Second Half

I need your help with an important decision that will affect my future. Should I stay the course with my personal technology or change it up? You, dear readers, will decide.

 Here’s the story.

 When it comes to computers, I’ve always been a PC kind of gal. I was content to go with the mainstream, investing in Windows software because that was the standard for business. I needed my machine to talk to everyone else’s.

Those Mac people were troublemakers. Their e-mails came through as garbage and prompted endless angst about “compatibility.” Why don’t they just give in? I thought. Apple had their chance to grab the market, but they refused to share their code. Windows won the battle and had saturated the market. It was time to surrender.

Surrender? Never! The MacAddicts swore we’d have to pry their fancy trackballs from their cold dead fingers.

Secretly, I envied them. They were a kind of secret society of “artistes,” cool cats who didn’t mind if their quirky requirements wreaked havoc in the business world. To be a Mac Person was to belong to a cult, fronted by the charismatic Steve Jobs, that guru who could bring crowds to their feet with the click of a mouse.

Poor Bill Gates, one of the most generous men on earth as well as the richest, just didn’t have the cachet, and neither did his software. Windows has always been a poor imitation of the graphical interface pioneered by Apple.

The business world moved slowly ahead, plagued by forced PC “updates” that messed up their machines and operating systems rushed to market while still buggier than a Wisconsin summer night.

When I went out on my own, unchained to a PC network and a company policy that strictly forbid Macs, I flirted with the idea of changing teams.

After all, I’m a kind of artist, right? OK, I work with pronouns, not pixels. Still, “freelancer” DOES contain the word “free.” Now that I was free of the mandates of the company IT department, I began to seriously consider jumping out of Windows.

What had held me back, besides that fact that I had a fairly new machine, was that I also had a major investment in Windows-based software. My hard drive was full of a few thousand dollars’ worth of applications that would only run on Windows.

Then I found out that the new Mac can run Windows applications. Well, now. That’s another story.

Switching was an idle thought until my PC broke down yet again. My e-mail is hosed (to use a technical term) and I can’t open a message without Outlook terminating itself. My documents are printing out with the letters backwards. I am not amused.

Here’s where you come in. I need you to help me make my decision. Do I stay with the same-old, same-old? Or do I opt for Change with a capital “C”? Consider this vote a warm-up for the November election.

 I will abide by the decision of the majority, and promise not to petition the Supreme Court if I don’t like your decision. The voting will take place on my web site. (See poll at left)

To help you make your decision, I’d like to share the list I made comparing the virtues of each platform.

User Knowledge

PC: Know my way around with my eyes closed.

Mac: Would need a guide dog.

Reliability

PC: In my personal experience, not so great

Mac: Legendary

 Design

PC: Always the imitator that doesn’t get it quite right

Mac: Wow factor

 Software

PC: Lots

Mac: Harder to find

Commercials

PC: Jerry Seinfeld?

Mac: The guy who dated Drew Barrymore

Iconic Founder

PC: White shirt, tie

Mac: Black turtleneck

 Coolness factor

PC: None

Mac: Oh, yeah

 Should I stick with Windows or switch to a Mac? Cast your vote at left.

The room was full of professional speakers, both beginning and accomplished. The presenter, a well-known marketing expert, was talking about achieving credibility as a speaker. A bullet on his PowerPoint slide, which I was following on the handout, said “Always site your sources.”

As I always do, I corrected the handout, crossing out “site” and writing “cite.” I turned to my friend and pointed it out. She acknowledged it with a nod.

“It affects his credibility,” I whispered.

“Are you going to say anything?” she asked, knowing my penchant for correcting people in public. She edged ever so slightly away from me, in case she needed to deny knowing me if, and when, I said something embarrassing.

A debate started in my head. Should I mention it? The guy had written something like 27 books. He was an expert. Then, again, it would save him from embarrassment in front of audiences that were not as friendly as this one.

Then I heard whispering behind me. “He used the wrong ‘cite,’ ” someone said.

I raised my hand. By this time, I had missed every other point on the slide because I was obsessing over the boo-boo in bullet No. 2. In fact, the speaker had moved on to the next slide.

He called on me, and to my horror, handed me a wireless microphone. My scolding was going to be amplified.

I tried to soften it. “I have to tell you that I read my mother’s letters with a red pen in my hand,
I said.

“Oh-h-h, that’s cold!” he said.

“So,” I continued, “please understand if I point out that your last slide used the wrong ‘cite.’ It should be the c-i-t-e, not s-i-t-e. I only point it out because you were talking about credibility.”

He went back to the last slide, thought for a moment and gave the perfect comeback.

