Susan's Scribblings the Blog

Death often comes in trios. This week the rock world lost one of the Rolling Stones, Charlie Watts, at age 80. The world certainly knew of him if they were even casually exposed to the band’s compositions, such as the grammatically lacking classic “I Can’t Get No Satisfaction,” the darkly driven “Paint It Black” or “Start Me Up,” I was not of an age or state of mind to fully embrace rock culture in the Stones’ heyday, especially when it involved protest or anger-related subject matter, but the group will forever be known as an important part of music history, and without a drummer, it loses some of its heartbeat. It disappears–poof–like smoke on the wind.

Along with news of Watts’ death, a good friend lost a battle to give a dog a second chance at a stable home. She adopted him from a shelter who took him out of a bad situation, and he was obviously not in the best shape when he arrived in her home, though the shelter had worked with him to get him healthier. Initially his biggest long-term problems were recovering from what was diagnosed as Lyme disease, along with some psychological issues with boundaries and excessive guarding of things. The protection extended to my friend, and I was unable to sit next to her when I visited without feeling threatened. After getting neutered, he seemed to improve, and he even began to understand basic principles such as sitting when I approached (I showed him and it only took once).

This instinctual behavior was not his fault, as she didn’t teach this to him; it was a mental issue which needed to be replaced by a better sense of security; television’s Cesar Millan and Matt Beisner (of the series Dog: Impossible) deal with this all the time with pet owners. Unfortunately a weekend in which he inflicted a second and third biting incident proved to be the end, and the decision was made to have him put down. My poor friend was beside herself, as this is the third dog she has had since I’ve known her (she adopts older shelter dogs and aged-out puppy mill breeding fodder), and I know she wants a companion for longer-term. He will undergo a necropsy to possibly trace the cause of his issues, and it will probably be some time before she takes on another dog. It was so sudden, yet considering the processes she went through to help him, not totally unexpected. Sometimes things change that way–poof–in the blink of an eye.

The third death explains why I seem obsessed with the word poof all of a sudden. In the workplace we often get to know some people by their special qualities, and we learned that one of our most unique customers passed away last year. They had legally changed their name to Poof, and apparently ended their phone calls by using that phrase. The lack of phone calls could easily have been explained by the current state of our country and people traveling elsewhere to wait out the end of the situation, but we found out that this particular person had indeed left this life; the obituary detailed a good Christian life. Sometimes the good ones disappear with a poof and the hanging up of that last phone call.

The speed in which things change can be overwhelming at times. Of course we also have the horrors of the lives lost in a suicide bombing attack overseas in Kabul this past week, which are tragic in a more profound way, but here are three passings with stories as individual as they were.

Always remember that life ends in a poof, so the magic needs to happen before then.

Anything which is manufactured can, and usually will, succumb to time. I have that issue with a trash can right now. It didn’t start out as my problem, because my friend who recently moved brought it over to help haul yard debris out to the curb for collection, but she didn’t want it back.

It doesn’t really have a bottom, except for what could be duct taped together temporarily. It’s the kind of refuse container you keep around because it makes things easy to haul to the curb, but you use it as a last resort because it looks awful and its appearance by the other trash is rather embarrassing. It can’t be repurposed anymore.

So how do you trash a trash can?

If you write “TRASH” on it, how is that a note worthy of attention? Maybe you’re somebody who labels one can for trash and another for recycling. I was thinking about setting it on its side and writing “TAKE” on it, and waiting to see if it does indeed go out with the trash next pickup. Or will it go with the recycling?

I took a moment to look it up, and sure enough, the Internet gurus at a trash can website (honest to heck) says to invert the can and write “FOR DISPOSAL” on the side. If that isn’t heeded, simply chop it up and place the pieces in a trash bag for collection, they advise. A bit sneaky, but a great idea for somebody who has anger issues and nothing else to take it out upon. Or it might be good practice for the local slasher flick antihero. I wonder if, in the absence of the proper cutting tools, smashing it flat with a mallet would do?

Another issue with trash cans is the lids. Those thin toppers tend to wear out much faster than the cans they’re protecting. I have a few with worn spots and holes. Supposedly you can get replacement lids, but I’ve yet to find them in-store at any hardware retailer. Every lid is matched to a can in stock. Who wants to break up a set? You have to order replacement lids and have them shipped to the store for pick-up. What manufacturers really want, of course, is for you to order a whole new set. My problem is that the cans I have are outlasting my friend’s version.

