Month: October 2005

Have you ever played the old game 20 Questions? Animal, vegetable or mineral – you know the one. Want to try playing against a computer? Warning, the computer wins almost every time!

Welcome to my latest Internet obsession, 20Q.com. You can play online or free, or you can fork over $15Cnd and buy the handheld version, which I spent a ridiculous amount of time playing in WalMart the other day. I read that it will be one of the hot toys of the season. Check out the reviews on Amazon – I’m not the only addict!

I found 20Q through an article in the local paper (the artificial intelligence behind the game was built by a guy who lives here in Ottawa) and haven’t been able to stop playing since. It’s probably a good thing the 20q.com link is blocked from my work server – but I could always stash a handheld version in my desk. Guess what I’m asking Santa for this Christmas?

Why are you still here reading? Really, go try it! So far, the longest it’s taken is 29 questions to guess “big toe”. It took less than 20 questions to guess doughnut, lobster, spam and chewing gum. It blows me away every single time.

If you want some insight into how the AI (artificial intelligence) uses your answers to build it’s neural networks, play the next generation testing text only version instead. After you play, the computer tells you how your answers matched up with its expectations.

Now, stop reading and go play! (Don’t forget to come back and tell me whether you loved it or not, though…)

You’re gonna laugh at me for this one.

You know what? This parental angst thing doesn’t end when you get them potty trained. After going through all that worry, there’s still even more things to worry about. Hard to believe, isn’t it?

We’re on the cusp of bigger things to fret over. I can’t believe I’m going to look fondly back on the day when the worst daily stress was how to keep him from splattering the strained peas across the kitchen and onto the dog.

(Do you see this fancy deke-and-feint thing I’m doing? Kind of dancing around, avoiding the topic. It’s cuz I know you’re going to laugh at me and I don’t want to get to it just yet.)

I’ve noticed that I have a lot of my own self esteem invested in my kids. I dress them in cute clothes because I see them as little extensions of myself, representatives of me. When people admire how adorable they are, how smart they are, how tall they are, I like to take at least a little bit of the credit.

I just realized that street runs two ways. When they are not entirely successful, it must be some failing on my part. Yah yah, I know, I know. Probably not healthy, they’re their own people, not possessions. Yadda yadda. Whatever.

(takes deep breath) I think Tristan is going to fail his level one preschool swimming lessons.

There, it’s out. Oh, the shame! A child of mine? Failing?? Say it ain’t so!

It was parents’ day at swimming lessons, so all the parents were in the pool with the kidlets. He showed us how to hold the kids to encourage the basic front and back floats, and he explained the criteria for passing this level. The troublesome one is that the kids need to be able to keep their faces in the water for three to five seconds, and I know Tristan (just like his mother, in fact) hates putting his face in the water.

I also have a whole new respect for the teacher. For four weeks, I’ve watched from the side of the pool as Tristan obeyed the teacher, waited his turn and listened to instructions. With me in the pool, it was a power struggle to keep him within arms reach while trying to listen to what the teacher was saying, and rather than float or blow bubbles on cue, Tristan just wanted to do his own thing.

The teacher said he needs to see the kids perform each task three times successfully, and with only four classes left and Tristan nowhere near keeping his face in the water for more than a second, it doesn’t look good. In crisis management mode, I started writing an action plan in my head:

1. Start desensitizing him to putting his face in the water. I got right on that one by holding his head under water and counting to ten. Three to five seconds of his own volition will seem like a cakewalk after a week of that.

2. Hire a tutor. Consider former Olympian athlete as personal swim coach. Wonder if Mark Tewksbury needs a job.

3. Sabotage other swimmers. Whisper to other kids that there are poopies and boogers and vegetables in the water, so be sure not to put your face in no matter what.

4. Start letter-writing campaign to the community centre manager, city councillor, local newspaper and Member of Parliament saying my son is being discriminated against for his water-phobia. Demand rules be bent to accomodate his special needs.

Okay, so I’m playing this up for dramatic effect. God help me, I’m not one of those parents yet. But there was a moment when I caught myself wondering what I could do to make sure he passes this session. A fleeting moment, I promise. Then I shook it off and remembered that we’re doing this for Tristan, not for me.

