Given my recent boredom, I have begun to contemplate writing another novel. Though it’s not an easy task to first conceive an idea and it requires tons of research to add elements of truth to fiction, it is a great exercise of my twisted imagination. Over the last year, I’ve been collecting interesting characters, interviewing experts, and mulling the plot. But like with any writing, there’s a lot of rewriting and massaging that goes into the finished work. As Hemingway so eloquently said, “The first draft of anything is shit.”

Certainly, it helps if I personally experience an event. If it happens to me, I can easily describe my emotions, actions, and the event itself. Recently, I was the victim of a crime–courtesy of a pick pocket. Of all the crimes, a good one. In fact, according to research, it is one of the oldest and most lucrative crimes that is rarely prosecuted because the victim doesn’t even realize something’s been stolen until after the fact. The victim doesn’t know who, where, when, nor how it happened.

Now, no one has ever accused me of being Pollyanna, but I find all this information fascinating. Yes, I lost some money, but I gained an intriguing angle to add to the plot. Life deals me blips on my radar screen–health issues, accidents, losses, ad infinitum. What matters most is my ability to cope with and benefit from those blips. As my grandma always said: it does NO good to cry over spilled milk! Ain’t nobody got time for that!

As many of you know, I attended a luncheon and memorial service last weekend and found myself seated at a table of elderly women–meaning women about my age. For fifteen minutes or so, they discussed their current health issues and griped about the state of the world. After enduring as much as I could, I said, “Can’t we talk about something else? Something less maudlin?” Disgust crossed their faces. Their eyes were vacant; they were at a loss for words. After all, what else was there to talk about?

Of course, I didn’t stop there–my filter was asleep. “Why do old people all want to live together? You know, in retirement communities, such as these.”

Again, horror crossed their countenances. ”Don’t you get dreadfully bored hanging out with people our age?”

Talk about a conversation starter! I had opened the proverbial Pandora’s Box! They attacked me from all sides: “Why would we want to live where there are children?” ”They scream and yell; they engage in vandalism.” Their parents don’t discipline them.” ”In my day, my mom would have paddled me if I was as disrespectful as kids are today.” “Kids are hooligans.” “And don’t forget the drugs.”

I was incredulous. Should I leave the table, or forge on? I chose to continue. “I find young people absolutely delightful; they’re far smarter than I was when I was their age. If you don’t believe me, visit a high school math class, or a career-tech engineering class. Secondly, the thirty-fifty year olds have interesting perspectives on balancing career, family, and social lives. They’ve experienced things I never did, and they’ve been places I’ve never been. For me, I don’t want to be insular. I don’t want to surround myself with just people my age. I live on a shrinking planet; I don’t have all the answers to world problems and social issues. But I want to be part of solutions, not simply sit on the bench and talk about my gall bladder.” My sermon fell on deaf ears. “It was nice to meet you, but I’ve got to meet my adopted daughter and her kids at Jungle Playland.”

Now, I’m sure I left my new acquaintances with their knickers in a knot, but research has proven that homogeny or homogeneity can be destructive to society, for it reinforces prejudice, bias, and hate. Those who look different, act different, or are different by age are ostracized by those whom are all the same. 

As a case in point, some of the retirement communities west of Phoenix have exempted themselves from paying taxes to support elementary-high school districts, community colleges, and universities. Their mantra: “I paid taxes for my kids to go to school, and they’re grown. Let the young pay for their kids.” Not only do I find this short-sighted and repugnant, but I believe our greatest resource is our children. Without an educated public, we will never cure disease, address world conflict, or maintain economic growth. In fact, it raises such questions, Who is going to wipe your backside when you’re bedridden? Who’s going to fix your leaky toilet? Who’s going to remove your gall bladder?

To those of you who expect me to listen to your health issues and other gripes of your old-age syndrome: I ain’t got time for that!

My paternal grandfather worked the first trick at a railroad tower; his responsibilities included telegraphing messages in Morse Code, getting those messages to passing trains, and switching the tracks at the tower junction. It was a perfect job for a part-time farmer and a one-armed man.

