I Got Your Fluff Right Here

On a dreary day at the office, when your inner fashionista needs a five-minute pleasure cruise, point your browser to A Dress A Day. Deep archives filled with too much sublimity to bear, really, but also some silly stuff. See if you can find the dress made entirely of sock monkeys.

On SpelBots and Safety

I've been spending a lot of time with my laptop lately. It's an Apple iBook that I named Oliver when I bought it a year ago. The purchase was kind of a big deal because it's the first computer I've ever actually owned (i.e., not the shared family desktop, and not one of the many public cluster computers that got me through college).

When Ollie and his friend Google get together, they end up fetching all sorts of fascinating things. Last night, miracle of miracles, they introduced me to the Spelman College robotics team, fondly known as the SpelBots. And I was so excited by the discovery that it took me a solid two hours to chill out and go to bed.

Now, you may follow the link above and think, "Um, it's a news release. About some girls who spend way too much time writing code. Moving on." But wait, there's a story! (Isn't there always a story?) Settle in with your milk and cookies, kids.

Spelman College, for those of you unfamiliar with it, is a historically black women's college in Atlanta. If you watched the television show "A Different World" back in the late eighties, you may recognize some of the campus landmarks, because the school was used for panoramic outdoor shots of fictional Hillman College.

As a high school senior, I applied to seven colleges---four universities where I thought my odds were even or favorable, two long shots, and one safety. Spelman was the sure thing, and also the first college to admit me. I remember being kind of dismissive of the acceptance letter. It felt good to know that I would definitely be going to college somewhere in the fall, but I kinda hoped it wouldn't end up being Spelman. Although I would have been loathe to admit it at the time, I pretty much had it in my head that a black college would be...not as good. An ersatz education, somehow.

One of the insidious things about the whole concept of race is the way in which---if you're on the wrong side of the color line---it can make you believe in your own inferiority. I had grown accustomed to being the lone brown face in my honors classes. And to be honest, I was sometimes intimidated or embarrassed by the handful of other black students at my school. As each year passed, it became harder to reconcile the two unspoken, opposing thoughts in my head: "I'm smart" and "People who look like me are dumb."

Fast forward to a week or two after the Spelman letter, when the postman delivers a fat envelope from Stanford, and I literally fall to my knees in front of the mailbox. My friend WOOcraft and I had been talking about going to Stanford together ever since the 4th grade. And now it could actually happen! My smug 17 year-old self had just been assured that no matter what the outcome was for the rest of my apps, I would definitely be attending a Good School. (I now have a much better sense of how ridiculous the idea of a Good School is, and I am alarmed by how frenzied and distorted the whole undergraduate admissions process has become. If I were to apply to my seven schools now as the girl I was back then, I'm not sure I would get in anywhere.)

But back to my beloved SpelBots. One of the peculiar manifestations of my nerdiness is a fascination with college robotics teams. (Lately I've been following the fortunes of the Northern Bites team at Bowdoin College in Maine.) Team pictures usually present the faces that you might associate with the words "robotics research." White. Asian. Male. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

Still, I found indescribable joy in stumbling upon the existence of the first all-black, all-female, all undergraduate team to earn a berth in the international RoboCup competition (twice! last year in Japan, this year in Germany). These supersmart, hard-working girls had skin like my skin, hair like my hair, noses like my nose---even names like my name! And it dawned on me why it's still important for places like Spelman to exist, even though we no longer live in a country where segregation is the law. There's a real comfort and freedom in being part of the majority, whether that majority is racial, religious, or political. ( I dare you to express an opinion that's even a teensy weensy bit conservative while you're within San Francisco's city limits. I'll even come to visit you in the hospital after the ensuing melee.)

Being "the norm", and not really having to worry about what other people think of you, is the ultimate form of safety. And when you have that liberty, that gift, your mind and heart and spirit are able to focus on more important things.

Like building kick-ass robots. Go SpelBots!

Can I Get A Hug?

Yesterday, while I was waiting in a long line at the aforementioned shrine to salad, something odd happened. I was debating whether I really wanted to spend half an hour inching forward---for the privilege of buying a ten-dollar bowl of leaves---when the stranger behind me said in a sprightly voice:

"Can I get a hug?"

He kind of mumbled it, so I didn't quite understand him at first. And just as my brain was whipping out its decoder ring to decipher what he was saying, his own brain was registering my puzzled, unfamiliar face and sounding the alarm. Systems error! Retreat! Retreat!

