Call me Technonana

 

Technologically challenged, you can imagine how thrilled I was to learn from Spectrum that my current modem needed to be replaced and that, in fact, they were going to send me a new modem and router and that I would get to install it all by myself.  Me – install a modem and router. Me. What are they thinking? I then had to Google "modem" and "router" to see what they were. And so it began.  I was in techno-hell.

Now ... Spectrum said that all of the changeover could be accomplished in five easy steps starting with unplugging the old and unpacking the new.  I waited with bated breath for the new equipment to arrive. They provided diagrams of each step. I could handle the unplugging part, but after that ... not so easy for me.  So… have to tell you that – this simple five-step process took me one entire day plus the morning of a second. I overthink.  Also -- what they do not tell you is that once everything is "installed", each device you have that "needs" WiFi must be switched to the new system and given your new Username and WiFi password, assigned and chosen by Spectrum. For me that was my PC, cell phone, iPad, ROKU, garage door opener, Ring doorbell and a wireless printer. I could switch my password, by the way. I just am sort of "over" the whole process right now.

Once that was all accomplished (I will spare you the gory details of that series of frustrations) -- I then had to finish by calling Spectrum and telling them that I was now going to return the old modem/router and to receive instructions as they directed. Now I ask you… have you ever called Spectrum?  The shortest on-hold time that day was 27 minutes.  I tried three times and finally – just waited – listening to the repetitive music.  I am not even going to tell you about that as I am certain that you have been there with the music thing.  I managed to clean my entire kitchen, unload the dishwasher, throw in a load of wash and steam clean the floors of two bathrooms before Walt came on the phone.  Walt was a very nice man and when I told him that I would rather not drive 35 or 40 miles to return old equipment, he said no problem and he mailed me an empty box and a prepaid FedEx Ground label. It arrived the next day.  Efficient, right? Once I figured out where one could drop off a FedEx Ground box for pickup in town, I was all set.  Thank you again, Google. (I practically begged the USPS to help me out -- they were pleasant and helpful with Google -- but no.) 

By the time I was done with this process, I have to tell you that my mind was numb – but … there is a certain sense of pride in figuring it all out.  I find myself mentioning that I accomplished this – you know – texting friends and family,  working it into various conversations, and now writing about it.   I feel, at least temporarily, that I am a Technonana.  Well… that may be a stretch, but you know what I mean.  By the way – don’t ask me to help setting up your new modem and router.  I took notes on the process but had a ceremonial burning once everything was up and running.  The mere thought of attempting such a thing again makes me cringe and as my Mom would say -- perspire profusely. Needless to say I won’t be working for Spectrum … ever. I think it would have been sort of nice if they had just sent someone to install their new equipment. It seems to me that I pay them enough each month that they might offer this service. Nothing is easy these days. 

Do you think it matters that I have a whole bunch of parts (cables and connecting gizmos) left over? I have decided that it does not. 

Just moseying along ...

 

Lately I have been having an ongoing conversation with a good friend about running and jumping. And... there was also a brief mentioning of flittering through one's day.  You know – I am going to run down town or run to the grocery store.  Or -- I am going to jump out of bed or jump into the shower -- or flitter from one thing to another. Neither of us has run or jumped for a very long time, although it seems we still flitter a bit now and then.  The thing is, I cannot remember the last time I ran  -- unless it was after a toddler about 13 years ago (they are amazingly fast for having such short little legs), and as far jumping – vague memories for sure.  Come to think of it though as far as jumping goes -- I do remember an unfortunate and pitifully clumsy attempt to clear a hurdle in high school. I got stuck half way over and ended up tipping the whole thing over and picking gravel out of my knees. Never an athlete… never pretended to be. I chalk that up to an inherited klutz factor. I am comfortable with that. It is, however, sort of comforting to think that flittering is still within the realm of possibility and I do that well. At least that involves moving from place to place. Movement is a good thing.

