Once again, I discovered my gym bag in the closet upside-down, and I was not the one who did this-- because I never put my gym-bag away, nor do I ever zip it shut-- but my wife often throws it into the closet and if it lands upside-down, then my gym equipment falls out of the bag: my goggles and socks and deodorant, etc.-- and though I noted this with frustration for years, it finally dawned on me . . . perhaps my wife was throwing the gym bag into the closet upside-down because she hated the fact that I always left it out, unzipped, with it's bowels exposed . . . because if she was just tossing it into the closet without any passive-aggressive anger, then 50% of the time it would land right-side up and 50% of the time it would land upside-down, but the gym bag ALWAYS seemed to land upside-down and, as I said, this had been happening for years so I had a decent sample size to evaluate, so I approached my wife about this and after a moment of denial she admitted that perhaps it did end up upside-down more than probability might dictate and that perhaps she was angry about my habit of leaving it out all the time, and so I told her I would try to put it away, and she promised not to throw it into the closet upside-down and the moral is: the key to a good marriage is clear communication and a grasp of basic probability.
So I walk into LA Fitness and the mousy girl working the desk-- if she had handles I could have dead-lifted her-- tells me I can't work out while wearing sandals . . . though I've been working out at LA Fitness for five years now while wearing sandals, as they are convenient foot-wear if you also want to swim or shower after you lift (plus I have a problem getting socks on my feet when it's humid, probably due to their hairiness) but she's insisting that I can't wear an "open toed shoe" while I lift weights, so I ask her about Crocs-- which are not technically open-toed-- and she considers this back-talk and says, "You want support when you work-out, so wear sneakers . . . okay?" and I'm about to get into the whole barefoot running thing and how I DON'T want support when I work out and how I often shoot baskets on their court barefoot, but I decide it's not worth it . . . and, finally, she did allow me on the floor with my sandals . . . but I had to promise that next time I would wear sneakers . . . and now I'm seriously considering getting some of those Vibram Five Fingers minimalist running shoes just to fuck with her.
Before you wash the dishes-- or load them into the dishwasher-- do you give them a good soak? Before you take arms against a set of filthy pots and pans, do you let them marinate for a while? Or do you jump right in and clean them immediately?
And some people are "soakers" while others are "immediate washers." There is no in-between.
Giving the dishes a purposeful (and artful) soak
After a heated discussion at a holiday party, it seems that most men are soakers. If I were going to be sexist, I would say this has to do with the fact that men have a better knowledge of chemistry and thus understand that water is "the universal solvent." Water dissolves more substances that any other liquid on earth. It is the enemy of many part of your abode-- your roof, foundation, wiring, sheetrock, carpet and wood flooring . . . but water is the friend of clean dishes.
Women are pursuing STEM fields more than ever, so I'm going to assume that they know the chemical potential of letting things soak in water. So it must be something else.
I am a soaker, of course. Dirty dishes? Science to the rescue!
Time + water = cleaner dishes
My wife is not a "soaker." She scoffs at soaking and considers it lazy. When the dishwasher is empty and I plop a dish in the sink and fill it with water, this irritates her to no end. Perhaps this is the root of the dilemma. Non-soakers like to get right to the task. Get 'er done! My friend Terry, one of the few males who is not a soaker, said that instead of soaking he just "applies a bunch of force with a sponge." To me, it seems silly to use force when you don't need to . . . if he just let those pans soak for a few days, he wouldn't need to use any force at all. I should also point out that Terry puts cream and sugar in his coffee, so he barely represents the typical male.
One particularly masculine dude said that one of the reasons he needed to soak the dishes was that when he was done with dinner, he needed to "have a lie down." I think this is reasonable; after a hearty meal, who wants to stick their hands into a wet stack of dishes when they could repose on the couch?
So with some skillful balancing, some artful arrangement of the pots, pans, dishes, and utensils, you can make the water work for you, while you have your digestive "lie down." Then you're doing your work while you're supine! Isn't that the goal?
The dishwasher isn't going to get peanut butter off a spoon, or yogurt and peanut butter out of a bowl. It's not going to clean a pan with charred food remnants. So you can either dig in, apply some force, and get your hands moist and dirty . . . or you could pour a bit of water in there and give everything a good soak. Then, while you are going about your business, the miracle of the universal solvent is happening right in your kitchen. And you don't need to supervise.
