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?
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    • 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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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged life, mental-health, work
    • 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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      Posted in Uncategorized | 0 Comments | Tagged bullying, bullying suicides
    • 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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    • 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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    • Cup of Plastic

      Posted at 3:23 pm by kayewer, on August 17, 2024

      I have been a tea drinker my entire life, and could never develop a taste for coffee. Becoming a coffee drinker is a rite of passage in the same category as one’s first date, first overnight camping trip without the family, or that first (legal, hopefully) sip of spirits. Kids look forward to sharing a cup of coffee with the adults, and once they are indoctrinated into the fold, it becomes as natural an act as brushing one’s teeth.

      Of course, after a while, the teeth also become needy of some extra dental care to remove those stubborn brown stains from drinking coffee. And yes, teeth do become affected by tea as well, but some inconveniences such as unexpected bathroom visits or a sour stomach are missing from the picture.

      My first tea was from Red Rose, and back in the day they used to include a bonus in every box; a small animal figurine designed by Wade Ceramics. People collected them from when they first appeared in the late 1960s. We eventually moved to Tetley. The boxes come with tea bags neatly arranged in rows kept in line by thin white cardboard dividers. In hard times, the folks at Tetley left out the dividers and, as long as people didn’t jostle the boxes around, they stayed relatively straight like the ranks and files of British soldiers. Most people seem to associate tea with Britain and India. A proper tea break is essential in the culture across the pond.

      Until a few years ago, I had tea at breakfast, lunch and dinner, but lately I’ve kept my indulgence to mornings because of the effects of caffeine on the aging body which can interfere with sleep. Recently I abandoned tea bags because research has shown that what we Americans are consuming from those neatly stacked boxes is actually dust from tea leaves, and in the process of collecting and packaging, we may be ingesting micro plastics along with our morning cup.

      Feeling downhearted at this revelation, I moved to ordering tea online; several marvelous websites show you how the tea leaves are picked and packaged in their natural state for brewing at home. I have become familiar with tea balls, infusers, bags and baskets and proper boiling and steeping times.

      Being an American, I also cheat a bit when making that perfect cup.

      I have a Keurig which is possessed by a mechanical demon; if I don’t measure my water carefully, the mechanism makes a mysterious sound as if a fuse is firing off. Unplugging it doesn’t make it go away. Since it has posed no harm to me, I simply ignore the noises, do my best to dry out the dispenser portion of the device, and continue as usual. Using an adapter, I can prepare hot water and steep real tea in my mug without sending K-pods into the environment. It’s a win-win for me, and I’m getting real tea.

      The tea comes in temperature controlled bags which I can pop open and fill up my tea ball–a spring loaded device requiring concentration to avoid injuring fingers–with fragrant leaves from a measuring spoon, which will yield a tasty cup of joy. This time around, I’m brewing a green tea from a sampler collection I received.

      Earlier this week I noticed that my acuity was slightly off. Hoping it was simply a byproduct of working off schedule one day, I tried to get plenty of sleep and refocus. Still some of my usual spot-on behaviors were not up to par. Had old age started to dull my mind?

      Turns out my new tea was decaf.

      When you’ve had caffeine for most of your life, withdrawal can creep up on you without your even knowing it. That goes for coffee drinkers, too. I recently read a joke about a barista who read back a customer’s order of a decaf with no sugar and diet creamer as a “why bother.” One drinks these beverages for the kick. In fact, entertainment sources such as television and movies depend on how the performers react to that cup of coffee. Clint Eastwood, in his Dirty Harry Callahan persona, famously returned to his favorite diner while a holdup was in progress, telling the invading robbers that he needed to complain that his server put sugar in his coffee. Indeed she did: we as the audience watched her consciously pour about a mug’s worth of sugar into the coffee with the intent of alerting him to what was going down.

      Turned out what went down wasn’t a good cup of coffee.

      My biggest memory of coffee was during a Girl Scout cookie sale in the lobby of what was then our town’s most famous bank. The mayor had his own desk in the front. The entryway had a table with a coffeemaker and all that could possibly go with it, so being a teen with a sense of adventure, I broke out a Styrofoam cup and began creating what I hoped would be a decent cup of coffee.

      I added about a two-thirds helping, then added powdered creamer and sugar. The taste was horrendous. I felt like I was drinking liquid floorboard. Adding more sugar didn’t help, and the hot coffee was melting it as fast as I could add it. I would not have been able to stop a burglary with this cup. I had to surrender and admit to my peers that creating coffee was not my thing. Oh, the horrors!

