Susan's Scribblings the Blog

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.

Through the ages, office workers have dreaded such things as performance evaluations or no coffee in the break room, but nothing has caused more psychological upheaval than ordering corporate logo apparel. Funny thing is, it never really is the company’s fault, but it has been said (and, I should note, not by Albert Einstein) that insanity is defined by doing the same thing repeatedly expecting different results. When it comes to office wear, it’s always a disaster.

Earlier this year the decision was made to offer a free shirt to be worn for a special event. This naturally comes with a planning phase in which one must determine how to get the sizes for everybody who wants to participate. The answer lies in having each person submit their preference using a series of numbers and letters which amount to nothing like what our people resemble in real life.  We have countless women like Olive Oyl and men like Bluto in our office; some with figures like Dolly Parton and others like Dwayne Johnson. They may wear one manufacturer’s this size and another’s that size, yet they have to guess at what size they should put down. It then gets compiled and counted and sent to the clothier.

So at least a few people see that our office has such a mashup of sizes, there is no definition of what one can classify as “normal,” nor can there be any hope of getting the sizes of the clothes right based solely on a form.

My idea of the perfect logo apparel ordering experience is that the apparel company comes to the office with their full variety of sizes in sample shirts; set up a fitting room and hand the participants the best estimated size to try on, then make a note themselves on the order sheet of what size to produce for each person.

For some bizarre reason, companies that sell logo apparel to businesses seem to have a totally different sizing system than the rest of the civilized world. A women’s size Small should fit an adult, not an eight-year-old boy who is a few weeks short of his growth spurt. Also, as much as we hate to go there, it must be said that larger sizes should be better proportioned so they don’t look like couture by Omar the Tent-Maker (one of my mother’s favorite go-to phrases on the subject of plus-size clothes). A size 5XL should not be two side seams and no proper draping, whether it’s for a woman or man.

Dealing with giving people clothes goes into the dark woodsy realm of body types and self-image issues, which I will mercifully not detail here.

I have been through ordering polo shirts at least twice, and jackets once. This time some people were volundrafted for the duty of making sure everybody got their shirts when delivered, and I was also volunteered under related duties. I went with the volundraftee to pick the shirts up from our mailroom. They came in boxes too large to carry, so we piled them on a cart towering over our heads by at least a foot, and borrowed an entire conference room to handle the distribution. It turned out the manufacturer sized everything a bit small, so the order was up-sized by one. Mostly. Once the misfires in substitutions were sorted out, we begged the order coordinator for extra odd sizes and sent word to everybody to come pick them up, and a whole new adventure began.

There is nothing like an office environment when something is handed out for free. In all fairness, most people did not look the gift horse in the mouth, but the shirts were cut for women and men while the placket (where the buttons are set on the right side for men and left for women) were apparently done unisex. Why will remain a mystery. Despite a few grumbles, we accepted the gesture with grace and, for those whose shirts offered a snug fit, the resignation to sucking in during wear.

It will be interesting to see what the shirts look like when we wear them on the same day, and the aftermath the first time they are washed. Maybe this time will be the last. Next time, I’m going to strongly suggest we stick with ball caps.

One of life’s most disheartening experiences comes when you pull up to a favorite take-out place to find it has gone out of business. Last week I made a trek to the lone seafood joint seemingly within a ten mile radius, to find brown paper on the windows and a note on the door thanking the patrons for supporting them. I guess there weren’t enough of them. I admit, the pricing at the place was not low enough to make it a regular stop, but I would go every few weeks, and the food and service were great. The staff kept the merchandise in the back, and it appeared that they were striving for safety and quality over ambiance, as the counters in the front were empty and the floor needed repair. The place had been taken over by new management who were trying to win back a good reputation smudged by the prior occupants. They were friendly, courteous, and helpful. And the food was darned good.

Years of having no seafood joint had me losing my hopes for a good seafood platter until I discovered their great selection of flounder, shrimp and crab cakes, dutifully served in Styrofoam clam-shell containers, accompanied by little containers of coleslaw, tartar and cocktail sauces, and fries which are never crispy but are addictive enough to eat by the boatload. The land of Old Bay on a budget lived briefly in a little strip mall, until suddenly, during a few weeks’ absence, they unceremoniously left with no advance notice. There was a referral in the note on the door, to the pizza place a few doors away. Sorry, but it’s not the same thing.

