Computer Tips

Having a really rough couple of weeks. Long freak out short, I am in the process of breaking in a new computer. The catalyst for this new purchase was not joy. It was not a budgeted, planned upgrade. It was a horrible surprise. It was, in that way that only technology can be, completely unexpected, stunning, and mysterious. My work life existed. And then it didn’t.

In an effort to shift my energy away from fervently wishing I could go back in time to when I wasn’t sitting in a corner mumbling stupid-stupid-stupid while self-flagellating with monitor connectors and USB dongles, I thought I’d jot down a few thoughts to help others.

Here are my top 10 tips for having a computer:

1. Do backups.
2. Do more backups.
3. Back up your backups.
4. Back up everything, not just files but the entire system.
5. Apple has an app for doing this automatically. When you first attempt to set it up and realize it requires other equipment to activate, go buy the equipment that very moment. Do not think, “Oof. I’ll figure that out later” and then wait 4 years to realize you never figured it out.
6. When a help-line person suggests that you could erase your hard drive to fix problems, think long and hard before saying, “Okay.” And then think again.
7. The vague idea that you are pretty sure you had your applications backed up is not proof of any kind that you have your applications backed up.
8. When you run regular backups of all of your home folder, it does include any of your applications. You dumbass.
9. It’s probably a good idea to store the licenses for your applications in a different place from inside a folder within the applications themselves.
10. Run backups before a help desk person suddenly hands you off to their supervisor.

In short, my friends, stop whatever you are doing right now and consider what you might lose if your computer disappeared from your desk.

Do backups. They’re a life saver.

Christmas Gets Harder

When you’re a kid, Christmas is the most wonderful time of the year. You live in a marshmallow world. You write a letter to a complete stranger, and, if you are good or mostly good or even just occasionally good, your wishes will be granted.

It was all so easy. Your energy never dwindled. Even at 7:00 a.m., you could greet the day with a whoop of joy and leap from your bed like a reindeer who has just been told he’s cute. After a quick scramble down the stairs, you’d see that cookies had been eaten and milk had been drunk; stockings were plumped; and marvelous things, like an Easy-Bake Oven or a pogo stick, awaited you.

Everything sparkled. Magic existed, and the proof was everywhere.

But Christmas gets harder.

We grow taller. Our world gets bigger, and secrets are harder to keep. I hope when you discovered the truth about K. Kringle that it wasn’t just three days before Christmas. I hope you were older than 7. (Hoo boy. My heart shattered like a mercury glass ornament dropped from a great height.)

Still. Your resiliency meter is full as a child, and Christmas continues to be pretty wonderful. You receive fun gifts; festive decorations pop up wherever you go; wonderful meals appear on the table when it’s time to eat. And you—you are a shining star, loved and cherished, ooh’ed and ahh’ed over by grandparents, aunts, uncles, great aunts, great uncles, neighbors, and family friends.

You have siblings and cousins, school friends and neighborhood playmates. At any point, you can simply walk outside and there will be other children to play with, to go sled riding or build a snowman. It is still a magical time. And you become, once again, a well-adjusted, happy soul on Christmas.

Then, a few years later, the next great holiday conspiracy kicks in:  Christmas romance.

Ah yes. I stood there year after year, bright eyed and certain, all dressed up with no place to go, keeping a hopeful eye out, bolstering my disappointments with assurances of “next year,” believing in every platitude, navigating the season of dances and parties and diamond marketing, and surviving that awkward moment of having no place to put your lips at midnight on New Year’s Eve, but the traditions of love and marriage never happened for me.

Now, I have made peace with a solitary life and I am not trying to be maudlin, but, folks, it is a simple fact that some people are unlucky in love. Some never get the chance to be Santa. Some of us have to go it alone, and the sugar-coated, family-centric, Hallmarkian season can make even the most well-adjusted Old Maid flinch a bit.

Christmas gets harder.

