Right now I'm supposedly working on my latest project, building myself a new website! I'll be moving my blog over there, plus adding some new sections for book reviews and other stuff. Eventually my goal is to take my favorite blog entries, revise the crap out of them (literally), and assemble them into a book, which will, of course, be available to purchase on my website. It's all in an effort to build a "platform" - an online presence that will magically make publishers etc take me seriously as a writer. It's all the rage nowadays; I don't know if you're even allowed to publish a book without an accompanying blog/newsletter/message board/Twitter feed. And you know me - any bandwagon that passes too close, I've just got to jump on.
So, if I'm thisclose to having the perfect website that will not only propel me to fame and stardom but quite possibly also usher in Web 3.0, whatever that is, why I am over here, blogging? It's simple, actually - as it turns out, I absolutely stink at building websites.
Yes, it's true. Jane-of-all-trades I am not. The logistical part of website creation isn't so bad - I bought a domain name, set everything up with a webhost, installed Wordpress - and that's as far as I got. Because everything after that is all the pretty stuff. What should the header look like? What color scheme do I use? How about matching fonts? Not to mention layout, background images, widgets, templates, and on and on and on. Wordpress tries to make this easier by allowing developers to create "themes" - they do all the color picking and laying out and all that stuff, you just pop it in and add content. The problem is, there are about 7 gazillion different themes out there, and I swear I have looked at every single one. I started with an idea in mind of how I wanted my website to look, but after staring at theme after theme after theme, I stopped actually caring what it looked like. I grabbed the next one I came across, slapped it up there, and started writing stuff.
The problem is, I now have what is arguably the most boring website on the planet. Seriously. It is gray and blue and has absolutely zero personality. I'd show you, but one of the (many) articles I read about website design told me that the design of the website determines if people are willing to stick around and read the content. Frankly, I'm not willing to risk driving you all away, sending you running into the arms of a blogger with a better eye for color.
Fortunately, there is someone out there with a better eye for color, and I happened to be married to him. This is where "opposites attract" plays out quite nicely - the only thing that interests Ryan in putting together a website is the way it looks - I only care about what it says. We did the same thing with the kitchen remodel - he picked the asthetics, I did the functionality. I created a "favicon" this morning - the 16x16 pixel image that represents the website in your browser - and it took me two hours. TWO HOURS!! The thing is so small it requires basically no detail. I could have slapped a single letter in a plain white box and called it good, but noooo... I had to fiddle and play and scrap things and start over for two whole hours. And that is what drove me here, to my blog, to spend a few minutes doing something that I'm good at.
So, yes, I'd rather write about building a website rather than actually building the website. That's probably how it should be. I'll be drawing a picture of what I want my website to look like and handing over to the master later today. And as soon as I know the site won't put you in a boredom-induced coma, I'll let you see it.
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
Division of Labor
Right now I'm supposedly working on my latest project, building myself a new website! I'll be moving my blog over there, plus adding some new sections for book reviews and other stuff. Eventually my goal is to take my favorite blog entries, revise the crap out of them (literally), and assemble them into a book, which will, of course, be available to purchase on my website. It's all in an effort to build a "platform" - an online presence that will magically make publishers etc take me seriously as a writer. It's all the rage nowadays; I don't know if you're even allowed to publish a book without an accompanying blog/newsletter/message board/Twitter feed. And you know me - any bandwagon that passes too close, I've just got to jump on.
So, if I'm thisclose to having the perfect website that will not only propel me to fame and stardom but quite possibly also usher in Web 3.0, whatever that is, why I am over here, blogging? It's simple, actually - as it turns out, I absolutely stink at building websites.
Yes, it's true. Jane-of-all-trades I am not. The logistical part of website creation isn't so bad - I bought a domain name, set everything up with a webhost, installed Wordpress - and that's as far as I got. Because everything after that is all the pretty stuff. What should the header look like? What color scheme do I use? How about matching fonts? Not to mention layout, background images, widgets, templates, and on and on and on. Wordpress tries to make this easier by allowing developers to create "themes" - they do all the color picking and laying out and all that stuff, you just pop it in and add content. The problem is, there are about 7 gazillion different themes out there, and I swear I have looked at every single one. I started with an idea in mind of how I wanted my website to look, but after staring at theme after theme after theme, I stopped actually caring what it looked like. I grabbed the next one I came across, slapped it up there, and started writing stuff.
The problem is, I now have what is arguably the most boring website on the planet. Seriously. It is gray and blue and has absolutely zero personality. I'd show you, but one of the (many) articles I read about website design told me that the design of the website determines if people are willing to stick around and read the content. Frankly, I'm not willing to risk driving you all away, sending you running into the arms of a blogger with a better eye for color.
Fortunately, there is someone out there with a better eye for color, and I happened to be married to him. This is where "opposites attract" plays out quite nicely - the only thing that interests Ryan in putting together a website is the way it looks - I only care about what it says. We did the same thing with the kitchen remodel - he picked the asthetics, I did the functionality. I created a "favicon" this morning - the 16x16 pixel image that represents the website in your browser - and it took me two hours. TWO HOURS!! The thing is so small it requires basically no detail. I could have slapped a single letter in a plain white box and called it good, but noooo... I had to fiddle and play and scrap things and start over for two whole hours. And that is what drove me here, to my blog, to spend a few minutes doing something that I'm good at.
So, yes, I'd rather write about building a website rather than actually building the website. That's probably how it should be. I'll be drawing a picture of what I want my website to look like and handing over to the master later today. And as soon as I know the site won't put you in a boredom-induced coma, I'll let you see it.
So, if I'm thisclose to having the perfect website that will not only propel me to fame and stardom but quite possibly also usher in Web 3.0, whatever that is, why I am over here, blogging? It's simple, actually - as it turns out, I absolutely stink at building websites.
Yes, it's true. Jane-of-all-trades I am not. The logistical part of website creation isn't so bad - I bought a domain name, set everything up with a webhost, installed Wordpress - and that's as far as I got. Because everything after that is all the pretty stuff. What should the header look like? What color scheme do I use? How about matching fonts? Not to mention layout, background images, widgets, templates, and on and on and on. Wordpress tries to make this easier by allowing developers to create "themes" - they do all the color picking and laying out and all that stuff, you just pop it in and add content. The problem is, there are about 7 gazillion different themes out there, and I swear I have looked at every single one. I started with an idea in mind of how I wanted my website to look, but after staring at theme after theme after theme, I stopped actually caring what it looked like. I grabbed the next one I came across, slapped it up there, and started writing stuff.
