Just another PrettyNerd's site
so that I could buy the domain kittynerd.com and be the kind of person* who writes blogs on behalf of her pet.
* On Twitter, Michael Hyatt tweets on behalf of his dog, Nelson Hyatt. I get the updates from the dog, not the person. I wonder if this makes me just as lame?
Oh well; I’m just another PrettyNerd.
Think you know what this is?
Hint: This picture was taken in 1956.
Okay… What happened in the 50s?
Cold War..
an atom bomb?
It’s a hard disk drive back in 1956… With 5 MB of storage.
In September 1956 IBM launched the 305 RAMAC, the first ‘SUPER’ computer with a hard disk drive (HDD). The HDD weighed over a ton and stored a ‘whopping’ 5 MB of data.
Do you appreciate your 8 GB memory stick a little more now? =)
I woke up one morning at 5:30 in the morning to get ready for work, went through my normal ‘wake up a
nd smell the sunshine’ routine and looked outside to checkwhat weather I’ll be styling my clothing decision for. Hello, river! I’m sent to the basement to pick up water with rags galore, and learn that I’m actually not helping -anything.- Dad tells me to give up (Thank God; I was getting tired). I step outside the door when the angry rain stops pounding on everything and see a huge UPS truck coming down the.. river? Okay. Cool. The front of the ginormous vehicle is causing strong waves that are moving the parked (now drowned) cars and whooshing (sorry, couldn’t find a better word) the water closer to the homes. A neighbor of mine waits for the UPS truck to approach closer and then waves his fist at the delivery guy, “You’re the reason for the water in my basement, asshole!”
Okay. Wait.
We were Venice before the UPS guy went down the canal.
…I don’t think he’s really the person that should be blamed here, but whatever.
He’s acted as inspiration. I found this little.. parable? And decided to add my own comments, in honor of my neighbor who now detests the United Postal Service.
The man whispered, “God, speak to me.”
And a meadowlark sang. But the man didn’t hear.
So the man yelled, “God, speak to me!”
Thunder rolled across the sky (&& it started raining in PrettyNerd’s neighborhood. Her basement experienced some flooding and because there was a river where a street used to be, someone canoed down the street.. And this all happened because the man didn’t hear the flipping meadowlark). Again, the man didn’t listen to the sign. (Great. God’s going to erupt a volcano and this guy still won’t hear. He’s gonna be the start of the end of the world at this point)
The man looked around and said, “God, let me see you.”
A star shone brightly. But he noticed it not.
And the man shouted, “God, show me a miracle!”
And a life was born. But the man was unaware (Okay, I kind of see this. If it was his baby, he might have had a change of heart. It’s not like I think of random babies every day. Moreover – look at a tremendous tree — you try making that, brother!)
So, the man cried out in despair (what a cry baby), “Touch me, God, and let me know that you are here!” (Whoa. Maybe the water from the UPS truck was God touching the man’s basement?! Bastard didn’t pay attention, and I had to pay for it, too. Boo.)
Whereupon God reached down and touched the man.
But the man brushed the butterfly away and walked on.
Moral: Don’t miss out on a blessing because it isn’t packaged the way you expect.
Source Unknown
Turns out, the force of the UPS truck moved the garbage (leaves, dirt, etc) from the sewer and the water started going down slowly.
Makes you think, dunnit?
I wonder if that man is my neighbor.
Hmf. That would make God the UPS guy.
Go figure.
A lawyer and a senior citizen are sitting next to each other on a long flight.
The lawyer is thinking that seniors are so dumb that he could get one over on them easy.
So the lawyer asks if the senior would like to play a fun game.
The senior is tired and just wants to take a nap, so he politely declines and tries to catch a few winks.
The lawyer persists, saying that the game is a lot of fun. I ask you a question, and if you don’t know the answer, you pay me only $5. Then you ask me one, and if I don’t know the answer, I will pay you $500, he says.
This catches the senior’s attention and, to keep the lawyer quiet, he agrees to play the game.
