Born in the wrong century

“This is blog-material,” I told ****, my contact at my financial-advisor.
I gave her a letter from my financial-service. It said something about never logging into their site, which made no sense, since as far as I knew I had “gone-green.”
“We’ve heard it before,” **** said. “Your Time-Warner e-mail probably rejects anything we send. We get that with all our Time-Warner clients.
We need to verify your e-mail address.”
“We did that six months ago,” I said.
“We need to log you in: the last four letters of your user-name are ‘ALEW’.”
On my iPhone: “Bobbalew.”
“Now your password.”
“Are you kidding? Never in a million years would I remember that.”
I tried a password I use on various sites.
“Naughty-naughty!”
“We need to change your password.”
“Not the first time,” I countered; “every six months: ‘change password’.”
Changing one’s password involves a plethora of techno-leaps. Codes galore via e-mail and text, and finally a temporary password.
And my iPhone must not be using the e-mail Time-Warner uses.
So now set up new password.
“What if I can’t see what I just typed? I had a stroke, ya know. My keyboarding is sloppy, especially on a virtual keyboard.”
I typed again.
“Damn thing worked!” I exclaimed. “I musta typed correctly.”
We could now view activity to my account online.
“LA-DEE-DAH” I said. “I never do that. I still get paper statements — why I’ll never know. If my account-balance tanked, you’d hear about it.
Born in the wrong century,” I exclaimed.
“But you’re more tech-savvy than most your age,” **** said.
“Yeah, I am; but I have a challenge for you,” I said: “the self-checkouts at my local Wegmans.
Over 20 tries so far, but never able to escape without help.
See ya in six months, and we can do all this again.”

• My e-mail is local to my computer, but comes from Time-Warner’s RoadRunner — except now it’s Spectrum’s RoadRunner.
• “Verify one’s e-mail address” apparently makes it valid to my financial-service.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.
• “Wegmans” is a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua, which recently installed a self-checkout.

Old and decrepit

“The best antidote to feeling old and decrepit is to walk that silly dog.”
I texted that to my aquacise instructor after walking my dog along Lehigh Valley Rail-trail, yesterday morning (Wednesday, February 27th), 3-4 miles.
I do aquatic balance-training in the Canandaigua YMCA’s swimming-pool. Two hour-long classes per week, plus a third hour on-my-own. My “aquacise instructor” is the lady who leads the class.
What I didn’t text her is I feel more stable — normal — walking my dog.
My balance has gone away over the past couple years. I suppose it’s partly because of my age (75), but I’ve also been diagnosed with neuropathy in my legs. That’s poor nerve-communication to my legs. Not due to diabetes — I still feel pain, but the result is poor balance.
It was worse a few ago years, but mainly I’ve learned how to counter poor balance. I hardly fall any more; but I pay much more attention. I feel like I’ve gotten less stable, but I counter that.
Recently, in our on-going effort to explain my increasing clumsiness, that aquacise instructor suggested I was walking in “dog-mode” = that I’m anticipating my “pup” (her word) running.
Except he doesn’t just take off. I learned with a previous dog to let the dog pull with my leash at full extension. This negates the dog all-of-sudden running out to the end of his leash, slamming me to the ground.
The average person would say I should teach my dog to heel. Not interested. My dog is an Irish-Setter. “Heeling” would be punishment. Maybe for a more placid dog, but not an Irish-Setter. Irish-Setters love to hunt = lurch-pull-lunge-yank! Back-and-forth like a loose cannon.
Except I do it at full leash-extension so he doesn’t throw me down.
Whatever, walking my dog feels stable; everywhere else I feel less stable.
My aquacise instructor’s comment about “dog-mode” is worth considering, especially since I feel “normal” walking my lunging maniac.
But I unfortunately have the habit of thinking about it; that is, the one who determines the value of a comment is unfortunately ME. —That’s probably a result of my tortured childhood.
I’ve stolen many ideas from that aquacise instructor, but only after “thinking about it.”
Just recently my sister-in-law commented she can’t balance on one foot. I can’t either, although I keep trying. When I try I start falling over. —Which is okay in a swimming-pool, where the water cushions yer fall, or buoyancy may negate it.
In my house, or anywhere on dry land, for that matter, I hafta catch my fall. Which I’ve gotten so I do quite well.
But inability to balance on one foot seems about the same as it’s been for years.

