Any one else have a "Tandy 1000" ?

I was wondering if anyone besides me has difficulty with technology. Our Family was introduced to computers earlier than the average family so you would think I'd be comfortable with all the screens, key-boards, connections and USB wires. But, Alas! Not so.

Young Patrick...really loved the Tandy 1000.

We purchased one of the first available home computers in 1979. The "Tandy 1000" from Radio Shack.(I'm sure they decided on the name because it cost over $1000.)

All the kids easily learned to use the computer, and then of course...they fought over the device to play "Pong" or "Asteroids". The games were inserted into a slot on a "floppy disk" so they could magically appear on our black and white screen. I knew then, it was the beginning of the end as far as parents having a shred of wisdom. 

A few years later when Patrick (our oldest son) came home from his mission he introduced us to the internet...at that time we were still on the black and white screen. The internet we had was called,"Free-net". And even then the "Net" was not free...We had to pay because we could only connect by dialing another area code. This of course ran up the phone bill. 

I think because of his early introduction to computers, Patrick took the (now obsolete) Novell Networking course offered at his University. During those years every time he came home he seemed to add something new to our humble 126K computer. This was the computer the rest of his siblings would fight over to get homework completed and printed out on the dot-matrix printer. This poor thing often froze and gave us problems.

We gave each child their own disc to write and store their homework. Then if things went wrong they blamed each other for "putting boogers" on their floppy discs.

These days kids are comfortable with technology at a very early age...our daughter's 4 year old Luke had to show us how to down-load Skype...another mystery!

Zack, James, Luke and Harrison use computers all the time.

Through the years the pattern of Patrick's visits continued and his habit of downloading new programs to our computers got much worse after he became a security engineer at Microsoft.

I don't know about anyone else but depending on all this technology scares me. I feel like at anytime all this progress could be blocked, shut off, or someone could put a booger into your I-Phone. That would be not any fun at all!

Getting help for any technology is the worst! We were on our way to a class to find out how to work the free "Tablets" we got from Verizon and Pat the dad forgot the address. We were already late so I tried to call the listed number to get directions. I realized my mistake too late as I already knew that calling or going into a Verizon store is like getting lost on the MTA or being sucked into a Black Hole. And if you get into their system you then must work your way through the matrix of automated algorhythems to finally speak to a person named Sandeep or Sheep-dip, or Rip-rap. And this whole exercise is very frustrating.

This day,when I finally got a real live person it was obvious the fellow was not from around here. After he asked for my phone#, name, and wanted other personal information I revolted and became, (I am embarrassed to say)...belligerent!

"Are you in a store, or a call center. Where are you?" I yelled..."A call center in Bangladesh?"

After a long silence he said, "Well, um, Mrs. Lady, your not too far off."

I immediately hung up, as the whole conversation reminded me of calling a help number one time when our computer screen went black. The guy kept asking "What does the bios say?"

"The screen is BLACK," I responded on that day, "How the heck do I know what the bios says!" Ahem, As I also recall on that day...I hung up."

Technology is for the young. So don't mess with my program when I have finally figured it out. I don't want to have to call one of the grandkids for them to guide me through fixing it! As it is all 16 of the grandkids ages 2-22 think we are ancient and wonder if we ate with knives and forks when we were young!

 

EASTER EGG SMACKDOWN!!

 

Since it is almost the Saturday before Easter my mind can't help but track back to a memorable dog story that occurred the Saturday before Easter quite a few years ago. 
 
Our first dog was a Labrador retriever/blood hound/cocker spaniel mix.  He was quite odd looking but very sweet, loyal and exceptionally protective to all the family. He considered us all his pack and fiercely guarded the kids and me…and tolerated the pack leader, Dad Patrick.

As tradition in our home went, the Saturday before Easter Sunday we dyed eggs.  Those eggs would then magically be hidden around the yard for them to discover the next morning before we left for church.  When this particular incident happened  four of our children were born.  The youngest Megan was barely four years old.  Rebecca was seven, Colleen nine and Young Pat was eleven, almost too old for the egg game to be played out the next day.  But he participated so he wouldn't be left out, and also to have an opportunity to tease his three sisters.  Pat had invited the neighbor boys Richard and Steve Kuroda to join us. (They both had a crush on Rebecca)

I had all the dye, bowls, vinegar, boiled eggs and doo-dads for decoration assembled on the patio table.  The patio was concrete with a shade cover and hanging baskets full of plants.  I dutifully watered the flowers to have a pretty view out the back window and keep my eyes from landing on our falling-down back fence. 

