Please note that as of tomorrow, or perhaps even this evening, WOMEN: WE SHALL OVERCOME is going underground. Or, in other words, it's going to become a private blog you have to enter as a member. I am too tired of anonymous comments to put up with it anymore. The content of the blog will also change somewhat. I want to spend more time experimenting with my fiction -- fiction that has not been written by Lola. If you prefer not to accompany me on this endeavor, I understand completely, but I'll miss you.
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
Are you in what you believe to be a true partnership? Married or unmarried. Gay or straight.
Do you think the other person spends time with you out of a desire to be with you or does that person deign to spend time with you because you complain about a lack of togetherness?
Do you feel you have true intimacy with another person?
Have you ever felt you had true intimacy with another person?
If you have or have had a true partnership or if you have or have had true intimacy with someone, please tell me how it feels. I would love to know. Perhaps someone would even be willing to guest post and tell me what's it's like.
The closest thing I have to a partnership is with My Kathy, but she lives a million miles away and it's not sexual. But we can have a conversation, not see each other for years, and then get together and pick up exactly where we left off. I have never felt that My Kathy forced herself to tolerate me. We laugh uproariously at the same ridiculous and inappropriate things.
The closest thing I have to an intimate relationship (non-sexual, of course) is with my daughter. But I'm not really sure how she feels about me.
But would you tell me, please: What's it like to be loved?
This is my first big question of 2012.
Infinities of love,
Lola
My motto as an editor: Authors are the authority on their work. I'm a full-service editor. For a reasonable fee, I'm your writing coach from the first suggested revision to the correction of the final typo.
Showing posts with label I'm So Tired. Show all posts
Showing posts with label I'm So Tired. Show all posts
Sunday, January 1, 2012
Saturday, December 31, 2011
POETRY TUTORIAL
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
Those of you who are regular readers have no doubt seen me mention that you should never confuse the speaker in the poem with the poet. Just because I write about something in a poem, it doesn't mean it happened to me. Let's consider the two poems I wrote for my children: "Mama Zeus and Katrina Athena" and "Boy" at http://dumpedfirstwife.blogspot.com/2011/12/boy.html ."
Am I the poet? Yes. Did I write these poems for MY children? Yes. Am I the speaker in the poem? No. My daughter did not spring from my head to be born as a fully-grown goddess. My son did not have to fly away from an island on wings made of wax and feathers by his father.
I learned to conduct the critical analysis of literature through the use of New Criticism (not really new -- it started in the 1930s and is coming back into vogue). Try thinking of New Criticism as placing a poem or a short story or a novel in a bell jar and studying the text from all angles. Don't compare it to other poems; don't consider the poet's experiences; don't concern yourself with the time period in which it was written unless it's relevant to the text.
New Criticism = Close Textual Analysis
As for poetry, poetry does not make statements. Poetry suggests; poetry indicates. Although the sound of the poetry achieved through the words I use is important to me, I am more concerned with the images I present by putting the words together. And I don't care if the words rhyme.
I appreciate the many kind comments you have made on my poems, but I want to make sure we're on the same page. When Yeats wrote "Leda and the Swan," I assure you he was not present when Zeus turned himself into a swan to rape Leda, a young woman. I can suggest all sorts of things in poetry, but it doesn't make them true.
Normally, my poetry and my fiction come from a kernel of truth in my life -- but that's all.
Infinities of love,
Lola
Those of you who are regular readers have no doubt seen me mention that you should never confuse the speaker in the poem with the poet. Just because I write about something in a poem, it doesn't mean it happened to me. Let's consider the two poems I wrote for my children: "Mama Zeus and Katrina Athena" and "Boy" at http://dumpedfirstwife.blogspot.com/2011/12/boy.html ."
Am I the poet? Yes. Did I write these poems for MY children? Yes. Am I the speaker in the poem? No. My daughter did not spring from my head to be born as a fully-grown goddess. My son did not have to fly away from an island on wings made of wax and feathers by his father.
I learned to conduct the critical analysis of literature through the use of New Criticism (not really new -- it started in the 1930s and is coming back into vogue). Try thinking of New Criticism as placing a poem or a short story or a novel in a bell jar and studying the text from all angles. Don't compare it to other poems; don't consider the poet's experiences; don't concern yourself with the time period in which it was written unless it's relevant to the text.
New Criticism = Close Textual Analysis
As for poetry, poetry does not make statements. Poetry suggests; poetry indicates. Although the sound of the poetry achieved through the words I use is important to me, I am more concerned with the images I present by putting the words together. And I don't care if the words rhyme.
I appreciate the many kind comments you have made on my poems, but I want to make sure we're on the same page. When Yeats wrote "Leda and the Swan," I assure you he was not present when Zeus turned himself into a swan to rape Leda, a young woman. I can suggest all sorts of things in poetry, but it doesn't make them true.
Normally, my poetry and my fiction come from a kernel of truth in my life -- but that's all.
Infinities of love,
Lola
PROOF
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
Happy New Year! I guess.
When Someone I Love was a senior in high school, of course the time arrived for her to apply to colleges. She was extremely fortunate because every senior at the prep school had a college adviser to help with creating the list of colleges to which the student would apply. Plus, the adviser would look over applications and make suggestions for improvements.At one college where Someone I Love applied, rather than writing an essay, she was asked to prove that something intangible exists. I am posting her proof because it continues to awe and astonish me. She wrote it at the age of 17 without any assistance, demonstrating the talent she already had when she was in high school. Writing a proof was the perfect requirement for someone who would eventually immerse herself in geometric algebra. And I'm very pleased that I was able to teach my children how to write because they certainly didn't learn in school.
