September 28th, 2011

Amazon’s Tablet Is Real: Presenting the Kindle Fire

I have wanted an iPad since they first came out, but like many people the price tag scares me off. (Okay, I’m also put off by having yet another tie to Apple, since I’m already a slave to my iPhone 4.)

Now Amazon’s entered the tablet market with its full-color, tablet dubbed “Kindle Fire” that works with any public or private wi-fi or hotspot so you don’t have to shell out for some phone company’s service plan! With a proprietary browser called Amazon Silk, the 7-inch touch screen boasts 16 million colors, all the better to enjoy Amazon’s 100,000+ movies and TV shows, millions of books and ever-growing catalog of apps. (Yes, even Angry Birds!) Stream your music from Amazon’s cloud servers or download it for on-the-go listening. Take your favorite PDF, Word or other documents with you. Answer email from the bar around the corner from your office — no one will know! And, of course, you can read your favorite Kindle books, too, which — like video — will be synced to your last-read or -viewed spot via Amazon Whispersync.

I want!

September 27th, 2011

Happy Birthday, Google!

ElectricVenom.com turns 8 years old today Can it really be just thirteen years since Google’s birth? My, how time flies! Why, I remember when Google was still in its infancy, sucking its thumb and stinking up nappies. But, baby, look at you now!

Welcome to the teenage years, Google. So far you’re doing great with that whole whatever attitude. But don’t think we won’t all know what you’re up to during those hour-long showers!

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September 26th, 2011

VK and the Seven Dwarfs of Menopause

Seven Dwarfs of Menopause Once upon a time, I was a nice lady. A nice, energetic, fashionable and happy lady. Then one day, the seven dwarfs of menopause began showing up, and nothing has been the same since.

Itchy arrived first, but I just slathered on more lotion and didn’t give him much thought. Bitchy started dropping in now and then, though fortunately not very often. Sweaty came along one night and woke me up. At first I mistook him for his cousin (Pissy) but since the sheets were soaked through near my head, too, I quickly figured it out. He’s pretty much been a regular feature since then, visiting at all hours of the day and night. I guess it’s not surprising that Sleepy arrived not long after; waking up a couple of times per night to pee, and sometimes to change sheets thanks to Sweaty, has a way of wearing one out. That peeing part has done very little to keep Bloated away, though. As for Forgetful, I don’t remember when he showed up, but I’m pleased to say that Psycho has never made an appearance. Really. No, I mean it. Why do you doubt me?

My family, of course, is completely baffled by these changes in me. (Okay, maybe not the Bitchy part.) Much to his credit, my husband didn’t grumble much over the summer when I’d insist that our thermostat was NOT working, that there was no way in hell it was only 74F in the house, and that even if it was 74F that was still too dang hot as evidenced by the huge drops of perspiration rolling down my face. (Hello, Sweaty!) Oh, he might have suggested at one point that perhaps I’d be cooler if I wasn’t wearing pajama pants and a baggy t-shirt (Hi there, Bloated!) but after I gave him a death stare (Hiya, Psycho!) rolled my eyes, he dropped the matter. Now when I stand with my head in the freezer, or sit with an ice pack shoved down my shirt, he just asks, GotMenopause.

And, unfortunately, I do.

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September 22nd, 2011

Tales From The Minivan

This morning, as I drove the Big-Eyed Boy to school while praying that my coffee didn’t kick in until I’d made it home, I heard the noise that no mom wants to hear at that hour of the day: the beep announcing that my gas tank was empty. Ordinarily, that wouldn’t be a big deal but, like I said, it was a school morning, and I am not a morning person. Why does that matter? Because I was still wearing my leopard print pajama bottoms, a t-shirt that said “If you can read this, get me a drink” and fuzzy bunny slippers. Yes, really.

Remember the good old days of full-service gas stations? I’d have gladly paid the extra 20-cents per gallon surcharge to avoid having to get out of my van to pump gas dressed like that. (And, no, this morning’s embarrassment probably won’t teach me to dress properly before taking the BEB to school. See previous comment about how I am NOT a morning person.)

