One Online Forum, All the Answers

In my last blog post, we talked about online support forums and their propensity to drive us down a rabbit hole searching for the answer to our computer or software problems.

Well, this is the forum to end all forums. This is the Mother of All Forums.

I’ve compiled this list of questions and answers to our most vexing and universal technology problems. No need to visit a dozen or more forums, search bleary eyed for solutions, and ultimately leave frustrated, wishing that humanity would fall into Dante’s inferno—or into your backyard fire pit. You’ll want to bookmark this for future reference. Read on.

1. I typed a comment but it’s not showing up!

I’m having the same problem!
So am I!
I am, too, and my cat has a bladder infection!
Etc.

You only THINK you typed a comment. But thinking a smart ass, witty reply isn’t the same thing as actually typing it and clicking “Post Comment,” is it? Stop living inside your head. It’s dark there and the stuff is starting to smell.

2. I can’t upload a video!

I can’t upload a video, either!
Why can’t I upload a video?!
Me, too and why does my washing machine make that awful screeching sound?!
Etc.

No one, absolutely no one, wants to see a chronicling of your trip to Disney World with your four children of the Apocalypse. You might think it’s cute—their terrorizing the other patrons, stumbling through crowds, cotton candy glued to their grubby little mugs, the high-pitched squalling with joy—but the rest of us feel actual pain witnessing these displays. And, rubbing salt into the wound is not an attractive trait. We all struggle with the enduring memory of our childhood jaunt to that colossal money trap and well remember our parents’ attempt to sell us to the nearest childless couple. But to get to the point, uploading videos to overflow the steaming pile already there—well, the Internet does have its limits, you know.

3. I can’t connect to the Internet!

Me neither!
I’ve been trying for hours and I still can’t get a connection!
Will someone please help me get on the Internet and find my spare car keys?
Etc.

Well, you’ve done it again. Your propensity to make YOUR problems OUR problem is getting tiresome. We can’t be responsible for your own inability to form meaningful relationships, to connect with your fellow humans, no matter how often you come back to this forum to complain. Examine your life. Acknowledge that the moment in your infancy when your parents took your binky away for the last time, has scarred you into your adulthood. Don’t tune out, plug in. BE AVAILABLE.

4. My Facebook/Twitter/LinkedIn page doesn’t look the same as it did yesterday!

Neither does mine!
I’ve been complaining about that for weeks!
Same here, and the grocery store is out of the mega size tortilla chips that I need for my mammoth nachos!
Etc.

Things change. Holding onto the past as though it were the comforting, yielding bosom of your favorite grandmother, will only lead to disappointment and despondency. Do you look the same as you did yesterday or two weeks ago? I doubt it. Humans must evolve to survive—to survive global warming, new intestinal bugs, and Windows 7.8 gazillion. Try adapting to the latest look. Try giving in and going with the flow. Admit your powerlessness.

5. Office 2011 stopped working!

Mine has, too!
For three weeks I’ve been complaining and no answer!
Neither is mine and my new pair of running shoes are giving me blisters!
Etc.

Sometimes we all just need a break from the routine, from responsibilities, from obligations. Don’t you ever want to get off this crazy carousel, launch yourself into a deck chair and booze yourself into oblivion? Don’t read too much into this problem you’ve posted here. It’s probably not you or anything to do with you. You’d be surprised at how things just sort of fix themselves if you leave them alone for a while. Then, when they return, they’re either different, but better different, or the same familiar, predictable experience. Neither is bad; it’s all in how you look at it.

……..

You’ve come to the end and you’re complaining that this is too short a list of problems. You don’t understand, do you? All of technology’s problems, in fact, all of life’s problems, can be handled in brevity. In reality, there aren’t that many different problems facing us, whether in romantic relationships, workplace dilemmas, or computer glitches. In actuality, there are only about five to seven. That’s all our tiny nugget brains can handle—any more and we’d implode.

You can watch 50 episodes of Jerry Springer, 50 episodes of Oprah Winfrey, 50 episodes of Ellen, and 2 episodes of Survivor and the problems will all be the same. It doesn’t matter whether you’re camping out on Borneo or appearing on a Hollywood set tackling another guest. You can also waste hours reading the questions and answers on other online forums. But don’t.

Remember, if you insist on checking out other tech support forums besides this one, you can substitute the name of your spouse, mate, boyfriend, girlfriend, dad, mom for any of the nouns in the answers and you’ll have the solution to your relationship, workplace and financial problems. But, again, why venture away from this forum-to-end-all forums? All the answers to what’s troubling your tender heart are here.

Technology, and Some Relationship, Reading

Zuckerberg Stiffs Wait Staff!
New iPhone Design Leaked!
Sex Offenders Want to Waste Time Online, Too!

When did you last see it?

Somewhere, in or around the vicinity of my house, my new eyeglasses, à la Buddy Holly style, lie quietly waiting for me to find them.

When we lose something, most of us try to go back to the last moment we had the item in our possession. Unfortunately, I find that I lose things when my mind is too preoccupied with other thoughts and plans. It’s a given, then, that I’ll have trouble remembering that last moment. And so it goes with these eyeglasses. And the car key I lost a few years ago.

As far as my eyeglasses, I had worn them on a long hike in the foothills with my brother and the dogs. Upon returning to my house, I entered the gate to our backyard and bent down to unleash the critters. I suspect I took my eyeglasses off for this task because my nearsightedness makes it difficult to focus on things up close—things like unbuckling the dogs’ harnesses and counting the tomatoes in my garden. An accurate count is necessary and must be shared with my brother who is competing with all of us for the most bountiful crop. Right now, he has the tallest plants, but the most barren ones.

