Okay so RantWoman likes getting email answered on some finite time horizon. Okay, so even though RantWoman is happy to work with email, not everyone is and the job posting should list a phone number that gets an actual human, not just a job line, especially one that is going to chirp for half a millenium about how the organization strives to achieve "cultural competence."
When neither of these funny cultural fixations obtains, RantWoman would prefer not to have to dig through several layers of website to find the main get-in-the-door phone number. RantWoman also can always be annoyed by job postings which require a driver's license and by organizational representatives who find it unfathomable that anyone a. might not drive and b. might have the temerity to think he or she can meet the other demands of the job description without driving. Just watch!
On top of all this RantWoman is still crazy enough to want to work for this organization so she hopes SOMEONE calls back.
Cut! Cut! Cut!
A very chagrined RantWoman wishes to apologize: RantWoman sent the email inquiry to the WRONG email domain. RantWoman will now work more politely on her own cultural competence.
RantWoman will also reflect on the fact that this is the sort of mistake it is very easy for RantWoman to make. Unfortunately, it is easy for a couple other people RantWoman knows and would love to rely on to also make and it is a problem for them for the same reasons it is a problem for RantWoman: ill-behaving eyeballs.
RantWoman should know better than to expect her eyeballs to work. RantWoman should make the screen reader read her anything important just to make sure she gets all the details. Sure. This is SO tedious and the art of parsing details or stopping the screen reader and making it go letter by letter so interminable. Can anyone imagine why people would not do this?
Friday, January 30, 2009
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Death by Powerpoint, part N+1
One of the problems with being RantWoman is that even when one goes to gatherings of people doing really, cool, interesting, progressive, insightful, socially useful, awesomely interesting things, one still sometimes comes home with grumbles. Almost anything to do with Powerpoint is at high risk for generating grumbles and sometimes causing RantWoman to decide she has to redefine what she thought she was at the event to do.
(For links to yesterday's really cool stuff, see the bottom of this post. To see several entertaining encounters with Powerpoint first, just keep reading.)
Once upon a time in an actual workplace, when RantWoman's vision was merely subpar and not as bad as it is today, RantWoman was confronted both with a presenter having the inevitable problems with her computer and, once the computer got connected properly with the projector, with purple text on a lime green background.
RantWoman has always worn pretty thick glasses and electronic purple lettering almost never holds up. Spherical distortion, red trails along one side of all the letters, rainbows and trails are really fun for physics class and sometimes more entertaining than a presentation. However, none of this plays well with lime green background, and RantWoman just blurted out that "Powerpoint is spawn of Satan." Okay, so some people are not used to talking about Satan in the workplace and even less used to talking about Powerpoint and Satan in the same sentence. Possibly RantWoman should have confined herself to comments about the purple on green issue?
A couple years ago, there was a project funded by Congress that went around holding something called Healthcare Summits in several different cities. The project conducted pretty tightly-run public meetings seeking input on several pre-defined questions. In Seattle the meeting was held in a very large meeting room at Seattle Center and OF COURSE there was Powerpoint; projecting Powerpoint on jumbo screens alas does not necessarily enhance its readability. RantWoman did not even think to request slides in advance, but it turned out that apparently RantWoman's voice was needed.
Some of the Powerpoint slides contained options people were supposed to vote on with little selection devices provided at all our seats, but the facilitator kept forgetting to read the options for people who could not see the slides. RantWoman knows there were several in the room because in addition to the ones who spoke up, RantWoman heard several different people, especially some elderly folk, near her whispering to their neighbors.
After a couple rounds of people politely waiting for the microphone runner and the speaker trying to run ahead before everyone could vote, RantWoman just started asking very loudly, whenever the facilitator forgot to read the options and their numbers, for the options and their nubmers to be read. This got a little repetitive and RantWoman gave up on any thought of nuanced contributions to the discussionm but at least we all got better assurance that we were voting as we intended!
RantWoman once went to a presentation about personal budgeting and planning for major purchases or self-employment. The presentation was well-done EXCEPT for two points. First, brown letters on a medium blue background is really not the best contrast. It's not that reading the text from anywhere further away than her own screen is a reasonable expectation for RantWoman anyway; it's just that RantWoman was still in a space of thinking abstractly that better contrast would hypothetically be nice.
The second problem, which alas the poor contrast did not obscure, was that the presentation had these spiffy brown blobs to illustrate the Tater family making budget decisions. Now, I don't know about you, but sound financial decisions just are not the first thing I think of when confronted with fuzzy brown blobs. Once RantWoman just stopped looking at the screen, things went much better though!
Compared with all the sins mentioned above yesterday's Digital Inclusion Summit might be a mere blip, except of course for the word "inclusion" and the typical nature of the problems.
Registration for this event was through some kind of automated system. RantWoman does not remember whether the original application process had any options for requesting reasonable accommodations. RantWoman got multiple confirmation emails but these also were deficient in any ways to contact someone about last minute changes such as cancellation or requests for reasonable accommodations
RantWoman's main accommodation request in this situation: if one thinks about it, one can request electronic copies of presentations either in advance or afterward. In advance can be dicey because, well, other presenters prepare about the way RantWoman does: that is between procrastination and last-minute flashes of brilliance, nothing is ever ready until the night before the event at the earliest and sometimes not until the day of the event.
Of course, once one shows up, one's laptop battery could quit. Or the conference planners might not have spent money on wi-fi service from the hotel. Or speakers might be cheerfully chattering on, some of them pointing at their Powerpoints, some of them doing fine without Powerpoints, and more than one rendered stunningly mute when asked just to read an email address for someone who cannot read it on the screen. RantWoman supposes she could ask a neighbor to do this, but RantWoman has been around enough people who are constantly doing various coping things to suspect she probably was not the only one in the room having trouble with the Powerpoints.
RantWoman guesses she should be glad she was at this event partly on behalf of a place that specializes in assistive technology and accessibility. This does not mean even that place always succeeds but it does mean RantWoman decided that speaking about access to information was part of her reason to be there.
Somewhere in all this vexation, RantWoman suspects there might be some Opportunity lurking on the Make Your Own Job front. RantWoman would not mind in the least if there were more obvious cash and less obvious aggravation, but at least it's opportunity. Meanwhile: the places that contributed to yesterday's summit:
https://www.one-economy.com/
www.communitiesconnect.org/
www.npowerseattle.org/
www.seattle.gov/tech/
(For links to yesterday's really cool stuff, see the bottom of this post. To see several entertaining encounters with Powerpoint first, just keep reading.)
Once upon a time in an actual workplace, when RantWoman's vision was merely subpar and not as bad as it is today, RantWoman was confronted both with a presenter having the inevitable problems with her computer and, once the computer got connected properly with the projector, with purple text on a lime green background.
RantWoman has always worn pretty thick glasses and electronic purple lettering almost never holds up. Spherical distortion, red trails along one side of all the letters, rainbows and trails are really fun for physics class and sometimes more entertaining than a presentation. However, none of this plays well with lime green background, and RantWoman just blurted out that "Powerpoint is spawn of Satan." Okay, so some people are not used to talking about Satan in the workplace and even less used to talking about Powerpoint and Satan in the same sentence. Possibly RantWoman should have confined herself to comments about the purple on green issue?
A couple years ago, there was a project funded by Congress that went around holding something called Healthcare Summits in several different cities. The project conducted pretty tightly-run public meetings seeking input on several pre-defined questions. In Seattle the meeting was held in a very large meeting room at Seattle Center and OF COURSE there was Powerpoint; projecting Powerpoint on jumbo screens alas does not necessarily enhance its readability. RantWoman did not even think to request slides in advance, but it turned out that apparently RantWoman's voice was needed.
Some of the Powerpoint slides contained options people were supposed to vote on with little selection devices provided at all our seats, but the facilitator kept forgetting to read the options for people who could not see the slides. RantWoman knows there were several in the room because in addition to the ones who spoke up, RantWoman heard several different people, especially some elderly folk, near her whispering to their neighbors.
After a couple rounds of people politely waiting for the microphone runner and the speaker trying to run ahead before everyone could vote, RantWoman just started asking very loudly, whenever the facilitator forgot to read the options and their numbers, for the options and their nubmers to be read. This got a little repetitive and RantWoman gave up on any thought of nuanced contributions to the discussionm but at least we all got better assurance that we were voting as we intended!
RantWoman once went to a presentation about personal budgeting and planning for major purchases or self-employment. The presentation was well-done EXCEPT for two points. First, brown letters on a medium blue background is really not the best contrast. It's not that reading the text from anywhere further away than her own screen is a reasonable expectation for RantWoman anyway; it's just that RantWoman was still in a space of thinking abstractly that better contrast would hypothetically be nice.
The second problem, which alas the poor contrast did not obscure, was that the presentation had these spiffy brown blobs to illustrate the Tater family making budget decisions. Now, I don't know about you, but sound financial decisions just are not the first thing I think of when confronted with fuzzy brown blobs. Once RantWoman just stopped looking at the screen, things went much better though!
Compared with all the sins mentioned above yesterday's Digital Inclusion Summit might be a mere blip, except of course for the word "inclusion" and the typical nature of the problems.
Registration for this event was through some kind of automated system. RantWoman does not remember whether the original application process had any options for requesting reasonable accommodations. RantWoman got multiple confirmation emails but these also were deficient in any ways to contact someone about last minute changes such as cancellation or requests for reasonable accommodations
RantWoman's main accommodation request in this situation: if one thinks about it, one can request electronic copies of presentations either in advance or afterward. In advance can be dicey because, well, other presenters prepare about the way RantWoman does: that is between procrastination and last-minute flashes of brilliance, nothing is ever ready until the night before the event at the earliest and sometimes not until the day of the event.
