Memory Lane

A comment left by DrumMajor/Linda in Kansas that "You should apply for a job on Perry Mason with all of your observation skills", sent me on a path down memory lane in a quest to determine if I am a natural curious and highly observant entity or just plain nosy.

After thinking about it, I've determined the former, and offer up as evidence the fact that being naturally curious/highly observant has always been in my DNA as far back as I can recall.

In my preteens, I played Nancy Drew — walked around the neighborhood with a pad and pen, took down license numbers of cars parked in the area so, if there was an incident, I could tell the cops which cars were in the area at that time.

Later in life, as a young mother looking for a way to supplement my income, so I could do better for my girls, I looked into becoming a Private Detective — figuring I’d be good at it because I didn’t stand out, blended in. Or so I thought.

I now know I’d have stuck out like a sore thumb wherever I went because, for some odd reason, people did and do notice me.

Twin 2 recently told me how proud she and her twin were that I was known as "The hot mom, all the dads had crushes" on me.

Say what!? It would have been nice to know that back when I felt I was invisible, didn’t count for nothing.

At any rate, that private detective certification never got off the ground because the school I was looking into was too far away to get to.

The desire never left me though, because it was just two years ago when I looked into Private Detective training online, but decided I now do not have the time or inclination to work the course or do anything with the training had I completed it.

Several times since then — more recently just a few weeks ago, I looked into online courses in cold case crime solving genealogy.

But again, it’s a pipe dream because I don’t have the time or inclination to do the course work.

I did get to play Private Dick for real one time back in ’72, when I worked for the elected City Attorney of a small city who was up for reelection.

His opponent was running a campaign that included having enlisted a bunch of college students to pick up and work with a campaign strategy dossier at a location that turned out to be someone’s home.

The attorney I worked for wanted to see that dossier and asked if I thought I could pose as a student, get him a copy of it.

Challenge accepted.

I dressed down for the assignment and a little sexy as a distraction, went to the location where I found a lot of people milling around, going in and out, someone issuing the dossier, crossing off names of those picking up their copy.

Thinking fast, I said I was picking up for my boyfriend, gave a fictitious name for the boyfriend and, though there was a roster with a list of names, no one checked to verify — probably because of the hustle bustle of the place being so busy at the time or maybe because my short skirt tight blouse distraction worked, LOL.

Of course, I was prepared to play it off as a mistake if they checked but didn't find my fictitious boyfriend's name, play dumb that he'd sent me on a wild goose chase, even run if things went really bad but, with no further questions, no problem, I walked out with the paperwork.

My attorney and his Assistant Attorney laughed their butts off when I returned to the office, paperwork in hand, and regaled them with my outfit and undercover adventure.

I also later received a dozen long stemmed red roses from my attorney with his thanks.

He won reelection.

Thinking about that attorney as I typed out this post, I looked him up and found he passed away of Covid this last December.

Taking advantage of an offer to move up to a higher paying job, I moved on from small city attorney, ended up working for a big city attorney who was having trouble getting proof of service on a complaint. The respondent refused to accept mail coming from the law office, and the attorney could not move forward without proof of service.

That attorney didn’t so much as ask me to help as he made his problem my problem by ordering me to "Get him served".

Didn’t appreciate his tone, but no problem I.

In those days, one did not have to have a return address to get mail through the post office, so using my own personal violet colored envelope, sprayed with my perfume, I mailed the complaint off to the respondent’s address.

I figured no way he, or a wife if he had one, could pass up finding out what was in that perfumed envelope and from whom, as there was no return address or name.

Sure enough, the respondent accepted service. We got the necessary proof.

I never so much as got an atta girl or how did you manage it from the ungrateful attorney.

No matter because it was fun outwitting the respondent and, after only working three months for Mr. Ingrate, I applied for and was promoted to Administrative Legal Secretary to Mr. Ingrate’s boss.

I recall more times than a few when, out and about, I observed activities of a criminal nature that no one else appeared to have observed — multiple instances of shoplifting, some long ago, some more recent.

