So most of us are undergoing probably one of the most stressful years in recent history. There's the COVID pandemic, the ensuing economic downturn, and major protests going on. It's like the 1918 pandemic meets the beginnings of the Great Depression meets 1968.
Seriously, I think most of us will be glad to give new meaning to the phrase Hindsight is 20/20.
This morning, while looking over Facebook, a friend (a professor who teaches journalism at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg) mentioned dealing with a phone call/telemarketer, managing to get the person to hopefully never call again.
I responded by posting how I've dealt with scammers by posting a link to this blog from 2013.
This got me thinking about a call I got years ago when I got to really have fun with the scammers.
I've known Candy (not her real name) for y-e-a-r-s. One afternoon, she called me on my cell phone, panicking.
"I just got a call from the IRS. The recording said that they've got a warrant for me, and to call them back. They left a phone number."
I assured her that it was a scam.
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, definitely."
About this time, my home phone rang, and darned if I didn't get the same stupid recording!
"You won't believe this, but I just got the same call."
"Wow, what are the odds?"
At that point, I decided to show Candy how to deal with these scammers. "I'm going to call the number, and put the home phone on speaker phone so you can hear."
"Okay."
At that point, I dialed punched in a couple of numbers to mask my home phone number, then the phone number the recording wanted me to call. When the heavily accented person answered, claiming to be "John Smith," the first thing he asked was for my number. The conversation went (approximately) as follows:
Me: Sorry, I can't give that out, but I can give you my name.
John: Okay. Last name first.
Me: Patel. (Not my real last name, but that's part of the charm.)
John: Okay. First name?
Me: Skittles (yes, like the candy).
John: Can you spell that?
At that point, I spelled it for him.
John: I found it! You owe the IRS $5,000! Now, your address, please?
I gave him the address to the local post office, along with a 6-digit P.O. box. (The local post office only has 4-digit p.o. boxes, so I figured I was safe.)
John: Okay, we do have the police enroute to arrest you, as we speak.
Me: How can we fix this so I don't get arrested?
John: I am authorized to help you in this situation...
At this point, he said that if I'd pick up $1000 of gift cards...
I kept the ruse going for several more minutes before finally admitting that Skittles Patel was not my real name. I did mention that my next-door neighbor was a high-ranking IRS agent at the local office, that my father was a high ranking official with the Tampa Bay office of the FBI, my brother, who was sitting right next to me, worked for the Secret Service (all three of which were not true, but considering I was dealing with a bold-voiced scammer, I figured all bets were off - in real life, I'd never b.s. like this), and, oh, by the way, in about two minutes, there'd be approximately 15-20 large sedans pulling up to the building the scammer was calling from, each sedan with 3-4 federal agents, all ready to arrest everyone in his office.
There was an ever-so-slight pause before I heard John call out (not into the phone, but to his coworkers), "Code Black, Code Black, Code Black! Everyone vacate the premises now!" Then the line went dead.
By now, Candy was laughing hard; it took her a minute to catch her breath.
"I never would've thought of doing that!" she gasped.
"Still think that the IRS is after you?"
"No," was her answer.
While we then went on to talk about other things - her family, my family, life in general - I hope this helped you in three ways: (1) I hope you realize that this is not how the IRS would contact you (they'd do it by mail on official IRS stationary); (2) you can either ignore the scammers or give 'em the grief they deserve; and (3) you've at least gotten to laugh...which is a good thing during these trying times.
Showing posts with label USFSP. Show all posts
Showing posts with label USFSP. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 7, 2020
Saturday, May 28, 2016
Teachers Can Make an Impact
Recently, I overheard several people talking about their favorite teachers. Mind you, these were no kids in school, nor were they of traditional fresh-out-of-high-school college-aged people. These were people who appeared to be in their 40s and beyond. Add to that the occasional TV commercial featuring famous people mentioning people who made a difference in their lives - including teachers - and the fact that the school-year is winding down all got me thinking about teachers who really made a difference in my life.
My mom was a teacher for a number of years, first in Connecticut and New York (state, not city), then in Florida. It's because of Mom (as well as a B.A. journalism) that makes me such a stickler about grammar. But Mom was there decades before I ended up working towards my journalism degree. Blame my mom if you see me trying not to strangle someone who's talking about "John and me went to the store."
But my first non-parental teacher who made a really big impression on me was my sixth grade teacher at Crompond Elementary School in Yorktown, New York. When I was there, the school went from kindergarten through sixth grade. Robert Schattales was the sixth grade teacher most kids wanted to have. His wife taught fourth grade in another school. (I've probably spelled his last name wrong; I graduated there in 1965, which is definitely showing my age.) I doubt that either are still alive. But here's what he did for his students: He cared. He listened. And every couple of weeks, he and his wife would have three or four students a piece from their classes over for dinner, which turned out to be almost a party. Both teachers, and six to eight kids. And it wasn't just the popular kids; every student got a turn to go for dinner at their house.
Then, there was high school. I went to four different high schools, due to several moves. But the teachers at Putnam Catholic Academy (PCA) in Putnam, Connecticut - most of whom were nuns - were great. One of the non-nun teachers, John Huckle, taught math my sophomore year there; he made math fun!