YouTube and Facebook

Yr Fthfl Srvnt has a fantabulous video of my rescue Irish-Setter slurping out of a Petco toilet.
I had to give up on that dog just after Thanksgiving. She was 13 years old, and starting to get seizures.
I miss that dog immensely, and was told I should get another. I go about it slowly, and located a rescue Irish-Setter facility in southeastern PA.
They were harboring an Irish-Setter in which I was interested.
Only recently I found they were a rescue Irish-Setter facility, and they had other Setters I might be interested in, mainly oldsters.
I’m age-74 with questionable balance, so don’t know that I could easily handle a lunging maniac.
E-mails were exchanged, and I thought my toilet-slurping video might be interesting.
E-mail wouldn’t crunch it, it was too big. So crunch it on YouTube or Facebook. Both crunch videos.
Easier said than done.
As far as I know I have a YouTube account. I occasionally comment on YouTube videos, and apparently can. I uploaded a Smartphone video years ago. If I YouTube search my dog’s name, “Scarlett,” I get the video.
Things changed since then. No longer does one easily fly a video — or so it seems. The techies got hold of YouTube, such that those of us born in the prior century became entirely stupid.
As we all know, the 20th century is mere fabrication = a massive stunt by Hollywood and the TV-news. Kennedy wasn’t assassinated, we never went to no Moon, and Elvis works in a Kentucky-Fried in Memphis.
Perhaps it was because I was operating from YouTube’s search-window. I’ll hafta try otherwise.
I asked an old friend now living in Oneonta (NY) to help me. Unfortunately I need her beside me: “WAIT A MINUTE!” I’d say.
In other words: mental lockup, bane of a stroke-survivor/old geezer.
Okay, scotch YouTube. I know I can fly videos on Facebook, and that rescue Irish-Setter place has a Facebook.
So I cranked slurpy-tongue on their Facebook. Twiddle thumbs while upload-bar advances, Then “Your video is ready to view.”
Success, I thought. I viewed it: there’s silly Scarlett slurping out of Petco’s hydration-station.
So I fired up the rescue Irish-Setter’s Facebook, and it wasn’t there. Maybe it shouldn’t be — I never know how Facebook works = born in the prior century.
I also tried flying the video to my Oneonta friend. She said something about “file-compression” for e-mail. No idea how that works — I need her beside me.
“Thinkin’ is dangerous,” I’m told. “If I don’t understand it, I can’t do it,” I respond.
So I cranked the video onto her Facebook, but only as a FB “comment.” She’s one of two Facebook “friends” I have who took down their “wall.” Nothing wrong with that — she had good reason.
Slurpy-tongue successfully uploaded, I viewed it, but now I can’t find it on her Facebook. I hope she can successfully view it, although it’s not pertinent.
Same with rescue Irish-Setter. But I perceive my video wandering around in cyberspace; I no longer can find either.
WHAM-BAM! Try this, try that! Born in the wrong century, I tell ya!
Mention rabbit-ears to a millennial, and they think yer talkin’ about rabbits.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

Uh yeah

Why do I get this stuff? (Screenshot by BobbaLew.)

