Susan's Scribblings the Blog

Author Archives: kayewer

• Setting Rights Right

  Posted at 3:41 pm by kayewer, on April 27, 2024

  As an American, I have a natural–as well as a lifelong cultured–allegiance to my country. Besides serving in two military branches for eight years, I have read and been taught about what it took for this huge piece of continent on Earth to become what it is. Some of the historical references have been altered or become fuzzy with time, but there are things to be learned about the good and bad that shaped the nation we live in. Sometimes we can learn the most by what wasn’t said.

  My search engine produces some interesting topics which can turn into deep rabbit holes of trivia; one such venture mentioned a popular phrase I sometimes heard from my own parents: “My country, right or wrong.” The words do seem like a boast of blind devotion which might be better left to extremists, and preferably from other places where such things are more accepted (think North Korea). My country when it is right, I can certainly go along with. My country when it is wrong is a different concept I can’t necessarily follow blindly without knowing why I should do so.

  It turns out the phrase has a story to tell, and it came from a resource which has evolved into a fact provider* in search engine home pages, and which I stumbled upon by accident. I think that in an election year it’s good to tell the story behind this saying.

  The original phrase was uttered some 200 years ago by Stephen Decatur, who was an officer in the United States Navy’s infancy, enlisting at age 19 and rising to the rank of Commodore. He offered a toast after a dinner sometime in 1816-1820, saying, “Our Country! In her intercourse with foreign nations may she always be in the right; but right or wrong, our country!”

  The translation is that we are always America, with our good and bad characteristics. When we are acting with other countries, we do so hoping we do what is right, but always keeping in mind what we represent when we do it. This doesn’t suggest that we own up to our mistakes when we do wrong, and say that we apologize as a nation for the slight. It simply says that we are what we are in totality.
  
  In 1872, the 13th Secretary of the Interior, Carl Schurz, made an amendment to the toast. “My country, right or wrong; if right, to be kept right; and if wrong, to be set right.” This from a German immigrant who served in the American Civil War (fighting at Gettysburg) and helped in the formation of the Conservative Republican Party. These were men^^ of some standing, trying to put patriotism into perspective.

  So this is a legacy we should quote in its entirety, rather than misquote. The duty of an American is to keep right what is right and to correct wrongs. To simply state a support of anything “right or wrong” is like saying doing wrong doesn’t matter. It does, indeed.

  My country; still growing after 248 years. Still trying to right wrongs, as well (we hope) this election year.

  *(Resources: Cracked.com, Wikipedia)
  ^^(Carl Schurz’ widow went on to help form what we know as kindergarten for early learning youngsters; women did contribute to our nation.)

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• X Marks the Girth

  Posted at 2:55 pm by kayewer, on April 20, 2024

  Like most women of a certain age, I have a broader figure. This means that clothing becomes more of a struggle than before. The days of high school when I could get away with a size 8 trouser or a size medium off the rack are long behind me.

  Actually there is more in front of me than behind me, because I’ve got a tummy.

  Clothing sizes without numbers can be daunting. When you’re in a grey zone between an upper-sized misses and a lower-sized women, you must begin using the dressing room and your measuring tape to figure it out.

  I discovered that sizing such as XL (extra large) and XXL (extra extra large) are in a different territory compared to women’s sizing starting with 1X. An extra large fits tops with a 42- 43 1/2″ bust, while 1X will fit a 43-45″ bust. I also learned that the average woman in America wears a 34DD bra and has a bustline sized 38-39.4″ In other countries, women wear a large size A or small B bra, which is more the average.

  We’re not only big-waisted in America, but big-busted.

  If I could put my waist size onto my bust, I’d look like an adult film star sporting two basketballs in front of my lungs.

  While I was taking a day at the shore, I visited one of the few open retailers on the boardwalk (off-season hours are limited, after all), and sometimes a 1X is hard to find among clothing limited to XL. I don’t think they’re deliberately telling us “whales” to shop elsewhere, but the beach and its minimal clothing dress code is not inviting to those of us with a bit more going in the corporeal department.

