Are You Ready To Work From Home?

Unexpectedly, just like that, I'm becoming a telecommuter (thanks, Corona!) I like to have some time to prepare for big life changes -- four months is ideal; one day isn't.

The good news is, I've calmed down a bit since yesterday. My heart palpitations have temporarily subsided.

When people imagine working from home, they assume the transition will be seamless. Working with computer systems over the years, I know better. Anything that can go wrong will.

My home computer is rather slow. It hasn't bothered me much; most of the stuff I do online does not require lightening-fast response time. If Firefox takes two minutes to load a web page, I take my dog outside or swipe through Twitter on my phone. All those computer fixes I procrastinated about have suddenly become crucial. My Windows 10 setup recalcitrantly refuses to install updates. Google tells me this is a "known issue". I've tried several suggestions with no luck. I'm not going down the road of restarting in safe mode and plucking random "host processes" or anything ending with .NET and willy-nilly deleting them in the misguided hope that something magical will happen (the only thing that'll happen is my PC will stop working all together).

I did manage to conduct some system cleanup. I'd forgotten about cccleaner, which I'd had and used on my previous setup. First of all, it's FREE, but most importantly it's efficient and moron-friendly. cccleaner took care of a bunch of unwanted stragglers. My anti-virus software is stunningly efficient. I use Malwarebytes, which is also FREE. I did purchase a subscription a while back, though, since I was so impressed with it. There are free anti-virus programs that also work well:  I've used AVG in the past. If you are looking for recommendations for any kind of program, go to CNET first.

Since I was panicking yesterday and felt that my failed Windows update was crucial, I impulse-purchased a program called RestorO -- big mistake. Not only did it fail to fix my problem, but it created many problems of its own. It was advertised for $27.99, which at the time seemed like a small price to pay for sweet deliverance. They charged my bank account $30.00, but what's a couple bucks here or there, right? Then my trusty Malwarebytes began signalling me every 30 seconds that RestorO was malicious and was causing PUPs, which sound cute, but aren't. Tired and wary of the constant alerts, I tried to delete RestorO -- it refused to leave. Thus I had to search for another free program for removing guests that wouldn't exit. CNET told me to try Revo Uninstaller. It did the trick! Again, FREE.

I've given up on installing that obdurate Windows update -- sometimes one has to know when to surrender. But I did do some needed purging.

On the non-computer side, I submitted an Amazon order for my favorite coffee, which will be delivered Tuesday. Had I known I'd be separated from fresh hot java, I would have been proactive. All my (many) Amazon packages have been previously delivered to my workplace, so finding something on my doorstep will be new.

I won't have my special pens and highlighters and file folders, but I suppose I will improvise. Truth be told, I'm not feeling this. I predict doom. But it has to be done. Either that or my two hundred hours of PTO time will dissipate in a flash.

All I can do is cross my fingers and pray that it all works. There might be upsides -- stay tuned for updates.

Thanks, Virus -- Thanks A Lot

Get It Now! Prices Slashed! Unlike Hand Sanitizer!

 

I'm old enough to have lived through some trying times. I was eight years old when our president was shot and killed. Even my parents hadn't experienced that before. Granted, they'd lived through World War II, which was traumatic enough. But an assassin propping his rifle atop a window ledge and firing it at the president? It became a tired question:  "Where were you when Kennedy was shot?" Of course, no one asks that anymore, except perhaps inside nursing homes.

In 2001, we all felt like the world was exploding. I was at work that Tuesday morning, headphones plugged into my portable radio, when I heard about a plane crashing into the World Trade Center. The internet was clumsy then. The only news site I could maneuver to was MSNBC. My workplace's workout room had one TV mounted on the wall, and little by little, a cluster of us converged beneath it. We didn't know what was happening -- no one did. As the morning ticked on, reality sank in. Some of us trundled outside for morning break and we scanned the sky for wayward airplanes. Suddenly the question became, "Where were you on nine-eleven?"

I've never experienced a pandemic. Neither did my parents. My grandparents did. There were no antibiotics or ventilators in 1919 -- there was palliative care administered by nurses wearing white caps and white hosiery. There were priests conducting last rites. In 2020 we suddenly have another one. What? In the twenty-first century?

