Returning from My UBS (Unexplained Blogging Silence)

Hello. It’s been a while. I’ve no good reason for my long absence—not one I can easily articulate anyway. But let me tell you a story…

Eons ago at a motel in California, my five-year-old self left two very tired parents in their room and set off to explore. My parents’ exhaustion now seems understandable to me. Who wouldn’t frazzle while traveling cross-country with two contrary teenagers and one youngster who ceaselessly asked questions?

So I was on my own on a clear, sunny afternoon. I surveyed the area—a playground for motel guests, a neighborhood of houses in the distance, more families checking in to their rooms, the symmetry of the motel exterior, the sameness of every room altered only by the numbers on the doors. Nothing remotely interesting to me. In fact, the afternoon was looking so bleak I wish I hadn’t left my parents. And then a flash caught my eye.

I looked skyward, only to be blinded by glaring sun. After focusing, I saw it: an oblong, silver metal vehicle encircled by slender, perpendicular cylinders each ending in a colored light. What was it? I looked around to see who else had noticed, but no one was looking up.

The vehicle came closer to the motel and glided slowly overhead. I HAD to share this with somebody! I raced back to the motel room, threw open the door, and burst in with my news. But before I got the whole story out, I realized that the people listening to me were NOT my parents. I was in the wrong room—so embarrassed I never wanted to leave my parents again (assuming I’d be able to find them). By the time I got back to them, my humiliation far outweighed my cosmic experience and I couldn’t wait to get on the road again. I was ready to leave this dismal place in the dust.

Of course, between my UFO tale and my accidental exuberance with strangers, my parents enjoyed a good laugh at my expense. But I know what I saw.

Years on, my UFO encounter well behind me and never mentioned again, I was trying to verify something I was editing. A newspaper article led me to a book chronicling unexplained occurrences. I found more than I’d anticipated.

Several pages of one chapter were devoted to the same shiny, colorful vehicle I saw on my first family vacation. The descriptions matched mine, the vicinity was the same, the time of year synced as well.

Hmmm. Other people saw it? You mean I wasn’t suffering from heatstroke or an overactive imagination? Cool. I could reshuffle my brain a bit and recategorize this memory without shame.

Fast-forward to April 2013—a month during which I should have had LOTS to write on Lull. A month celebrating poetry, honoring trees, raising awareness about animal cruelty. Yet I remained strangely silent. Honestly, I don’t know why. Lacking a better excuse, I offer this: That shiny hovercraft with colored lights came back for me.

Yup. I was abducted by aliens.

[Photos by N J. Jackson (palms at top) and NASA.]

It’s Monday Again

Face your week with the attitude of this fierce fledgling: with courage and confidence.

Why I May Never Be on the Frontlines of Animal Rescues

 






















[Art by Erin Smith.]

Gifts of the Cat

ats whose guardians allow them to wander outdoors are known to return home with assorted kills. For many cats, this is meant to be a gesture of giving rather than a stash to consume later.

One such kitty is profiled in Susan Chernak McElroy’s Animals as Teachers and Healers. Sammi and her person lived in the country, where every morning began with the chattering of Sammi at the front door and her gift of a (dead) field mouse. Her person lavished her with praise for her efforts, which Sammi reveled in.

Then the pair was forced to move to a small place in a city—no more countryside for Sammi to roam in, no more field mice to hunt, hardly a tree to climb. Her person worried that Sammi would have difficulty making the transition. She needn’t have fretted, though. The cat adapted to the nature deficit without a hitch: Each morning, Sammi chattered at the front door and presented her person with…

…a couple of pine cones. Sammi was just as pleased with these inanimate objects as she’d been with the tiny rodents. And her person must have been more pleased.

How sweet is that? Sammi made do.

As I searched for a photo to accompany this tale, I found The Happy Cat, the feline pictured here. His person explains that Happy Cat has a special fondness for squirrels—likes to carry them around by the scruff of the neck as if they were his own kits. Sometimes he places them at his person’s door, quite alive and never hurt. But as soon as the squirrels realize their good fortune, they race off. Yet Happy Cat doesn’t try to stop them or pursue them again.

I’m not sure what to make of this. I wonder if something’s missing in Happy Cat’s life. All the same, I do admire his unique approach to gift-giving, and his reminder that every animal is an individual.

[Drop cap by Jessica Hische; photo by Fred Griffin.]

