TELEPHONE BILLS

We all get them. The bills. The phone, while sometimes annoying, is a reality of modern life that we say we need. So why is it that when someone seeks peace and relaxation on vacation the first thing they mention is , “…and there were no telephones!”

Isn’t a bill usually a page or two of explanations for charges? When did bills arrive in envelopes bursting with eight page analyses of your gabby habits? Every time a new bill arrives, the poor postman practically herniates his back managing the weight of it.     

With all the effort the telephone company made to get this treatise they call a bill into my hands I dutifully read it. Not just write out a check and mail it, as I usually do, but to try to understand the phone company’s billing system. What is in these pages? What makes this bill so outrageously bulky? And why is the phone company destroying the environment by killing all the trees it takes to produce the tons of paper for simple bills?

First is a quick bill summary on one page and then a breakdown of charges on the next. Quick summaries are perfect: fast and uncomplicated: to the point. The breakdown has me almost having a breakdown of my own.

Here is the line charge. That seems to be to be akin to paying a restaurant bill for the food and then having an extra charge for the grocery bill. How can a telephone work without a telephone line? Yet they expect customers to pay an extra charge for use of the line. Can I put up my own line and eliminate that charge?

The monthly access charges appear next. Does that mean that first I pay for the phone, then for the line to connect it and a fee to access the line I’m paying extra for with my telephone that I bought and paid for?

I’m surprised they don’t tack on another extra fee for listening. Can you imagine the bill reading, “Charge to think of picking up the receiver: $.25, charge for speaking, $.50 a millisecond, and if you also want to hear what the other person says, there’ll be an additional charge of $1.25 per comment.

Make way for the taxes: federal excise tax, State tax, Federal Universal Service Fee (don’t ask!) followed by a list of six more federal and state taxes of all sizes, colors and sounds. These are added on the bill so the poor telephone won’t get lonely appearing in print all by itself.

And I haven’t started on the wireless phone bill, which is attached to the other bill, and added on is the computer charges and other conveniences without which we cannot live.

My conclusion is that it is far better not to read or try to understand the particulars of your phone bill. It’s way too much money for everything, anyway, and you have to have it regardless.

Either that, or take the remaining days of your life vacationing in a location that doesn’t have telephones.

YOUNG PEOPLE’S MINDS

Some years ago were visiting some friends in Manhattan. They lived in a large skyscraper-like apartment building with all the conveniences of a small city or The Queen Mary.

We rang the apartment bell, to be told that

“Ed took Rachael downstairs to get some milk from the machine.”

When they returned I asked Rachael, about three years old, where she and daddy went. Without any hesitation she knowingly said,

“We went to see the cow.”         

CABINETS IN THE KITCHEN

We, a group of ballet lovers, were on our way to New York to see the first performance of the new season. On our way in one of our friends, Marcy, told us about an exciting new development in her son’s life. We are all interested in each others’ children, and were anxious to hear her story. This is what she said:

The first hint came in a phone call from my son. It was an innocuous comment, one I wouldn’t pay attention to if someone else said it, but it was strange and out of character for Brad. The comment was about learning about how to peel a clove of garlic.

“You just smash it with the flat side of a knife, he said, and the papery skin peels right off.”

“How do you know about that?” I ask.

“I have a friend who likes to cook.”        

One evening weeks after his mentioning the garlic peeling, we were discussing health benefits of different foods, and I mentioned the health benefits of turmeric.

“Is  it pronounced TURmeric? My friend says ‘TUmeric.’ ” Strange conversation we’re having, I thought. All this sudden interest in food.

Some time later he called saying, “I had a terrible experience today. My friend has a very sick dog. The veterinarian in town didn’t know how to treat him, and suggested a large animal clinic in Denver. I drove the dog and the two of us the four hours to Denver. When we got to the clinic, the doctor examined him and said,

‘I’m sorry to tell you this, but in my opinion the dog has to be put down.”

My friend and I were devastated. This dog was our hiking buddy: he even camped out with us. He is such a sweet animal. But we had no other option. So the dog was put down. I’m glad I drove them to Denver. It would be tough to go through that alone.”

