Susan's Scribblings the Blog

There is nothing like a vacation to ease the troubled mind.  I figured out that I saved about 500 miles of car travel, pumped a good 30 percent of my last paycheck into the economy eating out and shopping for things I couldn’t buy when I worked because the stores the merchandise were in always closed before I could get there, caught up on a month’s worth of sleep, lost about a day’s worth of sweat in the heatwave of last weekend and stayed even on my diet efforts without gaining or losing.

I was going to trade up my cell phone for one with something called Bluetooth(R).  I don’t know how they come up with these names, but if you had told somebody 15 years ago that you have a Bluetooth behind your ear, they’d think you needed the services of a good cosmetic surgeon to extract it.  Of course it’s a piece of technology to keep drivers hands-free and (in an increasing number of states) legal, as it can be against the law to surrender one hand to holding up a cell phone while driving.  I felt it would be handy if I had to call while on the highway stuck in traffic.  I decided instead that, should I get in a jam, I’ll just pull over to the shoulder, park and call then.  Surely a cop can’t fault me for using my cell while sitting in my car in dead traffic, right?

I didn’t go to the shore on vacation:  I didn’t want to add my own ugly, sweaty, pale body to the already overwhelming masses of  ugly, sweaty and pale bodies trying to find a square foot of umbrella space along the coastline.  Besides, I don’t indulge in bare feet in the summer, I dread the idea of bare legs, the smell of tanning lotion irks me and there are sand flies that cause excruciating pain when they so much as land on you.  Why bother?

The idea of what is now being called the “staycation” is a good one.  I never understood why people buy a house costing two or three hundred thousand dollars, then spend most of their time not living in it.  They spend more money hiring cleaning staff, gardeners and pet sitters, and it seems the average couple has to work at four jobs just to make ends meet.  Why not just sit comfortably in your living room, slap some iced tea together and have your clean, dry and pale neighbors over for some quality time instead?

It came to me this morning, while I was in that no-zone stage between being on the verge of falling back asleep and saying “heck with it” and waking up for real, that one of the little but significant problems in our society is the issue of clothing sizes.

Men have always had the choice of small, medium or large/x-large as have women, but then they also get to select their clothes based on their measurements.  Women, on the other hand, have a variety of numbers assigned to them.   Junior sizes are always odd-numbered, and I don’t really know why, but I suspect it’s because the Size Gurus think that, since the folks who normally wear junior clothes–adolescents–are a little off-kilter as they develop anyway, the non-even numbers fit perfectly with their profiles.  Then we have Misses, Womens and half-sizes.  Women are considered anybody who fits a size 14 or more, again for reasons I probably wouldn’t believe if they told me anyway.  In fact, in the women’s department they normally give a designation of “W” for size 14s and up that are built for. . . .shall we say “more ample” females.  Misses’ size 14 are not as proportioned.

We also deal with something manufacturers politely call a “rise.”  This is how much trouser body you want to extend from your belly button, down and around and up to the small of your back, hoping to avoid a look that is considered undesirable in your plumber when viewed from behind.  Some women don’t care if they have a low rise:  in fact, they crave the exposure.  That’s not me.

There is a chain store called Size 5, 7 & 9 that now carries other sizes.  I don’t know why only this one group of sizes is singled out.  I also can’t fathom the concept of Size 0.  That’s right: zero, as in no size.  Of course you would be holding a garment in your hands, but it is a null size.  Unfortunately I think anorexics might crave the status of such a designation.

Why can’t women have clothes that are cut to fit the waist and hip?  If you take a 24 waist and a 36 hip, so could your brother or spouse, right?  Is that a crime?  Wouldn’t it be easier for the overall feeling of humanness we all crave to be considered worthy of real clothing measurements as men?  I’m just putting the thought out there, because it made sense this morning.

Oh, and we want alterations on the premises, too.

Over the years I haven’t really owned a lot of pairs of denim jeans.  In fact my parents gave me permission to buy my first pair when I was in sixth grade (you have to remember that back when I was in elementary school, jeans were not the uniform code).  No matter what type you finally wind up buying, they never really fit well.  There is always something not quite right about them.

I always thought it would be a good idea to just let women go into a shop and have a tailor custom make jeans for the individual customer, but then we would have the same privilege as men and that, apparently, isn’t allowed.  Men can have adjustments made to their clothes to match any part of their anatomy that isn’t in harmony with the fabric.  We women are just expected to all be Betsy Ross accredited seamstresses and fix our own problems, but have you ever tried to deconstruct a good pair of jeans?  It’s like chiseling rocks with a meat hammer.

I finally did obtain one pair of jeans that I wear only on occasions when I’m trying to fit in, like our company’s designated “Jeans Day” this past week.  Frankly, I’m used to trousers without complicated or uncooperative flies on the front, and without the bulge created by the top of that darned metal button.

