Same song, second verse (or 200th verse) October 26, 2009

I know I’ve blogged before about passwords, but it bears repeating–I HAVE TOO MANY PASSWORDS!  Or, I guess since a blog is a place to be honest, I CAN’T REMEMBER THINGS LIKE I USED TO!

For instance, I had to request my password in order to log on and write this blog. I know I just requested a new one the last time I logged on, and I tried all of my old stand-by’s, but none of them worked. What was I thinking when I allegedly created a whole new password that is not in my repertoire of passwords, otherwise known as the 7-digit combination of words and letters that I can manage to remember? Apparently something possessed me to change it because I tried that one to no avail.  I also tried the six-letter word I often use, and then I tried the 7-letter combination of letters and symbols that I sometimes use. 

As I am blogging about this, my freshmen are blogging about their first two months of high school (yes, high school is two words.  No, it’s not capitalized unless you’re writing of a specific high school.  No, I don’t remember the password to your blog.)  In order to get to the assignment that I’ve written for them, which details how they’ll be evaluated, they have to login to another program, type their blog entry, submit it to a holistic grading program for feedback, and then copy and paste their revised blog entry into their blog.  I’ve been around the room with the logins and passwords for the writing program; I told them that I’d give them their info since I have it, but it comes at a cost to their self-esteem.  Ha.  Or “self of steam” if you’re a certain ninth grader.  They’re so funny, and you gotta love ‘em.  Right?

Speaking of “self of steam” (for some reason, I’m visualizing a little teapot, short and stout), one of my lovelies was doing an assignment in which he or she was supposed to personify our high school, and he or she wrote that our school was so smart that he would definitely (or “defiantly,” which is how they usually spell it) be the “valid Victorian.”  How cute is that?  I guess a valid Victorian is better than an invalid one any day!

So where was I going with all of this?  I mentioned earlier that my memory is NOT WHAT IT USED TO BE, and this is proof positive of  that assertion.  In my defense, in the time I’ve been typing this blog, I have also

–helped my TA grade an especially poorly written poem

–spelled two words for a student (who I then asked if I had “Dictionary” printed on my forehead today)

–helped two students get their blogs set up

–told a ninth grader that I never expected to hear the words “stop touching me” be uttered in my ninth-grade classroom

–set up My Access (the aforementioned writing program) for four students–at different times, of course, because they didn’t discover they weren’t set up at the same time so we could do one mini-lesson together

–switched classes from one set of freshmen to another

–explained why there’s an apostrophe between the B and the s when you are writing about how many B’s you got on your report card (versus Bs, which could be misconstrued)

–told one student it wasn’t “rock and roll” but “sit and think” time–so stop rolling in your chair, or you lose chair privileges

–explained to another why “gay” is not an appropriate synonym for “stupid”

–told two girls to quit sharing earphones for two reasons:  it’s gross to share earphones (eww! earwax!) and it’s against school rules to have them in your ears anyway

–checked into when basketball tryouts are for a student

And I’m sure there are many other that I just don’t remember.  I read once (of course I don’t remember where or when) that teachers make more decisions per day than any other professional.  I wonder how true that is. 

I need a new hard drive.  Or RAM.  Or less data.  Something.  I’m too young for these troubles.

Blogging for 9th graders September 28, 2009

My 9th graders are blogging!  I’m standing at the front of the room (in 2 1/2 inch heels!) writing this blog as I listen to the tap, tap, tap of their keyboards while they discuss their first month of high school (or “highschool” if you’re in 9th grade).  Some of them are complaining that school is too hard, some that it’s too easy, some that it starts too early, and some that blogging is the STUPIDEST THING EVER.  Some are writing that they’ve been challenged so far in their classes, that they like the independence high school offers, that they are enjoying learning new things, and that blogging is the COOLEST THING EVER.

It just goes to show that the old saw about not making everyone happy is so true.  It’s especially true with teenagers.  I might make one happy today, but you can bet that the same one won’t be happy about the same thing tomorrow.  That’s part of what makes what I do every day so appealing–the fact that I know where I stand with my audience.  They don’t hold back, so there’s no guesswork involved as to what they’re thinking and feeling.  The trick is not to take it too personally; this is often easier said than done!

If you’re interested, check out their blogs at http://thelastmonday.wordpress.com/

What a week–and it hasn’t even been a full seven days September 1, 2009

So.

