What ISN'T My Pin Number?

Remember that class where the teacher showed this optical illusion about how different people may see the same thing differently?:




Some people immediately see an old woman with a bump on her nose looking down.  Some people immediately see the side profile of a younger lady facing left but looking to her right .  Eventually, after studying the image and maybe with some guidance, both groups see both pictures.


They just had to change the way they immediately saw things.  That was the lesson to be learned from this literal illustration . . . in third grade!


Today, it's hokey.  It's old-fashioned.  It's irrelevant.  And it's not an Ipad so  . . . I'm not interested.  But this weekend, I guess it came in handy.


Saturday,  I was so engrossed in something, I lost track of time and had to rush out the door to meet my buddies downtown.  And I needed cash in case we were in a cash only situation at a private club or something.  So a pit stop was mandatory.

Anytime I am in a full blown leave-now-or-die rush, something is forgotten.  Usually it's my Chapstick, my eye drops, or my reading glasses.  

If my Spidey sense starts tingling, I've neglected something else .  . . important.  I just don't know what.   But I figure it out miles later when it's categorically inconvenient and I need whatever it is I forgot.

I got that feeling three miles or so out from my pad.  I dismissed it.  I figured it was  me second guessing myself.

Wrong.

Several miles later, when I'm at the Ingles self-checkout with a hand full of  groceries,  I scan my loyalty card and I figure out what that Spidey sense was.  I forgot my wallet!

I curse myself.  I'm already late.  I call my friends, tell them the deal,  and back track all the way back home to grab my wallet.

When I get back to the same Ingles with my wallet, I scan my items, pull out my debit card and an unfortunate piece of randomness happens.   I can't remember my PIN number!

I've used this same PIN number sometimes several times per day, several times per week, for several months and several years.

But my brain decides to play hide-and-seek with it.   Of course, I can't will the PIN number into my brain's focus.  

I do the trick of pantomiming the PIN digits on the card reader with my fingers.   Maybe the habitual pattern will trigger my brain to reveal it.

Nothing.  

Then I basically flush two of my three access opportunities down the toilet.  I pop in two bad guesses.   One more attempt and we know what happens.  The bank has that safety measure to block the card after three failed attempts.  

Then all would be lost.  I wouldn't be able to at least  use the card as a credit card.  I'd be cashless and cardless! 

Aargh!

Luckily, I needed zero cash that night.  I convinced myself I had the PIN number at my pad and would simply retrieve it the next morning.  

I tore my place apart. Nothing.

The thought of going through the process of getting another PIN number was unpleasant.  Having to go to the bank in person for cash, request another PIN, wait for the PIN to arrive in the mail, remember a new PIN . . . It's a pain in the ass!

I was determined I would find a way to remember it.  That PIN number would reveal itself or . . . Or nothing.  

No "or".  No options.  The PIN number would reveal itself.  Period.

I did a Google image search for an  'ATM keypad'.   Instead of racking my brain for what IS my PIN number, I switched it to what ISN'T my PIN number.  

I went to Ingles' self-check again.  I scanned my items,  slid my debit card through the card reader,  popped in the numbers I had convinced myself a third and final time was my PIN number, held my breath  and . . .   APPROVED!

I even did a little fist pump which probably got a raised eyebrow from the person behind me.  And like any random episode of 'The Brady Bunch',  I learned a few valuable lessons:

1)  Changing the WAY I look at/for something can make all the difference in the world.   

2)  That little voice that says something else is missing has NEVER been wrong.

and maybe most important:

3)  Be ready way earlier to cut down on the rushing around and forgetting stuff in the first damn place!  Geez!

White Noise

Thanks to a lot of things, not the least of which includes our BAD economy, I now have a mortgage versus rent. It's a cookie-cutter condo. So it still feels like an apartment.  


And I'm actually OK with that.  That's why I chose the top floor.  I didn't want to deal with a noisy neighbor.  


Although I have ended up paying for some furniture choices that weren't half the battle they are now.  The apartment had an elevator and community trolley for transporting humungous items to my third floor abode.


