Life with DeeBot

Ronnie and I don’t have a smart house nor do we want one. It turns out that little DeeBot is more than we can manage. And, she isn’t even connected to the internet or our phones.  Just a little motorized vacuum that has a mind of its own. 

I got DeeBot for my birthday a year ago. I wanted to have a cleaner house without vacuuming every other day. We have a large long haired dog and small long haired cat.  Both of them go freely inside and out bringing in all sorts of dirtish crap.  I set DeeBot on the floor, press go, and she’s off cleaning and dusting the floor with her vacuum, roller, and little arms awhirling. 

It works for me to have her clean while I do other things.  She does not go down the stairs except for that one time I confused her.  Bump, flip, bump, flip, bump, quiet.  I rescued her and determined she did not have a concussion or traumatic brain injury.  There are a couple places in the house where she stops because she’s confused.  I have to pick up or tuck under rugs with fringes because she can’t tell those fringes are off limits.

The cat, Scarlett, hates vacuums but thinks nothing of DeeBot.  The dog, Sheba, doesn’t mind vacuums but is pretty unnerved by DeeBot running around loose possibly in search of Sheba’s tail.  I block off the bedroom so Sheba can escape.  DeeBot doesn’t do well in the bedroom anyway because we have stuff under the bed that acts like a DeeBot trap.

I run DeeBot when I’m home.  She has a clock and the option to set a schedule but I prefer to be in charge.  I’ve also heard entertaining stories about sibling DeeBots coming up on cat barf or dog accidents and happily spreading them around the house.  

With a remote, she acts like a little remote car.  If we’d had a DeeBot when I was a kid, I’d have been in hog heaven.  Remotes were a big thing then.  Now, we take these remote things for granted.

Watching DeeBot is looking into a computerized mind.  On her basic setting, DeeBot appears to aimlessly cross the floor Willy-nilly in the hopes that if she crosses it enough the whole floor will get clean.  I took a picture of her doing the carpet.  Her process looks like this:

Basic computers do actions without reference to conserving energy or brain power.  Their actions are by “brute force.”  This means that a computer looks for a word by going through the entire dictionary until it finds the word.  Because this looking through the entire dictionary is so fast, humans don’t have to notice what looks to us like the long way around.  DeeBot uses the same method to clean the house.  Going over and over it at odd angles with the idea that eventually it will all get clean.  Humans have a different approach and the computer way can be confounding to us even though it still works.

DeeBot does have a couple settings for going around the edge of the room, turning circles over the same spot, or going back and forth in more or less of a straight line.  She is not connected to the internet so she doesn’t get smarter and smarter about how my house is designed.  I’m more than okay with that.  I have no idea what kind of trouble might find her if she links up with those mobster internet computers.

Ronnie and I both appreciate the house being cleaner.  Ronnie was uncertain about getting DeeBot.  I used the old get-it-for-my-birthday trick.  Ronnie now appreciates DeeBot.  Though, it’s hard for her not to talk to her.  “Hi, DeeBot.”  “Excuse me, DeeBot.”  

I do have to spend five minutes emptying her collection box and cleaning her rollers of accumulated animal hair.  But overall, it is much easier for me than the 20 minutes spent vacuuming.  I can eat or read a book while she does the vacuuming.

A few months ago, DeeBot got it into her head that she should start cleaning every night at 11.  I said, “No, DeeBot.”  But, she didn’t listen.  I broke out the instruction manual which is exceptionally poorly written to determine what was causing her to think this.  It appeared she needed a reboot.  I turned her off.  I pulled out her battery for half an hour.  I inspected her remote for unwanted settings and pulled its battery.  She still woke up at 11 at night and started cleaning.

I emailed the DeeBot company.  A formulated computerized response confirmed the rebooting procedures.  I went through all the above again.  When she still woke herself up, I emailed them again.  We went through all the procedures again from the DeeBot land canned responses.  “No worries. Let me assist you further... If you wish to proceed, kindly provide us with the requested info below to proceed.  Let us know if you have any concern.” 