“Congratulations! You have found the first of three typos purposely placed in this presentation to see if you were paying attention. Whoever finds all three wins a new Mercedes!”

The audience laughed, I relaxed and the Mercedes-lover behind me promptly found another typo: a “you” instead of “your” on the next slide.

I’ve tried to fight it, but I just can’t help myself. Typos, grammar errors and improper punctuation grate on me like pitchy “American Idol” auditions bug Randy Jackson.

Fellow nitpickers, it’s time to celebrate. Today, Wednesday, Sept. 24, is National Punctuation Day. According to founder Jeff Rubin, the special day is “a celebration of the lowly comma, correctly used quotes, and other proper uses of periods, semicolons, and the ever-mysterious ellipsis.”

One of the most egregious mistakes (and yes, I use the word “egregious” in everyday conversation) is the misuse of the apostrophe when forming plurals of nouns. Celebrants of National Punctuation Day (NPD) have sent in photos of bad signage to the NPD web site for their like-minded grammarians to chuckle over. Here’s an example. A park sign reads: “DOG’S ALLOWED ON LEASH’S WITH SCOOPER’S.”

There are standards, people, and somebody has to uphold them.

Still, I fear I sometimes go too far. I’m developing a reputation. In fact, one of my readers sent a lovely note with pictures of her extended dog family. On the flap of the envelope, she wrote, “Please go easy on my spelling and grammer. I’ve had a rough day so far!”

I didn’t even uncap my red pen on that one.

Last Tuesday, I woke up coughing. “Are you OK?” called Keeper from the bathroom.

“Just coughing up a hairball,” I answered. Hack, hack.

It was 6 a.m. and Mr. Bobo the Wonder Cat had just licked himself clean on my pillow. Normally, I am not particularly sensitive to cat dander. Encountering a perfume sample in a magazine can send my lungs into a near-fatal spasm, but I don’t mind pet hair.

That morning, however, Mr. Bobo’s ablutions sent me running to the kitchen for a dose of Claritin. As I was waiting for my eyes to stop watering, I wondered if this was a one-time thing or if my pets would forever after cause me to cough up a lung every time I got near them.

How do people cope with pet allergies? Some simply deprive themselves of the pleasure of owning something furry and affectionate. Some opt for hypoallergenic dogs or freaky-looking hairless cats. Some, I’m sure, just drug themselves up so that they (or their children) can share their homes with furry companions.

But now, my friends, there is a solution for the unfortunate souls among us who have been robbed of one of life’s greatest pleasures: the opportunity to be loved unconditionally, as long as you put the chow out on time.

I came across this new breed of animal in a pet shop. I was shopping for dog toys (I no longer shop for cat toys, because they inevitably become dog toys, anyway) when I saw a darling Chihuahua asleep in a pen lined with shredded newspaper. I leaned over the pen and clicked my tongue at him.  He slept on. I went to the other side of the pen and snapped my fingers. He didn’t respond.

“Oh my God,” I thought. “He isn’t dead, is he? Surely somebody would have noticed.” I looked closer. He was breathing.

Then I noticed a tag on the pen. “Perfect Petzzz” it said. “Made with 100% synthetic fur!”

But it’s BREATHING, I thought, thoroughly creeped out.

I took another peek at the tag. “D battery included,” it said. I shuddered and walked out of the store.

I didn’t give the faux pooches another thought until the morning my lungs reacted violently to cat hair.

Wondering if they sold Perfect Pussycats, I logged on to perfectpetzz.com. There was a miniature replica of Mr. Bobo for $39.95 plus tax. Included in the price were: Gray Tabby cat, collar with pet tag, pet bed, brush, adoption certificate, pet carrier, and one “D” alkaline battery.

I read the description of my prospective adoptee: “The Gray Tabby is affectionate, dedicated and loyal. They are playful companions that long for affection from their owners. They have calm temperaments that make them easy-going and desirable pets.”

Well, sure. There’s no calmer pet than one that’s been stuffed with 100% polyester fiberfill. If I had wanted one, I would have been out of luck. There on the web site, where the “Add to Cart” button should have been, were the words “Litters coming soon!”

Yet another difference between PerfectPetzzz and Real Pets: at the animal shelter, cats are never on backorder.

I’m sure you’ve seen the news story about the Manhattan mother who advertised for a Nanny on Craigslist and called her kids “a pain.”

In case that wasn’t enough to scare off potential childcare workers, she added, “I can be a tad difficult to work for. I’m loud, pushy and while I used to think we paid well, I am no longer sure.”

