If You're About to Eat a Packet of Silica Gel Desiccant, That Probably Means You Should

For better or worse, the uninterrupted process of natural selection in human evolution has been lost to modernity, and here's an everyday example of what I mean.

If you've ever bought a new pair of shoes, a bag, a toy, or pretty much any consumer depreciable, you'll notice that it often comes with a little white packet of "silica gel desiccant," ostensibly to control humidity (or so the word "desiccant" suggests).

I discovered one of these at the bottom of my purse/bag today, having apparently never removed it. (See also prior post titled, My Purse (Bag?) is a Shit Hole). I was struck again--as I am each time I find one of these packets--by the directive to "throw [it] away" and "do not eat."

The instruction strikes me as odd, because if you think about it, the silica gel packet offers an unparalleled opportunity to watch Darwinism in action and improve the overall intelligence of the species. If you're an able-bodied/minded adult who thinks your new pair of Nikes is a box of Cracker Jacks and comes with a little packet of beige Nerds candies as a bonus, you probably need to do exactly what the package says not to do, and eat it, because you are too stupid to remain in the gene pool.

The only conceivable person who might actually think that candy comes with socks is a child of ordinary intelligence who is not yet literate and/or not yet worldly enough to realize that candy doesn't actually come with everything. Even my kids (including the one who can't read yet) seem to know that, despite daily indications to the contrary.

Yet this time, I viewed the invitation to throw the packet away without consuming its contents as a tempting dare, one which prompted me to tentatively taste one of the tiny beads. It was chalky and a bit piquant, and not something I'd recommend making a regular part of one's diet or putting on ice cream in lieu of sprinkles.

You can decide for yourself if this means I should remain in the gene pool, or perhaps that decision will be made for me in the next one to three hours. 

If so, it's been nice knowing all of you, and goodbye, cruel world.

Get Outside, Loser!

Um ... Wow. Just ... Wow. Wowwowwowwowowowowowow.

What are you doing? Have you looked outside? Or at the iPhone weather forecast? Haven't you read "Juneau Sunshine FOMO (Fear of Missing Out)?" 

Obviously not, and you're in big trouble, my friend.

Why are you writing a blog post in the dark, feeling sorry for yourself because you just spent the past two hours inside at a Girl Scout ceremony with your heat-stroke stricken daughter collapsing all over you and begging for ice cream, instead of outdoors doing something like kayaking or hiking or biking or anything that will pass muster with the Juneau Sunshine Police and/or at several (outdoor) birthday parties to which you and your children appear to have been conspicuously dis-invited? 

It was really self-indulgent and passive aggressive to include that last part, so you can also add "passive aggressive" and "self-indulgent" to the list of your faults, failures, and infractions today.

Passive aggression and self-indulgence aside, don't you realize that if anyone finds out that you (or your kids) were indoors for even one second of today that you will be looked upon with pity and scorn and shunned forever? If not overtly then covertly, known to all far and wide as--it almost pains me to say the words---Someone Who Wastes Sunshine Doing Unacceptable Indoor Things?

Oh, and you'd also better not tell anyone that you're on your way to yet another indoor event in 45 mintues. Except this one involves both a babysitter and hard alcohol.

Thank God.

But listen. This weather won't last forever. Especially since you have to go back into your office tomorrow. Yes, I said into. You don't work for the goddamned Forest Service. You're a lawyer, not a biologist, and now you shall suffer the consequences and reap the bitter crop of your poor decision-making. You work inside. INSIDE, I say!

Starting tomorrow, the closest you'll come to the sun is looking at it wistfully through 8 layers of office window glass while you eat Sriracha flavored popcorn off your keyboard and maybe the floor. You're not a T.A. in a women's studies seminar at a liberal arts college, for fuck's sake. You don't get to talk about Simone de Beauvoir sitting under an elm tree in the grass. You have to answer emails and phone calls and stand around awkwardly at people's retirement parties with a strawberry and five tortilla chips in your hand. 

Inside. Not outside.

Did you hear what I said? I said inside. That's where you are, and that's where you'll be. For a long time. So get outside right now, before everyone finds out you were, are, and will be inside and therefore were, are, and will be a huge loser.

P.S. It was really stupid to write a blog post admitting that you were, are, and will be indoors today. It kind of defeats the purpose of the aforementioned advice and condemns you to certain loserdom forever.