Soakers aren't lazy, they're smart, but the most commonly posed rebuttal to soaking posed by non-soakers is that soakers are just procrastinating in the hopes that someone else-- most likely a woman . . . or Terry-- will come along and do the dishes. While this is certainly a possibility, it's not the primary reason for soaking. This is just an (unfortunate) side effect. I really want to do the dishes . . . after they soak for a bit, so it's not so much of a chore. I think most soakers feel the same way. If non-soakers are so wound up to do a chore, instead of heroically swooping in and doing the dishes that are soaking, they should organize the tupperware or match socks or some other task that doesn't interrupt the scientific process happening in the sink. But this won't happen, because in this case, there really are two kinds of people:
1) people who can let the dishes soak, let the food decay, let the universal solvent work while you sleep, and
2) people who just have to get it done, no matter how much physical exertion the task requires.
Tuesday, a student played a song by Twenty One Pilots in class for a presentation, and this was the first time I heard the band and I told the students that Twenty One Pilots sounded a lot like Neutral Milk Hotel and the class said, "What?" and I had to explain to them about Neutral Milk Hotel and Jeff Mangum, and the next day one of the students, in preparation for "improv night," was dressed all in white: white shirt, white socks, white shorts, white tennis sneakers and a white headband and I told him he looked ready for Wimbledon and, once again, the class said "What?" and I had to explain to them about Wimbledon: the grass courts, the strawberries and cream, the fact that it's a tennis tournament . . . and I think I'm going to stop alluding to things in class, because it's too exhausting.
Yesterday's sentence was vague, Yoda-esque, and boring-- so here's a bit more detail: yesterday, Ian and I took off for Hamilton, New Jersey at 6:50 AM so he could take the SAT at Trenton Catholic because there were no seats available for the test near us; I dropped him off at 7:35 AM and they admitted him into the testing facility; I then when and played pickleball with my brother at Veteran's Park-- which was only a few miles away-- and this was elite pickleball competition, in fact, they wanted me to "try-out" to play with them, but my brother vouched for me-- and then my brother and I beat nearly everyone there so there were no longer concerns about my skill level-- then I went to my brother's place and Amy made me a sandwich and gave me some watermelon- and then I headed over to the school to pick Ian up, and I parked in the lot, got out of the car, and wandered and stretched . . . and I put my tennis shoes and socks on the hood so they could dry out and not stink up the car . . . and there was no sign of the test ending, though it was supposed to be a 3 hour test with one fifteen minute break-- but now we were going on noon and they were supposed to start at eight AM so it should have been over but it went on and on . . . I reparked the car on the road in a shady spot, I got really annoyed with all the people sitting in their cars, idling, making me breathe all kinds of fumes while I wandered around, but they sat on their phones in the AC, burning fossil fuels, and the kids didn't get out until nearly 1 PM and Ian was starving, so we stopped at Wendy's and he got some ridiculous chicken sandwich with fried pickles and honey habanero and bacon and then I went over Stacey's house for Ed's birthday, ate BBQ, played cornhole and lawn darts-- lawn darts made for a very long and boring game to 7-- and I just think the SAT is not equitable, normal, or useful-- there should be some hour long test that every kid takes in school and that should be enough.
Just after Christmas, my parents took our two boys to Florida with them. This afforded me, my wife, and our dog Lola a chance to take a kid-free vacation in the Hudson Valley. My kids got to relax and live it up with their grandparents in Naples. Their trip looked like this:
This is NOT their story. Theirs is a story of balmy weather, good eating, and luxurious living. They had a wonderful time and my wife and I are much obliged to Grammy and Poppy. But it's boring stuff.
This post is about what to do in New Paltz if you're lucky enough to go without your kids. In December. In all sorts of weather. In a tiny cabin. With a dog. And a sick wife. Not only will I regale you with my eloquent prose, but I'm also going to include a visual feast for the eyes: digital photos! I will save the best shot for last: during a chance wildlife encounter, I actually had the wherewithal to snap a picture with my cellular phone. I generally forget that my phone has this capability, but now I'm emboldened. Now I'm a photographer (as well as an expert at indoor plant installations . . . but that's for another post).
