In the 1990 movie, Misery, this quote was spoken, but I’d heard this term on the playground over 65 years ago. Yes, it was disparaging, and as I recall it was used to by the opposing team to describe someone who caught a fly a ball to end the inning or to rebuke a tattletale.

I’ve never been a fan of birds after watching the movie by the same name or being chased by my grandparents’ mean rooster. I can appreciate the majesty of a bald eagle or a soaring osprey; I can smile as a pelican swoops into the Gulf for dinner; I can ogle at the colorful parrots and macaws at the zoo. But basically, I detest birds–yes, even if they eat insects. They not only eat bugs, they peck at near-ripe fruit and tomatoes. They pull up seedlings as the plants peek through my garden soil. Ok, I accepted that; I’ve learned to use netting to cover the fruit trees and to place clear plastic cups on my bean sprouts. However, I can not deal with bird poop.

My ordeal with bird feces began when folk on the next street moved and released all of their cooped pigeons into the atmosphere. Unfortunately they migrated under the overhang roof in the front of my casa. Of course, my water fountain is directly below and was soon filled with two or three inches of defecation. It was also all over the patio and its furniture; it dripped down the large windows. It was far beyond disgusting–it made me gag when I looked at the blobby mess. So last weekend, I had plastic spikes installed to prevent rafter roosting. Thanks, to my incredible landscaper the bird s#*t had been meticulously removed, but by Wednesday, my pristine front patio was trashed again. Those wily pigeons are masochists! They enjoy standing on a bed of nails!

Back to Amazon I went. Should I buy a robotic owl that hooted and flashed its yellow eyes? (Too pricey.) Should I buy an ultrasound alarm that blasted a variety of noises? (Hell, no.). How about mirrored, dangling reflectors, which were guaranteed to send the pigeons packing? The price was alright; they were guaranteed; why not? It took my two hours to assemble the reflectors which somewhat look like wind chimes. Cheap wind chimes. After I hung them, I decided they were the ultimate in tackiness. I shall endure them only as long as they drive out my diarrhea pigeons.

Of course, it’s too soon to tell. Stay tuned until next week. But by then, I may have sent for Bill Murray, who was so adept at obliterating gophers…not. He may be better with dirty birds.

In 1948, Frank Gilbreth and his sister, Ernestine Carey, published a semi-autobiographical book about growing up with 10 siblings–Cheaper by the Dozen. Supposedly, their parents ran their household as a “laboratory” based on education and efficiency. The children were not only expected to complete chores and homework in a timely manner, but their performances were clocked to reach maximum efficiency.

Of course, many of us pay particular attention to time. God forbid if we were late to work or to pick up our child from school. Some of us are more Type A; dinner is at 7:00, not 7:30 or you’ll eat cold roast beef. And even though I sometimes have to wait far beyond my scheduled doctor’s appointment, I arrive at least fifteen minutes early. In contrast, there are those, who are consistently late. We all have those kind of friends we send invitations and move the arrival time up 30 minutes. The proverbially late to their own funeral sort.

Admittedly, I’m Type A+. I pride myself on punctuality. In a city the size of Phoenix, I plan for some unforeseen traffic delay or the rarest of rainstorm flooding. Yet, the raging COVID cases in Arizona have also caused me to be extraordinary efficient with my time. I’m so Type A+ crazy, I structure my grocery list based on the store’s layout. Today, for example, I dropped off some of my copious crop of grapefruit to my favorite attorney. (No, that’s not an oxymoron. He’s a good guy.) The items on my list were readily available at most any store and Walmart was in nearest proximity, so be it. As I entered the store, I checked my watch. “In and out in 10 minutes, Sue. No gawking at customers, no browsing for items you buy on a whim. Focus on the list.” Thirteen minutes, I was on my way home, committed to be more efficient next time.

Unfortunately, Arizona government seemingly does not get the notions of time and efficiency. Number 1 in the world in raging COVID, no state-wide, mask mandate, no closures of non-essential businesses, and snail-pace roll out of vaccines. WTH? Perhaps, I’ll send the governor a stop watch.

The news of my retirement has been greatly exaggerated! (My apology to Mark Twain for twisting his words.). Several weeks again my Facebook was flooded, based on a post from my longtime friend, Debby M, who wrote a moving piece about my 20-year, service on a suburban governing board. Lots os folk responded with emojis and comments offering congratulations about my retirement. While I was most grateful for their commentary, I’m not crawling off into a quarantine cocoon. As long as I have an ounce of sense, I will continue to advocate for public education and for children.

Certainly, public education has been turned upside since March when school buildings across the country were ordered closed, and teachers could no longer deliver in-person instruction. Though I’m far from being a Pollyanna, in many ways public education has been forced into the 21st Century in new and exciting ways. Hybrid models allow for a myriad of new innovation and project-driven instruction.

Yet, many of our children have suffered from lack of supervision, technological devices, and self-motivation. Further, humans are people people. They are deprived of birthday parties, play ground games, hanging out at a fast food restaurant, school activities, and even graduation ceremonies. The divide between the haves and have nots has widened. Pre-K through third graders are severely at risk since they need an excellent teacher’s assistance and guidance to learn to read, write, and cipher.

So what can I do? I can’t just walk away from my 50-year, professional career. I will vote for school issues. I will lobby the legislature for increased services to bring the “left behind” to grade level. If the pandemic can be controlled by summer, FREE, universal summer school should be instituted. And yes, I will put my money where my mouth is.

Finally, when this COVID mess is over, my dream is to institute a mentorship program for middle-hi students in my ‘hood. Thank-you all for the accolades, but news of my retirement has, indeed, been greatly exaggerated.

