Sprite's Keeper

LOADER ERROR 3

(Editor's note: this rant is based on an actual conversation this morning. Names have been deleted to protect the innocent. And me. Because I still haven't decided if I want to hurt him. He knows who he is.)

"Windows is experiencing a problem with: Loader Error 3. Please contact your IT support desk for further help."

Dammit. Going to have to call Help Desk. This thing was working fine yesterday. This is not the best way to start the day. Can't waste time with this. Have a lot on my plate this morning...

"Thank you for calling the help desk. What seems to be the problem?"

"My computer isn't starting. It seems to have a Loader Error 3, whatever that is."

"Hmm.....(silence)... power down and then power back up again. After the first greeting comes on, press F8 repeatedly. Now, this is important. Do not keep the button pressed. Just press it continually. And tell me what happens."

Wow, the F8 key must be integral. I press it gingerly, repeatedly, the repetitions in perfect sync so the system will not think I have paused too long on a press and not long enough on a depress. I think it's working, I think it's working, "I think it's working, SHIT! Sorry." (Reminder, think, don't speak)

Luckily, he laughs. "It's okay, we get that a lot. Is it back to the same screen it was before?"

"Yes."

"All right, power off your paperweight (ha. ha. ha. I'm not amused) and use your office spare today. We'll send out your Hotswap tomorrow."

Wait a minute, they're swapping my laptop? No, this is not right..."Are you sure it can't be fixed? Maybe there's a magic button you can press?"

Silence....was it something I said?

"No, ma'am, there is no magic button we can press. Your laptop has crashed."

"Well, surely, you can do that thingie, you know, um, remote access!"

More silence. Then he speaks in a more authoritative tone. "You would have to have a desktop and be logged into Windows for me to be able to remotely access your system." (I can almost hear the snark in his tone.)

"Okay, listen, I know you geeks have more tricks up your sleeve-"

"Geeks? Are you insulting me?"

Panic starting to rise. Shouldn't have said that. Now, he really won't fix it. Make it better. Make it better! "I mean, it's okay to be a geek. I'm married to one! It's a good thing! Puhlleaase, just fix it. Call Bill Gates! He'll know!."

Impatient sigh. Not good. "Again, your Hotswap should come tomorrow."

But what about my email? Internet access? My Favorites! I can't function without my Favorites! Omigod, my blog!

Breathe deep. Turn down the crazy. "Um, will I have access to internet and my email without my passwords?"

"Um, yeah? (Oooh, definite snark detected. What did he say his name was?) Your password is universal to the system. You will have access to all the default systems. You just may not be able to access the sites as easily without your passwords. You do have your passwords backed up, right?"

(???????) "Um, sure. Of course I do."

"Then, you shouldn't have a problem. Here's your ticket number and have a nice day (you loon)."

Dejected, I get the office spare out of my boss's office. It's not like my laptop at all. I was used to everything on it, the wrist supports, the sensitivity of the keys, the smoothness of it's response to my commands. We worked well together.

This laptop is archaic at best. It almost mocks me in its response time as I try to boot up.

Windows: Your password is set to expire in 5 days. Would you like to reset it now?

No, it's all I have left!

I open my office programs. Everything is finally up and running an hour after I have begun my day. I need to get back on track, I need to make calls, I need to....see if Brangelina has announced their pregnancy on Perez Hilton. What's five more minutes?

Trademark this.

"MeeMee." Sprite reaches for her Minnie Mouse doll and squeezes it tight, dropping a kiss on it's nose.

"Sprite, can I have a kiss?" I lean forward expectantly and close my eyes, waiting for her wet mouth to touch my cheek. Nothing. I open my eyes. She's just laid another one on the damn doll.

"Sprite, can Mommy have a kiss?" "Mommy" she replies and kisses my proxy again. This doll is getting a whole lotta love.

"Ehmmo" she cries, and drops Minnie, suddenly forgotten, as she runs over to the corner of the room where Tickle Me Elmo stands, staring blankly into space. She presses his nose, and slaps his head. "Ehmmo!"

John is done doing the dishes (yes, I am married to a wonderful man) and comes into the nursery, stopping along the way to trigger the button on her Dora the Explorer Sit N Spin. The music comes out and Sprite gasps. "Doror!" She looks up, excited and sees Daddy dance his way into the room. She giggles at this, but runs back to Minnie Mouse, hopefully to apologize for her rude behavior minutes before. She grabs on Minnie's nose and holds on as she walks around the room, giving her love generously to the toys assembled, waiting for her attention. Cookie Monster gets a pat on the head and Grover gets thrown across the room.

I sit on the floor and just watch, waiting for her to acknowledge my presence. John goes back to the kitchen to grab a glass of water. It's just her and me and every toy she's ever been given.

"Sprite, where's Mommy?" I ask, wanting some attention. "MeeMee" she replies, showing me the doll.

