After I got divorced eons ago, I contracted some weird bug. For the last fourteen years, I went from doctor to doctor seeking a cure. I was prescribed a myriad of pills, suffered through physical therapy, had x-rays, MRI’s and CT scans. I got weekly shots for over two years, and I spent another three years lying on a shrink’s couch. Nothing seemed to help.

Finally, I became a patient of an astute physician. Dr. JA, and no, he’s neither a jackass, nor a quack. He’s got an MD behind his name. After two office visits he diagnosed my illness. “Sue, I’ve thoroughly researched your symptoms and believe I have discovered what’s wrong with you.”

Oh, ye Gods! I’m probably dying of some rare, alien disease that is the second recorded case in America.

“What you have is quite common in women your age.”

Oh, no. I have osteoporosis. I have Alzheimers. Or maybe something worse.

“You tend to like dogs.”

“Of course, doctor. They’re better than cats, and they don’t sit on my dining room table.”

“And currently, how many reside in your house?”

“Uh, let me think. Seven currently.”

“Currently?”

“Yes. My friend, who’s my age….”

“You mean elderly?”

“I prefer to call us contemporaries. Anyway, her kids have decided to move her across the Mississippi near them. They supposedly want to keep any eye on her. In other words, they want to keep an eye on their inheritance! They don’t want her taking up with some swain who steals all her money.”

“I see, and your point?”

“She has two shih tzus. You know the ones with attitudes, and she can’t take them with her.”

“So, you’re taking them? And then you’ll have nine dogs?”

“Hell, doc, who knows? Did you ever see the movie, Cheaper by the Dozen? But enough of that, you said you have diagnosed my strange disease. What is it?” I held my breath.

“Many Paws.”*

Haha!

(My apologies to The Good Old Days)

Unlike when I was a child, the older I get the more I appreciate neither the quantity nor the designer-tag quality of presents I receive. I adore the unique gifts, which illustrate the giver’s thoughtful and meaningful choice made for me. This year I received two such presents to my delight from a dear friend.

Two of my dogs are absolutely enamored with potholders. Even though, I buy pot holders by the dozen, they quickly end up mauled to death in the backyard. When the cookies are done, I must scurry around to find a hand towel to retrieve them from the oven. Thus, I was most jazzed to be gifted handmade, loomed potholders, like the ones I made in elementary school. Just what I always wanted (not really), but certainly what I needed! Plus, she made them herself on her old metal loom, which to me, was remarkable.

Her second gift, though, was anchoring–a $100 donation to Everytown for Gun Safety. While I was shocked when the Columbine shooting occurred in 1999, I was not on the school board. But when the massacre at Sandy Hook occurred in 2013, I was the President of the school board and was shaken to the core of my being. Our board wrestled with the issue of ensuring the safety of our 35,000 students. And to date, the horror of school shootings continue.

I hope you all receive one or two meaningful presents, which captured for you the true essence of the season. Happy New Year!

When my kids were young, it never seemed to fail that one or both of them would be ill at Christmas. One memorable year, my two grandmothers and my in-laws from Florida visited, and it snowed in Phoenix. Of course, neither of my children were too interested, as they both had chicken pox! I can’t think of anything much worse than a diaper full of chicken pox. Another year, my youngest awoke on Christmas morning with a raging fever. She stumbled downstairs opened one present and promptly fell into a sound sleep.

But this year may be the most memorable. My grandson and my son-in-law have RSV, my daughter is recovering from pneumonia, and I have contracted some evil, unshakable respiratory infection. Curiously, my physician tells me lots of folk are ill right now. Curiously, my eldest, a nurse practitioner in South Carolina reports the same, as does my sister in Houston, my brother in California, and one of my friends in Ohio. How can that be? Is there something contagious in the Christmas cookies or fruitcake?

The simple explanation may be stress and excitement the holidays bring. Personally, I think these little nasty microbes basked in the sun all summer long in preparation for a full-on attack this time of year. They are merrily dancing across my bed, as I lie there coughing my brains out.

Hopefully, I will survive my self-imposed exile from the parties and celebrations, for indeed the song, I’ll Be Home for Christmas, has taken on a whole new meaning this year.

Merry Christmas!

My life picked up speed this week; there was evidence of the holiday season in full swing. I stood in line for too long in the post office only to discover they were out of flat-rate boxes! Imagine trying to mail a box of oranges across the Mississippi at the regular priority rate. Sticker shock, indeed.

Secondly, it seems the tradition of sending Christmas cards is a lost art. I sent forty, and as of today, received three. I guess it’s my age that makes me continue to send holiday greetings, for I enjoy seeing family picture cards from my young friends.

Thirdly, as a holiday gift, I treated one of my older-than-me friends to lunch and a movie this week. Granted, I haven’t been to a movie theater in over a year, but I was ill-prepared for another round of sticker shock. When did a small bag of popcorn sell for $10, and a small soda cost $7? My friend had a cheese quesadilla, which was a whopping $18! Really? And additionally, I was charged $16 to park my car. (My fault, though, I forgot to have my parking voucher validated.)

The ticket to the theater was reasonable ($10). Of course, that’s the senior rate. The film was scheduled for 12:30, and at 12:15, the theater darkened and the ads and previews ran a full 55 minutes. Finally, Wicked began. I was so jazzed to see it, for I adored the Broadway play. Ariana Grande and Cynthia Erivo were fabulous, but…. I’ll let you be the judge of the movie itself.

December 15th. Ten days from today, some of us will be marveling, as kids try out their new sleds, snow boards, or skis. Others will watch the children attempt to navigate their paddle or surf boards. Me? I’ll be picking oranges, basking in the sun, and thanking God I no longer live in the Snow Belt!