It also moves me because she writes about our blind sheep dog mix, Kesey (named after Ken Kesey and pronounced Kee-zee). Kesey died during the fall of Someone I Love's freshman year in college. It was horrible. It was heartbreakingly horrible. She was several hours away from us -- no time to come home for a goodbye.
So I love it that this proof also commemorates Kesey. Here it is:
This proof explains love through commonly accepted axioms:
1. God is love. However, as any dyslexic atheist with a sense of humor involving anagrams, or slightly extreme canine fancier can tell you, God and dog are roughly equivalent. Thus, dog is love.
2. Love is blind. If love is both a dog, and blind, then love could be my blind dog, Kesey. Other evidence confirming this involves hours observing said subject, Kesey. Kesey's rotundity suggests Cupid (though not cupidity) and, if any humans feel depressed, they immediately feel much improved upon being within 10 meters of his presence. His presence alone is necessary for these healing effects, thus confirming Lennon's postulate, "All you need is love."
3. Assuming then, based upon presented evidence, that Kesey the sheepdog mix is, in fact, the physical embodiment of love, we come to the axiom "love conquers all." This axiom suggests that Kesey is capable of conquest, an idea confirmed, to some degree, by his Napoleonic stature. Additionally, his administrative skills are honed to perfection. These skills include Insurance of Proper Biscuit Flow, Observation of Neighbors, and Supervision of All Beings in His Residence. Such proficiency in the areas of Economics, Intelligence, and Administration, respectively, will lead to his success as a future world power.
4. By the logic of causality, every leader has some initial minority of supporters before coming to power. In many such instances, as evidenced by history, the followers in said minority use a code word or phrase to identify themselves to one another. What better word for the followers of Kesey to use than "love," which keeps Kesey's identity unknown to the majority of the hominid populace, who seem largely skeptical about being subjects of a medium-sized white dog, no matter how jovial said dog may be.
Many contend that love her something to do with relationships between beings. This is partially true; all of this love is encompassed by the Buddha nature that is Kesey, and any human ideals about "love" fall short of the world as we know it have come to use this term in its proper sense, referring solely to one fabulous little white dog, whom I am in my dorm room missing.
Q.E.D.
Someone I Love received a very nice note from the admissions office at the university that required the writing. The person who wrote the note said it was one of the best proofs they had seen in a long time.
Ultimately, however, that university did not provide Someone I Love with a scholarship, so she attended and graduated from a college where she was truly wanted and appreciated.
I wish I could show you a photo of Kesey, but I don't seem to have any. When I left Illinois, I tried to keep moving costs down because I wasn't paying them myself. My soon to be ex-husband paid for my move, as was appropriate because I had to move to escape from him. Thus, I left behind items I felt I could do without or that were very heavy, such as most of the photo albums I had compiled over the years.
How I regret doing anything that I thought would help Voldemort, for he ended up accusing me (in settlement papers) of taking everything I wanted from the house and only leaving behind that which I did not want. So untrue.
So untrue.
But I wish you great blessings in 2012. If you have someone with whom you can share at midnight a glass of champagne or sparkling cider or diet coke, then you are blessed. The dogs and I will probably be in our lonely bed.
Infinities of love,
Lola
The only way to spend New Year's Eve is either quietly with friends or in a brothel. Otherwise when the evening ends and people pair off, someone is bound to be left in tears. ~W.H. Auden
New Year's Eve, where auld acquaintance be forgot. Unless, of course, those tests come back positive. ~Jay Leno
I made no resolutions for the New Year. The habit of making plans, of criticizing, sanctioning and molding my life, is too much of a daily event for me. ~Anaïs Nin
Thursday, December 22, 2011
THE ENDLESS AFTERNOON
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
When I was a newspaper reporter, the police scanner was an always chattering presence in the newsroom. Most of the time, we heard nothing of importance.
But one rainy, gray wintry afternoon, something came over the scanner that caught everyone's attention. An elderly couple had been reported missing by their adult children. Their car was gone and they hadn't been seen since the day before. The woman had Alzheimer's Disease. Her husband was her primary caregiver.
Throughout the afternoon, we were glued to the scanner as the police searched. Very little work was accomplished.
Finally, word came. Their car was parked on a country road. They were dead.
The man shot his wife and then killed himself.
We shed more than a few tears in the newsroom that afternoon.
People quite often accuse members of the media of having no hearts. I'm sure some journalists don't. But many of us suffered as we covered stories about families burned out of their homes and groups of people who held fundraisers to help cover the medical care for a terminally ill child.
Yes. We had hearts.
But sometimes we had to hide them so we could interview people without sobbing.
Infinities of love,
Lola
When I was a newspaper reporter, the police scanner was an always chattering presence in the newsroom. Most of the time, we heard nothing of importance.
But one rainy, gray wintry afternoon, something came over the scanner that caught everyone's attention. An elderly couple had been reported missing by their adult children. Their car was gone and they hadn't been seen since the day before. The woman had Alzheimer's Disease. Her husband was her primary caregiver.
Throughout the afternoon, we were glued to the scanner as the police searched. Very little work was accomplished.
Finally, word came. Their car was parked on a country road. They were dead.
The man shot his wife and then killed himself.
We shed more than a few tears in the newsroom that afternoon.
People quite often accuse members of the media of having no hearts. I'm sure some journalists don't. But many of us suffered as we covered stories about families burned out of their homes and groups of people who held fundraisers to help cover the medical care for a terminally ill child.
Yes. We had hearts.
But sometimes we had to hide them so we could interview people without sobbing.