“Just because I’m 74 years old means I’m a ‘dirty-old-man?’” I ask.
My deceased wife could be cute, but I had to move Heaven-and-earth to convince her of that.
50 long years ago when we married, I wanted her to remove her bat-wing glasses. I wanted to marry a pretty girl.
Her mother was appalled. I had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall and horrific audacity to not wanna marry the frump she raised.
Her mother was a piece-of-work. She growled at me the first time we met. She actually growled, as if to say “Look what the cat dragged in. I dunno what she ever sees in him!”
I have two pictures of my wife: one I took long ago for a photo-class at Rochester Institute of Technology (RIT) when she was about 24 or 25. No bat-wings.
The second is not long before she died. She looked bedraggled. Her legs were starting to swell again because of poor circulation due to cancer. She’d gone back to wearing glasses; she was nearly blind without ‘em. At least glasses-styling had gone beyond bat-wings.
Despite fervent motherly advice we’d never last: 44+ years. And during that whole time the wife I pictured was that pretty girl in my RIT picture.
I related all this to a young girl at my pharmacy. “Ya gotta ditch them glasses,” I told her. “You’ll look prettier without ‘em.” She loved it; smiling profusely. Apparently I got away with it by -a) being 74 years old, and -b) mentioning my wife.
“I’m nearly blind without ‘em,” she said. “Same thing my wife said. She switched to contacts,” I commented. “I have too,” the girl said. “But I needed a break. They can dry out my eyes.”
“So switch anyway; you’ll be prettier without ‘em,” I said. “The Keed has spoken!”
I avoid that pharmacy — I don’t wanna be perceived a creep. But I bet she’s back to contacts the next time I visit.
“What matters is what’s between the ears,” I said to my wife as I drove her to hospice. How come SuckerBird and his lackeys can’t comprehend that? They think because I’m 74 I’m in pursuit of some buxom young hottie. Wondrous technology tells Facebook I’m 74 years old, so I’m a “dirty-old-man.”
Hit ‘im with floozies!
A couple years ago I attended my 50-year high-school reunion. I happened to meet a high-honors female classmate who I found had programmed computers in the job from which she retired. She reminded of my wife, also a retired programmer. She had intelligence and drive similar to my wife. She told me she had a Facebook, so a few months later I tried to find her Facebook.
What a search that was; I don’t fire up Facebook much. It’s gotten overly complicated. I cranked in her name, and got 89 bazilyun buxom young tarts baring maximum cleavage.
“Too bad they couldn’t finish their dresses,” quoting Minnie Pearl. Excessive cleavage was not my classmate. Do any of these tarts have what matters = the brains my wife had? My classmate wasn’t a sexpot either, but like my wife I think she has what matters — or I’d like to think so.
Since my wife died I gained a few female friends; some far prettier than I feel I deserve. My Sunday-School Superintendent, who was also my neighbor, convinced me very early all men, including me, were scum = utterly despicable. My parents more-or-less concurred. No pretty girl would wanna talk to me. —My Sunday-School Superintendent is therefore spinning in her grave; 14,000 rpm, enough to power an entire town. My parents are probably spinning too: “rebellious I tell ya!”
Harness ‘em all, and south FL could go green.
Every once-in-a-while I get one of these lecher appeals. Somehow they pass my cleavage filter — perhaps in this case because the ”unsubscribe” links don’t work. Usually I “unsubscribe” such junk, but the links bombed.
Since my wife died Yrs Trly has befriended a few pretty girls, much to the angry chagrin of my Sunday-School Superintendent (again, 14,000 rpm), I think partially because I’m not a Trump wannabee. (“How ‘bout it honey?”)
The two girls at my pharmacy are smashing. And both seem to look forward to my showing. (14,000 rpm yet again.)
Treat a pretty girl like a human being, instead of a toy, and they love it. Others are wary, and justifiably. How many lechers have taken advantage of them in the past? I think of one who seems wary, but I keep working on her. She’s coming around, I guess. I ain’t Adonis. 74 years old with lousy balance.
Yet apparently enough men my age are lechers, enough for SuckerBird et al to cash in.
The girl pictured is cute and attractive, but I bet not real “Romance Tale.” (“Tail?”) “Chat Now” with a witch eager to drain my wallet? I bet the girl pictured is just a model, no more than 18, hardly in her 40s or 50s.
Sorry; I prefer the female contacts I already have. Most are not the chesty tarts on Facebook or the ads. What matters to me has always been what’s between the ears, and pretty girls love that. Some don’t, but some do. “You make me laugh,” they tell me.
Fortunately I had a wife that had what mattered.

• My wife died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.
• “The Keed” is of course me.
• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

What happened?

