Heads Up

Gamers worldwide will instantly recognize Recon Instruments’ newest line of skiing equipment as something straight out of Halo or Gears of War. Finally, this live and highly integrated informational system has made its way into the real world. Game Informer Magazine has recently featured Recon’s new set of goggles, retailing anywhere from $350-$450, tempting gamers to trade in the virtual for the actual with what is fondly known on the TV screen as the heads-up display or HUD. The HUD is a transparent interface between player and the game that gives live information such as character, ally, and enemy position on the game map, health information, available resources, and other, game-specific information. This information is displayed over the screen rather than below (like the dashboard in a car) so it can be seen easily during game play.

Recon Instruments has created something similar called a Micro Optic Display (MOD). With features like temperature, speed, altitude, distance of a jump, hang-time, navigation and buddy tracker, music, video camera, and, of course, smartphone connectivity, this MOD makes all the HUDs jealous. Other Bluetooth enabled accessories made by Recon Instruments turn any place a good place for live, MOD information including the belt, wrist, or head. This ski technology company may have what it takes to get everyone out on the slopes this year.

Probably not me, though. Despite the fact that I always wish it was warmer, so snowboarding and skiing is a "no" by nature, I might be tempted to take my turn downhill if it meant playing with those goggles. Especially if someone else got them for me. Unfortunately, though, my tailbone can still feel last year's attempt to shred or whatever. If I can't even sit on the floor comfortably, I decided there are just some places I don't belong. I'd rather sit and drink in the lodge while trying to justify getting the new MOD goggles for absolutely no reason.

Amazonian Warriors

Sorry for the inundation of information, but without a job, I have nothing else to do than job search and read the news. In conclusion, another opinion:

Amazon online bookseller, turned book buyer, turned book publisher-- there’s a lot wrapped up in this little dot com. Many publishers are less than thrilled with the idea that with a few clicks of the mouse, many of their potential clients are taken away by electronic publishing. True, many battle-worn authors can find refuge with Amazon, but publishers should have little to fear. As of now, Amazon is acting as the Wal-Mart of the book world. Providing a one-stop-shop for its customers, it’s an easy place to get what needs done, done. However, like cashing a check at Wal-Mart, it may be easy, but it isn’t a bank. Wal-Mart doesn’t have everything. I can cash a check, but they can only give me what I’ve been paid, no loans, no trust, no relationships. Amazon appears the same. There isn’t much of a relationship between writer and publisher. They agree to publish your work, and that’s the end until someone clicks Add to Cart, if someone clicks. And! Worst of all, there isn’t the satisfaction of going into a bookstore and seeing blood, sweat, and tears in hardcopy. Amazon might be on to something for now, but, just like electronic books versus print copies, there is simply no competition for the real thing.

Who Said That?

Recently, a video has been posted on ASLized.com, a video informational site dedicated to the education and promotion of Deaf culture and especially Deaf literature; this video (link below) is called Early Intervention: The Missing Link. It emphasizes the negativity that overwhelms new parents who find out their baby has been born deaf. For centuries deafness has been labeled by the medical community and hearing population at large, as a disability, a handicap, and a problem to be fixed. This problem, for many doctors, requires surgery and a cochlear implant along with life-long speech and physical therapy to be overcome, sometimes with great success and, more often than anyone would like, great frustration and failure.

The goal of this particular video, which in turn eagerly speaks for the Deaf community, is to say that disabilities and handicaps are far from the truth. Deafness is instead a culture built of people with similar experiences, traditions, habits, and most importantly, language: American Sign Language. This video urges parents to think of language opportunities rather than limitations. Teach your child ASL, a language that can be as easy and natural as English is to thousands of hearing Americans. This language can open up many doors for a child rather than trying to force them through only doors that require speech and hearing, doors they may never unlock. The maker of this video seems to think that if parents are introduced to ASL as an option and, even better, are introduced to a Deaf adult as a model for what their child can become, they won’t be afraid of deafness and make rash decisions about which linguistic route is best for their child. However, it is this point that should cause some hesitation.

I absolutely and whole-heartedly agree that Deaf people can become successful, intelligent members of society and have a whole list of shining examples, but I’m afraid these people may only be as good as their interpreters. Parents, I’m afraid, may still see Deaf people as somewhat foreign if an interpreter is required to communicate with them. They don’t hear the eloquence of the Deaf adult; they hear a hearing interpreter translating. As a person who has loved learning and using ASL, I could have a one-on-one conversation with a Deaf person and get to know them on a personal level, but not everyone has that luxury. I do know there are plenty of skilled interpreters who could easily make a person’s ASL come to life in English, but I’m afraid the less-experienced and less-qualified interpreters are often the ones being hired by many public establishments because of such limited budgets. Less-qualified means less expensive.