Of course, once one shows up, one's laptop battery could quit. Or the conference planners might not have spent money on wi-fi service from the hotel. Or speakers might be cheerfully chattering on, some of them pointing at their Powerpoints, some of them doing fine without Powerpoints, and more than one rendered stunningly mute when asked just to read an email address for someone who cannot read it on the screen. RantWoman supposes she could ask a neighbor to do this, but RantWoman has been around enough people who are constantly doing various coping things to suspect she probably was not the only one in the room having trouble with the Powerpoints.
RantWoman guesses she should be glad she was at this event partly on behalf of a place that specializes in assistive technology and accessibility. This does not mean even that place always succeeds but it does mean RantWoman decided that speaking about access to information was part of her reason to be there.
Somewhere in all this vexation, RantWoman suspects there might be some Opportunity lurking on the Make Your Own Job front. RantWoman would not mind in the least if there were more obvious cash and less obvious aggravation, but at least it's opportunity. Meanwhile: the places that contributed to yesterday's summit:
https://www.one-economy.com/
www.communitiesconnect.org/
www.npowerseattle.org/
www.seattle.gov/tech/
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Blowing up puppies
PANIC NOT! No actual puppies will be harmed before the fact or after the fact in connection with generating this post, but RantWoman is just going to have to wait to appreciate puppy cuteness in person rather than by email.
RantWoman likes to start her day with e-greetings to and from all her friends. This can be dangerous because of the risk of getting sucked away from the to-do list--or in this case sucked into an internet maelstrom.
RantWoman's friend Ms. J got two new puppies somewhere toward the end of the Snowpocalypse. RantWoman assumes the puppies are terribly cute. RantWoman even has photographic evidence in her email that purports to depict this overweaning cuteness. So far, despite more than enough technology and skills, presumably, to appreciate this cuteness, RantWoman only got the cuteness summary last night from another friend's telephone photo descriptive service.
How can this be? The two lovely .jpg files came into email fine. They had a topical subject line. They opened fine. RantWoman had the screen enlarger set at its usual settings and saw in one image two mounds she assumes are sleeping puppies though she cannot find any recognizable limbs. The other image has a big sweet picture of a beaming Ms. J and a clear view of the flowered upholstery on the chair behind her but RantWoman could not find any puppies.
RantWoman tried using the drag bars to move around and look at the image. She tried the screen enlarger's focus moving buttons that shift images differently than the drag bars. RantWoman even tried disabling the screen enlarger entirely to try for a big picture look to help her zero in on key details at a bigger magnification. At some point RantWoman just lost patience and decided to get on with life. So far, the expected astronomical overall puppy cuteness quotient is completely lost on RantWoman.
Only last night, while talking about the puppies with the Telephone Photo Descriptive Service did RantWoman learn the full cuteness detail: Super Cute Kitten who lives with the two new puppies is, in one picture asleep on the two puppies. Everyone say "ohhhhhh!"
RantWoman likes to start her day with e-greetings to and from all her friends. This can be dangerous because of the risk of getting sucked away from the to-do list--or in this case sucked into an internet maelstrom.
RantWoman's friend Ms. J got two new puppies somewhere toward the end of the Snowpocalypse. RantWoman assumes the puppies are terribly cute. RantWoman even has photographic evidence in her email that purports to depict this overweaning cuteness. So far, despite more than enough technology and skills, presumably, to appreciate this cuteness, RantWoman only got the cuteness summary last night from another friend's telephone photo descriptive service.
How can this be? The two lovely .jpg files came into email fine. They had a topical subject line. They opened fine. RantWoman had the screen enlarger set at its usual settings and saw in one image two mounds she assumes are sleeping puppies though she cannot find any recognizable limbs. The other image has a big sweet picture of a beaming Ms. J and a clear view of the flowered upholstery on the chair behind her but RantWoman could not find any puppies.
RantWoman tried using the drag bars to move around and look at the image. She tried the screen enlarger's focus moving buttons that shift images differently than the drag bars. RantWoman even tried disabling the screen enlarger entirely to try for a big picture look to help her zero in on key details at a bigger magnification. At some point RantWoman just lost patience and decided to get on with life. So far, the expected astronomical overall puppy cuteness quotient is completely lost on RantWoman.
Only last night, while talking about the puppies with the Telephone Photo Descriptive Service did RantWoman learn the full cuteness detail: Super Cute Kitten who lives with the two new puppies is, in one picture asleep on the two puppies. Everyone say "ohhhhhh!"
Monday, January 26, 2009
Elections Director Elections
RantWoman did NOT vote for the local initiative to make the King County Elections Director an elected position. Now that other voters in their infinite.... have gone and passed this initiative, RantWoman strongly advocates paying attention and voting on or before February 3,. 2009.
Find Municipal League info here:
http://www.munileague.org/
King County elections page
http://www.kingcounty.gov/elections.aspx
(RantWoman knows she left the urls out naked. Sometimes she does that.)
Find Municipal League info here:
http://www.munileague.org/
King County elections page
http://www.kingcounty.gov/elections.aspx
(RantWoman knows she left the urls out naked. Sometimes she does that.)
Municipal League report on Metro
RantWoman LOVES the bus. The bus means mobility, access to activity, rolling sociological project, and many other adventures. RantWoman winds up devoting a lot of time to Da Bus and numerous associated questions.
Let's face it: RantWoman fully qualifies as a nerd. One reason is that RantWoman does things like read the Municipal League's recent report on Metro in her spare time. Perhaps you will find it enjoyable as well.
Municipal League Report on Metro
RantWoman may rant after finishing it but is posting for others' attention as well.
Let's face it: RantWoman fully qualifies as a nerd. One reason is that RantWoman does things like read the Municipal League's recent report on Metro in her spare time. Perhaps you will find it enjoyable as well.
Municipal League Report on Metro
RantWoman may rant after finishing it but is posting for others' attention as well.
Now that I am done snarling, Hire Me!
Sometimes, RantWoman really likes her Make your own job status but now and again for various reasons RantWoman takes it into her head to apply for actual salaried positions. Today is such an occasion and RantWoman feels rants coming on about some recurring themes in such ventures.
First, the organization has the usual peppy diversity statement about welcoming diverse applicants while the application process poses some big accessibility challenges. Sorry the exact text is omitted and the organization gets to stay anonymous. The problem is ubiquitous, and if you worry that the problem affects your organization, it probably does.
The job description includes nothing in the essential job functions that would explain why having a driver's license is a job requirement. Happily for all concerned, RantWoman does not have a driver's license and persists in having an active functional life regardless. This does not mean RantWoman does not get annoyed to have to put formulaic legalistic language about the whole topic into the application process!
Second the required application documents are PDF files with no way to save changes. RantWoman does not have a printer but goes a couple places to print. Obviously editing the document at home and then reviewing / printing it elsewhere would be good. Being able to save an electronic copy would be desireable regardless. RantWoman has filled out and saved personal copies of tax forms and other well-designed PDF files, so she is aware that such is possible.
RantWoman is also aware that she is not necessarily the most sophisticated user of screen reader software on the planet so it is possible there is some key piece of knowledge she is missing.
RantWoman does not own either a scannor and OCR software or a copy of the whole Acrobat program but knows of a few different ways to convert PDF files various ways. Some are more suitable than others for job applications, and RantWoman will probably do plan B first. Knowing this does not reduce the annoyance of having to invoke these methods as one more gosh-darned step in the application process.
RantWoman is also aware that there are a zillion ways to generate PDF files through other software or available on the internet. Generating PDF files with anything but actual Acrobat software produces highly variable results as far as whether the resulting files can be updated within Acrobat Reader.
Finally, RantWoman is aware that figuring all this stuff out should be something normal people get paid for even though it is pretty far out of scope for the specific underfunded nonprofit where RantWoman is considering applying.
Now RantWoman will shut up and attempt to resume normal life with a few other considerations on the horizon.
First, the organization has the usual peppy diversity statement about welcoming diverse applicants while the application process poses some big accessibility challenges. Sorry the exact text is omitted and the organization gets to stay anonymous. The problem is ubiquitous, and if you worry that the problem affects your organization, it probably does.
The job description includes nothing in the essential job functions that would explain why having a driver's license is a job requirement. Happily for all concerned, RantWoman does not have a driver's license and persists in having an active functional life regardless. This does not mean RantWoman does not get annoyed to have to put formulaic legalistic language about the whole topic into the application process!
Second the required application documents are PDF files with no way to save changes. RantWoman does not have a printer but goes a couple places to print. Obviously editing the document at home and then reviewing / printing it elsewhere would be good. Being able to save an electronic copy would be desireable regardless. RantWoman has filled out and saved personal copies of tax forms and other well-designed PDF files, so she is aware that such is possible.
RantWoman is also aware that she is not necessarily the most sophisticated user of screen reader software on the planet so it is possible there is some key piece of knowledge she is missing.
RantWoman does not own either a scannor and OCR software or a copy of the whole Acrobat program but knows of a few different ways to convert PDF files various ways. Some are more suitable than others for job applications, and RantWoman will probably do plan B first. Knowing this does not reduce the annoyance of having to invoke these methods as one more gosh-darned step in the application process.
RantWoman is also aware that there are a zillion ways to generate PDF files through other software or available on the internet. Generating PDF files with anything but actual Acrobat software produces highly variable results as far as whether the resulting files can be updated within Acrobat Reader.
Finally, RantWoman is aware that figuring all this stuff out should be something normal people get paid for even though it is pretty far out of scope for the specific underfunded nonprofit where RantWoman is considering applying.
Now RantWoman will shut up and attempt to resume normal life with a few other considerations on the horizon.
Saturday, January 24, 2009
A mussels emergency
Yesterday, oddly enough in the middle of a conversation about overeating, RantWoman got a call about a culinary emergency. Excellent buddies and dining companions The Weed Whacking Wenches had too many mussels and needed help for dinner.
