"TRUE INNOVATIONS"

 TRUE INNOVATIONS  is the name of the company who made our computer chair.  They were nice enough to send a replacement part when our chair malfunctioned, even though the warranty period had passed.  The seat of the chair would gradually sink so at the end of a session at the computer, your chin would be at the level of the keyboard. 
    Evidently the faulty part was a gas lift.  The instructions explain how to install the new part.  
         1) "To remove the gas lift, keep the chair upside down.
         2) Use a hammer to hit around the area where the gas lift fits inside the seat plate while pulling out the gas lift.  These two items are locked together by pressure; the more you hit the seat plate and pull on the gas lift simultaneously, the more pressure will be released.   Eventually the two items will separate."

Stamped on the part, which, incidentally, weighs almost three pounds, is the caution, "Do not open or heat up."
I had never before  considered the possibility that I  would be afraid of a chair.

Christmas Blues

    My mother was not a particularly fastidious person, but she was very particular about what kind of food she and her kids put in their mouths.  We were taught not to eat food that another child may have offered, and, stressed most of all, we were not to share food with anyone, no licking another person's ice cream cone, for example, or drinking anyone's else's soda.  That being said...
    Christmas was a welcome and cherished holiday, but not for the wealth of toys being received.  When we were little, I think we received one toy-type present, and a few clothes and little treats.  We never felt left out, because no children we knew received anywhere near the plethora of toys that  today's kids get.  One year,when I was probably six or seven years old, my main Christmas present was a toy doctor's kit.  It was a fairly sturdy heavy cardboard kit, brown, with a clasp closure, silver colored.  Inside the doctor's kit was a miniature stethoscope, a reflex hammer, one of those eye-thingies which we used to imagine doctors employed, some tongue depressors, a simulated hypodermic needle, some prescription pads, and most amazing of all, two little packs of candy  pills, formulated of blue tic-tac like dosages.  Back in the day, we kids, or at least I, liked to make our things last, whether we were eating dessert, or holding on to our toys.  So I didn't want to ruin the perfection of my doctor's kit by disturbing any of its elements.  I wanted to maintain its pristine condition.  Unable to completely resist though, I finally put one of the little blue pills in my mouth, sucked its sweetness for a short time, thought better of it, and put the pill back in its little cardboard packet.  Later that day, my mother was looking at our toys, including of course, my doctor's kit.  "Oh, let me try a candy pill," she said, and then, "I"ll try this little light blue one."   I felt my stomach drop; I wanted to yell----"No, not that one! Don't eat the light blue one!"   But I was too stunned, and too ashamed of what I had done to say anything at all.  I knew it was not a good thing to half-eat something and then put it back.  So I stayed quiet, and waited in fear and dread for my mother to get sick from eating leftover, second-hand food.  I knew I was being a coward, but I couldn't help it.  I was mute.  My mother didn't get sick that night or the next day, or the next, so gradually I came to accept that my bad manners, fear and cowardice hadn't killed my mother.  The shame remained though and not until this moment have I confessed a single word.  I don't know why the mind retains bits like this: even now I feel a little embarrassed by the memory.  (And I don't think I ever ate any more of those pills.)

Blinded by the Light

     We moved into the Village of Valley Falls when I was five years old, and from my front porch, in the late afternoons, I could see where the sidewalk ended.  The sidewalk curved down, in a westerly direction, until it was consumed by the giant red ball that was the setting sun.  The sidewalk then was concrete, smooth more or less except for two blocks of it at about the middle of the deserted gas station next door to us.  One of those sidewalk blocks had cracked and there was some sign of repair to it, while the adjacent block was completely blacktop.  That was about as far as I could trace the path of the sidewalk before the blinding glare of the sun obliterated my line of vision.  I never thought about it, but I would have thought it was the same for everybody, and there is no way of knowing whether that was true or not.  About three years ago, I was told I have a congenital condition, a corneal dystrophy, named after a Dr.  Fuchs, of which the symptoms are glare intolerance, halos and streamers around lights, blurriness and auras.  I also remember that when I was little and someone broke out a box camera to take snapshots of us kids, I was always singled out to stop squinting.  How could the sun have always been in my eyes only.  I guess we  tend to believe that we all have the same perspective on life, until the passage of time tells us differently.