That is a special friend for Brad to volunteer to drive four hours each way to get to an animal clinic.

Weeks later he casually mentioned,

“I’m thinking of putting cabinets in the kitchen.”

Strange. In all the time he’s lived there he never considered kitchen improvements before.

One day he called and asked: “Will you be home in 2 weeks? I’m going to a computer technology conference.”

Of course we agreed and set a date. My husband and I looked forward to his visit. He stayed at our house for a few days, and after a wonderful visit I asked him his flight information for the trip home.

“Actually, I’m not going home yet. I’m going back to New York to take a course with the Dalai Lama.”

“Oh,” I said, not wanting to show my disappointment. The last time the Dalai Lama was in New York Brad invited me to go with him to the lecture. It was an unforgettable experience held in the Radio City Music Hall. Tibetan families representing three generations attended, filling the theater to capacity. They brought their young babies along so that they could be in the presence of the great Dalai Lama. We were transfixed by the uplifting words of that kind, brilliant man. Not a sound was heard in the entire  sold-out theater throughout his talk. Afterwards we were full of ideas we heard that morning and walked though Central Park to discuss them. In keeping with the gentle message and peaceful feelings the Dalai Lama engendered, we had lunch at a small Japanese café. Asian music played softly in the background, echoing our peaceful spirits. It was a magical, beautiful and perfect day.

But he did not invite me this time. That evening at dinner Brad said,

“I’ve been dating someone for a few months. Would you like to meet her? She’s flying in from Colorado to study with the Dalai Lama. We’ve signed up for a week’s seminar. It’s an intense program designed for students of Buddhism.”

We arrange to meet for dinner one evening after one of the lectures. They will take the train from New York and meet us at a restaurant in New Jersey. We prepare for our meeting on the assigned night with our parent pulses pounding.

The evening finally arrives, and we get to the restaurant early, eagerly awaiting their arrival. In they walk, a mellow young couple, and we start talking to Allison if we’ve known each other for years.

Then she says the magic expression that reveals more than she realizes.

“I love to cook. It’s one of my favorite things to do.”

Uh huh, she loves to cook; that’s where all his culinary information came from, and now Brad plans to put cabinets in his kitchen!

CONFESSIONS OF AN ALMOST MURDERER

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True stories with a twist!

CONFESSIONS OF AN “ALMOST” MURDERER

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11 11 07

I didn’t want  a fish. I don’t want a fish. Anything but another fish on this house. How many tanks do we have, thanks to my husband’s hobby? Two salt water tanks, two fresh water tanks and a koi pond outside.

Another fish was not my dream. But it was my friend’s big birthday, she loves animals, and I thought a small, unobtrusive tank with one colorful Siamese Fighting Fish would be a cheerful addition to her kitchen.

Her kitchen’s decor is overwhelmingly blue, so I bought a blue fish with long, diaphanous fins. This will look great in her kitchen, I thought.

But before I could present her with this sensationally thoughtful gift, she said to me,

“I am tired of taking care of everything, and as of this birthday I don’t want anything else to take care of.”

Not even a little blue fish, I wonder?

But her answer was clear. A fish would not make her birthday a happy one. So there I was, fish-sitting HER fish.

How long do Siamese Fighting Fish live? I wondered.

I named him Sparky, and set his tank in the center of the kitchen counter, surrounded by my white begonias and red kalanchoe.  How patriotic; my kitchen is suddenly red, white and blue.

“OK, Sparky, dinner time,” I say, as I drop one pellet of food at a time into the water. Sparky zooms up to fetch his reward. He zeros in, flapping his little blue fins joyfully as he consumes his pellet.

Every morning I come into the kitchen and turn on the light on top of his tank.

“Good morning, Sparks,” I find myself saying, “How are you today?“

He zooms to the top, recognizing a human presence nearby, his little fish heart hoping that the human has a treat for him. His fins are working overtime. They resemble a car’s windshield wipers running at maximum speed.

When several months have passed I notice a change in Sparky’s behavior. Now when I drop a pellet of food into the tank he swims around pathetically trying to find it.

“It’s up here,” I say, reassuringly. I even tap the top of the tank cover, trying to help him locate the food.

