Roof Rats: My Latest Plague

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Yesterday did not go well.  My lawn mower wouldn’t start, I spilled my soda on the clean floor, and I managed to ruin my favorite shirt.  Then a friend asked if she could come by and pick oranges and grapefruit.  No prob.  I’m undated with citrus.  I decided to jumpstart her efforts by picking a bag of navel oranges.  As I reached for an orange, I discovered this:

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No bird in the world trashes fruit in this manner–just the dastardly roof rat.  While some will find this guy cute, he is Satan personified.   He spends 90% of his life at least four feet above ground and feasts on all forms of citrus.  In addition, he carries the Hanna Virus and a myriad of other diseases.  He and his friends sometimes seek refuge in attics, laundry vents, and other surreptitious places.  They enjoy gnawing on wiring and whatever else trips their triggers.

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I’ve lived in my casa for 28 years, and until a year ago had no rats.  I’m not sure what changed.  There are owls and hawks that live in my backyard.  They certainly haven’t had them for dinner, and I spent copious amounts of money last year trying to banish them via bait boxes–to no avail.

I’m in a tizzy. I have dogs. I can’t lay out rat poison, nor have my pups feast on a carcas.  Yet, I know I must do something before they invade my personal space.  I shall spend tomorrow searching for solutions. Any advice is appreciated.

Roof Rat Sue in Phoenix, Arizona

Walls?

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This is not a political question, but a practical one:  Do walls work?  As a quasi historian based on my research, they seemingly don’t.  The Jerusalem Wall, the Walls of Jericho, the Great Wall of China, and the Berlin Wall didn’t.  Walls around our schools fail to keep out intruders; walls around my property fail to prevent bobcats and coyotes from searching for prey.  Even natural barriers, like the Pyrenees and Alps, didn’t stop Hannibal and his elephants from seizing parts of the Roman Empire.  And what about oceans and Canada?  The 911 terrorists entered from there.

Thus, it seems to me more creative solutions are needed.  Mexico has vast natural resources, sea ports, and luxurious vacation resorts.  Yet, crime, corruption, and poverty are rampant.  If I was “Queen of the World,” I’d assemble the most forward-thinking experts to confront this issue.  One solution might be to admit Mexico as the 51st state.  Ponder that for a moment:

We send in the National Guard to disband the drug cartels, we oversee elections, we enforce universal, free public education, and we institute fair wage laws.  Then, we have gained so much more.  Natural resources, sea ports, and beach-front destinations.  No one will want to leave their state, and more of we land-locked folk will gladly enjoy the benefits.

I’ve lived in a border state for 35 years, without fear of Mexicans.  I found them to be extremely hard workers with extraordinary family values.  They are a far cry from El Chapo or the Medellin.  They want their kids to have an education, and they want to live without paying protection money to a drug cartel.  Further, they want sustainable wages. (Not $5-10 a day.)

I’m sure many of you find me crazy.  So be it.  If you could forward me verified proof and documentation on the success of walls, I will cogently review it with my think tank.  But I ask is it worth spending as much as $15 billion or more, instead of finding more logical solutions?

It’s How You Look at It

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Everybody and their dog is familiar with: Is the glass full or half empty?  It depends on your perspective.  My thought was as long as there is more libation to add in the glass what did it matter.  However, I’ve meet a handful of people along the way who are consumed with negativity.  Sadly, these folk never have a good day, they never see the silver lining in the face of adversity, and they don’t laugh at their own foibles.  Further, they are unable to accept blame for their own mistakes.

Witness the PT Barnum circus in Washington.  For the first time in history, only PT knows the truth–everything else is “fake.”  Wow!  I must be the most stupid person on earth to watch a PT video, which is immediately denied as “fake,”  if there’s a backlash. It’s a most curious world.

As most of you know, a week ago I turned 70.  Not a number I necessarily wanted to be, but I can’t deny my birth certificate, nor my passport.  I can’t call it fake news.  It is a fact. Yes, Sue, you’re 70, and the sun is still shining.

Admittedly, I had a tough time turning 70.  It was a anchoring moment…until my one of my high school friends posted:

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Yep, it’s all in how you look at it.  A mere 21 in Celsius.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve no desire to be 21 again–50ish perhaps, but not 21.  Working all day, staying up late partying all weekend, or squeezing my squashed behind into trendy clothing.  But at least I’ve a comeback remark when someone asks, “How old are you?”

“Fahrenheit or Celsius?”

About to be 70

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Who knew?  I thought I was the female version of Peter Pan.  Yet, the next time I blog I will be a septuagenerian.  Believe me, in the past several months, this reality has been on my mind. Seventy has forced me to examine my life.  Have I made a difference?  Have I contributed to the greater good?  Have I been the best mom I could.  I don’t know.

