Susan's Scribblings the Blog

Retooling my schedule can be a tax on the brain. So can a less-than-pleasurable trip to New York City, which I will discuss when I post later on this week. The normal Saturday schedule will resume on November 5.

When you work in customer service, you will regularly come across a person with a bad attitude they are anxious to pass on to you. I just had one, and for the purposes of this post, I will call him Mr. Pompous. He sent us an email to express his overwhelming discontent with us. We don’t like people to be unhappy with us, but notes such as his are more worthy of a laugh than concern. We are concerned anyway.

From the content of his complaint, it was obvious right away that Mr. Pompous is well read and possesses considerable intelligence. Customers such as he can, therefore, be stubborn when they encounter a problem, sometimes they see themselves as overly worthy of VIP attention. He had received a piece of correspondence and, upon looking at the signature and title of the signer, envisioned some corporate hall of grandeur which he had to infiltrate to get to the source of the problem: in other words, whoever wrote the letter deserved a piece of his mind.  In person.

Naturally customer letters are not really royal decrees, and any company worth their weight in salt empowers their service associates to answer any questions about paperwork going into customers’ hands, but Mr. Pompous was not having any of it. He complained instead that we served as a circle of bodyguards to protect our superiors and were shoving spears in his face to prevent his access.

He didn’t tell us what the problem was, so we sent a general response offering him help for the most common situations we encounter from our customers. He wrote back and thanked us for what he termed, in so many words, a “duh” moment, since he did obviously need help, but he still did not specify the problem. All that was in the email was line after line of well-crafted pompous prose with verbiage worthy of a PhD. It told us absolutely nothing.

I wrote back and offered help again, stressing that we needed to know what letter he received and what questions he had.  I hit “Send” and waited for what I expected to be another pompous reply.

He did not disappoint.  By the end of the day, he replied and said that we were beating around the bush, and that if we emailed him again it would go into his unwanted email file of shame.  What a pity, since he would never get his answers, because he never gave us his question.

I mentioned Mr. Pompous to a co-worker who is experienced in looking into the finer details of a customer record, and we figured out that Mr. Pompous had simply forgotten to pay his bill, and apparently a letter inviting him to get back on track irked him for reasons unknown. So the corporate guru in the hall of grandeur and we will never know what was on the mind of poor Mr. Pompous.

Folks, don’t be Mr. Pompous. If you have a question or concern from a business that serves you, call and ask your questions in a focused and polite manner. We will help you. And we promise not to laugh.

Sometimes when I have to tinker or do some messy work, I put on one of my father’s old work shirts. It’s roomy, it breathes and is sturdy and, just like my father did, it protects me. Of course he has been gone for a long time, but I keep it as a memento. I wonder what he would think about how some fathers’ daughters are being treated during this political campaign.

Sometimes it seems Donald Trump forgets that he has a daughter. I would be remiss to not mention his marriages as well, but it is about fathers I’m talking. So here is Mr. Trump, a father, discussing prowess with somebody while a live microphone picks up on it. He probably forgot the first rule of being a celebrity: live your life as if there is a live mic nearby. Otherwise why would he say something his own daughter might hear?

The influence of the opposite sex parent on a child is one of the most pivotal in the developmental years. As children we idolize our parents, then we reach the pivotal point at which we discover their true good points and flaws and we start to branch out and become who we will be in adult life. We also develop our own good points and flaws, but we should all try to nurture the former and hold back on the latter. We forget at times, and Trump’s banter with Billy Bush of Access Hollywood is certainly proof of how extremely vulgar one can get when dropping the filter we’re supposed to take on as grownups.

He made references to a woman’s recent breast enhancements. Isn’t it strange that men seem to like to see large-chested women, but condemn them in the same breath. This type of genderist hypocrisy (yes, I just invented that word) is what ruins both genders at the same time. We are dependent upon each other for the survival of the human race, yet we are always at odds just because of a few chromosomes and body parts which differentiate us. Trump apparently thought it was okay to also talk about grabbing women in private areas. I can’t recall once in my lifetime talking about a man like that around other women.

Back to the shirt. It’s a pedestrian plaid that I’m sure many men wear at some time in their lives. When I wear it, I remember the values my father taught me.  I think about his good points and forgive his flaws, and I remember that I will always be his daughter.

I think it would be a great idea if every daughter out there broke out one of their father’s shirts and put it on. Take a selfie. Post to Facebook and Twitter with the hashtag DadShirt. Show that we hold them to task to be good human beings first and men second. Let’s remember that fathers have a responsibility to protect their daughters, and it starts with keeping that filter tightly over our slipping lips in the locker room and everyplace else.

We have plenty of markets in our area, yet not enough in the right places. Another one near me is shutting down, which means its location has been home to at least three department stores (including Clover), a Super Fresh and now a Thriftway.

So much for a recovering economy.

I found out by accident, because I had been on the way to get a hoagie, which their deli made fresh daily. I saw a chalkboard sign out front: “Store Closing: 50% Off.” Inside, the deli and bakery had already shut down, and the strains of old 50s and 60s music were warbling sadly to empty shelves and few patrons.

