Filing Woes

 Today's story is a recycled one from 2013 and bears repeating.  Please enjoy.

Not all of America is digitized.  My Mother, who is well into her 80’s, is.  She recently bought a new laptop computer and uses it with aplomb.  But, she still relies on a Rolodex to maintain most of her telephonic contacts.

 

For those of you too young to remember record albums, a Rolodex is a desktop device that holds small cards attached to rings that permit its user to flip through them.  There are alphabetical separators to allow for quick retrieval of names and associated numbers and any other data desired that is placed on the cards by the user.  Often, addresses, birthdays, or other critical information can be included to assist the user and make them more efficient, or appear so.

 

Although somewhat antiquated, a Rolodex has its place as a powerful tool to find contacts in an otherwise automated world.

 

While visiting my Mother, she needed to find a phone number of a friend of hers which led to the emergence of her Rolodex, which is where this story begins.

 

She was searching for an out-of-town lady friend named “Bobbie.”  After thumbing through this Rolodex, she displayed some facial frustration.

 

“Can’t find it?” I asked.

 

“I know it’s in here.  I’m just not sure where,” was her reply.

 

A Rolodex in action

Logic would dictate it should have been filed under either “B” for Bobbie or under “J” for Johnson, Bobbie’s surname.  It wasn’t under either.  Pirate Blackbeard could find his loot along the North Carolina coast easier than we could locate Bobbie’s number.

 

Mom is a pretty-well organized person with her tax paperwork in the appropriate folder, banking stuff in another, and her medications arranged according to times of application.  Unfortunately her phone number filing system isn’t that efficient.

 

“Try looking under ‘F’ for friend,” she offered.

 

No dice.  I even checked under “P” for pal, and “A” for acquaintance, to no avail.

 

Eventually we found it filed under “C” for Christmas as she sends Bobbie an annual Christmas card.  No lie.

 

Searching this filing nightmare for a doctor is also grueling.  Rather than filing her doctors under “D”, she files them under their names – some under their first, others under their last, and even others under their specialty such as ‘podiatrist.’

 

Such treasure hunts are unnerving coming from a woman who places her spices in the cupboard alphabetically.

 

Since Mom also uses a cell phone, I offered to transfer these paper numbers into her cell phone directory.  She expressed consternation about being able to find them once in that electronic directory.  Do we file them by first name or last name?

 

We need a filing convention to simplify this otherwise daunting task of sorting and e-filing phone numbers.

 

Much like a shady business, we’re going to have to set up two sets of numbers for her.  It appears as though she’ll end up with one set of just phone numbers and the other with addresses.  Otherwise, most of her Rolodex contacts will be in the Christmas card section.  Except for the eye doctor and podiatrist, that is.

Learning to Eat

It’s been about seven years since my sainted wife and I visited a certified nutritionist.  My doctor, the one with a new beach house and mortgage, prescribed it for me; my sainted wife went because she allegedly prepared my meals for me.  Pretty sexist, right?

 

In any case, we diligently went to this three day extravaganza to learn how to eat.  It really seems backward because eating is what got me into the nutritionist situation in the first place.

 

The room was filled with neatly aligned rows of the most uncomfortable chairs in America, each holding cushions filled with small burrs that effectively poked everything in which they came into contact.

 

Our “teacher” was annoying who ended each sentence with a fake smile while she gently twisted her head.

 

She had each of us hold up our right hand and then examine it.  It seems a though our right hand is smaller than our left hand because our palm was the definitive guide as to how much food we were allowed for each meal.

 

This lead witch proceeded to explain the types of foods and associated amendments we were allowed to use, and how much.

 

About this time, another couple in the gallery of about twenty loudly announced they regularly shared food from the same plate thereby reducing their intake.  Period.

 

Actual label from a bag of diet ice

Everyone else in the room instantly knew they were fibbing inasmuch as neither appeared to be present because of malnutrition.  But I digress.

 

We were only on the salad portion of the meal and still discussing varying lettuce varieties that would provide interesting augmentations to our taste buds.  Iceberg is as tasteless as Bibb, Romaine was like Butter Head but more tasteless, Butter Crunch was more fun than Lolla Rossa, but Crimson Butter was supreme.  By the way, Michelle Obama’s favorite lettuce is Endive.

 

All these provide a kaleidoscope of color and a tapestry of textures.  Yea!  Too bad they only had the flavor of typing paper.  Hence the invention of something called salad dressing.

 

The salad dressing portion was the interesting part – the segment that brought the gallery to blows.

