I try not to think about it, but most days it is impossible. I’ve lost more weight just shaking my head these past two years than by going to the gym. (However, I look obscene in spandex, so I’ve never been to the gym since I completed my college physical education requirements.)

I’m overwhelmed by news of the Kardashians, Harry and Meghan, COVID variants, anti-maskers, and a talk of a new POTUS in August. Federal investigations, court cases, restrictive voting laws, climate change, inflation, crime, and mass shootings boggle me. My futile attempts at shutting out the madness lead only to incurable insomnia that even reading War and Peace can’t solve.

Yesterday, I brewed a cup of morning coffee, walked outside, and sat down to sip and scan my email. Mostly ads. Then, much to my surprise, an email from an old friend–literally. Fifteen years older! I hadn’t heard from her in five or six years, as she’d moved away, so I eagerly opened it: Hi Sue: How are you? If you get this, email me back. I need a favor.

I responded immediately but then got caught up with morning chores, and didn’t check email until mid-afternoon. There was an email from my friend, Sandra, enumerating her many health issues. Since she was currently hospitalized she was unable to get her niece’s birthday present. Her simple request was for me to send her an Apple Pay card, and she’d reimburse me when she left the hospital.

Hmm? Her response came in less than two minutes after, my first one. Who is her niece? Where am I supposed to send this Apple Pay card? Methinks, I’m being scammed. With the help of the internet, I found Sandra’s phone number in Washington State. I called.

“Sue, how nice to hear from you after all the years. You are my 52nd caller today. No, I’m not in the hospital; no, I don’t even have a niece; no, I don’t need money. Yes, my email account has been hacked.”

It’s still a mad, mad, mad, mad world some 58 years after the film’s release.

Two weeks ago, I wrote about my new dryer with the inverted temperature controls. Low equalled high; high equalled low. I sent a complaint email to the manufacturer who insisted a contact a certified, Whirlpool repair technician. Of course, I had to wait four days for an appointment. With the aid of his temperature gauge, he found I was incorrect. “How long has it been since your dryer vent was cleaned?”

An absurd question! How would I know? I’d lived here almost thirty years and never knew it needed cleaned.

He walked outside, climbed up a ladder, pulled out a bit of lint, “There’s nothing wrong with your dryer; the vent is plugged. That’s why it doesn’t heat properly. The majority of dryer vents are a straight shot, just like a freeway. Yours is L-shaped. In the bend is the plug.”

“So what do I do?”

“Call a company that cleans dryer vents. You’re very lucky there wasn’t a fire or worse a gas explosion.”

Holy Mother of God! I could have burned down my casa! So last week I dried laundry on the patio again. Friday The Top Hatter came and in 15 minutes blew out the blockage–a twelve-inch bird nest and thirty years of lint! Now while this may be a boring blog, as I’ve told this story to my friends, they’ve all reported they had never cleaned out their vents. I found solace in their admission. However, this old dog has learned a new trick. Even though I won’t live another thirty years, I will have the vent blown out every three or four years until….

Ten years ago in April, I became el jefe–the boss. Now, I was not without some training and had clearly established myself as the Alpha in my dog pack. Nonetheless, my new role forced me to learn more about home maintenance, yard care, and big-ticket purchases than I ever wanted to know. As I muddled through my new role, it finally occurred to me I was acting like a manager, not the leader my university degree proclaimed me to be. I did a U-turn and sought out those to assume some of my responsibilities.

I hired a monthly landscaping service, a financial advisor, an accountant, and a cabana boy. But I haven’t stopped mowing the lawn, planting and maintaining the vegetable garden, tending to the swimming pool, nor fertilizing the citrus trees. I do laundry and cooking. Then, on my 70th birthday, I acquiesced my role of house keeper.

Yes, I have a biweekly cleaning service. Yes, some have a weekly one, but I’m old-fashioned enough to think I should bear some burden for my messes. Please don’t assume I’m a saint, for my week of cleaning may be simply vacuuming the tile floors or dusting the piano. Further, I’ve been known to run an unplugged vacuum up and down the living carpet to give the appearance it’s been swept, and I spray Pledge in the air to give a clean scent. I certainly don’t scrub down the shower, nor the toilets.

No, the only day I do a serious pick up and put away, folding and straightening, and sweeping and dusting is the day before my cleaning service comes. It’s absurd; I know that, but I don’t want be the talk of the town. “Man, we went to clean Sue’s house–talk about a filthy, trash pit!”

