Dr. Suze Espouses Blog

Confessions on Potato Salad

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

10844_tart_cranberry_pieI do not have a sophisticated palate; I’m far from a gourmand.  Both of my grandmothers were excellent cooks; they prepared rural, regional cuisines.  My paternal grandmother was the family legend of baking: pies, donuts, blueberry muffins, and cinnamon rolls were her forte.  I knew I’d never learn to make pie crust or breads like hers.

Thus, given my upbringing I never discovered delectable Italian dishes until I went to elementary school.  In fact, I have vivid memories of sitting next to a girl in the lunch room who was eating what appeared to be some variation of bread slathered with tomato sauce and meat.  “What is that?  It’s smells wonderful.”

pizza-slice-01

“You don’t know?  It’s pizza.  Want to try some?”

“Sure.  I’ll trade you one of my Mom’s chocolate chip cookies for it.”  My adoration of Italian food began.

th

Then, horrors of horrors!  I was asked to bring potato salad to a party.  Me?  Every time I tried to make it, it was not edible.  I knew I couldn’t go to the deli and buy it, for those places are rife with creepy diseases.  The last thing I wanted was to be the cause of Montezuma’s revenge!

I fired up the computer and searched the net.  Finally, I found a recipe that even I might put in my mouth.  Of course, I made a “dry run” and served it to my kid.  Both she and I pronounced it the best we’d ever eaten! In case, you want to try my tweaked concoction:

  1. Peel, cube, and boil potatoes.  Remove and drain when still rather firm.  Drizzle one and one-half teaspoons of white vinegar over potatoes and let sit.
  2. Chop celery, one or to two green onions, and one hard-boiled egg.
  3. In mixing bowl, blend equal parts of Miracle Whip, Mayonnaise, with a squirt of mustard and celery salt or celery seed. (The combo of Miracle Whip and Mayo is key!)
  4. Toss and stir everything together and let stand in refrigerator for at least two hours.

Trust me.  It’s a winner!

Potato_salad_(1)

 

 

On Being 105

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

 

According to folklore, dog years are multiplied by 7.  Thus, I have a part pomeranian, part yorkie who recently had her fifteen birthday in people years or 105 dog years.  Meet Tessa Marie Jenkins, the centenarian!

Tessa was her original name, but over time, Marie and Jenkins were added.  Why? I don’t know.  In her early years, she was an active, friendly little dog, but then she became a recluse.  She spent the majority of her time under the bed.  So much so, that many of our family and friends asked, “Who’s that elusive dog of which I caught a glimpse?”  She kept her distance even from me.  She ran and hid if I tried to pet her.  I had to feed her in a separate room, as she wouldn’t eat in front of the others.  My kids called her a diva.  “She’s too good for our company.  Such a high-maintenance snob!”

Elli-2

Then miraculously, two years ago Tessa Marie came out from under the bed.  She ate with my other dogs, and she even came to parties.  I took her to the vet for her innoculations and check-up, and the vet said she was in wonderful condition.  “Sue, you must have just had her teeth cleaned.  Her teeth are immaculate.”  I only nodded–little did he know her teeth had never been cleaned.  (I’m not a fan of routinely putting dogs to sleep for teeth cleaning, unless infection threatens their health.)

These days Tessa is a spry, active and very demanding 105 year-old.  She barks and barks until she gets a dog biscuit or three.  I can’t tell her “no” because she is stone deaf.  Yet, when her internal clock goes off, she barks until her dinner is served.  She barks when she needs to patrol the backyard, and she barks when she sees someone at the front door.

rockstar2

Tessa has lived in my house for 15 years and has never gone near the swimming pool.  However, this week, during a romp, she fell in the deep end.  I was in shock!  She’s freaking old; she’ll have a heart attack and plummet ten feet down.  No.  She swam to the side, where my cabana boy rescued her.  Though I was sure she’d have some type of injury or side effect, she shook herself off as we towel-dried her.  She sprinted around the yard; I imagined her singing: Hey, now.  I’m a Rock Star!  I was amazed at her energy.

