As Father’s Day comes up in a few days, I am remembering my Dad, gone now for 17 years, which I find almost unreal, because memories of him are more like yesterday! Dad was my hero throughout my life, however, every now and then he would show his imperfections and become merely human for a moment – like when one of us crossed his path between his easy chair and a football game on the television set. Then he was crochety and focused on that line of site that we momentarily interrupted. We grew accustomed to crawling on the floor to get to our destination.
But more often than not, he was all-knowing, all-being – protecting me from any danger. He was my major influence to becoming an independent thinking woman, at the cusp of women finding their own path – in 1969. He always said I could be anything, do anything, I wanted and succeed.
There are so many things I am grateful for and thankful for, that my Dad was responsible for:
Thank you, Dad:
• For letting me dance, my feet on yours, clear until I was 16;
• Your invention of home made toys – like the sling shots we each had made out of old tires;
• The swing you made in a tree out back for my two sons to enjoy. I have a series of pictures, frame by frame of them going up, up, up, leaning back, side-by-side, and laughing out loud with huge glee;
• The infamous “short cuts” on our many Sunday drives, one time driving up a little tiny one-lane cliff side dirt road, for miles and miles, only to have to BACK DOWN for what seemed like eternity;
• Routinely making Sunday breakfast;
• The time it snowed so deep that you made an igloo for us that lasted for two whole months!
• The same year, you made the fantastic toboggan run behind our house that was so sleek and fast that it would propel our six-man toboggan down and around the barn, and whoosh back up to the top – we only had to walk it over to the starting point and do it all again.
• Making up the rule not to sing at the kitchen table or the window would fall on our heads. (Says something about how happy we were that you would have to make up a rule to keep us from singing at the kitchen table!)
• Making up the Quiet Game (again at the kitchen table) where the game was lost at the first peep from a child, so we would spend delicious minutes making faces and sticking out our tongues at hapless siblings until one would burst out laughing. It only would last maybe five minutes before one of us would cave.
• Coming up with titles for the book you never wrote. Naming the cats after events like Sir Odd Leigh Waffled (the result of making waffles that were, well, odd) and Precious Horace D, or PhD, the only doctor in the family.
• The time we were camping at Priest Lake and our beach ball got away from us in the cool morning hours and you rushed in after it in your underwear – boxer shorts! How totally embarrassing to a 13-year old daughter when you came back with the beach ball, shorts plastered to your skin, and an audience of all the campers in the area. Clapping.
• Campfire breakfasts that included bugs on the eggs, that you explained away as just a little ash from the fire, or at the very least, added protein.
• Taking me to the store after my divorce and helping me write my first check; supporting me so much, encouraging me to believe in myself, cheering me on in my role as a single mother;
• Being the father figure for my sons and leading by example so they grew into really wonderful men;
You are the reason I am who I am today – smart, caring, independent, fair, and compassionate. Happy Father’s Day, Dad! You are the father that others should follow.
6.17.2010
5.22.2010
Fun Without Sun
Wow! What a day. Went garage sailing (saling just doesn't look right) and while we were inside, it just whooped hail like crazy, then it stopped, we went outside, and it rained. Several people moved their stuff from the driveway and crammed in their garages and each place was like a friendly little picnic - people so glad that anyone showed up, and we were so glad to have cover. I got lots and lots of stuff! A children's tea set, a miniature Depression Glass cup and saucer, two really nice Victorian tea cup's and saucers, two salt & pepper sets for my son (vintage!), cards of antique buttons for my friend, Jeanne. Fun! Fun! Fun! Who needs sun??
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5.19.2010
POW! Blue One!
POW! Blue One! and then some perfect stranger will haul off and slug you in the shoulder because they saw a Volkswagen (not even Bug) and popped you one. I don't think there is a commercial that irritates me more.
When did this silly game start? Surely not during my childhood. My mother would have had a blue fit if we four siblings started hitting each other in fun. Bad enough that we hit each other NOT in fun.
And any mother of more than one child would turn the television off before inciting a riot amongst her children. Siblings don't need an invitation to open season on their little brothers because a certain car drove by.
When I was a child, the game while road tripping was to yell out the states if they weren't Washington or Idaho. Much nicer than beating each other up.
I bring all this up because on a recent road trip, Mechanic Man turned into a little brat, punching me every time a VW went by.
Pow! Black one!
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When did this silly game start? Surely not during my childhood. My mother would have had a blue fit if we four siblings started hitting each other in fun. Bad enough that we hit each other NOT in fun.
And any mother of more than one child would turn the television off before inciting a riot amongst her children. Siblings don't need an invitation to open season on their little brothers because a certain car drove by.
When I was a child, the game while road tripping was to yell out the states if they weren't Washington or Idaho. Much nicer than beating each other up.
I bring all this up because on a recent road trip, Mechanic Man turned into a little brat, punching me every time a VW went by.
Pow! Black one!
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5.16.2010
Pieces, Parts, and Oddities
ok, back from my parts is parts free-for-all (car parts that is), bringing many more car parts in my trunk and none of them MY car's parts. And car parts have particular, specific, exacting pieces of parts to make up the whole. But, Oh! I found two old OLD radios that Mechanic Man is trying to make work. With a little z-z-z-z-ptz here and a little z-z-z-z-ptz there. If he were bald, he'd look ok. Just sayin'
And, it's official. I am Officially Decrepit. This is a good news, bad news deal. I received my notice that I will be receiving disability. That's the good news. The bad news - I am forever locked into $400 less a month than the pitiful amount I was getting on unemployment. OMG. I think I am officially poverty stricken.
I want a recall on my census report.
And, it's official. I am Officially Decrepit. This is a good news, bad news deal. I received my notice that I will be receiving disability. That's the good news. The bad news - I am forever locked into $400 less a month than the pitiful amount I was getting on unemployment. OMG. I think I am officially poverty stricken.
I want a recall on my census report.
5.06.2010
9-1-1 Girlfriend
9-1-1 Girlfriend
I have the best support group of my entire life.
My “Girls' Diner Club” (nicknamed by Becky Nappi when she did an article on us for the Spokesman-Review in 1993) has a phone tree that is efficient, speedy, and totally there for you at any given moment.
. . . . Like, during the Dishman Hills fire, when Jill watched the fires slowly but determinedly, climb Park Road toward her house, taking out million dollar homes below her. She was lucky – just the weekend before, she and her husband had slaved on the brush and undergrowth below her house. Her house was saved – the one just below hers was not. And the phone calls began – first one friend, then another, all reaching out to her to make sure she was safe, out of harm's way.
. . . . Like, when Kathy, who has Parkinson's, suddenly realized she was blind in one eye – a piece of plaque had broke off from an artery in her neck, and landed at the back of her eye. Jackie started the phone tree, letting all of us know she was in surgery, she was fine, but now blind in one eye. She's adjusting as valiantly as she always does – but first and foremost – she is rallying because of her four Best Friends Forever standing at her side. And also, her hubby paid for a gift of a permanent eyeliner tatoo – which she proudly displayed at our last dinner.
