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These days, any time you sign up or register for something on the World Wide Web known as the Internet, you are required to choose a user ID and a password. And each ID and password requires a specific number of letters and numbers, some are case-sensitive and some are not. Some must be a combination of letters AND numbers, and some don't need to be a combination of letters AND numbers.
I spent the better part of this morning on the phone with "Sylvia" over in Mumbai or Punjab or wherever trying to figure out why I could not log in to my Verizon online account. This was after trying to navigating my way through the automated phone system that made me want to punch someone in the neck.
Verizon was refusing to recognize either my e-mail address or my phone address. I get told that I probably never registered for the online site (I could have SWORN I had several years ago when I first got Verizon but whatEVER). So now I have to register all over again. And I have to choose a new User ID and password. With all the rules about letter/number combos thrown in for shits and giggles. Oh, and they need the answer to a secret question, which was supposed to be the name of my 1st pet. Unfortunately, our first pet didn't have the minimum number of letters in his name so poor Siam was tossed aside.
Great. We're on a roll here. So I choose a user ID and password. "Sylvia" tells me to go ahead and log in. And guess what? No, not Chicken butt. Verizon doesn't recognize my spanking new user ID and/or password. Of course. Why? Because my new ID with its combination of letters and numbers is case-sensitive and "Sylvia" forgot to mention that important tidbit of information. Several tries later, I still wasn't able to log in using my new case-sensitive User ID and password and "Sylvia" told me to wait about an hour and try again. Which I have yet to do.
I have a little notebook where I write down all my User names and passwords for the various websites and accounts I have. If I ever lose that book, I'm utterly and completely screwed. Currently, I have about 20 accounts that all require User ID's and passwords. Everything from messageboard log-ins to bank accounts to medical insurance and cell phone accounts. Not to mention the multiple e-mail accounts I have for various (but not nefarious) purposes. And since you're not supposed to use the same ID and password, I've had to come up with 20 different User ID's and passwords, which is why I've had to write them down because there is no fucking way I can remember all that. I really need to make sure I keep that book in a safe place but at the rate I'm going, I'll forget where I stashed it.
And you wanna hear something funny? I can't remember my administrator ID and password for my very own website. Now that's bad right there. I *think* I have that info with all my paperwork for my bidness, DeJongh Racing, but I'm not positive on that.
All right. It's been over an hour. I need to see if I can log on to my Verizon account. I hope I can remember who I am.
During the years of the Farnham Chronicles, i.e., the high school years, there was one person who played a very significant role in our lives. His name was Tom Tyra but we called him "Tippy." Tippy was the guy who brought The Band into our lives. He was at our house constantly, along with his younger brothers, Jim and Alan, aka "Meej and Noodle." These 3 were the closest thing we had to brothers, although there was a little more than sibling affection at times. Tippy used to joke that he and my sister, whose nickname is "Bippy," would get married so that Tippy and Bippy could have kids named "Ira and Myra Tyra. No middle names necessary."
Tippy was the type of guy who was always, ALWAYS having some sort of adventure. He used to walk in the door saying, "You'll never guess what happened to me!" And he always had a good story that would have us roaring with laughter. There's so many Tippy stories I wouldn't even know where to start.
We had a redwood hot tub in our backyard and Tippy loved to come over and soak in the hot tub. Didn't matter if we were home, he was pretty much family and could come and go as he pleased.
We spent a lot of time at Tippy's house as well, which was easy since it was jsut around the corner from our house. Tippy's room was covered with a collage of pictures. He had cut out of a magazine the life-size eyes of John Travolta and he would move the eyes around his room and it became a game while we were in there (getting stoned) to try and find Travolta's eyes.
