Have you ever noticed how everything always happens at once? Wonder why that is…
This has been one of those uphill-haul days, wherein every single damnfool thing you want to do has to be done the hard way, and you have a LOT of damnfool things to do.
That’s because you’ve left the damnfool things to do another day and, yes, this is another day.
I cruise back into town after this morning’s networking group meeting, having heard an excellent presentation and been the target of a rousing pep talk, after the meeting, by the presenter himself. I’m hot to get to work and full of ideas. But first…
But first, I have to go by the electric supply house and pick up the lamp that was left to be rewired by way of repairing Ruby’s latest cord-eating depredation. It looks nice, and they charge me less than a quarter of what the last predator charged.
But…
Yeah. You get what you pay for. Twelve dollars and change does not enough wire to reach the outlet purchase.
The damn wire is about four inches too short.
I call. They agree to rewire it.
But this entails trying to get across Conduit of Blight Boulevard AGAIN. As you may recall, the city is building a ridiculous lightrail line up Conduit of Blight, making the entire corridor nonnavigable and rerouting rush-hour traffic through the middle of our neighborhood. You cannot get across Conduit of Blight at Main Drag South at all. So you have to drive up to Main Drag North, taking you way afield of the electric outfit, or else you have to drive two miles to the south and one mile back north — three miles out of your way — to get around the construction horrors. Make that three miles x two, if you have any designs on coming home.
Either way, the environmentally chummy public works project converts a four-mile drive into a six-mile drive. One way.
I decide to drive up to the Depot and just buy a damn extension cord. There I pay almost nine bucks for a six-foot piece of overkill.
While I’m there, I return the hose connector that the very nice sales clerk told me was a set — male and female — and that was not. Whatever it was, it was not what I wanted. It was unusable.
I hate shopping in Home Depot. Hate it hate it hate it HATE. IT. Today there’s not a soul, not even an incompetent wretch who has no idea what she’s talking about, to help. I find the paint roller I need (only because past safaris have taken me into the Veldt of Paint) but have a bitch of a time finding the extension cords, which are nowhere near where two of the worthy employees pointed me.
When I get the eventually found extension cord home and discombulate its intricate packaging, I see it has a connection that would accommodate enough plugs to light a half-a-dozen Christmas trees.
Come ON, guys. This is for ONE freaking LIVING ROOM LAMP. And I have to tape it to the floor, the table, and the wall so as to keep Ruby from eating the lamp cord for the fourth time. A big honking clunky umpteen-plug connection does not lend itself to discretion. Or to transparent packing tape.
Two choices now: Take the lamp back to French Electric and wait another week to get it rewired again, or take the lamp cord back to HD and try to find one that works.
I believe the Depot does not have regular lamp-cord sized extensions, because two HD Dudes tried to help me find the same. We all failed.
Finally I decide to check the local TruValue and, if I can find a normal 1950s-style lamp cord with one count it (1) plug on the end, I will keep the short cord on the lamp and defer returning the ridiculous extension to a day when I’m in the vicinity of an HD for some other constructive reason.
Over to the TruValue. Yes, they have such a thing: four dollah.
Climbing into my car, it occurs to me that Home Depot is upselling by quite deliberately NOT STOCKING lamp-sized extension cords.
It is hot, and it is humid. By hot we’re talkin’ upwards of a hundred degrees.
As per usual, every moron in the county gets in front of me on the road. How the HELL do they KNOW when I’m out?
The last time Ruby ate the living-room lamp cord, I moved another lamp in there and used transparent packing tape to stick the cord to the inside of the table leg, the floor, and the wall between the lamp and the light plug. This a) worked and b) was very easy.
Not so today.
It may a) work, but it was b) incredibly NOT very easy. I ended up with broken fingernails from trying to peel the damn tape off of the damn roll and wads of stuck-together tape strewn all over the living room floor. By the time the job was done, my hair was yanked and my teeth were ground.
While I was at the electric supply store, we tried to remove the lamp shade. The finial was frozen on. None of us could get it loose. But we did succeed in ripping the fabric.
This lampshade was purchased back when I had a job and could afford nice things.
I get on Amazon to try to find something comparable. The cheapest selection: Seventy-five dollah!
Holy shit.
I take a more or less functional lampshade off another lamp (which now goes naked) and put it on the repaired lamp. It looks like what it is: a cheap piece of junk from Target.
