Rubber Ducky Isn't So Fun Afterall

"Hasbro, home to the My Little Pony brand, had no comment..."

Oh my goodness, I wondered as I half-consciously listened to NPR early this morning. What could they have responded with 'no comment' to? Was the CEO laundering money? Were they smuggling drugs in Monopoly boxes?! What?? What horrifying despicable acts were they up to, those corporate mongers, those ne'er do wells!!

My interest was peaked. I listened further.

Turns out that Hasbro and other companies were refusing to disclose which chemicals they used to make their plastics softer, despite the growing concern of carcinogens by parents across the US.

Ahh, that magic buzz word, "carcinogens". Whatever did we do before the discovery of carcinogens? More importantly whatever did we do before the discovery of the effects of carcinogens... in lab rats. The newest member of the carcinogen family? Phthalates. Studies have shown that high doses of phthalates can cause reproductive problems in rodents.

If only my parents had known. All of that time wasted trying to dissuade me from getting into cars with strangers, doing drugs, swimming right after eating... what they really should have focused on was carcinogens. They were everywhere apparently. The paint in our house. My #2 pencils. Even my cute and yellow and chubby rubber ducky. Sure I was fond of him, heck he made bathtime lots of fun. Unbeknownst to me, everytime I made my way to the tubby, I was walking into a death trap.

And yet, here I sit, cancer-free. A miracle, I know. How did I manage to cheat death you ask? Maybe because I didn't eat my rubby ducky, I just bathed with it.

Anytime you read that X product has been known to cause cancer in rats, know that they are exposing these rats to a ridiculously high level of the stuff. And let me give you a quick lesson on lab rats. Lab rats are great for testing out initial drugs and therapies because they are a decent indicator -- I use the word "decent" loosely -- of how humans will respond to those same drugs and therapies. However results are rarely 100% reproducible in humans. Why? Because, surprise surprise, humans are different from rodents. Not a valid comparison.

So let your kids play with all of the phthalate based toys they want to. You can rest easy. In a few short years they'll be moving on to small communication devices that emit microwave radiation, more commonly known as the cellular phone.

Sayings Revealed

The world is your oyster!

Really? That's great! At least it would be if I ate oysters, but I don't. In fact, I don't even like oysters. If the world became my oyster, that would be akin to saying I now live in my own personal hell. I'd rather the world be my steak. Or chocolate chip cookie... Where did that saying come from anyways? Who do we have to blame for this fatuitous proverb?

None other than the late, great William Shakespeare. From 'The Merry Wives of Windsor' (1600).

Falstaff: I will not lend thee a penny.
Pistol: Why, then, the world's mine oyster, Which I with sword will open.'

I wonder how many of us knew that, "The world is your oyster." was code for, "If someone doesn't give it to you, then take it by brute force." Certainly not I.

But duly noted, Willy. Duly noted.


Short end of the stick...

Question for you. Which end of the stick is the short end? By definition, can there be a short end or long end of a stick which is uniform in nature? Yeah... I didn't think so either.

But in fact there is slightly more to this saying. It is speculated that the phrase "short end of the stick" refers to an old fashioned method for carrying large objects, where a long stick is inserted through ropes or cords wrapped around the object and two people carry the object together. If the load is off-center a disproportionate burden is placed on the person with the... "short end of the stick".

Hmm... This one actually makes sense.

Don't look a gift horse in the mouth!

A little background on the meaning of this saying: When horses age their teeth begin to project further forward each year and so their age can be estimated by checking how prominent the teeth are.

This proverb means that when given a present, don't question the value of it. After all its free.

So, if you get a horse for free don't look at its teeth to see how old it is. Just blindly invest in a stable, food, hay, vet bills... Oh and get emotionally attached hoping that your "gift" isn't knocking on death's door.

See where I'm going with this? Now, I'm not saying to look at the horse's teeth in front of the person who gave it to you. That would be plain rude. But when they leave it might be wise to take a gander, just to see what you're working with. Then if teeth are a little more prominent than you'd like, put a bow on that sucker and hand it off.

Swingers

Watch kids when they're sitting on a stool or chair. They love dangling their feet, swinging them every which way, with careless abandon. Whenever I see that it makes me smile. Why? Because I am reminded of a simpler time, dare I say a better time... before I discovered foot rests.

I was meeting a friend for dinner last week at the Mexican Subway, aka Chipotle, and he was running late so I decided to go in and wait for him. I picked a table next to the window for better visibility and sat on the stool. Instinctively I ran my feet along the pole in search of a place to rest my them.

Nothing! Panic set in. Why was there no where to put my feet?! Had Chipotle, on the journey to greatness overlooked this one tiny yet instrumental detail in the design of their establishment? I looked down in disbelieve, and then I saw it. The foot rest was on the table.

Phew! That was a close call.

Have you ever had to sit for a long time without a place to rest your feet? Its torture. There's something unsettling about dangling feet for an adult. I don't know why, but there just is. Somewhere along the path to adulthood we lost our ability to simultaneously eat and swing our feet. I am writing this to remind you that this was not always the case.

So the next time you find yourself in a situation where there is no place to rest your feet, remember the younger more free-spirited you... The you before runner's knee and a torn meniscus, and then find someplace else to sit.


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Why Is The Sky Blue?

One of my best friends and I were talking about kids and how they ask really annoying questions like, "Why is the sky blue?" And then when you answer with what you think to be the easiest and least disputable answer, "Because God made it so," what do you get in response?

"Why?"
"Cause God made everything."
"Why?"
"Cause he likes making things."
"Why?"
"He's good with his hands."
"Why?"
"Cause he went to a good trade school."
Why?

Then the inevitable happens. You say what every adult is NOT supposed to say to an inquisitive mind.

"Because... I... say so!! No more whys."

My friend gave me a better solution to avoiding this whole question asking tennis match. If you don't want kids bugging you with their asinine questions, then why not just answer the question?

"Why is the sky blue?"