I guess I need to add this to my daily, dietary intake:

Healthy-Dog-Treats

 

 

 

 

Graduation Day

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

th-3

“There’s a time for joy. There’s a time for tears. A time we’ll treasure through the years.  We’ll remember always graduation day.”

On Thursday night, I had the honor of addressing graduates at two of our high schools.  As I surveyed the audience, I saw both tears and an abundance of joy.  I spoke about several students of the class of 2018, whom had overcome insurmountable odds to receive a diploma–a Congo refugee, who had been raped and fled to America with her baby.  This senior mastered English in less than six months, worked, and went to school full time and earned a scholarship to nursing school.  I spoke about a special education student who was a member of the golf and the tennis team and the concert band.  I spoke about a male dancer who’s a character of the video game, So You Think You Can Dance, –yes, he’s that well-known, and a guy who invented a new guitar pedal, which will revolutionize modern music.

th-6

When I reflect on my high school graduation–over 50 years ago, I remember how special it was for the families of many of my classmates, whose parents were immigrants.  I remember the fabulous graduation parties with wonderful ethnic food.  And I remember the brewing war in Viet Nam.  While it was a joyous time, it was also a time for fear.

Last night, my neighbor (originally from England) asked, “Sue, what’s up with all this graduation bs?  In England, high school graduation was expected. University graduation was cause for a celebration.”

th-7

Now, I could have launched into a long oration about the history of American education and the symbolic, significance of high school graduation, but I refrained.  For me, high school graduation is the first educational mile marker on the road of life.  Yet, I’m dismayed it has been both marginalized and commercialized by such ludicrous traditions of preschool, kindergarten, sixth grade, and eighth grade graduations.  Caps and gowns, limos, and parties ad nauseam for mere children? Why?

 

I’m Paranoid

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

 

 

As an 18-year veteran of the school board, the last few months have been the most challenging I’ve ever witnessed.  I experienced both student walkouts for school safety and teacher walkouts for dismal state support for its public schools.  I grew up in an era of protest–the Kent State shootings and Viet Nam War sit-ins.  I watched on TV the riots in Watts.  I’m not Pollyanna; I knew the world wasn’t perfect. I was cognizant of war, crime, and cruelty against others.

I watched in horror the TV coverage of the Twin Towers and the shooting of Gabby Giffords in a Tucson parking lot.  I wept over the massacre at Sandy Hook Elementary School.  Afterward, our school district remodeled all of our forty-four schools.  Now, when I drive by each of them, the buildings are fortresses.  (If Phoenix water wasn’t so pricey, moats would have been added). Our front office entries are bullet-proof glass, and like the movie theater, I speak into a microphone and slide my ID through the little drawer for the secretary to peruse before I’m admitted.  I’ve undergone background checks and carry a fingerprint card.

Yet, in spite of all these school safety measures, school shootings continue.  Believe me, I’ve bent my head in prayer since Sandy Hook–my only weapon.  Thoughts and prayers are of NO use to dead children and school staff members; they’ve already met Jesus.

I am paranoid of what’s to become of us.  We live in an America rife with bullying, hate, anger, and powerful lobbies which control our legislators.  Each week we lose more of our most precious asset–our youth to senseless violence. Our children are counting on us to resolve this madness.

I Know You Are, But What Am I?

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

Paul Reubens, Pee wee Herman

Lordy, when my eldest watched Pee Wee Herman, she said this to me until I wanted to scream.  Now, I find myself pondering “What am I?”

Unlike Peter Rabbit, I wasn’t born under a cabbage leaf in some random garden.  I’ve a valid birth certificate, a passport, a driver’s license, and a social security number. Further, I carry a fingerprint card, so my school district knows I’m not a pedophile nor criminal, and I have a TSA security clearance.  Since there are no laws against humor and sarcasm, I’ve never been convicted of a crime–other than exceeding the speed limit.

Yet, I live in the Old West, where one can carry a gun–even a concealed one without a permit, regardless of age.  Arizona prides itself on the lack of government intrusion, but the legislature mandates really stupid laws at the expense of its people.  Arizona prides itself on defying federal laws with which it doesn’t agree, i.e. the Real ID Act, 2005.

