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It Seems to Me….

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Time goes by faster every year. I can’t believe Christmas is so near.

I need to shop and bake and write, but I read the news and shake with fright.

We blow up boats and deport non-whites, we break up families throughout the night.

No votes for women, they must be ladies, who cook and clean and tend to babies.

History’s destroyed; the East Wing’s gone. I fear old Lincoln won’t be long.

Tariffs have made the prices soar, forcing stores to close their doors.

Who in this season has caused this mess? Read the headlines. Any guess?

A selfish Grinch devoid of shame, as long as everything bears his name!

He lies and lies; he cheats and steals. He makes millions on all his deals.

So in this season to be jolly and deck the halls with boughs of holly, I’ll try to stay in a good mood. I’ll go out and do some good. Among those who are in need and have a lot of kids to feed.

My days grow shorter, that I know, and I have many miles to go

To cast my vote and have a say, and hope that cruel fop fades away.

At War with Words

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My two and a half-year-old grandson, my kids, and their husbands spent Thanksgiving with me, and it was a delightful time. However, the enthusiastic and energetic little dude almost wore this old lady out!

Since he has already learned to read and is most inquisitive, he and I spent a lot of time engaged in conversation about a variety of his interests. Once he corrected one of my rambunctious dogs emphatically, “Bader! Be kind. Don’t bark like that at Harper! Miss Debbie says we must be kind!”

Miss Debbie? “Who’s Miss Debbie, Buddy?”

“My teacher.” He wagged his little, index finger, “Miss Debbie says we must be kind and use kind words.”

Hmm. Perhaps, Miss Debbie should go to the Oval Office and have a talk with POTUS and his rag-tag cabinet about kind words. It would certainly be challenging to confront the disparaging words to women reporters, like ugly, piggy, stupid, an unhinged rant aimed at Tim Waltz, which included the word retarded. Or the VP’s remarks to soldiers: you’re full of shit if you like Thanksgiving Turkey. Or anything out of ICE Barbie’s, Karoline Leavitt’s, or RFK, junior’s mouths.

Perhaps, I’m cynical, but I don’t think Miss Debbie could win this war against words…only WE can next November.

Assassination of the Professional

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From the Merriam Webster dictionary, the definition of a professional: “The skill, good judgment, and polite behavior from a person who is trained to do a job well.” In other words, a professional is neither an amateur, nor a hobbyist, but someone with a substantial depth of knowledge, experience, ability, and skill. Someone who by definition, a plumber, an electrician, a teacher, a nurse, a chemical engineer, or a physical therapist. BUT, not necessarily some bombastic politician who reaps profits from his/her elected position, who preys on the uneducated, who ignores the needs of others, and who wants humiliates and disparages anyone who disagrees or questions him/her.

Case in point: This week, the following by edict are no longer classified as professionals: Anyone with a Master’s or doctoral degree in certain fields. WTH? Education? Nursing? Social Work? Public Health? Counseling? Physical, Occupational, Speech therapy? MBA’s? Engineering? Now, when this news broke, I was stunned. How could someone who wants to import and infuse smart Chinese folk into American business, yet downgrade as “professionals” some of America’s best and brightest?

Hmm. Could that someone be the guy who hires a crack pot attorney to head Health and Human Services, or a Secretary of Education who thinks AI is a steak sauce? Could that someone, who boasts of his brilliance be the guy who didn’t get into Harvard and knows nothing about geography?

Granted that someone has the skill to hawk Bibles, tennis shoes, and crypto coins, but sorely lacks good judgment, and polite behavior. Sorry, guy. You ain’t no professional.

“I Didn’t Do it.”

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Like most of us, there were times when I did do it and failed to portray an angelic look on my face, which betrayed my innocence.

“Miss Snell.”

“Yes, Robert.

“Suzanne, Ernie, and Maurice are chewing up cardboard and spitting it on the floor.”

Indeed, I was guilty, as were the two others, and we had to rid the floor of our disgusting spit wads.

Yes, I’ve lived long enough to be accused of numerous crap along the way. Particularly during my twenty years on the school board. I’ve had investigative reporters shangai me in my driveway and accuse me of being homophobic, prejudiced against old folk, immigrants, disabled, etc. My response: “Bring it on. Release the intel you supposedly have.” Why? Because I knew I was none of those labels, and my actions would prove it.