The fence separated us from a twenty two acre plot that had recently been sold to a developer.  A strip mall was to be built on the land within the next few months.  They had given us notice they were building a ten foot block wall along the back of all the homes to shield them from the noise and unsightly view.  The construction of the wall was to take place in a few weeks so our sorry broken wood fence would be replaced by a nice new tall block fence at no expense to us.  I was excited as I knew our budget could not have handled such an extravagance.  I even asked big Pat to move the bee-hives he kept next to the old fence so when the construction crew tore it down we wouldn’t have bees all over the place.  (Another story)

…because he didn’t have the time to move the hives properly he put them alongside the house near the back door off the kitchen.  (He said at the time they would only be there for only a few days, but I think they ended up staying there for several months)

The kids and I used a small patch of dirt near the falling down fence to plant a garden. We were going to make sure when the fence finally came down our little garden of lettuce, carrots, beans and tomatoes would not be touched.  We watered the dirt diligently and plants were starting to sprout.  I remember the lettuce by that Saturday was at least two inches tall and I know we each had our own vision of a great harvest from our small cultivated plot. 

So there I was with bowls and the newspaper spread out, the eggs cooked and spoons at the ready.  The kids gathered around the table trying to carefully place their eggs into the hot water when I heard several dogs barking from behind the house and past our tumble down fence. 

“Oh no,” I thought, “Some dogs are loose!”  I ran to the back fence and saw a man slowly walking along the fences at the back of all the houses lining the lot.  

I yelled, “Hey mister, we have a dog here, and our fence broken and low in a few places so please take your dogs out away and into the field so they won’t hop the fence.  Our dog is pretty protective and this is his yard.” 

He continued along, as if he didn’t hear.

“Hey mister,” I yelled louder, “Please get your dogs away from this fence, we have a protective dog here.”

“My dogs are nice and friendly.”

“Well mine isn’t so please take your dogs away from our fence!”  By then he had reached the spot where the fence was only about four feet high and both his dogs easily glided over the fence and right into our little garden.

"Tuna Fish", our dog, in a totally protective posture bristled and growled, but when both dogs bore their teeth he jumped on the large collie and also managed to down the other one who looked like a bull dog.  He had them both pinned in seconds.  Tuna managed to hold one under him and had the other by the neck. 

This stranger then jumped into our yard, grabbed a piece of fence board and began pounding and beating our dog on the back and head.  Using the moment to escape Tuna loosened his grip on the dogs and cowered from the blows, the strangers’ dogs ran past the patio alongside the house right into the two live…humming bee hives. 

The man followed his pets, and just like a “Three Stooges” movie, he and the dogs immediately ran back the way they went in, right into our waiting unhappy dog…AND the wrath of a mother…The man reached down and picked up the board again and began to beat on our dog…Having had enough and thinking of nothing else to do as my yelling was getting nowhere, so I (in a moment of insane frustration)jumped up and grabbed his shoulders from behind to try and stop him. While clinging to his back and trying to avoid the waving wood I began to slip down his shoulders to his back. I hung on for dear life and in doing so, pulled and stretched the neck of his sweater down around his elbows…The knitted material pinned his arms to his sides and he was now off balance but continued to wildly brandish the wood as he went across the patio…breaking most of my planters sending pottery, plants and dirt across the table and into the Easter egg dye making a huge mess of our little project. All the while I hung on to his back like a tick on a bucking bronco.

The boys, trying to help, turned on the hose and began squirting at the dogs and the man (including me clinging to his back.) I know they were trying to stop the melee, but the water simply added to the mess.  The girls ran inside and yelled for their Dad.  He was taking a shower and when he heard the commotion quickly tried to get his pants on while soaking wet.  He was struggling to get dressed and was hopping around the living room and over to the window. I looked up to see the confusion on his face as he tried to discover what I was yelling about.  As he stumbled around the corner and over to the picture widow he was shocked at the sight he saw.  The pots on the patio were swinging like knockers on bells, his wife was riding around clinging to a strange man’s back yelling like a banshee, the boys were manning the hose like firemen putting out a blaze and all the while the man with his arms locked to his sides was waving a huge hunk of wood scattering eggs, dye, and plants everywhere.

I remember sliding to the ground because by now the stranger was slick with sweat and water...my grip on his sweater finally let go.  Dad Patrick then ran out and grabbed our snarling dog. And then shoved him into the garage.  (Tuna was growling with his few exposed teeth.  He had lost most of them from a high fever he had as a puppy because when we bought him he had distemper.  I guess he was planning to gum the other dogs to death.) 

