So, now we're getting used to the new normal - sort of. Medical scares and problems have a way of doing that.
M. had an appointment with a cardiologist. A cardiologist! Unfortunately, one bus was running a few minutes late, while the next one left a little early...He's had to reschedule, as well as set an appointment with our primary care doctor. Then there's the whole diet thing. Pizza delivery has been curtailed (and we were within a point or two of getting a free pizza; with all that grease, though...).
Then, there's my son-in-law, B, who is on a whole new regime of meds that may or may not make a huge difference. But at least he's home, after two trips to the hospital. (The second trip came less than 24 hours after he got home from the first one.) If one good thing came out of his hospitalization, it's the fact that B. and M.H. now have a car. M.H. hadn't been able to bring their daughter, my granddaughter, to see her dad in the hospital; this will make their life somewhat easier.
Note: Unless you happen to live in New York City or any place where public transportation is abundant and parking is at a premium, getting around without a car makes life interesting, at best. If you have access to a car 24/7, try parking it for a week. Grocery shopping, going to work, job hunting, going to the doctor's, everything becomes a matter of logistics: When do I have to leave to catch the bus to...? Can I afford another cab ride?
My friend Cookie's husband has been transferred to another facility; he hasn't been home for three weeks now. They're not sure when he'll be home. My friend Kevin's dad is not doing well, either. I don't envy any of them.
On top of this, my daughter M.H. told me that her friend Sam's sister died near the end of the week when M. and B. were in the hospital. Her sister was 30, and died of a blood clot.
Life expectancies have slowly gotten longer over the years; most of us are sure we'll live longer than our parents did. And while my friend Kevin's dad may be in his late-80s, the others in my circle who've recently been hospitalized - 30 to 56 years of age - show that we can never take our health for granted. We all need to do what we can, what is within our power to change, to ensure our health. Granted, some things can't be changed; genetics figure into our health. But most of us do need to do what we can to change.
One last thing: I know one person who has done that. When I first met J., an intelligent guy with a great sense of humor, he was way overweight. Many of his friends worried about him, because of his weight. I didn't see him for a while; when I did, he'd dropped quite a lot of weight. He's finally at his ideal weight, having lost the equivalent of two medium-weight people. Two! How did he do it? No surgery, no weird, magical thinking. He went through Weight Watchers, stuck to the plan, even when eating out, and went to the gym almost every day. He's an inspiration to all who've watched this transformation. And while this might not change all the medical things he'll go through in life - age and genetics fit in, too - he has done what many of us need to do to ensure a healthy life.
Punchline is this: if we're doing something detrimental to our health, we have a choice: Change it for a chance at life, or don't. I'm including myself here. We deserve giving health a fighting chance; so do our families.
Sunday, February 24, 2013
Thursday, February 14, 2013
What a week, or Is everyone in the hospital?
There are days that make a person just want to crawl back under the covers and hide. A good book might help, along with a plate of homemade cookies and a cup of coffee or tea. Or maybe a quart of vodka, if that's your preference. But since I don't drink...But let me back up and explain...
Actually, it wasn't just a day, but, rather, the entire week. It started back about a week-and-a-half ago, on Sunday, February 3 when my friend, Cookie, called. We've known each other for over half-a-lifetime, seen each other through the weird thing we call life. She'd just gotten her kids back from what sounds like a horrible ex- when we first met. Her kids and mine were all younger than our grandkids are now. We know things about each other that would make great fodder for the daily soaps, as is the case with most long-term friendships, but that's a whole 'nother story.
So, when I saw Cookie's number on the Caller I.D., I picked up. "What's up?" I asked.
"Well, I've had the morning from hell," she answered.
Because Cookie has a strong Drama Queen gene, I sighed. I figured it could be anything from The neighbor parked in my space to who-knows-what. I'm not griping, just explaining. I, too, have been accused of being a Drama Queen. For the most part, I honestly love seeing friends' and family members' Drama Queen-ness.
But this time, it was serious, and she truly had had the morning from hell. Her husband, L, was in the hospital with a stroke; she'd found him lying on the bathroom floor that morning, tried to wake him, move him, anything, before calling 9-1-1. They'd taken him to a nearby hospital; after some preliminary tests, and finding out how serious it was, he was transferred to another hospital.
"The place they took him to, XYZ Hospital? It's a train wreck." She knew, since she'd had to work there, years ago. She'd wanted him transferred to a different hospital, but it wasn't in the cards.
We talked while she tried taking her mind off what was going on. The doctors weren't hopeful, though things are starting to look a little better now, eleven days later. With any luck, he'll recover.
Then, Tuesday, February 6, my son M. informed me that he wasn't feeling well. "What's up?" I asked. Turns out, he was having chest pain. At least he told me around 5:00 p.m.; he's been known to let me know he needs to go to the E.R. at much less convenient times, like 2 a.m. Also, he's gone to the E.R. with chest pain a couple of times before, and it had always been something fairly benign. Since everyone in the house had had a bad cold or a minor case of the flu a few weeks back, I figured it was just left over tightness from all the coughing.
But since it was chest pain and M.'s dad had died at the ripe old age of 49, we called my friend Kevin to take us to Bayfront Medical. Turns out Kevin was tied up and said he could get us in maybe 45 minutes or so. Okay. Since Kev usually goes home early on Mondays and Tuesdays, this was a little unusual, but we didn't think much about it.
But after a few minutes, M. decided he really couldn't wait, could I please call 9-1-1? So I did, while M. called Kev back using his cell phone to tell him not to come by. In a little while, we were in Bayfront's E.R., being hurried into a room, where they started a battery of tests. There were others in the E.R., but certain things - chest pain, included - trump other things, like sprains.
