Spell With Flickr

What fun! Spell anything you want with letters clipped from Flickr pics here.


Thanks to The Hobbled Runner for pointing this out!

The Bag of My Dreams

So, I have this smashing summer purse that I bought at a little boutique that doesn't sell bags any more. The one I have is purple, of course, with a magnet under the flap to hold it closed. The handles are that rare but perfect length, where I can carry it in my hand or over my shoulder. The bag itself is pretty big--wide and deep, with no dividers, so I can carry everything.

In fact, in a recent inventory/clean out of this bag, I found the following:

Wallet
Check book
Digital Camera
iPod
Extra earphones for iPod
Notebook
Card case for my personal cards
Card case for library cards, etc.
Pens (4)
Prescription sunglasses in case
Reading glasses in case
Plain sunglasses (loose)
Large set of keys (too large, actually)
Cel phone
Cel phone case (they got separated in the depths of the bag
Large number of miscellaneous sales receipts
Paperback novel
Second digital camera (I forgot I already had the first one in there)
Change--fell out of the wallet
Several book marks
Earrings (so that's where they were!)

I am thinking that I need a different, smaller, bag to carry. This one is great and all, but really, once it's even half full it weights about 30 pounds, and has some wicked momentum when I turn around too quickly.

This is a bad time of year to look for a summer type purse, of course, as we are in full fall fashion mode. Those few summer ones left are on super sale, but they are very hard to find. I have been scouring my usual haunts, to no avail. We are just too solidly into autumnal colors of black, brown, dark brown, and brown-black.

Sure, I could wait a couple of months until the spring fashions come out--November, right? But by then I will have switched to my own winter bag, and won't need it like I do right now.

Apparently, this is disturbing me more than I realized, because last night, I found the perfect bag. It was absolutely wonderful. It was just a smidgen smaller than my current one, but exactly the right size. It was versatile too, converting easily from a shoulder bag to a backpack bag, and it was a wonderful soft brown leather--not in the least heavy looking, just neutral enough to go with anything.

And then I woke up.

Fun With Language

There is a sign outside a nursery that I drive by regularly. The sign says "Perennial Sale."

Does that mean it's a sale that happens every year?

Or that it is a sale on plants that grow back every year.

Maybe it's both?

Things Are Better Today

After a lot of venting and anguish, today is better that yesterday, and way better than the day before.

1. Slept a mere 9.25 hours last night.
2. FIXED THE COMPUTER!!!
3. Weight is still heading down.
4. Off to get pampered at salon (haircut only, but still. . .)

Maybe the Beatles were right--It's Getting Better All The Time

I'm A Geek!!!

So, the desktop computer at Chez Evil stopped working. As you know, the power supply burned out, and the Geek Squad couldn't fix it, because, apparently, they have strict limitations on what they can do for a Dell computer. So they told me what was wrong, told me they couldn't fix it, and sent me home to order the part directly from Dell.

Which I did. Which wasn't as easy as it sounds, because people who are of Scotch heritage like me, raised by the Children of the Depression, (translated: cheap bastards!) don't buy extended warranties. But Dell only offers technical support if you buy the extended warranty, and since Computer Chez Evil is out of warranty, I got shunted to the "Out of Warranty Help Line."

Which is a total spin, because the poor woman who took my call was of help whatsoever. She could tell me what part I needed (which I already knew, because I had looked it up on the Dell website) and she could help me by telling me that they didn't have it in stock and would have to order it from someplace else, which I could do if I wanted to.

So instead, I ordered the part from the website, and it arrived! Which was itself a sort of surprise, because I really didn't expect to see anything before I had gotten some majorly depressing emails about how the part didn't exist any more, since my computer is too old for such parts to even be made any more. Because it is, in fact, 2 1/2 years old, and at the rate of technical development, it's practically from the Bronze Age.

So, new power supply in hand, I opened up the CPU case, and carefully tracking all the connections, I replaced the old one with the new one. And I only cut myself once! Blood on the computer!!

Close it up, push the power button and. . .

Weird sounds. A grinding noise from the hard drive and some irritating beeping. It turns on, sure, but something is still wrong and nothing is showing up on the monitor. So, I tuck it back under my arm and take the CPU back to the Geek Squad.

Who still can't do anything, because it's still a Dell, but they give me a secret message: "beep codes." The way the computer is beeping as I start it up actually means something. So, if I went to the Dell website again (or called Non-technical Non-support) I could diagnose the problem.

So, after another long search through the Dell website, I finally found a manual that explained the Beep Codes. PLUS! There are diagnostic LED lights on the CPU as well--the Geek at the Geek Squad didn't know about that! So, using all my puzzle solving abilities (who says computer games are a waste of time?) I reopened the CPU case and reseated the memory cards.

And you know what? I started the thing up again, and there was no grinding! No beeping! All the little diagnostic lights started glowing green!

But.

Still nothing on the monitor. Just its own little diagnostic screen test. Back to the website--because the monitor itself is also a Dell.

Problem. The first thing you have to do to get the proper diagnostics is to select the monitor model. I can't find the monitor model. It's not on the front, it's not on the easily visible stickers on the back. Is it behind the power cord outlet? No that's just the mailing address for Dell. Is it behind this big white pin type cord with the two screws (one on each side) that I can't unscrew because they are flat against the back of the panel and so I can't get any leverage on them?

Wait a minute. White connector? What does the white connector do? Where does this cord go, anyway? Through the tangle of cords that connect all the peripherals and ending at this other white connector.

That is not connected to anything.

That fits, right here! on the back of the CPU.

That suddenly, when plugged in, causes the monitor to display a Windows logo!

And just to prove that it all works, I'm posting this--this post right here--on the newly working Dell computer!!!

Geek Squad should be calling to hire me any day now!

Car Decor Seen In My Neighborhood

I'm sure you have seen the Christian fish:
















And you've probably seen the Secular Humanist fish:










But have you seen the Jewish fish?



















Can lutefisk be far behind? I guess not.

More Shopping Finds

So the Pony is now in 8th grade, at which time all parents of 8th grade students purchase a laptop computer for said 8th grader, which is used at school, in class, for homework, for making class presentations, and also for downloading music and posting at MySpace, although those are not school requirments.

In the nature of short notice, however, is the fact that while the computers were to be delivered to the students at school, they did not come with anything in the nature of a carrying case. So, Monday night we discovered we had to find a notebook case by Tuesday morning.

Well, we looked. The local likely retailers--Target, Office Max, etc.--did carry notebook cases. They had black backpacks, black satchels, black messenger bags, black briefcases, black suitcases, and black handbags made of black nylon, black cotton, black microfiber, black suede and black leather. Do you see a trend here? Because Pony doesn't want a black computer bag. And who can blame her? How could you tell yours from anyone else's?

So off to the trusty Internets. Which have an even wider variety of retail outlets selling an even wider variety of black notebook cases. And then we found--

Mango Tango.

A site dedicated to the proposition that all computer carrying cases are not created black. And Pony liked this one:

Heck, I like that one too, although the bronze one is more attractive to my eye for shiny things.

So we ordered the one for Pony, and she is using my carrying case in the interim. We are both looking forward to the delivery of hers. Maybe that one will break, and I can get myself the shiny one!

More Angst Relief--Retail Therapy

I also went shopping.

Everything is better with cute shoes.

An Antidote to the Angst--"Momilies"

Okay, enough of my whining. They say that when you are feeling bad, you should help someone else with their problems, and it will make yours seem smaller. So, let's see who has bigger problems than I do that I can help?

Britney Spears, post VMAs.

Now there's someone with bigger problems than I have, although apparently she has enough money that if she could just buy the solutions, she'd be set. But what she doesn't have is a mother who gives her the kind of advice that mothers give--so that's what I can do for her: I can give her a mother's advice.

You're such a pretty girl, why do you do that with your hair?

This is the cry of all mothers everywhere. We see our daughters' beautiful faces, and the hair fashions of the day just do not show off that beauty properly. Hair should be clean, neat, out of the face, and not all shaved off.