This place does not.  I've had to pay for human movers.  (Although, that is certainly one way to get a guy with muscles in my place.  *wink*)


With the exception of spotting the occasional hottie by the pool each Summer, I don't miss the pool. I certainly don't miss the community laundry. And I absolutely don't miss the rented white walls.


And therein lies the dilemma: the white space above my tv that screams to be occupied! It's kind of like. . . a virgin. It can't be any ole thing.  I want my wall's "first time" to be. . . special:

• I can't slap a poster of some random pop star up there like I did 20+ years ago. I'm an adult!

• I definitely can't thumb tack some random hot centerfold up there like I did 15+ years ago. I'm a grown-up!

• I absolutely can't put a shirtless pic of Dwayne 'the Rock' Johnson up there like I did 1+ DAYS ago . . . I may be an adult but I'm  not wealthy.  I can't miss work because I'm on the sofa in a trance staring at him.

So what the hell goes up there?


A big wall clock?  Boring.


A super cool painting?  Yawn.


A deer head?  Eww.


While I don't have any easy answers just yet, I certainly have a a couple of ideas.  I always have ideas.  And I take comfort in knowing that the white space can stay white for all I care.  


It's my wall.  I'm not renting it.  And as long as it's my wall, it's nice knowing my options aren't so limited this time.  

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Your ATM May Try To Kill You!

You've heard how important it is to use your ATM during the daylight!  Don't hang out openly counting your money!  Go with a group of people!  Go in a public area!  


Otherwise, criminals may seize the opportunity to mug you.   And they may hurt you, or God forbid, kill you,  in the process.

But on rare occasions, a late evening trip to the ATM is unavoidable. Same precautions as daylight  except add " only use an ATM in a well lit area."

That rare occasion presents itself.  You check your wallet and curse yourself because you have zero cash.  

You get in your car. You spot an ATM. It's a lonely, creepy statistic waiting to happen.  


It's lit.  Barely. A couple of lights are busted.

You pull your car in as close to the ATM as possible without scraping your car door.  The idea is to get as sheer to the ATM as possible so a mugger can't get between you and the ATM.

But of course, you can't get as close as you'd really like to.  


Perhaps, one of those pylons to protect the ATM  is cocked out a bit.  Maybe the curb the ATM sits on juts out too far.  Maybe your car door height and the ATM height is too far off.  

Who the hell knows what it will be?  But I can assure you that 9 times out of 10 there will be SOMETHING that keeps more distance than you are comfortable with between you and that ATM!  You have to literally extend everything from your waist to your skull outside the car door.

So you hurry up and wrestle your debit card out your pocket, your wallet, your purse, your Murse, whatever, and do a quick survey of your surroundings.   You want to make sure nobody is lurking around the ATM to attack!  


Once the window is down, you place your debit card in the ATM.  . . .


This is when your ATM tries to kill you!!!

You see in daylight, ATMs work three times faster than at night.  I know that sounds silly.   Yes.  Research proves daytime and nighttime operations match. 

However,  ATMs at lonely, creepy places at night seem to take their sweet time and 'mess' with you in an attempt to get your ass mugged and hurt or killed in the process!


Let's take a look at the evidence, shall we?  Since I am exquisitely familiar with the role, I will refer to myself as the victim . . . poor me:

(1) It knows who I am when I pop the card in.  But it still wants my PIN number!


Hello Mr. Steven Hall!  GOTCHA! Just because I know your name doesn't mean we're BFFs.  I'll need a Pin number.  


(2) Regardless of how many times I've owned and operated a debit card at an ATM, it assumes I just landed on this planet a few minutes ago.


Allow me to introduce myself.  My name is Automated Teller Machine.  But most folks just call me ATM.    Now if this isn't your bank, you will have to pay a fee. . . 


(3) It incorporates evil games and trickery.  It's favorite = optical illusions.


Press the arrow pointing to the withdraw option.  Or is it pointing to the fast cash option? What the hell is 'fast cash?'  Did I just hear rustling over there in the bushes?

(4) It's got attitude.

