Susan's Scribblings the Blog

I was at a July 4th party, and it was a fun event. We ate, drank and watched fireworks. In the past I always put in an appearance but didn’t overstay my welcome. This time I went to the party and stayed until it started breaking up after 11 PM, which makes me officially a partygoer. Anything after 10 o’clock is considered eligible.

For years I eschewed social events, mostly due to a combination of the way people respond to newcomers like me, and my own self-doubt. As a bullying survivor who has spent a long adult life still fighting to overcome prejudices on others’ sides and learned avoidance behavior on my own, it’s not easy to take those steps outside the sanctuary of home. More so now than ever before, because we have spent years in isolation and some of us are not going back to anything resembling a workplace environment to cultivate those social vines that keep the plant thriving.

For most of the time during this party, I was at the table with some of the ladies closer to my age or older than me. As I listened to their stories, recollections and humorous side notes, I began to feel the familiar pangs of outsider guilt begin to overcome me. I kept quiet and observed so as not to ruin the give and take of the conversation, but I quickly realized that, as usual, I didn’t have much in common with the rest of the folks at the table.

These were women whose histories included long-lived marriages with overseas vacations and memories of children and grandchildren (and their marriages), along with some folks damaged by multiple marriages and divorces, or stranded in the wasteland of widowhood.

The not-by choice single women who were living in elderly communities spoke of actually being hit upon by the widowers and bachelors there. This is something I’m not used to. For a second I remembered a scene in the movie Jaws in which fisherman Quint and scientist Hooper compared scars on their bodies, as the two of them were into sharks and had wounds to prove it. The third man out, police chief Brody, only had an appendix scar, considered it for a moment, then chose not to mention it. At that moment I thought, gee, I can’t get a guy to hit on me for any reason, but kept it to myself.

They talked of their adult children’s latest job successes and recent trips to exotic places. The best I could do was say I had never been to those destinations and keep listening. How does one just pack up and go to faraway Jibbip? How does one who doesn’t have kids or a spouse go about it? How do you survive going on a trip with a spouse and kids?

Anyway, so I was there with the other ladies, some of whom had a whole third of a century of life more than I, discussing the best novels they’ve read (and that I’ve never heard of). I’m glad that retirement will afford me the chance to read these books. Unfortunately I probably won’t be able to discuss them with anybody who has also read them by that time, unless those recommending them can be there by the time I catch up.

When is a person supposed to work, eat, read the books everybody else reads, work out at the gym and get a healthy amount of sleep? I don’t believe it’s possible. I have given up a lot of my reading in order to work on my novel series, and television is an occasional luxury turned on mostly for the background noise while I work from home in what amounts to solitary confinement with benefits.

Don’t get me wrong: the party was a fun time, and I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Sitting there in what was, to me, an entire world I will never be part of, at least gave me an opportunity to learn what is happening out there. Sometimes knowing the possibilities is enough to get one through the endless highway of single isolationism.

That and some good food and fireworks.

For most people it’s important to have the front door to the home be inviting and attractive. It doesn’t matter if your front door is to a house or apartment, since it represents the first impression of where you live or who you are.

Many of today’s homes have accessories such as plants, flags or signage such as a vertical “Welcome” wooden sign (or, for those who like privacy, “No solicitation”). The doormat may say “Welcome” or “Go Away,” depending on the openness of the owners. Some verbiage may indicate the home has pets or doesn’t welcome footwear inside. Plants may be hanging vines or fake greenery. Flags may support a cause or simply pay homage to the country.

I recently added a goose to my front step.

Those of us of a certain age have probably received catalogs from Miles Kimball. That place has everything for the homeowner who likes to be practical, colorful or well-stocked. The catalog has been home to a large plastic goose decoration for a long time, and I finally caved in and bought one.

The decoration apparently has Midwestern origins, and has grown into a world of its own, called Gaggleville. You can find it easily online. Go ahead, and invite the kids. Then be sure to come back here for the rest of the story.

Instead of the pink flamingoes of many home fronts, the porch goose (originally made of concrete) could stand up to the abusive weather such as high winds, rain and snow. They didn’t tip over, spin or fly off like a cow in a twister.

The modern version is a lightweight blow mold and designed to be filled with sand. I went to the hardware store and had to sheepishly explain to the employee what I needed. The bag of sand weighed about the same as a fourth grader, but I managed to haul the bag home and begin the task of filling my new front step mascot with the stuff, then set it up in front of the door as a happy-go-lucky greeter that says “Welcome” and not “Go Away.” No vertical signage needed.