Shortly after we got there, I called Kevin to see how late he was planning to be out. I figured he'd say he was already home. Turns out, he was at another hospital, not far from the one we were in. He had a family member who'd had a heart attack that morning and had gone to the E.R. This family member has had medical issues for a while; for privacy, that's all I'll say. But Kev said that he'd probably be heading home around 8; he'd call me when he was leaving to see if I needed a ride home.
M. was still in the E.R. when I left; they'd already said that they were keeping him for the night. Turned out, M.'d had a mild heart attack. Treated, taken care of, minimal damage, home several days later. Good as new, or as good as possible.
So, Thursday, after we'd gotten home, picked up his meds, etc., I got on the computer and discovered my son-in-law was in another hospital, and had been since the night before.
"I thought I told you," my daughter said. If she had, somehow I hadn't heard it.
M. is now on the mend, working today (it's not heavy work, so the doctor cleared him for that). B. is also on the mend, back at home. L., though, will be in the hospital for a while, as is Kev's family member. The best we can do is pray, send good vibes, thoughts, and wishes.
Would you mind horribly if I just crawl back under the covers with a good book and a cup of tea? One more thing - pass me a cookie...preferably peanut butter...
Actually, it wasn't just a day, but, rather, the entire week. It started back about a week-and-a-half ago, on Sunday, February 3 when my friend, Cookie, called. We've known each other for over half-a-lifetime, seen each other through the weird thing we call life. She'd just gotten her kids back from what sounds like a horrible ex- when we first met. Her kids and mine were all younger than our grandkids are now. We know things about each other that would make great fodder for the daily soaps, as is the case with most long-term friendships, but that's a whole 'nother story.
So, when I saw Cookie's number on the Caller I.D., I picked up. "What's up?" I asked.
"Well, I've had the morning from hell," she answered.
Because Cookie has a strong Drama Queen gene, I sighed. I figured it could be anything from The neighbor parked in my space to who-knows-what. I'm not griping, just explaining. I, too, have been accused of being a Drama Queen. For the most part, I honestly love seeing friends' and family members' Drama Queen-ness.
But this time, it was serious, and she truly had had the morning from hell. Her husband, L, was in the hospital with a stroke; she'd found him lying on the bathroom floor that morning, tried to wake him, move him, anything, before calling 9-1-1. They'd taken him to a nearby hospital; after some preliminary tests, and finding out how serious it was, he was transferred to another hospital.
"The place they took him to, XYZ Hospital? It's a train wreck." She knew, since she'd had to work there, years ago. She'd wanted him transferred to a different hospital, but it wasn't in the cards.
We talked while she tried taking her mind off what was going on. The doctors weren't hopeful, though things are starting to look a little better now, eleven days later. With any luck, he'll recover.
Then, Tuesday, February 6, my son M. informed me that he wasn't feeling well. "What's up?" I asked. Turns out, he was having chest pain. At least he told me around 5:00 p.m.; he's been known to let me know he needs to go to the E.R. at much less convenient times, like 2 a.m. Also, he's gone to the E.R. with chest pain a couple of times before, and it had always been something fairly benign. Since everyone in the house had had a bad cold or a minor case of the flu a few weeks back, I figured it was just left over tightness from all the coughing.
But since it was chest pain and M.'s dad had died at the ripe old age of 49, we called my friend Kevin to take us to Bayfront Medical. Turns out Kevin was tied up and said he could get us in maybe 45 minutes or so. Okay. Since Kev usually goes home early on Mondays and Tuesdays, this was a little unusual, but we didn't think much about it.
But after a few minutes, M. decided he really couldn't wait, could I please call 9-1-1? So I did, while M. called Kev back using his cell phone to tell him not to come by. In a little while, we were in Bayfront's E.R., being hurried into a room, where they started a battery of tests. There were others in the E.R., but certain things - chest pain, included - trump other things, like sprains.
Shortly after we got there, I called Kevin to see how late he was planning to be out. I figured he'd say he was already home. Turns out, he was at another hospital, not far from the one we were in. He had a family member who'd had a heart attack that morning and had gone to the E.R. This family member has had medical issues for a while; for privacy, that's all I'll say. But Kev said that he'd probably be heading home around 8; he'd call me when he was leaving to see if I needed a ride home.
M. was still in the E.R. when I left; they'd already said that they were keeping him for the night. Turned out, M.'d had a mild heart attack. Treated, taken care of, minimal damage, home several days later. Good as new, or as good as possible.
So, Thursday, after we'd gotten home, picked up his meds, etc., I got on the computer and discovered my son-in-law was in another hospital, and had been since the night before.
"I thought I told you," my daughter said. If she had, somehow I hadn't heard it.
M. is now on the mend, working today (it's not heavy work, so the doctor cleared him for that). B. is also on the mend, back at home. L., though, will be in the hospital for a while, as is Kev's family member. The best we can do is pray, send good vibes, thoughts, and wishes.
Would you mind horribly if I just crawl back under the covers with a good book and a cup of tea? One more thing - pass me a cookie...preferably peanut butter...
Saturday, February 2, 2013
Ed Koch, New York's "Pugnacious" Former Mayor
Ed Koch, New York's colorful former mayor, died yesterday morning.
Okay, part of that might be obvious; if someone becomes New York's mayor, chances are that person is either somewhat colorful or forgotten. It seems to be that simple. Other cities may have mayors whose names most of us are unfamiliar with. But to be mayor in the city that never sleeps, you'd pretty much have to be a colorful character. Even then, Koch seemed to stand out, with his arms outstreched.
I heard of his death yesterday morning on Today, then read about his death in the Tampa Bay Times. The Times article, originally from the Washington Post, caught Ed Koch's essence beautifully. One paragraph from the article states, "'How'm I doing?' the mayor lilked to bellow as he gallivanted up and down city streets, arms raised above his lanky frame, bald pate bobbing. His signature greeting was delivered in a whiny, nasal voice that was as recognizably New York as the screech of an A train."** If that doesn't paint a picture of Koch and the city he was mayor of for three terms, nothing does.
