Double Meanings

Rebecca and I were off at nature camp for a few weeks, and one of the things they taught us to do is canoeing. At the end, we went on a three day canoeing trip. One thing about canoes is that every name of a part of the boat, paddle, or stroke has a double meaning, thus a good way to make puns—or unsuspecting weird statements. (I can make canoe puns, canoe?) For example, the first rule of canoeing is to 'always keep your butt covered'. This is because the end of the paddle is called the 'butt'. If it gets scratched, it'll hurt your palm.

The paddle parts also have a song, "Butt, neck, throat, shaft, flare blade tip, flare blade tip, flare blade tip" sung twice, then "These are the paddle parts". It fits nicely to 'London Bridge' but there's also a Bob Dylan version that I personally prefer.

One night we were out canoeing, and Rebecca and I were sharing a boat. We were having fun making physics demonstrations of the doppler effect and sonic boom, when I complained, "My palm hurts."

"Oh," Rebecca says. "I'm sorry. Is your butt scratched?"


Sachi

Anecdotes From Camp #1

We were absolutely surrounded by mosquitos; one would land on my shoulder, and I'd slap it away. Then one would land on my arm, and I'd brush it off. Then I'd spot one on my side, and I'd brush it away. We couldn't get a moment's peace! The four of us were slaping at mosquitos here and there. "I should do the Macarena!" someone said. "Hey, I bet the Macarena was invented by someone trying to keep away mosquitos" said someone else. We realized how much sense this made: you keep moving so they can't land as well, and you slap your shoulders, hips, head, etc. to get rid of the mosquitos. "But you never slap your back," someone noted. "Oh, but that's why you turn around each time!"

* * *

I had thought of another story to tell, but by the time I was writing this post I forgot what it was, so I'll just leave other noteworthy moments from camp for other posts. :)

-Rebecca

The Marines Recruiters' Latest Weapon...the Telephone

I just finished an awkward telephone conversation with a Marines recruiter. Or, I shouldn't say 'finished' because I ended it abruptly. I hated doing it, but what other option did I have? I did not want to join the Marines, but I also didn't want to be disrespectful. The conversation went something like this:
(my mom answers the telephone, then says something about "Philip?" and soon gives it to me. She warns me that it is the Marines trying to recruit me and that I should say "thank you, I'm not interested" and hang up)
"Hello, is this Philip?"
"Yes."
"How are you today?"
"Fine."
"What do you know about what the Marines do?"
"They go on navy ships and do land-based operations on other continents."
The recruiter was impressed, and answered excitedly, "Yes, that's right." At this point, I realized that maybe I was going too far with the polite conversation.
The recruiter continued: "What do you intend to do after high school?"
Intent on crushing his hopes, I answered swiftly, "liberal arts college."
The recruiter began to ask me more about my supposed liberal arts interests. I found myself mentioning that I was also interested in science and engineering. He was quick to get back to the Marines recruitment: "Do you know how you can apply science and engineering skills in the Marines?"
I didn't know what to say. I wound up saying, "What?" He repeated. I decided that I had to do what I hate doing--abruptly cutting off a telephone conversation. But I had to. So I said, as rapidly as I could, "Thank you, but I'm not interested. Goodbye." And hung up. Oh my goodness gracious. Please don't make me do that again.


-Philip

How Not to Communicate

Communication is a very important thing. For example, if you want a staff member to attend orientation, you should tell her about it before the summer begins. Except the place where I am working didn't, and I just found out two days beforehand. Relevant to this, today we had a workshop on communication. I am always skeptical about these kind of workshops—the theories are shaky at best and often ridiculous, or worse, just plain stupid. This particular theory was called 'Non-violent Communication'. It had two mascots of sorts—the giraffe and the jackal—that were used to symbol speaking kindly and violently respectively. The giraffe, it turns out, was chosen because it had the biggest heart proportionally to its body. Talk about non-scientific.

At one point in the workshop we were filling out a worksheet. The first question went:

Bill and Joe were in an ocean. A big wave splashes over them. Bill laughs because he needs ____________. Joe is crying and frightened because he needs ____________. We started to answer. Suggestions for Bill were 'thrill', 'excitement', etc. The presenter explains that we need to go into more deeper needs, and suggests 'stimulation'. OK... Next, Joe. Someone suggested 'his head above the water' and I laughed, agreeing. 'Air to breathe', 'not to drown' were other suggestions. The presenter is trying unsuccessfully to get people to suggest 'understanding' or 'appreciation', for some reason. Right.