I've seen pickpockets in action, with no one else seeming to notice.

I saw a man surreptitiously taking photos of a little girl at a farmer's market, wanted to alert the parents but had a feeling they'd not believe me, which is why I rarely get involved, mostly just observe.

People believe what they see AND if they don't see, then I'm the one whose crazy, making things up. So it's best most times to keep my observances to myself unless it's something egregious, like if he'd touched the child.

Then there was the time, before I realized people either did not believe or did not care, when I spotted a pervert standing between two houses, watching the preschool across the street as he played with himself.

I called the cops.

They didn't care, didn't see the danger I saw, told me to call the next day if he was still there.

I've seen drug buys right out in the open, one just last week as I was leaving the Pain Cave.

Then there was last year when I observed a suspicious looking person targeting a shopper's purse, unattended in the market's shopping cart with her back turned, and thwarted the theft by warning the shopper.

Though she thanked me, I got the impression she wasn't concerned. She'd not noticed the individual, didn't see a problem, was too busy shopping to realize or care she'd been in danger even after being warned.

At any rate, I'm sure there have been other Perry Mason instances, but those are the ones I easily recalled.

Bottom line, it's in my DNA to be an avid people watcher, naturally curious and highly observant — a combination of Sherlock Holmes, Perry Mason, Dick Tracy, Nancy Drew and Miss Scarlet.

Falling Back

The television, cellphone and fitness tracker all fell back. The clock on the microwave and in the car did not.

The microwave is an easy fix, but I can’t be bothered with and, when time changed previously, I couldn’t be bothered with getting the clock on the car’s dashboard to sync. So, I haven’t been able to tell time by the dash display since daylight savings time shortly after I bought the car in 2019.

Not to mention the car’s clock displays military time.

I can read military time, know that 13:00 is 1 o’clock, but who wants to take the time to do math.

So, I’m just gonna let the car’s dash be as it is.

I’m thinking twice about registering for the turkey trot on the 19th.

It’s a 10K, 5K, Roller Disco Mile, Kids Fun Run and Costume Contest, which sounds like tons of fun, except parking looks to be a problem — making it seem more trouble than it’s worth.

I didn’t have to worry about parking previously because Twin 2 did the race with me and she has a blue handicap parking sticker, which allowed her to park in the event’s parking area.

As for why she has a handicap sticker is because of arthritic knees.

For years and years and years I warned her that, as she got older, she would regret wearing the high stiletto heels she clicked around in because she liked how they made her legs look.

Sure enough, when she began having trouble with her knees, sought medical attention, the doctor told her it was the shoes. Whereupon she tells me, "Guess what ma? The doctor said I need to stop wearing high heel shoes".

It was like the first time she’d heard anyone say ditch the shoes, even though I’d warned her for years.

So anyway, her knees and feet are so troublesome now that her 5K days with me are over.

I was considering registering anyway, showing up AND if I couldn’t find parking, turn around and come back but, like I said — it’s beginning to sound like more trouble than it’s worth, so I’m out.

I will be watching the date to see if the Indian's curse of rain catches up with the event, even though they changed the date.

I’m rounding the home stretch on Mildred’s 30 Songs in 30 Days Challenge. Today’s (Day 28) is "A song by an artist whose voice you love".

I’m doubling down on the voice I could listen to all day all night that was the lead singer of the Doobie Brothers — Michael McDonald.

I have the cd’s of his solo albums, which I’ve not been able to listen to as I drive for years, because cd players are no longer built into cars.

In meeting today’s challenge, I’m posting a song I remember from Michael McDonald Sings Motown that sends shivers up my spine with how deep and soulful the range of his voice is.

Caution, Senior Drivers

Thus far, I've yet to see that Karen venturing out of her unit to cast an evil eye towards her upstairs neighbor.

I did see that somehow someway someone managed to take out the gate’s keypad.