 

Then last night I decided to take another tact; I asked myself, “What modern invention rocked me?”  My grandfather, who was born in 1892, said over and over, electricity changed his life.  Of course, he enjoyed the convenience of indoor plumbing too, which came later.

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In preparation for this blog, I asked my 93-year-old mother what rocked her. She struggled with her answer, describing herself as a child of war–born shortly after WWI and living through WWII.  She did note she and my dad got their first television in 1950, which later morphed into a big-screen entertainment center.  Microwave ovens, cellular phones, disposable diapers, and rotary lawnmowers.

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I suspect you think I will say the computer–it, indeed, rocked me.  It certainly changed my life, but it was not the first thing.  It was my watch. Like many, my first big-girl watch was a Minnie Mouse. Admittedly, numbers have never been my best friend, and I labored learning to tell time.  My maternal grandmother frustrated me when I’d ask, “What time is it?”

“Quarter past.”

What does that mean?  There’s no quarters on my watch, nor halves, nor three-quarters.

Eventually, I mastered the art of telling time, but my world was shakened when Texas Instruments introduced a digital watch in the early 70’s.  Now, with a simple button press,  I instantly knew it was 5:45.  I didn’t have to wind it.  I was in heaven! Thus, began my love affair with watches.  I have designer, analog power ones, and was once gifted a Rolex.  Rolex–the most over-priced, over-rated, high maintenance watch on the market.

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I’ll take my newest one any day.  You know the one.  The one that counts my steps,  monitors my blood pressure, sends me messages and emails, allows me to answer in-coming calls, search the internet, etc.  And it tells time!

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Seventy is creeping up my shorts.  Got to go.  Time’s a wasting.

 

The Name Game: Migrant Children

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When I was in the Master’s Leadership program, the professor asked: What’s the most important thing about a person?

Though I loved this professor, I knew he was wily.  Two brave students attempted an answer, only to be told they were incorrect.  The professor walked to podium, cleared his throat, and we knew we were about to learn a very important lesson.  Ladies and Gentleman the MOST important thing about a person is his/her name!  A name that distinguishes him/her from “you,” “kid,” “son,” or “ma’am.”  As an educator you must value people’s names, whether they be teachers, students, and parents.  You’ll be surprised by how much they respect you. A lesson I’ve not forgotten.  

Know I have the utmost respect for migrant workers and am most grateful for their service.  I’m certainly not going to pick lettuce, avocados, nor apples as my career.  Even at my grandparents’ farm years ago, men wandered up the lane to help with haying season and combining wheat and oats.

I am appalled at the separation of children from their migrant families.  I am appalled the US government is spending millions to house these children.  But I am most appalled we do not know these children’s names.  Really?  WTF?  And now, the government is going to spend millions to identify them via DNA testing.  Hmm.  In this technological age, it was not considered to identify them first–through photograph, finger print, or number?  These are children–some toddlers.  I can’t imagine their terror.

 

people-id-solutionsUnfortunately, this is just another example of mbsp–management by the seat of the pants. No one seems to understand the consequences of a decision until they’re faced with reality.  Decisions are whimsical, often retaliatory to garner votes.  Certainly, none of the recent decisions can be viewed as thoughtful.  (Just wait.  The tariff position is about to decimate American farmers.)

Yes, I’m a teacher. Yes, I’m a child advocate.  Yes, I would gladly open my home, my extra beds, and my kitchen to six children.  And yes, I would know each of them by name.

A view of inside US CBP detention facility shows children at Rio Grande Valley Centralized Processing Center in Texas

The Satanic Evil: Health Insurance

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My intent is not to assume all health insurance companies are evil.  My story is about one, with a blue cross and a blue shield.

On Tuesday, a renown pulmonologist ordered a PET scan of one of my dear friends.  A PET (Positron Emission Tomography) scan is used to detect cancer, heart problems or brain disorders by inserting a dye with radioactive tracers into the body.  The scan usually takes several hours and costs approximately $3,500.

Since my friend is a five-year cancer survivor, who suffered from a cancer which metastasized to her lungs, the pulmonologist discovered the presence of two nodules.  Further, my friend had developed symptoms of asthma, which sometimes required use of an inhaler and prescription allergy medicine.

On Thursday, her nationally renown oncologist, did an evaluation and agreed the PET scan was needed to assure her wellness and to rule out the need for a more expensive biopsy procedure of the nodules.

