Yes, today marks my 72nd year.  Who knew the last six months would be so life changing for all of us?  True, a few months ago, I danced with death and somehow survived, probably for a myriad of reasons.  Prayers, not mine, but others?  My friends? My wonderful family?  I don’t know.

I don’t profess to know much, but since COVID I’ve realized we are all in the same boat, not a luxury cruise ship, but Huck Finn’s homemade raft floating down some murky river.  I adore my dogs with their unique personalities, and truly, I’ve never minded being alone.  Quarantining, social distancing, restaurant and gym closings, and restricting travels could make me crazier than I already am; yet, I write this blog to thank  those who have slapped me along side of my head and shouted: “Wake up, Sue. We care about you. We love you.”

Of course, my realization did not occur over night.  It happened in small snippets; taps on my back, if you will.  I found myself communicating with folk I hadn’t interacted with for 10-20 years.  For me, I often randomly think about something my college roommate and I did, I think about my cooperating teacher who urged me to teach, I think about my next-door neighbors who are ALWAYS here for me.  I think about my childhood friends; my personal psychologist, Janey; my sorority sisters; my work friends; my school district friends; my new friends.

After my dance with death, which my recovery I attribute to both the Almighty and Satan–who both decided I wasn’t worthy, I had an epiphany.  I needed to connect/reconnect with all of them.  Hell, we’re all floundering in these uncertain seas.  We all must entertain each other the best way we can.  Curiously, even my ex and I have reestablished a bit of civility.

Tough times.  Perhaps, our new normal.  Perhaps, all of us were so caught up in our own lives we forgot about all of those folks who have enriched our lives.  Folk who matter. Now is the time.  

True, 72. Thank you all for making my life so fabulous!

Group Of Friends Walking Together

In September, I will have spent 50 years in some form of public education: teacher, college professor, principal, superintendent, school board member, and mentor.  (Of course, that doesn’t count the additional 16 years I spent as a student.)

As a teacher and a professor, I encountered ONE student among the thousands who was illiterate.  Stanley Simmons, a 16-year-old, white kid from Appalachia couldn’t even spell his last name, let alone read.  Unfortunately, he committed suicide before I could get him the proper help.

Last summer I spent a wonderful week at the beach in North Carolina.  Not as posh as the Outer Banks, Myrtle Beach, or Hilton Head, but lovely.  Curiously though, every eating and/or drinking establishment had a sign: NO shirt, NO shoes, NO service.  And curiously, no one defied the rule.  No one during my week stay made the national news ranting about his/her right not to wear shirts nor shoes.  Obviously, the beach goers were literate, and they all graciously showed the bartender their ids when requested.

Yesterday, I ventured to the grocery.  The sign on the door read: Mask Required by order of the City of Phoenix and Maricopa County. Though there were only 20 or so shoppers in the store, 5 weren’t wearing a mask.  Store managers and cashiers, who work for marginal salaries, choose not to endure the wrath.  As I came around the corner to the ice cream aisle, there stood an unmasked, perhaps 25-year-old woman looking for ice cream.  My evil side was bubbling; my mouth was about to flap:

“Excuse me, ma’am, I know you can’t read, may I help you find the flavor for which you search?  I can read, so there’s no need for a taste test.  Strawberry? Rocky Road?  Mint Chocolate Chip?”

Of course, I said nothing.  I’m not real big on public confrontation, but I know, based on my episode, 25% of the folk in that store couldn’t read.  Tragic.

Hmm.  Perhaps, illiteracy is trending to the same heights as COVID is.  I shall ponder that notion.

As a child, I was taught at home, at school, and at Sunday school, to play by the rules. Of course, I broke some, like not cleaning my room, or coming home on time from a date.  But for the most part, I never threw a scene about a foul nor a bad grade.

When my youngest was a high school senior, one of her friends, Amy, –a renown golfer–couldn’t play golf simply because our high school didn’t have any varsity players.  The Athletic Association dictated that varsity players must be sophomores through seniors.  Amy needed the college scholarship; she was worried it would be taken away if she didn’t play golf.

And with that, Amy’s four, senior friends, signed up for the golf team.  The four had played miniature golf, but real golf?  Not.  “Mom, I made the varsity golf team!”

