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March 31, 2005
the wooly worms are out
and other signs spring is nigh in CNY:
the back yard is a swamp of melted snow (and drizzle from this afternoon)
juicy bugs splatter on the windshield
the hyacinths, tulips, and daffodils are peeking up
I had to take my long-sleeved shirt OFF while running this morning because I was HOT and SWEATY!!
the kids don rollerblades before breakfast (and before I'm completely out of bed) to go outside
AND
it's supposed to SNOW ON SATURDAY
Posted by mryonker at 08:58 PM | Comments (3)
March 30, 2005
holding pattern
I've got pretty much everything on hold right now as I attempt to draft out my exam proposal. I thought I was getting some generative writing done, and then a friend sent me *his* proposal draft, and now I find that what I've been hacking at has been crap all along.
Crap, I tell you.
This exam stuff is strange. As far as I understand it, the proposal outlines the area(s) from which your examiners construct questions. I've been trying to work it backwards, so that I can better focus what questions might be, but my writing feels stilted, novice, trying-too-hard, and completely audience-unaware.
So frustrating. What a strange genre. Maybe I should attempt to construct the draft as a letter:
Dear Exam Committee:
The questions I'd like you to ask me concerning rhetoric and technology should deal with issues surrounding ideas of authorship/ethos, readership/pathos, style/perspective, and public/private spheres as such issues are transformed and shaped by social software (weblogs and wikis, mostly, but I'm open to others as well).
The questions I'd like you to ask me concerning action research are: what the heck is it, how can composition as a field use it both in the classroom and in professional scholarship, and how can/does it broach/bridge the academic- and pop-culture divide?
The questions I'd like you to ask me concerning feminist methodologies are: what do feminist methodologies in composition and rhetoric look like, what do they mean for the academic- and pop-culture divide, how can we reconcile them with traditional "scientific" methodologies, and how do such methodologies shape and inform product genre?
Thanks for asking me the questions I wanted to answer.
Sincerely,
Madeline the lame-o can't-write-a-proposal-to-save-her-life student.
Posted by mryonker at 06:41 PM | Comments (4)
March 27, 2005
pictures from the Shamrock
I might have to buy one. I'm taking votes.
Posted by mryonker at 11:32 AM | Comments (1)
March 26, 2005
the first run after...
Went out for a four miler this morning, and at two my left knee gave. Strangely, it was my right leg (hip and knee) that were most sore after last weekend.
Now I'm gimping on the other side. :( Gr. I'm a walking Ben-Gay stick.
Posted by mryonker at 03:51 PM | Comments (2)
March 25, 2005
Those Damn Bunnies
Posted by mryonker at 12:07 PM | Comments (2)
Upon My Offering Her an Easter Chocolate
Those of you who know me well, know that I am a recovering poetry MFA (I quit, but must struggle daily). I spend precious time I should be reading and writing school stuff stealing away in small corners consuming and producing poetry, and then denying it.
In the spirit of madame zenobia, who has recently been serving up some good stuff for my addiction, I offer a poem that came to me via The Writer's Almanac this morning. Good stuff.
Upon My Offering Her an Easter Chocolate, My Wife Screams that She Won't Let Me Make Her Fat
Gaylord Brewer
Later, it may occur to me
that inside a door frame is, they say, safest
place structurally during a tornado,
other than any available underground.
And later, after the night perhaps,
when earth's sun shines on a cold spring morning
and the house is quiet,
I will reflect inconclusively on what I've done
and what I may deserve, and whether I am a villain.
But for now, a punishing moment
when a woman turns in a chair
to a man extending a candy egg held on the axis
of thumb and forefinger and subtext
explodes, for that moment I weave
a bit foolishly on the threshold of an open passage,
blinking carefully, drunk,
absolutely and silently indefensible
as the existing universe that I can perceive
narrows to a radiating point,
then, widening, takes the shape of a glove
crafted for life's work, one that may slap, caress,
or close quickly to a fist, as the hand desires.
