AI?

     AI?

    My farmer friends (if I had any) know all about AI.

    That's what they call artificial insemination.

MY PACKAGE IN TEXAS?

     The vendor of the oversize coffee mug I ordered is located around Chicago. It took two days to get the mug packaged and delivered to a carrier. That's okay, I'm in no hurry. Estimated delivery: October 9-14.

    I am unreasonably obsessed with tracking packages. At 5:07 pm yesterday it left the shipping facility in Glendale Heights, IL. Overnight it should arrive in the Kansas City Metro area, right? Wrong. It over shot Kansas City and arrived in Grande Prairie, Texas!

    No wonder the shipping costs are so high.

DOESN"T SHARE WELL WITH OTHERS

     I admit it, I don't share well with others.

    As far as Wispas are concerned.

    Wispas, made by Cadbury (or whoever it was who bought Cadbury), are my all-time favorite candy bar. And if I get one in my hands, I'll beat off anyone who even looks like they want a bite.

    Unfortunately, Wispas are made in Great Britain, and I know of only one place in the United States where Wispas can be bought.

    Sometimes.

    That's Brit's in Lawrence.

    I was thrilled this afternoon when my son suddenly announced that we were going to Lawrence, and would have time to stop at Brit's.

    Wispas.

    I did a house-sitting favor one time for my daughter, and they paid me off in Wispas. They've brought me Wispas other times. Don't mention this to them, but sometimes the Wispas have been long after an expiration date. Not to worry: stale Wispas are so much better than no Wispas at all.

    Sad to say, Brit's were all sold out of Wispas. Plenty of other goodies, dark chocolate digestive biscuits (far more appetizing than it sounds), shortbread (some in the shape of sheep which I will try to save for my knitting group), ginger cookies, all of which I will be happy to share.

    But if I ever get some Wispas, keep your hands off my goodies.

    

IDLE ALGORITHMS

     You receive via social media a message that appears to be a friend request, perhaps from a  name you recognize. What an affirmative thought, someone wants you as a friend. An ideal concept, surrounding ourselves with a circle of friends.

    A quick word of caution: stop to ask yourself: is this a genuine request from someone who knows you, or perhaps someone who has admired something you wrote in one of your posts and would like to know you better? On the other hand, is this from an algorithm that has just discovered that the two of you have in common a passion for kumquats and you both have ordered online size ten socks? Never mind that you ordered the socks as a present for your brother; the algorithm don't know what it doesn't know.

    So you ponder. Will I hurt someone's sensibilities if I reject the request?

    Reminds me of my brief career as a telephone operator. On rare occasions I would be removed from the local call board and assigned to one of the long-distance boards -- you know, the tall instrument with a dozen cords, each with a plug on the unattached end. Back in those long-ago days when residential telephones were fixed to a wall.

    In the early evening hours, supervision would be light and the lack of activity boring. I had a way to amuse myself that was never discovered and for which I was never fired. I could cause the telephone to ring in two houses at the same time. At each house someone would take the phone from the wall, thinking that the other party had called. As operators we were prohibited from monitoring the conversations, unless there was some reason to assure that the system was functioning properly, but listen in I did.

    Often the dialogues were quite entertaining. "You called?" "No, you called." The most laugh-provoking were the calls that involved friends or people who recognized the other's voice. All the better if they were neighbors.

    "My phone rang, so I answered. What are you calling me about?"

    "Do you have nothing more to do than ring the phone of someone you don't want to talk to?"

    "You're right, I don't want to talk to you. We were having supper and we most certainly didn't want to be interrupted to leave the table and go answer the phone."

    Slam.

    It's odd, how returning the phone to the hook or cradle sounds different from a slam. You can just hear the difference.

    One night I connected two of my dad's club friends who recognized each other's voice. One was immediately accusative. "If you're calling me to ask me to vote for you as club president, you're wasting your time."

    "You're the one who called me, and if you think this is a way to solicit member's support, I hope you never run for state governor."

    "I don't need your vote, vulgar, vulgar, vulgarity, but I'd give you mine . . .  for dog catcher."

    Slam.

    Slam.

    My younger sister and Billy Long broke up. I connected those two lines and was excited when both my sister and Billy Long answered the phones.

    "Billy?" my sister asked.

    "Whaddya want" Billy snarled.

    "I was hoping you would call."

    "I didn't call. You called me."

    "You rang my phone," my sister insisted.

    "Why would I want to talk to you?"

    They continued to argue, but neither one could end the conversation until Billy's mother needed to use the phone. "I'll see you at school tomorrow," Billy concluded.

