So.
If you've managed to plow through things as they possibly should be, and taken a glimpse of things as they were, let's finish the job, shall we? Again, sorry for the length, but I think this is important.
Kirk went missing on October 9th, 2003. I've said that so many times in so many ways its acquired a strange life of its own. For a very long time it was defiance, and denial as I tried to shield Kirk and the children from what was happening; eventually there was a battered sort of resignation while I tried to find a way to tell the story without... well... disturbing anyone. But that's where it starts.
Kirk was the breadwinner of the family. He used to laugh and say that he would win the bread if I would win the gold. It was a private joke we had although I used to feel a bit guilty that I played around with things, taking private contracts as they appealed to me so I could stay home with the kids and do what sounded fun or caught my interest. I could have done a lot more; I had the skills to do it, but there were soccer games to go to and lunches to pack and Kirk was, at least in California, earning a pretty good living.
When he joined Ultra Services he asked for a salary that would equal what he brought home from his civilian job. We knew that if things went well there could be bonuses far above that, but for his base salary he didn't ask for anything more than what he was already making. It was important somehow, to both of us, maybe because of the brush that all contractors seem to be painted with.
When he went missing his immediate boss, his friend C, did his best and managed to get his salary paid to me for two months. That two months helped support my family for the next two years (the only work I found -six months after Kirk disappeared- was part time).
It was in March when my sister, a lawyer, told me about a strange little law she had discovered. It sounded a long shot to me - Kirk had not yet signed a contract with the company although he had clearly acted on their behalf (with military contracts signed and paid); worse, the company had not carried the required insurance since apparently they hadn't known of the requirement, but, about six month after Kirk vanished, I filed a claim with the labor department, and tried not to hope that something would come of it.
It's hard to describe how debilitating it is: money. I hate it. I was raised to hate it really, which makes it even more difficult. There aren't words, aren't even cliches which I've explored extensively in the last several years, to talk about what happened. But worse, in the 3 a.m.'s, the horrible weakest moments when I didn't even have logic and reason to help cover up the fear, the bleak knowledge of raising three children alone. So there was a dreadful tug of war between wanting to believe that the claim would come through and a depressive belief that nothing positive would ever happen again. And, ridiculously, I had the ingrained idea that even hoping for a settlement was somehow putting a price tag on Kirk's life.
Of course I never even had the chance to get to that point. It was months and months before I got the letter in the mail, the one telling me that as Kirk was missing, and as the investigation was on-going, the Labor Department could sadly not rule one way or the other. By that time it wasn't even a disappointment.
Months and months and months later there was a meeting with the CID and a 'final' answer (sorry, the quotation marks aren't intended to be ironic, honestly). Within a week or so I sent a copy of the certificate I was given: Presumption of Death of A Citizen Abroad to the Labor Department. At least, I thought, I'd know one way or another.
And nothing happened.
Really nothing, not a letter, not an acknowledgment that the claim now had changed: nothing.
And I thought that was it. Because I was raised to think that it was wrong to press things when it came to money.
But Susie Dow wrote an article. And someone who makes it his business to see that the government does what its own laws says it should do took an interest, and... well, it seemed that things were going to actually progress.
Hands up: who can guess what happens next?
Sorry, no prize for the winner.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Re-charted
So, to adjust the chart a bit for the real world:
In fact I'm not entirely sure there was a call for bids either. I have a feeling the company sort of showed up, talked to a few people and, being Johnny on the Spot, got the deal.
But I definitely know that no one asked about whether the company was carrying insurance. I know this because Kirk's boss, when I told him about the Act, had never heard of the requirement - had no idea at all that legally Ultra Services HAD to carry insurance and, legally, the military could not deal with them if they did not do so.
Now, I'm willing to grant that it was still a fairly chaotic situation in Iraq (although there had been contractors there for quite some time). But Ultra Services was the sister company of another one which had been contracting for a couple of years in Afghanistan - years. And yet no one, apparently, knew anything about this little niggling problem.
How is that possible? How can a company - and, I have to believe, multiple other small companies - deal for an extended period of time with the military and not once, apparently, be told about basic, fundamental rules for being a military contractor? I honestly, truly want to know. Did the military guys who were given the power to sign these contracts simply not know about it? Was there no training involved? No oversight - in not one military conflict but two? Or did the company really know about it but somehow manage to avoid the requirement?
Anyway, that's the first, egregious place of failure. The second is in what happened after Kirk went missing. However, to keep things short(ish), we'll save that for tomorrow.
In fact I'm not entirely sure there was a call for bids either. I have a feeling the company sort of showed up, talked to a few people and, being Johnny on the Spot, got the deal.
But I definitely know that no one asked about whether the company was carrying insurance. I know this because Kirk's boss, when I told him about the Act, had never heard of the requirement - had no idea at all that legally Ultra Services HAD to carry insurance and, legally, the military could not deal with them if they did not do so.
Now, I'm willing to grant that it was still a fairly chaotic situation in Iraq (although there had been contractors there for quite some time). But Ultra Services was the sister company of another one which had been contracting for a couple of years in Afghanistan - years. And yet no one, apparently, knew anything about this little niggling problem.
How is that possible? How can a company - and, I have to believe, multiple other small companies - deal for an extended period of time with the military and not once, apparently, be told about basic, fundamental rules for being a military contractor? I honestly, truly want to know. Did the military guys who were given the power to sign these contracts simply not know about it? Was there no training involved? No oversight - in not one military conflict but two? Or did the company really know about it but somehow manage to avoid the requirement?
Anyway, that's the first, egregious place of failure. The second is in what happened after Kirk went missing. However, to keep things short(ish), we'll save that for tomorrow.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
Charted
Right, sorry about the lag there. So to recap, here's a little visual of the ideal claim process:
Next up?
The real world (okay, the world as I know it).
Next up?
The real world (okay, the world as I know it).
Thursday, June 11, 2009
Ideal
Right.
So I've been trying to work out how to write this and not be totally and terminally boring. I was going to do a nice flow chart complete with little colored boxes and arrows and everything. But for now we'll just talk through it.
So, here, highly simplified, is what is supposed to happen:
War (okay, war isn't supposed to happen, but that's where it all starts so...)
Which produces needs - things that the military either can't do or really shouldn't do as it is outside their core purpose.
Which leads some bright button to call for contract bids.
At which point the responsible person ensures that the bidding contractors are competent to do the job and, here's the clever bit, have insurance. Because, per that tricksy little Defense Base Act, IT'S THE LAW.
Once the contracting company has been thoroughly vetted the contract is given and individuals hired and, here's another clever bit (in an ideal world) THEY ARE GIVEN INFORMATION ABOUT THE INSURANCE AND THEIR RIGHTS.
So. Unfortunately this is where disaster happens and our poor contractor is injured, killed or, just possibly, missing.
As soon as this is reported either the contractor or the family is contacted (as is the insurance company) and some kind soul is assigned to walk them through the unfortunately complicated process of filing a claim.
Like telling them what form to use, who to talk to, how to provide supporting documents - all that stuff.
They might even, you know, ideally, keep track of the progress of the claim as it swims through the murky waters of government agencies - even protecting it from the voracious insurance sharks.
If I were really dreaming I'd even like to think there would be a timeline involved so that the claim would be acted on in less than, say, six years.
You know,
Ideally.
So I've been trying to work out how to write this and not be totally and terminally boring. I was going to do a nice flow chart complete with little colored boxes and arrows and everything. But for now we'll just talk through it.
So, here, highly simplified, is what is supposed to happen:
War (okay, war isn't supposed to happen, but that's where it all starts so...)
Which produces needs - things that the military either can't do or really shouldn't do as it is outside their core purpose.
Which leads some bright button to call for contract bids.
At which point the responsible person ensures that the bidding contractors are competent to do the job and, here's the clever bit, have insurance. Because, per that tricksy little Defense Base Act, IT'S THE LAW.
Once the contracting company has been thoroughly vetted the contract is given and individuals hired and, here's another clever bit (in an ideal world) THEY ARE GIVEN INFORMATION ABOUT THE INSURANCE AND THEIR RIGHTS.
So. Unfortunately this is where disaster happens and our poor contractor is injured, killed or, just possibly, missing.
As soon as this is reported either the contractor or the family is contacted (as is the insurance company) and some kind soul is assigned to walk them through the unfortunately complicated process of filing a claim.
Like telling them what form to use, who to talk to, how to provide supporting documents - all that stuff.
They might even, you know, ideally, keep track of the progress of the claim as it swims through the murky waters of government agencies - even protecting it from the voracious insurance sharks.
If I were really dreaming I'd even like to think there would be a timeline involved so that the claim would be acted on in less than, say, six years.
You know,
Ideally.
Friday, June 05, 2009
Reluctant
I didn't want to write this post.
Or the ones that will come after really.
For a few months I really thought I would write something quite different, something pretty simple and short and that would be the end of it.
But it's not, and I can't.
