What's the expression? "Bad press is better than no press"? "Negative Attention is still attention"? "It's better to be memorable than forgettable"? Welcome to the world of Siobhan McDonough Chrisos, because any combination of those would be more than adequate in describing the attitude and attributes of my late mother. It's pretty well documented I can't spell and leave countless typos; however, the spelling of my mother's name is actually right. I can't count the number of times I picked up the home phone in my youth while someone asked to speak to "Sio-Ba-han" or "Sio-Ban" or even the very popular "Su-Hoban". You would have thought my mother was the descendant of Ghengis Khan from the way people butchered her name. So, for educational purposes, it's pronounced "Sha-Von".
I miss my mom, I really do. I have a strange way of showing it considering I never write about her and hardly ever talk about her, but it's hard for me to describe someone with a personality as complex as hers. The phrase, "Just try your best" is normally reserved for seven year old kids who suck at soccer but need some encouragement along the way. Normally, successful parenting requires more than trying, executing is preferred, but most of my mother's parenting approach was trial and error. Giving sound counsel, instruction, discipline, etc requires an organized mind, a systematic long term approach and clarity. Those weren't things my mom possessed in large quantities. Instead, she was manic and fragile, unabashed and brazen. She was funny yet chaotic, loving yet fiercely dependent. She was overwhelmed and under prepared for what it took to be a functional mom, but looking back I truly do see she "tried her best" whatever capacity that may have been in.
It's strange to me that in less than two years, I will have gone a third of my life without her. It will be even stranger when the day arises in which I've lived the majority of my life with her gone. I don't know what the nature of my relationship with her would be now if she was still here, yet I don't really dwell on it or speculate about it much. What I do have is an abundance of memories of her. These are some of those memories, they may come across as if I am painting a negative picture of her, and hell, maybe I am. But to me, these memories make me smile. They are just "Siobhan" in all her glory.
1. I once had a beetle crawl out from the inner cannals of my ear. That sucked. My mom didn't place it in there though; however, that was probably the second most traumatizing event as it relates to my ear. When I was six years old I was getting a haircut from some haircutting chain and as they were trimming around my ear the woman (God bless her) accidently cut my ear with the trimmer. She did not cut my ear off, nor did she perform a "Mike Tyson" and get the urge to bite my ear off. She probably doesn't like the taste or texture of cartilage. She simply nicked my ear a little. At the time it was 1994 and apparently my mother thought AIDS was rampant in inner Boston and that I would contract it from the equipment. Understandable if I was getting my haircut in Nigeria, not so much in the coastal US. When she noticed my ear was cut, she starting screaming "you nicked him! you nicked him!". So, she did what any nurturing and rational mom would do....she pulled me out of the chair, left the haircutting place, dragged me into the local grocery store walked right into the chemical aisle and poured bleach directly into my wound as well as in my ear. Just walked right in, opened a thing of bleach and in my ear it went. If you've never had bleach poured in or around your ear consider yourself lucky. May have been a tad overkill, but damnit I was sanitized. Naturally I use bleach alternative detergent now.
2. My mother loved thunderstorms. I know a lot of people that really feel at ease in the midst of a storm. The rain is soothing to them and provides a calming effect. Other people consider it a form of controlled chaos and relish in that. I remember a few different occassions when it would storm being home with my mom and sister. Looking at the rain is cool. Listening to it is even cooler. Opening up every window in the house, the door and shouting that Jesus is coming back...traumatizing. The left behind books weren't out yet. I didn't know the signs. I thought my mom was a meteorologist prophet. She would just stare outside as the rain came pouring in saying it was the Rapture. Really, because it just looked overcast to me. I just wanted to cover up my Sega Genesis so it didnt get wet. I always wonder if she was disappointed when the storm subsided and Jesus didn't appear in our front yard holding an umbrella.