Finally, I told them that it wasn’t working.  I had to shut off DeeBot when she recharged so she wouldn’t start cleaning.  With all this rebooting, she now just sung out at a new time with a “Beep!  You all remember I’m here, right?  And that I can’t clean because you shut me off?”  This leads me to wonder exactly what shutting off means if she can still call out.

The DeeBot company told me I can send her in for repair but that they couldn’t send me a new DeeBot while they did the repair.  “Does this mean I would have to go without my DeeBot while you replace it?  If that’s the case, please never mind.  I can live with this bit of weirdness.  Please confirm.”  For all I know, the new DeeBot might have a worse problem.

Now during dinner every night at 7, DeeBot says, “Beep.  Remember me?”  

Ronnie, being a courteous human, says every night, “Hi, DeeBot.”  We humans see things in personal terms.  I’m pretty sure that is how computers are going to get us.

Currently, I have injured both my shoulders and am awaiting surgery.  With the inability to reach or push, I am unable to vacuum at all.  The good thing is that DeeBot doesn’t need my shoulders to clean the house.  I turn her on and set her loose.  If not for DeeBot, it wouldn’t be pretty at my house.  Dirt and animal hair would rule and we’d just have to throw down grass seed to deal.

“Thanks, DeeBot, but don’t get any autonomous ideas.  I still know where your on off switch is. You can’t live on battery power forever, little missy.  I’m still in charge!”

L’Chaim.

Joceile

1.4.20

[Picture of tan carpeted floor with crisscrossing lines on it.]

Hamilton!

Hamilton, the Broadway musical.  We’ve been waiting to see it for two years.  Our daughter saw it in New York its first summer.  We were in New York in May 2016 but couldn’t get tickets.  The three of us, my partner, my daughter, and I, have been enjoying the sound track since it came out.  I was thrilled by the interracial cast fighting the need to pigeon hole actors by race and gender.  An Asian man can play Washington.  An African American man can play Hamilton.   Women of any race can play female or male characters.

When we learned it was coming to Portland, my daughter, Alex, who lives in Portland, said she would go on-line at the appointed hour and see if she could get tickets.  She was successful last fall and scored four tickets for the April show for wheelchair seating as I require a wheelchair for distances of more than a block.  We were all set to go.

Last year, I stopped being able to push my wheelchair to get around when I needed it.  I didn’t want to get an electric scooter any more than I wanted a wheelchair all those years ago.  Over the last year, not having some kind of wheeled conveyance became more and more problematic.  

After making a exhaustive internet search and visiting a couple of local medical equipment places, I had made my choice of a light weight, foldable electric scooter.  There weren’t any available locally.  I had to buy it without actually seeing it with 14 days to return it.  It came last month, and it was a revelation.

Suddenly, I could walk with my partner, Ronnie, and my dog on our neighborhood streets again.  I could go into a mall.  I could get into work without asking a coworker to come meet me in the parking garage and push me in.  It is not better than walking.  It is a whole lot better than sitting.

We took it to the ocean.  I rode it on the hard packed sand.  I took it in the grocery store.  I took it in the pub for dinner.  When Hamilton came this week, I took it to Hamilton.

I am 5’10” when standing.  I am used to a long life of being able to see over folks’ heads in crowds.  If you have never sat in a wheelchair or scooter in a crowd, one of the worst aspects is being low, low down.  I can’t see out of the crowd.  I have to pick a direction and gradually part the sea of humanity.

People react in a variety of ways.  Some people are startled and jump a little when they see me.  Some people say, “Excuse me,” when they are not actually in my way.  Some people are gracious and make a way for me to pass often with a smile.  I did not see any other wheelchair or scooter users.  As far as I could tell, I was the only one.

The thing about being the only one is that I stick out.  There is comfort in being just an anonymous member of a crowd.  In a scooter, everyone who crosses my path notices me.  I have to be brave and courageous reminding myself it is okay.  “It is okay,” over and over again.  “I am doing what I have to do to be here.  It is okay.”

