Tuesday, April 30, 2019

You wanta password? A code? In your face.

Oh yeah? I'll give you a password.

Password—a cursed word. Beside the dreaded blue screen, signing on with your password ranks pretty high up there. 

Today was a “sign on to Microsoft” day.  Since I have not put these on a flash drive, but have diligently kept them in an address book, typing in passwords are not usually a problem.

Encountered a red error note telling me that this was the wrong password, needed to reset.  MSoft sent me a code by email, a line of seven numbers.  I copied and pasted them into the password box, pushed enter.  THEN I was told THIS was an ERROR!

Got another seven numbers, pasted them in, moved onto the next step to create a new password: bunny1foo9foo.  

MSoft wanted me to type my old password. 

???What??? If I knew the damn password, I would not be resetting a new one.  Why? MSoft asked.  Because I had forgotten the old password, you blinking idiot.

Back to getting code.  Back to pasting the code.  Back to making a new password, a deceased relative’s name.  Back to saving.  Then, then, trying to get into my account. 

MSoft didn’t ACCEPT this new password.  Suggested a code.  Wanted to send me a new code. I pushed cancel.


Either MSoft is playing me or God is having a bit of a giggle.


Why? Why does this happen? It happens to everyone, I know, because my daughter told me so.  I am pretty evenly tempered personality, but this?  This?


PS: just spent 1/2 sticking hour trying to change a password. Then another 1/2 hour going back and forth until resolution was achieved.  As much as I enjoy having my computer, smoke signals might be better.


Tuesday, April 23, 2019

Revenge of the Easter Egg

It was a brutal competition, with lots of screaming, shoving and pushing. There may have been some scratching and punching as well. There are no memories about who garnered the most eggs; the hunt was not so much about speed—it was about who was most devious. 

Then Easter was gone, baskets were packed away for next year, and deviled eggs were supper. With no holiday to anticipate, a veil of tedium settled over our farm in a pre-summer heat.

In the middle of the night, something woke me, something like a POP!  I rolled over, catching just a hint of chocolate.  Then a new smell came in waves---foul, recognizable, nauseating.

It was the distinctive odor of rotten eggs.  Rolling out of bed and looking under it, I spotted a lone Easter basket with the remains of an exploded egg.  One of my three brothers had placed it there before I went to bed. (My bedroom was that clean...seriously...even under the bed...)


Opened the window…threw the Basket out…and heard the muffled giggles from my brothers’ rooms.  They were waiting for my own explosion. 

Well, they did not get it.  I tiptoed down the stairs and slept on the couch.  The rotten egg smell did not limit itself to my room; it traveled to their room as well.

Justice and revenge would wait for another day.  I was the soul of patience.

Those bastards....


Saturday, April 20, 2019

Balloon of the Mind

hot air balloons floating in the sky
Kenny Luo@kennyluoping
The Balloon of the Mind

Hands, do what you’re bid,
Bring the balloon of the mind
That bellies and drags
In the wind,
Into its narrow shed.

Wm. B. Yeats

Fancy.com
A Drinking Song

Wine comes in at the mouth
And Love comes in at the eyes.
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift my glass to my mouth,

I look at you and I sigh.

W. B. Yeats
                                                               
William B. Yeats—always a favorite of mine.  

Always follow the balloons. 
Drink good wine.

Life is too short to drink cheap wine.

Thursday, April 18, 2019

Snail School 101


Garden snail, half out of its brown shell, on a green vegetable leaf.
The have somewhat of a personality
Parents had forced Sam Snail and all his mates to attend the class on snail safety, where posters covered the room:

“An Informed Snail is a Safe Snail!”

“It’s not dandruff, you idiot!  It’s salt!”

Source: Wikipedia

“A stupid snail becomes escargot!”

Mr. Goo, the oldest snail in the community, scanned the adolescent snails with his antennae.  “Listen up, you slimy slugs!”

The snails convulsed with laughter---the slug joke was an old one. 

Then all became quiet as the spectres of snails long gone before filled the room.

They whispered, “Grass is good.  Sidewalks are bad….” 

Then Mr. Goo shouted, “If you are ever besieged by a bunch of birds, then kiss your shells good-bye.”

Intervals of laughter and silence of doom broke up the rest of the day.  Finally, class was dismissed.

Mr. Goo shook his antennae. "Poor dumb Molluscan GastropodsHalf of them won’t even make it home."
  
YouTube, about 3 min. long
I suggest fast-forwarding

The underlined words are from Wednesday Words, a writing challenge for all writers to inspire their writing.  This challenge was begun by Delores years ago and is still continuing.

This post is from 2015.  I know, I am digging into the archives, but why not? Why the heck not.

