Photo of the Day: Here’s an oldie but a goodie…

Do people still use that expression?  “Here’s an oldie but a goodie…”  You used to hear that all the time, on the radio at least when they played an old hit from the 50’s or early ‘60s in the 1970s. 

But I wasn’t necessarily talking about the Ray Charles song on display on this contraption, but the contraption itself.

I bought this MP3 player in December 2009 on Amazon, a Sony Walkman.  It has 8GB storage—I have over a thousand songs on it and there’s still room for 500 more.  I kept it in my workbag, it was only used in the office and the bus ride there & back.

It’s not very big; a quarter inch thick, and that’s the actual size of the thing at the top.  Frankly I’m surprised it’s discontinued, the technology still amazes me.

The reason I’m showing it here is because of recent events at the Tiffany (where I live).  I may not look it, but I use the exercise room in our building’s basement at least 4 days a week.  There’s a large flat panel tv on the wall, and while on the treadmill or stairclimber I’d have that Roku tv on, watching an “Oldies” music channel of rock n’ roll from the 1960s-1980s.

But several days ago, the television stopped working—well, stopped streaming.  It turns out one of the tenants in the building was paying for the service down there, but moved out.  No one else has stepped up yet to keep it going.

I was having trouble with my daily exercise routine with nothing to listen to, and was debating bringing my bookshelf radio down there when I remembered this MP3 player from my pre-retirement days.  I dug out my old workbag, and there it was.

But I hadn’t turned it on in 8 years, would it still work?  It sure did, after I plugged its USB cord into my laptop to charge for a couple hours.  When it came on I laughed out loud; it was still at the midway point thru Patty Duke’s ‘Funny Little Butterflies’, what I’d been listening to while cleaning out my desk my last day in the office.

So a couple nights ago, finished with my workout downstairs, I got on the elevator to come back upstairs and it stopped on the first floor (where the lobby is) and 2 young men got on.  I’ve seen them here before, they’re recent move-ins on the 6th floor.  They’re both at least 6’3” and can’t be older than 19-20, and look very much alike.  I’m sure they’re brothers.

I was still wearing my earbuds, but the device was turned off—so I heard the first one behind me say “Can he hear us?” and the second one said “I don’t think so”.  This is what I heard after that.

“What’s he holding, is that a Walkman?”  “Nah, Walkmans are bigger. They play tapes.”  “Is it a radio?”  “Maybe he’s listening to the Pens.”  “Maybe he’s a Swiftie.”  “Haha ask him if he even knows what that is.”

Anyway, I was facing the doors and biting my lip to keep from laughing.  But it amazed me that they didn’t know what I was even holding; is an mp3 player from 2009 an antique already?  I saw on the news recently that 9 out of 10 people under the age of 20 own iphones or ipads only.  I know Apple is premium tech but that still blew me away.

And for the record I know what a Swiftie is, and I’m not one of ‘em!  But 40 years ago when I owned a Walkman that DID play cassettes, I listened to blondes like Stevie Nicks, Olivia Newton-John, Mary Hopkin, Belinda Carlisle and Stacey Q.  And I still do.

 

My love-hate relationship with Keurig.com—and (I hate to say it) some Indians

Last Tuesday morning, I got up and stumbled into the kitchen, slid a k-cup into my Keurig K-Supreme, hit ‘10 oz’ and the big “K” button, went to the bathroom, came back into the kitchen and my coffee mug had exactly 2 oz of scalding hot… something that smelled like burnt plastic.  Uh-oh.

The machine was dead.  No matter what I did, I couldn’t bring it back to life.  I knew this was coming, as the last couple weeks my cups of coffee were getting smaller and increasingly hotter.  I’ve only owned the machine 3 years, but I swear to God I wasn’t angry in the least, just sad.  Those were 3 very good years.

I got out my old K10 from storage (a mini I bought many years ago) and sighed as it creaked out 6 oz. of lukewarm, watery coffee.  I had to have another K-Supreme.  They use the same k-cups, and with 5 injection needles instead of one, produce nearly double the amount of coffee, double the strength, double the temp and in half the time too. 

I jumped on my computer, headed over to Amazon.com, thought “Why don’t I give my business to someone else for a change?” and went to Keurig.com instead.  Ah!  They had a wonderful deal going on their coffee machines—if you “bundled one”, that is bought the machine and signed up for a coffee subscription of at least 16 boxes, you’d get the machine at a BIG discount.  Well, I already have a k-cup subscription at Amazon, so I’ll cancel that and get my monthly 4 boxes here instead.  And that’s just what I did.

But when I hit the ‘Buy it Now’ button on my Keurig shopping cart, a brown banner flashed across the top of my screen.  “THIS METHOD OF PAYMENT CANNOT BE AUTHORIZED AND MAY BE FRAUDULENT.  CONTACT YOUR CARD ISSUER OR USE ANOTHER CARD.”

That’s crazy!  I just used my Visa last night at the hardware store!  I got out my second Visa card and the same thing happened.  Okay, there’s something wrong with Keurig’s website.

I went down to the bottom of the page, called the Customer Support number and an Indian woman answered.  She sounded like she was talking through a double-pane window.  I told her what happened, she said “Daht eez fine sur now to start wit thee emel of yours and name?”   I said “You want my email address and name?”  She said “Yes, daht will be perfect of you.”  

