isoglossia

Yesterday I didn’t go to work. I got to lie in with Magda and Adam, who joins us in the Main Bed every morning for milk and a dawn-to-six-or-seven nap. Here he is trying to make us late for our appointment with the OB-GYN:

Of course, it’s the mornings when he has to be somewhere that he sleeps the latest. This being Slovenia in July, we had to drive all the way to Ljubljana for this appointment, which was scheduled for 9:00. It’s a bit over an hour away, and since we were going to a strange place we wanted to have a little extra time for orienteering, bickering over whether to ask for directions, that kind of thing. We found the place with no problems, however, and soon we were watching the coming attractions:

Magda immediately pointed out, “twelve weeks old and this baby already has your nose, too. God help me.” The doctor also ran some so-called 4D ultrasounds by us, just to see what we thought. “Many do not like them,” she said. “They are too realistic.” We learned that this baby is on schedule in all of the various growth metrics, and in fact is ahead of the curve head-wise. At twelve weeks and one day old, this baby has the head of a 14-week-old. “Great, Adam, your new brother is going to have a melon-head. I can’t wait.” I think it’s the delivery rather than hat purchasing that Magda was being all sarcastic about.

After the appointment we wandered around the old center of Ljubljana for a bit and while scanning the offerings at the outdoor vegetable market we decided to make pickles. A kid with a skunk-stripe mohawk was selling cucumbers just the right size for pickling, and nearby we found a crone with a broomlike bundle of dill weeds. The final ingredient took some hunting, but finally we located fresh horseradish root and bought two cigar-sized pieces.

Me: What if we put some of those dried red chilies in?
Magda: No.
Me: When I was a kid in Houston, the best pickles I ever tasted had labels in Polish, and they had dried red chilies in the bottom of the jar.
Magda: I’m sure they were very good. It’s just against the rules.

We’re thinking about moving to Abu Dhabi. Magda is remarkably open to the possibility. I am ambivalent. Meanwhile, our local weather has returned to the hellish heatwave we were suffering through before our trip to Spain. It’s 32 before the sun is even well up, 38 by mid-afternoon. Our top floor apartment gets as hot as the outside air and never really cools down because the clay tiles just above our heads have been superheated like a Cajun’s cast-iron skillet. Yesterday CNN weather showed Abu Dhabi’s temps as 45. When I reported this to Magda, she said, “Honey, I’ve got one word for you: air conditioning in every bloody flat!”

Today we drove over to Italy to buy tomatoes and a portable AC unit. Adam really likes tomatoes, for some reason.

[NOTE: This DIY was written in the early days of the MacBook Pro product line, before case-makers had caught up with Apple’s new form factors. In the two years since I wrote this, many excellent designs have become available, and I myself have upgraded to a Booq Vyper, which I can recommend despite the repellent name. This how-to remains useful, though, for the true and dedicated tightwad, the avid recycler, and anyone addicted to the heady polymer aroma of duct tape.]

I’ve never bought a carrying case for any of my laptops, but the new MacBook Pro is so sleek and lovely that I decided I would spring for a genu-wine store-bought case this time. A little research has deterred me, however. Word on the street is that the case-making sector hasn’t really caught up with the new Mac laptops’ dimensions yet and various vendors are claiming that old stock designed for iBooks and PowerBooks will accommodate the MacBook and MB Pro, with mixed reviews from users. If I’m going to shell out $30 or £20 for my new ‘Book’s case, I want it to fit like a tiny wetsuit, not blown-out rhino hide.

So, pending the bringing to market of dedicated cases for the MBP, it’s back to my old cheap-ass DIY ways.

Each of my previous laptops has undergone a non-invasive procedure that results in a carrying case meant to go inside a soft briefcase or backpack. The case you get this way has the following virtues:

• Tailor-made for your machine, with a fit as snug or loose as you design
• Provides excellent shock protection and is largely liquid-proof [*]
• Made from materials that are practically free
• Looks only slightly hobo-esque, and is meant to be tucked inside other bag anyway
• Gives you the profound satisfaction of making something with your own two hands

[*] I use this term not as a watch-marketer but as a beer-spiller. This case is NOT rated to any number of atmospheres.

