Sue Skidmore

Twenty-six Candles: December 14th

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Reprise:  I wrote this blog two years ago, and nothing has changed.  Massacres continue.  Congress okays folks’ right to carry concealed weapons.  As I complete my 17-year-tenure on the school board, every night I pray a Columbine, Virginia Tech, Sandy Hook, or a Las Vegas slaughter, doesn’t occur in my district.

I’m weary of the Second Amendment argument.  Really?  Obviously, many have no understanding of US History.  A single musket, fire and re-load, as compared to a semi-assault rifle with a bump stock?  No comparison.  Reread a part of my blog and weep for all of the innocents lost since 2012.

“Like many of you, I’m sure you’ve almost or already completed your holiday shopping.  Thanks to the convenience of online shopping in jammies, the wish list of children and grandchildren has been answered.  The presents are wrapped in whimsical paper and sparkling bows for tomorrow’s mail.  December 14th.

Tomorrow evil strikes! Twenty children and six, valiant school employees will never see a new bicycle, and iPad, nor the must-have, limited-quantity, hottest gift of 2012.  The gift you stood in line to buy at 6:00AM on Black Friday or assembled for three hours.”

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Imagine the anguish of families who planned funerals amidst the holiday gifts they’d never see their children open.  Every time I think about the horror of Sandy Hook Elementary School I gag.

As I said in my original blog, President Reagan changed his stance on gun control after his attempted assassination and the serious wounding of Jim Brady, i.e. the Brady Bill.   We must advance conversation and legislation about access to assault weapons, bump stocks, and rigorous background checks, prior to gun purchase. We must address mental health care in our country.

Yes, I know.  Nothing is going to change.  The fire of hate is fanned by those in DC and the nut case who says Sandy Hook didn’t happen.  I get it; I’ve but one vote.  Yet on December 14th, I will light 26 candles.  Will you?

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Happy Thanksgiving from a First Grader

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My blog publishes early this week, as I’m off to the South for Thanksgiving.  A teacher friend of mine asks her first graders each year to write a recipe for preparing turkey.  This one made me roar with laughter:

Go buy a pink turkey the size of your face, about 10 pounds, from Home Depot. Put it in a pot with chunks of black pepper.  Cook in the oven for twenty minutes at ten degrees.  Serve with a few strawberries and lots of goldfish crackers.  

Chef Micah titled his recipe Turkey Trot.  Unfortunately, I’ll be out of town.  Sorry to miss his culinary masterpiece.

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Happy Thanksgiving!

Pricks

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Arizona is awash with pricks!  Before you get your knickers in a knot, I’m not being bawdy.  The reality is the desert is full of pricks.  Perhaps, piercing needles are the first line of defense for smoldering summers, or perhaps, deadly burrs and barbs help flora survive.  I don’t know.  But Mother Nature early on forced me to employ a landscaper.

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Of course, I, first, tried to control errant cacti by myself.  Then an inch-long spine impaled my leg.  A jumping  cholla attacked my foot on my way to the mailbox in my flip flops.  An agave ripped open my wrist when I tried to free a lost baby quail.  I was so stupid to think I could trim a palo verde tree and survive–wrong, my arms looked like I’d been in a lion’s den.

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Bougainvillea and other gorgeous flower plants also wreck havoc.  When picking grapefruit, oranges, limes, and lemons, as most of the branches have razor-sharp needles.  I’m glad I don’t take blood-thinner.  I would need a transfusion for the amount of times I’ve been stuck.

So if you come to my house for dinner, don’t have one too many and end up with these pricks!

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I Beg Your Pardon, Mr. President

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The events of the last few weeks have left me thunderstruck.  I have zero tolerance for malicious hate.  Further, I have zero tolerance for megalomaniacs–folks consumed with wealth,power, and omnipotence.  Folks, who don’t play by societal rules, for they are above the law.

I’ve witnessed first hand the ascension of the former Sheriff.  Over time, he morphed into a madman, fueled by a large campaign chest and national media attention.  He bragged about his inmates wearing pink underwear, eating green bologna, and sleeping in tents in Phoenix summers.  Now, anybody who has taken a criminal justice course knows rehabilitation or habilitation is not accomplished through humiliation.

As time went on, he focused on Latinos.  His deputies routinely stopped brownish, innocent American citizens.  He spent a million investigating President Obama’s birth certificate.  He staged an assassination attempt against himself.  Clearly, he was hell-bent on furthering his national image. Over and over, he was accused of racial profiling, defiance of the law, and ignoring court orders. He thumbed his nose and proclaimed, “I’m just upholding the law.”

I could cite countless examples of his grandstanding, like the $92 million Maricopa County wasted on his defense in the racial profiling case.  Months ago, he was found guilty and awaited sentencing.  He asked the President to pardon him.  Friday afternoon, it was delivered.  He said he and his wife planned to celebrate with spaghetti, calamari, and red wine at their favorite Italian restaurant.  “I’m not through with politics; I have a lot to offer.” After 24 years as sheriff and at 85-years-old, that seems preposterous!  But I’ve never danced in the spotlight.  Some egos must not die until their last breath.

