Arizona

I AM ANGRY!

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Quoting Mick Jagger: “I’ve lived 82 years on this earth, and this is the first time I’ve ever witnessed people delighting in the suffering of others so openly, so proudly, and even recording it for the world to see.”

When I read this, I paused and thought. Mick nailed my feelings: delighting in the suffering of others–a most damning statement. And from I see and read, that’s exactly what’s happening–sometimes to the point of even celebrating the misery of the homeless, the immigrants, the aged, but most importantly the children.

I’ve come to the realization that my view of Jesus differs greatly from the Jesus of the far right. And no, I’m not going to bore you with Bible quotes; you know them. They are all as simple as: do unto others….

Our future is solely in the hands of our children. As a nation, we can’t expect them to reach adulthood, without scientific-based, health care. Nor can we expect them to be compassionate, caring neighbors when they learn hate and disrespect of others. Nor can we expect them to be cooperative collaborators, when we promote and celebrate divisiveness. Nor can we expect them to even be sane and rational when their early lives of filled with fear of school shooters or masked, armed soldiers zip-tying them away from their family. Nor, should any child be a victim of sexual abuse!

Once again, I ask all of us: who is going to wipe the drool from our mouths, change our diapers, or put the spoon to our lips, as we lay dying? Our children. Amen.

The Best Bargain Ever

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I spent this week fixing up my diabolical mess from last. The fallen trees were removed, the skylight was replaced, the air conditioner was serviced again, and my dog is doing better. Further, my wonderful landscaping service redid my front yard, and my cleaners made my interior immaculate. Needless, to say, it was a pricey week, but I also scored the best bargain ever.

How? My mom taught me how to shop long before the pandemonium for designer clothing and Labubu dolls. She clipped grocery coupons and dragged my sibs and me to Strouss’ basement’s sales. (If you were raised in Youngstown, Ohio, you’d know Strouss. It was an Ohio version of Nordstrom’s, particularly The Rack.)

The first Wednesday of the month at Phoenix groceries is Senior Citizen Day, where seniors get 10% off most stuff. I wandered into a high-end, signature store that not only sells food staples, but clothing, shoes, dishes, toys, and linens. Since I needed to kill some time before my next stop, I moseyed through the aisles and ended up in the shoe department which carries one of my favorite brands of cool tennis shoes. On the shelf was a sign: 90% Off. Damn! I looked at the shoe box–size 10. Too big for me, but not too big to donate. In fact, some teenage girl would probably adore these trendy, silver shoes to wear to homecoming.

I put the originally-priced $50.00 shoes in my shopping cart along with the rest of my groceries and checked out. I strode out of the store smiling, for I knew someone would delight in my best bargain ever: $1.34 including my senior discount. Move over 47. That was an “”art of the deal.” Who knows? It may be worthy of a Nobel Prize.

If It’s Not One Thing, It’s Another

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Read the title in your best nasally, whiny Roseannadanna voice, and you’ll understand my week. Please know, I’m not looking for sympathy; in fact, my purpose is to bring a smile or a sigh of relief that it didn’t happen to you.

My former husband used to say, You can’t have construction, without destruction.” Monday was destruction, which began in my hallway at six AM, when they jack-hammered up the floor. Not only were my dogs terrified, but the deafening sounds of scraping concrete gave me a roaring headache. Then came the construction phase, which continues through this coming week. The constant whirring of the tile saw and mortar mixer increased my anxiety.

On Thursday, a large limb on my grapefruit tree snapped sent a hundred, large unripe fruit to live with Jesus. (Note picture) Friday and Saturday, mother nature finally sent rain to the desert–not the lovely gentle rain that soaks the parched soil, but the wild torrents of flooding. And during these severe storms, my kitchen skylight leaked, and the ceiling bubbled. And just when some semblance of calm appeared, one of my dogs vomited, which necessitated a very pricey trip to the emergency vet clinic.

Thankfully, my dog is better, and tomorrow I’ll schedule appointments with my landscaper and my roofers. Hopefully, by mid-week my hallway floor will be finished. Until, the next time….

“What Do You Want to Be?”

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To a toddler, this question is simple: When I grow up, I want to be a doctor, a fireman, or the Amazon person who brings the packages. To a teenager, this question is more difficult, particularly in the age of Artificial Intelligence with its predictions most human jobs will be replaced with bots.

Earlier this week, my dentist posited, “Sue, your dad, uncle, great uncle, and brother were dentists. Why didn’t you go into some form of health occupations?”

“Tried it. At sixteen, I was a candy striper. I donned my cute pink and white pinafore and walked into the hospital, where I discovered sick people! The hospital smell overwhelmed me. Then I was assigned to feed a stroke patient, who subsequently vomited his green beans all over my uniform. One real-life experience was all it took for me to cross something off my “wannabe list.” In fact, I had other part-time jobs along the way, but each of them ended with “not for me.”

