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ADDiva BlogConfessions of an ADDivaRaised as a Midwest farmer’s daughter, Linda left central Illinois for college, marriage(s), parenting and careers in radio, TV news and newspaper. She launched her own advertising agency, Exclusive Writes, in her current hometown, Durham, NC (notice the pattern of deadline-driven professions? it was the ADD!).
After years of seeking advice from any available “expert,” she set out to live her deepest dreams. Along the way, she was diagnosed with ADD (at age 45 to be precise), which she promptly dismissed as “silly.” The ADD began to make more sense as she realized she was never content with one occupation. She retrained as a spiritual life coach, a retreat facilitator and a public speaking trainer. Then she jumped into ADD coaching (usually women, plus a few very special teens, men and couples) and created the ADDiva Network. In 2006, she transformed a suburban house into a lush garden retreat, complete with a purple tree house and seven-circuit outdoor labyrinth – GardenSpirit. She now believes firmly in her ADD diagnosis. A published author, Linda has almost finished her second book, Confessions of an ADDiva: Midlife in the Non-Linear Lane. And though she is sure – in the far distant future – her tombstone will read: “Never a dull moment,” her beloved and pun-addicted husband Victor is equally certain it should be inscribed: “Finally, DONE.” Recent Blog Posts
Sometimes, overdoing things is a guilty pleasure, like I am indulging my ADHD. That extra brain stimulation can be quite satisfying; it hits the ADHD spot in so many ways. I went overboard again last night. That's what my dad used to call it when I was a kid: doing too much, talking too much, wanting too much, creating too much of something that had captured my full attention and made me hyperfocus. Last night, it was a long overdue indulgence: reading a novel from cover to cover. All at once. No bookmarks. No "I'll come back to this later." One book. One night. The End. Mmmmm, it felt so good. I slept happy and woke up with a smile. Of course, I didn't sleep much. I started the 300-page book at 8:30 p.m. and didn't finish until 3 a.m. But it was glorious. Something I haven't allowed myself to do for months, perhaps years. Which brings me back to going overboard. It actually feels good to go overboard. Sometimes, it's a guilty pleasure, like I am indulging my ADHD. That extra brain stimulation can be quite satisfying; it hits the ADHD spot in so many ways. To wit: I have a lifelong aversion to live birds. I don't like those little claw feet (probably because I was attacked by a chicken when I was a child). When we had a mural painted in the foyer of our new house about 20 years ago, I insisted that there be not a single bird on the wall, even in acrylic! Then, my husband's mom and dad died within three weeks of each other. They loved to watch the wild birds that gathered at the feeders in their back yard. They weren't so crazy about squirrels that tried to steal the birdseed, however. My father-in-law would lean out the bathroom window with his .22 rifle and scare the daylights out of the thieving squirrels. After his funeral, we found that rifle in the bathroom right where he'd left it. I was so touched I that went home and erected an elegant bird feeder in their honor: the Anna and Louis Roggli Memorial Feeder. It looked lonely, so I bought another feeder. And another. And another. Within a couple of years, we had 40 or 50 bird feeding stations all over the yard, garden, windows, and trees. Yes, it was a classic case of going overboard. And I so enjoy the dainty little birds that visit them that my previous aversion to birds has vanished. Replaced by ADHD extremes. In this case, was it a bad thing to go overboard on bird feeders? The birds appreciate it. Hummingbirds and chickadees and bluebirds flock to our yard. Of course, it gets a little expensive to keep those feeders full of seed and sugar water and suet. And my husband has been pressed into action as assistant bird feeder filler. But when I see those birds, I am reminded of Anna and Louis, and my heart melts. So maybe going overboard isn't a great idea for some things: alcohol, Halloween candy, driving too fast. But in this case, it feels really good to indulge my ADHD. And it felt good to read all night long. The End. Wow. One book finished. 436 to go. Oh, did I mention that I tend to go overboard at the bookstore, too?
