Dr. Suze Espouses

The Trophy Wife

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Initially, some of you may find this moniker flattering. Is it? When I hear this term, I immediately think Anna Nicole Smith or Melania Trump. Granted they both were/are physically attractive and spared/spare no expense on maintaining themselves, from BOTOX to plastic surgery, exquisite wardrobes, and rigorous diets and exercise. In short, they are mere arm candy for their much older Sugar Daddy/husband.

With that being said, a friend recently asked, “If someone called you a trophy wife would you be offended?”

I laughed, “Me? I’d think they must be blind! I’m neither gorgeous, nor married!”

“Seriously, Sue. I need to know because when I told my husband about it, he said it was a compliment.”

“Hmm. He must be naive or doesn’t want you to feel bad about someone saying such crap.”

“So you agree? It’s derogatory?”

“Yep. Trophy wife has negative connotations. It’s reminiscent of Blonde jokes or BVD jokes.”

“BVD jokes?”

“Beautiful but Very Dumb. Women who are uneducated, unsophisticated, and have little substance. You, on the other hand, are the antithesis. You are educated, intelligent, and articulate. You can’t help it that you’re also good looking and blonde. Whoever called you a trophy wife is envious. And just remember what our moms taught us.”

“Sticks and stones….”

WTH? It’s A Scam!

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The other day, my friend received these four pieces of plastic in the mail. No invoice, nor instructions were included. She and two of her neighbors tried to assemble the contraption and reached this conclusion.

WTH? They were clueless. “Look up the company listed on the return address. It’s Gathers Fottys.“

Hmm. Gathers Fottys or Geathers Fottys, 3646 S Wolcott Ave., Chicago, Illinois, 60609 is a scam.In fact, it is called brushing–short for brushing up. The scammer finds its customers by trolling the Dark Web for addresses, particularly online advertisers on social media, like Facebook and Instagram. Then he/she mails his/her target a cheap, useless what-not. The unsuspecting targets are clueless, unless they notice an unauthorized purchase on their credit card, Pay Pal, or Venmo. When they report this to their creditor, the scammer provides proof of delivery. Or in some cases, simply uses the target’s name to brag about the quality of their products online. The same tactic is used in bait and switch schemes, when one orders an electric scooter for the low price of $99 and receives six battery-operated tea lights instead. The scammer has proof of delivery, and the target has little recourse.

Of course, victims can report these incidents to the Postal Service, to the Better Business Bureau, and to law enforcement, which is informative, but offer little prospect of monetary compensation. Additionally, by Federal law, the victim does NOT have to return any unsolicited item. In fact, victims are advised NOT to return items because the scammer is now assured the address of his target is correct. Talk about a waste of intelligence! These perps who set up elaborate scams could make money if they used their talents in legitimate endeavors.

Now if you receive one of these packages with random crap, I repeat you can kept it, recycle it, regift it, or trash, but check your credit card or other methods of payment. You’re welcome.

GIRLS: A True Story

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Allison is a young friend of mine, who’s originally from New York, as in the City. Yes, she has the Naw Yawk accent. She was educated in elite private schools, holds a degree from Hofstra, and is an accomplished equestrian. Given her very pricey hobby of owning horses, she has three jobs. By day, she’s a supply chain manager for a large corporation, she’s a professional, three-night-a week bartender, and she teaches riding lessons on the weekend.

Surprisingly , Allison is one of the most upbeat persons I’ve ever met. She’s uber enthusiastic and energetic, yet on my last encounter she was sad. Oh dear, I thought. Did something happen to one of her horses? Or one of her adopted chihuahuas?

“Allison, talk to me. What’s going on?”

“Sue, I got called into HR today.”

“Wow, are you being promoted again?”

“I wish. No. I used inappropriate language.”

I smiled. “Like what? Called someone a name, like jerk or horse’s ass?”

“According to HR, I did something far worse; in fact, totally inappropriate in the work place. I manage a seven-member team of women. The HR Director overheard me say, ‘Hey girls, where shall we go to lunch today?'”

“And you got called in for that?”

“Yep. I was told to refer to them as ladies or women. Girls is inappropriate.”

“Allison, sit down. Let me tell you a story–a story I know you studied, given your classical education. Remember when Juliet asks, ‘What’s in a name?’ What does she say next?”

“That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

“Correct. My dear Allison, girl is more appropriate than the current government’s use of piggy or fucking bitch.”

What do you think?

