At my age, I have to make decisions based on my longevity. After working the math, I decided I could get one more puppy and probably outlive it. Thus, Harper Q Lee, a mini goldendoodle came to live with the five others in my pack two weeks ago. (Q stands for QUITS!)

While some relish puppy breath, I love the shenanigans. There’s never a dull moment between puppy naps, as she harasses one of the others. Even though she was accepted by the pack within an hour, she tends to overdo her acceptance. Of course, there are downsides, like needle-sharp teeth that rip right through my weathered flesh, and a tiny bladder which hasn’t mastered house training. Yet she knows her name, and 90% of the time comes when she’s called. Baby steps.

However, the greatest gift I’ve received from Harper, as well as my other canines, has been unconditional love. Obviously, something that’s solely lacking in this “Mixed up, muddled up, shook up world.”

Unfortunately, this is a true story that occurred at my nail appointment this week. I’ve been a bi-weekly patron at this nail salon for ten years or so, and every once in a while I’m assigned to the guy nail tech. Due to the close proximity I was wearing a mask.

Our conversation began when he asked, “How did you get here today?”

What? I look at him incredulously. “What do you mean how did I get here?”

“How did you get here?” He repeated. “Who brought you?”

“Duh, I drove my car to the salon.”

“You still drive?” He looked at me with disbelief.

My sassy self took over, “Yes, I drive, and I even drive at night!”

“Hmm. How old are you?”

Since I’ve never been one to lie about my age (except when I was in college), I said I was seventy-three.

Another stunned look from my 40-45 year old, “My father’s seventy-one, and he doesn’t drive. Of course, he’s blind.”

Blind? I hope he didn’t drive! The Sun City Q-tips were bad enough.

“You know most women that come in here are driven by someone else.”

I looked around the salon. Both the pedicure and manicure stations were filled with primarily women who were at least twenty years younger. Believe me, I wanted to rebut his comment, but I replied, “Yan, you’re not going to get a tip if this conversation continues.” I laughed, but I was peeved.

In retrospect, it was a good thing I was wearing a mask. Damn, if he saw the rest of my wrinkles, he would have called me a cab. My Botox guy can easily rid my forehead of the deep crevices, and I will be sure to request anybody but Yan next time.

“If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, it expects what never was and never will be.” Wise words from Thomas Jefferson.

As I watch from the sidelines the attack of public school curriculum, I can only conclude America is awash with ignorance. In Oklahoma this week, a parent requested the school district drop Biology courses for the subject is immoral. American history courses are being cleansed of references to race and the Holocaust. Archived pictures of victims of Auschwitz have been removed as too graphic for teenage-eyes. Revered classic literature has been banned from reading lists and school libraries. Even though, the Supreme Court ruled in 1982 in Islands Trees School District v Pico that removal of books from libraries violates the First Amendment. (One would think an attorney educated at Harvard Law, Ted Cruz, would indeed know that prior to today’s rampage!)

But the most ludicrous example of how far this has gone occurred at Perry High School in Chandler, Arizona, this week. A culinary arts teacher had to notify parents about her upcoming lesson on the anatomy of poultry because she was going to discuss the breast bone and breast of poultry. Board policy requires such notification if any sexual terms are going to be used, and parents can opt their children out of class during the discussion. (I’m not kidding; this is true.)

I’m aghast that any parent whose child has access to TV, video games, the internet, and/or cell phones, would think their kid does not possess adult knowledge. My Lord, our former POTUS talked about pussy on national TV! And who can forget his mockery of a disabled man? Children know the difference between a chicken leg and a chicken breast. Tik Tok and other social media are their favorite sources of sexual information. Books are not the problem; your naivete is! And by the way, a book didn’t kill kids at Columbine or Sandy Hook.

I’ve listened to the ridiculous arguments about returning to the three R’s–reading, writing, and rithmetic. But what will our kids read and write about? Dick and Jane? Spot and Puff? And rithmetic will have to simply be basic operations, for God forbid, math teachers would teach high-brow inquiry that requires highly developed reasoning in these Stepford children.

Sadly, these clueless parents have been indoctrinated with wing-nut notions, which can only result in raising another generation of stupidity. Their children will not be equipped with essential knowledge to compete at the college level or in American industry. About the time their child tells a university prof, he/she can’t read that novel, study this philosophy, dissect the cadaver, or research the atrocities of Mendel’s experiments, the professor will remind the student to “do it or drop the class.”

I suspect America is on a more sinister path constructed by powerful, conniving thieves. Morons can be manipulated through empty promises. The rich will get richer, and the poor will be grateful for the scraps. God help the unsuspecting fool who orders Rocky Mountain Oysters.

While I fully realize the shortage dilemma, due to ships stranded along ports without docker workers to unload their cargo, there are some things I don’t understand. For example, yesterday I was in a large major chain grocery, and there was only spaghetti pasta. No noodles, no rigatoni, no macaroni, no shells. Further, there was not one pound of hamburger, nor Italian sausage links.

