Failure to Communicate

Trolling through my favorite muse (Facebook), I saw a post from a friend about email classes being taught in college.

A discussion ensued about the relative merits of communicating via email versus the other snappier methods such as instant messaging.

While I have always espoused the theory that brevity is the better part of valor, I have to take exception to the idea that the best way to communicate is by eliminating vowels and peppering one's messages with emojis.

I cannot tell you the number of times I've received an email communication that has left me scratching my head, wondering what the sender was trying to convey. It was obvious that their fingers did the thinking, that the brain took a powder while the message was being typed.

I hate to sound like a codger here (I know, that ship sailed long ago), but back in the day, when you had to type out every letter of every word, then reread your missive and correct it, all before sending, the world was a better place.

It's all too easy to fall into the trap of firing off an email/text/IM without taking the time to review it to make sure it makes sense. And yes, even I have been guilty of same. But it's not the way the circus should be run. (Monkeys, monkeys everywhere!)

I think teaching email writing is a swell idea, but I would argue this should happen in high school, not college. And that the course should include basic do's and don'ts. For example, do speak in complete sentences with wholly-formed words. Do use correct grammar. Do reread your email before you hit the "send" key. And never -- and I do mean never -- send an email when you're pissed. Write the email, get the bile out of your system, then hit the "delete" key. You'll thank me later.

Also, just to note, a well-written email (or cover letter or résumé) is critical if you are applying for a job that is centered around communications. Please, for the love of God, understand the difference between "your" and "you're." It's not that hard, it really isn't.

For those who think the business world is stuffy and that we should get on board with instant communication, well, I don't think we're quite there yet.

And if you send me a message with a lot of gobbledygook, don't expect me to take the time to try to figure out what you're trying to say.

I may be a codger, but I can hit the delete key with the best of them.

Getting Rocked

"Pop!"

I shifted my eyes slightly to the right and swore. Repeatedly.

Bright and early Monday morning, a rock hit my windshield, leaving a small hole and spidery cracks radiating from it. In one of the worst possible spots on the windshield, in my line of vision.

A call to my insurance company, a recorded message, and a transfer to the company they contract with to makes glass repairs, assured me that mine was a common occurrence.

The next day, Glass Guy #1 met me at my car in the parking lot at work, confirmed that I did not just want him to prevent the crack from getting worse, that I wanted to replace the windshield. The following day, I rendezvoused in the same place with Glass Guy #2, who scanned my credit card, and did the job on site.

Back to my Monday.

Like hateful bookends, the conclusion of my workday came with a visit to the dentist. After my plea for double the novocaine (a standard request because I have very sensitive nerves, I don't care if there was a root canal in that tooth), I sat in the chair for an hour and a half while he and his assistant did their thing. He drilled. And drilled. And drilled a bunch more. They took molds of my tooth. They crafted a temporary crown. I sat the whole time, my heart racing like a rabbit, fearing that the drill would hit a nerve.

Yes, I'm a big baby in the dentist's chair.

And so I took my sore jaw home to my Mr. He was appropriately sympathetic. Boo hoo me.

Then I took a look at my Facebook page. I saw the photos of the devastation in Houston. Not rivers, but oceans of water cascading down city streets and through neighborhoods. People in boats, rafts, being rescued. Neighbors saving neighbors.

And I realized a bigger lesson, not just about the relative nature of our pain, but also about randomness. About how quickly things happen, big and little, to cause us irritation (my case) or irreparable damage (Houston).

I go along every day assuming nothing will change. That I'll go to work, come home, eat, go to bed. With minor variations, it will go on and on and on. Then the realization that something can happen so quickly without warning and apparently at random. A rock. A storm. The passing of a life.

No way to prepare. But maybe the point is to be aware of where I am now. Of all that I have. The people who make my life hum. The birdsong. Squirrel chatter. Beautiful warm days and cool weather nights perfect for sleep. Enough money to keep a roof over my head and food in my stomach. And so much more.

Sometimes a small rock can teach a large lesson.

Bridging It

Who knew that a tour of the bowels of a bridge would be so popular?

The bridge celebrates its 100th year

Last Saturday, thousands of Clevelanders were permitted to enter the lower level of Detroit-Superior Bridge for a self-guided tour. This used to be an annual event. But repairs made over the last four years had derailed the tour. (Pun intended, thanks.)

