Free your goat Friday: Bright and early

I am going on fumes and four hours of sleep. Oh, and coffee. Of course. Been up since 5am, working on the bloody stupid important report for work I've been trying to finish for too depressingly long to think about. And I went to sleep around 1. Fun times. So this is to be short and sour. I'll tell you my goats, you tell me yours, and they walk off into the sunset together. Or, to pasture. You know, whatever metaphor works for you.

Goat-getter the First, or Not cool, public policy people, not cool

The Cub had H1N1 this week. Well, he got it Sunday afternoon, as we were packing up to leave the lovely and wonderful place where we spent the most relaxing weekend I've had in a long, long while. And we didn't know that's what it was until our pediatrician came to see him (that's right, our pedi does house calls, jealous?) Monday, although I began to worry about it fleetingly on the drive home and then for real when I realized just how hot the kid was early Monday morning. The high fever was not fun, and the coincidental pink eye added a layer of wonderful. (The Cub, he doesn't appreciate anyone putting drops into his eyes. And four times a day? Oh, the betrayal!) But, he broke the fever in a day and a half, instead of the worst case three to four, and none of the rest of us got sick. So good deal.

Where this becomes a goat-getter, though, is that according to our pediatrician, about 90% of what they are seeing now is it. 90 bloody percent. And do we hear about that on the radio? Do we read about that in newspapers? Of course not. Because ooooooh, big, bad, scary virus, with big bad scary farm animal name. The reasons I worried about whether the Cub had it were that (1)I knew it can carry very high fevers for a number of days and I didn't want him to be so miserable for long and (2) because I thought we'd have to quarantine, causing Monkey to miss her beloved gymnastics practices (three mornings a week at 4 hours a pop, and she'd love to do more, if she was allowed; I know-- insane). But I didn't for a second worry that the diagnosis might mean a particularly dangerous illness or a bad prognosis. This is because of my education and what I do for work-- I am used to analyzing scientific information. JD on the other hand? Flipped out. Until, that is, he spoke to the doctor and learned both how common it is these days and what the typical prognosis, oh, and that the Cub looked like not a bad case at all. And my mom didn't get much sleep Monday night, staying up thinking bad thoughts about her youngest grandson.

So this is what gets my goat-- that we are not being talked to like adults about this by our government OR our scientists. We hear on the radio that WHO has called the thing a pandemic, but that the course is mild. If we perk our ears up a whole lot, we can hear stories here and there about how official figures are such and such, but unofficially they are probably a lot higher. And yet, no story that comes straight out and lays the facts out. For our own protection, I am sure. Harrumph. I do enjoy being treated like I am three years old. Don't you?

Goat-getter the Second, or Oh, Academia, the bastion of civility

I applied for one job this fall. I received an email saying that if they needed any other materials, they would contact me. The closing date for the search was end of last month. I finally called this week to see where things stood, so I could plan my fall. Oh, the search has been completed. I can deal with the place two miles from my house not wanting me, even for an interview, I really can. But seriously, people, how hard would it have been to send out rejection letters, even by email? Let me break it down for you-- you are looking for a person to be a colleague of yours, your equal. The person you pick comes from a pool of applicants. You don't think people in that pool deserve the respect of being told they didn't make it? And don't you remember when you yourselves were swimming in the pool? C'mon! It's a form letter, how hard could it be?


Ok, my goats are free. Where are yours?


P.S. I am also at Glow this week, talking about telling people about one's dead baby. And screwing up.


Bling borrows the image from this story.

Free your goat Friday: Lazy

If you are looking for me, I am in a hammock on the porch. Mind you, not my porch or my hammock-- my BIL's parents were nice enough to invite the whole clan over for the long weekend (featuring my sister's birthday today-- Happy Birthday, sister! :)), and we are all having a ball. There's a lake on the other side of the house, and the sunny weather was only interrupted by one short thunderstorm today. And did I mention that it's been years since I've been in a hammock?

And yet, I have goats.

Goat-getter the First, or Now I know what the f in aperture designation stands for

My precious, my birthday present, my macro lens! Sigh, but it seems to be too much woman complicated for my camera's tiny little brein processor. It's not happy with me changing aperture, insisting, by way of locking out my ability to take pictures any other way, that I set it to the maximal setting of 32. Not to mention that the camera can't bring itself to operate the lens in automatic mode-- something about lack of motor power directed to the right spot. But I can live without the autofocus-- this thing is a sports car, and those are way more fun with stick shift. But aperture? This is like making me drive said sports car with half the air let out of the tires. Sniffle...

Goat-getter the Second, or Careful with the mirror-- your (reflected) brilliance might blind you.