My favorite question went like this:

Jack and Michael speak to their father about their problems and he gives them the same advice. Jack is thankful because he needs _________. Michael is annoyed because he needs ___________. Jack is thankful because he needs advice, I suggested, obviously. Other people suggested guidance and help. The presenter suggested 'support and nurturing'. Then we got to Michael. 'Individual attention', 'autonomy', 'recognition', the suggestions went. The presenter agreed, saying something ridiculously deep. I muttered quietly, "Michael is annoyed because he needs different advice." The person next to me laughed. Oh how complicated this presenter had made such simple things.

Now if this weren't enough, we had to practice phrasing sentences in the, "I feel ____ and ____ because I need ________" format. After half an hour of working with these emotion and needs cards to say things like, "I feel irritated and impatient because I need rest and relaxation" instead of "You are too loud" or, as a joke, "I feel stimulated and fulfilled because I need appreciation and nurturing" instead of "You're just like my mother", we began to make fun of each other and the program in the phrases. "How are you feeling?" "Hungry." "That must mean you're feeling pretty irritated and impatient." "What do you need?" "I need lunch." "So you're telling me you need growth, health, and safety?" Oh dear. I think someone would get strangled if they tried to communicate like this.


Sachi

Indesireable Reflexes

So, over the past few weeks I have managed to embarrass myself with several less-than-enjoyable reflexes of mine.

Prod-Me Marena!
Most likely many of you know (and hopefully some of you haven't yet discovered) that I'm extremely ticklish. If I'm poked in the right place on either side of my waist, I will double-over and make a very high-pitched squeak.
Most undignified.
When people discover this, it's usually the source of much amusement for a least a minute or two. At a cast party, my friend took up sport of prodding me and listening in to the cacophony of squeals that I made.
Another one of my friends decided to join in on the fun. Unfortunately, (or rather, fortunately for me), it only works if I'm poked in the precise spot. My friend was unable to find it, and just ended up poking me several times in the stomach in search, while I looked up at his utter dismay.
Sucker. I'll never tell!

Raiding Woes
To you all, I might be Marena, high school geek extraordinaire, but I must inform you all that the geekiness does not end there.
Oh no, my friends!
I must confess to my alter-ego, Estar, level 70 night elf druid and expert raid healer, from the far off land of Azeroth in the game World of Warcraft!
Yep, I've been a WoWhead for four years, and currently my main character, Estar, is a healer for large group raids. Basically, for you non-gamers out there, 10 of us go in and fight monsters. When the people doing lots of damage take a lot of damage themselves, I heal them. Pretty simple, right?
Not quite. Unfortunately, there's a lot of pressure on the healers to keep everyone alive, and I was the worse of 3 healers in this 10 man, so I was a little high strung. To make matters worse, I was going along with my friend's group, which I didn't know, and didn't know me, and therefore would find it easier to get mad at me if I screwed everything up.
To save everyone a lot of time in one part, we were all to get killed, and then be brought back to life by a healer on the other side of a big gap, to save us all half an hour of getting to the other side.
So we're all standing there, waiting for one of the guys to bring over some monsters to kill us all.
We waited for a while, and being a space cadet and all, I soon forgot what we were all doing.
Then the monsters came.
People taking damage everywhere! My brain just started doing what I had trained it to do for so long: heal as fast as possible. I ran around a bit behind them all, healing myself as I went.
"Estar, what are you DOING?" I start to hear over voice chat.
Oh darn. Oh darn. I just healed, didn 't I. Oh darn. I am SUCH AN IDIOT!
"Estie, were you...." I recognized that confused baritone as my closest in-game friend. "Estie, were you just...healing?? Ahahahahhahahha...."
Hmmph. Some in-game best friend/fiancee! (Just a joke, don't y'all go getting your panties in a bunch!)
The next voice was that of the raid's main healer. "Estar...why are you over there...you'll be real lucky if I can reach you."
Oh dear lord. If he can't reach my body, as I ran too far away from him in my terror, I'll have to run all the way back through the dungeon to where the group is, while they WAIT FOR ME FOR LIKE, 5 MINUTES.
I could never live that down.
To my utter relief, the main healer's voice came back on again. "You are so lucky, Estar."
The little window opened for me to accept resurrection.
I accepted it, hands shaking.
And people wonder why I don't raid more often.

