It's pretty rare that I get legitimately sick. I attribute that to a strong immune system, despite, or because of, the assaults I've launched at it over the years and the fact that I'm not immunized. That's probably not a fact that should be advertised over the Internet these days since you'd have to be insane not to immunize your children and it required a number of hoops through which to jump to acheive back in 1982, I imagine the hoops are a little narrower and ablaze these days. I still have my Social Security number and my salvation and all. As it stands I simply have to rearrange my entire home, including the various junk closets and hidey-holes I've maintained over the years to keep track of important documentation like my religious exemption card which must be presented in lieu of my shot record and sign a few forms agreeing to be quarantined if I come down with polio or the measles or something every time I apply to college or for a passport, things of that nature where I'm a risk to my own health and the health of everyone around me, apparently. And for those of you wondering, the main tenant of the religion which allowed my exemption is that members of said religion don't immunize their children. My parents didn't sell my soul, and immunity, to some cult or anything. Kind of, but we didn't have to communicate with any of those people or anything once I was safely away from the needle-crazed "doctors" at the hospital where I was born. Later it turned out the doctor who delivered me went to jail for embezzling or something, probably on the take from pharmaceutical companies, there's no more real information there, just an interesting side note.
I say all that to illustrate this: Getting sick is terrible and foreign and scary for me and in order for me to get better, there are several things I require. Being as my immunization history was questionable at best, I realize now it must have been quite harrowing for my parents to ever take me to a traditional doctor and listen through what I imagine was a pretty intense chastising on their opinions and beliefs followed by an equally intense sales job, followed by a prescription for antibiotics, which I can never get out of a doctor's office without accepting anymore. I never fill them. What I DO do, if quite certainly on my death bed and forced to go to the doctor, I'll wait for about three days in the waiting room to see the on-call doctor, spend another eternity in the secondary waiting room, with the tissue covered doctor's office furnishing which I'm never sure whether to sit with my feet danngling over the edge, the bottom, or just go ahead and lie down and make use of that pillow and read every issue of "Martha Stewart's Living" I can find so I can get some cute name card ideas for my next luncheon, if God promises to make me feel better, I swear I'll organize. I'm mid-way through making my own decorative candy-popper place settings when the doctor comes in poised to write out my prescription for antibiotics.
I'm always sure to tell the doctor what makes THIS particular illness different from any other which antibiotics have helped and if he writes me anything that doesn't end in -icin or -illin, I'll fill it, otherwise I stick to my old tried and true remedies from my doctor growing up, "doctor" being used loosely here as he was a Doctor of Chiropractic. More than that though, he had a more Eastern view of health, wherein the body is only healthy when functioning at its peak level, as opposed to the more Western "absence of disease" forum. Dr. Todd said that, for my body type, pineapple was the best medicine for when I was sick. In addition to that, I should follow the B.A.R.T. diet, which consisted of bananas, applesauce, rice, and toast, nothing heavier than that. The main thing though, was to listen to my body and if I'm craving it, eat it. When you're sick, you're not going to crave anything that is going to make you throw up, your body is on your side, after all. Usually I'll crave weird things for a sick person like spicy food or something rich which strays far indeed from the B.A.R.T. diet. I ALWAYS though, every time I'm sick, crave miso soup.
Miso soup is hard to find down here. For a bowl of good miso soup, there's a nice Japanese restaurant here that will sell you a bowl for $10, which is absurd for a soup that is made from ingredients most people don't even consider food, but they do put a lot of fuss into making it seem like a $10 bowl of soup with noodles and vegetables and you can get it with shrimp or chicken or beef or something, which I feel almost remiss not to do when paying that price so I usually get shrimp since I figure it costs more than the other options, and it IS my very favorite miso soup and I have to be at death's door and willing to wipe out our savings to get it. I never even eat the shrimp or other fancy stuff. I pick around all that for the tofu cubes and the nori, or seaweed, if you want to just call it like it is. Most people get physically ill at the idea of tofu, seaweed, maybe some slivers of green onion, in what I think is a kind of fermented soy bean broth, but I swear it's the only thing that makes me better when I'm sick.
