Nobody is Promised Tomorrow. . .
This Blog started in 2001 as a Trip Log to record a summer in Alaska. Since then, it has morphed into my online diary.
Bright and early, I set out to procure bagels.
The Asylum believes frozen mini-bagels are bagels.
They are not.
They are an insult to lox.
Not the best in the area, but the best I can obtain without involving Uber.
And, several hours later.
We had a very good brunch.
I suppose the next brunch will be Mother’s Day.
In the meantime, I try to enjoy every bagel.
Because nobody is promised tomorrow.
Or another bagel.
Another lazy day.
Heck I could be a Congressperson. I am almost that useless.
I am now officially retired from outdoor gardening. Yesterday I returned my roll of twine and my four “useful” garden tools to the community garden shed. That feels fairly final.
Every year I try to get an interesting photo of a tulip.
Every year, I fail.
But I keep trying.
Management has decided to “spiff up” The Asylum.
I understand old people. We are not going to welcome having our granny’s cast-off elevator lobbies replaced with Ikea-chic. But management is going to do what management is going to do.
I am not going to say a word.
Speaking of words.
Some things don’t require Google Translate.
Pretty sure that says Vance and the TechBros will be the death of democracy in America.
Sort of a nothing day. And there is nothing wrong with that.
I even went to an art class.
Not easy being an old woman.
It’s beginning to look a lot like Vietnam.
The very best thing I can say about today’s weather is that I cannot see Washington. Which, under the circumstances, may be a feature, not a problem.
A little more from yesterday’s spring walk.
On my way back from an exciting visit to Goodwill, I came across a perfect figure-8 coil of fiber optic cable. Who knew?
Back in the torn paper tape days of Baudot code and TTY machines, we wound tape the same way across our fingers so it wouldn’t twist, snarl, or jam in the reader.
Apparently, some things never change.
Whether it’s paper tape or fiber optic cable, the rule still holds:
Don’t let the tape (or wire) fight itself.
Nice to see that a bit of old-school technique is still alive, just at a much larger scale.
Meanwhile, the Pixel phone provisioning saga appears to be over.
Google has declared it fixed and issued a $20 credit.
A hard way to earn $20.
Woke up this morning, and, as ChatGPT predicted, my phone found the tower while I was sleeping. Late this afternoon, Google emailed an interim workaround. Which I will keep handy. Hopefully, this will never happen again.
Spent lots of time outdoors.
Some spring photos from “The Wilderness Trail”.
Those photos were all taken using the aforementioned Pixel Phone.
A fine start to April.
The plan:
Late breakfast.
Uber to the hospital.
In-person yoga.
Leisurely walk.
Bus the rest of the way home.
Read a trashy novel.
Dinner with my besties.
And then.
Before I even got into the Uber, there was no cell service.
Just like that.
Exactly how does one function when suddenly transported back to 1978?
Fortunately, I had a little cash. The Uber driver got tipped. Yoga was good. I visited with an old friend and ran into a fellow Asylum inmate.
So far, so good.
Now: how to get home?
I have a bus map in my head.
I have a plastic bus pass.
What I do not have is real-time information.
Which bus is best today?
Where to transfer for the best connection now?
For familiar routes, no problem.
For anything new — potential disaster.
On the first bus, I started poking at my phone.
This is what I saw.
Exactly what one wants to see when one is already off the grid.
When I got home, I called the helpful human number.
On the phone that is not working.
One hour and three minutes later, I was still on hold.
I stopped holding.
Meanwhile, my iPad, also on an eSIM, is working perfectly. My account appears fine. My phone has decided it no longer believes in towers.
Google Fi helpfully notes:
“We are investigating a known issue…”
Of course you are.
ChatGPT suggested I have a glass of wine and wait for things to magically resolve themselves.
Gemini suggested dialing *#*#34866#*#*.
For now, I am going with wine.
Busy Old Woman Day.
Check taxes.
Pay TaxBoy.
Set up estimated taxes.
Construct slideshow.
Make computer house call.
Visit with old friend.
Drink wine.
Not necessarily in that order.
Also, still resting up.
Had a nice visit with the family over lunch at my favorite Salvadoran restaurant. The kids brought goodies and left with origami. The best gifts can be eaten, drunk, or recycled.
It’s still too cold and windy for my comfort.
And it’s much too Trumpy.
So proud of my fellow asylum residents who showed up in the windy, chilly, F-ing cold weather.
By the time I got back to the building, my hands were so cold I couldn’t sign the guestbook at the memorial service.
It was a Unitarian service.
Protest togs were welcome.
Possibly encouraged.
Just looked nasty. Didn’t really rain much. Hope tomorrow is sunny for No Kings Rally 3.
Seriously people.
This is important.
Go out tomorrow.
Be on the street.
Your country needs you.
Spent some time studying my tax returns today. Yes, I pay someone to prepare them. But, as Ronald Reagan said: Trust, but verify.
It’s remarkable how much better Reagan seems these days.
I briefly considered feeding this year’s return and last year’s into ChatGPT and asking it to compare and advise.
My Social Security number.
Account numbers.
What could go wrong?
But wait, it’s not as if that information is particularly well hidden after DOGE.
Tomorrow I will look at the Virginia numbers. No need to over-stress myself. One jurisdiction at a time.
I had no idea that I could make a blow-up bunny out of 12-inch paper. Guess I don’t have COPD.
My body is voting “present” today. That’s good enough.
Still getting three or four small, manageable facial zaps an hour. No additional screaming shocks. I would prefer zero zaps and shocks, of course. But this I can deal with. And I am grateful that I can deal with it.
One of tonight’s dinner entrées appears to be mashed potatoes, lentils, and burnt carrots. Hard pass.
In other domestic news, I tossed four hundred sheets of not-quite-square origami paper into the recycling box.
It was beautiful paper. But off by about a sixteenth of an inch.
I do not need that level of irritation in my life.
The news feed already provides sufficient supply of irritation.