Q: What's worse than finding a dead mouse in your basement?
A: Finding half a dead mouse.
I went down to the basement the other day to do some filing. I got down on the floor in front of the filing cabinet to sort some papers and noticed a strange little gray, flattened lump ending in a perfect question mark. Upon closer inspection, I found it was the back half of a dead mouse, flatter than a pancake. It was on the cement floor near the edge of our room sized rug and I figure it must have, at one point, been under it and gotten pounded down like a tough cut of beef.
I cannot explain where the front half went, but it was clean gone.
Sunday, December 24, 2006
Sunday, December 17, 2006
Critical Lawnmower or Critical Teen Parent?
When I started out on this blog, I had it in mind to keep sort of to a gardening/environment theme, but have, of course, ended up all over the place. That's okay, but lately it seems this website is serving as a warning to Christian parents of teenagers, or at the very least a comfort to others like us who know families are far from perfect, no matter what ideals you may have had in your head before you began your childrearing adventures.
This weekend my 14-year old daughter made her debut in a worship team at our relatively conservative Christian church. We have three services, one on Saturday late afternoon and two on Sunday morning. I went last night with a couple of our kids, and my husband went this morning with our oldest son. Our daughter played the violin, and very nicely. I am already prone to seeing the dark side of things, but it did make me sad to see my child standing there with her violin and dyed black hair hanging across her face, dressed in distressed black Converse high tops with multi-colored neon laces, pink fishnet tights, olive drab pants that had been cut off just above the knee and rolled once or twice into long shorts, two layers of camisole tops in black and pink and a red, white and black plaid flannel shirt left open to top it off - and this contrasted with all the beautiful, nicely dressed, washed and combed young adults (some of whom were even smiling and looking glad to be there) who stood on the choir risers and faced the congregation.
Yes, I'm getting over her outward appearances of late, though I somehow feel robbed of the opportunity I never had to braid her hair, share her interests in fashion or even have any say at all in what the kid now chooses to wear as my representative kin. She's only 14, folks. Forget all that stuff about, ". . . as long as you're living under my roof . . ." It simply doesn't work. The hair was dyed anyway, about 10 extra holes just showed up in her ears one day, and those gothic pants with the chains all over them, forbidden though they were, are purchased with her own money.
So, as icing on the most recent teenaged out-of-control cake, my husband sweated through today's services knowing that the newest colorful outfit our daughter was wearing up in front of the congregation included the words "I'M F*CKED UP AND SO ARE YOU" in one-inch high letters she had hand stitched in cream colored yarn around her black pants waistband. The preacher preached, the high school choir sang and my husband sat there and prayed her tight little shirt would stay down low enough to hide this obvious plea for the entire church to gather around our child and lay hands on her.
Come to think of it, that might have been a good idea.
This weekend my 14-year old daughter made her debut in a worship team at our relatively conservative Christian church. We have three services, one on Saturday late afternoon and two on Sunday morning. I went last night with a couple of our kids, and my husband went this morning with our oldest son. Our daughter played the violin, and very nicely. I am already prone to seeing the dark side of things, but it did make me sad to see my child standing there with her violin and dyed black hair hanging across her face, dressed in distressed black Converse high tops with multi-colored neon laces, pink fishnet tights, olive drab pants that had been cut off just above the knee and rolled once or twice into long shorts, two layers of camisole tops in black and pink and a red, white and black plaid flannel shirt left open to top it off - and this contrasted with all the beautiful, nicely dressed, washed and combed young adults (some of whom were even smiling and looking glad to be there) who stood on the choir risers and faced the congregation.
Yes, I'm getting over her outward appearances of late, though I somehow feel robbed of the opportunity I never had to braid her hair, share her interests in fashion or even have any say at all in what the kid now chooses to wear as my representative kin. She's only 14, folks. Forget all that stuff about, ". . . as long as you're living under my roof . . ." It simply doesn't work. The hair was dyed anyway, about 10 extra holes just showed up in her ears one day, and those gothic pants with the chains all over them, forbidden though they were, are purchased with her own money.
So, as icing on the most recent teenaged out-of-control cake, my husband sweated through today's services knowing that the newest colorful outfit our daughter was wearing up in front of the congregation included the words "I'M F*CKED UP AND SO ARE YOU" in one-inch high letters she had hand stitched in cream colored yarn around her black pants waistband. The preacher preached, the high school choir sang and my husband sat there and prayed her tight little shirt would stay down low enough to hide this obvious plea for the entire church to gather around our child and lay hands on her.
Come to think of it, that might have been a good idea.
Tuesday, December 12, 2006
Disclaimer: My oldest daughter has not embraced (yet) the Muslim faith, but does know how to dress to severely annoy her Christian parents. Also, I didn't notice the bloody knife painted behind my head until we were back home, but I left it in because I thought it added to the poignant theme that is our family.
