So it's been a while. September, it looks like. Well, to be perfectly honest, not a lot has been happening. What with the constant stress of the threat of lay-offs, 2009 was pretty much a crap year, and I was quite glad to see the hind end of it come December 31, and don't let the door smack your ass on the way out, 2009.
Unfortunately, 2010 is not shaping up to be a whole lot better. The Chief got laid off a few weeks ago. The Big Bad Evil Corporation he works for decided that four guys in India could do his job a lot cheaper (but much less efficiently, apparently, although the Big Bad Evil Corporation is more concerned about bottom line than it is about efficiency, or about doing its patriotic duty by keeping our jobs in America, but that's another rant for another day), so it's adios muchachos, here's some severance benefits to tide you over for a bit, and have a nice life.
So, long story short, The Chief is here. Job searching. At home. In my office. All day.
Which is okay in a boy-it's-nice-to-get-to-spend-so-much-time-with-you sort of way, but somewhat less okay in a how-the-hell-are-we-going-to-pay-the-mortgage-when-severance-runs-out sort of way.
So I'm debating starting my own job hunt. While this mom-at-home gig I've had for the past fifteen years has been extremely rewarding, it doesn't pay awfully well. At least, not in ways that will enhance my bank account balance.
Hmm. I wonder if there are any knitting jobs out there…
Showing posts with label Things That Make Me Furious. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Things That Make Me Furious. Show all posts
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Big Silence
Sorry for the Big Silence, folks...
Computer issues top the list of reasons for not being here much...my hard drive blew up...well, not literally, although it might as well have. Apparently there was a Bad Sector, which happened to be in the Dangerous, Mystery-Shrouded Location That is Called the Registry. Fortunately, The Chief is an Absolute Friggin' Genius when it comes to those mysterious boxes of silicon we call computers, and he bought me a new hard drive (a terabyte, dudes, I've got a freakin' terabyte...whatever the hell that is...it's good, though, cuz The Chief handled the thing extremely reverently, and there was hushed silence and herald trumpets going on as he installed it), and somehow managed to retrieve all my data from the Bad Sector Demons.
I worship the ground upon which he walks...and in return, I am endeavouring to keep him well supplied with clean socks (it's not going well, though).
Well then. Replacing the hard drive means reinstalling all the software. Because, you know, even if the thing does have a Freakin' Terabyte, apparently it's not all that Advanced and Clever, because you still have to put all the disks into the computer and click the Next Button forty million times...and after that you have to spend an entire afternoon telling Microsoft Word about how you hate Smart Quotes and how "colour" is too the way you spell it, and complaining bitterly to anyone who will listen about how Microsoft Word likes to correct one's spelling and grammar as one types, which is extremely detrimental to the creative process...And then, as if that's not bad enough, Internet Explorer keeps locking up, because, you know, even if the hard drive is this Cutting Edge Piece of Wonderousness, even it can't stop Internet Explorer from having a meltdown every five minutes. And apparently it can't do much about my internet service provider, which has been providing rather spotty service lately.
Anyway. I'm here. Today. We'll see how long the Technology cooperates.
Computer issues top the list of reasons for not being here much...my hard drive blew up...well, not literally, although it might as well have. Apparently there was a Bad Sector, which happened to be in the Dangerous, Mystery-Shrouded Location That is Called the Registry. Fortunately, The Chief is an Absolute Friggin' Genius when it comes to those mysterious boxes of silicon we call computers, and he bought me a new hard drive (a terabyte, dudes, I've got a freakin' terabyte...whatever the hell that is...it's good, though, cuz The Chief handled the thing extremely reverently, and there was hushed silence and herald trumpets going on as he installed it), and somehow managed to retrieve all my data from the Bad Sector Demons.
I worship the ground upon which he walks...and in return, I am endeavouring to keep him well supplied with clean socks (it's not going well, though).