 

You see, salad dressing is the bane of culinary experts and nutritionists, alike.  During the lettuce segment we learned that lettuce has no calories.  But neither do carrots, celery, onions, or water.  Unfortunately, I enjoy my water with two-fingers of Wild Turkey, and that’s a no-no.

 

In any case, after more than a sixty-years, I surprisingly learned I was eating my salad all wrong.  Rather than introducing salad dressing to the salad, the salad should be introduced to the dressing.  Let that sink in for a moment.

 

According to Brunhilda, the correct way to eat a salad is to lance the lettuce of your choice, then gently dip the tip of the leaf into a small ramekin of dressing.  But not any dressing; it should be three drops of extra virgin olive oil and half a teaspoon of low calorie vinegar.

 

I’m still wagering the idea is to make you so exhausted from stabbing and dipping that you’ll simply pass out during your meal thereby preventing the ingestion of more than 3 calories per sitting.

 

Speaking of calorie counting, our third day was a choice we were given: either learn about “Nutrition Facts” that appear on virtually every package of edible saleable in our country, or be set afire in front of the class. 

 

Each person was handed a genuine package from real food including crackers, lunchmeat, potato chips, cake mix, popcorn, and candy bars.  One person began gnawing on the empty Hostess Twinkie package, sticking her tongue like an anteater inside, in case there was any butter cream frosting left stuck therein.

 

Then we were all given turns to explain what the different standardized numbers represented, and which were more nutritious than the others.

 

Evidently this is supposed to be a guide to better eating ONLY if you can discern between food that is good for you or food that has any taste.

 

The bottom line after three days was simple.  Being able to be condensed from three days to roughly nine-minutes – lunch included – the words “If it tastes good, spit it out,” would have helped everyone.

Official Panhandler

It officially began in the 1970’s but was born of a Congressional act in 1967 under President Lyndon B. Johnson. 

 

That act signed into law passed the Public Broadcasting Act, thereby establishing the Corporation for Public Broadcasting (CPB) and the Public Broadcasting Service (PBS), for television; the Act also replaced the National Educational Radio Network with National Public Radio for the audio side, as its name suggests.

 

National Public Radio (NPR) has been around for decades – more than five – and has become the sweetheart of Leftists country-wide; in Right wing circles it is known as National Panhandler Radio, and this is why.

 

Not unlike the United States Postal Service (USPS), ever running a financial deficit, NPR found itself facing a serious cash shortage in 1983 requiring about $7,000,000 to settle its arrears.

 

Ever expanding its tentacles, NPR decided to better target its audience by opening a second location for broadcasting.  Retaining their Washington, D.C. office, NPR felt it necessary to open a production center in Culver City, Los Angeles, California.

 

Spending money has always come easily for NPR with a $235,000,000 endowment from the estate of Joan B. Kroc, widow of the founder of McDonald’s, in the early 2000’s.

 

All this may sound pretty reasonable, but one key detail is missing.  NPR was primarily funded by the federal guvment, very much like the USPS.  President Ronald Reagan thought this Left-leaning broadcasting service should be self-sufficient if it was to continue bashing America and its values.

 

Weaning support from the guvment forced NPR to make drastic changes.  In the 2000’s, roughly 10% of its funding continued to come from the guvment, but altering payment from its satellite stations, and adding pledge drives to their PBS line-up helped make up the difference.

 

But some corporate lawyer figured out that since this was a non-profit broadcasting venture, it could not accept commercials.  All this would prove to be moot inasmuch as it was determined corporations could, indeed, fund programs and the network, if they used only slogans and description of products. 

 

Not being a lawyer myself, that seems like a pretty good narrative of a commercial ad.  But I digress.

 

It seems that such statements are called “underwriting spots.”  Unlike commercials, underwriting spots are governed by specific FCC restrictions; they cannot advocate a product or “promote the goods and services” of for-profit entities, according to Wikipedia.

 

That still sounds like an advertisement to me.  Alas.

 

To make things even ickier, “Hosts of the NPR program Planet Money stated the audience is indeed a product being sold to advertisers in the same way as commercial stations, saying: “they are not advertisers exactly but, they have a lot of the same characteristics; let’s just say that,” Wikipedia further states.

 

All this creative funding and legal shenanigans wind up being brilliant efforts of the Left to pollute the minds of unsuspecting radio listeners.

 

NPR hasn’t heard of a death row-sentenced prisoner that doesn’t deserve a medal and exoneration rather than a just punishment.  It also takes great pains to explain how climate aberrations need immediate attention and funding to counteract capitalists.