It’s no use. Sparky is blind.

I didn’t want a fish, and now I have a special-needs fish.

I feel sad and sorry for such a harmless, innocent creature, who cannot find a pellet of food in a tank the size of a basketball.

He can no longer appreciate the landscape of his tank. The pretend palm tree goes without his appreciative glances, the pretend castle remains uninhabited by Sparky’s imaginary friends. The blue pebbles on the bottom no longer delight him.

Feeding time for Sparky is frustrating. I drop one piece of pink flake fish food at his nose. He seems to look right at it, but it slowly drifts away, down to the bottom of the tank. Try another piece. One single flake just to the left of him. He remains in one place, unmoving and unaware of the succulent snack gliding past him. Now two flakes sit at the bottom of the tank. Sometimes he snaps at food, but misses the piece. Down it floats.

Every piece of food on the bottom of the tank causes pollution in the water. That pollution translates into many more time consuming water changes. The water must be spilled out of the tank, tank walls scrubbed, plants and decorative structures cleaned. Then with fresh water with a few drops of “R.O. Right”, a chemical that puts minerals back into the water, the fish and fancy furnishings go back in.

My husband, fish fancier and hobbyist since boyhood, informs me that “Serious collectors euthanize fish requiring so much extra care.”

“Well, I could never do that,” I assure him.

“If you want me to do it just tell me.”

The time costing routine continues for a while, until one day I lose my patience and say, as I leave the house, “O.K.; do it. Just don’t do it while I’m home.”

He understands what I mean when I say “do it.”

Late that afternoon I return to an empty house which seems quieter than usual. Don’t be ridiculous. A Siamese fish doesn’t make any noise; why should the house seem quieter?

Yet the feeling remains. “Oh, he did it. Sparky is gone.” I sidle up to the tank and see nothing but a plastic palm tree and a little castle.

I never wanted this creature but I feel surprisingly sad.

My fish-experienced husband probably matter-of-factly swished a small aquarium net into the tank and swooped Sparky out. I imagine a splash of water and hear the sound of a toilet flushing. Sparky is forced through the sewer line and comes out right into a treatment plant.

“Oh no.” What a cruel end for a little creature whose only fault was losing his eyesite.

And it’s my fault. I wished this fate for him. What kind of human being am I?

As I stood near the tank a small blue fish waved its fins and swam up to the top.

Sparky is alright! Nobody swooped him out of the tank. Nobody threw him into the toilet bowl. Nobody sentenced him to ending his life in a treatment plant! The exuberance I feel makes my head pound and my heart sing.

There must be a way to feed him. I will figure it out. It just will take a little more time. I vow he will eat. He will survive. He is mine.

A GENTLEMAN MEETS SIRI

Picture this: an old fashioned gentleman who opens doors for women and pulls out their chairs for them. If he’s with a woman at a restaurant he waits for her to order first. When going through an entrance he gestures for her to go ahead of him.

He’s a man who would tip his hat to women passing by if he were born a few years earlier. That’s what gentlemen do; that’s the way they behave; it’s been drummed into their minds since childhood and is as automatic as a Y-Generation guy giving a fist bump to a buddy.

Such a gentleman is my husband, Harvey.

When his first cell phone would no longer take a battery charge and finally quit after giving years of service, he went shopping to buy a replacement. A phone; nothing fancy, no hip hop tunes for ring tones, interactive calendars or internet shenanigans; just an ordinary cell phone that receives and delivers telephone calls.

But he met a salesman who showed him the amazing advances since the eons of five years when he bought the the first one.

Apple computer’s voiced computerized fact finder, Siri, finally sold him on the I Phone with its bells, whistles and personal assistant inside the phone. Harvey was entering the world of 21st century technology.

As he started calling upon Siri to do her chores the dialogue became unexpectedly funny to me and frustrating to him. Here is the dialogue of his first attempts at communicating with Siri.

“Siri,” he started, politely addressing her by her proper name, “Do you happen to have any current information about the traffic situation in the Lincoln Tunnel from New Jersey to New York?”

Click. Siri had hung up.

“That’s too many words,” I explained. “She has a short memory span. Pare your question down to, “Traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel?”

