Happy Feet 2, my own review. R-rated

We didn’t see the first Happy Feet movie, so maybe it was just as strange. The second one should be rated “W for weird”.  Seriously. The guys who conceived and executed this extravaganza had to have been extremely high and/or under the strong influence of illegal pharmaceuticals when they joined all the disparate parts and connected the dots. Some of it was unabashed revival meeting. There was the obligatory and ubiquitous Bogus Preacher type who had been saved from catastrophe, and returned to the flock to tell the tale.  There was an Old Geezer Penguin shaped more like a vulture. He was supposed to be the wise leader (I think). There was the Special One who wasn’t at all what he appeared to be (as if there were ever any doubt). There was a happy little family and lots of parental love, some sacrifice and bravery. There was even a little tongue when the Special One (in a particularly sleazy moment) tried to pick up the Mama of the happy little penguin family. That was VERY STRANGE.

There are the Big Messages all the way through, LOTS of them, like every one ever invented: You don’t have to be big to win. Everyone gets made fun of at one time or another. Good friends stick together. You can be different and it’s OK. If you all pull together, you can accomplish the unthinkable, even if you’re different colors or species. Maybe you don’t have to follow the herd, or flock or school — or whatever krill swim in —-swarm, I think they called it. If you believe in yourself you can do anything (well, maybe not, but then get back up and try something else. Sometimes the guy who seems like the savior/hero really isn’t as good as your own, ol’ Dad. Stuff like that.

There was the obligatory uplifting song and —-of course dance— the invented genre of Irish clogging combined somehow with rap/ hip-hop overtones (performed by penguins who spoke as if raised in the ghetto. The creators stopped short of gang hand signals unless I missed them in all the movement. I’d be willing to bet I did). One dance that was more Latin, to go with the more Latin genus or species of penguin. Most of the characters sounded of African American heritage, as did the female lead singer. Some were obviously Hispanic, as noted, one  Aussie, some Irish. There was a Rastafarian moment, a vegetarian moment, a global warming moment. There was yodeling, obviously not from any ghetto I could ever have conjured up in my wildest of dreams. An operatic performance burst forth at an unexpected moment from a surprising source. Well maybe not so surprising— which of course turned the tide. The only concession to reality amid all these parables and subliminal and not so subliminal messages was the hard reality that penguins truly cannot fly. But really, why inject reality into a fantastic cartoon where penguins dance and speak?

There were the bullies turned heroes who came through in the end. There were kids who shamed a parent into doing the right thing, the offspring who wouldn’t allow a parent to quit when the going got tough. You had microscopic, crustacean Krill Philosophers who at one point interpret tap dancing is “an attempt to escape the existential realities of life”— our favorite line of the entire film. The dancing’s existential effect initiated seismic activity to release the penguins from their icy predicament. The Krill metaphorically clicked their heels together and finally said, “There’s no place like home”. (We did laugh at the Krill banter). There was a plethora packed into one movie,  a vast understatement. I was exhausted when we left the theater.  The graphics or animation (or whatever it’s called now) was astounding, natch.

I have to wonder if this overwhelming mish-mash of input appeared to an innocent, inexperienced child as pure, enjoyable story without all the worldly, cultural and possibly Biblical references. —I’m guessing it stood as just a true visual extravaganza with  nagging subconscious morality tales. There WERE no children in the audience. It was adult night at the Cliftex. And the crowd was far from enormous. All in all, I’d have to say that, although I accompanied my visual experience with only plain popcorn and Dr. Pepper,  some folks may certainly  consider defying gravity by smoking something of exceedingly high quality before and possibly during the watching of this “children’s movie”, with snacks abundant and at the ready.

And THAT is my review.

Keyhole Garden

And so it begins. . . . . .

A few years ago, Deb Tolman, Ph.D. (Dr. Deb) arrived in our area. She began sharing her approach to sustainable landscaping, living, education and building practices. Dr. Deb leads a garden club that charges no dues, hosts field trips to places of interest, offers workshops for great projects, helps keep alive a farmer’s market, and encourages folks in general. She’s also an expert on worms. Not your typical gal next door. Since Deb introduced the concept to the area, there have sprung up over the last three years about sixty keyhole gardens. A workshop produced the example at our local Ace Hardware store. Last summer during the drought, few conventional gardens in the area could survive much less thrive. Most of us couldn’t afford to water daily; and city or community water with chlorine isn’t so well tolerated on regular basis anyway. Not everyone had access to well water, and there was some fear that might become scarce also. At the point it seemed we might run out of water for humans, it seemed frivolous to irrigate failing gardens. Most of us sadly gave up after months of work and no little expense. It was too oppressive to work the gardens by mid to late summer anyway. The heat and dryness wore us down. The only gardens going strong were the keyhole gardens. These are raised beds of a six foot interior circumference, built from things like cedar staves, brick,