Monday, April 15, 2019

Morning Tee Off

picture of the golf 7
a good walk wasted

When Evan dropped dead in front of his golfing foursome, Frank responded quickly.

With his brand new E. Vogel Palmer golf shoes, he nudged Evan, and turned him over.  “Damn!” Frank cursed, looking down at the grass around Evan. “Now I have grass stains.  Damn.”

Clem interrupted. “Well, you insisted on a morning tee-off time. Wet grass is always brutal then."

All looked down at Evan’s still body.

Jack spoke up. “Who will be our fourth?!  It isn’t likely Evan will be regenerated anytime soon.”

Frank shook his head.  “No help for it.  Let’s head back to the clubhouse after we play the next hole.  We’ll tell the Front Desk about Evan.” He nudged Evan once more with a heavy sigh.


This is a 2015 re-post with some re-writing.  Underlined words are from Wednesday Words, developed by Delores as a way for writers to challenge themselves.
  
I really love using words that have absolutely no connection to each other.


Friday, April 12, 2019

Shelves and Shelves of Bottles




1st Writes Photo


Over the years, Helen had dusted the shelves for her Great-Aunt Elspeth.  At first Helen could reach only the bottom shelf, and Aunt Elspeth had praised her. 

“Oh, what a magnificent job you have done!  Someday,” Aunt Elspeth had pointed to the very top shelf, “you will reach that shelf!  I will let you choose the bottle you love the most!”

Each time Helen polished and cleaned the shelves, she gazed at the bottles so far out of her reach.  ‘Someday…’  One time Helen would favor the green bottle, but the next time she dusted, she desired the pink bottle.

Years stacked up in numbers as Helen grew and she could dust the next shelf, and then the next.  Which one would she choose?  The blue?  The violet?  So lovely, so hard to decide.

When Helen could just almost reach the shelf, Aunt Elspeth dropped dead right in front of her. Dead, darn dead.

By this time, Helen was now grown as much as she ever would; she was a mother with a small child.  As she closed the eyes of her now-deceased aunt, Helen smiled gently.

Then Helen found a sturdy stool and a box.  She stepped onto the stool and stood level with the shelf.  Gazing fondly at each bottle, Helen sighed.  

Reaching carefully, Helen spoke loudly, “One?  Hell, I’m going to take them all!”



Re-post from 2011. Some posts still make me smile. 



Tuesday, April 9, 2019

Kindle Windle Valentine

Gone walking

Kindle Windle Valentine

Went looking for something
He could not find.
It need not be something gentle or kind.
But something where the road would wind,

Which would be just fine.

Kindle Windle Valentine stumbled and fumbled,
Then rose to his feet.
Questions to complete,
Questions in his mind that rumbled and tumbled,

Should he seek a world for believers?
Should he seek a place for dreamers?
Should he seek a space of solidarity?
Should he seek a dance of clarity?…

With hands on his hips, a whistle on his lips,

Kindle Windle Valentine

Was undone, then done by all his searching
with thoughts in his mind.
He was tired of walking and working,
To find a place of comfort he would find.

Which was where he started,

Which was just fine.

The underlined words are from a Wednesday Words in 2015. Delores of Mumblings created this as a way to break writer's block, to toss out a challenge in writing.


This tumbled and rumbled in my mind and this stumbled out.


Friday, April 5, 2019

Age of Not Believing



I've never let anyone talk me into not believing in myself. Muhammad Ali Quotes
Quotes
Rush in hopeless circles
Searching for truth,

At the age of not believing 
Make-believe is gone.

Set aside heroes,
Put imagination on a shelf.

All has become an

Age of not believing,
And self doubting. 

 A Castaway
No one hears.

A barren isle 
On a lonely sea.

Where are endings with smiles?

Where did those dreams go ?

Face
The age of not believing.

Face
All that was ever known.

Start believing.

Something
Marvelous can be true.





Bedknobs and Broomsticks was a favorite of my family and I still love it.
Angela Lancaster is 93 yrs. old and apparently still feisty.

Monday, April 1, 2019

Up, Up, Up in the Sky


This is a photo prompt provided in 2015 by Delores

Flying in this yellow box with wings and engine, Melba smoothed her new silk dress.  It cost her $600, the new purse $400. Dammit! I've saved for this moment, I deserve this!

When her long-time beau, Clarence, decided to take her up in his brother's plane, Melba hesitated.  James was an okay pilot, she had been told.

After a spectacular loop and bank, Clarence turned to her with a giant diamond ring in hand, "Will you marry me, Mel?"

Melba looked at him in a daze.  She opened her $400 handbag.  "Blaaah!" as she threw up in it and all over her dress.

It was a moment to remember.

Re-post, changed and rewritten, September 2015