As a child, a year seemed to last forever. I didn’t like the long stretch from January until June, and even though September to Christmas was shorter, I thought Santa would never come. The older I got, the days passed swiftly. I’d be amazed when I checked the calendar to find June had suddenly slid into July. “My God,” I’d marvel, “Is Thanksgiving next week? I haven’t even ordered my Christmas cards! I haven’t bought one Christmas present.”

However, this year time stood still. My Ferrari morphed into a turtle. My calendar practically went into hibernation. Hours in the day moved sluggishly. “Is it time to eat yet?” I tried to read, to work a crossword, to mow the lawn, to write, but nothing would hasten the hands of the clock. My motivation had disappeared. Certainly COVID played a substantial role, but unsettled politics and the endless presidential election contributed. My dance with death and my school board business also served to suspend the clock.

Finally, in less than a week it will be Christmas and then 2021! Two COVID vaccines will become available to we non-essential folk. I will be able to travel again and perhaps, eat in my favorite Mexican restaurant. And maybe, just maybe, the Skidmore casa can again throw parties to celebrate the most wonderful time of the year…Christmas, 2021.

May you all have a very Merry Christmas and the happiest of New Years. I’ll blog again January 3rd.

While I strive to be ecology-conscious, I am forced to use plastic bags in the produce section of the grocery store. Admittedly, I can’t be bothered recycling them, as they are forbidden in my city recycling receptacle. Thus they meet their fate in the garbage can. I save the large, plastic grocery bags to pick up dog poop, to gift oranges and grapefruit, to tote cans and staples to the local food bank.

I never thought much about the produce bags until…COVID. I’d tear one off the reel above the recently-doused celery, and I couldn’t open the bag. Pre-COVID I’d lick two fingers and magically it would open. Now, I tear off three or four bags and wrap the damn celery! My only solution is to buy one hundred paper lunch bags and carry a few in my purse when I’m in need of celery, onions, or carrots. But I guess I’ll just write:

Dear Santa:

I’ve been good–a loose term. Kind of, rather, sometimes. I tested negative for COVID earlier this week. I haven’t eaten in a restaurant, done any non-essential shopping, flown on an airplane, nor been to the casino. But please solve the plastic bag issue in the produce section, before I lose my mind. And if it’s not too much to ask, bring on the vaccine. I stand first in line!

Warmest regards, Sue

Over forty-five years ago, I had several dates with an up-and-coming assistant prosecuting attorney. The dates abruptly ended when he said, “I know you’re an English major and a high school principal, but I find your slang appalling.”

Appalling? Never argue with a fool. Yet, he was right; I interacted with teenagers, and their vocabulary slipped into mine. Certainly, I could pontificate in big words, which would have been lost on them. But when I declared, “You are a dirt bag. You need to clean up your act, do your work, and stop being a doofus,” they understood.

When my kids went to middle and high school, their terminology was foreign to me, and frequently, I’d make them explain. What are “cool beans” or “jiggy?”

My next door neighbor is British, and I often ask her “What does that mean?” Now, I find myself explaining my recent malady as the “squits.” (Apt description for diarrhea, right?) I tell my kids to “bugger off,” and say my dogs run “hell over teakettle.”

This week, I texted my youngest, who was suffering from allergies, to inquire on her health. Her reply Meh. Damn. What does meh mean? I showed a teenager an overtly amusing t-shirt I bought. Her reply: that’s jenky. Jenky?

All of this made me realize how out of touch I am. It’s true; I am old and clueless. I can’t carry on a great conversation with the younger folk. Thus, as I recover from a serious case of the squits following my gluttony with green bean casserole on Turkey day, I surfed the internet for slang, hip, terms. If you want to get with it, may I suggest you familiarize yourself with these: GOAT, jenky, extra, snatched, periodt, Gucci, wig, salty, tea, dime, and fire.

It’s never too late too teach an old dog the proverbial, ever-changing vernacular! Message me, if you understand the word meme. Yes, I know a meme when I see one, but I wonder why it’s called meme. Thanks, S

Unfortunately, this is a true story, not an off-Broadway one-act play. My painters prepped the upstairs bedrooms before applying a new coat of paint.

“Sue, please come up here. We’ve something to show you.” (Probably not good news, I thought has I climbed the stairs.) “Look, the ceiling is bowed; did you have a leak?”

I thought. Oh wait, about 7 or so years ago, I repainted the top of one wall as it appeared dirty. It certainly wasn’t wet.

The painters removed one section of the ceiling and 2/3’s of the wall to discover indeed, the roof at one time leaked. In youthful exuberance they scaled the Spanish tile, discovered several broken tile, sealed the area with a tarp, and ordered me to call a roofer.

No problem, I had a roofer for years. However, I called numerous roofers who told me they couldn’t possibly do they repair for a month, then two months. My patience was wearing thin; I tried to enjoy their construction boom…but. Finally, a friend’s husband suggested his friend’s company. The owner himself came two hours after my phone call.

“Sorry, Sue. Your roof is shot. In all the years, I’ve been in business I’ve never had a roof last 34 years. You’re very lucky.” Lucky?

Late last week, the project began. When, the flashing around the chimney was pried two rats jumped off the roof and five or six empty nests removed. Be still my heart. This week they worked on the back pitch and found a pigeon condominium and huge sections of rotted wood. The discarded bird lodgings amounted to one black garbage bag full! Disgusting.

It was dusk when I walked to the mailbox. As I started back down the driveway, I looked up. On the roof pitch perched the neighborhood hawk, glaring at me. He was very angry his takeout dinner location had been demolished. “Sorry guy. The birds are gone.” He glared.

Sometimes I am weary of house repairs but never irritated enough to move. Yes, I know it’s inevitable–hopefully not to a nursing home, just the cemetery. But until then, I have a new roof over my head and humorous stories of rats and pigeons.