Hacked!

I know, it happens to the best of us.  But I'm supposed to be a data professional.  My email account is not supposed to get hacked.  My pride is stung just a bit; but it could be worse.  At least it was a sophisticated hack.

You see, like most data professionals, I have three levels of password security.  Level one goes to my bank account password.  It's long and complex and hard to guess.  Level two goes to my e-mail accounts - they're shorter, but still don't spell anything, and should be hard to break.  Level three goes to my shopping and utility accounts.  I don't care so much if someone breaks in and gets to my electric bill.

When I first set up my iTunes account, three years ago when I got my iPhone, I set it up as a shopping account.  Time went on, I got an iPad, iCloud arrived to back up my data to the cloud, and I wasn't thinking that part of the data backed up to the cloud was my e-mail contact list.  I still had it on the simple password list.

Silly me.

I found out about the hack about ten minutes after it happened - my friends on the west coast were up and checking e-mails, and one of them texted me.  I cussed a blue streak, got online, changed my password and started on damage control.  I was puzzled by some of the bounced messages - they were sent to people who weren't on my personal e-mail account.  So, I puzzled and puzzled some more (in the immortal words of Dr. Seuss).  How did the hackers get the addresses?  It wasn't until morning that I figured out the link to my iTunes account - it's the one place where my personal and work emails blend.

I felt a little better; my email account password hadn't been hacked after all.  But really stupid.  I should have thought about the security of the iTunes account when I set up the online backups.  Fortunately for me, it was a hit-and-run hack.  They sent out some stupid link to a magical weight-loss site.  **sigh**  I do wish these people would use their powers for good...

So, for those of you who are not data professionals, here are a couple of ways for you to avoid the trap I found myself in:

• For anything that involves money or your email accounts, the password should be 10-16 characters long, shouldn't spell anything, and should be used on one site only.  A good way to come up with a secure password is to pick a phrase:  The sun will come up tomorrow.  Then, pick the first letter of each word:  Tswcut.  Add some numbers you'll remember.  (The last four digits of a friend's phone number work well, for those of us old enough to remember when we had to remember phone numbers without the help of our phones.)  And you have it: Tswcut6403 - a hard to hack but easy to remember password.  (And yes, I have a list of websites and passwords written down somewhere.  I figure it's really hard to hack my paper files...)
• I have a separate email account I use for shopping accounts.  I figure since I use simpler passwords on those sites, this way if the accounts do get hacked, they don't get much - just links to places that send me shopping e-mails.  I also don't allow the sites to save my credit card number - it's not THAT hard to type in each time, and I've heard of too many places getting broken into and those lists of card numbers stolen.

Here's hoping I'll save at least one person from getting stung as I was...  grrrrrr.

A Year Ago Today

It was the fifteenth day of the second month of the 2012th Year of Our Lord, and the good surgeons did undertake to rid my life of the demon Asmodeus.  Their sure and steady hands were well guided by my champion, the Archangel Rafael.  With precision, they did cut into my flesh and ferret out all traces of the demon.  Asmodeus was removed from my flesh and cast into the deserts of Northern Egypt, bound hand and foot, where he impotently gnashes his teeth and wails his threats unto the uncaring skies.  To guard against his return, I daily partake of a potion of mixed favors.  Whilst on the one hand it bringeth aches to my joints and removeth the strength of my fingernails, on the other it provideth patrols of guardians who guard my inner passageways, searching for traces of the demon or his cursed minions.  Should the guardians happen upon the blighted spawn, they quickly dispatch them with blazing swords, banishing them anew so I may yet live to see my children's children grow unto the fullness of their lives.

Or something like that.

A year ago today was my last day on the other side of one of the great divides in my life.  To the previous division of before-and-after-Mom-died, I added before-and-after-cancer-surgery.  While a good portion of the time after surgery is mercifully lost in the fog (painkillers do a great job of preventing memory from working well), there are a few things that stick out in my mind.

First and foremost is waking to hear that Asmodeus had not yet managed to invade my lymph system.  I hadn't quite dared hope it could be so until they told me the news.  Despite everything else, when I heard I was swamped with relief as I dropped the heavy burden I hadn't even let myself acknowledge I had been carrying since I'd first found the cancer over a month before.

