Arizona

Labor Day…Humbug!

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Please know I have no problem with honoring our nation’s workforce; they earned it.  Further, I do know the first Monday in September has been a national holiday for 123 years.  However, as a child I loathed Labor Day, for it signaled the end of summer. My world screeched to a standstill.

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The city swimming pools closed, the amusement park went on hiatus, and the wonderful county fair was over.  By Tuesday, the pools would be drained, the park concessions shuttered, and the fair carnies would disassemble their rides and head south.

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The weather noticeably changed; soon all of the trees would shed their leaves, and I’d be helping rake them.  Then winter would come, and months would pass without sunshine. No green grass, no flowers, naked trees–I found it depressing.

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Yet, the worst thing about Labor Day was that Tuesday I’d have to go back to school!  I didn’t hate school, but I did find it stifling.  In my era, school was highly regimented.  I found it absurd the older I got that we had regularly scheduled bathroom breaks.  As a fourth grader, I absolutely knew if I had to go to the restroom.  I didn’t need to line up in the hall, march downstairs in the girl’s line to the potty.  (The boys had their own line on the opposite side of the hallway, and the teacher sashayed down the middle.)  It was so stupid and rather insulting to be led like cattle to the loo.

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I kept a calendar counting down the days to my first break.  Thanksgiving was an eternity; Christmas was eons.  In the meantime, I suffered through the humility of having my paper torn up in front of the class due to my poor handwriting.  I slogged through math.  I weathered my weekly flutophone class.  I consciously programmed myself to not pee on demand; my sole act of defiance against the system.

Fortunately, in Phoenix, I no longer dread Labor Day where  I swim in the pool, grill a rib-eye, and knosh on salad.  However, when I shopped the grocery Labor Day specials this week, I was a tad miffed pork, baby back, ribs were buy 1, get 2 free.  WTF?  What’s a Lone Ranger suppose to do with 12 pounds of ribs?  Shuffle off, Labor Day.

 

 

I Beg Your Pardon, Mr. President

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The events of the last few weeks have left me thunderstruck.  I have zero tolerance for malicious hate.  Further, I have zero tolerance for megalomaniacs–folks consumed with wealth,power, and omnipotence.  Folks, who don’t play by societal rules, for they are above the law.

I’ve witnessed first hand the ascension of the former Sheriff.  Over time, he morphed into a madman, fueled by a large campaign chest and national media attention.  He bragged about his inmates wearing pink underwear, eating green bologna, and sleeping in tents in Phoenix summers.  Now, anybody who has taken a criminal justice course knows rehabilitation or habilitation is not accomplished through humiliation.

As time went on, he focused on Latinos.  His deputies routinely stopped brownish, innocent American citizens.  He spent a million investigating President Obama’s birth certificate.  He staged an assassination attempt against himself.  Clearly, he was hell-bent on furthering his national image. Over and over, he was accused of racial profiling, defiance of the law, and ignoring court orders. He thumbed his nose and proclaimed, “I’m just upholding the law.”

I could cite countless examples of his grandstanding, like the $92 million Maricopa County wasted on his defense in the racial profiling case.  Months ago, he was found guilty and awaited sentencing.  He asked the President to pardon him.  Friday afternoon, it was delivered.  He said he and his wife planned to celebrate with spaghetti, calamari, and red wine at their favorite Italian restaurant.  “I’m not through with politics; I have a lot to offer.” After 24 years as sheriff and at 85-years-old, that seems preposterous!  But I’ve never danced in the spotlight.  Some egos must not die until their last breath.

Mr. President, while I find your acceptance of proven, institutional racism unconscionable, I abhor your pardon of a man who failed to investigate hundreds of sex abuse cases, many of which involved children. Guess rape or sexual molestation didn’t feed the world’s toughest sheriff’s megalomania.

 

Columbus Took A Chance Redux

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Six weeks ago, my blog was titled: Columbus Took a Chance, which concerned my venture to my ‘hood, dive bar.  Far outside my comfort zone, but I did it.  Many of you encouraged me to go back again for Tuesday Trivia Night.  Some of you were gracious enough to express your interest in forming a trivia team.

