To this day, I remember my first encounter with a tattletale, whose name is disguised as RF. I was in Miss Snell’s second grade class, when RF raised his hand and proudly proclaimed, “Him, him, and her are chewing up cardboard and spitting it on the floor!” Yes, Meice, Ernie, and I were doing that and were forced to gather up our transgression and deposit the slimy wads in the wastebasket. I’ve loathed RF from that day forward.

Today, there’s a new surreptitious group of tattletales; I’m not talking about whistle blowers like Erin Brockovich, who actually bring down bad guys. I’m talking about nosy Nancys and obnoxious Home Owner Associations (HOA’s,) who patrol their neighborhoods. The nosy Nancy’s hide behind curtains and blinds or slink along walls. They’ve neither the forthrightness, nor the courage to confront face-to-face the perpetrator of their grievance. Instead, they anonymously report to the manager of their apartment complex that Unit 123 plays loud music, or unit 515 has guests under 55 years of age playing pickleball on the court. In fact, senior citizens’ communities rank number 2 in my book; these residents obviously have too much time and choose to police their neighbors. They even complain about their next-door neighbor’s tree blowing leaves into another’s swimming pool. Ye Gods! Get a life!

My number 1 Tattletale goes to HOA’s! A mean, vitriolic, nasty group charged with the enormous responsibility of enforcing the quasi-laws of the neighborhood. Sometimes as many as four or five members, armed with pens and clipboards walk the sidewalks looking for violations. House number 513 has weeds in the front lawn; house number 408’s garage door is not the color of beige required; the spa on House number 285’s patio is full of algae. Additionally, the HOA Board holds monthly meetings to hear further complaints and of course, draft more and more rules. (I think they’re trying to compete with the IRS to see who can have the most rules.)

Finally, the egos of HOA Board members are out of control; they view themselves of great importance as they wield their power. Poor Mrs. Johnson is routinely confronted for her barking dog or for her untrimmed roses, not to mention Old Man Miller who frequently forgets to take in his garbage can after the trash truck has emptied it. And on top of all of this, is the monthly HOA fee. A fee, which rarely remains the same from year to year. When the all-powerful board decides a new piece of state-of-the- art, exercise bike is needed for the workout gym, the assessment is raised. Their newest fad is adding pickleball courts, replete with lighting and a tiered grandstand. And again, the assessment is raised.

I sincerely hope I never end up living in a place overrun with tattlers!

Fifty-eight years ago, our family had a foreign exchange student student from Tokyo spend a year with us. It was truly an amazing experience for both Toko and me to spend our senior year enjoying the ins and outs of American culture. Surprisingly, we have remained “sisters” and have continued to see each other and be a part of each other’s families. Of course, I’ve never ventured to Japan, but my worldly Toko has traveled the continents and always makes time to stop in Phoenix.

She has been here the last three weeks, and we’ve been to South Carolina to see our new baby. We’ve gorged ourselves on her favorite US cuisine, and we’ve shopped until we dropped. Both my sister and brother and their spouses spent a weekend with us, and we entertained Toko with the Ohio State football game at a sports bar. (She was bored with the game but enjoyed the beer!) One of her friends from Chicago also visited for a few days and explored the sights.

We’ve had an exceptional time, filled with delightful conversations on politics, leadership, families, children, and age. Yes, we’ve talked about the reality of age. “Sue, I will not be back to Phoenix again. It’s just too much for me. My total traveling time was 21+ hours, waiting in long lines, walking great distances, crammed into tiny spaces. I just can’t do it again.”

“You, the world adventurer, tells me you’re not going to do it anymore?” I gasp, “I hope you’re not suggesting I do it! No way! I can’t read, nor speak Japanese!”

Our conversation turned reminiscent and morphed philosophical. We talked about climate, war, and death. Though we didn’t solve one world problem, each of us went to bed with a mutual understanding and hope for our grandchildren’s future. Oh, and we did agree we weren’t too old to rendezvous in Hawaii in a couple of years.

Last weekend my Japanese sister, Toko, and I traveled to South Carolina to visit my kids and their families. Our trip was wonderful, fun-filled, and informative. Of course, the highlight was our newest addition–my seven-month-old grandson.

