Dr. Suze Espouses

February 14

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On Wednesday morning I awoke before the alarm and laid in bed surfing my memories.  I was in Miss Snell’s second grade class.  Since I was not very good with scissors, my decorated mailbox (shoebox) looked shabby.  I don’t recall if it was a class rule, by every kid got a valentine from each member of our class.

Now this required labor.  We had to punch out cards, write our name on the back, stuff them in miniature envelopes and address them.  Of course, there were only five choices of valentines, meaning at least 4 or 5 students would receive an identical card from me.  I agonized about the one for Meice (Maurice)–the love of my life.  I finally chose a bear holding a heart–it’s message: Be my valentine. I underlined BE.

When it came time to open our shoeboxes, the boys were busily eating homeroom mom cupcakes, and we girls were searching for the onecard from our love.  I read and reread the nondescript message on the card from Meice.  I cherished it.

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At 11:00 AM, I went to my hair dresser appointment and shared my memory with her.  Her response: “my husband doesn’t like Valentine’s Day.”

Wow!  Who doesn’t? “What’s up with that, Addie?”

“Chip went to a small, rural elementary school in Iowa.  He was short, with a slight build.  When he opened his shoebox, he had one or two cards.  Others would have many.”

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Hard to believe.  Today Chip is a beefcake, highly successful entrepreneur.  However, even at fifty years old, he is a broken little boy, due to unconscious cruelty of other children.  Next year I’ll send Chip a box of chocolates!

Then my Valentine’s Day got worse:  Parkland, Florida.  Seventeen children and faculty assassinated by a sick 19-year-old with an AK-15.  My pleasant memories of February 14th have been shattered forever.

When is enough, enough?

#%*+!

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Believe me, I can talk like a sailor, but I was raised with decorum.  I knew people didn’t smoke cigarettes in church, spit in hallways, nor kick puppies.  I also knew there was a time and place when it was not appropriate to use expletives.

In my 18 years on the school board of a large, suburban school district, I never swore from the dais.  I may have thought it, but I didn’t verbalize it.  I knew better.  Further, I didn’t want teachers cussing at students.  Thus, I set an example.  However once, in front of my mom, I accidentally dropped the f bomb.  She heard it fly from my mouth.

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“Sue, when people use gutter talk, it’s the sign of a severely limited vocabulary.  Not to mention a lack of decorum and civility.  Your hero, Mark Twain, was a genius at penning classics without swearing.  We readers fully understood what Huck Finn was really saying, but Mrs. Samuel Clemens edited the base vernacular from his manuscript.”

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Hmm.  Mark Twain was a genius–a stable one.

2018: Welcome to the 70’s

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I never said, “I’ll be glad to watch this year go; hopefully, next year will be better.”  Every year of my life has brought its challenges and laughter.  Granted, each year has been different–sometimes 360 degrees different, but still each year has been interesting, confounding, and humorous.

As I child, I didn’t like January 1, even though we celebrated my paternal grandfather’s birthday I was bored by the endless, TV football games and dreaded I would go back to school tomorrow.  For me, it was a very long stretch to spring break and summer vacation.  Further, it would be months before the sun shone, the daffodils appeared, and I could rid myself of boots and a winter coat.  I’d be sentenced to a classroom writing a report about George or Abraham, cutting and pasting hearts on doilies, wearing green, ad nauseam.

Admittedly, 2017 changed my life.  While it has been a year of joy and accomplishment, it has been a year of introspection.  Now when a major home improvement needs done, when a big-ticket appliance breaks, when I get the itch for a new car, I make each decision based on a 20-25, year warranty.  Yes, 2018 will bring my 70th birthday.  A most anchoring realization.  I don’t want to replace an air conditioner when I’m eighty, nor dicker with car sales folk.

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Yet, 2018 will also bring my youngest’s 30th birthday and her magical, fifth year as cancer-free, so I’ll suck it up.  I’ll turn 70.  I’ll publish my first novel in collaboration with my brother.  I’ll get another tattoo, buy a puppy, and take a riverboat cruise on the Mississippi, if I can find someone who wants to tag along.  But most importantly,  I’ll throw a big party in celebration of my youngest, fifth cancerversery.