How much do you want to withdraw Mr. Hall?  $25?  Oh hell no!  You have me mistaken for some floozy Atari kinda model.  I'm more of an Xbox 360 variety.  Minimum is $50 and only increments of $10.  


(5) It asks if I really mean it.

So just to clarify, Mr. Hall, when you keyed in $50, I got a vibe that you were still resentful about the original $25 you asked for.  So are we OK?   Is $50 truly fine or do we need to hug it out? 


(6) It will not be ignored!

So that's how it is?  I count the money.  I put it in a neat stack.  Now that you got what you wanted,  you're just gonna run off like all the others?  Fine. Just leave.  Sniffle.


But at least have the decency to face me like a man and answer me this Mr. Hall:  
WOULD YOU LIKE TO PERFORM ANY OTHER TRANSACTIONS?


(7) It leaves open the possibility for a sequel.

This drama is finally over. Or is it?  Something isn't right.  Just as I realize I am about to forget my ATM card,  I see it!  The ATM never died!  


My heart double dips in my chest and I hold back a blood curdling, (but manly),  scream as I take in the sight now before me.  The ATM appears to have a devilish grin as its display reads:

WOULD YOU LIKE A RECEIPT? 

Best Laid Plans

It's Martin Luther King, Jr. Day,  so I took a personal day.  I intentionally made no plans for anything except creating. I got up this morning and sent a cutesy invite to my buddy, Buffy, in Maggie Valley:

Around 10:00am she arrived, paints and supplies in hand.  We established work zones to spread out our supplies.  The tv was off.  And zero distractions beyond our conversations, snack breaks and lunch.

It was fantastic!  I finally finished the watercolor I have been working on since early Fall, plotted another piece, learned a few more things about photography I didn't know, and just had the most stimulating and creatively productive day in months!

Like hell I did!

I hadn't heard from Buffy after my morning coffee so I texted.  Then I called.  Then I called again.  And just to be on the safe side, a couple more texts and calls were made.  

Meanwhile, there's breakfast, 'Today Show',  laundry, 'Regis & Kelly', lunch plans, kitchen duty, more laundry, email, . . . And in mid-text to confirm lunch with another friend, I heard the following three words uttered from my television:   "Best", "Worst", "Dressed"!

It's one sure way to get my attention, and waste time ripping apart or praising the outfits of Hollywood hotshots who couldn't give two blinks about me and my opinion.

Soon thereafter, Buffy called.  (Duh, after all my calls,  I'm guaranteed a return phone call, a return text, or a restraining order!) I was able to at least multi-task with laundry.  

Then there was lunch with a buddy.  And then, finally, I was able to sit down to work on some photos.  

NOT!

There were issues with the software.  I spent an hour trying to figure it out on my own.  Finally, I broke down and called Apple.  (By the way, Apple's customer service rocks Rocks ROCKS!)

And then, finally, and truly, I was able to edit some pics, and do a little creating.  That was around 4:13pm.  My invite to Buffy was before 9:00am!  

Well, life doesn't care about anyone's plans.  It's nothing personal.  Life just happens.  And if I've made plans and life happens to get in the way, by sheer default, life will absolutely and positively always win.  

I still got to create. The tv was and still is off.  That's rare for this stimulus junkie - and even rarer to  DELIBERATELY shut down entertainment.

Speaking of life,  I got a meeting in Black Mountain to dash to with a bunch of fellow 'creators'.  And when we all get together . . . well it's practically a television drama in and of itself!

Super Heroes and Canker Sores

Funny how it's rarely the monumental things that brings me to my knees?  This week, several inches of snow and ice fell and is still taking its time to go away.  I managed that.  

The post office put my Christmas gifts in a mail bin but gave me the wrong key.  No gifts.  No problem.

Today I have a canker sore just under the tip of my tongue.   Obviously, my life is over!

I would much rather deal with Snowpocalypses and Grinch Christmases than stubborn invisible eyelashes in my eye, styes, (basically eyelid pimples), splinters in my fingertips and worst of all . . . CANKER SORES!   

Salt water rinses, Anbesol, ice to numb it, aspirin . . . I've tried it all and the pain from something about the size of the tip of my ball point pen just won't go away.  It is still so sheer and exquisite it has clouded my whole day.   

Food, water, non-spicy, spicy, warm beverage, cold beverage, no food, no beverage, hand stands, hokey pokies, River Dancing . . . everything and nothing aggravates it.  That's the worst pain.  Aargh!

I think I'm gonna create a comic book hero.  But no fancy powers like giant spider webs that shoot from wrists or magic capes to fly.  That's for lightweights.

My super hero can huff and puff and blow an eyelash between a villain's eyeball and their contact lenses - essentially crippling them.

Merely touching a villain's face with their magic gloves produces styes, (eyelid pimples) -  basically maiming them.

And with a mere concentrated and steady gaze at a villain's mouth, they can give them canker sores the size of pencil erasers . . . in essence, killing them.    

After all, I figure if a canker sore the size of a pen tip has me on death's door, a canker sore the size of an eraser would amount to a nuclear Armageddon!  You're welcome Marvel Comics!

Dead Birds. Big Deal.

I've been getting into all things social media for a while now.  

I guess it started with AOL.  Remember AOL?  It was stupid popular back in the day.  And you paid for it.  Or it would screw up and you'd call AOL customer service and they'd give you like a free month or two.

And before she crossed over to the sad side and bought literal body parts, (lips!), Meg Ryan did the cutest little love story with Tom Hanks, "You Got Mail!".  And you'd meet like the hottest guys on AOL online chat rooms for offline blind dates and pray they matched their pictures and weren't hideous or serial killers.  

I mean . . .  your really good friend had those blind dates.  

Myspace, Friendster, Twitter, Facebook, Foursquare . . .  did, done, doing them all! 

Any ole hoo . . . I've always been aware of this whole blogging thing.  I love to write but blogging sounded very commitment oriented and therefore, a turn-off, and therefore,  not for me.

But then something super weird happened.  Thousand of  dead birds fell from the sky in Arkansas. . . then Louisiana . . .  then Kentucky . . . then Maryland . . . then Sweden . . . without opening credits or an ominous musical score.

It wasn't a movie.   It was on the news.  It was real. There was no explanation.  Scientists were baffled.   And then a couple days later, a logical explanation was presented.  Everybody breathed a sigh of relief.  And the world was right again.

Well . . . minus the use of past tense and logical explanation.  It is real.  There is no explanation.  

Big deal.

That's the weird part.   It doesn't seem that big a deal to folks.  And just like news of Lindsay Lohan yet again butting heads with law enforcement, (perhaps literally I might add), the country ingested it a quick second, widened its eyes in bewilderment a quick few seconds, scratched its head a quick several seconds, and then  . . . shrugged and moved on.

I guess I was expecting never-ending protests and picket signs, docu-dramas and pray-ins, Oprah and Stedman and Gail . . . you know the stuff that makes it clear something scary and serious is afoot and we need to hop to it and get it fixed.  And don't rest until we are all satisfied and reassured that all is truly well.  

So I guess I'll acknowledge the pink elephant in the room and say that I, for one, am decidedly concerned, largely alarmed, mildly annoyed, and . . . completely powerless to do anything about it.  

I think that's what's going on.  

Everybody realizes that though thousands of dead birds falling from the sky is absolutely bizarre and ominous, barring having a heavy duty umbrella on hand to shield oneself  from the plummeting bodies of deal foul . . . the reality is . . .  there's really not much anyone can do.  

That brings me back to this blogging thing. It has always been just in the sight of my mind's peripheral vision for a few years now.  I may not be able to confirm what caused or is causing dead birds to fall from the sky,  but I can most certainly attempt to 'journal' some thoughts, observations, peeves, projects, etc.  

You know, for science - in case the birds are an omen of a Martian invasion that will wipe out the planet.  If this and other blogs survive, the Martians can gain some insight about how Earthlings operated.  

Well, at least how this Earthling operated.