Anyway – the whole running/jumping thing makes me think of Hopscotch days and polished saddle shoes and Keds.  You remember – the days when people used their brains and counted change back.  I still do that, by the way.  And – I distinctly remember my Dad teaching me how and that such a process was important.  He also taught me that two quarters are of the same value as one fifty-cent piece and…  how to tie shoes. Next to learning how to type – I have always found those lessons to be of major importance.  Then again -- there is knowing how to hem using a blind stitch. I learned that skill in a college dorm from one of my suitemates.  But I digress…

After careful thought about my movements throughout a variety of days with a variety of activities, I have decided that the best descriptor of my movement of late is that I mosey.  Isn’t there something soft and comforting about that word?  It implies never rushing – sort of a less stressful way of moving through one’s day than that of flittering.  I mosey in general… most all the time.  I mosey along…  yep. Perhaps moseying is one of the best parts of being my age.  I am totally comfortable with that too.  

SPAM RISK... 'tis the season....

 

On occasion I realize that some small thing is annoying me.  This week it is spam calls that somehow slither through the spam blockers on my phones – both landline and cell. Yes -- I still have a landline.  The reason I do is that calls to 911 can be tracked if you call from a landline.  (You know -- even if you are unable to talk.) Our emergency system cannot track cell phones in such circumstances - at least not in my county...at least not yet.  I know this because I called them to check. They are working on it. I should probably check again to see how things are going.

Back to spam calls. The vast majority of them come to me on Mondays and Tuesdays, but they come in on other days as well. They do not discriminate as to day.  This week a Pam Cornish called and someone from Humboldt, IA. (Humboldt, by the way, is a lovely city in Humboldt Co., Iowa that had 4,792 citizens as of the 2020 census – up 340 people since the census of 2000.)  I am also wondering now about Jacksboro, TX. I will have to do some research. There were also a bunch of calls that came up on Caller ID as SPAM RISK.  Duh… The best though is that I received yet another call from myself. It is startling to see your own name come up on Caller ID.  Those "to self calls" are the ones I like the best, and I am actually tempted to answer to see with whom I am speaking. I know for sure I would not be talking to myself. I don't need a phone for that. Whoever is on the other end of the line, I bet they are concerned about my car warrantee, think I need a reverse mortgage, or are calling because there is something wrong with my computer and they need access to fix it. Oh, and just last night the Fraud Department of Amazon called from the 716 area code and left a message.  They were fearful that a recent charge for an expensive computer had been made to my account.  Surprising really.  I think they usually just email from Uzbekistan or somewhere.  I forget. 

This day in age one would think that technology could help with this.  They would be wrong – obviously. Spectrum's NOMOROBO doesn't even work that well. Or -- perhaps technology could help, but doesn't -- on purpose. Technology has taken on a life of its own. It's a bit unnerving.

If my grandson is here, he sometimes answers such calls in Spanish or... in a made-up language or... pretends he is someone who reminds me of that banjo playing savant kid from the porch in Deliverance .  In this modus operandi he tells them that I am out feeding the pigs. (I may have suggested that.) Actually, he has a variety of approaches. A couple of days ago when he was here, he answered in his normal voice and then just listened with no response until the spammer hung up on him. I personally rarely answer any of these calls. Instead, I just slide my finger to block caller. What's frustrating though is that there seems to be no end to the numbers they call from, and I wonder what would happen if I block the number they are using and it is the number of someone I know and would never ever want to block.  Then there is the case when a friend’s name appears on caller ID, I answer, and it is some spammer. So annoying.

One time (a very long time ago – even before cell phones) when I was telling an FBI friend about creepy "breather" phone calls I was receiving, he told me about trapping a line.  The phone company can do that or at least they could at that time. Once the line is trapped – the caller could be identified and be unable to make calls - at least I think that's how it worked.  It was a long time ago.  Ah – the good olde days. I never did get a trap on the line.  I just told the creepy "breather" caller that I had one and the calls stopped.  I think, by the way, that the creepy caller was the same person(s) who was/were breaking into my house and creepy crawling through in the dark while dropping lit matches along the way.  Double creepy. Never caught him or/and his buddy either. I always knew who they were though. Still do.  But I digress....

Alas... this is the age of the spam caller.  The times that are the worst are the days preceding a primary, midterm or Presidential election. Bet you already noticed that this week.  Here we go.... 'Tis the season…  The 2022 Pennsylvania primary is the 17th.  Oh -- by the way  -- if you live in Pennsylvania, get out and vote. Maybe the people you elect now to run in November can eventually do something about phone spammers.  Fingers crossed, but not holding my breath on that one. Guess they figure they have more important things to accomplish. 

Ferlis Haddidistori... Wait. What?