When my parents divorced and put our house up for sale, Tippy was devastated. He used to steal the "For Sale" sign that was in front of the house in the hopes that if there wasn't a "For Sale" sign, nobody would know the house was for sale and then nobody would be able to buy the house and we wouldn't leave him. Sadly, the house did sell and Tippy was out of town when we moved out. He returned from his trip, not knowing we were gone and he had let himself into the backyard as usual and undressed and slipped into the hot tub, as usual. So Tippy's sitting there soaking and all of a sudden this lady comes out of the house and starts screaming at the big nekkid guy in the hot tub. "Who are you?" she screamed. "Who are YOU and where are the Perkins'?" Tippy screamed back, trying to cover himself. Poor Tippy found out the hard way that we had moved and he had just met the new owner of 3521 Farnham Avenue. Tres awkward to say the least.
After we left Farnham, our family lost touch with almost everyone from that time of our lives. Several years later, we reunited with Tippy at a friend's wedding. We spent hours reminiscing and then the next night we all had dinner together and laughed and laughed and laughed and did the "Do you remember?" game.
A few years after his 30th birthday party, Tippy passed away after a long illness. And with his death, an era, the Farnham era, came to a close.
Today would have been Tippy's 49th birthday. I think about him a lot and smile at the memories of our Tippy.
This is the actual transcript from a text conversation between me and my 17 year old son, Thing 1 on a Friday night:
You'll need a hankie or two, it's THAT touching. Oh, and for that extra special touch, try and imagine the voices of Howard and Ma Wolowitz from "Big Bang Theory."
Thing 1: I'm staying at Wyatt's tonight (Note: Wyatt's house is Thing 1's 2nd home. He has his own bedroom there fercryinoutloud).
Me: But I'll miss you! (Note: I always say this when he leaves the house, even if he's going out to the garage because I know it bugs the crap outta him. And it's a mother's duty to annoy her teenage son.)
T1: Call of Duty is more important.
Me: Of course. I know where I fit in the scheme of things in your life: the bottom.
T1: Luey (Note: this is an all-purpose answer he gives. And "Luey" is what everyone calls Lucy, our Lab. If Lucy/Luey had a voice, she'd sound like Forrest Gump. This has nothing to do with anything but I thought I'd toss that bit of info in).
Me: I think she rates higher than me.
T1: Nope, she's fat. (Note: Yeah, she is. But she's a Good Girl!)
Me: But according to Jake (One of Thing 1's cronies. He's a hoot.) I'm a Ginger and I don't have a soul (Note: anyone get the South Park reference?)
T1: Well I'm playing Call of Duty and I can't multi-task.
Me: Fine. Don't worry about your poor soulless mother. I'll be fine, just fine.
T1: Ok.
Me: No, really. You don't have to worry or be concerned about me. It'll be hard, I know but you'll just have to try.
T1: Ok.
Me: Ok now you're just getting out of hand with concern. I'm touched, really I am.
T1: Ok.
Me: That's so sweet of you to think of your mommy. You're such a caring son. Your friends should be jealous of what a good son you are.
T1: I know.
Me: My heart is filled with joy that you want to come home and keep me company but I insist you hang out with your friends.
T1: Ok.
Me: No, no; don't argue.
T1: Ok, I won't.
Me: Please, my son. I'm getting all teary-eyed at your devotion to your mommy.
T1: I bet.
Me: No, really. I need a tissue.
T1: My phone's dying and I'm playing Call of Duty (I think he's lying but has to save face in front of his friends. SUCH a giver my son is).
Me: Love you bye.
T1: Loveyoutoobye.
Think he'll need therapy in the future? Yeah, me too.
It's Friday the 13th and you know what that means, don't you? It means Beware of Men Wearing Hockey Goalie Masks:
Or THIS could happen to you
Oh, that Patrick. I used to love him. LOVE. HIM. I was DEVASTATED when he retired. But Patrick has not been behaving nicely since his retirement from the NHL so I had to end our relationship. And I've moved on to George Parros, whom I love and adore
Anyway. It's Friday the 13th, the day when everyone's superstitions come out to play. My Gramma had all sorts of superstitions. Hats and shoes placed on the bed was bad luck. Opening an umbrella in the house was bad luck. When you moved into a new house, you were supposed to carry a cat into all the rooms of the house and then put the cat outside through a window. The cat would then take all the bad luck with it out the window. She made my parents do this when they bought their first house, the house I was born in. She also believed that if you walked out one door and didn't go back in the same door, you would have unwelcome or unwanted guests. Palm itching? Gramma believed it meant you would be getting money.
