Children:
Follow the link:
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Bye!
20081114
20081023
20081022
Really, also, this is finals week....and that finance class is horrid (i have a 60 - one measly point shy of an F walking into the final!!!). I should never attempt to take three classes at once.
The good news is that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel: I have submitted my enrollments for the last five classes that carry me through to graduation. Hooray!
The good news is that I can see the light at the end of the tunnel: I have submitted my enrollments for the last five classes that carry me through to graduation. Hooray!
20081021
20081014
Oh, Google.
Google assures me repeatedly that I can change my login ID by changing the email account associated with my gmail account and that all accounts associated with that gmail account (including this blog) will be moved accordingly.
People, they lie like big fat rugs.
Unless GOOGLE GOOGLE GOOGLE someone at GOOGLE wakes up and tells me why this didn't work (when I edited my email, it created a new blog and did not copy over my current configurations), I am going to be moving to WORDPRESS.
Google, google, whereforarththou Google? Do you care?
I think not.....
Google assures me repeatedly that I can change my login ID by changing the email account associated with my gmail account and that all accounts associated with that gmail account (including this blog) will be moved accordingly.
People, they lie like big fat rugs.
Unless GOOGLE GOOGLE GOOGLE someone at GOOGLE wakes up and tells me why this didn't work (when I edited my email, it created a new blog and did not copy over my current configurations), I am going to be moving to WORDPRESS.
Google, google, whereforarththou Google? Do you care?
I think not.....
20081012
I have only lately begun to fully embrace my redneck heritage.
When we moved into the house in Dalton, having lived in Atlanta (oh, 73 to 79, or thereabouts)and then in Simpsonville (while small, it was quaint and had a nearby horsing community to lend it some charm from 79 to 82 or 83), I remember standing in the driveway, looking at the house and driveway and being sad.
Well, we drove by it yesterday. I haven't seen the house since...1997? It's just as ugly as ever. All the privet bushes are gone, and someone poured a driveway beneath the back deck. It's still brown. It's still depressing to look at and an eyesore. It has no grass, although it got a new driveway and garage doors at some point. The cow pasture is still a cow pasture. It's still real rural. I still hate it.
Living in Dalton made me into a redneck, and lowered my I.Q. by at least twenty points the second a drop of tapwater passed my lips. Something about all those carpet fibers hitting the town's water supply on a daily basis collectively suppressed the town's ability to evolve beyond a fifties style mentality. I. So. Hated. It.
I learned how to hack up phleghm and spit it really far at the bus stop with the other red neck boys (self defense for ned girls with glasses). God help me, I learned to suffer silently through farts on the bus. I never fit in with these people, being someone who read science fiction (that was satan's tool, and not fit reading for young ladies). I also did not wear makeup, or dresses (on a regular basis), or (and this will shock those of you who know me now) a regular believer in grooming. I didn't understand that those things were important if you wanted to be accepted by other girls, I think. I was a regular PigPen, at times, because I could not be bothered to care what these people thought. If they were not going to like me *sniff*, I certainly would not like them.
That is always such a successful strategy for making friends.
My own idiocy blinded me to the real natural beauty of the area. Yesterday's miniature tour (I took a wrong turn on the way back from the fair, which I'll talk about at a later day) reminded me how pretty it was. There are some beautiful places up there, although I cannot live in such an isolated area.
I always thought I was better than everyone I knew there because I was born in Atlanta and no one in my family worked in a mill. I certainly made myself unhappy and I felt constantly isolated. Perhaps those people I looked down upon had all the advantages I denied myself - they had a sense of community and belonging.
I have all these dreams and aspirations, but when you come down to it, and I anything more than a jumped up redneck?
When we moved into the house in Dalton, having lived in Atlanta (oh, 73 to 79, or thereabouts)and then in Simpsonville (while small, it was quaint and had a nearby horsing community to lend it some charm from 79 to 82 or 83), I remember standing in the driveway, looking at the house and driveway and being sad.
Well, we drove by it yesterday. I haven't seen the house since...1997? It's just as ugly as ever. All the privet bushes are gone, and someone poured a driveway beneath the back deck. It's still brown. It's still depressing to look at and an eyesore. It has no grass, although it got a new driveway and garage doors at some point. The cow pasture is still a cow pasture. It's still real rural. I still hate it.
Living in Dalton made me into a redneck, and lowered my I.Q. by at least twenty points the second a drop of tapwater passed my lips. Something about all those carpet fibers hitting the town's water supply on a daily basis collectively suppressed the town's ability to evolve beyond a fifties style mentality. I. So. Hated. It.
I learned how to hack up phleghm and spit it really far at the bus stop with the other red neck boys (self defense for ned girls with glasses). God help me, I learned to suffer silently through farts on the bus. I never fit in with these people, being someone who read science fiction (that was satan's tool, and not fit reading for young ladies). I also did not wear makeup, or dresses (on a regular basis), or (and this will shock those of you who know me now) a regular believer in grooming. I didn't understand that those things were important if you wanted to be accepted by other girls, I think. I was a regular PigPen, at times, because I could not be bothered to care what these people thought. If they were not going to like me *sniff*, I certainly would not like them.