Lurking at the back of consciousness: Pay the $1,588 Medigap premium! Find out how far in hock you are to AMEX! Figure out where the money to pay these extravagant bills will come from!
AMEX? Exactly $1,000 over budget. That is twice the amount I paid on the shoe extravaganza. We will have to wait for the itemized bill to arrive to figure out the other charges.
The Medigap premium, surprisingly considering the past year’s medical misadventures, is inflated by less than $100 over the 2014 gouge. And of course, it’s allowed for in the annual budget. But still. Fifteen hundred and eight-eight dollars is fucking painful.
Because I had a meeting halfway across the city at this morning’s crack of dawn, I have not cleaned the pool pump pot, which must be cleaned every morning because the fucking palm trees cannot be trimmed because DUCK has taken up residence in the tree trimmers’ direct line of fire. DUCK is absent this afternoon, it being afternoon and the time at which she forages. Does she not KNOW about the damned garden slugs that overrun the yard at night and that are turning the basil plant into a skeleton of itself? Why is she not doing her DUCK job out there? And where the Hell is she, anyway?
One of the eggs DUCK has hidden lies exposed. What part of “grackle” does DUCK not understand?
Avian concerns, however, do not form a major part of today’s Day from Hell qualities.
Web Guru’s bill needs to be paid. I try to get online to pay this quarter’s bill. His auto-collect software wants me to sign in as…HIM!
Naturally.
I crash out of his auto-collect software and reboot. Now it tells me I owe an extra payment, which I happen to know I paid.
Meanwhile, I’m trying to cook my lunch, it being 3 o’clock in the afternoon and only slightly past lunchtime, by a mere three hours. Trusty Kitchen Timer is called into action to remind me when X or Y minutes have passed, so the grill will not carbonize the food.
Trusty Kitchen Timer is killed in action.
I try to revive her by replacing her battery.
No dice. TKT is deader than a doornail.
Why doornails are said to be dead is a question that has always plagued me, given that a) I do not know what a doornail is and b) I can’t imagine why anyone would impute either life or death to such an object.
So it goes.
The work I intended to get done was not, repeat, NOT done by 4 p.m., when I shook off the worst of this miasma. Instead of doing anything meaningful, I guess I’ll spend the rest of the day formatting another Fire-Rider episode.
Yesterday afternoon Ruby the Corgi Pup shot across the side yard and GRABBED something! O doggie joy!
It was a baby mockingbird, just starting to fledge but not big enough to fly yet. When I hollered, Ruby dropped the little chick.
At first it looked like her wing was broken, but in short order she had it back in place and was able to move it normally. Other than being terrorized, she seemed fine.
Ruby back in the house. Lock Ruby and Cassie indoors.
I figured the best thing to do was to leave Chick outside where she was sheltering in the shade and CHIRK-ing for her mother. Usually with wild things, it’s best to let nature take its course. Probably (I hoped) she could fly well enough to make her way back into a tree and from there to find her nest.
But no.
A couple of hours later, the mother bird was CHIRK-ing from the lime tree, trying to lure her babe back home. The babe was CHIRK-ing from the ground but making no effort to move.
Half an hour before closing time, I called Liberty Wildlife, a wildlife rescue group. Unfortunately they no longer come by to help save critters in predicaments — some years ago they rescued a hummingbird that flew into the house and decided the only exit was through a skylight (unopenable). But the recession threw them into a permanent tailspin, and they no longer have the resources to do that. The woman I spoke with referred me to another woman, who referred me to another woman.
While these worthies were on the phone, I asked them about the care and feeding of DUCK and her progeny. All three said that baby ducks routinely drown in swimming pools, because they can’t make it from the surface of the water over the coping to the ground. The third woman, who eventually took Chick, said I should gather up the eggs and bring them to her, and she would put them in an incubator.
Welp. In the first place, it’s against the law to mess with a wild mallard’s nest. In the second place, I don’t want to mess with DUCK’s nest. And in the third place, the third woman I spoke with sounded…well, kind of nutty.
And yea verily, when I arrived at her house with CHICK, she proved to be…well, kind of nutty. Their house, in a down-at-the-heels “arty” section of North Phoenix, had been transformed into a kind of aviary and wild-mammal kennel. When I say “nutty” here, I mean seriously nutty.