Anyway, the whole experience reminded me that I’ll never be one of those moms who gets to stand at the front door waving as her kid climbs onto the school bus, or meets up with friends to walk or bike to school. Since our local school district is abysmal (but not so bad that they lost their accreditation, like the Kansas City, Missouri schools), our son goes to the next district over thanks to the Kansas Open Enrollment laws. Since we live outside of the district, the bus won’t pick him up, and no matter how much he begs to ride his bike the 2.2 miles to school, it’s all on very busy, very narrow streets that don’t have sidewalks.

Besides, I couldn’t handle the worry. Oh, I’d be fine with him riding the bus. I’d even be willing to shell out big bucks since it would give me an additional 30 minutes of sleep five days a week. But riding his bike? In a town with seven correctional facilities, at least one of which has an inmate escape every month? Please. I’d wind up being one of those moms who put on a brave face as her kid head out in the morning, then sat glued to one of those bearcat scanners until half-way through homeroom, by which time I figure the school would call to let me know if he was missing.

Plus, I’d miss out on some of my happy times with the Big-Eyed Boy. Now that he’s approaching puberty, those happy times are few and far between. Most days, I’m glad if I can get a grunted acknowledgement of my presence or even an exasperated “whatever” when I ask if he wants to go get a snack after I pick him up. But some days he forgets he’s in middle school and, therefore, is supposed to treat me with disdain. Some days, he’s still the funny, sweet little boy that used to tell me I’m the most beautiful woman in the world and how he’d never get married because no woman would ever, ever be as wonderful as his mom.

Then there are days like last week when, as he climbed into the van, he threw his backpack to the floor and slammed the door. “How old do I have to be before I’m allowed to swear?” he asked. “Because I had a really f$#king BAD day today!” (Yes, I duly chastised him for his language.)

On the other hand, I’m not sure I’d miss mornings like this one, when I’d just finished pumping gas and tried opening the van door. Nothing doing. He’d locked them all, then slunk down to the floor. For a full minute I stood there knocking on the window, rattling the handle, instructing him — in a rather loud and definitely miffed voice — to open up and let me in at once. When he finally reached over to unlock the driver’s side door, I asked him what the hell he thought he was doing, locking me out like that when I was in my pajamas.

“But Mooooom,” he said, his voice muffled by the shirt he’d pulled over his head, “that was Darcey Delaney* in the car ahead of us. She’s the most beautiful girl in sixth grade. I just COULDN’T let her see me with someone looking as fugly as YOU!”

Nice, right? Fortunately, I’ve been through this whole “I’m in Middle School and too cool for my parents” bit with my daughter, and know how to handle these kind of insults. I said nothing for the rest of the ride to school, merely sipped my coffee and waved at a few of the other moms in the drop-off line. Just as we pulled up to the school’s entrance and my son threw open the door and climbed, I called out loudly, “BYE BYE NOW, HONEY, I LOOOOOOVVVVVEEEE YOU” right as he’d started to wave to Darcey Delaney.*

Call me fugly, will he?!

*Name changed to protect the Barbie lookalike who’s stolen my son’s devotion.


September 20th, 2011

What Was He Thinking? (Caption Contest)

Obama face palm

Caption This

This time, my lovely Venomites, there’s a $10 Amazon.com gift card at stake. So be witty. Be very, very witty.

(And be sure to leave an accurate email address with your caption, or you’ll never know if you’ve won!)

September 10th, 2011

Every Day Is 9/11

NOTE: This is a re-print of an entry I wrote on 9/11/03. Since it continues to reflect my feelings about this grave date (although I no longer live overlooking the ocean), I decided to run it again in its entirety on this the 7th 10th anniversary of that awful day.

It is pouring outside today. The sky is flat, gray, heavy, its lifelessness mirrored on the dull ocean in front of my house. The horizon hides behind a veil of mist. It is as if the weather is directing me to remember, to honor this day by remaining focused on my home, my family, and the memories we share from having lived through this day together.

My big decision this morning has been whether to treat this as any other day: whether to blog as I usually do and run errands that need to be run, or whether I should spend it wrapped in sorrow, contemplation, a sad 24 hours that might somehow honor those whose lives were taken from them.

