Please explain: (Hint: Be sure you understand the meaning of each word, before you write your answer.)
“If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, it expects what never was and never will be.” Thomas Jefferson
I shall await your responses.
Arizona
Gullibility: $
Me thinks there is a substantial percentage of American consumers, who are so gullible they pay outrageous prices for routine items. Of course, my daughters are in that group. To me, a handbag or wallet fulfills a need. To them, it is a fashion statement. So I ask you: when was the last time you ogled someone’s wallet at the store checkout? When was the last time you coveted someone’s choice of paper towels or toilet paper? When was the last time you envied someone’s plastic bottle of water?
This week, I was early to an appointment, so I entered a designer grocery–the kind which caters to folk with more money than sense. I perused the inflated prices: boneless, chicken breasts at $5.99 a pound, broccoli crowns at $4.99 a pound, and the deli was serving $10 a cup coffee. I found this curious as the day before I paid $1.47 a pound for boneless chicken breasts. Obviously, something is seriously wrong with my palate. Chicken is chicken. Beef, however, is another matter. (Ribeye steaks are far superior to round steak.)
Yet, the most outrageous item I saw on my adventure was one, peeled navel orange in a plastic container. It’s price: $6.00! Had I known folk were so gullible, I would have picked my plentiful oranges, peeled and contained them, and undercut the price by one dollar. Damn! I’d be wealthy! Maybe, next year.
#%*+!
Believe me, I can talk like a sailor, but I was raised with decorum. I knew people didn’t smoke cigarettes in church, spit in hallways, nor kick puppies. I also knew there was a time and place when it was not appropriate to use expletives.
In my 18 years on the school board of a large, suburban school district, I never swore from the dais. I may have thought it, but I didn’t verbalize it. I knew better. Further, I didn’t want teachers cussing at students. Thus, I set an example. However once, in front of my mom, I accidentally dropped the f bomb. She heard it fly from my mouth.
“Sue, when people use gutter talk, it’s the sign of a severely limited vocabulary. Not to mention a lack of decorum and civility. Your hero, Mark Twain, was a genius at penning classics without swearing. We readers fully understood what Huck Finn was really saying, but Mrs. Samuel Clemens edited the base vernacular from his manuscript.”
Hmm. Mark Twain was a genius–a stable one.
Oh Package! Where Art Thou?
Every year I send navel oranges to friends and family. Since navels are “Christmas oranges,” I usually mail them before the US Post Office gets overwhelmed with packages. And again, this year I did so on December 11. The boxes went to New York, Ohio, and to Texas. Since they were sent priority mail, I had tracking slips.
However, I usually get a text or a call from the recipient long before I get around to checking on them. I’d heard from New York and from Ohio, but not from my sister in Texas. Curious. I texted: Did you get the citrus? “No” was her reply. Now, I was involved in a mystery, for according to geography, Texas is much closer to Phoenix than NY or OH. I entered the tracking number to find the lost parcel. OMG! I was astounded! The oranges and limes must have decided to go on adventure!
They fled my sister’s Houston suburb, went to downtown Houston–perhaps to ride the Ferris wheel, and then took off to Dallas. In Dallas, they were sent back to my local post office–less than five miles from my home. According to tracking, those bad boys arrived on December 18. Christmas and New Year’s came and went. No citrus returned. Weird.
On January 4, I received a brown envelope from the mailman. Enclosed was this box top. (Since the original was addressed correctly and neither my sister, nor I want to be deluged with fan mail, I altered the label.) Also enclosed was a letter, dated December 24 from a Dallas postal facility. It read: An empty wrapper with your address was found in the mail and is believed to have been separated from a parcel during handling (see attached portion of the wrapper.) Really? The package was allegedly in Phoenix on the 18th. How could the top of a large, flat-rate box been separated from it…unless, someone in the postal service knoshed on oranges and squeezed lime in beer?
