First, thank you all for your well wishes for Fanny after her escapade on Monday. This afternoon, The Vets, a traveling veterinary service, came to my casa to change the bandages on her hind paws. Fortunately, one had completely healed; the other was treated and is encased in a new bandage. They will return on Tuesday to check that paw.

Both the woman vet and her female assistant provided excellent care. Fanny didn’t seem too anxious and cooperated with their examination and treatment. I found both women professional, competent, a caring, and I would highly recommend The Vets.

Though I still suffer from near nausea every time I recall Monday morning, this traumatic event renewed my faith in Americans. We are kind, patient, courteous, and compassionate people, who just need in remind the inexperienced about the brutality of the Phoenix inferno.

Go in peace, my sermon has ended.

(Because it’s a long weekend, my blog published today and will return to it’s regular post on Sunday, September 10.)

My four-year-old Goldendoodle began to drool excessively late Saturday afternoon. It continued on Sunday, and on Monday, I took her to the vet. Just as we got halfway into the vet’s office she jerked and twisted and escaped her collar and leash. I tried to coax her back, but with that she ran frantically across the parking lot and miraculously, successfully across a busy, six-lane highway. (Yes, the world does have courteous, patient drivers.) I stood in the 114-degree heat immobile. I was in shock and consumed with horror; I gagged and swallowed to keep from vomiting.

By the time Fanny was apprehended some four blocks away by one of the vet’s young assistants, she was in crisis. Asphalt pavement has a temperature of 170-180 degrees in 114-degree heat. Her paws were severely burned and abraded. Her internal temperature was 108 degrees; death usually occurs at 109 in dogs. My dog was diagnosed with a heat stroke.

Fanny’s escapade resulted in two, overnight stays at an emergency clinic, IV’s, numerous injections and medications, and an ultrasound. The ultrasound confirmed anaphylaxis as the cause for the drooling; she’d been obviously been stung by a bee, a hornet, or even a scorpion. The heat stroke and her romp resulted in bandaged paws, gastric distress, and copious amounts of diarrhea. Since her release yesterday, she mostly sleeps and snacks a bit. Recovery from such an ordeal is slow.

Believe me, I didn’t really want to relive my horror by writing this blog…but it was necessary. Why? Novices and visitors fail to realize the brutality of Phoenix heat. They foolishly hike Camelback Mountain without water only to need rescued when they collapse. Some fools take their dogs hiking only to have them die on the trail. In fact, several years ago, a horseback rider was severely injured when her horse fainted and died.

And me? I, too, learned a lesson. My fancy embroidered dog collars identifying my dogs’ name and phone number are being supplemented with harnesses, from which even Harry Houdini could not escape!

When I was a child, I thought Christmas would never come. I thought summer vacation was eons away. I counted the years until I turned 16 and could learn to drive, and then all I could anticipate was graduation. And after graduation, college; and after college, a job –the real world. Then came marriage, babies, preschool, and in a blink of an eye, graduations. Like Tevye sang, I turned around and my kids were grown.

To my shocking surprise last month, I turned 75 years old. Really? WTH? Yes, my mother did that; yes, both of my grandmothers did that. But me? How did I get this old in such a short time? And because I have a large, diverse group of friends, I rarely feel old. How can I when I am surrounded with those much younger than me?

However, I must admit being three-quarters of a century years old, is anchoring. I realize my time is short. The probability of me turning 100 is slim. As a result, I’ve spent this last month reflecting on the past and assessing my future. And while my reflections are still works in progress which I may share as they occur to me. Yet, I’ve learned several things this last month: age is a state of mind. One can choose to be old and cranky when they’re forty; they certainly don’t have to wait another thirty years. Retirement communities should be desegregated; there’s nothing worse than lumping together old people together. Their conversations focus on health woes, medications, the destruction of the world, and their abhorrence of taxes. Particularly taxes that support education. Their mantra: “I paid when my kids went to school; why should I pay now?” Duh? Because you want trained, educated young people taking care of you when you get ill. If these folks were surrounded by people of various ages, they just might discover how vibrant, intelligent, compassionate younger people are.

Now, the most startling revelation I’ve had is some of those in their twilight years carry grudges–grudges they probably will take to their graves. They get their knickers in a knot over some picayune thing one of their friends did, and they act like catty middle schoolers. Some still complain about what their boss did to them thirty years ago or how they were mistreated by their own sibling in elementary school. I just want to scream at them, “Ain’t nobody got time for that! Grow up! Be an adult!”

After all, life is a short trip. I won’t get any do-overs. The past is done, so I just appreciate every day. I fasten my seat belt and enjoy the ride.