The problem is, I now have what is arguably the most boring website on the planet. Seriously. It is gray and blue and has absolutely zero personality. I'd show you, but one of the (many) articles I read about website design told me that the design of the website determines if people are willing to stick around and read the content. Frankly, I'm not willing to risk driving you all away, sending you running into the arms of a blogger with a better eye for color.
Fortunately, there is someone out there with a better eye for color, and I happened to be married to him. This is where "opposites attract" plays out quite nicely - the only thing that interests Ryan in putting together a website is the way it looks - I only care about what it says. We did the same thing with the kitchen remodel - he picked the asthetics, I did the functionality. I created a "favicon" this morning - the 16x16 pixel image that represents the website in your browser - and it took me two hours. TWO HOURS!! The thing is so small it requires basically no detail. I could have slapped a single letter in a plain white box and called it good, but noooo... I had to fiddle and play and scrap things and start over for two whole hours. And that is what drove me here, to my blog, to spend a few minutes doing something that I'm good at.
So, yes, I'd rather write about building a website rather than actually building the website. That's probably how it should be. I'll be drawing a picture of what I want my website to look like and handing over to the master later today. And as soon as I know the site won't put you in a boredom-induced coma, I'll let you see it.
Saturday, April 10, 2010
That's What I Get For Waking Up In Vegas
Before you say it, yes, I know, I'm a giant hypocrite. Every time I pass through/stay in Las Vegas, I blog about how much I can't stand the place. Casinos are huge, money-sucking pits that trap the poor and the elderly. They are glamorized in television and movies as the kind of place where you're likely to find Julia Roberts or George Clooney in formal evening wear. I don't know about you, but I've never seen anyone in a tuxedo there, certainly not the 80 year olds dragging their oxygen tanks from one slot machine to the next. I don't gamble myself, but when I pay $35 for a room in a casino, I feel like my good deal is being subsidized by Grandma's Social Security check.
So why exactly did I find myself voluntarily taking a spring break trip to Vegas this week? Because it was warm there. And the sun was shining. In Orem, we had Eeyore weather, gloomy and miserable, making me walk around with a frowny face and slumped shoulders. I had to get out of there, and fast. St. George wasn't even warm enough, so I decided to throw personal standards to the wind and go to Las Vegas. That's how the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah were lured there, by the way - it wasn't out of evilness or rebellion, it was because they had nice weather. And cheap hotel rooms. And all-you-can-eat buffets.
And you know, once you decide not to hold yourself up to your personal standards, life can get pretty fun. I could walk through smoky casinos and almost not cringe at the man shuffling past using a walker with tennis balls on the feet. I justified our trip by paying substantially more for a room at an Embassy Suites, instead of a casino hotel, which is basically like pitching my tent on the outskirts of Gomorrah. I could have the self-righteous satisfaction of disdaining everything that Las Vegas stands for, but still keep my commute short.
Seriously, next trip is to someplace with absolutely no ethical dilemmas. Like Wyoming. I can't see anything in Wyoming getting me all worked up.
We had a few requirements for this trip: 1) Be relaxed. No strenuous must-see lists. 2) Swim in the indoor pool as much as the kids want to. 3) Eat at Baja Fresh, or any other place that we don't have in Orem. The first two worked out pretty well, the third, not so much. We played things by ear, stayed flexible, and had no expectations. The kids had a blast in the pool. Unfortunately, we ended up eating at a pile of fast food place that were completely unremarkable. We aimed for a Baja Fresh a couple of times, but either Google had the address wrong, or the place had closed, or we just really blew it, because we never got to eat any of that fantastic, breath-killing salsa. I spent an hour driving around in search of a Dairy Queen that I had seen not 8 hours before, but was long gone by the time I got there. It felt like we were in Hogwarts and all of the hallways and staircases kept moving around. (If only there was a Room of Requirement full of ice cream...) At one point, Zack said we were in "Lost" Vegas because we kept getting lost. Clever kid, that one.
The only thing that was a complete bust was Ethel M's chocolate factory tour. I'll take a tour of just about any kind of factory - I don't know why, but I have a fascination with seeing how things are made. Maybe it comes from watching too much Mister Rogers and Sesame Street as a kid. (Do you remember the crayon factory? Or the milk one? Loved those!) A chocolate factory tour is like the best of both worlds! Unfortunately, Willy Wonka this wasn't. There was nary an Oompa Loompa in sight. In fact, there were no regular humans in sight either - the whole factory was shut down; nothing was going on at all. What a complete disappointment to drive 20 minutes to walk through an empty factory for one minute and then end up in a gift shop. Interestingly enough, Ethel M's has a cactus garden outside that ended up being way better. Who would have thought? A chocolate factory-slash-cactus garden? Anyhow, it worked. Here are some pictures:
I switched to the new Blogger format, and now I can't figure out how to type underneath photos. This one, with Darcey crying, was basically what you would have seen most of the trip - she was always crying about one thing or another. Although on Friday she came down with a cold, so it's possible she was actually sick the whole time and not protesting Las Vegas with me. Also, the reason she looks like a homeless child with no mother is because she lost every single hair thing I brought with us. I tried to put the last remaining clip into her hair (one of mine) and she refused. I tried, I swear.
On Friday we went to a children's museum that the kids really liked. It was just like the one in SLC.
Zack loved all of the building toys.
They had this crazy little booth where you go inside to know what a hurricane feels like. The wind inside went up to 78 mph! The boys loved it.
On the way home, we stopped in St. George to see Ryan's family. We kept waiting for the magical "the drive home feels a lot quicker" but it never hit. New dvds that we borrowed from Bob's collection made the drive more pleasant, though - that's the last time I let the kids decide how many dvd's to bring - four was not enough. We came home to a house with no hot water, and the nasty smell in the refrigerator didn't suddenly disappear, but the dorito crumbs on the floor hadn't attracted ants, so we count ourselves pretty lucky. Somehow, being away from home for three days was enough to make me really like my house again, and my bed that has no two year olds in it, kicking me in the back all night. I think that's the best part of this trip, being happy to be home again.