Later that evening, after noticing that my glasses were missing, I spent an hour retracing my steps inside and outside my home. I went next door to my sister’s house to check there. Finally, too fatigued to continue the search, I went to bed. And then I lay there awake for another hour wondering where they could be and fretting over the carelessness of the loss. A most unnerving vision came into my head. My eyeglasses were lying somewhere in the yard with teeth marks on them, ravaged by my sister’s dog who has a history of this sort of thing, including recently chewing through my vacuum cleaner cord.

Though it’s easier to blame someone or something else for the misfortunes in one’s life, it rarely helps in the solution. Accusing my sister’s dog of seizing the eyeglasses and gnawing the plastic frames into an unrecognizable shape, won’t help me find them. For a few minutes, though, the blaming allows me to transfer irritation at myself onto someone else.

But, alas, we can only deflect for a little while. Well, most of us can. There are some among us who don’t ever recognize their role in the mishaps and misfortunes that come along to visit. I know that I’m often guilty of the “I’m made of rubber” mentality when it comes to acknowledging responsibility for errors and other problems at work. Fortunately, I’m now past the age where I’d publicly accuse anyone. I still grouse about it in my head and mumble, “If it hadn’t been for…” Eventually, I take ownership of the issue and vow to avoid the behavior that got me into the mess originally.

But there’s blaming and there’s not paying attention—the two parts to my eyeglass mishap. Avoiding the blame game takes some self-awareness and practice. We can all do that. The distraction part? Well, the mind goes where it will. It takes energy to constantly live in the moment, especially if the moment seems as insignificant as unharnessing the dogs.

I’m heading back outside to search for my eyeglasses in the yard. My sister’s dog is off the hook. For now.

My sister’s dog on the left. She looks guilty, doesn’t she?

Fun reads about losing things

The Enjoyment of Losing Stuff – Almost Bohemian blog

A Knack for Losing Things on the blog “Rattle”

10 Ways Not to Lose Stuff/Find Stuff – Box of My Stuff blog

Study Reveals Why We Get Distracted

Online Support: A Scavenger Hunt Through a Sea of Humanity

Imagine this scenario: your plumbing goes wonky and waves of water rush onto the bathroom floor. You’re standing there in your waders and bedroom slippers. You need help fast.

You call the plumber and an automated voice message tells you to scan through the conversations of thousands of people who might have experienced the same thing, in hopes of finding just that solution to your little problem.

This is online support. Support by the dirty, unwashed and ignorant masses. All social media sites and most computer software sites have resorted to this system of helping its users. And we all tolerate it.

The other day, after weeks of dealing with a problem with my Facebook page, I went online to Facebook support for a solution. But were the solutions that I read generated by Facebook staff? No, here I found the grab bag of tortured insights delivered by thousands of other computer users on the hunt for an answer to my issue. I tumbled into a steaming mass of humanity, and was carried along like flotsam in a sea of complaints, conjecture and near solutions.

Besides the grumbling in my head, now I had to endure the collective rants of dozens and dozens of disgruntled Facebook users. An authentic support staff person was nowhere in sight. Who, after all, other than a user, would have the guts to wade into that ocean of anguish and irritation?

But try to find a phone number for a support person—go ahead, try. You might as well go hunt for Jimmy Hoffa’s body.

Social media and software sites call these places “forums.” The definition of forum:  A place to express yourself; meeting for discussion; a public square in Roman cities. After hours of searching for answers to my computer problems, I realize now that support staff has as much chance of reading and answering my issues online as hearing me screaming my anguish in a public square in a Roman city.

When, oh when, did this become support/supportive? And what are those support people doing if they’re not online answering my problem or the problems of so many others? I can picture them reading most of the comments on these forums. And chuckling. “Hey, Stan, look at this one! The commenter is threatening to kill herself and take out the rest of her family, too!” “Hah! This one just threw her printer out the window!”

I don’t have the least interest in going online to become part of a pool of ranting, frustrated computer users. NOTE: Don’t ever subscribe to the comments unless you enjoy wallowing in the despair and despondency of thousands of other users who’ve also been unable to find a human support person to answer their question. Yes, misery loves company but it doesn’t necessarily help you figure out why your screen has gone black or your Facebook page is no longer working.

You can spend a whole lot of time trying out the solutions offered by the other desperate commenters. Perhaps the support persons are trying out the solutions as well. It’s possible, likely even, that they have no idea what went wrong and all they want is to get to their next scheduled coffee break. Or, they’ve been told by the head IT person that there really isn’t a solution so it’s best just to keep quiet and stay out of the fray. Perhaps, eventually, we seething masses will JUST GO AWAY.

But we tolerate this. Incredible, isn’t it? We’ve been trained now to go online and pick our way through thread after thread of forum comments. First, though, they train us how to enter just the precise search terms that will direct us to a lengthy list of topics, which we willingly weed through to find a fragment of guidance. It’s so much easier and faster to get there with a live person, but not nearly as fun, right? All of us must love a scavenger hunt.

Imagine calling a plumber and having to find 27 ways to say, “Water is pouring out of the wall next to the toilet.” Then imagine having to listen to the plumber deliver 127 plausible and not-so-plausible suggested fixes AND require you to pick one.