I’ve dabbled in politics for twenty-some years by gathering signatures for candidates and ballot issues, donating money, to actively campaigning for candidates, to managing my five campaigns for school board. Each election cycle became more complex–more requirements, more laws, and a lot more money. Arizona school board races are supposedly non-partisan, and an elected school board member receives ZERO compensation for their four-year term. Yet, in 2022, some candidates spent in excess of $50,000 on their campaigns! For what? For people to yell and disparage at the board members about the teachers, the curriculum, and the cafeteria food. For the governor and/or the legislature to slash their budgets, change their textbooks, ban their library books, and decimate their Advanced Placement course offerings.

Of course, I have a theory about this sudden attack on the public schools. Smoke and mirrors, bait and switch, the shell game. Some politicians have perfected their routines to the point of nothing more than rhetoric about things that are trivial. Things that really are of minimal importance in the big picture. In fifteen months, we will be asked to elect a new POTUS (President of the United States). And besides opponent bashing, all I’m hearing are buzz words like woke, fake news, stolen elections, LGBTQ, and shady dealings with foreign governments. They purposefully ignore the difficult issues Americans face–climate change, housing costs, gun control, the economy, homelessness, immigration, health care, the poor, mental health, social security, and international trade relations.

Why? Because those are hard issues which require commitment, cooperation, and collaboration–not pork-barreling and grand standing. It’s much easier to destroy an underpaid teacher for discussing Huckleberry Finn or reading Dr. Seuss.

America is in dire need of heroes and heroines who are willing to up hold the US Constitution, to tackle real problems, and to commit to working in the spirit of what’s good for ALL Americans, not just special interest groups. We need heroes and heroines to focus on All of us, not just getting re-elected term after term. I am holding out for states people who put duty before self.

Perhaps, it’s my age, but this week has really tested my patience. Once I went to graduate school I began to question why our public schools were not creative places filled with excitement and creative ideas. The answer was always the same: we’ve always done it that way. I challenged that notion at every turn but made only subtle changes. However, part of my persona, though, doesn’t like change. I’ve had the same hairdresser for thirty years, used the same dog groomer for over twenty years, and prefer to only eat at a handful of restaurants. So you can imagine my angst this week when I encountered two abrupt changes.

Each week I frequent two or three stores. My large grocery store is remodeling once again and moving products from their “normal” places across the entire store to a new location. Of course, this is further complicated by leaving the old aisle signage in place. There are four aisles where the cereal, baking products, potato chips, and snacks used to be that are empty. It took me twenty minutes to find a cake mix! I was so frustrated I decided to go Walmart for dog food and dog treats. But…Walmart was remodeling too! Ye gods! It has taken me a while to memorize each store’s layout, and now I can’t find a damn thing!

Yet if that wasn’t enough to frustrate me, along comes the King of Florida, his Highness DeSantis, who really chapped my heinie. Published in 1597, Romeo and Juliet has been banished from Florida classrooms due to its sexual connotations and gender issues. Advanced Placement Psychology classes have been banned for the same reason, thus denying 33,000 Florida students who had elected to enroll in it this fall. Not only is this disconcerting, but appalling and absurd on so many levels. First, Shakespeare’s English is not easy to understand. Many teachers have used annotated versions that “translate” his word usage. I read Romeo and Juliet in the 9th grade, Macbeth and Hamlet in the 12th grade. My late mother’s English text, printed in 1937, included Romeo and Juliet and Macbeth in its entirety. We survived.

My shrink friends tell me the issues of gender and sexuality are central to one’s understanding of the human psyche. But we can’t talk about sex in a class a student chooses to take and that usually requires a parent’s signature. (Nor can the kid earn a college credit.) Did we forget the Internet? Are we so ignorant or stupid to know that any kid with a cell phone, I Pad, or home computer can access a gazillion of sexual stuff. Do we truly think our children don’t have access to adult knowledge? Talk about a naive populace!

There are things no one can change. In spite of all your vivid word choices, like throat slitting and slavery was in many ways a good thing. Ronny, you CAN’T CHANGE IT!

Seventeen days after its release, Barbie ticket sales reached over one billion dollars. Ted Cruz would say it’s because of the anti-male theme. Meanwhile, Ryan Gossling, the lead Ken, is laughing all the way to the bank.

Now, most students of American and world history know of women’s struggles for the right to vote, the right to be educated, and the right for equal pay for equal work. Many third world countries still do not allow women to vote, nor be educated. And even the most affluent countries have not adopted truly equitable pay for equal work. Which brings me to my first real story. My youngest’s first name is non-gender specific. Named after her grandfather, Renner, there’s no glaring sex recognition on her resume. She’s not Katie, Tiffany, nor Barbie. An accomplished, award-winning photographer, she applied for a position as camera person at a TV news station. Little did she know, the station had never had a woman behind the camera in its 40-year existence. The station manager, the news director, and the lead camera man were surprised when she walked into the interview and peppered her with questions about her physical abilities to carry around “heavy” camera equipment. After she was given the job, the lead camera man (now her boss) said. “I told the GM and the news director: Any monkey can be trained to hit record, but it takes a photographer with an eye to bring the video alive.” A year later, Renner’s still photographs of the human devastation of Hurricane Florence were shared on Lester Holt’s NBC Nightly News.

