On Saturday night, I noticed a creature swooping and looping in my family room–a bat.  Now, unlike my youngest daughter who experienced this several years ago, I’m not afraid of them.  Bats were common visitors at my grandparents’ farm house.  I knew what to do.  Swat it down with a broom and toss it outside.  After a number of my futile attempts, the bat disappeared.  Thank God. He must have fled through the open patio door.

No such luck. He returned on Sunday night.  Armed with my trusty broom and swatted at the air; I worked myself into such a frenzy!  Drenched in perspiration, I went to the guest house for my cabana boy.  He was a great high school baseball player, perhaps he could swing a broom.  Since I know he has aversions to spiders, wasps, and snakes, I asked, “How do you feel about bats?”

“They’re ok. They eat bugs.”

“Great, come with me.”

For the next fifteen minutes, with our brooms in the air we swatted.  Had someone been videoing us we would have won a prize.  Finally the baseball player made contact, but the bat still swooped.  Moments later, he hid behind the painting on the fireplace.

“You stand on that side with the beach towel, and I’ll shoo it out from this side with the broom.”  Nothing happened.  I carefully peered up under the painting.  “Is that it? whispered cabana boy.

“Yes, that’s the critter.”

“It can’t be; it’s no bigger than a quarter.  The bat swirling around in here was as big as Dracula!”

Talk about a drama king. He managed to knock it down into the towel and carried it outside.  Dracula flew off into the darkness.  The crisis had passed.

 

Years ago, I wrote about an event I witnessed at a Florida gas station.  Given his appearance and his grocery cart piled high with all of his possessions, I surmised he was homeless.  He rummaged through the garbage–perhaps in search of redeemable cans or uneaten food, but much to my surprise, he chose a newspaper.  He carefully spread the paper across the top of the can and read.  I was awestruck and ashamed of myself for assuming he was a loser.

Earlier this week, a professor at The Ohio State University released her research on the value of early childhood reading.  In short, she found that children whom are read five books a day enter kindergarten with a ONE-MILLION-WORD advantage over children whom were not.  To me, this is powerful and rouses me to action.  As a 49-year career professional in public education, America needs free, universal public early childhood education.  Sooner rather than later.  It is incumbent upon all of us to insist! My God, if 60 of America’s most successful companies paid ZERO income tax this year, they can help  foot the bill.  Our future is at stake.

Wake up Washington.  Both sides of the aisle.  You ignore climate change and other societal issues, like health care, homelessness, and poverty.  I implore you to save our most valuable asset–our children.

 

Last night, I went to my ‘hood bar and grill for a high school marching band fundraiser.  (The same place I play trivia on Tuesday nights.). Now, this is third, fundraiser I’ve attended this school year; the first was for Pom and Cheer, the second was for men’s baseball.  Mama Sharen, owner of this establishment, graciously offers both her space and a light dinner free of charge to high school booster clubs and attendees.  Thus, through ticket sales, silent auctions, and raffles, the club can easily make $2-3,000 in one night!  Better gig, than selling magazines or candy bars.

Further, Mama Sharen occasionally provides other free meals.  On St. Patrick’s Day, corned beef and cabbage, on New Year’s Eve a midnight breakfast.  She readily sponsors a hole at a charity golf tournaments and just gave me some autographed, MLB paraphernalia for our school district’s Foundation golf event.  All of her generosity is done without fanfare or accolade.  Her humility brings us all the consider the pleasure of giving.

Which brings me to the second part of my blog. As the lone school board member from my ‘hood, I always try to buy at least one silent auction item to regift.  Last night, nothing really tripped my trigger, except a $600 three-hour DJ and lighting.  Of course, I had no need for such frivolity, but I thought I could donate it to a school dance.  Near the end of the evening, folk kept outbidding me by $5.  I was outraged, and right before the auction ended, I outbid by $70.  Hey, put up or shut up, right? After all, this benefits marching band kids.

Yes, the DJ went to me.  As I sat, writing a check, a young woman approached.  “I must ask, what was your motivation for aggressively bidding?  Did you really want the DJ?”  She probably was curious about what an old gal would want with loud music.

“No.  I just bought it as a donation and plan on giving it to a school event.  I’m on the school board; it was simply for kids.”

“Dr. Skidmore, I teach in one of the district’s schools.  In fact, you’ve performed several times for my students.”  Hmm.  I’ve performed for almost 9,000 students.  I certainly have no lasting recollection.