Also unique compared to a garden gnome.

In addition, the goose has a personality and requires costumes. I ordered a few varieties to make the occasions stand out, such as a raincoat, a patriotic suit for federal holidays, and a touristy outfit for summer. We’ll see how these hold up under the summer heat and pounding winds of a typical Eastern rainy season.

I have decided not to assign a gender to my goose, allowing the little feathered friend to be a neutral symbol of lighthearted joy, as well as a tribute to one of the simpler signs of capitalism applied in a positive way. Nobody can fault a simple goose dressed up like a zinc-nosed tourist, right?

Maybe I made the decision because it’s still Pride Month? Not sure.

The goose sits in the opposite corner from where my door opens, so there is plenty of room to shine and no interference with comings and goings. My new porch goose will simply stand tall and look happy as can be in any kind of weather.

Oh gee, I just realized it’s not a Canada goose. I may need to find it a winter coat!

Do we truly take the time to appreciate our feet? If we were to take a deep dive into the fascinating world of pedal lore (“pedal” being the technical term for those floor-hugging appendages), we might find some interesting facts are to be found.

If you’re a regular reader, you may be wondering where I’m going with this topic. There is something here for everybody, I assure you.

Let’s go over some quick but boring stuff first: the word “foot” has old English, German, Saxon and other European roots. The foot itself contains 26 bones and 33 joints, and on average a male foot is about 26.3 cm long (or 10 1/3 inches). The most common fetish is that for the human foot.

The foot takes on the task of helping us walk. They take on our weight as we locomote through life. We buy shoes to make them comfortable. Some women, howe3ver, endure discomfort to buy shoes that simply look good but cause immeasurable pain. Not me. I prefer comfort, but there are plenty of styles out there to flatter any foot and wallet.

We also protect our feet with socks and hosiery, and we have beauticians trim and polish our toenails. At least some of us do. I have never indulged in a mani-pedi, but I did have a manicure. Just one. Made me too self-conscious about damage (I felt self-conscious about bowling with them) to return for more.

Occasionally a minor change to the footwear routine can alter how our feet work for us. Last year I went to the shore with my comfortable sandals, but one pair turned on me and subjected me to a huge blister, topping it off with savaged ankles. I never saw it coming; nothing happened back at home. But isn’t that the way of things, to suddenly not work after constant reliability.

This year I went to the shore with different sandals and back-up hosiery as well as bandages for any emergency. At least my tootsies didn’t disappoint. The straps which had been worry-free for ages suddenly decided to cut into the tops of my toes, leaving me with cuts in three places.

How did I discover this? I took the sandals off at the edge of the tide before dipping my feet in the water. Nothing like the icy, and salty, Atlantic Ocean to jolt the senses when washing over open wounds and cause an immediate reaction. Fortunately I was facing into the roar of the waves, so nobody heard my inhuman howl of discomfort.

When your feet hurt, you’re in for some serious inconvenience. The ancient specialists in torture knew this well, with such brutal devices as bamboo splinters under the toenails, crippling with blows and piercing implements, or having the feet set upon by insects or rodents.

In Japan, women endured a painful tradition of foot binding, disfiguring the foot to make it smaller and more appealing by societal standards. That is a Cinderella story, indeed! Remember that in the original fairy tale, the evil stepsisters mangled their own feet hoping to fit into a slipper. I guess poor Ella had a rare shoe size in those days. And shoes weren’t customized for wide or narrow feet.

Our oldest folk might recall that for a while, shoes used to be sized by length and by the heel (as well as the foot) width. This practice went away some time ago. Still, shopping for shoes is a task which takes time and patience to be done correctly. Shoe stores still exist which measure your feet (in the US, with the always intriguing Brannock device) to give you the best fit, so pain and discomfort should be nearly zero.

Life, of course, puts our feet through some torture every day, anyway.

I may never win the battle of shore feet, but I’m sure going to keep trying. Now I simply need to give my cuts time to heel. . . .heal. Meanwhile, I will toe. . . .tow the mark.

Told you there would be something for everybody. Even bad jokes. But no footnotes.

The month of June is graduation season for high schools. The parents of these newly minted young adults are usually happy that twelve years of education (not to mention day care and pre-k) is over. Their sons and daughters likely have driver licenses and a more cemented sense of self, ready to take on secondary studies at college or specialty trade schools away from the home environment.