However, the strange woman quickly made it obvious that she was very knowledgeable about wild birds. And in fact, she proved to be a kind of Mockingbird Whisperer. As soon as she picked up the terrorized little bird and stroked it under its birdie chin, it relaxed, closed its eyes, and looked as if it would purr if only it could figure out how.
One glance at Chick and she exclaimed, “Oh, you have pox on your eyes!” When I asked what that meant, she pointed out the wart-like growths over the bird’s upper eyelids. Hm.
Soon as I got home, I called up the Hypochondriac’s Treasure Chest. And indeed, avian pox or a bacterial infection with similar symptoms was probably what ailed Chick. Pox can infect a bird’s throat and innards. So it’s possible that the little bird was on the ground because it was sick and was going to die anyway.
{sigh}
The eccentric bird rescuer said she would dose Chick with antibiotics, and maybe the bird would recover. She said she’d raised many mockingbirds.
By the time I got home, the mother mockingbird was gone.
Meanwhile, we have the problem of the drownable ducklings. More to come on that, after I figure out what to do about it…
Honestly, I never thought I’d get old enough to become a fuddy-duddy. But that surely seems to have come to pass.
Yes: the age in which everything stylish, au courant, and “hot” seems foolish, silly, redundant, or downright obnoxious.
Here I am at an uptown coffeehouse, waiting to meet another blogger who happens to lurk in the Valley. Should be interesting.
It’s a young upwardly mobile hangout, the parking lot always jammed. The place is littered with young males glued to their Apples, alone in their private worlds. The Muzak is so loud you’d have to shout to make yourself heard, but that doesn’t matter because it’s one of those hard-walled, hard-floored, hard-ceilinged spaces that reverberates, so that when enough people occupy it (more than three, maybe?), you have to shout to make yourself heard above the racket of their conversation.
So far, I have yet to grasp the charm of these venues.
And I’m out of synch with these young things, even though I’m sitting here glued to my own Apple, plugged into my own private world. This may create the illusion that I’m the real thing, but…who would guess I have no smartphone? Who would guess I have no desire for a smartphone?
A few middle-aged folk come and go, mostly male. A guy in hospital scrubs. Another with a “boldly go where no one else…” look about him.
But the bulk of the clientele?
Fine young men. Brave young women. Lovely creatures of another world.
Dick Tracy’s wrist radiois here! You’d think we’d all be thrilled. The future has arrived.
Back in the day, when men were men and, every morning, they competed with the kids to read the comic strips over breakfast before they went off to their mill jobs, we all thought the intrepid detective’s trademark two-way-wrist radio was the ultimate promise of the future. This was the way “progress” was taking us!
By golly!
And, by golly, so it came to pass.
Now we have, among many other improvements, a handy-dandy two-way wrist radio that will convert your job from 40 hours a week to a 168-hour-a-week arrangement. No increase in pay, of course (don’t be silly!)…and by the way, your health insurance premiums will consume half your salary unless you select the $1,000 deductible.
We’re told, according to Moore’s Law, that computing technology capabilities double about every two years. And that may be so, at least for the era we live in. Over the past hundred or hundred and fifty years, a Big Bang in technologies — not just electronic, but let’s include internal combustion, nuclear power, plastics, agriculture, building, medicine, communication, transportation, and just about anything else we can think of — has transformed the daily lives of people who live in developed countries.
The other day I was thinking about that, and it struck me that most of the real, fundamental, meaningful improvement — things that made our lives more comfortable, less grindingly drudging, safer, and healthier — happened early in the twentieth century, before about 1970. Between 1900 and the last quarter of the century, people’s lives actually did improve, get longer, get healthier, get easier, and overall get happier.
But since then? I wonder. Does computer technology really make our lives better? Or just more…cluttered?
Consider, as a case in point, my father. He was born in 1909. As a young man, he drove a milk wagon behind a horse. Earned $10 a month. That, he said, was enough for a young fellow to live on comfortably.
At the age of 60, he sat in his living room and, watching his television, saw men walk on the moon.
That was a huge technological leap, of course. But it didn’t make any difference to his life, any more than it makes any real difference to our lives.
