True confessions: The writing’s on the wall

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on March 7, 2017 10:23AM

I think of myself as a fairly law-abiding citizen.

Other than speeding on occasion, I pretty much try to live according to things outlined in the 10 Commandments.

Maybe you’re a bit confused by my use of the words “fairly” and “pretty much.” I was relatively comfortable with my status as a decent human being until a recent office discussion was met with a moment of silence and blank stares.

I came late to the conversation so I’m not sure the level of true confessions my officemates were revealing. I shared about the time I broke into a house.

Before you call the police, double-check your alarm system or get a guard dog, let me explain. It was a friend’s house — yeah, yeah, I know, with friends like that ....

When Suzanne Tosten didn’t show up for work or answer her phone, I finally drove to her place. It was dark and quiet — you know, how you would expect to find a house if no one was home.

Clearly, I watch too much TV and my imagination ran wild. A painstaking process, I finally removed the window — only to end up dropping it.

Once inside, nothing looked out of the ordinary. There was no note (as if I write one when I leave the house).

It turns out that Suzy, her husband and dogs went on a Sunday drive in the mountains and got stuck in the snow. Out of cell phone range, they found a cabin, broke in and hunkered down for the night.

Appreciative to find a warm and dry place to stay, Suzy left a note and some cash at the cabin when they left.

And, I paid to replace Suzy’s window. I credit my parents with teaching me about honesty and doing the right thing.

Although, even with the best of parenting, kids start to make their own decisions and choices. Sometimes, it takes making a mistake and dealing with the consequences to learn lessons in life. Such was the case when I drew on the bathroom stall at school — evidently, they call it vandalism or graffiti.

I was in second grade and was using the restroom in the junior high part of the building. There was writing on stalls and walls. In my 7-year-old mind, I thought it was what the bigger kids did — so I wanted to do it, too.

Obviously I didn’t think I was doing anything wrong. I very neatly and clearly wrote my first and last name. It didn’t take authorities long to track me down. My punishment included scrubbing down the entire area.

However, in recent years, I seem to have reverted back to my second grade self. Whenever I go home to visit my parents, I write on doors, under shelves and in drawers.

The first time I did it, I wrote a message to my mom because she was feigning being upset that I hadn’t bought her a Mother’s Day card. Instead of cleaning it off, they left it there. My pops even painted around it when they re-painted the room.

Since then, it’s become a bit of tradition — I’ll write messages in obscure places and it’s like an Easter egg hunt. By the way mom, if you’re reading this — did you check under the toilet seat?

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Technical difficulties result in time-out

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on February 22, 2017 7:06AM

I recently got electronically put in time-out.

After numerous failed attempts to log into a secure message from an email link, I was locked out and directed to call the National Help Desk.

I don’t even understand why such an email — which requests the information be printed in the newspaper — needs to be sent in such a secure fashion.

If I had known the hassle I would go through, I wouldn’t have dialed the phone. After I provided my name and company information, Mrs. Help Desk asked how she could assist me.

After describing what led to the call, it’s apparent she had no clue what I was talking about. I repeated my dilemma with extra details. Mrs. Help Desk then asked if she could access my computer remotely.

I said, “No.”

But it probably sounded more like, “Nooooooooo!!!” (Similar to John Belushi in the old “Saturday Night Live” sketches). Realizing I sounded a bit annoyed, I added that she didn’t have the ability to do that.

Mrs. Help Desk asked if she could put me on hold for up to three minutes. I‘m not sure why she stressed the three minutes — maybe she was hoping I would just hang up.

I should have. The thing is, I had gotten locked out an account that’s primarily used by our records editor. I didn’t want this to become Renee’s headache after she returned from vacation.

When Mrs. Help Desk returned from her more-than-three-minute break, she said since I wouldn’t let her remotely access my computer, she couldn’t help me.

I replied, “It’s not that I won’t let you — not that I would — but you can’t because you don’t have access to my system.”

Luckily, all Renee had to do was change the password when she returned — how secure is that?!?

Dealing with technical glitches gives me a headache. I think the writer of error messages could help in lowering people’s blood pressure by the way they word the messages that end up popping up on computer screens — like this “connection trouble” one that I received in December:

“Apologies, we’re having some trouble with your web socket connection. We’ve seen this problem clear up with a restart of your browser, a solution which we suggest to you now only with great regret and self-loathing.”

