HAPPY BIRTHDAY, GERALD

                                             HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO MY HUSBAND

I gave the 1957 Nomad to Gerald for his birthday in 1972.

WOW!  Look at Gerald's red beard!

IN MEMORY OF MUHAMMAD ALI

It is with great sadness that I learned of the death of Muhammad Ali.  The following is an article which I originally published in Sue's News in 2010.   

February 25, 1964: the Sonny Liston-Cassius Clay fight. This was in the days before Pay-For-View and televised championship fights. The radio reception was terrible at our house so Duke, Les, and I jumped in our brother Norman's car and rode around in the car listening to the fight. Norman, Duke, Les, and I LOVED Cassius Clay, but my brother Gary couldn't stand him.

I had bet Gary $20.00 that Cassius would win; he ridiculed me by saying he didn't want to steal my money. When Cassius won, Gary was a poor sport and refused to pay me by saying it really wasn't a bet. I guess he didn't like the 7-1 odds. 

The next day, Cassius became Muhammad Ali and I supported him 100% in his decision, much to Gary's chagrin. I had been a fan of Cassius Marcellus Clay since he won the 1960 Olympics as a light-heavyweight.

In my life, I've probably had 100 fights about Muhammad Ali.

In 1973, my job was threatened simply because I defended Muhammad Ali.  One night, at lunchtime, a bunch of the guys were in a discussion about Ali and there was just one guy, Buddy, defending Muhammad and I also spoke up to defend him.  Knowing that most of the men were chauvinists, I should have known to keep my mouth shut, but Hell, I grew up with seven brothers, so why would I let a bunch of guys who weren't EQUAL to my brothers intimidate me? One guy, Howard, became so incensed that the veins were bulging from his forehead and neck as he screamed at me.   Howard already disliked me, because I had been hired and his son had not been hired, and also because I had NEVER turned down any overtime; he told me that I was greedy. [It's always been a strange--but true--psychological fact that people who don't want to work overtime still resent those who are willing to work it.] Howard once told me that I shouldn't even be working there, because my husband had a "good job"; I told him that it wasn't "good enough" for me.

At that time, I had not completed my "probationary period" in with the Company.   Buddy told me that two other guys had gone to the General Foreman and told him that he should "get rid" of me, because I was a "troublemaker", but fortunately, Buddy told me as it enabled me to prepare myself.  Later that evening, the General Foreman called me into his office and told me that he'd had a complaint about me. I responded like a naif and asked, "How could someone complain about my work; I ALWAYS make production?" I knew that ploy would force him to acknowledge MY work. He said that my work was great, but that I should keep my "political opinions" to myself.  I asked if the guys were getting the same warning about expressing their opinions and if he'd spoken to Buddy about his expressing his opinions.  . He told me that since I was a "probationary employee", he wasn't going to discuss it with me. I asked him if I could have opinions once my probation was served. He told me he didn't like my "smart mouth" to which I answered that I believed I was just employing LOGIC (even though he and I both knew I was being sarcastic).  I also realized that I was in grave danger of losing my job at that moment, but I was young and idealistic and had never been one to back down if I were right. He then told me that the ONLY reason that he wasn't firing me right then was because I had set production records in the short amount of time I had been there, but that I "better watch" my "step"!

After the meeting, Buddy told me it took a "lotta guts" for me to speak up, but that I needed to be careful because several of the guys were out to get me; I had five days remaining before my 90-day probationary period was up and I would be "in the Union". On the 90th day, Howard came up to me and said, "You'll be gone before the night's over." I answered, "And if I am gone, just think of all the money I've earned working YOUR overtime; I made a down payment on my house with all that money!" Of course, that wasn't true, but everyone knew that we had just purchased a house.

That night, the power went off and we were all sitting in the dark around our machines when the General Foreman came over and asked if I would work overtime if the power returned, because we needed to ship the order. Of course I worked the OT.

