Ok, I Give Up. I Dyed It Brown.

Malfunction:
After 13 months of sitting behind a desk, in a dark hole, never being seen by anyone except my co-workers; I dyed my hair pink, and guess what? I had to drive to a customer's site and install a modem!

AH HA! I KNEW there was a conspiracy.

I am tech support, so I get to hide behind a telephone, the anonymity of my position can be a good thing or a bad thing.

Having a female voice typically makes the female customers doubt what you say. I know that sounds like a cop-out, but it's true. One of the guys at work can say the exact same thing and it is totally believed. When I say it: the female customers usually try to argue. Then, when the customer meets me, they see that I'm a brainiac and from then on, I'm the hero. Well, this time I go to a customer's site and I have long bright PINK hair.
Talk about a credibility-buster. I was almost self-conscious.
I pulled it off with little damage to my ego. The install and the test of her ECS was complete in less than 15 minutes, they showed me around and introduced me to all their staff. I turned off a couple of windows firewalls because it interfered with enterprise applications using sql server.
They were genuinely glad to meet me.
I think I'm just a little too conservative to pull off the Punk Rocker look.
I haven't even gotten up the nerve to have my belly-button pierced, and doubt I ever will.

MsAmber 

A LEAP OF FAITH

The day after Rob and I got married. We went skydiving.

The Place: Las Vegas
Altitude: 15,000 feet

I absolutely love this picture, because it looks like I'm praying, in the next photo, we're gone.
The most amazing part of skydiving is actually getting out of the plane. No matter how much you prepare your mind, it screams "NOOOO!" When you are trying to exit face first.

I had one whole knee out of the plane, and I felt like I was totally out of control, and a little panicky. Then, I had 50 seconds of free-fall. It goes by quickly.

(You feel the skin on your face being stretched, you dare not open your mouth for fear that it will balloon. Your depth perception leaves you wondering if the Earth is going to stop before it collides with you. You are falling at approximately 110 mph. The jumpmaster taps you on the shoulder to tell you to arch your arms back, but your brain processes the input very slowly. Compared to how fast everything is happenning, you feel like your brain is molasses in January.)

Then, blessedly, the parachute opens. The overwhelming noise and rushing air just stops. I didn't even realize there was noise and rushing air until it stopped.
I was still hyperventilating. And laughing hysterically, it took me so long to stop laughing, I wondered if I even COULD stop laughing.
My jumpmaster took me for a couple of loops around the landing site, then he flared the parachute and we touched down lightly. My knees still came out from under me, because I think I was still in shock.

Then I went into the hangar to take off the safety gear. The most memorable part of the entire experience was still hanging with me. My brain was still screaming "NOOOO", I realize it never stopped screaming from the moment I forced myself out of the plane.

For an entire week I relived the feeling of going out of the plane. In my dreams, in my daydreams, it was a vertigo of sorts. Finally the feeling has faded from my frontal neurons and I don't feel it as keenly as I did. Thank Goodness.

MsAmber 

Why I Can't Be President - Reason #2

They won't let me raise chickens on the White House lawn.