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Let the ball drop, NYC.  Dr. Suze is ready for 2018!  Happy New Year!

 

Twenty-six Candles: December 14th

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Reprise:  I wrote this blog two years ago, and nothing has changed.  Massacres continue.  Congress okays folks’ right to carry concealed weapons.  As I complete my 17-year-tenure on the school board, every night I pray a Columbine, Virginia Tech, Sandy Hook, or a Las Vegas slaughter, doesn’t occur in my district.

I’m weary of the Second Amendment argument.  Really?  Obviously, many have no understanding of US History.  A single musket, fire and re-load, as compared to a semi-assault rifle with a bump stock?  No comparison.  Reread a part of my blog and weep for all of the innocents lost since 2012.

“Like many of you, I’m sure you’ve almost or already completed your holiday shopping.  Thanks to the convenience of online shopping in jammies, the wish list of children and grandchildren has been answered.  The presents are wrapped in whimsical paper and sparkling bows for tomorrow’s mail.  December 14th.

Tomorrow evil strikes! Twenty children and six, valiant school employees will never see a new bicycle, and iPad, nor the must-have, limited-quantity, hottest gift of 2012.  The gift you stood in line to buy at 6:00AM on Black Friday or assembled for three hours.”

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Imagine the anguish of families who planned funerals amidst the holiday gifts they’d never see their children open.  Every time I think about the horror of Sandy Hook Elementary School I gag.

As I said in my original blog, President Reagan changed his stance on gun control after his attempted assassination and the serious wounding of Jim Brady, i.e. the Brady Bill.   We must advance conversation and legislation about access to assault weapons, bump stocks, and rigorous background checks, prior to gun purchase. We must address mental health care in our country.

Yes, I know.  Nothing is going to change.  The fire of hate is fanned by those in DC and the nut case who says Sandy Hook didn’t happen.  I get it; I’ve but one vote.  Yet on December 14th, I will light 26 candles.  Will you?

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Happy Thanksgiving from a First Grader

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My blog publishes early this week, as I’m off to the South for Thanksgiving.  A teacher friend of mine asks her first graders each year to write a recipe for preparing turkey.  This one made me roar with laughter:

Go buy a pink turkey the size of your face, about 10 pounds, from Home Depot. Put it in a pot with chunks of black pepper.  Cook in the oven for twenty minutes at ten degrees.  Serve with a few strawberries and lots of goldfish crackers.  

Chef Micah titled his recipe Turkey Trot.  Unfortunately, I’ll be out of town.  Sorry to miss his culinary masterpiece.

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Happy Thanksgiving!

The Santa Claus Challenge

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th-2Most of us remember when one of our classmates declared that Santa wasn’t real.  Some of us ay recall the famous Dear Virginia editorial response published in the New York Sun in 1897.  Even though, I’m old, and even though I’m currently living through the most turbulent, hateful times I find deplorable, I still believe in Santa.

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Santa Claus is a spirit, who resides within most of us. When we were children, he miraculously answered our letters on Christmas morning.  In most cases.  I didn’t get a pony, but a got a Schwinn bike.  I didn’t receive a drum set, but I got a guitar.  Surprisingly, I was never disappointed.  I was happy with all my gifts–except the underwear.

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As I aged, my experience led me to a greater understanding of Santa.  A mythical figure, who lived in a dreadful climate, who urged children to be good, who fulfilled wishes, for what?  A plate of cookies and a glass of milk?  Doubtful. Santa Claus , St. Nicholas, Father Christmas, or whatever your moniker, came to teach.

His lesson embodied the Golden Rule–do unto to others.  But Santa tweaked it a tad.  Do unto others with anonymity.  For me, there’s no greater joy than giving without acknowledgement, nor accolade. And yes, there are a myriad of ways to get a tax deduction without revealing or bragging.   Trust me, I know.

Inside of each of us is Santa Claus.  In times of disasters, strangers help others; sometimes risking their own safety to render assistance.  With the holiday season fast-approaching, I urge you to accept the Santa Claus challenge.  Do something for someone anonymously.  You’ll be surprised by the joy you receive.    I double-dog dare you.

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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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