    One of the conversations that always gave me the giggles when I thought about it was two of my mother's backyard neighbors, Mrs. Walker and Mrs. Thanton. They both said hello at the same time and recognized each other's voice.

    After several long moments of silence, Mrs. Walker said, "You have me on the line, what did you want to talk about?"

    "My phone rang. I picked it up," replied Mrs. Thanton.

    "Likewise here. My phone rang. Why are you calling me?"

    "I did not call you."

    Then why did my phone ring?"

    "I repeat. I did not call you. And since you have nothing to say I'm going to end this ridiculous conversation."

    "Now that I have you on the line, I do have something to say," Mrs. Walker spat out. "I'd be grateful to you if you would keep your cat out of my garden."

    "My cat does not--"

    "Your cat certainly does. Comes to do its business in my garden. Digs up my vegetables, sometimes the marigolds, wherever it goes it scratches everything up. And I try to recover the damage, but sometimes the plants are so badly destroyed they can't be saved. You ought to keep that damned cat at home, don't let it wander around tearing up the neighborhood."

    "I don't know what cat you are talking about, but it isn't my cat. You should pay closer attention before you start making accusations. There are other cats in this neighborhood, you know."

    Slam.

    "You think I can't trust my own eyes?"

    Slam.

    What made the conversation even funnier was the fact that apparently neither neighbor knew that often the offending cat was sleeping in front of my mother's gas-fired fireplace or eating from a special dish that my mother kept near the back door.

    Hilarious as the conversations were, I always succeeded in keeping my laughter under control. Had I been discovered I would have been out the door.

    Long gone are telephone operators wielding long cords that link one caller with another. Connections are now made with mobile phones, transistors, integrated circuits, satellites, and even flux capacitors.

    How nice to receive a friend request, but the recipient should be suspicious. Will the invitation to connect be the start of a meaningful relationship with a real, living, breathing individual, or is it an illusion? Does that person really want to be your friend, or has the suggestion come from an idle algorithm with too much time on its hands?

Idle Algorithms was published in The Write Bridge: Ideals and Illusions  Summer 2025

PRESS ONE

 I want my friends to know that I have at last, reluctantly, belatedly, updated my communications systems in order to experience a more efficient conversation. When you ring my telephone, you will hear the following:

This call may be monitored or recorded for quality assurance and training purposes.

(1) If you are calling to ask if I am still alive and breathing, press one.

(2) If you are calling to ask about my cat, Wampuscat, press two. Wampuscat is a stuffed animal which I keep by my chair, but when you press two I will tell you about Wampuscat's latest antics.. I bought Wampuscat because my friends all were feeling sorry for me because I had neither dog, nor cat, nor goldfish, nor caged canary. Truth is, I am not responsible enough to be trusted with a live animal.

(3) If you are calling for an explanation of how to knit a chameleon scarf, press three. You need two separate colors of yarn. One color dominates one side, the other color dominates the other side. I discovered the pattern quite accidentally. It has confused advanced knitters, but I will try to get you started off correctly.

(4) If you are calling to share your description of the aurora borealis in the sky last night, press four. Although you need to understand that with my house facing southwest and the trees along the north of the property I do not have a clear vision to the north.

I hope this new telephone system facilitates our communications.

One more thing: It is being speculated that by 2026 the E.U. will legalize everyone's "right to talk to a human."

I WISH I'D THOUGHT OF THAT SOONER

     Isn't it frustrating, when you don't think of what you should have said, or done, until years later?

    About four years ago I was surprised to get a graduation notice from a shirttail relative I had never spoken to. Nonetheless, I got a graduation congratulations card and mailed off a hefty check. Expected to receive a thank-you. Expected in vain.

    The check cleared my bank account.

    I wish now, belatedly, that I had added a note to the congratulations specifically asking what the graduate intended to do, what kind of career was envisioned, what were the future plans. I should have been quite precise, asked the graduate to WRITE ME A NOTE, giving me answers to my questions.

    I wish I'd thought of that sooner.

    

CUSTOMIZED KEYBOARD

    I have to wonder -- Why are not keyboards color customized?

    Recently, I took matters in my own hands.

    In word-processing programs the user should regularly press the 's' key to 'save' the work. Failure to do so can result the loss of previously keyboarded material. Some people's sense of touch is so highly developed they can perform many activities even if blindfolded. I am not one of them. I need the sense of touch amplified by sight.

    A tiny square of red tape placed on the 's' key has helped immensely. In fact, it was so helpful I added a piece of orange tape on the question mark and a piece of green tape on the apostrophe / quote marks.