Every time I think of Ed Koch, I'm reminded of my grandmother, especially shortly before she died. This time was no exception.
My grandmother, Agnes Shwedo, died in the late 1980s. She was a character who tended to speak her mind. She was born to Irish immigrants (her maiden name was Kelly), had numerous brothers and sister (all of whom were outspoken, and tended to live long lives), and married my grandfather, the son of Czech immigrants. Both grandparents' parents were unhappy, since they'd wanted their children to marry people from "the old country;" Agnes's folks wanted her to marry a good Irish Catholic boy, while John, Sr.'s parents wanted a good Czech Catholic daughter-in-law.
Grandma outlived Grandpa by twenty years or so. The last few weeks or months that she was alive, Grandma started to go downhill, as so many people do. Dad ended up staying with her for a few nights to keep an eye on her. One night, probably one of the last nights Grandma spent at home, Dad was awakened after midnight by a heavy pounding on the front door. He went to the door, looked through the peep-hole, and saw several uniformed police officers. "What is it?" he asked, opening the door part-way.
"We need to check on the lady here," one officer stated. "She said she's been kidnapped and is being held hostage."
Once the officers were inside, Grandma came out of her room. Turned out, she'd wanted a glass of water, was convinced she'd been kidnapped and was being held hostage, and that she was the Mayor of New York City!
Of course, Ed Koch was mayor at the time, not an elderly Irish Catholic woman. Once the officers realized what was going on ("Yes, of course I know this nice man. He's my son, and he rescued me before you got here!"), they suggested that Dad get her to the hospital in the morning. He did, and within a week or two, Grandma was gone.
Back to Ed Koch's death: I remember hearing all sorts of stories about him while he was mayor, both from news reports and from family back in New York. The Times' headline ("Pugnacious former New York mayor dies") and the accompanying article and photo capture him perfectly, at least as perfectly as a short obit can.
But whether he knew it or not, I'll never forget when Grandma "helped" him run New York, even if it was for only one night.
**Taken from the Tampa Bay Times; the full article ran on page 3A, Saturday, February 2, 2013.
Okay, part of that might be obvious; if someone becomes New York's mayor, chances are that person is either somewhat colorful or forgotten. It seems to be that simple. Other cities may have mayors whose names most of us are unfamiliar with. But to be mayor in the city that never sleeps, you'd pretty much have to be a colorful character. Even then, Koch seemed to stand out, with his arms outstreched.
I heard of his death yesterday morning on Today, then read about his death in the Tampa Bay Times. The Times article, originally from the Washington Post, caught Ed Koch's essence beautifully. One paragraph from the article states, "'How'm I doing?' the mayor lilked to bellow as he gallivanted up and down city streets, arms raised above his lanky frame, bald pate bobbing. His signature greeting was delivered in a whiny, nasal voice that was as recognizably New York as the screech of an A train."** If that doesn't paint a picture of Koch and the city he was mayor of for three terms, nothing does.
Every time I think of Ed Koch, I'm reminded of my grandmother, especially shortly before she died. This time was no exception.
My grandmother, Agnes Shwedo, died in the late 1980s. She was a character who tended to speak her mind. She was born to Irish immigrants (her maiden name was Kelly), had numerous brothers and sister (all of whom were outspoken, and tended to live long lives), and married my grandfather, the son of Czech immigrants. Both grandparents' parents were unhappy, since they'd wanted their children to marry people from "the old country;" Agnes's folks wanted her to marry a good Irish Catholic boy, while John, Sr.'s parents wanted a good Czech Catholic daughter-in-law.
Grandma outlived Grandpa by twenty years or so. The last few weeks or months that she was alive, Grandma started to go downhill, as so many people do. Dad ended up staying with her for a few nights to keep an eye on her. One night, probably one of the last nights Grandma spent at home, Dad was awakened after midnight by a heavy pounding on the front door. He went to the door, looked through the peep-hole, and saw several uniformed police officers. "What is it?" he asked, opening the door part-way.
"We need to check on the lady here," one officer stated. "She said she's been kidnapped and is being held hostage."
Once the officers were inside, Grandma came out of her room. Turned out, she'd wanted a glass of water, was convinced she'd been kidnapped and was being held hostage, and that she was the Mayor of New York City!
Of course, Ed Koch was mayor at the time, not an elderly Irish Catholic woman. Once the officers realized what was going on ("Yes, of course I know this nice man. He's my son, and he rescued me before you got here!"), they suggested that Dad get her to the hospital in the morning. He did, and within a week or two, Grandma was gone.
Back to Ed Koch's death: I remember hearing all sorts of stories about him while he was mayor, both from news reports and from family back in New York. The Times' headline ("Pugnacious former New York mayor dies") and the accompanying article and photo capture him perfectly, at least as perfectly as a short obit can.
But whether he knew it or not, I'll never forget when Grandma "helped" him run New York, even if it was for only one night.
**Taken from the Tampa Bay Times; the full article ran on page 3A, Saturday, February 2, 2013.
Saturday, January 26, 2013
Another Saturday, spent goofing off
It's Saturday afternoon, an absolutely gorgeous day, and yet, it's happened again: I got absolutely nothing of consequence done around the house.
It never seems to fail. I get to the end of the week and part-way through Friday, I make note of all the cleaning I want to get done around the house over the weekend. This usually starts on Friday, since that's when I try to clean the bathroom, change sheets, do a ton of laundry, and by the time I get that much done, it's like Okay, I might as well get a start on cleaning.
Realistically, there are two problems with this whole cleaning-the-house-on-Friday-and-Saturday train of thought: my organizational skills, and getting overwhelmed.