I was stunned–in fact, 14 years later I’m still stunned!  “Mom, we need to talk.”  Talk?  I knew/know very little about golf.  Perhaps, her dad knew.  “I need clothes.”  Spare me, my kid was always in need of clothes.  Designer this, accessory that, shoes, ad nauseam..

“Don’t you wear a school uniform?”

“Duh, Mom, you’re on the school board. You know girl sports don’t get guy perks.  Golf courses require proper attire.  Collared shirts, Bermuda-length shorts or golf skirts.  The golf course kicks you off if you’re wearing jean shorts and a sleeveless tee.  Can you believe it?  Our coach said she won’t let us on the course unless we’re dressed appropriately.  We have to follow the rules.”

Yes, this was 14 years ago, and yes, I made sure my kid dressed like Michele Wii.  And yes, my kid to this day has a swing that makes men envious at the driving range.

Had I written this four years ago, everyone would have gotten the point.  But today, I need to spell it out:

• My kid and her three friends did this solely to help Amy get her scholarship.  They didn’t care they had no skill.  Their gesture was selfless.
• With the help of their coach, they learned to dress appropriately on the golf course.
• They lost every match with dignity because it was not about them–just Amy.

When I see social media posts: I will not trade my freedom for your safety, I wonder.  Your freedom to wear cut offs on the golf course? Your freedom not to wear a face mask to a private club, like Costco or Sam’s Club? Your freedom not to pay income taxes, nor obey the speed laws, nor wear bathing trunks at the resort pool?

If you don’t choose to comply, I hope you have a good attorney and/or a sympathetic ICU doctor.

We’re all angry. COVID-19 has disrupted our world. In some states, like Arizona, movie theaters, gyms, bars, water parks are shuttered.  We have to wear a mask and socially distance, and we can’t have large public gatherings.  Damn! How frustrating in America on the cusp of the July 4th, Independence Day with most firework celebrations cancelled.

We look to place the blame.  Pray tell, where?  The President? China? The Governor? Big Business? Aliens? The health care community? An exercise in futility given our current crisis.  Case in point: a number of parents in our 30,000 student school district are miffed the school board voted to deliver instruction electronically for one month. OMG!  NO! The school board must send children back to school NOW.  

I get it. Working parents are inconvenienced because their children are not physically in a “brick and mortar” building; they have to work.”Your job is to teach.” I get it, but my conscience weighs heavy.

You want me to risk the health and safety of our teachers and ancillary staff so you can work?  You want me to risk the health and safety of your children and family?  Why don’t you ask your employer what he/she is doing to help our soaring virus numbers?  Why aren’t employers encouraged to help families with child care issues?  Why is it the school’s problem?  All of us must rise to the proverbial occasion, if we are going to squash COVID-19.

Tomorrow is the 4th–a wonderful celebration.  Some of us will act responsibly; some of us won’t.  Dr. Suze will be delivering dinner to a young father and four school-age children, all with non-severe cases of COVID.  Why?  Because his wife and kids’ mother is in ICU on a ventilator.

‘Nuff said.

(I know you’re thinking I’ve multiple personalities–last week Kelly Clarkson and this week Hester Prynne.  Don’t we all?)

Many of us read The Scarlet Letter in high school.  Hester Prynne, an unwed mother in the Puritan Massachusetts Colony is subjected to not only public humiliation, but to prison for refusing to identify her child’s father.  She is forced to wear a scarlet A for the rest of her life.  And though the author, Nathaniel Hawthorne, never defines the significance of A, most agree it meant adulteress.

Though my children are legitimate, this week I became a marked woman, despite the fact my state welcomes folk:

I’m forced to wear the red letter.  Arizona is the new coronavirus epicenter!  If I decide to fly to Hawaii, New York, New Jersey, or Connecticut, I must be quarantined for two weeks in these states.  Not that I’m contemplating an airplane ride, but I never thought I’d experience lockup upon arrival.  Next week, all Americans will not be permitted to travel to Europe.

I refuse to blame anyone in particular, except us.  Many of us ignored precautionary measures.  Many of us flocked to the beaches, bars, and night clubs when restrictions eased.  Many of us acted like the dragon was slain.  In retrospect, we are responsible for the spikes in cases in Texas, Florida, California, and Arizona.