Zack mortaring our rocks

concrete or rock. They are mortared or not, as required. The walls are two feet high to discourage local armadillos and cottontails. (We built ours in Stinky’s backyard to protect it from deer and raccoons. MOST of them will stay away from even an aging, overweight, night-blind, hearing-impaired blue heeler). At one point in the six foot circumference of the garden, there is incorporated a “keyhole” cutout. This allows the gardener to step into the circle to “feed” an interior basket for composting. The layers of filling, similar to those of a lasagna garden, will eventually become soil. You may Google both lasagna and keyhole gardens for images from all over the world and more information than you’ll ever need. Deb has a useful video on keyhole gardens as well, and a website: www.debtolman.com This raised garden has no floor other than the ground and is filled with (thin) layers upon layers of “brown” items such as water-soaked cardboard, newspaper, shredded junk mail, aged manure, brown leaves, phone books, programs, even cotton or wool clothing. There are three parts “brown” to one part “green” like fresher manure, grass and plant clippings, coffee grounds, and compost items. We’re planning to use a few horse apples toward the bottom of ours. The interior sides are lined with cardboard. The central basket (cylinder) of wire is created and installed after the first layer of cardboard and rises a foot above the garden wall. Composting and watering will occur in the basket. You throw all the good stuff in the basket, job it down/mix with a length of rebar. A little manure will disguise any odors that might offend human noses or entice canines or raccoons. Deer and cattle, being vegetarians, are deterred by stinky smells. Nutrients and water will eventually emanate from the central basket. The whole garden is kept wet and damp in the beginning while the “cooking” ensues in the layers below, and rain will water all. It should take only a month or two before all those layers become rich soil. Any natural non-protein substances may be added when making the garden. Deb even used an old feather duvet once. But you won’t find me wasting down on my garden unless it’s beyond salvage. Everything is topped off with a relatively thin layer of topsoil. Wadded newspaper can be used later as mulch under plants. We only spent money for mortar and topsoil. The day you lay your first soaked cardboard on the ground, all manner of creepy crawlers come up from the ground to munch. And that’s the whole idea. You invite rolly-pollies and worms into the structure to do the aerating for you. They need to feed off the carbon. We used rocks from the ranch here and a few from a neighbor’s place, learned a bit about mortaring. It was hard work, and with rocks, a challenging, creative puzzle. We’re filling the keyhole garden now, and you can’t imagine how much material is necessary. We hope to plant onions and garlic within the week! Wish us luck!

Not finished yet! Still have to fill it!

carving a few initials in the mortar

Looking good!

Almost there.

You didn't think I'd let him have all the fun, did you?

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The Real Story

Remember those awful Holiday Bragging Letters people sent out via snail mail before the New Year began? This was before we were all so well connected with email, the Internet, free long-distance, cell phones, Skype, and social networks. Sometimes a perfect family picture accompanied the letter.

A favorite holiday picture, suitable for inclusion in a typical, Holiday Bragging Letter--- or a blog entry.

The text itself chronicled the triumphs and celebrations of the previous 12 months. No one ever mentioned the black sheep of the family, high school or college dropouts, any who were hauled in for DUI, committed crimes, went to jail, had to get married, or got divorced. (The latter two were once in about the same category as incarceration). Bragging letters listed only good things. The purpose was to send the message that one’s own family was just perfect, and everyone else’s was not. You all must realize by now that I try to keep these columns light most of the time. Obviously there are people out there who still send these letters and recipients who are dying to know all the good news. They want to keep up, see pictures, hear news. I’m poking fun at the annual holiday letter the way I poke fun at almost everything. So don’t be offended. Now that I’ve gotten that out the way, I can get back to being sarcastic, critical and cynical. Or maybe serious. The holiday season is a dangerous couple of months for depression. People who’re having a hard time see all this holiday cheer and feel they’re the only ones not surrounded by a perfect family and loads of friends, with pocketfuls of money to spend on clothes, gifts travel and parties. Wise up and get real. If you’re in a good situation, count your blessings. If things aren’t so great, realize you’re like most folks. There’s good and there’s bad. No one’s life is perfect or without care, sorrow or disappointment. That’s the human condition. You know all those T-shirts that say things like “Put on your big girl panties and just deal with it”. There’s a reason they sell so well. One of my favorite sayings is from the play Same Time Next Year; “Life is full of hills and valleys”. It’s so true. I’ve written that all things pass, both the bad AND the good. If your family isn’t perfect or you find yourself alone or broke this holiday season, don’t despair. The entire rest of the world isn’t part of the set of White Christmas. The happy ending isn’t likely to come for each and every one in two hours, by the end of the story. Life is a journey. Just being in on the ride is wondrous. Even the bad days are good days. The fact that we’re here to experience any of it is a miracle. Just do the best you can. Well, if that sounds sanctimonious and preachy, I’m sorry. The advice that’s often given to folks at this time of year if they’re feeling down is to get out and help someone else feel better. It isn’t bad advice.

Can't believe it's been a year since this meal!

Although good friends had invited us to share their table, we declined and stayed home alone this Thanksgiving. We really appreciated their kind invitation, but we just wanted to stick around here together. We prepared nothing special, zipped over to the local BBQ place about noon for the traditional dinner, paid for it, and had nothing to clean up. I still prefer my own cooking and favorite recipes, but this was easier. We came home, bathed the dog, and had other fun all day long. I’m not kidding. It was a wonderful day. We didn’t feel we‘d missed anything (except the kids, of course).  And the friends who had invited us over for dinner—we’ll be with them later this month. We don’t have a big family, and that’s just the way it is. Some of us, especially only children like me, reach an age when all the family who came before have passed on. Kids may live elsewhere. Holidays are bittersweet if I try to recreate my childhood memories of a huge, OLD, caring family, many of whom no doubt drove each other crazy. As the only little kid at the table, it was boring, but filled with love. Now I appreciate and miss it. I do enjoy the old family recipes and certainly did it up right for my kids every year when they were with me. I still do if they’re here for holidays, which most often they’re not. I can’t complain. I miss them, but see them when possible — holidays or any old days. They’re happy and healthy, and so are we. I’m a lucky, grateful woman. Peaceful Holidays to you all.

