I certainly understand that many independent business, like speciality shops, restaurants, and bars have been perhaps irreparably damaged by the stay-at-home order.  But I’m reluctant to return to my lifestyle of January 2020.  I’ll take out several times a week and attempt to support local stores.

However, I don’t want to return to the hospital again.  You may be open, but I’m erring on the side of caution.

 

Admittedly, there’s still a lot I don’t remember after my 27-day stay in the hospital.  Probably good I lost my recall.  What began as a perforated colon and a temporary ostomy resulted in seizures, intubation, pneumonia, and being tied to a bed in ICU for two weeks.

One ICU nurse did ask if I knew what happened.  Given the tube I just shook my head, and she explained: “You are very sick; you almost died.  Your kids are so worried.”

I knew about COVID-19, so I figured that was the source of my health problems.  I knew I couldn’t have visitors, and I knew every doc and nurse wore uber protective clothing in my room, which they changed the moment they exited.  Ok, I’m dying.  Thankfully, my girls are well-educated and well-established.  They are healthy and happy; they’ll be fine.  Hopefully, arrangements will be made to secure good homes for all of my dogs.  I’ll give myself two more days.

Miraculously, day 1, I improved, and day 2, the tube was removed from my throat. I could talk, eat, and drink again.  (I’m sure some of my docs wanted to shove the tube back in, as they weren’t prepared for my edgy sense of humor.)

My kids seized control and limited direct access to me in an effort to speed my recovery.  I had no idea of the vast number of folk who were praying and rooting for me.  Folk, whom I hadn’t heard from for fifty years were cheering me on, while I learned to hold a pencil and write my name, while I learned to walk again.

Admittedly, there’s still a lot I don’t remember, but I survived due to the vast love and support of others.  Thank you.

 

 

Most of us over thirty have experienced some form of quarantine, long before vaccines were manufactured.  Chicken pox, several varieties of measles, mumps, and polio were common and rampant.

I can vividly recall my mother picking me up at the bus stop.  My age? 6 or 7.  “When we get home, Sue, you need to go upstairs to your room immediately and change your clothes.”

“But I’m hungry, and I need something to eat before we go out to dinner.”  On Fridays, our cleaning lady/babysitter/drill sergeant, Louisabelle, cleaned and watched my younger brother and sister, while my mom grocery shopped and got her hair done.

“I’m not sure we are going out to dinner.”

“Why?”  I loved Friday night dinners, particularly those at the Italian restaurant.

“Mrs. Taylor called me this morning….”  Oh, no!  My best friend’s mom.  She and my mom  never hesitated to report on inappropriate behavior. I searched my brain–what had Giny and I done.

I interrupted, “Giny wasn’t in school today.”

“I know.  She has chicken pox, and if you don’t already have them, you will in the next few days.  Of course, so will your brother and sister.”

“Are you and Dad going to get chicken pox too?”

“No, we had them. We’re immune.”

Hmm.  I wasn’t sure what that word meant, but I guessed it meant safe.

One by one, each of we three kids, had chicken pox and survived without the benefit of a computer, video games, cell phones, and color TV’s.  We colored and drew.  I read both alone and to my siblings.  Since I was the only school-aged child, the county health department required I be cleared to return to school.  My dad had just served our breakfast, my mom was upstairs changing bed linens when the doorbell rang, “Dr. Meikle, I’m the visiting nurse and am here to check on Sue.”

“Come in, we’re having breakfast.  Would you like some?”

 

Breakfast?  We were plowing through a dozen donuts!  My mom came downstairs and was horrified.  A dentist serving his kids donuts!  She fought for control, until I was certified to return to school.  She immediately dismissed us from the kitchen and had a very loud “discussion” with my dad.

I went back to school. All was well, until measles came calling and so did the donuts!

For thirteen years, I lived in the infamous Snow Belt in Ashtabula County, Ohio–approximately half way between Cleveland and Erie, PA.  Winter could begin as early as Halloween and last through Easter.  (Probably, why I love Arizona.)  Winter school  closures were the norm.  Every school district had snow emergency plans.  If we were unable to safely transport our students home, we housed them and fed them, until we could fire up the bus engines.  As superintendent, one of my vivid memories is spending the night on the cafeteria dining room floor with 100 teenagers.  Yes, it was actually fun.

On January 24, 1978, when I went to bed, it was rainy and foggy.  At 4:00 AM, the next morning, my phone rang.  “This is Bill. I’m closing our schools; there’s a blizzard coming.”  In a county with 10 school districts, our plan called for a phone tree to notify each other. “Gene, this is Sue. Bill is closing, and I’m closing.”  Then each of us called the local radio station, gave our assigned code number to broadcast district closings.

Ashtabula County, as much of Ohio, virtually stopped. Five days later, the storm abated.  Yet, only main roads were passable.  Fortunately, I lived in a two-story, townhouse complex where the management had removed the drifts from our front doors.  Not that I could go anywhere–my car was buried.  Cabin fever consumed me, while I ate macaroni and cheese day after day.  However, like Annie, I knew the sun will come up; this too shall pass.