Would we tolerate that?

I doubt it. But look at all of us trainable computer users. And so trusting. Living on the assurance that eventually, if we search and read long enough, someone, some enraged user will stumble upon the solution and share it with the rest of us.

I, we, could act similarly with the plumbing problem. We could dog paddle out of the bathroom, canvas the neighborhood and chance upon the one lone neighbor who had the same problem and found the fix. The answer, of course, is call a Plumber. By then, however, we need to rip down the walls and repair the drywall and the tile floor.

But we’re a patient lot, we humans. We know the answer is there, lurking. Don’t go looking for it, however, without your waders and an umbrella.

Thank you, Wikimedia for the illustrations by Gustave Doré and the tortured mind of  Dante Alighieri.

Role Models

Rodeo season is in full swing. You could examine this sport and question its purpose and point, but you could do that with a lot of sports. In my job, I’m most proud of the athletes my program sponsors because they’re role models for youth. These athletes are winners not just because they’ve won titles and championships but because they show youth that you don’t have to use tobacco to be a champion. The tobacco industry relentless encourages youth to believe that using tobacco is cool, that it shows their independence. I say, take a look at these tobacco-free champions and tell me this isn’t cool.

Photography by Greg Sims of Tri-digital Group. Writing and design by me.

Twitter Away… But Without Me.

The thought of being the only one whose missing out on something is a nag, it’s a splinter in your finger, it’s a pebble in your shoe.

In my twenties, during those compulsory social years of one’s life, I’d often agonize over my decision to stay at home on Fridays or Saturdays. The social animal, a parrot-like creature no doubt, would perch on my shoulder and taunt me with tales of how much I’d miss if I didn’t make an appearance at any of the local bars.

Sometimes the pressure would win out and I’d reluctantly leave the allure of a comfy evening on the sofa with the TV and a bag of Oreos and drive away into the night.

But on those nights I’d stay home—did I miss out on anything? Was there something that might have happened had I been there? Perhaps. Perhaps not. I’ll never know, of course.

My experience with Twitter has involved the same back and forth emotions: anxiety and enthusiasm, disquiet and engagement. At times, I’ve been absent from tweeting for weeks on end. As the days went by, I’d be uneasy about returning. Would anyone remember me? Would anyone call me out for being an unfaithful Twitterer?

I hated caring that much. It was silly.

The other morning I read a post by mjcache titled I’m Quitting Twitter and Here’s the 4 Reasons Why. And I was inspired! It was all the push I needed to deactivate my own Twitter account.

So I deactivated it. And, lo and behold, nothing happened. Will I be missed? I doubt it. I doubt a single person will notice their follower count dropping by one. I doubt a single one of my tweets will be missed. I was, after all, the quietest person in the Twitterverse. Rarely was I able to come up with 14 characters worth posting, much less 140. I might as well have taken a vow of silence and moved into a monastery.

Throughout my entire Twitterlife, I had steadfastly refused to be one of those tweeps who share the most miniscule, the most banal and mundane tidbits in their lives.

I’ve just eaten the best peach ever!
I’m at the coffeeshop.
This bus smells like poop. (Yes, someone tweeted that.)

Pre-Twitter, few would be subjected to the random stuff that pops into your head—because most of this stuff should remain quietly rumbling in one’s head. Frankly, I reserve my fripperies for my dogs and my family. They have to be indulgent.

Of course, I recognize that there are Twitter users of substance, who report interesting news and facts and let us know about events going on in the world and in our own communities. I applaud them for the time they take to seek out these more useful dispatches and alert the rest of us about them. And that’s the kind of Twitter user I wanted to be. But I didn’t have the time to scour the cyberuniverse for original, interesting tidbits. I just don’t have the time.

Most of all, I didn’t need the constant reminder that my social life is, well, less than active. I do stuff. Oh, yes I do! But to fill the online universe with tidbits about the weeds I dug up this evening, or the funny things my Boston Terriers have done, or the things I saw on my hike today, would always make me feel as though I were littering. And to not have anything to share made me feel dull, boring, and living a life that is more of the hum in “humdrum.”

Twitter makes private issues public, it exposes squabbles and slights and slanderous thoughts to the world so that everyone can see we’re having a bad day or a bad year. Russell Brand just ‘unfollowed’ his soon-to-be ex, Katy Perry. In real life, he’d just stop calling her, he’d tear up all her photos, he’d laser off her name tattooed on his left buttock—he’d do a lot of things that few would know about to bring closure to the relationship. But now, a breakup can be tweeted so the world can stop what they’re doing and pay attention, which only steals valuable time that could be spent filing one’s nails, grinding the callouses off one’s heels, or pouring a bowl of cereal.

Tammy Nelson on Huffpost asks, Is ‘Unfollowing’ Someone on Twitter the New ‘Dis’? Apparently, it is. She says, “When we are hurt or angry we have several new options that we have never had before—we can unfollow someone.” Oh, please. Let’s go back to the good old days when we could send someone a snarky card or put a bag of flaming poo on their front porch. Because that made it all so much more obvious. None of this mincing about with ‘unfollowing’, which only leaves one to wonder what the action means, questioning one’s worth, feeling rejected, and hoping all the while it was an accidental tap of the index finger.

And, so, Twitter, I’m dumping you. As unceremoniously as I dumped that pimply boy in high school, I’m dumping you without typing in a reason in the online box you provided.

