A flower pot slips off a window ledge that is 4 meters above a bug sitting below. How much time does the bug have left before it is squashed? G = 9.8 m/s2
Saturday, August 19, 2006
Oratio Mentha piperita
I know we haven’t talked in a while, and I’m sorry. I have a hard time talking to you sometimes. I know all that stuff had to happen and you did your best. And, if it had to happen, I suppose there’s no good time, so it just happened. Somewhere there’s some good in it. I’m here, aren’t I?
I can’t get hold of you any other way. It doesn’t seem like you’re picking up. I know you have a lot going on with your projects and everything’s always a crisis. I can just hear you saying, “Look, sister, they’re ALL emergencies, they’re all action items.” But, I know you read this blog and I know you’re been reading it since a long time ago – since I was in college. I know you avoid the hit counters because you’re clever that way, but it seems like whenever I hint for what I want here, or even outright ask for something, you seem to read it and make it happen one way or another.
I remember I asked you to give me the answer to the bonus question in that stupid algebra class in 2nd semester. Do you remember that? Heh. Boy, I do. I’ll never forget it:
I was sitting there, knowing I’d blown that stupid quadratic, and I just was staring at that problem, and you said, “0.90 seconds,” just as plain as anything. I thought the whole class heard you. I worked the problem out backwards from that, and you were right. Well, of course you were right. But I had to show my work.
I, um, need you to do something for me. Ya, I know, I only call you when I want something. But really, it’s not for me, but for the Bigglest Boy. Can you just talk to him? The way you do. I think he might be open to it now. He’s really, really in a lot of pain and I just don’t think I’m going to have the strength to watch him go through what he’s going through. Please. For me.
That’s all I really want.
Oh, and can you help toilet train Littlest Boy?
Ya, that’s all.
Oh wait – what’s with this weather you’ve been sending us? Did you forget how to make it less than 100 degrees outside? Christ on a cr – oh. Sorry. I know you don’t like that. But it’s hot! Can you send us a little thunderstorm? I don’t mean a deluge, no forty-days-and-forty-nights stuff. Two hours, a nice downdraft with a cool rain, and you can go back to what you were doing, confusing the astronomers out there in the Oort Cloud, or planting fake fossils, or whatever you do.
Am I getting snarky? I’m sorry. I’m such an irreverent little brat. Come to think of it, never mind the weather; and Monsieur and I can probably toilet train Littlest Boy. I was just complaining, and I have no right to. But really, about Bigglest Boy, I meant that. When you have time, I mean. I know you have kids, too.