I should stop complaining about being El Jefe because the day will come when I’m locked up in a retirement care facility. My lawn mower will vanish, my garden will be some potted plant, my wardrobe will be nothing more than a robe and a night gown. I’ll be told what to do, when to do it, and what to eat. I’ll no longer be in control of my own destiny. My Boss title will be nothing more than a fading memory.

OMG, this blog is depressing! Sue, el jefe de la casa, needs a cerveza!

Last week the evil appliance demon struck again, in spite of the presence of St. Joseph, protector of household repairs. This time it was my high-end, five-year-old, state-of-the-art dryer. The repairman said he simply needed to replace a part.

“Sue, the bad news is the part won’t be available for two or three weeks.”

Doable. I would survive the inconvenience.

“But, given all the COVID issues, the Suez Canal, and the international shipping situation, it could be 2 or 3 months.”

What? I flashed back to memories of both my mother and grandmother hanging laundry on their clothes lines in the Ohio summer breeze. Nothing smelled better than sheets dried outside, but in Phoenix? Land of blowing sand and dust? Doubtful.

“You should just buy a Whirlpool; at least, they’re American made so you can get parts.”

Me? Get parts? Wrong, masked man, but after he left, I went and bought a Whirlpool dryer.

“Sorry, Sue it can’t be delivered until next Thursday. We’re really busy with new house construction needs.”

Ok, so I’d have to dry my cabana boy’s weekly wash outside. I decorated my patio furniture with towels, shirts, socks, shorts, etc., and the Phoenix heat dried it in no time. However, I had to shake out the dust as I folded each piece. Admittedly, I did smell one t-shirt. No fresh aroma whatsoever.

Yesterday, aka laundry day, I washed and used my dryer for the first time. The buzzer went off; mission accomplished. I opened the dryer. Wet clothes. Hmm. How about timed dry, instead of normal? After 70 minutes, buzz, still wet. Hmm. Maybe, the installer forgot to turn on the gas valve. Since gas, like electricity, scares the bejesus out of me, I looked and listened, but didn’t touch the valve. I filled the laundry room with blue language instead. I reread the manual. Finally, I decided to wait until Monday to deal with this.

An hour later, I jiggled and wiggled every dial. I turned the temperature setting from High to Low and hit the start button. I waited 20 or 30 seconds and opened the dryer door. Voila! Hotter than a Youngstown steel mill blast furnace!

As one can tell from the photo, this is not the fault of the installer, but of the manufacturer. I can imagine the nightmare of dealing with the Whirlpool Corporation about this mess, so I’ll simply write them a letter for their circular file and remember that Low = High!

This past week was national Teacher Appreciation week. All of us have had teachers who made a difference in our lives. In fact, when I taught Master level classes at the university, I gave a quiz: Write down the names of your best teachers. Write down the names of your worst teachers. Write down the name of your remaining teachers. Of course, my students could only recall the best and the worst. The remainder were for the most part nameless. No surprise in a society of overload information. Our brains routinely sort and categorize enormous amounts of data into convenient compartments that we can regurgitate when Dr. Suze asks a nonsensical question.

My silly little”test” was merely an intro to an extended discussion about what makes a great teacher. “Some of you in this class aspire to be supervisors, principals, and maybe even a superintendent. Your responsibilities will include hiring teachers. How will you know if you hired the best, the mediocre, or the worst? Finally, based on our discussion this evening, by a show of hands, how many of you have thanked a teacher for making a difference in your life?”

As to be expected, one or two raised a hand. “Your assignment for next week in addition to the readings in the syllabus is to react to the following via the discussion board: What is teacher appreciation?

Of course, the discussion board was jammed with thoughts about teacher pay–no surprise, for that has been an issue for 200 years. However, many mentioned intrinsic rewards. “I had a former student show up in his Marine Corps dress blues.”

“Mrs. Johnson?”

“Wow look at you! I’m so proud of you! Thank you for coming by.”

“Ma’am, thank you. Thank you for encouraging me. Thank you for believing in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself.”

Another wrote, “I’ve taught for over 25 years. My most treasured possessions are a handful of cards and letters I received from students. Oh yes, every once in a while I got a bouquet of dandelions, a bottle of stinky cologne, and even a salamander! But it meant and means so much to have a student write me a note or draw me a picture. To me that’s priceless.”