One of the stories making the rounds of the gossip blogs is that Britney and her hairdresser had a tiff just before showtime, and he cut all her hair extensions in half before storming out. This is supposed to explain the odd blunt cut look she sported with her spangly bikini, but really? Seriously? They were all the same length. Anyway, aren't you supposed to be nice to the people helping you?

Oh, and brush your hair 100 strokes every night before going to bed.

It's more important to get a good night's sleep before a big test than it is to stay up all night studying.

This one is important, Britney. If you are going to give your best performance, you should prepare as much as possible, and then get a good night's sleep and have a healthy breakfast. It is the most important meal of the day, you know.

This means not arriving at rehearsal 3 hours late, with frozen margarita in hand, and not going out to parties with P. Diddy until 3 in the morning either. You do that after you've finished your homework/test/nationally televised performance, not before.

You are not going out in public dressed like that.

Really, if you are going out in public, you should dress appropriately. No one wants to see your underwear, and it only hurts your reputation if you go out looking like a tramp. The word is "age-appropriate," dear, and don't stuff yourself into something that doesn't fit right. The right boys will pay attention to you when you dress properly: you really don't want the kind of attention dressing like that will bring you.

Anything worth doing is worth doing well.

This one is worth repeating like a mantra. Sure, your original plan to have Criss Angel do magic tricks so you would disappear and reappear during the performance was scuttled, which is a real setback, but that isn't an excuse, because you still went on.

This was supposed to be your comeback, and a "comeback," if it is worth doing at all, means that you have to put your best effort into it. All those dancers around you were putting their hearts into their dancing, and you could have sold your performance if you had believed it was worth doing.

Always wear clean underwear, in case you are in an accident.

Or, as famous as you are, wear underwear because paparazzi will get pictures that show you aren't wearing any. At all. Again. Which is just not something anybody wants to see. Really. Go buy some cute panties, something comfortable and cotton. It will be the right thing to do, and shows some self-respect.

Yes, I know a lot of the other girls are going commando under miniskirts too. But if all the other kids jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?

Close your mouth before a fly gets in.

You have a lot of excuses for why this performance was so poor: allergy drops, Sarah Silverman's comments about your kids, your heel broke on stage. This is just poor sportsmanship, Britney, and you need to do better than that. Yes, things went wrong--it's the nature of live performance, and you've had enough experience to know that. Blaming others for your failure is simply immature and doesn't convince anyone anywhere. Remember, silence is golden.

You'll thank me for this some day.

I know this is harsh, but trust me, this hurts me more than it hurts you. We only want what is best for you, dear, and this can be a learning experience. Right now, what you need to do is to go home and concentrate on the important things: your kids, the custody battle, your mental health. You need to take care of yourself before you can take care of anybody else.


"Momilies," a book by Michele Slung, published by Bantam Books

More Musings on Health and Sleep

Okay, I lied. It's not just the fact that I've lost six pounds that keeps me going. It's that, when you think about it, needing 12 hours of sleep a day makes life...well...boring.

I mean, the sleep is great, and it feels good to feel good and not like I'm swimming through oatmeal while wearing cement underwear or anything. But really, if one needs 12 hours of sleep out of every 24, that leaves the remaining 12 to be:

Boring.

Really boring.

Really really mind-numbingly, soul harrowingly boring.

Because, squeezing in 12 hours of sleep where one can means sleeping at night plus sleeping while the rest of the family is off at work, or school, or athletics, or whatever. Which means that, for instance today, I had only two hours and 40 minutes before I had to pick up the kids from after school sports practice. In that two hours and 40 minutes I had the following list of exciting activities that took up the entire time:

1. Walk the dog.
2. Make lunch.
3. Pick up a prescription from the doctor's office.
4. Fill said prescription.
5. Go to the grocery store.

And that was it: that was the full extent of my free time today. Because once one picks up the kids, it's time to make dinner, and feed the dog, and let the dog out and then back in, and check homework, and set a good example and keep the house quiet during homework time, and empty the dishwasher and clean the kitchen and run the laundry. . .

. . .and all the boring minutae of daily life. Because some things just have to be done when they have to be done, and all the fun stuff and the free time and the stuff I want to do just to be me? That has to wait.

Sure, there are probably lots and lots of people who are organized, and high energy, and have their kids routine's regimented and who have the ability to either multi-task, or delegate, or simply to switch gears rapidly in order to take profitable advantage of the small bits of time that accumulate between the chores. And I wish I could do this. I really do. But so far, after a few decades of trying, I'm beginning to suspect that I have to concede defeat.

Sure, while the sweet potatoes are cooking, and while the turkey is broiling, I managed to post here, which is the sort of thing that keeps everything from being completely hopeless. But there is so much else I want to be able to go and do, and I could do it--

--except for this sleeping thing. Because I can't just cut back on my sleep to gain the extra time.
Not getting enough sleep, for me, means that everything I have to do is just that much harder, and takes just that much longer, and is just that much more boring and depressing, and I don't get any more done anyway.

It isn't fair, and it isn't nice, and it's why it feels like what I am fighting for is my life. Not merely my continued existence, but for all the things that make life worth living and not just the daily grind.

So, that is why I was so incredibly disheartened with all the delay in this condition getting improved: I'm fighting for Life.

In Which I Wallow In Self Pity

Don't say you haven't been warned. This is a pity party here, and since it's my party, I'll cry if I want to.

Yup, that's right--we're going to be talking CPAP again.

Previously, we learned that the machine I had was not, in fact, working at all, and was exchanged (after FAR too long) for one that actually varied its air pressure. Not willing to be made a chump in the same way AGAIN, I took the new Damn Machine into be checked after about 10 days.

Yes, the thing was working. Yes, it was recording data. In fact, the data was so clear that the technician grabbed the doctor out of his discussion of fantasy football and showed him the data. And he decided that it would work to switch to a non-variable setting machine. The fixed setting would be 13, which coincidentally? was exactly half way through the range of variable settings I had before.

Not to bemoan lost opportunities, or anything, BUT--the first doctor who read the results of my sleep study IN JUNE had recommended a fixed pressure of 12, which would have avoided all these months of non-data collecting, and non-variable variable pressure, and would have gotten me to almost the exact place I am now after THREE DAMN MONTHS.

This is where it is a good thing that the antidepressants work, or we'd be looking at some serious scar tissue right now, and that makes wearing a watch so irritating.

Anyway, things should be looking up now, right. Because:

1. I'm home with a new machine that is supposed to provide the exact right level of air pressure for me.
   
2. We got a cold front, so the nights are cool and comfortable--perfect sleeping weather.
3. Last night was the first night I felt that I was actually sleeping without fighting the mask and trying to get comfortable.

So good, right? Should be a good night's sleep, and the start of feeling better. I woke up, got the kids to school, and came back and went back to bed, as I wasn't really finished with the job of rest. To be a Do-Bee, I even put the Damn Mask back on and napped with it, in the hopes that unobstructed sleep would mean actually waking up refreshed after a reasonable amount of time.

When I did wake up, naturally, the dog bounded over, greeting my wakefullness a bit more frantically than usual. Because it was bloody 1:50 in the afternoon! Poor animal's bladder was knocking, because I managed to sleep over twelve hours before I woke up.

I hope that is just because I am still sleep deprived, because 12 hours of sleep is hard to fit in, and not any improvement over what I had before all this nonsense. It's just not very encouraging at all. I mean, why should I struggle with the Damn Machine and everything just to need as much sleep as I needed before? I can only hope that as time goes on, I need less sleep, and that the sleep is more restful for me, and that it reverses all the ill health effects that sleep deprivation can cause. Like weight gain, risk of stroke, heart diseases, etc.

The only entry over on the plus side of the entry at this point, is that I have managed to lose 6 pounds. Is it related? It's too early to tell, but it's enough to keep me going for now.

In Which I Am Pedantic: More Mississippi Historical Trivia

While vacationing in Itasca State Park, one is exposed to the rafts of English speaking explorers who sought the "true source" of the Mississippi. As any modern geographer will tell you, the "true head" of the Mississippi is actually what is now called the Missouri River. The drainage basin of the two rivers is now regularly combined, because north of St. Louis, the Mississippi is really just a large tributary of the larger Missouri River.

