Rita's Birthday Presence (Not Presents) SURPRISE!

 Today was my sister's birthday.

So, of course, I had a doctor's appointment. I have had an appointment nearly every birthday this year. I even had to have Rita drive me to one on her son's birthday, which was shameful. It was a drive I could normally make myself, but for whatever reason couldn't this time. 

When I had this appointment come up on her birthday, a more difficult drive, and a case of take this appointment or wait three months for the next one, I knew I didn't want to do that to her on her day.

She probably wouldn't have minded too much. She likes to drive. She likes to help. And I could buy her lunch at one of her favorite places if she took me. 

Unless, of course, she had other plans with friends, or lunch with Josh or Ron or something. Not impossible for her, and sometimes it feels like encroaching to ask -- an invasion of privacy, which is indeed a BIG DEAL to me.

Without consulting her, I decided my gift to her would be a day of respite from me and my not-so-pressing needs. 

I could do this myself.

I would do this myself. 

(And tell her about it later. I'm not completely altruistic.)

Appointment was afternoon, so car would be good for the trip. No rain or humidity. Not too chilly. Not too hot. 

I had got both an address and directions from the office I was going to, with a predetermined idea of where it was, based on the numerical address and what I knew of the area. 

So off I went. 

Made good time. Took me 45 minutes to make a 45 minute drive, so that was good. Got me there about a half hour early, because I was unsure of exactly which building I was to go to, and those medical outbuildings can be clumped together in some really awkward and barely accessible configurations.

So I drove around.

And around.

And around.

And around some more.

I pulled up Google maps on my phone, and tried to get it to speak to me. I even remembered to turn the sound up on the phone so that I might be able to hear what it said. Yay me. (Too bad my car didn't want to assist me in hearing, but since I was mostly touring parking lots, I had plenty of freedom to pull over and recheck the directions.)

The directions given had me making the same round-and-rounds that I had already been on. 

I came out, once again, onto the main entry point/parking lot, and I'll be darned if I didn't see a Rita's-type vehicle coming from the Mediplex to exit. And I wasn't even in Williamsburg, where another Rita-vehicle lives that I pass going to doctor.

This was a good one, too. It even had the Bengal plate on the front. I wondered if it had any other Bengals stuff on it, like hers, and the thought crossed my mind that it would be just my luck that she had been coming down there at this time anyway, and it would NOT have been an intrusion or a reliance that was an imposition. 

Wouldn't that just be my luck?

That was my luck. 

Oh well, odd as it was, it was a bit of good luck. She knew her way around down there, and she knew more about the entire area than I did, so maybe she could help me out.

She likes being able to help people out, so that could be my passive birthday gift to her maybe. 

Although it was strange.

I gave her the address, she put it in her phone, I showed her what my phone was reading, and we set off with her leading me -- around in the same old big circuit I had already driven so many times. (That made me feel better. At least she was the same lost as me, based on the information I had.)

Finally, we stopped again, and she said, "we're gonna have to call them," so I looked up the number and called it. She thoughtfully spoke for me -- I am not good at voice communication, although I don't usually mess up this badly.

The result is that we were on the wrong damn road!

We got much better directions this time, and she volunteered to once again lead the way, for which I was grateful. Who knows what crazy loop-de-loop I'd end up on on this other road with the same possibilities of problems. 

So my birthday present to Rita ended up being a gift to me -- of her presence. 

As I waited for the doctor and entourage, I tried to think where I may have miscommunicated. And I do think I figured it out. The first directions I had got was from someone who asked me if I knew where the hospital was. I said I did, yes, straight down Beechmont and turn on Five Mile. (There's another turn -- which is the roundabout  hill-climbing road I got lost on --and signs to follow, but I shortcutted those right out of the conversation.)

Anyway, she said "That's right, and our building number is 7575." 

I turned right instead of left, and onto another road, when I should have turned left and stayed a minute. So I had input the number with the wrong road and therefore, since I did not know it was the wrong road, I spent over a half hour looking for an address that wasn't there. I also helped my sister get lost in this non-existent place. 

Happy birthday, Rita, and I hope you can appreciate the fact that I tried to save you from me-dramedy on your own day.

 

Phishers of Memes

Sometimes, my friends worry me.

I don't mean normal worries, like are they home safe or are they happy or how are their children worries -- those are a normal part of the give and take of friendship.
Lately. I have worried, probably way too much, over how gullible they are to "just for fun" Facebook memes.

It started with the silly holiday names. Mostly they go by initials, but some are poking around for your birthdate. Or someone else's initials, such as your first child's. Or maybe your father's.Those are harmless, for the most part. The phishers are building themselves a "just for fun" reputation.

Once that is achieved, the goal becomes one's birthdate, in all its unedited glory.
You see, on Facebook, many of us are wise enough to not put the year. The day, yeah, but the year is questionable.
Because one of the cues/clues to your credit/financial identity is your full birthdate.

So how old were you in 1969? I can do math enough to know that if you were 11 that means you were born in 1958. And if I can figure it out, believe me, someone smart enough to code can do so in half the time. They may even have a chart.

Now, they -- either the memes or the phishers; you choose -- have become a bit more nosy. Now they have people posting their family tree by last name. I am a who. My dad was a who. His mother was a what. My mother was a why. Her mother was a how.

What is the standard security question for online access to financial accounts?
Mother's maiden name.
BINGO!

You have given them information not only to your accounts, but also to those of your mother and your father, and possibly your grandparents, if you went back another generation.

I have seen where some say, "Yes, but the information is out there anyway. If they want it that bad, they can find it."
True, but why on earth would they go looking when you just hand it to them? If you don't play along, someone else will.
Do you really think they care WHO they defraud? They'll take everybody they can get.

And boy do they get a lot.

Phishers bait their hooks, cast their lines, and plan their next trip.
Already the memes are sneaking in to spell your child's name with the last four letters of your dad's middle name and the first initial of your maiden name.

What will you fall for next?
And who will be to blame when your, or your parents, bank accounts are emptied and the credit cards maxed out?

How fun is that?

A Not What It Was Day.

Today has just been strange. I am moving into my own trailer, next door to Tammy's. Today is the first day in a week I've sent much time in there. Did homey things like hang curtains.
Used a staple gun.
Used Rex's staple gun.
It felt weird.
I felt weird.

It's funny moving all our stuff out of storage and back into daily living.
I have a lot of papers and stuff to get rid of.
A lot to keep; a lot I want to keep, but should I?
How can I throw some of it out?

Found my dad's little coffee maker, but don't seem to have the pot for it.
Found my DVDs but have no player. Used to watch on my computer while Rex watched tv. Now have a laptop that doesn't play Cd's, No doubt I could buy something, either for tv or computer, or both, but it's different. It's not gonna be the way it used to be.

Odd to have a closet with only my clothes needing kept.
Odd to have a bedroom that is probably only large enough for bed and nightstand.

It's gonna be really strange when I get moved in, to be coming home to an empty house, even if the babies are just next door.

Mamma, May I?

Sunday was mother's day. It was also my grandmother's birthday. Were she still alive, she'd have been celebrating 107 years.
When I was a kid, there always seemed a special magic to the day when Mamma's birthday fell on Mother's Day. I can't explain what made it so special, but I felt it.
I can say this, now, as a mother and grandmother: If any woman, ever, deserved to be born on Mother's Day, it was this woman. She epitomized Motherhood.
We'd have been lost without her, and a lot more neglected and abused than we were.  She fed us, she clothed us, she treated us, and she gave us a quiet place to go. She saw that we were awake and got to school on time. She had and kept a telephone.

I wonder, now, how she felt about the inadequacies of her daughter as a mother.Did she worry? Without a doubt. I don't know what her specific worries were, but she worked awfully hard to prevent our feeling too much of a lack.

Did she feel like she had failed as a mother? I don't know, but I think now she must have, at times. Wonderful woman that she was, I never saw it. But, dealing with my own faulty child(ren), I know she had to have had those moments, hours, and long-dark-night-of-the-soul nights over her faulty daughter.

But, whether in spite of this or because of it, she was there. Remarkably, outstandingly, always there. Even when she began losing her mind, even when she wasn't sure who she was with, she was there for us. It was startling to be informed that RuthE was going somewhere or doing something for her, when I was right in front of her, but -- BUT -- it meant I was in her heart and in her mixed-up memories.

That's love.

That's Motherhood.

Happy Mother's birthday, Mamma. We all still miss you and want you around, somewhere.

Some of us know that you are.

Grandparent's Day: Another Hallmark Holiday

Many people think of today, Grandparents Day, as a Hallmark Holiday.

So what if it is? If it's not your cup of tea , don't celebrate it. When you see commercials or reminders, make sure not to think of your grandparents. Even if you remember only unkindness or downright cruelty, remember that every time you remember them, you are honoring this made-up holiday that you don't respect.