I have this 'thing' about store bought chicken. The chicken you buy at your local grocery store does not resemble MY chickens in any way.
It's too small to be fully grown.
They feed the chickens marigold seeds to make them yellow. (the only thing yellow on a dead chicken is the feet and the beak)
Sometimes the bones are broken, and you can tell by the bruising that it was done before they died.
The gizzard, heart, and liver did not come from THAT exact chicken.
I can see the bird flu hitting the US poultry industry pretty hard. That's because they use no common sense when raising chickens.
The industrial chickens never get to play in the sun.
The mass chicken farmers know nothing about the health of a chicken, they treat them all like rats.
MY chickens get hatched, then kept warm in a box on top of the refrigerator (that's the BEST place to keep your little biddies.) I take them out and let them play in the grass. Yes, herding little chicks is fun, I usually assign a kid to do it. My mortality rate is very low.
Then, when they are big enough, I move them to their nesting place. Their collective size determines what kind of nesting place I move them to. Usually I put the group in a rabbit hutch with a ramp for a month before sending them into the coop.
On pretty days, I open the door and let them out for the day. When it gets dark, they will ALL return to their nesting place. (and people think chickens aren't smart)
When they get their adult feathers, I can start culling them based on their attitudes, or habits.
A bad chicken will:
Pick on the speckled chickens.
Get all up in my face when I go to feed them.
Have an unnatural pink around their eyes (that means they eat eggs)
Have small combs (they don't build up enough blood pressure like my good laying hens)
A rooster who is too rough on my hens and tears up their feathers.
Of course you will want to cull out the roosters first. You only want one (maybe two) or they will wear the hens out.
Besides giving them an outdoor pen to play in, it is helpful to let them out completely on days that you will be home. Like on the weekends, or after you have harvested. They get to peck around and eat bugs and fallen tomatoes and such.
Feed: I give my laying hens some laying mash, cracked oyster shells for calcium, and good old sand for their gizzards. My young chickens make do with cracked corn and sand.
As a result: My chickens are BIG, healthy, beautiful, and happy, and my incidence of double-yolk eggs are very high.
Years ago, when I was fresh-off-the-farm, I went to the grocery store to get some chicken leg quarters. The only chicken I could find was frozen, jaundiced, yellow looking crap. I called the butcher out. I said, "Don't you have any FRESH chicken?" (because fresh isn't frozen), he said "Technically, ma'am, this is fresh, because it's quick-frozen, which means it's not frozen all the way through." I grabbed that package of chicken and started beating it against the edge of the freezer and said "If this ain't frozen, I'll kiss your ass." I told him that I don't know what he fed his family, but I wasn't feeding this jaundiced yellow baby leg chicken to MY family. He called the manager. I had a come-a-part and was yelling at the both of them. The manager asked the butcher to go see what they have in the back. He put me together a package of chicken that looked slightly better than the one I was having a fit over, but at least it wasn't frozen. I was temporarily sated, and I bought my chicken and left.
When I look at store bought chicken, it breaks my heart. These chickens aren't big enough to even have grown all their adult feathers. The incidence of broken bones is about 1:3, and I'm still bugged out by the giblets. I want the gizzard that came with THAT chicken.
So if I were President, I would still want to raise my own chickens. Build a Presidential chicken coop right on the White House lawn. Start my brood right on top of the Presidential refrigerator, and serve big baked chickens for Presidential dinners. Everybody would think they were turkeys, only better and without those annoying tendons.
I'll only be President if they will let me do this.
MsAmber

My Tribute to Flamingo1

This is my bright flamingo colored hair.
Last night I was soaking my very blonde hair in Henna, when I got involved in reading Flamingo's blog. Next thing I know, a whole hour has passed.
I rinsed it out and my hair was this color.
I thought Rob was going to Kill me.
Instead he says he likes it, it is a very (um) unique color, and it does something for my complexion. It also makes my eyes bluer.
What do you think? Should I keep it?

MsAmber
www.wildernessgirl.com 

Why I Can't Be President - Reason #1

I can't control my face.
Yep, that's what I said.

When I see news reports about G.W.Bush, everybody is picking on his facial expressions. I realize that I HAVE A PROBLEM. It's not like I would roll my eyes at the Leader of China or anything, I just have a very expressionable face. I'm a clown when I get nervous.

This is serious.

The media would tear me up. My face would be photoshopped and plastered all over the comic strips.

The political cartoons would make a mockery of my beautiful nose, which would give me a complex and I would be forced to have rhinoplasty, which would then start a whole new line of jokes. Gee, I can't win.

I hear there is a treatment that might help me control my facial expressions.
Botox injections.
Botulism, as I have always understood it, is caused by not removing the blossom end from green beans when you can them, and also, not getting the beans up to temperature for enough time. My mother told me that it was the biggest danger facing young mothers who are canning for the first time.
That, and cooking dried peas in a pressure canner, when the Gunk clogs the steamer spout, too much pressure builds up and it blows out the sides of the seal with green pea sauce.
Anyway, most of you aren't interested in a lesson in canning your own food right now, you are here to find out why *I* can't be your President someday.