"No, sweets. Mommy."

"MeeMee".

Grrr. "Sprite, come see MOMMY", I say, holding my arms open for a hug.

She turns away, pointing to the Tinkerbell jewelry box on her dresser.

Obviously dismissed, I look over the room, seeing all the toys marketed to her age group. Disney Princess Cinderella is sitting in her crib, waiting for her giggle to be squeezed out of her. Elmo is in several areas of the room, jockeying for attention with the Minnie Mouse and Baby Mickey she's been given. My kid's been branded. John had to get her a Tigger doll bigger than she was when we took her to a character breakfast in Orlando and watched how she was enthralled with the big orange tiger. So we  have, with the best of intentions of course, added to the branding. The big doll sits next to Elmo, usually gaining her attention with his prominent nose which needs pretend picking once in a while, as she likes to do with several people.

She recently recieved a very clever birthday invitation which had her little friend's picture on it and Elmo as well. She zeroed in on Elmo immediately. "Ehmmo!"

John and I have accepted this grudgingly. Mostly, in the beginning, it was cute. "Oh, she just said Elmo!" "She's saying MeeMee, that means Minnie!" "Our child is a genius!"

Now, it's becoming disturbing. We've been showering her with kisses since she took her first breath, saying the "I love you"'s like it's going out of style. Love is not lost in our home. (Just don't ask the dogs, they may give different answers.) She knows by now, this is how we express our love. And she follows by example. She just prefers to shower the affection on a plush doll with a kicky bow between her big mouse ears.

Sprite drops Minnie again, her attention now stolen by a big stuffed frog. "Bath time!" John says and Sprite jumps to action to get undressed. When they leave the room, her naked tushy disappearing as she walks quickly to keep up with Daddy, I start to clean up.

I pick up Minnie Mouse, look it over. Getting pretty dirty.

Minnie is going in the wash. Sprite will not even think about the doll until she sees it again.

Sprite's bath is done. I take over and give her some milk and start her bedtime routine.

Her eyes begin to droop, her day catching up with her. "Mommy", she yawns. "Nose". Her finger reaches up and inserts itself into my left nostril.

It's attention. I'll take it.

"You better change that outfit, missy!"

I can't get it out of my head, so I have to comment.

While at the bachelorette party which happened to be at a pretty well known resort/casino in Hollywood, FL, we managed to roam around some shops in the resort Oasis. I walked into a children's clothes shop with a name I won't say, but think of those dolls that mothers are all up in arms about and spell it correctly, and that basically sums it up.

I always like to look at girls clothing since Sprite is always growing and my eyes will usually stop on one or two ensembles to look more closely at cut and cost. Typically, the trends take a more modest approach to what the older kids are wearing. However, I must object to almost everything I saw in this store. My best friend, best sister, and I were slowly walking through, perusing the merchandise when I happened upon a negligee in fire engine red. It had a see-through mesh fabric baby-doll top bordered in red fur with tap pants. Very sexy. This must be a mistake, I thought, as it was obviously meant for a woman. They must have accidentally placed it in the children's section. Then I looked at the size. 2T. I actually said, "You have got to be sh*tting me!" I looked closer at the "nightgowns" surrounding it. They were all done the same way! Zebra stripes, leaopard prints, cami's with ruffle bodices cut clearly to show where the breasts should be, little black leather FM boots in size 5. No, no, no!

I felt almost sick being in that store and the helpful, hovering clerk must have heard my protests, but I didn't care. I cannot believe the designer of these clothes doesn't have a little censor button going off in the back of his or her head, a strobing red light, "Caution! Caution! This may have a very bad reaction from the moms who don't want their daughters looking like they're old enough to take a street corner!"

I know living in America gives us freedom of speech and freedom of expression,  but without moral fiber, our expressions can get a little constipated. Are we setting the stage for our kids to be sexual before they actually understand the difference between boys and girls? Do we really want our daughters looking like us when WE'RE trying to get laid? Are we going to have to start the "You are NOT going out in that!" speech when they're 3?!?!

I would rather see Big Bird on my daughter's tee than "Big Boobs". I would rather not see men taking a second look at toddlers clothes because they're shocked by the forwardness or, even worse, turned on by it. (.....ugh....bile rising....must stop typing...)

Does that "Mommy" coat come in a large?

Many people thought I would post something about the bachelorette party I attended this weekend. Well, they're right. Yes, I joined up with some old friends from high school for a night of debauchery and mayhem. This party was supposed to help me let my hair down, let my judgemental eye blur a bit as I engaged in behavior I'm usually not into anymore. I was going to show everyone, I'm not as boring as you think I am! True, I have a husband and a young daughter, but I can yank off the "mommy" coat and shake the dust off my "damn straight, I'm gonna get drunk and scream my bloody head off just for the hell of it while I shake my groove thang on the dance floor" sequined coat. I still got it!

