Wordpress v Blogger

Well now I find myself in a dilemma. Having to learn Wordpress for work, should I switch this blog to Wordpress? Any opinions would be helpful.

Everything "got small"

One of my favorite Steve Martin stand up routines was “Let’s Get Small.” Of course, that was back in the 70s, and he was making fun of people who did a lot of drugs.

My drug of choice is very strong black tea, or Diet Coke. After drinking way too much caffeine yesterday, I was up part of the night thinking about how everything’s gotten smaller in the past couple of years. A few examples:

• Lots of big people are truly trying to lose weight – and keep it off for good. I point to the popularity of “Biggest Loser” as not only a TV show but a brand now. The merchandising is going crazy.
• Blogging turned into microblogging and Twitter.
• The guy who developed microlending programs for third world countries won the Nobel Peace Prize. Now mobile phone companies in those countries are helping poor people to avoid banks completely and pay for everyday things with electronic funds via their phones.
• “Hyperlocal” became a word I see more and more. Now Patch.com is expanding into just about every small town, becoming a replacement for the local newspapers, most of which have folded if they didn’t already have an online presence. People are trying to spend their money at farmers’ markets and other small and independently owned businesses as much as possible, to help their immediate economy.
• The new TV we bought – an LED – is 42” wide, but about 1” thick. It replaced a 32” tube TV that not only weighed about a ton but was about 2 1/2 feet deep and just fit on our entertainment center.
• Everyone’s tightening their belts – super-tight budgets at businesses and kitchen table discussions are much more common now that things cost more and we’re not making more. Much of the time we’re making less and doing without stuff we thought we needed.
• We’re selling stuff cheap on Craigslist and Ebay, and getting rid of stuff on Freecycle. “Someone else can use this stuff, so why are we keeping it?”

So what’s the deal? The recession drove this trend.

If you become suddenly unemployed, which many people I know have in the past couple of years, your first thought is, “Bastards. I worked for them for X years and this is the thanks I get.” Your second thought is, “Now who do I know at X company that I can call and find out if they’re hiring?” No matter what size city or town you live in, you have a circle of family, friends, and acquaintances you turn to when you need something, and we’re relying on them more and more the worse things get.

We’re returning to the days when everyone in town knew everyone else in town, and their business, and everyone lived frugally because they had to. We’re forced to share more of our foibles and weaknesses to those around us, and we’ve gotten past our pridefulness to ask for help. And many of us are finding that there’s an overwhelming positive response from our support systems.

Facebook and other technological communication systems – such as texting between generations of people, some of whom didn’t even own a cell phone or laptop until recently – keep us all connected more tightly than we’ve been in years. And we’re all better for it.

I like this “front porch sittin’ ” sort of mentality. Where you can greet neighbors as they walk by your house (as more people are walking for exercise, weight loss, or just to save on gas), and often they stop to say hello and inquire about your job search, or to pick up some coupons. We’re meeting new people when they buy from us or sell something to us from an online ad. We’re going back to that person-to-person sort of lifestyle, and in the words of Martha Stewart, “It’s a good thing.” A very good thing.

The next installment in the memoir - please let me know what you think

The washer

There was the time that he threw his circular saw across our half finished deck. Then there was the time he ripped the screen off our sliding door in a rage. There were other instances of his anger exploding into a physical act of violence against some inanimate object or another, but for some reason I never felt like I was in danger. It was more a feeling of watching a 2 year old have a temper tantrum over being told “no.” I’d usually roll my eyes and leave the area. Later he would clean up and be a little astounded at himself and the damage he caused; almost like he hadn’t been there during the actual event. Even slightly impressed at whatever he’d thrown, how far it had gone. Fortunately, I just never happened to be in the way of the tool or other object on the receiving end of the damage.

But the washer was the last straw. I knew the end was near when the washer caused him to beat it completely unnecessarily.

Leaving Massachusetts and packing up not one but two moving trucks, and doing it while I was pregnant and unable to help out with lifting, was hard on him. He’d really never lived in another place for as long. But he sure was happy to leave. At least that’s what he led everyone – even me – to believe. We literally had each other at that point; no friends came over to drink a few beers or help wrap up the delicate items with us, or talk about coming to visit once we got settled. It was just him and I wrapping, packing, taping, labeling, throwing stuff away… then loading those trucks.

