In 1999, was I the only kid who had a bathroom filled with 430 pounds of dried beans and powdered milk? Did any one else have a flour grinder in their laundry room? Or was it just me?
Unless you are 12 years old, you probably remember that little thing called the New Millennium, or Y2K. If you are a pre-teen reading my blog, I'll give you a history lesson. Y2K stood for the year 2000, and it basically freaked the jelly beans out of at least half the American population, because they thought that computers would stop running and our whole life would collapse.
You'd wake up on January 1st, 2000, ready to heat some Pop Tarts, except your toaster would be broken since it ran off of computer chips that did not recognize the year 2000. Or maybe you'd be shopping at Target, go to leave (after paying in cash only because the card readers would be non-functional), and find out the automatic doors had locked you in. Because they'd be thinking its 1900, not the year 2000, and in 1900 they did not have automatic doors, so they'd stay shut until you manually opened them. But you would probably be stuck in Target for at least five hours until help came. I can think of worse places to be trapped in.
My family didn't have to worry about food production plants going beserk and shutting down and us starving, because my mother fully prepared for the worst case scenario. In June of 1999, my mom started stock piling. This meant buying in bulk from a local co-op, which was founded on the belief that people would turn into savages as soon as 2000 hit and computer chips stopped working. My mom bought dried beans, wheat, a flour grinder, dried fruit, and more emergency supplies than the states in the tornado belt have combined. We stored a large portion of it in the second bathroom. What, your loo doesn't also double as a pantry?
I had just started going to public school that year, which basically means I started feeling embarrassed around mothers wearing denim jumpers. My new worldly friends were very intrigued with my family's stockpile. They'd come back from the bathroom asking about the tower of 25 white buckets that were taking up space in the corner opposite the sink.
"Oh, that's just our five year supply of food and supplies in case the world goes to shambles this coming January."
About half my friends had no idea that civilization would end at the beginning of the new year. Their families continued buying microwaveable dinners and frozen waffles instead of purchasing wheat and firewood for a non-electric stove. I could basically picture it. In January of 2000, I'd be sitting at home in a living room lit by kerosene lamps, while they'd be sitting at home in the dark. I'd be eating hot oatmeal which was cooked over the wood stove, while they'd be at home going hungry because their fridge and appliances stopped working. I was very concerned for their well being. I mean, at the very least their mom should go buy some canned peaches or something.
When December 31st, 1999 came, my family was prepared. We had the bathtub filled up with water. We had candles. We had firewood. We had learned how to grind flour. Despite the fact that I spent the evening with my parents in the living room watching the ball drop, it was very exciting. I was secretly hoping that there would be a disaster. Because then when I was forty or whatever, I could tell the kids "I lived through the Y2K disaster (shudder). Let me tell you about it..." Or maybe I could write a book about how my family survived the new millennium and helped save desperate people who were not well prepared.
You can imagine my disappointment at 12:01am on January 1st, 2000 when the toaster still worked. It only took about three days for me to realize the world was going to be fine. That, and I'd be eating beans and powdered milk for dinner every night through my high school years.
Showing posts with label technology. Show all posts
Showing posts with label technology. Show all posts
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
your time is almost up
Oh my gosh I have to type fast because I am at the library and only have 7 minutes remaining. I spent most of my allotted 15 minutes checking my e-mail and replying to people. My computer is currently at the hospital because its hard drive is quite ill. This is absolutely terrible and I hope I didn't lose a large chunk of my writing work. Because you know, I am a genius and didn't save a hard copy recently. It's mostly terrible because I have a zillion things to blog about and only five minutes left to do so. So crap. Just wanted to let you know that I have things to tell you and want to talk to your face as you stare into your computer screen reading these words, but unfortunately I cannot. Oooh, it looks like maybe one of the other computers opened up where I can get longer than 15 minutes. Snap. A balding man in a flannel shirt just snagged one. Gotta run.
Update: I got a computer to use for 45 minutes. I wonder if the people around me are reading my old man post that I just finished. Also, I find that people in libraries talk to themselves while they are using the computer, and this is somewhat distracting. But some people need to talk to themselves in order to process, so whatever. I'll just bring headphones next time.
Update: I got a computer to use for 45 minutes. I wonder if the people around me are reading my old man post that I just finished. Also, I find that people in libraries talk to themselves while they are using the computer, and this is somewhat distracting. But some people need to talk to themselves in order to process, so whatever. I'll just bring headphones next time.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
my computer is on its death bed...or at least should be put in a retirement home
I've been working on the recap of my detective birthday party and I wanted to post it today, but seriously for the past three days my computer has been nothing but trouble. I loaded all my pictures and tried to open them but it said they were corrupted. And everyday a little blurb in the corner says that my virtual memory is too low. Oh, and my ROM drive no longer reads CDs. My computer has been freezing up and being slow and it takes 5 hours to get something down that should have taken 2. So sorry, the pictures are still being problematic.
Last night my sister was over and I was using her laptop to look online for new computers. You know, so I can buy one with all of the money I've made recently. I have been rocking the same Dell desktop I've had since fall of 2004. It's had to be wiped clean twice due to virus junk, and I am so ready to have something current.
What recommendations do you have for a laptop? And please don't say a Macbook because that is too expensive for me. Plus I'm not a hipster.
Last night my sister was over and I was using her laptop to look online for new computers. You know, so I can buy one with all of the money I've made recently. I have been rocking the same Dell desktop I've had since fall of 2004. It's had to be wiped clean twice due to virus junk, and I am so ready to have something current.
What recommendations do you have for a laptop? And please don't say a Macbook because that is too expensive for me. Plus I'm not a hipster.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
delayed development
Last week I learned that my father purchased an iphone. This from the man who still owns the very first computer he purchased, circa 1996. We're talking you had to type in MS-DOS commands to get to Windows 95.
My mom and dad live out in the farmlands, not too far from civilization, but far enough away that high speed internet is still something of science fiction. They were still using dial-up when I was in college. And that was just a few years ago.
I guess what happened was my parents were over at the neighbor's house and happened to ask them what they used for internet. Mr. Smykowski said something about "tethering my laptop to my iphone." Of course my dad was all over this. He went out and bought an iphone, and the internet speed is apparently a lot better. His old internet connection was like a 90 year old grandpa out for a walk with his cane, but his new internet is like a 30 something father out for a run.
I guess the first few days with this new internet connection were inconsistent, due to the pushing of the wrong button and not knowing how to go back to fix it. But thanks to my cousin Scott, I think my parents have been trained. At any rate, they've never called me concerning their technical woes.
Instead I got my very first e-mail from my mother earlier this week. Mark it on your calendars, it happened in 2011. She actually e-mailed me information she could have told me over the phone. You know this is progress, when it is easier for her to e-mail than to call. And never mind that I fully tutored her for like, four weeks, on how to turn on her laptop, navigate Firefox, check and reply to gmail, and visit websites by typing their addresses in the correct spot.
Mom sending e-mails and Dad having an iphone is just so out of the norm for me. They are definitely making technological gains. I remember the very first cell phone my mom had. It was the size of a brick, had a nonretractable antennae, and it was turned off at all times except when a call needed to be made to someone's landline from the car.
I didn't get my first cell phone until I was a senior in high school, so whenever I went to football games or basketball games or whatever my freshman, sophomore, and junior years, I had to take the brick cell phone with me so I could call home when it was pick up time. You have no idea. I actually carried a purse with me not because I needed it to stash an ID card and cash, but because I needed it to conceal the gargantuan phone. Quite a few high schoolers had phones, but it was not the norm quite yet. However, it definitely was not the norm to carry around a 1990 relic. Most people borrowed their parents' cell phones on Friday nights--phones which were not yet a decade old.
My freshman year, I actually used the pay phone located outside of the high school doors. But since both my parents and I are cheap, I would call collect. When it gave you that four second space to tell who was calling, I would say "Gym door" in reference to my location. We had a plan so that when my mom received these calls, she would deny the collect call and know it was time to come pick me up. My dad actually answered one time, because he thought someone named Jim Door was calling. This little mistake cost 50 cents and my dignity, because after that it was suggested that I just take the cell phone with me. Why don't you just dress me in overalls and turtlenecks while your at it, Mom?**
There was no need to carry a can of mace for protection against muggers, because that phone was so heavy that I could just conk someone on the head with it. The rechargeable battery itself weighed two pounds.
Yes, my family has always been a bit slow keeping up with the cutting edge technology of the 21st century. In fact, I think my mom may still buy VHS tapes when she sees them for sale at Goodwill. And neither I nor my mother have CD players in our cars. We still rock the cassette tape players. However, we fully have ipod adapters that we can use when we want to listen to music that was released after 1998.