. . . . Like, when I let them all know I would go on dialysis the next day, a mere two weeks before we were planning on going to Disney World – plane fare, hotel fees, and park tickets all prepaid. The calls started coming in from each friend, supporting me, going all the way for me, preparing to cancel our trip – until my doctor, now my fifth best friend, making arrangements for me to have dialysis in Orlando.
Have an emergency? Just dial 9-1-1 Girlfriend.
:)
I have the best support group of my entire life.
My “Girls' Diner Club” (nicknamed by Becky Nappi when she did an article on us for the Spokesman-Review in 1993) has a phone tree that is efficient, speedy, and totally there for you at any given moment.
. . . . Like, during the Dishman Hills fire, when Jill watched the fires slowly but determinedly, climb Park Road toward her house, taking out million dollar homes below her. She was lucky – just the weekend before, she and her husband had slaved on the brush and undergrowth below her house. Her house was saved – the one just below hers was not. And the phone calls began – first one friend, then another, all reaching out to her to make sure she was safe, out of harm's way.
. . . . Like, when Kathy, who has Parkinson's, suddenly realized she was blind in one eye – a piece of plaque had broke off from an artery in her neck, and landed at the back of her eye. Jackie started the phone tree, letting all of us know she was in surgery, she was fine, but now blind in one eye. She's adjusting as valiantly as she always does – but first and foremost – she is rallying because of her four Best Friends Forever standing at her side. And also, her hubby paid for a gift of a permanent eyeliner tatoo – which she proudly displayed at our last dinner.
. . . . Like, when I let them all know I would go on dialysis the next day, a mere two weeks before we were planning on going to Disney World – plane fare, hotel fees, and park tickets all prepaid. The calls started coming in from each friend, supporting me, going all the way for me, preparing to cancel our trip – until my doctor, now my fifth best friend, making arrangements for me to have dialysis in Orlando.
Have an emergency? Just dial 9-1-1 Girlfriend.
:)
3.29.2010
Happy Bloodletting
Celebrating Six
Six months ago today, I started dialysis. What I once thought about with dread has turned out to be a really simple ordinary routine that I go through three mornings a week. No fuss. No muss. I simply go to MY chair and sit and relax and leave the driving to the other guy. I watch TV. Read books. Nap (a lot). And generally I actually enjoy my little spa-like rest. I leave rejuvenated and, as I am doing now, I do something that has nothing whatsoever to do with dialysis. I’m doing the laundry and have access to my laptop. Here I go!
I can check my email. I can eat munchies – yes – there are some munchies that are not on the “Forbidden Fruits”. (Yeah, fruit is on that list – strawberries, melons, cantaloupe. Heavy sigh)
Next up for me is to make a decision for a permanent access site for dialysis. I am hoping that this will go like starting dialysis did – piece of cake. Hopefully.
I have two choices. One is to have a fistula surgically made in my arm that “cures” for six months (so I have to decide this pretty darn quick because my temporary site could poop out on me, although so far it’s working great!). This procedure enables the techs to insert very, very large needles in your arm, one for the blood to go out into the dialysis machine and get cleaned and filtered and fluffed, the other needle is for the polished blood to return to your body. (I have watched it leave my body, go through all the hoops and loops and return in about 60 seconds!!). I’m not really keen on needles, especially 14 gauge ones.
The other choice is to do peritoneal dialysis (called PD). This involves a surgically inserted tube in my stomach, into the peritoneum cavity. The membrane is porous and works great as a filter and does the same thing hemodialysis does (hemo meaning blood). But a lot more gentle and at my own schedule. The downside is that it is every day, four times a day (20 minutes). I can travel, go on car trips, go garage sailing to the hinterlands, and bring a bag or two of dialycate with me.
The other downside is that I have to give myself epogyn shots (for anemia) about once a week. Ok, all my brave, strong diabetic friends do this without batting an eye, every day, sometimes twice. So I can’t snivel and whine here. But at least it is a ‘fine” needle – not some dagger like they use at the dialysis center. I can see those suckers from 20 feet away. No Thank You.
So, anyway, I wanted to keep you posted. I am so healthy it’s absolutely silly!!! It’s a wonderful, wonderful feeling. Happy Blood Letting to Me!! Here’s to another 60 6-month anniversaries. (I’ll be 90)
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Six months ago today, I started dialysis. What I once thought about with dread has turned out to be a really simple ordinary routine that I go through three mornings a week. No fuss. No muss. I simply go to MY chair and sit and relax and leave the driving to the other guy. I watch TV. Read books. Nap (a lot). And generally I actually enjoy my little spa-like rest. I leave rejuvenated and, as I am doing now, I do something that has nothing whatsoever to do with dialysis. I’m doing the laundry and have access to my laptop. Here I go!
I can check my email. I can eat munchies – yes – there are some munchies that are not on the “Forbidden Fruits”. (Yeah, fruit is on that list – strawberries, melons, cantaloupe. Heavy sigh)
Next up for me is to make a decision for a permanent access site for dialysis. I am hoping that this will go like starting dialysis did – piece of cake. Hopefully.
I have two choices. One is to have a fistula surgically made in my arm that “cures” for six months (so I have to decide this pretty darn quick because my temporary site could poop out on me, although so far it’s working great!). This procedure enables the techs to insert very, very large needles in your arm, one for the blood to go out into the dialysis machine and get cleaned and filtered and fluffed, the other needle is for the polished blood to return to your body. (I have watched it leave my body, go through all the hoops and loops and return in about 60 seconds!!). I’m not really keen on needles, especially 14 gauge ones.
The other choice is to do peritoneal dialysis (called PD). This involves a surgically inserted tube in my stomach, into the peritoneum cavity. The membrane is porous and works great as a filter and does the same thing hemodialysis does (hemo meaning blood). But a lot more gentle and at my own schedule. The downside is that it is every day, four times a day (20 minutes). I can travel, go on car trips, go garage sailing to the hinterlands, and bring a bag or two of dialycate with me.
The other downside is that I have to give myself epogyn shots (for anemia) about once a week. Ok, all my brave, strong diabetic friends do this without batting an eye, every day, sometimes twice. So I can’t snivel and whine here. But at least it is a ‘fine” needle – not some dagger like they use at the dialysis center. I can see those suckers from 20 feet away. No Thank You.
So, anyway, I wanted to keep you posted. I am so healthy it’s absolutely silly!!! It’s a wonderful, wonderful feeling. Happy Blood Letting to Me!! Here’s to another 60 6-month anniversaries. (I’ll be 90)
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2.25.2010
New driver. Cliff hanging! Grounded Forever!
I'm trying this new thing about writing a memory of some event in six words. Totally fun! And hopefully gets my creative juices going.