Well then. Replacing the hard drive means reinstalling all the software. Because, you know, even if the thing does have a Freakin' Terabyte, apparently it's not all that Advanced and Clever, because you still have to put all the disks into the computer and click the Next Button forty million times...and after that you have to spend an entire afternoon telling Microsoft Word about how you hate Smart Quotes and how "colour" is too the way you spell it, and complaining bitterly to anyone who will listen about how Microsoft Word likes to correct one's spelling and grammar as one types, which is extremely detrimental to the creative process...And then, as if that's not bad enough, Internet Explorer keeps locking up, because, you know, even if the hard drive is this Cutting Edge Piece of Wonderousness, even it can't stop Internet Explorer from having a meltdown every five minutes. And apparently it can't do much about my internet service provider, which has been providing rather spotty service lately.
Anyway. I'm here. Today. We'll see how long the Technology cooperates.
Wednesday, December 3, 2008
The Gravity Must be a Bit Screwy Over There...
The Chief and I have shared living space for over twenty years now and I fear I shall never enlighten him regarding the difference between in the laundry basket and next to the laundry basket.
The difference between in the laundry basket and next to the laundry basket is, in actual, three-dimensional, Euclidean space, about six inches, possibly less.
In The Chief's own little world, however, that distance might as well be 20 light years. The socks, the boxers, the T-shirts, never seem to make it in the laundry basket. The man would have me believe that it is not that he is deliberately dropping his clothes a mere six inches from the laundry basket, oh no. He would have me believe that he begins putting his clothes in the basket with the best of intentions, but no matter how hard he hurls the socks, no matter how carefully he takes aim, they simply will not go in the laundry basket. There must be--and I quote--"something screwy with the gravity over in that corner of the room."
He would also have me believe that a man who can find his way into the bathroom, perform his nightly ablutions, get ready for bed, and find his way into bed amongst the various canines who may or may not be stretched out on the floor or curled up on the bed in the dark cannot get his clothing in the laundry basket, which has occupied the very same space for as long as we have lived in this house.
Now, I have ventured into that corner of the room many a time, let me tell you, both to deposit my own dirties in the laundry basket, and to scoop up the pile of clothes that have been left next to the laundry basket, and near as I can tell, there is absolutely nothing wrong with gravity in that part of the room.
Neither of the children, both of whom are considerably younger (and possibly brighter) than The Chief has any difficulty with this concept (although their grasp of the difference between in the dishwasher and on the dishwasher is tenuous at best, but we'll save that one for another time). Their laundry baskets are always full of dirty clothes, and aside from the occasional sock that escapes the heap, I rarely find any laundry on their floors. (Clothing that has been worn by Little Mouse for about 6.5 seconds before being flung off and hurled to the floor because it is not exactly right and then left there is an entirely different story, and we will not speak of it here lest I completely lose it.)
After twenty years, I guess I am mostly resigned to my fate, and to put it into perspective, there are a lot worse jobs out there than scooping a pile of dirty clothes off the floor and depositing them in the laundry basket every morning. But hell, I thought when I married him that he would at least be trainable!
The difference between in the laundry basket and next to the laundry basket is, in actual, three-dimensional, Euclidean space, about six inches, possibly less.
In The Chief's own little world, however, that distance might as well be 20 light years. The socks, the boxers, the T-shirts, never seem to make it in the laundry basket. The man would have me believe that it is not that he is deliberately dropping his clothes a mere six inches from the laundry basket, oh no. He would have me believe that he begins putting his clothes in the basket with the best of intentions, but no matter how hard he hurls the socks, no matter how carefully he takes aim, they simply will not go in the laundry basket. There must be--and I quote--"something screwy with the gravity over in that corner of the room."
He would also have me believe that a man who can find his way into the bathroom, perform his nightly ablutions, get ready for bed, and find his way into bed amongst the various canines who may or may not be stretched out on the floor or curled up on the bed in the dark cannot get his clothing in the laundry basket, which has occupied the very same space for as long as we have lived in this house.