  This is why the Michelin tire man doesn’t wear Speedos.

  I found some sales on XL tops, so I bought some logo apparel, fully aware that not only will they fit, but once I am no longer on medications which can make weight loss difficult, I will lose some numbers on the scale and the XL will swim on me. Just as long as they don’t swim off me in a strong current, I’m okay.

  Some retailers like Torrid, which specialize in diverse sizes from 10 up to 30 in many of their styles, go with numbers such as 00 through 3, which tend to appear on their racks frequently. One doesn’t feel so bad when they say they’re a 1 compared to a 1X.

  Men’s clothing seems to always go by tailoring measurements such as neck circumference, arm length and torso. A dedicated group of specialists adjust the fit for the customer. Women are still assumed to be experts with sewing machines, and thus can alter our own clothing. Unfortunately we’re not in 1942 anymore. We go to the seamstress now.

  As sizes change, I’ve learned to embrace whatever version of me is existing now, and not worry about outgrowing or being too much of one thing or too little of the other. As long as I can find the perfect fit, I feel good.

  Besides, nobody has ever asked me what my clothing tag says. I can always say “Made in USA.”

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• Nothing Humorous

  Posted at 2:25 pm by kayewer, on April 13, 2024

  I like to read the morning paper–yes, an actual newspaper dropped at my home by a dedicated delivery person sometime around three in the morning–before I start my job from home. I would like to say for the record that, after reading an article this week that made me facepalm, I now know of at least 1500 people on social media who have absolutely no sense of humor.

  The sunny shore community of Wildwood, New Jersey, posted on April 1 to make an announcement about their iconic tram cars, which convey visitors along the boardwalk. For ages, the transports of linked cars seating about four people to a row and eight to a section have taken folks for a half-hour ride along the two-miles of boardwalk. Their iconic loudspeaker to pedestrians warns “Watch the tram car, please!”

  The announcement included an unnamed source who reported that Wildwood wanted to be more polite with the warning, and so would be revising the ages-old phrase to say, “Excuse me, please. Tram car coming through.”

  The post resulted in a deluge of responses in the form of the Facebook characteristic angry emojis, and phone calls to the offices in Wildwood from enraged people who wanted the phrase to stay the way it has always been. The phrase was considered, to one posting individual, “Jersey polite.” Another stated that a warning need not be polite when a large vehicle is bearing down on ignorant strolling folks in flip-flops.

  The original phrase is short and sweet, and easy to take heed of along with the occasional bicycle bell ringing. The only other true way to change it would be to reword it to “Please watch the tram car.”

  So the offices in Wildwood fielded angry phone-ins which increased their Monday call volume, while social media blew up with complaints from angry readers.

  Had they taken a moment to think, they would have been laughing instead of spewing their coffee in outrage. For one thing, does anybody go to extremes to make a polite phrase more polite? Do they also go out of their way to make the warning even longer than the original version? Finally, the post was on April 1, also known to most of us as April Fool’s Day. The whole thing was supposed to be a joke.

  Which is why I noted that the nearly 1500 people who clapped back at the post decidedly have no sense of humor. I can imagine these folks keeping pitchforks and torches by their front doors, ready to march on any perceived slight in this world for lack of something better to do. What would’ve happened if Apple had posted on April Fools Day that they were going out of business?

  Naturally I have been observing, with increasing distress, the downfall of the human brain in the upcoming generations; nobody seems capable of constructing a meaningful thought, let alone writing it down using proper grammar. We should at least be able to discern humor when it’s in front of us in carefully worded posts on social media. Without the opportunity to laugh, we lose our focus when life becomes serious.

  I don’t go to Wildwood, but I remember being nudged out of the way by hearing “Watch the tram car, please” at my back when my family went a time or two in my youth. Perhaps they should use a recording of Reel 2 Reel’s “I Like to Move It” instead.