Infinities of love,
Lola
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
THE ILLNESSES YOU CAN'T SEE
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
If I have a cold, you'll probably see me sneezing, blowing my nose, coughing . . . all that gross stuff.
When I broke my back, I wore a back brace and used a walker.
But I have other problems -- invisible illnesses.
It seems as if more and more often now we admit we're depressed. Were as many people depressed in the past, but they didn't talk about it because they didn't know what it was or because it was unacceptable? Do we bring it up now because medications are available that might help us?
I loved Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books when I was growing up. When Laura's sister Mary lost her sight, the Ingalls didn't go for group therapy. They didn't take antidepressants. They got on with their lives because they had no other choice. But in later years, someone -- it might have been Laura herself -- said that when Mary went blind it was such a disappointment to her parents that they were never the same again -- all their hopes were ruined.
Sounds as if they could have used some help.
Sometimes I'm so depressed that it becomes physically disabling. I feel as if a great weight is pressing me down, pushing me not to move, not to do anything. If you look at me, you won't see the weight, but I feel it.
I'm the one with the weight on my chest. I can't lift it, and I can't move. The other little creepazoid can push off his weight because he's not depressed.
And then there's post-traumatic stress disorder, which D. (Marvelous Men) had as a result of going into combat in Italy during World War II. I won't compare my life to World War II, but if you raise your hand suddenly near me, I'll cringe in terror and shy away from you.
I'm not the person anymore who was the strong one when my husband was sick. I'm so worn out my strength has dwindled; I can't cope with disappointments or fear.
Some days are better than others. Some days I go out and walk the dogs and buy my groceries and actually laugh at a funny movie. I had actually been feeling exceptionally good recently.
But then I experienced a huge letdown.
Some days I stay in my jammies and don't bother to get dressed and don't leave the house.
You can't see that I'm sick, but I am.
Infinities of love,
Lola
P.S. I go to a doctor and take my medication, but nothing is perfect. I do pretty well until some event upsets me and I crumble.
If I have a cold, you'll probably see me sneezing, blowing my nose, coughing . . . all that gross stuff.
When I broke my back, I wore a back brace and used a walker.
But I have other problems -- invisible illnesses.
It seems as if more and more often now we admit we're depressed. Were as many people depressed in the past, but they didn't talk about it because they didn't know what it was or because it was unacceptable? Do we bring it up now because medications are available that might help us?
I loved Laura Ingalls Wilder's Little House books when I was growing up. When Laura's sister Mary lost her sight, the Ingalls didn't go for group therapy. They didn't take antidepressants. They got on with their lives because they had no other choice. But in later years, someone -- it might have been Laura herself -- said that when Mary went blind it was such a disappointment to her parents that they were never the same again -- all their hopes were ruined.
Sounds as if they could have used some help.
Sometimes I'm so depressed that it becomes physically disabling. I feel as if a great weight is pressing me down, pushing me not to move, not to do anything. If you look at me, you won't see the weight, but I feel it.
And then there's post-traumatic stress disorder, which D. (Marvelous Men) had as a result of going into combat in Italy during World War II. I won't compare my life to World War II, but if you raise your hand suddenly near me, I'll cringe in terror and shy away from you.
I'm not the person anymore who was the strong one when my husband was sick. I'm so worn out my strength has dwindled; I can't cope with disappointments or fear.
Some days are better than others. Some days I go out and walk the dogs and buy my groceries and actually laugh at a funny movie. I had actually been feeling exceptionally good recently.
But then I experienced a huge letdown.
Some days I stay in my jammies and don't bother to get dressed and don't leave the house.
You can't see that I'm sick, but I am.
Infinities of love,
Lola
P.S. I go to a doctor and take my medication, but nothing is perfect. I do pretty well until some event upsets me and I crumble.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
BLOCK MOTHERS
Gentle Readers . . . and Maxwell,
My oldest sister left for The Big Time before the rest of us moved to the bustling metropolis of Topeka, Kansas. Oldest moved to Kansas City.
However, once she was settled in her home, she discovered the strangest form of discrimination. Some people's windows had signs in them that said Black Mother. Oldest was quite shocked.
It wasn't as bad as the klan burning a cross in the yard, but, still, she was appalled. Why would a city point out where black mothers live?
Then one day she put on her glasses.
The sign said Block Mother. A block mother was a person who agreed to help any child in trouble who couldn't get to his parents. Oldest felt quite relieved.
When we made our big move to Topeka, we had a Block Mother across the street from us.
She was not black.
I think the Block Mother program was phased out by about 1972 because moms were in the work force. They couldn't stay at home doing nothing except taking care of the neighborhood brats.
I think it's kind of sad that we don't have Block Parents now, who would at least be available to assist children when they could.
But the people who volunteered would probably be pedophiles.
And that's all the news that is news.
I'm Chevy Chase, and you're not.
Infinities of love,
Lola
My oldest sister left for The Big Time before the rest of us moved to the bustling metropolis of Topeka, Kansas. Oldest moved to Kansas City.
However, once she was settled in her home, she discovered the strangest form of discrimination. Some people's windows had signs in them that said Black Mother. Oldest was quite shocked.
It wasn't as bad as the klan burning a cross in the yard, but, still, she was appalled. Why would a city point out where black mothers live?
Then one day she put on her glasses.
The sign said Block Mother. A block mother was a person who agreed to help any child in trouble who couldn't get to his parents. Oldest felt quite relieved.
When we made our big move to Topeka, we had a Block Mother across the street from us.
She was not black.