Now, I have ventured into that corner of the room many a time, let me tell you, both to deposit my own dirties in the laundry basket, and to scoop up the pile of clothes that have been left next to the laundry basket, and near as I can tell, there is absolutely nothing wrong with gravity in that part of the room.
Neither of the children, both of whom are considerably younger (and possibly brighter) than The Chief has any difficulty with this concept (although their grasp of the difference between in the dishwasher and on the dishwasher is tenuous at best, but we'll save that one for another time). Their laundry baskets are always full of dirty clothes, and aside from the occasional sock that escapes the heap, I rarely find any laundry on their floors. (Clothing that has been worn by Little Mouse for about 6.5 seconds before being flung off and hurled to the floor because it is not exactly right and then left there is an entirely different story, and we will not speak of it here lest I completely lose it.)
After twenty years, I guess I am mostly resigned to my fate, and to put it into perspective, there are a lot worse jobs out there than scooping a pile of dirty clothes off the floor and depositing them in the laundry basket every morning. But hell, I thought when I married him that he would at least be trainable!
Sunday, July 6, 2008
If it Ain't Normal, Drug It!
The range of behaviors society is willing to call "normal" seems to be narrowing at a rather alarming rate. Behaviors that only twenty years ago were considered part of the incredible diversity of human expression are now considered pathological, and we are encouraged (every night during numerous television commercials sponsored by Big Pharma) to seek help and take powerful medications (whose actions on the brain and long-term effects are only vaguely understood) to control our symptoms.
When I look at the sweeping changes the Age of Technology has wrought in our society just in the past twenty years or so, I have to ask myself, is it any wonder that some of us just can't deal with our environment? Our genetic heritage has us hard-wired to be running around outside in the sunlight, foraging and hunting in order to feed ourselves, not slumped in front of a computer or a television screen under artificial lights eating processed chemical cocktails marketed as food day after day. But instead of asking what we can do to make the environment more healthy?, we ask what is wrong with these people? and medicate them so that they might better fit society's ever-tightening definition of "normal".
I'm thinking about something Furious Seasons reported on a while back about workplaces offering ADHD screening for their employees. And I'm thinking about antipsychotics being used for "social phobias" including fear of public speaking. And I'm thinking about the questionnaire I got on depression the last time I went to my GP's office for a thyroid check.
This trend to medicalize and pathologize every emotional condition that deviates even slightly from the norm worries me. I foresee a grim future in which all that is unique and brilliant and different in a person, all that sets us apart from each other, will be drugged out of us so that we better fit in the nice little boxes society uses to classify and control us.
Brave New World, anyone?
Writing Prompt: When I was about fourteen, I refused to grow up to be anything like my parents. I thought they were dull and boring, and I told them so (my mother has never let me forget this!). I wanted lights and music and excitement, and I couldn't figure out what was so great about a weekend spent sewing and reading and gardening. The Box People, I called them, all fitting so nicely into their middle-class suburban boxes. It's easy to label people when you're looking at them from the outside in. What labels have you carried? Do they tell the whole story? Why or why not? What labels would you give yourself?
When I look at the sweeping changes the Age of Technology has wrought in our society just in the past twenty years or so, I have to ask myself, is it any wonder that some of us just can't deal with our environment? Our genetic heritage has us hard-wired to be running around outside in the sunlight, foraging and hunting in order to feed ourselves, not slumped in front of a computer or a television screen under artificial lights eating processed chemical cocktails marketed as food day after day. But instead of asking what we can do to make the environment more healthy?, we ask what is wrong with these people? and medicate them so that they might better fit society's ever-tightening definition of "normal".
I'm thinking about something Furious Seasons reported on a while back about workplaces offering ADHD screening for their employees. And I'm thinking about antipsychotics being used for "social phobias" including fear of public speaking. And I'm thinking about the questionnaire I got on depression the last time I went to my GP's office for a thyroid check.