Photo by A. Graf
Christmas Greetings
Greetings to our friends and family and a blessed holiday season to you!
I wanted to write you all a short letter to catch you up on our family happenings, but didn’t want to bore you by creating an imaginary image of the perfect Midwestern family who loves each other, never gets bad grades, has clean language and reads their Bibles every day together at the dinner table. We do not compare at all with the Waltons, but we can, at times, make you think that Rosemary had a few more babies.
Dean is still teaching art to middle school students in MPS at a gifted and talented specialty school. He is grumpy because they took away his advanced art class and left him with hordes of ordinary, unruly children this year. Then he comes home to more of the same each night.
Ann is either at home, searching through the local Goodwill to find treasures to sell on eBay, volunteering at the kids’ schools, babysitting for a friend’s adorable baby boy, geocaching, or at physical therapy for her finally diagnosed piriformis syndrome with sciatic nerve involvement and both ischeal and greater trochanteric bursitis. The highlight of her week is usually the deep tissue butt massages she gets from her PT.
Laura is a freshman in high school and plotting her way to Germany for a year. Nothing is set in stone, but she hopes to go either sophomore or junior year and get away from her all too controlling parents so she can freely explore her not yet determined sexuality and her religion of choice, whatever that might currently be. We are torn between forbidding her the experience and packing her bags for her to give some other German family the joy of dealing with her teenage attitude, her hair dye, multiple piercings and rejection of anything I prepare with meat in it. She does play violin very nicely.
Sam is in 7th grade at Dean’s gifted and talented middle school. He is utterly disorganized, has an extremely selective attention deficit, has grown as tall as his mother with feet bigger than his father’s, is interested in video games and large snacks and somehow manages to pull in respectable grades. He drives most of us around the bend, but is loved by all those who don’t have to live with him. We do love him, of course, but have to restrain the sometimes twisted manifestations of this love on a daily basis. He plays the trumpet.
Sarah is in 5th grade and her last year at German Immersion. She takes piano lessons and reads voraciously. She is also absorbing Mom’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies and honing them to an art. Her school music teacher tells me that he sometimes enjoys turning one of the books on his music shelf upside-down before Sarah’s class arrives, just to watch her go over and fix it. The good thing is that she makes my bed and vacuums the living room every morning before school.
Gibby is in 2nd grade and doing very well in both languages. He has some of Mom’s OCD traits as well, specializing in the ornate tantrum when he gets not what he wants. He has gained quite a repertoire of cuss words, including, but not limited to idiot, butthead, stupid, I hate you and the ever popular shut up! Thankfully the school psychologist at Dean’s school is now also working two days a week at the elementary school. He knows our children well and is grateful to us for his job security. Gibby plays piano and enjoys it. We hope he learns to channel some of his angst into his music.
As a family, we tinkered with the idea of moving into more spacious digs this past summer, but as the real estate market quickly cooled, we decided instead to use our resources to do things around this little 1200 square foot box. We modified the kitchen a bit, relined our one bathtub, replaced all our windows and a couple guys are replacing our old siding as I type. It’s definitely crowded in here, and more so as the kids get bigger and bigger, but it’s home. It’s warm enough. It’s familiar. It’s cheap. It needs us.
So there’s a portrait of our family from someone who takes medication regularly for depression. Dean could have made it look more cheery, but I specialize in morbid sincerity and have hopefully made you feel very good about your own family at this beautiful time of the year. We love like good Germans, sometimes a bit combatively, but always as best we know how.
God’s peace to you, and when you pray, remember us.
I wanted to write you all a short letter to catch you up on our family happenings, but didn’t want to bore you by creating an imaginary image of the perfect Midwestern family who loves each other, never gets bad grades, has clean language and reads their Bibles every day together at the dinner table. We do not compare at all with the Waltons, but we can, at times, make you think that Rosemary had a few more babies.
Dean is still teaching art to middle school students in MPS at a gifted and talented specialty school. He is grumpy because they took away his advanced art class and left him with hordes of ordinary, unruly children this year. Then he comes home to more of the same each night.
Ann is either at home, searching through the local Goodwill to find treasures to sell on eBay, volunteering at the kids’ schools, babysitting for a friend’s adorable baby boy, geocaching, or at physical therapy for her finally diagnosed piriformis syndrome with sciatic nerve involvement and both ischeal and greater trochanteric bursitis. The highlight of her week is usually the deep tissue butt massages she gets from her PT.
Laura is a freshman in high school and plotting her way to Germany for a year. Nothing is set in stone, but she hopes to go either sophomore or junior year and get away from her all too controlling parents so she can freely explore her not yet determined sexuality and her religion of choice, whatever that might currently be. We are torn between forbidding her the experience and packing her bags for her to give some other German family the joy of dealing with her teenage attitude, her hair dye, multiple piercings and rejection of anything I prepare with meat in it. She does play violin very nicely.
