Feb 122013
 

 

As a writer, I spend far too much time at my desk. I write, I surf the ‘net, I (ahem) eat there, too. I’ve often thought of ponying up the dough to snag one of those “active workstations” that let you walk while typing. You know, one of these thingies:

 

Well, like my big exercise ball that sits dusty in the corner, it appears as though these “desks” aren’t all they’re cracked up to be.

The idea of “active workstations” sounds great. Why not burn a few calories at a treadmill desk while you work, or strengthen your abs on a giant rubber ball while returning emails?

As these products have grown in use, so has feedback on their downsides.

We’re talking downsides like “rampant misspellings,” difficulty typing, and increased appetite. Considering these desks run anywhere from $2,700 – $4,300, those are some pretty big downsides. Then we have this:

“It was a terrific idea, but it just really didn’t work because they really were not very safe,” says Wolff. Clients who tried them have reported “many” employee falls and were concerned about workers’ compensation risks, she says.

Of course, we also have the issue of human nature:

As with other exercise regimens, people tend to lose interest in workstation fitness products over time. A recent study from the University of Iowa found that when stationary bikes were offered as an alternative to desk chairs, only 19% of employees still used them after four weeks. Lucas Carr, author of the study, says reasons include lack of motivational support and anecdotal evidence that participants’ knees were hitting the underside of their desk.

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Apr 292012
 

I’m typing this on my brand new “tablet.” I was going to nab an ebook reader, but every time I tried to read, the type was too tiny. It could not have been these old eyes wearing out on me… it HAD to be the type.
Anyway, after purchasing a reader and returning it, I got this crazy tablet.

So far so good. Other than gumming up the keyoard with fingerprints, my inability to find the apostrophe key, evidently fat fingers and slow onscreen typing, all is well. So far.

I have entered the 21 century, kicking and screaming.

Onward amd upward.

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Jul 132010
 


PLANES, RAINS, BUSES AND COWS

Monica A. Andermann

So there hadn’t been a stellar beginning to my teen-age visit of family in Brazil: an unexpected airport layover; a damaged suitcase; a bout with air sickness, all followed by four days of housebound downpours with no entertainment other than a static-y radio and my grandmother’s Bible. Yet just as I was checking Genesis to find out how to slap a few cubits of gopher wood together to form an ark, the sun arrived and with it my older cousin’s promise of a day of sight-seeing fun in the city. I grabbed my jacket and flew out the door.

At the bus stop, my cousin proposed our tour begin at Parque Farroupilha. This place had to be fabulous, I thought, as I rolled the name around my tongue. Pahr-kay Fahr-ooo-peel-ya.

Don’t get too excited,” he said, “Parque. It’s a park.” Didn’t matter. With that name it had to be great. And it had a zoo? With toucans and parrots and poisonous dart frogs? The bus arrived in the midst of my mildew-enhanced enthusiasm and we boarded. Once seated, I noticed an angry man across the aisle who sat alternating between sniffing and grumbling in Portuguese.

I pointed, “What’s wrong with him?”

My cousin translated: “His regular bus route was flooded and he’s been riding around for hours. Now it smells like the baby behind him loaded his diaper.”

Shortly, evidence of both his gripes appeared. The smell ripened as the bus driver fought to negotiate his charge on the muddy clay road. Its passengers bumped about as cars and bicycles flew to the street’s edge, seeking safety from the menace. Suddenly, the bus came to a dead stop. A large, brown and white cow had wandered onto the road and refused to move. Passengers grumbled, shook their heads. The driver blew the horn. Nothing. The cow remained, his tail toward the driver, mocking. The driver leaned on the horn. The infant shrieked. The angry man howled, “Dear mother of God! Get me off this bus!” and forced his way out the emergency exit. Terrified of mutiny, the driver put the vehicle in park, climbed down the steps, got behind the cow and started to push. At first, nothing. Then, one hopeful step. The driver pushed again, harder. The cow slapped him with his tail. The driver stopped, made the sign of the cross and pushed again. Finally success; the cow padded across the road.