Since Mac is my first and only grandchild, I choose not to be the bragging Grandma on social media, but admittedly he is delightful and very amusing. As our stay progressed, so did my frustration. “It’s not fair” echoed through my mind. No, my feeling of unfairness is not because I won’t live long enough to watch him graduate from high school, nor college, it is solely because he’s a great baby! A baby that sleeps twelve hours at night, a baby who smiles and doesn’t cry, a baby who waits patiently to be fed or changed, a baby who lets nothing bother him.

In contrast, his mother was a real handful. She never slept twelve hours at a time. She was always into everything, with the attention span of a gnat. Granted she grew up, self-actualized, and is highly successful, but I remain rather stunned her child is so easy. Perhaps, when he masters walking, he will exasperate his mom’s patience. I can only hope.

(One more thing I learned. Our flights required a plane change in Charlotte, NC. The ONLY airport I’ve ever been in that doesn’t sell newspapers. What’s up with that? Thank God, we didn’t run out of toilet paper on our flight back to Phoenix!)

According to current statistics, 97% of Americans have a cell phone,and more than half of children ages of 11 and up also do. Eighty-four percent of teens own cell phones. Of course, cell phone usage by children and teens has not been without issues in classrooms across America. These electronic devices have facilitated the passing of notes and cheat sheets and have been a constant source of distraction from learning. At lunchtime, teens, in particular, are huddled around tables roaming through their screens. Though not limited to teens, even adults are addicted to scrolling. When I board an airplane, every seated passenger is gazing down at a screen. Some lament that cell phones have shut down personal, face-to-face communication. Instead of asking someone out, a text is sent. To avoid personal confrontation, it’s just easier to text: BTW, I want a divorce. As a former English teacher, I could also rue the creation of cell speak, as a corrupter of language. However, I’m rather fond of the short cuts, like TY, OMG, and LMAO!

For me, the cursed consequence of the cell phone occurs when I lose it or I leave it at home when I go somewhere. Why? Because I Do NOT know anybody’s phone number! I did not have a cell phone until I was over 40. Not because I couldn’t afford one, but because they weren’t available to the masses! Thus, I had to dial or punch in numbers of those I was calling, many of which were etched in my memory. With the advent of the cell phone, which conveniently held my directory of contacts, it was unnecessary to memorize phone numbers.

You can imagine my angst when I flew to North Carolina a few months ago and left my cell phone on my kitchen island. I had no way to contact my kids that I had arrived and was awaiting pick-up. Of course, I could have asked a random stranger to borrow his/her phone, but… I did NOT know my own kid’s phone number! Tragic. Since life occasionally throws me curve balls and since I no longer memorize phone numbers, I’ve made lists of important numbers for my wallet and for my car. The next time I leave home without my phone, I’ll be prepared!

NOTE TO FRIENDS: Perhaps, you need to heed my advice.

Yes, I’m fully aware of the vilification of Dr. Seuss, but he was a very wise man–particularly when he said: Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened. Reminiscent of Tennyson’s line: Tis better to have loved and lost, than never to have loved at all.

As I said in a previous blog, my 75th year is riddled with introspection. As I fast forward through my memories, I realize that some of my darkest moments now bring smiles and sometimes downright laughter. Several months ago when my next door neighbor and best bud for thirty plus years died, I thought I was broken. But the other day, I found a silk scarf she’d brought me from her trip to Australia and a half-pack of her cigarettes she left in my keeping. (Yes, she smoked for over fifty years, and her husband didn’t know. Her story, not mine.) I found these discoveries so amusing I spent the next hour or so recalling some of our most memorable shenanigans like the night she donned one of my kid’s wigs and convinced some folk she was Melania with her accent. As many of you have lost a family pet, you understand the grief. Yet, somehow as you scroll through your pictures, you cherish their puppy antics. And though it was funny when it happened, one of my former dogs stole two, thawing steaks off the kitchen island when I went to retrieve the mail.

Curiously, Dr. Seuss’ wisdom can be applied to a myriad of things: retiring from a career, losing an election, December 26th, summer vacations, or even a marriage. But as I posited several weeks, life is a short trip. There are no do-overs. I have a choice. I can cry until my last breath or I can….

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!