I think the Block Mother program was phased out by about 1972 because moms were in the work force. They couldn't stay at home doing nothing except taking care of the neighborhood brats.
I think it's kind of sad that we don't have Block Parents now, who would at least be available to assist children when they could.
But the people who volunteered would probably be pedophiles.
And that's all the news that is news.
I'm Chevy Chase, and you're not.
Infinities of love,
Lola
Wednesday, July 13, 2011
Friday, April 29, 2011
THE PERP WALK
Gentle Readers,
I've never actually had to perform the perp walk, but I thought it made for a more interesting post title than THE DEPRESSION WALK.
I've been doing the depression walk on and off since I got fired. It consists of barely moving my feet while my head hangs forward and my shoulders droop. Thank God I live in such a small house now. When I did the depression walk in my big house, sometimes I'd have to stop and just lie down on the floor because making it from one room to the next was too much.
As you may have guessed, I've had no luck finding another job. It took me 18 months to get the last one. I was teaching. At a failing school. And by that, I mean their grade from the state was a big fat F.
I kinda doubt I'll get another teaching job. I think I've been blackballed because I was a whistle blower, but I don't know what difference my whistle blowing made because nobody did anything about it. I guess the problem is that now I'm a known whistle blower and so oh Dear God I might do it again.
I think all states now have standardized tests students have to take as a way of judging the school. And the schools have to be judged because of No Child Left Behind. I certainly don't want children left behind, but oy vey, what I saw at that school. Those children were already so far behind I don't know how they could ever recover.
It's really a shame that so much money is spent on the tests and practice tests and materials to prepare for the tests instead of putting the money to work for the kids. Smaller class sizes and more individualized instruction seem like a couple of good ideas to me.
But anyhoo, back to the whistle blowing. The afternoon that I started working with my students, they had taken the state writing test that morning. Some of them told me that the teacher who gave them the test wrote all or part of their essays for them. They wouldn't tell me who the teacher was. One said, I ain't no snitch.
So at the end of the school day, of course I reported what the students had told me. The folks to whom I reported wanted names. I promised to investigate. I think it was my downfall. I know those kids would have talked. They would have told me more as soon as they got to know me.
So, man, I was out the door for no reason in less than a week. You see, here in the hinterlands, teachers can be fired for no reason during the first three months of employment.
I think the administration didn't want to know who cheated. I've read quite a few articles about cheating on the state-mandated tests. They all say it's to the schools' advantage to cheat, and of course it is. They want the money from the state that the school receives for improving. The teachers want the merit pay they get because their students have shown improvement.
They want higher scores.
Especially if the school's grade is F.
I reported all this to the teachers' union and to the appropriate people at the schools' central office. I even fired off a letter to the Superintendent of Schools.
Guess what?
Nobody cares. There was no investigation. No one asked me a single question.
The only response I received was an angry email from the principal who fired me telling me if I wanted to talk about the school I should contact him. Why in the hell would I get in touch with the guy who fired me? We're not exactly on a send each other Christmas cards basis.
The saddest thing about all this is not that I lost my job, although it brings out the depression walk in me.
The saddest thing is that taking the test for the student is tantamount to saying, You're not good enough. You can't do it, and rather than let you do what you are capable of, I will teach you to be helpless.
We should all be doing the depression walk over that.
Infinities of love,
Lola
I've never actually had to perform the perp walk, but I thought it made for a more interesting post title than THE DEPRESSION WALK.
I've been doing the depression walk on and off since I got fired. It consists of barely moving my feet while my head hangs forward and my shoulders droop. Thank God I live in such a small house now. When I did the depression walk in my big house, sometimes I'd have to stop and just lie down on the floor because making it from one room to the next was too much.
As you may have guessed, I've had no luck finding another job. It took me 18 months to get the last one. I was teaching. At a failing school. And by that, I mean their grade from the state was a big fat F.
I kinda doubt I'll get another teaching job. I think I've been blackballed because I was a whistle blower, but I don't know what difference my whistle blowing made because nobody did anything about it. I guess the problem is that now I'm a known whistle blower and so oh Dear God I might do it again.
I think all states now have standardized tests students have to take as a way of judging the school. And the schools have to be judged because of No Child Left Behind. I certainly don't want children left behind, but oy vey, what I saw at that school. Those children were already so far behind I don't know how they could ever recover.
It's really a shame that so much money is spent on the tests and practice tests and materials to prepare for the tests instead of putting the money to work for the kids. Smaller class sizes and more individualized instruction seem like a couple of good ideas to me.
But anyhoo, back to the whistle blowing. The afternoon that I started working with my students, they had taken the state writing test that morning. Some of them told me that the teacher who gave them the test wrote all or part of their essays for them. They wouldn't tell me who the teacher was. One said, I ain't no snitch.
So at the end of the school day, of course I reported what the students had told me. The folks to whom I reported wanted names. I promised to investigate. I think it was my downfall. I know those kids would have talked. They would have told me more as soon as they got to know me.
So, man, I was out the door for no reason in less than a week. You see, here in the hinterlands, teachers can be fired for no reason during the first three months of employment.
I think the administration didn't want to know who cheated. I've read quite a few articles about cheating on the state-mandated tests. They all say it's to the schools' advantage to cheat, and of course it is. They want the money from the state that the school receives for improving. The teachers want the merit pay they get because their students have shown improvement.
They want higher scores.
Especially if the school's grade is F.
I reported all this to the teachers' union and to the appropriate people at the schools' central office. I even fired off a letter to the Superintendent of Schools.
Guess what?
Nobody cares. There was no investigation. No one asked me a single question.
