random thoughts tuesday

Don't you love it when you go through the forgot your password prompts and you answer your secret questions correctly and they tell you your new password has been sent to your email address and then, you know what comes next, you have no idea which email address you used.

Gotta love backyard chickens, too. You go through the trouble of cutting up veggie scraps, taking said scraps to the chicken coop in 106 degree temps, and how do they show their aprpeciation? They strut around on top of the veggies, mashing them into the dirt and then take a sh*t right on top. Splat!

I guess that's where the saying, I'm so happy I could sh*t originated.

And then there's the trappings of the digital age. You can't hide anymore. Case in point:

Just after I post a status update, my home phone rings. It's somebody whose voice I'd rather hear on my answering machine than hold a conversation with. So I do what any good socially avoidant personality would do, let the machine pick it up.

But they leave no message. Half a minute later my cell phone rings. I'm all, Day-em, busted 'n sh*t. Because now they know I'm either (a) sitting at my home computer, or (b) posting via my cell phone. But then I think, No. Wait. Don't answer. I'm outside feeding the chickens. I mean, really, who carries their cell phone to feed the chickens?

The upshot is this: In this digital age, it gets to the point where your frenemies think you spend an awful lot of time hanging out at the chicken coop.

m For the final random thought you must go to this NYC street performance art link, Say Something Nice. Take a listen to the woman speaker at 2:26.

digi-history in the making: first text ever from my husband

Whereas I am ever one-pay-scale-away from becoming a device-slut, it could be said that Sam has bought a ticket on the slow boat to digi-land.

As in,

- it was the year 2010 before he replied to his first email

- 2011 before he composed one from scratch

Put a nail gun or a miter saw in his hand and he is home on the range. Digital texting? Not gonna happen.

Until tonight. He is away tending to his mother. He and his sister are at her house. It's looking to be the first step along the path of moving her toward an assisted living situation. Convincing her. Not something any son or daughter looks forward to.

So while I was grocery shopping, I sent him a text for the first time*

A bit anti-climactic, wouldn't you say? Instead of replying, I just smiled. And waited for him to call, i.e., bypass the whole confounded texting nonsense. In his mind, not mine. Me? I lubs me some texting.

*Thanks to Mental P Mama and her Parentexting series, I was able to take a screen shot of her screen shot and pretend that I can take a screen shot of my own.

limping along in laptop land

Sorry I haven't been around much. I haven't been visiting my own blog let alone anyone else's. My excuse is a pretty good one. I am, as they say, technologically swamped.

1. I'm finally getting rid of a dinosaur desktop that still runs Windows 2000. The task of combing through old files and forgotten photos has given me headaches and backaches.

2. I moved the kids' defunct desktop out of their playroom. Whew, the dust that accumulates under those things. Dust allergies be damned, I'm looking into recycling or donating both computers if they're not too obsolete for charity.

3. I stepped on my laptop a few months ago. I've been watching it slowly succomb to the fuzzy electronic equivalent of an evil black spider daily growing larger on my screen and blocking my view.

If you've never been privvy to the cracked screen phenomenon, it's really quite fascinating. Eye strain not withstanding.

All of this to say, a new laptop for me. I'm in the middle of transferring files from the old laptop as we speak.

But oy, an ADD nightmare. So many files, so little short term memory. Should I save or should I trash, now? This indecision's killing me.

4. For too long we've been coping with a printer that drinks more ink than a barfly slurps cheap whiskey. After fully one year of researching asking my neighbor his opinion on laser printers, I broke down and bought one of those, too.

5. My daughter's cell phone and iPad were stolen out of her backpack at school. Thankfully her dad took care of that crisis though I was subject to the groans of a text-deprived adolescent.

6. My other daughter plus friend were playing Austin's Next Supermodel in our driveway. The camera was, apparently, left on the runway and stepped on. Or it was dropped (not that anyone has fessed up). The retractable lens is now jammed and stuck in permanently erect status (unlike other household playthings). Pliers to no avail, the camera is a goner. The family camera, i.e., the family's only camera. Still trying to figure out consequences for that mishap.

7. My office phone died. Bought a new one, installed it (crawling under my desk and detangling wires between client appointments), cursed it, returned it (ridiculously-over-complicated-programming-syndrome), and now have it's replacement sitting on my desk awaiting it's trial run.

Getting used to a new programmable phone is no small task. I don't know about you but I find it impossible to figure out if a gadget will meet my needs short of trial and error.

Ok, I think that about covers it.