Finally, folks’ schedules matched, and this week we met as a team.  Cheap food, cheap drinks, and no entry fee.  Just fun.  Our team was comprised of Brittany’s father, Ken; Brittany, and her husband, Matt; my eldest, Annie; and me.  Three, thirty somethings and two, well-seasoned adults. Given the beach decor of the bar, Matt and Brittany chose our team name as “Wilson.”  I thought they were talking about Wilson sports equipment, but no.  It was some character from a beach movie.  Clueless Sue.

Thankfully, the disc jockey noted we were new to the game and explained in detail the rules.  Three prizes would be awarded: $25, $15, and $5 in bar money.  Since there were only four teams that night, we felt confident we would win a prize.  Matt commandeered our team, kept our score tally, and pronounced, “We’re in it to win it.”  OK, I thought.  Doubtful.  Whatever.

Unlike the first time I sat on the sidelines during Trivia Night and knew all the answers, I was a veritable, non-contributor.  Rap and Country Western music, current movies, and pro sports are not in my brain bank.  I was stunned by Ken’s absolute brilliance  when he knew the Dallas Cowboys were a $4.3 billion franchise.  Annie shone in Country Music, Brittany and Matt knew every movie, TV show, and Rap artist.  I just sat, rooted them on, and paid the tab.  The least I could do for my overt lack of knowledge.

The disc jockey totaled the scores, “And first place goes to Team Wilson!  Twenty-five dollars in bar money.”  WTF?

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Matt tossed the bar bucks at me.  “See, Sue.  I told you we’d win.  Brittany and I’ll see you next Tuesday.  Team Wilson will buy!”

This is NOT a dive bar.  It has immaculate restrooms, nice patrons, and an attentive wait staff.  Unfortunately, Annie can’t be there next week.  So if you’re a Country Western music expert, take a chance and join Team Wilson!  We’re buying….

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Bon Vivant…Not

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I’ve never been a gourmet cook, perhaps because of my upbringing.  Both of my grandmothers were simple, country girls who prepared simple, country meals.  Each had their strengths.  My maternal, Tennessee, grandmother’s fried chicken and green beans were delicious.  My paternal grandmother’s homemade cinnamon rolls,  blueberry muffins, and fruit pies were spectacular.  Beef, pork, or chicken with various potato dishes were my staple.  On rare occasions, fish was served.  My mom never mastered the art of anything that tasted like spaghetti sauce, but to this day, her banana cakes light up my palate!

As a mom, I tried to introduce my kids to different foods.  As toddlers, they abhorred baby food carrots and peas.  Who wouldn’t?  For years, my youngest ate only chicken fingers or a hot dog smothered with ketchup.  The thought of ingesting a piece of lettuce, a slice of tomato, or a green bean gagged her.  In contrast, my eldest was more daring.  She loved spaghetti, stuffed peppers, prime rib, and baked potatoes and sour cream.  Today, she’s a sushi addict.

However, when we’re together and want to venture out for dinner, we frequent Mexican or Chinese restaurants.  I accepted long ago I’d never be able to duplicate their culinary expertise.  When we’re in NYC, we eat cheese cake.  Yes, we have compiled a list of best to so-so.)

Admittedly, I’ve never prepared veal, lamb, elk, javelins, deer, nor pheasant.  Further my thought of preparing brains, liver, or mountain oysters gags me.  So you can imagine my reaction to a high-end magazine’s feature story: Welcome to the New World of Eating Insects.

Dragonflies, ants, grasshoppers, cicada, water bugs, and…freaking scorpions and tarantulas!  According to one source, “over 2 billion people regularly rely on one of the 1,900 edible species of insects as a source of protein.”  Cricket-flour chips are the new rage. Frankly, I can’t think of anything more revolting than a fly whose just sat on one of my dogs’ poop ending up in a casserole.

And to those of you who’ve been invited to my dinner party next week, the evite read: BYOB.  I’m well-stocked with booze.  Bring Your Own Bugs!

November Moth (Epirrita dilutata)

November Moth (Epirrita dilutata)

Homework

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On Wednesday, the 2017-2018, school year commences in our district.  For the next 9.5 months, I’ll receive phone calls and emails from parents and students who complain about homework.