"Well little Wilber, I'm glad you asked that. The blue color of the sky is due to Rayleigh scattering. As light moves through the atmosphere, most of the longer wavelengths pass straight through. Little of the red, orange and yellow light is affected by the air, cause as you may or may not already know those colors aren't absorbed by the gas molecues in air. However, much of the shorter wavelength light is absorbed by the gas molecules. The absorbed blue light is then radiated in different directions. It gets scattered all around the sky, hence, the blue. "

And then for added effect, after you've given this speech, smile at the kid smugly, daring him with your eyes, to ask you "Why?" Go on ahead kid. TRY me.

The average child will know when he's lost the "Why" game and gracefully bow out. Only the brazen ones will challenge you. For them, its time to play hardball. Physics practice problems. I'm talking vectors, the speed of wave equation, make them memorize the speed of light, the works! See how long they can stand doing work when their peers are outside livin' the high life.

If at that point you still can't kill the kid's spirit, you may have bite the bullet and actually "teach" them things, real things. Scary thought, I know, especially since I for one do not really know much about anything of relevance. And the things I do know I don't know in much detail.

You could do the right thing and help foster an interactive fun environment of learning... Or, you can sit them in front of the TV and hope they forget their question. Maybe its the engineer in me, but I for one vote for the former.

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This blog post is dedicated to AH. Thanks for being my voice of... what's the opposite of reason?

Takes one to know one!!

Remember this?

"You're an idiot!!"
"Oh yeah????" Think Kara think... I got it! "Takes one to know one!!"

What?

How did that make it into the mainstream as a comeback? I ask you. You're essentially saying with this come back, "Yes, I certainly am an idiot. And so are you. We're BOTH idiots, HAH!!" And I feel like that's not quite the point I wanted to make during a heated playground tiff. What I would have liked to say was something along the lines of, "No, YOU'RE the idiot." Maybe not in those exact words.

Who taught me that, I want to know. And why did I accept that as the status quo? That wasn't supposed to rhyme... Anyways, I'm a little upset. I feel like I really wore that phrase out as a child and I wish someone, anyone, would have helped me see the light.

How many times had I admitted to being an idiot, a fat pig, a four-eyed freak, a smelly dork, a loser, an ugly fugly... whatever that is... Me. That's what it was. Cause I owned up to it. I stood before my peers, opened my mouth and said, "I'd just like everyone to know, that I am an ugly fugly.

*GASP*

"But its okay, cause that guy's an ugly fugly too."

Buck Naked vs Butt Naked

I used to think I was pretty well educated, with an IQ almost at the genius level, but when approached and asked which was the proper phrase, "buck naked" or "butt naked" I suddenly realized I still had much to learn. So I turned to my dear friend Wikipedia, the online encylopedia, for guidance and enlightenment:

Dating from the 1920's the expression buck naked commonly means completely or totally naked or without a "stitch" (as opposed to partially naked). Synonyms include "bare naked", "buck-arse naked", and "butt naked" (also spelled, facetiously, "butt nekkid"). In the South, "buck naked" or "butt naked" means not in your house, out looking for trouble on Saturday night and wearing no clothes.

So, even though it originated as buck naked, apparently both buck naked and butt naked are acceptable.

I hope that clears up the confusion...

How much wood you ask?

How much wood could a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?

"While it makes for a great tongue-twister, the sad answer is: probably none. Woodchucks aren't particularly tree-oriented, and while they can climb to find food, they prefer being on the ground. In fact, they got the name "woodchuck" from British trappers who couldn't quite wrap their tongues around the Cree Indian name "wuhak."

More commonly (and accurately) known as groundhogs, these animals are closely related to squirrels, marmots, and prairie dogs, with which they share an affinity for burrowing. And actually, a burrowing woodchuck can chuck dirt, in the form of tunnels that can reach five feet deep and as much as 35 feet in length.

So, based on that number, New York State wildlife expert Richard Thomas calculated that if a woodchuck could chuck wood, he could chuck as much as 700 pounds of the stuff."

Which eight year old would have known that?!

The Dating Game

If you're ever at a party and its getting a little dull, one surefire way to peak everyone's interest is to yell out "Hey guys wanna play a game?!"

The response? "Hell yes!" Why? Because games are fun. A good game can forge lifelong friendships between strangers. Who cares about surrounding yourself with people who share your values and have similar likes and dislikes. Very overrated. What I need is someone who can correctly interpret my frantic scribblings in a heated game of Pictionary! I need someone who knows how to catch my phrase! And I especially need someone who knows that there is no musical called "Fiddler on a Hot Tin Roof", lest we have another repeat of the Scene It Fiasco of '08... Deborah.

Still it was fun. Why? Because it was a game. No hard feelings. No resentment. No loss of self-esteem. Everyone could rest easy. I would not be bringing "baggage" to the next trivia game night.


Another kind of game is sports. Take soccer for example. I love soccer. I've played since I was eight. Over the years I've grown taller, stronger, faster, better. Of course so did everyone else, hence why I'm in business school and not playing professionally. Still, I continue to play for recreation because its fun. I love the rush I get from winning. And though it could be pretty devastating to lose, it was never so devastating that a "suicide" soda and chili cheese fries from the snack stand couldn't rectify. Or now, a cold beer.

And after I lose a match I never think to myself, "I never want to touch another soccer ball as long as I live! I hate soccer!! Why is soccer so darn hard to figure out?! What am I doing wrong?"


Which brings me to another so-called "game", The Dating Game. The Dating Game as far as I can tell really isn't a game at all. Games have rules. Maybe the dating game has rules, and I just don't know them. In which case, where is our governing body?? There's the National Football League and the National Basketball Association. Where's the National Dating Association?! I need rules. Instead I get nothing. No coach. No ref. No halftime huddle. No cool jersey with my last name on the back. And to add insult to injury, I don't even get a snack and Capris Sun at the end of it all. I just go home. Defeated, bitter, and all the more confused.

So if not a game, how could we describe this enigmatic world of dating? Enigma...conundrum... mystery... Eureka!!

