Private Trade War with China

    

TikTok isn't the only nefarious plot against Americans by the Chinese. There's the less known underwear bait and switch. And it started my own private trade war with China.

I took the bait when an ad popped up for a bra that looked so comfortable I had to have it. 

I waited three weeks and contacted customer service. They assured me it had shipped, and sent the tracking number.  Uh-oh. 

First lesson learned, verify the location from which the item is being shipped.  (When I saw another interesting product online I emailed that customer service center and learned that although the company was German, the product would be shipped from China.  No thanks. )

I waited another month and then asked to have the order canceled. Too bad, so sad, it had been shipped.

I found the translate-to-English button on the original tracking order which revealed that my item was in Chengdu China, 6,287 nautical miles from here. The package had been passed off to an airline transport center on April 28th.

There it sat until May 5th when it was returned to the processing center for a security concern.  I bet my US addressed was the trigger.  A day later, it was cleared. 

Sounds like Chinese job security. Agent A says to Agent B "Ooh, look, a very tiny package. Very light.  It's going to an American. It could be something dangerous." The next day Agent A gets it back with yet another official stamp on it and it's no longer a security issue. 

June 16th it arrived in Los Angeles. Perhaps the plane island hopped? 

A week later it arrived in my mailbox. 

I opened the package carefully. I didn't want to slice the garment along with the package. I should have because there is no way a senior woman with a filled-out shape could wear that thing without cutting it open. It wouldn't fit MY body. Labeled M for medium, it looked like M for minuscule. Perhaps they measured in centimeters, not inches.  I couldn't even get it over one arm and my head at the same time. 

Whew,  Chinese women must have veeerry tiny rib cages.

Second lesson, confirm the unit of measurement and ask for the garment's circumference.

So I waited three months for an undergarment that is ridiculously small and unwearable by any adult or child I know.  

I wrote again. Asked if I could exchange it THIS SIDE OF THE PACIFIC OCEAN.  No, they said, and I would have to pay the shipping back to China. For crying out loud. Third lesson, sometimes it's just better to take the loss and move on.   

 I wish I could hover around the ARC display bin to see who takes the bait the second time.  

Complaining to a friend about the experience, she recommended a sports bra. It came fast. Once I got it on, it was comfortable. But as I've said before, a garment that requires a ladies' maid just isn't practical. Maybe the next size up will be the ticket. 

What was your worst online shopping experience? What wisdom could you share with us? 

If I Were a Plant, I'd be a Thistle

One of the great pleasures of a garden is how it ties you to the current season and the cycles of growth for each plant.  Lacking a garden, I go out of my way to stay tuned to the natural rhythms of the plants around me. 

At the end of June, I tramped around a small wetland. The overgrowth was unsightly, but I was hunting for a prize—the thistle. While many people look at them as aggressive agricultural pests, I cut freely from neglected lots as soon as the buds are plump.

I studied it carefully. The geometry of the bud compelled me to look more closely.

Note the bud, how the thin green bracts spiral around the head.   (If you like the mathematical properties of plants, enjoy close-up photos here .)

The thistle is Scotland’s national flower, and wherever it is found its nectar attracts pollinators like bees and butterflies. Painted Lady butterflies like to deposit their larvae among the prickles. Goldfinches like the seeds. And there’s even evidence it has medicinal value, as it contains anti-inflammatory and antioxidant properties.

The stems are edible if peeled and boiled. This speaks to the extreme and barren nature of the Scottish Isles, that prepping its spiky leaves and stem is worth the effort. Here’s a link to instructions and a recipe to prepare them. Let me know if you try.  

I enjoyed the cycle of bud and bloom in cut flowers and other years have gone back for the  dried seed head for fall flower arrangements. 

All parts of the cycle require leather gloves and sharp pruners. 

I agree with this description of the plant (from scottish-at-heart.com)

Scottish thistles have:

• Delicately beautiful flower heads,
• Viciously sharp thorns,
• A stubborn and tenacious grip on the land,
• The defiant ability to flourish in spite of efforts to remove it 

I think it fits me, too. I recognize myself to be stubborn, and according to my family, I have a prickly personality. 