But in the interim between 1909 and 1969, technological and social changes occurred that did change the way he lived his life, much for the better. I would argue, though, that most of those changes happened by about 1950, and that most of what came afterward has been on a par with men walking on the moon, in terms of the extent to which they have changed our lives for the better.
By 1950, my father drove a car to get around. He was sailing tankers and earning a good wage at it — without so much as a high-school diploma. He earned enough to support his family and to send his kid to college without have to take out a loan. His daughter’s free grade-school and high-school education was excellent and turned her out of the 11th grade fully ready for college-level work.
He and my mother lived in modest but safe and sturdy housing. They had a machine to wash their clothes…a gas or electric stove inside the house to cook their food…an electric refrigerator with a freezer to store fresh foods…supermarkets in which to buy those foods…electric lights to navigate the night-time darkness…a vacuum cleaner…a television…a radio…a record player…a telephone…electric hand tools…antibiotics to fight off potentially fatal or crippling infections…central heating…air conditioning (of a sort)…clean, safe running water flowing from taps in the kitchen in bathroom…indoor bathrooms…an airplane to bear them across the Atlantic to a job overseas…
In 1909, none of those things existed. In 1929, not very many of them did. Between the time my father was a young man and the time he was fully settled in a new job after the war, the physical improvement in day to day life was SO vast as to make it seem that his generation had been transplanted to another world.
To what extent has the explosion in electronic technology actually made our lives betterin the sense that we are more comfortable, that our work is physically easier, that we are really healthier and better off than we were in, say, the 1950s?
Not much, that’s what I think.
It’s given us a lot of eye-goggling stuff, but most of that stuff makes no real difference in our comfort and happiness. It doesn’t add very much of real significance to our lives.
Consider: Do you really need a smartphone on your wrist to communicate with your family, your friends, and your boss? Does it really help your life to be interrupted everywhere you go by whoever thinks they need your attention right this second — while you’re driving, while you’re eating dinner, while you’re at the movies, while you’re walking the dog, while you’re shopping for a new shirt, while you’re sitting in church?
Does your car really need a cockpit full of confusing electronic equipment to get you from here to work or from work to the grocery store? Do you really need a talking GPS to tell you how to get around town? Can’t you read a map? Do you really need a phone conversation right this instant while you’re dodging traffic on a busy highway? Can you seriously not find a restaurant without Siri telling you where it is?
Does any of that gadgetry relieve you of hard labor? Make your health better? Light your way at night? Free your time to spend with your family? Give you time to go fishing?
No.
In fact, you could argue that, in a backhanded way, the exponential growth of computerized technology is dragging us backward, in terms of quality of life.
In 1950, my father could be pretty sure that what he said over the telephone, what he did inside his home, where he went when he walked down the street or drove his car from point A to point B, what he wrote in letters to friends and family was observed and noted only by those around him. Today we know that everything we do and say is being tracked. Big Brother is watching us, and there’s no such thing as privacy.
In 1950, my father made a good wage at a blue-collar job that allowed him to work up into the equivalent of management — he became a sea captain. That happened because he belonged to a mariner’s union. Today he couldn’t hope to support a family on what he could have earned without a high-school diploma…or even with one. Many young people can’t earn a living wage with college diploma, and most couples have to warehouse the kids in day care and send their mother to work, just to keep a roof over a family’s heads.
In 1950, the physical labor required to maintain a home for several people was a fraction of what it would have been in 1909: vacuum cleaners, washing machines, lawn mowers, electric lights, indoor plumbing, indoor stoves and ovens were just a few of the technological gadgets that truly did make life easier, cleaner, safer, and more comfortable. Scarlet fever, a disease that nearly killed my grandmother, was a thing of the past, as were smallpox, typhus, typhoid, yellow fever, cholera, tetanus, whooping cough, diphtheria…things we all got shots for.
Commercial airplanes made it possible for him to fly himself and his family back and forth across the Atlantic and Europe to his jobsite in the Middle East. Automobiles and interstate highways allowed him to drive us, once every two years when the company sent us home for a long leave, from New York City to his brother’s home in Texas and then to San Francisco, where my mother’s family lived, and then like a shot back across the country to La Guardia International Airport.
Radio, television, newspapers, and magazines kept us fully informed of current events and of the culture around us. Can you say the same for Google News, which adjusts itself according to your browsing history so as to show you mostly what it “thinks” you want to see and to shield you from anything that might impinge upon your comfortable bubble of semiconsciousness?