3. Speaking of rain....one of the fundamental lessons of my youth was "to always wear a raincoat". I think I heard this expression in excess of three hundred times from the time I was seven till I was fifteen. You'd think my mom was really concerned about me getting wet and catching a fever, but this actually was a sweet 90's reference for using a condom. "Make sure you always wear a raincoat!" I think I learned about sex before I learned addition and subtraction. I certainly learned about contraceptives. Hell yeah my mom was about safe sex, but at eight years old I didn't necessarily understand the significance of wrapping my penis in a neon water protectant layer. Even when I was old enough to grasp it fully, she would still urge me on with raincoat references. If I'm ever having sex in a flood I think I will finally appreciate the reference.
4. Some of my favorite memories of my mom are ones where I think of when I saw her happy. Too often she was somber, locked away in her room for hours sleeping and fighting the battle of depression. If she was up she was often glossy eyed, sipping on some boxed wine or drinking beer, closed off from the world and her children. But there were times she was free spirited and sober, energetic and glowing. I might come downstairs to witness her dancing away in the kitchen, the sounds of the Temptations or Marvin Gay literally blasting away in the background as she stood smiling encouraging me to join in. She would leave me cards randomly on my bed apologizing for her mistakes, promising to get better and calling me "her knight in shining armor". We bonded and connected over TV soap operas and American Idol, cups of strong coffee and conversations about hats as the best accessories. Hats were to my mother what clocks are to Flavor Flav. She had one for every occasion. Cowboy hats? Check. Baseball hats? Check. Dude hats? Check. Wait, what is a dude hat? http://uncrate.com/stuff/kangol-herringbone-cap/ That is a picture of a gay man wearing a "dude hat". That's the name dubbed by my mother, don't you dare tell me that, is not in fact, comonly referred to as a "dude hat". She wore bandanas, big poofy hats, pointy hats. Fuck, my mom had more hats than the Cat in the Hat. It was the simplest of things that are the fondest of memories.
5. My mother had an innate fear of technology. As a result, she didn't get on the whole technology bandwagon. As a result, she had no idea how to work a modern computer. I think she got a sense of pride out of telling everyone she knew that she was "computer illiterate". She always told me that at some point I would have to teach her how to use one. "Well, the first step is you plug it in. The second step is that you turn this thingy on. You see this here? It's called a mouse. No, it's not a real mouse, you use it to navigate the screen." I didn't know how to teach anyone anything because to me it was so simple. But she was persistent and claimed I was the only one with the patience to teach her, we made tenative plans on a number of occassions but never went through with it. To this day, it actually makes me sad to think I never got to teach her to use one before she died.
6. I think it really pleased my mom when I got my first girlfriend, but mostly because it put her at ease that I wasn't, in fact, gay. It wasn't uncommon that my mom would confide in my sister that she thought I was gay. So seeing me with a girl really probably put her mind at ease. Or maybe she was disappointed, who knows. She certainly was no stranger to having gay friends, and wasn't one to judge their lifestyle at all. She was the type of person a gay man loves having as a best friend to go shopping with or gossip to. I think she just always wanted to be the really cool mom of the boyfriend to whoever I was dating. The hip and young mom who could be easily befriended and trusted. She would talk to me late at night asking about my relationship, giving me pointers on the female perspective and always seemingly genuinely interested in what was happening. Going back to the gay thing....I mean, I think I'm just going to have to deal with the fact that I'm one of those guys that people might assume is gay at certain points. I dress nice, work out a lot, spend a lot of time with guys that also do these things, I take a certain pride in personal hygiene. I've kind of just accepted this, but my mom also had some other weird ideas about activities I was involved in. I remember being thirteen and her just telling me I also smelled like pot or her telling my sister she thought I was smoking weed. I thought I smelled of axe deodorant body spray, I certainly had the entire lineup. Maybe I smelled like Tide Fresh Meadows laundry detergent or the smell of thirteen year old boy, but marijuana????? I had a lot of mechanical pencils in my pockets, not joints. I'm in my room playing video games, not packing a bowl. Oh well.....perception sometimes alluded her, or she just assumed the worst.