The next night, I was safely "in the Union"; the Steward handed me my union card at the beginning of the shift.  Howard was the forklift driver for my area and he kept delaying taking away my units--which I knew was deliberate--which interfered with my production. After Howard  had ignored several of my my calls to take away my loads, I jumped on another forklift and moved the units from the conveyor and set them down on the floor adjacent to my machine to enable us to keep producing. I had also written on my production sheet about the downtime caused by the forklift driver.  I resumed running my machine. Howard was furious and ran to get the Steward and he was standing by my fixture--literally screaming-- that I didn't have a forklift license and then the Foreman came and told me to stop running my machine to "work this out";  I told him that I could actually "walk and chew bubble gum at he same time" and that I could also work and talk at the same time.  I said that I "couldn't stop" because I had to "catch up" because of the productivity loss that "the forklift driver" had caused.  Howard heard the entire exchange, all of which further enraged him, because he couldn't keep me from producing.

The Foreman told me I wasn't allowed to use the forklift.  I answered that I was SO sorry, but since I had a forklift license from my other job, I was "merely reacting to a SERIOUS SAFETY ISSUE" and then I pointed to the Safety Slogan on the wall.  Of course, Howard was hearing all of this and he asked, "WHAT safety issue?"  I said to the Foreman that I was worried that my units would fall on the floor, because "the lift driver" wasn't moving them and I knew that our safety was more important than anything else. It also infuriated Howard that I would not address him, only speaking to the Foreman or the Steward, and that I wouldn't refer to him by name, only as "the lift driver". [I learned a FEW things about arguing growing up with a father and seven brothers. I'll admit that I was enjoying all this "trash talk", knowing full well it would only further antagonize Howard.]

Howard was screaming that I should be "written up" to which I responded, "I'm sure the Contract FORBIDS anybody interfering with production; which do you think is worse--losing production--or operating a forklift?" I also mentioned that "the forklift driver" was causing more production loss by standing there screaming rather than doing his job. The Foreman ordered Howard to get on his forklift and "clean up the mess!" Howard was screaming, "Aren't you gonna write her up for using the forklift?" I yelled, "Hell no, Mr. Forklift Driver, I'm going to get a medal!" Howard was given disciplinary action which made him even angrier, but the Steward negotiated with the General Foreman that I would delete the reference about "interference with production" on my production sheet as I achieved my usual 100% productivity despite the downtime.

IRONY or FATE? Would I have lost my job if the power hadn't gone off and we needed to work overtime to be able to ship the product? I went on to become the first female Manufacturing Supervisor in the history of that Company. After I became a Supervisor, I asked the General Foreman if he were really going to fire me that night if the power hadn't gone off and he said, "Of course not, you had the best production in the department."  Not surprisingly, when I became a supervisor, Howard transferred to another department.  I left that Company in 1978, and in 1986, Howard called me and asked if I would help his son get a job at Rockwell. Now that's CHUTZPAH!

DUST BUNNIES

A colleague and I had been discussing how poorly a cleaning woman had performed at a client's house and we were pointing out "dust bunnies" and other deficiencies. As I glanced at the umbrella stand in the corner by the living room door, I noticed there were two twenty-dollar bills in the bottom of the stand.

When I told the client about finding the money, I learned that it had been placed there deliberately in case any of the client's children needed to pick up any sundry items, they could get the money from the stand and not bother the parent who might be sleeping or was absent.

The client said, "I wonder why the cleaning woman didn't see it." I said to my colleague, "I also wondered that; just think, if she were a good cleaning woman, she would have thought that was one helluva tip!"

YOUTH DEW

I have recently been in weekly contact with a woman I had not seen since 1969,  as we are volunteering at the same place. After several times of reminiscing, I said, "Don't you wear Youth Dew any more?"  She said that it used to be her favorite.  I said, "Yes, I know, I bought it for you for your birthday in 1969;  Gerald and I went Lazarus to get it."  She asked, "How on earth do you remember that?"  I told her that I am rather talented about recognizing and remembering scents that people wear.  I continued, "I notice that you're wearing White Shoulders now;  my best friend's mother always wore that."  She invited me to visit at her home and her vanity was lined with bottles of White Shoulders.

