Don’t fear the Reaper

You might remember my series of posts about Windows 7 ruining my life. If not, that’s okay, you don’t have to read them. Just know that there were a lot of them because I was angry and bitter (which is a bad combination when you have a blog).

The gist of the issue was that I was unable to record music in real time on a brand new laptop because of latency problem associated with Windows 7. I returned the laptop and several months later, returned to the store and purchased it again, content with the fact that I would keep my suffocatingly slow desktop for my music projects.

In that time, because I was never really content, I tried different interfaces and work-arounds but nothing seemed to work. One day, I had my friend Brian over and we ended up messing about on my desktop for recording. We ended up installing a better program called Reaper and then it promptly lost all recording capabilities.

We quickly uninstalled the “better” program and restored everything to it’s previous functioning state.

A few weeks later, I brought my laptop over to Brian’s house in order to figure out the recording issue once and for all. He suggested installing Reaper. Even though this would have been immediately rejected had he suggested it at my house a couple weeks earlier, I accepted his suggestion because the worst that could happen was that I still wouldn’t be able to record music on my laptop.

After a quick installation and a quick plug in of a microphone, we did a test.

I was recording in real time. I had to pick my jaw up off the floor. I was astounded that it could be so easy when it had caused so much strife over the years. Seriously years. It’s been nearly 3 years.

So, what changed? In order to try and make a certain interface work, I had installed a generic audio driver, ASIO4all. As the name suggests it’s supposed to be compatible with everything.

Reaper is a more advanced recording program than the program I was previously using, Audacity, and has the ability to select different drivers for the program to function. Instead of selecting the audio driver in my computer (the one that causes the blasted latency issue I loathe), I selected ASIO. And it fixed all my problems.

Well, all my problems relating to recording on my laptop anyway…

The internet is a weird, weird place

I’m convinced Google is fucking with me. It all started a few weeks back when I decided to check my personal email at work one day. I logged on to the website and it was all in German.

Having to know the fields in order to log on wasn’t necessary; I was able to navigate the website no problem.

I mean, seriously, “Nutzername and passwort”??

Luckily Google didn’t translate all my emails into German, so I was actually able to read them. Once I logged out of the account, everything returned to normal. I thought it was weird, but carried on and didn’t think about it again until a week or so later when I re-discovered the glitch while checking my email from work. 

About a week after that, it started happening when I was at home. About a week after that, it started affecting my search results; the entire webpage of results would show up in German. Most of the time Google would give me the option of translating the page into English. Thanks Google.

But, like the German glitch, the translator would glitch out too and wouldn’t always be available. I started having to learn the German words for “images” and “maps”. And when I looked up a map… that’s right… all the directions were in German.

It was getting increasingly difficult to find information on the internet, so I did what any normal person would do: I Google’d it.

And all the webpages were displayed in… that’s right… English.

Forgetting my intentions entirely, I spent the next five minutes trying to trick Google into thinking I was German. Suddenly the problem became that Google didn’t think I was German anymore. Google was having none of it. All English, all the time.

I decided that finding a solution to my problem was unnecessary since my problem no longer existed.

Until a couple days later, when the problem reared it’s ugly head once again. Since then, I haven’t had to get directions so having German Google hasn’t been too much of a pain in the ass. That’s why I haven’t tried to fix it again. Also, I’m lazy.

A couple days ago, I realized that this would make a fairly entertaining blog post. I started writing it up; one of the first things I did was go to my email account and screenshot the log in screen. More than halfway through this post, I decided to screenshot a results screen. I put in a dummy search term into Google and awaited the results.

Results… in English. Naturally. And now I’m waiting for it to go back to the German default, but it’s not. It’s all “Of course you’re English, why would I think you’re German?”.

It’s like Google knows that I’m writing about it and wants to really fuck with me.

Do the mash… the Monster Mash…

Uncle Keith made the best mashed potatoes ever. I’m not sure how he did it, but he made the smoothest, creamiest mashed potatoes in all the world and he didn’t accomplish it, like a cheater, by using a hand mixer. No, no, he made it happen with a mixture of elbow grease and pure determination. And probably a shit load of milk.

So, it’s no wonder that when I was growing up, I can distinctly remember that any time potatoes needed mashing and Uncle Keith was around, the chef always called him into the kitchen to mash those puppies up. No one was ever disappointed the finished product.

