?`s and ANNEswers

Ten minutes to write. Less time to read.

Keep in Touch

Posted on May 4, 2006

I like email as much as the next person; in fact, my program is set up to send me a little pop-up whenever I receive a message, so I’m never too far behind. At the same time, I like the telephone; and it is becoming more and more difficult to reach a human being by using that instrument these days.

I’ve written about this before, but the latest frustrating experience occurred today and is still fresh in my mind. It’s different from the others too, since I felt a small sense of victory when the American Express representative and I finally hung up.

Her name was Barbara and she was most proficient in answering my questions. When that was done, she offered the usual “Is there anything else I can help you with today?” closing. And, although I think her question was merely a courtesy, there was something else. Something that really bothers me, not only on the American Express web site but also on many other major company sites.

“I’m wondering,” I said, “where I can find your company telephone number on your web site. I searched and searched and it was nowhere to be found. I finally had to hunt and peck for a number off my credit card and spend several minutes haggling with an automated voice to reach a human in the wrong department who could then help me reach you.”

Barbara was nonplussed, and together we went on the American Express web site, she in her cubicle and me in my home office, to find the elusive telephone number. Oh, there were ways to contact the credit card giant, but they all required sending an email and hoping for one in return. That isn’t my definition of prompt service.

After approximately two minutes Barbara admitted that the particular telephone number I needed to reach the specific department I wanted was not listed on the web site. In the past when I’ve sung this particular whine, the representative on the other end of the line has never taken any time to empathize, much less agree, with me. Barbara, to her credit, not only acknowledged that easy communication is important but also promised to report my difficulty in achieving it to her higher-ups in the hope of remedying the situation. Maybe she will; maybe she won’t. But I felt heard.

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Mulch as Metaphor

Posted on May 3, 2006

I’ve lived with the red mulch Earl wanted to use around our trees and shrubs for almost seventy-two hours; and I must admit it’s not as bad as it was during Hour One. Whether I really like it or am just growing accustomed to it as a defense mechanism doesn’t really matter. The truth is you can adjust to anything if you give up the notion of control.

Maybe there’s a lesson to learn here; and it is that one might not want to become too attached to the outcome of unimportant things if one wants to have a relatively satisfactory life. In the grand scheme, whether we have red mulch or dark brown mulch isn’t going to change our financial assets or our health or our income tax bracket.

It isn’t going to impact on whether we stay together either. Rather, red mulch is becoming a reminder of what is important and what isn’t. And what’s important is that you agree with your mate on the essentials. For instance, honesty, fiscal responsibility, punctuality or the lack of, what to spend your expendable income on, and how to distribute your assets after you’re gone. This isn’t the entire list, but it’s a good start.

You’ll notice I didn’t mention politics or religion or President Bush. While many people might think these things fall in the “What’s Important” column, I disagree. Regardless of our differing views on these things, when we cut off the labels and talk about ideas, Earl and I are on the same page. It’s the tags, like liberal and conservative, that fuel debate. But when we phrase the question in terms of core beliefs, such as “Everybody should exercise the right to vote,” we stand together. It looks as if we might end up shoulder to shoulder regarding red mulch too.

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What Can I Tell You

Posted on May 1, 2006

There are times I want to discontinue my blog, shut down my web site, and regain anonymity. During these times, I chafe under the daily grind of writing in a public venue such as the Internet. Why bother, I wonder.

Well, the public commitment forces me to write even when I don’t feel like it. And writers are notorious for lack of self-discipline. With the best of intentions, they still leave unfinished manuscripts, first drafts of outlines, and half-filled notebooks behind. I’m guilty of all the above.

When my heirs comb my possessions for pearls, they will find a plethora of oysters with nothing to show for the effort. I have old-fashioned file folders filled with manuscripts in various degrees of done-ness, all neatly alphabetized in my basement. I have even more manuscripts in the same degrees of done-ness all categorized on my computer. And I have a ton of intentions about getting back to these works and finishing them.

