Unintended consequences.

I attended a mandatory session on password security the other day. (Yes, for work, but we don't talk about that here, remember?)

Long story short, I left that session completely paranoid about my one-size-fits-all password that I have been using, oh, EVERYWHERE, for about the last, um, TEN YEARS. Duuuh. Wait, let me say that again. DUUUUUHHHH

The session leader gave us all copies of this article, which suggests some cute ways to make up memorable and un-guessable passwords. Dutifully, I set about doing just that.

Except that my first couple of mnemonics weren't so mnemonic. And I promptly forgot which numbers I'd used. Because, of course, you don't ever ever write passwords down, because then they can be stolen.

I ended up needing to request a password reset from Gmail, Facebook, Yahoo Mail, Amazon & eBay. I think that I have it all straightened 'round now. I think.

But I forgot that the password to G-Mail is also used by my Blackberry to sync both my calendar and e-mail. The calendar sync app asked straight out for the new password when it tried to sync (something it does behind-the-scenes most of the time) and wasn't able to, it popped right up on the screen and said, hey, dumbass, I can't get into your calendar.

I'm still trying to figure out the mess with the Blackberry. Argh.

And we all fall DOWN!

Is it just me, or is the earth more unstable these days? Unstable as in the ground beneath my feet seems like it is rockin' and rollin'. You may not know this, but earthquakes DO happen in Oh-hia-ia. I remember one that was a 4.0 on the Richter scale a few years back. Unfortunately, I can't blame this one on a quake.

Returning to my car at the end of the workday (on the days that I don't bike) is apparently treacherous, and hazardous to my health. I stumbled crossing the street the other day, wrenching my heel in a pothole that was just large enough to grab on to the heel of my shoe. But the pièce de résistance was falling in a parking deck. In the middle of the day. I was NOT walking and CrackBerry-ing. I know that's hard to believe, but it is true. I was NOT wearing shoes that are eleventy inches tall. Again, I know that strains credulity, too. (Mucho thanks to MotherMe for the word eleventy, I plan to use it often!) I *WAS* wearing my glasses, something I frequently forget to do, so I could see just fine. I wasn't drunk. (Hey! Quiet down out there in the peanut gallery! I don' wanna hear that you don' belief- belief - trust me on that.) I don't have an ear infection, or an inner ear imbalance, and I wasn't any more clumsy than I usually am.

What I *did* do was miss a step. Fell coming out of a stairwell, by missing the last stair, the one that takes you from the LEVEL base of the stairs to the LEVEL floor of the garage. The one that is the EXACT. SAME. COLOR. as the garage floor. The one that is lighted rather poorly, too.

Now since this was at work, that means I have to fill out paperwork, but only if I tell someone, right? I mean, my pride was far more damaged than my body. Here I am, elegantly dressed, hair done, makeup in place, accessories to match, striding confidently to my car that is going to take me to a meeting. Next thing I know, I'm sprawled out on the garage floor, sandals off of my feet, glasses around my neck instead of perched on the bridge of my nose, purse dumped, BlackBerry in several pieces scattered around me. (No BlackBerries were injured during this stunt. Just in case you were worried. I sure was!) I'm on the very dirty garage floor, and DAMN did my hand hurt when I picked myself back up. I landed, you see, on my right hand first, then my left knee, and finally my right knee, skinning all three quite nicely.

After that, I'm pissed. Really ticked. At my own clumsiness, but also at the people who manage the parking deck. The deck has been closed all summer undergoing "repairs". What repairs? They weren't painting, or refreshing the safety features of the garage. They weren't fixing the gaping holes all over the garage. They certainly weren't cleaning the garage. (Took me quite a while to scrub the dirt out of my knee!) So seriously, WTF were they doing?

I called the parking management entity. I explained the problem. They were fairly un-moved by my request to fix said problem. I then explained that I had fallen as a direct result of the problem. That got their attention. But also: Ooops. Because now they want me to fill out all kinds of paperwork and promise on the soul of my firstborn that I'm not going to sue them. Joke's on them right there, eh? Not going to have a firstborn!

All of that necessitated me also telling the colleagues in my office, as I had to have a "supervisor" sign the paperwork. Again, I say: Ooops. Because I am never ever going to hear the end of this....they'll harass me about not tripping over stuff for the next....well, forever.

Feel free to join in.

Javla eeediot

On my way home from work, I noticed two women standing on my street's sidewalk in a heavily overgrown area. What were they doing? Picking wild blackberries.

That reminded me that there's a lovely strand of blackberries in the heavily overgrown area of MY back yard.

Last summer, I noticed them while sitting on my back patio, drinking wine with a neighbor. I took the empty wine glass and filled it with the wild berries, and we ate them while finishing the bottle. They were yummy.