Understanding My Place: A Letter and Neil Gaiman

Stranger in a Strange Land – No. 26

The other day my husband brought home a glossy, four-color, eight-paged publication he’d found on the sidewalk in our neighborhood. He intended to toss it into a recycling bin, but when he realized what it was, he knew he had to share it with me first.

I pawed through it—picture after captioned picture of one senior couple’s 2012 activities: celebrating milestones with grandchildren and former exchange students; vacationing with friends and family in Italy, Monaco, and China; learning to surf in Hawaii; hosting Union Rags and the Wyeths at the Kentucky Derby; acting as professional photographers for a wedding, building custom furniture, and so on. And so on…

Was it a self-published booklet to commemorate these events?

NO! It was their Christmas Letter to friends and extended family!

It’s exactly why people have come to hate such correspondence. It was so over-the-top it could have been a parody of the genre. But it wasn’t. It was a chirpy report of all the stellar 2012 moments one family experienced. And they sent it to someone in MY neighborhood, which can only mean (or I HOPE it means) that the recipients lead similar lives and didn’t take said Christmas Letter as the disturbing show of pretentiousness I did. Once again, I felt quite removed from my neighbors.

I had just been reading about Cabal, a dog rescued from a roadside by author Neil Gaiman. I learned that Cabal suffered from the same condition my pooch did (degenerative myelopathy), that British-born Gaiman now lives in the Midwest, that his relationship with Cabal was of the unexpected and nonpareil variety… Heck! I have more in common with Neil Gaiman than I do with these Christmas Letter–sending neighbors.

Hmmm. Maybe I can work Gaiman into my own Christmas Letter this year. Maybe I, too, can incite envy and head-shaking during the holidays.


This is part of an ongoing series regarding my transition from the Land of Lincoln to the Bluegrass State. For a list of previous articles in the series, just select Stranger in a Strange Land from the right of Lull, under “Choose a topic that interests you.”

[Photo of Cabal and Neil Gaiman by Kimberly Butler and titled Unconditional Love.]

When A Remake Won’t Do

This economy has driven many people into dire straits. Some have nearly folded under the weight of adversity; others have reinvented themselves.

If you’re somewhere in the middle—struggling with becoming that cloying, self-help symbol of transformation, the butterfly, and can’t achieve enough lift-off to finish the job of changing your life—then I have an easier visualization technique for you caterpillars in stasis.

I have a dream.

That is, I had a dream about a species of butterfly that doesn’t progress beyond the caterpillar stage. Just when this caterpillar can no longer sustain life as it is, instead of cocooning her/himself, s/he latches on to whatever might serve as wings—leaves, fabric, plastic bags—and flies.

In my dream, the butterfly that arrested my attention was as big as a dinner plate and having trouble flying. Its movement was arduous and erratic. This was largely due, I think, to the butterfly’s choice of wings: a sunny-side-up egg and a golden waffle from someone’s al fresco breakfast plate. Yes, the desperate butterfly I saw chose items of different weights and viscosity that kept him off-balance and made flight awkward. Yet he persevered, even with syrup dripping here and there. I couldn’t take my eyes off him.

Upon waking, this segment of my dreams seemed initially like a complete non sequitur. Yet the more I thought about it, the more I appreciated its appropriate symbolism.

I came to believe that the “breakfast-food butterfly” represented every person who’s ever been hobbled by something—be it financial woes, chronic illness, or emotional turbulence. Sometimes when you struggle against the odds, transformation isn’t in the cards. The most practical option is to make do with what’s at hand in order to get by, get on, get ahead.

Latch on to whatever propels you and rise. It may not be beautiful. It may be nothing you ever aspired to or even wanted, but it’s far better to make do than not do.

[Butterfly photographer unknown; graphic art from Skirt! magazine.]

Meet Mr. Personality

Here’s another horse after my own heart:

Pictured (sitting) is Taffy, whose rider says he’s the laziest horse in the world. I prefer to think he hears a different drummer.

Watch his sweet video, “The Wonderful World of Taffy,” on YouTube.

Does Google Really KNOW Who I Am?

Yesterday marked the dawn of a Big New Google era.

There’s a great deal of controversy over this, which I probably should care more about. However, all I’m hoping is that my new “single Google identity” resolves my recent inability to comment on other Google blogs. If not, then I hope one of those hundreds of Google ads that fill the periphery of my e-mail inbox will point me to a treatment for my Google Identity Crisis.

