A Gleeful realization

I haven't written in a while because, quite frankly, there was nothing to write about. So now I must rely on my friends. I am publishing this with my friend's express permission - so there is no need to fear that I will use your foibles for my own entertainment (at least not publicly).

My friend Carol* is incredibly talented in more ways than I can count or imagine, but she hasn't had much experience with the television side of the technological revolution. She will freely admit that she hasn't really watched any TV since her oldest was born in 1999. There have been a lot of changes since 1999 . . . I quickly fell in love with Glee and knew Carol would too. Though it took awhile to get Carol up to speed (getting most of her DVDs from the library), I loaned her my DVD of Season One, Part One, and Carol was smitten, just as I knew she would be. So much so, that she put a date on her calendar to see the Glee movie and bought tickets in advance. Her goal this season was to actually stay on top of Glee as it aired, instead of catching up months or weeks later.

Carol invited me over to her house for Glee's season premiere in September. She said the show was starting at 8:00. I asked if she was sure (as we live in Chicago and it had always aired at 7:00), and she gleefully (ha - a pun!) said that they could pretty much put the show on at whatever time they wanted because it was so good and popular. I was skeptical, but also knew that Glee was perhaps the only thing that could take precedence over Carol's children (don't worry, girls, I'm totally kidding), so I believed her. As I drove to her house at 6:15, I thought I'd check the time on my iPhone, just in case. As I suspected, Glee was set to air the first episode of the season at 7. I quickly called Carol and she was dismayed - how could this be?! And then - it dawned on her - the show would be on at 8, 7 central. Yep - we're in the central time zone. In fact Carol's been in the central time zone for a full twelve years. I sped (as much as possible) to Carol's house and arrived at 7:02. The bizarre mix of technology alluded me, so it wasn't until 7:20 that I had Glee up and running.  Carol felt defeated, but consoled herself with the fact that she could watch it on Hulu the next day, as she had done for previous seasons.

And then, there was a fly in the ointment. Hulu went back to its original method of streaming an episode 8 days after it airs on TV. Alas, Technology - 1, Carol - 0. Not to be deterred, Carol tried again the following week, but still could not figure out the TV. And then this email came very early the next morning:

Mike’s* alarm went off at 5:20 even though he is taking the day off from work.  He is going to minyan anyway.  I was annoyed for less than 15 seconds when I realized that means that I get to watch the first Glee episode!  Yes, it is the first day it is available on Hulu, and no one else in the house is awake.  Glee from last week is MINE!  I have never been glad to have been behind on folding laundry before;  I was looking respectably busy when Mike left for minyan and I am a happy woman.  Me and Hulu, we’re like this (and I’d show you, but there isn’t a crossed fingers icon that I know of)


-Carol


The following week, I was helping Carol out with some other things, so I would be at her house watching the girls and could supervise the recording of Glee. Carol had set everything up so there was a tape, the TV was programmed, all I needed to do was press record at 7:00. Perhaps I should add that Carol and her clan are very environmentally aware and so have the TV and assorted devices hooked up to a power strip that is turned off when not in use. Thinking she was helping, one of the girls turned off the power strip, unaware of the recording plan her mother had so carefully put into place. A few minutes before the intended time, I went downstairs and panicked when I saw nothing appeared to be working. I hastily turned things on and attempted to figure out the various inputs and channels so Glee would be recorded. At least marginally familiar with the setup given the last attempt at Glee-dom, I was able to figure it out by about 7:02. I may or may not have raised my voice at the girls through this process, begging them not to touch anything or say anything so I could get everything setup. I pressed record (as originally asked) and left the TV to do its magic.


Carol came home, went downstairs, and saw that nothing had recorded. What?!?!?!?! I pressed record! I saw it recording! Let me reiterate - What?!?!?!?! I felt so bad about this, but there was nothing I could do. Fortunately, it turned out that the episode was just later in the tape, so a few minutes at the end had been cut off, but we could call it .75 for 3 on Glee recording. We had a full month hiatus for the World Series. Finally home at 7:00, Carol was understandably frustrated at the lack of Glee. Or, as she put it, "It's been awhile, but even I know that they don't sing the National Anthem at the end of a baseball game". When Glee was finally back on the air, I got the following email:

TV is on the right station-check

VCR tape is in-check

Everything works when it is turned on-check

It is actually taping Fox-check

Rewound tape after test-check

Now I just have to remember to turn it back on and push record in 6 hours.  I don’t want to even consider the learning curve in programming it to tape at a specific time.  : )

I can’t wait!

:-),

Carol

My dear readers, you know my writing style enough to figure out that I wouldn't have included the above email if Carol was successful. Sadly, it was a no go. Still no Glee. A very well-meaning friend sent Carol a device that would actually set the TV up to record at a certain time without her needing to do anything else. Knowing Carol (and her TV setup), I was confident this would make no difference - as the issue wasn't necessarily the timing of the recording as much as some pretty old equipment paired with some rather bizarre and new equipment - adding in Carol's luck and penchant for missing Glee just to make things more fun. 

The following week (as we all suspected), Glee was, yet again, aired but not recorded.

Well, we were all set to record.  TV on? Check.  Box on? Check.  Blue light on the box on? Check.  Tape set up and checked? Check.  Timer set to remind everyone to hit the record button? Check.  VCR on? Check.  But for reasons which escape us the blue light turned off at some point during recording while I was at a meeting and Mike was at minyan.  You’d think that my pagan musical meeting and Mike’s davening would cancel each other out, allowing the taping of a pagan show, but no.  In any case, I get to see last week’s tomorrow and then I’ll get a teaser of last night’s and maybe the blue light stayed on for a good, long, lovely time. 

Sigh,

Carol

I piped in and figured out (by looking at the manual online) that the sleep timer on the converter box just needed to be turned off and it would override Al Gore's carefully devised plan to save energy. As we all might expect, Carol would, again, be away from the house when Glee aired the following week. And so . . .

I will leave bedtime routine instructions and hope that [the babysitter] can turn on our high maintenance box at the right time.  The weirdest babysitting instruction ever:  at 15 minute intervals, check to make sure the blue light is on

We seemed to have triumphed over technology. At last, Glee would be hers! (Or ours - we had all invested a lot of time at this point). Could it be that the sixth time was the charm? Well . . . 

I know you’ve all been breathlessly waiting:  Did Carol Fly (record) or Fail?  Is she caught up?!  Well, yes and no.  Yes, folks, we have a winner!  I actually recorded (I think) an entire episode of Glee all by myself (by proxy).  I set everything up and then set a timer and told the babysitter (who laughed really hard) and my children to push record.  I just now finally checked and did see that Glee recorded.  But, no, I’m not caught up (so I don’t know for sure that I got the whole episode, but the blue light was on when I got home, so there’s at least a good chance).  Alice* and I had a laundry party at her house today and watched the very sweet West Side Story “First Time” episode, but now we have to find a time to watch “Mash Off” together.  Can’t wait to see the next episode, whenever that is. . .

How many clicks does it take to get to the Glee-filled center of a successfully recorded show? The world may never know . . . 

Shana Tovah!

I'm sure those of you religiously following my blog (no pun intended) are curious as to the outcome of the dating olympics over a longer period of time.

Well - George (Jesus) and I went out on a few more dates and had a generally good time. We'll certainly see where it goes, but I'm keeping my fingers crossed. Besides, he can totally save on the dinner tab by turning water into wine.