Sam is in 7th grade at Dean’s gifted and talented middle school. He is utterly disorganized, has an extremely selective attention deficit, has grown as tall as his mother with feet bigger than his father’s, is interested in video games and large snacks and somehow manages to pull in respectable grades. He drives most of us around the bend, but is loved by all those who don’t have to live with him. We do love him, of course, but have to restrain the sometimes twisted manifestations of this love on a daily basis. He plays the trumpet.
Sarah is in 5th grade and her last year at German Immersion. She takes piano lessons and reads voraciously. She is also absorbing Mom’s obsessive-compulsive tendencies and honing them to an art. Her school music teacher tells me that he sometimes enjoys turning one of the books on his music shelf upside-down before Sarah’s class arrives, just to watch her go over and fix it. The good thing is that she makes my bed and vacuums the living room every morning before school.
Gibby is in 2nd grade and doing very well in both languages. He has some of Mom’s OCD traits as well, specializing in the ornate tantrum when he gets not what he wants. He has gained quite a repertoire of cuss words, including, but not limited to idiot, butthead, stupid, I hate you and the ever popular shut up! Thankfully the school psychologist at Dean’s school is now also working two days a week at the elementary school. He knows our children well and is grateful to us for his job security. Gibby plays piano and enjoys it. We hope he learns to channel some of his angst into his music.
As a family, we tinkered with the idea of moving into more spacious digs this past summer, but as the real estate market quickly cooled, we decided instead to use our resources to do things around this little 1200 square foot box. We modified the kitchen a bit, relined our one bathtub, replaced all our windows and a couple guys are replacing our old siding as I type. It’s definitely crowded in here, and more so as the kids get bigger and bigger, but it’s home. It’s warm enough. It’s familiar. It’s cheap. It needs us.
So there’s a portrait of our family from someone who takes medication regularly for depression. Dean could have made it look more cheery, but I specialize in morbid sincerity and have hopefully made you feel very good about your own family at this beautiful time of the year. We love like good Germans, sometimes a bit combatively, but always as best we know how.
God’s peace to you, and when you pray, remember us.
Monday, December 04, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
Dear Dell Technician:
After contacting Dell Support about the malfunctioning of our recently purchased laptop, we were given instructions on how to return the equipment for servicing. I was told to put a note in the return box with the computer explaining, in my own words, what exactly was wrong with it.
Dear Dell Technician,
The problem in my own words with our Inspiron E1505 notebook is that we believe someone (a.k.a. one of our four children) tried to plug in a USB cord upside-down, and when met with resistance, simply shoved harder, thus rendering the upper port mangled, useless and dead. Upon trying to use the one remaining port, we found that this one had not been able to bear the emotional burden of the loss of its sibling, so it must have found solace in committing circuit suicide rather than go it alone and wait for another impatient child to come along with an inverted plug, or a fork, or a Malibu Barbie ski pole, or a Lego brand Harry Potter special edition magician’s wand, or the like.
I don’t know if any of this is true, but that is my best guess as to how the USB port became scrunched. Thank you for your expertise.
Dear Dell Technician,
The problem in my own words with our Inspiron E1505 notebook is that we believe someone (a.k.a. one of our four children) tried to plug in a USB cord upside-down, and when met with resistance, simply shoved harder, thus rendering the upper port mangled, useless and dead. Upon trying to use the one remaining port, we found that this one had not been able to bear the emotional burden of the loss of its sibling, so it must have found solace in committing circuit suicide rather than go it alone and wait for another impatient child to come along with an inverted plug, or a fork, or a Malibu Barbie ski pole, or a Lego brand Harry Potter special edition magician’s wand, or the like.
I don’t know if any of this is true, but that is my best guess as to how the USB port became scrunched. Thank you for your expertise.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Tornadoes Simply Could Care Less
They say life is a mystery. I think it's full of pain, real or imagined. They don’t differentiate themselves at this point in my life.
If I want real, honest-to-goodness truth, where do I find it? In a church, blasted from a pulpit? In a book written by men? In my own heart of hearts? My imagination? The whisperings of God? How to know that what you want so to trust is really true? Some things really split you open, like the wily aftermath of a tornado. You can’t choose which part of the barn will still be standing after the storm. Will the south wall be in place, but the stalls gone? Will nothing be left of the frame, but inexplicably all the hay lie untouched on the floor? Will the roof be gone, but the eggs still in their nests, or nothing but a pitchfork tossed a mile westward from its place against the eastern door? Who can tell and who could choose the damage they’d like to have?
No one knows, and this, too, is another mystery. The whole damn thing is a mystery.
