OmegaMom

The newsies are agog at the notion that Miley Cyrus has (gasp!) revealed herself (gasp!) in a truly artsy pic by Annie Leibowitz, and by (gasp!) a picture of her lounging against her boyfriend that (gasp!) shows her midriff (o the shock, o the horror!).  Stories are written saying that she is setting foot on the primrose path to ruin that has been taken by other teen stars lately–specifically Britney and her ilk.

Our culture is totally schizophrenic.  On the one hand, we’re practically drowning in pictures and videos of scantily clad females doing all sorts of things that one might expect scantily clad–or unclad–females to be doing.  Licentiousness abounds.  On the other, a 15-year-old has a few pics taken and suddenly Moms Of Pop Culture Unite to prostrate themselves upon their chaises longues, hands to their foreheads, having the vapors that the Queen of Pre-Teen Clean is allowing herself to be defiled.  The hordes of teeny tweeny Hannah Montana fans are suddenly going to transform into an army of mini-Lolitas, and it’s All Miley’s Fault.  Prudery rears its ugly head.

OmegaMom is rolling her eyes here, big time.

OmegaMom is also rolling her eyes at an article about "When Young Teachers Go Wild On The Web".

Kozmik All help us:  22-year-old teachers have MySpace pages.  And they…and they…omigawd, how can my trembling fingers write this??  They have pictures on those pages!  Pictures of (gasp!) themselves holding (gasp!) bottles of tequila!  Or, even worse, paintings they have done showing women’s lingerie peeping out from under upflung skirts.  Or (shudder!) paintings of frontal nudes!

(One does wonder if those paintings were anything like these…)

And they say things!  Like "rocking out with some deaf kids.  It.  Is.  Awesome." 

Or talking about bl0w j0bs.

Or showing posters about cartoon sperm.

What is wrong with these teachers?!  Have they no decorum?!  No reserve?!  Aren’t they aware they are molding young children’s minds?!  How dare they have lives of their own!  How dare they have thoughts of their own!

Now, granted, each and every one of the things mentioned above could be taken too far.  Let’s not show pictures of orgies featuring oneself in the buff.  But in and of themselves, my opinion about the examples in the article is…well…um…hell, these are 20-something teachers.

I was party-hearty girl until I reached my early 30s.  Well, not as "hearty" as some, but I went out, I drank, I partied, I danced, I stayed up all weekend long, I had hangovers, I talked sex with all my buds, I toked joints, I had sex, I listened to rock-n-roll.  And if the web and blogs had been around then, I’d probably have blogged about all of the above.

It might have been drearily boring.  I have to admit that my overwhelming response to most blogs or MySpace pages put out by folks in their late teens and early 20s is that they are an appallingly vacuous, inane collection of stream of consciousness gossip, in conjunction with angsty poetry.  This is why, when I use the "next blog" button on Blogger, I go through about fifty blogs before I find something I would consider even vaguely interesting.

I can’t imagine Mrs. Shoetree, the dotter’s kindergarten teacher, having a webpage with a poster about cartoon sperm, or paintings of frontal nudes, or talking about "rocking out" with anyone; she is, after all, older than me, and more staid.  But if she did I wouldn’t care, because she’s a damn fine kindy teacher who my dotter adores.  Which is, after all this bloviating, my main point:  Folks, teachers have Real Lives.  Yes!  I know it’s a surprise, but, hey, there it is, and it’s my pleasure to pass this piece of arcane knowledge on to you.  Teachers are Real, Live Human Beings who, amazingly enough, have been known to go to parties, or fall in love, or be indiscreet.

In a refreshing departure from administrative powerhunger, some administrator actually said that webpages should be handled case by case.  (What, no standardized testing?!)  On the other hand, another administrator type had this to say:  "We all understand the importance of living a public life above reproach…"

Dear lord.  We are doomed; the only people who will go into teaching or politics twenty years from now are people who are upright, humorless prigs…

An important question, brought to my attention by Whatever:

Created by OnePlusYou

The utterly hilarious "An Engineer’s Guide to Cats", copped from Miss C Recommends:

We were discussing nicknames over dinner the other night.  I mentioned that my mother calls me "Katya" and that my dad called me "Puddin’".  The dotter said:  "Awwwww.  That’s sweet."  Then she thought for a moment.  Then she said, "He’s dead, y’know."  Cause–>effect.  Or something like that.

Makronee

Ol it tac for makronee is nootls and sos

Spgedeey

Ol it tac for spgedeey is nootls and meetdls and sos

(Translation:

Macaroni - All it takes for macaroni is noodles and sauce.

Spaghetti - All it takes for spaghetti is noodles and meatballs and sauce.)

Bon appetit!

Last night, while cleaning up bookcases to go into the family room, it occurred to me to wonder–when did the first person decide that smearing smushed up dried honeycombs on wood was a Good Idea?

I mean, really–what on earth prompted someone to do that in the first place?

It’s similar to something else I’ve wondered:  Who was the first person who decided that horseradish might be actually good to eat if it were ground up and mixed in with other foodstuffs?  What possessed this person?  One of my most memorable experiences was when my mom handed me a chunk of what we both thought was celeriac root–carefully cleaned and peeled–and I took a great big honkin’ bite.  It wasn’t celeriac.  It was horseradish.  Let me tell you:  horseradish, in its natural state, is not, repeat not, edible.  I chewed for about five seconds.  At which point, my brain told me, in no uncertain terms, that I was being poisoned.  It was ghastly.  Surely I’m not alone in that?  So what prompted some genius, in the long long ago, to decide that it might be okay if it were used sparingly?

Why is it that I suddenly have nothing I want to say?

I’ve been encountering some good discussions around the blogosphere.  They pique my interest.  I want to discuss them when I read them.  But then, a few hours later, I open up the ol’ bloggin’ software and am confronted with a blank page…at which point my brain goes blank, too.

Part of it is that we’re being very homey right now.  The house is slowly, slowly falling into place; more and more boxes are unpacked, curtains are up, bookcases are out and books soon to be placed in them.  It’s feeling like our home suddenly.  I still feel sad about leaving the old house, but am happy about having more space, and more closets (closets!!!  OMG!  I could just swoon with the joy!).  We have also–somehow–managed to stay on top of the creeping mess here, so things have their places and get put back/away, rather than accreting like a giant midden heap in various spots around the house.

We have light.  In fact, so much light that it is making me feel very odd and out-of-focus.  Twilight at nine p.m. should mean that the weather is almost hot and the flowers are blooming and the grass is green.  But right now, we still have snow in the backyard and ice in the driveway (and in the afternoons, a lovely thin layer of melting ice on top of the slick ice, which resulted in one of our cars slooooowy sliding backwards down the driveway…luckily I noticed this in time to move it back up to a non-icy spot!).  We have birds congregating around the bird feeder, but no greenery.  We have sunshine all day, but no buds on the trees.  My body keeps saying, "Sun!  Woot!  But…but…dude!  Where’s the ’spring’?!"

Then there are the various "just living" things.  Taking the dotter off to gymnastics class.  Doing teleconferences during the day.  Taking the dawg out to do his thing.  Planning a vegetable garden.  Putting up artwork.  Doing the laundry.

Anyway, right now, I open the blog, want to post something pithy and pungent, and find the P&P quotient in my brain has plummeted.

Give me some ideas!

Or, more properly, the eggs and us.  Or we.  Or something.

Today was egg-dying day.  This year, OmegaDad read the instructions before preparing the dye (as opposed to after), so this year’s pink was…pink.  Rather than last year’s watery, pale, washed out color, it was deep and rich and dyed the eggs quickly.  Which, of course, suited OmegaDotter just fine, as she is still deeply into the Pink Phase of life.

Note the predominance of pink. 

This year’s egg-dying kit was a bug-themed thing with lots of unnecessary plastic objects.  OmegaDad had previously purchased a Princess egg-dying kit.  I am utterly, thoroughly, completely, absolutely over the Princess Thing.  Luckily, OmegaDad showed me his score late at night after the dotter was asleep.  I took one look at it over the top of the book I was reading, sighed, and said, succinctly, "No.  No more princesses.  Let’s find something else."  Bless his heart, he found something else last night, just about the only egg-dying kit left in all of suburban Alaska.

The dotter and I set to coloring eggs.  Note my dubious expression.  (Please do not look at the bags under my eyes.)  Note the dotter hamming it up.  (Please do not look at the holes in her OMG favorite T-shirt.)  (Also note the blue dye around the lips.  I have no idea how that happened.)