When I think of her, truly sit and think of her there are so many things that come to mind that I could fill countless pages with. Maybe I will one day, but these are just some. Despite her flaws and quirks, she loved me. Maybe she confided in me too much, relied on me in roles I shouldn't have had as a young boy, but she loved me whole heartedly. It's scary living a life with one parent. Always living in anxiety of losing the other and remembering the one that was lost. I don't know what it means to live a life that would make her proud, but she inspires me. She inspires me to love, and to smile, and to let loose and be free. She inspires me to live up to my potential like she wanted me to and to achieve things she couldn't do, and do it all in loving memory of her.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Prestige Worldwide Presents: How to Hang with a Leprechaun
Is it still St Patricks day? I can't entirely remember. I normally go about my life in a manner that would make the people close to me proud of my actions. I can't say I always accomplish this, but I try to live a pretty respectable life for the most part. People definitely think I engage in wild and frenzied drinking festivities more than I do. But when it comes to St Patricks day I go about my day in a manner that would make my Irish heritage proud. It's not that I enjoy getting wasted, but it's certainly my responsibility to uphold.
The first time I decided to really "give it a go" on St Patricks was two years ago. The thought of drinking anything that doesn't end in juice before 10am really upsets me. It was definitely a first chugging some ales and stouts on a train headed to the city at nine in the morning. Without going into too much detail, the quality of the day can be summised by letting everyone know that night I ended up sleeping on the top of a building in Chicago. Normally the tops of buildings aren't indoors. This was no exception. Normally March in Chicago was cold..this was colder. Normally people don't step on you while you are attempting to sleep, unfortunately people thought I was some type of blanket covered step...oh wait, I didn't have a blanket.
For St Patricks day this year, I wanted to take it to a whole different level. I wasn't sure of the events that would take place during the day, only that I wanted the night to end with me alone and naked in a field huddled next to a dog of some type. I wanted to pass out and awaken in my store the following morning, wearing a freshly pressed and tailored suit with a small note in the pocket simply reading: "You're welcome." So I was aiming high, but I've never been one to set an unreasonable goal.
As a side note really quick....I'm certain I've had alcohol poisoning before. Some times people tell me they've had alcohol poisoning and I was with them the entire night and they had 6 drinks. Nope, you actually have "inability to hold your liquor poisoning". One of the first times I drank I was 17, maybe 18 and pretty dumb (so you can see not much has changed except my age). And on this lovely evening, me and the girlfriend at the time thought it would be an excellent decision to get drunk together at her friends apartment. My friend bought me a handle of vodka, I, of course, supplied the lemonade and cranberry juice because I'm classy, and someone provided the cups. After 18 vodka lemonades its hard to remember much, and even harder to stand, but needless to say I alone accounted for over half the handle in roughly 2 hours. I woke up naked....wait for it....(not in a field sadly) but in my girlfriend's friend's apartment bathroom covered in throw up and surrounded by towels. To say I felt like death would make dying sound too easy and painless. I was beyond sick for like 2 days. I actually came home, and my father (who didn't know I had been out drinking...hi dad) asked me to mow the yard. I don't think that is anything in the world I would have dreaded to do more at that point then push a device with blades through my backyard in 95 degree heat. My body wasn't producing sweat. I was sweating vodka lemonades, which might have been refreshing it someone wanted to lick me, but I smelled like a shot of Pinesol. I ended up sleeping for two days straight and dry heaving countless times.
Side note #2: The actual St Patrick was not Irish, but rather, English. That is beyond frustrating.
The reason I referenced side note #1 is that for St Patricks day this year I wanted get as close to that point as possible without dying or ending up in jail. Here is a recap of the day.
Side note #3: the day before I was at the gym and didn't go to bed till 6am. Win!!