The only response I received was an angry email from the principal who fired me telling me if I wanted to talk about the school I should contact him. Why in the hell would I get in touch with the guy who fired me? We're not exactly on a send each other Christmas cards basis.
The saddest thing about all this is not that I lost my job, although it brings out the depression walk in me.
The saddest thing is that taking the test for the student is tantamount to saying, You're not good enough. You can't do it, and rather than let you do what you are capable of, I will teach you to be helpless.
We should all be doing the depression walk over that.
Infinities of love,
Lola
Friday, October 15, 2010
OUTSOURCING
People of India,
You are really lovely. I see two doctors, both of whom are from India. They are very good. Many Indians speaks better English than the people of the United States.
But too many customer service jobs are being outsourced to India, and whether you get to speak to someone whose English is comprehensible is a hit or miss proposition.
Not long ago, I had occasion to call my satellite television provider about a little problem - let's give them a name for the heck of it and call them directv. I spoke with a woman who seemed quite nice and friendly, but I understood very little of what she said. She offered me a $5 rebate for three months because I had been a "directv" customer for a year and was continuing my service.
But when I hung up, I said to my Favorite Young Man, I understood about 10% of what she said. For all I know I have signed up for all their premium services (I'm a basic kinda customer; let's keep the price down).
Today I received my "directv statement" and guess what? I had been charged for a month's service of Starz, plus a partial month's service. The rebate was for $5 off on three months of Starz. It's entirely possible that the customer service rep used the name Starz when I spoke with her, but I certainly never heard it or understood it.
And Starz is too expensive for me. I can't have another $12.99 added to my bill. I don't need that much television anyway.
So today I called directv (I'm tired of playing with the quotation marks; it's not funny anymore) and I spoke with another woman I barely understood. First, I needed to change my name on the account. That took forever and involved putting me on hold numerous times.
I had to spell my last name, which consists of all of five letters, at least 10 times.
Finally, we got down to the serious business: the extra charges on the bill.
She had to put me on hold so I could be transferred to someone else. I waited and waited and finally got someone who said she would remove the Starz package and credit me with $7.99.
No, no, no, I said.
But, she said, it's notated here that you were educated that you were getting the Starz package.
No, no, no, I said. Take off all the charges.
But, she said, it's notated here that you were educated that you were getting the Starz package.
No, I wasn't, I replied. Let me talk to your supervisor please.
I'll have to put you on hold, she said.
Of course, I said.
She actually came back on the line after only a few more minutes and said her supervisor had told her she could remove all the charges.
Victory!
But I had been on the phone for about 45 minutes. Now I'm so tired and I have a headache.
The next time I sign up for a service, among my questions will be the following, and if no one can answer them, then forget it:
1. Where are you customer service representatives? Are they native speakers of English?
2. What is the average wait time to reach a customer service rep and the average time to have a problem resolved?
I don't think these are unfair questions. And I'm also tired of being told to go to Web sites to resolve my problem, where I almost always see a list of FAQs, none of which have anything to do with my needs, and if I use Live Chat I'm back to talking to someone in writing who has a minimal understanding of English and seldom solves my problem (in fact, I think the only time a Live Chat person answered my question was on Macy's.com and the person seemed to have an excellent understanding of English), or I can send an email that will almost always be ignored, or if I receive a reply, the answer seldom makes sense.
See why I'm so tired?
And it's not notated. It's noted.
Just love tonight,
Lola
You are really lovely. I see two doctors, both of whom are from India. They are very good. Many Indians speaks better English than the people of the United States.
But too many customer service jobs are being outsourced to India, and whether you get to speak to someone whose English is comprehensible is a hit or miss proposition.
Not long ago, I had occasion to call my satellite television provider about a little problem - let's give them a name for the heck of it and call them directv. I spoke with a woman who seemed quite nice and friendly, but I understood very little of what she said. She offered me a $5 rebate for three months because I had been a "directv" customer for a year and was continuing my service.
But when I hung up, I said to my Favorite Young Man, I understood about 10% of what she said. For all I know I have signed up for all their premium services (I'm a basic kinda customer; let's keep the price down).
Today I received my "directv statement" and guess what? I had been charged for a month's service of Starz, plus a partial month's service. The rebate was for $5 off on three months of Starz. It's entirely possible that the customer service rep used the name Starz when I spoke with her, but I certainly never heard it or understood it.
And Starz is too expensive for me. I can't have another $12.99 added to my bill. I don't need that much television anyway.
So today I called directv (I'm tired of playing with the quotation marks; it's not funny anymore) and I spoke with another woman I barely understood. First, I needed to change my name on the account. That took forever and involved putting me on hold numerous times.
I had to spell my last name, which consists of all of five letters, at least 10 times.
Finally, we got down to the serious business: the extra charges on the bill.
She had to put me on hold so I could be transferred to someone else. I waited and waited and finally got someone who said she would remove the Starz package and credit me with $7.99.
No, no, no, I said.
But, she said, it's notated here that you were educated that you were getting the Starz package.
No, no, no, I said. Take off all the charges.
But, she said, it's notated here that you were educated that you were getting the Starz package.
No, I wasn't, I replied. Let me talk to your supervisor please.
I'll have to put you on hold, she said.
Of course, I said.
She actually came back on the line after only a few more minutes and said her supervisor had told her she could remove all the charges.
Victory!
But I had been on the phone for about 45 minutes. Now I'm so tired and I have a headache.