The lawyer asks the first question. ‘What’s the distance from the Earth to the Moon?’
The senior doesn’t say a word, but reaches into his pocket, pulls out a five-dollar bill, and hands it to the lawyer.
Now it’s the senior’s turn. He asks the lawyer, ‘What goes up a hill with three legs, and comes down with four?’
The lawyer uses his laptop and searches all references he can find on the Net.
He sends e-mails to all the smart friends he knows; all to no avail. After an hour of searching, he finally gives up.
He wakes the senior and hands him $500. The senior pockets the $500 and goes right back to sleep.
The lawyer is going nuts not knowing the answer. He wakes the senior up and asks, ‘Well, so what goes up a hill with three legs and comes down with four?’
The senior reaches into his pocket, hands the lawyer $5, and goes back to sleep.
BREATHE!!!
Grapes © PrettyNerd 2010
I usually avoid talking about my childhood, but this story is probably the crown and glory story of my awkward pre-teen years. My church hosts a carnival on its property every summer. There are the traditional rides: the ferris wheel, merry-go-round, tilt-a-whirl (my personal favorite), and then there are the random ones that each carnival company boasts as being better, bigger, and more fun than the rides of its competitor (at least, that’s what I assume happens). I was on one of these random ”competition” rides — a “giant” drop that.. wasn’t really that giant. Point is, I was so infatuated with this idea of dropping 10 feet that I didn’t think about securing my cellphone in my pocket (it was my first ever cellphone; one of those pay-as-you-go devices? It was red =]). I was wearing windbreakers, and the phone was in my right, very un-secured, pocket.
So I’m on this ride and convinced that I’m experiencing the pinnacle of my life, the rush of life engulfing me and holding me in a loving embrace. When it finishes I am borderline depressed. “Let’s go again!” my best friend yells, and starts running back to the entrance of the ride. I pat my pocket and panic.
The outline of my phone is nonexistant. Thus begin the two days of being text-less, call-less.. contact-less. It was a very sad time for me, but I found the private investigator in me and started my search.
First step: call the phone. It rings forever and goes straight to voicemail. First feeling? Someone stole my flipping phone. Not cool. I leave a voicemail, then realize no one can check my voicemail because it is password protected. I curse my useless four-digit enemy, become frustrated and eventually stop calling. My hope decreases a little, but I continue my search.
Second step: visit carny (for those who live a sheltered life, a ‘carny’ is an employee of a carnival; usually the person who runs the rides). “Sir (people tend to listen more when you show some respect), I lost my phone on this ride; can you look around when you get a chance? It’s bright red, a Samsung flip phone.” I don’t remember his reaction. I do remember him turning to let more people on the ride. I don’t know what I expected, exactly, but I do kind of wish he would have like, shut the ride down and look for it (I didn’t want my phone to be the cause of some catastrophic carnival ride tragedy). This did not happen, however. I went home sad. Aw.
Third move: visit the carnival manager (I didn’t know they had those). On the second day of my dilemma, I told him my pickle. I described my phone for the 3940y384th time. He unclipped his walkie-talkie and told just about the entire staff to look for this cellphone. I swear to jevus that by the end of the carnival, I was the crazy girl who just wouldn’t let her cellphone go.
Third day. I try calling my phone again. I use my said friend’s cell and dial. A man picks up. And it doesn’t sound like a carny.
Me: Sir, I lost this phone and would like it back. Can you return to [my parish]?
Man (in a semi-thick foreign accent): Your cellphone?
Me: Yes, sir. My phone. I want it back.
Man: I do not know vat you are talking abowt.
Me: You don’t know what I’m talking about? Are you kidding me? Listen, buster, if I don’t have my phone back soon, I will call the police, have you tracked, and get it back. I swear, I will use the police.
Man (sounds a little flustered): I don’t know vat you are talking abowt! I do not half your phone!”
My friend is trying to get my attention at this point; I wave her off.
