A Name You Can Bank On

Once again, I’ve changed banks. More accurately, I stayed put – it was my bank who changed it’s name this past week. If you haven’t noticed around town lately (and all over the country, for that matter) Washington Mutual Bank is now “Chase.” That’s it, just Chase. Yawn.

I’m sure many people couldn’t care less – the money inside is the same whatever the name on the outside of the bank might be. But this one I’m taking personally. I liked banking at “WaMu” as the now-defunct bank was affectionately called.

You see, my wife and I were longtime account holders at another large bank with a local branch in Montrose – one that I won’t name out of courtesy for the fine people I’m sure must work there. Sure, I liked the not-to-be-named bank’s clever logo featuring a stagecoach and horses. They never ran out of deposit slips. And their parking lot had really straight white lines. But the banking experience? Not so great. Then again, maybe I was just a bad customer.  

Anywho, after years of frustration we moved our vast horde of cash (my wife is rolling on the floor laughing as I write this) to Washington Mutual. We had heard friends say how much they appreciated the WaMu way of doing business, so we gave it a shot. That was six or so years ago and we’ve been more than happy ever since. Instead of feeling like we were in an increasingly adversarial relationship as with our former bank (Seriously? You want two forms of ID even if I’m just depositing money to my own account!?), our new bank actually seemed to want our business, no matter how miniscule our resources might be. Imagine that.

You’ve also gotta love bankers who are comfortable calling themselves by a nickname like WaMu. As an advertising person, I appreciated the bank’s unique brand character always evident in its in-branch posters promoting savings accounts, home loans and other banking products. Trust me, having presented ad concepts to way too many stuffy financial-type clients over the course of my career, I can testify that it’s rare for bankers to even seem human, much less friendly and personable.

Okay, so I did find WaMu’s TV spots with the black spokesguy making fun of the gaggle of pompous and pasty white male bankers to be ridiculously insulting and stereotypical. However, being of the white male persuasion myself, I realize I’m not allowed to complain. But I digress, as I often do.

To be fair, I realize the building on the northeast corner of Foothill and Ramsdell hasn’t always been a WaMu branch. In fact, I remember it as a Security Pacific branch when I attended nearby CV high in the 70s. (And yes, we used U.S. currency back then, not gold nuggets. Or salt.) I also seem to remember the building was once a Crocker Bank – or maybe that was just a really boring dream I had once.

Still, I’m waiting for the bank’s new management to crack down on the small town, friendly atmosphere that we’ve come to appreciate. In other words, to make it just like every other bank.

So far, so good, however. The same efficient yet friendly tellers still smile out from behind the thick plexi-glass barrier. (Can you believe we used to bank face-to-face with nothing but a cheap ballpoint pen on a chain between us? I don’t know why we even need such safety barriers – these days bank robbers fly across the country in corporate jets and testify in front of the US Congress. Correction – today they get ELECTED to Congress.)

For now, I’m willing to give my “new” bank a chance and hope that the new owners don’t change too many things. And who knows, the eternal optimist in me wonders if,  now that my bank and I share the same name, they’ll be quick to cut me some serious slack the next time I need a low interest, fixed-rate, cash-out refi home loan. Y’think?

See you ‘round town.

[Note: This is a repost of a column first published on March 19, 2009 in the former Crescenta Valley Sun newspaper – an LA Times-owned publication.]

Driving Ourselves Crazy

Is my memory already failing me, or were the streets of the Crescenta Valley much wider 30 or so years ago? Then again, maybe it’s all of the vehicles lining both sides of most of the streets in these fair foothills. I mean, drive through any neighborhood either above or below Foothill Blvd. today and you’ll find very few linear feet of curb space that isn’t occupied by cars, trucks, dumpsters, trash cans and an odd assortment of other wheeled vehicles or objects.

It’s gotten so that many local streets are in danger of becoming impassible (impossible?) at certain times of the day. As evidence, your Honor, the people introduce Exhibit A: Orange Avenue between Pennsylvania and Ramsdell. I challenge anyone driving anything wider than a Razor scooter to maneuver that particular section of Orange Ave. on a school morning or any late afternoon without feeling like they’re a contestant on an episode of American Gladiator on Wheels.

