You are currently browsing the monthly archive for September 2005.
This semester I am enrolled in an online class about research. As in, let’s understand how to do it right. So I have a couple of textbooks I keep reading, that I re-read and re-read because the stuff won’t stick. And I remembered abruptly that this was the last week of September, and I should have a research question by the 30th.
So this morning I went to Other University Library, as My University Library is in a shambles, with a paucity of study space and more than half the books in storage, including bound periodicals. And I never get anywhere with their databases - clicking on a link may take you to a) a full text article b) a link page where it can be found via multiple databases or c) “we may have this - click here to search the catalog” which inevitably results in a dead end. Other University hasn’t got a lot of books, but they do have incredible database access, with handy links to all kinds of full text articles that can be emailed off to wait in my inbox until I get home. It takes less time, reaps far more options so far as resources go, and in an hour and a half this morning (as compared to hours of fruitless searching on Useless U Library’s website) I had collected twice the number of articles I needed for my paper. Which led to my formulating the actual research question, which I had no intention of doing until I knew how much research already existed on the subject. I’ve already done that dance of not having enough resources to finish the paper - not going to happen again.
Where would I be now without the magical internet? I would not know how to burn an entire season of DS9 to a single DVD, and my hard drive would now be full, or I would be drowning in disks containing at most a handful of episodes. That’s where.
Toast. It’s what’s for dessert.
Hungry cats are velcro. Sated cats disappear.
The hummingbird that comes to the feeder outside my kitchen window is not a ruby-throat, but is an Anna’s.
Stargate: Atlantis is on tv at 4 pm on Saturdays.
I need to check the seat of my yoga pants before leaving for yoga, lest I be caught in downward dog with big fuzzy tufts of white cat hair on my butt.
Like everything else, working at the clinic has been a Learning Experience. You know how you get a job, they give you the handbook, and the real learning process involves all those little things that aren’t written down and aren’t articulated anywhere in your college classes or the training seminar or the job description? That’s what I’m working on.
Like, the computer system. I went to four different training sessions on four different things, and not one mentioned the desktop icons featuring the logo of the system we work with and cryptic UCSISOSISS-SI* sorts of acronyms that tell me nothing about whether it’s meant for the psychiatrist only, or the office assistant only, or if it’s for therapists on staff, or the janitor…. I hesitate to explore on my own because these are computers belonging to the local gov’ment, and one of those training sessions was about nothing but “WE ARE WATCHING YOU CLICK.”
My supervisor doesn’t know how to use the computer and doesn’t care to stop using his pen. Me, I can’t read my own goofy writing when I print; years of typing everything have warped my handwriting into something you might see in kindergarten, thanks to hardly ever writing anything. (If anyone developes a cell phone/check printing combo, I’m there. I use my debit card all the time these days.) And they give you these forms with narrow ruled sections and restrictive teeny boxes. This is particularly bad when doing the assessment.
So for assessments I now use a legal pad and take notes, because no one gives information that way. The form is six pages of little checkboxes and sections that end with boxes labeled “continued on separate page”. We always continue on separate page. The clinic gets the really desparate people who have histories of abuse and depression stretching back for decades — you can’t get all that into a neat little box. And the information comes out all out of chronological order, too - someone will say they were never depressed before, and then when they’re wandering off from a description of how angry they were at dad for leaving the family to a long anecdote about how mom grieved for x years, suddenly they’re talking about how sad and hopeless they felt, and they couldn’t sleep, and ate like a pig, and stopped going to the gym which was weird because they always enjoyed workouts before….
It would be so much easier to assemble the disjointed notes if I had a computer. Cut n paste r our friend.
Today I talked to the office supervisor and got part of the puzzle of the computer. Of course, she’s being laid off, so I need to corner her and take notes before long. Wish I’d figured out who to ask about this stuff before now.
*Not actual acronym
The storm warnings on the radio for outlying communities and the drifting clouds were the first warning. The temp dropped noticeably by seven. I opened the windows and sliding door.
Around seven fifteen, I heard the concussion; it sounded like a car hitting another. I even checked the front to see if my car was still okay. It was. Must be thunder.
7:45 - More thunder. 7:53 - The rain pattered randomly at first, then poured from the sky. It pummeled the ground and the plants. Lightening has been flashing, thunder has been rumbling, and through the window from the backyard, the smell of mint is wafting into the apartment, mixing with the smell of rain.
I’m making rice pudding. What a nice evening. A reminder that sometimes the things we dread in great amounts can also be pleasant in small amounts.
What is it with all the commercials for new seasons of crime shows using the metallic riff from the BSG theme song?????
Roommate wanted to see I, Claudius, so it went on the Netflix queue. Twas quite good - and all the more so because Patrick Stewart played Sejanus, the smirking psycopath in a toga.
You can see the lovely pasted on hair he wore here. This is relevant in that it nearly caused me to reveal The Fangirly.
Me: “Nice fake hair, Sejanus.”
