Month: July 2012

Free Rein

This is what fun looks like when you’re 9.

We’ve had a great vacation up at our home-away-from-home with our dear friends. And, after numerous activities that cost us more money than I’d care to admit, I asked the boys what part of our trip was their favorite. Turns out they had the most fun tonight. We were at the base of the Steamboat ski resort. They weren’t doing the ropes course or riding the gondola or taming the mechanical bull. They weren’t even necessarily enjoying the free concert we’d come to attend. They were simply running around like boys. In their shorts, t-shirts, and Crocs, they ran up and down the newly re-routed Burgess Creek that now flows along the base of the ski mountain just under the gondola in a kid-paradise sort of way.

Now that our boys are 9 and 11, along with greater responsibility we’re providing them with greater freedom. We’re trying not to be helicopter parents because we want to raise free-range children. So, when we got to the concert spot, we established our home base and let the kids start running around. We knew their feet would get wet, hence the choice of Crocs footwear. Of course, being boys, the first thing they managed to do was slip and get themselves completely soaked. This made them ridiculously happy. They didn’t seem to notice when the clouds rolled in. They did run back to eat some pizza and replace their wet shirts with their jackets to warm up a bit. But, then, they were off again.

We spent about four hours at our spot, during which the boys ran, floated their shoes in the creek, splashed each other, got chased by girls, threw frisbees, and jumped rocks. This free activity was the highlight of their trip. It was like the big box that the toy came in that turned out to be more entertaining than the toy itself. Sometimes we are so busy trying to give our children the experiences we think they should have that we forget to give them the experiences they need to have. It’s important for kids to explore by themselves, to run, to be free, to discover new things all while knowing they have a soft, safe place to land when they’re ready to return. When we hover, when we imagine the worst, we hinder their personal growth. Sometimes, in our attempts to protect them, we’re actually causing more harm than good.

I’m not going to lie. When the sun had set and our crazy kids were still splashing in the creek, soaked through in their cotton shorts, hubby did (jokingly, I hope) ask me if I thought they would be hypothermic by the time we recovered them. I did also pause momentarily to picture how easily one of them could slip, hit themselves on a rock, and require stitches. But these are not good enough reasons to stop a kid from experiencing the joys of being a kid. And, the best part of all is that the joys found in being a kid are usually free once we loosen the reins a bit.

Posted on by Me 2

Soapbox Alert: Mind Your Own Business

This afternoon we had to stop by the local Safeway to pick up a few last minute ingredients for tonight’s dinner. After we’d made our purchases, we went out to our car. It was 91 degrees here at 3 p.m. in Steamboat, so we rolled down the windows on the FJ, loaded ourselves and our purchases in our car, and cranked the air conditioning. Hubby put the car into reverse and just as we were about to back out of our parking spot, a gentleman in his mid-50s walked by the front of our car and yelled at us to turn it off. Presumably, he thought we were hanging out in our car with the engine idling, wasting gas and destroying the ozone layer. Clearly he had not seen us enter the vehicle not one minute before. Because he was at the front of our car, he was obviously not aware that our reverse lights were on. He did not know that we share his concern for the environment and that hubby parks his car at the light rail station so he can take public transportation into work in Denver five days a week. He simply judged us in our idling SUV without knowing what was going on.

I thought about this interaction for a couple hours after it happened. I was annoyed. I didn’t in the least like this man’s insinuation that we are planet wreckers. We recycle. We use cloth bags at the grocery store more often than not. We try to conserve water and energy. For heaven’s sake…we’ve been sleeping in the basement for weeks now because it allows us to keep our air conditioning set to 80 degrees all day. We may not be the most environmentally friendly family in America, but we do try. The more I reflected on it, though, the more I realized that what bothered me about this man’s comment was the fact that he thought he should comment in the first place. Who had died and made him the boss of how much time I’m allowed in my car before I drive off with my groceries?

I’m beginning to believe the basic problem with most Americans today is that we’ve lost the idea that individual freedoms apply to all individuals. Now, I am not currently a gun owner nor have I ever owned a gun. But, I do believe that all Americans are entitled to their rights, whether or not I agree with them. I would never go up to a gun owner (and, trust me, I know a lot of them) and tell them that their Second Amendment right to bear arms is wrong. It’s not my thing, but it doesn’t have to be. Just as they’re free to own a gun, I’m free not to. Even after the murders in the movie theater in my home state today, I still won’t speak out against gun ownership. It’s not my thing, but I don’t believe for one minute that removing gun ownership rights would have stopped this tragedy. Deranged individuals will find a way to harm others, legal gun rights or not.