“Siri, Please tell me about the traffic in the Lincoln Tunnel, if you don’t mind.”

Click. Siri had hung up again.

“You are talking to a computer; not a cute young secretary. Stop wasting words with polite talk.”

“Alright, Siri, I’m asking you nicely. What are traffic conditions in the Lincoln Tunnel this morning?”

“Directions from Trenton,” she offered. At least she didn’t hang up this time, although her response was totally irrelevant to his question.

Siri, he was beginning to think, was no lady!

So I doubt whether he would open a door or pull out a chair for Siri if the occasion arose. Now if only he would  stop saying “Please and Thank You.” His mother would be so disappointed in his newly acquired speaking style, being asked to un-remember the polite childhood lessons of always saying “please and thank you.”

But his mother never spoke to a computer either.

Meshing Harvey’s world with Siri’s and learning each other’s ways of communicating is still a long work in progress.

PONDERING PIGEONS

I read an article in the April 4th issue of the New York Times describing a Brooklyn man’s hobby; one that has faded in popularity over the years. The most famous person to publicize this hobby was Marlon Brando in the 1954 academy award winning film, “On the Waterfront.” He played the part of a longshoreman and was a rooftop pigeon breeder.             

I hadn’t thought about it in many years, but when I was a child in Queens, I had a cousin in Brooklyn who raised pigeons. He owned a coop on the roof of his apartment building and was their solo caregiver and trainer. He built the coop himself, and it was a bona fide bird coop. I, as a sophisticated, knowledgable ten year old suburbanite, recognized a real bird coop when I saw one.

Where did these birds come from? How did they become members of my cousin’s flock? Was this hobby like having a herd of sheep, a swarm of bees or a gaggle of geese? What makes a group of creatures become attracted to a place and live there as a team? Do they sign long term leases? Do they arrange pre-nuptial agreements to remain together forever? Or agree to long-term contracts rewarding them for remaining in one place?

It was magical the way he would signal the birds to leave their coop, swoop into the air, fly freely around, and then all come back making one dramatic mission statement at the mere sound of his gym teacher-style whistle.

Each pigeon wore a tiny bracelet on its leg identifying it and giving its address. Why, I don’t know. Were there pigeon police? Did the city set up a watchful sheriff’s office with winged deputies to keep the birds in line? What kind of line: a clothes line, chorus line or line veto? Were there citizen vigilantees roaming in search of under-age truant pigeons?

I still wonder how one goes about training a bird or a group of birds to leave their cozy nesting areas and fly to freedom, totally without restraints and without anything keeping them from flying off forever.    

Why would a group of pigeons come home to a dingy rooftop in Brooklyn when they could hop a flight to glamorous Costa Rica or exotic Portugal and enjoy the great weather? Aren’t they curious about what pigeon senoritas are like in other countries? Don’t they have any curiosity about different foods? Perhaps pepitas instead of peanuts? And rather than swilling dirty water puddles on Brooklyn’s drab cold rooftops wouldn’t they prefer sipping sangria on sunny shores?

So many questions; so few answers. No one has yet learned to crack the code of the pigeon mind.

I SHOULD HAVE SAID…

Everyone has had the feeling, “I wish I had said…” when you hear something insulting or hurtful. “I should have told them…” when you overhear anger, distrust or prejudice “If I had another chance to speak up…”

Yes, don’t we all wish we had the chance to tell them what we really think of their bias, their small mindedness, their intolerance. You would tell them. Really? And what would you tell them, exactly? What is it you wish you had said? How would you feel now if only you had told them…told them what?

Many years ago in my first job fresh out of college at age twenty one, I worked as a speech therapist in Baltimore’s school system. One day I went into the teacher’s lounge during a break. Several teachers were sitting and talking about colleges to which their children were hoping to apply.

“Princeton is a wonderful school, but I doubt if he could get in,”

“University of Pennsylvania is a great school, but it’s right in the heart of the city.”

”Cornell is a fine school, but it’s so huge and it’s so isolated.”

“Goucher is an excellent school; we don’t give it much attention because it’s practically in our back yard.”

And then came the line that has haunted me all these years.