The brief story behind my Six Word Memoir:
Home alone, 16 years old, freak snow storm, slid half-way off cliff overhanging farmer's property below; two tow trucks later, truckers wanted paid, I forged Mom's signature - thus grounded for the rest of my life. Go figure.
Ok, the real story. My parents were gone, along with my siblings, so Dad could write a story about the experience of staying in a mock Fall Out Shelter for the weekend, along with about 60 other people just waiting to sleep on the floor and eat unleavened, unsalted survival crackers.
I got to stay home alone. Woo Hoo!! And Sunday morning I was coming home from church, when we had a freak April snow storm that coated the road just enough to make it slicker than snot – especially to someone who had never driven in snow. I was rounding a curve just yards from my house, when the car slowly, but surely, slid to the cliff edge of the road and ended half hanging at a 45 degree angle over Farmer Bruell’s field. You know Farmer Bruell. Rumor had it that he ATE children who trespassed into his property.
This is Farmer Bruell. One heavy snow winter, my Dad had been obsessing over Mr. Bruell. He hadn’t seen him in days. What could be wrong with him? Maybe he fell and broke his hip, and he’s laying on the floor helpless, starving and freezing to death. Maybe he had a stroke. Maybe he had a heart attack. After all, he’s old, and cranky, and grumpy. So Dad dressed for the weather and hoofed on down to Farmer Bruell’s door. Upon inquiring of his health and not seeing him for several days, Bruell blew pipe smoke in my Dad’s face while bellowing, “What damn fool would be out in THIS weather, I tell ‘ya!” And slammed the door shut.
Back to my cliff. As I sat there, scared out of my mind that I would indeed continue sliding until I fell into his field, car and everything, who should appear below me with, I SWEAR, a pitchfork in his hand, but THE Farmer Bruell, bellowing at me “Don’t you fall into my field!” I wasn’t going no where. I was petrified.
Farmer Bruell climbed up to my car and for once in my entire six months of driving, I did NOT lock myself in from “all kinds of predators” as Mom instructed, and Farmer Bruell was able to reach in through the passenger door and YANK me to safety!
It took two tow trucks to attach lines on either end of the car and very, very carefully slide it back on the road. Then these two beefy drivers walked up to my house to seek payment. Thinking my Mom would be jumping for joy that I was ALIVE, I wrote them out a check and signed her name and sent them on their way.
When the family arrived later that day, my dreams of hero worship were dashed to the ground, when Mom went into her frenzied,-I-don’t-know-what-possessed-me-to-give-birth mode, with an accusatory, high-pitched scream, “You did WHAT??” And I’m thinking I have several choices of interpretation here. 1: she is surprised that I was calm enough in the face of death to get out of the car, mildly bruised, or 2: she was worried that I actually trespassed on Farmer Bruell’s property and something would happen at dawn, like tar and feathering, or 3: she was really ticked that I committed a federal forgery act using her name, for God's sake, or 4: Her home had been invaded by two beefy tow truck drivers knowingly forcing her daughter to forge a check. I think it was all but No. 1.
So there you have my adventure in six little words, like a headline portending doom and gloom.
New driver. Cliff hanging! Grounded Forever!
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2.20.2010
No Pressure
People are fairly used to seeing me upbeat and positive. I strive to have a good attitude about everything. In working up a mission statement for myself, I came up with this unbelievably high standard, even for me, to “Live to Inspire.”
No pressure.
And then dialysis became a key integral part of my life – in fact, life saving. Now that I have come to that albatross looking so much like Mount Everest, and unconquerable, I have found the experience to be downright pleasant and restful. Absolutely no pressure!
And then, recently, I actually had No Pressure!!! I’m sitting there minding my own business, watching something banal on tv, when the alarms on my dialysis machine go off, red letter warning signs are flashing, and I look over and see my pressure is 80 over 40. Whoa!! That is very low pressure. Heart’s barely beating at 40 beats per minute. And I’m thinking it must be someone else’s machine, because I feel pretty good - not like I'm going to beat my last heart beat in about 30 more seconds. But no, it’s ME! Then every 15 minute checks start and it’s STILL going down. So they quickly stop the dialysis, give me extra fluids to replace the fluids they removed, and I start to feel normal again.
Talk about pressure.
And then the next time, well, I’ve got pressure to spare. I could give my pressure to several people and still have enough left over to keep my heart beating. The heat’s on, I’m thinking to myself. The pressure is on. And rising. 260 over 120. Stroke time. And with my doctor arriving, the pressure doesn’t ease one little bit. Finally, dialysis is over and I’m told to wait until that top number goes down below 200.
No pressure there. I wait. And I wait. And my anxiety is just exploding and I’m thinking that there is no positive thought powerful enough to calm me down. And I wait. Wait some more. And finally, after exactly 60 minutes, it hit 198 over 98 and I kicked back my chair and ran out of the building.
The last two times were perfect – 120 over 60. Heavy sigh.
There’s no pressure like worrying about your blood pressure and then having no blood pressure makes No Pressure a high anxiety stressing hope-I-don’t-die type of heavy duty pressure.
Hopefully, a weekend with friends at Blogfest 2010 will ease all that pressure!
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No pressure.
And then dialysis became a key integral part of my life – in fact, life saving. Now that I have come to that albatross looking so much like Mount Everest, and unconquerable, I have found the experience to be downright pleasant and restful. Absolutely no pressure!
And then, recently, I actually had No Pressure!!! I’m sitting there minding my own business, watching something banal on tv, when the alarms on my dialysis machine go off, red letter warning signs are flashing, and I look over and see my pressure is 80 over 40. Whoa!! That is very low pressure. Heart’s barely beating at 40 beats per minute. And I’m thinking it must be someone else’s machine, because I feel pretty good - not like I'm going to beat my last heart beat in about 30 more seconds. But no, it’s ME! Then every 15 minute checks start and it’s STILL going down. So they quickly stop the dialysis, give me extra fluids to replace the fluids they removed, and I start to feel normal again.
Talk about pressure.
And then the next time, well, I’ve got pressure to spare. I could give my pressure to several people and still have enough left over to keep my heart beating. The heat’s on, I’m thinking to myself. The pressure is on. And rising. 260 over 120. Stroke time. And with my doctor arriving, the pressure doesn’t ease one little bit. Finally, dialysis is over and I’m told to wait until that top number goes down below 200.
No pressure there. I wait. And I wait. And my anxiety is just exploding and I’m thinking that there is no positive thought powerful enough to calm me down. And I wait. Wait some more. And finally, after exactly 60 minutes, it hit 198 over 98 and I kicked back my chair and ran out of the building.
The last two times were perfect – 120 over 60. Heavy sigh.
There’s no pressure like worrying about your blood pressure and then having no blood pressure makes No Pressure a high anxiety stressing hope-I-don’t-die type of heavy duty pressure.