*If you are interested in looking at pictures of cell phones from 1990 to 2011, you might like this.
**Okay, so my freshman year I fully wore overalls at least once a week to school, out of my own choosing. But hey, they were Calvin Klein.
My mom and dad live out in the farmlands, not too far from civilization, but far enough away that high speed internet is still something of science fiction. They were still using dial-up when I was in college. And that was just a few years ago.
I guess what happened was my parents were over at the neighbor's house and happened to ask them what they used for internet. Mr. Smykowski said something about "tethering my laptop to my iphone." Of course my dad was all over this. He went out and bought an iphone, and the internet speed is apparently a lot better. His old internet connection was like a 90 year old grandpa out for a walk with his cane, but his new internet is like a 30 something father out for a run.
I guess the first few days with this new internet connection were inconsistent, due to the pushing of the wrong button and not knowing how to go back to fix it. But thanks to my cousin Scott, I think my parents have been trained. At any rate, they've never called me concerning their technical woes.
Instead I got my very first e-mail from my mother earlier this week. Mark it on your calendars, it happened in 2011. She actually e-mailed me information she could have told me over the phone. You know this is progress, when it is easier for her to e-mail than to call. And never mind that I fully tutored her for like, four weeks, on how to turn on her laptop, navigate Firefox, check and reply to gmail, and visit websites by typing their addresses in the correct spot.
Mom sending e-mails and Dad having an iphone is just so out of the norm for me. They are definitely making technological gains. I remember the very first cell phone my mom had. It was the size of a brick, had a nonretractable antennae, and it was turned off at all times except when a call needed to be made to someone's landline from the car.
I didn't get my first cell phone until I was a senior in high school, so whenever I went to football games or basketball games or whatever my freshman, sophomore, and junior years, I had to take the brick cell phone with me so I could call home when it was pick up time. You have no idea. I actually carried a purse with me not because I needed it to stash an ID card and cash, but because I needed it to conceal the gargantuan phone. Quite a few high schoolers had phones, but it was not the norm quite yet. However, it definitely was not the norm to carry around a 1990 relic. Most people borrowed their parents' cell phones on Friday nights--phones which were not yet a decade old.
 |
| This is exactly like the phone I am talking about.* |
There was no need to carry a can of mace for protection against muggers, because that phone was so heavy that I could just conk someone on the head with it. The rechargeable battery itself weighed two pounds.
Yes, my family has always been a bit slow keeping up with the cutting edge technology of the 21st century. In fact, I think my mom may still buy VHS tapes when she sees them for sale at Goodwill. And neither I nor my mother have CD players in our cars. We still rock the cassette tape players. However, we fully have ipod adapters that we can use when we want to listen to music that was released after 1998.
*If you are interested in looking at pictures of cell phones from 1990 to 2011, you might like this.
**Okay, so my freshman year I fully wore overalls at least once a week to school, out of my own choosing. But hey, they were Calvin Klein.
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
I tested positive...now what?
Last week I took a trip to the employment office. You know, because I am unemployed. I would be lying if I told you I went out of my own conviction. I went because--at the suggestion of my mother--I filed a claim with unemployment insurance. I told Mom I thought I would be denied because, well I chose to quit my job, but she said to try it anyway. So I did. I received paper work detailing the steps to the process, and one of them included having to go to the employment office.
I did my imatch.com skills inquiry at home like the letter suggested, and a few days later headed down town.
It was a sunny day, and I decided to dress professionally so that people would not think I was a bum and couch potato who stayed at home all day watching episodes of Jersey Shore instead of looking for a job. Basically, this means I combed my hair and wore heels.
I had never been to the employment office before, and so Mapquested directions ahead of time. When I got to the right street, there was road construction, forcing me to park in a less than desirable location (meaning, I had to feed a meter). After I shoved my cookie quarters into the monster's mouth, I crossed the street via jaywalking. I like to live life on the edge. Instantly I noticed out of the corner of my eye a strange fellow smoking a cigarette and walking behind me. I kept up my stride, walking with purpose.
A millisecond later a tiny bug flew into my right eye. I blinked but it seemed to be stuck in there, like a contact with wings. I poked at my eye, which was difficult to do, because it was the same eye I was using to keep tabs on Mr. Suspicious. Because of this distraction, I missed the actual entrance to the employment office. I wasn't going to stop on the side walk and turn around, just to walk into all those nasty fumes with only one good eye, so what I did was keep walking. Meanwhile I had tears streaming down my face.
I turned a corner and commenced walking around the entire perimeter of the building. It's always a good idea to case a place before entering. That way you know where all the exits are, you know who is lurking around outside, and you notice which vehicles parked around have out of state plates. Because I am not girly enough to carry around a compact mirror, I sidled up next to a vacant pick up truck and used its side mirror to check my eye. I was pretty sure I was going to find a Pixar character from A Bug's Life in there.
After this adjustment, I completed my full 360 around the building and came once again to the main door. I waited in line for my turn, then told the receptionist my name and typed in my social security number.
Her eyes scanned the screen in front of her, reviewing my information. "It looks like you have everything in order," she began "EXCEPT...you still need to take the reading and math placement tests."
Surely you jest.
Was I trying to transfer high schools? Hadn't already been accepted to and completed college? I laughed nervously. "Oh, I didn't know I had to take a test today." Because I mean, I probably would have reviewed some geometry and algebra concepts if I had. I would have smuggled a calculator down my shirt sleeve. I would have practiced my analogies had I known I needed to perform. You know, headlights are to deer as testing is to Joelle.
I'm probably giving you the wrong impression. I've always done really well on tests. If you read this story, then you know that I set the curve. But even though I can do tests well, I always have this moment whereupon I panic.
I think "What if I just guess on this one? What if I just sit here for two hours and never finish?" For some reason, I usually have a two minute time frame where I think that there is no possible way I can go on. And then it passes and I usually get an A.
The receptionist gave me the laminated directions for logging in to the computer to take the tests. I noticed on the back side that it had all the conversion measurements and formulas for the math portion, which was good, because in my moment of panic I fully forgot that the area of a circle is pi R squared. And I really needed to figure out how big that rug was for question seven.
I took the reading test first and had to almost laugh. It was very office work centered. I had to read an e-mail memo and answer questions about what time was an event happening, or what division does Sally X work for, or what time did I need to ship a package if it needed to arrive by noon the next day.
Then I took the math test. It was almost fun. You had to score at least 80% on each test in order to level up, and I was excited each time the screen told me I had gotten 0 wrong on the previous test. Like a ten-year-old boy with his hands adhered to the video game controls, I wanted to reach the top level. While working out the problems and feeling clever, I started to miss high school. It was great having that satisfaction that I knew the answer. Nowadays, I'm being tested on different sorts of material, and I almost never know the answer. It's not as easy as pi R squared.
While testing, I did a lot of eavesdropping on the other people in the employment center. Some where taking tests, others were searching the computers for jobs, a few were meeting one-on-one with career counselors. It pained me to hear the old man talking on the phone. He was contacting unemployment, trying to file a claim, and kept telling the person on the other end that he's "not what you call tech savvy."
Another man was talking with a counselor about how he has three kids, and doesn't know if he should try to go back to school so he can learn more computer skills, or if he should continue looking for a job.
It sounded like a lot of the people around me felt stuck because of their low-level computer skills. When job postings are on-line and you have no idea how to work a browser, I can sympathize. It's a lot like me trying to use a jigsaw or install blinds in my windows.
After completing my test, I quit being such a snoop and read a few chapters from Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me while I waited for my name to be called. I met with a career professional for about four minutes, showed official ID, then was out the door. My duty was done, the formality was complete, and I walked away realizing how blessed I am not to have any extra mouths to feed and to hold a college degree. Minus the fact that it resulted in three years of subsequent job stress and a resignation. But whatever. I'm past that.
And in case you were wondering, three days later my case for unemployment insurance was denied. I will not be receiving any sort of check weekly. Which is fine, I didn't expect to. I planned for this. However, if you have a job lead or want to buy a novel manuscript, let me know.
I did my imatch.com skills inquiry at home like the letter suggested, and a few days later headed down town.
It was a sunny day, and I decided to dress professionally so that people would not think I was a bum and couch potato who stayed at home all day watching episodes of Jersey Shore instead of looking for a job. Basically, this means I combed my hair and wore heels.
I had never been to the employment office before, and so Mapquested directions ahead of time. When I got to the right street, there was road construction, forcing me to park in a less than desirable location (meaning, I had to feed a meter). After I shoved my cookie quarters into the monster's mouth, I crossed the street via jaywalking. I like to live life on the edge. Instantly I noticed out of the corner of my eye a strange fellow smoking a cigarette and walking behind me. I kept up my stride, walking with purpose.
