Yesterday afternoon Cowgrit asked if I could run by her mom’s house after work to help her with a “phone thing.”

“Phone thing?” I said. She couldn’t elaborate, as she didn’t know what it was. Oh boy. I’m not a phone tech; I’m not even a decent computer tech. What in the world are they expecting me to do?

So, after leaving my office, I ran by the mom-in-law’s house to see about this “phone thing.” She took me upstairs to her computer and showed me the box. What the heck is an “Ooma”? MIL opened the box and took out the components, saying, “Here’s all the cables and everything. Here’s the instruction manual. Thank you very much for setting this up for me.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “I’ll, ah, figure it out.”

I picked up the components and looked at them. What the hell is this? I thought. It’s a VoIP device? I only have a vague, general idea of what voice over IP even means, and they expect me to set this up?

Well, I read the box and the start up instructions. Fortunately, the set up seemed simple enough. Plug the Ooma box into the modem and the router and the telephone and the wall jack and the power outlet — five cables running hither and yon, snaking through all the other cables running around behind the computer desk. (It’s like a bowl of spaghetti back there.) Activate the system online, wait for the machine to boot up and download software.

[Note: The Ooma web site had a “Beta” label on nearly everything. Just great. Not only do I not know what I’m doing for someone who doesn’t know what I’m doing, the company is still in its beta stage.]

It took me about 30 minutes to read the instructions and get everything all connected and booted up. After all the lights were on, and everything looked to be hooked up correctly, I tried the phone line. Dialing out worked fine. But when I called the number from my cell, the phone didn’t ring. Well, crap.

I checked the instruction manual for troubleshooting tips — no solution. I went to the Ooma support FAQ — no solution. I went to the Ooma discussion forums — no solution. Then I called the Ooma tech support line, (with my cell phone).

I explained my problem to the tech, and she had me double check all the cable connections. I had everything properly installed. She did something on her end and managed to get the phone to ring. Yay! This all took about 20 minutes. I thanked the tech, the tech thanked me, and I hung up.

Just to confirm, I tried calling the line from my cell phone again. No ring. Dammit!

So I called the tech support back, but got a different person. I explained my problem, and this second tech had me double check all the cable connections again. I know they have to go through all the basic troubleshooting first, just to make sure, so even though I had told this guy that I had just talked with another tech who seemed to have solved the problem, I didn’t complain about doing the basic double checks again.

This time, though, this tech couldn’t get the phone to ring. My MIL had wanted to port her old phone number to this new device, so in the initial set up, (an hour ago), I had completed the fields online to start that transaction. But for some reason, that wasn’t going through yet. The tech seemed to decide that was the problem with dialing into the number. So he said he would give us a new temporary number to use until the original number got ported; it would take 3 to 4 weeks for the port to go through.

I asked how it was that I could dial out on that phone if the number was the problem? I mean, that seemed weird to me that dialing out would work but receiving a call wouldn’t.

“You will be able to dial any number you normally could with this new temp number,” the tech explained.

“Yeah,” I said, “I understand. I mean how is it that the old number could dial out but not receive in?”

“This new number will receive in, too,” the tech said. “It will work just like your regular number, but it’s just temporary until your old number ports over.”

“Right,” I said, “I got that. I’m asking about the old number. If the porting over is the problem, why could I dial out on the old number?”

The tech seemed to get a little frustrated with me at this point, as if he was dealing with someone who just wasn’t listening to him. He was still polite, but I could tell in his voice, when he explained, again, that the new number will dial out and receive in just like the old number, and we’ll get the old number back in a few weeks.

“Yeah,” I said, “I’m not talking about the new number, I mean the old. . . nevermind.” Sigh. “Okay, just give me the new number.”

He tried the new, temporary, number and the phone line worked properly.

He gave me the new number, and explained that I now needed to go to their web site and finish the registration to have the old number ported over. He stayed with me while I found the page on their site for the registration. I thanked him, he thanked me, and we hung up. That call was over 30 minutes long.

I filled out all the registration information — which was quite a bit more work that I expected — and then clicked “Submit.”

I got an error page, saying, “We’re sorry, there was a problem processing the page.”

Oh you have got to be friggin’ kidding me!

The only option was to click Back and try again. But when I went back to the previous page, there was nothing of all the information I had just entered. Had the submit gone through? Or had the whole thing gotten lost?

I called the tech support line a third time. I explained the new situation to the tech, and she asked me if I had called about this previously. Seems she saw that I had just called twice before in the past hour. I explained that the previous calls were for a different issue, and that was resolved.

So with another 10 minutes on the phone, I confirmed that the porting submission had gone through properly. Thank god! I thanked the tech, the tech thanked me and we hung up.