He apologized profusely and explained that he worked in the office across the street, and from fifteen stories up I looked a lot like his cousin, so he had rushed down to greet me with a hug. Which I would not be getting now. He said he was sorry again, and then disappeared into the crush of people moving down the sidewalk.

All of which triggered the following thoughts about hugs:

1) I didn't hug anyone yesterday. I'll probably get a couple of hugs today, because I'm going to dinner and a play with some friends from work, and evening goodbyes usually include hugs. But after that I may not get a hug until the next time I visit San Jose, which could be weeks from now. That's craziness, people. If Kaiser Permanente really wanted people to thrive, they would station designated huggers throughout the city for the hugless among us.

2) Not all hugs are created equal. My friend Kisa, for example, is a world-class hugger. She always hugs you tight and close, and she's never the first to let go. No cursory back pats, no bump-and-runs. I should work on being a better hugger. I think it's a valuable skill to bring to any relationship.

3) Does anyone remember the video for "Every Day" by the Dave Matthews Band? It features a guy who walks through the streets of a city, offering hugs to everyone he encounters. Would you accept a hug from a stranger? Would you feel safer if that stranger was accompanied by a film crew?

4) For the ladies: I read an interview recently with neuropsychiatrist Louann Brizendine, who just published a book on women's brains. Here are her two cents on women and hugs:

Research shows that the female brain naturally releases oxytocin after a 20-second hug. The embrace bonds the huggers and triggers the brain's trust circuits. So Brizendine advises, don't let a guy hug you unless you plan to trust him.
"And if you do," she said, "make sure it lasts 20 seconds."

If you have huggy thoughts to share, please do. And then go hug somebody.

Shocked and Awed...

...and psychotically frustrated, because I can't figure out how to upload party pictures. Grrrr. Must relax and release...

So yesterday, my completely amazing colleagues hosted my first-ever surprise birthday party! I didn't see it coming at all. And I can honestly say that it was the best office party I've ever attended. ;-)

Here's how it all went down:

Early in the week, Carli asked if I wanted to go to noon mass at Old St. Mary's with her on Thursday. I was happy to go, because this activity was on my approved list of Things I Have Done Before and Enjoyed. (Oh, stop looking at me like that! As if you never go to church on your lunch hour.) Anyway, the service was lovely, and on our way back Carli suggested that we visit the farmer's market across the street from our office. Only she had forgotten to bring her aunt's recipe for ratatouille, and she couldn't quite remember what vegetables she needed at the market. So we would need to go back into the building to get the recipe.

Here's where I, totally oblivious, unwittingly throw a wrench into the party plans: "Okay, I'll wait down here and people-watch while you go get it." After all, it was a gorgeous day, and the parade of people in the Financial District is endlessly fascinating. Well, maybe not quite endlessly. Because as the minutes ticked away without Carli's return, I started to get a wee bit antsy. How long can it take to print an email or grab a piece of paper? Finally, my cubicle neighbor Katherine came rushing toward me, looking and sounding convincingly discombobulated. "Tamika! Carli just got a disturbing phone call and she can't come down. She asked me to come get you."

Crap. A disturbing phone call? Did someone die? As we take the elevator up to our floor, my stomach is sinking, and this is what it looks like inside my head. Thought One: "OMG. Is she okay?" Thought Two: "Will this require tears?" I'm just not good at crying, and most girls are, so I'm always worried that my dry-eyed countenance will come off the wrong way during emotional discussions. I care! I really do! But my tear ducts won't tell you that. I probably cry about four times a year in private, and almost never in public. Not when I'm happy, not when I'm sad. Not at weddings, not at funerals. Not when the Red Sox finally won it all. In fact, if you're my friend and you've seen me cry at any time since the Clinton Administration, please raise your hand. QED. Thought Three: "I really need to pee." But it would be callous to make a stopover at the loo when you know that a friend has received A Disturbing Phone Call.

And then Katherine opened the door to our suite, and I walked in to see many of my favorite people gathered around a table groaning with food, and standing beneath a huge sign that read, "Happy Birthday Tamika!" Totally blown away.

And it gets better. There was a gorgeous, rich chocolate cake from Fatapple's complete with candles. (So much better than subpar office sheet cake. Y'all know what I'm talking about--that artless, vaguely chemical-tasting concoction that leaves you thinking, "Why? Why did I waste the calories?") And gifts! Two lovely inspirational books and an iPod Shuffle. Insanity.

George Bailey: (holding ZuZu in his arms) : Wh-wh-why Mary--I never realized I had so many friends! A-a man wh-who has a friend is a rich man, that's what Clarence said, and by golly he was right!

Everyone is so good to me. I'm the luckiest girl in the world.