Dr. Suze Espouses Blog

Sick, Heinous, and Disgusting: CHICAGO

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As some of you know, I’ve a young friend, Annie, who lives in a suburb of Chicago, where she and her husband, Ben, have a daughter in the first grade in a public school. Ben is an American of Filipino descent; thus, his skin color is mocha. Even though he is a corporate executive, his wallet carries his birth certificate, social security card, and a copy of his university credentials. In America? Hell, yes. Why? Because ICE is randomly zip-tying people of “color.”

Now, if you’re not appalled and enraged by Ben’s fear, imagine their six-year old daughter, who, too, lives in fear. Her teacher took them to the playground for recess this week, and ICE masked agents showed up! Fortunately, this teacher herded her crying students back into the building without incident. But the psychological damage done to children that day can not be minimized. Nor can we ignore the repeated “active shooter” drills, our children are subjected to monthly. In America? Hell, yes. Why? The NRA lobby.

However, Annie, Ben, and their neighbors met and decided to confound their dilemma; they organized. They escort kids to and from school, ‘they watch over the alleys and ingress points for several blocks surrounding the school to ensure every child gets home to a safe adult.’ In America? Hell, yes. Why? Good question.

Annie’s final comment to me: Sue, Chicago is under attack, but Chicago is rising. The unity and alignment I’ve seen as neighbors is inspiring. This is a veiled excuse to try to intimidate the people of Chicago, and it isn’t working. We will keep protecting our neighbors.

In America? Hell, yes! Why? BECAUSE WE ARE AMERICANS!

The Plague: TGIF

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In my younger life, I looked forward to Thank God, it’s Friday,where I absolutely enjoyed a weekend without my job and its responsibilities. I’d shop, go to a play, a movie, or a party. Sometimes drink too much beer and always revel in the two-night sleep without an alarm clock. As my kids aged, our house was filled with their friends after a football or basketball game. I loved it because I knew all of them and made sure there was food, age-appropriate drinks, and my monitoring. After my kids moved on, I spent my Fridays engaged in the random, boring tasks of life. I didn’t leave my casa; I did chores, read or watched a random TV movie.

Then, three weeks ago, disaster struck! Fridays suck! Can you imagine having an air conditioner malfunction when it’s 119 degrees on Friday afternoon? HVAC folk are scarce as two-dollar bills on the weekend. The following Friday, the outdoor spotlight on the pickleball court failed to turn off. The special light bulb retails about $200! OMG! Where does one find an electrician on Friday? Then on Friday this week, the air conditioner in the guest quarters abruptly quit. At first, I thought maybe a breaker had tripped during the electric storm, but no, that wasn’t the problem. I’m S-O-L until my Monday appointment. Finally, Friday night I decided to watch episode 3 of South Park. (I never thought at my age I would be watching that show, but admittedly Parker and Stone’s relentless attacks entertain me.) Damn! My big screen was dead…perhaps a result of the raging electrical monsoon.

Now, I’ve no idea why I’ve been dealt the Friday curse. In my humble opinion, I’ve not been bad–I’ve been “kind of” good. But if you can recommend an exorcist, please message me before next Friday.

GOLF

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To clarify, not the Gulf of whatever it’s been renamed this week, but the sport where one tries to hit a little white ball in the cup. The game that’s dreadfully boring to watch on TV, unless you’re in need of a nap. The game that’s certainly not as exciting as playing like volleyball or softball.

This weekend I was reminded of my dabble at golf when POTUS couldn’t meet the plane carrying deceased US soldiers, due to his golf tournament commitment at his Doral golf club. Sponsored by Saudi Arabia, DT managed to qualify for the final round today in the senior division. No surprise, since he’s a legendary cheater at the game. In fact, since his January inauguration, the US government government has spent over $26 MILLION on his Florida weekend golf trips.

Over fifty years ago, I decided to take golf lessons at Mill Creek Golf course. After all, I heard that golf pros were cute, young men, and I was a single young gal. My pro was a married, balding, middle-aged guy, who was an competent and patient instructor. He was highly complimentary of my ability to drive the ball but noted my putting was in dire need of improvement. (Hell, I thought putting was akin to croquet where one slammed the ball into the cup.)

