Waymo, Wayno

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

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

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.

Road Trip

“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!

Life Is What I Make of It

I’m a seventy-six. Ye Gods! I never thought I’d be that old, but I even have friends who have also achieved that milestone. Thankfully, in my mind, I think I’m thirty, while my humor suggests I’m twelve–even though, my body feels it has barely survived WW I.

Though not a philosopher, I’ve learned a lot through the process of aging–it’s what I make of it. And believe me, I made lots of it this week. Now, as to not bore you to death, with my play by play nonsense, I must share my most daring feat. A young friend of mine, Katie, occasionally sings with a band. Though she’s had no formal training, she performs Landslide, as well as Stevie Nicks. On Thursday, she texted me: I’m singing the second set tomorrow night. Should start between 9 and 9:30.

I was in a quandary; I hadn’t been to a bar just to listen to a band in years. Nine PM? I’m usually half asleep by then! (Unless, of course, I’m in Las Vegas, sitting a slot machine or in NYC, having dinner after a Broadway play.) Somehow, I managed to talk myself into going with a couple of other old broads, and we laughed about our adventurous spirit at OUR age. I had a superb time, and Katie was very grateful we came. So, when she performs again next month, I’ll be there.

At my age, I am solely responsible for my own happiness. “I am the master of my fate, I am the captain of my soul.” (Invictus, Henley, William Ernest.) Remember that my friends. You only get one shot at life; there’s no do-overs.

Carpe diem, Sue

Confessions on Potato Salad

10844_tart_cranberry_pieI do not have a sophisticated palate; I’m far from a gourmand.  Both of my grandmothers were excellent cooks; they prepared rural, regional cuisines.  My paternal grandmother was the family legend of baking: pies, donuts, blueberry muffins, and cinnamon rolls were her forte.  I knew I’d never learn to make pie crust or breads like hers.

Thus, given my upbringing I never discovered delectable Italian dishes until I went to elementary school.  In fact, I have vivid memories of sitting next to a girl in the lunch room who was eating what appeared to be some variation of bread slathered with tomato sauce and meat.  “What is that?  It’s smells wonderful.”

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“You don’t know?  It’s pizza.  Want to try some?”

“Sure.  I’ll trade you one of my Mom’s chocolate chip cookies for it.”  My adoration of Italian food began.

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Then, horrors of horrors!  I was asked to bring potato salad to a party.  Me?  Every time I tried to make it, it was not edible.  I knew I couldn’t go to the deli and buy it, for those places are rife with creepy diseases.  The last thing I wanted was to be the cause of Montezuma’s revenge!

I fired up the computer and searched the net.  Finally, I found a recipe that even I might put in my mouth.  Of course, I made a “dry run” and served it to my kid.  Both she and I pronounced it the best we’d ever eaten! In case, you want to try my tweaked concoction:

  1. Peel, cube, and boil potatoes.  Remove and drain when still rather firm.  Drizzle one and one-half teaspoons of white vinegar over potatoes and let sit.
  2. Chop celery, one or to two green onions, and one hard-boiled egg.
  3. In mixing bowl, blend equal parts of Miracle Whip, Mayonnaise, with a squirt of mustard and celery salt or celery seed. (The combo of Miracle Whip and Mayo is key!)
  4. Toss and stir everything together and let stand in refrigerator for at least two hours.

Trust me.  It’s a winner!

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On Being 105

 

According to folklore, dog years are multiplied by 7.  Thus, I have a part pomeranian, part yorkie who recently had her fifteen birthday in people years or 105 dog years.  Meet Tessa Marie Jenkins, the centenarian!

Tessa was her original name, but over time, Marie and Jenkins were added.  Why? I don’t know.  In her early years, she was an active, friendly little dog, but then she became a recluse.  She spent the majority of her time under the bed.  So much so, that many of our family and friends asked, “Who’s that elusive dog of which I caught a glimpse?”  She kept her distance even from me.  She ran and hid if I tried to pet her.  I had to feed her in a separate room, as she wouldn’t eat in front of the others.  My kids called her a diva.  “She’s too good for our company.  Such a high-maintenance snob!”

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Then miraculously, two years ago Tessa Marie came out from under the bed.  She ate with my other dogs, and she even came to parties.  I took her to the vet for her innoculations and check-up, and the vet said she was in wonderful condition.  “Sue, you must have just had her teeth cleaned.  Her teeth are immaculate.”  I only nodded–little did he know her teeth had never been cleaned.  (I’m not a fan of routinely putting dogs to sleep for teeth cleaning, unless infection threatens their health.)

These days Tessa is a spry, active and very demanding 105 year-old.  She barks and barks until she gets a dog biscuit or three.  I can’t tell her “no” because she is stone deaf.  Yet, when her internal clock goes off, she barks until her dinner is served.  She barks when she needs to patrol the backyard, and she barks when she sees someone at the front door.

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Tessa has lived in my house for 15 years and has never gone near the swimming pool.  However, this week, during a romp, she fell in the deep end.  I was in shock!  She’s freaking old; she’ll have a heart attack and plummet ten feet down.  No.  She swam to the side, where my cabana boy rescued her.  Though I was sure she’d have some type of injury or side effect, she shook herself off as we towel-dried her.  She sprinted around the yard; I imagined her singing: Hey, now.  I’m a Rock Star!  I was amazed at her energy.

I guess I need to add this to my daily, dietary intake:

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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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The Ultimate Test Question

 

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Please explain:  (Hint:  Be sure you understand the meaning of each word, before you write your answer.)

“If a nation expects to be ignorant and free, it expects what never was and never will be.”  Thomas Jefferson

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I shall await your responses.

Gullibility: $

 

 

New-Small-Designer-Slim-Women-Red-font-b-Wallet-b-font-Thin-Zipper-font-b-LadiesMe thinks there is a substantial percentage of American consumers, who are so gullible they pay outrageous prices for routine items.  Of course, my daughters are in that group. To me, a handbag or wallet fulfills a need.  To them, it is a fashion statement.  So I ask you: when was the last time you ogled someone’s wallet at the store checkout?  When was the last time you coveted someone’s choice of paper towels or toilet paper?  When was the last time you envied someone’s plastic bottle of water?

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This week, I was early to an appointment, so I entered a designer grocery–the kind which caters to folk with more money than sense.  I perused the inflated prices: boneless, chicken breasts at $5.99 a pound, broccoli crowns at $4.99 a pound, and the deli was serving $10 a cup coffee.  I found this curious as the day before I paid $1.47 a pound for boneless chicken breasts.  Obviously, something is seriously wrong with my palate.  Chicken is chicken.  Beef, however, is another matter.  (Ribeye steaks are far superior to round steak.)

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Yet, the most outrageous item I saw on my adventure was one, peeled navel orange in a plastic container. It’s price: $6.00!  Had I known folk were so gullible, I would have picked my plentiful oranges, peeled and contained them, and undercut the price by one dollar.  Damn!  I’d be wealthy!  Maybe, next year.

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