      It looks like I am in need of caffeinated green tea to get my edge back. Or else I should break out the English Breakfast that’s next in line to try. I’m sure I’ll finish off the decaf, and I won’t run out of varieties to try since tea shops are making a comeback. My Keurig cranks out a decent cup of hot water, even if it is possessed, so I’m not worried.

      And before anybody steps up to defend coffee drinkers or complain that a coffee maker should not be used for tea, remember I have a mug and a hard metal tea ball, and I know how to use them.

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    • Top of the Tops

      Posted at 3:07 pm by kayewer, on August 3, 2024

      The issue of what to wear this morning involved more than just swapping out yesterday’s outfit. I was going to an event, so I wanted to present a low-key vibe. A horror convention came to town for the second of their yearly visits, and a friend and I, both fans in our golden years, would be mingling with people of all ages, with a lean toward the younger folks. She decided on a tank that I had gifted for her birthday, depicting one of the latest gross horror movie icons. I could have worn a shirt from a prior convention, or selected a movie themed tee, but instead I opted for a generic souvenir tee.

      Off we went to the local hotel venue, credit cards at the ready. We were QR code scanned, given security wristbands and sent off to await the opening of the vendors’ areas some ninety minutes later (arriving early ensured a safer parking spot and avoided needing to shuttle from a nearby overflow designated school parking lot). While we waited, we chatted about some of our misguided plans from past conventions. My friend delayed in replying to me about a past spring edition which she would have enjoyed attending, and the tickets sold out rapidly. These conventions promise a fine list of celebrity guests who either sign autographs, pose for professional photos with (extra) paying fans, or both. We have witnessed the queues for these fan events snake out the hotel lobby, past the pool and nearly to the street. Excited attendees have brought full-size mounted posters, artistically recreated busts of characters and other items for signing. The lines for the vendors’ rooms are also lengthy, but once the time arrives, they move rapidly and offer merciful relief from times like now, in August, when waiting in oppressive heat is unbearable.

      We stopped at a favorite tee shirt vendor first to grab the newest collectibles, then on to the various pins, action figures, videos, household items and decorations, all with a frightening theme to match. If you wanted a Nightmare on Ordinary Avenue, this is where you would make it happen. I approached at least two authors selling their books. As we began to tire, my friend’s shirt themed character appeared, and she got a few selfies. Proof that one doesn’t need celebrities to have fun at a horror convention.

      As I moved from vendor table to displays and racks of merchandise, something unusual happened. People were paying attention to my tee shirt, which was an impulse item I had bought at an Amish retail mecca in Pennsylvania. “Oh, I miss being in Lancaster,” one gothic-clad woman remarked. “Oh honey, we need to visit this place,” a vendor husband said to his wife after calling up the location on his cell. A third struggled to communicate her excitement through prosthetic vampire fangs. My friend was gobsmacked.

      Once a year I have made it a point to visit the location of the shirt’s origins, a place known as Shady Maple in the quaint East Earl area of PA. There is a humungous smorgasbord, touted as the largest in America, as well as a farm market and gift shop with a variety of local items as well as collectibles. I go for the collectibles, and have blown through my funds there every time, preventing me stopping in for the food. I promised my friend that we would go together and eat whatever we want. They offer everything from comfort food to vegan menu items; certainly we could indulge in a treat or three for one day.

      In all I received four comments from total strangers about my shirt. So much for being low-key.

      My credit card is a bit heavy from the haul, but I made wise choices and will use what I bought. Our next visit may be in the spring, if we plan ahead better. But first, let’s look at that luncheon menu.

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    • Ring It Up

      Posted at 3:21 pm by kayewer, on July 27, 2024

      Earlier today I went grocery shopping. Being a Saturday, I was hoping that my bad luck streak from the rest of the week (read work-related blues) would have abated, but I was wrong.

      The Saturday before the first of every month can be easier on the nerves at a supermarket, because people who are paid once a month have exhausted their funds stocking up on things weeks ago. I chose the late morning to go as my last stop before home, since I planned to buy mostly frozen food.

      I managed to stock up on vegetables, which are supposedly better for me than canned. Besides the brick varieties, I also got microwave steam choices in bags. Eighteen items in all.

      Then I grabbed a small box of Yodels.