9:00am- Rise and Shine. Take a green shower. Scrub body with Leprechaun blood. (0% drunk)
10:00am- Drive around for 30 minutes trying to find Toyota of Naperville because there is nothing more traditionally Irish then getting a free oil change. (0% drunk)
11:00am- At the mall with Greg searching for some green attire to wear. Try to buy 10 loaves of Irish soda bread at Panera, settle for two muffins and a green shirt from Express. (0% drunk)
11:30am- Driving to pick up Gary. Stop off at liquor store to purchase a fifth of Jameson and a fifth of the least Irish drink I could think of..pirate rum: Captain Morgan. Apparently Jack Sparrow is joining us today. (0% drunk)
12:30pm- We have picked up Greg, secured the cargo and are sitting across the street from Bally Doyle in the Hollywood Casino parking lot. Start pregaming with the two bottles (5% drunk)
1-5pm- Rotating between Bally Doyle and the parking garage consuming Irish car bombs, Guinness stout, Miller alluminum pints, and Jameson and Pirate Rum. The following events take place within this time frame:
A) old couple drive through parking garage horrified that one of us is peeing in a corner.
B) somewhat attractive woman gets very angry when I ask her to take a picture of me and my friends
C) people wearing suits (and they weren't green mind you) start discussing their portfolios, horse racing, and playing polo. They also try to make fun at us. I say try because you can't discuss polo and make fun of someone successfully.
D) Greg is nearly abducted by a very large and frightening woman. Difficult to say whether she wanted to keep him as food or a sex slave.
E) Some man is wearing the same shirt as me and starring at me angrily as if now I have ruined his chances at picking up women.
(45% drunk)
5:00pm- We get kicked out of the parking garage and our remaning pirate rum is taken.
5:30pm- Get picked up by someone sober (although I'm still sober, the law would argue otherwise) and head to St Charles.
6:00pm- My companions are pretty well maxed out; I don't blame they, they simply aren't Irish and didn't start the morning ritual of Leprechaun blood. I however, think I will order some car bombs and a pitcher of green beer. (80% drunk)
8:00pm- We arrive back to my apartment. Gary is passed out or dead. Either way he is better off on Greg's bed and if need be we will worry about the body later. I realize despite the amount of liquor I have consumed, I have been pacing myself too much. Starting to realize the night will not end in a field. I am sobering up (65% drunk -15%)
8:30pm- Go back to Ballydoyle to meet up with Javy. (60% drunk -5%)
side note #4: Gary told Javy to meet us at Ballydoyle at like 5. He never told him we left. Javy has been waiting and is angry face. I am sober and sober face.
9:00pm- Us three head over to the Roundhouse for some more drinks and annoying music. I may possibly change into a kilt. I order a water. Greg and I get into a fight as he claims no one has purchased him drinks today...everyone has purchased him drinks. (50% drunk. 100% frustrated)
10pm- Greg and I head to Fox and Hound to meet up with two friends who happen to be women. I drink lightly as I have given up on my night and failed my Irish heritage. (60% drunk)
1130pm- I am home and in bed sooner than I expected. I substitute my pillow for cabbage; I don't deserve a pillow tonight. I am safe, fully clothed, and entirely disappointed.
The first time I decided to really "give it a go" on St Patricks was two years ago. The thought of drinking anything that doesn't end in juice before 10am really upsets me. It was definitely a first chugging some ales and stouts on a train headed to the city at nine in the morning. Without going into too much detail, the quality of the day can be summised by letting everyone know that night I ended up sleeping on the top of a building in Chicago. Normally the tops of buildings aren't indoors. This was no exception. Normally March in Chicago was cold..this was colder. Normally people don't step on you while you are attempting to sleep, unfortunately people thought I was some type of blanket covered step...oh wait, I didn't have a blanket.
For St Patricks day this year, I wanted to take it to a whole different level. I wasn't sure of the events that would take place during the day, only that I wanted the night to end with me alone and naked in a field huddled next to a dog of some type. I wanted to pass out and awaken in my store the following morning, wearing a freshly pressed and tailored suit with a small note in the pocket simply reading: "You're welcome." So I was aiming high, but I've never been one to set an unreasonable goal.