The Failed Volunteer Awaits Her Fate

Two days passed after my volunteering debacle at the Humane Society. I knew they still needed help that week, and I knew I was only on the standby list, yet a sinking feeling continued to weigh me down—a feeling that I’d been deleted from the volunteer roster.

Then my phone rang—they needed me!—and I was off to the land of abandoned and lost pets.

I assumed I would be helping the staff catch up on the routine work left undone by fundraiser preparations; I assumed I would be folding letters and stuffing envelopes. But, of course, you’ve already guessed what confronted me upon my arrival: the dreaded paper cutter.

“Ten thousand hours is the magic number of greatness.”
—Malcolm Gladwell

This round of paper cutting was for a different fundraiser and this time I wasn’t The Fixer. This time I would be the first volunteer to muck up the job.

I tried to take a positive approach to my assignment. I thought of Malcolm Gladwell’s Outliers, his book about attaining expertise and success. Research shows that it takes about 10,000 hours of doing anything—playing chess, painting, boxing, composing, building, singing, drawing, editing, sculpting—before you can master it. Though I harbored no dreams about becoming a master paper cutter, I had every intention of improving my skill set.

I’ve 10 hours behind me, and I don’t know how many hours ahead…

Follow Your Bliss

“[W]e should all do what, in the long run, gives us joy, even if it is only picking grapes or sorting the laundry.”
—E. B. White

[Photo shows E. B. White with his pooch Minnie.]

Rock, Paper, Scissors: A Flustered Volunteer Spends a Day with Her Inadequate Self

For reasons I won’t go into, I’ve not been able to be on my feet. Which means I’ve not been able to walk the dogs at the Humane Society, which has plagued me with guilt lately. So when an opportunity arose this week to perform office tasks for the Humane Society, I jumped at the chance. In fact, I offered to spend the entire day there.


Preparing for Volunteering
My day started badly before it was even time for me to get out of bed. My neighbor was awake before the sun peeped out, already enjoying the company of her visiting relatives. I know this because the building we live in has paper-thin walls and flooring with no insulation. If I couldn’t sleep through the party, I had no choice but to start my day.

As I putzed around the kitchen, trying not to disturb my husband’s slumbers, my husband was suddenly at my side holding out my phone to me. Ah, yes. I’d put my phone in the living room when I got up, but I’d failed to turn off the ALARM feature. As quiet as I’d tried to be, I’d pestered my husband out of sleep anyway. Profuse apologies on my part as my husband padded back to the bedroom.

Plenty of time lay ahead of me before I had to leave, time enough to cook a hearty breakfast. This part of my morning went fine until our newly installed smoke detector sounded off.

“Fire! Fire!” cried the robotic female voice. “Emergency!”

Bloody Hell. Now everyone in the building was surely awake. I opened the windows and fanned the sensitive contraption with a broom.

Again, my poor husband emerged from the bedroom and said, “If you wanted me to eat breakfast with you, you could have just said something.” More apologies on my part.

Finally, it was time to go. Actually, very nearly past time. I was careful to pack a lunch, snacks, and anything else I might need over the course of the day. Made it as far as the car before I realized I’d forgotten the glue sticks. Had to return for them since I’d promised to bring my own. (The Humane Society glues envelopes closed and the kind of glue they had the last time I volunteered was messy. So I thought I’d use my own glue sticks for faster, neater work.)

Now I had to WALK (which I was not supposed to be doing) all the way back to the apartment to find the sticks, which naturally roused my dear husband from his dreams once more. Arrrgh.

I made it to the Humane Society in time. Despite the rain, and despite the driver of the impaired scooter who had traffic crawling the pike.

I settled into my “office space” (i.e., the kitchen) at the Humane Society and tried to ignore the equipment set out on the table. I assured myself, THAT’s not for me. I’m going to be folding and stuffing or sorting and filing. THAT thing is someone else’s project.

Of course, true to the tone already set for the day, the Volunteer Coordinator tells me the “thing” (a paper cutter) is, indeed, my tool for the entire day. I considered leaving right then.


Should I Stay or Should I Go?
I’m serious.

I felt stuck in that proverbial spot between the rock and the hard place. If I left, I would be letting down the organization. If I stayed, I would likely let down the organization. Memories of past battles with similar tools flooded my consciousness while I dithered about what to do.

