Appearances

When a woman gives public testimony, she must remain composed and in control of her emotions, so she won't be considered flighty or neurotic.
When the man gives retaliatory testimony, he can be a blubbering basket case-emotionally distraught, offended, angry, full of self pity.
Which is worse--to be the accuser or the accused. And what happens when something really bad happens to a sober judge.  Is he capable of self restraint.
  I wonder if he's going to tell us when he finally did have sex.  And maybe show us where he marked it on his calendar. That calendar which he says is key to his high school activities, while his class yearbook is irrelevant.

Ahead of Tomorrow's Allegations

   Women all have them, memories of the way things were back when it was a man's world.  That mode of operations was revealed even today, remnants of the age of sexism and intimidation, and still going strong with the champions of male dominance; men are the truth tellers, and why ruin a man's reputation for something he may have done years ago. Even if he went somewhat astray, it was decades ago and he has long since assigned it to the past, part of his adolescent growth period.
  That would be sound reasoning except for the fact there was another person involved, a woman who lives with the memory, unable to reconcile it to youthful exuberance. Some things leave a  lasting impression, and not  a good one.
   A while ago, I was cleaning out my files, stored from a long time ago, when I was young enough to think everything was worth preserving for those who would doubtless be interested in retrieving what had gone before.
   I came across a manilla file labeled Yucky Things. I knew instantly what was in it, and threw it away, unread, because it made me feel embarrassed, as if I had done something not exactly wrong, but somehow unwise. I don't know why I'd kept it, as I had never told anyone about it. I realized I never would, so I tossed it.  The point is this event was way more than 36 years ago, more than 50 even, but the aura of it remains as clear as when it happened. Here is the tale, which I may well delete in the light of day.
  After I had taught for 3 successful years, being granted tenure even, I decided to resign. I thought it stagnant to continue to teach at the school I'd attended. A friend in similar  circumstance felt the same. We were 25 years old and wanted to seek our fortunes elsewhere. We discussed flying to Hawaii, and indeed she did so, but I backed out for various reasons. My sister was working then in the education or employment division of the State,and she referred me first to a job as a representative for NY Telephone. She later told me of a teaching position in Brant Lake of all places, but it seemed somewhat interesting.I never went anywhere alone if I could help it, so one day Dorothy, Ruth and I set off for the then extremely remote location, a place we'd never even heard of.
     We 3 girls arrived at the school for the interview, with the principal, a man in his mid or late 30's.  All seemed to go well, and he offered me the position. I was wary of the job because in addition to English, there was a class of Latin. He said since I'd taken 3 years of high school Latin, it should be easy. I wasn't sure of that, but indicated I'd think about it.
  After the interview was when things started to get weird. He wanted to show us the community, such as it was. He piled us 3 girls into his car, and drove us first to his house where he invited us in to where his harried-looking wife was surrounded by 4 or 5 children, one in a playpen. We soon left for what was to be an extended tour of the entire area.  We 3 were exhausted by then after the long trip on dirt roads, and we were hungry and thirsty, and I had a migraine, a regular occurrence in those days when hungry, thirsty and stressed.
   We really wanted to get started back home, but Principal Mr. Z. was in no hurry. It was an isolated location, and we assumed he enjoyed driving around with 3 young girls in his car. He even drove us to a log cabin, somewhere in the wooded area, and said he could arrange for me  to live there.At one point he saw a person he knew and he stopped the car to talk to him. He rolled down the car window, which is what you did then, actually use a handle to roll the window. In doing so, he reached across me, in the front passenger seat. And his arm remained  across my chest, if you know what I mean, during the fairly long conversation. Innocent gesture maybe, but I was uncomfortable enough to recall it to this day.
     Eventually we got to leave.  He called me several times , but I said I didn't want to teach Latin and declined the position.  Things got weirder.
    Later that summer, some months later, he called me again. He had left Brant Lake and was now in Germantown, and he had the perfect teaching position for me. So Dorothy and I drove down there as he'd requested. I couldn't think of  a reason to not accept the job, so indicated I'd take it.Mistake!
     Home, I had second thoughts, and after awhile wrote him a letter saying I would not be taking the job, citing personal reasons.You may think that would be the end of it, but no.He called me at home trying to get me to change my mind,so often that I wouldn't answer the phone. Then he called me at work, the manager asking me if I wanted to take the call. I said no and the manager said he didn't think so; I gathered  Mr. Z, was being a jerk.
  THEN, I received a call from the Teacher Placement service at Albany State, a service I'd had no contact with, though my graduation records were there. The administrator there was a woman, and she directed her anger at me. How dare I say I'd take a teaching position and then decline it!  She told me Mr/ Z. had called her, expressing his displeasure, and that in conversation with him the only "personal reason" they could think of was that I must be pregnant.
     Obviously I did not take the job. I felt stupid and embarrassed and was afraid that my teaching career was forever ruined. That didn't turn out to be true, but I didn't know that then.
  So I,  as many other women, can relate to the present. The scars of being alone and powerless last a lifetime. Even women then touted the culture of the males. There was no place I knew of to go for assistance. I never told anyone because I felt awful about what had happened.
    I'm sure Mr. Z. must be in his grave by now, BUT if I had learned somewhere along  the years that he was being considered for one of the highest positions in the land, I like to think that I would break my silence and tell what happened.
The pathway, thanks to other women, is a little more traveled now as compared to years ago when absolutely no one would have listened.
 