Some egg-cellent results (with pink):

The bugs were actually quite fun, once I decided to squelch my inner wet-blanket, which was snarling at the obsessive use of petrochemicals and the overpackaging of all U.S. consumer products, and join in the fun of decorating with stickers and plastic and wings and stuff.

The bugs posing:

The bugs at rest around our table centerpiece:

The dotter really wanted to hide the eggs immediately.  OmegaDad and I, thinking of the dawg and the cat that comes upstairs, and considering waking up to half-eaten eggs around the house, or considering waking up to an Awful Smell sometime in the future, nixed this idea.  We will hide them for her tomorrow, she will find them, then she will hide them for us, and we will be sure to find every last one of them.

The Easter Bunny is set to show up this evening.  The dotter has been asking me, multiple times and in multiple ways, if OmegaDad and/or I are/am the Easter Bunny.  "S. thinks that it’s the parents!" she informed me.  When she asked me if I were the Easter Bunny, I was quite happy to say "no".  Not a lie:  OmegaDad is the Easter Bunny.  He’s also Santa Claus.  I am the Tooth Fairy.  Anyway, I gave her one more year of ambiguity.  Maybe next year The Truth Will Out, but I hope that by that time she is in the frame of mind to love the magic even though it’s her (gasp!) parents doing it…

One of the Great Truths about me is that I never mastered Big Hair.  The only time I came close was when I had my poodle perm (see this post).  My hair has always been, and always will be, fine, straight, thin, silky hair that loses any hint of a curl when the relative humidity goes past 20%.  Since I grew up in Chicago, and lived there during the majority of the ’80s, perms were the only path to curldom.

Then there was the fact that, if one really wanted it, one could get Big Hair by spending inordinate amounts of time in the bathroom, fiddling with curlers, curling irons, hair spray, and teasing.  I had more important things to do, such as read.  Or write.

Anyway, I muddled through the ’80s as best I could.

Another Great Truth:  the dotter, though totally genetically unrelated to me, has that same hair:  fine, straight, thin, silky.

So last night, as you know, I subjected the dotter to soft curlers all over her head.

Of course, some came out during the night.

But!  The rest stayed in, and when they were unrolled, her hair was quite bouncy and curly.

I combed.  I sprayed.  I curling-ironed her bangs.  I didn’t do any hair-teasing because I am morally against such things.  So here’s our ’80s cowgirl, looking sassy (i.e., making a face):

It actually was big!  Here’s a close-up (the color is off and I couldn’t figure out how to correct it):

In which you can immediately tell that the bang curls didn’t do what they’re supposed to, and you can see some straight hairs that escaped the entire curler fiasco.

But the sad thing is that the dotter’s hair, like mine, immediately began to go flat.  Obviously, even though I applied what I thought was a dreadful amount of hair spray, lifting locks and spraying under them, holding them up so they’d dry a bit fluffy, it was all for naught.  By the time I haul her off to gymnastics this afternoon, the curls will be a sad, sorry shadow of themselves.  All that will be left is sticky residue.

Sigh.

The good news is that she will not be subjected to an entire decade of trying to do this every morning.

There were no shoulder pads (how could I forget shoulder pads?!  But I did!).  There were, however, jean legs tucked into the boots, and a hair pick in the back pocket.

I like my blog.  It’s a nice, cozy place, where I get to rant and rave and philosophize about whatever I want, and inflict pictures of my darling dotter or other members of the family on The Public.  It skeeves me out that blog scrapers come by on a regular basis, grab a paragraph and a link, and then slap it up on a blog-ad-site (blad?) filled with AdSense ads, but it’s certainly better than folks who grab your entire blog, change some details, and publish it as their own (I’ve encountered this a few times, second- or third-hand).  It bothers me that there are people out there who will steal your pictures of your life, your child, and pretend the pictures are their own, illustrating their own life.

I can actually sort of understand it, though.  There are people out there who yearn after validation, who want to be seen as creative, as kind, as loving, as beautiful–whatever image it is that they are seeking, and stealing, they’ve got a serious self-image problem.  While I think plagiarizing like that sucks dead toads and should be the object of scorn and contumely, I also feel sorry for these folks.

But what the hell possesses people to start up an email with a lie?  You don’t know ahead of time that your email is going to go viral…

OmegaGranny recently sent me a forwarded email.  There were two lines of text, and 26 photos.  The text read: 

Entries for an art contest at the Hirshorn Modern Art Gallery in DC

The rule was that the artist could use only one sheet of paper.

The photos–the photos were awe-inspiring.  Fascinating.  Lovely.  Amazing.  Beautiful.  Quirky.  Sad.  Thought-provoking.

The photos were also very familiar to me.  I was dubious that these were the work of multiple people, because I could swear I had seen these very same pieces of artwork on one person’s website.  But I wasn’t sure.

So first I went off to the Hirshhorn Museum and Sculpture Garden.  I couldn’t find anything that related to an "art contest".  I did an advanced Google search of the entire website, and didn’t find anything.

I went to Snopes, just to see if they had anything listed.  Nope. 

So then I googled "paper art".  Because I was sure I had seen these pictures before.

And lo and behold, the very first link that shows up when you google "paper art" is the site of Peter Callesen, a Scandinavian artist who has been creating paper art for years.  Every single one of those 26 photos is directly from his website.  He’s been published in books, he has had oodles of shows in Europe (none at the Hirshhorn, by the way), he has permanent art up on display in various corporate places.

He’s a "name".  It’s his work.

Why?  Why would someone send out an email claiming his artwork is the result of an anonymous collection of art contest entrants?  Why on earth didn’t they just say, "OMG.  You have to see this guy’s artwork!  He’s a genius!"?  There’s no need to actually copy the photos (a violation of copyright) and send them on in an email–just provide a link to his website.

What is the motivation in doing something like this?  The person who originally sent the very first email (first in a long chain, trust me, because googling the text pulled up a large number of hits) knew that what s/he was doing was telling an outright lie about the artwork.  Why deny the artist of his recognition?  This man has worked long and hard establishing a reputation in the art world.  Why steal it and apply it to no-one in particular?

Gah.  It’s frustrating to me.  Anyway, as a result of that email, I have a post for the day, and I have a website to point y’all to.  Go look at Peter’s website.  Enjoy his artwork.  It’s amazing.

When the hits on OmegaMom were at 100 at 6 a.m., I knew something was up.

That something was Miss Cellania, running a post called "Manly Men", which (amongst other things) pointed to a post I did back in October about magazines for manly men.

I’m now up to 278 hits for the day, with 45 minutes to go; this is the highest I’ve ever gotten.  Woot!  I know that some of you have much higher hit counts, but it’s nice to have a record like this.

She also featured me as "best friend" in a fill-in-the-blanks, generate-your-own romance novel.

What to take from this?  Men are lured in by manly-man-ness.  Women are not lured in by romance novels.  I was going to say that this is because women have read too many of them, and know what’s going to happen, but you’d think that would apply to men and manly-man-ness, too.  Right?

I thought I’d just return the linky loooooove.  Thanks, Miss C.!

Whoa!  Here I am, with a whole slew of ideas for blog posts!

A plethora of riches.  So much so that I am tossing it out to My Loyal Readers (all 15 of them!).  Which of the following would you be interested in reading?

1. I Can See Clearly Now - My journey from coke-bottle-bottom glasses to being able to see the time on the clock in the middle of the night without glasses, via LASIK.  With a tangent into the reasons why that song immediately makes me think of tuna salad.  This one is mostly for SpaceMom, as BadMutha has already gone & done it.
2. Walking on Sunshine - Hey–Alaska has sunshine, too!  Who woulda thunk it?  How quickly things change.
3. The Blind Leading the Nearsighted - Our nation’s economists say that the bottom one-fifth of the U.S., by income, "have access to various sources of spending money that doesn’t fall under taxable income. These sources include portions of sales of property like homes and cars and securities that are not subject to capital gains taxes, insurance policies redeemed, or the drawing down of bank accounts."  Yahhhh, right.  Notice they don’t mention such things as credit cards, or payday loans, or plain ol’ ordinary "debt".  I’ll give you the link to the article if you choose this one.
4. Everyone Knows Homeschooling Moms Are Ticking Time-Bombs of Psychosis! - In which I read a "critique of homeschooling" and decide that the critiquer needs serious–serious–critiquing herself.
5. Code Reviews?!  We Don’t Need No Steenkin’ Code Reviews! - More tech talk, mostly about the lonely life of a university tech person who is not in the ITS department, plus an apologia for NYI.
6. Looking For Closure - 77% of the houses sold in Stockton, CA, in January were foreclosure sales.  In the Sacramento, CA, area there were 1,815 homes sold in January, but almost as many–1,782–foreclosures were recorded in that area in the same month.  Similar things are happening all across the country.  Realtors are offering "foreclosure tour" buses.  Life has changed greatly in the past two years.

