Recently I read a news story about a woman whose domain name is being hijacked.
Some of you may have heard of a book called "Katie.com" about a little girl whose parents parked her in front of a computer instead of spending time with her and teaching her about the real life. She apparently was drawn in by the lies of someone on the Internet (doi), and agreed to meet this person in real life, where she was molested. Gee, how many times does this have to happen before parents realize that its their responsibility to keep track of their kids and not let them go off on their own before they have a brain? By the way, I'm the spitting image of Nicole Kidman, and rich... uh huh.
Penguin books published her story, and since the victim's name is Katie, they called the book Katie.com. They were going to call it "girl.com", but apparently girl.com is a porn site, which defeats the entire message of the book. So, they called it Katie.com... except that Katie.com actually belongs to a person named Katie... not the girl who was abused, but a woman that was given the domain as a gift from her husband in 1996 to share pictures of her family and blog. The abused girl has her own domain called Katiet.com, but apparently that doesn't trip off the tongue and isn't "marketable".
Since the publishing of katie.com, zillions of abused people, sickos, whack jobs, and morons have been posting to katie.com about their stories, asking questions, looking for help, much to the non-amusement of poor Katie... who leads a normal life and just wants to share pictures of her family. She asked Penguin to stop using her domain name, and sanely asked them to rename the book katiet.com so people would be directed to the proper site where they could vent their spleens about their abuse, or post crack pot crap as they wished. Penguin (being a big mondo corporation who claims to be the leading publisher of children's books) sent their lawyers after poor Katie and asked her to donate her domain to them. Um.. what?
Once the initial hoopla over the book ended, the e-mail flood slowed, and Katie thought she could get her Web site back... until Al Roker latched onto the Katie story, now it's begun again.
First of all, why should this woman "donate" her domain to a big named publisher who should have checked to make sure they weren't infringing on her domain in the first place. They checked out girl.com and found it inapropriate, so one has to think that they found katie.com to be easy pickings. Katie isn't a horrible person for not forking over what is rightly hers to the publishers, she's not "anti-child" or "pro child abuse" because she wants to hold onto her domain. It's Penguin's evil plan to get what they want by pressuring an innocent person to hand over something they want.
The abused Katie claims that it was all Penguin's doing and she had no choice in the matter. To her I have to say "didn't you learn your lesson the first time you were manipulated and used?" I certainly don't think you are qualified to write a book telling kids how to keep from being manipulated and used when you continue to be so yourself. Whether its a child molestor, or a big company, you are a pawn and haven't learned your lesson apparently.
To Penguin, I have to say: you really suck! You publish children's books, so what are you teaching children by what you are doing? Hey, if you want something, harrass and steal it!
To Katie, the real owner of katie.com I say: keep up the good fight and don't let go! I tried to think of some way for her to get back. Publish porn on it... funny, but nah. Perhaps throw "Hamster dance" on there to annoy everyone? Stick a HUGE link on there to the real katiet.com site and tell people to harrass her instead?
Inevitably, Katie should be able to do anything she wants to her website, and she shouldn't have to fear opening her e-mail every day because some sicko, whacko, or just plain idiot can't see that this isn't the site of katiet and her tale of woe.
Leave Katie.com alone! Spread the word of this to your friends and tell Penguin books to shove it and rename the stupid book. Tell Katiet to grow some nads and stop getting used and manipulated, and support katie who is just an average person like you and I, and some day we may be dealing with the same crap if we let Penguin win.
Saturday, July 31, 2004
That Morning Jolt
Some people wake up to the smell of freshly brewed coffee. My mornings usually consist of pulling a dead thing out of the mouth of one of my dogs.
This morning (like many mornings) an unfortunate decision was made by a woodland creature to come into my heavily guarded, overly fenced in yard. I don't know how they get in, or why they get in. I would think that after so many have died in the fortress, they would have erected some type of sign, or smell that said "you will die if you go in here". This time it was a fledgling bird, too young to realize its mistake until it was too late.
As always, the three of them (Nova is 15 and retired from killing), gathered like the hungry, slathering pack they become when something potentially tasty and fun enters the yard. I've stopped trying to save these creatures, it's useless. At one point (before I knew better) I would run behind the dogs as they chased the terrified creature, trying to stop the carnage before it happened. They are all much quicker, and more determined than I, so now I merely stand in one spot (trying not to get run over in the zeal of the chase), and wait for the inevitable, kinda rooting for the hunted to find an escape route, knowing what will eventually happen. Squirrels know the sound of the door opening and run for the trees, birds float away quickly as the dogs come running out. Fledgling bird season brings a lot of carnage though, and it's that time of the year.
Loki lunges into the barrier that is piled against the gate to keep them contained and then quickly runs away gleefully while the others investigate the barrier area. They don't realize that he's found the prey, and now he's trying to swallow it before I get to him.
I have them somewhat trained to spit out stuff they shouldn't have. "Trade up" means they get something even tastier than what they have, but what could be more tastier than a dead thing? The answer to that question is goldfish crackers, but as usual, not only do I not have enough time to grab the bag of goldfish crackers kept by the back door for this reason, nor put on the rubber gloves I bought to keep my flesh from touching the still warm, sometimes still quivering dead, or mortally wounded thing they've caught.