CDATPOS Belongs on Juneau's Register of Historic Places and TouristAttractions

Today I had the pleasure of entertaining friends who were here on a cruise. They spent the morning whale watching and we took them to the glacier. They ate lunch at Tracy's Crab Shack and had a salmon dinner at our house. It was wonderful to see Juneau anew through their eyes, and by all indications everyone had a great time.
 
But just as high on their list as whales and glaciers of not-to-be-missed local tourist attractions was none other than the one and only ...

CDATPOS! 

Now, I'm the first to admit when a meme has run its course, but clearly CDATPOS still looms large in the hearts and minds of certain Juneau visitors, and apparently his reputation precedes him. As my friend (pictured above) declared, "You're right! He IS CDATPOS!" 

Even Geoff (who admittedly was less enthusiastic about CDATPOS' fame and general hotness than I was) had to concede that CDATPOS was a worthy detour.

I kind of feel like CDATPOS needs to be on a special tourist map just for O.H.M. readers. Granted, such a map would have a relatively small distribution, but it could be like one of those underground speakeasies in Greenwich Village that only a few in-the-know history buffs are savvy enough to put on their radar and tourism agenda.

Think about it: beers at the Red Dog Saloon, followed by some gold panning and dog mushing on the glacier, a quick stop for some tanzanite, topped off by a down-low Uber-style shuttle to Kindred Post and some witty repartee and good tunes with Juneau's premiere piece of O.H.M.-declared eye candy. 

It's genius!
 

Five stars for CDATPOS on Trip Advisor!

Blow Me, Edmund Hillary! I'm On Mt. Juneau!

It doesn't take a whole lot for me to give myself a big pat on the back these days, at least not where physical fitness is concerned. 

I played sports in high school and college, and I exercised pretty regularly throughout my twenties. But the combination of having kids, suffering from bouts of crippling eczema that makes sweating a bitch, and living in a town that often feels like everyone is trying to "out-Sporty Spice" each other has put exercise on the back burner and led to a number of insecurities and social hangups about it. 

Like I can't even watch (much less play) rec. league adult softball without throwing up in my mouth a little bit, and every time someone suggests I do a "fun run" or a road relay, a little piece of me dies inside.

So it was with some trepidation (and by "some trepidation" I mean three nervous craps in thirty minutes) that I embarked on a day off from work today to hike up to the Juneau alpine with a friend I've known since adolescence. 

This was special, since everyone else I know in Juneau I met as an adult. She's the only person who lives here with whom I share that special history, and although we work in the same office, we don't spend nearly as much time together as I would like. It was also special because we both had the day off, we both had child care for our kids, and it was 70 degrees and sunny.

In short, The Universe was telling me to get off my ass, and I knew if I didn't do that on a day like today in Juneau in the company of a good friend, I might as well just move back into my parents' basement and give up on life forever. (Even though they don't have a basement because they live in an apartment building, but you know what I mean).

I'm pretty sure I was slower than a three-toed sloth on Quaaludes, but my friend was gracious and kept assuring me that no, seriously, stop it, I wasn't really that slow. I was also taking my new cadaver-graft ACL out for a spin. It held up remarkably well, so I can only conclude that it belonged to a Sporty Spice in life.

My feet looked like they had jungle rot by the end and I kept saying "tacotacotacotaco" over and over in my head on the way down, but all in all it was a successful day in the mountains.

Especially because I immediately stuffed my face with tacos when it was over.

P.S. I am sore as fuck.

10 Things I Want My Kids to Know About Making "10 Things" Lists

1. "10 Things" lists are a dime a dozen these days, so you really need to make your "10 Things" list stand out. 

2. Make it something profound and universal, like "10 Things I Want My Child to Know Before High School," or "10 Wishes for My Mother," or "10 Drugs I'd Like to Try Before 25," or perhaps, "10 Pets That Won't Give You an Incurable Disease" (Spotted leopard gecko, FYI).

3. If you want your "10 Things" list to go viral--or maybe even just bacterial or fungal--you need to make it like, super deep and serious. Or funny. But not TOO funny. And it should be well-written, but not TOO well-written. (No cursing)!