"The Dating Puzzle"

Puzzles are a kind of game, right? They're somewhat fun to do, at least initially. And much like dating, a puzzle really has no rules except to start with the edges first, then the sides and then work your way to the middle hoping that it gets easier along the way. What's annoying is when you think you're getting close to finishing and you realize you're missing pieces or there are random pieces from from a different puzzle mixed in.

Many a puzzle has been started but never finished, because of some of reasons some mentioned above. Missing pieces, lack of time... Or the actual puzzle wasn't quite looking like the picture on the box, so you moved on. And ever notice that you'll rarely go back to complete a puzzle you started years before. Even if you tried to gently place completed sections back into the box, they always come apart and you still feel like you're starting from scratch.

But if you've got all of the pieces, help from your family and friends, time to devote, and you're willing to walk away and come back with fresh eyes and a better attitude, you can enjoy that sense of fulfillment/relief one only gets from completing a puzzle with many little pieces.

I know what you're thinking:

TA DAA!!! Its the picture on the box!! No great surprise there, I know.

But that's how dating is. Hopefully most of us already know what a good relationship looks like. We're just waiting for it to look like the picture on the box.

Bedbugs... Don't let them bite YOU!

"Night Night - Sleep Tight
Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite!!"

First off, if I'm not mistaken, let means allow. And I don't think I would ever allow a bug -- bed or otherwise -- to bite me assuming I had a choice. Secondly, how in the hell do you expect me to sleep tight when you've just alerted me to the fact that I have bugs in my bed?

As a kid I remember hearing this sleepytime rhyme and thinking, how cute. Friendly little bedbugs that slept alongside me through the night. All I needed to do was make sure I didn't "let" them bite me. Easy enough. I assumed these bedbugs were rational. I could probably level with them. I'd let them sleep in my bed as long as they didn't bite me. Deal?

It wasn't until I was older I learned the harsh truth. Bedbugs were not rational, nor would they sleep alongside me. I'd sleep. They'd latched onto my skin and feed on my blood. Bedbugs were not my friends. Mind you, I've never been exposed to them, at least not that I'm aware of... There was that period when I studied abroad in London and lived in a dorm with very questionable sleeping accommodations, but even then I don't think there were bedbugs.

Back to the rhyme. Tiny blood thirsty bugs in my bed and I'm supposed to not let them bite me. I couldn't step outside of my apartment this summer without being attacked by North Carolina mosquitoes, and this was while I was awake. Asleep, I stand no chance. I don't really do much when I'm sleeping except for snore and occasionally sleep talk. Could I annoy them with my snoring? Trick them into thinking I was awake with my nonsensical babblings?

What could one do to keep from being bitten by bedbugs? I did some research and here's what I found:

Apparently bedbugs don't like light. So if you have a light source quickly accessible from your bed, turn it on at about an hour before dawn. This is usually the time when bedbugs are most active. When you do this, they will scatter. Oh and this can't be any old light source, say a lamp, normally accessible from a bed. No no my friend, you'll need a flashlight or a torch. So, dust off your old torch -- should be in storage next to your pitchfork -- and get ready to catch some bedbugs! As they scatter grab a dust pan and brush (also kept next to the bed), and sweep the bugs into the pan, THEN immediately sweep them into a cup or mug full of water (also kept next to your bed?) where the bugs will drown quickly. Dispose of the water down the sink or toilet. Disinfect the mattress, skirting boards and so on regularly.

OR

If you live in the 21st century, DDT will also do the trick. I tried to think of a way to update the rhyme given this new information:

"Night Night - Sleep Tight
Find Your Torch Light
Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite!!"

But I'm not quite sure how I feel about small children armed with torches... Its just that I couldn't think of anything that rhymed with Dichloro-Diphenyl-Trichloroethane.

24 - The Show of Diminishing Returns

I'm about to write a review on the hit television show 24. (Yes, I know I'm years behind the masses.) Anyways, I'm MBA student Kara Franklin - and my Fall Break felt like the longest Fall Break of my life. All events in this blog occur in abbreviated real time.

**********************************

At the recommendation of many, I finally broke down and watched the first season of 24. I had a week off for fall break and thought, perfect! I'll get to watch the whole thing, with no commercials. No distractions. It'll be great.

I was really looking forward to my 24 experience. I love action films and anything to do with espionage. Plus everyone and I mean everyone told me I was going to be forever changed after watching this series. I'd become so addicted that I'd have to watch all of the seasons.

Day 1 of Fall Break, I arranged my junk food on the coffee table, popped in disc one, and began my journey down action movie lane

12am - 1am:
Wow!! The setup. Crazy. This is great! I'm hooked!

1am - 6am:
Who knew so much could go down in the middle of the night?! I marveled at the intricate plot which was only getting better by the minute, and loved that I had 18 more hours to enjoy. At the same time I was kicking myself for not grabbing Season 2. What was I going to do when I finished that final episode?!

7am - ?
At about 7ish I started to loose momentum. Then by 8 or 9 in the morning I finished my last glass of the 24 Kool-Aid. It left a bitter taste in my mouth. The honeymoon was over. Why, you might be wondering to yourself? EVERYONE loves 24. Well there are many reasons, but I've highlighted the main ones down below:

Reason #1:
Okay, so I'm no skeptic. I'm not. My favorite show right now is about an alien from outer space living a double life as a Kansas farmboy by day and a superhero by... well I guess he's technically both all of the time, but anyways. The point is that I love that show which goes to show that as long as I have a little advance warning, I can adjust my frame of reference in order to maximize my media viewing experience. I didn't really do to much adjusting for 24. Mostly because whenever I watch anything having to do with special divisions of the government dealing in covert operations, I always think to myself, somewhere this is actually happening. Our CIA agents are doing this crazy 007 stuff while I'm asleep soundly in my bed, completely oblivious. I find that exciting. Every night I almost die, but at the last minute some trained professional swoops in and takes out the bad guy removing me yet again from harm's way. My point: I feel like I went into this with a fairly open mind.

I was eating it up. All of it. Except there was one thing I couldn't get past. Again, I'm no skeptic. But I dunno about this 24 hour premise. I mean I've pulled some crazy all-nighters in my day. I'm talking all night study sessions right up until an 8:30am final. So I know more than anyone that it is possible to go on very little sleep. But after that final, you'd better believe I was in a coma in my dorm room for the rest of the day.

