Author: skidaz

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!

Declaration of War!

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I consider myself a peace-loving person, who would not intentionally ever physically harm any living thing, but today I find myself in full Carl Spackler-Caddyshack mode. I am at war with coyotes!

Spare me your lectures about my encroachment on their habitat. I have lived on the same property and in the same house for thirty-five years and never had any issues with these critters. But four months ago, things changed when they decided to prey on my dogs. (My dogs range in size from 60+pounds to 15 pounds, and they usually all go outside together and wander around my acre property.)

The coyotes chose my eldest–a 12-year-old dachshund for their first victim. Luckily, she escaped with a few bloody nicks and a fear of going outside after dark. Several months later, their second victim was my young, small Bernedoodle who sustained puncture wounds to her back and her side. However, this week my coyote conflict escalated into all out war when I came eye-to-eye with four yellow eyes as they attempted to jump over my six-foot wall into my backyard! Thankfully, my barking dogs and my shrieking voice caused them to abort their mid-air vault. After I had my anxious and over-stimulated dogs safely sequestered inside, I contemplated my strategies. A wildlife specialist at Arizona Game and Fish offered helpful suggestions and an internet search provided even more.

If you would happen to drive by my house, don’t be alarmed. My yard is decorated with motion sensors, blinking white lights, and ammonia-soaked beach towels drape my six-foot block wall. Wolf urine flakes have been sprinkled around the wall. In case you’re wondering, human pee also serves as a deterrent. (I may have to a host monthly stag parties at my casa when I run out of wolf urine!) Finally, within the next week or two, coyote rollers will be installed on top of the block wall–pricey. But after all, my dogs are priceless!

Finally, my nightly attire is a camouflage jacket with an ammonia-filled, super-soaker squirt gun strapped across my chest and an air horn hooked on my belt. So Wiley Coyote and friends bring it on! Dr. Suze is ready! Beep, beep!

NO MORE EXCUSES!

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For the last few years, my nail polish has been Kelly green. Curiously, during that time, I’ve received numerous compliments on the color. That is until, I tell folk why. On May 24, 2022, 19 children and two teachers were gunned down and 17 injured at Robb Elementary School in Uvalde, Texas. The dead were not readily identifiable given their massive wounds. Maite Rodriquez was identified by her Kelly green, Converse shoes.

As a fifty-year professional educator and former twenty-year veteran of a school board, I decided my nails would remain green until reasonable gun control laws were passed. Sadly, two more such shootings happened this week in Texas and Florida–over 80 shootings have occurred this year. Unforgivable. Damn, it’s only April! How many more of our kids will die?

When the President of the United States was notified of the shooting at Florida State University on Thursday, his response was: These things happen. WTF? These things don’t HAVE to happen. They happen because you bow down to the NRA. They happen because you pledged your allegiance to your twisted interpretation of the Constitution’s Second Amendment. Yet, King Donald, you defy the Constitution on due process, birthright citizenship, the balance of power, and the separation of church and state.

According to 2024 Pew Research Center, 64% of Americans support banning assault-type rifles, while 83% support background checks for ALL gun purchases, including private sales and gun shows. But once again, the will of the people is ignored and dismissed by our millionaire/billionaire legislators. Spare me the litany of excuses and protect our most precious resource–our children!

POTUS

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Though not a college history major, I bill myself as a “continuing student” of the subject. Unfortunately, schools tend to teach English, Art, Music, and History as separate subjects; it just makes so much more sense when all of them are taught together. For example, one can’t really grasp A Tale of Two Cities, nor Oliver Twist, without a knowledge of history at the time. However, this is an aside to my blog today, which concerns Executive Orders–those ordered by POTUS with a stroke of a pen.

Now I don’t know about you, but there’s a number of things about which I’m concerned–and it ain’t the price of eggs! It’s about the climate, the abject disregard for science and medicine, the abolishment of special education and school food service, the wipe-out of university research grants, the random firing of qualified professionals, the flip-flop tariffs, and the supposed declaration of martial law on 4/20. (An absurd “smoking idea.”)

Executive order: NO more paper straws! Frankly, I could care less about straws since they would be odd in beer bottles. However, paper straws are ecologically preferred over the plastic ones that kill off our wildlife.

Executive order: Gulf of America! Really? Who cares? I’m too old to change that tune.

Executive order: No more low pressure shower heads. A ludicrous, infantile mandate from a very obese Lothario who is unable to wash away his dalliances without copious amounts of water.

Executive orders: Dismantle departments, terminate any one who disagrees, tax penguins, etc.