I wish people would be a bit more tolerant and accepting of other people’s rights to live life their own way. If you don’t agree with how they’re living, fine. Keep it to yourself. If you’re not in favor of gay marriage, don’t marry a same sex partner. If you’re opposed to abortion, don’t have one. If you’re anti-gun, don’t carry one. If you’re not fond of fur, don’t throw paint on someone else’s coat. It doesn’t matter if you think someone is wrong or misguided for the things they think. You don’t have to agree with them. You just have to accept that they deserve the same common decency that you do, the freedom to live their life according to their own ideas.

We spend too much time playing judge and jury over the lives of others when what other people do is honestly none of our business. If we Americans would focus on our own lives, our own families, our own choices, and our own bodies, we’d probably get along a lot better. If we understood that our way might not be the only or best way, we might be able to solve some of the bigger problems in this country. Instead of yelling at someone because you believe they’re wrong, choose to be quiet. Accept that you don’t necessarily know what is best for someone else and mind your own business.

Posted on by Me 4

My Three Sons

My sopping wet middle child

After dinner at our favorite local spot in Steamboat, we decided to take a walk down by the Yampa River with our friends. The river is lower than usual this year due to a milder than usual winter, so when the boys decided they wanted to walk down to the bank and inspect it more closely we thought that would be fine. There wouldn’t be any kayakers or rafters going through. They ran around, threw a few rocks in, and then headed across the bridge to view the natural springs on the other side. When we came back to the river, Jessie and I told the boys to stay dry. Wading in a bit was fine but if we wanted to hit Fuzziwig’s Candy Factory on the way home they would need to be dry. With that warning out of the way, Jessie and I decided to run into the library for a couple minutes.

While in the library, we were discussing how the husbands had given us a hard time for suggesting that the boys stay dry. No matter what the situation, we always ended up being the bad guys.

“It’s summer vacation. It won’t hurt if they get wet,” Jeff said.

“I’m fine with them getting a bit wet,” Jessie replied. “I just don’t want them falling in and floating down river.”

“It’s cold,” I said, getting Jessie’s back. “And it’s a long walk back to the car in soaking wet clothes.”

“They’d be fine,” Steve said.

Men. They never think of the little details that go along with the big ones. Yes. The boys would have fun in the river splashing around. No. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if they fell in. We understood that. But, if they got soaked in the river, we would have cold, wet children. The sun was hidden behind rain clouds and the wind was picking up. We had at least a half mile walk back to where we parked the cars before dinner. And then, once we got there, we’d have wet boys, no towels, and therefore wet leather seats. It just wouldn’t be an optimal situation and, as moms, we’ve had our fair share of unpleasant situations so we work to avoid them where possible. Dads? Well, dads usually don’t think that way.

We were in the library for all of maybe 4 minutes total and as we walked back to the banks of the river, I could see Joe full on in the water. I’m not talking standing up and wet to his shins in the water. He was actually under the water up to his neck. The husbands were standing approximately four feet from the river, chatting it up like a couple old ladies. Were they kidding me? Jeff and Jessie’s boys were every bit as wet as Joe. Luke was the only one who had managed to stay dry.

“What happened here?” I asked.

Joe yelled up from the river. “Mom…we decided to get in.”

“So I see,” I replied. I tossed a sideways glare at hubby.

“Seriously? We were in there for less than five minutes. All we asked was that they stay mostly dry.”

“They’re fine,” he said.

“They’re going to get cold,” I said.

“It’s not a big deal,” he replied.

I rolled my eyes.

Now, to keep consistent with what I had said, I had to tell the boys we would not be going to the candy store. Luke was heartbroken because he had actually chosen to listen to us. (Have I mentioned that Luke is my favorite?) We dragged them out of the water and started walking back to the car. The boys tried to persuade us that they were dry enough to go into the candy store, but Jessie and I stayed resolute. Our husbands tried to convince us that since the boys were no longer dripping that it would be fine. It would have been fine, but that was not the point. We did not go into Fuzziwig’s. We walked back to our car and drove home and the boys got no dessert.