Hopefully, a weekend with friends at Blogfest 2010 will ease all that pressure!
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2.08.2010
O Mom!!!
That is said in a whiny, double syllable wail. O, Mo-om!!! After I have done something, anything to embarrass my poor sons. Now that they have become well into their 30s, I don’t hear it at all, but when they were teens and young adults, it seemed to be the only phrase they knew – because I seemed to do things that only embarrassed them.
Like the time I wanted my 14-year-old to quit smoking! I was appalled that my little baby, pink-skinned and perfect, would take up something so disgusting (that, and tattoos!) Who ever thought their little bundle would some day sport dragons and swords on their arms, that you had personally made – perfect!
So – I took copies of his 7th grade picture and posted it on every little Ma & Pa store in the neighborhood. Saying something like, “THIS child you are looking at is a MINOR and you will be arrested if you sell him cigarettes.” I didn’t think it worked until one day he came pounding through the house, whining “Oh, Mo-om!!! I can’t believe you did this!” I just smiled.
Then my older son was in the Army in boot camp and I worried about him all alone and forlorn and maybe clinically depressed and no way for me to stroke his hair and make him feel better. So, I bought 30 blank greeting cards with cutesy sayings (Mary Englebriet) like, “Find Your Own Spot” or “Where Ever You Go, There You Are.” I asked all the attorneys and staff in my law firm to help me cheer up my son – and surprisingly, the men from Viet Nam days grabbed up all of the cards – stamped and addressed to my son.
So, he calls me up and “Mo-om!!!” He thanked me for the cards and asked if I could please slow them down. Why?
“I have to do 50 push ups for every card I receive!”
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Like the time I wanted my 14-year-old to quit smoking! I was appalled that my little baby, pink-skinned and perfect, would take up something so disgusting (that, and tattoos!) Who ever thought their little bundle would some day sport dragons and swords on their arms, that you had personally made – perfect!
So – I took copies of his 7th grade picture and posted it on every little Ma & Pa store in the neighborhood. Saying something like, “THIS child you are looking at is a MINOR and you will be arrested if you sell him cigarettes.” I didn’t think it worked until one day he came pounding through the house, whining “Oh, Mo-om!!! I can’t believe you did this!” I just smiled.
Then my older son was in the Army in boot camp and I worried about him all alone and forlorn and maybe clinically depressed and no way for me to stroke his hair and make him feel better. So, I bought 30 blank greeting cards with cutesy sayings (Mary Englebriet) like, “Find Your Own Spot” or “Where Ever You Go, There You Are.” I asked all the attorneys and staff in my law firm to help me cheer up my son – and surprisingly, the men from Viet Nam days grabbed up all of the cards – stamped and addressed to my son.
So, he calls me up and “Mo-om!!!” He thanked me for the cards and asked if I could please slow them down. Why?
“I have to do 50 push ups for every card I receive!”
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2.01.2010
Proof
So, I was called in to Unemployment to show Proof of my Job Search for a specific week (the last week of the year when nobody in their right mind would actually hire anyone).
Also, the thought crossed my mind that some higher up was looking for Proof of Life. Like a giant finger poking my forehead, and a deep booming voice asking, “Yo! Anyone in there?” Sometimes I wonder.
Jobs are not exactly pouring over my head. The applications and resumes go out, but nothing comes in. I repeatedly check my phone to see if it self-opted for meeting mode to silence all those hundreds of employers who really, really want me.
In the interview we were told not to whine about looking for three jobs a week because some states require fifteen job searches a week. And it occurred to me that I am relatively lucky – secretaries are a dime a dozen (almost literally). But what about unique jobs, like, say, neurophysicists. What if a neurophysicist was laid off and then had to make 15 contacts in a week? How many neurophysicists do you think live and work in Spokane? New York? Well, that would just suck. So, I’ll follow through on my measly three job searches.
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Also, the thought crossed my mind that some higher up was looking for Proof of Life. Like a giant finger poking my forehead, and a deep booming voice asking, “Yo! Anyone in there?” Sometimes I wonder.
Jobs are not exactly pouring over my head. The applications and resumes go out, but nothing comes in. I repeatedly check my phone to see if it self-opted for meeting mode to silence all those hundreds of employers who really, really want me.
In the interview we were told not to whine about looking for three jobs a week because some states require fifteen job searches a week. And it occurred to me that I am relatively lucky – secretaries are a dime a dozen (almost literally). But what about unique jobs, like, say, neurophysicists. What if a neurophysicist was laid off and then had to make 15 contacts in a week? How many neurophysicists do you think live and work in Spokane? New York? Well, that would just suck. So, I’ll follow through on my measly three job searches.
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1.23.2010
Market Me
I have decided I need to make a business card for myself (kind of like a calling card), so I can hand them out as I meet people. I met an attorney today at the skating show. She happened to work at a firm that I already applied for, so I couldn't use her name - but I did talk to her and thought - boy, wouldn't it be nice if I could just hand her a card.
So, I need your help. I need something catchy for an eye-grabber. So far, I have my name with my title - Jeanie [lastname], PLS. The PLS was a certification I earned by passing a mini-bar for non-attorneys. It means Professional Legal Secretary.
I have thought of something to go with my full name, Donna Jean [lastname] (and there is a long story there about going by my middle name, which my parents always did, and never being able to actually use my middle name in official papers, like social security, and then always trying to explain that I go by my middle name even though there is only space for a middle initial, etc., ad nauseum):
Just call me "Jeanie"
Just call me for typing or transcribing
Just call me for pleadings, briefs, correspondence
Just call me
Too much I think.
So - what I want to do is let everyone know I am a professional typist, excelling in Word, Excel, and Publisher.
Thanks for any ideas.
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So, I need your help. I need something catchy for an eye-grabber. So far, I have my name with my title - Jeanie [lastname], PLS. The PLS was a certification I earned by passing a mini-bar for non-attorneys. It means Professional Legal Secretary.
I have thought of something to go with my full name, Donna Jean [lastname] (and there is a long story there about going by my middle name, which my parents always did, and never being able to actually use my middle name in official papers, like social security, and then always trying to explain that I go by my middle name even though there is only space for a middle initial, etc., ad nauseum):
Just call me "Jeanie"
Just call me for typing or transcribing
Just call me for pleadings, briefs, correspondence
Just call me
Too much I think.
So - what I want to do is let everyone know I am a professional typist, excelling in Word, Excel, and Publisher.
Thanks for any ideas.
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1.06.2010
Resurrection!
So, I went to my house, where I don’t live, to wash the weekly laundry, when I broke my microwave. Yep – these things only happens to me.
I used my microwave as a timer for when the wash was done and time to toss the clothes into the dryer. It has a “stand” setting that doesn’t turn on the microwave, just the timer.
