sueeeus

They are here. The girl (TG) and the boy (TB). They arrived last night, and we made the family trip to the airport. Mr. Gadget went in with itinerary in hand, hoping the powers that be would let him go to the gate to greet the kids. It’s a shame, the impact that 9/11 has made on the airport experience. No more crowds of anxious families waiting for their loved ones, breaking out in boisterous hugs and smiles when a familiar and beloved face emerges from the gate. Now it seems like the meet and greet brigade has been diluted into a confused swarm of meeters, greeters, and travelers milling about the luggage claim.

To avoid exhorbitant parking fees and stern reprimands (or even fines, gah!) from the local airport law enforcement, Mr. Gadget went in, and I drove on. Away and anon, to circle the airport until the reunited family emerged. At least, that’s what he suggested. I think not. Not with an extremely unhappy (and commensurately expressive) toddler seated behind me. No. Instead, we drove to a quiet, peaceful grassy place nearby. As luck would have it, a stately old cemetery is near the airport. I think it was a stroke of genius on my part. From a bustling crazy throng of traffic to expansive lush green lawns and ancient shady trees, we were instantly transported. I let my sweet little munchkin out of the confines of his carseat and he romped and played in the grass. We had a grand time. That is, until my allergies kicked in. We were finished playing by then, and back in the car, ready to drive to the front of the baggage claim area to collect the family. Wheezing. Coughing. Choking. Where is the benadryl I had some, luckily, but it took all night and a morning to clear up. Hrumph.

They’ve only been here an evening and a morning, and already…
Already, TG has breakfasted on Cheetos. TB has made a long distance call. Both without asking. My side of the family is admittedly a band of hooligans, and I’ve recently been blessed with visits from nieces and nephews of assorted ages. Hooligans or not, not once did any of them help themselves to anything without asking. They are much more polite than I give them credit for, and perhaps not hooligans at all!

I know I can be controlling. Even so. Am I out of line, feeling a bit annoyed I think I am more surprised than anything. It didn’t occur to me that visitors in my home would not ask. It seems so impolite. Perhaps they are simply independent sorts. Even so. I expressly mentioned that we have cereal (and please, don’t open anything new until what’s already open is used up) and bread for toast. I shouldn’t have had to explain that Cheetos are junk food, and we only have them once in a while as snacks with sandwiches or something, but certainly not for breakfast. I shouldn’t have had to explain that we don’t have a long distance plan on our land line (so if we happen to make a long distance call, it costs a fortune), and that we use the cell phone to call long distance.

Arrggggghh! Do people not teach their children manners I don’t want to be forever known as the evil stepmother, because I expect a certain level of courtesty (and not even very much, at that).

This happened last time. We’d assumed they were old enough to be left unattended while we worked. To my dismay, they snooped and poked and prodded into seemingly every corner of my house. Things were used without asking. Things were consumed without asking. I was a little distraught. It seemed as though they assumed that the home was their dad’s, and what’s his is theirs, and they therefore didn’t need to ask. And they were so pleased at his apparent good fortune.

Ah, the joys of a blended family. I was a well established single, prior to saying I do to the gadget man. The home was mine. The furnishings were mine. A lifetime of investments. He brought with him little more than the fallout of a bad divorce, which was mainly a substantial debt, bad credit, and a whole lot of nothing. I didn’t marry him for his holdings, for goodness sakes! But it has been frustrating, on occasions like this.

So this time, I have the privilege of working from my home office. To keep a semi-watchful eye. Hence the surprise that even in my presence, they don’t think to ask.

I kindly and gently explain these things to them. What a delicate situation, to express expectations with kindness, but with authority and firmness. It is no small effort.

Having uttered something recently to the effect that ‘I hate computers’ and all things related, the computing gods have retaliated swiftly, raining brimstone and fire on my humble little holdings. 

Brimstone and fire in the form of excessive bandwidth consumption hailed from who knows whence.  In my own paranoia, I wonder if I might be the one causing such havoc, with some sort of infection in my home LAN environment that is beyond my understanding and capabilities to detect and obliterate.  I have a firewall!  I do!  It’s configured to protect me.  At least, I think it is.  I hope it is.  I followed the instructions.  I know it is.  But what of the interim between this new firewall installation and configuration, and time as I knew it, before   I’ve been running with a few different layers of protection.  SpyBot Search and Destroy.  AVG.  AdAware.  (I think.)  Windows XP built in firewall.  But that’s it.