The next time I sign up for a service, among my questions will be the following, and if no one can answer them, then forget it:
1. Where are you customer service representatives? Are they native speakers of English?
2. What is the average wait time to reach a customer service rep and the average time to have a problem resolved?
I don't think these are unfair questions. And I'm also tired of being told to go to Web sites to resolve my problem, where I almost always see a list of FAQs, none of which have anything to do with my needs, and if I use Live Chat I'm back to talking to someone in writing who has a minimal understanding of English and seldom solves my problem (in fact, I think the only time a Live Chat person answered my question was on Macy's.com and the person seemed to have an excellent understanding of English), or I can send an email that will almost always be ignored, or if I receive a reply, the answer seldom makes sense.
See why I'm so tired?
And it's not notated. It's noted.
Just love tonight,
Lola
Thursday, October 7, 2010
HELL WEEK
Gentle Readers,
Here's why it has been Hell Week in Cougartown.
As you may recall, my beloved collie died on July 27th, the day after his 13th birthday -- an event from which I may never recover because I've never communicated with a dog the way I could with Faulkner, who was admired for his beauty everywhere he went. I am an attention whore, and I loved the attention I received because I was in the company of my man Faulkner.
So one collie gone, one collie remains. Harper Lee does not possess the brilliance of a Faulkner, but he is a sweet and beautiful dog with big brown eyes who takes treats from my fingers without touching them.
However, Harper is an escape artist. He was a stray who got picked up and what's his name (that husband guy) and I adopted him about seven years ago after Thoreau the Treeing Walker Coonhound died.
It's easy to see why he was a stray. The dog has wanderlust. Given any opportunity, he takes off. He weighs 80 pounds but he can turn himself into the Incredible Shrinking Dog and wiggle out of the tiniest spots. He can dig a little hole under the fence that you would think wasn't even big enough for a chihuahua to get through, roll over on his back, and slide out as if he's been greased with Crisco.
Normally when he gets out, I follow him around the neighborhood with biscuits and a lead, followed by a group of kind and caring neighbors, and eventually he stops to check out somebody's cat and we all scream SWARM SWARM and the lead is on his collar and the collar is on him and we walk wearily home after thanking the neighbors and he gets a big drink and falls asleep.
But on Monday, I made a big mistake - huge (I have to go shopping now, Pretty Woman). I needed to fix a spot under the house where Robin the cancer-stricken foster bulldog had been escaping (yes, Robin is still alive and kicking and shows absolutely no sign of buying the farm).
I had the gate open because I, with my hilariously funny broken back, had to carry bricks and a 50-pound bag of quikrete into the backyard to make the repair and I couldn't open and close the gate with all that crap to carry. So, yes, the gate was open, but all the dogs were shut in the house.
Fatal error. The door wasn't locked.
Either Robin or Scout the black Lab mix stood up and turned the handle on the door and everybody came trooping out.
Scout stopped on the deck. I suggested that he go back inside, and being an intelligent little guy who enjoys his meals and sleeping in bed with Mom, he turned around and trooped right back into the house.
Robin and Harper departed, via the open gate. I grabbed a couple of leads and a box of biscuits and set off after them, desperately calling their names. Usually this would bring half the neighborhood out, but can you believe nobody was home? Not a soul. Not even Dennis who had a motorcycle accident and can barely walk with a crutch and spends most days sitting on his porch watching the neighborhood go by while he recovers.
Robin ran up to me after about 5 minutes, looking pleased that I wanted her. Big goofy grin on her face as I took her home and locked her in the house with Scout.
Then I hopped in the car to search for Harper. Eventually I saw him in a yard a considerable distance from my home. I got out and called him and tossed biscuits in his direction. He took off running as if he gets beaten at home instead of being served excellent kibble in a silver bowl, having a beautiful backyard where he talks trash with the rottie who lives behind us, and sleeps in bed with his back pressed against mine.
I followed on foot, leaving the car just sitting in the street, and to my horror, he left the neighborhood. He ran across an extremely busy street. I followed, dodging cars with their screaming horns. I followed him as he ran and ran and I finally lost sight of him. I returned to the car to drive around in the hood on the other side of the busy street.
No Harper.
Suddenly I realized I was almost to the door of the writer of If Martha Can Do It I Can Do It (she's not blogging a lot lately; she's very busy, but I assure you she's a wonderful writer). I pulled into her driveway and stumbled to the door, sobbing that Harper was gone and I absolutely could not take losing him. She was all business. She grabbed the telephone and started making calls to animal control to watch for him, and she even called his vet's office in the state where we used to live because his rabies tag was on his collar and it had that vet's number on it. She gave them my new phone number and explained that he was missing. She gave me a glass of water and a chance to calm down.
I went back out her door, tearless and determined to search in a logical fashion. I decided to go to animal control and got directions from my friend google. I arrived at animal control, which had a sign that said animal control with the name of my county. There was a building with kennels visible. There was a sign that said office. But there were no barking dogs, no one in the parking lot, nothing but a sign on the door that said we've moved to *****. But that was the address I had googled. That was the address where I was supposed to be. Animal control was as lost as Harper.
I came home and searched some more.
When he didn't come home at 5 p.m., I knew he was lost because 5 p.m. is supper time and he knows when it is 5 p.m. and he is not one to miss a meal.
I slept on the couch, which means I dozed and awoke every 10 minutes, because I hoped that somehow he would find his way back to me and bark at the door.
He didn't.
I got up first thing in the morning and started the search again. If Martha Can Do It I Can Do It knew how to get to the real animal control building where she checked for him and filled out a missing pet report. She was there at 8 a.m. with her 18-month old daughter. If that's not a good person, then who is?