To this “student of history,” it seems that The President of the United States has much more pressing issues than these inane executive orders. Issues like, “beautiful bag of groceries,” winning a golf tournament, or the superlative results of his health exam where he’s been declared the smartest, best, greatest, healthiest 78-year-old in the world. (Curious, when one of his professors at Wharton labeled him the “most stupid person he ever taught.” Think about it. Why else would he have threatened to sue UPenn if they released his college transcripts?)

Since none of us are infallible, we will stand in judgment in front of St. Peter and/or historians. Sadly, as future generations engage in their study of US Presidents, the monikers of Honest Abe, Father of our Country, and The Great Society, will pale when children read about the 47th President, dubbed PT Barnum and The Greatest, Golden American Liar.

GOLF

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To clarify, not the Gulf of whatever it’s been renamed this week, but the sport where one tries to hit a little white ball in the cup. The game that’s dreadfully boring to watch on TV, unless you’re in need of a nap. The game that’s certainly not as exciting as playing like volleyball or softball.

This weekend I was reminded of my dabble at golf when POTUS couldn’t meet the plane carrying deceased US soldiers, due to his golf tournament commitment at his Doral golf club. Sponsored by Saudi Arabia, DT managed to qualify for the final round today in the senior division. No surprise, since he’s a legendary cheater at the game. In fact, since his January inauguration, the US government government has spent over $26 MILLION on his Florida weekend golf trips.

Over fifty years ago, I decided to take golf lessons at Mill Creek Golf course. After all, I heard that golf pros were cute, young men, and I was a single young gal. My pro was a married, balding, middle-aged guy, who was an competent and patient instructor. He was highly complimentary of my ability to drive the ball but noted my putting was in dire need of improvement. (Hell, I thought putting was akin to croquet where one slammed the ball into the cup.)

“You have potential, Sue, to be good at this game, but you need to practice. Just play as often as you can.”

Really? Pray tell, sir. Where does one practice in the Lake Erie winters? Thankfully, the beer cart arrived in the St. Nick of time before I flapped my mouth. Aah. I’d found the only redeeming quality to chasing that little white ball around.

The Neighborhood Dive Bar

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I’ve just completed my fourth, and perhaps final novel, which is primarily set in several of these establishments. In order to infuse a dose of reality, I had to refresh my experiences in bars since my college days, and I discovered some of them are much classier than those I hung out in almost sixty years ago.

Upon entry, the first thing that struck me was they were lighter–I could actually see who was in there. Of course, this may be due to better lighting and the no smoking policy. Or it could be because these neighborhood bars don’t cater to the underage, fake ID, college crowds. Secondly, unlike college hangouts, food is served–not bags of potato chips and peanuts–real food, like veggie burgers, wings, club sandwiches, soups, and salads. (Yes, some of it is greasy food, but it’s quality fried pickles, zucchini, and mushrooms.) Thirdly, and most importantly, the bathrooms are immaculately clean. Gone are the phone numbers, the graffiti, and the lipstick smudges. The toilets aren’t clogged; the sinks and mirrors are clean, the waste cans are empty, and toilet paper doesn’t decorate the floor.

Over the last year, I’ve researched this industry and can honestly conclude the owners I interviewed were primarily in their 40’s, some of them were women, and all of them were very customer-service focused. In fact, the bartender immediately uncaps the customer’s favored beer or pours the “usual” before he/she take their seat. Some servers are so adept they can take dinner orders from a table of ten without the benefit paper and pencil–truly amazing what they can remember! (Which is why, at my age, I can’t be a server!)

Finally, my last word of advice, is don’t judge a neighborhood bar and grill by its exterior. Some of these establishments have been around for thirty or forty years. Instead, check out the parked cars, you may see high-end vehicles and fancy sports models. As long as the neighborhood is safe, you may become as fascinated as I am with this industry. Cheers!

The Scrabble Game

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Unlike many of young folk today, I’m very proud of my public school education. Not only, did I learn to read and write, but I learned phonics–nothing more than sounds and letter patterns. Thus, it was not a real brainer when I became and English teacher and a formidable Scrabble player. While the game relies heavily on “the luck of the draw,” it also necessitates the player see patterns, such as ea, ing, ed, re, etc. in the attempt to play all seven tiles at once.

Curiously, the current resident of my casita is also an English major, and we’ll play a game or two once or twice a month. (Since both of us are highly competitive, the stakes are $20 a game. After all, why would I waste my time playing some game?) Last night, the score was tied. She had two tiles left; I had six, but it was my turn. I needed to play all of mine to seize her Hamilton. My remaining letters were: DHAETR. I shuffled the tiles. I had READ, not good enough. I still had the four-point H. I shuffled them again: RED HAT. Damn it!