I'm not superstitious. Much. I know that stepping on a crack will not break my Momma's back. I don't toss salt over my shoulder if I happen to spill some. Yes, I knock on wood but I don't really BELIEVE it. It's just a habit. No, I don't walk under ladders but not because I believe it's bad luck. I don't believe rabbits have magical feet. It certainly wasn't good luck for a rabbit to lose his poor paw. I don't believe if you break a mirror you'll have seven years of bad luck although I've never put that one to the test and quite frankly I don't intent to.
I don't believe that if you whistle while passing a cemetery, the dead will rise up and haunt you. Recently I put that one to the test. I was at a local cemetery and was walking through basement of the mausoleum
which is a pretty spooky place because it's not just quiet in there, it's like deathly quiet. Very, very still. Very, very eerie. So I started to whistle, not loud but after a few bars I had to stop because I'll admit it, I got creeped out.
But I doubt I was followed home by a vengeful spook when I left because that would just be silly to be believe that sort of thing I say as I knock on the closest piece of wood.
Part of my daily routine is reading my favorite blogs. I'm always amazed and impressed at the bloggers who manage to come up with something interesting and/or amusing EVERY SINGLE DAY! Because lately, I'm lucky to come up with something to write about once a week. Every morning, I sit and stare at the blank "New Entry" page and end up feeling like Patrick Star when he's trying to think and nothing happens.
Several times throughout the day, I'll think of something, start writing it in my head but as soon as I sit down at the computer, my train of thought leaves the station without me on board.
It's like trying to keep a diary or daily journal. After reading "The Diary of Anne Frank" in elementary school, I was inspired to try to keep a diary. Except I was lousy at it. I had one of those 5 year diaries that came with a locking cover to keep out prying eyes unless they had a paperclip because a paperclip would open that cheap lock so quick your eyes would spin. The 5 year diary would have a whopping 4 lines per day so that all there was room to write was what you had for breakfast, lunch and dinner with maybe some space for the time you woke up and the time you went to bed. But there was no way you could write anything of substance in those 4 lines.
Years ago, the therapist/counselor I was seeing for marriage and personal problems recommended I keep a journal. A couple of years ago I found it in a box up in the far corners of my closet. I sat down and read it and absolutely HOWLED at how stilted and formal it was, as if I was trying to sound like someone in a Jane Austen novel. What was in my head and what transferred into the written word were two entirely different things. And it wasn't pretty.
And, there's some things that you really shouldn't put into writing for someone to read. It's one thing to say something like, "I sure would love to see Brad Paisley
on my bed wearing nothin' but his cowboy hat and a grin" because THAT'S never gonna happen to me but it's a whole 'nuther thing to write down, "I can't BELIEVE I'm having an affair with Michael Kelso! He's only 17 and I'm such a Mrs. Robinson and I know it's wrong but I can't wait to get naked with him in his van again!" or "I hate my kids! Why didn't I get that abortion!" because nobody needs to read that stuff and just like that sex tape people make thinking nobody will ever see it (hardy har har) somebody, usually the wrong somebody, will find that diary or watch your sex tape and the next thing you know you've been dethroned as Miss California.
And on that note, I leave you with this lovely photo I took of Lucy today:
That's my dawg!
I just read an article in one of my favoritest magazines where several different writers did a little write-up about their favorite time of the day. And I said to myself, "Self, I must ponder this." And ponder I did.
Despite not being one of those people who jump out of bed all bright-eyed and bushy tailed at the butt-crack of dawn and singing glory to the morning, first thing in the morning is my favorite time of the day, especially when everyone else is still asleep.
It's my quiet time, just me and the morning paper. If and when the Long Beach Blab ever ceases publication and goes straight to a web edition only, I will be very, very sad. There's just something about the quiet of the morning, when the kids and dog are still slumbering away and it's just me and my paper.