You can choose from any of these reasons, if you wish:

It’s you, not me.
I’m just not that into you.
I’ve met someone else.
You don’t give me what I need.
We have nothing to say to each other.

I have nothing to say to you. Bye bye.

And the best part was, I saw the Super Moon

I’m not out often enough in the late evenings and that, of course, is my fault, being a creature of the morning and an introvert as well.

But during event season, the time of the year my job requires booth duty at dozens of outdoors’ events, I see a lot of night skies lit up by the moon. I see an entire day pass into darkness at different locations across Idaho.

Last evening, I worked the booth at Meridian Speedway, one of the raceways at which my program sponsors the main event. A few hours before leaving for the track, I prepare myself for hours of face-to-face with the masses. It’s gotten easier every year since I’ve been doing this event; I know what to expect, what to say. But I still have my moments of indiscretion and snark.

It’s the youth that give me fits. A cross between Rodney Dangerfield and WC Fields dressed in my program’s booth attire, I struggle with the dozens and dozens of children who come to the booth for the free stuff.

I’m piling more foam footballs onto the table and I see the same boy come back for the 4^th time to grab the giveaway. I’m unable to resist the urge and I growl, “Okay, that’s it, I’m cutting you off.” The boy puts back the football and scurries away before I can tell him to look under the stands because I’m certain at least 200 of the footballs I’ve given away that evening are nesting there along with the popcorn and cheese covered chips.

Another boy stops by the booth and grabs four footballs and tries to slink away unseen. Silly child. I have specially designed vision that can spot a miscreant a mile away.

“Hey!” I yell. “You better not be selling those!”

Because they do. They come back for inventory and sell our free stuff in the stands. It drives me nuts. I think, “Where ARE these kids’ parents?”

I’ve become a booth babysitter for all the kids who’ve been dumped there at the racetrack by their distracted parents.

One 14-year old walks up to the booth, leans on the table and says, “I’m bored.”

“And that’s my problem, how?” I think. I only think it. I hold my tongue, wishing he had a mall to terrorize instead of the booth I’m standing in.

Each year now, I’ve come to expect to see the boy who’s been haunting us for the last six years at our events. He was a child when I first admonished him at the booth years ago. I’ve watched him grow from a pre-teen into a teenager with a bad case of acne. I figure he must have an entire storage facility filled with our foam footballs by now. He’s more respectful now since the incident a few years back. I had pointed him out among his tribe, stared him down and told him he’d acquired enough of our goods and didn’t need to return for more. Sort of in those words.

Where ARE their parents? Oh, right. They’re in the stands with their buckets of beer. They can’t come to the booth. Their offspring show up, instead, and say, “Can I get a football for my mom and dad, and my uncle and my grandpa and my cousin and my aunt and for my older brother?”

And I say, “No. Tell them to come to the booth and pick one up for themselves.”

Not that I want to meet the parents of these pesky little buggars. I’ve won the bluff almost every time. I dread the day I have to meet the parents.

Sometimes I get an up close glimpse of just how permissive their parents are. I’ve just finished telling a young boy that the insulated mugs are for adults only. His parent winks and says to his panhandler son, “That’s okay, I’ve got one for you.” Where ARE their parents? Right there at the booth undermining all the discipline I’ve been enforcing and thwarting my adult guidance.

Oh, I know I’m not a charmer. I realize that I lack the necessary tolerance and charisma that would excuse all sorts of behavior from our youthful visitors. But I’m not at these events to win any awards for best booth behavior. I knew long ago that I’d be referred to as the booth Grinch. I have a reputation to live up to now.

I worry only a little that my words are a bit harsh. After all, I’m there representing the tobacco prevention program. I think, “What if my remark turns the kid and leads him to start smoking?” I reassure myself with the belief that my impatient snarkiness isn’t a gateway drug. But I imagine a time, off in the future, when that kid is on his fifth quitting attempt, says, “I can remember the exact day I started smoking. It was at this booth and the woman working there was so mean, she drove me to pick up the habit.”

I see a young girl, probably no more than 11 or 12 years old, walk up to the booth. She’s wearing more makeup than Lady Gaga. My parental inner voice snarls in my head, “Young lady, you go wash that makeup off right now!” I also think, “Wow. I wish I could apply eyeliner that well.”

Where ARE her parents? They let her get out of the house looking like a pre-pubescent streetwalker?

It’s 50 degrees outside with a stiff northerly breeze and young girls are variably undressed in summer attire. I think, “This is no place to meet your future husband, you children.” Sometimes I do feel sorry for them because they’ve been dragged along to the racetrack by parents who can’t afford a sitter. They’d much rather be creating shopping havoc at the mall or trying out illicit substances at a friend’s house. But they’re connected—they’re all texting throughout the evening, updating their more fortunate friends about the cute guys they’ve seen at the concession stand.

I can be thankful that we’re not giving out baseball caps this year. Though, at least a half dozen times during the evening, kids will come to the booth and ask for one. Booth duty when the giveaway is a baseball cap should qualify for hazard pay. During those events, I want to string up barbed wire around the booth and rent a guard dog.

Occasionally, I remember what I was like at their age. And I wince. Oh, if my parents only knew the half of it! I’d have been so grounded.

I return home in time to see the Super Moon. It’s all worth it.

If it weren’t for sausage…

Becoming something or someone else almost always means giving up something to get there. And there lies the struggle.