I'm someone who always thinks everything will turn out okay. When news of the virus was first reported, I felt it was completely overblown. I might have even clucked my tongue while watching the reports. In my defense most of the news is overblown. Then suddenly my workplace began asking strange questions, such as, what's your phone number; do you have a computer at home? My pitiful timing caused me to take today off, and lo and behold, we received an email that informed us we would need to prepare to work from home for a month. I'm not prepared! My computer won't connect to the workplace system -- something about an authenticator app that's not configured correctly (I learned after three hours of trying various remedies and finally reaching someone from our IT Department). I'm counting on my fingers the number of vacation hours I've stored up, which I was counting on as a dollar cushion for when I retire in June. I'm finally resigned to going in to work on Monday (to a ghost town) to get the needed system do-dads in order to slink back home, away from the germs and (fingers crossed) do my job from home.

I'm in the vulnerable category -- over sixty; lungs compromised. I have a stuffy nose -- do I have it??

And I don't have enough coffee! I'm going to run out of coffee and if I have to work here at home, how will I exist? I can't send my sixty-five-year-old spouse out to buy me coffee. I wasn't prepared for this! How did this thing happen? My Amazon packages that will be delivered to my workplace will sit on the shelf for a month. HR sent an email that said someone lives with someone who was potentially exposed to the virus. Who is this person?? The one who sits in front of me?? Someone I sat in a meeting with yesterday, blissfully unaware??

S-T-R-E-S-S.

All over a stupid-ass virus. Thank you, Wuhan.

I was trying to think of songs to calm me, and for some reason I came up with this. Maybe it's the tinkling intro.



I'll be better tomorrow. Yes, tomorrow will look brighter.

It has to.

Changes And Life Diversions

 

I was a prolific cross-stitcher in the eighties. I don't remember how I picked up the hobby, but working second shift at the hospital lent itself to quiet contemplation. Around eight p.m. the clamor quieted and the nurses and I all pulled our current projects out of our bags and sat behind the nurses' station and stitched. I have an impatient, busy mind, and needlework soothed me. It wasn't so much the finished project as the doing. Once I had framed and hung as many projects as my home could bear without turning into a tchotchke shop, I advanced to wedding gift samplers and tiny Christmas ornaments; anything to keep the spill flowing.

There came a point when I just stopped. Life became hectic -- I suddenly, unexpectedly acquired a "career" that consumed me. Then I became divorced and subsequently remarried and (thanks to my husband) began writing and recording songs. Every spare moment was spent writing. Hobbies? No time!

As I now ease into retirement, I'm ready once again for quiet. TV makes me testy. I can't find any downloadable library books that hold my interest. Writing songs is as interesting to me as the latest politically correct television drama. (Plus, TV is much more interesting when I can distract myself.)

Money will be tight once I finally pull the plug, but I could work until I die and then explain to God why I wasted my last few productive years. So I'm back to cross stitching! I've searched various websites, tried-and-true ones and Amazon. Frankly, I'm disappointed. Why are all the cross stitch kits so kitschy? I don't like cute sayings; I like pretty. I'm not into Jolly Old St. Nick -- I want a babbling stream or a stark winter tableau or at least something elegant. I've been searching, fruitlessly. I need to stock up. The best site I've found? Good old Amazon. I think Amazon aggregates all the best offerings, because my old standbys like Herrschners and The Stitchery only have the kits I'd want but can find cheaper on Amazon (thank you, Prime!).

Here's my first project after coming back; and yes, I found it on Amazon. It took me three months to complete and was a bit of a challenge after twenty years away. I haven't ironed or framed it yet, but hey, I did it!

No Jolly St. Nick For Me

 

 

I've already started Project Number Two -- a less challenging floral piece. And I just ordered two "Snap And Stitch" projects of my pet babies from DMC. Counted cross stitch will once again become an obsession. I just wish I could find more eye-catching designs.

I should be set for a while. If you're related to me, you know what you're getting for Christmas!

Changes

 

I don't know what it's like not to work. I will soon find out. My work life has been a meandering road. I endured some uncomfortable situations and experienced unexpected highs. I had a laissez faire attitude toward work in my early twenties, likely because I possessed no skills other than the ability to type and a quick mind. A job was a job. If I hated my current one, I'd find another. They all paid little above minimum wage, so my gauge was whether I could tolerate it and the people who worked there (the deal-breaker was usually the people). I tried retail (and liked it); I tried secretarial (and despised it). I lucked into a hospital position that last eight glorious years; all in all my favorite all-time job.

