The Post Office is killing itself

I will freely admit I do not know what the solution is to the Post Office's financial problems.  But I suspect decreasing service is not it.  The general reaction from industries facing full or partial extinction is to accelerate their own demise. 

If the Post Office delays delivery, customers will find alternatives.  Timely delivery isn't that important for the holiday cards and the few letters I write.  But it is of utmost importance for companies like Netflix and weekly magazine purveyors.  It is also important for people who send their bill payments via snail mail.  The calculation of when to mail a bill payment for timely delivery just became more complicated.  Once people have found an alternative, they are not going to return to the Post Office. 

I don't receive much personal mail.  I get the majority of my bills via e-mail.  And I resent the companies that do not offer me that option.  I order books frequently from Amazon and some of those arrive via postal delivery, but many are delivered by FedEx or UPS.  And now that I have purchased a Kindle, I will be buying fewer physical books.  I am part of the problem.

Newspapers are following the same path.  They decry the loss of readership, but offer less and less to those of us still subscribing.  The newspaper I get now, in a major metropolitan area, is thinner on several days a week than the newspaper I grew up with.  A small time newspaper.

Nor does it help the newspaper's plight that it refers people to the internet for more information.  Once a person gets into the habit of going to the internet for their news, their affinity for print news lessens. 

Formerly successful industries are fated to be destroyed by our rapidly changing technology.  Records are replaced by MP3 except by collectors and purists.  Pay phones have all but disappeared, the need replaced by ever cheaper cell phones.  Land lines themselves are becoming rarer.  Personal checks are being supplanted by debit cards and on-line banking. 

I don't know the solution, if there is one.  I know I would not return to sending and receiving my bill payments through the mail.  Nor would I give up my cell phone to save the pay phone industry.

Technology advances, cultures change, and industries become obsolete.  When was the last time you needed coal delivered to stoke your furnace?

Bird house?

As is my general habit, I left the patio door open the other afternoon,   Why?  Well, there are very few bugs in AZ. And Angel can barrel out the patio door easier than she can the doggy door.  And the door sticks.  And I like to hear the birds chirping in the yard.

I put food out for the birds, then go upstairs to sit at the computer desk and check e-mail.  I hear a bird hit the window.  Again.  I ponder why a dozen twirlies and wind chimes hanging from the patio roof aren't enough to keep the birds from flying under it.

I hear an odd noise and see the dogs looking up, both in the same direction.  I see nothing.  Peripherally, I sense movement, but I still see nothing.

I hear another window strike.  This one is loud.  And coming from the living room.  I realize there is a bird  in the house.

I walk downstairs and a sparrow is fluttering against the south transom window in the living room.  Dust is flying everywhere.  (In my defense, the transom is 10 feet off the ground.) The windows are dusty and rain-spotted enough that the sparrow should realize it is a solid object.  But it can see the sky.  And it wants out.

I approached carefully, slowly, and the bird, of course, flies away.  Further into the house.

I open the window under the transom.  Most of the windows have screens, which are a hassle to remove.  So I only have the patio door and the one window open for the sparrow's escape. But it's a big window.

I follow the bird around the house, trying to either catch it, or encourage it to go outside.  It lands on the north transom window, bumping the glass.  It flies back upstairs, first into one bedroom, where it lands on a picture frame.  Then into the studio, where it tries to catch an edge on the peg board frame, then sits on the floor for a moment.

Angel is following me up and down the stairs.  She wants to see this creature I am pursuing and tries to enter the studio.  I fear the sparrow will become a feathery snack, and warn her to stay back.  Peanut, not liking hub bub of any sort, stays hunkered down in the loft. 

I think, maybe the sparrow is tired enough to catch.  I approach, but it flies back downstairs and hits the south transom again.  Less hard.  The sparrow is tiring.  But still, hitting the window again had to hurt.

When I approach, it flies upstairs again.  I can't find it upstairs despite checking every room.  I sense it fly past me again on its way downstairs.  Too tired to fly up to the transom, it finally discovers the open window and escapes.

I thought.

The dogs and I watch a little TV.  We go to bed.  I go to work.  I come home and refill the bird feeder. I reenter the house, through the open patio door.

The sparrow flies up onto the transom ledge again.  This time, there is no window strike.  Just a graceful, careful landing.    It appears that the sparrow did not escape after all.   Either that or it came back inside, which doesn’t seem likely.  I have no idea where it may have spent the night.  Somewhere high.  Maybe hiding among the beanie babies?

Puzzled, I open the south window again.  This time I also open the front door.  I tell Angel that No, she can't go outside.  I walk to the south wall.  The sparrow flies to the north transom.  It really has the hang of this landing process now.

We do this a again, back to the south window, then to north window.  When the sparrow is on the north window, I walk toward it from the side.  Instead of flying away high, it flies low.  And discovers the open door.