On your own or with a partner, as you get older, Christmas becomes a lot of work. More pressure, more responsibilities, more problems. The kids have become the adults, and the reality of stepping into those shoes will make you stumble and limp. It’s our turn to shop and cook. To make the decisions and run the errands. To find a parking space at the mall. To face gladiatorial trials of amassing vacation days and surviving travel.

The to-do list gets longer. The days get shorter.

It’s a lot, to be an adult at Christmas. And it doesn’t matter how easy-breezy you try to be or how many times you check your list or how early you start or how many hours you spend, there is always something else that needs doing.

One day, you look around, and Christmas has changed so dramatically as to be almost unrecognizable. Part of that is the adult perspective and associated responsibilities, but the tragic thing is that, after 50-plus years on the planet, Christmas changes because you are missing some significant people. And that hurts. And you are reminded of them through every activity, every song, every smell; in the ornaments, the jokes, the snacks, the bows on boxes; even in the simple act of unwrapping 48 silver buds. Christmas is a prism for grief; strands of love and longing shine over everything.

I struggled this year. I got overwhelmed. I swore some. I sobbed a bit. I lost the plot. And then I got angry that I felt sad and stressed instead of “Christmassy.” About the middle of last week, I reached a point where it felt as if the only way out was to hate Christmas.

Sometimes giving up feels like the only answer. But, spoiler alert, that is never the only answer.

Amid the craziest of the craziness, a wise friend reminded me to be on the lookout for moments of joy. Oh, may the choirs of angels sing. And may a guardian angel kick my bottom if I ever want to give up on Christmas again.

I made an adjustment.

I kept going. I tidied the house and prepped the food, but I stopped rushing, and I stopped pushing. I tended to my Dad (who was ill the entire week before Christmas), and I did what I could. I told myself that no one coming to our house over the holidays would care about the messes, and I reminded myself that, even if they did, I did not.

Given that we were preparing to celebrate the birth of Christ, I acknowledged that it was rather silly of me to think any effort of mine is what would save the day.

I decided to ignore the Forest of Things To Do and just stare at a single tree, with a big ol’ glass of pinot grigio in my hand. I dropped the goal of an ideal holiday. I dropped the goal of an okay holiday. I minimized the to-do list, ignored the disarray, and took a few hours off. I stopped trying so hard to feel giddy and happy and young. And I surrendered.

I folded my arms across my heart, and I did a trust fall into Christmas.

I’m not going to tell you it was the best day ever. But, when I got up on December 25th, it was Christmas. It came. It came just the same.

The proof of magic these days may not be as obvious as flying reindeer or a fat man getting down a chimney, but it exists. Magic remains in the gathering of family, in the science of ancient recipes, in surprises hidden in boxes and bags. Magic lives on in the memories, the traditions, and the happiness we feel. Magic even exists in grief. In grief, at least, you can feel again the exquisite joy of those you have loved and who loved you, too.

As you get older, Christmas gets harder. But, of course, that’s when we need it the most.

There were a few tears this Christmas. There was clutter and dust. There was rain instead of snow. There was an artificial tree instead of a real one. But, yes, Virginia, there were moments of joy. It was a perfectly imperfect day, and, as night fell, I experienced the childlike hope that it would not end. It was Christmas, and I didn’t hate it.

20 Years

Evil tore a hole in the universe that day. Things fell apart. And it rippled. I’m not sure the evil of that day has yet to stop rippling.

Well, that is as far as I got today upon trying—as I have tried on nearly every anniversary—to write something about September 11. Writing usually brings me comfort, usually helps me put my thoughts and feelings into order. But I cannot write about September 11. Even at a distance of 20 years, it’s too close.

Shortly after I gave up on this post, I saw Dan Rather’s piece, “20 Years.” So I’m going to share that instead. I remain (since I first read his work as a Freshman writing student) in awe of his talent.

Do something kind today.
Put some goodness back into this world.

The Blue Hydrangea

Two years ago today, we lost Mom.

It’s been a terribly long time. And just a blink.