Boy Blue refused to authorize the PET scan.  Once. Twice. Three times.  Even after being provided health history, blood tests, CT scans, X-rays.  Even after speaking with duly board certified physicians: the pulmonologist and the oncologist.  It boggles my mind Baby Blue was so arrogant to think he knew more than the experts.  Secondly, how can he make money if he has to pay out?  In addition, my friend is self-employed and pays an insurance premium of over $600 per month.  Baby Blue knew her patient history before he offered her the hefty monthly cost.

Finally late Friday afternoon, Boy Blue changed his mind and authorized the scan.  While I’m not privy to the details as to what motivated the change,  I suspect my friend’s two junkyard dog, physicians left some peon employee at the Blue empire licking his wounds.

Thankfully, most physicians, nurses, therapists, and ancillary folk have integrity and truly advocate for their patients.  Boy Blue: Show me the money!

Confessions on Potato Salad

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10844_tart_cranberry_pieI do not have a sophisticated palate; I’m far from a gourmand.  Both of my grandmothers were excellent cooks; they prepared rural, regional cuisines.  My paternal grandmother was the family legend of baking: pies, donuts, blueberry muffins, and cinnamon rolls were her forte.  I knew I’d never learn to make pie crust or breads like hers.

Thus, given my upbringing I never discovered delectable Italian dishes until I went to elementary school.  In fact, I have vivid memories of sitting next to a girl in the lunch room who was eating what appeared to be some variation of bread slathered with tomato sauce and meat.  “What is that?  It’s smells wonderful.”

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“You don’t know?  It’s pizza.  Want to try some?”

“Sure.  I’ll trade you one of my Mom’s chocolate chip cookies for it.”  My adoration of Italian food began.

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Then, horrors of horrors!  I was asked to bring potato salad to a party.  Me?  Every time I tried to make it, it was not edible.  I knew I couldn’t go to the deli and buy it, for those places are rife with creepy diseases.  The last thing I wanted was to be the cause of Montezuma’s revenge!

I fired up the computer and searched the net.  Finally, I found a recipe that even I might put in my mouth.  Of course, I made a “dry run” and served it to my kid.  Both she and I pronounced it the best we’d ever eaten! In case, you want to try my tweaked concoction:

  1. Peel, cube, and boil potatoes.  Remove and drain when still rather firm.  Drizzle one and one-half teaspoons of white vinegar over potatoes and let sit.
  2. Chop celery, one or to two green onions, and one hard-boiled egg.
  3. In mixing bowl, blend equal parts of Miracle Whip, Mayonnaise, with a squirt of mustard and celery salt or celery seed. (The combo of Miracle Whip and Mayo is key!)
  4. Toss and stir everything together and let stand in refrigerator for at least two hours.

Trust me.  It’s a winner!

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On Being 105

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According to folklore, dog years are multiplied by 7.  Thus, I have a part pomeranian, part yorkie who recently had her fifteen birthday in people years or 105 dog years.  Meet Tessa Marie Jenkins, the centenarian!

Tessa was her original name, but over time, Marie and Jenkins were added.  Why? I don’t know.  In her early years, she was an active, friendly little dog, but then she became a recluse.  She spent the majority of her time under the bed.  So much so, that many of our family and friends asked, “Who’s that elusive dog of which I caught a glimpse?”  She kept her distance even from me.  She ran and hid if I tried to pet her.  I had to feed her in a separate room, as she wouldn’t eat in front of the others.  My kids called her a diva.  “She’s too good for our company.  Such a high-maintenance snob!”

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Then miraculously, two years ago Tessa Marie came out from under the bed.  She ate with my other dogs, and she even came to parties.  I took her to the vet for her innoculations and check-up, and the vet said she was in wonderful condition.  “Sue, you must have just had her teeth cleaned.  Her teeth are immaculate.”  I only nodded–little did he know her teeth had never been cleaned.  (I’m not a fan of routinely putting dogs to sleep for teeth cleaning, unless infection threatens their health.)

These days Tessa is a spry, active and very demanding 105 year-old.  She barks and barks until she gets a dog biscuit or three.  I can’t tell her “no” because she is stone deaf.  Yet, when her internal clock goes off, she barks until her dinner is served.  She barks when she needs to patrol the backyard, and she barks when she sees someone at the front door.

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Tessa has lived in my house for 15 years and has never gone near the swimming pool.  However, this week, during a romp, she fell in the deep end.  I was in shock!  She’s freaking old; she’ll have a heart attack and plummet ten feet down.  No.  She swam to the side, where my cabana boy rescued her.  Though I was sure she’d have some type of injury or side effect, she shook herself off as we towel-dried her.  She sprinted around the yard; I imagined her singing: Hey, now.  I’m a Rock Star!  I was amazed at her energy.

I guess I need to add this to my daily, dietary intake:

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