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Personal Quest for the Best

Have you noticed supermarkets making more room for store brands and pushing old favorites into smaller spaces? Some have disappeared altogether. I went searching for Q-tips. The small area allotted was empty, but there were loads of the store brand. If you‘ve ever had a little piece of cotton stick in your ear from an off-brand cotton swab, you’ll forever after insist on the brand that stays intact. The Johnson and Johnson swab was the culprit in my case, and you’d think that would be a trusted brand. Well, maybe not so much. Some store brand options are cheaper and acceptable substitutes for brand name products. Take, for example, Food Club brand kettle chips. Fantastic, and take a smaller bite from your pocketbook. There are other examples as well. Products with fragrance, such as laundry and dish detergent, softener sheets, soft/bar soaps, and antibacterial cleaners can be highly offensive to some noses and pleasant to others. One of the hand cleaners I purchased reminded Zack of men’s room disinfectant from old Phillips 66 gas stations. Not good. Paper products are also a personal, subjective choice. My last visit to the supermarket included a lively discussion of bath tissue among three of us educated consumers. Let’s call it what it is and dispense with the euphemism. It’s toilet paper. (We don’t bathe with it). I’d hazard a guess that this one product might yield possibly one of the most heated arguments pro and con various brands of all products in the store. Once upon a time, a customer could choose from very few major brands. These days, one needs an advanced degree in marketing and a high level calculator to determine the best value for the money. There’s brand, softness, strength, price, and other more ephemeral, elusive qualities invented by Madison Avenue. Regular means you’ll change the roll every five minutes. Then double, giant and jumbo. Here’s where that calculator comes in handy. Once, I found my favorite brand at Target in a size no one sold locally, the giant roll. Not too small, not too big, just right. Naturally, the company discontinued it. There are the intangibles of bath tissue preference (for those who care to euphemate). Some prefer soft; others strong. Some like cheap if flimsy. Some are loyal to the same brand they chose forty years ago. And once you haul it home, you still must decide to install the roll over or under. So many options. Stanley Marcus (of the Neiman Marcus Marcuses) once wrote a book called Quest for the Best. Might be time for me to pen a sequel of my choices, but of more mundane items than Stanley’s favs; his and hers Lear jets for example. I’ll start by going out on a limb to expound on paper goods. Currently the only T.P. for me is Charmin Ultra Soft, although I did try a sale package of the Strong, so no one should accuse me of being stuck in my ways. Paper towels must be Viva. Every day napkins are Bounty. Better napkins can be whatever brand is cheaper. Even the store brands are usually acceptable, if you watch the ply. Tissues must be Kleenex unless they’re Puffs with lotion (which Zack doesn’t like). All paper goods must be pure white, like sheets (100% cotton). If I’m wiping my nose or anything else, the paper had better be soft. Honeycrisp apples are best for those who don’t like tart. Hot house tomatoes often harbor sprouted seeds inside. The little yellow cherry or pear tomatoes are fantastic, though few buy them, an advantage for me if they go on sale. Avocados in the bag are better than the big, watery ones. Beef hot dogs are best. Chef Boyardee makes the yummiest spaghetti and meat balls; Kraft the best macaroni and cheese unless you want frozen. Then Stouffers, and to heck with cholesterol. More expensive coffee is usually better, but I don’t see the difference in tea. Grits are grits, same with flour, sugar, and many other staples. Duncan Hines makes the best cake mix, but Betty Crocker the best brownies. The turtle variety stays moist for days. These preferences are only the tip of my personal grocery iceberg. I could go on and on. I could tell you that Coldwater Creek makes the best and most interesting long jackets, that Born and Sofft brand shoes and boots are the most comfortable without looking like they belong on your great aunt Gertrude. For boots, it’s hard to beat Ariat, Red Wing, and Justin unless you get into the pricier brands. I reserve the right to make additional boot recommendations later. There are so many good ones. Target has the best long, tank tops and thin, layering tee shirts. B. Makowsky has the best, huge leather bags, and Fossil has some acceptable options for runner up. Dooney and Bourke and Brahmin would be in the running, but they’ve become too pricey unless you find them on eBay, which I highly recommend for almost any buying experience. Gucci and LV are all hype, but I’d buy them again in a New York minute if I could afford them. To heck with Coach. Cashmere is the best wool, duh. Nike cold gear has the warmest mock turtlenecks, but buy a size too big. They’re tight. Under Armour runs a close second are are more expensive. Hot Tail exercise pants with no waist band are the bomb. Gold Bond lotions are the thickest. Eye creams with liposomes are probably the only ones that actually work. If you really want results, investigate plastic surgery. Aussie Hair Insurance is the best detangler, and TIGI Extra Strong Mousse will hold your hair like iron. Pantene Intensive Repair in a tube was the best conditioner, but it was discontinued. Figures. Cover Girl waterproof mascara in the purple tube is better than Mabelline; I don’t care what anyone says. They’re both better than the expensive brands, so don’t waste your money. Ask any professional makeup artist. Cover Girl Color Stay eye liner WILL stay on and works for eyebrows too. The other Color Stay products are probably just as good. Essie nail polish is even better than Opi, and if you Google the best nail polishes, you’ll find a few I’ve never heard of that are supposed to be better. For manly things, Zack would probably start naming his favorite brands like Orvis, Land’s End, Duluth, Ben Silver (for ties) and Cabelas. Peterson for pipes, Early Darkness for pipe tobacco, Zippo for lighters. Red wing boots, revolvers instead of automatics with a few exceptions. Case knives. I can’t even begin to get into the best power tools, tractors, woodworking supplies. But I will tell you that with most tools being made in China these days, Harbor Freight offers lower prices and often similar quality on certain items. I think I need to stop now. I could probably spend weeks naming things Stanley Marcus forgot. We all have our personal favorites, and I invite you to share yours. My daughter claims I can talk/write about anything. Perhaps she’s right. If one person has such definite attitudes regarding a few grocery/ personal items, imagine the multitude of opinions floating around out there on every possible subject. It’s a wonder people can ever agree on anything at all.