  Just kidding, folks!

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• My Eclipse

  Posted at 7:08 pm by kayewer, on April 6, 2024

  On April 8, a rare planetary alignment will result in a total eclipse of the sun which will be visible across a select area of North America in the afternoon. People have traveled to areas of the country near the path of totality and taken up hotel rooms, making the event double as a perfect vacation. People are getting married. Sun-worshipping faiths will have a wonderful time.

  Back on August 21, 2017, I was working when the last solar eclipse appeared, but I was prepared with an old-fashioned shoebox with a pinhole and viewing window cut into it especially for the occasion. When I went to the rear of our office building to see how far along the sun was to being completely hidden from view, I saw some of our complex’s landscapers nearby and offered to let them take a look using my contraption. They were equally captivated by the spectacle, and I was privileged to share with them.

  This year, I’m working as well, but from home, so I will step out my back door with my free specially designed eclipse viewing glasses (which look much like the 3D freebies we once received for movies using that technique, but don’t try switching out one for the other).

  As much as I feel privileged to see what may be the last major eclipse I will view in my lifetime, the reader in me sees a much different significance to this event, for when I hear about an eclipse, I think back to my favorite books.

  Long before there was the popularity of Twilight or Harry Potter, I was reading a series of books for mature readers stretching back to 1978 and which transported me through history, romance and horror into the 1990s and beyond. After having read Interview With the Vampire, my interest was piqued when my book club offered an “if you’ve read this, try this” story. I ordered a copy of Hotel Transylvania by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro from the club, and from the moment I read the first page, I was permanently engaged, and stayed so to this day.

  Yarbro’s ability to write historical fiction not only enthralled me with the adventure, but I was unknowingly receiving an observational look at world events and how women fit into (or were excluded from) them. Sometimes the characters had rank and power, while others were ostracized and treated with cruelty. Living among them was Saint-Germain, a mysterious man who chose to wear almost exclusively black, carried himself elegantly and adapted readily to whatever culture his travels thrust him into. At his side would be close companions often relegated to servants in the eyes of outsiders, but his longest-serving partner, Roger, was always ready to perform whatever task was needed to keep their foreign status from being taken in a negative way, as outsiders in many periods of history often were.

  The secret: Saint-Germain is a vampire, and Roger is a flesh-eating ghoul. Their travels bring them face to face with Mongols, Charlemagne, Ivan the Terrible, a coven of Satanists in France, Kali worshippers, Nazis, and a variety of evils throughout the world.

  The novels (I have 26 in my collection, along with short stories and related works) are both narrative and epistolary in nature, and contain a wonderful mixture of eroticism, action and violence.

  The connection to this upcoming event: Saint-Germain’s sigil is the eclipse.

  The publishing world being as it is, there are more novels awaiting book form, and I look forward to the announcement that the saga will continue. As I look at this rare period of semi-darkness on Monday, my mind may well wander back to other places and times of eclipses and earthquakes, battles won and lost, practices embraced and forgotten, and the books that took me there.

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• Object of Desire

  Posted at 10:09 pm by kayewer, on March 30, 2024

  This is a new story about our culture of acquisition. Some time ago, the most desired collectible object was a thermal container; the Stanley company’s limited edition pink cup drove desperate people to line up outside stores before dawn, harass and cause fights among store clerks and shoppers alike, post social media clips of people crying with happiness over their purchases and school children to be tormented for not joining the popularity clique associated with the acquisition.

  I have used Tervis vessels for years because they are American-made and stylish, perhaps not as old a company as Stanley (Tervis was founded in 1946, and Stanley 1913), but I don’t risk bodily injury for the ones I buy, nor do I bow to popularity contests. The things I needed to do to be accepted into the outer circles of school friendships such as purchasing certain clothes or study accessories did and meant nothing. Nobody brings up one thing we were supposed to be popular by collecting, and those objects are probably either part of a trash heap deep in the ocean or in a dump somewhere.

