A few days ago, I posted about the problem with statistics and the 47% of Americans who have gone crazy over 47%. This afternoon, as I sit watching the first dry leaves of fall flutter from the treetops, I think of a different analogy.
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The Problem with Statistics
The most popular percentage of the hour is 47%. (The unemployment statistic can’t make up its mind and for those of you who missed it, “We are the 98%” is so nine months ago.)
Don’t worry – this post isn’t going to tell you which party you should support or who to vote for. Heaven knows there’s enough of that going around. This post was actually inspired by a conversation two friends of mine had on Facebook following the first presidential debate. The conversation went something like this:
The Trouble With The Curve
I recently went to see Trouble With The Curve with some friends. And while I think I could have lived without a mental image of Clint Eastwood peeing and eating spam from a can, the movie has its messages.
The movie is part a soliloquy to grumpy old men, part Dr. Phil, a tribute to a dream lost and part homage to a love of the game. In the movie, there is a prolific young (if not somewhat immature) hitter whom all the scouts are clamoring over. He can hit anything the high school pitchers throw at him and knock it out of the park. In the end, however, Clint Eastwood’s character advises his team not to sign him because he has “trouble with the curve.”
Hello Coffee!
I am addicted to coffee, and I might as well admit it. Hello, my name is Mandy, and I have an addiction. I know what you may be thinking…So what – a lot of people like coffee. But let me tell you, if you drink 2-3 cups a day, you are not addicted. Addicted is drinking an entire pot on your own and wondering, Who drank all the coffee?? Addicted is carrying Folgers singles in your purse just in case you go somewhere where they don’t have coffee, and you have to heat water over an open flame to make some. I don’t like instant coffee, but a bag of instant crystals might as well be gold when you wake up one morning at your parents’ house and they say innocently, “Oh…we ran out last week, Sweetie.” What can I say? I like having my personal stash of crack (I mean, coffee) there when I need it. (Speaking of crack, don’t ever start eating chocolate covered espresso beans. There’s no going back to Raisinets.)