“My kid has to do 25 math problems every night.  Don’t you understand he plays club soccer?”

“Why do I have to conjugate every Spanish verb and use it in a sentence?  I already know how to do it.”

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“Really?  You expect my child to read to me every night and require me to initial it happened?  I work full-time and have other responsibilities when I get home.  Ludicrous!”

“Why do we have homework anyway?  It’s such a waste of my free time.  Let’s just stop this silliness.  After all, I’m gifted; I get the message the first time.  I’m not in need of mindless repetition.”

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Since I’ve served as a school board member for 17 years, I’ve heard every argument against homework imaginable.  Even in some of my professional journals, I’ve read about the adverse effects of homework.  However, today, it became inimitably clear why school has homework.  Lord, it was a revelation!  Preparation for life.

Yesterday, I had the opportunity to go to a casino for dinner and gambling.  True, I do enjoy wagering occasionally.  Yet, I declined.  I had to do homework.  The kitchen floor desperately needed mopped after the monsoon.  My yard’s grass, thanks to the monsoon, would be a foot tall, if I didn’t mow. The swimming pool needed cleaned and nuked with chemicals because of the monsoon.  I had to do homework.

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In fact, this past week I’ve been consumed with homework. The condensation drain on an air conditioner clogged and sent water over my floor.  The patio door handle jammed and had to be replaced.  One of my dogs had poopy butt and had to be bathed.  Washing and ironing needed my attention.

And today is Sunday–a day of rest.  The Sunday crossword awaits my participation. But first, I must pay the electric and the water bills, clean out the refrigerator, dump the trash in the garbage cans for early Monday pick-up, and…ad infinitum.

Based on my epiphany about homework, the next complaint which comes across my radar screen will be answered:  Suck it up, dude.  Welcome to life.

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Swimming with O Rings

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Several years ago, one of my dearest friends since childhood wrote a delightful book, Swimming to Italy.  (It is available on Amazon.)  I was searching for a title for this blog, and hers immediately landed in my mind.

As I’ve noted numerous times, my new life has taken me thousands of miles from my comfort zone.  While I’ve come to understand more about home repairs than I ever wanted to know, I’ve managed to utilize my research and study skills in a plethora of new ways.  In fact, I find it curious many of my friends contact a schlep like me about appliances, plumbers, and cabinet refinishers.

Last week, however I was rocked with a new lesson.  The saga began with a leak in the automatic pool chlorinator.  (This is a wonderful device–under $100– that eliminates the need for rubber ducky floating around the pool.)  The pool repair guy diagnosed the problem–the cap needed a new O ring.  After it was lubed and installed, the leak stopped.

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Two days pass and the repairman returns.  The pool motor is surging.  Really, this is a high-end motor, less than 5 years old.  “I think I should just backwash the filter, and your problem will be solved.  You do it regularly, right?’

“Rarely.  I can get the valve down, but I’ve not strength to pull it up.  Even my uber-strong cabana boy has difficulty helping me.”

Pool guy backwashes and decides to take the valve apart.  “No wonder it was so difficult to pull up.  Look at these O rings.”

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Now, there were three more, bad O rings in the plunger valve.  Repair done.  New O rings.  All is…NOT well.  The motor surges again, which for you novices means too much air in the lines, which causes the motor to rev like a hot rod at the starting line, which causes blah, blah, blah.

Again, the pool guy returns to diagnose this new problem–another worn-out O ring!  By now, you are as bored as me about TMI and O rings.  Little circles of rubber with very important jobs.  Who knew?  Who cared?  Yet given the critical necessity of their position in the circle of life, perhaps we should all invest in a company that manufactures O’s!

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Columbus Took a Chance

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Screen Shot 2013-10-11 at 9.22.15 AMThe mantra of my maternal grandmother, probably my clone.  She lived to be 99.5 years, had a great sense of humor, and was overtly willing to try most everything–even a second marriage at 80 years old.