And I'm afraid the next few posts are going to be Not Much Fun. It's not going to be horrible or tragic or deeply awful or anything, just complicated and quite possibly dull as all get out. But it's the sort of thing it's hard to be flippant about and, quite honestly, I'm more than a little fed up.
So, you've had fair warning, and if you want to skip the next several posts then by all means feel free.
I am going to be breaking it up though, that's why the several upcoming posts, because to be quite honest I can't imagine anyone wanting to digest the whole thing in one go.
So, some of you might have seen an article here or there lately about AIG (in particular), a company that provides insurance for contractors in Iraq. There was a 20/20 special on it as well - all about how AIG was probably being a little to sharp in their business practices and how they were making it unbelievably difficult for contractors and their families to actually be paid. If you haven't seen the articles and you want to know a bit more you can check here for a collection of links put together by Susie Dow.
There's a mention in the articles about this little act that was passed back in 1941, back when the world was torn to pieces and, apparently, someone realized that eventually they were going to need folks who could put it back together again. It's called the Defense Base Act; an obscure piece of legislation, but American law all the same.
It's all pretty simple really, just a bit of writing that says it would be a really good idea to insure civilians before putting them to work in a war zone. And a note pointing out that as the country is hiring these folks, the country which has passed this particular act, the country should then take responsibility for seeing that things are done properly when someone is injured or killed - or when they go missing.
I mean really, how hard can that be?
Or the ones that will come after really.
For a few months I really thought I would write something quite different, something pretty simple and short and that would be the end of it.
But it's not, and I can't.
And I'm afraid the next few posts are going to be Not Much Fun. It's not going to be horrible or tragic or deeply awful or anything, just complicated and quite possibly dull as all get out. But it's the sort of thing it's hard to be flippant about and, quite honestly, I'm more than a little fed up.
So, you've had fair warning, and if you want to skip the next several posts then by all means feel free.
I am going to be breaking it up though, that's why the several upcoming posts, because to be quite honest I can't imagine anyone wanting to digest the whole thing in one go.
So, some of you might have seen an article here or there lately about AIG (in particular), a company that provides insurance for contractors in Iraq. There was a 20/20 special on it as well - all about how AIG was probably being a little to sharp in their business practices and how they were making it unbelievably difficult for contractors and their families to actually be paid. If you haven't seen the articles and you want to know a bit more you can check here for a collection of links put together by Susie Dow.
There's a mention in the articles about this little act that was passed back in 1941, back when the world was torn to pieces and, apparently, someone realized that eventually they were going to need folks who could put it back together again. It's called the Defense Base Act; an obscure piece of legislation, but American law all the same.
It's all pretty simple really, just a bit of writing that says it would be a really good idea to insure civilians before putting them to work in a war zone. And a note pointing out that as the country is hiring these folks, the country which has passed this particular act, the country should then take responsibility for seeing that things are done properly when someone is injured or killed - or when they go missing.
I mean really, how hard can that be?
Friday, May 29, 2009
Pun
I spent Memorial day weekend watching masochists. Someone noticed that there were two towns about fifty miles apart with a rather large mountain between them - a rather large mountain that, at the topish bit, was nearly 11,000 feet higher than the ocean. And that someone also noticed that a very clever person had built a) a road and b) a train-track between the towns and said to itself, gosh! Wouldn't it be absolutely great fun to ride a road bike from one town to the other and at the same time try to do it faster than the train can? Apparently around 2500 people agree with this. I, however, drove and thus beat the whole lot of them AND the train. Still, it was a very lovely drive and there were many opportunities at either end to purchase t-shirts and wooden train whistles.
When I finished watching the masochists I discovered that Child 3 and a friend had constructed a potato gun. This is apparently a perfectly natural thing to do because when they went to the Ginormous DIY Store to purchase various bits of plastic plumbing items (and the sparker thing off a gas grill) the employee helping them out said, 'oh! You're building a potato gun! Well, here's what you really want to get...'
They then spent a happy day launching not only potatoes but an entire green-grocers worth of fruit and veg all over the semi-abandoned mall down the street. By the way, if you have plans of creating your own potato gun, Child 3 recommends you try shooting Spam. Apparently it doesn't splatter - it bounces.
A few days later we had completely run out of potatoes, lemons, limes, Spam and anything else that would, with some effort, fit down a 1 1/2" PVC pipe. Child 3 and friend began roaming the house with speculative looks in their eyes which, naturally, I found deeply disturbing. After a bit of conversation it emerged that really what they wanted was something that would fly satisfactorily and hopefully do something amusing when it landed - preferably wet and amusing. Desperate to protect the living-room nick-knacks I suggested one of Child 3's socks.
There was a brief but passionate discussion about whether or not this would constitute both a chemical and biological weapon but it was agreed that soaking the socks first would be a good idea as otherwise the socks might ignite in the barrel.
At which point I had a flash of brilliance.
'Know what it would be if they did catch fire?'
Wary pause on part of family.
'A Molotov SOCKtail!'
Yup, and then I repeated it for the lucky few who had managed to miss it the first time.
And now there's a damp, grey sock in the hedge in my front yard.
When I finished watching the masochists I discovered that Child 3 and a friend had constructed a potato gun. This is apparently a perfectly natural thing to do because when they went to the Ginormous DIY Store to purchase various bits of plastic plumbing items (and the sparker thing off a gas grill) the employee helping them out said, 'oh! You're building a potato gun! Well, here's what you really want to get...'
They then spent a happy day launching not only potatoes but an entire green-grocers worth of fruit and veg all over the semi-abandoned mall down the street. By the way, if you have plans of creating your own potato gun, Child 3 recommends you try shooting Spam. Apparently it doesn't splatter - it bounces.
A few days later we had completely run out of potatoes, lemons, limes, Spam and anything else that would, with some effort, fit down a 1 1/2" PVC pipe. Child 3 and friend began roaming the house with speculative looks in their eyes which, naturally, I found deeply disturbing. After a bit of conversation it emerged that really what they wanted was something that would fly satisfactorily and hopefully do something amusing when it landed - preferably wet and amusing. Desperate to protect the living-room nick-knacks I suggested one of Child 3's socks.
There was a brief but passionate discussion about whether or not this would constitute both a chemical and biological weapon but it was agreed that soaking the socks first would be a good idea as otherwise the socks might ignite in the barrel.
At which point I had a flash of brilliance.
'Know what it would be if they did catch fire?'
Wary pause on part of family.
'A Molotov SOCKtail!'
Yup, and then I repeated it for the lucky few who had managed to miss it the first time.
And now there's a damp, grey sock in the hedge in my front yard.
Monday, May 11, 2009
Finally
It's finals week which means:
Little lost lambs are once more roaming the halls, trapping themselves down the very last corridor (mine) and bleating anxiously until rescued. My favorites are the ones who end up at my office and say hopefully, "Dean so-and-so? I just need this form signing..." Um... no.
Three little freshmen were sobbing bitterly at the bus stop when I ran by this morning simply because life had been cruel enough to curse them with a 7:30 AM exam in basic algebra. I might have suppressed my giggles slightly more successfully if two of them had not had "princess" and "slut" printed in sparkly script across their rather large bottoms.
The fac totum at the front desk is channeling her inner dragon to convince several hundred optimists that NO they cannot turn in their grubby collection of papers anonymously at the front desk and YES their instructor was telling the truth about the need for personal interaction at the end of the semester. Also, stop rolling your eyes at me young man and wait outside your prof's door just like everyone else.
The convocation program which was begun a week and a half ago and meant to be emailed to the printer last Friday will now not be completed until tomorrow afternoon. Again. Just like last year. Next year I'm sending it out as is, with notes all over saying "WHO is presenting the damn awards??" and "WHY DOES NO ONE KNOW IF WE'RE HAVING A SPEAKER??"
One delightful faculty member has already asked three times if we can cancel finals this week. I voted yes.
Another four have opined that a single, mild case of swine flu would be a really, really good thing for the campus in general. I've suggested speculative coughing in the main admin building couldn't hurt anything.
Those who successfully defended dissertations over the last two weeks have now lost their gloss of well earned smug self-congratulation and are sadly facing up to the stacks and stacks of Expository Writing assignments that somehow came home to roost in the mean time. Their peers are faking sympathy. Their mentors are ordering enough pizza to last out a siege. It will not be enough.
Child 1 has taken one final already, whizzing through it in record time and having its instructor grade it in front of the entire (still final taking) class. He only found one error.
Child 1 was not lynched.
Finals week does produce a few minor miracles still.
Little lost lambs are once more roaming the halls, trapping themselves down the very last corridor (mine) and bleating anxiously until rescued. My favorites are the ones who end up at my office and say hopefully, "Dean so-and-so? I just need this form signing..." Um... no.
Three little freshmen were sobbing bitterly at the bus stop when I ran by this morning simply because life had been cruel enough to curse them with a 7:30 AM exam in basic algebra. I might have suppressed my giggles slightly more successfully if two of them had not had "princess" and "slut" printed in sparkly script across their rather large bottoms.