Long gone is the time when a car going west and one going east could pass each other without slowing down dramatically, or worse, pulling over into a gap between parked cars to let an oncoming driver squeeze by. I’ve even seen drivers heading opposite directions on Orange approach each other, stop, roll down the drivers window to fold in their side mirrors. They then proceed cautiously ahead. This delicate dance reminds me of our family’s often harrowing off-road adventures on steep, bolder-strewn terrain where the rules of the rocky road dictate that the 4X4 going uphill has the right of way in any tight spot. The driver going downhill must back up until finding a wide enough spot in the trail to let the uphill driver pass by. I fear we’re getting close to needing this sort of motoring etiquette on our own residential streets.

I could be hallucinating from breathing too many exhaust fumes while waiting in local traffic, but it seems as though nearly every address on that long, very heavily trafficked block is home to at least five or more vehicles – all parked on the street.  Doesn’t anybody use their own garage or even their driveway any more? I can remember the ballet of Buicks we’d do at my humble childhood home whenever one of my brothers or parents wanted to run an errand. Our driveway looked like a railroad switching yard as first one car and then another was backed out and into a temporary spot on the street. Finally, when the car to be driven was moved out, the others cars were moved back into position in the garage and driveway, leaving the streetside curb open for guests, neighbors, etc. Somehow, even with a few cars and a couple of motorcycles in our family of six, we managed to park all of them on our property, not in the street.

That certainly has changed. Increasingly, residential garages today are merely mini-storage facilities in which to keep all that have-to-have stuff we’ve all bought with our two-income families (most of it almost never used, but that’s a topic for another column). Another contributing factor is certainly all the kids who already have their own cars at the ripe-old age of sixteen. When they were in high school, there wasn’t a week that one of my kids didn’t come home with a tragic tale of yet another friend whose parents care so much about their happiness and well-being (unlike yours truly, of course) that said Wonder Parent went out and bought their oh-so-deserving child a brand new car as soon as they were licensed.

Or worse. The other day while grocery shopping, for instance, I spoke briefly with an acquaintance who casually mentioned that he had just bought his daughter a brand new, showroom shiny, bright red Mustang. “Wow,” I said. “I had no idea she was already driving age!” He gave me a puzzled look and said, “Oh, she’s not. But she’ll be driving in the next year or two and her mom and I wanted to be sure she had a new car of her own car when it’s time.”

Well of course. Silly me. Because what this town really needs is another car on the road – parked, driving or otherwise. I tell ya, it’s driving me crazy.

[NOTE: A version of this column was originally published in the April 10, 2008 edition of the former Crescenta Valley Sun newspaper, an LA Times-owned publication.]

This version © 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

The Adventurers Next Door

Writer and philosopher, Henry David Thoreau once observed that “the mass of men lead lives of quiet desperation.” Being self-employed for the past 14-plus years (not to mention raising four kids, two of whom are still in college), I know intimately about being in a state of quiet desperation. Trust me.

And yet, I tend to think that the flip side of that condition is the life led in quiet adventure. I got to thinking about that recently when a friend (and CV Weekly reader) emailed to comment on my column and new blog. In the course of her email, she casually mentioned that her husband was away in Nepal in his first bid to scale Mt. Everest.

Say what?

I vaguely remember hearing some time ago that my friend’s husband had set a long-term goal of summiting the fourteen tallest mountains in the world (give or take a legendary peak or two). I had no clue that he was as accomplished or as dedicated as to actually wind up in the foothills of the Himalayas on what arguably is the adventure of anyone’s lifetime. To think that living right here in La Crescenta we have our own American version of Sir Edmond Hillary.

Then again, another local friend and frequent subject of CV Weekly articles, Mike Leum, is the kind of guy who competes in triathlons and physical feats of daring-do like the rest of us trek to the mailbox. I mean, talk about adventurers among us – Mike relaxes by climbing hundreds of vertical feet up frozen waterfalls in the winter – that is, when he’s not saving lives in the wilderness and rappelling off hovering helicopters with the Montrose Search & Rescue team. As if that isn’t hair raising enough, Mike and his wife, Nancy are also raising two teenage boys. Oh, my!

While in no way have I ever done anything that rates as high on the adventure scale as climbing icy waterfalls, much less Mt. Everest, I have been known to do some things that might raise the eyebrows of more safe and sedate folks out there – or at least my mother. For example, many years ago I backpacked the entire 219 mile length of the John Muir trail through the great Sierra Nevada wilderness. The last day of this three-week adventure featured an oxygen-deprived trek to the 14,505 foot high summit of Mt. Whitney, the tallest peak in the continental United States. Granted, it’s not even as high as even some of the acclimation camps on Everest, but, it’s certainly enough for me.