I'm glad it's Loki that has the bird, as Sam runs and chews. Meeshka usually spits out, but she spits out before I'm standing there, and then Sam steals it and runs and chews. Loki is a good boy, he stands and chews, and allows me to grab him by the scruff, pry his jaws open (with promises of a trade up) and pull the dead baby bird out of his mouth by the leg... ick. I deposit it over the fence, in the same spot that all dead or dying things go. I imagine the pile of bones to be growing, or that cats are lining up there waiting for the next dead treat to be tossed over.
I'm sure the neighbors love our attempts at retrieving the dead things. One morning at 5 a.m., successful in bagging a squirrel, we chased Sam around the yard screaming "DROP IT, TRADE UP", as he tried to swallow the adult squirrel whole, the other dogs chasing him like a ghoulish version of keep away.
One afternoon, a young bunny ventured into the yard through a tiny little opening in the fence. The chase was on, and I just stood out of the way, awed by the pack as they plotted, planned, and schemed how to get the running toy. It was actually quite beautiful to watch them synchronizing the chase, who would do what, all in the 10 seconds it lasted. As the group converged into the corner, I was sure I'd hear the death scream, and have to start the task of retrieving it, but amazingly enough the bunny shot out of the pile of dogs and squeezed through the crack in the fence to safety. I was amazed, the dogs were pissed.
As with all prey, they return to the original scene of the crime, expecting to find more birds, as if the barrier were a bird dispenser. After a few times out, they'll forget about the goody they found there, and continue stalking other creatures that happen to venture into the yard.
This morning (like many mornings) an unfortunate decision was made by a woodland creature to come into my heavily guarded, overly fenced in yard. I don't know how they get in, or why they get in. I would think that after so many have died in the fortress, they would have erected some type of sign, or smell that said "you will die if you go in here". This time it was a fledgling bird, too young to realize its mistake until it was too late.
As always, the three of them (Nova is 15 and retired from killing), gathered like the hungry, slathering pack they become when something potentially tasty and fun enters the yard. I've stopped trying to save these creatures, it's useless. At one point (before I knew better) I would run behind the dogs as they chased the terrified creature, trying to stop the carnage before it happened. They are all much quicker, and more determined than I, so now I merely stand in one spot (trying not to get run over in the zeal of the chase), and wait for the inevitable, kinda rooting for the hunted to find an escape route, knowing what will eventually happen. Squirrels know the sound of the door opening and run for the trees, birds float away quickly as the dogs come running out. Fledgling bird season brings a lot of carnage though, and it's that time of the year.
Loki lunges into the barrier that is piled against the gate to keep them contained and then quickly runs away gleefully while the others investigate the barrier area. They don't realize that he's found the prey, and now he's trying to swallow it before I get to him.
I have them somewhat trained to spit out stuff they shouldn't have. "Trade up" means they get something even tastier than what they have, but what could be more tastier than a dead thing? The answer to that question is goldfish crackers, but as usual, not only do I not have enough time to grab the bag of goldfish crackers kept by the back door for this reason, nor put on the rubber gloves I bought to keep my flesh from touching the still warm, sometimes still quivering dead, or mortally wounded thing they've caught.
I'm glad it's Loki that has the bird, as Sam runs and chews. Meeshka usually spits out, but she spits out before I'm standing there, and then Sam steals it and runs and chews. Loki is a good boy, he stands and chews, and allows me to grab him by the scruff, pry his jaws open (with promises of a trade up) and pull the dead baby bird out of his mouth by the leg... ick. I deposit it over the fence, in the same spot that all dead or dying things go. I imagine the pile of bones to be growing, or that cats are lining up there waiting for the next dead treat to be tossed over.
I'm sure the neighbors love our attempts at retrieving the dead things. One morning at 5 a.m., successful in bagging a squirrel, we chased Sam around the yard screaming "DROP IT, TRADE UP", as he tried to swallow the adult squirrel whole, the other dogs chasing him like a ghoulish version of keep away.
One afternoon, a young bunny ventured into the yard through a tiny little opening in the fence. The chase was on, and I just stood out of the way, awed by the pack as they plotted, planned, and schemed how to get the running toy. It was actually quite beautiful to watch them synchronizing the chase, who would do what, all in the 10 seconds it lasted. As the group converged into the corner, I was sure I'd hear the death scream, and have to start the task of retrieving it, but amazingly enough the bunny shot out of the pile of dogs and squeezed through the crack in the fence to safety. I was amazed, the dogs were pissed.
As with all prey, they return to the original scene of the crime, expecting to find more birds, as if the barrier were a bird dispenser. After a few times out, they'll forget about the goody they found there, and continue stalking other creatures that happen to venture into the yard.
Wednesday, June 23, 2004
Possum Recycling
As hubby and I were leaving the house to go back to work, I noticed a large amount of flies were buzzing around my recycling bin. Since I only put cardboard in there, I looked in to see what they were so interested in.
Inside my recycling bin was a young possum. My first thought was:
"Who the fuck put a dead possum in my recycling bin?"
Then I noticed that not only was it breathing, but flicking an ear to ward off the flies. So my second thought was:
"Who the fuck put a half-dead possum in my recycling bin?"
So I told hubby to go dump it somewhere where it could die in nature. He picks up the bin and carries it to the edge of our front yard and dumps the critter out. I was actually thinking of a much farther place, and more nature-like than the street, but whatever. That's when we discover that it wasn't half dead, it was just taking a little nap in our recycle bin and boy was it pissed to have been disturbed.
