As any designer of software upgrades knows, the way to identify bugs is to inflict it untested on your customer base and wait for the anguished cries. Half of what worked before no longer does, and worse, from my point of view, it all looks different. I really hate different. Hence, I have an inviolable policy of letting working software lie.
Just so we’re clear, when the iPhone 75 comes out, I will still be using the iPhone 4s. I bought the 4s a year ago and learning how to use it has taken at least five years off my life expectancy. Intuitive? Only to the teenage technogeeks who design them. God forbid Apple could provide a comforting printed manual for civilians.
La Jolla has a number of historically significant buildings and cottages that deserve to be preserved, but
every time I hear of a movement to preserve the architecture of the 1947 houses in our neighborhood, I feel compelled to demur. Or barf.
In May of this year, I wrote a column called “So done with medical science” after articles began appearing in both scientific journals and the popular press that calcium supplements, the sacred cow of medical advice for women, could actually cause you harm. But it’s only gotten better – or worse, depending on how you think about it. If I didn’t have a character limit, this column would be titled “Totally absolutely never going to believe anything medical science says again and this time I really mean it!”
We know couples who contend they can talk to each other about “anything.” My husband Olof agrees that’s the way relationships ought to be, so long as you never actually do it.
You know you’re turning into a curmudgeon when you can’t decide whether to write about dog poop or leaf blowers. The anti-leaf blower lobby is already gaining traction in the Letters section of the Light. Personally, I’m fine with whatever construction noise, leaf blowing and tree trimmer chain sawing goes on during the week, but on the weekends, I’d love to give all of those guys mandatory time off. Fire up that leaf blower on a Sunday morning while people are outside reading the paper and the Noise Police would come and stuff you into a metal trash can which the neighbors could pound on with aluminum rakes until you promised never to do it again.
After three straight years of 7-day 80-hour weeks punctuated by frequent international travel to the U.K. and the Middle East, my husband, Olof, decided to retire. In the last four blissful weeks, it feels like I’ve reconnected with someone who’s been brought back from the dead, or at least United.
I think most parents would agree that there is no greater theater than youth sports. In T-ball, for example, everyone can hit off the tee but no one can field so home runs are the norm even with a one-base-per-overthrow rule. Every base is an overthrow. In fact, my older son’s T-ball coach used to tell the kids to hit the ball and keep running until someone told them to stop. It was a remarkably winning strategy.
Every neighborhood seems to have its requisite nutcase. Over the years, I’ve done informal research on this subject by querying friends if they have at least one problem neighbor. I’ve never had anyone say no. In fact, I usually get a 20-minute diatribe on the wingnut who is terrorizing their particular block.
When my younger son visited over the Fourth of July, one of his first comments was, “I never realized you had so much agapanthus.” Of course, I knew immediately it wasn’t my real son and that I would have to petition the embassy on the planet Klingon for his release. Because this botany-identifying facsimile was not the one I raised, who knew exactly two types of flowers: orchids for prom corsages and roses for Valentine’s Day.