Little mom-and-pop take-out places are hard to come by, and seafood appears to be a tough market these days. Years ago one could stop at a seafood place and find a fisherman town or ocean theme on the walls, with netting and plastic crabs and lobsters cavorting around the windows, display cases packed with fresh fish, and happy little hand-drawn signs advertising the specials which never changed but were always the perfect size and price for a hungry family. Now another attempt to keep that vision alive has gone away.

When we lose our sense of local business, we lose the neighborhood. I hope a new place will emerge somewhere. For now, Gorton’s in a box will have to do.

This is a story with many parts to tell, but it all begins with a little girl who was scared by the Easter Bunny. Of course the iconic character was somebody in a costume, but that is unimportant. The real story is about helicopter parents, privacy issues, fear, prejudice and consequences. All because a little girl panicked when the Easter Bunny came to her daycare center.

The two-year-old named Surai was at her daycare center in Kissimmee, Florida, when the children were visited by the ecumenical character coming through the classroom door. Most of the children appear in the video to be happy, but little Surai appeared to be unprepared for one of holiday life’s mundane events. She leaped from her chair and backed away, her cherub face twisted in fear. A worker was videotaping the event and it was posted to social media, where it soon became viral and even appeared on Jimmy Kimmel’s show monologue.

Most people poo-poo childhood angst over holiday icons like Santa or the bunny, and brush it off as just being a poorly timed moment in a child’s life. They won’t remember it next year, or if it were yesterday they would not be so scared.

There were problems, however. Surai’s mother, Cassandra Bryson, and grandmother Mary Bryson-Robinson, talked to news media of their distress because the daycare did not have permission to photograph or videotape Surai. In writing. The contract between the center and parents asks for permission or opting out for several personal preferences, and the mother had checked off all the items prohibiting imaging of any kind. Also, any eagle-eyed viewer of the news articles related to this story can see that a sign prohibiting photos or video recordings appears prominently on the front of the building. So obviously breaking out the cellphone video app did not apply to somebody in their employ.

So the daycare is at fault, and somebody needs disciplinary action.

The grandmother has been on camera saying that her granddaughter has been psychologically damaged by not only the publicity, but by the trauma of having been scared and having nobody from the facility offering any guidance or comfort. It was an unpleasant surprise for a little tot. Psychologically little Surai’s environment and the way her family handles the event will likely determine whether she has lasting fears in the future. Not knowing how she responded to Santa Claus just a few months ago remains an unanswered question as well. Did her folks prepare her for clowns and other costumed characters?

The other piece of this puzzle is how average people responded to the video: some posted racist comments online. That was uncalled for. Nobody knows how a surprise like that will affect a person. Haven’t grown men fainted at the sight of a spider, or young boys punch the lights out of something (or somebody) that gave them a turn at Halloween?

Our responsibility to obey policies, and how we prepare for and process fear all came into play this time. We didn’t pass the test.

When I got sick with a stomach bug, I had to cut milk from my diet because it is difficult to digest, so I switched to almond milk instead. The results were so positive that I have not gone back to regular milk since. That, and the fact that breakfast alone gave me my entire day’s worth of sugar before my day had even gotten started.

Every article out there tells us to cut back on sugar: we are supposed to consume on average around 25 grams (six teaspoons’ worth) daily. Men (as always) are given a break because they burn energy differently, so they can consume 36 grams (nine teaspoons), while women should go for 20 grams (five teaspoons). Children are supposed to get 12 grams (three teaspoons). The average soda can has 40 grams. You see where this is going.

A couple of weeks ago my weight was down and I was feeling pretty good, so I bought a new ice cream treat in a small hand sized portion, without reading the nutrition label. Big mistake. That handful of ice cream was certainly scrumptious with its toppings and flavors, but it was also nearly 60 grams of sugar. Because I had it in the evening, that means I slept on over a dozen teaspoons of sugar coursing through my system.