First off, I'm not exactly organized. Disorganized would be a more appropriate assessment of my skills. Granted, I'm nowhere near being in the running to end up on A&E's Hoarders, and I'm more organized than I used to be. Most of the dining room table top can be seen and used (it's brown; just push those two or three books over there), no one is going to trip over stuff on the way from the front door through the house (don't look over into that corner, though), and the kitchen floor and counters are scrubbed on a semi-regular basis. But let's just say that I'm as organized as I am graceful.
Quick anecdote: When Paul was alive - a man who'd been a Marine, and was organized enough to prove it - we were the perfect Odd Couple: We may not have been as far apart as Felix and Oscar, but those who saw us in action, especially at home, were sometimes willing to point out that if ever someone did a remake of Neil Simon's comedy with a male and female couple, we might have a shot. I'd come home, place something on the table.
"Is that where that goes?" Paul would ask.
"No," I'd answer. "I'll put it away later." Then I'd get ready to fix both of us some ice tea.
"How about putting it away now," he'd insist. At this point, I'd sigh, roll my eyes ("Oh, can it!" he'd tell me) and head back to the dining room table to put whatever away. We were definitely yin and yang.
Then there's the whole getting overwhelmed aspect of this plan. The house needs to be tidied. So, I'm make a list, which invariably will read, "1. Clean Table. 2. Living/dining room. 3. kitchen..." and so on throughout the house. Nothing specific, such as thinking, "This weekend, I'll tackle the living room, next weekend, the kitchen..." and then breaking it down to manageable tasks: Vacuum. Dust. Organize bookshelves. Nope, gonna clean that sucker stem-to-stern,-top-to-bottom...
By now, it's time to fix another cup of coffee and read the paper while getting myself psyched up. After all, I'll have to put the paper in the recycling bin while cleaning...And the next thing I know, it's Saturday afternoon.
I do have a perfectly good reason for not getting everything done today. M. and J. both decided to get either a touch of the flu or a very bad cold. J. got it first, and for a day or two, sounded like he was going to hock up a lung. Then M. got it. I should be thankful that they didn't sound like Harvey Fierstein this time. Last year, they both ended up with whatever they're getting over, but with a touch of laryngitis that caused them both to sound like the actor/playwright. Especially M. One evening, I came down the hall to start dinner, and could have sworn they were listening to Mrs. Doubtfire: he kept repeating one of Fierstein's lines when he's talking on the phone with his mother ("B*!%h. Not you, Ma, the dog.") and sounding exactly like him. It was funny the first couple of times. Let's just say that I was glad when his voice went back to normal.
But this time, they managed to spread the joy and germs to me. While they'd been walking around feeling pretty stinky and thinking (at least the first day) that the ER might not be bad, then starting to recover, I spiked a fever and got hit harder. Yes, I know, I'm years and years older than they are, and the older we get, the harder it hits us, the longer it takes, et cetera. But considering that I was taking antibiotics for a bacterial ear infection while fighting off this nasty virus (which, of course, as a virus sits there and laughs long and loud at antibiotics) left me feeling like doo-doo. I spent two days napping more than not before pulling a Lazarus and starting to walk around and doing things - like washing the dishes.
Today, my daughter M.H. stopped by, dropped off a couple of things, then headed home to get ready for work. I put the stuff away, ate the second container of soup she'd dropped off a couple of days ago, looked through an Avon book that my rep had dropped off (if anyone in mid-county needs Avon, let me know; I'll pass your number along to her), and basically vegged out.
Now, as I wait for M. to get home from work with a bottle of ginger ale that he's picked up, I can look around at the house and know a few things: There's always next weekend. I needed the recovery day. I managed to update my blog. And much as I love a certain actor/playwright, I don't sound like Harvey Fierstein; his voice sounds much better on him than it would on a middle-aged woman.
It never seems to fail. I get to the end of the week and part-way through Friday, I make note of all the cleaning I want to get done around the house over the weekend. This usually starts on Friday, since that's when I try to clean the bathroom, change sheets, do a ton of laundry, and by the time I get that much done, it's like Okay, I might as well get a start on cleaning.
Realistically, there are two problems with this whole cleaning-the-house-on-Friday-and-Saturday train of thought: my organizational skills, and getting overwhelmed.
First off, I'm not exactly organized. Disorganized would be a more appropriate assessment of my skills. Granted, I'm nowhere near being in the running to end up on A&E's Hoarders, and I'm more organized than I used to be. Most of the dining room table top can be seen and used (it's brown; just push those two or three books over there), no one is going to trip over stuff on the way from the front door through the house (don't look over into that corner, though), and the kitchen floor and counters are scrubbed on a semi-regular basis. But let's just say that I'm as organized as I am graceful.
Quick anecdote: When Paul was alive - a man who'd been a Marine, and was organized enough to prove it - we were the perfect Odd Couple: We may not have been as far apart as Felix and Oscar, but those who saw us in action, especially at home, were sometimes willing to point out that if ever someone did a remake of Neil Simon's comedy with a male and female couple, we might have a shot. I'd come home, place something on the table.
"Is that where that goes?" Paul would ask.
"No," I'd answer. "I'll put it away later." Then I'd get ready to fix both of us some ice tea.
"How about putting it away now," he'd insist. At this point, I'd sigh, roll my eyes ("Oh, can it!" he'd tell me) and head back to the dining room table to put whatever away. We were definitely yin and yang.
Then there's the whole getting overwhelmed aspect of this plan. The house needs to be tidied. So, I'm make a list, which invariably will read, "1. Clean Table. 2. Living/dining room. 3. kitchen..." and so on throughout the house. Nothing specific, such as thinking, "This weekend, I'll tackle the living room, next weekend, the kitchen..." and then breaking it down to manageable tasks: Vacuum. Dust. Organize bookshelves. Nope, gonna clean that sucker stem-to-stern,-top-to-bottom...
By now, it's time to fix another cup of coffee and read the paper while getting myself psyched up. After all, I'll have to put the paper in the recycling bin while cleaning...And the next thing I know, it's Saturday afternoon.