This means the nearest place for me to get fresh radishes is about 12 miles away, my favorite margarine is no longer to be found anywhere, and the shopping center is again going to be like a doughnut with a side eaten away. One leg of the two-sided center has two stores open on its right and three open on its left. A tanning salon closed recently, and a JoAnn Fabrics, Game Stop and a party store moved away over the past three years. We still have one Acme nearby, but one must endure the highways to get to ShopRite, Wegman’s or WalMart.

If the improvement of our neighborhoods means no neighborhood markets, it will be a truly lifeless environment. I’ll miss that store.

This morning I saw a program segment featuring dung beetles. It immediately reminded me of the typical office environment. Of course, in the office we don’t carry up to 250 times our own weight in dung, though psychologically it may feel like that at times. The guide for the clip, along with the voice of trusted zoo expert Jack Hanna, told us that dung beetles roll their own round spheres of dung from a pile of poop, then roll it to their destination. They appear to do this with their hind legs, backwards, head down.

If you’ve gone through a work day like that, you can relate.

The beetles will usually follow a straight line, even through obstacles. That’s like an office action plan.

By burying the dung, the soil gets fertilized. A dung beetle couple will mate and have their young inside the dung. I just made a poem, and a bell has rung.

Sorry, it was just getting kind of silly.

After a particularly busy week, I was running around like a headless chicken preparing to go out, when the wildlife program came on just after the morning news, to tell us about dung beetles. Thinking about it, they have a purpose to fulfill, like the typical office worker. We roll along with a singular purpose, and it does some good.

So be proud, even if you are a dung beetle.

When I was in elementary school, I won a candy counting contest. Back then, it was a big deal, but it also holds bittersweet memories for me. Especially now, because I just did it again.

The school had a display case with a large jug inside holding a variety of small wrapped sugary delights, and we were invited to estimate how many were in the jar for a chance to win it. I wasn’t much of a candy person growing up, which made Easter and Christmas more about presents than risks to my dental health. Also, I was the prize winner of most deserving to be bullied, not only by my peers, but by the faculty as well. In first grade my teacher grumbled at my mother because she allowed me to read ahead in my textbooks, making me a non-conformist. I also had the handicap of being a victim of New Math, but at the time that didn’t matter. I was still optimistic and decided I had an equal chance to win as anybody. I looked at the jar carefully, counted, estimated and wrote a number down, putting my guess in the pool with my fellow students.

Sometime later at our assembly for the oldest students, our student council president announced that he would read the winners of the contest. Before the first place winner was announced, he did something unexpected. He said that audience members were to conduct themselves properly and not boo.

That was how I knew I had won, seconds before my name was announced.

That was nearly 40 years ago, but sometimes I still hear his voice in my head, announcing that I was the winner, “And remember, no boos.” I don’t fault him for what happened: I know the faculty had put him up to it. They were trying hard not to hurt me. It still did.

This past week our company held what we call our “town meeting,” in which our senior officers reach out in person and by video to review our status and focus for the coming year. On the way into the meeting the staff had arranged a few fun games, including a candy counting contest. I mentioned that I had won a similar contest in elementary school as I looked at the jar carefully, counted, estimated and wrote a number down, again adding my guess to the others.

The first time, I was two away from the correct number of candies. This time I was spot on. They were as amazed as I. Unlike last time, I got congratulations. That felt much better.

I still have the original candy jug. Now it has company.

My local newspapers have been playing a frustrating game of “Hide the Comics.” One paper has been hiding them behind the classifieds. Unfortunately they are not labelled “Wanted: Comics Section.” The other puts them in the sports section. Maybe I should be happy, since they appear to consider comics and puzzles sports.

Every day I read nearly all the comics (never touch “Doonesbury” for some reason). Then I look for “Dear Abby,” which has also been hiding lately. Then I tackle the Sudoku, cryptograms and the occasional crossword. The challenge is to figure out where, among four sections of articles, advertisements and statistical scoreboards full of manly mind-numbing trivia, the lighter stuff can be found.

And let’s face it: with all the political and world turmoil, we all need some light stuff.

Sure it’s a bit nerdy, I guess, to enjoy the old standards like the adventures of Blondie and Charlie Brown and Beetle Bailey, along with the modern antics of Curtis and Heart. But after hours of the world’s negativity, relaxation seems to come at a premium these days. Finding a few minutes to engage the brain in something else is hard to do. Many nights I get home with fried grey matter and the ooze of corporate drudgery pouring from my sweat glands, but I still manage to get in my comics.

Once I find them.

Our National Anthem is not a protest song. Nobody sings, “Oh say, can you see, someone taking a knee?” Why do people do the right kind of protests at the most God-awful wrong times? It’s like throwing mud in somebody’s face while people sing “Happy Birthday” to them; the problem still exists and now whomever you’re supposed to be celebrating has mud on their face.

