The joys of computers. Otherwise known as mac vs. P.C. FIGHT, FIGHT, FIGHT.

I have too many computer nerds in my life.

Computer nerds hate macs (because they won't let them meddle in the inner workings of their computers), and I've been taught to have a bias against macs, too. Not that I could do any worthwhile meddling in my computer even if I had the inclination--I don't have the skills for that--but I am married to somebody, and know many others who do have the skills for it. And they have definitely meddled helpfully on my behalf in the past. If I had a mac, and it broke, I'd have to ship it off to have somebody else meddle with it, and if there is one thing I am terrible at, it is getting up the gumption to box something up to mail and then go mail it. So. Much. Work.

If packages still looked like this, I might find it easier to give a bother. 

As far as aesthetics go, macs are pretty lovely. I get that. I myself like running my grubby paws along the perfectly designed curves of a mac when I get the chance. The moment I try to use it, though, it turns into this techno-farce where I can't find the browser, minimizer, or "new tab" buttons, and people are alternating yelling at me, or laughing. I can't find these buttons because they are either too obvious, in a place on the screen I'm not used to, or they don't instinctively look to me like the things they're supposed to be.

What is happening. 

I am trying to learn, though, because I feel there are enough macs floating around, I'll probably have to use one for some reason at some point in time, so I should know how.

But anyway, while I can appreciate the physical beauty of a mac, my computer-oriented friends can't see it over the glaring ugliness of its uselessness to them and incredible mark'd-up price.

Seriously? I could buy my little '02, 31mpg Saturn over again with the money I'd save getting the pc instead.

Something that really frustrates me about this is that in my observations of mac users, they seem like computer illiterates. They're going for the flash and prettiness rather than usefulness. I mean, maybe not having to worry about simple repairs and updates is worth $5900 to them (given the previous computer comparison). But yow. Should it be? Maybe learning to do those things should be on par with learning to change your own oil or a tire.

Now, maybe some mac users just aren't interested in computers enough to want to have the ability to mess with the inner workings of theirs. In that case, a mac is great for them, and that makes sense to me.

But for somebody who has some programming knowledge, or any inclination awhatsoever of learning anything about computers, having a mac is taking that ability away from them. To compare to my life, it would be as if somebody put me on top of a horse, but kept the reins themselves and would only let my horse walk and trot while I sat there, doing nothing. It's called ponying, and it sucks if you're over 5 years old and can actually control a horse yourself.

Pictured: a mac user being ponied by Steve Jobs in a tank-top. 

Or perhaps they have gotten used to the ease of having any problems be somebody else's problem, so they just give off a devil-may-care attitude. Considering that both kinds of computers are prevalent in our society, though, I think people should be able (for the sake of being well-rounded and useful) to know their way around both macs and pcs. Even the people I know who hate macs can generally still figure one out if they have to. It does not seem to work both ways, though.

Case in point? A story from my life (which also proves that, in general, not enough people are computer-savvy as should be, given society):

I applied to be an independent contractor with a petcare company here in Pittsburgh. To make this official and everything I had to go to an orientation for the company at the owner's house and sign paperwork and things like that. While there the owner took us through a powerpoint on her pc about the duties and legal/tax ramifications of being an independent contractor. This woman herself was obviously not any sort of a computer person, but we plugged away at that powerpoint. At some point she accidentally closed the program and couldn't find it again. She hadn't minimized it (I could see the desktop), but she was at a complete loss about what to do.

"My daughter made this and got it set up," she apologized. And then went single-clicking merrily on her recycle bin, browser, and anything else within reach of her pointer. Nobody said anything. There were about 15 people of various ages and educational backgrounds sitting around that table, and nobody said a word. This woman continued clicking on useless things (ignoring her start menu button) for a moment more as we stirred uncomfortably. Finally one kind, skinny young man, attempting to be helpful and break the awkward silence offered "yeah, sorry, I dunno: I just have a mac."

Some others nodded agreement with this statement, and I waited another moment, not believing that it was possible that I was meant to be the saviour of these people. Surely there was another, better qualified? But no. It was up to me. Me. The girl who gets panicky when Avast! says anything to me other than "Welcome to Avast! Your virus database has been updated."
The unexpected hero.

"Try searching for it?" I offered, tentatively.

"Huh. Where?" she asked.

"In your start menu."

"Where?"