The sparrow gets outside and lands on the rocks just past the entryway.  It looks around tilting its head from side to side.  It pecks at the rocks.  I imagine it is amazed to find the outside world again.

I close the screen on the front door.  I close the patio door and the south window.  When I come back to the front door, the sparrow is still standing there. Just looking around.  Angel comes to stand next to me and the sparrow flies away.

Now it has a scary story to tell its birdie friends.

Irritating trainer

I recently had some sessions with a corrective trainer at the gym.  It's been three weeks since my last session, but I am still irritated.

I signed up for the discount priced 5 sessions because I was convinced she could show me how to alleviate the considerable pain in my neck and the worrisome weakness in my right knee.  And she did.  Within the first 2 sessions.  And for that, I thank her.

What I do not thank her for is the disparaging and condescending attitude she had.  My next three sessions were spent listening to her diss the fitness choices I've made.

When I rejoined the gym in February, I was evaluated by a trainer who felt I was pretty strong and very determined. 

Cut to 7 months later and this trainer tells me it's a miracle that I can make it through one Body Combat class, much less the 4 classes a week that I take.  Apparently, I am a walking disaster despite working out. 

I pointed out that I enjoy the classes and they keep me motivated.  Her response?  She said a trainer could keep me motivated. When I replied I cannot afford a trainer, she suggested I hire a trainer for twice a month.

Now, in what world does a trainer twice a month equal the motivation of a class taken 4 times a week?  I pointed out - again - that I enjoy the Combat classes and the cardio has decreased my blood pressure and cholesterol. 

She actually shrugged and told me that eating right would solve my cholesterol problem.  Which is contrary to what my doctor told me. I didn't bother to point out that the foods she was suggesting I eat are migraine triggers. 

As for my cardio requirements, she suggested the stair stepper, which has to be the most boring, painful exercise device ever created! 

Many of her statements are suspect because I know differently. 

As in, Body Pump does not work the triceps.  Fact, each time I’ve taken the class, there has been a triceps track.  I agree that it is possible to injure yourself.  But there is just as much possibility when doing exercises on the machines or the floor without trainer supervision. 

As in, the calorie burning benefits of Body Combat expire immediately after the class ends. Fact, I read a recent study that states otherwise.

As in, the classes work the same muscles every time.  Fact, the classes change quarterly.  The tracks are varied to work both arms and legs.  The instructors modify the classes weekly.  These classes are much more varied than working a routine on the machines without a trainer.

Even after I made it clear I would not be buying more training sessions, she denigrated the Les Mills Body Combat, Body Attack, and Body Pump classes as being hard on the joints and bad for you.  She grudgingly admitted that RPM and Body Flow were "okay".

Mind you, this is a trainer who works in a gym featuring the Les Mills classes.  A gym that spends considerable time and money preparing and promoting those classes. 

I know personal trainer have a bias against fitness classes, but this left a bad aftertaste.

Home repair misadventure

So, I was sitting at my desk in the loft on a telework day and the broken window blinds started bothering me.  One string had broken and the slats listed drunkenly on the right.  I keep forgetting to check from outside, but I imagine it isn't an attractive look.

Let me set the scene first.  The window is fronted by a custom made counter just shy of 3 feet high with drawers underneath and bookshelves on either side of the window.  The counter covers the bottom 8 inches of the window.  The bookshelves overlap the window by 6 inches on either side.  So the blinds are a bit boxed in.  Add to that the 1993 Magnavox television sitting on top of the counter in front of the window.

Now.  The blind damage isn't recent.  The string has been broken for a few weeks.  But today I decided to remove them, figuring no blinds would look better than defective blinds.  I got a folding chair and used it to step up onto the counter to reach the blinds.  I was standing on the counter with a foot on either side of the television.  I had a little trouble getting the blind latches loose, but I finally managed.

While trying to maneuver the blinds from behind the bookshelves, I pulled on them.  The blinds came from behind the shelving more suddenly than I expected.  I slipped off the counter, missed the chair and landed on my butt on the floor.  Unhurt.  Empty-handed.

The blinds ended up on the floor next to me, scattering a thick cloud of dust and broken plastic parts all over the loft.  And the TV fell face down on the floor.  It fell slowly and may have been deflected by my body.  Nonetheless, it ended up on the floor.

I vacuumed and dusted off the fallout.  I threw the blinds away.  Also the folding chair was damaged, torn and bent. Either the television or I must have hit it. So the chair went into the garbage as well. 

The TV.  Well, that was a problem.  It’s a large CRT television.  Weight alone probably wouldn’t be a problem, but weight and bulk is.  I couldn't lift it from floor to counter.  I thought maybe I could raise it in stages.  First I moved it to a foot stool about 14" high.  And took a break, partly because I was winded and partly because I was due at the vet.