The big question is how much today’s graduates really know. Some say that today’s teenagers are more educated in deception than decimals. They leave senior year carrying a phone filled with meaningless babble and a mind still devoid of basic knowledge. Gone are the basics of home economics and auto shop, replaced by test-centric instruction on how to answer mandated examinations designed to actually measure student knowledge.

Nine out of ten students pass the time engaged in their cell phones, according to recent studies. Also, less than 20% of teens admit to reading books, choosing social media instead. Cursive writing is becoming lost in the maze of other more exciting (and less useful) courses. Job applicants do not come into the workforce with a signature; in fact, many have had no need to use a writing implement in years and don’t know how to write by hand.

Social media, in the meantime, has become a wasteland of poor grammar, spelling and punctuation, as well as a dumping ground for questions which should have been answered over twelve years of learning. We shake our heads every time somebody of a certain younger age brings up flat earth theory or a historical event which they believe didn’t truly happen.

These are the future of our world, charged with bringing up the next generations and caring for the older ones that are dying out, such as the World War II veterans who are leaving us faster each day as they age into their late 90s.

Why bring up paragraph after paragraph of doom and gloom? Because it is a warning that, particularly in the past decade, we have failed our children. We need to make the unpopular decision and not relegate schoolwork to test prep, and instead put experienced instructors with specialist credentials in front of the classroom to prepare these generations for fixing what is wrong and righting what has gone askew.

They can’t do that if they can’t read their own diploma.

Teachers also need support from their boards of education, and funding to place resources in their hands. Parents must work in cooperation with the faculty, rather than find reasons to thwart their efforts.

Life is like that. You must sometimes take the way that people don’t like but need to endure for the sake of the future and our collective good.

How we start that or get those who have already been affected up to speed would be difficult, but our colleges may be able to help repair the rips in the educational fabric by giving incoming classes some mandatory refresher courses which require work that is witnessed in real time and not produced with AI or other cheating resources.

Good luck with it, class of 2024.

This week I went to vote in the primary. One is required to vote party in the state primary, but that doesn’t mean it’s impossible to make a difference. The ballot included some regular gung-ho party choices, along with some new angles on party ethics from new voices. The ballots were paper and considered a much more secure way to vote. I was declared the twenty-first person to come in that day. We’re talking late afternoon with polls scheduled to close within little more than an hour. It made me feel like nobody cared about the outcome, and it does matter.

2. Over last weekend, a town held their annual festival, with a wonderful drone show scheduled for the evening. Before it got started, however, gangs of teenagers, many brought in by car by parent drivers, broke out in massive fights. The show was cut short due to the issues caused by the teens, many of whom hid behind hoodies. A crowd destroyed a supermarket in town. A horse was allegedly assaulted. Not a sign or banner indicating a cause for which this was happening was ever raised. These are the future of society, unfortunately. Unruly and uncivilized, who would destroy their own town for fun. Sad, indeed.

3. I posted a question (yes, we went over this last week) on social media about the famous painting by Michelangelo of the creation of Adam. The painting supposedly details the moment before God imparts life to the first man on our planet, with inches of air separating a holy finger from touching that of the mortal. It occurred to me that, if Adam wasn’t alive yet, how could he raise his hand to touch that of God? Nobody responded. As with many things that force a different train of thought, folks either go silent or lash out in various directions unrelated to the original inquiry. Michelangelo isn’t available for comment.

4. The issue of handling my denim jeans came up this week. I had taken advantage of a great sale and bought three pairs. They specify to wash before wearing, which I dutifully did, and one pair need to be hemmed (even with the expense of a tailor, the deal was a great one). Some experts are saying not to wash jeans regularly. One expert says a stint in the freezer can refresh your favorite jeans between washings, which are recommended every six weeks or when confronted with an odor. If you wear them less frequently, fewer washings are your reward. They should be laundered in cold water and treated like delicates to prevent too much abuse in the machine’s cycling.

5. A new spider invaded the news this week, because it is spreading into all parts of the country. Known as the Joro spider, it is a long-legged and colorful variety that feeds primarily on insects. It moves from place to place by creating web threads into the wind and “ballooning” like a person using a horizontal parachute. It does possess venom, but the creature is not designed and reluctant to bite us (its mouth parts are unlikely to pierce skin) and is harmless to humans and pets (except possibly those sensitive to stings). The media has been playing up the “venomous” part of the story, but their contribution to pest control by devouring insects make it less of an inconvenience.