So why exactly did I find myself voluntarily taking a spring break trip to Vegas this week? Because it was warm there. And the sun was shining. In Orem, we had Eeyore weather, gloomy and miserable, making me walk around with a frowny face and slumped shoulders. I had to get out of there, and fast. St. George wasn't even warm enough, so I decided to throw personal standards to the wind and go to Las Vegas. That's how the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah were lured there, by the way - it wasn't out of evilness or rebellion, it was because they had nice weather. And cheap hotel rooms. And all-you-can-eat buffets.
And you know, once you decide not to hold yourself up to your personal standards, life can get pretty fun. I could walk through smoky casinos and almost not cringe at the man shuffling past using a walker with tennis balls on the feet. I justified our trip by paying substantially more for a room at an Embassy Suites, instead of a casino hotel, which is basically like pitching my tent on the outskirts of Gomorrah. I could have the self-righteous satisfaction of disdaining everything that Las Vegas stands for, but still keep my commute short.
Seriously, next trip is to someplace with absolutely no ethical dilemmas. Like Wyoming. I can't see anything in Wyoming getting me all worked up.
We had a few requirements for this trip: 1) Be relaxed. No strenuous must-see lists. 2) Swim in the indoor pool as much as the kids want to. 3) Eat at Baja Fresh, or any other place that we don't have in Orem. The first two worked out pretty well, the third, not so much. We played things by ear, stayed flexible, and had no expectations. The kids had a blast in the pool. Unfortunately, we ended up eating at a pile of fast food place that were completely unremarkable. We aimed for a Baja Fresh a couple of times, but either Google had the address wrong, or the place had closed, or we just really blew it, because we never got to eat any of that fantastic, breath-killing salsa. I spent an hour driving around in search of a Dairy Queen that I had seen not 8 hours before, but was long gone by the time I got there. It felt like we were in Hogwarts and all of the hallways and staircases kept moving around. (If only there was a Room of Requirement full of ice cream...) At one point, Zack said we were in "Lost" Vegas because we kept getting lost. Clever kid, that one.
The only thing that was a complete bust was Ethel M's chocolate factory tour. I'll take a tour of just about any kind of factory - I don't know why, but I have a fascination with seeing how things are made. Maybe it comes from watching too much Mister Rogers and Sesame Street as a kid. (Do you remember the crayon factory? Or the milk one? Loved those!) A chocolate factory tour is like the best of both worlds! Unfortunately, Willy Wonka this wasn't. There was nary an Oompa Loompa in sight. In fact, there were no regular humans in sight either - the whole factory was shut down; nothing was going on at all. What a complete disappointment to drive 20 minutes to walk through an empty factory for one minute and then end up in a gift shop. Interestingly enough, Ethel M's has a cactus garden outside that ended up being way better. Who would have thought? A chocolate factory-slash-cactus garden? Anyhow, it worked. Here are some pictures:
I switched to the new Blogger format, and now I can't figure out how to type underneath photos. This one, with Darcey crying, was basically what you would have seen most of the trip - she was always crying about one thing or another. Although on Friday she came down with a cold, so it's possible she was actually sick the whole time and not protesting Las Vegas with me. Also, the reason she looks like a homeless child with no mother is because she lost every single hair thing I brought with us. I tried to put the last remaining clip into her hair (one of mine) and she refused. I tried, I swear.
On Friday we went to a children's museum that the kids really liked. It was just like the one in SLC.
Zack loved all of the building toys.
They had this crazy little booth where you go inside to know what a hurricane feels like. The wind inside went up to 78 mph! The boys loved it.
They decided to put on a show - Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney would be so proud. Brad was in charge of costuming and he had probably too much fun. No one was in charge of story, or dialogue, or props, so it was a very brief show with lots of costume changes.
On the way home, we stopped in St. George to see Ryan's family. We kept waiting for the magical "the drive home feels a lot quicker" but it never hit. New dvds that we borrowed from Bob's collection made the drive more pleasant, though - that's the last time I let the kids decide how many dvd's to bring - four was not enough. We came home to a house with no hot water, and the nasty smell in the refrigerator didn't suddenly disappear, but the dorito crumbs on the floor hadn't attracted ants, so we count ourselves pretty lucky. Somehow, being away from home for three days was enough to make me really like my house again, and my bed that has no two year olds in it, kicking me in the back all night. I think that's the best part of this trip, being happy to be home again.
That's What I Get For Waking Up In Vegas
Before you say it, yes, I know, I'm a giant hypocrite. Every time I pass through/stay in Las Vegas, I blog about how much I can't stand the place. Casinos are huge, money-sucking pits that trap the poor and the elderly. They are glamorized in television and movies as the kind of place where you're likely to find Julia Roberts or George Clooney in formal evening wear. I don't know about you, but I've never seen anyone in a tuxedo there, certainly not the 80 year olds dragging their oxygen tanks from one slot machine to the next. I don't gamble myself, but when I pay $35 for a room in a casino, I feel like my good deal is being subsidized by Grandma's Social Security check.
So why exactly did I find myself voluntarily taking a spring break trip to Vegas this week? Because it was warm there. And the sun was shining. In Orem, we had Eeyore weather, gloomy and miserable, making me walk around with a frowny face and slumped shoulders. I had to get out of there, and fast. St. George wasn't even warm enough, so I decided to throw personal standards to the wind and go to Las Vegas. That's how the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah were lured there, by the way - it wasn't out of evilness or rebellion, it was because they had nice weather. And cheap hotel rooms. And all-you-can-eat buffets.
And you know, once you decide not to hold yourself up to your personal standards, life can get pretty fun. I could walk through smoky casinos and almost not cringe at the man shuffling past using a walker with tennis balls on the feet. I justified our trip by paying substantially more for a room at an Embassy Suites, instead of a casino hotel, which is basically like pitching my tent on the outskirts of Gomorrah. I could have the self-righteous satisfaction of disdaining everything that Las Vegas stands for, but still keep my commute short.
Seriously, next trip is to someplace with absolutely no ethical dilemmas. Like Wyoming. I can't see anything in Wyoming getting me all worked up.