And you want lids to match the cans. It’s all about visual appeal. One doesn’t want one’s neighbors to be disturbed by the sight of a mismatched pair of can and lid, like green and blue. Are you clutching your pearls? My plan is to first verify that I am buying the correct size, then I’ll place an order for coordinating lids.

I’m also planning to relocate my cans when they’re not on display by the curb. Guess that’s a makeover which requires no qualifications, as long as you know when to let go of a can and how to pair up the lids. Those qualifications I have.

And a mallet and a permanent marker.

I tried to replace a window shade today, and failed. It isn’t really my fault, except that things in my house have lasted so long I tend to forget that modernization calls for things to change in the long stretches between when I install or buy something and need to replace it. This always happens to my detriment.

The actual removal of the defective shade was not a problem at all, and the store had a replacement for me. The experienced sales associate cut it to perfection and boxed it up for me with professionalism and a smile. As I left the super mega chain store I thought to myself that I could redo the kitchen there next, replacing the shades which were desiccating fending off the hot afternoon sun.

Returning home, I got the new shade out of the package and, following the decently written instructions, hammered the cylinder with the peg end of the shade into place, then I began mounting the shade onto its new perch. That’s when I found the problem, and my dreams of a perfect DIY project died of sudden apoplexy.

It seems that in the years since the last new shades were installed, somebody in the window shade design council–consisting of a ruling class of business oriented dudes (and ladies like our aforementioned sales associate with the currently unfortunate name of Karen), whose word is law in the home improvement universe–decided that the peg which used to be a simple round pin should be changed into a larger square-like pin. My new shade would not fit into the old hardware.

From what I can see with my glasses and missing about a foot of added height (unless I want to hoist a ladder, which I’m not in a state of health to do), the screws holding in the old hardware are painted over but might yield to the proper application of a screwdriver and the patience of Job.

It’s either that, sheepishly ask my neighbor for help, or find a nice, non-psychotic handyman. All to replace a bleeping window shade. So I have a shade I can’t install and a bookshelf awaiting more stripping. So much for my aspirations as a fixer-upper. At least I can write.

Another local mall looked very different to me when I visited yesterday. Of course I really wasn’t there to shop, because I am saving for an upcoming vacation. This particular center is one of the last ones to have a multi-screen movie theater inside, and I went with a friend to see a feature and have dinner.

In the good old days of indoor shopping experiences, the mall was a hub of social activity. In its prime back in the 1960s and 1970s, the interior walkways were populated with small bridges over ponds of ducks, huge aviaries housing exotic birds, and an assortment of greenery and fountains. This particular mall was also known to contain about a dozen shoe stores, which neighboring malls didn’t have. The anchor stores were well-known favorites including Sears and Philadelphia staple John Wanamaker’s.

When a fire destroyed the interior in 1992, the owners rebuilt it better than before, modernizing the indoor experience and refurbishing the store fronts. It may have looked less like a zoo with stores, but it was filled with light from skylights overhead, and it was pleasant. The shoe stores didn’t all stay, and by that time the anchors were becoming Macy’s and Lord & Taylor. Now, the only store remaining of the big department store chains is Boscov’s.

Last night I did manage to sneak in a visit to one of the smaller retailers still remaining which I do use, and I noticed a few more changes had happened since I was there last. First, Hallmark pulled its last store out of the mall, and in its place was an unopened boutique displaying signage but nothing else. A major clothing store also vacated; next door to it was a new business featuring Black-owned products, with the proprietor standing outside the door waiting to hob-knob with another tenant. Nobody was shopping inside.

Because my friend and I could not wait an hour for seating at the sports bar, we went to the grill restaurant instead, and noticed that it wasn’t 7:00 yet, but the jewelers had closed and locked up. The mall was looking more like a ghost town, which cannot be good on a Friday evening. The remaining food court eateries were sparsely populated, though the water ice stand seemed to be doing well.

Our restaurant was doing well, we were seated immediately, the food was the best I’d had out in weeks, and we enjoyed a fun movie. I admit it would have been more fun if the theater had been filled with viewing patrons. I guess there may have been around 20 people there for the feature, which was in its second weekend. With current events as they are, it was nice to just be able to sit in a theater seat. Or walk in part of a mall, however sad it may have looked.

It’s sad at my age to see that the world is modernizing and retooling itself out of its own existence.

A classic episode of “All in the Family” entitled “Gloria Sings the Blues” featured an argument between Carrol O’Connor’s stubborn Archie Bunker and his son-in-law, actor Rob Reiner’s Michael Stivic (aka the Meathead). Archie is trying to get Mike out the door for a fishing trip and observes that the SIL puts on his socks and shoes one foot at a time. He tells Mike that everybody dresses in the “sock and a sock, shoe and a shoe” order, and a discussion of the benefits of the two methods ensues.

