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Archive for May, 2005

Work – Work

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-25-2005

What I am doing right now- or, better said, trying to do right now- is a bit beyond my present capabilities. A bit, but it is possible, I might be able to carry it off.

That is what makes it interesting- to me- and keeps me banging away at the keyboard, the pleasure when it all goes well.

Today, it did not go well. I am sure that there is no statistical relevance between the fact that so very, very things went wrong today and the fact that the children only go to school in the mornings on Wednesday.

I crashed Dreamweaver 5 times in a row, and find myself using notepad more and more.

But not that much.

If you know what I mean….

The Answer…Maybe

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-24-2005

You know, of all the things that I dreamed of becoming as a child, becoming a quasi-Nazi guard of a prison camp was never on the short list.

I never wanted to grow up and nag- day in , day out- about the clothes all over the floor, the ten glasses on the end table, the constant bickering between the siblings.

More than the actions themselves, I loathe that they have made me a stereotype, an utter bore.

My wee alien forces me into a straight jacket that I can’t seem to remove.

She forces me to be Mummy Dearest, a woman who will be remembered best by recalling : yup, and that thing about the refrigerator door : going to cool off the world ? Close it !.

I often feel that I am floundering in deep waters , holding the memory of that tiny infant within my heart .

The Question

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-24-2005

I often refer to this moment, and to the fact that- even as I experienced it- I knew that in the future I would look back to this glance.

Got a bookmark here.

You see, I have known for a cootie’s age ( really, early teens) that most things that I think and feel are very common and have been since…before the bible was pulled together, before the Sumerians stamped their clay, the Egyptians daubed their tombs. I am your average, generic homo sapien, haven’t changed through the mists of time at all.

Common as mud. Dust even.

And so I have always felt that if I really, really, tell the truth, I shall find kindred souls, for my feelings and experiences are indeed simply as common as mud, as dust.

And so, there I was reading a book, snuggled in our Queen size bed, about to nod off into one nap or another. The Girl was sleeping next to me, a tiny mite, a small alien creature, I didn’t know nothin’ ’bout babies before I had her ( nurse asks : is her poop normal ? Uh, I haven’t a clue .) She must be about three months old, for she is napping, not crying ( colic : means no one knows what is wrong. There is no such animal as colic. The word colic simply means : uh, we don’t know what is wrong.)

She is so tiny. She only weighed a scant five pounds at full term. She sleeps, I admire her round, Taxadrian face, her arched brows. I dote upon her countenance.

Knowing that the feelings that I have at that moment are generic, I wonder what happens in between, what will push us apart. For surely, something must.

Happens all of the time, doesn’t it ?

I can’t believe- at that moment, gazing at her sleeping- that anything ever could.

But know that things must happen, change.

Happens all of the time, doesn’t it ?

You see, I know that I am and always will be generic.

Weblogs Have Ruined The Internet…

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-23-2005

I spent most of the day- no matter what I was doing- trying to figure out a structure for a new site.

I really did have to start with navigation, didn’t I ?

I received many links and hints as to the look of a site, the importance of the look of a site, but in the end, I’m simply a minimalistic sort of, kind of designer.

Or what ever.

Oh, pooh- who are we kidding : I can’t design my way out of a paper bag.

Content is all that matters.

In my book.

A clean, clear navigation, info up the gazoo – do I really have to look for mood photos, right out of the Mod Squad ( one black, one brown, one blond) ?

No. There is nothing wrong with simplicity. I don’t need photos that set an
emotional scene.

In my book, information. Quickly and sans …arble- garble. Short and sweet, there it is.

All Work….

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-23-2005

I spend the day trying to figure out what needs to be done, how I would like to do it and if that is indeed possible.

Raphael says it is, just throw a bit of CSS and PHP together and wah- lah!

Worth a try.

Do I know anything about CSS ? – Enought to fake it.

Do I know anything about PHP ?- Nope. Nope. Nope.

Faced with failure, there are always tables.


You know, frames never really bothered me all that much.


Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-23-2005

Just because something can be done, doesn’t mean that I can do it.

Should take me about 4 days to accept that simple fact .

Little House…

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-21-2005

Day dreaming in the car this morning, as we drove over to pick up my computer, the Father ambles over a few dreams. If certain deals go though, he would like to invest the money in property- another house in our town, an old one like we have, one which will always increase in value. Rent it out and then maybe when one of the kids are older…

Honing in on the day dream, I point out to him another sort of property which always increases in value : old farms.

Dreams are free.

Computer Genius

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-18-2005

In whatever way that I totally f*cked up my computer ( I do believe it might lie within the NAPT server or some DHCP server thing I attempted to alter, in sheer desperation- and don’t ask me, I haven’t a clue as to what they are..), for the first time, all of the other computers here in home- sweet can still connect, even though the mother ship was taken to Mr. Mark and ended up in the hands of a young geek who resembled one of the younger Baldwin brothers. Not so obviously handsome, but still, having charms of his own.

The Girl pointed out his trendy pants.