Last Wednesday afternoon, just as I was getting ready for Parent Orientation, I called home to check my messages, and there were two, both from Crossroads (Gramma’s assisted living facility).  That’s NEVER good.  They never call to tell me she participated nicely in exercise class or made a wonderful piece of fingerpainting art or played well with others.  The first call was that she was complaining of weakness in her legs and couldn’t walk with the walker so was using the wheelchair.  The second call was that she’d fallen, but she was okay…just weak in her legs, not walking, and wanting to go to the doctor.

I managed to call the doctor before the office closed (miracle #1) and get an appointment for the following morning.  Luckily I work with some very understanding people, so I went to work and got my things together for the day, made arrangments for people to cover my classes, and went to pick her up.  I called ahead and asked the assisted living facility staff to please make sure she was ready to go by 9:00–in the wheelchair with her oxygen tank full and dressed if possible, though that part wasn’t absolutely necessary.  I know how she can be.

So I get there at 9:00.  No Gramma downstairs waiting for me.  She’s upstairs, dressed, but not planning to go anywhere in the wheelchair.  Here’s how the conversation went:

Me:  Let’s go.  We’re going to be late if we don’t leave.  I thought you were going to be ready.

Her:  Why are we going?  Where are we going?  I’m not going.  This was not my idea.  You came up with this.

Me:  Huh?

Her:  What?

Me:  Are you nuts?  You can’t walk.  Your legs are weak.  We need to go to the doctor.  Let’s get going.

Her:  Why are we going?  Where are we going?  I’m not going.  This was not my idea.  You came up with this.

Me (trying to regroup):  WE ARE GOING TO THE DOCTOR, AND WE ARE LEAVING RIGHT NOW.  LET’S PUT THE LEG RESTS ON YOUR WHEELCHAIR AND SEE IF WE CAN MAKE THE APPOINTMENT ON TIME.  DO NOT TELL ME THIS WAS MY IDEA AND DO NOT TELL ME YOU’RE NOT GOING IN THE WHEELCHAIR.

Her:  I’m not going in the wheelchair.  I’ll use the walker.

Me:  Can you walk?

Her:  No.

Me:  Ummm….then I think we have to take the wheelchair.  There’s no choice here, Gramma, you have to go in the wheelchair.

Her:  Why are we going?  Where are we going?….

Me:  JUST GO ALONG FOR THE RIDE, DAMMIT, AND DO NOT ASK ME AGAIN WHERE AND WHY WE’RE GOING, AND DON’T TELL ME THIS IS ALL MY IDEA BECAUSE I’D RATHER GO TO THE DENTIST FOR A ROOT CANAL THAN TAKE YOU TO THE DOCTOR TODAY.

I have to explain at this point that I also had a doctor’s appointment on this day and since I was having bloodwork done, I had been fasting since dinner the night before.  And patience is not and has never been my virtue, even when I’m not fasting.

I also need to explain that I was driving my convertible, and the wheelchair is about 1/2 inch too big to fit in my trunk, which means that in order to transport the wheelchair, I have to put the top down and manhandle the wheelchair into the backseat, without scratching the interior, and then hold it out of the way while the top goes back up.  Got that picture?

I get her out of her room and down to the car, and I have to pretty much lift her from the wheelchair into the car, then I have to go through the whole put the top town, load the wheelchair, put the top back up rigamarole before we can be on our way.  So I get the top back up, and she’s holding her hands over her ears and squenching her face up, which causes me to ask, “What in the hell are you doing?”  Of course…she’s trying to protect her ears from all the wind that will be blowing in them because she thinks the top is still down.  Which causes me to ask, “Have you lost your mind?”  I have to convince her that the top is up and there will be no wind in her ears, and then we are on our way to the doctor’s office.

Parking at the doctor’s office, you have to understand, is a pain in the neck.  The lot is across the street from the actual office, so there’s no handicapped parking anyway–that’s apparently someplace that I don’t know about, and I don’t have time to look for it now anyway.  Besides, I’m just going to do the whole top-down-wrestle-the-wheelchair-out-top-up thing anyway, then I’m going to push her across the street (after I’ve looked both ways to make sure a semi-truck is coming) to the doctor’s office.  Right?

The best laid plans and all that.