Balls!

    I realize I have a better chance of dying in a plunge off the fiscal cliff than I do of winning the Powerball, but I'll buy a ticket anyway.

Reality TV sucks scissors.

     I enjoy watching "Dancing with the Stars."  I think the dancing is phenomenol.  But I don't for one minute believe the results of the judging.  I can understand the popularity of an average dancer getting more viewer votes simply on the basis of popularity, but for judges experienced in dance to give perfect scores to an average dancer over much better contenders is a travesty.  Letting the viewers decide is one thing, but manipulating the judges' scores in order to maintain a balance of minority contestants is patronizing to viewers and contestants alike.  And in the final show, the fix was apparently in again.  The winner was deserving, but you could see the machinations.  Shawn and Derek inexplicably re-danced what they knew would bring in a low judge's score, thereby affirming that Malissa would win, while still maintaining their own artistic integrity.  So there were no losers, really.   (And besides, the rules state that the winner is chosen by a combination of viewers and judges' votes, but they never break the combination down.) I don't mind, except for the falsity, because I don't care who wins: I like watching the dances and listening to the music, kind of like American Bandstand or the Ed Sullivan Show.

Why can't a doctor be more like a car salesman?

     They  are exceedingly customer friendly.  They advertise their product, they seek your business, their staff is trained to be receptive to each customer's needs,  their facilities are welcoming:   in short they do everything possible to attract clients and sell their products.  Profit is, of course, the bottom line, and the concept is to have their customers feel comfortable enough to trust that they have come to the right place to find what they've been searching for. 
    Just park your car and step outside into their parking lot.  A representative is sure to greet you, assess your possible needs, and invite you into a showroom, where you're offered coffee, tea, water.  No overt pressure, no probing questions, just a general  survey of what you might be looking for and and assurance that they are available to show you some vehicles when you're ready to look.  The sales reps  agree with whatever selection or feature you specify or even comment on.  If one person is called away, another is available to step in to help you. You are invited to ask any and all questions, and to call at any time They are invariably friendly, never critical, and never rushed, and never, never rude.
They are well versed in how to please even potential customers; they realize many who walk away one day may return another day.  You can spend an hour or more at a car dealership, possibly just to comparison shop, and leave never to return, and it costs you nothing.  They even keep smiling.
      Re-read the first paragraph and apply it to doctors or health care providers.   By no stretch of the imagination could you say they are customer friendly.  They do advertise their product. They do seek your business.  Profit is their bottom line.  But comparisons pretty much stop there.  Staff in  medical offices are not trained to make the customers, patients,  feel comfortable.  Their first interaction, from their positions behind bulletproof glass,  is to ask how  payment will be made.  The client is branded by birth-date: that is the standard way for them to identify you.  Refreshments are not offered, though a tired coffee pot might be in an alcove somewhere.  Wait times can be extended, though if patients are more than a certain number of minutes late, they will be re-scheduled, or assessed a fee.  Customer opinions are not welcomed, whether about your own treatment, or heaven forbid, something you may have read online, or in a newspaper or magazine. A few questions may be tolerated, but beware of asking for anything to be repeated, or elaborated on.  The "showroom" is posted with signs:    "Stand behind the privacy line. Wait to be called.   Have your insurance card  ready. If your check bounces, you will be charged $15.  Do not change the channel on the TV.  If you don't request  a prescription refill at the time of your appointment, you will be billed $10. (This in a cardiologist's office.)  Turn off your cell phones. If you don't pay your deductible at today's visit, you will incur an additional $10 fee."   If you want information from your visit, you may leave a message on a machine, which frequently goes unanswered.
    Doctors and car salesmen both want you as a customer.  Both businesses are competitive, needing clients to survive.  Your experience at the car dealer leaves you with the feeling they are working for you; even though you realize psychological manipulation is in play, you have the sense of having been treated with respect.  You don't even have to talk finances until you've decided to buy.  If you can leave a medical office with the sense that you are in charge and the doctor works for you, that would be an extreme exception.  Doctors could certainly train their staffs to be more considerate of their patients, they could have live people answer the phones for other than emergencies, they could, should, take the time to review  a patient's records before they meet with him or her, and they should not overschedule:  patients should not be given the same appointment time, and then stacked up in the examination rooms.
      Arrogant car salesmen probably exist, but you've probably never seen one exhibit this trait.   Can you say the same about doctors you have known?
    
