Susan's Scribblings the Blog

A writer from the Philadelphia area shares the week online.
Susan's Scribblings the Blog
  • Who the Heck is Kayewer?
  • Monthly Archives: March 2011

    • Do You Smell Something?

      Posted at 3:19 am by kayewer, on March 27, 2011

      There used to be a great product for removing scuff marks from shoes.  When you consider that a good pair of women’s shoes cost the equivalent of a BMW, a good scuff remover is a must-have accessory. Unfortunately they’re off the market, because teenagers were buying them to sniff the contents and get high.

      Bill Cosby mentioned in his comic routine that kids are brain damaged.  They develop at such an astounding rate, they don’t know what they’re doing half the time.  This fact, however, is no excuse for drug abuse.  It’s a shame that perfectly good products go away because they have huffing potential.

      But then, what do I know?  I don’t smoke or drink, nor have I felt the urge to try taking a deep breath of some chemical to see if my world looks better with toxic fumes swirling in my brain.

      Let me qualify the smoking part.  Back in junior high, I and a few cohorts got hold of some cigarettes and had at them.  Later, alone, I lit one up, but after seeing myself in the mirror holding it, I thought I looked completely idiotic.  Actresses like Bette Davis could blow smoke rings and make it look sexy.  I’m not Bettte Davis by a mile.  Such was my career as a smoker:  not starting meant I didn’t have to quit.

      I never could grasp the concept of artificial happiness brought on by synthetic compounds.  Sure, perfume is cool, but a scent doesn’t define people any more than shoe scuff remover can make life seem better by inhaling its odor.  We are so obsessed with our sense of smell that we overbathe and underplay how much odor can tell us.  Dogs can be trained to sniff out bedbugs, and we can know there is a fire at home by smelling smoke not caused by cigarettes.  We know dinner is on the stove (or microwave), the factory down the street is busy, or the seashore is minutes from our anxious bare toes.  Who needs to inhale chemical crap?

      Spend one day just smelling life.  It’s better than anything in a bottle.

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    • What’s In Your Bag?

      Posted at 2:05 am by kayewer, on March 20, 2011

      We women have it tough when it comes to lugging stuff around.  Sure, men have to sit on overstuffed wallets that may well make their buns fall asleep, but one time I actually weighed my purse and found it took second place only to a bowling ball.  That explains why I walk with one shoulder lower than the other.  Beats bun pain by a mile, though.

      Women are usually armed for anything, which is why a purse is necessary.  We need to carry tissues, hand sanitizer gel, car cell phone chargers, schedules, bills to mail, prescriptions to fill, travel size products of every description and enough change to fill a slot at the casino to choking.

      I miss the purses of yesteryear.  Back in the day, my favorite all-time purse was the Ambassador II, an organizer handbag like no other and the undisputed king of bags.  Each bag came with a wallet, change purse, cosmetic bag, mini address book, notepad, two key rings (which fit into snaps inside the bag) and even a pen with its own sheath.  Now those were the days when mail order gave you value (plus shipping and handling).

      Of course we fill the freebies with stuff; keys by the dozen go on the key rings, a model’s dream supply of makeup in the cosmetic bag, plus pocket change, hand cream, spare batteries, a book for the commute, mail and such, and that bag becomes quite a load to carry.

      The company that manufactured the bag seems to have vanished, or they just went out of production without notice, which infuriated legions of the bag’s fans.  There was a video on YouTube about the bag   (http://www.uniquehandbags.info/1978-ambassador-handbag-ultimate-bag-commercial.html) which was recently pulled because of some legal problems about its appearance.  The bag has been out of production for some time, so somebody must have an issue with nostalgia advertising (unless, by some miracle, somebody is bringing the bag back).

      Today’s so-called organizer bags are bottomless caverns of inefficient design.  I have yet to find a bag I truly like to replace the Ambassador.  The best I’ve come up with is a Gianni Bernini with two zip closures (I preferred the large flap of the Ambassador), wide bottom (close enough) and some serviceable pockets.  I bought a black one and a beige one, never having been one to be out of season with my purse.  I hope they last two seasons apiece before I’ll need to replace them with something new.  Have you ever noticed that, when you find something that works for you, it goes out of production?