The American Heart Association (AHA) claims we are consuming nearly 300 calories more per day than we used to, but we don’t exercise it off like we used to, either. The old saying that eliminating 500 calories a day can equal a pound of fat off your body in a week is not a bad idea to follow. The AHA recommends tracking total sugars, especially if your nutrition label does not indicate when sugar is added to a food rather than occurring naturally in it (such as fruits in the ingredients). My excuse for not reading the label on the sundae was that the print was microscopic and I didn’t have my glasses available at the time. Either I need to carry a magnifier around with me, buy a third pair of glasses or go on a campaign to get either the stores or the manufacturers to make their print easier to read.

Then again, our salad dressings on the grocer’s shelf are also laden with sugar. How can one stay healthy by eating salads if the dressings aren’t good for you?

Our obsession with sugar has a cure, though, through substitution and moderation. The Europeans don’t overindulge in sugar; it’s a treat rather than a daily (if passive) supplement. A more alert attitude has helped me switch some bad habits for good ones and, though I may indulge in another one of those tooth-rotting sundaes again, I will plan it rather than go hog wild with it for no reason.

Better health for the long-term always should prevail over momentary sweet tooth pleasure, and I’m going to try to remember that.

I don’t usually buy any of those “as seen on TV” products, but I decided it might be a good idea to try Eggletts, which are silicone cups designed to cook eggs without dealing with the shells. Simply crack the egg into the cup and place in boiling water to cook hard- or soft-boiled eggs, or add ingredients for omelette cups and such.

But what about the ooglie? You know, the little white squiggly things which hold eggs suspended in place inside the shell, known as the chalazae. I normally de-ooglie my eggs prior to cooking, which involves the precision of a surgeon, at least two kitchen utensils and the patience of Job to accomplish. Certainly no short order cook bothers excising two white squiggles out of every egg they crack open. And what about shells falling into your Egglette?

Just to be safe, I’ll crack my eggs into a custard cup first.

I like all three network newscasts, but I can’t stand them when it snows and they spend endless hours of airtime telling me that it’s snowing outside. News networks such as CNN broadcast 24 hours of news, but if I’m going to stay home I prefer being a willing captive catching up with “Let’s Make a Deal” and Dr. Phil than hours of snow broadcast drudgery.

The unfortunate staff are forced into knee-deep snow drifts with yardsticks to measure the accumulation, parked in front of convenience stores to discuss bread and milk runs with over-bundled brave shoppers, and sent on endless treks in specially equipped weather outfitted vehicles to show viewers at home what they are missing by not driving themselves anywhere.

The first big storm broadcast that really drew viewership, however, was for a hurricane, when Al Roker bravely broadcast a segment on Hurricane Wilma while a staffer tried to secure him against being blown away.

Usually we know it’s snowing just by looking at the white stuff covering our lawns and sidewalks, so spending hours of airtime and taking away regular programming won’t really change it. An hourly update might do the job. Also, if the average person is told it is risky to sojourn into this weather, newscasters should be accorded the same consideration. Stay inside and stay safe, and let us catch up on Dr. Phil.

I was in New York City yesterday; not for St. Patrick’s Day, but to see an opera (it was the best scheduled performance I could get at the Metropolitan Opera, so I gave up my scheduled subscription seat at the Walnut Street Theater and took a performance there on another day just for this privilege). St. Patty’s Day is as big an event in NYC as in Chicago or Philadelphia, with the added big attraction being it is a city that never sleeps and, therefore, can handle huge hordes of revelers at all hours, even after March 17 became March 18. My intention was to be out of there well before that.

The city was in a strange condition when I arrived on the early bus (the only one I could get), as Broadway was almost a ghost town with everybody crowding to Fifth Avenue for the festivities. It did give me an opportunity to go places which would otherwise be crowded. The main qualifier for emptiness was that none of them served alcohol.

Imagine walking into a Starbucks with no line. Parts of Broadway were undergoing one of many cosmetic changes which occur with the city reinvents itself from its most famous block outward: stores had relocated, while others shut down over the past few months since I was there last. The parade participants dwindled as I walked toward Lincoln Center. Still the walking itself was wonderful, and I figured I did quite a few miles (forgot to strap on my pedometer at 6:00 in the morning, but my guess is about five to six miles overall).

