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[Jean-Joseph Cote]

Fran wrote:
> BTW, an intriguing story about something really viscous can be found at
> http://www.physics.uq.edu.au/pitchdrop/pitchdrop.shtml
> (those crazy Australians!)

I believe these guys just won an Ig Nobel prize.

> Now you know more than you ever wanted to about viscosity!

Oh, no.  Not by a long shot.  I have a lot yet to learn.

>> Jean-Joseph:  Now you've gone and reminded me of the story about 
>> how I drove Christine out of the apartment that she was sharing with
>> Clive and me, by means of the ersatz cookie jar.  A fine tale, though
I
>> don't like being reminded of Christine.
> [Ahhh, but now that you've brought it up, you owe it to us to gratify
our
> curiosity! -- EM]

1984.  I think.  Still hadn't managed to finish my undergraduate thesis,
and I headed into my 12th semester at MIT.  The nasty apartment in
Central Square that I had been sharing with Pace and Mike was someplace
we wanted to get out of ASAP -- couldn't take the roaches, bad heat, or
failing plumbing.  Mike moved to The Castle, and though Pace had moved to
a house in Lexington for a few months with Wendy and Bob, there was
tension on that front, so Pace needed a new place as well.  (Pace and
Wendy bought a house together and got married a couple of years later,
and I lived with them for a year or so.)  While Pace was gone, Peggie
moved in temporarily, and when we left, she went a couple of blocks away
to share a place with a woman from Wellesley whose name I've forgotten,
and shortly after that moved around the corner into Naha's condo, where
he still lives to this day, though Peggie is now in China.  So Clive had
a place in Powderhouse Square that he was sharing with Christine, Ann,
and Jeff.  Ann and Jeff had gotten married a year earlier, and had a baby
(who I think has now graduated from Yale), originally named Jessica, but
they changed it to Melody when she was about a year old.  They were
moving to a place out in Westborough, so there were two bedrooms
available, which Pace and I moved into.

Christine ruled the kitchen with an iron hand.  It was her domain, she
was in charge or it, and didn't like other people elbowing in on her
turf.  This was reportedly the cause of serious strain between her and
Ann.  It's not like Christine was a great cook or anything, as far as I
know.  Anyway, in those days I didn't always buy the leanest available
ground beef, like I do now.  As a result, when browning it to put into
spaghetti sauce or whatever, there would be some grease that I would pour
off into a... grison... or something.  Actually, it was an empty peanut
butter jar.  That's what my mom used to do when she cooked bacon.  And I
left it next to the stove, with the lid screwed on.

The jar vanished a couple of times, and I didn't think about it too much.
 The third time, a note appeared on the refrigerator saying something to
the effect of  "Do not keep a grease jar.  It is disgusting".  Well,
Christine was a little hard to get along with for a number of reasons,
and I didn't want to pass up an opportunity to hassle her a little.  So I
got another grease jar, and left a note saying roughly:

"When I cook hamburger, I have to do something with the grease.  I don't
want to pour it down the sink, where it could cause a clog, and I don't
want to put hot grease in the wastebasket where it would either soak
through a paper bag or melt through a plastic one.  So putting it in a
glass jar makes sense, and I don't have enough jars to use a new one each
time.  I understand that some people do not like grease jars, but I'm not
sure what the means of offense is.  A grease jar is silent, emits no
odor, and need not be tasted or touched by the unwilling.  Therefore, I
must conclude that the problem is entirely visual, and I have obligingly
camouflaged the new one."

Next to the stove was a glass jar containing some grease, but wrapped in
construction paper, and bearing the word "COOKIES!".  Looking closer, you
could see that it said, "This doesn't really contain COOKIES!, it's
actually a jar of icky grease".  It also had a phony ingredient list with
things like lard, tallow, schmaltz, slime, and I think some other little
jokes on the label.  It wound up in the trash in no time.  Clive had been
aware of all of this from my point of view, and at this point he
suggested that it had gone far enough, and I should lay off.

A few weeks went by, and one afternoon, Clive and I were heading out
somewhere.  It was just starting to rain, and we were going down the
front stairway when Christine drove up, returning from work.  Clive
decided that he wanted to grab an umbrella and ran back upstairs when
Christine came in and walked into the apartment.  I was waiting on the
stair landing for Clive when Christine stormed in from the kitchen,
looking furious.

In one hand, she held the cookie jar, which had reappeared by the stove. 
"This is too much!" she bellowed.  I calmly looked up the stairs and
said, "There are cookies in there, Christine".  "I don't believe you!",
she retorted.  "Doesn't matter whether you believe it, there are cookies
in there", I replied.  So angry that she was shaking, Christine unscrewed
the top and saw that the jar contained Fig Newtons.  A careful
examination of the label would have showed that this one read, "This is
really a jar of yummy COOKIES! and you're welcome to some".

Christine announced the next day that she was moving out.  Pace decided
to pay double rent and use her room as an office.

Unsurprisingly, I live alone these days.  But that's actually more
because of the adventures I had in Boulder, Colorado in the mid 1990s,
sharing a house with Knucklehead, Mechanically Disinclined, the Zen Gun
Nerd, and Robert the Baker.  (Hutch even met some of them, I believe.) 
There are many anecdotes about those dopes, but they won't be told today.

Jean-Joseph