This incident forces me to look at the serious effects of ADD-ish behavior. It’s not funny. It’s not whimsical. And it needs to be addressed effectively.
"The main problem in Egypt is follow-up. A decision is taken, there is follow-up for a period of time, but after that, they get busy with something else and forget about it." I’m pretty sure that the Egyptian medical expert who made that statement last month had no idea he was exactly describing ADHD symptoms. He was merely explaining why there is now a terrible pile-up of rotting garbage in Egypt’s cities after the government-ordered slaughter of every hog in the country. It was a well-intentioned act. Egyptian officials were trying to prevent an outbreak of the flu formerly-known-as-swine-flu. But someone, somewhere, forgot that the pigs functioned as environmentally friendly garbage processors, roaming free, noshing on leftovers that are routinely tossed onto the streets. Now, the leftovers are literally left over, turning the cities’ streets into giant compost piles. It’s smelly and people are understandably angry. And the whole snafu sounds like an ADHD moment to me. But it probably doesn’t wear the ADHD name tag. In Egypt, as in many Middle Eastern countries, attention deficit hyperactivity disorder is barely acknowledged as a medical diagnosis. Researchers are aware of the disorder; I found a substantial research study on school-age ADHD children in the Delta region of Egypt. More often, however, ADHD symptoms tend to blame the victim for being “naughty, misbehaved” or even mentally challenged. Although the prevalence of ADHD in the Middle East is considered to be about the same as the rest of the world -- 5 percent of the general population -- there are far fewer ADHD diagnoses. And there are no ADHD accommodations for students in the public schools. The good news is that in April 2009, the Egyptian Parliament enacted a long-overdue law that substantially alters mental health treatment. The Egyptian Initiative for Personal Rights (EIPR) vigorously advocates for the rights of people with mental health disabilities. The progress is slow, but significant. As I learn more about ADHD abroad, I have a new appreciation for the mental health services available in the United States. The DSM-IV (Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders), as out-of-date as its ADHD criteria seem to be in 2009, is pure gold when used for appropriate diagnoses and treatment. In the final analysis, it makes no difference if that unnamed decision-maker in Egypt has a diagnosis of ADHD. It is equally unimportant whether the statement about lack of follow through within Egypt’s leadership is accurate. The lesson is that ADD-ish behavior -- impulsive choices, lack of forethought, single-minded adherence to a goal, even a laudable one -- can create an ADD-ish nightmare that affects hundreds of thousands of people. I often bristle at ADHD treatment that entices me to behave in a more linear fashion, to think in logical sequence. I am more comfortable when my wild and erratic ADHD brain is allowed to skip and play at will. But this incident draws me up short, forcing me to look at the serious effects of ADD-ish behavior. It’s not funny. It’s not whimsical. And it needs to be addressed effectively. On a lighter note, I must say that Egypt is at the top of my list of “Must See” countries. I want to stand in the shadow of the Great Pyramids and float down the Nile. After careful consideration, I think I may wait until the flu pandemic runs its course...and the pigs, like the swallows of Capistrano, return to Cairo.