I remember, on the day of funeral visitation, two of our neighbors made dinner for us. When we stopped home between the afternoon and evening sessions, there was a delicious meal waiting, the tables were set with linens and silverware, and each table held a vase of fresh-cut flowers. Our two-doors-up neighbor Diana had contributed the blooms from her own blue hydrangea bushes. I remember thinking that Mom would have loved the gorgeous simplicity of those bouquets.

After the funeral, as each bloom wilted, I felt sad and wistful, as you feel about small losses that follow a big one. Eventually, only one bloom remained. I checked on it each morning and would be so relieved to see that it had not yet wilted. That single bloom lifted my spirits. It outlasted July. It lasted through August. It lasted into September! It remained vibrant and flowering and had even sprouted new growth. The blue hydrangea on the window sill began to feel like something more than a flower. Diana and I both agreed, it was a message from Mom.

Yes. I know that conclusion is unlikely to be substantiated by any botanist. But, in times of impossible longing, we don’t really want science; we want magic.

I don’t know how long the magic might have lasted if I had just let it be, but, about midway through September, I had the brilliant idea that I should plant it. I did so, lovingly and carefully, and it looked great, for a bit. But then, one day, I looked close and discovered that the stem had become a stick.

I was so disappointed. I had failed, miserably. I had ruined something irreplaceable. And (I can chuckle about it now) I kept that dumb stick in a pot of dirt for a very long time.

Eventually, I decided I should buy one for myself, but you know how it goes. Regret dampens your enthusiasm. Times passes. You think of it, but there’s no time for the extra errand. You have no time to clear a spot in the garden. There are no blue hydrangeas in stock. There’s a global pandemic.

As of July 12, 2021, I still did not have any blue hydrangeas. Then, my phone dinged. I had a text message from Diana:  Stop up when you get a chance.

I walked to her house and there, in a plastic container in the corner of her driveway, was a plant. I said, “Is that a hydrangea!?” She nodded. She’d dug up one of her beautiful blue hydrangea bushes, dug it up, root ball and all. I gasped. We hugged. It was one of the nicest acts of kindness, one of the very best surprises I have ever had. We shared a lovely moment. Then, we were grunting and giggling as we loaded that gigantic planter into a wheel barrow.

Friends, I give you the Blue Hydrangea, life preserver, show-stopping shrub, symbol of friendship, message from Mom.  

Big Lies

_{Image borrowed from allposters.com}

This one time? In marketing? I worked at a company that had a client who lied, a lot. But she had a lot of money to spend, so the powers-that-be never stood up to her.

My experience has been that, with most clients, you don’t have to fake respect, but we all understand the occasional necessity to tolerate bad behavior from a difficult customer. Still, this particular person pushed things out beyond the farthest reaches of professionalism and into a bat-shit alternative universe.

The tales I could tell about that particular workplace would scorch your hair and pulverize your humerus. To share the antics of this one client would take pages and pages, but this post isn’t about reliving a nightmare or venting about tough times. To make a long, hilarious, excruciating story short, one day, this client called up the owner of the company and said, “So-and-so did something bad.”

Now, I was in the room during the event in question, and, I promise you, this was a lie. It was not a misunderstanding or a point of view. This was a blatant and preposterous lie fabricated to manipulate other people.

There are times when even the best of leaders must blow some smoke into some pretty awful spots, but, if you are a decent human, you don’t inhale while you’re down there. You don’t applaud the lie. You don’t punish so-and-so. You don’t say, “Well, what actually occurred is irrelevant; if the big important client said it happened, it is now the truth.” (Which is what was said to me when I tried to defend so-and-so.)

On another occasion, the same client told my immediate supervisor that I was a poor writer because I used prepositional phrases. He summoned me to his office and presented the feedback. I started to laugh, expecting him to commiserate and help me figure out how we were going to work around such an idiotic complaint. But, he didn’t commiserate; he told me with furrowed brow that he was disappointed to learn that I was such an amateur copywriter and ordered me to stop using prepositional phrases or else.

These are ancient anecdotes, long-ago, dusty things. They bubbled up today, not as grudge or complaint but in a small aah! of revelation related to current events.