Years later, after a move to Florida, I attended St. Petersburg College (SPC) (though when I started, it was St. Petersburg Junior College). My favorite teacher there taught Composition I and II. Martha Denny loved my writing; she was one of the first people outside of my family (and outside of PCA) who encouraged it. Thank you, Mrs. Denny!
There were other outstanding professors during my time at SPC: William Nixon, Star Weihe, and Thomas King (all in the natural science department), William Rice in the math department, and Bonnie Jefferis and Dean Kohrs, who taught the intro classes to mass communication.
Finally, at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg (USFSP), there are several professors who really influenced me in a positive way. Without getting into all the whys, they are: Ken Minor (who taught writing), Deni Elliot, Tony Silvia, Beth Reynolds, and Bob Dardenne (all in the Mass Comm department), Thomas Hallock (Arts & Sciences), and Gary Mormino (Uncle/Father Gary) and Ray Arsenault; the latter two built USFSP's Florida Studies program.
Teachers can make or break his or her students' academics. Here's to all the good ones out there! You surely don't get paid enough!
My mom was a teacher for a number of years, first in Connecticut and New York (state, not city), then in Florida. It's because of Mom (as well as a B.A. journalism) that makes me such a stickler about grammar. But Mom was there decades before I ended up working towards my journalism degree. Blame my mom if you see me trying not to strangle someone who's talking about "John and me went to the store."
But my first non-parental teacher who made a really big impression on me was my sixth grade teacher at Crompond Elementary School in Yorktown, New York. When I was there, the school went from kindergarten through sixth grade. Robert Schattales was the sixth grade teacher most kids wanted to have. His wife taught fourth grade in another school. (I've probably spelled his last name wrong; I graduated there in 1965, which is definitely showing my age.) I doubt that either are still alive. But here's what he did for his students: He cared. He listened. And every couple of weeks, he and his wife would have three or four students a piece from their classes over for dinner, which turned out to be almost a party. Both teachers, and six to eight kids. And it wasn't just the popular kids; every student got a turn to go for dinner at their house.
Then, there was high school. I went to four different high schools, due to several moves. But the teachers at Putnam Catholic Academy (PCA) in Putnam, Connecticut - most of whom were nuns - were great. One of the non-nun teachers, John Huckle, taught math my sophomore year there; he made math fun!
Years later, after a move to Florida, I attended St. Petersburg College (SPC) (though when I started, it was St. Petersburg Junior College). My favorite teacher there taught Composition I and II. Martha Denny loved my writing; she was one of the first people outside of my family (and outside of PCA) who encouraged it. Thank you, Mrs. Denny!
There were other outstanding professors during my time at SPC: William Nixon, Star Weihe, and Thomas King (all in the natural science department), William Rice in the math department, and Bonnie Jefferis and Dean Kohrs, who taught the intro classes to mass communication.
Finally, at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg (USFSP), there are several professors who really influenced me in a positive way. Without getting into all the whys, they are: Ken Minor (who taught writing), Deni Elliot, Tony Silvia, Beth Reynolds, and Bob Dardenne (all in the Mass Comm department), Thomas Hallock (Arts & Sciences), and Gary Mormino (Uncle/Father Gary) and Ray Arsenault; the latter two built USFSP's Florida Studies program.
Teachers can make or break his or her students' academics. Here's to all the good ones out there! You surely don't get paid enough!
Saturday, October 24, 2015
October Can Be a Little Tricky...
October has been a little rough the past few years.
Mind you, it hasn't been that way. But if you've read most of the posts in this blog, one from exactly three years ago (October 24, 2012; "Octobers Haven't Always Been Rough..."), you might remember that Octobers have been a little dicey over the past few years.
I still like October, for the most part: My birthday falls in October, as does Halloween; the weather starts to cool off a little (even in Florida - or maybe it just feels that way, since the heavy humidity of summer is gone); the holidays are right around the corner. Also, the local Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure happens at the beginning of the month, which is almost always a positive event, held with a party-ish flair. Good stuff.
But then there's the flip side: Nine years ago today, my late husband died. He's thought he'd never marry again after losing his previous wife to breast cancer. (This partly figures into why I started walking/running the first year the Tampa Bay Race for the Cure was held; that year, it was in April, with the subsequent races being held in October. Also, my dad - yes, my dad - was a breast cancer survivor, later losing his life to prostate cancer.) I had also sworn that I'd never get married. As I used to tell Kevin the cabbie, "If Mr. Right ever shows up, he'll have a heck of a time getting my attention!"
But when I first met Paul, I had a strange feeling we'd be seeing a lot more of each other. We married a little more than two years later. And then he died. We'd been married 3 weeks shy of our ninth anniversary. October 3 of this year, I'd officially been widowed exactly as long as we'd been married. That kind-of does a slight number on one's equilibrium.
Paul at Sawgrass Lake Park
So I took this month one day at a time. It was still a bit of a roller coaster month. On the third, my daughter, M.H., drove me to do the Race for the Cure. This year, it was held at night - not the best time of day for me (my night vision isn't the best). It was the first race since having a fairly major medical issue this past spring. On the way there, M.H. stated that she'd wait for me. Then, seeing the festivities, she decided to participate; I think she enjoyed it as much as I did, even if I did run out of steam before we crossed the finish line.