No, I don't.

As soon as we entered the restaurant (first stop of the night), I quickly realized the path this night would take. I was complaining more loudly than the bride's MOTHER (yup, the bride's mom and aunt also joined us which would probably give the evening overall a PG rating) about the dim lighting and the fact that I couldn't read the menu. Now, let it be said that everyone at the table was using cell phones to light the way as they deciphered the food and prices, but my cell phone can barely hold a charge, let alone create visual ambiance, so I decided to step out of the box and brought my menu and already overtaxed brain to the only well lit area in the restaurant, the ATM vestibule (because the restaurant is extremely helpful when they want you to remember your PIN number).

We made our way to the second stop of the night, a dueling paino bar. Pretty entertaining, right? I happened to have the honor of sitting next to the bride's aunt, who thought she needed to encourage her favorite piano player every time a song ended. "Go, Morgan!" "Good job, Morgan!" she would shout every time applause began. SHE ended up being the source of my entertainment for a majority of the time there since it looked like she was trying to break records with the number of chocolate martinis she was consuming.

Our last stop was at a club where I rounded out my education. I lasted a total of 15 minutes on the floor, bouncing and grooving to the techno beat before I surrendured to my greater sensibilites and left the club. One thing about techno, and you all know what I'm going to say. I have a great appreciation for music, however I do not understand the lure of techno. The same beat over and over, eclipsing any music that happens to accompany it. The beat got louder and louder until saving my eardrums from damage became a priority.And worse, I never knew when a song ended and a new one began! Just that same beat... Now, I know you're all wondering. Were the bride's mother and aunt also grooving to the beat with us? No, they showed their age and smarts by remaining at the piano bar.

I watched the other people in the area while I waited for my sister and best friend to join me and cemented my nagging suspicions that I am no longer with that scene. I used to be able to work it with the best of them. My nights would not end until 3-4 in the morning and usually at an all night Denny's to refuel. I could down tequila shots and never feel it. I was able to function the next day on next to no sleep. Now, my night ends when Sprite is asleep, the laundry folded, and the dishes done. Whether it be 8pm or 10pm, my eyes will most likely close when my head goes horizontal. Eating in the wee hours? Even John, who used to snigger about my parents wanting to go to a restaurant prior to 7pm, likes to get in with the early crowd so we're not waiting too long for meals to arrive and a hungry Sprite starts taking hostages. (and we BOTH complain about heartburn when eating past daylight hours) And forget about drinking. It now seems very easy for me to get shnukkered on fumes. I can't even make it past half a wine cooler anymore so I decided not to drink at all anymore. Why would I waste ten bucks on a chocolate martini (yes, bride's aunt, that's how much you were paying per pop) when I'm just going to regret it minutes later?

So, now we know. I was not able to take off my "Mommy" coat at all during this evening (although I was very good with only calling John twice to check on Sprite) and I'm pretty sure it's permanently affixed now. My old "damn straight, I'm gonna get drunk and scream my bloody head off just for the hell of it while I shake my groove thang on the dance floor" sequined coat is on the way to the dry cleaners and I couldn't care less if they lose it.

Slice and dice = "Not nice!"

Oooooh, I'm pissed.

Yesterday, I was at work reveling in the peace and quiet when I recieved a phone call from Sprite's daycare. I was told in very generic terms that "it's not an emergency, but..."

Turns out, some kids were playing in the corner of the room while they were getting ready for nap time and Sprite was one of the kids in this group. One of the teachers then heard Sprite start to cry. The teacher came over and saw that Sprite's face was "a little" scratched up. One of the boys in her class got a little grabby, Sprite got defensive (that's my girl!), and scuffling ensued. But, the scratches were not why they were calling me.

"Well, she has a small cut near (all right, pay attention here, the word near is going to get very vague) the corner of her right eye...." I immediately grabbed my keys. "Okay, small cut, is she bleeding?" "Errr...(Woman, spit it out!) she was. We would like you to come over if you have the time to take a look."

I luckily work about 5 minutes away so I went over, a little wary of what I might see. Was I going to see a couple of pink lines or deep gouges? Sprite had fallen asleep, and the teachers didn't want to wake her. I mentally gave them the finger as I ignored their advice and scooped the sleeping Sprite into my arms. She opened her eyes, glared at me sleepily, (yeah, she gets that from me too) and settled back down. I inspected her face and saw a prominent scratch on her nose, a couple on her chin, one on her cheek, and a pink line at the corner of her right eye. Basically, it looked like she got into it with a cat.

Then one of teachers came over and broke down the scene as it occured. "When I heard Sprite cry, I came over to see what happened. And her right eye was filled with blood and I freaked out!" (Uh, what?!) She continued. "So, we got her to open her eyes more and we saw a small cut on her bottom eyelid, but her eye is fine." (yes, because luckily, this teacher is almost done with her degree in optimology.....sense the sarcasm here?)

