Open Letter to The New Yorker

I greatly appreciated the opportunity to become acquainted with your publication via the incredibly inexpensive offer to try twelve weeks for six dollars. I find about half of the magazine germane to my life. In that I do not live in New York City, nor do I visit there often, the first half of the content detailing shows, restaurants, and other various entertainments isn't terribly useful to me. I do enjoy the longer form articles that really go in depth with a story, and naturally the cartoons, but not to the tune of over a hundred bucks for renewal. What made the decision for me to not renew my subscription was the flippant attitude of your telephone representative. You see, I was checking my credit card account online and discovered I had already been billed when your email from two months ago assured me that I would receive an email notice near the end of my current subscription so I would have the choice of opting in or out before I was billed. I received no such notice. So I called. Your customer service rep assured me that the charge would be refunded. When I mentioned that the magazine was awfully quick to charge me without the notice I was promised, he answered that things do get messed up at times. He sort of apologized but not really. It has been a week now and I still have not seen a refund posted to my credit card. May I suggest a bit of fine-tuning to the computer language that controls subscription notices and billing? Quite simply, the notice should be sent before the billing is activated. That is, after all, what you promise to the new subscriber. Computers are actually quite good at doing things in the order that they are programmed to do them. All I have to say is, if this is how you treat customers, no wonder print journalism is suffering from death throes. Finally, there aren't nearly as many cat cartoons as I had hoped there would be.

The Magical Plant Awakens

There she is, the mother plant. The descendant of the hoya cutting I have managed to keep alive for over forty years. She bloomed for me the first time back in the late nineties after years in different locations but essentially the same care. She has grown to this size from a small cutting that survived a mite infestation ten years ago. Located for the last year in the sunroom off the kitchen, she is again enjoying light from the east-facing patio door, very similar conditions to the house in South Dakota. She is thriving, but showing no sign of blooming again.

Here we have a cutting from the mother plant, situated about ten feet away from her in the dining room. The cutting gets a pretty intense dose of late afternoon light on the sill of the west-facing window. I was concerned that the leaves would get fried in the heat but no, she seems happy and has nearly doubled in size from a year ago.

I have always been amazed by the strong heliotropic tendencies of the hoya. Last night I was taking a look at a nearly perpendicular vine of the plant and discovered this!  A spur from which an umbrella-like profusion of star-shaped pink flowers will grow. I'm so excited that over the next couple of weeks my hoya will be sporting blooms again! 

On closer inspection, I found a second, more advanced spur! Considering that I'm hauling in tomatoes nearly every day now, and the recently resurrected poinsettia, my brown thumb is decidedly more green than it ever has been!

FLOTUS at the Flood

Why in the world would the current FLOTUS wear stiletto heels to make an appearance at flood-torn Houston? I know I'm fashion-challenged and that I have only worn heels that high while sitting, but for the love of all that is holy, why isn't she wearing boots of some sort or Birkies or Crocs? At least Melania hasn't committed a faux pas of elitism by tagging her designer clothing. That, children, would have been unforgivable.

Works For Me

Water, Water Everywhere

As I listen to the story unfold on public radio concerning Hurricane Harvey, I am reminded of how damaging water can be. I know a guy who lives in Houston and have been watching his social media postings with trepidation as the rising water lapped at his front steps and garage door. Another fellow has chronicled this disastrous weather event in his blog and it's a good read. I was remembering the crazy storm here back at the beginning of May that flooded the basement and had the streets running like rivers. A block to the east, water pressure popped manhole covers aside and there were geysers spewing ten feet in the air in the middle of the street. It was surreal in how quickly it happened and was almost as quickly over with. Leaving me with a basement that took over a month to dry out completely. So much greater is the volume of water in Houston and the surrounding area, so much more damage and so many people displaced. Having experienced a minuscule version of invasive water and its accompanying havoc and how exhausting it was dealing with its aftermath, I can't begin to comprehend the damage that a full-on disaster of a flood would leave in its wake. My heart goes out to all of the residents of the gulf coast communities that have been affected. As global warming gives rise to more frequent freakish storms, leaving us with less recovery time in between and fewer dollars to clean up the mess, will we get smarter about building in marginal, flood-prone areas? All I know is, houses can be replaced, but the loss of lives can't be. So I wonder if our priorities will be reset to not just a higher elevation, but to a higher moral ground as well. 

Mad For This Hat

This is it. The hat I bought in Deadwood. A pre-birthday, happy birthday to me kind of thing. Isn't it great? Now I may feel compelled to work up a whole steampunk ensemble to go with it. More likely, I'll wear it just for fun in when colder weather arrives. If you want one, too, it also comes in black, one can be acquired here. They have all kinds of hats. And you don't have to be mad to want one, but if you want one, you probably are a bit mad already.

Why the Jazz Hands?

Judging by the fact that I'm wearing my Eagles tshirt, acquired when I saw them in 1995, and that my left hand ring finger is sporting my wedding band as well as my anniversary ring, I'm guessing this may be the summer of 1996. Mom had sent me stained glass chili peppers for my birthday, so instead of hanging them in a window to catch and color the light as intended, I attached them to wires and hung them on my ears. Just for fun. And posed for a photo, a print of which I mailed to Mom with a thank-you note for the lovely earrings she gave me for my birthday. Assuming that I'm an idiot, which I have been at various times, she responded with a letter explaining that they were not earrings, but sun-catchers, meant for home decor purposes, not meant for use as personal ear adornment devices. Ya dumb girl, she wrote, not getting that it was a joke. Good thing, too, as they were ridiculously heavy and my grin is part grimace due to that fact. I still have them, though I have not accessorized with them since this photo was snapped. They are located in the sun room, grouped with other desert-southwest-themed trinkets. File this under my often misunderstood sense of humor.