Two days after Christmas, we dropped the kids at my parents and headed to New Paltz for our romantic getaway. The dog traveled in the crate, which turned out to be a godsend. Lola normally pukes on longish car-rides-- which is not very romantic. She had recently puked directly into our tennis-ball hopper. The hopper contained at least forty-five tennis balls. Tennis balls have a radius of 1.25 inches, so if you multiply that by 4π then you get nearly twenty inches of surface area per tennis ball. There was dog vomit on most of the balls, hundreds of inches of vomit covered surface area. Really gross. But in her crate, she lay down and slept. Vomit-free trip. Very romantic.
While we were traveling northbound on Route 1, we saw something kind of sexy on a Sonic sign (if you're into carnivorous bestiality).
This is not the actual sign we saw, but apparently Sonic restaurants across the nation use this obscenely anthropomorphic/cannibalistic haiku as a marketing gimmick. The chicken strips in central Jersey go for $5.99.
Two hours after we imagined a pullet performing at a gentleman's club and then promptly being thrown into the deep fryer, my wife and I arrived at our cozy and dog-friendly Airbnb cabin on the Rail Trail, less than a mile outside of downtown New Paltz. The location couldn't have been better. You could hike the Rail Trail for miles into the wilderness, or you could go the opposite direction and stroll into town, passing through scenically historic Huguenot Street. We unpacked and got ready to begin our (moderately) romantic kid-free vacation. Moderately romantic because-- unfortunately-- my wife was recovering from strep throat and also had a nasty cold (and accompanying cough). Phlegm makes things a little less romantic than lack of phlegm. But despite this, to her credit, she never complained once . . . she just blew her nose a lot.
Our little cabin
It was a beautiful afternoon.We took the dog for a long hike down the Rail Trail and then pondered where we should go for an early dinner.
My wife looked over her handwritten list of great things to do around New Paltz, provided by her friend Kristen. Kristin highly recommended an Irish bar/restaurant called Garvan's. We checked the map and learned that while downtown New Paltz was nearly a mile from our cabin, Garvan's was only a few hundred yards. It was just across the Rail Trail, by the golf course. We were walking distance to a bar! On a vacation without the kids! Pretty sweet. And it had a fantastic happy hour.
Garvan's is in an old building near the club house of the New Paltz Golf Course. It's the most Irish place I've ever been (I've never been to Ireland). The owner-- Garvan-- was very friendly and very Irish. Thus I decided to go with the Guinness. It tasted especially good, which I mentioned to the bartender. It was the end of his shift, so he might have been a little more brusque than normal, but he basically told me that it had better taste good, since Garvan's was one of the few places in the country where Guinness had installed the tap, so the blend of nitrous oxide and CO2 was perfect. Okay, I said, that explains that. What else could I say?
Catherine went with a half and half (also known as a snakebite or a poor man's black velvet). It consists of half cider and half Guinness. We also had the beet and jicama salad, some truffle fries, and some sliders. And some fish and chips. Very Irish and very delicious. The place is awesome, especially for happy hour.
Then we walked back to the cabin, walked the dog, and watched Derry Girls. If you haven't seen it yet, Derry Girls is the perfect show to watch after going to an Irish bar. It's an Irish Netflix comedy; essentially Mean Girls meets Adrian McKinty's "Troubles Trilogy." Catholic school girls (and one boy) amidst the political/religious conflict in Northern Ireland. In the '90's. It's fabulous. (Also, I'm good buddies with Adrian McKinty, so I don't use him in an analogy unless I'm dead serious . . . check the comments).
The bed was a bit soft and there was some coughing and snoring from my wife's side of it, but I had consumed enough Guinness to sleep through the sniffling.
The next morning, I walked the dog down the Rail Trail again (while my wife slept). And I realized that while the location of the cabin was great, the cabin itself was not perfect. It was clean, and it was cheap, but it was cozy. I am a solidly built American male, so when I say the cabin was "cozy," I actually mean claustrophobically small. Normally when we travel, we make some coffee and grab a light breakfast at home, then do something active, eat lunch out, and then-- at least a few times-- we cook dinner back at the ranch. This is the most economical way to do it. Lunch is the cheapest meal to eat out. It's also nice to get back to home base for dinner. You can drink as many local beers as you desire, without worrying about driving under the influence in a new locale. And going out for breakfast is just stupid. Pay for eggs? I can make eggs.
