Computer Coding is a Foreign Language and I am Hopelessly Unilingual.

Welcome to today's installment of "Self-Flagellation" or "How Computer Coding has Turned Me Into a Sado/Masochist Who Could Grind Christian Grey Into Chalk Dust". 

It has been a stress-free ten days since my learned tutor and I sat down for a lesson. Various other pursuits have kept us from our appointed task and I must admit that there is a certain measure of satisfaction that comes with procrastination, especially when the task one is delaying has the ability to send one shaking and screaming from night terrors and awakening at 3:00 am in a pool of one's own sweat and drool. The only problem with such an ardent pursuit of postponement and deferment is that my middle-aged, swiss-cheesed gray matter can't retain any amount of information longer than the time it takes to watch the average beer commercial. So when I innocently asked about moving some elements around the page on my dummy (yes... I am well aware of the irony of that term) page,  The Husband looked me square in the eye this morning and said in astounding seriousness that "You already know how to do that". I gazed back at him with an expression that I am certain imitated the face of a gorilla on Prozac. Square one...here we come.

This morning, this article was on page one of the Miami Herald, right beneath the article of the Super Bowl defeat from hell. Seriously. Is there anybody outside of New England who doesn't believe that Tom Brady has sold his soul to the devil and will be languishing in the bowels of Hades alongside Donald Trump for eternity? But once again, I procrastinate and digress.

So...this article...on page one.

I will not debate the merits or inherent stupidity of this proposal, (other than saying that it is incredibly Floridian and that both skills are necessary for students in the 21st century) but I will say that after enduring a mere four lessons in coding, it is fundamentally apparent to this moronic student that coding is most definitely a foreign language and the ability to master it lies in continual and constant practice. You simply cannot become fluent in any language if all you manage to utter are hello, goodbye, and peace. Great thanks to the Divine Spirit for making Hebrew simple enough to use a single word for all three. Coding is very different, very comprehensive, very complicated, and very very very confusing.

I asked The Husband for his opinion on how he thought my web page should look. I very much value his opinion on design and I was kind of silently hoping that he might just take pity on me and simply redesign the whole fucking thing himself without the stress of imparting this coding bullshit to me. I asked him at one point, how he managed to learn all of these different computer languages that he so effortlessly uses, and he replied without a hint of glibness that  "I just woke up one morning and they were all there." The really crazy part of that statement is that I believe both of us think it is actually possible. 

I decided that I would like for the front page of the site to be the most recent blog posts so that when you all open up the URL for Dawn Ponders, the posts are the first things you see. After determining that we actually couldn't accomplish such a thing using HTML alone, The Husband very gently explained to me that we would now be diverting our attention to "real" programming as if what we had been doing before was a kind of an ersatz mess. He had this look in his eye that said "Don't worry, honey. You won't feel a thing as I push you out of the plane. It's the landing that's the real bitch."

(By the way....there is a nauseated churning that occurs within the pit of your stomach when your teacher takes your computer, spends ten minutes surfing Javascript sites to figure out why he can't solve a basic problem that he wants to convey to you, swears vociferously that it doesn't work and he doesn't know why, and then says...let's try this instead. That feeling of security is EVERYTHING!)

And so we are now in the world of JavaScript working in less than perfect synchronization with HTML. It's kind of like asking "Where's the bathroom" in Spanish and being directed to the bank in Italian. 

Here's what we managed to do.

And here are the results of over an hour's worth of laborious coding. 

See the little "Hello Dawn" under the Home tab? 

Yup. 

That's it. Aren't you all so very proud of me?

At this rate, I might have a new site online in time for the celebration of Canada 175...if we both manage to live that long. 

One last note. Take an expanded look at the coding photograph.

Go on.

Blow it up.

I'll wait.

Are you there? 

Now, look at the very bottom of the screen in the extreme right-hand corner. Do you see that tiny blue icon?

IT'S A FUCKING SQUIRREL!!!!!

They have invaded every part of my life and are determined to haunt me until the end of days.