Fortunately, one of my alma maters has a logo, which I can easily have branded on my forehead:

I’ll get the tattoo guy to change to maroon to scarlet red.  Then, everyone will know Arizona Sue has arrived in Newark, NJ.

And today Arizona hospitals are requesting crisis care–triaging to decide who gets a COVID bed and who gets hospice.  I get the:

Call me ASH.

(Warning:  This blog is written in jest; we need a little humor these days.)

The internet was atwitter last week with news of Kelly Clarkson’s split from her husband, Brandon Blackstock.  It was reported the couple had been having problems and being quarantined together exacerbated their issues.  True, none of us have ever experienced a moment like this, and one can easily understand when faced with a 24-7, 7-day a week lockdown cabin fever rages!

Years ago, when I lived in the Ohio Lake Erie Snow Belt, nothing made me want to go like NOT being able to go.  And fortunately, during those winters I never spent more than a week in lock up.  But imagine being cooped up with a spouse or significant other for months at a time.  Even the strongest relationships are challenged.

Case in point:  My next-door neighbor, Sassy, has been married for fifty years.  She said to me last night, “You are so lucky you live alone.”  Hmm.  Alone, not quite.  I’ve a cabana boy in the guest apartment and six dogs!  Hardly, a dull moment.

Sass raged, “Do you understand what it’s like to be followed around, being constantly asked what’s to eat or what are you doing?  Then, there’s the proverbial lost car keys, the computer issues, and his incessant humming.  He’s driving me crackers; I wish he’d bugger off and go to the gym.”

I’ve been spouseless for ten years, and at my age, I certainly don’t want to clutter up my life with an old man.  God forbid, if he’d catch a cold!  Talk about needy and whiney.  “Come here, Sue, I don’t have enough strength to pull the Kleenex out of the box.”  Spare me, no woman ever had as bad a cold as a man.  And in this pandemic, I feel very fortunate to be accountable to six dogs, who love me unconditionally, who never ask for my credit card, nor a ride to the mall, and who don’t amass truck loads of laundry.

So Kelly, while I was familiar with your name, heard some of your songs, I certainly was not a fan, nor had I watched American Idol.  However, when I read of your quarantine issues this week, I could relate.  I offer you my elderly advice: What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger!  I am an authority on that point.

Invincible?  Invincible is a teenage adjective.  Driving too fast, jumping off a cliff into the sea, sky diving?  None of us are invincible; none of us are going to leave the earth alive. None of us are the President and/or Vice President of the US who get tested daily for the plague.

Frankly, I’m disgusted by this ludicrous and selfish objection to wearing face masks in public places.   COVID is a mysterious disease that is asymptomatic in some, while others lie in ICU fighting for their lives.  Yet, we do know it spreads from human droplets in the air.  And we do know that masks can forestall the spread from one person to another.

Given my recent health episode, I wear a mask.  My youngest wears a mask because she’s a cancer survivor, my eldest wears a mask because she’s a nurse practitioner.  Don’t judge us as fear-driven, weak, purveyors of the COVID hoax.  It’s about our safety and the safety of others.  And by the way, COVID is no hoax; bravado doesn’t trump a ventilator in ICU.

As a fifty-year veteran of public education, I’ve had to enforce student dress codes.  Boys were made to cut their hair, trim their sideburns, and shave their beards.  Girls could not wear clothing that didn’t cover their best assets.  T-shirts with profanity weren’t permitted, and the list of no-nos went on.

Dress codes rules have long been in place–for golfers, for church goers, for fine dining establishments.  So why the objection or the Russian roulette of not wearing a mask?  Because I’m an American; I have rights?  Curious.  Tell that to the police officer who issues you a ticket for speeding.  Tell that to a police officer when you’re walking down a busy street nude.  Tell that to a priest or a minister who asks you to leave the sanctuary for smoking a cigarette.

What happened to: I am my brother’s keeper? My right as an American.  Remember that when one of your loved ones is ill. Remember that (if you can) when you’re on a ventilator.

