Susan's Scribblings the Blog

I need to warn everybody out there that the grocers may have figured out how to get us to use our own shopping bags; it looks like they’re sabotaging the plastic ones at checkout. It’s going to take an entire new mentality for us to prepare for it, and I’m here to share how I’m getting ready for it.

While at the self-checkout today, I noticed the lack of paper bags and resigned myself to using just plastic. This trip turned out to be a six-bagger; used to be four, but the sizes of plastic grocery bags seem to have shrunk lately. What used to hold three cartons of milk now barely fits four frozen meals.

As I lifted a bag with two bottles of juice and a few yogurt cups, it tore and the contents hit the floor. the checkout attendant calmly came over and said, “you have to double bag, because these won’t hold anything.”

So the staff is in on it. That’s an important clue.

She helped me double bag everything, and I noticed the holes at the bottoms of all the bags. That’s another major clue.

So, resigned to never seeing paper-in-plastic again, I took everything home and placed all the defective bags into one big bag to take back to the store next time for recycling.

Since China is apparently averse to receiving our plastic trash now, I’m not really surprised that we’re being slowly steered like cattle toward using our own bags. But we have a problem: nobody is used to taking bags into the store. The shoppers’ mindset is to go in with our wallets full and come out with full bags and empty wallets (or a wad of credit card receipts, or gigabytes of electronic receipt data, whichever you’re into). so how do we enter a store carrying bags and make it look classy?

Maybe the solution is to give shopping bags the same treatment as glass bottles; a deposit gives you bags, and when you return them you get cash back toward your shopping trip. Or maybe we need a classy bag in which to bring our bags into the store. Or maybe we need a bag which fits into our purse and expands on demand when we leave the store.

This is going to take some time to figure out. Meanwhile, the bags we have now are designed to fail us. I don’t know if this is going to kill the supermarket as we know it, but it sure looks like sabotage to me.

This week I took some time during my lunch to watch some YouTube videos, and I learned two interesting things. The first involves the name of a town in Wales which is over 50 characters long and difficult to pronounce, but I think I’ve nailed it.

I discovered it while watching a compilation video of news bloopers: a weather announcer named Liam Dutton from network Channel 4 was tasked with giving the weather in western Wales, and managed to nail the name of a train station/church town called llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch. That’s pronounced pretty much like this: Llan vire pool gwyn gill go ger u queern drobool landus ilio gogo goch, the last sounding like “rock” if you have a phlegm-y throat.

It’s kind of the supercalifragilisticexpialidocious of its time. Since we in the PA/NJ region have places like Schuylkill to pronounce, we should consider ourselves lucky.

The second thing I learned is that compilation videos cheat sometimes: the clips were supposed to be from this June, but this viral clip is from about three years ago. Looks like they padded out their collection a bit and should pay a visit to the naughty corner, or have to write Llanfair P.G. (as the locals apparently call it) 100 times.

You can always tell it’s summer without a calendar, because everybody mysteriously vanishes. Well, maybe not everybody: we still need a certain number of people to be on duty in various professions, so they stay around while the rest of humanity fries their body fat on a beach somewhere. I say kudos to those dedicated people who don’t abandon their jobs for Antigua or cut the week short for a few days in Cancun. I salute you, because I don’t go on vacation either.

The last time I went on vacation, my family and I rented a place at the shore, and the neighbors downstairs swapped out our cable on us. That was years ago.

Something happens to people when they go on vacation, probably because they leave the comforts of home at home, yet still feel entitled to them anyplace else they go. If I went to the shore today, I probably would not have problems with cable theft, because everybody watches shows on a stick these days. It’s a great anti-theft idea for summer residences, because nobody can break into your utility box and swap out your stick. I suppose the cost of a beach house today is based upon whether or not the television can accomodate your stick.

We don’t seem to mind that we go to a vacation home or hotel and subject ourselves to the detritus of hundreds of other people who have done the same things before us. We sleep in beds in which dozens of folks shed their dead skin, ate or drank wine or made whoopie, and we overlook it because we need a place to sleep.  We go to overpriced attractions, eat enough calories that we could starve ourselves for a month, and all for the sake of getting away from it all.

Yet we strive and struggle to get it all at home, and then when we get it all, we go on vacation to get away from it.

In other countries they have holidays, which are really multi-day or -week excursions away from work. Businesses shut down for holiday, and everybody meets up at some sun-soaked destination to enjoy time away from it all. With their coworkers.