We had a few requirements for this trip: 1) Be relaxed. No strenuous must-see lists. 2) Swim in the indoor pool as much as the kids want to. 3) Eat at Baja Fresh, or any other place that we don't have in Orem. The first two worked out pretty well, the third, not so much. We played things by ear, stayed flexible, and had no expectations. The kids had a blast in the pool. Unfortunately, we ended up eating at a pile of fast food place that were completely unremarkable. We aimed for a Baja Fresh a couple of times, but either Google had the address wrong, or the place had closed, or we just really blew it, because we never got to eat any of that fantastic, breath-killing salsa. I spent an hour driving around in search of a Dairy Queen that I had seen not 8 hours before, but was long gone by the time I got there. It felt like we were in Hogwarts and all of the hallways and staircases kept moving around. (If only there was a Room of Requirement full of ice cream...) At one point, Zack said we were in "Lost" Vegas because we kept getting lost. Clever kid, that one.
The only thing that was a complete bust was Ethel M's chocolate factory tour. I'll take a tour of just about any kind of factory - I don't know why, but I have a fascination with seeing how things are made. Maybe it comes from watching too much Mister Rogers and Sesame Street as a kid. (Do you remember the crayon factory? Or the milk one? Loved those!) A chocolate factory tour is like the best of both worlds! Unfortunately, Willy Wonka this wasn't. There was nary an Oompa Loompa in sight. In fact, there were no regular humans in sight either - the whole factory was shut down; nothing was going on at all. What a complete disappointment to drive 20 minutes to walk through an empty factory for one minute and then end up in a gift shop. Interestingly enough, Ethel M's has a cactus garden outside that ended up being way better. Who would have thought? A chocolate factory-slash-cactus garden? Anyhow, it worked. Here are some pictures:
I switched to the new Blogger format, and now I can't figure out how to type underneath photos. This one, with Darcey crying, was basically what you would have seen most of the trip - she was always crying about one thing or another. Although on Friday she came down with a cold, so it's possible she was actually sick the whole time and not protesting Las Vegas with me. Also, the reason she looks like a homeless child with no mother is because she lost every single hair thing I brought with us. I tried to put the last remaining clip into her hair (one of mine) and she refused. I tried, I swear.
On Friday we went to a children's museum that the kids really liked. It was just like the one in SLC.
Zack loved all of the building toys.
They had this crazy little booth where you go inside to know what a hurricane feels like. The wind inside went up to 78 mph! The boys loved it.
On the way home, we stopped in St. George to see Ryan's family. We kept waiting for the magical "the drive home feels a lot quicker" but it never hit. New dvds that we borrowed from Bob's collection made the drive more pleasant, though - that's the last time I let the kids decide how many dvd's to bring - four was not enough. We came home to a house with no hot water, and the nasty smell in the refrigerator didn't suddenly disappear, but the dorito crumbs on the floor hadn't attracted ants, so we count ourselves pretty lucky. Somehow, being away from home for three days was enough to make me really like my house again, and my bed that has no two year olds in it, kicking me in the back all night. I think that's the best part of this trip, being happy to be home again.
So why exactly did I find myself voluntarily taking a spring break trip to Vegas this week? Because it was warm there. And the sun was shining. In Orem, we had Eeyore weather, gloomy and miserable, making me walk around with a frowny face and slumped shoulders. I had to get out of there, and fast. St. George wasn't even warm enough, so I decided to throw personal standards to the wind and go to Las Vegas. That's how the inhabitants of Sodom and Gomorrah were lured there, by the way - it wasn't out of evilness or rebellion, it was because they had nice weather. And cheap hotel rooms. And all-you-can-eat buffets.
And you know, once you decide not to hold yourself up to your personal standards, life can get pretty fun. I could walk through smoky casinos and almost not cringe at the man shuffling past using a walker with tennis balls on the feet. I justified our trip by paying substantially more for a room at an Embassy Suites, instead of a casino hotel, which is basically like pitching my tent on the outskirts of Gomorrah. I could have the self-righteous satisfaction of disdaining everything that Las Vegas stands for, but still keep my commute short.
Seriously, next trip is to someplace with absolutely no ethical dilemmas. Like Wyoming. I can't see anything in Wyoming getting me all worked up.
We had a few requirements for this trip: 1) Be relaxed. No strenuous must-see lists. 2) Swim in the indoor pool as much as the kids want to. 3) Eat at Baja Fresh, or any other place that we don't have in Orem. The first two worked out pretty well, the third, not so much. We played things by ear, stayed flexible, and had no expectations. The kids had a blast in the pool. Unfortunately, we ended up eating at a pile of fast food place that were completely unremarkable. We aimed for a Baja Fresh a couple of times, but either Google had the address wrong, or the place had closed, or we just really blew it, because we never got to eat any of that fantastic, breath-killing salsa. I spent an hour driving around in search of a Dairy Queen that I had seen not 8 hours before, but was long gone by the time I got there. It felt like we were in Hogwarts and all of the hallways and staircases kept moving around. (If only there was a Room of Requirement full of ice cream...) At one point, Zack said we were in "Lost" Vegas because we kept getting lost. Clever kid, that one.
The only thing that was a complete bust was Ethel M's chocolate factory tour. I'll take a tour of just about any kind of factory - I don't know why, but I have a fascination with seeing how things are made. Maybe it comes from watching too much Mister Rogers and Sesame Street as a kid. (Do you remember the crayon factory? Or the milk one? Loved those!) A chocolate factory tour is like the best of both worlds! Unfortunately, Willy Wonka this wasn't. There was nary an Oompa Loompa in sight. In fact, there were no regular humans in sight either - the whole factory was shut down; nothing was going on at all. What a complete disappointment to drive 20 minutes to walk through an empty factory for one minute and then end up in a gift shop. Interestingly enough, Ethel M's has a cactus garden outside that ended up being way better. Who would have thought? A chocolate factory-slash-cactus garden? Anyhow, it worked. Here are some pictures:
On Friday we went to a children's museum that the kids really liked. It was just like the one in SLC.
They had this crazy little booth where you go inside to know what a hurricane feels like. The wind inside went up to 78 mph! The boys loved it.
They decided to put on a show - Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney would be so proud. Brad was in charge of costuming and he had probably too much fun. No one was in charge of story, or dialogue, or props, so it was a very brief show with lots of costume changes.
On the way home, we stopped in St. George to see Ryan's family. We kept waiting for the magical "the drive home feels a lot quicker" but it never hit. New dvds that we borrowed from Bob's collection made the drive more pleasant, though - that's the last time I let the kids decide how many dvd's to bring - four was not enough. We came home to a house with no hot water, and the nasty smell in the refrigerator didn't suddenly disappear, but the dorito crumbs on the floor hadn't attracted ants, so we count ourselves pretty lucky. Somehow, being away from home for three days was enough to make me really like my house again, and my bed that has no two year olds in it, kicking me in the back all night. I think that's the best part of this trip, being happy to be home again.