This last go-round I found myself propped up on the empty cart at Walmart in the Asian foods section deciding between this packaged soup with noodles and a "topping packet" and "seasoning packet" with the plastic bowl and the American-ized Asian-type typeface for like, $3.00, and this slim package of "Miso Soup" which claimed to have three servings in this thin little packet, it was like astronaut food, which was like $2.00 for three whole servings. As I usually do when facing a two-point decision, or any decision, I went with both. What's $5.00 as opposed to $2.00 or $3.00 when the soup I really wanted was $10 and I would have given my life itself to not be in Walmart at the moment? Or ever.
I made the one with all the packets first and it couldn't have been too bad because I kept it down, but it wasn't anything to write an entire blog entry about, unless you're me and these are the exciting things in life. The next day I tried the astronaut miso soup. It was exactly what I wanted. It was just mild enough for me to not worry about keeping it down, but it had enough flavor to indulge that salty, umami (I think we talked about this in a long ago post) craving, and all it had in it was the tofu and the seaweed. It was so good. The serving size per packet was only 3/4 of a cup, so I had to overindulge, but I'm an American with an American-sized appetite, even when sick. In Asia 3/4 of a cup is probably about right, as a people group Asians are tiny, and I mean that in the most politically correct, complimentary way. Anyway, that's why I've been so long writing anything. I've been sick and uncertain of my strength of body or mind. I've been sitting in doctors offices feeling both beaten and superior at the same time. I've been in Walmart, under acres of fluorescent lights deciding which American, Asian food half-aisle selection is the most authentic Japanese dish. And now I'm here, having survived it all thanks to Walmart carrying surprisingly satisfying miso soup, a chiropractor with some healthy life lessons, and a good old-fashioned, new age, upbringing. And a delivery room doctor who may or may not still be in jail, whose influence on my life may have been greater than we could ever guess. And I suppose I owe the world a decorative luncheon.
Sunday, January 15, 2017
Monday, January 2, 2017
New Year, New Me, New Post, Same Old Password - Miracles Abound in 2017
Today is January 2, 2017. A new year. New Year's is my favorite holiday because it's the only holiday that we, as a nation, and most of the world, all celebrate together, with no political undertones or sensitivity regarding beliefs or concerns about offending anyone, no stress of gift giving or the proper reaction upon receiving a gift. It's just simple. Joyous. New Year's is one day out of the year that we can all celebrate together, each with our own resolve to make this year THE year. We're given a fresh start and a chance to calibrate who we endeavor to be with who we currently are, starting NOW. Or yesterday. I'm not willing to work on procrastination yet. So it's January 2nd, I'm lucky I was able to remember my password to log in to my blogger dashboard in less than two frustrating days. I didn't even plan on resurrecting this creative outlet, but looking back at my endless drivel posted loud and clear all over Facebook, I started feeling really self-conscious and embarrassingly presumptuous that people really have the time and interest to invest in reading a paragraphs-long diatribe on why I, knowing nothing about cars, unable to even DRIVE the car I reference because it's a standard, believe Toyotas are the best car for your money. I stand by that still, but my excessively long explanation and laundry list of pros was totally unsolicited. The original comment was some inquiry about a clicking sound when their (non-Toyota) car made a turn. So I saw the word "car" and launched into an ad campaign about this 1983 Toyota pickup I'm chauffeured around in, which has new floor mats specifically so that I can't see the road and feel the cold coming through the holes in the floor now that the weather is changing. Looking back on 2016 behavior like that, getting hyper-sensitive, and subsequently cracking the password to my account without tears or tearing through old notebooks with scribbled information like that which I was certain I'd never forget at the time, added up to the return of the wayward wanderer, the indignant lost humbly found, the Facebook drone with a new platform to vent her platitudes and self-righteous, second-degree vanity. Follow along if you like, and you don't have to click any thumbs-up, or decide on the most accurate emoticon, leave a comment or send any message. I'm not quite sure how I'll figure out what to write about, but as I think I once said in a Facebook monologue, a good writer can make a story about anything, so intricate and layered are our thoughts and the world around us. As my mom once answered the question "What does your husband write?" She, already losing words from the dementia, said "He writes this," and patted his heart. It's a new year, 2017, and I'm tired. My mind is tired. It's time to quit thinking and planning and analyzing and begin. It's all there, right under my mothers open palm, it's time to write this. Arkansas is again your kansas. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step and today is the first day of the rest of your life and all that. Fingers crossed.
