Author: skidaz

NIMBY

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An acronym which has been around for forty-six years–not in my backyard. Originally, it was coined to oppose governmental or environmental changes to one’s neighborhood, such as a nuclear plant, low-income housing, or commercial development. But its meaning has morphed over time to include most everything no one wants, until….disaster strikes.

  1. “Why weren’t we warned of the impending floods in the Texas High Country?” Hmm. You weren’t warned because the state legislature denied your numerous requests for a $77,000 weather alert system. Instead, the legislature has proposed moving the Challenger Space Shuttle from the Smithsonian to Houston at the cost of $300 million! It’s all about priorities.
  2. “Where is the Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA), and why is ICE Barbie here?” Because ICE Barbie directs FEMA, an agency destined for the chopping block, as a wasteful, unnecessary nuisance. Further ICE Barbie is a pro at dealing with disasters. She dons her combat gear, pulls out her AK-47 and fires.
  3. “Where are Senator Cruz and POTUS?” Cruz is viewing the ancient ruins in Greece, and his highness is golfing. After all, it’s the weekend.

But this is a disaster, and it’s in my backyard! I need help.

I understand, but you denied help when it was in someone else’s backyard. You slashed funding and personnel without any thought to the consequences. I mourn the loss of so many innocent lives that were lost to your callousness and greed.

The Rise and Fall of the Diving Board: The End of an Era

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Given the lengthy, hot summers in Phoenix, most home owners have swimming pools. Our pool was put in over 30 years ago and underwent one mega renovation. However, both of my kids insisted that the diving board remain a permanent fixture. The revered diving board to me was a source of major consternation, particularly when my youngest mastered outrageous antics, like cartwheels and a wide-range of acrobatic feats off the board.

On one occasion, I said to my then-husband, “K just back-flipped off the board.”

His response, “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know; I couldn’t look.”

Last week disaster struck. Miraculously disaster was avoided given the number of young children in my pool, when a young mother took their dare. With her kids and nephews urging her on, she mounted the board and dove. The weighty, fiberglass board flew from its platform and smacked her head as it hit the water. Thankfully, she was not injured, and thankfully, her brother-in-law managed to get the board out of the water.

As I surveyed the aftermath, I decided to replace it. Wrong. Since Phoenix has one of the highest rates of pool drownings, strict safety codes for pool construction have been enacted. Pool contractors are required to be licensed and carry pricey liability insurance for their creations. Thus, none of the reputable companies I contacted would even consider replacing a diving board and its platform on my ancient pool.

I’m okay with this, for I’m far too old to have my pool rebuilt at today’s prices. I’m okay with this because I’m not a diver. And I am really okay with this because….

I never want to see my grandson catapulting nor hot-dogging, like his mom, into my pool.

Chasing Dolly

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Neither the clone sheep, nor Dolly Levi, but the Dolly…Parton. On Monday, I learned that the Dolly was going to perform in Las Vegas in December, and tickets for her six shows would go on sale Wednesday morning. Some of you probably are wondering why I would care, but it’s a family thing. My maternal grandparents were from a small holler, Kodak, in east Tennessee, where my great grandfather was the Sevier County sheriff. The county seat is Sevierville and home to the Parton family. Given the size of the community my relatives knew the Partons, and until my grandmother’s death she was an avid follower of Dolly’s rising success. (My youngest kid somehow inherited my grandmother’s admiration for Dolly and exclusively uses her cake and brownie mixes.) Given this quasi-familial relationship, I set out on a mission to get concert tickets. Just 8 tickets, which according to the website would cost $600 at the high end, and $25 at the low.

Wednesday morning, 9:00 AM: I entered the queue. WTF? 54,569 folk in front of me! My kid was in the queue with 13,000 ahead. Thank God. We’d score tickets for sure. 10:00 AM the sale began. 10:30 AM all six concerts were sold out! By 11:00AM, the alleged $600 seats were being sold by brokers for $13,929!

Talk about shock and awe for this old broad. My dreams of spectacular Christmas presents shattered, I schlepped away with a determination to figure out what happened. After too many hours of research, I’m still not an authority on what happened. My simplistic explanation is: ticket scalping in the digital age due to (ro)bots. If you want to further understand, consider reading Ticket Masters: The Rise of the Concert Industry and How the Public Got Scalped by Budnick and Baron. Supposedly, His Highness, at the urging of Kid Rock, issued an Executive Order in March to curtail this practice, but obviously that’s yet to come to fruition.

When a nation is run by billionaires, the rest of us don’t matter. Sorry. I’ve got to go. I’m late for the Bezos’s wedding!

Does It Have to Be This Difficult?

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A few weeks ago I received a text from my cell phone carrier with an enticing offer to upgrade my phone and guarantee my monthly rate for three years. At first, I thought it was a hoax or a con game, but after a few days I verified it was the “real deal” and made the switch. Then, my nightmare began.