By the time Patrick returned to the back yard, both of the interloper dogs were over the fence and half way across the huge lot.  The stranger followed his dogs so fast, that when Patrick, chased after them, he couldn’t catch up.  He could see them far in the distance crossing the main highway.  He got in our car and tried to find them, but never did. Later he told me he wanted to make sure the guy was okay, but I've always hoped he was planning to punch 'em.  The stranger and his dogs had vanished, never to be seen again.
 
(Here is Patrick Jr., Colleen, Becca and Megan Easter of 1979, and Me with "Tuna."

Tuna was bleeding from his floppy ears and needed some antiseptic on his many scratches.  Later, when I finally stopped shaking and gathered my composure I went to the store.  I bought more eggs, dye and treats for the kids. I also bought our loyal dog a huge bone.  We all mourned the demise of our little garden, and I didn't replaced my hanging plants. 

The neighbor boys who took Karate each Saturday were impressed with my skills and I became an icon.  "Don't mess with the Mom." They said, "She's a good fighter."  They backed up the stories that were told for the next few weeks at Strathern Street school with interesting and colorful details.  All our kids bragged that Tuna and I were spectacular by providing the best egg dying and Kung- fu exhibition ever.

I think Patrick is still amazed by my behavior, and to tell the truth...so am I.  But I guess you never know what you are capable of doing, until it happens.

We moved away from North Hollywood to Santa Clarita after Michael was born a year later.  Our new home had five bedrooms, three bathrooms, a stream full of tadpoles behind it, and a block wall all the way around. 

Tuna died of old age a few months after the "Stranger" incident and is buried in the yard he so valiantly defended.

Wake UP Phoenix...do not pay for grocery bags!

Plastic-bag-Bag”…or “Give it to the Man…bag” pattern for plastic bags made out of plastic bags...re-posted by special request for my friends at the Gilbert Temple

http://writergrams.blogspot.com  do not pay for grocery bags!

Hello Arizona...hey! what is going on here! We moved from California to get away from all the tree hugger green people who plague us with laws and ways to get our hard earned money...(am I wrong or a while ago didn’t they used to try and cajole you to use plastic instead of paper?)  I think its fun to go into the store and collect my groceries in bags made out of “their” bags….who needs their stinking bags anyway?  And if milk spills in one of my home-made bags you made from "their  bags" you can put it in the top part of your dish washer for cleaning (the ones you crochet are quite sturdy), re shape it and use again…tada!

Here goes the pattern my fellow rebels

You can use any size hook from g to aJ...the bigger the hook the faster it will go, but the more bags you'll use...

First  you must save about 80-100 plastic give away bags…Then  can cut them into 1 ½ strips…(you don’t need to be neat…start from the bottom of the bag going around.) cut the bottom open and cut off the handles before you start so you have a tube of plastic.

Roll them up like yarn….you don’t have to do all at once, if you get tired of cutting, go ahead and crochet for a while. 

You can get lots of places to give you extra bags, or have the clerk put each item in a separate bag before they charge for bags or the new tax hits.  ALSO It is easier to cut the bags into strips if they haven’t been used or all crinkled up!)

Creative tips Get different colors and designs on bags for different effects…some bags are heavier and the strips can be narrower…changing colors can give a stripe pattern…where the bags are tied together you can weave the ends in…put them hanging on the inside…or the outside…(I like that as it looks fluffy)

Basic Pattern

 

Foundation row:  chain to 2 inches less than the width of bag you want…anywhere from 12 -25 inches, your bag will be larger than your foundation row.

Bottom:  single crochet in second chain from hook.  Work to end of row.  On end crochet three stitches then single crochet down the other side of chain. (You are going around in a circle…or oblong to be exact) then when you get to the end of the second side of your chain…three single crochet in end and then down the other side with single crochet again, increasing on the end with each row.

Continue crochet around until the bottom is as wide as you want.  Usually 3-5 inches wide, (if you want a very wide bag you may end up doing increases at corner stitches so your bottom doesn’t roll up)

Body: now once the bottom is done you will continue going around except you will NOT add stitches when you get to the end.  The work will begin to grow into a bag shape…you may even have to decrease a stitch or two to get it to travel up into the tube (bag shape you want. When you get the body of the bag as deep as you want it then bind it off…

Patterns: Different colors make stripes or other patterns with the bag colors or print on bags you have. I save the bags they drop your newspaper in as they are pretty colors.