    
   
     
  

Power to the Ball

I understand I have a better chance of being devoured by flesh-eating bacteria or being possessed by the devil, but I probably will buy a Powerball ticket anyway.  Statistically, with the margin of error, my chance of winning is the same whether I buy a ticket or not. But, see you in the ticket line.....

That Sinking Feeling

Our old computer chair was replaced about two years ago because the one we had tended to rear back, posing a tilt-over danger.  The new one has a single lever which allows height adjustment, which I like to keep at about elbow level when I am at the computer.  All was well until a few weeks ago when the seat began to  automatically lower when no one was sitting in it.  That was easy enough to remedy: just depress the lever and the seat would rise to the desired position.  Again, all was well until I found that after being at the computer for several hours, I would be peering at the keyboard from chin height.  In stealth fashion, the seat, slowly and without warning or noticing, would sink to the lowest level possible.  I upended the chair, hoping to find a way to fix it, but saw only the website of the manufacturer.  I knew the warranty had expired, after one year, but I emailed Customer Service for advice on how to adjust the seat.  They immediately responded and offered to send me a new gas cartridge.  Gas!  They also sent me instructions as to how to install it;  one of the tools needed is a hammer.  I haven't gotten around to that yet.  And I'm sinking right now.

Road Worrier

I guess I broke the law again today, or at least some D.O.T. regulation.  I blatantly disregarded, and followed for about ten miles, a large orange sign on the back of a Highway truck which clearly stated in large lettering:  CONSTRUCTION VEHICLE.  DO NOT FOLLOW.  I mean, what else are you supposed to do?

Somebody I used to know..

After posting my latest blog, I started to wonder about the family I wrote about, the owners of the Valley Inn.  The beautiful daughter, Rosemary, died this past March in Phoenix, Arizona.  She had indeed studied at the Sorbonne, and had become a fifth-grade teacher. Her obituary said she had cared for her mother and brother.  She was 81.  ( At one time, her mother gave my family some of her clothes for us girls to wear.  That was a common practice at the time, to hand down clothes to younger children; that's if there were no siblings in line.  One day I was outside playing and wearing a skirt that  had been hers and she passed by to go into Sara's store. The skirt was a multi-striped silky material, probably real silk.  I was afraid that she saw me wearing the elegant skirt to play in, with me looking kind of scruffy, and definitely not elegant.   I remember feeling embarrassed  about wearing her undoubtedly expensive skirt as playclothes, and tried to stay out of her line of vision.  I'm pretty sure that she probably would not have recognized her skirt, or knew who I was, but even now, with her dead and gone, I still remember her cool sophisticated appearance.  She had lived in France!

Where to begin...to fail, that is

Growing up in Valley Falls back then meant that you knew everyone in the village, or at least  you knew who everyone was, though you may not have had a direct relationship with them.  The Valley Inn was a dominant feature of the village back then;   the family who ran it seemed wealthy and established to my child's mind, though I think it was the truth.  They owned a big new car, traded in regularly, which was done then only by  the few who could afford it.  Their daughter received her education in France, perhaps the Sorbonne, though I was too young to know for certain.  Their bar and restaurant was a respectable place, where my parents would attend the New Year's Eve celebration dinner with Uncle Frank and Aunt Mary.  My aunt was on much more familiar terms with the Inn's owner and his wife, certainly more comfortable with her than my mother was.  Mary had a beautiful singing voice, and liked to sing on occasions such as parties, and the owners always welcomed her to do so.  Years went by, and eventually the family sold the Valley Inn and retired to Arizona.  That was where retirees went then, not to Florida, but to Arizona where the dry air was supposed to be good for  the breathing problems of aging adults.  I suspect that since in those days everyone smoked every place, that breathing problems were considered an inevitable part of aging. The woman, whose name may have been Leona, stayed in touch with my aunt via letter writing, the standard form of communication of the time.  One day, I heard my aunt tell my mother that she had received a letter, in which her friend wrote that she was  "beginning to fail."   For some reason, those words struck fear in my heart.  I didn't really know the woman well enough to feel concern for her, but I was dismayed that she would acknowledge that she was failing.  That term was not new to me; I used to listen to adult conversation when I was a child and those words were always associated with death being not far away.  I couldn't understand why anyone who had moved to Arizona and was able to write letters to her friends would say she was failing.  I suppose I connected her health with that of my mother, though she was somewhat older.  I only know those words were very unsettling;  the woman of course did eventually pass away, though I don't recall the timing or the details.  Her words have stuck in my mind for all these years.  If I were to analyze why, I would probably conclude that she might have been the first person I knew who confronted her own mortality. 