Posted by mryonker at 09:22 AM | Comments (0)
March 24, 2005
blogspent
I'd like to comment on the Churchill thing. Like to discuss the politics of Easter, and how the small town school my kids go to made them make EASTER CARDS (I feel the same way when they make Christmas cards, too: it's not CHURCH, right?). Should talk about how my dumbass left the charger for my laptop on campus today, which leaves me laptopless for the weekend once the battery runs down (which will be tonight sometime).
I don't have the energy to even post something half-assed. I'm bone tired. Probaby because I had to TEACH this morning (I ran a section of 205 for a collegue who's in Japan this week), which proved to be particularly exhausting. ONE CLASS and I'm beat. I need to get my teaching legs back, it seems.
Instead: I offer the work I'll be attempting to make some headway on this weekend, albeit on the grape iMac instead of the trusty iBook.
1. Exam proposals
2. Abstract for Maternity and Mothering: Rhetoric and Representation in Popular Culture (Due tomorrow!! Thanks Jen.)
3. Paper for CHATs (Center for Humanities and TechnoScience) Conference in Albany in TWO WEEKS
4. Keeping the kids from ODing on Easter candy. Oh yeah, keeping myself from all the fabulous foil-wrapped treasures as well. :)
Posted by mryonker at 08:50 PM | Comments (1)
March 23, 2005
pink eye (AKA back to the old grind)
Since I've returned from my spring break, I've been trying to get the house back in order. Today was the FLOORS, which somehow, even though no one wears shoes in the house, tend to get so crumb-y and dirty that I can't bear to walk around in barefeet OR EVEN SOCKS.
Hannah was sent home from school yesterday because the school nurse suspected she has pink eye. I took her to the doctor, who said, yeah, she could have pink eye but he couldn't be sure, but that in order for her to go back to school she would have to do the eye drops regardless. The kicker is that conjunctivitis is VIRAL and they're treating it with antibacterial drops. I hate that shit.
So, I get her home and give her the first dose of drops. She doesn't know what to expect, so she doesn't fight.
She hasn't had a drop in her eye since.
Her scrawny 50 pound ass threw ME AND BRIAN off as we attempted to administer the drops yesterday night. Oh well. So much for me dumping more antibiotics into her. She ain't havin' none of it. Her eyes don't even look pink to me.
So glad to be back, though. Joshua was happy to see me (and didn't forget who I was, as I feared would happen), and he promptly wanted to nurse. I'm glad he didn't have to quit just so I could take a weekend away.
Posted by mryonker at 02:01 PM | Comments (0)
March 21, 2005
blow-by
The story of my first marathon is not a pretty one. I advise that if you are easily offended or grossed-out by body fluids, nudity, references to taboo body parts, etc, that you skip this entry. It is also exceedingly looong, and I apologize.
Mile 1: We run it in OVER 13. Ugh. And it felt like a decent 12-pace, what I was working for. Bleah. Deb's hawk eyes spot us an unofficial pacer, a woman with a neon jog bra and too-tight shiny shorts with a bouncing braid. We call her "bra lady" first, but keep getting looks from other runners, so we nickname her BarBRA. "We'll keep up with her," Deb tells me. It seems too easy.
Mile 2: The first water table. Deb refuses to throw her paper cup onto the ground, insisting on carrying it until she sees a trash can. I argue, because I still have plenty of energy, that this is what she's paid her registration fee for: so people will pick up after her.
Mile 3: Deb, still carrying her cup, explains that a commercial from the 70s has always stuck with her: a weathered, Native American face shedding one poignant tear while the camera pans over a littered North American landscape. She reluctantly drops the cup by the side of the road, whispering what will become her mantra recited after each water table: "Sorry, Native American man."
Mile 4: A small, tow-headed child yells "Pick it up!!" at us. Deb insists he said "Keep it up!" but I am skeptical, and from then on every time someone says "keep it up," I growl.
Mile 5: I begin to suspect that my dose of Immodium was not an effective dose.