Naturally we had to use an appliance dolly to get our washer and dryer out of the basement. To this day I couldn’t tell you how he got them upstairs. My memory is fuzzy on whether he might have had someone helping or not. My instinct is to say he did it himself, but you ask, how would he? He did a lot of things that made me wonder how he accomplished them, though. I just know I didn’t do it and somehow both appliances got into the truck. And of course he did some of his truck packing in a fit of anger… I know now that it was actually the manic side kicking in.

So the washer and dryer didn’t get loaded gently, and the washer’s frame got bent badly enough that once we got into our new place in Michigan, the washer always sounded like it was off balance, regardless of the size of the load it had inside. I actually entertained people at gatherings by describing the sound it would make while washing.

I tried propping it up, leaning against it while it was washing, putting in smaller and smaller loads. Finally I gave up and ordered him to call for service on it. It was at one of the points when we actually had some money to pay for a repair and I took advantage of that.

The repair bill estimate came to $420. “Yer frame’s bent,” the guy said over the phone when he called me at work that afternoon. I sighed and put my head in my hand.
Not what I wanted to hear.

“But we only paid $500 for it new,” I said plaintively.

“Well, that’s what it’s gonna take to replace the frame. So I guess you need to figure that out.”

Yeah, thanks. We’ll do that.

We dealt with the washer for a few more days, until a manic mood hit him again. This time, in the heat of the summer, he put on a loaded tool belt (and how that didn’t make him fall over, again, I don’t know) and pulled the washer out of the linen closet it was in. He disconnected the water line, and then scooted it to the left, then the right, back and forth, waddling it out from behind the bifold door. With a huge crash, he pushed it over on its side. He pulled a hammer out of the tool belt and began whacking the frame with abandon. The noise this made brought me in from outside and as I came in from the back door, I see him standing wobbily next to the washer, just going to town on it like it insulted his mother.

“BRIAN! BRIAN!” I yelled over the din. “WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”

He stopped hammering long enough to look around for the source of the voice. Seeing me, his eyes focused a little and responded, “Fixing the washer.”

He resumed pounding.

“STOP STOP STOP.” I came a little closer, but I honestly was frightened of his eyes when he saw through me like that. “The repair guy said the frame was bent.”

Gritting his teeth he looked at me and said, “So I am FIXING—IT--!” With these last two words he hit the frame so hard that the hammer actually bounced back off and almost hit him in the face. It threw him off balance and he had to grab the frame of the washer to right himself.

Now I was truly scared. He had no idea what he was doing. I grabbed the phone and went back outside. I dialed my parents’ house. My voice actually quivered. “Dad? Can you come over? Like right now? Brian’s beating the hell out of the washing machine with a hammer, and it’s honestly scaring the crap out of me.”

“I’m on my way,” said Dad.

But of course by the time Dad got there about five minutes later, the washer had ceased to have any interest for Brian and he was back in his shop quietly doing some taxidermy stuff. My dad and I stared at the washer and its new tattoos of hammer marks up and down the outside of the frame. Dad righted the washer and took care of getting it back into place. He didn’t connect it to the water line, however.
With a frown he said, “You can wash your clothes at our place until you can get a new one.”

I hugged him tightly. “Thanks Dad.”

“Just for the record, I don’t like this… what he’s doing… you know…” Dad pointed in the general direction of the taxidermy shop. “You are worth more than that. You don’t deserve it.” This was very strong language for my dad.

Wiping away the tears that had finally burst out of my welling eyes, I said, “I know. I know.” I shook my head, and it was then that I truly did know, I was worth something. I was worth saving. And now I had to make a plan.

Borders gets on the ebook bandwagon

A bit late. But it seems like they're trying.

http://www.annarbor.com/business-review/borders-introduces-self-publishing-service-for-e-books/

Saline Celtic Fest July 16 & 17

This article explains all the fun that is coming up...

http://www.heritage.com/articles/2010/06/29/saline_reporter/news/doc4c26591145019519203876.txt

WNBA website fundraiser

This year we are also in the process of re-designing our website (www.wnba-books.org) to include:

* A blogging platform
* Social networking connections
* New author page with colorful book jackets
* More flexible design to be updated often by WNBA-designated members

The national website is our calling card to every professional who reads, hears, or learns about WNBA. It is the link to chapters and the latest news. Our target for the website re-launch is early 2010. As you can imagine, this significant undertaking requires time and money.

Our hope is that with each member contributing just a small amount, from $10.00-$50.00, we will have the additional funds to complete the launch of the new site and continue offering our grants, awards, and other marketing initiatives to "bookwomen" around the country.

