humor

Assassination of the Professional

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From the Merriam Webster dictionary, the definition of a professional: “The skill, good judgment, and polite behavior from a person who is trained to do a job well.” In other words, a professional is neither an amateur, nor a hobbyist, but someone with a substantial depth of knowledge, experience, ability, and skill. Someone who by definition, a plumber, an electrician, a teacher, a nurse, a chemical engineer, or a physical therapist. BUT, not necessarily some bombastic politician who reaps profits from his/her elected position, who preys on the uneducated, who ignores the needs of others, and who wants humiliates and disparages anyone who disagrees or questions him/her.

Case in point: This week, the following by edict are no longer classified as professionals: Anyone with a Master’s or doctoral degree in certain fields. WTH? Education? Nursing? Social Work? Public Health? Counseling? Physical, Occupational, Speech therapy? MBA’s? Engineering? Now, when this news broke, I was stunned. How could someone who wants to import and infuse smart Chinese folk into American business, yet downgrade as “professionals” some of America’s best and brightest?

Hmm. Could that someone be the guy who hires a crack pot attorney to head Health and Human Services, or a Secretary of Education who thinks AI is a steak sauce? Could that someone, who boasts of his brilliance be the guy who didn’t get into Harvard and knows nothing about geography?

Granted that someone has the skill to hawk Bibles, tennis shoes, and crypto coins, but sorely lacks good judgment, and polite behavior. Sorry, guy. You ain’t no professional.

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.

Here It Comes Again

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Many of you fell back to standard time yesterday, and today the grocery stores and big box scores were selling holiday wares. TV ads for the “most wonderful time of the year” were aired by a variety of sponsors. Even pre-Black Friday sales events are trending.

As a child, I anxiously awaited the long holiday break from the monotony of school. I was raring to drink hot chocolate, leaf through the Sears Catalog, sled ride, ice skate, and pound my brother with snowballs. But then, those days of November to mid-December crawled by. Would the holidays ever arrive?

Now, as a septuagenarian, I’m astounded! In less than two months, it will be 2026. Where did the time go? What did I do? Did I accomplish anything other than just trying to stay alive and out of jail? Did I make a difference in the lives of others?

Obviously, I managed to stay alive and out of jail. I hope I’ve accomplished things, I hope I’ve been kind and respectful, and I hope I’ve helped folk along the way. But one thing I absolutely know for certain is: I have NOT solicited for a $5.00 donation to get into Heaven, nor did I throw a $3 million party for Jay Gatsby.

The swift downhill journey to ’26 is upon us.

The First Wives’ Club

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As most of you know, I’m a card-carrying member of this organization, and I know all the words to You Don’t Own Me, even though I can’t sing like Lesley Gore. When Diane Keaton died last week, social media was awash with the movie clip of she, Bette Midler, and Goldie Hawn’s exit to that song.

The First Wives’ Club premiered in 1996; I was 48, Diane and Bette, 50, and Goldie, 51 years old. Even after all the years have passed the movie remains a vivid memory and makes me smile as I remember Elise’s (Goldie) bulging, botoxed lips, Brenda’s (Bette) quick wit, and Annie’s (Diane) takeover of her husband’s fortune. What surprised me the most about Keaton’s final pictures was how old she looked. Then I saw photos of Bette and Goldie; hell, Bette even has grey hair! How can that be? Where has the time gone? And the most recent photos of Robert Redford before his death–ye Gods! What happened to the Sundance Kid?

Little did I know I was in for the ultimate shock; I looked in the bathroom mirror. OMG! Who’s that ancient creature staring at me? Even Maleficent looks better than me! Oblah dee, oblah da….

I AM ANGRY!

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Quoting Mick Jagger: “I’ve lived 82 years on this earth, and this is the first time I’ve ever witnessed people delighting in the suffering of others so openly, so proudly, and even recording it for the world to see.”

When I read this, I paused and thought. Mick nailed my feelings: delighting in the suffering of others–a most damning statement. And from I see and read, that’s exactly what’s happening–sometimes to the point of even celebrating the misery of the homeless, the immigrants, the aged, but most importantly the children.

I’ve come to the realization that my view of Jesus differs greatly from the Jesus of the far right. And no, I’m not going to bore you with Bible quotes; you know them. They are all as simple as: do unto others….

Our future is solely in the hands of our children. As a nation, we can’t expect them to reach adulthood, without scientific-based, health care. Nor can we expect them to be compassionate, caring neighbors when they learn hate and disrespect of others. Nor can we expect them to be cooperative collaborators, when we promote and celebrate divisiveness. Nor can we expect them to even be sane and rational when their early lives of filled with fear of school shooters or masked, armed soldiers zip-tying them away from their family. Nor, should any child be a victim of sexual abuse!

Once again, I ask all of us: who is going to wipe the drool from our mouths, change our diapers, or put the spoon to our lips, as we lay dying? Our children. Amen.

