CURRENT PROBLEMS

 I’m a competitive person. For example, I obsess about how my lawn looks in comparison to others on my block. I noticed some bare spots recently, so I addressed the issue with a trip to a local nursery. Then at the Memorial Day get-together last week, people were discussing Joe’s yard, which was suffering from the same problem. I thought, there, but for the grace of sod, go I.  (That was a long way to travel for a joke, wasn’t it?)

Now I have a new challenge to deal with. It began with a letter from Indianapolis Power and Light, a single page that has reawakened my latent paranoid tendencies.

The envelope seemed innocent enough. It looked like my monthly electric bill.  But the contents were far more ominous.  The page was filled with charts and graphs and the info was labeled:

                         LAST THREE MONTHS NEIGHBOR COMPARISON

My heart jumped and my pulse raced as I scanned the enclosed printout only to learn that I was consuming more energy than those identified by IPL as “Your Most Efficient Neighbors.”  I felt so exposed that I pulled the curtains down and then turned off the eleven lights, three TVs and two computers I had left on the night before. By the way, if they want me to save so much energy, they should email me the information so I don’t have to walk to my mailbox.

To really rub it in, IPL informed me that I used 40 percent more electricity than my most efficient neighbor. Who was this person? Which house did he live in? It didn’t say. Was he hiding in the shadows? It’s hard to find a shadow when you never have any lights on.

I asked my neighbor Mort if he received the same kind of letter. Mort is a nice guy, but he always leaves his garage door open, which I think detracts from the ambience of the neighborhood. I thought he was just forgetful, but apparently this is part of his grand plan to be recognized by IPL as a “conservation superstar.”

“Every kilowatt counts,” Mort told me while we were standing in his driveway. “If I never close that overhead door, I can save $1.49 a year.”  Then he asked what I was doing to conserve resources in my home. I was tired of the conversation so I told him I only shower once a month. Mort walked back into the garage…and down came the door.

The idea that someone is monitoring what goes on in and around my home is creepy. Whenever I look outside, strange people are reading my meters, putting colored lines on my neighbors’ lawns, installing invisible fences, looking through tiny telescopes mounted on tripods, and stuffing propaganda in my mailbox.  Sure, call them coupons if you want, but see those two little dots in the word Meijer? That must be a secret code for something.

Despite this, I really am going to try to do my part in this conservation initiative. Beginning now, I am going to charge my iPad in the car, disconnect my clock radio when I am not home, and make toast only when absolutely necessary. The competition is rigorous to be Number One in the IPL program, but I don’t plan on using up much energy.

ICY RELATIONSHIPS

According to the Associated Press, the biggest issue men have when hooking up with women in Iceland is not that the ladies are frigid. The men can be a little frosty themselves—but temperature is relative. The problem is that the person they meet at the Moose Antler Pub could actually be a relative.  

Here’s why: Iceland is the home of only about 320,000 people with a lineage that has been documented over the past 1,000 years. Generally, people don’t move away from Iceland. (Why would they? And give up the best reindeer barbeque in the world?) And not a lot of people summer in Iceland, largely because summer lasts about four hours. As a result, swinging singles often end up together not realizing that some of their ancestors were once actually swinging from the same family tree. Most Icelanders hail from a group of ninth-century Viking settlers whose descendants are still on the island, except those who went to Hollywood to make Capital One commercials.  

Things had gotten so bad recently that wedding planners and family reunion organizers were competing for the same guests. Web dating services in Iceland were trying hard to match people who engage in sports, love hunting, enjoy moonlight walks, and whenever possible, have different great-grandparents.

Recently, software engineers produced a smart phone that features a “bump” function. Potential lovers tap phones together to see how closely they are related. If it’s too close a match, an “incest alarm” will sound. In Iceland there are only two hours of darkness each day from May through August, so if you enjoy things that go bump in the night, there are times you haven’t got much time to finish your drink.

So far the incest app is drawing rave reviews, with a 4.5 out of 5 rating on the Google Play store. This puts it a little behind the video game Grand Theft Auto, although stealing a car and kissing your cousin both carry similar jail terms. One user who commented on the creator’s website regretted that it wasn’t released a little earlier: “If I had this app last year,” he wrote, “I probably wouldn’t have gone home with a relative.” The operative word is “probably,” because pickins for eligible women are slim in Reykjavik and my guess is that if this gal shared a love of ice fishing and miniature golf, well the heck with her DNA.

Creators of the website have been unhappy with the publicity. They claim that the main intention of the application is actually to give information about the rich genealogical history of the country and also to provide information to customers about relatives’ birthdays and anniversaries. But news of an application alerting you that it is Uncle Olafur’s 50^th just doesn’t have the same chance of going viral as one that tells you who to shack up with. One of the developers of the app, Arnar Freyr Adalsteinsson, says he seldom even uses the bumping feature.  “I just use common sense,” says Arnar. “Even if the girl is hot, if her name is Gloria Freyr Adalsteinsson, I am going to be a little wary.

The manufacturer notes that the application is not for iPhones; it’s only for Androids. I’m no expert on human sexuality, but if you’re an android, it’s probably safe to go home with anybody you want.

LOST CALLS

LOST CALLS

For the longest time, I had a label on my cell phone displaying the devices mobile number so if I lost it, the person who found it could call me. I realized how incredibly dumb this was when I left it at Ace Hardware one day and when I finally went back and found it, I had 24 messages from people who wanted me to know that it was “right here” in Lawn and Garden by the Azaleas.

The other day, I went out to do a few errands and realized that I had forgotten my phone, but when I returned home, I couldn’t find it. I called it, of course, but that required dialing the number from my landline and then racing from room to room to hear the ring. I’m most proud of my sprint (no pun intended, there) from my third floor office to the basement in less than 4.6 seconds.  But I heard nothing. Where was my cell phone?

First I called Kroger and talked to the manager at the service desk. “Where might you have left it, Sir?”

“I started out really health conscious so it could be between the asparagus and the broccoli, but then I got the munchies so I could have left it in the potato chip aisle.  It’s not in the meat department. I’m trying to cut down on beef and pork because…

“Sir, this is Brad, the Kroger manager, not Dr. Oz. I’ll call you on your home phone if I find it.”

Then I remembered that I had stopped to pick up some prescription dog food.  “Yes, good morning, I was at your clinic earlier and wondered if you found a Nokia there?”

“I know there is a Shih Tzu in the back that really needs a home.  I don’t think we have any Nokias, but this is my first day working here.”

When I purchased my phone, I signed up for an extra feature, a way to track the location of your cell phone using a kind of GPS system. I logged into the website.

A map popped up and suddenly this little green dot started floating around a five-mile area where I had indicated I had spent the previous few hours. The dot continued to circle, searching for my lost phone.  It passed over a street whose name I recognized, then moved to another location that also sounded familiar.  Suddenly, it landed on the street where I live. Oh my, it was like that horror movie with Jodi Foster.  IT’S IN MY HOUSE, IT’S IN MY HOUSE.

My eyes widened. The adrenalin was pumping. How did it get back in my home? Where was it hiding?  Calling it was of no use because I had turned off the ringer the night before.  I looked everywhere that I had ever lost my cell phone in the past: the bottom of the dog food container, the freezer, my briefcase, my wife’s pink nighgown. Please don’t ask me to explain that, it’s not what you think.

I called the 800 customer service number and was told that the phone, even if it was turned off, could play a tune that would help me locate it. “Do you have a favorite song, Sir?”  I told him that I did. Suddenly, “Dancing on the Ceiling” was coming from the hall bathroom.

I’m still confused how my cell phone ended up in my medicine cabinet. Not to mention Lionel Richie.