Trying to Keep Silent

I’m trying hard these days to shut up and not having much success. But I’m only at the beginning of the Twelve Step Program. It seems a shame that one hopefully lives all these long years acquiring some knowledge, experience and wisdom. By the time one is old enough to have garnered a good supply, few care to listen. I expect it has always been so. I wonder if there are still cultures where the aged are revered. If so, sign me up, as I hope to be headed toward really, really advanced age, while remaining sharp and spry. Hope springs eternal. The world has changed. Helpful hints I feel I might impart to my children often seem irrelevant now, though sometimes I cannot help myself and force these pearls upon them anyway. To their credit, they’re most often gracious and suffer through it. Sometimes they even admit I might be right or have shared something helpful. Perhaps they’re only humoring me. Probably. The proper English that, for many of us, signaled honored membership in an intelligent, civilized society has gone by the wayside and no one seems to care. Other people have road rage. I have grammar rage. I’ve been known to rant, rave and rail at T.V. personalities, sports figures, newscasters, other writers, “celebrities” and supposed professionals for their misuse of proper English. The accepted dumbing down of America horrifies me. Cursive writing is no longer taught in most public schools. Also gone missing from many ISDs are music and art classes, heralds of culture throughout a long and distinguished past. I was going to write about class, but the best definition I ever read was by Ann Landers, Diva of Advice. It bears repeating, so here it is: Class never runs scared. It is sure-footed and confident. It can handle whatever comes along. Class has a sense of humor. It knows that a good laugh is the best lubricant for oiling the machinery of human relations. Class never makes excuses. It takes its lumps and learns from past mistakes. Class knows that good manners are nothing more than a series of small, inconsequential sacrifices. Class bespeaks an aristocracy that has nothing to do with ancestors or money. Some wealthy “bluebloods” have no class, while others who are struggling to make ends meet are loaded with it. Class is real. It can’t be faked. Class never tries to build itself up by tearing others down. Class is already up and need not strive to look better by making others look worse. Class can “walk with kings and keep its virtue and talk with crowds and keep the common touch.”Everyone is comfortable with the person who has class because that person is comfortable with himself. If you have class, you’ve got it made. If you don’t have class, no matter what else you have, it doesn’t make any difference. The gracious manners I would like to see passed on to a younger generation have given way to a generalized miasma, a “lack of civility”. I Googled that last night and was astonished to find thousands of references, from our own country to Shanghai (expressed in slammed elevator doors) to Manila (disrespectful behavior of politicians toward the government). Is America becoming stupider AND more uncivilized? Or just more ill-mannered? What do you think? According to a poll commissioned by public relations firm Weber Shandwick and its subsidiary Powell Tate, Americans found incivility just about anywhere they looked. More than half of those surveyed said incivility was prevalent in politics, traffic, talk radio, high schools, pro sports, television, blogs, and with the public and celebrities. The poll showed people “are fed up with the polarization of our political system and the uncivil tone of our country as a whole.” There are countless other venues for incivility. I would add that incivility runs rampant all over the Internet. People feel they can be incredibly rude in forums and social networks. There is no one to police them in cyberspace, and freedom of speech rules, as I believe it should. But I’m disappointed at the inability of people to behave and control themselves, to offer objective opinions without emotional ill manners and, let’s be honest, bitchiness. Has Reality TV has contributed to incivility, or is it simply another manifestation? Sometimes I want to just pick up the perpetrators and slap ‘em, shake ‘em, and inquire loudly if they were raised in a barn. I wonder, would that be appropriately effective or simply too rude?

Stop Discontinuing My Stuff !!!

In an earlier column, Zack declared he was old because he drops food on his shirt. A cousin told me she’s old because she received her Medicare card in the mail. I recognize some signs that I’m getting up there, of a certain age, long in the tooth, older than dirt. Things take longer to heal.  I won’t write of health concerns. I’ve done enough of that lately, and Zack and I have that rule where we don’t whine about such problems with our friends. Well, we try not to. I know I’m old because of my frustration when I can’t buy items I’ve previously used, enjoyed and found useful. They’re no longer available. You can spend hours on the Internet searching for your gone-missing items. Sometimes you get lucky, discover something discontinued but still available or gently used.

I remember well when my favorite uncle went through this stage of life. He’d lived long enough that styles and products most certainly changed. Blink your eye these days and it happens. Younger buyers demand different products.  Everything is outsourced.  Technology changes. I remember searching as far southeast as Key West and as far north as Buffalo, NY for my uncle’s favorite nylon undershirts one year. They were the style my daughter and I now jokingly refer to as “wife beaters” with the skinny straps, like tank tops. Hanes and Jockey now call them A-shirts. I never did find the nylon variety that was lighter than air. When I went through his things, I found a couple of threadbare survivors.  My aunt must have missed them for decades, in her ongoing purge of his drawers in search of rags. He also longed for his old Bay Rum aftershave. The cheap, drug store variety disappeared from shelves in the sixties. So did most of the more expensive brands. I DID find him a pricier version of the aftershave eventually, but he didn’t like it as much. I discovered one of his ancient bottles here at the ranch, mostly evaporated. I take a whiff from time to time to remember him.