The evil storm consumed over 300 GIGabytes in the last 9 days.  NINE DAYS!  I doubt I’ve had 3 GB in my entire blogging life.  I recently installed my firewall.  It’s too close for comfort and has left me squirming.  What did I do   Did I do anything   I don’t think I did anything.

I’m so damn paranoid.  How I hate it when thinks go amuck.  I am very much pleased with the service I get from my hosting company.  They’ve been excellent.  What is happening now   I can’t stand not knowing.  And not being able to do anything about it. 

One thing I can do is control comments.  I’ve changed my blog properties to force registration upon commenters.  I have so few non-spam visitors.  I hope my blog friends won’t mind. 

I may eventually turn off comments altogether.  Why do people spam   It makes me sick inside, that they do these malicious things that make life so unpleasant for the rest of us decent, simple, trying-to-be-kind people…  I am SO exasperated!

I don’t blog for the general public, and I haven’t got a big ‘following’, which suits me fine.  It does feel nice when kind people make kind comments, but if I must, I will shut it down or make it private or do whatever must be done to protect my good standing with my hosting company.  I am responsible for some bonafide web sites out there, that real people, businesses, and communities use and depend on, and I can’t have anything that has anything to do with my own personal web sites bringing them down. 

Blog spam may not be the culprit, but it is very annoying.  I spend more time cleaning out spam and whinging about it, than enjoying the journey of writing out my thoughts and feelings and dealing with my day to day me-ness.  Which is why I blog.  At least, why I want to blog.

All that said, my web sites will all be down tomorrow, as their host servers are being re-located.

I am inept.  Or perhaps, a fraud.  I bought a PDA, ummm, three years ago, and only today have I succeeded in accessing the internet with it.  SO FRUSTRATING!  Off and on through the past three years, I’d try, and give up in complete and utter exasperation.  And I’m a generally tolerant and steady person. 

I finally found an obscure note on a support forum somewhere that suggested that I re-run the welcome executable.  Voila!  Now, why, why, WHY, would that be necessary   And if it IS necessary, why is it so obscure   Why is it not documented in the help files somewhere   Anywhere

I HATE COMPUTERS!  But I also love them, for the way I can connect and live vicariously in the wide wide world.

I can hardly describe how pleased I am to have finally gotten that little doohickey to connect to the outside world.  Delighted, for sure.  But the frustration through the journey was not one bit worth it, and my so-called state of the art electronic gizmo is so yesterday’s news. 

C’est la vie.

I say … and you think …

1. Voice :: of reason
2. Us :: and Them
3. Passionately :: crazy
4. Humbly :: softly
5. Love songs :: silly
6. Dim :: wit
7. Calendar :: girl, wish I looked like one
8. Careless :: whisper
9. Block :: point
10. Goal :: too many, what to do, what to do

Skin===   That’s what happens when the fingers are off a key on the keyboard.  Some become skin.  Anyhoooo, sometimes I’m not so good at this free association stuff, and just draw a blank.  Or think of tunes…

1. Voice :: Moody Blues.  Won’t you take me back to school…
2. Us :: Peter Gabriel.  …the blood of Eden, lies the woman and the man…
3. Passionately :: I need a hero… Bonnie Tyler   Dunno why, but it pops into my head, so that’s ‘free association’, right
4. Humbly :: Softly, gently, music will enfold you…  Music of the Night, Phantom of the Opera, Michael Crawford
5. Love songs :: Silly, like I said.  Paul McCartney
6. Dim :: and dimmer.  I can’t think of a dim song.  Just a dumb movie.
7. Calendar :: Freeze Frame.  Is that J. Giles Band   I have no idea how to spell that one.  Or maybe I’m thinking of that angel is a centerfold song.  Or maybe it’s the same song.  What do I know
8. Careless :: whisper of a good friend… George Michael
9. Block :: okay, this stopped being fun way too long ago for me to be still typing.
10. Goal :: finish this nonsense and go to bed.

from Lunanina

There has been a flurry of activity of late around these parts.  Family members have converged at chez moi, to my extreme pleasure.  But the shame of it.  Gardening is not my thing.  My fantasy, but not my reality.  “You have a nice home, Sissy, but your currrrrrb appeal…”  She drifted off with a tsk tsk tsk, for the shame of it.

To my defense, I have a full day from the time I rise, without enough sleep, I might add.  Ever.  I commute, I work, I collect my child from his able caregiver, whisk him home and prepare the evening meal, clean him up, get him ready for bed, play a little, take him to bed and stay with him until he’s sleeping.  At which point, it is me time.  Or, generally, my own bed time.  When do I have opportunity for gardening

I am remiss.