Hospitals have little money set aside for interpreters who are called not even once a year. More importantly, they are run by a hearing person who may have never encountered a Deaf person and who may feel translations come a dime-a-dozen-- if you know a few signs, you’re hired. Interpreters play a big role in representing the Deaf community and often don’t live up to the job requirements. Limited knowledge keeps everyone in the dark: the English isn’t right nor is the ASL. Unfortunately, it is usually the Deaf person who must suffer the consequences because they are the minority and must conform. If parents are to be truly informed on the best option-- linguistically, culturally, educationally-- their only real option may be to learn ASL themselves and study the Deaf culture so they understand, at least intellectually, what the options are for both sides.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=h5ZqKMgXciU

(As a bit of a disclaimer, I don't want to come across as an antagonist of this video in any way, shape, or form, I loved it and thought it to be spot on. However, I know that simply introducing parents to the Deaf world may not be enough to make them choose a non-hearing route if they don't become involved with the Deaf world first.)

Cat-a-strophic

A few more “Moving to Kansas” stories:

Two weeks ago, Aaron and I drove down to Kansas City with more of our belongings, somewhat begrudgingly relocating in hopes of better opportunity in a larger city. I have spent a lot of time down here and a lot of time job hunting, praying that I’ll find something that I can call a career. So far, the prospect has been bleak, so, to insure that at least one of us has a job and, therefore, money to make the car payment, Aaron has decided to transfer his retail position rather than try to find something completely new. Bless his heart. As we sailed through many an amber-wave-of-grain, my check-engine light decides to turn on as the car downshifts to pass the world’s slowest-moving pickup. Naturally, I become scared beyond all reason, and here’s why:

Once upon a time, I decided it was time to grow up and get my own car, so I trade in my nice chocolate brown Chevy Impala for a neighbor’s semi-used Lexus (yeah, I said Lexus) SUV-ish thing. Within a month of driving said luxury vehicle, strange things start happening. First and foremost, all of my money was going into fueling it. Accustomed to the bottomless gas tank of a new, fuel-efficient car, I couldn’t believe I was paying over $60 a week to back in and out of my parking spot. Little did I know, things were to only get worse from there. What I can only imagine was immediately after another expensive re-fueling, I drive headlong into the night for North Liberty with my soon-to-be husband and our friend, Jarren. All Jarren had to say was, “Oh! That was a hard shift,” for everything to fall apart. By the time we returned the Lexus was barely with us. Over the next few days, its ability to change gears lessened and lessened, jerking violently with every attempt. It finally decided to nix the driving habit completely while I was on Interstate 80, headed home. It wouldn’t accelerate or change gears, I was sure it would slow down, but I was on the Interstate and didn’t exactly want to do that. I called my mother to say goodbye and cried hysterically the entire way home. Then I called boyfriend Aaron to come console me and drive me around. This, to the less than car-savvy, is what happens when your transmission dies. A few thousand dollars and months later, the car has a new transmission, and I feel phantom jerkiness and engine problems every time I drive. I quickly traded it in for a Ford 500, swearing that if I ever had car problems again, I’d sell it and walk.

So, after the slight jostle of downshift and the sudden and incessant screaming of the check-engine light, I was sure I was out another transmission and another thousand dollars, which I don’t exactly have considering I just quit my job. I immediately begin cursing like a sailor and hysterics ensue. Aaron, of course, is sure it’s nothing and decides to call our friend, Scott (a really great mechanic) when we park to see what he thinks. I don’t have the heart to tell Aaron that Scott is two states away and cannot possibly help, you stupid, stupid boy! After a hearty meal at the Olive Garden, luckily, I’m much more agreeable. Scott recommends going to an auto-parts store (shop? Place?) to borrow their scanners that hook up under the dash and read the car’s computer. Scan complete, we learn there is low pressure in the gas tank. Most likely cause: loose gas cap. The engine light turned on because of a gas cap. Properly tightened, the light went off as soon as we started the car. I couldn’t believe it. I was angrier that the light went off than I was when it came on. I was using Scott’s name as a curse now, for thinking of something so simple as scan for a gas cap. The light shouldn’t come on for things that aren’t actually problems. Fact.