I’ve been reading TC Boyle’s “When the Killing’s Done” for my book club. I’ve skipped past the paragraphs describing the cruelties done to sheep, lambs, chickens and so on. I could barely stomach the images presented by the author. And now I think I can’t stomach eating meat any longer.

Through the years, I’ve toyed with the idea of becoming a vegetarian. After all, I don’t crave a good steak, I’m less than enthusiastic about most meats and rarely do I miss having meat as part of a meal. I love beans, tofu, nuts and other protein sources.

But I’m also mad about SAUSAGE.

Sausage. The antipode of a vegetarian’s diet. A PETA member’s bane of existence.

But it is so delectable in its myriad forms and flavors. And grilled? A divinely inspired trip to culinary heaven.

sausage (Photo credit: GregPC)

I don’t struggle with the notion of having to eat more beans. I will, however, have to find something that works to combat the gas. Gas-X does NOT work. Beano –cute name, but ineffective. I certainly don’t mind eating more vegetables. They’re an easy and welcome addition to any meal and alongside some whole grains it makes for a nutritious offering. And, tofu? Yes, I very much enjoy tofu. So unassuming, it never loudly announces itself at a meal. It is only the accompanying sauces that make the fuss.

But give up sausage?! Sausage, the object of my desire. Sausage: Gatsby’s Daisy, Caesar’s Cleopatra, Pepe Le Peu’s neighborhood of cats, Rhett’s Scarlet, Charlie Brown’s Little Red-Haired Girl. This won’t be easy.

You could describe for me all the unsettling, vile and creepy stuff that goes into the making of a sausage and I would still sit down to a meal of lovely grilled knockwurst. I would scarf up a rosemary-laced artisan chicken tube steak. I would gobble up a kielbasa. I’d be hot for a hotdog. Just don’t show me any photos.

And I’ve tried tofu sausage. Ha! The two words are as linked as Paula Abdul and sobriety, as Rush Limbaugh and subtlety.

And even if I become a vegetarian, do I force my lifestyle on my dogs as well? Can they survive on a vegetarian diet of tofu and beans? Believe me, my Boston Terriers are gassy enough on a fiber-deprived good day, but after a meal of kibble and pinto beans? But remember: dry dog food does contain some meat—meat byproducts, that is,  similar to what I suppose goes into a sausage. So, of course I Googled “vegetarian diet for dogs” and found this:

While this is a personal matter that each pet owner must decide for himself or herself, consideration also should be given to the ethical issue of feeding an animal a diet that is against its nature… eliminating all animal products from the diets of dogs and cats to meet one’s personal philosophy, regardless how well intentioned, may not be the correct choice if it potentially compromises the health of the pet itself.

And then, this:

Dogs would benefit in health and temperament worldwide…Such a diet would also greatly reduce the risks of cancer, strokes, heart attacks and other common diseases and disorders.”
Michael W. Fox, DVM

Not exactly illuminating the answer for me, are they?

Not wanting to impose my philosophy on my dogs at the risk of their health is of immediate concern. So is preparing my vegetarian meal alongside their nonvegetarian one. Hovering over their doggie bowls while they munch on chicken and bits of steak won’t be a pretty sight.

Oh, if it weren’t for sausage…

Right now, the freezer contains a various assortment of meat products, including a few packs of sausage. I can either serve the meat to my dogs, take the packages next door to my nonvegetarian sister and husband, or work my way through them, awash in guilt and shame.

I am at a crossroads of a diet dilemma. The meat supply remains on tenterhooks, pondering their fate.

28 Years of Bad Luck or Whimsy. You Choose.

I’m the fidgety sort. The need to constantly redecorate my home is a form of fidgety-ness, which always leads to backaches because I never get help to move the furniture. I put my thighs into it, though.

I find it partially relaxing and partially nerve-wracking to read home decorating magazines. I get halfway into one and then I’m up moving furniture, creating new combinations of decorative items, rehanging pictures, and switching out rugs. Fortunately, I have someone who helps me make these redecorating decisions. She’s my insultant. No, not “consultant,” I meant “insultant.”

Sitting on the porch after a long day in the garden and leafing through home redecorating magazines is a treat. There’s nothing standing between achieving most of the ideas suggested save for a bit of money. And my insultant. I comment on the ideas suggested within the pages and ooh and ah over them, and she gives me that special dose of reality that will save me lots of expense and injury.

I see on page 9 a photo of a living room. The setting is bright and cheerful. Off to the side, sitting very close to a coffee table the size of a Volkswagon, is a wrought iron seat thing piled high with books. I say to my insultant, “Ooh, I have a wrought iron seat thing just like that! I think I’ll bring it inside and use it in my bedroom that way.”

Wisely, but firmly, she responds, “And, some night, when you get up to use the bathroom, you’ll stub your toe on the lovely curved metal legs and your shrieking will wake the neighborhood.”

I decide to leave the wrought iron seat thing outside in my shade garden.

I see a photo showing a wrought iron chair placed next to the bathtub, turning the bathroom into something chic and inviting.

“Stubbed toes,” is all she says.

On page 15, I point out a clever idea for hanging items on the wall. The hooks are actually old metal hose nozzles screwed into a pegboard over which is mounted an old window sans glass.

“Read this,” my insultant says. “Drill 1 and a half inch threaded pipe into the board and then screw a nozzle onto the pipe to secure it. So, after you’ve spent five hours making this ridiculous thing, you’ll hang it somewhere and instantly regret it. It will constantly remind you that it’s just a board with hose nozzles stuck to it.”

I move on.