Given the few acceptable occupations for women in my time, I opted for teaching and landed my first job teaching Junior English in a vocational-technical high school. Not only did I fall in love with the brutal honesty of my students, but their diverse career opportunities from culinary arts to automotives, from carpentry to accounting. I even took adult evening classes there in graphic arts and auto mechanics.

Based on my fifty-year-experiences in education, it is just as important to discover what you don’t want to be, as it is to discover what drives your passion. Sadly, the “every student college-ready” movement has seriously impacted the lack of skilled trades people. Don’t believe me? Try finding a roofer, electrician, or plumber. The waiting line is six weeks long.

By the way, an HVAC was here yesterday for ten minutes. “What do I owe you?”

“I charge an hourly flat rate: $89.00. So $89 will cover it.”

Hmm, when as a teacher, a school superintendent or a college professor, did I ever make even half that?

Uh oh!

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Nothing says, “Uh oh,” like walking into my casa and seeing six dogs dancing in front of my TV! Unlike most of you, my big screen doesn’t hang on the wall but sits on a cabinet at an angle between two walls.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Of course, my dogs didn’t answer and continued their happy dance. Obviously something was behind the TV. Should I look? What if it was a heinous snake? Or a rat? Or a javelina? Spare me! Somehow I mustered the courage to peek…a big fat squirrel! WTH, do I do?

With the help of my friend who lives in my guest house, we put the dogs outside. (They couldn’t resist the dog treat-strewn patio.) Armed with a pool net, I was ready to snare the frisky varmint and toss him out the front door. However, Mr. Squirrel zigged as we zagged and alluded us. The search began.

“Sue, I found him! He’s on the landing at the top of the stair case. Prop open the front door. Maybe he’ll smell the air and go out.”

Hmm. Perhaps. “Hey, G, I’ve a better idea. I’ll go upstairs, open the outside door to the balcony, and he can get out.”

“What about the bats?”

“We’ll only leave it open for a half hour and hope he leaves and no bats fly in.”

With no sign of the squirrel, life moved on for the next five days. Uh oh! “Did you hear that? There’s a chirping sound upstairs.” Ye, gods! What now?

“Call the trapper. This is too big of a problem for us, Sue.”

On a Saturday afternoon? Doubtful. After five calls to trapping establishments, one answered and asked a series of questions. His responses to my answers were: “A squirrel can’t live for five days without food or water, so he’s probably coming and going. Thus, I’ll be out on Monday to do a home inspection etc, and the cost will be $2,500.” My ass. I’m not paying $2,500 for a squirrel hunt!

G took charge, went up stairs, and saw Mr. Squirrel scurry under the sofa. She opened the balcony door and left. When I checked the room two hours later, the bushy-tailed menace was gone–leaving behind lots of poop and chewed-up wood and paper. I canceled my Amazon order of a humane, squirrel cage trap and googled squirrels. Squirrels can live up to 100 days without food and water.

Not only did we save a squirrel, but I saved $2,500! Life is good–and very interesting.

The (Dog)astrophe

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Yes, I know how to spell catastrophe, but my blog has nothing to do with felines. I have recently written several stories about my continuing war with coyotes and all of my precautionary measures to keep them away. Though none of them are foolproof, the best offense is to secure my pups in my casa at night.

That has worked reasonably well until sometime early yesterday morning. I awoke at six AM, which is highly unusual for me, because I was dreaming about food. After several attempts to lull myself back to sleep, I got up, pulled on some clothes, and decided to go buy a breakfast burrito. I walked into my only carpeted area–the living room and gasped in horror! My berber carpet looked like a cow pasture. I gagged and left.

I have a self-locking baby gate in the hall that denies dogs’ entrance into the living room. However, several years ago my goldendoodle mastered vaulting over it. Particularly when she’s stressed, she can fly over it to escape some unknown fear. I surmise she received an impending threat of Montezuma’s Revenge and had the decency not to let it rip on the tile floor my bedroom. Carpet, though? Yuck.

I returned from the grocery with a burrito and carpet cleaner and attempted to clean up with minimal success. What time is it? 7:00. I went to the computer and searched. I typed in my info and voila! Stanley Steemer would arrive at 10:00! By 10:30, my carpet was restored, my burrito had long turned inedible, and the dogastrophe was resolved. I returned to my bed with no more dreams of food. As Hamlet said, “There’s the rub.”

Cheap, Cheap, Cheap

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In 2020 when COVID roared through America, over one-half of a million of US citizens died. By the end of 2024, another half-million died, and currently 300 people die from COVID each week. (I could have easily become a statistic but somehow managed to survive.) During the mandatory shut-downs, restaurants, bars, cafes, coffee shops were among the small businesses that suffered. When the closures ended, so did my tipping habit. Gone was my 15% of the bill. In fact, my entire outlook on life changed, for my miracle escape from death made me realize I needed to up my ante and pay it forward.