“Obviously, you must have wanted this.  Care to tell me?”

“Our twins are going to be 16 in early October.  We thought it would rock their birthday bash.”

Suddenly, my mind was flooded by Mama Sharen’s spirit.  “Then here’s the certificate.  Invite me to their party.”

She cried; we hugged.  I left.  Thanks to Sharen, I did the right thing.

 

 

 

 

 

Over the past few weeks, we’ve witnessed the extreme measures parents take to get their kid into a prestigious university.  While for years, top athletes entered major institutions, the admission process is now besieged in controversy.  The integrity of many colleges has been called to question.  Now, the world knows it’s nothing more than phony test scores, coaches’ greed, and downright corruption.  Why has this happened?

The college mystique.  Many gauge success by a university diploma.  They’ve dismantled career/technical education programs in our high schools.  They’ve ridiculed student interest in alternative pathways. They’ve preached the elitism of a college degree.  Let’s recall poor Olivia, who didn’t want to go to USC as a member of the rowing team; she preferred yachts!  A very popular blogger and developer of a cosmetic line, she, at 18,  was earning more than a veteran teacher.  Clearly, when the Office of US Patents declined her application on the basis of punctuation errors, it was obvious Olivia is not educated in basic skills.  She’s nothing more than a victim of privilege.

My most rewarding experiences were the years I spent in vocational education, where I witnessed first hand student success. Brand me a heretic, but not all kids need a college education.  We need hair dressers, carpenters, electricians, machinists, and mechanics.  We need creative thinkers, who can design new innovations.  Look at Bill Gates.  He’s not a college graduate!  Is he successful?  Absolutely!

By the way, my nightmare of home ownership continues.  This week I had to hire a plumber–an affable young man.  His hourly charge?  A freaking $77.00 an hour!  On a standard, work week that equates to over $150,000!  Let me assure you, Dr. Suze never earned more than $50k.

A college degree is a mystique, fueled by both lower and higher education.  It comes without the guaranteed pot of gold, and for many staggering student loans.  We must temper this educational madness and support career/technical programs before we decimate our skilled craftsmen.

PS. Olivia, I can tutor you in English grammar.  If you’re interested, message me.

 

 

As some of you know, I’m a gambler.  Sometimes a good one, and sometimes I lose.  And I’m admittedly addicted to the rush of winning.  Friday night, I went to the casino with my neighbors. After an hour of chasing “my rush,” we met in the restaurant for dinner.  I didn’t even look at menu, nor the specials, I ordered heart-attack food: chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes with sausage gravy, and corn.  Delicious, though I only ate a third of it.

We returned to the gaming room.  I’d been seated at a one-armed bandit for 30 minutes when the drink-cart girl came by.  I ordered a $5 beer and handed her a $20.  “I’ll be right back with your change and beer.”  Forty-five minutes passed–no change, no beer.  I went to the drink station and inquired.  No one seemed to know the whereabouts of my server.  Over an hour passed, and again I inquired.  My server remained MIA.

I had just returned to the slot machine I was playing when the suits descended upon me. Walkie-talkies, ear wires, etc.  Now, every gambler in my line of sight was staring at me, like I was a criminal!  “We need to see your ID.”  Really?  I look under 21?

“Why? Almost two hours ago, I ordered a beer and was told….”

“Show us at which machine you were sitting when this allegedly took place.”

“Allegedly?  Wait a minute.”  I rose, walked three machines down and said, “Here.”

With that one of my casino friends declared, “And I was sitting over there and witnessed it.”

Suit number 1 spoke into his walkie-talkie, “Check video of Bank 98 for the last two hours  and the drink server.  Yes, I do have a witness. Yes, yes, yes.”  He turned to me, “After we review the surveillance tape may get your beer and your change.”

Onlookers were surrounding me–probably awaiting my escort out of the casino.  I was livid!  I’ve watched and reported casino drifters who cash out tickets and steal others’ money.  I’ve listened to victims be told: “Your ticket was cashed, and the thief left the casino, according to our video.”  And now, I’m suspected of fabricating a story over one beer and a $20 bill.

“Gentlemen, don’t waste you time on your spy gear.  I suspect you think I made up this story.  I’m neither a liar, nor a thief.  My life will go on without a $20 and a beer.  Just forget it.”  The crowd watched.