As I reflect on the Blizzard of 1978 and now, the differences far outweigh the similarities.  In 1978, we had a plan, we followed the plan, we knew spring would return.  Currently, our fear of the unknown has sparked outrageous hoarding and panic.  We’ve dismissed the scientific experts, and we’ve decimated established health organizations. Now we are desperately trying to play catch up, after we frivolously dismissed COVD-19 as fake news.

I don’t have a crystal ball, nor am I a scientist.  A third of the world’s population may vanish.  In the meantime, we must follow the experts’ advice and play it safe.  We must cease this senseless hoarding.  Finally, we must model kindness and compassion for our children.  The sermon, according to Dr. Sue.  Go in peace.

 

I’m a septuagenarian who has survived riding a bicycle with no helmet, drinking out of a garden hose, playing in the mud, and suffering from the chicken pox, measles, and the mumps.   However, this week I morphed into Chicken Little.

I had scheduled a trip to North Carolina to see my youngest and her husband.  Unfortunately, I had chosen the cattle-car airline, AKA Southwest.  Suddenly, I was deluged with corona virus information.  Hundreds of speculative articles blasted the internet news, newspapers, magazines, and radio and television.  My anxiety level rose; I couldn’t sleep for several nights.  Tuesday night my mind went into overdrive.  What would happen if?

On Wednesday, I read a Time magazine article which quoted the chair of Global Health at NYU, Dr. Adamson.  The elderly are more susceptible to contracting COVID 19. (Am I elderly?  Some days.)  Ask to have your airline seat moved if one of your seat mates is coughing. (Really?  Where do I move in a full cattle car?) If you are diagnosed with corona virus, you will be quarantined for 14 days, if not hospitalized.  (OMG!  Who will take care of my dogs?  What if I die?  Will my four-legged friends be adopted or sentenced to death?)

Adamson made my decision clear:  If you don’t have to fly, don’t.  I cancelled my flight.  Chicken Little made a decision, and she slept soundly.

As most of you, I’ve been media blasted by the presidential elections and the corona virus.  Both of which I can not control.  Yes, I have ONE vote, and yes, I can wash my hands, but currently my only choices.  Thus, I’ve decided to chat about gray.

Perhaps, some of you learned The Old Gray Mare at summer camp, at school, or from one of your family members.  Though its origin is unknown, historians suggest it was penned sometime in the 1800’s.  Early recordings have been documented in 1917 and 1918.  With that said, I’m puzzled by this new fad for gray hair and flabbergasted by the 20’s-30’s women who opt to be dyed gray.

Granted, my Japanese sister and some of my peers have chosen to go au natural, to me, they look old.  Of course, my face is old in spite of how any botox injections and other drugs I use, but my hair is NOT gray.  (Yes, it is. But my hairdresser makes sure it is not.) I choose not to take close-up selfies–hell I see that everyday in the mirror.  Yet, as long as the photos are far away, I look OK…I think.  Plus, my photographer daughter works magic in editing my face.

My maternal grandmother died at 99.5 years; my mother at 95.  Both of them left the earth with blonde hair, courtesy of Miss Clairol.  I fully intend to go out the same way, even if I ain’t what I used to be.  

Alexa just reminded me: time to wash your hands again.

It rained all day yesterday; thus, I was forced to undertake my dreaded income tax preparation.  Because I’m a math idiot, I had to spend hours gathering, sorting, and organizing all my stuff for my accountant.  No way, could I file my own.  For sure, the IRS would be at my front door.

Math has been hard for me ever since the alphabet got involved.  I’ve never been to a grocery, nor boutique whose prices are x+y=z.  I’ve never balanced my checkbook; I can’t add a column of double-digit numbers; I can’t figure an area without a calculator.  Worse–I don’t care; I just glad I exited high school without being required to take Algebra  II and Pre-calculus!

But back to my income taxes and the heinous W’s.  Why are there so many?  W this, W that, ad nauseam.  Why do I have to list every one of my donations?  I would far prefer to give anonymous gifts to worthy causes, rather than to publicly declare to the IRS I bought violins for the strings program at an elementary school or a Go Fund Me account.  Further, I have to pay tax on my meager Social Security benefits and my gambling winnings.  Why?  I’ve already paid tax on my money.  Damn, I even have to pay tax on my book royalties.  Do the Feds not consider the time and effort I invest in writing a novel?  No!  This year I earned $21 in royalties and a fancy W form to be filed.

Admittedly, I’m mathematically challenged, yet I’m a creative thinker.  Why do billionaires pay no taxes?  Why do teachers get a $200 tax deduction for classroom supplies and a millionaire get to deduct his private jet’s expenses?  Even the current US President openly brags about not paying taxes for years.

Dr. Suze proposes a flat tax.  Five percent, ten percent, whatever works.  Everybody pays the same percentage whether they make $20,000 or $2,000,000.  Of course, that will not happen.  Hundreds and thousands of IRS employees would be out of jobs, CPAs and accounting firms would vanish, and I’d no longer have to spend six hours preparing and a year saving mountains of papers.