Fast forward to five years ago. Dave invited me over for dinner one night after boasting about his roasting abilities. He said he was going to make a pork roast dinner with all the fixings. Shortly after walking into his place, he told me that it would only be a little bit longer; he was just waiting on the rice to finish cooking.

The following conversation occurred:

Dave: Is that okay? Do you like rice?

Me: Yeah, sure, rice is great, but I thought you were making a roast dinner…

Dave: I am!

Me: Soooo… where the hell are the potatoes?!?

Dave: I don’t make potatoes, I make rice…

Me: You don’t make potatoes?? Where do you put the gravy???

Dave: On the rice…

Me: WTF?

I wasn’t convinced it was the same; I’d never had gravy on rice before that night. I accepted the fact that some people make rice with their roast dinners and that some people are fucking weird. I ate my gravy rice and enjoyed it, but I never let him live that down. I mean, come on, have I ever been known to let something like that go?

Fast forward to two years ago. Dave, in a feeble attempt to make it up to me, invited me over for dinner once again. I don’t recall if it was another roast that he was whipping up, but I do recall that there was going to be gravy and he made a point of telling me that there were going to be potatoes to put the gravy on.

Just to be sure that he knew that I had high standards in the mashed potato arena, I told him about Uncle Keith’s mashed potatoes (for probably the third time); he said that he also makes really creamy ones. I was eager to try them. I didn’t have to wait long; shortly after, I was instructed that dinner was ready and I could dish up. But as soon as I grabbed the potato spoon, I knew something wasn’t right.

I was assured that they were, in fact, real potatoes. I said that the texture was weird; I asked what kind of potatoes they were.

I told him that potatoes out of a box are not real potatoes. He told me they were real; he showed me the ingredient list… the list that included “real potato flakes”. I told him real mashed potatoes are made by taking potatoes and mashing them!

I haven’t been invited over for dinner since. Honestly, it’s a wonder he puts up with me.

You would blog too if it happened to you

I wrote a post awhile back with tips on how to get more traffic to your blog. Most of which I wasn't doing, because I'm blog-shy. And the rest were things I made up. Maybe not entirely, but it definitely wasn't very helpful. One of the points I made was that some people make business cards with their URL on them and hand them out. I was skeptical as to who would do such a thing and then promptly received a comment from another blogger that admitted to doing it.

:O <---Insert foot here

Although I haven't looked back at that post to see if I've started doing any of those things, I can tell you for sure that I have done one thing. Okay, I didn't make up business cards, but I did hand out my blog address to someone I met in a mall*. He ended up reading it and the next time I saw him at the mall* he told me what he thought about my posts. He said he read my blog three times, but I think he probably read one post three times, because let's face it, not many people have that kind of dedication.

Also, someone from facebook recently posted something about their blog and instead of not saying anything and wondering what she wrote about, I invited her to be blog-buddies. I'm pretty sure I used those exact words. Clearly, I've made strides in overcoming my blog-shyness. And although I have a lot of room for improvement, I thought you would be proud of me that I took this one, very small, step to being a serious blogger.

Okay, fine, more of a serious blogger.

A long time ago, I was reading a blog and the author admitted in a new post that she wrote a post awhile back and then buried it in older posts in hopes that no one would read it. Ultimately, she linked the new post to the buried post, but I couldn't help but wonder who would do that. I mean, if you're going to write something, write it. And if you don't want anyone to read it, then don't post it. Seems simple enough, right.

And then I turned around and did the exact same thing. I wrote a post and then less than 12 hours later I decided I needed to bury it so that it wasn't the first thing you read when you logged on. And then less than 12 hours after that I realized that it was a dumb-shit thing to do and promptly unpublished it. Now it's sitting there in my drafts mocking me for not having the courage to post it. And now, if I decide to post it, I'll have to rewrite it so that the "yesterday's and today's" are replaced with "two weeks ago", or else, post it in chronological order, thereby burying it once again.

I guess I didn't take that many steps out of my blog-shyness as I thought.

*I said "mall" but I meant "bar"


Update - I realized that burying the post is dumb. Here it is.  Thanks for your supportive comments.

I'm not as dumb as I look, but thanks for coming out

I see what's going on here. I get it. It's really obvious, now that I think about it.

You're playing me for a fool. But I'm on to you.

