Susan's Scribblings the Blog

This morning I just wanted to go to the bank. Saturday banking isn’t an easy concept anyway because many branches don’t open or close early. My favorite branch is about ten minutes away, but it’s on Main Street USA and the town was having their parade, which meant absolutely no parking for anybody. Signs indicating parking for bank customers only mean nothing anymore, especially when it’s an entire parking lot in a town filled with parking meters. Worse, these parking meters are the variety in which you must walk to a kiosk, pay for a ticket and then return it to your vehicle’s dash. Towns with an elderly population can only dash so much.

So I decided to try going to another branch several miles away, packed up and started out to the road, only to find the streets feeding into the main streets were all shut down. I drove around my favorite shortcuts for ten minutes without success. I had to drive three miles away and in the opposite direction to connect with another road. On the way I realized that another bank branch I could use was nearby. Managed to park the car for free (blessings from above), but got to the door to find they have discontinued their Saturday hours.

Back into the car for a drive which should have taken about fifteen minutes and ended up being 35 minutes. No bargains to be found trying to live everyday life on Small Business Saturday.

I like opera, and have since childhood. Sure I enjoy a good pop song or Sinatra, metal or contemporary, and even some country if it isn’t twangy or hokey (and if it’s Willie Nelson I have to be in a certain frame of mind to not want to change the station), but classical is the foundation for so much of what we experience musically today, many people don’t know how much opera they actually know.

Some of the best pieces in opera are used in commercials and movies, and many people don’t even know it. It can be fun to sit in a darkened theater and say to yourself, “Yup, that’s Delibes,” and smile.

So why is Volvo keeping their recent opera commercial so low-keyed and mysterious? To promote its XC Range vehicles, the car company features an opera singer named Emily Cheung to perform (what I feel is) one of Mozart’s most challenging arias from The Magic Flute, known as the “Queen of the Night Aria” for quick reference*, the piece is better known (as in many operas) by its first words, “Der Hölle Rache” (loosely translated as the wrath of Hell).

It’s an interesting choice of aria, as it demands a high soprano range and full command of coloratura (which is best defined as musically turning a stick drawing into a Monet). Ms. Cheung certainly has what it takes to perform the piece, and in terms of a car company wanting to stress its class, control and quality, an aria makes a fine metaphor.

In actual performance, however, the character the Queen of the Night demands that her daughter ensure the death of a main character or be disowned, and it is sung with some motherly vehemence as a result. The ad elects to use it in a more intimate setting, so the drama is tuned down. When one is used to hearing an over-the-top queenly mother figure going all bitchy on her own daughter, this interpretation falls flat. It’s not the performer’s fault, but some other choice of aria might have been better.

I have a car I like, so it won’t encourage me to buy a Volvo, but at least I can listen to it and smile. Yup, that’s Mozart.

*(Actually the opera features two arias from the Queen of the Night, but this second one is given the recognition.)

Don’t overuse periods. In fact, don’t overuse anything on a keyboard if you want to get your point across. I work in customer service and have seen plenty of self expression overkill jobs over the years, but trying to stress a point with periods is simply annoying and ineffectual.

I’m. Talking. About. This.

Just as putting the caps lock on is akin to shouting in an email, periods look as if one is punching the reader senseless by beating the point into them. Next to not using commas as often as necessary, overusing periods is an instant clue that the rest of the communication is going to be nothing but nonstop whining.

What ever happened to the simple, “I’m having a problem, and I hope you can you help me” types of emails? We all seem to have been rewired into a bunch of bile-spleened idiots with no sense of decorum.

I, however, will not give up the fight. I answer all emails politely and calmly. Period.

The holidays can’t wait. The day after Halloween, the commercials were already holiday themed; you could tell by the jingle bells in the background on every soundtrack. One day bells symbolize doom and horror, and the next it’s all candy canes and early bargains. Those candy canes, by the way, may have been made back in July.

Remember when November was normal until Black Friday?

The general well-being of our country can be measured in how quickly we need Christmas. We’re in a bad way right now, if we’re embracing red and green, snow themes and gingerbread house kits already.

Shouldn’t we be thinking about Thanksgiving instead? Perhaps that is too late, as flight bargain hunters have already snatched up the best rates online. We have come a long way from those days when one would drop by a travel agency and buy a comfy seat, from a nice agent, on a well-maintained aircraft piloted by truly qualified people. Now one never knows what a flight home for turkey you don’t have to prepare will turn out to be. The seats are cramped, you can’t pack anything anymore, and your seatmates may well be. . .well, let’s say not everybody is mannerly on flights these days.

