BEWARE OF NORTON LIFELOCK!!!

This is a short story about a disreputable, despicable company by the name of NORTON LIFELOCK.

They deducted over $250.00 from my account WITHOUT my knowledge or permission. I had my credit card company dispute the charge which, of course, was immediately rejected by Norton Lifelock.

What's funny is that I retained said company about a year ago because my account was hacked, and I wanted to be sure it would not happen again. Oh no! 

But it DID happen again, this time by NORTON LIFELOCK! No amount of time on the telephone and/or online could reach these CROOKS. Be prepared to waste at least two hours of your life just playing verbal volleyball with their "reps" who can barely speak English, much less understand it, and who, in all likelihood, receive a big, fat bonus from NORTON LIFELOCK if they manage to hold onto a customer who wants OUT.

I warned them that I have a blog which is pretty well-read, and that I would be exposing their nefarious business practices to the world. And, as if by wizardry, here it is!

NORTON LIFELOCK, is it really worth $250+ to be exposed by an innocent FORMER customer? I told your reps, over and over and OVER again, that this would be happening, but you've trained them well, haven't you?

There is a saying in Italian that goes something like this:

"ILL-GOTTEN MONEY WILL ALWAYS  BE SPENT ON MEDICINE."

Yes, I'm Italian, and I grew up in a very tough Italian neighborhood in the Bronx. We don't take kindly to disrespect, nor crooks.

When, in exasperation, I told one of your reps to DROP DEAD, she responded that they do not deal with "profanity." Profanity?? DROP DEAD is NOT profane, but you can guess what I'm really hurling your miserable way. Here you go...try Google translate to figure it out, you miserable mother******s.

VAFFANCULO DOVE VIVI E RESPIRI!!

Summer of Love, Summer of Sadness

 

It was the Summer of Love, and I was in my room ironing all the cute 'mod' outfits I'd be wearing to work that week. I was working for the Captain Kangaroo Show, so it was a fun time in my life.

"It was the third of June, another sleepy, dusty, Delta day..." came on the radio, and I turned up the volume because I loved 'Ode to Billy Joe' and wanted to hear it properly.

My parents were in the kitchen with my father's sister, Aunt Helen, having coffee and talking. Suddenly, the door to my room burst open, and my father immediately went to the radio and turned down the volume. He stalked out without a word, and I instantly went to the radio and turned the volume up, even louder than it was before. I was older now, and tired of adhering to his bullshit rules & regulations.

Back he came, like a bolt of lightning, and turned the radio completely off. Then he said, "If you do that again, that radio and YOU will be in the back yard. Do you understand me??" (We lived on the third floor...)

I did, but no longer cared. The second he left, I returned to the radio and BLASTED it as loud as it could go. In what felt like a split second, he returned to my room like Raging Bull, and went CRAZY. I held the hot iron up and told him to not come near me, that I'd smash it in his face. Didn't matter. Within seconds, I was down on the floor, him kicking and punching me until he was out of breath.

He flung the radio across the room, shattering it, and left me, bruised and as broken as that radio, on the floor. Aunt Helen and my mother tried to intervene ~ he just threw them aside like they were rag dolls.

I could never again hear one of my favorite songs of the Sixties without conjuring up that awful memory. I didn't know how I was going to work the next day, but I managed to pull on opaque stockings to camouflage the ugly bruises on my legs, and went to the office, on the verge of tears the entire day.

"Today, Billy Joe MacAllister jumped off the Tallahatchie Bridge..."

A CHRISTMAS STORY

It was my 4th grade Christmas play. My classmates and I had been working on it since the beginning of school in September, and I could hardly wait till Christmas!

At long last, the day arrived. That morning, I was in the kitchen with my parents and, once again, asked them if they could come to see my play.

My mother said irritably, "Paula, it's Christmas week, and you know I have to work. Don't bother Daddy about it either; he has to do all the shopping and doesn't have time to come to your play!" My father just sat there in silence.

I was crestfallen, still not accustomed to their lack of interest and indifference to whatever went on in my life. I stifled my tears the best I could, knowing it would make them angry, and went to school a sad little girl, but still excited about the play.