It bared its 50 teeth (I looked that up), and stood all stiff and evil looking, until a car drove by, then it decided to scamper off (well, scamper isn't a good word, more like mosey). It mosied right back toward our front porch actually.
After a quick discussion about what to do with it, we decided it was just easier to let it be and hope it didn't decide that our back yard was a good place to nap... the dogs would make sure it took a good LOOONG forever nap.
Inside my recycling bin was a young possum. My first thought was:
"Who the fuck put a dead possum in my recycling bin?"
Then I noticed that not only was it breathing, but flicking an ear to ward off the flies. So my second thought was:
"Who the fuck put a half-dead possum in my recycling bin?"
So I told hubby to go dump it somewhere where it could die in nature. He picks up the bin and carries it to the edge of our front yard and dumps the critter out. I was actually thinking of a much farther place, and more nature-like than the street, but whatever. That's when we discover that it wasn't half dead, it was just taking a little nap in our recycle bin and boy was it pissed to have been disturbed.
It bared its 50 teeth (I looked that up), and stood all stiff and evil looking, until a car drove by, then it decided to scamper off (well, scamper isn't a good word, more like mosey). It mosied right back toward our front porch actually.
After a quick discussion about what to do with it, we decided it was just easier to let it be and hope it didn't decide that our back yard was a good place to nap... the dogs would make sure it took a good LOOONG forever nap.
Monday, June 21, 2004
Wait and See
I haven't posted in a while. About three weeks ago, we thought for sure that our 15 year old husky Nova was about to die. Prior to that time, he had been healthy, good appetite, but showing some signs of doggie alzheimers, so we took him to the vet for some tests to make sure everything was ok, and to put him on a brain food diet.
The bloodwork came back normal, but his urine was a bit diluted. Our vet suggested an x-ray, which revealed that he had gallbladder stones, a rarety in dogs. She wanted to put him on some gallbladder medication, but recommended an ultrasound to rule out a blockage first. The ultrasound revealed that he was undergoing liver failure. Wait a minute... we came in for doggie alzheimers food and now he's got gallbladder stones and liver failure? This is just more proof that doctors and hospitals make people sick.
So... he got some medication, one of which we had to fill at a regular drugstore, and the woman behind the counter wouldn't believe that it was for our child "Nova" and we took him to a vet because it's cheaper than an HMO. So, that wasn't covered under our co-pay (80 bucks for 30 little pills). Gave him all the pills that first night and he was yacking up the pills and his dinner within an hour's time. Then he refused to eat after that (don't really blame him, he probably thought we were out to poison him).
After a variety of dog foods, then homecooked people foods, we finally got him to eat and he was fine for a week. Sunday came and it was like he had a stroke. Almost no function in his back legs, whining, pacing, listless, and frankly we thought for sure that if he didn't die in his sleep, we'd have to help him along and give him some peace. We only wanted to spend some more time with him before taking him in, so we took some time from work... and the next day he was almost back to his old self, except that he refused to eat. How embarrassing to go crying to your boss that your dog was on its last legs and it was just a matter of time, only to see him bounding down the stairs first thing in the morning.
Since we had the time off, and since we were convinced that he would relapse and go when we weren't there, we stayed home and tried every concoction known to man to get him to eat.
A holistic dog book had the fantastic idea (for sadists) to boil liver, puree it in a blender and force feed him with a turkey baster. As we gagged and heaved while making this noxious mixture, wearing rubber gloves and sterilizing everything the liver touched, we force fed the poor guy this nasty liver "soup". The other dogs (Meeshka, Sam, and Loki) by this time were thoroughly peeved that the old guy was getting all these "tasty" foods, AND going for a ride in the truck (we decided to treat him with trips to Petsmart and Starbucks), that they decided to hold a revolt, so we started feeding them bits of the things that Nova wouldn't eat.
After a few days of the liver "soup", Nova decided that it was in his best interest to eat something. A friend had sent us a recipe for "satin balls", which is mainly raw hamburger, molasses, total cereal, oatmeal and eggs, which we dutifully made and lumped into bite-sized balls, which he ate (thankfully, because now everything we touched smelled like liver).
Our life was on hold for about two weeks, watching him to make sure he was breathing, holding celebrations outside when he took a normal poop (the new neighbors luckily have three dogs of their own and don't look at us too strangely), and feeding him. He's now gotten extremely picky about what he'll eat and when. He'll eat chicken if it's on our plate and we hand it to him, but he won't eat it if we cut it up and put it in a bowl. He'll eat the satin balls if we hold it in our hands, not out of a bowl. He's playing us like a fiddle at this point.
He's not out of the woods at this point. He goes in for follow-up bloodwork to see if the liver meds are helping, because at the last blood test his liver levels are astronomically high. If they're lower, we have to put him on the expensive gallbladder pills too.
Just tonight I was able to spend some time outside with the other dogs, watching them chase and maul each other. They only play if there's an audience. We're starting to get some routine back in our lives, and feel a little better about going to work in the morning and not worrying about what we'll find when we get home.
Some people think we're nuts, "they're only dogs", they say. But to us they're our kids, because we don't have any, don't want any, and frankly don't like them. We don't dress them up and pretend they're kids, they are our dogs, but we've learned more from them than any human, and would rather spend time with them than most people in the world. After dealing with petty people, demanding people, ignorant people, selfish people, and just plain assholes, it's refreshing to come home and get such happiness and love out of one ear scratch. They don't ridicule our clothes, tell us we're fat and need to exercise, want something impossible in 5 minutes (unless it's their dinner), and cuddle up next to you and look at you with such trust and love for so little in return.