Secondly, my cat crawled down the heating vent. My new bedroom has been recently painted and the vents taken off for proper paint coverage. The cat, in her infinite curiosity and wisdom, climbed into a hole tinier than she is, fell two stories, and spent the next hour and a half trying to climb back up while my sister, her friend, Tim, and I called, “Here, kitty kitty,” up on the second floor because we were sure the cat couldn’t have gotten very far. We eventually found out she was in the basement, and Tim was in the process of ripping the ducts apart when I sent my sister upstairs on a lead that a certain vent the cat was under might lead to the living room. Right as Tim was making some progress my sister puller her out, the little dust ball that she had become. Currently, there are bags, cans of paint, a mini fridge, and a fan blocking all of the vents (and, so, the heat) so this won’t happen again.

With Zooey’s trauma-induced cuddliness endearing her to me, I decided to drag my air mattress into “their room” and spend the night with the kitties. Every two hours for two hours, I was forced to wake up and rebuild the blanket fortress I had constructed to protect the mattress from kitty-claws or getting run over by crazed cats chasing each other from one end of the room to another. After the allotted two hours, they settle down to sleep, which means I sleep, but then get woken up by cats walking on, kneading, licking, purring near, and violently biting and scratching my head. Shooing them away only made the running start sooner, so I tried to hide under the covers until lack of oxygen made me pass-out and fall asleep.

I can’t seem to catch a break, although, I did get the surround sound set up and I have a space heater that works, but as winter creeps in, I can’t help but wish it was warmer.

Trying again....

It's a new month, so we're trying again. The first ring is out, but this isn't what we were going for....

Sent from my Droid Charge on Verizon 4GLTE

Derping Around

Hubby and I, in our excitement to move to KC, tried to rush the kitties through their toilet training. If I haven't mentioned that we're literally training them to use the people potty, then I should explain: the all-too-clever "they" have created a litter box that sits over/inside the toilet bowl, and the seat comes down over top to form a perimeter around the litter box. The cats are supposed to get used to 1. The climb up to the throne and 2. Having the seat down and slightly in their way. Over time, the litter box gets smaller and smaller by taking rings out of the center until the litter box becomes a litter ring and then nothing--it's gone completely, and there's nothing but the seat for kitty to balance on. This eliminates the scooping, the sweeping of scattered litter, and, most importantly, the smell--all with one simple flush. So, we decided to take take the center ring out of the litter box a bit prematurely causing the cats' brains to melt which then caused them to go everywhere but where they should, their favorite being the tub followed closely by the carpet. Unfortunately for our friends, we left town to take some Christmas ornaments, old clothes, and board games to Kansas, leaving them to clean up everything in the bathroom we locked them in, even the sink and the door. We haven't seen these friends since we got back; I hope it's nothing to do with the special bit of hell we left them with.

The cats are just now starting to use the litter box as something other than a bed or a way to the counter. Baby steps.

I'm headed to Kansas again this weekend because I've managed to leave behind not just my Pirates of the Caribbean game but my toothbrush, computer, clothes, and hubby's school books. In the mean time, I'm still looking for a job, and I'm watching Firefly on Hulu.

Missed it by that much

Sent from my Droid Charge on Verizon 4GLTE

How Do I Get Out of This White Void?

I recently rediscovered The Last Scene. Watch 1-3, the fourth and fifth ones seem to be lacking.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VzE4Mhn7pgI

I feel a strong connection to Daniels, or maybe even Shelly, in that "lost-in-despair-and-dead-end-job-or-perhaps-just-straight-up-killed-by-gargoyles" kind-of way. I'm sure everyone is familiar. So, to distract myself of this "I-have-a-degree-and-I'm-not-using-it" feeling, I'm going to quit my job, move away from my best friends and family, move in with my sister and her friends (mmmhmm, that's what I thought too), and pound the pavement looking for something else to do and hopefully some new friends. Aaron's coming too.

So...

In other news, I've (we've) decided to move. We're moving out of my precious Iowa City and heading out West. Cowboy dreams come true! Unfortunately, there isn't 4G in Kansas City (MO or KS), so my brand new, totally awesome Droid Charge is pretty useless, especially when Verizon doesn't seem to exist in America's Bread Basket, and I'm 1x-ing almost everywhere. Also, despite the fact that I have applied to almost twenty different places, I still don't have a job lined up, and hubby doesn't want to transfer to a store down here because his entire paycheck would probably go toward the gas it would take to drive there and back everyday, unlike his ten-minute commute in Iowa City. On the bright side, my sister is thrilled and her roommate is excited to play with the cats.