Pick a topic.  Any topic.  Or suggest one.

The explosion of the Internet has its glories–I found our first house on the Internet long before it was the normal way to look at houses, I pay my bills by Internet by preference, I book flights and hotels and learn about adoption via the Internet.  I started out long ago on Usenet, following alt.callahans, then moving to misc.gettingmarried or whatever it was, then misc.pregnancy, then alt.infertility.  And some email lists.  Then I moved on to message boards.  Then blogs.

(But not Twitter.  Or miniblogs.  Or other Web 2.0 social networks.  I joined a few blogging networks, but haven’t really done much with them.)

All of which revealed to me that the written word has an amazing ability to be misconstrued.

Some people can write well.  Some people can’t.  Some people can read well.  Some people can’t.

Writing blog posts, or bulletin board posts, or Usenet posts can be fraught with uncertainty:  Sometimes what you write, meaning one thing, becomes read in a totally different manner.  I’ve had this happen before, and wrote about it before, and when it happens, you become totally flabbergasted, appalled:  But…but…that’s not what I said!  Or:  But…but…that’s how it reads, but that’s not what I meant!

So some people litter their posts with emoticons to ensure that their meaning is not misread.  Or, occasionally, someone who has been misconstrued to the point where they feel they’re disliked, may start sprinkling lots of emoticons to the max, hoping–like a puppy dog wagging its tail–the readers will "read" see?  see?  I’m not being snarky or condescending!  I’m making a joke!  Laugh!  Please!  Please don’t take this the wrong way!  Please don’t be angry at me!  And then, people being people, maybe others will take the overdose of emoticons as a sneering reminder that They Don’t Read Things The Right Way, and take it as being condescending.  Enough of this interaction, and the puppy-like emoticons morph into exactly what is being seen:  an angry tirade, a way of saying:  Damn you idiotic fuckers anyway, this is a joke but I know you’re not going to get it, so maybe if I put goddamned neon lights around it you’ll recognize it (though I doubt it).

Oy.

Long ago and far away, on a private board, someone wrote about her bad body image.  How it affected her life.  How miserable it made her.  Lots of people wrote back, doing the womanly "Uh-hunh, I hear you, girl, I know what you mean!"  Someone else wrote back about her bad body, how she was "ugly", and she used a phrase that I read as being written with a sort of rueful snort, a form of rolling her eyes at herself.  Others in the discussion read it a totally different way–it was seen as a slam, a piece of spiteful cruelty.  The disjunction between the two led to an all-out fight.

Oy.

I’ve seen it play out elsewhere:  something that’s meant jokingly or ruefully or in a silly way gets taken seriously.  Someone saying idly "Lordy, I wish (insert President’s name here) were dead" gets turned into an investigation from the FBI into a death threat.

Oh, it happens in real life, too.  Miscommunications abound.  A guy says to his wife "Yeah, I look at those girls’ tushies and boobs and want to mess around with them", thinking he’s just being honest and open, and she decides it means he’s having a mid-life crisis and is about to leave her.  Or a college girl’s parents tell her, after she announces she’s getting an apartment of her own, "How are you going to pay for all that?!" (meaning pay for an apartment while she’s attending college) and she hears "How are you going to pay for an apartment AND COLLEGE?!" (meaning pay for everything, since she’s obviously about to go out on her own and that means she’s not going to have college paid for anymore) and immediately drops out of college.

But it’s a lot harder to have things totally misconstrued when you’re talking in person.  There are physical cues:  lifted eyebrows, shrugs, blushes, rolling eyes, a V-8 whap against the head.  There are a million different non-verbal cues in person to let someone know you sympathize, you’re joking, you’re being serious, you’re angry, you’re bored.  We’re hard-wired to learn all these cues from childhood.  When they go missing–on paper or on a computer screen–we’re left with only our own extrapolations to fill in the blanks. 

Maybe my extrapolations are the ones out of whack.  Maybe where I saw the puppy-dog trying to wiggle its way back into the graces of friends, I was wrong.  Maybe when I "heard" the rueful snort, I was wrong.  Maybe all those other people were right.  I’ll never know.

(For the record, this has nothing to do with any bloggy blow-ups that have happened recently or in the past.)

Onto other things:  Anocat wanted to know what "that pink thing" was.  It’s called "Pinkie Pie’s Balloon House™, a three-level My Pretty Pony extravaganza of small unnecessary plastic items that garnered awestruck indrawn breaths from almost every girl at the party.  Noreen wanted to know how many attended:  There were four girls and one boy who showed up, plus a small sibling who was supposed to be outside in the general play area but who hung around the glass door with such a sorrowful face, sobbing, "Sissy!  Sissy!" that we let her in, too.

I’m sick again.  Urg.  Just bone tired, feeling nauseated, chills.  I want it all to just Go Away.  And I have one birthday party to attend and another to set up this weekend.  (We’ve had another RSVP.)  (Thanks for the advice on goody bags.  I will just assume everyone’s going to make it, and next year I’ll try Sister Carrie’s approach, see if it works better or not.)

While everything was going on this week, PAGent tagged me with a meme.  Woot!  Something I can do without taxing my brain too terribly!

This meme lists every month, with an associated list of traits for people born in that month.  Of course, we all know such stuff is woo, that everyone can "see" themselves in such a description, and yadda yadda yadda.  Anyway, we’re supposed to go through the list and highlight the items that pertain to us, then copy the whole damned list and tag 12 other people.

I was born in April.  April, for those who know, is "the cruelest month".  I’m an Aries.  And, naturally enough, most of the Aries traits do seem to apply to me, but, as I said above, it’s one of those pattern-seeking things, and you’ll see yourself anywhere.

This is what they say about April:

APRIL: Active and dynamic. Decisive and hasty but tends to regret. Attractive and affectionate to oneself. Strong mentality. Loves attention. Diplomatic. Consoling, friendly and solves people’s problems. Brave and fearless. Adventurous. Loving and caring. Suave and generous. Emotional. Aggressive. Hasty. Good memory. Moving. Motivates oneself and others. Sickness usually of the head and chest. Sexy in a way that only their lover can see.

I gotta say, some of it is…a bit weird.  "Affectionate to oneself"?  What exactly does that mean?  Selfish?  Self-loving?  Narcissistic?  "Sauve"?  "Loves attention"?  I hate attention, except from people I love; I prefer to fade into the background.  I was a beige teen as a result.

Frankly, the description for February matches me much better, except for the "superstitious and ludicrous" part…

Here’s the deal if you pass it on:

1. Mention the person who tagged you and create a link back to them.
2. Copy-paste the traits for all the twelve months.
3. Pick your month of birth.
4. Highlight the traits that apply to you.
5. Tag 12 people and let them know by visiting their blogs and leaving a comment for them.
6. Let the person who tagged you know when you’ve done it.

THE MONTHLY FLAVORS, WHICH ARE YOU?

JANUARY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Ambitious and serious. Loves to teach and be taught. Always looking at people’s flaws and weaknesses. Likes to criticize. Hardworking and productive. Smart, neat and organized. Sensitive and has deep thoughts. Knows how to make others happy. Quiet unless excited or tensed. Rather reserved. Highly attentive. Resistant to illnesses but prone to colds. Romantic but has difficulties expressing love. Loves children. Loyal. Has great social abilities yet easily jealous. Very stubborn and money cautious.

FEBRUARY: Abstract thoughts. Loves reality and abstract. Intelligent and clever. Changing personality. Attractive. Sexy. Temperamental. Quiet, shyand humble. Honest and loyal. Determined to reach goals. Loves freedom.Rebellious when restricted. Loves aggressiveness. Too sensitive and easily hurt. Gets angry really easily but does not show it. Dislikes unnecessary things. Loves making friends but rarely shows it. Daring and stubborn.Ambitious. Realizes dreams and hopes. Sharp. Loves entertainment and leisure. Romantic on the inside not outside. Superstitious and ludicrous.Spendthrift. Tries to learn to show emotions.