This photo makes the kitchen look bigger than it actually is.
On this trip, our normal schedule got turned on its head. The first morning, I tried to make some coffee, but I kept banging into things in the kitchen. The kitchen was too small to make coffee in. I made an executive decision and told my wife we were going to the Mudd Puddle for coffee and breakfast. She readily agreed. She loves to go out for breakfast but recognizes that going out for breakfast defies all my logic and reason. Lunch food is better than breakfast food. I hate to eat before I do some exercise. If you eat breakfast out, then you're not hungry for lunch. If you eat breakfast out, then you're not ready to snowboard, ski, hike, run, etc. It's completely insane to eat breakfast out. But my claustrophobia (and the lack of children) overrode that decision.
We had been to New Paltz once before-- with the kids-- and remembered that the Mudd Puddle had the best coffee in the universe. While we would never bring the kids to a local coffee shop for breakfast-- the place was too small and slow and local-- we realized that we did not have the kids with us. We could bring our books and read while we drank coffee.
So we went to the Mudd Puddle, got coffee, read our books, and I ate a James Special sandwich, which involves eggs, bourbon-soaked bacon, balsamic caramelized onions, and some kind of homemade bread. It was wild! It was crazy! We were eating food before doing exercise. The sandwich was the best thing ever. I had one every morning for the rest of the trip.
Then the rains came. We beat a hasty retreat back to our tiny cabin. Catherine, still nursing her cold, fell fast asleep. I took the dog for a long walk down the Rail Trail in the rain. It was gross. Hugeonot Street was historical and scenic, but I was full from breakfast. It's hard to appreciate 17th century architecture when your is stomach is full and your socks are damp. I got back and we watched "Bandersnatch" on Netflix. It was fun to choose but the plot was only okay.
It was pouring. The kids were sending us pictures. Ian caught a lizard. They were lounging around the pool. What the fuck were we going to do? The cabin was tiny and it was raining cats and dogs. Once again, it took a moment to realize that we didn't have to amuse the kids. They were in Florida. We took a ride to the Yard Owl Brewery. It was run by James, the guy who owned the Mudd Puddle. The beer had to be good.
It was. But playing Bananagrams in a small craft brewery on the Hudson Valley Rail Trail with my beautiful (but phlegmy) wife was even better than the beer, though. Very relaxing. Time seemed to stand still. And you could blame it on her illness, but I kicked her ass three times in a row (which doesn't usually happen).
The best beer at the Yard Owl was the Chouette D'or. It was divine! Divine I say! And that means a lot, because I hate eating, drinking, and enunciating anything French. The Owlet was also tasty (and very cute). We also had a cheese plate with red onion relish. The red onion relish is to die for. To die for! And it doesn't have a French name.
Catherine also liked the local cider.
The next day the rains let up. We went hiking in the morning on one of the trails in the Mohonk Preserve. We wanted to see the Mohonk Testimonial Gatehouse up close. It was built in 1908 and apparently, it was in a 1985 horror movie called The Stuff.
The Mohonk trails are beautifully maintained, but there is a $15 dollar fee daily fee per hiker. Fuck that! We trespassed.
This was harder than I imagined. Catherine was pretty good, but I kept picking my head up. Also, Steve-- our instructor-- gave me a "man's gun." A 12 gauge. Catherine got to use the 20 gauge. Every time I picked my head up to watch the shot fly, the gun kicked and hit me in the cheek. This hurt like hell. We shot fifty rounds. Forty of them whacked me in the cheek. Ouch. If you look closely at the picture, my cheek is swollen. I would have not made it very far in the Wild West. Clint Eastwood would have shot me while I was rubbing my swollen cheek.
Over the next few days we did more of the same (aside from the shooting). We visited Catherine's favorite cider house: Bad Seed. They had a lot of interesting ciders on tap. There was also a wild double birthday party going on in there. A gaggle of women in their mid-fifties dressed in 70's style clothing. Apparently, this is what you do around New Paltz. Drive out to breweries and cider houses and have a good time. They are spacious places. You can bring kids and dogs. It's a sweet set-up.
Here's a shot of historic Huguenot Street. If you look closely, you can see that I am balder than I think I am. If you look very closely, you'll see my dog's anus.
