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Old Age Is Creeping Up On Me

One of these mornings I know I’m going to be standing in the kitchen first thing and I’m gonna grab the dog pills and take them instead of my own pills (Nexium for GERD, “etc.”). And no I won’t tell you what “other” meds I’m on. That would be entirely too “personal.” But know this: a goodly portion of my daily medication regimen involves high voltage and leeches.

All the bottles of pills are set out on the kitchen counter.

I’m not at the point just yet where I’ve broken down and bought one of those drugstore “old-people pill organizers.” Does Madonna have one of those? I don’t believe she does. We are the same age. So no, I won’t buy a pill organizer just yet.

Simply fill these compartments to the top with medications -- yours AND someone else's, including your pets if you remember that you HAVE pets -- and then just relax and enjoy the joyful surprises each new day brings.
Simply fill these compartments to the top with medications — yours AND someone else’s, including your pets if you remember that you HAVE pets — and then just relax and enjoy the joyful surprises each new day brings.

Instead, I prefer to let all the pills congregate on the kitchen counter and use my “she’s still pretty sharp … for her age” mind discern which are mine and which are for the dog. Or the cats. I think we have cats. Wait, no, just the dog. My bad.

There is a large bit of counter space between MY pills and these dog pills. We call this area the senility buffer zone (SBZ).

And, as a backup security measure to the SBZ, the dog pill bottles are ALSO very clearly marked “FOR VETERINARY USE ONLY” on each of the lids.

It all sounds simple enough, until you realize that I’m the one who put on her dress inside-out and went about her day and errands and toward the very end of the day someone thoughtfully, quietly, approached me and mentioned the “interesting” seams and tags. That was in high school.

Now then. Let’s flash forward a few years. Where are my glasses? On top of my head, as a household-wide search party reports in mere hours.

A few weeks ago, I was sitting in Starbucks, in FULL CAFFEINATION MODE, typing something really important to someone super important and I had to stop and seriously Google whether it was 2012 or what? Turned out it was 2015. Not sure if it still is? Your comments are appreciated, especially if you also take dog pills, I want to know how that works out.

The Price Is In There Somewhere

I was looking into Quickbooks Online (QBO) and it appears that they think people who are using the internet to shop for a “cloud-based” “solution” are dense about online stuff AND about numbers. “If they are looking for accounting software, they must be easily confused by numbers and math! Let’s reel in the morons with our pricing scheme on our website!”

Good God. The website. I just. I don’t. I can’t. It’s sort of a Winchester House thing going on over there. Especially as far as the “pricing” information is “presented.” Screen caps! Yes!

First page. Pricing. For small businesses without employees. That would be me.

Not too bad. I'm interested. Let me click that.
Not too bad. I’m interested. Let me click that.

So I click “try it free.”

I was taken to a new page, where this appeared. Wait. That's not $12.95. Then I noticed a banner running across the top of the page. Maybe I could save FIFTY PERCENT!
I was taken to a new page, where this appeared. Wait. That’s not $12.95. Then I noticed a banner running across the top of the page. Maybe I could save FIFTY PERCENT!
SALE! Banner! At least offer the $12.95, right? I'm in. So I clicked.
SALE! Banner! At least offer the $12.95, right? I’m in. So I clicked.
Aaaaand no.
Aaaaand no.

That’s where I ended up.

No “$12.95″ ANYWHERE on the site for ANY LEVEL in their “pricing” “scheme.” I use the word “scheme” here in the true Al Gore sense. I looked everywhere. There is nothing for $12.95 on the entire website.

Suddenly I noticed a “CHAT LIVE!” icon. I would rather “type to chat” than be on the phone with someone in these situations because, well, you’ll see.

So I clicked and “Darlene” popped up in a nice little chat window.

As you might know, I’m not known for my patience for sales-y bullshit. But this was online and usually I can “steer” the convo a bit better than over the phone where I end up yelling things like SHUT THE FUCK UP NEVER CALL HERE AGAIN DO NOT CALL THIS NUMBER AGAIN EVER.

Darlene: Hi! I’m your Quickbooks Online sales assistant! May I have your first name?

She may as well have been at my front door offering me a Watchtower pamphlet. I EYEROLLED at the chat window.

Me: WTF, Darlene? It says “$12.95 for small business with no employees.” I click for that, and it takes me to $26.95, then I see a “sale” banner for 50% off and click that, and I get $18.86/mo. What the hell?

Darlene: [agent is typing]

At this point I just want to close the chat and go back to Bejeweled, but out of respecKT for Darlene’s typing efforts, I waited, hoping she would just answer my question. At least mutter something semi-plausible about the website being updated blah blah blah.

Oh. Did I mention that I love throwing sales people off their SCRIPTS? It’s a hobby.

Darlene didn’t want to be thrown off, though. Her next message:

Darlene: Are you interested in trying to start a new small business?


Next thing I see is a “Please tell us how we’re doing” survey.

Guess what I said. Go on. Guess.

Wouldst Thou Mind If I Rested My Poor Glutes Here A While?

So last night we attended a live theater event. We had more than decent seats, orchestra level, fairly centered in the venue. About ten minutes before the thing started, I became aware of this … THING pressing up against the back of my head. Sort of “in” my hair. Snuggling up to the back of my skull. It wasn’t moving, but it sort of “breathed” or something.

I held very still, lest it turn out to be a dangerous creature that could kill me with a swift dose of venom. I froze. Survival instinct? In a modern theater, you rarely see encounters with venomous creatures anymore, but that’s no reason to let one’s guard down.

I figured “whatever it was” would leave me alone, go away, if I just kept my eyes ahead and remained calm, still. I waited. And waited. A minute or more passed. Somewhere into the maybe the third minute I had to turn around, ever so slightly, and see what was “making love” to my hair and indeed to the entire back of my skull.


I know. It’s hard to visualize these things. So here’s a rough sketch of what was going on.

Suddenly I was discomfited.
Suddenly I was discomfited.

As you can see, I was facing the stage. The show had not yet begun but the lighting and whatever on the stage was worth a look. The pre-show buzz of excitement in the theater air.

But nothing could have prepared me for this. Some woman was RESTING HER FAT ASS on the back of MY ninety-dollar theater seat. Yes she was, BRETT, YES SHE WAS. [/pulpfiction] She was in tight shorts and — well I’ll just say it was not a good look for her.

And when I say “resting” her butt on the back of MY seat, I mean this in the sense of “camping out,” “parking,” “hooking up the RV,” “moved in and having a housewarming party,” “a long-term encroachment.” I heard her chattering with the people in the actual seats right behind me, and when I turned slightly I could even see a tiny glimpse of those two people.

So butt woman was tired of standing (and not going to her own seat, wherever that was) and she needed to sit and rest awhile. What better place to rest her weary ass than on the back of my skull and shoulders?

I was so stunned I couldn’t muster a snarky comment or even a horrified face. I think I just turned around toward the stage again and pretended to be in a light coma. At some point she must have moved because the butt wasn’t in the car with us on the way home.