Granted it’s taken far too many years to embrace my single status, but it was time for me to take risks, e.g. go to a movie alone, go to a restaurant alone, etc.  And so, it began.  I ventured to safe havens; I didn’t get my hair and face all made up.  I’d no desire to be some old man’s purse, nor nurse.

Then I decided to do something edgy–something outside my comfort zone–something quasi-dangerous.  I took a chance and obviously survived.  I stop short of saying it was a great or an exhilarating experience; it was fine.  And I DID IT!

I’ve lived in my ‘hood for over 26 years and was always curious about a nearby bar and grill.  It looked tacky from the outside–the kind where there with lots of cars parked in front at 8:00 AM.  Once I asked my savvy daughter about it, “Mom, it’s a dive bar where they serve underage kids.”  Hmm.  Wonder why she knew that.  On another occasion while standing in the grocery store line, I heard the gal in front of me say to the cashier, “Come over tonight.  Hot roast beef sandwich special.”  Hmm.  One of my favorites.

All this data was stored someplace in brain.  Would I retrieve it?  Would I venture into this elusive, dangerous place?  Again, another several years passed.  This week Phoenix was overwhelmed with sweltering heat.  I’d spent two weeks awaiting a cooktop replacement.  It was far too hot to turn on the oven, or to cook on the outdoor grill.  I was tired of microwaved food.  I was hungry, but it was taco night.  Damn, the last thing I needed was a spicy taco to ignite my hair.  I assessed my ‘hood options; none whose cuisine appealed.   Perhaps, I should go to the sketch bar.  Don’t clean yourself up; go as you are.  You’re not looking for the proverbial love in all the wrong places.  Suck it up and go.

As I drove the two miles,  I weighed my decision.  My inner voice echoed, “Sue, are you sure you want to do this?”  I struggled.  What would my kids say?

I walked into this supposed dive bar, which wasn’t dive at all.  Lord, I’ve been in worse.  Over 90% of the folk in there were my age, and fortunately, I didn’t see anyone I knew.  I ate my dinner, listened to the DJ, and silently played his trivia game.  Silently?  Yes, they had formed teams hours ago. Though I knew the answers, I wasn’t on a team. No need to be rude.

I smiled in my short trip back home.  I slew a dragon; I conquered my fear of the unknown; I survived.  I took a chance.

If there’s a next time, I will clean myself up and join a trivia team.

 

 

 

I Am A Slave

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Though never held in chains and leg irons, I was a slave.  Isn’t every woman with a husband and young children?  My orders were cook, clean, wash, iron, drive to this class, root on the sidelines, coach softball, host a party, yada, yada, yada. Eventually, my kids grew up, and my husband chose the proverbial other side of the septic tank.

Granted, I was alone.  But I no longer had shackles; I was free!  I could do as I pleased, on my terms, when I wanted to do whatever.  Certainly, I still had responsibilities to all of my dogs, my house work, the pool, the garden,  etc., but it was now solely up to me.  No orders. No timeline.

Then, this free woman did an incredibly stupid thing.  I asked for a Fit Bit for Christmas, and my adorable daughters delivered.  At first, I found it amusing.  I easily viewed emails and incoming phone calls while searching for my cell phone in the depths of my purse.  However, Fanny Fit Bit soon became annoying.

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“Sue, I’m here solely to get you up and moving.  You haven’t reached your step goal today.  Your pulse is “X,” your fat burn is “X,” your stair climb is “X.”

“Frankly, Fanny, I don’t care.”

With that Fanny morphed into the witch monitor from hell.  She wakes me at dawn:  “Give me 250 steps.”

“I haven’t had a cup of coffee yet.  Leave me alone.”  I close my eyes; my wrist vibrates.

“Time to get up and get moving.”

Damn.  She’s right; I do need to go to bathroom again–probably, for the sixth time since I initially went to bed hours ago.  One of the perils of aging.  Hopefully, I have another few years before I clip coupons for Depends!

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In the meantime, when Fanny demands, “Fifty pushups now,” she will find herself at the deep end of my swimming pool. RIP.  (Unfortunately, shortly after I wrote the last sentence, my cell phone landed in the deep end.  Karma?)