All in all, I was working on that thing for over two hours. “Quick Start” and “Simple Installation” my ass.

My dream is to one day set up some piece of “plug-and-play” technology in less than 10 minutes. I want shit to just freakin’ work when I plug it in.

Bullgrit

I’ve been curious to experience a professional body message for a long time, but I just never actually got around to setting up an appointment. I’ve been getting scalp massages from my hair stylist — that’s a weird term for a good ol’ boy to use, but women don’t like to be called “barbers” — for a couple years, and they’re wonderful. Head massages are so gloriously relaxing and stress relieving. I could just imagine what a full-body massage would feel like.

I have to admit that part of my failure to call a place and make an appointment has been based on simply not knowing exactly what to expect. I mean, a scalp massage while sitting in a barber’s chair isn’t really mysterious; you’re sitting there, the stylist is running her fingers through your hair while cutting and washing already. But a body massage: Do I have to get naked? Who’ll be rubbing my body? Where will they run their hands? Would it be a man or a woman? Is it homophobic to not want a male masseuse? Is it suggestive to want a female one?

But, at last, as a sort-of Christmas gift to myself, I decided to finally take the leap onto a massage table. There’s a reputable chain location near our home, and fortunately for my nerves and hesitation, it turns out that they have a good web site that pretty much spells out exactly what a massage session entails. I read the introduction and emailed an appointment request.

Filling out the online form, I chose to try the Swedish massage, as that seems to be the standard, (or maybe just the stereotypical), routine. A female masseuse was the default option, and I accepted it.

The appointment would be for an hour: 5 minutes before and after, and 50 minutes of actual massage time. Fifty minutes of massage, that sounded pretty darn sweet.

I arrived at the shop, (. . . store . . . what is kind of establishment called?), and checked in. The receptionist sat me back in the “relaxation room” — it’s got soft, comfy couches and chairs, and is quiet other than the soft murmur of a small water fountain.

I had to fill out a form, and the questions were “interesting.”  Most of the questions were the standard name, address, any medical conditions your massage therapist needs to know about, etc. But then there were the:

Are you comfortable with having your head massaged?

Are you comfortable with having your pectoral region massaged?

Are you comfortable with having your gluteal region massaged?

And so on, including arms and legs.

My head massaged, sure, no problem. Arms and legs, probably okay. My chest, hmm, maybe okay. I’m a married man, so having a woman who’s not my wife rub my chest . . . I had to think the concept over for a few seconds. I was there to get a massage, which in my mind means, “back rub,” so I was already accepting the idea of a stranger woman rubbing me down. And really, how big a difference is letting someone rub my chest than rub my back? I got over the mental speedbump and checked yes to the chest rub.

But “gluteal region”? My butt? Yeah, that’s a no, thank you.

The very first section of the form explained that there would be no touching of the genitals, so that question wasn’t an issue. Yeah, even I, as clueless as I am with most pop culture slang, have heard of the “happy ending.” I specifically chose a reputable chain business to avoid that whole quagmire. I’m “happy” at home just fine, thank you very much.

I turned the form in with the receptionist and then just waited a few minutes for my massage therapist to come get me. I gave some thought to what kind of masseuse I wanted. I knew beforehand that I wanted a female, not a male, no matter how phobic that makes me sound. But also I’d come to decide that I would like a middle-aged woman, slightly less than physically well fit. I definitely did not want a young fitness trainer-type.

My reasoning was: I wanted someone who probably wouldn’t look on me as a disgusting old man. A middle-aged woman would probably consider me “neutral” in age (by comparison), and one not in great personal physical shape might appreciate, (in a professional knowledge way), that I have been working out. A young fitness trainer-type girl might consider me a pathetic geezer who’s trying to fight off mother nature’s wrath.

Don’t judge me.

When my masseuse came and introduced herself, she was a young twenty-something, but not a fitness trainer-type. She took me back to the room and explained exactly what and how she was going to do. When I had no questions, she stepped out of the room and let me disrobe. I kept my black briefs on, but as I had a blanket covering all of me except the part of my body she was working on, I never really had any modesty issues.

Fifty minutes of massage is very nice. It’s very relaxing, and I did enjoy the treatment. But it wasn’t exactly what I expected. I expected more massage of my back and shoulders, in a broad way. She did work my back and shoulders, but it was more focused in small areas, a few square inches at a time. It was like a doctor’s examination where the doc is trying to feel for inflammation of internal organs. I think she counted the ribs in my back; there was no chest massaging.

All in all, the experience was pleasant, but a little disappointing. The focusing on small areas rather than broad wasn’t what I expected and wanted, but it wasn’t bad. Still, fifty minutes of even focused massage is nice. I left relaxed, no doubt.