I get the wheelchair out and I get the top back up, and she’s still in the front seat.  Remember that I’m not in a handicapped space, so I don’t have a lot of room on either side of me, so I’m actually behind my car getting the elevated leg rests out of the trunk and onto the wheelchair.  It’s taking me longer than I expected because the things are a pain in the neck to get on and off on a good day when I’m not starving to death and highly irritated.  So I get the things on backwards and then have to start over.  Finally they’re on, but here comes a man walking up to asking if the woman in the front seat is my mother.  She’s waving and gesturing frantically, and he thinks I’ve kidnapped her or something (do I now look crazy?).  I manage to get around the wheelchair (which has been blocking my view of her) and to the door to open it to see why she’s waving frantically (let’s face it, it’s not like it took more than 2-3 minutes to mess with the wheelchair–I wasn’t out of her sight more than 5 minutes, tops), and she looks at the man and says, “I need help.  Can you help me get to the doctor?”

1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10….nope, that didn’t help.  Perhaps if I count to ten again, I won’t throttle her.

I convince the man that I’ve got it under control, she’s not in any immediate danger, and we’re on our way, at last to the doctor.  He leaves, and I tell her to not even talk to me until we’re actually in the presence of the doctor and not to talk to anyone else either because she’s on thin ice.

Of course when we get into the doctor’s office, Gramma can’t remember why we’re there, so I explain the whole story.  The doctor rules out a stroke, tests the strength in Gramma’s legs, takes blood and urine (that wasn’t easy, either, but there’s another bathroom story coming up that’s funnier), and says it’s all very strange (!) and she doesn’t know what to think.  She’ll order physical therapy, and in the meantime, I should see if I can get Gramma into the pain clinic where she’s gone for shots when she has back problems.  Maybe it’s that.  Just to be sure, we should go over to the hospital and get an x-ray to make sure nothing has changed in her spine since the last x-ray.

Since the hospital is in the building next to the doctor’s office, I decide not to take her in the car but to just push the wheelchair around the building–that will be easier than lifting her into the car, top down, wrestle wheelchair, top up, right?  Well, in theory it’s easier.  I guess in reality it’s easier except for the constant, “Why are we here?  Where are you taking me?  Are you sure you know where you’re going?  I thought we were going to have an x-ray” all the way around the building.

At the hospital, it’s standing room only in registration so I get the paperwork completed and get in the queue.  We get through registration and go to get in line at radiology, and it’s also standing room only.  And I’m hungry and thirsty and irritated and she doesn’t know why we’re there and asks, “What are we waiting on…my ride?”

Me:  I’m your ride.  We came here in my car.  When you’re finished with your x-ray, I’ll take you home.

Her:  Where are we?  Why are we here?  This wasn’t my idea…..blah blah blah.

Me:  Lord, grant me patience and hurry.

Finally someone comes to get her, and she’s gone for a while and I try to regroup.  If we get out of here soon, I can still get to my appointment because God knows I don’t want to have fasted all day for nothing.

She gets finished, and I almost make it out of the hospital. Almost.  Then, right as we get to the exit door, “I think I need to go to the bathroom.”

Me:  Why didn’t you go in radiology where they had people to help you?

Her:  I want you to help me.  I don’t want them to help me.

Me:  Lord, grant me patience and hurry.

There just happens to be a bathroom, and luckily it had a big stall so I can get the wheelchair in.

Now you have to know that my grandmother does not sit on public toilets.  She sort of stands/squats over the toilet, and I’m always afraid she’s going to fall over on her head.  But she’d rather fall on her head than catch a disease from a public toilet, so there you go.

Now you know she can’t stand/squat at this point because she can’t stand at all, so this is going to be interesting.  I get the wheelchair turned around, and I get her out of it and sort of leaning over one of my arms.  Then I explain to her that she’s going to have to sit but that I will put the paper down on the seat so she won’t catch any diseases.  Nope, nothin’ doin’, she is NOT going to sit.  “You are going to sit,” I say through gritted teeth, “or you’re not going to go at all.”  She actually reaches back and knocks the paper into the toilet.  “I am not playing here,” I say through gritted teeth, “you are going to sit on the paper or I’m going to drop you on the floor.”  Somehow I manage with one hand to put another paper on the seat, which she knocks off again.  Now I’ve had it, so I tell her that I’m going to put her in the wheelchair and leave her there and change my phone number and and and and if she doesn’t sit her ass on the toilet and go to the bathroom because I do not want to miss my own appointment because she won’t sit down to pee.

Another piece of paper on the toilet, then she sits, and now….nothing.  Are you kidding me?  You don’t have to go?

Her:  You scared the pee out of me.