The next day, we went to Pinot's Palette in St. Petersburg (Fla). That day's class was a bit Van Gogh, with the Tardis from Dr. Who. Several hours later, we left with our paintings. Did we have a good time? Ooooh, yeah. Very relaxing, a lot of fun, and something to add a little color to our walls.
Today, we went drove to the University of South Florida St. Pete (USFSP), where the Tampa Bay Times Festival of Reading was being held. Only stayed for a little while, took some photos (which will be posted later), then came home. It was a much needed break and diversion.
One more week until October is over - along with passing out candy on Halloween. It may be do-able.
Mind you, it hasn't been that way. But if you've read most of the posts in this blog, one from exactly three years ago (October 24, 2012; "Octobers Haven't Always Been Rough..."), you might remember that Octobers have been a little dicey over the past few years.
I still like October, for the most part: My birthday falls in October, as does Halloween; the weather starts to cool off a little (even in Florida - or maybe it just feels that way, since the heavy humidity of summer is gone); the holidays are right around the corner. Also, the local Susan G. Komen Race for the Cure happens at the beginning of the month, which is almost always a positive event, held with a party-ish flair. Good stuff.
But then there's the flip side: Nine years ago today, my late husband died. He's thought he'd never marry again after losing his previous wife to breast cancer. (This partly figures into why I started walking/running the first year the Tampa Bay Race for the Cure was held; that year, it was in April, with the subsequent races being held in October. Also, my dad - yes, my dad - was a breast cancer survivor, later losing his life to prostate cancer.) I had also sworn that I'd never get married. As I used to tell Kevin the cabbie, "If Mr. Right ever shows up, he'll have a heck of a time getting my attention!"
But when I first met Paul, I had a strange feeling we'd be seeing a lot more of each other. We married a little more than two years later. And then he died. We'd been married 3 weeks shy of our ninth anniversary. October 3 of this year, I'd officially been widowed exactly as long as we'd been married. That kind-of does a slight number on one's equilibrium.
Paul at Sawgrass Lake Park
So I took this month one day at a time. It was still a bit of a roller coaster month. On the third, my daughter, M.H., drove me to do the Race for the Cure. This year, it was held at night - not the best time of day for me (my night vision isn't the best). It was the first race since having a fairly major medical issue this past spring. On the way there, M.H. stated that she'd wait for me. Then, seeing the festivities, she decided to participate; I think she enjoyed it as much as I did, even if I did run out of steam before we crossed the finish line.
The next day, we went to Pinot's Palette in St. Petersburg (Fla). That day's class was a bit Van Gogh, with the Tardis from Dr. Who. Several hours later, we left with our paintings. Did we have a good time? Ooooh, yeah. Very relaxing, a lot of fun, and something to add a little color to our walls.
Today, we went drove to the University of South Florida St. Pete (USFSP), where the Tampa Bay Times Festival of Reading was being held. Only stayed for a little while, took some photos (which will be posted later), then came home. It was a much needed break and diversion.
One more week until October is over - along with passing out candy on Halloween. It may be do-able.
Sunday, May 19, 2013
Film At 11...Or Maybe Next Week
I've been using my film camera a lot more, lately. I love film, for many reasons, not the least being that that's what I grew up using. Granted, it wasn't always with a 35 mm SLR camera. There were a couple of Instamatics, possibly a Brownie (wow, am I dating myself!), a disposable camera or two...
Finally, though, I had access to a decent camera: my other half bought a Minolta 35mm SLR. Once he figured out how to use it, then showed me how to change film, focus, and all that fun stuff, it was frequently a toss-up as to who got to take what, photo-wise. Some things were his to photograph, as I had no interest in them; but then, I'm sure he wondered about some of my interests, photograpically and otherwise.
Fast forward to recently: I now own several cameras, all Canons. I have nothing against other brands; it's just easier to stick with one brand, so that when one buys accessories - lenses, for example - there's a better chance of it fitting multiple camers of the same brand. But that's beside the point. I have a 35mm SLR and a DSLR, both Canons. I like the film camera for sentimental reasons, while I like the digital for the fact that I don't have to develop film...just shoot, plug it into the computer, and then photoshop away.
A little over a week ago, my friend Boo invited me to come along to take some photos of St. Petersburg's monthly art walk. I only had access to my film camera, so I brought that along. Would have preferred to bring the digital camera, but there are times when we have to work with what we have. In retrospect, the digital camera would have been sooo much better...For starters, I only had a few rolls of film, so I had to pick and choose what to photograph. Also, while a few of the photos came out fairly well, the darker it got, the grainier the photos turned out. Then, there was the whole developing problem of...developing.
Several years ago, during my final year as an undergrad, I took photojournalim I and II at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg. At the time, I only had a film SLR, so I worked with that. Never had any problem getting film developed, then put on a CD. Made it a lot cheaper than printing all the photos on every roll, especially since I wouldn't need all those photos. There was one particular drug store (part of a chain) that I almost always dealt with. However, if there was a problem with that one, every other drug store (including the main competing chain) could develope the film. Obviously, getting the film developed this past week wouldn't be a problem, right?