Supposedly, everything was from my old phone was downloaded to my new phone. Indeed, most of it was, but not all of it. As a result, I spent two weeks trying to pair my phone with my cars, deleting and reloading apps, and reentering passwords. Further, a new phone necessitated new charging cords. Yes, it came with one, but one is never enough.

Then, both of my grocery stores decided to institute digital deals through their apps. While it was certainly a better idea than clipping and carrying around a wad of coupons, the apps were difficult for a technological-challenged old broad like me. In fact, yesterday the manager at one of my groceries spent almost a half-hour loading one digital deal on my phone. A long time for me to save two bucks.

Methinks with all the techno wizards in this country, there must be a way to simplify things. Yet, instead things just get more complicated, like uploading my newest novel to the publisher or ordering a pizza on line. But I also think, given yesterday’s news, some overreact to difficulty. It’s easier, swifter, and bolder to bomb the hell out of cities, rather than to sit down and find long-term solutions to age-old problems.

But what would I know? I certainly didn’t launch a smartphone cellphone company, nor chase a Nobel Peace Prize. Why? I’m not an oxyMORON.

A Time of Uncertainty

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Perhaps some of you are as anxious as me in this era of flip-flop tariffs, critical changes to health care standards, the demise of revered universities, and the deployment of the Marines and National Guard to deal with political dissent. I’m frustrated that there’s little I can do–cast one vote, and donate some money. Thus, I’ve spent the last six months doing things to relieve my anxiety.

My first act was one I knew was a guaranteed pleasure: I adopted a new puppy, who was immediately dubbed, R. Bader G. She’s just as feisty as her namesake and keeps me entertained with her antics. Secondly, I took steps to mitigate the monetary damage of ill-conceived tariffs. I ordered Christmas lights, I bought a new car and a cell phone with a three-year price lock on monthly charges, and I stocked my pantry with non-perishable goods and spices.

Yet, none of my proactive measures have diminished my feeling of dread. In fact, every day I wake up to a number of incidents that chap my heinie and shake my head: “a big beautiful bill” that increases the debt and cuts funding to such essential services as education and Medicaid and Medicare. Totally incompetent leadership in key cabinet positions, like RFK, Jr., ICE Barbie, Hegseth, Patel, etc. A shortage of farm, construction, and hospitality workers. And the abject disregard to the US Constitution, the legal system, and academic freedom.

In this time of uncertainty–a time I’ve never experienced before, I frequently wonder how can this be? Why does one, severely under-educated and overtly mentally-ill buffoon, who’s a liar, felon, cheater, and draft dodger wield such unchecked power? Congress has 535 members; the US population exceeds 326 million. Hmm. How can this be?

Doing the Right Thing

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All of us at some time in our lives have faced the question: What is the right thing to do? Steal a pack of gum? Blame our misdeed on one of our siblings? Look the other way, ignore, or reject the pain of others? Thankfully, the majority of us step to the proverbial plate and do the right thing, and this week one of my friends did.

Though I’ve only known Emily for a few years, she’s one of those folks who exudes empathy. As a small business owner, she and her business partners hold monthly donation events, such as canned food and bottled water drives, benefits for local schools and animal rescues, and special events for veterans. However, this week I was stunned by her laborious random act of kindness when she went to the grocery store to buy cases of bottled water for a mission charity.

As she exited the store, she saw a homeless man sitting in the parking lot with three, very young caged puppies. Being a dog person, Emily was overcome with disgust. After all, it was 100 degrees outside–maybe more due to the heat from the scorching pavement. Should she stay or should she go? “I can’t confront that guy alone; he may be a meth addict,” she rationalized. Fortunately, she contacted a friend, and the two of them returned to the store and confronted the guy.

“I want twenty bucks for each of them puppies.”

“We’re not giving you any money; we’re taking the puppies and the cage now! Don’t try to argue with us; you probably stole them in the first place. But if you want to make a scene, fine. We’ll call the cops and the Humane Society.

As of today, after veterinary care where the three rescues were dubbed Sage, Willow, and Marigold, are healthy and happy, and remain in Emily and her husband’s care until they’re old enough to be adopted. And whoever is fortunate enough to cuddle one of these cuties needs to be grateful that some folk did the right thing. In this world, full of self-serving egomaniacs, be an Emily.

The (Dog)astrophe

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Yes, I know how to spell catastrophe, but my blog has nothing to do with felines. I have recently written several stories about my continuing war with coyotes and all of my precautionary measures to keep them away. Though none of them are foolproof, the best offense is to secure my pups in my casa at night.

That has worked reasonably well until sometime early yesterday morning. I awoke at six AM, which is highly unusual for me, because I was dreaming about food. After several attempts to lull myself back to sleep, I got up, pulled on some clothes, and decided to go buy a breakfast burrito. I walked into my only carpeted area–the living room and gasped in horror! My berber carpet looked like a cow pasture. I gagged and left.