One of the others is the well-meant but insensitive comment that since I didn't lose my hair, it must not have been 'real' cancer.  I secretly feel that way myself.  So many go through years of hell once they have the disease.  Why was I excepted from the rigors of chemo when my good friends who are fighting similar battles are not?  On the other hand, I've decided those who say they don't even notice the implants after the first year are lying to make everyone else feel better.  How can you not notice that you have a six-inch wide band of numbness across the front of your chest?  I mean, really!

There are memories I treasure:  Of those who brought food and helped clean and made sure I took my medicine and brought me out so I wouldn't go stir-crazy when I probably should have stayed home (I'm really not good at letting people help; I haven't had much practice).  Of the outpouring of cards and love from people who are part of my everyday life, and from those I hadn't heard from in years.

There are memories too painful to touch even now:  Of driving free and doing just what I wanted to do each day.  Of waking each morning to readily see the hand of God in the beauty surrounding me, knowing I was part and parcel of the scene.  That road is now closed to me.  Where ever I go from here, it can never be down that same carefree and joyful path.

It is a year later.  I am alive.  I have not only survived, I am well down the road to health.  That is more than too many who have heard the dreaded diagnosis can say.  I am trying to be happy about it, but it's not working so well tonight because I am afraid.  I am afraid that when I go in for my checkup next month, they will tell me my guardians have lost the battle, and the cancer has again gained a stronghold in my body.  That's what happened to Mom.  Tonight, the words of logic, which tell me all the good reasons the cancer will not return, are lost in the roar of the wind of what might-could be.

Yet, I've made it this far.  And I refuse to let fear rule my life.  So, tomorrow night I will go out and celebrate anyways.  Because life is good and I have today.  And today is all any one of us has.

House Hunting II

OK.  This house hunting stuff isn't so bad after all.  You just have to look in the area where the Universe has decided you should look instead of the area you thought you wanted to live.

I'd spent over two decades living north of the Plaza, and I wanted to stay there.  (Yes, the distinction is meaningless to many - we ARE talking houses less than three miles apart.)  North of the Plaza is scrappier, less of a sure thing; the people who live there band together to support each other in their work of reclaiming these beautiful old city neighborhoods.  South of the Plaza is more established.  Safer.  More sure of itself and its place in the world.  It doesn't need to be reclaimed because it was never unclaimed.

Yet, when I looked north of the Plaza, I couldn't find ANYPLACE I could both afford and was willing to move into.  As soon as I looked south, ta-da!  There was not one, but two good options.  ('Go here', says the Universe...)  So, I picked one, and jumped in with both feet.  It's the one that needs more work (of course?  I never said I'd never pick up a rehab house again, did I?  I hope not.  If so, I'll have to eat my words), and it's in a great location.

When I first moved to Kansas City, I fell in love with Loose Park, just south of the Plaza.  It's beautifully landscaped, with a walking trail and lots of kids and dogs accompanied by their adult people.  The house I picked is just a few blocks from the park; I'll be able to go there for my walks.  I've missed my walks this past year.

The house has lots of big windows, and no closets to speak of.  The kitchen is beyond redemption; I'll have to add to the back of the house to make it into a workable space.  It's not a big house.  I like that part.  And it doesn't need a total makeover.  'Just' the kitchen.  and, as long as you're going to do that, you might as well make it a two-story addition, and redo the bathroom just above.  and it IS a two car garage, but wouldn't it be nice to have a little workshop space out there....

No, I'm not sure about what I'm doing.  But I'm doing it anyways.  I close on March 1.

Lexi Time

Lexi, January, 2013

It seems my daughter missed me as much as I missed her.  So, last weekend she loaded up the baby and headed to Kansas City.  Yes, I'd seen her the weekend before when she got home, but it was such a quick visit; we had little time to enjoy each others company.

Our visit was delightful.  Kate and I spent our time vastly entertained by the antics of the baby. 

We spent three whole days on Lexi time.  On Lexi time, you get up early, but you get to take naps.  You go to bed early.  You take longer to eat because you stop to closely examine and enjoy your food.  It takes longer to walk anywhere, because you have to stop and look at all the interesting stuff you see as you journey.



