Seventeen days after its release, Barbie ticket sales reached over one billion dollars. Ted Cruz would say it’s because of the anti-male theme. Meanwhile, Ryan Gossling, the lead Ken, is laughing all the way to the bank.

Now, most students of American and world history know of women’s struggles for the right to vote, the right to be educated, and the right for equal pay for equal work. Many third world countries still do not allow women to vote, nor be educated. And even the most affluent countries have not adopted truly equitable pay for equal work. Which brings me to my first real story. My youngest’s first name is non-gender specific. Named after her grandfather, Renner, there’s no glaring sex recognition on her resume. She’s not Katie, Tiffany, nor Barbie. An accomplished, award-winning photographer, she applied for a position as camera person at a TV news station. Little did she know, the station had never had a woman behind the camera in its 40-year existence. The station manager, the news director, and the lead camera man were surprised when she walked into the interview and peppered her with questions about her physical abilities to carry around “heavy” camera equipment. After she was given the job, the lead camera man (now her boss) said. “I told the GM and the news director: Any monkey can be trained to hit record, but it takes a photographer with an eye to bring the video alive.” A year later, Renner’s still photographs of the human devastation of Hurricane Florence were shared on Lester Holt’s NBC Nightly News.

My second real story is disconcerting because it occurred just two weeks ago at my neighborhood grille. Owned by a man and two young women since October, the three entrepreneurs have drastically improved the facility, the menu, and the entertainment. The “dive” bar has morphed into a popular place to play trivia, poker for fun, listen to bands, and host booster club fundraisers. In fact, every two or three months they feature Drag Queen Bingo, a wildly popular event, with a well-known host (hostess.) When I walked in to pick up my to-go order, the two young female owners were livid. They shared: Sue, did you see those three guys who just left?

“Yes, I did. Why?”

“They said to me –is this the fag bar? I replied no. We are a neighborhood place that has food and water collection drives and went on to list all of our attributes. Then I added, ‘And that’s very impolite to refer to us as a fag bar.'”

“Sorry. You’re such a fragile woman.”

And with that the other owner approached them and spouted the same sentiment.

“Hey, we don’t need to have the owner to confront us because we upset your waitress.”

“She is also the owner.”

“Got it. Fag bar, owned by women,” one mumbled as they left.

So Barbie, keep raking in the billions and kudos for twisting Teddy’s knickers in a knot. And maybe some day, the patriarchy will realize how equal we gals are.

Since Barbie was not introduced until 1959, I was too old to be interested in the doll that became an international icon. My baby sister, though, spent hours with her friends clothing Barbie in the last fashion of the early 60’s. By the time my own daughters had Barbies, they also had a Pink dollhouse, elaborate sets, like a McDonald’s, beaches and swimming pools, cars and horse ranches. But the most irritating accessory they had was Barbie shoes! I swear those tiny spike heels were embedded in the carpet, stuck in the vacuum cleaner, and stuffed in the sofa cushions. And when I saw all the hype about the Barbie movie, I vowed I would never waste my time on seeing it.

Of course, my stance did a 360, when Teddy declared it morally unfit. Not because Barbie and Ken had correct anatomical parts–they didn’t. Not because they vaped and drank–they didn’t. Not because they engaged in PDA, or having sex–they didn’t. It was because the movie’s theme concerned the eons old institution of patriarchy.

Far be it for a film about a doll to have an opinion on a male-run world! In my opinion, one of the most powerful and poignant scenes is Gloria’s monologue, which I’ve copied below from MSN.com. Read it and decide for yourself if Ted Cruz is right.

“It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like we always have to be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.

You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but you also have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman, but also always be looking out for other people. You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining.

You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be part of the sisterhood. But always stand out and be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that and be grateful. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never fall down, never fail, never show off, never be selfish, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.

I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us. And if all that is also true for a doll just representing women, then I don’t even know.”

From my perspective, I have been there and lived that. Next week I’ll share some true stories about the glass ceiling.

In the meantime, please feel free to PM your own stories and decide for yourself if a movie about a doll is anti-male and “morally unfit,” or if it merely told the other side of history.