Will I make another appointment? I don’t know.

Bullgrit

I got this in the mail last week:

You have got to be kidding me. I’m definitely not a candidate for a scooter. I’m middle-aged and in the best fitness of my life. What kind of list am I on to get this kind of mailing?

But, out of curiosity, instead of just chucking the thing in the trash can, I decided to open it and see this “Personal Mobility Assessment.”

Well, let’s see:

1. Do you sometimes feel left out by not being able to get together with family and friends?

Nope. I can pretty much get together with anyone at any time. And when I don’t get together with them, I gotta admit, I kind of enjoy the peace and quiet.

2. Do you have health-related issues that limit your mobility?

Nope, again. I’m about as mobile as a person can get. But I gotta say, cruising along in one of those chairs does look like it could be fun.

3. Are you having trouble getting to your kitchen or dining facility by yourself for a meal?

Oh God, yes. Every time I try to get to the kitchen by myself, there are a couple of perpetually hungry boys hanging out in there wanting me to make them something. (Usually a pizza.)

4. Is it difficult for you to get to the bathroom on your own?

Oh yes, again. Every time I go into the bathroom on my own, even for just a minute to pee, some little boy comes looking for me. “Daddy, are you gonna make that pizza?”

5. Are you unable to easily access your clothes and dress yourself each day?

That’s easy. My clothes are usually in the basket beside my bed, all clean from when Cowgrit washed them, four days ago. (Why hang up or fold and put away clothes? They’ll just be dirty and in the hamper again in a few days.)

6. Have you lost the ability to operate a manual wheelchair inside your home?

Hmm. Lost the ability? I’ve never tried it. Using a wheelchair requires sitting down, and those two young boys I mentioned earlier don’t really give a daddy any time for sitting down. “Dad, when will the pizza be ready?”

7. Are you feeling like a bother to others due to limited mobility?

No. But I am feeling bothered by others due to limited time for immobility. “Dad, the oven’s beeping. Does that mean our pizza is cooked?”

8. Have you fallen in the past 12 months?

Oh! Yes I have. I slipped on a pile of Pokemon cards and fell on the hardwood floor in our kitchen. I had to lay still for a minute to do a mental checklist of still functional body parts. “Daddy, I looked in the oven window, and I think our pizza is starting to burn. If it burns, I want chicken nuggets instead.”

Bullgrit

We got a Wii for Christmas last year (’09). I’ve mentioned before how I’m not real impressed with the Wii system, and that explains why I never mentioned getting the thing. As far as I’m concerned it’s pretty much just a toy for the boys.

Oh, we play some games as a family, occasionally. Tennis, bowling, tanks. But I find it really boring. It’s basically just 1980’s Atari games with better graphics, (and on a bigger TV).

But we recently got Just Dance 2 for the system — obviously not my choice. I was directed to read the instructions and figure out how to play the game because, well, I really don’t know why. It’s a video game, so I’m the default go to guy in my family. Anyway, I put in the game disk, and fiddled through the various options and songs.

The game has over 40 songs, so that’s decent. I like most of the songs, and the dance moves look easy enough for most folks to duplicate. To play, you mimic the moves of the stylized dancer on the screen. But, as seems on par for the Wii, the moves to play the game are easy to fake.

When playing Wii Bowling, I’ve been chastised for just staying in my seat and flicking my wrist to “play the game.” Well, Calfgrit10 found “dancing” with Just Dance 2 to be equally as easy. He sat on the sofa during one song and just bounced the wiimote on the cushions in time to the song beat, and he did alright. He kept scoring “OK,” OK,” “OK,” to all the moves without ever actually doing a single actual dance move. That’s pretty damn pathetic game play.

Calfgrit6 likes to get up and try some of the dances, especially with his mother. But me and Calfgrit10, we’re not so interested. Calfgrit10 is a bit self conscious about any kind of performance in front of people, and I just don’t care for choreographed dancing.

And something that the boys get hung up on is doing “girl dances.” Most of the songs have just one dancer, (no choice), you’re supposed to emulate, and if that dancer is female, then to them it’s “a girl dance.” Why didn’t the game makers make male and female versions of the dances? I mean, really, that seems like it would have been a no-brainer to include. Some of the dances do look very feminine, and I can’t imagine guys in a Wii-party situation wanting to dance like that.

Well, there are probably some guys who would be comfortable throwing their arms up and shaking their hips to the beat with “It’s Raining Men” or “It’s In His Kiss”. But they don’t seem to be in the Grit family.

The only dancer in the game I’m the least bit interested in mimicking is the sombrero-wearing bandito who dances like riding a horse and shooting pistols. To the song, “Viva Las Vegas,” that’s awesome.

Bullgrit