As a side note really quick....I'm certain I've had alcohol poisoning before. Some times people tell me they've had alcohol poisoning and I was with them the entire night and they had 6 drinks. Nope, you actually have "inability to hold your liquor poisoning". One of the first times I drank I was 17, maybe 18 and pretty dumb (so you can see not much has changed except my age). And on this lovely evening, me and the girlfriend at the time thought it would be an excellent decision to get drunk together at her friends apartment. My friend bought me a handle of vodka, I, of course, supplied the lemonade and cranberry juice because I'm classy, and someone provided the cups. After 18 vodka lemonades its hard to remember much, and even harder to stand, but needless to say I alone accounted for over half the handle in roughly 2 hours. I woke up naked....wait for it....(not in a field sadly) but in my girlfriend's friend's apartment bathroom covered in throw up and surrounded by towels. To say I felt like death would make dying sound too easy and painless. I was beyond sick for like 2 days. I actually came home, and my father (who didn't know I had been out drinking...hi dad) asked me to mow the yard. I don't think that is anything in the world I would have dreaded to do more at that point then push a device with blades through my backyard in 95 degree heat. My body wasn't producing sweat. I was sweating vodka lemonades, which might have been refreshing it someone wanted to lick me, but I smelled like a shot of Pinesol. I ended up sleeping for two days straight and dry heaving countless times.
Side note #2: The actual St Patrick was not Irish, but rather, English. That is beyond frustrating.
The reason I referenced side note #1 is that for St Patricks day this year I wanted get as close to that point as possible without dying or ending up in jail. Here is a recap of the day.
Side note #3: the day before I was at the gym and didn't go to bed till 6am. Win!!
9:00am- Rise and Shine. Take a green shower. Scrub body with Leprechaun blood. (0% drunk)
10:00am- Drive around for 30 minutes trying to find Toyota of Naperville because there is nothing more traditionally Irish then getting a free oil change. (0% drunk)
11:00am- At the mall with Greg searching for some green attire to wear. Try to buy 10 loaves of Irish soda bread at Panera, settle for two muffins and a green shirt from Express. (0% drunk)
11:30am- Driving to pick up Gary. Stop off at liquor store to purchase a fifth of Jameson and a fifth of the least Irish drink I could think of..pirate rum: Captain Morgan. Apparently Jack Sparrow is joining us today. (0% drunk)
12:30pm- We have picked up Greg, secured the cargo and are sitting across the street from Bally Doyle in the Hollywood Casino parking lot. Start pregaming with the two bottles (5% drunk)
1-5pm- Rotating between Bally Doyle and the parking garage consuming Irish car bombs, Guinness stout, Miller alluminum pints, and Jameson and Pirate Rum. The following events take place within this time frame:
A) old couple drive through parking garage horrified that one of us is peeing in a corner.
B) somewhat attractive woman gets very angry when I ask her to take a picture of me and my friends
C) people wearing suits (and they weren't green mind you) start discussing their portfolios, horse racing, and playing polo. They also try to make fun at us. I say try because you can't discuss polo and make fun of someone successfully.
D) Greg is nearly abducted by a very large and frightening woman. Difficult to say whether she wanted to keep him as food or a sex slave.
E) Some man is wearing the same shirt as me and starring at me angrily as if now I have ruined his chances at picking up women.
(45% drunk)
5:00pm- We get kicked out of the parking garage and our remaning pirate rum is taken.
5:30pm- Get picked up by someone sober (although I'm still sober, the law would argue otherwise) and head to St Charles.
6:00pm- My companions are pretty well maxed out; I don't blame they, they simply aren't Irish and didn't start the morning ritual of Leprechaun blood. I however, think I will order some car bombs and a pitcher of green beer. (80% drunk)
8:00pm- We arrive back to my apartment. Gary is passed out or dead. Either way he is better off on Greg's bed and if need be we will worry about the body later. I realize despite the amount of liquor I have consumed, I have been pacing myself too much. Starting to realize the night will not end in a field. I am sobering up (65% drunk -15%)
8:30pm- Go back to Ballydoyle to meet up with Javy. (60% drunk -5%)
side note #4: Gary told Javy to meet us at Ballydoyle at like 5. He never told him we left. Javy has been waiting and is angry face. I am sober and sober face.