Wrong!
I called the drug store and spoke with someone who hemmed and hawwwed before admitting that, yes, he could develope the film and put it on a CD. Yes, I could have it that same afternoon. However, it couldn't be done in the one-hour I had come to expect. This was because no one works with film anymore, I was told, so the machine used to develope the stuff was off; it would take a couple of hours to warm up. The place, however, still sells film; but they like sending it out to be developed...Sort-of like a tire store selling tires for your car, but telling you to then take the tires elsewhere to have them put on your car.
So, I called around. My daughter mentioned a box store (which I won't name) that develops film, or, at least, used to. By the time they finally got someone in the photo area, I was informed that they could send the film out for developing and have it back in only seven to ten business days.
"But I thought you did one-hour developing!" I said. That's how they were listed in the phone book.
"We are, as long as it's digital. We no longer do film here." Of course, when asked, they do sell film, if I wanted to buy some...
So I called a drug store near my house and explained what I needed. "Okay," the guy answered. "Not a problem."
"So you can develope it there?"
"Of course."
"You don't have to send it out?"
No, I was told. He could develop it there, print up the photos or put the pics on a CD, all within an hour, and relatively inexpensively.
"Great," I said. "I'll be there in maybe half an hour."
"Okay." Then, half a second later, "Wait a minute." He put the phone down, then came back. I could hear him mumbling under his breath before picking up the phone. "Um, you're not going to believe this, but they took the machine."
Excuse me?
"Yeah, apparently they took the machine out. My boss said we're not developing any more film."
I checked the Yellow Pages, and found several places (non-drug store places) that developed film. The one I've dealt with is a long drive, so that was out, this time. Another place, one that a friend recommended, is open Monday through Thursday; this was Friday, and I needed the film that day! The third place listed was relatively nearby and was open.
"Sure, we develop film. Bring it on it and we'll give you a great price."
My daughter, M.H., picked me up and we headed to this third place. By the time we got there, it was about 12:30. The one person working the front desk kept getting called away to answer the phone. In the meantime, M.H. and I looked around the waiting area. It looked like this place dealt mostly with wedding and celebration-type photographers, most of whom had mega-rich clients.
Finally, the woman working the front was able to help us. "Sure, we develop film," she told us. "We'll get right on it, Monday morning."
"Monday morning?" I gasped.
"Well, we only develop film in the morning. Once we hit noon, that's it. So, yes, Monday morning. Now, our prices..." These included a little more for developing than other places, $5 for the CD, and almost 40 cents per photo to scan them into the computer to put onto the CD. For a roll of 24 photos, we're talking $8 for developing and CD, then $9.60 to put the photos onto the disk, for a total of just under $18 per roll. (Oops, don't forget tax...now we're talking $20!)
M.H. and I left.
At this point, we decided to go to the first drug store. I'd already told the guy at the photo section to "start that machine" (the one for film developing...the one that would take several hours to warm up.) Let's just say the guy had sounded as enthusiastic as if I'd offered to pull all his teeth using a pair of rusty pliers and a bent scalpel.
"Ooookay," he enthused...
Several hours, when M.H. and I came back, he was still slowly working on the order, while taking care of other customers. When his manager arrived - just as he was ringing up my order, he kept telling her, "This is the nice lady with the film." Over the next two minutes, I was the nice lady, the patient lady, the wonderful person...If it had gone on much longer, I would have headed back to the pharmacy to see if they had anything to help me keep from throwing up...
Let's put it this way: From here on out, I'll probably work as much in digital as possible, and when I need to develop film, it's going to Lake Shore Camera Exchange in Palm Harbor. At least I know they can handle the job, and do a great job with it!
Finally, though, I had access to a decent camera: my other half bought a Minolta 35mm SLR. Once he figured out how to use it, then showed me how to change film, focus, and all that fun stuff, it was frequently a toss-up as to who got to take what, photo-wise. Some things were his to photograph, as I had no interest in them; but then, I'm sure he wondered about some of my interests, photograpically and otherwise.
Fast forward to recently: I now own several cameras, all Canons. I have nothing against other brands; it's just easier to stick with one brand, so that when one buys accessories - lenses, for example - there's a better chance of it fitting multiple camers of the same brand. But that's beside the point. I have a 35mm SLR and a DSLR, both Canons. I like the film camera for sentimental reasons, while I like the digital for the fact that I don't have to develop film...just shoot, plug it into the computer, and then photoshop away.
A little over a week ago, my friend Boo invited me to come along to take some photos of St. Petersburg's monthly art walk. I only had access to my film camera, so I brought that along. Would have preferred to bring the digital camera, but there are times when we have to work with what we have. In retrospect, the digital camera would have been sooo much better...For starters, I only had a few rolls of film, so I had to pick and choose what to photograph. Also, while a few of the photos came out fairly well, the darker it got, the grainier the photos turned out. Then, there was the whole developing problem of...developing.
Several years ago, during my final year as an undergrad, I took photojournalim I and II at the University of South Florida St. Petersburg. At the time, I only had a film SLR, so I worked with that. Never had any problem getting film developed, then put on a CD. Made it a lot cheaper than printing all the photos on every roll, especially since I wouldn't need all those photos. There was one particular drug store (part of a chain) that I almost always dealt with. However, if there was a problem with that one, every other drug store (including the main competing chain) could develope the film. Obviously, getting the film developed this past week wouldn't be a problem, right?