4. Ten is a perfect number. Don't fuck with it by going off script and making "25 Things" lists and "30 Things" lists and malarkey like that. Don't be a maverick, and don't re-invent the wheel. Stick with the blue-chip stock of "10."

5. If Scary Mommy or Mamapedia rejects your "10 Things" list, don't worry. Submit it to HuffPost Parents instead. They're sure to publish it.

6. The only thing better than a "10 Things" list is a "Dear Mom Who Did/Said Something" letter. Write a bunch of those too, because they are so awesome and no one ever gets sick of them. Just like a "10 Things" list.

7. Never let anyone tell you your "10 Things" list isn't the best "10 Things" list in the whole wide world. Because it is. Don't ever forget that.

8. Make sure your "10 Things" list has something really unexpected in it--like something no one will have thought of before. (Except like ten zillion times).

9. Also put something really corny in it. Make it a tear-jerker worthy of shares and tweets. You need to EARN those shares and tweets. You can't just EXPECT them.

10. Masturbate for inspiration. It's always a good idea to rub one out before you start composing your "10 Things" list. Really clears the brain.

11. No matter what, always, always remember that Mommy has your back and loves you unconditionally. Except when you fuck up. Then you're disowned. Especially if you can't count to 10.

That Time My Kids Got Head Lice Twice in One Summer

Let me set the scene: July Fourth Weekend 2014, Juneau, Alaska.

I’ve just returned from a punishing two-week federal trial 500 miles north-west in Anchorage. I’m watching the Fourth of July parade with my kids. It’s 45 degrees and raining, which is typical July 4 weekend weather for Southeast Alaska. Paige and Isaac are gleefully jumping up and down, lunging at desiccated salt-water taffy thrown from passing floats and fire trucks like it was gold bullion. Geoff is indisposed all day, managing the preschool “Lemonachos” (lemonade/nachos) fund-raising stand on Douglas Island, several miles away. 

Yup, it's like Norman fucking Rockwell up in this bitch (minus the weather).
Just as I’m starting to relish the fact that I’m no longer locked in acrimonious professional battle for 8 hours a day, I happen to glance down at the top of Paige's head. There I glimpse several unmistakable little white dots, which I instantly recall from my own childhood traumas can mean one thing, and one thing only.

Lice. 

The word alone is enough to trigger a wave of dread, nausea, and panicked head-scratching.

Well, SHIT BURGERS!

I immediately text Geoff, as if there's anything he can do about it. “Dude . . . Paige has LICE!” The response: “Oh really? Now that you mention it she has been scratching her head for a few days.”

The FUCK?! Thanks a lot for the welcome home gift, buddy!

Unlike NYC, Juneau is not exactly a hotbed of 24-hour holiday options for pest eradication. So I go to the only open store in town, and pick up a bottle of RID. Because I am not fucking around here. No olive oil. No garlic. This isn't The Olive Garden with its bottomless bread sticks, and I'm not making a frittata for fuck's sake. Nope. These motherfuckers are going to Hiroshima, not Berkeley. Even if it means my grandchildren will be born with octopus tentacles instead of legs 25 years from now.

Several hours later, I’ve got both kids in the bathtub, drenched in toxic chemicals and wailing like banshees. “You can watch whatever movie you want in FIVE minutes. I PROMISE. Just hold still.” 

I get them out of the tub and plop them down in front of I can’t remember what Netflix piece of crap. I start combing toxic grease with a metal comb and feel a strange sense of satisfaction as I hunt down drowning insects and pluck little white eggs off the kids' heads one by one, lining up my quarry on a napkin. The only thing separating me and a mama chimpanzee at this point is the fact that I'm not actually eating the bugs I find.

When people discover your kids have lice, they try to make you feel better while secretly suppressing disgust and backing away slowly: "The cleanest kids in the WORLD get lice!," they say. "It’s a MYTH that lice is only for dirty people!," they say.

Yeah. Just like "you can't get AIDS from a toothbrush" was a myth in 1988. No one believes that shit. The lice myths persist like they were written by Zeus himself, and my already tenuous reputation as an upstanding and sanitary parent is in grave jeopardy. I can’t have my family shunned from the community! On whom would I pawn off my children?

So I did as instructed on the box of toxins (boxins?) and while listening to the album “Check Your Head” by the Beastie Boys (this wasn't technically part of the directions, although it should be), I fumigated numerous fabrics in my home, checked the kids’ heads for the next ten days, rinse and repeat, and we’re home free.