So, I have always wondered, "why the heck was it so important to everybody to find the source of the Mississippi?"

There had to be some man-made reason, right? Turns out, there is.

At the close of the American Revolution, the Treaty of Versailles established the boundaries of the new country, as well as the limits of the competing claims of the French and English in the area. The French got Louisiana, the English got Canada, and America was given the area bounded by the "water routes;" west through the Great Lakes, up to Lake of the Woods, and due west to the Mississippi River.

It was not long afterward that it was determined that the Mississippi River did NOT go that far north, ending somewhere several hundred miles to the south. But since this river was an important geo-political border, it was important to find where it did go, in order to close the gap in the treaty.

By the time Henry Schoolcraft mapped the source as Lake Itasca in 1832, America had already purchased the Louisiana Territory from the French, and the question had become essentially moot. But at least that explained why the river north of St. Louis was the Mississippi and not the larger waterway that turns northwest from there.

You Can Take The Girl Out Of Lawyering. . .

Over the Labor Day weekend, the Family Evil took our annual long weekend up at Lake Itasca, the Headwaters of the Mississippi River. It's a lovely break: no tv, no computers, no phone. We stay in the historic Douglas Lodge, which also means no cooking, no cleaning, no dishes, and maid service. That is MY kind of roughing it.

One of the first things we do is hike the 3/4 of a mile to the Old Timer's Cabin--a cabin built by the CCC during the Depression, back when trees were really trees. The entire cabin is build of 16 logs: logs so thick that a mere four of them stand up a good 12 feet. To get to the Cabin, one walks a path through a bog.

Now, I only know it is a bog because there are a lot of signs along the path saying "this is a bog." It doesn't look particularly wet or swampy to me, but lord knows that I am not much of an outdoorsy type--bogs not figuring much into my studies of evil. In actuality, it looks like the currently neglected gardens at Chez Evil, where whatever is strong enough to survive takes over, but for the purposes of my outdoors experiences, I am prepared to accept that it is, in fact, a bog.

Bogs are, apparently, fairly fragile ecosystems. Who knew? They are a source of sphagnum moss, which is itself very impressionable. Signs declare that a single footprint in the moss will last an entire summer.

To which, my legal hindbrain spoke up. "Well, since it is Sunday, and tomorrow is Labor Day, summer ends tomorrow. So a footprint now wouldn't be that big of a deal. It will last the entire summer--until tomorrow."

Fortunately, my more socially appropriate and evolved brain remained in charge, and told that legal hindbrain "Just shut up."

It's Not All Bad

Despite all my moaning and self-pity, as expressed in the last few posts, all is not unrelievedly bad.
I was out yesterday in my kick-ass Mary Janes, buying the last piece of furniture for my studio, when I was hailed by two nice ladies.

"Oh, miss," they said, trying to catch my attention, "miss." I love it when I get called "miss." It makes be feel like age hasn't totally caught up with me.

I did a quick inventory: no food on my face; my zipper was not open; what did they want?

"We just love your shoes! We were really admiring them. Where did you get them?"

Hah! I knew they rocked!

More Idle CPAP Commentary--Certified Curse Free!

CPAP tech: So, which mask are you using?

Me: The nasal pillow one.

CPAP tech: Well, at least you have the one that makes you look like a scuba diver.


Does it? You make the call.


CPAP tech also mentioned that her husband had a CPAP machine. "And he was so committed to it, he superglued it to the night stand. Then he lost a bunch of weight and didn't need it any more, so we had to buy a new night stand."

In Which I Vent And Use Many Curse Words

Oh my god. I am so pissed. This is the post I started, planning to post it yesterday:

SAME SONG, THIRD VERSE

So, back to the doctors' office with the C-CRAP machine today. Yup--the machine was broken. No data at all. No record of use, of air pressure settings, no way to actually make this project be productive.

So, the technician gave me a new machine, and I get to try AGAIN to generate some sleep data AGAIN so I can go back to the doctor AGAIN with the damn machine.

You know, it's particularly discouraging because I'm not seeing any improvement at all. I still need about 11 hours of sleep a night, except when I wake up in the middle of the night and can't get back to sleep. You know, 3:30 in the morning is really dark?

Then, I used the damn machine last night. Sure, I only had about 3.5 hours of sleep the night before, so I expected to be able to sleep all night. But when I woke up and took off the damn machine?

Air. The air that was coming out of the mask was like a jet engine compared to what I had been getting before. Because guess what? It wasn't just the data capture that was broken on the old machine, IT WAS THE WHOLE DAMN MACHINE.

It looks like the "automatically adjustable pressure" wasn't adjusting at all. AT ALL. DAMN IT.

I mean, really. Look, I'm usually Pollyfuckinganna about stuff like this, all "well, it's going to be better now," and "it is darkest before the dawn" and shit, but give me a fucking break! I've had this damn machine for something like two and a half months, and IT WASN'T EVEN WORKING!!!

Look, I'm so frustrated, I'm using multiple exclamation points!! And lots of swear words!! <insert Charlie Brown type howl of outrage here> No wonder I wasn't seeing any difference--there was no difference, except for the annoyance and inconvenience of the mask. It certainly wasn't helping me to sleep or to sleep better. And I lost TWO MONTHS--TWO WHOLE MONTHS of my life which I won't get back which were spent trying and trying to get some benefit out of something that was NEVER GOING TO WORK because it was BROKEN and NOBODY even figured it out!

I excuse myself from the list of people who SHOULD have figured it out, because what the hell do I know? I'm the one who's all screwed up from sleep deprivation; higher cognitive functioning is not to be expected.

<heavy sigh>

Vocabulary Quiz

Q: Translate this sentence from Elizabethan English to modern English. "He hath splendid frocks."

A: "Dude look like a lady."

First Mate Butterfingers Escapes Keelhauling

So, after posting this about dropping the gas cap into the water, I got the most lovely email from Captain Mr. Sweetie.

Re: the gas dock guy. When I went to fill the tanks he unscrewed the tops and hovered there for a minute, not sure whether to set them on the gunwales, or hold them, or should he put the hose in with the chain in place, or... I pulled it out and he kind of made a gesture with his hands, like "don't drop that". When I put it in my pocket he acted out relief and said "you can't just order something like that from the supply catalog." I told him the starboard side filler top had already gone for a swim today and I told him "poor Cate, I was trying to show her how to check the gas level, and..." and he made a very sympathetic kind of sucking look. He was impressed we got it out...

Bet you didn't know there was that much drama to boating.

And wanted to let you know that you are not alone in the struggle with the sea gods who want bits of shiny things.

So, I'm not even on probation! Even though it was probably a one of a kind, nearly impossible to replace, vintage gas cap, and it was totally my fault that it went into the river, and that disaster was only averted because Captain Mr. Sweetie skillfully deployed a fishing net to retrieve it from the much that is the river bottom. . .

The Sea Gods must have been feeling generous.

What Women Really Talk About

Heard at a table of women in a fast food court.

C: So, my doctor was this charming older guy and he even wore a bow tie. And I called him about this virus, and he asked "Do you want me to come around?" And I was "No! That's fine!"

A: Man, you never get a doctor who makes house calls anymore.

C: But when I went to get birth control, he was all concerned. "But surely you want to have children?"

B: Maybe he didn't want you to leave it until too late.

C: Well, it was better than the last doctor I went to. I asked him for birth control, and he just looked at me.

B: Was he younger than you?

C: Well, he was maybe about 15 years younger than I am.

A: You know, it is so disgusting to think about senior citizens like you having sex. It's totally like thinking about your parents. Ewwwww.

C: Well, maybe he just thought there was no point.

A: If your doctor is thinking "I wouldn't tap that," that's the sign of a seriously screwed up doctor-patient relationship right there.

That's FIRST MATE Butterfingers.

