Thursday, March 30, 2006
Monday, March 27, 2006
Technology and the Truant
# 1 Son, who never gets sick mind you, was home today with one NASTY stomach virus. I will save you gentle readers the gory details, but you parents out there know exactly what I am talking about. As he missed a day of classes, I certainly expected some type of communication from the school administration.
When I was a student and was absent from class, some poor old secretary had to make live phone calls to notify a parent that little Johnny was not in school that day. I'll have to add that to the list of jobs I would hate.
Now in MODERN times, as my kids love to say, the school administration has a computer call each house to announce Little john's truancy. I can only imagine that some old woman now just types a list of student ID numbers into some program and off the auto-dialer goes.
You would think that this modern system is much more efficient than good old Ms. Finklepickle using her arthritic hands to dial all those numbers and talk to all those parents, wouldn't you? Aha! That kind of thinking is flawed.
The purpose of these notifications is to make the parent aware that Little Johnny wasn't at school today and was probably out snatching purses, breaking into houses and getting all cracked up. We got our call from the school computer (with the eerie "humanistic" voice) at about 8pm this evening.
Efficient and successful, yes? Well I ask you. Just WHO do you think answers the telephone in the evenings in every house in America that contains a teenager?
And you don't even actually have to own a teenager to answer that one.
I think old blue-haired Ms. Finklepickle deserves her job back.
When I was a student and was absent from class, some poor old secretary had to make live phone calls to notify a parent that little Johnny was not in school that day. I'll have to add that to the list of jobs I would hate.
Now in MODERN times, as my kids love to say, the school administration has a computer call each house to announce Little john's truancy. I can only imagine that some old woman now just types a list of student ID numbers into some program and off the auto-dialer goes.
You would think that this modern system is much more efficient than good old Ms. Finklepickle using her arthritic hands to dial all those numbers and talk to all those parents, wouldn't you? Aha! That kind of thinking is flawed.
The purpose of these notifications is to make the parent aware that Little Johnny wasn't at school today and was probably out snatching purses, breaking into houses and getting all cracked up. We got our call from the school computer (with the eerie "humanistic" voice) at about 8pm this evening.
Efficient and successful, yes? Well I ask you. Just WHO do you think answers the telephone in the evenings in every house in America that contains a teenager?
And you don't even actually have to own a teenager to answer that one.
I think old blue-haired Ms. Finklepickle deserves her job back.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
In the Confessional
Forgive me my Blog, for I have sinned against you yet again. I only get 6.72 free minutes to myself a day and instead of spending them here with you, staying out of trouble, I have been lured into the land of evil. Yes, once again I have gone to the dark-side that is eBay.
I know that I am jeopardizing my sanity, not to mention my bank account. And yes, I do feel guilty knowing that my trusting family thinks I am up here working on you and reading all of our blog friends. I am just having difficulty stopping myself this time. Oh sure, before the baby I was selling more than I was buying thus clearing the house of incredible amounts of clutter AND financing my latest eBay purchasing fetish. Is it my fault that now I only have a very small amount of spare time to spend on my beloved site? I can either choose to list and sell our crap or (shudder with glee) bid, Bid, BID and BUY! That's not even a choice.
Surely there will be some point when my bank account will no longer be able to finance these online flights of fancy - probably about in the next 3 minutes.
In the meantime, I've got to run. There's a lot containing hemp and Czech glass beads closing in 45 seconds. I don't want to get sniped! Nighty Nite!
I know that I am jeopardizing my sanity, not to mention my bank account. And yes, I do feel guilty knowing that my trusting family thinks I am up here working on you and reading all of our blog friends. I am just having difficulty stopping myself this time. Oh sure, before the baby I was selling more than I was buying thus clearing the house of incredible amounts of clutter AND financing my latest eBay purchasing fetish. Is it my fault that now I only have a very small amount of spare time to spend on my beloved site? I can either choose to list and sell our crap or (shudder with glee) bid, Bid, BID and BUY! That's not even a choice.
Surely there will be some point when my bank account will no longer be able to finance these online flights of fancy - probably about in the next 3 minutes.
In the meantime, I've got to run. There's a lot containing hemp and Czech glass beads closing in 45 seconds. I don't want to get sniped! Nighty Nite!
Sunday, March 05, 2006
Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds
OK, originally there was this big LONG post here about my "bitchy" attitude when dealing with contractors, new windows FINALLY installed, being careful about what you demand and when, my entire family being high, caulk fumes, and a whole lot of other stuff... but then I re-read it.
Let's start again next week, shall we?
Let's start again next week, shall we?
Wednesday, March 01, 2006
On Star is Creepy
It is "Big Brother" enough for me that OnStar can track your every movement, relay your location to other agencies and even unlock your doors. As creepy as that is, now your vehicle can email you through the OnStar system. Is this a service I would want? I honestly don't think I want my car talking to me. I can imagine it now:
"Hey Bimbo:
It's time we talked. Have you even glanced into my back seat lately? Are you aware that there are three moldy Pop-Tarts crammed down behind my seats? Go ahead; check it out if you dare. While you are at it, be sure to note the petrified French fries on the floorboard and the 3-month-old Snickers bar that's ground in the carpet. There are several papers and tests crammed up under the passenger seat that those rotten kids hope you never find. Are you really that stupid? It is rather binding and uncomfortable to me. And what genius gave the kids Cheetos? Did you not think about my seat backs? They're now stained orange thanks to your carelessness. It is humiliating the way you and those crappy kids treat me. I have seen mini-vans carrying quadruplet toddlers in better shape than me. You better get your act together or I swear I will overheat on a lonely stretch of road when it's just you and the kids with NO cell phone service. Then YOU can see how you like getting Snickers ground into you while being smeared with Cheetos. Don't make me do it.
Sincerely,
Your Overworked and Under-Appreciated Car
"Hey Bimbo:
It's time we talked. Have you even glanced into my back seat lately? Are you aware that there are three moldy Pop-Tarts crammed down behind my seats? Go ahead; check it out if you dare. While you are at it, be sure to note the petrified French fries on the floorboard and the 3-month-old Snickers bar that's ground in the carpet. There are several papers and tests crammed up under the passenger seat that those rotten kids hope you never find. Are you really that stupid? It is rather binding and uncomfortable to me. And what genius gave the kids Cheetos? Did you not think about my seat backs? They're now stained orange thanks to your carelessness. It is humiliating the way you and those crappy kids treat me. I have seen mini-vans carrying quadruplet toddlers in better shape than me. You better get your act together or I swear I will overheat on a lonely stretch of road when it's just you and the kids with NO cell phone service. Then YOU can see how you like getting Snickers ground into you while being smeared with Cheetos. Don't make me do it.
Sincerely,
Your Overworked and Under-Appreciated Car