If I want real, honest-to-goodness truth, where do I find it? In a church, blasted from a pulpit? In a book written by men? In my own heart of hearts? My imagination? The whisperings of God? How to know that what you want so to trust is really true? Some things really split you open, like the wily aftermath of a tornado. You can’t choose which part of the barn will still be standing after the storm. Will the south wall be in place, but the stalls gone? Will nothing be left of the frame, but inexplicably all the hay lie untouched on the floor? Will the roof be gone, but the eggs still in their nests, or nothing but a pitchfork tossed a mile westward from its place against the eastern door? Who can tell and who could choose the damage they’d like to have?
No one knows, and this, too, is another mystery. The whole damn thing is a mystery.
Saturday, November 25, 2006
Sunday, November 12, 2006
Thursday, November 09, 2006
Armed and Ready
We returned from the doctor's office this afternoon where it was confirmed that my 7-year old son has chicken pox, despite being vaccinated against it years ago. (1 in 10 vaccinated kids will still get a mild case)
I just overheard this son say to his older sister as she chased him up the stairs, "Watch it - I have chicken pox and I'm not afraid to spread 'em!"
I just overheard this son say to his older sister as she chased him up the stairs, "Watch it - I have chicken pox and I'm not afraid to spread 'em!"
Sunday, November 05, 2006
Friday, October 27, 2006
Hairy Humor
In the van on our way to school, my son Sam says to me, "What are you gonna do today, Mom?"
I tell him, "I have to take your sister's violin bow to the shop to have it rehaired."
He replies, "Shouldn't Dad have priority?"
It took me a while, too, but then I burst out laughing!
I tell him, "I have to take your sister's violin bow to the shop to have it rehaired."
He replies, "Shouldn't Dad have priority?"
It took me a while, too, but then I burst out laughing!
Wednesday, October 11, 2006
Give a Goth a Hug
Our oldest daughter was not with us this past Sunday at church. We decided to stop at the grocery store on the way home from services, so we phoned her to inform her of our plans. My husband made the call and I heard him ask her if she would like anything from the store. I answered this question out loud myself, "How about some eyeliner? You're surely out of that." (She has taken to stylish ancient Egyptian/hungover racoon eye makeup of late.)
My husband laughed, though I didn't realize until after he hung up that my daughter had responded over the phone at the exact same time as I was making my motherly remark, "Yeah, can you pick up some black eyeliner?"
I found the following Internet editorial at JiveMagazine.com. It was written by Rob Hlozek back in March of 2004. (As a disclaimer, I don't approve of calling Goths morons, despite their often clownish outward appearances. My own daughter insists she isn't Goth, but for the record, underneath her black high top shoes, her street-cleaner mighty-sequoia-width black pants covered in shiny, jingling chains, the flourescent fishnet stockings-cum-gauntlets on both arms, her black and grey skull-spattered hoodie and those coal-rimmed eyes sometimes caught scowling out from under what would be a jet black emo-sweep if I let her dye her hair, is a very smart, tough, creative and beautiful young woman/child whom I love dearly.)
The Internet Darkened Our Lives With Too Much Eyeliner
Overall, I am not too impressed with the Internet. Sure, it has made our lives easier and more convenient. We can look for jobs, purchase hard to find collectables, and get our hands on porn without having to face the embarrassment of a judgmental check-out clerk. However, there have certainly been many high prices to pay. One of them is that there are too many damn Goth kids running around out there!! In a nation where we have easy access to Prozac, Wellbutrin, Paxil, Zoloft, Valium, and crack, there just isn't any reason for the over abundance of whiny depressed little teenagers who think the world is against them and Marilyn Manson is a genius. For this I blame the Internet. Let's rewind to 1995, shall we? 1995 is considered to be the year the Internet took off in the consumer world, thanks to AOL's first huge advertising budget and the hype surrounding Windows 95. Now I was a freshman in college that year. Before this I could go to the mall and the only obnoxious teenagers around were the ones who still thought grunge was cool and Kurt Cobain was actually hiding out with Elvis. If by chance I saw someone my age with black eye-liner hanging around the food court looking for free samples of Chinese food, it was obvious that they were looking to be made fun of and tormented. Remember, before 1994 Goths only went out in public in case they were cheering up so they could be made fun of and would become depressed again. Hot Topic didn't come into existence until 1996, so there was no other reason for them to leave their basements. Back then it was all good and a valuable part of the suburbian circle of life. Goths were few and far between and they liked it that way. But then the Internet went and screwed it all up. Because most Goths lived in their parents' basements, social outlets were hard to find. To the original 138 Goths that existed in America, the Internet was a good way for them to talk to one another. Unfortunately, it also allowed them to be discovered by impressionable teenagers who were looking to express their individuality by joining a new group. I figure one of these morons stumbled into a gothic chat room and a conversation like this ensued:
KewlDood82: Hey any hotties want to talk to me?