When we examine the ordinary things in life, we realize just how polarizing our set ways of living can become. To put this argument about foot coverings in perspective, let’s look at it from a few angles.

Archie’s method–sock, sock, shoe, shoe–requires a person to draw up their legs one at a time and twice; once to put on each sock, and once for each shoe. Mike’s method–sock, shoe, sock, shoe–cuts the dressing time to how long it takes to raise each leg to fully complete the task.

Neither method provides full protection of the feet, but in having socks already on, the dresser has more protection than if dressed in only one sock and/or one shoe while the other foot is still bare or incomplete.

For the physically challenged, raising one’s foot once per task is probably preferred, so this would mean sock and shoe on one foot at a time. For those who bend forward to don footwear, however, it’s likely they will stay doubled over to do everything at once regardless of the order. As I’ve gotten older I find bending over while seated is more stressful on the lungs, so it’s not my preferred method. Also, since the type of sock was not mentioned, I’ll add that compression socks do not go on easily using any of these techniques (I know this from helping others with them, not myself).

In terms of speed, it is possible with some types of footwear to throw on the socks and slide into the shoes and leave lacing for later. For fashion reasons, it is not recommended to wear socks (especially in white) with any type of sandals.

Both methods do the job, but to say that everybody does something one way leaves restrictions on how life can run smoothly for everybody if we are just more accepting of how life allows for some variety. In the end, they got to the fishing trip, and Mike had socks and shoes on.

What bothered me more about the episode was that Mike did not take a moment to roll up his socks before ramming his feet into them, but that’s another story.

I inherited a tree this week. Upon researching, I discovered it’s a ficus. It used to sit in the division manager’s office at work and was a gift to him from the folks back when the group relocated to the building in the late 1990s. Originally it stood between his office and mine and was generally content to be several feet from a sunny window and receive water once a week. When his office expanded (and mine shrank slightly), the room for the tree also diminished, so it relocated to a new spot near the window in his office.

The problem with ficus is that they are a bit moody and react poorly to relocation. It dropped leaves like crazy.

Fast forward to March 2020; we left the building and began working from home to stop the spread of pestilence. The skeleton crew in the building–the 24-hour security, maintenance workers and a few required office staff members–did their best to keep the building from looking abandoned. When I had a chance to visit the office late last year, the poor tree was very unhappy. Its trunk, which had three shoots intertwined, has come unraveled, and it had dropped leaves like crazy. Its pot was a murky swamp of old water. I did my best to restore some order, but without a tree cosmetology license, it still drooped. I don’t know if there is a plant doctor who can re-weave a ficus tree, but right now it looks more like a weeping willow.

Forward again to this year. I saw the ficus still hanging onto life like a beleaguered refugee standing its ground against immeasurable odds. The manager wanted me to ask at the office about keeping it in the lobby, but I got a sound no to that, so I brought it home.

The tree now sits on my sun porch with (hopefully) the same exposure as before, and I’m looking forward to a day when I can see some improvement, so maybe I can retrain it to weave itself back to its former glory. Soil is on standby, and a privileged spot awaits its recovery. Right now it’s sort of in shock.

And yes, it’s still dropping leaves like crazy.

At least it has company, with violets and crown of thorns and spider plants. Along with the tree, I also received all the watering cans. None of my plants will lack water, because I have a can for each room.

What I will need is a spare tarp so I won’t have to keep bending or kneeling to pick up ficus leaves.

Delivery people work hard. In extreme weather like the heat wave we’ve been having, it’s even harder to haul items from one place to another. Of course this was the week I had my mattress delivered.

The two delivery men were early for the two-hour window, and got right to work. I had an additional challenge for them because I was unable to dismantle the old bed frames and headboards (if you recall from last week, I moved from a twin to a queen for the first time). The room best suited to a mattress of that size was the master room, which still was in the style of the old movies, with two twin beds reminiscent of the days when hubby had his space and the spouse had hers. In reality having one’s own bed can be a marriage saver when you think about trying to fit two sleeping styles into one bed in the first place.

This leads me to the question of why one cannot just push two beds together on top with a double sized box spring underneath, and each person can have separate sheets which divide in the middle? But that’s for bed developers and corporate analysis taking years and costing lots of money to accomplish. Meanwhile, millions of couples have issues with stealing covers, or being pushed to the brink of finding oneself on the bedroom floor. So much for advanced civilization in the bedroom.