As a toddler, my son was a big fan of Velcro closures on his little shoes. I wouldn’t exactly call him lazy, but he started early cultivating that age-old male impatience trait. We looked high and low for the brands that offered easy closures. For a time they were plentiful. As fashions changed, they became scarce, then extinct. Finally he was forced to actually tie his shoes, not that he couldn’t have before. He just didn’t CARE to. Funny thing is that now in his early thirties, Velcro closures are again available, this time on high tech sneakers. He’s a happy camper. No doubt, this style was resurrected by some young person who enjoyed the same toddler footwear as my son.

Not long ago, we realized that Zack’s old standby, original scent Old Spice shaving cream was nowhere to be found, not manufactured any longer, although other Old Spice products are still available. We were lucky enough to find a reasonably priced source of surplus, discontinued cans, amid plenty of gougers. We purchased a lifetime supply of the shaving cream on the Internet. The same thing happened with some of the Aramis products Zack enjoyed in his previous life, the one where he enjoyed an expense account, wore suits, ties, and starched shirts every day.

I’ve been short on closet space all my life. Even when I was a kid, my mother took the second closet in my room!  Nothing’s changed, except there are fewer closets here than ever before. I’ve always employed a system of interlocking metal hangers for efficiency. I needed a few more and —you guessed it— I couldn’t find them. A product that was once plentiful even at even discount retailers has dropped off the radar. Well, I take that back. After an hour or more of searching the Internet, I discovered them at company in Great Britain. Shipping equaled the price of a used car. The Container Store has a version that might work, if only there were one nearby.  Right now I’m hot on the trail of nine add-on hangers on eBay, and hope I win the auction. Ordered some online from Sears via K-mart and they sent the wrong thing and didn’t delete shipping as promised. Even if I drive to Sears to return them, I’m out the shipping. Ironically, at the very end of my frustrating search, I found them available from, of all places, Acehardware.com. An Ace store is ten minutes away.

Years ago, Chanel sold my favorite eye cream with liposomes. Those are the vehicles that allow moisturizers and other beneficial goodies to penetrate the skin. Liposomes are even part of salves used to treat burn victims. Products that contain them may be the only skin products that deliver what they promise and aren’t all hype. Naturally Chanel stopped producing the stuff. That was better for my bank account but for my eyes, maybe so much. Luckily, Loreal or one of the more moderately priced companies started adding liposomes to one of their eye creams. This was one instance in which change was good.

My favorite hairbrush is no longer available anywhere.  The little Andes candies chocolate rectangles WITHOUT the mint in the middle disappeared years ago. Same with Nestles chocolate bars WITHOUT the crunchy stuff.  Blue Belle Ice Cream stopped producing gallons of the light version in chocolate some time back. That makes no sense at all. Who doesn’t love chocolate? Cover Girl Colorstay Lip Gloss was a wonderful product, so the company changed it on me. Why? Revlon cuticle trimmers previously came with a lifetime guarantee, but no longer, and just try to get them to honor the old one. My favorite inexpensive get-well card of all time from the Dollar General Store is no longer available. I knew I should have stockpiled. Zack continues, after all these long years to look for the Campbell’s BEEF alphabet soup instead of chicken.

I could go on and on, keep thinking of great products I can no longer buy. I know I’m old because now I can’t find my stuff. And apparently I’m not always so good at searching for it on the Internet either.

Customer Service is Dead

Customer Service is Dead

We’ve all been disappointed and frustrated for years now by the misnomer “customer service”. Once upon a time, in a land, far, far away from our present reality, a regular person could place a phone call to any reputable company, reach and converse with another regular person in customer service and attempt to resolve a problem. At some point automated voice prompts and electronic choice options reared their ugly heads and became an accepted substitute for a real person during most customer service exchanges. If one persevered long enough, navigated through all the recordings and number pressings, there would be a nasally stated option to hold for a representative. Many of us learned early on  if we pressed “0” or spoke gibberish  to make the automated system crazy, we’d be passed on to a real human more quickly.

For years now, when automated voice systems finally allow a paying customer to connect to a sentient being, the “customer service” turns out to be a voice on the other side of the world. This voice has an accent that can’t usually be understood by the average, English-speaking American.  I’m sorry if that sounds politically incorrect or offensive, but let’s back up and take a deep breath. If there’s a prompt for English (press 1), there’s a reasonable expectation that understandable English will be spoken. Well, maybe not.

I spent two very frustrating hours yesterday with “customer service associates” for SONY. They finally admitted they were in Manila. I tried two of them because the first couldn’t understand me nor I her, despite the fact that many people supposedly learn/speak English in Manila. The second person sounded more promising, but alas, it was not to be. You don’t want to know. Suffice it to say that the term “remote sensor” was not taught to these associates, and there was no technician available with whom to speak. I will grant that the associates had at least mastered the rudiments of polite conversation. Their main purpose was obviously to placate the caller while confounding him with ineptitude.  I must have proved uncooperative when unable to choose menu items as per the instructions of the associate. This is difficult when NEITHER my DISH nor SONY remote control can communicate with the television BECAUSE THE REMOTE CONTROL SENSOR IS BUSTED!

This was as close as I’d ever come to shooting an electrical device. I took deep breaths, counted to ten, lowered the gun, and tried the SONY web site. It was as frustrating as the telephone option. The set’s probably just out of warranty, and the closest SONY authorized repair is in Ft. Worth. I decided to load up the flat screen, drive five minutes to Mac’s TV, hope for the best, and pay whatever it cost. I knew Zack would be miserable without this TV connected to the DVR he didn’t need or want a year ago. This is the same DVR and TV that have given him hours and hours of viewing pleasure /classic movie heaven with no commercial interruptions. We resigned ourselves to living without television in the living room (which I never wanted anyway) for a week or so.

