The issue of ageism trends across social media these days, with folk asking how old is too old? Since I’m a septuagenarian, I do know a bit about the process of aging. First and foremost, it’s an individual thing, even though statistical gurus like to lump everybody together and figure out the average. Adults are evaluated on a standardized scale, much like our children are on standardized tests. Certainly, there are cognitive tests to identify comprehension, psychosis, Alzheimer’s, and other psychological issues, but these are usually administered individually.

Fortunately, for me, my synapses are currently firing on every cylinder. I’m assured of that by my ability to work the Sunday crossword in thirty minutes or less, and the fact that my trivia team has yet to remove me from the roster. I’m further bolstered by my visual acuity, attention to detail, and my GPS that I can safely drive a car, grocery shop, and host large dinner parties. I’m proud that even during the pandemic, I never had groceries and stuff delivered to my door. I got out of my casa and fended for myself.

When it comes to physical things, I’m about half. I can do some, but not others. And some things I never could do, like I never could really dance, do a cartwheel, or dive into the swimming pool. I ride a bike, tend to a garden, mow the lawn, play pickleball, swing a bat, climb a ladder, and walk around the neighborhood. No longer, can I lift more than 25 lbs. of salt into the water softener, open a jar of pickles or bottle of sports’ drinks, nor put my large carry-on in the above plane bin. My upper arm strength lives with Jesus.

I also conscientiously no longer do some things. For example, I use services, i.e. landscaping, pool maintenance, and housekeeping. I’ve no desire to fire up my chain saw, fight off algae, or scrub the bathrooms.

In sum, I have no interest in following a rigid schedule. If I had experience in world politics, I have the cognitive skills to lead, but I no longer have the patience to get up early and dance the night away. In short, age is not the sole determinant of anyone’s cognitive ability to lead or govern. (My great grandmother lived to be 104 and was “with it” until a week before her death.)

Over the next four months, we will be inundated with the issue of age, instead of an in-depth focus on platform, moral integrity, and character. My concerns about climate, international relations, poverty, and education will be virtually ignored. And even after the event yesterday, so will the issue of gun control. Stop worrying about how old I am, and start listening to my voice.

When it’s 112 degrees+, it’s hard to believe school will commence in a month. Back-to-school sales kick off tomorrow, as families rush to fill their weekends with last-minute vacations. This time used to be referred to as fall, however, I simply refer to it as mid-summer. (No, I didn’t steal that from Shakespeare; it’s simply an Arizona fact. A fact that seems to be trending further across the US, as the sweltering weather rolls on.)

Last week my blog focused on the need for mentoring, yet the need for volunteers is equally important. Recent studies have identified a dearth of those willing to donate their time to serve others. Little League and Pop Warner beg for coaches, Girl Scouts needs leaders, Big Brothers and Big Sisters need responsible adults, teachers need homeroom moms and dads, and most schools need ancillary tutors and field trip and extracurricular event chaperones. Where are the volunteers?

Working in full-time jobs. The number of both-parent working families has grown over time. Long gone is the 50’s nostalgic view of the stay-at-home mom, who bakes cookies for the bake sale, volunteers in Mrs. Brown’s classroom, and chairs the school carnival committee. Secondly, the rise of single-parent families has also contributed to the lack of volunteers. And the COVID pandemic turned America upside, when schools were ordered closed. Business and industry scrambled to figure out “work-from-home options, first responders had to work, and those in food and beverage service, recreation and fitness gyms were furloughed. Oh, damn! Who’s going to watch the kids? Who’s going to help the kinder students in on-line school? Not the grandparents nor aunts and uncles. In highly mobile, transient America, generational support is obsolete.

Mid-summer approaches. If you’re tired of the heat, disgusted with the politics, bored with mindless TV, weary of your friends, and in need of a stimulating rejuvenation, a kick in the pants, or a reason to get up in the morning, there are a plethora of organizations who need volnteers! The only thing missing is? U.

Early in my school board service, the president of a national bank introduced a new program at one of our meetings. The bank’s mentorship program necessitated that elementary principals identify fifth grade students with the potential for academic success, but who lack confidence or support from their families. These students would be matched with adult mentors, and both parties had to meet together regularly through high school graduation. Upon successful graduation, each student would be guaranteed a four-year scholarship to any Arizona state university.

Wow! What an exciting opportunity for those from low-income families. I was so impressed I signed up to be a mentor, and in 2011, my “daughter” graduated from high school. Of course, by then the bank was long gone, and so was the scholarship. Yet, four years later, I held her college graduation party in my backyard, and she secured a job in state government. Today, she supervises a large government agency, while raising two children of her own.

