Dr. Suze Espouses Blog

The Act of Kneeling

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The flaming hot topic of the week!  Despicable, disrespectful, disgusting, degrading.  Perhaps to some whom haven’t been inside a church in decades, but to those of us who have, kneeling is the antithesis of defiance. In Luke 22:39-41, Jesus prayed on the Mount of Olives: Then, he withdrew from them about a stone’s throw, knelt down, and prayed….

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Theologian Fr. Seraphim noted kneeling has been one of the “Most potent weapons against pride” for over two thousand years.  He concluded: “To this day, find a humble person, and you will find a person who kneels, regularly and consistently.”

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Now folks will continue to disparage every person who fails to stand when the National Anthem is played.  But if the non-standing were dishonoring the American flag and the US military, wouldn’t they have chosen an ostentatious demonstration of disrespect  rather than kneeling?

Believe I’m no fan of professional sports.  I object to the outrageously high ticket prices, merchandise, and salaries.  I resent that TV weekend programming revolves around games.  Yet, hundreds of thousands of Americans avidly support their teams.  So, I, too,  am a protester, Mr. President,  but it has nothing to do with Oh, say can you see.  And with all due respect, sir, perhaps you should try kneeling.

 

Where Everyone Knows My Name

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The one thing everybody owns–a name. Mike, Becky, Matt, or Ashley.  Whether they own a business, a car, or a house is trivial, when someone doesn’t call them by name.  Persona non grata.

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As a teacher, I learned that lesson early in my career.  It became more dicey when I taught at the college level, for I had 50+ students each semester.  At the first class, I made each student introduce his/herself and noted on the roster some identifying characteristic.  By the second class, I was able to call each of them by name.  I’d dazzled them, and most of them were stunned.  Invariably, each semester one would ask, “Dr. Skidmore, how do you know my name?”

“You know mine, right?  Then, I should know yours.”

While I live in a city of over four million people, I’m delighted the grocery store cashiers wear name tags.  At the end of my transaction, I thank him/her by name.  My favorite waiter is Patrick.  The restaurant owner is Michele.  Our waitress at Trivia Night is Brie, and her owner/boss is Sharon. Cal runs the best sub shop in my ‘hood.  Bar_Bet

Though some folk embrace anonymity, I don’t.  I believe human interaction is dying–thanks to social media.  When I was in high school and wanted to break up with my boyfriend, I told him face-to-face.  When I disagreed with one of my professors, I spouted my objection.  I certainly didn’t hide behind “Rate Your Professor” under a phony name.

So indulge me.  Refer to folk by their first name–the only thing they own.  You’ll be pleasantly surprised to see their reactions.

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Labor Day…Humbug!

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Please know I have no problem with honoring our nation’s workforce; they earned it.  Further, I do know the first Monday in September has been a national holiday for 123 years.  However, as a child I loathed Labor Day, for it signaled the end of summer. My world screeched to a standstill.

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The city swimming pools closed, the amusement park went on hiatus, and the wonderful county fair was over.  By Tuesday, the pools would be drained, the park concessions shuttered, and the fair carnies would disassemble their rides and head south.

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The weather noticeably changed; soon all of the trees would shed their leaves, and I’d be helping rake them.  Then winter would come, and months would pass without sunshine. No green grass, no flowers, naked trees–I found it depressing.

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Yet, the worst thing about Labor Day was that Tuesday I’d have to go back to school!  I didn’t hate school, but I did find it stifling.  In my era, school was highly regimented.  I found it absurd the older I got that we had regularly scheduled bathroom breaks.  As a fourth grader, I absolutely knew if I had to go to the restroom.  I didn’t need to line up in the hall, march downstairs in the girl’s line to the potty.  (The boys had their own line on the opposite side of the hallway, and the teacher sashayed down the middle.)  It was so stupid and rather insulting to be led like cattle to the loo.

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I kept a calendar counting down the days to my first break.  Thanksgiving was an eternity; Christmas was eons.  In the meantime, I suffered through the humility of having my paper torn up in front of the class due to my poor handwriting.  I slogged through math.  I weathered my weekly flutophone class.  I consciously programmed myself to not pee on demand; my sole act of defiance against the system.