A millisecond later a tiny bug flew into my right eye. I blinked but it seemed to be stuck in there, like a contact with wings. I poked at my eye, which was difficult to do, because it was the same eye I was using to keep tabs on Mr. Suspicious. Because of this distraction, I missed the actual entrance to the employment office. I wasn't going to stop on the side walk and turn around, just to walk into all those nasty fumes with only one good eye, so what I did was keep walking. Meanwhile I had tears streaming down my face.
I turned a corner and commenced walking around the entire perimeter of the building. It's always a good idea to case a place before entering. That way you know where all the exits are, you know who is lurking around outside, and you notice which vehicles parked around have out of state plates. Because I am not girly enough to carry around a compact mirror, I sidled up next to a vacant pick up truck and used its side mirror to check my eye. I was pretty sure I was going to find a Pixar character from A Bug's Life in there.
After this adjustment, I completed my full 360 around the building and came once again to the main door. I waited in line for my turn, then told the receptionist my name and typed in my social security number.
Her eyes scanned the screen in front of her, reviewing my information. "It looks like you have everything in order," she began "EXCEPT...you still need to take the reading and math placement tests."
Surely you jest.
Was I trying to transfer high schools? Hadn't already been accepted to and completed college? I laughed nervously. "Oh, I didn't know I had to take a test today." Because I mean, I probably would have reviewed some geometry and algebra concepts if I had. I would have smuggled a calculator down my shirt sleeve. I would have practiced my analogies had I known I needed to perform. You know, headlights are to deer as testing is to Joelle.
I think "What if I just guess on this one? What if I just sit here for two hours and never finish?" For some reason, I usually have a two minute time frame where I think that there is no possible way I can go on. And then it passes and I usually get an A.
The receptionist gave me the laminated directions for logging in to the computer to take the tests. I noticed on the back side that it had all the conversion measurements and formulas for the math portion, which was good, because in my moment of panic I fully forgot that the area of a circle is pi R squared. And I really needed to figure out how big that rug was for question seven.
I took the reading test first and had to almost laugh. It was very office work centered. I had to read an e-mail memo and answer questions about what time was an event happening, or what division does Sally X work for, or what time did I need to ship a package if it needed to arrive by noon the next day.
Then I took the math test. It was almost fun. You had to score at least 80% on each test in order to level up, and I was excited each time the screen told me I had gotten 0 wrong on the previous test. Like a ten-year-old boy with his hands adhered to the video game controls, I wanted to reach the top level. While working out the problems and feeling clever, I started to miss high school. It was great having that satisfaction that I knew the answer. Nowadays, I'm being tested on different sorts of material, and I almost never know the answer. It's not as easy as pi R squared.
While testing, I did a lot of eavesdropping on the other people in the employment center. Some where taking tests, others were searching the computers for jobs, a few were meeting one-on-one with career counselors. It pained me to hear the old man talking on the phone. He was contacting unemployment, trying to file a claim, and kept telling the person on the other end that he's "not what you call tech savvy."
Another man was talking with a counselor about how he has three kids, and doesn't know if he should try to go back to school so he can learn more computer skills, or if he should continue looking for a job.
It sounded like a lot of the people around me felt stuck because of their low-level computer skills. When job postings are on-line and you have no idea how to work a browser, I can sympathize. It's a lot like me trying to use a jigsaw or install blinds in my windows.
After completing my test, I quit being such a snoop and read a few chapters from Lies That Chelsea Handler Told Me while I waited for my name to be called. I met with a career professional for about four minutes, showed official ID, then was out the door. My duty was done, the formality was complete, and I walked away realizing how blessed I am not to have any extra mouths to feed and to hold a college degree. Minus the fact that it resulted in three years of subsequent job stress and a resignation. But whatever. I'm past that.
And in case you were wondering, three days later my case for unemployment insurance was denied. I will not be receiving any sort of check weekly. Which is fine, I didn't expect to. I planned for this. However, if you have a job lead or want to buy a novel manuscript, let me know.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Business Launch Day!!!
I really wish I were a tech geek, but I'm not. Because I am currently unemployed, and always looking to practice new skills, I decided to fiddle around with website design in all my spare time. And TODAY IS LAUNCH DAY!
I created this super great business which is sort of a joke but mostly serious. If I make ten bucks off this site, that would fantastic. Because I really would LOVE to do any of the services offered on my new business. Everything is fun and they bring me joy.
You ready to go check it out? I present to you
I created this super great business which is sort of a joke but mostly serious. If I make ten bucks off this site, that would fantastic. Because I really would LOVE to do any of the services offered on my new business. Everything is fun and they bring me joy.
You ready to go check it out? I present to you
located at www.joellejeaninc.webs.com
Sunday, July 31, 2011
How I hate Captcha because it makes me feel like less of a person
I've never really worried that much about my physical abilities. There are, of course, some things I can or can't do, or do differently. For example, I require step stools and ladders for high places. However, I can shimmy up things that people at five-foot-seven may fear. My gymnastics training was not so much for athletic performance as it was for every day life navigation skills.
I am aware of my shortcomings, but there is something on-line that actually makes me feel physically disabled. It's called Captcha, and the name alone is enough to make you feel captured. A more appropriate name would be Gotcha. I hate Captcha. I understand that it is trying to prevent against spammers and all that, but it usually takes me three or four tries to correctly guess what secret letters I'm supposed to be viewing as a real-life person with a brain and not an internet auto-bot.
Next to those impossibly formed letters is a little wheelchair button, like people without legs can't view Captcha either, because the movement of your left calf is what controls your ability to see squished together words or not.
I think to myself "it would just be easier if I pushed the disabled button, instead of sitting here trying to guess what this says." But I don't click on it, because it would give my self-confidence a jolt to do so. I am not disabled. I am fully abled. But that is a lie. There are many things I am not able to do, and while I have perfect vision as confirmed by the eye doctor last May, I cannot see Captcha characters. It's something I just have to accept.
In case you were wondering what CAPTCHA stands for, it's "Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart." According to Wikipedia, which is now being used in public schools more often than text book references, A CAPTCHA is a means of automatically generating challenges which intends to:
I am aware of my shortcomings, but there is something on-line that actually makes me feel physically disabled. It's called Captcha, and the name alone is enough to make you feel captured. A more appropriate name would be Gotcha. I hate Captcha. I understand that it is trying to prevent against spammers and all that, but it usually takes me three or four tries to correctly guess what secret letters I'm supposed to be viewing as a real-life person with a brain and not an internet auto-bot.
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| If you can read these, leave the answers in the comment box. Winners will be notified via string and tin-can. |
 |
| Notice the insulting blue wheelchair. |
In case you were wondering what CAPTCHA stands for, it's "Completely Automated Public Turing test to tell Computers and Humans Apart." According to Wikipedia, which is now being used in public schools more often than text book references, A CAPTCHA is a means of automatically generating challenges which intends to:
- Provide a problem easy enough for all humans to solve. Way to make me feel stupid.
- Prevent standard automated software from filling out a form, unless it is specially designed to circumvent specific CAPTCHA systems.
Monday, July 25, 2011
CoffeeDateFilter.com
I have come up with the most brilliant business plan. I'm going to start a company called CoffeeDateFilter.com, and the tag line is going to be "where we do the filtering before you do the dating." Or maybe it will be "where we do the filtering before you take out the joe."
As you know, I no longer have a job, and this leaves me with a lot of time on my hands. I've been doing all sorts of world altering things like researching cancer and cleaning up beaches and reading Plato. But then, you know, there are times when I need to relax, and somehow I get sucked into cruising on-line dating sites.
I know what you're thinking. I'm desperate. I'm lonely. I'm trying to find a sugar daddy to pay all my upcoming bills. So not the case. I blame it all on Heidi, who forced me to create that Match.com profile which I promptly deleted the very next day. Searching dating profiles allows for the same sort of entertainment one might enjoy from reading the missed connection ads on Craigslist.
So let's just say I have been viewing profiles of various other on-line sites. And let's also say that it would be a complete waste of time for me to create a profile for a site that has this as one of their top candidates: Hey what's up! Haven't met anyone threw here yet but im not against it. Lets get to know eachother and see what comes of it! Message me if you want to learn more! Im outgoing, so feel free to hit up me.
This is what you must know about me: I am judgmental. Incredibly judgmental. If you do not use spell check, then I judge you. If you do not capitalize the letter i when writing, I judge you. Pushing the shift button is not that hard, people. If you can't use a period or if you over use them and just have ellipses...throughout...your entire profile...I judge you. I will let commas slide. Missed apostrophes on contractions is just plain lazy.
I judge the man who takes a photo of himself wearing a muscle tee in his bathroom mirror using his phone. I mean, at least be at the beach or something and make it look like you're not trying to show off your biceps. I judge the man who has Mickey Mouse wallpaper in the background. So what if it's not your room, why the hell are you in there?