This trend to medicalize and pathologize every emotional condition that deviates even slightly from the norm worries me. I foresee a grim future in which all that is unique and brilliant and different in a person, all that sets us apart from each other, will be drugged out of us so that we better fit in the nice little boxes society uses to classify and control us.
Brave New World, anyone?
Writing Prompt: When I was about fourteen, I refused to grow up to be anything like my parents. I thought they were dull and boring, and I told them so (my mother has never let me forget this!). I wanted lights and music and excitement, and I couldn't figure out what was so great about a weekend spent sewing and reading and gardening. The Box People, I called them, all fitting so nicely into their middle-class suburban boxes. It's easy to label people when you're looking at them from the outside in. What labels have you carried? Do they tell the whole story? Why or why not? What labels would you give yourself?
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
On Kindness
I was very sad to see that Gianna at Beyond Meds will not be blogging any longer due to cruel comments left on her blog. I cannot understand what drives some people to behave as badly as these anonymous commenters have. All I can do is shake my head and wonder at the state of this world...and ask myself WTF I was thinking, bringing children into it.
Years ago I read something about thinking before you speak, and it touched me. I cannot recall where I read it, or who wrote it, but I wrote it out on a notecard and stuck it on my fridge for my kids to read when they need a reminder.
We could all do worse than to follow its advice:
Ask yourself before you speak (or comment on someone's blog):
Is this true?
Is it kind?
Is it necessary?
Years ago I read something about thinking before you speak, and it touched me. I cannot recall where I read it, or who wrote it, but I wrote it out on a notecard and stuck it on my fridge for my kids to read when they need a reminder.
We could all do worse than to follow its advice:
Ask yourself before you speak (or comment on someone's blog):
Is this true?
Is it kind?
Is it necessary?
Friday, April 11, 2008
Things That Make Me Furious
Danger: Rant Ahead...
If I have to listen to one more parent stand up in front of our school board and urge them to cut gifted services in favor of sports, I'm going to commit a crime. Or at least an embarrassing act.
If I have one more parent come up to me and tell me that "It must be so easy having gifted kids...they're so smart they do so well at everything," I may have to tear some hair out. Easy?
Um. Easy is not the word I would have used.
I have spent more hours advocating for Hell's Barrister and dragging him, kicking and screaming, through this imperfect system we have than I want to think about.
My oldest has been described by some of my adult friends as "scary bright." His test scores are off the charts. His grades are not. Trying to keep this child challenged and motivated in a school system designed for "average" has been a daily fight.
The last three years of elementary school, he spent in a blissful state of misbehavior and underachievement. He had three years in a row with teachers who either refused to or were incapable of challenging him in the classroom, and so we also had three years in a row of complaints about his behavior in class. "He's bored," I would say when they called me about his latest escapade. "You have to challenge him."
Unfortunately, their idea of challenging him usually involved busy-work. If he finished a worksheet in five minutes instead of the allotted forty, he was given (drum roll please) another worksheet. In his eyes, a punishment for doing his work efficiently. Or they'd allow him time to read some of the books in the classroom. Okay, but this is a kid who tackled "Moby Dick" in the second grade. He's not interested in "Encyclopedia Brown" or "The Boxcar Children."
I spent a lot of time those three years trying to keep his love of learning alive by providing enriching activities at home.
What ticks me off the most about this system is that we have plenty of services for kids at the other end of the spectrum. But nobody seems to think that we need to do anything for the "gifted." (I abhor that word, but it's the word everyone understands.) The attitude of most of the people I've heard speak against gifted education at school board meetings is, "Well, they are gifted. They'll get through just fine."
Um. No. They won't. The kids in the gifted program at my son's middle school are not the kids who are making straight A's. In fact, a lot of them are failing.