Discourse, Disagreement, and Dissent

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These are NOT dirty words, but words upon which America was founded and flourished. (I know a little about that since I’m a direct descendant of Patrick Henry.)

I spent my entire fifty-year career in public education as a high school English teacher, a high school principal, a school district superintendent, a deputy associate state department school superintendent, and as an university professor. In addition, I served twenty years as a school board member in a large suburban school district. Fact. Not intended to be bragging. Just fact.

During my fifty-year career, my name was often etched in desks and scrawled on bathroom walls with obscenities. Folk repeatedly critiqued me, argued with me, and sometimes even dissented. When I was on the school board, parents, students, and teachers often confronted me in our public meetings, in the grocery store, or at a football game. My daughter’s friends vociferously objected to a parking policy I endorsed. When social media took off, I was frequently chastised by the members of the greater school community.

I’ve borne my fair brunt of criticism–perhaps deserved. Yet, in my defense, I listened. Because I listened, sometimes I changed my mind. Because I listened, I KNEW I wasn’t as smart as I thought! Because I listened, I apologized when I knew I was mistaken. Because I listened, I, not only learned a lot, but I became a better teacher, principal, superintendent, professor, and school board member. (I dare not say a better parent!)

Given the events of this last week or two, I’m astounded by the national movement of: MY WAY IS THE ONLY WAY. Or in other words: YOU’RE FIRED.

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.

Uh oh!

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Nothing says, “Uh oh,” like walking into my casa and seeing six dogs dancing in front of my TV! Unlike most of you, my big screen doesn’t hang on the wall but sits on a cabinet at an angle between two walls.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

Of course, my dogs didn’t answer and continued their happy dance. Obviously something was behind the TV. Should I look? What if it was a heinous snake? Or a rat? Or a javelina? Spare me! Somehow I mustered the courage to peek…a big fat squirrel! WTH, do I do?

With the help of my friend who lives in my guest house, we put the dogs outside. (They couldn’t resist the dog treat-strewn patio.) Armed with a pool net, I was ready to snare the frisky varmint and toss him out the front door. However, Mr. Squirrel zigged as we zagged and alluded us. The search began.

“Sue, I found him! He’s on the landing at the top of the stair case. Prop open the front door. Maybe he’ll smell the air and go out.”

Hmm. Perhaps. “Hey, G, I’ve a better idea. I’ll go upstairs, open the outside door to the balcony, and he can get out.”

“What about the bats?”

“We’ll only leave it open for a half hour and hope he leaves and no bats fly in.”

With no sign of the squirrel, life moved on for the next five days. Uh oh! “Did you hear that? There’s a chirping sound upstairs.” Ye, gods! What now?

“Call the trapper. This is too big of a problem for us, Sue.”

On a Saturday afternoon? Doubtful. After five calls to trapping establishments, one answered and asked a series of questions. His responses to my answers were: “A squirrel can’t live for five days without food or water, so he’s probably coming and going. Thus, I’ll be out on Monday to do a home inspection etc, and the cost will be $2,500.” My ass. I’m not paying $2,500 for a squirrel hunt!

G took charge, went up stairs, and saw Mr. Squirrel scurry under the sofa. She opened the balcony door and left. When I checked the room two hours later, the bushy-tailed menace was gone–leaving behind lots of poop and chewed-up wood and paper. I canceled my Amazon order of a humane, squirrel cage trap and googled squirrels. Squirrels can live up to 100 days without food and water.

Not only did we save a squirrel, but I saved $2,500! Life is good–and very interesting.

AI and the Old Broad

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Unlike the current US Secretary of Education, Linda McMahon, I know the difference between AI (Artificial Intelligence and A1 Steak Sauce.) Earlier this week, I read an article by Mark Zuckerberg, who posited if folk don’t use AI they will be at a serious disadvantage. Hmm. Frankly, I have a serious case of FOMO (Fear of Missing Out,) so I decided to experience this new-fangled notion first hand.

I researched a bit because I assumed such a contraption would be very pricey. However, I bought a basic pair of Meta AI glasses for $300. When they arrived yesterday, I was surprised by the set-up ease and absolutely blown away by what they could do. I put my glasses on, and I could: translate from one language to another, ask questions and receive answers, take pictures/videos, make calls, etc. I walked outside and said, “Hey Meta. What am I looking at?” The instant reply was: your swimming pool and six dogs. I’ve yet to master the app about some of my sick house plants.

When my exuberance with Meta subsided, I wondered about the outcomes of such technology. I could easily wear my innocuous-looking glasses to weekly trivia and get every answer correct. Is that cheating or simply utilizing an available resource to win? As a high school student, I would be able to pass final exams or earn a perfect score on the ACT or SAT. What are the educational implications with AI? A nation of robots? Will our children even be able to think with integrity and creativity, or will they simply vomit back whatever AI says?

AI is in its infancy with early predictions positing it will make many jobs obsolete, what will our world look like in twenty-five years? Thankfully, I’m an old broad and won’t know.

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.