I don't think I am the only woman in the world who forms opinions off of misspelled words and dumb pictures. I mean, men. Seriously. You are trying to attract a woman here. You should be trying to make your best impression. So maybe you've caught me spelling a word incorrectly here or there. Fine. Maybe you have seen some of the really stupid pictures I have on Facebook. Fair enough. I would just like to point out that that wasn't the first time you met me. If I were trying to score a coffee date with an utter stranger, I'd remove all those photos of me trying to drive/fly/row a cardboard box.
My new dating site, coffeedatefilter.com, will put all prospective users through a test, similar to the one I had to pass in fifth grade. Single men and women will have to use spell check to correct words, identify where punctuation goes, and capitalize letters that need it. Additionally, a 100 word essay will be required. I will personally read all essays, and anyone who doesn't pass this 5th grade level test will be denied a profile on my dating site. Any men with exceptional skills will also be denied a profile, as I will be contacting them directly with a marriage proposal. I get first dibs. If they reject me kindly, then maybe I'll let them join the site.
I really think this is a needed service. Some people actually want to date others who care enough to differentiate between there, their, and they're. Am I wrong? I don't think my detective skills are so advanced that only I can see through people's profiles like a freshly Windexed sheet of glass. Surely you can also clearly see that the man with five "casual" muscle poses is desperately hoping that you will focus more on his abs than on his lack of wit or abuse of the apostrophe.
What are your thoughts? Would you like to develop my website? Are you offended because I just described your on-line dating profile? Do you think I'm going to die a lonely old cat lady? Do you want to buy stock in my company?
As you know, I no longer have a job, and this leaves me with a lot of time on my hands. I've been doing all sorts of world altering things like researching cancer and cleaning up beaches and reading Plato. But then, you know, there are times when I need to relax, and somehow I get sucked into cruising on-line dating sites.
I know what you're thinking. I'm desperate. I'm lonely. I'm trying to find a sugar daddy to pay all my upcoming bills. So not the case. I blame it all on Heidi, who forced me to create that Match.com profile which I promptly deleted the very next day. Searching dating profiles allows for the same sort of entertainment one might enjoy from reading the missed connection ads on Craigslist.
So let's just say I have been viewing profiles of various other on-line sites. And let's also say that it would be a complete waste of time for me to create a profile for a site that has this as one of their top candidates: Hey what's up! Haven't met anyone threw here yet but im not against it. Lets get to know eachother and see what comes of it! Message me if you want to learn more! Im outgoing, so feel free to hit up me.
 |
| Do you know this guy? If you are a single lady, he could soon be yours. |
I judge the man who takes a photo of himself wearing a muscle tee in his bathroom mirror using his phone. I mean, at least be at the beach or something and make it look like you're not trying to show off your biceps. I judge the man who has Mickey Mouse wallpaper in the background. So what if it's not your room, why the hell are you in there?
 | ||
| This is the sort of photo I'm talking about. My lovely facial expression combined with my humble physique is what is really going to attract men. Profile picture, baby! |
 |
| Nothing beats the quality of a blurred camera picture. As Tyra would say "look fierce." |
 |
| This is not how you attract a date. Unless of course, you are hoping that they also drive a box car. |
I really think this is a needed service. Some people actually want to date others who care enough to differentiate between there, their, and they're. Am I wrong? I don't think my detective skills are so advanced that only I can see through people's profiles like a freshly Windexed sheet of glass. Surely you can also clearly see that the man with five "casual" muscle poses is desperately hoping that you will focus more on his abs than on his lack of wit or abuse of the apostrophe.
What are your thoughts? Would you like to develop my website? Are you offended because I just described your on-line dating profile? Do you think I'm going to die a lonely old cat lady? Do you want to buy stock in my company?
Friday, July 22, 2011
Grandma e-mail 101
My grandma is pretty hip. She's quite athletic and fashionable compared to both her peer group and my peer group. I kind of want her to get together with my friend Casey's Nana, because I hear that Nana wears glitter and spray on tanner. Her and my Gram would probably become best friends. Anyway, my Gram has a Wii and knows how to play it. I'm pretty sure she has an iPod. This is much advancement for someone who grew up without indoor plumbing. Despite her progress, sometimes my Gram still needs some technological assistance.
Two weeks ago I sent her some addresses to websites with printable coupons, because people in retirement need to watch their money so as to leave an inheritance for their favorite grand-kids. I sent her all the addresses and told her to copy and paste them into her search bar. I got this message in response:
Hey Joelle, Thanks for the coupon Info but where is my search bar?? is that like your contact address book???
This is teach Grandma e-mail 101 help!! lol.
Oh Gram, how I love you. I wrote her back and explained where to find the search bar, because I'm pretty sure there is not a search bar that lets you search for your search bar. It's kind of vital to web navigation. I also linked up all the addresses so all she had to do was click on the blue words.
Grammy, if you are reading this then I applaud you on your skills to find my blog site again, without an e-mail link. Can't wait to see you in August. : ) Love you!
Two weeks ago I sent her some addresses to websites with printable coupons, because people in retirement need to watch their money so as to leave an inheritance for their favorite grand-kids. I sent her all the addresses and told her to copy and paste them into her search bar. I got this message in response:
This is teach Grandma e-mail 101 help!! lol.
Oh Gram, how I love you. I wrote her back and explained where to find the search bar, because I'm pretty sure there is not a search bar that lets you search for your search bar. It's kind of vital to web navigation. I also linked up all the addresses so all she had to do was click on the blue words.
Grammy, if you are reading this then I applaud you on your skills to find my blog site again, without an e-mail link. Can't wait to see you in August. : ) Love you!
Sunday, May 15, 2011
how Pinterest is semi-exclusive (like Facebook used to be)
There's this completely stellar website called Pinterest that lets you make digital collage boards of things you love. The day my account was activated, I spent at least five hours on the site.
But first, an introduction that will probably seem unrelated but I swear it is.
Do you remember when Facebook used to be only for college students? You had to have a legit university email in order to get an account. It was exclusive. I think this helped keep the riff-raff off of Facebook. Everybody you were friends with had to be a college student. Now, it's not to say that there are not plenty of intelligent people who didn't go to college. There are many. They are making more money than me right now. But then, let's be honest, there are the not-so-smart people who didn't go to college, either. Because it does take a least a shred of intelligence, commitment, or parental over-bearance in order for a person to get into college. So Facebook helped keep out some of the morons. You know, the ones who send you 45 vampire requests a week? Or the ones who list Farmville as one of their hobbies on a resume?
Well, Pinterest is kind of like that. In order to have your own Pinterest account, you have to be invited. This fact alone makes you sound elite, discounting the fact that you can request an invitation from the Powers That Be.
I think it's pretty safe to say that a large majority of people who have Pinterest accounts are creative/artistic/aesthetically inclined. Because why would you have a pin board if didn't? I have pin boards because I love gazing at beautiful things (like your face), and I enjoy pinning photos of lovely spaces and clever ideas. I am a maker. So I believe that most people on Pinterest are makers too.
It's like men with mustaches. While it's true that there are some very upstanding or distinguished fellows have mustaches, it's also true that most criminals have mustaches. I would venture to say that most clean-shaven men are reputable, while nearly all shady people have mustaches. I mean, how many criminals have you seen printed in the paper who have mustaches? A lot. It's because these crooks think it makes a good disguise, because they can just shave it off after they rob the bank or whatever. I am not saying that most men with mustaches are sketchy. I am saying that a large percentage of dishonest men do indeed have mustaches. If you are a crook, chances are you have a 'stache.
Let's recap this post:
*Old, exclusive, college-only Facebook helped keep the riff-raff out.
*Most shady men have mustaches.
*People who have Pinterest accounts are creative and keep their eyes peeled for beauty.
And now, some lovely things for you to gaze at. I present to you the pin boards I have made via Pinterest. Click on that little red button to go there.
But first, an introduction that will probably seem unrelated but I swear it is.
Do you remember when Facebook used to be only for college students? You had to have a legit university email in order to get an account. It was exclusive. I think this helped keep the riff-raff off of Facebook. Everybody you were friends with had to be a college student. Now, it's not to say that there are not plenty of intelligent people who didn't go to college. There are many. They are making more money than me right now. But then, let's be honest, there are the not-so-smart people who didn't go to college, either. Because it does take a least a shred of intelligence, commitment, or parental over-bearance in order for a person to get into college. So Facebook helped keep out some of the morons. You know, the ones who send you 45 vampire requests a week? Or the ones who list Farmville as one of their hobbies on a resume?