About noon I went to Office Depot with a picture of Harper and asked them to make HARPER IS LOST flyers, offering a reward. They said it would take about 90 minutes. I went to have lunch and then asked I.M.C.D.I.I.C.D.I. if I could stop by. On my way to her house, my phone rang. I thought it would be Office Depot calling to say my flyers were ready.
But it wasn't Office Depot.
It was a young man who said Harper had been hanging out in his sister's yard all day and they had called animal control, in their county, to pick him. But the young man had copied down all the info from Harper's rabies tag and had made calls to Illinois, where the vet's office told him my name and phone number and he called me and told me Harper was on his way to animal control.
I was so excited I got lost on the way to my young friend's house, and it's only about five minutes away. I gave her the good news and she called the other county's animal control and learned they closed at 4 (it was 3:45) and that the officer wouldn't arrive with Harper until after they closed. She told them his name, my name, everything there was to know including that I haven't had sex in years (oops that just slipped out; she didn't actually say that and probably did not know it until now though she might have suspected) and, finally, that I would be there to pick him up when they opened at 10 a.m. on Wednesday.
And I was. It was an hour away from home, and I sure wish Harper could tell me how he got there.
I wish I could say nice things about the people at that animal control, but I can't. They didn't care that Harper had a rabies tag. They didn't care that my friend had called to tell them that I would be there to pick him up. They acted as if they didn't know what I was talking about when I arrived, but the truth slipped out as they spoke privately. They knew he was wearing the tag. They knew my friend had called. But they treated me like crap and made me wait 45 minutes to look in the kennels for him (I'll write nice things about other animal control places some other time).
When I finally had my Harper in my arms, he glanced at me as if to say, "Oh, it's you. I knew you'd come." I noticed immediately that his tag with his name and address was gone, so it's a really good thing the rabies tag didn't come off too.
So I have a huge thank you for the guy who found him. You rock, kid. You kick major ass. You want my first born male child? You can have him. Oh, please, take him.
Anyway, I called Harper's savior to thank him and I said I never would have found him out there and animal control didn't care. He said, I know. That's why I wasn't going to quit calling until I found you.
I gave Harper biscuits on the long drive and thought about stopping at Micky D's to get him a burger but was afraid I'd upset his stomach. But we didn't come straight home. We went to the vet's office and got a new name and address tag and got Harper a microchip. He's a high tech dog now.
And he's home. He was exhausted, but not injured in any way. He slept on the couch all afternoon and on the deck during the evening and we went to bed for snuggling at 9:00.
Now, I realize this has been a very long story. Sometimes my posts are short, and sometimes they are long, and this one has been extra long, so I'll give you my conclusion and then it's time to feed the dogs.
Conclusion: First, I asked all my friends to pray for Harper's safe return, and they did. I received so many supportive emails and calls. Second, that wonderful young man made sure that Harper came back to me. If this isn't proof that prayer has power and that there are still good, kind people in the world, then I don't know what you need in order to believe.
Infinities of love,
Lola
Here's why it has been Hell Week in Cougartown.
As you may recall, my beloved collie died on July 27th, the day after his 13th birthday -- an event from which I may never recover because I've never communicated with a dog the way I could with Faulkner, who was admired for his beauty everywhere he went. I am an attention whore, and I loved the attention I received because I was in the company of my man Faulkner.
So one collie gone, one collie remains. Harper Lee does not possess the brilliance of a Faulkner, but he is a sweet and beautiful dog with big brown eyes who takes treats from my fingers without touching them.
However, Harper is an escape artist. He was a stray who got picked up and what's his name (that husband guy) and I adopted him about seven years ago after Thoreau the Treeing Walker Coonhound died.
It's easy to see why he was a stray. The dog has wanderlust. Given any opportunity, he takes off. He weighs 80 pounds but he can turn himself into the Incredible Shrinking Dog and wiggle out of the tiniest spots. He can dig a little hole under the fence that you would think wasn't even big enough for a chihuahua to get through, roll over on his back, and slide out as if he's been greased with Crisco.
Normally when he gets out, I follow him around the neighborhood with biscuits and a lead, followed by a group of kind and caring neighbors, and eventually he stops to check out somebody's cat and we all scream SWARM SWARM and the lead is on his collar and the collar is on him and we walk wearily home after thanking the neighbors and he gets a big drink and falls asleep.
But on Monday, I made a big mistake - huge (I have to go shopping now, Pretty Woman). I needed to fix a spot under the house where Robin the cancer-stricken foster bulldog had been escaping (yes, Robin is still alive and kicking and shows absolutely no sign of buying the farm).
I had the gate open because I, with my hilariously funny broken back, had to carry bricks and a 50-pound bag of quikrete into the backyard to make the repair and I couldn't open and close the gate with all that crap to carry. So, yes, the gate was open, but all the dogs were shut in the house.
Fatal error. The door wasn't locked.
Either Robin or Scout the black Lab mix stood up and turned the handle on the door and everybody came trooping out.
Scout stopped on the deck. I suggested that he go back inside, and being an intelligent little guy who enjoys his meals and sleeping in bed with Mom, he turned around and trooped right back into the house.
Robin and Harper departed, via the open gate. I grabbed a couple of leads and a box of biscuits and set off after them, desperately calling their names. Usually this would bring half the neighborhood out, but can you believe nobody was home? Not a soul. Not even Dennis who had a motorcycle accident and can barely walk with a crutch and spends most days sitting on his porch watching the neighborhood go by while he recovers.
Robin ran up to me after about 5 minutes, looking pleased that I wanted her. Big goofy grin on her face as I took her home and locked her in the house with Scout.
