Notes to Self

I am forever forgetting things and Mr. Ginley is forever telling me to "write it down."

"Splooting"
(photo credit below)

He has index cards and scraps of paper with all kinds of information, often relating to tips and tricks for using the computer. 

I, on the other hand, have taken to making notes using a handy-dandy app on my phone. I'll go in and tap out a quick message for myself and save it, confident that I will know exactly what I wanted to tell myself.

Except that often, I have no idea what I'm talking about.

Periodically, I will scroll through and cull the herd, removing shopping lists from extinct Target visits. Sometimes I'll remember that, "Oh ya, that was a trailer for a movie or TV show that looked interesting."

But other times, I'm like, "What the hell was I trying to tell me?" For example, I found these random words:

• Yakisoba: I had to look this one up. It's a Japanese noodle dish. Was I planning on ordering it or did I just think the name was cool?
• Bad Sisters: I'm pretty sure this was a movie or TV series I want to watch and not a commentary on my siblings.
• 1240: Maybe it's military time– do I have an appointment for something at 12:40?
• Splooting: I did remember this one because the name made me laugh. It's when a dog or cat lies down with all four legs splayed out.
• Washington Machines Cleaner: I'm thinking my wacky phone was trying to guess (incorrectly, as usual) what I wanted to type and added a few letters to this shopping list item.
• Schinkennudeln: Another name that just tickled me. It a ham and noodle dish that showed up in the FB feed for Axel's German Import store. 
• Santa Combing a Squirrel: I thought long and hard about this guy. It may have had to do with a Christmas lawn display we saw and a comment that Mr. Ginley made. But who knows, really.

Anyhow, you get the idea.

Obviously, I need to up my game and do a better job of note taking. I suppose I could jot stuff down in a little notebook. We certainly have plenty of those around.

But the thing is, would I be able to read my sloppy handwriting?

Photo credit: Oxfordian Kissuth, CC BY 3.0 via Wikimedia Commons 

Survey Says

"Tell us about your experience."

photo credit below

Delete.

"How did we do?"

Delete.

"Give us a few minutes of your time."

Delete.

Every time I do just about anything, a survey shows up in my email or on my sales receipt – or I get a text asking for feedback. This has happened after I've:

• Eaten at a restaurant

• Gone to the doctor

• Had my taxes prepared

• Talked with a customer service rep on the phone

• Mailed a package at the post office

• Had my car serviced

I've even been asked for my opinion from the grocery store, but only for certain cashiers – the ones who are on probation, maybe? 

There was a time when I kind of enjoyed doing surveys. We were a Neilsen family many moons ago. Some guy came to our apartment and hooked us up so they could tell what we were watching on TV.

I was also asked to join a company that regularly emails me surveys. But I think I'm ready to drop out of that. They take 15 to 20 minutes to complete, are repetitive and ask me things I'm not comfortable sharing. Also, they had promised some kind of "rewards," which turned out to be the bullshit kind that are almost impossible to use. So aside from some sort of personal satisfaction about my opinion being heard, there's really no point in wasting my time.

No one really wants to know what I'm thinking, anyhow. It's a weird place up there, and I'm confident I don't represent anyone but me when I click on the boxes.

And what about questionnaires, the kissing cousin of surveys? I'm guessing some social media sneak uses them as a way to capture a little personal 411 so they can sell you stuff – isn't that what everything is about? 

Anyhow, last week, there was a question in my Chat group about what spirit animals we all were. There was a stupid questionnaire that I filled out online, asking me things like "What's your ideal vacation?" and "What's your dream vehicle?" Trouble was, none of my true answers were an option, so I had to punt. I know you're all in suspense. What's my spirit animal? 

A seahorse. 

Really, a seahorse? I mean, they are kind of cute. But what is their personality?

If it's anything like mine, I guess that means a seahorse is an irascible smart ass who doesn't like to socialize. 

But I digress.

Possibly, there are those of you who love to tell companies whether you're very satisfied, satisfied, don't give a shit one way or the other, unsatisfied, very unsatisfied or angry to the point of murder. As for me, I prefer to keep them guessing.

Unless they're going to give me something. Then all bets are off.

In which case, I'll fill out the online survey, tell you I love you and take my free sandwich. 