For the record, I have a range of skills. Some I excel at and wish someone valued them enough to pay me handsomely for: reading, editing, proofreading, public speaking, creating and streamlining processes and procedures, trouble-shooting and problem-solving. Some of my skills I use only at home—they’re serviceable but not good enough to share: playing the piano, flute, and djembe, cooking, gardening. Then, there’s the list—by far the longest—of UNskills: the things I cannot, and should not, do. Among the infinite items on this list are using a paper cutter, using an X-ACTO knife, using scissors, drawing anything.


Displaying Team Colors and Humiliation
Eons ago I toiled as a proofreader and copy editor for a marketing agency. Sometimes, at the end of the day, one department or another was frantically putting the finishing touches on some project that FedEx was scheduled to pick up at any moment. To this cluster of activity I usually offered my assistance, which usually entailed copying, collating, sorting, or packaging. However, one evening, I offered assistance to the design department.

A graphic designer set me up with a cutting mat, a straightedge, and a knife—tools of his trade at the time. He instructed me to cut out the ads from the galleys. It was easy—no measuring necessary. I simply had to line up a ruler with the crop marks and then knife out the excess paper. I knew the routine. I’d watched my precise, architect father do such a thing thousands of times. But I also knew my limitations and asked the designer if there wasn’t some other way I could help.

I got that “look” from him—as if he couldn’t believe what he was hearing, as if I was insincere about wanting to help.

I caved. I said of course I would cut the ads. You see, I had garnered a certain amount of respect and admiration from my colleagues at the agency for my editing skills and my design savvy. I was held in esteem and I didn’t want to jeopardize my reputation.

With laser focus and a determination to excel, I began cutting. Cautiously. Too cautiously, probably. From the top crop mark to the bottom one, I removed the excess paper and turned the ad to make the next cut. At this point, I apparently lost all track of time. The graphic designer returned to my side, expecting to collect five finished ads from me yet seeing that I’d accomplished next to nothing.

He inspected my efforts. And he was kind. “Hmmm. Let me show you an easy way to do this.” He fixed my jagged edges and talked me through the next cut. I thanked him for the step-by-step instructions, and he stepped away.

He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know. But knowing and doing are two entirely different things, aren’t they? I could get from Point A to Point B easily enough, but the route was never the most direct. And the results were less than satisfactory, which I could easily discern. The curious part of this clumsiness is that I’m agile in other arenas: music, dance, theatre. Why, oh why did straight lines elude me?

When the graphic designer checked my progress the next time, his face lit with alarm and pity. “You really can’t cut straight, can you?” I shook my head in shame. No, I really can’t.


Doomed to Disappoint
Fast-forward to my day at the Humane Society. Not only was I expected to cut out HUNDREDS of small rectangles of paper (with NO crop marks as guides), but half of the rectangles had already been cut and mucked up by other volunteers. I was brought in as THE FIXER!

Oh My Dog! Could this be worse? I tried to explain my cutting track record, but was told to just do what I could. Which I did. But it was a miserable way to spend 7 hours.

The staff at the Humane Society is warm and friendly and appreciative of all volunteers. Each one thanked me for the tremendous work I was doing. Many of them remarked on the monotony of the job and what a trooper I was to put up with it.

Ha! Little did they know. Work can’t be monotonous when every moment of it challenges your skill sets and composure.

A couple of things kept my spirits up, though. First, two of the resident cats kept me company throughout the ordeal. And second, and more important, the paper rectangles I was cutting were slated for use at an upcoming fundraiser—the black-tie Beastie Ball—the Humane Society was throwing. My ego could withstand a hit or two on behalf of homeless pets.

I’ll recover my dignity soon enough. The question is: Will I ever again be asked to volunteer?

[All vintage art from The Graphics Fairy.]

On A Personal Note…

Sorry, Sister Dearest. You can’t escape it. As John Glenn said, “There is still no cure for the common birthday.”

Hope yours is a stellar one today!

[Cake from We Take the Cake.]

11 Words for 11.11.11

Today is 11.11.11. To add some flare to the rare numerical element of the day, some writers are constructing ministories with just 11 words. Here’s mine (and it’s true—at least, it’s how it happened in my dreams):

The Proposal, Part 1

After cohabiting for 60 years, he asked me to marry him.