"On the bottom left, there."

She attempts to open Word, and I begin to feel more confident in myself.

"No, sorry--far left. The little window icon." I got up and walked over to my new boss to point out the icon for her to click.

"How do I search?"

"Uhm, just start typing," I said.

"What do I type?" she asked.

"Oh. What was the file name?" I said.

"I don't know. My daughter made it."

There was a pause while I gathered my wits.

"Ah," I said. "Well, she probably put the company name in it, right? Try typing that."

We eventually found it, and I was hailed a computer genius and sat down to accolades I did not feel I had earned.

All this to say, if in this day and age of ubiquitous computer-use, I am the most computer literate person at a table of 15 other people (who definitely use computers of some sort), then something is wrong.

Pictured: me on a computer 

(also, if you don't already know Hyperbole and a Half, go remedy that right now).

Disclaimer: I have heard rumours that macs are great for artsy people and have some wonderful programs for them, but I have a suspicion that there are plenty of those programs (or their equivalents) for pcs to be found online and downloaded without having to spend thousands more on a mac. I might very well be mistaken on this point, though.

ADDENDUM: A friend (whose brother used to work for Twitter) just pointed out to me that lots of computery people do use macs. That is true. If I understand correctly, though, while they are able to make some great things with the programs mac provides, they are still more limited because they can't improve upon those programs or write their own to use on the mac.
So yes, lots of computer people put macs to good use. But their creativity is still somewhat limited.
Also, Twitter is in California, so of course they use macs.

XKCD speaks about Mac programming tools here.

Work Experiences, Vol 2

Aaannnd we're back with this episode of "Jobs I Have Had".
I realized I'd forgotten in my other post an important job I worked BEFORE retail, so I'll do that one today, and retail next time.

Milkmaid

This was a fun one. I worked for about two years, off and on, for our neighbours in PA at their dairy farm. We got to know them because my parents actually bought our house from them. They have a small dynasty starting with Dick and Blanche (who are close to 90 and probably healthier and more limber than a lot of 20 year olds), going down through Dwight, Dean, and their wives, all the way to Dean's two sons, and a couple babies and a wife that belong to the youngest of Dean's sons. Also a lot of cows.
They hired me as a milker. If I got the evening shift I ended the day covered in basically every fluid a cow can secrete. If I got the 4am shift, I started the day with all those fluids, plus the 6 top country songs Froggy plays at 4am when there are only farmers to hear them.

Actually, one of my favourite work experiences was a 4am milking on a Christmas morning. I finished up around 9:30am and Dad drove me home to an excellent breakfast and presents over snow-covered fields as the sun was rising in a blue sky and everything was glistening and new.

 

It looked kind of like this. Only bigger and brighter. 

Usually if I worked the 4am shift I would end up milking beside a silent and crusty neighbour we used to have. He was also the one responsible for Froggy on repeat.

If I worked later in the day I either got to work with Blanche (who was a delight), or a couple hispanic guys. Sometimes I'd hit the jackpot and it would be both. On those days Blanche and I would sing showtunes and piano-pounding hymns and laugh at everything and the hispanic guys, understanding only every 15th word we'd say, would have quiet, whispering conversations about us, shrug, and go back to the milking.

Sometimes there would be doughnuts, which we would happily consume with one rubber-gloved hand while the other was busy wiping manure off of a cow's teats.

Here is a cow with clean teats and a milking machine attached.

We'd drive the cows in (when I was there, there was space and machines for 6 at a time on each side of the milking parlour--I think they've since moved up to 12 on each side in their new parlour), clean them off with towels and "dip" (I forget the chemical make-up of this dip)--and sometimes powerful jets of water for particularly tenacious clods of poop--and then hook up the milking machine. Then you run back and forth while that set was being milked, keeping the tubes all un-twisted, and sometimes rescuing a milker and redoing it if a cow kicked it off and soiled her udder.
Towards the end of the milking we'd get troublesome cows that needed injections of oxytocin to let down their milk, and cows with mastitis (that milk got collected in separate containers and didn't end up with the stuff you drink). Some of these needed to be milked by hand (my favourite part!). 

 

Do you SEE the delight in this woman's face?

 

Sometimes Dean would rush through, always yelling and cheerful, with one sinewy arm clad in a vet's shoulder-length plastic glove, and proclaim that he had to go "breed a cow."