One morning we drove out to Lake Minnewaska and hiked from Awosting Falls up to the cliffs around the lake. It's a spectacular place.
Here's a shot of Awosting Falls. The falls were really running because of all the rain.
There were a couple of other excellent spots. Arrowood Farm-Brewery is scenic and has great beer. Another big open space that is dog and kid-friendly. The Main Street Bistro serves vegetarian food good enough to make me a vegetarian (at least for a little while, later in the day I couldn't pass up short rib sliders at Garvan's). We had one fancy meal at a place called A Tavola and it was worth it (and I hate expensive restaurants). Then we went to the Denizen Theater and saw a play called "Adaptive Radiation." The play was very experimental, as was the performance space. It's called intimate black box theater and it's cozy. By cozy, I mean claustrophobically small. We were right on top of the four actors; the stage and seats were in a sort of an alley set-up: the seats rose up on either side of the stage, so you were staring at half of the audience (I enjoyed seeing their reactions to all the weirdness in the play). The play was more professional than I thought, and it was also louder than I thought. I also think that theater should happen before dinner. As I pointed out, The Denizen Theater was a cozy space, and I had just drank quite a few Molly IPAs and eaten a heavy meal. There was certainly something brewing in my belly, and a brisk walk in the air would have been more appropriate than sitting very still in a small black room in close proximity to a bunch of strangers. I managed to curtail any flatulence, but it wasn't easy. I had to sit very still.
And now, as promised, I'll show you the pièce de résistance . . . some stunning wildlife photography. I was out walking with the dog at dusk, on the Rail Trail, and I felt a presence. Something looming over me. It was an owl! A very appropriate animal, since we had been to the Yard Owl Brewery (where Cat bought an owl hat). And the owl is the Highland Park mascot (Highland Park is the town in which I live and coach).
Because of all this heaping significance, I actually remembered to pull my cell phone out and snap a photo. A few people who saw the photo were curious as to my equipment: I used an LG Harmony phone to take this picture. It costs twenty dollars when you sign up for Cricket. I don't think I had it on the highest resolution. Here is the photo. It's a keeper!
Let me zoom in. This is the stuff of National Geographic.
A vivid memory from a fantastic trip.
We had a smooth ride back to Jersey, hosted a small New Year's Party/game night, and picked up the kids at the Trenton airport on New Year's Day. The kids were fat, happy, and tired. Alex had gained 8 pounds and Ian had put on 5.
Once we got home from New Paltz, the dog seemed pretty depressed but then when Ian walked in the house she went totally bananas. It was like a miniature version of the end of the Odyssey; Odysseus returns home after his twenty-year voyage and his dog Argus sees him and gets so excited that he dies. Lola did not die (nor did she pee in the house) but she was pretty damned excited to have the kids back (and so were Cat and I . . . especially because they had followed our instructions and watched Derry Girls, so we had a lot to discuss).
I've found that in the winter, if I take my dog for a bike ride or a hike through the park, I get far less muddy if I tuck my sweat pants into my socks, and while I realize this looks ridiculous, I'm just going to apologize in advance and do it anyway.
Once in a while it's fun to have a date night: an intimate dinner at a rustic spot (Sandy's diner) and then something special in the theater (the school play) and finally drinks out in a bay-side town (South Amboy) and then . . . well, you know what happens next . . . Terry gets in his car to head back to Helmetta and I get in mine and go home to see my wife (who was hanging out with her lady friends-- it's not like I deserted her to go on a date with Terry, and though the school play was actually quite entertaining-- A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum-- they had the heat on and it was that warm day and so it was 120 degrees inside, my socks were soaked with sweat, so we bailed slightly before the first act ended, and met up with a bar crawl in South Amboy, the land of a million bars and ate a world renowned Munck-ee Bar chicken quesadilla).
It's been very humid lately here in central New Jersey, and so when I try to yank my socks onto my sweaty feet, I'm ripping one sock for every four sock-putting-on attempts.