Please send all contributions to Margaret Auer, WNBA National Treasurer, with your chapter notated on your check.

Margaret E. Auer, Dean
University Libraries/Instructional Design Studio
University of Detroit Mercy
4001 W. McNichols Rd.
Detroit, MI 48221-3038

THANK YOU for your continued enthusiasm and support for the Women's National Book Association.

Ta-da!! Here it is!! Please read and comment.

Paul Bunyan

It was a day in March that was unnaturally warm for Massachusetts. The outside thermometer read 58 degrees, so it seemed that there should be tiny green buds on the grayish brown bushes and trees. But there weren’t. The sunshine and blue skies were a temporary respite from the normal dank gray winter sky, and a hard winter that wasn’t over yet. We were enjoying the weather, even thinking that it might last. But we should have figured it was too good to be true.

I was in the kitchen, cleaning. It was Saturday and that was the time I had available to do things like housework, grocery shopping, and homework. I had just started graduate school and it was much more time consuming than I thought it would be. But I had made the commitment, and my part-time job earned me an almost full-time income, allowing me some time during the week to work on projects and assignments. I’d caught up on the homework for the following week’s class so my attention now had to turn to the house and laundry, which had been neglected most of the week.

The breakfast plates were in the dishwasher and the pans were clean and put away. I was wiping down the sink and countertops, making a mental grocery list of things we needed, and looking out at our two-acre side yard. The sink, under a bow window, looked directly east and the morning sun had already cleared the room, spreading its warmth on the floor now instead of the ceiling and walls as it had earlier in the morning.

My brother Pete, who was visiting for the week from the Midwest, was outside with my husband. Pete had been looking forward to some snowboarding in the area, since I’d been hyping it up to him that we’d had almost 6 feet of snow. But with the weather warming every day for the past couple of weeks, most of the snow had melted and Pete didn't have much else to do.

Now that that there was another male around, my husband Brian was taking advantage of that fact to get some things done in the yard. He was a paraplegic and couldn’t do some of the projects around the house that required standing up. Brian used arm crutches to get around sometimes instead of his wheelchair, even though he’d been told to only use them when absolutely necessary. He had hand controls in his truck so he could drive. I hardly ever drove it because the steel pole connecting the steering column to the gas and brake pedals got in my way and if you tried to avoid touching them, you more than likely hit the gas or brake when you didn’t mean to.

He worked at home, in a shop we’d set up on the property for him. It had a ramp, heat, plumbing and electrical, a stackable washer and dryer, air conditioning, and every imaginable tool.

There were two tall, thin trees just outside the door of the shop that he’d wanted to remove since before we put the shop in. The trees, although not very large in circumference, were still 15 to 20 feet in height, and were bowing towards the driveway. He was afraid they were going to come down in a storm and hit the electric or cable wires. I’d successfully kept him from taking the trees down, at least before the weather got bad. My argument was that not only had we already taken down over 150 trees off the property (according to him, trees near a house caused shade and dampness, which then made mold grow on or in the house), he was going to need another person to guide the tree as it came down so it wouldn’t hit the house. And I wasn’t interested in helping.

With another male around, Brian believed he would get some support for his counter-argument, because there always was one with Brian. (Typically he and I argued about not only the priority of doing certain things around the house, but how to do them as well.) His theory was that there was no possibility either tree could hit anything since they were such thin trees. “Barely even branches.” As long as they were cut properly, they would fall away from the house and the shop anyway.” You worry too much. Trust me.”

My brother stood there listening to this exchange, with an amused smirk, smoking a menthol.

“Do whatever you want then,” I responded irritably, retreating back into the house, my eyes falling on the lawn tractor, an older Craftsman model we’d purchased for cash, which was sitting a couple of feet off the corner of the front porch. It had been covered with a tarp since November. Just the night before, Brian had taken off the rocks that held the tarp on, folded the tarp on the damp ground and opened up the hood of the tractor. He’d cleaned out the mouse nests. Before it could be started up and used, however, the tractor needed an oil change and new spark plugs. Anyone else might have finished this project first. But the chain saw beckoned and the trees were coming down first.

