Yes, I’m old. Yes, I’ve had to scale back on the jobs I can safely execute. I no longer climb ladders above the third rung, and I no longer use a weed whacker because too many pieces of stone have whacked my legs. However, I’m still capable of cooking, cleaning, maintaining the pool, doing the laundry, and mowing the lawn. I rototill my garden, plant it, and tend to it. But this week, it took me three days to complete the job from hell. A job I will never do again!

The job? Clean the built-in barbecue grill. This task was an absolute nightmare. The stinky, caustic, heavy-duty oven cleaners were of minimal help. Hours were spent scraping with wire brushes, five rolls of paper towels were expended wiping, as were three cans of stainless steel wipes. Even though I was wearing gloves through part of this ordeal, my nails were trashed by my efforts. Then I cleaned the granite counter top using the top-recommended product, which took another four hours. Finally, it was done.

As you know, I spent my entire professional career in public education; I’m a master at rubrics; I know how to fairly evaluate performance. I assessed my grill cleaning. Hmm. My completed project was NOT even average. “Sue, that’s a D. You can do better.” (Perhaps a quote by Mediocrates!) It was probably a F performance, but the grill looked a bit better than it did when I started.

I carefully covered the grill with its tarp, and it will be a long time before I cook a steak or a hamburger. Damn! I just remembered I’m having company next week from cold country. Of course, they will want to fire up the grill. So be it. But the next time the grill needs cleaned, I’m hiring a pro.

I suspect all of us, at one time or another, played this game: would you rather go sledding or swimming in the ocean? Would you rather eat crickets or grasshoppers? Would you rather live in Arizona or Alaska?

A number of children’s authors have published a whole new collection of Would You Rather books. Available on Amazon in either paperback or electronic version, these are hilarious and surefire conversation starters on a road trip and even the dinner table. The object of the game is to make the other player laugh when posed with: would you rather eat a bowl of pudding filled with nails or drink a cup of hot chocolate full of cat hair? And while one may find this silly, give serious consideration to the question. Certainly, one probably wouldn’t die from cat hair but probably would die from eating nails. But is it possible to eat the pudding without eating the nails?

Would you rather smell a dirty diaper or skunk spray? Would you rather have two tongues that hung out of your mouth to your shoe tops or three purple noses on your posterior? Of course, these books are stuffed with gross kid questions, which are sure to cause laughter, such as would you rather fart and blow up in the air or burp and fall into a pig pen?

To me, any book, which encourages one to think, regardless of the entertaining and ludicrous questions, has value. Books, like these, teach both creativity and intuitiveness. God knows, we need more creative thinkers solving our nation’s issues. As adults, we are continually faced with choices: some good, some not-so good; some consequential, some not. Would I rather go to work or go fishing? Would I rather cook dinner or eat out? Would I rather study for the final or go to Tom’s party? So why not teach our children in a humorous way to make thoughtful and wise choices?

I just opened a beer. Oops! I could have had a V-8!

I vividly remember New Year’s Eve, 1999. Theorists suggested it would be the end of the world as we knew. Computers would crash, banks would go under, we would never survive. We decided to make NYE an experience for our kids–just in case the world ceased to exist–and we rented hotel rooms with several other couples and their kids in downtown Tempe. Home of Arizona State, Tempe threw the most elaborate festivities. Food, drink, and entertainment were in abundance. Drunk college boys were randomly kissing strangers, everyone was singing and laughing, as a variety of bands took the stage.

After receiving 10 free bags of Tostidoes from the sponsor of the Fiesta Bowl, we all walked back to the hotel. We adults decided viewing the midnight fireworks from our balcony might be safer for kids than being amidst all of the revelers. As we waited for the light to change to cross one street, our kids were entertained by three young coeds barfing in the bushes. We were all in the bed by 2:00 AM–we had made it to the 21st Century!

Then, at 3:30 AM, the fire alarm went off. We ushered the kids down the four floors of stairs to join the numerous Tennessee fans who were also staying at the hotel. Some of them were chugging beer out of gallon plastic milk jugs, and of course, they were proudly wearing their orange pajama pants. The all-clear signal sounded, and we returned to bed. Yet, at 4:15, 5:30, and 6:00 AM, the fire alarm blasted. Enough of four floors of steps! We checked out at 6:30 AM.

We all certainly had a memorable experience greeting 2000; little did we know what lie ahead.

We all learned to count, and usually it began with our fingers and toes. As we progressed nursery rhymes, such as one, two, buckle my shoe, reinforced our learning. Eventually, the alphabet got involved in math, and that’s when I checked out. It didn’t matter to me if A + B= C. Just how much do I owe for groceries?