I hope I have a bit of that defiant ability to flourish in the face of adversity. 

All that from a "weed." What do you do with thistles, curse or enjoy them?

Announcer or Friend: What’s your role on Facebook?

I don’t know which has done more damage over the last few months--social distancing or Facebook. The combination of the two have weakened my personal relationships.

I found I spend more time on Facebook, which has soured me on the medium considerably. 

Allowing for the fact that FB is basically a system to share personal announcements or push an agenda, the recent monotony of “share this” has worn me down. Folks are yelling through megaphones to let me know they're "woke."

Pixabay

Those posts don't feel like overtures of friendship. They don't sound like invitations to a conversation. Indeed they're no more personal than a wave from a nodding acquaintance. The writers have become epassers-by, part of the parade driving through my livingroom with signs hanging out the window.

I realize too often I am just as annoying. My posts are all about me. I want your attention, your affirmation, your agreement. I want you to listen, AND to care.

I congratulate myself that at least I'm not seeking "followers," one step down in the degeneration of electronic relationships. (Did you know followers can be purchased? But some sites sell fake followers, so beware.) It's not new. Remember the girls who passed around their high school yearbooks to get the most “Be good” notes, assuring themselves of their popularity?   

 If Facebook has made me only an attention-seeker, I AM a low quality friend. 

If I sound like a megaphone and I leave emojis instead of a personal note on one of your posts, I apologize.  

Heaven forbid that I mistake it for friendship.  Be a friend and call me on it.

Theos Thursday: Today is Not the Last Word

“Today is not the Last Word: finding hope in adversity”

February 18, 2020

In our early fifties, my husband and I moved out of congested Denver, Colorado to the countryside of North Carolina. We bought a small farmhouse and remodeled it into the charming cottage pictured above.  I planned, planted, and nurtured flower gardens, fruits and vegetables. My husband and I had immediate access to state parks and the Blue Ridge mountains. Washington DC and other historic areas were an easy day’s drive away. 

I joined a group of fellow-teachers in a book club and soon had a solid group of friends. Through our church, we were engaged with immigrants in the community.

I never planned to leave.  

Seventeen years later, in 2016 we faced double crises.  My husband was diagnosed with late stage kidney cancer. Simultaneously I suffered from an undiagnosed malady that prevented me from standing, gardening, or driving.

We couldn’t care for our property, and barely for ourselves. With an uncertain future, we decided we should put the house up for sale and see how God worked. Within three months, Bill had surgery, the house was sold and packed, and we headed back to Colorado. 

It all happened too fast. 

Although our health stabilized, we faced financial strain. We were shocked that the cost-of-living differences between rural North Carolina and urban Denver forced us into a retirement community. I’d given up a home I’d loved for a small, sunless apartment.  I couldn’t garden, I couldn’t see stars. I grieved the loss of my happy life and blamed God. “Is this the best You can do?”  

In earlier crises God had shown me special passages from he Bible which comforted me, and gave me peace. During this period I prayed and studied and neither felt His presence, nor His grace. Reading the Bible seemed a futile activity. Paul’s lofty promises seemed to mock me; I couldn’t rejoice in trials. Would I ever hear God speak to me again?  I turned instead to contemporary Christian writers.

I’d been telling myself  I would never be happy again, strong again, my life would never be purposeful, I would never escape from the emotional cave which trapped me. John Piper, in Future Grace identified those as some of Satan’s lies.

If those were lies, what was the truth?

I changed how I read the Bible. I shifted my focus from seeking relief to discovering God’s character. I listed the attributes He used to describe Himself, and categorized His actions. Although I failed to see what He might be doing in my life, I resolved to trust that He was truthful, saw my misery, and was compassionate.  