MARCH: Attractive personality. Sexy. Affectionate. Shy and reserved.Secretive. Naturally honest, generous and sympathetic. Loves peace and serenity. Sensitive to others. Loves to serve others. Easily angered.Trustworthy. Appreciative and returns kindness. Observant and assesses others. Revengeful. Loves to dream and fantasize. Loves traveling. Loves attention. Hasty decisions in choosing partners. Loves home decors.Musically talented. Loves special things. Moody.

APRIL: Active and dynamic. Decisive and hasty but tends to regret.Attractive and affectionate to oneself. Strong mentality. Loves attention.Diplomatic. Consoling, friendly and solves people’s problems. Brave and fearless. Adventurous. Loving and caring. Suave and generous. Emotional. Aggressive. Hasty. Good memory. Moving. Motivates oneself and others. Sickness usually of the head and chest. Sexy in a way that only their lover can see.

MAY: Stubborn and hard-hearted. Strong-willed and highly motivated. Sharp thoughts. Easily angered. Attracts others and loves attention. Deep feelings. Beautiful physically and mentally. Firm Standpoint. Needs no motivation. Easily consoled. Systematic (left brain). Loves to dream. Strong clairvoyance. Understanding. Sickness usually in the ear and neck. Good imagination. Good physical. Weak breathing. Loves literature and the arts. Loves traveling. Dislike being at home. Restless. Not having many children. Hardworking. High spirited. Spendthrift.

JUNE: Thinks far with vision. Easily influenced by kindness. Polite and soft-spoken. Having ideas. Sensitive. Active mind. Hesitating, tends to delay. Choosy and always wants the best. Temperamental. Funny and humorous.Loves to joke. Good debating skills. Talkative. Daydreamer. Friendly. Knows how to make friends. Able to show character. Easily hurt. Prone to getting colds. Loves to dress up. Easily bored. Fussy. Seldom shows emotions. Takes time to recover when hurt. Brand conscious. Executive. Stubborn.

JULY: Fun to be with. Secretive. Difficult to fathom and to be understood.Quiet unless excited or tensed. Takes pride in oneself. Has reputation.Easily consoled. Honest. Concerned about people’s feelings. Tactful.Friendly. Approachable. Emotional temperamental and unpredictable. Moody and easily hurt. Witty and sparkly. Not revengeful. Forgiving but never forgets.Dislikes nonsensical and unnecessary things. Guides others physically and mentally. Sensitive and forms impressions carefully. Caring and loving.Treats others equally. Strong sense of sympathy. Wary and sharp. Judges people through observations. Hardworking. No difficulties in studying. Loves to be alone. Always broods about the past and the old friends. Likes to bequiet. Homely person. Waits for friends. Never looks for friends. Not aggressive unless provoked. Prone to having stomach and dieting problems.Loves to be loved. Easily hurt but takes long to recover.

AUGUST: Loves to joke. Attractive. Suave and caring. Brave and fearless.Firm and has leadership qualities. Knows how to console others. Too generous and egoistic. Takes high pride in oneself. Thirsty for praises.Extraordinary spirit. Easily angered. Angry when provoked. Easily jealous.Observant. Careful and cautious. Thinks quickly. Independent thoughts. Loves to lead and to be led. Loves to dream. Talented in the arts, music and defense. Sensitive but not petty. Poor resistance against illnesses. Learns to relax. Hasty and trusty. Romantic. Loving and caring. Loves to make friends.

SEPTEMBER: Suave and compromising. Careful, cautious and organized. Likes to point out people’s mistakes. Likes to criticize. Stubborn. Quiet but able to talk well. Calm and cool. Kind and sympathetic. Concerned and detailed.Loyal but not always honest. Does work well. Very confident. Sensitive. Good memory. Clever and knowledgeable. Loves to look for information. Must control oneself when criticizing. Able to motivate oneself. Understanding.Fun to be around. Secretive. Loves leisure and traveling. Hardly shows emotions. Tends to bottle up feelings. Very choosy, especially in relationships. Systematic.

OCTOBER: Loves to chat. Loves those who loves them. Loves to take things atthe center. Inner and physical beauty. Lies but doesn’t pretend. Gets angry often. Treats friends importantly. Always making friends. Easily hurt but recovers easily. Daydreamer. Opinionated. Does not care of what others think. Emotional. Decisive. Strong clairvoyance. Loves to travel, the arts and literature. Touchy and easily jealous. Concerned. Loves outdoors. Just and fair. Spendthrift. Easily influenced. Easily loses confidence. Loves children.

NOVEMBER: Has a lot of ideas. Difficult to fathom. Thinks forward. Unique and brilliant. Extraordinary ideas. Sharp thinking. Fine and strong clairvoyance. Can become good doctors. Dynamic in personality. Secretive.Inquisitive. Knows how to dig secrets. Always thinking. Less talkative but amiable. Brave and generous. Patient. Stubborn and hard-hearted. If there isa will, there is a way. Determined. Never give up. Hardly becomes angry unless provoked. Loves to be alone. Thinks differently from others.Sharp-minded. Motivates oneself. Does not appreciate praises. High-spirited.Well-built and tough. Deep love and emotions. Romantic. Uncertain in relationships. Homely. Hardworking. High abilities. Trustworthy. Honest and keeps secrets. Not able to control emotions. Unpredictable.

DECEMBER: Loyal and generous. Sexy. Patriotic. Active in games and interactions. Impatient and hasty. Ambitious. Influential in organizations.Fun to be with. Loves to socialize. Loves praises. Loves attention. Loves to be loved. Honest and trustworthy. Not pretending. Short tempered. Changing personality. Not egotistic. Take high pride in oneself. Hates restrictions. Loves to joke. Good sense of humor. Logical.

Dudes.  Please.  It’s not "exasperating the decline", it’s exacerbating the decline.  (Third paragraph down.)

"Hi!  I’m Rachael Ray!  Today, I’m not going to be teaching you about food–I’m going to teach you about farms!"

She flourishes a pink cowgirl hat…whispers, "You’re a teenager…"

"Now!  You’re a teenager!  And you have a job.  And you want to be a cowgirl.  And you want to be married.  And you want to be a teenager."

Mommy:  "Hi.  I want to be a cowgirl."

"Okay!  You want to be a cowgirl.  And you’re a teenager!  And that’s okay.  Now, after you get married, you can become a cowgirl!  And go to your job.  And come back and be a cowgirl!"

She pushes the cowgirl hat onto mommy’s head.

"You need a cowgirl hat to be a cowgirl!  Now you’re a cowgirl!  But you are still a teenager.  And you’re getting married!  Cowgirls can be married!"

She gestures to the "stable".

"You have horses!  This is Kayla and this is Spot.  Kayla’s kind of shy, so be gentle!  You need to feed them some oats.  And some hay.  This is how they eat!"

Kayla (formerly Frankie) nibbles from her hand.

Mommy suggests that maybe they need a feed bucket.

She grabs a box from Lands End.

"Now!  This is for their food!  What are the oats?  The purple socks are the oats!  And the white–orange–socks are the hay!  And now we’re going to feed the horses!" 

She grabs a bright orange plastic school bus and drags it in front of "Spot" (the wooden rocking horse).

"Now, Spot is a pony, a shepherd pony.  But that’s okay!"  (For the uninitiated, "shepherd" is a confused Shetland.)

"Now we’re going to give them some treats!"

And on and on from there…

Rachael Ray, I have to say, is everywhere.  A few weeks ago, I had no idea who Rachael Ray was, or that she was everywhere.  However, a few weeks ago, we lugged the second TV upstairs to the living room and plugged it in to the cable.  The first station that showed up?  The Food Network.  The dotter was mesmerized. 

We haven’t bothered to figure out how to change the station.

She laughs at and with Paula (just watching Paula puts pounds on your hips, trust me; I think Paula could deep-fry everything), but she adores Rachael Ray.  And now, when we go out shopping, she sees Rachael Ray on everything.  There are Rachael Ray Triscuits.  Rachael Ray on cereal boxes.  Rachael Ray on magazine covers.  Rachael Ray being interviewed on TVs in department stores.  Trust me, this woman is everywhere.  And, trust me, the dotter sees her where-ever she is.