I do have a perfectly good reason for not getting everything done today. M. and J. both decided to get either a touch of the flu or a very bad cold. J. got it first, and for a day or two, sounded like he was going to hock up a lung. Then M. got it. I should be thankful that they didn't sound like Harvey Fierstein this time. Last year, they both ended up with whatever they're getting over, but with a touch of laryngitis that caused them both to sound like the actor/playwright. Especially M. One evening, I came down the hall to start dinner, and could have sworn they were listening to Mrs. Doubtfire: he kept repeating one of Fierstein's lines when he's talking on the phone with his mother ("B*!%h. Not you, Ma, the dog.") and sounding exactly like him. It was funny the first couple of times. Let's just say that I was glad when his voice went back to normal.
But this time, they managed to spread the joy and germs to me. While they'd been walking around feeling pretty stinky and thinking (at least the first day) that the ER might not be bad, then starting to recover, I spiked a fever and got hit harder. Yes, I know, I'm years and years older than they are, and the older we get, the harder it hits us, the longer it takes, et cetera. But considering that I was taking antibiotics for a bacterial ear infection while fighting off this nasty virus (which, of course, as a virus sits there and laughs long and loud at antibiotics) left me feeling like doo-doo. I spent two days napping more than not before pulling a Lazarus and starting to walk around and doing things - like washing the dishes.
Today, my daughter M.H. stopped by, dropped off a couple of things, then headed home to get ready for work. I put the stuff away, ate the second container of soup she'd dropped off a couple of days ago, looked through an Avon book that my rep had dropped off (if anyone in mid-county needs Avon, let me know; I'll pass your number along to her), and basically vegged out.
Now, as I wait for M. to get home from work with a bottle of ginger ale that he's picked up, I can look around at the house and know a few things: There's always next weekend. I needed the recovery day. I managed to update my blog. And much as I love a certain actor/playwright, I don't sound like Harvey Fierstein; his voice sounds much better on him than it would on a middle-aged woman.
Monday, January 21, 2013
Inauguration repost
I originally posted this in my Journalistic Writings blog on January 26, 2009; it deals with Barack Obama's first inauguration. I plan to write something later this week about today's second inauguration.
"I watched last Tuesday's historic inauguration of Barack Obama during a Visual Communications class. About ten minutes into class, the instructor asked if there were any questions.
"Yeah, can we watch the inauguration?" someone asked. It was the question on everyone's minds.
A computer hooked up to a projector came on so we could watch.
I've watched my share of inaugurations on television, been aware of others. When one has lived over five decades, one does notice a few things.
There were many historic aspects to this inauguration, though. Of course, there's the obvious: the first African-American to become elected president. Backing up to the election, it became clear early on that the Democratic nominee would be a first: either the first African-American or woman as a major party's nominee. That alone seemed to get many people's attention.
Then there is the number of people who flocked to Washington, D.C. to watch Obama's inauguration in person. According to The New York Times, "An estimated 1.8 million people watched the inauguration of Barack Obama in person, the most for any inauguration. At least that is what the mayor of Washington said; the Park Service, no longer in the head-counting business, won't contest that number."(1) (Referrenced footnotes at end of today's blog.)
According to The New York Times' article's multimedia segment, 44,000,000 people watched on their computers using live streaming web videos. This broke down to 26.9 million watching CNN, 9.1 million on MSNBC and 8.0 million on AP. (2)
These are record breaking numbers. This alone would indicate interest. I do know that those around me were excited. Almost everyone I spoke with over the days surrounding the 20th mentioned excitement, hope, a sense that our collective lives had taken a turn for the better. Yes, there are nay-sayers, but they seem to be in the minority.
When Obama was sworn in, those in the class room cheered. We watched President Obama's speech in its entirety. I mention this because the speech ended at 12:30, fifteen minutes after the class ended. Only one or two students left at the end of the class period; the rest of us watched, enraptured, at history taking place.
My oldest son, Jason, lives and works in Knoxville, Tennessee. He does phone tech support. He told me that an older African-American lady named Anne works there. Everyone calls her Ms. Annie. She works part-time; as a part-timer, she doesn't always get to sit in the same place. But she usually tries to sit next to Jason.
Tuesday morning, Jason managed to save a place for Ms. Annie so she could sit next to him. Just before the inauguration was to take place, Jason and Ms. Annie left their phones, along with several other employees, so they could watch Barack Obama sworn in.
"Tears just rolled down Ms. Annie's face," Jason later said. Ms. Annie told the small group watching the inauguration that her father had been beaten up years ago for not crossing the street fast enough to let several whites pass, that he'd been hurt several times because of his skin color. "She told us, 'And now, we have an African-American president.' I wish my daddy were alive to see this."
So do I, Ms. Annie. So do I.
(1) "Streaming Onto the Mall, and Into Laptops," by Brian Stelter and Noam Cohen, January 24, 2009; Week In Review; http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/25/weekinreview/25stelter.html?_r=1&scp=8&sq=inauguration,%202009&st=cse
(2) http://www.nytimes.com/imagepages/2009/01/25/weekinreview/20090125-stelter-graphic.html
"I watched last Tuesday's historic inauguration of Barack Obama during a Visual Communications class. About ten minutes into class, the instructor asked if there were any questions.
"Yeah, can we watch the inauguration?" someone asked. It was the question on everyone's minds.
A computer hooked up to a projector came on so we could watch.
I've watched my share of inaugurations on television, been aware of others. When one has lived over five decades, one does notice a few things.
There were many historic aspects to this inauguration, though. Of course, there's the obvious: the first African-American to become elected president. Backing up to the election, it became clear early on that the Democratic nominee would be a first: either the first African-American or woman as a major party's nominee. That alone seemed to get many people's attention.