While I feel uninterested about writing my daily blog at times, the truth is I return to it like the famous Capistrano swallows. I’m coming up on the second anniversary of “Ten Minutes to Write, Less Time to Read” — with over 500 entries and many readers — and the longevity of it argues for its continuation.

At the same time, it’s an albatross. Yet because writing for me is like breathing, I can’t quit or I would wither. Possibly suffocate and die. While I don’t always want to take up the yoke daily, I can’t be far from it. It’s the ying and yang of writing, and if you’ve never experienced it, I only hope you’ll be sympathetic when I skip a day or two.

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Mulch

Posted on April 30, 2006

Earl and I have had a crash course in mulch these past four days. First we went to a local lawn supply company to learn the pros and cons of each type. This wasn’t out of some passionate desire to become mulch experts; rather, it was because Earl wanted red mulch and I wanted dark brown. I thought that learning what was best for our trees and plants would help us reach a compromise. I thought wrong.

Matt Adent was a veritable source of helpful information. For instance, the dark brown mulch is totally organic, keeps its color all season, and is plant friendly. It also decomposes, so that you need to replenish it from time to time. The red mulch isn’t organic at all; it’s made from chopped pallets that have outlived their other lives in warehouses and garages. Once the wood is ground, it is dyed red. And, because there is no bark in the mulch, it doesn’t decompose. Which means it’s pretty permanent. I suppose if you like it, that’s a good thing.

I think the basic problem was that Earl had been driving around St. Joseph looking at other homes and their various degrees of landscaping. He’s a visual, literal person. In the meantime, I had been planning in my head how I wanted this year’s lawn to look. I don’t have to see something to imagine how it’s going to look. Neither of us told the other what we were doing.

In the end we were still on opposite sides of the mulch pile. But I decided dark brown wasn’t worth holding out for, although I pretty much made up my mind not to like red from the get-go. We came home still not in agreement, but with fifteen cubic yards of red mulch on order. Earl’s credit card took the hit.

The next day two dump trucks delivered the mulch, which was plopped in piles on our driveway; and yesterday we started the spreading. The main concession I won was that Earl would work outside with me hour for hour, as I don’t think I could have been very gracious about spreading giant red polka dots around our forty trees by myself. I must admit Earl hung in there. He loves the mulch too. After every tree that we dressed, he’d exclaim, “Oh, this is beautiful.” Or “Oh, I always wanted to have my home look like this.” To which I replied each time in my flattest voice, “I’m glad that you are happy.”

We have about a third of the yard to go; and today, in spite of the rain, we plan to finish. Earl is already dressed in his rain gear waiting for me; but I told him I’m already working on a mulch project and to start outside alone. I will say this: I still would have preferred dark brown mulch, but the red is growing on me. Either that or I’m becoming resigned to the circus motif. And, truthfully, Earl’s pleasure with it is worth something.

I hope he feels the same way next year, when I get to pick the color.

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Clocks

Posted on April 27, 2006

Whoever said, “If you own more than one clock, you’ll never know what time it is,” spoke the frustrating truth. We have clocks everywhere in our house — five in the kitchen alone — and I never know which one to follow. Each is a few seconds or a minute one way or that from the others. Thank goodness most of them don’t chime, or we’d really go bonkers.

Today I followed the wrong clock and was late for an appointment by ten minutes. It wasn’t a make or break kind of deal — like being late for a job interview or a command performance. Still I’m thinking we should stop this obsession with timepieces, decorative or functional, and set our internal and external tick-tocking to one clock, remove the batteries on the others, move their hands to noon (or midnight), and call it a day.

When daylight savings time comes around in the spring or disappears in the fall, we dash madly from clock to clock in our home, our cars, and our jewelry boxes. And, when this semi-annual rite of passage is complete, I’m willing to bet not one clock is set to Greenwich Mean Time.