You "just so happen" to notice me sitting at the bar that Saturday night. You "just so happen" to come out multiple times throughout my short stay. You "just so happen" to be in the ballroom when I change venues. You "just so happen" to tell the bartender without uttering a single word that I do not have to pay for my own drink. You "just so happen" to sit down next to me and talk to me. You "just so happen" to determine that I'm there alone and waiting for no one. You "just so happen" to have time to get to know me over the blaring Latin beats while you're supposed to be working. You "just so happen" to have a business card in your pocket with your cell phone number scribbled on the back. You "just so happen" to give it to me. You "just so happen" to tell me that you want me to use it. You "just so happen" to make an appearance in the ballroom repeatedly, seemingly staying there just until I notice you and leaving shortly thereafter.

It "just so happens" that I decided to step foot into that bar that night; a bar I'd never been to, a bar I wasn't sure existed. It "just so happens" I noticed you when I was sipping my drink. It "just so happens" I felt butterflies in my stomach as I watched you approach my table. It "just so happens" I wished that you would pull up a chair and sit next to me while you were standing there talking to me. It "just so happens" that I felt happy when you did and disappointed when you pushed back from the table to leave. It "just so happens" that I was flattered when you gave me your phone number. It "just so happens" that I wanted to thank you for the third time. It "just so happens" that I looked around for you at the end of the night and couldn't find you. It "just so happens" that I decided to message you like you suggested.

You "just so happen" to respond. You "just so happen" to mention that you would like to see me again. You "just so happen" to be leaving for a month, exactly one week after that fateful night.

A month can be a long time. A lot can happen. In a month, I can either forget about you completely, or think about you constantly. It can go either way, really.

In a mere six days you made sure which way it was going to go. In a mere six days, you "just so happen" to infiltrate my life. In a mere six days, you "just so happen" to become a constant fixture; filling a role no one has occupied for longer than I care to mention.

I think there are way too many "just so happens" for it all to be a coincidence. Clearly this is part of your plan. You wanted to meet me. You wanted to make an impression on me. You wanted me to absorb as much of you as I could "before you left".

Congratulations, your plan worked. Your actions and your words clearly indicate your intentions. You want me to miss you. You want me to come running when you get back.

Congratulations, your plan worked. I've known you for nine days. I laid eyes on you three times in the week you were here. Despite that, it's been two days since you left and I miss you already. How did this happen? And then it hits me. It's all part of your plan.

But I'm onto you. I realize that it's all a ruse. Your "going away party" was a nice touch. Well played, sir, but I don't need the month… you can "come back from Thailand" now.

Me: I was kidding - learn how to take a joke! EliseArt: Aw, Heather, I missed you!

Judging by my title, I think the Simpsons quote email has gone on too long. Or maybe not long enough. Anyway, I'm going to try and get more posts done in June, but since it's only 3 days until the end of the month, I'm going to have to post things without pictures and without a point. Enjoy.

I moved into the place I live in ... 5 years ago this July 1st. Happy Anniversary! When I first moved in it was shortly after having lost my poor puppy to illness; I wasn't ready to own another animal. So when the ad said "no pets" I didn't really care. But when I had my interview, I wanted to see how serious the landlord actually was, so I asked "The ad says no pets... how do you feel about a cat?" He said "You have a cat?" and I said "No, but I was thinking I might want to get one, one day". He assured me that no furry animal would be living in the house and gave me a list of reasons. I accepted this by giving him my damage deposit and saying "I'll take it!".

Stompy and hubby were always on the landlord to let them get a dog. When I moved in they approached me on the subject. I told them my situation and explained that I might be ready for an animal "some time soon". They started asking me to talk to the landlord and bug him to see if he would let me get a cat or dog. I knew his stance (partially because he told me at the interview, but also because he would complain to me about them constantly bugging him about getting a dog) so naturally, I never bugged him about it.

So Stompy moved out and new people moved in. Every so often I hear a yappy little dog upstairs barking its fool head off. It's not often, so I know that the dog can't possibly live there. I figure, he must be visiting with his owners, right? Makes sense.

Today I was getting out of my car and happened to look up and saw the cutest little white kitty. On their porch. Cats don't usually visit with their owners, do they?? I wonder how long it'll take the landlord to see or hear about the cat.