Mile 6: While standing in line for the porta-john, Deb and I marvel at the droves who forego standing in line and instead hurdle the brambles that line Shore Drive to relieve themselves. One woman apparently does not realize she hasn't hidden herself effectively, and as she stands to wipe (god knows with what) she affords her UNWILLING spectators a considerable beaver shot.
We lose BarBRA.
Mile 7: Deb and I enjoy the dumb placards placed in the shoulder for our consideration. What is Michael Vick's hometown? ... Newport News. What is the highest elevation in Virginia Beach? ... Mt Trashmore, 68 ft (above sea level!). Do bald men get lice? Etc. Deb predicts that as the distance lengthens and delirium sets in, the dumb jokes and trivia will turn funny and seemingly useful.
Mile 8: A guy hiding in the dunes of Cape Henry Park snaps our pictures. We wonder at first...WTF? And then realize he will try to sell them to us later, like they do for people who ride roller coasters.
Mile 9: Deb removes the string cheese she's stashed in her waistband to inspect it. It's awfully soft looking, but still good, she thinks. She puts it back.
Mile 10: The Gu table. We each take one small packet of Gu (pronounced "goo") and a cup of water. Without thinking, I gulp my water down, as does Deb. I then realize that Gu, something I've only had once before during a 10K years and years ago, is really GROSS. I advise Deb of my plan to palm the Gu until I've got the next water table in sight so that I can bolt the Gu and promptly wash it down. She decides to go ahead and try her Gu without a wash down. I warn her again of its consistency to bodily fluids that truly aren't meant for consumption. She consumes her Gu (you don't really "eat" it, but you don't "drink" it either) with immediate regret. "It's AAAWWWFul," she cries. "And it even LOOKS like [that bodily fluid that is NOT MEANT for consumption]." I ask her what flavor she ended up with. "Caramel Apple. But it's GREY. Not CARAMEL colored." And she proceeds to leave my ass in the dust for the next two miles.
Mile 11: Deb is not around, but I have still managed to remain among a small pack of runners. One older man (I'm guessing 70) is keeping at my heels. I try to shake him off because he is literally breathing down my neck and I'm afraid he is going to step on my heel and trip me, but he will not let me get ahead. I can't decide if I'm pleased he's pacing with me, or if I'm mortified that someone so much older than me is having NO trouble at all keeping up. [This, of course, is a huge joke. So many of the runners there were 50+, and ALL of them finished ahead of me. No joke.].
Then, I hear another voice behind me, to my left: "Hey Buddy. You been walking since the beginning?"
Old Man pacing with me: "Walking? WALKING!!?? Why, I oughta BASH YOUR BRAINS IN!! [mutters] walking! walking!
And the old man picks it up, passing me in the shoulder, still muttering under his breath. The man to my left says to his partner, "Wow. I was just asking if he'd started at 630 or 730. I didn't mean to piss him off."
And it occurs to me that if the guy on my left thought the old man was walking, did he think that *I* was walking, too?
Mile 12: I get 4 cups of water at a water station and then have no hands left to tear open my Gu. I use my teeth, splashing precious water. I luck out: its Chocolate Cherry flavored, and much better than the last time I tried it. It is a little like eating melted frosting rather than the other gross analogy I'd been making. I still need the water.
Deb is waiting for me, streching in the shoulder just past the water table. "What are you DOING?" I croak. "Go ON. Please do not let me keep you. I'll meet you at the tent, by the bagels!"
"No." She says. "We're going across the line together."
It seems so generous and wonderful of her to say this at that moment. I smile, and I'm happy I've dragged her with me. We promptly take a wrong turn, get lost, run 100 extra yards, feel like fools, and curse the dumb man who put the cones too far apart.
Mile 13: The tootsie roll water station. Deb grabs two handsful, and I shake my head at the smiling boy scout who's offering them. The Gu is still lingering in my mouth, even after the water, and I feel like I'm drying out. I have no spit to even lick my lips. But I am still feeling OK. Halfway is good, I think.
Mile 14: The Immodium has not worked AT ALL. I spend another 5 minutes in a porta-john, scheming on things like night-before enemas to outwit my rebellious, betraying bowel on the next run.