Now, five years later, I have zero tolerance for cheap people, especially cheap wealthier people. I’m sure you, like me, have a handful of friends that are modern-day Scrooges or Silas Marners. They leave meager tips, they ignore the poor, and they have no interest in charitable organizations. Unfortunately, they surround themselves with others of like behavior, such as the current Presidential Cabinet. Isn’t it odd that many legislators enter Congress as paupers and exit as multi-millionaires? They profess to be good, predominately white Christians, while they slash Medicaid, Medicare, SNAP, School Lunch, and Education with “beautiful” pride.

What happened to the Golden Rule?

The War Continues

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Just when I thought I had conquered the coyotes, they returned again. Instead of two, this time there were six predators in my front yard nosing around. My Carl Spackle alter ego took to the internet in search of more preventive measures. I bought another gallon of wolf urine flakes and sprinkled them around the yard.

My research also found that coyotes are afraid of conflagration. Aren’t we all who live in the desert? Obviously, with the Phoenix bad air quality and the environmental destruction of fires, I wouldn’t set my yard on fire. Thankfully, though, I found solar lights that resemble flames, which I installed today. On Monday, I will have installed coyote rollers on the top of my block wall.

If all of these preventive measures fail, I have one more Hail-Mary trick in my bag. Pricey and very labor intensive. According to my hours of study, donkeys will attack and drive off these yellow-eyed beasts forever. I was surprised to learn there are miniature ones who are equally as capable as the full-size. Of course, this drastic, last ditch effort would require building a stable and an arena. Further, I’d have to hire a ranch hand to tend to the feeding and clean-up, as I can barely keep up with the dog poop, let alone that of donkeys. I’d also need a truck and a trailer because every church in my ‘hood would want my donkeys for their live Nativities, and every elementary school would want me to take them for “Read to Donkey” day.

Yes, I remain in all out war with these varmints. If all of my proactive prevention fails, I may have to seek an audience with Pope Donald since he controls everything! Hee haw!

GOLF

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To clarify, not the Gulf of whatever it’s been renamed this week, but the sport where one tries to hit a little white ball in the cup. The game that’s dreadfully boring to watch on TV, unless you’re in need of a nap. The game that’s certainly not as exciting as playing like volleyball or softball.

This weekend I was reminded of my dabble at golf when POTUS couldn’t meet the plane carrying deceased US soldiers, due to his golf tournament commitment at his Doral golf club. Sponsored by Saudi Arabia, DT managed to qualify for the final round today in the senior division. No surprise, since he’s a legendary cheater at the game. In fact, since his January inauguration, the US government government has spent over $26 MILLION on his Florida weekend golf trips.

Over fifty years ago, I decided to take golf lessons at Mill Creek Golf course. After all, I heard that golf pros were cute, young men, and I was a single young gal. My pro was a married, balding, middle-aged guy, who was an competent and patient instructor. He was highly complimentary of my ability to drive the ball but noted my putting was in dire need of improvement. (Hell, I thought putting was akin to croquet where one slammed the ball into the cup.)

“You have potential, Sue, to be good at this game, but you need to practice. Just play as often as you can.”

Really? Pray tell, sir. Where does one practice in the Lake Erie winters? Thankfully, the beer cart arrived in the St. Nick of time before I flapped my mouth. Aah. I’d found the only redeeming quality to chasing that little white ball around.

The Neighborhood Dive Bar

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I’ve just completed my fourth, and perhaps final novel, which is primarily set in several of these establishments. In order to infuse a dose of reality, I had to refresh my experiences in bars since my college days, and I discovered some of them are much classier than those I hung out in almost sixty years ago.

Upon entry, the first thing that struck me was they were lighter–I could actually see who was in there. Of course, this may be due to better lighting and the no smoking policy. Or it could be because these neighborhood bars don’t cater to the underage, fake ID, college crowds. Secondly, unlike college hangouts, food is served–not bags of potato chips and peanuts–real food, like veggie burgers, wings, club sandwiches, soups, and salads. (Yes, some of it is greasy food, but it’s quality fried pickles, zucchini, and mushrooms.) Thirdly, and most importantly, the bathrooms are immaculately clean. Gone are the phone numbers, the graffiti, and the lipstick smudges. The toilets aren’t clogged; the sinks and mirrors are clean, the waste cans are empty, and toilet paper doesn’t decorate the floor.

Over the last year, I’ve researched this industry and can honestly conclude the owners I interviewed were primarily in their 40’s, some of them were women, and all of them were very customer-service focused. In fact, the bartender immediately uncaps the customer’s favored beer or pours the “usual” before he/she take their seat. Some servers are so adept they can take dinner orders from a table of ten without the benefit paper and pencil–truly amazing what they can remember! (Which is why, at my age, I can’t be a server!)

Finally, my last word of advice, is don’t judge a neighborhood bar and grill by its exterior. Some of these establishments have been around for thirty or forty years. Instead, check out the parked cars, you may see high-end vehicles and fancy sports models. As long as the neighborhood is safe, you may become as fascinated as I am with this industry. Cheers!