On the Grid

I’ve always assumed that the major power companies that supply most of us with electricity have impressive high-tech command centers where they monitor the whole power system; where specially trained experts keep careful watch on a huge wall full of digital screens that map out the power grid and alert them when there’s a problem so they can quickly dispatch people to fix it.

I was wrong.

The command center that our power company does not have.

When our power went out yesterday around noon, I wasn’t too concerned. Our occasional power outages rarely last long. When we called and the automated response estimated our power would be back on by 4 p.m., I still wasn’t concerned because they almost always pad those estimates by an hour or two.

When 4 p.m. came and went and we still had no power, I was a little annoyed. I had read the Sunday newspaper, finished a novel and cleaned 2 bathrooms in the dark. The house was getting warmer and I was experiencing uncomfortable cable and internet withdrawal symptoms.

I called the power company again and this time spoke to a live human being. She said they were now estimating that our power would be back on by 8 p.m. I asked her what the problem was. She replied, “A primary line failed and they’re trying to find it.”

Trying to find it? Seriously? There’s no blinking red line on the screen at the command center that indicates where it is? This information did not make me happy.

Still, I was hopeful when the big truck from the power company pulled into our driveway just a short time later. I went out on the porch and inanely asked the power guy, “Are you here to turn my power back on?” He said, “We’re trying!”  I thought I’d suck up by bringing out a couple of bottles of water, despite the fact that all we had were warm bottles of water since the fridge had been without power all afternoon, but before I even made it into the kitchen, the truck was driving away and we were still powerless. That’s their idea of trying?

Perhaps I judged them too quickly though, because 2 more trucks then arrived. This time I was quick with the water bottles, giving me an excuse to find out what was going on. The guy said that an underground line had failed and the only way to locate it was to physically trace through the entire grid, but he assured me that he’d restore power to our house momentarily, and he did. I thanked him and watched as the trucks proceeded up the street to restore power one house at a time.

The command center our power company actually uses.

To all those power guys who spent their entire Sunday, Father’s Day, no less, restoring power throughout our neighborhood, your efforts are greatly appreciated. To the power company, which obviously does not have the command center that I had imagined, is that really the best you can do?

Snapshots of a Road Trip

This is NOT my family. We’re not blonde and we’re not that happy.

Rumor has it that there are those of you who eagerly anticipate the summer months, that idyllic time of year when you can pile the kids into the car and set off on the open road.

I am not among you.  I like the comforts of home, sleeping in my own bed, controlling my own thermostat, generously squirting my shampoo out of a full size bottle.

I do not enjoy being confined in the car for long periods of time. Perhaps this is because my childhood road trips always involved a large bottle of prescription strength Dramamine and the infamous red bowl that my mother STILL likes to remind me about. Perhaps it’s because on especially long trips (you know, anything longer than an hour and a half), my older sister had the privilege of stretching out across the back seat, while I was relegated to stretching out across the floor of the backseat – back in the ‘60’s, the floor of the back seat had a large hump in the middle, a hump for which no stack of pillows could adequately compensate.

My husband would likely tell you that I hate road trips because I am a very, very bad passenger. I stomp on my imaginary brakes, clutch the door handle with a death grip, and brace myself against the dash for impending collisions even when the nearest vehicle is no bigger than a pencil point a mile up ahead.

My best strategy for road trips, aside from total avoidance, is to do the driving myself, thus minimizing any potential motion sickness and eliminating my heart attack-inducing bad passenger behavior, which brings me to our recent road trip up north to visit family. It’s about a ten hour trek (and yes, I drove it all), from North Carolina through Virginia, Maryland, West Virginia, Pennsylvania and finally, into New Jersey, a journey that you road trip veterans probably breeze through, never even stopping to pee.

Well, we did stop to pee. We stopped often and I’m cool with that. In fact, based on our stops, I wholeheartedly recommend the rest stops along I-81 in Virginia. They were spotlessly clean.  On the other hand, the one New Jersey rest stop we pulled into didn’t even have any bathrooms! Come on, Chris Christie, a rest stop without bathrooms?