The fac totum at the front desk is channeling her inner dragon to convince several hundred optimists that NO they cannot turn in their grubby collection of papers anonymously at the front desk and YES their instructor was telling the truth about the need for personal interaction at the end of the semester. Also, stop rolling your eyes at me young man and wait outside your prof's door just like everyone else.
The convocation program which was begun a week and a half ago and meant to be emailed to the printer last Friday will now not be completed until tomorrow afternoon. Again. Just like last year. Next year I'm sending it out as is, with notes all over saying "WHO is presenting the damn awards??" and "WHY DOES NO ONE KNOW IF WE'RE HAVING A SPEAKER??"
One delightful faculty member has already asked three times if we can cancel finals this week. I voted yes.
Another four have opined that a single, mild case of swine flu would be a really, really good thing for the campus in general. I've suggested speculative coughing in the main admin building couldn't hurt anything.
Those who successfully defended dissertations over the last two weeks have now lost their gloss of well earned smug self-congratulation and are sadly facing up to the stacks and stacks of Expository Writing assignments that somehow came home to roost in the mean time. Their peers are faking sympathy. Their mentors are ordering enough pizza to last out a siege. It will not be enough.
Child 1 has taken one final already, whizzing through it in record time and having its instructor grade it in front of the entire (still final taking) class. He only found one error.
Child 1 was not lynched.
Finals week does produce a few minor miracles still.
Friday, May 08, 2009
Sprung
It was Spring, at least I think it was - just a week ago or something. And then something went snap (or maybe Sproing!) and it's summer and the mercury is creeping past 90 already.
I can't tell what happened because I'm pretty sure April lasted at least eight weeks, possibly ten or so, but I'm not sure how we suddenly ended up in May already.
Without any warning at all (okay, except for the flashing lights. Also the sirens. And the loud honking noises) it's suddenly semester end and finals are looming for those so afflicted (of the faculty variety as well as students. Haunted young things are lurking in the halls clutching grubby print outs of essays and practicing the particular voice-hiccup that will express just how heartfelt is their sorrow over missing seven lectures and a mid-term. One by one PhD candidates have come in, white faced and shaking, to stare down a sympathetic (yet no less terrifying) set of faculty and explain just why they thought the world needed one more in-depth look at Romantic Poetry. Instructors of various ilk have the weary set to their shoulders seen only in those who must read 60 earnest 10 page papers stating the totally obvious as though it were entirely fresh and new.
One more week, and summer is officially here.
I can't tell what happened because I'm pretty sure April lasted at least eight weeks, possibly ten or so, but I'm not sure how we suddenly ended up in May already.
Without any warning at all (okay, except for the flashing lights. Also the sirens. And the loud honking noises) it's suddenly semester end and finals are looming for those so afflicted (of the faculty variety as well as students. Haunted young things are lurking in the halls clutching grubby print outs of essays and practicing the particular voice-hiccup that will express just how heartfelt is their sorrow over missing seven lectures and a mid-term. One by one PhD candidates have come in, white faced and shaking, to stare down a sympathetic (yet no less terrifying) set of faculty and explain just why they thought the world needed one more in-depth look at Romantic Poetry. Instructors of various ilk have the weary set to their shoulders seen only in those who must read 60 earnest 10 page papers stating the totally obvious as though it were entirely fresh and new.
One more week, and summer is officially here.
Friday, May 01, 2009
Unecessary
1 man-made duck pond, verdantly green with algae
3 dozen ducks
47-eleven goldfish of varying sizes
X-thousand undergraduates in assorted states of un-dress and/or washedness
2 handfuls toddlers with grubby handfuls of breadcrumbs
1 school outing (aged approx 6) half-heartedly chasing down an escapee who had slipped the hand-holding-chain
Why on earth did someone feel it was essential to post a sign saying, "Warning! Do not drink pond water!"
3 dozen ducks
47-eleven goldfish of varying sizes
X-thousand undergraduates in assorted states of un-dress and/or washedness
2 handfuls toddlers with grubby handfuls of breadcrumbs
1 school outing (aged approx 6) half-heartedly chasing down an escapee who had slipped the hand-holding-chain
Why on earth did someone feel it was essential to post a sign saying, "Warning! Do not drink pond water!"
Saturday, April 18, 2009
Comfortable
My memories of moving out here, within a month of Kirk's disappearance, are split. I have the calm, reasonable moment to moment memories, the ones where I could line up the next hour and walk through it carefully, eyes on what had to be done, looking only as far as the thing directly in front of me. Eventually that stretched to a day at a time, still with a stolid interior dialogue that recited a litany of what would happen next. It kept the rest of it firmly at bay, the roiling, desperate misery that would have swallowed everything otherwise.
I have no memory of that - or rather I have, but I still can't visit it. There isn't anything to look at anyway, nothing like ordinary memories you can shake out like last year's summer clothes and look at the cut and the color and catch a whiff of sun screen and camp fires. Instead I acknowledge it's there, a sort of respectful nod to it, neatly boxed up: it's there, it's not the memory of Kirk himself, it's the memory of that pain and it's a part of things, that's enough.
Still those first months, the first year, was split like that, the practical, divided precisely into ordered pieces of time: school schedules, soccer games, meals that all subdivided and labeled the day, and under it the constant, howling, almost featureless awareness.
Eventually perspective shifted somehow and the daily things became easier to focus on, the rest of it more compressible. It didn't threaten to swamp me any more and I only felt it flick on the raw a few times a day.
What I hadn't realized was that through the years that became, rather than a method of coping with the unbearable, a way of life. I still start each morning focusing firmly on a list of what has to be done: what will I wear, what needs packing or signing, meetings and deadlines, errands and reminders. I have an inner voice that chimes in whenever there's a lull with, "right, there's still that data to get sorted and analyzed and what about finally deciding on a palette for that project?" It's just that there isn't, really, anything to cover any more.
I still miss Kirk - I miss him daily, but, somehow in the last six months, without my really noticing when, it's become, yes sad still, but acceptable. Perhaps I've finally grown myself enough to fit it.
And, for various reasons that may or may not come up here on the blog, I found myself being still for the first time in ages, letting the next moment simply arrive.
I found myself, to my great surprise, comfortable.
I have no memory of that - or rather I have, but I still can't visit it. There isn't anything to look at anyway, nothing like ordinary memories you can shake out like last year's summer clothes and look at the cut and the color and catch a whiff of sun screen and camp fires. Instead I acknowledge it's there, a sort of respectful nod to it, neatly boxed up: it's there, it's not the memory of Kirk himself, it's the memory of that pain and it's a part of things, that's enough.
Still those first months, the first year, was split like that, the practical, divided precisely into ordered pieces of time: school schedules, soccer games, meals that all subdivided and labeled the day, and under it the constant, howling, almost featureless awareness.
Eventually perspective shifted somehow and the daily things became easier to focus on, the rest of it more compressible. It didn't threaten to swamp me any more and I only felt it flick on the raw a few times a day.
What I hadn't realized was that through the years that became, rather than a method of coping with the unbearable, a way of life. I still start each morning focusing firmly on a list of what has to be done: what will I wear, what needs packing or signing, meetings and deadlines, errands and reminders. I have an inner voice that chimes in whenever there's a lull with, "right, there's still that data to get sorted and analyzed and what about finally deciding on a palette for that project?" It's just that there isn't, really, anything to cover any more.
I still miss Kirk - I miss him daily, but, somehow in the last six months, without my really noticing when, it's become, yes sad still, but acceptable. Perhaps I've finally grown myself enough to fit it.
And, for various reasons that may or may not come up here on the blog, I found myself being still for the first time in ages, letting the next moment simply arrive.
I found myself, to my great surprise, comfortable.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
Helpful
Child 1 is studying for an anthropology test. I am being Helpful.
Child 1: Dating methods,
Me: [avoids talking about chat up lines and clubbing. Am very helpful]
Child 1: Radiometric
Me: That's where they check out their Pandora stations
Child 1: [natters on about something anthropologic]
Me: If it's mostly classic rock they're probably in their fifties.
Child 1: [natters rather more loudly]
Me: Hey! Child 3! I'm helping Child 1 with its studying!
Child 2 enters and proceeds to point out all the snerkable words there are in anthropology - surprising how many there are. Child 1 bravely soldiers on, substituting Homo Ergaster for Homo Erectus.
Child 1: ... [anthroisms] ... Oldewan ...
Me: [delighted] That sounds like a Jedi!
Child 1: ... occipital bun ...
Me: That's where they liked to pile their hair!
Child 1: [patient explanation of occipital bun. Which I ignore]
Child 1: Out of Africa... no interbreeding...
Me: I don't think that works. I think we would have laid everything that came across our path.
Child 1: [with enormous patience] I think I'm done being helped with now.
Child 1: Dating methods,
Me: [avoids talking about chat up lines and clubbing. Am very helpful]
Child 1: Radiometric
Me: That's where they check out their Pandora stations
Child 1: [natters on about something anthropologic]
Me: If it's mostly classic rock they're probably in their fifties.
Child 1: [natters rather more loudly]
Me: Hey! Child 3! I'm helping Child 1 with its studying!
Child 2 enters and proceeds to point out all the snerkable words there are in anthropology - surprising how many there are. Child 1 bravely soldiers on, substituting Homo Ergaster for Homo Erectus.
Child 1: ... [anthroisms] ... Oldewan ...
Me: [delighted] That sounds like a Jedi!
Child 1: ... occipital bun ...
Me: That's where they liked to pile their hair!
Child 1: [patient explanation of occipital bun. Which I ignore]
Child 1: Out of Africa... no interbreeding...
Me: I don't think that works. I think we would have laid everything that came across our path.
Child 1: [with enormous patience] I think I'm done being helped with now.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Holiday
Child 1 is scheduled to work all day tomorrow and, being a-religious AND rather an idiot I hadn't realized it's Easter Sunday until about two days ago. Quick talk with Child 1 to re-schedule traditional family activities to today plus even quicker run to the store to procure the necessary supplies and ka-bling, holiday saved!
So last night we had the Traditional Tossing of the Jelly Beans (all-time high score for getting beans down one child's shirt, but disappointing on the bounce-em-off-the-male-child's-head round. Still, Child 1 continued to make entertaining whooping noises and diving for cover so, all in all, a great success).
This morning we had to cancel our hike due to wind, rain and hail (and Child 3 even more disappointingly wasn't able to go on a training flight) but made up for things with an excellent omelet and rather a lot of giggling.
In the afternoon the Children were all shoved out the door and the Hiding of the Easter(ish) Candy was accomplished. This year I did break with tradition and actually write down the hiding spots - good thing too as the Children were only able to find about 1/4 without hints (apparently the ones taped to the inside frame of the kitchen cabinet and stashed deep inside the sheets of foil were particularly nasty).
While the Children replenished their mental stores with large amounts of chocolate and gummy bears I made some rather nice marinated lamb, potatoes and a salad (because nothings says Happy Fertility/Return of Spring celebration like eating the flesh of sweet cuddly animals, particularly if it's been well seasoned with cumin and allspice).
Amongst all of that we STILL managed to clean the refrigerator, vacuum pretty much anything that seemed even moderately floorish and get those surfaces that hadn't been thoroughly swept over in the candy hunt well and truly dusted.
Now, replete and beautifully virtuous, we're lolling around following Child 3's suggestion of having a Jackie Chan-fest (at this very moment the evil Eagle Claw school is trying to wipe out the Snake-something-or-other school. It's all very exciting).
Child 1 had a moment of brilliance and coined the perfect name for this faux-Easter holiday we've had all day.
Happy Feaster everyone.
So last night we had the Traditional Tossing of the Jelly Beans (all-time high score for getting beans down one child's shirt, but disappointing on the bounce-em-off-the-male-child's-head round. Still, Child 1 continued to make entertaining whooping noises and diving for cover so, all in all, a great success).
This morning we had to cancel our hike due to wind, rain and hail (and Child 3 even more disappointingly wasn't able to go on a training flight) but made up for things with an excellent omelet and rather a lot of giggling.
In the afternoon the Children were all shoved out the door and the Hiding of the Easter(ish) Candy was accomplished. This year I did break with tradition and actually write down the hiding spots - good thing too as the Children were only able to find about 1/4 without hints (apparently the ones taped to the inside frame of the kitchen cabinet and stashed deep inside the sheets of foil were particularly nasty).
While the Children replenished their mental stores with large amounts of chocolate and gummy bears I made some rather nice marinated lamb, potatoes and a salad (because nothings says Happy Fertility/Return of Spring celebration like eating the flesh of sweet cuddly animals, particularly if it's been well seasoned with cumin and allspice).
Amongst all of that we STILL managed to clean the refrigerator, vacuum pretty much anything that seemed even moderately floorish and get those surfaces that hadn't been thoroughly swept over in the candy hunt well and truly dusted.
Now, replete and beautifully virtuous, we're lolling around following Child 3's suggestion of having a Jackie Chan-fest (at this very moment the evil Eagle Claw school is trying to wipe out the Snake-something-or-other school. It's all very exciting).
Child 1 had a moment of brilliance and coined the perfect name for this faux-Easter holiday we've had all day.
Happy Feaster everyone.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Friday
Early morning conversation with Child 1 produced:
The invention of the Chastity Quarter (you had to be there)
Declaration of the need, at least locally for "What Not to Wear" for transvestites (no really, you had to be there)
Concise and fascinating discussion of the cultural revolution among modern humans 30,000 years ago and how the increase in trade would have produced a need for changed/increased altruistic behaviors.
Excellent start to Friday
Well, until I glanced down and realized I'd been sitting at my desk for an hour with my fly down.
Oh well.
The invention of the Chastity Quarter (you had to be there)
Declaration of the need, at least locally for "What Not to Wear" for transvestites (no really, you had to be there)
Concise and fascinating discussion of the cultural revolution among modern humans 30,000 years ago and how the increase in trade would have produced a need for changed/increased altruistic behaviors.
Excellent start to Friday
Well, until I glanced down and realized I'd been sitting at my desk for an hour with my fly down.
Oh well.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Addendum
In relation to the previous post - having spent a few minutes walking the aisles of a well known store I would like to request the following:
Dear little-girls's-clothing-manufacturers:
1) "Little" girl also implies young. As in not 20. Or 30. Seriously.
2) Please cease instantly producing a) anything sporting the words 'foxy,' 'sexy,' or 'hot.' I would personally prefer to add 'princess' but that's just me; b) shorts or trousers with ANYTHING written across the bum - anything at all; c) belly shirts, micro-minis and short shorts for the under 18 group. I'm a mother so honestly I'd like to make that ban universal but having worn all three in my rash and splenitive youth, the God who Smiteth Hypocrites would probably wallop me.
3) Bratz. No. Not ever, not at all, not remotely - NO.
4) While I recognize that Disney Poplette's sell items, the number of tweenlings baring their teeth at me from t-shirts etc is giving me nightmares of being gnawed to death by miniature plastic people who, strangely, keep breaking out the jazz hands. You just might be held responsible for the therapy bill.
5) Please explore the amazing range of colors beyond your current palette of 'light pink,' 'mid-pink' and 'dark pink.' In particular consider the vibrant possibilities past the pastel line. Blue, green, it's a whole world of Barbie-free opportunity.
Yours sincerely etc.
Dear little-girls's-clothing-manufacturers:
1) "Little" girl also implies young. As in not 20. Or 30. Seriously.
2) Please cease instantly producing a) anything sporting the words 'foxy,' 'sexy,' or 'hot.' I would personally prefer to add 'princess' but that's just me; b) shorts or trousers with ANYTHING written across the bum - anything at all; c) belly shirts, micro-minis and short shorts for the under 18 group. I'm a mother so honestly I'd like to make that ban universal but having worn all three in my rash and splenitive youth, the God who Smiteth Hypocrites would probably wallop me.
3) Bratz. No. Not ever, not at all, not remotely - NO.
4) While I recognize that Disney Poplette's sell items, the number of tweenlings baring their teeth at me from t-shirts etc is giving me nightmares of being gnawed to death by miniature plastic people who, strangely, keep breaking out the jazz hands. You just might be held responsible for the therapy bill.
5) Please explore the amazing range of colors beyond your current palette of 'light pink,' 'mid-pink' and 'dark pink.' In particular consider the vibrant possibilities past the pastel line. Blue, green, it's a whole world of Barbie-free opportunity.
Yours sincerely etc.
Friday, April 03, 2009
Suggestions
Dear Women's Clothing Manufacturers:
In the current economic crisis I'm sure you're aware that it's your responsibility to encourage customers to return to the market-place and spend their money, increasing consumer confidence and hopefully speeding the recovery we all hope for. Isn't it nice when patriotic duty and innate greed coincide so beautifully? As a concerned citizen and an (occasional) shopper I feel it's important that I share the following suggestions with you. I hope you receive them in the spirit in which they were given.
1. I am not a piece of furniture. Please stop trying to upholster me.
2. Nor am I a toddler. I require neither extreme ruffles nor enormous bows.
3. "Fit" is an important word. I suggest it does not imply either bulging flesh or billowing, tent-like fabric. Perhaps a happy medium?
4. "Waist-band," another interesting word, actually gives a subtle hint as to its meaning. I have no desire to hear the come-on line tried on a friend of a Child's, "you have the nicest plumber's crack I've ever seen!" Really, an inch or two, it's all I'm asking.
5. "Classic." Please investigate the implications in fashion. I think you'll find that it does not refer to the more extreme and less salubrious trends of the 80's.
6. Bold color, bold pattern or bold cut - choose one. At a pinch, choose two, but only very, very carefully.
7. Leggings are vile. They will always be vile. Even on the twiggiest of pop-tarts or starlets they are STILL VILE. Just stop.
8. Reworking your sizing system so what was once a six is now a four does not, actually, make me believe I'm a size smaller than I used to be. Nor does it flatter me into thinking I have to buy, for example, a lime-green pair of cotton pedal-pushers patterned all over with yellow smiley-faces simply because they say "4" on the label and they fit.
9. There are out there women who are a) not 18, b) not interested in the fashion "designs" of Lohan, Hilton, Simpson et al and c) more than willing to pay for clothing that fits and is flattering. Look into it. Could be the next big market for you.
Most sincerely,
etc.
In the current economic crisis I'm sure you're aware that it's your responsibility to encourage customers to return to the market-place and spend their money, increasing consumer confidence and hopefully speeding the recovery we all hope for. Isn't it nice when patriotic duty and innate greed coincide so beautifully? As a concerned citizen and an (occasional) shopper I feel it's important that I share the following suggestions with you. I hope you receive them in the spirit in which they were given.
1. I am not a piece of furniture. Please stop trying to upholster me.
2. Nor am I a toddler. I require neither extreme ruffles nor enormous bows.
3. "Fit" is an important word. I suggest it does not imply either bulging flesh or billowing, tent-like fabric. Perhaps a happy medium?
4. "Waist-band," another interesting word, actually gives a subtle hint as to its meaning. I have no desire to hear the come-on line tried on a friend of a Child's, "you have the nicest plumber's crack I've ever seen!" Really, an inch or two, it's all I'm asking.
5. "Classic." Please investigate the implications in fashion. I think you'll find that it does not refer to the more extreme and less salubrious trends of the 80's.
6. Bold color, bold pattern or bold cut - choose one. At a pinch, choose two, but only very, very carefully.
7. Leggings are vile. They will always be vile. Even on the twiggiest of pop-tarts or starlets they are STILL VILE. Just stop.
8. Reworking your sizing system so what was once a six is now a four does not, actually, make me believe I'm a size smaller than I used to be. Nor does it flatter me into thinking I have to buy, for example, a lime-green pair of cotton pedal-pushers patterned all over with yellow smiley-faces simply because they say "4" on the label and they fit.
9. There are out there women who are a) not 18, b) not interested in the fashion "designs" of Lohan, Hilton, Simpson et al and c) more than willing to pay for clothing that fits and is flattering. Look into it. Could be the next big market for you.
Most sincerely,
etc.
Wednesday, April 01, 2009
Abandoned
We welcomed the Superior Aunt and its Superior Offspring with a cold front that dropped the temperature down about 25 degrees. The nice thing about living here is that you can get temperatures chilly enough to produce goose-flesh and yet still get sunburnt if you're rash enough to wander around outdoors for any length of time (we did. However I'm not an idiot and thus was well sun-creamed. Didn't protect against the sun-induced exhaustion though!).
So, we admired a large selection of aquatic things (once spending several minutes staring at a rusting shrimp boat in a disturbingly green "pond" and trying to see something, anything larger than a minnow), including petting some rays and almost-but-not-quite petting a very small, very wary shark. We then wandered around some gardeny type things and correctly identified: roses, cacti of various types, grape vines, several sheep, a cow and two very large horses. Then we headed home and collapsed for the rest of the evening (well, the adults did. The broods were removed to a distant location where their exuberance wouldn't spill over onto those collapsing).
Also, chile rellenos were successfully located and consumed (so I hear. Darn work) and sopapillas filled with honey so as to ensure the greatest possible spread of stickiness.
However yesterday the Superior Aunt and Children and one grandparent folded themselves into the rental car and took off south with the intention of seeing: a) some observatory thing of some sort b) White Sands [where there is Natural Beauty as well as a missile range] c) Carlsbad Caverns and d) Roswell UFO museum. I argued passionately for them to stay at The Little A'le'Inn but was ignored. If they survive all of that they will, in theory, be back tonight, possibly hungry.
I think I'll spend the day trying to figure out how best to add green chile to Coq au Vin.
So, we admired a large selection of aquatic things (once spending several minutes staring at a rusting shrimp boat in a disturbingly green "pond" and trying to see something, anything larger than a minnow), including petting some rays and almost-but-not-quite petting a very small, very wary shark. We then wandered around some gardeny type things and correctly identified: roses, cacti of various types, grape vines, several sheep, a cow and two very large horses. Then we headed home and collapsed for the rest of the evening (well, the adults did. The broods were removed to a distant location where their exuberance wouldn't spill over onto those collapsing).
Also, chile rellenos were successfully located and consumed (so I hear. Darn work) and sopapillas filled with honey so as to ensure the greatest possible spread of stickiness.
However yesterday the Superior Aunt and Children and one grandparent folded themselves into the rental car and took off south with the intention of seeing: a) some observatory thing of some sort b) White Sands [where there is Natural Beauty as well as a missile range] c) Carlsbad Caverns and d) Roswell UFO museum. I argued passionately for them to stay at The Little A'le'Inn but was ignored. If they survive all of that they will, in theory, be back tonight, possibly hungry.
I think I'll spend the day trying to figure out how best to add green chile to Coq au Vin.
Friday, March 27, 2009
Arrivals
The Superior Aunt is coming! Bringing with her the Superior Cousins (Children A, B and C). When asked what she wants to do she replied with a request for Mexican food. And more Mexican food. Seeing as this is the city that has green chile as an ingredient in at least one dish on every menu I think we can handle this (the menu claim could be a slight exaggeration, but I have seen it offered with a wide variety of things including various pasta dishes and, weirdly, crepes. Also, I have a friend who swears that green chile and pineapple pizza is not only palatable but is The One True Pizza. I have not yet been desperate enough or drunk enough to try it).
The Spring Break gods refused to align the planets so not only does this visit not coincide with when Children 2 and 3 are off (this week) but it missed when Child 1 was off as well (last week) (note that I never got to be off AT ALL. Darn Spring Break gods). However we intend to make the most of the thing and, when not stuffing the Superior Relatives with burritos, enchiladas and chile rellenos, will be hurling them up mountains, forcing them to admire various bits of the city, and possibly requiring them to watch all the films that WE like.
And since they're family they're going to have to enjoy it all too.
Can't wait.
The Spring Break gods refused to align the planets so not only does this visit not coincide with when Children 2 and 3 are off (this week) but it missed when Child 1 was off as well (last week) (note that I never got to be off AT ALL. Darn Spring Break gods). However we intend to make the most of the thing and, when not stuffing the Superior Relatives with burritos, enchiladas and chile rellenos, will be hurling them up mountains, forcing them to admire various bits of the city, and possibly requiring them to watch all the films that WE like.
And since they're family they're going to have to enjoy it all too.
Can't wait.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Memory
An old friend found me the other day.
Well, really, he found Child 1 on Facebook in one of those mad, modern connection things that seem to happen all over the place.
Hadn't seen him for years and years and it was obvious that he hadn't heard about Kirk. So I had to tell him the story and I realized how really, really bad at it I am.
It's not that it's difficult for me to tell it any more. I've said it so often now in so many different places that it's finally become something separate - it's the story, not the thing itself. So I can tell it without that horrible back-of-the-throat feeling that used to make me sick (well, almost always).
No, the problem now is telling the story to someone who has never heard it. Just a month or so ago I had to do it, for someone who had never known Kaj, never known me when I was married and that was difficult enough. Because people want to say something and no one knows what to say so their concern and bother and discomfort is nearly unbearable.
This was different. This guy knew Kaj, knew him well. He went through Russian school at DLI with him. We were in Texas together and a few months later he and his wife were stationed in Germany about an hour or so South of us. I stayed with his wife when their first child was born and he had been sent away for a few weeks. It was his unit that was sent to Iraq instead of Kirk's. We had come back to New Mexico to go to university; he had stayed in the army - he's in it still - and we had just lost touch.
Which left him frozen in time, stuck there as I knew him all that time ago. And we were the same I know. If he thought about us, about me and Kirk, it was just memories, just those paper-cut-out images of what we used to be.
So when he called I had to tell him the story, tell it at once before he said anything or asked anything that would make it even harder for him. So I did it, telling him that his friend, the friend he used to know, the one he didn't know at all anymore really, was gone. I did it quickly, and badly, as I always do.
And I was sorry.
Well, really, he found Child 1 on Facebook in one of those mad, modern connection things that seem to happen all over the place.
Hadn't seen him for years and years and it was obvious that he hadn't heard about Kirk. So I had to tell him the story and I realized how really, really bad at it I am.
It's not that it's difficult for me to tell it any more. I've said it so often now in so many different places that it's finally become something separate - it's the story, not the thing itself. So I can tell it without that horrible back-of-the-throat feeling that used to make me sick (well, almost always).
No, the problem now is telling the story to someone who has never heard it. Just a month or so ago I had to do it, for someone who had never known Kaj, never known me when I was married and that was difficult enough. Because people want to say something and no one knows what to say so their concern and bother and discomfort is nearly unbearable.
This was different. This guy knew Kaj, knew him well. He went through Russian school at DLI with him. We were in Texas together and a few months later he and his wife were stationed in Germany about an hour or so South of us. I stayed with his wife when their first child was born and he had been sent away for a few weeks. It was his unit that was sent to Iraq instead of Kirk's. We had come back to New Mexico to go to university; he had stayed in the army - he's in it still - and we had just lost touch.
Which left him frozen in time, stuck there as I knew him all that time ago. And we were the same I know. If he thought about us, about me and Kirk, it was just memories, just those paper-cut-out images of what we used to be.
So when he called I had to tell him the story, tell it at once before he said anything or asked anything that would make it even harder for him. So I did it, telling him that his friend, the friend he used to know, the one he didn't know at all anymore really, was gone. I did it quickly, and badly, as I always do.
And I was sorry.
Thursday, March 19, 2009
Cliche
Given:
The minivan
With the six soccer-ball stickers
Marked "Jacob" "Joshua" "Madison" "Hannah" "Ashley" and "Brianna"
And the gymnastics sticker
Marked "Tyler"
And the Jesus fish
And the "God is my co-pilot" sticker
And the window label with the big-eyed, pajama-clad infants clustered around a cross
Your "In case of rapture this vehicle will become un-manned," license plate frame is a public spirited warning
but probably unnecessary.
Addendum:
On the other hand, the pale, curly haired young man in the Smart car
with the FIVE apple stickers on various windows
and the Flying Spaghetti Monster icon
with the Darwin fish on the other side
didn't really need to let us know that "Guns don't kill people,
Type 2 phasers kill people." and he voted Kirk/Spock in 2008.
The minivan
With the six soccer-ball stickers
Marked "Jacob" "Joshua" "Madison" "Hannah" "Ashley" and "Brianna"
And the gymnastics sticker
Marked "Tyler"
And the Jesus fish
And the "God is my co-pilot" sticker
And the window label with the big-eyed, pajama-clad infants clustered around a cross
Your "In case of rapture this vehicle will become un-manned," license plate frame is a public spirited warning
but probably unnecessary.
Addendum:
On the other hand, the pale, curly haired young man in the Smart car
with the FIVE apple stickers on various windows
and the Flying Spaghetti Monster icon
with the Darwin fish on the other side
didn't really need to let us know that "Guns don't kill people,
Type 2 phasers kill people." and he voted Kirk/Spock in 2008.
Monday, March 16, 2009
Maturity
I feel that Child 1's birthday post might have given an inaccurate picture of said Child.
It does indeed hold down job and school without apparent botheration. However it should not be judged on that alone. As counter evidence I present the present this Child bought for itself, something it felt was particularly suitable to mark the occasion of it leaving its irresponsible teens forever:
What are they? See them (and the Child) in action -
Yup, I think it's ready to take on its 20's with style and sophistication.
It does indeed hold down job and school without apparent botheration. However it should not be judged on that alone. As counter evidence I present the present this Child bought for itself, something it felt was particularly suitable to mark the occasion of it leaving its irresponsible teens forever:
What are they? See them (and the Child) in action -
Yup, I think it's ready to take on its 20's with style and sophistication.
Friday, March 13, 2009
Casted
In my free time (HA HA HA!! See what I did there? With the free and the time and putting them together like that? I kill me, really I do) I've spent the last week or so putting together software training screen casts. I'm about 3/4 of the way through the basic set of the first program (out of two sets, four programs. Yes, nuts, I know, shut up) so I've developed something of a system and, being a giver, I'll share it with you.
1. Open screen recording program, select New Recording
2. Switch to target program.
3. Set up screen.
4. Click Large Red Threatening Button
5. Repress heart palpitations because THERE IS A COUNTDOWN!! I HATE COUNTDOWNS!! Try to ignore the Five Four Three Two One on the screen.
6. Suffer coughing fit as recording starts.
7. Hit the stop key sequence.
8. Discard recording.
9. Repeat 1 - 5
10. "Intro babble! A-a-a-a-buggerit!"
11. Repeat 7 & 8
12. Repeat 1 - 5
13. Repeat 10, choosing alternate cuss words for variety.
14. Repeat 11 - 13 until thoroughly disgusted.
15. Successfully talk through entire demonstration until final action at which point: a) loud knock on door, b) loud telephone ring or c) complete verbal meltdown
16. "JEEBUS ON A BICYCLE! Stoopid program with the... one more time but damnit... why the hell do I OFFER these things... people with their door knocks and their telephones I know what I'D like to knock... ONE MORE TIME AND THAT'S IT"
17. Successfully talk through entire demonstration, nearly panic at the end due to lack of clever wrap up chat, power through and hit stop key sequence.
18. Return to recording program and press play.
19. Realize sadly that your voice is twice as high as you think it is AND you have thoroughly American R's that grate like no one's business. Determine nothing is to be done.
20. Think hard about editing recording to highlight cursor moves etc. Say buggerit again.
21. Check off one more recording and realize happily that there are only 24 more to go.
On this program.
1. Open screen recording program, select New Recording
2. Switch to target program.
3. Set up screen.
4. Click Large Red Threatening Button
5. Repress heart palpitations because THERE IS A COUNTDOWN!! I HATE COUNTDOWNS!! Try to ignore the Five Four Three Two One on the screen.
6. Suffer coughing fit as recording starts.
7. Hit the stop key sequence.
8. Discard recording.
9. Repeat 1 - 5
10. "Intro babble! A-a-a-a-buggerit!"
11. Repeat 7 & 8
12. Repeat 1 - 5
13. Repeat 10, choosing alternate cuss words for variety.
14. Repeat 11 - 13 until thoroughly disgusted.
15. Successfully talk through entire demonstration until final action at which point: a) loud knock on door, b) loud telephone ring or c) complete verbal meltdown
16. "JEEBUS ON A BICYCLE! Stoopid program with the... one more time but damnit... why the hell do I OFFER these things... people with their door knocks and their telephones I know what I'D like to knock... ONE MORE TIME AND THAT'S IT"
17. Successfully talk through entire demonstration, nearly panic at the end due to lack of clever wrap up chat, power through and hit stop key sequence.
18. Return to recording program and press play.
19. Realize sadly that your voice is twice as high as you think it is AND you have thoroughly American R's that grate like no one's business. Determine nothing is to be done.
20. Think hard about editing recording to highlight cursor moves etc. Say buggerit again.
21. Check off one more recording and realize happily that there are only 24 more to go.
On this program.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
Early
I'm not a morning person.
Really, truly, genuinely not.
I'm so not a morning person I get up waaaay early just so I can be awake by the time I have to do anything anyone might want to pay me for. (it makes sense in my own head, trust me).
So, at that waaaaay early hour I can generally handle either the minute numbers or the hour numbers on my alarm clock, but not both. When I say generally, that includes multiple incidences of staring meditatively at the glowing red numerals and wondering whether 8 comes before or after 5, then deciding either way it doesn't matter because I couldn't figure out what the significance would be regardless. As a general rule though I can focus to the right or left of that colon and, with a little bit of concentration, come to a reasonable conclusion about what I need to do next.
This morning it only took five minutes to figure out that, since I needed to pick up gas, I probably didn't have enough time for five more minutes of warmth. I rolled reluctantly out of bed, flipped on the lights and headed off to take my shower. Virtuous AND clean I also brushed teeth and got dressed before coming back into the bedroom to check the time and see how long I had left.
At which point I finally took a look at the hour number.
Which was a steady, unforgiving 2.
It's going to be a long day.
Really, truly, genuinely not.
I'm so not a morning person I get up waaaay early just so I can be awake by the time I have to do anything anyone might want to pay me for. (it makes sense in my own head, trust me).
So, at that waaaaay early hour I can generally handle either the minute numbers or the hour numbers on my alarm clock, but not both. When I say generally, that includes multiple incidences of staring meditatively at the glowing red numerals and wondering whether 8 comes before or after 5, then deciding either way it doesn't matter because I couldn't figure out what the significance would be regardless. As a general rule though I can focus to the right or left of that colon and, with a little bit of concentration, come to a reasonable conclusion about what I need to do next.
This morning it only took five minutes to figure out that, since I needed to pick up gas, I probably didn't have enough time for five more minutes of warmth. I rolled reluctantly out of bed, flipped on the lights and headed off to take my shower. Virtuous AND clean I also brushed teeth and got dressed before coming back into the bedroom to check the time and see how long I had left.
At which point I finally took a look at the hour number.
Which was a steady, unforgiving 2.
It's going to be a long day.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Worms
Had lunch today with a particularly favorite uncle and aunt and, among other things, I learned that Darwin spent the last several years of his life in an intense study of earthworms and soil.
He even wrote a book, with the gripping title, The Formation of Vegetable Mould Through the Action of Worms, With Observations on Their Habits.
I like the thought of this man, this giant who produced one of the most successful theories in the history of science, returning from his travels in the Beagle with his notebooks full of the strange and magnificent animals he had observed to tuck himself happily down again with his earthworms.
After all, there's nothing wrong with getting a bit dirty if it really, really makes you happy.