The dotter also announced this morning that Hannah Montana was "the grrrreatest rock star ever!"  We quickly disabused her of this notion.  Or tried to.  OmegaDad claimed Elvis.  I said The Who or Eric Clapton or anyone else but HM.  The dotter promptly said:

"Okay!  Elvis is number two!  Hannah Montana is number one!"

Ahem.  No, that’s not what we said…

So right now, the dotter wants to be a cowgirl/rockstar/cook/girl who does hair when she grows up.

In other news.  The doc-in-a-box xrayed me, did the blood test thing, tsk-tsked over my cholesterol levels, said my blood sugar was just fine, told me about his lead sled dog whose name is Paxil, wrote me some painkilling prescriptions and sent me on my way.  (Can I just say how neat is it that the doc-in-a-box has a sled-dog team?)

He kept insisting it was arthritis pain, and when I’d say it was an electric shock would repeat back to me that it was a stabbing pain.  No, that’s not what I said, dammit!  I know a stabbing pain and I know an electric shock type of pain, and I know the difference.  And I sure as heck know the difference between arthritic pain and nerve pain.  But, hey, I’ll give the prescriptions a try and rest reassured that I’m not about to explode with hypo- or hyperglycemia.

And in the biggest news…

The best news…

Today?  Today on the weather page?  Where it says how much daylight there is hereabouts?

Today, rather than a "loss", it was a "gain".  Of 2 seconds.

WOOT!!!  Yes, folks, today marks the solstice.  From here on out, until June 21 or thereabouts, we’ll be gaining sunlight.

OmegaMom does the Snoopy Dance out the door.

We got on the plane in Anchorage…the sun was low down on the horizon and beginning to set.

The dotter behaved beautifully all day long.  In the morning, when our petsitter arrived to "practice" with the dawg (we haven’t received any frantic phone calls yet, so I’m guessing things have gone okay).  During the quick stop at OmegaDad’s office so we could print out the itinerary and various confirmation numbers.  At the airport.  In the plane.  All the way.  She was awesome.  We were pleased (and relieved).

The flight stopped at Sea-Tac, we deplaned and replaned, and OmegaDad leaned over to me and whispered, "That young lady is traveling by herself."  I knew exactly who he was discussing:  the pre-teen brunette with the slightly excited air, who was sitting a few rows ahead of us and on the other side of the aisle.

When we deplaned in the Valley of Death at oh-dark-thirty, tired and running on empty, as we exited the jetway, we saw a small head peering from around the doorway.  As we got closer, I realized it was a small Asian head, attached to a small Asian girl about the size/age as the dotter.  We headed into the gate area, to an empty, echoing area devoid of people, except for a woman in the distance.  OmegaDad and I glanced at the girl, glanced at the woman, assumed they were together, and headed on, trudging wearily to the baggage claim, with visions of a bed at the hotel luring us forwards.

We get to baggage claim, and OmegaDad decamps for the little boy’s room, OmegaDotter snuggled up beside me on the bench (I think, I honestly can’t remember at this point!) and we zoned out.

I see in the distance the lady with the little Asian girl and the cute pre-teen and one of those bag-carrier thingummies.  She comes closer and smiles, and says, "Excuse me…are you by any chance…"

Mentally I’m already finishing the sentence:

"…are you by any chance part of the Phoenix FCC?"

"…is your daughter by any chance from China/Korea/Vietnam?"

Or something similar–the kind of encounter you become accustomed to, where you have a quick meet-and-greet of someone who has a family similar to yours, recognition of commanality in the middle of an empty airport.

And then she knocks my socks off by saying:

"Are you by any chance OmegaMom?  I read your blog all the time!"

WHOA!

NO SHIT?!  Someone is asking me if I’m my blog persona?!  In an international airport?!

Holy cow!

This was such an amazing ego-boo I can’t describe it.  A shot in the emotional arm.  An OMG-I’m-blushing moment like you wouldn’t believe.  I have a real, live reader!!!  (Okay, of course I know I have real, live readers, and have actually met a few on purpose, but this was my very first chance encounter and way kewl.)

This is, obviously, one of the reasons actors act and pop singers sing:  Just to get that zingy ego-boost out of nowhere.

We chatted; I asked her if she had a blog (no) or had commented, and she said, "Oh, no, I’m just a lurker, but I read you all the time."  The lovely young pre-teen was her niece, visiting from the bush, and her daughter was, indeed, exactly OmegaDotter’s age and also from China.

So, to my nameless fan:  Hi!  I’m sorry I didn’t talk more, and wasn’t more prepared, but we were honest to goodness almost staggering with exhaustion and the ol’ brain cells weren’t firing quite right.  And I just wanted to tell you that your greeting was truly appreciated and made me feel all warm-n-fuzzy.  Shout out in the comments!

So we’re here.  We chowed down at our favorite dim sum restaurant in the Valley of Death, then stopped at Trader Joe’s to grab some stuff for OmegaGranny, and headed up the hill.  I soaked in the sunlight, and felt the fifty kazillion knots of tension and misery in my back easing off.  OmegaDad eyeballed the clouds and voiced his sincere hope that he’ll be able to tell his coworkers, when asked, that it snowed every damned day we were in Arizona.  Har.

The sun has been up since 7:30.  It’s almost 5, and the sun hasn’t set yet.  I’ve hugged my mamasan like she hasn’t been hugged in a long time, and same for Unka Bill.  Cousin R. has made it here and is relaxing in her hotel room for a bit, and then we’re off for dinner.

Great-Grandma’s 104th birthday was two days ago; I thought it was yesterday (my mnemonic is Pearl Harbor Day–but I left out the "day before" clause in my memory).  A post about her tomorrow.

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My PalPal change-of-address rant garnered many similar complaints.  The one that really caught my eye, though, was Del’s link to a similar complaint by someone who is using PayPal to accept registration fees for a conference.  Ack!

Since I had everyone in my corner, I was feeling righteous.

Since everyone had said that they had similar problems and finally gave up, I was not feeling hopeful.

But I had sent out a plaintive missive to PayPal help, via their website form:

Surely this isn’t an unusual question!

We’ve moved.  I want to update my address and phone number.  But in order to update my address and phone number–you have to contact me at my old (NO LONGER VALID!!!) phone number or address!!!

I call the customer service phone number as suggested.  I go to
“update/change account information”…then it tells me to go to the website!

Sorry for all the exclamation points, but I am getting EXTREMELY
FRUSTRATED.

My husband has had the same problem with his PayPal account.
Please help.  PLEASE.

And you know what?

I got a response.

From a real, live human being!

And she was nice and understanding!

And she “reset” my account!

And I was able to remove the old address, *poof!*

And I was able to remove the old telephone number, *poof!*

And I was able to even change the primary email address, so I no longer have to log in using the old address (which will be defuncticated while I am off visiting OmegaGranny)!

So, I have to give PayPal a halfhearted pat on the back.  The pat on the back is because they did help.  The halfhearted part is that they shouldn’t have needed to help.  This is not an unusual request, I am sure; there must be thousands of people registered with PayPal who move every month.  They need to fix their system, because it should not require me getting frustrated and having to contact their help desk to get this fixed.

When you move 4,000 miles away from your old abode, your address changes in lots of far-flung places.

So, in this age of the wonder that is the intertubes, you sit down at your computer once you have sorted out all the details (like, say, where you’re going to live, and what your phone number is going to be), crack your fingers in a semi-macho display, poise the hands over the keyboard like Leonard Bernstein, lift a hand…

…and type http://www.bofa.com…

…and Hey Presto! you’re there, you answer a few security questions that no-one else is ever going to know (your father-in-law’s middle name is not exactly common, nor is it exactly common knowledge outside your spouse’s circle), and voila, you have happily changed your primary address and phone number and your bank statements are now delivered to your bank-o-mailboxes at your new address by the postal person and you’re happy.  Well, kinda.

You do the same with a variety of services.

All on the web.

All nice and easy.

All using Sekrit Kwestshuns with Sekrit Ansers that only you know.

And you go along with your life, merrily having a grand ol’ time trying to adjust to life in your new abode.

Then one day you discover Etsy.  Some wicked woman lists some artists in her “gifts for less than $50″ blog post, and you foolishly click on the links, and you are in love and you MUST.  HAVE.  THESE.  THINGS.  NOW.  (Especially since you are trying to decorate a new house, and counteract the continually shrinking amount of sunlight by scattering Bright Things around the house.)