Anyway, I wanted to share some highlights of our trip, so here you go:

Most Awkward Moment: It was at one of the lovely Virginia rest stops that my daughter and I entered the restroom, along with an older woman. We were the only 3 people in there and we each entered a stall and went about our business. In mid-stream, the older woman decided to strike up a conversation. “So, where are you headed? Where are you coming from? We’re coming up from Florida, it’s day 2 and we have 600 miles to go…” I didn’t want to be rude, but I didn’t want to encourage further conversation while we were all, uh, occupied.  Awkward.

Stinkiest State: Congratulations, Pennsylvania! Thanks to your miles and miles of farm land, upon which tens of thousands of farms animals graze and poop, you were by far the stinkiest state on our trip.

Most Roadkill: Congratulations again, Pennsylvania! There must’ve been 30 or so dead deer along the highways of Pennsylvania. Yikes!  Bambi should seriously consider relocating.

So Close Yet So Far: After 10 long hours in the car, we were so close. We had made it to New Jersey and were only a few miles from our destination. Only it was rush hour. In New Jersey. Bumper to bumper, we crawled past the last few exits, so close yet so far. I don’t know how people navigate that vehicular nightmare every single day, if not twice a day. I suppose people would flee the state, if only they weren’t stuck in gridlock.

Welcome to the Garden State.

The good news is that we traveled safely, with only intermittent traveler crankiness and no major meltdowns.  We basked in familial love for a couple of days and left before the warm glow could morph into an inferno of tiny irritations. All in all, a good trip.

Yo, Phil, Knock it Off!

Signs of spring are everywhere – from the proliferation of antihistamine coupons in the Sunday paper insert to the marauding band of deer waiting to chow down on the fresh new shoots of my hosta plants; from the black rat snake that slithered across my driveway yesterday to the industrious hoard of wasps (now deceased) invading my screened-in porch; and most especially, the persistent male cardinal that has been pecking incessantly on the windows of our sunroom, which serves as my home office, for two days now.

Man, it’s tough to get a date …

This bird, let’s call him Phil, no doubt sees his reflection and believes he is valiantly fighting another male cardinal for the affections of a female cardinal. He imagines the girl birds will swoon over his strength and bravery and he vows not to give up the fight until that other male bird backs down.

The female cardinals, on the other hand, are probably perched on a branch across the yard, laughing at what a fool Phil is making of himself, wetting their feathers at the spectacle of Phil’s futile fight against his own reflection.

Poor Phil. He needs some sort of intervention, perhaps a pharmaceutical intervention, a padded beak protector, or a girlfriend. In the meantime, I have no choice but to continue with my new spring ritual, whereby I jump out of my chair every time Phil lands on the windowsill, bang on the window and yell, “YO, PHIL, KNOCK IT OFF!”

The Power of One

45 years later… you learn the troubled 10 year old, with low self-esteem and other issues, has blossomed into a most amazing, caring, giving person who is made Chief of Police, all because someone cared 45 years ago.

Subject: THANK YOU

Hello Mrs. A., I owe you a debt that I can never repay. You were my teacher from [school name omitted].  Prior to this I had been shunted through various “special education classes” where very little real effort was made to educate. The program seemed designed to remove problem children from the “normal” students. I spent years in that emotionally and intellectually toxic atmosphere. Many of my classmates were profoundly challenged. You can imagine what effect this had on a young child’s self-esteem.

Everyone had given up on me. Most importantly I had given up on myself. There was no hope, until a bright, lovely and enthusiastic young teacher entered my life. You recognized potential seen by no one else. With indefinite patience you pushed and prodded me. Within a year I was back on track.

Today I have a Master’s Degree and I’m considering a Doctoral program. This Thursday, March 28, I will be promoted to Chief of the Police Department. The ceremony will be held at [omitted]. Refreshments, sandwiches, etc., will be served immediately following the ceremony. I would be honored if you could attend. 

I shudder to think of what my life would have been if not for you. Words fail to convey my sense of gratitude but words are all I have. THANK YOU!

________________________________________________

This powerful letter was received by Marsha A., who has been a friend of our family since before I was born.  She graciously gave me permission to share it here to illustrate the profound difference that one person can make in the life of a child. You don’t need to be a teacher or parent to reach out and show a child that he or she matters. We’ve all got a little Marsha in us!

