I'm wondering what the hit rate really is for scammers who paste a bank logo atop an email and send it out like this:
Because of unusual number of invalid login attempts on your account we had to believe that, their might be some security problem on your account
So we have decided to put an extra verification process to ensure your identity and your account security
Breaking this down:
"...we had to believe that..." I just don't like the disappointed tone.
"...their might be some security problem on your account..." Their isint.
"...So we have decided to put an extra verification process to ensure..." Put an extra verification process where? Someone got interrupted while they were typing.
People do go to the link and they do give out their security codes and socials. I can almost not stand to think of someone doing that.
I think I'll write back and tell them that their little scheme and.
Wednesday, September 16, 2009
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
3 out of 2 people have trouble with fractions
A while back I enrolled in classes to finish my degree and God help me, I started them last week. There are two for now: Cognition, and Politics of Crime and Justice. I knew Cognition would help keep my brain limber with all that mental yoga, the other seemed like it would be "Cops" in the classroom - bound to inform future novels if I didn't actually start drafting a character or two.
I was explaining to Sam, our sophomore, how my confidence slipped like a gear on the first night when my professor made the distinction between cognitive theories and cognitive applications (one is whether to dress Barbie in a tennis outfit or a business suit, the other is why we recognize Barbie) and warned that we should all be ABSOLUTELY sure this was the course we wanted. Absolutely sure. I wanted to raise my hand and say "I give up, is it?" Sam told me that I now understand what 99.5% of ALL kids in EVERY high school go through EVERY DAY.
Note: Why do people say 99.5%? It sounds unresearched. People should say, "Now you know how 86% of students in 92% of American schools feel," but anyway.
The first forty-five minutes of last night's class was horrible. The professor talked matter-of-factly about experimental methods in psych research and everyone was nodding like they knew what that was and so please get on with it, except for me because I was having a heart attack.
Like this:
Professor to the class: recall that a within-subjects design requires exposure to a number of independent variables hence the carry-over effect.
Me to me: Recall? I knew this? When did I know that? Why am I here? I’m over my head, I don't remember this. It's a mistake. I’m withdrawing.
Then something happened and I remembered this and that and then more and then a lot from Research Methods fifteen years ago and started raising my hand (Here is where Vivaldi's guitar concerto belongs because it was the psychology class or else it would be the Rocky theme) and I was saying things like “inferential” and “sum of the squares,” and I sailed through the rest without a single other thought of quitting.
I told this uplifting little story to Sam this morning on our ride. He thought it was "awesome." And then he asked me if I knew the only other animal that cries from emotion? I said, "Dear God, don't let it be dogs," then I gave up and he told me it was the elephant.
I looked at him upset, and he read my mind. "That's right. Dumbo was real."
Ha ha ha ha.
Within subjects, 99.5% of us can have a good time with knowledge if we point our cognition in the right direction.
I was explaining to Sam, our sophomore, how my confidence slipped like a gear on the first night when my professor made the distinction between cognitive theories and cognitive applications (one is whether to dress Barbie in a tennis outfit or a business suit, the other is why we recognize Barbie) and warned that we should all be ABSOLUTELY sure this was the course we wanted. Absolutely sure. I wanted to raise my hand and say "I give up, is it?" Sam told me that I now understand what 99.5% of ALL kids in EVERY high school go through EVERY DAY.
Note: Why do people say 99.5%? It sounds unresearched. People should say, "Now you know how 86% of students in 92% of American schools feel," but anyway.
The first forty-five minutes of last night's class was horrible. The professor talked matter-of-factly about experimental methods in psych research and everyone was nodding like they knew what that was and so please get on with it, except for me because I was having a heart attack.
Like this:
Professor to the class: recall that a within-subjects design requires exposure to a number of independent variables hence the carry-over effect.
Me to me: Recall? I knew this? When did I know that? Why am I here? I’m over my head, I don't remember this. It's a mistake. I’m withdrawing.
Then something happened and I remembered this and that and then more and then a lot from Research Methods fifteen years ago and started raising my hand (Here is where Vivaldi's guitar concerto belongs because it was the psychology class or else it would be the Rocky theme) and I was saying things like “inferential” and “sum of the squares,” and I sailed through the rest without a single other thought of quitting.