My Friday "Think-Fest"

A few more random thoughts from an obviously cluttered mind.

• For the first time in a very long while, I am feeling my age. That's what a week filled with doctor's appointments, pharmacy runs, funerals, shivas, and a winding down summer will do to a person. But all of that doesn't come close to the experience of having a complete stranger compliment your canine companion on his shiny hair. What's the matter? I'm not lovely?
• We are slowly recovering from the f***ing squirrel damage (see previous post) only to discover that now there is a very bold juvenile raccoon using our backyard beds as his own personal loo. Yesterday he was sitting by the edge of the pool until The Husband turned the hose on him, and this morning he was hanging out on the deck thumbing his nose at us in a very "nya nya you can't catch me" fashion. I've said it before and I will say it again...the critters will not be satisfied until they have complete domination of the house.
• The first week of campaigning is almost in the books for this interminable federal election and I have come to the conclusion that all in all I'd rather watch the Blue Jays. 
• Still more about the fiction-fest deigning to call itself a national conversation. I had an interesting discussion with friends last weekend about this campaign whereupon I challenged them to find me one single Canadian, other than the candidates themselves or their families, who are actually voting based on those running in individual ridings rather than the party leaders. If you ask anybody who they are voting for, they will most assuredly say "Harper, Trudeau, or Mulcair." Case in point? I still don't know who the Liberal or NDP contenders are in my riding, and I am a tuned-in voter. Try it. See if you don't get the same response. This election is most certainly a referendum on Mr. Harper and his policies. The riding candidates simply do not matter one whit.
• One of the more ridiculous campaign promises that has been floated by the opposition leaders is the resumption of home-delivery by Canada Post. (Ridiculous because it will never happen no matter who is elected.) As a homeowner who will soon be losing my long-cherished at the door service to an impersonal super mailbox, I can honestly say...yawn. We haven't received a single piece of relevant mail all week. The box has instead been cluttered with dental ads, real estate notices, handbills for shetyl enhancement, car detailing flyers, and a yellow pages. (Yup..they still waste paper on such things.) Who needs a postal service that basically has as its mandate to deliver junk? Worse still is the crap that is finding its way into the mail simply because Canada Post needs to feed the beast. In the immortal words of Queen Elsa, I say "Let it Go". The postal service is of a bygone era. Let's move on and spend our money more wisely.
• I watched about 1/2 an hour of the GOP debate last night before I was physically unable to handle it. There is something about the circus that has always made me queasy. Without delving too far into the politics, I am left wondering how a woman could seriously consider voting for any one of those guys. The misogyny on display was simply appalling.

And that (in a squirrel-sized nutshell) is the week that was.

GO JAYS!

Shabbat Shalom to all whom observe.

Squirrel Haters of the World, Unite!

I have said it before and I will howl it with my last gasping breath.....

SQUIRRELS ARE THE DEMON SPAWN!!!

They aren't cute. They aren't cuddly. They are in fact a protected urban menace who have wreaked havoc and untold amounts of damage upon every neighbourhood and civic centre in the western world. We here in the Great White North live under some misguided illusion that we are under attack from Raccoon Nation; midnight bandits who selfishly help themselves to our unsecured trash cans, when in fact our vigilance is misplaced and should be directed toward the bushy-tailed rodents whose mischief runs much deeper than mere rotting garbage.

I honestly didn't think it was possible to hate the little beasts more than I already did.

Over the years, I have regaled you all with stories of the trashing of our yard, the soiling of our pool, the destruction of our tree-line, the disfigurement of our fences, the holes in our roof, the eating away of our attic insulation, the ruination of our chimneys, the Squirrel Olympics that are run across the eaves outside of our bedroom window every morning at dawn, and the piece de resistance...finally coming face to face with one of the little bastards as he taunted us from our bedroom stairs last summer.

He just sat there.

He stared at me with those beady little squirrel eyes, and while I can't be certain of it, I am pretty sure he was giggling.

Yup.