 

Not to be left out, their Pentagon Report has received criticism due to simply reading military press releases rather than editorializing them to better suit NPR’s targeted liberal audience, as well as duped listeners who believe this misinformation to be unbiased.

 

Going so far as to chastise news readers using certain words – “torture” being one of them – NPR has definitely demonstrated the slanted “news” items it airs, daily.

 

Ever taking the side of Palestine, whenever Palestine attacks Israel, further demonstrates NPR’s willingness to massage the anti-Israeli egos.

 

And the killing of innocent children through “choice,” seems to be another spoke in the wheel of propaganda disguised as reporting rather than agenda-driven tripe.

 

President Reagan was right in his ardent attempt to rid America from bailing out NPR and CPB once and for all.  If they are allowed to lie to American taxpayers with impunity, it’s time to let these panhandlers get a real job to earn their money.

 

But if you donate, maybe you’ll may get a tote bag.

Ask Phil

 
Even though Punxsutawney Phil allegedly saw his shadow in early February, I am enjoying a nice day outdoors in 73º weather here on The Shore.

 

Punxsutawney Phil Look-alike

Picking up fallen sticks, branches, errant debris, and Magnolia tree seed pods, all gifts from the windy winter, has been occupying my time lately.  Still, with warm weather on the horizon, I am trying to enjoy the outdoors without mosquitoes and sweltering heat.

 

Listening to the local gardening show on the radio, I was warned to not begin planting quite yet inasmuch as Phil’s prediction was dead-on; we should expect days and nights of cooler temps and cooler winds in the days and weeks to come.

 

All this was not really news to anyone familiar with the ever-changing Shore weather that varies depending on the ocean waters and longer days of sunshine.

 

This year is not much different except for the price of gas soaring to astronomical levels, and more eco-nuts crawling out of the walls.

 

Eco-nuts are those people who don’t have lives, but wish they did.  They rejected organized religions in favor of a new religion called “climate change.”  They laughed at people like myself who attended church to pray and honor God for all we have been given.

 

They mock me for believing in an unseen being who helps guide me throughout life, while treating others with love and kindness – just as the Bible orders.

 

Eco-nuts, on the other hand, claim that my devotion to an unseen being is simply foolishness that begs for ridicule.  The difference used to be that if they left me alone, I would leave them alone.

 

But, on beautiful days like today eco-nuts evoke that special stupid gene that makes them want to convert anyone and everyone smiling, having a good time, to be miserable – just like them.

 

A caller to the garden show desperately tried to spread the typical poison eco-nuts normally spew by cheering the high cost of fuel while condemning the tempting spring-like weather.

 

The caller explained the rising fuel costs are a blessing to discourage people from driving, which may encourage those drivers to buy environmentally-friendly electric vehicles.  How they are environmentally-friendly remains unknown since the show’s host disconnected his rambling call.

 

All this leads to the difference between eco-nuts and normal people.

 

Normal people look at nice days as a bonus to join nature by working in the garden, mowing the lawn, taking a leisurely walk, a bicycle ride, or simply sit and enjoy nature, and probably smile.

 

On the other hand, eco-nuts are those folks you know well – not unlike co-coworkers or kin – who traipse about with facial expressions that closely resemble someone with an awful case of gas, and not the expensive gas I mentioned earlier.

 

Rather than enjoy outdoor activities, they dwell on how terrible their lives are without bird-killing windmills and inefficient solar panels.  They take opportunities such as today to carry signs in protest of something that affects you and your family.

 

SUVs, outdoor grills, fireplaces, fire pits, pickup trucks, spacious homes, boats, snowmobiles, and off-road buggies, are all fair game for them to resist while attempting to wean the rest of us of enjoyment and decompression from 9-5 jobs, something they don’t usually have.

 

I’m not in the habit of telling others how to live.  I may, now and then, point out the frivolities of others’ inane activities, but their lives are solely theirs.  And they should own up to their crazy thoughts and actions.

 

It would be nice to be left alone to “do my thing,” without comments from the Peanut Gallery – a reference from the old Howdy Doody show.

 

Once finished with my outdoor chores I’m going to fire up the grill and make some steaks before further enjoying the normal great Shore sunsets.  All the while, I’ll be pitying the eco-nuts who refuse to enjoy – or let others enjoy – life.  It’s too short not to.

 

Besides, how much credibility do people, who buy waterfront mansions in the tens-of-millions of dollars, while telling the rest of us coastal flooding is a certainty, have?

 

‘Nuf said.