  Yet the concept of the “must-have” object continues to drive us like mindless sheep being herded by the nipping teeth of a shepherd dog. Nobody seems to tire of the ritual. Word comes out of the latest object, and immediately the pursuit begins. In no time, a simple thing ruins the peace and balance of daily life.

  Here is another such story.

  This object was touted as a promotional offer for purchase involving an event, and no proof of association with the actual event was needed to buy. Also, it was provided a month early, meaning that people not even planning to have anything to do with the event could purchase one. By the time the event actually began, the object was already appearing online for sale at several times its retail price.

  And there was one other aspect to the object: it had an unusual configuration which lent itself to some R-rated speculation similar to the significance of apples and pastry in the film American Pie, and leading to memes about, um, other uses for the collectible and an IYKYK (if you know, you know) sub-topic. Would you pay three times the cost for a collectible which had possibly been near the anxious groin of some careless person experimenting with the potential of a thrill?

  I was one of the people who attended the actual event, and the last object was sold out just minutes before my arrival. This meant that I and most of the people who really would have benefitted from the object didn’t have the opportunity. Do the event originators care? Are the resellers actually making profits? We will never know. The creators certainly made back their investment. However, my feeling is that if I can’t walk into a place during regular hours and receive what I am looking for, it’s not worth injuries or a lighter wallet to seek it out among the resell vultures.

  And I have just told you the story of what happened when AMC theatres introduced a limited edition popcorn bucket to commemorate the release of Denis Villenueve’s Dune: Part 2 in theatres at the beginning of March. The bucket, which began sales in February, included a lid in the shape of a breaching sandworm from the story, its gaping mouth ringed by long spiked teeth recreated in molded plastic as a truncated tunnel of prurient interest to some collectors and curious adventure-seekers.

  I wish I didn’t know.

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• The Painful Post

  Posted at 2:53 pm by kayewer, on March 23, 2024

  Back in the days when I became a tween–which was before the term was even coined–malls sometimes had independent stand-alone retailers in their middles, similar to the visitors’ information booth. One of the most popular, and which has continued to serve customers for decades, is the Piercing Pagoda.

  It is what it says: a place to go for pierced ears. The “pagoda” part was simply a part of the moniker and original logo. Its founders, the Cohen family, owned jewelry stores and decided it might be a convenience to offer ear piercings in a separate retail space, so they planted a pagoda-shaped structure in-between the pedestrian walkways of the Plymouth Meeting Mall in PA in 1972. Now the stores are known as Banter by Piercing Pagoda. They have implanted millions of earrings into people over the years.

  Many of them have exchanged banter while visiting there. More on that later.

  The story I want to tell actually took place inside a mall department store. A piercing station was set up in the jewelry department of the now-defunct Strawbridge & Clothier for a special event, and I was accompanying some of my classmates because one wanted to get her ears pierced there. It seems the piercing was free with purchase, though I’m not sure if our mall had Piercing Pagoda back then.

  The initial journey to one’s first piercing seems similar to the minutes preceding one’s execution by firing squad. A condemned person may seem stalwart until the second comes when reality sets in. The determined individual’s inner strength dissolves from that of devil-may-care to mayday in mere moments.

  Perhaps it’s the approach of the piercing gun, which back then was a commendably large piece of beauty weaponry for such a small task (possibly because it seems to be modeled after carpentry nail guns). Until the seated victim sees the preparations as the assigned technician loads the earring post (and its backing to hold it in place on the other side of the earlobe), the fact that something is about to be rammed at high speed into a body part doesn’t seem at all intimidating. It’s, as they say, a rite of passage.

  As the inevitable approaches, a first-timer will often start rambling, either by praying or repeating comforting mantras. Sometimes they will desperately start asking for somebody to hold their hand, or even squeezing their eyes shut as if that action will subvert all the negativity that is to follow.