So, we went out on the boat tonight with a group of people from church. And as we were doing the last few things before leaving the slip, Mr. Sweetie asked me to check the gas levels, which requires using a long dipstick and dropping it into the tank. Which I did, and as I pulled it up, I was surprised by how far the stick was coming up dry. I mean, At the first tick, I didn't really expect any, but by the second tick. . .and then the third. . .

And as I was watching this stick remaining mysteriously dry--

I knocked the gas cap loose and plop! it fell into the river.

Right there in front of all those church people, and the pastor, and a party of eight on the boat in the slip next to ours. . .

And even the guy manning the gas dock knew about it.

So, I guess I need a new pirate name. That's First Mate Butterfingers, if you please.

(Yes, Mr. Sweetie managed to retrieve it from the mucky bottom with his skillful use of a fishing net. So we didn't explode the boat with all those people from church, plus the pastor. Thank God.)

Computer Follow-Up: Never As Good As The First Time

So, I took my computer back home and went online looking for a Dell power box thingie. This is a technical term. I went online to the Dell website, entered my special number that identifies my computer, and looked up a replacement.

There was one. Refurbished.

Now, keep in mind that this computer is only 2.5 years old. Maybe 2.75. At any rate, it's not obviously old. It does not have floppy drives. It does not run in gray scale. It has USB ports rather than all those old pin ports. It is NOT the computer equivalent of a 8-Track tape player.

It does not have parts, apparently.

So, to check, I called the customer service for out of warranty machines. (N.B.--the current financial advice is not to buy extended warranties. If we had one, would I have gotten a better service rep?) I identified my machine, asked for a power box. After being off the line for a while, my service rep checked and found they had NO power boxes to fit my machine. But I could call this long distance number and ask them.

Who are they?

They sell a lot of Dell parts.

Do you order your parts from them?

No, but they do sell them.

I got the name of this place, looked them up online. Their stock listing had nothing on it that matched my machine.

I went ahead and ordered the part from the Dell website. They promise shipping in 1-2 weeks. WTF?!?!? WEEKS? Do they have to go searching for it or something? Maybe. We'll see. Stay tuned for further updates.

This Almost Never Happens

Our desktop computer is ailing. It was fine when we went to bed one night, but the next morning, the CPU would not turn on. All the peripherals worked just fine--power was getting to them, we could still connect through our wireless network--only the computer itself was inaccessable.

So I pulled out all the connections and hauled that baby down to the Geek Squad. Now my Fabulous Babe sister, Suefunky, has had a horrible experience with the Geek Squad out her way, and the end result is a brain-dead computer. Which is what makes my experience so amazing; because I have heard her tale of anguish and botched repair and shitty customer relations. (Not just a descriptive term--this was customer relations that shit all over her.)

In my case, I set my CPU on the counter, the Geek plugged it in and nothing happened. He opened the case, said it was a dead power box, and that since it was a proprietary item from Dell, he couldn't fix it for me, but I could order the part and install it myself or bring it in for them to install.

Okay then. What do I owe you?

"Nothing."

So, this Geek opened up my computer (which was easier than the last time I did it with a 1989 model)(which I had no idea how to do, so that was something in itself), diagnosed the problem, gave me the solution, and DIDN"T EVEN CHARGE ME ANYTHING.

Okay--I can read the posted list of services and prices. Diagnosis is something like $59. Hey, those clip on ties aren't cheap you know. A Geek's gotta keep himself in short sleeved polyester shirts. Last time I took a computer in, that Geek told me it was going to be about $300 just to open up the laptop to confirm what the problem was and I'd be better off just buying a new computer.

Maybe I just got the newbie who hadn't been fully trained on wallet-vacuuming. If I were younger and prettier and thinner, I'd say maybe he was flirting with me. He was cute, and cute guys have a way of not charging cute girls. But I'm not cute enough for that to be the answer.

So, instead, I'll just take my free diagnosis service, and get the hell out of there before someone finds out!

I'm Really More of a Dog Person. . .

...but this was just too funny to pass up.

Back In The Good Old Days

Back to school shopping this year included a USB Flash Drive--1GB specified. They are readily available at Target in your choice of designer colors, shapes, and accessories. They run less than $30.

When we first came back to Minnesota after graduate school (not quite 20 years ago), Mr. Sweetie, working for the State government, purchased 1GB of memory for the State. It cost $40 million.

Wow.

There is nothing else to say.

1776--Now With Bermondsey!

Of course we rewrite everything to include the dog. After all, can you deny that he is a very intelligent looking dog?

Today's offering comes from 1776--the play in which the Founding Fathers sing and dance their way to independence. Specifically, the scene in which John Adams is trying to convince each of the members of the Declaration Committee to take on the task of actually writing out the grievances against the crown. He turns to each of the members of the committee, asking them to be the author, because "if I'm the one to do it, they'll run their quill pens through it. I'm obnoxious and disliked, you know that's true."

Each member gives his excuses: Benjamin Franklin offers this refusal:

Mr. Adams, but, Mr. Adams
The things I write are only light extemporania
I won't put politics on paper; it's a mania
So I refuse to use the pen in Pennsylvania

Roger Sherman also pleads his inability:

Mr. Adams, but, Mr. Adams
I cannot write with any style or proper etiquette
I don't know a participle from a predicate
I am just a simple cobbler from Connecticut

Robert Livingston is off to New York and a newborn son, leaving poor Tom Jefferson the grueling task of remaining in a hot, fly infested city to write the first draft.

Too bad this all happened 230 years before Bermondsey existed, or he could have offered his own excuses:

Mr. Adams, dear Mr. Adams
The proposition you put forth is not supposable.
My talents are not lingual, they're more nose-able.
And besides my little thumbs are not opposable.

Chorus:
Opposable! Opposable! He can not hold the quill!

Weird Al Yankovic is not the only one who can do this, you know.

So! How's The Sleeping?

The sleep struggle continues. I got the new, smaller, lighter mask, which is now adjusted to not slip around so much, but is still a damn heavy plastic thing that smashes my lip against my teeth and is still a long tube attached to a machine that interferes with my ability to sleep comfortably.

However this does answer a question. To wit: if the CPAP machine is 85%+ effective, why do people turn to the other, much much less effective alternatives--like incredibly invasive surgery, or oral appliances?

It's because NO ONE CAN SLEEP WITH THE DAMN CPAP MACHINE.

Sorry for the shouting, but it was unavoidable. Incidentally, see how closely CPAP looks like CRAP? Coincidence? I don't think so.

So, last week I went back to the doctor to check on the progress. The machine I'm using is self-adjusting, which means that the amount of air pressure changes throughout the night. So part of the night I'm sucking to get enough air, and part of the night I'm probably getting too much. The machine keeps data about all that, which gets printed off at the doctor's for their evaluation.

So, I took my machine in, and guess what. No, you won't guess. Because the DAMN MACHINE FAILED TO RECORD ANY INFORMATION for the last three weeks, and EVEN ERASED some of the information from before that.

So, I'm going to wrestle with this for another few weeks until we get that information re-generated. Plus, I'm still tired, and still sleeping about 9.5 hours every day. The only person really getting any benefit from this whole thing (besides the makers of the DAMN MACHINE) is Mr. Sweetie, who doesn't have to listen to me snore all night.

Not that he has ever EVER complained. But I think he's getting better sleep now. Too bad I'm not.

Things I Wish I Had Written

Man, I wish I had written this--it's just so damn funny and so damn true.

In a Salon.com review of the new movie The Invasion, the latest of the Body Snatcher movies, Mary Elizabeth Williams writes:

Yet what might have been the movie's worst misstep turns out to be one of its few clever conceits. The child-in-jeopardy motif is an overused cinematic crutch, but the fact that the story follows a mother and son heightens the drama and works as a metaphor. What is parenthood, after all, if not a fierce protectiveness mingled with torturous sleep deprivation and the constant threat of someone barfing all over you?

This is the true fear, isn't it? It was what Alien was about--the fear of pregnancy and childbirth writ large. But given the advances in medical care over the last 200 years, childbirth is much more rarely the death sentence it was in the past. It is, however, nearly guaranteed sleep deprivation and the certainty of close acquaintance with the expulsion of bodily fluids.