Sometimes I swear I don’t have two kids. I have three kids. The oldest one is the hardest to manage. He doesn’t listen. Ever.

 

Posted on by Me 2

Note To Self: Always Make Sure You’re Wearing The Right Shoes

Taking a spin with the boys

Tonight we went to a local Steamboat Springs park with the kids. This park has a merry-go-round. Remember merry-go-rounds? Those super fun, completely terrifying metal playground fixtures from our childhoods? I have always loved them. I like to spin. I love to get dizzy. Twirling on a tire swing until I can’t see straight makes me happy. Tilt-a-Whirl? My favorite amusement park ride. I will lay flat on my back in the center of the merry-go-round and watch the clouds rotate until I think I can’t stand it anymore. Then, when I get finally get off and fall over I will get right back on and do it again. I never get tired of it. My children, like their mother, love to spin, so to the park we went.

The four boys ran straight to the merry-go-round. The adults followed. Being the only one of the four adults who tolerates spinning, I hopped on with the boys. I smiled like crazy as the force of the movement tossed me around. I spun with the boys for several minutes before deciding it was my turn to push. I hopped off to give it the Old Mom Power-Up Push. I soon realized I was wearing the wrong shoes to be tearing around on wood chips, though, because when I went to jump on this time at Mom Warp Speed I slipped a bit and instead of jumping on I fell onto the unforgiving metal with my very soft left shin. It hurt, but I managed to pull myself onto the spinning base without falling off. I braced myself on one of the metal stands and checked out my leg. A raised bruise was already forming. Lovely. This is probably why you don’t find many merry-go-rounds in modern playgrounds. My friend had seen my fall and asked me if I was okay. I assured her I was as I sat back again, watched the clouds fly by, ignored the throbbing in my leg, and enjoyed the spin.

You would think that would have been enough injury to convince me that perhaps this 44 year old body should not be jumping onto merry-go-rounds…at least not in super cute but completely impractical merry-go-round-running sandals. You would be wrong. Did I mention that I love to spin? When the ride stopped, I hopped off again and offered to push. This time, I spun it in the other direction, as if that was what kept me from making the platform full on the first time. (Yes. I am blonde. And your point is?) This time, my right shin took the beating. My shoe got caught as I attempted to jump on and as my leg hit the platform it was dragged mercilessly across the coarse metal. I knew immediately and without looking that this was a worse injury than the last one. Once I was settled and could safely glance at my wound, I noticed an inch-long flap of skin had been pulled back, the white skin underneath was exposed and already beaded with blood. Crap. I hate it when that happens.

I stayed seated until the ride came to a full and complete stop, jumped off with resignation, and asked if we could head home so I could bandage up my wound, which was now full-on bleeding down my leg. Once home, I doctored myself up, took a couple Advil, plunked down on the couch, propped my legs up, and put some ice on the rapidly rising bruises on both shins. Hubby inspected the damage thoughtfully.

“It was the shoes,” I said. “I was wearing the wrong shoes. You just can’t run and jump on a revolving merry-go-round in cute sandals like those,” I told him, justifying my injuries.

He smiled at me and said nothing because he’s super smart that way.

Statistically speaking, the swings record the highest incidence of playground injury, 22% to only a paltry 1% for my pal the merry-go-round. I stand by the assertion that it was incorrect footwear that resulted in my bruised and battered shins and not user error, the inability of white women to jump, or old age. If life is about the ride, my ride is a spinning one. Next time I decide to jump on an already revolving merry-go-round, I’ll simply make sure I’m wearing more appropriate shoes. And maybe some shin guards.

 

 

Posted on by Me 6

Relaxing Is A Lot Of Hard Work

The place where I can breathe

Why is relaxing such hard work? We’re meeting some wonderful, lifelong friends arriving from Minnesota at the airport tomorrow morning before heading up to our home-away-from-home in Steamboat Springs. To get ready for five days in the mountains, I spent the majority of my day preparing for our trip. I was trapped in the hot, upper floor of our home, peering into closets, ironing clothes, folding laundry, and laying out outfits.