He even wrote a book, with the gripping title, The Formation of Vegetable Mould Through the Action of Worms, With Observations on Their Habits.
I like the thought of this man, this giant who produced one of the most successful theories in the history of science, returning from his travels in the Beagle with his notebooks full of the strange and magnificent animals he had observed to tuck himself happily down again with his earthworms.
After all, there's nothing wrong with getting a bit dirty if it really, really makes you happy.
Wednesday, March 04, 2009
One
At what age is a Child too old for birthday posts? Will Child 1 be 84 and I 100 something-or-other and beaming a post in through my virtual brain port?
It does seem a bit weird to still be calling it Child when it is clearly nothing of the sort and when, this year, it officially left behind its teens.
One of its friends, a few weeks older than Child 1, was mourning the fact that, as a non-teen, it would no longer be able to be obsessed with the Twilight movie/books [note: this friend has watched said movie over FORTY TIMES. 40. Four with a tee on the end. and change. That is devotion]. Child 1 doesn't seem to feel any restrictions of its new age an maturity - it watches and reads what it will, preferring to be happy rather than right.
It is in its second semester of university now, and after a brief tussle with a combination of algebra (after a year off math) and an instructor with almost no English has taken to higher education with its usual aplomb. This semester it has ceramics to keep it happy as well as a fascinating class on human evolution (go on, ask it about theories on the development of intelligence in social animals!)
Somehow this year it has managed to juggle a nearly-but-not-quite full time job AND full time school and do beautifully at both. I promise, if I figure out just what it is that allows this to happen I will bottle it and distribute it entirely free for the betterment of mankind.
I've been waiting to write up this birthday post because, to my dismay, the Child has not yet received a birthday present from me. Its grandparents took it out to dinner, its friends whisked it off for a dance - but aside from a nice dinner of smoked salmon it has seen absolutely nothing from me. It's not entirely my fault though - the Child refused to tell me what it wanted, if anything. It has now submitted to agreeing to be taken to a rock and gem shop to choose something but between its schedule and mine we have yet to make it down there.
I hope with great age comes great patience and understanding.
Happy birthday Child 1.
It does seem a bit weird to still be calling it Child when it is clearly nothing of the sort and when, this year, it officially left behind its teens.
One of its friends, a few weeks older than Child 1, was mourning the fact that, as a non-teen, it would no longer be able to be obsessed with the Twilight movie/books [note: this friend has watched said movie over FORTY TIMES. 40. Four with a tee on the end. and change. That is devotion]. Child 1 doesn't seem to feel any restrictions of its new age an maturity - it watches and reads what it will, preferring to be happy rather than right.
It is in its second semester of university now, and after a brief tussle with a combination of algebra (after a year off math) and an instructor with almost no English has taken to higher education with its usual aplomb. This semester it has ceramics to keep it happy as well as a fascinating class on human evolution (go on, ask it about theories on the development of intelligence in social animals!)
Somehow this year it has managed to juggle a nearly-but-not-quite full time job AND full time school and do beautifully at both. I promise, if I figure out just what it is that allows this to happen I will bottle it and distribute it entirely free for the betterment of mankind.
I've been waiting to write up this birthday post because, to my dismay, the Child has not yet received a birthday present from me. Its grandparents took it out to dinner, its friends whisked it off for a dance - but aside from a nice dinner of smoked salmon it has seen absolutely nothing from me. It's not entirely my fault though - the Child refused to tell me what it wanted, if anything. It has now submitted to agreeing to be taken to a rock and gem shop to choose something but between its schedule and mine we have yet to make it down there.
I hope with great age comes great patience and understanding.
Happy birthday Child 1.
Saturday, February 28, 2009
Vapors
I'm meant to be vacuuming at the moment. The vacuum is actually sitting in the living room where I turned it off after two seconds of high-quality dirt sucking, but as I had already dusted everything (baseboards included) I think I can sit down for a few seconds.
The reason I'm dusting and vacuuming rather than harassing the Children into doing it is because we made a deal. They would clean the garage and I would clean the entire rest of the house (their bathroom excepted. I'm not stupid). It might sound like a terrible deal, but I happened to know several things:
a) the house had been thoroughly cleaned two days before, and two days before that and therefore most of what I was going to deal with was surface clutter.
b) the surface clutter was, by and large, owned by the Children and therefore I wouldn't actually have to clean it up but would simply lump it into great Piles of Shame and point them in the general direction.
c) going in the garage has, for the past month, given me a fit of the vapors.
The problem with the garage is that it houses the washer and dryer (as well as a few large items which are not ours and cannot, therefore, be shifted) and my Children, while cheerfully willing to do their own laundry have set up a particular system for dealing with clean and dirty clothes. A Child will decide it has nothing clean at all - not even the kind of clean that happens if you leave all your clothes in an enormous heap on your closet floor and shut the door on it for a week. Said Child then piles its laundry basket with its entire wardrobe and staggers into the garage to load and start the washer. A day later another Child will recognize the grubby state of its clothes and head out to do its own wash, discovering (of course) that the washer is now full of cold, soggy, clean clothes belonging to someone else. The original laundry Child is reminded of the state of things (and will be honestly surprised) and will wrestle its damp belongings over to the dryer. Of course the dryer will be full of the clean, dry, wrinkled clothing of still another Child who has been comfortably using the dryer as an adjunct closet for the past two days. With its arms full of wash, the first laundry Child will use one hand to haul all the clean clothes from the dryer and pile them on top of the appliance.
However, this means that when the second laundry Child comes to dry its things both the dryer and the top are packed with clothes and the second laundry Child, for some unknown reason, then sweeps all clothing not belonging to it onto the floor. Then all three Children happily tread on a nice, even covering of once-clean clothing as they head into the back room, fish out canned food or Ramen (for hikes) etc. while I go outside to do laundry and have to retire with a bottle of smelling salts and a small silk fan.
So, I'm more than happy to dust, vacuum, mop and wipe down because about ten minutes two Children took me into the garage and proudly showed me the beautifully neat and tidy floor and the now pristine work table.
Definitely worth it.
The reason I'm dusting and vacuuming rather than harassing the Children into doing it is because we made a deal. They would clean the garage and I would clean the entire rest of the house (their bathroom excepted. I'm not stupid). It might sound like a terrible deal, but I happened to know several things:
a) the house had been thoroughly cleaned two days before, and two days before that and therefore most of what I was going to deal with was surface clutter.
b) the surface clutter was, by and large, owned by the Children and therefore I wouldn't actually have to clean it up but would simply lump it into great Piles of Shame and point them in the general direction.
c) going in the garage has, for the past month, given me a fit of the vapors.
The problem with the garage is that it houses the washer and dryer (as well as a few large items which are not ours and cannot, therefore, be shifted) and my Children, while cheerfully willing to do their own laundry have set up a particular system for dealing with clean and dirty clothes. A Child will decide it has nothing clean at all - not even the kind of clean that happens if you leave all your clothes in an enormous heap on your closet floor and shut the door on it for a week. Said Child then piles its laundry basket with its entire wardrobe and staggers into the garage to load and start the washer. A day later another Child will recognize the grubby state of its clothes and head out to do its own wash, discovering (of course) that the washer is now full of cold, soggy, clean clothes belonging to someone else. The original laundry Child is reminded of the state of things (and will be honestly surprised) and will wrestle its damp belongings over to the dryer. Of course the dryer will be full of the clean, dry, wrinkled clothing of still another Child who has been comfortably using the dryer as an adjunct closet for the past two days. With its arms full of wash, the first laundry Child will use one hand to haul all the clean clothes from the dryer and pile them on top of the appliance.
However, this means that when the second laundry Child comes to dry its things both the dryer and the top are packed with clothes and the second laundry Child, for some unknown reason, then sweeps all clothing not belonging to it onto the floor. Then all three Children happily tread on a nice, even covering of once-clean clothing as they head into the back room, fish out canned food or Ramen (for hikes) etc. while I go outside to do laundry and have to retire with a bottle of smelling salts and a small silk fan.
So, I'm more than happy to dust, vacuum, mop and wipe down because about ten minutes two Children took me into the garage and proudly showed me the beautifully neat and tidy floor and the now pristine work table.
Definitely worth it.
Monday, February 23, 2009
UnAmerican
I don't watch reality television.
I have no idea what celebrities are pretending to know how to dance and which hopefuls are being voted for on what talent show. I've only seen five minutes of Lost and I don't even have a subscription to HBO. I don't like baseball.
I compounded all of that by not realizing it was the Superbowl until the very day (twigged off by the bleary-eyed men in the grocery store buying cases of cheap and nasty beer). But worse, far worse, I didn't know the Oscars were on last night until I saw the news headlines when I checked my email this morning.
I will be turning in my trucker's cap and my novelty #1 foam hand at the door.
I have no idea what celebrities are pretending to know how to dance and which hopefuls are being voted for on what talent show. I've only seen five minutes of Lost and I don't even have a subscription to HBO. I don't like baseball.
