BugMeNot is amazing. I love it. If you use Firefox, there’s even an extension you can use that will allow you to right-click and automatically get a username and password for the site you’re trying to access (usually a news site — I’ve tried, but it doesn’t work on paid access sites, or at least not the academic journal I was trying). Complete laziness triumphs. I have one quibble, however. Why must you helpful souls who submit registrations for BugMeNot always, always come up with pithy usernames like “Uliqa Mabalz” and “Suk Meballz.” It’s getting old. Grow up.
Am I My Husband’s Messenger?
This may seem petty, but I’m getting pretty tired of fielding e-mails about my husband’s true crime blog mistakenly sent to me. Is it too much to ask that if you feel strongly enough about something to e-mail someone that you bother to send it to the right person? Any future misdirected mail will be your problem. You can contact Steve using his contact form (see sidebar on his site) or through this e-mail address (remove (AT) and replace with @).
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Movable Type 3.2
Does anyone out there know why Movable Type must be so extraordinarily hard to install and/or upgrade?
Second, does anyone know why no one helps anyone on their Support forum, or why, when someone does try to help, they have to be one of those techie jerks that talks to you like you can’t add two and two?
My Blog is Suffering
I have become compartmentalized. Realizing that probably only teachers are interested in my thoughts on education (which is probably sad, but nevertheless true), I have moved those thoughts to an education blog I keep on my other domain, which also houses a blog for my students.
My Harry Potterica goes on the Pensieve, yet another blog, but on the same domain as this one. If I have any Potterish thoughts to share, they go over there.
This domain also houses my genealogy blog.
So I have all my thoughts scattered over five different blogs (!) I am posting less frequently here, and often struggle with what to write, which is a problem I do not have on my other more specialized blogs. I suppose I can see now why people tend to specialize — write only about politics, or in Steve’s case, true crime. On the other hand, being much more general on one blog is good, too.
I don’t want to change my current set-up. I like the fact that people who don’t visit here read my education blog. I like it that Harry Potter fans don’t have to wade through my other crap to get at what they want to read. I’m glad people doing family tree research don’t have to try and figure out where in the hell they just landed when they Google genealogy terms.
What I’m wondering, however, is that if you take away teaching, Harry Potter, and family history — do I have nothing much to say?
Something to think on as I rub my chin thoughtfully.
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Cindy Sheehan
Lately, I have developed this habit of blocking out the news. My mom will generally make sure I’m informed of the most grisly things that happen, particularly to infants and children — not sure why, but she does that. The news is constantly on in my house, because Steve is constantly researching for his writing. But I manage to put it out of my head, not to hear it, or not to let it sink into that part of my brain that forces me to think about it. So I have not been following the story of Cindy Sheehan very closely.
I got my People Magazine yesterday, and they did a story on Sheehan. I had heard of her, and I knew what she was doing. I felt bad for her, because I cannot imagine losing one of my children. What I didn’t know, what I learned from the article is that Sheehan has other children. In what basically amounts to her war protest, it would seem she has basically neglected her surviving family. Her husband divorced her. Other family members are speaking out. Her sister-in-law Cherie Quarterolo said Sheehan was “promoting her own personal agenda at the expense of Casey’s good name.” Her ex-husband, Patrick, said, “My kids and I feel like we’ve had two losses: Casey, and now our wife and mother. The kids are angry and lonely for her.” Her son Andy said, “I think she should come home.” Patrick adds, “I don’t think she’s done the best for the family.”
Yet in spite of overwhelming evidence to the contrary, Sheehan maintains her children are “supportive. They understand what I’m trying to do.” Frankly, no matter how you feel about the war or George W. or any of it, I think it is inexusable to abandon your family and your life. I hope Cindy Sheehan has carefully weighed the risk of losing what remains of her family in order to take a stand against the war. While I can’t imagine how I would feel if my own son died, I also can’t imagine I’d abandon my husband and other children in order to prove a point.
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Old Yeller
I was strolling through Kroger tonight looking for diapers and saw a huge stack of enormous bags of dog food with the brand name “Old Yeller.” I’m sure it’s been 25 years or more since I saw that movie, but my recollection is that the dog got rabies and had to be shot. I am not sure that’s the best name for a dog food, but what do I know about marketing?