Well, Pinterest is kind of like that. In order to have your own Pinterest account, you have to be invited. This fact alone makes you sound elite, discounting the fact that you can request an invitation from the Powers That Be.
I think it's pretty safe to say that a large majority of people who have Pinterest accounts are creative/artistic/aesthetically inclined. Because why would you have a pin board if didn't? I have pin boards because I love gazing at beautiful things (like your face), and I enjoy pinning photos of lovely spaces and clever ideas. I am a maker. So I believe that most people on Pinterest are makers too.
It's like men with mustaches. While it's true that there are some very upstanding or distinguished fellows have mustaches, it's also true that most criminals have mustaches. I would venture to say that most clean-shaven men are reputable, while nearly all shady people have mustaches. I mean, how many criminals have you seen printed in the paper who have mustaches? A lot. It's because these crooks think it makes a good disguise, because they can just shave it off after they rob the bank or whatever. I am not saying that most men with mustaches are sketchy. I am saying that a large percentage of dishonest men do indeed have mustaches. If you are a crook, chances are you have a 'stache.
Let's recap this post:
*Old, exclusive, college-only Facebook helped keep the riff-raff out.
*Most shady men have mustaches.
*People who have Pinterest accounts are creative and keep their eyes peeled for beauty.
And now, some lovely things for you to gaze at. I present to you the pin boards I have made via Pinterest. Click on that little red button to go there.
Saturday, May 7, 2011
lack of sleep = discovery of Picasa
I am awake at 6:15 on a Saturday morning. I can't even wake up at that time during the week, so how's it possible I am unable to sleep on the ONE DAY I am allowed to sleep in? It's because I did not take my little blue pill. Yes, I, Joelle Jean, have a sleep problem. It started in October last year, just after the stress of my job drove me over the edge. I thought it was all mental, and the reason that I didn't sleep is because I thought I couldn't sleep. Mostly it was because I had a lot on my mind.
So last night I'm all, "It's Saturday tomorrow, I can sleep in till one if I want, my brain's gonna know this and I will sleep like a hundred year old log in a petrified forest." WRONG. Because you know what my brain thought instead at 6:00am? It thought "Oh crap, I've gotta go to work in a few hours." When my consciousness kicked in, I remembered it was Saturday. This did not help. I refused to get out of bed for a while, then figured I should just start my day, make myself tired, and crash at 1:30 in the afternoon for a nap. Hence, I am blogging in the early hours of a Saturday.
Friends, I have to tell you, I have BEEN A MORON! This post is going all cap happy on you, but it's probably just because I only slept for five hours last night. I have finally discovered the glory that is Google's Picasa web albums. Oh. My. Word. Why did no one stress to me the ease of such a thing? I knew about Picasa. I just never checked it out. Moron. Basically, I should just accept the fact that everything on Google is extremely useful. This year I finally started using Google Docs (great for documents I want to work on at work and at home), Google Reader (so I only check the blogs that have new content on them), and Google Calendar (come on Joelle, really?).
Let me tell you about Picasa, in case you have been living in the dark closet of naivety like I have. I've only explored Picasa fifteen minutes ago, but I very quickly found the geniusness in it. Let me list the ways.
1. It's free.
2. It's linked to your Google account.
3. It is super easy to find and upload pictures that are already on your computer.
4. It's speedy quick like a jack rabbit.
5. It's directly linked to Picnik, which is my favorite way to edit the crappy photos I take.
6. You can send your pictures directly to Walgreens (or another place) to get printed. In like, four seconds.
7. A monkey could use it. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if some chimps living in the New York Zoo have been utilizing Picasa for the past year or whatever, to organize all the photos they take of tourists who act like morons.
I very rarely take photos, because I am not good at it in any way, but every now and then I like to print out the memories on some glossy 5 X 7 paper and stick it behind a window of glass. In my previous life before Picasa, this is all the dumb stuff I had to do in order to get a good picture printed:
1. Upload a photo, one by one, onto Picnik to edit it. Because like I said, I am a crappy photographer. I know I can somewhat fix this by tweaking the lighting and whatnot on Picnik.
2. Save the edited photo from Picnik onto my computer.
3. Upload that photo into an album on Walgreen's photo site.
4. Select the album to be printed from Walgreen's.
5. Order prints, wait an hour or two, then drive five blocks to pick them up.
Now I can eliminate some steps. Life just keeps getting easier. Thank you, Picasa. Sorry I have been ignoring you for so long.
So last night I'm all, "It's Saturday tomorrow, I can sleep in till one if I want, my brain's gonna know this and I will sleep like a hundred year old log in a petrified forest." WRONG. Because you know what my brain thought instead at 6:00am? It thought "Oh crap, I've gotta go to work in a few hours." When my consciousness kicked in, I remembered it was Saturday. This did not help. I refused to get out of bed for a while, then figured I should just start my day, make myself tired, and crash at 1:30 in the afternoon for a nap. Hence, I am blogging in the early hours of a Saturday.
Friends, I have to tell you, I have BEEN A MORON! This post is going all cap happy on you, but it's probably just because I only slept for five hours last night. I have finally discovered the glory that is Google's Picasa web albums. Oh. My. Word. Why did no one stress to me the ease of such a thing? I knew about Picasa. I just never checked it out. Moron. Basically, I should just accept the fact that everything on Google is extremely useful. This year I finally started using Google Docs (great for documents I want to work on at work and at home), Google Reader (so I only check the blogs that have new content on them), and Google Calendar (come on Joelle, really?).
Let me tell you about Picasa, in case you have been living in the dark closet of naivety like I have. I've only explored Picasa fifteen minutes ago, but I very quickly found the geniusness in it. Let me list the ways.
1. It's free.
2. It's linked to your Google account.
3. It is super easy to find and upload pictures that are already on your computer.
4. It's speedy quick like a jack rabbit.
5. It's directly linked to Picnik, which is my favorite way to edit the crappy photos I take.
6. You can send your pictures directly to Walgreens (or another place) to get printed. In like, four seconds.
7. A monkey could use it. In fact, I wouldn't be surprised if some chimps living in the New York Zoo have been utilizing Picasa for the past year or whatever, to organize all the photos they take of tourists who act like morons.
I very rarely take photos, because I am not good at it in any way, but every now and then I like to print out the memories on some glossy 5 X 7 paper and stick it behind a window of glass. In my previous life before Picasa, this is all the dumb stuff I had to do in order to get a good picture printed:
1. Upload a photo, one by one, onto Picnik to edit it. Because like I said, I am a crappy photographer. I know I can somewhat fix this by tweaking the lighting and whatnot on Picnik.
2. Save the edited photo from Picnik onto my computer.
3. Upload that photo into an album on Walgreen's photo site.
4. Select the album to be printed from Walgreen's.
5. Order prints, wait an hour or two, then drive five blocks to pick them up.
Now I can eliminate some steps. Life just keeps getting easier. Thank you, Picasa. Sorry I have been ignoring you for so long.
Sunday, February 6, 2011
In defense of Twitter
So when Twitter started, I thought it was pretty dumb. But I read a lot of blogs, including the blogs of my favorite published authors, and they all had Twitter. Some days they wouldn't post any new blog content, but they were so clever and witty and utterly fascinating that I wanted to know what they were up to. Thus, I made a Twitter account just so I could keep track of them.
The difference between Facebook status updates and Twitter is, if you sign up to follow someone on Twitter, you are admitting that you actually think it's interesting what they do throughout their boring day. On Facebook, people's lame status updates just plague you, and you can't really control it. I feel like you can't really criticize Twitter, because if you think someone's posts are lame, you just don't follow them. Don't have a Twitter account.
While mentioning Facebook and lame status updates, I would like to make a short tangent on the topic of "vague-booking." This is a term I heard my clever friend, Leslie, use last Thursday. Vague-booking is when you post really vague or cryptic status updates, such as "My heart hurts so bad. When will this be over?" Because you are aching to tell us you just broke up with your boyfriend. Or someone might say "Only 476 days left until my life changes!" Okay, so what is happening? Might as well tell us. Do us a favor and stop the vague-booking.
Back to the Twitter subject.
I follow a total of 26 people on Twitter, most of whom are my favorite published authors or bloggers. I follow a few musicians so I know when they are doing new songs or whatever, and that's it. I do not understand the people who follow like, 689 people. Like you actually are reading what they write. The people who follow a thousand people just want a thousand people to follow them.
At first I would only read other people's Twitter updates. But then I started tweeting a bit myself. You know, like a little blue bird. I figured, if anybody is actually following me, hey, they signed up for this. It's not like I'm annoying you on your Facebook News Feed every five hours.