Fortunately, in Phoenix, I no longer dread Labor Day where  I swim in the pool, grill a rib-eye, and knosh on salad.  However, when I shopped the grocery Labor Day specials this week, I was a tad miffed pork, baby back, ribs were buy 1, get 2 free.  WTF?  What’s a Lone Ranger suppose to do with 12 pounds of ribs?  Shuffle off, Labor Day.

 

 

I Beg Your Pardon, Mr. President

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The events of the last few weeks have left me thunderstruck.  I have zero tolerance for malicious hate.  Further, I have zero tolerance for megalomaniacs–folks consumed with wealth,power, and omnipotence.  Folks, who don’t play by societal rules, for they are above the law.

I’ve witnessed first hand the ascension of the former Sheriff.  Over time, he morphed into a madman, fueled by a large campaign chest and national media attention.  He bragged about his inmates wearing pink underwear, eating green bologna, and sleeping in tents in Phoenix summers.  Now, anybody who has taken a criminal justice course knows rehabilitation or habilitation is not accomplished through humiliation.

As time went on, he focused on Latinos.  His deputies routinely stopped brownish, innocent American citizens.  He spent a million investigating President Obama’s birth certificate.  He staged an assassination attempt against himself.  Clearly, he was hell-bent on furthering his national image. Over and over, he was accused of racial profiling, defiance of the law, and ignoring court orders. He thumbed his nose and proclaimed, “I’m just upholding the law.”

I could cite countless examples of his grandstanding, like the $92 million Maricopa County wasted on his defense in the racial profiling case.  Months ago, he was found guilty and awaited sentencing.  He asked the President to pardon him.  Friday afternoon, it was delivered.  He said he and his wife planned to celebrate with spaghetti, calamari, and red wine at their favorite Italian restaurant.  “I’m not through with politics; I have a lot to offer.” After 24 years as sheriff and at 85-years-old, that seems preposterous!  But I’ve never danced in the spotlight.  Some egos must not die until their last breath.

Mr. President, while I find your acceptance of proven, institutional racism unconscionable, I abhor your pardon of a man who failed to investigate hundreds of sex abuse cases, many of which involved children. Guess rape or sexual molestation didn’t feed the world’s toughest sheriff’s megalomania.

 

Columbus Took A Chance Redux

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Six weeks ago, my blog was titled: Columbus Took a Chance, which concerned my venture to my ‘hood, dive bar.  Far outside my comfort zone, but I did it.  Many of you encouraged me to go back again for Tuesday Trivia Night.  Some of you were gracious enough to express your interest in forming a trivia team.

Finally, folks’ schedules matched, and this week we met as a team.  Cheap food, cheap drinks, and no entry fee.  Just fun.  Our team was comprised of Brittany’s father, Ken; Brittany, and her husband, Matt; my eldest, Annie; and me.  Three, thirty somethings and two, well-seasoned adults. Given the beach decor of the bar, Matt and Brittany chose our team name as “Wilson.”  I thought they were talking about Wilson sports equipment, but no.  It was some character from a beach movie.  Clueless Sue.

Thankfully, the disc jockey noted we were new to the game and explained in detail the rules.  Three prizes would be awarded: $25, $15, and $5 in bar money.  Since there were only four teams that night, we felt confident we would win a prize.  Matt commandeered our team, kept our score tally, and pronounced, “We’re in it to win it.”  OK, I thought.  Doubtful.  Whatever.

Unlike the first time I sat on the sidelines during Trivia Night and knew all the answers, I was a veritable, non-contributor.  Rap and Country Western music, current movies, and pro sports are not in my brain bank.  I was stunned by Ken’s absolute brilliance  when he knew the Dallas Cowboys were a $4.3 billion franchise.  Annie shone in Country Music, Brittany and Matt knew every movie, TV show, and Rap artist.  I just sat, rooted them on, and paid the tab.  The least I could do for my overt lack of knowledge.

The disc jockey totaled the scores, “And first place goes to Team Wilson!  Twenty-five dollars in bar money.”  WTF?

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Matt tossed the bar bucks at me.  “See, Sue.  I told you we’d win.  Brittany and I’ll see you next Tuesday.  Team Wilson will buy!”

This is NOT a dive bar.  It has immaculate restrooms, nice patrons, and an attentive wait staff.  Unfortunately, Annie can’t be there next week.  So if you’re a Country Western music expert, take a chance and join Team Wilson!  We’re buying….

