Monthly Archives: March 2012

Playing Hard to Get with Seattle Metro

He plays hard to get.
I can’t count on him.
He is rude to me.
He steals my money.
He can be a bit rough.

No, I am not talking about my boyfriend (who is as cuddly as a teddy bear and cute as a button), I am talking about the Seattle Metro of course! It seems my boyfriend troubles have manifested themselves in the form of a big, belching bus.

Painting by Robin Weiss

I am taking you against your will into the history of my dysfunctional relationship with the Seattle Metro.

The first day I met the bus I was going through downtown to Capitol Hill. I had made sure I researched everything extensively before my trip, especially fares (which is more than what Google says it is). I went to my destination without a hitch; on the way back however, I was asked to show my proof of purchase when getting off the bus. I explained I used a transfer. The bus driver was not impressed. So I repaid for the fare (I found my paper transfer seconds after getting off the bus) not understanding why. I found out that downtown Seattle is a free ride area so anytime you go through downtown, even if you did not get on there, you have to show your proof of purchase when getting off the bus.

So obvious right?

So after being rude to me and stealing my money, I decided to go back for more. This time it was actually important, it was my third day on a new job and I was going all the way to Bellevue. I got up at the buttcrack of dawn so that I could allow for plenty of time and definitely not be late….right. I had to transfer downtown. So there I was, waiting and waiting in the cold empty downtown for a bus. The sign had the right route number so why had it been 20 minutes and still no bus? Upon closer inspection, it seemed this bus was in a tunnel. I was assuming it was a magical, secret tunnel of Narnia because there were absolutely no signs or clues as to where it could be hiding.

When I looked up the route the night before, it mentioned no tunnel, which seems kinda important. So I went on a random bus and asked the bus driver about it. He said there was a tunnel that you could get to through Macy’s. Great! Except Macy’s is closed that early. What? People don’t go to Macy’s at 7am? Where will crackheads get overpriced clothing? So I was off, roaming the streets for a magic wardrobe that opened up to a forest with a goat man in it.

I'm pretty sure I've ridden on the bus with him before

I found a janky ass unmarked elevator in a most likely urine-soaked corner. Here was my Narnia portal! The elevator inched down slower and slower. The door creaked open to a huge bright platform with lightrails running on tracks and buses driving over those same tracks! Whaaa?!! An underground tunnel that I had no idea existed.

One of the underground Seattle tunnels, Photo credit: Jason Hoover, Surrealize

So I plunked down on my bus that finally came, already wanting the day to be over. As a final eff you, my button that was dangling on my coat plinked off right as I was getting off the bus. Just the exact wrong time for me to be able to begin to crawl around on the bus floor.

The Seattle Metro knows how to push my buttons. When I really really need him to be there he is super late. When I don’t need him there right away he is super early. If that isn’t playing hard to get I don’t know what is. He shows up just enough for me to keep believing in him but I never know when he will be picking me up. Well I am tired of these games, especially when the only benefit of them is a possible seat next to a mumbling homeless fellow.

Why is it that we have this antiquated system? Despite its secretiveness, the tunnel is actually a good idea. You are sheltered from the cold and the bus doesn’t have to deal with traffic. Problem is, there is only a tunnel through downtown and not many lines go through it. And I must say that their Orca card, which you can set up online as a monthly pass or just load a certain amount of money on, is pretty convenient.

We’ve mentioned the TransMilenio bus system before; it is in Bogota, Columbia and was featured in Gary Huswit’s design film UrbanizedThis ingenious design combines the efficiency of a track system with the cost effectiveness of a bus system. The bus lanes are bus only lanes, and no I’m not talking about the faux “bus only” lanes in San Fran and Seattle that cars can go in too and show up sporadically. This is a real bus only lane with a median between the bus lane and the others. The stops are not just empty promises on street corners, they are raised, covered, and enclosed buildings. Not only do they keep you dry, especially important in Seattle, they don’t make you feel like you are riding the bus. You don’t feel inferior to someone who owns a car, you feel superior.