In 1990 I tried desperately to secure a position with a health insurance company that'd decided to expand its operations to the far-flung prairie; sat on a stool in my garage and smoked and practiced answering interview questions. I hated my current position and was desperate to escape it. My only calling card was a knowledge of medical terminology gained during my years at St. Alexius. I knew nothing about processing insurance claims. They only hired me because one of their initial choices dropped out and I was first runner-up. During the three weeks I waited for a phone call, after I'd grown despondent, I silently accepted my woeful lot in life as a farm records secretary. When the call finally came, Mister Sun beamed through my plate glass window. I didn't know nor care what claim processing entailed; just that I'd been delivered. Somehow I knew this was where I belonged.

Thirty years later, I'm still in the medical insurance game. I went from claims examiner to assistant supervisor to supervisor to manager, backsliding at my next company to examiner and then upticking to trainer. When I accepted the job with my current employer, I had a bit of a chip on my shoulder. I was punching below my weight. But being a manager, honestly, simply meant juggling balls in the air. I thought I was a phenom, when in fact I was just "capable".

I've been a trainer for seventeen years. As one ages, they settle and make the most of the tableau offered. I made the most of it. As an extreme introvert, I'm amazed at how I managed to mentor people. I still don't quite understand it, but maybe that's one of the little things we accept with humility and tuck in our pocket.

Soon all that will end. I'm not certain I want it to. Why am I ambivalent about retiring? Isn't this what all of us yearns for? I think maybe I'm afraid of what comes next. Will my brain wither and die? I don't feel old. Shoot, I'm still writing my novel! Will I grow fat and plop myself in front of the TV all day? I need a plan. A goal. Sixty-five-year-olds can still have goals, you know. I don't feel a day over sixty.

I will let you know as soon as I know.

Thus the story continues...

There Are No Good Conservative Songwriters

 

Some dolt named Jason Isbell, who is apparently the "King of Americana Music" (I honestly have no idea who the idiot is) recently got into a Twitter tussle with someone who tweeted that they didn't like his progressive politics, and responded, “If it ever gets to be too much for you, there are a lot of great songwriters out there who agree with you politically. Oh wait, no there aren’t.”

I abhor making fun of the mentally challenged, but I will make an exception in this case. Let's begin with the absurd moniker of "King of Americana". Who crowned him? In my limited exposure to whatever the hell Americana is, I would exalt Dwight Yoakam (who is apparently no longer considered "country") to that title. And Dwight's politics are, yes, progressive, but he's no imbecile. There is no chance in hell Dwight would make a statement like that, because he knows better. Dwight knows that political bent has no bearing on songwriting prowess. In fact, political leanings have no bearing on creativity, period. I don't know (and don't care to know) what kind of songs this Isbell guy writes, but if you're in the country milieu, aren't you writing about heartbreak and about life's ups and downs? I didn't know that was solely the purview of liberals. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's not, based on my reading of online political site comments; unless the songs are all about how much I hate Trump and the world is going to hell...because of Trump.

Sigh.

Tedious.

It's sad that some people's existences are so tiny that all they have to latch onto is hate. No, not sad -- pathetic.

I'm not going to enumerate all the superb conservative country songwriters, because Trigger compiled a comprehensive list here. My point in writing this post is that people need to get over themselves. I sometimes lurk on a (fiction) writer's forum and it's just as hateful as Jason Isbell. The prevailing opinion there (among writers who've had just as much success as me; meaning "none") is that conservatives are hayseeds who can barely read, much less write. The place oozes with condescension.

No wonder I pine for the days when music was just "music". Now we are forced to take sides. That's not what music is about. Music should be joyous. Music should be a respite; a little jewel we tuck inside our pockets. I don't want it to be ruined. I knew that Stephen Stills was a Hollywood Hills lefty, but I didn't care because I liked his music. I know what John Lennon was. Lennon is a god to me. 



Let's all calm down and stop hoisting our battle shields. 




 

Get Over It, People

 

I don't get political here, but come on, people! I truly don't understand all the hate -- all the angst that drives people insane. Why would anyone want to do that to themselves?

I saw a clip of some moron driving his van into a tent one political party had erected to register voters, because he "needed to make a statement", and I thought, what the hell? Is your life really that sad? Excuse me, but you are a loser.