Despite all of our precautions, the little assholes had finally made their way inside the house, and were absolutely planning a total squirrel domination. We could hear them partying inside the kitchen walls and ceiling and I could swear I heard one of them say the word RAVE.

That little incident was last summer, and while the mangy creeps were humanely removed to a squirrel witness protection program, (I would have hung the little bastards from the fence as a warning to his brethren) the lasting effects of their visit wouldn't be entirely understood until yesterday.

In November I told a story in this space of the massive waterfall that flowed into my kitchen when my wonderful cleaning lady had attempted to sanitize the upstairs bathroom. We closed off the room until we could ascertain the source of the leak. Knowing that the bathroom hadn't been renovated or repaired during the lifespan of the house, we reasonably concluded that the bathtub had rusted through and would need to be either repaired or replaced. Our Trusty Contractor confirmed our suspicions, and while we were not thrilled at the prospect of a bathroom renovation, we knew that this was a "must-do" overhaul if we ever wanted to sell this dump at a future date. After much hemming and hawing, we finally embarked upon the most basic of bathroom makeovers this week.

As Trusty Contractor removed the old cast-iron tub, he discovered that it was indeed rusted completely through. He was somewhat puzzled, however. He remarked that while the rusting would indeed account for some water flowing into the kitchen, it really didn't explain the torrents. But, he has seen a lot in his career, and anything is possible.

Yesterday he had a "Come to Jesus" moment and he couldn't wait to share it with us. The pipe that serves as the water outtake from the tub, was completely severed. He couldn't believe it. It was as if somebody had deliberately cut it in half. He told us that while it was possible it occurred during the kitchen renovations eight years prior, it didn't make much sense that nobody would have noticed it. And....we told him that while the tub hadn't been used since last November, it certainly had been functional up until eighteen months ago when Younger Son and His B'shert resided here.

It was left to The Husband to solve the mystery. Could the damage have possibly been caused by a.......SQUIRREL?

You be the judge.

Notice the chew marks? Yup...those are squirrel teeth.

Well...our previously simple bathroom repair will now require us cutting open the kitchen ceiling in order to replace this pipe, re-plastering the ceiling, and repainting it as well. These f***ing animals are costing us $$$$$$ totalling more than five figures.

Still think they're cute and fuzzy?

I am at the point of surrender. They want the house, that much is certain. Ok. They can have the house.

Just leave me my dignity.

Routine Is Not An Ugly Word

One of the many things that I had hoped to accomplish following my retirement was to dispense with daily schedules. I really wanted to let my life choices dictate the clock and the calendar, rather than allowing the clock and the calendar to dictate my life choices. I certainly didn't have any grand notions of existing within a "Freedom 55"  commercial at the still very youngish age of 52. Me sail away on a schooner? Yah...not with my motion sickness. Instead, I saw the the future as a giant tabula rasa that could only be limited by personal preferences.

Naïveté is a peculiar circumstance.

While it is true that part of my mind knows that there is nothing stopping me from staying in bed until late morning on occasion to luxuriously read the newspaper, another part screams obscenities at me if I laze around for too long. My reason says "Relax. Take your time.", while my body yells "Enough already you lazy arse. Get your shit together and let's get moving." And so it is that I find myself back into an early morning exercise regime. 

While I am comfortably ensconced in The Southern Home, the majority of that activity consists of a lengthy early morning walk, either around the neighbourhood or down on the beach. After all, we have all been told that sitting is the new smoking, and since I have never so much as taken a puff, I figure that I need to get some real value out of my $99.00 FitBit Flex. 

It's funny. Even though my schedule has become much more fluid and flexible, the world around me, both human and natural, obviously still adhere to theirs. During those walks, I have encountered the same school children waiting for their buses, the same landscapers going about their business, the same locals exercising their dogs, and the same customers at Starbucks purchasing their morning caffeine injections. That's normal and to be expected. What was gloriously unexpected was my encountering of the same wildlife, in the same locations, doing exactly the same things every single morning. There is the squirrel in the park who actually responds to my mother's call and expectantly waits for bits to be dropped. (I won't allow her to give in to her better urges simply because he is a squirrel and I consider his northern cousins to be mortal enemies.) There is the large orange iguana who has taken up residence with his family in the mangrove trees abutting the Intracostal near our home. But I am most totally engaged with these White Ibises who cross my path daily.