Now Hear This!

Just when it seems there can't possibly be another innovative personal care product, a new ad appears on the TV screen:    the WAX-VAC.   The pitchman says instead of defying the orders of every doctor ever consulted about not cleaning your ears by inserting those dangerous cotton swabs, use the WAX-VAC instead.  Simply place the appliance gently into the ear canal, as you would the modern ear thermometer, turn it on and vacuum out the wax, water, and whatever other debris has accumulated in your ear.  Sounds wonderful, doesn't it?  But what if it also vacuums out your eardrum and whatever else lies behind that membrane?  I'm going to have to consult with Dr. Oz before making that purchase......

Sound-Off !

Back in the day, sound reception was a high priority.  Prime importance was given to bringing the finest of sound systems into the home.  High-fidelity, stereo, fine tuned audio replication was sought after and there were the speaker systems to prove it.  But you would never know it now;  despite phenomenol  advances in technology, all the i-pods and i-pads and Face-times and Skypes and laptops  punish our sense of  hearing with tinny,  screechy sound reproductions that are reminiscent of the early Edison recordings.  Maybe we can't have it all, but could we at least alleviate the torturous assault on our ears.   (It can't just be me, can it?)

Thanksgiving Marathon

Not running, just cooking.  Tomorrow I will  cook my 45th Thanksgiving turkey, one for each year, starting in 1968.  All but the first I cooked in my present house.  The first one was in our Main Street apartment, way back when everyone was still alive.  The early years were the most fun, because of that.  One year, 1971 or 1972, a major snowstorm hit the area, and traffic came to a standstill; even the Northway was closed.  Dorothy and Gus were unable to get here, and they ended up staying at home  in Loudonville with spaghetti for Thanksgiving dinner. I had cooked a huge turkey, the kids were babies, we were disappointed to be alone, so we ate a total of one slice of turkey, and all took naps.  The next day though, Dorothy and Gus were able to drive out and we had the full meal. 
    In those days, Ma cooked dinner at her house with Helen and the two Bartholomew girls.  In a few years, that would change to where I would cook the turkey, and Ma would do  the vegetables, and we would all eat down there.  Ma liked it because her oven was low to the floor and it wasn't easy for her to bend down to do the basting and lifting.   I liked it because I could concentrate on just the turkey.  Maybe that's why I like, even today, the idea of cooking a big turkey.  That arrangement too was destined for  inevitable change.  The girls left home and then Ma was gone.  So for the twelve Thanksgivings while Helen was still with us, I cooked the full dinner and brought a portion of it down to her.  (She loved the parsnips.)  And wanted to eat in her own house.
   Since Helen's last Thanksgiving in 1994, some of the kids and sometimes family have been here or not, depending on other obligations.  I've always cooked a turkey, and as a few times since then, and also  this year, will carry  it down to the same house I grew up in.  This year, though, I'll bring the full dinner, which will include white and sweet potatoes, turnips, squash, parsnips, and whole berry and canned cranberry sauce.  Today I baked four pies:  pumpkin, mince, chocolate and lemon meringue.  That usually means I get to eat pie for several breakfasts, only pumpkin and mincemeat though, but that's okay with me, better than oatmeal.
    Some of the forty-five turkeys were fresh, back when you could order them locally, others were sold fresh or frozen in the supermarkets.  I couldn't say which were best; guests have  always been polite enough to compliment the meal.  Some were costly; I think one year a fresh organic bird cost almost $50.  That was a year when we were still assiduously health conscious.  Not so much anymore; the specter of fatalism is more prevalent. 
     This year's turkey was a bargain----a 22.59 lb. frozen Marval for $11.07. I hope it's good.  And if it's not, it isn't my fault.