Regardless, of all of my vetting, I will not be able to fly on an airplane, nor perhaps be allowed to drive to San Diego or Albuquerque in 2020 without a new identification card.  Why?  Because years ago, the Arizona legislature chose to opt out of the federal ID driver’s license program.  Albeit, Washington cannot dictate what we do!

uspassportflag

Thus, I won’t be able to use my driver’s license to fly or to visit nuclear power plants nor military facilities. (Believe me, I have no interest in going to a a power plant, nor Fort Lee). Of course, my new ID comes with verification requirements:  a birth certificate, a passport, a Social Security card, and two proofs of residency–utility bills, bank statements, and/or insurance policies.  Plus a $25 fee for my eight-year, ID.  And yes, I’ll have to stand in a long line until a bureaucrat verifies my paperwork.  In fact, I’m rather surprised Arizona hasn’t ordered my DNA sample too!

For thirty-five years, I’ve been an Arizona resident.  I paid taxes, I voted, and I never committed assault, nor burglary.  What am I?  I don’t know.

peter-rabbit-3a

 

 

 

The High Price of Grass

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

 

lawn3No, I’m not talking about weed, Mary Jane, Kush, I’m talking about the stuff in my yard–or lack of stuff in my yard.  Long ago,  I chose not to grow winter grass, just summer grass.

In March, I began the task of overseeding, patching, mulching, and fertilizing.  The water sprinklers ran three times of day.  Unlike other parts of the country, the Southwest rarely gets free water from Heaven.  Yet, the dogs enjoy romping through wet grass and leaving paw prints on my floors.

03-not-weird-facts-rain-Mr_Twister

Over a month has passed and my lawn looks terrible.  It’s filled with splotching dead areas which refused to grow–even over the septic tank!  I’ve spent copious amounts of money trying to have an attractive, lush lawn to no avail.  Then yesterday, I received a water bill from the city.  OMG!  My water bill had quadrupled!  It was almost half a grand!  (Water is damn expensive in the desert.)

bad-grass-cropped2

I’m in a quandary; I don’t know what to do.  For sure, I’m reducing the watering schedule, but should I take out all the grass and put in rock or astro turf?  Resod? Spray paint the bare patches green?  Or maybe, I simply shouldn’t worry about the dismal look of my backyard.  No one can see it but me.  The dogs certainly don’t mind.

Once upon a time, someone said to me, “That’s just like you, Sue.  You always want to take the easy way out.”  I beg to differ.  I’m usually up for a challenge, but with temperatures over 100, an inviting pool, an inflatable lounge, and a cold beer, I’m no longer going to fret over my dismal attempt to grow grass.  Maybe next year.

 

 

Thank You for Your Support

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

bartles_and_jaymes

Yes, I stole this line from an old Bartels and Jaymes commercial.  But it is apt.  My brother, Bruce, and I want to thank you for your support of our first novel, Renato.  It published several weeks ago on Amazon and on Kindle, and we’ve been very pleased with the response.

FRONT

Renato is a timely tale of three generations, which traces the enormous power of mob influence not only in commerce, but in politics.  Dr. Andy Miller and his dog go for a walk the day after a Phoenix monsoon.  The dog runs up the debris-littered wash and returns with a prize.  Miller pries it from her jaws and discovers it is a human mandible.  A mandible which will launch an investigation into organized crime, drug cartels, and American politics.

Set in Ohio, Massachusetts, California, and Arizona, this work of fiction has a strong element of truth.  It was written after three years of research, interviews, and personal visits to verify its accuracy.

Some folk have already asked if there’s a sequel coming.  Writing a novel is hard work.  It  sucks the authors in and takes over.  Neither Bruce, nor I can promise the resurrection of Dr. Danny Sweeney again, but we’re currently working on a plot line.  Time will tell, so until we meet again on Amazon, thank you.

BOOK

 

Hey There, You’re a Rock Star

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

 

FreeVector-Rock-StarsYears ago, I co-taught Sunday school with another church member, and one Sunday she said, “Sue, I’m tired of my nomadic life on the road.”  I knew she traveled several times a month leaving both her husband and children to fend for themselves.  But she was making mega bucks.  “You know I have a teaching degree I’ve never used.”

