Happy Father’s Day
He was the guy who treaded water beside me when I was trying to learn how to water ski. He was willing, even hoping, to be left behind if I succeeded. The bestest Life Preserver of all. My Dad.
I am just returned home from a celebration in the house where I grew up. Called my Dad, like always, to say I got home safe and said Happy Father’s Day one more time while trying to communicate in those few words a million thank-yous and I-love-yous deserved by the Greatest Dad in the World. Here are just a few reasons:
1. Getting tucked in with a hilarious made up bedtime tale (that featured three children very like my brother and sister and I) or a lullaby on the harmonica.
2. Dad, running behind my bike the first time the training wheels were off. Holding onto the seat and then just pretending to be holding onto the seat.
3. Sitting on the front porch next to my Dad on a summer evening, just to sit on the front porch to enjoy the summer evening next to my Dad.
4. Sitting me down, after some sibling fuss, to tell me that someday I wouldn’t see them every day, that someday I would miss them.
5. Father-Daughter trips to go camping, canoeing, or backpacking. Including the last one when it began to rain as we stepped out of the truck and didn’t stop. Everything so wet we couldn’t even light a fire. And we still had a great time.
6. Packing and unpacking and getting me to and from college twice a year for four years. (Not to mention he was paying the bill for me to be at college.) (And definitely to mention his complete and unhesitating support when I made the Great Big Decision to change majors for the love of writing.)
7. Taking me to buy my first car and then doing miracles to help keep the Mustang running for the next 13 years.
8. Fixing everything that ever broke in apartments and house, from appliances to screen doors. Including dropping everything to come over, as it got dark, to undo and redo the wiring in the kitchen light and the dining room light. I had foolishly attempted this task on my own, which left me with one light that wouldn’t turn on and one light that wouldn’t turn off.
9. Saving me from getting as close as I ever want to get to a nervous breakdown. Dad’s have a way of making problems disappear, even big, strange, stressful problems like a gigantic hole in your house.
10. For lifting me up 48 years ago for the first time and never putting me down or letting me down for even a moment since.
Each year on my Birthday and occasionally on Father’s Day, too, my Dad re-tells the story of the day I was born. He gets such a smile on his face as he pantomimes and retells how he was standing, as new fathers did back then, looking through the glass at the hospital nursery, when the doctor held me up and said, “Mister Schmidt, you got a redhead.” I like to think I smiled back.
Happy Father’s Day Dad.
Home
Vacations are great. Vacations are awesome. Vacations bring me joy, expand my life experience, save my sanity.
But, for me, no matter how much fun I’m having, no matter how delightful the company, no matter how awesome the weather, somewhere around the end of a week away, I feel it. It’s a niggle in the neck, a breath in the chest, a softening of the laugh lines—it’s the desire to be home. Not just to sleep in my own bed, use my own shower, and root through a closet instead of a suitcase but also to be in the city I love, to feel grounded among familiar surroundings, to return to family and friends.
I recently considered this sweet hankering for home in a whole new light.
Last week, I was on vacation in New Orleans. During the day, I was working with the St. Bernard Project.
No, it has nothing to do with large, cask-bearing dogs.
St. Bernard Project is a 501(c)(3) organization working to rebuild homes and lives of Katrina survivors. I can attest, from first-person experience, that these are good people doing things the right way for the right reasons. Using volunteer labor, they are able to rebuild an average-size home for just $15,000. (Which, in case you’re really bad at Math, is freakin’ incredible.)
St. Bernard Project’s namesake is St. Bernard Parish, which was devastated during Katrina. St. Bernard Parish was one of those close-knit communities, with families who had lived in the area for generations. Proud Americans. Good blue-collar folk who cut their own grass, throw a good potluck party, help out their neighbors, know how to stretch a paycheck, and love a football team that wears black and gold.
Yeah. Pretty hard, as a Pittsburgher, not to feel the affinity.
In August 2005, the hurricane had passed and they were mostly okay. Then, the levees broke. And the water rose—fast. And every home in St. Bernard Parish was flooded. Every single home. Population-wise, imagine flooding every home in Etna—as well as every home in Aspinwall and Allison Park and Glenshaw.
Mother Nature certainly had her hand in this, but despite the personafication, weather has no capacity for intent nor intelligent thought. On the other hand. The government left citizens stranded, first on rooftops, then in noxious FEMA trailers. Contractors took the last of people’s savings, did no work, and disappeared. Insurance companies were, at best, ridiculously inefficient or, at worst, despicable, horrible, rotten, oh-you-better-believe-there’s-a-special-place-in-hell bastards.