That meant this.

Sometimes I got put in charge of feeding all the baby calves. This meant mixing formula into some of the milk and either pouring it into buckets for the bigger calves, or actually bottlefeeding the very young ones. I was good at teaching the newborns to accept bottles. 

 

I would also clean out these little huts.

Funny story from my time spent milking:

So in Tennessee I had made a friend in an Irish dance group who was engaged to a guy in an Irish music group (they were good). She'd given me a t-shirt from her dude's group. The group was called "Kula" which means "brotherhood" in Gaelic or something. So I had this t-shirt with a big celtic knot, and then "KULA: Explosive Irish Music" on the back. One day I'm wearing this t-shirt in the barn and milking away happily with a couple of the hispanic guys. I notice they are looking at me and giggling. Finally one points to my shirt and says, "Kula. What that?"
I explain my t-shirt-acquiring story to him, and what it means in Gaelic. The two guys exchange looks and grin some more, showing bright and happy teeth through dark skin and some cow poop and dip.
"Kula not mean brotherhood," he says.
"What?" I said.
"In Spanish," he said. "In Spanish, kula mean this," and he turns around and points vaguely to his rear end.
I never could get the internets to tell me exactly what the definition was, but I never wore the shirt again if I knew there would Spanish-speaking people around. 

 

 

 

Growing Old (Or: Our tea cup / Is getting filled up / So we'll never have to dread / Getting old)

We interrupt this work-related series of posts to bring you a contemplation on aging.

I know it's obnoxious for a 24 year old to even mention this since she's only two years out of college, seven weeks and three days into marriage, and has only one white hair to her name, but I don't care.

Garrett and I have some good friends. We all realized just how old we're beginning to feel when over the course of several months we caught ourselves making old people choices and talking about old people things.

Scene One

The set-up: 

After spending an entire week working, five of us gather together to rejuvenate before the next week.

We have all gone to church and listened with interest during a New-Comer's class that consisted of theology, history, and grace, then moved upstairs for the actual service and communion. Afterwards we socialized briefly, and at the opening of this scene have returned to our friends' home for the night.

Brittney and I have decided to make a wild evening of it and have each downed a shot of Triple Sec. We are now sipping on berry-flavoured hard lemonades and cooking a low-carb, paleo-approved dinner, and discussing many aspects of life, including (but not limited to) making church home decisions, and what is the best way to pay off debt quickly. We also imbibe large glasses of water to ensure hydration.

The three men are all outside, grouped around the grille on the front porch smoking cigars and grilling a hunk of lean and seasoned venison to perfection. They are keeping the noise down for the sake of the neighbours.

The men enter the kitchen, stage right.

"Looks like you've been having fun in here," Garrett observes to Brittney and I while Dan plates up the meat and Trevor sets the table."What did you two talk about?"

"Sex," say Brittney and I, attempting to look young and frisky.

"Is that all you ever talk about?" Dan says. We hear a guffaw, and then a cough from the dining room.

"No! Well, what'd you all talk about, then?" I ask.

"Mortages," Garrett says.

Scene Two

We decide we're going to have a rip-roaring, irresponsible weekend together. 

Scene Three

Two people give up the Minecrafting party around midnight, citing a usual bedtime of 10pm. The rest give up shortly thereafter, citing responsibilities beginning again in the morning.

Scene Four

 We wake up, shuffle downstairs, and among five of us we are able to complain about somebody's arthritis acting up, two chronic headaches, three sore backs, and four-to-five different levels of tiredness. Somebody (me) has incredibly sore calves because she forgot she wasn't in as good shape as she used to be, and ran up and down too many flights of stairs two days before. We all exchange commiseration and remedy recommendations over a breakfast of eggs, pancakes, and orange juice. By this time the coffee has finally begun to kick in and somebody asks if this is what being old feels like. 

So you see, we are not old yet, but we are beginning to show signs. But I'm okay with that, because I've got some great people to grow old with.

Here are two songs to cheer you up if you're old already, to encourage you if you're starting to feel age creeping up, or to give you more pleasure at the thought of aging if you are so young you haven't noticed aging's effects yet. 

 From still-young whippersnappers like us.

From guys who know what's up. 

Happy birthday to Trevor S. (today), Garrett (Valentine's day), Brittney S. (January), me (December), and Dan S.* . . . whenever his birthday is. It's not on Facebook. Thanks for making that so easy, Dan.