On the first day of Rosh Hashana, I was helping out with youth services at my friend's shul (synagogue), so I spent a considerable amount of time in the back area of the building. While my friend was deep in the throes of a conversation with someone, I wandered the halls and spoke greetings to congregants who crossed my path. Suddenly, Ringo (Obama is a Marxist guy) walks by. I give the standard acknowledgment nod and greeting only to discover that it was not a random congregant walking by. Oh no - it was bachelor #4 in all of his gangly, obnoxious glory. Now, I'm not sure if he recognized me or put two and two together, but I most certainly recognized him and just about peed myself. All I can say at this point, is that it made for a very interesting beginning to my new year.

The Dating Olympics - a Recap

I hesitate to publish this post because I don't want to run into the same dilemma as the writer behind the awesome blog Searching for Prince Charmingstein. And yet - here I am - posting anyway. So, here goes . . .

I competed in the dating olympics over labor day weekend. With four dates in three days - I had an awful lot of dinner, coffee, and small talk. I would say the gold medal goes to Bachelor #3 who we will call George. Though not impressive on the phone, he had a good showing in person and performed an excellent routine. The silver medal (which really should have been a tie for bronze) will go to John (Bachelor #1) - an overall good guy but lacking in the personality department. The bronze medal will go to Paul (Bachelor #2) - a great talker on the phone - and an incessant talker in person. This leaves us with Ringo (Bachelor #4)- who really shouldn't have made it past the trials, but I suppose everyone deserves a shot at representation. I think this is also why there were only three bachelors in The Dating Game, but I digress.

Here's a brief summary of the contestants. For the full story, scroll down to the **

John is an IT professional who looks good on paper (well - the web) but should likely stay there. He was a tad on the shy/dull side and was probably best represented in a photo of what I'd assume is a Halloween costume. He may not have the personality of a 1940s mob boss, but he's got the look down pretty well.

Paul is an aspiring attorney who had a life/career change after a divorce. His potential success in the courtroom will likely be the result of talking for so long that the judge and jury forget the opposition's arguments. He might also cause a diversion by asking the defendant to identify and justify his favorite food.

George is a former engineer whose main physical trait is that he's a Jesus model. No - seriously - he posed for those paintings . . . A bit soft spoken, he has a good heart and is a true intellectual. He's a recent convert - so he certainly fulfills the requirement of not living at home with his mom.

And then there's Ringo. An attorney who believes Obama is a Marxist, what Ringo lacks in tact, he makes up for in height. He claims to be a pure capitalist and will gladly tell you about the failings of socialist government, the demoralization of school children caused by a 'strict interpretation' of the separation of church and state, and the many reasons that the theory of evolution is bogus. If you want to date a pompous asshat - he's your guy.

**
My date with Paul started out in a somewhat bizarre fashion. I got my hair done Saturday morning and was running rather late to meet him near my friend's house a mile or so away from the ball park. We chose to walk instead of taking the bus and had some nice banter along the way. Once we got to the game, though, it went downhill. By the time we made it to our seats, it was probably about 1:30 and I hadn't eaten anything of substance yet that day. He kept asking inane questions like my favorite food and my favorite color - clearly talking just to talk. There was a rain delay in the 7th inning, so we were at Wrigley for six hours. We walked back to my friend's place and stopped at a Starbucks not far away. I was relying on my friend to text me so I could meet her and get the hell out - but that never happened. That probably didn't bode well for John as it colored my opinion of the day and the date. Additionally, he plans on living at his parents house while he studies for the bar - figuring he'll rarely be home anyway so it doesn't matter. In case you missed it - that one's a deal breaker.

On Sunday, George and I went to brunch at a nice place in the city - a date that almost didn't happen because I was exhausted and angry from the previous days events. I'm really glad that it did work out, as we had great conversation and he was the only guy I didn't have an overwhelming desire to run from at any point during our date. The best part about George is that he's a dead ringer for Jesus. I wasn't sure how I felt about the scruffy look, but it ended up working out for him. We talked about his conversion to Judaism, his views and hopes for the education system, and the ever-entertaining antics of an organization that lacks - well - organization. The primary reason our date ended was that my car was parked in a two hour zone and I didn't want to get a ticket. Date number two is already scheduled and looks promising.

Monday afternoon, I met Ringo for lunch at a pancake house. I'm pretty sure if was doomed from the beginning, but I felt he deserved a fair chance. After taking our seats, we started talking about iPhones and a sense of ineptitude from users. Though he is an attorney, he apparently assists with computers at his father's law firm and faults the users for not being able to effectively diagnose their issues. My opinion on the matter is that I'm paid rather specifically to do the troubleshooting for the users, so I don't really care if they're able to help themselves. I ordered my coffee (praying caffeine would have the same effects as alcohol) and Ringo (always tolerant of other people's thoughts and feelings) stated that he didn't understand why people would drink coffee. Especially if you were just going to add all that cream and sugar to it - why not just have a soda (ok - he probably said pop - but I refuse to concede that part of my good California upbringing). I explained that I (and likely others) in fact like the taste of coffee - but sometimes want a different flavor, so I add things at will. Now, of course, I think of the analogy of putting salt, pepper, and spices on food - but that didn't occur to me at the time. He also said that he didn't like chocolate - particularly dark chocolate. That comment was below the belt, so I think we started to talk about something else at that point - I sort of blocked parts out - but I mentioned that we ought to leave because it was a busy day and someone would probably want our table. He seemed not to care, but agreed. As we (he) went to the counter to pay, the cashier asked how everything was. Now any decent human being knows that the appropriate answer to that is either wonderful, good, or ok. It's like when someone asks "How are you?" That person doesn't want to know about your dog's latest ailment or your mother's worsening asthma - they're just going for 'good' or 'fine'. Ringo, however, said that the potato pancakes were sort of over done and that the applesauce was runny (or something similar) but the spinach crepes were great. I attempted to communicate my horror and apology to the cashier simply through my eyes, but I'm not sure she got the message.

As I'm a glutton for punishment and we were in the midst of a conversation that deserved finishing, we went to a coffee shop to continue the horror. I know a lot of you are going to blame me for the rest of the date, and that's fine, but if you know me at all, you know I can't leave a good debate without some level of closure. I don't remember the order of events, but the conversation turned to politics - a dangerous topic on a first date. This is where Ringo earned his nickname "Obama is a Marxist guy". He droned on about how Obama is a Marxist (hence the nickname), socialized medicine and government were doomed to fail, how the separation of church and state had been taken too literally and lead to the demoralization of American culture. Of course that lead to conversation about school vouchers and how evolution shouldn't be taught in school because it was an erroneous theory. He cited the many studies that show that Darwin's theories were bunk and made some comment about a bird that migrated to a different island, thereby proving that evolution was as made up as Santa (he didn't actually use that analogy, but still . . . ). No first date could be complete without talking about distributing condoms and schools while preaching abstinence. At one point, he looked at me and said I had a funny look on my face. I told him "Yes, that's because I disagree with everything you've said in the last five minutes". I went on to explain that he had absolutely no room to talk unless he had actually applied for Medicaid at any point in time, lived in an area with a combination of good schools and crappy neighborhoods, and had ever been denied insurance coverage. So, you know, a typical first date. We left it with "See you around". You know what, Ringo - I hope you find someone who is as pompous as you are - she will be significantly crazier than I have ever been - and that's saying something.