I wear my husky fur to work with pride, knowing that they'll be there for me when I come home and not want anything more than just to be with me.
The bloodwork came back normal, but his urine was a bit diluted. Our vet suggested an x-ray, which revealed that he had gallbladder stones, a rarety in dogs. She wanted to put him on some gallbladder medication, but recommended an ultrasound to rule out a blockage first. The ultrasound revealed that he was undergoing liver failure. Wait a minute... we came in for doggie alzheimers food and now he's got gallbladder stones and liver failure? This is just more proof that doctors and hospitals make people sick.
So... he got some medication, one of which we had to fill at a regular drugstore, and the woman behind the counter wouldn't believe that it was for our child "Nova" and we took him to a vet because it's cheaper than an HMO. So, that wasn't covered under our co-pay (80 bucks for 30 little pills). Gave him all the pills that first night and he was yacking up the pills and his dinner within an hour's time. Then he refused to eat after that (don't really blame him, he probably thought we were out to poison him).
After a variety of dog foods, then homecooked people foods, we finally got him to eat and he was fine for a week. Sunday came and it was like he had a stroke. Almost no function in his back legs, whining, pacing, listless, and frankly we thought for sure that if he didn't die in his sleep, we'd have to help him along and give him some peace. We only wanted to spend some more time with him before taking him in, so we took some time from work... and the next day he was almost back to his old self, except that he refused to eat. How embarrassing to go crying to your boss that your dog was on its last legs and it was just a matter of time, only to see him bounding down the stairs first thing in the morning.
Since we had the time off, and since we were convinced that he would relapse and go when we weren't there, we stayed home and tried every concoction known to man to get him to eat.
A holistic dog book had the fantastic idea (for sadists) to boil liver, puree it in a blender and force feed him with a turkey baster. As we gagged and heaved while making this noxious mixture, wearing rubber gloves and sterilizing everything the liver touched, we force fed the poor guy this nasty liver "soup". The other dogs (Meeshka, Sam, and Loki) by this time were thoroughly peeved that the old guy was getting all these "tasty" foods, AND going for a ride in the truck (we decided to treat him with trips to Petsmart and Starbucks), that they decided to hold a revolt, so we started feeding them bits of the things that Nova wouldn't eat.
After a few days of the liver "soup", Nova decided that it was in his best interest to eat something. A friend had sent us a recipe for "satin balls", which is mainly raw hamburger, molasses, total cereal, oatmeal and eggs, which we dutifully made and lumped into bite-sized balls, which he ate (thankfully, because now everything we touched smelled like liver).
Our life was on hold for about two weeks, watching him to make sure he was breathing, holding celebrations outside when he took a normal poop (the new neighbors luckily have three dogs of their own and don't look at us too strangely), and feeding him. He's now gotten extremely picky about what he'll eat and when. He'll eat chicken if it's on our plate and we hand it to him, but he won't eat it if we cut it up and put it in a bowl. He'll eat the satin balls if we hold it in our hands, not out of a bowl. He's playing us like a fiddle at this point.
He's not out of the woods at this point. He goes in for follow-up bloodwork to see if the liver meds are helping, because at the last blood test his liver levels are astronomically high. If they're lower, we have to put him on the expensive gallbladder pills too.
Just tonight I was able to spend some time outside with the other dogs, watching them chase and maul each other. They only play if there's an audience. We're starting to get some routine back in our lives, and feel a little better about going to work in the morning and not worrying about what we'll find when we get home.
Some people think we're nuts, "they're only dogs", they say. But to us they're our kids, because we don't have any, don't want any, and frankly don't like them. We don't dress them up and pretend they're kids, they are our dogs, but we've learned more from them than any human, and would rather spend time with them than most people in the world. After dealing with petty people, demanding people, ignorant people, selfish people, and just plain assholes, it's refreshing to come home and get such happiness and love out of one ear scratch. They don't ridicule our clothes, tell us we're fat and need to exercise, want something impossible in 5 minutes (unless it's their dinner), and cuddle up next to you and look at you with such trust and love for so little in return.
I wear my husky fur to work with pride, knowing that they'll be there for me when I come home and not want anything more than just to be with me.
Tuesday, May 4, 2004
The Reality of Technology
Have you ever watched something on tv or in a movie that was futuristic and thought: "gee, that's pretty cool, I wish we had that now"?
When faced with it in reality, perhaps it wasn't such a good idea.
Case in point, I had to go deposit a check. Yes, in today's "direct deposit" society, I had a check, I need to actually drive to a bank and deposit a slip of paper. Blame it on technology for not getting its records updated quick enough when getting a new job (in this case, the hubby's new employer).
There was a new branch of my bank that recently opened, and since it was close to a Starbucks (in contractor lingo, that would be known as "Starbuckability"), I decided to go there. After finding it on a very inconvenient split highway where you have to turn right, find a light and turn around in order to get back to the Starbucks, I pulled in and thought it looked pretty spartan. A brick block building, hardly any windows.
I walk in, expecting to hear the chatter of people, the hustle and bustle of everyday banking, and was taken aback by the fact that it was stone silent, had no chairs, no usual bank-like things. A receptionist was sitting off to the side, and she ignored me. In front of me was the typical counter with all the bank slips needed, but there were no tellers.