Damn. It’s not always about me?

Just when I think I’ve got a handle on it, I realize I still have a lot to learn about this parenting thing.

Categories: Tristan Mothering

It’s been a week or so since I’ve blogged about that LibraryThing, and you’d think I’d’ve run out of things to blog about it by now. No such luck!

I was over at Phantom Scribbler, and she and Julie and a few others started chatting about books in their Library Thing collection that nobody else owns, and how listing these lonely books might make a good meme. A meme AND Library Thing? I’m all over that.

Here’s five of my lonely books, ones that nobody else has listed in their collections, that I’d recommend to anyone:

1. Solomon Gursky Was Here, Mordechai Richler. I think anything by Mordechai Richler is worth reading. Richler is one of the kings of Canadian literature, and although this isn’t my favourite of his, I’m still surprised nobody else has it in their collection.

2. An Acre of Time, Phil Jenkins. This one, on the other hand, I’m not terribly surprised is obscure, but it’s one of my favourite books of all time. It’s the geological, sociological, historical and political history of an acre of abandoned field, about two kilometres away from the Parliament Buildings in downtown Ottawa. One of the most unique books I’ve ever read.

3. The Moons of Jupiter, Alice Munro. Alice Munro is my favourite author ever. Another titan of Canadian literature, she captures with uncanny ability the moments that we string together to make sense of our lives.

4. Nightwatch: A Practical Guide to Viewing the Universe, Terrence Dickenson. My favourite practical astronomy and star-gazing guide. Also conveniently Canadian, and by a (relatively) local author.

5. The Dixon Cornbelt League, and Other Baseball Stories, W.P. Kinsella. Might as well make this an all-Canadian list. Kinsella wrote the book on which the movie Field of Dreams was based. If you like baseball, or short stories, or quirky characters, or iconic stories about life in the small towns of Canada’s Prairies, you’ll love Kinsella’s work. W.P. Kinsella and Mordechai Richler are opposite ends of the same spectrum – one urban and one rural, one French and one English, one abraisive and hard to read, the other comforting as meatloaf and mashed potatoes on a cold winter day.

Categories: Books Memes

I got one of the oddest comments ever the other day (and that says a lot around here!):

Hello!
Did you know you’re a googlewhack?
(deleted – see original comment)
Matt 10.04.05 – 3:21 pm

I’ve been called a lot of things in my day, but being called a googlewhack was a first for me. Not sure whether to blush demurely or declare war, I did the sensible thing and googled ‘googlewhack’. I found out that googlewhacking is a game for people with FAR too much time on their hands.

You know how usually when you search for something on Google, and usually you get somewhere around 8,000 pages of returns for your keywords? Well, the gist of googlewhacking is keying in pairs of words that have no relationship to each other to find a pair (must be two words, no quotation marks) that return a single, solitary result. Here’s the googlewhack they used to find blog. I didn’t read through all of the rules (I have to admit, googlewhacking does not float my boat to the same giddy level of obsessiveness as, say, LibraryThing) but I did read enough to understand that by quoting the two search terms here I would skew future searches. It’s a wonder some of us ever make it out into the bright light of day, what with all the fun to be had on the Internet.

Speaking of crawling out of your parents’ basement into the bright light of day, did you hear they are making not one but two new television series based on Star Wars? One is a 3D animated series they have been working on since the spring, but producer Rick McCallum is now talking about a live-action series, set somewhere between episodes III and IV, that will feature a character “who’s been less highlighted up to now, but has been very popular with audiences.” Call me a purist, but there’s no place for Star Wars on the small screen. It’s been 28 years, give it a rest. (Gak. 28 years? Holy crap, I’m old.)

And now, to end our Friday ramble through the back 40 of what passes for my brain these days, I bring you two brags about my incredibly smart preschoolers. (Hey, my blog – my brag.)

First, Tristan: he was playing with his trains on my bed this morning as I was getting ready for work. He was half talking to himself, half talking to me, when he said “Time to go downstairs now. Abajo. That means down.” I had to look it up, but he’s right. I’m guessing this comes from Dora the Explorer. My mother credits the 2 hours of Sesame Street I watched each day as a kid with my graduation magna cum laude from university 20 years later. I’m happy just to have another justification for leaving the TV on.