I went on my second date with John later that evening, figuring that the attire for miniature golf was slightly different than what I'd worn to my previous dates. We played a round of mini golf - stopped keeping score after the second hole - and made idle chitchat about our combined suckiness at the game. We then went to a pub for dinner where we made more idle chitchat. We went marginally deeper, talking a bit about family and such. I would say the most memorable story of that encounter (which actually happened on the first date a week earlier) was how he managed to end up in Ohio when trying to get home from New Trier. I will mention - I was not involved in this - the story took place when he was in high school - more than ten years earlier. For those of you in a different geographic location - the distance between his home and New Trier high school is about ten miles (at most). He apparently got onto the highway (not a good move) and kept driving, hoping to eventually reach his destination. How he managed to cross the Indiana state line (or drive for more than thirty minutes) without thinking that something might have been amiss is beyond me. He did manage to prove, however, that I do not have the worst sense of direction in the world. All in all, it was a nice time, but my John was nowhere near as interesting as the John for whom his pseudonym refers to. Then again, I'm no Yoko Ono.

In summary - there was one definite yes (which lead to a second date), one definite no (which didn't) and two Eh - at least they're decent guys. Tonight (attempting to top my dating record), I am going to a speed dating event, where I'm hoping I don't run into any of the Olympians.

Until next time, this is your dating diva, signing off.

To JDate or not to JDate - part shtayim (bet)

Bonus points if you get the pun in the title of the post. Just saying . . .

At this point, I have chosen not to JDate, though I highly recommend going to this blog:
http://www.searchingforprincecharmingstein.com (note that the link above takes you to the first post, which certainly helps to explain every post thereafter.

I have, however, joined a site called OkCupid! - recommended by my college roommate (incidentally - also named Becca). I was initially skeptical, but the site is free, and we all know free is my favorite number. So I signed up last Monday and I've already had one date and have two more pending details. I must say that there are a number of questions I never considered when choosing a potential life partner.

For example:

STALE is to STEAL as 89475 is to...

• 89457
• 98547
• 89754
• 89547

or

Without using a dictionary or other tool, can you choose the commonly misspelled word? Don't cheat! It's okay if you don't know.

• 1. separate
• 2. definate
• 3. committee
• (Not sure / dumb question / who cares)

There were also a variety of ethical and social questions such as whether or not contraception is morally wrong and if women have an obligation to keep their legs shaved. I certainly have opinions regarding both topics, but must say, it's never come up on a first date. Or a second date. Or in any previous relationship. But it's an interesting set of questions, nonetheless.

Piece of advice for those looking to woo me - you won't get very far if you ask me how to fix your iPhone in your first communication/message with me. Let's just say - decline to state . . .

To JDate or not to JDate?

I was talking to a friend at the pool this weekend who has tried some dating sites without success. She frequents Plenty of Fish and has not been particularly lucky in finding a man who uses the head on his shoulders and not - well - the other one. I mentioned that she might have more luck on a paid site - because at least these people have invested $30/mo to be less of a douchebag, so the prospects are probably better. Which brings me to the subject of this post. I, like many of my people, am - how should I put this? - thrifty. My mother owned a resale clothing store and I follow in her frugal footsteps. I have a hard time, therefore, putting money I don't have into a dating site that may or may not yield results.

Though there are always success stories, I challenge you to find a nice Jewish girl (or boy) who doesn't have some JDate horror story. Yes, it is certainly helpful to find someone who finds marginal value in a shared faith, but that does not rule out the weirdos, ass hats, and elitists. In the suburban areas, there's a particular problem in that the pool is just not that large. Almost every friend I have who has frequented JDate will go on a few years later - look at a profile picture - and try to figure out why that person looks familiar. Aha! Because you dated him four years ago. I will say, it does not inspire confidence that this has happened to me several times as well. But I'm not getting any younger and haven't met someone new in a really long time.

Let's be honest, after college, exposure to a large group of like-minded people (who don't work with you) is hard to come by. There's also the generally safe assumption that college students aren't married - and those who are will probably be divorced in five years anyway. I'm six years past my Hillel days and have gone on only one date in that time period that was not initiated online. It's the world we live in folks. It sucks, but hey - it's where we are. Sure - there's the bar scene, but A) I kind of hate bars, B) The likelihood of the man chugging the Heineken being one of the chosen people is pretty slim, and C) I'm not sure I want my first encounter with my future companion to occur in a dark area where neither of us is operating on all cylinders. So I'm left with the question of what to do.

I tried speed dating - which didn't exactly work out the last time. At my friend's bachelorette party, I managed to sit with an entire table of 30 year old (theoretically) single Jewish attorneys and didn't get a single phone number (thanks for the Conga line timing Heidi). I also went on Birthright with about 15-20 guys (some of whom were unattached) and came up empty. I feel like I'm left with no other choice than to give the J-site another chance. So I will say there is a high likelihood that I will sign up during their next 'savings event' likely to occur over labor day weekend.

The comments section is completely open for alternative suggestions. I will give the caveat that I reserve the right to openly mock/categorically reject the suggestion - but still - I'm open . . .

I fought the law(s of physics) and the law won . . .

This is the last disclaimer I'm going to give about the length of a post. You can see the scrollbar on the right and read at your leisure. Just sayin . . .

I've spoken extensively about my battles with geography. The planet pretty much wins every time, compass in hand or not. It turns out that I also battle with bedding. I fought with my new duvet for 3 ½ hours on Wednesday night - for the record - it won. In case you're wondering (which - really? things that I say and do surprise you?), yes - I lost a battle with a blanket. In my defense, I was tired and physics was not working in my favor. Perhaps I should explain . . .

My cat, Hayley, though very cute, can be a giant brat. When she feels I have failed her in some way, she expresses her displeasure on my clothing and bedding. After learning the hard way several times, I became expert at making sure no clothing stayed on the floor when not in my direct line of sight. Unfortunately, Hayley is very aware that my comforter will be on my bed at all times and I will most certainly notice the unpleasant smell. Though I'm not a terribly fast learner, after the second ruined comforter, I learned to only get bedding that is machine washable. My (now former) comforter served me pretty well - lasting about a year and a half - but its' seams were not so much sewn together anymore and the beautiful stitching and delicate sequins were but a memory. Fed up with constant trips to the laundromat in order to use an industrial-size washing machine, I figured there must be a better solution. Which brings us to the predicament with the duvet.

I went to Bed Bath and Beyond and explained my dilemma to the highly knowledgable people in the bedding department. We came up with a solution involving a queen sized down comforter, a king sized waterproof mattress cover, and "easy to use" comforter clips. Here's a tip - anything that is marked 'easy to use' is inherently going to require a PhD in Useless Skills (yay Liberal Arts degree!). I also bought a duvet cover there that I liked but wasn't in love with. I found a different duvet on Target's website later that evening, so ordered the Target one and returned the original purchase to B³. I'm always hesitant to buy things online that require adequate sizing/color matching, but I went with it cause it was so darn pretty. The package arrived at my office, I opened it, and I immediately noticed that the colors did not translate well online. There was more yellow and orange than I expected and it was sort of a bust. To shorten the story, we'll say that I shopped online for several more days, and trekked to Macy's, JC Penney, and Kohls. In case you find yourself in a similar situation - I will caution you that none of these stores have much - if any - merchandise on site. Almost all duvet purchases seem to occur online because those of us in the market for a duvet clearly don't care about the color or texture of our bedding. Even the beloved B³ has a limited selection in store. One of the employees at Kohls made a passing remark that Ikea seemed to have a great selection of duvets.