What would a story be without a sequel?

The Proposal, Part 2

I smiled. “We should wait to see if we’re really compatible.”

[Art by Marc Chagall.]

Experiencing A Disconnect

On my reading docket is a collection of Katherine Mansfield short stories. It’s my first foray into Mansfield’s work and after consuming a bit of it, I needed more context. Who was she? Where did her characters come from?

When I was scanning book titles at the library’s 2-for-1 sale, I noticed Journal of Katherine Mansfield and without hesitation scooped it into my stack. When I opened it the other night, this passage popped out: [Caution: It’s funny at first glance, but becomes tragic the longer you think about it. Read fast and don’t think!]

I positively feel, in my hideous modern way, that I can’t get into touch with my mind. I am standing gasping in one of those disgusting telephone boxes and I can’t ‘get through.’

“Sorry. There’s no reply,” tinkles out the little voice.

“Will you ring them again—Exchange? A good long ring. There must be somebody there.”

“I can’t get any answer.”

Then I suppose there is nobody in the building—nobody at all. Not even an old fool of a watchman. No, it’s dark and empty and quiet . . . above all, empty.

Can you relate? I know I can.

[Portrait of Katherine Mansfield by Anne Estelle Rice.]

Build a Better World for Yourself, One Ritual at a Time

As I mentioned yesterday, I’ve been having trouble shaking a case of glumness. Then I found this photo (couldn’t verify the photographer) and decided it looked like a great first step to take: Vent. Whether venting frustration, joy, fear, or that wild sense of brain chaos indecision can cause, let it rip full-throttle from your innermost heart and cells.


In fact, it’s probably a good step to take more than once. I believe I’ll turn this into my personal ceremony for exorcising darkness and reconnecting to what matters.

“When you’ve nothing else construct ceremonies out of the air and breathe upon them.”
—from The Road, by Cormac McCarthy

A Blogger Who’s A Breed Apart

Before renting Hachi: A Dog’s Tale, I knew what I was in for. At least, I thought I did.

But instead of getting drawn in by the unwavering loyalty of a pooch, I couldn’t get past the irresponsible characters (based on real people from 1920s Japan). I went to the Web to see if anyone else had the same reaction.

I didn’t find what I was looking for, but I ended up on a dog blog unfamiliar to me. It appears to be an anti-Pit Bull proselytizer. In one post, it compares the lack of press given to a tortured, mixed-breed dog named Star while Patrick the Pit Bull tugged at a nation’s heartstrings. The blogger’s theory is that Pit Bulls get an undue amount of positive publicity thanks to Pit Bull advocates who can’t see past the pedestals on which they keep these ferocious beasts.

It was a wacky rant that I thought needed an injection of rational perspective. I started writing a comment. Certainly the mixed-breed Star had suffered unconscionable acts, but the blogger seemed to be making the story of abuse into a contest of breed-based oneupmanship. I started to explain that responsible Pit Bull advocates anticipate a day when they’ll no longer have to sway public opinion about the Bully breeds, a day when “Breedism” will fade away.

The more I wrote, the more I realized that to really make my case, I needed to know more about this blogger and his/her readers. I noticed that the other comments were written by bloggers who were listed both on the Blogroll and as Followers of this anti-Pit Bull blog.

Turns out, one person is behind it ALL—different names, same individual. The blogger is his/her own followers, readers, and favorites. Whew! That’s a lot of personalities all wrapped up into one! I wrote Lull under a pseudonym when I first started, but had to drop it because I couldn’t keep track of who I was. (I know: I’m not spy material.)

Probably needless to say, I didn’t bother finishing my comments. I doubted the sanity of my captive audience and thought it unfair to rile “them.”

[Pics from Bad Rap and The Sula Foundation.]

Scouting for Good Reads

You may have noticed the recent flurry of activity on my book lists. Attribute it to: 1) My intermittent panic that I’m failing to make a dent in my reading wish list—never mind the ongoing short-listed award books cranked out month after month, and 2) My last trip to the library—when I meant only to pick up a book my husband had on-hold, but also came away with a handful of titles I noticed in passing. I’m like the freelancer who takes every job because there’s no guarantee another will come along. I scooped up the books before someone else did or before the library decommissioned them (the more likely scenario).

Which is to say that I’ve been reading on a schedule. But now that I’ve finished the library books, I can return to my own inventory and read at leisure.