      Off to the self-checkout I went, confidently drawing out my generic shopping bag (my state being a plastic bag ban participant) and beginning my purchase experience. First, I scanned my savings card from my keychain (yes, I keep those instead of an app), then began scanning my bricks of frozen veggies, as a friendly female voice announced the financial damages. The bar codes are in the same place on all the boxes, so I took two boxes in hand, scanned one and bagged it while holding the other.

      That’s where my trouble began. The cameras stationed at every kiosk are programmed to watch what is placed in the bags, and my camera was ready to train its full attention on me because I had a box of frozen veggies in my right hand near the bag, which I had not yet scanned, while bagging the one I just scanned with my left hand.

      The kiosk shut down. Moments later, a helpful monitor came by and overrode the error with a crooked smile that says she has been through this more than she’d care to mention. I continued, but kept my other hand free so as not to look like a potential miscreant.

      Finally I reached the moment in which I was ready to pay for my purchases. Breaking out my credit card, I followed the prompt to slide the magnetic strip through the device. An error message then appeared, saying I needed to insert the card to scan the chip. With the resignation of “how much more wrong can this transaction go” in my head, I chipped, received the confirmation, removed my card. . . .and the kiosk produced another error message.

      Note to self and everybody: never, EVER, ask what more can go wrong, because Murphy (the angel whose law has become his to oversee in the afterlife) will hear you and make something else happen to wreck your day.

      A nice fellow came by this time and attempted to fix the problem by scanning his all-access-I’m-somebody card, and the kiosk came back to life as if I hadn’t paid. He asked if a receipt printed out, and I said no. It hadn’t. He then brings over the floor manager, and we have a chat about how much the bill was and what I had used to pay. Thank goodness I didn’t use cash! The lady manager sets off to review the activity at my kiosk, and returns to verify my personal information which was accessible to her–my phone numbers, name of my first grade teacher, blood type–and she reveals that no activity was posted since I last visited after the holiday earlier in the month. She suggested we go to another kiosk and repeat the entire transaction again.

      Now the resignation in my soul is telling me that I will have defrosted vegetables by the time I get home, but being a good citizen, we go to another kiosk and begin the process of scanning everything again. The floor manager helps, even pausing my scanning to remind me not to accidentally cover up the bar code when I hold the items. I suddenly feel like I should be in the tight quarters of the store’s security interrogation room, explaining myself to some business suited investigators who hold the power to put me in the slammer over a $1.99 box of frozen spinach. And I’ve done nothing wrong, nor have they implied that I have. It’s the inconvenience and the spotlight being on me that makes it such an issue.

      The total comes out exactly the same. I chip, the receipt prints out, and the manager says they will double check everything, but I should also see if two charges come up on the credit card when I get home.

      Sure enough, after I quickly stored my freezer full of properly double-scanned and paid for veggies, I found two pending charges for the same amount on my credit card.

      Dutifully I called up the issuer. Since the charges are pending, it may be five days before the transaction is finalized. By then the store will have found it and fixed it, or I can dispute the charge. This means a few days of the stress meter in my life on a slight upward tilt as I wait for the results of this debacle.

      Oh, and my Yodels were melted together when I got them home.

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    • How Single I Am

      Posted at 3:35 pm by kayewer, on July 6, 2024

      I was at a July 4th party, and it was a fun event. We ate, drank and watched fireworks. In the past I always put in an appearance but didn’t overstay my welcome. This time I went to the party and stayed until it started breaking up after 11 PM, which makes me officially a partygoer. Anything after 10 o’clock is considered eligible.

      For years I eschewed social events, mostly due to a combination of the way people respond to newcomers like me, and my own self-doubt. As a bullying survivor who has spent a long adult life still fighting to overcome prejudices on others’ sides and learned avoidance behavior on my own, it’s not easy to take those steps outside the sanctuary of home. More so now than ever before, because we have spent years in isolation and some of us are not going back to anything resembling a workplace environment to cultivate those social vines that keep the plant thriving.

      For most of the time during this party, I was at the table with some of the ladies closer to my age or older than me. As I listened to their stories, recollections and humorous side notes, I began to feel the familiar pangs of outsider guilt begin to overcome me. I kept quiet and observed so as not to ruin the give and take of the conversation, but I quickly realized that, as usual, I didn’t have much in common with the rest of the folks at the table.