Nice story, Sue. What’s your point? Like most of us, I tuned in to the debate for a while and was both disgusted and appalled. Over thirty lies from one, old, white man, and babble from a lackluster other old, white man. Washington is filled with aging leadership from the White House, to the Congress, to the Supreme Court. The cause? A serious lack of mentorship, a lack of passing the proverbial gauntlet to others. America needs young idealists who are committed to making things better and more sustainable, rather than engaging in a pissing contest to see who can build the biggest bomb. America needs communicators, not bullies. America needs collaborators and cooperators, not egotists. By the way, Theodore Roosevelt was 42 when he became President; John Kennedy was elected at 43.

While I could continue this blog for another 1,000 words, I’ve got to go. My “daughter” and her kids are coming to frolic in my pool, and I’ve got to add air to their inflatables, set up the high chair, and make this Madrina’s famous Mac and cheese!

Indeed, he is still alive, and this week I was “up close and personal” with him and two of my friends. I’m sure you’re curious as to why; because of a random dinner party weeks ago.

“Let’s go to Las Vegas for a couple of days.”

Okay, I agreed, but the next morning as I recalled the conversation, I wondered: Did I actually say I would go to LV and see Wayne Newton. Have I dreamed this? Or have I lost my mind? Even in my youth, I wasn’t a fan of that guy, so why would this old gal do it now? Unfortunately, when I checked my phone, a text confirmed all of the plane flights, hotel and dinner reservations, and tickets to Wayne. Ye gods, I must have had one too many last night!

What a curious quartet we were: two old broads and two young broads. Of course, one of the younguns had to fly home earlier, so she missed Mr. Las Vegas, who has been performing there for 65 years! I reluctantly ambled to his small venue inside the Flamingo Hotel and took my seat on a folding chair. Oh, sweet baby Jesus, I hope it’s a short performance.

There’s the adage: anticipate the worst; hope for the best. It wasn’t the worst ninety minutes of my life, nor the best, it was interesting. Unfortunately, his age hampers his ability to sing the high notes and that’s grating on my ears, yet he talked a lot about his long career in show biz, shared pictures, and video clips to verify his memories. Here’s some of my highlights:

1. At 10 years old he and his brother were given their own TV show, Rascals in Rhythm on KOOL-TV in Phoenix. At 15, he and his brother were offered a two-week contract at the Flamingo, performing 4 times a night, 6 days a week! (Due to his age though, he was prohibited from entering the casino floor.) That led to an extended contract, and his dropping out of North High School in his junior year.
2. At 18, he enlisted in the Army only to be rejected because of asthma, so he volunteered to perform for the troops. He eventually replaced Bob Hope as chair of USO Celebrity Circle–a position he still holds.
3. Newton was known for his perfect pitch, and even though, he can not read music, he mastered 15 instruments. In fact, I was in awe of his violin fiddling and performance on the steel guitar.
4. Further, for years he bred and raised Arabian horses at his Las Vegas Ranch, which was said to outdo that of Graceland.
5. I was impressed by the how prolific and varied his career is with over 50 albums and 160 recordings.

As I left the small theater, I hadn’t wasted 90 minutes of my life. I’d been up close and personal with an American icon. Danke Schoen.

This desert dweller has an intense fear and hatred of snakes, AKA ophidiophobia. Granted there are a number of both poisonous and non-venomous snakes that inhabit Arizona, but in my mind, the only good snake is a dead snake.

Now, before you Animal Rights folk attack me, know I never killed a snake. I swerve to miss them if they slither across the road, and I’m certainly too terrified to get close enough to them to whack them with a shovel. I just don’t want them on my property. And thanks to a foul-smelling product that resembles kitty litter, Snake Away repellent, I’ve been able to keep them at bay.

Unfortunately, my next door neighbor, Sass, died last year, and she often retrieved and rescued those serpents from my backyard. I’m on my own now when it comes to their removal, and the creatures must have decided to spare me. Until…this week.

It was dusk, and with the sun almost down, the temperature outside dropped enough to make for a pleasant evening on the patio where one of my friends and I sat chatting. My 45-pound, golden doodle was stretched out across the cool flagstone sound asleep. From out of nowhere a king snake slithered under my dog’s hip! I gasped! Yes, they are harmless and eat worms and bugs, but they are still snakes with creepy eyes and sickening tongues.

My dog was oblivious to the presence she was reclining on, and I was paralyzed with fear. Fortunately, my friend seized a broom and swept the slimey creature into a bush, while I went in search of a bag of Snake Away. Thankfully, I’ve not seen another…yet. Stay tuned.

PS I tried to post this to Facebook earlier, and it was removed because it was offensive. Really? Perhaps, it was my title about being ophidiophobic. Obviously, the censor has never used a dictionary.