The only way you could get 24 solid hours out of me, I don't care how exciting you made my day, is if I'd woken up at 11:59pm. Then maybe I'd be able to stick it out. But if in the opening scene, I'm getting ready for bed I'm assuming that means I was up all day, so you're going to get 8, maybe 9 hours out of me at best, and then I'd be MIA for a few episodes, cause there's absolutely no way... And It was so inconsistent. Some people looked tired, others didn't. Jack Bauer was SO tired that he nodded off sitting up at noon, but seemed surprisingly refreshed as he neared the end of his day. No one fell asleep at the wheel. I feel like adrenaline could only take you so far. After that, I'd better see you doing a few lines of something, otherwise, its just not believable.

Reason #2:
If you're going to create a show that takes place over the course of 24 hours in "real time" then perhaps you should take EXTRA care to ensure that your cast looks the same - only filthier more haggard looking - while filming a season. People had longer hair in some episodes, shorter hair, different styles. I saw no 5 o'clock shadows. My favorite - One character lopped off about 4 inches of her hair from one hour to the next, and not only that, but there was NO mention of it in the script.

Reason #3:
How do you get kidnapped twice in one day?! Why didn't anyone ever need to use the bathroom? And why on earth could no one kill Jack Bauer? He was the easiest of targets, always wandering around dark fields or hiding out in dark alleys alone, unarmed, and screaming into his cell phone. For a special forces federal agent, he sure wasn't very discreet. Heck, give me a gun and I'll take him out. Anything to shave off a few hours...

Reason #4:

***** SPOLIER ALERT*****

Nina, the mole... Really? Do you seriously expect me to believe that amidst all the confusion of trying to capture everyone in "real time", the cameraman conveniently forgot to include footage of Nina colluding with the enemy? And what you're also telling me is that if Jack Bauer had just killed Nina when the people she was working for told him to in the first place, everyone could have gone home and gotten some much needed sleep? Somehow I doubt that.

Yes, despite my growing loathing for the show, with each passing hour, I still finished it. I figured once I'd hit the 8th hour it was really too late to turn back. Plus I guess I was grasping at some thin glimmer of hope that there would be some twist at the end, that would tie it all together and make sense of the sheer madness of it all... the outlandish storyline, poor editing, cast of zombies. But that hope was never realized.

24 hours of excitement. Seemed like a good idea at first. Like eating a carton of ice cream. First couple of bowls are damn good. Then after a while you just feel sick.

From now on I think I'll just stick to a show that doesn't insult my intelligence... Thank God for Smallville.

CAPTCHA If They Can!

Picture this. I'm online trying to order tickets for a concert. I fill out all of the necessary information and then I get to the point right before the order screen. Of course they want to make sure that I'm not spamming the site, which is fine. Precautions are good. I'll jump through one extra hoop. Give me a series of numbers and letters, and I'll retype them into a little box below, so that you know my purchase is legit.

Before I continue, I just need to give props to the genius(es) behind this ground-breaking technology. I mean seriously, I can't imagine that there would be ANY way for anyone to get around this set-up. I bet this is coming straight from NASA. No one and I mean NO one will be purchasing tickets from this site without clearance from CAPTCHA.

So anyways, I stare at my series of letters and numbers and think to myself... if only I'd had the foresight to drop acid before venturing on my ticket buying journey. Because only then would I be able to decipher this strange Lewis Carroll* font.

Beads of sweat start to form at my brow as I stare hard at the code. Come on Kara, come on. You can do this. You can crack this. I see that that's a z... but is that another Z or a 7?





Okay, no I can't crack this one. Refresh.






Damnit!! What is this? What does this say?!

I put off my purchase and decided to get to the bottom of this madness. What the heck did CAPTCHA stand for anyways? Wiki Answers!!

Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart...

Oh really?? Did I miss a stage in my mental development that would have permitted me to read these characters? Had my Speak & Spell led me down the wrong path of learning yet again?

Then Wikipedia goes on to say -

"Another way to make segmentation difficult is to crowd symbols together. This, though, is often very difficult for humans to read..."

Hmm... seems a little counter productive to me, but what do I know? I'm just a human being trying to order a couple of concert tickets for me and my mom.

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*Disclaimer: There has been no documented evidence to show that Lewis Carroll relied on drugs to gain inspiration. One would argue that his book "Through the Looking Glass" is evidence enough, else how could any man come up with such utter nonsense... But, I've researched this, and its just not true.

When Life Hands You Lemons...

Now let me get this straight... Life is handing me lemons, I'm assuming for free... just flat out giving me lemons... And you want me to turn around and purchase sugar, a large stirring spoon and a container so that I can make lemonade. Don't get me wrong, I like lemonade just as much as the next person, but that doesn't make much business sense.

If you were to tell me to make lemonade and sell it, maybe I could see that. But to make lemonade just to turn around and drink it? I'm not sure I see the true value in that. And I'm sure any ten year old who's run a successful lemonade stand will back me up on this one.

I've been ridiculously stressed out trying to find a job post business school in this crazy economy. If life hands me lemons, I'm cutting one of those babies up and putting a few slices in a vodka tonic. Then I'm selling the rest to a ten year old girl, so she can make the lemonade.

You will not make a monkey out of me

For those of you who are already in business school, you'll be able to relate. For those of you thinking about applying to business school, think of this as a head's up. For those of you who want nothing to do with business school you can still enjoy this. :)

Harvard Business School writes the majority of the business school cases. Cases are stories about businesses. They frame a problem, give you loads of information to weed through, or sometimes, not that much information, and pose a question to you at the end. What should Firm A do?

The catch, these problems have already been solved, but you don't get to find out what happened until the end of class on the day of the case discussion. Your job in reading these cases is to come up with solutions for these companies, using only the data available. That sounds easy enough. Let's see, I'm 28. I'm a second year business school student. A BS in Chemical Engineering. I've had absolutely no prior exposure to business. You're having trouble expanding Disney? No problem. Just give me about twenty pages of background info on your 80 year old company, some financial data, and a couple of pictures of your products, and I'll take care of it. Leave it all to me.