As I step out of the john, Deb says "Hurry, BarBRA is making a pit stop now. We can take her."
Mile 15: Deb's knees and my feet and a nice walking lady encourage us to allow ourselves to walk. We agree to fastwalk a mile, run a mile, and run more often if we feel better. It becomes immediately clear that walking feels OK for Deb's knee, but my feet still feel as though they're on fire. And I wonder why the hell I didn't cut my toenails before the run. I think fearfully of a story I read about a man who, during the Boston, had to have his shoes cut from his feet at mile 22 because they were filled with blood. When they got his shoes off, the bottoms of his feet were literally rubbed off. Truly, my heart and lungs feel good, my legs and joints are decent. My damn feet are on fire, killing me.
Mile 16: The delirium sets in, and we nearly fall over laughing at this placard: If Milli Vanilli fall in the forest, does somebody else make a noise?
Mile 17: People on the sidelines start saying "You're almost there." It sounds good at first, but then we realize, we are NOT ALMOST anywhere. We are not even off the Army base (Fort Story), on which we have literally been running in circles. I begin to hate the people on the sidelines.
Mile 18: Deb grabs two more handsful of candy at a water station; again I shun the candy. My stomach is just not right, and I feel nausea eeking into the periphery of my belly. She makes me take a tootsie roll, which actually makes me feel less nauseous, but then my mouth immediately gets gluey and gross. Deb is delighted to have found herself with a Mango-Orange Creme Saver, but is disappointed it's a hard candy and not chewy. "I'm just gonna lick it," she assures me after I inform her I have not the strength to perform the Heimlich. Once she licks it, she cannot help but put the whole thing in her mouth, making me worry the entire time she's sucking it that she'll choke and die.
Mile 19: Someone yells "Almost there!" I almost yell "F*%$ off! Stop your evil LIES!!"
Mile 20: Deb removes the string cheese from her waistband and proceeds to eat the nasty, flaccid, yellowing phallus. I look away. A man runs by us, craning his neck, trying to figure out what the heck Deb's eating. "It's penis cheese!" I say. I have lost my senses.
Mile 21: We're getting a little closer to the oceanfront, but certainly NOT close enough. I contemplate the grass in the median, and fantasize about laying down. I close my eyes a little, and find that it feels a little better. I start closing my eyes periodically. Each time I open them, Deb has moved a little further ahead.
Mile 22: Deb slows her gait and transforms into a Running Nazi. As I catch up to her, she begins talking about food. "Think about HAM," she says, a little giddily. "Mmmmm," she says, pointing to a seafood buffet. "Lobster! Crab legs! We can eat whatever we want when we're done!" she entices. Food is not doing it for me; my stomach and guts are hating me right now and it's taking every extra ounce of self control for me not to hurl. I scowl and tell her to shut up, I'm not hungry.
BarBRA passes us.
Mile 23: Deb asks what will motivate me to get to the finish line. I admit: "A bed. A breastpump." Though I'm only attempting lame humor with the breastpump; my date with the Medela that morning had emptied me fine, and my body was in no position to be giving my mammary glands any food or energy for production. She gets me from walking to running again, and we pass BarBRA, and some walkers.
Mile 24: At 4th street we do a U-turn and start running north on the boardwalk. We enter into a highly theoretical discussion concerning agonism. Deb, the Running Nazi, barks strangely useless but effective motivation in between my protests about needing to beat other people in order to feel success. I inform her that no matter what, we will have beaten the DNFs, those who for whatever reason, will not finish, but that doesn't make me feel successful. It makes me SAD. The prospect of DNFs energizes Deb, and she asks if I'm ready to Pick It Up. I tell her to shut up.
Mile 25: It has now been SIX HOURS since the marathon began. The boardwalk has since been opened back up to the public, and we are dodging couples with dogs, children on bicycles, strollers, skateboarders, rollerbladers. Deb, in a last ditch effort to raise my spirits, likens the tent in the distance to Madonna's cone boobs, and assures me that any tent that looks like boobs will be brimming full of breastpumps. I have not the heart to tell her I don't really need a breastpump.