MiseryDarkChilde: Go away. We seek only the darkness in which our isolation creates the chaos in which our souls swim. You are misguided in your travels here.
KewlDood82: Oh come on, there's got to be one hottie in here.
RavenBlackHeart: Be gone for your own sake, or the darkness will engulf you as it has us. All that will remain in you is sorrow and depression.
KewlDood82: I'm kinda depressed. My parents won't get me rollerblades. Can I hang with you dewds?
MiseryDarkChilde: Travel down the dark path at your own risk.
KewlDood82: Awesome!! I'm gonna go get my mom's eye liner. BRB.
This conversation and others like it began the downward spiral. Then came the proliferation of Goths in society, which was subsequently nurtured by the evolution of Hot Topic. The Internet is first and foremost to blame, though. And it's certainly pushing it along, too. Try typing "Goth" in a search engine and see how many pages pop up. It's second only to "clitoris". Who knows how long this will continue. However, we can do something to stop it. Next time you see one of these tortured souls, please give a Goth a hug and make them feel better.
(edited by A. Graf)
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Monday, October 09, 2006
Wednesday, October 04, 2006
Timothy and Theodore
Timothy and Theodore sat upon a bench.
Said Timothy to Theodore, "We cannot pay the rent."
Said Theodore to Timothy, "Where went all our money?"
Said Timothy to Theodore, "We've spent it all on honey."
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Sunday, October 01, 2006
Doctors Park, Fox Point, WI
Two separate views of the same cracked pier, the first facing east and the second facing west.
Friday, September 29, 2006
OCD Pays Off
Today's trip to the local Goodwill was particularly rewarding:
- Almost new beige Vans in my older son's size - $4.99
- Michel Muß Mehr Männchen Machen by Astrid Lindgren - $1.59
- Brand new decorative shower curtain in the perfect colors to complement my newly updated bathroom - $2.99
- Brand new Eddie Bauer fleece-lined Gore-Tex shell jacket with detachable hood in my size and preferred color - $6.99
- One glow-in-the-dark plastic skull Halloween candy collecting basket - $.49
- One wooden elephant piggy bank where you stuff the coins down the trunk and watch them snake into the animal's clear plastic gut - $3.99 (a fellow shopper said she saw the same thing at the zoo for $27.00)
- One wooden pear-shaped pepper grinder in the most beautiful deep Bartlett green - $1.99
- Two brand new Sleep Cell, Litron hollowfil, cool-vented 30-degree, three pound sleeping bags with stuff sacks recently dropped off from the local Target store - $9.99 ea.
And the pièce de résistance: One black car-length genuine shearling coat, fully lined with the real stuff - not that synthetic fur that pills as soon as it is exposed to Wisconsin winter - in my size, but generous so that I can fit my handknit sweaters underneath it, not that I'll need them, but just in case - $19.99. I've been searching Goodwill, and other places, for the perfect genuine shearling coat for about 15 years. Today was my day.
Even compulsive gamblers occasionally win, which of course further feeds their frenzy and seals their eventual downfall. I can stop any time I really want to. I just don't want to, yet.
Thursday, September 28, 2006
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
OCD - Shopping Strain
I have been known to enjoy the hunt - shopping, research, geocaching - but of late I sense a need to get the economic side of this habit under control. I'm just spending too damn much money. But I'm so good at finding fantastic deals!
I read an article on Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder last week, once again confirming our entire family's tendencies to walk this path - cleaning, organizing, cataloguing and filling it as we go. A couple of the OCD traits listed were shopping and bargain hunting. Oh, dear.
Not to pass up an opportunity to foist partial blame on someone else, my mother has always been an unstoppable shopper. My father and I would be in the car with her on the way home and she'd say, "Pull in to Kohl's. I just want to run in." At those words, our blood would run cold. Thankfully there was almost always something to read in the car for the 45 minute wait that ensued.
Well, I find that my pride at finding a bargain is beginning to become a bad hobby, as my son would say. We are in the process of remodeling parts of the house, and being the detail minded, penny pincher that I am, I keep track of each contractor's charges and the cost of various parts along the way, updating the balance against the loan we just received from the bank, making sure we don't spend the loan money on anything but the remodeling projects. All these numbers and interest rates running through my head have given me pause. I need to be more careful about my compulsive bargain hunting before I bargain us out of our newly renovated digs.
So, I decided, in the spirit of Christ-centered submission and sacrifice, to start a fast. Not from food, but from shopping. Seeing as I do take care of all the household details, such as stocking toilet paper and milk, Pull-Ups and postage stamps, there would have to be exceptions, but exceptions only - no personal, unnecessary purchases! I began the fast yesterday morning.
Today, as the new bathtub liner was being installed upstairs, my vacuum cleaner started on fire.
