Apple Computer's Piece of Shinola

CAUTION: The following entry contains language that will offend just about everyone.

Dear Apple Computers,

I have a complaint, along with several hundred other people, about your lameass power cords for the MacBook Pro. 

But first, the backstory. In May of 2009, I went to one of your sleek Apple Stores and spent almost $3000 on what turned out to be a 2008 MacBook Pro. Stupid me for thinking that in 2009 a computer I purchased from you -- at full retail -- would be made in 2009. Not an old model, sitting on the shelf since 2008.

Unlike every marketer in the world, it turns out you sell your soon-to-expire products without any discounts, ever. Right up to the day before the new models are introduced. Assholes. 

Your geniuses couldn’t give me a clue that something was in the pipeline, so I could wait a month and get the upgrades already built in? You couldn't knock off several hundred dollars at least, as a gesture of goodwill to a loyal customer for taking your ratty old stock off your hands? No. You’d rather let me spend even more money down the road because I had to play catch up.

Seriously, you people are dicks.

But that’s not my real bitch. Nope. My real bitch is that crap power cord I mentioned earlier. The one that came with the obsolete computer you sold me. It is now 2012, three years later, and I’m on my FOURTH power cord. That’s more than one cord a year.  

Each time the power cord breaks in the very same place. One would think that this might qualify as a design flaw. And have one’s engineers fix the problem. But not Apple Computer. No. They’d rather have you think it’s your fault, because Apple’s engineers are geniuses and geniuses don’t make mistakes.

When my first power cord snapped and shorted out, I was covered by Apple Care, the $300-ish insurance coverage I tacked onto my already expensive and obsolete machine when I bought it.

After checking the rules of engagement, I took the broken cord into an Apple Store to exchange it. I suggested to the young man who waited on me that the cord probably had a design flaw. Otherwise why would it break down after such a short time?

He, in turn, suggested that I had abused the cord somehow. What a condescending little twerp he was. He even noted on the exchange receipt that the cord was in poor condition.  

Of course the cord was in poor condition – it was broken.

The second power cord broke in the exact same spot. So it was rinse and repeat. Apple Care covered that one, too. But once again, the geniuses at Apple didn’t think there was a design flaw. Instead they insinuated that the break was my fault again, because of how I stored the cord -- even though I had gone out of my way to prevent stress on the area that broke down the first time.

Two weeks ago, a couple of months after my 3-year, non-renewable Apple Care warranty coverage had expired, the third cord snapped. I nursed it along with electrical tape for a couple of weeks, but it finally quit for good. This time I had to pay actual money for power cord numero cuatro.  

Before exchanging the third cord, I did something I hadn’t done before. I checked to see if there were any comments about the MacBook Pro 85 power cord at Apple.com.

Voila. There are hundreds. 688 of them at the time. Now many more, I'm sure. They ranged from lots of extremely negative remarks to a few that were very ecstatic -- no doubt relatives of Apple engineers. But the proof is in the pudding. Out of five stars, the MacBook Pro power cord averaged a rating of two. 

The most recent comment I saw gave the power cord one star:

Piece of s---

This should be rated zero stars. As many of the other reviewers have said, the wire frays and breaks inside the magnetic jack. After all this hype of great engineering, Apple can't make a proper power 

chord? What a rip off! I won't be buying Apple products again.

Here are a few more comments -- with one star ratings:

They need a bundle of engineering!

I have now gone through no less than a half dozen of these power supplies in the last year. Why they fail isn't really beyond me, as I am an electrical engineer. So, I would have to say some re-engineering is very necessary. These power supplies were just for one computer as well!

Not bad for a one year charger 

I use my MacBook Pro for everything. It served me well through my undergrad program. And the first charger worked great from 2007-2010 when the plastic around the plug into the laptop started disintegrating, leaving exposed wire. I got a replacement, and didn't think much about the price, because it was a 3-year old charging cable and was travelled with quite extensively. After a year of having the new charger, the same thing happened! I went back to the Apple store, and after much conversation, I was able to get it replaced free of charge. Now, barely a year later, having the outside plastic near the plug to disintegrate again!! I'm not looking forward to replacing this again, and for every following year. Apple products are amazing - no doubt. But how about some more research on how to make a better charger instead of rolling out new iPhones every year or so.

Not up to Apple standards 

We now have a basket of Mac power adaptors that don't work because the wires break where they meet the Magsafe plug. There seems to be to a lot of people with this issue for quite some time (Years?), yet Apple doesn't fix the problem. I love all my Apple products, and everything is trouble free except this part. I am only writing this neg review in hopes that the problem gets noticed and fixed. 

Another bad part for a great computer

Like most of the other comments here, my cord has split next to the magnetic end and is in need of being replaced. I'm not a fan of the way these cords are made. If I'm going to pay this much for a computer, I don't want to have to buy a new cord every year to make sure it keeps charging and/or doesn't burn my house down!

And on and on. The most recent [did I mention FOURTH?] cord I bought has a one year warranty. We'll see just how long it lasts. Any bets it's toast within ten months?

The third cord [may it rest it peace] limped along for a couple of weeks after it snapped, thanks to a boatload of electrical tape. But, alas, it too, died. Below is the only known photo.

Daddy Dearest

This post is starting out about my father. I wonder where it's going to end up.
          My father and I didn't see eye to eye very much. Most of the time we went toe to toe or nose to nose on everything. I used to think it was my fault until I had children and realized that for someone in a "helping" profession -- psychiatry -- he sure didn't know how to parent very well. In my forties, it became obvious to me that I was his scapegoat child. Ironically, it's quite amazing how discovering something like that can free you. Suddenly, all his behavior toward me made sense and I felt no obligation to please him anymore, especially since pleasing him wouldn't be possible. My one regret was that this insight came after enduring four decades of his rampant negativity. 
          Among other things, he just didn't get me. When I was young and loved to perform in school shows, he called me "hysterical," a classic shrink description of any woman who has personality, interesting clothes, and loves doing comedy schtick. 
          Oddly, it was the one and only time our family played the game of Scrupples that truly revealed how deep his lack of understanding went. 
         The question to me was would I give $5000 I found to the poor? My father said I was so ambitious [i.e., selfish] I would use it to finance my business or spend it on myself. So, he said NO. One of my kids immediately challenged him. She pointed out that I gave money to worthy causes all the time, especially to homeless people on the street. I think his answer revealed more about how truly stingy he was with everything -- time, money, attention, affection, you name it -- than anything the game revealed about me. I remember looking at him thinking, "Geez, Dad, you have no clue what I'm about, do you?"
          With that introduction to dear old dad, we move a step closer to the point of this entry, whatever that may be, since I'm in the dark as much as you. 
         After my mother died of breast cancer at fifty, Dad remarried a little over a year later, to my wonderful stepmother. I've since learned that most widowers usually remarry quickly, within the first year after losing their spouse. He was 51. She was 35, sixteen years younger. They met cute. He was late to tee off. She and her father were early. So they all played golf together. Afterward, my father remembered her name and began calling everyone with her last name in the phone book. What he didn't realize was that while he had her last name right, he had her first name wrong. However, when she answered and he asked for someone else, the fates stepped in. Somehow, after one round of golf, she recognized his voice on the phone, corrected his mistake, and within three weeks, he had asked her to marry him. Cute. It took a couple of more proposals. And trading up to a larger ring. But she said yes. 
          The good news for me is that he couldn't have found a nicer, more considerate person. And smart -- with an undergrad and master's degrees from two top schools. We're also close enough in age to be more like sisters, which has been very nice for me over the years. I've had two great moms. Too bad that can't undo the damage of a bad dad.
          After they'd been married for ten years and added two half brothers to my roster of siblings, I met someone cute, too. I mean, we also met cute.
          Both of us worked in the same large ad agency. He was in marketing. I was in creative. On different accounts. Our paths had never crossed. One day, I needed to talk to someone about Miami, Florida, for a beer assignment. I tried calling the city of Miami for the information I needed, but, for some reason, no one was answering.
          Somebody, who knew more people at the agency than I did, suggested talking to "Trip," because Miami was his hometown. I called him. But he wasn't in his office. So I left a voicemail. He called back. I wasn't in my office, so he left a voicemail. I called again. Left a voicemail. He called again. Left a voicemail. Rinse and repeat a ridiculous number of times. Finally, I went down to his office. Naturally, he wasn't there. I left a note on his chair. And vice versa. Finally, he reached me. It was almost noon. Since we'd been playing phone tag all morning, did I want to go have lunch? He sounded young. He probably thought I was young. I was concerned because people think I'm younger on the phone. And I wasn't looking forward to being a disappointment. [Thank you, Dad.] So I said, no, it's kind of cool out, I parked in the building and didn't bring a coat. He said he had a sweater. Well, it probably won't fit. Yes, it will. No it won't. It's extra large. Oh, okay. Then he added, "I have to be back at 2:00 for a meeting." We hung up and I said to my art director, who had listened to all this, "I do not want to see the look on this guy's face when he sees how old I am."
            He WAS younger. Eight? Ten years? Fourteen actually. 28 to my 42. But for some reason, he didn't flinch. [Don't even think cougar. I will track you down.]  We had lunch at some noodle place and talked about Miami and a million other things. At 3:30 we were still talking. I said, "Didn't you have a meeting?" He said, "That was if I needed an excuse." 
           Cute? I thought so.
           At the end of the week, I showed him the finished assignment as a courtesy for his help. I also mentioned I was trying to find music for a campaign I was working on. He invited me to his place on Saturday night to listen to some Joan Armatrading and other people/arrangements I wasn't familiar with. My favorite recording was a wonderful version of Amazing Grace for bagpipe and cathedral strength organ. I still want to use it for something. Maybe a movie about wellness checks. 
          We ended up listening and talking until 3:00 AM. At one point I made the mistake of calling the evening a date. He was quick to point out "This is not a date." We never did agree on what it was. 
          For my trip home to the suburbs, I took a can of Coke to drink, so I wouldn't fall asleep. When I got home, I crushed the can under the front wheel of my car and wrote a country and western ditty called, "Don't Sleep While You're Driving." On Monday I sent him the smashed up can and the amusing lyrics via interoffice mail. I'd tell you what the lyrics were, but that was more than twenty years ago, and he has the only known copy.
          Ah. Finally, I think I know what this entry is going to be about.
          I was at my parents' house talking about this new guy I met. I told my dad he was fourteen years younger. Remember, my dad was sixteen years older than my stepma, so I was taking a poke at the bear, as it were.
          Naturally, my dad didn't say, "Good for you!" He didn't say, "Are you having fun?" He didn't ask, "What's he like?" Or "How did you meet him?" He just said, "Well!! He's not going to marry you."  As if that was all women were good for. And, as usual, he wanted me to know that I didn't measure up. 
          Once again my father still didn't know me. Or any of the women of my generation who enjoyed their own careers, made their own decisions, lived in their own apartments, and drove their own cars, only to get married and lose all their independence. In the seventies, women felt liberated. But for so many of us, marriage was still stuck like cement in the forties, just as constraining as ever. No wonder 1980 still has the highest divorce rate ever. It used to be that men chafed at the loss of their freedom. All I remember was how trapped I felt. 
          Taking another poke at the bear, I said, "But you're sixteen years older," looking from him to my stepmother. "That's different," he said. I knew what was coming next, "I'm a man!"  Sexism. Age-ism. My dad was a full service misogynist. 
          "Frankly, I don't want to get married again," I replied. He looked surprised. I half expected him to say, "But you have no other options." 
           Maybe that's one of the reasons I haven't married again, despite three opportunities. To make sure that any options I have are, in fact, MY options. And to stick it to my dad, wherever he may be.
          Funny how you can get to the end of a post, not knowing where it's headed, and find out something you didn't know about yourself.         

I'm Not a Doctor, but SOMEBODY Has to Read the PDR

There are two courses I've taken at some point in my schooling that I use almost every day. Typing is one. I took my first typing course on an old fashioned Royal [see picture] in 7th grade, when I was writing for our school newspaper. 

            In high school I graduated to a fancy electric typewriter and took a whole year of stress-filled speed tests from the flamboyant Mr. Brown, who was also partial to wearing brown suits, as he instilled a fear of failure in all his students. I thank him every day for the terror he elicited from each of us, because nobody has ever typed faster or more accurately than his frightened students. From high school essays to college term papers to print ads and radio/tv commercials to videos to facebook and my blogs, I've been typing something every day at 80 wpm for more than fifty years. 

           The other course I use daily is microbiology. Learning how microscopic bugs can mess with your body meant that I would be able to understand what drugs doctors were prescribing for me and my family. And why. I could also ask the docs questions and understand the answers better than most.  

           Taking micro also meant that I could understand a big chunk of the tiny print in those inserts that come with your prescriptions. The ones you never read. The inserts are also published in the Physicians Desk Reference or PDR [also PDR.net], which, unfortunately, many docs don't bother to read either, often getting their cursory information from the pharmaceutical reps. 

           The first time I challenged a doctor was when our pediatrician prescribed erythromycin for a confirmed strep throat. I had a girlfriend who was prescribed the same drug for strep throat and she was fighting rheumatoid arthritis within three weeks. Erythromycin is the drug of choice for Legionnaire's disease, but it is arguably not efficacious for strep. 

          Standing at the desk in a waiting room full of people, I practically shouted, "Why are you prescribing an ineffective broad spectrum antibiotic when we know it's strep?" He wrote a prescription for amoxycillin. The receptionist was bug-eyed. 

           A decade later, a urologist became concerned that my creatinine levels were high. He had been consulted when nobody could figure out how to control my blood pressure. Creatinine [not to be confused with creatine] measures how well your kidneys are doing their job, i.e., removing waste products from your body. Basically, if your creatinine gets too high, you're dead. 

          1.0 is usually considered the max for a healthy person. Mine was 2.3. I told the consulting doc, a professor of medicine at NU by the way, that the drug I was on produced elevated creatinine levels. It was a side effect. He had no clue. I told him he could read it in the PDR. Instead he took me off the medication and ordered a 24-hour test to confirm what I had said. 

          Off the meds, my kidneys were functioning normally. 

          When a medication caused acute pain after I ate, I knew from reading the PDR it was pancreatitis, one of its unpleasant side effects, and stopped taking it. This knowledge came in handy years later, when my father was hospitalized for acute pain after eating. But his doctors couldn't find anything after a hospital stay for multiple tests and sent him home. My stepmother was beside herself and called me. I asked what medications he was on and realized he was on one [like mine] that TA-DA! caused pancreatitis. And the problem was solved. The irony in all this is that my dad was a doctor.

          At one point, my OB-GYN prescribed a diuretic for me. I told him I would let him know whether I would take it AFTER I read the PDR. When a drug exhibits some dangerous side effects, like say, cancer or death, the PDR adds a black box warning above the information -- so there's no need to read any further. That diuretic was dangerous enough that there was a black box warning about kidney cancer. So no, I didn't take it. But you might have.

           At 1:00 AM on a Saturday night/Sunday morning, I was taken by ambulance to the emergency room with acute gastric distress. At 4:00 AM I started passing blood and they admitted me. I had all the hallmarks of hemorrhagic salmonella food poisoning. Like the people I shared salsa with the night before. But they just didn't get it as bad as I did. 

          However, the lab was closed until Monday. So it would be more than thirty hours before the specimen was examined. Unfortunately, you have to test for salmonella within 24 hours. I knew this from microbiology. According to the hospital I was negative for food poisoning, despite my protestations to the contrary. So they started considering diverticulitis and inflammatory bowel disease, neither of which I've had before or since. After recovering, I wrote to the president of the hospital [who else?] to point out the lab's error. I got a letter back confirming that the lab should have checked the specimen sooner. [I don't know how, since they weren't open.] Wish I still had that letter.  

           A friend's mother was medicated with an anti-depressant. I was visiting and noticed that her hands were palsied. And she sat around like a zombie. Her children chalked it up to the series of strokes she had suffered. I read the PDR. She was WAAAAY overmedicated. They changed her medication.

          I sprained my ankle playing tennis. The orthopod prescribed NSAIDs for the swelling. I said NSAIDs were contraindicated with the medication I was on. He challenged me, saying he had been prescribing NSAIDs with that medication for 20 years. I said there was a warning in the PDR. He said, "What year PDR were you reading?" 

          [Haaaa. I thought that comment was pretty funny. In my experience, except for adding a black box warning, I've not noticed ANY changes -- ever -- in PDR drug information from year to year. Except to add more drugs.] So I looked up the NSAID contraindication reference in the latest PDR and faxed it to him. He charged me $45 for the office visit. I charged him $45 for my research.

          After my hip surgery, the drug protocol included a medication that made me dizzy, so I didn't take it after the second day. It also gave me a mouth full of cold sores, messed up my critical thinking, and kicked in an arrhythmia. But no one thought those additional problems were related to the drug. Until I read the PDR. They were listed under "rare side effects." Lucky me. I made sure I didn't get that drug after my next hip surgery. Voila. Not a single problem. 

          Turns out that one of the drugs I take for blood pressure causes TYPE II diabetes in 50% of the people who take it. But this is anecdotal. It's not in the PDR. 

          Nobody in my family has ever had or been at risk for diabetes. I did have one aunt who should have had it -- she was 5'4" and weighed over 250 pounds, but she never got it. Meanwhile my internist was telling me that my lab tests said I was on the cusp of being pre-diabetic. WTF. It didn't make sense. So my first thought was my medication. One google search and there it was ALL OVER THE PLACE -- the entire class of drugs, i.e., every single one, not just mine, caused 50% of users to acquire TYPE II diabetes. Naturally, my doc didn't have a clue about this. And since it was on the internet, and not in JAMA, it couldn't be true.

          The other drug I take elevates uric acid. For someone who doesn't drink or smoke, and lives on fish and chicken, I'm this close to having gout, a side effect. Good times.

          I had an infected tooth over a long holiday weekend, so I was sent to the ER for antibiotics. They prescribed Penicillin V, which is notable because it's old school penicillin for gram positive bugs only, but it supposedly gets absorbed very well. However, I challenged a doc in the ER with why they didn't prescribe a broad spectrum antibiotic, like Augmentin [for gram positive/negative bugs and a big virus or two], especially since I had joint implants. She said that the penicillin I was on was capable of killing some of the same anaerobic bugs that a broad spectrum antibiotic would take care of. As soon as I left, I checked the PDR. Penicillin G can get some of the anaerobes. But not Pencillin V. So she was bull shooting me. After ten days, when the Penicillin V didn't work, my internist switched me to Augmentin, without me saying anything. Really. I never said a word.

          Which brings me to the latest drug I won't be taking. I went to a specialist about having a procedure that would get me off the drug that makes me susceptible to TYPE II diabetes. Except I'm not really far enough along to warrant the procedure. So the doc's nurse practitioner emailed me and suggested I try a new medication. Where should she send the prescription? I said I'd let them know after I read about the drug. 

          I didn't even get to the PDR. One google search and I found a warning from the FDA and three articles written by doctors, assuring me that if this drug isn't fatal, it's can mess with my liver or cause chronic heart failure. I emailed the nurse practitioner to say that there were two chances of me ever taking this drug -- slim and none.

          Needless to say, that doctor wants to have a chat.        

Mrs. Linklater Takes On A Cop

Given my unfortunate wellness check history with the gendarmes in my own town, you might be surprised to discover that I follow a popular, award-winning, Chicago police officer's blog -- Second City Cop. He's not nearly as cynical, well-written, or wet-your-pants funny as ScreaminRemo303, the recently retired Arizona cop who wrote the take no prisoners, Remo Sez. Sadly, ever since Remo dropped his twenty years and retired to trolling the halls of a local Phoenix area hospital, he's happier writing two lines at a time on facebook. And posting pictures of himself with his new fiance. Love. Go figure. 
          Meanwhile I've had to make do with Second City Cop. The blog is written anonymously, which guarantees a lot of bitching and moaning about the powers that be, who usually include the Windy City's latest top cop, Garry McCarthy, and Chicago's new mayor, Rahm Emanuel. I guess it gives me the warm fuzzies to know that the police are just as disgruntled with how they're treated, as I have been disgruntled with how the suburban officers around here have treated me. 
         Usually I don't comment on Second City Cop's blog, I just read the many anonymous, semi-literate responses that follow his entries, most of which are entertaining for their creative spelling and grammar, or inflammatory screeds about the welfare citizens of Chicago. But a couple of days ago, I got royally ticked off by the last line of an ENTRY he wrote about some sad 13-year-old juvenile delinquent who was arrested for robbery and aggravated assault. As a single, working mother, I was not amused when I read where this police officer firmly placed the blame --

"We're guessing it may be a single parent household to start...."

So, naturally, I felt it was time for me to step up and take this typical cop stereotype to the woodshed. Especially since it turns out the boy comes from a [surprise!!] two-parent family. I'm an American and that's what we do. Here's what I wrote in the comments:

          Over the years, I've asked several people what they think the definition of a dysfunctional family is. Every single one of them starts out with, "a single parent household." Just like you.
          Instead of succumbing to my inclination to tell all of you to go fuck yourselves, let me offer an alternative opinion: a dysfunctional household is one where family members live in fear. It may start when a small child experiences the fear of going hungry, then escalate to the fear of homelessness and abandonment. Too often these fears are accompanied by the fear of physical and sexual abuse and culminate with a daily, ongoing fear of dying.
          If, as one commenter noted, "The whole family are assholes. . ." then I suspect this hapless 13-year old has been subjected to parenting that uses severe beatings for discipline. It may include a mother who has been overtly sexual towards her son by exposing him to her naked body inappropriately. Or a father who verbally assaults him. Perhaps another male relative has been molesting him since he was eight or nine. Or all of the above. Surely you are aware that thirteen is an age when abused children often start acting out with violence, alcohol and drugs.
          Sadly, we all know this kid won't make it to eighteen.
          But it's not the number of parents who raise a kid that makes a difference in a child's eventual outcome. It's the behavior of those parents. Their core values. Their life skills. And most of all, their level of education.
          My daughters were raised ALONE by this divorced, but college educated mother from the time they were six and three. One has her masters and chairs her high school's English department. The other received a senate appointment to one of the military academies, but chose not to go. She graduated from college cum laude and was recently promoted to head of sales for her company in Asia.
          So I am one pissed off single parent, a working mother who takes extreme exception to your cavalier assessment that a single parent household caused some juvenile delinquent's criminal behavior.
         Asshole.

It's not nice to upset Mrs. Linklater.