“Goucher is a good school, but it has so many Jews.”

Stunned silence. Did anyone say anything afterwards? I don’t remember. All I remember is being so shocked that I was speechless. I had never experienced such outward prejudice before, and I had no idea how to handle it. But I should not have let it go unanswered. I should not have let it stand unchallenged.

And so it bothers me even now. I hear that comment again and again and think I should have said something. But what should I have said? I still don’t know what the right thing to say would have been.

What would you have said ?

SCAM, TAKE TWO

About two years ago I posted this blog, never expecting to again be the target of another

scam sent by email. This story is the original, and after it is the short email I received this

week. I did not include the “gentleman’s” email address but it was part of the message.

THE STING (With apologies to Robert Redford and Paul Newman

Downsizing; the dream of empty nesters. The constant conversation:  smaller house, easier to care for. Fewer places to store “stuff”, less land to maintain, smaller rooms to manage.

After two years of looking for a more practical home, we find just the right house. Now we face the enormity of eliminating objects we’ve lived with for thirty-one years.

“It’s easier to decide what you want than deciding what you don’t want,” was the advice we get from those who’ve been through this culling process before.

“There will be furniture we won’t need in a smaller house”, we say. “What should we do with it?”

“Offer it to our family first,” my husband suggests.

Our children have different tastes than ours, their homes are already furnished, and our free offers leave us with the same large pieces we started with.

“I’ll call some charities”, I suggest, and I call them.

I can’t believe how particular they are, how fussy they are, and how difficult they are. “They act as if they’re doing us a favor by looking at good and valuable furniture that cost us a fortune to buy”, I complain to anyone willing to listen.

They reject almost everything.

“I’m sure there are there dozens of families who would jump at the chance to own these things,” my husband says.

But I don’t know who they are, where they are, or how to find them.

What options are left?

“Ebay”, we brainstorm. “I’ll run an ad.”

And so the drama begins.

The first object I list is an oversize brown leather sofa. It is a beautiful sofa with soft, sensuous, seat inviting leather, which we bought in New York at a respected furniture store.

I receive several inquiries but no bids. I know that for the price we are asking, $2,000.00, someone could own a beautiful sofa at a very low price.

Suddenly one morning the bid we are waiting for pops up on the computer screen.

“If we agree to buy your sofa for $2,000.00, will you remove it from the listing?”

“Sure”, we agree, and cancel the Ebay ad.

“Thanks. I’ll send you the check right away.”

The check arrives along with some specific but puzzling instructions.

It is from an out of state bank, made out to us for $6,000.

“Please deposit this check in your account and make out a check to us for the difference. We will pick up the sofa next Tuesday.”

This is peculiar. I don’t understand his directions, so I go to my local bank and ask to speak to Don, the branch manager.

“Will you please explain how to follow these instructions?” I ask. “I don’t understand what to do.”

Don examines the note and the check and says grimly, “I won’t touch this check.”

“But why not?” I ask.

“Because this is a scam.”

Fireworks burst in my brain at his words. Scams are things we read about in newspapers.

“What do you mean, a scam?”

“It’s been around for years. We were warned about it when it was first being used against our banking customers.”

“How do you know it’s a scam?”

“Here’s how it works: you deposit his $6,000 check into your checking account. Then you keep $2,000 for the sofa and write him a check for the difference, which is $4,000. He cashes your $4,000 check before his check clears. His check bounces. So now the $4,000 the bank gave him in the check he cashed is lost. We can’t cover the $4,000, so the bank goes after you and demands the money. You paid him $4,000 and you owe us $4,000, so you are out $8,000!”

That is the scam, and it has been used successfully against people like us, who know nothing about such dishonest deals.

I rush home and send the scam artist an email, my only means of contacting him.

“My bank will not allow me to deposit your check,” I write.

“Then try another bank”, he immediately responds.

“No. The sale is off. Should I return your check?”

He wrote back an angry, nasty, unprintable response. And then he disappeared. His email address was voided. I never heard from him again.

But someone else surely will.