Wrong!
I called the drug store and spoke with someone who hemmed and hawwwed before admitting that, yes, he could develope the film and put it on a CD. Yes, I could have it that same afternoon. However, it couldn't be done in the one-hour I had come to expect. This was because no one works with film anymore, I was told, so the machine used to develope the stuff was off; it would take a couple of hours to warm up. The place, however, still sells film; but they like sending it out to be developed...Sort-of like a tire store selling tires for your car, but telling you to then take the tires elsewhere to have them put on your car.
So, I called around. My daughter mentioned a box store (which I won't name) that develops film, or, at least, used to. By the time they finally got someone in the photo area, I was informed that they could send the film out for developing and have it back in only seven to ten business days.
"But I thought you did one-hour developing!" I said. That's how they were listed in the phone book.
"We are, as long as it's digital. We no longer do film here." Of course, when asked, they do sell film, if I wanted to buy some...
So I called a drug store near my house and explained what I needed. "Okay," the guy answered. "Not a problem."
"So you can develope it there?"
"Of course."
"You don't have to send it out?"
No, I was told. He could develop it there, print up the photos or put the pics on a CD, all within an hour, and relatively inexpensively.
"Great," I said. "I'll be there in maybe half an hour."
"Okay." Then, half a second later, "Wait a minute." He put the phone down, then came back. I could hear him mumbling under his breath before picking up the phone. "Um, you're not going to believe this, but they took the machine."
Excuse me?
"Yeah, apparently they took the machine out. My boss said we're not developing any more film."
I checked the Yellow Pages, and found several places (non-drug store places) that developed film. The one I've dealt with is a long drive, so that was out, this time. Another place, one that a friend recommended, is open Monday through Thursday; this was Friday, and I needed the film that day! The third place listed was relatively nearby and was open.
"Sure, we develop film. Bring it on it and we'll give you a great price."
My daughter, M.H., picked me up and we headed to this third place. By the time we got there, it was about 12:30. The one person working the front desk kept getting called away to answer the phone. In the meantime, M.H. and I looked around the waiting area. It looked like this place dealt mostly with wedding and celebration-type photographers, most of whom had mega-rich clients.
Finally, the woman working the front was able to help us. "Sure, we develop film," she told us. "We'll get right on it, Monday morning."
"Monday morning?" I gasped.
"Well, we only develop film in the morning. Once we hit noon, that's it. So, yes, Monday morning. Now, our prices..." These included a little more for developing than other places, $5 for the CD, and almost 40 cents per photo to scan them into the computer to put onto the CD. For a roll of 24 photos, we're talking $8 for developing and CD, then $9.60 to put the photos onto the disk, for a total of just under $18 per roll. (Oops, don't forget tax...now we're talking $20!)
M.H. and I left.
At this point, we decided to go to the first drug store. I'd already told the guy at the photo section to "start that machine" (the one for film developing...the one that would take several hours to warm up.) Let's just say the guy had sounded as enthusiastic as if I'd offered to pull all his teeth using a pair of rusty pliers and a bent scalpel.
"Ooookay," he enthused...
Several hours, when M.H. and I came back, he was still slowly working on the order, while taking care of other customers. When his manager arrived - just as he was ringing up my order, he kept telling her, "This is the nice lady with the film." Over the next two minutes, I was the nice lady, the patient lady, the wonderful person...If it had gone on much longer, I would have headed back to the pharmacy to see if they had anything to help me keep from throwing up...
Let's put it this way: From here on out, I'll probably work as much in digital as possible, and when I need to develop film, it's going to Lake Shore Camera Exchange in Palm Harbor. At least I know they can handle the job, and do a great job with it!
Monday, December 31, 2012
Coffee, Tea, and Other Strange Tales
I knew it was going to be one of those days.
When I wandered down the hall this morning, still half-asleep, my plan was to start the coffee maker, hit the bathroom, then have a large cup of coffee while watching/listening to The Today Show. Simple enough, right?
My daughter, M.H., had bought me a new coffee maker for my birthday. It was greatly needed and appreciated, as the old coffee maker was nearing the end of a messy death. Let's just say that boiling water in a tea kettle, then slowly pouring it through the coffee filter and hoping that the heating element under the coffee pot just doesn't quite cut it. The old coffee maker was six years old, quite a bit longer than most of my previous ones had lasted.
The new one is bright red and works well...as long as I remember to do things correctly.
This morning, I got up, filled the pot up in the sink, poured water into the maker, put the pot in the dish drain (The dish drain? you ask; yes, the dish drain; I'd wanted to dry off the bottom of the glass pot before putting onto the heating element, and didn't have a dry towel around.), then ground the coffee beans, put them in the filter, plugged in the maker, turned it on, and headed down the hall. (I hear what you're thinking: You didn't say anything about getting the pot out of the dish drain. Yeah, I know.)
So, I'm down the hall, getting ready to brush my teeth (morning breath; yuck!), when I hear my youngest utter an expletive, followed by, "Hey, Mom, the coffee!"