This is definitely not the sort of emergency calls RantWoman is used to getting. One of RantWoman's Make your own job gigs involves setting up disaster preparedness workshops, talking to people about earthquakes, pushing fire safety, exhorting people to have food and water for 3-7 days, telling people to make a communications plan for reconnecting with household and other loved ones. The work has its rewards but well, an oversupply of seafood that won't keep for three days is just a different category of problem.
The story is, the Wenches' beloved market was having problems with its seafood cooler. So when WingNut went to get their regular Friday night mussels, considering the problems keeping mussels at the store, a good handful more of mussels went into the bag for a regular customer than ... (Don't want to spoil the secret of how it happened.) Now the Wenches were the ones with the problems keeping mussels. Luckily they are resourceful and a surfeit of seafood is just the sort of problem RantWoman is delighted to tuck into. Not to mention that dining with the Wenches is always a delightful medley of flavors and stories, of colors and vitamins, of kitties and laughs. We all like to cook and are prone to improvisation.
For instance, one time we were eating supper while talking about breakfast. Turns out, we all like a good balance of protein, fiber, vitamins. RantWoman mentioned being indifferent to pie crust but really liking a favorite pumpkin pie recipe baked just as a custard with slightly reduced sweetening. The next time RantWoman dined with the Wenches, they said well the custard was a great idea, but they liked it a little better with oat bran and wheat germ mixed in. RantWoman went home and tried it and had to agree.
Another time, the Wenches were baking lasagna ahead for the week while serving something else. They diverged from the recipe a little about something on the bottom and wound up having to add an improvisation to make things come out right on top. Well the noodles all got covered though the result wound up being soupier than optimal, fabulously tasty but soupy.
So then RantWoman confessed to a mishap making gringa ponche over the holidays. Toward the end of the Snowpocalypse, all of RantWoman's local family finally got around to a holiday festivity. RantWoman had a hankering for something hot, spicy / fruity and read a bunch of recipes on the internet for Mexican ponche. Then she threw a bunch of ingredients in a pot, like a hefty mulled cider or a Russian compote, or fusion ponche. Then RantWoman screwed up and threw in way nmore than enough whole cloves to push the brew past pleasantly pungent and well into the fierce zone. RantWoman's family did not disown her, but she laughed sheepishly with the Wenches about it and Curmudgeon also admitted a cloves mishap or two.
We all got to talking about improvising because the mussles were impeccable this time, steamed perfectly in white wine with fresh herbs. Curmudgeon mentioned having overdone the white wine sometime previously and off we went on our improvisational tales.Baby eye doctor
RantWoman had an eye appointment a couple days ago. RantWoman has a really kind doctor, but the place is not really one's first choice for where to have frequent flyer miles. The appointment went about the way RantWoman was worried about: time to sleep more, eat less salt, exercise and see if the problem subsides enough....
Enough about RantWoman's eye appointments. Now RantWoman wants to post about The Triplets! RantWoman knows a couple who just had triplets. The triplets were born very premature and they are lucky to have parents with time to participate in the NICU's recommended regimen. It has been several weeks already and in general both the triplets and their parents are doing great. Well Dad is really, really gushy, but considering the circumstances, that is definitely allowed They even have a blog--with LOTS of pictures, though RantWoman needs to find out the url and to ask permission before posting a link.
With premature babies, one big risk is Retinopathy of Prematurity (ROP). Dear Readers, if you need instant definition, you can Google it as well as RantWoman can. ROP is a problem in the development of babies' retinas and the blood vessels in their eyes. Premature babies are monitored. Some never have the problem. Some have early stages and grow out of it. Some need treatment and the sooner the better.
ROP is not RantWoman's problem but RantWoman is mainly reflecting on personal experience in the childhood eye tortures department and not feeling need for more detail. The point is that as the babies grow, they get periodic tests to evaluate what is happening to their retinas and the blood vessels in their eyes. These tests involve placing a little plastic device in the eyes to keep them open long enough for whatever else the doctor needs to do.
Owwww, right? RantWoman would not know because she was a child long ago, basically before there was dirt and certainly before there were these particular eye torture devices. Sometimes when RantWoman gets a new doctor, the doctor listens to medical history and says "well, now we do things differently." Maybe sometime RantWoman will post about other adventures involving trying to find the invisible bunnies her mother kept telling her were there when a very young RantWoman would not otherwise track whatever the doctor needed to have tracked.
Today's topic, though. is general parental freakout about child's medical challenges. This is a topic RantWoman and RantMom have begun cautiously treading into ever since RantMom moved to Seattle. Since then, we talk more often and more freely and with space to go away and come back to things. ROP is scary and the triplets' dad has parental freakout in a big way. It would be bad enough if he just had to make up invisible bunnies. He has to cope with the babies' howls of pain and extreme discomfort while some stranger sticks plastic things in their eyes and then shines bright lights or peers through a magnifier or whatever else is involved.
All RantWoman can say is, freakout is okay. It happens. It's understandable, but the babies are brave. Tell them so. Tell them this is necessary and will not last long. Tell them you love them. Tell them they are brave. It will make you feel braver too. Well, if Dad is too freaked out to hold the babies' hands or to comfort them then his efforts won't help or will make things harder, but Courage! Courage all around.
Enough about RantWoman's eye appointments. Now RantWoman wants to post about The Triplets! RantWoman knows a couple who just had triplets. The triplets were born very premature and they are lucky to have parents with time to participate in the NICU's recommended regimen. It has been several weeks already and in general both the triplets and their parents are doing great. Well Dad is really, really gushy, but considering the circumstances, that is definitely allowed They even have a blog--with LOTS of pictures, though RantWoman needs to find out the url and to ask permission before posting a link.
With premature babies, one big risk is Retinopathy of Prematurity (ROP). Dear Readers, if you need instant definition, you can Google it as well as RantWoman can. ROP is a problem in the development of babies' retinas and the blood vessels in their eyes. Premature babies are monitored. Some never have the problem. Some have early stages and grow out of it. Some need treatment and the sooner the better.
ROP is not RantWoman's problem but RantWoman is mainly reflecting on personal experience in the childhood eye tortures department and not feeling need for more detail. The point is that as the babies grow, they get periodic tests to evaluate what is happening to their retinas and the blood vessels in their eyes. These tests involve placing a little plastic device in the eyes to keep them open long enough for whatever else the doctor needs to do.
Owwww, right? RantWoman would not know because she was a child long ago, basically before there was dirt and certainly before there were these particular eye torture devices. Sometimes when RantWoman gets a new doctor, the doctor listens to medical history and says "well, now we do things differently." Maybe sometime RantWoman will post about other adventures involving trying to find the invisible bunnies her mother kept telling her were there when a very young RantWoman would not otherwise track whatever the doctor needed to have tracked.
Today's topic, though. is general parental freakout about child's medical challenges. This is a topic RantWoman and RantMom have begun cautiously treading into ever since RantMom moved to Seattle. Since then, we talk more often and more freely and with space to go away and come back to things. ROP is scary and the triplets' dad has parental freakout in a big way. It would be bad enough if he just had to make up invisible bunnies. He has to cope with the babies' howls of pain and extreme discomfort while some stranger sticks plastic things in their eyes and then shines bright lights or peers through a magnifier or whatever else is involved.
All RantWoman can say is, freakout is okay. It happens. It's understandable, but the babies are brave. Tell them so. Tell them this is necessary and will not last long. Tell them you love them. Tell them they are brave. It will make you feel braver too. Well, if Dad is too freaked out to hold the babies' hands or to comfort them then his efforts won't help or will make things harder, but Courage! Courage all around.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Terms of the Day
Yesterday aboard a couple of the rolling lexicographical laboratories in Metro's fleet, RantWoman learned a couple new terms:
The King County School for the Legally Challenged. Now what do you suppose that might be?
The such and such Transient Center. Did the driver misspeak or did RantWoman mishear?
The King County School for the Legally Challenged. Now what do you suppose that might be?
The such and such Transient Center. Did the driver misspeak or did RantWoman mishear?
Thursday, January 22, 2009
Pomegranate Juice
Last week's $30 bananas market basket seems to have done exceptionally well at free association travel. Today's vehicle is the pomegranate juice on sale two bottles for the price of one.
RantWoman loves pomegranates and she is so glad their antioxidants and assorted other beneficial components make them all the rage. RantWoman also loves pomegranate Juice and here is the story.
While in graduate school RantWoman spent four months in the then Soviet Union in the then-city of Leningrad, now again St. Petersburg. This was late winter and spring, just before Gorbachev went to China, a few months before the Berlin Wall fell. The mood in the city was expectant, but reality was pretty gritty. For example, RantWoman lived in an international dorm. She had two roommates from her program and two Russian roommates, all in an apartment smaller than the one she alone inhabits in Seattle.
The apartment had one large room for the chicks from the US and a smaller bedroom for whichever Russian roommate and boyfriend were staying there on a given week. There was an eccentric two-part bathroom where someone nearly always had laundry hanging, and a tiny kitchen with a small gas stove and what would be a dorm-sized fridge in the US. There was a certain amount of built-in refrigeration from windows that leaked gales despite our roommates' efforts to seal them with newspring papeier mache.The building had two small elevators, though on average less than one was ever working at any given moment. In short, this was basically a sixth-floor walkup and a stereotypical Soviet apartment.
There were also a couple stereotypical Soviet grocery emporia a couple blocks away. These ran heavy into bread, really good bread actually, pasta, eggs, dairy products of highly variable freshness, carrots, cabbage, potatoes, beets, and canned goods. There were better actual produce markets a good ways away, and very occasionally there were nutritional miracles, such as 3-liter bottles of pomegranate juice right at our own store.