Writers’ block is not the exclusive province of ADHD folks. But the creative ADHD brain and creative writing have some, shall we say, “issues.” I’ve been composing blog posts for you in my head for weeks now. I would notice or experience something that had implications for our collective ADD-ish-ness and mentally “write” the opening lines of dozens of posts. For instance: "Grandma LaLa update: little Lilly is growing into an adorable marshmallow baby..." and "Faced with the prospect of retraining my memory cells, I begin to wonder if I’ll lose my ADHD self in the process. It worries me a lot..." and "My husband insists it’s not heart 'surgery.' It’s just a 'procedure,' he says. As if the precise term makes his 7-hour ordeal less dangerous. Or frightening." The problem, of course, is that I didn’t get them OUT of my head (until this moment), onto a piece of virtual “paper” and submitted to our esteemed web master, Anni. In the moment of inspiration, I was SURE I’d remember my brilliant thoughts and capture them the next time I sat down at my computer. Instead, my first computer action (as always) was to check my email. Respond to my email. Answer the phone during my email. Realize that I’d forgotten to send in my registration to the ADHD conference. Get up to find my credit card so I could register online, etc., etc., etc. You know the drill. My fascinating storylines disappeared under an avalanche of To Do items and Don’t Need To Do But Doing It Anyway items and Oh My Gosh I Forgot To Put That On My List items, never to be heard from again. When I sat down, determined to write a few posts, my mind went blank. For days. And days. What happened to those cogent, succinct thoughts? Those inspired ideas? In the famed words of Margaret Mitchel: “Gone With the Wind.” Darn. I know I had a lot of things to tell you. I’m sure if we sat down over a cup of tea, we’d talk until both our throats were husky from sharing intimate, silly, and wonderful stories. So what’s up with forgetting those very stories when I sit down to write? A reputable source tells me it’s called “writers block.” Writers’ block is not the exclusive province of ADHD folks. There are entire books written about how to get started writing (presumably those authors were successful at overcoming it). But the creative ADHD brain and creative writing have some, shall we say, “issues.” We procrastinate (“But I don’t have anything new to say”), then hyperfocus (“It’s 3 a.m. already? I missed dinner. And lunch.”). We are terrific with Chapter 1. Not so terrific with Chapters 2 – 22. And we have no idea how to end the article, the poem, the book. It’s a conundrum. But it needn’t stop us. We can push through that inertia or fear or procrastination. Because ADHD folks have a lot to say. The world needs to hear their voices. Perhaps yours. Are you writing your novel? Your poetry? Your blog posts? Oh, yeah. Blog posts. I must write some. I want to write some. I WILL write some. But first, let me check my email...
How do I move from "dealing with" ADD to "living with" ADD and thriving as a result of ADD? Listen to this blog!  Does ADD define me?
Of course not! Then why are there websites and podcasts and books and organizers and therapists and, yes, ADHD coaches, who are eager to help me “deal with” my ADHD? They have tips and tricks and advice oozing from every pore and every page.
“Break the big job into smaller ones.” I’ve spent a lifetime memorizing these and hundreds of other helpful tips and tricks. I have schedulers and timers and colored folders and project management software. I’ve even recommended them to my clients. I know HOW to get organized, be on time, deliver on my promises. Yet I’ve mastered none of them. And frankly, I’m tired of trying. I can’t shake the feeling that the world ‘out there’ believes that the operative word in Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder is “deficit.” That’s awfully close to “deficient.” And a long way from “fulfilled,” which is the adjective I’ve chosen to describe the rest of my life. I unconsciously fall into it, this sense of being “less than” those perplexing folks whose neurotransmitters play together nicely. And I am usually unaware that I have clicked into my compensatory mode, either tap dancing to cover my deficits or applying a thick layer of my most effective tips and tricks. I can fake being “normal” for a while, but I have no endurance. The facade melts and I am exposed. Now that I’m older, I don’t cringe nearly as often as I once did when I was “outed” as an ADDiva. But I do take a look at my patterns. With as much “work” as I’ve done with therapists, coaches, books and all the rest, I am dismayed to find that sometimes my gut response is still shame, followed by an urgent need to “try harder.” Even deeper though, is my realization that I am simply exhausted by the effort. It’s not worth it any more. To my body, my psyche, my energy. Surely, surely, I can release the growling undercurrent that monitors my ADD-ish behaviors. Or at least notice it before it controls my thoughts and actions. When I’m on my deathbed, I don’t want my last words to be: “Well, I was almost linear!” Of COURSE there is more to life than dealing with ADD. Everyone knows that. It’s the popular answer, ADD wisdom du jour. But honestly, how much of our lives ARE spent with ADD at the helm? If I am truthful, 100 percent. ADD isn’t a mask I can take off at night. I am not “more” than my ADD. I am ADD and ADD is I. Or perhaps ADD R Me. So the harder question is: how do I move from “dealing with” ADD to “living with” ADD and thriving as a result of ADD? How do I look ADD in the eye, acknowledge its breath and depth and treat it as a respected ally instead of a pesky nuisance to be shooed away and thwarted at every turn? I don’t have the answer. This inquiry deserves more than a flippant remark or a cliched retort. My suspicion is that each of us will make peace (and friends) with our ADD with as much variety and creativity as our wild-child brains allow. So I invite you into the question. How do YOU go deeper, beyond the “let’s fix it” stage. How do you put your arm around ADD and walk down the road with it, knowing that there is one absolute certainty: that ADD will never desert you. It is yours (and you) for as long as you live. How do you move from “endurance” to “fulfillment” starting right now?