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Bon Vivant…Not

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I’ve never been a gourmet cook, perhaps because of my upbringing.  Both of my grandmothers were simple, country girls who prepared simple, country meals.  Each had their strengths.  My maternal, Tennessee, grandmother’s fried chicken and green beans were delicious.  My paternal grandmother’s homemade cinnamon rolls,  blueberry muffins, and fruit pies were spectacular.  Beef, pork, or chicken with various potato dishes were my staple.  On rare occasions, fish was served.  My mom never mastered the art of anything that tasted like spaghetti sauce, but to this day, her banana cakes light up my palate!

As a mom, I tried to introduce my kids to different foods.  As toddlers, they abhorred baby food carrots and peas.  Who wouldn’t?  For years, my youngest ate only chicken fingers or a hot dog smothered with ketchup.  The thought of ingesting a piece of lettuce, a slice of tomato, or a green bean gagged her.  In contrast, my eldest was more daring.  She loved spaghetti, stuffed peppers, prime rib, and baked potatoes and sour cream.  Today, she’s a sushi addict.

However, when we’re together and want to venture out for dinner, we frequent Mexican or Chinese restaurants.  I accepted long ago I’d never be able to duplicate their culinary expertise.  When we’re in NYC, we eat cheese cake.  Yes, we have compiled a list of best to so-so.)

Admittedly, I’ve never prepared veal, lamb, elk, javelins, deer, nor pheasant.  Further my thought of preparing brains, liver, or mountain oysters gags me.  So you can imagine my reaction to a high-end magazine’s feature story: Welcome to the New World of Eating Insects.

Dragonflies, ants, grasshoppers, cicada, water bugs, and…freaking scorpions and tarantulas!  According to one source, “over 2 billion people regularly rely on one of the 1,900 edible species of insects as a source of protein.”  Cricket-flour chips are the new rage. Frankly, I can’t think of anything more revolting than a fly whose just sat on one of my dogs’ poop ending up in a casserole.

And to those of you who’ve been invited to my dinner party next week, the evite read: BYOB.  I’m well-stocked with booze.  Bring Your Own Bugs!

November Moth (Epirrita dilutata)

November Moth (Epirrita dilutata)

Homework

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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

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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.)

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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.  LMAOtumblr_leqjp1SEZw1qz6fdso1_500

 

 

 

 

Swimming with O Rings

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Several years ago, one of my dearest friends since childhood wrote a delightful book, Swimming to Italy.  (It is available on Amazon.)  I was searching for a title for this blog, and hers immediately landed in my mind.

As I’ve noted numerous times, my new life has taken me thousands of miles from my comfort zone.  While I’ve come to understand more about home repairs than I ever wanted to know, I’ve managed to utilize my research and study skills in a plethora of new ways.  In fact, I find it curious many of my friends contact a schlep like me about appliances, plumbers, and cabinet refinishers.

Last week, however I was rocked with a new lesson.  The saga began with a leak in the automatic pool chlorinator.  (This is a wonderful device–under $100– that eliminates the need for rubber ducky floating around the pool.)  The pool repair guy diagnosed the problem–the cap needed a new O ring.  After it was lubed and installed, the leak stopped.

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Two days pass and the repairman returns.  The pool motor is surging.  Really, this is a high-end motor, less than 5 years old.  “I think I should just backwash the filter, and your problem will be solved.  You do it regularly, right?’

“Rarely.  I can get the valve down, but I’ve not strength to pull it up.  Even my uber-strong cabana boy has difficulty helping me.”

Pool guy backwashes and decides to take the valve apart.  “No wonder it was so difficult to pull up.  Look at these O rings.”

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Now, there were three more, bad O rings in the plunger valve.  Repair done.  New O rings.  All is…NOT well.  The motor surges again, which for you novices means too much air in the lines, which causes the motor to rev like a hot rod at the starting line, which causes blah, blah, blah.

Again, the pool guy returns to diagnose this new problem–another worn-out O ring!  By now, you are as bored as me about TMI and O rings.  Little circles of rubber with very important jobs.  Who knew?  Who cared?  Yet given the critical necessity of their position in the circle of life, perhaps we should all invest in a company that manufactures O’s!

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