Friday, August 5, 2011
Arkansas Stoplight
To all of you who follow this blog, sorry for not posting anything. I think of things to write and jot them down, even get excited about them, then I don't ever seem to get it done. It is something I think about quite often, it's just one of those things that has kind of been trimmed out recently, like setting my status on facebook. One of these days I will get back to writing regularly, and I thank you so much, those of you who still check even though you're fairly certain there will be nothing here. As for right now, since I am writing, here's something that happened today:
When I pull up to a stoplight I always turn my radio down, quit singing, and try to act as casual as possible. There is something awkward about a stoplight to me, like showing up to a function wearing the same shirt as someone else. Like, "oh, hey there, you got stuck at this light too, huh?"
As of recently I've been listening to "Uhh Yeah Dude." It's a podcast, a weekly roundup of America through the eyes of two American Americans. It's funny. So even though I wasn't singing along when I pulled up to the light on Parkway and Detroit, I turned the radio down out of habit. My drivers side window was down and an old blue truck pulled up next to me and from the passenger window of that truck came a whistle. One of those "hey pretty la-dy" whistles. I completely froze. I've been whistled at before on occasion, but it was always when I was walking and the whistler was driving or something like that where the interaction, by necessity, could only last about half a second and I was not obligated to respond in any way. But NEVER at a stoplight for goodness sake. What in the world did this whistler expect from me? Do I turn and smile? Do I flip him the bird and make an angry right-hand turn? Whistle back? Roll up the window? What he got from me was me sitting there, staring straight ahead pretending not to hear what he knew I had heard, trying to look as casual as possible while obviously trying to figure out how to respond to this. The light was the longest light ever and when it finally turned green I drove off without ever turning my head. Or taking a breath.
When I got a safe distance I turned the radio up just as one of the guys, Seth, was saying "Um, am I going to die in this Urban Outfitters?" and I burst out laughing, just as I looked into my side-view mirror. What I saw in my side-view mirror was the old blue truck crammed with cowboys, looking right at me laughing. I don't know how men are in other states, but in Arkansas men act decisively at the slightest provocation, and being laughed at by a woman is not slight. Luckily my turn was coming up and I headed on my way only imagining the cussing I was getting in the cab of that truck.
...It's not much, but it's all I've got for now. Thanks for reading, guys.
When I pull up to a stoplight I always turn my radio down, quit singing, and try to act as casual as possible. There is something awkward about a stoplight to me, like showing up to a function wearing the same shirt as someone else. Like, "oh, hey there, you got stuck at this light too, huh?"
As of recently I've been listening to "Uhh Yeah Dude." It's a podcast, a weekly roundup of America through the eyes of two American Americans. It's funny. So even though I wasn't singing along when I pulled up to the light on Parkway and Detroit, I turned the radio down out of habit. My drivers side window was down and an old blue truck pulled up next to me and from the passenger window of that truck came a whistle. One of those "hey pretty la-dy" whistles. I completely froze. I've been whistled at before on occasion, but it was always when I was walking and the whistler was driving or something like that where the interaction, by necessity, could only last about half a second and I was not obligated to respond in any way. But NEVER at a stoplight for goodness sake. What in the world did this whistler expect from me? Do I turn and smile? Do I flip him the bird and make an angry right-hand turn? Whistle back? Roll up the window? What he got from me was me sitting there, staring straight ahead pretending not to hear what he knew I had heard, trying to look as casual as possible while obviously trying to figure out how to respond to this. The light was the longest light ever and when it finally turned green I drove off without ever turning my head. Or taking a breath.