I just love it when something works for me and my ADD. I love it even more when it also helps the environment. I have a trunk full of reusable grocery bags. They make me feel so environmentally conscious -- until I get to the checkout line and remember that they are...still in the trunk of my car. Why can’t I remember to bring them IN to the grocery store? (Oh yeah. ADD.) Once, when there was no one in line behind me, I actually excused myself and ran outside to get them. Of course, by the time I returned, six people were glaring at me, waiting impatiently to check out. Won’t do that again. But what’s the point of having reusable bags if I don’t, eh, USE them? A good friend of mine unwittingly solved my ADD-ish problem with her Christmas gift last year. She gave me a ChicoBag. I love these little critters! ChicoBags are fat little bundles that expand to full size grocery bags. Made of polyester, these mighty little sacks can hold up to 25 pounds of groceries. (The larger size holds 40 pounds!)
Each one has a self-fabric storage sack sewn into the bottom seam (so ADD folks like me never lose it). And best of all, the ChicoBag has a carabiner (hook) so it attaches to your purse, belt loop, notebook, shopping list, you name it! I love the bright colors, too. Some of the newest ChicoBags are made of 99 percent recycled materials -- even better for the environment! I bought several more at the ChicoBag website for $5 each. What a bargain! And if you buy five, the company throws in the fifth one for free.
I attached three ChicoBags to my purse on an unused key ring. I know I look a bit like a pack animal with my pink, purple and green bags, but hey -- I’m using them! Sometimes, I even use them at the hardware store or department store, too.
It’s a perfect ADD tool: I just love it when something works for me and my ADD. I love it even more when it also helps the environment. Viva Green ADDiva!
Cosmo's doggie stroller reminds me that we ADD folks also need a little boost when we get tired halfway through doing the dishes or organizing our closets. Listen to this blog! "Do dogs really need their own stroller?" I mulled this question for several weeks before I finally plunked down my credit card on the dog stroller website and bought a few months (or years) of freedom for Cosmo, my 14-year-old Sheltie. Like any living being that is the equivalent of 85 in human years, Cosmo has a few aches and pains: a bad back, arthritic shoulder, painful hips. He sleeps most of the day and night. But he still loves his walks. When I lace up my walking shoes, he perks up and trots out to the garage to be harnessed into his leash. Cosmo, and his younger counterpart Boomer, launch our walks with great enthusiasm, nosing around mailboxes, checking out the latest deer tracks. But on the way home, Cosmo’s optimism is overshadowed by his physical ailments. He slows down, limping with each step. A couple of times, I tried to carry him home, but 40 wiggly pounds gets heavy after a couple of blocks. I left him at home, which broke his heart. The stroller was my last hope, even though I was a bit embarrassed to order it –- after all, this is a DOG we’re talking about. (OK, I also cook for my dogs, but that’s another story.) That doggie stroller works beautifully, though. I push it empty on the first leg of our journey and when Cosmo tires, I lift him gently into the stroller and push it "with dog" the rest of the way.