When the file transfers, phone upgrades and wireless network adjustments are complete, I hope to resume blogging.

Until then, may the force of functional devices be with you.

Update: Confession extracted. The friend did it. Tripped and dropped it. Can't imagine why, running in the dark, in a long sundress and cowboy boots.

green stamp sex lamp

A few days weeks months ago, Mary M. posted on the Women's Colony about her boyfriend's heirloom table lamp. She feared that when he moved in, "that hideous lamp is probably going to be the first thing he carries through the doorway." If her boyfriend is anything like my husband, Sam, he will be carrying his ugly-ass lamp straight to his urn.

On his bedside table, Sam has what he likes to call the sex lamp. It looks like this:

Yes, that's right. You saw correctly. The sex lamp looks like this:

Now, I ask you, is there anything even remotely sexy about this lamp? Of course not. But then, that's not why he calls it the sex lamp.

I laid eyes on this luminary gem soon after meeting Sam. I found it endearing, assuming as I did at the time that it represented his post-divorce poverty. But it remains on his side of the bed to this day, after many years of post-nuptial combined income bliss.

And you only thought you had bedroom decor issues.

Design challenges aside, this lamp has a strong fluorescent bulb. So bright it could light up Yankee Stadium.

Now, if there's one thing everyone in the porn industry can agree on, it's that fluorescent lighting is sexy. Says this highly sensitive person who cringes under the charged mercury vapors.

Be that as it may, I agreed to allow the sex lamp in our shared bedroom when he held it aloft and shouted "from my cold dead hands!" said he planned on keeping it. I agreed in a pleasing manner that succeeded in appearing sincere, even. I agreed because the lamp holds sentimental value for him. He acquired the lamp as a mere lad in grade school. Traded green stamps for it, even. I agreed because my feminist values dictate that home decor is not the sole dominion of women. And I agreed because, as I figured it, old lamps burn out.

But twenty years later? That butt ugly lamp is still burning.

I am finding, much to my emotional detriment, that there is truth in the old maxim: They sure don't make 'em like they used.

So why does he call it the sex lamp, you are wondering? Well, here it is. The bright spot in all of this lamp lunacy. When the sex lamp is turned on? So are my husband's good intentions. And so am I. He likes to see what he's doing when he's working his magic. And work it he does.

Which leads me to my own personal maxim: An agreement made is an agreement kept.

In short, I'm stuck with the lamp.

Until the bulb burns out. Because in this case, I don't believe in fixin' that which is broke.

And now, good reader, PLEASE please leave a comment with your sure-fire, covert means of hastening the demise of an ancient, obnoxious flourescent light bulb.

And if you haven't already, stop by The Women's Colony where this, and other real women sexplorations appear.

attemption sleezy, foreign spammers!

Note to your sleezy, foreign, scamming, spamming self: If you're going to send out mass emails to recipients without benefit of a a formal introduction, let alone a shared language, you might want to study the vocabulary of your recipients a little more carefully, i.e., don't rely so heavily on Google Translator.*

Case in point. This was waiting for me in my personal, private (use only for communicating with friends, family, and teachers so how the hell did you find me?) email box this morning:

Second Attemption: Your Credit Card PreApproval inside

Your Prepaid Credit Card will be shipped soon!

Prepaid Credit Card Approval Enclosed

Poor credit? Instant Approval for Credit Cards!

We have a Credit Card card invitation for you

Enclosed: Cards for people with Bad Credit...

So while I have your rapturous attemption, Sir Spams Alot, I have a few questions:

A. Is this an offer for credit or a last-chance opportunity to save my soul? Because, while in the lives of some the end result may feel similar, for most people money and soul suffer from irreconcilable differences.

B. Prepaid credit? Let me see if I understand. I send a thousand dollars to some unknown destination on the other side of the continent so you can issue me a credit card in the amount of a thousand dollars minus your most generous fee offer?

C. And why would I want to take that risk when I can go to my local grocery store, spin the metal kiosk and prepay in person? Am I not comprensating something here?

*Please don't take this personally, Google. You most definitely rank right up there at the very top of my list of favorite internets friends tools. But for language translation? Needs a little work.

Here's what I mean: I once used you to compose a note for my, then, non-English speaking house cleaner. I wanted her to change the sheets on my son's spare bed. I came home to find her looking at me very strangely. At the end of a confusing exchange, I deciphered her question: Should she cover his bed in notebook, printer, or wrapping paper?

it's hard work

First an airplane terrorist couldn't manage to set off a bomb in his shoe. He was dubbed The Shoe Bomber. Now we've got a terrorist who could barely manage to set fire to his crotch. He was dubbed The Undie Bomber. Or, if you're a faithful Deb on the Rocks reader, he's now Captain Underpants.