I was filled with conflicting thoughts. When did the word near become synonomous with on? Should I take Sprite to an eye doctor to check it out? Should I wait to see if anything appears wrong later? Should I find little Eddie Scissorhands and go all Mommy Dearest on him? My poor little girl's perfect face is now marred (albiet temporarily) and this little monster is sleeping peacefully near by. Revenge must be had. Uppence must come. And it must involve Elmo for the sheer irony of it all....

No, I suppressed my inner rage and let the sleeping Sprite snuggle back down as I instructed them to keep a good eye on her (a better eye than they were used to) for the rest of the day and let me know if anything seemed wrong. She was acting fine when I picked her up and easily saw the milk cup waiting for her in the van so her eyes are fine (in fact, a little TOO good, this kid misses nothing!).

Now, I did find out that the pint-sized punk is a repeat offender. I saw a little boy on my way out with Sprite whose face looked worse than hers and his father's reaction to seeing it for the first time. (And they thought I reacted strongly?)

Of course, all parents were gently reminded to trim their kids' nails in a timely manner to prevent "mishaps" like this from occurring. (quite political, eh?)

I was good when I saw the tiny terror enter the classroom this morning and Sprite's natural reaction to seeing him. "Not nice!" she said, pointing. His mother looked a little chagrined, almost as if she'd been warned about it before... But I smiled at her as I bid her good morning (and silently wished a small bout of diarrhea on her son) and went on my merry way to work.

You're HOW old?

Sprite is 14 months old. I usually give her age in months when asked. John used to roll his eyes at this answer and say "Why don't you just say she's one?" Well, I did say that until she hit 13 months, then back to the old system. Also, I caught him doing the same thing last time someone asked. It's just easier to say her age in months than years since she hasn't hit an even prime yet. You can put a 17 month old and a 13 month old next to each other and depending on growth spurts or the tot's luck in the gene pool, get conflicting estimates from strangers on the street.

I have to admit, I also had John's eye roll reaction when I was told a baby's age in weeks. "Oh, Jaxn (yes, this is how his name was spelled..don't get me started!) is 45 weeks tomorrow!" Um, yeah. When Sprite was first born, I was counting her existence on earth in days. Then the loss of sleep and coherence reduced me to barely be able to recount my own age IN YEARS. I finally succumbed to months by her 3rd month after I mistakenly labeled her at 10 weeks for 3 weeks in a row. Am I a bad mother for not being able to tell you exactly how many minutes my daughter has been breathing? No, just a busy mother who is much more interested in making sure my daughter KEEPS breathing. 

Now, if you're interested, my age in months is 376. No, you're not? Never mind.

If you don't read this, bad luck will come your way...

I'm just gonna put it out there.

I hate chain letters. I especially hate the chain letters which are disguised as a letter from a long lost friend who allegedly thought of me after 8 months of no calls. When I open the email, I then realize I was just one of the random dolts on a mostly defunct address book who got selected so he/she could meet the forwarding quota to receive good luck, or heaven forbid, their computer would crash, or they would never meet "THE ONE" or sex would be ruined for the rest of their lives just because they read the chain letter and didn't follow instructions.

I happen to be one of the few who like my little existence the way it is. I am happy in love, life, (somewhat)resigned to my job, and do not believe the gigabyte fates that be will interfere if I happen to hit "DELETE" rather than "FORWARD".

I have told my best friend and my best sister (OK, my only sister, but she's still the best!) not to clutter my in-box with these silly forwards and for the most part, they pay attention. However, there are those friends(?) who come out of the woodwork and hit me from left field and I fall victim to another 5 minutes which I will not get back.

So, why the reasoning for this rant? I have a theory which will hopefully put an end to forwarding chain letters at least in my direct contact list. I will hold onto the belief that the only way for your wish to come true (because the wish will ONLY come true if you scroll down slowly and watch the waves of exclamation points grow and shrink) is to have the people you forward this crap to forward it on to 8 other people (or whatever number of people which will directly correlate to the amount of minutes it would take for your wish to come true) and so on and so on. Now, we all live in a realistic world (at least some of the time) and I know you know that about 20% of the victims intended recipients will most likely delete your email rather than follow the directions like the rest of the lemmings out there, thus squashing your chance of winning the lottery or meeting "THE ONE". So, even if the first 600 people actually swallow the tripe and pass it on, all it takes is #601 to press delete and send your dreams to the desktop trash bin.

Now, send this blog to at least 8 other people whose names begin with J within 10 minutes and you will get a phone call at 6:02pm EST from someone you've been waiting to hear from with good news. If you don't, you will get a phone call from that same person who will say the words you would never want to hear. "STOP EMAILING ME!"