Today I tried something different.  I let my rambunctious child play outside while I surveyed the situation and attempted to do a little damage control.  It turned out to be too hot and too difficult to get anything accomplished besides keeping him from running away or falling off the steps and skinning his knees.  When Mr. Gadget finally returned from work, we fed the munchkin his dinner, got him ready for bed, and both went with him to settle him down.  Only I made my stealthy exit and got down to business.  Me, a shovel, and a spade. 

There are definite improvements.  I recycled the moustache fringe of whathaveyous and transplanted them in all the nice pots that were previously empty, or growing weeds.  I don’t know what they are, but they certainly proliferate, because I swear I dug them up last year after deciding I didn’t particularly like them after all.  They may well die, now that they are in pots, but I won’t be heartbroken if they do.  And if they survive   They look quite nice in pots.

Before and after.  There is much room for improvement, but I surprisingly enough had a very nice time doing what little I did.

Before.  The moustache.

After the shave.

It’s a sad state of affairs.

But a little more welcoming now.

Inspired by PeaSoup’s recent post, I am compelled to post something about my beautiful and beloved greyhounds.   I’ve never been much of a pet person, and I’m conveniently allergic to cats and dogs (and, alas, a whole slew of other things).  However.  One day.  A few years ago.  While my biological timeclock was ticking.  Loudly.  Booming, in fact.  I happened upon a greyhound adoption awareness expo.  And fell. In.  Love.

I’d never seen such docile and beautiful creatures.  They resembled little deer with those fawny coats, big soulful eyes, and long slender legs.  I learned that people with allergies can often tolerate greyhounds, because they are not like other dogs.  They are short haired dogs and they don’t have the same oiliness that other dogs have, hence, they don’t smell like other dogs, don’t have the same kind of dander as other dogs, and don’t shed like other dogs.  These are all marketing points, and might be somewhat exaggerated.  In truth, they don’t smell bad (except, errr, the flatulence…) and they aren’t oily (I think perhaps that oil is what contributes to the dog smell, but I’m no expert), but they do shed.  Lots.  But who cares   When you’re smitten, you’re smitten, and these things don’t matter so much. 

I gathered all the info, set up my home and yard for greyhound safety (there are many requirements to meet, in order to be approved for adoption) and having passed the inspection and been deemed worthy of becoming a greyhound parent, I anxiously awaited my new family member’s arrival.

My first beautiful boy.  He was so scared, and cried all night.  I didn’t sleep the first night.  He was an ex-racer, and had never known life beyond the track and kennel.  A home was entirely new.  I had to teach him about windows and stairs and furniture.  I taught him to use the potty place (designated place out back).  He learned fast!  He was such a good boy.   (Until my Bugaboo arrived, at which time, there were a few behavioral incidents involving indoor urination…) 

He never learned to stay by my side.  How he loved to run free, but off-leash was out of the question.  He would bolt, and he wasn’t streetwise.  He didn’t understand roads or traffic, and he could run SO FAST and so far that by the time he stopped, he wouldn’t be able to find his way back.  This is one of the issues that one might encounter with an ex-racer. 

I fell so deeply in love that I became a foster mom, and took in new recruits and helped them transition from the track to the home, prior to going to their forever homes.  It was a tough job!  Like having a newborn (that is, until I had a newborn, at which time I learned that it wasn’t quite the same after all).  I fell in love with all my fosters, but I couldn’t bear to part with this little beauty. 

She was the sweetest thing.  She was a rescue, retrieved from a home in which she was not at all well cared for, and her previous mom was blacklisted, for good reason, and not allowed to adopt again.  My sweet girl.  She flunked out of racing before she even began, so she never actually raced.  She wasn’t so inclined to the singleminded chase, as her brother (who raced a full career, with a handful of wins, even!).  She did quite well off leash, and would return to my side when called.

We let her run free at the ocean, and it was exhilarating to behold!  The unbridled joy of a greyhound running at full bore, charging through the waves!  I will treasure the memories forever.  Even now, I can’t help but smile.

We briefly allowed her brother off leash, but it was a disaster and we nearly lost him.  We were able to retrieve him, thank God, but knew from that moment he absolutely must remain on leash, for his own safety.  My beautiful boy.  How I wanted to let him run free.

These hounds taught me much.  They readied my heart and my mind for motherhood.  I’m convinced of it.  There is a compassion that one learns when one cares for another.  Patience, tolerance, love, responsibility.  All these things are heightened.  Unconditional love.  They live it.  To experience it is an amazing and beautiful thing.  Yes, they taught me much.

