Susan's Scribblings the Blog

Author Archives: kayewer

• 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

• Sep(tic)tember

  Posted at 3:29 pm by kayewer, on September 28, 2024

  I’m an old lady with quite a few bum days behind me, but this past month has to be right up there with the most lengthy and depressing I have ever experienced.

  It started right in with my workload on the first workday of the month, with phones ringing off the hook and all hands on deck to try and work through them. It was bad enough that, if our workers’ kids and pets could answer phone calls, we would have loved to have them onboard. Even though our services are available 24 hours, it seems people have mental blinders on and never call when it’s quieter, like on weekends or during off-peak hours. The holiday, start of school and the end of summer alternative job requirements (like taking your laptop to the shore) all came together for a perfect storm.

  This need for every person on the phones resulted in the email forum becoming backed up with questions, comments and vitriol all morning, so I handled them in the afternoon, putting in extra hours which I would make up by leaving early on Friday. It was a fortunate alternative to overtime pay, since I was ready to crawl into a coffin by noon that day anyway.

  Everybody was getting back into their fall, winter and spring routines, so extracurricular activities, or anything resembling recreation, was put on hold for most parents. I had volunteered to handle some optional after-work tasks, which I can do because I don’t have kids. Those activities are normally fun distractions, but this month brought as few participants than I had ever seen when other folks ran them. I blame it on September; otherwise I would have to believe that nobody likes to attend when I lead.

  The cemetery was quiet–meaning no living folks were present–when I went to visit my parents with flowers on their anniversary. The birds were silent, and the geese were merrily pooping while filling up on more grass to poop out some time later. That entire day went by without contact with another living human being. In fact, there were a lot of days like that in September.

  One of my own personal group meetings brought three people out to join me, for whom I am most grateful. It seems nobody keeps a perpetual calendar notice on their cellphones, so folks forgot. We still had a great discussion, and we nearly closed down the place (their hours are only until 9:00 PM).

  Television was pre-new season, so nothing much was on to provide me with any background noise while I worked. I think I turned it on half a dozen times in the past month. I stopped watching the news because it stirs too much emotion, gave up on “Jeopardy” and “Wheel of Fortune” because they had become less challenging and more of a nuisance. There is a series of music channels available, but the visuals with their trivia and fun facts about the featured artists are distracting while I’m trying to work. My satellite service wants to charge me for delivery to a radio, which I would also need to buy. No thank you.

  Went to the lab to bleed into a tube or four, and the results showed a few high numbers, but the doctor told me I’m fine. Doctor knows best. The sleep study I underwent resulted in a referral (more on that to come, once that happens). I had a chance to jump the line into an earlier appointment, but it’s for the first of October, which will be just as busy as the first of September after the holiday weekend, so I turned that chance down. My job needs me. Or I need my job. Or both.

  Meanwhile, as I look into the possibility of joining a gym, I realize that physical fit farms are way scarier than they’re made out to be. The fit folks rip into the people who are trying to get in shape, which discourages people from getting into shape just so the fit folks can rip into them. The people who use the equipment don’t always treat the devices as they should. People sweat, they don’t put any underwear between their nethers and the surfaces they sit on in just their stretchy workout clothes, because that would not look fashionable. It’s a godforsaken germ paradise waiting for a fresh body to populate upon.

  The other day I needed to explain to somebody how a year works, and they argued with me about it. You see, the individual was, like most cheap-minded people these days, looking to snag a discount just like they got between 2020 and 2023. Who cares if the place goes out of business, as long as one of their last acts was to give you a discount that put a heavier financial burden on the very industry you are actually supposed to be paying money to so they can be reliable when you need them. Anyway, the person was soon to attain a milestone, which would avail them of a discount. By soon, I mean they were in year nine of a ten-year anniversary. The person, however, was determined to convince me that year nine counts as year ten. I had to explain to an elder–whom I as a Boomer was raised to respect–that a person is not one year old at birth; one must go through 365 days to attain the age of one year, and so they must complete year ten to be eligible for the discount. Of course, the clapback was then, “So, you’re admitting that you are refusing to help me.” Where is Scott Seiss the “Ikea guy,” whose snarky customer service videos are a funny look into what some employees wish they could say? I could use his advice. I don’t know if the person is going to throw a few decades of loyalty down the drain because they can’t wait one year more or not, but I did my best to encourage the person to stick it out because I’m told the perks are worth it. But hey, let me bear the burden of watching you shoot yourself in the foot.