      These were women whose histories included long-lived marriages with overseas vacations and memories of children and grandchildren (and their marriages), along with some folks damaged by multiple marriages and divorces, or stranded in the wasteland of widowhood.

      The not-by choice single women who were living in elderly communities spoke of actually being hit upon by the widowers and bachelors there. This is something I’m not used to. For a second I remembered a scene in the movie Jaws in which fisherman Quint and scientist Hooper compared scars on their bodies, as the two of them were into sharks and had wounds to prove it. The third man out, police chief Brody, only had an appendix scar, considered it for a moment, then chose not to mention it. At that moment I thought, gee, I can’t get a guy to hit on me for any reason, but kept it to myself.

      They talked of their adult children’s latest job successes and recent trips to exotic places. The best I could do was say I had never been to those destinations and keep listening. How does one just pack up and go to faraway Jibbip? How does one who doesn’t have kids or a spouse go about it? How do you survive going on a trip with a spouse and kids?

      Anyway, so I was there with the other ladies, some of whom had a whole third of a century of life more than I, discussing the best novels they’ve read (and that I’ve never heard of). I’m glad that retirement will afford me the chance to read these books. Unfortunately I probably won’t be able to discuss them with anybody who has also read them by that time, unless those recommending them can be there by the time I catch up.

      When is a person supposed to work, eat, read the books everybody else reads, work out at the gym and get a healthy amount of sleep? I don’t believe it’s possible. I have given up a lot of my reading in order to work on my novel series, and television is an occasional luxury turned on mostly for the background noise while I work from home in what amounts to solitary confinement with benefits.

      Don’t get me wrong: the party was a fun time, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Sitting there in what was, to me, an entire world I will never be part of, at least gave me an opportunity to learn what is happening out there. Sometimes knowing the possibilities is enough to get one through the endless highway of single isolationism.

      That and some good food and fireworks.

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    • On the House Front

      Posted at 3:17 pm by kayewer, on June 29, 2024

      For most people it’s important to have the front door to the home be inviting and attractive. It doesn’t matter if your front door is to a house or apartment, since it represents the first impression of where you live or who you are.

      Many of today’s homes have accessories such as plants, flags or signage such as a vertical “Welcome” wooden sign (or, for those who like privacy, “No solicitation”). The doormat may say “Welcome” or “Go Away,” depending on the openness of the owners. Some verbiage may indicate the home has pets or doesn’t welcome footwear inside. Plants may be hanging vines or fake greenery. Flags may support a cause or simply pay homage to the country.

      I recently added a goose to my front step.

      Those of us of a certain age have probably received catalogs from Miles Kimball. That place has everything for the homeowner who likes to be practical, colorful or well-stocked. The catalog has been home to a large plastic goose decoration for a long time, and I finally caved in and bought one.

      The decoration apparently has Midwestern origins, and has grown into a world of its own, called Gaggleville. You can find it easily online. Go ahead, and invite the kids. Then be sure to come back here for the rest of the story.

      Instead of the pink flamingoes of many home fronts, the porch goose (originally made of concrete) could stand up to the abusive weather such as high winds, rain and snow. They didn’t tip over, spin or fly off like a cow in a twister.

      The modern version is a lightweight blow mold and designed to be filled with sand. I went to the hardware store and had to sheepishly explain to the employee what I needed. The bag of sand weighed about the same as a fourth grader, but I managed to haul the bag home and begin the task of filling my new front step mascot with the stuff, then set it up in front of the door as a happy-go-lucky greeter that says “Welcome” and not “Go Away.” No vertical signage needed.

      Also unique compared to a garden gnome.

      In addition, the goose has a personality and requires costumes. I ordered a few varieties to make the occasions stand out, such as a raincoat, a patriotic suit for federal holidays, and a touristy outfit for summer. We’ll see how these hold up under the summer heat and pounding winds of a typical Eastern rainy season.

      I have decided not to assign a gender to my goose, allowing the little feathered friend to be a neutral symbol of lighthearted joy, as well as a tribute to one of the simpler signs of capitalism applied in a positive way. Nobody can fault a simple goose dressed up like a zinc-nosed tourist, right?

      Maybe I made the decision because it’s still Pride Month? Not sure.

      The goose sits in the opposite corner from where my door opens, so there is plenty of room to shine and no interference with comings and goings. My new porch goose will simply stand tall and look happy as can be in any kind of weather.

      Oh gee, I just realized it’s not a Canada goose. I may need to find it a winter coat!

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