hilarious life commentary

Thimblerig, AKA the Shell Game

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Most of us have this game; sometimes on a street corner, at a bar, or at a party. Using three cups with a coin, a bottle cap, or a pea, the con artist hides the object under a cup and quickly shuffles the three cups around. Your job is to bet which cup covers the object. Of course, the con snatches up your money, as you have chosen the wrong cup. You are mystified by this two-hundred-year-old trick–and out five bucks!

Me? I discovered this week I, too, was a victim several weeks ago at a garden center, where some sick, deranged fool switched the identifying stakes in the tomato plants. I thought I bought “Better Boy” and “Celebrity” tomato plants, but after five straight days of rain and three weeks of desert sun, the vines were a sea of green small balls. Damn! Cherry tomatoes! What good is a bushel of cherry tomatoes? Megamillions of seeds to lodge in my teeth and wreck havoc in my digestive track. I certainly was in no mood to grind them into salsa, nor cook them down and strain all the seeds.

My only choice was to remove the plants, go buy new ones, hope the weather cooperated, and I’d reap a crop. “Do you think it’s too late to plant these?”

“Not sure, ma’am,” said the guy in the garden center. “Depends on the weather.”

Duh. “The only reason I have to is I got snookered by Thimblerig!”

He looked at me quizzically. “Uh, what?”

“Thimblerig. The Shell Game. Someone switched out the stakes in your plants; I thought I was buying big tomatoes, not cherry tomatoes. I’m not wasting my time and my water bill on dumb little cherries.”

“Ha, I hear ya! I got gut problems, too. Let me tell you a story about my friend who bought his kid a pygmy pig and ended up with a 400-pound sow.”

By the end of his story, I was regaled in laughter. Yes, Suzanne, there’s a lot worse things than buying cherry tomato plants.

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.

The Rise and Fall of the Diving Board: The End of an Era

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Given the lengthy, hot summers in Phoenix, most home owners have swimming pools. Our pool was put in over 30 years ago and underwent one mega renovation. However, both of my kids insisted that the diving board remain a permanent fixture. The revered diving board to me was a source of major consternation, particularly when my youngest mastered outrageous antics, like cartwheels and a wide-range of acrobatic feats off the board.

On one occasion, I said to my then-husband, “K just back-flipped off the board.”

His response, “Is she okay?”

“I don’t know; I couldn’t look.”

Last week disaster struck. Miraculously disaster was avoided given the number of young children in my pool, when a young mother took their dare. With her kids and nephews urging her on, she mounted the board and dove. The weighty, fiberglass board flew from its platform and smacked her head as it hit the water. Thankfully, she was not injured, and thankfully, her brother-in-law managed to get the board out of the water.

As I surveyed the aftermath, I decided to replace it. Wrong. Since Phoenix has one of the highest rates of pool drownings, strict safety codes for pool construction have been enacted. Pool contractors are required to be licensed and carry pricey liability insurance for their creations. Thus, none of the reputable companies I contacted would even consider replacing a diving board and its platform on my ancient pool.

I’m okay with this, for I’m far too old to have my pool rebuilt at today’s prices. I’m okay with this because I’m not a diver. And I am really okay with this because….

I never want to see my grandson catapulting nor hot-dogging, like his mom, into my pool.

Doing the Right Thing

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All of us at some time in our lives have faced the question: What is the right thing to do? Steal a pack of gum? Blame our misdeed on one of our siblings? Look the other way, ignore, or reject the pain of others? Thankfully, the majority of us step to the proverbial plate and do the right thing, and this week one of my friends did.

Though I’ve only known Emily for a few years, she’s one of those folks who exudes empathy. As a small business owner, she and her business partners hold monthly donation events, such as canned food and bottled water drives, benefits for local schools and animal rescues, and special events for veterans. However, this week I was stunned by her laborious random act of kindness when she went to the grocery store to buy cases of bottled water for a mission charity.

As she exited the store, she saw a homeless man sitting in the parking lot with three, very young caged puppies. Being a dog person, Emily was overcome with disgust. After all, it was 100 degrees outside–maybe more due to the heat from the scorching pavement. Should she stay or should she go? “I can’t confront that guy alone; he may be a meth addict,” she rationalized. Fortunately, she contacted a friend, and the two of them returned to the store and confronted the guy.

“I want twenty bucks for each of them puppies.”

“We’re not giving you any money; we’re taking the puppies and the cage now! Don’t try to argue with us; you probably stole them in the first place. But if you want to make a scene, fine. We’ll call the cops and the Humane Society.

As of today, after veterinary care where the three rescues were dubbed Sage, Willow, and Marigold, are healthy and happy, and remain in Emily and her husband’s care until they’re old enough to be adopted. And whoever is fortunate enough to cuddle one of these cuties needs to be grateful that some folk did the right thing. In this world, full of self-serving egomaniacs, be an Emily.

