Beware. This may be the theme of my blogs for the next few weeks. I accept the fact I am old. I accept the fact that I’m crazy. However, there’s not a damn thing I can do about either, except vent my frustrations in my blog.

At this stage in life, my patience is on the last train to Clarksville. I can’t bear speaking with customer service representatives who are stationed halfway around the world and are incapable of understanding my problem. Yesterday, I had Ticketmaster tickets to an event and was on the phone with some guy in India trying to figure out how to download them. Yes, I realize any ten-year-old could have easily solved my issue, but I tried and failed. At one point during our 57-minute conversation, I resorted to crying. (What else is a gal to do?) “Just email me the friggin’ tickets, so I can print them!”

In unintelligible English, he said he couldn’t. “The venue does not accept paper tickets. Go into your search engine, download this, enter the verification number, click on events, do this, do that, X out of that, press this….”

You know the drill. Eventually I did get the tickets but remain clueless about how to transfer them to my Apple Wallet. What the hell is an Apple Wallet anyway? Does it have any money in it? I DON’T CARE!

Another thing that peeves my sanity is jars and bottles. Why can’t I open them? I tap them on the floor, I run hot water on them, I hit them with a hammer to no avail. My pantry is filled with pickles, mayo, and salad dressing I can’t open! But the absolute worst is Gatorade. While I’m still with the program enough to know it was invented for brawny athletes, I have a low sodium deficiency, which requires a daily dose of the gator. Thanks to the hardware store, I finally have the necessary tools to open my elixir: sharp pen knife, rubber hammer, and tin snips. (Wire cutters work too.) Instead of taking at least 45 minutes, I can get the top off in under a half hour.

At my age, though, I learned to accommodate my weakness. I gave up drinking bottled water because I couldn’t unscrew the top, and I only drink soda and beer in flip-top cans. It was either that or go thirsty, or find a strong man who’s computer savvy.

“Ain’t got time for that.”

Tuesday night, I arrived just before the start of weekly trivia, and all of my team members had already order their drinks and food. As I surveyed our reserved table, they were drinking a variety of water, soda water, and soft drinks. When my usual Miller Lite was set in front of me, they glared. “Don’t you know it’s dry January?”

Of course, I knew it was January; I’ve yet to lose all my marbles. “Yep, named after the Roman two-faced god, Janus.”

“You’re supposed to lay off the booze in January.”

“For the entire month? Can’t you have a dry martini?

“No!”

“Well, pardon me. Guess I missed that memo and am drinking alone tonight. Do you want me to join another team that drinks tonight?”

“No, you cant sit here because you know literature and Broadway.”

I felt so self-conscious. I wanted to sip by my beer under the table, for I was breaking the Dry January rules. To add a bit of levity to my guilt, I asked, “Does dry January also apply to sex?”

“Just in your case! You haven’t had any in years!”

“Touche.”

At the end of the first round of questions, the trivia host took fifteen or so minutes to tally scores. I went to the restroom, sat on the procelain throne and contemplated dry January. Certainly, the skin on my hands, arms, and legs is flaking off like dandruff. Dry January. Certainly, in Phoenix as of today, (1/19/2025), no measurable rain has fallen in 151 days! Dry January.

And tomorrow, (Monday), begins the long, four-year, very dry spell of sanity.

After I got divorced eons ago, I contracted some weird bug. For the last fourteen years, I went from doctor to doctor seeking a cure. I was prescribed a myriad of pills, suffered through physical therapy, had x-rays, MRI’s and CT scans. I got weekly shots for over two years, and I spent another three years lying on a shrink’s couch. Nothing seemed to help.

Finally, I became a patient of an astute physician. Dr. JA, and no, he’s neither a jackass, nor a quack. He’s got an MD behind his name. After two office visits he diagnosed my illness. “Sue, I’ve thoroughly researched your symptoms and believe I have discovered what’s wrong with you.”

Oh, ye Gods! I’m probably dying of some rare, alien disease that is the second recorded case in America.

“What you have is quite common in women your age.”

Oh, no. I have osteoporosis. I have Alzheimers. Or maybe something worse.

“You tend to like dogs.”

“Of course, doctor. They’re better than cats, and they don’t sit on my dining room table.”

“And currently, how many reside in your house?”

“Uh, let me think. Seven currently.”

“Currently?”

“Yes. My friend, who’s my age….”

“You mean elderly?”

“I prefer to call us contemporaries. Anyway, her kids have decided to move her across the Mississippi near them. They supposedly want to keep any eye on her. In other words, they want to keep an eye on their inheritance! They don’t want her taking up with some swain who steals all her money.”

“I see, and your point?”

“She has two shih tzus. You know the ones with attitudes, and she can’t take them with her.”

“So, you’re taking them? And then you’ll have nine dogs?”

“Hell, doc, who knows? Did you ever see the movie, Cheaper by the Dozen? But enough of that, you said you have diagnosed my strange disease. What is it?” I held my breath.

“Many Paws.”*

Haha!

(My apologies to The Good Old Days)

Unlike when I was a child, the older I get the more I appreciate neither the quantity nor the designer-tag quality of presents I receive. I adore the unique gifts, which illustrate the giver’s thoughtful and meaningful choice made for me. This year I received two such presents to my delight from a dear friend.

Two of my dogs are absolutely enamored with potholders. Even though, I buy pot holders by the dozen, they quickly end up mauled to death in the backyard. When the cookies are done, I must scurry around to find a hand towel to retrieve them from the oven. Thus, I was most jazzed to be gifted handmade, loomed potholders, like the ones I made in elementary school. Just what I always wanted (not really), but certainly what I needed! Plus, she made them herself on her old metal loom, which to me, was remarkable.

Her second gift, though, was anchoring–a $100 donation to Everytown for Gun Safety. While I was shocked when the Columbine shooting occurred in 1999, I was not on the school board. But when the massacre at Sandy Hook occurred in 2013, I was the President of the school board and was shaken to the core of my being. Our board wrestled with the issue of ensuring the safety of our 35,000 students. And to date, the horror of school shootings continue.

I hope you all receive one or two meaningful presents, which captured for you the true essence of the season. Happy New Year!