Marena

Airplane!

Most people can agree that air travel is a generally unpleasant experience. All that rushing to get somewhere, then waiting for sometimes hours once you get there... (O'Hara airport anyone?) Today, I had to take three different flights to get to Vancouver, which meant three times the chances for awkwardness.

I'm Chinese, completely and totally. There's some family history crap about this random ancestoral island I'm supposed to belong to... (I never really paid attention when my dad mentioned it, so I can't tell you more than that.) But anyway, for some reason, random people seem to think I'm Japanese. To the point where a flight attendant kept saying phrases to me to Japanese as I boarded the plane.

There's probably more for me to write, but honestly I'm dead tired from sleeping four hours the night before, and jetlagish stuffs. >.<

<3 Helen

Our Automated World

Today, my dad and I went to the Super Stop and Shop in Dedham to buy various things. The Super Stop and Shop is an amazing supermarket that we sometimes go to on weekends to buy supplies that can't be found easily in any other one place. I like to do the driving, because the route is nice and it is good practice. Another thing I get practice with there is using the automated check-out counter--the wave of the future! Soon everyone will be using them, so the sooner one learns to use them, the better. For the most part, the automated check-out is extremely convenient. You just go there, push buttons on the touch-screen, swipe your items over the laser beam, and put them in bags at the end of the conveyor belt. Then you pay by puting the money through a slot. No other humans are needed, and it is very nice. But today, we must have bought more than we usually do, because the machine wanted a signature. It started talking: "Please use the electronic pen to sign your name on the signature tablet," it said in that female-ish computer voice, "after signing, press the 'signature complete' button on the monitor screen." We could not find the signature tablet, and kept trying to write on different places, none of which worked. Meanwhile, the computer kept repeating its instructions over and over again, as if saying them many times would help us figure out what to do. It must have said it at least thirty times, because we stood there for several minutes, trying to figure out what to do. At one point, I thought it got louder, as if it thought we were deaf. Maybe I was imagining things. Eventually, I noticed a button that said: Need help/cancel sale. We tried pushing it, and the voice said, "Please stand by. Help is on the way." "Oh no," I moaned. "Now they must be sending a person to help us." We desperately tried to figure out what to do, still in vain. Soon another customer came up behind us. Seeing our trouble, he pointed to a little screen on the counter and said that it was the place on which to sign. My dad signed there, but still the computer repeated, "Please use the electronic pen..." Then we realized that it wanted us to press the "signature complete" button. We did, and all was well. "Don't forget to take the receipt," the computer reminded us. I took it, and we left as quickly as we could.

-Philip

Chocolate, chocolate everywhere....

Recently, I found a bar of Cadbury's Milk Chocolate in my house, and I opened it. I don't know whether you've ever had Cadbury's before, but it's an English chocolate by this dude named George Cadbury (I think anyways....it's been away). Eating English chocolate has reminded of a lot of English (well, British) candy that are non-existant here in the States.

I've come to the odd conclusion that American candy just can't match up with British sweets.
Um...meaning no offense of course, I mean, I'll accept Hershey's and Reese's as much as any other person, but there's something about Cadbury's....maybe it's because there's so many different varieties out there.

~'Cilla =)

Attack of the Killer Lightbulbs

During the last month and a half, we have been having a mysterious leak in our house only when it rains especially heavily.  This would make it difficult to find the source, except that this summer we have had more than our share of really heavy rain.  Some construction workers (the same ones who tore down our railings only to realize that they didn't remember how to rebuild them) have been looking for the leak, making holes in the ceiling in different places.  They found the source yesterday, but that is beside the point.  The place where the leak comes out is next to a light bulb, so they had to make a hole around the lightbulb, with the lightbulb just hanging out.  This morning, I was sitting on the couch, having just gotten out of my bed, when suddenly I heard a loud CRASH!  I looked behind me and quickly ducked out of the way; the lightbulb had fallen farther out of the ceiling and was swinging on its wires.  I had almost been hit by a rogue lightbulb.  