I will tell you something true. There are two reasons why people support a blatant lie:  (1) They are beholden to the liar or (2) They are too stupid to know better.

Something Is Amiss

Hello. If you can see this, please help. Something is amiss. The calendar says April 2021. I believe I’m stuck in a strange alternative universe. This world is very much like the real one I remember. You almost wouldn’t notice it—but for one thing: There are fewer hours in the day.

• In the beforetime, there were enough days in a week to do things weekly, like dusting, sweeping, laundry, cutting the grass, washing the car.
• There were more weekends in a month for things like cleaning gutters and weeding the garden.
• I tell you, and I swear it is true, there used to be time to repaint a room simply to make it a different color.
• I used to read books. It was possible, in the real world, to read an entire book in a day. In this strange place, I’m lucky if I can manage a few pages before I succumb to sleep.
• I used to listen to music. As an activity.
• I played video games. All the way to the end of the game.
• I used to scrapbook. I used to make jewelry. I used to do needlepoint!
• There was time before to drive to a place for the sole purpose of taking photographs of that place.
• There was time to follow the Steelers, Penguins, Pirates, and every minute of March Madness.
• I even used to play sports—two or three times a week—and we’d go out for dinner and drinks afterwards. The evenings in this world simply aren’t long enough for that, and there aren’t as many of them. (Does 2 a.m. even exist in this universe?)
• I used to do my nails. I used to put on make-up. I used to have time for using a blow dryer and a curling iron. There absolutely used to be more minutes in-between getting a shower and getting in the car to go someplace.
• I used to work jobs that required 10 hours a day, on average. Now I work from home—where time is not wasted in a commute or the inanities of ego and power—and yet there simply are not enough hours in the day. My novel remains unfinished. I am struggling even to complete this blog post.

Am I alone in this time-short universe? Is anyone else stuck in this realm? Give me a sign.

Please, there is no time to lose! This morning, I noticed that my driver’s license has morphed. It shows that I am nearing 60, when, only yesterday, I was in my 20s.

My Criminal Past

One time, in grade school—Catholic grade school—I forgot to have my Mom sign my homework.

I did the homework, and my Mom was aware I did the homework. I simply forgot to have her sign it. I do not really understand why this was such a big deal—having a signature on a piece of completed homework—but, the next morning, when the nun said, “Place your signed papers on the desk,” I panicked.

I was 6.

Every other kid in the class placed a piece of paper on his/her desk. The nun moved around the classroom, hovering over each set of tiny shoulders to witness The Signature. I’m guessing we were seated alphabetically; I’m not sure about that, but she started at the other end of the room—and that gave me time to think.

All I had in the world was a sheet of Math problems and a #2 pencil. I stared at my supplies. Then I got an idea. An awful idea. I got a wonderful, awful idea. I slid that paper in close and, quickly, furtively, I did the deed:  I signed my mother’s name.

In case you’re not sure, 6-year-olds have the penmanship of a first-grader and have not yet learned cursive.

I remember that moment. I remember it clearly. I thought to myself, “It will be more believable if I only use her first name.”

Such brilliance under pressure. Such suavité.

And so I forged my mother’s name, K-a-y, in pencil, in first-grader letters. Then I sat back, and I enjoyed a (very short-lived) respite from the terror that had gripped me since class began.

Then, the nun was there; she was behind me, a bit to the left, looking over my shoulder. I was nervous, but I played it cool, waiting for her to move on.

She did not move on.

Folks. It has been 50 years-plus since that particular moment in my life, and I tell you, I have never been more frightened that I can recall.

The punishment was swift, creative, and horrifying. I had to do an agonizing Show and Tell for my classmates. Then I had to leave the classroom, walk the long, dark, empty hall and visit other classrooms. As instructed, I knocked politely; once given permission to enter, I walked to the front of the room, told the teacher what I had done, and asked if I could please stand there and tell her class about my evil deed.

That bit is kind of a blur, but I recall that my voice wavered and my body shook. By the time I returned to the seat in my own classroom, I was solemn, humiliated, and a little dizzy. I may have had an out-of-body experience.