I gave it to her.  EDOUGMORRIS@GMAIL.COM.  She asked me to repeat it.  I did.  She asked me to spell it.  I did.  She said “Perfect.  Now slower.”  I spelled it very slowly.  She asked me to spell it with a word for each letter.  “E as in elephant, D as in Douglas, O as in onion…”   She asked me to do it again.

On the eighth request for my email address, I said “May I PLEASE speak to someone else?”  She said after I gave her my name and email address.  I hung up.

Now I want to state for the record, I like Indians.  I’ve never met one that wasn’t smart, friendly, polite and I worked with many in my IT career.  At UPMC, I often coordinated large data transfers with a round Indian named Sandeep, who I liked so much I had trouble hiding my affection for the man.  It was so apparent that the women in my group tried to “out” me.

(Danielle, if you’re reading this.. does Sandeep still work with Data Warehouse?  Will you tell him I said hi?)

So anyway… I waited an hour, then called Customer Support again and this time got an Indian male.  His English was so broken I had to keep interrupting him to say “I’m sorry, I can’t understand a word you’re saying.”  When he began muttering in Hindi, I hung up.

I made a cup of tea, took a deep breath and called Customer Support again.  Another Indian male, but this one I could understand a little better.  When he told me to call my credit card issuer and have my account “mended”, I told him the card did not need mending—his website was broken.  He said “Very good sir, thank you.  Now your next step is to call your credit card issuer and report your invalid card will you do this for me please?“  

I hung up on him too.

I put on my shoes, went for a walk and wondered what to do next.  I came home, cleared my computer’s cache, attempted the order again and got the same “fraudulent card” message.  I called Customer Support for the fourth time, got another Indian man, asked him to PLEASE listen, he said of course and afterward he said “Mr. Morris here is what we will do.  I will cancel your account and create for you another member account.”  I said ok.  He said “While I do that, call your credit card issuer and instruct them you have a fraudulent card and require a new number.“

I said “Goodbye, I’m hanging up now.”  His last words were “WAIT MISTER MORRIS WHAT IS YOUR EMAIL!!”   

I closed the Keurig page, went on Amazon and ordered a K-Supreme machine (at the top).  It said it would arrive in 10-11 days, but was delivered in 4, early Saturday morning.  And all was right with the world.

And finally, I should add that this past Friday, I got an email from Keurig.com (how’d they get my email address?  I’m kidding) that apologized for the trouble I experienced on their website, they looked into the issue and found my account was blocked in error by their fraud software. 

They removed the block and added a coupon for 2 free boxes of coffee to my online shopping cart when I’m ready to complete my order. 

Gee fellas I’m sorry, but I took my business elsewhere.  Love your machines though!

 

Photo of the Day: When every hour is golden, time is on your side

Isn’t this a nice wall clock?  It’s 10” wide by 13” in length, I found it on Etsy for $65.00.  It’s a very heavy cut steel, with a brushed gold finish.  When I first got it, I worried it was too “glam” for my bachelor digs, it didn’t seem to go with anything.  But it does—it’s the same gold finish as the floor strips that separate my various rooms.  That’s good enough for me.

This is going to sound mental, but this wall beside the dining room window has been driving me a little crazy for a few years.  Everything I got to hang there just felt wrong.  A square of red glaze ceramic, a small framed art print, a half “wall pot” for succulents…

The last thing I hung here was a small framed mirror that forced me to look at my chubby, tired face everytime I went into the kitchen to feed myself.  No!  And then I found this—modern, minimalist, functional.  I like looking at it from my livingroom sofa.

It’s a bit more subtle without the camera’s flash

After hanging it (and convincing myself I liked it), I went down the hall to see if my friend/neighbor Pearl wanted to come up and have a look.  She had the laundry room door open, and was standing there folding her bloomers.

When I asked if she’d like to come up and see it, she said “Oh I’m too tired.  Why don’t you bring it down to me.”   I said “No!  Besides, you were supposed to come up and see the new artwork in my bedroom two months ago and I’m still waiting.”

She said “Why don’t you go ask your precious Maureen?  I’m sure she’ll dash right up there!”   I said “Fine, I will.”

I love Maureen.  She’s 83 years young, has a neat, trim figure.  She’s always dressed like she’s ready to meet friends at the country club for a round of golf and drinks—and SHE HAS THE PRETTIEST APARTMENT IN THE BUILDING.

I don’t mean pretty as in frills and lace; her place is decorated in a smart, fashionable style.  When she moved in last year, she didn’t like the wood parquet flooring throughout and had Molyneaux come in and lay down carpet.  But NOT wall to wall; it has a perfect 3” gap from the walls, even in the nooks & crannys.  Her place—I love it.

(Here’s the one thing that creeps me out a little; from the neck up, she looks like Bette Davis in Whatever Happened to Baby Jane.  She wears a lot of pancake on her face, and paints her cheeks with too much rouge.  Still, once you get to know her--she’s a super nice person.)

So I head downstairs, knocked on her door—she was just leaving to go to Mass.  But she said she had time so she rode the elevator with me back upstairs to check out the clock.  She said “Sweet Mary, Doug!  I love it!  And this whole apartment—it’s the nicest man’s apartment in the building!”   Well, she didn’t have to go that far…

But who am I to say she’s wrong? ;^) 

 

Extra! After 35 years, the Chopper-Upper Killer has finally been found!

Yep, this is the headline I’m envisioning in 6-8 weeks time.

If you’re wondering what I’m even talking about, I just mailed a tube of my saliva (ugh, gross) to Ancestry.com to get my DNA analyzed.