Sunday, March 21, 2010
Medical Abnormalities
I am not an old lady. I have to keep reminding myself this, as my body every so often attempts to prove me wrong. Recently I've had two maladies that one would be more likely to associate with an 83 year old, not a 33 year old. They are both rather gross, so the squeamish among you might want to bow out, along with anyone who wants to look me in the eye with a straight face ever again. So that leaves the complete strangers, I suppose. Well, you've been warned.
The first condition started as a pregnancy side-effect, and after giving birth four times, I've learned that most of the side-effects are now my body's trained response. Ugh, I can barely bring myself to say the word out loud, so I'll whisper it: I've got (hemorrhoids). There, now I've got that out of the way. Not only is it a horrible, painful affliction, but it's also a painfully horrible word. I mean, look at it! Those double r's followed by the h? I can't stand it. And I can't spell it to save my life. If the illness itself has to be so detestable, why can't it get a nice, pretty word to make the situation easier? Love-iculitis Floweropathy. Or something like that.
The other issue I've had, and this one just popped up recently, is boils. Seriously, boils. Does that not scream 80-year-old man to you? Boils, in combination with my aforementioned problem, are more appropriate for some old guy named Walter who wears hearing aids and grows hair out of his nose. Boils. What the heck! If you don't know, and I'd actually be surprised if you did (since I have very few 80-year-old readers), a boil is basically when bacteria infects a hair follicle and travels under the skin. It swells and puffs and eventually looks like every teenagers worst acne nightmare.
Why do our bodies go haywire like this? These totally random, unexpected things go wrong and bam! You're in pain. And if it's something gross or female-related, you can't even whine about it to your friends without making them very uncomfortable. (Again, sorry, but you were warned.) I like watching medical shows with bizarre illnesses that have weird names, but I never want to BE one of those people.
What we need is more doctors like Dr. House. See, he wouldn't just assume that my random old-guy illnesses are normal. He'd know instinctively that they were related, two symptoms of the same illness. And then the whole team would get to work, trading witty banter while I go through a battery of tests on expensive machines that never seem to be needed by other doctors. House would realize that my depression is actually a neurological component of the same illness and add it to the list of symptoms. Someone would break into my house and swab things with q-tips while mocking my lifestyle. Meanwhile, back at the hospital I would have had a seizure during an MRI, been given a spinal tap, and vomited blood. House would demand Cuddy approve a ridiculously dangerous procedure while making at least three innuendos, and I would have either kidney or liver failure and possibly a heart attack. By then, I've been given 18 different medicines for all the different theories they've had, but that's okay because none of them have any side effects whatsoever. Right before I'm going to die, House will be talking to Wilson and cut off mid-sentence, mouth hanging open and eyes glazing, as he realizes that the reason I'm dying is because my mother went to Borneo when she was pregnant with me and got a rare tropical disease but the only way I could have caught it is if my father was Puerto Rican, which he isn't! So he'd announce to my family that my father's not my real father, oh and that I'm really a hermaphroditic meth dealer and now my husband's going to leave me, but at least I'll be able to walk out of the hospital after a round of antibiotics and be good as new!
If a person's going to have a medical abnormality, does it have to be gross and embarrassing? Can't it at least be good tv drama?
The first condition started as a pregnancy side-effect, and after giving birth four times, I've learned that most of the side-effects are now my body's trained response. Ugh, I can barely bring myself to say the word out loud, so I'll whisper it: I've got (hemorrhoids). There, now I've got that out of the way. Not only is it a horrible, painful affliction, but it's also a painfully horrible word. I mean, look at it! Those double r's followed by the h? I can't stand it. And I can't spell it to save my life. If the illness itself has to be so detestable, why can't it get a nice, pretty word to make the situation easier? Love-iculitis Floweropathy. Or something like that.
The other issue I've had, and this one just popped up recently, is boils. Seriously, boils. Does that not scream 80-year-old man to you? Boils, in combination with my aforementioned problem, are more appropriate for some old guy named Walter who wears hearing aids and grows hair out of his nose. Boils. What the heck! If you don't know, and I'd actually be surprised if you did (since I have very few 80-year-old readers), a boil is basically when bacteria infects a hair follicle and travels under the skin. It swells and puffs and eventually looks like every teenagers worst acne nightmare.
Why do our bodies go haywire like this? These totally random, unexpected things go wrong and bam! You're in pain. And if it's something gross or female-related, you can't even whine about it to your friends without making them very uncomfortable. (Again, sorry, but you were warned.) I like watching medical shows with bizarre illnesses that have weird names, but I never want to BE one of those people.
What we need is more doctors like Dr. House. See, he wouldn't just assume that my random old-guy illnesses are normal. He'd know instinctively that they were related, two symptoms of the same illness. And then the whole team would get to work, trading witty banter while I go through a battery of tests on expensive machines that never seem to be needed by other doctors. House would realize that my depression is actually a neurological component of the same illness and add it to the list of symptoms. Someone would break into my house and swab things with q-tips while mocking my lifestyle. Meanwhile, back at the hospital I would have had a seizure during an MRI, been given a spinal tap, and vomited blood. House would demand Cuddy approve a ridiculously dangerous procedure while making at least three innuendos, and I would have either kidney or liver failure and possibly a heart attack. By then, I've been given 18 different medicines for all the different theories they've had, but that's okay because none of them have any side effects whatsoever. Right before I'm going to die, House will be talking to Wilson and cut off mid-sentence, mouth hanging open and eyes glazing, as he realizes that the reason I'm dying is because my mother went to Borneo when she was pregnant with me and got a rare tropical disease but the only way I could have caught it is if my father was Puerto Rican, which he isn't! So he'd announce to my family that my father's not my real father, oh and that I'm really a hermaphroditic meth dealer and now my husband's going to leave me, but at least I'll be able to walk out of the hospital after a round of antibiotics and be good as new!
If a person's going to have a medical abnormality, does it have to be gross and embarrassing? Can't it at least be good tv drama?
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
I'm The Victim Here
The class I'm taking is technically called "Creative Process and Imaginative Writing," but sometimes I think it's real name is "Figuring Out Stuff About Yourself While You Pretend To Write About Other People." I can't believe how much of myself is brought into these fictional situations, and sometimes the result ain't pretty.