I do believe that loving and caring for these creatures helped prepare me for motherhood, in more ways than one.  Given the fertility stumblingblocks I wrestled with, perhaps the experience of opening up, loving, and nurturing helped to allay some of the stress and havoc in my mind.  Stress can have such an impact to the delicate hormonal balance that determines whether or not an egg might be released.  I’m convinced of that.  (Of course, I don’t claim to have any medical basis for this.  I just believe it.  That is all.)

The weight of the actual responsibility that comes with the birth of a child is tremendous beyond expression.  I thought I was ready.  Completely prepared.  I’d waited my entire life for this.  Yet, when it happened, I realized that I knew nothing!  It was the most terrifying thing, the first few days of motherhood.  And in those days, I felt unable to care properly for my beautiful hounds, and a baby was new to them, and they both had a particularly strong prey drive.  (Prey drive can be an issue with greyhounds, so one must be vigilant in training and exposure to potential prey.  It’s the responsible thing.  Never take for granted that training will overcome instinct.)  The baby outprioritized the hounds, and I couldn’t give them the attention and care that they needed and deserved.  I decided to let them go.  Many tears were shed, but the good news is that both of them were re-adopted to fine homes that very day.  Within hours, even!  Neither one had to spend a night in a kennel.  For this, I am very thankful, and pleased.  And their new families received loads and loads of toys, bedding, and clothes.  (I had very well dressed hounds!)

Links:

http://www.greyhounds.org/

http://www.adopt-a-greyhound.org/

http://www.greyhoundlist.org/

http://forum.greytalk.com/index.php act=home

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.

If I were a better daughter, I’d put a card in the mail.  I thought about it, and thought about what I’d say.  I’m always careful to get the blank write-your-own-note kind, or the kind that wishes well without undue emotion.  It would be laughable to send something that said “World’s Greatest Dad.”

Usually I do send something.  I write a brief note comprised of small talk, and enclose a picture of his grandson, in the off chance that he might think, “Oh lookie here.  What a fine lad.  Now isn’t that nice ”  As if that would ever happen.  Ever.

Sometimes I call.  It’s not usually unpleasant, but there’s not much warmth or genuine interest, on his part.  Or mine, if I’m to be completely honest.

“You will RESPECT me!  Because I’m your father!”  I can still hear those words, thundered at me, so many years ago.  And my impassioned reply, “Respect is EARNED!  It. Doesn’t. Happen. Automatically.”  (I quite possibly may have shrieked that retort.)

Teenagers.  The things they say.

I recently learned that he doesn’t trust me.  It came as quite a surprise.  He thinks that I am in “cahoots with my mother”.  I’m not sure what designs she has, but apparently, I share them.

I do love him.  Because he’s my dad.  I admire him, even, for many things.  Intellectual accomplishments and pursuits.  Sense of style.  Culinary finesse.  I just wish that he knew how to be impartial in loving his children.  I wish that he had been kind.  To all of us.  Not just the fair-headed ones. 

They don’t quite understand.  (The fair-headed ones.)  They resent(ed) him too, for showing favoritism.  Even as small children they could recognize the blatancy.  They hated the unfairness and despised the doting.  Even so, they didn’t (and don’t) really know what it’s like to be one of the others.  One of the unfavored ones.  Like me.  Like my departed brother.  Like most of my brothers.

Some might say that I was a favored one.  Mom’s favorite one.  I admit that there was a time when I tried, valiantly, to befriend her.  I gave it my best effort.  In my idealistic and impassioned youth, aforementioned, I arrived at the thought that it was important for parents to know their kids, and finding it an impossibility with my dad, I tried with my mom.  I don’t think anybody else tried, and if, for that, I’m considered a favorite…  …Then perhaps I am.  Or was.  I don’t think so, though.  She was heroic in her efforts to run damage control over my dad’s blatant favoritism.  She tried so hard to make things as fair as she could, as fair as she knew how.  I admire her for that, and for other things as well.  Creative accomplishments and pursuits.  Ability to make ends meet that couldn’t possibly meet.  Somehow she managed. 