We had made large candles out of construction paper, and were all dressed in white, wire hangers covered with white crepe paper and formed into "halos," feathery wings on our backs. At the conclusion of the play, we gathered at the front of the stage, then separated into two columns, leaving the stage from both sides, singing and walking up the side aisles to the entrance of the auditorium. At that point, we merged together and, holding our candles in front of us, walked down the center aisle, each column close to the auditorium seats, left and right. I knew that most of my classmates' parents were there, and tried hard not to cry.

As I reached the center of the aisle, something caught my eye. I looked over to see my father sitting there, smiling at me. I will never forget the sheer joy I felt that he had taken the time to be there for me. The earlier stifled tears flowed freely, and happily this time.

When I arrived home from school later that day, he teased me about the song "Joy To The World." Our teacher did not want a "ch" sound and instructed  us to sing "And heaven and na-ture sing." We laughed about it, and he would remind me of it every single Christmas to come.

I don't remember if there were any more Christmas plays after that one. It didn't matter...because I will never forget how grateful I was that my father had made the effort to be there for me, putting aside his own hectic schedule to make time for his youngest daughter. The love I felt for him that day was overwhelming. 

And to this day, I remember that Christmas play, and how loved my father made me feel.

AN UNPRESIDENTED LOOK INTO THE DIARY OF AN ORANGE FRUITCAKE

Dear Diary,

Well, my only true friend, here I am, alone in this tacky big house painted all white (did they ever hear of GOLD??) surrounded by boring and stupid people, and I have no clue as to who they are, what they do, or if they understand that I AM THE KING OF THE UNIVERSE, A-HA! A-HA!  

All those people (and PAPERWORK...who knew it would be so complicated?) are why I like to watch television all day long, snacking on whatever isn't nailed down (and don't you be cruel and say anything about my fat ass, or weight!) and reveling in the thought that I, DONALD TRUMP, am now PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES, and can do ANYTHING I want to.

Lemme tell you, I got you ALL and BIGLY too. The biggest scam anybody has ever played in the history of  the United States, just like Robert DeNiro said, that rat fuck. And fuck HIM too, because I WON. And it was YUUUUGE!! HA. HA. HA. HA. HA. (Funny!)

And as for tough guy DeNiro, if he thinks he can still punch me in the face now that I am the SUPREME COMMANDER, well Bobby...hope you like stripes, you overrated big mouth! (Sad.)

Well, Dear Diary, someone is bothering me and interrupting my CNN obsession (FAKE NEWS, FAKE NEWS!!) so I hafta to and see what it is THIS time. Are Bannon and my lame-ass son-in-law fist-fighting yet? Is that little mental case Spicey having it out with the press again, is Kellyanne still in the ladies room with 500 pounds of make-up and a prayer book? Do I have to drop another trillion-ton bomb to get the FBI off my back about the Russkis? TSK! So ANNOYING.

Think I'll have some chocolate cake, it's only 5,000 calories per slice. I'll work it off when I go golfing in exactly 4 days, 18 hours, and 12 minutes from now...

ABOUT THAT OFFER WE COULDN'T REFUSE...

...it is now 43 years later, and we still can't refuse. Doesn't matter how many times I've already seen "The Godfather," each and every time it is aired, I'm glued to the story, never tiring of it.

In my opinion, one of the greatest movies ever made (second only to the sequel "The Godfather Part II" and Robert DeNiro's incredible resurrection of the young Vito Corleone) ~ it continues to draw us in with its powerful message of family values tangled up in bloodshed, violence, and that mysterious force understood best by those of Italian descent: respect.

Having grown up where and when I did ~ Little Italy of the Bronx in the Fifties/early Sixties ~ where the characters of the movie were real-life people, that underlying message of respect was the very first thing every kid learned.

Respect! Immediately recognized and understood. We knew enough to not venture near (or look into) the many "social clubs" sprinkled throughout the neighborhood. The unspoken (and unnecessary) message of store windows painted black, doors slightly ajar on summer days, we knew better than to bother them. Whatever went on behind those doors and windows was not our business to know, but we all felt safer having them among us. They kept the neighborhood secure, protected and intact and we were grateful to them for that.

Many of us were on the receiving end of their largess. I never questioned my extensive wardrobe as a young woman, all those beautiful dresses that "fell off the back of a truck," thanks to my uncles who worked in the garment district. And since some of my uncles also worked in the jukebox business, I had the greatest record collection any kid could ever hope for. What, me worry? Not a chance! "The guys" were our very own version of Robin Hood and we loved them for it.