As I swept the floor in the kitchen, the operation began. Brian leaned up against the back end of his GMC Jimmy, which waited about ten feet from the trees. He wound a chain between the trees, about 3 feet up from the ground. He circled his forearms around his arm crutches and stood up wobbily, to stand next to the tallest tree. Then he tied the end of a thin nylon rope to the midsection of the tree, and pulled the tip of the tree towards him. He motioned to my brother to get him something that was sitting on the front step of his shop. Pete retrieved a metal disk and handed it to him.

Brian then wound the rope around the disk, and tied the other end to the hitch of the car. He handed the keys to the truck to Pete and waved an arm, which I assumed detailed whatever instructions he was giving Pete.

The disk, I then realized, was a pulley. He was going to have Pete drive down the driveway slowly, which would pull the top of the tree down. Brian would then cut the tree with the chainsaw, just above the level of the chain that held both trees steady.

I had a bad feeling. So I deliberately did not watch. I turned my back to the front windows and bit my nails.

The next thing I heard – because the windows were open with the nice weather – was a chainsaw starting up, and Brian yelling “OK, GO!” Then I heard my brother hitting the gas… a bit too hard. He wasn’t trying to, but the hand controls must have been in his way. Then I heard more yelling, and I decided I’d better look out the front window quick, to see if there was going to be an emergency room visit in the immediate future.

What I saw could have been in slow motion, or a bad scene in a film, and it wouldn’t have been any more bizarre to watch. As Brian yelled “No, no!” my brother must have heard, “Go, go!” and he kept tiptoeing the gas pedal, which tightened the nylon rope even further. The now-weakened tree, anchored with chain to its brother, squeaked and cracked. The tension on the rope pulled it off the hitch, through the pulley, snapping the tree like a whip. The tree then flipped exactly 90 degrees, and fell towards the front porch, landing with an unnatural thud, squarely on the edge of the tractor’s open hood, flipping the hood closed as it did so. I screamed.

The deep V in the tractor’s hood was almost comical looking, it was so deep. But that wasn’t the only damage. Fortunately the very tip of the tree ended about a foot off the corner of our brand new front porch, but it took the cable and phone wires down with it. The metal plate that held the wires to the house was now dangling a couple of feet off the siding.

I burst out the front door, calling to the guys to see if they were ok. My brother had parked the truck, leaving the driver door open. He stood next to the truck covering his open mouth, ostensibly to hold in his shocked and wildly amused “I don’t want to laugh but I can’t help it” laugh. My husband had the same look on his face and was trying less hard to keep the laughter in.

I was not laughing.

I turned on my heel and went back into the house to get the phone and the phone book to look up the utility company’s number. I got on the phone with a very nice woman in customer service who could tell I was trying really hard not to go ballistic on her. She did some checking and discovered that there was already a crew on our street doing some tree trimming and utility pole repairs. She said she would dispatch them to our place immediately so they could evaluate the damage and try to fix it. She did let me know that this type of damage was usually not covered in our monthly insurance coverage, since it was something we did and not an issue of bad weather.

I was actually seething, I realized, as I was talking and breathing through my clenched teeth. I don’t think I had ever been that angry before or since.

I grabbed my purse and the keys to the truck and walked out the front door. I stalked over to Pete and Brian, who by this point had tears in their eyes, they were laughing so hard.

With my jaw tight, I told Brian I was going shopping, and that I’d be back in about an hour and a half. “You’d better have this f-ing mess cleaned up by the time I get back, and I mean ALL of it.” I didn’t wait for his response and got into the truck and drove away, squealing the tires at the bottom of the driveway as I turned on to the street.

When I got back, the tree was removed and cut up, the wires were back on the house, and there was an epilogue. Unfortunately there wasn’t much they could do with the tractor hood, at least in the time that I was gone.

The utility workers drove up in their truck, parked it at the end of the driveway, and walked up to Pete and Brian, who were lounging by the shop drinking Coronas.

“So who’s the Paul Bunyan?” asked one of the utility workers. My brother apparently collapsed into giggles then, just about spitting out his beer, as my husband sheepishly raised one hand off his arm crutch.

The utility guy grinned. “We’ll get you fixed up. Just don’t do it again, ok?”

So it's been a month since I "promised" something

Yeah ... that. Just finished up the quarterly newsletter for the WNBA (www.wnba-books.org) and have also started some research on converting print books into ebooks... so I can't say I didn't have the time to write. I've been making time for other things, however. And I have now come up with quite a few more "incidents" to write about, including the many hospital stays of my ex. Wonder how those never made it into the "idea list" yet; I guess I was blocking them :/