Mr. President, while I find your acceptance of proven, institutional racism unconscionable, I abhor your pardon of a man who failed to investigate hundreds of sex abuse cases, many of which involved children. Guess rape or sexual molestation didn’t feed the world’s toughest sheriff’s megalomania.

 

Columbus Took A Chance Redux

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Six weeks ago, my blog was titled: Columbus Took a Chance, which concerned my venture to my ‘hood, dive bar.  Far outside my comfort zone, but I did it.  Many of you encouraged me to go back again for Tuesday Trivia Night.  Some of you were gracious enough to express your interest in forming a trivia team.

Finally, folks’ schedules matched, and this week we met as a team.  Cheap food, cheap drinks, and no entry fee.  Just fun.  Our team was comprised of Brittany’s father, Ken; Brittany, and her husband, Matt; my eldest, Annie; and me.  Three, thirty somethings and two, well-seasoned adults. Given the beach decor of the bar, Matt and Brittany chose our team name as “Wilson.”  I thought they were talking about Wilson sports equipment, but no.  It was some character from a beach movie.  Clueless Sue.

Thankfully, the disc jockey noted we were new to the game and explained in detail the rules.  Three prizes would be awarded: $25, $15, and $5 in bar money.  Since there were only four teams that night, we felt confident we would win a prize.  Matt commandeered our team, kept our score tally, and pronounced, “We’re in it to win it.”  OK, I thought.  Doubtful.  Whatever.

Unlike the first time I sat on the sidelines during Trivia Night and knew all the answers, I was a veritable, non-contributor.  Rap and Country Western music, current movies, and pro sports are not in my brain bank.  I was stunned by Ken’s absolute brilliance  when he knew the Dallas Cowboys were a $4.3 billion franchise.  Annie shone in Country Music, Brittany and Matt knew every movie, TV show, and Rap artist.  I just sat, rooted them on, and paid the tab.  The least I could do for my overt lack of knowledge.

The disc jockey totaled the scores, “And first place goes to Team Wilson!  Twenty-five dollars in bar money.”  WTF?

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Matt tossed the bar bucks at me.  “See, Sue.  I told you we’d win.  Brittany and I’ll see you next Tuesday.  Team Wilson will buy!”

This is NOT a dive bar.  It has immaculate restrooms, nice patrons, and an attentive wait staff.  Unfortunately, Annie can’t be there next week.  So if you’re a Country Western music expert, take a chance and join Team Wilson!  We’re buying….

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Bon Vivant…Not

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I’ve never been a gourmet cook, perhaps because of my upbringing.  Both of my grandmothers were simple, country girls who prepared simple, country meals.  Each had their strengths.  My maternal, Tennessee, grandmother’s fried chicken and green beans were delicious.  My paternal grandmother’s homemade cinnamon rolls,  blueberry muffins, and fruit pies were spectacular.  Beef, pork, or chicken with various potato dishes were my staple.  On rare occasions, fish was served.  My mom never mastered the art of anything that tasted like spaghetti sauce, but to this day, her banana cakes light up my palate!

As a mom, I tried to introduce my kids to different foods.  As toddlers, they abhorred baby food carrots and peas.  Who wouldn’t?  For years, my youngest ate only chicken fingers or a hot dog smothered with ketchup.  The thought of ingesting a piece of lettuce, a slice of tomato, or a green bean gagged her.  In contrast, my eldest was more daring.  She loved spaghetti, stuffed peppers, prime rib, and baked potatoes and sour cream.  Today, she’s a sushi addict.

However, when we’re together and want to venture out for dinner, we frequent Mexican or Chinese restaurants.  I accepted long ago I’d never be able to duplicate their culinary expertise.  When we’re in NYC, we eat cheese cake.  Yes, we have compiled a list of best to so-so.)

Admittedly, I’ve never prepared veal, lamb, elk, javelins, deer, nor pheasant.  Further my thought of preparing brains, liver, or mountain oysters gags me.  So you can imagine my reaction to a high-end magazine’s feature story: Welcome to the New World of Eating Insects.

Dragonflies, ants, grasshoppers, cicada, water bugs, and…freaking scorpions and tarantulas!  According to one source, “over 2 billion people regularly rely on one of the 1,900 edible species of insects as a source of protein.”  Cricket-flour chips are the new rage. Frankly, I can’t think of anything more revolting than a fly whose just sat on one of my dogs’ poop ending up in a casserole.

And to those of you who’ve been invited to my dinner party next week, the evite read: BYOB.  I’m well-stocked with booze.  Bring Your Own Bugs!

November Moth (Epirrita dilutata)

November Moth (Epirrita dilutata)

Swimming with O Rings

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Several years ago, one of my dearest friends since childhood wrote a delightful book, Swimming to Italy.  (It is available on Amazon.)  I was searching for a title for this blog, and hers immediately landed in my mind.

