All Things Must Pass

I'm borrowing my headline today from two of my favorite people: George Harrison and Axel Hoyer.

George said it first, but Axel used it most recently. 

As many of you know, for a few years, Axel was my lifeline, providing me with steady work to keep me afloat when my unemployment ran out and my prospects were slim. He took me under his wing, and I learned how to convert videotapes to a DVD (or USB) format and scan photos and slides.

Along the way, I also learned how to set up a website – enjoyagain.net – which won't win any design awards, but gets the job done. I did some social media via the FB page. And I got my first lesson in Google analytics. Thanks to Mr. Ginley, I also figured out how to set up spreadsheets to inventory and organize jobs so I could stay on top of them.

While I was working for Axel, I continued to look for employment that more closely matched my professional skills. No one wanted to gamble on someone with this much "experience" – until my current employer, OuterBox, took the time to read my work, look at me as a whole package and took that chance. Thankfully, they did, and I've been very happy there. 

But...it meant leaving the ranch, where I'd helped to bring back so many folks' memories to life. Fortunately, I was able to continue working for Axel as a side gig until last week, when he found my replacement. 

It was a bittersweet moment. On the one hand, it frees me up to do other things. On the other hand, it's the end of an era for me. 

Most people don't share my enthusiasm for the work, but in spite of technical glitches, poor quality tapes and other "pebbles in my shoe," I've enjoyed restoring people's memories. I imagine them sitting down to watch the newly-converted family movies, and seeing images of Grandma and Grandpa or Uncle Luke, who's no longer with us, as they flicker across the screen. To relive their children's early years. To remember that which had been forgotten.

Sorry, I didn't mean to get sentimental there, but oh well. What I really want to get to is to thank Axel for giving me the opportunity to try something totally out of my comfort zone and master it. Things didn't look good that first day when I sat down at one of the machines, went home and burst into tears because it seemed too much for me. Luckily, I didn't get sacked, and I even feel like I contributed in some small way to the success of Enjoy Again for awhile.

So here's to you, Mr. Hoyer, for the opportunity and the memories to enjoy again...and again.

Prost!

Resistance Is Futile

One of two things needs to happen.

1. I need to quit Facebook.

2. I need to stop clicking on cliffhanger stories.

Anyone who's spent any amount of time of FB knows about clickbait. And that it's stupid to fall for it. Hopefully, y'all are smarter than I am, because I've had to learn the lesson more than once. 

Last night was the latest, but I swear, as God is my witness, I'll never click on clickbait again.

I'm sure when you hear my story you'll understand. Or you'll mock me. But I won't be there to hear you cackling, so whatever.

Anyhow, here goes. There was a headline that said something like, "A Mother Is Stunned When She Finds Out What Her Daughter Threw Out of Her Car Window." The accompanying video clip showed a garbage bag in the middle of the road, and it was moving like there was a living creature inside.

Ya, I took the bait. Stupid me.

As Mr. Ginley will attest, I'm not the most patient person in the world. I scrolled and skimmed through the story, which dragged on and on and on (much like this sentence). When I finally reached the end, it turns out the thing in the bag was one of those lifelike baby dolls they use to teach teenagers why they don't want to get pregnant. 

The kicker was, at the very end, it admitted the story was fiction. 

Yep, really, really bad fiction.

So, aside from five minutes of my life that will never come this way again, what's the harm in clicking on it? 

I'm sure that for the foreseeable future, all kinds of weird stories will show up in my FB feed, begging to be clicked. 

But I'm better than that now. I don't care if I see a snippet of video of an eagle being rescued from fishing line. Or a teaser about what happened to child stars of yore. Or how ugly things can get at your local Wal-Mart.

Nope. Nope. Nope. 

Time to read a book instead. At least if it's fiction, I'll know ahead of time.

And if I lose patience, I can always turn to the last page to find out what happens. 

Photo attribution: Hope Hampton Productions / Paramount Pictures, Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons

In Search of Latent Talents

Part of my morning ritual is perusing the New York Times newsletter. It arrives in my email inbox every day, and I take a gander to get a sort of Readers Digest Condensed Version of current events.

photo credit below

On Saturdays, the NYT departs from the usual blood and guts headlines (at least for the opening story) and instead pursues a social media theme.

Today, the topic was returning to something you used to love doing but haven't tried in years.

Many of the people featured in the article were lapsed musicians. There was a clarinet player, a violinist, a pianist. But there were other rediscovered talents, too. A fly fisherman. A skateboarder. A tennis player.

The article made me cast back to my youth and wonder what latent talent I could tap into at this late date.

Hmmm. I never did take up an instrument. My parents didn't have the money to pay for music lessons growing up. And I never showed the kind of aptitude my brother, Gary, has. (He can hear a piece of music and play it back on his guitar. He still plays and also writes music. Blah blah blah. Love you, Gary.) 

My brother, John also played the guitar for awhile. And Diane learned the violin. So they potentially have things to go back to.

As for me? I wanted to learn the piano. Instead, I learned to type, a skill that has served me well given my career choice, but not one that has done much for my soul.

I was never athletic, either. In gym class, I could manage endurance activities quite nicely, and while I liked playing basketball, my height did me no favors. Badminton was the only family sport I engaged in, but I learned when I took it in high school that the way we played it at home was nothing like the cut-throat manner in which you're supposed to play. (My older sisters would chide me if I smashed the birdie into the ground so my younger brother couldn't return it.)

The great outdoors are great, indeed, but in my neck of the woods, they're not accessible year-round. Too often, it's where the ass hits the ice, and my bones ain't getting any younger. Still, I would like to do a little more hiking and such.

So, what's left? I tried birding for awhile. When COVID hit, I stopped meeting with fellow birders. I suppose I could start up again, but standing for long periods has become problematic for me. 

Fishing? I'm not sure I'm ready to invest in the all the gear required for the sport, although I've been doing a lot of writing for a client at work, and I have a better idea of what it's like. And I do like the idea of communing with nature, although I'm not a big fish-eater. 

Kayaking? Maybe. I've been saying for the last several years that I'd like to try it. I'll need to find someone to go with me, though. Mr. Ginley is not a fan, and I'm not keen on trying it alone. 

What about art? I'm useless there. And no, I don't imagine myself a sort of Grandma Moses, taking up the brush in my 80s.

Soul-searching has made me realize that there's not much to go back to. No passion that I've left behind. No bucket list of things to accomplish before I hit the dirt. Also, I'm pretty anti-social, so that takes a lot of options off that table.

Isn't that kind of pathetic?

Perhaps.

But it takes me back to one of my favorite quotes from Matt Groening, which has become something of a mantra for me.

"Keep your expectations tiny, you’ll go through life not so whiney."

Photo credit: FOTO:FORTEPAN / Nagy Zita, CC BY-SA 3.0 , via Wikimedia Commons

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.