Whew. {shudder}

It was a tough lesson but a lesson learned well. From that day forward, I have avoided public speaking like the plague.  

But, with some practice, I got quite good at forging my mother’s signature.  

Here’s another tale from Catholic grade school.

Feedback

Yesterday, I spent a big chunk of the day at the ER. I am fine; everyone is fine; everything turned out fine, but I hadn’t time to set something down to thaw for dinner. So, last night, after a physically and emotionally draining day, I decided to treat myself to the comfy decadence of eating Chinese food in front of the TV. Since moving, a few years ago, I do not have a go-to Chinese place that delivers, so I googled and found only delivery services.

Note: I know delivery services aren’t ideal for local restaurants. Last night was about what was ideal for me.

I tried DoorDash some years back. The food never arrived. Turns out that the restaurant (listed on the DoorDash website) did not exist. When I attempted to talk to customer service (fearing a scam), the person hung up on me. So, this time, I tried GrubHub.

Yikes.

GrubHub charges (1) a delivery fee and (2) a service fee and (3) a required tip. The tip, as I was to discover later—much, much later—is how you bribe one of their employees to pick up your order.

A peeve I would not keep as a pet:  I prefer to tip as a reward for good service, not as ransom.

I don’t mind tipping. Like anyone who has waited tables (which I believe should be a prerequisite for patronizing any eatery), I’m generally a good tipper. I thought offering nearly 30% of the food bill, on top of a service fee and a delivery fee, was a decent contribution. In GrubHub math, my tip was noted as only 18% because they calculate the percentage as part of the entire charge, including their own delivery fee and service fee. I call shenanigans. And I understand, now, why my order wasn’t popular with drivers (who probably are not the ones making enough money to buy Super Bowl ads).

I could have walked to that restaurant and back (and gone for seconds) before the order arrived. The food sat so long it was as if I had ordered leftovers. And, while leftover Chinese food is quite a good ‘fridge find after a late night out, it is no fun at all when you are tired and hungry and sober.

GrubHub, which, I assume, uses the tagline “spend less, enjoy more” ironically, changed my dinner from one of anticipation and indulgence to an evening of frustration and regret. I am embarrassed to admit that I spent nearly $30 dollars for an egg roll and a serving of General Tso’s, which tasted like Frank’s Red Hot and included a single, scrawny piece of broccoli that looked as sad as I felt when I finally got my order.

To be fair, GrubHub did do one thing well:  They were super-quick to ask me for feedback.

With Love to Aunt Theresa

All this talk of vaccinations got me thinking about my cousins and my Aunt Theresa, who was a nurse.

The occupation of adult relatives is not something you are generally aware of when you are seven years old. Additionally, it is unlikely at that age that you would have any inkling that nurses sometimes give out shots to family members. And, had it been you, you would have remained completely and blissfully unaware of the potentialities one fall evening when your Dad said, “We’re going to visit your cousins! Get your coats on and get in the car!”

Getting together with cousins was a particularly good time. It is still fun to see those people, but, when we were kids, it was epic. We saw my grandmother regularly, but a gathering of all 7 families with all 18 cousins was only undertaken on rarer occasions, like Thanksgiving, when the hosts would have a year to recover.

So, the idea of going to see my cousins, in the evening, on a weeknight, was unprecedented. I was giddy. I was thrilled. I have always loved good surprises. I shimmied into my coat and jumped in the car. And, when we arrived at my Aunt Theresa and Uncle John’s house, I dashed to the door, eager for hugs and laughter.

We were the last to arrive. When we stepped into the house, everybody else was standing in a line that appeared to begin somewhere in the kitchen before meandering to the living room. I remember feeling slightly confused, but I happily got in line, aware of the goodies that came from my Aunt Theresa’s kitchen and anticipating the treat that awaited us all.

As we stood in line, innocent and jolly. As we shuffled closer to our doom. As I heard snippets of the adult conversation and a few odd yelps. As people returned to the living room without a slice of cake. The realization dawned:  We are here to get flu shots!