As I’ve noted numerous times, my new life has taken me thousands of miles from my comfort zone.  While I’ve come to understand more about home repairs than I ever wanted to know, I’ve managed to utilize my research and study skills in a plethora of new ways.  In fact, I find it curious many of my friends contact a schlep like me about appliances, plumbers, and cabinet refinishers.

Last week, however I was rocked with a new lesson.  The saga began with a leak in the automatic pool chlorinator.  (This is a wonderful device–under $100– that eliminates the need for rubber ducky floating around the pool.)  The pool repair guy diagnosed the problem–the cap needed a new O ring.  After it was lubed and installed, the leak stopped.

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Two days pass and the repairman returns.  The pool motor is surging.  Really, this is a high-end motor, less than 5 years old.  “I think I should just backwash the filter, and your problem will be solved.  You do it regularly, right?’

“Rarely.  I can get the valve down, but I’ve not strength to pull it up.  Even my uber-strong cabana boy has difficulty helping me.”

Pool guy backwashes and decides to take the valve apart.  “No wonder it was so difficult to pull up.  Look at these O rings.”

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Now, there were three more, bad O rings in the plunger valve.  Repair done.  New O rings.  All is…NOT well.  The motor surges again, which for you novices means too much air in the lines, which causes the motor to rev like a hot rod at the starting line, which causes blah, blah, blah.

Again, the pool guy returns to diagnose this new problem–another worn-out O ring!  By now, you are as bored as me about TMI and O rings.  Little circles of rubber with very important jobs.  Who knew?  Who cared?  Yet given the critical necessity of their position in the circle of life, perhaps we should all invest in a company that manufactures O’s!

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Popcorn Addict

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Like most folk, I have food addictions.  Fortunately, I’m not addicted to donuts, cake, nor pie.  Now, broccoli, zucchini, Italian food, rare steak, and baked potatoes awash in sour cream are high on my list, but popcorn is my compelling drug of choice.

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My affair with popcorn began at an early age.  My father and grandfather grew the best popcorn at the family farm.  After the first-killing frost, we’d hand-harvest it, dry for a month, and then shuck the small white kernels.  Every Friday and Saturday nights we’d have popcorn, and we children were each permitted one, 8-ounce bottle of Squirt.  Popcorn also was the snack of choice at Saturday matinee movies.

Then, the theater lobbies were something to behold and the concession area was a work of art.  While I preferred the homegrown corn to the large, yellow popcorn of the movie house, theater offerings had mounds of butter.  (The only downside was flossing the huge hulls from between my teeth.)

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Recently, I discovered Orville Redenbacher sells “tender baby white,” and it’s almost as good as homegrown.  However, though convenient, microwave popcorn just isn’t as good as what I used to pop on the stove.  Probably because it’s not drizzled and tossed with freshly, melted butter.  So I decided to fine-tune Orville’s creation.  This delectable is popcorn soup!  Microwaved popcorn, melted real butter, tossed, and eaten with a soup spoon.  Viola!  No more greasy fingers, nor dropping errant kernels on the sofa or floor.

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Try it.  You’re welcome.

 

 

I Am A Slave

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Though never held in chains and leg irons, I was a slave.  Isn’t every woman with a husband and young children?  My orders were cook, clean, wash, iron, drive to this class, root on the sidelines, coach softball, host a party, yada, yada, yada. Eventually, my kids grew up, and my husband chose the proverbial other side of the septic tank.

Granted, I was alone.  But I no longer had shackles; I was free!  I could do as I pleased, on my terms, when I wanted to do whatever.  Certainly, I still had responsibilities to all of my dogs, my house work, the pool, the garden,  etc., but it was now solely up to me.  No orders. No timeline.

Then, this free woman did an incredibly stupid thing.  I asked for a Fit Bit for Christmas, and my adorable daughters delivered.  At first, I found it amusing.  I easily viewed emails and incoming phone calls while searching for my cell phone in the depths of my purse.  However, Fanny Fit Bit soon became annoying.

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“Sue, I’m here solely to get you up and moving.  You haven’t reached your step goal today.  Your pulse is “X,” your fat burn is “X,” your stair climb is “X.”

“Frankly, Fanny, I don’t care.”

With that Fanny morphed into the witch monitor from hell.  She wakes me at dawn:  “Give me 250 steps.”

“I haven’t had a cup of coffee yet.  Leave me alone.”  I close my eyes; my wrist vibrates.

“Time to get up and get moving.”

Damn.  She’s right; I do need to go to bathroom again–probably, for the sixth time since I initially went to bed hours ago.  One of the perils of aging.  Hopefully, I have another few years before I clip coupons for Depends!

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In the meantime, when Fanny demands, “Fifty pushups now,” she will find herself at the deep end of my swimming pool. RIP.  (Unfortunately, shortly after I wrote the last sentence, my cell phone landed in the deep end.  Karma?)

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