I also spent most of one summer at sea as a crewmember of a 45-foot commercial fishing boat, once not seeing land for six weeks straight (I couldn’t eat a tuna sandwich for years afterward). That particular adventure included having to transfer myself, a backpack and my guitar in a teeny tiny plastic dinghy one hundred yards across open water with 15-foot swells to another heaving and pitching trawler while two hundred miles off the coast of Astoria, Oregon. Despite having drifted under the outflow of the ship’s bilge pump and nearly being swamped by its rolling, barnacle-covered hull, I somehow survived that experience, although it didn’t do a whole lot to decrease my lifelong fear of deep, dark water. To this day, I can’t watch an episode of the Deadliest Catch without reliving that summer at sea.

That was all years ago, of course. These days I find more than enough adventure in hiking and biking with my wife, in watching our adult kids chart their own careers and lives, and – most enjoyably – in watching our four (for now, at least) grandkids growing up right before the reading glasses on my nose.

My question is, what do you do for adventure? If we have neighbors who climb the world’s highest mountains or save lives as a hobby, what other adventurous and not-so-desperate lives are being led out there? Let me know.

I’ll see you ‘round town.

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

[Note: This is a re-post of my column first published in yesterday's (4.21.11) CV Weekly newspaper, www.cvweekly.com] 

The year Easter stayed in the attic

Because we added well over a thousand square feet onto our house somewhere during the last century, we have two separate attics. In our original attic, stacks of boxes reach to the rafters in places, filled with accumulated family history that archeologists from the future are sure to go through with collective awe and reverence. Or not. You enter this attic (on the rare occasion anyone needs something that was thrown away … er, carefully placed in storage up there) through a trap door in the ceiling of a hallway. It’s hot, it’s stuffy, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all to learn that a colony of bug-eyed North American house trolls lived in the far corners of its darkness. I hope they’re happy up there.

The newer attic is a different animal entirely. Due to odd architectural features of the addition to our home, there was considerable unused space above what had been our old garage roof and alongside one wall of our new second story. When beginning the project, I had foolishly decided to be the general contractor, so it was easy to make last minute construction decisions. As such, we decided to frame out a utility hatch door into the wall of the stairway leading up to our second story to access this dead space. Voila, a second attic.

Even though we had to build a special access ladder with offset legs to match the angle of the stairway, or that getting into the space has always seemed like the birthing process in reverse, we use this newer attic much more than the original one.

More than anything else, we store holiday decorations in this bonus attic. Okay, we keep empty gift boxes up there too. And suitcases. And sleeping bags. But by far, most of this attic space is filled with boxes, basins and bins of decorations. This attic is full. As in, fifteen pounds of fertilizer in a ten pound bag, full.

In previous columns I’ve written about the big deal we make of Christmas when it comes to decorations, so it should be no surprise that a majority of the decorations are for the Christmas season. Having said that, however, our family’s almost as crazy about other holidays, birthdays, anniversaries, our dogs’ birthdays, trash pickup day, ladies hot wax day at the car wash. You get the idea.

Because of the limited storage space, our boxed decorations are labeled so they can be stacked, stored and organized according to the calendar. Which means that a month ago, the hearts and cupids, bright red geegaws and dangly down thingies of Valentine’s Day should have been put farthest away from the attic door. So, in a perfect world with perfect teenage boys to help their perfect parents, that also should have meant that the Easter decorations (bunnies, baskets, plastic eggs, plastic grass, egg-dying paraphernalia, pastel-colored wrapping paper, tinted cellophane, more baskets, tacky rabbit-themed knic-knacks, geegaws and chotchkies, etc.) would have then been closest to the attic door when my wife and I went looking for them last week.

Not a chance.

In fact, after climbing up into the attic, with my feet dangling out into the void of the stairway, my wife and I pawed past box after box of Christmas paraphernalia, but didn’t see a single container with “Easter” written on it. Digging deeper into the crowded attic space, belly crawling under and through stacks of boxes, suitcases, and who-knows-what-else-is-stored-up-there, I felt a momentary wave of panic sweep over me and was sure I knew what it must be like to be a miner trapped by a cave in.

Somehow, we found our way back out to fresh air. We didn’t find the Easter decorations, but we were alive. And because crisis counselors don’t work on holidays, we decided to end our search and save our marriage. Somehow, our storage “system” had gotten screwed up.

With our luck, the Easter decorations will probably turn up when we go searching for our Fourth of July trimmings and trappings.   

