life

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.

“What Do You Want to Be?”

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To a toddler, this question is simple: When I grow up, I want to be a doctor, a fireman, or the Amazon person who brings the packages. To a teenager, this question is more difficult, particularly in the age of Artificial Intelligence with its predictions most human jobs will be replaced with bots.

Earlier this week, my dentist posited, “Sue, your dad, uncle, great uncle, and brother were dentists. Why didn’t you go into some form of health occupations?”

“Tried it. At sixteen, I was a candy striper. I donned my cute pink and white pinafore and walked into the hospital, where I discovered sick people! The hospital smell overwhelmed me. Then I was assigned to feed a stroke patient, who subsequently vomited his green beans all over my uniform. One real-life experience was all it took for me to cross something off my “wannabe list.” In fact, I had other part-time jobs along the way, but each of them ended with “not for me.”

Given the few acceptable occupations for women in my time, I opted for teaching and landed my first job teaching Junior English in a vocational-technical high school. Not only did I fall in love with the brutal honesty of my students, but their diverse career opportunities from culinary arts to automotives, from carpentry to accounting. I even took adult evening classes there in graphic arts and auto mechanics.

Based on my fifty-year-experiences in education, it is just as important to discover what you don’t want to be, as it is to discover what drives your passion. Sadly, the “every student college-ready” movement has seriously impacted the lack of skilled trades people. Don’t believe me? Try finding a roofer, electrician, or plumber. The waiting line is six weeks long.

By the way, an HVAC was here yesterday for ten minutes. “What do I owe you?”

“I charge an hourly flat rate: $89.00. So $89 will cover it.”

Hmm, when as a teacher, a school superintendent or a college professor, did I ever make even half that?

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.

Declaration of War!

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I consider myself a peace-loving person, who would not intentionally ever physically harm any living thing, but today I find myself in full Carl Spackler-Caddyshack mode. I am at war with coyotes!

Spare me your lectures about my encroachment on their habitat. I have lived on the same property and in the same house for thirty-five years and never had any issues with these critters. But four months ago, things changed when they decided to prey on my dogs. (My dogs range in size from 60+pounds to 15 pounds, and they usually all go outside together and wander around my acre property.)

The coyotes chose my eldest–a 12-year-old dachshund for their first victim. Luckily, she escaped with a few bloody nicks and a fear of going outside after dark. Several months later, their second victim was my young, small Bernedoodle who sustained puncture wounds to her back and her side. However, this week my coyote conflict escalated into all out war when I came eye-to-eye with four yellow eyes as they attempted to jump over my six-foot wall into my backyard! Thankfully, my barking dogs and my shrieking voice caused them to abort their mid-air vault. After I had my anxious and over-stimulated dogs safely sequestered inside, I contemplated my strategies. A wildlife specialist at Arizona Game and Fish offered helpful suggestions and an internet search provided even more.

If you would happen to drive by my house, don’t be alarmed. My yard is decorated with motion sensors, blinking white lights, and ammonia-soaked beach towels drape my six-foot block wall. Wolf urine flakes have been sprinkled around the wall. In case you’re wondering, human pee also serves as a deterrent. (I may have to a host monthly stag parties at my casa when I run out of wolf urine!) Finally, within the next week or two, coyote rollers will be installed on top of the block wall–pricey. But after all, my dogs are priceless!

Finally, my nightly attire is a camouflage jacket with an ammonia-filled, super-soaker squirt gun strapped across my chest and an air horn hooked on my belt. So Wiley Coyote and friends bring it on! Dr. Suze is ready! Beep, beep!

On Being a Bartender

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My perception of bartenders primarily came from television, i.e. Miss Kitty in Gunsmoke and Sam from Cheers. While I had been known to spend sometime in bars when I was in college, those establishments changed bartenders routinely. It wasn’t until about nine years ago I wandered into a ‘hood bar, where I discovered a weekly trivia game, and became a regular customer. Because it’s a relatively small business by Phoenix standards, I eventually knew the owners and many of the employees.

When I conceived an idea for a new novel, I set it in a neighborhood bar, and then realized I knew nothing about its day-to-day operation. After receiving an invitation (or a dare) to be a “guest” bartender, I jumped at the chance. Not only would I learn something, it couldn’t be that hard, right?

I psyched myself up yesterday before I went to my three-hour shift. I would do anything they asked; no job was going to be beneath me. I would fully immerse myself in this opportunity, but I would NOT use the computer ordering system, nor handle any cash or credit cards. In turn, they had me sign a waiver of legalese, which was fine, except for the clause on acknowledging bartending involves inherent risks, such as…” and unruly and potentially violent customers.” Really? Doubtful at 1:00 in the afternoon. WTH, maybe that would be great novel material!

What did I learn? Probably too much to share in a blog, but ALL of the customers yesterday were spectacular, polite, and fun folk. Folding and rolling silverware is tedious, as is slicing far too many lemons. I’m too old to carry more than two drinks or two sandwich platters at a time. Playing with the drink dispenser hose is fun, as long as I’m wearing glasses. Without glasses I couldn’t tell if I was pressing the water or the soda button. Same was true with the beer tub. I served light Heineken’s, instead of hi-test. (My biggest faux pas.) We, Americans, throw away too much food. Cooks or quasi-chefs are temperamental divas and must be constantly praised and thanked. Bartending is not easy, especially when someone orders a White Russian!

Finally, I learned the old, bottled-blond mare ain’t what she used to be. Today, she’s exhausted.

The DASH, AKA the Time in the Middle

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Unfortunately, I’ve spent the last two Saturdays at memorial services. While both were uplifting celebrations of life, the underlying reason for them is sad and a foreboding for each of our finalities. However, at yesterday’s service one speaker read several stanzas from “The Dash,” written by Linda Ellis in 1996. The poem explains that parallel line on one’s tombstone between birth date and death date. In essence, the dash asks us to consider what kind of life we spent in the middle? Were we here briefly and succumbed to cholera or the bubonic plague? Were we teenagers who drove too fast into a tree or a concrete wall? Were we athletes who suffered a heart attack on a playing field? Or were we those who managed to survive for 70+ years?

The length of our lives is not important, according to Ellis; how we spent our lives is. She writes:

“So, think about this long and hard. Are there things you’d like to change? For you never know how much time that is left that can still be rearranged.

“If we could just slow down enough to consider what’s true and real, and always try to understand the way other people feel

“And be less quick to anger and show appreciation more and love the people in our lives like we’ve never loved before.

“If we treat each other with respect and more often a smile, remembering that this special dash might only last a little while.

“So, when your eulogy is being read, with your life’s actions to rehash….Would you be proud of the things they say about how you spent YOUR dash?”

Yes, I bolded three stanzas–in my opinion, those most important. Yes, it’s always difficult to celebrate the loss of life, but I gained a new understanding. From now on, I’m solely concentrating on my dash.