That stroller reminds me that we ADD folks also need a little boost when we get tired halfway through doing the dishes or organizing our closets. Our initial optimism and enthusiasm can take a nosedive. Our brains poop out and our bodies follow suit. Like Cosmo, we have a few aches and pains going on in our ADD brains. We need the equivalent of a doggie stroller to get us back on track. Choosing the right kind of boost is important. Sometimes we simply need to take our next dose of ADHD medication. Sometimes it’s better to call our therapist or a good friend, or to make an appointment for a neurofeedback session. Like Cosmo’s doggie stroller, we need to tailor our support specifically to meet our ADHD needs. And then we need to accept that assistance with grace and appreciation. None of this "no, no thanks, I can do it myself" kind of stuff. We know better. We won’t do it ourselves. We’ll stay off track. And then feel bad about ourselves. Again. Which makes it even harder to get back ON track. Sometime we never get back... So just in case you’re waiting for it, here’s permission to ask for what you need. Hire an ADHD coach or a professional organizer. Join an ADHD support group -- online or in person. Sign up for reminders from an appointments-online website. Whatever you need most, make it happen. Then, be grateful for the boost it gives you to make it all the way to DONE -- the most beautiful word in the ADHD language!
Then it hit me: I had actually lost my grapes! I had to ask: Is that like losing your marbles? Is there ADD medication you can take for losing your grapes? Listen to this blog! I haven’t killed any grapevines this year...yet. Actually, the two vines that survived Japanese beetles, grape fungus, and complete neglect look pretty good -- probably because I did my duty and pruned them in February (the actual recommended month for pruning -- a triumph for any ADD adult!). And I threw a bunch of well-composted fertilizer (aka chicken poop) around the roots. Voila! They were happy little vines. In June, I noticed several small clumps of hard green nubbins that supposedly would ripen into luscious grapes. Not in my garden; for five years, they have shriveled and fallen to the ground. Or the birds and squirrels have eaten them. I’ve never tasted a single grape from my “vineyard.” Several weeks later, the darned things got plump. Then, they started changing color. My gosh; grapes were actually being born! Every day I checked on them; I shooed away the hungry beetles and hung a little bird netting over them. Did you know that all grapes don’t ripen at the same time? Within the same bunch, there were several deep purple grapes ready to eat, a few more grapes that barely blushed pink, and a majority of stubborn green grapes that refused to ripen. When was I supposed to harvest? When all of them turned purple? When a few were still green? I was baffled. I had my answer the day some of those early bloomers burst their skins and went flat and droopy. Oops. No matter what color, those grapes were coming with me! Carefully, I snipped off the three little bundles (at most 30 or 40 grapes). I dared not risk bruising my precious cargo in a wicker basket. Instead, I carefully turned up the hem of my T-shirt to form a pocket (think apron pocket) and nestled the grapes against my waist. I patted them gently to make sure they stayed safe, then closed the garden gate and headed for the air-conditioned house. I went straight to the kitchen, stood over the counter and flipped open my shirt. No grapes! Not one! They’d fallen out! Panicked, I retraced my steps; surely red and green grapes would be easy to find. No grapes were seen. I went back to the house, more slowly, eyes scanning the green grass. Could birds or squirrels have grabbed them so quickly? Curses on them! Tears were beginning to gather behind my eyelids. Five years of battling birds and bugs and I had LOST the first harvest? I tried to think like Sesame Street and “take a walk backwards in my mind.” Where had I gone? What had I done? I’d snipped the grapes, put them in my shirt, went to the house...ah! I’d closed the other garden gate! And there they were, a little smashed (apparently I’d stepped on a few of them), but mostly intact. I made silent apologies to the birds and squirrels after my undeserved condemnation. Then it hit me: I had actually lost my grapes! On the way from the garden to my house, I had LOST my grapes! I had to ask: Is that like losing your marbles? Do you lose your marbles and then lose your grapes? Or does losing your grapes MAKE you lose your marbles? Is there ADD medication you can take for losing your grapes? I was still giggling as I composed the survivor grapes into a sad little still life and took pictures for posterity. I might never harvest grapes again. But if I do, with god as my witness: “I’ll never lose my grapes again!” Not sure I can say the same about losing my marbles...