Handles:  join yarn at the open end of the bag where you want handle to begin.  Chain to make it the length you desire.  Then single crochet back and forth to the width you want. (I usually do three to four rows)  Each time you are back at the purse top make sure you attach the handle to the body of the bag.  When done then slip stitch other end to the corresponding place on the same side of the bag.  Repeat.
A Very Good Idea

Strength addition:  to make sure the handles are strong, do another row of single crochet around both handles joining at the body of the bag as you go around.  Using a contrasting color bag ads style, whatever that is?

Decoration can be shreds of different colors around or one side, or add, pockets on the inside or out, I like making flowers (use any flower pattern you have) and sewing with the bag-yarn to the front…are also a nice touch I think.

Have fun!  and when people ask about your bags… you can smile  and know you are finally ahead of the government passing laws to get you money! TaTA Da DAH!

 

Do Demons Want Your Soul?

Chased from the light

 

Do the demons want your soul?

And chase you from the light to where it’s dark and cold

Do you have the strength or fighting spirit?

To push away the whispers; and in your heart admit

That you have strayed from the straight and narrow path

And suffer from your inner wrath

Do you know that if you have fallen and are in disgrace?

There is only one who can erase

And make your inner self white and clean again

Just open up the door and let Him in

Lay your burdens at His feet

And all your fears He will defeat

You’ll feel the love He has to give

And in His light forever live

"Help, I'm locked in..and can't get out"

I was in Chandler Arizona for Spring break last year...visiting my travelling husband.  This was before we bought our home in Gilbert.

Mid-week I went to the condo management office and introduced myself to the young man at the desk and asked about the key to the hot-tub and pool areas. After jangling and fussing with a huge ring of keys he produced a key he stated would open not only the pools, but also the work-out, and kiddie play area.  I was on my way back to the apartment and decided to see about the heat in the Jacuzzi.  Placing my new key into the lock, even without turning, the door pushed open into the child-safe enclosure and I put my hand in the warm water.

I didn't even flinch when I heard the door clang shut just as I turned to leave. I had the key right! Wrong! I tried my key on the inside of the locked door...no luck!  Then reaching my hand through the gate to the outside lock, placed the key into that lock....nothing!  I turned it so hard it started to bend so pulled it out before we were charged with them having to put in all new locks...and besides the darn thing just wouldn't fit. It opened the Jacuzzi door didn't it...? or did it?

"Help!", I called out, embarrassed with my situation. I was not very loud at first, then after a few minutes tried again and tossing dignity aside bellowed out, "Help! HELP!"  Looking up and down the manicured lawns and past the fountain, I saw no one.  Well, harrumph! I was not going to remain in that enclosure all day, and assuming no one would magically appear, as I had not seen one soul since I had arrived five days previously, and knew of no one I could call...oops...I didn't have my phone with me! Darn!

What to do?  Kick down the door? I eyed the wrought iron with suspicion.  It was very sturdy but doubted my legs were that good.  It looked not easy to loosen, and the dead bolt was clearly engaged.  At the top of the iron enclosure were tall spikes, so climbing over those was out of the question! I was sure I would become impaled on one of them and die bleeding to death, with one of the menacing looking spikes stuck in my rear end.

Then it came to me...if the door to the filter area would open (it did!) I could roll the concrete cigarette ashtray/trash receptacle over there and climb up on the filter then onto the wall...sans-spikes and drop down onto the grass.  Easy, piece of cake...Oh did I mention I'm past social security retirement age...Broken hips and snapped femur bones came to mind, but then I pushed that out of my head since my bone density last year was the thickness of a rhino.

I heaved and shoved and rolled the heavy stone receptacle through the gate and over to the filter...like a gazelle I was up on the fence...like a glove...all fit into place...however...it was still 9-10 feet to the ground.

But anyway; once on the fence I noticed a small tree not too far from the wall...I shimmied over to be near the tree and then stretched out my nice-long-leg and with one foot on the tree I could reach out to the closest branch, hang on, walk down the trunk until I hung there like a stranded monkey and finally dropped down the last 3-4 feet to the grass.  I had escaped.

Later when I told Patrick about the harrowing incident his response was, "Gosh I wish I was there with a camera!" That's my sweetie. Not, are you okay, or wow how did you do that...no...he wanted to record my humiliation. How could I have hoped for anything less!!!

Broken Hearts and dogs that die

Broken hearts and dogs that die,
Seems to be the reason why
Country songs sound so sad,
And why the music is so bad.