Google News is convenient, you can say that for it. But conveniences don’t make our lives objectively better; they don’t improve our knowledge or understanding or lead to world peace or feed the hungry or get us decent jobs that pay an honest wage for an honest day’s work. Something that allows you — or forces you — to work more hours for less pay does not make your life better.
To the contrary, I suggest the ubiquitous noise, the attention-grabbing, privacy-busting clutter of The Device makes our lives worse. You can’t walk through a mall, down a sidewalk, or through a mountain park without listening to someone yakking on the phone at the top of his voice and without knowing you are probably being watched and recorded. You can’t drive a modern car without knowing your movements can be tracked. Jobs that used to be done by a secretary or an assistant are now done by you. If you would have been a secretary or an assistant in 1950, today you’re waiting tables or stocking shelves — working harder for less relative pay and no benefits. Unless you’re among the top 10 percent of earners, you work more, you work harder, and you get paid less — because The Device makes all those wonders possible.
We have less time to ourselves; we work harder and longer for less disposable income; devoting one parent’s time to raising the children has become a prerogative of the wealthy, as has access to really good education. We have less privacy and more noise…
None of these improve the base quality of our lives, what my father would have called our “standard of living.” They don’t make day-to-day life significantly easier. They don’t make us more comfortable. They don’t help us to earn a better living. They don’t make us healthier or put better food on our table. Other than sometimes amusing us and filling our lives with noise and clutter, they do surprisingly little for us.
The base quality of our lives — the fundamental things that are important, such as freedom from crushing labor and a decent income and good education and good sanitation and sound homes with indoor plumbing and easy communication and nationwide highways — I don’t think those things have changed much since about 1960. None of the gadgetry we’ve developed since about 1970 has really made our lives objectively better. It’s illuminated our lives with lights and mirrors and filled our minds with noise and clutter, but it hasn’t done much for our fundamental comfort and contentment.
Image: Chester Gould, Dick Tracy. This image is from a comic strip; the copyright for the image is probably owned by either the publisher of the comic or the writer and artist who produced the comic in question. It is believed that the use of low-resolution images of the cover of a comic book to illustrate the scene or storyline depicted and the copyrighted character depicted on the excerpted panel in question, where no free alternative exists or can be created, qualifies as fair use under United States copyright law.
You’d think springtime would burst on the scene with enthusiasm, activity, and all sorts of busy shenanigans, wouldn’t you? And normally it would: by now I’d have herbs and flowers planted (okay, a couple of those ARE in, but not a whole yardful) and I’d be full of schemes and projects. But so far, despite all the beautiful weather, I’ve done almost nothing and I feel no inclination to do much more than almost nothing. What the heck???
Yesterday as I was running around unproductively, I realized the allergies were so bad one of my eyes was swelling up, and both eyes were running.
You come to Arizona to find out what your allergies are — this is a very allergenic region because, in their effort to make the desert look like Ohio, immigrants have brought so many allergenic species into the state: they plant rye grass every winter and cultivate bermudagrass all summer, and there are so many damn mulberry trees their babes sprout as weeds. And pine forests, which still blanket northern Arizona even though they’re dying off as the climate warms, emit extremely allergenic pollen en gigantic masse, which floats down off the rim and plagues the Valley’s sensitive souls for weeks. Springtime, the only pretty ringtime, is not the only allergy season in Arizona, but it’s the most significant.
This is the worst allergy season I’ve ever seen in the 53 years I’ve lived here. And it’s not just me, for a change: everybody else is whining, too.
Respiratory allergies make you feel sleepy, without benefit of drugs. Add Benadryl or one of the other antihistamines, and you can breathe but you can’t stay awake. I’ve been taking a Benadryl knockoff at night and then a Sudafed knockoff in the morning. The stuff in Benadryl puts me into a stupor, and Sudafed wires me to the teeth. The hope is, then, that I’ll be able to breathe well enough to sleep at night but also walk around in a non-Zombified state during the daytime. Ugh.
Don’t know whether it was the allergies alone or the effect of the not-altogether-benign drugs that caused me to reach a deep nadir of non-enthusiasm yesterday. Except for one annoying task, the entire day came to exactly naught.