Thimblerig, AKA the Shell Game

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Most of us have this game; sometimes on a street corner, at a bar, or at a party. Using three cups with a coin, a bottle cap, or a pea, the con artist hides the object under a cup and quickly shuffles the three cups around. Your job is to bet which cup covers the object. Of course, the con snatches up your money, as you have chosen the wrong cup. You are mystified by this two-hundred-year-old trick–and out five bucks!

Me? I discovered this week I, too, was a victim several weeks ago at a garden center, where some sick, deranged fool switched the identifying stakes in the tomato plants. I thought I bought “Better Boy” and “Celebrity” tomato plants, but after five straight days of rain and three weeks of desert sun, the vines were a sea of green small balls. Damn! Cherry tomatoes! What good is a bushel of cherry tomatoes? Megamillions of seeds to lodge in my teeth and wreck havoc in my digestive track. I certainly was in no mood to grind them into salsa, nor cook them down and strain all the seeds.

My only choice was to remove the plants, go buy new ones, hope the weather cooperated, and I’d reap a crop. “Do you think it’s too late to plant these?”

“Not sure, ma’am,” said the guy in the garden center. “Depends on the weather.”

Duh. “The only reason I have to is I got snookered by Thimblerig!”

He looked at me quizzically. “Uh, what?”

“Thimblerig. The Shell Game. Someone switched out the stakes in your plants; I thought I was buying big tomatoes, not cherry tomatoes. I’m not wasting my time and my water bill on dumb little cherries.”

“Ha, I hear ya! I got gut problems, too. Let me tell you a story about my friend who bought his kid a pygmy pig and ended up with a 400-pound sow.”

By the end of his story, I was regaled in laughter. Yes, Suzanne, there’s a lot worse things than buying cherry tomato plants.

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.

Discourse, Disagreement, and Dissent

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These are NOT dirty words, but words upon which America was founded and flourished. (I know a little about that since I’m a direct descendant of Patrick Henry.)

I spent my entire fifty-year career in public education as a high school English teacher, a high school principal, a school district superintendent, a deputy associate state department school superintendent, and as an university professor. In addition, I served twenty years as a school board member in a large suburban school district. Fact. Not intended to be bragging. Just fact.

During my fifty-year career, my name was often etched in desks and scrawled on bathroom walls with obscenities. Folk repeatedly critiqued me, argued with me, and sometimes even dissented. When I was on the school board, parents, students, and teachers often confronted me in our public meetings, in the grocery store, or at a football game. My daughter’s friends vociferously objected to a parking policy I endorsed. When social media took off, I was frequently chastised by the members of the greater school community.

I’ve borne my fair brunt of criticism–perhaps deserved. Yet, in my defense, I listened. Because I listened, sometimes I changed my mind. Because I listened, I KNEW I wasn’t as smart as I thought! Because I listened, I apologized when I knew I was mistaken. Because I listened, I, not only learned a lot, but I became a better teacher, principal, superintendent, professor, and school board member. (I dare not say a better parent!)

Given the events of this last week or two, I’m astounded by the national movement of: MY WAY IS THE ONLY WAY. Or in other words: YOU’RE FIRED.

“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 Rise and Fall of the Diving Board: The End of an Era

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Given the lengthy, hot summers in Phoenix, most home owners have swimming pools. Our pool was put in over 30 years ago and underwent one mega renovation. However, both of my kids insisted that the diving board remain a permanent fixture. The revered diving board to me was a source of major consternation, particularly when my youngest mastered outrageous antics, like cartwheels and a wide-range of acrobatic feats off the board.

On one occasion, I said to my then-husband, “K just back-flipped off the board.”

His response, “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know; I couldn’t look.”

Last week disaster struck. Miraculously disaster was avoided given the number of young children in my pool, when a young mother took their dare. With her kids and nephews urging her on, she mounted the board and dove. The weighty, fiberglass board flew from its platform and smacked her head as it hit the water. Thankfully, she was not injured, and thankfully, her brother-in-law managed to get the board out of the water.

As I surveyed the aftermath, I decided to replace it. Wrong. Since Phoenix has one of the highest rates of pool drownings, strict safety codes for pool construction have been enacted. Pool contractors are required to be licensed and carry pricey liability insurance for their creations. Thus, none of the reputable companies I contacted would even consider replacing a diving board and its platform on my ancient pool.

I’m okay with this, for I’m far too old to have my pool rebuilt at today’s prices. I’m okay with this because I’m not a diver. And I am really okay with this because….

I never want to see my grandson catapulting nor hot-dogging, like his mom, into my pool.