  I guess that’s my problem: I care too much. I show up and suit up and take the absentees and abuse and quiet in stride because that is my lot in life. This month did weigh a bit heavier than usual, just because it was so devoid of positivity.

  Maybe October will be better.

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• For Charlotte

  Posted at 3:23 pm by kayewer, on September 21, 2024

  I was ready to post one of my usual stories about life, but just before I started to log in, a pop-up stopped me short. My heart, which has been chipped away at for a good fifty years, lost another tiny piece when I clicked on and read the article.

  An Australian girl named Charlotte has been murdered by proxy. Her wonderful mother, Kelly, would not agree with me, and I will deal with the guilt of telling this in my own way because she has a bigger heart than I at this moment (which I will explain later).

  Charlotte was twelve years old. Twelve, and at that brief gap of development between youngster and teenager when life is just beginning to make some sense, the unfairness of the world has entered the subconscious, and the future is a tangible thing both awesome and terrifying. She was a year 7 student at a Sydney private school–Santa Sabina College in Strathfield–and had been bullied for at least two years. The most recent event was “investigated,” and the girls involved allegedly denied it. Of course they would, because they wanted to do it again, and again.

  One day from the past, recently brought to light, found another girl confronting a crying Charlotte in the girls’ restroom. The school simply called Kelly to come pick her up. We can’t have somebody exhibiting signs of heartbreak or vulnerability in a school setting, now can we.

  Kelly contacted a local radio host, Ben Fordham from G2B breakfast show. “‘These issues cannot be swept under the carpet. I will not let my daughter’s memory be swept under the carpet either. How many more children need to lose their lives before they get it? How many parents need to feel the pain of never being able to pick up their child from school again before they get it? We’re broken forever.”

  At the same time, she also said something I wish I could right now. “Please, I must stress and I beg, I do not wish any little girls to feel responsible for this. I don’t want any other mum not being able to wake up their child in the morning. They are also just little girls so they don’t understand. Charlotte made a mistake on a moment of grief, she did not meant to do this, she did not understand.”

  Every child, whether sports star, shop ace or A+ academic genius, needs to understand. They need to be responsible. What do you prefer, that they cheer or hold a party at the gravesite? They might as well, for all the attention the adults are paying to what happened.

  I would like to talk to any of these so-called faculties who sweep bullying under the rug. You are also sweeping a CHILD under a rug when you ignore what is happening. You are also encouraging criminal behavior among your students, because once they are allowed to torment a victim who doesn’t matter to you, there is no reason for that human being to matter to them. You are permitting torture, endorsing participation in discrimination and supremacy mindsets, and you turn the other way when a victim dies!

  I have already gone over this with another local young woman who died at school from bullying (see “Felicia’s Story” from November 04, 2023). Every time it happens, it’s as if these ignorant bullies and suit-wearing conference table dwellers pull out pieces of my heart with pliers. This is a CRIME and an embarrassment to our society that we feel bullying is not something that needs to be treated as an affront to dignity and worthy of strict punishment, including banishment from the public and private school system, suspension, community service, fines and even public apology.

  Yes, some of these bullying victims retaliate, and yet we seem surprised by that. Victims are supposed to stay quiet and take it. I haven’t seen any evidence otherwise.

  So the bullies won’t be charged with anything, and we will see another article pop up in another news feed on social media. We accept it, we do nothing about it, and we don’t care, obviously.

  Shame on us all.

  Source: https://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-13853949/Heartbreaking-text-Australian-girl-sent-taking-life-dad-claims-school-huge-mistake.html?ito=push-notification&ci=Aw6V2hP5xb&cri=L9-evVOMAX&si=kKwv_EZzmFnV&xi=cfa9e0dc-f75b-4549-8d0b-35aba9913c54&ai=13853949

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• Sleepytime

  Posted at 4:11 pm by kayewer, on September 14, 2024

  Getting a good night’s sleep is one of the few things everybody agrees is essential to our wellbeing. Estimates, unfortunately, say that only about two-thirds of people surveyed claim to get at least seven hours of healthy sleep. The rest of us deal with the difficulties associated with unpredictable daily schedules, travel across time zones, stress, and other factors which can affect our ability to conk out.