Mile 26: The leprechaun who announces every finisher begins narrating our approach. "Here's two fine ladies," he booms. "We wonder, do they know each other? Are they friends? Did they meet just today on the course? Or maybe they're arguing about who will finish first?" I smile and tell Deb I'm sorry I told her to shut up. She laughs and the leprechaun announces Deb's name and hometown, and then mine. "YOU ARE MARATHONERS!" he booms.
We hobble through the chute, have our timing chips unstrapped from our ankles by smiling volunteers, and I wonder whether I will ever WALK again.
I sit, briefly thinking that I won't be able to get up, to remove my shoes. A man and a woman who appears to be his mother smile at me. He asks, "Blisters?"
"No, not really," I answer. "Just this horrible swelling." My toes are sausages, my anklebones non-existent.
"You should buy shoes a half-size up. That might help," the man offers. I smile and nod, and don't have the heart to tell him that these ARE a half-size big, and that my mutant swell will require shoes two sizes too big.
There is no beer left, but we don't care. Deb wolfs a few bagel parts down, and I sip some Gatorade half-heartedly. I'm thinking of our eight-block walk back to the van at the hotel, and that my feet will require amputation.
We finished officially in 6:17. Brian was quick to point out that 31 walkers finished in less time it took us to run, which I appreciated (NOT!). I'm pleased to announce that my feet are fine, my legs are sore but each day worlds better, and I WILL run again. I promise.
Just not this week, like Deb wants us to.
Posted by mryonker at 07:52 PM | Comments (8)
in several pieces
We are alive, we have returned, all is well, AND we might even do it again. The marathon narrative will appear later today.
Posted by mryonker at 08:35 AM | Comments (1)
March 18, 2005
and breakfast is planned!
String cheese, oranges, and Sausalito cookies.
And Immodium.
Posted by mryonker at 07:41 PM | Comments (0)
in one piece
10 hours. Why did I think that without the babes I could make it to VB in 8? We set off this morning at 0-dark-thirty (5:00am). I was awake at 4:17, 13 minutes before my alarm went off, because I HAD BEEN up for nearly the entire night with the MT. He would NOT be comforted, almost as though he knew that if he stayed asleep too long he would wake to find me not there.
I don't feel too tired, except that my head is still filled with snot-glue and if I lean over too far my face feels as though it will explode. The cough seems to be abating, however ::cough cough::.
Deb is in great spirits. She is nearly OUT OF HER MIND about us staying on the beach, and I'm still having to dissuade her from thinking that she's going to take a swim. Gah, hypothermia!!
We picked up our registration packets, got our shirts, and escaped the evil capitalist parasites trying to sell us socks for $20 at the sportsfest (I nearly caved--they had these great Gizmo socks with kitties on the ankles!!)
So, I'll report back tonight. Love this free wifi!!
Posted by mryonker at 04:04 PM | Comments (3)
March 17, 2005
T-minus...
Now, I always get a little screwed up here. The run is Saturday. Today is Thursday. So, T-minus 3 days? 2 days? Or just one?
I'll go with two days, since it's fairly early right now (I've got all today), and the run starts EARLY on Saturday.
Two days for the glue in my sinuses to clear, and for the accompanying headache to subside.
Spring break has yielded none of the time for work that I always anticipate, either. But again, this is always what happens: I figure I'll finish or start a project over the break, and I hardly make headway.
I did get some books I need for exams ordered. This incited a small disagreement with the husband. He insisted that every book I needed we could get from a library. I conceded that MOST of them OPL (Onondaga Public Lib) would have, but that some would NOT be in the library.
Why, then, do I have to BUY the ones that are available at the library?
um. Good question. I mumbled something about having to be able to write in them and keep them for as long as I needed.
I don't spend nearly as much on books as some of my collegues. This I know for a fact. But I still feel twinges of guilt about shelling out clams for anything I can get free.