“How cool,” I exclaim. I’ve just noticed a darling coffee table upon which are glued large wood block letters with a glass top covering them. The glass is much wider than the tabletop below rather than cut to fit. “It creates a nice effect,” I say to my insultant.

“Shins,” my insultant says. “Your eyesight isn’t that great, the lighting in your living room is subpar, but you think you can navigate your way to the sofa without whacking your shins on that piece of glass?”

I see a clever vase made out of an old, partly rusted radiator screen wrapped in a cylindrical shape, the ends fastened with wing nuts. I love vases. I’m always on the lookout for interesting ones. I’m still looking at the photo but I can feel my insultant’s eyes on me.

“Is your tetanus shot up to date? Is your first aid kit stocked with antiseptic and bandages?” my insultant says. “I’ve seen you cut your fingers on Styrofoam. Just sayin’,” she says.

“Okay, okay,” I say. “Maybe not such a good idea.”

“I want a chandelier!” I scream. I really do. I want chandeliers in my studio, my breakfast room, my bedroom, my living room, and on my back porch.

“Yeah, read this,” my insultant says, pushing me back down into the chair. The writer of the article states: “A crystal chandelier, which cost Lynn only $90…”

Only $90. Even I’m a bit outraged over the use of that adjective. Ninety dollars is a month’s groceries for me during a weight loss month. I turn the page quickly.

On page 22, the writers tell me to “sprinkle some razzle dazzle around a room by embellishing throw pillows with old rhinestone jewelry.” The effect is sparkly. I love sparkly.

My insultant places her large, wrinkled hand over mine. “Dear, you do not own stuffed animals. You have two dogs—well, three, if you count your sister’s. Each one of them has picker’s disease. Let’s think back to the time your Stella reduced your sister’s entire Berber carpet to a pile of squiggly rope. Now tell me if you think it’s a grand idea to razzle dazzle your pillows.”

I don’t even respond.

“Ooh, that white sofa with the seat cushions wrapped in lacy curtains and the rest of it covered in this heavy white damask is divine,” I murmur.

“Stop murmuring,” my insultant says. “Once again, and I so tire of this… Your dogs? Do you think Stella, Sally and Carmella are going to take a look at it and say, ‘We better just sleep on the floor and in these doggie beds. We wouldn’t want to dirty the damask.’ Have you taught them to wash their own feet and bottoms yet?”

I’m too embarrassed to speak for a few seconds.

“I like this idea,” I say. I’m looking at a wall lamp with its cord wrapped in a pretty fabric sleeve.

My insultant glares at me. “You’ve got a sweater that’s been missing a button for five years and you think you’re going to take the time to make these sleeves? And do you really want your friends to walk in, notice them, and think, ‘Wow, she IS neurotic.’ “

I spy a group of different sizes and shapes of vintage mirrors placed on top of each other all strung on the back of a door from the same hook. I’m certain I can find mirrors like them at my local thrift stores. I’m planning my weekend excursion when my insultant breaks in.

“Really? Hang mirrors on the back of a door? Okay, I see four mirrors there and for every shut of the door that’s seven years of bad luck. Or, 28 years with one good slam.”

“Okay, okay,” I mutter and move on.

And so it continues with the pastry cutter filling in as a napkin holder, the mattress springs fashioned into a snack container, and the upside down cheese graters attached to a piece of wood and used as pencil and brush holders. All either useless clutter or injuries waiting to happen, according to my insultant.

My delight over the old wooden gear with candle tapers slipped into the wheel’s notches is the last straw for my insultant.

“ARE YOU DEFICIENT? Have you forgotten the candle and wooden shelf incident in Minneapolis?”

I give up. Sort of. I have an idea for using that vintage sled in my garage as a hanging pots and pans holder in my kitchen.

Just a few rolls of duct tape...

On the (Near) Anniversary of Moving Here: A Mini Memoir

Ghosts wouldn’t inhabit this home, this hovel, this fleapit. What brings me to tell this story was the final push over the edge, the straw that broke the camel’s back.

The utensils drawer is now stuck partly open.

We can’t shut it or open it wider. We have to squeeze our hands inside to pull out something to eat with. I’ll be eating with my hands from now on.

How did I come to live in this dreadful shack, this shed, this lean-to on the edge of the foothills in Boise? The tale is worth telling, at least, if only to help me make sense of it.

The oddest thing is, moving into this house in Boise was like the coming to reality of a dream I’d had throughout my life. Most of the time I wasn’t completely sure whether it was a dream or, rather, an actual memory. I’d wake up after this dream, feeling it so real and so close that I could almost see the house number on the front door. I know this isn’t unusual, this dream-reality conflict. Lots of people have dreams that contain close-to-realness. But I’d awaken from this dream, to find that I couldn’t distinguish the dream from what felt to be a memory—a memory that had walls, a roof and a bedroom full of horrors.

In my dream, I’m waiting, along with the rest of my family, to move into a house my parents were preparing to buy. They picked out the house, even put a down payment on it, and we were to move in after they sold our current home.

And that’s the thing. The current home in my half-dream, half-nightmare is a place of terror and revulsion. That place had its own portal to hell, since hell seems to have so many—as a way to stack the deck on Satan’s side—and it was located underneath my bed. Where there should have been shag carpeting there was a giant dirt pit. The rest of my bedroom was carpeted, but the pit was there, under the bed, inhabited by all sorts of insects that crawled out during the night. In my dream, I begged my parents to let us move—to please call up the agent and speed up the real estate business. They’d always assure me that we would move as soon as they sold this hell house. But we’d drive by the new home every week, I’d fantasize about having my own room with a desk and a little lamp and a pencil cup, but the goal would feel even further from my reach.