I'll give you an example that's been churning in my head for weeks now. We start each class with a timed writing exercise - 10 minutes of writing from a prompt and the only rule is that you write continuously for those ten minutes, no stopping to think or cross out, just keep your pen moving. The idea is that when your pen has to keep moving, you don't have time to self-censor or edit or say "that's dumb" to every idea that pops into your head. I love this concept. As a person who tends toward perfectionism (or at least, towards being embarrassed when something isn't perfect, which is frequent) my internal critic works overtime when I'm writing. Especially trying to write fiction, I can barely hear the words I'm trying to write over the relentless mocking going on in my head. So writing fast gives me permission to silence the critic and write whatever pops into my mind. It's very liberating and frequently surprises me with the direction my writing takes.
A few weeks ago, we spent about 45 minutes doing a series of timed writes that built on top of each other. We started by writing a list of our roles - mine included mother, wife, student, daughter, etc. Next, we wrote a list of the opposites of those roles - opposite of mother was child, or childless woman, or father; the opposite of worshipper was sinner, or preacher, or athiest; you get the idea. Then we wrote a list of people that push our buttons - mine included mouth breathers, whiners, interrupters, drama queens, and preachy liberals. What we ended up with were several lists of different kinds of characters. We picked one from each group and wrote a paragraph or two of them talking about themselves, trying to define who each of these people are. Finally, we put the three characters in a broken elevator and had them interact with each other.
My elevator ended up containing a preachy liberal, a childless businesswoman, and a stay at home mother (with her kids). Here's where it got interesting. The preachy liberal judged the mother for driving a gas-guzzling SUV and wasting the earth's resources by having so many children. The businesswoman was irritated by the crying baby on the elevator interrupting her important business call. And the mother - she just took it! She didn't stand up for herself, or be assertive at all, she felt embarrassed for having inconvenienced other people with her loud kids and wished she could disappear.
Are you seeing what I'm seeing? I took the role that I most closely associate with myself and TURNED HER INTO A VICTIM! I could have written this any way I wanted, from any point of view, with any conflict, and what came out of my pen was a worn-down, exhausted, embarrassed mother. Is this how I really see myself? I don't think so - I know that I'm more than just the one label of "mother." But it is quite possibly how I view that role, something to be picked on, to be looked down on, to be considered "lesser." I was shocked. I mean, sure, I've got issues with being a stay at home mom. Sometimes I think being in this house every single solitary day is bound to suck the soul right out of my body. But that's just sometimes. Most of the time, I'm good - aren't I?
After the exercise, we discussed what we learned from it. I told the class that I wrote my role as the victim without meaning to, and wondered if that revealed an ambivalence toward that role in my life. My teacher told me that my goal now is to write a story with the mother as the hero. And that's where my mind has been ever since. How to write a story where the stay at home mom is looked up to, celebrated, honored for what she does. I have to say, I'm completely stuck. I've got nothing. Sure, I could cobble together a decent plot with a mom at the center, but I don't think I could get the honest emotion behind it that would make it believable. Maybe it's because I just don't buy it myself.
So my goal now is to change my thinking about my roles and write a story with a mother as the hero. Since most of the mothers I know lead the same kind of lives as I do (i.e. slightly boring - no offense intended) I'm going to have to jazz things up a bit. Maybe she's a mother by day but when the kids go to bed - she's a crime fighting super-hero! Or she solves murder mysteries while cheering at her son's soccer game! Or she realizes that she's married to an alien who has taken on a human form in order to procreate and make the next generation of human/alien hybrids that are poised to take over the world! Oh yeah, I can make a mom a hero, I just have to stretch my imagination a teeny, weeny bit.
I'll give you an example that's been churning in my head for weeks now. We start each class with a timed writing exercise - 10 minutes of writing from a prompt and the only rule is that you write continuously for those ten minutes, no stopping to think or cross out, just keep your pen moving. The idea is that when your pen has to keep moving, you don't have time to self-censor or edit or say "that's dumb" to every idea that pops into your head. I love this concept. As a person who tends toward perfectionism (or at least, towards being embarrassed when something isn't perfect, which is frequent) my internal critic works overtime when I'm writing. Especially trying to write fiction, I can barely hear the words I'm trying to write over the relentless mocking going on in my head. So writing fast gives me permission to silence the critic and write whatever pops into my mind. It's very liberating and frequently surprises me with the direction my writing takes.
A few weeks ago, we spent about 45 minutes doing a series of timed writes that built on top of each other. We started by writing a list of our roles - mine included mother, wife, student, daughter, etc. Next, we wrote a list of the opposites of those roles - opposite of mother was child, or childless woman, or father; the opposite of worshipper was sinner, or preacher, or athiest; you get the idea. Then we wrote a list of people that push our buttons - mine included mouth breathers, whiners, interrupters, drama queens, and preachy liberals. What we ended up with were several lists of different kinds of characters. We picked one from each group and wrote a paragraph or two of them talking about themselves, trying to define who each of these people are. Finally, we put the three characters in a broken elevator and had them interact with each other.
My elevator ended up containing a preachy liberal, a childless businesswoman, and a stay at home mother (with her kids). Here's where it got interesting. The preachy liberal judged the mother for driving a gas-guzzling SUV and wasting the earth's resources by having so many children. The businesswoman was irritated by the crying baby on the elevator interrupting her important business call. And the mother - she just took it! She didn't stand up for herself, or be assertive at all, she felt embarrassed for having inconvenienced other people with her loud kids and wished she could disappear.
Are you seeing what I'm seeing? I took the role that I most closely associate with myself and TURNED HER INTO A VICTIM! I could have written this any way I wanted, from any point of view, with any conflict, and what came out of my pen was a worn-down, exhausted, embarrassed mother. Is this how I really see myself? I don't think so - I know that I'm more than just the one label of "mother." But it is quite possibly how I view that role, something to be picked on, to be looked down on, to be considered "lesser." I was shocked. I mean, sure, I've got issues with being a stay at home mom. Sometimes I think being in this house every single solitary day is bound to suck the soul right out of my body. But that's just sometimes. Most of the time, I'm good - aren't I?