From the looks of how the gooseneck pedestal has practically been knocked out of its concrete base, the bad driver would have had to hit the unit with sufficient force to cause quite a lot of left front or left side damage to their car.

Management had to leave the entry gate wide open so we could drive our cars in, which made us vulnerable to criminals easily getting in to steal catalytic converters and, because of the cost of gas, syphon gas out of our cars.

Fortunately, none of that happened and management managed to Mcgiver an attachment onto the pedestal, up righting it to where the gate could be closed, and our keycards would work.

However, with the pedestal still leaning somewhat downward, it took me Cirque du Soleil type acrobatic to reach through the car window, down and over to insert the keycard.

I imagine our less flexible seniors entering the gate would have to get out of their cars or go through the gate at the opposite entrance.

Taking out the pedestal isn’t the worse of what I’ve seen, as one resident actually hit and took out the gate a few years back.

Then there was the time I was sitting in the Community Room and observed a resident — who wasn’t supposed to be driving, back over the flower planter surrounding the tree in the middle of the front parking lot, hit and take a huge chunk out of the tree.

Flustered, she quickly drove forward, raced towards the entry gate and nearly took that out as well.

No. 9 — who I still have not seen, is really getting a dose of what it means to manage a complex full of seniors. First the Talker/Karen feud, the damaged keycard entry pedestal, and who knows what else.

Deciding to replace cookware that wasn’t working for me, because the non-stick coatings that was supposed to last forever was peeling off — as a result of my poor cooking skills, I made a Walmart run on Saturday.

It wasn’t bad, insofar as being around a lot of people, but good luck if you need makeup because everything is behind locked protective cases. And the workers manning the self-checkout stations were uber diligent to make sure all us customers scanned and paid for every item.

At any rate, leaving Walmart, I spied a woman asking for help with rent and food. She had a child with her.

I wanted to give to her but, from where she was standing, the number of cars behind me and the light changing, I could not have safely done so. Not safe for her, not safe for me, so I drove on.

Coming up on the other market — the one I began going to when that creepy security guard at the corner market became a problem, I decided to pull in, see if the roasted potatoes had made it through the supply chain and were back in stock, which they were not.

Exiting the lot, heading for home, I spied something that gave me pause.

Same wording on the sign as the one I’d seen at Walmart, same handwriting, and a child.

This must be the husband.

I know things are harder for some than others, but it’s difficult to know who is sincerely in need, what’s a con — especially when I see them using children as a sympathy ploy.

At one point, the guy actually leaned over, took the child's hand, motioned for her to wave as my car approached.

I remember once, when I was working in downtown Los Angeles, a young lady with a clearly visible disabled arm was asking for monetary help.

I gave, as did others, and later, looking out the bus window, I saw her around a corner, giving what she’d earned to a guy. As both she and he were trying to be covert, looking around to make sure no one saw so she could get out there and con the public for more, I knew it was a situation of him pimping out her disability, and her allowing it.

Then there's the time three teenage girls approached me as I was exiting a train, saying their mom didn’t get her welfare check on time, they had no food in the house.

I myself was a welfare kid. Knew what it was like for us when mom’s check did not arrive before we ran out of food, so I gave the girls all the money I had on me — something like $35 and would have given them more if I’d had more.

As soon as I gave them the cash, all of a sudden their mom came out of nowhere to thank me but then added how difficult things were for her and "Here I am, pregnant again".

I looked at her with such disgust and would have grabbed the cash back if I could have, because here was this old ass grown woman, with teens she already could not care for, dependent on welfare, and she had the audacity to get pregnant, bring another child into the situation.

There have been other situations of feeling like I’d been conned, situations that have hardened my heart, makes it less likely I’ll give. Sometimes the spirit leads me to give anyway and, if it’s a con, that’s on them. But what I saw yesterday — duplicate signs, duplicate use of children, smelled fishy.

It made me feel better for having not been able to give to the first sign, caused me to not think twice about pulling over, giving to the second sign.