I've known about Skype for a while, but my brother's recent move to Barcelona nudged me to sign up finally. Very easy installation (kudos to the design *and* writing team). I experienced a small technical difficulty, but I got fast support with detailed instructions, and all that on a free account.
I used it for the very first time today and got to see my actual brother and niece sitting in their actual living room, what, 5000 miles away. Very exciting. Except that they could just hear me but not see me because I didn't have video on my end.
So this afternoon, I walked into our little town and went to the local Geek Boutique, talked to someone who looked to be about 12, and bought a web cam. It, too, was extraordinarily easy to install and configure. And now I can videocam with my bro to my heart's delight.
Oh, and perhaps at long last, my niece can see the kitties, the real reason to go to all this bother.
Friday, August 31, 2007
my worrying life
I've been busy and not so buy lately, experiencing things that didn't merit any writing or merited it so much that it was inappropriate to write about them here. I got horribly sick very briefly and was completely knocked out for a while, but that's too boring even for me to write about, so I won't.
This morning, I read a blog that pointed to a wonderful article by a man with Asperger's syndrome. (Read it when you have a minute -- it's one of those articles that makes me wish I had the persistence to subscribe to the New Yorker.) It included a quote that resonated with me:
I never do pray -- I'm not convinced there's anything there to pray *to* or that a prayer would be answered. So I am just not in the habit of it. But I do worry about my friends a lot.
About as soon as I get attached to someone, or perhaps as I get attached, I start to think about awful things that might happen to them, not in a wishful way, but in a dreading way. Sometimes I realize that an attachment is growing because of the dread that starts creeping into my thoughts. I want to draw a protective sheet around people I care for to keep them from meeting up with harm.
I worry about Robert the most, and it is of course hard for me when he travels without me. I'm fine with him being away, but it's just hard thinking about him getting there. I worry about Robert's job. I worry about him taking care of himself.
When my stepfather died, I worried about my brother and hoped that anything that was unresolved (and there was likely to be a lot) would present itself slowly without being too overwhelming.
Right now, I worry about my friend KAH who struggles with depression and shares his journey with readers of one of his blogs. He has a strong spirit and good humor and I'm sure there's much we're not hearing. So I worry.
I worry about trips that people take. I worry when I say goodbye to Robert in the morning. I worry when I see a friend who seems a little vulnerable, and I hope that they can move through to a stronger space. I worry more about people who seem to need some worrying and at a lower level for all other purposes.
It's not like I think or believe or wish that I could control any of this chaos. Most often, good things happen, but sometimes bad things happen, even to the very best of people. It's more that I care. And hope. And pray, except that I call it worry.
This morning, I read a blog that pointed to a wonderful article by a man with Asperger's syndrome. (Read it when you have a minute -- it's one of those articles that makes me wish I had the persistence to subscribe to the New Yorker.) It included a quote that resonated with me:
I worry about them [my friends] daily ([...] Virgil Thomson [...] once said that worry was one form of prayer that he found acceptable).
I never do pray -- I'm not convinced there's anything there to pray *to* or that a prayer would be answered. So I am just not in the habit of it. But I do worry about my friends a lot.
About as soon as I get attached to someone, or perhaps as I get attached, I start to think about awful things that might happen to them, not in a wishful way, but in a dreading way. Sometimes I realize that an attachment is growing because of the dread that starts creeping into my thoughts. I want to draw a protective sheet around people I care for to keep them from meeting up with harm.
I worry about Robert the most, and it is of course hard for me when he travels without me. I'm fine with him being away, but it's just hard thinking about him getting there. I worry about Robert's job. I worry about him taking care of himself.
When my stepfather died, I worried about my brother and hoped that anything that was unresolved (and there was likely to be a lot) would present itself slowly without being too overwhelming.
Right now, I worry about my friend KAH who struggles with depression and shares his journey with readers of one of his blogs. He has a strong spirit and good humor and I'm sure there's much we're not hearing. So I worry.
I worry about trips that people take. I worry when I say goodbye to Robert in the morning. I worry when I see a friend who seems a little vulnerable, and I hope that they can move through to a stronger space. I worry more about people who seem to need some worrying and at a lower level for all other purposes.