Now, there were times when I counted down, particularly the days before Christmas. I made paper chains and never missed a day removing a link in enthusiastic anticipation of Santa’s arrival. I also counted down the days until summer vacation, my birthday, and my graduation. However, and this is the truth, I have never balanced my check book. As long as I have checks, I figure I must have money. Nor have I ever counted calories. Why bother? If I get hungry, I eat. (However, I’ve been somewhat blessed with the metabolism that seems to manage my food intake.)

Several months ago, however, I had an epiphany! Counting consumed my life, when I was exposed to COVID! Oh, sweet baby Jesus, what now? I scoured the internet–14 day-quarantine. Damn, I’ve spent the last six months living a cloistered life, where my only joy was a fifteen-minute shopping spree at the grocery. Now, even my one venture out in the world was squelched. Yet, somehow, I endured my 14-day lockdown with potato chips, Hallmark movies, and four novels.

Then came promise of the vaccine, but how long would it be before my age-group could schedule an injection? Weeks. I counted. Finally, I scored appointment #1. I was elated; I thought I won the lottery or the Willy Wonka gold bar. I counted the weeks, then the days, and finally the hours until the syringe hit my arm. Twenty-one days until #2. My countdown continues. Yet, another countdown looms–fourteen days after #2.

And yesterday I learned the results of my recent blood test: “Sue, you have COVID antibodies, and no, it has nothing to do with dose #1. You have had COVID.” Hmm. I’ve wasted a lot of days worrying and counting.

Mine? Not much. Particularly these days when I’ve limited people interaction, adventures other than the grocery store, and no airline trips to exotic places. Even my imagination seems to be holed up in self-isolation; I feel like a hermit or the crazy old, dog lady on 38th Street.

Yet, I do have one delightful entertainment: Story Worth. My kids bought me a subscription for Christmas; I think they’re looking for evidence to secure my commitment to the nut house. Just kidding, it’s kind of cute. Every Monday I’m sent a writing prompt, i.e. What are your favorite songs? What were your grandmothers like? How did you get your first job? If I don’t like the prompt, there are a myriad of others to which to respond.

I type my response to the weekly question and can even attach a picture. Then hit send, and it’s sent to both my kids and Story Worth. At the end of the year, all of my weekly responses will be printed and bound in a memory book and sent to my kids. I’m jazzed about this service because it entertains me and forces me to do something weekly. Secondly, it activates my brain. Take, for example, what are your favorite songs? Duh, that’s easy. Not for me. The more I thought about it the longer my list grew. My favorites were scattered across genres: classical, rock, pop, sacred, Broadway, folk, holiday, and silly camp songs. Notice I’m not aficionado of rap or jazz. I like songs with understandable words that convey a message, not repeat the F word over and over again. Even now, as I ponder this question, I realize I forgot a half dozen more favorites.

I’m sure in the weeks to come there will be questions I will avoid. Some answers are better taken to my grave than printed in a memory book. We’ve all had those moments, right? When our common sense took a vacation, and yet, we survived.

I fully realize our new “normal” has been frustrating. Every morning we awake and wonder if the scourge is gone, and every morning nothing has changed. But if you decide to chronicle a year and tax your grey matter, google Story Worth. Though it’s not quite as amazing as Sandy’s Chocolate Chunk Cookies, it’s less fattening!

Long before the terms COVID, pandemic, social distancing, or mask mandates, etiquette was slowly disappearing from our vocabulary. Now, I’m no Miss Manners or Emily Post, but I was taught decorum. I learned at an early age to say please and thank you an an occasional sorry. I labored over thank-you notes, and I didn’t spit on the sidewalk. I didn’t mock nor ridicule a disabled person, nor did I light a cigarette in church.

However, over the last ten years, manners have gradually evaporated. Our society has okayed, give me a Coke, or go home you filthy wetback. The days of receiving thanks for a gift have vanished, as have requests for a phone call return or a response (RSVP) to an invitation. (God forbid if the party invitation includes BYOB or an appetizer to share–Good Luck with that.)

Yet, in comparison, these examples are somewhat tolerable today. Granted the COVID shit show has been fueled with denial and misinformation. Science was dismissed to save the economy. Hoax? Shall 400,000 dead have that etched on their monuments? No federal plan to vaccinate folk–let the states decide. Just keep the economy going and open the schools. Kids aren’t going to die. Teachers may, but anybody can teach.