I hurried out to find coffee all over the place. The filter had filled to the top, then overflowed. (The top of the pot presses against the bottom of the filter area, which releases the coffee into the pot. But one must remember to put the pot where it belongs - which is not necessarily in the dish drain.)
Good thing I'd planned to do some laundry today, since I used up a few dish towels cleaning up. The second pot went a little smoother...
My family has a few coffee stories, as well as stories dealing with being a little klutzy. So, here goes.
M.H., B. and G. moved here from Rhode Island, where coffee is the state drink. In most places, schools offer kids a choice of regular or chocolate milk (or have in the past); Rhode Island kids get a third choice: coffee flavored. Even M.H. says I drink too much coffee.
True coffee story: My dad loved coffee every bit as much as I do, which is no doubt where I picked up my love of it. Mom was (and still is) more of a tea drinker, and I tend to drink a lot of that, too. But Dad and coffee...
Whenever Mom's parents came to visit for the weekend, there was usually one night reserved for hitting up a nice restaurant. Sometimes they'd bring us kids along, other times, it was just the adults. But the complaint was always the same: "John and the coffee."
See, it went like this: After being seated and handed menus, the waiter or waitress would ask what everyone was drinking. Dad, Mom, and Grandparents would all get coffee. Mom and her parents would nurse that one lone coffee through much of dinner, with occasional sips of water. That one coffee a piece created all sorts of havoc: Mom, Grandma and Grandpa all knew that sleep would be evasive that evening.
Dad, on the other hand, had a cup of coffee with the menu, another helping with the appetizer, a third and forth with dinner, another with dessert, and, finally, a last one after dessert. Wired for sound, right? Wrong! When everyone got home from the restaurant, Dad would sit, yawning, in the living room with everyone else, trying to make small talk. Invariably, though, within half an hour, he'd be upstairs, sound asleep, the coffee having had no effect on him. Mom and her parents, though, would be awake until at least 1 or 2 a.m. from their one cup of coffee!
Note: Anyone having been in the University of South Florida St. Petersburg's Florida Studies program knows that no matter how many words are added to the phrase True Story know where the phrase comes from. I hope Gary Mormino is enjoying his retirement!
Another true coffee story: When I was still driving cabs, I got a call to take someone to Tampa International Airport. Before picking the person up, I grabbed a large coffee and Boston cream donut from a nearby Dunkin' Donuts. After dropping the man off at T.I.A., I decided to swing through the Ybor City section of Tampa, since I had a friend who lived there.
I drove along the main thoroughfare (7th Avenue), but didn't see her. So, I stopped at the coffee place that was on 7th Avenue, went inside and got a large hot mochacchino. According to the person serving this up, it was an espresso, dumped into a large cup (so there were maybe several servings of espresso in there), with chocolate added to the mix, and topped with whipped cream. I'll go with that description. Drank it down, then got a large iced mochacchino to go. Got to the cab, started to leave, and Voila!, saw my friend. I honked, she waved, I did a U-turn and chug-a-lugged my iced caffeine rush before getting out of the car.
We hugged, then went back into the same coffee place to talk over - you guessed it - large hot mochacchinos. The server raised an eyebrow as he served us, no doubt wondering how sleep deprived I'd been - or would be. This time, we each added a large brownie (one for friend, one for me). The things had to be 2 inches on each side and 2 inches high, then topped with chocolate syrup, whipped cream, a scoop of ice cream, more chocolate syrup, and topped with a cherry. (As Paula Deen might admonish, we have to get our fruits and veggies in somewhere!)
Then, as we got ready to leave, I grabbed another large iced mochacchino to go. Fortunately, there'd been a shift change, so it was a different person handing it over.
By the time I got back to the Pinellas side of the Howard Franklin Bridge (a.k.a. the Frankenstein), I decided I'd best get a plain old large coffee from Dunkin' Donuts before pulling onto the nearest cab stand, where two other drivers were sitting, talking, while waiting for calls. (One of the two was my friend Kevin.)
"Hey, Robin, how's it going?" the other driver asked. And I was off and speed-talking.
"Well, seeIgotthiscallthatwenttoTIAandthenIwenttoYborandIgotsomecoffeeand..."
Kevin and the other driver's eye kind-of widened. About the time one of them got a call, though, I'd hit the caffeine wall. Anyone familiar with vinyl might know about 33s and 45s; there are those of us who remember seeing 78s and 16s. Let's just say that at first, I must've sounded like a 33 being played at the speed 45 or 78 (think Alvin and the Chipmunks), then, after hitting the wall, sounding more like a 78 played at 33 or 16...
"Wow, I think you'd better steer away from the coffee for a day or two," Kevin offered as he drove off for his next call. He might've been right.
Another coffee story: By the time Dad had married my step-mom, I'd started sending pans of fudge as one of my Christmas presents to Dad and P. They both kept an eye out for the package: Dad was ready, willing and able to finish most of the pan of fudge with a pot of coffee, while P. was prone to dole the fudge out a piece or two at a time. (Does that coffee-and-chocolate thing sound familiar?) I'd inevitably get a call from Dad the day the package came, when I'd hear which way it had gone.