It's not like I think or believe or wish that I could control any of this chaos. Most often, good things happen, but sometimes bad things happen, even to the very best of people. It's more that I care. And hope. And pray, except that I call it worry.
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
bank of america strikes again
Reaching new heights in the realm of alienation, or, we're too big to care
Recently, Bank of America purchased a "private banking" unit from a well-known brokerage house. Someone of my acquaintance is a client of that unit. My advice was to give it all some time -- usually the organization that's taking over works hard to impress and retain the affected employees, not to mention the customers. It often takes a year or two to really get a feel for how things will go (usually downhill, but there's always hope).
But no, as the story unfolded, it turned out that BoA was doing its darndest to infuriate and alienate the new employees even before the takeover. We started hearing rumors of mass defections across the country -- entire senior teams of people leaving for other companies. And then my contact's team left, quite suddenly. A call was placed on a weekend indicating that the departure had happened that Friday; the entire team was starting its new job at a completely different company on the following Monday. The person placing the phone call hadn't even had time to return to the old office.
Of course, when the acquisition was completed, Bank of America issued pronouncements such as: "Our new combined organization is founded on our commitment to build deep, lasting relationships with our clients and their families, supported by our powerful intellectual and financial resources." Yeah, right, whatever.
______________________
Yesterday, as I was driving to work, I heard a radio ad for Bank of America. The first speaker had a southern accent and was talking about how much he loves Boston, but getting only the first few things right. As he started to mention silly wrong things ("the Blue Monster" at Fenway Park), someone with a Boston accent came on to correct him. The whole idea is that Bank of America is cool, hip, with it, and completely local -- totally aware of what's going on in this little neck of the woods. I guess the idea extends to them being a caring, small-town regional bank, not just an uncaring national behemoth.
Except... that the guy with the Boston accent was a fake. I'm not good enough to say exactly what was wrong with his accent, but it was clearly not genuine. I know it's a hard accent to imitate, but aren't there plenty of natives who can do the accent convincingly? Anyone who's lived here more than a few years would be able to spot the disingenuity immediately.
The radio station I was listening to tends to play ads, especially new ones, especially from big companies, over and over again, until you can recite the lines along with the actors. Interestingly, I heard this ad just once despite listening a while longer in the morning and then again during my evening commute.
This ad gets a big fat F for effort. Thank goodness for the small banks around here that actually are local and whose employees do act as if they give a darn.
Recently, Bank of America purchased a "private banking" unit from a well-known brokerage house. Someone of my acquaintance is a client of that unit. My advice was to give it all some time -- usually the organization that's taking over works hard to impress and retain the affected employees, not to mention the customers. It often takes a year or two to really get a feel for how things will go (usually downhill, but there's always hope).
But no, as the story unfolded, it turned out that BoA was doing its darndest to infuriate and alienate the new employees even before the takeover. We started hearing rumors of mass defections across the country -- entire senior teams of people leaving for other companies. And then my contact's team left, quite suddenly. A call was placed on a weekend indicating that the departure had happened that Friday; the entire team was starting its new job at a completely different company on the following Monday. The person placing the phone call hadn't even had time to return to the old office.
Of course, when the acquisition was completed, Bank of America issued pronouncements such as: "Our new combined organization is founded on our commitment to build deep, lasting relationships with our clients and their families, supported by our powerful intellectual and financial resources." Yeah, right, whatever.
______________________
Yesterday, as I was driving to work, I heard a radio ad for Bank of America. The first speaker had a southern accent and was talking about how much he loves Boston, but getting only the first few things right. As he started to mention silly wrong things ("the Blue Monster" at Fenway Park), someone with a Boston accent came on to correct him. The whole idea is that Bank of America is cool, hip, with it, and completely local -- totally aware of what's going on in this little neck of the woods. I guess the idea extends to them being a caring, small-town regional bank, not just an uncaring national behemoth.
Except... that the guy with the Boston accent was a fake. I'm not good enough to say exactly what was wrong with his accent, but it was clearly not genuine. I know it's a hard accent to imitate, but aren't there plenty of natives who can do the accent convincingly? Anyone who's lived here more than a few years would be able to spot the disingenuity immediately.