That Ain’t No Place for a Gummy Bear

Is there an auditory equivalent of doing a double-take?   You know, you’re driving along and see something unusual by the side of the road, like a guy walking two llamas on leashes, so you whip your head around to confirm what you think you saw? (For the record, I have seen a guy walking two llamas on leashes in the parking lot of our local courthouse. I blogged about it a while ago, but I’m too lazy this morning to find the post and give you a link. Sorry.)

This morning I was driving along, listening to a talk radio program. I was enduring the usual commercials for Lasik surgery, bariatric surgery, a local plumbing company and a cosmetic surgeon who has not only “enhanced” some really famous, but unnamed, reality TV stars, but who also offers the latest and greatest advance in breast implants. These miracle implants are far more natural in touch and appearance than the typical implants, says the spokeswoman. They are, she says, “Gummy Bear Implants.”

Gummy bears call an emergency meeting to discuss the latest outrage.

That’s where the auditory double-take occurred, though I managed not to veer off the road despite the vivid and disturbing double-D image that the term “Gummy Bear Implants” evoked in my head.  I try not to judge, at least not out loud, but I was already troubled by a culture that finds it desirable to surgically shove silicone filled balloons into women’s breasts. And now? To corrupt the innocent gummy bear with such a barbaric fate is simply more than I can handle, not to mention the difficulty those women are going to have finding bras that fit.

I’m seriously thinking about switching radio stations. Then again, I wouldn’t want to miss out on future llamas on leashes, you know?

And how old is your underwear?

Yes, it’s every bit as uncomfortable as it looks.

My technology needs and wants are pretty basic. I care nothing about having the latest gadgets and I don’t wish to be internet connected every minute of my life.  My computer is indispensable, of course, and I have a cellphone so my kids can contact me when they need to, but I don’t have a smart phone, a Kindle, an iPad or even an iPod, and that’s cool with me.

My little cellphone has served me well for more than 5 years. Sure, the fact that it lacks a keyboard is annoying, though I burn lots of extra calories texting with only the standard numeric keypad, but the hassle of selecting and learning a new cellphone has been enough of a disincentive that I haven’t taken the plunge.

Now, the phone has begun freezing up when I try to text a message, a clear sign that the time has come to upgrade. When my husband learned this last night, his first reaction was to offer to tell me how to fix the phone I have. I declined, saying it really was time for me to have a phone with a keyboard. He then suggested I call AT&T and find out if I can get a free upgrade. I assured him that I would attempt to get a free phone, but if not, I would get the most economical option available. He was apparently concerned that I would come home with a diamond encrusted smart phone of some sort, along with a data plan that would require a second mortgage on our home.

It’s perplexing that my husband sometimes forgets just how low maintenance I am. You’d think it would be fresh in his mind because when he recently asked me what I wanted for Valentine’s Day, I said I wanted the burned out light bulbs in the lamp post by the driveway replaced so I don’t have to retrieve the newspaper in total darkness each morning. (Yes, he granted that wish.)

I’m not the kind of person who has a closet full of expensive shoes and designer handbags. I don’t run out to buy a few rolls of toilet paper, and accidently return home with a new Lexus. In reminding my husband of my low maintenance nature last night, I said, “I have underwear older than our children (who, by the way, are teens not toddlers).”  To which my husband and daughter replied, in unison, “EEWWWW!”

Point made.

Rx

Bullshitia is a prescription medication for the treatment of symptoms of Hypochondragullability. Hypochondragullability is a serious medical condition. Symptoms include the strong belief that you have one or more health problems created and propagated by the marketing executives of Pharmaceutico and the willingness to take absolutely any medication your doctor may randomly prescribe for you.

Bullshitia is not for everyone. Patients who are pregnant, nursing, may become pregnant or who are the product of a pregnancy, should not use Bullshitia. Do not take Bullshitia if you have experienced an allergic reaction to Bullshitia in the past or if you are averse to adverse side effects. Call your doctor to find out if Bullshitia is right for you.

Bullshitia is safe and effective when taken as directed. Side effects have been reported and may include upset stomach, dizziness, flatulence, drowsiness, insomnia, rashes, unwanted hair, weight gain, sexual dysfunction, sensitivity to sunlight and total darkness, confusion, nervous tics, numbness of the extremities, heavy sweating, and hallucinations especially hallucinations involving a green butterfly fluttering around you as you sleep. These side effects are mild to moderate and may or may not decrease over time. If you experience any of these side effects, tough it out, you sissy. Do not stop taking Bullshitia unless directed to by your doctor because stopping Bullshitia may cause a precipitous drop in Pharmaceutico’s profit margins.