It is also the fear of becoming mindless--the childless person's fear that friends who become parents only want to talk about their children, uninterested in what had made them who they were before the advent of parenthood. With the added horror that these people don't realize, or don't care, how much they have changed!

After all, isn't pregnancy itself a sort of body snatching? Pregnancy-related memory loss, sleep deprivation lasting for years, touching all those things babies expel from their bodies--sometimes even at projectile speeds? Who needs a movie when you have real life?

Non-Sequiturs Explained

We took the kidlets to see 1776 at the Guthrie Theater last week. After being in Williamsburg in March, it was a natural, and was a huge hit at Chez Evil. The Bunny downloaded "The Lees Of Old Virginia" from iTunes, they've located film clips on YouTube, and the snappier lines have had a second life around the dinner table.

I saw the film about a million years ago, and didn't remember it being quite so, um, well not exactly indecent, but there were a good number of jokes and references to sexual activity and sexual organs. Not overtly, of course, but unmistakeably salacious to those who can parse the wit. Thomas Jefferson doesn't want to write the Declaration because he wants to go home to his wife. "I burn, Mr. Adams."

Adams sends for Martha Jefferson, and Thomas takes her up to his room, and closes the door on Adams and Franklin. Adams wonders, "In the middle of the day? Incredible." Franklin goads him with "Not everybody is from Boston, John."

Perhaps most obscure is the comment Franklin makes objecting to being called an Englishman. He says "It is like a ox being called a bull. He is thankful for the honor, but would prefer to have restored what is rightfully his." His antagonist, John Dickinson retorts, "When did you first notice they were missing?"

So, after three hours of singing and dancing their way to Independence, as we were walking out of the theater, Pony says to Bunny "If you like this, you'll love Romeo and Juliet."

On the face of it, that is about the most ridiculous comparison ever. A musical comedy revue and a 16th century tragedy? The signing of the Declaration of Independence and the deaths of Paris, Tybalt, Mercutio, Romeo and Juliet? Does affinity for one really mean a fondness for the other?

I think that the Pony meant that the mental exercise of processing the jokes is similar. Pony did say that part of the fun of the 1776 was the verbal wordplay. Like Shakespeare, she said, where you have to think a little bit before you get what is being said. (Pony has had a wonderful English teacher, who made Shakespeare very accessible and even explained the naughty bits.) So, for her, there is more similarity between the Broadway production and the classic tragedy than I would have recognized.

Harry Potter and Math Anxiety

J.K. Rowling tells us that Dumbledore is 250 years old. This is from an interview, and not actually inside the books, thus is "extra-canonical" if that is even a word.

But--if he was 250 (more or less throughout the series), then he was already 200 years old when Tom Riddle was at Hogwarts, but his hair was still auburn. Hmmmm.

If he was 250 years old at the end of the series, then he was born in 1747. He spend two months with Grindelwald in 1763--so his final duel with Grindelwald happened 180 years later? Albus wasn't kidding when he said he tried to avoid the duel until it was too embarrassing not to.

On the other hand, the Statute of Secrecy was only about 80 years old when the two boys planned to overturn it, so it wasn't quite the longstanding policy then that it was when Rita Skeeter published her book.

Or am I just getting this all wrong, because I was an English major and can't do math for beans?

You Know You've Raised A Reader. . .

. . .when she corrects grammar in the lyrics while singing karaoke.

Yes, Snow Patrol, we're looking at you. Fine, go and chase cars, but be aware that while you "just lay there" you are condemning yet another generation of kids to remedial English grammar.

You don't "lay," you "lie" there. Hens lay. Pony knows that.

When The Cure IS The Disease

So I saw the doctor at the lung clinic recently, about the sleep apnea and the usefulness of the machine. And--this is so embarassing--but I cried. I cried! Because really, I am trying so hard, and it is just not working.

I mean, I have this thing called the "Comfort" mask, which is a lot like something you would use to portray an elephant for an extended time, and not only is it heavy on my face, with a tendency to weigh down on my teeth, but it also is toxic. I wear it and I get a burning sensation on my skin--it feels like something out of Harry Potter, like it's a horcrux on my face or Delores Umbridge has assigned it to me for detention.

As I am sure I have groused about before, when I called in for some help, I got some very snotty lady who insisted that it wasn't happening, and I should just clean it and wear it looser. So I did. And not only did it not help the burning thing, but once it was looser, it just wobbled all over my face and made it hard to sleep.

This was confirmed when I went in for my appointment, and the electronic data showed that after I loosened the damn thing, it leaked like crazy and really was no help at all. So, remind me why I was using this thing? Oh yes, because I was not sleeping well. And with it? Surprise! Still not sleeping well!

My god. I mean, what do you do when the "cure" causes the exact same problems as the disease? I'll tell you what I do--I go to the doctor's office and cry. Yes, I am apparently as emotionally resilient as a toddler.

So, the doctor was sympathetic to my complaints, and I went in to meet with another technician who offered me a different mask--called something like a "nostril pillow," which only touches my face under my nose, and has two small bud-like projections to direct air into my nose. So, I tried that the first night. And guess what?!? That's right--it was even worse for sleeping than the other mask! Why? Because anytime I moved to my side, I would push the "pillow" into my pillow, and the whole thing would move sideways on my face. Which wasn't a problem for my face, but the little buds in my nostrils? Ouch! Let's just point out that there isn't much flexibility in cartilage, okay? I ended up sleeping with my neck muscles tensed so my face didn't touch my pillow.

Restful it was not. Even better was the fact that I was a good little DoBee and took the damn thing apart to wash it after the first night--and an important piece that held the whole thing together got lost. I think the dog might have gotten it. So, after one bad night, I didn't even have it any more.

So, back to the "comfort" mask, which I swathed in sterile gauze and cloth first aid tape. Some of it still got onto my skin, however, and I had a red mark along my cheek for the entire day. After three days of this nonsense, I was about on the point of tears again--I wore the damn thing, I suffered the painful reactions, and I STILL needed 9 or 10 hours of sleep each night. Plus, Mr. Sweetie noticed I was still snoring.

Yesterday, right before bed, I found the missing piece to the "nostril pillow," and apologized to the dog, who was innocent. I tried it again, and found it was less heinous than the first night I used it. Once again, I needed nine and a half hours of sleep before I woke up, and managed to start yawning before I had been awake an entire 12 hours!

You know, I read somewhere that Bill Clinton only slept about 4 hours a night while he was president. I can't even imagine that--how did he keep from walking into walls, and falling asleep at his own press conferences?

Anyway, for those few of you reading this for actual medical content, I can only say that I have another appointment in the near future, where the data should show some indication of the amount of air pressure that I need, and that a constant flow of air (rather than the variable amount I'm getting now as we attempt to calibrate my breathing) will make this whole thing more useful. Right now, my goal is to get to this next appointment with enough data to actually be useful, and to not cry!

Cool HP Movie News--No HP7 Spoilers!

The voluntary HP7 lockdown continues here at Chez Evil until everyone here has finished the book. That does NOT mean I'm not a-brining in HP news like a cucumber in dill! The latest fun info I have from here is casting for HP6:The Movie.

Naomi Watts is Narcissa Malfoy.

I love Naomi Watts--her performance in Mulholland Drive was absofrigginlutely amazing. From "bad actress" to "inspired actress" to "Nancy Drew in Hollywood" she took us on a surreal roller coaster ride through the subconscious. While she has a kind face, with a sort of ineffable approachability, her work with David Lynch promises she can pull off anything she tries. Narcissa's role in the last two Potter books is more of a worried mother than arrogant aristocrat, so perhaps she was intentionally cast to make the Malfoys more understandable.

Additional casting info is that Joseph Fiennes and Stewart Townsend have also been cast. As Joseph Fiennes is Ralph's brother, but a kinder and gentler Fiennes, my guess is that he will play Voldemort's Muggle father, he nearly tragic Tom Riddle, Senior. Meanwhile, Steart Townsend has all that dark, bad boy, charismatic glamor that just screams "pre-horcrux Tom Riddle Jr."