Do the stores are decked out, and the cards line the Hallmark store shelves, and the mall kiosks are stuffed with wintery baubles. Even Santa will be spending more time there, with some arrivals as early as this weekend.

What we won’t have is a Toys R Us® big book of toys, and many will miss out on K-Mart and Sears this year. People would rather shop as if they’re doing surgery: impersonally, online, and have it shipped hoping the stuff won’t get lifted by opportunistic neighborhood thieves.

Ask not for whom the bell tolls: it’s tolling for us all.

We control nothing. Those are three words I say a lot lately, and it’s really true. For all our efforts to reign in our environment and ourselves, none of it can truly be tethered to a singular idea or truth.

Let’s take something simple such as a river: the saying is that you never step in the same spot twice, because the water is constantly moving. So what about the rocks, you say? They are moving as the earth is moving (the ground under us, that is to say). We don’t see it, but it’s happening. You can capture a bit of the river in a jar, but even those contents are not inert, so it is not controlled but merely contained. If the jar is shaken or broken, you would see how uncontrolled it is.

So what does this have to do with anything? Well, this past week somebody mailed pipe bombs around the country, apparently with the idea that if certain public figures who thought counter to their own ideas were killed, their personal agenda would be strengthened because fewer people would be arguing against what they believed. The problem is that killing somebody does not control them; they can no longer be convinced to think as you think, and therefore you have controlled nothing. Also you have lost. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if gang violence could be ended with this type of philosophy?

Natural events such as fires are often demonstrated to the public during Fire Prevention Week, using what is called a “controlled fire.” It really isn’t. Fire is random and chaotic, so you can only produce it and then–hopefully–put it out again. That is not control. It’s luck.

For years we have raised generations of people who have been injured physically and mentally by abuse, and recently church officials have been called out for inappropriate behavior with children. The problem is that we turn away from the truth for years, and suddenly decide to become indignant about it after the damage is done. What we might have done is try to anticipate human behavior and look into ways to prevent improper actions from becoming real problems. The horror needs to be stopped before it happens.

So how do we control human behavior? Maybe we don’t. Sexual abuse and bullying have been around for ages, just as LBGTQ behavior has. Just because we haven’t dealt with it, doesn’t mean it has not been there. So now we have people who try to control others by saying they have no right to be who they are. Going back to how we started: we control nothing. Nobody can tell a gay person not to be gay, and no bully should be able to tell somebody they are of less worth just because of prejudice, fear or ignorance. Unfortunately this may also mean we cannot control deviant behavior. But we might redirect it into something less harmful.

We are so busy calling out people for saying things and asking questions and acting on impulse, but when we respond with a “villagers with torches” attitude we will get nowhere.  We have to understand, address and act, or we will find ourselves, collectively, as humans out of control. We need to start thinking about the long-term effects of what we do and how we behave.

You may not be able to control the sheep in the meadow, but if you try, you can contain them and still give them the freedom to be sheep. We’re complaining too much and not looking at alternatives enough.

We also need to redirect ourselves into productive behaviors. We often call it self control, but really it’s just common sense. Stop and remember that we control nothing, but we do understand ourselves and can make better choices. And nobody gets hurt.

When we were served breakfast buffet style at a department meeting, the first thing to go was the bacon. We had pancakes, biscuits, sausage, scrambled eggs and fruit to feed a battalion, and orange juice and coffee in quantities that would keep them so jacked up on caffeine they wouldn’t care about scurvy. They dove into the bacon like crowds at a Black Friday bargain table.

I got no bacon and settled for sausage.

Our obsession with bacon goes back centuries to when the first haphazard lowly laborer accidentally let a pig die in a burning hut, only to find out later, when touching the smoldering corpse, that hot pork tasted pretty darned good after the burn kicked in and they unknowingly licked their fingers. So cured pig became a household staple, and bacon the holy grail of breakfast food.

Of course, bacon is not good for you. It’s on a naughty list up there with smoking, drinking alcohol in excess and watching too many prescription medication commercials, because of its fat and sodium content. It does count as meat, so physical laborers want it for energy. The rest of us just enjoy the experience for its own sake.

Turkey bacon is a good substitute, and I’ve sworn by it for a few years. I also advocate broiling or baking bacon. Heck, it has “bake” in the name, so why not? And Rachael Ray also does it; she even touts her own broiling pan just like my mother always used. Years ago, my mother prepared bacon with breakfast for a slumber party, and one guest swore she ironed the bacon. If you broil it, it will stay flat. In the army, bacon was cooked in a lump, and one never could be sure if all the pieces in a section would be thoroughly done or not. Often the outside was cremated and the inside raw.

Bacon works well in a sandwich, particularly with lettuce, tomato and just a bit of spread, but most people seem to want it at breakfast. They’ll forget their manners for it, and leave a buffet table barren of even a corner off a slice. It I didn’t know better, I’d swear they had no bacon, but I smelled it on the air. Gone in moments. Fortunately tomorrow is Sunday and I have my own bacon, flat as a board and just as tasty. I can smell it now.

My New York day trip from Hell yesterday started out rather well, but that all ended about twenty minutes before we were scheduled to board a bus to take us into the city via the NJ Turnpike. It seems Greyhound didn’t have a driver, and they had to refund our fares. Imagine this: a public transit company with a history going back to 1914, has entered the lackadaisical work ethic of 2018, in which not one of their drivers could step up and take a bus filled with people where they needed to go. Two hour delay, they said. My show was in three.

So there I was, with a slip of paper verifying my refund, but with a paid for show in the City that Never Sleeps waiting for me and. . .wait a second, I’m a grown woman with a car and decades of driving experience! The heck with the bus, I thought (in the R-rated version) as I settled in my seat, swerved into the toll lane for the turnpike and drove my little self to New York.

The drive itself was simple, and everybody on the road that morning behaved themselves. I paid my tolls, took the Lincoln Tunnel and emerged into the insanity of city traffic, where I had to find a place to park my two-month-old new car. Of course, entering the city I was driving in the wrong direction for going home, but I figured that problem I could resolve later. A decent looking garage adjacent to a hotel sounded like a good idea, and a happy attendant took my key and got me on my way. I made a point of memorizing what intersection I was on, because only the diligent and determined person takes the hours of time it must require to figure out addresses in that place. So how do I remember  it: the avenue and street, or street and avenue? I remembered the song about somebody’s Home Sweet Home at “toid and toidy-toid,” and I wished I had stayed there and not thought of a song which I first heard sung in the movie The Exorcist. I didn’t know if they meant toid avenue or toid street foist. . .I mean first.

My ego was somewhat boosted by my accomplishment so far, in that I navigated a drive I had never taken, without a GPS, and I walked to the show (which I enjoyed), and even grabbed lunch. As I sat on a park bench and nibbled on my yogurt and granola, two ladies slowed their stroll long enough to ask me if I wasn’t feeling colder eating what they thought was ice cream, realized their mistake and moved on.

The show was fine, but I decided not to linger, since my new baby was crammed into a hole somewhere in the depths of parking garage perdition and the meter was running. I found the spot easily and prepared to dole out a twenty dollar bill. . .the fellow behind apocalypse proof glass pointed casually to a sign listing the charges for parking. I knew I had missed the Early Bird Special, but I practically had a coronary when I saw that I owed $48 for anything over two and under ten hours of parking. There went my bus refund, plus the turnpike and tunnel fees.

At least my parking attendant showed me how to get turned around and back to the tunnel. That drive took nearly 20 minutes and played out like a video game. I had to turn left and cross three lanes of traffic while avoiding jaywalkers and speedy taxicabs, then make two right turns while pedestrians exercised their right of way.

So I wound up spending about $40 more than if I had taken the bus.

I got home much earlier than expected, since I wasn’t waiting for the next scheduled bus departure, and home never felt better. That was until, before falling into bed, a water pipe in the street broke, rendering the block with no water pressure overnight.

Excuse me for not seeming like I had a good time.

We have two beta fish in the office. Mine died Thursday. He seemed fine in the morning when I fed him, though a bit disinterested. By afternoon he was vertical, rather than belly up, but still as dead as disco. So I had another brief ceremony, ending with the traditional sendoff into the oblivion of sewer pipes (in other words, I flushed him), the cleaning out of the tank, and the scheduling of another quest to find a replacement.

On my lunch hour the next day, I headed to the pet store and, after enduring a traffic jam due to a nasty accident at the intersection, along with a crowded parking lot filled with lost souls packed one to a vehicle, I found a new companion. His bright eyes latched onto mine and he wouldn’t let me out of his sight until I took him away from the terrors and boredom of spending days in an over-sized clear plastic cup suspended inside a display next to dozen others of his species.

He now has a grand new expansive home, cleaned and sanitized for his protection (and mine), and he’ll have lots of attention over the weekend while I’m gone. He may even get to visit his comrade in the other cubicle, who looks a bit like him.

Yes, it was a rather quiet week in the office, since I only had news of a beta dying. A co-worker lost a horse and a cat back at her home in the same day, so I guess I’m lucky. Fish can make good companion animals, and a helpful part of the workplace, encouraging looking away from the computer screen (recommended every 20 minutes). They make you smile.

I may not have to write about this beta for a while, since their average lifespan is about 1-3 years. If he learns any neat tricks, look for him on YouTube.

The major networks devoted nearly the entire day on September 27 to live coverage of a political scandal which interrupted the nomination of a possible Supreme Court nominee. We have seen this before, when Clarence Thomas was added to the mix, so we know how such procedures play out. The real drama, though, may have been broadcast from the rest of the country’s point of view.

Watching, or trying to avoid, such stressful events is hard on many people, including victims of such crimes who may not want to have their emotional balance triggered by a reminder. Then there are the Democrats and Republicans and the common people sworn to uphold their respective values, who find the broadcast a forum for their venting of spleens over what goes right or wrong with the process. Workplaces such as mine, which broadcast CNN just to keep abreast of events going out outside our cubicle-in-cement world, get to see it all day and then hear it with our lunch, as the cafeteria is the spot that broadcasts sound.

Men and women who wish crime victims would not speak out get angry at broadcasts which seem to counter their agenda. Women who feel victims should speak out stand watch for any indication that the witness’ testimony adds or detracts from her credibility. Those who don’t believe in such crimes scoff at the whole affair. Those paranoid about the increase in crime add locks to their doors.

The children in school are either left out of the loop or are too precocious to ignore. High school students may either be upset by, or get a kick out of, watching something about which they have limited knowledge. College students, particularly law students, will dissect every moment. Psychologists have a field day. Special victims officials watch facial and body language, as do amateurs.

It’s a circus with a most unusual performer, and all of us are observers  who can never have the full measure of the story or how two persons–a perpetrator and victim–can change our world from one era to another. We have right now, with a hindsight view of the past, and a lot of words to measure and decide upon. But nobody is so perfect they are immune to scandal, and nobody is so beyond redemption that they cannot function in society, but our televisions are biased spyglasses into how we perceive life.

That is why it is not a good idea to make such events a television network performance.

I recently completed my 16th crocheted throw; slightly smaller than an afghan, it can be used as a warm upper body covering or to decorate your living room couch.  This is added to my dozen or so hats, scarves and baby blankets over the years.

They’re fun to make and a pleasure to give, except that I have only seen two of them again after I’ve given them away. Nine of them I gave to a co-worker who was supposedly taking them to a charity event, but that was the last I saw or heard about them. Since the person was known for being a unique sort, I was better off not even trying to ask about what became of them.

My mother has a granny square afghan I made for her more than 20 years ago, back when Clover was still a popular (and existing) store; I know because that was where I bought the yarn, remembering the color scheme to match the living room couch without a swatch. Each square was made while riding the train to and from work, and for some of my lunch time. Then I packaged the squares for Christmas, and she decided how to join them. It was one of my favorite projects.

The most recent one I gave to a neighbor for her birthday, and now I’m working on #17, after taking a break to crochet a hat. Crochet is a great way to relax, and it keeps the hands busy and the mind focused. The hat took about 2-3 hours to complete, a few minutes at a time during one week.

According to the Craft Yarn Council, crocheters made up 48 percent of respondents to a survey of yarn craft people (and 20 percent say they crochet and knit, but I’m not one of them). The best thing about crochet is how forgiving it is; mess up a knit stitch, you may not be able to recover it, but one can rip out a row or more of crochet and fix a problem. The word crochet means “hook” in French (after the implement used to form the yarn), and is one of the roots of the popular tape Velcro® (the “Vel” part being short for velour, or the soft side of the hook and loop tape).

Scores of people crochet for charity every year, making hats and scarves for folks in need. There is even a crochet pattern for the breast cancer survivor prosthetic charity known as Knitted Knockers. I have the pattern on my list of projects to try.

The local craft shop has walls of yarn in every conceivable size, color, texture and price range, so I don’t think I will ever be at a loss for yarn. Like a kid in Five Below®, I’ll always love finding the next thing to hook the heck out of, no matter what happens to them in the future; it’s the pleasure of making that is the best reward.