So, I got everything ready, set the mock timer, and proceeded to do what I do best – disorganized organizing. There were all those pictures from my vacation on the Oregon coast that needed to be looked at again. And half way through the photos, my pile of books called to me and I had to look at them, too, to decide what I wanted to take with me back to Mechanic Man’s house. Oh, and my laptop beeped at me – I have mail! So, had to read very important stuff about a stranger who called himself my “friend” commenting on my Face Book page. And then I had some Twinkies to eat (the little 100 calorie three packs). You realize, don't you, that Twinkies have no shelf life, or, rather, a “forever” shelf life; and I figure that what’s good for them must be good for me.
And then I noticed that the wash was done. What happened to my timer??? And I smelled burning rubber something. The “stand” button is right next to the “high” button. Good going! Jeanie strikes again! And the microwave was hot, hot, HOT; the light was out, and the time readout was off, and a stack of plastic bread sacks were tucked in beside the microwave, now kind of stuck together in one glob. I unplugged the microwave (mental head slap – pulling the plug was kind of like the cart before the horse sort of thing), moved all flammable or meltable items clear across the room, and then took one long look at my microwave. Oh, good grief! I fried my microwave!!!
I should hire myself out to people who want new appliances because they are, well, just plain tired of their old ones but don't have a good excuse to replace what is already working just fine. For $10, I can drop by and use your appliance, guaranteed to burn it, melt it, bend it, or break it. And you can blame me while you whip out your Visa for that industrial strength, maximum speed, turbo jet what-ever-it-is.
After the clothes were dry, I slunk home – keeping my dead microwave my dirty little secret. One more addle brained thing I have done lately. I decided to just keep that to myself.
And the following week, I went back to do the weekly laundry, eyeballing the dead microwave as I went by, telling myself I really need to buy one of those cheapo timers you see – maybe a ladybug.
I decided, just for grins and giggles, to plug the microwave in – hoping it didn’t explode instantly. And guess what!!!! It had only fainted last week. The light goes on, the clock shows up, and it actually heats water!
I love it when the things I innocently kill revive themselves to work again another day!
Life is good!
.
I used my microwave as a timer for when the wash was done and time to toss the clothes into the dryer. It has a “stand” setting that doesn’t turn on the microwave, just the timer.
So, I got everything ready, set the mock timer, and proceeded to do what I do best – disorganized organizing. There were all those pictures from my vacation on the Oregon coast that needed to be looked at again. And half way through the photos, my pile of books called to me and I had to look at them, too, to decide what I wanted to take with me back to Mechanic Man’s house. Oh, and my laptop beeped at me – I have mail! So, had to read very important stuff about a stranger who called himself my “friend” commenting on my Face Book page. And then I had some Twinkies to eat (the little 100 calorie three packs). You realize, don't you, that Twinkies have no shelf life, or, rather, a “forever” shelf life; and I figure that what’s good for them must be good for me.
And then I noticed that the wash was done. What happened to my timer??? And I smelled burning rubber something. The “stand” button is right next to the “high” button. Good going! Jeanie strikes again! And the microwave was hot, hot, HOT; the light was out, and the time readout was off, and a stack of plastic bread sacks were tucked in beside the microwave, now kind of stuck together in one glob. I unplugged the microwave (mental head slap – pulling the plug was kind of like the cart before the horse sort of thing), moved all flammable or meltable items clear across the room, and then took one long look at my microwave. Oh, good grief! I fried my microwave!!!
I should hire myself out to people who want new appliances because they are, well, just plain tired of their old ones but don't have a good excuse to replace what is already working just fine. For $10, I can drop by and use your appliance, guaranteed to burn it, melt it, bend it, or break it. And you can blame me while you whip out your Visa for that industrial strength, maximum speed, turbo jet what-ever-it-is.
After the clothes were dry, I slunk home – keeping my dead microwave my dirty little secret. One more addle brained thing I have done lately. I decided to just keep that to myself.
And the following week, I went back to do the weekly laundry, eyeballing the dead microwave as I went by, telling myself I really need to buy one of those cheapo timers you see – maybe a ladybug.
I decided, just for grins and giggles, to plug the microwave in – hoping it didn’t explode instantly. And guess what!!!! It had only fainted last week. The light goes on, the clock shows up, and it actually heats water!
I love it when the things I innocently kill revive themselves to work again another day!
Life is good!
.
1.05.2010
Resolution Revision #1
On the advice of a good friend (Beth Terry):
1. Move the boxes off the piano and start playing now! (organizing the boxes can wait)
2. Don't wait to blog. Just write 3 or 4 sentences and put "to be continued" at the bottom of it.
3. Get a transplant! I am visuaizing my healthy body with a perfect match kidney!
4. Get that great job that pays well, validates me, and gives me lots of satisfaction, bliss, and. . . vacations!
"to be continued. . ."
.
1. Move the boxes off the piano and start playing now! (organizing the boxes can wait)
2. Don't wait to blog. Just write 3 or 4 sentences and put "to be continued" at the bottom of it.
3. Get a transplant! I am visuaizing my healthy body with a perfect match kidney!
4. Get that great job that pays well, validates me, and gives me lots of satisfaction, bliss, and. . . vacations!
"to be continued. . ."
.
Job Identity
This being jobless is just the pits. I am having such a difficult time dealing with it. I've been without a job before, twice – but nothing like this. Before, I had “just” a job. I was “just” a secretary. I have been a secretary for 40 years. Which is funny, since I majored in Social Work in college. I stopped my education at a Bachelor's, because I got married and had a couple children, never going on to get a Master's – and therefore, never really working as a Social Worker. Settling for “just” a secretary.
Then in 2000, my human resources manager, at the firm I was last working for, found an inner switch in me and turned me on. I was working for an attorney in estate and tax planning. I believed strongly that I had found my niche. I found my calling. Both the HR gal and my main attorney saw the light in me and steadfastly encouraged me to bloom.
With their encouragement, I started the Spokane chapter of NALS, a national association for professional non-attorneys – paralegals, legal secretaries, legal assistants – anyone who worked in the legal field who was not an attorney. I had 30 people show up to the initial charter meeting and eight members joined. At the end of my two years as president (oh, yeah, I was elected president, too), I had 18 members.
I wrote articles for the national website and for our state publication. Topics ranged from having an attitude of professionalism, to ethics as a tool to enhance your attorney and your firm. I organized the state magazine for two years, and received great praise and accolades for my efforts.
It was like a spiritual awakening for me to find that “magic” in my job. It was no longer just a job – but a passion. Gone was the attitude of nine-to-five, quit and run at the 5:00 bell. I was no longer “just” a secretary, but a professional, a highly skilled professional secretary with qualifications that included typing at the speed of sound, grammar acuity like a manual in my head, the ability to read my attorney's mind and anticipate his every need, multi-tasking skills and juggling like a pro, excelling at what I did best with efficiency, accuracy, and talent, all with a high standard of professionalism that shown like a bight star.