While packing, I spent a lot of time watching HGTV. This is one of my husband’s favorite channels. It is not mine. I hate the House Hunters who think they’re going to get granite counter tops and hardwood floors in 2800 square feet in an old but totally updated house in the big city for under $200k. The Million Dollar Rooms show makes me physically ill. Today I saw one house where the gentleman spent $7 million dollars on his swimming pool area, including a champagne-filled hot tub. Seriously? A hot tub of champagne? I don’t care how much money you’ve earned and saved. That kind of extravagance is unconscionable. My favorite (and I mean that in a tone dripping with sarcasm) is the overseas House Hunter editions where you get to see some spoiled Americans searching for their dream space in a foreign country and then being put out because most people in the world don’t have homes like we do in the United States. You know, they wanted a home in Colombia but why do all the homes in Colombia have to be so, well, Colombian? About the only good thing I can say about HGTV is that it’s nice to have on when you’re doing something else. What really sucks about HGTV, though, is when an episode I’ve already seen today re-airs after 5 hours. That means I’ve spent way too much time watching HGTV today.

Still…once I get beyond the mind-numbing television and the dreams I’ll be having tonight during my five hours of sleep about not forgetting Joe’s retainer in the packing process tomorrow morning (oh…and did I remember to feed the frogs?), I realize that none of what happened today or tonight or even in the morning on our way out of town will matter. By the time we’re on our deck tomorrow afternoon with Jeff and Jessie, having drinks and enjoying the view of Steamboat Springs while our four boys play together, it will all have been worth it. Even the time spent watching HGTV.

Posted on by Me 1

Sell Crazy Some Place Else

My write-in candidate

It’s 10:30 now, and I am finally sitting down with a few free minutes to do my blog post of the day. The reason for my late start tonight is that a crazy loon hijacked my free time this evening. I’d go into greater detail about this loon, but the loon is a family member and obviously there’s enough trouble in my family already without my blogging about it.

So, instead, I will offer just this little tidbit. I have been thinking lately about the upcoming presidential election. This is a big deal for me because, as a rule, I try not to pay too much attention to politics. Honestly, it just gives me a headache. It seems we take one step forward and then two steps back and we go nowhere. Nothing really changes. And, during an election year, people get all riled up about something that four years from now will reoccur in some sort of Groundhog Day scenario. I’d rather eat ice cream in the park and not think about it.

But, today, I was reading happily along on the Internet when I found an article about a candidate I could perhaps get behind in the next election. This candidate has been the mayor of Talkeetna, Alaska, for fifteen years. His name is Mayor Stubbs. I’m not surprised if you haven’t heard of him. You see, Mayor Stubbs is a cat. Fifteen years ago, when he was just a kitten, he was put on the mayoral ballot as a write-in candidate; and because this is Alaska, where apparently anyone can become mayor, he won. So far, Mayor Stubbs has done a wonderful job increasing tourism. He’s well-liked and folks in the small town feel he’s one of the best mayors they’ve ever had. No one seems to care that he’s missing his tail. It hasn’t affected his ability to perform his job. And, no one’s bothered him about his birth certificate either.

I think the fine residents of Talkeetna might just be onto something. Since Mayor Stubbs took office, there have been no scandals or mismanagement of funds. About the worst thing Mayor Stubbs can be accused of is taking a bit of the old catnip every afternoon at 4 p.m. Still, the town seems no worse for the wear under his leadership. I think he may have a better current record than either of the front runners in the next presidential election can claim. And, let’s face it, Mayor Tubbs comes cheap. I think we could afford a catnip stipend and perhaps balance the budget. If one of our allies needs to be won over, a purring cat might be the man for the job. If one of our enemies is acting like a wascally wabbit, Mayor Stubbs could claw their eyes out. It’s just crazy enough to work.

Okay. Okay. This is all a bit silly. You’re indulging me, and I deeply appreciate it. It is late. But, you know what? Mayor Stubbs made me smile today, and it’s been a while since any political figure has made me do that. Besides, with the evening I’ve had, I needed a good smile. In a country where our motto could easily be “Sell crazy some place else…we’re all stocked up here” (Jack Nicholson, As Good As It Gets), electing a cat might just offer the kind of radical change people seem to be looking for.

Posted on by Me 5

Lost And Found

Joe Cool

My eleven year old son forgets everything. His short-term memory ranges somewhere between “not great” and “abysmal.” This is mainly a symptom of his ADHD, the attention-deficit portion. The kid has returned home wearing just one shoe. No joke. One shoe. When asked where the other shoe was, he had no idea. Not one clue. He wasn’t even sure if he had left the house wearing two shoes. This makes life around our house very interesting. It’s a perpetual treasure hunt without the benefit of a map.