The first fellow happily borrowed my tools and managed to disassemble the frames while his partner moved the old mattresses to the truck for haul-away. One headboard succumbed to the stress of the work (though I suspected it may have been ready to go before that anyway), and it broke at the joint where it was screwed in. However, I was looking forward to keeping just one anyway, so this worked to my advantage. Meanwhile I made sure the men were hydrated by offering them bottles of vitamin water.

The next–and hardest–step was to bring the box spring upstairs. Having moved a love seat from the second floor to the first about a year ago, I know that square shaped bends are the hardest to navigate with a long object, and this was no exception. The bigger issue was that, being a queen, it was nearly square, so there was really no long end to be had. As the partner rounded the landing, the top corner of the box spring jammed at the ceiling, and the first fellow was quick to comment. He said that I should give up and return the box spring, or risk damaging it and having to deal with the liability clauses and complications that would cause.

Between the “old mattress removal” and “installation” phases of this experience, I had asked this man how many jobs they had done that day, and he replied that they did seventeen. Hopefully it wasn’t his first seventeen. I brought up the fact that the angle of ascent was affecting how the box spring was progressing, and as we were discussing , his partner backed up, the angle shifted, and he continued bringing it upstairs. No damage done.

The set-up continued as the pair discussed the assembly of the new headboard and frame in what I guessed was a Russian or Ukrainian dialect. After the box spring was implanted in the frame, they paused while I placed the bed skirt, then they set the mattress on top and, with a tip in hand, I sent them on their way.

Now you may be wondering why I was generous. It’s because of their willingness to do this job when so many others shirk. Despite the glitches, they did arrive on time and they sweated and toiled and got the duty done. I simply made sure they had electrolytes to replace what they sweated out, and possibly dinner or a round or two at the bar later on me. I consider it fair.

Shortly after that I had my new bed made, and I knew I would never have gotten all that work done if not for skilled workers like those installers. Manual labor is what built this country, in good times and bad. Sleep on that.

Last year I broke down and finally bought a microwave. You may think that’s strange, because “everybody” has one and has had one for a long time, but there are folks like me who have small kitchens, fewer electrical outlets, and no knack for zapping food in a microwave. The opportunity to finally buy one came when an outlet in the kitchen opened up, and I saw a 1,000 watt version on sale. I quickly got the hang of it, of course, though I’ve yet to make popcorn.

This year I decided the time had come to upgrade my bedding; since I had replaced a twin mattress late last year (and had to wait weeks, due to supply issues, for delivery), I felt I could upgrade at this stage in my life and go queen. It was a good and bad choice, since queen mattresses seem to be the most popular. Full is the middle road, king is the rather showy overdone version, and then you find the unique California King, which I can’t begin to fathom. Twin seems destined to fill sleep requirements for singles and children, full offers enough extra width (but apparently not length) for some spreading-out room, and queen and king can take on two people or more, but at a certain point in over-sizing, wouldn’t a mattress suddenly require its own four walls or a Zip code?

Finding my new queen mattress was relatively easy and accomplished in one visit, because I had done my work online before going to the store, but once I committed to the purchase of the basics, the accessories were another issue.

The main difference I found with queen bedding is the cost: it’s as if I had moved up from a Ford to a Mercedes in price. Fortunately I found sheets on sale, along with a set including a comforter, skirt, pillow shams and two decorative pillows. Apparently adding throw pillows to your queen set is a must. Nobody bothers with a twin or full mattress.

The next thing to consider was the pillow. Two standard pillows, or one king pillow? I tried to imagine myself with my head falling into the crevasse created between two regular-sized pillows, or of wearing out just one side of the bed to nestle my head into the fluffy middle of a single one. Subconsciously I may have been thinking that keeping one side unsullied by my inert presence would produce somebody with a buff physique (and brains) to take up that space, but I dashed that idea because it would be a waste of time and the money hard-earned and spent on the bigger mattress to not move freely all over it. So it looks like I’ll be experimenting for a few weeks and make up my mind as I go.

Next was a headboard. It seemed that queens were out of stock everywhere I looked, even though they all seem to fall under a few simple types: rails, padded or slabs. The search took over an hour, but I found one I liked from a popular online retailer who claims to have what people need, so I placed the order. The hours and days went by without a confirmation email, and my charge was still pending. I worried that I might not get it delivered on time.

Then I went out for some errands and returned to find a giant slab of a box leaned against my front steps. Inside was a tufted headboard, ahead of schedule. The preparations were complete for the new arrival.