My second real story is disconcerting because it occurred just two weeks ago at my neighborhood grille. Owned by a man and two young women since October, the three entrepreneurs have drastically improved the facility, the menu, and the entertainment. The “dive” bar has morphed into a popular place to play trivia, poker for fun, listen to bands, and host booster club fundraisers. In fact, every two or three months they feature Drag Queen Bingo, a wildly popular event, with a well-known host (hostess.) When I walked in to pick up my to-go order, the two young female owners were livid. They shared: Sue, did you see those three guys who just left?

“Yes, I did. Why?”

“They said to me –is this the fag bar? I replied no. We are a neighborhood place that has food and water collection drives and went on to list all of our attributes. Then I added, ‘And that’s very impolite to refer to us as a fag bar.'”

“Sorry. You’re such a fragile woman.”

And with that the other owner approached them and spouted the same sentiment.

“Hey, we don’t need to have the owner to confront us because we upset your waitress.”

“She is also the owner.”

“Got it. Fag bar, owned by women,” one mumbled as they left.

So Barbie, keep raking in the billions and kudos for twisting Teddy’s knickers in a knot. And maybe some day, the patriarchy will realize how equal we gals are.

Since Barbie was not introduced until 1959, I was too old to be interested in the doll that became an international icon. My baby sister, though, spent hours with her friends clothing Barbie in the last fashion of the early 60’s. By the time my own daughters had Barbies, they also had a Pink dollhouse, elaborate sets, like a McDonald’s, beaches and swimming pools, cars and horse ranches. But the most irritating accessory they had was Barbie shoes! I swear those tiny spike heels were embedded in the carpet, stuck in the vacuum cleaner, and stuffed in the sofa cushions. And when I saw all the hype about the Barbie movie, I vowed I would never waste my time on seeing it.

Of course, my stance did a 360, when Teddy declared it morally unfit. Not because Barbie and Ken had correct anatomical parts–they didn’t. Not because they vaped and drank–they didn’t. Not because they engaged in PDA, or having sex–they didn’t. It was because the movie’s theme concerned the eons old institution of patriarchy.

Far be it for a film about a doll to have an opinion on a male-run world! In my opinion, one of the most powerful and poignant scenes is Gloria’s monologue, which I’ve copied below from MSN.com. Read it and decide for yourself if Ted Cruz is right.

“It is literally impossible to be a woman. You are so beautiful and so smart, and it kills me that you don’t think you’re good enough. Like we always have to be extraordinary, but somehow we’re always doing it wrong.

You have to be thin, but not too thin. And you can never say you want to be thin. You have to say you want to be healthy, but you also have to be thin. You have to have money, but you can’t ask for money because that’s crass. You have to be a boss, but you can’t be mean. You have to lead, but you can’t squash other people’s ideas. You’re supposed to love being a mother, but don’t talk about your kids all the damn time. You have to be a career woman, but also always be looking out for other people. You have to answer for men’s bad behavior, which is insane, but if you point that out, you’re accused of complaining.

You’re supposed to stay pretty for men, but not so pretty that you tempt them too much or that you threaten other women because you’re supposed to be part of the sisterhood. But always stand out and be grateful. But never forget that the system is rigged. So find a way to acknowledge that and be grateful. You have to never get old, never be rude, never show off, never fall down, never fail, never show off, never be selfish, never get out of line. It’s too hard! It’s too contradictory and nobody gives you a medal or says thank you! And it turns out in fact that not only are you doing everything wrong, but also everything is your fault.

I’m just so tired of watching myself and every single other woman tie herself into knots so that people will like us. And if all that is also true for a doll just representing women, then I don’t even know.”

From my perspective, I have been there and lived that. Next week I’ll share some true stories about the glass ceiling.

In the meantime, please feel free to PM your own stories and decide for yourself if a movie about a doll is anti-male and “morally unfit,” or if it merely told the other side of history.

For six years, my summer employment was at an Ohio Camp Fire Girls camp. For three years, I was a counselor and eventually Peter-Principled myself into the Program Director position. Believe me, after eight-weeks each year of tent living, cooking over campfires, and enduring the drama of tweenagers, I was more than ready to return to my civilized world of a real bed, ample clean clothes, and long soaks in a bath tub. This experience cured me of any desire to have a RV and travel around the states; today my idea of camping is staying in the Holiday Inn, instead of the Hyatt. However, in retrospect, I did learn a lot about arts and crafts, starting a fire in the rain, and singing a vast number os camp songs.