Then there is the number of people who flocked to Washington, D.C. to watch Obama's inauguration in person. According to The New York Times, "An estimated 1.8 million people watched the inauguration of Barack Obama in person, the most for any inauguration. At least that is what the mayor of Washington said; the Park Service, no longer in the head-counting business, won't contest that number."(1) (Referrenced footnotes at end of today's blog.)
According to The New York Times' article's multimedia segment, 44,000,000 people watched on their computers using live streaming web videos. This broke down to 26.9 million watching CNN, 9.1 million on MSNBC and 8.0 million on AP. (2)
These are record breaking numbers. This alone would indicate interest. I do know that those around me were excited. Almost everyone I spoke with over the days surrounding the 20th mentioned excitement, hope, a sense that our collective lives had taken a turn for the better. Yes, there are nay-sayers, but they seem to be in the minority.
When Obama was sworn in, those in the class room cheered. We watched President Obama's speech in its entirety. I mention this because the speech ended at 12:30, fifteen minutes after the class ended. Only one or two students left at the end of the class period; the rest of us watched, enraptured, at history taking place.
My oldest son, Jason, lives and works in Knoxville, Tennessee. He does phone tech support. He told me that an older African-American lady named Anne works there. Everyone calls her Ms. Annie. She works part-time; as a part-timer, she doesn't always get to sit in the same place. But she usually tries to sit next to Jason.
Tuesday morning, Jason managed to save a place for Ms. Annie so she could sit next to him. Just before the inauguration was to take place, Jason and Ms. Annie left their phones, along with several other employees, so they could watch Barack Obama sworn in.
"Tears just rolled down Ms. Annie's face," Jason later said. Ms. Annie told the small group watching the inauguration that her father had been beaten up years ago for not crossing the street fast enough to let several whites pass, that he'd been hurt several times because of his skin color. "She told us, 'And now, we have an African-American president.' I wish my daddy were alive to see this."
So do I, Ms. Annie. So do I.
(1) "Streaming Onto the Mall, and Into Laptops," by Brian Stelter and Noam Cohen, January 24, 2009; Week In Review; http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/25/weekinreview/25stelter.html?_r=1&scp=8&sq=inauguration,%202009&st=cse
(2) http://www.nytimes.com/imagepages/2009/01/25/weekinreview/20090125-stelter-graphic.html
Monday, January 14, 2013
Scammers, or Didn't I have that tattoo that said "Gullible" removed?
I just love people who try to scam others.
Please reread that last line with the touch of sarcasm that I wrote it with. Heck, forget the touch of sarcasm; try a smack upside the head of it.
The Idiot squad is at it again. They called me this morning.
Note: Be forewarned, and don't be taken in by these, ah-hem, jerks, idiots, etc. If Microsoft, Apple, or any other computer-related group needs to touch base with you, I can assure you, it won't be because they detect a virus on your computer from a remote location. True, there is a way for a legitimate technician (such as someone really, really, really with Microsoft or Apple) to trouble-shoot from a remote location. But that comes only after you have called them with a problem, not the other way around.
These particular scammers are the phone equivalent to seeing two or three people walking down the street, looking like they've just crawled out of the sewer system. As one person walks up your driveway to knock on your door, the other one or two are knocking on your neighbors' doors. You open the door to hear, "Hello, Ma'am (or Sir), I'm the head of Ford Motor Company and I'm here to tell you that your Crown Vic has a major problem. The driveshaft is about to fall out, as is the engine." Meanwhile, his cohorts are telling your neighbors that they're with Toyota and Chevy; when they get down the street, they'll be with VW, Cadillac, and...Well, you get the idea. You wouldn't fall for the scam that way, and you shouldn't fall for it if someone calls saying that they've detected a virus on your PC. (Memorize this and the previous paragraph; if you fall for it, don't say I didn't warn you!) End of Note
Anyway, my phone rang and when I picked up, I had to say "hi" twice (the second time in my I'm-really-not-in-the-mood-for-B.S. voice).
"Yes," said a heavily accented voice, "this is the Windows computer company. Is this the owner/operator for the computer system?"
Hmmm...my scam detection alert system started buzzing, along my resident inner super-hero; I've dubbed her Her Royal Snarkiness.
"Yes," I answer in my most insincere sweet voice. "What do you want?"
"I am here calling you to..."
"Wait, wait, where, exactly, is here?"
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, you said you are here calling me. Where, exactly, is here?"
"Oh, yes. I am on the phone calling you from Microsoft computer company to tell you that our operating systems have detected a virus on your computer."
"Okay, so if your system is that intelligent that it can tell you that, it can also tell you where I am and who I am, right?"
A pause, before he goes on with, "You are there, and you are the owner/operator of that computer system." Oooh, what a quick learner! But not quick enough. He goes on, "So, your computer has a virus on it..."
"Which computer would that be?" I ask, in all my sweet snarkiness.
"Your computer!" comes the gleeful reply.
"My computer? Why, sir, I have five computers! Which one is the virus on?" This was a blatant exaggeration, since I have a laptop and a couple of desk tops.
I hear a gasp before he recovers. "Why, it looks like all of them have viruses!"
"Really? I wasn't aware that you would be so concerned with a virus on my five Macs!"
Now there's a longer pause before he asks, "Macs?"
"Yes, you know. Macs. They're made by Apple."
Dang, I hate when the line goes dead. Must've been a virus...
Please reread that last line with the touch of sarcasm that I wrote it with. Heck, forget the touch of sarcasm; try a smack upside the head of it.
The Idiot squad is at it again. They called me this morning.
Note: Be forewarned, and don't be taken in by these, ah-hem, jerks, idiots, etc. If Microsoft, Apple, or any other computer-related group needs to touch base with you, I can assure you, it won't be because they detect a virus on your computer from a remote location. True, there is a way for a legitimate technician (such as someone really, really, really with Microsoft or Apple) to trouble-shoot from a remote location. But that comes only after you have called them with a problem, not the other way around.