Before I moved to Boise, I lived in Minneapolis for nearly 17 years. Much of that time I was married. My sister and her husband lived there during the last half of those years. One day, I got divorced. It was mercifully settled in a month and I moved into my own townhome—a veritable palace. It was the Taj Mahal compared to my present surroundings—this dilapidated crack house. That’s too kind. Even crack heads would object to an oven that doesn’t work, mice droppings in kitchen drawers and door handles that keep coming off in their hands.

I had lots of reasons for wanting to leave: the dreadful bitter long winters, the oppressively humid summers that made my hair as limp as earthworms, the voracious, relentless mosquitos, and the desperate need to quit stalking an ex-boyfriend. He lived in a nice neighborhood a few miles from me. His house wasn’t a whole lot better than the pit I live in now. But his appliances worked and so did the utensil drawer. I know, because I grabbed a knife out of there in a fit of anger once. I waved it at him and he screamed like a girl. I eventually calmed down and put it back.

So, one fine April day, the six of us, my sister, her husband, three dogs and I, packed up and moved to Boise. Three adults and three dogs squeezed into a VW Jetta! None of us looked back with much regret or sadness. We were heading toward a new adventure late in our lives. A new start, a chance to build a dream home at the base of the Boise foothills.

I will always remember the day I arrived in Boise. It was a mild, sunny day on the first of May. A perfectly fine day. No humidity, no mosquitos, no brisk touch of a breeze that held ice memories all the way from Canada. A few days ago, I had experienced snow in April. Now we were ready to stake our claim to the house and settle in and make it a home until we were ready to remodel it to make it usable for three adults and three dogs.

We drove up a long, curving road bordered on one side by a large, green field and on the other by several blocks of houses. I could see the foothills just steps away. We pulled in front of the house—an unassuming, very modest little place, with a small front porch and a large front yard. Parked under some trees alongside the driveway sat a rusty station wagon filled with stuff belonging to the current renters, who were nowhere to be found. Boxes of junk spilled out the windows and out the rear of the car. Next to the house were piled 16 bags of garbage, assorted refuse, and what looked like an entire forest of branches and twigs. The renters were not tidy. Their lack of tidiness suited that house. It didn’t really deserve the maltreatment, but it seemed to wear it well.

Before. Seems harmless enough...

The three of us eventually got into the house later that day to take this initial inventory of horrors:

1. Dirty walls

2. Dirty walls that smelled like smoke

3. Filthy curtains

4. Filthy curtains that smelled like smoke

5. Dirty floors

6. Broken windowpanes

7. A gigantic colony of ants hanging out by the fireplace

8. Hygiene supplies and various odds and ends left by the renters and stuffed into a narrow linen closet

9. One bathroom

10. 900 square feet

And then, we went out to the backyard. It was a very large yard with pitiful scruffs of grass and another pile of twigs and branches by the fence. The fence looked like it had been there since Lewis and Clark’s expedition. Clearly the renters had done next to nothing to maintain the yard. The notion of garbage cans and waste removal escaped the attention of the current renters. Throughout the yard were empty Chinese takeout cartons and other fast food debris.

I heard the word “pigs” used at least 20 times in the next half hour.

At some point during the house tour, I left the others, walked outside to the front and sat down on the porch.

“I can’t breathe,” I said to my sister as she sat down beside me. “I need a few moments to calm down.”

“I know,” she said. “I feel the same way. But we’ll clean it up and make it livable, you’ll see.”

The initial cleaning took two very long, tiring days and we got to it after a restless and uncomfortable first night. I had slept on a partially filled air mattress on a cold floor—a cold that seeped up through the plastic, a thin sheet, the compressed air and into my bones. My dog, Stella, refused at first to lie down on the mattress, having witnessed the unholy and disturbing sight of my blowing air into it. I woke up feeling exhausted and bruised.

At least we're all together in this.

On the first day of the weekend, we washed all the floors. Then we washed all the walls and the ceilings. We took down the curtains. But we couldn’t wash them because we had no washer and no dryer. I didn’t find out that detail until we were somewhere in Wyoming.

“No washer and dryer?” I said. “Is there anything else you’d like to tell me about the place before we get there?”

My sister looked sheepishly sideways at her husband, Bud, who looked amused.

“Well, there is a canal next to the house,” Carolyn said with a smirk.

All I could do was sit there and hope that we’d be remodeling the house within a week of being there.

That was not to be, however.

After we’d done the washing of the walls and floors, we stopped for the day. My sister was going to tackle the kitchen in the morning.

Real blood running down the walls, like a scene from the movie “Amityville Horror,” would have been less frightening than the horrors my sister met in the kitchen. She would pay for her thoroughness. I overheard her from the dining room.

“Bud, help me move the stove away from the wall. I’m going to clean back there.”

My sister was now asking her husband to reveal another portal to hell. We were all doomed. I was that fearful of what lay behind the stove, knowing that the previous renters lacked even basic homemaking skills. Goodness knows how long anyone had ever moved the stove away from the wall. The narrow stove-wall space is a no-human’s land. Food and grease always finds a way to fall off the sides of the stove as well. I knew that what they’d find would be hideously primordial and disgusting.