Watching the movie over and over again also brings forth bittersweet memories...of impossibly large family gatherings, a shared and deeply missed camaraderie of food, love, laughter and music. Invited outsiders were more often than not overwhelmed by the sheer volume of it all.

So, the 'offer that I [personally] can't refuse' is the chance to revisit "The Godfather" and to cherish the memories that come with it...minus the guns, but definitely with the cannoli!

CHATTERBOXES

"You talk too much, you worry me to death, you talk too much, you even worry my pet, you just talk-talk-taaalllkkk, talk too much!"

Lyrics borrowed from an old hit song by Joe Jones.

I'm sure we all know at least one person (if not several thousand) whose mouth never stops. Doesn't matter what the subject is, they just go on and on and ON, never stopping to allow you a word in edgewise, and finally frustrating you to the point that you just give up, insert invisible ear plugs and give them the stage.

I don't know why the chatterboxes of the world do this. Could be attention deficit disorder. Or, if they're manic-depressive, maybe they're stuck on manic-manic. Could also be a personality disorder, those voices in their heads telling them to keep on talking because, in the words of Satchel Paige, 'something may be gaining on them.' Or maybe they're just plain rude. Who knows? All I know is that it is excruciating to be in their company, or trapped in a telephone conversation with one of them. BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH BLAH. 

I try to pay enough attention to offer the occasional grunt of acknowledgment so they think I'm actually listening to whatever nonsense is spewing from their pie holes. But after a while, I just want to scream "PLEASE! JUST SHUT THE HELL UP!!!"

I especially love when I do attempt to change the subject, or inform them of something new in my own life. They just talk right over-under-and through you.

Maybe I'm just hypersensitive about this because I come from one of those chatterbox families who constantly talked over-under-and through you. For me, every conversation became a battle as to who could say the most before being squashed like a bug.

"Did you hear the news about....?"
"Hey, pass the antipasto, will you?!"
"Ehh, I hit the number last week, five big ones!"
"Aunt Rosie's blood pressure is sky-high!"

Yeah, well I can understand Aunt Rosie's escalating blood pressure...especially if she attended these family gatherings one too many times and tried to speak, uninterrupted.

"You talk about people that you've never seen, you talk about people, you can make me scream..."

Okay, here goes...

Now, can you please SHUT UP??

TEXTING

My thanks to Grumpy Cat for his contribution to my own feelings about the supremely stupid phenomenon known as texting. 

This latest (and intensely annoying) craze has overtaken the world, and now that I have finally, and extremely reluctantly, joined the legion of cell phone idiots, I have also become victim to those who prefer to text over calling.

Along with the ridiculous word abbreviations ~ one example, prolly for probably...seriously? Here's my favorite abbreviation: WTF?? ~ and inane 'messages' about nothing and about which I could not care less, is the wasted time of not only having to read this nonsense, but also having to answer the morons who clog up my phone, and brain, with their insipid life 'bulletins.'

These abbreviations also eliminate commas, quotes, and any thought of recognizable contractions. "He going to leave soon." Say WHAT? What happened to "is"? Too much work to insert a ' between he and [i]s?? Goodbye to proper English! Hello to uninformed morons!

"On my way to...get gas/have breakfast/grocery store..." Who CARES? I don't need or want a minute-by-minute account of anyone's life. And then there's the dreadful "Have to tell you what happened last night!" after which they proceed to TEXT every single detail of "what happened last night." Really? Can we save it for a phone call, not that a telephone conversation could reduce the boredom of having to listen to the mundane bullshit that comprises people's lives these days.

I have come  to dread the ding! and shimmying of my cell phone, signaling yet another text on the way, interrupting reading a book (remember that?) or watching a favorite movie. I stare daggers at it, then carefully pick it up, reminding myself that throwing it against a wall is not going to be felt by the "texter" and will only cost me money to have it repaired or replaced...not that I want it.

So, I have to agree with Grumpy Cat...please do text and drive. Text and walk, text and take a shower, text and eat, text-text-text-text-text away! Perhaps this may reduce, and even eliminate, the army of dimwitted blockheads who have invaded our world, dumbing it down to the point of no return.

Oh, and by the way.....TEXT YOU!