This takes around an hour to do, including beer-opening etc, and doesn’t require any tools you probably don’t have lying around the place already. Materials required are:

• Large piece of closed-cell foam (i.e., a backpacking sleeping pad[**]). It comes in various thicknesses; I recommend 3/8″ or 1 cm
• Duct tape
• Self-adhesive Velcro® (optional)

[**] Try to find a used piece of this stuff at a garage sale or similar. Everyone seems to be using higher-tech sleeping pads now, so there’s no shortage of orphaned EVA pads out there. If you must buy new for this project, expect to spend around $10.

This how-to should be pretty much self-explanatory from the step-by-step photos shown below, but I’ll include notes as I go along.

Step One

1. First assemble your materials. In addition to the materials for the case, you’ll want to have handy (nautiluswise from top) the machine you’re encasing, X-Acto® knife, long straight-edge, scissors, square with measuring units, felt-tip pen, and beer (not pictured — the morning-sickness thing renders beer odor intolerable to Magda. So. No beer. You do what you want, but if your pregnant wife asks you to cut back on the beer, I advise compliance. She can’t stand the smell of olives these days, either, but that’s neither here nor there). In the extreme upper left is a piece of cardboard for protecting the kitchen table when cutting. The piece of foam here is actual Ensolite®, thin but very shock-absorbing and pliable stuff. In my opinion, worth seeking out for this project. This piece happened to be salvaged from the Dumpster®, adding to the satisfaction factor and lowering project costs asymptotically while increasing hobo-ness somewhat. Color is a bit unfortunate, but makes it easier to illustrate.
Step Two


2. Open the beer (not shown!) and measure your computer. As you can see above, I’ve marked out five ‘columns’, using the machine itself as a measuring tool (not otherwise generally recommended). From left to right, the ‘columns’ marked will eventually form flap, top, back, bottom, and front of the case. No side panels have been marked yet. As you measure/mark, it’s better to be liberal and allow a little extra room. You can regulate the snugness of the case later when you bind it with duct tape. Try not to spill beer on materials or computer (generally recommended).
Step Three


3. I traced around the roll of duct tape to round the corners of the flap. An optional step, and one which complicates the edge-binding later, but it’s more aerodynamic this way. Your call. At upper and lower center you can see that the edge panels have now been measured and marked.
Step Four


4. Here you see the case form marked out and almost ready to cut. An error I made here was failing to allow for the thickness of the foam where the side and front panels will meet, but this is easy to rectify before you do any cutting. Picture how the various flaps will fold around the machine and make sure that it makes sense before you pick up those scissors.
Step Five


5. This picture shows the computer lying atop the cut-out foam. Note the hashlined areas where I added material to the pattern to allow for overlap of the foam thickness.
Step Six


6. Using the X-Acto® knife and straight-edge, carefully score the foam along the soon-to-be corners — anywhere the foam will round a corner. This scoring allows the foam to fold at something close to right-angles rather than bending. Use care to cut no more than halfway through the foam, and just in case place heavy cardboard underneath where you’re cutting. Rule: X-Acto® knives are almost always sharper than you think. Cut along the lines you drew with the straight-edge — the cuts will end up on the outside of the case.
Step Seven


7. Next you’re going to ‘sew’ the case’s various panels together with little tabs of duct tape. Cut out a lot of them (you’ll end up using a few dozen in all) but here’s another rule: if you try to get 35 of the things ready all at once, you’ll end up with half of them stuck to your pants. (Note: you should be wearing pants). The computer is now wearing the condom it shipped in. Be safe!
Step Eight