Those of you familiar with the behemoth that is Ikea know that no trip there is short or simple. Three floors of every imaginable product found in a home/apartment/condo/dorm/tent spread out for eternity do not make for a quick shopping experience. I hadn't had dinner at this point, so was grateful that it is entirely possible to quite literally live in an Ikea as they also have a cafeteria. Once I'd had sustenance, I trekked on and found myself in the bedding department - surrounded by a seemingly endless selection of duvets in every color and pattern. Let us please remember that I am a) indecisive, b) easily distracted, and c) all about texture and feel, so this was quite a feat. I narrowed it down to two that I liked (in a mere 90 minutes), searched endlessly for the right sizes and managed to also pick up several organizing baskets. I made my way to the self-checkout after last call and drove the ten-ish minutes home to finally assemble the duvet that had been sitting in my living room since the previous Friday.

This is where physics and I battled it out. I suppose you could also say that I fought geometry, but I think my general lack of spatial skills is all-encompassing, so draw your own conclusions. I'm sure you asked yourself the question earlier, why get a mattress cover instead of a duvet cover? This was the only option I had. No duvet cover that I could find (online or otherwise) appeared to be reliably waterproof, or even water-resistant. So I fought for an hour and a half with the comforter and the mattress cover, trying to figure out how to effectively clip the corners of the down comforter to the non-existent corners of the mattress cover. Of course, as I think on it later, it seems pretty obvious. Stuff the damn comforter in the cover - take advantage of the giant zipper, and clip the corners of the comforter to either the top or bottom part of the mattress cover. My response? Bite me! Where the hell was that answer at 9:30 on Wednesday night?? I'm sure you've done the math and realize that I fought with the duvet for an additional two hours after finally getting the stupid comforter into its cover. Let me also pre-emptively say that I considered (multiple times) throwing in the towel and just using the comforter as it was - with the intention of trying again after a good nights sleep. As is my way, I told myself I was almost done and to just finish the process. Then it was 11:00. Then it was midnight. Then this whole 'turn the duvet cover inside out, clip, and flip' concept made me want to commit mayhem. Then it was 1:00 AM and I had finally managed to effectively clip all layers together and place the duvet on my newly made bed.

I now realize that I probably should have gotten a king size duvet cover instead of a queen - but that's going to wait for another time. It was also brought up to me that this much trouble went into putting a duvet cover on that will (by design) be coming off, so perhaps I should reconsider. Here's my response: if you would like to pay the tab at the dry cleaner - have at it.

In conclusion (as expected) Physics: 1, Becca: 0.

Why I'm Angry - or why the other stages of grieving are irrelevant

I warned in the description of this blog that some of the posts would be serious. I think we all know that I possess a quick wit, so there may be a funny moment or two, but for the most part, this is no laughing matter.

I was hurt very deeply by someone I'd grown quite close to last week. Our relationship was precarious from the start, but the potential for growth, both personally and professionally, was too much to pass up. So I continued to stay in this relationship, often against my better judgment. After putting an ungodly amount of work into a particular project, I was unceremoniously removed from all aspects of it. Passwords were immediately changed and there were some words spoken that were both untrue and uncalled for. I was devastated. The accusations against my character were pretty ridiculous and left me questioning all I had finally learned to love and accept about myself. What up with that b*tch?

Which I think brings us to my current state in the grieving process - this was a loss after all. I know more than enough about the stages of grieving, which is an unfortunate circumstance of the events in my life. But hey - if I can help others, power to me. I even did a webinar in April, thereby proving that I know what I'm talking about. In this webinar, I reiterated what many will say - which is that the stages of grieving are not necessarily experienced in order and not all stages will occur for every person and/or every loss. I can safely say, therefore, that I was never in denial about the loss. I started off at sad and went straight to angry - rather quickly actually. Frankly, I have every reason to be angry. I did everything to the best of my ability, took accountability for the things I could have done better, and was still told - in different words mind you - that I suck at life.

So now comes the what to do about it part. I've realized that I have a hard time being angry when there doesn't seem to be a "reason" for it, which is likely why this didn't come up earlier. Scratch that - it did come up earlier, I made the same mistakes, the same things happened - sounds like a pretty damned good reason to me. So do I send the (admittedly long) email I composed - explaining why I was upset? I'm thinking  . . .  no. I'm going with calling friends and sending an S.O.S message to a few people:

"It's been a pretty rough week and I could definitely use some time with caring, awesome people. Guess what? You guys are all caring and awesome!! Not sure what your plans are for the next few days but I'd love to hang out. Feel free to invite other caring, awesome people. "


I'll tell you that nothing beats a night of Mitsuwa, "Hamburgers", and a random Blues Brothers drive-by. Some of the residents of Mount Prospect may have been confused, but the three of us sure enjoyed ourselves. I will admit that the anger has waxed and waned over the last few days. There have been a few emails working out some logistics and there's still a part of me that gets that crappy feeling in my chest when this person's name pops up on Facebook, Twitter, or the Instant Messaging client du jour. Mostly, though? I'm dealing. And if that doesn't work - hey, that's why God invented kickboxing!!

'I forgot Todd' a comedy of errors - or Four Weddings and a Funeral

So technically, this post has nothing to do with the four weddings I'm attending throughout the summer and fall, it's actually about the funeral part. Perhaps some explanation is in order.

My childhood best friend's father passed away between Christmas and New Years of last year. Though he didn't have a will, he did have an advanced directive - requesting a party be thrown in the event of his death. Additionally, the directive was marked with a happy face. The party was thrown back in January and, unfortunately, I was unable to attend. It was especially important to me, therefore, to fly out for the ceremony at the cabin in Northern California where we were going to spread his ashes.

I'll spare you the details of the flight, as, all told, it was not terribly eventful, particularly considering my affinity for messing things up while travelling. The flight was delayed, so I didn't get into San Francisco until about midnight - 2 AM to my sleep-deprived body. I waited patiently for Becca (yes - my best friend's name is Becca) to pick me up. We got in the car and I noted that the heat was on full blast. Granted, it does get cold at night, but this seemed excessive. Becca explained that - despite getting a full tune-up on her car - it was acting kind of funny. We got to her place in San Mateo and quietly carried our - well *my* - stuff upstairs so as not to disturb the family Becca nanny's for.

I don't remember if it was in the car or in the house, but Becca told me her mother had called in a panic - "I forgot Todd!!". Becca's immediate reaction/response was that he didn't need to be fed or anything - seeing as he's dead. Then she realized - oh, you forgot Todd/Dad, his ashes need to make it up to Pinecrest. Umm, oops. Given that it was pretty late and we were both tired, we were kind of punch drunk for the evening and I was tasked with remembering several things that needed to make it up to the cabin once we stopped at Becca's parent's house. Dad, Salmon, Ice, Cake, Pillow. I sort of feel like the ice wasn't in the initial list, because I would have made a much better anagram/acronym if there was a vowel, but whatever. We got to sleep pretty late - I would guess 1:30 - with the intention of leaving by 6:00 AM. We were both aware that it would be a great success if we made it out of the house by 6:30, which is why we were quite pleased that we were in the car by 6:10. Becca brought out bottles of water, which I assumed were for us to drink on the drive up. She turned on the car and noticed that the heat was up incredibly high. She knew she needed to put water in one of the tanks, but was a little unsure as to which one. With my handy iPhone and iPad, I was sure I could find the manual for her '97 Honda Civic. In case you're curious - it's virtually impossible to find - particularly in a format that can be read on a mobile device. She eventually decided that her initial guess was probably right, and we headed to the house. I remembered the fish, she remembered the pillow, we were basically good to go.