Today, I ventured to my ‘hood small grocery, where the Gatorade shelf has been vacant for over a month, as well as some bottled juice shelving. Further the packaged cheese choice was limited to mozzarella and American. Even certain brands of beer were missing from the cooler. Suffice it to say, cleaning products, paper towels, toilet tissue, and dog food are scarce commodities.

Now, I can only surmise these shortages are due to lack of employees from canneries, to factories, to truck drivers. It seems almost all institutions have staff shortages, i.e. schools, hospitals, retail, and even volunteer programs. Except for one….

Politicians. I swear they multiply every night! Why is that?

This week I received a writing prompt from Story Worth, How do you spend your Saturdays? At first, I scoffed. Saturday? At my age, I’m lucky to differentiate the days of the week, but it did cause me to reflect on how my Saturdays had evolved.

As a child, my Saturdays equaled freedom. I went to birthday parties, played with my friends, and was forced to watch Lawrence Welk if we had a babysitter. As a teenager, it was usually date night with my current boyfriend at the movies or hanging out at someone’s house. When I was in college, half of Saturday was spent sleeping, playing bridge, and perhaps writing the paper that was due on Monday. Saturday night was reserved for some kind of foolishness, like fraternity parties or playing drinking games at a college bar. After I graduated from college and had a real job, my Saturdays were spent grading papers, designing lesson plans, and doing graduate school assignments.

When I became a mom, Saturdays changed drastically. I morphed into a party host, driver to the mall, softball coach, dance mom, tennis mom, and cheer mom. It was rare if our home wasn’t a whirlwind of activity. Fortunately, during football season, my then-husband and I managed to go to ASU games, but for the most part, our kids dictated Saturdays.

Now Saturday just blends in with the other six days of the week. My married friends, of course, still go out for dinner, to the movies, to parties, but my Saturday has no significance. COVID has certainly squashed my urge to go mingle among a mass of people.

So to all my young readers, who are in the manic Saturday stage, remember there will come a time when you miss the frenzy of Saturday.

First my apologies to you born in January. I’m sure you find it your favorite, but to me, it’s blah. In fact, it seems like a 31-day hangover after exciting and busy December. Gone are the Christmas lights and holiday decorations. Gone are the marvelous dinners, parties, out-of-town family celebrations. Long gone are the cookies, pastries, and candy canes, as well as the confetti, noise makers, and bubbly. All that remains is blah.

Ever since I was a child, I didn’t like January. Winter would be hanging around Ohio for at least three months. Spring break and summer vacation were light years away. Even the thought of Valentine’s Day didn’t trip my childhood trigger. (And it certainly doesn’t trip my trigger today. HA!)

I know I should embrace January at my age; I should be grateful to be alive and still with it. So, I guess I need to plan an event every January to rid me from the boring, tedious month of the year. If you have any suggestions for my new event, I anxiously await them.

Or just maybe, I should get a new puppy to relieve my boredom. Please don’t share this with my family, as they already think I’m losing it. But a rambunctious little pup may be just what I need to round off my January blah corners. Stay tuned.

Happy New Year, and welcome back to my weekly blog.

Last night, out of sheer, Saturday night boredom, I watched Don’t Look Up. Not because I read the reviews, but because of Leonardo, Cate Blanchett, and Meryl Streep. Nor did I bother reading the synopsis. A good thing, for I’m not a fan of sci-fi. Now, I not going to give away the movie; you’re free to watch it and formulate your own critique. However, my reaction to the film caused me a lot of tossing and turning into the wee hours this morning.

In essence, a segment of our society embraces the mantra, Don’t Look Up, meaning regardless of facts, personal experience or actual visualization of events, we disregard and even deny truth. The issues of climate change, poverty, corruption, and pandemic diseases are evident. For the last two days, the Phoenix metro area has confirmed 15,000 new cases of COVID per day, a disease that will continue to mutate until the vast majority of our world is vaccinated. Serious climate change has wrecked havoc in the rainforests and the polar ice floes.

Poverty and homelessness plague our cities. Have you noticed how we look straight ahead at a traffic light to avoid eye contact with the street corner beggar? Years ago, I was in wealthy Cabo San Lucas. The resort taxi driver reminded me as I got in the cab, “Senora, Cabo is beautiful, if you don’t look left or right.” (And see the lame, malnourished dogs, barefoot children, hovels of housing.)

Even our politicians are more concerned with lucrative quick band-aids, instead of investing in the future. If you deny that, look at our school systems. What better way to ensure our future than to educate our young?

I realize from the time we were young and skinned our knees, cut our fingers, or broke our arms, our parents said, “Don’t look. It only hurts if you look.” Me? I still don’t look when I get a shot or a phlebotomist draws blood from my arm. Perhaps, as this film suggests, it’s time to: Just Look Up.

Yesterday I saw my hairdresser who attempted to make me presentable. Twins surrounded their grandmother hairdresser as she attempted to cut her daughter-in-law’s hair. The boy and girl were chattering as seven-year-olds do, when I asked, “So what do you want for Christmas?”