(You're disappointed, I know.)
Well, botulism is a toxic nerve agent. So the big brains in some laboratory somewhere figured out which exact toxin in botulism and how much of it, can be injected shallowly in your face to paralyze the little muscles that make expressions. They named it Botox.
See, if you go long enough without expressions, your wrinkles will fill in with hydration. Puffy face, kinda.
Voila' A younger you.
Ok, I now know that I might can get around the facial expression thing with Botox injections. I can claim it's for migraines and America just might go for it.
I didn't think about Tom Cruise. He might start something. Hmmm. (Note to self: Have Tom Cruise eliminated before running for Office.)
Hey, It's possible. I COULD run for President after all!
Okay, first excuse eliminated.
But I have several more...

My Beautiful Dog (with the big heart)

This is my beautiful, big hearted dog. His name is Megabyte.
He is exceptionally well behaved, and has been since day 1.
I found him on the highway in June of 2001. He was about 4 months old and was nearly dead. He had millions of seed ticks all over his ears and face, he was anemic, wormy, and dizzy.
I was heading west into the sunset, could barely see, and I saw a little pile in the road. When I got close enough to see it was a dog, I veered sharply to the right and skid off the road into the ditch. I was driving a 1976 Pontiac Ventura, so it wasn't a big deal to swing myself back out of the ditch.

I got out of my car and went over to see if the puppy had been hit. He was scared and confused. I picked him up and he piddled all over me. I grabbed a blanket out of the trunk and put him in the front seat. After that, I couldn't get him to get out of the car. He was staying with me for good. I noticed that he had some nerve damage. He couldn't focus his eyes, and he would get dizzy when he closed his eyes. He was miserable. And the worms - Oh it made me cry to hear him whining when he went poo. There were thousands of worms. I thought for sure he was going to die. And I couldn't afford all the vet bills it would take to fix him up RIGHT NOW. I took him home, but I couldn't bring him inside with all those fleas and ticks. I put the blanket on the ground in the front yard and brought him food and water. The next day he was still there. I bathed him over and over until it was like torture, but I HAD to. I used my nails and just scraped the ticks off his ears. He had heart, though. I took him to the vet and asked him to JUST take care of the worms for now, I would bring him back for shots and stuff later. I have lost dogs to parvo, and I'm not spending that kind of money for a mutt that I just found in the middle of the road.
Well, Megabyte got steadily better. I got his shots. I discovered all kinds of things that he is afraid of. Scissors, pocketknives, flyswatters. I can't help but wonder how he could know what those things are. He also hates being on a leash. I was frustrated by that for a while, but Megabyte showed me that he will heel just fine and he always minds me. I can walk him anywhere and he stays right by my side. Everyone who meets him just adores him, I can't keep people from trying to spoil him. He also doesn't like for you to raise your voice. He minds all commands even if you whisper them or just use the hand gestures. Such a sensitive soul.
He knows I'm talking about him now, and he is looking up at me. Oh wait, no, he just wants to go out. He is also a very patient dog. He allows the cat to pounce on him and steal his food.
We take him everywhere with us. He goes canoeing, camping, I take him out to the farm while I muck out the sheep pens, there is a little ram that he plays with. I took him out shooting, thinking he would run, but he didn't . He just stepped back a few feet and hunkered down and waited for me to call him. He has learned all his tricks: sit, stay, lay-down, catch, and my favorite - spin. Rob calls him "Twistie" because he does this funny twisting-thing when he's excited. Nearly every day we look at him and say: "That's the best dog I've ever had." We are really going to be traumatized if anything happens to Megabyte.
He's very perceptive, loving, meek. His face makes every expression that a human's face makes. He even sighs when he's bummed. He can 'hold it' forever, not that I let that happen, but it's been proven.
There are some neighborhood dogs that come by the fence and Megabyte gets all prancy and gets his hackles up, we laugh because he looks like such a badass. Then one day, he went to meet a chihuahua. That little shit started a fight and jumped on Megabyte. I opened the door and he came running in with this little rat-dog hanging off the back of his neck. Megabyte looked panicked, like "What is it Mom? Get it off, Get it off!" It was the funniest thing I've ever seen. I'm cracking up now, just remembering.
Rob said that Megabyte will never live it down, getting beat up by a chihuahua.
Another thing, I had heard that Blue Heelers will herd cows out of instinct, so I took him to a friend's house that has cows. Megabyte and I went for a walk. We were within mere feet of the cows and what does my dog do? He started chasing butterflies. He didn't even notice the cows. That was so funny to see a dog playing with butterflies while surrounded by cows watching. I wish I had taken my camera for that.
I love my Dog.