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Eventful Weekend
I guess you could say I’ve had an eventful weekend. Dylan stuck a popcorn kernel up his nose yesterday. He’s lucky I have skinny fingers. Yuck.
In approximately one-half hour, my husband will make his second appearance on Fox News Channel, this time on Big Story Weekend — he appeared on Geraldo At Large (view clip) last weekend. The popularity of his true crime blog has been sort of surreal. Lots of calls from the media. I’m still trying to decide how I feel about it. It’s not like I’m the one in the spotlight, which is good, but I worry about how it could affect our family sometimes. Especially when I come across this sort of scary crap. And you can’t really even say he’s famous yet per se, but I’m really hoping finding more of that sort of freaky thing is not in my future. It’s unsettling — not because I worry about Steve, but because I read the papers.
Frankly, anyone who’d write this about someone else’s husband is insensitive, at best (yes, it’s about him — she says so in her comments). Ick. I truly feel physically ill.
BookSlut
You know, I have decided not to read Blog of a Bookslut anymore. I have enjoyed some of the witticisms and interesting comments of Michael and Jessa, but I’m just damned sick of their book snobbery:
This column by Brian Hennigan makes me want to either move to Scotland or marry Brian Hennigan.
Let me also say that, yes, I have read a Harry Potter book. It was nice enough — for a children’s book. But at no point did I ever think that I was involved in anything other than a book for children….
Adult fiction recognises that the contemporary world is a complex, difficult place with demands on our reasoning that require careful consideration. I have nothing against Harry Potter or any of his genuinely juvenile followers — children should be bursting with juvenility — but his adult disciples are little more than cowardly escapists.
I was getting used to seeing anti-Potterisms from Jessa, but et tu, Michael? Weren’t you the guy who said,
These types of articles usually drive me crazy. It’s medical — pretentious we-know-what’s-good-for-you assholes wringing their hands and asking, “How can we get America to read more William T. Vollmann?” actually give me these weird hives, and I have to get a shot. I kind of feel that if someone wants to read nothing but John Grisham novels, they should just be left the fuck alone. But Newgard is actually charming and tongue-in-cheek enough to pull this off. (Although: Anne Rice’s vampire novels are decent? Really? Ah, well, vive la difference.)
Since both of you are tearing your hair out trying to get the literary establishment to respect graphic novels, you’d think you would both be a bit more open-minded.
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I Really Hate Cars
Life was undoubtedly very hard back in the old days. No convenience. You had to work on your farm during all the hours of daylight. It was difficult to get by. Lots of diseases.
After reading my Grandma Stella’s diary, though, I wish we were back in the horse and buggy days for several reasons. Life was harder, yes, but somewhat less complicated — more focused on getting by day to day.
I also really, really hate cars. Over the past five years, I have had more trouble with cars than I can remember ever having. If I have to drive very far or in the rain, I am literally shaking with fear that I’ll break down. The thing is, right now, my car seems OK. A while ago, when I went to pick up Sarah, I had to drive in the rain, which is something that is always scary to do in Atlanta, and the car was acting… funny. It didn’t act like it wanted to go, and the automatic transmission wasn’t shifting as smoothly as it usually does. So I tried not to hyperventilate.
I know, I know. I have AAA. I also don’t have money for the car to break down right now, but someone would probably help us if it came to that. Just the thought of breaking down one more time was giving me stomach cramps. So many things have gone wrong with the cars I’ve had over the past five years, almost always when I have one or more children with me, from flat tires to complete engine crapout. I shouldn’t be fazed by it anymore. But all that car trouble has only deepened my anxiety behind the wheel.
I wish I could just climb up into my buggy, grab the reins, and say “hyah.” I wish I didn’t really ever have to go more than a few miles from home so hoofing it (whether with a horse or without) wouldn’t be such a terrible outcome.
I know there are other problems I’d have to deal with if I had a horse, but sometimes I can’t help but think all these modern inventions have caused more stress and anxiety than they’re worth in terms of convenience. I somehow doubt my great-great-grandfather had palpitations and gripped the reins tightly if his horse, say, threw a shoe, or something. Maybe that’s why he lived into his 90’s. My damned car will send me to an early grave.
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Percy Bysshe Shelley
Happy birthday to Percy Bysshe Shelley, who was born on this day in 1792.
Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory;
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heap’d for the beloved’s bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.