You don't worry about getting your socks and pants wet as you discover the joys of going in and out of the shower.  Open the door, close the door.  In, out.  Smile broadly every time you manage to open and close the door.

You delight in learning new things.  She was having a hard time turning one of my lamps on and off.  (It has one of those switches where if you turn it the right way, it switches, but if you turn it the wrong direction, it just unscrews itself.)  But she kept trying it.  And every time she managed to make it work, she'd turn around, clap her hands and say, "Yay!"  (I need to remember that for myself - to say "Yay!", if only to myself, when I manage to master a task...)

She is amazingly well behaved in restaurants, as long as you bring a large supply of toys.  (any one item holds her attention for, at most, five minutes.)  She managed to charm all the tables around us by watching the door; every time someone left, she'd call out, "Bye!", in her toddler voice - the one that carries further than you'd often like it to, especially when they're upset.

She is a city child.  One afternoon, it was quite warm, and we took her out for a walk.  She was fine as we headed down the sidewalk, but when the concrete ended and we had to walk on the grass, she didn't care for it.  She kept heading for the street, we kept heading her off.  A block or so down, we came to a roped off parking lot.  She was delighted, and just loved running around - finally, the proper surface upon which to play!  (Kate PROMISED to get her out to parks more often come spring...)

It was a right proper weekend, if I do say so myself.  As always, when they left, they took a piece of my heart with them as they drove away...

Joy!

Lexi, Oct. 2012

Kate, my daughter has been doing research in the Antarctic for the past 2 1/2 months.

It's been a hard time for her, and for those of us who love and missed her, especially over the holidays. 

Her daughter, at eighteen months, probably had the easiest time of all of us.  While she most certainly missed her mother, she is young enough to not yet have a sense of yesterday or tomorrow.  As near as we could tell, from her point of view, Mama wasn't here right now because Mama had gone away to live in the iPad.  (they got to see each other a few times via Skype, and so she figured that's where Mama had gone.  Whenever she saw one of the devices, she'd point to it and say, "Mama!")

I was telling the people at work about Kate and the baby and how long she'd been gone and how much we missed her and how much I'd love to see the baby's face when she finally got to see her mama again, when I stopped and thought, "why not?  It takes her 36 hours to get home, I can get to Minnesota in eight. hmmmm..."  

So, when Kate e-mailed this past Saturday morning, to let me know she was coming home, I decided to put my wild idea about driving up to meet her plane into play.  I called Joe, who dropped everything and headed back to Kansas City from Rolla.  I called Vincent, to find out exactly when she was due in, and to make sure he didn't mind if we joined him to pick her up at the airport.  I sent a note into work to let them know I wouldn't be in on Monday.  Sunday morning, Joe and I left for Minnesota.  (The weather gods cooperated - it was clear and cold; no precipitation coming down to slow us down.)

We got there just in time to stop at the house, drop off our car, and climb in with Vincent and the baby.  As we were pulling up to the baggage claim area, Kate called to let us know she was in.  (Vincent had inadvertently ruined the surprise when Kate's plane was delayed in Chicago, and let her know we were coming.  Oh, well - this way she had something to look forward to on the last leg of her flight.)  Joe went in first, to help her with her bags, and when they didn't come out right away, I followed with the baby (leaving Vincent at the curb in the car).

As I walked inside, I was telling Lexi, "there's Mama.  See, there's Mama!"  She didn't get it.  She was looking around, but all she saw was a crowd of people.  But Kate heard me, and started towards us.  I was watching Lexi's face as she saw her beloved Mama come into focus.  Her eyes grew wide, as if she didn't quite understand what she was seeing.  Then, as she began to believe, she smiled a little half smile.  When Kate came near and it was clear that she was REALLY here, the half smile turned into the biggest smile ever.  Mama was home!  She had gotten out of the iPad to come home!

Those few moments made the trip worthwhile.

House Hunting

I wouldn'a thunk it.

House buying is hard work.

These past two weeks of dipping my toes into the real estate market from the buyer's side have been most enlightening.  and frustrating.

I've never looked for a house to buy before.  My ex-husband found both the houses we bought before we split up.  I stayed in the second for 24 years before selling it so I could go on my adventure.