And I had to explain to him what was wrong. My eyes searched left and right : where was Mr. Mark ? He made my computer…everything except the network . I had to explain to a geek what had happened, what I did, without the proper vocabulary ( geeks here always know English very well indeed. The language problem is me being self taught and not knowing the correct words for what I have done…) . My feeling is that I haven’t adjusted all of those…TC things- I don’t want a dynamic IP- correctly. There is also a distinct possibility that whatever name ( as opposed to IP) my computer goes by, is not being treated very fairly by Norton.

Oh well. I had fair skies and blue birds today. Aren’t hormones so…just… in the end ? It all balances out.

And we have a new- possibly- pet : a young, female blackbird, a merel. There is something terribly wrong with one of her legs, but as I water newly planted blooms, she hops over, hoping to feast upon our worms, a cast of millions. We sit still when she is there. She can see us, is aware of us, and perhaps we can convey the idea to her that we are friends.

Although- and no offense intended- blackbirds are, after pigeons, the dumbest creatures I have ever encountered.

Picture this : a small, walled garden, two cats prowling about, two bears. Young blackbirds fall from the nest and run about for quite a while before learning how to fly. They hide behind bushes, squawking for worms. Isn’t our yard- the gauntlet- just the perfect place to raise a family ?

When ten meters away, there is a church graveyard, which is simply as quiet as the same.

But then, I’m simply a sucker for those that struggle, those that – to use the phrase yet again- fight the good fight.

I have told The Boy to give her a name. ( The Boy would like to have a parrot as a pet very much indeed.)

Assuredly a mistake, but, oh well.

..A Glass Darkly

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-17-2005

( nope. no spellcheck. I can’t seem to fix my computer. I’m on the dino. Isn’t it sad, all of that money that my parent’s poured into my education ? …)

I never- really- paused to think about what a defense mechanism anger is. Oh, I’ve always been very hesitant to speak when I am angry, for I do not believe that saying one is sorry provides absolution. Nope. I tend to think that words always echo about, somewhere. And I was raised a Catholic, where one only needs to be sincerely repentant to gain forgiveness, to be given a clean slate.

But I do not believe that a bell can be unrung.

I was furious in the way that only a drama queen can be, poor Nell me. But if you see that there is something else behind it, anger withers away. Once you realize that it is only a tool that some ….place….in your mind has set forth to protect you, it is gone.

And I was left in a dank dark place, some graying concrete swimming pool emptied of water, dry leaves rustling about, the good times long gone.

It could have been a terrible row, one cliche after another being thrown about. But it wasn’t.

Somehow, baby language was the best way.

You hurt my feelings.

No anger, just the sadness. The bewilderment.

And I am sure that my not serving dinner with my odd collection of dishes and bowls sent a very strong message across.


Here, There…

Posted by Mummy Dearest on May-17-2005

Today I am honing my multi-tasking skills. As well as perfecting my Mummy The Martyr avatar, I am attempting to fix my computer ( uninstall, reinstall, uninstall, reinstall Norton…) , go over a mess of papers that The Father brought home for me to study- which contain very fancy schmancy words ( in a familiar cadence, I wonder) describing an upgrade of the company’s website.

It goes without saying that I dumped the dishwasher, changed the sheets, the towels, started attacking a knee high pile of laundry ( I tell you, I was caught up last Thursday…) did the shopping. I walked the kids back and forth to school all day long and made them lunch. Oh yes, and after lunch -but before I walked them back to school- I pulled a tick off of Buddy’s head.

Usually, The Father does this and is very good at it. I have done it once before and left the head.

Going through the options, I nixed holding a hot object to the bum of the tick. Mummy The Martyr loathes parasites and the mere thought of doing something so revolting made the hairs on my arms stand on end. We don’t have any rubbing alcohol in the house, The Girl has no nail polish remover and so mouthwash became an option. Well, it does have alcohol in it. But I couldn’t see Buddy standing by and letting us dose him with Listerine.

I decided that we would oil it out. I carefully explained toThe Girl that a tick buries it’s head under the skin and then breathes through the surface of his abdomen. We would cover it with olive oil and- in theory- it should pop it’s head out, gasping for air.

After much screeching and hairs standing on end, we got it out. I couldn’t find The Father’s pliers and so ended up using tweezers- too close for my comfort-, Buddy kept moving his head every time the olive oil drip was poised above the tick and now looks very 50′s indeed. After the first successful drip-and-rub, The Girl and I peered carefully at Buddy’s head and- Oh! Yukkus!- ran about in circles, hands in the air : it moved it’s LEGS !!!. It was a girly- girly, Mother- Daughter- bonding moment.

I’m sure.

In the end, I don’t think that I got the head out. TheGirl and I peered at the corpse a few times, but it was SO UGLY and so in our faces that we tossed that sucker right away.

I tried. I fought the good fight and I lost. In the end, who gives a shit ?

About that website : any good links to layouts with boxes ? Sliding menu scripts ?

I’m in over my head here….