Anyone want to make a bet on that?

PotterMania 2009!

Well, hell--I'll just buy my plane tickets now and plan to be in Orlando for every long weekend of the year after this opens.

That's right--Universal and Warner Brothers are opening a Harry Potter theme park.

And you know what? I don't care if there are rides, or authentic merchandise in the stores or anything. I just love the idea of getting to walk through the places I have imagined (and seen in the movies) my very own self.

Back in the olden days, when we only had the HP books and no movies, the local department store turned Sorcerer's Stone into a holiday display. We saw half sized vignettes of Harry's bedroom under the stairs, envelopes flooding the Dursley's house, and even Hagrid on Sirious's motorcycle. But the moment that literally took my breath away was walking around a corner and seeing Diagon Alley laid out before me. The stores lined either side of the pathway, and you walked down the street in a way that simply had not been possible before. Over to the right was Gringott's Bank, and here was Madame Malkin's, across from Ollivander's Wands. It was the most magical thing I could imagine.

Now--well, not now, but in 2009, we will have the chance to walk through Hogwarts and Hogsmeade, and I can hardly stand it, that just thrills me. Yup, it makes my dried up and cynical heart of evil actually soften a bit.

Don't tell anyone about that though.

HP5 Movie: A Review

Pottermania is here, and we saw the movie Thursday night. Spoilers ahead.

The things that stood out:

1. Believable relationship between Harry and Sirius. They seemed to spend more time together in the movie than in the book, and they truly seemed to have a real relationship. Plus, the movie Sirius was less of a whiny hothead than in the book, and so his death felt more momentous.
2. Nymphadora Tonks--perfectly cast, criminally underused.
3. Luna Lovegood--perfect. Absolutely perfect.
4. Ginny Weasley--still in the background, and few (possibly no) lines. But we get to see her being an amazingly talented witch.
5. Bellatrix Lestrange--again, perfectly cast, but a bit more 'eye-rolling' crazy than the woman we saw in Book 6.
6. Occlumency lessons. Incredibly shortened, but very effectively done: we see all the stuff we need to see, plus Snape gets to be the one to end the lessons.
7. James Potter looks like Harry, in the Mirror of Erised, even more in the photo of the original Order of the Phoenix, and especially as a Hogwarts student. Wonderful casting.
8. Grawp was beautifully done, huge, scary, but somehow loveable. Fitting for Hagrid's half-brother.
9. The betrayal of the DA was altered, but did all the work it needed to in a cleverly compact way. Harry's crush, Cho Chang, is the one who informs Umbridge, but only because of Veritaserum. Still, that ends the crush and clears her out of the way for Harry to find his true girlfriend in number 6.
10. Umbridge. Umbridge, Umbridge, Umbridge. She was even more insidious than in the book, because she kept the patronizing faux charm going until the very end.

This was a dark movie, the tone reinforced by the cinematography. Grimmauld Place was dark and grim and horrible. The Department of Mysteries was all black shiny ceramic tile and eerie gray light. The thestrals were suitably creepy looking and bony and leathery, yet somehow the thestral foal was still cute.

Sadly, the Ron/Hermione chemistry is just not there. Hermione and Harry have a visible and believable connection that is just missing between Ron and Hermione. Just as Harry hasn't said two words to Ginny, or even really noticed her--the pairings are just not gelling as they should. I don't miss the extended Quidditch scenes, but it was as teammates that Harry and Ginny had something in common, and we just aren't getting to see it.

This was a very efficient movie, and packed a whole lot of plot into two and a quarter hours. I'm already trying to decide when to see it again.

Cooking Lessons

So, tonight we had individual mini-pizzas for dinner tonight. Gramma Sweetie (Mr. Sweetie's mom) is here for a few days, and we had the good stuff: crab meat, portobello mushrooms and fresh spinach.

Kidlets had pepperoni and sausage.

Making Italian sausage for pizza here at Chez Evil means buying Jennie-O turkey sausages and browning them. But, of course, for pizza, you need crumbled sausage. So that means taking the refrigerated sausages and removing the casings. So, you have these long, curved tubes of meat, contained inside a thin, organic sheath, and you squeeze. . .

It just feels so. . .you know. . .porny.

Today, I am driving Mr. Sweetie's car. It's a sleek and compact little number, with a leather interior and ergonomic seating. It's a great car to ride in. To drive? Not so much. Mostly because everything is just a little bit different than my Venerable Honda, and because Mr. Sweetie is so much taller than I am, so I have to adjust everything before I can even reach the pedals.

Today, I noticed all the stuff that is high tech in this car--higher tech than in the Venerable Van. The stereo comes on automatically when you turn on the ignition, but at a subsonic volume. Fortunately! there is a stereo control right on the steering wheel, so you don't even have to take your hands off the wheel to adjust volume, station, or CD.

It gives you the outdoor temperature digitally. Not to any fractions of degrees, although that is probably an available option. So, when it's hot outside, you know EXACTLY how hot it is. It's even worse in the winter to know EXACTLY how cold it is.

You get a gas mileage readout. Today it showed me how far I could go on the amount of gas in the gas tank: 360 miles. Sometimes it shows how many miles per gallon you can get at the particular speed you are driving: always a laugh at stop lights.

It has the time AND THE DATE. Which is digitally updated, so you can see when exactly July 4th becomes July 5th. Whether or not that is meaningful in a car.

It's a bit of a noodge too--a nagging nanny. Low on wiper fluid? Ding ding ding ding periodically until you refill the dang reservoir. Low on gas? Nanny Noodge to the rescue. Seatbelt not on? Hair not combed? Okay, not that last one.

The headlights and wipers come on automatically when the sensors detect dim light or rain. I mean, really! The sensitivity of these sensors is amazing--I went into the garage this bright sunny morning, and before I was all the way in, the headlights were on. Nobody spat on the windshield, though, so I can't report on the wipers.

Start the car, put it into gear, and before you have fully pulled away from your parking spot, the doors have automatically locked. Odometer and trip odometer are separate, so you can track a particular length of trip at your choice.

But speed?

Oh yeah, speed.

Well, contrary to all the technical and digital LCD displays, speed is on an old fashioned analog dial. One with approximations of the speed. The actual mph are only picked out in twenty mile an hour increments, so you can really only know that you are going, say, somewhere between 40 and 60 mph. There are some intervening lines, that signal something approaching 30 or 35 miles an hour, but exact speeds, unlike exact temperatures or dates, are not available.

I would say something scathing at this point, but it seems the car can read my mind. Because as I was contemplating this fact, tooling down the highway at something like 15 mph over the speed limit, and getting passed by everybody, I heard the car respond. Not a real voice, but a voice in my head.

It spoke with a heavy Arnold Schwartzenegger accent.

"Don't be a girlie mon. Zis ees a Gzherman car. Eet goes fast!"

There Is No Panacea

This is sad news. There should be a panacea. For everything. A pan-panacea, if you will.

The keep-me-breathing-while-I-sleep machine is not a panacea. There were a couple of days when it looked like it might be. I was sleeping for 6 hours, and waking up! Refreshed! Even my sinuses were clear! And I thought, maybe this could be it. Sure, I look like a Doughboy up against mustard gas in WWI when I go to sleep, but maybe it's worth it.

Because, if I could sleep well and only need six hours a night--why, that would free up so much time! I could wake up, and have enough energy to go to the gym! I could finally lose the weight I gained after my kids were born! I wouldn't have to stay up so late out of a desperate need for a few consecutive minutes of mental clarity! The price of gas would go down! The Shia and Sunni would go to dinner at the Kurds, and Iraq would be as Eden! I could think of something to have for dinner! Caffeine free Diet Pepsi(TM) would run from the water taps!

Alas, it was not to be. I started having a reaction to the material that touches my face. I'd call it a "latex allergy" but I have been informed (and rather snottily, I might add) that there IS no latex in the damn thing. Okay, so tell that to the spots on my face that are raw and painful!