I told this uplifting little story to Sam this morning on our ride. He thought it was "awesome." And then he asked me if I knew the only other animal that cries from emotion? I said, "Dear God, don't let it be dogs," then I gave up and he told me it was the elephant.
I looked at him upset, and he read my mind. "That's right. Dumbo was real."
Ha ha ha ha.
Within subjects, 99.5% of us can have a good time with knowledge if we point our cognition in the right direction.
Friday, August 21, 2009
Kind people
It is heady and depressing to finish a book that has taken close to two years to write, it’s a little like having a senior graduate, you want them where they’re going. You don’t want them to leave.
I want this book on an agent’s desk and I want to write it again.
Sooner or later, the floor stops sliding around and the clouds break and the world opens up again with the time that is now available for other projects that won’t result in shelving the book for awhile. I’ve had passing thoughts already about the next project but it all starts with the exercise of observing life, making notes, making assumptions about what people do and don’t do to live in the world each day. I’ve got a list now, people at the airport, at the supermarket, at the vet, at Staples, and at the countless places where I stop for lunch and pretend to read while I actually eavesdrop if my kids aren’t with me to say, “Stop it.” And that was where I saw two people today that I will remember for a long time.
It was at Subway, where I eat often, book/notepad at the ready, and there was a man I’ve noticed is there at least as often as I am, maybe more. Always at the same table, he sits by himself because he never brings company. He avoids eye contact while he eats and when he’s through, he doesn’t linger but stands and collects his wrappers, then throws them away on his way out. He is about five-seven, probably not more than a hundred and forty pounds. He is always well dressed with gray hair and a beard that are neatly trimmed. He is also severely handicapped with feet that point toward each other, hands that he keeps clasped together, a head that is always cocked as if to listen closely, and eyes that he never raises above waist level. His mouth is crooked, one side doesn’t move. He was born this way, or he was in an accident, or maybe he suffered a stroke but he had the look of someone who lives in the world with doing. I've never heard him speak but I've imagined it would sound muffled, or garbled.
Today, he was before me in line and when the sandwich clerk asked him what he wanted he said in the clear, articulate voice of a college boy, “I’ll try the Roast Beef today.” He was asked if he wanted it toasted and he said, “Sure, why not?” Then he ordered almost every vegetable item, and some mayo, and shuffled to the register, where he presented a frayed Subway card and waited to have the total deducted from his points. The card didn’t work. The clerk swiped it, swiped it again, and again and finally the man turned his head toward me and said, “go ahead and help her instead.” And so I paid, but I walked to my seat and watched while the clerk continued. Finally he said to the man, “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what to tell you, it’s not taking your card.”
I began to wonder how I’d pay for his lunch without embarrassing him when the supervisor emerged and said to the man in a mock-scolding tone, “Did you wash this thing again?” I heard the man laugh and the supervisor said to her clerk, “He’s got a ton of points, let this one go.” Then she turned to him and said, “You’re good to go. After you eat, come and see me and I’ll get you a new card.”
He came to a table in front of mine, sat down and assumed his eating posture; head down, all business. I said, “Hey, that was close!” And he looked around, confused. I leaned so he could see me it was me talking and I said, “Hey.” He looked at me with very startled navy blue eyes, smiled a half smile and said, “Yeah, they’re good to me here.”
Because I’m shopping for themes and the people who live them, I considered the assumptions I make about people as I craft their stories, real or imagined. But today’s was a show of the difference between sympathy which serves the conscience, and kindness which serves others.
The ones who are kind, do what they do the way they tie their shoes and start the car. They are the ones I love to write about, because they make life what they wish it could be in reality. The way writers do.
I want this book on an agent’s desk and I want to write it again.
Sooner or later, the floor stops sliding around and the clouds break and the world opens up again with the time that is now available for other projects that won’t result in shelving the book for awhile. I’ve had passing thoughts already about the next project but it all starts with the exercise of observing life, making notes, making assumptions about what people do and don’t do to live in the world each day. I’ve got a list now, people at the airport, at the supermarket, at the vet, at Staples, and at the countless places where I stop for lunch and pretend to read while I actually eavesdrop if my kids aren’t with me to say, “Stop it.” And that was where I saw two people today that I will remember for a long time.