In the 1970s I was working with a man who usually wore nice colognes and after-shave lotions.  Colognes for men were not as plentiful then as today.  As I recall, Hai Karate, Brut, and EnglishLeather, along with the old standards, Old Spice, Aqua Velva, and Canoe were the most frequently worn. One day I said, "Carl, that smells like Aramis that you're wearing."  He said, "Boy, you're good;  my wife just bought it for me."  I told him that my husband wore it most of the time.  My husband had warned me NEVER to ask a man "What do you have on?" because I might be the recipient of an unwanted, risque response.

As I had complimented Carl on several occasions, I didn't feel awkward when I said, "Carl, I'm usually good at recognizing fragrances, but you smell like Chanel No. 5 today."  He looked very sheepish and said, "I was out of any of mine, so I splashed on some of my wife's."  I answered, "That's a very expensive substitute."  He said, "Don't tell anybody."  I replied, "Since it's Chanel, it's entre vous et moi!"  Carl asked, "Hunh?"  I said, "Since Chanel is French, entre vous et moi  means it's just between you and me."  At that time I was "studying" French--by using tapes in my car--and I was forever foisting fractured French pronunciations on innocent victims.  

Before The Bionic Woman was on television, we called my mother "The Human Bloodhound" because we said that she could detect smells which nobody else could, and the scents were usually of an unpleasant nature.  After seeing Lindsay Wagner, Mother was then known as "The Bionic Nose".
Mother also had the world's best memory. Oftentimes, she would say that aromas or odors were reminiscent of ones from her childhood. After I read Remembrance Of Things Past, I told her that she was as good as Proust at remembering every detail.  I would mutter, "Where's the madeleines, Mama?", whenever she would start going into excruciating detail.

A friend of mine says that she has such amazing olfactory prowess that she can distinguish her family members' flatulence.

Now, I'm not THAT good--or bad--depending on one's perspective.

"DO YOU SPEAK SHELTA?"

This week a man came to the house asking if we needed our trees trimmed.  He gave me his business card which showed that he was "insured and bonded";  however, I noticed that the telephone number was not a local number.  Having family in Florida, I recognized the number as being from Florida.  I said, "I see you're from Florida."  He said that he lived here now but "hadn't gotten around" to changing his phone service.  I asked where his business was located and he replied that he rented a storage shed for his tools.  I asked where he lived and he gave me an address.  I asked for references and he actually gave me a list but none were local.  I told him I would call him back after I had checked his references.   

I noticed that he had an Irish surname.  When I asked, "Do you speak Shelta?",  I noticed a strange look cross his face and he answered, "No, Ma'am."

Shelta is the language of The Irish Travelers.

I told Gerald, "I think we just had an Irish Traveler come to the door."  My brother quipped, "They make all of us Irish  look bad!"

Several years ago, I learned of two people who were victims of the same scam.  A con artist, Rosie, worked as a waitress at a local restaurant and I believe she was a member of the group known as "The Irish Travelers".

The first person who told me about the scam had actually suggested that I request the particular waitress to be my server when I went to the restaurant because she was the "best" waitress she'd ever known.

One day, the customer opened her door to find Rosie there, crying. Rosie told her that her utilities were ready to be turned off and that she was behind on her mortgage, car payment, etc., and she had her grandchild at home. Rosie asked the customer to loan her money and she showed her a picture of a house in Florida that was supposedly being sold and said that she said she would be getting a check from there soon and she would be able to pay her back with interest. Somehow, Rosie was able to get $5,000 from this person.  I asked the obvious question: "Have you gone to the police?" The answer was no, because by the time she realized she'd been duped, the waitress couldn't be found, her address in town was phony, and she'd left her job without notice, and besides, she was too embarrassed to report it.

The second person, whom I knew only slightly, called me and told me that she was trying to find a waitress who had worked at a local restaurant and she'd been told that the waitress had gone to another restaurant where a woman named Raypole was the Manager. I gave her the relative's telephone number. I asked, "You probably don't want to tell me, but is the waitress named Rosie and did she come to you with a hard-luck story and that she had a house in Florida?" The woman said, "Yes, were you a victim too?" I said, "No, but you're the second person who has told me this story." 