The other night, in pursuit of long-ago bus-story, I started thumbing through old columns I wrote for the Canandaigua Daily Messenger newspaper.
Following my stroke I began as an unpaid intern, and was eventually hired. I preferred that over bus-driving. Writing was what I always wanted to do. Bus-driving was originally supposed to be temporary.
One day at the Mighty Mezz — I don’t think I was employed yet — I said to no one in particular: “If I were to write anything at all for this newspaper it would be that presidents don’t seem to wear hats.”
“So write it,” an editor said, instead of shutting me down.
They published it! So began my weekly column, which ran Wednesdays on their Op-Ed page.
To be fair, there was no charge. But I guess they thought well enough of it to never change anything.
So here I was reading column after column, perhaps 40 or more. It took at least two hours = to bed at midnight.
What happened? I don’t write like that any more. I found myself editing the way I do now; reduce excess verbiage, avoid passive-voice, etc. But where was the flair I had back then?
Thinking about it — I know, I was told at the Mighty Mezz “that there thinkin’ is dangerous” — it might still exist if I had what motivated my columns.
Like if I were writing about hot-air balloon rides (“Oh, the humanity”), wrastling with the I.R.S., bus-driving, etc. the flair would resurface.
As I age I pretty much stay put. Events that prompt colorful writing don’t occur much any more. Plus many of my columns dealt with childhood events.
But I feel like my colorful writing drifted away, perhaps for lack of anything dramatic to write about.
Writing (“slinging words”) is the talent I was apparently blessed with.
RE: “slinging words.....” —“But Dr. Zink” (my 12th-grade English teacher), “all it is is slinging words.”
“Hughes, you do that way better than most.”
I thought him joking at first, but later realized my writing works pretty good. Thankfully my stroke didn’t take that away.

Following is my “Presidents don’t wear hats” column:

---

When is the last time you saw a president wearing a hat?
If you were born or came of age after the early ‘60s, there’s a pretty good chance you’ve never seen a president wearing a hat.
My compatriots here at editorial central batted the idea around, and we all agree Harry “The Haberdasher” Truman wore hats, and Ike wore hats and was known to wear an Ivy League cap over his balding pate when he played golf. And Lyndon Johnson may have donned a 10-gallon hat at his Texas ranch, and our more recent presidents may have allowed the occasional errant telephoto to capture them with baseball hats or caps while piloting speedboats or golf carts.
But no president since Kennedy — which includes Johnson, Nixon, Ford, Carter, Reagan, Bush and Clinton — allowed himself to be caught doing his job wearing a hat. It’s as if somewhere behind the curtains in the Oval Office a shrouded media maven utters, “Thou shalt not wear a hat.”
What brought this on was the observation of our current president, Bill Clinton, on the TV news performing affairs of state at the new Lockerbie monument. The temperature was probably 45-50 degrees in Arlington Cemetery, and there’s Willie, sans hat, and no topcoat. Just the uniform presidential blue suit. It makes you wonder if the dude wears skivvies.
The image still exists of President Reagan in Reykjavík, sadly walking the sidewalk by the sea, downtrodden because he hadn’t been able to finesse Gorby into giving away the store. He was wearing a topcoat, but no hat. The famous shock of red-dyed hair was exposed to withstand Iceland’s icy blast.
It’s striking that since Kennedy no president has dared wear a hat... like it’s a symbol of yooth and vigah.
Well, I don’t know about you, but when the temperature drops, I put on a hat. I’ve tried to be presidential and do without, but I just get chills... and then sniffles... and eventually a cold.
Many years ago, my grandfather instructed me in this seemingly simple tenet of basic common sense.”Wear a hat,” he used to say.
I, for one, will be glad when our leaders return to sanity and wear hats. As far as I know, the president still pulls his pants on one leg at a time, so I’ll support the first candidate man — or woman — enough to wear a hat.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 12 years ago. Best job I ever had — I was employed there almost 10 years —worked there over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

“We never went to no Moon!”