Included was a form to file for missing items. A laborious form that mandated receipts for whatever was in the box, plus serial and model numbers, sex and size of clothing articles, etc. I tossed the form. I have better things to do than worry about errant citrus. However, the next time I send a box to my sister, it will be filled with….
XYZ: Examine Your Zipper
Many will recall the childhood comment: XYZ. Usually, it was made to a boy, who emerged from the lavatory after those stupid, elementary school bathroom breaks. Perhaps, you’ve experienced them, where the teacher lined up his/her class at the appointed hour and marched them down the hall. I referred to this practice as pee on demand.
Though invented in 1851, zippers weren’t used in clothing until the 1930’s. In the 1937, Battle of Fly, the zipper was declared winner over buttons. This new tailoring idea in men’s trousers promised to prevent the possibility of embarrassment.
In recent weeks XYZ has morphed into headline stories, graphic dalliances of sexual harassment, even rape, have been exposed. Certainly, rumors of the “Hollywood casting couch” have been around for years, but both men and women victims remained silent. Now, it seems to be a pervasive epidemic propagated by those in power over the powerless. Further, fueled by fear of losing a starring role, a job, or even getting a good grade in a college course.
Finally, victims found their voice. Unnamed predators are probably suffering from sleepless nights and wobbly knees. And thankfully, this week voters rejected a known creep, who advertised himself as an upright, moral man.
My advice to the powerful is simply: XYZ. None of your employees, nor teenagers shopping at the mall are interested in your sausage. And in this case, it doesn’t pay to advertise.
The Santa Claus Challenge
Most of us remember when one of our classmates declared that Santa wasn’t real. Some of us ay recall the famous Dear Virginia editorial response published in the New York Sun in 1897. Even though, I’m old, and even though I’m currently living through the most turbulent, hateful times I find deplorable, I still believe in Santa.
Santa Claus is a spirit, who resides within most of us. When we were children, he miraculously answered our letters on Christmas morning. In most cases. I didn’t get a pony, but a got a Schwinn bike. I didn’t receive a drum set, but I got a guitar. Surprisingly, I was never disappointed. I was happy with all my gifts–except the underwear.
As I aged, my experience led me to a greater understanding of Santa. A mythical figure, who lived in a dreadful climate, who urged children to be good, who fulfilled wishes, for what? A plate of cookies and a glass of milk? Doubtful. Santa Claus , St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, or whatever your moniker, came to teach.
His lesson embodied the Golden Rule–do unto to others. But Santa tweaked it a tad. Do unto others with anonymity. For me, there’s no greater joy than giving without acknowledgement, nor accolade. And yes, there are a myriad of ways to get a tax deduction without revealing or bragging. Trust me, I know.
Inside of each of us is Santa Claus. In times of disasters, strangers help others; sometimes risking their own safety to render assistance. With the holiday season fast-approaching, I urge you to accept the Santa Claus challenge. Do something for someone anonymously. You’ll be surprised by the joy you receive. I double-dog dare you.
National November Writing Month
Familiarly known as NaNoWriMo, is an internet opportunity in which both professional and amateur authors attempt to write a 50,000-word novel in thirty days. Now if November isn’t busy enough with Thanksgiving, holiday shopping, and decorating, thousands of folk embrace this endeavor. I have a friend, who teaches full-time, has a family, and has engaged in this foolishness for the last three years. Quite frankly, I admire her stamina because I personally couldn’t stand the pressure. After all, timed tests freak me out.
Early in July, I decided to write a novel. Believe me, it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever done. It has consumed me, kept me awake at night, and even driven me to speak in dialogue. Sue admonished her labradoodle, “Lexy, Sue doesn’t like when you bark.” At first, I thought I was crazy; then, I realized I was still scripting in my head.
I’m a tad over four months into my novel, and to date have written 77,199 words. Though loosely based on my experience, I’ve spent hours researching and reading to give the book a bit of authenticity. Thankfully, my brother, who conceived the original idea has provided invaluable assistance in forensic dentistry and tweaking and twisting the plot line. We anticipate the first draft will be completed by mid-December, necessitating another three months or so of revising and editing.