  Disorders such as insomnia (inability to sleep), sleep apnea (sleep interrupted by poor breathing), or other causes such as restless legs, heart problems, lung disease and chronic pain can contribute to bad sleep. Needing to use the bathroom during the night wakes us up, while too much caffeine may keep us up. Medications can interfere with nodding off; sometimes the cause isn’t as obvious.

  My doctor knew I had sleep issues, so he ordered a sleep study for me. Insurance covers part of the expense, but I did write a check for some of the cost because my golden years will thank me for it later. The objective is to observe a normal evening and record what may interfere with healthy downtime. This meant that I went to a sleep center for observation overnight.

  The sleep center resembles a cross between a hospital ward and a hotel. My room contained a queen sized bed with two pillows of various resilience, a television, lamp, chair and locker. I was invited to bring my own pillow, but I had a brand new one at home, so I declined and opted for what was offered.

  My normal evening routine doesn’t include TV in bed or late night snacking. It was easy for me to go into my pre-sleep routine for the study. After changing into comfortable pajamas, a technician applied rubbing alcohol and an adhesive paste to parts of my scalp (which needed to be clean and free of any conditioner or hairspray: also known as bed head), then attached monitors to my skin, as well as on my legs, head, chin, by my eyes and, most notably, airway probes inside my nose and bands around my chest and abdomen. These would pick up brainwave activity, leg and mouth movement (including teeth grinding), disruptions in breathing and blinking.

  The tech doused the lights–it was around 11 PM–and had me remotely perform some breathing and movement tasks for her and the camera to pick up. I was recorded all night under special lighting, similar to those hidden camera themed horror movies like Paranormal Activity.

  No ghosts were mentioned as having appeared in my study.

  The first thought most people have is, “How the heck can anybody sleep with all those wires all over your head?” Amazingly, I fell asleep at, what I think was, rather close to my usual time. I was awakened once when my nostril rejected the probe, but the end of the study came quickly at 6:00 AM when the tech put me through some more tasks, then the lights came on like a lightning storm and I was allowed to dress and go home.

  The results won’t be in for about two weeks, but in the meantime I’m continuing to sleep in my usual bed at my usual time without any wires.

  And no TV.

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• It’s Curtains: The Fall of Drapes

  Posted at 3:05 pm by kayewer, on September 7, 2024

  I have been on a one-person campaign to update my sun porch and turn it into an office space. It may be the second most expensive thing I will do in my childhood home (the first will be electrical in nature). The room is not insulated; in fact, a doofus of a roof installer had an infamous argument with my father some three decades ago by calling it a “shed” so he didn’t need to put shingles on it. There are three other houses within eyesight built exactly the same way to refute that insult. But I digress. It means I may need to either put out for interior wall insulation or use a space regulating system (air in summer, heat in winter), but I think it will be wonderful to have that part of the house in a usable condition again.

  One of my most recent projects involved a handyman putting up new shades, which was step one of the window treatment process. Step two was putting up new curtains, which I did (and put a valance up wrong side in, but that’s another digression). Step three is in progress and involves taking down the old curtains, which have been up since we moved in. Yes, they were that good and that sturdy that we didn’t need to replace them. They’re a neutral color and were insulated themselves, so their replacements, if I go that route, would be the same.

  These drapes were hung with hooks which resemble an EKG readout, inserted into a series of metal tabs with holes and run with ropes to open and close. The new ones will likely be rings and poles and operated manually, if I elect to close them at all. The sun comes in much of the day in summer, so the area is toasty and perfect for plants. Winter will be a different story, which I will improve upon as I go.

  Over last weekend I put together another bookshelf for that room and moved it in. A couple of days later, one of the window shades popped out and fell. Either the handyman didn’t click it into place properly, or my house is haunted. Both are possible. Last week a picture I hung, using those wonderful adhesive strips with three letters in their brand name, popped off the wall and landed on my head before settling in my lap. Fortunately the picture weighs nearly nothing. I remounted it with a hanger that takes up to eight pounds, so we’ll see if a poltergeist is behind the incidents or not.

  As I remounted the shade, I also took down another curtain. This involved popping each hook from the bracket while navigating nearly eighty inches of stiff fabric and standing precariously on a ladder. Some of you would say, “Stay off that ladder at your age,” but doing these little tasks are what will keep me going until I reach another “at your age.” One at a time is part of the key to success, and not pushing too hard past one’s limitations.