Error messages that make no sense are most irritating to me. After experiencing a glitch in an old news system, the message box asked, “Do you really wish to quit Newsedit?” I detested that message because I had no choice. I had to quit. And I prayed my work would still be there when I logged on again.

One of the most baffling messages I received on several occasions was, “Your computer woke from sleep or hibernation. Your connection to the server has been lost.”

Seriously, I could be typing away and that message would pop up on my screen. I think my computer had narcolepsy. Instead of technical support, I think it needed to see a doctor who specialized in sleep disorders.

Growing up in an analog world, I’m an old dog trying to learn new tricks when it comes to all things digital.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

In my dog’s world, who’s training who?

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on January 31, 2017 7:34PM

As time goes on, I’m learning to think more like a dog.

While watching “Dog with a Blog,” sometimes I wish the General could just tell me what he’s thinking. A 4-year-old German shepherd — he’s the smartest dog I’ve ever had. I’m sure he doesn’t think the same of me.

While I feel extremely safe and protected when I’m with him, it evidently took him awhile to feel the same with me. I know this because the first time we went on a trip without John and Lucifer, the General didn’t do a duty for nearly 40 hours.

No matter how much I wanted him to take care of business, it wasn’t happening. In addition to the multiple stops on the way to Klamath Falls, when I got to the hotel I took him outside numerous times.

Seriously, nothing. I found all kinds of great spots for him. Along the lines of you can take a horse to water — he was having none of it.

I later learned I was approaching it all wrong. I was thinking like a human — you know, turning my head and looking the other way to give him privacy.

Dogs feel most vulnerable when doing their business, so they look to their human for protection. Go ahead, Google it. I was supposed to stare at him — reassuring him that I had his back.

Now it totally makes sense the first time I brought him to work late one night. When I went to the restroom, he crawled underneath the stall door, sat down and gazed at me the entire time.

I’m like, “Dude, the door is locked, you can sit out there.” Of course, he was probably thinking I was being ungrateful.

There are things I still need to figure out. I don’t get why the General shakes his head and tries to get out of the way when I blow in his face. This is the same dog that can’t wait for me to roll down the window when I’m driving so he can stick his head out.

And, evidently the General was royalty in a previous life. When I’m getting treats in the kitchen, Lucifer comes running to get some. General, on the other hand, waits to have his delivered. I swear he has a look on his face like, “What took you so long?”

In his eyes, I may be the prehistoric canine goddess but there are still things I need to learn.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Inside my shoes goes inside my head

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on January 11, 2017 10:31AM

Sometimes I think I think too much.

Simple things can get my head twisting and turning — like why aren’t birth control pills dispensed in childproof containers? Or what are the names of the two people in a “Pedestrian Crossing” sign?

But one thing that occupied a lot of space in my mind recently is the packaging of products.

Over the holidays, a box of Gudrun chocolates appeared in the newsroom’s kitchen. The thing that intrigued me was the intricate packaging.

It came in a lovely silver case (box is too simple for the elegant craftsmanship, which even featured a magnetic strip to hold the flap down). Inside were two glorious trays of candies.

A brochure included a three-paragraph description of the process of making chocolates — from choosing the right cocoa beans to the development of recipes. It ended with the simple word, “Enjoy!”

Back in the day, Candyce Lukens, a former boss, would push her fingernail into the bottom of a piece of candy to determine what was inside. Those techniques aren’t required with Gudrun.

The insert featured mouth-watering descriptions of each piece of candy — complete with a color photos.

Each morsel of deliciousness had its own name — including Twinkle (pistachio with hazelnut pieces) Seabreeze (a layered truffle with salted caramel) and Cocorico (milk chocolate with coconut ganache). I’m licking my lips as I type.

Speaking of coconut — I recall the time my good buddy Marko Briley mistakenly started to eat some “flakes” of paper. The error was understandable — he’s legally blind. But, the bigger contributing factor was the packaging.

This, also, was a box of chocolates. The pieces of candy were lying in a bed of what appeared to be gourmet coconut flakes. The paper actually looked like and had the consistency of coconut.