I rode on the waves of praise and appreciation from my attorneys, my office administrator, and my human resources manager. I jumped out of bed every morning, joyfully looking forward to my chance to go to work, with a thrill of excitement that I had this great gift of the best job ever!
Then the firm hit a snag in the road when one of their top-producing, multi-million dollar attorneys left, taking with him his multi-million dollar clients. Over the next three years, we closed a branch office, we let several people go, then the firm fired the office administrator and months later, the same with the human resources manager. My two greatest fans. Over the last year, we continued to downsize, and ultimately I felt the blade of the ax across my virtual neck, so to speak, and the dream job ended.
It has been devastating to me to not be able to continue with my job. I have discovered that my job was my identity. It defined me, it showed who I was, it declared my integrity and professionalism. There is a person that lumps on the couch, depressed and unfocused, who looks like me – but it is not me. I am the professional secretary with skills and talents that are bubbling up, overflowing. That person on the couch is a total stranger.
I want “me” back!
.
Then in 2000, my human resources manager, at the firm I was last working for, found an inner switch in me and turned me on. I was working for an attorney in estate and tax planning. I believed strongly that I had found my niche. I found my calling. Both the HR gal and my main attorney saw the light in me and steadfastly encouraged me to bloom.
With their encouragement, I started the Spokane chapter of NALS, a national association for professional non-attorneys – paralegals, legal secretaries, legal assistants – anyone who worked in the legal field who was not an attorney. I had 30 people show up to the initial charter meeting and eight members joined. At the end of my two years as president (oh, yeah, I was elected president, too), I had 18 members.
I wrote articles for the national website and for our state publication. Topics ranged from having an attitude of professionalism, to ethics as a tool to enhance your attorney and your firm. I organized the state magazine for two years, and received great praise and accolades for my efforts.
It was like a spiritual awakening for me to find that “magic” in my job. It was no longer just a job – but a passion. Gone was the attitude of nine-to-five, quit and run at the 5:00 bell. I was no longer “just” a secretary, but a professional, a highly skilled professional secretary with qualifications that included typing at the speed of sound, grammar acuity like a manual in my head, the ability to read my attorney's mind and anticipate his every need, multi-tasking skills and juggling like a pro, excelling at what I did best with efficiency, accuracy, and talent, all with a high standard of professionalism that shown like a bight star.
I rode on the waves of praise and appreciation from my attorneys, my office administrator, and my human resources manager. I jumped out of bed every morning, joyfully looking forward to my chance to go to work, with a thrill of excitement that I had this great gift of the best job ever!
Then the firm hit a snag in the road when one of their top-producing, multi-million dollar attorneys left, taking with him his multi-million dollar clients. Over the next three years, we closed a branch office, we let several people go, then the firm fired the office administrator and months later, the same with the human resources manager. My two greatest fans. Over the last year, we continued to downsize, and ultimately I felt the blade of the ax across my virtual neck, so to speak, and the dream job ended.
It has been devastating to me to not be able to continue with my job. I have discovered that my job was my identity. It defined me, it showed who I was, it declared my integrity and professionalism. There is a person that lumps on the couch, depressed and unfocused, who looks like me – but it is not me. I am the professional secretary with skills and talents that are bubbling up, overflowing. That person on the couch is a total stranger.
I want “me” back!
.
1.01.2010
Its a Clean Slate!
Wow! Thank God THAT's over. Yeah, thank God 2009 is over. Done. Kaput. Finis. The End. Nada. No more. I can watch 100 more new years come and go and will never, ever miss 2009.
Now on to 2010 and my list of resolutions – none of which includes losing weight.
1.Hopefully get a job on equal footing as my last job, but less hours, with benefits and lots of vacation time.
2.Write more on my blog, and write more that is funny, humorous, touching, beautiful, or poignant.
3.Stay in touch with my friends that aren't co-workers.
4.Continue doing fantastic on dialysis.
5.Maybe get a transplant.
6.Commit several random acts of kindness a week and not tell anyone about them.
7.Walk around the neighborhood every day and make new friends.
8.Take care of all the boxes in this house, make it more MY house, but keep enough of Mechanic Man's Mom to feel her presence and cherish memories of her.
9.Adopt a cat for someone else.
10.Once the house is organized, start playing the piano again.
Happy New Year and may 2010 be a magical year filled with dreams come true, wishes made real, and hopes realized.
,
Now on to 2010 and my list of resolutions – none of which includes losing weight.
1.Hopefully get a job on equal footing as my last job, but less hours, with benefits and lots of vacation time.
2.Write more on my blog, and write more that is funny, humorous, touching, beautiful, or poignant.
3.Stay in touch with my friends that aren't co-workers.
4.Continue doing fantastic on dialysis.
5.Maybe get a transplant.
6.Commit several random acts of kindness a week and not tell anyone about them.
7.Walk around the neighborhood every day and make new friends.
8.Take care of all the boxes in this house, make it more MY house, but keep enough of Mechanic Man's Mom to feel her presence and cherish memories of her.
9.Adopt a cat for someone else.
10.Once the house is organized, start playing the piano again.
Happy New Year and may 2010 be a magical year filled with dreams come true, wishes made real, and hopes realized.
,
12.02.2009
Tea and Apathy and a Little Sloth
Oh, my God! It's happened! In just two weeks of unemployment, I have digressed to a new low of uninhibited disorganization and total disregard for structure and rules and standards. Take baths, for instance. I mean, I find it absolutely unnecessary to actually “take a bath” every single day. Who cares? Mechanic Man? Yeah, right – a guy that spends his days elbow deep in grease, dirt, and oil; running his fingers through some vile smelling fluid, wiping his hands on his shirt and/or pants and even his hair. He's going to notice if I miss a bath?
I've stopped even looking in a mirror. And that usually gets a reaction from Mechanic Man as I head out the door to go to the store. “Whoa, there little wild woman. Have you even looked at yourself lately?” Who cares? And then I'll glance in a mirror and hair is tousled every which way, no make up, little squinty eyes looking back at me. Who cares?
I'm worse than Scarlett O'Hara. “There's always tomorrow” has become my motto – I'm thinking of having it monogrammed on my sweats that I wear all day long. On my butt.
Why do today what can be done just as easily tomorrow. Take my Christmas cards. I have had all good resolutions to get my cards out right after Thanksgiving. There they sit – labels ready to peel and stick, the dreaded form letter typed and printed (at UPS because my printer, that I need to fix or replace is still on my list of stuff to do), ready to fold and stuff.
I have plenty of stuff to do – it's motivation that I lack. When I was working, I was Wonder Woman. I could have a million tasks on my plate and still manage to handle three bosses, filing, copying, writing, typing, mailing, scheduling, and plan dinner, clean the house, tune the car, organize my financial portfolio, keep track of Mechanic Man. It was a miracle!
Now – I am not working and my very full calendar was efficiently maintained - - - - at work! And the same calendar is NOT here at home. And I am helpless and paralyzed to do any single thing. I have a list of chores I plan to do but I keep getting them out and then putting them back and thinking – there's always tomorrow – and the list doesn't get any shorter and in fact gets longer every day.
I need to replace my printer because the really nice one I have doesn't work and the really cheap one is sitting in a box (over there) just waiting for me to make the switch. But the printer that I have next to my computer has become a shelf for two feet (I do not lie) of bills, notes, files, envelopes, and a shoe box (holding more bills, notes, files, and envelopes) – all belonging to Mechanic Man. I started moving them last night and then decided that my life (staying alive) depended on NOT putting any of this stuff that appears totally disorganized to me – into a different order. So there they sit. Now he tells me that the pile just needs to be organized and I am thinking, yeah, but – that skill has evaded me for the past two weeks. I don't think I can handle it. At all.
I don't set the alarm. Who cares? I have to go to my computer and hover the mouse over the time in the task bar so I can see what day it is. Today is Wednesday. Who cares? I'd get dressed – but it's just as easy to stay in my sweats and thick socks with rubber daisies on the bottoms, and just putter around the house. Do the dishes??? Where are they going? Will it make a difference in my life if I leave a couple plates and forks in the sink?
I think I need one of those organizational coaches. They need to be a drill sergeant or some kind of handler. I think he/she needs to move in. Maybe tomorrow.
.
I've stopped even looking in a mirror. And that usually gets a reaction from Mechanic Man as I head out the door to go to the store. “Whoa, there little wild woman. Have you even looked at yourself lately?” Who cares? And then I'll glance in a mirror and hair is tousled every which way, no make up, little squinty eyes looking back at me. Who cares?
I'm worse than Scarlett O'Hara. “There's always tomorrow” has become my motto – I'm thinking of having it monogrammed on my sweats that I wear all day long. On my butt.
Why do today what can be done just as easily tomorrow. Take my Christmas cards. I have had all good resolutions to get my cards out right after Thanksgiving. There they sit – labels ready to peel and stick, the dreaded form letter typed and printed (at UPS because my printer, that I need to fix or replace is still on my list of stuff to do), ready to fold and stuff.
I have plenty of stuff to do – it's motivation that I lack. When I was working, I was Wonder Woman. I could have a million tasks on my plate and still manage to handle three bosses, filing, copying, writing, typing, mailing, scheduling, and plan dinner, clean the house, tune the car, organize my financial portfolio, keep track of Mechanic Man. It was a miracle!
Now – I am not working and my very full calendar was efficiently maintained - - - - at work! And the same calendar is NOT here at home. And I am helpless and paralyzed to do any single thing. I have a list of chores I plan to do but I keep getting them out and then putting them back and thinking – there's always tomorrow – and the list doesn't get any shorter and in fact gets longer every day.
I need to replace my printer because the really nice one I have doesn't work and the really cheap one is sitting in a box (over there) just waiting for me to make the switch. But the printer that I have next to my computer has become a shelf for two feet (I do not lie) of bills, notes, files, envelopes, and a shoe box (holding more bills, notes, files, and envelopes) – all belonging to Mechanic Man. I started moving them last night and then decided that my life (staying alive) depended on NOT putting any of this stuff that appears totally disorganized to me – into a different order. So there they sit. Now he tells me that the pile just needs to be organized and I am thinking, yeah, but – that skill has evaded me for the past two weeks. I don't think I can handle it. At all.
I don't set the alarm. Who cares? I have to go to my computer and hover the mouse over the time in the task bar so I can see what day it is. Today is Wednesday. Who cares? I'd get dressed – but it's just as easy to stay in my sweats and thick socks with rubber daisies on the bottoms, and just putter around the house. Do the dishes??? Where are they going? Will it make a difference in my life if I leave a couple plates and forks in the sink?
I think I need one of those organizational coaches. They need to be a drill sergeant or some kind of handler. I think he/she needs to move in. Maybe tomorrow.
.
12.01.2009
Cookies with Granddad
I was seven when I went to stay with my grandparents for the summer. It was all I had ever dreamed – I was a star! Little Jerome, Idaho had a brief paragraph in its small town weekly paper, all about ME. “Welcome little Jeanie Rice, age 7, granddaughter of Floyd and Marvel Rice, who is visiting for the summer, , , ,”
My granddad was the postmaster of Jerome, Idaho. I could send letters to him, and they'd always get to the right address even if I only put “Granddad, Jerome, Idaho” on the envelope.
Granddad and I spent the days of that summer delivering mail in the countryside. Every farmer's wife came to the mail truck to greet me and hand me cookies! We had dozens of cookies. Every day we would leave the house with carefully packed lunches so we wouldn't starve to death and every day we would wind our way through town and the rural farmland, and find our way to a little fishing hole, with an old worn dock, and we'd sit on the edge of the dock, dangling our feet in the water, and take our lunches and all our cookies and eat until we had ate every single cookie.
When we got back home and Grandmom asked what we wanted for dinner, we'd both sigh and say, oh, you know – a little fruit, a little cereal – we're just not that hungry. And grin at each other with our little secret. I'm sure she never caught on.
.
My granddad was the postmaster of Jerome, Idaho. I could send letters to him, and they'd always get to the right address even if I only put “Granddad, Jerome, Idaho” on the envelope.
Granddad and I spent the days of that summer delivering mail in the countryside. Every farmer's wife came to the mail truck to greet me and hand me cookies! We had dozens of cookies. Every day we would leave the house with carefully packed lunches so we wouldn't starve to death and every day we would wind our way through town and the rural farmland, and find our way to a little fishing hole, with an old worn dock, and we'd sit on the edge of the dock, dangling our feet in the water, and take our lunches and all our cookies and eat until we had ate every single cookie.
When we got back home and Grandmom asked what we wanted for dinner, we'd both sigh and say, oh, you know – a little fruit, a little cereal – we're just not that hungry. And grin at each other with our little secret. I'm sure she never caught on.
.
11.25.2009
Which Came First?
Which came first, the chicken or the egg? Oh, I'm not really asking. But that was my first thought in my head when I started to write this article on the insurance industry and the medical industry. Which came first? I mean, they seem to feed on each other, don't you think? The medical industry sets the price for whatever procedure, office visit, surgery, injection, whatever. But the insurance industry decides what they will pay, and “adjust” the amount accordingly.
I am learning way more than I want to about the two. Recently I received a bill for over $8,000 for my one week of dialysis in Orlando. The reason – the insurance company decided the facility I used was “out of network.” At the same time, there were NO “in network” facilities anywhere within a 100-mile radius of where I was staying. And dialysis isn't something you just put back in the closet and forget about it for a week. So, after my social worker argued with the insurance company, they adjusted it down to $790. A whopping 90%.
My question is – if the insurance company marks it down 90%, why then can't the medical facility have started at $790. Why this outrageous difference?
I've seen it all the time on my “normal” doctor visits. The office charges so much for a visit; the insurance company adjusts it down anywhere from 10% to 90%.
When I was in the hospital in late September, the hospital bill for three days was around $20,000, marked down 50% to around $10,000.
So who's the boss here? And what will the new health care plan be like? Same old same old??? Or worse? Or better?
.
I am learning way more than I want to about the two. Recently I received a bill for over $8,000 for my one week of dialysis in Orlando. The reason – the insurance company decided the facility I used was “out of network.” At the same time, there were NO “in network” facilities anywhere within a 100-mile radius of where I was staying. And dialysis isn't something you just put back in the closet and forget about it for a week. So, after my social worker argued with the insurance company, they adjusted it down to $790. A whopping 90%.
My question is – if the insurance company marks it down 90%, why then can't the medical facility have started at $790. Why this outrageous difference?
I've seen it all the time on my “normal” doctor visits. The office charges so much for a visit; the insurance company adjusts it down anywhere from 10% to 90%.
When I was in the hospital in late September, the hospital bill for three days was around $20,000, marked down 50% to around $10,000.
So who's the boss here? And what will the new health care plan be like? Same old same old??? Or worse? Or better?
.
11.19.2009
Recession Depression
Well, isn't this just ducky.
After 11 years, I got laid off yesterday. On a stress scale, I think I'm off the charts.
First there was the thyroid biopsy (which turned out fine).
Then there was the anemia problem.
Then the failing kidneys.
Then 3-days-a-week, 3.5 hour dialysis sessions.
And now I have no job!
I believe it is highly possible for an elephant to fall on my head.
Actually - I think I'll be ok. I'm eligible for SSI, which could take five months to resolve. In the meantime, I'll do unemployment (think a 60-year-old dialysis patient is readily hireable?). Fortunately Medicare (for kidney dialysis) will kick in December 1.
The good news:, , , , , , I do NOT have to drive in snow to work. :)
,
After 11 years, I got laid off yesterday. On a stress scale, I think I'm off the charts.
First there was the thyroid biopsy (which turned out fine).
Then there was the anemia problem.
Then the failing kidneys.
Then 3-days-a-week, 3.5 hour dialysis sessions.
And now I have no job!
I believe it is highly possible for an elephant to fall on my head.
Actually - I think I'll be ok. I'm eligible for SSI, which could take five months to resolve. In the meantime, I'll do unemployment (think a 60-year-old dialysis patient is readily hireable?). Fortunately Medicare (for kidney dialysis) will kick in December 1.
The good news:, , , , , , I do NOT have to drive in snow to work. :)
,
11.18.2009
I Can Fix That!
I’m a computer wizard. Really! With no effort on my part at all – and no license, no degree, no schooling. It just happens. I have built-in radar or aura or something. Maybe a little bit of magic.
I’ve been helping people with their computers for years. I worked at one law firm (as a secretary) where we were switching from DOS-operated Word Perfect to Windows-operated Word. For the first time we needed to use mice, and my job was to teach the attorneys how to use them. To help them get coordinated on the mouse moves, I had them play Solitaire. I cautioned them to not double-click. There are times for double-click and single-click, and the two just never got separated in these attorneys’ minds. They wanted to double-click everything. To this day, in fact just yesterday, I am still cautioning my current attorneys to not double-click on every little thing. I have a coffee mug where a wild-haired man is shouting, “No! No! I said to NOT double-click!”
But here’s where the computer wizardry comes in. Something will go wrong for (usually) an attorney. I’ll get a frantic call to come here right now and fix this whatever-it-is. I’ll show up and stand behind them to have them repeat the problem, and, , , , , , it’s FIXED! Just my showing up fixes the problem. It’s Magic!
They lose their program they were typing in and I’ll show up and can plainly see it in their tool bar, and have them click on the icon, and MIRACULOUSLY, their program reappears.
They have a totally blank screen and call me in a panic, thinking they should just throw in the towel and go home, head in hands, failures, flops, fools, nincompoops. And I will push the power button on their monitor and all is well with the world. Sometimes, I will fiddle with the cords, climb under the desk and make lots of racket, butt waving in the air, and when they aren’t looking, I push the button, slap my hands together, and mutter, “whew, that was a tough one.”
An attorney called me at home on a Saturday, urgently requesting my help with his secretary’s computer because all of a sudden it had hieroglyphics all over the screen. Come now! Hurry! When I arrived and saw her screen I knew immediately that she had turned her field codes on. (This is in Word and the toggle switch is Alt-F9, which she had somehow hit.) So I was there ten seconds, hit Alt-F9, and told her if it happened again, to just hit Alt-F9, to which she crossed her eyes and said, “I think I’ll just keep on filing – these computers just don’t understand me.” And I knew that I would get a call again in days because those funny squiggly {brackets} came back.
My job is never done.
.
I’ve been helping people with their computers for years. I worked at one law firm (as a secretary) where we were switching from DOS-operated Word Perfect to Windows-operated Word. For the first time we needed to use mice, and my job was to teach the attorneys how to use them. To help them get coordinated on the mouse moves, I had them play Solitaire. I cautioned them to not double-click. There are times for double-click and single-click, and the two just never got separated in these attorneys’ minds. They wanted to double-click everything. To this day, in fact just yesterday, I am still cautioning my current attorneys to not double-click on every little thing. I have a coffee mug where a wild-haired man is shouting, “No! No! I said to NOT double-click!”
But here’s where the computer wizardry comes in. Something will go wrong for (usually) an attorney. I’ll get a frantic call to come here right now and fix this whatever-it-is. I’ll show up and stand behind them to have them repeat the problem, and, , , , , , it’s FIXED! Just my showing up fixes the problem. It’s Magic!
They lose their program they were typing in and I’ll show up and can plainly see it in their tool bar, and have them click on the icon, and MIRACULOUSLY, their program reappears.
They have a totally blank screen and call me in a panic, thinking they should just throw in the towel and go home, head in hands, failures, flops, fools, nincompoops. And I will push the power button on their monitor and all is well with the world. Sometimes, I will fiddle with the cords, climb under the desk and make lots of racket, butt waving in the air, and when they aren’t looking, I push the button, slap my hands together, and mutter, “whew, that was a tough one.”
An attorney called me at home on a Saturday, urgently requesting my help with his secretary’s computer because all of a sudden it had hieroglyphics all over the screen. Come now! Hurry! When I arrived and saw her screen I knew immediately that she had turned her field codes on. (This is in Word and the toggle switch is Alt-F9, which she had somehow hit.) So I was there ten seconds, hit Alt-F9, and told her if it happened again, to just hit Alt-F9, to which she crossed her eyes and said, “I think I’ll just keep on filing – these computers just don’t understand me.” And I knew that I would get a call again in days because those funny squiggly {brackets} came back.
My job is never done.
.
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