But why?

I do not need a day on the calendar to make me mourn. I do not need TV programs and sad-faced announcers garbed in black to recall those who fell on this date, or those who came before them – or since – in this fight for freedom. I need no magazine covers inciting my anger, no dusty poems dragged out from college textbooks to express this strange mingled sense of loss and rage. I live with those feelings every day: they are a part of my soul now, a part of our national soul. We are no longer innocent. We are no longer carefree. We are remarkable for making this sadness a part of us, and yet defiantly and exuberantly carrying on.

Note: I did not say “move on.” Quite the opposite, in fact. I want us to stay here, in this moment, filled with the rage which makes us recognize so very clearly the irrational foe who seeks our destruction. I want us to somberly reflect on the effects of our blind “tolerance,” our misguided sympathies for “root causes” and our decades of ignoring that this very same battle is waged constantly across the globe, this battle between freedom and fanatics, only we no longer have the smug comfort of believing it will never touch us. I want us to contain this knowledge within us every day, and to go on with our lives while holding it close in our hearts.

I do not want a calendar or a clock telling me when to remember and when to tuck my memories away until the next time the day rolls around, year after year, ad infinitum. This horror, this anger, this outrage is part of my life now. It is part of every day, and it will be as long as there is something over which I should be so inflamed.

My life was changed that day. Admitting that fact is not “letting the terrorists win” – it is telling them that I remember what they did and yet I can blog, I can run errands, I can swim in the sad-colored water and enjoy the feel of it on my skin, I can laugh with my husband and play on the floor with my son. I can live this day as if it were any other, even as they continue their threats, their promises of greater evil and more life-shattering deeds. But they will not change my life. I will keep living because I have seen what they are capable of, I have seen the worst they’ve been able to do, and the horror makes freedom taste that much sweeter.

If there is a “message to the world” to be read in the blazing skies on September 11, 2001, it is this: that pride will always overcome terror, that joy will always survive despair, and that freedom is not encased in walls of cement and steel but in the hearts of those who can smile even as their faces are covered in ashes.

Remember.

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September 1st, 2011

Happy Blogiversary!

Happy Sixth Blogiversary to Elizabeth of Table for Five! (Wow, they grow up so quickly, don’t they?)


August 17th, 2011

So Long, Summer!

So Long, Summer I know summer isn’t officially over for another month, but with my son back in school, I feel like it is. This has been the longest, cruelest summer I can remember, thanks to that horrible heatwave we had. Being cooped up indoors with a cranky pre-pubescent because it’s just too hot, and the air quality is too bad, to go outside? Man, that’s not my idea of a vacation. So, having just dropped the Big-Eyed Boy off for his first day of junior high (!), that “vacation” is officially over.

All around me, there are signs that I’m not the only one who views the first day of school as the true end of summer, despite those who claim that Labor Day really is. All of the mommies were grinning ear-to-ear as we took turns pulling up at the school doors so our kids could hurriedly get out before we peeled away (well, as fast as one can “peel” at 5 mph.) Throughout my neighborhood, homeowners have put their pool covers on, and the Stepford Wife-types have switched their front door wreaths from bright-colored florals to rings of plastic autumn leaves. I even saw one of the early morning joggers wearing a hoodie today, something that was unthinkable a few days ago.

But here’s the thing about motherhood: I’ve spent the majority of the past three months counting the days until today, mentally planning all of the projects I’d finally have time for once school started again, and reminding myself that, come August 17, I’d have time for things like long showers, nail and doctor appointments, and a chance drink my coffee before it got cold.

So what’s happened? After the school run, I pulled into the garage and came into a house that seemed somehow too quiet. That list of things I wanted to do has totally fled my head, and I forgot about my cup of coffee until it was cold, anyway. Instead, I’ve puttered around, putting things away and half-listening for my son’s steps thundering on the stairs, for his voice calling out to ask me what’s for breakfast. Here’s this day I’ve so looked forward to throughout this horrible summer. Now that it’s here, I miss the little guy poignantly. But that’s okay, there are only 122 days until Christmas Break when, no doubt, I’ll counting down days until school starts again.


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