These particular scammers are the phone equivalent to seeing two or three people walking down the street, looking like they've just crawled out of the sewer system. As one person walks up your driveway to knock on your door, the other one or two are knocking on your neighbors' doors. You open the door to hear, "Hello, Ma'am (or Sir), I'm the head of Ford Motor Company and I'm here to tell you that your Crown Vic has a major problem. The driveshaft is about to fall out, as is the engine." Meanwhile, his cohorts are telling your neighbors that they're with Toyota and Chevy; when they get down the street, they'll be with VW, Cadillac, and...Well, you get the idea. You wouldn't fall for the scam that way, and you shouldn't fall for it if someone calls saying that they've detected a virus on your PC. (Memorize this and the previous paragraph; if you fall for it, don't say I didn't warn you!) End of Note
Anyway, my phone rang and when I picked up, I had to say "hi" twice (the second time in my I'm-really-not-in-the-mood-for-B.S. voice).
"Yes," said a heavily accented voice, "this is the Windows computer company. Is this the owner/operator for the computer system?"
Hmmm...my scam detection alert system started buzzing, along my resident inner super-hero; I've dubbed her Her Royal Snarkiness.
"Yes," I answer in my most insincere sweet voice. "What do you want?"
"I am here calling you to..."
"Wait, wait, where, exactly, is here?"
"Excuse me?"
"Yes, you said you are here calling me. Where, exactly, is here?"
"Oh, yes. I am on the phone calling you from Microsoft computer company to tell you that our operating systems have detected a virus on your computer."
"Okay, so if your system is that intelligent that it can tell you that, it can also tell you where I am and who I am, right?"
A pause, before he goes on with, "You are there, and you are the owner/operator of that computer system." Oooh, what a quick learner! But not quick enough. He goes on, "So, your computer has a virus on it..."
"Which computer would that be?" I ask, in all my sweet snarkiness.
"Your computer!" comes the gleeful reply.
"My computer? Why, sir, I have five computers! Which one is the virus on?" This was a blatant exaggeration, since I have a laptop and a couple of desk tops.
I hear a gasp before he recovers. "Why, it looks like all of them have viruses!"
"Really? I wasn't aware that you would be so concerned with a virus on my five Macs!"
Now there's a longer pause before he asks, "Macs?"
"Yes, you know. Macs. They're made by Apple."
Dang, I hate when the line goes dead. Must've been a virus...
Thursday, January 10, 2013
It's a good thing Mom didn't name me Grace...
I took our Christmas decorations down on New Year's Day. I try to do that every year. Most years, I manage within a day or two. But there was a particular October...
When I drove cab, there were times when things got a little hectic. One of my regular customers, N., used to call for rides. After a while, he realized that time is not one of my strong suits. This led to the following type of phone conversation:
N.: "So, I'm at work, I'm ready to head home, but first, I want to swing by the store and my brother's place. How soon can you be here to pick me up?"
Me: "Hmmm...ten minutes."
N.: "Ten minutes your time, or ten minutes real time?"
I finally was able to respond with, "Ten minutes my time, fifteen minutes real time."
So, October arrived and I realized that the outside lights I'd tacked to the front of the house the previous December were definitely worse for wear; they would not last through the upcoming holiday season. The lights really needed to come down.
I grabbed our ladder, put it up, then started taking the lights down.
Within minutes, M. came outside with my cell phone. "N.'s on the phone," M. told me.
I leaned down and took the phone. "Hey, N., what's up?"
"So, what are you doing?"
"Taking down the Christmas lights," I said, juggling phone and light strand.
There was a long pause, then, "No, really, what are you doing?"
"Taking down the Christmas lights!" Geez, wasn't he listening?
"Look, it's October. Do you really think I'm going to believe that? Seriously, if you don't want to tell me what you're doing..."
I tried to stiffle a laugh. "N., this is me. You know, as in Ten minutes your time or ten minutes real time..." Now we were both laughing.
That was the last time I waited past the first week in January to take down the lights. But I no longer use a ladder to put up or take down the lights. I sold our ladder at a yard sale. None of my neighbors will let me borrow theirs'. There's a reason for this...
Halloween, 2010, I decided to clear some branches and leaves off the roof. Simple enough. Set up the ladder on the cement driveway, grab the broom, tell M. he had to hold the ladder...At one point, with my knees against the edge of the roof, I leaned waaay to the right to move a branch off the roof...and the ladder started to fall. I fell eight to ten feet onto the cement driveway. Several neighbors rushed over to make sure I didn't move, as M. dialed 911. After an ambulance ride to the one hospital in the county with a trauma center, I spent five hours in the emergency room; an hour of this was spent in radiology for half-a-zillion X-rays. Amazingly, nothing was broken. It might be because, as a major klutz (think Chevy Chase and Gerald Ford, times ten), I'd learned how to fall, or maybe because I've got half-a-dozen Guardian Angels. Maybe I was just lucky.
I've been a klutz most of my life. True klutzy story: When I was a kid, I was always tripping over my feet. I've never been graceful. You want to see graceful, my sister was (and I'm guessing still is) graceful. I never was.
One day, when I was in first grade, the school nurse called my mother to inform her that she was sure I had a mild case of cerebral palsy. (This was back in the day when every school had a full-time school nurse; it was good for the kids, and gave any nurses who had school-aged kids a job that coincided with their kids' schedule. Hello, school administrators - anybody listening???)
Since I was the oldest of three kids, and therefore, the experiemtal model, every pronouncement, scratch, scrape - EVERYTHING - set off bells and whistles. Mom rushed me to the pediatrician's office, a man who knew just about every family in our neighborhood, made housecalls, and had a very warped sense of humor. (Trust me, that warped sense of humor should be required of pediatricians; the best ones seem to have it!) He checked me out, had me stand on one foot, hop, skip, and generally ran me through my paces. Finally, he sat my mother down and told her, in his stern doctor voice, "I'm afraid I know what's wrong with Robin. She has (dramatic pause here) a terminal case (another pause) of the congenital klutzies."