I guess the west ain't so grand 
With levis, boots and cows to brand

A tough life yes, but the one they chose
Still they have the right complain I suppose

 

For they settled the land and tamed it good
With harsh lives led; sacrifice withstood
Only to see our lives of thankless luxury
Growing fat on video games, while watching TV

 
 
 
 

DON'T MAKE EYE CONTACT with Mr Crisco, or the stinky kid!

I've been travelling a lot this summer and I've decided plane trips, when you travel alone, are like a turkey shoot! Duck, don't make eye contact with that greasy looking guy...he may...gulp; sit next to you!

When I was younger I know I enjoyed the mystery of a trip. My mom always said I was the last one off the plane with a string of good looking guys carrying my luggage. Since I lost the magic of innocent persuasion a while ago...I now want absolutes...like WHO THE HECK IS THAT PERSON SITTING NEXT TO ME!

The way they load planes now-a-days, you never know "what" or "WHO" will be seated next to you. It could be a Yeti, Mr Crisco, or something out of a tale by the Grimm brothers.  The worst is when you bid on a ticket for one of the left over "not sold" seats you end up with 4-5 connections before you get to your destination.  When you do that I can assure you that your fate will be the dreaded middle seat.  Who ever decided that the three seat configuration was the way to go should be shot! I remember as a kid travelling by plane to New York each summer, and the planes had a two seats on each side thing going on...so at least one side of you could breathe, and not be crushed by a person sitting on each side. (Which seems to be my destiny)

Ahhh. "The Middle Seat". Who will get that seat????  It could be you, or if you are in a row without a couple to take two of the seats, you have to worry if you will be seated next to characters from an alien movie. Not fun. I have experienced both those situations when travelling to meetings and conferences for my school board position.  I would have to travel alone as none of the other board members, (mostly men) had schedules that meshed with mine. Never the less, I pressed on...and was often squished in that middle seat by rotund passengers on each side of me.

Now if you take a good look at the arm rests of plane seats you will discover that under the arm rest there is an opening. Quite easy for the person sitting beside you to SLOP their adipose tissue through the opening and onto your lap.  On one unfortunate trip I was the bologna in the sandwich of two large men who had lots of fat pushing into my side and onto my lap from both sides. I remember they were seated before I arrived and I almost cried when I saw them. After I was somewhat situated I looked for the seat belt, then I decided...no way was I going to fish around in the piles of tissue for the restraining device, and really there was no need as I was so packed into my seat I couldn't move if I wanted to...

 I had my own dualie-air-bags, already deployed sitting on both sides of me. Interesting that the Stewardess seat belt-Nazi did not even notice or call to my attention to the fact that I was not...OH NO, can you even believe it?...NOT buckled.  I guess she did not want to fish around for the seat belt either.  So there I sat for 3 hours not able to move as both sets of shoulders extended into my space along with everything else,
and I was pinned there like a bug specimen ...unable to move.

On one of my recent trips two young teen boys had the middle and aisle seat while I had the window seat. Okay I thought not too bad. The one in the middle had not hit his growth spurt so there was no fighting for possession of space going on. I did notice however that the two parents were across the aisle...blissfully removed of parental duties.  And they were also away from the unusual smell that began to waft toward me like a green cloud. They must have know the kids had eaten some sort of gaseous food the night before and that's why they abandoned the kids, emancipated them, so to speak...for as long as the flight, at least. 

Within 15 minutes I was gasping for breath wishing the air bags would drop from the ceilling...for at very very frequent intervals various bowel eruptions produced a blasting hot wet-poopie smell.  As my eyes began to tear-up, I gaged and cranked up my air-vent to full and had the stale recycled air hitting my face, then finally I leaned forward to breathe the air from between the seat in front of me and the window. I was doing all within my power to get some relief. I was wishing I could open the window. Of course that is ridiculous but by then I'm sure many brain cells had died, and all reason was lost.

So AHHHHH! The middle seat, If it is empty, it's Nirvana. Yes, the vacant middle seat is the wish of all who travel alone. We hold our breath (even without air cheese happening) pray, and await the closing of the cabin door. We lone passengers are dreading the arrival of the third in the row to spoil our flight, our air, our space, our brain cells, or our sanity.

WARNING! Do not read if you are faint of heart! "Sucked into the abyss of Government Double-speak"...and never seen again!...We discovered the Social Security Department is worse than the DMV...oh how can that be! I must be in the land of OZ!