I’m so old that women in my age group had little career choices.  While, women may have been permitted to go to law or medical school, it certainly wasn’t encouraged.  No, during those years women were either teachers or nurses.  To amuse myself during my hospital stay, I decided to study the similarities and differences between the two professions.  (Yes, I was that desperate to entertain myself.)

At first glance, both professions seem to be filled with young, idealistic people who want to help others. Curiously, in both professions, men tend to be promoted to supervisory positions, even though women are the majority.

Nurses work in a high stress environment on 18-hour shifts.  They are in constant motion tending to their patients, sitting them up, giving them baths, dispensing medicines, logging their vital signs.  Additionally, they are strapped with nonessential duties, such as removing food trays for each patient’s room, and resupplying tissues and toilet paper.  Really?  Seems like a waste of trained personnel to me.

Of course, teachers also have the high stress of ensuring their students meet the state standards and pass state-mandated tests.  In many school districts, they too are assigned lunch room monitoring, bathroom and bus duty, and vomit clean-up.  Another waste of talent.

However, the major difference I discovered was both nurses and physicians are clueless about phonetics.  They would be totally inept in deciphering student writing.  Yes, I know first hand:  when I emerged intubated from my drug-induced state, I could barely hold a pen.  I struggled to communicate, let alone spell correctly.  Numerous times my notes were dismissed as gibberish.  “I have NO idea what you’re trying to say!”  Well, damn, I couldn’t say anything because of the tube, I was trying to write.

Behold one of my better attempts.  I was anxious and restless.  I needed some medicine to calm me down.  Finally, the night shift nurse, a mother of three, deciphered my request.

We teachers would have no problem shopping with this grocery list:

Had I been able to talk, I would have asked several of those physicians who taught them handwriting.

Of course, we are living with uncertainty.  COVID-19 closed public schools in mid-March to”flatten the curve” of the virus and save lives.  Teachers were given short notice to develop online lessons to continue student learning, to make sure students could advance to the next grade, to ensure high school seniors would earn enough credits and/or the appropriate GPA to earn college scholarships.

It was a brave new world. Our teachers were charged with delivering instruction to many who had no computers, laptops, nor internet access.  In fact, many teachers had no internet access in their homes–not a necessity on a teacher’s salary.

Enter Betsy, Secretary of Education, who was graced with millions from the federal government to promote distance learning during this upheaval.  Remember, wealthy, entitled Betsy, who attended private schools, knew exactly how to allocate her windfall. “Yes, I used the money to advance charter and private schools.”

For me, (a dog lover,) her most ludicrous federal donation was $472,850 to Bergin University of Canine Studies, attended by 32 students.  Hmm $14,776 per student.  Bonnie Bergin defended her windfall, “I think we are one of the most important educational institutions out there right now.”

And so, to all my retired and current teaching friends, I ask does Betsy or Bonnie have a clue about our children? Our future?  Will Bonnie’s dogs be able to fix my leaky toilet, cut my hair, or diagnose my illness?

We’ve all had those events which caused us to pause, like the birth of a child, grandchild, marriage etc.  For me, the older I got,  the more significant events became.  Four of my five tattoos commemorate unforgettable moments:  a dog paw peace symbol, a broken heart, EDS (in Greek) for my first book English Doesn’t Suck, and It’s Only Carpet, the book I wrote after my youngest’s bout with cancer.

As many of you know, I recently had a serious life event–the kind that anchored me in my mortality.  But all the tattoo parlors were closed (and still are.) Still, I had to think of something to further record this event, and no, I wasn’t going to be Betty Boop. I found it, though, First on Amazon Prime in an original movie: Blow the Man Down and secondly, in a trendy online store.

A most fashionable lady’s cane with a brass knob.  Even though, I’m capable of walking without a cane, walker, or crutches, the cane makes an elegant statement.  It also is very handy when it comes to retrieving lost dog toys from under the sofa.  And it certainly was very useful to the madame in  Blow the Man Down.

Unfortunately, COVID has dictated I remain at home, but rest assured I’m practicing strutting myself ala Bat Masterson.  When it’s safe to leave home again, I’ll be ambulating in style.

SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA – JUNE 26: South Korean girl group Lizzy of After School attends the MBC Music “Show Champion” at AX Korea on June 26, 2012 in Seoul, South Korea. (Photo by Han Myung-Gu/WireImage)