Any woman, who has ever lived a man, understands the difference between a female cold and a male cold. In short, women’s colds are not debilitating. Women can not take to their beds and wallow in runny noses, achy backs, copious coughs, fevers, and chills. Women must make the kids’ lunches, take them to school, go to work, help with after school activities, cook dinner, put the kids to bed, and finally, sit down and drink a hot toddy to soothe their raspy throats.

Men, in contrast, experience debilitating colds. Even though, they manage to attract a cold each winter, each winter they suffer The Worst Cold, they’ve ever had! They are incapable of retrieving a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator or pulling Kleenex from the box. Yet, they are adept at commands, like “Please bring me the cough syrup” or “I need another blanket.” As far as work goes, no way. And the kids, no way.

After years of using Men’s vs. Women’s colds as an writing prompt in 101 English Class, this week I contracted a Man’s Cold. Fortunately, I’ve no children at home. It was just the dogs and me, but admittedly it zapped all my energy just to feed the dogs. Thankfully, I had no job and had no “must-dos” on my calendar, so I did nothing except watch Christmas movies and eat soup.

I shall not make fun of The Man Cold again…. Doubtful.

Over three years ago, I became a certified bag lady thanks to a colostomy. Though it was the reversible kind, I suffered from PTSD–a gift(?) from my traumatic, near-death experience, long hospital stay, and rehab. The thought of reversal was permanently off my radar screen. But age interfered and I began to question the sagacity of my decision. What if there comes a time when I HAVE to have it done? Is it better to do it when I’m 75 or when I’m 85? I did it late last week and have spent the last six days in retraining. I’ll spare you the lurid details, but yes, there’s a lot of effort required to jump start an engine that’s idled for three-plus years. An old dog now required to recall old tricks.

More importantly, I reflected on the true meaning of thankfulness. (No, it’s not the make-believe story we learned in elementary school where the Pilgrims and Native Americans celebrated a successful harvest feasting on turkey. In fact, for many indigenous folk, it is a “Day of Mourning.”) My thankfulness comes from all my friends who have been so highly supportive of me through my November anxiety. Their cards, texts, and letters of encouragement were greatly appreciated. Special thanks to my Primary Care physician and family for holding my hand.

Finally, I am most grateful for my brother and sister, their spouses, my kids, and my son-in-laws for their concern and Face Time calls. Further, I would be remiss, if I didn’t personally acknowledge the 24-7 expertise of A and B. This dynamic duo took Cadillac care of this old, broken-down jalopy, without even the benefit of a Thanksgiving feast. I owe them one. Maybe on the 4th of July!

I am truly blessed with such great friends and family. Too bad it took a hospital stay to remind me of that.

Growing up in Youngstown, Ohio, without air conditioning and a backyard swimming pool, made for long sultry days and evenings in July and August. Of course, at dusk not only was our yard filled with fireflies, but devil, cannibals–AKA mosquitoes. Thus, water fun was limited to stifling hot, ice-cream melting afternoons.

My enterprising mother with three young children would occasionally insist we shower during our water fights. She’d lather our hair with shampoo and hose each of us down. At the time, we thought that was great fun. Fun? We were 3 and 6 years old; our baby sister was still a clean infant. My brother and I were walking Petri dishes!

Last Saturday, the demon of home appliances struck again, and my pricey, tankless hot water sprung a leak on the red pipe. The plumber simply turned off the hot valve and said he’d be back on Monday. Fine. I can wash clothes in cold water. But Monday I was informed it would be Friday. Damn! I had a meeting to go to on Wednesday and was beginning to smell a bit ripe. My swimming pool was too cold, plus I couldn’t use shampoo in the pool anyway. Aha! Arizona garden hoses bask in the sun. Hot water abounds!