Last night, I started a book that held little appeal for me during its prepublishing blitz: The Immortal Life of Henrietta Lacks. Even after it started winning accolades and awards, it didn’t make it onto my Top 10 list. (Confession: I tend to avoid books and films about injustice. They upset me too much. I know … I’m a wuss.)

Then last year I read a short memoir* by Rebecca Skloot in an anthology of dog tales. I admired her sensibilities and her writing style and was eager to read more of her work, so I took to Googling. It didn’t take long to make the connection as to why I thought I knew her name: Her debut book, Immortal Life, was the one I’d been avoiding. Immortal Life rocketed to my Top 10 list—I couldn’t not read it now.

This is how my reading wish list has evolved of late. Rather than getting recommendations from others or following the bestseller and awards lists, I sample short stories in anthologies and journals. If an author impresses me, I’ll scout out more of his/her writing.

This method is not foolproof. Some authors write better in short form than in long form; some are better at fiction than nonfiction. The theme of the anthology also influences my choices. (The essays of two of my favorite writers in one anthology were duds. Had I not already been familiar with them, I might not have discovered their better works based on that particular anthology.) However, in the long run, the method is a scavenger hunt of my own making that has no downside. All discoveries are serendipitous. There’s no shame or guilt in disliking the book recommended by a friend or reviewer.

As for Immortal Life, I simply had to wait for it to become available at my local library. Soon after I added it to my wish list, though, it arrived at my door; a friend had mailed it to me. How’s that for serendipity? It felt like Christmas. And now a little surge of that feeling will hit me each time I pick up that book.

To good friends and good reads, my abiding gratitude.

* The short memoir was about Skloot’s dog, Bonny, who was viciously attacked by a pack of wild dogs in New York City. If you’re on Facebook (which I’m not), you should be able to read the entire drama there, taken from Skloot’s blog. (If you find it, can you copy it into a file and send it to me?) If the Facebook series is anything like the short piece I read, it will provoke your ideas and convictions on legislation, dog training, and the value of any life. Note for dogsters: You may also enjoy reading Skloot’s article on memorializing her other dog, Sereno.

[Pics are HeLa cells, all originating from Henrietta Lacks.]

Seeing Past My World

I’ve kept my life small lately so to be free of want and envy and comparisons and heartache.

Yet sometimes I drink in the world-at-large—the face of famine, the debris of bombings, the oil-spill carnage, the conflicts of power, the current trends in popular everything. It adds context to my too-small life, gives me perspective.

This morning I randomly opened a Paula Fox book and this jumped out from its pages:

“You can hold back from the suffering of the world, you have free permission to do so, and it is in accordance with your nature, but perhaps this very holding back is the one suffering you could have avoided.”
—Franz Kafka

It’s a call to action, isn’t it? I’ve been hearing it for a while now—a whisper from a distance—but Kafka pushes it close and turns up the volume.

It’s time to change my life. Again. I’m just not yet sure how.

[Art by Caspar David Friedrich.]

Stuck in an UN-Mindful State

For the past week I have fretted more than usual about my future, the future of those in war- and weather-torn countries, and all the other question marks that can overwhelm our lives from time to time. Living “mindfully” had become an alien ideology instead of a daily practice.

Then, last night, I read the first poem in Mary Oliver’s Thirst, and these lines scooted and squeezed me back into a better perspective of my place in the world:

Are my boots old? Is my coat torn?
Am I no longer young, and still not half-perfect? Let me
keep my mind on what matters,
which is my work,

which is mostly standing still and learning to be
astonished.

“Stand still. Be astonished.” Not a bad mantra, is it?

Poor Service—Served with a Smile

Periodically I encounter glitches while trying to publish posts on Lull. Usually this means I curse at Google, curse at myself, and sometimes step away from it all hoping time will heal whatever is broken.
Recently, Google stepped up its game by displaying this window (pictured above) when calamity starts to prevail. Look at it closely. Note that it merely states the obvious: Something’s wrong, they don’t know what or why, and that’s ALL they know.

But you know what? That’s okay. I’m grateful they bothered recognizing the problem at all. I don’t feel so alone in my misery, and the message curtails my stream of expletives. PLUS—and this is critical—that little broken-down robot makes me smile. His/her “cute” factor offsets all the frustration and anger I experience when errors occur.

Thank you, Google.