Some days I can't help myself, and I get into internet discussions with people who are not listening. (Important: this is NOT about here or anyone reading here-- this is about an Old Country language corner of the internets.) Worse, some of these people seem to be writing for the purposes of showing off how brilliant they are. They wave hands, using words such as clearly, obviously, for the most part, and in general. When you try to challenge their assumptions, or correct facts they simply have wrong, they respond with more hand waiving and side-stepping, failing to acknowledge your points. Worse, their pseudo intellectual drivel is supposedly about the plight of this group or that, which does not stop them from dehumanizing either the group they purport to defend, or some other societal group interacting with the group being defended by ascribing some rather unattractive qualities to all members of a group. If you are asking why I engage with this crap, you are not alone-- I am wondering that myself. Oh, right, I remember-- because people about whom they are talking smack are my friends. And I seem constitutionally unable to walk away and let the maligning of my friends (even if as members of a groups) go unchallenged. I need a drink.


And what has been getting your goats lately? Tell us and set them free. Let them celebrate their own Independence Day. I know-- corny. Very. Sorry. Anyway, share your goats. And if you are looking for me, try the hammock.


Bling borrows the image from this story.

Advanced

So the weather didn't screw us too badly, the food and the booze were good and plentiful, there was occasional dancing, and my husband conspired with my sister to produce sinfully gorgeous deserts from our favorite place in the general area, including a cake decorated with a nod to his and mine ancient history together. We even had an unexpected, wasn't-on-the-guest-list guest drop by.

I am officially a year older. 35. The age that gets one that coveted designation at the OB's, the kind all the cool girls are after. Advanced maternal age. Yeah, baby.

I am actually mostly joshing there. I sort of expected that I would feel the birthday as a threshold, that it would inspire some kind of contemplation from me, a reflection. That I would feel it deeper than I seem to be feeling it, I guess. So far, though, not so much. I think I like it this way.

Of course, the fact that my grandmother had a minor heart attack in the early hours of Saturday probably contributed to the lack of idle contemplation, brain cells being busy with actual things to worry about and all. She was airlifted to a big hospital, where they got the stent in. She's occasionally cognitively better, recognizing people and inquiring after others (like me), and occasionally worse, as the last of the anesthesia leaves the system and as they are trying to get her new medications right. Overall, not a bad way to have a heart attack, and a definite proof that it's a good thing she's not at home anymore-- we collectively shudder to think of what the same scenario would've looked like had her home health care aids not recognized the signs and hadn't acted quickly enough.


As for the celebration itself, it was just right in tone. The big deal meter hovered comfortably in my safe zone-- well short of either pompous or overly sentimental, but unmistakably in the we're here because of you range. Like I said, just right.

Tell you what, though. I may be older now, but I also have better toys. You know, as a direct result of telling husband exactly what I wanted getting older. Waaay nice toys. My precious.

Sadly, operating my precious seems to require actual skillz, or, at the very least, time invested into reading the crammed little multi-lingual booklet that came with. But since I wasn't bloody likely to read it at the party, I just went ahead and played with it a bit. Here's what I managed to get, in the presentable category:

I'd say that while the subject needs improvement, I really like the resolution and the detail. And this is just fooling around. I can't wait to figure out how to actually drive this here fancy sports car.

Free Your Goat Fridays: Hectic

  It's been that kind of week. It's not over yet. But I did attempt bling, using the image that came with this quaint little British tidbit. Whatdayathink? And be honest, I can take it.

So I will be back with my own tales of goats gotten and freed, later. My goats:

Goat-getter the First, or You would cry too...

My birthday party is tomorrow. Because, you know, it's my birthday tomorrow. One of those big deal ones, divisible by five. I didn't get a birthday party last year (because of all the fun with PTL). Two years ago I cleverly attached JD's and another friend's birthdays to mine, thereby escaping being the subject of celebration/center of attention five short months after my baby died. So this year I wanted a fun party, something easy for us to do, with adult company and dancing (don't ask why, I have no idea. It's not like I look or feel hot. Perhaps I just don't care). We have a nice new wrap around deck that my dad built us last fall (separate story I must tell one day). So the plan was to have a party on the deck, with catered food and dancing by DJ IPod. So did I mention it's been raining here for weeks now? And did I mention the forecast had the rains clearing the hell out of here by Thursday? And did I mention forecast changing gradually to include scattered showers? And then full on rainy forecast? Pretend like I did. And say it with me: ARRRGGGGGHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!


Goat-getter the Second, or Oh, for the love of the Flying Spaghetti Monster!