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Cabana Boy=Eye Candy

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Several years ago, I was antsy to do something worthwhile; I decided to redo my decimated guest quarters.  Prior to her illness, my youngest and her dogs lived there, and eventually her one whacked-out dog destroyed it.

After all the carpet was removed, I had the concrete floors sanded.  I painted the walls and worked for over a week staining the concrete floors.  Certainly, I didn’t do a magnificent job, acceptable and a huge improvement.  I decorated and used left over furniture, bought new appliances, a new air conditioner/furnace etc.  In short, it was cute.  Someone suggested I rent it.  Me?  Do I look like Ethel Mertz?  Do I want to be a landlady?  Absolutely, never!

“Mom, I have a friend who’s moving here from San Diego and needs a place to stay for a month.  He got a job here, and he wants to check everything out before he rents an apartment.  I told him he could stay here until he finds something.  Hope that’s ok.”

“Do I know this guy?”

“No.  I went to school with him in Colorado for one year.”

“And now, five years later, you’re moving him in to the guest quarters?”

“It’ll be fine, Mom.  It’s just for a month.”

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A month became almost a year.  Joe was delightful, and I soon found myself doing his laundry, packing his lunches, cooking his dinners, and advising him on the random girls who frequented my swimming pool. My friends dubbed him my “cabana boy,” given his bi-ceps were larger than my thighs, his good looks, and his adeptness as a bartender.  He took out the trash cans to the the road, he easily opened jars, and he dog sat when I was away.

Joe came in one night for dinner and announced, “I’ve landed a new job back in California.”

“Great!  When does it start?”

“Next week.”

With Joe’s announcement came a line of young men wanting to take his place.  My kid’s high school friend, Bob moved in a month later with his dog.  I’ve known Bob since he was in the 8th grade, so the transition was easy.  He’s just finished his junior year at the university with 3 semesters remaining till he graduates in elementary education.  Unlike Joe, I don’t cook for him, but I do his laundry and have recently taken to charging him “rent.” (Translation:  You give me money, and I’ll keep it until you want it back.  Dr. Suze banking system of forced savings.). Of course, he has bi-ceps and abs on which I gaze.  My friends are a tad jealous of the scenery in my swimming pool.  Yet, every older woman needs a cabana boy to tend to her dogs when she’s gone.  Agree?

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The Wall

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The news runs rampant with stories of building a wall between Mexico and the United States.  While the Berlin Wall and the Great Wall of China ultimately did little to prevent infiltration by the “enemy,” the proposed Trump Wall seems to many to be the answer.  I find it curious, though, that Canada is not being walled out also.  Guess it’s long forgotten that some of the perpetrators of 911 entered that way.

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Yesterday, I was leafing through my ancient English 101 anthology and reread Robert Frost’s Mending Wall.  It begins: “Something there is that doesn’t love a wall.”  In New England, the spring ritual for many landowners was to mend the wall that nature damaged throughout the winter.  Though often a laborious task it was a necessary, annual tradition because “Good fences make good neighbors.”  Hmm.  I find it paradoxical. Nature battles against the wall.  Tradition battles against nature to keep us and even countries apart.

When I moved to Phoenix, I was amazed that most houses had walled backyards.  Unlike my Ohio upbringing, where I often roamed through three or four backyards to my friend’s house.  We neighborhood kids sledded down our neighbors’ hill every winter; we weren’t walled out.

Unfortunately, I’ve met people with walls.  Folk devoid of humor and zest.  Folk who prefer to remain within their cramped life without friends and a sense of community spirit.  Their self-imposed isolationism boggles me.

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True, I live in a walled community; it keeps my dogs off the street.  Some of us with small children fence our pools to prevent child drowning.  But my ‘hood has not walled out each other.  We socialize, work collaboratively together, and even borrow a cup of sugar when the need arises.

Frost asks:  “Why do they make good neighbors?  Isn’t it where there are cows?  But here there are no cows.  Before I built a wall I’d ask to know what I was walling in or walling out.”

Robert Frost penned this poem 103 years ago.  Hmm.  Our world is no longer a simple fence on a New England acre.  What are we mending?  Another paradox….

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