9:00pm- Us three head over to the Roundhouse for some more drinks and annoying music. I may possibly change into a kilt. I order a water. Greg and I get into a fight as he claims no one has purchased him drinks today...everyone has purchased him drinks. (50% drunk. 100% frustrated)
10pm- Greg and I head to Fox and Hound to meet up with two friends who happen to be women. I drink lightly as I have given up on my night and failed my Irish heritage. (60% drunk)
1130pm- I am home and in bed sooner than I expected. I substitute my pillow for cabbage; I don't deserve a pillow tonight. I am safe, fully clothed, and entirely disappointed.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Prestige Worldwide Presents: Das Blogging for Idiots
I haven't blogged in so long that I legitimately forgot my password. It just took me three hours to log in, and I even had to resort to the whole, "forgot my password" link on the homepage; the one where they realize I'm an idiot and have to email me a link to recover my precious passkey. Why is it that blogger.com is more encrypted and has more security settings than my online banking website? Blogger.com does not, and I repeat, does not fuck around. God forbid someone hacked this thing and started blogging under the pretense that they were me. Then my blog might actually adhere to certain grammatical principles that I ignore...like punctuation. But seriously, I just went through a six sequence verification process to obtain my password.
Step 1: Email Address- check
Step 2: Security Question- ...is it just me, or am I the only person who doesn't pay any attention to the security question at the initial set up of the account. Normally, there is a little drop down box where I can select one from a preset selection of four or five. I'm sorry, but I don't pay attention because none of them pertain to me. The question, "What was your first pet horse's name?" does not apply to me, sorry guys. And no, I didn't go with, "In which zip code territory did your first house reside in?" or the ever popular, "Who was your first grade teacher's name...and what was his/her sexual orientation?". I went to the first grade for one week, realized I was a shy 6 year old kid who could not handle a class of more than 5 children and my parents opted to put me in a class called "transitional". No one believes this story, but it is true. I technically am a grade behind. My transitional class was supposed to be a "transition" (go figure) between kindergarten and first grade. It consisted of like four of us in the class, and I have no idea what we did. I can't for the life of me think of any work that somehow would me more challenging for a kindergarten student yet too easy for a first grader. More or less, I think it just shaped us for social interaction. Needless to say, the security question phase is always a challenge. Ten minutes later, and something to do with the grocery store aisle my dad was born in, I'm on to step 3.
Step 3: Password- So blogger.com, what you're saying is that in the process of trying to obtain my password, I need to tell you my password. Mind you, it wasn't asking for a new password. It was asking for THE password. ....is it the word password? Otherwise, I don't know. It took me ten minutes to figure out there was small font at the bottom of the screen explaining I had initially selected the "forgot user name" option rather than "forgot password". Actually it looks like: "forgot password?" There is always that obnoxious question mark at the end taunting you a little bit for forgetting it. I always read it out loud and emphasize a very snotty tone at the end where the huge question mark is. This question mark immediately puts me in a bad mood. Normally, I would have given up here. No blog is worth going through that security question section again, but it's times like these I think of my fans. My fans are a lot like the fans of the character "Bad Blake" in the movie "Crazy Heart". They don't have a lot of teeth and they can be accounted for using one hand to count them. Rather than demanding drunkenly slurred country lyrics such as "funny how falling feels like flying...at least for a little while." they demand my incoherent words on their high resolution screens. So with the fans in mind ;) I had to press on and after answering some question about the anatomy of a squirrel fetus, I advance to step 4.