I thought it was easy.  You look at the listings, pick the top ten in your price range, go look at them, and buy the one you like the best.  Somehow, it never occurred to me that I'd not be able to find ten I'd even want to consider, or that the first four I'd look at would ALL be unsuitable.  I mean, of course I know people that have had problems finding the right house, but I somehow just figured they were too picky.  or something.

I knew real estate only from the seller's side (in a down market at that).  The sprucing the place up to appeal to buyers.  Making my bed EVERY morning, lest they call to schedule a showing that day.  The nervous tension when the real estate company called to schedule a showing.  The disappointment when the house didn't meet their needs - again.  The self-doubt about the price the paint the floors the kitchen, as the months passed and the house sat on the market.

I never thought about the buyer's frustrations.  What they call a second bedroom, I call a porch.  Those stairs could more accurately be called a ladder - I can't imagine carrying groceries or laundry up and down.  You access the master bedroom off the back porch?  Really?  One house had some appeal, until I looked at the surrounding places, and the junk they'd stored on their handy front porches.  Nix that one, too.  **sigh**

I know, I know.  I've just started looking.  Good thing I started before I HAD to move.  (I have new-found sympathy for people who relocate and have to find a house in a weekend or two of touring.)  There are three more houses on my short list; I'll look at those sometime next week.

Stay tuned...

Detour No More

Rock Hound State Park, NM

There comes a time when it's time to stop and ponder where you are in life, and where you are going.  For the past few days, I've been taking a look at where I've been over the last year, where I am now, and where I'd like to be next year when it comes to a close.

With a heavy heart, I've decided it's time for me to give up my illusion my current track is a detour.  I've been following it for the better part of a year.  Somewhere along the way it's changed from a detour into the new road I am to follow for at least the next few years.

It is not a path devoid of beauty, love and joy.  It's just not the one I wanted to be on.  But it does me no good to keep wishing I had been able to finish my trip.  It ain't gonna happen.  The money I had budgeted for the road has gone to keeping me alive and resetting up house.  Yes, I will still be able to take a month each year to continue my camper van travels, but I will need to count the days I spend traveling.  Real life wins.

I have a good spot for my camper to stay, but it sits in the sun.  To protect it, a friend bought me a cover, which arrived last week; Joe helped me to put it on.  It covers the van quite snugly, down to about six inches from the ground, and has a side zipper so you can get into the van without having to take the cover off.  At first I thought it symbolized the shuttering of my dream, putting it under wraps, calling it done, but then I had another thought.  Perhaps, along with the van, the cover also protects the remnants of my dream - keeping it from drying up, cracking and fading completely away in the harsh light of the sun.

A day will come when I am free again.  It will.  And when it does, I will take the cover off my dream, reshape it to fit where I am when the day comes, and drive off once again to see beautiful places.

We Can't Protect Them

The topic I had planned for today, a meandering description of my frustrations and joys this past week, seems meaningless today in light of the shootings in Connecticut.

The gunman touched on my deepest fear; on the deepest fear of many - we cannot protect them.

We bring our children into this world.  They are beautiful, they are perfect.  They are our most precious treasure.  We want to keep them safe from all harm.

The harsh reality is that we can't do it.  They dart in and put their little hands on hot lawnmower mufflers when we are watching from just a few feet away.  They get hit in the head with baseball bats during schoolyard ballgames.  After they are hurt, we have to patch up their wounds as best we can, and send them back out in the world - where we can't protect them from getting hurt again.  Locking them in the house to keep them safe just isn't one of the options, though I've wished it was, and only regretfully acknowledge that it wouldn't work.  As a wise woman once told me, "Life is risk."

The shootings this week highlight our vulnerability.  Locks and cameras couldn't keep out one deranged young man, determined to hurt our treasures. 

I want to scream to the Universe, "Why?", but know there will be no answer.  With the rest of the country, I cry when I read the list of names, see the innocent faces.  I am angry, without a target for my anger.  The villain got off too easily, shooting himself so he wouldn't have to deal with the consequences of his actions.

If God cares at all, there is justice for him.  To me, that justice would be having to face the full realization of the harm he did as he left this world.