Note: Local officials had re-zoned St. Bernard as NOT being in the flood plane—only a couple of years before the levees broke and flooded the entire area. Insurance reps told homeowners they didn’t need flood insurance, and people who had paid premiums for years dropped flood coverage. They still had hurricane insurance. But the insurance companies said, no, this is all flood damage, not hurricane damage. (Tomato-tomahto—either way, I’m pretty sure it’s a rotten one.)
I am no expert on all that went on in New Orleans. But I do know that there are far too many layers (and not enough cuss words) to tell the complete tale here.
But here’s my point: When I’m away, I miss home after 6 days.
In St. Bernard Parish, it’s been nearly 6 years. And there are still people waiting to get home.
Not preaching. Not arm-twisting. Just sharing. I know you good-hearted peeps have other charities and other commitments. But, should you be interested, I will tell you this. The St. Bernard Project volunteer experience is sweaty and dirty and grueling . . . and absolutely fantastic. It may sound crazy but last week was, truly, one of the best vacations I have ever been on. Heck yeah, the ability to enjoy New Orleans’ sunshine, beignets, barbecue, booze, jazz, art, and unique ambience in the evenings is an awesome post-work perk, but, still. To escape the cube. To use the body and the brain. To feel, at middle age, like maybe something you did actually mattered. To work really hard—without any stress. Damn. It was freedom. It was soul defibrillation. It was cool, y’all. If you or anyone you know is looking for a volunteer or fundraising opportunity or would like to make a donation, go to http://www.stbernardproject.org/. Facebook page: https://www.facebook.com/stbernardprojectBooya
Osama Bin Laden is dead, and I am glad. I believe he will burn in hell. And you can tell Rashard Mendehall that God and I are fine with my what is in my heart.
{While you’re at it, you can tell the media that social media commentary is not news—unless, instead of being an actual journalist, you are a lazy moron.}
It’s okay to be glad he is dead. As Winston Churchill said, “You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something, sometime in your life.”
I understand the burial at sea. I appreciate that last rights were respected; that took some class. And I really appreciate that there’s no gravesite/shrine.
But still. I wish I lived near the ocean. So I could go there and spit in it and fall on my knees, eyes unabashedly to heaven, in thankful rejoicing.
I hate terrorists. (Yes, hate.) And I’m okay with that.
If you want to give evil the benefit of the doubt, if you want to keep your heart open to the idea of really really bad people someday transforming, you go right ahead. But don’t preach at me about real love and true hate until you’ve reached your 40s.
Anyone who knows me knows I have never been an Obama fan. But, whatever my personal opinions about government and leadership, I don’t see the point of blindly, immediately bashing every single thing the man does or says. Read this.
The cause of securing our country is not complete. But tonight, we are once again reminded that America can do whatever we set our mind to. That is the story of our history, whether it’s the pursuit of prosperity for our people, or the struggle for equality for all our citizens; our commitment to stand up for our values abroad, and our sacrifices to make the world a safer place.
Let us remember that we can do these things not just because of wealth or power, but because of who we are: one nation, under God, indivisible, with liberty and justice for all.
C’mon people. That’s good stuff. Lies and insincerity rarely induce goosebumps. Whatever your politics, give the man his due this week. He was the man in charge when this all went down. He deserves some respect. And, if you can’t muster respect for the man, find some respect for him as the representative leader of The United States of America.
Not everything that happens in the world is or needs to be orchestrated or spun. You can’t just swallow baby bird style: eyes closed, mouth open, and squawking. Neither should you puke it all back up into unrecognizable chunks.
I find it amazing that people have the capacity to think that Osama is holed up somewhere with Elvis and Michael Jackson but are incapable of imagining that we would announce that Pakistan was not involved in order to help an ally save face—and lives—in an unstable country, during an incredibly volatile time.
This isn’t a movie where the blundering clutz giving the good guys away is funny. This is real. Life. And. Death. Stuff. So, you know, maybe sit down and shut up for a minute, yeah?
I’m not saying don’t be inquisitive. But take a moment. Watch different channels. Listen to different stations. Read a newspaper (and not just the headlines). Listen to others. Use your brain. Whatever it may be, form your own opinion. Just because it’s in the news doesn’t make it true. But. Just because it’s in the news doesn’t make it false either.
I find it amusing that some news channels were suddenly spelling Osama with a U. Do they think people are stupid enough to confuse Osama with Obama? And/Or that we wouldn’t notice? Really?