I then put my Twitter feed on the side bar of my blog, so that way on the days I am too lazy/busy to post, I can say something on Twitter. Because everyone has that one stalker reader who is dying to know what is happening, so I had to feed them something. I mean, that was the whole reason I joined Twitter. I couldn't get enough of my favorite clever authors. So maybe there is some reader out there who is just utterly fascinated with my daily happenings. If you don't care, then just skip over the side bar. I do sometimes.
This is basically my lead in to tell you that I may start using Twitter a lot more. I finally caved to the technological communication of this world and added a texting plan to my cell phone. Then I figured out how to send Twitter updates from my phone. Now when I'm someplace without a computer and internet, I can let you know what is happening. I am sure you are just dying to find out everything. My first mobile tweet was done in the waiting "relaxation" room before I got my massage on Friday. The lights were all dim and nature sounds were playing, but all I could think about was how I didn't want to forget that Drew told me about how he watches Jersey Shore and Snooki was really drunk on last night's episode or whatever. I think it's terrible that a 4th grader watches Jersey Shore. But it's also 1% funny. Anyway, as I am texting in the relaxation room, I start to think about Sophie Kinsella's character from Undomestic Goddess, and how she's so obsessed with work that she sneaks her Blackberry with her under the sheets when she's at the spa. But the masseuse will have none of it.
I don't take my phone with me to the massage table. I'm not that Twitter dependent.
The difference between Facebook status updates and Twitter is, if you sign up to follow someone on Twitter, you are admitting that you actually think it's interesting what they do throughout their boring day. On Facebook, people's lame status updates just plague you, and you can't really control it. I feel like you can't really criticize Twitter, because if you think someone's posts are lame, you just don't follow them. Don't have a Twitter account.
While mentioning Facebook and lame status updates, I would like to make a short tangent on the topic of "vague-booking." This is a term I heard my clever friend, Leslie, use last Thursday. Vague-booking is when you post really vague or cryptic status updates, such as "My heart hurts so bad. When will this be over?" Because you are aching to tell us you just broke up with your boyfriend. Or someone might say "Only 476 days left until my life changes!" Okay, so what is happening? Might as well tell us. Do us a favor and stop the vague-booking.
Back to the Twitter subject.
I follow a total of 26 people on Twitter, most of whom are my favorite published authors or bloggers. I follow a few musicians so I know when they are doing new songs or whatever, and that's it. I do not understand the people who follow like, 689 people. Like you actually are reading what they write. The people who follow a thousand people just want a thousand people to follow them.
At first I would only read other people's Twitter updates. But then I started tweeting a bit myself. You know, like a little blue bird. I figured, if anybody is actually following me, hey, they signed up for this. It's not like I'm annoying you on your Facebook News Feed every five hours.
I then put my Twitter feed on the side bar of my blog, so that way on the days I am too lazy/busy to post, I can say something on Twitter. Because everyone has that one stalker reader who is dying to know what is happening, so I had to feed them something. I mean, that was the whole reason I joined Twitter. I couldn't get enough of my favorite clever authors. So maybe there is some reader out there who is just utterly fascinated with my daily happenings. If you don't care, then just skip over the side bar. I do sometimes.
This is basically my lead in to tell you that I may start using Twitter a lot more. I finally caved to the technological communication of this world and added a texting plan to my cell phone. Then I figured out how to send Twitter updates from my phone. Now when I'm someplace without a computer and internet, I can let you know what is happening. I am sure you are just dying to find out everything. My first mobile tweet was done in the waiting "relaxation" room before I got my massage on Friday. The lights were all dim and nature sounds were playing, but all I could think about was how I didn't want to forget that Drew told me about how he watches Jersey Shore and Snooki was really drunk on last night's episode or whatever. I think it's terrible that a 4th grader watches Jersey Shore. But it's also 1% funny. Anyway, as I am texting in the relaxation room, I start to think about Sophie Kinsella's character from Undomestic Goddess, and how she's so obsessed with work that she sneaks her Blackberry with her under the sheets when she's at the spa. But the masseuse will have none of it.
I don't take my phone with me to the massage table. I'm not that Twitter dependent.
Saturday, January 15, 2011
An Easier Life
I have exactly 49 blogs that I read, and I finally made things easier for myself and subscribed to them via Google Reader. Now I know how many posts behind I am. But there are 7 days in a week, so if I read 7 different blogs a day, I hit them all by the end of the week.
I also finally got an account on Grooveshark.com so I can listen to some selected sweet tunes for free, but I admit I still need to mess around with it a bit to see how to use all the features. I added like 93 songs to my library, but for some reason I keep listening to the same 7. My playlist needs some help.
I know Google calendar has been around for a while, but I finally started using it regularly in December. I have one calendar for all my work stuff and one calendar for all my personal stuff. I've been better at doing things on time because of it.
And I've mentioned this before, but I still love teuxdeux.com. It automatically carries your procrastination over to the next day, so you can't get out of doing all the things on your list.
Are there any on-line techniques that you love that make things easier for you?
I also finally got an account on Grooveshark.com so I can listen to some selected sweet tunes for free, but I admit I still need to mess around with it a bit to see how to use all the features. I added like 93 songs to my library, but for some reason I keep listening to the same 7. My playlist needs some help.
I know Google calendar has been around for a while, but I finally started using it regularly in December. I have one calendar for all my work stuff and one calendar for all my personal stuff. I've been better at doing things on time because of it.
And I've mentioned this before, but I still love teuxdeux.com. It automatically carries your procrastination over to the next day, so you can't get out of doing all the things on your list.
Are there any on-line techniques that you love that make things easier for you?
Thursday, December 30, 2010
Scandalous winking emoticon
Every once in a while I think about the inappropriateness that is the winking emoticon. You know, this guy ; ) Who knew a semi-colon could be so forward? I mean, e-mail this message to a co-worker:
and it seems totally legit. Like maybe you need to crunch some numbers or come up with a strategic plan. Or maybe even gossip about the boss.
But send this e-mail:
and I feel the message changes entirely. Like maybe that one-eyed smiley face is checking you out. Or it stole a private moment from you. That's the thing with winks. They're non-consensual. Someone winks at you, and you start to feel all these feelings or start to think new thoughts. Consider hugs or kisses or pats on the knee. You allow all of these with the proximity of your body. But not a wink. Someone can do that from across the room.
Real life winks cause delusions. I once had a person who winked at me frequently, and I came to believe they loved me or something. I was sorely mistaken. Just think of what emoticon winks might cause. ; ) That face stares at you forever. You start to over analyze it. Because why didn't they just use the smiley face? = ) or : ) Surely that could have conveyed the emotion the author of the e-mail was trying to express. But no. They chose a wink. Which means something entirely different.
We need to get together sometime.
and it seems totally legit. Like maybe you need to crunch some numbers or come up with a strategic plan. Or maybe even gossip about the boss.
But send this e-mail:
We need to get together sometime ; )
and I feel the message changes entirely. Like maybe that one-eyed smiley face is checking you out. Or it stole a private moment from you. That's the thing with winks. They're non-consensual. Someone winks at you, and you start to feel all these feelings or start to think new thoughts. Consider hugs or kisses or pats on the knee. You allow all of these with the proximity of your body. But not a wink. Someone can do that from across the room.
Real life winks cause delusions. I once had a person who winked at me frequently, and I came to believe they loved me or something. I was sorely mistaken. Just think of what emoticon winks might cause. ; ) That face stares at you forever. You start to over analyze it. Because why didn't they just use the smiley face? = ) or : ) Surely that could have conveyed the emotion the author of the e-mail was trying to express. But no. They chose a wink. Which means something entirely different.
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Paper Facebook
Last week I had to confiscate a laptop from one of my 4th graders. It was distracting her. What was she doing in class instead of reading? Facebooking. This is what her self-made computer looked like. Notice she didn't X out fast enough before I caught her. That button must be stuck.
What you need to do is click on the image so you can view it in full size. This piece of paper was folded in half so that the screen was standing up and the keyboard was flat on the desk. These are the things you might notice:
She's on Facebook, of course, but her other open tab is YouTube.
She's listening to You Ain't Gonna Tie Me Down.
She looks a bit disgruntled in her profile picture.
She has 8 friends.
Her status is "I'm so bored," but I stole her computer before she could click share.
The friends who showed up in her news feed were Kelley and Melissa.
Two friends are online.
She's Facebook chatting with Marsha. The conversation reads:
hi.
hi.
what are you doing.
nothing, why.
just asking.
oh
Now let's take a look at her innovative keyboard. It has the numbers across the top, of course, along with Bakespace, which is a lot like backspace, except that you bake tasty cupcakes when you push it.
She has a non-qwerty standard keyboard. Instead, the keys are in alphabetical order.
There are arrow navigation keys.
My verdict? Facebook has its grips on even our youngest youth. They're thinking about it even when they aren't near a computer.