I stood there for a moment, wondering if I walked into the wrong building, and then it dawned on me. In the back, there were about 7 cubby spaces. Each cubby space had a phone, a little tv monitor and a pneumatic tube like you find in drive through banks.
As I filled out the deposit slip, I watched as a man wandered to a cubby, stuffed his papers in a tube, waited for a moment, then the "informational scroll" on the little tv screen was replaced by a floating, smiling head that greeted him.
Holy crap! This was straight out of some sci-fi movie or something. Not only are we becoming a xenophobic society thanks to home banking and e-bay, but now when we actually go to a bank, we don't even get to interact with a human, we're interacting with a tv screen.
I meandered to a cubby, not really sure where to go, and using the bathroom stall rule, I chose a cubby one cubby away from the guy already there, stuffed my check and deposit slip into the tube, and sure enough, a smiling young man popped up before I could read just how many quills the average porcupine has.
"How are you?" He asked. I wanted to say "feeling really oogie talking to a screen", but I gave him the usual, automatic "fine". Then I watched the top of his head as he apparently retrieved my papers, did whatever it is they do with them, and then stuffed the receipt back in the tube. "Thank you, have a nice day" he chirped, then disappeared. Poof, gone.
My tube returned promptly with my receipt. I felt somewhat like those people you see in the movies that are talking to prisoners. Apparently the little phone is for discrete conversations, or for the hard of hearing or something. There's just something lacking about not being close to a human. You lose all of your power. No more leaning in to let them know that you aren't happy about standing in line for hours, or that they deposited your check in the wrong account and bounced all of your bill payments. They are safe and sound somewhere (perhaps the nuclear blast-proof basement) and happy because they know you can't be intimidating to them. They don't have to wonder if I'm a machine gun toting loon out to rob them... they aren't there.
With my deposit slip in hand, I turned to the first guy and thought outloud "I bet they aren't wearing any pants". I was also tempted to bring a marker and draw a mustache on the screen or something.
I left, feeling somewhat cheated and confused. The receptionist was still oblivious to the world, no "have a nice day" from a real person.
I still feel strange about the whole thing, but at least I'm not going to catch SARS from a teller.
When faced with it in reality, perhaps it wasn't such a good idea.
Case in point, I had to go deposit a check. Yes, in today's "direct deposit" society, I had a check, I need to actually drive to a bank and deposit a slip of paper. Blame it on technology for not getting its records updated quick enough when getting a new job (in this case, the hubby's new employer).
There was a new branch of my bank that recently opened, and since it was close to a Starbucks (in contractor lingo, that would be known as "Starbuckability"), I decided to go there. After finding it on a very inconvenient split highway where you have to turn right, find a light and turn around in order to get back to the Starbucks, I pulled in and thought it looked pretty spartan. A brick block building, hardly any windows.
I walk in, expecting to hear the chatter of people, the hustle and bustle of everyday banking, and was taken aback by the fact that it was stone silent, had no chairs, no usual bank-like things. A receptionist was sitting off to the side, and she ignored me. In front of me was the typical counter with all the bank slips needed, but there were no tellers.
I stood there for a moment, wondering if I walked into the wrong building, and then it dawned on me. In the back, there were about 7 cubby spaces. Each cubby space had a phone, a little tv monitor and a pneumatic tube like you find in drive through banks.
As I filled out the deposit slip, I watched as a man wandered to a cubby, stuffed his papers in a tube, waited for a moment, then the "informational scroll" on the little tv screen was replaced by a floating, smiling head that greeted him.
Holy crap! This was straight out of some sci-fi movie or something. Not only are we becoming a xenophobic society thanks to home banking and e-bay, but now when we actually go to a bank, we don't even get to interact with a human, we're interacting with a tv screen.
I meandered to a cubby, not really sure where to go, and using the bathroom stall rule, I chose a cubby one cubby away from the guy already there, stuffed my check and deposit slip into the tube, and sure enough, a smiling young man popped up before I could read just how many quills the average porcupine has.
"How are you?" He asked. I wanted to say "feeling really oogie talking to a screen", but I gave him the usual, automatic "fine". Then I watched the top of his head as he apparently retrieved my papers, did whatever it is they do with them, and then stuffed the receipt back in the tube. "Thank you, have a nice day" he chirped, then disappeared. Poof, gone.
My tube returned promptly with my receipt. I felt somewhat like those people you see in the movies that are talking to prisoners. Apparently the little phone is for discrete conversations, or for the hard of hearing or something. There's just something lacking about not being close to a human. You lose all of your power. No more leaning in to let them know that you aren't happy about standing in line for hours, or that they deposited your check in the wrong account and bounced all of your bill payments. They are safe and sound somewhere (perhaps the nuclear blast-proof basement) and happy because they know you can't be intimidating to them. They don't have to wonder if I'm a machine gun toting loon out to rob them... they aren't there.
With my deposit slip in hand, I turned to the first guy and thought outloud "I bet they aren't wearing any pants". I was also tempted to bring a marker and draw a mustache on the screen or something.
I left, feeling somewhat cheated and confused. The receptionist was still oblivious to the world, no "have a nice day" from a real person.
I still feel strange about the whole thing, but at least I'm not going to catch SARS from a teller.