Serious side effects are rare because Bullshitia is safe and because when serious side effects are reported to Pharmaceutico, we take them seriously but pretend they were caused by something else. Rarely, if ever, do we report such side effects to the FDA, which rarely, if ever, takes any action even if we do. Stop taking Bullshitia immediately and call your doctor if you experience a sudden loss of consciousness or the cessation of all vital signs.

If you cannot afford Bullshitia, Pharmaceutico may be able to help. This generosity is made possible by the kindness of Pharmaceutico’s cold, soulless, corporate heart, and by charging obscenely inflated prices for Bullshitia to everyone else who takes it. We do this because we believe nobody, and we mean nobody, should have to go without Bullshitia.

Bullshitia should be taken with food and as many other Pharmaceutico medications as we can convince your doctor to prescribe for you. Do not operate a motor vehicle or heavy machinery or perform surgery until you know how Bullshitia affects you. Bullshitia is not known to be addictive, but severe withdrawal symptoms are likely if you dare to ever stop taking Bullshitia.

If you experience a worsening of the symptoms of Hypochondragullability while taking Bullshitia, contact your doctor as you may need a stronger dose of Bullshitia or may require additional Pharmaceutico medications.

On Twinkies and Assault Weapons

It came as no surprise that Twinkie lovers everywhere scrambled to stockpile the spongy cream-filled treats upon news that Twinkie-maker Hostess was shutting its doors. There were probably more than a few opportunists who also jumped aboard the Twinkie brigade for the sole purpose of potential future profits, hoping to safeguard the very last Twinkie supply until desperate panic set in, then offering the little chemical cylinders for sale on eBay for an exorbitant price.

Of course, there are people in the world who don’t particularly like Twinkies, including me. It’s not that I’m a snack cake snob, I simply don’t see the point if there is no chocolate involved.  Anyway, Hostess’s demise did not cause me to rush out and buy Twinkies. I didn’t buy them last week, last month or last year, and foresaw no need to buy them in the future. The fact that they may soon be unavailable did not create a need for me to have them. (You can probably guess where I’m going with this, right?)

Bad things happen when we allow Ding Dongs to purchase assault weapons.

This week, our local newspaper ran a story about how guns sales had jumped since the tragic mass shooting in Newtown, CT. Assault weapons and high capacity magazines are particularly hot sellers because people are anticipating a ban on purchasing them in the future. I imagine the same thing is going on in your community.

So, tell me – if you didn’t need an assault weapon last week, last month or last year, why do you need one now?  It’s simple logic: the possibility that something may become unavailable does not create a need where one did not already exist.  If you didn’t NEED to run out and buy a Twinkie in recent years and you didn’t NEED to run out and buy an assault rifle in recent years, why the hell are you buying them now?

Whatever your feelings may be on Twinkies and assault weapons, I wish you a very happy New Year. May it be filled with peace, compassion, good health and common sense. Oh, a little bit of prosperity wouldn’t hurt either.

Dear Alexander Graham Bell

It’s not your fault. I’m sure you had only the best of intentions when you invented the telephone and it truly changed the world in amazing and positive ways. You could not have anticipated that it would someday also be used as an instrument of torturous harassment.

“No, listen, I said PUT ME ON YOUR DO-NOT-CALL LIST!”

We’ve all endured the telemarketing calls, of course, like robo-Jennifer, who regularly calls to warn us that the FBI has reported serious crimes in our area and offers to install a security system in our home for free.  And, in case you’re wondering, yes, we’re on the National Do Not Call List, a waste of taxpayer money which magically does absolutely nothing when you add your name and phone number to it. I’ll spare you my rant on political robocalls since we have blessedly made it through what felt like the longest presidential campaign season ever.

There is yet another insidious category of unwanted phone calls and if you’ve gone to college or have a child in college, these are probably quite familiar. For decades, my husband and I donated a paltry sum to our alma mater’s annual alumni fund drive. Now that we have a son in college (and a daughter not far behind), we have stopped this silly practice so that every spare penny can help pay for our kids’ education.

