Screen tests aren’t just for movie stars

I had an identity crisis yesterday. It was the fourth one this week. Online accounts keep questioning if it’s really me.

I have the same thought a lot of mornings when I look in the mirror.

The bank insisted I confirm my identity before I could access our account—all because I made one teeny tiny typo entering the passcode. Flustered and in a hurry, but not one to ever make the same mistake twice, I made a different typo on my next try. I was automatically routed to the 3-question “How Good is Your Memory?” game.

Where did you and your spouse first meet?

What was your favorite pureed vegetable as an infant?

What was your great, great, great maternal grandfather’s blood type?

I failed that, too. I guess carrots was the wrong answer.


I had to go to the bank in person to unfreeze the account. The teller asked if I had any additional identification. Just so you know, the bank will not accept an appendectomy scar from when you were a child as additional identification.

The verification requests that I don’t mind are the ones that ask me to enter a code sent by text or email. I like these. They are good memory tests to see if I can flip between screens and still remember a six-digit number. So far, so good.

The Walmart app recently asked me to verify my identity when I arrived for a grocery pickup order. Seriously? There are 32 pickup spots in the parking lot and I was the only single solitary car out there. It was 7 a.m and still dark. Yes, it’s me. Now please bring out the milk and laundry detergent.

Of course, there’s always facial recognition identification that simplifies logging in, but do I want to go down that road? What if I have a good night’s sleep (unlikely), the bags under my eyes disappear (virtually impossible), and the app can’t recognize me?

What if I decide to have plastic surgery, have everything on my face pulled, tightened, puffed and fluffed, and wind up looking so young that the app doesn’t recognize me? That is also highly unlikely, but a woman of a certain age likes to keep her options open.

The only thing I know for sure is that I always experience a wave of panic whenever I see the message: “Failed to verify your identity.”

The upside of all this identify verification business is that the CAPTCHA security checks that once required you click on the all the boxes with power lines, bicycles or traffic lights, now simply ask you to check the “I am not a robot” box. As improved as that is, I still believe that CAPTCHA should be renamed GOTCHA.

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Take a number to use the landline

Three of our elementary-school grands have a new landline phone sitting in their family room. They called us multiple times the first week it was installed, each time saying, “Hello, Watson?”

No, they didn’t. Each time a soft voice cautiously said, “Hello, Grandma?”

The poor things were apprehensive. A handset that rests in a base alongside a keypad is foreign to them. You might as well have given the kids a box of cassette tapes and said, “Listen to these, we think you’ll like them.”

Each time they called, and I identified myself as Grandma, they responded with silence followed by breathing. Little did they know that is how people used to prank one another on landlines.

They’re too young to have their own cell phones, but their mom and dad wanted a way for them to dial out if needed, or for others to call in to make sure the house was still standing.

The three were “home alone” for the first time, as much as kids are ever “home alone” when Dad works from home in an office with glass-paned doors next to the family room.

Mom was out for part of the day, the kids had no school and we agreed to call and check on them.

One ring, two rings, “Hello?” a quivering voice answered.

“Hello, it’s Grandma,” I said. “Who’s this?”

“It’s me,” the soft voice whispered. It was the youngest of the three.

“Great,” I said. “Is everyone getting along?”

“No. I was elbowed.” She then launched into a long story about how an older sister elbowed her earlier.

This is incredible because, though the child has never used a landline before, she instinctively, intrinsically, automatically knows its primary function is for tattling on a sibling.

Slam dunk for the 6-year-old.

There are other landline skills the girls are coming by naturally as well. The landline has a cord that they can stretch, twist and wind around their arms and legs and then spend half an hour untangling the cord.

The downside of their landline is that they only have one. The kids will never know the joy of an extension phone. They will never hear someone yell, “Get off the extension! Now!”

And because not many other families have landlines, they will never know the nerve-wracking intimidation of talking to a friend’s mother or father before being able to talk to the friend.

Here’s a question for all the philosophers reading: If you slam a landline down on a cell phone call, does it make a slamming sound or just a click on the cell phone?

The girls are growing at ease with the landline. The novelty is slowly wearing off. Who knows how their parents will top the landline.

They could always switch out the large flat-screen television for a small portable job, with rabbit ears, that you have to stand up and walk over to in order to change the channel. Just a thought.

 

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Count your blessings, not your calories

‘Tis the season to be thankful, which is why I am hanging tight to the fourth Thursday in November. I may be hanging on by the greasy tip of a wishbone swinging dangerously low over scalding hot gravy, but I refuse to let go of Thanksgiving, the only holiday that has not been grossly commercialized.