I have a self-locking baby gate in the hall that denies dogs’ entrance into the living room. However, several years ago my goldendoodle mastered vaulting over it. Particularly when she’s stressed, she can fly over it to escape some unknown fear. I surmise she received an impending threat of Montezuma’s Revenge and had the decency not to let it rip on the tile floor my bedroom. Carpet, though? Yuck.

I returned from the grocery with a burrito and carpet cleaner and attempted to clean up with minimal success. What time is it? 7:00. I went to the computer and searched. I typed in my info and voila! Stanley Steemer would arrive at 10:00! By 10:30, my carpet was restored, my burrito had long turned inedible, and the dogastrophe was resolved. I returned to my bed with no more dreams of food. As Hamlet said, “There’s the rub.”

Cheap, Cheap, Cheap

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In 2020 when COVID roared through America, over one-half of a million of US citizens died. By the end of 2024, another half-million died, and currently 300 people die from COVID each week. (I could have easily become a statistic but somehow managed to survive.) During the mandatory shut-downs, restaurants, bars, cafes, coffee shops were among the small businesses that suffered. When the closures ended, so did my tipping habit. Gone was my 15% of the bill. In fact, my entire outlook on life changed, for my miracle escape from death made me realize I needed to up my ante and pay it forward.

Now, five years later, I have zero tolerance for cheap people, especially cheap wealthier people. I’m sure you, like me, have a handful of friends that are modern-day Scrooges or Silas Marners. They leave meager tips, they ignore the poor, and they have no interest in charitable organizations. Unfortunately, they surround themselves with others of like behavior, such as the current Presidential Cabinet. Isn’t it odd that many legislators enter Congress as paupers and exit as multi-millionaires? They profess to be good, predominately white Christians, while they slash Medicaid, Medicare, SNAP, School Lunch, and Education with “beautiful” pride.

What happened to the Golden Rule?

Weight Loss

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Fortunately, I have never been overweight, which is probably due to my bad habits and overactive foolishness. In contrast, my late mother went on a diet every Monday morning. My sibs and I knew our menu would be severely restricted for several days, until our dad complained about the lack of dessert and fried potatoes. By Friday, homemade chocolate chip cookies were our after school snack and a spaghetti dinner at an Italian restaurant followed. The food would remain marvelous through the weekend…until Monday.

I understand people’s obsession with weight because media has long touted slim, glamorous models. Overweight children have been subjected to bullying. In fact, McGuffey ‘s Second Eclectic Reader (1879), there is a selection entitled, The Greedy Girl.

It begins: Laura English is a greedy little girl. Indeed, she is quite a glutton. Do you know what a glutton is? A glutton is one who eats too much, because the food tastes well. The story concludes: I do not love little girls who eat too much. Do you my little readers? I do not think they have such rosy cheeks, or such bright eyes, or such sweet, happy tempers as those who eat less. (Talk about harsh in second grade!)

A myriad of trendy diets from the Mediterranean to South Beach hit the market. Then came the pills and the deadly side effects of Fen Phen. Yet the researchers forged on in search of drugs to satiate America’s thirst for skinny bodies. Ozempic, Wegovy, and Saxenda hold the new promise. Two of my acquaintances chose Ozempic, and their weight loss is undeniable. However, it is apparent to me they’re nothing more than walking cadavers; it’s as if they are playing How Low Can I Go?

Granted obesity is not healthy, nor is emaciation. Hopefully, those who use these miracle prescriptions can strike a happy, healthy balance, and once in a while enjoy Nonna’s Sunday pasta with gravy!

The War Continues

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Just when I thought I had conquered the coyotes, they returned again. Instead of two, this time there were six predators in my front yard nosing around. My Carl Spackle alter ego took to the internet in search of more preventive measures. I bought another gallon of wolf urine flakes and sprinkled them around the yard.

My research also found that coyotes are afraid of conflagration. Aren’t we all who live in the desert? Obviously, with the Phoenix bad air quality and the environmental destruction of fires, I wouldn’t set my yard on fire. Thankfully, though, I found solar lights that resemble flames, which I installed today. On Monday, I will have installed coyote rollers on the top of my block wall.

If all of these preventive measures fail, I have one more Hail-Mary trick in my bag. Pricey and very labor intensive. According to my hours of study, donkeys will attack and drive off these yellow-eyed beasts forever. I was surprised to learn there are miniature ones who are equally as capable as the full-size. Of course, this drastic, last ditch effort would require building a stable and an arena. Further, I’d have to hire a ranch hand to tend to the feeding and clean-up, as I can barely keep up with the dog poop, let alone that of donkeys. I’d also need a truck and a trailer because every church in my ‘hood would want my donkeys for their live Nativities, and every elementary school would want me to take them for “Read to Donkey” day.

Yes, I remain in all out war with these varmints. If all of my proactive prevention fails, I may have to seek an audience with Pope Donald since he controls everything! Hee haw!