I flew to Arizona, rather than have Patrick travel home this weekend because he had an appointment to meet with a person from the Social Security office. He did this because the Social Security office in California is sooo busy.  Oh how foolish! Government agencies no matter where they are seem to be overly busy and have absolutely no concern for the people they profess to "serve.

We already knew that government agencies were bastions of inefficiency by going to the DMV. Most people know from personal experience the DMV is a black hole that sucks the life from your bones.  And, when we discovered that most transactions at the DMV could be completed at the Automobile, AAA club we ran to that company to sign up. Avoiding the DMV is the main reason for our membership. Not for the maps. Not for the flat tire fix or towing...it is for the direct caring access to services by a staff that knows what they are doing and how to smile.

The only time we returned to the DMV after discovering that we could avoid the line and foul moods of government employees by joining AAA was for driver's test exams for our children, (four times for our first driver, Patrick Michael, who still has a bit of a lead foot.) I think two of the girls took two times to pass the driving test...Megan took the driver test in a stick-shift 1/2 ton truck because my car was at the shop.  She passed on the first try, I suspect because the tester had pity on her. 

To contact a real live person and make an appointment at the DMV office; it is necessary to wait on the telephone line at least 45 min after you find your way through the mechanical voices and punch enough numbers on your phone to cramp your hand.  I learned to simply carry the phone with me while it played elevator music and then do laundry or mop the floor, all the while waiting to speak with real live, possibly sentient being...albeit, "grumpy" possibly sentient being. 

Much to my chagrin Patrick suggested I try to get an appointment to talk to the SS person the same time he was scheduled. Of course the  phone wait for the Social Security office (all calls to make an appointment go to a central office, not the individual one in your area...which to me would be more efficient; but no one asked me!) The wait was about the same as the DMV, 45-60 min. And so I took up my familiar "at home" duties to fill up the wait time (I hope they didn't think I was sitting there doing nothing while waiting.)

Several times I thought a person was there on the line only to discover it was a different mechanical voice interrupting the elevator music to inform me how much they CARED, and how they are serving over 2 million persons on Social Security. (I said to myself..."If there is such a big demand...How about hiring more government workers to answer the phone...but that would be too easy, ehh Obama?")

 Once the Kingston trio sang a song that resembles our experience on the day we went to the Social Security Office. "Oh he never returned, Oh he never returned and his fate is still unlearned...he may ride forever through the streets of Boston...He's the man who never returned." Every elected official should be ashamed and try to fix the system or the minions will one day rise-up in rebellion!

Sorry I am ranting, even when I think about it my blood boils. But, we really needed to see a living person due to the fact that none of the documents on line or in printed form answered our questions. Questions about our money and how much we would receive, when it would come, how much they would take out automatically for Medicare and other such pressing questions...we needed to speak with an official representative in order to make decisions about our future...sooo, fools that we are... we finally made an appointment! (that was after the obligatory one hour wait on the phone line.)

The Friday before the appointment Patrick received an automated call that said we were to arrive at 11:00 instead of 2:00. So after having a tough time finding the place we ran in at about 11:01 had our bags checked for weapons and were directed to the place where you check in, We took a numbered piece of paper that was our GOLDEN ticket. I then looked around...Oh the humanity!!!!!

We sat down in the black metal waffle-hole seats that were uncommonly wide. "Hmmm, these seats are generous, "I wonder why they went to the expense."

Then I realized that every chair was packed, and I do mean packed! Other than at a water park in Virginia, I have never see such a large gathering of incapacitated very large rear ends. 

                                                         

Unless of course you are at Wal-Mart

 

And the wait began... and we waited and waited...At 12:00 an agitated woman ran out from behind the closed doors of the inner sanctum and screamed. "Quit coming to the windows and interrupting interviews.  Today is the first day of our new system and you MUST be patient." She then glared at everyone in the room.

 

So all of us sitting there shrunk into the metal seats the best we could and tried to mentally prepare for the long haul.  Everyone watched the numbers on the slowly changing notification signs tick off. We were all hoping we would be next but then I realized the numbers skipped and went forward and back. (I think that was so you didn't realize others were taken in front of you) I kept checking the number we were given and wondered if we could ask someone about those who had make an appointment...if we went in first, or was the policy...the first shall be last. But there was no one to ask! This query came to me because it seemed every Tom Dick and Harry that arrived and took their ticket after us...had already been to the window, and or the "interview" room. Finally our number was called (it was 1:30, or 2 1/2 hours after we had arrived)...we were summoned to the magic window by a woman who scowled at us and obviously had; an upset stomach, needed to use the restroom, and also had arthritis, rheumatism, cramps and a headache. 