TransMilenio bus system

Though I complain, most of my bus experiences have been good. I use it for work because traffic is a nightmare so it is actually worth it. But it could be so much better. Why is the public transportation in Seattle, a city that is home to Microsoft and Amazon, and San Francisco, one of the most expensive places to live in the country and home to Silicon Valley (kind of), surpassed by Bogota’s? (No offense to Bogota.) We don’t have to reinvent the wheel, we already have wonderful examples of public transportation to copy.

But until Seattle makes some real changes (let’s not even talk about the Viaduct being torn down) I will have to keep running back to the bus…literally!

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Kiss Me, I’m Irish-ish

Perhaps the best part about being American is that we care about lineage, however fuzzy and distant it may be. Since we’re all mutty and come from all over, we take pride in saying I’m a quarter this or that, my great great great grandmother was Russian and so on.

My dad’s side is Irish. St. Patty’s day was a big deal growing up in the Murphy house. We would get special treats from the grandparents which might take the form of elaborate Irish insignia or a map of old Irish provinces, always hand-drawn in colored pencil by our lovely and talented grandmother. I knew we weren’t 100% Irish (on that side) yet I would tell people, “I’m Irish!” which would cause any person actually born in Ireland to laugh in my face because, in fact, our Irish ancestors left the island way back when. We even had family fight in the Civil War. When pushed about that side of the family, I would wave my hand and reply, “yeah, we’re also English, Dutch, German, something, something.”

My sister only reminded me recently that our grandmother’s parents were both immigrants. Our great grandfather and great grandmother came from Holland and Germany (well Germany to Namibia) respectively, before coming to the US. They met working as domestics in the same household in San Francisco.

It’s funny how some parts of family histories, like the mighty Murphy parts, are brought to the forefront. They shine more brightly than other parts and come to represent the family wholly. While other, softer-spoken members of the family fold their heritage gently into the mix, packing it away in boxes, only to be brought out once in a while.

But today is for celebrating the Murphy side. And with that, I wish you all a Happy St. Patty’s day. I’ll go out, enjoy a stout and declare, “Kiss me, I’m roughly 10-12% Irish!”

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Calorie Bazaar: Quantifying Bites and Negotiating Trades at the Dinner Table

There’s an Assyrian saying about eating in front of someone who’s not eating, “sapee khjboonelah” or “you’re counting my bites.” It’s bad manners to be at the table and be the only one eating, so I guess this is supposed to encourage others to eat too. My mom came over for dinner yesterday and pointed out how this expression literally came true in my house. And she’s right. Ever since turning, well, not in my early 20′s and graduating school to lead a sedentary, cubicle way of life, my body has paid the price. Same for my husband, who’s even more not in his early 20′s than I am. So we decided to take, what is for me, drastic measure. We decided to

COUNT CALORIES!! NOOOO!!!!

Which is insanely tedious, especially with my husband the engineer who weighs all our food. To make it less tedious we’ve been using the Lose It! app, whose interface isn’t that awesome, but it’s one of the better apps for the job that I’ve come across. The funny thing about counting calories is that you’re putting a number on something that is less than precise. You make a goal based on whether you want to lose or maintain weight, and it’ll tell you to eat 1800 calories a day or whatever. Then you go about looking up food items in the app’s database, trying to decide if you ate a medium or small banana and whether you think you had 1/2 cup of asparagus or 3/4 cup. The units of measurement aren’t always how we tend to think of food. Some items are just confusing. I looked up roasted chicken and it said one unit was 250 calories. What, like the whole chicken? Wow. See what happens. I didn’t mean to take us down this rabbit hole of detail, but that’s what happens when you count calories all day. It’s inherently obsessive if you want to do it “right.”

So you go about your day entering in what you ate, and if you do any exercise you get those calories back. (Which, don’t even get me started on the mental f*ck of trading exercise for food. Yesterday, I ran 6 miles so that I could have a beer. Sad. Lame.) ANYWAY, you’re going about your day and maybe you get to the end and you’re in the red. Literally, the total turns red. It turns red whether you’re 1 calorie over or 1,000 calories over. Well, this feels BAD. And this is what happened yesterday at dinner when my mom (who started us on the whole calorie counting thing which maybe she wouldn’t want me to say, woops – but whatever, she’s winning anyway) and my guy were comparing notes.

“You put too much for this chicken,” my guy says to my mom, looking at her calories for the day.