For starters, I am thankful there is no giant turkey at the mall. If you know about a mall charging outrageous prices for pictures of kids with a giant turkey, don’t tell me. Spare me.

There is a horn full of plenty of other things to be thankful for as well.

I am thankful that not one of our neighbors has an entire cast of First Thanksgiving giant inflatable figures towering in their yards.


I am thankful that there is no tradition of stuffing turkey cavities with a glut of candy, cheap trinkets and presents soon forgotten. I am thankful that the primary thing we stuff at Thanksgiving is ourselves. Can I have an amen?

I am thankful for Thanksgivings past on my grandparents’ farm with a slew of aunts and uncles and more than two dozen cousins. I am thankful that when the adults had enough, they had the wisdom to shout—loudly and in unison—“All you kids, get outside and stay outside!”

Oh, that children today should enjoy such harsh edicts.

We were forbidden to go near the pigs or the milk cows, but we could peek in on the horses, climb into the hayloft, befriend a cat, discover kittens, play with the dogs, or wander aimlessly through the woods.

Go ahead, punish me like that again.

I am thankful for all the Thanksgiving meals my mother made, for steam rolling down the kitchen window as that doohickey on top of the pressure cooker rocked wildly, for pumpkin pies made from the recipe on the Libby’s label, warm dinner rolls, sage stuffing and a pretty table set with the good dishes and candles. The woman worked culinary wonders in a very small kitchen with, at most, 3-square-feet of counter space.

I am thankful for every year Dad paused between bites and said, “Not another house on the entire street is eating a meal as fine as this one.” I didn’t know how he knew that, but I knew he was right.

Although many of those people are gone now, I am thankful for the memories etched deep into my heart.

This year, I am thankful that I am the one hosting Thanksgiving. Between all of us, we have three 6-foot folding tables and benches. Weather providing, I am confident I can sell the group on eating outdoors as a tribute to the First Thanksgiving.

I am thankful that sometime after the meal, a son-in-law will start the crossword and not bristle when a gaggle of kids breathe down the back of his neck and clamor to help.

I am thankful that the grandkids will go outside without even being told to go outside. There will be football, kickball, basketball and steal-the-flag as daylight wanes and another Thanksgiving fades into the twilight.

I am grateful they will all take home leftovers so we will not gain five pounds each, consuming hundreds of thousands of calories all by ourselves.

As they all load into cars, Grandpa will assume sprinter position on the sidewalk and race each vehicle to the corner. I will stand in the driveway, waving goodbye and praying for each one of them until the last car is out of sight.

It is good to give thanks.

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Cooking up a surprise dish

Years ago, a bona fide gourmet cook showed me how she passed off store-bought bread as homemade by sprinkling a little sifted flour on top.

From that day forward, I was always suspicious of her offerings at large gatherings, although I greatly admired her ability to economize time and energy.

Not long after, my mother tried to pull a fast one on us as well. She was a wonderful baker known for her Christmas cookies. But one year they looked just a little too perfect, a little too uniform and a little too thick.

She said it was a new recipe from a friend. It was. The cookies were from her new best friend, Mrs. Fields, who lived at the mall.

I told her the next time she needed to smear the frosting on a couple of them to make it believable—and not to leave the box in the kitchen trash, but to take it to the garage.

For me, the biggest time and labor expenditure before a big family gathering is making mashed potatoes. So, from time to time, I have engaged the assistance of my good friend Bob. Bob’s last name is Evans. He lives in the refrigerated case by the meat section at the grocery. I know Bob likes helping me, because the word “Family” is stamped in big, bold letters on his containers.


Because we have some purists in the family, I let Bob rest in a slow cooker set to low before people arrive. I then garnish the Bob potatoes with a pat of butter and sprinkle of fresh parsley before ferrying them to the table.

The finer palettes in the family are all on to me—but that doesn’t mean Bob and I are dissolving the partnership.

The second most time-consuming dish before a family gathering is potato salad. The potato salad of a nearby deli is highly regarded by many in the family. So, I did a taste test not long ago.

The oohing and ahhing over the potato salad and “best ever” comments went on and on until a son-in-law put his fork down and named the deli.

Busted.

One of the grands looked at me with big eyes and asked if it was really homemade.

“Well,” I said, “I went to the deli, brought it home and made it sit on the table. Homemade.”

I rest my case. And my kitchen.