I dare say Aristotle didn’t have an ADD brain. But across those dusty eons, he has offered me a clue to settling my anxious brain. “In all things, moderation.” When I first encountered Aristotle’s famous advice, I was (immoderately) indignant. What kind of boring life would it be if we all hit the middle ground: no over-the-top exuberance nor down-to-the-depths depression? Those extremes -- at least the ecstatic and energetic side of the equation -- are what make me feel alive and vital. Granted, the downside is less pleasant, but at least I live the feelings. I am fully in the experience. These days, I have a little more appreciation for the philosophy of good old Aristotle and his Greek friends. I like the serenity of a calm, even-tempered life, especially with a positive twist. I like being happy. I like smiling. But I don’t stay in a Zen-like state of calm all the time. This morning, I awoke to the distinctive sound of bulldozers in the neighborhood. Trees were being cleared for a new home site. No big deal, right? I should be happy someone is spurring the economy by building a new house.
Except that... Anxiety and anguish pierced my brain, ambushing my plans to work on my website and write a few press releases. Forget work! My mind was building a hundred difference scenarios around the vacant lot, each more devastating than the last. Then I remembered the advice of a woman who had visited GardenSpirit and was enchanted by its purple tree house, its tranquil, soft furnishings and spiritual connection. She had emailed me about the purchase of the land: “Go walk the labyrinth and see what you receive. Then set an intention and let it go, knowing that it, or something better, will appear!” Of course. The Law of Attraction! The labyrinth! The journey vs. the destination! I eagerly pulled on some comfortable clothes and made my way to the mouth of my 60-foot outdoor labyrinth. A labyrinth is different from a maze; there is only one way in and one way out. No tricks or twists. Just one foot in front of the other, walking the path, looking ahead only as far as the next curve. I usually ask a question or set an intention at the beginning of my labyrinth walk, then allow the answers to percolate as I make my way slowly to the middle. I have five stumps perched in the center of the labyrinth, so I can sit and meditate or enjoy the towering trees and the sound of the birds. Then I walk out on the same path, integrating what I have learned. And what I learned today was: moderation in all things. There is balance to life. Walk in and walk out. Cool and warm. Ebb and flow. Buy and sell. The property for GardenSpirit will be available when I need it and at a price I can pay. Or something better will happen. I can trust the process. And I can allow my mind to be in balance instead of scattered and frightened. I dare say Aristotle didn’t have an ADD brain. But across those dusty eons, he has offered me a clue to settling my anxious brain.
Moderation.
The ADHD brain locks onto one of life’s fascinating topics, then skips over to another one and then another. We order the 'sampling menu' – a little taste here, a nibble there. Sunday afternoon, I received a call from one of my clients, a young woman in her early twenties who told me that her father had died of a massive heart attack the previous evening. I was shocked. Although I had talked to her father only once – he interviewed me before he agreed to pay for ADD coaching – I knew he was a relatively young man, a college professor who was still teaching, edging toward retirement. And I knew he loved his daughter beyond measure, bolstering her efforts every day, in every way. I immediately thought of my own dad, who has a long history of heart problems. So I picked up the phone, just to check in, to make sure he was OK. There was no answer, but I left a message, asking him to return my call. Instead, when the phone rang the next day, it was my mother, telling me that my dad was in the hospital. He’d suffered a TIA – a low-level brain blip similar to a stroke. Again, I was shocked. My dad is older, in his 80s. He juggles the ailments of aging pretty well, so I’ve learned to be optimistic about his health. My client’s unexpected tragedy, however, reminded me of a poignant passage from my favorite poem by Mary Oliver: “Doesn’t everything die at last, and too soon?” The words echoed in my mind as I monitored my dad’s recovery, as I attended the funeral of my client’s father, as I thought about my own place in the world, my own longevity. I know deeply (and forget regularly!) that I want to savor my life, to notice its millions