It was at Subway, where I eat often, book/notepad at the ready, and there was a man I’ve noticed is there at least as often as I am, maybe more. Always at the same table, he sits by himself because he never brings company. He avoids eye contact while he eats and when he’s through, he doesn’t linger but stands and collects his wrappers, then throws them away on his way out. He is about five-seven, probably not more than a hundred and forty pounds. He is always well dressed with gray hair and a beard that are neatly trimmed. He is also severely handicapped with feet that point toward each other, hands that he keeps clasped together, a head that is always cocked as if to listen closely, and eyes that he never raises above waist level. His mouth is crooked, one side doesn’t move. He was born this way, or he was in an accident, or maybe he suffered a stroke but he had the look of someone who lives in the world with doing. I've never heard him speak but I've imagined it would sound muffled, or garbled.
Today, he was before me in line and when the sandwich clerk asked him what he wanted he said in the clear, articulate voice of a college boy, “I’ll try the Roast Beef today.” He was asked if he wanted it toasted and he said, “Sure, why not?” Then he ordered almost every vegetable item, and some mayo, and shuffled to the register, where he presented a frayed Subway card and waited to have the total deducted from his points. The card didn’t work. The clerk swiped it, swiped it again, and again and finally the man turned his head toward me and said, “go ahead and help her instead.” And so I paid, but I walked to my seat and watched while the clerk continued. Finally he said to the man, “I’m really sorry. I don’t know what to tell you, it’s not taking your card.”
I began to wonder how I’d pay for his lunch without embarrassing him when the supervisor emerged and said to the man in a mock-scolding tone, “Did you wash this thing again?” I heard the man laugh and the supervisor said to her clerk, “He’s got a ton of points, let this one go.” Then she turned to him and said, “You’re good to go. After you eat, come and see me and I’ll get you a new card.”
He came to a table in front of mine, sat down and assumed his eating posture; head down, all business. I said, “Hey, that was close!” And he looked around, confused. I leaned so he could see me it was me talking and I said, “Hey.” He looked at me with very startled navy blue eyes, smiled a half smile and said, “Yeah, they’re good to me here.”
Because I’m shopping for themes and the people who live them, I considered the assumptions I make about people as I craft their stories, real or imagined. But today’s was a show of the difference between sympathy which serves the conscience, and kindness which serves others.
The ones who are kind, do what they do the way they tie their shoes and start the car. They are the ones I love to write about, because they make life what they wish it could be in reality. The way writers do.
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
THE BOOK IS DONE!!!!!!!!!
Date of birth: 8/19/09
Time of birth: 10:25 AM
Weight/Length: 103,525 words.
Name: The Right Guy
Baby is well but in need of clean up. Mother is tired and happy and looking forward to a trip later on to the drive-thru at McDonald's.
Time of birth: 10:25 AM
Weight/Length: 103,525 words.
Name: The Right Guy
Baby is well but in need of clean up. Mother is tired and happy and looking forward to a trip later on to the drive-thru at McDonald's.
Saturday, April 11, 2009
Bigger Everything
My Everything got bigger recently when I decided to finish my book, find a job, AND finish my degree at night in the fall.
I admire my kids for their respectful patience when I tell them things that are not particularly interesting to them. But l love my kids +++ for the way they reacted when I told them I was going back to school. There was a genuine pause while they recovered from the surprise, then:
Courtney: “Wow. Wow. That is awesome. Really, I am so proud of you…”
Drew: “I just stopped walking. Are you kidding? I am so proud of you…”
Jacqueline: “Are you serious? That is so cool. I am so proud of you…”
Sam: “Awesome. Are you going to post pictures of yourself getting hammered at parties on Facebook now?”
And, I like people from the start if they remind me of my kids.
I met one yesterday, a Courtney-esque young woman - about that age, smart, nice, and especially nice to me because she was my academic counselor and I was, well, probably like her mom.
I wanted a Psychology course that required three pre-requisites and I had only two. She hopped on the computer and said, “I’ll e-mail the professor right now and let’s see if we can get his permission!”
She pulled up the courses I took ten years ago.
“Wow,” she said, looking into the screen, “Your grades were awesome.”
“Thank you,” I said, sounding mature-awesome.