Roommate: “How do you know it’s fake?”
Me: “He went bald in his early twenties. No way is that horrible ‘do his real hair. Just look at it, you can see they stuck the curls on one at a time. It’s the Head of a Thousand Parts.”
Roommate: ….
Later…
Me: “Ooooooo, nice legs!”
Roommate: O_O
Me: “Patrick Stewart, not the fat limping guy!”
(Male) Roommate: “Oh. Yeah, he’s got nice calves.”
Me: O_O
Amazon.com: Books: Harvey & Eck
I followed a google ad from a blog - I think I need to stop following google ads.
Can’t quite figure out what the most disturbing part of the cover is — the teeny tiny waist, the tattoo that I thought at first was a fetus, then a rooster in pain, then realized was a smiling moon with a hat — I think — or the way she appears to be … um… taking advantage of the motorcycle. Or maybe that bald stripe down the back of her head. Or maybe the plot.
Oh, ‘eck. It’s just disturbing.
It doesn’t matter what trivial thing I do, if I touch mySQL settings of any sort, I end up redoing code and resetting a bunch of passwords. I added a database and pow! both my blog and the Mod Blog went plooey and wouldn’t connect to MySQL. I have no idea why I got the errors I got or why I had to reset passwords willy-nilly…. But it’s fixed.
Whew.
An abbreviation I’ve seen around in some blogs: comp.
It’s not a comp. I’m not Lor, and my laptop is not a lapt. What you have is a com-pyoo-ter that is possibly a Pee Cee or a Mack but it is not a COMP.
It’s lazy and ambiguous. Every time I see it, I’m reminded of other things that have been ‘comps’ — comprehensive exams, or compysagnuthus (did you see Jurassic Park? they’re the little chicken sized ones that bite the kid on the beach in the opening scene of the book), or complimentary passes to an event.
If you need a shorter way to write ‘computer’ you may as well be specific — is it a PC or a Mac? A Sun terminal? What? Because it’s not a bloody COMP.
.. something… yeah, hard for the… hums
I’m switching from working for the agency to working for the employer I’ve been with since… February? yeah. Which is cool, because I negotiated for a raise.
Boss: “Now you’ll have to change that attitude, young lady. You work for us now.”
Me: *snerk*
Boss: “That’s better.”
Me: *writes smiley face on white board*
“Young lady” doesn’t quite work when he’s only ten years older….
Microsoft: Office 12 to Anticipate Needs - Yahoo! News
One of the reasons I scream, you scream, we all scream at Office products is the nosy assistant that pops up to interfere with a drabble, with a cheery “It looks like you’re trying to write a letter. Would you like me to help?” And M$ thinks MORE automation is the way to go.
I’ll be here, waiting for the headlines detailing how many users gave up and bought OS X or Linux/Unix based systems after they blew their Windows system through the wall with a shotgun. Or turned Luddite.
Led Zeppelin on the iPod, yes. Plus loads of Clapton.
Roommate moved a half-eaten (still alive) fish to a hospital tank, which meant he moved a few gallons of water from his 55 gallon to the smaller one, which meant I didn’t sleep well last night. I was surprised I didn’t wake up having to pee — the filter trickles like a brook when the tank’s low. On the up side, I finally found a dental guard that doesn’t activate my gag reflex, the way full-mouth guards do. This is a couple of bitewings on a strap that fits over the lower teeth. I managed to sleep, but woke often to weird dreams, like the one about … water. Lots of water. Everywhere. SpongeLori Nopants, going to work. And the one about conducting therapy in the waiting room of the clinic with lots of people barging through.
Still pecking away at WIPs, in between other things. I have a conference tomorrow and Thursday, so no work at all for two days, just sitting in a room full of shrinks talking about women with addictions. At least the hours count toward one of my classes.
My joints have taken up a constant low-grade aching sensation, thanks to yoga. Which I’m signing up for six months unlimited lessons on Saturday, so…. Hey, hamstrings! Have fun with those forward bends.
My car was sounding like a VW - not a good thing since it’s a Saturn. Two hundred bucks later, it got a new thermostat, radiator flush, and oil change, and the label “oil burner” as it ate through about four quarts between changes. Next stop, synthetic. Which may end up being cheaper than real oil, before we’re through.
I nearly updated Home in a Handbasket the other day but was foiled by the intricacies of html and so on. Am experimenting now with BBEdit to get it properly tagged and prepped.
And that, my friends, is where I’m at. Another semester, another round of madcap textbook reading and head-scratching. I’m on my fifth readthrough of this month’s assigned chapters with minimal comprehension; start placing bets now on my grade for the final.
Oy, my back hurts. Too many plank and bridge poses last night. A yoga hangover, I guess?
Kirk and Spock Go Icefishing, also known as If My Aunt From Minnesota Wrote Star Trek on my page, has been read aloud by Jungle Kitty in the authentic Minnesotan accent, and posted to her site.
Statement on Federal Emergency Assistance for Louisiana
The red areas are the parishes listed in the official statement linked above.