Now, Etsy allows you to use PayPal.

You have a nice small amount in your PayPal account, due to your previous go-round with blog ads (and you wistfully hope that your new go-round with blog ads will prove as pleasantly pseudo-lucrative).  So you decide to purchase your new treasures using PayPal.

There’s a little note at Etsy when you select PayPal to pay; it says to be sure your shipping address in PayPal is the correct one.  So you schlep over to PayPal’s website, knowing you haven’t changed your address, so maybe it’s time to change it.

And you think you’ve done it, and order your Glittering Things, and the shipping address that shows up is not your new address.

So you scratch your head.  “Say what?!  Dayum.  I know I changed that address.  Hunh.  Maybe I need to change the address that’s marked as the main address.” 

You are in a maze of twisty, turny passages that all look alike.

You are in a maze of turning, twisty passages, all looking alike.

You are in a maze of twisting, turning passages that all look alike.

First you add an address.  That works.  Then you add a phone number and an email address.  That works.

Then you try to make the new address your primary address and delete the old one.  You get a page that says they will contact you with a Sekrit Code so you can confirm the changes.

They will contact you at your primary phone number, which is not the new phone number you just added.

OR…

They will contact you at your mailing address.  Which just happens to be the old mailing address.

OR…

You can select “Other”, which brings you to a page where they say to contact Customer Service at this particular phone number.

So after trying a few go-rounds (surely there’s a way to get your new address and/or new phone number to appear in the drop-down??), you grit your teeth in frustration and call the phone number (which is not toll-free).

You get a nice pleasant-sounding computerized voice.  You follow its instructions.  You select the “change customer address and/or phone number” option.  You get a voice message that says…

“Did you know you can change your address and phone number on our website?  We’ll be sending you instructions on how to do this to your email.”

See OmegaMom.

See OmegaMom’s eyes bug out.

See OmegaMom turning red.

See OmegaMom start howling.

See OmegaMom jump up and down in frustration, just like her five-year-old daughter does.

See OmegaMom go wash dishes to get away from her frustration.

See OmegaMom sit down at the computer once again to try to figure out how to contact a real, live human being who might be able to help her do something that LOTS AND LOTS AND LOTS OF PAYPAL CUSTOMERS MUST WANT TO DO, JUST LIKE HER!!!

Now, really.  Banks do it.  Utilities do it.  Lots of places that are just as needful of security measures as PayPal do it OVER THE INTERNET.  Without all this rigamarole.  Why the fuck can’t PayPal?!?!

I just want to be able to use my “OmegaMom fund” to be able to buy myself some kewl artwork.  Is this too much to ask?

Grrrr.

So I’ve sent an email to their help desk.  Now I have to wait until Monday to be contacted.  The Kozmik All is no doubt arranging, right now, for the person at PayPal to ignore my offered new phone number and new email addresses, and try to call my old phone number.  ARRGGGHHHHHHH!!!

Remember, I didn’t participate (whew!).  But bunches and bunches of my regular blogstops did, and the whole slew of them are getting practically giddy with relief now that today is the final day and they are out of Blogging Durance Vile.

As a reader, of course, this sucks, because I’ve been happily seeing 25-30 new posts every morning by some of my faves.  And then 20 more as the day goes by.

But they’re giddy, I tell you!  Yelling “Whoopeee!” and “Hallelujah!” and “Thank GOD that’s over with!”  Dancing in the blogging streets.  Setting off fireworks.  Revelry. 

Bah.  Pooey.  Pbbbbbttt to the lot of them.  Harrumph.

Cast yer eyebones over to the left.  The Giving Tree is gone; all my Donors Choose projects were funded, though not all the way by my readers.  In its place is the Shameless Commerce Division (shamelessly cribbed from Car Talk), an experiment wherein I signed up with the BlogHer Ad Network.  We shall see; I’m hoping it doesn’t end up stalling blog loading.  If it does, please let me know.  Goodness only knows if I’ll get a few cents per month.

I need to send you on to Almost Quintessence, BlueGrassGirl’s blog, for a particular post all about having a dead bird in the freezer.  BGG is the sister of Jozet (of Halushki fame).  There’s obviously a hilarity gene, and the girls have got it.

The OmegaFamily is working very hard on the concept of “frustration” and how to handle it.  OmegaDad, in a fit of genius, came up with “The Attention Game”.  He told the dotter all about using her “ability”, which included listening and paying attention.  He tests her by giving her tasks, and if she does them, she gets a point.  If she doesn’t get it right, he gets a point.  They’re playing up to 30 points this weekend.

This has been prompted by the dotter’s absolute inability lately to deal with frustration, in any way, shape, or form.  She melts down and goes into stubbornness mode, wherein she keeps trying to do whatever it is that is frustrating her, and is crying and keening and whining while she does it, and is generally a drama queen about it.

This frustrates me to no end, and makes me snappy and snarky.  OmegaDad rode his white horse to my rescue this evening with this game.  I’m hoping it actually sinks in a bit with the competitiveness aspect, because the dotter’s response to her frustration is just irritating as hell.  I end up feeling like I want to run screaming into the street, far, far away.  The dotter, of course, thinks I’m abandoning her, and follows no matter where I go.  This makes me more uptight, and makes me want to retreat, and she gets more panicky and wants to cling, and it turns into a Spiral of Disturbance.  Bleah.

I go away now and play with Etsy.

…poop after an embryo transfer.

Really, truly.

Yes.

Just think of trying to expel a tampon by pooping, ‘kay?  How many times have you done that?  Then think of doing the same thing with something that is teeny tiny and has been (hopefully) placed right near your uterine lining so it can snag in there and settle in and grow.

OmegaMom understands that you are very worried and protective and hoping you’re not going to waste money poured into an expensive and heart-rending procedure by doing a normal, everyday physical action.

But, Virginia, you should not be asking this particular question of Dr. Google.  Perhaps you should be asking this question of your own doctor?  Or his/her staff?

I hasten to add, Virginia, you can rest assured that you are not alone in asking that question.  Because OmegaMom gets hits from Google searches for that question at least once a week.

OmegaMom rolls her eyes and gets back to other things, with promises of a real post later on.

I have a bunch of blogs I’ve stumbled on one way or another that I haven’t put into my blogroll…So I thought it might be nice if I passed them on with a blurb or two.

First on my list is Kate at High Altitude Gardening.  I discovered her blog via the “Next Blog” button on Blogger, totally at random.  Being that I am married to Mr. Total Green Thumb, who paid his way through college by running his own nursery business, and am the daughter of Granny Total Green Thumb, and am very interested in gardening at high altitudes (though now it’s a moot point, sigh), I started reading.  I liked what I read.  I kept reading.  I bookmarked her.  She writes about gardening in the mountains of Utah–yes–but also about all sorts of other things.  A great read!

Bent Objects is an intriguing spot to visit.  Mr. Bent Objects creates tiny sculptures out of ordinary, everyday items–hourglasses, corkscrews, a paddle-ball–and infuses them with a sense of whimsy.  I discovered Bent Objects via Clicked.

Mutha, at Word to your Mutha, is a mom to three, one of them adopted from China.  She writes amusing tales of life with three little ones.  And she has a podcast! 

Check out Passive-Aggressive Notes.  Readers submit notes they’ve found or had directed to them that are the epitome, the essence, of passive-aggressiveness.  Many of them are hilarious, some intentionally so, some not.  The commenters have a lot of in-jokes as a result of following PAN for a while, one of which is being the first to post a comment saying, “That (subject of note) was fucking delicious!”  The Heisa Monster is another in-joke.  I don’t remember how I found PAN; it may have been via Clicked as well.

An old friend/acquaintance/adversary of many years is Blog Antagonist, at Blogs Are Stupid.  She started her blog as a snarky sideswipe at a bunch of folks who were, lemming-like, starting blogs…then she discovered, ironically and much to her surprise, that a blog was an agreeable pastime that offered her an outlet for her desire to write.  She still has a tendency to use ten-dollar words when three-dollar words would do much better, but I enjoy her writing and think many of my readers would, too.

So there ya go.  Dip in and enjoy. 

Well.  Who’d'a thunk it?  My commentary about my *#@!% raw data being changed had two people wanting to know more!

Here’s the scoop, interesting only to about four of my readers, maybe five:  I’m grabbing data from our campus data warehouse via a web report.  (This means that other data providers won’t work, sorry, Jane!)

Once upon a time, before there were a series of high-profile data break-ins at colleges and universities (not ours), folks like me on campus were able to just link directly to the accounting system and grab the data as read-only users.

Now, alas, the IT department is more security minded.  This is Good!  Really!  In general.  But not for folks like me, small potatoes applications systems analysts working for particular departments, that want to be able to do things with the data.

Because instead of being able to link directly to the data…or even the data warehouse snapshot of the data…now we have to use (ack gasp barf) Business Objects to access the data.  And we can’t use the desktop version of BO, we have to use the web tool.  I re-iterate:  ack gasp barf.

So what once required only an ODBC connection and some of my very own SQL statements now requires:

1. Using a generic report available to the entire campus.
2. Which can be changed at a moments’ notice.
3. Without any warning.
4. So I have to open a web browser.
5. …run the report…
6. …Then save to a local machine as an Excel spreadsheet.
7. (Though no doubt I could do the same via code, assuming they didn’t upgrade BO and change the layout and the commands and the name of the report and…)
8. Then my code has to open the spreadsheet…
9. …Run a query that collects only the data I need…
10. …massage that data so the format is correct…
11. …and insert that data into a table in my local database so that my users can see data from the accounting system side by side with data from our work order management system for reconciliation purposes.  All of which is a major pain, and I wish we didn’t need this reconciliation stuff, but due to a particular decision two years ago, we’re stuck with two systems that we need to ensure are both showing the same numbers.

(FYI:  The direct link?  I could do 9, 10, and 11, and be done.)

Dudes.  This sucks dead toads.  Not only did I find out yesterday that they changed the column names at some point in the past, so my code that queries the spreadsheet downloaded from the web doesn’t work anymore (hey, no errors–it just doesn’t insert any data, because the column I was querying on doesn’t exist any more).  But today I find out that a transaction detail report that previously showed revenue figures suddenly just ignores any revenue and dumps a zero in instead.  Because, hey, we’re a university and nobody gets revenue, right?  Har, har, think again.

Dudes.  This really sucks dead toads.

And nowhere…nowhere…in all of this was there any kind of warning that the report had been changed.  None.  Nowhere.

Gah.  Gimme back my direct link, dammit.  We can see all this stuff just fine using the accounting system’s web interface (ack gack, another web interface, slow and ponderous and irritating as hell), one transaction at a time, so it’s not like we shouldn’t be seeing the info to start with.  But Kozmik All forbid anyone should want to actually do something with that information, or see multiple transactions, or, or, or…

Grumble, grumble, grumble.  I’m going to be talking to the DW folks to see if we can have them create us a specific-to-our-department report.  What a pain.  They’ve got months‘ worth of reports to create…any request from us could take months to do.  Maybe I’ll try to learn more about BO and create my own report.  Even if it took me months, it would be less time.

Grumble.

A lot of the cool kids are doing bullet-style posts recently.  Since most of them are doing NaBloPoMo, they get a pass from me because the daily posting drains the creative well dry very quickly.

I, on the other hand, am doing a bullet-style post because I’m just plain lazy.  No NaBloPoMo excuse from me, as I’m not participating.

• It’s 4:00.  The sun is setting in a few minutes.  The sun rose today at 9:10 or thereabouts.  According to the U.S. Naval Observatory, we’re supposed to have 7 hours and 17 minutes of sunlight today.  Well, yeah, I suppose we did.  There were no clouds, so we saw the sun today.  That was nice.  But the maximum altitude of the sun hereabouts was 10 degrees.  Ten.  Sort of like having sunset all day.
• I don’t care that Hilary Clinton had someone planted in her audience lob her a planted question meant to point out some of her stands on certain issues.
• I equally don’t care that FEMA had a plant in their audience at a press conference to ask questions guaranteeing that a few things got mentioned.
• I further don’t care that John McCain didn’t lambast one of his supporters when she asked, “How do we beat the bitch?” when talking about Hilary Clinton.  I thought “Can someone translate that for me?” was a perfectly good way of saying, “Yo!  That’s not nice!”
• I’m afraid to open our gas bill.  I don’t want to know what a month’s worth of heating costs, especially given that it will be much higher in the next few months.
• Context is important to me.  If a person writes an article in which she makes a comment to her adopted daughter that could indicate she has a savior complex and thinks China is a land of indentured orphans, I’d like to know what kind of relationship she has with her daughter.  If it’s one kind of relationship, it’s an in-joke about what some people say about adoption; if it’s a different kind of relationship, it’s snide and insensitive and denigrating.  Given the remainder of the article, I lean towards the former…but a helluva lot of folks in the blog world are leaning towards the latter and a kerfuffle has ensued.
• On the other hand, if angry comments on the article coming from adult adoptees were censored, that sucks.  In my read of the article yesterday, though, it looked like many of the originally censored comments were in.  ?  I don’t know.
• Thanksgiving is next week.  How the hell did that happen?!  It’s far too soon.
• And that means Christmas isn’t far behind.
• My carefully crafted code to dive into the “raw data” from a downloaded web report was foiled–foiled!–when the people who created the report went and changed the column names on the raw data tab of that report.  Grrr.  Now I have to do some figuring on how to check those column names beforehand, and have to stash them in a table so that the next time they decide to get fancy with column names, we’ll be able to catch it right away, instead of wondering for a few weeks why no new data was being imported.  Let me just say:  Duh, OmegaMom.  On the other hand, why the hell did the folks change those column names?  Raw data=stuff that gets used somewhere.  Not raw data=stuff that you can fiddle with all you want.  Or at least let people know with a popup the next time they cruise your web reports.
• Boots, snowpants, and snowgloves arrived yesterday from LandsEnd.  OmegaDotter is happy.  Winter parka is back-ordered.
• Will discuss way-kewl interfaces tomorrow.  And way-kewl prosthetic devices the day after.  Or maybe combine the two.

The perennial discussion about “Gotcha Day” is rearing its head once again on a China adoption site.  First there’s the person who posts a link to an article about how “Gotcha Day” is offensive to some adoptees with a “something to think about” comment.  Then some more folks post pointers to other articles.  Then someone gets offended by the offense and says it’s all PC-talk.  Someone says that the kids feel kidnapped by their adopters.  Someone takes real offense to that, saying they didn’t kidnap the kids, and should they just leave them in an orphanage?!  Things escalate, and feelings get all hurt all over the place.

Nothing new.  It’s been a topic of discussion for years.

Articles by adult adoptees who say they find the term offensive have been available for years, too.  I read those articles way back when, and posts by adult adoptees on adoption triad lists, and decided to ditch the term myself, because I could see how it could be offensive.  I “got” a car.  I “got” a dog.  No-one asks when I “got” my husband, eh?  They always ask when I “met” him.

So we’ve gone on our merry way, and I’ve trained myself to use the phrase “when we met you” to the dotter so it’s become ingrained in my psyche.  When talking about that day, I use “Metcha Day”.  But other than that, I don’t think much about it until a hoo-rah like this rises up.

A few months ago, when we were newly come to Alaska, the dotter and I had gone for a hike along Little Lady River in Margaret Pass and were returning to the parking lot.  As we emerged, my Caucasian-parent-with-Asian-children radar went off, focusing in on a guy with a bunch of boykids with him, all of whom were Asian.  At some point he hailed me and I wandered up to introduce myself and the dotter.

At some point in the conversation, he asked, “We got him” (pointing at one son) “in (some city), and him” (pointing at another) “in (some other city) and him” (yeah, there were a bunch!) “in (third city).  Where’d you get her?”

Now, he was an utterly nice guy.  The boys all looked like fine, happy, healthy lads, playing all over the place and doing boyishly romping things in and out of his eyesight.  But y’know, this was the very first time someone had ever asked me that question in that way, and it just…jarred me.  And I guess I hesitated, or something in my face showed, because he was suddenly somewhat defensively apologetic, saying, “Or are you one of Those Folk who don’t like that term?  I know some people don’t like it!”

Erg.  Well.  Um.  Yeah, I guess I’m one of “those folk”. 

Anyway, I answered that we had met the dotter in Guilin, avoiding the whole question of where I stand on “get” versus “met”, back in 2002, and yadda yadda yadda.  We talked some more, the dotter and I left, and I sort of forgot about it until the topic came up again.