Believe me, this is not the great American novel. It won’t make the best seller’s list, nor will it be picked up by a TV producer or professional publisher. It may be read by five or ten of my family and friends. Yet, my attempt has broadened my experience; it’s pushed me out of my comfortable, lazy existence and kept me off the streets!
Whether I’ll ever work this hard again, I doubt it. But I certainly know I will not be a participant in NaNoWriMo. Dr. Suze lacks self-discipline and persistence.
Pricks
Arizona is awash with pricks! Before you get your knickers in a knot, I’m not being bawdy. The reality is the desert is full of pricks. Perhaps, piercing needles are the first line of defense for smoldering summers, or perhaps, deadly burrs and barbs help flora survive. I don’t know. But Mother Nature early on forced me to employ a landscaper.
Of course, I, first, tried to control errant cacti by myself. Then an inch-long spine impaled my leg. A jumping cholla attacked my foot on my way to the mailbox in my flip flops. An agave ripped open my wrist when I tried to free a lost baby quail. I was so stupid to think I could trim a palo verde tree and survive–wrong, my arms looked like I’d been in a lion’s den.
Bougainvillea and other gorgeous flower plants also wreck havoc. When picking grapefruit, oranges, limes, and lemons, as most of the branches have razor-sharp needles. I’m glad I don’t take blood-thinner. I would need a transfusion for the amount of times I’ve been stuck.
So if you come to my house for dinner, don’t have one too many and end up with these pricks!
The Cicada and The Tortoise: A Curious Tale
Admittedly, I’m a technological immigrant. Further, I’m technologically challenged. I belong in a special class with any 10-year-old teacher. Even five-year-olds today, know more than me. My daughters and the school board folk have drug me into this new arena, and I know just enough to be dangerous. While I enjoy that the world is now just one arrow key away and adore my cell phone convenience, I abhor “auto correct” and the feature of speaking rather than typing. Lord knows, I sent far too many incoherent messages and emails. A heinous crime, when the author is an English major!
On the other hand, I laugh uproariously when I receive one of these messages. This week I received the following:
Hmm. A large cicada, which looks like a desert tortoise. I was engulfed in laughter. A family pet? Even funnier. Did they clip its wings so it wouldn’t fly off?
Really? I see no likeness in the least. Yet, I was sad I have no artistic talent. Can you imagine the joy of creating such a creature? I bet Dr. Seuss would have drawn and made millions on this hybrid character.
My neighbor and I had several hilarious conversations discussing the email. We concluded the sender must be whacked. Twas, not the case. Damnable auto correct was at fault. Behold the sulcata tortoise.
Where Everyone Knows My Name
The one thing everybody owns–a name. Mike, Becky, Matt, or Ashley. Whether they own a business, a car, or a house is trivial, when someone doesn’t call them by name. Persona non grata.
As a teacher, I learned that lesson early in my career. It became more dicey when I taught at the college level, for I had 50+ students each semester. At the first class, I made each student introduce his/herself and noted on the roster some identifying characteristic. By the second class, I was able to call each of them by name. I’d dazzled them, and most of them were stunned. Invariably, each semester one would ask, “Dr. Skidmore, how do you know my name?”
“You know mine, right? Then, I should know yours.”
While I live in a city of over four million people, I’m delighted the grocery store cashiers wear name tags. At the end of my transaction, I thank him/her by name. My favorite waiter is Patrick. The restaurant owner is Michele. Our waitress at Trivia Night is Brie, and her owner/boss is Sharon. Cal runs the best sub shop in my ‘hood. 
Though some folk embrace anonymity, I don’t. I believe human interaction is dying–thanks to social media. When I was in high school and wanted to break up with my boyfriend, I told him face-to-face. When I disagreed with one of my professors, I spouted my objection. I certainly didn’t hide behind “Rate Your Professor” under a phony name.
So indulge me. Refer to folk by their first name–the only thing they own. You’ll be pleasantly surprised to see their reactions.
Dr. Suze Espouses 