It's nice to know that though my kids are getting older-- they're fifteen and sixteen now-- they can still bring me back to when they were little tots: it was time for me to drive them to tennis last night and-- just like when they were young-- they weren't a bit prepared; Alex hadn't put his shoes on yet, Ian hadn't filled his water bottle, they had no idea where the rackets were . . . and-- just like back when they were toddling tykes-- I lost my shit, nearly burst a blood vessel in my skull, ranted and raved, and told them that they were spoiled ingrates with no appreciation for the fine things-- such as a ride to go play indoor tennis-- that they are provided on a daily basis . . . it's good to know we can all get back to that reminiscent place from years past (how do you sit there on the couch, playing on your phone when it's nearly time to go, wearing socks?)
Another phenomenal Vermont vacation, full of snowboarding, skiing, great local food/beer, and plenty of anxiety (not only anxiety from supervising my children on the mountain, but also in our rented house-- a beautifully converted barn in Stockbridge which contains a couple of spiral stair-cases, which seem excellent in theory-- but spiral staircases with smooth and worn wooden risers are death-traps if you're wearing socks-- I slipped and fell hard-- and while my kids are getting better and better at navigating the mountain, they are also getting good enough to hurt themselves-- Alex whacked his head when he caught an edge snowboarding, but he was wearing a helmet so he only suffered a bump on his head and a bruise on his face, but no concussion, and Ian twisted his knee when a little kid cut in front of him) and after three days straight of riding-- longer days than usual because we met our friends on the mountain and peer pressure really motivates kids to keep on keeping on-- so after three long days, we finally took one off to relax, but we also promised my son Alex that we would play Settlers of Catan on this day off, and not just regular Settlers of Catan, but the new very-advanced "Cities and Knights" add-on that he got for Christmas, and it took four hours to finish the game (which I won!) but we took a break in the middle of the game for some sledding (Alex befriended some friendly Stockbridge locals) and then a trip to Rochester, Vermont to eat lunch at the Rochester Cafe and Country Store, which I highly recommend: the town is scenic, surrounded by mountain peaks, and the food and raspberry/peach pie at the cafe is super-delicious . . . and I hate pie; while I'm at it, I'll also recommend my favorite local beers from the trip: Rock Art American Red Ale and Alesmith IPA (and it's VERY important to have good beer on hand when you're playing a four hour board game with children).
Not only did all my white socks disintegrate on the same day, but both my belts -- black and brown-- fell apart within a week . . . so I went belt shopping, but instead of buying two belts, I bought a reversible belt, and saved the price of one belt . . . yes!
My son Alex has had quite a week: first he confessed this lie, and then-- when he was on the way out the door for school on Thursday, my wife noticed a bulge in his sock, and when she asked him about it, he said it was "just bunched up," but upon further interrogation and a search, she found that he was attempting to smuggle "Now and Later" candies to school . . . and if he wasn't wearing shorts he might have gotten away with it (or if he would simply put them in his pocket, but he obviously knew he was doing something illicit and you don't put illicit stuff in your pockets, you put it in your socks).
The Manasquan Dog Beach (Fisherman's Cove) is a bit smaller than I expected (and you're supposed to keep your dog on a leash, although no one does) and fairly underwhelming, but Manasquan Reservoir is WAY bigger than I expected: I thought we could walk the 5.1 mile perimeter trail in a little over an hour, but apparently-- according to the map-- it takes "twenty minutes to walk a mile on the trail, traveling at a brisk pace," which was about right-- it took us over two hours and we were NOT traveling at a brisk pace . . . if we would have seen the time caveat on the map sooner, we would have either walked at a much brisker pace or not walked around the entire perimeter; so we started at a leisurely pace, we stopped and investigated an eerie beach studded with numerous blackened and protruding dead trees, the kids climbed on the rock levy, and then we decided to start covering some ground, until Alex got a blister and had to take his boots off and walk in his socks, and Ian's legs got tired-- he had run himself out at soccer the night before-- so the three of us (Ian, the dog and I) lagged far behind (Ian did catch a snake, however, which was fun-- although it pooped on him) and by the time we finally got back to the parking lot, everyone was ravenous (I left the snacks in the car because I thought it would be a much shorter walk) and we drove to Pete and Elda's for some thin crust pizza, but the place was packed because veterans get 30% off their bill on Veteran's Day (but the service was still fast and we inhaled our thin crust pizza in record time).