So I said to my niece’s boyfriend at a recent get-together.
“Biggest trick ever foisted on the American people,” boyfriend said.
“Walter Cronkite and the TV-News, in cahoots with Hollywood.”
Boyfriend was retelling where he was when Neil Armstrong stepped on the Moon.
I forget details, only that it was broadcast on TV at some ungodly hour.
“One small step for a man, one giant leap for mankind.”
“Distort the video, fellas. Gotta look like it’s from the Moon.”
I do remember “Houston, uh.... Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.”
We were returning from a family reunion in northwestern PA. My wife’s father was driving their refrigerator-white ’63 Valiant four-door.
We were far from humanity in Potter County: “God’s Country.”
He had the radio on.
Down a hill we drove next to open pasture. “The Eagle has landed.”
YOWZUH! We did it! Kennedy’s promise fulfilled.
It’s interesting none of this is real to newer generations. John Kennedy was never assassinated, we never went to no Moon, etc.
My left knee was replaced on December 7th: “a date which will live in infamy!”
I say that, and many don’t get it. December 7th (1941) was the date Pearl Harbor was attacked by the Japanese.
“Another Hollywood fast one, I tell ya!”
My brother’s wife in northern DE questions Andrew Jackson on the 20-dollar bill. “Who’s Andrew Jackson?” she asks. She suggests Ronald Reagan, an estimable choice.
I bet she knows Andy Jackson was our nation’s seventh president. Back in the early 1800s, which of course are another Hollywood fabrication.
The War of 1812, Napoleon, etc; are all stunts. Delivered by hoity-toity intellectuals to dissuade us from being anti-Trump.
And of course everything is hunky-dory to Trump and his cohorts.
As much a distortion as what they accuse.
What happened that history no longer exists? That “facts” prompt “alternative facts.”
Suddenly those of us born in the 20th Century are full-of-it.

Del Lago

(That head is a link, readers.)
“This is the first time in my entire life I been here, so I don’t know yer rules of engagement.”
I was talking to the attendant in the parking garage of Del Lago Casino and Resort. I was there to share Christmas buffet with a niece, my only remaining Rochester relative.
“Do you want self-park?” the dude asked.
“I was told I could park in here free because I have a handicap-tag.”
“You mean valet parking? We valet-park yer car for nothing.”
I handed over my keys.
“I see elevators. Is that where I go?
It looks like yer casino is way over there.”
“That’s the hotel,” he said. “The casino is right upstairs.”
Into the fray!
“It looks you guys are guarding the property,” I said to two attendants at the casino entrance.
The ringing din of slots washed over me.
“Enter here,” one of the attendants said.
“I’m headed for the buffet,” I said.
“Over there,” they pointed. The casino was HUGE, about the size of an airport-hanger. Ceilings looked 20-24 feet.
I ambled past bank-upon-bank of noisily ratcheting slots. Overweight geezers with oxygen lazily caressed lighted buttons — no levers, just buttons.
There also were gaming tables and a wheel-of-fortune. I noticed a fountain of water dripping from the ceiling.
“My guess is there’s a discount,” I said to the buffet cashier. My niece wasn’t there yet.
“$2 discount with a playing-card.”
“Where do I get a playing-card?”
“Other side of the casino at ‘Promotions.’”
Another long hike. At least I can still do it.
The line at Promotions was long, at least 30.