Me:

I go out to the sink and run the water, hoping that will help, and it does and she goes.

And I get her home, and I don’t have to go to court or to jail, and I get to my doctor’s appointment, and my blood pressure is a bit high.  Really?

Friday isn’t much better except we don’t have to go to the doctor, but she still can’t walk and now she can’t think either because she is losing it completely and doesn’t know what day it is, when she saw us last, how to play cards, how to use her phone.  I’m pretty sure this is the beginning of the end, and I don’t know what to do for her. But by the afternoon, she seems to rally a bit because she’s decided that she’ll just use the wheelchair and go downstairs and do her thing as best she can in the wheelchair.

Saturday is about the same, and Sunday is the day she comes over for dinner.  So I called her and told her we’d be coming to get her and were having a good dinner and not to stuff at lunch…same old conversation we have every Sunday.  But Jason and I go to get her Sunday, and she’s down at dinner.  Then she doesn’t know it’s dinner and doesn’t know what’s going on.  Oh, boy, this is not good.

Monday night we take Mallie over to see her, and she’s happy to see us but really happy to see Mallie, and she’s just out of it.  At this point, I’m pretty sure this is it and she’s just decided not to go on.  She was just completely not with us.

Today, Tuesday, I called to see if the Physical Therapist had come yet, and I happened to catch her (the PT) in the room, and she said she’d do what she could but she just wasn’t sure what the issues were since Gramma wasn’t exactly forthcoming with information.  No surprise there.

I went over after work to check on Gramma and when I got there, she was in bed.  I woke her up to see how she was doing, and she sat up and said, “I don’t know what I’ve been doing lately, but I can walk.  That wheelchair is worthless, for Pete’s sake.”

Me:  So did the physical therapist work a miracle?

Her:  No, she just did paperwork today.  After she left, I just decided that I didn’t know why I wasn’t walking and why I was in such a stupor, and I just got up and used my walker.”

Me:  Show me.

So she did.  She hopped out of bed and trotted out into the hall (have you ever seen a 93-year-old woman hop and trot?) and announced to no one in particular, “I”m back!”

And she seems pretty “with it” relatively speaking.  At least as “with it” as she’s been for the last couple of years.  I don’t know what the deal was, but thank God all is well right now.  Miracle #….whatever.  I’ve lost count.

I am so tired of EVERYTHING being blamed on race (or gender) July 23, 2009

I don’t know the whole story here, so I am probably writing out of turn, so to speak, but I am just beyond irritated with this story. The disclaimer here is that I am a white woman who has faced discrimination on very low levels.   However, I have been a victim of burglary and if a neighbor sees someone who appears to be breaking into my house, I want that person to call the police and I want the police here pronto whether that person is white, purple, black, female, or ME.  Then if whoever it is who is breaking into my house can’t or won’t produce identification to prove that he or she belongs here, I want the police to arrest that person.

I don’t understand why Gates’ first reaction to the police, when it was reported by a neighbor that a man was apparently breaking into the house, was to blame them for racial profiling.  They were DOING THEIR JOB.  I really don’t get it.  I would apologize for the fact that I left my key and was having to break into my own house and thank the police for getting to my house so quickly!  Then there would have been no incident.

I get that minorities in this country haven’t been treated well; in fact, have been treated horribly.  I do.  Blacks, Native Americans, Latinos, Asians, Hmongs, Irish, Italian, Mormons, women–you name the minority, and I’ll agree that white American society has been unjust and downright cruel.  I am not so naive that I believe that “color blindness” is here or is coming anytime soon, but “playing the race card” perpetuates the problem.

In the Gates case, if I read the first reports correctly, Gates was breaking into his home by using his shoulder to push open the door, and the police were called.  They came, they asked him for identification, and he refused to give it to them, immediately accusing them of racial profiling.  Mr. Gates, if you hadn’t appeared to be breaking into a home, the police never would have come, and none of this would have taken place.  If you had said to the police, “It’s my house; here’s my proof,” they would have gone on their way to their next order of business.  It’s your fault, Mr. Gates, that this has escalated into a race-related, racial profiling situation.  Do you think the police wouldn’t have come if it had been a white man, Latino man, teenage girl breaking into your house?  I certainly believe they would have, and then they would have arrested the person who didn’t belong there, and race would not have been a factor.  You, Mr. Gates, made race a factor in this case.