Things to do today:
Clean the van out for the trip. This should be a feat, since the brother has been driving it lately (the husband finally fixed the front axle on the brother's car, so now we have the van back). We have already discovered that the cupholder has been busted. Wonder what other surprises he left.
Write protocols so that the husband will be able to get kids off to school Friday morning and will be able to execute the Saturday morning dance class configuration, as he has NEVER done either.
Grocery shop so my kids don't live on Happy Meals while I'm gone.
Get my eyebrow(s) waxed to reduce drag during the run.
Posted by mryonker at 08:47 AM | Comments (2)
March 13, 2005
double-duty: flickr work, mom's work
Double-duty post, here. One of the reasons I moved over to MT was so that I could better post, manage, and etc pics. I could have used flickr with TP, granted, but things just never seemed as EASY as they were supposed to be over there.
So, here's a first post from over at flickr.
I should have posted this long ago: this is the SHIRT that my mom MADE me for my birthday. I know bunch of you out there are avid knitters, so I thought you would be interested. This is silk that she spun, dyed, and knitted all with her very own hands. My mom, she's handy for sure. A little hard on the blog, but she makes cool stuff. (Just kidding Mom!!)
The shirt is beautiful--this photo doesn't do it much justice. I will have to wait until it warms up a little before I can wear it here in the frozen north. :)
Posted by mryonker at 04:34 PM | Comments (4)
T-minus 6 days
Went out for an early run this morning. There is STILL snow on our streets up here. I know I've been harping about this too much lately, but good gravy. And all this week: snow, flurries, 30 degrees.
I don't care how much the run this weekend will break me; it will be well worth to have two days in the land where spring has begun.
In other news: Brownie Movie Night was last night. Normally this is a fun event I hold in my own house, but since we're remodeling things are not too comfortable here, so we held it in the church library. We watched _Raise Your Voice_, which boasts on the DVD cover that it is THE BEST Hilary Duff movie ever.
Hm.
The hardest part of this movie for me was watching the actors pretend to play their instruments. Oof. I would much rather the casting people find musicians who act, rather than actors who don't care whether they're actually looking like they're playing (guitar, piano).
Or at least find actors who have decent rhythm, so that their random strumming and chording actually follows the tempo and syncopation of whatever song they're supposed to be playing. It was more than distracting. I'm probably over-sensitive, though: one of my favorite pastimes as a kid (and now, if I'm bored enough to watch an award show or something of that sort) was to catch a band or singer sync-ing. And then to be promptly dissapointed that they were.
Also, the dad from _Firestarter_ played the over-protective, near-mean dad in _Raise Your Voice_, so I kept waiting for him to haul off and burn shit up with those dramatic nostril flares.
So, if you're a Brownie leader, looking to show a movie for movie night, I don't recommend this one, but not for the poor musician impersonations. Don't show it because:
- The beginning is INCREDIBLY sad. (The cover doesn't let on that horrible, tear-jearking tragedy drives the plot.)
- It is LONG. Nearly two hours. This was on the cover, but I figured 2 hours of Hilary would be fine with 10 eight-year-olds. Not all my girls could sit that long, I found out, Hilary or not.
- There are several situations that I didn't want to have to answer questions about. For instance, there's an exchange in which Hilary and a friend talk about a hand shake getting someone pregnant. Also, the words "damn," "jackass," and "crap" still make 8 year-olds giggle and me worry that they'll go home and repeat things and blame it on Girl Scouts.
- Groping and kissing. Not too much, but enough.
It makes me realize that PG ratings mean just that: *parental* guidance. As in, the Brownie leader is NOT the parent. It's rated G all the way for the next BMN. This movie was fine for Hannah (she knows birds and bees and that bad words are rhetorical--REALLY!). But I don't have the history or authority to "guide" girls through stuff like this.
Especially issues of non-musicians posing as them. It was simply too ugly for words.
Posted by mryonker at 01:12 PM | Comments (0)
new digs
This blog has moved. Please update your aggregators. Or, if there is anyway for me to update them for you (Derek? Collin?) let me know.