I also find amusement in the fact that the President’s speech preempted Donald Trump’s TV show. I don’t care what your political preferences are, that was a brilliant and subtle touche if ever I saw one.
Last but not least, do we really need to see the photographs? Do we need children to see them? Do we need our enemies to see them? Simmer down and think for a moment. This isn’t a Friday the 13th movie or an episode of CSI.
Dear conspiracy freaks: If a Navy Seal walked up and handed you a DNA sample, what? You have the knowledge in your head or the equipment in your parent’s garage, sitting there next to your PlayStation and a case of Red Bull, to prove anything more than we already know? Preposterous twits.
They have a DNA sample. Granted, I would have preferred that the DNA sample came in the form of his head, on a pole, carried at the front of a huge parade through New York City. But, for now, we have to let the military and the scientists sort it out. For now, all I can say is:
God bless the Americans who gathered, shared, and deciphered the intelligence. God bless the Americans who supported the mission—for a very long time. God bless the Americans who carried out the mission. And God bless those who remain in harm’s way to fight (and, yes, hopefully kill) other terrorists.
It doesn’t matter if Clinton started it. It doesn’t matter if G.W. Bush laid groundwork. It doesn’t matter if Obama got input or even pressure from others to say “Go.”
Osama Bin Laden is dead. And I am glad. And, no matter what else may remain unclear, one thing is not open for debate: The Navy Seals kick ass.
Should you be so inclined, donations can be made to the Navy Seals Foundation.
Missing Opening Day
It’s Opening Day for the Pittsburgh Pirates. I can’t help recalling what it would be like to be at the ballpark. The sun is shining after a couple of wintry spring days. I suddenly have a hankering for a steamed hot dog in a mushy bun. At this moment, I’d like to be playing hookie at a turnstile, showing my ticket, part of the frenetic crowd, chatting with an usher. I’d like to see pristine grass on the ground and that train whistle guy on the JumboTron.
Being born in the 60s into a family that loved baseball and knew it well, I was taught to swing a bat before I could lift one, and I learned to catch and throw before we had figured out if I were left or right handed. (I used to catch a ball, take off the glove, and throw with the same hand.) When we’d sorted that out, my Dad took me to Honus Wagner to pick out my very own baseball glove.
That was a BIG day.
I became cognizant of the Pirates when they were winners. When they were a respected organization. Pirates Fan was as equivalent to the term Pittsburgher then as Steelers Fan is now (believe that or not those of you who buy most of the beer at sporting events these days). Pirates Fans cheered and screamed and grieved together. We remember—too clearly still—the day Roberto Clemente died. We remember “Chicken on the hill” and “By a gnat’s eyelash” and “We Are Family”—which truly was something more than an advertising slogan.
The Pirates were winners. I knew each player’s name and number and position.
I attended the last game ever in Three Rivers Stadium. And on groundbreaking day for PNC Park, I was there for the re-naming of Clemente Bridge and the digging ceremonies. And when I saw Willie Stargell walk through the crowd, I was in awe.
I will admit to you that I was one of the people who thought financing the new ballpark was a great idea. I believed when they told us how it would help the team. And this city’s economy. I believed. And I loved baseball. And the Pittsburgh Pirates have always resided in a very special place in my heart. They were a Life Preserver. I was a Fan.
But. You know the old saying: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me. Fool me 18 times, shame on the Nuttings.
Last year was the year I gave up. Last year was the year it became too personally unethical to give Pirates ownership any more of my money. Last year was the first year in my life that I did not attend a single game. Nor watch one on TV. Nor even listen to one on the radio. (Which I find to be one of the most singularly pleasing sounds in the universe; I’m not sure why, but it reminds me of the radio at home on the kitchen counter, when the cabinets were green and my grandparents were alive.)
Today, I heard a lot of hoopla, stirred up by advertising dollars and, god bless them, a few who still seem to believe. I am willing to admit that some of the young guys may be good players, exciting even. I wish them well, but I will not be sucked into the lies yet again.
If the Pirates win a lot and all these exciting young men are still around after the trade deadlines, perhaps I will try to learn their names. Perhaps, when the owners stop spitting on the history of a once proud organization and decide to care more about America’s past time than bobble heads and fireworks and overpriced food, perhaps I will pay them some attention.
It’s opening day in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. And I am missing it.
Is the Password Kafka?
Been without internet at home for three or four nights now.
Cannot for the life of me figure out why.
I attempt to use the Help.
“You must connect to the internet to access help.” (Oh, how helpful.)