*Trevor, Dan, and Brittney all happen to have last names that begin with S; Dan and Brittney are married to each other, Trevor is not married to either of them. Sorry for the confusion.

My experiences are many and varied

I've been thinking about work and dreaming about work and just generally obsessing about work. I need a job both for the money, and for my psychological well-being. I'm finally getting some headway, which is relieving.
I thought, though, it might be fun to share with you some brief summaries of the jobs I have had. Perhaps some will resonate with you.

Enjoy.

Babysitting

What else can a young teen girl do to earn some money? Homeschoolers have a great advantage in this market by already knowing families with children of all ages and parents so frazzled they somehow forget how irresponsible they were at age 13 and consent to let a young teen girl care for their infants. 

 

They did sometimes ask me amusing questions. 

I did not particularly care for babysitting as a job because I do not particularly care for children. Also you are put in the terrible position of being unable to discipline the kids, which leaves you essentially helpless if the devil takes one. One particularly memorable experience I had began with a child refusing to pick up his toys before dinner, climaxed when I found him pantsless and peeing on a mattress out of spite, and ended with his heaving a heavy metal piggy bank at his year-old sister. When called, the parents wearily said they'd take care of it when they got home. 

In retrospect, either they actually did, or God chucked a bucketful of grace on that hellion, because I met him again a few years ago and liked him enormously.

Fast food

This is pretty much the job most people rag on if they're going to rag on jobs: neither the job nor the workers are respected.

 

Probably defaced by pimply-faced adolescent boys 

with iphone5s and no jobs themselves.

In actuality, my fast food experience (I didn't work at Wendy's) was pleasant. I worked there for about two years (until second semester of college) and had good co-workers and good managers. The customers were mostly laid-back, everyday people who just wanted a burger. Sometimes they wanted chicken nuggets. 

Sometimes they asked questions like this about said chicken nuggets.

But there really is something to say about a job that doesn't take itself too seriously. Nobody walked in expecting blue plate specials or their mussels to taste not-too-fishy but still fishy enough. Our customers were mostly construction workers on breaks, retired people, and Amish workers (the latter all extremely slim and packing away the most calorie-laden of our offerings). People were polite in a friendly, though not differential, way, I got hit on a lot (thanks to the retirees), my managers trusted me, and I had money to put in the bank.

In addition, I now know the inner workings of fast-food restaurants and can try to prevent anger in customers. For instance, I often hear people complaining that their food is taking forever to make, yet none of the cashiers are going back to help--rather, they just stand up front, doe-eyed, waiting to ring up another customer. 

Do you know why they aren't back there helping? Because do you KNOW how many germs are on money? No, you do not. And if you did, you would never want to touch money ever again.You absolutely do not want that cashier taking your money, and the money of the guy in front of you who just picked his nose, and the money of the teen girl behind you with all the piercings and strange rash on her arm, and then going and handling your sandwich. 

 

These are the bacterial colonies that sprang up after 4 days 

when your run-of-the-mill dollar bill had some ager gel (a nutrient-filled goo)  

smeared on it to feed what was already on the bank note.

Rules in fast food restaurants are very strict that cashiers stay up front and don't touch the food. To go back and help would require them to go back, wash their hands for a minute, put on gloves, get in the way of people already making your food, then abandon that post immediately when someone else walks into the store, wash their hands again, and make it back up front before the new person gets pissed at not being waited on sooner.

So please be patient with them.

Anyways, with my next job I still had the money (and was making more), but not the laid-back friendliness inherent in my stint with fast-food. I worked...

Retail 

(coming soon to a blog near you).

Koi have feelings and hungry tummies, too

I'm currently sitting in a lovely San Francisco hotel room feeling super excited about Life.
Why? you may ask. Well, I will reply. Stop asking so many questions and let me finish.

Firstly, I am sitting in that hotel room in San Francisco alone because it turned out that CMU sends its Entertainment Technology students to the west coast every year to meet with game companies and possible future employers (on the docket yesterday for Garrett and his cohorts were Google and Lucasfilms and Sony, and something else I don't remember because I didn't recognize it), and the fates conspired against us and had the trip this year exactly coincide with what would have been Garrett's and my honeymoon.
This is only somewhat annoying, and it's included a lot of perks I wasn't expecting.