The little boy rattled off a number of things, some of which I didn’t know. Must have been video games. Then, his twin, spoke, “I want my own Alexa, a cellphone, and art stuff. You know what else I want?”

“No, my dear, but I think you’ll tell me. What else do you want?”

“A baby sister!”

And with that pronouncement, her grandma dropped her scissors, her mom bent forward with shocked looks, and her twin brother added, “We want a baby sister every year for Christmas!”

Much to the chagrin of momma and grandma, my hairdresser and I were doubled over in laughter. Out of the proverbial mouths of babes come the most hilarious things.

May none of us lose sight of the spirit of the holiday season. May we look at our lives through the lens of a child. May we strive to be positive and not defiant. May we embody the best in us and collaboratively work together for ONE REASON: Our Children.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year. My next blog will post on January 9.

Like many of you, our parents had a Christmas morning rule. Ours was: Stay in bed until 7:00. In Ohio, it was not even daylight at 7 a.m., but my parents and sometimes visiting grandparents dutifully agreed to leave their warm beds for my brother, Bruce’s, and my anxiousness. Of course, our three-year-old sister had to be awakened to join in our merriment.

Now, for my quizzical mind, the 7 a.m. posed a problem. Obviously, there was no Internet 60 years, so I had no understanding of why or how 7 a.m. was the chosen awake time. Without logical reasons, I concluded time was arbitrary. There were no laws to prohibit the wake up time. All I need to do was advance the clocks. Right after we were sent to bed on the Eve, Bruce and I reset the upstairs clocks.

In those days, digital, atomic clocks had yet to be invented, so one would have to squint at the dimly-lit clock, in a sparsely-lit bedroom to ascertain the time. Our plan was flawless. We congratulated each other with our creativity. The alarms went off, Bruce and I were already downstairs eying the presents and full stockings we were forbidden to touch until the adults arrived. My parents and grandparents yawned and drank coffee before the fun began. My baby sister was left to sleep through this exciting, wonderful moment.

It was a perfect Christmas morning! I enthusiastically opened a box from “Santa.” OMG! It was the clock radio I had wanted. I was so delighted I had to plug it in. In my eagerness. I flipped the dial to listen to my favorite station, WHOT. Probably playing Christmas carols, but we all needed holiday music.

Everyone who knows me is well aware I remain techno-challenged. Thankfully, I raised two techno gurus who talk me through my numerous formatting issues, TV set-ups, and cell phone problems. I could only hear the faint music, so I cranked up the volume dial to the max. The music stopped. The DJ blasted, Good morning, Youngstown! Merry Christmas! It’s Four AM!

Busted! Mom fled to the kitchen to check the stove clock, while my dad dialed the local time and temperature number. Both confirmed it was moments after four. Busted! Yes, I admitted I was the instigator, but it was Christmas. My grandparents, unlike my parents, found great humor in my clever shenanigan. Bruce and I were sentenced back to bed, where we slept peacefully until the aroma of bacon awoke us.

(In keeping with the holiday spirit, my next several blogs will celebrate the “most wonderful time of the year.”)

A usual Saturday night in December over sixty years ago. My parents went to a Christmas Ball; my dad in a tux, my mom in a long gown. My two sibs and I relegated to the care of an old maid babysitter who made us watch Lawrence Welk as we knoshed on hot dogs and mac and cheese. My little ten-year-old brother, Bruce, and I snuck away from the Lennon Sisters to the upstairs in search of Christmas presents. We finally uncovered a stash of wrapped boxes in the under eaves storage attic. I left Bruce stayed. Unbeknowst to me, he opened the end of every package and peeked.

On Monday morning, our mother discovered the partially opened gifts. When Bruce and I came home from school, were confronted by Mom wrath. “Which of you opened the Christmas presents?”

We both responded, “Not me!”

“They didn’t unwrap themselves!” She followed up with the angry “mom-stare.” (Too bad the Elf on the Shelf was yet to be written.)

After several more minutes of Mom’s inquisition, I admitted I did it. Even though I knew Bruce committed the crime, I was the eldest. I should have made him leave before he got into trouble. In those days, the preferred method of punishment was swats to the backside. Thankfully, my mom was not an accomplished swatter, and I survived.

On Friday, our babysitter, who was also our weekly cleaning lady was busily dusting around. “Louiseabelle, do you know what Sue did Saturday night? She opened all the Christmas surprises! I was so mad I paddled her.”

“Mrs. Meikle, Sue didn’t do it; Bruce did.”

“But Sue admitted it.”

“Yes, but Sue didn’t do it. Bruce did.”

When Bruce and I walked in the door after school, we were faced by an angry, firebreathing dragon, AKA Mom. “Go to your room, Bruce, and stay there until your father comes home!”

“Why?”

“Because I said so.” (Classic Mom words.)

Of course, Bruce earned some swats that night, but to this day, it hasn’t curbed his inability to wait until his birthday, Father’s Day, or Christmas. In fact, his Christmas present from my sister and me is sitting on the bench inside his house. According to the picture he just sent, it remains unopened. Doubtful. Fake news!