  When my classmate started rambling, I moved away to look at the new fashion lines. I saw the piercing gun long before she did, and decided no way was I subjecting myself to such a ritual.

  Sometimes only one person is available to do a piercing, and when you have two earlobes this means two of the same experience. With two people piercing, they can coordinate the firing squad technique to prevent unintentional movement by the subject and potential misfires. With one, the victim must steel themselves for a second dose of anxiety.

  The technique is also similar to that of a firing squad: ready (set the coordinates of where the earring is going to go with a pen dot), aim (place the gun at the correct spot), and fire. It is at this point that the newly pierced person reacts the strongest. Sometimes people complain about the discomfort, or say they felt nothing. Some pass out. Sometimes the onlookers nearly pass out. I was only listening as it was done, and I felt queasy.

  I recently saw a video of a person who got their lower lip pierced, known in the industry as a vertical labret. The subject had multiple other piercings, as well as tattoos, but this particular addition caused her to pass out momentarily. Her friend, who was filming the event, lowered her cell phone camera and did not keep filming while the newly-adorned individual recovered. Some other video compilations feature young tweens whose faces morph from fear to finality as they survive the process. One of my favorites is a girl who cussed “Son of a biscuit eater, that hurt!” And like being before a firing squad, something inside dies as a mirror is brought in and the victim gets a first look at the reddening earlobes freshly impaled with gold, silver or titanium.

  Why am I covering this topic? Because after all these years, I still don’t get the concept. I don’t condemn it, nor do I have anything bad to say about it. In fact, one of my favorite comics has a character named Pierce, who has excessive head hardware in his ears, brows and elsewhere, and he’s hilarious. But I always leave videos about this subject scratching my head. I have no piercings, though I’ve had some encouragement to get at least one from past relationships. Among my jewelry is a pair of simple post earrings I was gifted as a subtle hint, and which will probably end up becoming estate fodder.

  I guess Piercing Pagoda will never get a cent from me. I’m giving myself a reprieve.

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• Spending Time

  Posted at 3:15 pm by kayewer, on March 16, 2024

  It all started with a social media ad for a fire extinguisher in a can. Since I cook with electric, not gas (imagine that), I don’t worry as much about having accidents in the kitchen with an open flame, but I figured it would be helpful to have something on hand to extinguish a fire anyway.

  I had just paid the credit card bill hours before, but the deed was done.

  The empty credit card statement never stays so for long. I’ve learned this early and often (like every month). Luxury spending is part of the bill, and I know they add up. However, it’s good to know what I’m buying is helpful stuff on occasion, to make up for the other things. Some people put their daily coffee on their card, while others indulge in one big expenditure once in a while, like a coffee maker to bring down all those daily coffee purchases. We all have our needs and vices laid out in detail on our monthly transaction roundup.

  Since I began the quest to declutter the home I’ve grown up in since before I started school, it’s been a challenge. The stuff from the history of my life is all good. None of it is really broken, just obsolete. The corner table I ordered this week for the hallway is going to be useful, since I made the decision to obliterate the furniture ghosts of the past and tidy the upstairs hallway. The corner held old books geared to a more youthful me, situated on a towering shelf unit for years, so those books are going away, to be replaced by a barren tiered thing with decorative knickknacks on it, such as a candle which will never be lit, but looks good. Let’s face it: one can’t be stylish and have an empty corner.

  After the order for the extinguisher in a can and the shelf, I received an email from my collectibles dealer, announcing that a new item I was interested in for 2024 (the new catalogue is a week old) was available to order. I’m still waiting on word from items I wanted in the 2023 collection. I suddenly feel like I’m being offered the iPhone 17 before the 16 (wouldn’t take either: I’m an Android girl), but collectibles are sold on a deadline, so yes I ordered it.