The driver returned to his seat, mopped his soaking brow, put the bus in drive and after another bouncy hour that left me with a bruised elbow and a banged knee, we arrived at our destination.

Finally, the zoo. I limped to the aviary where I tilted my face upward toward the magnificence of its tropical birds. And then, splat, on top of my head.

It’s good luck,” my cousin offered, as I wiped the droppings with a tissue.

I thought about my vacation so far. “Good luck,” I murmured, “Yeah, I could use some.”

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 Posted by at 2:36 pm
Jul 122010
 


Riding the Orient Distress

By Carol Celeste

As a four-year old, the clanking, gapping union of cars that exposed the rails between Los Angeles and Tucson terrified me. In college, a Mexican saboteur unlatched the locomotive, stranding the rest of our train in rain foresty mountains for hours─with no food on the over-nighter. In my 30s, a rock slide blocked the switchback rail from Machu Pichu to Cuzco, Peru, marooning us in a rugged Andes jungle on a starless night. In middle age, I was leery of the looming ride on a Chinese train.

The Orient Distress was a genuine rice run. It took 24 hours to travel 600 kilometers─over 600 bridges and through 400 tunnels─averaging only 15 miles per hour due, in part, to frequent stops. Lush countryside blinked between tunnels, limiting photo ops. That was probably a blessing since soldiers paraded the aisles every 30 minutes searching for defiers of the no photo command. China and Vietnam were sparring and national secrets might be captured during fleeting glimpses of rice paddies. This fracas had escaped notice by global reporters.

The first twinge of distress came upon boarding. En route to our assigned phone booth-sized compartment we saw the train staff changing linens on the two bunk beds squeezed into each first class abode. Rotating is a better description since they moved sheets like tires: lower left to the upper right bunk, upper right to lower right, which moved to the upper left which dropped to the lower left where the rotation started. All the linens in our space bore unidentifiable stains making me itch even before touching down. At least the miniscule table cloth had been washed. I could tell because it was still wet.

The second prickle of distress appeared soon after departure. To compensate for immobile fans in the torrid climate, the train windows were opened, letting diesel soot permeate the air─and our nostrils, throats and pores. Black mucus filled our tissues when we blew our noses or coughed.

At each stop locals crowded around the windows to stare at the alien beings who could afford the luxury of sleeping quarters with dirty sheets. Most cars lacked the wooden benches available in second class. At one nighttime stop, a tarp concealed something large resting on a flatbed car hauled by another stopped train. The flapping cover revealed the mud-crusted tracks of a tank. Soldiers patrolled the aisles more frequently during that stop, affirming the war stories.

As we departed the train, I gained some reassurance about the cleanliness issue. In a doll house-sized space at the end of our car, a lady squatted by a bowl of cold water─no faucet in sight─swishing the tea pots we emptied during the trip. I’m still waiting for lung disease to disable me from inhaling diesel crud but I take comfort in knowing I washed it down from a clean tea pot. On my kitchen counter, my purloined tea pot reminds me I survived my ride on the Orient Distress.

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 Posted by at 8:07 am
Jul 102010
 

THE EMBARRASSMENT TOUR

Sheryl Letzgus McGinnis

This is not a funny story. Okay so maybe it is – to others. However, it’s kind of hard to laugh when the joke’s on you.

I was traveling back to the States from Australia on a large passenger liner. Ahhh, those were the days – going from Point A to Point B at a leisurely pace. Stopping points along the way included many exotic ports of call such as Manila, Tokyo, Hong Kong, and Hawaii.

Embarrassing situation #1 occurred in Manila. While ashore touring with my fellow shipmates, wearing my nicest white sundress (yes, this was in the days when young ladies dressed for every occasion) Mother Nature paid me a most unwanted call; right there in a magnificent church while we were admiring a monumental pipe organ.