So long...

Rest in peace, Mr. Food.  We're sorry to see you go.

Couches, Clogs and Cars

  I've had the same couch since 1968; it's been reupholstered twice over the years and sorely in need again.  Cost-wise, it's not a good deal, but I can't find another sofa I like as well as that one.  I have one pair of shoes I wear all the time; they are Clark's clogs, the kind of shoe worn by Minnie Mouse.  They are not a fashion statement by any stretch of the imagination, but they are the most comfortable footwear I can find.  I buy replacement pairs, but have to ease into them gradually until the older pair falls completely apart.  Our wedding-gift spatula finally split apart and was discarded.  We have about seven attempts at replacement, but none of them works as well.  I deeply treasure  the faithful and familiar: I realize that. So why, oh why, did I think I could adjust to any car other than my almost ten-year-old Taurus!

Coming of Age

How to tell when your children are all grown up:   when they give each other nostril-hair trimmers as Christmas gifts.  Ah, those good old hairless nose days.

In....or Out?

I'm all for having the language change as our  society evolves, but I don't understand why some changes occur with no apparent need or even a reason.  Case in point:    People, when, not feeling well, used to "call in sick" to work.  Lately, the term used is "call out sick."  I guess an argument could be made for either expression, but why the change?  Everybody knew and understood what it meant to call in sick.  Call out sick conjures up an image of someone feeling ill at home and shouting, "I'm sick!"

Job Lot

File this under "Things Our Guidance Counselors Never Told Us."  Careers exist as Socialites, Paramours and Operatives.  Those positions seem to be well compensated in terms of income, intrigue, and  public exposure.  For instance, who wouldn't relish the status of being known as an operative?   Though there IS always that piper skulking around looking to be paid. 

Parse This.

     I'm getting ready to cook our traditional Thanksgiving dinner.  It's the same as Ma used to cook, with the usual vegetables cooked in the same style as always:   what I call the Irish cuisine style, plain, with butter, salt and pepper.  The vegetables are  white potatoes, sweet potatoes, squash, turnips and parsnips.  All are boiled and mashed, with the exception of the parsnips, which I feel free to take  chef's liberties with---sometimes sauteed in orange juice, or fried  with maple syrup or brown sugar, anything to detract from the fact they are in actuality parsnips.  The point is that all the vegetables must be first quality since they are served very plain.
       I found the potatoes, squash and sweet potatoes at our Shop & Save, but the store inexplicably did not have any turnips or parsnips.  Dave offered to help, so I laid out the specifications:   The turnips should be roughly apple-sized, not large rutabagas or  tiny golfball sized, they should have the purple tops and feel firm to the touch, not soft and squishy.  The parsnips, most likely found near the carrot section, should be uniform medium sized, not too thick and heavy, nor too long and skinny, and should feel firm, not bendable. They are often sold in plastic bags, about 5 or 6 to a bag, so get two bags.
     When I got home tonight, there were about a dozen nice fresh-looking  turnips on the kitchen counter, and next to them two bags of parsley.  Go figure.

Babies--Part II

Preliminary baby-morality test results are in.  The TV segmet was just a teaser for a full study to be shown Sunday, I think.  I see flaws, although full workup is unknown.  Litle babes in arms were shown a puppet show with a peaceful puppet and an aggressive puppet.  Then babies were timed as  to  which puppet they looked at longer.  But bad puppet was on the babies' left and good puppet on right.  Each of the five babies looked first to their left for a few seconds, and then to their right for a longer period of time.  Each time the bad puppet was to their left.  So the babies each looked at the good puppet for a longer time than at the bad puppet.  Why they stopped looking is unclear, for now.  And, besides, what if some  babies prefer  to look at the dark side?  So many question. so hard to tell.  And what is the reason for the study?   Don't we have a hard enough time trying to determine if adults know right from wrong? 