A simple epiphany July 10, 2009

Isn’t an epiphany something that you SHOULD have known, maybe DID know but just didn’t KNOW you knew?  An idea or moment of clarity caused by something simple?  I had an epiphany yesterday at an education conference I attended, and the sentence that caused it was so SIMPLE it was almost one that would cause you to say, “Well, duh!”  Are you ready for it?  Here it is:  What’s obvious to you is obvious to you.

There.  I don’t necessarily think that I didn’t KNOW this; however, I hadn’t ever thought of it in this way in relation to myself!  For example, when I see some sick and twisted person carrying a snake around, I wonder what horrible event in his or her life caused him or her to be so sick and twisted that he or she would actually carry a snake around (or have a picture of one or allow one to be anywhere in the vicinity) because it is OBVIOUS TO ME that SNAKES ARE BAD/SCARY/PANIC-INDUCING CREATURES.

And for goodness sake, isn’t it obvious to everyone on the planet that To Kill a Mockingbird is the best book ever written?  Or that when you open a cabinet or door, you should reverse your action and shut it when you’re finished doing whatever it was that caused you to open it?  Or that when you use a Kleenex, you should not leave it on the coffee table for someone else to pick up?  What about wiping down gym equipment, not cutting in front of someone in line, washing your hands after you use the bathroom, or not calling your kid on a cell phone when you know he/she’s in English class?  These things are all obvious to me, but they are apparently not obvious to others; I have seen examples of all of those behaviors, which leads me to believe that others don’t share my feelings.  What’s wrong with those people?

I think the change that this epiphany will cause is that I might think about that simple sentence before I jump to conclusions about the intelligence levels of those folks who don’t share my idea of obvious.  I can’t promise I’ll be any more patient with those ideas that are NOT obvious to me, but I do think I’ll at least consider that there are other ideas of what’s obvious.  Even if those ideas are wrong.

“Reading good books ruins you for enjoying bad ones” July 7, 2009

The quote above is from the novel The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows.  I could write an MLA-approved bibliography for the quote, but there’s really no point.  If you are really into that sort of thing, the quote appears on page 53 and was “written” by Isola Pribby to Juliet Ashton in a letter.  Isola is telling Juliet about how much she loved Wuthering Heights.  If you want to know more about that, read the book.  It’s well worth it.

The point of this post is not to discuss the novel (I’ve done a bit of that on my books page) but to discuss the quote.  You see, I can’t decide if I agree with Isola and thought that writing about it might help me to make up my mind.  Writing often clears my head and leads me to some conclusions I might not reach otherwise.  So here goes.

In college, I remember a girl who was in the same teacher education program I was and whom I didn’t like very much because she was a SNOB.  She was one of those people who seemed to care more about her grade than about what she learned, and she made sure the rest of us knew that her grades were VERY GOOD indeed.  She also made sure we knew that she read things more carefully, got more out of what she read, and just generally appreciated literature (LIT-tra-ture) more than the rest of us.  I remember one day in African-American Literature class she said something to the effect of not being able to read “pulp” any more now that she’d been introduced to Toni Morrison.  I asked her just what she considered “pulp,” and she was happy to expound on her ideas about that–basically, she considered “pulp” to be anything that wasn’t considered a “classic.”  I reminded her of what Mark Twain said about classics–something to the effect that a classic is something everyone wants to say they’ve read but no one really wants to read.  (Wuthering Heights comes to mind for me!  While I’d love to say I’ve read it, I haven’t.)

I wonder if Isola meant that bad books were “pulp.”  Dictionary.com defines this type of pulp as “a magazine or book printed on rough, low-quality paper made of wood pulp or rags, and usually containing sensational and lurid stories, articles, etc.”  So I guess “trashy romance novels” would be considered pulp, as would true-crime novels, memoirs, and just about anything sensational (as in “causing a sensation” rather than “great,” I’m sure).  I like a trashy romance novel every now and again, and I have been known to pick up a true-crime story.  I’m a big fan of memoir, so I guess I enjoy “pulp” as much as the next girl to a degree.  I will say, however, that since I have started reading more “literay” works over the years, I find that I don’t read as many trashy romance novels as I used to (so long, Bertrice Small!); however, I will still pick one up every once in a while.  For example, I’m dying to re-read Forever Amber for the dozenth time if I can find it in the basement, and it’s most definitely pulp.  I also don’t classify the Harry Potter novels as literary classics, but they are enjoyable and well-written.  There’s not too much to think about as far as symbolism, style, and other literary elements go, but that’s okay with me.  Sometimes I enjoy just reading for the story rather than those elements.

