Susan's Scribblings the Blog

Monthly Archives: October 2024

• Invasión española

  Posted at 3:07 pm by kayewer, on October 26, 2024

  We have often been taught about the conquering explorers of old who sailed to find and take over lands beyond the horizons of the great seas. In the past, we were taught, a bunch of men would run a small boat onto a patch of land, stick a flag in it, declare it the property of some great country’s regal leader and then set forth to kill anybody already living there, or put them to work making a new version of the same old country they sailed in from.

  Today, the conquerors just send email.

  My main account was blown up recently by a variety of offers from merchants I don’t even patronize, saying I won this prize or had a special offer on that merchandise. The peace of my email junk box was destroyed by some sender with a “dot ES” in it. On every single piece of junk, the same email address with a different company in front of it. Definitely potential scam material. I took a good guess at what it could mean, but looking it up confirmed it: I was being mail-bombed by somebody with origins in Spain, or España in the native tongue (thus the ES in the email address).

  Some of Christopher Columbus’ great ancestors are trying to conquer my inboxes! Nigeria, take up your things and go home; the Spanish are coming!

  The same sender was bombarding me with two of everything. My AOL inbox has been bad enough (even with spam blockers which I pay for), but I couldn’t tolerate this. I did what any American patriot would do. I began reporting and blocking. Yes, they had a link for unsubscribing. No, I don’t think it means anything. After that task was done, I checked AOL. It was much cleaner than I would’ve expected.

  I felt good that, the next time I sign in to check email, my junk mail will be less crowded. Then, just moments before starting to post this story, I sated my curiosity about some of the options available on my service by clicking on one. What came up was. . . .in Spanish.

  I’m trapped in a horror movie in another language (on Halloween weekend, no less). Messages in Spanish are coming back from the digital dead to torment me.

  The last time I took any Spanish was in college and, unfortunately, my abilities as an English-speaking writer don’t translate well to another language. I passed the courses, but have no command of it, meaning I couldn’t tell off the junk mail bombers without the aid of Google Translate. I also can’t ask my service provider to give me an English version of what I’m looking for. Well, that’s their loss.

  Queen Isabella, on the other hand, would have been incensed at my ignorance. She probably would’ve put me on the Santa Maria for a one-way ticket home to what she assumed were the spice islands.

  Imagine me on a boat with a hundred smelly men who don’t speak English. I think I would’ve had the entire vessel to myself in half an hour (and no lifeboats). I suppose the Pinta would’ve towed me.

  They didn’t have a boat club version of AAA in those days.

  So I’m dealing with dozens of Spanish junk mails and a benefit which I can’t use since I can’t read it.

  And I’ve gone off on a tangent about Spanish email employees and long-dead boatmen helping Columbus discover new lands.

  Please don’t complain to my inbox.
  

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  Posted in Commentary | 0 Comments | Tagged email, gmail, inbox-zero, technology, writing

• For Men Only

  Posted at 3:38 pm by kayewer, on October 19, 2024

  My experience with the opposite sex has been, as the Brits might put it, a bit wonky. Having been born in the generation between “up with respectability” and “up with free love,” the males who made up the generation I would be dating didn’t seem to know what they were doing.

  Part of the problem was with our parents deciding whether we should learn about the birds and bees the factual way, the rumor mill way or no way. Whatever false information that came to us, the risks of “bad things” happening became more severe, from the dangers of unwanted pregnancy and venereal diseases to AIDS. These were serious complications of life we were forced to contend with.

  Yet nobody wanted to be the odd person out who hadn’t lost what has become known in modern lingo as “the V card.” For males especially, some magical edict says that they should know what they’re doing, and that it’s okay to learn with a partner who either knows what she is doing and can guide them along the way, or is exactly like them and one can simply stumble through that first go-round.

  Women, on the other hand, are supposed to “save themselves,” and their magical edict states that a dip in the deep pool prior to marriage is also okay, because at least then one supposedly knows what they’re doing and there will be no surprises on the honeymoon night.

  So if you want somebody with experience, you must also contend with the sociological baggage that comes with knowing your partner has been with at least one other person before you. If they still don’t know what they’re doing, it can be a deal breaker for some.

  You may be wondering why I’m on this notion in the first place. Well, there was a prescription ad on the TV about an HIV prep method to allow people with the condition to engage in sex without worrying about disease transmission. That’s the problem with those first nervous moments when you commit to hooking up with somebody: you can’t see their history. You rely solely on their honesty.

  When you have watched multiple decades of your best years, and “bad things” happening, passing you by, it’s with mixed emotions when you see a commercial saying it’s okay to engage in pleasure when you have a serious disease.

  So the question goes out to the men: how do you deal with the baggage of being expected to know what you’re doing in this world we’re living in? What is a deal breaker for you?

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• Common(er) Courtesy

  Posted at 3:17 pm by kayewer, on October 12, 2024

  Recently I did something out of the ordinary and attended a concert featuring a chamber orchestra and a concert pianist playing one of Beethoven’s piano concerti. When I read about the upcoming performance, I looked at the seating chart for the small, intimate venue, and noticed a single unoccupied seat available in the front row. That spoke opportunity to me, so I clicked and bought the seat.

  The stage was set up for the orchestra without the piano for the first portion of the event, and I soon realized that my seat would not afford me the view of the pianist, as the instrument would take up the middle of the stage and block my view, but I was there to hear the concerto more than to watch the performer’s range of emotions (or lack of them) while their fingers flew over the keyboard.