For six years, my summer employment was at an Ohio Camp Fire Girls camp. For three years, I was a counselor and eventually Peter-Principled myself into the Program Director position. Believe me, after eight-weeks each year of tent living, cooking over campfires, and enduring the drama of tweenagers, I was more than ready to return to my civilized world of a real bed, ample clean clothes, and long soaks in a bath tub. This experience cured me of any desire to have a RV and travel around the states; today my idea of camping is staying in the Holiday Inn, instead of the Hyatt. However, in retrospect, I did learn a lot about arts and crafts, starting a fire in the rain, and singing a vast number os camp songs.

In the stifling Phoenix heat today, my memories took me back to camp, where the last week in July was designated Christmas week. Every summer a perfect live pine on the expansive property was designated as THE Tree to be adorned with homemade, nature friendly ornaments. Secret Santas were chosen, and throughout the week each child struggled to create a creative craft gift for their match. Noel songs replaced the usual song fest after each meal, and on Christmas Day, July 25, the cook staff replicated a traditional turkey dinner, completed with assorted homemade pies. Curiously, Christmas week was the most popular enrollment choice.

The temperature of my swimming pool is 95 degrees, the outdoor temperature is 118 degrees. Merry Christmas in July from melting Sue.

Over the years, I’ve blogged several times about Sass, my next door neighbor for 33 years. During that length of time, we built a strong bond, in spite of our differences. Born in London and raised in South Africa, she and her husband immigrated to Canada and then to the US. I marveled at her vocabulary–so many new English words and expressions, but after while I found myself using “dreadful” and “bloody” regularly. Our personalities were polar opposites–she was not warm, generous, or giving. She couldn’t be bothered learning people’s names, even though we played trivia with them every week. She was highly-opinionated and never knew when to back down or walk away from an argument. Hence, I nicknamed her, Sass. But our labels didn’t end there; we also referred to ourselves as Thelma and Louise.

In our 33-year friendship, Sass’s loyalty was unwavering. She’d graciously be the donor of a cup of sugar or an egg in a recipe emergency. She’d come on-demand and remove a snake from my yard. On the morning, I found my beloved, Roxy, pup dead under a tree, she helped me get the body into a box and accompanied me to the emergency vet for cremation. She became a strong supporter of children, particularly those in the arts and in alternative education. Further, we shared a love for dogs, gambling and politics; we spent numerous nights on my patio solving the problems of the world over cans of beer. As an atheist, she had very strong views about organized religion and its effects on followers.

Seven years ago, Sass had a heart attack. Four years later, pancreatic cancer surgery. And just as her chemotherapy ended, she had another heart attack–so severe she had to have open heart surgery. After that recovery, that sneaky ba@#$^d pancreatic cancer returned with vengeance. After enduring several months of a clinical trial, all hope was lost. During this very arduous ordeal, Sass never complained; she was not maudlin, nor weepy. She accepted her fate valiantly and with dignity, even though her frame resembled that of a concentration camp prisoner.

A week before she died, I went over to sit with her while her husband was at work. She said simply, “Sue, it’s over.”

I sat down next to her and took her hand: “No, it’s NOT! Thelma, don’t crap out on me. I love you. You’re beyond time, and you’ll live forever in my heart.”

A weak smile crossed her face. “I love you.”

As I stood at her bed and saw her corpse, I mumbled, “Oh, Thelma. Forever my partner in crime–Ride or Die.”

Twenty-nine years ago, I first encountered the Garcia family when I volunteered to serve as a mentor to Deb, the youngest child. In this particular mentorship program, my commitment was for seven years: 5th grade through high school graduation. My job was to help her succeed in school and encourage her continuing education after graduation.

Thankfully, Deb was highly motivated and her family supported her aspirations. Yet, we had the usual glitches along the way, including mean girls in middle school and a creepy teacher in high school. I sat in the bleachers and cheered during her softball games, celebrated her birthdays, and bought her little incentives along the way. I tried eating in the school cafeteria with her on several occasions, but the food was so dreadful, I brought her lunch once a week, as we caught up on the week’s events.