After the exercise, we discussed what we learned from it. I told the class that I wrote my role as the victim without meaning to, and wondered if that revealed an ambivalence toward that role in my life. My teacher told me that my goal now is to write a story with the mother as the hero. And that's where my mind has been ever since. How to write a story where the stay at home mom is looked up to, celebrated, honored for what she does. I have to say, I'm completely stuck. I've got nothing. Sure, I could cobble together a decent plot with a mom at the center, but I don't think I could get the honest emotion behind it that would make it believable. Maybe it's because I just don't buy it myself.
So my goal now is to change my thinking about my roles and write a story with a mother as the hero. Since most of the mothers I know lead the same kind of lives as I do (i.e. slightly boring - no offense intended) I'm going to have to jazz things up a bit. Maybe she's a mother by day but when the kids go to bed - she's a crime fighting super-hero! Or she solves murder mysteries while cheering at her son's soccer game! Or she realizes that she's married to an alien who has taken on a human form in order to procreate and make the next generation of human/alien hybrids that are poised to take over the world! Oh yeah, I can make a mom a hero, I just have to stretch my imagination a teeny, weeny bit.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Run For It, Marty!
You can tell when spring is coming in Utah - as soon as the icy sidewalks finally melt, they are crowded with athletic, spandex-clad runners. The die-hards don't quit in the winter, of course. They trade their spandex for some high-tech runner clothes with names like Chill Buster 3000 and take perverse pleasure in how many degrees below zero they can withstand. Although how they run in crampons is beyond me.
My goal this year is two fold: 1) Do hard things and 2) Do things I've never done before. On the "hard things" list is dieting and various other willpower-requiring activities. The "never done" list is much more interesting and diverse, like learn how to play the piano and get something I've written published. A few things fit both categories, so on Saturday I tackled one: run a 5k.
Okay, so "run" might be stretching the truth a little bit. I did run, for a few minutes, but that was only because I got to the starting line just as everyone was taking off and I still had to pin my number on my shirt. The running was just to catch up to the pack; I didn't want to get lost before the race even started.
I was talked into the 5k by my friend and lately gym-partner Treasa. When I first saw her six years ago, I knew at once I wasn't going to like her. She was beautiful, thin, and perfectly dressed - I immediately classified her as "too cool to be my friend." (Seriously, how old was I, thirteen? Sheesh.) Anyhow, once I actually got to know her, I saw that she was all of those things PLUS one of the nicest people I've ever met. I've been trying to get to the gym more often so when she asked if I was interested in this 5k, I thought it would be a great motivator. I had over a month to train - if I followed a rigorous schedule, I could surely run 3.1 miles, right?
Okay, group, feel free to laugh along with me and the whole "rigorous schedule" thing. I made it to the gym about 6 times that month. Don't get me wrong, it's an improvement and I'm not discounting that at all. Going to the gym, even 6 times, makes it onto my "do hard things" list. However, it does not get a person ready to run 3 miles. Or even two miles. Or even from the parking lot to the starting line.
I could walk, though, so it was game on. I picked up Treasa and we drove to Provo. I parked, we went inside the school to collect our numbers and our swag (free water bottle and a pedometer, cool!) then made it outside just in time to hear the starting gun go off. We pinned our numbers to our new t-shirts and took off. And that was the last I saw of Treasa. When we caught up with the pack I was so winded that I started walking with the stragglers and waved Treasa to go on ahead. My only thought was "I am SO out of shape!"
So there I was, at the very tail end of the string of runners. I was basically alone, most of the time. There was a lumbering, 230+ pound woman in pajama pants ahead of me, but I passed her at the beginning and was left alone with my thoughts. My thoughts had an ipod to keep them company, which is always a good thing - when my thoughts are left to themselves, who knows what kind of crazy blog entry they'll come up with. Most of my thoughts were centered on the act of running itself. What is it about running that people are drawn to so magnetically that it'll make them get out of bed before the sun and pound the pavement in freezing cold/outrageously hot weather?
I remember being made to run in gym class; man, I hated it. The day we ran the mile was always the most dreaded day of the year for me. While I was never fat before I got pregnant, I was also never fit. The last time I had to run the mile, I gave it a good shot for the first little bit, and then I got a cramp in my side and started walking. Every time I passed a gym teacher, they'd yell at me to start running, so I would, but when I got to the far side of the track I'd start walking again. I ended up doing a 16 minute mile. It only occurred to me as an adult to question why it mattered how fast I ran. Why the heck didn't I just walk the whole thing to begin with? I'll tell you why: authority. Someone in charge told me to do something, and I did it. Teachers especially were always people I needed to please; maddeningly, even gym teachers who I would never, ever, in a million years be able to please. As far as I'm concerned, one of the best things about being an adult is never taking a stupid gym class again.
Granted, that is at complete odds with what I was doing at the moment I had that thought - I was running (okay, walking) voluntarily, and way more than the required mile. Plus, now I pay hundreds of dollars a year to go to a gym in order to torture myself on more expensive equipment than I could afford at my own house. Growing up is way more complicated than anyone ever told me.
At some point the runners ahead of me hit the halfway point and turned around, so I got a good look at everyone. They all looked like regular people, the occasional buff college guy but everyone else was just like me, only fitter. I felt bad for being at the very end of the line; the competitive part of me just hates, HATES losing, even when it was something like this where I had absolutely no expectation of doing any better than I was. Even so, I wanted to tell everyone as they blew past me, "Hey, I'm one of you! Look, I've got this shirt on that wicks! And my watch, it's a Garmin! I totally belong here!" But what I was really saying was, "I am an insecure person who is trying anyhow. Be gentle."
I felt pretty good the whole time. Every so often I'd look down at my ultra-cool Garmin watch and notice that my pace was a little slow, so I'd pick it up a bit. The whole race was over so fast (46 minutes, just slightly better than my high school time) that I wasn't prepared when I rounded the last corner and saw the finish line up ahead. Out of nowhere, the woman behind me, the one I passed so long ago that I had totally forgotten about, she takes off running and blows right by me! I was stunned! No one told me we're supposed to sprint at the end even though we were merely walking the rest of the time! So just like that, I'm back to being dead last. Crap.