Step 4: IQ test- I immediately wonder if this is being graded on a curve. Is there a certain score I need to achieve to continue and get my password? They don't really say; it's incredibly cryptic. I don't remember taking an IQ test at the set up of the account, but after hosting several of my blogs, I'm sure the website simply understands I'm stupid and formulates it's own score. I figure if I score higher than 78 I'm probably good to go. If I need to score higher than the website itself, I'm probably screwed. Kind of like playing chess against the super computers who were specifically designed to play chess. I never understood that. They take the world champion grandmaster chess player and have him play the computer program that was designed to be better than him. The chess player had learned to play the game through repetition, studying, theory, and innate ability and uncanny ability to think several moves ahead. The computer was programmed to do this instantly and can...compute infinite moves ahead. (that's called a random rant...enjoy). After a few questions into the test, I feel very confident. So far the most challenging question has been something along the lines of, "Which of the following does not belong in the group below?" My four image choices are an adult man, an adult woman, a small child, and a dinosaur. I somewhat confidently select the small child. The dinosaur looked like an adult species, I figure evolutionists created the test and I am in line with their thinking on this one. I remember reading somewhere dinosaurs were the predecessors to adults and fish were the species most responsible for children...or they were delivered by storks. My results do not post in the form of a numerical score, but rather a large font display of, "Based on the submitted results, we cannot release the temporary hold on your account. Would you like to retake the questionnaire?". Arrogant bastards. Have the audacity to call it a questionnaire. I read up on the conception of children and choose to retake the "test". I either pass with flying colors, or the website doesn't have the heart to tell me I'm incredibly dumb and let's me continue out of sympathy.
Step 5: Social Security Number- At least it's a question I know off hand. I've never been more excited to have someone steal my identity and open credit cards under my name.
Step 6: Select New Password- Could it be this easy? Do I pick something only I can remember, or should I just make it "password"....i go with that option.
At this point I think I am done. I am expecting to return to the home page and enter in my username and my password of password and start blogging about Christmas, New Years, Father Daughter time, etc. I can't wait...I should have waited. There's a step 7.
Step 7: Word Verification Word Box Thing- This is easily the most frustrating thing on the internet. I cannot understand what it was intended for other than to make people scream and break their monitors. It is the section that we have all seen so many times where the website asks us to type in the two words that appear on the screen in the text box. Sounds easy enough, the issue is the two words aren't even words at all. They aren't decipherable anything. They are literally Egyptian symbols in the strangest font. They are always upside down and a mix of color, size, and variety. Sometimes there is just a picture of a chicken. I can't type that in; I don't have my keyboard calibrated for chicken. If I get it wrong then it presents me with two "words" exponentially more difficult to decipher. Sometimes it's Latin, sometimes its the writing they used in transformers, sometimes it's geometry shapes, but it's never two words. Is this part of the challenge...or rather.. a continuation of the IQ test? Does the creator of these things know the words cannot be accurately typed in or replicated and just test our will to continue? Maybe it's a lateral thinking exercise. I sit deep in thought about it for several minutes and finally decide to type "fuck you" into the boxes and press continue. It grants me my wish and I have now reset my password.
I conquered the unconquerable. I've expertly displayed mind over matter and passed the most difficult test I've had to date. I'm on the home page again ready to log in....wait, what's my user name again?
Step 1: Email Address- check
Step 2: Security Question- ...is it just me, or am I the only person who doesn't pay any attention to the security question at the initial set up of the account. Normally, there is a little drop down box where I can select one from a preset selection of four or five. I'm sorry, but I don't pay attention because none of them pertain to me. The question, "What was your first pet horse's name?" does not apply to me, sorry guys. And no, I didn't go with, "In which zip code territory did your first house reside in?" or the ever popular, "Who was your first grade teacher's name...and what was his/her sexual orientation?". I went to the first grade for one week, realized I was a shy 6 year old kid who could not handle a class of more than 5 children and my parents opted to put me in a class called "transitional". No one believes this story, but it is true. I technically am a grade behind. My transitional class was supposed to be a "transition" (go figure) between kindergarten and first grade. It consisted of like four of us in the class, and I have no idea what we did. I can't for the life of me think of any work that somehow would me more challenging for a kindergarten student yet too easy for a first grader. More or less, I think it just shaped us for social interaction. Needless to say, the security question phase is always a challenge. Ten minutes later, and something to do with the grocery store aisle my dad was born in, I'm on to step 3.