When I got a safe distance I turned the radio up just as one of the guys, Seth, was saying "Um, am I going to die in this Urban Outfitters?" and I burst out laughing, just as I looked into my side-view mirror. What I saw in my side-view mirror was the old blue truck crammed with cowboys, looking right at me laughing. I don't know how men are in other states, but in Arkansas men act decisively at the slightest provocation, and being laughed at by a woman is not slight. Luckily my turn was coming up and I headed on my way only imagining the cussing I was getting in the cab of that truck.
...It's not much, but it's all I've got for now. Thanks for reading, guys.
Friday, June 3, 2011
Block Party
I moved into the apartments where I live eight months ago. In that time I've not talked to a single person who lives there, other than the requisite niceties. Then, a few weeks ago, when I stepped outside a voice from above said "Hi, neighbor girl!" It was one of the two guys who live above me. One of them has a little boy who is Story's age. And now I have friends.
Being as they are apartments, in small town Arkansas, it's pretty fair to say that most of the people who live there have one or all of the following problems: They are former (possibly current) drug addicts. They are alcoholics. They are divorced/going through a divorce. They are in poor health. They are not employed or underemployed. They have been themselves, or are married/related to someone who is/has been in prison. They just got a check, their car won't start, and they need a ride to the beer store. Enough of those things describe me that I can relate to the people around me without being frightened of them, but not enough apply that I'm frightened of my future.
I don't spend a whole lot of time interacting, but the other night I got a knock on my door. It was one of the guys who lives above me. He said that everyone was hanging out at "the middle apartments." That's the complex just up from mine with the playground out front. They were all bar-be-quing and listening to music and drinking beer. There were tiki torches. I was nervous about the whole thing, being invited to hang out with people I don't know by the guy who lives above me whose name I don't know. But I spend a lot of time alone and in my head and thought, at the very least, it might be interesting to sit and listen for a while.
When I walked up Bob Seger was playing. Everyone seemed eager to get me a seat and show me what was on the grill. Story found a bicycle. In a group setting I do best when I just pick a seat a stay there the whole night. No milling about. I posted up next to Sharon. Sharon is an older woman with bleach blond hair. She was talking to me as soon as I sat down, mainly about her kids. Her son works for a scrap metal place here in town, and I should tell him I know her if I ever see him... at the scrap metal place. She leaned in, a cigarette dangling from her long fingers and told me about the day her daughter was born. It was August 17, 1977, the day after Elvis died. When the doctor walked in and presented the baby he said "One star dies and another is born." The daughter still lives in Russellville somewhere.
Metallica was playing, then Alice in Chains. The guy who lives above me was singing along. He stopped long enough to say "I'm not gonna lie, I love to sing. I'm good at it. I used to be in an Offspring cover band." He was good at it. He got pretty into it, and that kind of outpouring is appealing for some, but makes me totally uncomfortable. Luckily a rather large girl came up and offered me a shot of whisky, saving me from having to concoct some kind of response to dude's emotional rendition of "Man in the Box." I didn't take the whisky but I talked to her for a little bit about raising kids. She's got a seven year old, the father is one of the guys who lives above me. He later explained to me that she used to be a lot thinner. She used to look just like Drew Barrymore. "Right, man? Right?" he said nodding to his roommate and lifting his beer, as if I didn't believe him, as if I needed someone else to verify it, as if my judgement of him as a person was based solely on the current weight of the woman who he slept with seven years ago, as if I were the kind of person who makes judgments like that. I thought she was really nice. Despite her weight.
After a while I went back to talking to Sharon, rather she went back to talking to me. She said that her boyfriend was getting out of prison soon. She was going to have a big party and that I was invited. "Not everyone is invited," she said glancing around with narrowed eyes. She's going to set up a game of horseshoes in the back.
Story was still riding the bicycle. I kept telling him to share and play with something else, but every time I did the girl who owned the child who owned the bicycle said "No, no, it's fine, it's fine." So I figured any more fussing at Story would make it seem like I was turning up my nose at her generosity. Everyone was eating. I wasn't very hungry, but again, the same type of situation arose where if I didn't eat I might have been seen as someone who won't eat food being offered to them by generous strangers. They had grilled chicken and steak and corn and squash. There were beans and potatoes and we ate off of Sharon's real plates, that she wouldn't let me help her wash when we were done.