That is always such a successful strategy for making friends.
My own idiocy blinded me to the real natural beauty of the area. Yesterday's miniature tour (I took a wrong turn on the way back from the fair, which I'll talk about at a later day) reminded me how pretty it was. There are some beautiful places up there, although I cannot live in such an isolated area.
I always thought I was better than everyone I knew there because I was born in Atlanta and no one in my family worked in a mill. I certainly made myself unhappy and I felt constantly isolated. Perhaps those people I looked down upon had all the advantages I denied myself - they had a sense of community and belonging.
I have all these dreams and aspirations, but when you come down to it, and I anything more than a jumped up redneck?
20081010
I had all these ideas in my head the first time I made a trip abroad. Grand, romantic ideas about what being in another country would be like. Adventure – check. Bringing some snacks I could eat – check. Trying to blend in – check (well, as well as I can, at any rate). An element of mystery – check. Most importantly for me, I think I expect other countries to be capsules frozen in time. I expect them to have somehow escaped the modernization that daily erases American history. Face it – Americans have no interest in preserving history unless it generates a ROI. Imagine my dismay when I went to Europe and discovered that the landscape was not, in fact, dotted with castles and grazing sheep! Shocking!
To say I was bitterly disappointed in my first two or three trips abroad would be a wee bit of an understatement, until I realized that other people romanticize culture’s other than their own just as I do (explaining why Europeans and Asians flock here to shop and gamble and tour our landmarks…prior to this year, how many Americans – my own family excluded – do you know who spend quality time touring their own country?).
I first went to Washington, D.C. in seventh grade as part of one of those field trips you do with a school group. Call me cynical, but even at that age I was hardly impressed with the city. This would have been in 1985 or 1986, when the city was hardly the shining gem it is today. In fact, it was dirty, smelly, and I recall that it was FULL of panhandlers and shouting vagrants. Oh, and it rained the whole damn time, and since it was a budget trip we slept on the bus one night and ate the worst food possible (one meal was a dinner theater presentation of the “Sound of Music” at a dinner theater called, I shit you not, The Lazy Susan. Never, ever eat at a place where the words Lazy or Susan are mentioned in the title. Absolutely abysmal. Really.) And the city had a definite if not audible air of hostility. Complete contrast to the most recent trip, where it is clear that the city is enjoying a beautifully orchestrated Renaissance combined with a full on aura of polite paranoia (and in full parallel, our time at the Smithsonian was once again spent almost entirely around the Air and Space Museum, except this time we have cool photos, which I will post as soon as I can, and we spent SEVEN exact minutes in the Art Museum thanks for your diligence in counting, Security Folk, hope you enjoy your $12/hour).
People have some appalling manners. I would no more go to another country and disrespect someone’s history or a monument than I would pick my nose in a public place although there are some inhabitants of D.C. that I would happily wipe snot on. Now, I know I’m supposed to make some allowances for cultural differences, but can I tell you that I was horrified to visit the World War Two memorial and see it full of Indians with their feet in the reflecting pool. Or to see children hanging off the commemorative wreaths, and other children running in front of you when you are trying to take a photo, with the parents looking on in laughter without so much as looking your way to even offer an apology? Very few of the tourists we saw were, in fact, from America and the ones we did see were our age or older, and childless. As we toured Arlington on our way out, I remarked to Mr. Manners as we passed a much older and primarily male group of Germans (under my breath) that it was rather ironic that they chose to tour Arlington (given the particular area they were in, pebbles and all).
As an American woman who can trace her roots back to the first of her family to set foot upon this soil after leaving the British Isles, in many ways I’m proud of my country. I’m proud of America’s democratic history. I’m extraordinarily proud of the solidity of our Constitution and Bill of Rights (I think only the Magna Carta has withstood as many legal challenges throughout history). I’m proud of the fact that we have always been a nation that was willing to accept the world’s refugees, the world’s outcasts, the world’s runaways, victims, you name it, and has embraced them, given them an opportunity to succeed, and made them our own (oh, the populist flute just popped out, I swear it did). I’m proud of the fact that we have a great record as a charitable organization – we spread our collective wealth all over the world, helping people fight malaria, polio, HIV/AIDs, cancer, measles, etc. I’m proud of the fact that we stick up for the underdog, and yes, I’m proud of the fact that we are the police force for the globe (even though we don’t always, uh, judiciously apply our forces). I’m proud of the fact that ordinary Americans are willing to rally together in times of darkness to demand what is right. I’m proud of the citizenry of this country. We don’t make the decisions that represent us to the rest of the world, it’s true, but we make the decisions that keep the country moving on a day to day basis. We can’t tell the future, we don’t know if we’ll have jobs tomorrow, and every time we make a decision concerning our jobs, our houses, our insurance, our finances, it’s a bit of a gamble because all those decisions rely on outside forces, but you manage through those forces to the best decision you can (perhaps with your fingers crossed for a bit of luck). And really, you just don’t look too hard at the worst case scenario, because that leaves you with an ache in the bottom of your stomach and a deeply terrifying feeling that won’t go away.