It’s never too late to thank a teacher. All of us who have taught or still teach measure our success on the priceless notes and comments we’ve received from students.

I had an interesting conversation this week with the principal of my district’s alternative school, but first some words about the school and its students. The school was designed for students who didn’t like or succeed in traditional middle or high school for a variety of reasons. Some had discipline issues, some were credit deficient, some were bored, some preferred a small environment, and some, in their words, “just didn’t fit.”

Under the leadership of a spectacular principal and a caring faculty, homeless students found shelter. Due to small, computer-assisted classes every student could work at his/her own speed to attain subject mastery. The archaic 120-hour requirement of seat time vanished. In fact, one enterprising young man, completed 7 math courses in one year! The school faculty embraces a sense of community, and several times a year they hold a barbecue at lunch time for the kids. In return, the students are no longer chronically absent or constantly referred to the assistant principal for infractions.

The principal said, “Sue, COVID has changed my kids. They rebelled against virtual, at-home learning, they missed being at school. Some of them promised to reenroll when things ‘were normal.’ As you know, every Friday I draw names of those for attendance award prizes. In the four years I’ve been doing this, the most popular prize was lunch with the principal from their choice fast food joint. Second, was a bag of candy. But not this year when many of the kids lost their fast food and menial jobs due to COVID lockdowns. Blankets and socks have replaced Whataburger.”

Wow! That anchored me.

“Remember Sue, when your neighbor gave you all the giveaway stuff she’d collected from the casino, and you brought it here over a year ago?”

How could I forget? A trunk load of crap from rice cookers, to dinnerware, pots, and pans, serving dishes, and platters.

“That stuff has sat in the prize closet for over a year, but now, it’s wildly popular. All of this was chosen by our 10 winners today.”

Hmm. Why would a 17-year-old want a ceramic serving platter?

“Can you believe it? All of this is for their moms for Mother’s Day!”

I was moved. So many of these kids were labeled throw-aways, ne’er do-wells, bad boys, etc, but this school culture had changed them. COVID had changed them. They’d gone from selfish, it’s all about me, teens to becoming caring adults. In fact, more members of this graduating class have enrolled at the community college for fall. They’ve experienced first-hand job loss, they’ve struggled with ill family members, and they’ve missed the human connection of regular school.

The incredible tragedy of COVID has changed all of us.

Many of you have seen my Facebook post about the rescue of a baby great-horned owl, who fell from its nest. This football-sized darling was not afraid and chatted with me in little chirps as I promised it safety. Thankfully, with the help of my cabana boy and an expert neighbor, the baby was spared from certain death by a stray cat, coyote, hawk, or roadrunner. But the most intriguing part of my blog is what I learned.

My neighbor, Jim, is a long-time volunteer at Liberty Wildlife. When he arrived to save the owlet, he said, “Wow, Sue! You’ll never see a great-horned so up close and personal in your yard again.” True. When I see the adults, they’re either perched in a tree or on my rooftop. If I try to get a closer look, they fly off.

“Now, we don’t have to worry about him/her using his talons or pecking with his nib. He won’t try to fly.” Hmm, that’s curious. “He doesn’t know he’s an owl. He has to be taught. In an ideal scenario, he’d be returned to his nest up there, but his mom and dad would attack us.” Oh, great. However, the nest was over 20 feet above in a pine tree, and we’d need a cherry-picker to deliver the kid.

My cabana boy vaulted the six foot fence, picked up the owlet and placed it in the cardboard box. “Now what, Jim?”

“I’ll take him home and feed him, and drop him off at Liberty tomorrow morning.”

“Wait,” I interrupted. “The baby will be ok until then?”

“Yes. In fact, some folk become so attached to owlets they raise them to adulthood. By then, the owl is incapable of being returned to the wild. It doesn’t know how to hunt or survive. But this little guy will be acclimated with other babies and adults and eventually released. For forty years, Liberty Wildlife has been rescuing and rehabilitating a variety of Arizona fauna. Approximately, 75% of its budget depends on individual contributions. All of the veterinarians are volunteers, as well as hundreds of people like me.”

“Does Liberty rescue most everything?’

“Reptiles, amphibians, mammals, and lots of birds. We have volunteers across the state and a relay system of drivers to transport them to our Phoenix facility.”