 

Years ago, when I first moved back to my home town, I taught English and French in a garage behind a small community school in a lovely town a few miles away. It was wonderful, and ... for a few weeks before they cut a man door, the students and I had what we called natural air-conditioning. We also had flies and assorted other bugs that would hang out a bit. (I never did get a chalk board or a teacher's desk. It didn't seem to matter at the time. Another teacher (Thelma) taught Math on the other side of the wall separating the two halves of the garage. Thelma and I were considered overflow from the main building. It was cozy. We even had a garage heater. It was a fun and a unique part of my teaching career.)  Anyway -- I spent mornings there – two classes of English -- one of 9 students and one of 14) and one even smaller class of French. Then lunch.  Lunch, by the way, was homemade – including the most delicious soups and pies one could imagine. People called the cook "Ma". She was wonderful. Oh... and lunch was served on real plates with real silverware. No plastic. (Those were the blessed "pre-popularity of Styrofoam" days.) Then after lunch I traveled to another school within the district – a good placement, but not nearly as fun. 

The thing is – during those garage days, I met a woman who was one of those special people.  She worked in the actual school building -- a large two-story brick structure that housed k-12. She was also an English teacher, but one with way more experience. She was also "gifted" with quite an unusual and memorable (some might say "harmlessly twisted) sense of humor.  For example, she introduced herself to me as “Lucy”.  I found out months later that her name was really “Mary” … much to my surprise … and a bit of harmless humiliation.  She also stealthily placed homemade bread on the passenger side front seat of my car from time to time, and it was literally years before I knew where those loaves came from.  Unfortunately for those of us who knew her, she passed away -- way too young.

I dreamt about her this morning.  She was sitting in a restaurant with a bunch of other teachers from my past and she looked wonderful.  In my dream I didn’t remember that she was gone.  Anyway – I went over to talk with her, and in the course of conversation, asked her what she was reading these days and she gave me a name that I would love to be able to remember.  I spent the rest of the dream trying to remember it so that, when I woke up,  I could look up the author to see if it were a real name. You see, it was one of those dreams (early morning) when you know you are dreaming.  Of course, the name was a multisyllabic and complicated name -- seeming to be, perhaps, of some mysterious foreign origin.  It was something like Ferlis Haddidistori….  Even though I kept spelling it in my head as I finished the dream, I did not manage to remember it. Drat that.

Anyway -- I Googled variations of the name as soon as I got up. I mean – what if it were really an author’s name?  How weird would that be? And how fun. Did you know that you can Google authors with last names that start with H?  You can. No luck. (I did find some interesting books about an architect named Zaha Hadid though -- so there is that.)

I can’t help but wonder if Lucy/Mary is messing with me from another plane of existence.  It would be like her to do something like that.  I am okay with it. Totally okay.  By the way, if you are aware of any fiction authors with names similar to Ferlis Haddidistori, please let me know.  Thanks.

Escape to The Box Store...