Weeeelll, Not so fast, sister.

Scene Two: August, 2014, Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

We’re back east for a wedding. A fancy wedding. In fact, everything about this whole trip is fancy, or at least fancy by a-decade-of-living-in-Alaska standards. The friends who were kind enough to host us for several days live in an immaculate, uncluttered home with furniture that wouldn't seem out of place at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and they have three immaculate, perfectly behaved children.

Well, wouldn't you know it, we are off on a day trip visiting another immaculate house of other friends who live in the area, and I'm finally settling into a nice wine buzz, when I look down, and--REDUX! More eggs in Paige's hair! How the fuck did this happen AGAIN? 

A series of frantic texts to friends back home quickly provides the answer. It was the usual suspects. Girl Scout Camp and their girly camaraderie, and Paige was far from the only victim. Damn you, Girl Scout Camp! You and your head lice are my Kaizer Soze!

Distraught, I shoo Geoff and the other husband/dad in the couple out to CVS pronto for more poison while I break it to the Mrs. that what we thought was going to be a nice afternoon of getting drunk and catching up is now turning into the fumigation of her lovely home and all of our children. And then there was the phone call to the friends we were staying with, where we put our heads and bodies on their nice guestroom pillows and near their clean, well-groomed children for the past four days.

All three of their kids happened to be getting haircuts that day, and were given a clean bill of health. The family was remarkably gracious under the circumstances, and declined to evict us. With our (questionably de-loused) heads hung in shame, we left the next morning as originally scheduled and tried not to think about the unwelcome parting gift we'd left the City of Philadelphia.

Exeunt.

I Shall Focus My PhD in Physics on the Infinity Scarf

I have some lofty goals in life. Goals which might seem a bit unorthodox or overly ambitious, but they are my goals nonetheless, and I'm not ashamed of them. One of these goals is to get a PhD in physics with a focus on the infinity scarf.

Just forget for a moment that I barely passed high school physics. Also please disregard the fact that kind, short, portly old Dr. Sengupta (whom I sincerely hope is still alive after all these years) felt sorry for me, because I had absolutely no grasp on the subject whatsoever, other than to rotely memorize “F = MA and other formulas that I would just plug numbers into, hoping I would eventually get the right answer on our weekly quizzes and exams.

BTW, I said “F = MA” just now like I know what I’m talking about, but I’m actually not even sure if F does in fact = MA? The last time I put those three letters together was in a text message where I abbreviated “Fuck My Ass.” (I was telling a friend that I’d just run out of Double Stuff Oreos, and I wasn't happy about it).

Anyway. 

I’m utterly fascinated by the infinity scarf. So much so that I think it’s time for a life-pivot and a PhD in physics focusing on the infinity scarf.

See, infinity is an abstract concept describing something without any limit and is relevant in a number of fields, predominantly mathematics and physics. (And yes, I lifted the prior sentence verbatim from Wikipedia, including the italics and except for the word “see,” so don’t bother checking). 

But one of the fields infinity is not seemingly relevant in is fashion, and yet, much like infinity itself, the infinity scarf is everywhere!

I confess to owning a half dozen of these scarves, as opposed to an infinite number, but I question whether the name “infinity scarf” is truly accurate? Is the infinity scarf truly a scarf “without any limit?” There are often strings dangling off of an infinity scarf, so to what extent does the infinity scarf intersect with string theory? Surely there are many ways to wear and tie the infinity scarf, and surely many infinity scarves exist in the world and more are being made each day as global demand for the infinity scarf soars ever higher. (Because they look very cute with a pair of ballet flats and a leather moto jacket).

And yet . . . I do not think this particular scarf can truly be called “infinite?” Surely, logic and basic precepts of mathematics and physics tell us that the number of these scarves, as well as the number of possible ways to wear them, are both quantifiable.

That's my theory, anyway, and I aim to prove it in a lengthy dissertation.

All of these questions and more shall be the subject of my PhD in physics, and I will be starting a GoFundMe/Kickstarter campaign to pay for my tuition. Eat your heart out, Richard Feynman,* here comes One Hot Mess!

*Theoretical physicist and winner of the 1965 Nobel Prize in physics (1918-1988).