I figure with my luck, I’ll have a one-in-a-zillion chromosomal matchup with some crazy-ass serial killer who disappeared in 1989—and be mistaken for him when I come along, with my crazy-ass spit.

Here’s the thing: I didn’t even want to do this.  I already figured because Dad married and had six kids (with my very white mom) that my heritage would be a mix of Irish, German and whatever else Mom was along with my dad’s Native American warrior blood.

But one sibling (who shall remain nameless) has been wrestling with a couple questions for some time now, and rankling (rankle: cause annoyance that persists) another sibling in the process.

The first sibling has been into this whole genealogy thing for awhile, unfortunately he/she is the only one of us to have submitted their DNA to sites like Ancestry.com.  And only one cousin (on our dad’s side) has done the same.

So, in an effort to quell these frustrations I decided to submit my own and hopefully clear up any mysteries afoot.

It cost $110.00.  $99 for the Ancestry DNA kit, and $11.00 for the shipping costs—for a box the size of 2 playing cards.  It took forever to get here too, because it supposedly got lost in the UPS-USPS transfer. 

In the meantime, the greedy good folks at Ancestry are hounding me to sign up for one of their membership services so I can… what?  Learn that Darla Stooley from Poughkeepsie, NY and I can trace our lineage back to the same Hiram Morris who worked as a bookkeeper for the King Arthur Flour Company in 1881?   

Douglas, check out these memberships!

• U.S. Discovery Membership: For $24.99 per month (or $21.99 if you commit to six months), you get access to all U.S. records.
• World Explorer Membership: For $39.99 per month (or $32.99 if you commit to six months), you get access to global records.
• All Access Membership: For $59.99 per month (or $49.99 if you commit to six months), you get access to all of Ancestry’s records as well as access to Newspapers.com, an extensive online database of newspapers, and Fold3.com, a historical military records website.

NO THANKS ANCESTRY, YOU’VE COST ENOUGH ALREADY.  JUST SEND MY RESULTS PLEASE.

Has anyone else done this?  If so, are you glad you did?  Before sending my DNA sample back, I had to “activate” my kit which included letting them know if I wanted to keep the results private or go public and how much so.  I did authorize them to put it in the national database and share it with anyone with any kind of match, so we’ll see.

As much as I admire the science behind it all (and the good it’s done for so many) I can’t help but wonder about the can of worms that stuff like this might open.  Oh well—I’m guessing that by early October I’ll know more.  To be continued…

In search of good air, the things (and people) we take for granted

For the first time in 3 months, I am feeling comfortable in my apartment again—more than comfortable, some relief too.  It smells…cleaner, fresher.  It’s getting there.

It isn’t because of the device pictured here, but I do like this contraption I got a week ago.  It’s a helper.   

This is a PuroAir HEPA 14 (Hospital grade) Air Purifier.  Click on the name to see it on Amazon.  Last week, my friend Erin asked if I was still dealing with the bad smell in my apartment coming from my air ducts. 

I said it wasn’t as pungent as it was in March when I first reported it to Steiner, my landlord.  But there was still an odor of sour, wet or burnt dirt in the air that annoyed the heck out of me.

She said “Have you thought of getting an air purifier?”   Nope—it never occurred to me.  So after our chat, I got online and looked at several models before deciding on this one.  I like it very much, it’s whisper quiet but effective.  It’s also great at collecting dust & pollen (I get a lot of both).  It’s 16” tall, 10” wide & deep, and has a small light-bar on top that goes from orange to green as the air becomes clean. 

The day Erin suggested I get one, I found and ordered this model for $151.00.  The NEXT DAY, Canadian wildfires were reported on the nightly news and the price for this same unit increased to $239.99 on Amazon. 

They’ve since gone down to $190, but that’s still 40.00 more than what I paid--talk about timing!

When the smell first started in March, I went and stayed at my sister’s for a week and hoped my landlord would find the issue and correct it.  I talked to them daily on the phone, they said they were running an “ionizer” in my apartment (which they did) and cleaning the air ducts (which they didn’t, that was a lie).

When I returned a week later, it had a VERY, VERY strong smell of “dusty hotel room” from the ionizer.  But I could see right away that the livingroom, dining & bedroom wall grates had never been taken off the walls.  They still had layers of paint on them.

After 2 weeks, the effects of the ionizing machine had worn off and that same smell was wafting from my air vents again.  I spent $85.00 on various duct cleaning sprays which masked the smell for a couple hours at best.

When I reported I was still having this issue to Nicole (the building’s off-site manager) she responded she was sorry but there was nothing more they could do.  If I’d like, I could move to another apartment the next time a one-bedroom unit was available in the building.

I was shocked.  First of all, they didn’t DO anything.  Second, I didn’t want to move.  Even if I could have any apartment in the building, there were only a couple besides mine I really liked (because of their location/flooring/kitchen/color palette). 

I’d also be forfeiting my current lease of $840 I’ve got locked in for the next two years.  One bedroom units in my building currently rent for $900.

Since the smell was worse from the bedroom’s air duct, I set about removing the grate from the wall.  I used a box cutter to cut around the grate and it took 2 hours to unsecure eight 60 year old bolts.

It’s a long but narrow tin duct.  I was unable to get my hand in there, when it hit me—my Swiffer mop!  I went thru 4 Swiffer pads, wiping out a lot of ancient dirt & even gravel.

I sent photos of what I’d done to Nicole, hoping she would take me more seriously now.  She told me she’d send a maintenance man to check it out.