She's on Facebook, of course, but her other open tab is YouTube.
She's listening to You Ain't Gonna Tie Me Down.
She looks a bit disgruntled in her profile picture.
She has 8 friends.
Her status is "I'm so bored," but I stole her computer before she could click share.
The friends who showed up in her news feed were Kelley and Melissa.
Two friends are online.
She's Facebook chatting with Marsha. The conversation reads:
hi.
hi.
what are you doing.
nothing, why.
just asking.
oh
Now let's take a look at her innovative keyboard. It has the numbers across the top, of course, along with Bakespace, which is a lot like backspace, except that you bake tasty cupcakes when you push it.
She has a non-qwerty standard keyboard. Instead, the keys are in alphabetical order.
There are arrow navigation keys.
My verdict? Facebook has its grips on even our youngest youth. They're thinking about it even when they aren't near a computer.
Friday, November 5, 2010
An Audacious Read-Along
So I am totally digging the audio recorder and editor that is Audacity. I downloaded it for free, so it might have a virus that I don't know about or something and it will ruin my computer very soon so I should probably back up all my files, but thus far I've been having a really fun time recording myself and changing my voice to be lower or higher in pitch (sounds super strange). I can also create echos, or make myself sound like a chipmunk, or I can reverse the audio so I sound super freaky like I speak in tongues or something.
The whole reason I got Audacity was so I could record books for my students onto CDs. I haven't recorded any books for them yet, but I have been practicing. Here is my first read-along. It goes with the post I wrote awhile ago called "A True High School Story." What you need to do is push the cute little play button and listen as you follow along with the text. As I tell my students, when you are listening and watching the words, you are practicing your one-to-one correspondence, visual tracking skills, and you are listening to modeled fluency and expression. So enjoy.
A True High School Story
I'm fifteen years old, a sophomore in high school, sitting in 4th period biology class. I sit in the center, third desk back, far enough away that Mr. Flemming's* spit can't reach my face. Mr. Flemming always spits when he talks. And he talks a lot, mostly about living creatures and cells and spinal cords, because duh, it's biology and not ceramics, which you'd think is easy but everyone I knew who took it all got Cs. Mr. Flemming does another thing a lot. He pits out. Every day. He wears these long sleeved striped or plaid printed shirts in neutral tones, and everyday I watch as his pits turn yellow. It's really disgusting and can't be helped, on account of how much arm waving he does, like when he sings the Cell Bugaloo. For someone who knows so much about how living things grow and develop, you'd think he'd know more about perspiration.
One thing he does that drives me insane is say "when you run down the basket ball field" or "when you are on the football court." And I'm not even an athlete. I bet it drives the football players in our class mad. I can visualize the steam coming from Parker's ears. Even though Mr. Flemming is kind of gross in an awkward biology teacher sort of way, I like his class. I like his class for two reasons.
Reason #1: He grades on a curve. And okay, not to brag or anything, but I set the curve. It's really the only thing I'm good at. I'm not a soccer girl, or an ASB girl, and I don't get cast very often in plays even though I try out, but I totally set the curve in biology. People always get mad because usually I get 99% or something, and that doesn't help them out much if they haven't studied, but I don't let them know I set the curve. I keep all my tests private and don't brag about it to anybody. But they found out it was me by February. They're like "who is 002646 and why do they always score so high?" By process of elimination, they found out it was me.
Reason #2 why I like biology: Jake* is in my class. I've had a crush on Jake since freshman year. He's got these gorgeous cerulean eyes and a good sense of humor. Right now he sits behind me in class. Having the guy you like sit behind you in class is not nearly as good as having him sit in front of you, and here's why. When Jake sits behind me, I have to think about if he's watching me chew on my pencil or if my butt crack is showing even though I am fully wearing underwear and have tucked in my shirt, and I get really self-conscious. When Jake is sitting in front of me, then I can stare at the back of his ears and watch him instead.
Jake's nice, but I am fairly certain he is using me. He asks me for answers on worksheets, and he thinks I'll know because I set the curve and everything, but here's the thing of it: I can't do my homework in class. There is no way I can concentrate with him there, staring at me, waiting for an answer. I have to think about these things.
So there I am, Tuesday morning, right before lunch. Mr. Flemming has given us some dumb worksheet, and we have seven minutes to start it before class gets out. The class is quiet, and then Jake whispers to me "hey Joelle, what did you get for number five?" I look down at my paper, and by some miracle I actually have the answer already, even though I have a Greek god sitting behind me and can barely concentrate. Without looking at Jake, I lean back to whisper my response, only, he had been leaning forward and I didn't know it so we accidentally bump heads. Of course it becomes the most exhilarating moment of my life since last year when Jake and I had English together and he complimented my poem on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
My mouth turns dry but somehow I manage to say "I think it's arthropods." Which you know, is really romantic. And that's it really.
Jake says "Oh hey, that's what I was thinking?" Was he? And two minutes later the bell rings for lunch.
The next day I'm sitting in class trying to shield my eyes from Mr. Flemmings stained pits when I start to day dream about if we had an armed intruder drill. There's this tiny back room, more of a closet really, and in the first week of school Mr. Flemming told us that if there is an armed intruder drill, we are all supposed to smash into the supply closet, because our classroom has so many windows and we could be machine-gunned down. It doesn't seem like an entirely safe bet, that back room, considering that is where the formaldehyde drenched dead cats are (in the freezer, but still).
Pretty soon my mind starts to wander more, and I think, what if it's not a drill, what if it's real? What if we have to be crammed in that closet for two hours or something while the police try to catch the psycho, and I am in there squished next to Jake? Or maybe there are bullets and Jake shields me from them. Or maybe we'll be so crammed in that closet that I'll have to like, press myself into his chest so my leg doesn't get shot to smithereens or something. Or maybe Jake gets shot and I have to apply pressure with gauze. Mr. Flemming is probably talking about mitosis or blastocytes or whatever, and I'm wishing that one of the drama kids would lose his marbles and come seeking revenge so that I could be stuck inside the supply closet with Jake. Well, Jake and the 27 other kids in class. Plus Mr. Flemming. With my luck, in all the chaos I would get squished next to Mr. Flemming, nose right in those sweaty pits of his. For two hours. I shake the image from my head, try to snap back to reality.
There I am, fifteen years old. Wearing a retainer because I just got my braces off, sitting in biology class with a boy I ache to be friends with, and I can't do anything. I can't flutter my eyelashes, or say something witty, or impress him with soccer skills, or talk about snowboarding or anything, because all I can do is one thing. I can set the curve.
*names have been changed for my protection, not theirs.
The whole reason I got Audacity was so I could record books for my students onto CDs. I haven't recorded any books for them yet, but I have been practicing. Here is my first read-along. It goes with the post I wrote awhile ago called "A True High School Story." What you need to do is push the cute little play button and listen as you follow along with the text. As I tell my students, when you are listening and watching the words, you are practicing your one-to-one correspondence, visual tracking skills, and you are listening to modeled fluency and expression. So enjoy.
A True High School Story
I'm fifteen years old, a sophomore in high school, sitting in 4th period biology class. I sit in the center, third desk back, far enough away that Mr. Flemming's* spit can't reach my face. Mr. Flemming always spits when he talks. And he talks a lot, mostly about living creatures and cells and spinal cords, because duh, it's biology and not ceramics, which you'd think is easy but everyone I knew who took it all got Cs. Mr. Flemming does another thing a lot. He pits out. Every day. He wears these long sleeved striped or plaid printed shirts in neutral tones, and everyday I watch as his pits turn yellow. It's really disgusting and can't be helped, on account of how much arm waving he does, like when he sings the Cell Bugaloo. For someone who knows so much about how living things grow and develop, you'd think he'd know more about perspiration.
One thing he does that drives me insane is say "when you run down the basket ball field" or "when you are on the football court." And I'm not even an athlete. I bet it drives the football players in our class mad. I can visualize the steam coming from Parker's ears. Even though Mr. Flemming is kind of gross in an awkward biology teacher sort of way, I like his class. I like his class for two reasons.
Reason #1: He grades on a curve. And okay, not to brag or anything, but I set the curve. It's really the only thing I'm good at. I'm not a soccer girl, or an ASB girl, and I don't get cast very often in plays even though I try out, but I totally set the curve in biology. People always get mad because usually I get 99% or something, and that doesn't help them out much if they haven't studied, but I don't let them know I set the curve. I keep all my tests private and don't brag about it to anybody. But they found out it was me by February. They're like "who is 002646 and why do they always score so high?" By process of elimination, they found out it was me.