We got to the house, went inside, and saw the list on the table of what we needed to bring. It was placed on top of the urn - so as to make sure it wasn't forgotten. It occurs to me now that I'm not entirely sure how the list was there in Eve's handwriting and yet the contents of the list were not, but I digress. First on the list was 'Daddy', which made me laugh. We had all the necessary items, went out to the car, and noted that it was still overheating. We decided, again, that this was a bad thing. I looked up a list of mechanics and determined nobody would be open before 8:30 anyway. Figuring we both needed to eat, we went to breakfast at a place within walking distance. After breakfast, we got back in the car and drove it to the nearest mechanic. He looked at the car, determined everything looked as it should but the car was clearly not acting correctly, and apologized that it was a holiday weekend and no other mechanics were available. Being the calm people that we are, Becca and I freaked out a bit.

With the car parked at the gas station, we frantically made phone calls to everyone we knew who might be willing to lend us a car for the weekend. My rabbi - who was on his way to shul - recommended we just rent a car, as he and his family had three drivers and two vehicles. My credit card didn't have a ton of money available and Becca didn't own a credit card, so we were at a bit of a loss. After searching through Enterprise's website, I came upon Hertz. Thankfully, they were able to accept a debit card, so we got the address and drove over. Refer to previous posts about my sense of direction and note that Becca was relying on her iPhone - not necessarily a wise choice. We drove back in the other direction and I had the bright idea of looking at the numbers on the buildings, until we eventually found our destination. After several mishaps involving a credit check I wasn't sure would go through, we managed to put the rental on a debit card and make a decision of which car to use. There was an economy car of some sort and a bunt orange convertible. Ah - the age old question of substance or style. Naturally, we chose style.

We (again) drove to Becca's parents house, rearranged the luggage and such, and quickly realized that the convertible didn't quite accommodate the makeshift cooler required to transport the cake and the fish. Back inside we went, until we came upon a small bin that seemed to be fine for the task at hand. Inside the green bin were at least seven Apple keychains (the rainbow kind from the 80s and 90s), and I begged to claim one. Becca said she would ask her mom because she wasn't entirely sure who they belonged to and didn't want to make assumptions. I pouted, but we got in the car, packed things quite well, and went on our way. I should note that I had to be careful to not put my seat all the way back so as not to crush Dad (in the wooden urn). Top down, sunscreen applied, we were finally on our way, albeit four hours later than planned.

We drove for quite some time, realizing that putting our hair up was a wise decision, and eventually landed at the half way point. In Oakdale, we stopped for lunch and enjoyed the bizarre local community and the cop on a horse. A man in a banana suit tried to get us to buy fireworks, but we both have a policy of not buying explosives from people dressed as fruit. I stand by this decision. Realizing that were were transporting rather a lot of dead things (her Dad, the fish, something else I can't remember), we wondered why that wouldn't qualify as enough passengers to go in the carpool lane. Thankfully, it wasn't an issue. After being on the road for five hours, we finally made it up to Pinecrest, unloaded the car, and called the cabin to let them know that  a) we arrived safely and b) we needed the boat to pick us up.

We arrived at the cabin, settled in, and attempted to figure out where we would sleep. Mind you, this is not so much a cabin as a five bedroom house, but still. When we arrived, there were five people under the age of 16 and five people over the age of 30 sleeping in the cabin. The beds were, therefore, all taken. We attempted to setup a pop-tent (that was missing pieces) that seemingly was made during the Vietnam War. Eve (Becca's mother), said that she had a big pop-tent, but we're pretty sure it only seemed big the last time it was used, because Becca was likely 7 at the time, so it wasn't as challenging to fit the family inside. Three of us were required to assemble the tent, and a few not-quite power tools were involved. Thankfully, my tent was pretty standard and had all the required pieces.

Accommodations setup, we decided to go swimming. I should mention that it snowed over Memorial Day, so the lake was only slightly above freezing. Becca and I took a complete lapse of sanity, and slowly made our way into the rocky lake. Thankfully, I remembered that there were several parts of the lake that seemed like they should be open water, but in fact had giant rocks. I consider it a miracle that I made it out without breaking skin. After a long day of travel, we ate dinner and went to sleep.

The following day was filled with activity, as a bajillion more people came in for the memorial service, including several children and a dog. As we setup the table, we quickly realized that 30 people would not fit, despite our attempts to make the table as big as possible. Thankfully, the owners of the cabin next door had a table that we were able to setup and cram the remaining occupants around. We noshed on snacks and admired the craftiness of the family, including the lovely viking ship made of twigs. One of Eve's friends came out and assembled a sandwich, telling us that Eve was pretty sure she had eaten several, but didn't actually have a full recollection of doing so. Anthea (the friend) would therefore witness the act, just to be sure. Eve came out and ate another sandwich, explaining that the boat was in the oven. Thinking we misheard her, Becca repeated - "The boat is in the oven?" Why yes - is that a bad thing?

Alright, so a boat made solely of twigs and now wet (from making sure the boat would float in the water) was in an oven, being watched over by a woman who couldn't remember if she had eaten a sandwich. There was epic fail potential EVERYWHERE. We were assured that other people were supervising the endeavor, but that only made me question the sanity of the others who seemed just fine with putting a wooden object in an oven. Thankfully, all the pieces made it out alive, nothing burned down, and the ship was assembled and lovely. We ate dinner, spoke wonderful words about Todd, and prepared for the service. The occupants of the cabin next door joined us on the rocks overlooking the lake. Though it was a challenge, we did manage to fit 37 people on a rock that probably should have only held 15. Not that we questioned the sturdiness of this rock - it certainly wasn't going anywhere - but there didn't seem to be enough nooks and crannies to ensure everyone would stay put.

Thankfully, we all managed to find a place to sit, brought the citronella candles in a feeble attempt to avoid mosquitoes, and watched Becca, her sister, and her mother, carefully climb into canoes, being handed candles, a lighter, the boat carrying Todd, and the papers and other items assembled for kindling. The three of them set out on the water and made feeble (and unsuccessful) attempts to light the flame to give Todd his final resting place in the lake. We all remarked that Tood was probably laughing from heaven at his three girls trying to make this beautiful memorial come to fruition. Next thing you know, Eve leaned a little too far over and flipped the canoe over - still holding Todd. The 30-some of us panicked, realizing that the water was freezing and praying that Eve would be able to come back up to the surface. Eve eventually bobbed up and we heard the uproarious laugh distinctive to Eve. A few people had the bright idea to get into the boat and save Eve, though she refused the ride and chose to swim to shore instead. Several people grabbed towels, robes, and blankets, hoping that Eve would not suffer hypothermia. We all remarked that this was probably the most fitting memorial for such a wonderful man.

Indeed Tood, you will be missed, but will always be remembered with a laugh and a smile.

Disaster Date

Last night I went to a speed dating event in Wrigleyville. I went to a couple of these about a year ago with mixed results - so I thought it was worth another shot. As the title of this post would indicate, it did not go well.

Let's begin with the events leading up to the date. I apparently chose not to read the email sent to me 3 times stating the speed dating starts at 7:30, so plan to arrive at 7:00. According to JST (Jewish Standard Time), people should begin strolling in around 7:20 - so the fact that I was running a bit late was not of huge concern to me. I wasn't thrilled that my GPS was telling me the travel time was just over an hour, as the radio said it would be looking more like 30-45 minutes - but I pushed through. I saw that my GPS and Google Maps were leading me in the same direction, so I had faith I was going the right way. I ended up here not so much here. If you bothered to follow the links and do the math, you would see that the distance between the two by car is only about four minutes. Let's remember, however, that this is me. After going the wrong way on Clark St, ending up on Broadway, and making my way through Boystown during what is essentially rush hour - in addition to circling for a good five to ten minutes to find a place to park - I was about 30 minutes late. So I walk run into the bar to find out that the dating only started ten minutes prior (I told you it was JST).