Some major perks have been getting better acquainted with some of Garrett's fellow students, and meeting even more and some CMU staff members, as well. If one must bring along 90 other human beings on one's honeymoon, this group includes some that actually make it kind of fun. This was especially obvious during the 13.5 hour day we spent at Disneyland. I don't think Garrett and I could have provided each other with the energy to make it through without our extra companions.

The major perk I'm thinking about now, though, is just a general encouragement in several aspects of life--mostly related to work and purpose. I shall post my commentary on those as I finish them. We'll see how many I can get done before I tire of it and take a break to traipse downstairs and feed my bagel to the koi in the atrium pond when hotel security isn't looking.

Wedding woes and wishes

As pretty much all of you know, I'm currently engaged in wedding planning. Pun intended.
It's kind of lame; I have to make all these decisions about things I care less than nothing about (like, the colour of table-cloths, or what shoes my bridesmaids wear), and money magically disappears into black holes labeled "Miscellaneous".
There are all these hidden costs to getting married. At the beginning you don't think about the fact you'll have to spend $120 on postage for invitations, or hundreds of dollars on disposable silverware, cups, plates, and little coffee stirrers for the reception.

Absolutely necessary to get married.

Luckily, in the spirit of Being Prepared for Everything, I'd already been saving up money on the side for months in case Garrett and I decided to get married. Worst case scenario? I'd have an extra $600 to put towards paying off my car, going to visit friends in other countries, or buying a freaking lot of shoes.

Any shoes.

So really, there was no negative to saving up the money. And yes, it's gone now. One must buy all sorts of things like presents for people helping out, gas for errands, peacock-themed guestbook for events, etc. My parents, Garrett's parents, and various grandparents are forking over the vast majority of money for this little party, for which we are very thankful, but geeeeze. 

The thing is, some people dream about getting married all their lives until the actual event. Those people are not me.

I basically care about ponies. I dream about having a pony. I do not dream about having a wedding. Occasionally in my youth I thought it might be appealing to have a husband. But I did not think it was appealing to have a wedding. I am proven correct. The day of the party will probably be okay, as the planning will be done and I'll pretty much be along for the ride at that point, and free to wander around and hug people and eat food and dance. But until that point, I have to plan, and it's super annoying and not pleasurable at all.
People keep telling me it's an exciting time and I should enjoy it. And my inner response is "...about as exciting as getting a filling."

Sorry, but nope; wedding planning is a bore and inconvenient. I'll be glad for it to be done, and I can move on with actually being married, because I am looking forward to that. 

I think I'll keep him. 

'Cause this dude is seriously awesome. He does fabulous things like making me tea and helping me clean things and kissing me. He is one of those rare individuals that is willing to admit faults and take responsibility for things. Also he has a ponytail, so I can't let him get away.

I'm embarrassing myself now, so I'm going to go do something else productive. I thought I should probably update the blog, though, so here you go.

We are very happy together.

Jetlag

I must be getting old; I've got a terrible case of jetlag from Japan. I didn't have any issues last year, and I had no issues this year on the way TO Japan... aside from waking up early the first few days.

This year, though, I came home around 8pm on Thursday, went to bed at 10pm, slept through the night and felt fine the next day. Friday night I had issues sleeping--couldn't get to sleep until 2am, woke up for a while around 5, then slept until 1--and Saturday I was the walking dead. I wandered around and tried to do vaguely useful things. My mother told me to go on a walk to perk myself up. Not having the mental acuity to have any opinion in the matter, I dutifully walked a mile and a half in a misty drizzle. I then came home, fell onto a couch, and slept for an hour and a half straight. I had very interesting dreams about puzzles and children bouncing balls and evil, black mist and a labyrinth, though. This nap, though, was probably my undoing.
Last night I didn't get to sleep until after 6:30am. Yes. That is correct. I did not get to sleep until the birds and some people were already awake and alert.
Strangely, this morning I didn't have an issue staying conscious in church, thanks partly to the fact my brother and I drew all these little heart-shape-themed creatures...

But now I am past the point of tiredness. My body has given up on getting sleep, so it's resigned and peaceful. I have to work the next three days and get ready for guests (in the form of my S.O. and my sister's roommate), but it's all cool. Sleep isn't really necessary, right? Eventually I'll just sort of, fall asleep at the right time, right?

Hmmm.