There are only six courses involved, it will be over in a blink. I’ll do well because I’m Serious. I’ll befriend people because I’ll never be one of those “older” students who come into the classroom and instantly befriend the professor. But I may be the oldest one and it does give me butterflies, so today I called my Jacqueline Flower who is a sophomore at B.U. to give her a chance to boost my confidence.
“Are you kidding? I see students like you all the time, nobody even thinks about it anymore. ” It was all I needed, but she went on… “Seriously Mommy, when you go in, it will be so easy…” and, "It's no big deal, you'll see. It won't make any difference..." until I changed the subject.
I was a little intimidated by the prospect of being surrounded by so many younger, traditional students. But they have been the most supportive and awesome-est of all.
Thank you Dollface, Flower, CocoPop, and Sam Man.
I love you.
I admire my kids for their respectful patience when I tell them things that are not particularly interesting to them. But l love my kids +++ for the way they reacted when I told them I was going back to school. There was a genuine pause while they recovered from the surprise, then:
Courtney: “Wow. Wow. That is awesome. Really, I am so proud of you…”
Drew: “I just stopped walking. Are you kidding? I am so proud of you…”
Jacqueline: “Are you serious? That is so cool. I am so proud of you…”
Sam: “Awesome. Are you going to post pictures of yourself getting hammered at parties on Facebook now?”
And, I like people from the start if they remind me of my kids.
I met one yesterday, a Courtney-esque young woman - about that age, smart, nice, and especially nice to me because she was my academic counselor and I was, well, probably like her mom.
I wanted a Psychology course that required three pre-requisites and I had only two. She hopped on the computer and said, “I’ll e-mail the professor right now and let’s see if we can get his permission!”
She pulled up the courses I took ten years ago.
“Wow,” she said, looking into the screen, “Your grades were awesome.”
“Thank you,” I said, sounding mature-awesome.
There are only six courses involved, it will be over in a blink. I’ll do well because I’m Serious. I’ll befriend people because I’ll never be one of those “older” students who come into the classroom and instantly befriend the professor. But I may be the oldest one and it does give me butterflies, so today I called my Jacqueline Flower who is a sophomore at B.U. to give her a chance to boost my confidence.
“Are you kidding? I see students like you all the time, nobody even thinks about it anymore. ” It was all I needed, but she went on… “Seriously Mommy, when you go in, it will be so easy…” and, "It's no big deal, you'll see. It won't make any difference..." until I changed the subject.
I was a little intimidated by the prospect of being surrounded by so many younger, traditional students. But they have been the most supportive and awesome-est of all.
Thank you Dollface, Flower, CocoPop, and Sam Man.
I love you.
Sunday, April 5, 2009
A present from Internet Hell
As promised, a present. Compared to the opening of the last post, I have an uplifting attitude story. (I would have rewritten the last post but I had a character ready to run someone over in a crosswalk and they were waiting for me).
I stopped on the way back from What’s Next land to use the rest room in Internet Hell and got lost for a week.
“Internet Explorer cannot find the website...”
Nothing makes a morning wilt faster than those six words on your screen when you have job boards to search, and “what are the contents of a high school science lab” to google for your next chapter. You sip your coffee and try again, thinking it didn’t hear you the first time. The message pops back up. It is very similar to the feeling you get when you turn the key in your car and hear a couple of feeble clicks before the battery dies. You know you’re not going anywhere.
Most satellite providers have an abundance of numbers for people in internet crisis to call and at the other end, in Bombay I believe, is an insufferably polite person who speaks to you as though someone is looking at them with a clipboard. But polite as they are, if you’re a C- in the technology department like I am, everything you say to explain your problem with the internet makes it sound like it just won't come when you call it.
You start with “Hi, my internet isn’t working” and the Bombay person asks you a beginner question like the name on your account and you answer that with confidence and ask if he knows why the internet isn’t working. He says “I would be very delighted to help you solve this problem today Missus Bone-ee-fant and I am sorry for your trouble,” and you say “Oh, it’s not your fault,” and you’re thinking this is going kind of well so that when he asks something about your modem you ask him what does it probably look like and where does he think it might probably be in your house? He pauses because he thinks you’re talking to yourself and then he realizes you’re really asking him so he tells you it may be a little box in the garage. So out you go in your pajamas and soon you say, “I found the fuse box, is it probably near that?” and this actually seems okay because you’re talking to an internet wizard who is so much smarter than you are right now, he probably has magic powers and can see right into your garage all the way from India to help you out.
