sueeeus

I love…

• that the rains have finally arrived
• that Mr. Gadget installed fan timers in the bathrooms, without me even asking
• that Mr. Snazzy Pants has forgotten about his pacifier (and it’s a good thing, as I have absolutely no idea where the last surviving ‘binkie’ is)
• that today is Friday and there is a remote possibility that I can get a full night’s sleep tonight
• that TV season is back in swing (Prison Break on Monday, House on Tuesday, Bones on Wednesday, Grey’s Anatomy and Without a Trace on the horizon)
• that my new popcorn popper does a bang up job and meets with my (very hard to come by) approval

I do not love…

• that my blog goes belly up on such a regular basis
• that all my web sites go belly up so frequently
• that I have web sites to support
• that the culprit is probably my web host service
• that I can’t determine, for certain, precisely what is the cause of such bad behavior
• that I made a fabulous family web site for the in-law side of my family, and thus far, almost nobody uses it
• that I upgraded my fabulous family web site with super-fabulous features like a categorized photo gallery and personal control over posts, uploads, and comments, and, thus far, I’ve heard nothing but complaints from the peanut gallery regarding how slow it is and how difficult it is to use, and how it basically sucks
• that, thus far, only one person (other than myself) has even tried to use the fabulous new site, that person being a certain gadget enamored individual, recently referred to as the peanut gallery
• that I have lost the art of punctuation (which some people, more than others, and myself included, find distressing)
• that Mr. Gadget has the wi-fi capable laptop tucked away in his work van (and why   Why   “Because it’s mine,” he says, “and why can’t I keep it where I want it ” To which I ask, “what possible use is it, out there ”  To which, the non-answer is, “Because it’s mine, and why can’t I keep it where I want it “
• that almost all conversations with the peanut gallery are similarly productive
• that I can think of far more things for this part of the list, than for the glass half full list

Let me see…

Shall I whinge on the latest examples of Women are from Venus, Men are from Mars   (Except, I am an Aries, after all, and the gender barrier doesn’t always hold true.)

Or, perhaps, a whinge on the goings on and at the office   I think not.  It’s best to keep a separation of work and blog, in my case.  And besides, Mr. Gadget is quite good at bearing the brunt of my work whinges.  We unload our respective work whinges at the end of the day, as the need arises.

Shall I muse over the complexity of the endocrine system, and all that entails   I think not.  Oh, maybe just a little.  The fact that I have phases of oily, pimply skin, mixed levels of unwarranted depression or melancholy, and even moments of snarly ungracious attitude, I think hormones are busy at work, doing their thing, wreaking havoc as they wrestle for their place in the confines of this earthen vessel they call home.

Shall I lament over the state of the lives of the people I love, friends and family both Nay, such things are far too private for the blogosphere.

Shall I mention how glad I am that it has finally rained  

What about my fall lineup   Cargo pants and red shoes.  Red shoes!  (Fashion is no longer my thing.  Function.  Comfort.  It’s all about function and comfort.)

Shall I ramble on about one of my latest goals   The art of zen blogging   Zen is about simplicity, is it not   Zen blogging.  It’s nothing more than a feeble attempt at a positive spin on the fact that I don’t can’t shouldn’t spend quite so much time at the computer.  Therefore, in the interest of simplifying my life, I might not be spending as much time reading and writing in the blogosphere.

Actually, it’s a guilt thing.  The child, he cries.  Wails!  When I sit down at my desk, he cries.  Tears.  Tears!  “Mama, you should be with me, not that STUPID COMPUTER!” I read from his tearful, pained expression.  No, he’s not talking yet.  But that’s what he’s saying.  I’m certain of it.

It’s taken a lifetime of bicycling discontent to reach the conclusion that I am not a cyclist. I’ve had several bikes, and have enjoyed the occasional ride, but not enough to overcome the discomfort of shoulder, head and neck strain, not to mention the pain in the rear. Who designs bike seats   What are they thinking   C’mon.