 

Remembering Wedding Anniversaries

September 26. 1964 Dorothy and Gus
September 24, 1966 Rosemary and Joe

A Pyrrhic Victory

It just might be.

Cat-ness

The survey says----my best friend???

Congressman John Faso NY-19

Alex Bellizzi,  Constituent Services Representative
   The things you find out if you search far enough:
Some sources say that asking your congressperson to intercede in Veteran's affairs is a waste of time, and can even be a hindrance. That may be true in some parts of the country, but evidently not in New York. Because New York has:
       Catalina Andresi
      Congressional Legislative Liaison
      U.S. Department of Veteran's Affairs /  New York Regional Office

 Who knew?

Sept. 18, 2018

I spent much of today almost stymied by Today's Cryptoquip:
 "You say my competitor in this race has pulled an eighth of a mile ahead of me?  Not furlong!"
  I'm looking for some meaning in these words: not that I'm superstitious or anything but today may be a very significant day in our lives.
     The day before yesterday I woke to one of those real-life dreams in which I received a telephone call from an unknown source with a male voice saying; "Well, not all the news is bad."  I woke up before I could ask what he meant, but tried to look for some meaning in that also. Wishful Thinking or Wish Fulfillment. I dared to hope.

September 17, 1956

  The college year began earlier back then, and this was the first day of class at Albany State for Dorothy and me. There was no preparation for and no sentiment attached to this day. The major problem was getting a ride to and from the campus.Transportation was to be our  ongoing nemesis for the next 4 years.  We would travel as passengers some of the time, but always on the driver's timeline. We would sometimes leave at 6 or 6:30 in the morning, and this was before the Northway was built, so the drive was lengthy, traffic-congested, and circuitous, with us crammed in the back seat, and I have recollections of cars not having working heaters, so we froze in the winter.  To ride home with somebody again meant on  their time schedule, which would usually be at the end of their workday.
    Some semesters we had to take the train from the Valley Falls Train Station to the Troy Station, where we would then catch a bus to Albany, having to switch if we wanted or needed to be uptown rather than down at the Albany Plaza. Many times we walked from the Plaza to the then uptown campus, especially if we were short on busfare and didn't have an early class. Our trip home meant catching a bus on Washington Avenue and riding down to the terminal at the bottom of State Street in hopes of transferring to another bus that would take us to the vicinity of the train station in Troy. I still remember, having missed the bus that stopped in front of the college,  running frantically down the sidewalk to the next bus stop. We had to make the connection.
    We spent so much time traveling to and from the college that there was absolutely no time for any activities. We left home in the early morning and seldom arrived home before 6:30 p.m. In winter, both our commutes would be in the dark.
We could not take any subjects, such as biology,  that had afternoon labs. I think it safe to say that we did not attend a single non-academic activity in our entire 4 years.  I do remember attending an Albany State vs. Siena basketball game, but that was probably on a Saturday, and courtesy of an alumnus.
    Albany State then mandated a heavy workload, a minimum of 17 hours per semester, which meant at least 17 hours sitting in class. The professors, especially in the English and social studies departments,  doled out homework in the form of projects and papers as if there was no tomorrow. Any vacation was the time to load up the assignments; vacation time was for work, not recreation. Mid-term exams and / or finals were always scheduled for after the winter holiday break, so we could have plenty of time to study for the exams. Oh, the misery of having that looming over us during those 2 weeks.
   At the end of our freshman year, I weighed 116 lbs, a loss of almost 20 lbs. Partly due, no doubt, to the fact we had no time to eat, and no money for food all day either. But that's another story.
   Was it worth it?