I donned a swimsuit, gathered body wash, shampoo, conditioner, a razor, and a beach towel, and proceeded to the patio to shower. I washed, shaved, and rediscovered my childhood joy of the garden hose. Much to my personal pleasure, my stench was replaced with lavender, and I swear my hair shone with brilliance. And as long as the warm Arizona fall days continue to hang around, I may do more alfresco showers.

Sometimes I get so caught up in the present, I forget what a great adventure my childhood was. As we enter the most wonderful time of the year, let’s pause to remember our magical youth.

I’m well aware that Halloween is over; I haven’t lost it yet. So just because I’m three-quarters of a century-old don’t leap to that conclusion. When I went junior high, eons ago, there was only one competitive sport–boys’ basketball. Their games were played after school, but on game days at noon we were assembled in the gym and emphatically reminded by the principal: “Volney Rogers’ students don’t boo.” In those days of decorum, it was considered rude to boo the referees or the opposing team. Mocking and other forms of aberrant behavior got spectators kicked out of the gym. For some unknown reason, I’ve carried that lesson with me and have never booed an opposing team.

Times changed. I’ve witnessed Little League and Pop Warner games where adults openly boo and harass the opposing side. At the high school and college level, I’ve listened to their chants and seen them throw water bottles, beer cans, and frisbees on the field. Really?

Yet, these acts of stupid behavior paled when I read about the Florida Freedom Summit in Kissimmee, Florida yesterday. A room full of adults booed former Arkansas Governor, Hutchinson; former New Jersey Governor, Christie; and former representative, Hurd during their presidential candidate speeches. I don’t get it. Who, in his/her right mind, would want to be POTUS? I applaud those who are brave enough to run and subject themselves to such bullying compounded by so many world issues that demand immediate attention. (Of course, I’m further appalled and embarrassed American that a former President mocks his opponents, disabled reporters, judges, and women.

According to Lance Armstrong: A boo is a lot louder than a cheer. If you have 10 people cheering and one person booing, all you hear is the boo. Imagine the child who has tried his/her hardest to catch the fly ball and is booed when the ball drops behind. Do unto others….

Yes, I borrowed this from the Cheers theme song, but allow me to explain. When I moved to Phoenix forty years from a small town of 1,400 people, I was lost. Every house was walled in; there was no such thing as neighborhood camaraderie. I floundered with lack of human contact. In time, of course, it got better; I made friends and got involved in the school biz. About fifteen years ago, I was divorced, and my social interaction with others shrunk dramatically. I still was in the school biz and still had lunch with friends, but my nightlife was nothing more than mindless TV shows, reading, and leftovers from the refrigerator.

Eight years ago, I took chance and wandered into my ‘hood dive bar for dinner…alone. My life was forever changed. My readers well know I play trivia there every Tuesday night, and I was there October 24 when the Diamondbacks advanced to the World Series! I was not only overwhelmed with euphoria, but the joyous celebration which erupted. Young people were hugging older ones, high fives and fist bumps were everywhere. A small town atmosphere wafted about, even though we’re all different–physicians, attorneys, small business owners, nurses, college profs, custodians, teachers, and marketing directors. A community with a love for trivia. A community who supports each other. And a community who sincerely appreciates our wonderful bar and grill, its staff, and its owners.

Our soaring population and social media influence make us sometimes forget about the power of community spirit, which works together to make things better, to celebrate the good times, and to comfort in difficult times. I delighted I took a chance 8 years ago and wandered into The Playa for a burger on a sweltering July night. May you find a special place “where everyone knows your name.”

To this day, I remember my first encounter with a tattletale, whose name is disguised as RF. I was in Miss Snell’s second grade class, when RF raised his hand and proudly proclaimed, “Him, him, and her are chewing up cardboard and spitting it on the floor!” Yes, Meice, Ernie, and I were doing that and were forced to gather up our transgression and deposit the slimy wads in the wastebasket. I’ve loathed RF from that day forward.