However, Marko said it didn’t taste like coconut. I took his word for it.

It certainly doesn’t make sense to package gourmet chocolates in a bed of paper.

Oh, and by the way, I named the people in the “Pedestrian Crossing” signs — Pedestri-ANN and Pedestri-ANDY. You’re welcome!

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Rain, snow, sleet — reporters cover their beat

Journalists — and firefighters — venture out in all sorts of weather to do their work

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on December 21, 2016 6:56AM

I just wanna say the post office ain’t got nothing on journalists.

Chiseled in stone at the New York Post Office on Eighth Avenue are the words, “Neither snow nor rain nor heat nor gloom of night stays these couriers from the swift completion of their appointed rounds.”

Whatever.

After a bunch of snow blanketed Eastern Oregon a decade or so ago, our letter carrier left a note saying that our mail delivery was being suspended until we cleared the white stuff from around our mailbox. And, that wasn’t the first time a carrier had threatened to hold our mail hostage. Someone had crashed into our mailbox, leaving it with a permanent lean to the left. Yup, we had to straighten up the pole before they would resume delivering our bills and junk mail.

Anyway, reporters and photographers don’t let a little snow get in their way of telling the news. While schools get snow days and government agencies are on two-hour delays, journalists are bundling up and trudging to work.

During this recent winter storm, some of my co-workers with rigs that don’t fair well in the snow have car-pooled, while others have strapped ice cleats to their shoes or skis on their feet to walk or glide to the newsroom.

As this past weekend’s Saturday reporter, I checked out the weather forecast before choosing my attire. With temperatures hovering around 0, I decided to wear my Under Armour ColdGear and Gore-Tex Merrells with Vibram soles. It was a wise decision.

I started my day in the warmth of the Hermiston Conference Center. As I exited the building, I planned to go to the newsroom to process photos and write a story. However, the flashing lights on a fire engine caught my attention and I headed to check it out.

It was a frigid 4 degrees outside while I was crunching my way through the snow to get photos of the firefighters in action. Oh, and just a suggestion, Chief Scott Stanton might want to get some ice grippers on those boots of his. He did a little slip slidin’ away, falling on the ice.

I remained upright and stayed as warm as one can with an exposed face and hands while operating a camera. I certainly do appreciate the ColdGear technology of Under Armour — although they are a bit spendy.

Tired of having a cold bum, I bought my first set back when I was skiing all the time. I don’t know if it was shock or my Under Armour, but I stayed relativity warm one time while waiting for ski patrol to rescue me when I look a tumble at Mt. Bachelor.

When I arrived at the ski patrol urgent clinic, I was afraid they might try to cut off my upper layers. I excused myself to the restroom and somehow, despite a broken collarbone, wriggled my way out of the skin-tight Under Armour.

That, my friends, is determination to protect something very important to me. Stay warm!

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539

Winter storm wreaks havoc on road trip

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on December 7, 2016 9:48AM

As I watched a skiff of snow begin to form outside late Monday night, I wondered if the traction on my Nikes would be enough to safely transport me from the newsroom door to my Jeep.

I should have worn my Vibram-soled Merrell shoes. The weather report indicated Old Man Winter was blowing in, but I chose comfort over practicality.

I like to think I make rational decisions based on information available. However, there was that time when I was stranded during a winter storm in Imnaha.

Friends who travel with me are convinced that I put a capital O and C in obsessive-compulsive disorder when it comes to preparing for trips. So, it still baffles me that I actually hit the road with minimal planning.

It was nearly 15 years ago when Bonnie Kessell and I volunteered to help Charlotte Jeffries move her sister’s belongings out of a remote Wallowa County house. We didn’t even have overnight accommodations arranged.

Before heading out of town, we stopped by Les Schwab. Charlotte was sure that her tread-bare tires would be just fine — meaning it would be cheaper to merely buy chains.

I was having none of that — I had seen the bald tires AND the winter storm warning. After much contemplation and Les Schwab caramel corn, it was decided I would get SkyMiles for the privilege of putting the tires on my American Express card. That was the first of many purchases that contributed to my next free airline trip.