8. This side is all ‘sewn’ up with little strips of duct tape. Rule: never skimp on duct tape. And don’t worry about how it looks; all seams will be covered later.
Step Nine


9. Here’s the case with all the seams stitched together, and the MacBook inside. It’s beginning to look slightly case-like.
Step Ten


10. This is where we cover all seams with smooth swathes of duct tape. Oooh, duct tape… This serves both structural and aesthetic concerns. Go slow, get in the duct tape zone.
Step Eleven
11. If you have some self-stick Velcro® around from previous projects, why not use some to make a nice tearing-sound closure? Here you can also see what I mean by not skimping on duct tape. As you bind the case with long strips, adjust the amount of pressure you apply to the tape to regulate how snugly the case will fit around your computer.
There is no Step Twelve


12. Finished! Here’s the MBP reposing snugly in its glove-like case. I can slide it into my soft briefcase, or carry it around just like this, all hipster-hobo. Beer? Thanks, but, umm, better not…

Last 3×3

Yesterday was a tough day. It’s been over a year since we have experienced the kind of baby-dread emotional lock-down that Adam has been producing in the grip of this virus. Last evening he redefined the idea of the buckwheat baby. This is what I was talking about in the most recent monthly report when I told Adam about how miserable he can be. Granted, none of us are at our best when ill, but this recent behavior perfectly illustrates how mulishly contrary, irrational, wilfull and difficult Adam can be, and usually is, anytime he’s faced with a situation that is less than ideal.

Magda’s been charting his temperature since early Wednesday morning and it’s been all up and down, but at no point has it not been in the fever range. The pediatrician said that he likely has a sore throat as well. Ambient temps are back up to 30°. Ever since Adam woke up today, if he can be said to ever have truly slept amidst all of last night’s moist, hot thrashing, he’s been producing a sound somewhere between whining and crying. When I get home from work Magda looks nearly as wet, miserable, and bedraggled as the feverish baby.

“He won’t drink,” she tells me plaintively. “Juice, water, tea, milk, nothing. He refuses. The doctor said he has to get at least 500 milliliters of liquid a day.” She’s right. Nothing works. Every attempt to get him to take in any liquid at all, from any sort of drinking vessel, is futile, met with vehement headshaking, violent thrusting-away of the offered cup, and HYSTERICAL SCREAMING. We try the sippy-cup, nippled bottle, big-boy cup, grownup glass. Nothing. “He won’t drink,” Magda says again, this time a little frantically.

Voluntarily.

What follows is like something out of Guantánamo. We wrestle him down and pin his clawing hands, brace his head like Alex watching ultraviolence, and procede to force water down his throat 40 drops at a time with a syringe the size of a pinkie-length pencil. His resistance of course redoubles in the face of the parental cliché of “we’re doing this for your own good.” And we are, of course — we’re trying to keep him out of the hospital. Despite my overly optimistic ‘on the mend’ stuff posted yesterday, his doctor is concerned and Adam’s just 500 ml away from a hospital stay. As the hot, slippery thrashing continues we try to picture him with an IV in and wonder and that would work exactly how?

Now, the drop comes in a variety of forms: metric, medical, imperial, gill-conversion, and (of course) U.S. I am not sure which unit we’re using here. 1 metric drop = 1/20th of a milliliter; medical, 1/12. You do the math to work out how long it takes two reasonably robust adults to get a few hundred ml into him, screaming, thrashing all the way, at 40 drops a squirt.

We keep stopping to offer him the soft option. “Sippy-cup? Nipple? No?” SCREAMS. “Okay, then, hold still…”

Look. It’s 30 degrees in here. Your throat is sore, you’ve got a fever, you’re sweating out a lot of fluid. Do you want a little drink of water? Not on your life. Not if you’re Adam.

I say again, I know that illness does not bring out the best of any of us. A fever can make us miserable enough to magnify our foibles. And this fever is overwhelmingly emphasizing the fact that what we have here is a buckwheat baby.