I checked GMT on Google® and here is what the official web site had to say: “Greenwich, England has been the home of Greenwich Mean Time (GMT) since 1884. GMT is sometimes called Greenwich Meridian Time because it is measured from the Greenwich Meridian Line at the Royal Observatory in Greenwich. Greenwich is the place from where all time zones are measured.” In addition, GMT is always on the same time. It never springs forward for daylight savings so there’s no reason to fall back in the fall. So there is part of the year that, even if I were super accurate, I wouldn’t be on GMT at all.

I don’t know what techniques the current timekeepers of GMT use. But they must be pretty impressive since this is the world’s time clock we’re talking about, and there’s probably not a lot of margin for error. At the time I visited the site, there were 268 other visitors, according to a notice on the home page. I felt comforted by that, knowing other humans were probably struggling with their own time issues. If I see a lot of clocks for sale in the classifieds, I’ll know some of them reached the same conclusion I have.

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Comedy of Air-ers

Posted on April 26, 2006

I’m not the first person to note that air travel isn’t what it used to be. I’m just the most recent. I’ve been on three planes in the last two days, and two of the flights had their share of problems.

Forget food on planes; that went out the window ages ago. Forget comfort. Sardines have it better than airline passengers. And, finally, forget smooth landings. I’m of the opinion when the landing is bumpy the First Officer is new and practicing his approach maybe for the third time ever.

An on-time departure is an oxymoron too. Case in point: Yesterday I was to take a puddle jumper from Chicago’s O’Hare Airport to South Bend at 1:15 PM. Instead of boarding the plane at the appointed time, however, a ground crew member announced that the plane was late and departure time was rescheduled to 2:15. She said the plane was arriving from elsewhere and as soon as it landed the maintenance crew would check it and clean it for us.

It sounded reassuring, but at 2:15 the same ground crew member came on the intercom again. “The good news is your plane has landed and your crew is ready to go.” Now anybody who’s heard this approach knows that bad news is lurking close by. Sure enough, the door to the plane was broken and maintenance was working on fixing it, government regulations requiring a working door for take-off.

I began to evaluate other modes of getting to South Bend, but when I asked if flying standby on the next plane was possible, I was informed that plane was late too. Finally, at 3:15 the ground crew announced our plane was ready and told passengers to get out their boarding passes. We scurried into formation like geese preparing for flight.

The actual trip itself was uneventful, although the Captain took it upon himself to apologize for the tardiness by way of a lengthy explanation about the door. It seems an elusive “someone” had broken the door exiting the plane in Oklahoma City. The flight crew then piloted the plane to Chicago without passengers, where maintenance was to fix the door. Only the part for the door was in St. Louis, as was a mechanic to install it. So they too were flown to Chicago.

I won’t mention the airline company by name, but it did make me wonder if its resources were stretched a little thin. It also made me less confident that the plane’s other parts would hold together until we reached South Bend. Needless to say, they did or I wouldn’t be writing this. In appreciation, I even forgave the First Officer for plopping us on the tarmac instead of gliding us onto it.

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Chapstick®

Posted on April 25, 2006

I am addicted to Chapstick®. Actually I am addicted to lip balm, one of the most recognizable brands being Chapstick®. That said, I offer practical advice to anyone else who shares my affliction.

First, Chapstick® is pricey, but not the most pricey. I don’t honestly know what brand is the most expensive, although the most expensive balm I’ve purchased is Burt’s Bees®, found at Cracker Barrel. I liked it for a while, but its menthol ingredient finally caused me to stop using it. My lips cried for mercy as they felt of hot mint much of the time.

So I tried other brands, only to discard them for one reason or another. Then, one day I visited the local Walgreen’s and noticed the store had its own version of lip balm. It was half as much as the Chapstick® version too. I bought a couple tubes with little enthusiasm except for the price, and began using one as a test.

Let me tell you, this is one instance where less is more. Less cost, more value. Less hype from a famous brand, more value from a non-name. The Walgreen’s version of lip balm is great; it’s smooth going on, lasts a long time, and costs less. What more could one want?