“You have potential, Sue, to be good at this game, but you need to practice. Just play as often as you can.”

Really? Pray tell, sir. Where does one practice in the Lake Erie winters? Thankfully, the beer cart arrived in the St. Nick of time before I flapped my mouth. Aah. I’d found the only redeeming quality to chasing that little white ball around.

The Neighborhood Dive Bar

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I’ve just completed my fourth, and perhaps final novel, which is primarily set in several of these establishments. In order to infuse a dose of reality, I had to refresh my experiences in bars since my college days, and I discovered some of them are much classier than those I hung out in almost sixty years ago.

Upon entry, the first thing that struck me was they were lighter–I could actually see who was in there. Of course, this may be due to better lighting and the no smoking policy. Or it could be because these neighborhood bars don’t cater to the underage, fake ID, college crowds. Secondly, unlike college hangouts, food is served–not bags of potato chips and peanuts–real food, like veggie burgers, wings, club sandwiches, soups, and salads. (Yes, some of it is greasy food, but it’s quality fried pickles, zucchini, and mushrooms.) Thirdly, and most importantly, the bathrooms are immaculately clean. Gone are the phone numbers, the graffiti, and the lipstick smudges. The toilets aren’t clogged; the sinks and mirrors are clean, the waste cans are empty, and toilet paper doesn’t decorate the floor.

Over the last year, I’ve researched this industry and can honestly conclude the owners I interviewed were primarily in their 40’s, some of them were women, and all of them were very customer-service focused. In fact, the bartender immediately uncaps the customer’s favored beer or pours the “usual” before he/she take their seat. Some servers are so adept they can take dinner orders from a table of ten without the benefit paper and pencil–truly amazing what they can remember! (Which is why, at my age, I can’t be a server!)

Finally, my last word of advice, is don’t judge a neighborhood bar and grill by its exterior. Some of these establishments have been around for thirty or forty years. Instead, check out the parked cars, you may see high-end vehicles and fancy sports models. As long as the neighborhood is safe, you may become as fascinated as I am with this industry. Cheers!

Not Me

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My fifty-year career in public education began at a career technical high school teaching English, where my students were more interested in auto mechanics, cosmetology, and nursing rather than reading and writing. This thirteen-year experience taught me a lot about the trades from laying cement block, to offset printing to welding. I spent one afternoon in the welding lab with the delightful, instructor, who made me don gloves and the special helmet and taught me to light the torch. “Sue, I’m going to teach you how to mend anything, except broken hearts and promises.”

Curiously, today, I recalled Mr. Harold’s proclamation when I read a post written by a longtime MAGA supporter, who wrote in part he’d recently been terminated by US Department of Agriculture. “Each time I voted for you, it was because I knew you’d make things right and you’d fix the wrongs. I’m counting on you to make this right too. I’m pleading with you to reinstate my employment and give me my job back. Please, Mr. President.”

While I feel compassion for the author and regret his career loss, hopefully, he’s learned that the flim- flam man cares little about anyone other than himself, nor have any notion of right and wrong. With all due respect to the author, His Highness thrives on breaking hearts and promises. (Check the soaring gas and grocery prices, if you doubt me.)

Sorry, Mr. Author, you’re not going to be reinstated just because you wear a red hat.

True Confessions

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I started to blog over twelve years ago and focused on the humor of every day life. Over time, I aged, as did my blog, but my values haven’t. On the political front, I truly have no interest in most of the propositions on my ballot, nor even the vast number of candidates vying for power and prestige. However, in the past few years, I’ve grown increasingly concerned by the hateful, rhetoric, name-calling, bold-face lies, and lack of civility. Further, I’m enraged by the enormous amounts of money spent on signs, buttons, and advertising–money that could be used to improve our infrastructure, our government services, health care, environmental concerns, and our school systems.