  Soon the place began to fill up, and an elderly woman came and sat next to me, clad in a boiled wool jacket with a scarf, pillbox hat and typical jewelry for somebody her age. Now, I am also considered an old lady, but I’m talking generational older, as in she could have passed for my mother older. After the nodding pleasantries of acknowledgment were exchanged, we settled in while I looked over the program.

  After a few minutes, the lady looked over at me and asked, “May I see the program?” I obliged. She proceeded to turn the pages, and then wiped noticeably at her sniffling nose before returning her fingers to the paper. Feeling slightly sickened, as she closed the program to return it to me, I replied, “Why don’t you keep that one, and I’ll just grab a new one.” She thanked me. I thanked my sense of manners that enabled me to avoid taking somebody else’s microbiome home with me, while not letting on that I felt a bit grossed out.

  The concert started, and we got to the second piece of the scheduled four when, from next to me, came a ring tone. It was my seat partner’s cell phone, which was in a side pocket of her purse. It went off three times at intervals, as she struggled to turn it on and do something with it to shut it up. Somebody was calling her, unaware that she was unavailable.

  Now, I admit to having trouble with a device in the past, but it was not my cell. I set it to mute and vibrate only for at least three hours at the start of any concert event. I did, however, have the misfortune of leaving a security device (a combination alarm and bug finder) in my purse which decided to signal me toward the end of a concert. I didn’t know how to turn it off, because the instructions didn’t include that. I hadn’t heard a peep from it before. Thankfully it was not a screeching loud signal, so I simply buried the device deep in my purse and rolled its fabric up in my lap, squelching it long enough for the start of the finale, which drowned it out altogether. My next move would’ve been to say the heck with how much it cost and smashing it to kingdom come with my shoe.

  I don’t know if this lady had just returned to concert attendance, had bought a new phone, had just emerged from a cave or simply didn’t care, but when the second piece was finished, two of the musicians spoke to my seat partner, naturally concerned that repeated eruptions would ruin the concert. They couldn’t know, of course, that she wasn’t with me, and their eyes kept switching between us. I was mortified. I didn’t want to be banned from this venue on my first time there.

  I offered to help find the mute on her device, only to be outvoted by a seated patron behind us who simply took the phone and turned it off. I don’t know if she was a friend or relative, or just a local with the perfect balance of street smarts, techno savvy and a politeness filter set to “slightly brazen.” I bless her in my prayers every night.

  The rest of the first act went off without so much as a cough, and during intermission I received a fresh program from the usher. I explained to her what happened, and she said she would make sure it was addressed.

  So the moral of the story is, know your device and how to keep it quiet. Don’t get any of your bodily fluids on other people’s things. And finally, when faced with public humiliation, be slightly brazen.

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  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged concert, concerts, music, news, reviews

• Icy and Hot

  Posted at 7:05 pm by kayewer, on October 5, 2024

  It’s officially autumn, which means the weather may take the form of any of the other three seasons at will from one day to the next. Where I am, this weekend has seen temperatures nearing 80, but days ago the highs were only in the 60 degree range. We have already had nights in the low 50s, so people began retrieving their blankets from the dry cleaners’ storage service, only to put them away because it’s too early, and break them out too late when the temps drop once again.

  The clothing stores already have fall and winter gear in stock, and I bought a couple of flannel shirts anticipating a cooler winter. How do I figure this out? I check the Old Farmer’s Almanac. They’ve been predicting weather for ages, and their record of success is much better than that of, say, Punxatawney Phil (the famous PA groundhog from the titular day in February) or the local wooly bear caterpillar (not to mention the poor meteorologists whose best guess is based on the fickle directional paths of storm activity days away from where they’re reporting).

  Colder than normal temperatures for old houses without insulation mean the folks need to layer or pay a hefty heating bill to stay comfortable. Same goes for people who bought newer houses with high ceilings and no fans to push heat back down to where they actually live. Heck, some people still don’t know you can often reverse the ceiling fan blades to do just that.

  A friend of mine has a condo with a fireplace, so nightly log burning is the way to go. The heat doesn’t spread well, however, so other rooms may still be a bit cool.

  This is where those blankets come in. The dry cleaner offers storage services for people who like to simply move their belongings to a strange location for a few months out of the year. At least they don’t need to undergo the embarassment of actually admitting to owning off-season anything.

  Don’t be fooled. They don’t buy everything new. I know this, because the local dry cleaners has a rack in the front of the store where they keep those quilts and blankets for those paying for the privilege of keeping those things out of their homes for 90-some days every summer. I often look at those items and think to myself that I have better taste in bedding than these folks. Magenta plaid. Really? Folks, beware. Your bedding may be on display at the dry cleaners where your neighbors can see them.

  Then there are space heaters, or hybrid cool/hot devices that do both. These make great companions for cold all-season rooms or sun porches which still tend to be on the chilly side. This is when people go out to the local hardware store to pick up one or two little versions to heat up smaller spaces, along with some logs, kerosene and lighters.

  Me, I keep it simple. Layer up, set my thermostat to something not indulgent but bearable, and break out the portable foot warmers while I wait for that last hot day of the year, which may come in December for all we know.

  Gives the meteorologists something to wait for.

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  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged art, food, home, travel

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