The first time RantWoman saw one of these, she bought it just for the excitement. Do you have any idea how long three liters of juice last if one is the only one drinking it? Considering the refrigeration options, RantWoman guesses she also should be glad the juice did not completely turn to vinegar; the juice did tend to develop a fairly fierce tannic kick by the end of each bottle.Unfortunately, later, RantWoman acquired a cold and needed TWO more of these giant bottles one after another to keep the hacking at bay for the rest of her trip. Every single time Rant Woman toted her nutritional miracle home, she also got to trot up all the stairs! Since the bottles were glass and there was paid recycling, RantWoman also got to stand in authentic Soviet lines just to recycle her bottles and reclaim the deposit.
RantWoman thought of all this because last week's bottles of juice also had more of a kick than one expects US consumers to be wild about. The fearsome taste already makes her feel healthier, better exercised on account of all the stairs, and more ecological on account of the recycling. Ecotourism in a bottle?
RantWoman loves pomegranates and she is so glad their antioxidants and assorted other beneficial components make them all the rage. RantWoman also loves pomegranate Juice and here is the story.
While in graduate school RantWoman spent four months in the then Soviet Union in the then-city of Leningrad, now again St. Petersburg. This was late winter and spring, just before Gorbachev went to China, a few months before the Berlin Wall fell. The mood in the city was expectant, but reality was pretty gritty. For example, RantWoman lived in an international dorm. She had two roommates from her program and two Russian roommates, all in an apartment smaller than the one she alone inhabits in Seattle.
The apartment had one large room for the chicks from the US and a smaller bedroom for whichever Russian roommate and boyfriend were staying there on a given week. There was an eccentric two-part bathroom where someone nearly always had laundry hanging, and a tiny kitchen with a small gas stove and what would be a dorm-sized fridge in the US. There was a certain amount of built-in refrigeration from windows that leaked gales despite our roommates' efforts to seal them with newspring papeier mache.The building had two small elevators, though on average less than one was ever working at any given moment. In short, this was basically a sixth-floor walkup and a stereotypical Soviet apartment.
There were also a couple stereotypical Soviet grocery emporia a couple blocks away. These ran heavy into bread, really good bread actually, pasta, eggs, dairy products of highly variable freshness, carrots, cabbage, potatoes, beets, and canned goods. There were better actual produce markets a good ways away, and very occasionally there were nutritional miracles, such as 3-liter bottles of pomegranate juice right at our own store.
The first time RantWoman saw one of these, she bought it just for the excitement. Do you have any idea how long three liters of juice last if one is the only one drinking it? Considering the refrigeration options, RantWoman guesses she also should be glad the juice did not completely turn to vinegar; the juice did tend to develop a fairly fierce tannic kick by the end of each bottle.Unfortunately, later, RantWoman acquired a cold and needed TWO more of these giant bottles one after another to keep the hacking at bay for the rest of her trip. Every single time Rant Woman toted her nutritional miracle home, she also got to trot up all the stairs! Since the bottles were glass and there was paid recycling, RantWoman also got to stand in authentic Soviet lines just to recycle her bottles and reclaim the deposit.
RantWoman thought of all this because last week's bottles of juice also had more of a kick than one expects US consumers to be wild about. The fearsome taste already makes her feel healthier, better exercised on account of all the stairs, and more ecological on account of the recycling. Ecotourism in a bottle?
A Bedspread
RantWoman found herself, during today's time on Da Bus thinking again of the inauguration and in particular of our new First Lady's ballgown.
RantWoman had a small digression to wonder whether the world-wide e-chatterers would be having the same conversation about a dress if, instead of the First Lady, we were discussing a new President. RantWoman thinks sooner or later, eventually, the right combination of campaign brilliance and personal history will add up to a woman President. Even so, we probably will be having the same conversation about clothing, and there is a certain level of heroism in just dealing with it.
RantWoman finally saw a still shot that captured what must be the dress's real charm, a lovely romantic sheen. The fur or feathers or whatever still do not play well on camera, and apparently that is true not only for fuzzy-eyed people like RantWoman but also for many internet chatters. RantWoman thinks the dress is a little full around the waist. That is not fair to anyone's physique, though of course the camera supposedly always adds 10 pounds, and Mrs. Biden's red getup also made her look fat.
RantWoman finds herself thinking that one does not buy ballgowns just every day and one might be sort of at the mercy of designers and unquestioned conventions about the whole ballgown concept. Rantwoman herself has worn floorlength clothing perhaps once or twice since high school. In high school RantWoman played the cello and the orchestra concert gear was a long navy skirt full enough for the cello section but otherwise fairly plain. At festive occasions, RantWoman, RantMom and Little Sister all took turns wearing a patchwork skirt of polyester doubleknit from RantMom's sewing room. Come to think of it that skirt did not do anything good for anyone's waistline either.
In short, if RantWoman were faced with the need for a ballgown, she imagines sort of awkward conversations with the designer: "Just make it something one can walk in. ... Nothing strapless. ... Shoulders are there for a purpose. Please use them to help keep the dress on. ... Wouldn't want any wardrobe malfunctions..." In other words, RantWoman's pedestrian practicality could sort of blow the whole purpose of a ballgown, which is really to look as romantic as possible, something where RantWoman thinks the first lady and the designer succeeded brilliantly.
True, RantWoman has said the dress looks like a bedspread. Other people have been even more harsh, and RantWoman does not regret in the least writing that the dress looks like a bedspread. The First Lady is the sort of person who would look smashing in almost anything, even a bedspread. More importantly, if one has to dance the night away on camera with one's beloved over and over, there is a certain sentimental symbolism about the bedspread comparison!
The same goes for commentators who thought Michelle Obama needs to stand up straighter. Hello! It's ballroom dancing with one's beloved, not media interviews about foreign policy. The Obamas are such a sweet couple and inauguarl balls are a perfect time to beam in their devotion to each other. I expect there will be plenty of other times for our first lady to stand up tall!
RantWoman had a small digression to wonder whether the world-wide e-chatterers would be having the same conversation about a dress if, instead of the First Lady, we were discussing a new President. RantWoman thinks sooner or later, eventually, the right combination of campaign brilliance and personal history will add up to a woman President. Even so, we probably will be having the same conversation about clothing, and there is a certain level of heroism in just dealing with it.
RantWoman finally saw a still shot that captured what must be the dress's real charm, a lovely romantic sheen. The fur or feathers or whatever still do not play well on camera, and apparently that is true not only for fuzzy-eyed people like RantWoman but also for many internet chatters. RantWoman thinks the dress is a little full around the waist. That is not fair to anyone's physique, though of course the camera supposedly always adds 10 pounds, and Mrs. Biden's red getup also made her look fat.
RantWoman finds herself thinking that one does not buy ballgowns just every day and one might be sort of at the mercy of designers and unquestioned conventions about the whole ballgown concept. Rantwoman herself has worn floorlength clothing perhaps once or twice since high school. In high school RantWoman played the cello and the orchestra concert gear was a long navy skirt full enough for the cello section but otherwise fairly plain. At festive occasions, RantWoman, RantMom and Little Sister all took turns wearing a patchwork skirt of polyester doubleknit from RantMom's sewing room. Come to think of it that skirt did not do anything good for anyone's waistline either.
In short, if RantWoman were faced with the need for a ballgown, she imagines sort of awkward conversations with the designer: "Just make it something one can walk in. ... Nothing strapless. ... Shoulders are there for a purpose. Please use them to help keep the dress on. ... Wouldn't want any wardrobe malfunctions..." In other words, RantWoman's pedestrian practicality could sort of blow the whole purpose of a ballgown, which is really to look as romantic as possible, something where RantWoman thinks the first lady and the designer succeeded brilliantly.
True, RantWoman has said the dress looks like a bedspread. Other people have been even more harsh, and RantWoman does not regret in the least writing that the dress looks like a bedspread. The First Lady is the sort of person who would look smashing in almost anything, even a bedspread. More importantly, if one has to dance the night away on camera with one's beloved over and over, there is a certain sentimental symbolism about the bedspread comparison!
The same goes for commentators who thought Michelle Obama needs to stand up straighter. Hello! It's ballroom dancing with one's beloved, not media interviews about foreign policy. The Obamas are such a sweet couple and inauguarl balls are a perfect time to beam in their devotion to each other. I expect there will be plenty of other times for our first lady to stand up tall!
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Inaugural Hair
We have just inaugurated the first African-American president of the United States. RantWoman could wander around our nation's history, civil war, slaveowners and slaves. RantWoman could venture into heady topics like demographic shifts in the US, apartheid in South Africa, and global finance. RantWoman does not rule out tackling any of those topics in the future, but today she really wants to talk about hair, specifically hair behavior, hair expectations, and mostly inaugural hairdos.
One of the paradoxes of how RantWoman interacts with television is that using screen enlarger software, she often sees details that would be totally lost at normal size and normal TV-viewing distance. Today's item of note in the greater detail is the Obama women's hair. for the swearing-in ceremony, Michelle, Sasha, and Malia all have their hair straightened and down. Some of the time one of the girls has braids, but today every one of them has their hair down.
First of all, this is one of those "the universe just is not fair" topics. People who have straighter hair go to elaborate lengths to make it curl and stay curled. People who have kinky hair take equally elaborate measures to straighten it and to make it stay that way. Now that our First Family is African American, are we as a nation going to get to the point that we can talk honestly about these contrdictory yearnings, say by complementary advertisements in the same publication or in day-to-day conversation?
One of RantWoman's college roommates was blind. She went to public school in New Jersey and she used to tell a story of her teacher slapping her hand after she for the first time brushed against an African-American student's hair and just exclaimed how different it was. Roommate said she liked the texture; she was just vexed to have her hand slapped for something she would have had no other way of finding out.