of facets and flaws. I believe life is best experienced moment-to-moment, fully engaged and open to possibility. Isn’t that a perfect job description for an ADD brain? It locks onto one of life’s fascinating topics, then skips over to another one and then another. We order the 'sampling menu' when we flit through life with an ADD brain – a little taste here, a nibble there. As long as we stay in the moment, we are truly living our lives to the hilt. Sometimes, I admit, my ADD brain clogs with so much information. And sometimes I can get “into my head” with worry or planning or overwhelm. But when I quiet the mind chatter that comes from what I call the “ears up” self – the busy-busy brain, I find my center again. I pay attention to what is in front of me, in the present moment. And then the next. That is truly all we have in this world. One moment; followed by another moment; and another moment after that. Until we are all out of moments. And our ADD brains stop flitting forever. My ADD client grieves for her father, while appreciating his life. She will go on to create a life she loves, moment to moment. My father has recovered, and started the first day of the rest of his life with a hearty breakfast of bacon and eggs. I will try to stay fully present with my ADD brain; and remember the rest of Mary Oliver’s poem:
“Doesn’t everything die and too soon?
I can see clearly now -- but only when I can find my glasses. So, I have discovered the best invention ever for attention deficit adults. For the most part, I don’t mind getting older (quite possibly because I am in denial). “Age spots” don’t send shudders down my spine – they look like freckles to me. I’ve never had freckles; they seem kinda friendly, like Pippi Longstocking. And I’ve never been obsessed about the differential between the year I was born and the year displayed on my cell phone. Birthdays, schmirthdays. Who cares? I admit, however, I’m a bit shocked that 60 is coming at me like a freight train. Oh how my attitude changes with perspective! As an adolescent, my matter-of-fact view was that by 60 you were on death’s doorstep; today, I’m convinced that 60 really IS the new 40; or 35. But when I have to squint to read the instructions on the back of the pizza box (they made the print smaller, I swear), I’m ready to turn back the clock. Reading glasses, of course, make all the difference in my reading comprehension. Sadly, my glasses are rarely within an arm’s reach, my first criterion for actually plopping them on my face. I thought I’d solve the problem by stashing multiple pairs of inexpensive readers all over the house (Costco kindly sells them in the convenient three-pack). But somehow the glasses migrate to my computer or bedside, under papers, stuck in drawers, tangled into a magnifying heap. So imagine my delight when I discovered that the FOFA folks, that’s Find One Find All, the best invention ever for ADDivas) had unveiled a new locator device for glasses. Woo hoo!
A word of explanation: a couple of years ago I found a fabulous key locator in, of all places, Radio Shack (yes, yes, I “located” a key locator!). The package contained two devices, one for a key ring, the other for a wallet. Each had six buttons with numbers. I learned how to set up the locator so that when I lost the car keys, for instance, I could press “1” on the wallet device and the key ring would beep. If I lost my wallet, I could press “2” on the key ring and the wallet device would beep. Great idea, great execution. I only needed to find one thing with the beeper and I could find up to six other missing objects that were attached to a FOFA. I wanted more of them, but Radio Shack stopped selling them. I delved into the Internet to track down the manufacturer (“made in China” was my only clue). Finally I found it, a small company in Texas owned by the Find One Find All inventor. I ordered several sets of their new and improved FOFA model, attaching one to my camera, my van keys, my purse, my cell phone. They worked! What a miracle; I wanted to buy stock in the company. I eagerly ordered the new glasses locator. It was, well, a disappointment. I’m sure it’s my attention deficit disorder sensitivities, but I can’t stand even a tiny bit of weight around my neck. The little button panel, even shrunk down to less than half its original size, proved far too distracting for me. So, I’m heading back to Costco today. A few more three-packs and I’ll have so many pairs of readers, they’ll always be within an arms reach. And perhaps I won’t burn the pizza next time. « All Blogs |
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