While all of this is upsetting, I am most disturbed by the emphasis on women. In 1920, the Constitution was amended to guarantee women the right to vote, and on June 24, 2022, the Supreme Court struck down Roe v. Wade. Certainly, I’m too old to need an abortion or access to IVF, but my daughters might and thousands of others in future generations. There is NO legislation that forbids a man from doing what he wants to do with HIS body, but HE wants to legislate MINE! I don’t think so.

However, my final personal insult came this week from my district’s state representative–an openly gay man, who’s running for reelection. Now, it matters not to me who he chooses to sleep with–not my business. What matters to me is his anti-abortion, anti-reproductive rights stance. How dare he say, “I am proudly pro-life?” The courts have certainly protected his rights to marry whomever he wishes, and he doesn’t have to worry about a tubular pregnancy, a molar pregnancy, or a rape pregnancy.

I feel like a child eagerly awaiting the arrival of Santa Claus–removing one link of my red and green paper chain each day in my countdown to Christmas. However, my chain is made from black paper. My countdown is to November 5th. In the meantime, I shall continue to pray for a return to moderation, civility, and sanity that affords women equal rights.

It’s How You Look at It

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Everybody and their dog is familiar with: Is the glass full or half empty?  It depends on your perspective.  My thought was as long as there is more libation to add in the glass what did it matter.  However, I’ve meet a handful of people along the way who are consumed with negativity.  Sadly, these folk never have a good day, they never see the silver lining in the face of adversity, and they don’t laugh at their own foibles.  Further, they are unable to accept blame for their own mistakes.

Witness the PT Barnum circus in Washington.  For the first time in history, only PT knows the truth–everything else is “fake.”  Wow!  I must be the most stupid person on earth to watch a PT video, which is immediately denied as “fake,”  if there’s a backlash. It’s a most curious world.

As most of you know, a week ago I turned 70.  Not a number I necessarily wanted to be, but I can’t deny my birth certificate, nor my passport.  I can’t call it fake news.  It is a fact. Yes, Sue, you’re 70, and the sun is still shining.

Admittedly, I had a tough time turning 70.  It was a anchoring moment…until my one of my high school friends posted:

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Yep, it’s all in how you look at it.  A mere 21 in Celsius.  Now, don’t get me wrong, I’ve no desire to be 21 again–50ish perhaps, but not 21.  Working all day, staying up late partying all weekend, or squeezing my squashed behind into trendy clothing.  But at least I’ve a comeback remark when someone asks, “How old are you?”

“Fahrenheit or Celsius?”

About to be 70

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Who knew?  I thought I was the female version of Peter Pan.  Yet, the next time I blog I will be a septuagenerian.  Believe me, in the past several months, this reality has been on my mind. Seventy has forced me to examine my life.  Have I made a difference?  Have I contributed to the greater good?  Have I been the best mom I could.  I don’t know.

 

Then last night I decided to take another tact; I asked myself, “What modern invention rocked me?”  My grandfather, who was born in 1892, said over and over, electricity changed his life.  Of course, he enjoyed the convenience of indoor plumbing too, which came later.

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In preparation for this blog, I asked my 93-year-old mother what rocked her. She struggled with her answer, describing herself as a child of war–born shortly after WWI and living through WWII.  She did note she and my dad got their first television in 1950, which later morphed into a big-screen entertainment center.  Microwave ovens, cellular phones, disposable diapers, and rotary lawnmowers.

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I suspect you think I will say the computer–it, indeed, rocked me.  It certainly changed my life, but it was not the first thing.  It was my watch. Like many, my first big-girl watch was a Minnie Mouse. Admittedly, numbers have never been my best friend, and I labored learning to tell time.  My maternal grandmother frustrated me when I’d ask, “What time is it?”

“Quarter past.”

What does that mean?  There’s no quarters on my watch, nor halves, nor three-quarters.

Eventually, I mastered the art of telling time, but my world was shakened when Texas Instruments introduced a digital watch in the early 70’s.  Now, with a simple button press,  I instantly knew it was 5:45.  I didn’t have to wind it.  I was in heaven! Thus, began my love affair with watches.  I have designer, analog power ones, and was once gifted a Rolex.  Rolex–the most over-priced, over-rated, high maintenance watch on the market.