I don’t believe I have ever been quite that disappointed before or since. I was crying before I reached the kitchen. I cried when I got my shot. And I was one tearful and cranky kid during the long ride home.

Let’s just say that I handle getting a flu shot better as an adult than I did as a kid.

To be honest, I have handled it “better” by never getting a flu shot throughout my adult life. And, in 2019, when my Dad’s PCP told me that not getting the flu vaccine was tantamount to risking the lives of all old people who crossed my path, I felt extra guilty for not getting a flu shot.

Then, last fall, with the complications of Covid in the air, I knew what I had to do. I tricked myself into the car, drove to the drug store, and walked in. Spoke to the pharmacist. Filled out paperwork. And was told to get in line. The line led to a smaller room in the back.

Eerily similar. But I did not expect cake.  

My name was called; I entered the room; the door closed. I was told to sit and bare my arm, and I complied. I looked straight ahead and focused on my breathing. I disassociated as if I were in a three-day meeting to examine, discuss, and practice the power of teamwork. I was only slightly aware that the nurse was chatting pleasantly on my left. I do not think she could sense my terror or hear the screams inside my head of “Stop talking and get it over with! Do it already. Do it! C’mon!!!!! Dude. Just give me the shot.” I waited.  

Then, she told me to leave.

Ha! It was over and I never felt it. Not a thing. No stab. No pain. No amused chuckles of once-trusted relatives. Not a poke. Not a pinch.

Needles and syringes have changed a bit in the past 50 years. But I still love good surprises.

So, I will get in line for my Covid vaccine when I’m able. I’m sending out a bunch of love to all those (older) cousins who are ahead of me in line. And I’ll raise a shot to my dear Aunt Theresa, who was a lovely woman, a funny lady, a caring human, and a Life Preserver.

For the Love of Seuss

I generally try to avoid conflict on my blog, but I am compelled to say something about a favorite life preserver (books) and the recent uproar over Dr. Seuss. It is a timely and rather ironic example of poor communication habits and the gigantic barfnozzle of social media. Here are some pieces of the actual story:

• The decision was made to remove some books from publication. Not all books. Probably not your favorites.
  
• The decision was made by Dr. Seuss Enterprises, a company founded by Dr. Seuss’ family to protect his legacy and preserve his memory.
  
• After months of discussion, which included feedback from parents and teachers, the company decided to remove 6 books from publication: (1) To Think I Saw It on Mulberry Street, (2) If I Ran the Zoo, (3) McElligot’s Pool, (4) On Beyond Zebra!, (5) Scrambled Eggs Super!, and (6) The Cat’s Quizzer.
  
• The decisions were made primarily based on outdated imagery. Examine the stories for yourself. I suspect that, if you are a decent Whovian and you had been on the panel—with an eye to protecting his memory as well as the hearts of those he wrote for—you would support the decisions.

So here we are. The company in charge of Dr. Seuss books, with much thought and good intent, made some changes to keep up with the progress that society has made in the past 80 years. But, someone took a nugget of that news and twisted it into an attack on Dr. Seuss (which it is not); people started making memes that the famous Cat had been removed (which he has not); some even tried to politicize it (ya crazy conspiratinkers), and boom. Within moments people were blowing their floofloovers and banging their tartookas over click bait.

The passion to protect Dr. Seuss may be genuine, but it is misguided. Dr. Seuss is fine. (Well, you know, he’s dead, but his fame remains.) His books are beloved. His lessons are positive. His imagination is inspiring. Maybe not every single phrase or illustration will stand the test of time, but that’s okay. I suspect that, if he could, he would do a bit of editing himself.

Change isn’t always bad. Sometimes change comes about from people trying to do the right thing. And memes are never the whole story. If you see news that seems really outrageous, step back from the blindly enthusiastic domino clicking of likes and shares. Take a moment. Take a breath. And embrace the things that Dr. Seuss taught us, like optimism, respect for others, open-mindedness, love, the importance of reading, and the perils of entertaining ideas from crazy strangers.