Finally I should confess that my jeans are not indigo, so Stacey and Clinton from What Not to Wear would have my head on a platter for committing one of their major fashion faux pas.  However, at least they are decently proportioned and I only wear them when I absolutely feel it is sociologically appropriate to do so.

Now that I’ve passed my college class (got a B in my introductory theatre class) and subjected myself to the rigors of party life (see last entry), life has taken a rather bland turn.  I filled it in the last week and a half by devouring two vampire novels and discovering a new author to stir the emotional pot of my previously sedentary soul:  Stephenie Meyer.  She may be classified as a writer of YA (young adult) fiction, but this middle-aged bat didn’t feel at all talked down to after consuming Twilight and New Moon, the first two novels in a planned series, in an insane marathon which left my eyes dry (not that it didn’t move me to tears on occasion before the last word was read, but I often forgot to blink).

As a devotee of Chelsea Quinn Yarbro and Anne Rice, it was good to have some reading material for those times in-between serial installments to keep my mind occupied.  I also have a stack of cheesy paperbacks ready for ingestion and, with any luck, I’ll have them devoured and my own novel written by the end of summer.  It’s a goal, anyway.

As for the times I spend as an audience member in darkened theatre houses, I was thrilled to see so much enthusiasm about the latest production of Les Miserables in Philadelphia.  Having made the pleasant discovery of Hugh Panaro, a local who has played the Phantom on Broadway and toured Europe with Barbra Streisand, I was anxious to see wonderful reviews of his turn as Jean Valjean.  The critics are almost unanimous in their praise of his marvelous performance:  the one less than kind reviewer may have needed his morning aspirin and coffee before sitting down to his computer.  Anyway, I’m going to plant my tush in a theatre seat again after over two years to see the show for my first time in July:  I have that long to lose ten pounds, too.

The other distraction that has kept me sane has been the ongoing saga of the goslings behind our office building.  The oldest ones are starting to look like the real thing, only more teenagerly (is that a word?) and gangly with no flight feathers.  The youngest pair, which hatched just weeks ago, are a cause for concern, as they are obviously late bloomers and won’t fledge until at least July.  According to goose experts, the parents don’t have their own flight feathers back until June, so I wonder how the other family will fare:  will the parents gain their freedom and abandon their young?  Will they fall victim to predators (as one did within days of its birth)?  Am I sounding like I don’t have my life quite in order yet, because I’m ranting about trivial matters?

Where is that next paperback?

I went to a party the other night:  it was a corporate sponsored event, so at least I knew everybody there.  Not being one to party often (the annual departmental winter celebration–we can’t call it a Christmas party anymore–usually doesn’t include a dance floor or alcohol), I found this particular event to be more fun than I had anticipated.  The music was loud, the food warm if not extremely tasty, and the company at my table all enjoyed the atmosphere.  I was seated with my departmental boss, my administrative boss, two fellow administrators, three former co-workers and a manager.  It was an honor to feel so highly rated that I was put into their seating plan.

The table was packed with serviceware, and as always the policies of etiquette came into play as people tried to recall on what side they should start taking ownership of what they would be dining with; ultimately somebody winds up with two napkins while another person has none.  Maybe the caterers should just start putting the silverware and napkins in the center of the plates to erase any doubt.

The music was all urban/disco/popular standard fare, and the dance moves were all the same as well.  Even though we all admit to the guilty pleasure of watching Dancing With the Stars, we’re all guilty of busting the same “swing and step” moves when it comes to our own performance.  At least nobody broke a bone.

It was over too fast:  four hours of bumping elbows and dilating pupils on the receiving end of digital camera flashes.  Hope it’s as much fun next year.

Last week an unfortunate person died when a shark bit into him while he was in the water with some fellow water loving comrades.  Naturally the news media headed each report of this unusual incident with two words:  shark attack.

With all due respect and condolences to the family of the victim, while my eyes were drawn to the news items in the papers, the term “attack” did annoy me a bit because it isn’t a totally accurate portrayal of what likely happened.

Sharks are primitive creatures that basically, as mentioned in the movie Jaws, swim around looking for food and the chance to reproduce, with an emphasis on the swimming and eating parts.  Sharks are not known to discriminate as they encounter objects in the water, nor are they known to target humans specifically as prey as carnivores like the great cats might, so they will try anything that may serve as food if it is in its path.  This is why sharks will try out boat hulls, surfboards or any dumped junk that may be in its field of vision.  If it digests, fine:  if not, the shark will probably die with it in its digestive tract (you do remember the necropsy in Jaws in which a license plate was pulled from the gullet of a suspect shark).

It is possible–and I dare say likely–that the shark involved in this incident took a different turn and got off its usual path while cruising off the California coast and happened upon some activity that it wound up investigating.  Afterward, it swam off and was not picked up again by helicopters or other ocean searching techniques when the patrols went out in search of the shark.