Every day, these days, seems to have been set aside by some group or government to commemorate Something-or-other. For millions of people, any day is a special commemoration for the individual because it's their birthday.

Birthdays are (locally) about presents and cakes and gimmes. Breast Cancer Awareness and similar 'events' often call for fundraising in many different ways, although the focus and the honorees may be survivors or contenders or a thousand other _________--ers.

There is nothing wrong with this. Why not?

 So, some holidays -- these so-called Hallmark Holidays -- encourage people to buy cards (preferably Hallmark, I suppose) and flowers. Some of these holidays are newer, like Grandparents Day and Sweetest Day. Others have been around for centuries, like Valentine's Day.

What difference does it make?

Many of you complain about the "crass consumerism" of these special days.

 If you're crass that's your fault.
If you're a consumer, that's your choice.

Soothing Saturday.

What a day this should be. It's cooled off outside -- I'm actually wearing a sweater. The sun is shining, the sky is blue, with fluffy white clouds. There's food in the fridge and the cabinets, and there's a busy little girl with her colors sprawled on my living room floor. She's the sunshine inside the house.

It's been a busy week, and a fairly normal one, I'd guess. A mixture of good and bad, a look at some beginnings and some endings. Scary stuff sometimes, those glimpses into the future.

The most fabulous and the most  frightening was Hailey's birthday party. She turned 4, and such a big girl. She had an "Urel' (Ariel) cake, with Sponge Bob and 'Packrit' added to it -- don't tell Disney, they'll sue us. She had a lot of grown up family there, and the one cousin that we can provide her. He's nearly twice her age at this point. She has another cousin, on the other side, but she's too little as yet for celebrating at a party. Hailey would have been glad to see her, though. She fell in love with that baby while they stayed at Hailey's house.Hailey is definitely wishing for a sibling. (What does a 4 year old know?)

Tam had thoughtfully had the party at a facility so her dad could attend. The August weather, in a good year, is hard for him to take. This year, with all the heat and humidity, it's been impossible.


And it very nearly killed him. Not from attending the party, but by leaving. We opened the door to the parking lot, and the parking lot had been baking in the sun all day and especially all evening while we were inside. It took his breath away.

I am being very literal, and I am not exaggerating. Sheer willpower kept that man on his feet to the car and once in the car, barking like a seal, he used his rescue inhaler and gestured for me to just DRIVE! I wanted to drive to the closest hospital, but he just kept waving for me to drive -- get the air moving, that's what he wanted.

It worked. After a couple miles, we pulled over and I hooked him up to his portable oxygen tank and he made it home and hasn't had too much trouble since, but it was a frightening portent of things to come.


A sad commentary on things that are, as well. We had been talking a bit about taking a trip in September or October. A weekend trip, one day going, one day coming back. We had discussed who might go with us (as alternate drivers), how he could use his nebulizer on the road, costs, etc. The nebulizer, we thought, would be the big issue.

It's not. He may have saved his travels "Later" until they've become "Too late." But that's okay.

I'll enjoy him as he is -- that's the best way to love anyone. I'll enjoy him, and our daughters, and our granddaughter and any siblings-for-her that will someday make an appearance.


To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose... .
A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance...
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;


For now we choose to laugh, and dance (metaphorically speaking), and we both speak and keep silence together. The time will come for the other stuff, but for now --


For now,  we DANCE.

Choose your Tags

How many times should you have to pay for your plates?

Not the registration. It's fine that that's an annual birthday gift to one's self.

There is a variety of plates to choose from. A 'standard' design, and several specialized designs that point out points of interest, or support a cause, or are just different. These plates are not vanity plates. They are numbered in the usual way.
They do cost more, and there's nothing wrong with that. But year after year after year you have to pay the extra price. There is something wrong with that.

What if you don't pay the extra? Well, you have to turn the plates in (if you want replacements). What if you've had the plates for five years, paying that double-or-more extra price for the prettier picture? Are they going to then hand over the reclaimed plates to the next customer? Is anyone going to pay the extra for salt-soaked, rain-sprayed, weather-exposed plates for the design?

No, they are not. The plates will be scrapped. They will NOT be used again.

It makes sense to pay extra for a fancier plate. Even  tiered price ranges in license tags is viable. But that should be a one-time charge, not a renewable extra fee. Because they are never going to use those numbers on that design again. Instead of scrapping or recycling and re-creating, let's keep things in circulation without having to pay more for the keeping and less for consumerism.