As a tweenager, his shotgun accidentally discharged and blew off his left arm. Due to the rudimentary, emergency services then, the surgeon lopped off the remaining stump right at his shoulder. Thus, his prosthesis was nothing more than a non-utile appliance that filled his shirt sleeve. In time, he adapted and developed a very strong right arm capable of throwing heavy levers to switch railroad tracks, tossing hay bales into the barn loft, and carrying two bushels of apples in from the orchard.

My grandpa memories this week were driven by the current craze and madness of the Stanley cup. No, I’m not talking about hockey, but the container invented in 1913. A vacuum flask that was in every working man’s metal lunch box. Grandpa’s was olive green and always filled with hot coffee. It was a luxury convenience, not a designer status symbol.

Through my research, I learned early Stanleys were used to transport human organs for medical purposes and to carry bull semen to cattle ranchers. (TMI?) One hundred and six years ago after its invention, an aggressive marketing strategy created the Stanley Quencher. Sales soared 275% in one year! The drab olive green was replaced with vibrant colors, and the thermos canister was outfitted with a straw, a handle, and other options. New models were made each holiday, like the exclusive, pink Valentine Stanley, which wreaked havoc this week among battling Target shoppers.

But this old gal just isn’t into designer drink bottles, regardless of their color. A brown beer bottle is just fine!

According to the Chinese zodiac, 2023 was The Year of the Rabbit, but according to me, it was maintenance. Of course, there were lots of home repairs, including a broken HVAC unit, a leaky tank-less hot water heater, a necessary recoat of the flat roofs, broken water sprinklers, and a myriad of mundane fix-ups. But the Rabbit decided it was time for a Sue tune-up. Numerous dental appointments, cataract surgery on both eyes, dermatology clips and frozen spots, and the culminating colostomy reversal.

I was really looking forward to welcoming 2024–hopefully a year free of maintenance work–at least for me. Then last night, I took a long look in the mirror. Ye Gods! Who is that old hag staring back at me? My grandson will cling to his mom and scream when he sees me. (Thankfully, he doesn’t talk much yet, for he’d go to school and tell his friends there is a witch in his house!) Thus before I depart for his February 14th first birthday party, I had better get my withered face abraded, botoxed, and filled. Or else I won’t need St. George to slay the dragon. I’ll just stare at the fiery beast and The Year of the Dragon will vanish!

Happy New Year to all!

A young friend of mine gifted me an early Christmas present this week–a children’s book: The Dinosaur that Pooped Christmas*. A delightful book with wonderful illustrations and the most appropriate gift for me. Now, not because I like bathroom talk like an elementary-school-aged kid, but because I worry about that.

A month ago, you’ll recall I had reversal surgery to rid me of my bag lady status. Indeed it is gone, but after three plus years of dormancy, these old muscles don’t work like they used to work. It’s a learning curve in control, which sometimes works and sometimes doesn’t. (I’ll spare you the sordid details, but there’s no way I can wait patiently in a long line for the rest room.) As a result, I decided not to ruin anyone’s holiday. I don’t want to be the customer that causes the plane to turn around on Christmas Eve, due to my accident in the aisle. I would be the ultimate GRINCH!

So this year, I’ll participate in family Christmas from the security of my casa via Face Time. I won’t have to watch endless football games, I won’t have to cook, nor clean up afterwards, and I won’t catch some nasty virus on an oversold airline. And hopefully, I won’t get run over by a reindeer!

*Fletcher, Tom., & Dougie Poynter. (2019). The Dinosaur that Pooped Christmas. Aladdin: New York

PS: Dr. Suze Espouses will return Sunday, January 7, 2024.

In fifteen days, families around the world will celebrate Joyeux Noel, Feliz Navidad, Buon Natale, Frohliche Weihnachten, and Merry Christmas. In fact, wide-eyed children are already anticipating the arrival of Father Christmas, St. Nicholas, or Santa Claus. (Ask any elementary school teacher, and he/she can verify the kids are bursting with excitement.)

Yet, on this alleged, civilized planet millions of children are victims of wars, famine, natural disasters, and/or poverty. For them, there will be no festive family gatherings, nor chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Perhaps if they’re fortunate, a cease-fire will be called–their first silent night in a while.

So before our own holiday hustle begins, join me in remembering all of OUR children and hoping for swift resolutions to world plight.