So I guess I’ve come to the conclusion that while I don’t wholly disagree with Isola, I don’t wholly agree with her, either.  I still enjoy “bad” books to an extent; however, I always find myself reaching for a “good” one once I’ve sated my thirst for pulp.

Why you should think before you speak June 18, 2009

First, an anecdote:  When my grandmother went to London however many years ago, she did a lot of  things and had a lot of fun, but really all she remembers are a few things.  Here they are, in no particular order:

1.  She and my grandfather went to have dinner with some foreign relatives and had some foreign food.  That’s as specific as it gets, folks.

2.  That space between the train and the platform is DEADLY (Mind the gap!), and you better be careful of it or you’ll fall in between the trains and then you’re a goner.  For crying out loud.

3.  For whatever reason, they went to London, stayed in a hotel and then left for a few days and came back to the same hotel.  And, believe it or not, they had the SAME BIG, BLACK WAITER wait on them at the hotel.  What a coinkydink.  Can you imagine a waiter who works at the same place day after day waiting on the same couple TWICE?  Well, she was just amazed by it and talks about it every time anyone mentions London.

Now, the reasons we should always think before we speak:

1.  Grandma is pretty sure we didn’t see the foreign relatives while we were in London, so there’s no point talking about that.

2.  She wanted to know if we noticed the space between the platform and the train. Indeed we did.  In fact, I found out that there were 52 injuries reported last year from people not minding the gap.

3.  I swear to God, hand on heart, this is what she asked when we talked about our trip:  Did you see the big, black waiter at that hotel who waited on us coming and going?  No, Gramma, we didn’t.  We didn’t even know what hotel you stayed at, and that waiter probably isn’t there anymore.  Well, didn’t you see a big hotel?  Yes, we saw lots of them.  Well, didn’t you look for a big, black waiter?  We never saw a big, black waiter anywhere; if we had, how would we have known it was him anyway?  Ask him if he remembered Paul and Joan.

Yep, folks, I think she’s lost it.

And the jewel for today:  So tell me more about Jessica, she says.  There’s not anything more to tell, says I.  Was her boyfriend nice?  Yes, he seemed nice for the hour that we spent with him.  Well, does she like him?

Ba-dum-dum.  Dumb.  Think.  Before you speak.

On Twitter, On Facebook, On MySpace…a new set of reindeer? June 17, 2009

I posted a while back about signing up for Facebook.  I’ve been using the program for a while now, and it’s okay.  I’m more in touch with some people who I wouldn’t be in touch with otherwise, so I like that.  There’s some things I don’t “get,” though, like sending people fake flowers or dachsunds; in my mind, and on my facebook page, it just seems like a lot of clutter.  I don’t want to be negative about it–it’s not that I think it’s bad–I just don’t understand it.  Why not just a note saying, “I’m thinking of you” or “Hey, whatcha doin’?” or “I wish you were here instead of there”?  I do think it’s a good way to keep up with what people are doing, and you find out a lot about people’s everyday lives by reading their posts.  I have posted some pictures and a link to this blog and my Picasa website, but very few folks have ever commented on the pictures, and no one has ever said they linked to this blog, so I don’t guess anyone has gone to my links.  This leads me to believe that people don’t really care about the “down deep” stuff and are satisfied with the more surface-level aspects of people’s lives, like “I just landed in Newark,” or “I am doing laundry before I take the dog for a walk.”  There are also a ton of quizzes about personalities; for example, if I wanted to know which Hogwarts teacher I am most like, I could take that quiz.  There’s nothing wrong with this, and I am not saying it’s bad or it’s good; I am saying that communication on Facebook, at least the way I see it, lacks depth.

There’s a game on Facebook called “PathWords,” and I’m addicted.  I play it several times a day if I have time, and it’s fun for me.  I haven’t gotten into any of the other games–I don’t want to give up that much time to it!

I looked up Twitter to see what that was all about, and it looks about the same.  You communicate with friends via messages that are 140 characters or fewer, and that’s about it.  I can’t really tell that there’s any difference between Twitter and Facebook except maybe on Facebook you can communicate with more characters (no pun intended, but there it is–I guess how many characters you communicate with depends on how many there are on your friends/contacts list ).  I have never been on MySpace, but I assume it’s just like Facebook.