At my grandparent's house when I was a little girl, there were lots of wild blackberries, and I remember picking them with a cousin, putting them in bowls and dumping milk and sugar over them, eating them with a spoon.

So I thought I'd have a look-see, check out if there were ripe blackberries in my little patch. Sure enough, there were. I told DH that after dinner, I'd don long pants and sleeves (in the miserable heat, fun, yeah, sure) and pick the ripe ones. Should there be enough, I'd make a cobbler.

The reason for the long sleeves and pants? There are also bits of poison oak and sumac back there. DH is one of those folks that are highly, highly allergic to the poison plants, and he shuddered in revulsion when I announced my intentions, even with the promise of blackberry cobbler, or potential blackberry cobbler.

I reminded him that I'd picked them last year in work clothes (skirt, heels, short sleeves) with no problem. He smirked, then shuddered again. He suggested that I divest myself of my long sleeves and pants immediately upon re-entering the house, and turn on the washing machine forthwith, to destroy any possibility of him picking up the dreaded poison ivy. He is so allergic to the stuff that contact with clothing that has been worn in the vicinity of the poison plants will give him the rash.

Fair enough.

I even found shoes, real shoes, not my usual cute summer sandals to wear while in the blackberry patch.

I was quickly reminded of one of the problems of blackberry-ing: the thorns. Yow. I got stabbed once or twice, but no blood drawn, so no real problem. I kept watch for poison ivy, poison oak, poison sumac, but saw no evidence of it.

Then, quite suddenly, I felt a burning, piercing sensation on the inside of my left wrist, as I reached over and under to grab a few more precious berries. Reaching had pushed the sleeve of my long-sleeved shirt up near my elbow. Ooops. I yanked my hand back, inspecting for rouge spiders, mosquitoes, bees. Nothing. Not a bug in sight. But a red welt, the size of an eraser on the top of a #2 pencil, was already forming. We're talking instant. Unsure of what it was, but certain it wasn't poison ivy, I kept on picking berries, even as the spot swelled and burned and burned some more. I got similar sensations across the fingers of my right hand, jabs, but no welts there.

It wasn't until I got a third shot, again on my left wrist, that I realized what the heck was happening. When and where had I felt this before? On a walk in the woods when I was about 11. What was it? Stinging nettles.

I'd had tunnel vision for the ripe berries, and had forgotten that yes, there are plants other than the poisons that can kinda ruin your day. When I looked around, I recognized the evil plant in question, taller than I am, and reaching its painful protection over some really lovely ripe blackberries.

I had wondered why the deer that are the bane of my garden hadn't eaten the berries, why the raccoons hadn't stripped the bushes bare. That would be because they're smarter than me, and know what they should stay away from.

When I was stung as a kid, the remedy was to rub the juice from a touch-me-not plant into the sting, thereby soothing it. Touch-me-nots are also called jewelweed. They produce very pretty yellow and orange flowers, and the seed pods that form after the flowers bloom are explosive, showering seeds in all directions when you brush up against the plant. They often grow in tandem with nettles. There were plenty of touch-me-nots with the blackberries, but rubbing the juice from the hastily ripped off branch did not provide the cool relief I remember as a child.

Instead, the welts continued to swell and burn like hell, and I backed out of the blackberry patch as quickly as I could, heading for the house at a run.

I called out to DH as I came in the house; what did he remember from his Scouting days about nettles? What did he remember? That they sting. Thanks.

I turned on the kitchen faucet, and allowed cold water to run over the painful spots, which had expanded from two welts on my left arm to four, and two fingers of my right hand. The water soothed, but did not remove the sting. I stood with my hands submerged until they were nearly numb.

When I showed the welts to DH, he recoiled in horror, moving as far away from my arms as the couch would allow. I explained that nettle stings aren't contagious like the ivy, but he wasn't buying it.

Both of my sisters are more outdoors-y than me, so I called the one in New York to ask her how we'd cured it as kids. Her answer? Touch-me-nots, or wait it out. Google said the same thing, with the additional caveat that sometimes the stings fade in minutes, but sometimes they take as long as 24 hours. Great. Some species that grow in Great Brittan require the treatment of a doctor. FanTAStic. And ouch.

Not enough berries for a cobbler, either, even if I hadn't been stopped by the nettles. Ow. Seriously.

It is Tuesday, and...

What? No, I haven't written a Tuesday post in a while. Stuck, y'see, for a topic that doesn't include a)my depression b)fandom c)side effects of my meds or d)general other whining, about work, (which is getting less and less fun as time goes on) the weather, (which yes, still sucks) or the thousand other things that irk me each day. Funny dumb blonde things haven't been happening to me so much lately, so even poking sly fun at myself is kind of out.

Except for this one.

I got asked out on a date last week.