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Constant requests for reviews rate one star

Does anyone remember when you made a purchase, went to a doctor or took your car in for a repair and weren’t asked for a review? We are in the throes of review mania.

I recently visited a new dentist. Two hours after I left his office a text arrived asking for a review. I hesitated. What if I inadvertently posted something he took the wrong way? I could be looking at a root canal.

Plus, how do you review a dentist you’ve been to one time? The best I could think of was: “Nice guy and the waiting room didn’t smell like fluoride.” I didn’t leave a review.


A month later the dentist sent me a birthday card. I felt so terrible for not leaving a review that I began grinding my teeth at night. It could have been a plot.

Every time I get the oil changed in the car, I’m asked for a review.

How can I review an oil change? I can’t see the fellow working. He’s down in a

pit and I’m in a waiting area. I usually hear some rattling, but for all I know he is just banging tools against the underbody. I’ll leave a review after another 5,000 miles.

After a medical procedure that required sedation, I was asked to review my experience. How could I review the experience when I was unconscious?

Every bank, credit company, home and auto insurance rep we talk to on the phone wants us to hang on for a brief survey.

So many review opportunities, so little time.

Every time I check out at Walmart, a screen asks me to rate my visit. Since I always use self-checkout, I always leave five stars. It is basically a self-review. Glad to see I am doing well.

When my old Fitbit died and I was too cheap to buy another, I bought an off brand. I walked three miles and it registered as two. Then it began reporting my heart rate was 254 bpm. I reset the watch and my heart rate read 357 bpm. I should have been flat on the ground, but there I was briskly walking my “two miles.”

I returned the watch and received an email asking me to post a review.

Check and done.

Leaving a restaurant with a friend recently, the waitress gave us each an oversized bookmark asking for a review. We both thought that was daring considering the food arrived cold and she never returned with any water.

What percentage of customers write reviews? Depends on who you ask. Some sources claim as many as 74 percent of Boomers, 70 percent of Gen Xers and 60 percent of Millennials leave reviews. Other sources say only 5 to 10 percent of customers write reviews.

What we really need is someone willing to review the reviews.

 

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Of mice and men and women and grandmas

When I was a little girl taking piano lessons, we lived in an old house with a dark, scary basement where mice frequently gathered and hosted parties.

Sometimes, mice ventured upstairs and hid behind the piano. When I began practicing, they would shoot out due to the horrible off-key sounds piercing their teeny, tiny, perfect-pitch sensitive ears.

I would jump up on the piano bench and scream and cry. Forte. Super forte. With the biggest crescendos you ever heard in your life.

I blame mice for the fact that I failed to become a concert pianist. It has nothing at all to do with the fact I had no talent.

My in-laws lived in a farmhouse that was a hundred years old and had mice. My husband assured me the mice had been trained by a mouse-whisperer named D. Con to stay in the cellar and on the ground floor and never, ever went upstairs.

One evening, we went upstairs, turned back the bedding and discovered mice had already booked the room. The mice were gone but had left numerous calling cards and tons of teeny tiny red Solo cups in the bed. Clearly, it had been some party.

I did not respond well.

Where is the piano bench when you need it?

Every fall, our clan of 19 gets together for a weekend. This year, I reserved three rooms in an inn at a state park, as well as a cabin we can squeeze into for meals.

The cabin has two beds and a pull-out sofa, which can take overflow kids from the inn. I was on the park website double-checking numbers and beds, figuring out sleeping arrangements, when I noticed recent reviews mentioning mice.

One reviewer said two mice darted across the room while they were having dinner. Another reviewer said a mouse greeted them when they entered the cabin.

Sure. It’s in the woods and the mice were there first. I understand.

But the mice aren’t paying—we are.

The real worry is this: should any mice appear, our group is incapable of a united front. We are a family divided.

We have the Get Them Before They Get You wing, which I am hoping is a clear majority.

We also have the Preservationist wing. They will agree that any mice need to go, but will insist on dispersing them in a peaceful manner consisting of coaxing, cajoling and luring them with small treats consisting of our meals.

The group that has me awake at 3 a.m. is the Catch and Keep wing. There are at least three, possibly four or five, that will want to catch them, name them, feed them, build them little houses out of toilet tissue in a dresser drawer and carry them in their pockets when we go hiking.

Fingers crossed we get a cabin that is mouse-free.

I’m taking a piano bench just in case.