 

P.S. I probably spent more time linking things in this post than writing it. Cheers to being a devoted blogger!

P.P.S. Therefore, please don't call me on typos or incorrect grammar. Thanks!

Now I KNOW you're fucking with me

Amphenicols? Really? Plus a ramdon string of words... AND "I'm on to you"!?!?! Definitely fucking with me. Definitely. I have never once blogged about Amphenicols. (I suppose I just did... but still!).

Hey - you don't believe in wearing sweat pants out of the house... some of us like to have a good time!!

I'm chronically honest. I am pretty much incapable of lying. Why? I don't really know. It makes me feel like I'm deceiving people and the guilt brings me down. I'm truely honest to a fault. Luckily, that, however, is my only fault.

When I was growing up, my mom always told me that if I lied about something I would get in more trouble than if I told the truth in the first place. Because she would find out if I lied. At the time, I thought this was complete bullshit. Ya right, Mom, you're going to ground me, regardless. As I've gotten older, I've come to realize that she was right (just don't tell her I said that!). Do something wrong and admit your mistake and the other person involved will appreciate your honesty (although will still be disappointed). Lie, and they find out, well now, that's grounds for dismissal. Or so I assume. I really haven't found myself in that situation before. Why? Because the guilt brings me down and I always fess up before anyone has any opportunity to 'find anything out'.

However, every so often, I decide that my guilt complex has held me back far too much in life and I throw caution to the wind and do dishonest things. So far, Karma, Murphy's Law and/or the Spite Gods have struck me down everytime I decide this is a good idea... thrusting me back into my "honest to a fault" default. Bastards.

A few weeks ago, I was celebrating my birthday. I went to a pub and got nice and liquored up and then decided to go to a club to dance... well, the club was one skytrain stop away. I get to the station and go towards the ticket machine with the intention of paying (because not paying would be dishonest!)... and my friend says "We don't really have to pay, do we? I mean, it's one stop!"... and I started to say "Oh, yes, yes, we do." But then I said "You know what, it's my birthday and I don't have to pay on my birthday, let's go!!!".

We start riding the escalator up to the platform, I felt pretty confident... and then the guilt started getting to me. Halfway up the escalator, I turned to my friend and whispered "...There's a cop... at the top...". Her response: "No there isn't. You're paranoid". So as the escalator reached the top, I see a lady standing there, in a uniform that can only be described as cop-like. She looked me in the eye and said "Ticket, please".

I didn't know what to do. I couldn't tell her the truth and say I didn't have one... so I start searching, in vain, through my empty pockets, even going so far as to open my coat and look inside...

...as if I'm one of those "street vendors" that carries watches inside the coat, but instead of watches it's valid train passes. There weren't any. My friend looks her straight in the eye and says "I'm drunk. I didn't think to buy one" so the nice lady says "Okay well, go and buy one". So we did. No harm, no foul. Things don't always work out like that.

I go to school. I go to school in the evenings basically next door to my work. I park at work, because it's free. But the other day, I was really running late so I decide to park at school. I mean, I was running so late, I had to eat my dinner in the car. Not too bad, everyone eats while driving right? Ya, sure. But my dinner was a pork chop. I'm serious.

Anyway, a friend of mine goes to school with me and she tells me that for the past 9 weeks she's been parking at school and she doesn't buy a ticket because she figures that the stall has been paid for for the day. And she hasn't gotten a ticket so far, so she figures her logic is sound. So when I decided to park at school, that was my thought process.

However, when I parked, I realized that would be dishonest, so I should just pay for a ticket. But I had like 50 cents in cash and parking is $4. I could put it on my VISA, but that seems like an ordeal and I'm running late, so I'll just throw caution to the wind and go to class. Afterwards, I come out and see a little something on my windshield. Dammit.

I owe $57.70 for parking illegally; $47.10 if I pay within 7 days. All that because I was running short on time (heaven forbid I'm almost late for class!) and didn't have cash. I did go there with the intent to park illegally, but then the guilt brought me down and I was going to pay, but all those other circumstances forced me to be dishonest. Bam!! Spite-God-Powers initiated.

Moral of the story, it's a bit easier (and cheaper) just to fricken pay. Why? Because there won't always be a nice skytrain cop at the top that's willing to accept "I'm drunk" as a reason for dishonesty.

Big thanks to "EliseArt" for providing illustrations