Recently, I was walking the dog with Ronnie.  I asked her, “How do you feel when we walk together this way in public with me on the scooter?”

She paused and said, “I hate it.”  I nodded.  “Not that you are using a scooter, but that you have too.”

“Me too,” I said.

“Don’t get me wrong.  I am grateful that you have it.  I just wish it wasn’t necessary.”

“Me too,” I said.  That is the truth of the thing.  I am really grateful that I have a scooter to get around with.  It was awful to only be able to go only where cars could go.  Still, I hate it just like Ronnie does.

When we are motoring from the parking place to the theater, I’m zipping along the sidewalk.  Sometimes, I’m behind Ronnie and Alex.  Occasionally, I’m in front.  I didn’t want them to drop me off at the theater.  I wanted to walk with them from the parked car to the theater like a “normal” person.

Anytime I go somewhere on the scooter I have to make sure I locate the ramps.  It simply would not do for me to go careening down the stairs.  The ramps can be a bit out of the way.  I know something about this from using the wheelchair.  I successfully negotiated the entrance ramp to the theater.

The staff at the theater were all very knowledgable.  They led us to the wheelchair seating.  It was perfect.  We were in the back on the orchestra floor where the chairs could be moved.  This way a person could choose to sit in their wheeled conveyance or use a chair.  The three of us went with another friend Alex invited because she had four tickets.  Being in the back with movable chairs also meant I could stand, stretch, and move around without bothering any other patrons.

Hamilton was two hours and 48 minutes long with a 20 minute intermission.  The information provided before the performance recommended going to the restroom prior to the show because the restroom lines were quite long during intermission.  I went to the restroom at the restaurant at dinner earlier and hoped for the best.

The show was delayed by 30 minutes due to technical difficulties.  We were so excited.  When the show started, it was riveting.  My eyes were glued to the stage.  I have a lot of trouble sitting still due to pain.  I did not sit still but my eyes did not leave the stage.  I didn’t want to miss a single moment of the show.  I didn’t even steal a glance at Ronnie to see her face which I knew was in rapture, because I didn’t want to miss even a second.

When intermission came, there was discussion about making a run for the restroom.  I thought I had to go but the situation with the scooter was daunting.  I can’t stand in a line.  I have to use the scooter.  My daughter pointed me in the direction of the accessible restroom for one near the elevators.  Although there were other multi-stall restrooms, there was a significant line to the accessible one.  

I motored up to the elevator and asked the attendant about restrooms on other floors.  He pointed to the accessible restroom with the line.  He said, “You have priority for that restroom.”

“I know.  I don’t feel comfortable with that.”

I motored in the direction of the back of the line.  The woman in the front of the line kindly said, “You can go ahead of me.”

I responded with embarrassment, “No, that’s okay.”  I went to the back of the line and pondered the fact that I would never get to the restroom before the show started.

As I was pondering, another usher saw me and came up to me saying, “You have priority and can go to the head of the line.”

“I don’t feel comfortable doing that.”

She just said, “Follow me,” and started to the head of the line.  At this point, I felt compelled to follow her because I didn’t see any other way out of this mess.  As she went, she told those in line the bigger restroom lines now had shorter lines.  I got to the head of the line, apologized to the woman at the head of the line, and waited for the occupant to come out.  They came out quickly, and I scooted in.

Now, I was confronted with a whole new problem.  I have urinary hesitancy which means simply I don’t pee easily even when there is plenty of time.  I am aware of all those people in line.  I sit and try to relax.  I hear words over the loud speaker about how much time is left.  But, I have no clue exactly what was said.  This is why I prefer multi-stall restrooms.  I can hang out there and no one is specifically waiting for me other than my family.

I can’t relax.  I can’t pee.  It seems like a very sad confluence of events.  I don’t try very long because I am aware of the futility.  People are waiting.  The show must go on.  I get up, quickly redress, and motor on out of there.  The line is suddenly very much shorter.  I go back to my family and confess that I couldn’t pee.  I say, “I just wanted my shot” which is a not so subtle reference to one of the great songs in the musical.  “I’ll have to go before we leave.”

