HOW SMART IS SMART?

Welcome to my 21st century life.  I have been resisting the temptation to acquire a "smart" phone.  It was mainly a prejudice against manufactured, artificial intelligence.  I have problems enough with "smart" alecs that I was avoiding contact with anything that might come close to resembling "alecs."  But then, "Bozo" that I am, I did something that made me reconsider my position.
It was a cold and blustery day.  I mean, really cold.  Not just SoCal "cold", but PQ cold.  Something 28 degrees at 7 in the evening.  Yes, we have been getting some of that this year.  In fact, we have some of it right now.  So, to continue my truth is stranger than fiction story.  It was a cold and blustery day, so I put on my flannel, floppy "hoodie."  This on top of two tee shirts, a thicker than usual long sleeved shirt, a sweat shirt and the Hoodie.  I did what I had to do and upon my return decided to do the laundry that was starting to get passed the stage of usual and ordinary volume.  I therefore threw the clothes that I was wearing into the washing machine, went for the rest of the batch of the matching shades of color.  All filled up.  Hot water? On.  Cold water? On. Batch size setting? On.  Water temp setting? On.  Soap? Done.  Whitener? Done.  Cover? Down. Speed? Set.  Timer?  Set.  All systems - "Go!"

15 minutes later, I had the need to text someone.  I started to look for my phone.  I spent 10 minutes looking for it.  I could not call it because I was alone in the house.  The Voice from the Kitchen was at work.  I heard the washer come to a stop after the rinse cycle.  It was then that I knew where my phone was...and now you know too...Stercus Equi!  Sure enough!  As I was transfering the spun-dry clothes from the washer to the dryer, I found my phone.  So, I put it in the dryer too, even though I was absoutely sure that it could not be revived.

After all of that, I remembered that I had a "free upgrade" on the cell phone account.  I went online, saw that there was a "Smart phone" available for "free."  After some dutiful due diligence, I found that because of the fact that we have a WiFi system in the house and that WiFi systems are quasi ubiquitous, I (we) could actually afford the "Free" upgrade.  So far, so good.
Here below,a humorous exchange between me and a relative:
"Sent from my Windows Phone"
Me:  Hey,'j'a notice I got a smart phone?
Response: I did not notice you now have a smart phone.
Me: I will have to live 10 more years so I can learn how to use it!
Response:  Kinda makes you wonder how smart your phone really is.....should be easy.

Me:Yes, dear, my phone is smarter that I am, but with any amount of luck, I will out live it.

Now, a humorous, true story about how I treat cell phones,smart or otherwise.

1. 2 years ago, when I was sicker than I normally am,  my phone fell off my night table into the container that I was using to measure my daily urine output.  Of course, this happened at the end of the day...sooo... I drowneded it! :-(

2. 3 weeks ago I wore a woolen jacket/hoodie, loose fitting contraption and had my phone in the pocket.  When I got home, I did the laundry, including the hoodie and the ph...oooo...nnnn ... Oh, S...!

What makes this funny and not disastrous is that since we have five phones on our account...there's usually at least one that is up for free upgrade...I, none other than I, am at the head of the account.  So I jumped on the Internet, found a free smartphone, and voila!  Just to prove that, "Tout ce qui va mal ne tourne pas en merde!"

So, now I have a phone that is smarter than I.  But, I keep it honest, because I showed it  where I keep the piss bucket!

Do you think I should tell this story on "365..."  It's very true, without a single syllable of exaggeration. :-)

Response: Judging by the past, you will outlive your phone.  Blog or no blog.....that is the question.  Don't know...

Me:  Blog or no blog?  Hmmm...  Gotta admit though,it is a funny story.

Response: I will admit, it's funny!  What the heck, go for it, but don't tell anyone I sanctioned it.

                    Pseudo me

Me: I'll pseudo you!;-)

          Sent from my Windows Phone

That, my loving friends, is the story of my new "smart phone."  It was not smart enough to avoid being acquired by me.

POTATOES AND BREAD WITH SPAGHETTI -- yyummmm

I have to tell you a little story about how well some people travel and about how hard it is for some people to accommodate to the change in culture from one country to another.   Actually it is more about food than anything else.  As you go along through the story you will think of other things that are difficult to switch on and off in our fundamental cultural DNA.
There are places in North America, Europe and South America where it is but a short walk away to another cultural mind set.  In Southern California, for example, it is but a stone's throw away to go from sliced bread to tortillas, beans and soccer on the southern end and from Bourbon horse racing and baseball to Rye whiskey and hockey, on the northern end.
Europe and Asia offer similar challenges to those who live there.  The challenges are greater when North Americans or Asians go to Europe and experience three or four culinary cultural changes in a two week period.  This is a short story about a two week period of exposure to one single cultural change.  Mainly from rice to pasta.
Not from rice to USA style, once a month or so of spaghetti and meatballs, but from rice, the staple, to pasta the staple.
"When are they going to stop serving pasta?"
"They won't stop serving pasta."
"I've had too much already."
"If you were Italian, you'd quickly get sick of rice at every meal."
"Oh, but everyone loves 'pancit" and 'lumpia.'"
"Those are not Filipino staples.  Rice is the Filipino staple, just as potatoes are the staple of many european countries and pasta is the staple of the Italians."
"Well, maybe I'll just stick with bread."
"Good idea."