Even if the clerk was a rude zombie who forgot to give me my pickle. 

Photo attribution: Loraine Calderoni, CC BY 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

Wascally Whittington

I feel compelled to remind any timid readers that my prose strays into the macabre from time to time. If you're not in the mood for dark humor, feel free to take a pass today.

I admit that I pay a lot more attention to death notices than I used to. 

public domain photo

Maybe it's because I know that I'm edging closer to the inevitable. I am uncomfortably aware of too many of the folks who have moved on.

Every day, I look for the "Lives Lived" section of my New York Times newsletter. When people are in their 90s, I think, "Well, at least they had a good run." 

Barbara Walters. Gina Lollobrigida. Burt Bacharach. Harry Whittington.

Wait, Harry who?

"Harry Whittington, a prominent Texas lawyer and Republican, died at age 95. In 2006, he was shot in the face by Dick Cheney..."

Oh, THAT Harry Whittington. 

For those of you who aren't familiar with the incident, in February 2006, Harry Whittington and Dick Cheney and several of their chums went quail hunting together. According to the official account, Dick was aiming for a bird but missed and hit Harry in the face instead. Poor Harry's face, neck and chest were sprayed with pellets, and he suffered a minor heart attack. When he got out of the hospital a week later, Whittington shrugged it off, saying, "accidents do and will happen." 

Then Harry apologized to Dick, saying he was "deeply sorry for everything" Cheney and his family had to deal with as a result of the incident. 

Come again?

Yep, Harry gets shot in the face, and he's the one who says he's sorry to the guy who mistook him for a quail. 

Now, if Harry's first name had been "Dan," you could ALMOST understand the case of mistaken identity. (Youngsters, feel free to google "Dan Quayle.")

Yikes.

Harry lived another 17 years, albeit with birdshot pellets still lodged in his torso and cheek. Apparently, he was quite the attraction when he went in for doctor visits. They all wanted to see his pellets.

In the end, Harry did live a pretty good life, pellets notwithstanding. So let's all raise a cup of cheer (should we do shots?) and wish Harry godspeed. 

Here's to the man who went to extremes to turn the other cheek...even though it was filled with birdshot.

Absorbing First World Problems

Well, I've acquired yet another first world problem.

Mr. Ginley pulled out a brand new package of Ocelo sponges the other day. We've used this particular brand for many years, and it's served as our go-to for dishwashing. 

Before you ask, yes, we're Luddites who still do dishes by hand. Our dishwasher came with the house, and it's never worked. We talked about buying a new one, but other things have taken priority over the years. Now that it's just the two of us, I'm not sure it makes sense to invest in one.

Anyhow, as he was washing dishes, Mr. noticed bits of sponge floating in the dishwater. It looked like he'd used it to clean a cheese grater. But no, the sponge wasn't exposed to any surface that would cause it to shred like this. Normally, our dishwashing sponges are used for at least a week before they start to look fatigued.

Mr. accused me of buying an off-brand, but I pulled out the offending package and, nope, it still said Ocelo, although it also said "Scotch-Brite." A quick check on the Google confirmed that 3M (maker of Scotch-Brite) bought out Ocelo sponges.

It would appear that Ocelo is just the latest of many products that went down the tubes when it was bought out by a larger company that saw dollar signs in creating an inferior product that took advantage of what had been a reputable brand.

But, in the interest of giving my friends at 3M the benefit of the doubt, I sent them an email expressing my displeasure at the quality (or total lack thereof) of their product. They responded via email several days later with this statement:

"We appreciate your interest in our products and have forwarded your comments to the appropriate department(s) for review. Due to the high volume, only if the department is interested in more information will they be able to respond."

Here is how I read their email:

"We got your email. You're a lowly consumer and your petty concerns are of no interest to us. Go buy your sponges from someone else, see if we care. We can afford to lose your business."

So now I must find another brand of sponge. And also, I plan to avoid buying 3M products whenever possible.

I'm thinking the O-Cedar Multi-Use Scrunge Scrub Sponge may be a viable replacement. 

I'm open for suggestions – please feel free to chime in.

I don't know, maybe it really is time to buy a new dishwasher.

My current dishwasher would probably like that option best.