As a people watcher, I’ve noticed a variety of facial expressions. Me? I’m an eye roller. I may not speak when someone speaks to me, but my eye motions are a dead giveaway to what I failed to verbalize. But, on the other hand, some folks’ facial movements convey a myriad of feelings from sad, to mad, to euphoric. And this weekend, my son-in-law entertained me with his overt, visual enthusiasm.

Brice is the stereotypical good-old-boy from North Carolina. You know them–the ones everybody wants to hear talk for their laid-back, rich, Southern drawl. “Hey, Sue. You and I have nuthin’ to do this afternoon, let’s go to the casino.”

No one has ever asked me twice to go do charity work at the reservation casino; I’m always a more than willing participant. “Let me change my clothes, and I’m in.”

We left my daughter/his wife floating happily in the swimming pool, while we went gambling. Within less than a half hour, Brice came and sat by me. “I’m not having a good day; I’m about to lose all my money.” He slid his last $20 into the slot machine next to me.

“Take this.” A hundred-dollar bill. Yes. But I only get to see him twice a year–why not?

I can’t be totally sure about what happened next, given the size of Brice’s grin, but judging from his enthusiasm, it must have been wonderful. His smile overtook his face–the kind of a smile you see from a child in a candy store, the kind of a grin you see on a little one’s face as he/she opens Christmas present. The proverbial cat-that-swallowed the canary grin, or the profane s#&t-eating grin.

“Here’s your hundred back, Sue. I just won a thousand.”

“Just keep my hundred, Brice. Your grin was worth it tenfold.”

Prime is a versatile word; it can be a noun, adjective, or verb. As a noun, it can mean the time of one’s greatest success or strength, i.e. the prime of life. As an adjective, it can mean excellent or outstanding, i.e. prime member of Amazon or prime example. As a verb, it can mean to fill or load, i.e. prime a wall or a pump.

After surviving my dance with death four years ago, I am enjoying the prime of my life, even though every so often, I’m forced to prime the swimming pool pump. Also, I’m jazzed to be a card-carrying member of Amazon Prime and receive my random orders in less than 24 hours. But this week, I was taken aback at the grocery store when I went in search of a steak, specifically a filet mignon. There were none. I walked to the butcher case, and there they were! Pricey, to be sure, but I only eat a small amount.

“Do you want choice or prime, ma’am?”

A two-dollar difference. Hmm? “Which do you recommend?”

The butcher glared at me–stupid old woman doesn’t know the difference. “Obviously, ma’am prime is the best.” Thankfully, he didn’t say “Duh.” For god’s sake, I knew that!

“Prime it is, sir.”

That evening I grilled it; rare the way I like it. OMG! OMG! I was overwhelmed by its tenderness and flavor. Granted, I’d been to numerous expensive steak houses across the US, but never had I had anything that tasted so wonderful.

Realizing my days on the planet are numbered, and fully realizing there are no do-overs, when I want a steak once in a while, it will be prime!

I’m a very discriminate crier. I rarely cry at old people’s funerals or at weddings. In fact, the last time I cried was two years ago, when I learned I was going to be a grandmother. However, this week the proverbial dike broke, and I wept and sniveled for over an hour. Why? Sheer, unadulterated stupidity and frustration!

No internet service, the root of my sadness, forced me to call COX, my provider. A very nice child technician came and assessed my issue, changed my WiFi around, and departed. While the internet on both my computer and cell phone worked, my TV’s, printer, and outside cameras were not. My fancy Linksys towers were dead. So I read, I watched fix-it videos, and monkeyed around for three plus hours trying to get the printer to work. (Because I needed it, stat!) My efforts were futile–I cried. I blew my nose. I cried. I yelled at the dogs and swore every profane phrase I knew–even meanie head. I cried.

Once I regained composure, my thoughts led me back to Youngstown, Ohio. Now a decaying steel town, but in its prime was the third largest city, where many European immigrants settled. I wondered how many times they cried from frustration when relocating to a new country, with a different language, monetary system, cuisine, and societal norms. One of my friend’s parents came from Greece. Her mother sat in front of the living room window, dressed in a black, and wearing a black head scarf. She never left the house, never learned to speak English, never learned to drive, never went to the store. She would politely wave at me when I came in their house, and I would speak to her. But she’d just shake her head and returning to staring out the window.

So, just like Mrs. Pappas, I was a digital immigrant this week. This new technological knowledge world and all of its nuances brought me to tears. Since summer has arrived to the desert, I can’t don a black dress and sit on my patio waiting until my high-tech knight-on-white horse rescues me next week.