Since I am now in my forties…  …ahem…   …I am somewhat more humble than I have been in years past, and have embraced come to terms with the fact that I am not a nimble athlete.  It pleases me to learn that there is a bike for riders like me.  Middle aged, sit-at-a-desk-all-day, non-nimble-athlete types.  It’s called a comfort bike.  Comfort!  Now that’s what I’m talking about.  That has me written all over it.  Finally!  I can sit upright with no weight on my shoulders, so I don’t have to strain my neck to hold my head up.  I can enjoy the scenery as I peddle on by.  Not only that, I can put my feet on the ground without having to get off the seat.  And, to put icing on the cake, look what I found –a WeeRide for my wee rider.  He sits safely in front of me and sees what I see.  He’s a part of the action, and we both like that quite alot.

Look at us go!  The bike even comes with a bell.  See   My little smartie is busy letting everyone know that we’re on our way.  Ring-ring!

There has been much ado around here lately, and I’ve been meaning (and wanting) to write, but I find that the thoughts are slipping as the days go by. If nothing else, I can make a fragmented list, and perhaps one day I can go back and explore things in further detail. Or not.

• a month of stepchildren, nieces, nephews, siblings, in-laws, parents
• elevated blood pressure
• camping at the ocean
• a road trip to God’s country
• a boat ride on a beautiful lake
• lake swimming
• heat stroke (not me, but dear Lord, how fragile and precious life is, I must always remember)
• a puppet show
• a theme park
• a new deck
• The Salon, a three day role playing game, taken very seriously
• Cafe Sueeeus
• trials and tribulations with opc (other people’s children)
• Sueeeus, the Wicked Stepmother
• tearful goodbyes
• thank God it’s just us (did I say that out loud )
• blood pressure back to normal
• a new bike
• a new baby bike seat
• yearning for fresh air, better health, and a more simple life
• and so much more…

As it would turn out, there is more strategy to SuDoku than I imagined.  Had I taken a mere moment to browse the subject on the world wide web, I’d no doubt have learned this.  But, alas, I did not.  Until yesterday.  I have now learned that one should not have to resort to trial and error, but solve the puzzle with logic alone.  (I did finish that 12×12, but sadly, used trial and error and a careful mapping scheme.  It took four tries, I’m embarrassed, yet also pleased, to admit.)

I was far too rusty in my knowledge of permutations, but now, now I am equipped with the x-wing and the swordfish.  I cannot be stopped!  Onward ho!

(I plan to tackle one 16×16, armed with my new arsenal of techniques, and, upon completion, will move on to better and more productive diversions.)

As if I have time for diversions.  Of any sort.

My SuDoku journey has been an indulgence.

Heavens, it’s been a long time since I’ve made a post. There is much to say. Much. But for now, I speak of SuDoku. Yes, it’s been a craze that’s taken the world by storm, but I am usually quite out of touch, so I’ve only recently been introduced.

Whilst visiting relatives of late, my dear young niece, a bright lass of ten, had in her possession two puzzlebooks. Sudoku for children. Emphasis on for children. Would you like to try it, she asks, in her sweet little voice. It’s fun! You’ll like it!

I’m always good for a puzzle. She concisely explained the game, and I ventured forth.

SuDoku kicked me in the rear, so to speak, and I found myself quite humbled by the fact that this was a children’s level game. In my defense, I hadn’t thought much about the logic of it during the first puzzle attempt. For children! I kept exclaiming. (Balking, rather). It’s hard, isn’t it My niece was so encouraging, in her sing-song voice. She has such infectious enthusiasm. Still. For children. Aback. I was simply quite taken aback. I am, after all, a university trained professional in a highly mathematical field. Hrumph!

I caught on, though, and came up with a method. Oooh. Ahhhh. I boldly and brazenly moved to the next level, and was quickly triumphant. Basking in my newfound success at breaking the daVinci code (hey, it’s how I felt –such a Eureka! moment), I chose the last level four puzzle in the book. Assuming, prematurely, and far too smugly, that I would whiz right through it.