A couple years ago, Joe wore braces on his very wonky front teeth. When the braces finally came off his newly straightened teeth, they handed us a retainer for him to wear every night while he slept. I laughed out loud. Were they kidding me? The idea that he would remember to put the retainer in his mouth every night and then remember to take it out in the morning and store it in a small plastic case was optimistic bordering on insane. Still, we took the small piece of plastic and its silver case and left the orthodontist’s office. I shook my head all the way home.

Due to the ever-evolving state of Joe’s teeth, Joe’s retainer has had to evolve too. So, for the past two years, we have watched them whittle down his original, full upper-palate retainer until it fits just Joe’s four upper front teeth. This retainer, in addition to being completely clear and nearly invisible to begin with, is now microscopic. Consequently, we are in a continual game of hide-and-seek with it. We’ve had some fun, scavenger hunt nights in our house as we rooted around trying to find Joe’s retainer with our only clue to its whereabouts residing in Joe’s sketchy short-term memory. I’ve found his retainer on the floor under the boys’ bunk bed, on our bathroom counter, on a coffee table tray in the family room, in the couch cushions, on the dining room table, on the kitchen counter under a loaf of bread, and in a cup holder in my car. How we have managed to keep it around this long is nothing short of a Jesus-in-the-grilled-cheese-sandwich miracle.

Tonight, as bed time approached, we went through the familiar routine. We told him to brush his teeth and put his retainer in. When he bellowed downstairs that he didn’t know where it was, we told him to find it. He looked around upstairs and then came down to the main floor to rifle around. Wanting to get him to sleep sooner, we paused Breaking Bad on the DVR and joined the search party. We checked all the places we’ve previously found it. No retainer. Had he finally lost it for good? I asked him to go look upstairs one more time, and we went back to watching our show. A few minutes later, he yelled down again. We missed what he’d said.

“Did you find it?” I shouted upstairs.

“Yeah. Got it,” he replied.

“Where was it?” I shouted, always cataloging places it has traveled. Who knows? I might find it there again someday.

“It was in my mouth the whole day,” he said.

Hubby and I looked at each other. Oddly enough, we weren’t that shocked. That would, in Joe’s case, make as much sense as anything else. A few seconds later, he shouted down to us again.

“It wasn’t in my mouth. Just kidding. But, I did find it and it’s in my mouth now,” he told us, and he went back to playing video games.

Steve and I had a good laugh. It was the first time Joe had ever fooled us. He’d delivered that fallacious statement, so perfectly well-timed and with just the right amount of inflection, and we were none the wiser. Turns out the kid has a pretty dry sense of humor, sneaky and under-the-radar like a Jedi. Even as our son continues to lose everything else, we’re happy to see he’s finding his own sense of humor about it.

 

 

Posted on by Me 5

Legos: Just Like Herpes Only More Expensive

My fridge is having a Lego outbreak apparently.

Last week, I opened up the refrigerator, moved a jar of pickles, and found a Lego. A friggin’ Lego. IN MY FRIDGE. Is no place in my home immune to Legos? I questioned the males who cohabitate with me and not one of them had a clue as to how said Lego came to reside in the fridge. Apparently it grew legs and opposable thumbs, opened the door, and walked in there itself. Why not? It doesn’t seem out of the realm of possibility when you consider the insidious fashion in which Legos have infiltrated our home.

It’s honestly bad enough that I’ve come to think about Legos as a disease similar to herpes. (Yes. I know. I once referred to glitter as sparkly herpes. Apparently, a lot of things remind me of herpes.) But, Legos are just like herpes, only they’re more expensive. Explore this with me, please.

Children aren’t born with Legos. They catch Legos from a “friend” who shares them without full disclosure about how this one fun encounter will forever change your child’s life. This is when the primary infection starts. The next thing you know, the Legos begin to spread. Hundreds, perhaps thousands, of pieces of Danish plastic insinuate themselves into your home. This week, for example, in addition to the find in my refrigerator, I’ve found pieces in the living room, the family room, the dining room, the kitchen, the basement, in two of our three bathrooms, in my car, and on the front porch. The poor dog has ingested and subsequently yakked up two Lego pieces in five days. (I’m sure she’s pooped some out too, but I’m not going looking for those so my sons will just have to consider those a lost cause.) The other night, I got into bed, rolled over, and freaked out when I felt something on my leg. Turns out it was a Lego. Lego Jedi Shaak Ti was in my bed. I’m telling you, we’re in the midst of a full-on outbreak in our house.