6. Among the many shows signing off during the summer, the host of “Wheel of Fortune,” Pat Sajak, retired on June 7 after decades of entertaining game show enthusiasts by announcing letters, cash totals and prizes. His final words on the show were sincere, laid-back and filled with gratitude for one of the most unusual jobs in the world. Vanna White will continue to work on the show with new cohost Ryan Seacrest starting in the fall, and fans of Sajak can watch reruns all summer. Still, it won’t be the same show without him. Happy retirement, Pat.

7. My favorite vegetable is peas, but for health reasons I’m not supposed to eat them. However, I see that I can eat chickpeas. I suppose this means the others are dude peas.

So much for this week. Dads and grads will be the subjects of the next week or two, then it’s the official start of summer. Hope it’s safe and wonderful for everybody.

It’s a curiosity of life that, at some point in our lives, we go from asking questions to avoiding them. As we begin to use our gift of speech in early childhood, we point and ask, “What is that?” As we grow we start asking about deeper subjects such as why this is so and that is not so. Then, without warning, we become so set in what we feel we need to know that we stop asking anything. We also tend to shut ourselves off from answering other people’s questions.

Anybody who uses social media can tell you that asking questions can cause the equivalent of a virtual battle. The words online are worse than hearing insults in the junior high gym locker room, and even when somebody speaks the truth, the gaslighting is incredibly volatile.

As for displays of any support or pride in daily life, you may find yourself with hate speech spray painted on your house, or your pro-whatever flag ripped to pieces.

To celebrate Pride Month–which is supposed to be a 30-day period to employ the ethics of allowing people to be what they feel is best for them–our town provided merchandise last year at the weekly farm markets (and carried over to this year). Some unfortunate purchasers did not see their signs displayed for long, as passersby would dismantle or even steal them. As if not having a symbol displayed is going to make what it stands for disappear.

So my question is this: what difference does Pride Month make if you don’t celebrate it? You may celebrate Hanukkah and not Christmas or vice versa, and you may be of a religion that doesn’t celebrate birthdays while your neighbor does. Yet the world continues to turn 24 hours at a time without any issues. LGBTQ people have existed since time immemorial; we just call it LGBTQ these days.

Another example: a video I watched recently featured a woman who suffered from an infection after getting a body piercing. I dared to ask what, in general, is the reason a person decides to get metal put through some part of their bodies, and you would have thought I broke a societal taboo. Some of the responses that blasted into my inbox said, “because it’s my body and I can,” or “because I like to.” Some of the most notorious criminals committed their acts because they chose to or liked to as well, but it doesn’t answer the truth behind such a decision.

For example, I ordered a dozen sandal foot knee high pairs of hosiery. Even though many people who wear sandals choose not to put on any stockings or socks, I prefer the additional barrier of fabric between my now exposed toes and the outside world. The pavements and parking lots are full of leftover animal droppings, bugs, chemicals, human spittle and countless other pathogens that I want to keep off my flesh. That is the longer answer I was hoping to receive regarding piercings, since I have zero.

Instead of a logical explanation of the process by which a person decides to impale their skin with clunky bits of (supposed) decoration, I actually received a reply questioning my mental capabilities (and not from one licensed to make such accusations). I also received a few smatterings of “IYKYK” (if you know, you know) copout responses peppered in to make the entire adventure distasteful.

Years ago, after an item appeared about a particular doctor performing invasions of patients’ privacy (in short, think examining an arm when the problem is in the leg), I posed a question in a forum asking why we are not better informing our young adults about their bodies and what each part does, to inform them against acquiescing to such actions. The respondents seemed ready to burn me at the stake, though not one of them would openly come out and say they feel that human beings should remain ignorant of their own bodies, I was condemned for bringing up the notion of education.

Will I stop asking questions? Never. I cannot live in a world of ignorance or denial. If I learn something useful, I pass it on. If I learn something unusual about a person I’ve known for some time, I can let it be: it never mattered before I learned it, so what’s the difference now?

And if I’m a geek for wearing hosiery with my sandals, I’m letting the geek flag fly.

Along with my Pride Week flag. And the American flag.

If there is one type of car accident familiar to everybody, it’s the T-bone. This is a collision in which one vehicle hits another on the side as opposed to a same direction rear-end accident, thus producing a t-shaped impact. Some television dramas have produced great cliffhangers with side impact disasters. You know the drill; the two characters are talking while driving through an intersection, and the car that should have been stopped at the red light barrels through and slams into the couple in the car with the right of way.