Back in Time

This is my chicken-killing stump.
When I was about 13 we bought a little farm in West Virginia. It had a little droopy house, a pond, a well, a chicken coop, a shed, 9.53 acres wooded, a grape arbor, a jasmine bush, wild horseradish, and a big old apple tree. Oh yeah, and wild elderberry shrubs everywhere.
My mother spent all our money on purchasing the farm, and a few tools that we would need, and then we were broke. That's it. Make it or break it. We got four nanny goats, about 50 chickens, and a dozen rabbits.
There was no man around. Just my mother, myself, and my little brother. We had to cut our own wood, kill our own meat, and grow or gather our own food. It was a matter of pride to us. If somebody shot a couple of squirrels, we got to eat. I learned about wild foods. We ate everything that the books said was edible. We ate cattail shoots, mushrooms, ramps, elderberries. I discovered sassafras root for tea. My mother would look up different herbs to tell what they were good for, and we wasted nothing.
That first year, we didn't have the money to pay anyone to disc our field, so we were making do. The three of us hanging on the back of a huge rear-tine-tiller trying to bust up the clods. A friendly farmer from up the road went and got his disc and drove up, we were so busy we didn't even hear him. I'm sure he was laughing at the three of us being dragged around by that monster-tiller. He was kind enough to disc our field for us for nothing. We started all our seeds indoors. Every inch of the house had seedlings. We had brussel sprouts, beans, tomatoes, peppers (of every kind), cabbage, okra, - you name it, I'm sure we planted it. We cut strips of plastic to lay down between the rows to keep the weeding down somewhat.
I milked the goats twice a day and measured, strained and recorded production. My brother was given the job of making nesting boxes for the hens. I culled the roosters as soon as they started fighting. I used a bail of hay every two days in the winter. I saved the strings that they were baled with.
When spring came around, we put all the seedlings in the ground. I birthed the new kids (baby goats), and hatched the new biddies. Which brought the count up to: 9 goats, 152 chickens, and 7 rabbits.
All throughout that first summer, my new kids followed me around like puppies. I killed two chickens a day – one for the pot and one for the freezer, weeded the garden, did the laundry in a wringer washer and hung it on a line to dry, and cooked supper. My Mother ran the chainsaw. It takes 9 ½ cords of wood and two tons of lumpy coal to make it through the winter. She cut all that. My brother had to haul it, split it by hand, and stack it. He also had to haul the water while I milked.
Back to the stump. Every day I would put two pieces of baling twine in my back pocket and pick out two chickens. I would pick a mean rooster if I had one, otherwise I would pick the hens with pink around their eyes (means they eat eggs) or small combs (bad layers), or just the bullies who picked on my favorite hens. I would loop the twine around their feet and take them to the stump. I chopped their heads off, and hooked the twine on a nail protruding from the stump. Let them bleed on the rock below while I waited for the water to boil.
My husband found the chicken killing stump fascinating, so he made me pose beside it while he took the picture.

Doing my part to force crackheads underground.

I live in a pleasant little neighborhood. It's not the best neighborhood, but I like it.
There are lots of children, which I make it a habit to get to know them and from which houses they belong. I live on a corner lot and I kinda keep an eye out. When a stray dog attacked a little girl on a bike, I was the first one out there with my stick to beat the dog away.
I'm a country girl and that's just the way we do things.
I hire the children to unload my groceries.
They come to me for help on their homework, or sewing a costume, or just to watch Little House on the Prairie with me at 7:00 in the evenings.
I went to the neighborhood convenience store one evening last Summer, and was shocked to see a display case full of crack pipes, and some kids on tippie-toes looking in. I said to the manager: "You can't sell those. Drugs are illegal!". He got all excited and started waving his arms around and said "If I had to remove everything from my store that could be used to do drugs, I couldn't sell anything!".
I doubted the Icee machine could make an effective crack pipe, and I engaged him in a brief arguement, he got so shook up that he couldn't even count my change back.
So. I went home and called the police. They wouldn't help, I called my district representative, he agreed that it was a travesty, but couldn't help. So I made a sign and went back. I walked up and down the sidewalk with my sign and showed it to every car and customer.
The manager of "Mr. C's" quickly boxed up his merchandise and called the police. The first Norman police officer went in and took the complaint. The manager told him that I was lying, that he didn't sell crack pipes, I was disturbing his customers and being dangerous to traffic.
The officer walked out to me. He had mirrored glasses on. He got up in my face and told me that I could be in trouble for defaming "Mr.C.", I told him that they sold crack pipes. He got real close to my face and said: "How do you know they're crack pipes ma'am - Do You Smoke Crack?" I got a little indignant on him and said: "I most certainly do not! and would you please remove your glasses? You're giving me the creeps!"
He lifted his glasses, and I could see that he was slightly amused. He said he was going to go talk to the manager to see what he wanted to do about me. (Like what, press charges?)
As he was walking back to the store, another officer pulled up. As he stopped briefly to talk to the other officer, a customer who was pumping gas hollered "Right on, Sister." Then he hung up the gas pump and walked over to the officers. He told them that the store did indeed sell crack pipes, and that the manager had boxed them up.
So... Both officers and that nice man went into the store and told the manager to show them the box of merchandise. Sure enough there were lots of crack pipes.
The officer had an entirely different tone when he came back out. He ALMOST apologised to me. He told me I was right, I was within my rights, just stay off their property and don't cause any wrecks. Have a nice day ma'am.
OOOH the manager was pissed! He was watching out the window.
I kept on picketing. A few neighbors drove by and waved.
After about another half-hour, a big new Lincoln Navigator pulled up. It was the owner of 7 convenience stores all named "Mr. C's". Shawn Islam. He asked me to come inside. I refused, thinking it would give him an opportunity to have me arrested. The negotiations began. I got a signed and notarized affidavit that says they will never sell crack pipes or drug paraphernalia in any of their stores. AND that it was all a misunderstanding because the "Vendor represented the merchandise as Indian Incense Burners". Yeah right!
Anyway. Mission accomplished. The manager of that store HATES ME, HATES ME, HATES ME.
My point is, I don't think crack pipes are something that should be on display at the local quickie mart. Put them in a room behind a black curtain, or in a shop that only allows adults in. Not in a place where children buy their Icees. And If there is a market for crack pipes in my neighborhood, I want to know. This isn't a store in a mainstream area. No interstate traffic. Not inbetween here and there. It services my neighborhood only.
That manager can kiss my azz.
I won!

A Bedtime Story - As I Remember It.

This is a bedtime story that was told to me by my mother. I memorized it when I was about 6 or 7 and would say it with her. I still think it's important to remember some poetry. It's good exercise for the brain muscle.
Well here goes.

Little Orphan Annie

Little Orphan Annie come to our house to stay,
to wash the cups and saucers up
and brush the crumbs away.
To shoo the chickens off the porch,
and brush the hearth and sweep.
To make the fires and bake the bread
and earn her board-n-keep.
All us other children, when the
supper things were done.
We'd set around the kitchen-fire
and have the mostest fun.
A'listenin' to them witches' tales
that Annie tells about.
'Bout them goblins who'll getcha
If you... Don't ....Watch ....Out.
(enter dramatic tone and a little tickle poke)
Well,
Once't there was this little boy,
who never said his prayers.
and when he went to bed one night,
'waaay upstairs.
Why! His momma heard him holler.
and his Poppa heard him bawl.
But when they went upstairs to check...
(ooh!) He wasn't there AT ALL.
They seeked him up the chimney flu,
in the cubby-holes and press.
They seeked him in the rafter room,
and everywheres I guess.
But all they ever found was this:
His pants and roundabout.
(pinch the pajama leg and tummy)
See, them goblins Will getcha,
If you don't ... watch ... out!
(tickle)
And Once't there was this little girl,
who'd always laugh and grin.
She made fun of everyone,
even her blood-and-kin.
And once, when there was company,
and the old folks was there.
She mocked them, and she
shocked them.
And she said she didn't care.
At this she kicked her heels and
she turned to run and hide but...
(OOOH!)
Two Great-Big Black things
were standin' by her side.
And they snatched her through the ceiling
'for she knowed what it was about.
See, them goblins WILL getcha,
If you Don't ... Watch ... Out!
(need I say - tickle?)
Little Orphan Annie says:
When the blaze is blue,
and the lamp-wick sputters,
and the wind goes "Whoooooooooo".
When you hear the crickets quit,
and the moon turns gray.
and the lightnin' bugs and dew
are all squinched away.
Why, you'd better mind yer parents,
and your teachers - fond and dear.
Cherish them that loves you,
and dry the orphan's tear.
And Help the poor and needy ones,
who clusters all about.
Else them goblins'll getcha,
If you Don't ... Watch ... Out!
(Tickle Fest! Tickle Fest!)
Forehead kiss, sweet dreams, Lights out.

MsAmber
www.wildernessgirl.com

My Entry for Half-nekked Thursday

Is it too soon to put in my entry for Half-Nekked Thursday?
Lula told me it is THE thing to do.
The good bloggers all do that.
I know it's only Wednesday night, but I'm just so enthusiastic. If I don't put it up now, I might not get home in time to post it tomorrow.
If you like this leg, you should see the OTHER one. It's much nicer.
Chubby chicks ROCK!

MsAmber 

My Vintage Appliance(s)

This is my 1961 Frigidaire Flair Custom Imperial stove. My mother in law gave it to me when the burners and wiring started going bad. I brought it home and went through it with the schematics and fixed most everything. I still need the clock mechanism. But it's not an ordinary clock. No sir. It's got 4 connectors and it does a multitude of functions. The right oven has a plug-in meat thermometer. You can set the oven to shut off when the internal temperature of a roast (or whatever) reaches 180. You can tell the oven to turn itself on at 4:00 and cook for up to 4 hours.
The large, right front burner has a thermostat in it. For precise temperatures. Wanna make pancakes at 325, or hashed browns at 400?
The left front burner is a speed heat burner, for the tea kettle, the rear burners are normal. There is a fluorescent light over the stove area, and two bulbs in the ovens. The ovens, due to their stainless steel interiors, cook like convection ovens, they run a little hot.


When you are done cooking, you simply close the drawer and the burners go away. The stove sits on it's original pedestal. There is no rust, no funky smells. This stove is really my pride and joy. I like to put something in my aluminum pressure cooker and cook on the stove. It gives you a warm fuzzy.

Another little interesting note. 1961 Frigidaire was owned by General Motors.

This stove had a lot of features that were simply unheard of at the time. They marketed this to the new working woman as a time-saving device. Kinda like a personal chef/robot thing.






Well, I figure since I introduced you to my stove, you might want to meet my microwave too. This is a 15th century microwave, complete with a 'defrost' mode. No turntable, nope. Back in my day we had to turn the food ourselves. A simple burrito could be scalding hot and frozen at the SAME TIME. Yeah, truly.
This is a family heirloom, I will be leaving it to some lucky heir someday. With the matching dishwasher. It's from like 1492, and you still had to wash the dishes by hand first, BEFORE you put them in the dishwasher. But the timesaving part of it is that you don't have to hand-dry them anymore.

I'm SUCH an old-fashioned kinda gal.
(sigh)

Moping from a bad day

Nobody likes my hat. I think it's cute. It's like a knitted straw hat. It's old-fashioned, but I can put all my hair up in it, without worrying about it falling back out.

And yes, I garden in a skirt. It's my way of being in touch with nature... I like stirring the dirt with my bare hands. No gloves for me. Oklahoma isn't exactly known for it's soil quality, so I have started a compost. I traded a pickup load of willow branches and grass clippings for a pickup load of well mixed and partially rotten compost.

I know I'm rambling, but I had such an awful day at work today, and I'm finding it hard to write anything upbeat. I cruised through my Picasa gallery and saw this picture. It called to me. Share me. Share me.

When this picture was taken, I was planting Sunflowers. I hosted the first annual sunflower contest. I planted over 150 sunflower seeds all around the inside of the 8' stockade fence. I dug each spot out and planted them in compost AND cow manure. Then all the neighborhood children and adult friends alike, made little wooden plaques with their flower's name. There was: Calliope, Beauty, Harjos, Kandelyn, Grace, MsAmber, NormanKnight, the Dorks, the Nerds, Danielle & Danny, Mustangs, and others which I cannot remember just now.

The sunflowers grew to enormous heights, some were over 10 feet tall. I had a bumper harvest of sunflower seeds. It was magnificent. I live on a corner lot, so I have a lot of fence facing the street. People would slow down and point as they drove by. When we harvested, I soaked and toasted about 20 heads, I gave about 20 more away, and I shucked and fed the rest to the birds. It was a very successful competition. I watered every day that I could, and I made everyone weed their own little plots.

I'm not kidding when I say that it was really something.
Maybe I'll dig those pictures up next and make another page for my site. The great sunflower contest.
Yeah, that's what I'll do. TTFN
MsAmber
www.wildernessgirl.com 

To help increase the Dork factor

Apparently I haven't proven my dorkiness to SOME people. So, here is my post to show the world what a DORK! I confess to be.

I hereby certify and allege that I am the dorkiest nerd person on the planet.
I don't brush my hair. (often enough, because it hurts)
I don't match my clothes.
I paint everything.
I spend 'way too much time on webpages and blogging.
I get excited when I steal somebody's cool code, and make it my own.
I get excited when I successfully eliminate a pesky virus from the registries of a computer.
I like crawling through ceilings and poking around in crawlspaces. Especially if it's an old, downtown building.
My two favorite comic-strips which I check every day are: Helen-Sweetheart of the Internet, and Calvin-and-Hobbes. I also like "Rhymes with Orange" but she doesn't update a lot.
I hate fluorescent lighting, and I install lamps around my office so I don't have to turn on the overhead. (It has become a trend)

See! There! You happy now?

MsAmber
www.wildernessgirl.com

Sharing a Mike Oldfield video

This is an older video with the computer aided graphics. It's one of my favorite videos ever. Be sure and turn up the volume.

Video from Normanknight.com (Source)

My most recent piece of art

Whilst I was browsing, saw a picture of a stained glass lion that I liked. So I decided to make one for myself. I drew this freehand on my sliding glass door. I found glass paints at the craft store (Michaels). I drew this freehand and painted it with gold, yellow, tan, green, pearl and clear holographic. This paint is really fun to work with. If you mess up, just let it dry and peel it off. It dries like clear rubber. I painted a yellow rose in the upper left corner. I next intend to put a coat-of-arms on the door below the lion.



I think I'll save the rest for my webpage. I have other pictures of work I've done.
I'm not an artist, I'm just restless.

MsAmber
www.wildernessgirl.com 

Meddling in World Affairs

Artist Peter Adams eases out from underneath his artwork called 'A Star Bangled Spanner' after installing it on a cliff near Bondi Beach in Sydney November 1, 2005. Adams says his artwork, made of timber, fibreglass, resin, steel and wood, represents the United States' meddling in world affairs, causing unrest to continue, like a 'spanner in the works'. The work is one of over over 100 exhibits from Australian and international artists participating in the annual 'Sculpture by the Sea' event which is in its ninth year.


Wow. A Star Bangled Spanner. I want one. Actually, I find this piece of artwork rather amusing. It can't be helped that the artist is Australian. It would be funnier if it were sitting at say, ground zero.

Oh public opinion,
what a fickle friend.
It paints you into a corner,
and bites you in the (rear) end.

Does anyone remember anything heroic or noble about Australia's contribution to the world other than Crocodile Dundee?
...Just asking, jeez.

