The Santa Claus Challenge

November 12, 2017 / skidaz / Leave a comment

th-2 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.

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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.

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Homework

August 6, 2017 / skidaz / Leave a comment

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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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Stupid Is Stupid

July 16, 2017 / skidaz / Leave a comment

As a child, I did stupid things. I knowingly picked some poison ivy to see what would happen and itched for a week. I watched my grandparents’ pigs be slaughtered, even though I was told to remain in the house. (A graphic I will never forget.) I drove the family car too fast, and I once drank far too much cider. (Another experience, which led me to detest cider and later on in college, other spirits, like gin and tequila, where I prayed to the porcelain god I’d live till daylight.)

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Yes, I understand this blog risks me as being labeled an old crone. I get it; I’m old. But I’m NOT stupid. Yet, everywhere I go I see stupid people who lack decorum and common sense. In my small world, there were unwritten rules:

You don’t wear a hat at the dinner table. (Believe me, I’ve knocked a few of those on the floor of some teenagers at my house.) Nor do you come to the table without a shirt. (Spare me. I’ve no desire to see spaghetti sauce splattered on your chest hairs.)
You don’t spit a hawker on the sidewalk.
You don’t smoke a cigarette nor cigar in church.

The list is endless; I could rant on till doomsday. (However, I often wonder if doomsday is currently unfolding, particularly in DC where decorum vanished.) I read news accounts of kids being hospitalized for snorting bathroom cleanser, sniffing hair spray, ingesting grandma’s heart medicine. WTF? It never occurred to me Bon Ami, Aqua Net, nor baby aspirin were fun highs.

Thankfully, the proverbial Big Brother came to rescue the stupid with childproof medicine caps. (Those caps wreck havoc on my arthritic hands. Behold my dog medicine bottle. A hammer was the only answer.)

Then, numerous warnings were required on packaging:

Discard the plastic bag. Don’t let your child put it over his head, for he will suffocate.
Eating more than 10 candy bars at one sitting may be hazardous to your health.
Always wear a helmet when riding a bicycle to avoid serious injury.
This sweater contains non-organic fibers; wear at your own risk.

What? I feel like Big Brother thinks I’m an idiot. Granted, I never worried about plastic bags, candy bars, helmets, nor non-organic stuff, my children and I were smarter.

However, I recently bought new ink cartridges for my printer, which came with this warning: CAUTION: Tri-color inks contain nitrates. Do not drink or place in mouth. Please know if you are invited to my house for a party, I shall not be serving multi-color cocktails. LMAO tumblr_leqjp1SEZw1qz6fdso1_500

A Timely Tale of Bullies

July 3, 2017 / skidaz / Leave a comment

th-1 A few weeks ago, I shared the story of Bob, my current cabana boy. Bob and his burly dog, Max moved into my guest house over a year ago. For a year, Max only ventured outside when my dogs were in the house. If they happened to see him, they’d chase him back through his doggy door. They’d gnash their teeth if they spied him through the sliding glass door. I would go and visit Max; I felt sorry for him, for his dad was gone much of the time. He spent endless hours alone–unhealthy for a pack animal. Dogs want to belong.

Like some of our children, Max was a victim of bullies. He was lonely and afraid. Even though, I made numerous attempts to introduce him to the group, they refused…unless his dad was present. Surprisingly, two weeks ago, Max wandered up on my patio and came through my doggy door. Given the mid-afternoon, Phoenix heat, my five were all asleep in various locales. No one took notice. And on that very afternoon, Max moved in. He quickly adapted to our routine. He knows his dinner is served in the laundry room, as each dog has an assigned space, i.e. office, powder room, playroom, kitchen. (Yes, with six dogs, I need separation at meal time.)

Further, like the rest of the pack, he understands I am the Alpha. It is my way! (Wish my own children understood I run the pack!). Curiously, though, Max quickly assumed another role–chief body guard of Sue. I can not walk from room to room without him beside me. He follows me around the pool as I brush grit from the walls. When repairmen come, I must banish him back to his own abode, as the hair raises down his spine and his teeth are in full display. No doubt, he is my protector!