Second, Simon: I commented on Andrea’s blog recently that Simon was nowhere near her daughter Frances’ ability to count, but instead loves to make counting grunts that in no way resemble actual words. I guess Simon was just waiting for the right audience, because last night at dinner he blew away not only Beloved and I but Granny and Papa Lou as well when without prompting he said, “One… two… fee… fou… fi… seeex… seben… nine… DEN!” (insert sound of four jaws dropping on to the table in unison)

Not even in school yet, and they’re both already smarter than me. I knew it was coming, I just thought I had a few more years. Man, I feel really old now.

I spent a good portion of one morning this past long-weekend sorting through the boys’ clothes, having finally capitulated to the fact that summer is over once and for all.

Even though there are two years between them, I can now mostly sort things directly out of Tristan’s drawers and into Simon’s – largely because I’m lazy and Tristan’s drawers are cluttered with stuff he grew out of a year ago.

Sorting stuff out of Simon’s drawers makes me a little bit sad, though. As I place each adorable 18 month sized pair of shorts into the carton, I wonder if I’ll ever be unpacking them to repopulate a third child’s summer wardrobe. I wonder if I shouldn’t just pass it all on to Noah, my gorgeous nephew, or Amelia, my daughter-by-proxy and possibly the cutest baby girl to ever wrinkle her nose at me.

Some stuff I do pass on, because so much was given to me and I like to be part of the endless churn of baby hand-me-downs. (Sometimes I wonder how the retail stores stay in business, what with garbage bags full of gently-used kids clothing being traded every day. Then I step into a store full of adorable jeans and bright striped jerseys, already reaching for my credit card, and I realize it’s suckers like me who keep them in business.)

But some stuff I just can’t part with, because I’m a sentimental sop. Like the green and black striped Kushie’s sleeper I bought for Simon over a year ago. When I first bought it, it hung on him like a potato sack, but he wore it until he resembled a big baby sausage whose casing was about to burst. And there is the reindeer sleeper that I bought for Tristan for his first Christmas. (For weeks, I imagined him crawling around amidst the wrappers and boxes and gifts wearing that adorable sleeper. That was the year we spent all of Christmas Day in the ER battling Tristan’s 105F fever.) I loved that sleeper so much that Simon wore it last spring, out of season for reindeers but no less adorable.

There are now at least five containers of baby goods stacked precariously in Simon’s closet. There are two Rubbermaid bins full of baby clothes and supplies like towels, blankets and burp rags. There are three, maybe four recycled Pampers boxes of outgrown clothes for winter in 12 months size through summer in 2T size. That doesn’t count the bouncy chair (those things don’t store well), the mobile, a plethora of gates, and more than one basket of rattles, links and chew rings… all of it being held in abeyance of the Big Decision. It would probably be easier if we would just make a decision and stick with it. But not yet.

Yesterday, Beloved dressed Simon in a striped GAP turtleneck that was one of Tristan’s signature shirts for two years, and somehow that shirt transformed my waddling baby Simon into a little boy. How did that happen? I never said it was okay for him to stop being a baby.

But he sure makes an adorable toddler.

Ack! Don’t have an original thought in my head lately, so I’m posting lots of filler waiting for the Muse to come back from getting that pack of smokes at the corner store. Hold on to your hats, it’s meme day yet again boys and girls.

But wait, first let me tell you my most excellent excuse for slacking off. You see, I have Somewhere Important To Go. (stands taller) I am meeting Andrea, one of my bloggy heroes, for coffee tomorrow – which will be today by the time you read this. Wicked cool, eh?

And now that you are so justifiably jealous of me this morning, let us continue with our meme. Renée, my Louisiana alter-ego, thought she had lifted this from me but she did not. It’s kind of like a tag in reverse, no? No? Oh well, I’m doing it anyway.

5 things I plan to do before I die:

1. Get paid for publishing an original work.
2. Spoil my grandchildren.
3. Go to Greece.
4. Colour my hair.
5. Get a piano and take lessons.

5 things I can do:

1. Converse in French – passably, not expertly.
2. Correctly punctuate ‘however’ and explain the difference between who and whom.
3. Clap with one hand.
4. Get up before 5 am on a regular basis and still be functional.
5. Eat foods so spicy they make other people weep.