I’m in a quandary. If POTUS had no involvement in the Epstein files, why not release the files? If POTUS is innocent, why would his lackeys browbeat Laura Boebert and MT Greene to vote against the file release? If POTUS is innocent, why would he order the Department of Justice to investigate Clinton and the other Democrats?

To me, what is most revolting and heinous is the new spin: these young girls were NOT children. They were old enough to know better. Really? So the lechers weren’t pedophiles? They weren’t rapists? Frankly, I don’t give a rat’s hind end if these predators were billionaires, paupers, Princes, Democrats, Republicans, or Communists. Prosecute them all! Hold them accountable! And…award the victims damages.

Thimblerig, AKA the Shell Game

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Most of us have this game; sometimes on a street corner, at a bar, or at a party. Using three cups with a coin, a bottle cap, or a pea, the con artist hides the object under a cup and quickly shuffles the three cups around. Your job is to bet which cup covers the object. Of course, the con snatches up your money, as you have chosen the wrong cup. You are mystified by this two-hundred-year-old trick–and out five bucks!

Me? I discovered this week I, too, was a victim several weeks ago at a garden center, where some sick, deranged fool switched the identifying stakes in the tomato plants. I thought I bought “Better Boy” and “Celebrity” tomato plants, but after five straight days of rain and three weeks of desert sun, the vines were a sea of green small balls. Damn! Cherry tomatoes! What good is a bushel of cherry tomatoes? Megamillions of seeds to lodge in my teeth and wreck havoc in my digestive track. I certainly was in no mood to grind them into salsa, nor cook them down and strain all the seeds.

My only choice was to remove the plants, go buy new ones, hope the weather cooperated, and I’d reap a crop. “Do you think it’s too late to plant these?”

“Not sure, ma’am,” said the guy in the garden center. “Depends on the weather.”

Duh. “The only reason I have to is I got snookered by Thimblerig!”

He looked at me quizzically. “Uh, what?”

“Thimblerig. The Shell Game. Someone switched out the stakes in your plants; I thought I was buying big tomatoes, not cherry tomatoes. I’m not wasting my time and my water bill on dumb little cherries.”

“Ha, I hear ya! I got gut problems, too. Let me tell you a story about my friend who bought his kid a pygmy pig and ended up with a 400-pound sow.”

By the end of his story, I was regaled in laughter. Yes, Suzanne, there’s a lot worse things than buying cherry tomato plants.

Here It Comes Again

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Many of you fell back to standard time yesterday, and today the grocery stores and big box scores were selling holiday wares. TV ads for the “most wonderful time of the year” were aired by a variety of sponsors. Even pre-Black Friday sales events are trending.

As a child, I anxiously awaited the long holiday break from the monotony of school. I was raring to drink hot chocolate, leaf through the Sears Catalog, sled ride, ice skate, and pound my brother with snowballs. But then, those days of November to mid-December crawled by. Would the holidays ever arrive?

Now, as a septuagenarian, I’m astounded! In less than two months, it will be 2026. Where did the time go? What did I do? Did I accomplish anything other than just trying to stay alive and out of jail? Did I make a difference in the lives of others?

Obviously, I managed to stay alive and out of jail. I hope I’ve accomplished things, I hope I’ve been kind and respectful, and I hope I’ve helped folk along the way. But one thing I absolutely know for certain is: I have NOT solicited for a $5.00 donation to get into Heaven, nor did I throw a $3 million party for Jay Gatsby.

The swift downhill journey to ’26 is upon us.

Sick, Heinous, and Disgusting: CHICAGO

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As some of you know, I’ve a young friend, Annie, who lives in a suburb of Chicago, where she and her husband, Ben, have a daughter in the first grade in a public school. Ben is an American of Filipino descent; thus, his skin color is mocha. Even though he is a corporate executive, his wallet carries his birth certificate, social security card, and a copy of his university credentials. In America? Hell, yes. Why? Because ICE is randomly zip-tying people of “color.”

Now, if you’re not appalled and enraged by Ben’s fear, imagine their six-year old daughter, who, too, lives in fear. Her teacher took them to the playground for recess this week, and ICE masked agents showed up! Fortunately, this teacher herded her crying students back into the building without incident. But the psychological damage done to children that day can not be minimized. Nor can we ignore the repeated “active shooter” drills, our children are subjected to monthly. In America? Hell, yes. Why? The NRA lobby.