Lately some noted sports figures, like football players Colin Kaepernick and Eric Reid, and soccer star Megan Rapinoe, have determined that sitting down or going down on one knee symbolizes a problem in need of fixing. I have not seen any of them speaking up or actually putting a pro-active plan in action. When I had a problem needing a fix, I wrote down the arguments in favor of a suggestion for change and took it to the right people to have it done.

Let me brag about one of my works. The first time I attended a screening of The Rocky Horror Picture Show at the long-defunct Cherry Hill Cinema, the copy of the film was poor. The places where splices had been made were so well-known, the cast members under the screen and the patrons incorporated them into the audience participation. I put together a petition asking for a new copy of the movie, got the cast and every audience member in line to sign it, and presented it to the theater’s staff.  We got a fresh copy.

That’s how you get results. Get on your knees once you have submitted your ideas for change, and pray for a positive outcome if you are a praying person. Don’t turn the expression of loyalty for the country that sent thousands of lives into premature graves for your freedom to speak into a display of disrespect or contempt.

Our country is not perfect, but show that you appreciate how far we have come to get there.

If you’re of a certain age, you probably remember TV Guide when it was digest sized and provided full descriptions of the programming on your television. Of course, back then we only had about eight stations. Today we have so many stations, the television guide magazines are the size of weekly installments of War and Peace just to hold onto half the information we used to get. Too many channels, not enough information about them.

Back in the good old days around these parts, we knew NBC was Channel 3, ABC was Channel 6 and CBS was Channel 10. If you wanted syndicated programs or needed to park your child in front of the cartoons, you went to the UHF channels. Whatever you chose, the famous TV Guide had complete descriptions like this:

(6) The Blah Show (Color: 60 mins.) – Jane watches potatoes boil, while
Stan finds Billy’s toy truck stuck in his lawn mower. Lydia Dull,
Bruce Boring, Elisa Exciting (guest star).

Now the channels are laid out in a grid, and you’re lucky to get two words of descriptive text. Sometimes you may even get the actors’ names.

Today I was scanning my magazine when I saw that TCM was featuring Alfred Hitchcock movies all day. Happily I tuned in, expecting to see Rear Window, but there was the great black-and-white classic Stagecoach instead. I like John Wayne, but he is no James Stewart. So how did the listing get it wrong? I don’t know. I checked the daily paper and it was correct in there, making me question the value of my guide.

Also, not every channel gets listed; there are too many of them to warrant a complete guide blow by blow every week. The subscription costs would bankrupt us. I could wear out my remote going up the dial channel by channel. There might be a great network out there I will never get to know because I don’t know what programs they have.

So use the onscreen programming grid your cable company provides, you say. Really, how many of the first five minutes of a program have you missed trying to find what you’re going to watch? 400 channels? We’re talking forty minutes of surfing, and by then you’re halfway through the show (not counting commercials).

The next option is to get a voice remote. I had a bad experience with voice activated software once; I wanted to write a piece about women truckers, and when I spoke into the microphone, the results that came up onscreen I won’t print here.

So I didn’t get to watch Hitchcock, I have a useless television directory, hundreds of channels and nothing on. And the fall season is two weeks away. Sigh.

I think it’s never too late to apologize to somebody, so here I will issue (again) an apology to my friend who will know who she is when she reads this. I say again because I was called out on my blunder when it first happened. While hunting through the newspaper today I was reminded of that blunder and knew I should bring it up again so I can reapply egg to my face.

Here is what happened. Several of us were meeting outside the old Moorestown Public Library, back in the days when the building was accepted as a cozy but slightly outdated part of the scenery in an exclusive community. The parking lot had poor lighting and the building next door had burned down. It was winter, at night, bleak and cold and dreadful. Still, we decided to carpool it down the road a way to the Starbucks. She offered to drive me over in her vehicle.

It was impressive from where I stood in the parking lot but, not knowing much about any model without something immediately distinctive about it (like a Chrysler PT Cruiser or a Pontiac Aztek), I took my best guess looking at it from the side, and figured it looked like a Jeep Grand Cherokee. I knew Jeep distinguished its higher end models that way, and they were larger than the average back-woods sand dune models. Today those Grand Cherokees run in the $40,000 range, so for me at the time, that was notable. “Nice Jeep,” I said.

Turns out it was a Cadillac Escalade. Those models today, I saw in the paper, cost $80,000.  Oops!  That’s like calling a yacht a dinghy. No wonder she scrunched her eyebrows as if 500 people had stood together in the parking lot and passed gas.

Anyway, she made it a point to be gracious and show me what such a vehicle is all about. The inside was like the cabin of a luxury yacht. The dashboard was a command center. With one touch, she could properly acclimate the cabin so the drive felt like we were in a cozy living room fireplace on wheels. No car I have ever owned warmed my butt for me. The car had bells and whistles on a high class level. I was happy at the time because I had a CD player in my car (not anything like a Cadillac).

Anyway, so I’m a woman who knows too little about cars to look at one from the side and know what I’m seeing. Sorry.