  Since spring is coming, an offer came into my feed for a revised compact hose. It comes with its own spray nozzle, and I can drink water from the hose because the inside is free of contaminants. How could I pass that up when I have a spigot in need of its own hose? Maybe I can relive my childhood before the idea of clean garden hose water became obsolete, and drink water from the hose while I’m watering the landscaping.

  The store was out of my cleaning supplies. Amazon to the rescue with overnight shipping. I could clean my countertops and my face, since I threw in some makeup remover towelettes. A neighborhood feed noted that folks were coming around to talk about solar or our souls (not sure which). Simply apply a small sign, ordered online, by the doorbell reading “No Solicitations of Any Kind.” Problem solved. Can’t have anybody interrupting a work Zoom meeting with the executives to talk about saving either me or the planet. I’d rather save my job.

  The groceries were my biggest purchase this past week. All at once I ran out of mixed nuts, bananas, oranges, fish, eggs, and something for dessert.

  The handyman came to help this week and found that the window shade I ordered was too long. The worker who cut the shade had the old one as a template. How could that possibly go wrong? It means a trip back to the big store for a fix, and I never come out of there with just what I went into the place for.

  Maybe I’ll get a bracket to mount that extinguisher in the can. And a few houseplants.

  Besides that, my other order was for a magnetic paper towel holder. The handyman removed the old one from the wall. My late father was ever the one for finding some solution to a problem. His “that’ll hold it” attitude kept many disasters at bay by either good fortune or sheer will. For this job he had used long, permanent, unremovable nails with spring mounts to fasten the original holder, and removing them required cutting the hardware and breaking the old plastic holder. It was, after all, obsolete. Over 24 years ago. I was using a countertop model and hated it. Pulling towels vertically doesn’t work for me. Now that the old holder is gone, I freed much-needed inches of space. The new holder did not come free. I’ll pay for it next billing cycle.

  My spending did go further beyond the usual, because I took a trip to the mall to enjoy some indoor walking for my health. Only one store drew me in, and I broke out my loyalty charge card. That’s a separate bill from the credit card department statement.

  But what I bought will be useful. Nothing about this person is obsolete.

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• Fear: the Woke Killer

  Posted at 2:58 pm by kayewer, on March 9, 2024

  When a society chooses to introduce a new concept to the acceptable sphere of inclusion, there is bound to be some resistance from those who do not like to experience anything outside their present state of comfort. This has happened when any new thing comes into our world, and it isn’t going to stop.

  For those of us enjoying the release of the movie “Dune: Part Two” in theatres, we are familiar with the integration of outside influences, as well as the discomfort this integration can cause, so it’s a great way to introduce this week’s observation. Don’t worry, it won’t take long to appear. Just enjoy the setup.

  In the “Dune” universe there is a mantra called the Litany Against Fear. Folks recite the litany to better approach anything which could trigger a defensive reaction, by focusing on facing the thing causing fear and overcoming its power to diminish one’s inner strength. The promise at the end of the litany is that the fear will then pass and no longer exist. Fear, says the litany, destroys the mind.

  Our society is beginning to see things we never saw before, which can be somewhat frightening. A video I saw the other day showed a woman who has had the whites of her eyes (sclera) tattooed blue. My reaction was, “My, that must have been difficult.” I can’t imagine having somebody, expert tattoo artist or not, aiming a vibrating needle filled with dye at my eyeball.

  Did I throw down a social media reply decrying the evils or dangers of tattooing? Did I call the woman hideous? Did I mention a word about her split tongue or multiple piercings? No. I kept scrolling. It works for her. I wouldn’t do it. We’re still sharing the same spinning planet.

  Now for the “you won’t believe what happened this week” story.

  Some feedback came to my attention recently from somebody who had choice angry comments about a photograph online. Because fear is involved in the person’s rant to some degree, it fits here nicely.

  The picture depicted what looked like two businessmen, with papers strewn on a bed, and a laptop; the men were sitting on the spread and appeared to be engaged in a conversation about the information onscreen. Their faces show an officially casual demeanor. The background shows a side table with one lamp and non-descript accessories. The general look of the photo is that these gentlemen are on a business trip and reviewing documents and online content using the hotel bed (hotel desks usually have only one chair, so it makes sense).