Bob (who no one likes, me included) stopped in for exactly 10 seconds, scratched his head and said the air seemed fine to him.  The next morning, Nicole told me she understood what I was going through as she once lived in an apartment and experienced ‘phantom smells’ of smoke in her building.  I responded that MY ‘phantom smells’ were only in my apartment, not the hallway or lobby or anywhere else. 

She didn’t bother responding, of course.  I swear to God, if I could sue her I would.

At least the bedroom was better now, the odor from the vent was still noticeable but fainter.  I experimented with home & car air fresheners, and if I ever smell Fabreze again, I’m probably going to jump off the roof.   This went on a few more weeks, and then my friend Erin suggested an air purifier, and it DID help but didn’t address what was causing the smell.  And I sure wasn’t looking forward to taking down more grates.

So last Tuesday I began poking around in my bathroom’s drop ceiling.  And that’s when I discovered the ceiling panel directly above my toilet, when raised, had a strange ‘muddy’ smell high up inside.

I put on some rubbermaid dish gloves, and standing tippy-toe on the toilet, arm reached as high up as possible, began feeling around up there. 

Sure enough, I felt a squishy, wet mass.  I grabbed a handful and slowly lowered my arm, praying it wasn’t something dead (or raw sewage from the apartment above mine).

It was a handful of mud, plain & simple.  I reached up again and grabbed another handful, I did this 3-4 more times.

I’m wondering, where did it come from?  And I was reminded that the tenant’s bath tub above mine used to leak into my bathroom ceiling a couple years ago. 

And the day the smell in my apartment started—Saturday March 18—was the SAME day the tenant above me moved out of his apartment.  For all I know, he was dumping dirt from his houseplants into his tub’s drain, and the dirt wound up in my ac unit’s drip-pan which is only supposed to collect condensation.

So, for the last week I’ve been opening that bathroom ceiling panel, reaching up above my head with Clorox wipes to swab out as much muck as possible.  It’s difficult as I can’t see what I’m doing, and the pan doesn’t have a smooth surface—it’s lined with sharp ridges, like a cheese grater.  I go thru several wipes until my arm aches and my wrist gives out, then repeat the process the following day.

But after the second day, I realized the smell from my ducts was lessening.  After the fourth day, I detected virtually no smell at all.  I still rubbed at that dirty drip pan another couple days before deciding I was done.

My ac has a faint musty smell when it runs (and I admit it, I’m hypersensitive to ANY smells in here now).  But that sure as heck beats the oily, wet mud smell I’ve been living with.  I also admit the angry side of me wants to go over Nicole’s head, contact Steiner directly and tell them how unhelpful she’s been.

But I don’t want to win any wars or make any enemies.  I intend to live here a long time.  I’m just relieved I was able to fix this on my own. 

My Puro purrs in agreement.

 

Handbook for the Recently Sixtysomething: Skin-tags, they’ll grow on you

Do you remember in the movie Beetlejuice when the ghosts of Alec Baldwin and Geena Davis are given a book, the Handbook For The Recently Deceased? 

I think the same thing should happen after we turn 60.  Someone should give us a handbook for what’s coming.

WARNING:  Skin photos ahead.  Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

10 years ago, shortly before my 52nd birthday, I grew… something on my left shoulder.  It looked like an eraser on a No. 2 pencil.  

Was it a wart?  I googled warts and read they usually disappear on their own. 

So I left it alone, but it never went away.  And then several years later, 4 smaller ones grew on my neck: I was up to 5 total.

Then a year before I turned 60, two more joined the party.  Both eraser-sized like my shoulder, but on my waist & inner thigh.

Only that one on my waist really bothered me, if I was wearing pants with my belt notched too tight.  But STILL that wasn’t the end!

I grew small, droopy ones under both of my arms, 10 total.  I read that nearly half of all people will develop skin-tags in their lifetime, and they’re more common around age 60.

Oh well, welcome to old age!

The eraser on my shoulder (that’s been with me for 10 years)

When I was in the hospital last April for a kidney stone, after a nurse had inserted a catheter to help the stone pass, a doctor came in and asked how I was doing. 

I said good, but asked if we could we go after my skin-tags next.  I was kidding, but he came closer and said “Show me”.  He examined the 4 on my neck (one large, one small on each side).  He asked if there were any others.

I said there was a large one on my shoulder, two large ones below the belt, 6 tags in my left underarm and 4 in my right.  He actually took the time to look at them.

He told me the ones on my neck and underarms could be snipped or frozen, the larger ones would require cosmetic surgery.  I could forget about my insurance paying for them though.

The nurse later told me her mother helped get rid of hers by taping on cotton balls soaked in witch-hazel.  I thanked her for the tip, asked how many she had; she said 3.  I had 18.  That’s a lot of cotton balls to change daily.

I did some research, and found several other ‘home remedies’ people claimed had faster success— one was cotton balls soaked in Tea Tree Oil.  I ordered a bottle from Amazon and that stuff was AWFUL—it smelled like tree sap soaked in kerosene! 

I still tried it though, reapplying 5 cotton balls nightly (on my shoulder & neck) for almost a month.  The tea tree oil did nothing but smell up my undershirts.

And then one night while googling skin-tag removal suggestions, I found this little contraption on Ebay.

You use that cone with the needle-sized tip to slide a silicone band to the bottom.  Then you slide that “L” shaped handle over the top, press it against your skin and pop out that cone. 

You now have a silicone band stretched around your skin-tag.  (You can see one above in that photo of my neck.)