5 things I cannot do:

1. Sing. Or dance. It’s downright embarrassing.
2. Leave well enough alone.
3. Remember how to spell ‘occasionally’ or ‘committee’.
4. Conquer clutter.
5. Resist memes.

5 things that attract me to the opposite sex:

1. Personality.
2. Intelligence.
3. Sense of humour – the quirkier the better.
4. Kindness.
5. Really hot bod.

5 things that I say most often:

1. Bloody hell.
2. And your point is?
3. Sit Down On Your Bum NOW!
4. I’m SO blogging this.
5. What was I doing/saying?

5 celebrity crushes:

1. Evan Farmer (While you were out)
2. Ewan McGregor
3. Matt Damon
4. Johnny Depp
5. Harrison Ford

I’m supposed to tag five people now (well, seven, but I slacked off because Renée did) but I think I might be the last person on the Internet to do this meme so I’ll leave this one open. Join in!

I’ll be out having coffee with Andrea if you need me. How lucky am I?

Categories: Memes

The good news is, I didn’t set the house on fire. The bad news is, I didn’t sleep a wink thinking about that red and black wire getting jiggy with each other.

Oh right, you have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?

The short version is, I installed a digital thermostat on the weekend. It went pretty well, except for the extra wire. As if you thought I might possibly skip the long version for just this once…

I like to consider myself a handy chick. I have my own power tools, I know the difference between a Robertson and a Phillips head, and I can make a rough approximation of a dove-tailed joint with hand tools. I’ve assembled a new barbeque, taken apart an old one to see why it wasn’t working, figured it out and put it back together again.

But electricity scared the bejesus out of me. I don’t mind messing with tanks of flammable gas, but I am definitely antsy about electricity. Which is kind of ironic, because my grandfather was a master electrician. I could have used his assistance yesterday. Everybody told me it was a simple task. Match up the coloured wires and you’re done.

For six months, I lurked in the thermostat aisle at Canadian Tire, reading the packages and comparing models and features, weighing my desire for a programmable thermostat against my deep-seated fear of setting the house on fire. I’d linger in the dining room, gazing resentfully at the ancient $1.99 discount thermostat that came with the house and dreaming of programs and digital readouts. I’d prowl around other people’s houses, looking for their thermostat to confirm the fact that yes, in fact, everybody else has a better one than me.

(Okay, maybe I’m hyperbolizing just a little bit here. But, sadly, not much.)

So on Saturday, I impulsively (inasmuch as having pondered something for six months can be impulsive) ran out to Canadian Tire and shelled out $39.99 for a 5+2 programmable digital thermostat. I read the “quick installation guide” on the package once in the store, once at a red light on the way home, and one last time sitting on the dining room floor with screwdriver in hand. I installed the batteries, and when the LED readout popped up just as promised, my confidence was bolstered.

I stood up, took a deep breath, and pried the old thermostat off the wall. To my delight, the wires were attached just as the quick-installation guide promised, and I unscrewed the terminals without incidence. And yes, I had even remembered to turn off the furnace switch before getting started. Wondering if I had missed my calling as a professional digital thermostat installer, I gleefully screwed the back plate of the new thermostat on the wall. I started matching up coloured wires to their terminals, green to G, red to R, white to W and yellow to Y, black to … black to … what the hell do I do with this black wire?

And so I turned back to the mangled wreckage of moulded plastic wrap (digression: is that not the most annoying form of torture ever invented, trying to get stuff out of that hard plastic shrink-wrap stuff?) and noticed the owner’s manual. The one with the detailed installation instructions that say “when removing the old thermostat, make careful note of where each wire is attached to your original thermostat.” That would be the theromostat lying discarded on the counter, any connection to its former wires long since forgotten.

Oh crap.

Did I mention that although I bought the thermostat on Saturday, I waited until Monday to install it? Thanksgiving Monday, the statutory holiday when neither electricians nor digital programmable theromostat installation help desk people were taking calls. I reread the installation instructions with the same level of attention that Jennifer Anniston’s property lawyers read her and Brad Pitt’s divorce proposal.