How does a young lady ask for a tampon from a priest in a Catholic church especially when one does not speak the language? A game of charades ensued that was worthy of any TV game show, accompanied by ill-concealed snickering from my fellow travelers. A hasty visit to the bathroom and a swiped roll of toilet paper temporarily resolved one problem but not my humiliation. I could swear I heard the priest utter something about a crazy American as I backed out the door.

Next up on the Embarrassment Tour occurred in Tokyo. I was by myself this time. Perhaps my shipmates didn’t wish to be embarrassed again. They must have been prescient because sure enough – Oops I did it again. This time, needing to use the bathroom facilities and not speaking – or reading – Japanese I quickly ducked into what I presumed to be the ladies’ room at a famous Tokyo department store in the Ginza. After using the facilities, which looked extremely strange to me, I then opened the door and was met by shocked stares from several elderly Japanese men exclaiming and gesturing. I might not have spoken Japanese but I knew I was being scolded. To my chagrin I discovered that I had entered the men’s room! No wonder those toilets were so wonky … and uncomfortable!

My next, and I think my biggest embarrassment, although it would seem kind of hard to beat a game of charades with a priest, happened in Hong Kong. All of us on the ship were told that it’s custom to bargain, or haggle, with the locals.

Walking around a little shop that sold costume jewelry I spotted a lovely ring that I decided to haggle for. There were no price tags. With a look that I hoped suggested I was a seasoned haggler, I said in an imperious voice “I’ll give you ten dollars for this ring.” The shopkeeper, at first registering wide-eyed surprise, then immediately dissolved in peals of laughter, saying “Ring is only five dollars, lady.”

Unfortunately the ship’s crew had neglected to tell us that in order to haggle properly one must first wait for the shopkeeper to offer a price! End of story but the embarrassment lingers on.

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 Posted by at 9:46 am
Jul 092010
 


Troop 13 Rides The Rails. By Dave Kessler

I was fourteen year old Boy Scout with a little peach fuzz on my face but the scattered blonde hairs making up my peach fuzz were clearly outnumbered by my crop of adolescent zits. I felt like a full-fledged man as I was about to embark on the greatest adventure of my life.

I was one of the members of Scout Troop 13 getting ready to travel by train from Dayton, Ohio to Santa Anna, California for the 1953 Boy Scout Jamboree.

Curly, my Scout Master who didn’t have enough hair to make a decent comb-over but who clearly enjoyed his friendly nickname, gave the older boys instructions on how to safely shave while riding the rails. I wasn’t one of the older boys but I listened intently anyway.

Curly explained that the train car would sway from side to side and would sometimes buck in a back and forth motion that could easily throw a guy shaving off balance and cause him to nick or slice his face.

He also warned that water in the lavatory might splash up and get your clothes wet during a shave. He had strategies to cope with the nicking, slicing and splashing and he gave lessons so we’d be safe and not have wet pants.

He ran hot water into the lavatory, whipped up a lather with his mug and brush, painted the soapy lather on his face and neck but he didn’t pick up his razor. He then demonstrated the most important points of successfully shaving on a moving train.

Curly carefully folded a bath towel, draped it over the front edge of the lavatory, spread his legs and fell forward with his body trapping and holding the towel in place. The towel would soak up any splashing water and the spread-leg stance with the body braced against the towel lining the lavatory would allow a shaver to withstand swaying, bucking and pitching as the train rounded corners and climbed steep hills.

By the time we hit Saint Louis I decided that I was a big guy who needed a shave. I took my official Boy Scout toilet kit to the bathroom, ran the hot water, folded the towel, spread my legs and fell forward bracing myself against the towel on the lavatory. Then I whipped up a lather and applied it to my face and neck.

I was braced against swaying, pitching and bucking as well as anybody who ever attempted to shave on a train. I applied the razor and the blood letting began. Curly had failed to warn us about not shaving off zits.

In a matter of minutes I had cut myself eleven times, the water didn’t splash out of the lavatory but the towel was wet with blood. My blood. Then the whistle blew and the train slowly started up and pulled out of Saint Louis station. Maybe Troop 14 would have been a better choice.

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 Posted by at 6:50 am