      As long as I carry a purse, I’ll continue my quest for the holy grail of bags.  A suitable heir to the Ambassador is sure to come along in my lifetime, right?

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    • Graduation Through a Glass

      Posted at 3:34 am by kayewer, on March 13, 2011

      My college diploma arrived in the mail.  I know I should be happy, but I’m not.  True, it’s an admirable achievement at my age, especially when my high school guidance counselor discouraged me from furthering my education at all, but still it is a bittersweet accomplishment.

      I never understood why people in the education system, who should have been invested in the future of every student, put such cruel obstacles in my way.  Several women in my family had and either didn’t take advantage of or lost the opportunity to attend college for various reasons.  That did not qualify me any less.  Any time I accomplished something, the elementary and high school faculty acted as if they were disappointed.  I still remember an elementary school teacher telling me that I had been selected to participate in a high school creative writing seminar, with a look that condemned my daring to have any sort of talent.

      When I first applied to college, starting with Rutgers evening classes, I only took one or two classes, hoping I could concentrate better on my studies in small quantities.  I also didn’t want to appear to be somebody who craved being academically overloaded when I wasn’t a day person.   I didn’t go for dorm life, but commuted from home at night and paid from my own pocket.  After all those years of being told I was unfit, I decided to be fit on my own terms.

      In the end I was able to get reimbursements for classes from work, and I still commuted 50 miles from the office to home at night, then got to school with two methods of public transportation (which didn’t get reimbursed).

      With some breaks from academics while pursuing other aspects of life, it’s finally over.  One class at a time, I cobbled together a four-year degree and finished it.  I won’t march in commencement or hang the diploma on a wall as if I have to brag or say to anybody “I told you so,” mostly because all those faculty members who discouraged me are, for the most part, dead.  They did their damage and escaped.  That, above anything else, I think, is what made me hold back tears before I opened the envelope and read the Latin pronouncement that I had finished something nobody wanted me to even try.  If those folks are indeed spirits out there somewhere, I wonder what they think now.

      The news on the street is that a Bachelor’s degree is similar to the high school education of the 1970s.  The other news on the street is that people with Master’s degrees are unemployed in huge numbers.  Readers never are told who compiles this data, but I think it may come from people who have no or the wrong degree.  But I did it, I earned it, and whatever becomes of the knowledge I’ve obtained, I won’t stop here.  I like learning.  How dare I.

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    • Dirty Words: From Seven to Two

      Posted at 4:27 am by kayewer, on March 6, 2011

      Language has been, and always will be, volatile, emotionally charged and constantly changing.  Words come and go, and occasionally they come back into fashion, but there are a select few that don’t get spoken without some penance involved.

      The late George Carlin referred to feces, urine, a sex act, female genitalia, insulting monikers about sexual relations (twice) and breasts to come up with his infamous list of seven “dirty” words unspeakable on the airwaves.  I’m sure that my clues make it somewhat easy to guess correctly what most of the originals are without offending anybody.

      In our so-called modern world, two words are still volatile enough to warrant censure:  the “f” word (what in A Christmas Story was spoken as “fuuuuudddddge”), and the “n” word.

      Recently I overheard a grammarian use a word that raised some eyebrows.  The person was referring to a tightwad who apparently didn’t just pinch pennies, but rubbed Lincoln’s beard raw.  The poor literary adept person then wondered why the tightwad was so niggardly.  Heads spun around, white and otherwise.  It was as if somebody had said the “f” word out loud.  I didn’t even look up from my lunch.

      The word means stingy or miserly.  It has nothing to do with anything pertaining to the African American heartache associated with the original “n” word.  But the question lingered whether the negativity associated with an unrelated word could condemn it to obscurity.  Hopefully not.  Words have a connection to what we learn and have learned from our past and future, so trying to blot them out does nothing.

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