Sorry, you have the wrong number

I was watching the news last night and caught this story about the mishandling of medical information. I was interested because privacy issues really interest me in this digital world, and as the story unfolded, I grew increasingly disgusted. Here is what happened:

A nursing home was trying to fax some medical records to a doctor. The records turned up on the fax machine in some woman's house. This "good Samaritan" calls the news to tell them about what happened and she gets an interview on the eleven o'clock news. It turns out that the only difference between the phone number of the intended recipient and this woman is the last digit.

The news story talks about the increase of theft of medical identity and the consequences for the person handling the  information - like loosing their job.

So someone may loose their job because they misdialed the phone? The woman who received the fax could take the time to find the news hotline but couldn't take the time to get the name of the sender off the header of the fax and let them know they had the wrong number; or, worst case, look at the caller id on the fax machine and send a fax back letting them know. Shame on you lady.

Shame on the news organization too for running this - I'll use the term loosely -- news. People dial the wrong number all the time, and it isn't news.

Lights are on

The headlights on my car were out. Yep, both of them. So I had to stop by the auto parts store to buy more lights. This is one of those chores I dread, that and buying windshield wipers. I really hate this because you have to go and search through that book that they hang there by the shelf for your car to find the cryptic code and then match that code to some label on the shelf -- after I refer back to the book three or four times to make sure I have the right one.

This time was different. When I walked into the store, Cody (I assume his name was Cody because it was embroidered on his shirt) asked if he could help. "I need headlights" I tell him. Much to my surprise, rather than pointing to the big book o' headlights over on isle five, he asks me "year, make, model?"

"2002 Volvo s40 please" I reply.

"You need an H7."

By this time I see where the headlights are and start walking in that direction to find my H7. "Thanks!" I tell him. Before I knew it, Cody was out from behind the counter and had located my parts for me. Then he walked me back to the counter, rang me up and asked if there was anything else. I walked out of there in less than five minutes and felt like if I had asked him to install the damn things for me too, he would have.

Refreshing.