The new URL: http://academom.syr.edu
Please disregard the bugs as I work things out. :)
Posted by mryonker at 09:45 AM | Comments (0)
March 12, 2005
new digs
We're moving! This has always been a theme in my life: moving. After a good start at Typepad and a semester using Moveable Type at school, I'm cutting the TP apron strings and going out on my own with MT.
The pic also is thematically linked: Here we are standing in front of an overheated Montero (overheated from getting stuck, and then spinning spinning spinning in the mud), in front of the new WV homestead, where we will one day build and retire. One day.
The peop in the pic: me (in my nerd goggles), Joshua, Hannah, Jackson, and Charlotte. Taken Thanksgiving weekend, 2004.
Posted by mryonker at 10:31 PM | Comments (3)
March 11, 2005
and that's...the rest of the story
What you do is this:
Like a flash, you SHOVE the baby with your knee/thigh, so that instead of falling off the bed onto the floor, he is vaulted several inches so that he lands on a rolling office chair adjacent to the bed.
In lifting your outside leg to push the baby, you've also effectively slid the laptop AWAY from the edge of the bed.
You realize afterwards that this was probably the dumbest action you could've taken, since you relied on a CHAIR ON WHEELS to remain steady and catch the baby.
You realize that you could not have conceived of nor coordinated that feat with any forethought.
You realize that you haven't backed up any of your work on this fragile machine.
You realize that if you try to explain it to anyone, they'll think you're lying.
You are NOT making this up.
Posted by mryonker at 03:57 PM | Comments (3)
March 10, 2005
a moral dilemma
You're sitting on your bed, laptop in your lap, writing.
The baby, who is also on the bed, crawls over and begins to climb onto your lap.
You attempt to stave him off for 15 more seconds, so you can finish typing your sentence.
Suddenly, the barometric pressure drops, the wind changes; the baby AND the laptop begin to slip off your lap off the side of the bed and toward the floor...
You cannot save both. Which do you reach for?
Updated to include
The bed is standard height, about 30 inches from the floor.
The floors are hard wood.
The baby is rolling in a kind of sideways fashion, but mostly head first.
I do NOT have Applecare on the laptop (I know I KNOW!).
Posted by mryonker at 07:49 AM | Comments (10)
March 07, 2005
in case you care
The ABOUT page has been updated.
No, I didn't make it to 100. But close. Damn close.
Posted by mryonker at 09:17 PM | Comments (2)
to properly enjoy a thin mint
As Girl Scout Cookie time is upon us, I thought it would be apropos for me to offer Joshua's protocol on how to get the most enjoyment out of a Thin Mint.
1. Let the Guardian of Cookies know that you would like one. This is best accomplished by squawking "NA! NA! NA!" and jutting a small finger toward the green box on top of the fridge.
2. Once the Thin Mint is attained, squeeek and grin and stomp in a cute little circle, holding cookie in the air over head.
3. Put entire cookie into mouth.
4. Remove cookie from mouth; drool syrup-y saliva into hand, down chin, onto clothes and floor.
5. Repeat steps 3 and 4.
6. Repeat steps 3, 4, and 5.
7. Bite into cookie. Rub remaining cookie into ear, making certain there are no taste buds to enhance cookie bliss there.
8. Dab cookie on neck, so the smell will be preserved in the soft underbelly of your chin (and will escape the dreaded washcloth once cookie enjoyment ends).
9. Lay cookie aside and pause for a quick binky-break, making sure to coat binky with plenty of cookie drool (aka "for laters.")
10. Insert remaining cookie (about 3/4) into mouth, carefully allowing the cookie to jut into cheek.
11. Chew and gum, gum and chew.
12. DO NOT SWALLOW.
13. Instead, surreptitiously move into an uninhabited room and find an out-of-the way place to deposit the mastication, preferably where an unsuspecting member of the family will unknowingly "find" it; for instance, a kitchen chair works well.
14. Repeat from beginning. On subsequent rounds, make certain to find new binkies and hiding places.
Posted by mryonker at 01:54 PM | Comments (5)
March 05, 2005
ocd
OK. I know that I gripe a lot about what a pig sty my house is, and how I have not the fraction of time I would need to get it clean.