When I first got to school, this was very daunting. I never knew were to begin. One false move and Disney would no longer exist as we knew it! But then, as I started going through these HBS cases, I noticed a commonality. There was a trick. The answer was never intuitive. Ever.

Example:

"Jeff McManahan put down the phone, then leaned back in his chair. That was Joanna Williams, the CEO of ENS Manufacturing. The numbers were in and they weren't pretty. She wanted results. McMahanan was the new COO hired to turn the company around. He was given a timeline of six months and he was already coming up to the end of the third month. He knew that if he didn't do something and soon, it would cost him his job. He turned to Jamal Green and Wei Chu, head of Marketing and Sales respectively. "Guys, its time we analyzed our business model to see what changes need to be made to run the business more effectively. Hope you guys weren't planning on going home tonight, cause it looks like we're going to be here awhile."

So then you as a business school student analyze the business -

Marketing: Rather than invest in an advertising agency, they have school children design all of their promotional materials as part of an after school program initiative. They then photocopy the designs and send them to customers. These promotional ads highlight (quite literally in some cases) the products' features and benefits.

Sales: Salaried, no commision

Operations: Instead of people they use monkeys to build their products

Packaging: Again, monkeys...


You finish reviewing the data... Talk about red flags. No wonder they're doing poorly, you think to yourself. Good thing you came along. So, you go through the case, picking out all that needs to be changed. Sure monkeys are cute, but are they reliable? You begrudgingly get rid of the monkeys. Add commission into the mix for the sales team; decrease salary. You make some other minor changes in their business model in ordinance with child labor laws. . You show up to class, sure that you have done all you could to try and save ENS Manufacturing from an unfortunate demise. You spend an hour exchanging ideas with your peers.

Then at the end the professor says. Want to know what happened?

Heck yes I want to know what happened to these pack of idiots.

The professor puts up some slides. Three bullet points:

- They left marketing the same.
- They kept the monkeys.
- Raised base salary and added a commission of 20%.

ENS Manufacturing is now the largest manufacturer of X products in the US and they are going to be expanding internationally this year.

What the-?

I can't help but think that Harvard Business School is trying to pull one over on all of us. They produce all of these business school cases. Send them to the rest of the top tier schools. Meanwhile they have the real cases in their classes. What NOT to do in the real world. I'm on to you Harvard, and tempting as it may be, you will not fool me into using monkeys in my business.

Can you hear me now?

Ahh, the magical phrase coined by that little Verizon man with black rimmed glasses. Can you hear me now.... that phrase really is magical. I don't know what it is. I could be in the arctic in a cave, no towers for miles and if the person on the other end is having trouble hearing me, then all I have to do is move one or two steps away and say, "Can you hear me now?"

Et voila!

They can hear me! I get a nice clear "Yes" from their end. Kudos to Verizon for being so great, even in the arctic.

There's only one problem. That's ALL that person hears. Because as soon as I diverge from that famed five word sequence, the spell is broken, and the evil Queen Poorreception regains control...

Nothing takes the excitment out of a storytelling like having to say, "What's the last thing you heard?" Cause what's your friend going to do? Paraphrase. And adults don't paraphrase like kids.

If you ask a kid to tell where you left off, they paraphrase but in this excited way -
"The little prince had just fought off the dragon!!!! And he was going through the woods of FEEEEAAAARRRRRRR. And then he came up to a house... a dark dark house..."

You look at the kid with big eyes. "Go on..."

No, when adults pharaphrase they get that monotone voice -
"You walked into the party and he had that girl with him. So you decided to pretend like you didn't see them. But he'd just walked up to you. And then something about a widget maybe? But I don't know, I didn't hear anything after that."

So you start up where your friend tells you you left off, not before taking a minute or so to try to recount what in your story sounded like 'widget'. At any rate, its not the same. Momentum has been lost. The window of opportunity where you have your friend's undivded attention has been closed. So you just quickly wrap up what could have been a great story.

I could possibly have great conversations using only the words, "Can you hear me now"... If I was Chinese and "Can you hear me now" could actually mean 100 different things with a change in intonation. But alas, I am not. So it means just that. Its like some kind of sick joke. Sure Verizon doesn't drop calls. But so what. I think I'd rather have the frigging call dropped so I'm not pouring my heart out to dead air about the ex Derek and his new girlfriend Bridget. Come on Verizon. Pick your battles and drop a call once in a while.

Before and After Photos

Why is it that whenever someone is getting a makeover, the before picture looks like a Nick Nolte mug shot taken with a camera phone, and the after picture is all glossy and in soft focus. The lighting is amazing and the person is smiling. It so annoying. Just once, I want to see a picture of someone "at their worst" in normal lighting, with them smiling, just no makeup and hair pulled back, instead of teased up and every which way.

But I guess if they did that, then the cosmetics industry would lose billions of dollars. They rely on all of those people on an endless search for metamorphosis in a jar. Imagine? A world where people accepted themselves for who they really are...

Don't be fooled by the poor lighting and angry scowl. Really people, if you put lipstick on a pig...

So, either embrace what you were born with, or hit up a plastic surgeon. After all, Bobbi, Laura and MAC can only do so much.

Duke Campout 2007 Revisited

Well as most of you know, Duke basketball is more than just basketball. Its a cult. Its a religion. Its a raison d'etre! And I never before understood how a school could be so obssessed and have such a national following until Campout weekend.

Contrary to popular belief -- I'll admit I was popular before coming to Duke -- you do not just walk up to the ticket window the day of or before game day, hand them your school ID and walk away with a ticket to a Duke basketball game. You don't do that. Why? Because that would just be too easy and as it turns out, "easy" is not the name of the game here at Duke University. So, what do we do, in place of the age old tradition adopted by pretty much every other academic institution in the country, We camp out. The undergrad folk have to campout every game week. The grad students camp out for 36 straight hours, in a parking lot, only once a year.