The vet took longer than I anticipated and I was annoyed.  The annoyance seemed to give me strength.  I got home and tried to move the TV to stage two, an armed chair 2 feet high.

I only got it partway onto the chair.  As I was standing there holding the TV to keep it from slipping off its precarious, partial hold on the chair, I managed to muscle it onto the counter.  Whew! 

Not brave enough to try the television yet, I had a sandwich out on the patio. Courage and energy restored, I came back to the loft and turned on the TV.

And it worked!  A 3 foot drop and it still works!

Illogical advertising irritates me

Maybe the illogic of some advertising doesn't bother other people, but it bothers me.  I find myself distracted from the message or turned against the advertiser.

Now I don't mean deliberate illogic or fantasy.  I'm pretty sure there isn't a real Kebbler elf, or a Direct TV football fairy.  What bothers me is the presentation of a situation as realistic, that really isn't.

I don't know how many of these may be local ads. If you haven't heard of these, my apologies.

There are the Titan Auto Insurance television commercials.  There is a Titan bobble-head on the car dashboard.  If the driver has never heard of Titan Insurance, how did the bobble-head get into the car?

There is a Lasik radio ad (probably local) where a man and a woman are discussing Lasik as if he has never heard anything about it.  She has had the procedure and tells him all about it.  He even asks her about the cost.  Then he asks if they can afford it.  Sure, we can.  It now appears this is husband and wife.  So why doesn't he know anything about her surgery?

There is the billboard that advertises "Faster ER wait times".  Now how do they accomplish that?  Is there  a time distortion field in the waiting room?  Shouldn't someone who makes a living off words realized that the wait times are "Shorter", not "Faster"?

My latest irritant is a radio commercial for a baby sitter verification service.  The kids brag to Mom that the baby sitter let them watch the blocked channels.

Now - from the kids voices, they were old enough to know better than to squeal to Mom.  They know they will never get to watch blocked channels again if Mom doesn't hire this particular baby sitter.

And who gave the baby sitter the code for the parental controls?  Mom, that's who.  So who is really responsible for this transgression.  Yep, Mom. 

I have a friend who has had his fill of Flo from Progressive and the Geico gecko.  I like both of these advertising icons.  So I guess what irritates one person charms another.

But these irritate the crap out of me.

My dogs and I

A friend gave me a gift card to PetSmart for my birthday, saying "I know your dogs are your life."

I was flattered, and the gift was awesome.  Especially since I needed pill pockets for Peanut's daily medication.

And yes, my dogs are very important to me. In case you haven't visited before, I have two dogs; a 10-year old shepherd/schnauzer mix and a 3 year old shepherd/dane mix.  They are my family, my constant companions.  Until I thought about it, I didn't realize how much my life revolved around them.

We have a family vet, an orthopedic vet, and a cardiology vet.  I'm not sure it's a good thing when the people at the veterinary office recognize your voice on the phone.

I make sunrise trips to the grocery store in the summer so they can ride along before it gets too warm.  I even split up my grocery trips so I can take them both on Saturday and Sunday.  And somehow they know which days are ride along days.  They hang their heads out of the window and Angel drools all over the side of the car.

I make a quick trip home from work to change for the gym because I want to ensure they are okay.  And I want them to know that I am okay, before I leave them alone again.  I talk to them as if they can understand, and I think that some of what I say they do understand.

These are shedding dogs, so there is dog hair everywhere, regardless of how often I brush them.  No one visits my house, or rides in my car, without being warned about the hair.  You wear black at my house at your own risk.

I buy way too many treats and chews, both to reward them for good behavior and to keep them entertained while I am away at work, or trying to work at home.  There are toys and chews scattered all over the house and yard.  Walking around the house in the dark can be a challenge.

There is a loveseat facing the upstairs window looking out over our street so Peanut can watch out over her kingdom in comfort.  The loveseat is covered with the latest in fluffy comforters because Angel ate the stuffing out of both the loveseat and the previous comforter.    My sister keeps me supplied with comforters picked up at thrift shops.

The king-sized bed should have room for all three of us. Peanut curls up daintily taking up very little room.  Angel sprawls out on her side with her legs spread across the bed. I generally end up scrunched against the head board.  I wake up to a soft damp nose in my face and two dogs eager to be petted.

And I love it.

I have roof.

I spent almost all day Monday listening to the dogs bark at the roofers and the roofers hammering above my head.

And it was heavenly. 

That night it was windy and rainy.  Not that I got any of that rain.  But the nice part was, I didn't mind if I did.

Because I have roof.

The degree of relief I felt once I had a completed roof surprised me.  I hadn't realized how tense I got every time it got windy, or whenever it got cloudy.

Now I don't have to worry about the tarp blowing off.  I don't have to worry about rain damaging the structural integrity of the roof.  I don't have to worry. 

Because I have roof.