___________________________________________________

 

 

 

 

 

*The answer to last week’s Jumble was “WRITE ON”

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Brain functions well in a jumble

I’ve read that doing puzzles helps keep your brain sharp as you age.

I don’t like to brag, but I can often solve the Jumble puzzle at a glance. After years of making millions of typos at the keyboard, I’m accustomed to seeing words with letters in the worng odrer.

A granddaughter brought over a new game called “Mobi.” It’s like Scrabble but all the little tiles have numbers, plus, minus, multiply, divide and equal signs on them. The goal is to see how fast you can use all your tiles making math equations in a Scrabble-like configuration.

I’ve played it with her five times now and she’s won every game. I told her she doesn’t need to bring it over anymore.

The critical issue with my brain is storage. Most of my brain is taken up with random miscellany. I fear my brain is basically a large kitchen junk drawer—a few essential facts and figures nestled amid a whole lot of dead AA batteries, old keys and dried up ink pens.

Why is it that I can remember my phone number from when I was in kindergarten? It’s not like someday I will try to call my younger self. Our phone number started with Ingersoll 6. That tells you how long ago my childhood was.

I can’t always remember all the words to hymns we sing at church, but I can remember my high school fight song — and the motions with pom-poms that went with it. (Bonus points!) “Y-E-L-L-O-W  J-A-C-K-E-T-S! We yell it! We spell it! All through the game!”

To my credit, I’ve never broken out with the Yellow Jacket fight song midway through a hymn.

I sometimes can’t remember where I left my reading glasses, but I clearly remember the look on the face of my fourth-grade teacher Mrs. Grimsley, tears pooling in her eyes, when she told us President Kennedy had been shot.

I remember 90 percent of everything I learned in high school shorthand class. I was good— not as good as my friend Jo Ann, who entered shorthand contests and won awards, but I was going places with my shorthand skills. I went to a computer keyboard.

I’m not sure how Jo Ann fared. Last I heard she was teaching at Cornell, so I guess shorthand worked out well for her, too.

I can remember how long I was in labor with each of our three children. You don’t forget that. You can’t afford to forget that. It comes in handy even now.

I have three-ring notebooks filled with recipes, but I don’t have many of my mom’s recipes in writing. They’re in my brain, floating amid random paper clips, old ChapSticks and dried up tubes of Gorilla Glue. A dash of this, a dash of that, potato salad, baked beans and brisket. Everything a good cook needs to know.

It’s fun to rummage through the catchall drawer now and then. You often find forgotten treasures tucked in the corners.

 

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The two sounds that follow natural disasters

There are two sounds that follow natural disasters. The first is an eerie, unnatural silence. No traffic, no car doors slamming, no children’s voices, dogs barking or birds chirping. Just a disquieting quiet.

The second sound is that of motors revving and gears whining, followed by the deafening buzz of chain saws slicing into downed trees.

My husband and I covered the aftermath of tornadoes, forest fires and the explosion of Mt. St. Helens in our younger days as newspaper photographers.

There are 59 “one another” verses in the Bible: directives to love one another, forbear with one another, be kind to one another, comfort one another and pray for one another. I believe I have witnessed all 59 of those “one anothers” kick into action on the heels of natural disasters.

This spring I was in eastern Indiana where tornadoes ripped through at 165 mph, ravaging several small towns and peaceful countryside, injuring more than 80 and killing four.

An old man with bloodshot eyes sat dazed in a chair on a neighbor’s porch staring at a giant oak now lying on the middle of his house across the street.

The orange shirts were there, the volunteers with Samaritan’s Purse. They come from every direction. They know how to work with heavy equipment—the really big stuff they roll in on tractor trailers. The volunteers are all ages: retired, middle-aged, thirtysomethings and college students.

A man in orange approached the gentleman on the porch and said, “Would you like us to get that tree off your house?”

The old man quietly said, “Yes. How much?”

“No charge. It’s what we do.”

The old man’s lower lip quivered. He stifled a full-body sob, but there was no stopping the tears.

This is a thank you for all the first responders who rush in to help while the rest of us watch the unthinkable unfold on screens and feel absolutely, positively, utterly useless.

This is for neighbors who help neighbors, churches that open their doors, chaplains on the front lines, organized volunteer efforts, corporations that send semitrucks with supplies, National Guard members, FEMA workers, people who loan personal helicopters and small planes for rescue efforts, and for regular ol’ people with 4-wheelers loaded with bottled water and courage, who simply get behind the wheel and go.

