You're used to them by now, right?
You've come to expect them.
Actually, you've even grown fond of them, and you'd be disappointed if I were to start writing long, cohesive, essay-like blog entries. "This is a fine treatise on the role of technology in the modern home, but. . . where are the snippets?" you'd whisper tremulously, your eyes widening in disbelief. Because you love snippets. You're not sure why, but somehow they simply make you happy. Deep down inside, where it really counts.
. . . Right?
Just pretend, and eventually it'll be true.
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I hate to admit it, considering some of the things I've written before, but after reading a recent Cake Wrecks entry, which included a link to this story, I wonder if maybe (in some very rare cases) there should be someone keeping an eye on the naming of American children. . . (I still can't support the idea of every name being subject to some agency's approval, though. Surely there are other methods of addressing this kind of problem, rather than giving the government even more control of our lives.)
What a sickening pair of parents! So many people simply shouldn't be trusted with the care of children, and this is a prime example of that fact.
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My parents discovered yesterday that their house is now visible through Google Map's Street View feature. And not only is my paternal grandparents' home visible, but you can also see my grandfather and his dog out in their front yard! (g)
As for our house, our mailbox and the spot where the easement meets the road are there, but they didn't go down our little dirt road. And for some reason, they're missing a tiny bit of the main road, so you can only catch a distant glimpse of my maternal grandparents' home.
I still think it's a little weird, seeing familiar places (and pets! and people!) on these maps. . .
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Ready for another instance of technology being a little creepy?
Last night Donald shopped around for tickets to and from Sweden (to attend his grandmother's funeral and visit a while with his family). Then this morning, while reading some random blog, I was stunned to see an Orbitz ad with a clickable link for flights from Mobile to Gothenburg. Obviously, this ad was based on his searches, but. . . is it just me, or isn't that kind of creepy?
I'm just silly, probably, but I don't quite like it, though I suspect it's a trend in online advertising.
It's one thing for Amazon to keep track of what I search for and put related goods on "my" version of their homepage. I'm used to that kind of thing within a single website, but once I leave that page, I don't expect them to keep following me around with personalized ads (beyond e-mail, of course).
This is like. . . Imagine browsing the books in a ("real life" brick-and-mortar) shop, only to be accosted on the street (the next day!) by some stranger with an assortment of related titles. "Hey! I saw you were looking at books about American Eskimo Dogs the other day. Have you ever read Eskies and the Women Who Love Them? Or how about Take the Pesky Out of Your Eskie? I recommend that one particularly, because I also saw on your blog the other day that you were complaining about your puppy destroying socks. . ."
Well. Maybe it's not that extreme. Still a strange sensation, though.
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Ha! I just read that "Sugar" from Survivor: Gabon (Yes, I watch Survivor. You wanna make something of it? ;o)) is actually an actress. As opposed to, you know, your friendly neighborhood "pin-up girl". (I know, I know. What can I say? This show is one of my guilty pleasures. Much of what's available on TV these days qualifies as a guilty pleasure!) She was even in a few episodes of Gilmore Girls! I don't know why I'm surprised, but I am. . . Oh, reality TV, you're so not reality.
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The weather here is unseasonably warm. On the other hand, it's very quiet outside. I hadn't thought about it until I watched a bit of video we shot in September (I think). The sound of insects humming was so loud! During the summer, the humming, chirping, and buzzing never seems to cease, but by mid-December, the insect noise is greatly reduced, and I'd forgotten all about it. It doesn't take long, does it?
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Better call that done. . .
