maryangelis posted: " The sunflower comes in later in this story. My 2009 Mac Mini is a good workhorse, forging along with never an instant of trouble. But it no longer supports updates in security software. That means I can't access most websites (nor is it wise to try). " consolationland
My 2009 Mac Mini is a good workhorse, forging along with never an instant of trouble. But it no longer supports updates in security software. That means I can't access most websites (nor is it wise to try). The tipping point came this past Christmas. A very dear couple signed me up for an expensive subscription of online Russian films -- but my computer couldn't handle the website. Clearly, the real world was letting me know that it was time to buy a new model, and retire the 2009 model (too old for trade-in) as a spare word processor.
I took two years to research and think about this important purchase, all the while constantly backing up my valiant little Mac to an external drive and flash drives. Two years may seem outlandish, but I did spend five years researching blenders and traveling to a home show live demo before purchasing my VitaMix (worth every penny), and five years researching the city where I live now (the perfect geographical move).
Besides, our friendly privately owned Mac Store had closed. That meant withstanding a shopping mall at a truly large computer store. I was worried that high-tech staff would be annoyed at sight of any older customer. They might brush me off with bad sales advice or some dishonest bait & switch purchase maneuver. This happened once at a cell phone store, and once at a department store. It even happened at a haircutting salon where on three visits the staff took other walk-in customers but were snappish and arrogant when I requested a haircut. (Some stylists do refuse to cut older hair, since it does not shape up well enough for interesting cuts). All of these companies have tanked and gone out of business. But I'm really only comfortable at retail establishments which also sell kale.
Hearing my misgivings, a very knowledgeable colleague checked the BH Photo website, and instantly found me a perfect Mac Mini. It was a factory outlet model available immediately for a good discount; he advised me to buy now. But I was hoping to buy from a store in person where I could then go back for repairs if need be.
The pandemic stopped that idea. But in 2022 the health restrictions eased up. Now the large Apple store at the mall was open for conversation and purchases. To steel up for this intimidating encounter, all year I read articles and listened to YouTube videos with independent researchers giving any pros and cons about the Mac Mini. I typed up notes, and compiled a summary of stats and modifications. Then three times I floated specification ideas past the kindly patient IT team at work. (Just the other day, familiar with my two year odyssey, one gently said "Mary? It's an Apple store. You're buying a Mac. Not a lot can go wrong.")
The next manageable task was to at least set foot inside the Apple store. It was completely crowded, a huge space full of giant screens and moving colors and lights. I made myself stand there long enough to just take in the ambience. Clearly, someone was paid a living wage to match the decor to the products and their packaging to enhance the brand experience. On that visit I also made myself sit down for a free class in art graphics taught by a truly wonderful instructor in a fabulous kilt and earrings. It was fun.
Most important, not one person there rolled their eyes or made any "OK Boomer" comments. ("Nor will they," said one IT professor at work. "These days they are hired for their personality, not their tech background." Upon entering and leaving I gave a warm greeting to the security guard at the door, thanking him for his presence. As I left he placed his palms together with a respectful bow.
Then I planned two more visits. One was to look at and ask and read about the Mac Mini and its documentation (which I already knew). On that second visit I listened carefully while one sales associate talked about the Mac Mini to another customer. I discovered in some surprise that the sales talk did not contain as much content or consumer advice as the research notes in my head. "Darn," I realized. "I could do this job!"
On Friday I prepared for the third visit. This time I reviewed my notes, then compiled and printed a talking-point script in large font, specifying exactly which modifications I would like for my model. I placed it in a clear page protector, and packed it with my notebook and two pens. I took my credit card with two forms of government-issue ID just in case they asked. I toned down the usual Amish-ish look by wearing nondescript black jeans and a denim tunic.
The plan was to arrive early, before the rush. But even though the store had been open only a few minutes, the place was packed. Sales staff were all engaged in at least one or more sales transactions at once, and were also flagging each other down for urgent questions. It looked like footage of a stock exchange. At times one or another would break away from the swarm, but they race walked to a break room and disappeared. I couldn't decipher the tugging threads of their focus and attention. I tried following one associate after another, but they were too fast and engaged for interruptions. At last I took the opposite tack. I stood 10 feet outside their break room, facing the floor. I made peace with the idea of standing there at ease all day, emanating serenity, waiting for whatever sales associate stopped long enough to offer help.