Maybe I had the mask on too tightly? Okay, so I loosened the straps. And spent that night feeling like I had a 50 pound elephant's trunk strapped to my face. The sucker had its own momentum whenever I rolled over, and tried to take my face with it.

So, boil some water, pour it over the mask and let the water cool. Some help, and the raw spot disappeared, but there is still some unpleasant reaction between that mask and my face.

Then, I find I'm still not getting enough sleep. I wake up after seven hours of sleep, and I'm still tired. I still need another 2-4 hours of sleep--which maybe isn't fair, since then I don't use The Machine, but still eats into a lot of my time. And I'm yawning through the day. Again.

I have an appointment in three weeks to check the data The Machine is gathering. And I think I need to get another mask fitting appointment, as I spend about 15minutes trying to get the thing onto my face so it doesn't weigh so heavily on my upper lip.

Yup. It's official. I'm a whiner.

Overheard In Public

The family stopped on a road trip at a "Bar and Grill" that had a UFO theme: Space Aliens. In addition to the classic movie posters--like the original War of the Worlds, and The Day The Earth Stood Still--it had enormous clippings from the Weekly World News. "Space Alien Backs Bush For President!" was one, and "Mysterious Cow Abductions!" was another.

Even the bathrooms were decorated in the spirit of the theme--the toilets were totally black, which was rather eerie.

While I was there, I heard a voice coming over a stall--NOT one of my own children's, however.

"Hey Mom! It's like peeing into a Black Hole!!"

I totally wish I had said that.

Today's Little Project

As we have already established, I have a little trouble keeping my keys straight. Now that I have a Schlage lock on my studio door, I have compounded the problem, because I have three keys that look identical.

I started to correct the problem at home by getting new keys--the one for the house is entirely purple (like the outside of the house! See how clever I am!), and the one for the garage has a purple cap on the top, while the rest of the key is silver.

But, see, now I'm too clever by half, because since I've been spending my days painting the studio purple, I automatically put the purple key into the lock, even though the purple key goes to the purple house and not the purple studio. Mnemonics have failed.

So today I went out and bought myself some groovy key caps and "Key-shirts"--flexible plastic covers to make my various keys visibly different from each other. Then, I transferred all my keys onto a single key chain. The end result is hardly slim, but at least I won't get my keys stuck in the wrong locks any more.

Splash Date!

This is a term of art--meaning the day your boat goes into the water. I love this term--it's so darn cute! And all these oil crusted men with varnish and paint covered pants, and sunburns on the backs of their necks who work in boat yard actually say this without any squirming or anything.

"What's your splash date?"
"Call me in the office to arrange your splash date."
"If you need to do a lot of work in the spring, you're going to have a late splash date."
"I don't want to have any splash dates after June 1."

Well, that last one was too bad, as Lady Cliff had a lot of work done to her hull and framing this spring, which finally got closed up this week, and today, she went into the water! It's an amazing thing, to see the mobile lift placed around her, straps run underneath (with cushioning cardboard, so as not to mar the paint!), and then the lift drives across the boatyard to the elevated track over the water, where she is lowered v-e-r-y c-a-r-e-f-u-l-l-y into the water. A work boat pushed her into her new slip, and a literal swarm of boatmen crawled all over her, checking for leaks, and bilge pumping and god knows all what else.

Tonight, Mr. Sweetie, Bunny and I had dinner in the saloon, and those of us over 21 toasted the launch with champagne.

FYI--getting tipsy on champagne happens even faster when the floor underneath you actually rocks back and forth! Use this information responsibly.

First Night

So, last night was the first one with the cursed machine. And I have to admit, at least it was quiet. Mr. Sweetie wasn't bothered by snoring at all (!) and as an added bonus, I woke up without the stuffed nose I've become accustomed to.

But it wasn't easy. Remember being pregnant? When it was hard to get comfortable because there was this thing that always got in the way, and kept you from sleeping on your stomach, and you had to roll from one side to the other swinging the bump over the top, which wasn't always easy to remember to do when half asleep?

Same deal.

It could have been worse, and when I woke up after about 6 hours, I took the damn thing off, and Mr. Sweetie--who was also awake--hugged me and kissed me and made sure I felt loved and attractive. Because he knows all about me and the shallow.

Okay, Now I'm Just Bragging

Pony went off to a two week Chinese immersion camp (I know! I never would have been that brave!) and Bunny and I drove her up there. It's a world famous language program, here in Minnesota, and the camp is on a lake up in Paul Bunyon country.

It took us six hours to get there--some poor signage and multiple stops to walk the dog, who came too--and then two hours to sign her in. And they really did speak Chinese to her! Sure, there were a lot of gestures, or single English words thrown in ("blah blah blah Massachusetts" while pointing to themselves, and even I understood they wanted to know where she was from). Everybody was really nice, very happy to be there, and we even met a girl who was staying in the same cabin, one year younger, and they were able to buddy up.

At one of the stations she had to check in, she made a name tag with her Chinese name in characters and in pin yin. And the woman manning the station, turned to me and started talking to me in Chinese. I said "I don't speak Chinese" but she didn't stop, encouraging me to make a name tag myself. BECAUSE SHE THOUGHT I WAS A STUDENT!!! Whoo! and Hoo!

Later, as I dropped the Pony and her stuff in her cabin, one of the other moms turned to me, thinking I was a counsellor! It must have been my youthful appearance, because I know I didn't look particularly knowledgeable about what was going on.

Right?

The Results Are In

I had my sleep assessment appointment today, and as predicted, I came home with the machine. It turns out that, while sleeping on my own without the machine, I never got any deep sleep--no REM sleep, or the even deeper sleep that happens. My total sleep was light and troubled--which is exactly how it felt to me.

More bothersome, however, is that I experienced significant apnea: both complete stoppage of my airways, and partial blockage. Over four hours of unaided sleep, I had stopped breathing an average of 13 times per hour. My partial blockages were even more frequent, with a total arrested breathing score of 53 times per hour.

That's nearly one per minute! Oh my god! I had no idea it was that bad! So, if you define "restful sleep" as "sleep when you aren't waking up all the time" then I wasn't getting it at all. No wonder I am tired all the time.

With the CPAP (Continuous Positive Air Pressure) machine, it took me forever to fall alseep--90 minutes! And that was starting at 2:30 in the morning. I knew it took me a long time to fall back asleep if I'm awakened! However, over the four hours of CPAP sleep, I did get deep sleep, and my apnea episodes fell to 3. That's quite a difference.

So, I guess I'm going to be sleeping with a machine now. I had to run out to get a power strip, so I can plug everything in that needs to be plugged in next to the bed: CPAP machine, reading light, alarm clock, window fan, table fan. . .

The whole thing is far from fashionable, but maybe this will help the same way taking antidepressants helped--that I'll discover that I'm myself again, and that what's been making me cranky, lethargic, exhausted, weepy. . .can be corrected! Maybe that will be worth the unattractive bed partner look I'll be sporting. Or maybe I'll just start sleeping in a burqa.

And That's How He Got His Name

So, I told Mr. Sweetie all about my doctor appointment tonight at dinner. And he was wonderful about it.

Me: I had my doctor's appointment today.
Mr. Sweetie: (dropping utensils onto the plate, looking directly at me with love and attention and concern written all over his face) I'm all ears.

So I told him about the fact that over four hours of the study, without the machine, I never dropped below stage 2 sleep, which is shallow, and non-REM. That I was having breathing interference approximately once every minute for those four hours. And that the problems all went away while on the CPAP machine.

Mr. Sweetie: I'm really excited for you. This is great, it's going to help!

All right, I know it. I'm all about the shallow. But Mr. Sweetie has more than earned his nickname today. Plus, he went out and bought me some distilled water after 10 tonight for the damn thing.

I am a very lucky girl, having such a wonderful man to be my best friend and my life partner.

Stri-i-i-i-ike!

