I have been a little deceptive, faithful readers. I have carefully omitted a very substantial something from all of my previous posts for fear of getting found out: my car was towed. This comes as a shock, as many of you might idealize me, romanticize me, know me to be the sort of person who would not let his car get towed. To this I really must confess. My car’s getting towed is symptomatic of a much deeper problem: cause and effect is one of those vital life lessons I just simply haven’t yet mastered.

This is most easily understood by example. Thursday afternoon, for example, I got fed-up with my own filth and decided that laundry was well overdue. So, I did what I always do; first, prioritize the individual articles of clothing until the basket is over flowing. Then go downstairs, hope that washer A1 is availible [because I use that washer exclusively. My alzheimer’s preparation wouldn’t have it any other way. Habbits, I read, are hard to break], begin to fill the washer, laying the shirts in flat because someone once told you that the water can’t get in to soak the clothing properly if it’s all bunched up, then realize that the basket is over full and so the washing drum will be, too, stuff what doesn’t in until it does, swipe my ID, add a jigger or two’s worth of detergent in, wait two days, return. Of course, there’s that debate I have with myself each time laundry forces itself upon me: should I take my basket back upstairs, how about the detergent?

This time I thought it best to leave the detergent in the basket and leave the basket on top of the dryers. The light tipped over the bottle of detergent, and I thought, “If I leave it like this, the detergent will weak all over the basket.” Impressed that my thesis on gravity had, in fact, taught me something, I allowed myself a self-indulgent smile and went upstairs.

Friday morning, I remember that my clothes are still in washer, or, more likely, some angry neighbor had taken my clothes out and placed them in a bag or on a table or even in my basket. But they hadn’t. I grabbed my basket to transfer my warm, wet mass of mostly clean clothes to the dryer. But, ah! As I had predicted, the basket was holding just about as much detergent it could without spilling. Awkward as I am, and still mystified by gravity, reached for the basket with one hand, spilling thick, blue soap all over the ground. I evened out the basket and brought it to the nearest accessible slop sink two buildings away and across the courtyard.

Of course, I couldn’t help but allow myself another self-indulgent smile at having correctly calculated cause and effect. The problem is, I knew full well what was going to happen. This is where the world of theory and the practicalities of application kick in and where I duck out.

Much the same is true about my car. I read the signs. They were clearly and plentifully posted: No Parking. Tow Zone. I even checked to make sure it really said that one night after a run at the track. There were no other cars, except mine and a police car. But I just ran back, took a shower, and went to bed. All the while worrying that my car would be towed. And it was. I have to admit the secret satisfaction it gives me. Knowing the future is something like causing it. But if I’m not careful, we’ll very quickly get into Boethian ethics and a discussion of free-will.

To end the story, the car is back and I did another load of laundry today.

Tonight was Kaitlin’s birthday, and I, unlike, Teymour, skipped math to celebrate her birth. It was nice, despite the sixth grade boys-on-one-side-girls-on-the-other mentality — eventually, the genders came to terms thanks to, of course, Harry Potter. I’m not a “reader”, but I have met the sorting hat a number of times, though. No matter my answers to his questions, I am always placed in Hufflepuff — the house full of “good guys.” We’re not brave, we’re not smart, we’re not strong. We’re good. Luckily I was in good company. That is, Evan was in town. We chatted, and eventually took the bin full of beer and the left-over riesling from the party back to my room. Which makes me wonder, when did I become someone who even knows what riesling is?

Which brings me to my second point, and this really isn’t a segue, I admit. I know. This week’s episode of This American Life was especially poignant. Jackie introduced me to the program on NPR a few years back, but it took a Hubble fellow Risa Wechsler to make me listen. Episode 293, entitled “A Little Bit of Knowledge” featured stories about people who make big statements about things they know little about. One of the main stories comes from Dan Savage’s, renowned nationally syndicated columnist of Savage Love, new book to come out this fall called Commitment. His excerpt details his six-year old son’s objection to Dan and his boyfriend Terry’s marriage. They don’t even know if they want to get married. But DJ, their son, preemptively objects. Eventually, DJ gives his blessing, but you should listen to the story for yourself. I defy you not to find it adorable.

If anything, this makes me think about the real power and danger of definition. G�del said that ninety percent of mathematics is done in the definitions. I think he was right. Right now I’m reading a classic text by Steenrod on the topology of fibers. This was back before there was a standard definition of fiber bundle existed. Anyway, this story helped quel a secret hypothetical fear of mine: what if my son wanted to be gay? Savage and Steenrod seem equally elegant, in my mind, in their treatment. Too bad I just took out a book of verse by Ogden Nash today instead.

The oyster’s a
Confusing suitor;
It’s masc., and fem.,
And even neuter.
But whether husband,
Pal, or wife,
It leads a soothing
Sort of life.
I’d like to be
An oyster, say,
In August, June,
July, or May.

The Oyster, Ogden Nash.