Allow me to note for the un-initiated that I'm married, have been for nearly 8 years, and DH and I have been together for---Jeebus---14 or 15 years now. In that time, not only have I not dated anyone else, I've never considered it, either. I may be one of the least religious people that I know, but that whole wedding vow thingy? Till death do us part and all that? It means something to me.

The reason this is funny (well, to ME, anyway) is that I didn't realize I was being asked out on a date, and then had a V-8 moment (a dopeslap to the head) when it did dawn on me that I was being asked out. It went something like this.

Man: Wow, you're looking great these days. We should have a drink to celebrate, I could tell my friends I'm dating a supermodel.

Me, completely clueless: I'd love to have drinks with you and your wife. You should call me and we'll go.

Man: I wasn't suggesting that we bring our spouses.

Me: ...

Man: Y'know, like a date?

And that was the point at which I realized I was being asked out on a date, and that the entire conversation we'd had up until that point, about 10 minutes of banter, was him being flirtatious. *headdesk*

I'm kinda clueless, yo.

Me: ... H'mmm, (chuckle) y'know, I don't think DH would be so keen on that idea.

It could have been very awkward, but instead we both laughed it off and I still think it is funny. Mostly because I don't know when I'm being flirted with.

I'm ignoring the fact that he's that willing to toss overboard his own vows, because it isn't my problem. Thankfully. I've got enough other crap to deal with. But that's really kind of sad, isn't it?

In other news, because the job situation has become less ideal, I have been sending out resumes like mad. Nearly as many as when I was unemployed, which is also sad. I had to go buy more resume paper, because I ran out. I've gotten a couple of thanks-but-no-thanks letters back, but on Saturday when I checked our postbox, I got a letter telling me that a search committee is reviewing my resume and reference materials and that I should take the next step in the process, which involved filling out a diversity survey. Hopeful, because I really, really, really want that job. Great money, and doing something that I'm very good at. But because a search committee is involved, this is going to take for-fucking-ever.

Patience, like being flirted with, isn't something I'm particularly good with. Guess I'll need a distraction in the meantime. Hey! I can knit WHILE watching that TV show I like, what's it called again? With the two cute brothers? Right.

She can't drive.....55

DH can not be in a vehicle that I'm driving without making some remark about my inability to drive. For the record, I am a good driver. I drive too fast most of the time, but we'll get to that in a second. DH likes to yell and fuss about things like "WATCH THE CURB!!!" and his yelling often makes whatever he thinks the problem is about 50,000 times worse, because the screaming startles me. I have been known to stop the car, turn it off, hand him the keys, and get out, rather than listen to one more second of his kvetching about my driving. It isn't that I'm a bad driver, it is that he's a control freak and does not like being a passenger.

I'm kind of on the defensive about this.

One day this week, I was headed to a meeting with a client, in the county north of my own. A roughly half hour drive, mostly freeway driving.

Can you see the ending here, already?

As I came around a bend on a connector between two freeways, sitting on a huge cement pad between the lanes was a friendly Ohio State Highway Patrol officer. I was driving 72 miles an hour. The speed limit there is 55 miles an hour. He tagged me at 72 only because I slammed on the brakes when I saw him; I thought he was going to pull out in front of me. Otherwise, he'd have probably gotten me for 80.

Oh-hia requires drivers stopped for moving violations to show proof of insurance; I can never find the damn card when I get pulled over. The officer went back to process the paperwork, assuring me that he would, "have me on my way quickly," which made me giggle. I think the point is to NOT be on your way so quickly, no? But of course I couldn't find the current insurance card in the glove box. Cards dating back to 2001 are in there; not any from 2005, 2006, or 2007. Fortunately, he let that slide.

When he handed me the ticket, after explaining how I need to call the court to find out what the fine is and that the fine is due by January 8th, he said, "I'm sorry."

When I had rolled up the window and drove away, I howled with laughter. He's sorry? He's sorry? He's sorry? Hm. If he is so sorry, why'd he give me the ticket? Or was he apologizing for catching me breaking the law? Or perhaps he's sorry that I broke the law. I'm not really sure what he meant, but it struck me as funny.

Here's the painful part. The ticket is going to cost me $114. Oh-hia-ia has a points system for traffic violations; twelve points and YOU'RE OUT! This ticket makes 4 on my license. I had another ticket in January/February of 2006, for driving 42 mph in a school zone, where the speed limit is 20 mph. When I get a ticket, I get a ticket. Your insurance rates are based on your driving record. Adding insult to injury, therefore, is the fact that my insurance rate will go up with this additional ticket. The fine is bad enough, but you continue to pay for it with the increase in insurance. Takes two years for two points to drop off.

There ARE days, even when you're not someone who suffers from depression, when you just ought not get out of bed.