Mr. and I queued up with a lot of other folks and their families to walk back and forth along the lower level of the bridge to see what we could see. This is the area where streetcars (AKA trolleys) carried passengers into and out of Downtown Cleveland. The streetcars ran from 1917 until 1954, when the automobile effectively eliminated its once-robust ridership. Just to note, the upper level still carries car/bicycle/foot traffic.

As well as enjoying a good stretch of the legs, we got a view of downtown that was enjoyed on a daily basis by commuters back in the day. I sensed the ghosts of Clevelanders past, imagined their feelings as they rode to work or to do a little shopping. Or maybe they were on their way to school or a baseball game at League Park. What were their worries? Their dreams? Their joys? The streetcars were in service through two world wars and the Great Depression. I imagine folks had a lot on their minds besides what to make for dinner.

We saw the place where the overhead wires lived that carried the electric power that drove the cars. The front of a streetcar. The recessed lighting in the walls. And the concrete and steel that came together to create this wondrous structure.

The tour complete, we headed for the exit.

As we walked along the tunnel with the white tiled walls that led us out, I thought about the other feet that walked this way decades earlier.

Up the stairs and into the sunlight. Back to hearth and home.

Newsiness

I have to admit, I kind of miss the grocery store rag, News of the World.

There were always sensational headlines with photoshopped images.

Who could forget the giant head of Satan in a mushroom cloud with a prediction about the end of the world?

Or the world's largest baby.

As we stood in line waiting for our turn to check out, we would laugh about the ridiculous claims that were touted in 72 point headlines. It was entertainment. So outrageous, no one with a smidge of a sense would think the stories were true.

Fast forward to the present. Just in the last week, I have gotten inundated with unsolicited ads that have titles like, "The cancer prevention food that pharmaceutical companies don't want you to know about."

Today, I got a post with "The 15 fast foods you don't want to eat." I decided to bite. Reading through the stories, there was one recurring theme. Not one of them quoted a trusted expert, or even a spokesperson from the establishment in question. Invariably, they all started out with something like, "According to a former employee..." Now, you've got to ask yourself who these former employees are and why they left/were fired. Or if they even existed.

In addition, the article makes sweeping statements. Like, it's difficult to clean out soft drink machines, so there could be e-coli in the pop you get from a fast food restaurant. Also included are comments about how food is microwaved (big surprise) or it arrives at the restaurant frozen (so shocking).

The trouble, of course, is that some of the claims sound like they could be legitimate. But no one has made an effort to verify them. So, you are left feeling vaguely queasy about ever eating out again.

I'll bet that a lot of folks walk away believing every word of it.

This is the danger of internet "news." And why reputable journalists keep harping on the importance of sticking with a news source you can trust, and investigating vague claims by questionable sources.

I think Abe Lincoln said it best: "Don't believe everything you read on the internet."

Vision: Accomplished

E-V-O-T-Z-2

I watched while Mr. Ginley took his eye test yesterday, reciting line after line of jumbled alphabet letters and numbers. The giant robo glasses were poised before his eyeballs, as the doctor shifted one lens, then another and repeated, "Better or worse?"

Anyone who has been to the eye doctor knows the drill well. 

Fun fact: If you are nearsighted, your distance eyesight improves as you grow older. The doctor told Mr. Ginley that he just has to live to 105, and his vision will be 20/20.

Good to know.

I am well versed in the various eye tests and whatnot that are performed at the ophthalmologist's office. Over the years, the technology, as one would expect, has become amazing. For example, there is a machine that can plot my optic nerve, so they know if there has been any change since the last time I was there. (I am prone to glaucoma, although, thankfully, there is no sign of it yet.)

One thing that has not changed is the drops. Which is part of the reason I was driving Mr. Ginley to the eyedoc yesterday. With pupils that enlarged to take over his irises, he was in no condition to drive. (This did not preclude us, however, from visiting the book store located across the street.)

Those of us of a certain generation who can be classified as having "four eyes" remember well the first pair of glasses.

For Mr. Ginley, it was an epiphany. He read street signs all the way home, until his dad told him to shut up. He asked his dad if the signs had always been there, because he'd never seen them before.

I was 11 when I got my first pair of glasses. I couldn't see the blackboard. After I got them, I still couldn't see the blackboard, because I refused to wear them. My specs lived in the little silver and black case I hid in my desk. I would surreptitiously pull them out when I absolutely had to. Most of the time, I faked it. The glasses were a brown tortoise shell that made me look like a total geek.

It wasn't until my mom took me to the eye doctor four years later (and the guy yelled at me and accused me of ruining my eyesight), that I finally agreed to wear glasses all the time. By then, the prescription was so strong, it felt like I could see for miles. The sidewalk looked so clear, I had trouble walking until I got used to my new specs. I didn't mind them, because they were wire frames, just like John Lennon's. They didn't overpower my face, they were actually a bit of okay.