 

After a few questions we were sent back to sit...we now moved closer to the elusive interview door.  Patrick was, by now mumbling at the grinning photo of Obama on the wall wishing he had a box-cutter.to slash off the smile. And I knew at this point why we were checked for weapons....good move by the SS department which I'm sure has had patrons "Go Postal." And who could blame them!

 

Okay, so I admit, I was mumbling too. And I got louder and louder about having an appointment at 11:00 and how it was now past 2:00. How we had been patient for three hours, and maybe should come back later when they were ready to serve their customers...and that the new system sucked!

 

So Patrick hears me and says, "Maybe we should leave and sign up on line."

 

I begin to fume as I respond, "Are you kidding! No way! This is like being in line for the Matterhorn at Disneyland and the cars are stuck, and how with so much time invested...you refuse to leave the line...It's like that." I say quite loudly..."And besides..."I'm going to the bathroom."

 

"If we haven't been called by 2:30, I'm leaving," he calls after me.

 

"No were NOT." I yell back.

 

When I return, I see a lull in the people at the magic window and boldly go where no one has dared to go...but I'm determined to conquer the demon and approach the indigestion riddled, crampy, headachey woman and timidly ask, "So, since we had a reservation...um, appointment at 11:00, how much longer do we have to wait because it's almost 4 hours and I don't think I can take much more of this waiting patiently.

 

"You had an appointment? What's the name, hmmm, I see no appointment."

 

"Yes, we did have an appointment."

 

"Why didn't you say so?"

 

"You never asked, but we did, when we checked in...we hit the button that asked if we had an appointment and pushed the thing YES...we have an appointment."

 

"Did your ticket say you had an appointment, It should have said you had an appointment."

 

"Look lady, it only had a number, we have never been here...we didn't know what the ticket should say...it had a number...so waited for that number!"  I was getting louder.

 

"Oh, there it is...now I see it's in here. You know this is a new system...sorry. I'll have the next agent talk to you. I thought you were walk ins."

 

"Yea, Lady. But even if we were walk-ins every other walk-in I've see come in after us; has come and gone ten times over." Of course I screamed this on the inside...as I did not want to make the key-mistress mad.

 

Soon we were able to complete our business and we were out of the office by 3:00. (the day was shot; so-to- speak, and by that time I was really ready to shoot someone or something.) We were handed papers to fill out for Medicare and were told we needed to bring them back to the office...and also that we should not forget to make an appointment as the wait time would be much less.

So as we left the building in the setting sun I decided that our sojourn at the social security office beats any DMV I have ever visited.  I really think it may beat the guy who died while waiting to get into the emergency room at Martin Luther King hospital. (At least he was out of his misery) And as a permanent reminder of Government Inefficiency and our pain and suffering from the long wait...I have been permanently branded in my rear by the ventilation holes adorning the seats at the Social Security office!

I have the best idea ever!!...for maximum efficiency the DMV, AND the Social Security office should both turn over their jobs to the Automobile club. 

Apache Spirit Ranch,

So after many moons (so to speak) Here I am ready to give up half my mind. I have a tale to tell of Lies, romance and mystery...or in other words...our trip to Tomstone Arizona!

"Let's not sit around," says he!  "Perish the thought," says I. "I've only worked some horrendous hours...three 16 hour shifts in a row, so let's drive somewhere to see more sand."

Now mind you we are in Arizona at Patrick's condo next to Intel where he has been loaned out by the L.A. Office of Turner Construction.  In fact most those working there are from somewhere else I discovered. Chicago, New York, Mississippi, to name a few places. Arizona is not the bastion of beauty in my eyes...lots of sand for a beach...BUT WHERE IS THE WATER? They think to trick you... those tricky tricksters...and even put up lots of palm trees. Well to me, a palm tree means, Goody! Soon there will be waves and birds and boats...NAY NAY tis a lie, a lie I tell you!

those who put up such deceptive landscape should keep their eyes on me since I have my gun...on my hip. Well no I don't, but I could here in this state. But I digress. This is a story about our fun trip to Tombstone. Along the way I must have fallen asleep, but no loss. Just more sand and an occasional cactus.  20 miles to Tucson. Yea! Nay nay, again...only more sand and one lonely tall building marked the town. The few hotels I spotted looked old, seedy, and sandy. So "lets wait til Tombstone to get a room."