And so, for the first time ever, last weekend we celebrated Easter without the usual seasonal bling adorning our home. The only decorations were bunches of gorgeous yellow daffodils and fresh pink tulips my wife bought to grace our dining table. No cute bunnies, plastic eggs or other distractions. Just a morning of heartfelt worship at church, then home for a great home-cooked meal and precious time well-spent with family around the table. All in all a simple, special day of faith, family and fellowship with those we love dearly.

Hopefully we can lose those boxes of decorations again next year. I’ll see you ‘round town.

[Note: A version of this essay was originally published in the CV Weekly Newspaper (www.cvweekly.com) on April 8, 2010].

This version © 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

Clearing the path

“The difference between the almost right word and the right word is really a large matter – it’s the difference between the lightening bug and the lightening.”  -- Mark Twain

One of several books I’m currently reading (I’m easily distracted by new releases and old friends and by many books bought but not yet read) is titled Unless It Moves The Human Heart  a newly published book by bestselling author and commentator, Roger Rosenblatt, about the craft of writing.

As I am prone to do, I often read what I hope will be inspirational, thought-provoking books when I go to bed – usually late at night just prior to midnight or sometimes even when a new day has officially begun on the calendar. Although there is danger in this late-night practice of mine (rarely do I read more than a page or two – and sometimes not more than two or three paragraphs! – before falling asleep myself and the book falling from my hands onto the floor beside my bed), there can also be wondrous times of inspiration. Often, when reading a Bible devotional or a superbly written book on the craft of writing such as Anne Lamott’s Bird by Bird, or The War of Art by Steven Pressfield, I will read a particularly inspiring passage just before falling asleep – and dream it’s message deep into my subconscious to have it surface in my waking thoughts time and time again in the ensuing weeks and months. I love when that happens.

Sometimes, not so much. And in my tiredness, I simply cannot focus either my eyes or my thoughts  -- drifting away from comprehension of what is written on the pages before me and into a deep sleep. So it has been with this particular book. Not that it isn’t written well, or that it doesn’t hold many useful bits of advice on writing – but for whatever reason, I have had the book a couple of weeks now and had only managed to read the first ten or fifteen pages. Its paperback cover is already creased and dimpled having hit my bedroom floor so often!

However, all it took was an anniversary getaway weekend away from my usual routine at home in Southern California and all its distractions to actually read nearly half of the book in one sitting. I should explain.

My wife and I drove 300-plus miles from home to our family’s vacation home high up on the eastern slope of the Sierra Nevada mountain range. It’s supposed to be in the 90s at home as I write this, but up here around 9,000 feet in elevation, it’s still winter – and the small resort town is still buried in as much as 15 feet of snow drifts. Nighttime temps are still down below freezing. Most of the windows on the ground floor of any home are still blocked by snowdrifts. Can you picture it? Now picture a wall of snow filling the entire front porch space leading from the driveway to the front door of our house. Arriving close to midnight in 30-degree temps and then having to shovel a path through heavy, rock-hard ice and snow the 15-foot distance just to get inside and turn on the heater so you can unpack the truck, put away food in the fridge, and eventually try to get some sleep. Yep, nothing like a relaxing getaway! But, I’m not complaining. Really, I’m not.

So, after getting maybe a few hours of sleep our first night in the cabin, I got up ridiculously early and read more of the above-mentioned book in a couple of hours than I have in a couple of weeks so far. Granted, I was reading as the sun was coming up – having been awakened from a too-short, deep sleep by my elderly yellow Lab, Darby, who thought he needed to go outside into the below-freezing darkness of pre-dawn in order to pee. He didn’t, by the way. He just wanted to go out and sniff the trails left behind by miscellaneous wildlife. He loves it up here, as do I. I just wish we had a fenced yard and a doggie door -- especially at 4 a.m.

Regardless, I was wide awake after the false-alarm bathroom break, so I dove into reading. In one of the early chapters of the book, writer/instructor Rosenblatt discusses the process of what he calls, ‘clearing your throat’ as a writer. He tells of  how the famous writer, E.L. Doctorow (of Ragtime & City of God fame) had once written 150 pages of his story, The Book of Daniel before realizing he had chosen the wrong person to tell the story. Doctorow ended up tossing every single word of all 150 pages and starting over with the story being told from an entirely different viewpoint and character. That’s discipline, my friends. I can honestly say that I don’t know if I could round file that many pages willingly – without being forced to do it by an editor under threat of not being published, that is.