Wow, sounds fun does it?! Hanging out with 2000 of your peers in a parking lot, with only a Syracuse University sweatshirt and a sleeping bag to shield from the elements, and more beer than you've seen since freshman year of college... Now imagine that at ANY point within those 36 hours, you have to be primed and ready to run to a checkpoint to get your name checked off of a list. By any point, I mean it could be 1pm in the afternoon, midway through a heated game of beer pong, or at 4:30am, when you are curled up on your reclining lounge chair sleeping off the effects of those games of beer pong, flip cup, and something new, a combination of the two. Genius.

Anyways, how did they let us know that it was time to jump up and run to our line? The most horrifying siren alarm! Half the time I felt like I was in a WWII air raid. Still I wake up in a panic and find myself wanting to take off running so that I don't miss a precious checkpoint. By the 36th hour, I was a wreck. Not showering, living off of beer, chips, and hot dogs and hamburgers... not something I would recommend. My classmates saw me in a new light. On the upside, if I fail out of school and have to beg on the street, they will definitely recognize me (please see picture below).

So after all of that, hour 36 arrives and I've hit all of my checkpoints. What happens? I win season tickets for Duke basketball right?! Is that your final answer?

Well you're WRONG. After that, I get entered into a lottery to win season tickets for Duke basketball. Yes you read correctly, a lottery. So, as I stood in line, tired, cold, and smelly, I thought to myself. I'm in it for the experience. Then I quickly put myself in check. I'm no masochist. You people (the lottery gods) had better give me some tickets or things are gonna to get UGLY-er up in here! I watched as the people in front of me either left the line wearing a look of defeat or kicked up their heels in a fit of joy. Which would I be?

My dear friend Michael Foss was right in front of me. "Sorry, I heard the lady say." Sigh of defeat. I walked up and waited as she scrolled down the list.

"Congratulations." I thanked her and smiled.

Out of respect for the other Michaels in line, I did not kick up my heels in a fit of joy. It had nothing to do with the fact that the sub-ambient temperatures had left me virtually immobile. I instead did a mental kick up, which was good enough for me.

"I GOT TICKETS, I GOT TICKETS!!!!"

Alas, I will not be doing campout this weekend. I will still be there, after all, I do love a good party. I just don't want to look like this at the end of that good party...

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Drank the Kool-Aid

I've always liked this saying.... "Drank the Kool-aid". I imagine its cause I really like Kool-Aid. Who doesn't though? A little packet of powder, that when mixed with water becomes a refreshing beverage, perfect for a hot summer day. Genius.

We've all said this phrase in one form or another, or at least heard someone else say it. "I drank the Kool-Aid!"

Translation: I jumped on board. To hell with Public enemy - I in fact do believe the hype. I'm in! You've got me sold!! Where do I sign up?!

Harmless enough right?

Curious about where this saying came from, I decided to Google it:

drink the kool-aid - A reference to the 1978 cult mass-suicide in Jonestown, Guyana. Jim Jones, the leader of the group, convinced his followers to move to Jonestown. Late in the year he then ordered his flock to commit suicide by drinking grape-flavored Kool-Aid laced with potassium cyanide. In what is now commonly called "the Jonestown Massacre", 913 of the 1100 Jonestown residents drank the Kool-Aid and died.


Quite a striking contrast to a large friendly Kool-Aid man bursting through your parents' walls screaming "OH YEAH!"



So, despite my fond childhood memories, I will not be drinking the Kool-Aid... especially if its laced with potassium cyanide.

Ghostwriter

One of PBS's finer programs if I do say so myself. Anyone else remember that show? About a group of New York City teens who with the help of an invisible ghost were able to solve mysteries using letters and numbers as clues. At the time, I have to say, totally believable. But in hindsight, I'm actually kind of surprised none of them was ever killed, or at least severely beaten up.

Perhaps when we were younger the criminals in New York City were a little more forgiving to a group of adolescent detectives... or maybe just really afraid of a ghost that could spell letters in the air.

Do you want a spanking?

Please get your mind out of the gutter... That's not what I mean.

I'm talking about when you were little and your parents would ask you that asinine question.

"Do you want a spanking?"

There's only one answer to that question. Well, there are a couple:

- Sure... why not. I haven't had one in a while
- Depends... Which one of you is doing the spanking?
- Yes, but do you know who REALLY wants one? Evan (my brother)

Not sure any of those is really appropriate and at age seven definitely not worth the risk. So really, there is only one answer.

Still, you had to do something right? You knew that ultimately you were going to say no, but you had to drag it out. For pride's sake. So you stood silent, glaring... running down the clock. Then your parents would catch on and call your bluff.

"DO YOU?!"Checkmate.

"No."

"Then knock it off."

I'm sure when I was young I promised myself that I'd NEVER do that to my kids - force them to answer stupid questions so that I could appear all-powerful. But that was when I was young...

I can't wait to have kids. It's gonna be fun. :)

Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar?

Now that game was ridiculous was it not? You essentially went from child to child accusing them of having stolen this alleged cookie from the cookie jar. Frankly I didn’t think we had that much evidence to work with. There were never any cookies, no cookie crumbs. There was no jar. It was a witch-hunt; all of us yelling this accusation at each other. But here’s the part that always got me. Rather than vehemently object, the kid in question would respond with shock.

"Bernard stole the cookie from the cookie jar!!!!!"

"Who me?"

No the other Bernard in the group. "Yes you!"

And then he’d say…

"Couldn’t be."

Hold the phone here. Couldn’t be? Why? I wanted to ask… Why couldn’t it be you Bernard? Were you physically impaired in some way that would’ve prevented you from removing said cookie from the cookie jar? I’m guessing, by the way you were running around at recess, probably not. So yes little Bernard, it in fact could have been you.

But we let him slide, didn't we folks… Not only that, but we then gave him the opportunity to cast blame on some other unsuspecting kid.

So, the next someone wants to vent to me about why people today don’t want to take responsibility for their actions, I’m going to remind them of a little game we used to play called Who Stole the Cookie from the Cookie Jar…

Waiting on the world to change? Nope not me...