Certainly, I was hesitant to bond with Max; he is Bob’s dog. Yet, most of us want a haven to belong. We don’t like being made fun of or ostracized. Each of us has something to share; each of us wants to further the greater good. So for the most part, the rest of the pack is relieved to not be #1 in guard duty of the old witch. All is well.

I shall never understand why Max ventured into my house two weeks ago. Perhaps his loneliness fueled his instinct to just belong. Hmm. Wonder if there’s a lesson here?

Honor Thy Mother? Why?

May 7, 2017 / skidaz / Leave a comment

As a quasi-historian, I find myself obsessed with why questions to things I’ve just routinely accepted. As an elementary-school-aged child, my teachers made us make a Mother’s Day gift and a card. In Sunday school we did the same, including giving our moms a carnation. I just did it; I never asked why. I was programmed to do. Thanks to my dad, I did it well until I went off to college and forgot one year to send my mom a card. Obvi, not one of my best moments, for which I carried the proverbial Catholic guilt.

So today, as I stood at the card display, I wondered. Why am I choosing one for my mom? Hallmark holiday? Why are my own kids carrying on this tradition? Hallmark holiday? Why do I keep all of the cards and knick-knack gifts my kids made me through their formative years? Why?

Based on my research, Mother’s Day origin can be traced to the Ancient Greeks and Romans–a practice continued for centuries. In America, women’s peace groups proposed a “Mother’s Friendship Day,” for the purpose of uniting families divided by the Civil War. Mrs. Ann Jarvis spearheaded the movement. Other women’s groups followed, including Julia Ward Howe’s, who led a “Mother’s Day for Peace” anti-war observance. Yet, it was Anna Jarvis who campaigned for an official Mother’s Day in 1908 in remembrance of her mother, Ann. She chose the carnation because it was her mother’s favorite flower.

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In 1914, President Woodrow Wilson proclaimed the second Sunday in May, officially Mother’s Day. However, Jarvis’ euphoria in her accomplishment lasted only 9 years. She became overtly concerned with the commercialism of Mother’s Day. In fact, she spent the rest of her life protesting against what she deemed the abuse of her holiday. Spending all of her inheritance and being arrested for disturbing the peace against the commercialization in 1948, she opposed the buying of cards, instead of writing personal notes. Florists jacked up the price of carnations. “I wish I would have never started the day; it’s out of control.”

Since it’s inception, Mother’s Day has become the most popular day to dine out and over a $5 billion dollar industry for florists, jewelers, and greeting card shops. Anna, you’re right; it’s a commercialized holiday. But in reality, my 92-year-old mom not only carried me in utero, put up with my shenanigans for 68 years, disciplined me, loved me when I didn’t love myself, and picked me up when I was down, but she still advises me in my darkest hours.

So I bought a card. I brought it home. I wrote a brief note and stuffed into the envelope a gift card from her favorite store. Just as I was about to seal the envelope, I looked at the card again.

Damn, Sue! Why didn’t you have your glasses on when you bought this card? From Your Son? Mom would think I’d lost it! I went back to the card store, selected another, wrote message, and posted it today. Sorry Anna Jarvis. I spent double my allowance on a greeting card. Yet, I’m so grateful to still have a mom with whom to talk and visit occasionally. And Anna, I really don’t care how much carnations cost–it’s my pleasure to buy them to honor my mother. Priceless.

You Saved My Life. No, You Saved Mine

April 24, 2017 / skidaz / Leave a comment

While in my early 20’s, I took a graduate school course in educational philosophy and discovered I was an existentialist–make every decision as if it is your last decision. I embraced that idea, and thus, I never looked back with “would have, could have, or should have.” Further, I don’t suffer from “buyer’s remorse.” Once I make a reasoned decision, I don’t dwell on it. It’s the proverbial water over the dam, regardless of the outcome.

In 1983, I made the biggest decision of my life to date. I gave up my dream job, I forsook my rising political career, I left my family, and I followed my spouse to his fledgling company 2,500 miles across country. Now, my decision was not painless; I found myself far away from friends and my career. Admittedly, for a while, I suffered from depression. I had no job and no friends; my spouse worked 10-12 hours a day. I had no reason to get out of bed until noon. I didn’t shower for days at a time. My dog didn’t care I smelled in our tiny condo, and my spouse was too tired to care.

I slipped further into the depression abyss and wild thoughts danced through my mind. My local Ohio celebrity status was reduced to zero. No one in Scottsdale, Arizona, knew my name. Until….

I ventured to the condo complex pool. A much younger woman than I sat alone among the snowbird, winter visitors. We conversed; Julie, too, had moved from a small town in North Dakota to follow her spouse. She, too, had no friends, nor family. She, too, was a nobody like me.

Julie and I became fast friends; we shared secrets; we shared advice. She nannied for me when my eldest was born. When she and her family moved back to North Dakota 26 years ago, I missed her. I’d often wished we could at least chat about her sub zero weather as I picked lemons.

Last week, Julie and her husband came to Phoenix. When they arrived at my front door, she and I hugged and cried, “Sue, you saved my life.”

“No, Julie, you saved mine.”

Tie game.

Spider in my Ear

April 16, 2017 / skidaz / Leave a comment

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While this comes as no surprise to those who know me well, I’ve proudly raised two very articulate daughters. Oranges don’t fall far from the proverbial orange tree. As an older mother, I had no tolerance for baby talk. Yes, I put up with “Dada,” and “Mama,” but when I spoke to each of them it wasn’t in baby talk. My kids went to the restroom, not the potty. I expected them to rise to some semblance of my vocabulary, not me drop down to theirs.

Of course, as they matured and their vocabulary grew, so did their argumentative skills. Yes, on many occasions, I rued I’d taught them to be so forthright. But my most devastating moment occurred when my youngest was sixteen months old. She had had a very sleepless night, ran a low grade fever, and was so lethargic she didn’t even want to watch Sesame Street. As she laid in my lap, she rubbed her ear. “Does your ear hurt, princess?”

“No. I want juice.”

Juice, it was. But juice didn’t solve the ear problem, as she rubbed her lobe. Stupid Sue. Get up off the sofa and call the pediatrician. She’s running a fever; she has an ear infection.

Thankfully, the office wasn’t jammed with sick kiddos, and we were quickly ushered into an exam room. The group practice doc that day was the “Patch Adams” of the pediatrician group. He danced around the room, swinging his stethoscope, and took my kid’s temperature–a shade past 100 degrees. “I need to look in your ears with my fancy light, cutie pie.”

“No!”

“Cutie pie, this won’t hurt; I promise. What’s wrong with your ear?”

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Emphatic, loud, clear answer: “‘Pider in my ear.”

I was horrified. The doc looked at me like I was an unfit mother. My dreams of winning the Mother of the Year award waltzed away. The diagnosis–ear infection. Cured with an antibiotic. Yet, twenty-six years later, I still don’t know what prompted her response. Suggestions?

Dr. Suze Is an Immigrant

March 12, 2017 / skidaz / Leave a comment

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In the past two weeks, I’ve experienced what it is like to be the proverbial stranger in a foreign land. My heart aches for the numerous children that sailed into Ellis Island over a hundred years ago and encountered a new language, culture, and social mores. My heart aches for the numerous children who fled from poverty and Mexican drug cartels. My heart aches for the current refugee children fleeing their homelands in search of safety and security. Most of these children came to American public schools where they not only encountered a new language, but often the feeling of intellectual inadequacy.

I feel their pain. First, it took me a while to learn teenage slang. My daughters were continually using words like rad, meh, and tight, which in my mind were meaningless in context. Then I was forced to learn text talk. I vividly remember receiving a text from one of them–FOFL. What does that mean? And now there’s texting for seniors! Just yesterday, I texted one of my high school friends and asked, “How are you?”

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His reply, “LOL.” Hmm. Why was he laughing out loud? He wasn’t. He was Living On Lipitor! I inquired, “Where are you?”

His reply, “BFF.” Another strange answer, which meant Best Friend’s Funeral in senior speak.

By now, I was crazy and responded, “WTF?” I literally meant what the f@#k!

His reply, “Sue, really? You wet the furniture?”

So as I struggle to learn a new computer and a new printer, I’ve been forced to learn another new language. Bear with me. Someday I may understand what an iCloud is.

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