About an hour later there we were. Now I must admit...it was a slight climb to get there, maybe 500 feet or so. What a view. And on top of this mound of dirt was the town, looking like a run down Knotsberry farm without the rides. (Like it was when I was a kid but without the berries.) 

By now Patrick was determined to quell my sour attitude and find a nice place to stay so out he whipped his handy phone. The magic happened..and there it was...Welcome to Apache Spirit Ranch! The rooms in the 2x2 inch screen on his phone looked okay. I hoped for some shred of cleanliness at least.

After wandering around town with it's many fake cowboys waiting to have photos taken with the tourists....and then hoping to pocket a few dollars, we decided we were tired and wanted to get to "The Ranch ". I called and a foreign accent assaulted my ears..."Ver r u?"

Oh boy, I thought...this may be bad...and thought better than to ask how long it would take to drive back to Phoenix.  So after 45  min of wandering along a dirt road around cactus and some old fence...we arrived at Apache Spirit.

The Lovely German Girl, (no wonder I couldn't understand her) showed us our room.  We left the old barn where the registration desk was located and wandered down a street that had storefronts decorated as if it was a western town.

"U zee, de ruums r decorated like the fronts. Zat vun, de Bordello, zat vun de black schmit place, and all are inzide like it sayes. Ve hef fer yu, de Jail..."

With glee she opened a door and we peered in to see bars and cells, handcuffs and manacles on the walls. After she gave us the keys and left with a funny smile on her face, we could not stop laughing. "Honey can I handcuff you?" I asked...and then after the shock...I felt the beds, and with my "Princess and the Pea" imitation deemed they were at least bearable for one night.

"I think we have been transported to the twilight zone...." I said. And Patrick responded with "but dinner is included, and if we want to stay for a while tomorrow we can help with the cattle and go on a ride on the dusty trail. Like I did as a teenager on the family ranch.

After about a 30 min. nap we heard the unmistakable sound of a dinner triangle being rung. We trudged along the street with a few others who exited from their "storefront rooms." I felt out of place in my UCLA tee-shirt alongside my husband in his Seahawks ball-cap as we eyed the western garb they all wore.

I felt like we had missed wardrobe call for "Gun-smoke." Polished boots, stiff levis, sparkles and sequins covered everything. New cowboy-hats were worn by everyone we saw. We were definitely underdressed. It wasn't until we got closer I realized all were speaking German, the same as the accented receptionist.

The dining room was beautifully appointed. The tables were placed in a horseshoe shape with everyone facing each other.  "Oh boy", I thought, "this will be fun dinner conversation."  No one seemed interested in trying out their English on us and we were surrounded by throaty words which sounded like everyone had consumed too much dairy and tons of phlegm involved.

Then from behind me came a high pitched giggle, and a low rumble in (thank goodness) English. Into the empty space beside us sat a large woman and a man in worn cowboy garb, and his shoes were covered with mud. We soon discovered they were the entertainment for the evening. At least he was anyway. She was his new squeeze. A well-endowed freshly divorced woman from Tombstone. 

The food was well cooked, delicious and elegantly served. Surprise! After the meal, the barmaid invited everyone into the small lounge for the entertainment. Cowboy Bob, our dinner companion from Nashville was quite unexpected. His voice was rich and his guitar was mellow. Although his dinner conversation had been quiet, when he was on stage he transformed into the western singer his audience expected. The dark beer drinking crowd requested Johnny Cash songs by the number. Yet when he sang "Ghost Riders in the Sky" everyone except us had no clue this was closer to a real Cowboy song than most of the others he crooned.

The music had a strong beat that demanded toe-tapping and Patrick and I swayed and bounced to the tunes. I noticed none of the Germans moved at all. They sat like statues and hardly smiled. I decided they had no love of music or were a bit deaf. The stiff backed men continued to ask for Johnny Cash and a few Beatles tunes.

After the first music set we left the beer drinking crowd behind and retired to our room decorated with manacles and handcuffs. When we lay down to enjoy a little TV we discovered most of the stations were in German. Ehhh? Yes the stations must have been broadcast from some obscure German holding in the US.  The Twilight Zone continued.

The next day we were able to talk to the receptionist and learned the resort was owned by a, (go figure) German man who advertised heavily on the continent. She told us, "Many Germans want to experience western life just like they see in the movies."

We drove off down the road in a cloud of dust and wondered if the folks in the cowboy garb really believed they were having a true western experience or if they knew it was a fantasy.  I decided it really didn't matter, they were having fun. But I knew no real cowboy would have ever been seen in so many sequins.