True (tea) story: My mother, whose maternal grandparents immigrated from England, was more of a tea person than Dad was. If there was cause for celebration, fix tea; if someone needed cheering up, fix tea; if someone felt a little under the weather, fix tea; if...well, you get the idea. I can't begin to count the number of times I'd be home sick and would be given a cup of tea and toast.
One rainy afternoon, Mom's mom came to visit. She lived maybe a fifteen minute ride from us and would frequently bring homemade oatmeal or peanut butter cookies.
This particular rainy day, I was home sick; I was definitely on the mend, but, since it was rainy, Mom had decided to keep me home, while sending my sister A. to school.
While Mom stood watching out the door for A. to get home, Grandma poured both of us another cup of tea, pushed the plate of cookies toward me, and told me about her one brush with fame:
When she was eight years old, she and her parents lived in Denver. Half-way through the school year, Grandma's teacher informed the class that the following week, she'd bring a friend of her's to class; her friend was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody.
The day before Buffalo Bill was to come to class, Grandma stayed after school to tell her teacher the news: she had found out that morning that her parents were moving the family back to New York; they were leaving by train the next morning. Grandma was heart-broken: she loved her teacher, who apparently very caring with the children, and she was going to miss meeting Buffalo Bill Cody.
At 6 the next morning, Grandma sat on the train as her parents handed the porter their luggage. She was lost in her thoughts when she heard a familiar voice say her name as a hand touched her shoulder.
"Lillian," her teacher said. "I have a very special person who said he wanted to meet my student who was leaving for New York."
Grandma turned to see her teacher, who had gotten up extra early to see her on the train. Beside her teacher was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody himself!
I went back to school the next day. And while I've met many people over the years, some famous, some almost famous, most just ordinary people, I still feel that tea will cure an upset stomach (especially if it's with toast or cookies), that coffee is wonderful, and that both are tied to an occasional quirky story.
At 2 in the afternoon, I wonder if it's okay to put on another pot of coffee...
When I wandered down the hall this morning, still half-asleep, my plan was to start the coffee maker, hit the bathroom, then have a large cup of coffee while watching/listening to The Today Show. Simple enough, right?
My daughter, M.H., had bought me a new coffee maker for my birthday. It was greatly needed and appreciated, as the old coffee maker was nearing the end of a messy death. Let's just say that boiling water in a tea kettle, then slowly pouring it through the coffee filter and hoping that the heating element under the coffee pot just doesn't quite cut it. The old coffee maker was six years old, quite a bit longer than most of my previous ones had lasted.
The new one is bright red and works well...as long as I remember to do things correctly.
This morning, I got up, filled the pot up in the sink, poured water into the maker, put the pot in the dish drain (The dish drain? you ask; yes, the dish drain; I'd wanted to dry off the bottom of the glass pot before putting onto the heating element, and didn't have a dry towel around.), then ground the coffee beans, put them in the filter, plugged in the maker, turned it on, and headed down the hall. (I hear what you're thinking: You didn't say anything about getting the pot out of the dish drain. Yeah, I know.)
So, I'm down the hall, getting ready to brush my teeth (morning breath; yuck!), when I hear my youngest utter an expletive, followed by, "Hey, Mom, the coffee!"
I hurried out to find coffee all over the place. The filter had filled to the top, then overflowed. (The top of the pot presses against the bottom of the filter area, which releases the coffee into the pot. But one must remember to put the pot where it belongs - which is not necessarily in the dish drain.)
Good thing I'd planned to do some laundry today, since I used up a few dish towels cleaning up. The second pot went a little smoother...
My family has a few coffee stories, as well as stories dealing with being a little klutzy. So, here goes.
M.H., B. and G. moved here from Rhode Island, where coffee is the state drink. In most places, schools offer kids a choice of regular or chocolate milk (or have in the past); Rhode Island kids get a third choice: coffee flavored. Even M.H. says I drink too much coffee.
True coffee story: My dad loved coffee every bit as much as I do, which is no doubt where I picked up my love of it. Mom was (and still is) more of a tea drinker, and I tend to drink a lot of that, too. But Dad and coffee...
Whenever Mom's parents came to visit for the weekend, there was usually one night reserved for hitting up a nice restaurant. Sometimes they'd bring us kids along, other times, it was just the adults. But the complaint was always the same: "John and the coffee."
See, it went like this: After being seated and handed menus, the waiter or waitress would ask what everyone was drinking. Dad, Mom, and Grandparents would all get coffee. Mom and her parents would nurse that one lone coffee through much of dinner, with occasional sips of water. That one coffee a piece created all sorts of havoc: Mom, Grandma and Grandpa all knew that sleep would be evasive that evening.
Dad, on the other hand, had a cup of coffee with the menu, another helping with the appetizer, a third and forth with dinner, another with dessert, and, finally, a last one after dessert. Wired for sound, right? Wrong! When everyone got home from the restaurant, Dad would sit, yawning, in the living room with everyone else, trying to make small talk. Invariably, though, within half an hour, he'd be upstairs, sound asleep, the coffee having had no effect on him. Mom and her parents, though, would be awake until at least 1 or 2 a.m. from their one cup of coffee!
