March 15th, 2005

trust, best friends forever, snot-nosed brats

Beware the Integrated Drive Electronics of March

Five years ago today, I became engaged for the second time. I had been dating an old friend from high school, River, but I'd been hanging around with another high school buddy, BJ. BJ and I were up too late at his place, and he was helping me pick out a brand-new laptop computer that was just right for what I wanted and needed.

Something hit me over the head, and I knew that if I did not kiss him, life would be unthinkable. So I kissed him. Once. He froze. Twice. He froze. A third time, and he kissed me back.

We knew, pretty much without discussing it, that we were going to get married.


We wound up moving to Arizona. We wound up breaking up.
Sometimes it just doesn't work.
Sometimes, something better comes of the ruins.
  • Current Music
    wind chimes
teddyborg, geeky

Pitch a big enough bitchfit on slashdot, AOL will try to explain itself.

User-to-user private conversations via AIM wasn't what AOL meant they had the right to, they say.

The article points out one of the "Well, duh" things that I noticed when people got paranoid about AIM privacy -- namely, there's so very much going through that it would be horrendously wasteful of disk space and processing power to even think about monitoring or logging even a fraction of it. "Hundreds of gigabytes a day", evidently. I can see that -- I have extensive chats with friends, and we can get 20k text exchanged in 20 minutes no problem. I type faster than some people can even read.

Yes, it would be pretty simple to do keyword searches on IMs and see if there's anything worth listening to, from a security standpoint. And yes, that could be kind of creepy. But also keep in mind that if your e-mail provider is spam-filtering your e-mail, they're shuffling through your e-mail in a very similar way, which is also kind of creepy. It's for, after all, your own protection.

I have a somewhat relaxed view about those little personal details that I'd absolutely die if anyone else other than people I trusted found out about. I do not honestly give a flying fuck at the moon if some security geek over at AOL knows that ICQ User #55527386 has such-and-such sexual kinks and has had unprotected cybersex with godai. (*waves* Hi, Dave!) I do not give a flying fuck at the moon that Dave-the-security-screener at the Ontario, CA airport (I think that was where I was...) knows the majority of the contents of my occult library and my 2003-era sex toys. I don't know Dave-the-security-screener. I don't know the security geeks over at AOL. I don't know the Phoenix Sky Harbor security screeners personally, and as far as they're concerned, they don't know me, though in actuality, they're only two degrees of separation away from me. (Sis was bringing home workplace gossip about my luggage for a few weeks.)

But then, I was raised with little expectation of privacy, in the thick of the information age. Not everyone else was.

*shrug*
  • Current Mood
    calm calm
running, bomb tech

Headache pink

I was washing my glasses, and the screw came out.

Again.

I'm sure this means that something is, well, screwed-up. A screw loose. Something right in my vision that I can't see. I already grokked the apology that I'll have to make to L, once certain crucial items of jewelry have been transferred. Perhaps before that, but we'll see how things work out.

I'm wearing my old glasses and bracing myself for the trip out into the heat and noise that will have to ensue if I can't screw it back together myself.
Nine

Hands

I used to be good at the little things. I had tiny hands, nine-year-old hands that were strong enough for all sorts of things, and I'd fix all the things that Mama's eyes weren't good enough for, her hands weren't small enough for. I was even stronger, some of the time. I could lift her up and twirl her around, after I got tall enough. I could even grab my father around the knees and lift him.

I'm not nine anymore, and I missed that today, when I finally found the screwdriver that could fix my glasses. It took a few tries to get the screw lined up right, and I had to squeeze very carefully to get the holes in place. I had to take off my emergency backup glasses and look at the screw ever-so-carefully to make sure it was OK to start moving the screwdriver.

I still have strong, capable, dexterous hands. But I'm not nine.
Housewife's Lament

Home Improvement (theory, practice, and a bad set of lungs)

I've been putting stuff away, slowly but surely. There are things that belong in the cupboards that aren't up yet, so that will have to wait until the people actually install the cupboards. It's a maze of a Rube Goldberg apartment, almost -- there are things that need to be done so other things can be done, and nothing can get done until a few crucial pieces are in place.

In order to get under-bed storage, I need a bed. In order to have a bed, I need to put the thing together. I will need help to put the thing together. I will probably call upon my Evil Twin (who's now a brother by his custom and mine, if not by law, biology, or rearing) for help, sometime when the two of us aren't terribly exhausted. With any luck, it'll be a time when we can happily wander off to the hot tub afterwards.

In order to get the use of the top of the little drawers in the corner, I need to clear the under-bed storage boxes off the top. See previous item about under-bed storage.

Unpacking dishes will either be a dreadful chore stretching out for days, or something easy done in a matter of minutes on either end, depending on when the dishwasher goes live. The dishwasher is currently out of commission. There are currently at least two boxes of dishes awaiting deployment. Many of them will probably take up residence in the top of the inaccessible cabinet, for the simple reason that I do not have enough household to warrant the amount of dishes I have. First, of course, I have to clear off the top of the refrigerator so I can then put things in there...

I cannot currently lift boxes weighing more than a certain threshold amount, lest I turn blue and fall over on the floor immediately, or lest I turn pale green and wish I were fallen over on the floor for the next half-hour, generally while coughing in abject misery. This goes double for lifting things repeatedly, or up onto high tippy places.

I think I've worked out where I'm going to put the coffee table, once I finally have a place to put the coffee table. I think the coffee table should go somewhere in the heap of crud that was supposed to have been close to the dining area. I'm very proud of myself for actually having a coffee table. I'm very proud of myself for having my own apartment. I just need more storage space, more bookshelves, and a few fewer mathoms.
  • Current Music
    Chromatics, the Swift song, in my head
high energy magic

Holy goddamn motherfucking piece of incompetent half-baked dweebazoid craptastical spellwork!!!!!!!!

Oh, I fucking did not. Except I bloody well fucking did.

*sigh*

When my bondmate had to make a very important choice, back in January of 2001. I fiddled with probability. Swung the scales. Made sure the choice would be a free one. Diverted attention from my own goddamn self.

GUESS WHO FORGOT TO TAKE THAT OFF????!!!


Figment has chastised me thoroughly.

...ok, he says "slightly."
  • Current Music
    the smug snickers of Bondmate #3 over my shoulder