My saving grace came in the form of a 7 year old boy I had given some encouragement to earlier in the race. His dad was way past him when the boy decided he was done and sat down on the curb. I talked to him for a minute and walked with him until his dad came back for him. They were just ahead of me at the finish line. I ran up behind them and stayed there until we crossed the finish line. My thinking was, if anybody saw me come in dead last, they'll think I'm with that kid and I was running slow for his sake. Genius! When I told Ryan about my brilliant plan, he nearly fell over laughing. "You mean you made up a family to disguise how slow you are?" Yes, in fact, I did, not that it mattered, and didn't we already go over the "I'm insecure" thing? Besides, apparently there was a 9 year old girl behind me the whole time that I never even saw, so it's a moot point.
All in all, I enjoyed myself. It felt cool to be doing something challenging. I will definitely do it again, hopefully though with a little more training under my belt so I can actually run. And maybe I'll bring my own kids with me, so I don't have to come up with an impromptu family at the last minute. After all, someone's got to come in last, and I still don't want it to be me.
My goal this year is two fold: 1) Do hard things and 2) Do things I've never done before. On the "hard things" list is dieting and various other willpower-requiring activities. The "never done" list is much more interesting and diverse, like learn how to play the piano and get something I've written published. A few things fit both categories, so on Saturday I tackled one: run a 5k.
Okay, so "run" might be stretching the truth a little bit. I did run, for a few minutes, but that was only because I got to the starting line just as everyone was taking off and I still had to pin my number on my shirt. The running was just to catch up to the pack; I didn't want to get lost before the race even started.
I was talked into the 5k by my friend and lately gym-partner Treasa. When I first saw her six years ago, I knew at once I wasn't going to like her. She was beautiful, thin, and perfectly dressed - I immediately classified her as "too cool to be my friend." (Seriously, how old was I, thirteen? Sheesh.) Anyhow, once I actually got to know her, I saw that she was all of those things PLUS one of the nicest people I've ever met. I've been trying to get to the gym more often so when she asked if I was interested in this 5k, I thought it would be a great motivator. I had over a month to train - if I followed a rigorous schedule, I could surely run 3.1 miles, right?
Okay, group, feel free to laugh along with me and the whole "rigorous schedule" thing. I made it to the gym about 6 times that month. Don't get me wrong, it's an improvement and I'm not discounting that at all. Going to the gym, even 6 times, makes it onto my "do hard things" list. However, it does not get a person ready to run 3 miles. Or even two miles. Or even from the parking lot to the starting line.
I could walk, though, so it was game on. I picked up Treasa and we drove to Provo. I parked, we went inside the school to collect our numbers and our swag (free water bottle and a pedometer, cool!) then made it outside just in time to hear the starting gun go off. We pinned our numbers to our new t-shirts and took off. And that was the last I saw of Treasa. When we caught up with the pack I was so winded that I started walking with the stragglers and waved Treasa to go on ahead. My only thought was "I am SO out of shape!"
So there I was, at the very tail end of the string of runners. I was basically alone, most of the time. There was a lumbering, 230+ pound woman in pajama pants ahead of me, but I passed her at the beginning and was left alone with my thoughts. My thoughts had an ipod to keep them company, which is always a good thing - when my thoughts are left to themselves, who knows what kind of crazy blog entry they'll come up with. Most of my thoughts were centered on the act of running itself. What is it about running that people are drawn to so magnetically that it'll make them get out of bed before the sun and pound the pavement in freezing cold/outrageously hot weather?
I remember being made to run in gym class; man, I hated it. The day we ran the mile was always the most dreaded day of the year for me. While I was never fat before I got pregnant, I was also never fit. The last time I had to run the mile, I gave it a good shot for the first little bit, and then I got a cramp in my side and started walking. Every time I passed a gym teacher, they'd yell at me to start running, so I would, but when I got to the far side of the track I'd start walking again. I ended up doing a 16 minute mile. It only occurred to me as an adult to question why it mattered how fast I ran. Why the heck didn't I just walk the whole thing to begin with? I'll tell you why: authority. Someone in charge told me to do something, and I did it. Teachers especially were always people I needed to please; maddeningly, even gym teachers who I would never, ever, in a million years be able to please. As far as I'm concerned, one of the best things about being an adult is never taking a stupid gym class again.
Granted, that is at complete odds with what I was doing at the moment I had that thought - I was running (okay, walking) voluntarily, and way more than the required mile. Plus, now I pay hundreds of dollars a year to go to a gym in order to torture myself on more expensive equipment than I could afford at my own house. Growing up is way more complicated than anyone ever told me.
At some point the runners ahead of me hit the halfway point and turned around, so I got a good look at everyone. They all looked like regular people, the occasional buff college guy but everyone else was just like me, only fitter. I felt bad for being at the very end of the line; the competitive part of me just hates, HATES losing, even when it was something like this where I had absolutely no expectation of doing any better than I was. Even so, I wanted to tell everyone as they blew past me, "Hey, I'm one of you! Look, I've got this shirt on that wicks! And my watch, it's a Garmin! I totally belong here!" But what I was really saying was, "I am an insecure person who is trying anyhow. Be gentle."
I felt pretty good the whole time. Every so often I'd look down at my ultra-cool Garmin watch and notice that my pace was a little slow, so I'd pick it up a bit. The whole race was over so fast (46 minutes, just slightly better than my high school time) that I wasn't prepared when I rounded the last corner and saw the finish line up ahead. Out of nowhere, the woman behind me, the one I passed so long ago that I had totally forgotten about, she takes off running and blows right by me! I was stunned! No one told me we're supposed to sprint at the end even though we were merely walking the rest of the time! So just like that, I'm back to being dead last. Crap.
My saving grace came in the form of a 7 year old boy I had given some encouragement to earlier in the race. His dad was way past him when the boy decided he was done and sat down on the curb. I talked to him for a minute and walked with him until his dad came back for him. They were just ahead of me at the finish line. I ran up behind them and stayed there until we crossed the finish line. My thinking was, if anybody saw me come in dead last, they'll think I'm with that kid and I was running slow for his sake. Genius! When I told Ryan about my brilliant plan, he nearly fell over laughing. "You mean you made up a family to disguise how slow you are?" Yes, in fact, I did, not that it mattered, and didn't we already go over the "I'm insecure" thing? Besides, apparently there was a 9 year old girl behind me the whole time that I never even saw, so it's a moot point.
All in all, I enjoyed myself. It felt cool to be doing something challenging. I will definitely do it again, hopefully though with a little more training under my belt so I can actually run. And maybe I'll bring my own kids with me, so I don't have to come up with an impromptu family at the last minute. After all, someone's got to come in last, and I still don't want it to be me.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)