O is for Opinion, Please

A couple of weeks ago I got a mysterious envelope in the mail. It was addressed to the resident of our address, and it contained 2 crisp dollar bills along with an exclusive invitation to join the Knowledge Panel.

According to my letter, KnowledgePanel, now part of Ipsos, was created by two Stanford University professors in 1999. Ipsos randomly selects only a few addresses each year to receive an invitation to join KnowledgePanel, a group that takes part in national polls and surveys. 

So academic.
So elite.
So too good to be true.

The letter continued, Our panel helps us track national trends in the economy, politics, entertainment, sports and new products. We would like your household to be a part of this important research.

Of course I was suspicious! Who are these Ipsos people who want me to "join" them, and what does that even mean? A little internet research later, I learned that, according to Wikipedia, Ipsos "is a multinational market research and a consulting firm based in Paris."

I also discovered that, according to Reddit, they are pretty much who and what they say they are: a French market research firm who wants my American opinion.

Oo la la!

Life Lesson: “Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.” ~William Shakespeare, All's Well That Ends Well

N is for Not Fine, Thanks

Perhaps the best advice I've heard about coping with all the disruption and anxiety of social and physical distancing is to take some time to search your self and see what is working for you now that wasn't before. Without denying the hardship and loss of anyone else, I acknowledge that the pace of this life suits me. I can tell that fewer options, less time spent on shopping and other errands, and more sleep are good for me.

So if I could only set aside concern for the good and welfare of others, (a precept that is baked into my life's work), I might say that I was more than fine.

Life Lesson: Look at the big picture.

M is for Murder Most Entertaining

We solved our murder box mystery yesterday. Over the last couple of months, sifting through evidence, cracking codes, and reading crime reports and letters out loud, has become sort of a Saturday morning routine, like cartoons for grown-ups.

When I was younger, the relatively new field of forensic anthropology was fascinating to me. So much so that, for Christmas one year, my mother gave me a ticket to a seminar at the Smithsonian on the topic. Back then, I used to read gory murder mysteries with gusto, and I was equally captivated by anything to do with serial killers and other true crime.

But like cartoons, I kind of feel like the older I get, the less entertaining someone else's misfortune is. Oh, I still get sucked in by the odd Dateline or 48 Hours, but it's harder to shake the knowledge that real lives were shattered, and at least one was ended by the events that I'm sitting on my couch watching.

The murder box made it easy to stay detached. Clearly fictional, the setting was 85 years in the past; none of the principals were even alive. And it was fun.

But still. It's a little twisted, isn't it?

Life Lesson: "Vicarious living is only slightly less impossible than vicarious eating." ~Mason Cooley

L is for Let it Go

It wasn't until mid-afternoon that I noticed something was wrong with my Apple Watch. I couldn't check my activity rings by tapping on the complication I conveniently placed at the bottom of the screen. So, I did what anyone would advise me to do: I restarted my watch.

Or, at least I tried. It took a couple of attempts to move the slider all the way over to the right. Once the dark screen was replaced by the glowing apple which was replaced by Mickey Mouse, I swiped down to put in my passcode. The first two numbers went in, but all the tapping in the world could not get my previously so reliable little device to unlock.

It soon became clear to me that the bottom of my screen was not working, and upon closer examination I gasped to discover that there was a thin crack running the right to left diagonal from top to bottom. There were a couple of small chips missing from the edges of the crystal as well. My watch was toast. A quick glance at the activity app on my phone showed that it had stopped tracking me when I restarted it, and so, there would be no more syncing of steps and stands and exercise, and the day would be a wash when it came to my fitness stats.

It took me a minute to figure out what that meant to me. Would my activity be that tree in an empty forest? Did I have permission to slack off until Monday, which was the soonest I could get a replacement? Was I doing whatever I was doing for me or for my watch? Upon answering that last question, I sighed and shrugged, determined to tough it out for 48 hours.

Life Lesson: "Integrity is doing the right thing even when no one is watching." ~C.S. Lewis

K is for Keep Growing, Would Ya?

T'was on February 16 that my fingernails were clipped, cleaned, and manicured, professionally. On that day, I oped for a lovely neutral gel polish, and as much as I loved the way they turned out, I have been regretting that decision since March 16, when the governor's stay at home order made it quite clear that any kind of repair or touch-up was indefinitely out of the question.

Oh, I did my best to DIY, ordering hard-to-come-by kits and watching online videos, but my nails became some weird science experiment: natural at the bottom and soft and peeling at the top. I've continued to work on it with files and clippers, and yes, I confess, my teeth. Finally, three months later, the gel is almost gone: I have just a few pseudo-French tips and those persistent, waning gibbous smears clinging to my thumbs.

Oh! How happy I will be to see my natural nails... the better to manicure, again. Or not.

Life Lesson: All in good time.

J is for Jack Sh*t

The term popped into my mind as I was lying on my new exercise mat, not exercising, but staring at the ceiling and feeling completely uninspired by anything beginning with J.

Where did that phrase even come from? I wondered. And does it mean anything or nothing?

Like, you don't know jack, means you don't know anything, but it's worth jack, means it's worth nothing.

What the heck? My curiosity roused me from the floor and over to the computer.

It turns out that the origin of this phrase is a mystery, although there is some unconvincing speculation about "Jack" historically being a common diminutive and thus Jack shit is worth even less than regular shit. That seems very improbable to me, but what do I know?

And it actually does mean both anything and nothing, which is a lot like this alphabiography.

Life Lesson: "Words are all we have." ~Samuel Beckett

I is for Intrinsic

In an effort to keep those kids engaged with school and rescue myself from 30 cringy minutes of small talk, I have planned fun activities for my virtual office hours. Today, any student with the gumption to log in and join the conference was presented with a scavenger hunt and the promise of a reward if successfully completed.

The ten items were common enough to ensure success within 10 minutes, and also designed to start conversations. The first was a book, What is it about? later it was a photograph, Who is it of? Where was it taken? and something old, This is my baby blanket; these are my cleats from when I was 7; this has been in the house since it was built... 5 years ago.

Our half-hours flew by, and I spent the afternoon writing 8 short notes of thanks and encouragement (and the challenge to invite at least one other student next week), which I dropped into an envelope along with a slim Air Head candy wrapped in shiny foil.

I have hope that they will know which is the true prize.

Life Lesson: "Every moment happens twice: once outside and once inside." ~Zadie Smith