Sooner or later he says, “If I may trouble you to stay on the line for a very short period, I will research this matter,” and you say “Sure, that’s okay,” and while he goes across the room in Bombay to get “Internet for Dummies” so he can speak your language, you find a CD that you thought you lost between the seats in your car and also your glasses on the floor in the back which means you won’t have to call all the restaurants you’ve been in for two weeks. By the time he’s back, you’re playing your CD and wearing your glasses and feeling kind of happy again and then he breaks up with you and tells you he can’t do for you what a “tech visit,” will.
Your spirits sink because you know from experience that whoever shows up won’t be a Bombay type but a swaggering, gum chewing, eye contact avoiding, insolent type who behaves as though someone called them in on their day off. And you know you won’t even see the tech for a week or more because in ThisEconomy everyone’s cutting back and fewer techs are taking on the same number of calls.
You don’t tell your Bombay person you wish he would try again - you’re only internet-stoopit, not stoopit-stoopit – but you want to say, “Oh, don’t go.”
Our tech turned out to be a cartoon compared to the surly type of yesterEconomy. Our tech seemed grateful to see us and delighted to show us where our problem originated and what we could do about it, and how we could prevent it in the future. He didn’t check his watch or blink too hard when he was asked a question, he even made an internet-joke or two. He gave me a thumbs-up and a wink when I asked how it was going, and was nice to the dog when she got in the way.
We’re zipping along again, not that I have any idea why, because my internet lesson went the way of my ninth grade Early American History, but I can google again. All is well. Until I see those six little words appear on my screen again, all is well. To those of you who have asked me if I’m “done with the blog,” I’m not.
And Jordan, the answer to your question is: There’s no such thing. There’s only one. And it might change it’s furniture around but once it moves in, it never leaves. Do not be fooled by imitations. More on that later.
Love, Case Number 331185TGRT
I stopped on the way back from What’s Next land to use the rest room in Internet Hell and got lost for a week.
“Internet Explorer cannot find the website...”
Nothing makes a morning wilt faster than those six words on your screen when you have job boards to search, and “what are the contents of a high school science lab” to google for your next chapter. You sip your coffee and try again, thinking it didn’t hear you the first time. The message pops back up. It is very similar to the feeling you get when you turn the key in your car and hear a couple of feeble clicks before the battery dies. You know you’re not going anywhere.
Most satellite providers have an abundance of numbers for people in internet crisis to call and at the other end, in Bombay I believe, is an insufferably polite person who speaks to you as though someone is looking at them with a clipboard. But polite as they are, if you’re a C- in the technology department like I am, everything you say to explain your problem with the internet makes it sound like it just won't come when you call it.
You start with “Hi, my internet isn’t working” and the Bombay person asks you a beginner question like the name on your account and you answer that with confidence and ask if he knows why the internet isn’t working. He says “I would be very delighted to help you solve this problem today Missus Bone-ee-fant and I am sorry for your trouble,” and you say “Oh, it’s not your fault,” and you’re thinking this is going kind of well so that when he asks something about your modem you ask him what does it probably look like and where does he think it might probably be in your house? He pauses because he thinks you’re talking to yourself and then he realizes you’re really asking him so he tells you it may be a little box in the garage. So out you go in your pajamas and soon you say, “I found the fuse box, is it probably near that?” and this actually seems okay because you’re talking to an internet wizard who is so much smarter than you are right now, he probably has magic powers and can see right into your garage all the way from India to help you out.
Sooner or later he says, “If I may trouble you to stay on the line for a very short period, I will research this matter,” and you say “Sure, that’s okay,” and while he goes across the room in Bombay to get “Internet for Dummies” so he can speak your language, you find a CD that you thought you lost between the seats in your car and also your glasses on the floor in the back which means you won’t have to call all the restaurants you’ve been in for two weeks. By the time he’s back, you’re playing your CD and wearing your glasses and feeling kind of happy again and then he breaks up with you and tells you he can’t do for you what a “tech visit,” will.