Once upon a time RantWoman went to Finland with some young professionals, including several African Americans. One of the duties of foreign exchange participants is to make gallant efforts to participate in local customs. In Finland, this includes the sauna, steaming one's naked self in a bathhouse with one's hosts. Sitting around naked among strangers with only clouds of steam for cover is, well, one challenge. The other of course is hair especially if one's hairstyle wilts at the first whiff of steam. A couple members of the group just bagged the sauna after the first couple days because of the time it took after the sauna to do their hair.
RantWoman and her sister are the other end of this tale. RantWoman as a child would have loved to have cute little ringlets. RantWoman was never really willing to put up with endless curling and mostly just enjoyed reasonably thick, slightly wavy locks. RantWoman's Little Sister was at times disconsolate. She has always had thinner, straighter, wispier hair and craved curls, ringlets, any form of curl that last more than about 3 seconds.
RantWoman thinks she remembers an episode of Little House on the Prairie involving rag curlers. Somehow the Rantsiblings discovered that in RantMom's childhood, wearing rag curlers to bed was they preferred way to wake up with curly hair. RantWoman remembers thinking that was darned utilitarian and remembers getting quite satisfactory results a time or two, though RantWoman lost interest much sooner than Little Sister.
But thinking about the requirements of inaugural parades in the COLD, RantWoman finds herself wondering what happens to straightened hair when one goes in and out of cold air. RantWoman is used to glasses steaming over anytime she goes from cold to warm places, and she wonders whether big temperature changes have any ill effects.
At this point, RantWoman wandered off to a different topic: hair care products aimed at African American women. Thanks to Google and Wikipedia, here are a couple links to info about really cool figures, MAdame C J Walker and her granddaughter Alelia P. Bundles. One of these days RantWoman promises to write about how she even learned of these figures.
MadamCJWalker.com
Madame C J Walker and business ownership
Madame CJ Walker in Wikipedia
One of the paradoxes of how RantWoman interacts with television is that using screen enlarger software, she often sees details that would be totally lost at normal size and normal TV-viewing distance. Today's item of note in the greater detail is the Obama women's hair. for the swearing-in ceremony, Michelle, Sasha, and Malia all have their hair straightened and down. Some of the time one of the girls has braids, but today every one of them has their hair down.
First of all, this is one of those "the universe just is not fair" topics. People who have straighter hair go to elaborate lengths to make it curl and stay curled. People who have kinky hair take equally elaborate measures to straighten it and to make it stay that way. Now that our First Family is African American, are we as a nation going to get to the point that we can talk honestly about these contrdictory yearnings, say by complementary advertisements in the same publication or in day-to-day conversation?
One of RantWoman's college roommates was blind. She went to public school in New Jersey and she used to tell a story of her teacher slapping her hand after she for the first time brushed against an African-American student's hair and just exclaimed how different it was. Roommate said she liked the texture; she was just vexed to have her hand slapped for something she would have had no other way of finding out.
Once upon a time RantWoman went to Finland with some young professionals, including several African Americans. One of the duties of foreign exchange participants is to make gallant efforts to participate in local customs. In Finland, this includes the sauna, steaming one's naked self in a bathhouse with one's hosts. Sitting around naked among strangers with only clouds of steam for cover is, well, one challenge. The other of course is hair especially if one's hairstyle wilts at the first whiff of steam. A couple members of the group just bagged the sauna after the first couple days because of the time it took after the sauna to do their hair.
RantWoman and her sister are the other end of this tale. RantWoman as a child would have loved to have cute little ringlets. RantWoman was never really willing to put up with endless curling and mostly just enjoyed reasonably thick, slightly wavy locks. RantWoman's Little Sister was at times disconsolate. She has always had thinner, straighter, wispier hair and craved curls, ringlets, any form of curl that last more than about 3 seconds.
RantWoman thinks she remembers an episode of Little House on the Prairie involving rag curlers. Somehow the Rantsiblings discovered that in RantMom's childhood, wearing rag curlers to bed was they preferred way to wake up with curly hair. RantWoman remembers thinking that was darned utilitarian and remembers getting quite satisfactory results a time or two, though RantWoman lost interest much sooner than Little Sister.
But thinking about the requirements of inaugural parades in the COLD, RantWoman finds herself wondering what happens to straightened hair when one goes in and out of cold air. RantWoman is used to glasses steaming over anytime she goes from cold to warm places, and she wonders whether big temperature changes have any ill effects.
At this point, RantWoman wandered off to a different topic: hair care products aimed at African American women. Thanks to Google and Wikipedia, here are a couple links to info about really cool figures, MAdame C J Walker and her granddaughter Alelia P. Bundles. One of these days RantWoman promises to write about how she even learned of these figures.
MadamCJWalker.com
Madame C J Walker and business ownership
Madame CJ Walker in Wikipedia
It's STATUARY Hall
RantWoman is partaking of the inauguration courtesy of NPR, and she wishes emphatically to remind the hosts, that the luncheon is in STATUARY HALL, not Statutory Hall in the Capitol. RantWoman thinks she has been there, once long ago during a stint doing good and public services and internship in our nation's capital. Probably if RantWoman were watching this on TV instead of enjoying the radio, there would be even more things to rant about.
RantWoman actually has TWO TV's but neither of them is plugged in. RantWoman generally finds things to do with TV more enjoyable over the computer with screen enlargement software. Well somewhere in RantWoman's mind, RantMom's voice is saying don't sit so close to the TV; you'll hurt your eyes. Under some circumstances, RantWoman's Inner Nerd would be looking up all the reasons new flat screen monitors cause less eyestrain than previous generations of TV's, but we have an inauguration to attend to, and mercifully not by Jumbotron.
RantMom invited RantWoman over to watch the inauguration on RantMom's new (to her) TV. RantWoman pleaded late night laundry needs and correctly guessed that she would barely be out of bed by the swearing-in. Actually, RantWoman has morning exercises and those were well underway, but that is still nowhere near presentable enough to leave the house. RantWoman is aware that this state of affairs is a huge luxury compared to all the people who not only had to get up for the affair, but also are outside freezing their pekid behinds off.
Okay, scratch that: if enough circumstances had aligned to allow RantWoman to attend in person, even among the millions on the mall instead of in some more official capacity with accompanying perquisites INDOORS, she probably would have jumped at the chance. Seattle Snowpocalypse or no, RantWoman would have summoned every thread of her MT childhood and numerous rounds of keeping warm while standing around doing opinionated things Protest and Survive zeal. She would have piled on layers and made sure she had a good hat, a couple layers of gloves, long underwear, a thermos of something warm, maybe even a sleeping bag, space blanket... and some good peers to hang with.
RantWoman would probably still be cold but would know either to keep moving or when to quit and celebrate indoors. And since RantWoman knows her way around a good bit of the DC Metro system, she would come armed with fare cards both for souvenirs and for transportation. She would probably know a few different boarding options and even walking routes away a good bit from the massing throngs. Or she would be somewhere helping people keep warm and trying to make people flow smoothly, in solidarity with the planners fretting about how to get everyone out of the area when necessary.
Wait, RantWoman probably could have found a place to celebrate with like-minded folk somewhere in Seattle too, but this seems to be a solo act for now. Self-employed as RantWoman is, she also still has to try to attend to work while soaking up inauguration broadcast, letting details gallop through their various resonances with her experiences, and thinking about today's manifestations of public service.
Back to work? Not yet...
RantWoman actually has TWO TV's but neither of them is plugged in. RantWoman generally finds things to do with TV more enjoyable over the computer with screen enlargement software. Well somewhere in RantWoman's mind, RantMom's voice is saying don't sit so close to the TV; you'll hurt your eyes. Under some circumstances, RantWoman's Inner Nerd would be looking up all the reasons new flat screen monitors cause less eyestrain than previous generations of TV's, but we have an inauguration to attend to, and mercifully not by Jumbotron.
RantMom invited RantWoman over to watch the inauguration on RantMom's new (to her) TV. RantWoman pleaded late night laundry needs and correctly guessed that she would barely be out of bed by the swearing-in. Actually, RantWoman has morning exercises and those were well underway, but that is still nowhere near presentable enough to leave the house. RantWoman is aware that this state of affairs is a huge luxury compared to all the people who not only had to get up for the affair, but also are outside freezing their pekid behinds off.
Okay, scratch that: if enough circumstances had aligned to allow RantWoman to attend in person, even among the millions on the mall instead of in some more official capacity with accompanying perquisites INDOORS, she probably would have jumped at the chance. Seattle Snowpocalypse or no, RantWoman would have summoned every thread of her MT childhood and numerous rounds of keeping warm while standing around doing opinionated things Protest and Survive zeal. She would have piled on layers and made sure she had a good hat, a couple layers of gloves, long underwear, a thermos of something warm, maybe even a sleeping bag, space blanket... and some good peers to hang with.
RantWoman would probably still be cold but would know either to keep moving or when to quit and celebrate indoors. And since RantWoman knows her way around a good bit of the DC Metro system, she would come armed with fare cards both for souvenirs and for transportation. She would probably know a few different boarding options and even walking routes away a good bit from the massing throngs. Or she would be somewhere helping people keep warm and trying to make people flow smoothly, in solidarity with the planners fretting about how to get everyone out of the area when necessary.
Wait, RantWoman probably could have found a place to celebrate with like-minded folk somewhere in Seattle too, but this seems to be a solo act for now. Self-employed as RantWoman is, she also still has to try to attend to work while soaking up inauguration broadcast, letting details gallop through their various resonances with her experiences, and thinking about today's manifestations of public service.
Back to work? Not yet...
Today's Google Page
Okay, RantWoman is just going to say it: Today's really ordinary, nothing unusual, pedestrian Google page is, well, a disappointment. Yesterday's MLK page was so tasteful. Today is such a momentous occasion; whatever anyone thinks or does not think of the occasion, surely it deserves SOME kind of graphical notice! What say you GOOGLE!