I quickly dragged it out to the patio and let it smoke itself out. I threw open all the windows and got my purse out, grabbed my keys and drove off towards the nearest Wal-Mart (forgive me - hate Wal-Mart, but they're cheap and Andrea in the optical department is so nice). Stopped at a geocache along the way (hunt, hunt, hunt - success!) and soon found myself in the vacuum cleaner aisle at the nation's slimiest mass retailer. Got an inexpensive ($58.89) Bissell bagless, extra belts and filter, socks for the Gibster, some gum, two bed pillows, a dozen shower curtain rings, two Snickers bars, two Dove bars (isoflavones are a necessity), Kleenex, pumpkin in a can, and miniature marshmallows (for the kids). Then stopped in the optical department as I had my prescription on me from this past spring and I needed to take advantage of my insurance allotment of one pair per year. $250 later and I'm good to go. But you should see the deal I got on these new lenses . . .
I know many good folk who do regular 24-hour fasts. Maybe next time I'll make it to 48 hours.
I read an article on Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder last week, once again confirming our entire family's tendencies to walk this path - cleaning, organizing, cataloguing and filling it as we go. A couple of the OCD traits listed were shopping and bargain hunting. Oh, dear.
Not to pass up an opportunity to foist partial blame on someone else, my mother has always been an unstoppable shopper. My father and I would be in the car with her on the way home and she'd say, "Pull in to Kohl's. I just want to run in." At those words, our blood would run cold. Thankfully there was almost always something to read in the car for the 45 minute wait that ensued.
Well, I find that my pride at finding a bargain is beginning to become a bad hobby, as my son would say. We are in the process of remodeling parts of the house, and being the detail minded, penny pincher that I am, I keep track of each contractor's charges and the cost of various parts along the way, updating the balance against the loan we just received from the bank, making sure we don't spend the loan money on anything but the remodeling projects. All these numbers and interest rates running through my head have given me pause. I need to be more careful about my compulsive bargain hunting before I bargain us out of our newly renovated digs.
So, I decided, in the spirit of Christ-centered submission and sacrifice, to start a fast. Not from food, but from shopping. Seeing as I do take care of all the household details, such as stocking toilet paper and milk, Pull-Ups and postage stamps, there would have to be exceptions, but exceptions only - no personal, unnecessary purchases! I began the fast yesterday morning.
Today, as the new bathtub liner was being installed upstairs, my vacuum cleaner started on fire.
I quickly dragged it out to the patio and let it smoke itself out. I threw open all the windows and got my purse out, grabbed my keys and drove off towards the nearest Wal-Mart (forgive me - hate Wal-Mart, but they're cheap and Andrea in the optical department is so nice). Stopped at a geocache along the way (hunt, hunt, hunt - success!) and soon found myself in the vacuum cleaner aisle at the nation's slimiest mass retailer. Got an inexpensive ($58.89) Bissell bagless, extra belts and filter, socks for the Gibster, some gum, two bed pillows, a dozen shower curtain rings, two Snickers bars, two Dove bars (isoflavones are a necessity), Kleenex, pumpkin in a can, and miniature marshmallows (for the kids). Then stopped in the optical department as I had my prescription on me from this past spring and I needed to take advantage of my insurance allotment of one pair per year. $250 later and I'm good to go. But you should see the deal I got on these new lenses . . .
I know many good folk who do regular 24-hour fasts. Maybe next time I'll make it to 48 hours.
Monday, September 25, 2006
It took a bit of courage, but I finally stuck this bumper sticker on the back of our van, knowing that I'd have to drive that same van to church on Sunday. Not that I'm afraid to say that I don't like our President very much, but I don't want to be thought insensitive. It does have a very nice literary allusion to it. I do like literature very much.
This male monarch hatched in our yard today. I was actually chrysallis-sitting for a friend when it happened, so I got to see the sacred event while my friend was at work. It didn't look like a male until a couple hours later when the dark spots began to show better on the back wings. He is still sitting on our cherry tree tonight in the dark, waiting and gathering resources for his long migratory flight to mountain forests in the state of Michoacan, Mexico. Only one of three to four annual North American monarch generations takes the trip, covering thousands of miles to the overwintering grounds. The ones that survive the trip and the winter supposedly fly back to the southern United States and begin another generation in the late spring, spreading further up the continent all the way to Canada, following the warmer air as it heads north. Amazing creatures.
Photo by A. Graf
The Miracle Worker
To follow up on the last post, my father's friend Chris agreed to try and recover my lost photos using a wonderful little SanDisk program called RescuePro. He put my memory card into his reader, ran it through this program and got every photo back that I had deleted, except for three that were clipped in half. How wonderful is that?! I was so excited and am so thankful to Chris for his time and effort in retrieving my losses.