I needed to get my driver’s license renewed, a bureaucratic hoop-jump that is inflicted more often on older people because of the presumption that if you’re over 65, you must be incompetent (never mind that highest accident rates in this country occur among people aged 35 to 54). The state, in its Republicanized (hah!) cost-cutting campaign, has shut all the ADOT offices in the central city, except for one that’s in an area where I wouldn’t get out of my car on a bet. All the others are off in the far-flung suburbs.
One is in north central Scottsdale, not too very far from yesterday morning’s business networking meeting. So after breakfast, I made my way up to that site.
The license renewal process is a ludicrous joke, because they don’t give you any kind of test that proves your driving skills. They make you peer into a pair of binoculars, read a line of numbers, and ask you whether you can see lights flashing to the left and to the right. Then they make you stand around and twiddle your thumbs until they can photograph you and then they make you sit around and twiddle your thumbs until they can manufacture a license, which now they don’t even give you but mail to the address you provided (presumably to short-cut people giving fake addresses). This process can take upwards of two hours.
The lady in front of me, who looked to be about 28 or 30, could not read the numbers. Instead of telling her to go get her eyes examined, the test administrator had her guess again until she got enough figures right to pass.
You sense the pointlessness of this already, don’t you?
Well, to make it feel like less of a waste of time, I decided that afterward I’d visit the Nordstrom’s Rack, seeking more of the extremely cool tops they sell. The best-stocked of these stores is in a shopping center so close to that ADOT office you could walk across the street to it.
Ah, yes. Pointlessness.
The Rack had exactly Nothing. None of the spectacularly cute Bobeau tops were to be found. Neither was anything else anyone would want to wear. I tried on a pair of tights…ugh! The ones I bought from Amazon fit better and were better quality. Eventually I found one, count it, (1), top that looked like it would be cool with jeans but as I was walking to the dressing room thought do i really WANT to stand in line to get a stupid don’t-you-dare-steal-this number tag to try on a top that’s no better than something i could get at Costco, where i can return things hassle-free???????
Rejecto!
Okay. There’s a Michael’s next door to that store. Looked for a knitting book with instructions on how to knit on several double-ended needles: $48. Uh huh. For $75 I can get real, live, knitting LADIES to teach me how to do that. For free, I can learn how to do it from YouTube.
But I did want some new silk flowers, since Luz was devastated that I moved the gigantic container of fake flowers out of the bathroom into the office, to hide an overloaded electrical outlet that became visible when I got rid of a stereo cabinet. Wanted some fake roses in the reddish-to-orange shades, which would look nice in the bathroom. Checked Michael’s extensive collection of phony foliage: just awful. The fake roses, in particular, were poorly made, their edges actually FRAYED(!) and the petals wrinkled and funny-looking.
Ohhh…kayyyyy…. Well, there’s a Pier One in that shopping center. Walked over there. Yeah, they had their usual expensive fake flowers, and yes, some of them were MUCH better in quality. But none were roseoids. The only ones they had in the desired color range were similar to the ones I already have. Annoying.
Long as I was at the Pier One, I looked at some small area rugs, since I’d like one with an overall deep red effect for the former TV room, which looks pretty devastated without a rug in there but, since the doggy door is in there, is not going to get one of the pricey area rugs presently stashed out of puppy’s reach. Find one; unroll it on the floor. In among the reddish yarns, it has strips of BRIGHT GAWDAWFUL CHARTREUSE. The damn thing about puts your eye out.
Rejecto!
Over to the Cost Plus. Nope: Cost Plus/World Market has quit carrying that kind of thing altogether.
On the way back to the car, I revisit Michael’s, hoping that maybe, just maybe I overlooked something that would work.
Well, no. Rejecto.
Oh, god, how much of a waste of time was that morning?
As I was driving home, I remembered that as a young pup, I used to know how to make crêpe-paper flowers. It’s not very hard. The trick will be to find the crepe paper, which may not be so easy anymore, since most women go to paying work these days, rather than spending their days cleaning, cooking, repairing, gardening, babysitting, chauffeuring, representing hubby’s business interests at social events, entertaining clients and partners, and doing ladylike crafts. However, commenters at Martha Stewart’s how-to page provide leads to finding some of the stuff.
So that may be my next little project, if I ever get my act that much in gear.
However, a new paying editorial project just surfaced. So it’ll be awhile before we see any new paper flowers in the bathroom.