So, I attempt to diagnose by clicking where it says to click to diagnose. And it tells me that something is unplugged. It doesn’t tell me which thing but it says something is unplugged.
So I put down the laptop, remove the afghan, and go to the office to crawl around under my desk, next to the litter box, and I check every g.d. connection. I have checked every connection and every wire like 437 times. Every plugged in thing is giving me a green light and/or an icon that means I’m good to go.
So, I crawl back under the desk next to the litter box and I reboot and unplug and wait 30 seconds (“One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. . . .”). And I stick my head back under the desk to see only the side of my cat Rocky who becomes fascinated with the area under my desk every time my connection goes (which is often). And I bang my head off the dang keyboard holder shelf thing as I remove said cat and I replug and wait. And I reboot and unplug and move the cat and narrowly miss banging my head and move cat again and wait and replug. And I reboot cuss unplug bang-damn-head cuss cuss cuss move cat wait cuss replug and cuss.
Nuttin’.
Except the appearance of Franco, the second cat, creeping up behind me, drawn as if hypnotized to explore the small dark litter box neighboring space beneath my desk.
So, I return to other room. I go to the Control Panel. And it tells me to click here to see available networks. And I click and my network is (as I’ve surmised) still not on the list.
So, I click on the option that will let me set up a network. And I type in the SSID and it tells me that network already exists and invites me to “click here” to connect to it.
And I do.
And it takes me back to the list of networks on which my network (which exists) does not exist.
So, I’m writing this in the hopes that someone will be able to help sort out my wireless existence. Writing from work quick as I can before I head for home, and. . . . And as I typed that last sentence, yeah, it dawns: I’ll have to “Connect to the internet to access help.”
Good-bye.
Snow Is Stupid
Sitting on that road for nearly an hour = Stupid!
Sitting on that road for nearly two hours = Stupid!
Me deciding to make the right turn onto that road (instead of going my normal route) last night = So Stupid!
Stringing the jumper cables between a vehicle in the northbound lane and a vehicle in the southbound lane to effectively block traffic in both directions instead of pulling off to the side of that road = You’ve-Got-to-Be-Kidding-Me Stupid!
Running in the car lane on that road last night = Amazingly Stupid!
(Note: I don’t think this person was actually jogging but what the heck was she doing?)
Jumping out of your slid-to-the-side car on that road and standing with your back to traffic completely unaware that a less experienced driver than me who had less than my brand-new tires would not have been able to avoid running you over = Stupid.
Cutting in front of me from the left-hand turn lane to turn onto that road and then immediately making an unbelievable clusterf*ckian U-turn in the midst of complete and utter gridlock with no turning radius = You smart bastard.
Announcing on the radio at 4:10 p.m. (with traffic already at a dead stop) that there might be some snow in the area later = Stupid!
Running commercials about how great and amazing and vital your Awesome Major Weather Storm Predictor Six Thousand segment is, while I’m desperately seeking a morsel of info about today’s weather and commute: Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid Stupid!
Tailgating in this kind of weather = Stupid #%*! ##!^ **!!!! Stupid.
Driving 70+ on 279 this morning = Darwin-award-winning stupid!
Winter = Stupid!
Snow = Stupid!
Groundhog = Stupid!
Gloves, boots, hats = Stupid-Stupid-Stupid!
Salt on my car = Stupid!
Shoveling my driveway = Stupid!
Having a day off when your job is snow removal = Totally the Most Stupid Stupid-thing Ever in all the Stupid History of Stupidville!
Isn’t It Romantic?
Yes, friends, it is Valentine’s Day. I am in the camp that you shouldn’t need a special day to express such a thing but what the heck. It is what it is. And, more important, it is what you make of it.
Here’s my tip to the guys out there. A simple sincere expression means a lot more than two weeks of grumbling followed by . . . well, anything. And, if you are in a relationship that “requires” you to cough up diamonds on Valentine’s Day, well, you know, if ya ask me, it’s not the holiday that’s stupid.
As a single woman who genuinely likes men as well as dive bars and watching football; who knows how to put the seat down if it’s up without having a fainting spell; who has never understood the desire to drag a man to the mall (nor understood a man’s willingness to do so); who doesn’t care what kind of car you drive or what your job title is; who can bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan dressed like a naughty secretary, I just can’t feel a whole lot of pity for guys who whine about being in a relationship with some gold-digging, annoying, unaffectionate witch.
