As some of you know, I’m a gambler.  Sometimes a good one, and sometimes I lose.  And I’m admittedly addicted to the rush of winning.  Friday night, I went to the casino with my neighbors. After an hour of chasing “my rush,” we met in the restaurant for dinner.  I didn’t even look at menu, nor the specials, I ordered heart-attack food: chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with sausage gravy, and corn.  Delicious, though I only ate a third of it.

We returned to the gaming room.  I’d been seated at a one-armed bandit for 30 minutes when the drink-cart girl came by.  I ordered a $5 beer and handed her a $20.  “I’ll be right back with your change and beer.”  Forty-five minutes passed–no change, no beer.  I went to the drink station and inquired.  No one seemed to know the whereabouts of my server.  Over an hour passed, and again I inquired.  My server remained MIA.

I had just returned to the slot machine I was playing when the suits descended upon me. Walkie-talkies, ear wires, etc.  Now, every gambler in my line of sight was staring at me, like I was a criminal!  “We need to see your ID.”  Really?  I look under 21?

“Why? Almost two hours ago, I ordered a beer and was told….”

“Show us at which machine you were sitting when this allegedly took place.”

“Allegedly?  Wait a minute.”  I rose, walked three machines down and said, “Here.”

With that one of my casino friends declared, “And I was sitting over there and witnessed it.”

Suit number 1 spoke into his walkie-talkie, “Check video of Bank 98 for the last two hours  and the drink server.  Yes, I do have a witness. Yes, yes, yes.”  He turned to me, “After we review the surveillance tape may get your beer and your change.”

Onlookers were surrounding me–probably awaiting my escort out of the casino.  I was livid!  I’ve watched and reported casino drifters who cash out tickets and steal others’ money.  I’ve listened to victims be told: “Your ticket was cashed, and the thief left the casino, according to our video.”  And now, I’m suspected of fabricating a story over one beer and a $20 bill.

“Gentlemen, don’t waste you time on your spy gear.  I suspect you think I made up this story.  I’m neither a liar, nor a thief.  My life will go on without a $20 and a beer.  Just forget it.”  The crowd watched.

As the suits left, my friend stopped them, within my ear shot, “That was a dumbass thing you did to Sue. For God’s sakes, she’s a gazillionaire!”  Oh, sweet baby Jesus!  While I appreciated her defense of me, she just told an outrageous lie about me!  Now, I was really a marked woman.

Shortly thereafter, my $20 and a beer was delivered.  “That will be $5.”

What was I expecting?  An apology? A bottle of champagne?  I would have settled for people to stop staring at me.  While I committed no crime, I felt dirty. My personal integrity called into question.  And no, regardless of how I crave the heart-attack, chicken-fried steak,  I will no longer donate part of my social security check there again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I certainly understand why most of you won’t give me an ounce of sympathy, for you’ve already concluded I live in Shangra-La.  Well, I do/did until this winter, when Mother Nature obliterated my winter garden with three hard freezes.

To add, insult to my loss, she kept the temperatures well below normal, yet delivered copious amounts of snow and needed rain to help with Arizona drought.  Yes, I was grateful for the rain and got over losing my spectacular garden.  I was good.  Until Thursday night, when my HVAC system crashed on the first floor of my casa.  I fired up the gas fireplace, wrapped myself in a jacket and blanket, and wrote a chapter in my sequel to Renato.  (Hopefully publishing in the fall.)

I survived the night thanks to an electric throw and six dogs on my bed.  The HVAC repairman showed up around noon on Friday.  He stopped short of pronouncing “DOA,” and jumped started the furnace.  An hour later, it died again.  His company called and my pricey install of new equipment was scheduled for Tuesday.  OK, I can survive for the next three days.

However, when I ventured out of my warm bed Saturday morning and made a trip to the toity, I nearly froze my arse off.  I donned more clothes, fur-lined boots, drank more than more than my usual one cup of coffee and lit the fireplace.  By noon, I thought I could continue my book in my tiny office.  I tried.  My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t type.

Totally unacceptable.  I can’t waste three days sitting on the fireplace hearth, so I went in search of a space heater.  (Not an easy device to find in the desert.) Yes, I know they’re dangerous, but worth taking a risk.  Three stores later, I bought this at Bed Bath and Beyond.  Within ten minutes, my small space was warm.  Miraculous!

Arizona has shattered 122-year-old records for temperature and snow fall.  Yes, I well aware there is no such thing as global warming. Because the DC politicos have disregarded science, as fake news and have mistakingly defined the term “warm.”

Again, I know none of you feel the pain I’ve experienced.  Yet, my upstairs HVAC unit is DOA too.  I may be in the poor house before this madness is over.