The last few mornings it's been really foggy and when I go outside to get the paper, it's all misty and still and quiet. This morning, I decided to take a photo of the view from my front porch and the picture came out all weird:
Huh, I said to myself. That's weird. So I cleaned the lens and took another shot:
Same thing only worse. Thinking there was something wrong with my camera, I grabbed my BlackBerry and took another photo.
I don't know what was wrong with my camera because as soon as I came inside, I took a photo and the picture came out sharp and clear. Maybe I just have a very sensitive camera that captured the water in the air. Or, and I like this reason better just because, maybe my camera picked up spirit orbs and based on how many are in the photo, I've got a shitload of spirit orbs hanging around my front porch.
Anyways. That's my favorite time of the day before I have to get Thing 2 up for school, pour cereal down her gullet, get Lucy fed and give her her insulin shot, make lunches and drag Thing 2 out to the car so I can get her to school on time. Luckily, Thing 1 has become pretty self-sufficient, getting himself up and out of the door at 5:45am for Surf Team. Thing 2 is a whole 'nuther story. Morning person and self-sufficient she ain't. Once I drag her out of the depths of slumber at 6:45am, my quiet morning is a thing of the past.
But for that hour or so in the morning, all is peaceful and quiet in my world.
Ok, so I just ate a piece of cake, white cake with white buttercream frosting including a big buttercream rosette swirly thing in the middle of the piece of cake and lemme tell you, I am buzzing like a bee from that sugar high. Seriously, my head feels like it's going to explode. That's a serious sugar rush. Or high blood pressure which probably isn't the case because I've always had very low blood pressure, almost to the point of "Hello? Hello? Does this thing work?" kind of low blood pressure. Yeah, it's gotta be the sugar rush.
And in my heightened sugar-buzz state, I swear my hearing is even more acute than normal which means I can probably hear only a teensy bit more than my normal hearing which is pretty bad actually. I've had my hearing checked and supposedly it's fine but I have a hard time hearing people when they talk, especially if there's background noise and then all I hear is Charlie Brown's teacher, as in, "waa waa waa." Or when anyone in my family is talking, then it's all gibberish because they all like to slur their words together in a big rush and "What's for dinner?" sounds like "May I mambo dogface to the banana patch?" to me. I think my family does it deliberately to keep me in the dark about their comings and goings. Or just to mess with me. Little brats.
Anyway, in my sugar-buzz heightened state of hearing, I can hear Lucy snoring from the living room. Ok, that's not saying much because that dog can saw some serious logs when she's in sleep mode. That's my doggy!
So Halloween was last week and I came up with a last-minute costume. Why I needed a costume I don't know because it's not like I went to a party or anything, just over to my sister's house but wear a costume I did:
If you haven't figured it out, the vacant, vacuous stare along with the big knocked-up stomach should be a hint. And the clothes. And hair. Still drawing a blank? Duh! I'm Michelle Duggar of "18 Kids and Counting" fame. C'mon, it's FUNNY. I've seen Carmelite nuns dressed more stylish than Michelle Duggar.
I'm oddly, strangely fascinated by the Duggar family. It's like watching a family from another planet as they try to live amongst the earth creatures. They seem like very nice people, although Jim-Bob comes across as a buffoon and the eldest son is quite the arrogant piece of work.
I'm trying to type this out on my dying Mac while playing "Shanghai" on my laptop. I'm so addicted to "Shanghai" it's not even funny. I have no idea how many levels are on this game but I'm on level 154 if that tells you anything. But I can't seem to concentrate and I feel like Mrs. Howell after she ate the radio-active sugar beets on that episode of Gilligan's Island. I loved that show. I loved it so much that I knew which episode it was 30 seconds into the opening scene. Hows that for bragging rights?
Ok, I think I'm heading for a crash landing now. I can feel my sugar buzz wearing off. I should have taken advantage of my limited energy and done something productive, like clean the house.
Naaaahhhhh.