Not so! That puzzle bested me for three days! My newly acquired system of logic and elimination failed. Failed! I was finally forced to make a choice between two numbers. A guess. With one guess, there are multiple possible outcomes. So frustrating, to track and backtrack. Such a tangled web. Oh yes. And during this struggle I learned that my mother does SuDoku. Of course. She’s always been a puzzler. The puzzle she’s working Not a measly children’s nine by nine. No. She’s working a sixteen by sixteen. Sixteen by sixteen! For heaven’s sake! I am in awe.

I finally solved the puzzle. I had to. Otherwise it was going to gnaw at me and slowly drive me mad. So now I decided to try a twelve by twelve (from dailysudoku.com). I’ve only identified six numbers so far. Only 80 more to go (they gave me 58).

Mercy me. What have I gotten myself into

I am very annoyed with spam.  I have filters to catch alot of it, but how annoying that it even exists.  People who want the kinds of things that are offered in spam would likely seek it out on their own, so why, why, WHY the barrage, the onslaught   V. annoyed.

Our router died.  Which means no internet at home, until we get another.  The cable modem can be directly connected to one computer, but since Mr. Gadget is Mister Gadget, he likes to have control of gadgety things like routers and such.  So the master computer on our home network is his computer.  Which he seldom uses.  Not mine.  Which I use all the time.  So he has internet, but I don’t.  V. annoying.

We had a conversation quite recently about firewalls and routers in which I mentioned that my work has a specific requirement for a specific firewall router device, and that I was considering purchasing one so that I can more readily work from home and meet all the company security requirements, and such.  So I get a phone call yesterday, in which Mr. G advises that he has purchased a new router.  A router quite different from the one I spoke of so recently.  A newer, more gadgety router.  I inquired as to whether he had any recollection at all of our recent router conversation (he did not), and attempted to make a point that it seems wasteful to purchase router A when there is compelling reason to use router B.  Router A has more flashy lights, or something.  It was recommended by a gadgety friend of Mr. G.  It’s of little interest to him that Router B, as recommended by my company, a company that has an IT department of hundreds, if not thousands, of well-qualified technical professionals who have spent no small effort in determining precisely what is appropriate, meets necessary computing security requirements. 

Having agreed to return Router A, and instructed to acquire Router B, I get another phone call from Mr. G, inquiring after the part number of Router B.  Again, I tell him the number.  He scoffs.  He wants to get router C, instead.  Because it’s the latest.  Router B is Junk.  Old technology.  There’s so much newer and better stuff on the market now.  They (my company) don’t know what they’re talking about.  And so on.   V. exasperating.

The marketing gods must love my Mr. G.  He’s exactly the consumer they cater to.

It appears that school is still in session.  It’s mid JUNE!  Shouldn’t school be out for the summer   Even so, I noticed a trio of interesting young men, waiting at the crosswalk this morning.  One was dressed in army camoflauge, cap to boots.  One wore a kilt outfit that looked authentic to my untrained eye.  One was dressed in a sharp and snazzy suit.  Maybe it’s the last day of school, or nearing the end, and they are dressed for some presentation or career expo or something.  Whatever the case, it was a pleasant distraction.  Each one was clean and tight, standing tall and straight.  Not the usual sloppy tee shirts, sagging pants, sloppy sneakers, slouching, lacadaisical swaggers that I see in so many teens these days.  V. refreshing.

It’s that day of days, 060606.  At least, in my neck of the woods.  So far, the world hasn’t ended.  Today is tomorrow, somewhere else, and today isn’t yet today, someotherwhere else.  Just for fun, I’m making my time stamp 0606.  It’s totally fake though.  It’s more like 21:47, but that’s not nearly so dramatic.