 

 

Most of us are familiar with the tale of Robin Hood.  A rebel, who robbed from the rich to give to the poor.  Hood spent years outwitting the Sheriff of Nottingham and his gang in an effort to improve the quality of lives of those less fortunate.

Thus, I’m rather surprised that a vast number of folk fell for the rhetoric of wealthy politicos about the sweeping federal income tax reform passed last year.  Did they buy into the Webster’s Dictionary definition of reform?  (To remove defects or to abolish abuse or malpractice). Were they so enthralled by spin speech writers wrote?  Did they embrace, “I’m from Washington, and I’m here to help you?”

Now, reality has set in, and some are livid they won’t get a sizable refund and instead owe money to the IRS.  One person tweeted his salary and deductions have remained constant for 33 years, and he always used his $1,000 refund to take a vacation.  On April 15, he owes $3,000 more!  Teacher classroom deductions have been reduced to $200.  I urge you to find me a great teacher, who only spends $200 on class supplies.  Yet big business can now write off their multimillionaire airplanes as the cost of doing business.

The fairest and most equitable tax reform is simple.  Everyone pays the same percentage of their earnings–with no deductions.  If the percentage is set at 10%, and John makes $15,000, he owes $1,500.  If Sherry makes $1,250,000, she owes $125,000.  Of course, this will never happen, as it would render accountant jobs obsolete and eliminate the need for the over 100,000 IRS employees.

Given the continual onslaught of rhetoric and fancy spins on products and services, our nation is easily deceived.  Cynical Sue fully anticipates her accountant’s bad news.  Hopefully, she won’t have to sell the farm.

 

 

 

A year or so ago, a Mexican-based corporation opened the Scottsdale tourist attraction, Dolphinarias, where visitors for a hefty admission price can swim with the dolphins.  Now this was sick and wrong on so many levels that it boggled my mind.  Contained in a very small pool, these lovely, interactive creatures (rented from a Hawaiian company,) were subjected to the desert climate and excessive human contact. As was predicted, the first dolphin, Brodie, died in September, 2017–followed by Alia in May, 2018; Khloe in December; and this week, Kai.  Four dolphins taken from their ocean habitat and subjected to a short life of containment purely for human amusement…and money.

Sadly, this reminds me of twisted entertainment and lack of decency some have of animals, including humans.  Certainly the Romans would delight in the battles at the Coliseum, just as bull fighting, dog fighting, and cock fighting flourish today among some segments of our society.  Further, this enjoyment is easily transferrable to such heinous acts of child molestation, rape, and murder.  In fact, many of those convicted of such crimes have shared the personal pleasure they received from their deed.

Children must be taught of respect others; they need to be reprimanded for pulling the wings off a Monarch butterfly or smashing a nest of robin eggs on the sidewalk.  Teenagers who delight in setting a kitten on fire or tossing a puppy on the highway need to be punished.  If not, their behaviors will morph into bullies and even criminals.

Given the current political situation, some folk have openly applauded and have delighted in bullish, aberrant behavior.  At what cost to our society?  Brodie, Alia, Khloe, and Kai?  Have we sacrificed our moral compass for money?  IDK

 

 

 

Choice.  Many parents, legislators, and elected executive branch officials tout the opportunity of choice.  They decry public schools have failed.  Frankly, I’m weary of their mantra, and no longer choose to debate the overall effectiveness of unequal, playing fields, budget shenanigans, and downright criminal enrollment practices.

Thursday night, our retiring superintendent delivered his 10th and final State of the District Address.  He highlighted three of our students: one junior and two seniors.  Each from different high schools.  Judge for yourself.

Allison is a junior, who was diagnosed with Tourette’s syndrome as a toddler.  The doctors told her parents it was so severe, she’d never be able to go to school.  Yet Allison and her family persevered, and she went to school.  Today, she thrives, as a member of the elite dance and chorus line, where she also serves as assistant choreographer.  A member of National Honor Society, Society of Women Scholars, and student government, she plans to attend a university as a theater and dance major in the spring of 2020.

Corrie, a senior, suffers from diabetes and created a national Race for the Cures for the Diabetes Association.  Her GPA is an astounding 4.56, and she’s already been accepted at Pepperdine but hoping for acceptance at Harvard.  Like Allison, she has a long list of academic society memberships, as wells leadership positions in various clubs.