  For purposes of privacy, let’s narrowly say the sponsor of the image is a business software company. I attempted to find the image, but it may be proprietary to that company. Sorry.

  So what was the problem with the photo? The complainant was livid about the image because the men were in close enough proximity to be touching each other on the sides.

  Call the morals police! Send up the “clutching my pearls” signal!

  Let’s put the person’s fear into perspective. I very much doubt that they never had side contact with another person of the same gender before. Would the reaction be the same if the two persons in the photo were women? The individual here took a harmless image and turned it, in their own mind, into an overt LGBTQ+ advertisement. Having a marked negative reaction to the acceptance of same-sex suggestive visual displays, the person disavowed anybody responsible for the final product. So the sponsor of the software company lost a customer because of a “woke culture” endorsement that didn’t exist in what was being touted as the proof.

  This poor individual will be casting out so many people and businesses in the future, that soon none will remain. All because of being afraid of two figures in a photograph. If they had looked at the picture without the filter of fear, there was nothing there. Heaven forbid two men on a business trip should get less than two feet away from each other. Perhaps they should have phone conferenced from their separate hotel rooms.

  Fear has killed the person’s mind.

  Funny thing is, LGBTQ+ people have been in everybody’s atmosphere since the dawn of human existence. It’s the integration of what is already there–the sudden clarity of knowing it’s there and has been–that has put the poor soul’s mind into overdrive.

  Hopefully the poor person will not be too badly affected by Daylight Saving, when we all won’t want to wake up for an extra hour. Fortunately more of us are woke when we’re awake. Maybe someday that person will find balance. Try the Litany Against Fear. That’s my prescription for the week.

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• Little Red Hens

  Posted at 7:04 pm by kayewer, on March 2, 2024

  Americans have a history spanning over 240 years in which we have made the word “independent” our mantra. We originally wanted to govern ourselves instead of being another remote place ruled by a monarchy. Now we simply talk about being independent because we like to stand on our own and ask for help from nobody. Sometimes that is not always the best way to do things.

  A series of videos popped into my social media feed called “Just Rolled In,” which focuses on strange things workers receive in auto repair shops. It’s amazing to see to what lengths people will go to avoid having a professional work on their car. These videos show entire undercarriages held together with cable ties, wires or–a popular choice overall–spray foam. People try to mount new aftermarket parts backwards, leave vital fasteners or layers of support uninstalled. We’re sharing the roads with these DIY yahoos. Some of the videos indicate the “customer declined repairs,” so that guy in front of you in the clunker may be driving on a layer of spray foam and a prayer.

  Part of my job is fielding emails, and it seems that customers want to do everything online themselves, even if it means losing benefits or privileges, or compromising security. Many places have highly trained human beings to discuss anything with them 24 hours a day, but if I had a dollar for every customer who said their time is too valuable for them to find a minute or two to call, I would have been retired five years ago. Like the vehicles in the “Just Rolled In” shops, I see customer accounts that look like a tornado invaded their information and turned it into nothing like what it should be. But DIY culture says it’s ours to clean up, not theirs to avoid making into a mess in the first place.

  We check our own merchandise at kiosks at the big stores. We pump our own gas (thank goodness New Jersey still has self service). We take our own measurements, tell medical websites our own symptoms, and we wonder why things go wrong.

  Nothing can replace human knowledge. We train our brains to know something about a lot of little things, and we usually specialize in one or two big things for which we enjoy a job that pays us well. In the olden days, barter was used as much as coinage to receive services from those specialists on whom others depended to keep things running smoothly. Today, our auto repair shops, bakeries, doctors and web technicians have the knowledge to do things for us.

  I’m going to post this now, and my blog provider will do the rest. Thank goodness.

  There is much to be said for leaving some skills to the professionals.