Occasionally, the infection seems to dissipate because the virus goes dormant. The kids are outside more or become temporarily engrossed in other toys, like the Wii. I no longer find semi-permanent indentations in my bare feet from Lego pieces that have embedded themselves in my flesh. My house isn’t overflowing with Lego cities and vehicles and action characters. I start to think maybe we’re past this. Perhaps it was all simply a bad dream. Then, out of nowhere, there’s a recurrence. Crap.

In the three years since Luke contracted Legos, I’ve learned that there’s no sense denying them or pretending they don’t exist. This is a serious infection. It’s not going to go away miraculously and, quite unfortunately, there is no cure. All we can do is manage the disease. So, we try to do that. We’ve bought him two large plastic buckets to try to contain his thousands of pieces. We’ve talked to him about preventing the spread of Legos. We’ve cautioned other parents about the disease as well. We’re learning to live with it as best we can.

Yep. Legos are a lot like herpes. Perhaps the only difference I can see is that with herpes simplex the primary infection and all subsequent outbreaks come to you free of charge. These small, plastic Danish herpes are costly at the onset and for the entire future of the disease. If I could get back every dollar that has been spent on my son’s extensive Lego virus…um, I mean, collection…I’m certain I could have vacationed in Hawaii twice by now. I find it a bit ironic that if I’d only have gotten lei’d, perhaps none of this would have happened.

Posted on by Me 5

Underdog Would Have Wanted Me To Have This Sports Watch

The Bia Sports Watch I must have.  (Photo courtesy of Bia…www.bia-sport.com)

Yesterday, a triathlete friend of mine posted a link to a Kickstarter project she had decided to back. I was curious. I had only a vague knowledge about the Kickstarter program, so I decided to check it out. For the uninitiated, Kickstarter is a funding platform for creative projects. Entrepreneurs and artists use Kickstarter to launch their business or career, to get the word out about the thing that is their passion. The way it works is simple. The kickstarter posts information about their goal and then people can pledge money to help them reach their goal. If the project reaches its funding goal, your Amazon.com account is charged for your pledge. If not, there is no charge. I instantly loved that Kickstarter empowers people to make their dreams a reality. How awesome is that?

Anyway, Leslie posted about this incredibly awesome new multi-sport, GPS sports watch with a safety alert feature. The watch was designed by two women athletes (a triathlete and an open-water swimmer) who were not pleased with the clunky GPS sports watches currently on the market. They thought they could create something better for women. So, they did. Bia (named for the Greek Goddess of force and power) is a thin, waterproof, infinitely-sizable sports watch with time, stopwatch, intervals, heart rate, and calories burned information. If you want even more versatility, you pair it with the GPS-enabled Bia Go Stick (about the size of an old-school pack of gum). Clip the Go Stick somewhere on your clothing and instantly you add distance, speed, and pace for swim, bike, and run workouts. But, the best feature by far is the audible safety alarm, which will send your location to loved ones and emergency services when you most need help. I like to hike and bike, and I often do it alone. A watch like Bia would give me greater peace of mine about my personal safety, and you can’t put a price on that.

In trying to get their product to market Bia founders, Cheryl Kellond and Sylvia Marino, were told repeatedly by investors that the product would not sell because females do not care about their performance and would rather go to the spa. I can’t tell you how much that inane comment aggravates me. While I enjoy a nice massage and pedicure as much as the next gal, I spend most of my summer wondering how many toenails I will lose due to my athletic endeavors. I do care if I improve in my sports performance. It absolutely matters to me if I can increase my speed over the course of a summer as I climb hills on my road bike. I may only be a part-time, amateur athlete, but I am serious about it. I am proud that I am 44 years old and stronger, more flexible, and more fit than I was when I was 24.