It was getting late and I needed to get Story to bed. We were all sitting around talking about our jobs and all the things we were going to buy when we got that good paycheck next week. Someone put on Johnny Cash. "Ring of Fire." Everyone started singing along, even the kids. I started singing along too. "I fell in to a burning ring of fire. I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher..." I was in the moment, and these were my people, of the moment. And with that I called it a night and went to bed.
Being as they are apartments, in small town Arkansas, it's pretty fair to say that most of the people who live there have one or all of the following problems: They are former (possibly current) drug addicts. They are alcoholics. They are divorced/going through a divorce. They are in poor health. They are not employed or underemployed. They have been themselves, or are married/related to someone who is/has been in prison. They just got a check, their car won't start, and they need a ride to the beer store. Enough of those things describe me that I can relate to the people around me without being frightened of them, but not enough apply that I'm frightened of my future.
I don't spend a whole lot of time interacting, but the other night I got a knock on my door. It was one of the guys who lives above me. He said that everyone was hanging out at "the middle apartments." That's the complex just up from mine with the playground out front. They were all bar-be-quing and listening to music and drinking beer. There were tiki torches. I was nervous about the whole thing, being invited to hang out with people I don't know by the guy who lives above me whose name I don't know. But I spend a lot of time alone and in my head and thought, at the very least, it might be interesting to sit and listen for a while.
When I walked up Bob Seger was playing. Everyone seemed eager to get me a seat and show me what was on the grill. Story found a bicycle. In a group setting I do best when I just pick a seat a stay there the whole night. No milling about. I posted up next to Sharon. Sharon is an older woman with bleach blond hair. She was talking to me as soon as I sat down, mainly about her kids. Her son works for a scrap metal place here in town, and I should tell him I know her if I ever see him... at the scrap metal place. She leaned in, a cigarette dangling from her long fingers and told me about the day her daughter was born. It was August 17, 1977, the day after Elvis died. When the doctor walked in and presented the baby he said "One star dies and another is born." The daughter still lives in Russellville somewhere.
Metallica was playing, then Alice in Chains. The guy who lives above me was singing along. He stopped long enough to say "I'm not gonna lie, I love to sing. I'm good at it. I used to be in an Offspring cover band." He was good at it. He got pretty into it, and that kind of outpouring is appealing for some, but makes me totally uncomfortable. Luckily a rather large girl came up and offered me a shot of whisky, saving me from having to concoct some kind of response to dude's emotional rendition of "Man in the Box." I didn't take the whisky but I talked to her for a little bit about raising kids. She's got a seven year old, the father is one of the guys who lives above me. He later explained to me that she used to be a lot thinner. She used to look just like Drew Barrymore. "Right, man? Right?" he said nodding to his roommate and lifting his beer, as if I didn't believe him, as if I needed someone else to verify it, as if my judgement of him as a person was based solely on the current weight of the woman who he slept with seven years ago, as if I were the kind of person who makes judgments like that. I thought she was really nice. Despite her weight.
After a while I went back to talking to Sharon, rather she went back to talking to me. She said that her boyfriend was getting out of prison soon. She was going to have a big party and that I was invited. "Not everyone is invited," she said glancing around with narrowed eyes. She's going to set up a game of horseshoes in the back.
Story was still riding the bicycle. I kept telling him to share and play with something else, but every time I did the girl who owned the child who owned the bicycle said "No, no, it's fine, it's fine." So I figured any more fussing at Story would make it seem like I was turning up my nose at her generosity. Everyone was eating. I wasn't very hungry, but again, the same type of situation arose where if I didn't eat I might have been seen as someone who won't eat food being offered to them by generous strangers. They had grilled chicken and steak and corn and squash. There were beans and potatoes and we ate off of Sharon's real plates, that she wouldn't let me help her wash when we were done.