We sit through another glorious 80 minutes.  Since I had an opportunity to pee, I am now comfortable in that regard.  Towards the end of the show, there is a sad part.  I hear Ronnie sniffling and maybe also Alex crying.  Tears are running down my face but I do not look away or at either of them.  I am not missing a single second of the greatest musical I have ever seen.  

Ronnie told me later that she reached out to take Alex’s hand and then my hand.  She was aware we were all holding hands together, crying, and not looking away from the stage.

When it is over, I realize that I still can’t pee.  So, we gather our things and leave with the throngs.  I am zipping around.  We go up a hill.  The scooter stalls a little because it is wet and it is front wheel drive.  This means I lean over the front wheel to get traction, and I’m off.  

I am still aware that I both love and hate the scooter.  We get to the parking lot, and I zip ahead to the car.  This is one thing the scooter can do.  It can just go which is wonderful and freeing.  On the way back to Alex’s, we are excited and thrilled.  We talk about the show.  We get to her house.  I am able to pee.  All is good.

The next day on the way home from Portland to Olympia, Ronnie drives, singing and dancing to the soundtrack of Hamilton.  Tonight, I am sitting here listening to various Hamilton songs in my head.  I say to Ronnie, “You know what’s going on in my head, right?”

“Yes, I know what you’re hearing but I don’t exactly know which song.”

“That’s okay.  It’ll change in a minute anyway.”

Our daughter texts us, “Hamilton still in my head.”  We are pretty much all in the same boat.  This may go on for several weeks.  We are lucky to have gotten to see the show.  I am lucky to have gotten in to see the show.  On reflection, I’m not hating the scooter right now.  Rather, I know I am extremely lucky to have it.

Hamilton demonstrates the strength and courage this country showed in breaking free of a dominating power.  It makes this statement by including the importance of immigrants, newcomers, idealists, and those with vision outside of the norm.  Those with passion and courage who were willing to chase the hope of self determination.  

There were clashes between factions.  There was negotiation and painstaking resolution.  There were different alliances.  Watching Hamilton is to realize the incredible change made by those who were willing to give their lives for an idea of freedom.

In a small way, my relationship with the scooter is a statement of freedom and acceptance.  If I’m out there in public, motoring my way along, I am demonstrating that it is okay.  Not just in my mind but also in the minds of everyone that sees me.  They may not agree.  They may not think I’m okay.  I am still present and accounted for.

There are many dynamic songs in Hamilton.  The lyrics of one goes, “Raise a glass to freedom.  They’ll tell a story of tonight.”

My story of this night is that I got there.  I felt the freedom.  I was different, but I was okay.  I’ll keep going to the theater and any place else that the scooter can go.  It’s my right.  It’s my mission.  It’s my personal freedom.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

4.4.18

[Picture of Hamilton official merchandise information card and Hamilton stage.]

What Would Greta Say?

I’m illified and home from work.  Ronnie just left me to meet her brother.  I’ve been in a serious on-line hunt for reduced plastic hearing aid battery packaging.  Hopefully, it will keep me out of trouble.

It’s a challenge to reduce the extraneous plastic packaging in my life.  It is ubiquitous in our American world.  So much waste.  So much garbage.  If I find the better packaging on-line that has less waste, am I contributing more to environmental disaster by having it delivered to my home?  Probably.  What would Greta (Thunberg) say?  I guess that’s the modern mantra, “What would Greta say?”  Most likely, I am not prepared for the answer.

I’ve looked at dozens of hearing aid battery packaging options on Amazon.  I’m sure looking on Amazon alone is an environment disaster if not a cultural one.  I have not found the minimal plastic packaging I’m looking for.  Don’t they already know that I feel bad enough about using the damn hearing aid batteries?  

But, let’s talk hearing aids for a minute.  Using a hearing aid when our hearing is diminished improves engagement, fights depression, and is a deterrent to dementia.  Dementia causes untold personal, social, and health costs.  By this measure, using my hearing aids is a good thing.  Yet, I still feel privileged to be able to buy and supply them.  Where else can I make a dent in imminent environmental disaster?