Sunday, March 21, 2004
Taxes Suck
I'm not going into that whole "taxes are voluntary" thing... voluntary my ass!
I just hate doing them.
For three years we had a CPA do them. Owning a business, doing the personal stuff, and the complicated life we lead really makes doing them suck, so what a relief to find an honest to god CPA that would do them (for an outrageous fee).
In the past we'd do them ourselves. Our anniversary is on tax day (how sweet), so invariably we'd be in front of the computer, screaming and cursing at each other. We would stop for a moment to say "happy anniversary, I love you" then proceed with the cursing and screaming.
Every year we did our taxes, we'd have a catastrophic equipment problem.
One year our monitor just up and died. Poof, dead. That was before we hoarded all of our computer equipment, so we didn't have a spare laying around. Out at O'Dark gawd-awful to find a store that was not only open, but had a stupid monitor.
Another year our printer died. Once again, before the hoarding phase of our lives (now we have a zillion monitors and printers and everything else laying around), so out we went (once again) at O'dark gawd-awful to find a store that was open and had a printer.
Things always seemed to die at about the time that all stores close, the day BEFORE taxes were due. Ok, so we usually procrastinated, but still it got ridiculous.
What a relief it was to find a CPA. he did our taxes for three years. Glorious bliss. We pile up the paperwork and plop it on his desk and amazingly enough, everything was done by the due date. No stress, no screaming, no nothing, and we would go out to dinner on our anniversary.
Last year, our CPA apparently had a nervous breakdown that he neglected to tell us about when we dropped off our paperwork. As April 15th closed in on us, no amount of e-mailing, irate phone calls, frantic phone calls, or screaming would get him to respond to us. He came up with some lame "I got very sick" excuse when he finally called us. He promised to meet us at his office, but when we got there... no CPA. We called and he told us he left them with the receptionist. Nice... whatever.
We mailed them on the way home (since it was the due date), but noticed that he didn't do the paperwork for the MD personal property tax thing. Another irate call later and he said he filed for an extension and would do it when he got back from a business trip.
Three months later we get a nastygram from the State of MD asking where our personal property tax paperwork was. Excuse me?
Then there was the nastygram from the IRS that said we didn't file our special K-1 forms. EXCUSE ME????
600 phone calls later (that went from "hey, it's us... we seem to have a problem, call us" to "you fucking rat bastard, you better call or we'll get our lawyer to ream you a new..."
Never returned our calls, e-mails, etc. So I had to take care of it.
So this year I'm doing it on Turbo Tax. What a thrill. If I start having problems I'm taking it to H&R Block or someplace.
Hey Jerry, if you're out there, I hope your rotting in Hell!
I just hate doing them.
For three years we had a CPA do them. Owning a business, doing the personal stuff, and the complicated life we lead really makes doing them suck, so what a relief to find an honest to god CPA that would do them (for an outrageous fee).
In the past we'd do them ourselves. Our anniversary is on tax day (how sweet), so invariably we'd be in front of the computer, screaming and cursing at each other. We would stop for a moment to say "happy anniversary, I love you" then proceed with the cursing and screaming.
Every year we did our taxes, we'd have a catastrophic equipment problem.
One year our monitor just up and died. Poof, dead. That was before we hoarded all of our computer equipment, so we didn't have a spare laying around. Out at O'Dark gawd-awful to find a store that was not only open, but had a stupid monitor.
Another year our printer died. Once again, before the hoarding phase of our lives (now we have a zillion monitors and printers and everything else laying around), so out we went (once again) at O'dark gawd-awful to find a store that was open and had a printer.
Things always seemed to die at about the time that all stores close, the day BEFORE taxes were due. Ok, so we usually procrastinated, but still it got ridiculous.
What a relief it was to find a CPA. he did our taxes for three years. Glorious bliss. We pile up the paperwork and plop it on his desk and amazingly enough, everything was done by the due date. No stress, no screaming, no nothing, and we would go out to dinner on our anniversary.
Last year, our CPA apparently had a nervous breakdown that he neglected to tell us about when we dropped off our paperwork. As April 15th closed in on us, no amount of e-mailing, irate phone calls, frantic phone calls, or screaming would get him to respond to us. He came up with some lame "I got very sick" excuse when he finally called us. He promised to meet us at his office, but when we got there... no CPA. We called and he told us he left them with the receptionist. Nice... whatever.
We mailed them on the way home (since it was the due date), but noticed that he didn't do the paperwork for the MD personal property tax thing. Another irate call later and he said he filed for an extension and would do it when he got back from a business trip.
Three months later we get a nastygram from the State of MD asking where our personal property tax paperwork was. Excuse me?
Then there was the nastygram from the IRS that said we didn't file our special K-1 forms. EXCUSE ME????
600 phone calls later (that went from "hey, it's us... we seem to have a problem, call us" to "you fucking rat bastard, you better call or we'll get our lawyer to ream you a new..."
Never returned our calls, e-mails, etc. So I had to take care of it.
So this year I'm doing it on Turbo Tax. What a thrill. If I start having problems I'm taking it to H&R Block or someplace.
Hey Jerry, if you're out there, I hope your rotting in Hell!
Thursday, March 4, 2004
Change Is Good... Right?
Being xenophobic (hates change, fears strangers), we're going through some stressful times right now. Hubby (after 7 years) has been offered a position at another company. This is a good thing since the job will be 7 miles from the house, as opposed to 65 miles from the house. After 10 years of commuting this far (he was at another far away company before this job), he really has no concept of what having a life is all about except that it includes sitting in DC metro traffic rush hour traffic for 3 hours a day or more.