Last weekend, I heard a story on NPR about a 30+ year old protest against the KKK and Nazi Party, where the protesters were holding signs and chanting "Death to the KKK!" As happens at these things, some members of the KKK and Nazi Party showed up, and there was shooting. People died. In the aftermath, the man who had organized the protest acknowledged that the language had been inflammatory, and there were other ways to express his disapproval.

Later, that same weekend, the Evil family went to a baseball game. Among all the promotions, advertisements, PSAs, etc., was a drive to eliminate ALS--better known as Lou Gehrig's Disease. Every time a batter was retired on strikes, a certain amount of money was to be donated. The running tally was posted on the scoreboards using the abbreviation for a strike: K

Because my mind works this way, I naturally put these two things together, and have the new slogan for the next protest against racism: "Strike out the KKK!"

My Point Is Made

So, did you notice the two posts below? Did you see the horrible juxtaposition of me, all wired up and dopey looking, and the fabulous, Romantic, Pre-Raphaelite painting of Sleeping Beauty?

Like I said, this whole sleep thing is interfering with my self-perception. Okay, let's call it what it is--my delusion of who I am and what I look like. Even adding a tiara won't make it better.

As a sage once pronounced. . ."You can stick rhinestones on a dog's ass. . ."

Sleep Study Photos!

I had a camera in my purse when I went Sleeping for Medicine, and I've finally got the photos off the memory card. Enjoy!

Six electrode sensors on my scalp, buried in my hair. This part wasn't too bad, as it was similar to what the stylist does when doing a color foil, only less stinky. Although there was a lot of gooey crud that didn't come out the next morning.



Yup--wires on my legs too, to check for Restless Leg Syndrome or something. Either way, it's another measure of whether the sleep is restful or not.




This is the device that all my wires attached to, and then it is attached to a computer hidden in the bedside table. It looks complicated and serious, and reinforces the knowledge that this is NOT a SPA TREATMENT




This is the final effect--glamorous, I know. My skin is still reacting badly to all that tape on my chin--a gift that keeps on giving.

When Insomnia Becomes Ironic

Okay, so, I went to the doctors and underwent this annoying sleep study because not only was I getting reports from all kinds of people that I snore, but I was finding myself needing 10 hours of sleep a day and I was still not rested. I'd sleep as much as I could at night, get up and get the kids to school and the husband to work, spend an hour doing stuff, and then I'd go back to bed.

By the time I got up, I had just enough time to take a shower and go pick the girls up from school. And eat lunch. And that was about it. Not much of a life, was it?

So, off I go to the sleep clinic, convinced that something is interrupting my sleep, something serious and chronic, because there just isn't really any time in a day for me to do anything but take care of others and sleep. . .and even then, there was a terrible tendency walk around all hunched over with my knuckles dragging on the ground from exhaustion. I think I looked like a gorilla in clothing.

So, now, I've had the sleep study, and because this is how the world works, my follow up appointment--where I find out what happens when I sleep, when I get some information back--had to be rescheduled for seven days from today. And, because this is also how the world works. . .now I don't sleep.

I'm not certain if it is insomnia, as I've not looked up a medical definition of what constitutes "insomnia," but I can tell you that it's the devil for me to get to sleep these days. I get the kids to bed, I tuck myself in and do all those properly soporific activities, I turn out the light and

Nothing.

Not a thing.

No sleep, no tiredness. My brain starts to throw up a bunch of disconnected thoughts from the past several days, my legs start to feel cramped, my eyes will not stay closed. It's the Anti Sleep going on now.

Last night, for example, Mr. Sweetie was gone on a business trip, which usually means I forget to go to bed. I stay up, because some pre-logical part of my brain thinks that he's going to come home and I should wait for him. But I had already not been able to sleep the night before, when Mr. Sweetie was home, and I was tired. So I went to bed when the kids did, and tried to go to sleep. After an hour and fifteen minutes, I got up, went to the bathroom, did some laundry, and tried again.

Of course, nothing. So then I stayed in bed (this is apparently key advice for getting back to sleep--stay in bed) and I got out my laptop, and started doing some Internet research, some reading, some computer games. . .all of which have been known to make me so tired I think I'm going to be ill if I don't go to bed. You guessed it: nothing.

Did you know that just before the sun comes up, the birds get really loud? That if you are in a darkened room with only the laptop screen for illumination, you can see the air around you get lighter as the sun rises? I finally started yawning at about 5:30 this morning, and got to sleep sometime before 6. And I woke up less than six hours later, and I've been up and fully alert and awake ever since.

Doesn't this throw a monkey wrench into my sleep history? Maybe by next week, I can develop yet another disordered sleep pattern, and drive the doctors crazy! Sounds like fun, doesn't it?

Chivalry Lives

Sometimes, you get such an interesting perspective on your own life from listening to your kids talking to each other. At least, I do.

This evening, we were in the MamaVan, driving across town with my iPod on, playing tunes the kidlets hadn't been around for the first time: Sinead O'Connor, Lisa Loeb. And I was singing along, as I do. This in itself shouldn't be torture; I have been told by disinterested parties that I have a nice singing voice. The scene went something like this:

Bunny: (skeptically and a bit dramatically) Mama. Are you singing?

Me: Well, yes. I like to sing.

Bunny: (very dramatically) But that's torture! That's horrible! How can you do that?!?

Pony: (quietly, in contrast to Bunny's loudness, and perhaps so I don't hear) You can't do that. Mama doesn't tease us, so you can't tease Mama.

Bunny: (immediately stopping the histrionics and putting on an arranged expression of remorse) Sorry Mama.

Of course I said it was okay, and that I appreciated the apology, but I was surprised. I don't think of myself as "the one who doesn't tease," because I think of myself as "the one who is not as fun as Daddy." From this little snippet of insight, maybe the fact that I don't tease is actually something the girls value. I was struck by how deeply they felt the Golden Rule imperative--so that my two girls--my two silly and funny and delightful and happy girls--immediately responded to my being teased as something inappropriate. I was very touched, and my dried and shriveled up heart got a little bigger.

I do love these girls (I know, it's a big secret, isn't it?) and they continue to delight and amaze me, even at their advanced ages. They are really growing up, leaving childhood behind, and embracing the larger world as it opens up to them. But it looks to me like they are bringing some of the best of childhood along with them as they grow.

Hallelujah!

I finally got the call--it looks like my studio will be ready (enough) for me to actually get the keys tomorrow. Woot!

Then I can start removing carpet tack strips, carpet mastic, fill in missing tiles, painting, laying vinyl tile. . . . .

Beating A Dead Horse

Because every good joke is better with a visual:

I have nunchucks!

Which are nuns!

Named Chuck!

On Chains!




(Photo source here)

Just Call Me Cleo

So, I was scheduled to have a follow up to my sleep study--in which a doctor would go over all the tests that I subjected myself to, and interpret them, and then conclude that I need to sleep with a mask over my face and with a machine next to my bed for the rest of my life. Can you tell that I'm not excited about this?

Anyway, that appointment was supposed to be today. And since I'm an erratic sleeper, I even had to set an alarm to make certain that I didn't sleep through it. But an hour before my appointment, I got a call: one of the doctors was ill, and the others have to all cover patients and hospital rounds, etc. etc., and not only is my appointment today canceled, I can't get rescheduled until they work something out with who is going to be where, and when.

Which I am just as glad about, I guess. It allows me a few more days to live in denial about my condition and the likely solution to it. Sure, I've had totally messed up sleep, and I've lost a disproportionate amount of my life to the many hours I need to sleep, and when I wake up I'm still groggy and kind of messed up. . .

Okay, so I guess I do need to do something about this. But I hate the headgear and the whole "I'm going to look horrible and not at all cute and not at all attractive and I should just go sleep in another room and spare Mr. Sweetie the pain" is really weighing on me.

Do you think if I add a tiara, I might not mind it so much?

The Kid Is Still Insane

The Bunny was treating us to one of her stream of consciousness stories today. I think it had something to do with a dream she had of blackberries attacking her classroom. At any rate, she started talking about what the kids in her dream did to defend themselves.

"So then, she started to defend herself! With a kitana! And nunchucks!

Which were nuns!

Named Chuck!

On chains!"