The countdown is t-28 days for me. t-December 16th for the boy. I'm eager to get out of retail before I have to work another Day After Thanksgiving or another Christmas and New Years. I'm crossing my fingers for something, I think you should too. My sister is telling me, instead, about a birthday party for her friend. We're having a bake-off or a bake-sale or a clam-bake or something. She said he likes cookies, cake, authentic Chinese food, cheeseburgers, lasagna, pizza cupcakes, bean burritos, lobster bisque, jell-o, green eggs and ham, here or there (or anywhere, really), meat, etc etc. I told her I know how to make fruit pizza. Other than the job thing, my biggest concern is probably where I'm going to put my bed. The upstairs of the house, recently dubbed "Married Couple Zone," is a small office-like room, a skinny hallway with the smallest closet of a bathroom you've ever seen, and then a longer, slightly wider, hallway of a play room for small children under three feet tall with one, sad window at the far end that beckons for you to stare out and yearn for yearning's sake with no actual closets in sight aside from an almost inaccessible crawlspace to store dead bodies and Christmas ornaments. It's the ceiling that really gets me, though. The ceiling and walls are shaped like half a stop-sign: flat on the top, then two angles, then the walls going up and down, then straight across for the floor. My 6-foot-tall husband almost hits his head in the tall part, and the slanted parts of the ceiling block off the rest of the room unless you're, like I said, under three feet tall. If we put the bed in the office, it's over my sister's room. If it's just inside the long room, it's over her roommate's bed, if it's on the far end by the window, it's over the porch. Married Zone overhead of everyone. Dilemma. 

In the end, the goal is to make it to Colorado. Maybe we should just suck it up and move to Denver rather than stopping half way. Difficult to say. 

Birthday Eve

Art history and crock pot pork chops, that's a day for a winner. Also, I mixed in just a little more laundry, the Legend of Ron Burgandy, mucho kitty-snuggle, and the over due decision to take dairy off the list of okay dietary choices for hubby along with the beans. Milk was a bad choice.

And there you have it: little bit of the honeymoon, the car, fruit pizza, and, of course, the kids, Zooey and Neil Patrick Harris. I hope Barack is holding on.
Sent from my Droid Charge on Verizon 4GLTE

Too Much Has Happened Recently to Fit in One Post

The last time I wrote was before everything happened. Literally. My name isn't even the same anymore. Let's see-- got married, went on a honeymoon, school started for the love of my life which also means school started for me [(even though I graduated in May) otherwise Art History would have been dropped a long time ago], we adopted--twice!, hubby is transferring schools in a few months, and the writing on the windows of my car saying "Just Married" is still as clear as day despite the rain and my hopes it will rinse off before I have to clean it. And, oh!, I have also learned how to make fruit pizza which is much less healthy than regular pizza and probably the reason it is so delicious. Furthermore, our water bill has gone down this month, so today I'm washing every piece of clothing we own to put that bill right back up where it belongs, and I know now not to feed the boy beans more than one day in a row and not expect to pay. Also, don't think the need to wash all the clothes has anything to do with the bean comment, just one non-sequitur after another.

This One is About A Crazy Lady

Great day! First, stayed up waaaay late last night. Past nine. Secondly, slept in past six and didn’t have to get dirty at work. Take that how you will. I work retail. Anyway, that’s three for three. I got to work ten minutes early to, once again, try to drown myself in free coffee before my shift starts. If I actually drown, I wouldn’t have to work the day after Thanksgiving. Sad part-time jobs aside, after the coffee, I spent some time in the shoe department complaining about the state of the shoe department and those responsible. By the time the caffeine kicked in, I was in the women’s department complaining about the women’s department and mainly the people who mess up the clothes in that department (that would be you, the customer. Put it back. You can do it). To winningly make the point I (and my fellow clothes re-folders) was trying to make, the world’s angriest woman came walking through the store. She wasn’t going to stop, oh no (except to pick up a shirt and throw it down on recently re-folded table). This woman was bee-lining it to the back of the store. We could tell she was angry not only by the “hunt you down and gut you like a fish” walk she was using, but by the bitch that was in her voice. First time through, it was the Hawkeyes. The whole franchise, the concept of college football, post-secondary athletics in general, really just pissed her off to no end. She lives in Iowa friggin’ City, a Big Ten college town but can’t fathom what all the fuss is about or why she is forced to see black and yellow all year long. Move to North Liberty, lady, that’s my thoughts. Anyway, bee-lining it back through our department it was the price of groceries. She’s going to Wal-Mart because paying $10 for a $12 steak is ba-lowing her mind, and she’s less than impressed (she made it very clear you have to impress her first time around, or she’ll take her very loud business elsewhere). Again, storming through the store for no reason, Ms. Stick-Wedged-Too-Far-In was complaining about her husband trying to do house work. She paid “her handyman” $1500 to do it right the first time, so he wont have to ruin anything else. I felt terrible for who must have been her daughter and mother who sulkily ran along beside her, arms crossed, head turned away, and with only one ear open to the unabridged hate-fest longer than Gone With the Wind and the Bible and the Encyclopedia Britannica and the Sunday NY Times put together. I closed the day by hanging up men’s polos who’s color names had something to do with khaki no matter what color it actually was, bringing us gems like “khaki aluminum,” “khaki pelican,” “off white,” “red denim,” and “khaki dream.” Granted off white and red denim don’t have the word “khaki” in the title, but to further my point, denim isn’t red and pelicans aren’t khaki. I came home to make my man some Hawaiian meatballs that tasted like meatloaf and watch some Tosh.O. Good day.