From what I could gather, a wire previously attached to an Rh terminal could be attached together with an Rc wire to the R terminal. In other words, I could attach the red and black wires to the same terminal. Now, I’m no electrician, but I do know that if you attach two live wires, and they are the wrong live wires, armageddon ensues.

So I did what every girl does when she gets into a jam – I called my Daddy. He opined that the black wire was a ground, and I could just leave it exposed and tucked away. I didn’t like that advice very much, so I shopped around. I called my former good buddy ÃœBerGeek, whom I should know better than to call for DIY advice after hearing about how he dumped acid all over himself fixing his garburator pipes. I explained my two alternatives (leave the black wire exposed, or attach the black and red wire to the same terminal) and he said, “Uh-huh, that sounds good” to each option.

Finding this less than reassuring, in desperation I finally called my father-in-law. Since I have never actually called him before, let alone for consultation on matters that could burn down the family home of his grandchildren and only son, he sounded pleased in a perplexed sort of way to hear from me. After hemming and hawing for a while, he said that in household wiring, black and red are usual positive wires. I paused, the enormity of what I don’t know about electricity weighing heavily on my shoulders, and then asked in a small voice, “Is that good or bad?”

In the end, without providing any sort of comfort or reassurance whatsoever, he did convey the fact that he was of the opinion that attaching both wires to the same terminal was not the worst possible idea ever, although only marginally more astute than leaving one exposed wire.

(Are you still reading? Am I still writing? We both deserve some sort of endurance award for that. Courage, we’re almost there.)

In the end, I attached the red and the black wires to the same terminal. I sent Beloved downstairs to flick the switch to re-engage the furnace, not exactly sure what to expect or what form of disaster recovery I should be ready to initiate, but nothing more exciting happened than the furnace fan humming to life. I stood guard over the thermostat for a few doubtful hours minutes, but it showed no predisposition to self- combustion or other socially unacceptable behaviour.

Sadly, that’s the end of the story. Are you kicking yourself for riding it out, hoping for a big finish? Hey, you can’t say I didn’t warn you with the short version… no Jerry Bruckheimer-esque special effects were promised, or even alleged.

But, um, is there an electrician in the house? I’d feel a lot better about leaving those black and red wires together in perpetuity if I could have the blessing of a professional, or at least someone with the courage of their convictions.

You’ll have to excuse me, I have made just enough references to my house burning down that I now have a stomach-ache and have to find some wood to touch in a big hurry.

Saw this over on Marla’s blog and couldn’t stop laughing. Hers is funnier than mine, but it’s still worth a lazy-day blog.

The game is, Google “(Your-name) needs”, including the quotation marks, inserting your name where indicated but without the parenthesis. (I’m not insulting your intelligence, really. I’m quite sure you get the idea. But don’t forget the quotes – it’s important.) So, to clarify, I Googled “Dani needs”. Anybody need a recap to this point? And then you share your top five – or, if you’re Marla or me, your top 500. Cuz more is always better than less!

I pulled these off in order. They have this oddly narrative quality to them…

“Sweet Dani needs warm temperatures for rapid growth.”

“Dani needs to be able to face those curbs alone.”

“dani needs ‘Help’ but Not of The physical type “

“Dani needs revenge. “

“dani needs to do something new, exciting that will serve her well later.”

“What will you do when Dani needs to retire?”

“Dani needs the love, support and discipline that only two parents provide”

“Dani needs no redemption.”

“Dani needs a moment.”

(but the masses grew surly and demanding)

“Dani needs to finish stuff alot more people Are waiting.”

“dani needs sleep”

(and then, it turned ugly)

“Dani needs to be sliced.”

“I really think that Dani needs a swift kick in the johnson for being a frigging twink.”

“Dani needs this within the next 3 weeks.”

And that’s when I stopped reading.

Categories: Memes

Just a note of thanks to the guys (and girls?) at that Library Thing, also known as my newest obsession, for quoting me on their buzz page. I am truly addicted to Library Thing, and keep finding excuses to huddle in the basement and catalogue more and more books.

Gonna have to pony up the $10US pretty soon so I can key in more than 200 books – over 150 in there now, and many shelves yet to go!

Happy Thanksgiving Weekend, my Canadian bloggy friends!!