I love this time of year when we temporarily put away our differences and celebrate our unique, American values. Our neighborhoods are decorated with lights, wreaths, and some most entertaining inflatables of Santa, reindeer, flamingos, penguins, and the Grinch. Our Christmas trees are decorated and our fireplace mantles are decked with pine.

On Thanksgiving week, folk again wish each other “happy holidays” or “Merry Christmas.” Store clerks smile, parents delight in shopping for their kids, parties are planned, and travel plans are made. Most everyone seems infused with spirits of joy. (Teachers? Not so much, as they count the days until their excited students are released for vacation.)

Yet, for some, the festive season is darkened by poverty, homelessness, illness, and war. Social services are in need of donations: food, warm clothing, dog and cat food, and toys for children. Nursing homes are in need of carolers, Christmas cards, and flowers. Those without family need to be included to share dinner with others. We, Americans, are gracious welcoming people; we are not a nation of Scrooges. Let’s join together and spread the joy!

Curious that with so many folk complaining about the economy, over 80 million traveled this holiday and that sales are up over 10% from this time last year. While I only traveled as far as the grocery store, I did binge shop. In fact, the majority of my Christmas gifts have been bought.

With the new regime blustering about tariffs, anyone who wanted an electronic gift from me for Christmas will receive one. Additionally, I’ll be stock-piling stuff for the remainder of the calendar year, such as Christmas tree lights, tequila, several televisions, other smart devices, shoes, clothes, a new car, and every other necessary not made in America. I refuse to pay 30+% more for some ego-maniac’s pissing match with the rest of the world.

Further, with the major of winter fruits and vegetables coming from Mexico and South America, prices will soar. (If you love guacamole or avocado toast, it may become a delicacy. Ninety percent of avocados are grown in Mexico.) Oh, and don’t forget the expulsion of migrant workers. Who will pick lettuce in Yuma, pecans in Tucson, strawberries and citrus in California, apples in Washington, potatoes in Idaho, grapes in New York? Will lettuce cost $10, and a salad become a treat for special occasions.

Thankfully, I have citrus trees and a garden. I know how to can and to freeze vegetables. I can grow lettuce, broccoli, and cauliflower in the winter. So, I will be fine…until his highness crashes the economy.

In 1944, Harold Arlen and Johnny Mercer wrote this title song for the film Here Come the Waves. The lyrics encourage us to: Eliminate the negative, Latch on to the affirmative, Don’t mess with Mr. In-Between. I admit since November 5th it’s been difficult for me to be positive.

As I read the newspaper or the news apps on my phone, all I do is shake my head in total disbelief. Loyalty to a demigod equals a cabinet post, a director position, or an ambassadorship. While this practice also known, as the patronage or spoils system, is not new, it is unfathomable in the 21st Century. (Andrew Jackson ushered in the spoils system of patronage in 1829.) I suspect, though, Jackson didn’t use sexual offense charges and FOX news personalities, as criteria for coveted appointments. Further, by all accounts, the majority of foreign countries are laughing at America for allowing inexperienced, ill-qualified folk to assume national positions. Of course, I could rail on about tariffs, mass immigration, and women’s rights, but what good will it do? The amoral, narcissist maniac will assume office in January.

With Thanksgiving next week, Happy Holiday celebrations around the corner, and the inauguration 56 days away, I’m embracing the Epicurean philosophy–eat, drink, and be merry. Or as the song lyrics say: You’ve got to spread joy up to the maximum, Bring down gloom to the minimum, Have faith, Or pandemonium, Liable to walk upon the scene.

Forget the boding pandemonium. Join me in celebrating “the most wonderful time of the year” with exhilaration for the next eight weeks. It may very well be democracy’s final moment. Yet, America survived the lunacy of Andrew Jackson. Accentuate the positive, and best wishes for a festive Thanksgiving!

Last Sunday evening, I began a curious journey with the number seven. According to my horoscope, seven is not one of my supposed lucky numbers, but I put twenty-seven dollars in a slot machine, pushed the reel button, and the lights and bells went off. Wow! I won $7007! Then, I went to dinner, and the bill was $17.77.

After this unusual occurrence, I started thinking about seven–continents, days of the week, notes in a music scale, phases of the moon, and colors of the rainbow. Then came the hills of Rome, wonders of the world, and sister colleges. Even Hollywood portrayed The Magnificent Seven, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, and The Seven-Year Itch.

Oh, I forgot to add the seven deadly sins. Damn, I can’t recall: what number is the next POTUS?

“And the fodder’s in the shock,” a nostalgic poem by James Whitcomb Riley I had to memorize in the fifth grade, and one which I can still recite from memory. From the onset, as a former Ohioan, I’m not a fan of November for several reasons:

First: I absolutely detest pumpkin anything from pie to cookies to lattes! And now Kit Kat bars have been infested with the deadly, smelling orange.

Secondly: Thanksgiving food includes not only pumpkin, but such undesirable food as bitter cranberries and candied yams. OMG! Who in their right mind would “candy” potatoes with marshmallows? Marshmallows belong solely on graham crackers and Hershey bars–duh!

Thirdly: The Presidents of the United States for years have been absolutely correct–pardon the turkey. I can barely swallow its leg meat and am left with copious amounts of dry, tasteless white meat that even gravy can’t help.

Yet, in all fairness to November, it does have some positives. I begin to decorate for Christmas, shop the Black Friday Sales, and schedule holiday gatherings. But the BEST thing about November 2024 is: the election will be over…perhaps and hopefully, peacefully. And yes, I’ll probably lose my right to vote, to have an abortion or IVF, and be forced to provide childcare for my grandchild. So be it. I’ve already lost a number of friends over this election. What will be will be.