I am generally a fan of Air America Radio, if for no other reason than that Rachel Maddow was a host there before she scored what is now my absolutely favorite news/commentary hour on TV. This is why it upset me so much to see it highlighted in their daily email that one of their hosts had a leading proponent of Intelligent Design (ID) as a guest. It upset me even more to listen to the clip and hear the guest essentially riding roughshod over the genial host, name- and title-dropping, driving home the essential message of the water's fine over here, even people who are not religious fanatics are with us.

Intelligent Design is not science. It's the worst kind of pseudoscience. I say the worst kind because by actively mascaraing as science, it confuses and misleads the public (and children/students in particular-- making my job that much harder) about what science actually is and how science is properly done. The clip of that conversation is 14+ minutes long. Somewhere at minute 12.5, the host finally gets around to offering substantial criticism to the ID proponent, and then not nearly assertively enough. Personally, I would prefer that we not legitimize ID movement by giving its proponents a media stage. At the very least, though, let's not give them an unchallenged stage. Let's not let them pretend that their collection of logical fallacies is a scientifically legitimate viewpoint. I understand that radio hosts may not be knowledgeable enough for a debate like this, but there are scientists (an overwhelming majority of whom accept the multidisciplinary and consistent evidence for evolution and do not begin to see ID as even approaching scientific legitimacy), and there are even journalists experienced and skilled in this debate. So if you find yourself giving in to an irresistible urge to talk to an ID proponent on the air, no matter how charming the proponent, please-please-please call for backup, will ya?


In the mean time, And the floor is yours. What all had your goats this week?

Devil's Dozen

In the Old Country, baker's dozen, 13, is known as devil's dozen, in keeping with the number's status as bad luck of course. I have to say I was never on board with castigating 13. In fact, I am rather a fan.


A devil's dozen years ago, the party was still going pretty good. The ceremony was supposed to be at 3 (invitations said 2:30, to account for Jewish Standard Time), but ended up being slightly later. With the pictures and the cocktail hour, the party didn't get started until close to 6, but six hours later there was our band, playing way past the hour of contractual obligation. The band leader is my aunt and uncle's friend, but still it was way nice of them to stick with us. Particularly considering the discount we got courtesy of the friendship. I've never known time so packed to move so quickly.

A dozen years ago, on our first anniversary, I was supposed to be in another city, at a conference, by myself. In fact giving my talk the very day of the anniversary, so not so much with the skipping possibilities. The first is the paper anniversary. So I left JD a paper gift, in a dresser drawer-- a plane ticket to the Conference City. Before I bought it, I talked to his employer to make sure he could have the day (he worked in a small office, and they were swamped). I told him where to find his gift that morning. We were broke then, so I got the cheapest ticket I could find. It had JD flying in very small planes, very very slowly. It turns out that he ordered flowers for me, to be delivered to the hotel. He ended up delivering them himself. We went downtown to a nice restaurant I remember only vaguely now. The food was good, I remember that. I think it was French.

Five years ago late afternoon-ish I was coming back from a workshop in yet another city. JD picked me up at the airport in a car the lease for which he signed that very day. I was told that Monkey had taken a test drive in it, and that she approved. We had dinner that night in a restaurant we keep meaning to go back to. (Damn, this means we haven't made it back to a place in FIVE years. Exciting lives we lead. On the plus side, though, since I saw the place out the car window not two months ago, it also means the restaurant, which was a new business at the time, has survived for over five years. Good on them.) The next morning I had to be at a hospital by 6am. My friend Natalie was having a C-section, and her husband, a big, tough guy, wasn't sure he could do the delivery room thing without moral support. He did fine, though he forgot his camera in the before-and-after room. Hence, I was the one to take the first pictures of the little guy.

Four years ago it was JD's turn to start the day elsewhere. He was in the City Where I Hate to Drive. I was driving up to meet him after his conference session for dinner and a play. I had a nice dress with me, and I was driving my shiny new five week old car. With a stick shift. Which feature was half the point of getting that car-- I've had it with the tyranny of the automatic transmission, aka my otherwise exceptionally beloved previous car. I left home in what was supposed to be plenty of time, and for a while it looked like I was even going to be early. But then there was traffic, and I was getting nervous and pissy. And trying to change lanes at the traffic light, I scratched another car, one that, it seems, was sitting much farther to the left than I estimated. Yup, with my own, barely five week old car. When I finally made it to the hotel, I got ready faster than I remember ever getting ready for a fancy evening out. Record time, I tell you. We still made it to dinner (cab), though I think we skipped appetizers. That was so we could make the show. Which we liked. Though not as much as the show we saw the next day, having bought the tickets based on nothing more than "this sounds interesting" and the fact that they still had tickets the day of. We sat in the first row for that one.