As the suits left, my friend stopped them, within my ear shot, “That was a dumbass thing you did to Sue. For God’s sakes, she’s a gazillionaire!”  Oh, sweet baby Jesus!  While I appreciated her defense of me, she just told an outrageous lie about me!  Now, I was really a marked woman.

Shortly thereafter, my $20 and a beer was delivered.  “That will be $5.”

What was I expecting?  An apology? A bottle of champagne?  I would have settled for people to stop staring at me.  While I committed no crime, I felt dirty. My personal integrity called into question.  And no, regardless of how I crave the heart-attack, chicken-fried steak,  I will no longer donate part of my social security check there again.

 

 

 

 

 

 

I certainly understand why most of you won’t give me an ounce of sympathy, for you’ve already concluded I live in Shangra-La.  Well, I do/did until this winter, when Mother Nature obliterated my winter garden with three hard freezes.

To add, insult to my loss, she kept the temperatures well below normal, yet delivered copious amounts of snow and needed rain to help with Arizona drought.  Yes, I was grateful for the rain and got over losing my spectacular garden.  I was good.  Until Thursday night, when my HVAC system crashed on the first floor of my casa.  I fired up the gas fireplace, wrapped myself in a jacket and blanket, and wrote a chapter in my sequel to Renato.  (Hopefully publishing in the fall.)

I survived the night thanks to an electric throw and six dogs on my bed.  The HVAC repairman showed up around noon on Friday.  He stopped short of pronouncing “DOA,” and jumped started the furnace.  An hour later, it died again.  His company called and my pricey install of new equipment was scheduled for Tuesday.  OK, I can survive for the next three days.

However, when I ventured out of my warm bed Saturday morning and made a trip to the toity, I nearly froze my arse off.  I donned more clothes, fur-lined boots, drank more than more than my usual one cup of coffee and lit the fireplace.  By noon, I thought I could continue my book in my tiny office.  I tried.  My hands were shaking so badly I couldn’t type.

Totally unacceptable.  I can’t waste three days sitting on the fireplace hearth, so I went in search of a space heater.  (Not an easy device to find in the desert.) Yes, I know they’re dangerous, but worth taking a risk.  Three stores later, I bought this at Bed Bath and Beyond.  Within ten minutes, my small space was warm.  Miraculous!

Arizona has shattered 122-year-old records for temperature and snow fall.  Yes, I well aware there is no such thing as global warming. Because the DC politicos have disregarded science, as fake news and have mistakingly defined the term “warm.”

Again, I know none of you feel the pain I’ve experienced.  Yet, my upstairs HVAC unit is DOA too.  I may be in the poor house before this madness is over.

 

 

Most of us are familiar with the tale of Robin Hood.  A rebel, who robbed from the rich to give to the poor.  Hood spent years outwitting the Sheriff of Nottingham and his gang in an effort to improve the quality of lives of those less fortunate.

Thus, I’m rather surprised that a vast number of folk fell for the rhetoric of wealthy politicos about the sweeping federal income tax reform passed last year.  Did they buy into the Webster’s Dictionary definition of reform?  (To remove defects or to abolish abuse or malpractice). Were they so enthralled by spin speech writers wrote?  Did they embrace, “I’m from Washington, and I’m here to help you?”

Now, reality has set in, and some are livid they won’t get a sizable refund and instead owe money to the IRS.  One person tweeted his salary and deductions have remained constant for 33 years, and he always used his $1,000 refund to take a vacation.  On April 15, he owes $3,000 more!  Teacher classroom deductions have been reduced to $200.  I urge you to find me a great teacher, who only spends $200 on class supplies.  Yet big business can now write off their multimillionaire airplanes as the cost of doing business.

The fairest and most equitable tax reform is simple.  Everyone pays the same percentage of their earnings–with no deductions.  If the percentage is set at 10%, and John makes $15,000, he owes $1,500.  If Sherry makes $1,250,000, she owes $125,000.  Of course, this will never happen, as it would render accountant jobs obsolete and eliminate the need for the over 100,000 IRS employees.

Given the continual onslaught of rhetoric and fancy spins on products and services, our nation is easily deceived.  Cynical Sue fully anticipates her accountant’s bad news.  Hopefully, she won’t have to sell the farm.