Step 3: Password- So blogger.com, what you're saying is that in the process of trying to obtain my password, I need to tell you my password. Mind you, it wasn't asking for a new password. It was asking for THE password. ....is it the word password? Otherwise, I don't know. It took me ten minutes to figure out there was small font at the bottom of the screen explaining I had initially selected the "forgot user name" option rather than "forgot password". Actually it looks like: "forgot password?" There is always that obnoxious question mark at the end taunting you a little bit for forgetting it. I always read it out loud and emphasize a very snotty tone at the end where the huge question mark is. This question mark immediately puts me in a bad mood. Normally, I would have given up here. No blog is worth going through that security question section again, but it's times like these I think of my fans. My fans are a lot like the fans of the character "Bad Blake" in the movie "Crazy Heart". They don't have a lot of teeth and they can be accounted for using one hand to count them. Rather than demanding drunkenly slurred country lyrics such as "funny how falling feels like flying...at least for a little while." they demand my incoherent words on their high resolution screens. So with the fans in mind ;) I had to press on and after answering some question about the anatomy of a squirrel fetus, I advance to step 4.
Step 4: IQ test- I immediately wonder if this is being graded on a curve. Is there a certain score I need to achieve to continue and get my password? They don't really say; it's incredibly cryptic. I don't remember taking an IQ test at the set up of the account, but after hosting several of my blogs, I'm sure the website simply understands I'm stupid and formulates it's own score. I figure if I score higher than 78 I'm probably good to go. If I need to score higher than the website itself, I'm probably screwed. Kind of like playing chess against the super computers who were specifically designed to play chess. I never understood that. They take the world champion grandmaster chess player and have him play the computer program that was designed to be better than him. The chess player had learned to play the game through repetition, studying, theory, and innate ability and uncanny ability to think several moves ahead. The computer was programmed to do this instantly and can...compute infinite moves ahead. (that's called a random rant...enjoy). After a few questions into the test, I feel very confident. So far the most challenging question has been something along the lines of, "Which of the following does not belong in the group below?" My four image choices are an adult man, an adult woman, a small child, and a dinosaur. I somewhat confidently select the small child. The dinosaur looked like an adult species, I figure evolutionists created the test and I am in line with their thinking on this one. I remember reading somewhere dinosaurs were the predecessors to adults and fish were the species most responsible for children...or they were delivered by storks. My results do not post in the form of a numerical score, but rather a large font display of, "Based on the submitted results, we cannot release the temporary hold on your account. Would you like to retake the questionnaire?". Arrogant bastards. Have the audacity to call it a questionnaire. I read up on the conception of children and choose to retake the "test". I either pass with flying colors, or the website doesn't have the heart to tell me I'm incredibly dumb and let's me continue out of sympathy.
Step 5: Social Security Number- At least it's a question I know off hand. I've never been more excited to have someone steal my identity and open credit cards under my name.
Step 6: Select New Password- Could it be this easy? Do I pick something only I can remember, or should I just make it "password"....i go with that option.
At this point I think I am done. I am expecting to return to the home page and enter in my username and my password of password and start blogging about Christmas, New Years, Father Daughter time, etc. I can't wait...I should have waited. There's a step 7.
Step 7: Word Verification Word Box Thing- This is easily the most frustrating thing on the internet. I cannot understand what it was intended for other than to make people scream and break their monitors. It is the section that we have all seen so many times where the website asks us to type in the two words that appear on the screen in the text box. Sounds easy enough, the issue is the two words aren't even words at all. They aren't decipherable anything. They are literally Egyptian symbols in the strangest font. They are always upside down and a mix of color, size, and variety. Sometimes there is just a picture of a chicken. I can't type that in; I don't have my keyboard calibrated for chicken. If I get it wrong then it presents me with two "words" exponentially more difficult to decipher. Sometimes it's Latin, sometimes its the writing they used in transformers, sometimes it's geometry shapes, but it's never two words. Is this part of the challenge...or rather.. a continuation of the IQ test? Does the creator of these things know the words cannot be accurately typed in or replicated and just test our will to continue? Maybe it's a lateral thinking exercise. I sit deep in thought about it for several minutes and finally decide to type "fuck you" into the boxes and press continue. It grants me my wish and I have now reset my password.
I conquered the unconquerable. I've expertly displayed mind over matter and passed the most difficult test I've had to date. I'm on the home page again ready to log in....wait, what's my user name again?
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