GIRLS: A True Story

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Allison is a young friend of mine, who’s originally from New York, as in the City. Yes, she has the Naw Yawk accent. She was educated in elite private schools, holds a degree from Hofstra, and is an accomplished equestrian. Given her very pricey hobby of owning horses, she has three jobs. By day, she’s a supply chain manager for a large corporation, she’s a professional, three-night-a week bartender, and she teaches riding lessons on the weekend.

Surprisingly , Allison is one of the most upbeat persons I’ve ever met. She’s uber enthusiastic and energetic, yet on my last encounter she was sad. Oh dear, I thought. Did something happen to one of her horses? Or one of her adopted chihuahuas?

“Allison, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Sue, I got called into HR today.”

“Wow, are you being promoted again?”

“I wish. No. I used inappropriate language.”

I smiled. “Like what? Called someone a name, like jerk or horse’s ass?”

“According to HR, I did something far worse; in fact, totally inappropriate in the work place. I manage a seven-member team of women. The HR Director overheard me say, ‘Hey girls, where shall we go to lunch today?'”

“And you got called in for that?”

“Yep. I was told to refer to them as ladies or women. Girls is inappropriate.”

“Allison, sit down. Let me tell you a story–a story I know you studied, given your classical education. Remember when Juliet asks, ‘What’s in a name?’ What does she say next?”

“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Correct. My dear Allison, girl is more appropriate than the current government’s use of piggy or fucking bitch.”

What do you think?

Questions: Some Answers

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Journalism majors know their front-page lead sentence is to explicitly answer WWWWWH. Who, what, when, where, why, and how. True I’m a just a retired English teacher and not a journalist, but I’ve been struggling for the last year with these five W’s and H.

I can answer some: Who: Donald Trump. How: A toss up. Stupidity? Bigotry? Immorality? Idolatry? Where: Obviously America, duh, Los Angeles, Chicago, Portland, Minneapolis, and all the other cities where ICE has reared Barbie’s rage. (Pardon me, but her Botox lips look like a possum’s ass in pokeberry season–my grandfather’s favorite line.)

I also have a what and a when: January 7, 2026, Renee Good executed by ICE. She was a WHITE mom, she was a US citizen, she wasn’t armed, her dog was in the back seat of her car, her last words were, “Hey, dude, it’s okay….” Yet, she was shot in the face, not once, but 3 Times!

WHY? There were other alternatives, like shoot the air from her car tires. Ram her car from behind. Fire tear gas or taser her smiling face? Why murder her? WHY?

Sadly, I don’t know.

The Folly of Insurance

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While the current hot topic is health insurance, that debacle is a political hot potato I shall avoid. As many of you know I was involved in a car accident last week, courtesy of a teenage driver, who hit one car and then mine. Thankfully, no one was hurt, and the police report clearly indicated I was not at fault. Great! But what has ensued is an endless nightmare.

Fortunately or unfortunately, this is not my first rodeo with car accidents, so I thought I knew the drill. In the past, the insurance company of whom caused the accident took care of everything. But not in this case–I’m the one who has done all the reporting and spent hours answering the same questions over and over. Since the driver’s insurance company indicated they had no knowledge of the accident, I can only surmise that he failed to report it or disappeared. Finally, my agent advised I contact her main office. (I guess her job is to sell, not handle claims.) I did, which resulted in more phone calls, answering the same questions, more trips to the towing service, who impounded my undrivable car, and my miserable headache.

It seems ludicrous that in this hi-tech age the communications between insurance agencies remains in the dark ages. Lord knows we pay more than enough for our worst-case scenarios. Of course, I have no idea if my car will be repaired or totaled. I have no idea when or if I’ll be compensated, but I’ll let you know. Until then…hope your new year is off to a great start.

How One Town Rallied: A Story of Hope

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With both our nation and our world in such disarray this week and with all the personal struggles and uncertainties our family and friends are experiencing, I offer this true story of hope.

Lakeview, Oregon is the Lake County seat, with a population of 2,418 (2020 Census.) It dubbed itself as the “Tallest Town in Oregon,” for its elevation of over 4,700 feet above sea level, and its residents are primarily loggers, ranchers, or government employees. This past spring, the town officials informed the community, there were no funds to open the public swimming pool, due to a hefty loss in tax revenues. Realizing the importance of providing that recreation, the folks came together and donated enough money to open the pool.

Then as summer edged toward fall, town officials delivered worse news: there were no funds to plow snow this winter in a town that typically gets 44+ inches of snow! Why? After all, Lake County is nearly the size of New Jersey, yet inhabited by less than 9,000 people. Most of the land is under the Bureau of Land Management or Forest Service control, and thus it is not taxable, which further contributes to the town’s financial woes.

Faced with this potentially critical dilemma, the community had to do something. How would their children get safely to and from school? How would mail be delivered? How would stores and offices be able to open? Thanks to the ingenuity and creativity of several community members, they decided to print and sell a 2026 calendar–not just any calendar–but an Outback Naked calendar, and dedicate 100% of the sales for snowplowing. Using volunteers from senior citizens to those in their mid-forties as the monthly models in scanty clothing, they published a most hilarious calendar, which went viral. Even The New York Times published this article: One Town’s Plan to Address a Financial Crisis: Nude Calendars by R. Fernandez. (Don’t be alarmed, the models don’t let it all hang out; it’s no more skin than you’d see at the swimming pool.) The Drew Barrymore Show is also scheduled to feature Lakeview’s project.

I would urge you to join me in supporting Lakeview’s endeavor. Check out: Outback Naked Calendar’s Shop on zeffy.com Trust me, you’ll get a kick out of each month and applaud the resilience of a town who refused to accept the unacceptable.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year, Dr. Suze

(Photo courtesy of: Tiffany Paull. Model: Kenda Fuhriman)

The Scrooges of Capital Hill

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As a child, I was moved by Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. Why? I guess because I was young and had never met a ruthless, nasty Ebeneezer. When How the Grinch Stole Christmas appeared in 1957, I was nine-years-old and certainly still too young to understand the heartless green, evil guy.

Today, I’m a septuagenarian–more experienced, worldly, and battle-worn, who has encountered a mere handful of abominable folk. Until now. Now? They’re everywhere. Yes, everywhere, particularly in Washington, DC. The newfound colony of millionaires, billionaires, and even a trillionaire, who are clueless about the rest of us. They don’t go to the grocery, nor the gas station. They don’t shop Black Friday sales, nor do they use duct tape to repair a broken pipe. Their pension and health insurance is guaranteed for life. And when THEIR company shut down, they got paid, while our military and air traffic controllers did not.

This past week, these egotistic villains failed to act on health care plans, causing over half of us to be faced with increased costs of as much as 500%. Imagine the young teacher, who is currently paying $180 per month. In January, her bill will be $1,200 a month! To me, this is unconscionable and irresponsible–and inhumane. It seems these elected politicians are oblivious to their looming reelections in 2026, since 57% of those on the expiring Affordable Care Act are Republicans.

The holiday memories of my childhood are crystal clear this time of year. I sat in the upper choir loft of the Methodist Church and joined my friends in singing, Glory to the newborn King. On Christmas Eve, I looked out my bedroom window to see if I could spot the jolly, old soul. I believed in the spirit, the miracle birth, and the love and the joy.

My greatest wish this season is for those on Capital Hill to wake up from their oblivion! Your constituents are hurting. You should embrace and act on Peace on Earth and Good Will to All. My question is: Will you?

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.