I’m old enough that I’ll probably be dead before the really big, bad shit happens.  Like massive environmental extinction, food production failures, major disease outbreaks, water wars between cities and countries, and massive storms of varying types just to name a few.  But hopefully, my daughter will still be alive.  What kind of legacy is my generation leaving for her and her progeny?  Not a good one as far as I can see.

Personally, I’ve had a bad year related to unfortunate disasters of several types.  I’m trying to reduce my emotional and psychological state of over threshold.  It’s akin to dog training.  A dog can’t be trained when they are in a state of over threshold.  They have to be calmed down before they can focus on the desired behavior.  Right now, it’s looking like most of the world is over threshold with no de-escalation in sight.

For now, I’m going to move off the hearing aid battery packaging hunt and move to something else where I can make a difference.  In simplifying for today, I’ll look for other plastic packaging to eliminate.  I’m in illness recovery after all.  When Ronnie left, I promised not to do anything to increase my state of over threshold.  Since I am sick, I’ll have to keep the bar lowered.  On the other hand, maybe I’ll just go lay down.

What would Greta say?

L’Chaim.

Joceile

12.2.19

[In Hebrew, L’Chaim is a toast “To Life.”]

The Poodle Dog & the Mustang

Things hardly ever go according to plan. That’s how it was when Margo finally got pregnant.  We had decided we wanted to have a child together. Each of us had our own reasons that didn’t seem to overlap.  Though, I was hardly aware of it at the time. 

At that point in my life, I wanted to be biologically related to my child but didn’t and couldn’t imagine myself pregnant and delivering. A good plan seemed to be my brother donating the sperm to my partner. Previously, he had told me he was willing. Now with encouragement, he agreed. 

Margo and I went through the determination of ovulation by taking her temperature each day. It wasn’t the most reliable technique. My brother who lived two hours north of us was on call for the meet up.  We had been trying for eight months with no luck. 

The Mustang had never failed me in the ten years since my grandparents gave it to me.  It had never left me stranded until that night.  It had failed a friend once but only because she didn’t notice it was overheating until it stopped on the freeway.  (I'm still mad about that.)

I was coming back from seeing about a job in Chehalis.  I had a good state job part-time that I liked.  But, I was curious about this machinist job.  I’d only ever worked in offices.

Margo was ovulating according to the latest and greatest drug store test.  We had advanced from the temperature chart.  She was in Seattle.  A friend of hers would drop her off at my grandparents’ in Des Moines where she, my brother, and I would meet for the sperm transfer.  My grandparents were away at their beach house on Vashon Island.  It was halfway between my brother and us.  We’d met there before.

I was re-tracing my route back to Olympia and ultimately Des Moines when the Mustang gave a kick and the engine died.  There wasn’t much traffic.  I coasted it to the side just before an overpass.  It was full of gas, not hot, and had good engine oil pressure.  I got out and popped the hood, checking to see if there was spark to the spark plugs after double checking the oil.  It had spark but showed no sign of starting when I turned the engine over.

Darkness was falling rapidly in the early evening of May 1986.  I had just passed a sign indicating a rest area in a mile.  Knowing the Mustang would require more than I could immediately offer, I headed for the rest area to call a friend.

As I made the 20 minute walk to the freeway rest stop, I pondered why tonight the Mustang had seen fit to land me by the side of the road.  I was impressed it had the sense to do it close to a rest area with pay phones.

Arriving at the rest area, I called a friend to pick me up.  Fortunately, she was home.  I also called Margo at my grandparents.  She wasn’t there.  I waited a bit and called again.  My grandparents’ boarder, Dean, answered and handed the phone to Margo.

“The Mustang died by the side of the road.  I didn’t even make it to Olympia.”

“Your brother’s coming.  What do we do?”

“I guess you’ll have to handle it without me.”

“But, Dean’s here.”