If it stays on (a few of mine popped off after getting soapy in the shower), the skin-tag turns black after a week and begins to shrink. 

You don’t pull them off, you let them fall off on their own.  Mine all seemed to fall off & wash down the drain in the shower.

It would’ve been nice if one kit contained bands for different sized skin-tags, but no such luck.  I had to buy 3 kits, one at $16.99 and 2 for $14.99 each, one for large, the other two for medium and micro (small). 

The underarm tags took 2 weeks to fall off; the ones on my neck took almost twice as long.  It’s not an entirely painless procedure, for the first 2-3 days I felt like I was being pinched constantly.  After that, they only bothered me when my clothes would snag on them.

I had red welts in my underarms for a couple weeks after the skin-tags fell off.  The welts are gone now and there’s no evidence anything was there at all. 

After my neck & underarms were clear, I went after the three largest ones.  (The ones on my shoulder, waistline & thigh.) 

They WERE painful, for a couple weeks.  They bled sometimes too.  As they got smaller, I changed the bands to smaller sizes.  It took two months before those last 3 were finally gone.  I was left with some pretty sore welts.

But the other morning after my shower, I was toweling off—and realized the last of the welts had finally faded.  All 18 are gone, not a mark to be found. 

I’ll ultimately lose in the Game of Life, but this game of tag was over and I won. 

        

Wait, was that all it took? When it pays to speak up, 3 times over

We’re all familiar with the proverb about bad luck coming in threes, but good things do likewise, right?  Here are 3 recent good things, 3 days in a row.

1. They made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.  If you recall my numbers blog on Jan 13, I wrote that my landlord had done their customary yearly rent increase.

But instead of a $20 rent increase this year, it was $30.

I don’t know why I did this (I suppose I’m always looking for a way to save a buck), but the day I received my lease, I sent Steiner Realty this email below:

Steiner, I received my new lease and will be returning it (signed) this week.  I wasn’t happy about the $30 increase, but I know it’s fair. 

I would like to say though, that since moving here April 2017, my rent has increased $110.00.  The increases have been reasonable, I’m aware of the rate hikes for water, gas & trash pickup that are included in our rent.

At the same time, I’m retired on a fixed income.  I was wondering if next year we could begin alternating the rent increases?  Allow me to sign a 2 year lease instead of 1?   

This place is more than just an apartment—it’s my home.  I want to keep it that way.  Thanks for your attention, you guys are good people.  

Steiner texted me and said “Douglas we appreciated your letter and agree to your terms, starting now if you’d like.  We’re sending a new lease.”

That’s it at the top, a two year lease keeping my rent the same until Apr 2025. 

2.  I feel the need…. for speed!    

For the last year or so, I’ve been noticing a decline in my broadband internet.  Xfinity, what the heck am I paying you $75.00 a month for?

Still, it wasn’t a terrible inconvenience.  I just ran into problems if I had multiple devices connected to the internet at the same time, so if I was streaming something on tv I’d pause it if I wanted to get on my tablet or laptop. 

But this past Saturday I noticed things had gone too far downhill.  The movie I was streaming kept freezing, and getting on the internet was a no-go. 

I was fed up and contacted Xfinity Customer Support. 

They asked if I checked my connections were secure, I wearily said “Of course they are, and please don’t ask me to restart my router and other devices, I’ve done all that a couple times over.” 

They said they’d attempt a “remote restart”, but came back and said the connection was too weak, they’d have to send a service technician.  Was Tuesday morning okay?  Yes, dammit!  I mean, yes please!  Finally!

I went to dust off the router (it sits on the floor beside my bedroom dresser) and tugged the coaxial cable to ensure it was connected.  It was, but I noticed the tiniest jiggle as it has a push-in connector, not a screw-in. 

I had a spare cable with a screw-in connector, would that make a difference?  I swapped out the cable and my broadband sprang to life. 

My download speed shot up from 3.79mps to 85.90?!  My internet is blazing fast now, and I can stream HBO Max while on my phone, laptop and tablet all at the same time--crazy!  Tighten your broadband connector—you just might be surprised. 

My bad, Xfinity.

3.  And finally… “please sir, may I have some more?”     

For a couple years now, I’ve been going to the market after Meet The Press on Sunday for my Sunday Dinner.  I buy potatoes, a couple veggies and usually a slice of ham or couple pieces of fried chicken from Kuhn’s Hot Deli.

When I went there this past Sunday, I noticed they raised the prices of the fried chicken thighs from $1.25 each to $1.50.

I asked the deli worker (Charlene, who’s in charge) for 2 thighs and she put two into a clear bag.

I said “Hmph, they may cost 20% more, but they sure aren’t 20% bigger.”   I figured she’d just smirk and tell me to have a nice day, but she took her tongs and placed a third smaller thigh in the bag.  I said “Hey I only wanted 2.”

Charlene said “And that’s all you’re paying for.  Have a good one.”

Charlene, will you marry me?

 

My Christmas Wreath Conundrum—darn it, this shouldn’t be a conundrum

A couple days ago after getting a haircut, I stopped in the hardware store to have a look around.  While I was looking at their (pretty meager) holiday display, the thought occurred to me I hadn’t hung a Christmas wreath on my front door in maybe 10 years.

I asked if they had any in stock, the clerk said she had one remaining from last year.  I bought it (in a box, sight unseen) for $25.00. 

When I got back to my apartment building, two of my favorite 4th floor residents, Opal & Sarah were sitting downstairs in the lobby chatting after getting their mail.