The problem is that they aren't going to buy out his college commitment with the other company (which sucks), they are going to give him more money, and along with the 3 grand worth of gas he won't have to buy, that means even more money a year for us to blow on expensive computer gadgets that we don't use and don't need. Or we could get more huskies, but that's another post.
It also means that we will be able to "commute" together, since he'll eventually start working on the exact same street that I work on. Spending more time together, having a real life and possibly (heaven forbid) being able to take a vacation together.
Same benefits (generally), not the astounding amount of money he asked for, but more than what he was getting. Sounds too good to be true, which is what is totally freaking me out.
Using some assets, we can swing paying off the college thing, still have some money in savings in case his first check gets held (as some companies do), and we'll be saving a buttload by not having the truck in for oil changes every month, not paying a mint for high taxed gas, and having a life. But what if the job sucks, or what if the company sucks, or what if, what if, AAAAAHHHH!
I have no idea why I'm totally freaking about this. We both use to commute to Virginia to work. We made the mistake of moving to Maryland, finding and buying a house, then finding jobs. Unfortunately the house was in Maryland, the jobs were in Virginia. Should have planned that one out a tad bit better I think now.
For 4 years we commuted together, and had no life. Working 9 to 5 with an hour and a half commute means getting up at the butt crack of dawn and getting home late every night. You tend not to want to drive anywhere during the weekends (because your butt takes the shape of the car seat during the week, and the last thing you want to do is drive anywhere), and you didn't want to leave the house because you never spend any time there except to eat and sleep.
One day, while hubby was traveling on business, I drove to work in particularly crappy traffic. As I crossed into DC, I thought: "did I turn the oven off?" This meant that I spent an hour in traffic, had to turn around and spend another hour driving home (only to find that I did turn the oven off) and another hour driving BACK to the office (late)... or else trust that the oven was off and then feel really stupid when I got home from work (late) to find that our house was a pile of ash. I couldn't stand it anymore and found a job much closer to home.
Amazingly enough, I had no clue how much time I had wasted in traffic those 4 years. I could actually go to the grocery store after work since it was still open. I could stop at the mall on the way home because it was still open. I could do all the laundry and housework after work and not use my weekends to do the huge pile of laundry and vacuum 5 layers of husky hair from the carpet that had accumulated over the week.
I had TIME and it was amazing the things I could do with it.
I did feel guilty that hubby was still making the daily trek to Virginia every day, this time alone. I encouraged him to try to find gainful employment closer, but he loved his job, liked the people he worked with, etc. Besides, he hates change worse than I do. So it was a complete shock when he casually announced that he had submitted his resume to this company.
Now the offer is here. Not the greatest, not the best, but it's a good offer. It means so much more freedom and time for him, and it's what I've been trying to get him to do for years and years... and I'm freaking out.
Change is good? The unknown is good?
Oh hell, if it doesn't work out, we'll just declare bankruptcy and move back to Goshen, IN. I have an idea to start a coffee shop and doggie play area. I want to call it "Starbarks", but we'll probably get sued.
The problem is that they aren't going to buy out his college commitment with the other company (which sucks), they are going to give him more money, and along with the 3 grand worth of gas he won't have to buy, that means even more money a year for us to blow on expensive computer gadgets that we don't use and don't need. Or we could get more huskies, but that's another post.
It also means that we will be able to "commute" together, since he'll eventually start working on the exact same street that I work on. Spending more time together, having a real life and possibly (heaven forbid) being able to take a vacation together.
Same benefits (generally), not the astounding amount of money he asked for, but more than what he was getting. Sounds too good to be true, which is what is totally freaking me out.
Using some assets, we can swing paying off the college thing, still have some money in savings in case his first check gets held (as some companies do), and we'll be saving a buttload by not having the truck in for oil changes every month, not paying a mint for high taxed gas, and having a life. But what if the job sucks, or what if the company sucks, or what if, what if, AAAAAHHHH!
I have no idea why I'm totally freaking about this. We both use to commute to Virginia to work. We made the mistake of moving to Maryland, finding and buying a house, then finding jobs. Unfortunately the house was in Maryland, the jobs were in Virginia. Should have planned that one out a tad bit better I think now.
For 4 years we commuted together, and had no life. Working 9 to 5 with an hour and a half commute means getting up at the butt crack of dawn and getting home late every night. You tend not to want to drive anywhere during the weekends (because your butt takes the shape of the car seat during the week, and the last thing you want to do is drive anywhere), and you didn't want to leave the house because you never spend any time there except to eat and sleep.
One day, while hubby was traveling on business, I drove to work in particularly crappy traffic. As I crossed into DC, I thought: "did I turn the oven off?" This meant that I spent an hour in traffic, had to turn around and spend another hour driving home (only to find that I did turn the oven off) and another hour driving BACK to the office (late)... or else trust that the oven was off and then feel really stupid when I got home from work (late) to find that our house was a pile of ash. I couldn't stand it anymore and found a job much closer to home.
Amazingly enough, I had no clue how much time I had wasted in traffic those 4 years. I could actually go to the grocery store after work since it was still open. I could stop at the mall on the way home because it was still open. I could do all the laundry and housework after work and not use my weekends to do the huge pile of laundry and vacuum 5 layers of husky hair from the carpet that had accumulated over the week.