Of course, I found comfort as well. Isaiah 61 encouraged me that God would anoint His servant to bring good news to me, to bind up my broken heart, to comfort my mourning, and to replace it with gladness. (Isaiah 61:1-3 NASB) 

Our circumstances improved.  We found a church of fervent young believers who welcomed us and ministered to us. The second year Bill’s health screen indicated the cancer had not spread.  God provided a group of musicians that joined me regularly to play traditional music.  I helped start a book club. And we happily cared for our “surprise” sixth grandchild. 

Still, my emotions frequently descended into misery.

From Psalm 13 I learned that our troubled thoughts and sorrow may persist. I would have to fight for joy by choosing to “trust in your faithful love; rejoice in your deliverance…sing to the Lord because he has treated me generously.” (Psalms 13:5-6 CSB) I made a list of instances of His mercy. I added relevant scriptures. I prayed over the promises and evidence, and I preached to myself. 

The despondency is fleeting now, but three and half years after the move, I still pine for North Carolina. 

Two recent incidents helped me purpose to eliminate grumbling. 

A missionary’s blog described how difficult it had been for her to transition from rural Kentucky to a megacity in Asia. She explained the truths God showed her to accept her place of service. I adopted her prayer list in order to let go of the home and lifestyle to which I felt I was entitled. Months later I went to a missions conference for our denomination. In a small group, I met her. I was stunned that out of thousands of missionaries serving overseas, and four hundred people at the conference, God brought us together.

A Sunday sermon convicted me that comparing my new situation to my former life led to grumbling. And complaints led to bitterness. I went down to the alter and asked our pastor to pray for me, and how tenderly God spoke to me through him. 

I’m still not convinced that we didn’t make a mistake moving so quickly, seeing how well we’ve recovered.  But even if it was a mistake, God knew what was coming.

And He knows what’s still to come. “Despair forgets there are more pages to our story.” https://www.desiringgod.org/articles/to-great-things-that-never-came 

Someday I will understand why Denver is better for us.

What I feel and what I don’t understand now is not the last word. 

You can find other stories of hope on Deena Adams’ blog, deenaadams.com

Relieve my Monotony!

Restlessness is growing in me like water coming to a slow boil. Like a toddler who has been confined to the car seat too long, I’m kicking my heels against the monotony.

I want out!  Out of “safe at home” guidelines. 

I long for a new view, something unfamiliar to explore. 

Surely somebody has something to say that I haven’t heard repeatedly.

Wait, three year old Willow does. Six months ago we crossed our fingers and hoped she would string more than two words together.  Now she’s a blond, earthbound, human version of a mynah bird. She repeats what she hears so well I can tell which family member she heard it from.

“Fine,” she says with a resigned tone when I asked her cooperation. That’s her 13 year old sister talking. Willow just hasn’t learned to roll her eyes yet.

“That’s odd.”  Odd? Does she even know what odd is? No, she doesn’t. But I chuckle when I hear her say it. 

“I.Want. A birthday present. NOW.” The phrasing, crossed arms, and stamp of her tiny foot came straight from 7 year old Bo. The demand is cuter from her than it is from her brother.  He’s also modeled, “It’s my favorite...” book, color, shirt. And “I love...” chips, ice cream, chocolate. 

And Bo’s probably the source for “I don’t like you anymore.” 

“Chill, Dad.” That’s one of the teens.

She doesn’t miss a thing. 

When she spent a weekend here plastic animals and Lego people were dying at an alarming rate.  Apparently she listened in on recent conversations about her great-grandmother’s death.  So I tried to segue from dead critters to the larger concept. I told her that because Frieda had died, we wouldn’t see her anymore and that made us sad. But who knows what a tiny person understands. Not much, apparently. After two nights here her siblings asked if she had a good time at grandma and grandpa’s.

“Grandma Pam’s dead,” she announced.  

She didn’t hear it from me.

 

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FYI Starting tomorrow, the third Thursday of each month will be Theos Thursday and I will share a meditation based on a short Bible Passage. Please join me for those, too. 

What is your Best By Date?

The sugar bag stated that it was BESTBY 08APR2023. That was specific, considering sugar is a dry substance and can’t harbor microorganisms that would make it go bad. 