BFF

    The other day the mail brought  an envelope containing a questionnaire attached to a $5 bill. The questions mostly related to pet ownership, so I skipped the dog section and turned to cats.  One of the questions asked if I considered my cat my best friend. The ratings ran from definitely yes to definitely no, on a scale of 1 to 5. I filled in the 5 circle to emphatically state no. What kind of pathetic person is reduced to having a cat as a best friend.
   Later, thinking about best friends, I had second thoughts.  I completed the questionnaire: $5 will cover  a week's supply of cat food.

To the Mattresses...!

Ten days since her Sept. 4th procedure of  5 dental extractions and a haircut and Maybe still takes to the big bed
 Housemate is 6 days out from Sept. 10th procedure, and manages to avoid the bed.

In answer to...

...yesterday's post question. Google is so informative:  the orange protuding stalk which arose from the mulch in my front yard the other day is most likely known as Stinkdog Dog Stinkhouse Mushroom. Some call it Mutinus Ominous, named for its resemblance to a dog's whatsit. That's good; the orange color could have been named after...oh, never mind.

What is it??!!!

This thing was not here 2 days ago.  It's orange, protruding from the ground in front of the rosebush at the front of my house. And attracting flies, or some kind of bug. I'd dig it out but don't want to go near it.

In its flaccid state.

T.U. Crossword Tourney Warmups

Looks pretty simple---must be trying to lure contestants in.

Last Throes of Summer

That's all there is; there ain't no more.

Not ME TOO, but NOT ME

  The truth will out. It's not a matter of who wrote the NYT OP Ed, but when the writer becomes known. If not an outright admission of authorship, circumstantial evidence almost certainly will leave little doubt.
   Case in Point:  For most of this summer. I've had to pick up a discarded Stewart's coffee cup from my front lawn, a neatly mowed lawn, I may add.  Not just occasionally, but almost every weekday. You might  think the litterer would remain anonymous forever, since there is no security camera, but, Aha! the evidence shows otherwise.
   As I picked up the cup, and its related debris, napkin, food wrapper, I would speculate as to who would toss it on my lawn. I ruled out vengeful former students: there weren't that many, and they would have outgrown that phase by now anyway. I formed a profile---someone who lived in or toward Johnsonville, probably male and youngish, possibly a night shift worker enroute home who just happened to finish his coffee as he drove by my house. So nothing personal, just someone who doesn't mind tossing his trash on the property of other people.     Yesterday when I picked up the usual offerings, there, alongside the Stewart's  cup lay this coffee-stained envelope:

Summer Remnants

Self seeding morning glories near the deck and climbing a goldenrod on mailbox; A 3-foot tall basil plant in pot, Rose of Sharon being devoured by Japanese Butterbur, indolent dahlias just thinking about blooming now, and survivor cat having lost 5 teeth and gained an insatiable appetite. Go figure

Overshoes

  Time was when all kids wore them, since they played outside all day long, including snowy and rainy days. Overshoes  were all the same,of rubber,  always black, and just plain ugly, though since there was no other choice nobody cared about looks. They fastened on one side with a kind of button and loop closure, which frequently broke and could be replaced, sort of, by slipping a jar rubber over the foot. Overshoes were notoriously hard to put on, as they pulled on over your shoes, and besides they most likely were from the year before, or hand-me-downs, and a very snug fit.
   We kids would often have difficulty pulling them on and so our mother, so busy with other household tasks, would have to stop what she was doing to help us. I can still hear her exasperated voice saying, "The snaps go on the outside!"
   I remember being too young, or just too clueless, to know what she meant. Of course the snaps would be on the outside. And whatever the outside of the foot was meant nothing to me. We never questioned her: we were in a hurry to get outside and she was in a hurry to get back to her chores. But now I get it.

Word of the Day (Not Tistrya this time)

 Lodestar:  Who would ever have thought that an elegant word such as lodestar could be a threat to its user.

Pomegranate, anyone?

