Catherine C.'s blog

Wherein our heroine contemplates the Garcia effect. And vomiting.

So when I was in junior high, I went to "camp" for two summers at the University of Southern Mississippi as a part of a program for gifted teenagers.  The first summer I took my first class in psychology, which was taught by a wonderfully cultured, fascinating woman who was deaf in her right ear.*    One of the few things I specifically remember learning that summer (as compared to during one of the 70-bajillion psychology classes I have taken since) was about taste aversion conditioning, also called the Garcia effect.  The simple premise was this: people will avoid eating foods if, in the past, they have become sick around the same time that they ate that food - regardless of whether the food was actually the cause of the illness.  It made sense to me then and it makes sense to me now, because there is one food out there on this great green Earth, the mere smell of which is enough to make me clench my stomach.

I was, shall we say, a bit of a sensitive child.  Sometimes a bit dramatic.  And like almost all children, I had foods I didn't like.  For my brother, it was lima beans; for me, it was quiche.  Not likely to present much of a problem, one would think.  And one would be wrong.  Sometime in the mid-80's my parents had become enamored of the uber-convenient  "Pour-a-Quiche" cartons of egg product available in the freezer aisle of the local Winn-Dixie.  So one night at dinner they decided to serve one to us and I, well, I was not having it.  I begged and pleaded.  I ate everything else on my plate and assured them I was full.  I'm quite sure I suggested half a dozen alternative meal options, but they were not to be convinced.  I began to cry and so pulled out what I felt was sure to be my trump card: "If you make me eat it, I will THROW. UP."  They were not convinced.  At this point, the crying had turned to full on blubbering, and I was nearing the point of hyperventilation.  Then, in a performance I like to think would make any true method actor proud, I proceeded to take about three bites of my quiche and vomit them (along with the rest of my stomach's contents) on myself, the table and, of course, the quiche that remained on my plate.  My eyes stinging from the tears, trying to catch my breath, I looked at them indignantly and said simply: "See?!?!?!"

Now, I know that the quiche did not actually make me vomit.  True, that combination of egg and cream could reasonably be expected to cause some discomfort in even the most mildly-dairy intolerant.  But I know that what actually led to my display was the combination of crying and hyperventilating and, maybe just maybe, the desire to act out enough to teach my parents a lesson.  I KNOW THAT.  But I also know what the Garcia effect can mean, and armed with that knowledge, I have steered clear of quiche ever since.  And I have never vomited at the dinner table since. (How's that for the powerful reinforcing effects of avoidance?  My cognitive-behavioral therapy professor would be proud...)

All of this is to explain why, when I showed up at my aunt and uncle's house today and was greeted with the news that our lunch would be not one but TWO quiches, I knew I was in trouble.  "The Garcia effect!" I thought to myself.  But there was no way I was going to turn down the meal my aunt had lovingly prepared (hers, to be clear, was homemade).  I did my best, picking out the vegetables and trying to push the contents of my plate around enough that it appeared some had been eaten.  And yet I still felt sick as a dog while I was doing it, and have been queasy ever since.

....

Yeah, that story starts off strong enough but there's nowhere to really go with it at the end.  "And so now my tummy hurts.  So I'm blogging about it.  I am lame."  But at least I know that, right?  And knowing is half the battle!

*This has nothing to do with anything; it is just the first time I can remember meeting someone who was even partially deaf.

Persons for others.

My friend Mike pointed out that it has been, oh, more than a year since I have blogged at this here address, so I figured now was as good a time as any to check in.  Three people who know this blog's address, are you there?  Excellent.

As one of the newer employees in my office, I did not have the advantage of taking any vacation days around the New Year besides the official university holidays.  I can't be *too* sad, though, because it meant that I was able to record the appearance of these items in the women's bathroom a full two or three days before the rest of my co-workers.  Behold...

It has come to this.

Let me try to explain what is going on here.  Someone from one of the other offices on the second floor of the Sullivan Center (hereafter "Someone") must have decided that what our pristine, modern bathroom was missing was an assortment of low-cost beauty products to be used for mid-day touch-ups.  And so Someone goes to her local Walgreen's and invests a whopping $6 in a large bottle of hand lotion, a bottle of hairspray, and mousse.  Mousse.  Something which should only be applied to one's hair when it is entirely wet.  Again I am forced to presume, but because I do not see a hair dryer nearby, I remain confused as to how, and when, and in what context this person believes we are likely to need to use mousse during the course of our 8:30 to 5:00 work day.  But I digress....

So having purchased these products out of her own pocket, Someone wishes to spread the wealth around to all of the floor's workers; a belated happy Hanukkah, merry Christmas, and happy Kwanzaa to us all!  To explain her munificence under the shroud of anonymity, Someone decides to prepare a sign on university letterhead clarifying that the products "are for everyone's use."  How delightful!  But, and here is where my presumptions reach the level of those assumptions Coach Manning used to always warn us about, Someone must have been burned by past unsuccessful efforts at generosity.  And so she must clarify how very much she does not want anyone to remove the products she has littered the bathroom with donated for the benefit of all the poorly-coiffed or dry-handed among us.  "Please  refrain from taking these products out of the restroom" seems...too mild.  Lacking in gravitas.  "Where, oh where," Someone must have thought to herself, "can I find guidance on this point?"  And then it hit her, much as it must have hit Iñigo de Loyola as he lay in bed recovering from his war wounds: the Jesuit mission. 

I can only imagine the rapidity with which she typed the sentences that followed:  "Please avoid absconding with any of them.  Stealing is not only a crime, but it is not in adherence to the Jesuit mission of being persons for others."

The fine print.

 

"Awwww, snap!  How are any of my co-workers going to argue with that?"  And then Someone must have remembered: it is, after all, the Sullivan STUDENT Center.  How could she rely on the thousands of undergraduates and graduate students who enter the building each year to understand that her altruism could only extend so far?  And so she pulls the final arrow from her quiver: the Student Handbook.  Someone consults the Handbook and excerpts the section regarding the penalties for unauthorized taking of personal or university property.  As best I can figure, Someone is assuming that a board of review would deem her actions a donation of personal property to the University, thereby converting it to "university property" covered under the Handbook.  (It could not, after all, easily remain "personal property" given her prior admission that the products were in fact for "everyone's use," and further given the anonymity with which the items were abandoned left in the bathroom.) As university property easily skating under the $500 maximum, unauthorized taking of said items would be a Class B violation of the Handbook, punishable by remedies up to and including expulsion from the University.  Her sign was complete: all possibilities accounted for.  Her White Rain hairspray would be safe.

As Someone taped up her neatly printed sign in the lower right-hand corner of the bathroom mirror, I like to imagine she took a moment to smile at her handiwork before quickly sneaking out before her good deed could be discovered by a passerby.