The War Continues

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Just when I thought I had conquered the coyotes, they returned again. Instead of two, this time there were six predators in my front yard nosing around. My Carl Spackle alter ego took to the internet in search of more preventive measures. I bought another gallon of wolf urine flakes and sprinkled them around the yard.

My research also found that coyotes are afraid of conflagration. Aren’t we all who live in the desert? Obviously, with the Phoenix bad air quality and the environmental destruction of fires, I wouldn’t set my yard on fire. Thankfully, though, I found solar lights that resemble flames, which I installed today. On Monday, I will have installed coyote rollers on the top of my block wall.

If all of these preventive measures fail, I have one more Hail-Mary trick in my bag. Pricey and very labor intensive. According to my hours of study, donkeys will attack and drive off these yellow-eyed beasts forever. I was surprised to learn there are miniature ones who are equally as capable as the full-size. Of course, this drastic, last ditch effort would require building a stable and an arena. Further, I’d have to hire a ranch hand to tend to the feeding and clean-up, as I can barely keep up with the dog poop, let alone that of donkeys. I’d also need a truck and a trailer because every church in my ‘hood would want my donkeys for their live Nativities, and every elementary school would want me to take them for “Read to Donkey” day.

Yes, I remain in all out war with these varmints. If all of my proactive prevention fails, I may have to seek an audience with Pope Donald since he controls everything! Hee haw!

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!

Waymo, Wayno

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I am very aware I’m an old broad, who at times has been dragged into the new frontier of Technology. I am also fully aware I’m a control freak. If the airline would let me, I’d sit directly behind the pilot and tell him/her how to fly. Since that’s not an option, years ago, I decided to fly first class on any flight over two hours, so I can sit up front and keep an eye on things. Though I may nod off a bit, believe me, I’ve got one eye open.

In 2024 Waymo came to Los Angeles, San Francisco, and Phoenix and is partnering with Uber in Atlanta and Austin. The first time I saw one of these Jaguar spaceship vehicles with its whirly-gig roof feature I almost ran off the road. Now, they are a common site on Phoenix’s busiest freeways. When I’m stopped at a traffic light next to one, it’s freaky to look over and see no driver.

Last week one of my friends and her seventeen-year-old great niece said, “Sue, we’re going to take a ride in a Waymo; do you want to go with us?”

Me? No. In fact, hell no! “I’ll pass. Where are you going? Across town?”

“Just a short ride for the experience.”

“Where?”

“To the grocery store?”

“It’s one mile from here!”

“We’re too scared to go farther! Will you come and pick us from the store? We only want to risk our lives one way.”

They survived their ten-dollar ride and raved about it when I retrieved them. However, the teenager commented, “It was kind of creepy, Sue. In the driver’s console, there was a half-full bottle of water.”

Woo woo, voodoo. Waymo? Wayno!

Road Trip

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“Do you want to go on a road trip with me, Sue? I’ll drive.” No, I thought. I’ve ridden with her on a few occasions and while her car is luxurious, her driving skills are not the best–in my humble opinion!

“Sure, but I’ll drive.” Now, I’d not been on a road trip as the sole driver for over forty years and had long since forgotten how arduous it can be. My road trips were simply flying into an airport, picking up a rental car, and driving not more than an hour to my destination. I failed to realize my offer to drive on this over 400-mile journey was something I hadn’t done in at least forty years.

I wasn’t prepared for the high-speed, bumper-to-bumper interstate traffic, where I remained on high alert. Cars wove in and out, as did the speeding semi-trucks. “Sue, what’s the place over there?”

“I CAN’T LOOK, I am trying to avoid getting an accident with that maniac trucker that just cut me off!” I clung to the steering wheel with my sweaty palms. When we reached the hotel, I said, “I need a shower and a drink, and not necessarily in that order.” The next two days of this adventure were primarily on two-lane state highways involving twists and turns and ups and downs. I’m no fan of these; I like flat, straight highways so I can see where I’m going. Of course, these damned roads were marked with warning signs: Watch for animals and Watch for falling rocks. Hell, that’s all I needed is to have a mountain slide down on my car!

Further, I know these small towns thrive on tourists: Tombstone, Bisbee, Tubac, Patagonia, etc. There’s certainly not much industry once the mines closed. We chose to only eat and/or drink at local establishments. (I’ve no recommendations; it was all equally terrible.) Of course, local government also survives on tourists by stationing police hiding around the curve, at the end of the tunnel, or wedged into the side of a canyon. No, I didn’t get a ticket. I played particular attention to speed; I knew that game.

Yesterday, I was less than forty miles from my casa when the interstate traffic came to a halt. I’d seen the warning signs: Crash ahead. Slow down. However, there was no crash. It was a normal Saturday when the interstate abruptly closes for road work. For the next hour, I crept along to the mandated exit and eventually wended my perspiring self home–again, in need of a shower and a drink. I turned to my friend and said, “Ask someone else to ride along with you the next time you want to do a road trip.”

Ain’t nobody got time for that!

It Pays to Advertise

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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.

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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.

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