Then I hopped in the car to search for Harper. Eventually I saw him in a yard a considerable distance from my home. I got out and called him and tossed biscuits in his direction. He took off running as if he gets beaten at home instead of being served excellent kibble in a silver bowl, having a beautiful backyard where he talks trash with the rottie who lives behind us, and sleeps in bed with his back pressed against mine.
I followed on foot, leaving the car just sitting in the street, and to my horror, he left the neighborhood. He ran across an extremely busy street. I followed, dodging cars with their screaming horns. I followed him as he ran and ran and I finally lost sight of him. I returned to the car to drive around in the hood on the other side of the busy street.
No Harper.
Suddenly I realized I was almost to the door of the writer of If Martha Can Do It I Can Do It (she's not blogging a lot lately; she's very busy, but I assure you she's a wonderful writer). I pulled into her driveway and stumbled to the door, sobbing that Harper was gone and I absolutely could not take losing him. She was all business. She grabbed the telephone and started making calls to animal control to watch for him, and she even called his vet's office in the state where we used to live because his rabies tag was on his collar and it had that vet's number on it. She gave them my new phone number and explained that he was missing. She gave me a glass of water and a chance to calm down.
I went back out her door, tearless and determined to search in a logical fashion. I decided to go to animal control and got directions from my friend google. I arrived at animal control, which had a sign that said animal control with the name of my county. There was a building with kennels visible. There was a sign that said office. But there were no barking dogs, no one in the parking lot, nothing but a sign on the door that said we've moved to *****. But that was the address I had googled. That was the address where I was supposed to be. Animal control was as lost as Harper.
I came home and searched some more.
When he didn't come home at 5 p.m., I knew he was lost because 5 p.m. is supper time and he knows when it is 5 p.m. and he is not one to miss a meal.
I slept on the couch, which means I dozed and awoke every 10 minutes, because I hoped that somehow he would find his way back to me and bark at the door.
He didn't.
I got up first thing in the morning and started the search again. If Martha Can Do It I Can Do It knew how to get to the real animal control building where she checked for him and filled out a missing pet report. She was there at 8 a.m. with her 18-month old daughter. If that's not a good person, then who is?
About noon I went to Office Depot with a picture of Harper and asked them to make HARPER IS LOST flyers, offering a reward. They said it would take about 90 minutes. I went to have lunch and then asked I.M.C.D.I.I.C.D.I. if I could stop by. On my way to her house, my phone rang. I thought it would be Office Depot calling to say my flyers were ready.
But it wasn't Office Depot.
It was a young man who said Harper had been hanging out in his sister's yard all day and they had called animal control, in their county, to pick him. But the young man had copied down all the info from Harper's rabies tag and had made calls to Illinois, where the vet's office told him my name and phone number and he called me and told me Harper was on his way to animal control.
I was so excited I got lost on the way to my young friend's house, and it's only about five minutes away. I gave her the good news and she called the other county's animal control and learned they closed at 4 (it was 3:45) and that the officer wouldn't arrive with Harper until after they closed. She told them his name, my name, everything there was to know including that I haven't had sex in years (oops that just slipped out; she didn't actually say that and probably did not know it until now though she might have suspected) and, finally, that I would be there to pick him up when they opened at 10 a.m. on Wednesday.
And I was. It was an hour away from home, and I sure wish Harper could tell me how he got there.
I wish I could say nice things about the people at that animal control, but I can't. They didn't care that Harper had a rabies tag. They didn't care that my friend had called to tell them that I would be there to pick him up. They acted as if they didn't know what I was talking about when I arrived, but the truth slipped out as they spoke privately. They knew he was wearing the tag. They knew my friend had called. But they treated me like crap and made me wait 45 minutes to look in the kennels for him (I'll write nice things about other animal control places some other time).
When I finally had my Harper in my arms, he glanced at me as if to say, "Oh, it's you. I knew you'd come." I noticed immediately that his tag with his name and address was gone, so it's a really good thing the rabies tag didn't come off too.
So I have a huge thank you for the guy who found him. You rock, kid. You kick major ass. You want my first born male child? You can have him. Oh, please, take him.
Anyway, I called Harper's savior to thank him and I said I never would have found him out there and animal control didn't care. He said, I know. That's why I wasn't going to quit calling until I found you.
I gave Harper biscuits on the long drive and thought about stopping at Micky D's to get him a burger but was afraid I'd upset his stomach. But we didn't come straight home. We went to the vet's office and got a new name and address tag and got Harper a microchip. He's a high tech dog now.
And he's home. He was exhausted, but not injured in any way. He slept on the couch all afternoon and on the deck during the evening and we went to bed for snuggling at 9:00.
Now, I realize this has been a very long story. Sometimes my posts are short, and sometimes they are long, and this one has been extra long, so I'll give you my conclusion and then it's time to feed the dogs.
Conclusion: First, I asked all my friends to pray for Harper's safe return, and they did. I received so many supportive emails and calls. Second, that wonderful young man made sure that Harper came back to me. If this isn't proof that prayer has power and that there are still good, kind people in the world, then I don't know what you need in order to believe.
Infinities of love,
Lola
Wednesday, October 6, 2010
HELL WEEK
And itchy. Gentle Readers, I am so tired and itchy. This has been the week from Hell (I'll explain more on another day), and my skin likes to reflect my feelings.
I am itchy on my toes
Itchy up my legs
Itchy down my back
And all over my hairy . . .
Finish it yourself. I'm too tired.
Just love today, not infinities,
Lola
I am itchy on my toes
Itchy up my legs
Itchy down my back
And all over my hairy . . .
Finish it yourself. I'm too tired.
Just love today, not infinities,
Lola
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)