Tonight, now that my sister and BIL, themselves married a year and a day and gracefully sharing their anniversary cake (gotten from whence their actual wedding cake came from-- sneaky, I know, and a hell of a lot smarter than keeping a cake in the freezer for a year, no?), have left for their own humble abode, I am the only adult in the house. The first time in thirteen years we are for real not together on our anniversary. JD is coming back tomorrow, and a make-up celebration is in the works. I thought I was going to be fine. I told him I was going to be fine. And I am completely and totally fine. But I have to admit that it feels weird not to have JD here today. What do you think-- a force of habit? ;)

It's past midnight now, as I finish writing. So happy day-after-anniversary to us! (And I am off to catch some Zzzzzs.)

Free Your Goat Fridays: Still Blingless

Yes, it's that day of the week again, the day, I know, you've all been waiting for. We'll let the uninitiated think that the excitement is all about the weekend ahead, the laundry piling up in anticipation of all the copious free time you think you will have during said weekend, or all of your planned outside activities, that, if you live in my city, are sure to be rained out. Unlike the uninitiated, though, we know the truth-- the excitement is all about the impending arrival of the second installment of Free Your Goat Fridays. And what do you know-- it's not impending anymore-- it has arrived. Feel free to cheer now.

Yes, we are still blingless, but let not that deter you from setting your goats free. Tell us what got your individual goats this week, and let them roam free!

Here are mine.

Goat-getter the First, or No shit, are you syndicated?

This one's short and sour. I purchased some toys over these here interwebs. Bath toys, to be exact. The kind Monkey loved to pieces all those many years ago. It seems they are not as popular now, and I could only find a couple of online retailers that carry them, no physical store in my area. So what was I rewarded with for my trouble? As is customary, retailer sent me a confirmation email. As is less customary (I hope), this particular retailer distinguished its email with this gem:

Thank You for your purchase and enjoy. Please visit us again as we will be adding new products. Cherish your children as Life's Greatest Gift.

No, really, faceless online retailer? You think I don't? Cherish my children? Or maybe I do, but not enough to fit the Life's Greatest Gift (note capitalization-- all that's missing is the TM symbol) criterion? Or do you think that all that stands between me and cherishing my children as prescribed is your aptly placed advice in imperative mood? Grrrrrr.....

Oh, and ETA: And, is it, dear retailer, mandatory for one to have living children, to, you know, cherish as prescribed, in order to buy bath toys? What if, and stop me if you've never considered this, the one making the purchase is a battle-weary infertile or a bereaved parent, buying yet another gift for yet another baby shower? You think maybe, if you feel entitled to dispense this particular flavor of unsolicited advice, you might also be so kind as to ship, by way of a free gift with purchase, a child or three, to, you know, cherish?


Goat-getter the Second, or Oh, we find it cozy

My office, the one we moved into. The furniture is still not there. The shelves are there, but not secured, and we can't unpack our boxes because we can't be sure at what height to place the shelves without seeing them in relation to our desks. Which, we heard today, are not going to be arriving until Tuesday. Which will make it just over two weeks since we moved. So we are working on some tables that we dragged in, barricaded among the many boxes the three of us own. Yiiiihaa! Yes, that was one of the reasons why I decided to go visit my parents this week.


So? Your goats? Will you share? Mine are free, but oh, so lonely.



P.S. The lack of bling is the situation I hope to remedy by next Friday. Provided, of course, I am not just talking to myself here.

Nearly Wordless Wednesday: Bodies in Motion

This was Sunday-- Monkey's end of year gymnastics show. Her last year as a "civilian."

It's Level 4 in the fall, complete with team leotards, matching warm-up suits, and, and this is the key, actual trophy-awarding competitions. It also comes with nine hours of practice a week, starting in September, and twelve a week July and August.

She couldn't be more thrilled. JD couldn't be more ambivalent-- it's a lifestyle, admittedly, and he's not looking forward to being sucked into it. I am deeply philosophical. She's been waiting for this, working for this, for years now. She's having a ball, and she is learning all kinds of things any kid, and more so a risk-averse by nature kid, could really use in life. And did I mention that she's loving it? If she ever stops loving it, if it becomes a chore, we'll walk away, grateful for all she's learned and all she's become. In the meantime, my feeling is you go, girl!


Right now, though, we have half a week of no school, no camp, and JD out of the country again. So tonight we are leaving on the jet plane too. Destination: half (ok, more like a third) way across the country, my parents' house. I was promised some alone time, by which I mean time with my computer. I hope to put it to productive use, both work- and reader-wise.


P.S. The Cub began making his acquaintance with gym equipment this weekend, and so far he seems to like. Since he might find himself spending a good bit of time there, I am declaring it a good thing.

Reminder: if you are inexplicably missing some goats already this week, remember that Friday, and your opportunity to set your personal oppressed animals free, is just around the corner.