  The curtains must come down before shifting any more furniture, since some of it will go into the corners where the drapes are, well, draped. The project is half finished, and once completed, I can have the handyman measure and mount the new curtains if I get them. Move the other pieces around, assemble my L-shaped computer desk, have an electrician check for voltage safety, and I can then hook up my work and personal gear and move in.

  By that time, I also expect to be a little more broke, but when the curtain closes on one part of life, it opens on a new one.

  Hopefully well insulated.

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• Laborious Day Weekend

  Posted at 3:16 pm by kayewer, on August 31, 2024

  The first weekend in September is dedicated in the US to the workers, with Monday being designated as Labor Day and a federal holiday. It marks the unofficial end of sociological summer, as the beach or (if you’re from New Jersey) shore season transitions into autumn and the nation readies for the start of a new school year.

  How many of us actually relax on a holiday weekend?

  For those who adhere to the Sabbath, either Saturday or Sunday is a day off from working anyway, which pares the weekend down to its usual two days. Any projects you would normally undertake would be interrupted by one day in which you aren’t supposed to work. Monday is the official “last cookout day” of summer, when chicken, ribs, burgers and brats sing on the grill.

  The children and young adults have started or will start school on Tuesday, many for only a half day, making the first week of education a three-and-a-half-day “why bother” chain of events in which everybody finds their classrooms, review the upcoming semester and then go out to pick up all the things which one actually needs for their course load but were not mentioned anyplace in the preliminary notification processes.

  People will return home from vacation and realize that the cars they left in the garage–and delayed getting regular maintenance for–no longer function. The battery on one breathed its last after four years, and the tires on another were worn down until Lincoln on the penny would have the equivalent of two inches clearance in actual size. The auto dealerships and repair shops will have a mountain of work for themselves when they return from holiday.

  Then there is the after-vacation ritual of laundry (if nobody destroyed or outgrew what they took with them for the summer) and food shopping. Don’t forget that little Madysyn is now vegan, and your son whose bedroom was decorated in everything dinosaur now wants to focus on a game console nook.

  So the home is dusty, one car will be in the shop, the pets are out of necessities, and how are we going to pay for it all?

  Overtime. On Tuesday morning.

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• In Hot Water

  Posted at 3:24 pm by kayewer, on August 24, 2024

  This past week, I found out that using hot water isn’t as easy as it seems. My faucet produces a decent temperature of steamy H2O, but one doesn’t work on all, as I found out. Let me explain.

  In the mornings I eat oatmeal for heart health, and I’ve found the best deal in steel cut oats which take a few minutes to heat in the microwave. For my beverage I have been drinking hot tea, which is loose leaf and prepared with the aid of a Keurig (I recently posted about this in another blog entry).

  My morning oatmeal calls for 3/4 cup of water. As the average person would do, I added plain tap water at room temperature to start, since there were no indications of what temperature water to use. The combination produced soup with minimally moistened flakes. I learned by trial and error that using the hottest tap water resulted in a wonderfully creamy, fragrant bowl of joy. Using boiling water instead causes an oatmeal volcano. When I temporarily used oatmeal in a microwavable cup, the cups actually exploded. Lesson learned.

  On the other hand, loose leaf tea is best prepared with boiling water. My Keurig heats water to 192 degrees, just short of the ideal temperatures. Guidelines call for a maximum boil of either 185 or 212, depending on whether you are preparing green or black tea, making it slightly off both ways.

  So here I am needing two kinds of water every morning like some entitled bedridden dowager who keeps a thermometer by the bedside, ready to fire underperforming butlers and maids who can’t prepare water at the proper temperature for the task at hand.

  Instead of struggling, I broke out my electric tea kettle, and the full value of its worth in the kitchen has saved my sanity. I can prepare my tea water in the kettle while putting the hot tap water in my oatmeal. My utility bill will also reward me (my July bill just arrived, and it was the highest in the whole year).

  Now I’m faced with what to do with the Keurig. Place it in storage, perhaps, until it is needed for something else, or to fill in should my kettle whistle its last. Since it seems possessed, making noises even when unplugged, maybe I should put a cross on the box to prevent its escape. And yes, I keep the boxes for my appliances. Old Depression-era parenting ingrained that into my brain.

  Meanwhile, my countertop will be more open, and my hot water will be in keeping with directions. A hot bowl and a hot cup. Who could ask for more?

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