“Just a minute,” I said. “You’ve got to be kidding. You’re going to clean behind there?”

“I have to,” my sister said. “I won’t be comfortable in this kitchen unless I clean behind the stove and the refrigerator.”

“Oh, dear god. I’m going away now. I’m not going into the kitchen until you’re finished and the stove is put back.”

Though I didn’t stand around to watch, I heard all the gruesome details about dried grease, animal droppings, insect bodies and substances far too horrific or unrecognizable to describe.

The first month in that house was an exercise in perspective. I’d keep comparing my current living situation to what life had been like in Minneapolis and, fortunately, the advantages of moving away still outweighed the unpleasantness I was living through in this new home in Boise. I’d make comparisons when I felt a little bit overwhelmed and then the contrasts would bubble up and I’d feel better for a while.

Quickly, inexorably, the house began to turn on us. The stove and oven quit working the second week we were there. I began to tire of cold food.

And then there came the day the tub drain clogged. One of my more humorless idiosyncrasies has to do with the revulsion of standing in tub water that’s defying gravity and suction. But I have my remedies, one of which involves a toilet plunger. I marched into the bathroom, assuring my housemates that I would take care of the problem within minutes. The sound of tub water rushing down the drain was music, a lilting melody. I scoured out the tub and went about my day.

One of the few nice things about that house was the large deck off the back. We’d all sit there, during the pleasant, carefree days of May and bask in weather so unlike that in Minnesota. “There are no mosquitos!” was a frequent exclamation.

On this one particular day after my tub-drain unclogging triumph, the entire tribe was relaxing on the deck, talking plans and hopes, and watching the dogs play in the yard. I stepped off the deck, rounded the corner and came upon a small gurgling pond. Yet there were no fish in this pond, no lily pads, no pond-ish nymphs.

It was sewage.

Apparently, my tub unclogging action had forced stuff past the tub’s portal to hell into hell’s holding pond and up through the ground. I trudged wearily back to the lounging group and beckoned them to take a look.

We cordoned off the hazard and called a plumber. The problem was fixed but I never trusted the bathtub again. After that, I slept with one eye open until we moved out while the house was remodeled.

And that’s a whole ‘nother story.

In a violent case of dandelion rage, she …

Loaded up a 2 and-a-half gallon spray container, walked across the street, and blasted the dandelions lined up like soldiers on the frontlines of a quiet but aggravating and desperate battle.

She used a flame-thrower and scorched the park across from her home. Sorry, picnickers. Spread a blanket over the dirt.

I’m mad at the city of Boise. They neglected their spraying regimen, or forgot to pay for chemicals, or foolishly assumed the malevolent marauders wouldn’t arrive this spring.

Oh, but they’re here. En masse. Every morning I walk to work I pass by them. I grit my teeth and walk past them, knowing that in a few days, they’ll blossom, then fade, and their devilish offspring will cross the road and create a new colony in my front yard.

ARRRGGGGH!

More ARRRRGGGGH!

Am I to face a new scourge every spring? Last spring and summer I waged a battle against the voles. My back yard became an ankle-sprain mess of eight-foot trenches and mounds of dirt created by me in an attempt to drive the varmints off my property. I succeeded.

Okay, I’m back. I just walked around the house knocking on all the real wood I could find. Realizing that it’s always going to be premature to believe my yard is free of voles leaves me with tremendous unease when spring arrives.

But back to the dandelions. When I lived in Minnesota, I’d pass by fields and yards full of dandelions and chirp, “Ooh, how pretty!” You can throw compliments to Mother Nature like that around when you live in an apartment. Now I have a house with a front and back yard. And dandelions are no longer pretty. Their jaggedy leaves might just as well be the chainsaw carried by Leatherface.

My mother likes to tell me that dandelion salad is delicious. I cannot bring myself to dig up dandelions, strip off the leaves and bring them into my home. I’d rather invite Ed Gein to dine with me.

When my sister was on vacation in Texas for two weeks, I spent more time in her front yard than I did in my own. Dandelions had made a home among the tulips and daffodils there. I was convinced that they were on the march to take root in my lovely yard. Before my sister left, she instructed me to place mothballs in the tulips to keep the rabbits at bay. Dandelion destruction took precedence over that silly task. By the end of a week, I had dug up most of her front lawn and rabbits had decimated her tulips. They’ll be doing a vast amount of replanting this spring, but, hey, a fresh start is invigorating!

I’ve walked past homes in this neighborhood whose front lawns are overrun by weeds, all manner of weeds, including dandelions. And I wonder how much medication I’d require to fully tranquilize my hatred of these intruders and allow me to pass by them each morning unaware or blissfully unmindful.

There is a principle of graphic design, called similarity, which means that like things are perceived as the same. When you place a dissimilar thing among them, you get contrast. And the eye notices the thing that is different. So is a yard full of dandelions the answer?

Not for me. I’m off to get the spray and a shovel.

 

Go on over and visit Follow the Piper. She tries to make people feel more kindly toward dandelions. I praise her broad-mindedness and charity.

And here’s a recipe for dandelion salad. The author tells us to pick the leaves while they’re young and tender. Please don’t try to soften me up by telling me that dandelions can be tender.

How about some dandelion wine? Drink enough of it and neither dandelions nor voles nor a herd of bison hanging out in your front lawn will stress you out.

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• Delightful Dandelion (biosil.wordpress.com)
• Dandelions a.k.a. pissenlits (ckenb.blogspot.com)