But seriously. What's next ? The Earlobe Lobber? The Nostril Nabber? The Bra-Cupped Crusader? The Vaginal Villain?

In response to this most recent on-board bombing bungle, airports in Amsterdam and Nigeria have announced that, in future, they will use full body scans to peep on screen passengers. Security workers will be able to play peek-a-boo, I see you ... ALL of you.

In effect, they will be provided the airport perk of porn-on-demand.

While the screenee, one presumes, will feel embarrassed and violated, the professional peeping toms screening techs will feel titillated and transfixed.

And the passengers in the long waiting lines? Impatience will be replaced with a mix of anxiety and

If these full body scans make it to American airports? It will be a whole new world for the employees of the Transportation Security Administration. Absenteeism rates will plummet. Boredom complaints will vanish.

These workers, may, in fact, be demanding longer shifts, shorter breaks, and fewer vacation hours.

This news of heightened erotica potential for airport security workers may be the perfect answer to the ongoing debate about the unionizing of the TSA.

Future arbitration meetings might sound something like this:

You drop the union bid and we give you unlimited, in-person, pre-flight porn. Deal?

We'll consider it. But first, we will need between-scan conjugal visits. Because, in the words of our former president,

plowed under

Not with the cold, white stuff, unfortunately. Wouldn't mind trading in for some of that. No, I'm plowed under with the post-holiday residue.

You know, the ...

crumpled wrapping paper, didn't quite make it into black garbage bag

empty shirt boxes

pile of truffle wrappers, embarrassingly large

dried orange peelings

sweater-too-small-no-receipt-don't-know-what-to-do-with-it

pine needles

fireplace ash

crocheted afghan crumpled on floor, displaced by new, plush snuggle throw

digital watch instructions, printed so small, impossible to read

lost gift card, lost gift receipt, lost mind

It didn't always look like this.

Promise.

Happy Holidays-Almost-Over, bloggy friends!

formerly despised, a modern trend wins over, if only for one night

One weekend recently, on impulse, SAM and I stopped at a low rent dive bar. Not to be confused with our favoritest-ever dive, The Horseshoe Lounge, located just south of downtown. Yes, the one that inspired Austin songwriter, Slaid Cleves, to write this song.

On this particular night, it was the first evening since giving birth in a very long time where all three kids were out for the night. Ahh.

The seriously cheesy dive we visited shall remain unnamed. It's former name, I learned, was "The Stumble In" but let's call it Bubba's, because that's closer to it's actual name. Bubba's is a slight downgrade from Giddy Ups, in case you ever have the pleasure of visiting deep south Austin.

We've lived in our house for almost ten years. Though Bubba's is within walking distance, we have only visited a couple of times. Stayed for one round each, as I recall. Largely due to sour smell eminating from run down industrial grade carpeting. That cheesy.

So on this night, as soon as we walked in, I remembered exactly why this has been a one-beer stop. Giant screen TV's. Loud 70's heavy metal rock screaming playing in the background. Ozzy Osborne, no less. The music? Forgiveable. It is a bar. The seven giant screen TV's? Not so much.

Bubba's is merely one in a string of establishments we've patronized lately that features TV everywhere you look. The electronic equivalent of torture waterboarding. For instance, a year ago we tried out a new wing bar. I lubs me some hot Buffalo wings if they're done just right. The wings? Edible. Barely. The twenty five plasma TVs thundering down from every direction? Obnoxious.

Last summer? Similar tale. Family trip to Washington, DC. Time to kill before flight out of National. Find a large Irish themed eatery in a cheery neighborhood. Hostess leads us upstairs. Immediately we are assaulted by no less than 50 flat screens showing sporting events from every corner of the globe. Only now do I see the posted signs bragging their record number of flat screens. Time is critical. We take our seats. Thankfully the monitors are silent. Still, my family doesn't converse so much as recoil from furtive glances at each other's exposed nostrils.

Has it come to this? Can we not eat a meal or drink a beer without a television lunging down at us from their high perch like vultures awaiting road kill?

Back at Bubba's, we stay for another round because a band comes onstage that is surprisingly good. Southern rock with the right dose of slide guitar.

During the band's intermission, we turn and see that the giant screens start playing a round of trivia. The game where participants pay for the little blue consoles and vie for the highest score.