I have a confession.
The problem is that I don't have the time to make it as clean as I *want.*
Today, I thought, "Screw EVERYTHING. I'm cleaning."
So I did.
And as I did, it slowly dawned on me. The reason I feel like I don't have time to clean, is because that my idea of cleaning is slightly twisted.
Wiping baseboards. Dusting books (for crying out loud). Scrubbing the toaster oven and microwave. Bleaching linens. Cutting the hairs and yarn from the beater bar of my vacuum. Vacuuming the between the cracks of the radiators (big, old, cast iron kind). Vacuuming the BOTTOMS of my area rugs (and the tops, too, of course). EIGHT loads of laundry (and it's still going). Mopping mopping mopping. Bleach bleach bleach.
If I was happy with a clean kitchen sink and the toys picked up, I think I'd be a different person.
Don't listen to me when I complain anymore, OK? I'm just plain nutz. And I'm probably going to get some kind of horrible disease from bleach, since I'm too "tough" to wear gloves as I bleach damn near everything that will sit still for a moment.
In other news (though this follows the ocd title as well): Two weeks til the race. Since I am nowhere NEAR ready to run it, I'll be working the next 14 days to drop some weight so that I won't have as much to carry. That should help a little, I think. So if you're someone I see IRL, please don't offer me food. Thanks. :) This especially goes for you, DigitalPenny, since all I can think of these days is that gumbo!! It was SOOOO good.
Posted by mryonker at 09:45 PM | Comments (6)
March 04, 2005
blogkeeping and house notes
You'll notice that my blogroll is gone. It's sooo outdated that I have to completely re-do it, with categories and everything, and I just don't have time right now, so it's down. If I could figure out how to import my stuff from bloglines, I would, but I am less and less thrilled with the way that typepad lets me do, uh, let's see, NOTHING when it comes to configuring this crazy thing. My dearest dearest friend from HS, MaryAnn, has had better luck with changing colors, etc. I can't even figure out how to get to my templates to edit the code in them.
I assume it's because I refuse to upgrade my account. I know, I know, I wouldn't have to assume if I would, you know, look around for some answers, but AGAIN: no time for that.
In other news: baby eats peeled apple. This is great. Joshua (aka Monster Toddler) loves apples. He frequently will steal the older kids' apples and chew them. (Ah, that's what that strange sticky mess is on the floor: spit out apple peel). So today, when the kids got their after school apple, I peeled one and gave it to the baby. He was (and still is) happy for nearly and hour, gnawing it. And no spit out peels to step on with your barefeet later!
Posted by mryonker at 05:14 PM | Comments (2)
March 02, 2005
I may never run again...(or, March Madness)
Or at least it feels like I won't. It's been snowing here for the past 4 days, and it shows no signs of letting up. And it really isn't that cold out, but the roads out here are anything but clear, and even after the village plow cleans up the main thoroughfares, the wind comes immediately behind them to fashion drifts.
March in CNY is a nightmare for those of us who previously knew March as the swing up into spring. Even those of us from the midwest who suffered similar snow and cold during the belly of the winter understand that March is about daffodils and tulips, about marshy melting, about breaking those bikes out and starting the tomatos indoors.
NOT HERE.
It gives new meaning to March Madness. I am MAD. And while the lovely brother did manage to shovel (and don't ask me why he shovels when we have a perfectly good snowblower--probably the same reason why he doesn't use the dishwasher either, although he hasn't really been washing dishes lately, but that's ANOTHER rant), I was out this morning in snow past my ankles, getting kicked in the face by the snowy boots of my 50 pound, 5-year-old as we negotiate his insertion into the truck. It wouldn't have been that big of a deal, except now he must ride in a car seat again (after a year without needing to) because he is under 7, and NY now requires all kids under 7 to be in car seats.
Yay. Snow in the face, down the neck.
Now I understand the will to hibernate.
Posted by mryonker at 01:07 PM | Comments (2)