“Oh yeah? Fix it!” She responds, excited because maybe this means she won’t be in the red.

“I’ll give you 110 for the chicken.”

“Hmm. 90 would be better.”

“OK, OK, we’ll do 100.”

“Deal.”

“You’re counting 90 for this bulgur wheat?”

“Yeah”

“Well, I think you’re lying a little.”

This continues on for about 10 more minutes before we turn our attention to Cut the Rope. It’s exactly like being at the bazaar, negotiating every calorie, trying to stay honest while trying to get yourself the best “deal” possible. You can play with the food amounts and if that doesn’t get you there, you can massage the “exercise” calories for the day. “Hmm,” I’ll say to myself. “I probably walked for 10 minutes while I was grocery shopping earlier, what’ll that give me?”

“It’s supposed to build awareness,” my brother says watching and judging. “Then why is it red?! Why are there so many numbers!?” I exclaim. He doesn’t have to count calories, because unlike the rest of us, he actually is in his early 20′s. Just wait, on his first trip to the calorie bazaar, he’ll ask to use my mad negotiating skills to get him the calories he wants.

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Job Description Difficulties

When you meet someone new in the US, usually the second question out of their mouth is, “So, what do you do?” No matter what I say, 95% of the time I get a blank stare in return, and I’m tired of it! I’ve tried switching up my responses, gauging what the other person might know or care to know, and I miss almost every time. I’ve tried, “qualitative researcher.” Blank stare. Before I quit my job I would say, “Researcher for [big insurance company].” Still no one knew what I did, but at least they had a brand name to hold on to. Ethnographer. Design Researcher. Anthropologist that does research for design/that works with designers. Blank stare.

If I include a bit about “customer” or “consumer” research, people usually then ask, “Oh, like market research?” And if I don’t want to see you again or just don’t care, I’ll respond, “yes.” Because at that point I’ve given up. But it’s not an effin survey that I hand out, like those shitty polls taken at the end of a customer service interaction over the phone. Once people ask about surveys and I’m feeling rather cheeky, I’ll explain that I do interviews or focus groups, even observe people over the  course of their day, understanding life from their perspective. Then I’ll use that information to help make products and services. Blank stare. By this point, it’s been about five minutes, and I’m sick of hearing myself, and this other person, this poor sap, this friend of a friend of a friend is really wishing they did not sit down next to me at dinner.

I guess none of us really understand the intricacies of each other’s day-to-day experiences on the job, but at least for some jobs we have caricatures of what the job is like, imagery that we can see in our minds. You tell me nurse, I picture baby blue scrubs, needles, banging doctors in the on-call room (because I love ER, and sshhh, Grey’s Anatomy). That’s not what nurses do (maybe), but it’s great imagery.

I really like what I do, and now that I’m freelancing I have to be better at how I talk about it. But I’m so tempted when someone asks me, “so, what do you do?” to say pilot, film producer, brain surgeon, detective, anything that main characters on TV shows do.

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Dijkstra’s Bloodstained Bullfighters

When I think of Rineke Dijkstra’s work, the first thing to come to mind are her beach scenes. Glowing adolescent bodies against eerie blue greys.

What I was not prepared for when I visited Dijkstra’s retrospective at SF MoMA this week was how captivating the bullfighter portraits would be. Not only for the contradictions they exude – a bullfighter should be strong, courageous and other “masculine” qualities, not torn down, dirty, exhausted, relieved – but also for their sheer beauty. These men look like innocent children, almost like dolls with clear skin, dark hair, and soft intricate fabrics. I love the delicate patterns and the rose colored jacket and ties. Even the blood and dirt that drip down their faces and shirts are elegant. If this was supposed to dissuade me from bullfighting, it is not working.

These were hung to juxtapose portraits of mothers holding their recently delivered babies. The viewer is meant to draw comparisons between the two sets. Both went through intense physical exertion and a life-changing event that was also life-threatening. It is supposed to raise questions of what qualities really depict masculinity and femininity. I appreciate this line of questioning, however, the bullfighters on their own confuse masculine/feminine, hard/soft, strong/weak in a wonderful and gently perplexing way.

The show runs through May 28.

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