Note the difference.
I’m sorry, but there’s loads of blame to be shared by The Man. No one should be left for days in conditions like these.
Moody, and in a dank sort of way.
eats licorice
writes fic
Best time to go to the university library: during the dinner hour on Sunday. All the 20 minute spaces are open, plus quite a number of metered spots.
Worst time to go to the library: Any time this semester, as all the books and reference stuff is being moved into storage, the circulation desk is now melded with periodicals, and there’s a week wait (or more - until you get an email anyway) to get anything. They have to go find the box and pull the material, then bring it back to the library circ desk from the Sekrit Storage Location in Parts Unknown.
Of course, I’m taking the one and only class out of all 60 units of the program in which I will be doing loads of … research.
Once again, my timing stinks.
I keep trying to read the assigned chapters for class, but gah, my brain, she takes it in and spits it out again, leaving me without a real idea of what it was about. It probably doesn’t help that the title of the book is “Qualitative Research Methods.” There’s only so much meta about research that the gray matter can take in a sitting.
My attention span is so fragmented, I’m alternating between three different books and writing three different fics, with breaks for surfing and sighing over blogs. I’ve been upset and cranky about/to some of the folk I brush up against in the course of a week, for their short-sighted, sometimes racist, sometimes ignorant statements, but in the end everyone’s doing what they can to cope. Knowing that this will create unknown but likely drastic changes in the economy, that people are dying and suffering, that fingers will point and insults thrown — I just want to hide under the futon. Or go help, but I know that driving or flying down there would be pointless, and wreck up my own situation, which is already tenuous given my near-starving-student status.
Of course, I’ve been suffering with the futility for a while, since long before the hurricane. I work for the county. I work with people who are disabled, physically or mentally or both, and it’s easy to bog yourself down and take on the hopelessness. I went into the field placement telling myself I needed to keep the optimism and my faith in the tenacity and unpredictability of human nature - that people can change, and even though change is really hard for someone who’s been depressed since they were raped as a six year old, there is hope.
I’m doing what I can for the hurricane — my yoga studio is donating all proceeds from Saturday classes for the next month, so I’ll be doing that. I’m going to start putting up more stuff on ebay and donating that money, whatever there is of it. I’ll put some books up for sale at amazon. While that isn’t a reason to feel smug it’s still something.
I’ve not posted on Katrina or the aftermath yet, mostly because I’ve been speechless — if not with horror then with rage.
There’s a lot of judgement that happens on a daily basis, from a lot of people. Yeah, it’s a part of being human — we all judge, and we all have to be good at it to function — but like anything else, sometimes moderation gets thrown out the window and the darts fly.
I’ve been hearing lots of opinionated sorts talking about how victims of the hurricane should have gotten out of the way, etc., and also that “it figures, NO was full of the French, and you know how they are.” To which I nearly popped out with an angry sarcastic quip, but it was someone’s client and you don’t do that in the workplace. I quietly suffered an aneurysm at the thought that someone not only remains conservative Republican in the face of all the idiocy being perpetrated in the name of the GOP, but that this person has swallowed whole that hideous anti-French lame-itudinous stereotype and is regurgitating it in reference to fellow Americans. Because while New Orleans did have a French Quarter and some significant French influences in its history, it’s part of the continental US of A, CLUE.
Judgement should, ideally, be preceded by actual thought. As in, hmmm — it’s an American city, full of American people. Hard-working souls who form a major part of the economy. Maybe, just maybe we should stop talking about the victims of the hurricane as if it’s their fault, and start helping them. YOU THINK?
Americans are attacked by terrorists, suddenly we’re all up in arms and unified. But Americans are blown around and flooded out by a storm that swelled from category 2 to category 5 within hours, and all Certain Graymatter-challenged Jerkoffs can do is sit around condemning people who lost their homes, their jobs, their lives — for what? Not walking fast enough to escape record-breaking gale-force wind or flood waters — after the trains/busses/planes stopped running?
News flash: there is not a single place on Earth where you can live in total safety. The whole L.A. basin, plus San Francisco, plus Coalinga, are all known earthquake zones — are we going to call people stupid for choosing to live there instead of, say, Ohio — where tornadoes sometimes happen? Or the East Coast, where shark attacks happen? Or Florida? Or the Phillipines? Or somewhere in Africa where drought happens? I don’t know what will happen to me — it’s entirely possible that some mountain in the Sierra Nevada will follow Mt St Helens’ example and bury me and about a million others under ash and/or lava. Because we have no control over Mother Earth. Unless you want to call slowly poisoning her over the last century “control.”
Americans who make careless judgemental comments make me wish there were such a thing as a clue-by-four, and that I could swing it. It feels like ‘not enough’ to click and donate. Every little bit helps, I know. But still, I wish that there were some way to beat sense into idiots living in their own private fool’s paradise with their sense of superiority, as if they would somehow be so much better at escaping the forces of nature.