I've been voting since 1976. Sometimes my candidate won; sometimes they didn't. Life went on. I managed to live a productive existence. I raised a family, worked a job, paid my bills. Dabbled in artistic endeavors. Sure, I wasn't crazy about some of the losers who were elected, but they weren't attacking me personally.

Maybe it's a twenty-first century phenomenon, that humans are so in tune to cable news that they abandon all sensibility. I refuse to live that life. (And please, just stop, cable news. If you truly care about people, you might want to catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror and ask if this is a person you'd really want to know. Seriously, are ratings going to be the sum total of your life? Pathetic.)

Life can be bad, but it can also be grand. I would be lost without my husband. I love my grandsons. I love watching my sons blossom into dads and celebrating every milestone, just as I did with each of them. I cherish my friends; love laughing with them. My pets, Josie and Bob, are quirky and can be maddening, but our bed would be empty without them. I fold music inside my heart and never forget how fortunate I've been to experience it. My mind is constantly spinning with new, sometimes outlandish creative, bound to fail, schemes and plans.

I'm not about to steer my car into a crowd of innocent people.

I am truly flummoxed by all the hate.

How about, just live? There is magic in the world -- just open your eyes to it.

My Fleeting Music "Career"

I've sung a lot of songs in my life. Granted, most of them were to my reflection in the mirror, but it still counts. When I was a kid, around seven or eight years old, my heart's desire was to be a famous singer. I had no particular talent, but I sounded pretty good to myself in the backyard, performing atop the picnic table. I loved music with my whole heart and if I could only play piano, my career ambitions would be realized. Alas, my dad thought the accordion would be nifty, so off I toddled to lessons downtown. I don't recall having a voice in the ruling, nor any objections. Dad didn't make a lot of the decisions in our household, so when he did, he meant business. Admittedly I was curious about how to make music and if I could actually do it, but oom-pah-pah wasn't my first choice.

Dad's younger brother, always readying to copy whatever Dad did, swiftly enrolled both his kids in lessons, too. Thus I got to be admonished by my teacher, "Karen doesn't drag her basses like that." Accordion solos are supposed to be crisp. I preferred a longer, drawn-out, sound, so I chose not to snap those buttons like they were meant to be snapped. Or maybe I was simply lazy, lethargic; bored.

Our instructor, however, hit upon a great scheme ~ form a trio, Paul, Karen, and poor pathetic me. She broadened her horizons from simply accordion and assigned each of us our own instrument. Paul got to stick with the squeeze box, but Karen (the favorite) was taught some chords on acoustic guitar, and I was given a couple of brushes and tasked with swishing them across a snare drum. We commenced practice in the basement studio, then set off to entertain elderly residents in nursing homes. We were nine, ten, and eleven; so the shut-ins found us cute and strained from their wheelchairs to pinch our cheeks. Our confidence grew. We started to believe our own publicity.

We advanced to street fairs and downtown Crazy Days. Paul and Karen's mom sewed costumes for us ~ fringed black billowing skirts for Karen and me; matching western shirts for the three of us; dime store plastic cowboy hats. I think we may have even had faux-cowboy boots. I sadly can't recall what we called ourselves; maybe something like The Westernaires. Karen could tell me, but she's most likely not reading this.

It wasn't until we moved in 1964 to my bachelor uncle's establishment that we realized some return on our efforts. There, we made serious coin ~ playing just outside the bar for tips. Even then it was sort of a drag, having to change into our costumes after school and dragging out the caved-in snare drum; screwing it into its stand. But money was a motivator. If you're ten years old and can't get anything new without begging your mother for money, being an independent contractor was heaven. And tipsy patrons are exceedingly generous. Each of us toddled down to the local Woolworths and bought amber-tinted glass piggy banks and proceeded to fill them. We were rich!

I learned that performing the same song over and over, though, wasn't all performing was cracked up to be. Even then I could grow bored in a hurry. I wished we could change our repertoire, but without our accordion teacher in close proximity, the three of us were adrift.

My singular claim to fame was that I got to sing the opening verse of "Bye Bye Love". Seeing as how I was the weak link in the chain, I considered it a high honor. I still don't know how I obtained it.

Today whenever I hear The Everly Brothers and that guitar riff, I'm whisked off to those days; and I sing along with pride:

There goes my baby
With someone new
He sure looks happy
I sure am blue

Once upon a time, I was a world-renowned singer.