Of note.  Nothing.  Well, we went to dinner at an Asian buffet.  It’s breakfast, lunch, and dinner, here out West.  Not breakfast, dinner, and supper.  To my delight, they had kimchee.  Kimchi   However one spells it, I love it!  And never get it.  And haven’t made it in years.  Korean kraut.  How a fermented spicy cabbage dish could be so tasty, is beyond me.  It’s p’raps a cultural thang, what with my half-blood-princess genes and all.  Well, there are actually no princess genes that I know of, but I am a half breed.  Of that I am certain.  The food was quite decent, for an Asian buffet.  It’s always alarming to see the enormity of the average diner, though, in places like that.  There is much denial on my part as I pretend that I couldn’t possibly ever become like that.  Ever.  Ever   Ever.  Ahem.

I have yet to learn restraint.  It’s a shameful thing.

I now have a cough.  An annoying tickle in the throat.  A sharp, wheezing, annoying tickle.  It’s penance, I’m sure, for indulging in one, two, maybe three, or possibly even four of the seven deadly sins.  All for dining at an Asian buffet.  Was one of my many allergens lurking in one of the various delights I tasted   Or is it a lightning fast transference of toddler germs from a shared fork   I took two Benadryl, and am now hoping for the best.

The fortune cookie assures me that an unexpected pleasure is coming my way.  I showed Mr. Gadget, and he knew exactly how I interpreted it.  To prove it was a sign, I had another fortune cookie.  It also said an unexpected event of glad tidings and good fortune awaited.  I am convinced.  It’s a sign.  Yes, it will be a girl.  And we shall name her Harmony.  I’m not sure how we will contend with a conception date of 060606, though.  Hopefully the latter fortune and the former fortune don’t cancel each other out.

Sigh…  Dreaming, dreaming, dreaming.  I would very much love to have a girl child.  Or another boy child.  I want my Mr. Snazzy Pants to grow up with at least one sibling.

I’m very good at it.  Today, at this moment, I ought to be working on my taxes.  But I’m not.   My love bug is napping, and it’s my window of opportunity.  He likes to help me type, and sometimes his key strokes close my windows and applications.  He’s a very helpful young man.  Mr. Gadget is off gallivanting with his siblings.  He left early this morning and claimed he’d be back early.  He planned to fix his sister’s washing machine, and then golf with said sister and a brother.  Meanwhile, my lovely sister C. and her fine man D. have been visiting.  My sister S. spent some time with us as well, and I was all smiles with a houseful of family.  🙂  We enjoyed a delightful breakfast at a local cafe/bakery, and played with Mr. Boo.  Sadly, they had to return home, and I am alone with my love bug.  He’s got almost boundless energy.  All of these things are great at keeping me from the task I’m supposed to be doing. 

Ugh.  Taxes.  The bane of spring.  I have been giving myself permission to procrastinate, saying that I can work on them when Mr. Gadget returns, because he can then keep my little one company.  But, you see, Mr. Gadget hasn’t returned, and the day is drifting away.  I think I hear my love bug stirring, so I will have to stop what I’m doing and go attend to him.  Which I love.  I’m in no way complaining about needing to spend time with him.  I love our moments!  We play and play and play and play.  He laughs and shrieks and gurgles and giggles and squirms and writhes, and it’s the absolute best.  I love it!

I’ve never named a car. There will be no embelishments hanging from my rear view mirror either. No bumper stickers. Well, I do have a Baby on Board sign now. But that’s because I have a baby on board. Not that the sign will cause drivers to be any more considerate.

My dad always named his cars Betsy. After the queen. Of course. One brother named his first car Gwendolyn. I’m not sure if it was supposed to be a witchy name for a wicked car. But Gwendolyn it was. Another brother had a car that he named The Antichrist. Because nothing could kill it. It had seen many a collision and mishap. It just kept on going. And going. And going. The only thing that stopped it was that big car smasher thing that they have at the wrecking yard. It was a 60s or 70s Maverick. His roommates’s car was called Creeping Death. Maybe it’s more of a male thing, this naming of cars. Maybe it’s an emotional attachment thing.

My cars have been moderately nicknamed, though. The Truck. The Subie. The Benz. The Car. But that’s as far as it goes.