“Just ignore him.  Find a jelly jar.”  My grandmother always had lots of empty jelly jars.  “And boil it in a pan of water.  When Zack comes, hand him the jar.”

“What about Dean?”

“Just tell him you’re meeting Zack.  He won’t ask.”

“I don’t have a syringe here.”  I had been using a syringe without a needle to inject the sperm in Margo.

“Find my Granny’s turkey baster.  It’s there somewhere.  Boil it with the jelly jar.”

“What if Dean asks what I’m doing?”

“Tell him you are making something.  He won’t ask.”  (He didn't.)

My brother met Margo a bit later.  We arranged for her to drive my grandparents’ giant green Ford Country Sedan station wagon circa 1972 to Olympia that night.  They had their Ford truck at Vashon.  After making the exchange with Zack, Margo headed home with the precious cargo in the jelly jar keeping warm against her belly.

She knew that she had to inject the sperm within 20-30 minutes.  She was on the freeway without a plan coming up to Fife.  My grandparents had stopped at the Poodle Dog Restaurant to eat occasionally on their way back from Vashon.  We had stopped there too.  The timing was right for Margo to stop at the Poodle Dog.

She unloaded with the jelly jar and Granny’s turkey baster tucked up her shirt and marched into the women’s restroom.  Perching on the toilet, legs akimbo, she loaded up the baster with sperm and injected it inside.  It was recommended that her legs were raised in the air to help the sperm swim up stream.  According to Margo legend, there she sat, balanced carefully, legs propped on the stall walls listening to Whitney Houston sing “The Greatest Love of All.”  She held there for 30 minutes, fingers crossed basking in a sperm glow.

It turns out that Granny’s turkey baster was the key.  If she only knew.  I figure had I been there we wouldn’t have used a turkey baster nor had the delay in insemination.  As it was, Margo got pregnant in month nine of trying.  The Mustang got fixed.  (The timing chain had broken.)  I never, ever asked Granny if she noticed her turkey baster was missing.  Somethings are better left unspoken and unknown.

L’Chaim.

Joceile

11.30.19

[Picture of Poodle Dog Restaurant sign.]

For I Am the Tree

I have been doing a Chi Kung exercise called standing still like a tree.  It made words come into my mind.  I wrote them down:

For I Am the Tree

Standing here in stillness

Connecting with the space

Standing strong and tall

Reaching into the earthliness

My essence undeterred

I am one of many

For I am the tree

There is movement in my branches

Connection in my roots

Homes created for many

Air exchanged for air

Sunshine blends my being

Shelter in the storm

Rain pelts through my body

Heat restores my growth

Branches bend in wind

Bowing to the snow

Life continues calling

For I am the tree

The gift of life is straining

As I see and I am seen

I stand above and connect below

With the earth and all its forces

Persistence is my goal

My kind is straight and tall

Or sharply gnarled and bent

My branches reach beyond me

The essence that is life

To celebrate the love

That connection is meant to be

Friends may fall

Or be taken

The fire may consume

Rebudding is my energy

The life of all I know

A person may stand with me

And notice what I feel

Standing with my sisters

Preparing for the changes

We’ve learned to know so well

She seeks to know what I know

Something I can share

A calmness and completeness

An understanding here

Standing with conviction

We don’t run

We don’t hide

To face the coming shifts

A cautious rising tide

The earth has many faces

Each of them so fine

Trusting in each other

Sustaining in our heart

Blessed by the knowing

Standing still as all

My friend she seeks to learn

All that I have known

Imparted so very slowly

A tree can only show

Listen in the heart

Silent with your voice

Breathing, feeling, waiting

You will be like me

For I am the tree

Joceile

11/20/19

[Picture of two Douglas Fir trees looking up into blue sky.]

Joceile’s Androgynous Comedy

Here’s my latest standup comedy from yesterday if you need 6 minutes of free entertainment.   I’m ready for the Senior Circuit.

https://youtu.be/7w5ROEWXbnQ

If you are truly bored, contrast it with the one 32 years ago:

https://youtu.be/q6xoV27gHR0

Nothing gets old...except me.

On Healing...