I am trying not to write about the article I read that describes the current "dystopian" situation of our nation as falling somewhere between Orwell's 1984 and Homer's land of the lotus-eaters.  The following is the result of that effort to escape current events ....

~~~~

So – recently when my grands had a day off from school, their mom invited me to tag along with them while making a trip to a box store about 30 miles from where we live … always a fun adventure that I love to share with them. We try to do it at least two times a year.  I think of it as restocking the larder (one of my grandmother’s words that I have always found amusing for some dumb reason). 

We have shared such outings for many years now. There was a time when my daughter and I each had a child in our own cart. We would tuck the kids into the deep part of the carts and move them around among the items as we shopped – eventually they would be sitting (perched) on top of large boxes of stuff. It was at times to the point that they were about to tip out  – hanging on for dear life. They thought that to be wonderful fun and had a game of some sort involving "package cannons". I never quite understood the rules.  If antsy, they would run around and were usually quite good about staying within sight.  We never really lost either one of them… well… not for very long anyway. Now that my grandson in way taller than I am and my granddaughter is just a bit shorter – those days are gone. No more perching.  No more package cannon. Now – they help lift heavy stuff and select treats for the pantry.  It’s all good.  They also help unload when we get home which is huge.  Plus – they never get lost in the store anymore either – which makes these trips less stressful. They have become expert tasters of the free samples that are sometimes offered from place to place as one moves throughout the warehouse. It’s fun.

I just have to share this one more thing while I have the picture in my mind .... We have been dragging those kids with us for their entire lives.  Good sports both. When my grandson was really little and before he had a sister, I remember packing him into his car seat and then loading perennials into the back seat around him and into the cargo area behind – totally surrounding him.  I can still see his smiling little face peering out like ET in the closet.  He is a most tolerant person. His sister is as well.  Good times.

Ah -- the good olde days. In some ways it seems like yesterday. I used to pack snacks and drink boxes for them with an occasional toy or something to amuse them along the way. Nowadays, we tend to stop at Panera’s for lunch after we shop and cell phones provide entertainment while riding - if needed.  I sort of miss the snack wrappers and empty drink box days, but the car stays cleaner…so there is that.  

Growing up happens so quickly. But then .... you know that.

Big brothers... little sisters...

Having worked with my share of teenagers for almost 30 years, I understand what the Swedish author, Fredrik Backman, is saying when describing a person of that particular age in one of his novels. Backman writes: “…a teenager..., with all the divinely sanctioned charmlessness and impoliteness this entailed, sat at one end of the table like an irritable accessory”.  And – although I love that description and have encountered such surliness over the years, it is somewhat stereotypical and not one I have encountered with my own preteen and teenage grandkids. In fact, I find them fun to be around and to be active participants in my life. One grandson, having navigated those teenage years with success, is now classified as an adult. Where does the time go? Anyway -- moving on as time tends to do -- all my grandkids are clever and have great senses of humor -- humor that they are not afraid to share. The following is a case in point.

Just last weekend my one teenage grandson texted me a “phone photo” of his little sister asleep in the car as they were traveling on a family outing. She is eleven.  I didn’t notice it at first, but after he texted me the second time with a painstakingly kind explanation, I noticed that he had carefully stacked several coins on her sweet, little preteen forehead. There she was -- sound asleep -- a little angel with thick braids... and a large stack of coins protruding from her head. (How did I not notice that at first glance?  I guess I was admiring her shiny thick braids.)  Anyway -- after I stopped laughing, while at the same time wondering what she would later describe as waking up to coins raining down her face, I texted him that his uncle would be proud.   You see  -- his uncle was/is a big brother with a little sister too handy not to torment while growing up. Especially when they both were still living at home, he always found teasing to be something he could not resist. One of his favorite things for a while was to just pick her up and move her if he wanted the spot where she was sitting -- a tendency that she found most annoying.  Is this a big brother syndrome of some sort? Is being the target of teasing merely a part of being the little sister? Or – does it just run in my family?  You tell me. 

I, personally, never had a big brother… although … I did have a close family friend who seemed to love to torment me off and on… sort of like a brother.  But the thing is – I could escape from him as we didn’t live in the same house.  My daughter and granddaughter didn’t/don’t have that option.  Even now that both my kids are adult and on their own -- just this week my daughter’s big brother posted nutty pictures on Facebook in “honor” of his little sister’s birthday. It continues.  I have to say that I eagerly await the payback. At this stage that sort of thing is really sort of fun.

As I do tend to look on the bright side, the thing is that I personally think it is a blessing to grow up with a big brother in that it sort of forces the little sister to develop a sense of how to cope with such antics. I am thinking, for example, that my granddaughter at least was able to keep the forehead coins. Hope so. That would be a plus. Both my daughter and granddaughter are much better sports about things like this than I am. Is it because of the big brother thing?  Just askin’. 

Grief is a shared journey.

My sister died four years ago this week.  In looking back through her posts on Facebook in an attempt to recapture shared moments, I rediscovered the following that she posted on January 31, 2016. These words speak to me, and I am thinking they may speak to you as well. After all as some wise person once said -- we may each travel the road differently, but grief is a shared journey.

from the Deep Grief Great Love Group – posted on January 28, 2016:

Let me be crystal clear: if you’ve faced a tragedy and someone tells you in any way, shape or form that your tragedy was meant to be, that it happened for a reason, that it will make you a better person, or that taking responsibility for it will fix it, you have every right to remove them from your life.

Grief is brutally painful. Grief does not only occur when someone dies. When relationships fall apart, you grieve. When opportunities are shattered, you grieve. When illnesses wreck you, you grieve. So, I’m going to repeat a few words I’ve uttered countless times; words so powerful and honest that they tear at the hubris of every jackass who participates in the debasing of grieving. Sometimes things in life cannot be fixed.  They can only be carried.