Delivery is being promised on a particular day, but not at a particular hour just yet. Waiting on a package to arrive is one of those necessary inconveniences of life that seems to have gotten better but is not perfected. The sense of having an incomplete task dangling before some people is mentally taxing, and knowing that some assembly will be required afterward adds to that feeling that something is going to take forever to complete. After the delivery and set-up, I get to put the new sheets and comforter on my new bed and stand back and admire the accomplishment.

I’m looking forward to that moment when the bed is assembled and I can just flop on it and test it out. Maybe I’ll nuke some popcorn in the year-old microwave and snack in bed against my experimental pillows.

We are supposedly an advanced civilization, and yet we have problems deciding how to communicate knowledge to people accurately and factually, in a way they can understand. Over the past few decades, it seems we have become more lax in general know-how, and more prone to mistakes and downright idiocy as a result.

If you are a YouTube fan, just watch any of the video posts by Alonzo Lerone (example link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ycBYRBvXN6Y) about dumb questions and posts made by real people, and you will see how grammatically inept we are becoming. Folks can’t even sound out a word, let alone use Dictionary.com or a real hardcover one.

It seems that school is not preparing students to function with any degree of literacy. Not only have most educational systems eliminated penmanship at the elementary level, but textbooks have become complex, homogenized pabulum which has been whittled down to such a degree of political correctness and inclusion, there is no room for world views beyond the most simple facts. Mandates for textbooks have drilled down so far as to remove references to eating ice cream, so as not to offend children who cannot do so. It doesn’t matter that many children eat ice cream; only that one who does not would be negatively affected by reading about it. How does this prepare young people for a wider world in which, to paraphrase Bram Stoker in his classic Dracula, they may encounter many strange things?

We are seeing an uptick in autism spectrum disorders, in which children shut down to avoid the input of the world around them, and to me it seems ludicrous that science is looking for an organic cause, when the true cause appears to be that our young children are being overstimulated with too much of the world at a vulnerable time in their psychological development; why else do these “shut-downs” seem to happen at such a young age? I really think we advanced our lives into causing this problem by sociological means.

Back in the 1950s and 1960s, kids were in bed by 8:00, and parents didn’t have thirty guests over with their cell phones and cable blaring R-rated movies and babble all about. Children had a soft introduction to the world, with soft music and simple reinforcement, and grew steadily into the madness that enters our adult lives, while now nobody seems to care about what is done when children are present. Unfortunately, I don’t think any parents today would be willing to go four or five years without the jumpy mental hullabaloo of whatever they did before the children came, just to see if they can get the little ones settled into some semblance of sentience and self-restraint before the attack of school and activities hits them from all sides. It used to be that peace and quiet was the norm, and yet when the autistic child needs peace and quiet, we don’t seem to take the hint. They need a solid sense of how life is, and then get the chance to read more about it.

Okay, enough philosophizing. Let’s go back a second to that word ludicrous. On CBS This Morning this past week, the question actually came up about the difference in spelling between musical artist Ludicris and the synonym–posed, I believe, by Anthony Mason–in response to signage that provided a double meaning. At least he was willing to ask.

At least there still are summer reading lists; I hope they use books with proper grammar and offer a footnote apologizing about any use of ice cream.

What’s happened to taxis? I guess I’m behind the times, but I always thought that hailing a cab was an institution as reliable as getting an ambulance; simply call and they’re there. I found out the hard way recently that it doesn’t work like that anymore.

Normally when entering a hospital for a procedure under general anesthesia, you are instructed to have somebody drive you home afterward because of the risks associated with drowsiness and foggy brain in the first hours of recovery. Since I knew I had a ride home, it was simply saving that ride the inconvenience of having to get up with me before sunrise by having the local cab company drive me there. I had my reliable phone number handy, and double-checked it online for good measure.

Imagine my surprise when I called and got a message that the number was not in service at that time! I’m not sure if that means they’re not on duty 24 hours or not, but they were not “old reliable” anymore.

Desperately, I checked five other local cab companies. Finally, I got through to a place with one gentleman on duty who chastised me for waiting to call. That was my first clue that taxis don’t stand by these days waiting to grab a fare when they ring for a pick-up before five in the morning. He said he would “do his best” to come himself to get me, and I didn’t gather from his tone that he felt compelled to be timely, so I replied that I would wait until 5:15 for him.

I ended up driving myself, and my ride home came with a passenger to follow while they drove me home in my car.

So I guess I am really naive and getting old and dotty, thinking that some things are less likely to change, like depending on taxis. Since my landline only rings when somebody wants to sell me a new extended car warranty, this is probably just something else to play “Taps” for. At least they’re going before I am.