Going forward, I’m planning on buying Walgreen’s lip balm. Chapstick®and Burt’s® and all the others can go home.

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Piano Etude

Posted on April 24, 2006

I am now well into my fifth year of piano lessons; and, if talent rules, then logic suggests I should quit. I will never be a good, much less great, pianist. At the same time, the humbling experience of a weekly piano lesson has done much for me.

It’s made me appreciate music. Oh, I’ve loved music all my life, but never understood how it was put together. Sure I could blame my third grade singing teacher who said that I should just mouth the words when our little choir sang. Hurt by her insensitivity, I’ve been mouthing ever since. That equates to years and years of lost time. Maybe I wasn’t the best singer, but at least I could have learned more about music. I didn’t. That is, until I began piano lessons with a most supportive teacher. At last I learned the basics that I missed from third grade on.

Taking a weekly lesson also has helped develop brain power; at my age, this is important. I find I must practice daily to retain what I’ve learned, and this makes me even more aware that those things we learn as children stay with us while those things we learn as adults tend to flitter.

Then there’s the money I’ve poured into this venture. A name brand grand piano isn’t inexpensive and years of lessons don’t come cheaply either. I could have purchased a high end automobile for what this hobby has cost. At the same time, I am more enriched by the experience than I could possibly be by any fancy car.

I’ll continue taking lessons and practicing, demanding that my fingers reach for sevenths and octaves and struggling with the frustration of not being able to do something well. Most of my life I’ve only endeavored those things that I knew I could master. So maybe the greatest accomplishment of all is simply working on something that I know I will never be good at. It’s not the end result; it’s the journey along the way.

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Irish Dancing

Posted on April 23, 2006

Last night Earl and I attended the Trinity Irish Dance Company’s performance at our local auditorium. We’d seen this troupe before and had enjoyed it immensely. Last night was no exception.

To me, Irish step dancing is an unusual art form. I am used to ballet, where the dancer uses all limbs to express a feeling or create an impression. But in Irish step dancing, for the most part the dancers are rigid from the waist up, with their arms and hands hanging stiff from their shoulders. From the waist down, however, their movements are amazing. The hip joints of the dancers, as well as the knees and feet, are as nimble and flexible as can be. They kick and tap and double-time with uncanny speed.

I’m half Irish myself; and, when I see these dancers, I nostalgically wish I’d been exposed to this art form at an earlier age. I remember taking ballet and tap dancing both as a child and an adult; and I wonder if I might have been good at step dancing, given the opportunity. I certainly felt the rhythm, certainly had the genes. Just didn’t have the chance.

Instead, my role is one of audience appreciator, clapping as loudly as I can when the final number ends and the dancers bow. I rise to my feet with the rest of the audience and clap wildly, hoping for an encore. There is none, except that Earl and I will probably search to find when the Trinity Irish Dance Company performs close to home again.

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Backhanded Honor

Posted on April 22, 2006

From time to time I listen to the traffic reports in Chicago and smile because I no longer have to cope with them. It was during one of these forty-second spots that a reporter referred to the Reagan Expressway and I marveled that an entire expressway had been built and named since Earl and I moved away four years ago.

Then I realized my error. A new expressway hadn’t been built; an old one had simply been renamed, probably in honor of former President Reagan who grew up in Dixon, Illinois, a couple hundred miles down the road from Chi-town.

This isn’t the first time a local highway or a building or a street has been renamed. When I lived in Chicago the first time, the main East-West highway was called the Congress. When I moved back it was called the Eisenhower, and if I referred to it as the Congress blank stares greeted me. Today it would probably confuse one’s GPS too.

I think the renaming of public thoroughfares and monuments is downright silly. It insults the original person or organization and is a rather backhanded compliment to the new person or organization. Even though I’m not a Republican, I don’t object to honoring people, like Reagan or Eisenhower; but why not wait until a new edifice or street or highway is built and name it in their memory? Wouldn’t that mean more than simply recycling something that once belonged to someone else’s name?

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