Once I finally settled in, I had my first date who asked me if he missed something during the setup or if I was just late. I explained that I was just late because I had gone to Lakeview instead of Wrigleyville. He told me there are devices that can assist with that. I laughed and made a mental note to circle 'no' on the HurryDate form. We talked for another few minutes before it was time to move on. The next guy came and I made the immediate observation that he was awkward, smelled badly, and seemed kind of out of it. We made marginally idle conversation until his nametag was found and then it went downhill. He asked me how I would describe myself religiously and I told him I most enjoy the music and traditions of Judaism. He told me that he doesn't care about tradition and lives his life directly by the scriptures. Let's jus say that it was an incredibly painful four minutes of my life that I will never get back.

There was a bit of a break so I looked at the rest of the tables and immediately spotted a guy I went on a date with a month or so ago. I neglected to call him back and could tell that an epic fail was imminent if I didn't get out of that bar as quickly as possible. I shielded my face a bit as I walked toward the bathroom, asked the leader if there was anyone worth sticking around for, and hightailed it as quickly as my kitten heels could take me.

Lessons Learned:

• Confirm the time of the event before planning transportation
• Prepare for running into someone I've dated and/or talked to before
• Have an escape route ready
• At some point in the process, consume lots and lots of alcohol (as needed)

It's only procrastinating if there's something else you're *supposed* to be doing

The nature of my job is that I fix things when they break. The beauty of my job is that things don't always break. There may be a phone call here and there asking how to print in color, questioning the accessibility of the network, and wondering if I can declare a computer unusable to facilitate an early weekend. For the record, I'm generally happy to oblige. All of my tickets are currently in an 'Awaiting (something)' status, so I'm left to my own devices.

Which brings us to this post. I was talking to my brother this morning and he put my soon-to-be four year old nephew, Yisroel, on the phone. Yisroel is starting cheder sometime in the near future and is excited about it. Let's be honest, though. Four year olds are not known for articulation and enunciation, so there was some question as to what he actually said. I came into work to discover nothing much was required of me, so I promptly Googled 'Cheder' and followed the Wikipedia link. As I read through this article, I learned a number of fascinating things, and clicked on various links throughout. I'm pretty sure I spent the better part of an hour researching Hebrew education, the origins of Haredi Judaism, and the political climate of Israel. The next chunk of time was spent attempting to find an electronic version of the Jewish Book of Why and I somehow managed to buy the new Jen Lancaster book, I Wish You Were Here, from the iBook store. In case you're curious, there is absolutely no link between the two. And yet, I came upon it simply by clicking on links related to other searches this morning.

I contend that this is not procrastinating. One needs a required/expected task to avoid in order to procrastinate. Mind you, when I go home and continue this search and/or read any of the books I downloaded or e-borrowed, I will, in fact, be procrastinating. This is because my apartment is an unmitigated disaster. It is complete and utter chaos and I am generally too overwhelmed and/or tired to do anything about it. As such, I am rapidly improving my scores in Word Flurry and Know or Go. I'd also be willing to bet I will completely discard my random fascination with Jewish tradition in favor of the House Season 1 DVD by the weekend. Maybe I'm mistaken. Maybe I'll actually clean my apartment and take out the trash. Maybe I'll - dude - did you see this video on YouTube . . .

Ten bucks says you'll be watching the associated videos for the next two hours. You're welcome.

Back off Murphy

So it's been a few weeks since I've updated this blog because, really, I wasn't sure how I could bring a sense of humor to the events in the month of April. As it's May, these events are now in the past and I can laugh at them (or at least that's what I tell people). I will say that I've almost always been a real life example of Murphy's Law, to the extent that people stare at me with their mouths agape when I tell them about any part of my life. So - let's take a look at the last 30 days or so . . .

April 4 - Though I wake up relatively early regardless, I'm none too thrilled when there's a knock on my door at 8:00 AM of the plumber coming to do work on my apartment. Though I knew they were coming that day, I thought they wouldn't be there until 9:00, and thus my kitchen and bathroom were not cleaned out for their arrival. They gave me an extra 30 minutes or so, which I appreciated, though still wasn't thrilled with the fact that I had to lock up my cats and wasn't allowed to be in my apartment while the work was being done. I walked out to the parking lot outside my apartment and approached my car. I saw a little glass on the ground and laughed to myself about the beer bottle that had likely been smashed. I stopped laughing when I looked through the window of my car to see that there was no window. Instead, I was greeted with this:

Nope, that's not a slushee, that's the shattered remnants of the driver-side window. I noticed that my GPS had been taken, but they thankfully left my $10 sunglasses (pictured above). Muttering to myself, I went to the leasing office to see if they could send someone out to help me clean up the mess inside and outside of my car. They asked if I had filed a police report, and I replied, no, I hadn't thought that far ahead. I looked up the non-emergency number and was told to call 911. Awesome, glad I spent the time trying to find the other number. I explained the situation and tried to tell the kind police responder my address. Funny thing: when you're in shock, it can sometimes be hard to pull out seemingly automatic information. I stumbled for a bit, completely blank as to the number of my apartment. I gave them some conglomeration of my last several addresses, until I finally managed to walk up to the post outside of my apartment and blurt - oh yeah, 2165. This was after quite a bit of thought, some prodding on the part of the responding officer, and some confusion as to where on my street I lived. It was significantly easier, however, once I came up with the right number.

Alas, the police came, told me that what happened was pretty common and that it's unfortunate I live so close to a highway, as it's easy for a thief to drive in, grab my stuff, and drive out. Why yes, I'm sure it is. Before I called the police (or maybe after?) I called Gerber to see if I could bring my car to them so they could replace the now-defunct window. There were a number of calls back and forth, an amazing maintenance guy at my complex came and helped me vacuum both the inside and outside of my car, and I finally decided to just drive to work minus the window, as it didn't seem like Gerber would be able to get to me all that quickly. I at least had the presence of mind to avoid the highway, as it seemed errant shards of glass would not stay put at 65 mph. I had taken the alternative route to work previously (oddly enough before my spiffy new GPS came up with a faster way), and proceeded to drive bitterly along the (still large) streets. Have I mentioned my complete lack of a sense of direction before? Like quite literally getting lost on my own street when I was 16? Though the route doesn't actually require any turns, I managed to take the wrong exit and get quite miserably lost on my way to the office. I called my boss and asked for guidance to my building. I told several co-workers about the trials of the last several hours, and had one tell me that I really shouldn't have left anything in my car - it's an invitation for a break-in. I made a mental note to turn off her anti-virus software and went about the rest of my day. The window got fixed, I was out about $200, but I remind myself that it could have been worse - the break-in could have occurred several hours earlier during the torrential downpour.

April 7-17: The plumbers came again (at the end of the week) and left me with a giant bleach stain on my carpet - I wasn't happy. A bit later into the following week, I realized that the work had yet to be finished and Passover would be quite soon. Much as I relished the idea of maintenance people rooting through my kitchen during Passover, I requested (strongly) that the work be finished prior to the holiday. Thankfully, my request was accommodated and I chose not to complain about the fact that they had been in my apartment on a day no one told me work was being done. 