Nobody seems to have a clue that a child with an IQ of 150 is as different from the norm (IQ=100) as a child with an IQ of 50. You wouldn't expect a child with an IQ of 50 to thrive in a regular classroom, would you? So why is it that our "gifted" children are expected to do so? Why did it take me two years of waving test scores in front of various officials' faces to get them to grade-advance him in math?
The Barrister is doing a lot better in terms of attitude and performance since starting middle school. His pre-AP classes are keeping him interested and challenged, and I've been able cut back on the amount of enrichment stuff I need to do with him at home. For the first time since second grade, he's actually enjoying school (as much as any twelve-year-old boy enjoys school). I shudder to think how close he came to losing all interest in school. And I wonder how many other kids we're losing to a system that just wasn't designed for them.
In our district, the AP program is one of the programs at risk in the next round of budget cuts. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let them cut this program in favor of football without a fight.
They say they can't afford to keep these programs that are educating our future scientists, engineers, doctors, and leaders.
I say they can't afford not to.
If I have to listen to one more parent stand up in front of our school board and urge them to cut gifted services in favor of sports, I'm going to commit a crime. Or at least an embarrassing act.
If I have one more parent come up to me and tell me that "It must be so easy having gifted kids...they're so smart they do so well at everything," I may have to tear some hair out. Easy?
Um. Easy is not the word I would have used.
I have spent more hours advocating for Hell's Barrister and dragging him, kicking and screaming, through this imperfect system we have than I want to think about.
My oldest has been described by some of my adult friends as "scary bright." His test scores are off the charts. His grades are not. Trying to keep this child challenged and motivated in a school system designed for "average" has been a daily fight.
The last three years of elementary school, he spent in a blissful state of misbehavior and underachievement. He had three years in a row with teachers who either refused to or were incapable of challenging him in the classroom, and so we also had three years in a row of complaints about his behavior in class. "He's bored," I would say when they called me about his latest escapade. "You have to challenge him."
Unfortunately, their idea of challenging him usually involved busy-work. If he finished a worksheet in five minutes instead of the allotted forty, he was given (drum roll please) another worksheet. In his eyes, a punishment for doing his work efficiently. Or they'd allow him time to read some of the books in the classroom. Okay, but this is a kid who tackled "Moby Dick" in the second grade. He's not interested in "Encyclopedia Brown" or "The Boxcar Children."
I spent a lot of time those three years trying to keep his love of learning alive by providing enriching activities at home.
What ticks me off the most about this system is that we have plenty of services for kids at the other end of the spectrum. But nobody seems to think that we need to do anything for the "gifted." (I abhor that word, but it's the word everyone understands.) The attitude of most of the people I've heard speak against gifted education at school board meetings is, "Well, they are gifted. They'll get through just fine."
Um. No. They won't. The kids in the gifted program at my son's middle school are not the kids who are making straight A's. In fact, a lot of them are failing.
Nobody seems to have a clue that a child with an IQ of 150 is as different from the norm (IQ=100) as a child with an IQ of 50. You wouldn't expect a child with an IQ of 50 to thrive in a regular classroom, would you? So why is it that our "gifted" children are expected to do so? Why did it take me two years of waving test scores in front of various officials' faces to get them to grade-advance him in math?
The Barrister is doing a lot better in terms of attitude and performance since starting middle school. His pre-AP classes are keeping him interested and challenged, and I've been able cut back on the amount of enrichment stuff I need to do with him at home. For the first time since second grade, he's actually enjoying school (as much as any twelve-year-old boy enjoys school). I shudder to think how close he came to losing all interest in school. And I wonder how many other kids we're losing to a system that just wasn't designed for them.
In our district, the AP program is one of the programs at risk in the next round of budget cuts. And I'll be damned if I'm going to let them cut this program in favor of football without a fight.
They say they can't afford to keep these programs that are educating our future scientists, engineers, doctors, and leaders.
I say they can't afford not to.
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