 

 

 

A year or so ago, a Mexican-based corporation opened the Scottsdale tourist attraction, Dolphinarias, where visitors for a hefty admission price can swim with the dolphins.  Now this was sick and wrong on so many levels that it boggled my mind.  Contained in a very small pool, these lovely, interactive creatures (rented from a Hawaiian company,) were subjected to the desert climate and excessive human contact. As was predicted, the first dolphin, Brodie, died in September, 2017–followed by Alia in May, 2018; Khloe in December; and this week, Kai.  Four dolphins taken from their ocean habitat and subjected to a short life of containment purely for human amusement…and money.

Sadly, this reminds me of twisted entertainment and lack of decency some have of animals, including humans.  Certainly the Romans would delight in the battles at the Coliseum, just as bull fighting, dog fighting, and cock fighting flourish today among some segments of our society.  Further, this enjoyment is easily transferrable to such heinous acts of child molestation, rape, and murder.  In fact, many of those convicted of such crimes have shared the personal pleasure they received from their deed.

Children must be taught of respect others; they need to be reprimanded for pulling the wings off a Monarch butterfly or smashing a nest of robin eggs on the sidewalk.  Teenagers who delight in setting a kitten on fire or tossing a puppy on the highway need to be punished.  If not, their behaviors will morph into bullies and even criminals.

Given the current political situation, some folk have openly applauded and have delighted in bullish, aberrant behavior.  At what cost to our society?  Brodie, Alia, Khloe, and Kai?  Have we sacrificed our moral compass for money?  IDK

 

 

 

Choice.  Many parents, legislators, and elected executive branch officials tout the opportunity of choice.  They decry public schools have failed.  Frankly, I’m weary of their mantra, and no longer choose to debate the overall effectiveness of unequal, playing fields, budget shenanigans, and downright criminal enrollment practices.

Thursday night, our retiring superintendent delivered his 10th and final State of the District Address.  He highlighted three of our students: one junior and two seniors.  Each from different high schools.  Judge for yourself.

Allison is a junior, who was diagnosed with Tourette’s syndrome as a toddler.  The doctors told her parents it was so severe, she’d never be able to go to school.  Yet Allison and her family persevered, and she went to school.  Today, she thrives, as a member of the elite dance and chorus line, where she also serves as assistant choreographer.  A member of National Honor Society, Society of Women Scholars, and student government, she plans to attend a university as a theater and dance major in the spring of 2020.

Corrie, a senior, suffers from diabetes and created a national Race for the Cures for the Diabetes Association.  Her GPA is an astounding 4.56, and she’s already been accepted at Pepperdine but hoping for acceptance at Harvard.  Like Allison, she has a long list of academic society memberships, as wells leadership positions in various clubs.

Now fasten your seat belt.  CJ is a senior at our specialized school for the behaviorally challenged.  A 6 foot 3, African American, who’s built like a line backer.  CJ was born addicted to crack cocaine and spent his infancy shuttled between foster homes.  Then he suffered a severe brain injury, which left him angry and aggressive. A blight on humanity, a throwaway, until a petite, Caucasian woman chose to adopt him.  She knew CJ would never be accepted in a charter school and she enrolled him in our district.  Today, CJ is a “gentle giant,” who loves preschool children.  The school engineered an internship for him this past fall at a private preschool, where he has flourished.  Additionally, he assists in one of our preschool programs.  As president of his school’s student government, he has led with example and hopes to get a permanent preschool aide position at graduation.

Again, the choice is yours.  But never underestimate the power of public education.

 

Some of you may recall when a wrote about my next door neighbor, Miss Sass, AKA snake lady, several years ago.  Not only is she adept from rescuing snakes from my backyard, but is also a well-known artist.  For over 30 years, she dabbled in a variety of mediums from painting, to clay, to glass.  Then Arty Ritis came calling.  Extensive surgery, with long recovery and rehabilitation were her only options.  Sass declined.

She gave up clay and glass and returned to painting but couldn’t make the paintbrush create to her satisfaction.  Her creative frustration was overwhelming, until…. She discovered acrylic pouring.

Now, I’m not sure what it is, nor do I care, but I love the art she has done for my daughter and me.  The paint brush has been replaced by balloons, straws, strings, toothpick picks, q-tips, tee shirts, and paper towels.  Occasionally she adds her dog’s foot print or a photo of her dog.

Though somewhat abstract, I find her work mesmerizing…not to mention affordable. (Sorry, I’m not a fan of poster art).  While she uses a variety of surfaces, i.e. glass, stone, wood, tin, and canvas, I prefer canvas.

If you enjoy her renderings, message me and I’ll forward her contact information,