It was getting late and I needed to get Story to bed. We were all sitting around talking about our jobs and all the things we were going to buy when we got that good paycheck next week. Someone put on Johnny Cash. "Ring of Fire." Everyone started singing along, even the kids. I started singing along too. "I fell in to a burning ring of fire. I went down, down, down, and the flames went higher..." I was in the moment, and these were my people, of the moment. And with that I called it a night and went to bed.
Friday, May 27, 2011
Another Walmart Trip
Okay, I'm still sitting on my floor in front of the TV because I can't figure out my wireless problem. And even though I come home every night intending to call overseas for help, I always seem to find a reason to put it off. My internet days might just be over. No, I'll get it figured out eventually. Probably tomorrow. In the meantime, I wanted to write something about my most recent Walmart trip.
Walmart is Story's favorite place to go despite my every attempt to get him excited about the gas station, which is the only other place we go besides daycare and home. So when I have to go I usually plan to take him because it makes me feel like I'm doing something for my kid instead of being a sell-out to corporate America who buys produce from farms in Chile because it's cheap. And anyway it's good for him to experience all types of people, lest he become snobbish and judgmental. We all go to Walmart. Unless we're snobbish and judgmental.
I'm not sure what he likes about Walmart so much, but he's three so it might just be the fact that it's not home and not daycare. He does have this horrible habit of starting every sentence with "I want..." And I suspect he likes riding up and down the aisles pointing out all the things he wants. On this particular trip I had said "no" so many times by the time we got to the juice aisle that it was clear that we were going to have to have a little heart-to-heart.
I stopped the cart and got down on eye level with him and tried to explain that when all we do is want things, we spend most of our lives unhappy because people simply don't get what they want all the time. The more you want, the more you are disappointed. So the less you want, the more happy you have the opportunity to be. "Be satisfied, son. It's a beautiful day outside. You got to come to Walmart, your favorite place. We're buying food and bubble bath. Just be happy to experience these things, not everyone is so blessed." I was at the "you're a very lucky little boy" part of the talk when someone I knew from church surprised me by saying "Hi, Annie!"
We greeted each other and I tried to kind of minimize the fact that I had just been standing in the middle of aisle four having a philosophical talk with a three-year-old by bringing to attention the fact that I was standing in aisle four having a philosophical talk with a three-year-old. We both kind of laughed about how silly it was and went on our way. But not before Story could get out "I want Daddy." My life is absurd.
Walmart is Story's favorite place to go despite my every attempt to get him excited about the gas station, which is the only other place we go besides daycare and home. So when I have to go I usually plan to take him because it makes me feel like I'm doing something for my kid instead of being a sell-out to corporate America who buys produce from farms in Chile because it's cheap. And anyway it's good for him to experience all types of people, lest he become snobbish and judgmental. We all go to Walmart. Unless we're snobbish and judgmental.
I'm not sure what he likes about Walmart so much, but he's three so it might just be the fact that it's not home and not daycare. He does have this horrible habit of starting every sentence with "I want..." And I suspect he likes riding up and down the aisles pointing out all the things he wants. On this particular trip I had said "no" so many times by the time we got to the juice aisle that it was clear that we were going to have to have a little heart-to-heart.
I stopped the cart and got down on eye level with him and tried to explain that when all we do is want things, we spend most of our lives unhappy because people simply don't get what they want all the time. The more you want, the more you are disappointed. So the less you want, the more happy you have the opportunity to be. "Be satisfied, son. It's a beautiful day outside. You got to come to Walmart, your favorite place. We're buying food and bubble bath. Just be happy to experience these things, not everyone is so blessed." I was at the "you're a very lucky little boy" part of the talk when someone I knew from church surprised me by saying "Hi, Annie!"
We greeted each other and I tried to kind of minimize the fact that I had just been standing in the middle of aisle four having a philosophical talk with a three-year-old by bringing to attention the fact that I was standing in aisle four having a philosophical talk with a three-year-old. We both kind of laughed about how silly it was and went on our way. But not before Story could get out "I want Daddy." My life is absurd.
Thursday, May 5, 2011
A call for help
I know that I'm writing less and less, but this time it's because of something besides laziness and lack of inspiration. I received a letter from my Internet service provider informing me that last month my Internet account used over 60 more GB than normal. It went on to explain that that could be caused by several things, all of them terrible. Viruses and spyware were the first listed and that scared me so bad that I can't even think about it. This is my one computer, if something happens to it, or if it needs to be repaired for some reason, that's the end of my relationship with pretty much everyone I know. What makes me fearful is the fact that every time I check my email I have about 1,000 "returned mail" emails, informing me that my message "Tits (expletive) cum (expletive, expletive) dick" could not be delivered. These emails are NOT from me. Where are they coming from? Who is doing this? And, most importantly, how can it be stopped? Could that be what is causing this increase in Internet usage? I suspect this could be the problem. In the time it's taken me to write this I've gotten five of these emails. Now six.
The other cause listed in the letter is that if you have a wireless router (which I do) I may have unauthorized users logging on to my account. When I set up the router I was on the phone with India for about two hours and was exhausted and in tears most of that time. By the time the Internet was working, I didn't want to mess with anything else, anything else being setting up a password protected account. That is not a mistake I will soon make again. I imagine all of my neighbors having wild Internet parties where all the guests are told to bring their computers and hand-held devices for a night of YouTube and porn compliments of the sucker who is actually paying for Internet. I attempted yesterday - when I had Internet - to secure my account and now I don't have Internet. None of us have Internet. I don't know what happened. I managed to lock the account, but now even I can't get in.
Other causes include innocuous things such as someone leaving a streaming music player on or a newsreader set to automatically download message bodies. I suspect my problem is one of the two things I mentioned above, or a combination of the two, or as my attitude towards my thieving neighbors grows increasingly hostile, one was somehow caused by the other. How else would such explicit stuff be being sent from my virgin computer?
Right now I'm sitting on the floor in front of the TV tethered to the modem. Story is on my back "driving a truck." I just wanted to send out this urgent call to the more computer literate masses. I can't go another round with India tonight. How is this happening and how can this be fixed? My back is hurting and don't care to sit on the floor and angrily pound at my keyboard any longer. Although I guess it is my fault for not securing my Internet account... I'll be checking my email when I can.
The other cause listed in the letter is that if you have a wireless router (which I do) I may have unauthorized users logging on to my account. When I set up the router I was on the phone with India for about two hours and was exhausted and in tears most of that time. By the time the Internet was working, I didn't want to mess with anything else, anything else being setting up a password protected account. That is not a mistake I will soon make again. I imagine all of my neighbors having wild Internet parties where all the guests are told to bring their computers and hand-held devices for a night of YouTube and porn compliments of the sucker who is actually paying for Internet. I attempted yesterday - when I had Internet - to secure my account and now I don't have Internet. None of us have Internet. I don't know what happened. I managed to lock the account, but now even I can't get in.
Other causes include innocuous things such as someone leaving a streaming music player on or a newsreader set to automatically download message bodies. I suspect my problem is one of the two things I mentioned above, or a combination of the two, or as my attitude towards my thieving neighbors grows increasingly hostile, one was somehow caused by the other. How else would such explicit stuff be being sent from my virgin computer?
Right now I'm sitting on the floor in front of the TV tethered to the modem. Story is on my back "driving a truck." I just wanted to send out this urgent call to the more computer literate masses. I can't go another round with India tonight. How is this happening and how can this be fixed? My back is hurting and don't care to sit on the floor and angrily pound at my keyboard any longer. Although I guess it is my fault for not securing my Internet account... I'll be checking my email when I can.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Eating out in rural Arkansas
Once you drive past all the towns large enough to offer restaurants like Denny's and Cracker Barrel, you will find one of two things: A tiny place set into the side of a cliff with a breathtaking view of the mountains in the springtime, or the Memory Lane Cafe. I imagine the Memory Lane Cafe started out as a woman in a kitchen who made good hamburgers. Then maybe she got her Big Idea, bought a small house and converted it into a place that could eek through a restaurant inspection. As popularity grew so did the haphazard additions marked by uneven floors and single doorways connecting them to the rest of the establishment. That's what I was thinking about when the waitress came in to replace the three burnt-out light bulbs above our table and I realized I was actually sitting in a small shed with one doorway to the original dining area, one doorway to the newer "Game Room" and one doorway outside with a doorbell sound to alert the staff that someone has just come in the back.
The menu at the Memory Lane Cafe is what you might expect, hamburgers mainly, but what is exciting is the selection of things not otherwise ever fried. The fried pickles are always good, but can be found in a lot of places now. I got the fried green beans. With a side of ranch dressing. It seemed like the healthiest choice, and I would never get on my high horse to order a salad or seasonal fruit in a place like that anyway. I don't care for the "so you think you're better than me?"-look. Best just to try to fit in.
On the walls were things that might take you down memory lane, if your particular lane went straight to Graceland. There were the typical lacquered tree-trunk-clocks with airbrushed Elvis, but there were also photographs of Elvis with grease stains on them that had finally been taken down from above the stove of a person whose lane might really have lead to Graceland and put in a frame for all to see. There were drawings of Marilyn, and lunch boxes with Buddy, all the typical "Memory Lane" stuff. In addition to the memorabilia there were posters for local events and community projects, such as the "Eating Our Way to Proficiency!" program with the local grade school, and the upcoming "Donkey Basketball" event. That one had to be explained to me. The donkeys don't play basketball, people do-riding donkeys. People attend because it's funny. Also funny is that while the rest of the country takes on the childhood obesity epidemic, we're eating our way to proficiency and playing basketball riding on donkeys.
It was nice though to sit there and listen to the people around me, especially right before lunch time. Everyone knows each other, of course. Most of them come there every day. When a couple walks in the woman requests the seat facing the door, "in case anyone I know walks in." The Memory Lane Cafe was more of a curiosity to me, but for the people who eat there it really is a kind of time capsule. They've lived in that town their whole lives and knew everyone who walked in the door, their parents, and their children. Curious though it was, it seemed like the familiarity could be kind of comforting. It would have to be, right? It made me kind of want that life, just the knowing what to expect out of every day and every person. That might have just been the ranch dressing talking though. Everything is better with a side of ranch dressing.
The menu at the Memory Lane Cafe is what you might expect, hamburgers mainly, but what is exciting is the selection of things not otherwise ever fried. The fried pickles are always good, but can be found in a lot of places now. I got the fried green beans. With a side of ranch dressing. It seemed like the healthiest choice, and I would never get on my high horse to order a salad or seasonal fruit in a place like that anyway. I don't care for the "so you think you're better than me?"-look. Best just to try to fit in.
On the walls were things that might take you down memory lane, if your particular lane went straight to Graceland. There were the typical lacquered tree-trunk-clocks with airbrushed Elvis, but there were also photographs of Elvis with grease stains on them that had finally been taken down from above the stove of a person whose lane might really have lead to Graceland and put in a frame for all to see. There were drawings of Marilyn, and lunch boxes with Buddy, all the typical "Memory Lane" stuff. In addition to the memorabilia there were posters for local events and community projects, such as the "Eating Our Way to Proficiency!" program with the local grade school, and the upcoming "Donkey Basketball" event. That one had to be explained to me. The donkeys don't play basketball, people do-riding donkeys. People attend because it's funny. Also funny is that while the rest of the country takes on the childhood obesity epidemic, we're eating our way to proficiency and playing basketball riding on donkeys.
It was nice though to sit there and listen to the people around me, especially right before lunch time. Everyone knows each other, of course. Most of them come there every day. When a couple walks in the woman requests the seat facing the door, "in case anyone I know walks in." The Memory Lane Cafe was more of a curiosity to me, but for the people who eat there it really is a kind of time capsule. They've lived in that town their whole lives and knew everyone who walked in the door, their parents, and their children. Curious though it was, it seemed like the familiarity could be kind of comforting. It would have to be, right? It made me kind of want that life, just the knowing what to expect out of every day and every person. That might have just been the ranch dressing talking though. Everything is better with a side of ranch dressing.
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