I went home, reprocessed all the images and made a new CD for the Dog Fair folks. Chris also helped me in the past by printing some photos on his large format printer when I had a last minute art show to prepare for. It's good to have a few of these "miracle workers" in your life when times get tough. Anyway, a happy ending this time.
I went home, reprocessed all the images and made a new CD for the Dog Fair folks. Chris also helped me in the past by printing some photos on his large format printer when I had a last minute art show to prepare for. It's good to have a few of these "miracle workers" in your life when times get tough. Anyway, a happy ending this time.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
U E
I spent two-and-a-half hours at the Enderis Park Dog Fair this past Saturday, photographing the event at the request of my friend, Georgianna, one of the event planners. It was an enjoyable day, being introduced to various breeds of dogs and their owners, watching the animals run, jump, sniff, make paw-print art and bob for hot dogs. The weather was warmish and sunny and I nearly filled my 512mb memory card by the end of the afternoon.
I came home and downloaded everything, worked another two to three hours in Photoshop, tweaking the lighting, cropping, burning, dodging and tossing out rejects. I then burned everything to a CD, made myself a copy, and dropped the finished project off at Georgianna’s house. I was rather proud of myself for having gotten it all done in one day, and was also very happy with a good number of the shots – that beautiful white husky head shot showing one brown eye and one blue, the profile of a handsome blue heeler hound and those stinking adorable black schnoodle puppies that were for sale.
She gratefully accepted the disk and called later to thank me. She then asked about the other photos. “What other photos?” I replied.
“Well, you said you had over 100, but there’s only 47 on the disk.”
“Oh, no. I’ll have to check my hard drive and I”ll get back to you.”
Gone. All but 47 shots. Oh, the sick, sinking feeling in my stomach. I sat at my desk and thought it over. I realized my mistake. I usually download into a folder called “Recent Downloads” and then after working up each photo, I save them into their proper folder, whether Door County, Havenwoods, Rusty Junk, Our Family, etc. Then I go back to the organizer and delete all those that I have worked up. This time I had created a new folder at the time of download and entitled it “Enderis Park Dog Fair.” I downloaded directly into that folder and worked them all up in that same folder. Since they were not my photos, per se, I did not rename most of them, but left them in whatever numbered name the computer had given them. The ones in which I recognized people or animals personally, I renamed – 47 of them. When I edit and rename a file, I close it and then delete the original, especially when it’s not my work that I am going to print. When I am all done, I leave the editor window, return to the organizer and delete all the recently downloaded files because they are now saved into a new folder someplace else on the hard drive. What I did differently this time was that I didn’t rename most of the files, and I didn’t move them to a folder other than the one I had directly downloaded to. I didn’t think about this scenario when I returned to the organizer at the end of my editing session and deleted all the recently downloaded “originals,” which were, of course, the same files I had just worked up. I had also chosen to delete the originals from the memory card after downloading, so they weren't even in the camera any more. Oh, what a sick, sick feeling.
I had to call Georgianna back and tell her the awful news. I went back online and googled, “How to recover deleted files.” I downloaded some software from PC Tools called File Recover, installed it and ran it immediately, pushing aside all the fears of being totally hacked by some nasty virus or identity theft subprogram. It ran through my entire C drive and scanned for deleted files. The program kept at it for hours. I couldn’t stay awake long enough, but woke around 2:45 am to find it had finally finished. There were over 30,000 files found from the last five years since I got this computer. I sorted through and narrowed my selections down to only those of September 16, 2006 and only those of jpeg format. I pushed the restore button and was given a warning message: “Files may only be restored using a registered version of this program. Click here to purchase online.” What choice did I have? I went online and paid $29.95 for a one year subscription to the program. I pushed the restore button again and it quickly did the job. Unfortunately, all those jpegs were from my daughter’s disk that I had downloaded and burned onto a CD for her the same day. Only five were listed as having come out of the Enderis Park Dog Fair folder, and these showed only a pattern of green lines, totally unrecognizable as photos. Where did my work go? What a sick, sick feeling. I could cry. I cried. And it was truly all my fault. Complete user error. I feel I should be walking around with big red letters on my chest, Hester Prynne style: U E. What a stupid thing to do.
I came home and downloaded everything, worked another two to three hours in Photoshop, tweaking the lighting, cropping, burning, dodging and tossing out rejects. I then burned everything to a CD, made myself a copy, and dropped the finished project off at Georgianna’s house. I was rather proud of myself for having gotten it all done in one day, and was also very happy with a good number of the shots – that beautiful white husky head shot showing one brown eye and one blue, the profile of a handsome blue heeler hound and those stinking adorable black schnoodle puppies that were for sale.
She gratefully accepted the disk and called later to thank me. She then asked about the other photos. “What other photos?” I replied.