She included a list of deal breakers, including being passive aggressive, being judgmental about giving Ritalin to children, or assuming that all wealthy women are frivolous.

Believe it or not, her brutally honest ad found her a Nanny, who signed on for a year-long stint after meeting only one of the four children. A college grad, the new hire had never been a Nanny before. She’s either totally naive or she has a book deal.

Reading the story made me wonder what would happen if all ads were the unvarnished truth.

Take real estate ads, for example. Realtors might as well play it straight, because their code was cracked long ago. We all know what is really meant by certain words in their ads. If a house is described as “cozy,” it is about 800 square feet and the bathroom is in a closet. If it is “ready for your ideas,” it still has avocado green appliances and linoleum floors. Wouldn’t it be refreshing if an ad said, “If you have a Labrador Retriever, he’ll never fit in this house. Call us if you decide to downsize to a Chihuahua!” or “Prepare to spend 6 months and $100,000 to make this one livable!”

Have you read any personal ads lately? I read them occasionally when I need one more reason to feel grateful. Talk about code words. Is there anybody left who doesn’t know that “mature” means “bald”? Likewise, I suspect that ‘adventurous” means “easy.” When men request “height and weight proportionate” they obviously mean “no chubbies.”

Can’t we just cut out the euphemisms? What if you just say, “I’m bald, have a gut that hangs over my shorts and live with my parents. If you’re a skinny, promiscuous babe with very low standards, give me a call.” You might just get lucky. Probably not, but you’ll save a lot of money by avoiding dates that go nowhere.

Listen, I understand that everyone wants to put his best foot forward. Nevertheless, I would love to see companies follow the lead of the Manhattan Mom. I had an employer years ago who should have advertised the job benefits this way:

Be prepared to put up with gossip, innuendo, and pettiness - and that’s just the executives! You’ll work long hours for short pay, be humiliated in public for mistakes you make, and will be condescended to by your superiors. Initiative rewarded with grudging praise, not cash. Must love tedium.
That little bit of Truth in Advertising would have saved me three years of employment hell.

Most of all, I wish the Presidential candidates would tell the truth. I would love it if both candidates would make commercials that say, “Look, we’re both good guys. Whichever one of us wins, the country is bound to be better off than it is now. By all means, vote for your favorite. But don’t think it will make any difference in the long run. In 30 years, it won’t matter who won. My name is Barack McCain and I approved this message.”

There now. Isn’t that refreshing?

The trash-talking began with the first glass of wine. Keeper assured our dinner hosts and Scrabble opponents that they didn’t have a chance against us. After all, his wife (that would be me) was the Queen of All Word Games.

I worried all through the salad, the pasta, and the veal courses. Personally, I find that bragging about one’s supposed expertise prior to a competition is just asking for trouble. Keeper had put me on a shaky pedestal and dared anyone to knock me off.

Our opponents were humble and self-deprecating, describing themselves as a non-native English speaker and a bad speller. This was true on the surface, but in reality Luda is a highly intelligent Russian with a degree in Classics, and Tom has a mind like a steel trap.

Sure, I’m a professional writer and a good speller. But my husband, himself a brilliant writer, had a spotty education. He attended schools all over Europe and South America-wherever the Foreign Service sent his father. As a result, he lacks certain cultural references that we natives grew up with, and uses the British spelling of words more often that not. Consequently, the pressure was all on me, billed as the Be-All and End-All of Scrabble Champions. By the way, I’m Mary Hanna and I did NOT approve this message.

As all Scrabble players know, the game involves the luck of the draw. Our opponents had Lady Luck on their side. They drew all the blank tiles (which could be any letter they needed) and most of the vowels. Our collection of letters would have served us well in Poland, the Czech Republic, or wherever else you can express yourself using only consonants.

We were trading the lead back and forth when the challenges started. Keeper and I used Tom and Luda’s “G” to make the word “frug.” Tom snorted. “That’s not a word,” he said.

Keeper and I explained that it’s a dance, popular in the ’60s. Tom, who spent the entire decade of the 1960s in the library or playing chess, had never heard of it. Luda, who had spent the ’60s in news-starved Moscow, was equally clueless.

At the peak of the argument, Luda’s daughter Sasha called. In a risky move, I shouted out “Ask Sasha!” Being a stage actor with tons of experience in musical theater, I thought she MIGHT have heard of the frug, in spite of her tender years.

Luda asked her daughter, listened to her answer, and nodded. Yes! We were validated by an expert. Tom grumbled and went in search of a dictionary.  In the American Heritage Dictionary, he discovered, to his woe, that “frug” was indeed a word.

