OmegaMom

Cast your mind back seven years. We (the Western World) were creeping up on the year 2000. There were folks who were relishing the thought of ushering in a new millennium. Please, please, let’s not have a philosophical argument as to whether 2000 was the first year of the new millennium or 2001 was–whichever, there were folks who were hyped. There were the various doomsday cults that foresaw a new Rapture, sweeping up the Blessed and leaving the Damned (that would be me and my family and cohorts) behind.

And then there were the Y2K nuts.

I was–peripherally, at least–one of them.

I discovered comp.systems.y2k early that year on Usenet. I read it compulsively. There were all these computer pros passionately arguing the question: WILL all the systems that run our utilities, our produce delivery logistics, our clocks, our microwave ovens, all crash at once or not? Is it TEOTWAKI (The End of the World As We Know It) or not? There was the guy whose buddy, nicknamed “The Baron”, was building a self-sufficient compound in Florida to retreat to when it all came crashing down, with food supplies sufficient to feed his followers and ammo sufficient to fend off the hordes of starving urbanites who would–undoubtedly–come crashing at the gates. There were arguments as to whether the worst effects would be from financial systems crashing, or from all those embedded chips running things like electrical grids. And there were the scoffers, the non-believers, the ones who said their companies’ systems were all fixed and ready to go.

I listened. I worried. When autumn came, and it started getting chilly, I persuaded Mr. OmegaMom to purchase two cords of wood to tide us through the winter if all went whacky. We would, I reasoned, heat the house with our woodstove if necessary. I had us purchase some extra food and water to stash in the garage.

Um.

Well, if you were to visit the Omega homestead now, you would find us with half a cord of extremely well-seasoned wood neatly stacked and covered by (newer) tarps over by our fence. It burns spectacularly well. It was very nice to have on hand last New Year’s, when the power went out for two days and we didn’t have heat. The food is long gone, thank heavens.

In other words, Y2K was not TEOTWAKI. But, damn, it was so convincing!

I always liked the doom and gloom end-of-the-world science fiction stories, a la David Brin’s “The Postman”, or the variety of novels dealing with post-plague society. Heinlein’s “Farnham’s Freehold” was one of my earlier SF tidbits.

All of this may key in to an almost Germanic melodrama and pessimism to my personality. It’s genetic, I think; my dad had similar tendencies, as does OmegaBro.

Anyway, the latest doomsaging comes in three flavors: World culture clash between Islam and Christianity brings down civilization! Peak Oil threatens us in our lifetimes! Global warming will swamp our coastlines and throw our weather systems totally out of whack! (There’s also the libruhl conspiracy theory of BushCo trying to impose martial law, that’s always a nice scary thought.)

Choices, choices. Which disaster shall I choose? Which disaster will choose us??

So, I chomp them up. I think about things. And, is my wont, I worry.

But I don’t let it ruin my life. Yet. Though there seems to be ample opportunity for me to decide to purchase another two cords of wood to tide us through FimbulWinter…

Woe!

Woe, I say, WOE is me!

Or, scrambled and delettered, like some puzzles: OW is me.

One always reads about medieval torturers doing things such as putting people on the rack, using hot pincers, and pulling out finger- and toenails.

OmegaMom is awake at 3:30 a.m. writing this post because the Evil Killer Toenail Fungus, combined with stupid OmegaMom picking at her toenails while reading about George Bush and his cohorts thinking of going to war with Iran and, possibly, using nuclear warheads there (you gotta admit, that’s enough to make anyone pick at their toenails!), um…kinda…sorta…pulled a toenail out. And is suffering the after-effects.

Now I know why it was favored by the Spanish Inquisition (”Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition!”). The weird thing is that it doesn’t hurt that badly when my full weight is upon it (say, standing up, walking around, sitting at the computer in my typical pose–one knee up, the other flopped over, like the stereotypical image of some historic person whose name escapes me at the moment). No, it hurts like hell when I’m lying down and trying to sleep.

The little pained-puppy whimpers that twisted from my lips did not, in fact, awaken Mr. OmegaMom. Now, tiptoeing into the bedroom to avoid startling him, a sound which one would think would be masked by his incredible ability to snore, will send him into a frenzy where I have to pat him on the shoulder and go, “There, there!” like I do with OmegaDotter, and secretly get bent out of shape at his hyper-vigilance against potential robbers, stalkers, house-mayhem-provokers, etc. But when I’m in pain, does he wake up? Nope.

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About BushCo: Three options. Either it’s exactly what Ahmadinejad is claiming, “psychological operations”, with the Bush Admin wanting to jangle their nerves while simultaneously pressuring on the diplomatic front, or it’s disgruntled BushCo types venting, or else it’s the God’s Honest Truth. GHT can be broken down two ways: Either the nukular option is just a far-fetched possibility that is being tossed about and planned for, because that’s what military planners do, or else BushCo really intend to do it.

Unfortunately, given BushCo’s record, I’m inclined to think there’s some truth to the whole shebang. Also, given BushCo’s record, I’m inclined to think there’s very very little attention being paid to the post-Shock-and-Awe logistics.

The whole world often seems to be going to hell in a handbasket, and here I am with a torturous toe.

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On a more frivolous note, the Dotter is going about asking us, “Who wants to be a dead fish?!” in a very bright and chipper voice, like asking, “Who wants some ice cream?!”

Where does she get this stuff??

The horsie mural is complete. Pics to come.