No, no, no, RantWoman is NOT pretending to be a graphic designer. RantWoman's visual presentation efforts are heavily influenced by her visual experiences, but she is assuredly no Van Gogh. Well, isn't it Van Gogh who had an astigmatism and painted everything as he saw it, which assuredly is not how other people see things. Or was it that Scream guy?
Some other time RantWoman may attempt that bete noir of conceptual communication, the verbal representation of visual information, but not today.
But today is the inauguration, a celebration, parades, prayers, speeches, parties. These pleasures deserve their own comments!
No, no, no, RantWoman is NOT pretending to be a graphic designer. RantWoman's visual presentation efforts are heavily influenced by her visual experiences, but she is assuredly no Van Gogh. Well, isn't it Van Gogh who had an astigmatism and painted everything as he saw it, which assuredly is not how other people see things. Or was it that Scream guy?
Some other time RantWoman may attempt that bete noir of conceptual communication, the verbal representation of visual information, but not today.
But today is the inauguration, a celebration, parades, prayers, speeches, parties. These pleasures deserve their own comments!
Monday, January 19, 2009
Are you my mother?
Nothing like a little vision loss to turn an ordinary shopping trip into an adventure. Many blind people ask a clerk for help shopping; since RantWoman can mostly get around stores with no more than her average number of problems running into big people or over small children, usually RantWoman bypasses the help or, when shopping with RantMom, attempts to rely on her for help. The actual dynamics of this are a tale for another adventure. Let us stick to "Are you my mother?"
RantMom has, without asking my permission, turned into a "little old lady." She is neither as little nor as old as many little old ladies (lol's?), but she is a couple inches shorter than her peak height. She has grey hair, which tends to make her blend in really well with white retail shelving and white retail linoleum. She has enough gait, body shape, and clothing preferences in common with other little old white ladies that, well, it is hard to tell them apart especially if one is RantWoman.
RantMom has, without asking my permission, turned into a "little old lady." She is neither as little nor as old as many little old ladies (lol's?), but she is a couple inches shorter than her peak height. She has grey hair, which tends to make her blend in really well with white retail shelving and white retail linoleum. She has enough gait, body shape, and clothing preferences in common with other little old white ladies that, well, it is hard to tell them apart especially if one is RantWoman.
Of course, since RantMom and RantWoman are both all grown up we have somewhat lost previous decades' skills in staying together during encounters with massive retail. RantWoman just refuses to keep holding onto RantMom's cart and RantMom feels the same way about anything RantWoman would have. In fact, we both like to wander off and peer at our own stuff without necessarily having to answer questions like "Why on earth are you buying THAT?" Not only have our staying together skills deteriorated, our communications skills which were underdeveloped in the first place, have also sagged. If one of us says we are going to look for something the other may or may not be listening or hearing.
When RantMom lived in MT, RantWoman visited a couple times and trailed along to RantMom's encounters with Big Box retail, defined as monster stores where RantMom had honed pursuit of her preferred purchases to a pretty exact science. RantWoman, being a distractible sort in a new environment was always stopping to look at something or other while RantMom whizzed away. Of course, RantWoman was also a lot less motivated to actually buy anything than RantMom.
Sometimes, rather than try to chase all the LOL's and find the right one, RantWoman would just go stand somewhere near the front checkouts and act tall: if RantWoman cannot find RantMom, then just help RantMom do the reverse. RantMom finally wised up about this after a particularly comical effort to page RantWoman to a place where it would not even have occurred to RantWoman to look.
In Seattle the rules are a little different. Sometimes we are in places where RantWoman and RantMom know different things about how to find our way around. Sometimes RantWoman just does "Are you my mother?"
"Are you my mother?" works just about like the children's story. RantWoman muddles up to a promising-looking shape and is almost to make some bizarre family in-joke when, oops, excuse me, I thought you were someone else. Oops, there goes another form just about the right shape."Are you my mother?" RantWoman does thankfully usually restrain herself from asking out loud, but "Are you my mother?"
Finally, this time RantWoman figured out that RantMom was wearing a purple coat and pushing an orange cart, nothing like anything the other LOL's were pushing.Yes!
Safeway
RantMom is perking along really well with recovery from her knee replacement. This is good because RantMom was Out of Toilet Paper--and a few other things. RantMom has done a couple short shopping trips in friends' cars, but she needs to be able to walk herself. She has not done so since her surgery--until yesterday.
Yesterday she was determined to march over to Safeway, just a few blocks away to restock. Well she was determined to do it, but she still wanted backup from her porter, aka RantWoman. RantWoman is a sucker for free lunch and a big cheerleader for plucky vigorous RantMom. RantWoman's finely-honed sense of adventure had also forgotten about many adventure angles lurking in the average supermarket. Two on RantWoman's mind include Shopping Carts and Are You My Mother?
Take shopping carts. Here I mean two models, carts owned by the public and supermarket shopping carts. RantMom has a wonderful wheeled walker with a carrying shelf, but she did not want to use it. She just wanted her cane. To be fair, the volume of her purchases wound up being more than the walker could handle. RantMom also has a colapsible shopping cart, but it suffers from handles too short that wind up being hard on her back. RantMom instead proposed to borrow a shopping cart from her building.
Well, supermarkets would generally prefer that their customers not take shopping carts. Really determined supermarkets install wheel locks so the shopping carts cannot wander away. In some places where RantWoman has lived, shopping carts come pre-printed with warnings about what part of the legal code is violated when shopping carts wander away from their home venues.
Despite these measures, urban shopping carts wander away exuberantly. The shopping carts decamp to bus stops. They migrate to customers' homes. Sometimes they even become customers' homes. RantMom lives in a building with many other seniors and sometimes shopping carts wander into their parking garage. Apparently, to hear RantMom talk, the enterprising elders have even figured out a couple lacunae in the store's shopping cart preservation grid.
Bear in mind, RantMom is the kind of lady who formerly might not even have wanted to know how to evade the supermarket shopping cart preservation grid. RantWoman has to try not to let her eyes get to the size of saucers as RantMom is outlining the exact options. "Mom," RantWoman has to say, "just tell me how to do it when we get there." RantWoman has vision of getting busted with a contraband wayward shopping cart, our various mobility devices, and a whole mountain of toilet paper.
The universe had other ideas. The shopping cart available in RantMom's parking garage was of a completely different color from a completely different store. We would have no worries one way or the other using it at Safeway. So much the better and a perfect prop for Are You My Mother?
Yesterday she was determined to march over to Safeway, just a few blocks away to restock. Well she was determined to do it, but she still wanted backup from her porter, aka RantWoman. RantWoman is a sucker for free lunch and a big cheerleader for plucky vigorous RantMom. RantWoman's finely-honed sense of adventure had also forgotten about many adventure angles lurking in the average supermarket. Two on RantWoman's mind include Shopping Carts and Are You My Mother?
Take shopping carts. Here I mean two models, carts owned by the public and supermarket shopping carts. RantMom has a wonderful wheeled walker with a carrying shelf, but she did not want to use it. She just wanted her cane. To be fair, the volume of her purchases wound up being more than the walker could handle. RantMom also has a colapsible shopping cart, but it suffers from handles too short that wind up being hard on her back. RantMom instead proposed to borrow a shopping cart from her building.
Well, supermarkets would generally prefer that their customers not take shopping carts. Really determined supermarkets install wheel locks so the shopping carts cannot wander away. In some places where RantWoman has lived, shopping carts come pre-printed with warnings about what part of the legal code is violated when shopping carts wander away from their home venues.
Despite these measures, urban shopping carts wander away exuberantly. The shopping carts decamp to bus stops. They migrate to customers' homes. Sometimes they even become customers' homes. RantMom lives in a building with many other seniors and sometimes shopping carts wander into their parking garage. Apparently, to hear RantMom talk, the enterprising elders have even figured out a couple lacunae in the store's shopping cart preservation grid.
Bear in mind, RantMom is the kind of lady who formerly might not even have wanted to know how to evade the supermarket shopping cart preservation grid. RantWoman has to try not to let her eyes get to the size of saucers as RantMom is outlining the exact options. "Mom," RantWoman has to say, "just tell me how to do it when we get there." RantWoman has vision of getting busted with a contraband wayward shopping cart, our various mobility devices, and a whole mountain of toilet paper.
The universe had other ideas. The shopping cart available in RantMom's parking garage was of a completely different color from a completely different store. We would have no worries one way or the other using it at Safeway. So much the better and a perfect prop for Are You My Mother?
Sunday, January 18, 2009
An Impromptu Tour of Tukwila
RantMom had knee replacement surgery not too long ago. Since she moved to Seattle RantMom has been a real trouper about embracing The Bus almost as ardently as her daughters. After surgery though, she got signed up for our local paratransit service. The concept is one gets dropoff and pickup windows and the service basically works door-to-door. There might or might not be other passengers. One might get picked up at any time in one's pickup windows. That is the concept. Enough said?
RantWoman concedes that routing all these individual rides is probably not a walk in the park. RantWoman concedes that the kind of people who ride the paratransit can be the kind who vanish into thin air or just go to the restroom while the driver shows up looking for them. Or they have hearing impairments, vision impairments, reality impairments and other impediments to banal normalcy.
Driving for the paratransit service is one of those jobs RantWoman is glad to have done and very glad not to have to do herself, so RantWoman is trying really hard to give the driver the benefit of the doubt. RantMom has only just started to use the service and RantWoman admits to counting the days until RantMom has a story as lurid as all the others she has heard. Bingo!
Last night RantMom was hoping for a low-key no-nonsense perfectly ordinary and unremarkable trip from north of downtown Seattle to a little south of downtown.Instead she got a special bonus with her usual service. She got a trip to TUKWILA. Tukwila is a perfectly nice spot on the interstate, except that it is miles south of where RantMom lives.