Opal’s my friend, but I love Sarah—she’s a quiet black woman in her mid 70s who’s very sweet and always calls me John, then apologizes profusely.  She is just so nice.

Opal asked what was in the box and I thought why not and told her.  She said “Well open it up so we can see!”   I peeled off the tape and lifted the lid.  Inside was a skinny ‘O’ ring of green encased in clear plastic.  Opal slapped her knee and laughed.  She said “I wouldn’t want that on MY door!”  I checked my pocket to make sure I kept the receipt.

But after bringing it upstairs and cutting off the plastic, this artificial wreath REALLY sprang to life, so to speak.  I got my door hook to hang it up and fluff it out (that’s it above).  It wound up looking just wonderful—and twice as big as the pizza-style box it came in.

I also discovered something really special.  It had a tiny green box embedded in the branches that took 3 AA batteries.  When I installed them, the wreath came to life with 40 led lights, in a variety of twinkles.  (There are 9 settings to choose from.)  Nice!

The thought occurred to me, why don’t I hang it on the INSIDE of my apartment versus the hallway on my front door?  I live down a dead-end hall (no one sees), plus I don’t have a Christmas tree other than the ceramic tree that sits on my dining table. 

I’d love to have something in here with pine branches, without getting an entire tree.  Would that be too selfish?

I remember several years ago seeing a news story where people who lived in NYC (in apartments) hung their wreaths inside to enjoy more (and to keep them from getting stolen).  But that’s NYC, this is Pittsburgh.

I moved it to my closet door, then went down the hall and asked Opal if she wanted to see the wreath again.  When I told her I was going to hang it inside instead, she said “You men are all alike, your front doors are bare!  Only the women bother to decorate!” 

She did surprise me later though, when she returned with Sarah and both agreed it would be nicer in here.  (Now my conundrum is which door to hang it on.  The closet door seems better, it faces the center of the room.)

Still, I felt guilty.  That all changed though, when I googled my conundrum and found this article on Apartment Therapy:

If You’re Not Putting Your Wreath in this Spot, You’re Missing Out

The article says if you live in an apartment and your door doesn’t face a public place like the street, you’d probably be happier hanging your wreath on the inside.

All’s well that ends well—yesterday I came across these 12” wooden door plaques with a sparkly bow-tie and got one for my own front door.  Opal said “That’s perfect!” 

          

When your butt’s almost toast, it might be time for a new one (toaster I mean)

Here’s my new toaster, I’ll get to it in a minute.  First, is your own toaster more than a few years old?   You should check the cord.  I’d unplug it first, but you know that already.  Go on, I’ll wait.  Hum de dum…

Here’s what happened to me:  for the last couple weeks, I’d been noticing a faint ‘ozone smell’ whenever I made toast in the morning.  Where was that coming from?  

I looked into the toaster with a penlight, turned it upside down and shook it out… nothing.

And then, in all my infinite wisdom, decided to see if the cord was overheating when my toaster was on. 

I uncoiled the cord from beneath, pushed down the lever and was running the cord thru my hand when it suddenly felt like I was holding onto a lightning bolt. 

No joke, my hand erupted in pain and my forearm felt like it was trying to detach itself from my elbow.  I’ve been shocked a few times in my life, but not like this; my heart was pounding like I just got defibrillated.

Midway down the cord was a large rupture, exposing a thick bunch of metal.  I have no idea how or when that happened.  I bought this Kitchen-Aid toaster 20 years ago, but always kept the extra cord wrapped in its base and the toaster in one spot.

    

Anyway, after the shock of what happened wore off (cough), I went to the hardware store and got a roll of electrical tape.  But while wrapping that rupture in the cord, I noticed a series of smaller cracks & fissures in other places. 

Dammit, I’d better buy a new toaster before I burn my apartment building to the ground.

Have you shopped for a simple 2-slice toaster recently?  When I visited Amazon, there was 40 vendors selling the same Chinese toaster (a black plastic box with a square of brushed steel on the front) for $29.99.  

The retro-themed toasters were cool looking, but oversized, overpriced and had the worst reviews.  I have a compact kitchen and exactly 7” x 12” available space on my counter for a compact 2-slice toaster.

After reading 250 reviews for every compact 2-slice toaster with the same features (extra wide slots, defrost/bagel/reheat buttons, 7 shades of toast) here’s what I bought:  the Redmond Toaster 2 Slice for $29.99.

I liked its matte black exterior, European look and controls on the front.  (The buttons glow red when it’s in use.)  But here’s the weird thing:

Have you ever picked up something expecting it to be heavy, but it’s so light instead you almost fling it across the room?  My 20 year old Kitchen-Aid toaster weighs a good 5 lbs; this Redmond toaster weighs next to nothing.  Seriously, it’s like 8 ounces.

What I want to know is, is it just a cheap product?  Or has toaster technology impoved so much in 20 years that they’re all lightweight appliances now?  

Well, I doubt this one will last 20 years—but for now it makes great toast!  

    

The Angry Trans & the Draft Dodger: if it’s good enough for him or her…

A few weeks ago I was headed to the laundry room (we have one on each floor) and stopped in front of the second studio apartment on the right to admire something.  My friend Opal lives diagonally from it, and opened her door and quietly said “What are you doing?”

Nothing gets past her—nothing.

I said I was coming to get my clothes and stopped to admire this person’s draft-dodger.  Opal said “Their what??”  I pointed down at the long purple tube at the bottom of their door and said I hadn’t seen one of those in years.  My grandma had one but it had a dog’s head on one end.