This woman then told me that she and her husband went to the restaurant regularly and when Rosie came to her home, the woman gave her only $2,000 with the proviso that Rosie must come there to work off the debt. Of course, Rosie agreed. Little did the woman know, but Rosie waited for the woman to leave and came back later and accosted the woman's husband, who gave Rosie $3,000! 

Can you imagine the nerve? When Rosie did not show up to work at the couple's business, the husband and wife returned to the restaurant and learned that Rosie was no longer there; when they inquired they were told she went to another restaurant. That wasn't true. The couple was also too embarrassed to go to the police.

I wonder how many people Rosie was able to con before moving to another locale or was her goal just $10,000?   Rosie had an Irish surname.

Why do people so willingly divulge personal information to complete strangers? I have the reputation of "interviewing" everyone with whom I come in contact. I do it because I'm interested in people. As I said to the first person who was scammed, "She found out EVERYTHING she needed about you: she knew what kind of car you drive, where you live, how many kids you have,  that you live alone and she knew you were a generous tipper, so she knew you had disposable income." Both of the victims couldn't believe they had been taken. I said, "They're clever and they know their marks!"  WHY don't people report it to the authorities?

CLICK HERE to read a blog article entitled "Abbreviated History of the Irish Travelers."

MILLENNIALS

I was wearing what I considered to be an age-appropriate outfit--black slacks, combined with a black and white blouse topped with a white jacket with zippers--when an acquaintance commented, "You look like a millennial."  I took his comment to mean that the outfit was too "young" for me to be wearing.  I answered, "Oh, I think it looks very 1960s, rather like something Mary Quant might have designed."

  I wasn't surprised that he had never heard of Mary Quant but I told him to google her and Rudi Gernreich.

                                                       ( MARY QUANT, CIRCA 1965)

In further discussion I told him that fashion was cyclical so he should expect to see maxi skirts and bell-bottoms from the 70s soon.  He said that millennials would never wear anything like that.  I laughed and said, "Do young people actually use that term to describe themselves?"  He said that they do refer to themselves as millennials and he asked, "Don't you call yourself a baby-boomer?"  I said, "Oh, I was born BEFORE that."
                                                                                                                                                                                 
 He gasped and asked, "Just how the Hell old are you?"                                                                                            

I said, "You should read the scathing definition of millennial from The Urban Dictionary."   See here:

The Special Snowflakes.  Born between 1982 and 1994, this generation is something special because Mom and Dad and their 5th grade teacher told them so.  Plus, they have a whole shelf of participation trophies at home, so it has to be true.  They believe themselves to be highly intelligent;  teachers and lecturers gave them "A"s in order to keep Mom and Dad from complaining to the Dean.  Unfortunately, nobody explained to them the difference and education and grade inflation, so they tend to demonstrate poor spelling and even poorer grammar.  At work, millennials believe themselves to be overachievers who just aren't understood by their loser bosses.  They are the only generation in the universe to understand the concept of work life balance and to actually want to find a fulfilling career.  All those "Gen Ex" losers just don't get it, what with hoping to keep their jobs and pay their bills but they are just corporate drones, so who cares what they think?   They should be smart like Millennials and get Mom and Dad to pay for all that stuff until they can work out what they want to do with their lives and then get rich doing it.  Example:  "I've been here at this job 6 months now and I've been here mostly on time, so I should get a raise 'cause I've paid my dues."

Of course that is a generalization because I know some people of that age group with values and strong work ethics, but one whom I know, actually could not believe that, after his being fired from three jobs in less than a year, his grandmother no longer wanted to give him a $1,000 a month to support what he calls his "life style".  He said, "Now that I really need it, she won't give me any money."  I said, "Why don't you just get any job you can?"  He responded, with great surprise, "That's just what she said."  I said, "Yeah, that's kinda the way old people think."  He said, huffily, "I just wanna do what I want to do."  Of course, his being fired was never HIS fault because the bosses were always dumb and he actually uses the term "losers" to describe them.  I said, "WOW, these people have been doing their jobs for years, and you think that you're smarter than they are."  Oh, the arrogance of youth!