In fact, I just saw on CBS today that some companies have a Friday holiday: workers simply put in extra hours Monday through Thursday, then the place shuts down and everybody takes Friday off.

I hate places that shut down on weekends. Correction: I hate the fact that I have always worked in places that do not shut down on weekends, so rather than curse myself–which is fruitless-I hate them.

Lots of folks look forward to retirement, which is supposed to be one long vacation. Of course one is older and less spry to enjoy some vacations which are better enjoyed in youth, but still we look forward to getting away from it all someday.

After retirement comes the real getaway from it all, where hotel beds don’t matter anyway.

I can’t help feeling a bit nostalgic, because this is an anniversary year for me, and I just learned that high school commencement for the class of 2018 is coming this week, which brings back a lot of memories. Sure there was the cardboard pizza in the cafeteria, the lockers that never held enough, the ancient textbooks from Aristotle’s reject pile, but how much about high school graduation has really changed?

It’s still a passage based on a collection of policies and rules which have nothing to do with real life: I remember the receipt of my diploma depended upon my ability to find and turn in my concert band bow tie (which I never missed). There were points and GPA calculations and fittings for gowns which still didn’t fit, and I don’t think even the last month of the semester amounted to anything. It’s the law and we all followed along with resigned obedience.

The valedictorian may not have the greatest command of English (having concentrated on science major courses), and the person at the bottom of the class ranking may well become the greatest inventor since the guy who created the Salad Shooter®, or even written the speech for the valedictorian. With the exception of whomever teaches summer school (if that is still a thing), the building will be emptied for about two months and change, and it starts all over again in September.

After graduation, I sat on the front steps of our home with my parents and inhaled the breath of freedom from school basics, looking forward to night classes in the fall at Rutgers. The next day I started my job. I have never seen 99 percent of my classmates since then. Some of them disappeared and we never did find them for any reunions over the years. We are such a mobile society that we don’t have our fellow students to be nostalgic with anymore.

Well, for what it’s worth, below is my real senior class picture, taken on graduation day after having my braces removed. I like it, because I like to look back and think that high school offered the promise of a future to smile about.

After noted chef Anthony Bourdain and designer Kate Spade committed suicide in the same week, the subject of ending one’s own life prematurely became a major topic. In times of societal polarity or change, public emotions tend to be edgier than usual, and not surprisingly the suicide rate goes up. At some point in our lives, we may say something like, “I wish I were dead right now,” when we don’t mean it, but some do.

Death does end everything. That is what some people want: an end to it all. When the idea of being forced to exist in a way contrary to one’s nature is unbearable, the choices are limited. One can remove the source of the forced suffering–either the thing itself or the person causing it, if possible–run away from it, regroup and try to change the situation if possible, or die so it is no longer a problem.

Suffering seems to be more a man-made condition than a divine or natural one, so it is up to man to resolve it. When it comes to people who cause suffering, we are more prone to not actively dealing with the issue because, after all, unless you walk in somebody’s shoes, do you feel you have the right to judge somebody’s actions? Better to give a chronic offender a chance to change his ways. That may be how abusive clerics were sent to other parishes: maybe the right place would eliminate the problem. It didn’t work very well. Schools expel bullies and they end up going to other schools, which doesn’t always end the problem if nobody punishes the behavior to redeem the person.

Of course it’s possible to go into a War and Peace-sized dialogue about why suffering causes suicide. The issue is how much pain a person can endure before breaking, and we often push the needle on the tolerance meter by making irresponsible choices which may make our lives easier but others’ worse. Look at all the electronic waste in India right now; a world of mercury poisoning and hazardous computer materials piling up around a nation of poor folk just because we don’t want to handle it. I recently read that China is turning down some of our cardboard waste because those lovely Amazon boxes are overwhelming the recycling efforts there, and values are down.

The suicidal are tired of pursuing happiness and are looking for peace instead. We need to open up to new ideas and stop saying “not me” or NIMBY (“not in my back yard”) and make the world our yard where we can throw a big social get-together and make some changes to really change the way we see our lives. The glass is not half empty or half full: it has some water in it, and that is a start to making things better.

(If you or somebody you know has thoughts of suicide, the Suicide Prevention Hotline is 1-800-273-8255 and is available 24 hours a day).

I love my car, but I have not had a good relationship with the tires lately. In my lifetime I have had a flat or two, but I just had two in one week, all because of little bits of construction debris I drove over in total ignorance. Guys, pick up your stuff before you leave: you never know where it might go. If not my tire, somebody’s foot.

What you see in the photo represents my week in tread dread. On Sunday, I hopped into my car to drive down the road to the pharmacy, when my car’s dashboard diagnostic system told me I had low tire tread, so I dutifully drove up another road to the service station, where the tech on duty found the screw on the right: believe it or not, that was not the culprit, as it entered the tire at an angle. The little dude on the left did the deed. Fortunately I was one day short of the holiday (though I could’ve just called AAA), so I was able to get it fixed right away. My guess is that I drove over Laurel and Hardy when I picked up dinner on Saturday night, and the leak happened–albeit slowly, because the damage was probably between the wheel and driveway–overnight. So the tech did a plug, and no aftereffects came up.

This morning, the second low tire message appeared involving the same tire. How likely is that to happen? Another plug job. I’m wondering now if I have a cursed tire. I had a patch put on one of the tires the last flat I had, and I know my dealer regularly rotates my tires, so I wonder if this is the same one. Got a one in four shot that it is. Next time I go in, I will ask them to check for a tire with a patch and two plugs.

And what does one do with a cursed tire? Buy three new ones, and the one free does the exorcism.

I had such a scattered week, that I decided this week to just post some random tidbits about it. Websites like AOL and MSN do it all the time, so why not me?

Today I discovered the little locking thingy on the toilet seat which, if engaged properly, stops the seat from shimmying around.

The other day I read about a fellow whose girlfriend saw a bluish star in the sky, pointed to it and asked earnestly, “Is that Earth?”

This past week we saw proof that the English language has too many words with more than one definition, and it can cause people some inconvenience. A mother wanted a cake for her son, who graduated with high honors from college. Anxious to spread the word around during his party, she asked for the Latin term to be put on the cake when she ordered it from Publix food market. When the cake was delivered, it read “Summa – – – Laude” because the computer filter in their bakery order department removed the word “cum” as being an obscene term for a certain male bodily fluid rather than the word for “with.”

I don’t want to go too soon into more discussion of the recent mass school shooting, but a student mentioned that a coach told the shooter-to-be once, in so many words, that he had extreme body odor. He would have done better to offer the use of the gym showers. Teachers should not assume that all kids who stink are choosing to do so: maybe the parents could not–or would not–pay the bills and the water was shut off. Maybe a parent, like some of the ones with multiple kids found in “houses of horror,” forbade the children to shower. Just saying.

When folks use a website’s “Contact Us” feature and start their email with “You guys suck,” my experience has shown that nine times out of ten the problem was theirs, not the website’s.

If the networks are going to end May sweeps two weeks early, they should start the seasonal replacements two weeks early. Just saying.

After writing to my broadband provider four times with no response, I have come to the sad conclusion that they do not care. If you want to know who they are, drop me a line and I’ll tell you, so you can decide if you also want to jump ship or lodge your own complaint. What does it take to write a reply to a question? Apparently too much effort.

“Survivor” tried to pull a fast one by not revealing the winner of “Ghost Island” at 10:00. Sorry, Probst: I fell asleep this time. Make it 10:00 or I won’t make it.

Probably the best commercial I’ve seen in a long while is Santander’s “Piggy” ad featuring a living porcine vessel which finds its way home. The fridge can wait when it’s on the air.

I have a coworker I’ll call DeeCee here, who can tell very interesting stories. I made an animated video from one of her tales, and I’d like to share another.

DeeCee had been trying to enjoy cruises with her husband, but she came down with terrible seasickness on every attempt. No over-the-counter pills or pressure bands or other gadgets she tried seemed to work. Within a short time after boarding the vessel, she was down for the duration, in her bunk, sick as a sea dog. Once she barely made it to the single restroom available when the urge struck in a public area of the ship, and she was almost immediately followed by an anonymous little girl desperate for a place to toss her cookies. They ended up pairs hurling, with DeeCee holding the girl’s hair back while the kid got sick in the sink.

On another attempt prior to even leaving port, the captain informed the passengers that they would be sailing into rough seas and warned folks to get any medications they might need from the ship’s doctor right away, which she did, to no avail. She felt it was hopeless, since even the best of the ship’s doctors’ ideas failed.

It was during a casual land encounter with a seafarer in which she mentioned her seasickness, to which he asked if she had been cruising on ships run on diesel.  When she replied yes, the man with all the experience of the sea (and the missing teeth and fingers to prove it) said simply that she was allergic to diesel fuel.

Of course, this means that any cruise involving a diesel powered vessel is forever out of the question, but other boats might be the key to fun few days at sea. At least she got the answer from a source in a true “duh” moment.

You never know where you will get your best advice.

A restaurant in California called Old Fisherman’s Grotto has gone where few have dared to tread: they are asking patrons to not bring children to their establishment or risk being asked to leave.  Adding to their policy, they offer no special seats for children (boosters or high chairs), nor do they allow strollers inside. It’s posted on a special sign, saying in part, “Children crying or making loud noises are a distraction to other diners, and as such are not allowed in the dining room.”

It’s not really a bad idea.

In a world where inclusion is entering rather controversial territory, some may balk, but think about what we have been doing lately by trying to let everybody in everywhere.  There are some things which are exclusive because of their purpose or reputation, and some ideas would not belong there. Would one find Chuck E. Cheese officiating at Tavern on the Green? Would you find a sommelier at In-N-Out Burger? Women, would you want to queue up at a men’s restroom just because a stall or two may be standing empty amongst the urinals (at which somebody may indeed be standing)?

There are plenty of family restaurants which would gladly allow children at any stage of emotional or behavioral development to come and have a nice meal. If it’s a family place, you expect families to go there, and you expect a few wailing babies to emerge.

It isn’t even necessary to go into the subject of irresponsible parents, whose out of control squawkers can indeed ruin a meal anyplace and for everybody, including everybody else’s kids. I remember a restaurant experience in which a family left the table in such a mess, the cleaning crew retched.

One note about the restaurant’s choice of signage: if this particular establishment wants to keep a quiet atmosphere, and be a refuge from rambunctious youngsters for adults (whether or not they have a tolerance for them), why not just put it in writing politely? The verbiage does come off as a bit offensive, even to parents whose kids can handle a finger bowl at age six.

Exclusivity is not always meant to be non-inclusive, but just to be itself. Know what you are getting into before going in the door, or don’t go in.

Within 24 hours of each other, two articles appeared in the newspaper, both about our elimination habits. Who would have imagined such a coincidence? It drew my attention at once, because I recalled an incident from a long time ago when a group of friends and I were out on a Friday night, and one of our group decided to “take the stance” in front of a police cruiser to, in his mind, show some joking distaste for The Man. He didn’t actually do anything else, just struck that familiar pose, but the officer was not happy about it.

So it’s some time later, and we still have issues with how we go.

The first article was from the May 3rd “Dear Abby” syndicated column, in which a wife identifying herself as “Tempted in California” complained that, after she and her spouse moved to the country, he has taken to the habit of urinating in the woods by their home. He does not do it if there is a danger of being spotted, and never when anybody else is around, but she wondered if she should join him. Abby leaned toward discouraging that idea, and brought up a popular column from 20 years ago from “The Whiz-zard’s Wife,” whose spouse also tinkled outdoors. That column generated a response from actor and gun activist Charlton Heston, who confirmed that all men are outdoor urinators.

If the manly man who played Ben-Hur and Moses said it’s okay, I guess it’s okay. We women still have trouble doing it, which probably adds to the enjoyment of it for men; they hold their one up to symbolize their one-upmanship.

Then I parry by bringing up the “All in the Family” chair challenge (more on that later).

The second article detailed the discovery that a school superintendent in the Holmdel, NJ Kenilworth school district had allegedly been doing number two on the school athletic field on a regular basis.  After at least eight instances of track and field participants finding human poo on the field, a camera supposedly caught Thomas Tramaglini in the act, and he has been suspended. This is a man who did an impressive running of the New York Marathon in 2010, so the subject of something called runner’s diarrhea has come up as a possible cause of the problem, but experts have–excuse the pun– already poo-pooed that idea. So Tramaglini may face lewdness and littering charges which could put a dent in a job which pays about $148,000 a year. With that kind of salary, he could build a private portable potty for the field (or twenty).

Anyway, back to the chair challenge: on an episode of the famous sitcom, daughter Gloria (Sally Struthers) challenged her father Archie (Carroll O’Connor) to stand against a wall, take three steps backward, then place a chair in front of him, bend over with his head against the wall and straighten up while holding up the chair. Men can’t do that. Women can. Perfect revenge for us girls not being able to pee in front.