We had a falling out of sorts.  I was still a teenager, but I was in college, and had decided I was an adult, and was therefore ready.  For.  Sex.  That was the end of our closeness, our hours and hours of talks.  There’s more to that chapter, but this isn’t the time.  I’ve been thinking much lately of starting an entry that I will call “Chapters of my life”.  Maybe later, or possibly sooner, I’ll garner the courage to open that book.  It’s all so narcissistic, isn’t it

I write this only for myself.  To get it out.  It’s my own form of therapy.  I don’t want to offend my siblings, my parents, my family.  Any of them.  I love them.  Desperately.  All of them.  I mean no disrespect to anyone.  I seek no consolation.  Nor sympathy.  I want simply to voice these thoughts, so that I can eventually find my way out of the mire of emotions and neuroses and issues and memories and ideas and thoughts and attitudes that make me me.  And hopefully, one day, I will wake up and find the new and improved me, a loving, thoughtful, wise, centered, compassionate, together, and mentally sound mother, wife, sister, daughter, friend.

I am trying.

Last night.  Wild man toddler finally asleep, after a 2.5 hour battle.  A few moments on the couch, prior to calling it a night.  Mr. Gadget turns to me and says…

(regarding my job)

(the day job)

(the one that pays)

…What is it that you do

The good news is that I must be getting R.E.M. sleep, because I’m dreaming.  But the dreams   Questionable.

For instance.  I dreamt that I was terminal.  I was told, so I knew.  I had 5 months or 2 days.  Five months, two days, what’s the difference   It’s just the end as you know it.  I remember questioning the incongruity of dates while in the midst of the dream, but not enough to go lucid.  As in, to change the outcome and turn the dream into whatever I wanted.  So I basically accepted the end and dealt with it.  The two days and five months turned out to be equivalent in the dream, and I didn’t panic when faced with demise.  I wasn’t sad, or angry, or any of those seven stages, whatever they are (denial, anger, etc.).  I think I pretty much just said, okay.  Okay   Awake, and recalling the dream, I wonder at myself and how I could possibly be okay with that.  In real life I want to live, especially long enough to raise my child.  So, interpretation   I’m a wuss.  Basically.

Last night I had a convoluted dream in which I was participating in a graduation ceremony of sorts.  We, the accomplished, were instructed to take our places at these markers at the edge of a giant swimming pool.  The markers were like those markers on the Rose Line as depicted in The DaVinci Code.  We were to stand on our marker and during the ceremony we each would dive into the pool.  I was trying to explain to the orchestrator that I wasn’t so much of a diver.  She would have none of it, because this class I was graduating with was apparently some sort of a swim class, and we were all supposed to be accomplished divers.  I had therefore had to have lied or used some sort of deceit in order to have gotten myself into this graduating class for which I was to be lauded.  I was quite embarrassed that I would have to attempt to gracefully dive in front of an audience, and doubly embarrassed that my sham would be revealed.  During these emotions, a standerby came into dream focus.  It was the President, in point of fact.  Madame President.  Because the president was a she, and she was dressed in a smart creamy white business suit with black piping embroidered elaborately all over, like the meandering pattern I’ve seen on some beautiful wedding gown fabrics.  Very high end.  Tres chic.  Tres Chanel.  Or something.  She was actually the evil Vice President character from Prison Break, if that means anything.  And apparently, it was a well known fact that she was L.  Not that that’s any big deal.  In the dream, a coworker of mine appeared, also dressed in a smart creamy white business suit with similar black piped embellishment.   They matched so nicely.  Like twins.  Two blondes.  Similar bob haircuts.  Slender.  Tall.   Although M. President was a bit older, perhaps ten to fifteen years older, than my coworker.  It wasn’t the same suit, but very similar.  She announced her alliance with the President, and I was a bit surprised, because she had been straight, to my knowledge, prior to this.  Not that it mattered.  I was just surprised.  She chose this particular public ceremony in which I was involved to come out, so to speak. In retrospect, it might have been a good thing, because it distracted the public from my own fumbling attempt to demonstrate the dive for which I was ill-equipped.  I remained embarrassed, however.

Bottom line   Too much tv/movie time (DaVinci Code, Prison Break, synchronized swimming and twins appeared in a film I witnessed recently).  Plus, that whole diving thing reminds me of public speaking and the feeling I get, and I am a Dale Carnegie graduate, after all.  I was recently thinking about all the great things that I learned during my Carnegie training, and how I’ve not kept up with much of it at all.  For shame.  And finally   That black piping   I was reading about what can be done with a serger, as I have been coveting one for quite some time now.  Decorative stitching, piping, and embroidery came up.

I don’t know what I think of dream analysis.  I can usually find threads to relate to the myriad thoughts that cross my mind through the day.  I think that dreams help to de-stress.  All these fragments get woven into a dream that makes perfect sense while dreaming.  Or else, sense is irrelevant whilst dreaming.  Hence the freedom and release. 

I would very much like to experience more of that lucid state in which I can fly, though.  Now that is incredible.  And wonderful.