Dr. Suze Espouses

Protest Songs

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For my tenth Christmas, I asked Santa for a clock radio. As the technology improved, I had a transistor radio, and by the time I went to college in 1966, I had a primitive stereo system. I also learned to play the guitar and strummed a lot of folk music, written by Bob Dylan, Buffy St. Marie, and Joan Baez. I played and sang, Universal Soldier, Where Have All the Flowers Gone, If I Had a Hammer, and Blowin’ in the Wind.

On my car radio this week, I heard Buffalo Springfield’s For What It’s Worth, and time stood still. I was blasted back to the past! To the mid- 60’s and 70’s. To my era of protest songs: Turn, Turn, Turn; Respect; Give Peace a Chance, Eve of Destruction, Requiem for the Masses, and my most poignant memory–Four Dead in Ohio.

And now, almost sixty years later the music of the past is alarmingly relevant. Have we not learned anything? I guess not, or Springsteen would not have surged to the top of the charts with The Streets of Minneapolis.

If You Feed Them, They Will Come

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(I’m not talking about teenage boys; everyone knows they consume volumes of food and drinks. When my brother was that age, he’d take a half gallon of milk and shred a bag of candy bars into it and drink the whole jug after school. My youngest used to have parties at our home after Friday night games, and I’d have to replenish the pantry and the freezer on Monday mornings.)

What I am talking about, though, is the new rage for birdwatchers: The Bird Buddy. Since my three-year-old grandson, Blake, is enamored with birds, I was gifted this high-tech, AI, contraption for Christmas, so I could share pictures with him of Arizona birds. In turn, he’d share his photos from North Carolina. As a technological immigrant, I was not jazzed about learning to navigate this pricey, solar bird feeder and camera, but…after all, it was for Blake.

Surprisingly enough, I buried the shepherd’s hook in the ground, downloaded the app, assembled the parts, and filled the feeder with native bird seed. I was ready! Over a month has passed. Not one bird has visited my luxury dining establishment. Why? I don’t know. Perhaps, they are camera shy. Perhaps, they don’t like my cuisine. Perhaps, they prefer to peck my nearly ripe tomatoes and devour my grass seed.

I can’t understand why the copious amounts of birds that live in my environs decided to boycott my restaurant. They’ve never hesitated before to flock to a seed block, nest under the eaves, or poop in my citrus trees. Realizing I can’t disappoint Blake, I’m searching for options. I considered posing fake birds on the feeder, but when I checked the camera photo–obvious fake news! I was seriously thinking I’d even buy parakeet and set it free after my Kodak moment. My conscience cancelled that decision; I couldn’t have a parakeet be hawk or owl bait. One of my friends sent me this suggestion:

Do you think I should try it?

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?