    I see a whole new business growing out of this concept: LET US CUSTOMIZE YOUR KEYBOARD FOR YOU.

MAKING US DUMBER

     I do agree: computers are making us dumber.

    Today's mail brought a bill from a communication provider. Two pages. On the upper part of the first page there is a line that reads This month's charges are $10.00 more.

    Down toward the bottom of the page there is another line which reads This month's charges are the same as last month's.

    Soooooo, which is it?

    I made a copy and mailed to the Customer Relations department. I predict I will eventually get a letter explaining how correct they are and how dumb I am for not being able to understand, intuitively.

JUST PICK UP THE PHONE

     Why can't I just call someone, a business, on the phone? Why can't they just pick up the phone and say "Hello?"

    I was at church when the phone in the office began to ring. No one else around so I picked it up. Heard nothing. Said "Hello?"

    No response.

    There were about twenty buttons on the front of the phone. Four of them were grouped at the top. None of them said "Talk". I turned to look on the side. There was a PTT, which in other circumstance I recognized  as "Push To Talk", which I did.

    Nothing.

    Next time at the church the office assistant was there, asked him how to answer the phone. Well, of the four buttons on the upper part of the phone, you need to push "phone". I turned the phone on the side, showed him the PTT button. Do you know what PTT means?

    No.

    Why can't you just pick up the phone and have someone answer with "Hello?" 

CONTAINERS

     I don't really need it, but I can't throw it away.

    Couldn't resist buying it in the first place. At the Monarch Book Store on 151st Street I found a beautifully decorated tin cylinder that contained Gone With The Wind teabags. When I first opened the tin I noticed that there was a rubberized inner ring, which further protected the contents.

    The tea bags all used I have no reason to keep the tin. Except . . .  For even a short time ago in the history of housekeeping good convenient containers to protect and preserve the contents were not widely available. My tendency now is to hang onto every good container that comes through my door.

    Over time we have received big tins containing popcorn. The popcorn consumed -- by others, popcorn is not my thing -- the tins are still on the premises, mostly in the basement. Impenetrable by either mice or insects they preserve all manner of things, even extra wax candles.

    What shall I do with the Gone With The Wind tin? Surely I can find something that needs to be preserved. How about tea bags, which normally are packaged in thin cardboard boxes? Perfect.

TRIPPING ALONG

    Where is my order? I ordered -- from Kohls -- several large blue bandanas, which I plan to send to various grandchildren for their go-bags. I have an inordinate curiosity about where things I order are coming from and when they might arrive. Tracking the package.

    First I learned that the package would be coming from Bolingbroke, IL. I'm pretty sure that is a location near Chicago. My bandanas were next in Glendale Heights, IL, also near Chicago. That was Saturday morning. Saturday, Sunday, plenty of time to get to Olathe. I expected that when I checked on Monday I would be informed that the package was in Olathe, at the postoffice, maybe even out for delivery.

    Wait. By Monday my package was in Grand Prairie, TX. How stupid of me to think my order could be delivered to me without going through Grand Prairie, TX, wherever that is. Given the size of Texas, it's possible my order might actually be farther away than when it was in Bolingbroke, IL. I'll have to look it up on the Fibber McGee map.

    

    Oops, wrong again. From Olathe to Bolingbroke, IL is about 503 miles. From Olathe to Grand Prairie, TX, is 492 miles. My package is getting closer.

A NEW TYPEWRITER

     It's time for a new typewriter.

    A keyboard NOT connected to the internet. The mechanical typewriter developed slowly over decades. Early typewriters were cumbersome and difficult, but still superior to the quill pen. The IBM Selectric was another vast improvement. Modern lightweight materials could be used to create an even easier to use machine.

    The fonts should be Optical Character Recognition, which would be scannable onto the internet, if later desired.

    Without a typewriter there is no choice, it's all out there, available to be hijacked. Please give us back our privacy. 

ANOTHER NEW ACCOUNT?

     Tracking packages has been an obsession of mine. I've been unduly fascinated about how a package gets from the point of origin to my house. Looks like that innocent pastime is over. For a package coming from California (although some information on the website led me to believe its journey might originate un Canada) I was asked to sign up for an account.

    What?

    Another account?

    Another password?

    I already have a stack of big index cards with account information, filed, sort of, in alphabetical order (did I ever tell you about the time I failed an alphabet test?).

    Naw. (The package has been delivered to my doorstep.)

    With this post I am going to try something new. I no longer know how to activate the comment section of blogger, so I am going to post an email address. And no, it will  not link automatically. I've forgotten how to do that, too. Here goes: findreship@aol.com