Have you ever been to the Middle East?  The food is tasty and delicious.  Rice is the staple, along with bread.  Hummus is everywhere, all the time.  Here, you can have my share of that.  Fish, dried and salted, fresh and pickled [your choice] for breakfast.  I love pickled fish for breakfast.  So do the Swedes and the Norwegians from what I have heard.  I guess it all depends how you were brought up.

Like for instance, did you ever ask yourself why you would eat bread, potatoes and spaghetti at the same sitting?  Isn't that a bit too much starch?  We do it all the time, right?  Get a "Big Mac" with double cheese and a large fries.  Now listen, I will take Balut and rice anytime over the Big Mac.  I just heard ten people choking over that last one.  Choke all you want.  I just saw ten Japanese running toward the seaweed (Nori) and sweet rice rolls before punching in their PIN number for a vending machine can of Sapporo beer.

You realize, of course, that we could go on all day talking about these things.  So I'll let you off the hook here.  I will go home now to enjoy my oxtail stew with banana hearts, bitter melon cooked in a crushed peanut broth/sauce.

YES, VIRGINIA THERE IS AT LEAST ONE LEFT-HANDED BARBER ON EARTH

In eight years I have yet to encounter a good barber in Moreno Valley, California.  In truth, there is hardly anything good that I have encountered in Moreno Valley.  I have a good computer geek, guy; there is a good bakery where the Mexican bread is delicious and baked in batches all day long; there is a good liquor store [that's not as easy to find as it may seem] and lastly, it is a stroke of good fortune that 99% of gasoline stations are self service these days.  My last encounter with a barber was this morning, January 12, 2013, Pacific Standard time in the U.S.  The saving grace about this barber is that he is left handed.  Now, you may say, "Ha, so what?  10% of the human population on planet earth is left handed."  Go ahead, scoff, sputter and stamp your feet, but left handed barbers are rare.  The proof?  I have had, at last count, at least 1,000 haircuts from no less than at least 50 hair cutters, just to be brutally and honestly conservative.  Furthermore, I spent 15 minutes googling for a picture of this human phenomenon and found the ONE that you have above.  I went through at least 100 pages of search in "images" and no matter what I wrote, most of what I kept getting were pictures of barbers shears made for left handers.  No way was I going to use one of those silly pictures.  What does that prove?  So Wiss makes left handed shears for barbers to stuff museum cases around world.  Whoopie.  Show me the barber.
So, this morning I went to get a haircut.  I do that only at times when I feel absolutely compelled by my very loose social conscience to do it.  You now know that the person who cut my hair is left handed.  As an aside, it shows.  Never again.  At least not to that left handed hair cutter.  So, that's what I get for discovering a left handed hair cutter in Moreno Valley.   Double Whammy, that!  The left handed person who cut my hair this morning is not now and never will be a barber.  Not within the parameters of my definition of "barber."  I didn't really realize it while still in front of the barber shop mirrors.  It could have been the uncontrolled giggles and outright laughter of the Voice from The Kitchen that turned me on to the reality of what my coconut looks like now.  But hey, my loose social conscience, my "insouciance" about my personal aspect helps me to laugh it off and say, "What the hell!  It'll grown back in and in a month or so, I'll go somewhere else...like to my Chaldean brethren in San Diego."  They're all right handed and, they are all barbers...even the Vietnamese woman who rents one of their spaces.
Eight years I am in Moreno Valley and no good barber can I find here.
Wait until you hear what happened to me at the doctor's office four days ago!  
Let me tell you, with a sense of humor and a warped mind, it sure is fun getting old!

I AM NOT OLD, I AM JUST SLOW

I know I have been away for a long time.  It is because I am doing my best to meet a deadline.  It happens to me every year at this time.  I have this historic event that I spearhead at the church.  It demands a lot of my time and it occupies my grey matter for 12 months of the year.  So, I do not have much time to write.  Now, things have happened that I just have to get off my chest.  So, I have decided to give myself some down time for some R&R.
The other day I had to go to the doctor.  Actually, I really did not have a medical reason to go.  I was just celebrating the one preventative visit that medicare gives me every year.  At that rate, the US is not going to win any prizes for giving its citizens a chance to reach old age.  It costs more to get old in the US than anywhere else in the "first world."  That's perhaps why we are not first on the life expectancy charts.  But that's not a disappointment for me.  I'm happy with what I got.  Besides, I'm not really that old.  I found out today that in the mobile home park where we live these days, there are 28 residents who are over the age of 90.
Most of them live alone.  Only three are not ambulatory.  Two are on the  neighborhood watch patrol team.  
I don't know about 90, but I do know that when we go to the weekday morning Mass where there are about 150 people in attendance, not less than ten of them are at least 80.  All of them but one or two still drive.