Took a detour downstairs in the Shops at Columbus Circle to visit the Whole Foods market. The place is extraordinary compared to the one I visit in the progressive yet somewhat Luddite world of southern New Jersey. A huge fish called an Opa was on display on a table. The minute I pulled out my cell phone camera, a crowd followed along, snapping shots of the poor thing as it lay in state waiting for somebody to come to the seafood department and ask for it to feed a huge horde.

Once past the dwindling bunches of folks clad in green for the parade or baccanal, I headed into Lincoln Center to find that people removing their coats still wore green for the day, as did I. The performance was short (one act) but not without some–and the only negative–drama from my spot in the audience. A woman seated behind me, whom I assume is a subscription diva and possibly well-known as one with an attitude, poked the woman seated next to me as the house darkened, stating she could not see without some shrinkage in front of her, to which my seat partner curtly replied no without any further repercussions. At the conclusion came the real drama, when a dark shaft appeared within my eyesight to my right: it was the same diva, poking her walking cane over my shoulder to jab the woman seated in front of me who had stood to join an ovation for a performer at curtain call, with the same lament that she could not see. Perhaps she should’ve considered a small periscope.

So strangely enough, the best people in New York that day were the St. Patty’s Day celebrants, and the only problem person I encountered was inside a respectable establishment on the outskirts of the party and merriment part of town.

If online videos were available 60 years ago, We might have learned a lot more a lot sooner, but we would have been too preoccupied watching and learning than actually doing anything. Sure I enjoy cat videos and the latest memes, and sometimes I just play an old favorite because I’ve worked hard all day and it’s a reward that doesn’t pack on pounds. It could give me cataracts a lot sooner, though.

During a training class at work, the instructor had YouTube up as a default screen between classes, and I discovered this great video of a music machine which uses some electronics but relies on music made by 2,000 marbles.

Imagine the thought and genius that went into this contraption. I enjoyed watching the shots of the marbles and the various instrument levers, but not so much the lanky-haired fellow running it by hand cranking the drive wheel.

Oh yeah, and the training class was great, too.

The other video I saw which was interesting was of a food called tama konnyaku, a Japanese jelly and potato-based dish which, when cooked, expels a noise similar to throngs of screaming people if you press on them:

So I’ve provided you with two distractions which are equal parts enjoyable and a bit creepy. But don’t forget to also do something constructive with your time today, especially since it’s Daylight Saving and you’ll lose an hour of sleep tomorrow.

The third “For Sale” sign went up in a house next to mine the other day. Suddenly the block is going to change, and people I have known for a long time are disappearing. I have lived on the same street for over 50 years (give or take a few short stints away), and I have seen it happen, but it seems to be happening faster now.

Of course I am not the longest-lived resident of the block, but only when you see advance notice of more change do you get a chance to think about it in depth from all the time you have spent there. There were people who were kind, and those who kept to themselves. Some never felt welcome and didn’t help us feel like we belonged, while others strove to keep life on a pleasant border between wonderfully outgoing and peacefully civil. When I first arrived with my parents, people stayed in one place a long time, but now frequent moves are not considered unusual, so a few new people have only stayed a short while.

I saw the youth of my generation–both younger and older than me– make their way through life on the block, and they have moved away. The elderly have died, and the middle-aged or young upstarts have sought different environments, either upscale or downsized. There have been some financial hardships and difficult divorces along the way, all with their own causes and consequences. Moving is usually one of the consequences.

So now I wonder what the future of the block will be. Who will fill in the gaps by moving in and finding their place in the whole? I will wait and see who paints or fences or landscapes, and who smiles en route to their car in the morning or slips out to pull third shift duty under the cover of the moon when nobody is around to see them. Will there be new children, or adults of an age to whom we all can relate?

When the sale signs come down and the moving vans pull away, it will all begin again with new people mingling with the old, not only in age but in dynamics, emotions and ideas. It will be like a mystery prize behind a curtain, and I’m holding my breath for it to be revealed.