MsAmber 

"Zen And The Art Of Motorcycle Maintenance" by Robert M. Pirsig

I recently expressed my opinion to an author regarding his work and in the course of that, I compared his writing to Robert M. Pirsig - the author of "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance". I said that I didn't like it, and that it took three attempts to read and get to the end. I feel that I need to expand on my opinion, in case anyone cares to debate.
"Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" is a dry telling of the life of a man who is recovering from a mental breakdown. Our hero is on a motorcycle trip across the U.S. with his son. This being a good opportunity to reconnect. He spends a lot of time in deep thought, trying to find the definition of 'quality'. Meanwhile, he seems annoyed by his young son. The man USED to be a professor, a scientist, and yada yada yada. Because of this book, I now know the definition of "Chautauqua".
The hardest obstacle to getting through this book is the detached way of the storyteller. Mr. Pirsig almost moves the focus to the front, but then backs away when it touches an emotion.
I also think the book would have been better if he had made his real-time storyline a little more vivid. If the memories are being remembered a little detachedly, then the current scene should be COLD!, or PRICKLY!, or ORANGE!.
Or possibly the other way around. Have our hero perceive his son from a distance, be numb to the motorcycle journey, and then describe the memories as a tangible reality.
These ideas may have made this book a little more real to me.
However...
I did enjoy Robert M. Pirsig's other book - "Lila, An Inquiry into Morals". This book is completely worth reading. The main character is scarily naiive, and Lila is a pure example of a broken person. It is one of those stories that you will never forget.
One more thing.
Everyone who recommended "Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance" must not have read the whole thing. The author is really proud of his obsolete, ten-letter words. If I can't force myself to get through a book, I know most of you can't. I had to read it with a dictionary, and I know a lot of words. (I may not USE them, but I know them.)
This is my opinion. Got one of your own?
MsAmber

Faith and Theology: Privileged westerners and the call of Jesus

While looking for theologians to inquire about the acceptability of Christmas, I found this article.
My initial response is that this is too rigid, too hardcore. I call this zealotry. Maybe people would call me a zealot for proposing a cancellation of gift-giving during Christmas.

I want to apply truths to my actions. I cannot participate in the wrongness of Christmas, but I'm not willing to give up everything for my faith, either.

Am I straddling the fence? I believe that Christianity is too "easy". It offers salvation to the lazy and the ignorant; comfortable in their complacency and having no desire to change or improve.

If, on a basic level, salvation is meant as a way of clearing your conscience of guilt for sin - I would rather be under the old law, that of punishment and responsibility, than to be granted *poof* redemption.

I don't believe that God would reject me as His daughter after all we've been through together, simply because I do not understand or accept the New Covenant. Maybe He hasn't explained it well enough. If a student gets an 'F' in a class, after giving it her all, and studying very hard. Isn't it ultimately the teacher's fault?

Introducing MsAmber

This is a picture of Me.
I am an action figure.
I can do anything I set my mind to.
I am a Scorpion and a Dog.
I am strong, comforting, faithful and loyal.
I am kind, generous, and of good character.
I am hardworking, fallible, and optimistic.
I am smart, creative, funny, and curious.

I am changing.
I am a free thinker.
I am MsAmber.


So this doesn't fit in a recognised standard for prose, but it's my poem.

I feel different. I mean, I FEEL like I'm detached from the rest of the world. I keep saying, as an overused expletive, that "I want off this planet". I have come to think of these issues as my reasons:
1. Wouldn't Jesus be angry if he saw the profiteering in the name of his birthday? If I recall: He overturned the money changer's tables in the temple.
2. What about a television show named "Sex and the City" being advertised between cartoons on Saturday morning? Not to mention feminine hygiene products. How inappropriate!
3. Isn't the feminine issue regarding the toilet seat being put down just reverse sexism? I think we should ALL watch out where we sit. I would rather it be left up all the time, so I can put down a clean seat when I wish to go. After all: we are responsible for our own wet a$$e$.
4. Teen rights. I think teenagers should have the right to be wherever they want to be. Skateboarding on the capital steps? Sure. Getting lawful employment at 15? Absolutely. Just like any other citizen. They should be able to speak to a judge regarding infringements on their personal rights- by their parents, teachers, or other authoritative persons.

Do you have an opinion on any of the above? Fire away.