Opal came out and joined me in the hall.  She said “You know who lives there, don’t you?”  I shook my head no.  She whispered “The Angry Tranny.”   I whispered back “You’re bad!  I thought that person lived on the first floor?”  Opal said “They used to, not anymore!”

FYI, the Angry Tran she’s referring to is a male figure in their late 20s who’s tall with long black hair and bangs (like Bettie Page from the 1950s).  He-she’s always wearing a gauzy nightrobe and dark lipstick and a pissed off expression.  To be very honest, this person scares me a little. 

I motioned for Opal to walk with me to the laundry room, and I said “So what is Angry anyway?  A transvestite or transgender?”  Opal laughed & clapped her hands.  She said “Douglas I have NO IDEA what either of those even means!”

Anyway, a couple weeks pass and then one night I went down to the lobby pretty late to mail my niece’s birthday card.  I was surprised to see Angry sitting on the small sofa, a book & pen in hand, sipping from a tiny goblet.  I said “Hi, how are you this evening?” 

He-she shrugged their shoulders and said “Alright”.  I said “May I ask you something?”

He-she didn’t answer, just looked at me and raised their eyebrows.  ARE YOU A BOY OR A GIRL!  No, I didn’t ask that—I said “Why do you have a draft dodger at the bottom of your apartment door upstairs?  The hallways are heated in the winter and air conditioned in the summer…”

Angry said “Because my door isn’t flush with the floor.”  I nodded my head and said I didn’t think any of them were.  Angry said “It blocks out the light from the hall.  And noise and smells.  And people.”  Well.  I was going to ask Angry where he-she got theirs, but before I could, he-she said “Go on Etsy.” 

I said thanks and good night.  And then I got the heck out of there.

I went on Amazon instead to check some out.  I found this square brown one that’s just right for squares like myself.  Why didn’t this occur to me before?  It’s not only an odor stopper (the hallways in my building have perfumey wall deodorizers that creep into my apartment, plus my neighbor fries a lot of fish) it’s a soundproofer too!  And it works surprisingly well.

I have it on the OUTSIDE of my door (like Angry), so I have to remember to step over it when I open my door.  It included a velcro tape strip to attach to the bottom of my door, but I didn’t want to risk damaging the wood.  Plus, this is so heavy and square-shaped, it stays in place on the floor anyway.

Here’s something important to consider if you want it to fit your door perfectly.  Measure the width of your door (mine’s 36”) and READ THE USER REVIEWS.

Half of these will include the loops on both ends in their length measurements.  You don’t want that!  You think you’re getting one 36” in length and it’s only 34”.  After I made sure this one didn’t include the loops in it’s measured length, I chose the 36” and it fit perfectly.

And finally, here’s Opal’s front door—cute, huh?  But if you look at the bottom, she could use one of these too.

 

Moon Pie, Rosita & suspicion of covid: it’s just another day at the Tiffany

Monday morning I was headed back to my apartment from the laundry room, and saw my neighbor Opal talking with Rosita in Rosita’s doorway.

(Rosita is from South America, 25 years old and stands around 4’9”.  She is a doll, and a dead-ringer for Alexandria Ocasio Cortez.)  She occupies the studio apartment next to our floor’s elevator. 

I asked how things were going, and where was Moon Pie, Rosita’s cat. (She’s beautiful, with bright green eyes.)  Rosita looked at Opal, and Opal said “She heard me coming and took off running!”

Rosita said “That’s not true… please don’t say that, we need you!”   Opal said to me “Rosita has to go on a business trip tomorrow, she’s leaving at 5am and not coming home until 10pm-midnight.  So I’ll be down here off & on during the day checking in on Moon Pie.” 

I smiled and nodded my head, yes, yes okay.  Before walking away I called out “Bye bye Moon Pie!” in my goofy falsetto voice.  Right away Moon Pie came to the doorway and meowed.  Opal said “You should get Doug to watch her instead of me.”

Rosita asked me if I would.  I had nothing else going on, and frankly I was tired of looking at the same walls in my apartment, so I said okay.

I wish I could show you this young woman’s studio apartment.  I took several pictures while trying to take photos of Moonpie to send Rosita during the day, but I feel it would be a real invasion of privacy to show too much here.

(Plus, Opal told Rosa it’d give me something to blog about.  Rosita said “Oh really?  What is the name of your blog?  I want to see it.”  I apologized, but said I didn’t want to tell her.  She said “That’s okay.  Maybe I’ll look for it on my own.”  Ulp.)

Except for a cot to sleep on in her walk-in closet, and a deflated bean bag chair by her one window (studios only come with one double window, 1 bedroom apartments like mine have 5 windows) this young woman had no furniture, zero none.  No sofa or chairs or even a lamp or tv.

How could this be?  I know what she does for a living, she works in Foreign Currencies at Melloncorp downtown—it’s identical to the IT job I had at Mellon in the 1990s and it paid quite well. 

Anyway, of course I have no right to judge—and truth be told, while I don’t consider myself that old just yet, being a 25 year old single is a whole other mindset.

After a half hour or so, I knew I couldn’t take it.  I picked up her litter box & cat dishes, and took them down the hall outside of my own apartment’s front door.  I then came back and said “Moon Pie, your pad is depressing the hell out of me.  You can either sit there in your cat-house, or come down and spend the day with me.”

I went to the front door, opened it and said “Coming?”   Moon Pie jumped right up and followed me down the hall to my place.  (Here she is, exploring.)