Today, there’s a new surreptitious group of tattletales; I’m not talking about whistle blowers like Erin Brockovich, who actually bring down bad guys. I’m talking about nosy Nancys and obnoxious Home Owner Associations (HOA’s,) who patrol their neighborhoods. The nosy Nancy’s hide behind curtains and blinds or slink along walls. They’ve neither the forthrightness, nor the courage to confront face-to-face the perpetrator of their grievance. Instead, they anonymously report to the manager of their apartment complex that Unit 123 plays loud music, or unit 515 has guests under 55 years of age playing pickleball on the court. In fact, senior citizens’ communities rank number 2 in my book; these residents obviously have too much time and choose to police their neighbors. They even complain about their next-door neighbor’s tree blowing leaves into another’s swimming pool. Ye Gods! Get a life!

My number 1 Tattletale goes to HOA’s! A mean, vitriolic, nasty group charged with the enormous responsibility of enforcing the quasi-laws of the neighborhood. Sometimes as many as four or five members, armed with pens and clipboards walk the sidewalks looking for violations. House number 513 has weeds in the front lawn; house number 408’s garage door is not the color of beige required; the spa on House number 285’s patio is full of algae. Additionally, the HOA Board holds monthly meetings to hear further complaints and of course, draft more and more rules. (I think they’re trying to compete with the IRS to see who can have the most rules.)

Finally, the egos of HOA Board members are out of control; they view themselves of great importance as they wield their power. Poor Mrs. Johnson is routinely confronted for her barking dog or for her untrimmed roses, not to mention Old Man Miller who frequently forgets to take in his garbage can after the trash truck has emptied it. And on top of all of this, is the monthly HOA fee. A fee, which rarely remains the same from year to year. When the all-powerful board decides a new piece of state-of-the- art, exercise bike is needed for the workout gym, the assessment is raised. Their newest fad is adding pickleball courts, replete with lighting and a tiered grandstand. And again, the assessment is raised.

I sincerely hope I never end up living in a place overrun with tattlers!

Fifty-eight years ago, our family had a foreign exchange student student from Tokyo spend a year with us. It was truly an amazing experience for both Toko and me to spend our senior year enjoying the ins and outs of American culture. Surprisingly, we have remained “sisters” and have continued to see each other and be a part of each other’s families. Of course, I’ve never ventured to Japan, but my worldly Toko has traveled the continents and always makes time to stop in Phoenix.

She has been here the last three weeks, and we’ve been to South Carolina to see our new baby. We’ve gorged ourselves on her favorite US cuisine, and we’ve shopped until we dropped. Both my sister and brother and their spouses spent a weekend with us, and we entertained Toko with the Ohio State football game at a sports bar. (She was bored with the game but enjoyed the beer!) One of her friends from Chicago also visited for a few days and explored the sights.

We’ve had an exceptional time, filled with delightful conversations on politics, leadership, families, children, and age. Yes, we’ve talked about the reality of age. “Sue, I will not be back to Phoenix again. It’s just too much for me. My total traveling time was 21+ hours, waiting in long lines, walking great distances, crammed into tiny spaces. I just can’t do it again.”

“You, the world adventurer, tells me you’re not going to do it anymore?” I gasp, “I hope you’re not suggesting I do it! No way! I can’t read, nor speak Japanese!”

Our conversation turned reminiscent and morphed philosophical. We talked about climate, war, and death. Though we didn’t solve one world problem, each of us went to bed with a mutual understanding and hope for our grandchildren’s future. Oh, and we did agree we weren’t too old to rendezvous in Hawaii in a couple of years.

Last weekend my Japanese sister, Toko, and I traveled to South Carolina to visit my kids and their families. Our trip was wonderful, fun-filled, and informative. Of course, the highlight was our newest addition–my seven-month-old grandson.