The radio station I was listening to tends to play ads, especially new ones, especially from big companies, over and over again, until you can recite the lines along with the actors. Interestingly, I heard this ad just once despite listening a while longer in the morning and then again during my evening commute.
This ad gets a big fat F for effort. Thank goodness for the small banks around here that actually are local and whose employees do act as if they give a darn.
Monday, August 06, 2007
tales from the panty ministry
In honor of National Underwear Day tomorrow (and no, I'm not making this up), I have a story to tell. Last week, just after our return from the Berkshires, a friend was kind enough to forward a message from one of her friends, Kristin.
Kristin had just been to Springfield, not far from the Berkshires, where she'd prepared picnic lunches and then helped distribute them to homeless people at two locations. There was also some distribution of clothing. One of the women served came up to Kristin and asked if she might have any women's underwear. Kristin felt terrible for not being able to grant this simplest of requests. But it got her thinking about how much we take it for granted that we can put on a fresh pair every day.
So she wrote to a few colleagues and said she was going back in a few weeks; perhaps her friends could contribute a little to the cause. This is where I came in. That mutual friend forwarded the message to me. I was moved to tears and then to action.
I think I've mentioned that my company's main customer is Victoria's Secret. I sent Kristin's message to my female colleagues and mentioned the tie-in to our business. Within 15 minutes, one woman came into my office, threw $50 into my lap and ran out again. The money kept coming -- $250. I've already bought 326 pairs of underpants, including some for the children of these women. Tomorrow, I need to buy a few more pairs because I received a late donation just today.
Tomorrow night, I have the privilege of delivering the underpants to my friend, who will pass them on to Kristin, who will hand them out to these women in Springfield. Kristin called the effort the Panty Ministry. The true minister here is Kristin for having been present and for having paid attention. I can't wait to hear the results of the panty drive.
Kristin had just been to Springfield, not far from the Berkshires, where she'd prepared picnic lunches and then helped distribute them to homeless people at two locations. There was also some distribution of clothing. One of the women served came up to Kristin and asked if she might have any women's underwear. Kristin felt terrible for not being able to grant this simplest of requests. But it got her thinking about how much we take it for granted that we can put on a fresh pair every day.
So she wrote to a few colleagues and said she was going back in a few weeks; perhaps her friends could contribute a little to the cause. This is where I came in. That mutual friend forwarded the message to me. I was moved to tears and then to action.
I think I've mentioned that my company's main customer is Victoria's Secret. I sent Kristin's message to my female colleagues and mentioned the tie-in to our business. Within 15 minutes, one woman came into my office, threw $50 into my lap and ran out again. The money kept coming -- $250. I've already bought 326 pairs of underpants, including some for the children of these women. Tomorrow, I need to buy a few more pairs because I received a late donation just today.
Tomorrow night, I have the privilege of delivering the underpants to my friend, who will pass them on to Kristin, who will hand them out to these women in Springfield. Kristin called the effort the Panty Ministry. The true minister here is Kristin for having been present and for having paid attention. I can't wait to hear the results of the panty drive.
Friday, August 03, 2007
rode hard and put away wet
I love that expression -- rode hard and put away wet. Occasionally, I'll see someone who's just plum worn out and the expression leaps to mind.
Robert's fairly hard on his wallet. He stuffs it full, then gets it into his back pocket and sits on it nearly all day. Given that our third anniversary, the leather year (and stop thinking that!) is approaching, I recently asked how his wallet was. "Oh, a little worn out."
So I took him to the Coach outlet store in the Berkshires and treated him to an extra nice new wallet as an early nod to our upcoming 1095th day of marriage.
After he transferred all the contents from old to new, he tossed the old one over to me. Yeah, I'd say it was a little worn out.
Robert's fairly hard on his wallet. He stuffs it full, then gets it into his back pocket and sits on it nearly all day. Given that our third anniversary, the leather year (and stop thinking that!) is approaching, I recently asked how his wallet was. "Oh, a little worn out."
So I took him to the Coach outlet store in the Berkshires and treated him to an extra nice new wallet as an early nod to our upcoming 1095th day of marriage.
After he transferred all the contents from old to new, he tossed the old one over to me. Yeah, I'd say it was a little worn out.
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