We did our last excursion in the Chilamate region this morning, or so we thought-- we took a hike in the spectacular Tirimbina Wildlife Refuge; first we crossed 264 meter hanging bridge to get to the east side of the Sarapiqui River and then we climbed into the dense forest, I was the only one totally decked out for the jungle, wearing pants tucked into my socks and longsleeves, which was a good idea because of the numerous bullet ants on the trees and the trail, my kids had on shortsleeves and Catherine was wearing Capri pants so they were lucky to avoid being stung; Ian also miraculously spotted the bullet ant's favorite prey, the glass winged butterfly, which was pretty much wearing a cloak of invisibility, aside from a red blotch below its transparent wings; Ian has great eyes and also picked out tiny frogs and other little creatures but Ian's most incredible sighting of the day was a large viper just below the trail-- it was either a fer de lance or a hog nosed viper-- and he also found a smaller one ON the trail nearby, I moved it off the trail with a stick before it sank its teeth into my wife's exposed leg; I will post the video soon enough; the rest of the hike we were surrounded by howler monkeys but saw none, but we did see a pair of Marail guans, which might be relatively rare and then when we headed back to the Eco Retreat to check out, but we ran into a student protest blocking the road so we took a bunch of pothole strewn back roads and circumnavigated it and then when we checked out we ran into the same protest, a vague movement against the new president and we couldn't get to the highway so we ate and it rained spectacularly so we figured the protesters had given up but they didn't and there is no other way to go to get to Arenal so we retreated back to the Eco Retreat and we are stuck here indefinitely, waiting for the protest to end, but it may be a while because apparently it is teachers and students, and the teacher's union-- who have been fomenting strikes and protest quite often-- are not to be trifled with.
I'm sure you've been in this situation: there's a sock on the laundry-room floor and there are two possibilities:
1) The sock fell out of the dryer when you were unloading.
2) The sock fell out of the laundry basket as you were putting dirty clothes into the washer.
If it fell from the dryer, it's clean. If it fell from the laundry basket, it's dirty. If you've got kids who play sports, it's filthy reeking dirty.
The sock is lying there, prone and lifeless, in one state or the other.
You may have heard of the infamous Schrödinger's cat thought experiment. If you haven't, you can read Wikipedia's short summary. I included it below.
The basic idea is that you can set up a quantum scenario where something is in a superposition-- in two states at once-- until an observer breaks the spell and reality collapses into one possibility or the other.
Schrödinger's Cat Thought Experiment
Schrödinger's cat: a cat, a flask of poison, and a radioactive source are placed in a sealed box. If an internal monitor (e.g. Geiger counter) detects radioactivity (i.e. a single atom decaying), the flask is shattered, releasing the poison, which kills the cat. The Copenhagen interpretation of quantum mechanics implies that after a while, the cat is simultaneously alive and dead. Yet, when one looks in the box, one sees the cat either alive or dead, not both alive and dead.
Schrödinger's Sock Experiment (This Shit is Real)
The only way to collapse the superposition of the sock is to pick it up and smell it. The problem is that fifty percent of the time, it's going to smell really bad. But that's the cost of living in a universe dictated by quantum probability.
I've reenacted yesterday's version of the sock experiment. I got my son to take the photos--though at first, he balked, calling this "the stupidest idea of all time." He then saw the title of the post, "Schrödinger's Sock," and remarked, "That's so cliché . . . everyone knows about "Schrödinger's Cat. It's not that funny."
I think my title is genius, but he's about to turn 16 and doesn't understand how awesome I am. And if you search up "Schrödinger's Sock" on Google, you get absolute crap. Stupid shit about disappearing socks and even stupider shit about Christmas presents. This is the only Schrödinger's Sock post that contains an accurate parallel analogy to Schrödinger's thought experiment. Someday soon my son will appreciate this. Or not.
Anyway, I rolled the quantum dice. I smelled the sock. Unfortunately, I crapped out. It was a dirty sweaty sock full of teen spirit.
Into the wash with it.
A lesser man wouldn't bother to collapse the superposition of the sock. A lesser man would just toss it into the wash without smelling. "Better safe than sorry," this lesser man would say. But the universe would be a less interesting place for it. It's more interesting to collapse the superposition and ascertain the truth, even if it means smelling a gross sock or seeing a dead cat. It's all part of dealing existentially with a universe built from chaos, probability, and reality TV.
This photo makes the kitchen look bigger than it actually is.
