Author: skidaz

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.

Never Did I Ever…Again

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My apologies for not blogging last week, but I was visiting in both Carolinas. My reflections today are a compilation of my experiences. So, today, I write a list of Never Did I Ever:

  1. Think I would get to be a Grandma, and last weekend we celebrated BJ’s second birthday. What a delightful experience it was! Not only does he love I Spy books, he’s also obsessed with numbers. I was absolutely stunned he can count to 100 and count backward from thirty.
  2. See such a home. My eldest and her husband designed and built a new home on thirteen acres in horse country. (While they don’t have horses, all their neighbors do and practice dressage, hunting, and jumping daily even when it’s cold and rainy.) But my kids’ home is overrun with high-tech remote controls and switches to turn on multiple TV’s and sound systems, adjust the flame and blower on the fireplace, open the family room glass doors across the entire length of screened patio, etc. Obviously, I was so overwhelmed I refuse to touch anything for fear of messing with the wrong remote.
  3. Live long enough to witness such insanity in Washington, DC. It seems our system of checks and balance has been obliterated in three weeks. Traffic lights and stop signs have been replaced with GO, and any judge that attempts to say NO GO is either threatened or fired. I fear for the kind of world BJ will inherit–a world destroyed by billionaire greed and monsterous ego.
  4. Believe I would lose faith in the American people as they sit idly by and witness the demolition of America’s Greatest Equalizer: The Public School. This will create an insurmountable divide between the haves and the have nots. Those who can afford an education will buy one; those who can not will be sentenced to a life of poverty and injustice.
  5. Understand the insanity of cruelty to others. I thought WE were better than that.

Another Thing That Makes Me Crazy

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I know it’s hard to believe, but my eldest turned forty a few months ago. In my effort to make her milestone birthday memorable, I made plans to commission an original painting. Thankfully, I mentioned the subject I had chosen, which was not something she wanted; she wanted one I owned. I agreed; she might as well have it now, then when I’m dead.

After some very sparse research, my friend and I went off to FedEx to ship it this week. (For your edification, the framed lithograph is 36″X4″X34″ and is valued at approximately $500.)

“How may I help you?”

“I need you to pack and ship this to South Carolina.”

“And your account number?”

“I don’t have a FedEx account.”

“Then, I need to see your driver’s license.” And for the next fifteen minutes, she fiddled around with her computer. She walked away and conversed with the manager. “The box will be $280.”

“Fine. That sounds reasonable,” as I attempted to shove my credit card in the terminal.

“Plus insurance and shipping.”

WTH? “How much is that?”

“Four hundred and ninety dollars, plus the $280 box.”

My friend could no longer contain herself, “Are you saying one cardboard box costs $280?”

The clerk nodded.

“That’s absolutely absurd.” She picked up the painting, “Come on, Sue, we are out of here!”

We got in my car, “Can you believe it?”

“I was afraid you were crazy enough to pay it. Sorry for my intrusion, but you could practically drive it there for less.”

After my encounter with FedEx, I tried to rein in my craziness to no avail. For then came the megalomaniac, and his little automatons: Gabbard, Patel, and RFK. I suspect I will remain bat shit crazy for the next four years.

Things That Make Me Crazy

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Beware. This may be the theme of my blogs for the next few weeks. I accept the fact I am old. I accept the fact that I’m crazy. However, there’s not a damn thing I can do about either, except vent my frustrations in my blog.

At this stage in life, my patience is on the last train to Clarksville. I can’t bear speaking with customer service representatives who are stationed halfway around the world and are incapable of understanding my problem. Yesterday, I had Ticketmaster tickets to an event and was on the phone with some guy in India trying to figure out how to download them. Yes, I realize any ten-year-old could have easily solved my issue, but I tried and failed. At one point during our 57-minute conversation, I resorted to crying. (What else is a gal to do?) “Just email me the friggin’ tickets, so I can print them!”

In unintelligible English, he said he couldn’t. “The venue does not accept paper tickets. Go into your search engine, download this, enter the verification number, click on events, do this, do that, X out of that, press this….”

You know the drill. Eventually I did get the tickets but remain clueless about how to transfer them to my Apple Wallet. What the hell is an Apple Wallet anyway? Does it have any money in it? I DON’T CARE!

Another thing that peeves my sanity is jars and bottles. Why can’t I open them? I tap them on the floor, I run hot water on them, I hit them with a hammer to no avail. My pantry is filled with pickles, mayo, and salad dressing I can’t open! But the absolute worst is Gatorade. While I’m still with the program enough to know it was invented for brawny athletes, I have a low sodium deficiency, which requires a daily dose of the gator. Thanks to the hardware store, I finally have the necessary tools to open my elixir: sharp pen knife, rubber hammer, and tin snips. (Wire cutters work too.) Instead of taking at least 45 minutes, I can get the top off in under a half hour.

At my age, though, I learned to accommodate my weakness. I gave up drinking bottled water because I couldn’t unscrew the top, and I only drink soda and beer in flip-top cans. It was either that or go thirsty, or find a strong man who’s computer savvy.

“Ain’t got time for that.”

Dry January?

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Tuesday night, I arrived just before the start of weekly trivia, and all of my team members had already order their drinks and food. As I surveyed our reserved table, they were drinking a variety of water, soda water, and soft drinks. When my usual Miller Lite was set in front of me, they glared. “Don’t you know it’s dry January?”

Of course, I knew it was January; I’ve yet to lose all my marbles. “Yep, named after the Roman two-faced god, Janus.”

“You’re supposed to lay off the booze in January.”

“For the entire month? Can’t you have a dry martini?

“No!”

“Well, pardon me. Guess I missed that memo and am drinking alone tonight. Do you want me to join another team that drinks tonight?”

“No, you cant sit here because you know literature and Broadway.”

I felt so self-conscious. I wanted to sip by my beer under the table, for I was breaking the Dry January rules. To add a bit of levity to my guilt, I asked, “Does dry January also apply to sex?”

“Just in your case! You haven’t had any in years!”

“Touche.”

At the end of the first round of questions, the trivia host took fifteen or so minutes to tally scores. I went to the restroom, sat on the procelain throne and contemplated dry January. Certainly, the skin on my hands, arms, and legs is flaking off like dandruff. Dry January. Certainly, in Phoenix as of today, (1/19/2025), no measurable rain has fallen in 151 days! Dry January.

And tomorrow, (Monday), begins the long, four-year, very dry spell of sanity.