Henry (who IS Mac’s TV) called in less than 24 hours to say he’d replaced the sensor and repaired our TV. The man’s a treasure.

I’d like to share my experiences with the president of SONY who might actually not be very interested. (Do ya think?) I’m still trying to scour the Internet for an address. Big Business doesn’t WANT to hear from us. I considered writing to the New York Times or The Wall Street Journal. But I suspect they’ve been inundated for years with letters and editorials of complaint such as mine. We’ve outsourced manufacturing and service jobs from our country. We’ve replaced real people with automated telephone systems, and English-speaking Americans with foreigners who work for less. They may or may not have any command of the language. Old news, but I believe customer service is going downhill fast. My experience with SONY was the worst yet. And this surely isn’t the only company thumbing its corporate nose at the consumer who built it into an empire. The customer suffers, and yet we keep buying from these companies. I wish I knew how to fix it.

I think I’ll try to buy less and less. Because when something goes wrong these days, if you can’t fix it yourself, you may as well toss it.  But if it’s a TV, do yourself a favor and take it directly to Mac’s.

This week we needed to contact Atmos Energy Customer Service. There’s a gas pumping station on this property, has been since the 1920’s, when some previous company paid $10 for the easement. The gate has two locks. When arranged properly, both we and Atmos have access to the property. Last week Atmos locked us out. Now you can’t call a gas company on the weekend unless it’s a serious emergency like a leak. They don’t much care when they inconvenience a property owner by locking him or her out of his or her own field. So Monday morning I suffered through yet another automated voice system and finally reached a person whose supervisor assured me an email had been sent as we spoke and the problem would be addressed immediately. Two days later, the gate was still locked.  I called again and used the gibberish method to reach a human more quickly. There was no record of my previous request. There was actually no form available on the customer service computer system for a land owner to complain about a locked gate at a pumping station. So I mentioned I thought I smelled gas. (I might have, but it turned out to be a dead animal in the bar ditch. Anyone could make a mistake, right?)

Zack found the card of someone from the closest Atmos office.  We dealt with this gentleman a few years ago when Atmos mowed mesquite in our field, throwing thorns everywhere and making the area over the pipeline impassable thereafter. Oh, and they neglected to spray Remedy to follow up, so all the mesquite grew back anyway. This gentleman was more receptive. He arrived within the hour and unlocked the gate. His comment was, “I never understand how anyone can do this wrong”.

So we had one horrible experience and one eventually acceptable outcome in less than two weeks. Is Customer Service dead? Or just dying? What do YOU think?

When it Rains, it Pours

Whine, whine, whine. I’ve been a minor mess lately. Perhaps my age is catching up with me. Zack has this rule that when we’re with other people we are NOT allowed to discuss our ailments. So I hate to be one of those folks who says, “I was fine until I hit age ____, and then I fell apart. Well, since I hit a certain magical milestone, I’ve lost a gall bladder and another bit of my leg (to skin cancer), and had a few of my usual minor aches and pains that have lately seemed to explode geometrically. And all this despite my healthy living, positive thinking, mind over matter, vitamins, and moderation. I’ve had a crick in my neck, accompanied by horrible, grinding noises, for over a month. It goes to show that I can’t always control everything, at least not right away. This doesn’t please me, but it humbles me. My tennis elbow isn’t about tennis. My dismal tennis career ended after high school and college. Suffice it to say I wasn’t a star. Oh no, my misnomer began as the less glamorous “lawn mower elbow” over twenty years ago and has recently kicked into high gear it does occasionally. But big time right now. It hinders my motion, and that ticks me off. Feels like an ice pick in my forearm. Just lovely. Difficult to raise even a glass of water to my mouth. Two other people I know are suffering from the same ailment, and none of us plays tennis. I’ve pulled a muscle in the same arm but not on the same side as the crackly neck). Seems that when I favor my neck, my back starts to ache. I have to believe most of this is unrelated. I blame the elliptical machine for the arm. I must blame something. I couldn’t have let well enough alone, oh no. I had to start exercising again to stay “healthy”. Elliptical machines provide a wonderful workout. This one makes me move my arms and legs at the same time and wears me out. So it must be beneficial, right? I believe it will be leaving soon. Yes, I think that’s how I pulled the muscle in my arm, aggravated an already crunchy neck and a complaining elbow. The way I sit at the computer may have something to do with my neck issues, and who knows, maybe the arm as well. Perhaps I’ll change my desk around. Can carpal tunnel be far behind? I RARELY take more than one baby aspirin a day, but upped the dosage to allow restorative sleep, thought perhaps the anti-inflammatory properties would calm things down. So now I wake groggy with my ears ringing. No more aspirin for me! Meds and I just don’t get along. I’ll tough it all out for now. Time, after all is the greatest healer in most cases. And the older I become, the longer I take to heal. It’s been my experience that most things eventually do resolve themselves. If, after a reasonable length of time, they do not, only then will I break down and visit my doctor. Takes about a month to get an appointment anyway unless I want to sit in the waiting room full of sick people and take my chances. I usually go to the clinic just as an ailment is about to heal up and go away. Murphy’s Law. But don’t follow my bad example. Do as I say, not as I do. If something bothers you, by all means trust your instincts, listen to your body, and see your health care professional. I sound like I’m a hundred years old, but at least I’m still laughing. The weather is gorgeous. We had 3/10 of an inch of rain a few days ago, a real gift! Even after our awful summer, roses and other things are blooming, making up for lost time. So this too shall pass (both the bad and the good, the cold and the hot), and my problems aren’t all that terrible anyway, just annoying. So throw in a change of weather as another possible cause (but I’ll take the cooler weather no matter what). I never had all this at one time. Or maybe memory fails me. When I hit age ___, I might have started forgetting more. I can’t be sure. It’s difficult to remember. But I do know the phrase “when it rains, it pours” was invented for a reason, probably by some poor soul my exact, same, magical age.