I compounded all of that by not realizing it was the Superbowl until the very day (twigged off by the bleary-eyed men in the grocery store buying cases of cheap and nasty beer). But worse, far worse, I didn't know the Oscars were on last night until I saw the news headlines when I checked my email this morning.
I will be turning in my trucker's cap and my novelty #1 foam hand at the door.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Two
Child 2 had a rather significant birthday this last weekend.
Not one of those slightly quirky personal Important Birthdays (for me that would include 6 [favorite number as a child], 11 [far cooler than 10 which for some reason didn't impress me at all, 16 [Age of Official Dateableness - thank you Mormon upbringing] and 24 [I have no idea why, none at all, really, just something about that number... it even sounds a little sexy... tweeeeeentee fouuuuuuuuuuur]), an actual, real, official Very Significant Birthday.
The one that means, technically, it can no longer be called Child 2 at all (but of course it still will be. It's going to be seventy-leven some day and STILL be called Child 2, poor thing).
Maybe the fact that this birthday was looming did something to the Child's little brain - set off some amazing neural storm somewhere. Because something happened to this Child, somewhere between one blink and another, and before I knew where I was it was talking about career options - about how it wants to do something meaningful, something that will make a difference. More than that though, it had calmly sat itself down and worked out how to make such a plan work. It sat an entrance exam and didn't just do well, didn't just excel - it got the highest possible score. Then it scheduled itself a far more difficult exam (a language battery) and walked out with a bit of paper noting that it had gotten 48 points above the lowest minimum requirement and 33 points above the highest requirement. There are currently several people literally begging this Child to deign to consider allowing them to offer it a dream job complete with signing bonus.
At the same time it has ceased (mostly) poking it's sibling's buttons, has decided to allow its admiring and loving relatives to (now and then) hug it, and has become the Agony Aunt and Relationship Guidance Counselor for most of its circle of friends (apparently it listens to the problem, calmly says something like, "you're an idiot. Cut it out," then pats the friend kindly on the head).
In other words, somehow this Child has managed to do the almost unachievable. It not only became an adult, it also grew up.
I've never been more proud.
Happy Birthday Child 2
Not one of those slightly quirky personal Important Birthdays (for me that would include 6 [favorite number as a child], 11 [far cooler than 10 which for some reason didn't impress me at all, 16 [Age of Official Dateableness - thank you Mormon upbringing] and 24 [I have no idea why, none at all, really, just something about that number... it even sounds a little sexy... tweeeeeentee fouuuuuuuuuuur]), an actual, real, official Very Significant Birthday.
The one that means, technically, it can no longer be called Child 2 at all (but of course it still will be. It's going to be seventy-leven some day and STILL be called Child 2, poor thing).
Maybe the fact that this birthday was looming did something to the Child's little brain - set off some amazing neural storm somewhere. Because something happened to this Child, somewhere between one blink and another, and before I knew where I was it was talking about career options - about how it wants to do something meaningful, something that will make a difference. More than that though, it had calmly sat itself down and worked out how to make such a plan work. It sat an entrance exam and didn't just do well, didn't just excel - it got the highest possible score. Then it scheduled itself a far more difficult exam (a language battery) and walked out with a bit of paper noting that it had gotten 48 points above the lowest minimum requirement and 33 points above the highest requirement. There are currently several people literally begging this Child to deign to consider allowing them to offer it a dream job complete with signing bonus.
At the same time it has ceased (mostly) poking it's sibling's buttons, has decided to allow its admiring and loving relatives to (now and then) hug it, and has become the Agony Aunt and Relationship Guidance Counselor for most of its circle of friends (apparently it listens to the problem, calmly says something like, "you're an idiot. Cut it out," then pats the friend kindly on the head).
In other words, somehow this Child has managed to do the almost unachievable. It not only became an adult, it also grew up.
I've never been more proud.
Happy Birthday Child 2
Friday, February 13, 2009
Photo
I was going to write about doing taxes and how it's totally normal to shout at the news-print manual things like, "Why can't you just say what you mean??" or "WHY SHOULD I MULTIPLY LINE 23b BY 15% HUH? JUST ANSWER ME THAT!!"
However.
I hab a coad. Courtesy of the ever generous Child 3. So instead I'm just going to post an old picture of Kaj because it makes me smile.
Then I'm going to go back to sneezing and sniffling. And whining.
However.
I hab a coad. Courtesy of the ever generous Child 3. So instead I'm just going to post an old picture of Kaj because it makes me smile.
Then I'm going to go back to sneezing and sniffling. And whining.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Conversation
During last night's Netflix showing -
Child 3: Know what I would do if I had a Darlek come up like that? I'd jump on and go, "now SPIN! WHEEEEEE!"
Child 1: I'd poke it in the eye stalk. POKE! POKE! You can't see me!
Me: I'd totally cuddle it. "Whose an ickle Darlek-warlek then? Izzee? Izzee? Hims is just the cutest little genocidal wobot hims is!"
Child 2: This is why Earth will never be invaded by Darleks.
Child 3: Know what I would do if I had a Darlek come up like that? I'd jump on and go, "now SPIN! WHEEEEEE!"
Child 1: I'd poke it in the eye stalk. POKE! POKE! You can't see me!
Me: I'd totally cuddle it. "Whose an ickle Darlek-warlek then? Izzee? Izzee? Hims is just the cutest little genocidal wobot hims is!"
Child 2: This is why Earth will never be invaded by Darleks.
Friday, February 06, 2009
Benchmark
We have a few odd traditions in my family - not my Kirk-Megan-Children family but the family I was raised in, and some of them have to do with giving gifts. One is the habit of giving someone not what you think they'd like or need, but what you, personally, find really, really funny. I don't indulge in this one terribly often but it is why my poor sister, when she took up belly-dancing as a pass-time, was given an enormous red bra and several packets of sequins and plastic googly eyes. Another is the practice of recycling wrapping. We were completely used to receiving our gifts tastefully clad in the Sunday comics or, on one memorable Christmas, bundled up in the family collection of towels. It is due to this heritage that I can boast the skill of making curled ribbon decorations out of newsprint. (true that - cut strips of newspaper and gently, carefully run the blade of scissors over it - curls beautifully if you manage not to pull it to bits).
Another tradition though is putting something of yourself into a gift. I remember one year my mother spent weeks carefully crocheting miles and miles of lace - two blouses, for my sister and me. I can see that blouse now, and the love and care and time that went into it.
So.
Let's just say that my sister, the one who has a rather stressful job, the one with three children of her own who might, just might, have a few calls on her time. Yet this sister, for the Christmas just past? Produced this:
This is my Christmas hat, which has a Christmas scarf to go with. I would like to point out the clear pattern which is, I think, evidence of a very capable knitter - something I will never be.
But the real kicker is the next photo, of the male child (appropriately disguised. I would like to point out that the Male Child chose to wear BOTH the face mask and the Superior Aunt produced item).
This photo doesn't at all do justice to this hat - it has a PATTERN which is GORGEOUS and... well, terribly, terribly impressive, and the Male Child is a little smug to say the least about its really very cool hat.
I'm still trying to tie down two other children to demonstrate their knitted booty (One of them is gloves! With FINGERS!! Who can knit fingers for heaven's sake??) but as they are elusive at best and selfishly insist on actually wearing their gifts as a daily practice it's been a bit difficult.
Frankly, these gifts pretty much topped anything anyone else did for the whole of Christmas. Which is why I was pleased to see that at least the Superior Aunt had wrapped these pieces of Superior Hand Crafting in the very latest issue of the Sunday comics.
Let's just keep those traditions alive, shall we?
Another tradition though is putting something of yourself into a gift. I remember one year my mother spent weeks carefully crocheting miles and miles of lace - two blouses, for my sister and me. I can see that blouse now, and the love and care and time that went into it.
So.
Let's just say that my sister, the one who has a rather stressful job, the one with three children of her own who might, just might, have a few calls on her time. Yet this sister, for the Christmas just past? Produced this:
This is my Christmas hat, which has a Christmas scarf to go with. I would like to point out the clear pattern which is, I think, evidence of a very capable knitter - something I will never be.
But the real kicker is the next photo, of the male child (appropriately disguised. I would like to point out that the Male Child chose to wear BOTH the face mask and the Superior Aunt produced item).
This photo doesn't at all do justice to this hat - it has a PATTERN which is GORGEOUS and... well, terribly, terribly impressive, and the Male Child is a little smug to say the least about its really very cool hat.
I'm still trying to tie down two other children to demonstrate their knitted booty (One of them is gloves! With FINGERS!! Who can knit fingers for heaven's sake??) but as they are elusive at best and selfishly insist on actually wearing their gifts as a daily practice it's been a bit difficult.
Frankly, these gifts pretty much topped anything anyone else did for the whole of Christmas. Which is why I was pleased to see that at least the Superior Aunt had wrapped these pieces of Superior Hand Crafting in the very latest issue of the Sunday comics.
Let's just keep those traditions alive, shall we?
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