Then Tom tried to pull a fast one. In an attempt to use three letters to make two words-both down and across-he formed the word “snog.” He figured his confident bluster would fool us into thinking he knew what he was talking about.

We issued a challenge. American Heritage didn’t recognize it. Even Luda was skeptical. Tom just took that as encouragement. He disappeared into his office and returned with a printout of the definition of “snog” from an obscure online reference.

“See?” he said. “It is British. It means to kiss, make out, play tonsil hockey.”

I turned to my husband, who had sung “God Save the Queen” every school day for most of his childhood. “Did you know that?” I asked.

“How would I?” he said. “By the time I was old enough to snog, we had moved to the States.”

In the end, we secured our victory with “zine,” a 39-point word by virtue of its landing on a triple-word-score square.

Keeper and I celebrated by snogging, but only after I made him promise to stop bragging.

Kids today. They’re so sure of what they want, even when it comes to finding a mate. The young people I know keep a list of characteristics that they are looking for in a significant other. The lists include categories like “must haves,” “bonus points,” and “deal breakers.”

“Must haves” might include things like a job, a sense of humor, and tight abs. “Bonus points” might be given for owning a house, having an advanced degree, or playing the alto sax. Nearly everyone has a list of “deal breakers” such as bad credit, restraining order, or black leather furniture.

Dating with a checklist is doomed to failure.

If I had made a list and stuck to it, I never would have found the love of my life, because my list would have included “no polyester knit bell bottoms, rusty car, or tendency to snore.” I married a man with all three and have been happy for nearly 20 years and counting.

My friend Brenda has me beat. She found her Keeper on the first try, and all she had to do to interest him was lie to his face.

It was 1967. Brenda was feeling like an old maid. She was all of 22, but back then the average age for a woman entering her first marriage was 20.6, according to the Census Bureau and Brenda’s mother.

Brenda took the bull by the horns. She joined a group of young Jewish singles and met a guy named Erwin. He asked her to a Monte Carlo night that the singles group was organizing. Poor Erwin, he was unclear on the concept that you don’t bring a date to a singles event. As it turned out, his buddy Don was there and he introduced him to Brenda. From the get-go, Brenda was a Smitten Kitten. During their short conversation, Don mentioned that he was taking bridge lessons. In a desire to make a memorable impression, Brenda blurted out, “How great! I teach bridge lessons myself!” The seed was planted.

Soon her date, the hapless Erwin, led her off to the roulette table, where Brenda half-heartedly placed bets and secretly plotted how she would see Don again.

The next day, she called the Jewish Community Center. Sure enough, they had a bridge class. She took down the information and showed up at the next class, and there was her dream man, concentrating on the cards in his hand. The class was already in session, but the teacher came over to Brenda as she stood tentatively in the doorway. “We’re going to take a break after this hand. Usually someone will leave and a chair will open up. Please stay.”

Stay she did, and which chair happened to open up? The one directly opposite Don, who looked up, grinned, and said, “What are YOU doing here?”

Brenda, caught in a bold-faced lie, smiled serenely at Don and said, “Let’s see, are aces high or low?”

Six months later, they were married. It has lasted 40 years so far.

If you ask Brenda what it was about Don that attracted her, she’ll tell you, “I just knew he was the one.”

The same is true about when I met Keeper. I met him quite by chance and recognized him as my future husband. Of course, I didn’t tell him that until years later.

So, go ahead and make your lists, people. Just be prepared to tear them up. When you meet the right one, you’ll know, even if they don’t sound perfect on paper.

Solicitors will always be with us. And by solicitors, I don’t mean British lawyers or ladies of the evening. I mean other people who ask strangers for money, sometimes in exchange for goods, and sometimes in exchange for a tax write-off.

In hard times, solicitors get a little bolder.  I encountered two this week who impressed me with their determination, if not their people skills.

I was on my way into Walgreen’s when I spied a woman in a white uniform sitting at a table with a can and some laminated materials. I recognized a sob story waiting to happen, so I breezed by, ready to throw an “I’ll stop on my way out” over my shoulder if she spoke to me. She did not.

On my way out, as I had silently promised, I stopped. “Tell me your story,” I said.

She talked about single mothers, the homeless, and the hungry. She showed me an official-looking letter (laminated) that certified her group-I didn’t catch the name-as a legitimate charity.

Before she could get too wound up, I put a few dollars in the can. “I used to be a single mother,” I said, smiling.

If only she had stopped talking or merely said “Thank you,” I might have felt good about it. But no, she had to tell me that she was on private property and that they had called the police, but because she was an approved charity, they couldn’t make her leave.