Last year's was celebrated early. Now it's almost time for another one. YIKES!

Children and Other People, Not Mine

Other people

I’m not a curmudgeonly W.C. Fields, but I’m not a “baby person” either. Frankly, I suspect I’m not much of a people person.  Most of my pursuits are more solitary. I’m not that woman who can’t wait to hold your baby and play with it, talk to it, coo over it. Does this make me a bad person? There are those who ADORE babies. I’m not one of them. I’m happy for you in the joy of your child or grandchild, will admire him, her or them and go on. I never babysat as a kid, never changed a diaper before my son was born. It’s a wonder he survived infancy (and I survived motherhood), so green was I to the experience of parenting. But there IS such a thing as maternal instinct and falling madly in love with one’s child/children/grandchildren, and I WAS quick with the learning curve, lucky for my son and daughter. By the time she came along, I had more practice. Any troubles my children have in their lives can and will most likely be blamed on my ineptitude. Moms are handy that way. I think I became a good mom (unconditional love with reasonable discipline, cookies, field trips, making costumes, constructing Barbie houses, repairing Transformers, sewing up favorite stuffed animals and a thousand, million other caring chores, not to mention all those diapers, some cloth).  But I never could abide for long most other people’s children. I managed to do well enough with those who hung around (played, studied, ate, slept, moved into) our house for what seemed like months and years on end. I did better with children old enough to speak and reason. Ours was THAT HOUSE where kids congregated. And that was just fine.

I adored/adore my kids and consider myself to have been a true “super mom” when they were small. But this interest and experience still doesn’t carry over to other people’s children. I don’t know why. Don’t hate me for it. At least I’m honest. Someone asked me what we did for Halloween. Nothing. It isn’t the same without my own little kids.

I fear my lack of interest in children is beginning to extend upwards a notch to young people as well. Some of what I see of the generation in their twenties and thirties is disturbingly disappointing. There’s this whole dumbing down thing, a preoccupation with celebrities that seem to have no occupation beyond sports or reality television and a general lack of civility. Read “bitchiness”, entitlement, spoiled behavior.

This ties into the column I wrote about males who don’t mature. I’m starting to wonder if I gave the young women too much credit. Recent events have only confirmed my belief that many people of all ages/sexes can be pretty immature and ill-mannered.  As with any group, there are the good and the not so much.

I was watching reality TV with my kids a couple of months ago. My daughter finds this genre mind-numbingly entertaining, an effective way to unwind from her hectic job. We compare shows like Bridezillas to a train wreck; one simply cannot look away.  They’re popular and lucrative for sponsors, and it’s all about money. I asked my kids if they encounter such behavior in their wider experience.  I don’t get out much these days. I think my exact, incredulous words were, “There aren’t really people like this, are there?” Both my son and daughter looked at me in disbelief and answered, “Oh yeah!”

Maybe I’d better stick close to the ranch.  Zack was saying today that one of the reasons we’re so happy may be that, retired to the country,  we have relatively little social interaction other than a few friends, the kids, a small number of other folks we encounter briefly,  doing business in town.

In researching “lack of civility”, I read an article from the Las Vegas Sun that claimed levels of rudeness in this country and the negative tenor in public life have left people resigned. The P.R. firms Weber Shandwick and Powell Tate polled the public and came to the conclusion that people were tuning out politics and government mainly because of the negativity. The author of the Sun article declared this alarming because people tuning out is dangerous for society, claimed our country needs interested and active citizens.  (http://www.lasvegassun.com/news/2010/jun/25/lack-civility/). I suspect there are plenty of folks tuning out other aspects of public life as well. Lately I feel reasonably certain I‘m fast becoming a card-carrying member of that group.

More about Lack of Civility later.

Deer Season Day

We hung a string of shotgun shell holiday lights in Zack’s shop last week on the first day of hunting season. We declared it Deer Season Day. I made this up. It’s sort of like Festivus, a holiday for the restofus (of Seinfeld fame).

 

Opening Day, 2011

Zack bagged his buck today. Our friend, we’ll call him Sam, comes from a hunting family up north. If his father didn’t shoot, the family didn’t eat.  His freezer’s stocked with venison, a staple of his and his wife’s diet all year. I’ve learned from Sam that there are hunters and there are killers. Sam and Zack are hunters. They enjoy the whole process, starting out before dawn, seeing the sun rise, walking around, watching the light change on the trees, noticing the leaves turn as days pass. (I’m not so keen on leaving my warm bed that early, but I went two or three times this past week with Zack). Sam can sit for hours watching all varieties of animals that are moving about. Zack doesn’t usually have that patience. They both get a big kick out of seeing the bucks chase the does, watching the fawns play. Some come almost close enough for Sam to touch. He’ll stand still against a tree as long as he’s able if deer are close by. They finally realize he’s there, startle, snort and bolt. If you’ve never heard a deer snort at the first whiff of human, it’s worth the wait. Took me until I was middle aged! Sam loves to tell stories about all this and laughs and laughs. Obviously neither Zack nor Sam shoots at everything he sees. It’s all about the journey. The kill is the end of it all, and sometimes comes after weeks of the “hunt”. One day Sam and Zack went out together with their guns, such manly men. (Usually they go alone and often at different times). They returned shortly for a camera, excited as two little kids. They’d discovered baby raccoons in a tree!