Your spirits sink because you know from experience that whoever shows up won’t be a Bombay type but a swaggering, gum chewing, eye contact avoiding, insolent type who behaves as though someone called them in on their day off. And you know you won’t even see the tech for a week or more because in ThisEconomy everyone’s cutting back and fewer techs are taking on the same number of calls.
You don’t tell your Bombay person you wish he would try again - you’re only internet-stoopit, not stoopit-stoopit – but you want to say, “Oh, don’t go.”
Our tech turned out to be a cartoon compared to the surly type of yesterEconomy. Our tech seemed grateful to see us and delighted to show us where our problem originated and what we could do about it, and how we could prevent it in the future. He didn’t check his watch or blink too hard when he was asked a question, he even made an internet-joke or two. He gave me a thumbs-up and a wink when I asked how it was going, and was nice to the dog when she got in the way.
We’re zipping along again, not that I have any idea why, because my internet lesson went the way of my ninth grade Early American History, but I can google again. All is well. Until I see those six little words appear on my screen again, all is well. To those of you who have asked me if I’m “done with the blog,” I’m not.
And Jordan, the answer to your question is: There’s no such thing. There’s only one. And it might change it’s furniture around but once it moves in, it never leaves. Do not be fooled by imitations. More on that later.
Love, Case Number 331185TGRT
8.5% is a big, big number.
I haven’t lost interest in blogging, I’ve been visiting the land of What’s Next again. I brought a present that is still being wrapped, in the meantime here is a melancholy, depressing opening because the news these days is just too damn cheerful.
Yesterday, I listened to two people having a conversation in a supermarket (where else?). They knew each other from someplace long ago. Maybe college, maybe a bar, I couldn’t make it out. They established in the first two minutes that ThisEconomy sucks. One’s spouse was laid off. The other lost his job in November. For the next four or five minutes, and I know this because I had reason to be in earshot (I did, Courtney, I did) it was an ailment contest: “I had the hip finally done in January…” “I know, I had my second knee replacement in three years…” and so on until they went one way to the deli and I went the other to Soft Drinks and Seasonal Decorations. Behind me I heard, "So who did your hand?"
I went out of my way to smile at one of the people when I saw him later until he shrugged and smiled back. I wanted to say, “Don’t pick up,” because we crossed each other in the wine aisle, but I didn’t.
8.5% unemployment will make a lot of people idle who don’t wish to be. It will draw a wandering eye to things that usually go unnoticed; the way the house has settled, the way the sky looks at four o’clock, the dog. It will create hypochondriacs who work at small problems until they are big enough to capture the stress that has no place else to go.
It will do other things. It will change outlooks as self-elevated, intolerant people lose a job and understand how they intersect with others. Except for a certain sulky, spoiled someone who works at a certain sports store near me and needs to be pushed off her chair by my brother Tom, it will make grateful, appreciative workers out of the disinterested, unmotivated ones.
8.5% unemployment will change attitudes. Some of them will be worth passing on.
Yesterday, I listened to two people having a conversation in a supermarket (where else?). They knew each other from someplace long ago. Maybe college, maybe a bar, I couldn’t make it out. They established in the first two minutes that ThisEconomy sucks. One’s spouse was laid off. The other lost his job in November. For the next four or five minutes, and I know this because I had reason to be in earshot (I did, Courtney, I did) it was an ailment contest: “I had the hip finally done in January…” “I know, I had my second knee replacement in three years…” and so on until they went one way to the deli and I went the other to Soft Drinks and Seasonal Decorations. Behind me I heard, "So who did your hand?"
I went out of my way to smile at one of the people when I saw him later until he shrugged and smiled back. I wanted to say, “Don’t pick up,” because we crossed each other in the wine aisle, but I didn’t.
8.5% unemployment will make a lot of people idle who don’t wish to be. It will draw a wandering eye to things that usually go unnoticed; the way the house has settled, the way the sky looks at four o’clock, the dog. It will create hypochondriacs who work at small problems until they are big enough to capture the stress that has no place else to go.
It will do other things. It will change outlooks as self-elevated, intolerant people lose a job and understand how they intersect with others. Except for a certain sulky, spoiled someone who works at a certain sports store near me and needs to be pushed off her chair by my brother Tom, it will make grateful, appreciative workers out of the disinterested, unmotivated ones.
8.5% unemployment will change attitudes. Some of them will be worth passing on.
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