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I’ll take my newest one any day.  You know the one.  The one that counts my steps,  monitors my blood pressure, sends me messages and emails, allows me to answer in-coming calls, search the internet, etc.  And it tells time!

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Seventy is creeping up my shorts.  Got to go.  Time’s a wasting.

 

The Name Game: Migrant Children

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When I was in the Master’s Leadership program, the professor asked: What’s the most important thing about a person?

Though I loved this professor, I knew he was wily.  Two brave students attempted an answer, only to be told they were incorrect.  The professor walked to podium, cleared his throat, and we knew we were about to learn a very important lesson.  Ladies and Gentleman the MOST important thing about a person is his/her name!  A name that distinguishes him/her from “you,” “kid,” “son,” or “ma’am.”  As an educator you must value people’s names, whether they be teachers, students, and parents.  You’ll be surprised by how much they respect you. A lesson I’ve not forgotten.  

Know I have the utmost respect for migrant workers and am most grateful for their service.  I’m certainly not going to pick lettuce, avocados, nor apples as my career.  Even at my grandparents’ farm years ago, men wandered up the lane to help with haying season and combining wheat and oats.

I am appalled at the separation of children from their migrant families.  I am appalled the US government is spending millions to house these children.  But I am most appalled we do not know these children’s names.  Really?  WTF?  And now, the government is going to spend millions to identify them via DNA testing.  Hmm.  In this technological age, it was not considered to identify them first–through photograph, finger print, or number?  These are children–some toddlers.  I can’t imagine their terror.

 

people-id-solutionsUnfortunately, this is just another example of mbsp–management by the seat of the pants. No one seems to understand the consequences of a decision until they’re faced with reality.  Decisions are whimsical, often retaliatory to garner votes.  Certainly, none of the recent decisions can be viewed as thoughtful.  (Just wait.  The tariff position is about to decimate American farmers.)

Yes, I’m a teacher. Yes, I’m a child advocate.  Yes, I would gladly open my home, my extra beds, and my kitchen to six children.  And yes, I would know each of them by name.

A view of inside US CBP detention facility shows children at Rio Grande Valley Centralized Processing Center in Texas

The Satanic Evil: Health Insurance

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My intent is not to assume all health insurance companies are evil.  My story is about one, with a blue cross and a blue shield.

On Tuesday, a renown pulmonologist ordered a PET scan of one of my dear friends.  A PET (Positron Emission Tomography) scan is used to detect cancer, heart problems or brain disorders by inserting a dye with radioactive tracers into the body.  The scan usually takes several hours and costs approximately $3,500.

Since my friend is a five-year cancer survivor, who suffered from a cancer which metastasized to her lungs, the pulmonologist discovered the presence of two nodules.  Further, my friend had developed symptoms of asthma, which sometimes required use of an inhaler and prescription allergy medicine.

On Thursday, her nationally renown oncologist, did an evaluation and agreed the PET scan was needed to assure her wellness and to rule out the need for a more expensive biopsy procedure of the nodules.

Boy Blue refused to authorize the PET scan.  Once. Twice. Three times.  Even after being provided health history, blood tests, CT scans, X-rays.  Even after speaking with duly board certified physicians: the pulmonologist and the oncologist.  It boggles my mind Baby Blue was so arrogant to think he knew more than the experts.  Secondly, how can he make money if he has to pay out?  In addition, my friend is self-employed and pays an insurance premium of over $600 per month.  Baby Blue knew her patient history before he offered her the hefty monthly cost.

Finally late Friday afternoon, Boy Blue changed his mind and authorized the scan.  While I’m not privy to the details as to what motivated the change,  I suspect my friend’s two junkyard dog, physicians left some peon employee at the Blue empire licking his wounds.

Thankfully, most physicians, nurses, therapists, and ancillary folk have integrity and truly advocate for their patients.  Boy Blue: Show me the money!