Since Mac is my first and only grandchild, I choose not to be the bragging Grandma on social media, but admittedly he is delightful and very amusing. As our stay progressed, so did my frustration. “It’s not fair” echoed through my mind. No, my feeling of unfairness is not because I won’t live long enough to watch him graduate from high school, nor college, it is solely because he’s a great baby! A baby that sleeps twelve hours at night, a baby who smiles and doesn’t cry, a baby who waits patiently to be fed or changed, a baby who lets nothing bother him.

In contrast, his mother was a real handful. She never slept twelve hours at a time. She was always into everything, with the attention span of a gnat. Granted she grew up, self-actualized, and is highly successful, but I remain rather stunned her child is so easy. Perhaps, when he masters walking, he will exasperate his mom’s patience. I can only hope.

(One more thing I learned. Our flights required a plane change in Charlotte, NC. The ONLY airport I’ve ever been in that doesn’t sell newspapers. What’s up with that? Thank God, we didn’t run out of toilet paper on our flight back to Phoenix!)

According to current statistics, 97% of Americans have a cell phone,and more than half of children ages of 11 and up also do. Eighty-four percent of teens own cell phones. Of course, cell phone usage by children and teens has not been without issues in classrooms across America. These electronic devices have facilitated the passing of notes and cheat sheets and have been a constant source of distraction from learning. At lunchtime, teens, in particular, are huddled around tables roaming through their screens. Though not limited to teens, even adults are addicted to scrolling. When I board an airplane, every seated passenger is gazing down at a screen. Some lament that cell phones have shut down personal, face-to-face communication. Instead of asking someone out, a text is sent. To avoid personal confrontation, it’s just easier to text: BTW, I want a divorce. As a former English teacher, I could also rue the creation of cell speak, as a corrupter of language. However, I’m rather fond of the short cuts, like TY, OMG, and LMAO!

For me, the cursed consequence of the cell phone occurs when I lose it or I leave it at home when I go somewhere. Why? Because I Do NOT know anybody’s phone number! I did not have a cell phone until I was over 40. Not because I couldn’t afford one, but because they weren’t available to the masses! Thus, I had to dial or punch in numbers of those I was calling, many of which were etched in my memory. With the advent of the cell phone, which conveniently held my directory of contacts, it was unnecessary to memorize phone numbers.

You can imagine my angst when I flew to North Carolina a few months ago and left my cell phone on my kitchen island. I had no way to contact my kids that I had arrived and was awaiting pick-up. Of course, I could have asked a random stranger to borrow his/her phone, but… I did NOT know my own kid’s phone number! Tragic. Since life occasionally throws me curve balls and since I no longer memorize phone numbers, I’ve made lists of important numbers for my wallet and for my car. The next time I leave home without my phone, I’ll be prepared!

NOTE TO FRIENDS: Perhaps, you need to heed my advice.

Yes, I’m fully aware of the vilification of Dr. Seuss, but he was a very wise man–particularly when he said: Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened. Reminiscent of Tennyson’s line: Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

As I said in a previous blog, my 75th year is riddled with introspection. As I fast forward through my memories, I realize that some of my darkest moments now bring smiles and sometimes downright laughter. Several months ago when my next door neighbor and best bud for thirty plus years died, I thought I was broken. But the other day, I found a silk scarf she’d brought me from her trip to Australia and a half-pack of her cigarettes she left in my keeping. (Yes, she smoked for over fifty years, and her husband didn’t know. Her story, not mine.) I found these discoveries so amusing I spent the next hour or so recalling some of our most memorable shenanigans like the night she donned one of my kid’s wigs and convinced some folk she was Melania with her accent. As many of you have lost a family pet, you understand the grief. Yet, somehow as you scroll through your pictures, you cherish their puppy antics. And though it was funny when it happened, one of my former dogs stole two, thawing steaks off the kitchen island when I went to retrieve the mail.

Curiously, Dr. Seuss’ wisdom can be applied to a myriad of things: retiring from a career, losing an election, December 26th, summer vacations, or even a marriage. But as I posited several weeks, life is a short trip. There are no do-overs. I have a choice. I can cry until my last breath or I can….