OmegaMom

So, sitting in my comment approval queue for the past, oh, two weeks, has been this delightful little tidbit:

{Hey|Hi|Hello|How are you doing|What’s up|How’s it going|Nice to be here}, I {liked|{love|enjoyed}|read} the post. {Recently|Of Late|Lately} {I’ve|I have|I’ve become} been more {interested|engaged|curious} in chickens and {coops|henhouses|hencoops|chicken coops} myself. Been {looking|searching|looking for} around for a {coop|henhouse|chicken coop|hencoop}, or more {information|info} {so|therefore|and then|and so|thus|indeed|hence} anything that is {putting|setting|placing|positioning} me in the {right|good|correct|adequate|proper|faithful|true|accurate} direction is {very|really} helpful. There is a {lot|heap|great deal|tidy sum|bunch|plenty|mass|mountain} of {information|info|data} out there to {sort|screen} through.

Some dude or dudette has this script, see.  S/he’s supposed to troll the net looking for blogs about (subject), which, in this case, is chicken coops.  Then s/he’s supposed to select only one of each group of word choices.

But s/he was lazy, and this is what I got.  I found it amusing.  Now that I’ve shared it with y’all, I can safely delete it.

OmegaDad, after watching a co-worker deal with the frustration of purchasing new software, sent this on to me.

1. Ask ITS for new software. ITS will ask you to fill out “The Form”.
2. Spend hours filling out The Form. You may need help answering some questions on The Form, but there is no form to get help with The Form, and no human knows the answers. (Certain questions were put on The Form as a cruel joke. There are no answers to these questions. YOU MUST ANSWER ALL THESE QUESTIONS.)
3. Route The Form for signatures. Everyone must sign The Form. There are 1.8 million people employed by the US Government. Most of these people will notice that you have made some error on The Form, thus they will return The Form to you. Correct the errors and resubmit the form.
   1. Only 7 of the 1.8 million US government employees understand how to work the postage machine.
   2. 6 of these people are at Team Building Training and cannot be contacted.
   3. The 7th person is currently recovering from injuries received while trying to repair the postage machine.
4. Once The Form has be routed for signatures, it will be returned to your ITS Representative. Your ITS Representative will notify you that The Form is now out of date. Please complete the New Form and repeat steps 2 through 4.
5. Prior to approval, the New Form will be placed in a clearly marked 8.5 x 11 file folder. The File will be stored in a secure location. Remember that scene from ‘Raiders of the Lost Ark’ where they stored the Ark of the Covenant in that huge warehouse? That it where The New Form will be stored.
6. A Transient Form Specialist at ITS will be notified that your Form has been filed. The Transient Form Specialist will be instructed to email you regarding the disposal of your New Form. Transient Form Specialists are temporary employees hired through the Americorps Program. As such, Transient Form Specialists do not have access to government computing networks. This is a Department of Homeland Security requirement. Please be patient while the Transient Form Specialist finds a local public library with Internet access.
7. Contact HR for instructions on how to transfer oversight of The New Form to the person who will replace you at retirement. If you wish to acquire new software in order to do your job more efficiently, this is the most important step. DO NOT FAIL TO CONTACT HUMAN RESOURCES FOR TRANSITIONAL FORM RETIREMENT COUNSELING.

P.S.  If you decide to pass this on, and you know our Real Names, please don’t use his, eh?

While I recuperate from the dread Wading Through Of Documents for the taxes (only to discover that this year we made out better with the standard deduction!), compose a mental post about Empowerment and another about tea parties, I have been reading blogs and what-not.  On one of those blogs, SciCurious’s Neurotopia, I encountered a music video that made me remember that I have been collecting science rap and pop music videos.  What better time to dump them all on you at once than now?

I do this for your own good, so that you can learn obscure scientific trivia the same way I did when I was young…I still remember the difference between a meteor and a meteorite from this:

A shooting star is not a star
It’s not a star at all
A shooting star’s a meteor
That’s heading for a fall

A shooting star is not a star
Why does it shine so bright?
The friction as it falls through air
Produces heat and light

A shooting star, or meteor
Whichever name you like
The minute it comes down to Earth
It’s called a meteorite

Alas, the friction part is apparently a fiction; the latest explanation is that it is the shock-wave compression of the air in the atmosphere that causes the heating and light.

So, without further ado, let us explore the wonderful world of modern science music.

First up–The awesome rap “Regulatin’ Genes”, complete with subtitles, which teaches you all about HOX genes:

Regulatin’ Genes is the product of a Stanford biology instructor; read about it here.

Next up, mathematics–Harm N Phirm talkin’ ’bout Pi.  If you listen to it often enough, it is rumored you will learn Pi to 200 decimal places:

This is supposed to be a parody of Kate Bush’s song p. 

We move on to the world of high-energy physics, with the “Large Hadron Rap”:

Yeah, it’s a little long, but, hey, this is high-energy physics we’re talking ’bout here.  It takes a while to get into all the nuances; remember, folks study for years to understand this stuff!

My next three are produced by manufacturers of biological scientific equipment that happen to be corporate possessors of a sense of humor.  First, a soulful rendition of “The PCR Song”, from Bio-Rad:

I particularly like the guy who sounds like Bob Dylan…Alas, I can’t figure out whether these are real scientists or not; I think so, but am not sure.

Then we’ve got “It’s Called The EpiMotion”, a paean to avoiding carpal tunnel syndrome while using pipettes to do…well, whatever you need to use thousands of pipettes for…from Eppendorf:

To wrap things up, another entry from Bio-Rad, a lovely take-off of The Village People’s YMCA, “GTCA”:

I hope you’ve enjoyed this foray into –>SCIENCE!!!<– as much as I did.

My memory is not what it once was; this, alas, is the fate that awaits almost all.

To wit:  I chanced upon the film “Kindergarten Cop” at the local DVD-aria, in the “buy it cheap” bin.  I remembered it as being quite fun and cute, so purchased it.

The dotter pestered me to watch it this a.m., so we snuggled on the futon with the sun reflecting off the snow in the back yard into the family room, and turned on the DVD player.

Well.  Okay, then.  I remembered bits and pieces of it, all the ones with Arnie in the classroom.  What I should have remembered is that, even at his cutest and funnest, Arnie tends to have blood-and-guts movies with bad guys being beaten to smithereens in all sorts of odd places (such as a beauty salon).  That there are strung-out hookers and street sleazoids who use rather rank language.

So there we are, snuggled up, with “shit!”s and “asshole!”s and “motherfucker!”s being tossed hither and yon, OmegaMom wincing all the way and hoping its moving fast enough so the dotter doesn’t really catch them.  The dotter is requiring an ongoing explanation of the various shenanigans–who is doing what to whom and why–and producing a running commentary.  Then Arnie hits the classroom filled with 6-year-olds.

And the dotter turns to me with shocked eyes, and hisses at me, “Ooooh!  He used the ‘S-word’!”

I’m sitting there thinking to myself, “Shit!  Yes, he used the ‘S-word’ many, many times!  Damn!  She noticed!”

And she continues, sounding the forbidden phrase out: “Sh-uh-t uh-p!  We’re not allowed to use that in school!”

So there ya have it:  the various incarnations of the infamous Nine Words went right in one ear and out the other, but Arnie shouting–three times, very loudly!–”SHUT UP!” to the kiddies in his class roused the shocked Victorian in the dotter.

As an aside:  Really, I should remember for future reference that any Arnold Schwartzenegger movie is going to include blood, guts, gore, people being beaten, guns firing loudly, and, in this case, a terrorized mommy and child.  Um.  I did not win the Good Mommy award with this one; the dotter spent about ten minutes in my lap with a blanket over her head, asking when she could watch again.

Many years ago, when the dotter was three, she and OmegaDad went on a daddy-daughter date to Jackson’s Grill, a fairly nice restaurant back in Small Mountain University Town.  Of course, being “fairly nice” means it’s also “fairly slow”, and after they had ordered, and eaten all the bread and rolls, and were waiting for dinner, the dotter, being three, got antsy.  OmegaDad did this, that, and the other to try to keep her occupied, but she was still fretting, and still hungry.  In a moment of desperate inspiration, he grabbed a big linen napkin from the table, wrapped it around his hand and tied a knot, leaving the extra fabric standing straight up as ears, and said, “Hello…” in a nasal voice.

The dotter was entranced.

Thus was Sheepie born.

Think of Sheepie as a low-rent version of Lambchop.  If you don’t know who Lambchop was, I don’t want to know:  it means you’re way too young.  He has a very distinct personality.

Sheepie was just between the dotter and OmegaDad for quite a while, but then he started making an appearance now and then at the dinner table, and became quite the standby attraction during Eleven Minutes, the flexibly-timed daddy-daughter playtime between dinner and bedtime.  (Why is it “eleven minutes”, and not, say, a nice even number such as “ten”?  This is one of OmegaDad’s little quirks [just like Sheepie]; he doesn’t like “nice even numbers”, and insists on programming the microwave for 53 seconds, rather than 60 seconds.)

Nowadays, we find ourselves talking to Sheepie everywhere. 

Let me rephrase that:  I find myself talking to Sheepie everywhere.  My husband, of course, is Sheepie, but he converses with Sheepie also.  Sheepie will pop up to make silly commentary at odd moments, such as while we’re shopping, or when we’re at restaurants, or driving.

Sheepie has taken to making risque asides to me while playing with the dotter.  I can kiss OmegaDad, and Sheepie gets jealous.  I can kiss Sheepie, and he swoons gracefully onto the nearest flat surface, while OmegaDad rolls his eyes.

What can I say?  We’re weird.

Anyway, while OmegaDad was being prepped for his colonoscopy, he was flirting with the nurse, and somehow they got off on the subject of chickens.  Somewhere during the conversation, he managed to mention that he’s a relaxed kind of guy because he talks to chickens.  And everyone should talk to chickens; there would be a lot fewer wars and ugliness if everyone just took some time to talk to chickens.  The nurse took it all in stride.

That evening, Sheepie poked his head over my shoulder and started flirting with me while I was working on the computer.  Both OmegaDad and I had the same thought at the same instant:  Just imagine the nurse’s response if he told her he held conversations with his hand all the time?

She thought talking with chickens was weird enough.

Have I mentioned I love my husband?

When we went looking at properties here in AK, OmegaDad wanted to find a place with more than one acre that was a horse property (i.e., zoned or HOA’d into allowing horses).

Lo and behold, we now have a greater-than-one-acre horse property.

Of course, a horse is far (may I reiterate that?  FAAAARRRR.) into the future.

However, OmegaDad Has A Plan.

The plan includes goats.

Ahem.

It goes:  We get two goats, cheap.  We feed them, we take care of them, we milk one of them, they have baby goats, we sell baby goats, we stash the $$ in an account, lather, rinse, repeat.  His plan has two prongs:  first, get the kiddo into the habit of tending to helpless animals; second, build up the $$ for a horse.

Now, me, personally?  I’d be more than happy to buy a horse and board it somewhere else.  Wandering around the back forty of our lot has reminded me that horses produce vast amounts of horse poop.  Vast.  We have large heaps back there of nicely decaying horse poop that will no doubt have a good future as mulch for gardens.  But it has driven into me the question:  What exactly does one do with all the horse poop?

Not to mention the thought of any poor critters being dependent upon the dotter for care.  Not to mention the corollary to that, which would be Someone Else Will End Up Tending The Goats.

All of that aside, OmegaDad and dotter are thinking goats.

OmegaDad purchased a magazine at the local pet store all about goats.

Yes, there is a goat magazine.

Cute little buggers, actually.

Anyway, the milking question came up.  The dotter refused to believe you could milk goats.  OmegaMom, ever the computer junkie, located a bunch of videos on YouTube about milking goats.  The dotter was fascinated and grossed out.  Her succinct comment:  “EWWWWWWW!”

So OmegaDad had her practicing on his hand.  That wasn’t really working, so he got out the hand condoms.

(What, you ask, are “hand condoms”??  Latex gloves, used in various areas in the house, such as when painting, when washing lots of things, etc.)

He blew one up.  It was a hit.  We are all sitting in my office, the dotter practicing “milking” the balloon-like latex gloves.  We are slightly giggling.  At some point, the dotter decides to be a goat, and positions the blown-up glove beneath her so OmegaDad can “milk” her.  Some Twister-like confusion occurs, in which the balloon-glove goes whirling around the room, emitting a fart-like sound.

“Daddy!  You pulled my udder off!”

All of which made us giggle even more.

So then OmegaDad decided the dotter needed a somewhat more lifelike imitation of udders.  He and she vanished into the hinterlands of the house.  Then a snickering dotter returned to the office to demand my presence in the downstairs bathroom.

The latest latex glove had been filled with water.  But not filled enough.  It drooped.  It stretched.  It wiggled.  It pointed udders in wildly varying directions.

It made me and OmegaDad howl with laughter.  So much so that my stomach hurt; I haven’t laughed that hard in a long, long time.

OmegaDotter was not as amused, and thought we were very silly.  Which, of course, made us howl more.

Alas, the water-filled pseudo-udder popped sometime overnight.

We are such sophisticates.

(Aunt Jean says that L’s issues were due to a series of strokes, not Alzheimer’s, but that it was horrible nonetheless.  Noreen mentions that I should investigate drug side-effects–I think, however, that the memory issues are merely the mental fog of early menopause.  Johnny asks why no pics on the “Wah!” post about the painting job; I tried, Johnny, I really tried, but every picture came out looking blue.  That aside, the paint, when dry, looked better, we have done a second coat, and I think we are content.)