For the innocents, and those who died trying to protect them, I know they are in better hands than ours.  We couldn't keep them safe, but God will.  God will watch over them until their families and the rest of those who love them join them in the only safe place there is.

My Bed

Omaha Zoo, Oct. 2012

I have to admit, I LOVE my bed.

I know.  It sounds silly.  But it's true.


I love that the mattress is not too hard, nor too soft, but just right.  And, it doesn't have any lumps.  I know I won't wake up with a crick in my back from it being too soft, nor will my hips be talking to me in the morning because it was too hard.

I love that my pillows are not lumpy, nor hard, but rather are soft and fluffy and gently cradle my head as I lie down to rest.

I love that I have all the covers I need, and they don't have any holes in them.  My sheets are soft and clean, the quilt is warm.  If I need it, there is an extra blanket down at the end of the bed; I just need to reach down and pull it up if I am cold in the night.

I love climbing into it at the end of a long day, and snuggling down into my sheets and pulling the covers up to my chin.  There are no prickles, no hard edges, just soft and welcoming warmth.

I love that I don't have to share it with many-legged creatures who like midnight snacks.

On the nights I am really tired, all I have to do is lie down, warm up just a bit, and let sleep overtake me like a wave, carrying me off until morning.  It's a beautiful thing. 

I wallow in the luxury of it all - and am acutely aware that the same is not true for most of the other people in the world.  I remember the lumpy foam we slept on in Honduras - and they gave us the best they had.  In the hotel we stayed at in Guatemala, the mattresses were hard and unyielding.  I once saw a photo that haunts me still - of a young boy in Africa, asleep on the ground, with nothing but a plastic sheet between his little body and the dirt.

There is a group in Kansas City that gives mattresses to families who don't have enough beds.  Last time I replaced my mattress, they took the old one, and gladly.  It was in much better shape than most of the ones the children were currently sleeping on.

God, help me to be aware of my blessings, both big and small.

30 Reasons Why Failure is Good

The weight of past mistakes has been weighing on me this past week.  Many, many moons ago, I had the notion I had to be perfect before anyone would love me.  In response to this misguided idea, a wise counselor had me write up a list of reasons why failure is good.

As I was brow-beating myself yesterday, the memory of the list came to mind, so I went and dug it up.  Reading it helped me to get past the past, and anchor myself again in today.  I rather like the list, (if I do say so myself), so thought I'd share:

30 Reasons Why Failure is Good

1. It gives you a reason to inspect the toes of your shoes.
2. It can teach you one, or several, of life's little lessons.
3. You know one more way not to do it.  a.k.a. 'experience'
4. You can be an example for other people's children.  i.e. "If you keep this up, you'll end up just like ____, who did it when she was young."
5. It shows you your limitations; you can't succeed at everything.
6. You learn that even big mistakes don't mean the end of the world.
7. You learn that the world doesn't revolve around you.
8. It makes other people feel smug, because they have a reason to say "I told you so".
9. You can rub it in the faces of those who jeered when you later succeed (and be smug yourself).
10. Sometimes, it proves that people will love you, even if you're wrong.
11. It stretches the mind; you have to think of new ways to accomplish your goals.
12. It teaches humility.
13. Sometimes, it helps you to re-order your life's priorities.
14. It teaches you to handle frustration and control your anger, if handled correctly.
15. It teaches you patience.
16. It gives you a chance to face disappointment without becoming bitter; to become mature.
17. The way you act when the chips are down will show you what you're made of.
18. You learn who your friends are.
19. You learn who your enemies are.
20. You know that at least you tried.
21. You learn what your fears are.
22. It brings you back to earth.
23. It opens doors you might otherwise have missed.
24. It changes your perspective; forces you to look at things from another angle.
25. It satisfies your curiosity; you know what happens if you do it 'this' way.
26. It can teach you compassion, for you, too, have walked a dead-end path.
27. You learn you can make it through places you never thought you could.
28. You learn not to let one mistake color your whole world.  To figure out what went wrong, don't do that again, and go on.
29. You learn you can't hide from your failures forever.  That eventually, you have to come up for air.
30. You learn that a failure in one minute doesn't mean you won't succeed in the next.