For a time in the early 80's, I wore contact lenses.  I very much liked the way they looked and the fact that my peripheral vision kicked ass. But my eyes got so dry, if I didn't get home from work by 6:00 to take them out, they drove me nuts. After awhile, I gave up and went back to glasses.

These days, I'm waiting for the cataracts to grow. I've been assured that post-surgery, I'll have fabulous vision again. I may not need to wear glasses all the time.

We'll see.

In the meantime, I'm thankful to live in an age when eyeglasses are possible. If I were in a time machine, I'd go back and slap that vane youngster upside the head and tell her no one cares about her stupid glasses, just put them on and get on with life. Too many calories wasted over something stupid.

These days, eyeglasses are fashionable. The dark frames we hated as kids are very much in style. The doctor told us yesterday that some kids are actually disappointed that their vision doesn't require them to wear glasses.

Who would've seen that coming?

Just This

I've gotten so used to blocking out the world so that I can concentrate, it has begun to occur to me that I am missing things.

Walking out into a lovely world to get the newspaper, I put my life on pause.

Donned in my snazzy pink and black pajamas, I sat on the slightly damp porch chair and gazed upward. Ginormous clouds scuttled by, north to south. They covered the sun for a bit, but I could see the light sitting on top of them. Instead of wondering what the world looked like from up there, I concentrated on my own little corner.

Engaging in an exercise I haven't in some time, I closed my eyes and just listened. At first, I heard a few birds. Then a persistent cricket. A siren. A car driving by. Then the subtler sounds. Wind through leaves. A train engine. Different birds, farther away. I acknowledged each and went on to the next.

Then I opened my eyes and looked. The tops of the grass wet with dew. A spider web glistening in the streaks of sunlight. A flock of starlings gathering in the tree across the way. A neighbor playing catch with her dog.

Then I just breathed for awhile. I didn't think about work or the day ahead or the day behind.

I did let the thought creep in that I should do this every day.

Then I forgave myself and went inside to have breakfast.

A Drink with Jam and Bread

Apparently, the old chestnut about real men not eating quiche is a total fallacy.

Mr. Ginley consumed quiche, albeit reluctantly. (I believe "choked it down" is the phrase he used.) It was during high tea. Yes, he went to a tea place with me, for the second time I might add. And ate little sandwiches and cakes and drank rooibos and chai teas. We talked for two hours and had a lovely time. I guess it was pretty girly, but it didn't feel that way. No, I did not make him raise his pinky. But he did hold my chair for me. When I went to the ladies', the women at the next table complimented him on his chivalry. It was a most enjoyable afternoon.

The tea was part of an extended birthday celebration for me. The joy began on Friday when I was presented with a blanket that Stephanie crocheted. Decorated in cats and mice with pink and black yarn, the blanket is a wonder that still chokes me up. I cannot believe she spent ten months making it for me. If I live to be a gazillion years old, I can't imagine any gift I could come up with that would approach the wonder of hers.

On Saturday, I hit the road, headed for Columbus. It was hot. Stinking hot. My two sisters and I went to the rib/jazz fest that was downtown. Right after we parked the car, it began to pour. Equipped with bumbershoots, we ventured forth. Diane predicted the rain would stop. It did. The sun came out, and we roasted. In the meantime, we walked around, took in the music, and ate ourselves some ribs in the lovely shade of a tree. I confess to being the one who cracked first. I was sweating from the roots of my hair to the soles of my feet. The sisters took pity on me, and we went for ice cream, then back to Diane's place, where we sat in the sun room (moon room at that point?) and yacked it up until Denise called it a night.

Sunday morning (my actual birthday) I rose early and returned home, where I had breakfast with Mr. Ginley. The day passed pleasantly enough, and ended with dinner in the company of my husband, my son and his girlfriend.

Monday was the day of the tea. In the morning, after taking my car in for its required service, I went for a massage. There was a time when my smug self would do the eye roll and swear I'd never partake of such nonsense. Having experienced the joy of someone working out the knots in my stressed-out muscles, I now know what a treat it can be.

The rest of the week, I went to work and did the usual. Friday I had lunch with my brother, Gary. It was good to catch up and spend a little time together. I always learn at least one technology nugget when I talk to him. He's good company.

Which brings me back to...Doe, a deer, a female deer...and the end of my tale (tail?).