Babies

I'm about to go into the living room and watch unfold the answer to an age-old question:   "Do babies know right from wrong, and good from evil?"  I'll let you know the answer after I watch the segment......

Blue, with dots.

Helen wore a housedress every single day of her life, except for funerals, so it was no surprise she would have been gifted with  one on her 80th birthday.  She loved presents and as always opened each one enthusiastically and gratefully. But when she opened the box containing the navy and white housedress, she looked a little crestfallen, and slid the box away a little too quickly.  Later she would confide, "I don't really like the dress.  It has polka dots, and polka dots are for old ladies." 

Now I get it.

I had driven my father's Aunt Ella to a wake for some relative, whose wake it was I no longer recall.  I do remember one of the other mourners recognizing Aunt Ella, and coming over to greet her.  "You look great," she said, " Nobody would ever think you're ninety-five years old!"  Aunt Ella drew herself up, indignant:   "Well, I'm only 92," she said in no uncertain terms.  "Ninety-five! I'm not that old!"

ELPHABA

SO IF YOU CARE TO FIND ME, LOOK TO THE WESTERN SKY. 

Occupational Training

If I had known there was such a position as socialite, I would have studied for it.  Maybe a major in Socialite with a minor in Finance or such.  It seems like a rewarding  occupation, and you get to meet such interesting people.  I'm sure the salary would be negotiable. 

String of Pearls

Does anyone believe that any high-profile, i.e. powerful, man ever has only one affair?   And that the poor man was victimized by an ambitious floozy?  And he bears no resemblance at all to Brad Pitt.  Such is life.  Plans disappear; dreams take over.

Republican Retrospect

All morning, and indeed since Election Day Eve, the pundits and Republican strategists have been agonizing over where Mitt Romney went wrong;  the theories are endless.  They are puzzling over how Obama could have secured a second term, in the face of the economy, etc.  I say the answer is simple for the next time around:   have Bill Clinton speak at their Convention in favor of their candidate.  I must admit I was not that impressed with Obama for a second term, but when I heard Clinton's speech at the Democratic Convention, I decided that if Obama was good enough for Clinton, he'd be good enough for my vote.

Bug in your ear

Ladybug, Ladybug, fly away home.
Your house is on fire, and your children are gone. 

All In

I just saw a clip where Paula Broadwell spoke of being embedded with General Petraeus in Afghanistan.   She said it with a straight face too.  And what about the title of the biography:   she says it's because Petraeus went "all in" with every challenge he faced.  I thought the term would be going "all out,"  but I guess she should know. 

Capote memory

This is how it begins:
      "Imagine a morning in late November.  A coming of winter morning more than twenty years ago.  Consider the kitchen of a spreading old house in a country town.  A great black stove is its main feature, but there is also a big round table and a fireplace with two rocking chairs placed in front of it.  Just today the fireplace commenced its seasonal roar." 
..,..Oh, my, she exclaims, it's fruitcake weather!"

This is how it ends:
....A morning arrives in November, a leafless, birdless coming of winter morning when she cannot rouse herself to exclaim: " Oh, my, it's fruitcake weather!"
      And when that happens, I know it.  A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on  a broken string.  That is why, on this particular... morning, I keep searching the sky.  As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven."

Princess hair

Why are so many  women TV celebrities channeling Rapunzel and Cinderella  and wearing  wear long, flowing tresses well  into their forties and fifties, and yes, beyond?    A little long in the tooth for the ingenue look, I'd think.

Tell me: Why?

Why have  the long long trains been stopping on the tracks behind my house for all this week?
How do the pundits suddenly seem to know exactly where Mitt went wrong, and each knowing that there was one specific error he made?
Has Mr. Food just grown old, or is he ailing? 
Is Michael intent on outperforming and outcharming Kelly?  (That's bound to tire them both out; don't they know there has to be the Yin and the Yang?

Election

I can't believe the vote is going to be as close as anticipated.  I hope not; remember the hanging chads, and Congressman Kickass.

Right on, Mr. Pinckney

That's my motto:   "Millions for defense, but not one cent for tribute."

Taxonomy

 I don't want to tell the Coptic Church how to pick their new Pope, but can't help but think there should be a better way than by  "blindfolded altar boy."  Seems  so wrong on so many levels....