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Archives from 2002-2006

April 19, 2006

My company started a blog recently, and I created a Flickr account to go along with it. So now I spend part of my work week writing blog entries that include way too many italics and Simpsons references, and posting silly photos.

It’s all very fractal somehow. But in a non-mathematical way, because math is hard.

(Don’t ask me; I’m just a girl!)

The second blog entry I published received a disparaging comment along the lines of “Your writing style is unprofessional!” and I spent several happy minutes composing responses:

“Please open your Preferences settings and uncheck the Humor selection, then turn on the Boring Corporate Hyperbole option. You should be all set!”

“I will be happy to issue you a refund for the investment you made in this informal software company blog. Send me your billing information, as well as your inseam measurements, so I can properly outfit you with a ladder in order to get the fuck over yourself. Have a nice day!”

“Let me vastly improve your entire internet experience by empowering you with a little thing called ‘choice’. It starts with the magical world of CLOSING YOUR FUCKING BROWSER WINDOW.”

Then I remembered I would probably get a leeeeetle bit, hmmm, what’s the word, fired for those sorts of replies.

So far that’s been the only grumpy comment, and someone even left me a link to this. Which, AWESOME. (Please, for the love of god, you must, must play this song. Loud. Unless you’re at work. In that case, use headphones.)

We also added forums to our website and so Workplace is a veritable plethora of user-community love these days, which I’m actually really enjoying. After so many months/years of soulless marketing activities it’s nice to have the ability to consistently see that there are real living people out there who love our software. I mean, I know it’s not volunteer hut-building in plague ridden third world countries, but hey. You take what you can, right?

:::

I bought a Graco “jumpster” over the weekend, having got it in my head that since Riley at damn-near-eight-months still can’t sit unsupported (not that I’m excessively worrying about this, or anything) (except: WAAAAAH) he needed some kind of exercisey thing that held him upright. Because…yeah, I don’t know why. Because spending money on baby crap fulfills some deep need I never knew I had, OKAY?

I was a little suspicious of the fact that the jumper was only 20 bucks, plus when we took it out of the box it seemed pretty hoopty; the top clampy deal looked like some bizarre gynecological instrument incapable of securing itself to the doorframe as promised, the cloth seat seemed like it could rip free and dump any small child contents onto the ground, possibly right into a poison-baited bear trap or similarly dangerous situation.

I did get it set up, though, and both the seat and grip are surprisingly sturdy. I worried that he might bash into the side of the doorway in the thing but the plastic tray provides a kind of bumper. However, the few occasions I’ve put Riley in it he sort of…dangles there, looking a little bored. He doesn’t bounce or jump, he just hangs out, slowly rotating around in a circle, while studiously examining the straps and filling the tray with drool.

If you check out the ultra-spanky video over at the Graco site (warning: obnoxious circusy music) the baby is clearly flying all over the place having a ball and CLAPPING. Clapping!

I’ll keep trying him in it, but so far I’m filing the jumper under the same category as teething rings, “sensitive skin” baby wipes, and tiny boot-shaped footwear, which is Apparently Works Fine For Plenty of Other Kids But Not So Much The Suctopus.

:::

He’d rather play with his squeaky bunny anyway. It came as an easter present for Riley from JB’s mom, along with a note that confessed that when she got the bunny home she realized it was in fact a dog toy. So of course now it’s Riley’s most favorite thing on earth (well, that and a plastic measuring cup). Maybe I need to give up on the contrived baby entertainment devices and just cruise through PETCO.

April 18, 2006

The other night there was a segment on the national news about brains or memory or something else that makes it ironic that I only partially remember the subject, and part of the story focused on babies; specifically, teaching babies to sign. The program seemed to suggest that people do this in order to stimulate their children’s intellect and ready them for an educational fast-track straight to Harvard.

Now, to me the super-cool thing about baby signing is that in theory you get to figure out what the HELL their problem is. Let the other parents worry about whether or not Junior will be eligible for the Montessori Gifted Snowflake Program, I just want to find out the exact shape of the stick that’s rammed up my son’s ass so I can remove it and we can all get back to American Idol.

Yesterday I was convinced Riley had a cold. All the signs were there: slight fever, snotty nose, coughing, unbelievably horrific disposition. Then halfway through the day I started wondering if his problem had less to do with a virus and more to do with the second incipient tusk emerging from his gums. After all, there were the familiar tsunami-sized drool levels, anger towards solid food, and general nihilistic outlook on life. But who can say for sure?

I’ve wished in the past for a device that interprets babies’ cries and displays the appropriate message: “I’M COLD”, for instance, or “I FEAR FOR THE SAFETY OF BRITNEY SPEARS’ CHILD”, but these days I feel pretty competent when it comes to understanding Riley. I know when he’s tired (rubs eyes), hungry (bleats like goat, furiously sucks arm hickey), and in need of a change (erodes nasal mucociliary lining of all within twenty yards).

However, there are definitely times like yesterday when I’m at a loss, and my only recourse is to give him a mother’s comfort by holding him, kissing him, and staring deeply into his eyes while murmuring these soothing words: “What in the blue fuck is wrong with you, anyway?”

If he were signing, maybe he could make some elaborate hand gesture that means “Ah, mother dear, my second bottom tooth seems to be at a particularly uncomfortable point with regards to the surrounding gum area, and my schedule for this evening shall include at least three anger-fueled awakenings. Let’s see…are 1 AM, 3:35, and 5:48 good for you?”

On the other hand, it probably doesn’t really matter whether he’s teething or fighting off a cold, the end result is similar enough: a slug of Motrin, a visit to the trusty old rocking chair, and a fervent desire for morning to come so we can fob him off on hapless daycare workers.

(P.S. “My 5-week old baby made the sign for milk and I photographed it!” Yeah, right. And afterwards I bet he created the likeness of the Virgin Mary in his diaper.)

:::

The Baby Thousand-Yard-Stare that precedes a nice healthy screamfest. If there was a gesture for this mood it would definitely involve one finger in particular.

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