Reason #2 why I like biology: Jake* is in my class. I've had a crush on Jake since freshman year. He's got these gorgeous cerulean eyes and a good sense of humor. Right now he sits behind me in class. Having the guy you like sit behind you in class is not nearly as good as having him sit in front of you, and here's why. When Jake sits behind me, I have to think about if he's watching me chew on my pencil or if my butt crack is showing even though I am fully wearing underwear and have tucked in my shirt, and I get really self-conscious. When Jake is sitting in front of me, then I can stare at the back of his ears and watch him instead.
Jake's nice, but I am fairly certain he is using me. He asks me for answers on worksheets, and he thinks I'll know because I set the curve and everything, but here's the thing of it: I can't do my homework in class. There is no way I can concentrate with him there, staring at me, waiting for an answer. I have to think about these things.
So there I am, Tuesday morning, right before lunch. Mr. Flemming has given us some dumb worksheet, and we have seven minutes to start it before class gets out. The class is quiet, and then Jake whispers to me "hey Joelle, what did you get for number five?" I look down at my paper, and by some miracle I actually have the answer already, even though I have a Greek god sitting behind me and can barely concentrate. Without looking at Jake, I lean back to whisper my response, only, he had been leaning forward and I didn't know it so we accidentally bump heads. Of course it becomes the most exhilarating moment of my life since last year when Jake and I had English together and he complimented my poem on peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
My mouth turns dry but somehow I manage to say "I think it's arthropods." Which you know, is really romantic. And that's it really.
Jake says "Oh hey, that's what I was thinking?" Was he? And two minutes later the bell rings for lunch.
The next day I'm sitting in class trying to shield my eyes from Mr. Flemmings stained pits when I start to day dream about if we had an armed intruder drill. There's this tiny back room, more of a closet really, and in the first week of school Mr. Flemming told us that if there is an armed intruder drill, we are all supposed to smash into the supply closet, because our classroom has so many windows and we could be machine-gunned down. It doesn't seem like an entirely safe bet, that back room, considering that is where the formaldehyde drenched dead cats are (in the freezer, but still).
Pretty soon my mind starts to wander more, and I think, what if it's not a drill, what if it's real? What if we have to be crammed in that closet for two hours or something while the police try to catch the psycho, and I am in there squished next to Jake? Or maybe there are bullets and Jake shields me from them. Or maybe we'll be so crammed in that closet that I'll have to like, press myself into his chest so my leg doesn't get shot to smithereens or something. Or maybe Jake gets shot and I have to apply pressure with gauze. Mr. Flemming is probably talking about mitosis or blastocytes or whatever, and I'm wishing that one of the drama kids would lose his marbles and come seeking revenge so that I could be stuck inside the supply closet with Jake. Well, Jake and the 27 other kids in class. Plus Mr. Flemming. With my luck, in all the chaos I would get squished next to Mr. Flemming, nose right in those sweaty pits of his. For two hours. I shake the image from my head, try to snap back to reality.
There I am, fifteen years old. Wearing a retainer because I just got my braces off, sitting in biology class with a boy I ache to be friends with, and I can't do anything. I can't flutter my eyelashes, or say something witty, or impress him with soccer skills, or talk about snowboarding or anything, because all I can do is one thing. I can set the curve.
*names have been changed for my protection, not theirs.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
My arm got amputated due to a virus
Holy. Mother. Of Moses. (Only Moses' mother wasn't holy). My POS computer is seriously pissing me off. I would have posted a new blog everyday since Monday with a word count of at least 800, because I had a lot to say, only I couldn't because my computer caught a virus and I had to WIPE MY HARDRIVE. And then after I wiped my hardrive I had to reload Windows, only after it loaded, something freaky happened and after I turned my computer off it wouldn't start again due to an internal error in System 32. I effing hate System 32. I don't know what it does but I seriously mother effing hate it (sorry, I'll try to calm down).
When I first got the virus I put it into quarantine in Sophos (which did not help), and then I tried to clean it. Sophos was all "part of it has been deleted, but in order to fully remove the virus you need to restart your computer." So I did. After that, Sophos was like "You are SOL, because you need to manually remove the virus because it is hidden in eight different locations in secret files on your computer." So I was like "great. Awesome. I totally know how to do that. NOT. So I called tech support, which was not supportive. The eight different locations of the virus was in System 32, which is basically just a bunch of jumbled letters. But when I got there, it told me that the files in System 32 were critical to the normal functioning of my computer. After that I gave up on cleaning my computer and figured I should just back up all my files before my whole computer screen turned red with splattered blood--you know how they do after you die in a computer game?
Anyway, I saved everything I could (but am still pissed about having to reload itunes and Ruckus--once I have a functioning computer), and called my cousin, who is super smart because he is an engineer--But not like a computer engineer, just a regular engineer. Everybody needs a computer geek friend. Everyone. Otherwise you are a total SOL. And you'll have to call the Geek Squad and cough up like 300 bucks.
In talking with my cousin, I asked him about virus protection. He said he doesn't use any. There are three things he does and he hasn't had a problem.
1) Do not use Internet Explorer as your web browser. Use Firefox.
2) Once you are on Firefox, google ad blocker plus and load that.
3) Do not look at porn.
I guess if you follow those three guidelines, you can surf the web safely and securely. If you have a problem with number three, then you should go to the Adult Shop that is by my sister's house because it offers secure rooms for private viewings. Not that I would know. I mean, I would, because it says so right on the billboard thingy and I drive past it two times every time I visit my sister. Now, she doesn't live right by the porn shop by any means. I don't want you to think that. But she's only five minutes away from it. Just say NO!
Any way, my computer has a fatal error and I hate it and I basically am going to have to buy a new one with all of the extra money I am making right now (NOT).
The only reason I am able to write this blog is because my sister was nice enough to loan me her laptop until Sunday. And I am an addict and need to watch Monday's episode of The Bachelor (Don't tell me what happened). Sorry if this blog was not at all interesting to you, but I had a story to tell. Maybe I'll post something more interesting tomorrow. I had all sorts of splendid ideas this week but lost them in the depths of my mind because I knew I couldn't write about them.
By the way, tonight is the third night I haven't brought any work home. But I almost took a personal day on Tuesday because I was so stressed about my computer. It's 7:42 and I need to eat dinner. And see if Jason will pick Melissa or Jillian (hopefully not Molly because I think she's kind of a snobby bitch).
When I first got the virus I put it into quarantine in Sophos (which did not help), and then I tried to clean it. Sophos was all "part of it has been deleted, but in order to fully remove the virus you need to restart your computer." So I did. After that, Sophos was like "You are SOL, because you need to manually remove the virus because it is hidden in eight different locations in secret files on your computer." So I was like "great. Awesome. I totally know how to do that. NOT. So I called tech support, which was not supportive. The eight different locations of the virus was in System 32, which is basically just a bunch of jumbled letters. But when I got there, it told me that the files in System 32 were critical to the normal functioning of my computer. After that I gave up on cleaning my computer and figured I should just back up all my files before my whole computer screen turned red with splattered blood--you know how they do after you die in a computer game?
Anyway, I saved everything I could (but am still pissed about having to reload itunes and Ruckus--once I have a functioning computer), and called my cousin, who is super smart because he is an engineer--But not like a computer engineer, just a regular engineer. Everybody needs a computer geek friend. Everyone. Otherwise you are a total SOL. And you'll have to call the Geek Squad and cough up like 300 bucks.
In talking with my cousin, I asked him about virus protection. He said he doesn't use any. There are three things he does and he hasn't had a problem.
1) Do not use Internet Explorer as your web browser. Use Firefox.
2) Once you are on Firefox, google ad blocker plus and load that.
3) Do not look at porn.
I guess if you follow those three guidelines, you can surf the web safely and securely. If you have a problem with number three, then you should go to the Adult Shop that is by my sister's house because it offers secure rooms for private viewings. Not that I would know. I mean, I would, because it says so right on the billboard thingy and I drive past it two times every time I visit my sister. Now, she doesn't live right by the porn shop by any means. I don't want you to think that. But she's only five minutes away from it. Just say NO!
Any way, my computer has a fatal error and I hate it and I basically am going to have to buy a new one with all of the extra money I am making right now (NOT).
The only reason I am able to write this blog is because my sister was nice enough to loan me her laptop until Sunday. And I am an addict and need to watch Monday's episode of The Bachelor (Don't tell me what happened). Sorry if this blog was not at all interesting to you, but I had a story to tell. Maybe I'll post something more interesting tomorrow. I had all sorts of splendid ideas this week but lost them in the depths of my mind because I knew I couldn't write about them.
By the way, tonight is the third night I haven't brought any work home. But I almost took a personal day on Tuesday because I was so stressed about my computer. It's 7:42 and I need to eat dinner. And see if Jason will pick Melissa or Jillian (hopefully not Molly because I think she's kind of a snobby bitch).
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