Ever since I can remember I’ve thought that cans of whipped cream were poorly designed. I didn’t mind the dispensing bit at the top, that was fine, genius in fact. I loved seeing that thread of whipped cream on my dessert or hot chocolate, with ridges created by that circularly perforated dispenser. No no, my quarrel was with the cap, and I use the term "cap" loosely. At some point, yes it's a cap. It's a cap when it's sitting on the shelf in the refrigerated section of the grocery store. It's a cap on the way home from the grocery store. It's even a cap if left unopened in your refrigerator.

But as soon as you broke the seal by snapping off that little piece of plastic, you were left with something that looked like a cap, but by no means functioned as a cap. It sat atop the can but didn’t seal it, so the slightest movement would send that little red piece flying. And within a couple of days of opening the can a dried yellowish whipped cream encrustation would form on the top. I remember looking at that as a child and thinking, "That can’t be sanitary." I griped about it every time I had to run that grimy tip under hot water.

Then about a month ago, I went to replenish my stock of whipped cream and I noticed something different about one brand of cans. It didn’t look like the others. There was… a cap on top. No little piece of plastic to be broken off. No, this was a real cap... one that would actually seal and keep the tip of my precious whipped cream safe from oxygen and free of dust and dirt. Cool Whip. Oh Cool Whip you…


Bastards…


What the hell?! What is this?! Is nothing sacred? Granted the old caps weren’t the best design, but I dealt with it. I didn’t stop eating whipped cream because the first spray of whipped cream, after a few days of sitting uncapped in the refrigerator, was a little discolored, a little hard, kind of gross. It didn’t kill me. I grew up with those faux caps. They were apart of my childhood memories. They were a part of me. And now Cool Whip was trying to take all of that away?


Who asked them to lead the revolution of change? Certainly not I. I wasn’t invited to attend any focus groups. Had I been, I would have told them to leave things well enough alone. Shouldn’t they have bigger and better things to worry about?! Will changing the caps increase marketshare by that much? I don’t think so Kraft. I think you’re going to find that many of us will not take this lying down.

I snatched the Cool Whip off the shelf and threw it angrily into my cart. After all I was still a poor student and it was on sale. I saw little alternative. But as soon as I got home I threw away the cap. Take that Kraft!

Give me Plaid or Give me Death!

From the time I started middle school, picking out clothes for school was a source of serious anxiety. Before then I'd had it easy. My choices: I could wear the plaid overall skirt, white collared shirt, white socks with black Mary Jane flats or I could wear all of that and swap out the Mary Jane flats for penny loafers… Or I could wear all of that and trade in the penny loafers for my personal favorites, my Charlie Brown shoes. Back then life was so simple. I didn’t have to worry about fads and matching because I always matched. Everything went with plaid…

And then came middle school. My crutch of a standardized dress code was kicked out from under me and I fell headfirst into the scary world of fashion. Kids today, they just don’t realize just how fortunate they are. I’ve looked at clothes for middleschoolers and highschoolers and I have to say, it’s pretty difficult to mess up an outfit these days. Fashion today is relatively tame compared to the fashion from the 80s and early 90s. Our fashionistas were Punky Brewster, Blossom and the crew from Saved by the Bell for goodness sake. When I looked into my closet there was a world of possibility: Tie-dye, neon, leggings, stirrup pants, body suits, alternating different color socks, striped jeans, tapered jeans, pegged jeans, high water jeans (okay those were never cool, but unfortunately unavoidable if you were a rapidly growing teen)… You name it and it was in my closet.

And my parents were no help either. Tired of hearing, "But that’s what everyone’s wearing!!!" they’d long since abandoned the idea of trying to follow the latest out of YM and Teen Beat.

Everyday for me was a crapshoot. Some days were good, others well, not so good. The problem with the not so good days however was that I was stuck at school all day forced to ensure the shame of my fashion faux pas until my parents came to pick me up. I mean I was 13, so it wasn’t as if I could run home and change.

One thing that always baffled me though, was that most times I remember giving myself the once over in a full-length mirror before leaving the house. Then I'd get into the family Volvo and sit happily chattering away with my brother Evan until I stepped out into the light of day only to realize…

"What the heck?!"

My jeans were too short! Brilliant... cause I was looking for a way to accent my missmatched socks. Problem solved. Oh and LA Gears with a dressy blouse? That was a logical pairing...

There's only one thing I want to say here:

"Really Mom? Really Dad? "

You had to have known that didn’t look right. In which case… shame on you.

And double shame on you for allowing Evan to leave the house in multicolored MC Hammer pants and Doc Martins…

We were not pawns placed in your lives for your amusement. We were your children. You just wait until you can't dress yourselves. Just you wait. Then we'll see who has the last laugh...

Oh How the Mighty Have Fallen...

When I was little and my parents would take me to the fair, they always tried to carefully steer me through the crowd, past all of the carnival games, straight to the rides. Why? Goldfish. Oh how I loved them. Actually I didn’t so much love goldfish as I loved winning goldfish. It gave me some kind of rush. I must have brought home hundreds of those little guys, which is why my parents weren't too eager to encourage my habit.

Initially my parents would just throw my little swimming prizes into one of those glass bowls and set them on the kitchen counter. But they soon realized goldfish didn’t survive that long when we did that. I guess that's what we got for turning to cartoons for tips on how to take care of fish. Who knew Tom and Jerry was such an unreliable source?

No, they needed a tank, complete with faux shrubbery, a water filtration system, a heater, and a light. Thanks mom & dad.

So yeah, it was the craziest thing you ever saw. I was an absolute master at getting those ping pong balls into those fish bowls. If you gave me three chances that just meant I was coming home with three gold fish. It was a sight to behold. You’ve never seen an eight year old with such accuracy, such form.

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Flash forward twenty years… Replace the fishbowls with blue cups, and the fish with beer. Keep the ping pong balls. What do we get? Beer pong, or Beruit to those who went to school at one of the many obscure northeast colleges.