I was so proud of her the night I handed her a diploma–as proud as I was with my own kids. Four years later she graduated from Arizona State and got a job with the State Department of Economic Security. That accomplishment was not surprising because she is bilingual. Her English is so impeccable few people realize her talent. Not only did she excel at her job and breezed through a number of promotions, she married and has two small children.

But my blog is not just about Deb, it’s about her entire family and how they’ve enriched my life. I marvel at the joy they exude when together. They laugh and sing. I’m stunned by how well they all get along. Remarkably the cousins are very kind to one another. They assist the younger ones who struggle opening a bag a chips or forking up some lasagna.

When they were all at my casa last weekend, one of the five-year-olds whined, “There’s no more cookies left.”

His teenage cousin handed him hers, “Here, Luis, take mine.”

I was struck this sense of sharing also included more exciting things, like inner tubes and rafts, beach balls and diving toys, and even turns jumping off the diving board. And as my fiesta drew to a close, every child gathered up his/her own stuff. Every child hugged me and thanked me for having them.

I know many Mexican Americans display a strong family bond, which I suspect is passed along from generation to generation. Unfortunately, for many of us that dissipated the more mobile and transient we became. My children grew up without Sunday dinners at their grandparents’ home and family holiday traditions; they saw their cousins once a year. In fact, my entire family is scattered across America, and all of us haven’t been together for four years. Indeed, I’m in awe of mi familia, and I am most grateful to be embraced by them.

I find nothing more irksome than plastic packaging. I’m not talking about hamburger bun plastic bags; I’m talking about the hard molded plastic that surrounds some computer inks, scissors, and even some children’s toys.

This week I encountered D-size batteries wrapped in that heinous stuff. After struggling with scissors and various knives I used wire cutters to set my batteries free. That project took almost a half hour, raised my blood pressure, and exhausted all my swear words. However, that’s not my only gripe. Some Gatorade bottle lids can only be opened by shoving them in a vise and tightening the lid until it cracks. Of course, that necessitates the additional task of mopping up the sticky drink spurt on the garage floor. Another difficult lid is those which are childproof. Believe me, I eons beyond childhood and find some of them impossible to uncap. Once, my dog need an antibiotic. After my raging valiant effort failed to budge the cap, I took a hammer to plastic container and smashed it. Yes, the pills scattered everywhere, but I somehow scooped up all but one. I figured one stray pill would do no harm.

Given the increasing size of the senior population, I would think manufacturers would be more responsive in developing easy-to-open packages. I suspect their employees are former gamers who delight in creating difficult solutions to simple problems. They probably win awards for their puzzling designs, and their companies reap additional profits for consumer-charged packaging.

Obviously, nothing will change, but I released my angst regarding this issue. Oblah Di, Oblah Da.

As many of you know, in February, my first grandchild was born. Obviously, this little boy was a big deal for me since I’m soon to be 75-years-old. However, I didn’t realize what a chore it was to choose my new moniker. His other grandmothers had chosen Mimi and Gidda. Cute, but not my style. Yaya? GG? Gma, Grandma? Oma, Sue Sue?

“Mom, you have to pick a name. Maybe Brady should call you….” An endless list of absurd, funny, and rude names followed. I wanted a unique name–a name that would connect our family.

Last week I found just the right name. My mother, sister, nieces, two daughters, and I all joined sororities in college. Though most of us belonged to different ones, my eldest and her cousin were Kappa Kappa Gammas, my youngest was a Gamma Phi Beta. Gamma, the third letter of the Greek alphabet. In English it was referred to the letter “G.” In Greek it is drawn like a hangman game’s hanging post. From now on, I’d be known as Gamma or Gam!

But of course, I took my new name one step further and had the Greek letter tattooed on my bicep. Now, I visually display to the world my new identity! I think I’m going to love my new Gam gig!

(PS Dr. Suze Espouses will be on vacation and will be back June 25th with more random musings.)