-Philip

Of Car Keys and Nervous Breakdowns

Yesterday, as you probably know, Rebecca and Sachi went to camp. My mom drove Rebecca there, and I went along. My dad, meanwhile, was driving Marianne to visit relatives on Long Island, New York. Sachi and Jesse, who was also going to the same camp, were driven by Jesse's parents. When we arrived, a counselor told us to park tightly because many cars would be coming. We happened to be among the early people to arrive, so there was a lot of room, but we did what we were told and parked tightly next to a pick-up truck. We then took Rebecca into the camp, gave them the forms, and stood around for awhile, talking to people and looking at the camp. Eventually, Sachi and Jesse arrived, and soon after that we left. We got into the car and put it into reverse, only to realize that now there was no way to get out! The parking lot was parked so tightly that there was no room for manoeuvring. We tried and tried, but alas, it was in vain. It was getting hot in the car, so we got out and walked around in the woods for awhile. At some point, we met Jesse's parents coming back along the trail from the camp, and warned them that they might have trouble getting out. They looked and came to the conclusion that we were the only people parked in such a way that we couldn't escape. But being the nice people that they are, they decided to try to manoeuvre our car out anyway. Ray took our car keys and got it, backed up and just missed hitting another car by two inches, drove back in and tried turning the other way. She then came to the same conclusion that we came to long before--there was no way out. We thanked her for trying, and said goodbye, as they went to their car to leave. Just as we started to walk back to our car, Ray called out, "Here, take your car keys! Wouldn't that have been a nice development, if we drove off with your keys?" I can only wonder what would have happened if they had driven away with our keys. Since my dad was in New York, there was no way to call for him to pick us up. I suggested that we could walk to a nearby bed and breakfast inn that I knew of, but my mom said that you can't get a hotel room without car keys. I guess we could have begged the camp to give us a bunk bed to sleep in that night.

For those of you who don't know, I am close to finishing my work in the lab at MIT, and have to write a paper and make a poster to present to the other BU research people on Friday. Today I decided to come home early to work on my paper. I got a nice seat on the Riverside train because it wasn't rush hour, and I went zooming along. It seemed as though things were going well. But then, something strange happened. At the Reservoir stop, a man got in and sat next to me. He was talking loudly to nobody in sight, and I thought that was strange. I wondered if he had one of those cell phone things that you wear on your head, but I didn't see one. And he was saying the strangest things. Shouting to the rest of the train about idiot jerks at Harvard: "Go watch your water polo, idiot jerks!..." At one point he mentioned a girl in high school who if she was angry at someone, would refuse to talk to the person: "Just four-letter words. That's all she said, four-letter words all the time...She should have gone to Wellesley...she was a good writer. She could have gone to Wellesley and become a poet...that's what the girls do at Wellesley...But no, (name) was going to Wellesely, so she couldn't go there! They don't do good poetry at Princeton..." He mentioned his mother: "My mother has no respect for me. Nobody has any respect for me, not even my mother!" Then he went on to talk about how he would have had a good job, but no, his mother ruined everything! He also kept referring to someone named Victor. I don't know if he thought he was talking to me, or if he had just gone crazy. I think he was having a nervous breakdown. I saw other passengers looking at each other with strange expressions, so it was evident that they had similar thoughts. I was glad when I got off the train at Newton Center.

-Philip

Theater - the pinicle of craziness

In the past four weeks I've been in a musical at SPACE camp, and, let me tell you, nothing is expected. You can be talking to somebody and all of a sudden they'll just say, "I want a cookie." Or you can be walking down the hall and see people throwing their cast shirts (when they're not wearing them, of course) at each other. Here are a few funny stories.

I've had many injuries over the course of the four weeks I was there. Most of them have to do with my many rediculously quick costume changes. Some don't. I've gotten a sore chin from banging it on a chair in the dark, a bruised knee from banging it onto a block in the dark, a hurting rib from running full speed into somebody else while trying to get to the costume room, and a bruised temple from jarring my head on a very heavy telephone.

As one of my characters, I have an extremely ugly dress. It's brown and white striped with black polkadots. Once, I had to go to snack while wearing it. The cafeteria was full of people who kept staring at me. Somebody passed and muttered, "Theater people. Ugh."

Somebody was asigned to thank our choreographer who's last name is Baumwoll in the curtain call. When we were first blocking it, he kept forgetting how to say her name. Our assistant directer said, "It's like the thing that blows up and then the the thing over there (pointing to a wall). Somebody said, "There are lots of things over there."

-Marianne