So, I am going to the doctor.  It is exactly 1 short mile away.  By short, I mean it is exactly 1, not 1.2.  I know because when I was incapacitated  a couple years ago, measured it with the odometer of the car.  So, since we have but the one car, and since the Voice from the Kitchen is also the Wallet of the family, I assured her that I would be comfortable walking while she used the car to go to the office.
So I did.  Naturally, before leaving I took my precautions, just as my mother always told me to do.  I combed my hair; blew my nose; left that handerkerchief home and put a clean one into my pocket and finally made it to the ceramics near the door and then, and only then did I hit the pavement.  [Yes, I still use white handkerchiefs.]
I checked the satellite time on my shiny new smartphone.  12:45 it said.
I take off with a smart, snappy stride.  I'm really hauling it.  The wind is whistling in my ears and I'm having a hard time keeping my hair in order.  [Yes, I still have hair.]  I check the traffic.  Wow, the street is barren of autos.  I boldly jump off the curb and fly across the typical California four lane city street.  Now I am on the correct side of the street and it will be smooth sailing all the way to the sawbone's office.  I'll tell you, I am snapping stercorem.  I get there in no time.  So fast that I could hardly enjoy the scenery in the bright SoCal sunshine.  I don't slowdown as I approach the door.  A quick glance at the box where the Los Angeles Times is usually sitting there waiting for me to drop my heard earned $ in search of the crossword puzzle is empty.  Rats!  I go through the door and I remind myself that the mile has been covered.  I reach into my pocket to ascertain by how much I had surpassed the open air walking mile record.  
KKEERRRASSSHHH!  13:15 is sitting there smiling back at me --- 30 MINUTES!  What a disaster!  What a calamity!  What ever happened to my 12 minute mile?  Where did my 5 kilometers per hour go?  I know it was around here somewhere.  Oh, my!   I still have not accepted it.  I still think that the satellite was wrong that day.
Maybe so, but I admit, I am afraid to put the satellite to the test.  I think I'll just lie down and have a little snooze.  Maybe I'll get my speed back that way.

I put this here so that I would be sure that you found this humerus!

AN IRISH BLESSING -- REALLY?

"22 Yahweh spoke to Moses and said,
23 Speak to Aaron and his sons and say: This is how you must bless the Israelites. You will say:
24 May Yahweh bless you and keep you.
25 May Yahweh let his face shine on you and be gracious to you.
26 May Yahweh show you his face and bring you peace.
27 This is how they must call down my name on the Israelites, and then I shall bless them."  [Exodus, Chapter 6]

And all the time you thought that came from Waterford so that they could make the best crystal in the world!  Gotcha there.  Turns out that God forgot the part about the "wind bein' at yer back" and the "road always risin' before you," the "sun always bein' warm upon yer face," and the "rain fallin' softly upon yer fields."  I do admit that I like the whole thing.  When I heard the God part of the blessing this morning, I was rather happy that God had beaten the Irish to the punch.  It would be hard for a Canuck like me to have to admit that God hadn't thought of it first.  But then again I figured that at least there's no argument about who made up the "Our Father."

As I was sitting there I was thinking, "Why was it the shepherds who got the news of the birth of Jesus first?"  Imagine, shepherds.  Of course maybe it was because there they were in the middle of the night, the only ones awake and alert.  That's their job.  Caring for sheep, not for themselves.  Does that sound like someone you know?  So, right from the first moment, we know why God has come among us.  To serve.  To stay awake.  To care for others.  The King of Kings doesn't show himself to those on earth who consider themselves to be high and mighty.  He shows Himself first to the lowly and makes them look up into the heavens to see the angels before they look down and see Him in the manger -- the feeding trough that the shepherds use to take care of the animals entrusted to them.  

French Frog that I am, I sat there listening to the Bible reading at Mass this morning and was thinking about the blessing that was dictated by Yahweh.  I thought about the shepherds and then thought about the prayer dictated by God's Son, the Our Father.
I thought I was doing well, but then my French caught up to me and I had a fancy answer to the Shepherd question.  Hang in there with me now. I know that there aren't too many of you out there who can follow this, but that's OK.  I want to show you my silly mind at work.
Shepherd in French is BERGER.
To give shelter to someone in french is ÉBERGER.
So, Jesus born in a shepherd's shelter in a shepherd's feeding trough had to give the first nod to the shepherds, right?  After all, He was in their house.
Now if I could only find out why everyone thinks there was a cow there too.  The ass is no problem since that is the beast of burden who was galant enough to make Mary's trip a trifle more bearable.  But a cow, in a shepherd's cave?  Hmmm?

That's my French lesson to you for a while.