It made me wonder what my BESTBY date was. And that led to considering the various roles I’ve had in my life, each which had some kind of peak in quality.

I was a roller skating whiz at eight. It’s gone downhill since then, and after a fall at the roller rink a few years ago, my skating date has expired. 

Likewise, my physical peak was long ago. Physical therapy is keeping me functional, but not optimal. 

As a young mom I was impatient. With maturity I became more patient. Now, I’m just enjoying my adult children, and not actively parenting. So the BEST BY has expired. 

At twenty I was the best violinist I would ever be, so that’s a half century ago. I keep plugging away, but doubt I’ll regain agile fingers and quick bowing. 

Mental acuity is deteriorating. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have forgotten the names of the flowers in my garden. Or how we got our first child home from the hospital without a car. 

2010, the year I retired from teaching, was probably the height of my career. I learned more about children and how the brain processes information after college than before. There was always some new skill to learn, or a conference to give me a new perspective. 

As a wife, I’m long past the ardor I had as a young woman, so romance is past it’s BEST BY date. But our marriage is less contentious and more comfortable now. Until one of us gets dementia, I think we'll stay "fresh."

As a person of faith, I was more zealous and active before 50. However, more knowledge about the Bible, and more wisdom about life are of more value. 

Like any foodstuff, my degeneration is inevitable, but I won’t go bad all at once--until the very end. Gratefully, I don't know what that date is. 

A note: a young computer-savvy friend suggested you may not be able to leave a comment if you are using Safari for your search engine. Please try coming to my blog via Google, Bing or Chrome. Thanks. This tech stuff is giving me giant headaches. My BestBy date never happened with computers.

They keep jumping ahead of me.

Prince Charmin

Stay at home orders are taking their toll on us. I haven't seen anything out of the ordinary in weeks, except for light traffic.  My library books are two and half months overdue. Bill's running commentary during the news is just as tedious when he's misunderstanding COVID science as it was when the topic was the presidential race. He misses the days I would go off somewhere and leave him in peace. 

With the outside world so far removed, every little detail of life is something to pick at, exaggerated and out of proportion. 

Mid February we were good for toilet paper. We laughed at the TP hoarders.

About four weeks in we couldn’t find any in our usual stores, and the stockpile was running low. I stopped at Whole Foods. The paper goods shelves were nearly empty, but high on the top shelf were two packages of their organic, undyed, tan toilet paper. I only took one twelve-pack, conscientious citizen that I am.     

Recently I put a roll in my bathroom, and Bill’s. It’ll do, I thought. 

But my grocery shopping hubby came home today with a prize of eight rolls of Charmin which he announced he would NOT share with me. 

It seems he’s turned into Prince Charming with a tender tush and has to have the best. 

Usually he’s not a keen observer of his surroundings. For example he carried in the apartment building’s yellow broom when the one we’ve had for three years is red. But he noticed and objected to my changing his sanitary product. He did not think the environmentally friendly TP was friendly to him.  He said it was too thin, scratchy, and the beige color looked weird floating in the toilet.

I should have known.

This is not the first time he’s taken a firm stand on toilet paper. Our daughter prefers ultra-thin, single-ply, unembossed, good-for-septic-tank brands. It is so stiff and coarse, we take our own rolls to their house for our baby-sitting days. 

And past international travel has caused Bill no small amount of concern before-hand and distress once at our destination. On our last trip, back when TP was not an issue in developed countries, I thought he was going to fill every crevice of his suitcase with handmade mini-rolls.  We didn’t know if Croatia leaned more to hearty, soft TP or harsh, thin Central American standards. As I recall it turned out okay. 

Last trip to Target I noticed the paper aisle seemed well-stocked, but didn't do a brand name check. Our condo isn’t big enough to store more TP when I have eleven rolls of the WF brand. As the sole user of said brand, I admit it is thin and strange looking. And it’ll probably last up to the second wave of COVID and the next paper-product roundup.