Lately I have seen more than my share of people drifting carefree–or speeding–through red lights, but usually they are ahead of me or going the other way. This past week, however, something else occurred. I had the green light, so I gave the accelerator a slight press and headed across the major four-lane route to the entrance of a shopping center parking lot. Suddenly a vehicle was in front of me and zooming past; the doofus ignored what by now had been at least a good three to five seconds of solid red light.

Yes, my life flashed before me. I pictured me getting hurt or losing my beloved car. I panicked because I expected to see a terrified driver’s face in front of my windshield any second. I hit the brakes and prayed, and I came to a neat and full stop with inches to spare. Literal inches. The driver didn’t pay the least bit of attention and kept going. Thankfully, so did I.

The vehicle behind me apparently had not yet entered the intersection. My guess is that either they hadn’t seen that we had the green, or they saw that doofus in the other vehicle was coming up fast and hard in the left lane going the other way, and they paused while I didn’t see them coming. I never did see if the driver was a teenager, a stoner, elderly. They kept on going to the next light (which hopefully they did not whiz through while red), while I parked and collected myself.

When there’s a holiday weekend, everybody acts as if they are on the clock to get everything done as soon as possible, or they are late and want us to bear the burden for their oversight. It’s not worth one’s vehicle or life to run red lights. Amber lights are designed to bring you to a stop before the red flashes, and you must do so if you value what is dear to you.

The only T-bone I ever want to see for the rest of my life is on my dinner plate with a side of baked potato.

Be safe out there when you’re driving.

I had to do errands and appointments this week, and at one check-in counter I found myself being served by a trainee with the team leader overlooking his activities. He was, of course, very pleasant and engaging. As he moved his right hand to take control of the computer mouse, my gaze was instantly riveted to it. As he brought up the other hand to begin typing, I made the same observation as I looked at both of them.

This man had the most beautifully executed hands of anybody I’ve seen in ages!

I immediately told him how wonderful his hands were, and he appreciated my compliments. Even though I tried not to stare, I was compelled to take in what made his presentation so attention-getting. By way of explanation, I told him I had never seen something so well done before.

He had oblong hands with long fingers suited for a pianist, and it wouldn’t surprise me if he were not a part-time hand model for some forward-thinking company. His arms, wrists and the hands themselves appeared flawless and clean, as one would expect. This gentleman also chose to have intricate tattoos running vertically down both hands, and elongated teardrop pointed nails applied. Still, the overall look did not elicit a single negative impression.

The first thing some people might think upon looking over this person would be that he was probably gay (his voice suggested it, too), which wouldn’t matter to me, and I wouldn’t judge or dare ask. The tattoos and nails, however, suggest that he doesn’t go to the local strip mall salon. The skin work must have taken hours of long labor and dedication from an artist with considerable skill, and the acrylics were sized and polished to exacting standards. This is somebody who would not accept anything less than the best, and it was obvious that, in choosing these modifications, he wanted to only put the best presentation out there for himself. I think the scrollwork was simple lines and in black. Like I said, I tried not to stare. I was in a spot where people checked in for things, and I couldn’t hold up the line by asking twenty questions.

The grey area between what is accepted or not in terms of body modifications is as varied as the things themselves. Henna gets applied to temporarily adorn new brides, prison inmates get all sorts of hidden messages applied permanently to their skin, and there are even medical grade versions of tattoos to restore likenesses of fingernails after joint amputations or nipples on reconstructed breasts lost to cancer, in 3D replicas. Normalcy is subject to interpretation, but after reviewing the brief experience this week, I’m guessing that I found the trainee to be admirable for the effort he put into the decorations improving upon what he already has.

I don’t do my nails. Once for my birthday, my mother gifted me a salon visit for a manicure and polish, but afterward I felt so self-conscious about them, I couldn’t hold a bowling ball without worrying about wrecking them. She said that was why she only kept hers short and used translucent colors. Also, if my nails grew over a quarter inch, I think I’d never by able to type, which would mean the end of my blog.

A woman on a social media video I saw recently had what looked like ten half-length emery boards tacked onto her fingers, and while she told her story, all I could see were those pink sticks waving about like short conductor’s batons. I don’t remember much of what she said for the misbegotten effort on the claws she wasted.

This doesn’t mean I can’t admire well-done jobs on people, and I did admire that man. I hope the trainee has great success as he learns his new job.

And that he doesn’t hit Enter and break a nail.