I had TIME and it was amazing the things I could do with it.
I did feel guilty that hubby was still making the daily trek to Virginia every day, this time alone. I encouraged him to try to find gainful employment closer, but he loved his job, liked the people he worked with, etc. Besides, he hates change worse than I do. So it was a complete shock when he casually announced that he had submitted his resume to this company.
Now the offer is here. Not the greatest, not the best, but it's a good offer. It means so much more freedom and time for him, and it's what I've been trying to get him to do for years and years... and I'm freaking out.
Change is good? The unknown is good?
Oh hell, if it doesn't work out, we'll just declare bankruptcy and move back to Goshen, IN. I have an idea to start a coffee shop and doggie play area. I want to call it "Starbarks", but we'll probably get sued.
Saturday, February 28, 2004
Technology Sucks Part 2: The attack of the used fax cartridge
So about 2 weeks ago our fax machine started complaining that its cartridge was almost empty, so we shlepped over to Office Depot and bought one, shoved it in the fax machine.
The day of the cell phone fiasco, I came home for puppy duty and the fax machine was beeping and saying that the cartridge was empty. How could it be empty, I just put a new one in there?
Checked it, and sure enough it was empty. Now either we had run through a bazillion faxes in a week, which is possible with all the spam faxes we've been getting lately, or there was a problem with the cartridge. I ripped it out and looked at it. There were faxes from a large company to a large government agency on this thing. The cartridge is actually just rolled up carbon paper, so I could read everything that had been faxed. Gee, wonder if anyone knows this is out floating around.
Doesn't matter though, because my fax machine won't stop beeping until you put a stupid cartridge in, my nerves are frayed enough from dealing with the cell phone people, and now I have to run out to Office Depot and yell at them.
Off to Office Depot I go, all pissed off because I'm wasting my lunch hour, and plop the cartridge on the counter. I have to admit that they were very nice and apologetic about the whole thing, although they did look at me like I was trying to rip them off for a $35.00 cartridge. I assured them that I wasn't with this big company, or the government agency, and frankly I would think that either of them would be a little disturbed to have their business floating around where everyone can read it, and they gave me a new cartridge.
After I got home from work I was able to shut up the insane beeping of the fax machine, which promptly burped out a fax telling me that railroad ties were a great investment.
Tuesday, February 24, 2004
Technology sucks, Part 1
So, the husband and I went out last weekend and bought new cell phones. Actually, he wanted the new Motorola V400, and I was just going to let him get it, but the salesguy convinced me that with the "new technology" out, my phone was doomed to become a paperweight, so why not blow $500 on cell phones, and gizmos and pouches and holders. Besides, the phone has a camera, and what idiot nowadays has a phone without a camera.
So we get them, and proudly drag them home, clueless how to do anything with them other than dial a phone number. We play with them for a day or two before we realize (on a sunday), that hey... nothing works. No voicemail, no internet access, no text messaging, nothing.
This has happened to us before with this cell carrier (whose name I won't divulge). Every time we've changed our plan or got new phones, they mess up our account and we lose something (like the ability to dial the damn phone), and have to make several calls to clear up the problem. While they're clearing up the problem, typically they try to stick us on the latest plan, which means we lose all of our freebies from our previous plan.
Of course the cell company customer service department doesn't work on weekends, so I have to wait until Monday morning to call. Bright and early, I'm on the phone for a 10 minute run through of their voicemail system (since none of the options seem remotely what I need, nor do they offer up a human sacrifice to my wrath). Then a 15 minute wait once I do find the "summon the human sacrifice" button, listening to really bad music and cell phone commercials (one of which is touting all the cool things you can do with a Motorola V400... WHICH I HAVE AND IS USELESS!). So after 25 minutes on "hold" do they actually wonder why people are in a foul mood?
My first call (yes, it took more than one call, is this a surprise to anyone), netted a very perky (way too perky for 8am) woman, who looked at our account and said "oh", in that "something pooped on my shoe" type way. After 15 minutes of clicking noises (which I'm convinced is a recording, she's sitting there reading a magazine), she announced that the problem must be escalated to the tech support branch. I hate being "escalated" because that means you'll never hear back from anyone ever again, and it still won't work.
She informed me that she would call and leave a voicemail on my cell phone when it was fixed. I was smarter than she (having drank 2 cups of coffee before the call) and told her that if my voicemail was broke and not set up, how would I even begin to know that I had a message? She took my work number instead.
5 hours later (what a shock), and our phones still didn't work, and perky girl hadn't called.
Call #2, I just press "0" this time and bypass all the crap, and have a 2 minute wait for a human that actually took 5. This time, luckily, the woman that answered gave me the poop on the shoe "oh" when she looked at our account, but actually said that she would try to fix it... and she did. 45 minutes later, she did manage to give us back all the stuff we had paid for, and explained that whoever put in the new service told it to start on the 27th (we bought the phones on the 21st), and cancel the old service immediately, which means we had nothing til the 27th. I don't know what she did, but it worked, we have all of our stuff and there was dancing in the streets... except for:
Technology sucks Part 2: the attack of the used fax cartridge
Technology sucks Part 3: HP and their Welchia virus bad memory expensive computer (and Steve)
Technology sucks Part 4: IR Palm keyboard goes whacky
Monday was not a good day.
Friday, February 20, 2004
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