Our alma mater did not take this turn of events lightly. They stepped up their calling efforts, mailings and emails. I stopped answering their calls and ignored all other forms of communication. In an act of desperation, they sent us a “proud alumni of…” baseball cap, which is now collecting dust in a pile of stuff on a countertop.  Though they have spent more trying, in vain, to obtain our $25 check than it’s worth, they seem far more obsessed with high alumni participation in the fund drive than in the amount they reap. Oh well. By the grace of Caller ID, I will continue to ignore their pleas.

When the phone rang this past Tuesday night at eight o’clock and I saw that the call was from the university my son attends, I was pretty sure it was a fundraising call. Pretty sure, but not certain. Because there existed a remote possibility that something could have happened to my baby (if you’ve been reading my blog for a while, you understand this is not all that remote), my maternal instincts commanded me to pick up the phone.

A perky student introduced herself, saying she wanted to make sure that their records were up-to-date and fill me in on all the wonderful services made possible by the school’s parent organization. Crap, a fundraising call. Mind you, this comes just a week or so after the due date for the spring semester tuition bill – a fine bit of timing, don’t you think?

I didn’t want to be rude to a student, so I tried to patiently play along until I couldn’t stand it anymore. Here’s the gist of the conversation:

Perky Student (reading from a script):  So, is your daugh….uh, son enjoying the university?

Financially Tapped-Out Mom who recently paid spring tuition bill and just finished Hanukkah/Christmas shopping: Oh yes.

PS: Has he decided what he’s going to major in?

FTOM: Computer engineering.

PS: Oh, great! I’ve talked to quite a few parents with engineering students. Isn’t that funny?

FTOM: Mm.

PS: Is this your current address?

FTOM: Yes, all our contact information is the same.

PS: Is this your current email address?

FTOM: Yes.

PS: I don’t see an employer listed for you.

FTOM: I’m self-employed.

PS: I’ve heard that from a lot of parents I’ve talked to. Isn’t that funny?

FTOM, now leaning head against the wall and deeply regretting having answered the phone: Mm.

PS: You know, our parent organization provides so many services here on campus that are not paid for by tuition, like escorts to walk students home at night from the library to their dorms and our on-campus health center. Has your daugh….uh, son, used any of these services.

FTOM: Yes, he has. [He is well acquainted with the health center from last year’s painful biking misadventures.]

PS: Then you know how important they are. I mean, you wouldn’t want your son walking down Hillsborough Street by himself at night – NOT that the campus isn’t safe, of course, but you know, Hillsborough Street isn’t the best…. [I sense PS has now broken a sweat and is veering from the script and into babble, thrown by my polite resistance to engaging in a real conversation with her.]

FTOM: Mm.

PS: So, has your son joined any clubs?

FTOM, now fearing the script is designed as a giant loop from which the only escape is $$: Listen, I don’t want to waste your time or my time, so if this is really just a fundraising call, we’re not giving any money beyond the tuition we’re already paying. [Oh, other than those large chunks of change to cover room, meal plan, books and a plethora of exorbitant fees for everything under the sun.]

PS: Oh, I understand, lots of parents say that, but any amount makes a difference. Even $125 will help fund….

FTOM: Listen, thanks for the call and have a good night. CLICK.

I expect this is not the end of the university’s fundraising calls, all of which I will be compelled to reluctantly answer on the slim chance that one of them may be something other than a fundraising call. Perhaps the university should just get it over with and send someone over to break my kneecaps with a baseball bat.

Historical footnote: According to Wikipedia, after inventing the telephone, Alexander Graham Bell considered it “an intrusion on his real work as a scientist and refused to have a telephone in his study.” Smart man. 

‘Tis

‘Tis the season. Yes, love it or hate it, it is undeniably THE season.

To those of you who are joyfully creating a Christmas display that will be clearly visible from the International Space Station;

To those who are preparing to light the menorah for Hanukkah;

To those who celebrate other special holidays this time of year and those who choose not to celebrate at all;

And to everyone else who takes the time to visit me here at The Big Sheep Blog;

I bring you the following gift of the season, courtesy of singer/songwriter Dana Parish and composer/pianist Andrew Hollander.  (Used by permission.)