“Well, you said you had over 100, but there’s only 47 on the disk.”
“Oh, no. I’ll have to check my hard drive and I”ll get back to you.”
Gone. All but 47 shots. Oh, the sick, sinking feeling in my stomach. I sat at my desk and thought it over. I realized my mistake. I usually download into a folder called “Recent Downloads” and then after working up each photo, I save them into their proper folder, whether Door County, Havenwoods, Rusty Junk, Our Family, etc. Then I go back to the organizer and delete all those that I have worked up. This time I had created a new folder at the time of download and entitled it “Enderis Park Dog Fair.” I downloaded directly into that folder and worked them all up in that same folder. Since they were not my photos, per se, I did not rename most of them, but left them in whatever numbered name the computer had given them. The ones in which I recognized people or animals personally, I renamed – 47 of them. When I edit and rename a file, I close it and then delete the original, especially when it’s not my work that I am going to print. When I am all done, I leave the editor window, return to the organizer and delete all the recently downloaded files because they are now saved into a new folder someplace else on the hard drive. What I did differently this time was that I didn’t rename most of the files, and I didn’t move them to a folder other than the one I had directly downloaded to. I didn’t think about this scenario when I returned to the organizer at the end of my editing session and deleted all the recently downloaded “originals,” which were, of course, the same files I had just worked up. I had also chosen to delete the originals from the memory card after downloading, so they weren't even in the camera any more. Oh, what a sick, sick feeling.
I had to call Georgianna back and tell her the awful news. I went back online and googled, “How to recover deleted files.” I downloaded some software from PC Tools called File Recover, installed it and ran it immediately, pushing aside all the fears of being totally hacked by some nasty virus or identity theft subprogram. It ran through my entire C drive and scanned for deleted files. The program kept at it for hours. I couldn’t stay awake long enough, but woke around 2:45 am to find it had finally finished. There were over 30,000 files found from the last five years since I got this computer. I sorted through and narrowed my selections down to only those of September 16, 2006 and only those of jpeg format. I pushed the restore button and was given a warning message: “Files may only be restored using a registered version of this program. Click here to purchase online.” What choice did I have? I went online and paid $29.95 for a one year subscription to the program. I pushed the restore button again and it quickly did the job. Unfortunately, all those jpegs were from my daughter’s disk that I had downloaded and burned onto a CD for her the same day. Only five were listed as having come out of the Enderis Park Dog Fair folder, and these showed only a pattern of green lines, totally unrecognizable as photos. Where did my work go? What a sick, sick feeling. I could cry. I cried. And it was truly all my fault. Complete user error. I feel I should be walking around with big red letters on my chest, Hester Prynne style: U E. What a stupid thing to do.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
Hobbit
My youngest child came home today smelling of urine. I had him change clothes and wash up, after which he returned and sat down beside me.
"Why did you wet your pants?" I asked, thinking there may have been a good reason.
"I don't know," he replied. "It's a hobby."
"A hobby!?" I said.
"Yeah. A bad hobby."
"You mean a habit?" I asked.
"Um, what's a hobby?" he replied.
"Something you do for fun in your spare time," I explained.
"Oh. It's a habit. A bad habit."
"Why did you wet your pants?" I asked, thinking there may have been a good reason.
"I don't know," he replied. "It's a hobby."
"A hobby!?" I said.
"Yeah. A bad hobby."
"You mean a habit?" I asked.
"Um, what's a hobby?" he replied.
"Something you do for fun in your spare time," I explained.
"Oh. It's a habit. A bad habit."
You Never Know What You'll Find
I have recently found a new hobby in geocaching (see my stats over to the right). Geocaching is a world-wide activity where someone hides, or caches, something (usually a container to hold a small log book, a pencil and some small trinkets) somewhere. When they are done placing their cache, they use a global positioning device to note their exact latitude and longitude coordinates and these numbers become a big hint as to where the cache is hidden. The cacher then logs his cache onto the geocaching website where other cachers can take down the coordinates and any other cryptic (or not so cryptic) clues given to try to find the treasure.
It is fun, not just to find the container or trade for a small prize or two, but you very often end up hiking in places you might never have visited. The few caches I've sought out in my own home town have already taken me to some very interesting and beautiful spots. Once you find the cache, you log your find onto the website and watch your cache numbers climb.
My dad and I did a cache a couple weeks ago and found something very interesting - not in the cache, but growing next to it. I took a photograph of part of it, before destroying the rest of it. (Not by burning it - shame on you!) And no, I will never tell which cache. Try it yourself and see what you find.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
Bug Man Triumphs Over Satan's Minions
The Yellow Jacket vanquisher, seen here just after drenching the nest with liquid poison and just before administering the chaser of deadly vapors. Thank you, Mike. And thanks for donning the bee suit after I mentioned there would be free publicity.
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