Note: Anyone having been in the University of South Florida St. Petersburg's Florida Studies program knows that no matter how many words are added to the phrase True Story know where the phrase comes from. I hope Gary Mormino is enjoying his retirement!
Another true coffee story: When I was still driving cabs, I got a call to take someone to Tampa International Airport. Before picking the person up, I grabbed a large coffee and Boston cream donut from a nearby Dunkin' Donuts. After dropping the man off at T.I.A., I decided to swing through the Ybor City section of Tampa, since I had a friend who lived there.
I drove along the main thoroughfare (7th Avenue), but didn't see her. So, I stopped at the coffee place that was on 7th Avenue, went inside and got a large hot mochacchino. According to the person serving this up, it was an espresso, dumped into a large cup (so there were maybe several servings of espresso in there), with chocolate added to the mix, and topped with whipped cream. I'll go with that description. Drank it down, then got a large iced mochacchino to go. Got to the cab, started to leave, and Voila!, saw my friend. I honked, she waved, I did a U-turn and chug-a-lugged my iced caffeine rush before getting out of the car.
We hugged, then went back into the same coffee place to talk over - you guessed it - large hot mochacchinos. The server raised an eyebrow as he served us, no doubt wondering how sleep deprived I'd been - or would be. This time, we each added a large brownie (one for friend, one for me). The things had to be 2 inches on each side and 2 inches high, then topped with chocolate syrup, whipped cream, a scoop of ice cream, more chocolate syrup, and topped with a cherry. (As Paula Deen might admonish, we have to get our fruits and veggies in somewhere!)
Then, as we got ready to leave, I grabbed another large iced mochacchino to go. Fortunately, there'd been a shift change, so it was a different person handing it over.
By the time I got back to the Pinellas side of the Howard Franklin Bridge (a.k.a. the Frankenstein), I decided I'd best get a plain old large coffee from Dunkin' Donuts before pulling onto the nearest cab stand, where two other drivers were sitting, talking, while waiting for calls. (One of the two was my friend Kevin.)
"Hey, Robin, how's it going?" the other driver asked. And I was off and speed-talking.
"Well, seeIgotthiscallthatwenttoTIAandthenIwenttoYborandIgotsomecoffeeand..."
Kevin and the other driver's eye kind-of widened. About the time one of them got a call, though, I'd hit the caffeine wall. Anyone familiar with vinyl might know about 33s and 45s; there are those of us who remember seeing 78s and 16s. Let's just say that at first, I must've sounded like a 33 being played at the speed 45 or 78 (think Alvin and the Chipmunks), then, after hitting the wall, sounding more like a 78 played at 33 or 16...
"Wow, I think you'd better steer away from the coffee for a day or two," Kevin offered as he drove off for his next call. He might've been right.
Another coffee story: By the time Dad had married my step-mom, I'd started sending pans of fudge as one of my Christmas presents to Dad and P. They both kept an eye out for the package: Dad was ready, willing and able to finish most of the pan of fudge with a pot of coffee, while P. was prone to dole the fudge out a piece or two at a time. (Does that coffee-and-chocolate thing sound familiar?) I'd inevitably get a call from Dad the day the package came, when I'd hear which way it had gone.
True (tea) story: My mother, whose maternal grandparents immigrated from England, was more of a tea person than Dad was. If there was cause for celebration, fix tea; if someone needed cheering up, fix tea; if someone felt a little under the weather, fix tea; if...well, you get the idea. I can't begin to count the number of times I'd be home sick and would be given a cup of tea and toast.
One rainy afternoon, Mom's mom came to visit. She lived maybe a fifteen minute ride from us and would frequently bring homemade oatmeal or peanut butter cookies.
This particular rainy day, I was home sick; I was definitely on the mend, but, since it was rainy, Mom had decided to keep me home, while sending my sister A. to school.
While Mom stood watching out the door for A. to get home, Grandma poured both of us another cup of tea, pushed the plate of cookies toward me, and told me about her one brush with fame:
When she was eight years old, she and her parents lived in Denver. Half-way through the school year, Grandma's teacher informed the class that the following week, she'd bring a friend of her's to class; her friend was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody.
The day before Buffalo Bill was to come to class, Grandma stayed after school to tell her teacher the news: she had found out that morning that her parents were moving the family back to New York; they were leaving by train the next morning. Grandma was heart-broken: she loved her teacher, who apparently very caring with the children, and she was going to miss meeting Buffalo Bill Cody.
At 6 the next morning, Grandma sat on the train as her parents handed the porter their luggage. She was lost in her thoughts when she heard a familiar voice say her name as a hand touched her shoulder.
"Lillian," her teacher said. "I have a very special person who said he wanted to meet my student who was leaving for New York."
Grandma turned to see her teacher, who had gotten up extra early to see her on the train. Beside her teacher was none other than Buffalo Bill Cody himself!
I went back to school the next day. And while I've met many people over the years, some famous, some almost famous, most just ordinary people, I still feel that tea will cure an upset stomach (especially if it's with toast or cookies), that coffee is wonderful, and that both are tied to an occasional quirky story.
At 2 in the afternoon, I wonder if it's okay to put on another pot of coffee...
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