Any woman, who has ever lived a man, understands the difference between a female cold and a male cold. In short, women’s colds are not debilitating. Women can not take to their beds and wallow in runny noses, achy backs, copious coughs, fevers, and chills. Women must make the kids’ lunches, take them to school, go to work, help with after school activities, cook dinner, put the kids to bed, and finally, sit down and drink a hot toddy to soothe their raspy throats.

Men, in contrast, experience debilitating colds. Even though, they manage to attract a cold each winter, each winter they suffer The Worst Cold, they’ve ever had! They are incapable of retrieving a glass of orange juice from the refrigerator or pulling Kleenex from the box. Yet, they are adept at commands, like “Please bring me the cough syrup” or “I need another blanket.” As far as work goes, no way. And the kids, no way.

After years of using Men’s vs. Women’s colds as an writing prompt in 101 English Class, this week I contracted a Man’s Cold. Fortunately, I’ve no children at home. It was just the dogs and me, but admittedly it zapped all my energy just to feed the dogs. Thankfully, I had no job and had no “must-dos” on my calendar, so I did nothing except watch Christmas movies and eat soup.

I shall not make fun of The Man Cold again…. Doubtful.

Over three years ago, I became a certified bag lady thanks to a colostomy. Though it was the reversible kind, I suffered from PTSD–a gift(?) from my traumatic, near-death experience, long hospital stay, and rehab. The thought of reversal was permanently off my radar screen. But age interfered and I began to question the sagacity of my decision. What if there comes a time when I HAVE to have it done? Is it better to do it when I’m 75 or when I’m 85? I did it late last week and have spent the last six days in retraining. I’ll spare you the lurid details, but yes, there’s a lot of effort required to jump start an engine that’s idled for three-plus years. An old dog now required to recall old tricks.

More importantly, I reflected on the true meaning of thankfulness. (No, it’s not the make-believe story we learned in elementary school where the Pilgrims and Native Americans celebrated a successful harvest feasting on turkey. In fact, for many indigenous folk, it is a “Day of Mourning.”) My thankfulness comes from all my friends who have been so highly supportive of me through my November anxiety. Their cards, texts, and letters of encouragement were greatly appreciated. Special thanks to my Primary Care physician and family for holding my hand.

Finally, I am most grateful for my brother and sister, their spouses, my kids, and my son-in-laws for their concern and Face Time calls. Further, I would be remiss, if I didn’t personally acknowledge the 24-7 expertise of A and B. This dynamic duo took Cadillac care of this old, broken-down jalopy, without even the benefit of a Thanksgiving feast. I owe them one. Maybe on the 4th of July!

I am truly blessed with such great friends and family. Too bad it took a hospital stay to remind me of that.

Growing up in Youngstown, Ohio, without air conditioning and a backyard swimming pool, made for long sultry days and evenings in July and August. Of course, at dusk not only was our yard filled with fireflies, but devil, cannibals–AKA mosquitoes. Thus, water fun was limited to stifling hot, ice-cream melting afternoons.

My enterprising mother with three young children would occasionally insist we shower during our water fights. She’d lather our hair with shampoo and hose each of us down. At the time, we thought that was great fun. Fun? We were 3 and 6 years old; our baby sister was still a clean infant. My brother and I were walking Petri dishes!

Last Saturday, the demon of home appliances struck again, and my pricey, tankless hot water sprung a leak on the red pipe. The plumber simply turned off the hot valve and said he’d be back on Monday. Fine. I can wash clothes in cold water. But Monday I was informed it would be Friday. Damn! I had a meeting to go to on Wednesday and was beginning to smell a bit ripe. My swimming pool was too cold, plus I couldn’t use shampoo in the pool anyway. Aha! Arizona garden hoses bask in the sun. Hot water abounds!

I donned a swimsuit, gathered body wash, shampoo, conditioner, a razor, and a beach towel, and proceeded to the patio to shower. I washed, shaved, and rediscovered my childhood joy of the garden hose. Much to my personal pleasure, my stench was replaced with lavender, and I swear my hair shone with brilliance. And as long as the warm Arizona fall days continue to hang around, I may do more alfresco showers.

Sometimes I get so caught up in the present, I forget what a great adventure my childhood was. As we enter the most wonderful time of the year, let’s pause to remember our magical youth.