This is also for those who can’t physically be of help and have the brains to stay out of the way. That said, most of us have a little piece of plastic that can help.

“Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Sometimes we are at our best when we are at our worst.

 

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Once upon a time somebody said yes

“What do you want to be when you grow up?” is a question heard frequently around here with this small herd of grandkids. Answers range from archaeologist to teacher, bluegrass musician, artist, builder and welder. A 9-year-old grand wants to be a NICU doctor because she’s always wanted to be a doctor and loves babies. Win, win!

Of course, all answers are subject to change within five seconds.

I wonder how many people became what they thought they wanted to be when they were children.

At age five, our youngest said she wanted to become a teacher when she grew up. She never wavered, except for a brief period when she said she wanted to be retired when she grew up.

Our son had an ever-changing list of what he wanted to be: Lego creator, taxidermist, park ranger, sculptor. He’s an architect.

My husband knew from the time he held a camera at age 7 that he would be a photojournalist. He was, is and forever will be.

When I was in sixth grade, I was certain I was going to be a gym teacher. Who wouldn’t love having recess all day, every day? The fact that I held the girls’ push-up record in elementary school for doing 45 “boys push-ups” in 54 seconds had a lot to do with that.

Yes, I do still have the medal. Thanks for asking.

I wound up in journalism school completing the writing and photojournalism sequences. I married a fellow photojournalism student from college. The old line is, “We met in the darkroom to see what would develop.”

Thanks for laughing. Not many under age 45 get that joke.

My mother said our wedding felt like a spot news event. Many of our J-School friends came with cameras.

A few years later I became a mom. Then I became a mom another two times. It’s hard to lug camera gear with three little ones hanging around your neck. I switched out the camera bag for a diaper bag and began working from home—writing.

Eventually, I approached the Indianapolis Star with some sample family life columns. Thirty-three years ago this month, two editors decided to take a chance on an unknown. They said yes. My column was picked up for national distribution a few months later.

I’m forever grateful to a man named Ted Daniels and a fireball named Ruth Holladay who opened the door for me. I’ve tried to practice that same policy of saying yes when I can.

I hope some people along the way say yes to our grandkids as they explore different opportunities and paths in the future.

If you landed in a good spot a time or two, it’s probably because someone along the way said yes.

Why not keep it going? Say yes.

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When the smart car is smarter than you are

It has been 10 years since we bought a new car, which puts us roughly 2,000 light years behind the curve on automobile technology.

Our new car has smart car features, not to be confused with one of those little Smart cars that looks like it fell out of a Cracker Jack box and can be washed in a dishwasher.

We are still learning about all the features on our new car and hope to master them before it is time to trade it in. Our new vehicle offers adaptive cruise control, which means the car will automatically speed up or slow down to match the car it’s following.

If you’ve ever followed a vehicle that seems like the driver is punching the gas, then letting off, punching, letting off, you’re following someone using adaptive cruise control.

Change lanes.

Smart car technology also prompts yellow lights to flash on the side view mirrors if a vehicle is in your blind spot. If we rely on that feature, we will eventually (or quickly) lose our own reflexes for checking blind spots. And doesn’t that make us less smart?

Don’t answer.

Our new vehicle also comes with a warning for braking—the driver’s seat shakes and a red light flashes if the car senses you need to brake. This is fabulous as those riding with you no longer need to yell, “Brake! Brake! Brake!” Although, so far, that hasn’t stopped anybody.

We did not pay extra for the back massage feature for the driver’s seat. No doubt the intention is to soothe aching backs on long-distance drives, but for us it would signal naptime. Not smart.

The vehicle is also willing to wrestle the driver for control of the steering wheel. According to the driver’s manual, the steering wheel will “gently correct” when it senses you are veering out of your lane.

For all the shake, rattle and roll, there are a few obvious extras that were overlooked.

I’d like a voice-recognition feature that knows when I am seated as the co-pilot and after my every comment says, “Listen to her. She’s right 99.9 percent of the time.”

I’d also like a navigation function that automatically pinpoints the location of all craft and hobby stores within a 3-mile range.

It would be wonderful if new technology equipped vehicles with a laser that shot out from the steering wheel and disabled the cell phones of other drivers texting while driving.

How about a little red flashing light on the dashboard to signify radar up ahead?

And may I suggest AI evaluate establishments along the route and offer the driver notifications like: “Don’t exit. Keep driving. Clean restrooms in another 16 miles.”

They may call these new vehicles smart cars, but they should really call them “Smarter Than You Are” cars.

 

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