This One Is About Porn

First, an anecdote: When I was younger, I told my parents I was going to see XXX in theaters with my sister. They were surprised to say the least and told me that "Triple X" meant something else to them. To me, it meant Vin Diesel.

I begin this post while occasionally tuning into a new sitcom with the girl who played on Clarissa Explains it All on Nickelodeon; I feel like this goes against some moral obligation to my own childhood. And to old Nickelodeon. Old Nickelodeon was the best, wasn't it? Man...Rugrats. Tommy could do everything with a screwdriver! I remember being seriously concerned about Tommy and the gang making it across the perilous asphalt desert that was the basketball court. I was also very concerned about "no-shadow time" unlike many of the adults around me. Despite the sheer terror I experience, I managed to take away some very valuable advice about the sun. 1. Don't play basketball in the sun. Or ever, really. 2. Wrap your t-shirt over your head to avoid complete disintegration. This particular piece of information comes in very handy when, during the few sunny months the MidWest has to offer, I step outside to burn. At least my head doesn't burn. I also remember being afraid of two very specific episodes of Are You Afraid of the Dark. The one with the pool and the one with the little demon in the pictures. That's really all I care to go into. Still too soon.

I really liked Rocket Power, too. Those kids made me feel that I could skateboard and/or rollerblade really well if I wanted to, or if I had a cool gang to do it with. They, to this day, have made me want to learn to surf (again, probably very easy by the looks of it), and Otto was so totally rad that if he were real, I would totally want him to be my boyfriend. Totally. He and I would be a perfect match because once, on the show, Otto went snowboarding and he had a really bad time because he broke his leg and his let down his dad. Once, I went snowboarding, and I had a really bad time too because I fell down at the top of a damn mountain and was left there by my so called "fiance" and had to pick my sorry, broken ass up off the precipice of death and ride back down all alone while trying to see through the tears that were slowly filling up my goggles (no one could tell, though, because I have those really cool goggles that are reflective on the outside so you can't see my eyes and are therefore intimidated by the mad skills that I must inherently have and also because what you cannot see, you fear).

But more recently than both Clarissa Explains it All or my battle with gravity, the boy decided to hijack our friend's laptop and fill it full of porn of the male, heterosexual persuasion, and set his background to porn, and rename all of his programs and files to something with porn in the title, such as Internet Porn or MMO RPG Porn, or My Porn Music, MS Office Porn, etc.

This caused our friend to get proactively angry and threatening. The boy had to go back and do a system recovery from about a month ago to get everything back to normal, and take all the porn that wasn't already on there, off. Apparently XXX doesn't mean Vin Diesel to everyone.

It Takes Me So Long To Type Anything

I just got my very first touch screen, and I must say, I have no idea how to type anything. Sad is what this is. But, hey, I can blog from the phone now. That's something, isn't it?

My First Post Will Be About Tomatoes

My first post will be about tomatoes. Tomatoes because, two days ago, I had a rather existential tomato adventure, and tomatoes because I'm still reliving this adventure with some kind of retrospective delight and, even more than that, some retrospective "If I knew then..." I could have added more salt, for starters. Step one: gut the tomatoes. All of them. To taste, of course. God am I glad Ms. Joy of Cooking didn't say fish, but it was oddly satisfying at the same time. Cutting the middle out of those little guys was what I would imagine coring a jellyfish might feel like and with the same satisfaction as popping the plastic bag on a fortune cookie mixed with squeezing a Gusher until it squirts out all the juice, only with seeds. Step two was to salt these tomatoes then turn them upside-down to drain. I skipped the salt, but I suppose I shouldn't have. Such is life, though, as they say. Anyway, the recipe then goes on to very concisely coerce the cook into making wild rice, stuffing the tomatoes with the rice, and baking for a while. Then Ta-Da! dinner is served!

I'm getting married in less than a month, so, of course, the tomatoes had to represent more than just dinner. They became my future marriage and my unborn children. They were delicious, by the way, even without the salt, so I suppose that's a good sign. I added some bread crumbs and shredded cheese for a little panache, although, they could have been warmer.