April 18-24: Passover was relatively uneventful (aside from a few minor mishaps with plastic plates and an over-zealous microwave), so I thought I would be home free for the remainder of April. As it turns out, not so much. I took a new medication the last (well . . . only) Thursday of Passover and didn't think much of it, as I rarely have bad reactions to medication. I went to a friend's Seder on Friday (yep - Good Friday), and had a small itch on my back, but I assumed it was a bug bite. The red spot didn't go away on Saturday and seemed to get a little bigger on Sunday. By Saturday night, I figured I was allergic to the medication, so I stopped taking it. I called my doctor and said I thought I was allergic to this medicine, do I need to do anything other than discontinue? She recommended that I go to my Primary Care doctor, just to make sure nothing else was going on. She mentioned shingles and I promptly dismissed it - I only get chronic diseases, nothing serious and/or easily diagnosable. A few of my friends (who know who they are) were quite worried and wanted me to go to the ER, as a rash is a "severe and unexpected side-effect". I compromised and made the appointment with my PCP for later in the day. I figured I had an appointment to take care of my computer later that day and I would just move a few things around.

April 25: After a GPS mishap (did I mention my difficulty with geography earlier?) I made it to my doctor's office, albeit 15 minutes late. I showed her the offending rash, told her I was pretty sure I was allergic to the new medicine and expected her to agree. She didn't. She looked at my back, asked me a few questions, and told me she was pretty sure I had shingles. I believe my exact response was "that is so not funny". Mind you, at the time, I didn't really know much about shingles, so I wasn't sure what to expect. She said, well - you're not allergic to (medication x), told me a little bit about shingles, gave me a prescription for an anti-viral, congratulated me for being generally healthy (and thus, conspicuously absent), and sent me on my way. 

I made it to my (rescheduled) appointment at the store, and told the technician what was wrong with my computer. I gave him a quick history of the repairs it had, told him what was done and what I'd tried, and said (perhaps prematurely) 'let's just skip the middle-man and replace it'. The tech-in-question didn't think the issue warranted a replacement and told me he would like to check it in for a repair. I asked who the manager was (being intimately familiar with the staff), and he said he would see if he could find someone. The manager (who I'd worked with extensively) looked at the notes, said the situation was that it didn't qualify for a replacement, but they'd be happy to repair it. I made several arguments to the contrary, backing my opinion up with technical evidence, and the manager smiled and said there were other components that could be replaced. He mentioned one in particular that doesn't exist in a laptop, quickly corrected himself, and said it had been a long day. I said I would check with my boss, we made some idle chit-chat, and I left (silently fuming). Incidentally, I made an appointment at another location, walked in, explained the issue with my computer, and promptly got it replaced. The other store: Dead to me. 

On the ride over, I talked to a few other friends, many who said that shingles is incredibly serious, I really needed to tell my boss about it, he likely would just send me home anyway, and, by-the-way, shingles is really serious. I tried to call my boss, left a voicemail, and made several other phone calls - as that is my way. I waited to go into work as I didn't want to make the drive and be sent home (particularly with gas prices topping $4/gallon). I was given the go ahead (from both my doctor and my boss) and went to the office.  By 2:00, though, I was starting to feel it and suffered through the remaining hour and a half before collapsing into bed immediately upon getting home. I ended up staying home the next couple of days, just because I was in some degree of pain and really didn't want to prolong the illness. 

April 29: Friday morning, I saw my neurologist (for tremors - unrelated), and he prescribed Lyrica. I got home, took the Lyrica (along with my anti-viral) and settled into my recliner with my laptop. An hour later, I noticed I felt shaky. Really shaky. Like, wait, I can't seem to type a message or check email on my phone shaky. Already well-versed in adverse reactions, I called my neurologist's office and told them I was having uncontrollable tremors. Didn't hear back for a bit and things got worse, so I called a friend in my apartment complex and she took me to the ER.

As far as ER visits go, it wasn't too bad. I was there for three or four hours, but somehow the concept of Fibromyalgia + Shingles= PAIN!!!!! didn't translate well. "Does this hurt?" Why, yes, it does. If you do that again, I'll beat you with the litany of heavy cables attached to my left arm at the moment. They eventually decided everything looked ok (aka: I wasn't dying), and gave me some Ativan to theoretically calm my muscles (and me). The thing is, I was calm. Well, as calm as you can be when you're in an ER, the alarm on the medicine cabinet is going off, and you're in pain. Still - all things considered . . .  I'm sure you can guess that the next part did not go smoothly. Huh, medication for anxiety is giving me the symptoms I have when I get panic attacks. Symptoms I have not experienced IN THE PAST FOUR MONTHS. Wait for it . . . Another adverse reaction. Once they decided to discharge me, I mentioned that I came to the ER with pain and tremors, and was leaving the ER with pain and tremors. At least it wouldn't kill me, though!! A different friend picked me up, took me to Potbelly (after I sent her in the wrong direction quite a few times) and dropped me off at home, where I spent the remainder of the weekend in my pajamas, hoping to be safe from the outside world.

And here I am today, in a fair amount of pain, but at work - thereby proving that anything that can go wrong will happen to me. I'm laughing about it though, and that's got to count for something.

caPiTalIZe ThIS

I will freely admit that I am a grammar snob. I get angry with people for using their when they mean there. Run-on sentences with no discernible punctuation make me want to punch kittens. My biggest pet peeve, however, seems to be the random capitalization people use when referring to technology - particularly Apple products.

Here's a little lesson on the right way to spell something and the way to spell something if you want to get shot by a bunch of elitist creatives:

'iDevices'

This is simple, people. the 'i' is always lower case, the next-letter is upper-case, the remainder of the word is generally lower-case. There are, of course, exceptions, but I promise not to maim you if you write out Macbook instead of MacBook (primarily because I worked for the company for three years and I still get it wrong half the time). For those of you who like examples (class, spell it after me):

• iPad, iPhone, iPod, iMac
• MacBook, MacBook Pro, Mac Pro (again, no one will get hurt for getting this set wrong)

The following are incorrect:

• Iphone, Ipad, IPOD, iPHONE, IPad, or (my personal favorite) iphOne
• iTouch - wait - that doesn't look right, does it? All these other handheld products are spelled i-p-(fill in the blank). It's an iPod Touch people -iTouch is an app used by perverts and massage therapists

The computer and its operating system

1. I am typing this on a Mac, not a MAC. I worked for Apple, not APPLE. 
2. The 'X' in OS X represents a Roman Numeral - not a letter. The proper pronunciation is OS Ten. Get it right or I'm going to start telling people that I admire the writing of Malcolm 10. 
3. If asked what operating system you are running, the answer is pronounced Ten Point (Something). You are not expected to remember which cat goes with which number. It is generally beneficial if you know whether the apple in the top left corner is blue or black - but no one's going to condemn you to the remedial technology closet if you aren't entirely sure. 

The Retail Store

You are trekking to the Apple Store. It is not the Mac Store, it's not the iPod store, it's not the iPhone store. Most of this, I am prepared to let slip. As long as you know how to identify an Apple store (Hint: you will not see the word 'Apple' spelled out anywhere) and you have some level of awareness that several types of devices are sold, I really don't give a damn what you call it. 

Case in point: My childhood best friend and I would go to "The Gum Store" - primarily because the only thing she was allowed to get there when she was very young was gum. When I started going with her - we had graduated well beyond gum to several types of candy and other items - it was still "The Gum Store." Though it is worthy of note that we were 6 years old at the time. 