Perhaps it’s because I was forced into early retirement when my mother finally grew tired of finding fish floating lifelessly at the top of the tank, or on the floor, and having to dispose of them.Yes we found one on the floor. It was Wendal's second suicide attempt, and that time around he succeeded. Rather disturbing.

Or maybe over the years my aim and depth perception had deteriorated. That happens with age right?

OR it could very well be that I simply preferred the taste of beer peppered with with whatever the ball managed to collect during its journey across the filthy floor, and I preferred to drink said beer from a cup that twenty of my closest acquaintances and/or strangers have already drank from.

I have no clue what it is? Or why it is, but now, I seriously SUCK at beer pong. I mean really suck. I’m the fat kid with glasses and asthma and one leg shorter than the other standing on the playground watching as each of my classmates around me is picked to join a side for kickball. That’s me but for beer pong. Only my handicap isn’t so apparent.

For the most part, my friends know not to ask me to be their partner, but people who don't know just how bad I am, always ask. And though I try to tell them that I suck, they never listen.

“I don’t care how bad you are,” They say.

Oh but they do care. They always care.

Every time I see people setting up for a game of beer pong, I ask myself, What happened to that little eight year old? The little girl who would stand waiting for her fish to be bagged, smirking at the pathetic kids who had to rely on their parents to win theirs. In your FACE! she would be saying in her head.

I guess that's what I get. I got cocky and then sloppy. I bet its those same kids, the ones I once mocked, and wrote off as losers... who are now forcing me to chug cup after cup after cup of cheap filthy beer. Oh how the mighty have fallen.


Karma... really is a b!tch.

Ode to Section 3 - I'm lovin' it!!

For those of you who don't know what Sections are (not naming names... Alice Huang) I'll tell you... In a business school class there are about 430 people. We are further subdivided into 6 sections, roughly 70 people per section. Your sectionmates are the people you will spend the most time with in your first year of business school because you take all of your core business school courses together.

In order to help the sections quickly bond early on in the year, there are a series of events that the school puts on such as the Section Olympics, a Ropes course where you spend a whole day in the woods in 100 degree weather "team building" aka being made to feel like you're going to die at every turn, and a couple of other events. The Section Olympics however is not only a team building activity, but one that establishes your order within the sections. Now many might disagree with that statement. Those are the people who are often heard throwing out these cliches:

"Its just for fun."

"We bonded just by being together as a team."

"Who cares if we win or lose."

Who cares? I do.

Last year I walked away from the Section Olympics, sweating profusely and head hung in shame. Section 3, Class of ’09 suffered a humiliating defeat and I, raised to be competitive in even the most trivial of games – called my aunt a filthy cheater last spring during a "friendly" game of Disney’s Scene It - was greatly displeased. Our abysmal performance didn’t even merit a "How you played the game" award. That’s how bad it was.

As section leader of the new Section 3, I vowed that this year would be different. I would accept nothing less than first place.

Section 3, Class of ’10, brought their A game, and then some. A section of people after my own heart. I watched with pride as they passed around the burnt wine cork to mark up their faces, preparing for battle. When we got out onto the field, I watched as most of the other sections sat around idly watching the events... "supporting" if you will. Not my team. Oh no. While everyone else was out there kicking back, my team was strategizing, plotting. They weren’t just out there to win it, they were out for blood. Vengeance. And vengeance they got. It was a thing of beauty. They absolutely DESTROYED the other sections.

And quite honestly, there wasn’t a group of individuals who deserved that win more – 10% skill, 100% heart.

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I’m expecting great things from this group. I think they are all amazing and I wish them all the best of luck in their first year!!!

Section 3… Kickin’ ass and taking names

80s Party = Mayhem

"What are you making?" I asked the coffee shop woman as she poured Dr. Pepper into a cup.

She looked up at my strangely, then said slowly, "I'm pouring Dr. Pepper into a cup."

And just like that, my cover was blown. Not that she probably couldn't tell from my bloodshot eyes, hoarse voice, "wind blown" hair and the traces of last night's 80's makeup on my face, but just in case there was any doubt in her mind, I confirmed her suspicions.

"Rough night?" she asked.

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Rought night... Well let's see. I woke up this morning at 8:28am. Which would have been ok if I'd slept in the clothes I was planning to wear to work and if I my office was 2 minutes away. But in fact, I was still in my 80s garb and the office was 45 mins away.

F*ck.

Twenty-eight years old and none the wiser. I'd really thought I'd left these days behind me. At first I was able to rationalize the heavy drinking on a "work" night. In 2003 when Syracuse won the NCAA championship, I thought, what kind of Syracuse fan would I be if I didn't show up to work still drunk from the night before? In subsequent years however, Syracuse never won another NCAA championship so it became:

- What kind of friend would I be if I didn't stay and celebrate a birthday till last call on Tuesday night/Wednesdsay morning?

- What kind of person would I be if I didn't take advantage of $1 drink wednesdays?

- What kind of... you get the jist

So I just stopped offering up excuses. It became common knowledge that after any major holiday/event, St. Patricks Day, Cinco de Mayo, Halloween Thursdays at Union Cattle and Mardi Gras, a birthday happy hour; I along with my cohorts, the Cattle Crew were going to show up late to work, still drunk and often times in the same clothes from the night before or clothes we borrowed from eachother.

Them were the days. But I was a business school student now and interning at a multi-billion dollar corporation. I needed to step up my game prove that I was mature enough to enjoy an evening at a sketchy dance club without aid of alcohol. And that I could make it home at a decent hour so that I didn't find myself sitting at my desk the next morning hating life.

That's what I needed to do... but did I do it? Sure, for about 10 weeks, until Orientation Weekend, more specifically, the 80s party, which was conveniently scheduled on a Sunday evening.

Think about it... Men in short shorts and tube socks, neon aplenty, smurfs and a guy dressed up as teen wolf... Is there really any other option other than to get completely inebriated?

Nope. And so I did. And now here I sit with my bottle of water, ice coffee, half eaten bagel, Ricola and rewetting eye drops. Hating life.

But the question remains. Would I do it again?

Hell yes. These are the days.