There is a messy freeway interchange that could take RantMom even further astray. There is a perfectly nice shopping mall that RantWoman took RantMom to soon after RantMom came to Seattle. The experience was so exasperating and RantMom's appreciation of the comedic elements so lacking that we have not been back since. I think there are also some strip clubs and casinos, but RantMom is so not into either one.
In other words, Tukwila is really low on RantMom's destination travel list. Plus it was DARK, and I do not think the paratransit driver was a real dynamic tour guide. Should we just say RantMom was not amused? And of course I have heard about it ... and heard about it and heard...
RantWoman concedes that routing all these individual rides is probably not a walk in the park. RantWoman concedes that the kind of people who ride the paratransit can be the kind who vanish into thin air or just go to the restroom while the driver shows up looking for them. Or they have hearing impairments, vision impairments, reality impairments and other impediments to banal normalcy.
Driving for the paratransit service is one of those jobs RantWoman is glad to have done and very glad not to have to do herself, so RantWoman is trying really hard to give the driver the benefit of the doubt. RantMom has only just started to use the service and RantWoman admits to counting the days until RantMom has a story as lurid as all the others she has heard. Bingo!
Last night RantMom was hoping for a low-key no-nonsense perfectly ordinary and unremarkable trip from north of downtown Seattle to a little south of downtown.Instead she got a special bonus with her usual service. She got a trip to TUKWILA. Tukwila is a perfectly nice spot on the interstate, except that it is miles south of where RantMom lives.
There is a messy freeway interchange that could take RantMom even further astray. There is a perfectly nice shopping mall that RantWoman took RantMom to soon after RantMom came to Seattle. The experience was so exasperating and RantMom's appreciation of the comedic elements so lacking that we have not been back since. I think there are also some strip clubs and casinos, but RantMom is so not into either one.
In other words, Tukwila is really low on RantMom's destination travel list. Plus it was DARK, and I do not think the paratransit driver was a real dynamic tour guide. Should we just say RantMom was not amused? And of course I have heard about it ... and heard about it and heard...
Flight 1549
RantWoman is acutely aware that a whole ocean of words are likely to be written about Flight 1549 and the miracles of training and professionalism that got the plane down and everyone evacuated with nothing but minor injuries among people on the plane and NO injuries for anyone on the ground. RantWoman could even link to something else she wrote, but that would kind of blow her anonymity and has to wait.
If only in the name of blogging practice, though RantWoman is going to add to the stream of public commentary.
First, some compelling visuals.
Flight 1549 Path
Second, a couple articles from my beloved and endangered local paper, The Seattle Post-Intelligencer :
Plane Lands in the Hudson
Crew Tells Media to Cool It
Now time for RantWoman to weigh in:
I think after 9/11 and a couple other air disasters around New York city, the sight of passengers just standing in an orderly way on a mostly-intact plane, a strangely beached bird is an occasion for total amazement.
RantWoman seized on one detail from the tale of the evacuation: a flight attendant at the back of the plane decided not to open the rear door, probably to prevent the plane getting swamped and then later a passenger jumped in and did open the door. I hope the media and the world do not jump all over this poor passenger, but I also hope we all learn to think about why highly trained people might do or not do things that look obvious at first spin to laypeople.
Getting out of the plane is a perfectly understandable desire after a landing like the one this one went through. Getting out of the plane by getting the whole plane flooded with near-freezing water and having to pray to get plunked up even faster because of the cold is a really scary option. So I want to hear about plane design. If the fuselage is not breached and the wings are intact how long would this plane float? How do flight attendants train to decide whether to do or not do all their different options?
The storied passenger revolt of Flight 93 is a situation where lay people's initiative is now part of the media narrative, but the Flight 1549 is a brilliant opportunity for all of us to learn more about what airline crews are trained to do in different emergencies. And if this touches hot button issues like who sits in exit rows or how passengers behave on flights, oh well. Once those doors close and the plane takes off, like it or not, people might need to be a team in ways they would not think of at first pass or even second or third pass. So let's all learn and talk about this.
As for wanting to swamp the crew with hero worship, GIVE IT A REST folks. These people did their jobs. They did exactly what they were trained to do. I cannot imagine that it is fun to have to go through all the Bad Things That Can Happen in training scenarios, but the outcome in this case is exactly what makes all the training worthwhile.
Even if the crew did their jobs flawlessly though, it can be exhausting to have to tell and retell and relive all the different elements of the events. The most important people who need to hear the stories first are the investigators; the investigators need to talk to the passengers and probably ohter witnessess too. There will be plenty of time to talk and the public does need to talk, but give it a rest for now folks!
RantWoman is speaking from personal experience, though not on anything like this scale. Well, once RantWoman was on a plane coming into Seatac. Something happened and the plane lost part of its hydraulic system. The pilot announced that we were going to try something else and repeat the approach. Then he announced that the fire department would be meeting us on the landing and we would be landing further away from the terminal. Probably almost everyone said a prayer and reviewed the locations of emergency exits. We made it down fine. Rattled as I was, it was not even very easy just to talk about it to people I know well let alone gawking strangers from the media.
If only in the name of blogging practice, though RantWoman is going to add to the stream of public commentary.
First, some compelling visuals.
Flight 1549 Path
Second, a couple articles from my beloved and endangered local paper, The Seattle Post-Intelligencer :
Plane Lands in the Hudson
Crew Tells Media to Cool It
Now time for RantWoman to weigh in:
I think after 9/11 and a couple other air disasters around New York city, the sight of passengers just standing in an orderly way on a mostly-intact plane, a strangely beached bird is an occasion for total amazement.
RantWoman seized on one detail from the tale of the evacuation: a flight attendant at the back of the plane decided not to open the rear door, probably to prevent the plane getting swamped and then later a passenger jumped in and did open the door. I hope the media and the world do not jump all over this poor passenger, but I also hope we all learn to think about why highly trained people might do or not do things that look obvious at first spin to laypeople.
Getting out of the plane is a perfectly understandable desire after a landing like the one this one went through. Getting out of the plane by getting the whole plane flooded with near-freezing water and having to pray to get plunked up even faster because of the cold is a really scary option. So I want to hear about plane design. If the fuselage is not breached and the wings are intact how long would this plane float? How do flight attendants train to decide whether to do or not do all their different options?
The storied passenger revolt of Flight 93 is a situation where lay people's initiative is now part of the media narrative, but the Flight 1549 is a brilliant opportunity for all of us to learn more about what airline crews are trained to do in different emergencies. And if this touches hot button issues like who sits in exit rows or how passengers behave on flights, oh well. Once those doors close and the plane takes off, like it or not, people might need to be a team in ways they would not think of at first pass or even second or third pass. So let's all learn and talk about this.
As for wanting to swamp the crew with hero worship, GIVE IT A REST folks. These people did their jobs. They did exactly what they were trained to do. I cannot imagine that it is fun to have to go through all the Bad Things That Can Happen in training scenarios, but the outcome in this case is exactly what makes all the training worthwhile.
Even if the crew did their jobs flawlessly though, it can be exhausting to have to tell and retell and relive all the different elements of the events. The most important people who need to hear the stories first are the investigators; the investigators need to talk to the passengers and probably ohter witnessess too. There will be plenty of time to talk and the public does need to talk, but give it a rest for now folks!
RantWoman is speaking from personal experience, though not on anything like this scale. Well, once RantWoman was on a plane coming into Seatac. Something happened and the plane lost part of its hydraulic system. The pilot announced that we were going to try something else and repeat the approach. Then he announced that the fire department would be meeting us on the landing and we would be landing further away from the terminal. Probably almost everyone said a prayer and reviewed the locations of emergency exits. We made it down fine. Rattled as I was, it was not even very easy just to talk about it to people I know well let alone gawking strangers from the media.
Fruit Salad
Another excursion brought to you by this weeks $30 bananas market basket: fruit salad conditioner.
Before setting out for RantMom's, RantWoman washed her hair. RantWoman has a lot of hair and likes having a lot of hair. She guesses she should be relieved: enough of it is going grey that RantMom has given up trying to pull out all the grey hairs. Anyway all that hair needs shampoo and more importantly, despite mostly residing in RantWoman's preferred French braid, conditioner, which RantWoman just ran out of.
RantWoman forgot about this actually until, trailing after one of RantMom's wanderings, Hair Care products leapt out of the visual fog. By this we mean RantWoman recognized rows of bottles of various colors and picked one up to see what it was. Then she remembered needing conditioner and started scanning the shelf for either the cheap brands or some sale tags.
"Scanning" is a term to be used advisedly here. Scanning, skimming pretty much are not operational verbs in RantWoman's lexicon of functional visual concepts. "Scanning" means picking up bottles at arbitrary intervals, peering at them up very close and repeating until one finds either a brand or a scent one can abide. The first plausible brand scent combo RantWoman found was coconut-scented shampoo and after a couple guesses RantWoman had a bottle of suitably cheap coconut conditioner.
Coconut is not really one of RantWoman's favorite smells, but a funny thing from a long-ago family reunion in Montana made the sale anyway. The long-ago family reunion featured furrener husbands, salt-of-the-earth aging aunts and uncles, and buffalo.
One day while we were assembling for the road trip of the day, one of the furrener husbands was moaning about sunburn and itching skin. A wife was dutifully suggesting sunscreen while an aging aunt was doing that to her husband. Apparently the available sunscreen was something coconut-scented. When dutiful wife asked husband why he wouldn't put on sunscreen, aging uncle blurted out something about because he does not want to smell like fruit salad. Right.
I think that was the day our road trip took us along a road near a small herd of buffalo. Fruit salad sunscreen or no, BOTH of the furrener husbands wanted to go get photographed as close to the massive beasts as possible. The furrener husbands, neither one, had any concept of charging buffalo. Miraculously all the ensuing yelling in three languages not to get that close did not make the buffalo charge and there is photographic proof that both the furrener husbands survived.