Instead of calling these incidents shark attacks, I would like to kindly ask the media to start labeling them as deadly shark encounters.  The word shark automatically draws public interest, of course, but the word attack implies that the animal sought out and committed conscious slaughter when that cannot be logically or scientifically proven.  Instead, get public attention with the word deadly and call the incident an encounter, which implies an unusual meeting event.  Who needs bunches of blood thirsty fishing newbies out on a Frankenstein style pillage of the waters looking for a creature that obviously has not stayed around to establish any sort of reputation as a man-eater and become a threat to the shore?  It is a shame that somebody suffered such a horrific accident, and by airing this pet peeve of mine I do not wish to be misconstrued as somebody with no sympathy for mankind.  I just have issues about mistaken labels being applied to any creature undeserving of it.

At the last meeting of my favorite writer’s group, we were asked to reveal our favorite tools for writing that we just can’t live without.  My list was pretty simple, so I’ll share:

Writer’s Digest and The Writer magazines:  They are old favorites from my high school days, and are still relevant today.  They manage, each in their own way, to kick-start my creativity when I’m in a slump, and they stay updated on current affairs that affect any style or type of writer.  Subscriptions are a must (although sometimes they hit the newsstands before my mailbox anyway).

Pentel R.S.V.P. Pens:  Every color is on my desk (they come in regular and gel types for bouts of fanciful doodling), but the standby black is always a good choice for extended moments of creativity.

BIC 4-Color Pen:  For times when you don’t want to, or should not, carry a bunch of different colored Pentels around with you, one of these will help you take effective notes and separate the Eurekas from the chaff when you put them down in red, blue or green.  Still, the black ink runs out first, but they’re refillable and are sold in pairs.

Sticky Notes:  3M’s are always top notch and don’t tend to leave funny residue anywhere you stick them, and you can find a size that’s perfect for you to jot down those sudden Eureka ideas.  If you haven’t gone down that aisle in the office supply place for awhile, break out your trusted credit card and go now, because you are guaranteed to come out of there with something you’ll be thankful for.

Without some good tools, it would be hard to keep track of all the ideas that I exorcise from my head onto something tangible.  The challenging part is pulling all those sticky notes out of each magazine issue and getting them typed somewhere else, but at least magazines and sticky notes are portable and smaller than the tiniest laptop.

I’m on a week’s vacation and working on a few things, but I just want to know one thing about politicians:  if they have such wonderful ideas that they feel they could implement as President, why the heck didn’t they start building the groundwork for these same ideas while in other positions?

Heck, with all the mud-slinging and misinformation we get about McCain, Obama and the other lady whose name escapes me, how about this:  I’ll vote for the candidate who promises, on pain of impeachment, that they will abolish Daylight Saving Time.  So there.

See ya in a a week.

I started a new job that requires a longer drive on one of the state’s most wild and crazy freeways (“free” meaning that, if you want to save money by not taking the turnpike, this is the way to go).  The speed limit is supposed to be 65 along some admirably well kept stretches, but try telling that to my fellow drivers who zoom past me and give me a glare as if I’m a granny in a jalopy for trying to keep within the law.

I finally figured out why the fines for speeding are incremented the way they are based on how fast you were clocked:  most people break the law at 12 or more mph consistently, so if the cops catch somebody going fast enough to be illegal but slow enough to safely pull to the shoulder,  it’s almost guaranteed to be a high enough fine to crimp their style.

The hidden law of the road is to follow the flow of traffic, so normally everybody is going at the same (illegal) speed.  What also happens, though, is that we are all gambling against the odds of a freak event that could put us all in an accident.  Tires shred, deer take a wrong turn and folks do sometimes fall asleep at the wheel, so we run the risk of getting into an epic multi-car mishmosh when we go too fast together.

Try telling that to the morons who amp it up to 70 or more to pass the “slowpokes” just because they have someplace to go.  As long as they pull up at their destination on time, it doesn’t matter to them.  Unfortunately there are times when we are all parked on the highway because of a multi-car mishmosh, and even as we are passing aluminum balls that used to be shaped like cars we huff and cuss because the victims slowed our rush hour.  Maybe we should just go for a slower rush hour ourselves.

Being able to drive 65 legally is okay, but I don’t like the baggage that goes with it every time I enter that road.

Next year television is going to change.  You’ll need to have a specially adapted television and/or special equipment from some big conglomerate you actually have elected to pay for the privilege of watching more than six or seven networks that used to arrive freely from the public airwaves.

Nobody has mentioned, though, that portable television will be the market most strongly affected by this change.  How do you take a converter or cable connection to the beach with you to watch the game?  Your little portable Viewguy or that nice little set you prefer to use in the RV won’t work, if the information coming out in the media is right.

And are the people who don’t have the money for high definition going to be discriminated against when they see only semi enhanced images on their old standby set?

How much will service fees go up when the cable companies have to switch off analog next year?

Yeah, I’m stirring the pot of contention.  I’m an American with a limited income, and that’s what I do when I have a question.  Instead of a soapbox, maybe I should stand on some old discarded portable television.