right way easier. Sometimes the secondary technique is actually the one that matters.
• I'm not good at following the rules right now. So while I did indeed start the notebook described here, I have not yet used it in the way she describes.
  
• I think the not-following-rules thing is a function of age. It began just as I entered my forties. I remember one morning standing up to Nick's preschool teacher, who didn't like how long it took us to say good-bye in the mornings ("Y'all linger," she said disapprovingly). I ignored her, figuring I could take as long to say good-bye to my baby as I --and he-- wanted. That didn't bother him, but he did get upset with me when I didn't cross the street at the crosswalk and backtalked the security guard who gave me a hard time about it. I was ok with Nick wanting to follow the rules--that's appropriate for a four-year-old, after all. But I sure wasn't going to let a guy in a uniform tell me I didn't know how to cross an empty street, holding my son's hand.
  
• The thing is, I was like Nick long into my adulthood. Rules matter. I like rules: they tell you what's expected, they simplify decision-making, they provide order and continuity in what can be a disordered world.
  
• But maybe what I really like--and certainly what Nick liked at that age, and still does--is ritual. The calming certainty that things will be done the same way as before. Nick's good-bye ritual at age three was a fascinating thing to behold (and worth its own essay, another time); one of my favorite things about it was that it seemed such a child-sized reflection of my own need for order and consistency.
  
• I've become one of those people who says "when I was your age" or "when I was younger" even "at my age." This, too, is obviously a function of age (middle).
  
• When I was younger order mattered to me more. I need to think about this for a while, but I'm seeing the signs everywhere--not just in petty defiance of preschool functionaries, or the refusal to follow directions in a writing book. In unpaid bills and missed deadlines (not so good); in messy creative re-thinkings of previous projects (maybe ok).
• At a party the other evening I found myself saying "at my age" and being called on it. Turns out no one there believed I was over forty (or at least they were really really flattering me, for no particular reason). I think I might start telling people I'm fifty just to hear the flattery. (Yes, I'm aware of how this one might backfire. So probably not.)
  

more on boys and danger

Jody over at Raising WEG has a great post about the title and marketing of The Dangerous Book for Boys. Of course she's right, and I'm sorry I didn't really address it in my earlier post. I was interested in thinking about danger and kids in general, and the way that has played out with my particular kids--which has gender implications, but I didn't raise the implications of the book's title itself. It is, as Jody says, a problem to suggest that only boys are interested in dangerous stuff, or that you're not a boy if you're not interested in dangerous stuff (or not a girl if you are). So go read her; she's smart about it.

I was also thinking about stereotypes and gender yesterday when I went to the last of Nick's four dance performances of the weekend. (I was also backstage mom for one, and went to the second one with the rest of the family.) The kids were spectacular. For the opening and finale there were 700 (give or take) kids on stage, all dancing more or less in synch. They smiled, they clapped, they stomped and turned and bounced and swayed. I loved every minute of it, and as far as I could tell so did they. Nick liked it so much he's trying out for the advanced program, which involves a lot more ballet technique (and a lot more performance).

So on the way out I was more than annoyed to hear this exchange between parents. There were two couples, and the mom from one said to the dad from the other: "Wouldn't you be proud if your son got picked for the ballet?" Only, from her tone, it was clear that she didn't think he would be--that, in fact, it would be somewhat embarrassing to have a boy in the ballet. She followed up a minute later with, "well, ballet and soccer, I guess they balance each other out." (Doesn't she know soccer is European, and European men aren't manly, either? Oh, never mind...)

How you could walk out of the performance we'd both just seen and assume that somehow dancing wasn't quite manly enough for boys stymied me. (Never mind that nine- and ten-year-old boys hardly ought to be aspiring to manliness anyway...)

Luckily Nick doesn't think dancing isn't manly. Well, he wouldn't: his tae kwon do instructor, whom he reveres, danced with the ballet for years. And breaks cinder blocks with his hand. Take that!

On buying bourbon at mid-day

Mark didn't think it was a good idea, going into the ABC store at mid-day, but I thought it was fine. Growing up in New York I remember Mom putting a bottle of scotch or vodka into the cart along with the rest of the groceries--there it was on the shelf, and it was no big deal to buy a bottle now and then. When we lived in LA the Safeway across the street from us sold "Fresh Fish" and "Liquor," according to the signs outside--to us it always looked like they were advertising "Fresh Fish Liquor" and we used to refer to our occasional booze purchases as such. Buying booze at the grocery store seems so wholesome and normal.

The ABC store, though, with its haze of stale cigarette smoke and even staler regrets, does feel a little seedy, especially at mid-day. But I wanted bourbon for a marinade (really! 1/4 cup each bourbon and low-sodium soy sauce, 2 tbl. brown sugar--a great marinade for two one-pound pork tenderloins) and I braved the atmosphere. There was a well-dressed guy in a bow tie picking up some good gin, and I brought my bourbon to the counter proudly, ignoring the tiny bottles of schnapps that sit next to the counter, like packs of gum in the grocery store. Does anyone just throw a couple into the cart at the last minute, as they might the gum? I don't know.

So all was well until I went to sign the electronic signature pad, and my signature came out looking like I had the shakes. I tried to laugh it off: "my signature always looks terrible on these things" and the clerk said "everyone's does" with a mixture of condescension and, um, was it derision? Did he think "everyone" had the shakes? Doesn't he know my signature looks just like that at the grocery store, too? (Where, sadly, they don't even sell beer and wine, let alone bourbon or fish liquor...)