As you can see, they are unfazed by human involvement and they are just quietly going about their morning routine, which usually consists of breakfast and crossing the street. Note to self: Resist urge to tell Ibis crossing the street joke.

They are awkward looking creatures who are as ubiquitous down here as sparrows are up north, but there is something about their patterns that has me mesmerized. I see them every single morning on my walk, and then miraculously, every single evening at dusk, an entire flock (I'd like to think it is the same birds) flies in perfect formation low in the sky right in front of my balcony. I could swear that they are dipping their wings in a familiar salute to me as they pass. (I have tried on several occasions to grab a photo or video clip, but they simply move too quickly and I am simply not that great a photographer.) I know it seems crazy, but it feels like my own remarkable interspecies moment. I have actually taken to parking myself on the balcony for an hour or so before dusk waiting for my friends to arrive. It is a magical moment that I now joyfully anticipate.

Yesterday as I watched my new friends perform their evening ritual, it struck me that schedules aren't the evil notions that I had made them out to be. Rather, it is how and what we choose to fill them with that truly matters. So far, mine doesn't suck.

Squirrel Olympics 2013

My battle with the urban pest known as Sciuridae or the common tree squirrel is well documented. Previous postings can be found here, here, here, and here. If it seems like I have become a bit obsessed, it's ok. I can live with that. Some people have issues with spiders or snakes. Me? I simply want to rid the world of the pestilence that these rats with pretty tails have become.

The thing is, I think they know how much I truly loathe them. It isn't as though I have physically harmed them in any way, shape, or form (yet!) but trust me...they know. They are insidious that way. Those beady little squirrel eyes see all. I do believe that they are starting to concoct new methods of taunting me. I swear by all that is holy that I saw two of them the other day with their thumbs planted squarely in their ears as they mocked me with the squirrel version of "nya nya nya nya nya". 

Lately, they have devised something even more diabolical. I think that our property has become the training grounds for the 2013 Squirrel Olympics. (Host city to be determined at a later date.) Squirrels of all shapes, sizes, and colours have been leaping, jumping, diving, and running around our property as if going for the gold was the only purpose in their miserable little squirrel lives.

The mayhem begins promptly at daybreak. Two or three of the creatures have been using the newly screened-in eaves troughs that are mounted directly beneath our bedroom window as their personal practice track for the 100 metre squirrel dash. I hear them scurrying by and squealing with delight as they talk squirrel trash to those who bring up the rear. The morning exercises continue until all members of the team have had their opportunity to break in the new raceway. (A friend has helpfully suggested that we should set up tiny little metal barriers so that they might prepare for the 110 metre hurdles as well. My friends are so very sympathetic to my plight.) I have even taken to timing the little rat-bastards, and to their credit they are improving. It used to take a good two minutes to complete the morning ritual, but they are now down to about a minute and half.

And as if that weren't enough, I have witnessed rehearsals for gymnastics events whereby the little brutes are swinging from the high and uneven bars (depending on the sex of the squirrel, of course) using the tallest tree limbs, all whilst preparing death-defying dismounts filled with twists, somersaults, and backflips. Yesterday I saw a black squirrel dive off of the roof with his eyes fixed firmly on the swimming pool cover. Greg Louganis he wasn't. The dive itself wasn't bad, but I had to deduct two tenths of a point because he didn't quite stick the landing. Honestly, I think that the first freeze might bring out a few squirrel lugers cascading from the downspout.

Please help me. I am going....dare I say it....squirrely!! I just want some peace. If I promise to become a corporate sponsor and offer up all the acorns from my oaks to your cause, can we please take the Squirrel Games to somebody else's home? My sanity is depending upon it.