From an anthropological perspective, the crowd was like one molecule pulsing with synchronized excitement. Seen through that soft gaze, it was easy to pick out the calm understated energy of the leader. He was a taller-than-average earnest young man, not busy helping customers but smoothly navigating the crowd and monitoring all quadrants of the space, orchestrating his staff with eye contact or minimal gestures and nods or a quiet word or two. It seemed that any casino would be pleased to hire someone with his thoughtful coordination and situational awareness. In less than two minutes he spotted me across the showroom, and signaled the question "Are you being helped?" I smiled and opened my hands in a shrug. He headed right through the crowd to me. I let him know that I was there to purchase a computer, and invited him to choose whichever sales associate he thought might have a minute to spare. "Nigel, for 30 minutes," he responded instantly, with a single glance at a small screen in his hand. The screen showed pulsing moving squares in bright colors. It seemed to show all the sales associates, their activity type, and when they were due for their mandated break. "Nigel is our Mac Mini expert." He beckoned Nigel, who jetted right over. Nigel gave me a cordial greeting, explained that he was finishing a transaction, but invited me to meet him at the Mac Mini counter.
There Nigel opened a screen of Mac Mini specifications, checking through them with me and my script to confirm exactly what I wanted. "You're solid on this," he said. "You've done your research." He entered my data and checked it over with me, arranged for in-store pickup on August 5, and we hit Send. "You will receive email confirmation in about two minutes," he let me know. "Then an email when it ships, and an email when it arrives. Scan the QR code, and bring it with you." I explained that I had never used a QR code. With perfect respect he explained about QR codes, how my code would confirm my identity when I arrived for my pickup. I did not understand the explanation, though QR codes have littered my visual field like gnats for years now. (The other day there was even a QR code on a poster at work for an ice cream social; just scan the code to RSVP!) "Well, may I print the email with the QR code, and bring the printout?" I asked. "Absolutely," he assured me. My two year purchase took less than five minutes.
In other news, the garden is at full uproar now, all of it blooming everywhere. Here is a bunch of turnip greens, posing in the sweet potato hatchery on the balcony. The turnip was so tough that I chopped and juiced it with the greens, drank the juice, and put the pureed turnip pulp back on the garden. Some of the leaf pulp went into a tofu stir fry for breakfast.
Sweet-potato slips in jars of water, and turnip greens
At last there is one sunflower (see above). That's from dozens of sunflower seeds sprouted in batches since March and potted on the balcony and transplanted, then dug up and eaten by sparrows and squirrels. This flower too would have joined its fellows if not for The Wing Family. They must have noticed my sunflower attrition rate, and saved their garlic papers peeled from the cloves. They blended the papers to activate the garlic smell. They packed this garlic mixture around the sunflower as a squirrel repellent. Then they supported the stem and flower using a stake and a twisty tie. Captain Wing's secret vegetarian fertilizer elixir, applied liberally to their plot, has resulted in a bumper crop of tall sunchokes and beautiful flowers -- gladiolas, nasturtiums, zinnias, and calendula. He also waters everyone's patch twice a day, once at dawn and once late at night, and removes the slugs while he is at it.
Then this week at the farm stand there was some nice rhubarb. I bought extra and chopped it into 2 inch lengths. Then I added just enough water to cover the bottom of my stewing pot, stewed the rhubarb in its own juice, and packed it plain in jars so the neighbors could add their choice of sweetener. (Rhubarb needs to cook plain, not sweetened. I do sweeten mine after with stewed raisin syrup and grated apples, but learned to use sweetener only after cooking. Otherwise raisin sugar will scorch out the pot.) There are no aluminum pots in my kitchen, but even if there were I wouldn't use them for rhubarb because of the acid content. A Pyrex or glass or ceramic pot would be better. The leaves are poisonous, so they don't belong in the house at all. Nowadays, most grocers know to remove and discard the leaves before setting out the rhubarb. (In the past some grocers didn't know, so I would go suggest nicely that they either trim the leaves or loan me a box cutter. The reason is that rhubarb leaves look like Ruby Chard, and people might buy one thinking that they bought the other.) This week a colleague in our department offered me a freezer load of pitted sweet cherries from their backyard tree. So we met for a fruit exchange, cherries for rhubarb. I threw in a sweet potato plant in a little pot for her kiddos to raise outside.
One jar of rhubarb went to the Wings, one to the Rabbit Moon family, one to another family of gardeners who then offered me one of their extra raised beds for my sweet potatoes, and one for a lovely family who also speak Korean. At their doorstep I emphasized that the rhubarb needs sugar, and labeled the jar with a little sign with Hangul Alphabet letters copied from Google Translate. Here is hoping that any penmanship errors did not form the shape of an inadvertent insult or joke:
대황
Daehwang -- Rhubarb. Add SUGAR!
That left a dish of rhubarb for me. It was good with a bit of stevia and a little coconut cream, and almond meal on top.
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