AND THEN, THIS WEEK, TWO YEARS LATER, I RECEIVED THIS E MAIL:
Greetings,

I am sorry to encroach into your privacy in this manner, I found your
names listed in the Trade Center Chambers of Commerce directory here in
Japan.

I find it pleasurable to offer you my partnership in business, I only
pray at this time that your address is still valid. I want to solicit
your attention to receive money on my behalf. The purpose of my
contacting you is because my status would not permit me to do this
alone. When you reply this message, I will send you the full details and
more information about myself and the funds.

LET ME OUT!

“No, No; I won’t do it.”          

“Come on; just start.”

“NO. The sun is finally shining, the buds are bursting, the birds are singing. I’m going out.”

“But people want to read your stories. You make them smile. Don’t let them down.”

“I have spring fever. I want to go outside without putting on all the layers: the scarf, the gloves, the heavy jacket.”

“Just sit down for a little while. Turn on the computer. Start typing.”

“But that’s what I did all winter when it was too cold to go outside. My brain is calling for a break. Yes: I need a brain break.”

“Write about your vacation.”

“Nobody wants to hear about someone else’s vacation. That is so boring.

“Write about all those weddings you saw on the beach.”

“What a cliche; weddings on the beach. I’m going out right now and enjoying this beautiful weather before Mother Nature changes her mind.”

So I shut the computer, push the chair back under the desk, leave the many messy memos all over the desk as they may be, and get going.

Sunscreen, cell phone and pedometer in place, fearless writer ventures outside ready to embark on a healthy, invigorating power walk. Ah, the freedom from pressure; the joy of moving, the healthy feeling of expanding the cardiac rate.

The mind is free. The mind is so free that it wanders. The mind thinks of a new story. This new story cannot wait to be written. Enough cardio strengthening, enough muscle toning, writer happily skips back home to the writing room and starts typing the newest idea, sashaying and shaping it into a story.

Working the words, foraging for form, taming the tone: This is refreshing, rewarding, renewing. This is what a writer must do.

SPEECH PATTERNS

It has nothing to do with my training as a speech pathologist. There is a particular pattern, that when I hear it, makes me bridle with impatience. I call it the “Back and Forth” pattern. It is the verbal equivalent of giving something with one hand and taking it back with the other.

That’s what happens when a speaker starts telling you something, then interrupts himself to go backwards to justify his position. Something like this:

“The child in front of us on the plane wouldn’t stop crying and screaming. I felt like getting out of my seat and giving him a…..Not that I believe in striking children. I never even lifted a finger to any of mine when they were little; I would never hit a child.”

OR

“They asked me to serve on the School Board next term. I hate working on any kind of committees: the pettiness that comes out at those meetings….Not that I don’t want to help in any way I can, because I think they do a stand up job. And of course I’m flattered to be asked, but…”

OR

“We’re very good friends of the Johnson’s, and we love their family to death. But their taste in restaurants is horrible…Not that every place we go to dinner at has to be a formal, expensive place, but…

Can anybody make a statement, take a position on an issue, and let it stand as is without having to explain their point of view?

And by the way, I hate the expression “I love them to death.”  What kind of mixed language is that? Not that I want to criticize anybody’s right to express themselves in any way they choose. Everyone who knows me knows I am a passionate supporter of Freedom of Speech.

“Back and Forth” is only one of many irritating speech patterns I hear. Please tell me you share my dislike of the expression “To tell you the truth” every time your friend expresses an idea?

How about starting a sentence with “Frankly…” Must you be told that they really mean what they’re about to say? Should you assume they are lying unless they tell you that THIS time they are telling the truth? And if they don’t start with “Frankly” does that mean you should suspect everything else they say? Anyway, nobody says it more charmingly or unforgettably than Clark Gable did in “Gone WIth the Wind,” when he told Scarlett O’Hara, “Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn!” I believe Clark Gable with or without the “Frankly.”

The first time someone said to me, “You know what I mean?” I thought it was a real question and assured them that yes, I knew what they meant. But after they said it a few dozen more times in the course of a paragraph I realized that I was  listening to a habit, not a question.          

An earwig is what we call a song that plays unceasingly in your mind. So what should we call expressions people use that are just as annoying as a song you can’t get out of your head?

A speechwig?