As we headed up Cabbage Hill, it became apparent the windshield wipers were lacking. Two sets of wiper blades later, they still weren’t functional. Charlotte decided to head to a gas station to find some chivalrous man to install them.

Starting up the engine, the bladeless wiper arms began wreaking havoc on the windshield. The simple thing would be to merely turn them off. But no, Charlotte jumped out, pulled the arms away from the windshield and we proceeded to the gas station with them protruding like Martian antennas.

Of course that wasn’t the only technical difficulty we experienced during the trip. A big chunk of ice disconnected some of the wires between the U-Haul and trailer we had rented. I surmised we had a 50-50 chance in correctly matching the colored wires. Charlotte decided green should go with red.

“They just go together, like Christmas colors,” she reasoned.

I suggested it could be black and blue because that’s what our bodies were going to look like when we short-circuited the system, causing a wreck and resulting in contusions and massive hematomas.

It was well after dark when we arrived in Imnaha. Luckily, the owners of the Imnaha Store & Tavern also managed a small motel and RV park. Room No. 2 would become home for the next couple of days.

In the morning, we hobnobbed with the coffee klatch before driving 23 miles on the treacherous snow-covered mountain road. More than an hour later, we arrived to find that Charlotte’s sister hadn’t loaded anything into the U-Haul.

It became apparent as the day wore on that we weren’t going to make it home that night. Between all the crap in the house and the storm warning, which had become a full-fledged storm, we were stuck in Oregon’s easternmost settlement.

We were grateful that Dave and Sallie had saved our room for us — not that anyone else was venturing to Imnaha during the storm. We hung out in the store/tavern, getting our fill of food and Imnaha stories.

It was an adventure, but I’ve never been back to Imnaha. I’m afraid our pictures are on the wall as Charlotte wrote a hot check to these kind country folks who carry big guns.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.

Erik Estrada livens up game show fun

By Tammy Malgesini

Staff Writer

Published on November 15, 2016 11:23AM

I can name that tune in three notes. Before you get too impressed, I must qualify the statement with music from game shows.

Such was the case when the familiar opening theme music from “Match Game” and “The Newlywed Game” boomed through the sound system Oct. 29 at Wildhorse Resort & Casino. And then there was wild cheering and screaming — mostly coming from the mouths of female baby boomers, like myself — when announcer Jimmy Richards introduced Erik Estrada as the live host during “America’s Greatest Games Shows.”

Known as Ponch from the 1977-83 TV Series “CHiPS,” I had a poster of Estrada back in my college days. Yep, the man who once graced the cover of People magazine — who was designated as one of sexiest bachelors in the world in 1979 — still has it going on.

When Tiah DeGrofft of Wildhorse community relations asked if I was interested in attending the event, I was all in. I’m a game show junkie. My husband, John, is amused that I actually record some of my favorite ones to watch later.

My game show addiction started when I was a kid and continued when I was in college. Kari Knutson, one of my old roomies, and I were parked in front of a black-and-white TV each day to watch as Richard Dawson introduced families as they battled it out on “Family Feud.”

When Tiah asked if I would be interested in a telephone interview with Erik Estrada, what do you think I said?

After getting the official business out of the way, Erik and I spent a few minutes shooting the breeze. In regards to aging, we agree that our bodies feel older than our minds. An avid golfer, I told Erik to prepare to spend some time “at the beach” when swinging the clubs at Wildhorse.

“I’ll bring my suntan lotion,” he said with a laugh.

Also, a bit of a foodie, Erik said many of the casinos that host “America’s Greatest Game Shows” have excellent chefs.

Initially, John said he’d attend with me. However, as the date got closer, I thought I should paint a picture of what the event would be like — a lot of screaming people. For a man who lives for concerts, he doesn’t like big crowds of rowdy people.

I invited my bestie, Carol Greene, to go with me. To give you an idea of how crazy we can be together, my husband has referred to Carol as Lucy — as in Lucy and Ethel.

While we weren’t chosen as contestants, Carol and I had a great time. And in keeping true to our “I Love Lucy” monikers, there were some shenanigans. However, what happens at Wildhorse stays at Wildhorse.

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Tammy Malgesini is the community editor. Her column, Inside my Shoes, includes general musings about life. Contact her at tmalgesini@eastoregonian.com or 541-564-4539.