Dorothy's Pomegranate Tree

Perfect Timing

If I read this correctly, and I'm sure I have:
    A surgeon operating at Stratton VA Medical Center performed radio-frequency ablations on patients at Stratton. He was unable to do the ablation but let the patients think he had. When later MRI's showed increased size of mass, he informed them the masses were residual or recurrent.  The report from the Veterans Affairs Office of Inspector General said this was inaccurate and deprived the patients of full understanding and the option to select another provider.
   The OIG report noted that the surgeon "did not have adequate documentation showing competence to perform the procedure." The OIG made recommendation to Stratton VA to improve their processes. The surgeon was not disciplined. Or named.
 Likely scenario:   Doctor hears about fairly new procedure called Radiofrequency Ablation. He thinks, "Ah, new, sounds easy." And though he has no training in this specialty, he decides to try his hand. He found he was not able to ablate anything, but didn't admit to it. When follow-up testing showed increased mass size, he told the patients either the tumor was left over from the ablation or was a new growth altogether. That can be called misrepresentation, but seems more like an outright lie.  The surgeon was not disciplined, or named.
   The article states that the patients were referred to an interventional radiologist who treated the patients successfully. So Surgeon #1 was evidently not in that field; the OIG report noted he lacked adequate documentation and they recommended the hospital review its credentialing program. YOU THINK!

Disoriented Maybe

Traumatized, and no, she's not a feisty cat. And she was NOT flea-ridden. And she was kept in a cage with no food or water for at least 8 hours before her "procedure."  We are not happy. Hoping for recovery.

Somewhat improved. Morphine takes its toll, I'm told.

Out of the Frying Pan

   Not referring to my grandson's frying pan. He was a winner in a game on the midway of the Schaghticoke Fair. He chose as his prize not the typical stuffed animal or the usual doodads, but a frying pan. Yes, it was one of the prizes offered. He said it was for his father, but he garnered so much attention with his selection, testament to his individuality,  that when he got home he hung it on the wall of his bedroom.
    But going from the frying pan to what lies beyond is an entirely different matter. My frying pan, figurative of course, brimmed over these past few weeks, fueled by delays, repetitions and misunderstandings which came to a boil or broil almost simultaneously.
  Maybe needed medical attention, I gathered, by the way she was eating and her gazing at me with a low meow, as if I could help her in some way. Or so I concluded. So off to the vet's, but she could not have just a single visit, She needed examinations, inoculations, and medical clearances first. So her primary visit, for dental extractions, had to be scheduled several weeks away, to tomorrow, Sept. 4. Not an optimal time period, as stuff needs to be picked up post-Fair, and her Lyft driver has conflicts with her primary employment.
  As ongoing for many years now, plans for baking fair entries were expected to be as usual, in regular period of time. But conflicts arose. Not only did bakers have  other obligations to work around, primarily sports in nature, but the baking mentor had unexpected appointments as well.
   Recommendation for a procedure was made, the expected date was set, pre-procedural events carried out, well before the month of September, and Fair Time. So far in advance of September, that when another date was set, all the pre-procedural testing had to be repeated. The accepted time lapse is 30 days, not 31.  Medical clearance appointment: Aug. 31, third day of the fair. In addition, in early August, I perceived a minor but potentially significant complication from a previous dermatologist's visit. Only available appointment: Aug. 29, first day of the fair.
   Alternate medical visits with cookie baking, time's of the essence. and of course the entries have to be brought to the designated departments just days before the start of the fair.
   Our upholstered furniture has suffered, time to replace it. Company is coming, Dave will be arriving. Furniture ordered in August, and to be delivered, with old stuff removed, weeks before the Fair. But no, delivery was delayed, then delayed again, so arrival was set for  August 30, my chosen day to attend the fair, but truck arrived too late for that to happen. No fair for me that day.
   So August, with all its activities, has come and gone. Same for the fair, Visitors have also made their appearances and left. The house is empty, just me, the cat and the new furniture.
    Tomorrow is the day after Labor Day: If all goes as planned, the cat will be transported to the vets, to be picked up after her tooth / teeth extractions. We will pick up the fair-ravaged entries, and the ribbons, and attempt to cash the award checks.
     All the activities which overfilled the spaces on my calendar for the last weeks are in the past. Only a single entry remains, the calendar square is marked for one week from today.
   In  exiting the frying pan of the cliche, the  hope is to avoid stepping into the fire. 
 

Term of the Day-----ICU Delerium

Hmm.  Worth looking into.

Wrong Shoes Oh, the Horror.

   It was a dream but it could happen:  I was going somewhere, a rather important visit, and was dressed for the occasion. We were more than half way there when I saw that I had forgotten to change my shoes. I wear the same pair of old shoes every single day around the house and in the yard---green DKNY slides. I can't wait to change into them every time I come  home. They may not be as bad as they look, which is horrifically gross, as I throw them into the washing machine on a regular basis. But this is what I saw: