I was telling my friend about me picking up the wrong dog last week from the groomer. She laughed, “Sue, I can tell you a better true story than that one.”

Since I consider myself a good storyteller, I doubted her veracity. “Have at it, Cathy. Let me hear it.”

“As you know, we had to move my mom in with us due to her health challenges. However, she had adopted a male, neutered cat about eight months ago, which we couldn’t house due to allergies. My eldest daughter moved into my Mom’s to tend to her cat. Last week my kid called me hysterically screaming, ‘Mom, there’s something wrong with grandma’s cat!'”

Oh my. This is awful, I thought.

Cathy continued, “My kid yells ‘there’s a kitten coming out of his hind end! What should I do? Pull it out?’ No. I’ll be right over.”

When Cathy arrived, the neutered male had delivered three black and orange kittens. “I searched through my Mom’s desk and found the adoption papers. Indeed my mom had adopted a neutered male, which obviously was not a neutered male. I called the animal shelter.

“Get a load of this, Sue. The gal who answered the phone asked: ‘Did your cat get out?’ WTH? What difference did that make? My mom allegedly adopted a HE, who morphed into a SHE with three offspring!”

I was laughing so hard tears ran down my cheeks. “So what is your recourse, Cathy? You gonna sue the animal shelter?”

Cathy scowled. “No, but I’m making them spay my mom’s cat and take in the three kittens for adoption when they’re weened. You know, I felt bad, for my mom was adamant she’d adopted a male. I doubted her; I thought she was losing her mind.”

Isn’t it rich why people automatically assume people over 75 have lost their minds? Nikki Haley, 2024 Presidential candidate, insists that those over 75 have to take mental competency tests to run for political office. What will be next? Voting tests, driver’s tests? And a myriad of others. Not all of we seniors are as mentally challenged as George Santos, Marjorie Taylor Greene, Laura Boebert, or Anna Luna. We still know male, neutered cats don’t have kittens!

The following is a true story; no names have been changed to protect the innocent.

Yesterday, I took my year-old mini Goldendoodle, Harper, to the groomer. She was such a mess of tangles and dreadlocks the groomer said, “Sue, I’m going to have to buzz cut her.” Of course, I agreed as I’d been unable to brush the matted hair for several weeks.

Two hours later, a new employee called me to pick up Harper. The young clerk was in a panic when I entered the dog salon. Groomed pups of all shapes and sizes were anxiously awaiting their owners and barking so loudly it was hard to hear. “Stop barking!” he yelled, but no dog obeyed. “Which one of these is yours?”

“The blond one.” I paid the bill and attempted to lift Harper up. Damn, she was heavy; she must have eaten a lot of treats today.

“Do you need me to carry her to the car?”

“Sure. Thank you.” He put her in the back seat and the dog laid down. Hmm. I found it rather curious, Harper’s a hyped gal; maybe she’s tired after her spa adventure. Once inside my garage, I opened the back door and looked. The dog’s eyes looked different–yellow and teary. “Oh, shit! I must be losing it. WTH? I don’t even know my own dog? My kids are going to lock me up for sure! For god’s sake, don’t tell them.”

Surprisingly, when we entered the house, the rest of my pack was delighted to see their sister. Until….

Their alleged sister lifted his leg and marked my refrigerator, the wastebasket, sofa, and fireplace! OMG! I was living Twain’s The Prince and the Pauper; I was starring in The Parent Trap or The Princess Switch.

I immediately returned to the grooming salon where I was met by Sprocket’s owner and the clerk. “I can’t believe this happened; I’m so sorry about this mix up,” the clerk whined. “It’s never happened before.”

Both Sprocket’s owner and I made light of the situation, as I scooped up Harper and put her in the car. On our short ride home, I laughed and laughed. I wasn’t upset about the switch, I wasn’t dismayed by Sprocket’s markings of my belongings. I rejoiced! I haven’t lost my mind…yet!

As a high school English teacher, how could I be anything else? Allow me, to list a few classics that have been banned: Uncle Tom’s Cabin, for its pro abolishionist agenda. Huckleberry Finn, for its “coarse language”–not swear words (Mrs. Clemens edited those out, but for slang coarse words. Of Mice and Men, for using the Lord’s name in vain, morbid depressing themes, and alleged anti-business attitudes. The Catcher in the Rye, for being obscene, with vulgar language, sexual scenes, and moral issues.The list could go on to include The Great Gatsby, The Grapes of Wrath, To Kill a Mockingbird, The Color Purple, and a number of Dr. Seuss children’s books. In addition to literature, history, science, and math books are being censored and rewritten to correct their inaccuracies. Really? We don’t like the outcome of that war or the result of that law, we will just change the narrative? Imagine our children learning that some of the US Presidents had clay feet!

However, the ultra-right is marching ahead in its continued attacks. Their newest bane is LGBTQ and drag shows. In the Arizona legislature a number of bills (SB 1698, SB 1026, and SB1030) are aimed at protecting children from drag performances. In fact, SB 1698 would criminalize anyone who exposes a child to such a performance–a Class Four Felony, punishable by up to fifteen years in prison, and automatic registration as a sex offender. Now this would certainly be laughable if it wasn’t true. Consider these: Tootsie, Mrs. Doubtfire, Yentl, Mulan, Hairspray, M.A.S.H. , Victor Victoria. Everyone of these productions has a drag character. In fact in Shakespearean times, all female roles were played by male actors. Yet when the ultra-right darling, Kari Lake, ran for governor last fall she had been known to invite drag queens to perform at parties. where her children were present.

So, even though the legislature touts educational choice and parent empowerment, they want to prosecute/persecute parents for taking their child to see Mrs. Doubtfire? Talk about speaking out of both sides of their mouths under the guise of protecting children.

If the ultra-right was truly committed to protecting children, they would outlaw the sale of AR-15’s and other “spray and slay” weapons. They would adequately fund the public schools, instead of supporting wealthy privates. They would enhance the Department of Children’s Services to ensure kids live in a safe environment. Yes, I know. These are taboos for the ultra-right. They would much rather declare me a sex offender for taking my kids to see Hairspray. Have at it! We saw it in NYC.

Next up, watch for the ultra-right to severely restrict internet, cell phone and other forms of social media usage to protect us all.

About 99.9% of my friends are married or in long-term relationships; thus rendering me the lone wolf. However, wolf is not an accurate descriptor–perhaps lone ranger, without Tonto is more apt. On occasion, many of my friends have asked, “Don’t you ever get lonely?” A fair question, but how can I get lonely with five dogs, who love me unconditionally, who sit at my feet as I write this blog? I never sit on the sofa alone, nor do I sleep alone. My dogs are my constant companions, which can be burdensome at times, when they tear through my house chasing each other.

But the other curious statement I often hear is: “You’re so lucky, Sue. You are free from all the demands of a relationship. You have no schedule, no meals to prepare, no calendars to juggle, no one to answer to, and no requirements.” Yes, this is a big plus. If I want to eat dinner at midnight, I do. If I decide on a whim to jet off for the weekend, I just have to arrange the dog sitter. No questions asked, no justifying my Amazon bill, no shared decision-making.

Oddly, this weekend two of my besties found themselves in my position–their husbands were away for the weekend. They were both euphoric.”What should we do, Sue?” Wednesday night we went to the casino, gambled, and gorged ourselves on delicious bar food. Thursday night we tried the new pizza place in the “hood and laughed for hours in my family room. Friday night, we went to the neighborhood grill where we play trivia and ate too much clam chowder. When we were about to leave the restaurant, I notice a change in my friends; they were drifting back into the realities of their lives. “This has been a blast, but my son is coming tomorrow night for a week, and I need to get stuff ready.” The other nodded, “And I’ve got piles of laundry to do and mop up all the dog prints before my husband gets home.”

Granted we had a whimsical weekend, but neither of them would trade their realities for mine. Yet, both of them agreed it was a great escape from their routines. Sometimes, we all enjoy a different road. without the usual ruts. Trust me, it’s enlightening to step out of the usual and ordinary!

This weekend I was educated by a third grade and a seventh grade boy about the phenomena of collecting sports cards. Now, I’m so old the only cards I collected were baseball cards, which we frequently attached to the spokes of a bicycle wheel to make it sound like a motorcycle or we played a flip game to trade cards. Of course I could buy five or so cards for a quarter and get a delicious piece of bubble gum.

Well, according to my new boy friends collecting cards is a big deal, not to mention a big money maker these days. Special boxed sets can reach thousands of dollars each, while some beginner sets average $50. Cards are available in any sport from the obvious baseball, basketball, football, hockey to soccer and wrestling. Sports cards may be submitted for grading to a number of companies like Beckett, PSA (Professional Sports Authenticator), and SCG where a card’s worth is determined on centering, corners, edges, and surfaces. To possess a score of 10 increases the value when compared to a one or 2. Further, this authenticity service costs a minimum of a hundred dollars per card!

Some cards may feature an actual signed autograph, a sticker autograph, or a piece of material from the player’s jersey. These additional enhancements increase the price of the card. In fact, yesterday when I was in the card store with these boys, they showed me an autographed card of a current football player I’d never heard of that was $3,000! Much more expensive than any of the signed jerseys hung around the store.

Granted I have little experience with boys this age, but it seems to me this is a giant ripoff–a small piece of cardboard printed with a photo and stats sold at the average price of ten dollars. Yet, the more I think about it as the mother of daughters, my girls collected credit cards–far more dangerous!

As most of you know, I will launch The Academy, my third novel this week. It is a provocative tale that focuses on mass shootings, in an effort to advance the conversation of the availability of weapons to the public. It is not my intent to financially benefit from the sale of The Academy, which is available on Amazon. If you want a free copy, just PM or email me.

Please know, though, the plot of this book is not as far-fetched as it may appear.In November every national news outlet reported that the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) was investigating threats to US schools and universities. Though, the investigation is on going, the Bureau believes 50% are coming from overseas. Yes, that’s a lot to wrap one’s head around. Yet, if one reads reports on the tragedy in Ulvade, Texas, how does an eighteen-year-old, high school drop out, with no job, drive to the scene in a new $70,000 truck, wearing and armed with $10,000 of equipment and kill nineteen children and two teachers at Robb Elementary School? Good question? Follow the money.

Of course, the title brings immediately to mind, the debacle and soap-opera drama played out this week on the floor of the US House of Representatives. Twenty toddlers stalled the election of Speaker McCarthy 15 times. Now, they may have found their antics hilarious, but how could I respect the opinion of one who was well aware of the sexual harassment of Ohio State athletes, or the GED grad from Colorado, or the Floridian who likes under-aged young girls, or the dumbest blonde in Georgia?? Further, while they knew their efforts were in vain, they continued their childish behavior by nominating Trump and other random folk. The only folks laughing were the rest of the world, who thought America had lost its marbles.

Yet, the purpose of my blog today concerns real mixed nuts. You know the kind you’re gifted in a fancy holiday tin, or the can you buy in the grocery store. Forgive me, if I sound boujee, but when I fly distances greater than two hours, I fly first class. At my age, I far too old to tolerate the cattle car mentality of some travelers and crammed-in seating with runny noses and fits of coughing. When I flew last month on American, the flight attendant served each of us a bowl of warm, mixed nuts at cocktail time. Since I had nothing better to do, I entertained myself by watching people eat their treat and discovered I’m an unusual nut eater. Most folk just took a handful and dumped them in their mouths. One dude picked up the bowl and poured the entire contents down! Me? I prefer to savor the taste of nuts by kind. Why waste a great cashew by mixing it with almonds? Or why mix a pistachio with pecans?

I guess it’s trivial how folk eat their nuts. Too bad it wasn’t trivial in DC last week.

The first month of the new year named from the Roman god, Janus. A two-faced god, who was said to look backward with pride and forward with hope. However, I’m reminded of the question: why is the rear car window smaller than its windshield? The answer is simple: it’s more important to where you’re going than where you’ve been. And as I age, I agree. Certainly, I think I had a good past. Were there things I could have, should have, would have done? Sure. A myriad of things, but do I get any do overs? The past is just that–gone. Now, my only choice is to look forward.

I’ve never had ESP; I’m not a seer. I can’t see the future. Hell, I’m lucky if I can find my car keys or glasses at any given time. But I can look forward to tomorrow, even though, I’ve no way of knowing how many I have left. I’m excited to introduce my newest novel, The Academy, later this month and anxious to meet my first grandchild next month! Thankfully, I still dream big dreams filled with both hope and enthusiasm for 2023.

Happy New Year friends. Enjoy your memories, but embrace your future. And for Heaven’s sake, don’t let the grass grow under your feet. Our world needs us to move on!

One week from today it will be December 25, when folk all over will awake with excitement and anticipation of a new doll, a bicycle, a prime rib roast, or figgy pudding (whatever that is. Sounds awful.) As I laid in bed this morning and contemplated another arrival of Christmas, I was engulfed with fond memories. Then this afternoon, the UPS left a box at my door. I checked the label to be sure it was mine because my boxes usually come emblazoned with a capital A.

Pardon my digression, forty-seven (47) years ago, I was principal of an Ohio vocational high school and advisor to the yearbook. In those days, vocational education was a “dirty” word, until one’s car wouldn’t start or they needed a bricklayer. High school counselors encouraged masses of alleged misfits to go to our school, for they’d never be successful at doing anything else. In short, the vast number of those junior and seniors who enrolled came with labels, such as loser, bad boy, incorrible, juvenile delinquent, or drug abuser. Now I had begun my teaching career there four years earlier and had experienced just “normal” teenagers. Sure, they were different from the highly-motivated, academic superstars, but they were authentic. I learned early on that if I ask a question, I would receive an honest, candid answer. In fact, I loved them for their no bs answers, and admittedly I enjoyed their shenanigans.

When it came time for me to select the yearbook for the 1974-5 edition, I chose Paula. She was an enigma: extremely bright and creative, yet wrapped herself in a cloak of mystery. I was amazed by her perceptive view of the world and her level of adult understanding. In fact, she peppered numerous yearbook pages with the proverbial wise beyond her years quotes, from such people like Billy Graham, Robert Kennedy, and Winston Churchill.

I opened the UPS box today and read the enclosed card. Then I opened the pictured tin. OMG! Cookies from my homeland. What a sight to behold. Plus, each one brought back a taste of memories from Christmases past. Excuse me, while I savor the biscotti and reminisce about my years at the vocational school, which turned out successful graduates, like Paula, a social worker; Tony, an Ohio State University welding professor; Jamie, a hotel manager; and Sandi, a chef with her own Cleveland restaurant.

I’m honored to be remembered forty-seven years later by Paula and all the other students I taught along the way. But believe me, the pleasure was all mine; I loved what I taught, and I loved who I taught. Christmas is a wonderful time to remember those who brought and bring us great joy. Happiest of Holidays.

As a child, I was never jazzed by opening a present containing necessaries. Really? Some gift giver expected me to be exuberant over underwear, socks, or pajamas? As a soon-to be-bride, I had to psyche myself up before I went to the shower, where folk expected me to be excited about towels, sheets, pot holders, and spatulas.

Currently every member of my family is badgering me about what I want for Christmas, so I decided to make a list of what I don’t want. First, I do not want gift certificates to Hobby Lobby nor Chick-fil. Both of those establishments’ policies run contrary to my philosophy of employee-treatment. My only recourse is to not shop there.

Secondly, I do not want any more sit-arounds, and I’m not talking about furniture. Knick knacks, signs, pottery, random crap that just collects dust and has no useful purpose. I’ve already got a house full of unwanted, worthless stuff. And to go on on worthless stuff that would further include things like pizza warmers, anything pumpkin-scented or flavored, and hats. Yes, I detest hats, which mess up my do. Stocking hats, cowboy hats, and baseball caps. (Speaking for baseball caps, who ever dictated the obnoxious fashion of wearing them backwards? Ridiculous.)

But the worst thing I could be gifted is a damn puffer jacket! Yes, I’m well aware it’s winter, and yes, I’ve a closet full of flannel, sweaters, and stylish wool coats. I do not want a puffer jacket, nor puffer coat. In fact, I’d rather fall in a snow drift in Colorado and freeze to death than to be wearing a puffer jacket. I work hard at not being the Pillsbury Dough Boy, nor the Michelin Guy, so why would I walk into a trendy restaurant looking like the Goodyear Blimp?

But since my family will be very disappointed by my blog, I shall confess what I DO want for Christmas. No, I’ll spare you the trite world peace comment. I want my family to look around their own communities. Are there children or schools in need? Children who will never know the joy of a new bicycle nor a new pair of Nikes? Children who never had a new book, an art set, nor a backpack. Are there area food banks begging for donations? Are there folks living on the streets? Are the animal shelters in need of supplies, adoptions, or foster care?

When you’ve looked around your world, just write me a note, send me an email or text, and share what you did. In short, nothing pleases me more than the gift of giving.