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• Not Where We’re From

  Posted at 7:56 pm by kayewer, on February 24, 2024

  American schools are catching a lot of grief these days. It seems the young people we’re handing a diploma don’t know half as much as their parents or grandparents did. College is now the equivalent of high school in some cases, at least in terms of educational level. Today’s graduates don’t know what continents are, how to make change at the cashier, or even how to spell or write their own names.

  That’s why an article about other countries’ schools and their impression of our educational system caught my attention.

  The first subject brought up was how early we begin classes. In England, children enter schooling full-time starting as young as age four, and it’s mandatory at age five. The school day begins at 8:30 and ends at 4:00 or earlier.

  Another question is about the yellow school buses. Other countries have them to some degree, but many kids take public transit. Oh, for those of you with an eye for detail: the black lines on the sides of our school buses are indicators of the locations of the floor and tops of the seats (in general). Those are known as “rub rails” and also provide structural support for the length of the bus.

  Another bone of contention for folks outside the US are our use of hall passes for students to leave the classroom to use the restroom. Other countries’ students are permitted to take that break without carrying around a token which must be returned, but then those other places don’t have folks who sneak outside to smoke at the tender age of nine, and they don’t deal with deranged invaders bursting into our educational buildings ready to make a last stand. By the way, in my office we needed a key for the restroom, so as the admin I had to come up with a way to keep track of them. I used a bungee keyring and a foam flower sponge which could be hung on the supervisors’ desks for easy access. Never lost one.

  Apparently students abroad don’t all do any sort of ritual morning exercise such as saluting the flag, recitations or singing. Some Asian countries do, such as Singapore and South Korea. I suppose a pause to play “God Save the King” would be the equivalent in Britain if such a thing were done, but we were raised on the ideals of remembering we’re in a unique country, and our loyalty to what it represents just happens to come in the form of this daily reminder.

  Apparently students also don’t use lockers in other countries. Folks abroad see these in movies and are intrigued by the idea. They never had to remember the combination, obviously. Other amazing things to outsiders are cafeterias (with several different shifts), and milk cartons with school meals.

  The idea of naming each school year’s students as Freshmen, Sophomores, Juniors and Seniors is unheard of as well. Just like in Harry Potter movies, students abroad are just in their tenth year or whatever. And the term “Frosh” never sat right with me when I was in ninth grade, anyway.

  Other schools have fewer classes in the curriculum, fewer hours and smarter students. Our schools have a variety of choices, and students are worn out and less educated. Maybe there is a reason for this.

  Gym classes: why on God’s green earth did we have to climb a rope suspended from the ceiling? Why was I a failure just because I could not swing around the uneven bars? I never had to do either of these in over four decades, and if the requirement were on a job application, I’d make for the door. Even the Navy didn’t ask these of me, so why require it of little kids?

  Student parking. The pinacle of teen superiority is the privilege of simultaneously getting your driving permit, a new car and a parking spot near school. You’ve got it at 17. It’s all downhill from there when your college degree won’t let you drive a pre-owned clunker and everybody takes up the good parking spaces in the neighborhood before you get home from your burger-flipping job.

  Sorry, my high school didn’t get parking for seniors until years after I left, and I gratefully got handed down and drove around in my father’s old car when he bought a new one. I missed out, and I live here.

  Amazingly, other countries’ schools have more windows, fewer or no vending machines, no swimming pools (no swim teams or swim clubs, either) and no drinking fountains.

  Pep ralllies are also strange to folks not from these here parts. The high school system seems to be rallied around the fall/winter ritual of football, with posters encouraging young athletes to win and school colors all over the halls and on the student bodies. The band plays the fight song, the cheer squad works the students in the crowd into a frenzy, and it’s time off from class.

  Which is possibly why our system isn’t working as well as it could.

  Interesting to see how others see us. We could learn a thing or two from them.

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  Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged education, news, scholarship, scholarships, school

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