I must stop this rant; I have far more pressing problems….

 

 

As most of our mothers have said: If you can’t say something nice about somebody, say NOTHING at all.  Unfortunately, this new America is all about nasty, hurtful words and actions, such as labeling someone ugly and/or openly mocking a disabled person.  In our school district, this behavior is bullying, but in new America it’s both acceptable and appropriate behavior.

We lament the increasing rate of preteen and teenage suicide.  We wonder why our children would take such a final, extreme action.  In many cases, suicide is the only way to escape pimple-face, pusshead, mother f@#ker, queer, or a$$wipe.  It is the only way to avoid

not being chosen for a team, invited to a birthday party, nor asked to the prom.  All because of:

names like retard, racial and ethnic slurs, and/or “being from the wrong side of the tracks.”  Yo mama’s a drunken whore. Yo daddy’s so poor you eat roadkill sandwiches. Of course, among young girls, there’s the self-appointed fashion police that mock one’s attire during class change and social activities.  Too often, some girls are ostracized solely because of their clothing or hairstyle.

In my opinion, new America legitimizes hate.  It embraces Kike, wetback, Chink, and the infamous N word.  It encourages and applauds our division, rather than condemning it.  Just imagine what new America would be tweeting about the brilliant Stephen Hawking, Helen Keller, or Abraham Lincoln,  We’d delight in ridiculing Tom Thumb, George Washington Carver, or Sacajawea.  Susan B. Anthony would be burned at the stake; Henry David Thoreau would still be in jail; and the Neapolitan Mastiff would be extinct.

Our children are watching and listening.  In fact, my kindergarten teacher friend told this story of a little boy who wore a pink dress shirt to class.  Her students laughed at him and called him gay. She immediately stopped the lesson and began a discussion on name dropping.

How long can our society survive this rampant divide? How long before we brown-eyed folk are sent to gas chambers or to segregated schools?  How many states will secede the Union?  America, the great melting pot–the nation of immigrants, will be nothing more than Stepford USA.  The choice rests with us.  Are we stronger together rather than fragmented and bigoted? You decide.

 

As many of you know, my Japanese,  high school foreign-exchange student spent three weeks with me.  Toko prefers eating American food while here, particularly beef, due to its high price in Tokyo.  She also likes my meager attempt at spaghetti and meatballs, meat loaf, and barbecued ribs.  (Of course, I prefer she not cook because every meat dish includes a minimum of 1 cup of sugar! Disgusting.)

Last week I wrote about her proclivity for mayonnaise; this week I pronounced her a certified mayo addict.  She even had the audacity to put Duke’s on fresh, steamed broccoli from my garden.  “Sue, do you know how to make potato salad?’

Obvious. I grew up in Ohio where summer, Sunday picnics always included some form of  potato salad.  Over the years, I eventually learned how to tweak my recipe. She took copious notes as I prepared it.  Before it chilled, she tasted it and loved it.

That night we had barbecued, baby back, pork ribs and my creamy concoction made with three different mayos.  While we were eating, “Sue, do you have any rolls?”

“No. I rarely buy bread.  Why?”

“Just get some tomorrow for lunch.”  I obeyed.

“Sue, lunch is ready.  I made a Japanese lunch.”

Oh, dear gawd! Spare me.  I sat down at the table.  A sandwich–hopefully ham and cheese without Duke’s.  “What’s this?”

“A Japanese delicacy: Potato salad sandwich.”

I tore off a small piece; the wad of roll and potato didn’t do it for me.  “Have the rest of mine, Toko.”

Now, if you doubters don’t believe me, look it up on your computer.

 

 

 

 

Fifty-four years ago, my family hosted a foreign exchange student from Tokyo.  During her stay, Toko and I occasionally engaged in shenanigans and foolishness.  Surprisingly, after all these years, she still likes me and comes to Phoenix every couple of years to visit.

Sometimes, when she comes, we go to Houston to see “our” mom, and we shop.  Fortunately, this time, she didn’t need a case of garlic salt or Hershey’s chocolate syrup–just random spontaneous things, like suede boots and a certain color blouse.  Last week, she bought a number of items online, and my front door, stacked with boxes, looked like Christmas.

We were in the grocery, and she wandered off in search of mayo.  While it may be purchased in Japan, it’s only in quart jars.  She wanted a little jar.  We scoured the shelves.  “Yes, Miracle Whip and Real Mayonnaisse!”  Mission accomplished, until…

Houston.  I’d told her folk in the South prefer Duke’s–not available in Arizona.  My Texan sister let her try Duke’s and back to the store we went for Duke’s.  Alas! Quart jars only.  To say Toko was disappointed was an understatement.  Until…

Amazon.  Fifty, individual packets of the coveted Duke’s arrive at my casa tomorrow.  Now, I don’t know who flies around the world to buy mayo, except my Japanese sister.  I asked her this evening, “What are you going to do with all this mayo?”

“Sue, I’m going to throw a mayo-tasting party when I get home!”

Hmm.  Perhaps, she’ll start her trendy party will go viral.