Some days, I wonder where people get their bad ideas about love. Other times, like today, clues appear. On the way to work, a local radio station was running a contest. Who can name the movie selected as the number one most romantic movie of all time on the blah-blah list of yada-yada. The answer: Gone With the Wind.
hmmmm
Guy falls for girl he barely knows. Girl treats guy like dirt while pining over somebody else’s husband. Girl finally gets desperate enough to need guy and marries him but withholds marital affections and continues to treat him like dirt. He finally grows a pair and walks out.
Uh, yeah. Gone With the Wind is an epic story and a cinematic feat, yes, but the number one romance? Where did they do their polling, outside of a marriage counselor’s office?
Now I don’t claim that real romance should or could ever be measured by movie romance, but c’mon people. Surely, we can aspire to do better than the trainwreck that was Rhett and Scarlett.
For example:
Moonstruck
The Philadelphia Story
L.A. Story
Desk Set
Princess Bride
It Happened One Night
A Walk in the Clouds
Moulin Rouge
The Wedding Singer
Roxanne
Boy, that was easy. Here are ten more.
Brigadoon
My Big Fat Greek Wedding
When Harry Met Sally
The African Queen
Shakespeare in Love
To Catch a Thief
The Sound of Music
Emma
An Officer and a Gentleman
The Goodbye Girl
Feel free to add some of your own to this list in the Comments section.
But.
I beg you.
Don’t say An Affair to Remember ’cause that would make me laugh so hard I might get distracted and step into traffic and then we’d never see each other again because my opinion of you—love of my life!—is that you are very handsome but you are shallow and hate cripples.
The Grin in Chagrin
The NFL football season ended last night. I, like all of Steeler Nation, feel bad.
But. I don’t feel that bad.
I haven’t screamed. I’ve barely pouted. Until 7:35 this morning, I had not shed a tear.
I don’t feel that bad. And that baffles me.
I suspected, at first, a scenario in which I am in a coma, last night was an IV-induced dream, and Rocky Bleier is my doctor.
But. At work, fully clothed, unable to fly, pinched myself. I’m awake.
It’s real, eh?
Well, maybe I don’t feel that bad because I got to have a lot of fun this season. Having attended only two Steeler games in my life (both losses), this year I got to attend two more: the opener and the AFC Championship game. And, despite a temperature difference of about 70 degrees, I had a similarly exhilirating, palpitating, voice-losing, Towel-twirling, high-fiving-the-nephew, brought-home-a-winner blast at both.
Or maybe I can’t feel pain because my endorphin levels are still so high from the game of January 15. Could a win last night possibly have felt any better than the night we beat the Ravens? I wonder.
Then again, maybe I don’t feel horrible because the Packers are a team that’s hard to hate. Small market, storied history, fans who know the game—I’ve always felt the affinity. (Losing to Dallas in XXX was worse. So much worse.)
Look, I’m not saying I’m turning cartwheels (or would be turning cartwheels if I could do a cartwheel). But. I’m okay. Which is weird.
I was pondering thusly, in my car, coming up on 7:35 a.m., as I crossed the West End Bridge and veered right, onto the ramp to 65. And with the car aiming North, there—in a wee trickle of rare February morning light—sat Heinz Field. And I reached for my Steelers scarf like Linus Van Pelt.
Last night, I believed. Not wished. Not hoped. But believed the Steelers were going to win the Super Bowl. Even though (or, actually, because) the odds makers called them underdogs. Even after nearly all the talking-heads picked the green and gold. (Good on ya, Terry B.) Even after Pouncey finally, most definitely, had to sit out. Even after 58 minutes and 1 second of losing. I believed.
How is that possible? I’m a devout lapsed Optimist.
Think for a moment about how this season started. After last year? With Santonio gone and Ben suspended? With some rookie at center? Remember that? Yeah. Now, think about how you’ve felt for the past few weeks. How you felt going into last night’s game.
This year was extraordinary. This year was a transformation. This year surprised. And it wasn’t us. It wasn’t the media. It wasn’t Goodell. It wasn’t luck or juju or even our beloved Myron or the Rooney tradition or some dynasty magic.
This year was extraordinary because of that group of men on the field last night. The Steelers 2010 squad. Players and coaches. Good guys and “bad” guys and even a kinda skeevy guy (who I want to believe has changed but, bottom line, either way, is still an incomparable quarterback). Quiet guys and crazy guys. Big guys, tall guys, fast guys, and small guys. Veterans and rookies. This happy few. They made us believe. They overcame the obstacles. They played through the tendon-tearing, ankle-twisting, gut-wrenching, heart-breaking injuries. They stepped in and stepped up. They unselfishly supported each other. They kept their cool right next to their swag. They played with heart. And talent. They gave us an amazing season. They made it to the Super Bowl and let us come along for what was a wild and wonderful ride.