Some of the people who are in charge of the stewardship of this country have made some incredibly poor decisions. Perhaps those decisions were motivated by greed. Perhaps those decisions were motivated by stupidity or it’s parasitic twin, ignorance. Those decisions have led us into a path now that cannot, despite all this talk of bailouts (spin aside, folks, it’s a bailout and it results in higher taxes…wouldn’t it be better if, as dad has suggested, the government just gave you and I that money rather than the banks? Wouldn’t that solve everyone’s problems by paying off all mortgages and credit card debts?), be undone. I’m starting to be ashamed, boys and girls, because look what so much power in the hands of a select few has managed to do to the world.
Power corrupts…and evidently cash does too….
To say I was bitterly disappointed in my first two or three trips abroad would be a wee bit of an understatement, until I realized that other people romanticize culture’s other than their own just as I do (explaining why Europeans and Asians flock here to shop and gamble and tour our landmarks…prior to this year, how many Americans – my own family excluded – do you know who spend quality time touring their own country?).
I first went to Washington, D.C. in seventh grade as part of one of those field trips you do with a school group. Call me cynical, but even at that age I was hardly impressed with the city. This would have been in 1985 or 1986, when the city was hardly the shining gem it is today. In fact, it was dirty, smelly, and I recall that it was FULL of panhandlers and shouting vagrants. Oh, and it rained the whole damn time, and since it was a budget trip we slept on the bus one night and ate the worst food possible (one meal was a dinner theater presentation of the “Sound of Music” at a dinner theater called, I shit you not, The Lazy Susan. Never, ever eat at a place where the words Lazy or Susan are mentioned in the title. Absolutely abysmal. Really.) And the city had a definite if not audible air of hostility. Complete contrast to the most recent trip, where it is clear that the city is enjoying a beautifully orchestrated Renaissance combined with a full on aura of polite paranoia (and in full parallel, our time at the Smithsonian was once again spent almost entirely around the Air and Space Museum, except this time we have cool photos, which I will post as soon as I can, and we spent SEVEN exact minutes in the Art Museum thanks for your diligence in counting, Security Folk, hope you enjoy your $12/hour).
People have some appalling manners. I would no more go to another country and disrespect someone’s history or a monument than I would pick my nose in a public place although there are some inhabitants of D.C. that I would happily wipe snot on. Now, I know I’m supposed to make some allowances for cultural differences, but can I tell you that I was horrified to visit the World War Two memorial and see it full of Indians with their feet in the reflecting pool. Or to see children hanging off the commemorative wreaths, and other children running in front of you when you are trying to take a photo, with the parents looking on in laughter without so much as looking your way to even offer an apology? Very few of the tourists we saw were, in fact, from America and the ones we did see were our age or older, and childless. As we toured Arlington on our way out, I remarked to Mr. Manners as we passed a much older and primarily male group of Germans (under my breath) that it was rather ironic that they chose to tour Arlington (given the particular area they were in, pebbles and all).
As an American woman who can trace her roots back to the first of her family to set foot upon this soil after leaving the British Isles, in many ways I’m proud of my country. I’m proud of America’s democratic history. I’m extraordinarily proud of the solidity of our Constitution and Bill of Rights (I think only the Magna Carta has withstood as many legal challenges throughout history). I’m proud of the fact that we have always been a nation that was willing to accept the world’s refugees, the world’s outcasts, the world’s runaways, victims, you name it, and has embraced them, given them an opportunity to succeed, and made them our own (oh, the populist flute just popped out, I swear it did). I’m proud of the fact that we have a great record as a charitable organization – we spread our collective wealth all over the world, helping people fight malaria, polio, HIV/AIDs, cancer, measles, etc. I’m proud of the fact that we stick up for the underdog, and yes, I’m proud of the fact that we are the police force for the globe (even though we don’t always, uh, judiciously apply our forces). I’m proud of the fact that ordinary Americans are willing to rally together in times of darkness to demand what is right. I’m proud of the citizenry of this country. We don’t make the decisions that represent us to the rest of the world, it’s true, but we make the decisions that keep the country moving on a day to day basis. We can’t tell the future, we don’t know if we’ll have jobs tomorrow, and every time we make a decision concerning our jobs, our houses, our insurance, our finances, it’s a bit of a gamble because all those decisions rely on outside forces, but you manage through those forces to the best decision you can (perhaps with your fingers crossed for a bit of luck). And really, you just don’t look too hard at the worst case scenario, because that leaves you with an ache in the bottom of your stomach and a deeply terrifying feeling that won’t go away.
Some of the people who are in charge of the stewardship of this country have made some incredibly poor decisions. Perhaps those decisions were motivated by greed. Perhaps those decisions were motivated by stupidity or it’s parasitic twin, ignorance. Those decisions have led us into a path now that cannot, despite all this talk of bailouts (spin aside, folks, it’s a bailout and it results in higher taxes…wouldn’t it be better if, as dad has suggested, the government just gave you and I that money rather than the banks? Wouldn’t that solve everyone’s problems by paying off all mortgages and credit card debts?), be undone. I’m starting to be ashamed, boys and girls, because look what so much power in the hands of a select few has managed to do to the world.
Power corrupts…and evidently cash does too….
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