“Wanna just get a playing-card?” a uniformed attendant asked. “You can also get one at the Front Desk. Why wait in line? I don’t know what they were thinking.”
I turned and headed for the Front Desk. A flat-topped older minion was guarding.
“I was told I could get a playing-card here,” I said.
“You’ll hafta get that at Promotions.”
“They told me to come here,” I said.
“Easy now. Don’t get upset, sir,” flat-top snapped (“call Security”). “What you want is Promotions.”
“And they directed me here,” I said.
Back to Promotions to get back in line. By leaving I lost five places, but the line was much shorter.
Playing-card purchased I ambled the quarter-mile back to the buffet.
All this for a $2 discount.
“Got a pasta-bar?” I asked a buffet attendant. “I was hoping for spaghetti, since I never get to make it; too time-consuming.”
“No spaghetti.” Score one for Finger Lakes Racino.
“Hi, my name is Angela. I’ll be yer server.”
By now my niece arrived.
Angela walked away.
“Looked like a waitress to me,” I said to my niece.
“So what do you think?” my niece asked.
“Too far,” I said. “Over a hour getting here, and no spaghetti either. Finger Lakes Racino is 15-20 minutes, and they got spaghetti.”
I had already eaten when my niece arrived — they overshot their Thruway exit (ya gotta use the Thruway to get to Del Lago).
My niece’s boyfriend got dessert.
“What’s that?” I asked pointing to a tiny something on his plate.
“Mousse,” they said.
“Smallest moose I ever saw. Usually they’re the size of a horse, 1,200 pounds or so.”
On-and-on it went. Yada-yada-yada-yada. Driver’s license/ID renewal, cable-TV upgrades, etc. It had been months since we last got together. And my niece’s twenty-something daughter wasn’t there, which meant I could control my temper — which I wanted to control. She set me off once before.
“Mention rabbit-ears to a millennial, and they think yer talking about rabbits,” my niece said.
“And I remember when TV was on-the-air, and there were only three channels,” I said.
“Plus TV reception was via antenna on yer roof,” boyfriend added.
My niece is in her late 40s. Her mother is my wife’s brother’s first wife. My niece lives with her mother. My niece is divorced from her first husband.
“I used to visit my father every year during childhood, but he doesn’t remember that,” my niece said.
Alzheimer’s: I don’t think so. He just doesn’t remember. My niece’s mother, who also came along, noted she has failing short-term memory. Like me she’s also in her 70s.
But I don’t think it’s Alzheimer’s. I call it CRS-syndrome — Can’t-Remember-Shit. I have it myself. Too many memory-banks to peruse, and slower doing so. Often anything forgotten surfaces later.
We hung around about two hours, then decided to leave. My niece and her boyfriend would walk me to the parking-garage. I had a scanner ticket to notify valet-guy I was coming, so he could get my car.
“Just put it in the slot,” boyfriend said; a ticket-scanner was upstairs. There were two other slots, plus a large opening that apparently was ”the slot.”
“I’m glad you know how to do it,” I said. Everything is by machine any more; technology that often frustrates. I’d figger it out; it’s interesting.
But not right away. I got so I could do the off-site parking-pay machines at my wife’s hospital. Also the U-Scan machines at my supermarket.
This reminds of once in Altoona (PA) with my younger brother, ordering subs electronically. My brother interjected: “I speak English,” he bellowed, sending the counter-help ducking for cover.