I pledged to the Bia Kickstarter campaign. If they reach their fundraising goal by tomorrow morning, next April I will be the proud owner of a Bia Multi-Sports Sports Watch with SOS Safety Alert in turquoise with two, super cute, interchangeable wrist bands and the GPS Go Stick. As of right now, they are approximately $56,000 shy of their fundraising goal. The campaign ends in 12 hours. I am posting this in the hope that some other athletes will see the benefit of a watch like this and sponsor Cheryl and Sylvia’s Kickstarter campaign to bring this product to market at last. At the very least, wouldn’t it be worth it to see a couple female, American entrepreneurs take on Garmin and Nike and those who said it couldn’t and shouldn’t be done and win? I’m all about the underdog. I didn’t get the Polly Purebred nickname I earned in college for nothing.

Posted on by Me 2

Sometimes My Tech Support Needs Tech Support

My previous web site is now just one big fat user error.

At the end of 2010, I had this brilliant idea. At least it seemed like a brilliant idea at the time. I would create my own web site and begin writing again via a blog. How hard could it be, right? I mean, hundreds of dozens of people write blogs every day, and judging from the content, grammar, and spelling on some of those sites, it doesn’t take a rocket scientist (or an English major, apparently) to publish a blog. So, following hubby’s advice, I opened up iWeb on my MacBook, did a simple page layout, registered a domain name (Moms Into Adventure), and put myself out on the web in an official way. I had forgotten, though, what a headache web publishing can be.

Back in 1998, when I was a graduate student studying professional writing at Illinois State University, I took a class called Hypertext. The course objective was to gain an understanding of how writing for the Internet is different than writing for hard copy publication. Words on the Internet are mutable. With a mouse click, one word can springboard you into an entire new realm of thought or investigation. An Internet writer would be able to share multiple concepts succinctly simply by adding links within their work. One of our graded projects involved fabricating our very own web page that in some way defined our identity. It would be my first web page ever. To do this project, I purchased some 1998-simple, Adobe PageMill web software and learned (kid you not) some actual HTML. My identity project for this class is STILL on the Internet today, rife with dorky animated gifs and appallingly unfriendly web site mapping, which only proves how your current Internet activity, no matter how innocuous it seems, will haunt and embarrass you in the future. Wait and see.

At any rate, it had been a long time since I had designed information for the web. Because our web sites were created for a class and hosted by the university, we weren’t allowed to upload them directly. Instead, we saved our sites to floppy disks so our professor could review and upload our information to the web via FTP. It was all so late 1990s. So, you can imagine how I struggled trying to negotiate new Internet publishing programs after what I learned a million years ago when I was 30. The new web site I created last year came with an enormous learning curve, a lot of cursing, and much consternation and head scratching. Still, once I got the hang of it, I persevered and managed to publish nearly 100 posts last year, which was the most writing I had done in nearly a decade. I was proud of my small piece of the web.

Then, yesterday, I went to revisit something on my old site only to realize that, exactly as promised, Apple had eliminated MobileMe, the space where my blog had been peacefully residing. The entire blog was no longer on the Internet. Even though hubby had mentioned that MobileMe was going away, I don’t think it truly ever registered. Truth is that I only listen to him about half the time, so I must have missed the half where he mentioned I would have to put my information elsewhere or lose it forever. Oops.

Consequently, I have spent the better part of the afternoon creating a new site on which to house my 2011 blog articles. I’ve had to undo the previous forward so that it no longer sends users to the defunct MobileMe page. I’ve learned about Nameservers and spent more time with Go Daddy than Danica Patrick. I had to remember passwords I haven’t touched in 18 months, and you have to know the amount of effort that went into that because I can’t even remember what I had for lunch yesterday. At one point, I manually had to uncross my own eyes. It’s been a mind-numbing, excruciating process, and I’ve only managed to upload 5 of my 100 previous posts so far. Happy. Happy. Joy. Joy. I really need to look into getting my tech support some tech support because I’m about ready to fire her…I mean, me.

The Internet in all its insanity, though, is merely a metaphor for life. The things you wish you could delete will stay with you a lifetime, while the things that mean something to you can be gone in an instant. The only constant is change. If you stop to blink, you will miss something vastly important. Some associations can be easily repaired while others can be lost forever. And, no matter how much you learn, there’s always more you will never know. As hard as it is to keep up with the way of the future, when you decide to quit adapting to the technology of the present you become a fossil. So, to avoid going the way of the dinosaurs I will keep up with this crazy Internet publishing nonsense…at least until the next better thing comes along.

 

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