humor

Chasing Dolly

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Neither the clone sheep, nor Dolly Levi, but the Dolly…Parton. On Monday, I learned that the Dolly was going to perform in Las Vegas in December, and tickets for her six shows would go on sale Wednesday morning. Some of you probably are wondering why I would care, but it’s a family thing. My maternal grandparents were from a small holler, Kodak, in east Tennessee, where my great grandfather was the Sevier County sheriff. The county seat is Sevierville and home to the Parton family. Given the size of the community my relatives knew the Partons, and until my grandmother’s death she was an avid follower of Dolly’s rising success. (My youngest kid somehow inherited my grandmother’s admiration for Dolly and exclusively uses her cake and brownie mixes.) Given this quasi-familial relationship, I set out on a mission to get concert tickets. Just 8 tickets, which according to the website would cost $600 at the high end, and $25 at the low.

Wednesday morning, 9:00 AM: I entered the queue. WTF? 54,569 folk in front of me! My kid was in the queue with 13,000 ahead. Thank God. We’d score tickets for sure. 10:00 AM the sale began. 10:30 AM all six concerts were sold out! By 11:00AM, the alleged $600 seats were being sold by brokers for $13,929!

Talk about shock and awe for this old broad. My dreams of spectacular Christmas presents shattered, I schlepped away with a determination to figure out what happened. After too many hours of research, I’m still not an authority on what happened. My simplistic explanation is: ticket scalping in the digital age due to (ro)bots. If you want to further understand, consider reading Ticket Masters: The Rise of the Concert Industry and How the Public Got Scalped by Budnick and Baron. Supposedly, His Highness, at the urging of Kid Rock, issued an Executive Order in March to curtail this practice, but obviously that’s yet to come to fruition.

When a nation is run by billionaires, the rest of us don’t matter. Sorry. I’ve got to go. I’m late for the Bezos’s wedding!

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 (Dog)astrophe

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Yes, I know how to spell catastrophe, but my blog has nothing to do with felines. I have recently written several stories about my continuing war with coyotes and all of my precautionary measures to keep them away. Though none of them are foolproof, the best offense is to secure my pups in my casa at night.

That has worked reasonably well until sometime early yesterday morning. I awoke at six AM, which is highly unusual for me, because I was dreaming about food. After several attempts to lull myself back to sleep, I got up, pulled on some clothes, and decided to go buy a breakfast burrito. I walked into my only carpeted area–the living room and gasped in horror! My berber carpet looked like a cow pasture. I gagged and left.

I have a self-locking baby gate in the hall that denies dogs’ entrance into the living room. However, several years ago my goldendoodle mastered vaulting over it. Particularly when she’s stressed, she can fly over it to escape some unknown fear. I surmise she received an impending threat of Montezuma’s Revenge and had the decency not to let it rip on the tile floor my bedroom. Carpet, though? Yuck.

I returned from the grocery with a burrito and carpet cleaner and attempted to clean up with minimal success. What time is it? 7:00. I went to the computer and searched. I typed in my info and voila! Stanley Steemer would arrive at 10:00! By 10:30, my carpet was restored, my burrito had long turned inedible, and the dogastrophe was resolved. I returned to my bed with no more dreams of food. As Hamlet said, “There’s the rub.”

Weight Loss

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Fortunately, I have never been overweight, which is probably due to my bad habits and overactive foolishness. In contrast, my late mother went on a diet every Monday morning. My sibs and I knew our menu would be severely restricted for several days, until our dad complained about the lack of dessert and fried potatoes. By Friday, homemade chocolate chip cookies were our after school snack and a spaghetti dinner at an Italian restaurant followed. The food would remain marvelous through the weekend…until Monday.

I understand people’s obsession with weight because media has long touted slim, glamorous models. Overweight children have been subjected to bullying. In fact, McGuffey ‘s Second Eclectic Reader (1879), there is a selection entitled, The Greedy Girl.

It begins: Laura English is a greedy little girl. Indeed, she is quite a glutton. Do you know what a glutton is? A glutton is one who eats too much, because the food tastes well. The story concludes: I do not love little girls who eat too much. Do you my little readers? I do not think they have such rosy cheeks, or such bright eyes, or such sweet, happy tempers as those who eat less. (Talk about harsh in second grade!)

A myriad of trendy diets from the Mediterranean to South Beach hit the market. Then came the pills and the deadly side effects of Fen Phen. Yet the researchers forged on in search of drugs to satiate America’s thirst for skinny bodies. Ozempic, Wegovy, and Saxenda hold the new promise. Two of my acquaintances chose Ozempic, and their weight loss is undeniable. However, it is apparent to me they’re nothing more than walking cadavers; it’s as if they are playing How Low Can I Go?

Granted obesity is not healthy, nor is emaciation. Hopefully, those who use these miracle prescriptions can strike a happy, healthy balance, and once in a while enjoy Nonna’s Sunday pasta with gravy!

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!

Not Me

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My fifty-year career in public education began at a career technical high school teaching English, where my students were more interested in auto mechanics, cosmetology, and nursing rather than reading and writing. This thirteen-year experience taught me a lot about the trades from laying cement block, to offset printing to welding. I spent one afternoon in the welding lab with the delightful, instructor, who made me don gloves and the special helmet and taught me to light the torch. “Sue, I’m going to teach you how to mend anything, except broken hearts and promises.”

Curiously, today, I recalled Mr. Harold’s proclamation when I read a post written by a longtime MAGA supporter, who wrote in part he’d recently been terminated by US Department of Agriculture. “Each time I voted for you, it was because I knew you’d make things right and you’d fix the wrongs. I’m counting on you to make this right too. I’m pleading with you to reinstate my employment and give me my job back. Please, Mr. President.”

While I feel compassion for the author and regret his career loss, hopefully, he’s learned that the flim- flam man cares little about anyone other than himself, nor have any notion of right and wrong. With all due respect to the author, His Highness thrives on breaking hearts and promises. (Check the soaring gas and grocery prices, if you doubt me.)

Sorry, Mr. Author, you’re not going to be reinstated just because you wear a red hat.

Another Thing That Makes Me Crazy

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I know it’s hard to believe, but my eldest turned forty a few months ago. In my effort to make her milestone birthday memorable, I made plans to commission an original painting. Thankfully, I mentioned the subject I had chosen, which was not something she wanted; she wanted one I owned. I agreed; she might as well have it now, then when I’m dead.

After some very sparse research, my friend and I went off to FedEx to ship it this week. (For your edification, the framed lithograph is 36″X4″X34″ and is valued at approximately $500.)

“How may I help you?”

“I need you to pack and ship this to South Carolina.”

“And your account number?”

“I don’t have a FedEx account.”

“Then, I need to see your driver’s license.” And for the next fifteen minutes, she fiddled around with her computer. She walked away and conversed with the manager. “The box will be $280.”

“Fine. That sounds reasonable,” as I attempted to shove my credit card in the terminal.

“Plus insurance and shipping.”

WTH? “How much is that?”

“Four hundred and ninety dollars, plus the $280 box.”

My friend could no longer contain herself, “Are you saying one cardboard box costs $280?”

The clerk nodded.

“That’s absolutely absurd.” She picked up the painting, “Come on, Sue, we are out of here!”

We got in my car, “Can you believe it?”

“I was afraid you were crazy enough to pay it. Sorry for my intrusion, but you could practically drive it there for less.”

After my encounter with FedEx, I tried to rein in my craziness to no avail. For then came the megalomaniac, and his little automatons: Gabbard, Patel, and RFK. I suspect I will remain bat shit crazy for the next four years.