I don’t know how OmegaDad feels about it.  I’m pretty sure he’d like the cuteness of “Gotcha Day”, and thinks more in terms of the daddy chasing the giggling girl, catching her, and going “Gotcha!”  Whereas I listened to the nice guy at the parking lot “getting” his boys (a pre-teen two of whom were sitting right there listening to the conversation), and just imagined going to the kid shop and “getting” one.

I dunno.  I suppose I’m turning all PC, and a lot of my readers are rolling their eyes at me and my oh-so-Victorian sensitivity to the term.  But for some reason, that meeting just cemented in me why I don’t like it, and made me understand just why some adult adoptees (and teens) might find it offensive or just icky.

(On a totally different note:  Have any of my blogging buddies gotten a slew of separate multi-page hits in a row from a new-to-them reader, all of them direct links without a referring page?  It’s just kind of weird…)

I said at the tail end of yesterday’s post that I had thought of, but discarded, the idea of doing a post based on “Teenage Wasteland”.

I have reconsidered.  I pulled that post idea out of the dustbin.

Please.  Please.  PUH-leeze tell me that almost-six-year-olds are demons sent to earth to torment us?  Please.

I love my darling OmegaDotter.  I really, truly do.

But y’know what?  Awful confession time:  Right now, I just don’t like being with her.

She is:  snotty.  Whiny.  Snippy.  Tantrummy.  Rude.  Disrespectful.  Mean.  Self-centered.  Sassy.

Just plain horrid.

Like the girl with the curl in the middle of her forehead…”When she was good, she was very, very good.  But when she was bad…

“She was horrid.”

She is being so horrid that even OmegaDad, in whose eyes she can (generally) do no wrong, has decided that she is whiny, sassy, mean, rude, disrespectful, etc.

I find myself thinking that we have utterly failed.  That we’ve raised a hellion.  A brat.  That we should never have been entrusted with raising a child, because we’re obviously so bad at it.

The worst of it?  Is that, apparently, she’s just a doll at school and at before/after school care.  She saves all this shit for us.  Bah.

Okay, it seems worst because it’s hurtful.  It’s actually not worst, because at least she’s not behaving like a snotty little brat with the rest of the world.

Then Ms. Hyde disappears for a while and Dr. Jekyll reappears, and all is sweetness and light and fun and pleasant.  She hands me notes that say, “To Mommy, Love OmegaDotter”, and that have little “I ♥ you”s scattered about.  She glows at me when she is done with her gymnastics class.  She sings silly songs at me when we’re driving from OmegaDad’s office to her before-school place.  She draws and builds elaborate creations.  Bit by bit, she’s reading.  She can make us laugh like crazy.

And then Ms. Hyde reappears.

My only hope is that I can recall a few younger relatives who were absolute pills at the age of five or six, and who have turned out to be model citizens and fairly nice all-around human beings as adults.

So there’s this thang going on, called NaBloPoMo, which stands for National Blog Posting Month.  The idea is, you should sign up, pledging to write one post per day for the month of November.  Various folk volunteer a variety of prizes, and random drawings are held from all the folk who actually complete NaBloPoMo so that they have a chance to win the aforesaid prizes.

An admirable goal.

Really!

So admirable that I tried it last year.

And then, right towards the final third of the month, I missed a day.  Oh, the anguish!  The gnashing of teeth and rending of garments!

Y’see, Jessica had volunteered a prize of six months’ blog hosting plus a custom-designed blog banner.  And I really, really wanted it.

But I blew it.  And gnashed and rent.

So this year, when rumblings of NaBloPoMo started surfacing across the blogosphere, I was very tempted.

Very.

They’ve also got this way kewl LOLCat badge.  That tempted me even further.

But I kept thinking of the pressure.  And the gnashing and rending.  So I decided “No go to NaBloPoMo”.

However!  Lots and lots of my regular reads did sign up, like Halushki and her sister, Quintessence, ChicagoMama, GrrlTravels, Escaping Suburbia, the Figgy ladies, and lots, lots more.  Even PAGent seems to be sort of vaguely in on it, though it might be NaNoWriMo instead (he has done a PAGent noir post).  Just check out my blogroll; if you click on a link, you’ve got a 50/50 chance of hitting someone who is participating. 

The end result:  I am blissfully free of pressure and I get lots of posts from my blogroll.

It’s very neat:  I wake up in the morning, look at my Bloglines blogroll, and there are 20 or 30 posts to read.  Every.  Single.  Day.

Woot!

On the other hand, how will I get anything done???

(TShapedGirl says of the dotter, “I just can’t believe that she is capable of stomping a foot or throwing a fit…”  May I just say:  BWAHAHAHAHAHA!  And add that today’s post was almost one titled with some play on “Teenage Wasteland”…though “Almost-Six-Year-Old Wasteland” just doesn’t have the same ring to it.  Maybe tomorrow.) 

So there I was, schlepping down to the office after getting something from upstairs, and I notice something dark in the backyard.

Lo and behold, it’s this:

Yes, Virginia, there are moose in the great Alaskan suburban wilds!

Now, Virginia, we need to discuss digital camera settings.

I kept wondering why, why were my pictures so blurry?  Was I shaking with excitement?  Was it just cold?  Are my eyes becoming so bad, so quickly?  And then I happened to notice that the digicam was set on “Scene”.

Please, Virginia, tell me what on earth the “scene” setting on digicams is good for?  Just a clue??  All it does it give you blurry pictures.  Gah!

And tell me why, Virginia, it’s so damned easy to switch settings on digicams from “auto” or “portrait” to that useless “scene” setting?

Do any of my illustrious readers actually use the “scene” setting?

Of course, by the time I realized the pics were blurry as the result of that setting, the moose had wandered on, and were tormenting neighbors’ dogs by simply existing.

Okay.  We have a new house.  I need to decorate.  I have some very specific ideas.

Apparently, my very specific ideas are out of step with the home improvement fashion industry–or perhaps the fashion industry in general.

After all, I think baby-doll tops are too, too ’70s for words.  And they make every woman who wears them look pregnant or fat.  Have you looked at any apparel stores lately?  Tell me what you see.  (Blog reader, blog reader, what do you see?  I see baby dolls surrounding me…)  Let’s put it this way:  last year, there were no baby doll tops.  This year, it seems there is nothing else.

No, I’m not planning to decorate the house in baby doll tops.  But the proliferation of BDTs is a symptom of what I’m about to complain about.

Each of those BDTs is brown.  Or muddy green.  Or a kind of putrid pumpkin orange.  Or a dim blue.  Or a combination of any or all of the above.

It’s well-known that at the beginning of the fashion year, planning a year out, an elite group of sorcerers psychics gurus madmen fashion color consultants meets to decide what are going to be the in and trendy colors next year.

I read an article about this meeting, and these consultants claim (apparently with a straight face) that they are not dictating the colors to be used, they are predicting, based on current trends, what colors will be popular.

You will not be surprised to find that OmegaMom finds this a truly hilarious concept.  OmegaMom is firmly in the camp of conspiratorial thinkers who despise the color psychotics fashion color consultants because she thinks they are a portion of the Illuminati Conspiracy To Rule The World And Crush Free Thinking.

Anyway, there I am, wanting to decorate, with some very specific ideas and colors in mind.  Are any of the colors I am interested in available?  Or the designs?  Hah.  No, what is available is the 2007 version of the ubiquitous avocado and mustard.  Dim, murky colors.  Gloomy.  Dark.  Bah.

I was able to find some lovely bright colors for our bedroom.  We’re going to paint it light sage and splash all this color around.

We found the (ugh) pale pink for the dotter’s bedroom, but trying to find, say, pink curtains is an exercise in futility…well, okay, I can find pink sheer curtains.  Whoop-de-damned-do.  I’m not going to put sheers on these windows, if you please; come next July, that kind of insanity would dump us all into the nuthouse ASAP.

But.  Bright colors for towels?  Nope.  And, having decided to indulge my girly-girl side with a little frill and frippery, my search for lavender and pink towels, plus a fabric shower curtain with flowers that are lavender and pink, has come to naught.

I went looking at sofas today.  Every damned piece of furniture at the store was dark.  Dark wood.  Dark sheets.  Dark sofa upholstery.  Dark brown and gold and green rugs.

Bah.  Picture OmegaMom muttering dire curses and shaking her fist at the cabal of fashion color consultants (servants of the Illuminati).