Dr. Suze Espouses

National November Writing Month

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Familiarly known as NaNoWriMo, is an internet opportunity in which both professional and amateur authors attempt to write a 50,000-word novel in thirty days.  Now if November isn’t busy enough with Thanksgiving, holiday shopping, and decorating, thousands of folk embrace this endeavor.  I have a friend, who teaches full-time, has a family, and has engaged in this foolishness for the last three years.  Quite frankly, I admire her stamina because I personally couldn’t stand the pressure.  After all, timed tests freak me out.

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Early in July, I decided to write a novel.  Believe me, it’s the most difficult thing I’ve ever done.  It has consumed me, kept me awake at night, and even driven me to speak in dialogue.  Sue admonished her labradoodle, “Lexy, Sue doesn’t like when you bark.”  At first, I thought I was crazy; then, I realized I was still scripting in my head.

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I’m a tad over four months into my novel, and to date have written 77,199 words.  Though loosely based on my experience, I’ve spent hours researching and reading to give the book a bit of authenticity.  Thankfully, my brother, who conceived the original idea has provided invaluable assistance in forensic dentistry and tweaking and twisting the plot line.  We anticipate the first draft will be completed by mid-December, necessitating another three months or so of revising and editing.

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Believe me, this is not the great American novel.  It won’t make the best seller’s list, nor will it be picked up by a TV producer or professional publisher.  It may be read by five or ten of my family and friends.  Yet, my attempt has broadened my experience; it’s pushed me out of my comfortable, lazy existence and kept me off the streets!

Whether I’ll ever work this hard again, I doubt it.  But I certainly know I will not be a participant in NaNoWriMo.  Dr. Suze lacks self-discipline and persistence.

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Pricks

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Arizona is awash with pricks!  Before you get your knickers in a knot, I’m not being bawdy.  The reality is the desert is full of pricks.  Perhaps, piercing needles are the first line of defense for smoldering summers, or perhaps, deadly burrs and barbs help flora survive.  I don’t know.  But Mother Nature early on forced me to employ a landscaper.

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Of course, I, first, tried to control errant cacti by myself.  Then an inch-long spine impaled my leg.  A jumping  cholla attacked my foot on my way to the mailbox in my flip flops.  An agave ripped open my wrist when I tried to free a lost baby quail.  I was so stupid to think I could trim a palo verde tree and survive–wrong, my arms looked like I’d been in a lion’s den.

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Bougainvillea and other gorgeous flower plants also wreck havoc.  When picking grapefruit, oranges, limes, and lemons, as most of the branches have razor-sharp needles.  I’m glad I don’t take blood-thinner.  I would need a transfusion for the amount of times I’ve been stuck.

So if you come to my house for dinner, don’t have one too many and end up with these pricks!

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Skeptical Sue

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IRS-scam

 

“This is the IRS. You have failed to make your payment, and federal agents have issued a warrant for your arrest.  Please call this number immediately to avoid prosecution.”

“Oh really?” I shouted at the recorded voice.  “Bring them on, baby.”  Sadly, in Arizona, folk called the number and lost over two million dollars in the scam.

internetscam-620wThe news in awash with unsuspecting people being ripped off to free their grandchild from a Mexican jail, wire money to buy a designer puppy, or help some romantic interest get home from abroad.  Dating sites are filled with these predators.  I’ve also received a number of emails informing me I won the Irish Sweepstakes or I’m the last known heir of a family fortune.  Of course, I needed to wire “x” amount of money to claim my prize or my inheritance.

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What chaps my heinie most is scammers prey on the uneducated and the elderly.  When I read an elderly woman gave her life savings to someone who promised to repay her double the amount in an hour, it sickens me.  So for the most part, I research those with whom I do business.  My tile guys, my roofer, my HVAC guy, my pool guy, my landscaper have all been vetted by recommendation of friends or outstanding reviews.  Nor do I purchase big ticket items, like appliances or cars without perusing consumer reviews.

Yesterday when I went to the grocery store, I needed to change a Ben Franklin into two US Grants.  My grocery houses an unknown bank, probably some start-up.  I handed the teller my Ben Franklin, “I just need two fifties, please.”  He marked my bill with an authenticating pen.

“Do you have an account with us?”

“No.”

“Would you like to set one up?”

“No. Thank you.”

“Our policy does not allow us to give change to non-customers, but I’ll make a one-time exception in your case.”

WTF?  It’s not like I asked for $100 in quarters, nickels, and dimes. No wonder I never considered doing business with this sketchy bank.

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The Cicada and The Tortoise: A Curious Tale

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Admittedly, I’m a technological immigrant.  Further, I’m technologically challenged.  I belong in a special class with any 10-year-old teacher.  Even five-year-olds today, know more than me.  My daughters and the school board folk have drug me into this new arena, and I know just enough to be dangerous.  While I enjoy that the world is now just one arrow key away and adore my cell phone convenience, I abhor “auto correct”  and the feature of speaking rather than typing. Lord knows, I sent far too many incoherent messages and emails.  A heinous crime, when the author is an English major!

On the other hand, I laugh uproariously when I receive one of these messages.  This week I received the following:

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Hmm.  A large cicada, which looks like a desert tortoise.  I was engulfed in laughter.  A family pet?  Even funnier.  Did they clip its wings so it wouldn’t fly off?

Really?  I see no likeness in the least.  Yet, I was sad I have no artistic talent.  Can you imagine the joy of creating such a creature?  I bet Dr. Seuss would have drawn and made millions on this hybrid character.

My neighbor and I had several hilarious conversations discussing the email.  We concluded the sender must be whacked.   Twas, not the case.  Damnable auto correct was at fault.  Behold the sulcata tortoise.

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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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