(Gah.  Forgot.  Two more things:

1.  Do please check out my DonorsChoose challenge, and donate $10 to my selected teachers’ projects.  They’re nothing major, just small potatoes.  Can you help?

2.  Is anyone else having problems with the side columns on my blog?  If you resize the browser widthwise, the side columns appear and disappear for me.  Does it do the same for you?  Does anyone have any clue what might cause that?)

If you ever get upset or embarrassed by something your toddler has done while in a store or in public, take heart.

At least your toddler didn’t dance all over some Tibetan monks’ sand mandala…

This evening the dotter was busy building a house/restaurant/castle in the living room.  She insisted I lie down on the futon and be served by “Melissa”.  Melissa (the dotter) is possibly the owner of the establishment; I was told she was “kind of a waitress, but also kind of a doctor.”  After which, the dotter gave a very French style of shrug.  I have no idea where this shrug has come from, but she’s using it fairly often these days, and it lends a certain je ne sais quoi to our interactions.

OmegaDad came over to peer at us in curiosity, and the dotter informed me that he was “The Officer of the Bakery”.  Then she told OmegaDad that I was “the staying customer”.  I had to stay there forever, she told me, and when I objected, she said, “Oh, you can take my car!”

But this morning, in the car, was even better.  There was some grand flight of imagination that made me laugh, that I thought I should share with people.  The problem is:  I don’t remember it.  Oh, I remember noting it in my head, and saying to myself, “I need to remember this one!”  But less than 12 hours later, it’s a blank.

Some people are veritable recording devices when it comes to their kids’ utterances.  I am in awe.  I tend to have episodes like the above all the time, and it frustrates me.  The dotter is a font of cuteness, strange collections of pseudo-stream-of-consciousness all stitched together by her imagination.  I would like to share it with people.

I read blogs where the parental units recite, word-for-word, utterly cute things their kids said that day, and I seethe with envy.

My memory is a patchwork, a thing of lace and tatters.  Half of the reason for this blog is so that I can lay out this piece of the lacery, and that piece–kind of like those photographs of what archeologists do with old papyrus documents when they’re piecing them together.

I find myself grasping at the memories, and putting them down on paper (or computer) whenever I can, because they flit out of my head so quickly.  I would like to say that this is a recent development, an outgrowth of my dalliance with menopause, but, alas, it is not so; the faulty memory is a constant in my life.

My Unka Bill has a phenomenal memory; at the age of 70-something, he can chit-chat with my mother and recite specific things that people did or said when they were two and four.  My husband has an interesting take on memory abilities:  he can remember complete lyrics to obscure ’60s rock-and-roll songs and entire scenes from movies (though he can’t remember, for instance, that the dotter was to visit Miss Louise, our OT, yesterday).

We went to China only four years ago to meet the dotter and bring her home.  An amazingly emotional journey.  Something that you would think would live on in one’s memory for years, indelible, movie-like in its clarity.  My memories?  A few snapshots, a vignette or two.  I cannot remember holding OmegaDotter for the first time–so I rely on the photos from the trip, and I feel dreadfully guilty about this.

Anyway, I thought the “Officer of the Bakery” was cute enough to put down on paper, so when the dotter is 25, I can open up this blog entry and remember it.

Technorati: Memory

At ten to noon, I get a phone call at the office from OmegaDad.  OmegaDotter’s teacher had called him, saying OD didn’t feel well and was running a low fever.

The dotter was sick yesterday, in that horrid, cranky, whiny way that kids who are somewhat sick are, as compared to the deep, quiet misery of kids who are really sick.  We stayed home yesterday.  This morning, though, no fever, no cranky whinies, pretty much normal kiddo, so I took her in.

So I pack it in and head off to preschool–no big surprise that her fever is back.

When I arrive there’s the dotter sitting at the table, bouncing and smiling.  My mommy radar goes off.  Miss M., her teacher, says in a dubious voice, “Well, she was sick yesterday, and she hasn’t been feeling good, and she does have a low fever…”

How low is low?  99-something.  Hmmm. 

On the way home, she’s smiling and singing and dancing and giggling and happy.

Let me tell you, this child is not sick.

Half of me is laughing, the other half is going, “Grrrr.”  I have made it quite clear that this is not to happen again (you can tell she knows I know she isn’t sick).  I lectured her about what Mean Mommies do in this situation, about how next time this happens, she will be put to bed pronto, since she’s so sick.  I made her take ibuprofen (ewww!).

OmegaDad, like me, was halfway laughing, halfway not, when I called him to tell him we had all been played.  “That little shit!” were his exact words.

That little shit, indeed.

Technorati: Parenting