To this day RantWoman cannot think of coconut-scented cosmetics without thinking of the buffalo and the grassy smells and the furrener husbands on a warm sunny day one Montana summer and here we have another round of free association travel live from the aisles of your neighborhood grocery emporium.
Before setting out for RantMom's, RantWoman washed her hair. RantWoman has a lot of hair and likes having a lot of hair. She guesses she should be relieved: enough of it is going grey that RantMom has given up trying to pull out all the grey hairs. Anyway all that hair needs shampoo and more importantly, despite mostly residing in RantWoman's preferred French braid, conditioner, which RantWoman just ran out of.
RantWoman forgot about this actually until, trailing after one of RantMom's wanderings, Hair Care products leapt out of the visual fog. By this we mean RantWoman recognized rows of bottles of various colors and picked one up to see what it was. Then she remembered needing conditioner and started scanning the shelf for either the cheap brands or some sale tags.
"Scanning" is a term to be used advisedly here. Scanning, skimming pretty much are not operational verbs in RantWoman's lexicon of functional visual concepts. "Scanning" means picking up bottles at arbitrary intervals, peering at them up very close and repeating until one finds either a brand or a scent one can abide. The first plausible brand scent combo RantWoman found was coconut-scented shampoo and after a couple guesses RantWoman had a bottle of suitably cheap coconut conditioner.
Coconut is not really one of RantWoman's favorite smells, but a funny thing from a long-ago family reunion in Montana made the sale anyway. The long-ago family reunion featured furrener husbands, salt-of-the-earth aging aunts and uncles, and buffalo.
One day while we were assembling for the road trip of the day, one of the furrener husbands was moaning about sunburn and itching skin. A wife was dutifully suggesting sunscreen while an aging aunt was doing that to her husband. Apparently the available sunscreen was something coconut-scented. When dutiful wife asked husband why he wouldn't put on sunscreen, aging uncle blurted out something about because he does not want to smell like fruit salad. Right.
I think that was the day our road trip took us along a road near a small herd of buffalo. Fruit salad sunscreen or no, BOTH of the furrener husbands wanted to go get photographed as close to the massive beasts as possible. The furrener husbands, neither one, had any concept of charging buffalo. Miraculously all the ensuing yelling in three languages not to get that close did not make the buffalo charge and there is photographic proof that both the furrener husbands survived.
To this day RantWoman cannot think of coconut-scented cosmetics without thinking of the buffalo and the grassy smells and the furrener husbands on a warm sunny day one Montana summer and here we have another round of free association travel live from the aisles of your neighborhood grocery emporium.
Pistachios
RantWoman LOVES to travel. Right now RantWoman's travel budget just about covers her monthly bus pass, so RantWoman has to grab her travel opportunities any way she can get them. Hence Free Association Travel. Seize upon an object from everyday life and go where it takes you or where it took you in the past. Today's travel vehicle: pistachios.
One of the items in the latest $30 bananas market basket was pistachios. Pistachios were on sale, two packages for the price of 1. RantWoman LOVES pistachios. They remind her of a summer in her grad school years full of Mediterranean sand and cosmopolitan peregrinations around the capitals and other corners of Europe. Even if pistachios were not delicious and nutritious, they would make RantWoman think of Mediterranean beaches and chatter in foreign languages. RantWoman could be there in a flash; she should not have to face such temptations in the produce aisle. Or the dairy department, or some other place. Or the checkstand.
But there were mountains of unsold pistachios, entire continental divides of bags on sale two for the price of one. RantWoman really did not want to pay the price of a whole bag even though if the price had been posted at the per-bag equivalent, RantWoman MIGHT have bought two bags on the spot (or RantMom might have bought some too).
RantWoman first encountered the pistachios in the produce aisle. RantWoman was definitely tempted but she had already succumbed to the post-Snowpocalypse cranberry sale. So RantWoman resisted and she and RantMom went back to walking up and down the aisles and RantWoman went back to the Are You My Mother routine every time we got separated.
We shopped and shopped and shopped and shopped. RantMom bought enormous quantities of paper goods. RantWoman dodged another pistachio display somewhere in the back of the store.
RantWoman was saved from Acting Tall and Waiting Up Front only by the frozen food aisle. RantWoman opened one freezer to attempt one of her hobbies, Reading the Label. RantWoman was immediately accosted by a gravity flung frozen pizza. After putting the pizza back, RantWoman wandered down some reflections about the pointlessness of frozen food discounts with no room in the urban freezer.
Finally RantMom reappeared and we found a checkstand. Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. RantWoman THOUGHT she was going to escape without any more pistachio encounters. WRONG! There was another giant display of pistachios near the checkstand. RantWoman just gave up and succumbed totally to the lure of urbane European rootlessness! Now where will that Mediterranean beach sand be turning up next?
One of the items in the latest $30 bananas market basket was pistachios. Pistachios were on sale, two packages for the price of 1. RantWoman LOVES pistachios. They remind her of a summer in her grad school years full of Mediterranean sand and cosmopolitan peregrinations around the capitals and other corners of Europe. Even if pistachios were not delicious and nutritious, they would make RantWoman think of Mediterranean beaches and chatter in foreign languages. RantWoman could be there in a flash; she should not have to face such temptations in the produce aisle. Or the dairy department, or some other place. Or the checkstand.
But there were mountains of unsold pistachios, entire continental divides of bags on sale two for the price of one. RantWoman really did not want to pay the price of a whole bag even though if the price had been posted at the per-bag equivalent, RantWoman MIGHT have bought two bags on the spot (or RantMom might have bought some too).
RantWoman first encountered the pistachios in the produce aisle. RantWoman was definitely tempted but she had already succumbed to the post-Snowpocalypse cranberry sale. So RantWoman resisted and she and RantMom went back to walking up and down the aisles and RantWoman went back to the Are You My Mother routine every time we got separated.
We shopped and shopped and shopped and shopped. RantMom bought enormous quantities of paper goods. RantWoman dodged another pistachio display somewhere in the back of the store.
RantWoman was saved from Acting Tall and Waiting Up Front only by the frozen food aisle. RantWoman opened one freezer to attempt one of her hobbies, Reading the Label. RantWoman was immediately accosted by a gravity flung frozen pizza. After putting the pizza back, RantWoman wandered down some reflections about the pointlessness of frozen food discounts with no room in the urban freezer.
Finally RantMom reappeared and we found a checkstand. Ah-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. RantWoman THOUGHT she was going to escape without any more pistachio encounters. WRONG! There was another giant display of pistachios near the checkstand. RantWoman just gave up and succumbed totally to the lure of urbane European rootlessness! Now where will that Mediterranean beach sand be turning up next?
Saturday, January 17, 2009
The Adventures of RantWoman
Welcome to the Adventures of RantWoman.
This blog is for entertainment purposes only. If any edification, education, enrichment or other enlightenment occurs, please consider it an accident.
Who is RantWoman and what kind of adventures can you expect to read about?
RantWoman is 40-something and, after a lifetime of highly imperfect vision, legally blind.
RantWoman is also a mediocre typist who does not always have her screen reader help edit so if that comes up "legally bling," you may feel free to imagine something urbane and over-the-top.
RantWoman lives in Seattle near assorted family members who may or may not get mentioned in RantWoman's adventures.Rant woman has modest gardening pretensions including both houseplants and a few things on a balcony across the hall from her apartment. RantWoman is especially proud of her Christmas cactuses; these bloom faithfully under RantWoman's regimen and recently even survived some rather disheartening misadventures but are on their way to renewed exuberance.
RantWoman is passionate about pedestrian friendliness, public transit, accessible computing, friendly community, classical music, swimming and sundry other topics about which you will just have to read the blog as it develops.
Okay okay, RantWoman is a bit of a politics junkie, a wonk, and a nerd but we will see what all of this makes it into the blog.
RantWoman has many claims to fame, or perhaps infamy. Again, you will just have to read the blog and see whether I release any juicy details.
RantWoman believes adventures come in many forms. Some require special gear and extravagant preparation. Others sneak up and clobber people whether or not they think they are paying attention. I hope reading about adventures is enjoyable even if, possibly, every second of a given adventure might not be exactly enjoyable. Rantwoman also thinks it is time just to start writing Adventures.
This blog is for entertainment purposes only. If any edification, education, enrichment or other enlightenment occurs, please consider it an accident.
Who is RantWoman and what kind of adventures can you expect to read about?
RantWoman is 40-something and, after a lifetime of highly imperfect vision, legally blind.
RantWoman is also a mediocre typist who does not always have her screen reader help edit so if that comes up "legally bling," you may feel free to imagine something urbane and over-the-top.
RantWoman lives in Seattle near assorted family members who may or may not get mentioned in RantWoman's adventures.Rant woman has modest gardening pretensions including both houseplants and a few things on a balcony across the hall from her apartment. RantWoman is especially proud of her Christmas cactuses; these bloom faithfully under RantWoman's regimen and recently even survived some rather disheartening misadventures but are on their way to renewed exuberance.
RantWoman is passionate about pedestrian friendliness, public transit, accessible computing, friendly community, classical music, swimming and sundry other topics about which you will just have to read the blog as it develops.
Okay okay, RantWoman is a bit of a politics junkie, a wonk, and a nerd but we will see what all of this makes it into the blog.
RantWoman has many claims to fame, or perhaps infamy. Again, you will just have to read the blog and see whether I release any juicy details.
RantWoman believes adventures come in many forms. Some require special gear and extravagant preparation. Others sneak up and clobber people whether or not they think they are paying attention. I hope reading about adventures is enjoyable even if, possibly, every second of a given adventure might not be exactly enjoyable. Rantwoman also thinks it is time just to start writing Adventures.
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