The funny thing is that Sam has this whole ritual for hunting, developed over a lifetime. It begins weeks before the season with the cleaning and sighting in of the gun, preparing all the accoutrement. And since bow-hunting season begins two weeks prior to regular deer season, Sam gets a jump on things with his bow. I’ve never known him to actually loose an arrow, maybe once. He just loves the whole process, the anticipation, possibilities, an excuse to be outside. Most true hunters are like this. It’s a huge tradition, so different from all the hunting jokes non-Texans hear.  Sam’s ritual involves the camo clothing and boots, spraying them with some sort of anti-smellum stuff to make him invisible to the wildlife. As he leaves his truck, he’ll step in cow poop for the same reason. Sometimes he’ll sit in his deer stand or in his camo “tent” for hours, waiting, watching, enjoying. He brings food and drink, even has a “relief bottle” so he won’t leave any scent around the area to scare off the deer (as if he and Zack haven’t marked this whole place now for years). On the first really cold morning of the last season, we left a bottle of whiskey (for warmth) tied to Sam’s stand, his hunting season home away from home. He has antlers to rub or hit together to attract bucks, noise-makers that sound like a doe (and he can imitate one himself if pressed). I think he even has some hideous liquid to convince one buck that another buck has invaded his territory. Sometimes all this seems to work for him and sometimes not so much.

Becca and Zack in the deer stand. Great view.

Zack on the other hand has his own very different, casual style. Mostly he walks. We own camo clothing and the requisite waterproof boots. I use mine more for inclement weather, what I remember of rain.  We have a deer stand and a pop-up, camo tent. But usually, Zack just goes out walking, today in shorts and sneakers, with no other special preparations. It’s happened two or three times that within ten to 30 minutes, he leans against a tree and fires. The first time I went with him (or ever went hunting at all), we left the back door of our little farm house, opened a gate, walked several yards toward a field. He saw, warned me, shot, and that was that. I asked him, “Is this all there is to it?”

It must drive poor Sam crazy.

All I killed was the mug of hot coffee.

It’s too expensive to do a full head mount of each buck. There are four communing in this room with me now. Three are Zack’s, taken during the last ten years or so (and two antler mounts). One of my uncle’s  is over 50 years old. As a child, I was always so distressed with my uncle’s “dead deer” and antlers, but I loved him very much, so I tried to mask how I felt. Please remember, this was the era of Bambi.  It’s much the same with Zack’s trophies. There are also from my uncle’s era three heads mounted together. From the time I started bringing my young children to the ranch for holidays and visits, and as soon as my daughter could speak intelligible sentences, she always called this group “the family”. She was as much upset by the mount as I had been as a child. We removed it/them from the guest house when I repainted over the summer. This was at my daughter’s request and with my blessing. They relocated to Zack’s shop where they can stare at HIM.

I always gave my cousin’s husband grief about the many and varied mounts in his living room. Now there are some on our walls too, so I can’t say a word. My cousin went on several safaris to Africa and other exotic locales. On the last big trip, I believe he shot only pictures. Either he ran out of room on the walls or had a change of heart. I’ve also been pretty generous to the world in general in my sarcastic comments about the hunting accoutrement such as strippy, camo outfits that turn hunters into tree-like/Bigfoot creatures to fool poor, unsuspecting deer. Years ago in Florida, I exchanged a couple of funny letters with Dave Barry, the humorist, about hunting gear in Florida. There we were going to the beach in December, and circulars would arrive with the Sunday paper advertising heated tree stand seat cushions for the season. Dave had written a humorous article about the subject once and still owned the Bigfoot outfit. Or so he claimed.

Zack didn't climb the ladder that year.

The winter after Zack was paralyzed with Guillaine-Barre Syndrome, he could barely walk (and certainly couldn’t have pulled a trigger), but insisted we rise at dawn to honor the ritual of Deer Day. So walk we did. We did the same the next year, came back and made chili in the outdoor fireplace. I think that was when I knew for sure that Zack was going to get well.

Lunch in "Coyote Zack's" Pavilion

Zack bagged this year’s buck , almost four years after being paralyzed. he’s been able to use his trigger finger for a long time now. As a favor, Sam prepared a European mount for him. Now a SKULL will be staring down at me with empty eyes and antlers. It will probably grace the library walls, watching as I type, greeting visitors to the house. The meat was processed, and we will eat it, so this is not just a “vanity buck” or a trophy. I’ve learned to prepare venison a couple of ways that even I can choke down. In all honesty, sometimes it’s delicious. I rationalize that it’s not an “empty kill”. (I think I made that term up. There may exist a correct term, but it escapes me).  It would be worse, in my opinion to kill for the sake of the killing, without the meat going somewhere to feed someone. I don’t want to be a hypocrite, as I do so love a good steak. I try not to dwell on the details of beef rib eye either, my favorite, and don’t enjoy eating any animal I KNEW well. Remember, I wasn’t raised on a farm. Nor do I particularly like seeing things killed. Maybe it’s the girly girl in me, buried deep.

I’m living again in the  Texas countryside, have been for quite some time. Hunting season is a time-honored tradition. When in Rome. . . . . .