Up until that last word, my mother was dying inside; then, she was tempted to make sure that the doctor was dying.
Side note: This same doctor had to pull a decorative stone from my sister's nose. When A. was two, most of the women in our neighborhood had large decorative indoor plants with decorative rocks around the base. A. picked up a pale blue one from our plant and shoved it too far for Mom to reach. Off to the doctor's, where this warped man managed to get the rock out, then looked at it before telling my mother, "I always thought people in your neighborhood had rocks in their heads - and now I have proof!"
Another klutzy story: M. has inherited my lack-of-grace. He's been known to take a tumble over a 4-foot-high bright orange traffic cone. Granted, it was dark out and I'd been walking just ahead of him...He also has a good-sized scar on his hand from a box cutter; he was aiming for a box and missed...
Another story: I'd considered trying out for cheer-leading as a high school freshman. My uncooridnation kept me off the squard. That's okay, I ended up playing basketball, which I found enjoyable. (You're also allowed to occasionally fall while shooting hoops without it being considered strange.)
Will I ever be graceful? Probably not.
At least when my parents went looking through family names to give me, they didn't name me Grace...
When I drove cab, there were times when things got a little hectic. One of my regular customers, N., used to call for rides. After a while, he realized that time is not one of my strong suits. This led to the following type of phone conversation:
N.: "So, I'm at work, I'm ready to head home, but first, I want to swing by the store and my brother's place. How soon can you be here to pick me up?"
Me: "Hmmm...ten minutes."
N.: "Ten minutes your time, or ten minutes real time?"
I finally was able to respond with, "Ten minutes my time, fifteen minutes real time."
So, October arrived and I realized that the outside lights I'd tacked to the front of the house the previous December were definitely worse for wear; they would not last through the upcoming holiday season. The lights really needed to come down.
I grabbed our ladder, put it up, then started taking the lights down.
Within minutes, M. came outside with my cell phone. "N.'s on the phone," M. told me.
I leaned down and took the phone. "Hey, N., what's up?"
"So, what are you doing?"
"Taking down the Christmas lights," I said, juggling phone and light strand.
There was a long pause, then, "No, really, what are you doing?"
"Taking down the Christmas lights!" Geez, wasn't he listening?
"Look, it's October. Do you really think I'm going to believe that? Seriously, if you don't want to tell me what you're doing..."
I tried to stiffle a laugh. "N., this is me. You know, as in Ten minutes your time or ten minutes real time..." Now we were both laughing.
That was the last time I waited past the first week in January to take down the lights. But I no longer use a ladder to put up or take down the lights. I sold our ladder at a yard sale. None of my neighbors will let me borrow theirs'. There's a reason for this...
Halloween, 2010, I decided to clear some branches and leaves off the roof. Simple enough. Set up the ladder on the cement driveway, grab the broom, tell M. he had to hold the ladder...At one point, with my knees against the edge of the roof, I leaned waaay to the right to move a branch off the roof...and the ladder started to fall. I fell eight to ten feet onto the cement driveway. Several neighbors rushed over to make sure I didn't move, as M. dialed 911. After an ambulance ride to the one hospital in the county with a trauma center, I spent five hours in the emergency room; an hour of this was spent in radiology for half-a-zillion X-rays. Amazingly, nothing was broken. It might be because, as a major klutz (think Chevy Chase and Gerald Ford, times ten), I'd learned how to fall, or maybe because I've got half-a-dozen Guardian Angels. Maybe I was just lucky.
I've been a klutz most of my life. True klutzy story: When I was a kid, I was always tripping over my feet. I've never been graceful. You want to see graceful, my sister was (and I'm guessing still is) graceful. I never was.
One day, when I was in first grade, the school nurse called my mother to inform her that she was sure I had a mild case of cerebral palsy. (This was back in the day when every school had a full-time school nurse; it was good for the kids, and gave any nurses who had school-aged kids a job that coincided with their kids' schedule. Hello, school administrators - anybody listening???)
Since I was the oldest of three kids, and therefore, the experiemtal model, every pronouncement, scratch, scrape - EVERYTHING - set off bells and whistles. Mom rushed me to the pediatrician's office, a man who knew just about every family in our neighborhood, made housecalls, and had a very warped sense of humor. (Trust me, that warped sense of humor should be required of pediatricians; the best ones seem to have it!) He checked me out, had me stand on one foot, hop, skip, and generally ran me through my paces. Finally, he sat my mother down and told her, in his stern doctor voice, "I'm afraid I know what's wrong with Robin. She has (dramatic pause here) a terminal case (another pause) of the congenital klutzies."
Up until that last word, my mother was dying inside; then, she was tempted to make sure that the doctor was dying.
Side note: This same doctor had to pull a decorative stone from my sister's nose. When A. was two, most of the women in our neighborhood had large decorative indoor plants with decorative rocks around the base. A. picked up a pale blue one from our plant and shoved it too far for Mom to reach. Off to the doctor's, where this warped man managed to get the rock out, then looked at it before telling my mother, "I always thought people in your neighborhood had rocks in their heads - and now I have proof!"
Another klutzy story: M. has inherited my lack-of-grace. He's been known to take a tumble over a 4-foot-high bright orange traffic cone. Granted, it was dark out and I'd been walking just ahead of him...He also has a good-sized scar on his hand from a box cutter; he was aiming for a box and missed...
Another story: I'd considered trying out for cheer-leading as a high school freshman. My uncooridnation kept me off the squard. That's okay, I ended up playing basketball, which I found enjoyable. (You're also allowed to occasionally fall while shooting hoops without it being considered strange.)
Will I ever be graceful? Probably not.
At least when my parents went looking through family names to give me, they didn't name me Grace...
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