Think, Sue. If you don’t play these last six letters, she’s going to take your $20. You won’t be able to afford to buy eggs. Once again I shuffled: HATRED.

Any questions?

WTH Is That?

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Last week my Texas niece, her husband, and their children came to Phoenix for a whirlwind fifty-five hour visit. Since their kids had never been to Arizona, we crammed an Arizona experience into a very tight time frame, including a dip in my 68-degree swimming pool, a hike in the Mountain Preserve, dinner at a Mexican restaurant, and a trip to the zoo.

Now, the zoo trip did not focus on primarily on the lions, tigers, and monkeys, but on the fauna indigenous to the desert. My five-year-old great nephew, D-Dog, particularly enjoyed the creepy crawly exhibit of snakes, lizards, scorpions, and such, which he explained to me in great detail. (I wouldn’t have known, since I refuse to look at those creatures.) His sister liked the roadrunner who was munching on a white mouse and the Mexican wolves who were devouring rabbit entrails.

I was dawdling along attempting to avoid being caught in the midst of an elementary school trip when I saw it. At first, I thought it was a submerged black bear when it suddenly rose out of the man-made creek and took to the air, flapping its wings and dousing me with water. WTH is that? A freaking California Condor with an over eight-foot wing span. Now even though this massive bird was in a netted habitat I ducked. I flashed back to my terror of watching Alfred Hitchcock’s The Birds. Admittedly, I was less worried about having my eyes pecked out than I was of it snatching me in his talons and carrying me off to Papago Buttes.

Of course, D-Dog was most amused by his great aunt’s fear, and he even had the audacity to label me a fraidy cat. I’m okay with that; I’m just happy to have survived and lived to write about my condor encounter. In fact, this old gal is happy to have survived their whirlwind visit.

Waymo, Wayno

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I am very aware I’m an old broad, who at times has been dragged into the new frontier of Technology. I am also fully aware I’m a control freak. If the airline would let me, I’d sit directly behind the pilot and tell him/her how to fly. Since that’s not an option, years ago, I decided to fly first class on any flight over two hours, so I can sit up front and keep an eye on things. Though I may nod off a bit, believe me, I’ve got one eye open.

In 2024 Waymo came to Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Phoenix and is partnering with Uber in Atlanta and Austin. The first time I saw one of these Jaguar spaceship vehicles with its whirly-gig roof feature I almost ran off the road. Now, they are a common site on Phoenix’s busiest freeways. When I’m stopped at a traffic light next to one, it’s freaky to look over and see no driver.

Last week one of my friends and her seventeen-year-old great niece said, “Sue, we’re going to take a ride in a Waymo; do you want to go with us?”

Me? No. In fact, hell no! “I’ll pass. Where are you going? Across town?”

“Just a short ride for the experience.”

“Where?”

“To the grocery store?”

“It’s one mile from here!”

“We’re too scared to go farther! Will you come and pick us from the store? We only want to risk our lives one way.”

They survived their ten-dollar ride and raved about it when I retrieved them. However, the teenager commented, “It was kind of creepy, Sue. In the driver’s console, there was a half-full bottle of water.”

Woo woo, voodoo. Waymo? Wayno!

Not Me

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My fifty-year career in public education began at a career technical high school teaching English, where my students were more interested in auto mechanics, cosmetology, and nursing rather than reading and writing. This thirteen-year experience taught me a lot about the trades from laying cement block, to offset printing to welding. I spent one afternoon in the welding lab with the delightful, instructor, who made me don gloves and the special helmet and taught me to light the torch. “Sue, I’m going to teach you how to mend anything, except broken hearts and promises.”

Curiously, today, I recalled Mr. Harold’s proclamation when I read a post written by a longtime MAGA supporter, who wrote in part he’d recently been terminated by US Department of Agriculture. “Each time I voted for you, it was because I knew you’d make things right and you’d fix the wrongs. I’m counting on you to make this right too. I’m pleading with you to reinstate my employment and give me my job back. Please, Mr. President.”

While I feel compassion for the author and regret his career loss, hopefully, he’s learned that the flim- flam man cares little about anyone other than himself, nor have any notion of right and wrong. With all due respect to the author, His Highness thrives on breaking hearts and promises. (Check the soaring gas and grocery prices, if you doubt me.)

Sorry, Mr. Author, you’re not going to be reinstated just because you wear a red hat.