I’ve live in Arizona for almost 40 years, and I didn’t know squat about the majestic, great-horned owl. “Hey, Jim, just one more question. Sometimes I hear the owls meow like a cat. Am I crazy?”

“No, just uneducated. Barn owls meow like cats.”

Touche. Thus, I just became of member and learned they also serve as a national, non-eagle feather repository for Native American tribes to provide, at no cost, feathers for their endeavors. How cool is that?

Several months ago, my bestie informed her husband she was going to remodel their master bath. Her husband had just endured over 8 weeks of chaos when she had the guest bath remodeled, and he was not jazzed about another disruption to his status quo. (Men, not only are blind, but don’t deal well with change. I swear the house could be falling down, and men would say, “It looks ok to me.”)

However, her hubby issued an ultimatum: “You clean out the pantry and put it in order so we can find things. Then you can remodel the bath.”

The pantry was large and was designed for food storage, but due to its size it also became a hidey hole. Unexpected company show up? Stash away the clutter in the pantry. Don’t know where to store this or that? Stick it in the pantry. Put away the groceries and the new stuff goes at the forefront. Now, because the new bath was important to her, last week she began. Much to her surprise, she unearthed best if used by 11/17/2009 items. Stacks of unopened napkins and paper plates. Halloween candy, flower vases, and even an ice bucket she stopped searching for five years ago.

Then she uncovered a hidden treasure trove of supplements and beauty products, which promised the proverbial Fountain of Youth! My bestie not only believed, but bought into P.T. Barnum’s elixirs, creams, and capsules. However, she never tried 90% of them! One of them, Skinny Fit Super Youth . Another Super Neocell Collagen for skin, hair, nails, joints, and bones. Two trash bags later, she discovered the ultimate: Snail Jelly Mask! Made in Korea, the mask is “designed for ultimate absorption and hydration.” It includes: “5,000ppm Snail Secretion Filtrate.”

As she’s telling me this, I’m thinking snail slime? Really?

“Oh, Sue, it has no expiration date, and the movie stars use this mask. I’m going to try it.”

Hmm. Snail slime? Of course, by all means try it. The movie stars do all kinds of things you should emulate. “The movie stars do drugs, undergo numerous plastic surgeries, shoot their faces full of botox, and step on each other to win a starring role. So you’re going to smear your face with snail snot? Have at it.”

She burst into laughter! “Do you think I’m crazy?”

Crazy? More like a lunatic. “Who am I to judge? I bet I could dehydrate dog doo and convince you to smear it on your wrinkled brow, particularly if I scented it with lavender.”

Yes, Virginia, there is a fool born every minute.

Believe me, after spending fifty years in education, I abhor acronyms. Lord knows the public schools were overrun with them: IEP, ADD, DECA, FBLA, MMR, EEO, FASA, etc. The federal government is awash with them: NATO, OAS, GSA, FDIC, FAA, TSA. Texting has added even more: TMI, LOL, IMO, CU, WTF. I’m tired of trying to break the codes–just tell me Southeast Asia Treaty Organization, or Naval Criminal Investigative Service, and I’ll get it.

However, this week one of my longtime friends dropped a new one on me. FOMO. “My daughters were complaining that one of their brothers showed up at the girls’ weekend. One said, ‘ You know Eddie, Mom; he suffers from FOMO.'”

Hmm. FOMO? What the hell does that mean? Eddie is a schlep? A party crasher? Needs money? Has no life?

“You do know what FOMO means, Sue.”

I didn’t, but should I act like I was hip and up on all the latest teenage language nuances? “No. I’ve not a clue. Tell me.”

“Fear of missing out!”

Wow! My longtime friend finally diagnosed a disease I’ve struggled with for over sixty years. I have FOMO! I can hardly explain my relief of finally putting a name to my malady. It was like I was freed from chains and shackles. I can openly declare, “I’m Sue, and I suffer from FOMO.”

Of course, at my age, there are invitations I decline, e.g. skydiving, wrestling with alligators, or participating in a timed hot dog eating contest. But for the most part, I’m eager to try something new, even if I fail. And if you invite me to come visit, don’t be surprised if I show.

COVID has severely cramped my lifestyle. And while I’m somewhat reluctant to do anything uber crazy, I am ready to take some chances, like eat in an uncrowded restaurant, entertain twenty people in my casa, and even fly east of the Mississippi. My kids are having too much fun without me!

Think about it. Isn’t it time to stop missing out?