I regularly slash and burn whole paragraphs of passages I’ve labored over for hours or sometimes days at a time. More often than not it’s because a piece has to come in at a specific, inflexible word count – not because I realized that a line, paragraph or thought was only included because I thought it was particularly clever or observant and didn’t really make the piece any stronger. One of the most difficult things to do as a writer is to “kill your darlings” as they say in this business. I have to say, however, that I’m getting more and more ruthless these days. All in the name of experience, I guess.

But I like the idea of having to clear your throat as a writer before you get to the really worthwhile stuff that you want to get down digitally. It’s almost like having to clear away all that snow and ice before we could get in the front door of our mountain getaway home. So much “stuff” piles up in between using the place (and my writing chops) that it takes some effort and energy to get past it all and on to the good stuff. I know, you’re still waiting for the good stuff.

Maybe posts like this one are simply clearing my throat or shoveling snow. Shoveling something, at least. You’ll be the judge, anyway.

Thanks for reading.

My Wife, Moammar and Me

[Note: This is an expanded version of my column published yesterday in the CV Weekly newspaper http://www.cvweekly.com/.]

Pop question: What was happening in the world 25 years ago this week? Moammar Kadafi (for whatever reason his name is spelled “Gaddafi” today) was in the news for his involvement in the Berlin disco bombing (Will this evil madman Gaddafi ever go away?) and then President Reagan was considering a military strike on Libya.

Speaking of the former President, it was reported this week in April 1986 that he and Nancy would receive a $26,907 refund on their tax return having paid $122,703 in taxes on $394,492 in income the year before. I wonder if they went out and bought a new refrigerator with their refund?

Twenty five years ago this week, the Lakers played their last road game of the season against the Sacramento Kings without star player, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar who was out with a respiratory infection. The same week, the all-girl group, the Bangles were singing about a “Manic Monday,” while Robert Palmer was “Addicted to Love” and the Stones were doing the “Harlem Shuffle.” MGM released the comedy, “Wise Guys,” while the sword & sorcerer film, “Legend” wowed audiences from Glendale, California to Gardiner, Maine.

To be honest with you (aren’t I always?), I don’t remember the above trivia and had to look it up online. You see, I was a little distracted that week by what was happening in my own little world. I was getting married.

Wow, was I a nervous wreck! Having been married once before, you’d think I would have been a bit more calm about the whole process, but quite the opposite was true. The very fact that I’d done it all before and had ultimately failed in the attempt hung over my head like an ominous cloud. What if it happened again? I had a four-year-old daughter whom I’d sworn would never have a broken family. And yet, it happened. I couldn’t imagine going through that heartbreak all over again, much less putting my precious daughter through that emotional stress another time. Second marriages have a bad enough track record, after all. So-called “blended families” are the most difficult to make work, said all the experts. What was I thinking?

But my God is one of second chances, and miraculously, undeservedly, He blessed me with the gift of a wonderful, beautiful, funny, forgiving, caring, patient, loving and gracious woman who came into my life with her own amazing young son in tow. 

Against all odds and common sense, on April 12, 1986, we became an instant family of four. Over the next few years we brought two more awesome boys into the family.

Flash forward to today and I can truthfully say that I feel even more blessed, more loved and happier than I did twenty five years ago. So much so that I felt compelled to acknowledge the fact for the whole world (or at least the entire Crescenta Valley) to know.

Well, that and the fact that  I had promised my dear wife that – upon reaching the milestone of a quarter century together – I would take her on a far flung exotic European vacation to celebrate our many years of wedded bliss. Let me tell you, it sure sounded like a great idea at the time. And certainly do-able. But that was then. The economic reality of now has added that promise to  Then again, having the ability to roll with the rocks that are thrown at you by circumstances, children, parents, health, careers, the economy, friends, the ravages of time, evil foreign dictators and aliens among us is one of the hallmarks of a healthy, happy and ultimately successful marriage.

Still, I wanted to do something more than simply the usual flowers and a card. That’s just SO expected, you know. So, now thousands of people will know of my wife’s plight in putting up with a husband such as me for all these many years. I’m still trying to figure out how to put a gift bow on all the newspapers that are delivered throughout the Crescenta Valley this morning, but at least she won’t have to work off any candy calories this year. Are you overwhelmed by my thoughtfulness yet? Yeah, thought so.

My wife has never, ever so much as hinted that she’s disappointed that we can’t even think about going on such a trip in the foreseeable future – telling me she’ll take a rain check for the romantic getaway … some day … somehow … when my writing career finally takes off. Or when I grow up and get a real job, like working for the government. Yeah, that’s the ticket.