Finally, vaccines are available. Though as scarce as toilet paper in many areas of the country, hope is on the horizon. Even though vaccinations sluggishly begin, even though there is no master plan, even though demand far outweighs supply, there is hope. Until… common decency and etiquette disappear.

Unless one has been living under a rock, it’s well-known the vaccine is fragile, i.e. it has a short shelf life. Imagine my anger as a senior with health issues trying to score a coveted appointment for dose one and learn, 380 scheduled appointments were NO SHOWS at a local site yesterday. Are you as livid as me?

In the 1990 movie, Misery, this quote was spoken, but I’d heard this term on the playground over 65 years ago. Yes, it was disparaging, and as I recall it was used to by the opposing team to describe someone who caught a fly a ball to end the inning or to rebuke a tattletale.

I’ve never been a fan of birds after watching the movie by the same name or being chased by my grandparents’ mean rooster. I can appreciate the majesty of a bald eagle or a soaring osprey; I can smile as a pelican swoops into the Gulf for dinner; I can ogle at the colorful parrots and macaws at the zoo. But basically, I detest birds–yes, even if they eat insects. They not only eat bugs, they peck at near-ripe fruit and tomatoes. They pull up seedlings as the plants peek through my garden soil. Ok, I accepted that; I’ve learned to use netting to cover the fruit trees and to place clear plastic cups on my bean sprouts. However, I can not deal with bird poop.

My ordeal with bird feces began when folk on the next street moved and released all of their cooped pigeons into the atmosphere. Unfortunately they migrated under the overhang roof in the front of my casa. Of course, my water fountain is directly below and was soon filled with two or three inches of defecation. It was also all over the patio and its furniture; it dripped down the large windows. It was far beyond disgusting–it made me gag when I looked at the blobby mess. So last weekend, I had plastic spikes installed to prevent rafter roosting. Thanks, to my incredible landscaper the bird s#*t had been meticulously removed, but by Wednesday, my pristine front patio was trashed again. Those wily pigeons are masochists! They enjoy standing on a bed of nails!

Back to Amazon I went. Should I buy a robotic owl that hooted and flashed its yellow eyes? (Too pricey.) Should I buy an ultrasound alarm that blasted a variety of noises? (Hell, no.). How about mirrored, dangling reflectors, which were guaranteed to send the pigeons packing? The price was alright; they were guaranteed; why not? It took my two hours to assemble the reflectors which somewhat look like wind chimes. Cheap wind chimes. After I hung them, I decided they were the ultimate in tackiness. I shall endure them only as long as they drive out my diarrhea pigeons.

Of course, it’s too soon to tell. Stay tuned until next week. But by then, I may have sent for Bill Murray, who was so adept at obliterating gophers…not. He may be better with dirty birds.

In 1948, Frank Gilbreth and his sister, Ernestine Carey, published a semi-autobiographical book about growing up with 10 siblings–Cheaper by the Dozen. Supposedly, their parents ran their household as a “laboratory” based on education and efficiency. The children were not only expected to complete chores and homework in a timely manner, but their performances were clocked to reach maximum efficiency.

Of course, many of us pay particular attention to time. God forbid if we were late to work or to pick up our child from school. Some of us are more Type A; dinner is at 7:00, not 7:30 or you’ll eat cold roast beef. And even though I sometimes have to wait far beyond my scheduled doctor’s appointment, I arrive at least fifteen minutes early. In contrast, there are those, who are consistently late. We all have those kind of friends we send invitations and move the arrival time up 30 minutes. The proverbially late to their own funeral sort.

Admittedly, I’m Type A+. I pride myself on punctuality. In a city the size of Phoenix, I plan for some unforeseen traffic delay or the rarest of rainstorm flooding. Yet, the raging COVID cases in Arizona have also caused me to be extraordinary efficient with my time. I’m so Type A+ crazy, I structure my grocery list based on the store’s layout. Today, for example, I dropped off some of my copious crop of grapefruit to my favorite attorney. (No, that’s not an oxymoron. He’s a good guy.) The items on my list were readily available at most any store and Walmart was in nearest proximity, so be it. As I entered the store, I checked my watch. “In and out in 10 minutes, Sue. No gawking at customers, no browsing for items you buy on a whim. Focus on the list.” Thirteen minutes, I was on my way home, committed to be more efficient next time.

Unfortunately, Arizona government seemingly does not get the notions of time and efficiency. Number 1 in the world in raging COVID, no state-wide, mask mandate, no closures of non-essential businesses, and snail-pace roll out of vaccines. WTH? Perhaps, I’ll send the governor a stop watch.