Me: Sir, I’m not kidding. I want my freaking phone back.
Man: Please, I do not half [have] your phone.
My friend: Anna, I think you made a mistake.
This gets my attention. PrettyNerd doesn’t make mistakes.. often.
Me: What?
Friend: I think you.. What’s the number you dialed?
I look down. “773…”
Oh, crap.
My number starts with 708.
Me (into the phone): Oh, my God. Sir, I am so sorry. I am so so sorry.
I hung up.
I successfully yelled at a poor little polish man just because I dialed the wrong number. He probably bought a Caller ID after that and maybe even paid for some therapy sessions (and/or a security guard), thinking some crazy broad is out to get him.
Conclusions:
I ended up getting my phone back. It was under the ride, just like I thought it would be. The screen was cracked, which meant texting and finding contacts was incredibly impossible. I bought a new phone.
I learned to always double-check what number I’m calling.
I never wear windbreakers to rides anymore. More importantly, I no longer keep my valuables in unsecured pockets.
What a weekend that was.
(which means it won’t be very hidden anymore BUT..)
Yesterday, I was building my site further [by "building" I mean watching my boyfriend do most (all) of the work and only saying "yes" or "no" to whatever choices he presented me]. I was able to choose what kind of designs I wanted for the buttons that’ll gain me more subscribers (via RSS feed and e-mail subscribtions). I chose, was just about to X out of the window, when I stopped and yelled over to the significant other: “Cody! Look!” We laughed at what I pointed out, and at his exclamation of, “Oh, my God, you’re such a pretty nerd,” I knew I had to dedicate a post to this. Hope it makes you smile!
Weakness…. is beautiful. I think it serves as a reminder that I’m doing an okay job at this whole life thing.. Maybe I’m not so self-absorbed in the awesomeness that lives in me to find a (sometimes uncomfortable) appreciation for the greatness in others as well. I’m learning that I can’t be so focused on me that I miss the amazing things that others have to say.
I’m beginning to realize that being strong doesn’t mean that I never get weak. Weakness is merely an inevitable symptom of my strength. For example, thinking about my four (now finished) long years of high school and my relentless efforts when it came to succeeding in all I did – feeling tired at the end of the week was just an effect of how hard I worked (which I was very much rewarded for later in the form of scholarships and grants to my first-choice university). We call this tire “weakness,” but I think it’s really just a sign to recharge and begin again after some R&R. It’s simply the light on the dashboard turning on, signaling the driver (i.e. me) to relax for a little bit.. to figure out what’s going on, what I need to change, what I should probably improve in, what I’m doing really well in.. a total evaluation of my life. If everything were to go well all the time, how would we know something needed fixing? It’s like fighting through a pain in your arm — had you gotten it checked out earlier, it wouldn’t be broken now. Reflection is necessary, and this necessity becomes apparent when the feelings of weakness surface. I believe, however, that these feeling are gifts [just ones that I don't feel I need at the time (but grow to appreciate later)].
Weakness..
..is an awareness of my character, and the knowledge of how beautiful a fragile heart really is. A person might be called “weak,” if they can’t stand up to another because they don’t want to say something that they wouldn’t like to hear. A person might be labeled “weak,” if they don’t want to intimidate someone to receive something in return (think of a bribe gone wrong – Mr. “Weak” just couldn’t do what his boss wanted — blackmail -or some other creative form of corruption- the business guy). This leads into my belief that there is nothing wrong with caring too much. I wish people would realize that. Caring “too much” isn’t a bad thing. It makes you step down from your pedestal and gives you a chance to look around and set yourself on an equal level with others, even if everyone’s on a differently decorated mountain top. It lets you take time to look into another’s eyes and recognize how beautiful they are, both physically and on the inside.
Everyone is beautiful.
Everyone is weak.
Now if everyone would just recognize that,
we’d be strong enough to hold each other up when life tries to tear us down.
Weakness..
is strength.
“Alright. NOW can I join the Beatles?”
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