Before I wrap this up, I’d like to indulge in a personal shout out to my wife: Honey, having put up with me for twenty five years, it should come as no surprise at all that I wrote you an anniversary column and somehow managed to mention Moammar Gaddafi, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and the Bangles. Am I the incurable romantic, or what?

Thankfully, ya gotta love me. I’ve got a wedding contract that says so. 

I’ll see you ‘round town.

© 2011 WordChaser, Inc.

The 411 on 818

[Note: This column originally appeared in a shorter version in the April 16, 2009 edition of the former Crescenta Valley Sun newspaper – a Times-owned publication.]

This Saturday, April 18, the way we make calls from the 818 area code is changing. Yep, because life already isn’t complicated enough, starting tomorrow, every number we dial will require at least ten digits. I’m not kidding, from Saturday on, any and all phone numbers we call from this area code – from your next door neighbor to the gleaming global headquarters of the Crescenta Valley Sun – will require ten digits or more.

What chucklehead thought this was a good idea, anyway?

Actually, the new mandatory use of our own 818 area code in dialing is due to the California Public Utilities Commission’s approval to add a new area code overlay, 747, to the same geographic area covered by the 818 area code. Confused? Join the club.

According to the telecommunications technocrats, we’re close to running out of unassigned 818 phone numbers due to the ever-growing number of new cell phones, fax machines, security systems, pagers, land lines and internet connections coming online every day. (The fact that hundreds of thousands of unused phone numbers are kept “off the market” for possible future sale to specialized groups/companies, etc. doesn’t seem to matter to the bureaucrats who never met an ordinance they didn’t want to pass.)

This has been happening locally since 1957 when the 805 area code was assigned to Ventura, San Luis Obispo, Santa Barbara and Bakersfield, all formerly in the 213 area code. In 1984, the Crescenta Valley, Glendale and Burbank lost our 213 exchange and – along with the San Gabriel and San Fernando Valleys – have comprised the 818 area code ever since.

However, unlike in 1984, this time we all get to keep our existing phone numbers. So, address books, business cards, stationary – all stay the same. However, since there will soon be new local phone numbers with the 747 area code, we “818”ers need to actually dial 818 to call each other. Whew, it sure is getting complicated to communicate.

Then again, I’m old enough to remember – barely – rotary dial phones, too. I also remember when my maternal grandparents moved away from their beloved but increasingly congested Glendale to the rural south San Diego county town of Escondido, where at the time, avocado groves outnumbered residents.

To visit Grandma and Grandpa required a three hour drive. Calling between our two homes was considered “long distance,” which meant whoever initiated the call was charged extra by the minute. Both my grandparents and parents would do just about anything not to pay that extra cost, so upon arrival home after a visit, instead of calling and saying a hurried, “stop worrying, we made it home!” my mom or grandma would call the other’s home number, let it ring twice – only twice – and then hang up. This was code that they were safely home. And because the other party didn’t pick up the ringing phone, it was not a completed call and therefore, wasn’t charged to the calling party. Can you say, “cheap?” Or, excuse me … frugal.

Considering this, it’s quite ironic that each of my kids had their own personal cell phone before they were out of elementary school. Okay, now can you say, “spoiled”? Then again, social and technological developments like this are precisely why so many phone numbers across this great gadget-loving land are already used up. Guilty as charged, your honor.

Heck, today even my dear mother – the same one for whom a 1-minute “we’re-home-safely” call to Escondido was too expensive – has her own cell phone. The truth is, my wife and I added a line for mom onto our own family cell plan so she could stay in touch when traveling, or if she has car trouble, or whatever. And yet, even though it doesn’t cost her a nickel to use, she doesn’t use it. The thing almost never leaves her purse for fear of spending a few cents that don’t need to be spent.

No matter how often I try to explain to her that her use of the phone is already paid for, whether or not she uses it, doesn’t seem to register. And so the phone stays in her purse, turned off. I guess if old habits die hard, frugal ones are downright immortal. Of course, the other consequence of her inability to take advantage of the technology is that – inevitably – the few times in the past several years that she actually has had a need and/or desire to make a call on her cell phone, it hasn’t worked because the battery was dead when she turned it on. Sigh.

When it comes to communications technology, like many things, I guess change is inevitable. So the fact that we will now have to dial ten numbers to make even local calls should be no big deal. However, I can’t help but think Ma Bell is turning over in her deregulated grave at the thought of neighbors needing to dial a marathon of digits to talk to each other.

I’d call somebody to complain, but … I don’t have time to dial all those numbers.  See you ‘round town.

This version © 2011 WordChaser, Inc.