No, I didn’t know it.  “If you think you want to teach, I can arrange a interview with our HR assistant superintendent.  You realize you’ll never make the same amount of money you make now.”

“Of course.  There’s more important things than making loads of money.  I need to be with my family, and I want to make a difference in the lives of kids.”

teachers-p3

“Deb, teaching is the most important profession in the world, for without a teacher there can be no nurse, no attorney, and no plumber.  I’ve observed you; you will be fabulous.”

Deb was hired as a teacher in a Title I elementary school and earlier this week emailed me:  I’m so proud to work for such a supportive governing board and superintendent.  You’re rock stars.

Rock stars?  The true rock stars are you and your fellow teachers.  You who are paid $35-40,000 per year to educate our future.  You who collect warm clothing for children in need.  You who tutor children at risk.  You who work tirelessly day after day to ensure each child maximizes his/her potential.

Curiously, I’ve never swooned over The Beatles, Smash Mouth, nor Justin Timberlake.  Yet, I’ve been euphoric when I witnessed the myriad of student accomplishments made possible by caring and dedicated teachers.  So unless Bruce Springsteen wants to run away with me, teachers will be my #1 rock stars!

th

It Pays to Advertise

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

sexist ads1411

 

Most of us are bombarded with advertising.  All with promises of the best car, the best detergent, the most energy efficient car or appliance.  Oh, dear God, yes, I’ve been sucked into these claims of years.

I’ve bought miracle cleansers guaranteed to make my shower sparkle.  I bought wrinkle-free clothing, five-minute meals, and solar pool covers.  None of those products delivered their false promises.  Yet, I kept on buying–searching for the one.

th

As time and age reduced me into a shar pei, which I could not bear to look at in a bathroom mirror, let alone a full-length mirror, I searched for hope.  And with simple clicks on my computer, I bought beauty creams, make up, oils, and elixirs all guaranteed to forestall my aging process.  Sadly, not one of them worked.

Finally, I just gave up.  I chose to no longer be a victim of a publisher’s clearinghouse subscription, nor a free week at a Maui timeshare.  I solved my problem.  Then, I spied this:

Really?  You want to move me?  Do realize how much stuff I have?  A Ford Focus?  Not to mention, how many muscular men could sit in a car of that size! I almost rolled over the sidewalk laughing in hysteria.

Given the current state of our world, this is what pays to advertise.

32c49c8acae41e46ce7a02eca52e24f5

 

I Hate Snakes

/ skidaz / Leave a comment

snake pics (22)

 

Yes, I suffer from ophidiophobia or fear of snakes.  When I walk into a classroom and the teacher has a snake in a glass aquarium, I freak!  I perspire and feel nauseous.  I pray I won’t faint in front of the class.  Lo and behold, this week two encounters almost sent me to an early grave.

I was brunching with a high school assistant principal and merely asked, “What’s up in your world?”

“OMG! I have to tell you what happened.  A teacher called my office to report a kid had a snake in his backpack.”

I gagged on my waffle.  “Dear God!”

“The custodian and I went to the classroom and took the student into the hall.  The young man was wearing a hoodie.  Just as I was about to inquire about the snake, it poked its head out of the hoodie front pouch.”

Again, I gagged.  I would have died in the hallway and been trampled during class change.  “What did you do?”

“Followed protocol.  Took the kid and his snake to my office and had him put the snake in a large plastic container, called the parent, etc.  Look here’s a picture.”

th

Lordy it was huge! “What is it?”

“A ball python, named Keith. Mom took it home.  The kid received a restorative discipline.  It was fine.”

Fine?  Doubtful.

Two days later, an unexpected visitor slithered into my backyard.  My dogs were hysterical.  I tried to get them in the house and away from the harmless king snake, but none listened.  Then Max, my cabana boy’s dog and self-appointed defender of me, leapt into action. He grabbed the snake and tossed it in the air three times.  The snake left the earthly world, and Max proudly strutted around as my savior from evil.

IMG_1640

And though it was painful for me to witness, I was delighted Max agreed with me, “The only good snake is a dead one.”