But even that would have been ok. I know, after all, that my signature always comes out weird on those things. Backing out of the narrow parking lot--really, just keeping my foot on the clutch and rolling--I was thinking more about my signature than the telephone pole which I, therefore, bumped. Rather gently, but still. It's pretty scarred up, that telephone pole.

I guess a lot of people are buying bourbon at mid-day.

Black Belt

Here's Nick receiving his black belt yesterday, after his successful test. Even before he tested, he had to submit two essays on martial arts topic for approval. Here they are:

VITAL SPOTS & THEIR USES
by Nick

What are vital spots? Vital spots are the unprotected parts of your body. They are also more sensitive than other parts therefore you are caused more pain when you are hit in a vital spots.

The main reason for martial artists to know vital spots is so they can get away from a fight before they get hurt too much. Martial artists use vital spots because we're not in a fight to hurt somebody, we're in a fight because we were attacked and we want to get away as soon as possible. This means we hit somebody so we can run away before we get hurt too much. I know that sounds like cowardice, but "He who fights and runs away lives to fight another day." Also vital spots are different with different weapons (empty hand, blunt weapons, etc...). With a blunt weapon, you would aim for the bony parts of the body, such as skull, top of the hand, knee, or top of the foot. But with something with a sharp edge, say a sword or dagger, you would aim for the fleshy parts, such as stomach, bicep, or thigh. With empty hand you can aim for both. If you're using a palm strike you aim for blunt weapon vital spots, but if you're using a punch, you aim for the sharp weapon vital spots. This may make vital spots sound confusing but you only need to know the main ones, such as: solarplex, shin, chin, nose, and ear.

Meditation
by Nick

What is meditation? There are at least two different kinds of meditation, but martial artists only use one. The kind we use is used to stimulate chi or ki (energy*).

When meditating, you are supposed to clear your mind and relax. But there's more to meditating than sitting down and closing your eyes. There is a proper way to meditate and an improper way to do it. The proper way is to sit up straight, have your hands palm up in a giving/receiving position, with your tongue at the roof of your mouth. Breathe in seven counts, hold it four counts, breathe out seven counts, hold it out four counts. Also when meditating, you should breathe through your lower diaphragm, meaning when you breathe in, your stomach inflates and when you breathe out, your stomach deflates.

Meditation is to relax your mind, but also to focus your body. When you meditate before your martial arts practice, it will help you loosen up even though your body is still focused. This combination of relaxation and focus is what you need to stay calm so you're able to keep control of your movements and aim your strikes.



*Chi is important to martial artists because it helps us focus but it also is our energy, and how would we defend ourselves without energy?

bad mother award

Nick went to school last week with a black eye. He got it playing baseball out in the front yard with the neighbors. It was a plastic ball--something like a whiffle ball--but he got it right in the eye at close range. Mark and I were in the back yard and heard screaming, and it took us a minute to register that it was 1) Nick and 2) pain. Mark ran out of his shoes as we both pounded up the sidewalk to find out what was going on. We got ice right on it and it subsided after really only a day or two of bruising.

This evening Mark and I were in the back of the house and we heard a pounding on the front door. Nick has a habit of going out the back door and then pounding to be let in the front, and I was a little annoyed as I walked up to let him in. He almost fell inside, dropping his scooter on the front porch and holding his hand to his cheek. I had him in the kitchen for ice before I asked him what had happened. Face plant while attempting a trick on the scooter. Ouch. I felt bad for being annoyed when I heard the pounding.

The ice seems to have kept the swelling over the eye down, again, but the road rash on his cheek is --well, it's there. It's big. It stung when he showered and it'll definitely be there for a few days, maybe even until his dance performance next week. Let's hope not. I had a little thought that maybe some safety equipment while scootering would be in order...but then again, how do you protect your face?

(Nick says, "I'll definitely look like a settler, not like a Londoner." His dance performance tells the story of the Jamestown settlement. I think he'll be ok.)

door to door

Have you ever sold stuff door to door? I haven't. The closest I've come is cold-calling for newspaper subscriptions, something I did very briefly when I was just out of college and my job didn't pay well enough.

I was terrible at it. I agreed with the people who hung up on me, the people who listened politely and said no. I hated to do it. In fact, I was supposed to cold-call in my day job and it was always the last thing on my to-do list, the thing I "forgot" to do all week long, the thing I most hated.

I'm an introvert, after all.

But the door-to-door kids are something else. They have their spiel, and they seem to do it reasonably well. The last one I listened to had a great line: you don't need these books or magazines, he told me, so my dad has arranged for the children's hospital to get them instead of you. You're making a charitable donation and helping me get to college (or Disneyland, or whatever it was). He was so persuasive, I told him to come back if he didn't make his quota. He did, I guess-- I haven't seen him again.

Tonight a young woman knocked on the door. I was making dinner, and Nick came to get me. He'd peeked through the door curtains and seen her-- it's one of those kids selling magazines, he told me. I opened the door and, before she could start her spiel, told her I was making dinner. Maybe you could come back later? I said as I closed the door.

Will she? I don't know. I do know that I feel bad when I tell these kids--all of them are black in my neighborhood, and most of my neighborhood is not--that I can't afford their products. I can, of course. I choose not to. I choose to get my magazine subscriptions more cheaply, more directly. I choose not to help them with whatever it is they think they're getting.

I've read some horror stories lately about the door-to-door kids. Should I invite them in, ask me to tell them their real story? I don't. I close the door and go back to dinner prep. But I worry.