Don’t get me wrong; I enjoy Facebook.  I can post updates from my cell phone, and I can look at people’s updates from my cell phone, so that’s pretty cool.  I’ve gotten in touch with my best friend from 8th grade, and it’s been interesting to see how parallel and not our lives have been since then.  I’m more in touch with some family members than ever before and even if that is surface level in touch, it’s still better than no communication at all.  I guess the bottom line is that I am a fan.

Third Time’s a Charm? June 5, 2009

So today I will use the third ticket that has been issued to me to go to London.  If I were a fatalist, I guess I’d have to believe that I wasn’t meant to go to London.  I think I even said that at some point in yesterday’s events.  I’ve always wondered about that–the idea of if something were “meant to be,” it would happen.  I think you have to make things happen.  Rather than being a fatalist, I subscribe to Sun Tzu’s belief that the lucky man is the prepared man.  I don’t want to sit back and let something happen because “it was [or wasn't] meant to be.”  I want to make my own luck and be a deciding factor in my own fate.

I have to put it out there that Kerry was so patient yesterday; he is much more patient than I am, and I guess that’s why we have such a good thing going.  We tend to balance each other, and I don’t think I appreciate that enough.  I tend to amplify the things about him that I don’t like sometimes and not look at the virtues he has that I lack, like patience.  I think he would have thrown in the towel yesterday and accepted that we weren’t going.  In fact, at some point he said that he already had the time off, so we could go camping this week.  I, however, do not give up easily and was not ready to accept defeat (or what I perceived as defeat!).  So while he sat patiently with the luggage, I ran around trying to find out what to do next.  Once I knew what to do and where we needed to go, he took over, got a taxi, and got us moving.  We went to Walgreens to get my passport photo taken, and he picked up some snacks and water to make sure we had something to eat while waiting at the passport office because we didn’t have a clue what we were in for there.  His patience and my tenacity worked together to get another passport and get this third trip underway.  The message here is that I need to work harder at appreciating those good qualities, so I guess if I’m looking for a REASON that my purse was stolen, that’s as good a one as any.  But I don’t believe it was stolen because I’m not “meant” to go to London.

I am angry that, for the second time in my life, someone has felt it was okay to take what I have earned.  Kerry and I both work hard for our money, and for someone to just take it is maddening.  I can’t imagine how that person lives with him/herself.  How can you look in the mirror every day knowing that you’ve taken something that doesn’t belong to you and left someone else without it?  I don’t get that at all.  I guess whoever took it needs it more than I do, and I hope they use it on something of value.  The thing is that people who steal purses in airports are probably not using the money they gain to pay legitimate bills.  I’m sure my purse was emptied of its money and thrown in a trash can somewhere.  Stolen credit cards don’t do anyone any good since they get cancelled as soon as the owner knows they’re missing, and I don’t know what someone can do with a stolen passport–it’s been reported as stolen to the Dept. of State, so I’m not sure how useful it would be for someone.  They must keep track of that somehow.

Kerry, of course, says there’s no use wasting energy being angry.  It could have been worse.  He’s right; it could have been worse.  This wasn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me, and it’s not the worst thing that ever could happen to me.  It was just a major pain in the ass on a day that I didn’t particularly need another pain-in-the-ass thing to happen.  But it’s done now, I’ve got a passport, I’ve got a credit card that wasn’t with me so didn’t need to be cancelled, and now I’m ready to go again.  Kerry is carrying my passport in his pocket, and he’s got the cash and credit cards, too, so I guess I’m stuck with him.

Green, green, green May 26, 2009

It rained most of this weekend, and now everything is so green and lush.  I love this time of year, and I have so enjoyed the rain and the thunderstorms.  It even rained this morning on my way to work, and it rarely rains in the morning in Denver.  We usually get our rain with lots of fanfare in the way of wind and lightning and thunder, not the softly falling moisture we had today.  I liked it.  Since I am fairly egocentric sometimes and tend to look at acts of God from my own perspective (I know it’s not for me specifically, but why not me along with whatever else He has in mind?), I believe that the rain is getting me ready for London and Belfast; no point in getting all geared up for summer before going to London, right?  I know it will/might/could possibly rain every day we’re there, so the rain we’re experiencing in Denver right now is good practice.  It might very well rain on my parade, and I’m okay with that.  I’ll just keep on marching; a little rain never hurt anyone, I’m not sweet enough to melt, and we need the moisture.