Now fasten your seat belt.  CJ is a senior at our specialized school for the behaviorally challenged.  A 6 foot 3, African American, who’s built like a line backer.  CJ was born addicted to crack cocaine and spent his infancy shuttled between foster homes.  Then he suffered a severe brain injury, which left him angry and aggressive. A blight on humanity, a throwaway, until a petite, Caucasian woman chose to adopt him.  She knew CJ would never be accepted in a charter school and she enrolled him in our district.  Today, CJ is a “gentle giant,” who loves preschool children.  The school engineered an internship for him this past fall at a private preschool, where he has flourished.  Additionally, he assists in one of our preschool programs.  As president of his school’s student government, he has led with example and hopes to get a permanent preschool aide position at graduation.

Again, the choice is yours.  But never underestimate the power of public education.

 

Some of you may recall when a wrote about my next door neighbor, Miss Sass, AKA snake lady, several years ago.  Not only is she adept from rescuing snakes from my backyard, but is also a well-known artist.  For over 30 years, she dabbled in a variety of mediums from painting, to clay, to glass.  Then Arty Ritis came calling.  Extensive surgery, with long recovery and rehabilitation were her only options.  Sass declined.

She gave up clay and glass and returned to painting but couldn’t make the paintbrush create to her satisfaction.  Her creative frustration was overwhelming, until…. She discovered acrylic pouring.

Now, I’m not sure what it is, nor do I care, but I love the art she has done for my daughter and me.  The paint brush has been replaced by balloons, straws, strings, toothpick picks, q-tips, tee shirts, and paper towels.  Occasionally she adds her dog’s foot print or a photo of her dog.

Though somewhat abstract, I find her work mesmerizing…not to mention affordable. (Sorry, I’m not a fan of poster art).  While she uses a variety of surfaces, i.e. glass, stone, wood, tin, and canvas, I prefer canvas.

If you enjoy her renderings, message me and I’ll forward her contact information,

Yesterday did not go well.  My lawn mower wouldn’t start, I spilled my soda on the clean floor, and I managed to ruin my favorite shirt.  Then a friend asked if she could come by and pick oranges and grapefruit.  No prob.  I’m undated with citrus.  I decided to jumpstart her efforts by picking a bag of navel oranges.  As I reached for an orange, I discovered this:

No bird in the world trashes fruit in this manner–just the dastardly roof rat.  While some will find this guy cute, he is Satan personified.   He spends 90% of his life at least four feet above ground and feasts on all forms of citrus.  In addition, he carries the Hanna Virus and a myriad of other diseases.  He and his friends sometimes seek refuge in attics, laundry vents, and other surreptitious places.  They enjoy gnawing on wiring and whatever else trips their triggers.

I’ve lived in my casa for 28 years, and until a year ago had no rats.  I’m not sure what changed.  There are owls and hawks that live in my backyard.  They certainly haven’t had them for dinner, and I spent copious amounts of money last year trying to banish them via bait boxes–to no avail.

I’m in a tizzy. I have dogs. I can’t lay out rat poison, nor have my pups feast on a carcas.  Yet, I know I must do something before they invade my personal space.  I shall spend tomorrow searching for solutions. Any advice is appreciated.

Roof Rat Sue in Phoenix, Arizona

This is not a political question, but a practical one:  Do walls work?  As a quasi historian based on my research, they seemingly don’t.  The Jerusalem Wall, the Walls of Jericho, the Great Wall of China, and the Berlin Wall didn’t.  Walls around our schools fail to keep out intruders; walls around my property fail to prevent bobcats and coyotes from searching for prey.  Even natural barriers, like the Pyrenees and Alps, didn’t stop Hannibal and his elephants from seizing parts of the Roman Empire.  And what about oceans and Canada?  The 911 terrorists entered from there.

Thus, it seems to me more creative solutions are needed.  Mexico has vast natural resources, sea ports, and luxurious vacation resorts.  Yet, crime, corruption, and poverty are rampant.  If I was “Queen of the World,” I’d assemble the most forward-thinking experts to confront this issue.  One solution might be to admit Mexico as the 51st state.  Ponder that for a moment:

We send in the National Guard to disband the drug cartels, we oversee elections, we enforce universal, free public education, and we institute fair wage laws.  Then, we have gained so much more.  Natural resources, sea ports, and beach-front destinations.  No one will want to leave their state, and more of we land-locked folk will gladly enjoy the benefits.

I’ve lived in a border state for 35 years, without fear of Mexicans.  I found them to be extremely hard workers with extraordinary family values.  They are a far cry from El Chapo or the Medellin.  They want their kids to have an education, and they want to live without paying protection money to a drug cartel.  Further, they want sustainable wages. (Not $5-10 a day.)

I’m sure many of you find me crazy.  So be it.  If you could forward me verified proof and documentation on the success of walls, I will cogently review it with my think tank.  But I ask is it worth spending as much as $15 billion or more, instead of finding more logical solutions?

This is a test.

Who is it that doesn’t love a test?