Perhaps the reason this angers me so much is the overwhelming number of people who couldn't find the store at which I spent great deals of time. A giant stainless-steel structure featuring a seven foot tall white apple tends to stick out in a strip mall of connected stores featuring banners with store names/logos/etc. I could certainly understand the issue on sunny days - a white apple on a silver background tends to blend in. But really people - REALLY? You couldn't find it because you didn't see the word 'Apple' anywhere? You're angry because you searched for 'MAC store' and ended up at the makeup company on the other side of the mall? I'm pretty sure all sympathy went out the window when you blamed me for not telling you that the store opened . . . 3.5 years ago . . . 

Hardware, et al.

Here's the deal - provided you don't yell at me because your memory is full or your computer keeps telling you that you're running out of space - you can learn as much or as little about hardware as you like. I don't expect you to know the difference between RAM (Random Access Memory) and a Hard Drive. I don't expect you to know that your computer's memory has nothing to do with the amount of music you just deleted from your machine. There are a great number of subjects for which I have incredibly limited knowledge (ironically, networking terms are beyond me. I know the functional differences between routers, switches, and modems, but I can't remember them half the time). I suppose a general principle is that you can be willing to learn as much or as little about any of these subjects as you feel compelled to do - but if you yell at me for anything or expect me to fix it just because your cousin's ex-boyfriend talked to my brother once in high school, you're dead to me.

-All thE bEst

beCCa - (I capitalized the wrong part, didn't i?)

Food Preferences- or why my chicken is cuter than yours . . .

*Names have been changed in the interest of confidentiality (and my ability to maintain Facebook friendships)

As we all know my relationship with food leaves much to be desired, I try to reserve judgement about other people's food choices - particularly when I have friends who will do the judging for me. 

I have friends, relatives, and acquaintances with incredibly odd food allergies, preferences, and practices. My friend John* is deathly allergic to milk and dairy products. Additionally, he keeps kosher, so it's always an adventure to find a restaurant that can feed him and avoid killing him (preferably both, though concessions must occasionally be made). I have another friend - Elizabeth*- who is highly allergic to mushrooms. Heidi - whose name I won't change because I believe she will want credit where credit is due - merely finds mushrooms offensive - though she will clarify that this should not discourage others from eating them in her presence. Yet others of my friends are lactose intolerant - some pathologically so.  I also have friends who keep varying degrees of kosher, which is always an interesting thing to figure out when choosing a restaurant. Some of my friends eat no animal products. Others will eat fish, but not chicken or beef. Some simply avoid red meat. I've lost track of who will die eating (fill in the blank) and who wouldn't be caught dead eating (hey - another blank) - so I try to pick neutral locations and figure people will speak up if an issue should arise. Every once in a while, though, needs clash and cause the following situations to unfold.

Last night, Heidi and I went over to Melissa's* house for a girl's night in. After putting our individually made pizzas in the oven, we settled in for some conversation. Melissa shared a story about her trip to Amish country several years prior. A bunch of people went to the general store, but Melissa "didn't want to buy Amish stuff" and chose to entertain herself on the large field adjoining the store. There was a calf roaming through the grass and it came rather close to Melissa, so she pet the calf. At some point, a friend came out and snapped a picture of Melissa petting said calf, much to the dismay of the Amish boy who accidentally ended up in the corner of the picture. It was from this point on, Melissa said, that she could no longer eat hamburgers because she would always feel like she was eating the cute Amish calf. Heidi  - who speaks her mind without provocation - inquired as to whether chickens were an acceptable food choice and Melissa nodded her head as if this were an obvious fact.

We frolicked through a trip down memory lane to an evening when we (I may have been there - who knows) were having dinner with some other friends. Heidi mentioned to Jessica* that the steak was rather tasty. Jessica shook her head, indicating that she did not eat from this section, so Heidi looked at some other dishes. Several people who consider themselves to be vegetarians (myself included) will eat fish - so Heidi pointed out the sea bass. Jessica then looked excitedly at the menu and ordered a chicken dish of some sort. The remainder of the conversation went something like this:

Heidi: But I thought you didn't eat meat?

Jessica: No, I just don't eat beef.

Heidi: But you eat chicken . . 

Jessica: Yes

Heidi: Why?

Jessica: Chickens are ugly.

Heidi: I see. So you're a cute-arian?

Jessica: What?

Heidi: You won't eat animals that are cute.

Jessica: Hmm, I suppose so.

Which brings us back to last night's conversation. Heidi, a mathematician, likes things to be clearly laid out and defined, so she pressed on. 

Heidi: Are lambs cute? 

Melissa: Yes. 

H: Shrimp?

M: So not cute.

H: Ok, are pigs cute? 

M: Yes. 

H: Have you seen a real pig before? You realize Babe is a cartoon, right?

M: Baby pigs are cute.

H: I see. So you won't eat animals that were, at one point, cute?

M: No, I just don't eat animals that are cute.

H: What if there is a particularly ugly cow?

M: What?!

H: An ugly, deformed cow. That's not cute - would you eat that?

M: What? No!

H: Actually, that's probably a good choice. There's probably something wrong with that cow that makes it deformed - so it wouldn't be good to eat it anyway. 

H: But little chicks are cute (hand gestures indicating chirping birds) peep, peep, peep.

M: Chickens are not cute.

H: Again, little furry chicks are cute (hand gestures) peep, peep.

Seeing that this wasn't going anywhere - in addition to the fact that we were all in absolute hysterics - we let that particular topic go - if only for a moment.

Heidi then pointed out another friend she'd met at a dinner (we'll call him 'Frederico') who also had interesting theories about acceptable food choices. This particular friend would not eat anything that walked. Heidi, again, needing clarification, pressed on. 

Heidi: Ok, so chickens?

Frederico: Walk, yes.

H: Ok. What about ducks?

F: No - I won't eat ducks.

H; But they don't really walk, they waddle.

F: Yeah, I still say they walk.

H: Ok, so no crab or lobster?

F: Lobster is ok.

H: But crabs and lobsters walk.

F: No, they sort of scuttle . . .

H: Well then chickens don't really walk either - they kind of bob side to side and veer in odd directions. 

F: (blank stare)

H: Ok, so walking and waddling are cute and scuttling is annoying and punishable by death. I think I get it.

As none of us can leave well enough alone, we (Heidi, Melissa, and I) dug deeper into the realm of weird food practices. I have a second cousin Sarah*, for example, who only eats raw foods. Melissa looked puzzled, so Heidi explained that the theory is that cooking food strips it of all its nutrients, thereby making it useless and disdainful (or something like that). Of course an argument ensued as to whether this theory had any validity, how many nutrients are actually removed during the cooking process, and where one would find a raw-food eating hippy commune in the midwest (Yes - there is such a place). We then spoke about fruitarians - trust me that I'm not making this up. Heidi - the consummate realist - wondered how such a diet was sustainable. Would one need to wait by an apple tree and hope something would fall? What if someone were to run into a tree, thereby causing the fruit to fall off the tree? Would this be murder? How can it truly be determined that fruit fell off the tree and was not pushed, plucked, or otherwise manipulated in some way? Is there a governing body?

Melissa quickly tired of this conversation and made a statement she felt we could all agree on. She declared that she made sure not to buy any makeup or skin care products tested on animals. Taking my cue from Heidi, I prolonged my agony and asked if it was ok if the products were tested on chickens.

And you all thought I was weird.