According to Webster’s, trivial is defined as information that is unimportant or of little value. Certainly to me, there are a lot of trivial things like screaming over spilled milk or worrying about something that can not be changed, but for me, trivia is not trivial. In fact, it has expanded my intellect. Allow me a few examples:

Name the toy manufacturer that produces the most tires in the world. What was the United States longest poker game? How many bones does a shark have? In what country is Casablanca? Your response may be so what? Who cares? But these four questions can serve as interesting conversation starters at a boring cocktail party.

Legos produces over 830 million tires per year, outdistancing ever tire manufacturer you can name. The longest poker game was in Tombstone, AZ, and it was played continuously for over 8 years by such notables as Wyatt Earp, Bat Masterson, Doc Holliday, Diamond Jim Brady, Adolphus Busch, and George Hearst. An estimated $10 million dollars changed hand during the eight years. The game terminated when the Bird Cage saloon flooded. As to sharks, they have no bones, and Casablanca is Morocco’s chief port. So the next time you’re forced to watch Bogie and Ingrid, you’ll at least know where Casablanca is.

Feel free to test my theory the next time you try to engage someone in conversation. Ask them one of the questions I posed.

On May 21, fifty-three years ago, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young released Neil Young”s, Four Dead in Ohio. College and universities across the country abruptly ended spring semester classes, as a horrified nation gasped at the tragedy at Kent State University. While the National Guard was responsible for the shootings, leaving an additional ten students wounded, it didn’t quell the anger of the young and old alike. But times have definitely changed. Now days it’s a ho-hum event when our greatest asset–our children are slaughtered in their school classrooms. We look the other way–not my kid–not my problem. But as the song lyrics ask: What if you knew her and found her dead on the ground? How can you run when you know?

Please know my stance is far from original, but I agree. We must start showing the truth. Americans must see the devastation of being blown to bits by AR-15’s. Weapons that render a child unrecognizable and only identifiable by kelly green tennis shoes or DNA. If you want sugar-coated, eat a donut!

On Sunday afternoon, CNN aired a documentary on the Ulvade shooting, One Year After Ulvade, in which they aired some body cam video of police vomiting after they burst into the classroom and found nineteen children and two teachers annihilated. Every American needs to view the crime scene aftermath. Every Texas elected politician should be forced to see the graphic pictures of blood and brains and bits and pieces on classroom walls. Without the proverbial shock and awe of reality, the gun lobbies will continue to bankroll our senators, representatives, and governors that guns don’t kill–people do. Really? If my kid hits another with a stick, not only do I discipline my kid, but I take away the stick. If my kid drives recklessly, I take away the car.

AR-15’s were intended as weapons of destruction to kill the enemy. They are known as spray and slay. AR’s have the potential to destroy a herd of stampeding cattle and render their carcasses inedible. So why are they offered for sale to the general public? And why are they offered without appropriate background checks of mental stability? Because Americans don’t see the graphic details of slaughtered children.

Until all of us can see the vivid pictures and listen to the stories of the families of Columbine, Sandy Hook, or Robb Elementary School, we will continue to ignore, dismiss, or turn our heads. Unless…we personally have to admit: Yes, I knew her. No, I can’t run because I saw it.

May signals graduation month for most colleges and high schools across the country. And according to a myriad of economic research, those who are educated earn more money and live a more quality lifestyle than those who aren’t. Duh? No brainer, right? But the first and most important step any student must achieve is “the ticket to the dance.” Without a high diploma, many doors are closed, albeit they have no ticket to the dance.

High skilled jobs demand education. America is screaming for carpenters, plumbers, and electricians. America is begging for teachers and health care professionals. America is searching for scientists with creativity to solve world hunger and climate issues. America needs cogent people to create better ways of doing things. America will limp along if problem solvers can’t confound homelessness, border issues, trade, abject violence, mental illness, and nuclear arms threats.

My message to all of the classes of 2023 is simply:

Undeniably, the tassel is worth the hassle. Never stop learning. Be the solution, not the problem. We old folk are counting on you. Yes, you to do great things. Congratulations.