• The “Thruway” is a toll interstate from New York City to the Pennsylvania state line west of Buffalo. It’s the main east-west highway across New York state. —It more-or-less parallels the Erie Canal, avoiding mountains. Across western NY it’s Interstate-90. South of Albany to New York City it’s Interstate-87.
• My beloved wife of over 44 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I miss her immensely. Best friend I ever had, and after my childhood I sure needed one. She actually liked me.

“Five Minutes”

In about two weeks, Monday, December 7th — “a date that will live in infamy” — Yrs Trly will enter Thompson Hospital in nearby Canandaigua to have his left knee replaced.
It’s finally going to happen, it seems, although I predict a possible postponement.
I been tryin’ to do this over a year, although there were a multitude of hoops to negotiate.
One was removing my prostate.
I’m bone-on-bone, and hobbling. Often I can hear it grinding as I walk.
Hospitalization may be three or four days, then I have a long bit of rehab, maybe a month.
This is not at home, since I’d be returning to an empty house.
Rehab will be at a facility away from my house; perhaps the hospital. That hospital has on-site rehab for knee replacements.
In preparation for being away from home so long, I thought I’d do something about the mail.
At first I was gonna “stop mail,” and hold for pickup by my friend that daycares my dog.
But he suggested forwarding to his grooming-shop.
Good idea. I’ll do it. Just go to USPS.com and set up a forward. “Done in five minutes.”
I began this process yesterday at 11:45; 11:50 is five minutes.
Finally at 1:15 I felt satisfied I had set up my “forward.”
That’s one and one-half hours. Whither five minutes?
In my humble experience, things always take way longer than predicted.
First was trying to type “USPS.com” into my browser-bar.
As a stroke-survivor my typing is erratic.
I set up bookmarks, or copy/paste the web-address.
I took at least three tries, about 10 minutes, before I got in.
Then it was make sense of USPS.com, and nowhere did they have “forward.”
After a half-hour I gave up, and cranked “Post Office Forward” into my Google search-bar.
AHA! A valid link.
Thank goodness for Google, although I’m mad at them for trying to take over the universe.
I clicked the link, and began my stroke-addled typing again.
First it wanted me to “log in.”
FER WHAT!? So the Postal-Service can sell my info to Amazon, Facebook, etc, or shower me with useless drivel?
But I couldn’t set up a “forward” without “logging in;” which seems funny because I don’t need to “log in” to “stop mail.”
It took at least a half-hour to “set up an account,” at least three tries. E-mail addresses that aren’t valid, unmatching passwords, the old post-stroke typing waazoo.
When I finally got around to setting up my forward, my forwarding-address wasn’t valid — they wanted a house-number.
I had to call my doggy-daycare friend to get a house-number they never use, so it’s not on their business-card.
Later that afternoon I decided to sign up for LikeLock®, which I’ve wanted to do for years, but haven’t because it’s an online process.
“Easy as pie,” they claimed. “Only five minutes.”
I decided I’d try their free 30-day trial: “Please enter promo-code.”
Again the post-stroke mistyping.
All-of-a-sudden a chat-window appeared: “Any problems?”
“Not yet,” I answered.
“Thank you for choosing LifeLock®. Have a nice day!”
The chat-window disappeared.
LikeLock® is justifiably hyper. They wanted to verify my e-mail address.
“Send e-mail,” I commanded.
Nothing.
I clicked again.
Again, nothing.
Any way I could bring back that chat-lady.
Not that I could see.
I called their 800-number. “You’re talking to a stroke-survivor,” I said. I have to say that to explain my stony silences, stuttering, and asking them to repeat.
I hate making phonecalls, but had no alternative.
“I can’t verify my e-mail,” I said.
“Look in your spam-folder,” she said.
“Not there,” although I should explain my Internet and e-mail delivery were bog-slow because the gamers were on up-the-street.
We spazzed around, but I fired up my junk-folder again, and there was LifeLock®.
“You have to add LifeLock® to your safe-contacts list,” she said.
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said; “since to me my ‘contact-list’ is contacts I e-mail.
But apparently “unjunking” LikeLock® was the equivalent of “adding to my safe contact-list.”
Why is it things need translation or redefinition to make sense?
“Thank you for being tolerant of a 71-year-old stroke-survivor with bog-slow Internet.”
Starting up LifeLock® took at least an hour, and I was afraid I’d hafta spill because it was getting too dark to walk my dog out back.
So how does one set up a Post-Office “Forward,” or LifeLock®, in only five minutes for each?
I think if you designed the website you could do either in five minutes.

• December 7th, 1941, “a date that will live in infamy,” according to President Franklin D. Roosevelt before Congress, is the day Pearl Harbor was attacked by the Japanese.
• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993, and it slightly compromised my speech (difficulty finding and putting words together), and left me with sloppy fingers. I pretty much recovered — I can pass for never having had a stroke.

Buncha crap!

The other night I happened to view that TV ad where an aging matron misplaces her keys in the refrigerator.
“Where are my keys?” she wails.
Her doting husband begins helping her look for her keys.
He pokes around, then opens the refrigerator to get something.
There are the keys.
He lovingly gives the keys to his concerned wife, saying “it’s all right, dear.”
“Buncha crap!” I shouted.
This was an ad for some Alzheimer’s medication.
Like it’s supposed to help you magically find your misplaced keys.
What if some young whippersnapper misplaces his keys?
Does that automatically imply Alzheimer’s?
No; only for oldsters.
—Us people sloughing off the young whippersnappers who wanna end Social-Security and consign us to Continuing-Care.
I hardly think so. I misplace things, but I remember too much.
These blogs rely on that.
I ain’t a candidate for some nursing-home.
Not yet.
When I no longer remember my siblings, it’s Alzheimer’s.
But not when I misplace my keys.
What is it with these TV ads? Especially the medications?
I said to my doctor last visit “In case of death, please contact your physician immediately.”