“Oh, well, good for you,” I said, heading for my car with a sour taste in my mouth.

I know just how Walgreen’s felt. Long-time readers will recall that I have a thing about  strangers standing on my porch asking me for money. I don’t believe I’m alone in the belief that it’s intrusive, awkward, and sometimes scary. Unless you’re a Girl Scout pushing overpriced cookies, don’t knock on my door. If you ARE a Girl Scout, I’ll take two boxes of Thin Mints.

Alas, I am cursed with a front door that has a big old window in it, and it’s hard to pretend I’m not home after the stranger has already made eye contact.

So, the other day when a woman knocked on the door and interrupted the episode of “Designed to Sell” that Corky and I were watching, I was bummed. I could see she had an earnest expression and a clipboard, a sure sign that I was going to be hounded for a donation.

I reluctantly opened the door a crack, keeping Corky from bolting out the door to assault the visitor with her famous glad-to-meet-ya tongue bath.

“How are you today, Ma’am?” said my visitor, stepping back and eying the dog. Not waiting for my answer, she said, “If I talk fast, will you promise not to sic your dog on me?”

Well, since she put it that way…

I listened to her prepared speech about losing her apartment, having kids to feed, and wanting to go to college. I cut to the chase. “Are you selling magazines?” I asked.

“Well, yes,” she admitted, and told me I had hundreds to choose from.

“I’m sorry, I don’t buy anything at the door since I got burned by a scam,” I said, and immediately regretted it.

“Who did that? Was it one of our competitors?” she bristled. I was not about to go into the fact that someone with the same story got money from me for a magazine that never arrived, and on top of that, stole my umbrella. Not to mention the one who talked Keeper into a five-year subscription to I love Cats which he pretended was a Christmas gift from Mr. Bobo.

I answered my interrogator with a one-syllable grunt and started to close the door.

“Wait!” she said. “Can I trouble you for something to drink?”

I nodded and closed the door, quietly turning the lock before going to the kitchen for a glass of water. (Hey, I’m not stupid.) I came back to the door with some ice water, which the supposedly homeless mother of three refused.

“I hope you don’t take it personally, but I don’t drink tap water.”

Suddenly, I felt a whole lot better about not ordering Field & Stream.

I sometimes receive hate mail from Republicans. I make no secret of my political leanings, but let me hasten to add that my opinions are strictly my own, and not those of this newspaper. So, if the following observations tick you off, send your rabid replies directly to mary@maryhanna.net.

Here’s what’s in the news and on my mind.

Karl Rove, the epitome of the big blowhard doofus, has called Joe Biden “a big blowhard doofus.” My question is, why are we still listening to Karl Rove?

It used to be that you needed a high school diploma to join the U. S. Army. Now, the Army is so desperate for recruits that it is helping dropouts with intensive study so they can get their GED while they do their basic training. Then it’s off to Iraq or Afghanistan for their graduation trip. Who knew the Army was so generous?

It’s a little-known fact that John McCain’s running mate was chosen by computer. McCain advisers typed in “young, female, conservative, pro-gun, anti-abortion” and out popped the name “Governor Sarah Palin.” I guess they forgot to include “no pregnant teenage daughter” and “no husband with an arrest record.” Writers for late-night shows are milking the Alaska beauty queen jokes.

A great deal of ridicule has poured down upon McCain for not knowing how many houses he owns. Well, I have to admit I don’t know, either. It’s either one-third or one-half. I need to ask the bank.

The Republicans need to work on their reputation as a bunch of old white people. Look for them to focus on a parade of young brown people at the convention this week, even if they have to bus them in.

In an election where the candidates are so dissimilar, one wonders why twenty-one percent of registered voters say they either haven’t decided or might change their minds (according to a USA Today poll). Let’s hope they don’t ruin things for the rest of us by voting for Ralph Nader.

CNN pundits are way too fond of saying “drinking the KOOL-AID.” And I’m sure the sugary drink with the smiling pitcher mascot is tired of being associated with the mass suicide in Jonestown. Let’s find another way to say someone has bought into group-think, shall we?

Barack Obama’s acceptance speech drew in 38.4 million viewers. The American Idol Final in February attracted 21.7 million. Now, if only the election in November pulls in as many voters. Maybe if McCain had picked Idol contestant Syesha Mercado for his running mate…

Gustav, the latest hurricane to threaten New Orleans, caused a stampede among politicians to see who could be the most helpful. This is a refreshing contrast to what happened with Katrina, when the response was a huge finger-pointing blamefest.

Now, a new storm is heading toward the Gulf Coast. She’s called, uh, Hanna.