Every now and again I get a pleasant whiff of something. Is there an air freshner squirting up above? Cover for sour carpet smell? A quiet guy in a blue collar work shirt sits next to me, alone. A blue console sits before him. I start a conversation and lean in. Nope, not air freshner. It was his deoderant I was smelling. I wonder if he would be offended or flattered if I asked what brand because I liked the powdery scent. Instead I ask him about bar stool trivia protocol. Can non-paying neighbors participate or should tightwads keep our mouths shut? He says he welcomes any help he can get.

The game begins.

Country originally founded by prisoners?

D. Australia!

Author of "The Warden?"

C. Anthony Trollope!

Istanbul was originally known as?

B. Constantinople!

Which city is located below the equator?

A. Sydney!

Our newfound gaming partner is thrilled and blown away. He had never heard of Trollope. (I had recently started my first ever Trollope novel). Or Constantinople (asks us how it's pronounced). His score skyrockets to the top. Wins the round. Now I know how Jamal felt in Slumdog Millionaire. We high five and decide we are best buds for life.

But, sadly, it was all downhill from there. Our moment of glory was over. We're of little help in the next round. It's time to cut out. We say our goodbyes. He thanks us, and then yells, "Hey! Give me your phone number? Next time I play, can I call you?"

Ok, so jumbo screens have their place. But only on trivia night.

strung out on black

Berry, that is.

I just got a new barakberry blackberry. I earned it after carrying around a dinosaur of a cell phone for the past few years, waiting patiently for my contract renewal date.

I've been wanting some sort of smart phone ever since I saw Obama with one got my first PDA and realized what a pain it was to keep up with two pieces of tech equipment: charged, updated and on my person. Oh wait, make that three devices, when you count my laptop. Three communication gadgets carried back and forth between home and office. There must be an easier way.

And then there's the butt problem. How does a woman carry a cell phone in her back pocket, a PDA in the other and simultaneously camouflage twenty thirty unwanted pounds of lard ass? Note to Madison Avenue: design women's dress pants with gadget pockets located somewhere besides the derriere and with a bit more style than these:

Back to the crackberry blackberry. Be careful what you wish for because when you get it you won't be able to see the tiny print on the screen, add a phone number, set your speed dial, figure out the bass-ackward keypad, or change the ring tone, even. Be prepared to spend a four day weekend with your eyes squinting at a 2x3 inch screen, shaking it, cursing at it, and realizing your brain has turned to oatmeal.

Yes, I read the manual. Yes, I took the little tutorial. Minimal help. WTF? I have a PhD and a PDA but I can't figure out how to call my own office?

I guess I should swallow my pride and take my know it all tech savvy teenager up on his offer to take over my cell phone teach me. This is why I took such care in the gestating, feeding, caring and protecting of my children, right? So they can one day surpass me and roll their eyes as if to say, "Get out of the way, moron."

But another reason for letting my son do it: Research shows that the teen brain learns so much faster than adult brains, giving them a natural edge at mastering new technology. It explains, for example, how my son's had his laptop less than a year but has already learned more shortcuts than I have picked up in twenty.

And as this video proves, it isn't just me frustrated with the crippled learning curve.
P.S. Pardon the foul language. Or if you're like me, relish it.

feel stupid much?

Magpie posted a One Word meme yesterday. The first prompt was: Where is your cell phone?

The meme question reminded me. A little earlier in the day I was sitting at my kitchen table (inhaling) (scarfing) (wolfing down) eating a late lunch (sourdough pretzels and cheese, not so much a lunch as a snack when lunch was skipped due to much-too-busy schedule), when I heard my cell phone ring.

I'd been expecting an important call all day (from a district attorney, and you know how those must be put at top priority, right?) so I was up in a flash looking for my ringing phone. Frantically searching my cluttered kitchen countertops, I couldn't find it anywhere. But it sounded like it was close by. Like it was right in front of me. But where?!?

Well, it was close. But it was not in front of me, it was behind me. As in, attached to my behind. Tucked in the rear pocket of my jeans. Right where I put it so I wouldn't miss the call. Thanks to my brain fugue, and my running around like a chicken on meth, the call went to "missed" and they didn't leave a message. Was it the D.A. ? I didn't know. And I never call back unknown numbers when they don't bother to leave a message. So I was left to wonder. And finish my lunch.

(Turns out it wasn't the D.A. and I still have no idea who it was).

Thanks Geekologie for letting me borrow the picture.