However, Annie, Ben, and their neighbors met and decided to confound their dilemma; they organized. They escort kids to and from school, ‘they watch over the alleys and ingress points for several blocks surrounding the school to ensure every child gets home to a safe adult.’ In America? Hell, yes. Why? Good question.

Annie’s final comment to me: Sue, Chicago is under attack, but Chicago is rising. The unity and alignment I’ve seen as neighbors is inspiring. This is a veiled excuse to try to intimidate the people of Chicago, and it isn’t working. We will keep protecting our neighbors.

In America? Hell, yes! Why? BECAUSE WE ARE AMERICANS!

The First Wives’ Club

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As most of you know, I’m a card-carrying member of this organization, and I know all the words to You Don’t Own Me, even though I can’t sing like Lesley Gore. When Diane Keaton died last week, social media was awash with the movie clip of she, Bette Midler, and Goldie Hawn’s exit to that song.

The First Wives’ Club premiered in 1996; I was 48, Diane and Bette, 50, and Goldie, 51 years old. Even after all the years have passed the movie remains a vivid memory and makes me smile as I remember Elise’s (Goldie) bulging, botoxed lips, Brenda’s (Bette) quick wit, and Annie’s (Diane) takeover of her husband’s fortune. What surprised me the most about Keaton’s final pictures was how old she looked. Then I saw photos of Bette and Goldie; hell, Bette even has grey hair! How can that be? Where has the time gone? And the most recent photos of Robert Redford before his death–ye Gods! What happened to the Sundance Kid?

Little did I know I was in for the ultimate shock; I looked in the bathroom mirror. OMG! Who’s that ancient creature staring at me? Even Maleficent looks better than me! Oblah dee, oblah da….

I AM ANGRY!

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Quoting Mick Jagger: “I’ve lived 82 years on this earth, and this is the first time I’ve ever witnessed people delighting in the suffering of others so openly, so proudly, and even recording it for the world to see.”

When I read this, I paused and thought. Mick nailed my feelings: delighting in the suffering of others–a most damning statement. And from I see and read, that’s exactly what’s happening–sometimes to the point of even celebrating the misery of the homeless, the immigrants, the aged, but most importantly the children.

I’ve come to the realization that my view of Jesus differs greatly from the Jesus of the far right. And no, I’m not going to bore you with Bible quotes; you know them. They are all as simple as: do unto others….

Our future is solely in the hands of our children. As a nation, we can’t expect them to reach adulthood, without scientific-based, health care. Nor can we expect them to be compassionate, caring neighbors when they learn hate and disrespect of others. Nor can we expect them to be cooperative collaborators, when we promote and celebrate divisiveness. Nor can we expect them to even be sane and rational when their early lives of filled with fear of school shooters or masked, armed soldiers zip-tying them away from their family. Nor, should any child be a victim of sexual abuse!

Once again, I ask all of us: who is going to wipe the drool from our mouths, change our diapers, or put the spoon to our lips, as we lay dying? Our children. Amen.

The Best Bargain Ever

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I spent this week fixing up my diabolical mess from last. The fallen trees were removed, the skylight was replaced, the air conditioner was serviced again, and my dog is doing better. Further, my wonderful landscaping service redid my front yard, and my cleaners made my interior immaculate. Needless, to say, it was a pricey week, but I also scored the best bargain ever.

How? My mom taught me how to shop long before the pandemonium for designer clothing and Labubu dolls. She clipped grocery coupons and dragged my sibs and me to Strouss’ basement’s sales. (If you were raised in Youngstown, Ohio, you’d know Strouss. It was an Ohio version of Nordstrom’s, particularly The Rack.)

The first Wednesday of the month at Phoenix groceries is Senior Citizen Day, where seniors get 10% off most stuff. I wandered into a high-end, signature store that not only sells food staples, but clothing, shoes, dishes, toys, and linens. Since I needed to kill some time before my next stop, I moseyed through the aisles and ended up in the shoe department which carries one of my favorite brands of cool tennis shoes. On the shelf was a sign: 90% Off. Damn! I looked at the shoe box–size 10. Too big for me, but not too big to donate. In fact, some teenage girl would probably adore these trendy, silver shoes to wear to homecoming.

I put the originally-priced $50.00 shoes in my shopping cart along with the rest of my groceries and checked out. I strode out of the store smiling, for I knew someone would delight in my best bargain ever: $1.34 including my senior discount. Move over 47. That was an “”art of the deal.” Who knows? It may be worthy of a Nobel Prize.