I learned a couple things that day:

1) I’ve been looking at my own place all wrong the last couple weeks.  It’s not so plain, I have a pretty nice apartment.  It’s a clean one too—with plenty of places one can sit!

2) Moon Pie is funny & sweet, a real character.  When I gave her special treat at noon (half a tin of Fancy Feast) she would take a bite, run over and rub my toe with her nose, go back and take a bite… she did this 10 times!   I was cracking up!

But I realized something else that day too.  I don’t think I want a cat of my own after all, apartment cats require a lot of TLC.  

Oh and finally: after I returned Moon Pie and came home, I began shaking.  What the heck was going on?  By 11pm, I had a fever of 101 and here it is Wednesday night and I still do. 

I am wrapped in 3 blankets as i write this, I’m pretty sure I have covid for the third time.  I’m going to take a covid test Thursday morning before posting my blog, I’ll share the results below.

I knew it.  I gotta go back to bed. 

 

I don’t know what I did, but I’ve made it on someone’s ship-list

Can I share something quick here?  We’ve all gotten our share of catalogs in the mail—rather, we used to.  (Do you still get many?  It just occurred to me I haven’t seen one in ages.) 

But there was a time when I used to keep a wicker basket in my place just to store catalogs to look at later.  “Hmm… this Harry & David catalog sure is making me hungry for pears…”

In fact, I still have a pair of tan & red suede pot-holders (that I never used but paid a small fortune for, twenty years ago) from Robert Redford’s Sundance catalog.  Damn you, Redford!

Anyway, the reason I bring it up is because this past Thursday I got a rather ominous looking catalog in the mail. 

It was a black book that came sealed on 3 sides.  Rock River Arms.  They are situated in Illinois, and I’ve never heard of them.  Have you?

It didn’t look like the type of catalog one would just get randomly.  Rock River sells firearms, including all makes & models of pistols.  But their specialty is built-to-order, customized AR-15s.

Someone must’ve given them my name and address.  These books are too specialized to be sent out to just anyone, and this didn’t come with a bulk shipping rate.  It cost them $2.64 to send this obscenity to me via First Class mail. 

My big question is… why?   Is someone trying to put the fear of guns in me?  Trust me, it’s already there!  Or maybe someone’s trying to convert me from my liberal mindset?   “These guns…. they’re badass!  Screw this liberal crap, I want an AR-15 of my own!”

Can I be super-honest here?  I claim to be a liberal, but I’m far from a saint.  Do you remember a couple weeks ago, when that young thug broke into a convenience store (wielding an AR-15 of all things) and the shopkeeper hauled out a rifle and shot him?  

The punk ran out of there hollering “Uggh!!  He shot my arm off!!”  before jumping into a pretty nice looking SUV, where he & his two cohorts sped off.

I sat here thinking “I hope he did, you piece of slime.  I hope that older man DID shoot your arm off, you’re lucky it wasn’t your head.”

Is that how liberals are supposed to think? 

I also felt that store owner was justified owning a firearm, I’m sure he’s been robbed before.  But a built-to-order customized AR-15 from this catalog?  No!  No one else should, either!

Ah, I’m back to feeling like a liberal again.  Even if it does make me sound un-American.

Rock River, I’m sorry you wasted your $2.64 on me.  Along with expensive pears, suede potholders & other useless, pricey doodads, custom AR-15s have been added to my DO NOT BUY list.  

 

How one woman did so much with so little is beyond me… Happy Birthday, Mom

On this date, August 7, 1940 my mom was born.  Her full name was Linda Beryl Morris and she died in 2004, a few months after turning 64. 

Happy Birthday Mom, you would’ve and should’ve been 82 today.

This is her sometime around 1973, on her way to work at Fisher’s Big Wheel.  It was our small town’s first “real department store” that opened just a year prior.  Mom worked at Fisher’s full-time from 1972 to 1997, while raising 6 kids. 

I can still remember the week this store opened, Mom going in and asking for an application.  That night at dinner, Dad made a joke about “no woman of his was gonna work outside the home if he could help it”.  But when it came to lean times and coal miners strikes, birthdays & Christmases and us kids needing new shoes and school clothes and a hundred other things, that was all her. 

Mom spent so little on herself, she was the most unselfish person I’ve ever known.

I really don’t have a lot to say here that hasn’t been said before.  Last night while looking through my meager collection of Mom photos (she hated having her picture taken) I did a “Mom” search on my blog to see what pictures of her I’d already used, and was surprised at all the posts written about her over the years.  I hope one more is okay.

I thought I’d share this small example of who my mom was.  In November 2002, not quite two years after Dad passed, I went down to stay with her a few days for Thanksgiving.  (My sister Shawn was hosting our holiday dinner at her house.) 

Mom was showing me some of the recent home improvements she’d made, and I noticed a copper-metal sun hanging on her kitchen wall.  When I asked where she’d gotten it, she said at a yard sale, it had been almost black with grease. 

When I said it looked cool, she told me to take it home with me.  I laughed and said “Of course not!  Mom you don’t have to give something away just because someone likes it!”   She asked me if I was sure I didn’t want it and I said yes, positively.  It looked perfect where it was.

When I returned to Pittsburgh 2-3 days later and was unpacking my things, the copper metal sun was hidden down in one of my bags, wrapped in newspaper—with toilet tissue taped around each of the sun’s spires.

It’s hung on three kitchen walls of mine since—and always will.  I love you, Mom.