Maybe I don’t feel that bad because pride trumps disappointment.
But maybe they do feel that bad. And so I say, Gents: Chin up. Stand tall. You had a great year. Thank you for being one of my favorite life preservers. And thank you for making me proud to be a Steeler fan every day—even today.
What was your favorite thing about the 2010 Steelers?
Are You Ready?
It’s a Legend. An Invasion of the Body Snatchers. Coming over the next 28 Days. An entire city stricken by the same affliction.
It’s about to happen. You know it is.
The little hairs on the back of your neck sense it. And those goosebumps that slide down your arms like the snow and ice that cover the landscape. There’s a chill wind. I pull my scarf a bit tighter around the collar of my black jacket, which I bought to go with the scarf and not the other way around. And I observe this super-natural town.
A normally well-groomed friend has begun to wear the same shirt regularly—and will not wash it.
A dear and respected friend of the family who had to be coaxed and “feeling good” to dance even one dance at his son’s wedding has begun to leap about, executing an intricate pattern of steps, an interpretative voo-doo dance meant to curse.
Serious businessmen, street-wise policemen, and the most faithful folks of the cloth have turned superstitious. Even the roughest men from the mills are not immune to changes, oddities, mysterious charms.
Certain words and phrases are hereby banned from speech. Loud people have gone quiet. Quiet people will get loud. Strangers will become comrades. Knuckles will crack. Nails will be nubs. Breath will be held. Teenage children will borrow clothing from their parents.
Keep your head up. Pay attention. You’ll see the signs. Above roadways. On the fronts of buses. Above tunnels. On storefronts. On Church letter boards. Car washes. Burger joints. Front porches. Flagpoles. Vehicles. In people’s yards. In their windows.
And in their eyes.
Get ready. Stock up. Pull friends and loved ones close to you. Huddle together. Because it’s about to get a little weird in this town.
Screams will be heard. Pacemakers will pulse. And towels will be waved.
The playoffs are about to begin in Pittsburgh, PA .
Here we go Steelers. Here. We. Go.
Got a playoff superstition? What is it?
Never Tailgate is a gift book with car photos and tips for new drivers. Dare to be Happy is a gift book with advice about life (and doodles). Both are available on amazon.
Life Preservers 
Dear Proud Parents of Nathan Lavezoli
[To follow-up on my previous post, I discovered that the reason I could not access my network is because a neighbor had “stolen” it. Amusingly enough, he named the stolen network after himself—Dumb Ass—so I was able to figure out who the thief was and get his address in about 15 seconds. What follows is the letter I mailed to his parents today. Enjoy.]
I just wanted to thank your son for hijacking my wireless network. After about a week of having no internet access and spending many frustrating hours trying to figure out why, I finally spent a real fun Friday night on the phone with my ISP to figure out that Nathan was to blame. Then, I got to spend another hour (and $50) with the manufacturer of my wireless hub to get things back to normal.
First and foremost, I am so glad he used his own name when he stole my wireless and made it his own. That made it so much easier to be able to send this note!
I had been told by a professional that my wireless was secure, so imagine my surprise when Nathan proved that wrong. I am very appreciative that Nathan demonstrated this error to me in such a creative way.
Please thank your fine son for taking the time to steal my network. Had he not done what he did—had he simply used my wireless signal to get onto the internet whenever he felt like it—I would have never known.
By the way, I write this assuming you are aware that Nathan has had internet access. (But, if not, don’t worry, I’m sure he has just been using it to donate money to charity or buy school books.)
For now, I have decided not to report this incident to the police because I value them and the work they do, and I think they have way more important things to do. But, if this or something similar happens again (or if I discover that anything more than my wireless has been hacked), I will count on Neighbor of the Year Nathan to be available to help with the investigation.
I’m also not asking for reimbursement. To do that, I would have to provide my name and address. And, while I assume that Nathan is just a dumb kid who did a dumb thing and I assume you were unaware and I assume that a letter to his parents is all that’s needed to set him straight . . . if any of those assumptions were wrong, I wouldn’t want anyone in your household to have my information.
I have also, after some deliberation and against the advice of friends, decided not to leave a flaming bag of poo on your doorstep. With the mailing of this letter, I consider the matter closed.
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March 8, 2011 at 5:55 am 7 comments