In the stifling Phoenix heat today, my memories took me back to camp, where the last week in July was designated Christmas week. Every summer a perfect live pine on the expansive property was designated as THE Tree to be adorned with homemade, nature friendly ornaments. Secret Santas were chosen, and throughout the week each child struggled to create a creative craft gift for their match. Noel songs replaced the usual song fest after each meal, and on Christmas Day, July 25, the cook staff replicated a traditional turkey dinner, completed with assorted homemade pies. Curiously, Christmas week was the most popular enrollment choice.

The temperature of my swimming pool is 95 degrees, the outdoor temperature is 118 degrees. Merry Christmas in July from melting Sue.

Over the years, I’ve blogged several times about Sass, my next door neighbor for 33 years. During that length of time, we built a strong bond, in spite of our differences. Born in London and raised in South Africa, she and her husband immigrated to Canada and then to the US. I marveled at her vocabulary–so many new English words and expressions, but after while I found myself using “dreadful” and “bloody” regularly. Our personalities were polar opposites–she was not warm, generous, or giving. She couldn’t be bothered learning people’s names, even though we played trivia with them every week. She was highly-opinionated and never knew when to back down or walk away from an argument. Hence, I nicknamed her, Sass. But our labels didn’t end there; we also referred to ourselves as Thelma and Louise.

In our 33-year friendship, Sass’s loyalty was unwavering. She’d graciously be the donor of a cup of sugar or an egg in a recipe emergency. She’d come on-demand and remove a snake from my yard. On the morning, I found my beloved, Roxy, pup dead under a tree, she helped me get the body into a box and accompanied me to the emergency vet for cremation. She became a strong supporter of children, particularly those in the arts and in alternative education. Further, we shared a love for dogs, gambling and politics; we spent numerous nights on my patio solving the problems of the world over cans of beer. As an atheist, she had very strong views about organized religion and its effects on followers.

Seven years ago, Sass had a heart attack. Four years later, pancreatic cancer surgery. And just as her chemotherapy ended, she had another heart attack–so severe she had to have open heart surgery. After that recovery, that sneaky ba@#$^d pancreatic cancer returned with vengeance. After enduring several months of a clinical trial, all hope was lost. During this very arduous ordeal, Sass never complained; she was not maudlin, nor weepy. She accepted her fate valiantly and with dignity, even though her frame resembled that of a concentration camp prisoner.

A week before she died, I went over to sit with her while her husband was at work. She said simply, “Sue, it’s over.”

I sat down next to her and took her hand: “No, it’s NOT! Thelma, don’t crap out on me. I love you. You’re beyond time, and you’ll live forever in my heart.”

A weak smile crossed her face. “I love you.”

As I stood at her bed and saw her corpse, I mumbled, “Oh, Thelma. Forever my partner in crime–Ride or Die.”

Twenty-nine years ago, I first encountered the Garcia family when I volunteered to serve as a mentor to Deb, the youngest child. In this particular mentorship program, my commitment was for seven years: 5th grade through high school graduation. My job was to help her succeed in school and encourage her continuing education after graduation.

Thankfully, Deb was highly motivated and her family supported her aspirations. Yet, we had the usual glitches along the way, including mean girls in middle school and a creepy teacher in high school. I sat in the bleachers and cheered during her softball games, celebrated her birthdays, and bought her little incentives along the way. I tried eating in the school cafeteria with her on several occasions, but the food was so dreadful, I brought her lunch once a week, as we caught up on the week’s events.

I was so proud of her the night I handed her a diploma–as proud as I was with my own kids. Four years later she graduated from Arizona State and got a job with the State Department of Economic Security. That accomplishment was not surprising because she is bilingual. Her English is so impeccable few people realize her talent. Not only did she excel at her job and breezed through a number of promotions, she married and has two small children.

But my blog is not just about Deb, it’s about her entire family and how they’ve enriched my life. I marvel at the joy they exude when together. They laugh and sing. I’m stunned by how well they all get along. Remarkably the cousins are very kind to one another. They assist the younger ones who struggle opening a bag a chips or forking up some lasagna.

When they were all at my casa last weekend, one of the five-year-olds whined, “There’s no more cookies left.”

His teenage cousin handed him hers, “Here, Luis, take mine.”

I was struck this sense of sharing also included more exciting things, like inner tubes and rafts, beach balls and diving toys, and even turns jumping off the diving board. And as my fiesta drew to a close, every child gathered up his/her own stuff. Every child hugged me and thanked me for having them.

I know many Mexican Americans display a strong family bond, which I suspect is passed along from generation to generation. Unfortunately, for many of us that dissipated the more mobile and transient we became. My children grew up without Sunday dinners at their grandparents’ home and family holiday traditions; they saw their cousins once a year. In fact, my entire family is scattered across America, and all of us haven’t been together for four years. Indeed, I’m in awe of mi familia, and I am most grateful to be embraced by them.